7

MaryScot

Sitting at her dresser in an attempt to regain her composure, Andromache felt her fury inevitably manifest itself into some kind of physical action. Suddenly the sensation of her hair touching the back of her neck was absolutely unbearable, so she ruthlessly pulled it up and back, securing it tightly. Throwing a handful of gold pins in her lap, she set to work, her fingers angrily completing the task.

I can't believe I looked a complete fool in front of Hector, thought Andromache heatedly. And I can't believe Paris tricked me into thinking that I had actually killed him! If he were here right now I just might! I felt so inconceivably terrible and he just let me! He's so careless that one day he really will get himself killed.

A loud knock on her door caused her to stand abruptly, sending a shower of gold pins falling on the floor. Throwing up her hands in a gesture of frustration, she glared angrily at the barrier between them.

"Go away, Paris, I have not the patience to deal with you!" she warned, storming over to the door.

"It is not Paris, Princess Andromache," came the reply. "It is Hector."

A feeling of helplessness washed over Andromache, who rested her head against the door. "This is going to sound terribly impolite of me, but I don't think it would be wise to visit me at the moment. I'm not in the best of moods, one might say."

"That does not matter, for you deserve the honor of one after waiting for me so long," Hector told her respectfully.

Andromache sighed and straightened up, unlatching the door. Looking at the awkward smile of the prince, she could not help but smile back. Though his coarse beard aged him considerably, his smile seemed to reverse that affect. Strength seemed to radiate from him, as did vitality and spirit. The tanned skin was smooth and youthful still, and his hair seemed to surpass the unruliness of his brother's.

Andromache watched in enthrallment as he brought his hand up to comb his fingers through his hair, the tangled mess of curls becoming even more disordered. Anyone who knew Hector well would have recognized this as a sign of nervousness, but Andromache could only think of how composed he seemed to be.

Andromache could not erase the swelling or redness of her eyes and knew she looked foolish. She smiled back at him timidly, more in embarrassment than anything else, her eyes dark eyes beginning to light up with cheer.

Hector noted that her colors were slightly different than a Trojan woman's. Curly, chestnut colored hair was pulled back, rather severely at the moment, but the auburn undertones contrasted beautifully with the gold pins. Warmly hued skin touched by a hint of bronze seemed to glow from the candlelight which backlit her remarkably. Studying her face for quite a time longer than was deemed polite, he took notice of her fine, narrow nose, gently arching brows, and amazingly well built cheekbones.

She has freckles, Hector thought dumbly, irritated that he could not think of something clever.

Hector took a breath before speaking. "I would like you to consider having some dinner," he offered, gesturing to the tray he held in one hand. "Paris can cheat a woman out of a lot of things, but her own dinner should not be one of them."

"I'm not hungry," Andromache told him truthfully. "I can't stop thinking about what happened earlier. I feel like such a fool. You cannot imagine how bad I felt when I saw him lying there, completely motionless."

"Actually, I can, for he has done similar things to me," Hector admitted. "And his antics are not worth your valued tears. If I cried for every time he has caused me trouble, you would be fighting a flood at your doorstep."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Andromache apologized, realizing that he was standing patiently at the threshold, still bearing a tray of food. "Come in."

Hector entered, setting her food on her dresser. He motioned to a small crystal box sitting beside her mirror. In the figure a half moon, the shape struck Hector as unusual. "May I?"

"Yes, just be careful," warned Andromache, hurrying around her room to lower her curtains. Basically openings in the walls of stone, the windows were designed to provide light, but not necessarily protect from bad weather. Since most of the palace's open spaces were protected, it tended not to matter, but Andromache's room was on the perimeter.

Heeding her advice, Hector opened the box, the gentle motion barely disturbing the many contents. "What happened?" he asked momentarily, nudging the pieces with his fingertip.

"I broke it," admitted Andromache. "The night before I left Thebe. It was a mother of pearl comb that belonged to my mother. It's ruined, but I cannot bring myself to abandon the pieces."

Hector looked uncomfortable. "Am I correct in guessing that I am the reason you broke it?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Andromache snapped good-naturedly, sliding the lid shut and whisking it out of is grasp. She set it gently back on the dresser. "I broke it while I was angry at father for making me leave."

"Do you still feel that way?" Hector asked bravely, but thought it very important to know.

"I'm not mad at Father, no," Andromache said slowly, as if not quite sure how to answer. "But I miss my family a lot." She paused, looking up at Hector, once again striking him by how passionate her expressions were. "Do you know how much Paris values your love?"

"Yes," Hector said, smiling in spite of the many times he ended up cleaning up after the troubles his brother left. "Though morally obligated to rebuke him for his folly, socially I shall always have to protect him. But it goes beyond duty. I love him above all others…he's my little brother."

"Can you imagine leaving seven brothers who love you that way?" asked Andromache softly. "And leaving a father who loves you so much that he'd keep you safe at the expense of never seeing you again?"

"No, I cannot imagine," admitted Hector. "It must be very difficult for you." Trying not to wince at the hollowness of his consolation, Hector lowered his eyes.

"But I envy you," Andromache revealed. "For your family needs you so much that they have to keep you. My family will still survive without me. Yours would not. This city would not. If you were to perish, all of Troy would fall."

"It would still have my father and brother," said Hector firmly. "The Sword of Troy, as long as a Trojan wields it, ensures a future for our people."

"But that future would be realized at the expense of you," Andromache told him. "You are their hope, Hector. Don't you find that remarkable?"

"No," said Hector truthfully. "There is nothing remarkable about me. I am not invincible, Andromache. While I was away, I nearly died in the Dardanelles. I even have a wound to show how close I was to death. Had I not moved as quickly as I did, the sword would have cut through more than the bottom of my ear."

Andromache gasped when he moved his hair away from the injury. Before she could stop herself, she drew her hands up to his head. She tenderly brushed away the dark tendrils with her fingertips.

Hector stood rigid, awaiting the pain he was sure would come. But instead of inspecting his ear as he had assumed she would, she merely contented herself with threading her fingers through his hair.

Voice caught in his throat, he barely managed to get his question out. "What are you doing?"

"Your hair is a mess," she chided absently. "I'm trying to fix it for you."

Eyes fixed on the soft, shapely mouth not three inches from his face, Hector nodded. "It's a shame that your comb is broken, else you could have used it."

"I don't need a comb to fix it," she told him evenly, eyes still fixed on the snarls. Her nails were short enough that he could not detect their presence, only the sensation of her smooth fingertips running paths across his head.

"You don't?" asked Hector numbly. A strange sensation pooled in his stomach. The urge to flee and the desire to stay warred inside him, and before he could make up his mind she had gently nudged him towards the bench at her dresser. He decided to sit before his knees gave out, betraying his insecurity. Eyes focused on the mirror, Hector languidly watched her graceful movements.

"All I need are my fingers. My brothers had longer hair than yours and it was even curlier. You simply cannot imagine what little boys can get in their hair. But how did yours get so tousled?"

"I don't know, it's always like this," Hector replied, hoping that the ring of truth would be enough to drown out the warning bells.

Running my hands through my hair is a nervous habit, and that is not something she needs to know, Hector thought grimly. I certainly won't tell her that.

"It's a wonder no one says anything," Andromache remarked, realizing her maternal instincts had taken over. "When I was little, my mother used to fret if my hair was out of place."

"Why?" Hector asked. "It's only hair."

"She told me that men will always look at my hair," Andromache murmured, eyes lowered. Apparently abandoning her previous assertion that a comb was not needed, she picked one up and used it to work out the worse knots. "She told me that a man shall always judge me based on my appearance."

"There is more to a woman than beauty," Hector said firmly. "Any man who is worth anything realizes that."

Pausing, Andromache smiled. She must have forgotten the presence of the mirror, for when she met Hector's gaze in the reflection her mouth opened in surprise and her gaze dropped.

What in Apollo's name have I let her do to me? Hector wailed inwardly. In consolation, his arm extended and he selected a piece of fruit. Numbly chewing on a succession of figs, Hector sighed contentedly. When his hair was to her satisfaction, Andromache sat next to him, releasing her comb and taking up a goblet.

"So what do you think of Troy, after living here for a few weeks?" Hector said conversationally, uneasy at the strange ambience that had settled between the two of them.

"Your market place is amazing," Andromache said, swirling the contents of the wine glass with a gentle twirling motion. "Although I did not get much of a chance to investigate. Until this morning, I've been relatively sheltered. But Briseis told me about the Festival of Apollo, and I am excited to see what it is like."

"Are you going with Briseis, then?" Hector asked.

"I thought about it, but I told Paris that I—" Andromache stopped. "Well, I suppose I shall have to forgive him...even though I'm still very angry with him now. I knocked my youngest brother out of a tree when I was seven. We were climbing trees, you see, and I tried to catch up to him and accidentally bumped the branch he was sitting on. He fell and hit his head; cuts were all over his face. I was just a little girl and didn't know what to do, and he was crying and screaming and bleeding and I couldn't help him. When Paris fell off of that fountain, I thought I killed him."

"Paris is always doing things without thinking," Hector told her. "He tried to prove he was better than me at riding horses, once."

"He did?" Andromache asked, confident where the story was heading but wanting to hear his side of it.

"Yes, but he was only ten, and I was sixteen," Hector explained. "And six years and two feet will certainly make a difference, usually in the latter's favor. As a gesture of friendship, your father gave mine a handsome chestnut stallion. Seventeen and one half hands high, he was far too large for Paris to even consider riding. Additionally, Paris was a very small ten year old."

"He's a very small sixteen year old," Andromache muttered. "I am several inches taller and I don't foresee him growing in the future."

"But you are very tall," Hector told her respectfully.

"Tall enough to ride my father's horse?" Andromache asked hopefully.

"Yes, but we both know Paris to have poor equestrian skills," Hector said. "I suspect that he walked the horse to the beach successfully, but as soon as he tried to mount he was thrown."

"Why did it not protest when he lead it outside the city?" Andromache wondered. "Horses are hard to control if they don't trust their handlers."

"The horse was probably tolerant of children being around it," Hector reasoned. "Some of your brothers probably took care of it, but I cannot imagine them being allowed to ride it. Also, horses sense nervousness quite accurately, and Paris has quite the healthy dose of arrogance."

Andromache nodded in agreement. "What happened after the horse threw him?"

"Paris came back to the city in the morning and snuck into my chambers," Hector told her. "He was bruised and shaken, but more than anything he was worried about what might happen when Father found out. Before he told me what happened, he made me promise to protect him. Fool that I was, I told him I'd protect him forever."

Andromache grinned at Hector's good-natured smile. "I cannot imagine someone like you promising anything less."

"Yes, but it has taught me to be more careful," Hector said. "I will never again promise that kind of dedication to something."

Andromache felt something shift in her chest. "Won't you?"

"I can only do what is expected of me," Hector replied. "Nothing more is possible, really. Anything beyond duty can be viewed as a waste."

"I am sorry you feel that way," Andromache said quietly. She stood suddenly, as if she could not stand to sit by him another minute. Hector could not interpret the change in her attitude, but knew something he said had bothered her. Before he could figure out what it was, she began to speak again.

"It's getting late," Andromache commented, the sheer drapes incapable of hiding the fact that the sun had almost disappeared entirely. "But you can tell Paris that I have forgiven him. I promised him that I would spend the first day of the festival with him, and it is impossible to stay angry with him for too long anyway."

"Are you attending the festival the second day?" asked Hector.

"I suppose that would depend on if I liked the first," she countered. "But I will probably attend regardless. Perhaps I can find some of what I need at the festival."

"What in particular do you seek?" Hector asked her.

"My loom was damaged on the ship," Andromache explained, pointing to the abandoned shuttle in the room's far corner. "I need to buy several pegs to attach at the bottom."

"I could find you another loom," Hector offered. "My mother's eyesight has worsened and she can no longer weave. Perhaps you can use hers?"

"I don't want to trouble you," Andromache said, declining politely. "I haven't thought much about it, really."

"Oh," Hector murmured. As he stood, his hand brushed another box he had not noticed. A dark, handsome wood that matched that of her bureau, the box was not much larger than the first one he picked up. Shaped as a cube, it was carved coarsely by hand, depicting what appeared to be the times of the day.

"What's in this one?" Hector asked.

"A broken bottle," Andromache answered.

"Do you make a habit of breaking things and putting them into boxes?" he asked her, opening the lid. The sight of many lavender glass shards greeted him. A scent still hung around the pieces, suspended around the box. Fragrant but not overpowering, Hector was at a loss to explain what it smelled like.

"It's a nice fragrance," he intoned, daring to touch the jagged contents. Hector pulled a glass shard out, inspecting it carefully when she did not protest. "A perfume bottle, I take it?"

Andromache nodded wordlessly. Her eyes did not leave the bottle, even after Hector closed the lid and replaced it on her dresser.

"Was it yours?" Hector asked her quietly.

Andromache shook her head. "No. It belonged to my mother. I used to keep the bottle by my bed every night, but one night I couldn't sleep and took it to my father's room. All night he talked about my mother, and when I fell asleep he carried me back to my room. The bottle stayed on his bookcase where I had left it until my youngest brother ran into it, knocking the bottle down."

"Is that when you collected the pieces?" Hector inquired.

"No, my father was there when it happened and picked them up for me," Andromache told him. "He put them in the box he carved for her when they were married. It was a wedding present. I think she just appreciated the effort, because she told me that Father couldn't carve too well."

Smiling at that last part, Andromache continued. "Father gave me the wooden box with the broken bottle so I would not be so angry with my brother. I was so furious, but Father told me that mother wouldn't want that."

"My mother still urges me to forgive Paris, even when he makes it especially difficult," Hector said. "He even stole my armguards once to impress a girl, and I had quite an adventure trying to get them back. I eventually had to buy them from a street peddler proclaiming them as 'the magical armguards of the invincible Trojan prince.' Naturally, Paris thought this to be quite funny."

"Paris reminds me so much of my youngest brother," Andromache said. "He's not even a year older than me and we are very competitive. Sadly, they share the inclination to chase the opposite gender, although my brother could not claim to have nearly as much success."

Picking up the tray, Hector sighed tolerantly. "I think I'd best go tell him that you've forgiven him," he told her. "He was very worried that you wouldn't."

"Just be sure to tell him that if he tries to pull a similar trick, I'll push him off a horse," Andromache said heartily. She held the door open for Hector, who lingered in the threshold momentarily.

"Thank you for bringing me some food, but the glass of wine was all I really wanted," Andromache told him. "I feel bad that I made you go through all the trouble."

"It was no trouble," Hector assured her, more aware than ever how expressive her eyes were.

"Oh," Andromache said, looking down. "Um…goodnight, Hector." She was staring pointedly at her feet, which were only a few inches from his. Drawing her foot back suddenly, she bumped her arm on the door. Impossible to ignore the dull, throbbing pain, she meekly lifted her hand to rub the injured area.

I can't believe I'm acting like this, Andromache thought miserably. He probably thinks me a child for such pitiful behavior.

Hector bowed his head respectfully. "Goodnight, Andromache." The image of her face seemed to linger long after she closed her chamber door. Shaking his head to clear it, he found that her incredible fragrance had invaded his mind. Though he had only touched a piece of glass, the scent of saffron perfume drifted around him lightly.