Warning: I suppose a few sentences in this chapter could be called explicit, although it's not in the context of a straight sex scene. (I don't write porn – not that I don't want to, but because I can't! I suck at it, frankly.) Anyway, if you don't like anything beyond chaste kisses, consider yourself warned. But it's pretty tame.

I don't normally beg for feedback, but if I might request a word or two? This chapter was very hard to write and I'm still not overly pleased with it. I don't know if it's too fluffy, the emotional arc too sudden and unbelievable (although it covers nine months' time), the resolution too pat, or what. Maybe it's because I'm my own worst critic. All opinions are welcome and encouraged.

Chapter 21

At the end of six days, Agamemnon departed, his party of Mycenaeans and vassal subjects wending their way down the road out of Phthia. Andromache nearly sang with joy as she watched them disappear into the distance.

She did, however, feel a pang of loss at seeing Hyrtius leave. Eudorus had requested her presence beside him twice more at table, and the emissary had never failed to compliment her in profuse, artful terms that only wine can create. It was one of the amusing remembrances she had of similar dinners in Priam's palace and she did not hesitate to laugh and encourage him to make his praise more ornate and ridiculous. It also gave her some malicious pleasure to see Agamemnon's appetite spoiled as he was reminded it was she, and not one of his daughters, who sat beside his host. She was careful not to overstep, however, and diplomatically put an end to Hyrtius' game when she saw Agamemnon's brow darkening with annoyance.

Both she and Iasemi had acknowledged there was a strangely strategic advantage in a measure of audacity, and so while neither sought to cross paths with Agamemnon, neither did they run and hide at his approach. Astyanax, however, remained well out of sight and his absence did not provoke comment. Slave children were not worthy of mention anyway, but were he visible, Andromache didn't trust to the charm of children to override any brief glimpse of Hector Agamemnon might see in her son's face. He had seen her husband closely, looked into his eyes while spitting hateful words. Hector's was a face Agamemnon would always remember. While she thought Astyanax's features favored neither she nor Hector, but more a blending of the two, she was leaving nothing to chance. During the day, he played in the kitchens. At night, he was rendered into Iasemi's care until the following dawn when she would return from Eudorus' chamber.

Although her days had been filled with the constant work of feeding the monstrous and demanding appetites of the gathered Myrmidons and Mycenaeans, in a way she was grateful for the ceaseless rush in the kitchens because it had given Kallisto little opportunity to comment on her master's new choice. Even so, Andromache felt fairly certain that Kallisto's opinion was not too dire, given the small number of suspicious glances and appraising stares by the old woman. She took comfort in that and kept her mind on heeding Kallisto's orders while dispensing some of her own.

The other women exhibited various reactions in the days following Andromache's first daybreak emergence from Eudorus' room. She knew that it would not go unnoticed for long, if at all. As she expected, many eyes turned towards her that first morning as soon as she entered the kitchen, as if to mark the difference in her from one day to the next.

"Do they think I have grown a second head?" she demanded of Iasemi in a secluded corner, only to be startled when the girl smiled in reply.

"Many seem to think you were going to protect your virtue eternally," she said. "I think they are all quite surprised you aren't wailing and tearing your hair in grief."

"And what of you?" Andromache demanded in wonder. "You seem quite cheerful about it."

Iasemi quickly smothered her unashamedly wide grin, transforming it into something more chastely somber.

"You naughty girl!" Andromache whispered. "You are as awful as the others. Want details, do you?"

"Of course not," was the prim reply. "I'm only happy that it hasn't cast you into a gloomy temper." She looked up at Andromache with serious, earnest eyes. "I am truly glad."

"It did bother me, and it does. Know that, my girl. How could it not? But there are worse things than sharing his bed." She paused, her forehead creasing in puzzled thought. "Odd. He said that exact same thing a while ago and at the time I wouldn't believe him."

"Will I be caring for the baby tonight as well?"

Andromache looked at her askance, immediately sensing that Iasemi was prying in her usual innocent way. "I will not know until it happens, but I doubt this will continue. I should like to not have to endure any petty reprisals from the more vindictive women. None of his other women has lasted long. He has a very uneven appetite, but you have probably noticed the traits of each affair more than I have."

Iasemi had not said a word, but her eyes verified that everything had been noted and her mistress's turn would be similarly scrutinized.

Andromache soon paid little heed to Iasemi's nosey pursuits. Eudorus did ask for her the next night, and the night after that. When she had spoken those difficult words that first night and agreed to share his bed, she had been shocked to have them come so easily to her lips, although she had only acquiesced to secure both her and Astyanax's safety. But she decided to swallow her pride, ignore its browbeating persistence that to be dragged kicking and fighting was the only honorable option. Willingly she went to his bed, and willingly she stayed.

Even after Agamemnon left and routine was once again established in kitchen and field, after the pressing need for protection had passed, she continued to go when he called for her and her step gradually lightened as she trod that one path, night after night. Her authority in the kitchen protected her from the more vicious slurs and grumbles, and Kallisto kept her beside her, ensuring that the torments Tryphena and others had suffered would not be repeated.

Her prediction that this would be of short duration was proven wrong. The days lengthened into weeks, then months.

She watched the moon wax and wane as she lay beside him, marking the time with a mixture of disbelief and trepidation. The harvest ended and chilly winter settled in. She saw a rare snowfall and felt chill spring breezes whisk through the room, forcing her to burrow under the heavy blankets and hold herself against him for warmth. Then, the hot, stifling air of summer returned and she marked that she had been a slave for well over one full course of the seasons.

For nine of those many moons, it had only been she who looked through his window, felt the cold or warm air that came through it. Only she who heard his dreams and occasional nightmares. Only she who felt his lips, his hands, and received him as a woman does a man.

She had not expected fidelity; he had never indicated he was of any such singular mind in the past, considering that in the same amount of time he had lain solely with her, he had bedded several of the other women soon after first settling in the Phthian foothills. It was as if he had bided his time with a weighty decision, amusing himself with others whilst keeping his eye on her until he felt the moment to act had come. In the ensuing months and its attendant intimacy, she had concluded that it was exactly what he had done because that was who he was. Careful and cautious, yet persevering when he knew what he wanted.

And it was she that he wanted.

He was by no means a wretched lover. A bit rough and clumsy, perhaps; she blamed a soldier's innate lack of subtlety for that. She had only one other lover by which to compare him, of course, and there were enough similarities in grace, or lack thereof, to make the first months hauntingly yet reassuringly familiar. Even so, it was painful to reflect on it, to feel a caress from roughened hands that immediately summoned Hector's face behind her closed eyes. She had to bite her tongue to prevent that dangerous name from passing her lips in an unguarded moment, squeeze back the tears that threatened to spill.

Hector had initiated her into passion and its mysteries, had instilled in her a love and eagerness for it and to exult in sensation and desire. It was agony to have his part now assumed by another, but she eventually reconciled herself to the bittersweet pleasure she found in Eudorus' bed. It became necessary if she wanted to preserve her sanity. Denying, willing herself to feel nothing was one lie too many, one she knew would crush and twist her wits until they snapped.

What began as pragmatic surrender evolved as her body learned to enjoy his attentions and respond to him with only slight hesitation. She succumbed to this physical need but, even when she clamped her thighs greedily around his waist and tangled her fingers in his hair as he ground his hips against hers in like hunger, she convinced herself that honor had been left intact, for while she had given her body license to betray, her heart was kept firmly locked.

She guarded it jealously, even more so when she felt it threatened by a gesture of kindness from her Myrmidon captor. The thought of affection was absurd; the prospect of love impossible. She would not allow it.

And then, it happened. Slowly, almost like a creeping fog that one watches approach until suddenly it surrounds on all sides. She could not point to certain days, but only gesture to a vague span of time. In the absence of any specifics, she was left with the cumulative effect of waking up to find him watching her, feeling his breath pleasantly tickle her neck as he cradled her from behind, or hearing an endearment gasped against her lips amidst the tangled, guttural moans and breathless urgings of mutual lust.

Despite these frequent bouts under Aphrodite's more carnal spells, many nights consisted of nothing more than lying side-by-side with only the briefest of caresses exchanged. Her presence alone seemed sufficient to please him, and she desperately wanted to know why, yet was afraid of knowing, terrified that she already knew the answer. These different forces gathered until a brick was knocked loose from the wall she had erected around herself as Hector's faithful wife. The missing piece caused another to sag and tumble after it.

And so it went.

All she could do was either stare at the gaps in her defenses or try to rebuild them. But as she went about gathering the fallen bricks and assessing the work to be done, she often found herself looking out into the strange territory beyond and wondering if it was futile, if she even honestly desired to keep herself shut away any longer.

It was Astyanax's half-birthday, or what Andromache crudely figured was the midpoint between his first and second birthdays. She had tried to keep a tally of time, watching the moons and seasons and hoping that she was somewhat close to the mark. She wanted to make it as special for him as she could, so she had pilfered some honeyed fruit and a piece of dried meat for him to suck on. With goods in hand, she went in search of Iasemi, who had taken Astyanax out of the kitchen on Andromache's orders because the boy had turned a whimper into a relentless crying fit.

"I think he misses you," Iasemi said. "I curl up around him at night, but he knows the difference between you and me."

So Andromache was determined to spend as much time as she could with him this day. There was an awful truth that could still make her voice catch or her eyes burn, a truth that she could banish only in her dreams: Hector would not be the one to play games with him, not be the one to give him his first wooden sword, or teach him how to be a soldier and, thus, a man. That would now to fall to others; a Myrmidon, perhaps even Tydeus, would be thrusting a practice sword and shield into her son's hands and ordering him about. And what would he fight for? Country? People? No. Treasure and bloody glory.

She had had such a dream of Hector playing with her son only last night, confessed it to Iasemi with barely-concealed tears.

She pushed aside these thoughts with frustration. This was supposed to be a happy day and she would make it so.

"Charis, where is Iasemi?" she asked the priestess, who was patiently untangling a skein of wool outside the weavers' hut.

"I saw her walk by only a little while ago," Charis replied, not looking up from her task. "She was carrying Phaedrus on her shoulders and they were both chattering like birds. He was making only slightly more sense than she was."

Andromache laughed. "He has his own language and seems to think that stopping will be fatal. Iasemi sometimes thinks she'll go mad when she has to listen to him for long."

Charis' expression turned serious, and Andromache immediately braced herself for unwelcome words. The woman had never relinquished her temple posture or manner, considered captivity a mere inconvenience and no excuse to descend into barbarism and forget one's breeding. Andromache loved her for it, although a few of the other women thought it was insufferably smug. Still, Charis chided and advised from the knowing, commanding position she had held in the past and others, Andromache included, were compelled to listen and heed for those very same reasons.

"You have separated yourself from your son for too long," Charis said. "Every night, you are away from him."

Accustomed as she was to Charis, Andromache still did not expect such bluntness and her surprise was obvious, for the woman took advantage of her speechlessness and went on.

"I've wondered why you never took him with you, placed him in a cradle at the foot of the bed. He cannot be harmed by what you and Eudorus do. You have acted as if you are ashamed of it, and you needn't be. What is so shameful about becoming his wife in all but name? He is truly the closest thing to a father your son will have, but you have not tried to create that bond. Not at all. You have deliberately kept yourself in the position of being nothing else than nightly sport, when so much more is possible."

"Charis, it is really none of your concern!" she said frostily. "Why do you think you have authority to demand any such answers from me?"

When Charis' eyes widened, Andromache immediately felt self-conscious. It only took a couple beats of her agitated pulse to realize that she had instinctively drawn herself up, chin tilted ever so slightly in offense that she had been questioned so personally. Quickly, too quickly, she let her posture slacken and grappled to assume once again the dignified yet humble temperament that usually masked her more imperious impulses.

"I'm sorry, Nephele," Charis said warily, turning her attention back to the wool. "I was only concerned for your son."

"I know, Charis," Andromache said, apologetic. "You've been very kind to him. You're kind to all the children here."

Charis smiled. "I was committed to chastity, but that doesn't preclude motherly feelings at all. When Dirce's daughter died, she thought I wept false tears. I had to assure her they were not."

Dirce, a strong Lycian girl who mainly worked in the fields, had borne Eudorus a girl in early spring. Unlike her mother, the child was sickly and had succumbed to a fever before the next full moon. There were other children. Only two, a boy and a girl, could claim Eudorus as their father; the others had already been conceived before arriving here, the fathers being other captors or dead husbands and lovers. One woman, Agathe, had been a whore in Adrasteia and had passed through many hands before landing amongst Eudorus' spoils; she knew not the identity of her son's father. A few of those born had died during or soon after birth, like Dirce's child. It is such a strange, sad place, this village in the hills, Andromache thought. But there are no doubt so many more like it.

"Why have you not conceived, after all this time?" Charis asked.

Andromache began to bristle but, remembering her prior lapse, she smothered it. "That is up to the gods, Charis," she said, "as you must well know. I have made no offerings, so I don't think they are much concerned." She brought a hand to her flat stomach. "I've been through that condition twice before, so I will know immediately should it happen again. I'm simply not as fertile as other women, and I never have been. Is that a satisfactory answer, Kallisto?"

Charis smiled slightly at the inference that she was as demanding as the domineering cook. "Very," she replied, loosening a knot with a tug by graceful fingers.

"I'll go find my son now, if it is well with you. I've some treats for him."

Charis glanced at the meat and sweetened fruit in her hand, but said nothing. Andromache moved away, but halted when she heard Charis say, "He'd best have you by him tonight. Those are sure to cause a stomachache."

Andromache quickly looked over at her shoulder and caught Charis staring at her with thoughtful curiosity. The expression on her face made Andromache decide the comment had been deliberately provocative.

She is testing me, to see if I will lose my temper again. Maybe it's not Kallisto who will find me out after all, she thought, less fearful than she expected. Charis was not Eudorus' confidant, unlike Kallisto. If Charis discovered her identity, Andromache felt assured that she could convince the woman to keep her silence, but rather that day never dawn!

She continued onward in the direction of the well, wondering if her diversion with Charis had put her far behind Iasemi. She looked down at the treats in her hand, clucking her tongue at the sad state of the fruit. The honey had seeped out from the heat and her fingers were sticky.

A child's laughter drifted through the sultry summer air and she recognized it as Astyanax's. It quickened her steps, as much from her desire to see him as to give him his treats so she could wash her hand.

She rounded one of the huts and stopped when she saw Iasemi sitting in the shade created by the well's roof. Astyanax sat on her lap and continued to laugh at the source of his mirth.

Eudorus was crouched down in front of Iasemi, his hands held up in front of Astyanax, who had his own small hands bunched into fists. With a triumphant cry, her son smacked one of them into Eudorus' open palm. She watched as Eudorus teetered back onto his heels in a show of being overwhelmed by the force of the punch, provoking another shriek of glee from Astyanax.

Iasemi giggled at the spectacle, but her laughter faded when she looked up and saw that they were being watched. Eudorus did not notice the change in her demeanor and continued his game with Astyanax, this time prying the child's fists apart and conveying that he was to keep his hands open.

"Hands up, Phaedrus," she heard Eudorus say. "Like this." He gave him an encouraging pat on the cheek when Astyanax readily obeyed. Then he gently swatted his broad fingers into Astyanax's palms, first one, then the other. Her son countered them with immediate precision, snapping his hands into fists and pummeling Eudorus' palms. They alternated boxing each other until Eudorus looked at Iasemi with a pleased grin, saw that she was no longer paying attention, and followed her gaze.

Andromache felt her body flood with cold, her feet rooted to the dusty ground. She could not speak, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth, her throat burning at the sight before her. Her eyes suddenly veiled with tears.

When she heard Iasemi call out her name, she realized that she was only hearing it from a distance. Without realizing it, she had turned and run away.

"Come out of there, Nephele. You'll cry all over the food and set it to molding!"

Silence.

Kallisto turned to Eudorus and Iasemi with a frustrated toss of her hands into the air. They stood outside the food storeroom, a semi-subterranean building into which Iasemi had seen Andromache disappear after scrambling to her feet to follow her.

"What caused her to run like that?" Eudorus asked, looking to Iasemi.

Iasemi bounced Astyanax on her hip and bit her lower lip in hesitation. When Kallisto glowered at her, she whispered, "Today she mentioned to me that she had a dream last night of her husband playing with their son." She looked up at Eudorus uncomfortably. "And then she saw you doing that very same thing."

Eudorus' and Kallisto's eyes met, his unasked question answered with a quick nod of her head towards the open door.

When Iasemi made to pass them, her duty to Andromache calling to her, Kallisto stopped her with a hand on her chest.

"No. He will go."

She numbly let Kallisto take Astyanax from her arms and transfer him to Eudorus. "This is what's needed," Kallisto said to him. "You, her, and the child."

Iasemi watched in mute fascination as Eudorus obeyed, disappearing into the dark, cool room. Astyanax paid her no heed, and her last glimpse was of him looking up at Eudorus in a wondering expression of trust and interest. She sidled over to Kallisto.

"Well, we can hope this will end better than that mess with Tryphena," the old woman muttered. "Nephele's not so overwrought she'll try to stab herself with a carrot."

Iasemi's nerves got the better of her and she gave a sharp squeak of laughter, an outburst that was cut short when Kallisto slapped her smartly on the arm.

"None of that idiocy, girl. Back to the kitchen with you."

"And where will you be?" Iasemi challenged.

"Right here, but I won't have eyes, ears and nose pressed and cocked to the four winds like you would. So off with you!"

Eudorus stood in the middle of the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The building was a small stone box, devoid of windows, with a cellar dug underneath for those foodstuffs that required more protection from the elements and heat of summer. As soon as he could see more clearly, he noticed that the mat of bound sticks that covered the hole leading down to the cellar was upright and Nephele was nowhere in sight.

She's run away like a frightened child, he thought, pushing aside his annoyance at this display of weakness. He was all too aware that Kallisto was only scant feet away, expecting him to act as the situation demanded.

He did not need to be reminded or taught how to approach those of quicksilver emotions. His long years serving Achilles in all his volatile moods was ample education, but at times it still felt inadequate when Nephele was involved.

He had never had to navigate around such obvious sorrow before, at least not when he felt it acutely himself. Grief-stricken slave women were nothing new, of course, but he had never let it bother him overmuch. Yet, Nephele's grief pained him. He often saw it, flashing briefly in her eyes or flitting across her features. It mattered not if he lay between her thighs and felt her accept and welcome him into her body. He could still hear a note of regret in her cries and see guilt in her eyes, even when genuine pleasure throbbed and ebbed through both their bodies.

Often he wanted to tell her that whatever she missed, whatever she lacked, he would provide it. It was a haunting pain he saw, one he felt compelled to assuage. A strange, ridiculous notion pestered him, but he was unable to rid himself of it: many nights when alone with her, he felt the presence of another. It was powerful; intimidating, even. He had felt such presence before: when watching Ajax lay waste to his foes, when subjected to Achilles' tightly-coiled anger, when looking upon the mightiest of Trojans, Hector, as he took to the field against first Patroclus, then Achilles himself. The sensation was familiar, but not at all comforting.

Kallisto was confident that it was a god. He dismissed such talk, although not from disbelief that it was possible. He knew it was something else, something more formidable than the forceful presence of a glorious hero, warrior or god. He suspected it was simply memories, years and years of memories that she kept about her like the thickest city walls. Never had he encountered an opponent like it and he was reluctant to square off against it.

Phaedrus fussed softly and the room suddenly seemed quieter. Eudorus realized only then that there had been another sound, that of muffled weeping.

A head slowly emerged from the hole in the floor, the figure pausing on the ladder to look at him in first surprise, then indecision.

"I thought it was Iasemi," she mumbled, implying she would not have shown herself had she known differently.

When he saw that she was not moving, he held Phaedrus out to her. She hesitated, and though he could not see her face clearly in the poor light, he sensed she was distrustful, perhaps suspected a ploy. If that was so, she needed to finally accept that it was not the case, and would never be so.

He returned Phaedrus to his snug embrace and retreated to take a seat on an upended barrel, prepared to wait.

It was not long. He watched Nephele stare dully at the dirt floor before her, her hands squeezing and releasing the sides of ladder, until she sighed and sniffed back what remained of her tears. With a reproachful look at him over her shoulder, she scaled the rest of the ladder and stopped before him.

He said nothing, again held Phaedrus out to her. This time she took him, but not as quickly as he suspected she would. "At least you're no longer afraid," he said.

"If I was to hold him again, I had to come close. It was obvious I had little choice."

He rose, was relieved to see that she stood her ground and did not step backwards. "I see little of you during the day, Nephele," he said. "I would not have it that way any longer."

"Whenever you desire me, my lord, I await your command." Her eyes were studiously averted, the sacks of flour in the corner of the room suddenly commanding her attention.

He sighed inwardly. That was no solution, not even if he sometimes burned for his days mirror the nights.

"No, Nephele, I only desire you to shed something that can't be seen." He paused, unsure how to continue. Words had never come easily to him. In the past, when he found himself in a verbal quandary with Achilles or anyone else, he had been able to either remain silent or mask it with a jibe or deprecating shrug. Nephele commanded a different approach without saying a word.

Her gaze left its rapt study of the flour sacks and had fixed upon him. Her face was still in shadow, but he could see the glint of moist eyes and smell the salt of drying tears on her cheeks. He forged ahead, grabbing at whatever words tumbled into his head, tired of restraining himself, tired of doubting what to say and how to say it.

"It is as if you only want to warm my bed," he said. "You keep yourself away during the day. I don't even have you at night, Nephele. We lie together and you could not be more passionate, but there is something. It surrounds you. I can feel it surrounding me and it…" He shook his head in baffled surrender and looked to her in a bid for help.

Speak, damn you! he wanted to say. Why be so wretched, so despondent? Is your life so intolerable? Is the thought of opening your heart to me so repugnant?

He did not know how to even begin voicing these thoughts and retain his manhood. He feared that as soon as the first syllable passed his lips, his own despair and hurt would be obvious, pitiful, ripe for mockery. He could already imagine her response, the scorn on those beautiful, deceptively soft lips: I've given you my body, Myrmidon, and yet you want more?

With a frustrated growl at her persistent silence and his own inability to cleverly school his thoughts into words, he brushed past her. Given a choice between this awful silence and Kallisto's anger that he had botched her intended outcome, he would gladly endure Kallisto's disappointment.

"Eudorus."

Her usually gentle voice with its well-formed speech now begged him to stop with but a husky utterance of his name.

"This…thing that surrounds me," she went on, the words coming as hesitant as he feared his would have, "I would not have it frighten you."

"It doesn't frighten me," he replied. "I know what it is. You once told me yourself. Memories. Of a man frozen in perfection."

"I can see you through them. I do, and when I feel that I want to pass through them, something stays me. I feel that I can't, I mustn't."

"Kallisto says the presence is a god who favors you."

He heard the amused sadness in her question. "Do you believe that?"

"No, but I do think that, to your eyes, he was a god. I've seen and known many men who were as near to gods as it is possible for mortals to be. Achilles. Ajax. Even Odysseus, who I'm sure could outwit a god. I once stood closer to Hector of Troy than I am to you now. I know the presence of earthly gods, Nephele, but I also know that even the poorest fisherman can outshine Apollo in his wife's eyes."

When she didn't immediately reply, he wondered if she had decided she had been too honest, too vulnerable.

Then, more hoarsely than before: "Then you know my husband."

"I think I do."

He watched her draw closer to him, felt a wariness mingle with hope grow within him. Phaedrus still hung in her arms, but he had lost interest in the tiresome, uninteresting words and was amusing himself with the bead necklace and pendant around his mother's throat.

"Can you live with him?" she asked. "Can you endure even one more night with him?"

"I would have you happy, Nephele." He took a step forward and let his hands rest on her waist and slide over her hips. "Your body has told me many nights it is pleased and willing. Let the rest of you join it, and me. We have been waiting."

Large, silvery tears had been gathering in her eyes, and several now rolled down cheeks marked by a gauntness that no amount of food or sleep could correct. He brushed them away with tender kisses and was about to draw away when he felt her slender hand settle around the nape of his neck, keeping his mouth close to hers.

"I want to be happy," she whispered. "I want to feel you and have it be your face I see. I want to be glad that it is your face, and not ashamed."

"Trust me, Nephele, and it will happen."

Her mouth pressed against his, first slow and languorous, then more insistent. Her fingertips flushed from cool to warm, making his scalp tingle from the rapid shift.

He could not describe it in a way that made sense, but he was overwhelmed by the image of her emerging from a stony cell to stand wonderingly in the heat of the sun. This was followed by the realization that the flesh beneath his hands was suddenly softer, that it was her ― and only her.

The invisible armor, that suffocating, impenetrable presence, had been lowered. It would never be gone, he knew. He would accept that. But one day, perhaps, she would be his as completely as she had once been another's.

He had always been a loyal soldier to Achilles, patient and steadfast. As lover and husband, he would serve Nephele just as faithfully.

When their lips parted, she favored him with a smile, as if she had read his vow in his eyes.

Hell no, Hector's not forgotten. As if. But you know, moving on and all that…