I have been called many things: Princess, Wife, Mother, and – most dear to my heart – Beloved. And I have risked becoming known as Liar or, in my darkest moments, Murderess.
I would not have it so, not for all the jewels and spices of the Eastern realms. My treasures are here, within this fair and bright city, and I have no wish to acquire more. So I must smile and laugh and never betray my true feelings.
For I curse that rash boy. I lament his birth, a blighted day for Troy while I spun and wove in my family's dwelling in Cilicia, unaware and ignorant. Had I known who was at that moment entering the world, I would have abandoned my loom and made straightway for Priam's city. Even if my only weapon had been a pair of fragile womanly hands, I would not have flinched from committing a wholly justified murder. Were the babe still bloody from the womb I would have still acted.
Such burnings in my breast are as easily doused as ignited. The latter requires but one glimpse of that frivolous and vain boy, Paris of the unruly locks and wanton spirit. When such fury seizes me, I pray for Hector's presence to soothe it like a balm on a blister.
At such times I find it nearly impossible to believe they are brothers. How can one man such as wise Priam produce two sons as different from each other as the sun from the moon? The elder wooed a maiden in the proper manner and took her to wife without offense or misstep, for I set great store by such things – as did Hector. Yet the younger… He obeys naught but carnal whims and lechery.
And through it he has brought doom upon us all.
I partake of feasts, my station forcing me to sit near the wretch, though I would rather flee to Mount Ida and tend the boy's former flocks than endure his company. Would he had remained attached to them rather than gamboling after another woolly lamb!
Every goblet stem has felt the crush of my hand. Every muscle in my face has felt the soreness of enforced pleasure and gaiety. Every thought has been tormented since the day my husband returned, bearing the black woe that Troy had had a brutal challenge thrust upon her.
Hector loves Paris, and I cannot fault him for it. I would not have my husband be any different. Troy would suffer in another way were Hector to become a lesser man, tossing his blood kin away so carelessly. Love, Honor, and Respect. That is what rules Troy. What rules Hector. And this boy reciprocates it not at all.
I cannot love him for Hector's sake. I have imagined ways that I might turn this damning tide and I find myself contemplating acts that would make me white-armed Andromache no longer. I have taken to shunning red garments for the bloody thoughts they provoke. My wine is watered until it resembles only the faintest blush of a pink rose. My loom has not seen red wool on its shuttle for many a month. Is it not enough that my husband's blood may run freely from the boy's unquenchable passions? My thoughts are drenched with such crimson fears.
But I am Andromache, daughter of Eëtion, ruler of Cilicia. I am wife to the strongest of men: Hector, tamer of horses. And if I must smile, though my heart be breaking from fear, sorrow, or under the hammerstrike of wrath, then that is my will. It shall make me stronger, working against my desires rather than mindlessly obeying them.
So smile at him, Andromache. Let a sisterly hand fall gentle upon his arm and think not at all of letting it fly to his neck. Let the chamber of Paris and Helen be an oblivious world of selfish indulgence. Shun it as it deserves to be.
Seek out your husband, Andromache. Find that warrior who stole your heart that distant spring morn. Pay heed to naught but the honesty that has never left his eyes, the aching devotion that remains in his caresses, and the righteous strength that shall always be in his arms.
We shall both be strong – Hector of Troy and his Andromache.