This story takes place in a fantasy land - mostly because I know naught of the Greeks or Trojans or their culture. Take it just as a meeting of two noble souls.

No more of this...

As both opposing armies retreated, Hector was left alone by the youngster's body, as was custom after man-to-man fights. It was his... spoils of war, to celebrate and impress his victory upon the vanquished warrior, who was about to set out on his journey beyond the Styx. He could have kept the youngster's armour, too, as a trophy, as well as any riches he had on his person. Perhaps he should have. No doubt Achilles would want revenge, and having to rely on a stranger's gear would perhaps give the Trojan an edge. But nothing could have been further from his thoughts than this, at the moment. In fact, he was barely thinking at all; barely aware of his surroundings.

Shivers wracked his body, as he tried to wipe the blood from the boy's face, only managing to smear it more. Waiting for the Myrmidons to come and claim their warrior, he crossed the youngster's arms on his chest and closed his eyes, feeling hot tears run down his cheeks. Patroklos - that's what they had called him. Patroklos, a mere boy, who by rights should not be here at all, should in fact still be under supervision of his paidagogos. So young. How could he, a seasoned warrior, not have seen it? And how could he face this boy the day they were destined to meet in the Undying Lands? Oh gods...

Evening fell, and lights shone both from the Greek camp before him, and from the city behind. Still, he was kneeling on the spot where hot sand had drunk a child's blood.

There were approaching footsteps, and someone sank down on the ground by his side. "Eudorus has come to collect him," a quiet voice said. He turned to see the calm gaze of the Ithacan king upon him. Numbly, Hextor nodded. He watched as silent men lifted the body on the cart, and could barely look up into the cold blue eyes of Achilles' lieutenant, as he acknowledged the honours. And then the cart disappeared into darkness.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of the reveries and told him he was not alone. Odysseus sat beside him, his gaze compassionate. "Go home, Hector," he said quietly. "There is little else you could have done. You look like you could use a good drink."

Drink? The mere thought brought a taste of blood into his mouth, and the fought the urge to vomit. A whimper worked its way out of his throat. "I... I... didn't know," he moaned, perhaps more as an apology to the gods than the man.

A brief squeeze on his shoulder. "You couldn't have. He fooled us all."

"I really thought he was..."

"It's all right."

"All right? For Apollon's sake, I have little brothers as young as he was, and I would never..."

"I know." Odysseus sighed, then patted his shoulder comfortingly. "I know. I have a son at home too. Still in child's skirts, but I fear the thought that in but a few years, he will be a young idealistic idiot just like this one was."

Hector had nothing to say to that. He watched the stars blinking, and thought that it was oddly quiet, the usual sounds of two warring camps subdued.

Odysseus rose. "Go home, Hector. They're waiting for you."

The Trojan prince couldn't quite bring himself to move. How could he face his own family, his wife and son and little brothers and sisters, after this?

A strong arm lifted him up, and removed his helmet. Ashamed, Hector looked away, but knew that the other had seen the tears streaming down his cheeks. Odysseus shook his head, placing his arm around the Trojan's shoulders to hold him up.

"This will not do, my princeling. A lion in daytime, a kitten at night. Come to my tent, and rest, and we'll talk. Come."

Still in a daze, Hector did not resist as Odysseus placed his woollen cloak on his shoulders, concealing his face, and led him to the Ithacan camp.

The tent was warmed by glowing coals in the brazier. Odysseus ordered water and wine be brought, while he led his distraught guest to rest on the pile of furs and blankets that was the king's bed. Hector was barely aware as his sandals were removed and moist cloth washed away the sweat and blood of battle from his brow.

"Sit up, my princeling. There's a good boy. We're going to have to remove all that armour, if you are to rest tonight at all."

A goblet of cool wine was pressed into his hands, and he drank gratefully, in great gulps. He was still shivering, as his armour was removed and no-nonsense hands pressed him back to lay on the blankets. Mindlessly, he turned and wrapped arms around the warm body sitting near him.

"Hush now. It's all right." There was some shifting, then strong arms wrapped around him. Hector grabbed fistfuls of tunic, and hid his face on the broad chest of the king.

When his sobs had lessened somewhat, Hector felt soft lips pressing gentle kisses on his head. The hands on his back, holding him firmly, were rubbing comforting circles on his shoulders. He let out a deep sigh.

"How is my princeling? Better?" Odysseus murmured softly.

"Much better, thank you."

"But not good enough yet," said the observant Ithacan.

"Will I ever?"

Hector had not meant it to sound so pathetic, but it came out more like a whine. Embarrassed, he rolled away from Odysseus, only to find that the other man turned to follow, propped up on an elbow. He lay an arm across the Trojan's chest, stroking his cheek with gentle fingertips.

"Close your eyes."

Hector hesitated. "What are you..."

There was a slight smile there, curling up the corners of Odysseus' mouth. "Oh, wouldn't you want to know, Hector, tamer of horses." The fingers travelled along his jawline, and then down the neck, towards the tender throat. Hector inhaled sharply, but did not dare to move. "I just want you to let go, my princeling. Lay down your burden for one brief moment." And his lips descended, soft and gentle and searching.

Hector let the kiss deepen briefly, then pulled away, searching the other's eyes. "Why are you doing this? We're enemies. Tomorrow we may meet on the battlefield, sworn to kill each other."

Odysseus' eyes were deep pools in the darkness, and his breath ghosted over the Trojan prince's lips. "You need this, Hector. You need to lay down your burden and rest, for a while. Let me do this to you, tonight." He sighed softly and touched their foreheads together. "We may be enemies tomorrow, my princeling, but let now be now and tomorrow be tomorrow. Just this once, know, that I'm here for you. You've always been the one to be strong, to lend support. Tonight, you can let go. Let this be my gift to you."

There was an itch under Hector's eyelids, and he pulled the other's mouth on him with a deep groan.

It was still dark as the Trojan prince woke. Blinking eyes open, he realized that Odysseus was standing by his side, shaking him gently. "Get up, princeling."

Slowly sitting up, the memories of why he was here flooded back to Hector. He heard shuffling feet outside, and distant wails. The ceremony for the boy he had killed must have started then.

Hector grabbed Odysseus' wrist. "Lend me your cloak, please."

"I thought you might want that," Odysseus said. "That is why I woke you."

So, covered by robes and further cloaked in the anonymity of darkness, he stood behind the Ithacan, paying last respects to the youngster he had killed in Achilles's stead. The Myrmidon himself stood by the funeral pyre, his face a motionless mask of pain and hatred, and Hector felt like a knife had been wrenched in his gut. What if it had been Paris? As if by themselves, his feet would have pressed forward, if he had not been held back by strong arms.

"Don't," Odysseus whispered. "Let him say his goodbyes, and say yours. Nothing can help it between him and you, now."

The Trojan hung his head, bit his lip and obeyed. The flames roared, wind brought hot ashes into their faces, and Achilles still stood motionless.

Back in the tent he was offered wine again, and he drank, as Odysseus held him close, winding his fingers through his black locks, massaging his scalp. He relaxed his head on the broad chest of the Greek, and listened to his solid heartbeat.

It was just before dawn that they stirred slightly. He had to leave before daylight, Hector knew. He rose up on an elbow, watching the other's chestnut locks and dark storm coloured eyes, and traced a finger over the arc of his lips. The Ithacan kissed his fingertip and murmured, "How do you feel, princeling?"

He thought about it and realized that being able to pay his respects and see the youngster off to the Undying Lands had taken a huge burden of guilt away from his spirit. He kissed him softly, then grasped the other man's hands and brought them to his lips.

"Thank you, my friend. I do not know what I would have done if not..."

Odysseus answered with an grin. "Don't mention. The pleasure was all mine."

"Oh, I can believe that, too."

They shared a companionable laugh. As before, Odysseus did not bother calling for his boy, fastening Hector's armour with his own hands; and Hector let him do it, enjoying the calm reassurance of the touch. A cloak to cover the Trojan's distinctive armour and well known features, and they quietly made their way through the still slumbering camp.

Behind the last outpost they stopped, facing each other, neither quite sure what to say.

"Go back to your tent now, Odysseus. With luck, you may still have some time to rest."

And the king of Ithaca, always ready with his tongue, now nodded mutely, squeezing the younger man's shoulder.

"If... If it be the gods' will that I will not see you again... take care." Hector had to swallow down the sudden tightness in his throat. "And I wish you a safe journey home."

"Oh, I see. A diplomatic way of saying, 'Get your arse out of here'."

That brought a rueful smile on their lips. Truly, the man was incorrigible! Hector looked into the stormy eyes, and grasped his hand in a warriors' handshake.

"Thank you again... For everything."

"Oh, you...." Odysseus pulled him into a strong hug, and he hugged back.

"Fare thee well, tamer of horses. "

"Fare thee well, you sly fox."

And he went.