Hector's black mood frightened Andromache. Most of the people in the palace assumed it was Paris's folly that darkened Hector's eyes with anger, but she knew the truth. She knew his rage had nothing to do with the coming war. She had heard him call out the woman's name in his dreams. She had seen his eyes unconsciously search for her when they paraded through the city. And each time it seemed to wrench her heart more painfully than the last.

Andromache placed a tentative hand upon his shoulder. He gave her a small smile.

"Did something happen, my love?" she asked.

Hector shook his head and took her slender hand in his. "I'm sorry. My anger is not for you." He trailed off in thought. "I would that you could fly from here before this evil overtakes us."

She rested her head against his broad shoulder. "Do not make me go! I know that your heart does not belong to me. It never has, but please do not drive me from your side!"

Hector gathered her in his arms. He should have known that she would perceive his true feelings. "I'm so sorry. You are loving and gentle and good, and I? I am a man who cannot forget the memory of another. I am not worthy of you, Andromache. Why do you continue to love me?"

"How could I help it?" she answered quietly.

"I will not force you to leave me," Hector promised solemnly, "until I perceive that the city will fall. Then you must flee."

"Will you go with me if that awful day comes?" Her eyes searched his face intently, hoping the answer would not be what she thought.

"If death has not taken me, I shall remain by your side for the rest of our lives." Hector's eyes were grave. "And though much of my heart has been left in the care of another, I give you the rest of me freely and without reserve." He leaned closer to her and brushed her lips with his. "You are worthy of so much more than this man can give."

"But I love this man," she smiled at him.

They stood there together for a long time, until the darkness fell over the city. Hector left her side again that night to ready the men for battle. The Greeks would arrive within a day, and he had already lost much time because of matters of the heart.

Melpomene looked up from her basket weaving in alarm. The great horn of the city was being blown. The Greeks had arrived. Her hands trembled as she placed the basket in the dirt. She knew instinctively that this war would live on forever, but its heroes would not live with it. Troy would fall. Melpomene tried to laugh at herself. These were the thoughts of someone crazed. They were protected by a great wall. No army had ever managed to breach it. And the city was defended by the greatest warrior known in this part of the world – Hector.

Hector had always been his peoples' hope. His love for his countrymen was evident in his every breath. He would gladly give his life for them, and Melpomene knew that someday he would.

"Please," she pleaded with the unseen, "do not let it be this day, this war. Please."

But even as she tried to reassure herself, a shiver passed along her spine. This war could not end happily, even if Troy was the victor.

The whole city whispered it: Achilles! The mighty Achilles had come to Troy. Andromache heard it spread through the palace like a wildfire. The name brought terror to her being like she had never known. This man, Achilles, would be Hector's downfall. She could not tell how this knowledge came to her, but it broke upon her like a wave, and she sank to the floor in grief. Hector would perish. Of this, she was certain.

Melpomene watched with the others as Hector and his few soldiers returned to the confines of the city. She took care to hide in the crowd so that Hector would not see her. What had he seen that touched his face with utter confusion? She longed to reach out to him, to be drawn into his warm embrace. Only in his arms would she ever know peace and comfort. She returned to her hut in silence, ignoring the wails of the people around her. They seemed to finally realize the horror that was upon them.

Her deft hands began to weave the supple sticks together. The baskets were woven so tightly that many Trojan women used them to carry water from the fountains. She always felt a sense of pride when the women of Troy spoke about her creations. No one had been able to match her skills when it came to molding the sticks. The feel of the thin wood in her hands brought back a distant memory:

"I have one more basket to finish today."

Hector laughed. "Can you not set aside the work? Just for one hour?"

Melpomene smiled mischievously. "The last time you asked me to leave it for an hour, I did not return until dawn!"

"But the palace gardens are a much more inviting place, my love!" he protested innocently.

"Indeed they are," Melpomene agreed slyly, "but the clever prince of Troy would only lure me there to whisper sweet things in my ear and distract me!"

He leaned close to her and murmured in her ear, "Am I not a pleasant distraction?"

She shivered with pleasure as his lips brushed her skin. He pulled her off the ground and into a crushing embrace. His lips caressed her neck, delighting in the slight moan she uttered. She ran her hands up the length of his powerful arms. Giving a slight smile, she pushed him away.

"You, sir," she accused, "are proving enough of a distraction already! Be gone and let me finish!"

Instead of releasing her, Hector grasped her hands and stroked them gently. His lips brushed the calluses tenderly.

A blush crept upon Melpomene's face. "I'm afraid my hands are rough from my work."

Hector's warm brown eyes spoke of a greater love than he could express with words. "Rough? No, my love, for the finest silk could not be softer to the touch."

Melpomene's heart was too full to answer. Instead he captured her mouth in a kiss. The basket was forgotten.

Hector gazed at his young son, disturbed. What sort of man must he face come morning? This Achilles had spared him today, but tomorrow – he shuddered to think of it. Hector was recognized as a mighty warrior throughout the country, but he knew his skills were ineffective when compared to the soldier he met this afternoon. Hector didn't fear death, but would his son grow up without a father? He tried to feel anger towards Paris for bringing this curse upon them, but it did not come. He, too, had once felt the rash boldness of first love. He, too, had once held it in his hands.

"A plague upon all women!" His shout reverberated on the stone walls.

"There are a great many in the palace, my son." King Priam emerged from behind a column. "Perhaps you shouldn't speak so quickly."

"I did not see you, Father." Hector bowed slightly.

King Priam's eyes were tender. "Women are a curse, Hector."

Hector managed a smile. "And how is that, Father?"

The king's face was serious, but his voice betrayed his amusement. "They pierce our armor and wend their way under our skin and into our hearts, holding us captive." He paused for a moment in thought. "Women possess a far greater weapon than a sword or dagger."

Hector looked up and met his father's eyes. "What weapon is that?"

King Priam shook his head. "It is for every man to find for himself, but it manages to enslave our hearts forever."

"Forever is a long time to keep one captive," Hector responded with a trace of contrition.

The king smiled mysteriously. "I do not believe our hearts raise too many objections, my son."

Hector watched his father walk away. He knew which woman still presided in his heart. He hoped she would escape the city safely if the battle should go ill. Hector thought again of Achilles. For the first time in his life, Hector wished he could refrain from fighting. There had been no quarter in Achilles' eyes, and Hector wondered if he would ever know his son – or see Melpomene again, for Hector was sure that mercy would not be shown to either of them.

There is more to come, and I hope you all like this story so far. Your reviews are awesome, so keep on giving them!