An Unlikely Union
Quick Comment: I would just like to say thanks for all the positive feedback I have had for my first chapter (and indeed first story!). It's given me a lot to live up to though, I hope I don't disappoint! I am aware that I can over describe things and I'm not sure that my conversation flows that well ... I just hope that you can imagine this as well as I do.
As for the couple of queries I have had via feedback ... the name Sofia is in fact a name of Greek origin, it means 'wisdom'. And as for the whereabouts of Andromache, you will just have to sit tight, keep reading and see!
2. An Exchange
She awoke with a jolt as if having a falling dream - hitting the ground at speed, limbs tense, eyes snapping open suddenly. Sofia had momentarily forgot where she was ... but then the enormity of it all engulfed her once again, just like it did every day, her heart dropping like a pebble in icy water.
A prisoner of the Greeks, a spoil of war. And one with a very uncertain future.
Lying on her back with her knees raised, the splintered wooden slats of the bench pressed uncomfortably into her flesh. Sofia frowned at the spear of sunlight which partially illuminated the cell and lifted her wrist to her forehead to shield her delicate eyes from its intrusion.
She gazed at the wall. A pair of manacles hung on one side by a bolt and chain, a constant symbol of terror. Sofia thanked the gods every day that she had not yet been restrained by them. Moss was the only living thing that seemed to thrive in there, growing on the slimy stone walls, blissfully unaware of the world. She took a deep waking breath which almost made her retch. The cell was warming up in the sunlight, heating everything, making smells more pungent. The odour of human excrement was overpowering, hanging in the air longer than the odd pitiful wail of fellow prisoners, who were being kept in cells near her own. It must have been well into the afternoon when Sofia awoke, the sun seemed to be high in the sky.
The pit of her stomach ached, with hunger; with longing ... she wished that she was still asleep. Sleep was the only respite that she had from this hell on earth.
A rustling noise from a corner of the cell startled her – too loud a noise to be caused by a rat, surely. And then she remembered. The man. She sat bolt upright.
He was sitting in the far corner propped with his back against the wall, watching her intently. Her cloak was still protecting his modesty, draped over his thighs and waist. It was obvious that he trying to sit up straight, defiant - but it was also obvious that it was causing him some effort and pain to do so. He held his left arm across his stomach to support his ribs, his face unflinching but his body visibly wincing every now and again as he breathed. His expression was strange; a mix of anger, nobility and untrustfulness. Whoever this man was, he was no mere soldier. He must have been important. She could tell by his manner, his poise – and the fact he was being kept imprisoned and alive.
His black-eyed stare unnerved her and she dropped her gaze submissively.
"I suppose I should thank you for saving my life but you should have let me die." He finally addressed her, his firm voice a little hoarse with thirst.
Puzzled at his ungratefulness, she studied his face again. Grazed and swollen and a black eye almost obscuring the socket on his right side, his features appeared weary. She supposed he was at least ten years older; he had an air of experience about him. But then again, Sofia herself was by no means mature although considered in her village to be past marrying age, an old maid in her twenty-fourth year.
Footsteps outside: a guard approached. The door of the cell made the familiar clunking noise and slowly swung open in the heavy air. Sofia's eyes darted from the man to the shadowy figure in the doorway, her hands grasped the edge of the bench and her knuckles turned white. The man did not even acknowledge the guard, he seemed fearlessly indifferent. The guard stood there for a moment, hand lazily resting on the handle of a sword that was nestled at his hip as if he was half expecting resistance or escape. A satisfied sneer crept onto his thin lips as he surveyed the conditions of the cell and the prisoners it contained. In fact, he appeared to be gaining some sort of sadistic pleasure out of the scene. The guard's other hand held something which he tossed across the cell. It slid noisily across the flagstones and landed with a clatter at the man's feet.
"Here 'Prince', Lord Achilles thought you may not feel at home in your new kingdom without your royal belongings" The guard mocked.
What lay there appeared to be a pile of cloth, perhaps once a splendid a robe, now torn and bloodied. The clatter was caused by a piece of bronze, a dented and defaced breast plate. The guard cackled to himself and bolted the door, his definite, rhythmical footsteps becoming faint as he marched back up the corridor beyond.
The man stared at the mangled piece of bronze beside him for a minute and then took it in his hand wistfully, leaning forward with a little difficulty. His body did not wince this time, seemingly too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice his bruised or broken ribs He traced the raised pattern with his long fingers. The insignia of the Trojan army. Sofia's heart jumped into her throat .... the title... the armour.... She knew who this man was. Everybody did.
"My Lord, forgive me, I ...." Sofia remembered her place, and dutifully stood to bow to him, her legs nervously shaking.
He smiled to himself inexplicably. In arrogance or madness Sofia couldn't tell. He did not condescend to look at her, his fingertips still concerned with tracing the outlines.
"Do not bow to me. I am no longer a prince; I am now just a prisoner of the Greeks like you."
Sofia could feel her gaunt cheeks blush, his tone making her feel incredibly foolish. She silently returned to her bench like a berated child. But resentment and curiosity soon took over. Instead of keeping her eyes lowered like she probably should have, Sofia stole glances at him as he sat there, presiding over his corner territory, deep in gloomy thought. She had heard all about him of course – he was a legend in his own lifetime, it was even rumoured that he was prized by Zeus himself. The old men in the village loved to tell tales of his bravery whilst the young boys would play-fight with wooden swords, trying to enact his valiant battles and pretend to be their hero. She cocked her head to the side, trying to study his face, squinting in a bid to make out his features beneath the dirt, swelling and swarthy beard. His shoulder-length dark hair was as messy as a wild ram's coat. Perhaps he was handsome, like he was rumoured to be, it was hard to tell. He was certainly rugged. But his eyes seemed sad as he handled the breast-plate, as if the weight of death hung heavy on his brow.
"Do not stare at me girl, it is not your place" He suddenly barked.
This made her anxious and she began to babble.
"I ... I am sorry ... it's just that I have seen you once before, I think. I saw you and your brother Paris hunting in the hills near my home. I knew that you were the Princes, your armour was so grand ... You...you rode a white steed ... You are Lord Hector, are you not?"
He shot her a cold look for waking him out of his nightmarish daydreams with her nervous stutters. Or perhaps it was because she had deigned to speak to him without being invited to do so. He rolled his eyes wearily and lent his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if he could not be bothered to converse. But she was eventually graced her with a retort.
"And why do you think that?"
"Well, you are not Paris, he is around my age. People say that he is so handsome Aphrodite herself is in love with him. And, begging my pardon Lord, if Aphrodite was so enamoured with you, I'm certain she would see fit to grant you your freedom."
She couldn't stop herself prattling away as if her mouth was no longer controlled by her brain. Still staring at the ceiling, he laughed, charmed by her naïve boldness. The laugh made no sound but shook his aching ribs so hard he held his arm round them tighter.
"And what do people say about Hector?" He fished, still amused.
"They say Prince Hector is a great man, a valiant man who is full of honour for Troy. They say he will make a fine king one day just like his father Priam ...."
Something in her comments changed his momentary cheer back to brooding melancholy. Sofia wondered what it was she had said which upset him so – perhaps it was not the right moment to massage his ego.
"So-called Hector the Great!" He chuckled to himself in disbelief; the hand that wasn't supporting his ribs was outstretched upwards as if to draw attention to the irony of his current situation "People are foolish. And as for Paris ... Paris is nothing but a thoughtless boy, if it wasn't for my brother this war may have been avoided."
He had given himself away, reluctantly. With his hand still outstretched Sofia noticed thick blood oozing from a nick in his palm. Extending his fingers like that must have re-opened the fierce looking wound.
"Lord Hector, your hand.... Here, you must cover it before it gets infected ..."
He shot her another frosty look as she tore away a semi-clean strip from the hem of her gown and approached him. As she knelt next to him and held out the cloth, he attempted to shift his upper body away from her defensively. Undaunted, she tried to reach for his hand again but he tugged it away.
"Fine! Do it yourself ..." she exclaimed in defeat.
He stubbornly snatched the strip from her and struggled to bind it over his own hand, pulling it taught and securing it with a knot using his teeth. Sofia watched in affront.
"You do not trust me do you?"
He said nothing.
"Well, I am obviously not Greek, if that is what you worries you ..." She continued.
"Nor are you Trojan."
Even recovering there on the floor he had an intimidating presence that could not be ignored. Sofia could feel her face flush again, this time in anger at his conceited. For such a supposedly righteous man he had displayed little politeness and good breeding.
"Why do you say that, Lord Hector?" Sofia tried hard to veil her displeased tone with protocol, her politeness hanging by a thread.
"You have blue eyes and pale skin. You are not native to Troy. Where were you enslaved from?"
She frowned at him as if she could not quite believe the impertinence of his comments. The expression in her eyes began to mirror his black-eyed stare.
"No, I am not native. I was orphaned when I was three years old and bought to Troy on a ship trading copper. But I can assure you, I am no slave."
Sofia attempted to stand, to escape the infuriating situation - and her infuriating inmate. She turned her back on him. It was disrespectful to show her back to a man, let alone one of royal standing but she simply didn't care any longer. She didn't know whether she would survive to see the moon rise once again, she was not about to waste time worrying about social etiquette. He raised his voice to show his repugnance.
"I have never met such an insolent girl in all my years. Aren't peasants taught respect anymore?!"
"I am no peasant!" She paused and sunk back to her knees to face him once more, her blood boiling.
"Well, if you are not a peasant, what then?! .... Not a priestess judging from your dress ...yet you are too raw to be a lady...Enough of these guessing games. Who are you girl? Speak!"
"I do not owe you any explanation. But if you must know, I live in a village beyond the protective walls of Troy. The local scholar adopted me ... I work at the school with my Papa"
Hector inwardly cursed himself; he should have guessed she wasn't a slave. She was too articulate.
"So what is you name, Schoolmistress?"
"And why do you care?!" She spat.
Hector looked as if he was about to explode, his pent up aggression almost reaching its peak.
"You must respect me girl!" He bellowed.
"Why should I when you show no respect for me!"
He had never been spoken to like that by anyone before, not even his father. He raised his dark eyebrows incredulously.
"Such delusions of grandeur! You may have been in the upper echelons of society in your little village but to me, you are just a peasant girl, not even worthy of my respect ..."
Sofia waved her hand dismissively.
"And you may be a Prince but to me you are just an insignificant man, a wounded tormenter."
"You should fear me ...." Hector snarled dangerously.
"And why should I? For such a noble man you act like a spoilt child ... and for such a great warrior you seem to love to bicker like an old woman."
"Watch that sharp tongue of yours, girl or I may just snap it off..."
"Trying to bully a woman now, are we? How brave. Do you think I care if you strike me? Look at my face; I have been dealt a few clever blows since I have been here. I am to it numb now. But the Greeks have the power to kill me whereas you do not. I hear you are a fierce fighter, yet far too reckless, much like a wild dog. But at this moment it seems as if you could not even squash an ant."
As if to disprove her theory and with reactions like lightening, Hector reached out and grasped his left hand completely around her slender neck, the large thumb resting against her windpipe. He was menacingly calm.
"All I have to do is squeeze."
Petrified by fright, Sofia didn't dare speak. If she moved a muscle or tried to struggle free he could crush her with one deft movement. She let out an involuntary whimper as her eyes welled with salty tears, collecting quickly in the corners then silently running down her cheeks.
But just as suddenly as he had lashed out, something in her face made Hector's wrath subside. His features that were contorted in fury - the brow, the nose, the mouth - melted in pure disgust. Disgust at himself. He let go of his grip, studying the hand he had held her with in amazement, turning the palm over and back again as if it had taken on a life of its own.
"You are right; I should have let you die." She snivelled, appalled by his actions. She scampered desperately on the floor for a moment, trying to find her feet.
Laying there on the bench, Sofia tried to make she look as small as possible, drawing her limbs in, a primal reaction to protect herself from such a brute. She wept to herself softly all the while.
"Why have they not killed you or sold you, girl?" Hector suddenly thought aloud.
She shrugged.
"Do not call me girl ... my name is Sofia..." Her voice wavered, muffled by her arms which she held against her ears, her fingers clasped at the top of her head.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew the cell was purple-dark in twilight. And her cloak had been carefully layed over her like a blanket.
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