A/N: This is a short story about a difficult moment in Hector and Andromache's life. It takes place a few years before the events in the film "Troy". Hector and Andromache have only been married for about a year and they haven't really matured into the people they are during the war with the Greeks.
No, she wasn't sad. She wasn't devastated. She wasn't crushed. She wasn't distraught. She wasn't even crying. Her face was pale, but no tears fell down her cheeks. Her eyes were dark but not from grief nor pain nor sorrow. She was furious.
How could they? How dared they? She was the daughter of king Eetion of Thebe. She was a princess of Troy; the wife of their crown prince Hector, their future king. She was to be their queen, the first lady of their country. So how could they tell her these vile lies?
She stared accusingly at the midwife and her maids who surrounded the bed like a flock of pigeons in her chamber. The sheets were still soaked in blood, but she paid no attention to it. Nor did she pay any attention to her aching and exhausted body. She was too busy screaming out to the women that they were liars, liars, liars!
The midwife and the servants seemed to be completely irresolute. Their eyes reflected horror and pity mixed with embarrassment. This was not how a princess was expected to conduct herself. A princess would bear her times of trial with her dignity preserved. She would be strong and courageous. In any case, she was not expected to behave the way Andromache of Troy did at this moment.
But how was she supposed to behave? What was she supposed to do when they wanted to shatter her world to pieces? What was she supposed to say when they wanted to take her expectations, her happiness and her sanity away from her?
She still held the child in her arms. Yes, the child. They would not take that away from her. Even though they had tried, oh yes they had, but she would never let them.
"My lady, let me take it," the midwife had said. "It still needs to be washed and made presentable."
"Don't call her "it"! Don't treat her like she is nothing! She is not a thing without feelings! She is not an animal! She is a human being! She is my child!"
Yes. She was her child, damn them all. It didn't matter what they said. She would never believe their wicked lies. Never. How could she?
"It's a girl," she remembered that she had heard them saying after the many endless hours of torment.
She had managed to smile, despite her exhaustion. "I want to see her. Let me hold her."
She had not received an answer. When the midwife had spoken up again, her voice had seemed strange. "My lady, I am sorry, but..."
"What do you mean?" she had asked, a little annoyed. "Let me hold her!"
The women had looked uncomfortable. They still made no move to give the baby to their mistress and Andromache suddenly sensed a shudder of fear down her spine. But she had never been prepared for what they would tell her. It just couldn't be true.
Was she supposed to believe them when they told her that she had endured nine months of pregnancy in vain? She remembered all those mornings of sickness and vomiting, her swelling and waddling form, her tiredness, her ache. Were they trying to tell her that it had been to no use?
Was she supposed to believe them when they told her that all the hopes and expectations she had shared with her husband these last months had been for nothing? She remembered Hector's look of utter joy when she told him that he was going to be a father for the first time. She remembered how they had talked about the child, visualized its face, suggested names... She remembered how they had fallen asleep together with Hector's arms safely around her belly. They had sensed the child's presence and discovered an intimacy they had never experienced before. And now they told her that it had been pointless?
Was she supposed to believe them when they told her that all those hours of labouring had been futile? She could still feel the pain running through her body like a powerful time wave. Dull knives were cutting her, red-hot irons were burning her. She had endured it willingly, because she knew that she would have a reward which would make up for all of the torture. And now they were trying to take her reward away?
Was she supposed to believe them when they told her that her child was dead?
Never. The gods wouldn't be that cruel. She had known that they would protect her and the child and keep them safe. That was why she hadn't bee afraid. They wouldn't let her down.
Stillborn. Stillborn. Stillborn. The ghastly word echoed in her ears over and over again, but her mind refused to accept it.
No, no, no. She wasn't dead. She was right before her, in her arms. She was small, yes, but babies were always small. Yes, she was cold, but that wasn't so strange. Her chamber was quite chilly. They should better get her a blanket and she would feel warmer. Her eyes were closed, yes, but she was just sleeping. Being born took some energy. It was understandable that she was tired.
She was her mother! Were they trying to tell her that she didn't know her own child? Did they tell her that she didn't know what was best for her? She just needed to sleep a little bit, that was all.
Hector had noticed the servants' helpless looks as his wife became more and more aggressive. She refused to even let anyone close to her and she still clutched the lifeless bundle in her arms. Her eyes were wild and flashing. She was like a lioness, desperately trying to protect her cubs from a pack of hyenas.
If it had been for Hector to decide, he would have liked to escape from the room or lie down flat on the floor and shut the world out. He felt something burning and stinging inside his chest; a pain which cut deeper than anything he had experienced on the battlefield. This felt like such a cruel joke, having waited for something for so long and losing all of it in just a moment. He didn't want to face it.
But he knew that he had to, for the sake of his wife. Some might say that this was a woman's grief and that she needed the company of another female to find comfort, but Hector knew that it was wrong. Right now, he was the only one who could fully understand and share her pain.
Sighing deeply, he turned to the servants. His father and his brother were standing behind him. They were all looking at him, like they expected him to tell them what to do. But they also looked concerned, like they expected him to fall apart in front of their eyes.
"Leave us alone, please," he said gently.
The servants didn't have to be told twice. They silently left the room, after glancing sympathetically at the poor prince one last time. Paris on the other hand seemed much more reluctant to live. His brother was young and he had taken his older brother's misfortune deeply to heart. Tears were slowly running down his cheeks.
Finally King Priam placed his arm around his son's neck and guided him towards the door. "Come, son. This is the will of the gods."
Hector cringed at his father's words, but he didn't object. Slowly, Priam and Paris left and the guards quietly closed the door after them. Hector was left alone with his wife. He slowly turned towards her and felt an immense compassion when he watched her.
Andromache had closed her eyes tightly now and her form was slowly rocking forth and backwards. She mumbled incoherent things in a choked voice and her arms held the bundle pressed against her breast in an iron-grip.
Slowly, Hector moved closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. He heard her mumble. "Must get warm, must get warm, so cold, so cold..."
"Andromache," he said mildly.
She stopped mumbling, but her rocking continued. He could at least tell that she was still conscious and that her ears had heard him calling for her to come back to the world. But he also knew that she didn't want to come back from wherever she had gone. Why would she want to come back and face a truth she wasn't sure if she would survive?
"Andromache, may I see her?" he asked her.
She stopped rocking and opened her eyes. She stared distantly in front of herself.
"Please," he said, gently persuasive.
"Why?" he heard her whisper, almost inaudibly.
"I am her father, aren't I? I have a right to see her."
Andromache sat still for a long moment. Her eyes were still completely dry. Then she slowly put the bundle down in her lap. Her fingers shivered slightly as she folded the blanket down and revealed the tiny creature they had been waiting for all those months to behold. But this was not how they had expected or wanted it to be.
Hector watched her silently. He had seldom been anywhere near an infant before and he felt slightly amazed over the fact that she was so incredibly small. Her head could fit in the palm of his hand; her arms were almost as thin as one of his own fingers. So delicate, so innocent and so terribly helpless.
Her hair was dark brown, just like his own; even though she had no more than a few wisps on her little head. Her eyelids were closed but he assumed that she must have brown eyes, since both he and Andromache did. Her features still lacked character and personality, but he didn't doubt that the gods had given her the spirit and loveliness of her mother.
"She is beautiful," he said quietly.
"I thought you wanted a son," Andromache said flatly, but with a bitter undertone in her voice.
Hector didn't answer. He looked closely at the child. She looked slightly pale and her body was strangely limp, but you could still let yourself be fooled. With her eyes closed, she looked so peaceful. For a moment, Hector breathlessly asked himself if the midwives had really been wrong. She really looked like she was just sleeping, exhausted after the experience of being brought into the world.
But when he reached out to touch her, he realized that he couldn't deceive himself, as much as he would have liked to. The realization crawled in under his skin and hit his mind with merciless strength. Her cheek was so cold; colder than the skin of any living human being. Just as cold as death.
He had to take a deep breath to hold himself together and not let the pain overwhelm him. It was so unfair. They had been so happy. Never for a moment had they considered that things wouldn't be all right and that the child wouldn't be healthy. People had children all the time, all over the city and they were the Prince and Princess of Troy! Surely the gods would be on their side?
But they hadn't been. Hector closed his eyes tightly. He would never get to see this child take her first steps; he would never teach her how to ride; he would never watch her smiling up at her mother.
But he realized that he had to be strong, for Andromache's sake. He knew that she had to feel the emptiness even stronger than he did, since she had carried the child inside her for all those long months. And even if he felt as much pain as he did, he couldn't possibly imagine what it must be like for her.
He thought the child looked cold, so he gently wrapped the blanket around her delicate body again, until only her face was visible. "What are we going to name her?" he asked his wife.
"Name her?" Andromache repeated slowly. She sounded completely uncomprehending.
"She must have a name, doesn't she? What should we call her?" They had of course talked about a few names, but now it was different. How could you decide a child's name when you hadn't seen her face or felt the weight of her body in your arms?
"Don't you want to name her after your mother?" Andromache asked him, staring absent-mindedly at the babe.
Hector shook his head. "No, I don't so. I think she is a unique being. She needs a unique name that fits her personality."
"Her personality..." Andromache whispered. There was something dreamingly over her words. But then her shoulders sank and she shrugged listlessly.
"What do you think of Zoe?"
Despite her dazed state, Andromache couldn't hide her surprise. She turned around and stared at him. "That's Greek."
Hector nodded silently. They kept looking into each others eyes for a long time since they both knew what the name meant. Zoe was Greek for "life".
"Why do you want to call her that?" Andromache finally asked him.
Hector pondered her question. "I guess it is because your child can never leave you. Not entirely."
Slowly, Andromache shook her head. "No. No it can't," she whispered.
Once again, Hector let his index finger roam along the child's smooth cheek. "I can see her, Andromache. I can see her running towards me when I come home from battle. I can see her smiling as you lift her into your arms. She has your smile. And I can hear her laughing – in my heart."
Andromache's eyes had become glossy. Hector felt a lump in his throat, but forced it down. Slowly, he reached out to touch his wife's hand. "But we'll never see her like that outside our hearts, my love," he said, gently, but firmly. "We will never see her running around playing, laughing or smiling."
He made no attempt to soften his words. He didn't bother saying soothing things like "you will forget," or "we will have another child". He knew that it would be pointless. They would never forget, not in a million years. And even if they would have ten other children, it wouldn't matter since none of them could replace this one.
He swallowed before he continued. "But still, she will always be alive."
Tears had slowly started running down Andromache's pale cheeks, but she still didn't move a muscle. Her eyes were still set upon the child. "Zoe," she whispered, almost inaudibly.
Hector nodded. "Yes, that's right. She will always remain living because we will always love her. Always. And that's why she will always be with us."
His wife's shoulders had started shaking slowly. Tears had continued to fall down her face and she made no effort to wipe them off. She cried, wordlessly, soundlessly, with the child in her lap.
Hector placed his hand on his shoulder. "Andromache," he said throatily.
When, she turned to him, he felt relief. He had managed to get through to her after all. He had managed to make her understand. But the relief drained him of his strength and suddenly he felt his own feelings catching up with him. He felt a strange mix of myriads of emotions. Above all sadness, regret, fear and a fierce anger. His wrath was aimed at the fate and the gods who had let this happen.
Andromache had pressed the child against her chest again. She slowly reached out a hand to place it against his cheek. Her tear-brimmed eyes were full of compassion. Slowly Hector wrapped his arms around her form and embraced her tightly He held his wife and the lifeless little bundle in her arms close to his heart.
Andromache's body was limp now and she cried freely. Her tears wet his tunic, but he didn't care. He realized that he was crying too. That was something he wasn't used to. Somehow, a man was never supposed to cry, particularly not warriors or princes. While his wife's tears came naturally, he found it hard to let his fall. He choked and his chest was heaving.
He felt shame. Not for his tears but for himself. Somehow, he felt like he had failed. It had been his duty to protect his wife and child; to keep them both safe. Instead, the worst thing you could possibly imagine had happened to them. And he had not been able to do anything to prevent it; he had been forced to stand by and watch.
"It wasn't your fault, Hector," he suddenly heard Andromache whisper.
Some said that girls who died unmarried had entered a marriage to the underworld; to Hades, the god of darkness. Andromache shuddered. No, she just refused to believe that. In her heart, she wanted to believe that her child had been taken over the river Styx to the meadows that were filled with lilies.
Lilies...
Hector slowly opened the pouch he had carried with him. The sun radiated on the white flowers. He gave a few to Andromache and took a few for himself. But they waited. Somehow, they wanted to make this moment last as long as possible, since they both realized that when it was over, it was final.
The official funeral proceeding had already taken place of course. The death of a Princess of Troy couldn't pass unnoticed. But neither Hector nor Andromache had found the peace they sought in the masses of people and the solemn atmosphere. They had felt the need to have a moment for themselves. This was their own, private farewell.
The skies were grey and a chilly breeze flapped against them. They were standing on a rock, just by the shore, looking out over the raging waves. Andromache's hair fluttered behind her and she casually breathed in the salt scent of the sea. In this moment, it was like time was unmoving and still, everything had changed.
Oh yes, Andromache knew that they would return to the palace; she would continue her life with Hector; fulfil her duties and appear as the noble and reasonable princess she always had been. But deep inside her heart and in every fibre of her being, she knew that she was no longer the same. Nor would she ever be. There was no way back.
When she came to Troy almost a year earlier, she had been a girl. She had been frightened, but still a girl who was prepared to do her duty and what was expected of her. Her marriage had not changed her. She had remained a girl until she had first beheld her child. Never before had she experienced such intense grief, anger and love at the same time. Those feelings and the image of the lifeless child had forever left its mark in her mind and her heart.
She knew that she would continue being the princess of Troy; Hector's wife. She would have another child; she would do her duty. She would be content, pleased and maybe even happy. But she would never ever be the same again. She was a woman now and she had forever left her years of childhood behind her.
She glanced up at her husband and noticed the darkness in his eyes. And she realized that becoming a father had changed him too. Maybe he wouldn't grieve in the same way as she would, but he would never be the same either. Nor would their life together ever be.
Hector slowly dropped the lilies into the ocean. Andromache pulled a deep breath and let hers fall as well. They were immediately caught by the waves and pulled away; captured by the giant, immense ocean.
Andromache's hands were empty, but she suddenly felt her husband taking one of them into his own. His hand felt warm and strong and gave her comfort. She looked up at him and noticed the tender and concerned look on his face. She managed to press out a small smile and squeezed his hand slowly.
She knew that this was something you would never really get over. Such wounds could not be healed. Such a trauma could not be erased. To survive, there was only one thing to be done: You just had to learn how to live with it.
They would keep their memories of their child, of Zoe for ever living inside their hearts. They would never forget.
But they would still have each other.