Chapter Eight....Wounded
"Get me...on a damn horse." Hector said as they approached the city gates. Up until this point, he hadn't been able
to ride, or sit up much. He had a nasty deep gash across the right part of his upper chest, his opponent's sword
had gone straight through his armor, and consequently, his skin all the way through down.
"My prince, there is no way." Glaucus said. "If you can walk to the horse, we'll get you on one."
The riders paused, and Hector got up unsteadily from the canvas he had been lying on, slung between two horses,
when it was lowered to the ground. He took two steps and fell down to his knees. "Come on, Prince Hector, let's just
get you home."
"My wife....is going to kill me." Hector said as he was carried back to the canvas.
Andromache paced the rooftop. Worried. But at least she was alone. If her mother in law hadn't thought to tell her
about this place all those years ago, she'd probably be inflicting herself on the other women in the weaving room.
Absent, she rubbed at her chest, just below the arch of her collarbone. Aching. Her chest ached.
Reports from the front were scattered. Troy had won. That much was clear. But the stories about how it had
happened were too varied. They say there had been 'men of valor' among the enemy. Heros. The bards, with little
to no knowledge, were already making up songs about it. But the royal family waited for the return of the army. And
Andromache waited for her husband.
Troy had won. But why was it taking the army so long to return then? Priam had sent out his own riders. Did he
plan a parade? Did he not? The reports came back on foam flecked horses and the words whispered through the
hallways. Too many dead, too many wounded.
The dark shapes took form on the horizon and Andromache rushed to the edge, hands on the raised lip of the roof
as she searched. Enough... there were enough of them. It had to be army. Desperate her eyes narrowed, scanned
the indistinct forms. Looking for the one that would feel more familiar to her than her own form. Looking... and not
seeing him.
It wasn't possible. She'd missed him. Somehow. She leaned, searching. Was he coming later? Was he near the
rear for some reason? Had he needed to stay behind? Riders rode ahead of the mass, urging speed into their
mounts as they raced toward the gates with whatever news they carried. But Andromache stayed where she was.
Hands starting to go cold. Still looking for that familiar form she would know anywhere.
At least Priam had the sense not to plan a parade, especially once he realized his son was among the injured, but
luckily not among the dead. He told Andromache none of this though, thinking it would upset her far too much, and
get her worked up about something before they even had the chance to see exactly how bad it was.
But there were crowds anyway, waiting for loved ones, waiting to see if they were dead or alive. The dead would be
brought back later that night, most of the riders Priam had dispatched were for that purpose.
The gates opened and some of the bloody and bruised remained on their horses. Many of them were leading
riderless horses, even more had canvases stretched between the horses, carrying the wounded off the ground so
as to not aggravate their injuries more than they had to. One of Hector's aides de camp signaled for help with the
wounded as he led Hector's riderless horse, the prince for now not conscious.
She didn't want to abandon the rooftop. The gates were still open but no new shades were appearing on the
horizon. And she hadn't seen Hector. Her throat was so tight it hurt and she was breathing in short exhales, eyes
huge in the angles of her thin face. She covered her mouth with a slim hand that shook a bit. Heart forgetting to
beat. If she went downstairs, joined the men that made up the Apollonian Guard - it wasn't real yet - her husband
might still appear on the horizon - but if she went downstairs...
Catching up the hem of her dress to free her ankles she started down the stairs, one hand against the wall as if
she couldn't quite be sure it would stay there. Or maybe it wasn't that she was sure she could balance alone. Once
committed to the course her feet moved with their own speed and by the time she reached the ground floor she
was running. To know - one way or the other - was better than the way her heart was twisting apart inside her
chest.
She paused at the top of the steps that led to the courtyard. So many wounded. So - so many riderless horses.
More than the wounded men in the stretchers counted for. For the moment, no one noticed her and the ancient
smell of dust and horse and sweat and blood and rot closed in around her. So - familiar. She closed her eyes.
Opened them. Saw Glaucus and the look in his eyes went they met hers was a physical blow. She staggered,
knees almost giving out under her. Reaching for one of the pillars as if it was the only thing real in this world. Her
eyes, demon driven, suddenly recognized Hector's horse. Covered with blood that wasn't its own and favoring a
leg. The blanket on its back empty.
Hecuba, watching for her daughter in laws arrival, moved over to put hands on her shoulders. Murmur something
but Andromache didn't hear it. Barely felt the touch. They were lowering a canvas sling and she knew - without
seeing, without a word...
"Hector." the name was a whisper. A denial. A plea. And she wasn't aware of how she'd moved or that the rest of
the Apollonians had become aware of their commander's wife and had moved to form a circle. To let her through
and to protect her. She went to her knees but it was next to the canvas and they moved the rough cloth aside as
they lowered it gently in front of her.
Pale. He was so pale. And there was - so much blood. Bandages drenched in it, clotting in the canvas below him.
Something inside her was screaming and her chest was on fire. She couldn't breath. Tears pooled in her eyes,
obscuring her vision and refusing to fall. The elite guard, unsure if their general even still lived, didn't dare disturb
the scene in front of them. Surgeons were coming. But so were the priests.
"Hector." she whispered it again. A prayer that didn't reach out to any god but instead tangled itself around the
man in front of her. Careful not to disturb the bandages that wound around him like a burial shroud, she took his
gore encrusted hand in both of hers. Pressed her lips blindly to it. "Don't leave me, my love. I can't live - " she
bowed her head, breathing warmth onto the chilled hand. "I just can't live."
Hector groaned as the canvas was lowered to the ground, the touch of the hard ground beneath him painful to his
sore body. It took him several long minutes before he realized he was in Troy again, and his wife was there. He
opened his eyes a bit, really no more than a slit and saw her kneeling beside him, grasping his hand.
He moved his fingers a bit to squeeze the hand that was holding his. "Sorry, love..." He whispered hoarsely.
"Akakios....is just gonna have to wait....a bit longer. Still here...."
The Apollonians around them let out a relieved exhale that was audible as they saw their commander move a bit.
"oh gods." it moved through her with a shudder and shook the edges of her voice. But still the tears didn't fall. Her
fingers closed fiercely around his. At that moment she would have promised anything to anyone that would keep
him there with her.
Illyrius arrived then. He had receded his training in the arts of healing during Priam's days on the battle field and
he was still the best. He went awkwardly to his knees on the other side of his prince and Andromache was only
vaguely aware of his presence as he made thoughtful noises in his throat. Folding back his sleeves, he summoned
over one of his assistants and the box the young man carried. For the young general's blood still flowed.
From long experience in her father's house Andromache automatically kept herself out of the way of his work. But
she held her husband's hand tightly against her own heart and brushed damp hair gently from his forehead, eyes
always on his face.
"You're home." the words were forced out through a tight throat. "You can't leave now. You just got home, my love.
Stay. Stay with me. Please..."
Hector's eyelids fluttered closed again as he moaned in protest at the battle surgeon's poking and prodding of his
wound. He instinctively tried to move away from the hands that were aggravating every single wound and bruise he
had, but didn't get very far, with his wife on the other side.
"Stop..." He said, gasping a bit. "That's an order..." Hopefully Illyrius would listen, he felt like fire was coursing
through his body, it was unbearable.
"We need to move him off the street into a bed." Illyrius said, nodding at some of the more intact soldiers.
"Princess..." One of them said, trying to gently coax her into moving away.
Andromache nodded. Understanding what needed to be done. And wondering where the calm, rational woman she
usually was had gone because she couldn't - couldn't seem to force herself to let go of his hand or stand on her
own.
Glaucus came to her rescue, wrapping strong hands around her shoulders and helping her to her feet. He almost
had to simply lift her but she managed. Managed to stand. Managed to let go of her husband's hand...
Managed to remember - from time to time - to breath.
She was aware that there were other people around her. That they moved through the palace. But it was a world of
ghosts. Indistinctive shadows that spoke to her in murmurs she didn't understand and rooms she didn't recognize
as more than dim enclosures. But the blood - the blood that left its bright trail on the tile in front of her... the blood
was real.
Illyrius was good, but like all healers his methods were primitive. Andromache, like all wives, were kept outside the
room he had overtaken for a triage room, moans and yells from the soldiers easily heard in the hall way where
Glaucus stayed with Andromache.
"He's strong." Glaucus said, in his own way comforting. "He's strong." He repeated.
Hector had to be tied down as they worked on him. He wasn't quite around, but he was still fighting them, or maybe
something in his mind as they finally cauterized the wound and stitched him up enough that the bleeding slowed.
Then they came out and nodded at Andromache, they'd be moving him up to his apartments and away from the
make shift infirmary.
Andromache jerked against Glaucus' hands as he kept them on her shoulders. She did it intermittently, hand
pressed tightly to her lips and her face was pale. Eyes fixed on the doors that led into the room they'd taken her
husband into. Forgetting to breath. Chest burning.
When they opened the door, she searched faces first. Eyes terrified in her tight face. But it was only to tell her that
they were moving him. She nodded. Went first to make sure everything was in order for him. And the Apollonians in
the room met each other's eyes.
Andromache looked around the room. She'd seen it thousands of times before. And none of it looked familiar. Her
hands moved of their own accord, moved things to clear side tables and make room for the bandages and
medicine that would be arriving. Efficiently changing the room so it suited its new purpose. Which was... which was...
It was hard to tell if her knees gave way or it was intentional, but she was suddenly sitting on the edge of the bed.
Inhaling in short gasps. Hand over her chest.
Hearing the screams he'd never made, feeling the pain and the rage behind them. She'd heard them all.
The door opened and she stood up, turning to smooth the rest of the sheet clean before stepping to the side.
Waiting patiently while they laid her husband on the bed.
The skin around the bandages was already turning a shocking shade of purple as the surgeon whispered words
like infection and fever to the guards around him, hoping Andromache didn't over hear.
"That's all I can do." he said to Andromache. "If he bleeds through the bandages, replace them. If he becomes
feverish, cool him down. And most of all," Illyrius knew Hector since he was a boy, "I don't care if Troy is attacked
itself, he is not to get on a horse or swing a sword for a bit." If anyone could stop him, it would his wife. He nodded
toward Andromache and left to attend to the rest of the injured before they became dead.
The Apollonians pulled the blankets over Hector, and nodded at Andromache as well as they too left. There were
dead to collect after all.