Chapter Four...To The Ends Of The Earth (Continued)
He stared at her for a moment, and wished for the first time that the Hittites had been better fighters and spared
him this. "Why?" He asked. "Can you tell me that at least?" He was just staring at her, trying to breath, but between
the broken rib and what was soon to be a destroyed heart, he just didn't have it in him.
She felt his pain. As if it was her own. It was her own. They were tearing each other to pieces and she should have
never let it come to this. She'd known it. From the first moment she'd answered his first kiss. No - from the first
moment she'd decided to trust him to show her Troy by moonlight. She'd known what she was doing would only
lead her to tears. But - she'd wanted it - him - what he called up inside her - so badly. She hadn't expected him to
remember her once she was gone. And she should have. He was a better man than she'd wanted to believe and
she'd done him wrong to pretend otherwise in her heart. She shouldn't be in his arms now making things worse.
"Sit." she pressed her palms against his chest gently, voice soft. Not fighting him anymore. "Sit down and let me
look at you."
He was still completely thrown by her rejection of his proposal, before he even got a decent one out, that he was
easier to push back and make sit. "It's not so bad." He said automatically. "But are you going to answer my
question? We both know I can badger you." If she said it was because she didn't love him in return, well, then he'd
climb back down the ivy and go lick his wounds in Troy.
It was easier with him sitting. Easier with the stunned look in his dark eyes than the pain. Her heart loosened a
little. Even found the touch of humor in the fact that her own brothers brushed off their wounds with much the
same words Hector did. Stepping away, she found cloth and poured water into a bronze dish, coming back to set it
on the table near him. Things were easier when she had something to do with her hands. Things were - steadier
inside her. Efficiently she unknotted the ties that held his shirt in place. Watching what she was doing instead of
him.
"My family comes from the mountains," she began, voice the voice she used to tell stories. "We're all taller than we
should be and the people use words like 'hardy' and 'rough' when they describe us." And gawky and awkward
sometimes too, she thought. Pressing her lips together she knelt down next to him, carefully running slim fingers
over his chest and shoulders now that she could see the marks and bruises. "I'm used to soldiers. Or I thought I
was. My father's soldiers. My brothers. They're all - rough men. Good. But rough."
"I think I know where you're going with this." Hector said, trying not to wince as she touched his bruises. "I'm not
from the mountains, I'm not even from Greece, you can't compare me to them."
She lifted her eyes to his then and the very tips of her lips shifted upward. Softening. "You're right. I can't. Not
anymore. And this would be so much easier if I could." She damped a cloth, moved it gently across his skin. It
wouldn't wipe away the bruises but the cool water and the herbs she'd added would help a bit. He'd be stiff as a
wooden plank tomorrow no matter what they did. The broken rib was what really bothered her but for now she
worked around it, taking care of the milder cuts and bruises. Eyes back on her work, she continued: "They often
come home bloody. My sisters’ husbands are all warriors as well. Last year one of them lost his hand. They’re
fierce, rough warriors…" She paused and her voice went quieter as she added: "I should be used to watching men
ride off into death and pain." Gently soothing a salve across a gash on his forearm her fingers hesitated.
She finally raised her face to his. Eyes deep with hopeless despair and she pressed her lips together briefly,
shaking her head helplessly. "It wouldn't matter if I didn't love you."
He sighed and stroked her hair with his other hand. "And tomorrow Akakios could be run over by a chariot, or hit
by a stray arrow." She was in Sparta, after all. Boys trained to be warriors every day. "And no where is it written
that I will absolutely die in battle." He was on the verge of pleading in order to convince her back to his side. But
she loved him, so he was right on this course of action. "We're mortal; we can be struck down by the enemy, a
stupid mistake, an accident, or even by the gods themselves if they wanted to. Fear of death is no reason for
either of us to push the other away."
"You left." her voice was young and she turned her face into the palm of his hand, cupping it with her own. "And
I've never known such fear. Not even for my brothers. Or my father. I thought," she shut her eyes. "I thought that I
would give anything - anything at all - to simply know you would come back safe. Hector of Troy. You would not be
you if you did not love your city enough to die for it. I would never ask you to change that." She lifted her eyes
back to his. "But if I die inside when you leave now, what will happen to me when I am your wife and the wars that
are already growing throughout Greece come for you as well? I'm not that strong. I'm not."
What could he say to that? He couldn't ask his soldiers to die for Troy if he wasn't willing also. He couldn't send
them to the front lines unless he went with them. And he would never give her false promises. "And if I leave now,
neither of us will ever know what happened to the other." He said, curling his fingers in her hair. "I can't promise I'll
never die, no one can. All I can promise is that I will love you. And if I reach the Underworld first, I will pine for you.
If you go first, I won't be far behind."
The tears came then. The ones she'd been holding inside since she'd woken to find him gone. They clogged her
throat and filmed her eyes. She would die. Everything inside of her would die when he did. Tomorrow or a
thousand years from now. And she was lying to herself if she thought marriage to another man and never seeing
Hector of Troy again would change that at even the smallest level. Gods take pity on her if they remembered how.
She reached up, careful of the wounds and bruises and wound her arms around his shoulders. Lifted her face to
his.
"I can't live without you."
He drew her face to his and kissed her, relieved, joyful, all of it. "Then don't." he said. "Come back with me to Troy.
Maybe this time the sea will be calm with you on board.”