The Glory of Troy, part III

This is the final part of the short story, "The Glory of Troy." Like the second part of the same, it is the first draft. I admit that I have actually found good use for a play I despise (anyone who has read "Trojan Women" will recognise setting, and in some cases speeches, at once.) Once again, this needs to be tattooed (meaning edited, hacked, sliced, and torn to shreds, for those of you who have not heard the term in this context.) If anyone wants to do a full-scale edit, I would be elated. E-mail me at jacki.siwel@gmail.com if you are interested. The links to the first two parts are below. Thank you for reading (and hopefully commenting substantially.) Cheers.
.Jacki.
Part I here
Part II here
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Andromache only vaguely saw the pain that once again struck Hecuba's face. Hector's sister, Polyxena, was now dead, and Andromache had borne the news to the queen. Hector's wife, soon to be the concubine of Achilles' son, shook her head. The queen of what? Of a city that had been razed by the cunning of Oddyseus. Of an army that had been slaughtered, or had fled. Of dead princes, of sacrificed princesses, of cowering survivors. No. Hecuba was queen no more.

Andromache found herself wishing she had suffered the same fate as Polyxena. The thought that the princess had been slain as an offering to Achilles' tomb was sickening, but the prospect of being dead was almost delightful. Once, she had dreamed of life, of seeing her dreams unfold before her eyes. And they had begun to. She had wedded Hector, borne him a son, and lived as one of the noblest women in all of Troy. But with one selfish action from Paris, that dream had morphed into a ten-year nightmare. No husband, no home, no happiness... yes, death would be a welcome thing. Her child started to cry in her arms. She bounced him up and down, shushing him softly. There was still Astyananx.

Hecuba wiped tears from her face. 'Look,' she said, her voice throaty. Andromache followed her eyes, and saw Talthybius approaching. Andromache was not surprised to see the Achaen herald, but she was concerned. He was a decent man, for a Greek, but was not often sent with good tidings.

'You must not hate me, Andromache, for what I must say.' Andromache's stomach dropped, but she kept her face expressionless. Talthybius was silent for a moment, grappling with his own mind. 'I wish I did not have to tell you,' he stammered finally. 'Your son--'

Yes, her son. She feared as much. She held Astyananx closer to her. The herald seemed to find it difficult to continue. Mostly to confirm her fears, but partly to aid this poor Greek, she attempted to finish his sentence. 'They are taking him from me, giving him to a Greek prince.'

'No, no,' replied Talthybius, apparently startled at her conclusion. 'None of our lords dare to rule over him.'

It was Andromache's turn to be shocked. 'You mean they will leave him here, as a survivor of Troy?' Hope began to rise in her breast, and she looked at her son. It was not an ideal life, to stay at a leveled city, but at least he would be far away from the taunts of the warriors who had seen his father slaughtered. But her hope shattered as the herald shook his head.

'You make this not easy, yet it must be told you.' He took a deep breath, and spoke in a rush. 'They mean to kill him.'

She did not hear Hecuba sob behind her. Tears stung at her eyes, and she fought to breath. She stared at Talthybius, almost pleadingly, though she knew not why. No mere herald could revoke this. Astyananx made a noise, but she had not the will to quiet him.

'They think he is dangerous,' he continued, looking at his sandals. 'They fear he will grow strong, and try to avenge his father.'

'How?' choked Hecuba, and Andromache wished she had not asked. Was it not enough to know that the child would die? Was it necessary to know the details of his death, to see his lifeless body clearly in her mind, as she saw Hector's?

'They will thrown him from the battlements of your city.'

'Oh, gods,' Andromache mouthed. She saw her son in the arms of his unhelmed father on the same battlements, heard her husband pray. Zeus had not heard. He had not heard the noble Hector. And he would not hear her now. She thought of running, of hiding, of perhaps using her union with Achilles' son as leverage. She would not let them harm her son.

'Do not, I beg you, fight back,' warned Talthybius, as though he had read her thoughts. 'You are not enough to win a fight against me, let alone the entire Greek army. He will die whether you resist or not. If you give him to them willingly, they may let you bury him.'

Astyananx cried the louder, and hid himself in Andromache's breast. She shook her head. No Hector, no Aeneas, no Euphorbus to fight for Troy now. No one to lift his spear and save her from this terror, this Hades above the ground. She ran her hand through his dark, babyish hair, and kissed him over and over. She tried to blink her tears away so that she could see him clearly, whispering his name over and over again. Oh, gods! No daughter of Zeus was Helen, whatever the Greeks might say. She was a demon, a daughter of Envy and Death. She prayed to whatever god would hear her that Helen would die, as painfully as Hector or Astyananx, or else live as the wife of Hector must live. And after they had killed Astyananx, she knew they would send her to Greece, to please the lusts of the son of her husband's murderer.

'It is all one,' she whispered. 'All one, to never have been born and to be dead. Death itself is better than miserable life. The dead feel no sadness, know no grief. Dear Astyananx, you shall have less grief to bear than I. I have not so much as hope, the last resource of every human heart, nor do I beguile myself with dreams of future bliss. It is all one.'