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.'

The Glory of Troy, part II

This part has not yet been edited fully, so feel quite free to have a whack at it. In fact, hacking at this beast would be a grand bit of fun for me. She probably needs it.
Part I here
Part III here
.Jacki.
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The shuttle moved back and forth, in and out of the loom, carrying the purple thread behind it. Andromache wove and wove, but her mind was not on her weaving. Hector was outside the gates, once more to do battle with the Achaeans. And she knew that her husband would not withdraw from the battlefield. Achilles himself had come forth, and Hector was not a man to back down from a challenge. Fear clenched her throat with a grip of iron, as it so often did when she thought of Hector in battle. She could not shake the feeling that he was doomed, that some god was set against him.

She heard shouts from the wall. She listened for a moment. No, it was not the sound of death, merely of battle. She shook her head and went back to her work. Over and under. He would not die in battle. She had had her women heat water on the fire for him when he returned. Over and under. Some mighty god must favour him. Perhaps Apollo? Yes, the sun-god was on the side of the Trojans. Surely he would defend Hector. Over and under. And her husband was mighty in battle; surely he could not fall today. Even at the hand of Achilles? No, not even he. Over.

A woman’s scream tore through the room, echoing fatalistically on the stone walls. Andromache started, and looked up from the loom. The shuttle fell from her shaking fingers and clacked on the floor. Her entire body trembled as the cry rang in her ears. Her women looked around, confused, but not understanding what had occurred. 'Two of you,' Andromache faltered, 'come. That was Queen Hecuba’s cry.' She did not need to say more. The women’s eyes widened, and one of them nodded. Andromache summoned her strength and stood.

Hector. No, no. Not Hector. No. She flew through the house, barely aware that her women followed her. She reached the battlements, and looked around at the people. Women and old men stood on the wall, all aghast. Mothers turned their children’s gazes away from the field below the wall, ancient men shook their heads and murmured, and young women wept. Hecuba, her hair torn, was in hysterics, wailing into the shoulder of Priam. No. Andromache pushed her way to the wall.

There was an Achaean chariot, drawn by chestnut horses. Driving it, mad with rage and passion, was Achilles. On the front of his chariot was the armour of Patrolocus, which Hector had taken as spoils of his victory. And dragged behind the chariot, naked and wounded, was Hector. His ankles had been pierced and threaded with hide, and thus was he attached to the vehicle. His body was mangled, barely recognizable under all the wounds and blows he had received from Achaean warriors. Dust clouded the air behind Achilles’ chariot as he raced toward his ships. Andromache’s vision blurred. She heard the screaming of Hecuba, and the triumphant cry of the Achaean warrior, and she knew no more.

The Glory of Troy, part I

This is a short story I just felt like writing one day, although it took me months to actually get it all done. The whole thing wound up being around five pages long in my word processor, so I'm posting it in three parts, which is how it's written at any rate. Hope you enjoy it.
Part II here
Part III here
.Jacki.

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Andromache stared at her husband. He stood on the wall in his armour, his eyes shining. Andromache knew the look; he was dreaming of war. She silently cursed Ares; the war-god drove men mad, made them forget reason.

'Hector,' Andromache began, and choked on her tears. Hector took her hand gently. She gripped his own, as though she could keep him from the dangers of the war by just holding him. She took in a shaky breath, and started again. 'Hector, please don’t go out. You’ll die; Ajax is not an easy foe. Even should you defeat him, the Achaeans are favoured by Hera and Athena, because of your brother. Haven’t I lost enough people whom I love?' She sobbed again, but she had no need to speak. Hector knew she spoke of her parents. Her father Eëtion had been slain by Achilles, and her mother was killed by an arrow of Artemis.

'Wife,' Hector said, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, 'I must go. I cannot just stay here, hiding behind the walls of Ilius like a coward. If I have to die, which it is likely I will, I would rather die in glory and honour than cowering like a child.'

'Send Paris,' replied Andromache before she could stop herself.

'Paris?' repeated Hector. 'My coward brother? You want to send him to fight Ajax?'

'Yes,' said his wife evenly, though her anger toward Paris could not have been surpassed by the Furies themselves. 'He started this war by stealing Helen from Menelaus,' she continued, surprised by her boldness. 'The Achaeans only want her back, and they would leave our great Ilius if they obtained her. Send your brother to battle, since it was his lust and foolhardiness that began this long war.'

But Hector shook his helmed head. '“No. Paris is a coward, and would be slaughtered by Ajax. Besides,' he smiled, 'Aphrodite apparently likes him too much to let him fight.'

Andromache remembered; Paris had gone to fight, and the goddess of love had lifted him from the battle field and put him back in Troy. She wondered yet again how her noble husband could be the brother of such a miserable worm as Paris. 'Troy will fall,' continued Hector, 'but that is not what frightens me. I am neither worried about my own death, nor the fate of the city. But if the city falls, it is you I worry about. You would be enslaved, taken as a wife for some wretched Greek prince.'

Andromache nodded dejectedly. The same cold terrors had gripped her own heart many times. The thought of living without Hector, having already lost both of her parents, was unbearable. She blinked back a fresh flood of tears, trying to smile to push back the nightmare. Hector squeezed her hand.

Astyanax, Andromache’s son, cooed behind her. She turned to see the infant, held by his nurse. She had nearly forgotten in her fright for Hector that her child was on the wall as well. Hector smiled, and let go of her hand. He reached for his son. Astyananx’s eyes grew wide, and he screamed in terror, bawling into his nurse’s shoulder. Hector started. 'What in the name of Zeus?'

Andromache smiled. 'It is your helm. It hides your face, and the horse-hair cannot look well to him.'

Hector threw his head back and laughed heartily. “' helm? Ah, the gods bless the hearts of children! Come, Scamandrius my son.' Andromache smiled; Hector was probably the only person in Troy who called Astyanax by his real name. The Trojan warrior took off his glorious helmet and set it on the wall. 'See, the warrior is gone. Here is your father.' Astyanax looked at his father and stopped crying. Hector took the babe from the arms of the nurse. 'Oh, Zeus,' he murmured, 'protect this my son. Let him live to see the end of this bloody war.' Andromache’s throat tightened. If Troy was indeed to fall, if Hector failed against the Achaeans, her son would not live. Images of people being slaughtered in the streets by Greek warriors rushed through her mind. Even if Astyanax did live, he would be taken as a slave for Menelaus and his people. But the odds that the Greeks would let a babe live were slim at best. O gods, this war!

Hector held out Astyanax to Andromache, and she took their son. His tiny hand took a fistful of her hair. She held him tightly. Hector leaned in close to her and caressed her face with his fingertips. She smiled, and he kissed her gently, holding her close. She tried to preserve the memory of him in her mind; the leathery smell of his armour, the feel of his lips on hers, his breathing, his grey eyes, the sound of his hearty laugh.

'I can’t escape the Fates,' he whispered, brushing a loose curl from her face. 'What the gods have ordained will be. Go back into the house and work on your loom. The horrors of war are the affair of men.'

Andromache nodded again. She walked toward the house as her husband went in the other direction. She watched him over her shoulder until he was out of sight, weeping as she went.

Prologue

This is a prologue for a story which is still mostly in my head. Thoughts, edits, et cetera would be greatly appreciated. Cheers.
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'Quickly! We must leave her. Come.' The man held out a large hand. A small woman hesitated.
'I can’t leave her. I can’t!' She turned on him, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. 'She’s my daughter! Can’t you understand that, brother? I cannot leave her here!'
'She’ll be fine. Hurry, they are following!' His voice was filled fear which he unsuccessfully tried to calm.
'I won't!' she screamed, clasping a swaddled bundle to her breast. He clapped a hand over her mouth.
'Hush, woman! Do you want them to find us?'
She tore away from him and stared defiantly. 'I don't care!' she cried. 'My baby will either be left here to be raised in the hands of these... these traitors, or they will kill her! Neither fate is what I wished.' Her voice suddenly became sickeningly sweet. 'You know this, surely. Your own child was left here a year ago, was he not?'
The man's fists clenched. 'He deserted me and ran off with his brother... you torment me! And to what end? You yourself have pointed out that there are only two options before you concerning the baby. Choose.'
The woman looked down at her child, who was gurgling softly. The babe looked back, but did not make a sound. Her grey eyes were so trusting, so devoted, so...
'Choose!' said the man again, his voice now a frantic whisper. The woman looked at the top of the eastern hill. The wolves howled. She shivered involuntarily. They were not too close, but not far enough away, either. In a matter of minutes, they would be in the very valley in which she stood. But would her child?
'Choose!' The man's voice echoed off the hills surrounding them. A wolf yapped, and then many wolves took up the eerie bay. The man started; he had not intended for his voice to rise so much. He glared at his sister. The woman glanced last time at her child. The baby felt heavy; there was no way that she could escape the wolves with the extra weight in her arms. She held back tears as she lay the babe in the tall grass amidst clover and stones. She muttered a blessing on the child, then ran.

The Glass of Water

Alright, so I  wrote this short little piece a long while ago. I dug it out recently, and I found that I enjoyed it. I think I could do a better job now, but I wanted to see what you all think. Oh yes, and if you know me and you know my style of writing, you'll probably realize that this isn't my usual style. =)

       My throat smarted and burned. My eyes felt itchy and painful. My tongue was thick and cottony, as if swollen. A hammer pounded in my head. I was miserable. It was exactly 5:07 a.m. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. It was the kind of exhaustion you feel when you’re out late someplace, and come home with a headache. Despite the fact that my mom had given it to me hours before, the horrible taste of grape-flavored medicine still lingered in my mouth. I was thirsty –so thirsty. I swallowed, only making my throat scream. I craved ice-cold water.
       I swung my legs over the bed. I tried to stand up, then sat down again; hard. My head was as heavy as a bowling ball.
       But I needed to satisfy my parched thirst. Gathering from my low store of strength, I slid off the edge of the mattress and padded on the bushy carpet, then on the scratchy throw rug next to my sisters bed. In the dark hall outside my room, the dark shape of my cat lay sleeping. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him. Before I knew it, I was sprawled on the floor. My cat screamed that horrible cat scream and dashed away. I was so frustrated with myself that I almost burst into tears. I realized that if I didn’t get water quick, I would die. The tears did come then. To die in 6th grade would be… no. I would not die. With a great effort, I forced myself up on my weak elbows, and then on my feet and staggered down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. I was starting to get dizzy. My head swam. The silence buzzed in my ears. The room was whirling around me. I was falling, falling, into a black pit that would never end. I grabbed the counter for support. The smooth surface was slippery. My hand brushed against the glass vase of flowers my sister had picked, almost knocking it over. I can do this, I told myself. I took a deep breath. The cup cabinet was right in front of me. I grasped the cool handle on the cabinet door and pulled it open.
       I briefly selected one of our many clear blue plastic cups, which I had used since I was little, never letting go of the counter. With a shaky hand, I held the glass under the faucet. A stream of clear cold well water pattered into it and filled it up. Without waiting, I took a sip. It stung a little going down, but it eased the pain.
        After making the journey back to my room, I sat upright against the pillows, taking large gulps of my drink. It filled me with sleepy thoughts. The throbbing in my forehead subsided. My eyelids drooped. I fell asleep.

~The Scribbler