what would you have me do?

Based on the statue that makes you cry

don't think about Hector holding Scamandrius in the Underworld don't think about Hector holding Scamandrius while waiting decades for Andromache in the Underworld don't think about Hector rocking and cuddling Scamandrius in his arms while waiting for Andromache in the Underworld don't think abo-

When Odysseus cradles the babe, he weeps.

This boy, this little boy, far smaller than he ever remembers dear Telemachus being - or maybe Odysseus has gotten bigger in some way, spilling out of the lines of his body until he's but one big bloodstain, smeared across the sky that chokes with smoke. Dawn reaches out, just as bloody red beyond the great walls as his sword.

Troy is burning, and there's the heated cold of the Gods' gaze upon him. Athena, his grey-eyed goddess, no doubt. But others, too. Their stares burrow into his flesh, draw something cruel and icy out of him. Damp drips from his chin, pink and watery, salty.

It lands on the boy's forehead.

He raises his free hand, precious, precious bundle safe in the crook of his sword arm, and smears it across petal soft skin. It is the softest thing he's touched in ten years.

Odysseus had seen the rest of the Priamides strewn across the marble. This boy is the last of Troy's royal line. Baby Scamandarius is the last threat. The last obstacle. The last sin. But -

"Hear me! This is Scamandarius, little prince of the city, now King of Troy!" He roars across the ramparts of the palace. The little King squirms in his arms, batting at the great tusks of the boar upon his helmet with tiny, squished fists when Odysseus looks down at him.

Nobody answers. "Scamandarius has fought bravely. He has his father's blood in him." Odysseus catches the flailing hand gently within his own. He marvels, for the boy is so small that his own hands look like those of a monster in comparison.

The babe begins to cry. "The King of Troy deserves to be seated within Elysium, along with his father, for Scamandarius is the name of a hero. Greater, even, than his honored father," Odysseus whispers, pressing his chapped lips to the boy's milk-scented scalp. He inhales. He lifts the bundle high.

He lets the boy go. Something within Odysseus cracks, just as that frail body cracks against the unforgiving ground.

"Perhaps the gods will be more forgiving," Odysseus murmurs into the brightening air. Walking down the steps, he passes the wailing figure of Andromache.

He does not blink.

---

Hektor blinks, pacing, pacing in front of the river of Lethe. It would be so easy - to drink deeply. To forget. And still, he is selfish. He wants to wait for Andromache. He wants to see what his little Astyanax will become and ask so very many questions when it is his time to join Hektor. For surely, surely -

Charon's boat makes a quiet thunk against the rudimentary dock. For some reason, this time Hektor looks over. Furrows his brows, confused. There is not another Trojan, or Achaean, fresh from the battlefield.

There is no one upon the boat. Instead, Charon cradles a bundle within skeletal hands, a swath of fabric. The boatman steps out and towards Hektor. Hektor kneels, eyes wide but trained upon the ground - surely this is not a punishment, surely -

Charon stops in front of Hektor, a pillar of ghostly grey fabric that pools upon the ground. A barely-there tap upon his shoulder. Hektor looks up. The boatman gestures for him to stand, and he is not one to refuse a god. Charon offers him the bundle. "My Lord Charon..."

The fabric is placed against his chest, and instinctively, he grabs it. And then it - it squirms.

"My - My Lord, what..."

Hektor is cut off by a tiny, horribly familiar palm over his mouth. His lips pale where they start to press into each other harsh enough to become bloodless. Hektor looks down at the cloth, first. It is familiar, too. Soft. Only the softest for - for -

Little Astyanax giggles in his arms, pudgy fingers tangling in Hektor's beard and tugging.

Hektor collapses, cradling his son to his chest, and weeps.

dude you should have been at the club last night it was insane. the dj was playing the lament and funeral of hector from the iliad and everyone was beating their breasts and tearing open their garments. at the end we all built up a funeral pyre in the middle of the dance floor and set it aflame. we were all feeling the inherent human connection through millennia old poetry, it was wild

you know what's sad? when helen talks to hector in iliad 6 she says that as long as the gods were bent on all this happening she wishes that she could have at least been the wife of a man better than paris, one who has a sense of shame before his people. and hector talks several times about how ashamed he would be to retreat behind the walls-- when andromache begs him to in book 6 and when achilles is coming for him in book 22. helen wishes paris were more like hector and andromache wishes her husband was a coward like paris so at least he would live.

In the Trojan Women, it is mentioned how Hector's shield is stained from his sweat and there's the imprint of his hand on the handle and that he would lean his chin on the shield when he was tired and I'm not very sane about any of this.

I made a uquiz assigning you kin with an epic Greek hero

Me: *talks about how nothing tragic has ever happened to me so i have nothing really to say in the response box at the end of the uquiz*

Also me: *gets Hektor, the most tragic of them all*

why are you even talking to him… you know he’s doomed by the narrative right