It's been a while since I last read any classical Greek literature - not since my days at university, to be perfectly honest - so I might have mangled the canonical references. But eh. I'm having fun with this. Random historical fic'ing... 's'fun (*nodsnods*) For Elina. Because, history, dude!!! (*laughs*)

Back to work I trundle...



Hector barely remembers his brother, Alexandros.

Little more than a child himself when the babe were birthed, his only memories of the one his parents called Alexandros, are of a squalling creature with red, wrinkled skin, who had flailed clenched fists through the air whilst he were handed over for inspection from those present in the birthing chamber. He remembers only that the baby’s presence in the palace of Ilios caused his mother, Hecabe, to cry into her pillows, to refuse to be comforted, to scream and turn her face away when her well-meaning women had tried to get her to take the baby Prince to her breast, and that Priam, his father, had scowled bitterly at the scene before issuing the order for the squalling infant to be removed.

Hector’s memories of the events that followed the birth of his brother are hazy, clouded by the childish fear of something terrible, important, beyond his young comprehension occurring around him. He has never understood how it could be that one moment, he had a brother whose furious screams at having been wrenched from the sanctuary of their mother’s womb into the harsh reality of life rent the air in two… and then the next, the screams had fallen silent and his father’s palace thrown into the confusion of mourning. He remembers with guilt how his six-year-old heart had been gladdened at the baby’s loss; that Alexandros could not now supplant him in the affections of their parents – yet he does not recall fearing such displacement from the twins, Helenus and Cassandra, born three summers earlier.

Gradually, over time, Hector’s mind begins to dwell on other matters and that of his brother Alexandros is rarely considered. He accepts as a matter of normalcy that – unlike the sister who was born without life before the twins, or the brother who died within two weeks of having drawn his first laboured breath – Alexandros is never spoken of amidst the walls of his father’s palace. He accepts that Hecabe and Priam do not add his name to the list of those whom they pray to the gods to protect, that they do not honour him at the meals of ritual in the same way that they do others of their line who have died. Hector learns to forget, whilst a part of him remembers. He busies himself with the matters of state entrusted to him, takes the Princess Andromache as a wife and dreams of building an empire of his own.

Alexandros is little more than a distant, half-focused memory of his childhood.

‘Hector!’

Helenus’ shout penetrates Hector’s quiet musings on how the mind plays peculiar tricks when weary, draws his attention away from the scrolls that Priam has insisted he study in order to try to settle a dispute between farmers, and he smiles widely as his brother bursts into the room, laughs aloud at the flushed tinge to his cheeks and the dark eyes that glitter with urgency.

‘You have returned, then, I see,’ he chuckles, rising from the table at which he has been seated and striding across the marbled floor to throw his arms about his brother’s shoulders and embrace him. Helenus and Cassandra have been on a pilgrimage to the altar of Zeus upon the slopes of Mount Ida, and Hector has missed their company. He would have liked to go with them, to have attended the funeral games of one of their guards during childhood, but his obedience to Priam and to Ilios’ welfare keep him closeted within the palace, overseeing matters of state in the absence of the King. ‘How were the games? Did you spear anyone important this time?’

Helenus wriggles free from his brother’s loose embrace and scowls impatiently at the teasing tone of Hector’s voice.

‘I bring news, brother.’ He says, and his face grows still and troubled beneath Hector’s gaze. ‘Our father’s servants claimed a bull from Ida for a prize at the games, and in so doing, they drew the attention of a shepherd – he claimed that the bull were his favourite and that he would take part in our games to try to win it back.’

‘Aye…’ Hector smiles patiently, watches Helenus closely. ‘And did he?’

‘He defeated all of the contenders, Hector – even our brother Deiphobus!’

Surprise sluices through Hector at the thought of their younger brother – a champion amongst athletes - being bested by a mere shepherd, and he takes an involuntary step away from Helenus. ‘How did Deiphobus receive this defeat?’

‘He drew his sword and threatened to kill the shepherd.’ Helenus admits, his voice soft in recollection, whilst his eyes continue to glitter with an apprehension that fills Hector with dread.

He imagines the shepherd slaughtered upon the slopes of the mountain, his blood seeping free to enrich the loam there, perhaps a family who will suffer because of his brother’s irascible temper, and he swallows thickly.

‘But the shepherd – they call him Paris – took to his heels,’ Helenus says quickly, seeking perhaps to quell the rise of dismay that Hector’s expression conveys. ‘He sought refuge at Zeus’ altar, and waited until we had pursued him there to plead his case.’

‘Which was?’ Hector’s heart still beats erratically inside his chest, yet it is not because of the tale that Helenus relates, but for the way in which he does so. A usually gifted orator, Helenus’ voice trembles with trepidation as he speaks, and the look in his eyes is disturbing to Hector’s previous sense of stability.

He does not know where his brother is leading him, and is not certain that he wishes to be taken there.

Helenus lifts his shoulders into a shrug. ‘I know not,’ he admits, quietly. ‘Before the shepherd – before Paris could explain himself to our ears, Cassandra began to weep.’

‘Had he done aught to her?’ Hector demands, a surge of protectiveness towards his sister welling inside of him, the thirst for this shepherd’s blood suddenly desperate upon the back of his tongue.

‘Nay, brother!’ Helenus shakes his head, and Hector realises that his brother would have cut down anyone who had dared to touch a fingertip to the skin of his twin; feels mollified by this surety. ‘She did not weep for something that he had done to her, but because of who he is to her. To us.’

A deep frown of confusion curves its way across Hector’s face, distorts his mouth until Helenus reaches out a tender hand to stroke careful fingertips against his pouting lips.

‘Cassandra proclaims him our brother, Hector -,’ Helenus whispers, leans closer to him so that their breath mingles and the heat of their skin combines. ‘She proclaims him Alexandros!’

Hector feels the world swim about him, sways unsteadily upon his feet until Helenus’ arms encircle him, hands stroking soothing circles against the back of his shift. He struggles to breathe, to push himself past the dizzying sensation of drowning in thin air, and stares incredulously into his brother’s gaze. ‘Alexandros is dead.’ He points out. ‘He died as a babe, barely born…’

‘No, Hector,’ Helenus sighs wearily, his brow furrowing with contemplation as he continues to calm the agitation that consumes Hector. ‘Alexandros’ fate was left in the laps of the gods. Our father decreed, upon the advice of our half-brother Æsacus, that he should be left exposed upon the slopes of Mount Ida – our mother dreamt of flame and torture before he was birthed - and Cassandra says that is why father sought Æsacus’ counsel on the matter of Alexandros’ life, given that he is a Seer of dreams…’

‘… and that is why he vanished so swiftly.’ Hector finishes grimly. He breathes deeply, frowns in his understanding of the fate that befell the baby brother he barely recalls.

Helenus nods his head. ‘Aye. Yet he did not perish – not even at the sword hand of Deiphobus!’

‘Cassandra is certain that this shepherd is our brother?’

‘She is,’

‘And our father?’ Hector asks. ‘What does he say? Does he agree that this shepherd could be another Prince of Ilios?’

‘He has yet to receive him, brother.’ Helenus says. He quirks a smile and darts forward to place a kiss upon Hector’s bristled cheek. ‘That is why I have come to fetch you – so that you may be there when Priam and Hecabe receive the man who might be our missing brother!’

The smile that builds inside of Hector at the familiar touch of his brother’s lips against his flesh is not quite strong enough to supplant the frown that thins his mouth. He stares past Helenus for a moment, his gaze trained upon the far wall of the chamber that they are briefly alone in, and he tries to remember how Alexandros looked in those scant moments that he were permitted to gaze upon his newborn sibling. He tries to recall if there was a blemish to his skin that he might recognise upon that of the shepherd, or use the absence of to disprove his claim to be a son of Priam, but his memory is blank. All that he can remember clearly is the anger in the babe’s cries and the flush of his skin as Hector’s wary arms had clutched him tight before he’d been snatched away again.

‘Cassandra is certain that it is he, Hector.’ Helenus’ voice is gentle against his ears. ‘She claims that he has the look of our line about him…’

Hector snorts out a bitter laugh. ‘As do half the lads in the vicinity, Helenus – our father has never been what you might call a particularly chaste King!’

‘Then it will depend on whether our mother recognises him as her son,’ Helenus says simply, smiles as he pats the flat of his hand against Hector’s bicep. ‘Will you come and receive him?’

‘If fate has decreed he be returned to our midst, brother, and if our mother proclaims him fruit of her womb, then I shall receive him as my brother.’ Hector says slowly, narrows his eyes as he contemplates meeting the man whom it is entirely possible he last saw as a squalling babe. ‘But I do not think it possible for him to be Alexandros.’

Helenus’ smile widens, seems to brighten beneath Hector’s gaze. ‘We shall see.’ He says, and smoothes his hand along the length of his brother’s arm to his hand, where their fingers habitually entwine together…