Chapter 129: The Vow
Hector did not sleep.
He lay on the bed in his chambers, still in his blood-streaked tunic, staring at the ceiling. The lamp had burned low. The fire in the brazier had died to embers. Somewhere in the palace, servants were whispering. Somewhere in the royal chambers, his mother was keeping vigil. Somewhere in the west, his brother did not know.
Andromache was still outside. She had told him she would be right there, and she was. He could see her silhouette through the curtain, sitting on the stone bench, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Waiting. She had been waiting for him his whole life, it seemed. He did not deserve it.
He rose and went to the door. She looked up when he opened it. Her face was calm, but her eyes were red.
"You should sleep," she said.
"I can’t."
She nodded, as if she had expected this. "Then sit with me."
He sat beside her on the cold stone bench. The corridor was quiet. The torches had burned down to their sockets. The only light came from the brazier in his room, spilling through the open door.
"My father is dying," he said. His voice was flat, empty. "He’s been dying for months, and I didn’t see it. I was too busy with the patrols. The supplies. The council. I told myself he was just tired. I told myself he would recover."
"You couldn’t have known."
"I should have known. He’s my father."
She did not argue. She did not tell him he was wrong. She just sat beside him, her shoulder close to his, and let the silence be what it was.
"He asked me once," Hector said, "what I wanted. Not what was expected of me. Not what my duty demanded. What I wanted. I was fifteen. I didn’t know how to answer."
"What would you say now."
He was quiet for a long moment. The torchlight flickered on the stone walls. Somewhere in the distance, a guard called the hour.
"I would say I want to marry you," he said. "Not in a year. Not when the war is over. Now. Before anything else happens."
She turned to look at him. Her grey-green eyes were steady, but he saw the flicker of something beneath them—surprise, perhaps, or hope, or fear.
"You’re asking me now."
"Yes."
"In the middle of the night. While your father is dying. While the city is waiting for war."
"Yes."
She was silent for a moment. Then she reached out and took his hand—the hand that had been streaked with his father’s blood, that she had cleaned herself with water and cloth and patience.
"Ask me again in the morning," she said. "When the sun is up. When you’ve had time to think."
"I don’t need time. I’ve been thinking about it for years."
"Then ask me in the morning. I’ll say yes. But I want you to ask me when you’re not grieving."
He looked at their joined hands. The blood was gone now, but he could still feel it—the weight of his father’s body, the tremor of his own hands, the cold terror of watching the man he loved most in the world begin to slip away.
"You’re right," he said. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—"
"Don’t apologize." She squeezed his hand. "You’re afraid. You’re grieving. You’re trying to hold onto something. I understand. And I’m not going anywhere. But I want you to ask me because you want to marry me. Not because you’re afraid of losing everything else."
He looked at her. In the dim light, her face was pale and steady and more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.
"I do want to marry you," he said. "That’s not the grief. That’s not the fear. That’s just... true. It’s been true for years. I was too much of a coward to say it."
"You’re not a coward."
"I am about some things."
She smiled—a small, tired smile, but real. "Then ask me in the morning. I’ll be here."
Dawn came grey and cold. The palace stirred slowly, the servants moving through the corridors with the hushed footsteps of people who knew that something had changed. The councillors would meet later. The work of the city would continue. But for now, in the quiet of the early morning, there was only the cold light and the dying torches and the man and woman sitting together on a stone bench.
Hector had not moved. Andromache had not left. They had sat together through the darkest hours of the night, speaking occasionally, silent more often. She had told him about her childhood, before the fall of her city, before she came to Troy. He had told her about the first time he killed a man, on the northern border, when he was seventeen. They had talked about things that had nothing to do with war or grief or the weight of crowns. They had talked about everything and nothing, and the talking had been its own kind of healing.
Now the light was growing, and the torches were guttering, and the world was beginning to wake.
Hector turned to her. "It’s morning."
"Yes."
"I’m not grieving any less. But I’m asking anyway. Will you marry me."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and touched his face, her fingers cool against his skin.
"Yes," she said. "I will."
He kissed her. It was not a passionate kiss, not the desperate embrace of the night before. It was something quieter. Something steadier. The kiss of two people who had chosen each other, not in spite of the weight they carried, but because of it.
Hecuba was still in the royal chambers when Lysander came to check on her. She had not moved from her husband’s side all night. Her hand was still wrapped around his, her thumb still tracing slow circles on his knuckles.
"He hasn’t woken," she said. "Antiphus says that’s good. The sleep is what he needs."
"Have you slept."
"No."
"Hecuba—"
"Don’t call me that. I’m your mother."
Lysander was quiet for a moment. She had never corrected him on that before. "Mother. You need to rest."
"I’ll rest when he wakes. Not before."
He sat down in the chair beside her. The room was warm, the brazier burning steadily, the winter light pale through the windows. Priam’s breathing was slow and even, his face peaceful.
"Hector is going to ask Andromache to marry him," Lysander said. "This morning."
"I know. She told me yesterday. Before—" She gestured at the bed. "Before this."
"What did you say."
"I said yes. Of course I said yes. She’s been waiting for him for years. He’s been waiting for her for years. They’re both too stubborn to admit it." She paused. "He needs her. Especially now. The council will test him. The war will test him. He needs someone who sees him as a man, not a commander."
"He has that. He has all of us."
She turned to look at him. Her eyes were tired, but there was something fierce in them—the same fire that had been there when she returned from the healing springs, when she first looked at him and saw something different.
"Yes," she said. "He does."
They sat together in silence, watching the king sleep. Outside, the winter sun was rising over the eastern hills, and the city was waking to a world that had changed overnight.
Paris – Sparta
The garden behind the temple was cold in the grey light of dawn. Paris had not slept either. He had lain beneath the olive tree, wrapped in his cloak, staring at the stars until they faded and the sky began to pale. Now he was sitting on the broken stone bench, waiting.
She came through the gap in the wall as the first light touched the branches. She was breathless, her cloak pulled tight, her hair escaping its bindings.
"Menelaus was awake all night," she said. "He was in the great hall with his advisors. I could hear them from my chambers. They’re planning something. I don’t know what, but it’s soon. The courier brought a date. A deadline. Menelaus kept saying: we have two weeks."
"Two weeks until what."
"I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s the thing they’ve been waiting for. The thing that changes everything."
Paris stood and took her hands. They were trembling. "Then we leave before the two weeks are up. We find the ship. We find a way out. We don’t wait for the deadline."
"How. The guards—"
"We’ll find a way. Laertes knows the city. He knows the patrol routes, the quiet streets, the places where the guards don’t go. We’ll find a way."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were red, her face exhausted. But there was something in her expression that had not been there weeks ago, when she first came to this garden. A determination. A refusal to surrender.
"I’m afraid," she said.
"I know. So am I."
"But I’m more afraid of staying. Of never seeing you again. Of being trapped in that palace for the rest of my life." She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. "Take me away from here. Please."
"I will. I promise."
She kissed him then, and he kissed her back, and for a moment the cold and the fear and the approaching deadline faded. There was only the two of them, and the promise he had made her, and the fragile, desperate hope that they might actually escape before the world closed in around them.
Troy – Morning
Hector and Andromache walked through the garden together, their hands intertwined. The fig tree was bare, the flower beds dormant, but the winter sun was pale gold on the stones, and the air was cold and clean.
Hecuba met them at the entrance to the palace. She had left Priam’s side for the first time in twelve hours, and her face was grey with exhaustion, but her eyes were clear.
"Well," she said. "Have you asked her."
"Yes," Hector said.
"And have you accepted."
"Yes," Andromache said.
Hecuba looked at them for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Good. It’s about time."
She turned and walked back toward the royal chambers, her joints stiff, her back straight. At the door, she paused.
"The council meets in two hours. Akastos will try to use your father’s illness to push his own agenda. Be ready for him."
"I will," Hector said.
"I know you will." She looked at Andromache. "Take care of him. He thinks he doesn’t need anyone. He’s wrong."
"I know," Andromache said. "I’ve been telling him that for years."
Hecuba almost smiled. "Good. Keep telling him."
She went inside.
Hector and Andromache stood together in the garden, the winter sun warm on their faces. The city was stirring. The council was waiting. The war was coming. But for this moment—just this moment—there was only the two of them, and the promise they had made each other, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, they would face it together.
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