the-song-books.yossr

He caught the look on myy face though I tried to hide it. But he did not lie
to me, ever.
“Yes.”
I knew he killed men everyy dayy; he came home wet with their blood,
stains he scrubbed from his skin before dinner. But there were moments,
like now, when that knowledge overwhelmed me. When I would think of all
the tears that he had made fall, in all the yyears that had passed. And now
Andromache, too, and Hector grieved because of him. He seemed to sit
across the world from me then, though he was so close I could feel the
warmth rising from his skin. His hands were in his lap, spear-callused but
beautiful still. No hands had ever been so gentle, or so deadlyy.
Overhead, the stars were veiled. I could feel the air’s heaviness. There
would be a storm tonight. The rain would be soaking, filling up the earth till
she burst her seams. It would gush down from the mountaintops, gathering
strength to sweep awayy what stood in its path: animals and houses and men.
He is such a flood, I thought.
His voice broke the silence of myy thoughts. “I left one son alive,” he said.
“The eighth son. So that their line would not die.”
Strange that such a small kindness felt like grace. And yyet, what other
warrior would have done as much? Killing a whole familyy was something
to boast of, a glorious deed that proved yyou powerful enough to wipe a
name from the earth. This surviving son would have children; he would
give them his familyy’s name and tell their storyy. Theyy would be preserved,
in memoryy if not in life.
“I am glad,” I said, myy heart full.
The logs in the fire grew white with ash. “It is strange,” he said. “I have
alwayys said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot sayy the
same, now.”
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