Forced rest

[gwenchan]

Fandom: Iliade
Prompt: Unità aristotelica 

That morning Hector wakes up greeted by the worst headache he has had in weeks. Which says something already. It feels as if some Achaian managed to slip past the guards at the gates, past the security of the palace and stuck a spear right between his eyes. 

But then he would be dead and as far as he can remember shades don’t feel pain. Gingerly he brings one hand to his forehead. It burns but as suspected he feels no point of spear or sword sticking out. 

Blinking in the sunlight streaming from the window of his bedroom - the bedroom he uses less and less recently - his eyes hurt from too much brightness. He groans and buries himself under the bed-sheets as the idea of spending a whole new day on the battlefield makes his stomach turn. But go on the battlefield he must and so the first step is trying to sit up.

The world swirls as soon as he tries, forcing him to close his eyes and rest his forehead against his knees to keep the rush of nausea at bay. 

It’s so hot and his skin feels sticky and gross. Maybe a bath could help. Yes, a cold bath sounds like a good idea.

Finally getting up, tossing on a clean tunic and walking to the door to cross with a maid is torture, but he manages.

“Sir,” the maid bows, “are you sure to be alright? Forgive me  but you look terrible.”
He is clearly not fine. He feels he is not fine.

“I’m fine,” he croaks out instead with a voice too feeble and lips so dry they hurt when he speaks. “It’s been a hot night. Can you prepare a bath, a very cold one, in my rooms.”

“Of course. But … shall I warn someone. Your wife, maybe.”
“No!”

The word exits his mouth a little too fast. Andromache is definitely the last person who has to know about his current indisposition.

Never has he been so happy he and Andromache sleep in separate bedrooms for the time being or this time she would really try to tie him to the bed, like she has already to do.

The bath is as cold as one can expect with summer temperatures and does the bare minimum to cool him down a bit. The headache however doesn’t show sign of subsiding and he does feel like a rag. It doesn’t help that he hasn't eaten yet. 

Some prevident maid has brought a bowl of fruit as well and placed it near enough the bathtub he can reach it. He has always mocked Paris for that habit of eating when bathing but now he’s pretty sure there’s no way he can stand up again if he doesn’t put something in his stomach right now.

Unfortunately his stomach is of different advice, twisting in itself at the mere thought of food.

Hector yet bites into the fruit and swallows, pursing his lips against the gagging. 

Dressing after the bath is a whole type of struggle, both his muscles and head aching, but he does.

***

Deiphobus comes up to meet him from the end of the corridor. Through the haze that has fallen over Hector’s eyes he looks at him with a pitiful expression.

“You look like Tartarus ate and vomited you up again,” he kindly informs him. 

"Very informative."

But Hector's words have absolutely no bite. He leans against the nearest wall, weak in the legs already. He would surely fall if it wasn’t for Deiphobus' quick intervention.

"Woah careful there," he says, passing one arm under his armpit to better steer him. For once, Hector doesn’t protest, not at least until they're going the wrong direction.

"The armoury is the other way."

"The armoury? Oh, no, you're going back to bed this instant."

Hector's attempts at pulling away prove useless. Normally he has no problem besting Deiphobus in wrestling but now his body is like a too ripe fruit.

Before he can do anything they are back before Hector’s chambers and Hector’s stomach twists in seeing his mother on the threshold, looking a strange mixture of worried and displeased.

With one gaze she has assessed the situation. “You’re sick, my child,” she says, matter of factly. If she were a bit younger and him a bit smaller, she would forcefully carry him to bed as when he was little. “You shouldn’t be around.”
“Mother, “ He begins, only to be promptly shushed the way he hasn’t been shushed in years. 

“No, son. Nothing good will come to Ilion if you fall in battle today because prey of Fever. Now, go lay down. I have already summoned the physician, he should be here in moments.”

Still in his brother’s grasp, Hector has no choice but to obey. By now the camp must have woken up and start the usual routine. Surel, they’ll notice his absence soon, if they haven’t already. He should have stayed at the camp. 

When he arrives, the physician’s visit is nothing more than a quick glance and as fast touches on his sticky forehead and at the sides of his throat. 

Fever is the expected verdict, probably due to excessive heat and consequent exhaustion. Absolute rest is the final cure prescribed

They force him to sit down, soon to drink from a concoction of herbs and wine that makes him feel even more confused than what he already is.

“I better go,” Deiphobus says. Hector nods, weakly. He wants to say he’ll join them in a moment, but his tongue refuses to collaborate and the headache that is coming back isn’t helping. He closes his eyes, cradling his face in his palm.

He could rest for a moment. Vaguely he registers someone helping on his feet and toward his bed. 

***

Hector chambers are showered in the light of late morning when he manages to unglue his eyes and finally gets free from Hypnos’ greedy clutch. He stretches, bringing his arms above his head, feeling already better. The sleep has done wonders for his headache, reducing to a dull pain at the base of his head. 

It explodes back full force as soon as Hector moves, a hammer hitting his cranium over and over. 

He feels like he's about to vomit. But he had worse and as he is still not bound to bed, he has no excuse to be missing from war.

About it, it's strange Apollo still hasn't appeared demanding an explanation for his absence, the god so often eager to push him where the battle is more heated. 

Hector could tell him about his predicament and the god would quickly heal him, instilling new vigour in his limbs. But today other duties must be holding Apollo occupied. 

And just Apollo has his duties, so does Hector. He doesn’t need the god's help to respect them. 

He has barely taken a few steps that the little content of his stomach rushes back up leaving him barely the time to grab a nearby vase. 

Cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, he breaths to steady himself. 

At least the nausea has subsided a little. Summoning all his strength, he goes to the door.

Hector has to lean against the wall for support, closing his eyes, breathing heavily to steady himself. It feels like the last time he was on a ship for a brief journey to visit a nearby allied kingdom and they got caught in an unexpected storm. The waves had swayed the ship left and right and with it the content of mostly everyone's stomach.

The floor now moves under his feet the same way, so much he presses a hand on his mouth in a weak form of prevention. 

The corridor feels endless. Taking another step he has no idea how he'll reach the armoury, put on his armour and then go to the Trojan camp, but somehow he must. 

And quickly or night will fall before he has a chance to fight. So many things must have happened already on the battlefield, but if he hastens, he must still be on time. 

He takes just another step before, like a wave on the shore, darkness sweeps over him.

***

When Hector opens his eyes again, he is in bed once more, laying among soft, freshly cleaned sheets. They are almost too white. 

Perched on a chair, Enea is bent on a slate  and muttering what sounds like numbers

"Oh, welcome back," he greets. "Heard a maid found you on the floor. Uh, nasty thing.”

Hector looks at the ceiling. 

"Shouldn't you be on the field?"

It's already bad enough he is being forcefully kept from battle. They can't afford missing another of their best warriors from battle.

"They thought you would at least listen to me. Don't worry, I left Deiphobus and Sarpedon in charge."

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.” 

Hector tells himself it could be worse. Deiphobus is quite smart and Sarpedon is famed for his courage, though often it results in pure recklessness, so much to make him look cautious by comparison.

“How is it going?”

“Not that bad.”

Aeneas says but with a hint too much hesitation and Hector is already thinking about the worst scenarios. He scrambles to get on his feet. What he obtains is only a new wave of dizziness, his vision blackening for a moment.

"I have to go. And you have to help me"

If only his body decided to collaborate.

“You have to stay there. Look at you, you can barely stand. I’m not surprised after yesterday.”

“Aeneas!”

Propping on his elbows, Hector sits up. “I feel better already. I - just need to take a look at the camp. ”

"I'm sorry," Aeneas sets aside his paperwork. "I can't."

Hector studies him. In any other situation he could easily pin the man to the ground, if he didn't fear Aeneas' divine mother repercussions. Today he doubts it.

His internal debate, still, is short lived. Pink in the face a young soldier wearing a light tunic enters the room in a rush. He goes straight to Aeneas, mutters something quickly. Aeneas’ eyes widen for a second. Hector doesn’t miss it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing to worry about. But I have to return to the field. You …” 

Aeneas hesitates. On one hand if they sent a messenger to retrieve him, he can’t ignore the call. On the other hand, he knows too well Hector will try to get away the moment he turns his back.

There are guards at the door and the chamber is built so that it doesn't face directly to the ground. Hector makes a great effort to not glance at the window. And luckily for him Enea doesn't think him that crazy

For a long, terrible moment he fears his cousin will call a maid to check on him, but he just leaves with a "You better be there when he come back"

It makes Hector feel only a bit guilty.

He goes to the window as soon as the door clicks shut. It is quite the jump , one that risk ending very badly without a perfect landing, and one he surely cannot pull today. 

Shortening the fall, maybe … an idea blossoming in the haze of his mind, he eyes the bed sheets.

Hector's hands move disastrously slow, a bit behind his brain, as he twists the bed sheets together to form a rope that could sustain his weight enough to lowers to the ground. 

Once he’s finally finished, he drags a bracer to the window to have something to tie the rope. Tossing it over the sill, he put all of him in balancing on his heels to check if it sustains his weight. 

The makeshift rope stretches but doesn’t budge. Hector breathes again to steady himself and begins his descend 

"You're going to hurt yourself" 

Heart jumping in his throat Hector almost lets go of his grip proving the voice right.

"Cassandra," he pants, clutching to the rope for dear life "what are you doing here?"

He knew his sister at the temple, performing sacrifices to win the gods favour. 

"Taking a stroll. You're going to fall," she repeats in a monotone tone. At least she's not throwing a fit and ripping hair from her scalp

"Is it a prophecy?" He asks anyway.

"No," she replies, still with the same calmness, as he loses his grip.

The collision with the ground knocks the air out of his lungs. Everything hurt, but at least he is outside. Now he just needs to exit the palace and reach the gates …

As soon as he remembers how to move. His back pulsates with a constant pain. He doesn’t dare to imagine how moving and fighting will be tomorrow.

By the time he finally remembers how his limbs work someone has noticed his absence and sent guards to retrieve him. 

***

"You could have died."

Andromache is angry. She is very angry. Andromache doesn't get angry often, normally she limits herself to worry and sadness but now she is angry.

Andromache is scary when she’s angry.

“Remember what happened to that man that fell from the roof, right? Remember what happened?”

A broken spine. Paralysed. 

"And even if you went to the battlefield, what do you think would have happened? I tell you, you'd be too weak to fight and fall under the first Achaens' spears."

"Andromache…" Hector attempts to stop his wife. For how much he loves her, he doesn’t like being lectured. She hasn’t the right. 

“I would have stayed in the backs.”

“Would you?”

Unfortunately for him Andromache knows him too well to fool her. 

By her grimace it's clear what she is thanking. She's debating if she still trusts him enough to not stay there to keep an eye in him

The temptation is clearly strong.

In the end, however, the respect and obedience a wife must have for her husband is stronger. She won’t stand guard.

Hector doesn’t have time to rejoice for that as Andromache tells something to a  maid who nods and leaves. She returns soon after and is accompanied.

“Hello, brother,” 

Paris struts in looking too fresh to be coming from the battlefield. Hector isn’t sure if considering it a good thing or not. 

He still squints his eyes in the most menacing glare he can manage. Last time he checked, his younger brother still feared him.

“Paris,” he calls, as soon as Andromache has left for real, “remember when you said you wanted to make me proud?”

"Y-yes, I clearly do, brother."

"Then help me out"

By the look on his younger brother' face he is clearly conflicted, so eager to please but also smart enough to know this isn't good for Hector. But if he helps him, then Hector will be grateful, at least for a while, and Paris is constantly chasing after that gratitude.

"Lean onto me, brother." He offers him an arm, which Hector gladly accepts, laughing inside at the ridiculousness of it all because normally he could lift Paris without breaking a sweat.

The corridors of the palace are never empty at this hour, always with one or another maid or messenger going up and down, but there’s hope they'll be too busy to notice.

Maybe this will be the right time.

It isn’t. Fates are against Hector today. 

"Thankfully I came back to chek,” Andromache rants and this time there will be no calming. "Do you want so badly to make me a widow?"

"Of course not-" Hector speaks the best he can without moving his chapped lips. He has neglected keeping himself hydrated and his tongue still feels gross. 

“Seems like the contrary to me.”

Andromache scolds him like with a disobedient child who doesn’t know any better. He won’t apologise. She doesn’t understand how he must go, now more than ever. 

Except a new wave of dizziness has him sway to the side, only proving Andromache’ right. 

“I alerted the maids outside. If you have some respect for me, stop trying to die.”

“I’m not …” But by Andromache’s glare he decides it’s better to stop there.

“Let me go to the camp,” he tries another approach. “I won’t fight but let them know I’m not a coward hiding behind the walls.”

He won’t be able to exit his rooms, to walk down the streets if the Trojans even just doubted him to be a coward, if he felt the minimal trace of reprimand in their gazes. 

Andromache’s expression softens. She takes his hand, soft skin against the calluses of war.

“I’m sure by now they have been informed of your predicament. And that nobody thinks you a coward. We all fall ill from time to time, my husband, and there’s no shame or cowardice in that. Now for once listen to your wife. I’ll tell the maids to draw you a new bath and then bring you something to eat. Does it sound so bad?”

It doesn’t. It actually sounds extremely nice. He could take a pause. Yesterday he fought all day under the scorching sun, with barely a moment to eat and drink and the day before the same. 

For once, Hector listens. “I’m lucky to have such a wise wife.”

Still standing in a corner, Paris perks up.  “Do I have to -” he begins to ask but quietens at Andromache’s glare. “Of course. I stay. Of course.”

***

Hector takes a bath and then changes into a new, fresh tunic and Andromache insists on bringing him some more pillows. She rests a bowl of fruit, ripe, easy to swallow on a table next to the bed.

It’s … really nice.  It's not like Hector can admit it, not outloud, but resting in his bed for once, with no fear for a spear or arrow to end his life, is something he actually enjoys. 

Paris, probably still feeling the need to apologise for having failed to help him in his new escape attempt, does his best to make his house arrest the best he can.

His younger brother is normally a coward and more than once Hector found himself thinking the town would benefit greatly if he died, but now he has to admit he is actually nice company when he puts himself to it.

Though tempted, Hector doesn’t tell Paris. Just like he refrain from asking him again why he doesn’t renounce Helen and put an end to the war. His brother would simply say the woman was given to him by Lady Aphrodite and it’s his legitimate right to have her at his side. 

Helen does pass by to pay him a quick visit and discuss something with Paris while she’s at it. 

After her it's Troilus' turn, then Polydamas and after Helenus. Each brings a new piece of news from the battlefield. Despite Hector’s fears of the Achaeans exploiting his absence, their men managed to hang on.

“The gods were on our side today.”

All gods but one apparently. 

“Anyway, I’ve just seen Cassandra. She told me you had quite the fall.”

"I wouldn't if she hadn't distracted me," Hector replies, with the most sharpness he can master given his current condition. The physician had him drinking a bit more of medicated wine and it's already making him feel sleepy.

They chat some more, siblings’ things, nothing important, with a casualness they so rarely have now. 

“Take care. I’ll see you on the field tomorrow,” Helenus says, when it’s time for him to return to the camp. Half-asleep, Hector murmurs a vague response. 

***

Somebody bends over Hector as he sleeps, a shadow but warm. It whispers in his ear, a command he cannot ignore. He slowly opens one eye.

Perched onto the mattress, Apollo stares back at him, looking almost puzzled.

By the purple outside the window, Night must have fallen already.

"Thought I'd found you on the field. Instead you are here."

Apollo speaks gently, but with that ever present threat underneath that has Hector's hairs stand on his arm and on his nape.

"It wasn’t my intention," he hastens to say, so quick it must come out like a babble. "My lord, please believe me."

"I know."

With a long finger on Hector's lips the god shushes him. He rests his palm on his forehead. "Fever paid you a visit," he says, mostly to himself.

"There are guards outside your door, but it’s not to keep someone outside, right?"

The question doesn't require an answer. Eyes to the growing darkness outside, Apollo hums. "Seems like I've come too late. The battle has ended for today …"

He leaves a choice in the pause, or the illusion of it at least. He can heal him now and probably even magically transport him to the camp; or he can leave him now and come back tomorrow morning.

But, as said, more than a real choice it's an illusion. 

"The battle has ended but not the work at the camp," Hector notes. Besides they might decide for some raid, if pushed by his absence the Achaeans lower their guards.

"No, it hasn't."

With this Apollo bends to kiss him on the forehead. It's quick and when he pulls back the headache, the nausea, the fever, it’s all gone. Hector stands, feeling as if he could battle one hundred Greek soldiers alone.

"Thanks."

Bowing his head he waits for the habitual aftermath, the payment in flesh the god so often demands. But Apollo only gives a light pat on his cheeks and a chaste peck on his lips.

"I expect sacrifices tomorrow morning," he says simply before disappearing, certain of Hector’s obedient answer.

Finally lucid, though a bit shaken as it always happens when having to do with Apollo, the prince dresses, puts on his sandals and opens the door, knowing exactly where he has to go. First the armoury, then out of the palace and at the gates. 

This time nobody stops him.