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The distance between the bronze sword raised high over her husband’s head and Andromache could fit the entire universe and yet she would see the glint of the afternoon sun on the sharp edge as the blade was brought down with great strength. Her husband barely managed to move out of its path.

Andromache of Thebes, of Troy, of Hector, has watched her husband in combat more times than she can count. Hector of Troy was swift, strong, as clever as Hermes, and as stubborn as a bull. He led his men into battle, fighting from the front, circling back to rally their troops from behind, darting here and there and everywhere. Andromache has grown adept at spotting him among thousands. She has become accustomed to two weights in her body; one weight as dense as lead, pressing into her womb, was the terror of her husband’s demise; the other, lighter, clinging to her very bones, was the certainty that her mighty Hector, the best of the Trojans, would return to her.

Andromache has never felt so heavy in her life.

Achilles fought like no one they had ever seen before. Lighter than air and as fast as high wind but with the force of ten strong men. Here now, there a moment later, a flash! Hector’s blood dripped onto the plains from yet another wound. Andromache’s nails bit into the rampart, and a scream stuck in her throat. She was breathing fast and heavy, sick dread clinging to her veins. 

Gods, she thought as a series of strikes forced Hector to retreat towards the gates of Troy. He was tired while his opponent seemed barely winded. Gods, please. Please!

 “Andromache,” someone said kindly, “go inside.”

The words echoed in her mind without comprehension. Then, they sank in. She remembered the loom where the unfinished cloak lay waiting for her return; oh, and the bath with water that had long gone cold. Andromache found herself moving, stepping away from the ramparts. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the royal family, the surviving generals, the King’s priests, and the guards but none were looking directly at her. 

Without a word, Andromache marched to an archer, standing in a line of other archers, their weapons held loosely. Still silent, she wrestled a bow and several arrows away, though it was hardly a fight as she was still the heir’s wife. Her ears were ringing and her heart was thumping right out of her chest as she returned to where the royal family stood.

 “Here!” She barked at Paris. “Save him.”

Her brother-in-law took the bow and arrows but he looked to the King. “Father.”

Andromache could hardly believe what she was doing but she grabbed Paris and dragged him to the battlements with strength neither of them knew she possessed.

In the time she was gone, Achilles had knocked Hector’s shield aside. He thrust his sword at Hector’s heart. Andromache opened her mouth to scream, her hands pinching into Paris’ soft flesh. Hector twisted away and staggered back.

 “Save him!”

 Paris stared in horror at his brother. Again, he turned to his father.

 “Andromache,” Priam called gently. He looked and sounded defeated. The years have not been kind to the old man, and this duel was withering away at what was left. 

To his left, Glaucus gazed at her with pity. “Good woman, return to your duties.” Swords clashed as he spoke, a furious unrelenting clang coming closer and closer towards them. Andromache was afraid to look. “This is the way. If Prince Hector cannot win,” the wind howled and she didn’t hear what he said next.

The high priest smiled oily at her. “The gods favour our prince,” he declared airily.

 “Do not sully his honour,” Glaucus added sternly as though she were a wayward child.

Andromache was shaking. If only she could dig her nails into the whites of their eyes; if only she could beat her fists at them until their bones were exposed; if only she-

A howl cut through her rage. Andromache leaned through the embrasure and saw her Hector fall. More blood poured on the soil. Achilles stalked forward while her husband crawled desperately for his sword.

 “Honour? What honour?” Andromache screamed, shoving Paris who took the abuse willingly. “He lost it when he saved you from Menelaus, yet you stand there hesitating. Do something!”

Tears blinded Andromache for which she was grateful. She hated looking at them, looking at her with pity and disappointment; almost like she was a nuisance. Gods, she thought sickened, he wasn’t yet cold and her status was slipping away. What will happen to her poor Astyanax, waiting in their chambers for both of his parents to return? 

Loud and oppressive silence greeted her outburst. Down below, Achilles pursued her husband, slowly, drawing out the moment of his death. Andromache felt bile at the back of her throat. Her fingers itched with the promise of violence; first her clothes, then her hair and skin.

At her periphery, Andromache could see Paris undulating, drawing his bow and arrow. Beyond that, the blurry mass of archers moved like liquid as they stepped forward. Paris notched an arrow to his bow. Someone called his name. He moved to an embrasure and for one long moment, he held still. Then- 

Twang!

The arrow flew in a long, graceful arc landing behind Achilles, piercing his heel. For a small second, everything went still. Then, the Greek monster threw back his head and roared.

The other archers stepped into position and they, too, released their arrows. Almost all of them broke against Achilles’ skin but one embedded itself in his other heel. Blood gushed from the wound and the monster yelled, tearing the arrows out.

Andromache leaned forward. “Hector!” She screamed in a high, scant voice. 

Hector ran to his sword and turned to face the Greek warrior. Achilles pushed himself to his feet. He limped weakly at Hector, raising his sword. Hector rebuffed the blow and went on the attack. Each strike against Achilles’ sword and skin restored Hector’s strength. Andromache was breathing heavily as though she was below in the sand fighting with Hector. 

Achilles went down. Hector went after him. He grabbed at Achilles’ feet and began flipping him. Achilles kicked at him, shouting all the while but Hector desperately held on, dragging the other warrior away from his sword.

 “What is he doing?” Paris asked, aiming another arrow but the string on the bow was slacking.

Hector was lying his full weight on the man’s legs, he brought his sword to the wounded heels and began sawing. Achilles bellowed, he twisted his body around and brought his shield down on Hector who narrowly rolled away. The sand beneath them was red. 

Hector staggered to his feet once more while Achilles crawled away on his back. Andromache was leaning forward again, hoping to get a good view of the terror on the face of the beast who sacked Thebes and killed her family.

With a viciousness that pleased her greatly, Hector chased his opponent and started whacking the shield Achilles raised to protect his legs.

 “Hector! Hector!” Andromache shouted. A large chorus echoed, reverberating down to the plains, Priam loudest among them.

Hector walked in a small circle around Achilles who was forced to keep turning to protect his legs. On and on it went as a crowd gathered around Andromache to watch the last moments of the famed Greek warrior. When Hector at last lunged, Achilles’ scream was the sweetest sound Andromache ever heard. 

It was over. Prince Hector stood tall over the corpse and raised his sword triumphantly. She shouted again, her voice full, and the crowd atop the ramparts cried out alongside her.

Without wasting a moment, Andromache raced out of the palace as she had countless times before. She felt as light as the wind, her heart soaring, the years of war shedding away. 

There he was, her Hector. Covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, and surrounded by his men and the reverent people of Troy. Afterward, there will be talks about Hector’s honour, her impropriety, his brother, and a thousand other things.

But in that moment when her husband’s eyes found her, Hector smiled.