Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The garden was cold, but the lamps made it warm.

Lysander stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the servants hang oil lights from the bare branches of the fig tree. The winter evening had settled over Troy like a grey cloak, but here, in this small corner of the palace, someone had decided to push back the darkness. The lamps threw circles of gold across the stone benches and the dead flower beds. Someone had draped a length of deep blue cloth between two poles at the garden’s centre—the same cloth, Lysander realized, that had hung in Hecuba’s chambers for as long as he could remember. It was embroidered with lions, the same lions that adorned her brooch.

There was no priest. No altar. No formal rites from the temple. Hector had insisted on that.

"The gods will witness us wherever we stand," he had told Hecuba when she asked about the ceremony. "I don’t need incense and omens to know what I already know. I just need my family. I just need her."

Hecuba had argued, of course. She had argued about tradition and propriety and the expectations of the royal house. But Hector had held firm, and eventually Hecuba had relented, because even the queen could not outlast her eldest son’s quiet, immovable stubbornness.

So the ceremony would be simple. A spoken vow before the family. A sharing of wine and bread. The binding of hands with a strip of woven cloth. The old ways, older than temples and priests. The ways that had been used when the first Trojans built their homes on this hill, before the walls were raised, before the great temple of Athena crowned the citadel.

"She’s been planning this for weeks," Arsini said, appearing at his elbow. She had a tablet under her arm, as always, but she had changed into a cleaner tunic, and her hair was bound with a ribbon the colour of autumn leaves. "Hecuba. She told me she started preparing the day Hector first mentioned Andromache’s name. That was three years ago."

"She knew before he did."

"She’s his mother. She knows everything." Arsini looked at the garden. "It’s perfect. Simple, but perfect."

"Hector didn’t want anything elaborate. He said the ceremony should be about the vows, not the decorations."

"Andromache agreed. She told Hecuba she’d rather be married here than in the great hall. She said the garden was where she first felt at home in Troy."

Lysander looked at the fig tree, its bare branches strung with lamps. "She told me once that she used to sit here as a child, after her city fell. She said Hector was the first person who treated her like she wasn’t broken."

"I know. She told me too." Arsini paused. "She’s good for him. She’s the only person who can make him stop being a soldier, even for a moment."

"She’s the only person who can make him stop carrying the weight."

"Not the only person." She looked at him. "You do that too."

"Not the same way."

"No. But you carry it with him. That’s different from lifting it, but it’s not nothing."

He looked at her. She was standing close enough that he could smell the faint scent of lavender in her hair. She had dressed up for the ceremony. She had worn the ribbon. She had done all of this without being asked.

"You look—" he started.

"Don’t say beautiful. I’m not Helen of Sparta."

"I wasn’t going to say beautiful. I was going to say you look like someone who belongs here."

She held his gaze. "I do belong here. I’ve belonged here for two years. You just haven’t noticed."

"I’ve noticed."

"Then do something about it."

Before he could answer, the garden doors opened, and Hecuba entered. She was dressed in a gown of deep purple, the colour of royalty, and her bronze lion brooch was pinned at her shoulder. She walked with her stick, but her back was straight, and her dark eyes swept the garden with the assessing gaze of a general inspecting a battlefield.

"The lamps need to be higher on the west side," she said to no one in particular. "The light won’t reach the vows if they’re that low. And someone needs to fetch more wine from the stores. The good wine, not the watered-down swill we serve at council meetings."

Arsini touched Lysander’s arm. "I should help her. She’ll terrorize the servants otherwise."

She walked toward Hecuba, and the two women began conferring over the placement of the lamps. Lysander watched them for a moment—the queen and the soldier’s daughter, working together to prepare a wedding—and felt something shift in his chest. This is what we’ve been building, he thought. Not walls. Not ships. This.

The guests assembled as the sun set. It was a small gathering—Hector had insisted on that. The council was not invited. The nobles were not invited. Only the people who mattered.

Miros stood near the back, his hands clasped behind him, his face as unreadable as ever. He had polished his armour for the occasion, and the bronze gleamed in the lamplight. Maea was beside him, her dark eyes moving over the garden with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had helped prepare the ceremony. Shebek and Sena were there too, and Deia, who was thirteen years old and had been allowed to stay up past her bedtime because Arsini had said she deserved to see something beautiful.

Daidalos stood near the blue cloth, his hands still faintly stained with pitch despite the occasion. He had been working on the fire ships until an hour ago. He had refused to miss the ceremony.

Fylon was in the shadows near the garden wall, as he always was. He did not like crowds. But he was here.

Antiphus came straight from the medical ward, still in his physician’s tunic, his mask hanging loose around his neck. He had delivered three babies in this city and closed the eyes of countless dead. He had told Lysander once that moments like this were what kept him going. The living. The hopeful. The stubborn refusal to let the darkness win.

And Priam—Priam was there.

The king had been carried to the garden on a litter, wrapped in heavy blankets despite the braziers that had been placed around the gathering. His face was thin, his hands trembling where they rested on the arms of the litter, but his eyes were clear. He had insisted on attending. He had told Hecuba that he would not miss his eldest son’s betrothal, even if he had to be carried to the garden on his deathbed.

Hecuba had told him he was being dramatic. She had kissed his forehead and ordered the servants to prepare the litter.

Now Priam sat at the edge of the gathering, wrapped in blankets, watching the garden fill with the people his sons had gathered around them. His eyes found Lysander, and he raised one trembling hand in greeting. Lysander crossed the garden and knelt beside the litter.

"Father."

"I heard about the sword," Priam said. His voice was weak, but steady. "The broken one. From Achilles."

"Yes."

"Hector showed it to me. He asked me what I thought. I told him—" He paused, catching his breath. "I told him that a man who sends broken swords instead of terms is a man who has never been denied anything. Men like that make mistakes. They underestimate their enemies."

"Hector knows that."

"He knows it. But he also knows what that sword represents. He’s not afraid of dying. He’s afraid of leaving her behind." Priam looked toward the blue cloth, where Andromache would soon stand. "This ceremony—this betrothal—it’s not just about love. It’s about giving her something to hold onto. Whatever happens."

"I know."

Priam reached out and gripped Lysander’s arm. His grip was weak, but his eyes were fierce. "You’ve done well. All of you. I don’t say it enough. I should have said it more."

"You’re saying it now."

"Now is all I have." He released Lysander’s arm and settled back into the litter. "Go. Your brother needs you."

Hector stood before the blue cloth, waiting.

He was dressed in a simple tunic of deep blue, the colour of the cloth that hung behind him. He wore no armour. No sword. For the first time in years, he looked like a man instead of a soldier.

Lysander took his place beside him. "You look nervous."

"I’ve led men into battle. I’ve faced the black ships. I’ve buried soldiers I couldn’t save. None of it felt like this."

"That’s because none of it mattered as much."

Hector looked at him. "When did you become wise."

"I’ve always been wise. You just didn’t notice."

Hector almost smiled. "I noticed. I just didn’t say anything."

The music began—a single lyre, played by a young woman from the temple. The melody was old, a song of love and fidelity that had been sung at Trojan weddings for generations. The lamps flickered in the winter wind. The stars were coming out overhead, cold and sharp and indifferent, but the garden was warm with firelight.

And then Andromache appeared.

She walked through the garden gate on Hecuba’s arm, and the gathered guests fell silent. She was wearing a gown of pale gold, the colour of autumn wheat, and her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, threaded with tiny white flowers that someone must have preserved from the summer. She was beautiful—not in the way that launched ships or started wars, but in the quiet, steady way that made men want to be better than they were.

Hector stared at her. He did not move. He did not breathe. He simply stared, as if he had never seen her before.

"Close your mouth," Lysander murmured. "You look like a fish."

Hector closed his mouth.

Hecuba led Andromache to the blue cloth and placed her hand in Hector’s. The queen’s eyes were wet, but her voice was steady. "I have waited years for this. Don’t make me wait any longer."

She stepped back. Hector and Andromache stood face to face, their hands clasped, the lamplight flickering on their faces.

"I don’t have a speech," Hector said. His voice was rough, unpolished. "I’m not good with words. I never have been."

"Then don’t give a speech," Andromache said quietly. "Just tell me what you promised. Tell me what’s true."

He looked at her. "I love you. I’ve loved you since I was seventeen years old. I was too much of a coward to say it then, and I’ve been too busy being a soldier to say it since. But I’m saying it now. I love you. I want to marry you. I want to build a life with you. Whatever time we have—whether it’s fifty years or fifty days—I want to spend it with you."

She reached up and touched his face. "You’re not a coward. You’ve never been a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known. And I’ve loved you since the day you found me in this garden, twelve years old and scared, and told me I wasn’t broken." She smiled through her tears. "I’ve been waiting for you to catch up."

"I’m caught up."

"Good."

Hecuba stepped forward, a strip of woven cloth in her hands—blue and gold, the colours of the royal house. She wrapped it around their joined hands, binding them together.

"In the sight of this family," she said, her voice carrying across the garden, "in the sight of these witnesses, in the sight of the gods who watch over this city—you are bound. Not by priests. Not by temples. By your word, and your love, and the promises you have made. May they hold fast against whatever comes."

Hector looked at Andromache. "They will."

She looked back at him. "They will."

Hecuba stepped back. The garden was silent. The lamps flickered. The stars wheeled overhead.

Then Deia, who was thirteen years old and had never been to a wedding before, started clapping. The sound was small and solitary in the quiet garden, but it broke the spell. Maea joined her. Then Shebek. Then Daidalos, his pitch-stained hands slapping together with surprising enthusiasm. Even Miros, who never showed emotion, brought his hands together three times before folding his arms again.

Hector kissed Andromache, and the garden erupted in cheers.

Later, after the wine had been drunk and the bread had been shared and the guests had begun to drift away into the cold night, Lysander found himself standing alone at the edge of the garden, looking up at the stars.

"That went well," Arsini said, appearing beside him.

"It did."

"Hector looked happy. I’ve never seen him look happy before."

"Neither have I." He paused. "Andromache looked happy too."

"They deserve it. Both of them." She looked at him. "You were right, you know. About what we’re building. It’s not just walls and ships. It’s this. It’s moments like this."

"I know."

"Then what are you going to do about it."

He turned to face her. The lamplight caught the ribbon in her hair, the autumn leaves bright against the darkness. "I was thinking—"

"That’s dangerous."

"I was thinking," he repeated, "that I’ve been waiting for the right moment. The right words. Something that wouldn’t sound foolish. But my mother told me there’s no right moment. There are no right words. There’s only what you do and what you say."

"Your mother is a wise woman."

"She’s terrifying. But she’s usually right." He reached out and took her hand. "I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if the war comes tomorrow or in a month or not at all. I don’t know if I’ll survive it. But I know that I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to keep counting lamp refills and training repetitions without telling you what they mean."

"What do they mean."

"They mean I’m still here. They mean I’m still fighting. They mean you’re the reason I keep going when I want to stop." He looked at her. "I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. I was too stubborn to say it. But I’m saying it now."

She stared at him. Her dark eyes were wide, her face unreadable.

"That’s a good speech," she said finally. "Better than Hector’s."

"I had more time to prepare."

She laughed—a real laugh, bright and unguarded—and then she stepped forward and kissed him. It was not a long kiss. It was not a passionate kiss. It was the kiss of two people who had been standing on cold towers and counting lamp refills for two years and had finally decided to stop pretending.

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "I love you too. I’ve loved you since the day you came to the library and asked me what I was reading. You were the first person in this palace who ever looked at me like I mattered."

"You do matter. You’ve always mattered."

"I know. I just needed you to say it."

He held her hand, and they stood together in the garden, watching the lamps burn low. The fig tree was bare, the flower beds dead, but the winter stars were sharp and bright overhead. Somewhere in the palace, Hector and Andromache were beginning their life together. Somewhere in the barracks, Miros was drilling the militia for a battle that might never come. Somewhere in the west, Paris was sailing toward home with the woman he loved.

But here, in this garden, there was only the quiet, and the stars, and the promise that whatever came next, they would face it together.