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."
