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Hector’s arm is an indistinct blur, and the spear leaves his whirling grip like a thunderbolt.
And then -
It hangs there, motionless - suspended before the greatest son of Ilion.
You cannot breathe.
Your mind tries to make sense of things. Hector is a graven statue; frozen in mid-cast, he is kneeling with his release. His face is a study in righteous anger; the patriot who stops at nothing to save his kin. The eternal warrior; the immortal legend. Your envy is eternal. His robes are suspended in mid-air; the hide bag of his panoplia lies forgotten at his feet.
You cannot hear anything. Not even your own heartbeat. Strange.
<span class="mu-i">You cannot breathe.</span>
You try to turn your head, but you cannot. You try to move your eyes, and they slide so slowly – the smallest shifting takes hours, days. To your side, your friends and compatriots standing at the ready - Pollux, Castor, Teukros, dressed in scarlet, and your hostage, Paris. You know this - but you cannot see them; your head will not turn. From the corner of your eyes, you see a glimpse of Teukros’ red robe, but this is all.
<span class="mu-s">You cannot breathe.</span>
All you see is Hector; the doom of you and your κλέος alike. Far beyond him, the door leading to Paris’ apartments, and to Helen.
You spend an eternity staring at the threshold; a sleepless, dreamless period of days, months, years. You cease wondering why you have been granted this indeterminable period of consideration.
<span class="mu-b">You cannot breathe.</span>
You invent poetry. You write love songs. You conquer Ilion, the First Platoon at their head. You conquer Mycenae as King of Argos. Hector crushes your skull, your spine, your lungs, your heart. You find a husband for Deianira; she dies a maiden; she kills you for power. You sail away from Hellas to a shining island to the west. You observe the murals of the Olympians painted precisely on the walls of the royal hallway - you will never know which of them is your forebear.
You evaluate your mistakes, your fatal errors. The first and smallest was to wake the Dioscuri, you decide. The second - to convince Pollux to raid the palace. The third - failure to capture Dius alive. The fourth and largest - failure to utilize Paris. Why didn’t you consider that Paris himself could be induced to pacify Hector? He had opened the gates of the palace itself with his gilded tongue; scattered the guards with a word. Pollux had warned you numerous times that he must be gagged due to the power of his tongue… And yet, when the moment came, you fumbled.
And the fifth - failure to surrender, when there was still control.
At each point, you cast caution aside, thrust away reason, and charged into the unknown. Hubris - the arrogance of a young man who believed he could write his name into the heavens. You consider your short life - the pleasures, the small victories. The harsh future that awaits your sister. You weep without tears, or breath, or motion.
<span class="mu-r">You cannot weep.</span>
