Sorrow hung heavy over Troy, and as Hector entered its gates, he was surrounded by women asking him about their husbands and sons. "Is he still alive?" they said. "Tell me." "We can only pray," said Hector and continued to the palace.
There in the king's magnificent home, made of smooth and polished stone, he found his mother Hecuba, her face worn with worry.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, when she saw him now, exhausted and covered in blood and dirt. "Here, have some wine."
Hector refused. "I need you to do something for me," he said. "Take the most beautiful robe you have and offer it to Athena. Pray to her, promise her many sacrifices, so that she might take pity on us."
Hecuba nodded, and Hector left. He went to Paris' home and found him polishing his armor. Helen sat nearby.
"What on earth are you doing?" said Hector angrily. "There are people dying out there for you? Get up and fight."
"I'm coming, brother" said Paris. "Go. I'll follow. Be careful, I'll probably overtake you."
Hector did not reply. He was in no mood for jokes.
Helen saw this and said, "Hector, sit beside me for a while and rest. You are tired."
"No," Hector said. "There are people out there who need me. I have no time for rest."
Hector had wanted to speak to his wife before he returned to battle. He loved her dearly, and he had had a sudden fear that he would never see her or his son again. But he could not find them, and no one knew where they were, and so it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the gates.
As he was about to pass through, he heard a voice. Someone was calling him. It was his wife, Andromache, with their son.
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