“Courage, Scamandrius,” came the whisper soft as a moan, alongside the figure of his father, and the fearsome armor that was flashing.
Little Scamandrius only recoiled—just a little. He was still frightened by the sight of his father’s figure, just as before.
For shuddering was the crest that crowned the bronze helmet with crimson horsehair, as his father so often walked, making clamor the ground that was still held fast, making tremble the heart of many strangers in arms, and now making recoil the little lord of the city, cringing fearfully in his nurse’s arms.
“He’s scared of your armor,” Andromache explained.
Hector held his gaze on the boy—the joy of his heart, who was now watching him in fear with that pair of innocent pupils of molten gold, radiant as stars. Hector let out a chuckle, and his dear wife smiled as well.
Little Scamandrius doesn’t know what it means yet—and may gods bless him that he never needs to find out. whispering a prayer under his breath, Hector took off the helmet swiftly, quick as a shooting star.
“See? There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured gently to the boy still watching him—less frightened, less alarmed, for the familiar face was now smiling at Scamandrius, as if promising him that everything would be fine. Hector reached out his arms, and Scamandrius didn’t flinch—not even a little.
For he knew he was in good hands now. With his father holding fast, he would always be safe.
And nothing would break the walls of love that held his family tight.
Scamandrius giggled as he felt his father’s kiss. The touch of his father’s dark beard felt so itchy, but Scamandrius loved the feeling—it was something he could only feel when his father was around, when his father was happy.
The winds were singing, and he felt the lift of the air. Scamandrius knew that his father was tossing him, just as before, just as he would do again.
And Scamandrius didn’t cry—not even a little. For he knew his father would always catch him, just as he did before, just as he would do again.
So he fell, happily, freely. He felt the songs of the winds, and knew that his father was happy.
Flashing were the rays of the sun, as the light of the molten gold hid itself in the dead of night; rising up were the walls of Troy, as it held tight many a family inside; passing by were the Scaean Gates, as the swift winds roared past the vast plains of Troad, raging round the city for three whole times.
And Astyanax is again falling, blithely, freely.
This time, nobody catches him.
