Hit the Wall Challenge: Greek Myth: Fanfic: Be Well

[drabblewriter]

Title: Be Well
Fandom: Greek Myth / The Iliad
Characters: Paris, Hector
Rating: T
Warnings: injury, blood, vomiting
Length: 868
Summary: Paris comes running as soon as he hears about Hector's injury. (There was good Hector angst in Book 14, but I decided I needed more. :3)

Paris comes running as soon as he hears about Hector's injury. He finds him where's he's been told, lying unconscious beside the river, concerned comrades clustered around him. Paris elbows his way in and drops down beside his brother, heart in his throat as he takes in his condition for himself.

Blood leaks from the corner of Hector's mouth, stains one cheek, and puddles beside his head. His armor and tunic have been loosened, showing the sickeningly dark bruise spilling across his chest. But worst is his breath. Shallow, hesitant, hitching on every other draw with soft sounds of pain.

"Where are the doctors?" Paris barks and gets only mutters of confusion in response. No one seems to know in the chaos.

He grits his teeth and reaches out, hand hovering in the air. He feels the urge to touch, to comfort, but has no idea how to without causing more hurt.

Suddenly, Hector makes a sharp little sound, followed by a half-cough that flecks more blood from his lips. Then his eyes flutter, slide partway open. "P'r's?" he breathes.

"I'm here." Paris makes a decision and takes one of his brother's hands, squeezing trembling fingers. "You weren't supposed to let them get a hit on you like this, commander."

Hector doesn't even attempt a laugh. There's just a little shudder, his breath hitching, dragging out a sound like agony. "Hurts," he whimpers.

Paris flinches, not used to seeing him so raw. Hector is always so strong, so bright. This is wrong.

"You're hurt bad," Paris tells him quietly, unable to keep his voice even. "That Greek bastard and his damn stone-"

Hector's fingers spasm against his. "I have to-"

"Hey!"

Because Hector, the godsdamned idiot, is trying to rise. Pale, shaking, bleeding inside, he's determined to go back to battle. Of course. Because Hector is the most duty-bound idiot Paris has ever met.

"Stay down!" Paris insists, letting his fear add force to it as he plants a hand on his brother's shoulder and bears down.

Hector winces and collapses again, whining as the all the movement jostles his ravaged body.

"You don't need to do anything but get back to the city," Paris tells him. "Don't be an idiot. Don't be - don't be me, okay?" Paris clamps teeth on his lip for a moment as it threatens to wobble. It scares him to see Hector like this, even more than he would have imagined. "Just let us take of you."

"But-"

"Shut up." Paris fights between the instinct for gentleness and the need to show him he's not messing around. He settles for a hand in Hector's sweat-matted hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. "We need you alive. If you force yourself back out there like this, you've going to die, dammit. What will that do to your troops?"

Hector's breath chokes in and out, and his dark eyes are wide. Pained. Scared too.

"Do as I say," Paris says, begging suddenly, rather than commanding. "Go back to Troy. Let the doctors help you. Listen to me just this once, brother, and I'll never expect you to again."

Hector's pinched expression wavers like he's about to give in - or pass out again. Then, he turns his head to the side with a soft, fragile whine as more blood and bile dribble out of his mouth.

Paris raises his voice again. "Find me a damn chariot. He needs to get back to the city now!"

"Here, sir!" someone calls, and the crowd parts.

Paris has never been more grateful to see a pair of horses and the vehicle they carry. He doesn't recognize the reinsman or the warrior who leaps out, but it doesn't matter. Between the three of them and with help from the rest the warriors, they get the wounded man lifted and into the chariot. Paris winces and whispers small comforts at every pained sound it cases, but he knows it must be done.

Paris breathes relief once Hector is settled in - until his brother's hand reaches out and clutches his arm. "P'r's," he breathes, voice even softer now. "Stay. Lead - take c're of them. Promise me."

Paris swallows hard, glances up to the impatient chariotmen, then back to Hector, focus on those eyes again. "I promise, Hector. Go. Be well."

He lets go of his brother's hand, which drops heavily back to his side, and jerks a nod at his saviors. They take off, the chariot bouncing violently across the plain, and Paris has to wince knowing how much agony every movement must be causing Hector's battered body. But he'll be better off. In the city there are doctors and temples and his family will be waiting - everything that could help. Everything that could save him. Could.

Paris grits his teeth and prays a quick silent prayer to the god of healing. Little more than please and don't take him. Apollo has watched over Hector before, and he can only hope he does now. Then Paris straightens and turns back to his brother's troops, ready to do what he must. If Hector can no longer carry the duty he values so much, his brother will take it up for him.