The thing is that everyone everyone EVERYONE posting about Hector of Troy understands the two poles of his conflict (the household and the battlefield) but so so sooo many posts file off the nuances of where he actually falls between them.
It's not entirely inaccurate to say Hector is a family-oriented character who fights because everyone he loves and everything he knows will be destroyed if he doesn't. But it IS a simplification.
When Andromache confronts him on the way to the gates, she doesn't ask him not to go out to fight; they both acknowledge the absolute necessity of doing so. But she asks him to fight defensively, to stick close to the walls and to focus on not allowing the invading army to breach vulnerable areas therein.
And he denies her request.
He has to fight aggressively and with the intent to win glory, he tells her, because he cannot bear to show his face in Troy if he does anything else. Even knowing that at this point his death would almost certainly cost Troy the war, destroying everything he holds dear including Andromache herself, he can't bring himself to preserve his life if it means falling short of the standards of Bronze Age masculine virtue.
This would have been totally consistent with the way the internet reads him IF she had asked him to stay home and hide under the bed or something. There's a reason he's as much if not more a foil to Paris as to Achilles. But that's not what Andromache asked him to do.
Given the choice between fighting ONLY to defend Troy or fighting to achieve honour and victory in the defense of Troy, he chose the latter.
The tragedy of Hector isn't solely that he's a father and husband who is forced to be a warrior. It's that he's juuust enough of a family man to want to be one, but... not enough to risk being branded a coward for it.
At least, not until it was too late.
He wanted his wife to have a husband and his child to have a living father, he really did. He outran fleet-footed Achilles three times around the walls of Troy in what I can only imagine must have been as much a feat of desperation as of athleticism. To keep ahead of someone on foot, over that distance, wearing armor, sounds frankly painful- I say this as someone who used to love running.
If the gods hadn't decieved him into thinking he had help against Achilles, would he have run until he collapsed? Until some archer on the walls managed to either take down Achilles or at least force enough distance between them that Hector could escape? Would anyone have shamed him for it? Having faced the shame of cowardice and survived, would he have fought differently in the next battle, more defensively?
He died before we could find out.
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These Actions Haunt My Days
Odysseus was used to getting weird dreams. But this one was different.
Someone was watching him.
“Athena?” he called into the dream-void.
A soft chuckle came from behind him. “Don’t mistake me for one of the immortals, Laertides.”
Odysseus whirled around as a man’s figure faded into view. It was someone he recognized, but couldn’t quite put a name to. “Who are you?”
“I’m just a man.” The figure raised a hand and gestured to him. “Like yourself.”
Odysseus’s hand flew to his waist, then he remembered that this was just a dream. He can’t hurt you. And you can’t hurt him.
“What do you want, stranger?” he spat.
“You call me stranger, yet you too triumphed over my fallen body.”
So he was a ghost. An enemy … Odysseus almost didn’t dare ask. “H—Hector?”
The Son of Troy smiled—a gentle smile, although his eyes held a controlled rage. “No respect for your opponent, it seems. It took you that long to recognize me.”
“Why are you here, prince?”
His smile faded as his expression hardened. “I wanted to talk to you, one father to another.”
Oh.
“If this is about your son—”
“You did it to protect your own. I understand that. But…” He sighed. “You and I are not as different as you might think, Odysseus.”
The tactician titled his head, cautious but curious. “Oh?”
“You are a king, fighting for your country. You fight for your wife, who awaits you back at home. And your son, who you want to see grow up to live a glorious life. And you will do anything necessary to protect those you love the most.” Hector stepped closer and softened his voice a little. “I, too, fight for my people. For me, my city is my first love. I did everything in my power to try and protect it, but my efforts were in vain.”
Odysseus lowered his eyes.
“My wife, my Andromache—she longed for an end to that terrible war so that we could be happy together. But I told her … I told her that I might not come home—as surely you must have told your Penelope.”
“You—”
“And my son. All I wanted was for him to grow up to become a good prince—Lord of the City, as we called him.” His eyes filled with sorrow. “He was an infant, Odysseus. I understand that it was between you and him, but … he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be slaughtered in such a dishonorable way. You were given a choice, Odysseus, you—” his voice caught in his throat. “You could have raised him; you could have given him the life I never could. But you didn’t. You chose the easy way out.”
“Easy?” Odysseus’s temper flared. “You think it was easy to hold your son over the walls of Troy, all while looking into his eyes and only seeing my own? You think it was easy to ride inside that horse into the city as the people celebrated, knowing that their joy would be short-lived? You think it was easy to watch the city burn as the people screamed for mercy, calling for their loved ones so they could breathe their last in each other’s arms? All while knowing full well that it was your fault this entire massacre occurred?” Tears were running down his cheeks now, staining his chiton. “None of this was easy, prince. It haunts my every step; occupies my every thought. I wish—how I wish I could have prevented this, but in the end, it was never up to me.”
“No,” Hector whispered. “But you could have tried.”
Odysseus’s heart ached. “I did,” he choked. “I really did.”
“There’s blood on your hands,” Hector said softly. “And there will be more. But whose blood—that remains up to you.”
With that, Hector’s figure disappeared, leaving Odysseus to fall to his knees and cry, each sob clenching his heart with guilt.
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All day, every day
Therapist, mother, maid
Nymph, then a virgin
Nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
Twenty-four seven baby machine
So he can live out his picket fence dream
It’s not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour
- labour, paris paloma x women of greek myth
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