#scamandarius

Priam: Your father had honour in him, he had shown pity to me and had returned my son to me. You are nothing like him.

Hector: The day is near when Apollo and Paris will bring your doom at the Scean gate.

In order Thetis and child Achilles, Achilles' sister Polydora, Agamennon and Achilles, Patrochilles but Yuri, Neoptolemus and Astyanax, Iphigenia and Achilles.

Most of these are silly doodles as I don't draw full pieces much.

The little child whined when he was set down. Big, brown eyes blinked up at the gently glowing ceiling, too blurry for him to really make out. He slapped the ground, face scrunching at the scratchy dead grass. Head wobbling, he began to move, fisting the crinkly brown around him and yanking, giggling. 

The sound of burbling drew him, innocent curiosity turning to fear at the amount of—of people around the burbling sound. They stood tall and silent and scary. And then, his eyes alit on a shiny helmet, lighting up in joy just as fast. 

He crawled to the one person he knew, tiny body quickly growing exhausted as he struggled in the riverbank’s sand, but—there. His knees used to soft furs, his hands used to clutching at his mother’s hair, were reddened and smarting. But he did it. He made it. 

Astyanax giggled, looking up at his father, reaching his hands as high as he could and waving his tiny fists. 

“Up! Upupup!”

Prince Hector of Troy did not answer. Astyanax frowned, face crumpling as easily as cloth, cheeks reddening as he fought not to scream. His little fists lowered, slapping down on the sand. He did it again, a mighty plap, breathing picking up. He was determined.

Astyanax gripped at his father's legs with stubby hands. Using Hector's shins for support, the babe wobbled to his vulnerable feet, sniffling. He scrabbled at the leather straps holding up bronze greaves because he’d never done this on his own and the thought of falling and failing and being bad was terrible. Worse than the itchy sand.

But little Astyanax did it, standing on teetering legs, even if he was leaning against Hector’s. His tiny fingers wriggled where they pinched under pressure of the strap, a pout marring his rosebud mouth. But joy lit up that face soon enough, because surely now dada would look at him. The boy tilted his head back, careful to not tip completely and ruin it. Dada's face was shadowed by the scary helm, and it made Astyanax fuss with the leather he had ahold of. That bubble of uncertainty was growing too big for so tiny a body to contain. 

One hand still on the prince of Troy's legs, the other balled into a fist and was pushed into a gummy mouth, teeth not quite in all the way yet. 

Quiet, my love, we can’t be found. Astyanax remembered what mama’d said, and he was good. A good boy. He shoved his fist in a little deeper, just in case, feeling everything too much, overwhelm dampening his lashes. 

Why wasn't dada listening? Why wasn't he moving?

Whimpering, Astyanax knew he'd be bad if he screamed but it was hard, so hard and dada was right there and—

Astyanax let go of Hector’s legs, a chubby hand rising, ready to strike, angry, so angry at dada—only to fall onto his bottom in the sands of the river bank because he lost his balance. His other fist popped out of his mouth, and like an uncorked bottle, he started to cry. Big, fat drops ran down reddened, babysoft cheeks in heartbreak. 

The babe looked up, up, up through water-filled eyes at the blank gaze of Hector—

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH ANON THIS IS SO MEAN (/jk) I HAD ALMOST RECOVERED!!?!!? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH I THINK ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME