Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Troy belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and Wolfgang Petersen/David Benioff/Homer.
“Pray to Enodia,” said Hiscilla.
Triopas looked at his wife. She sat at her spinning before their bedroom hearth, dark-haired and white-skinned against the fire. Behind her stood the Hekataion she had erected the day he had brought her into his house to be his wife, and beneath her hands, being spun on her spindle and distaff, was the cloak he would wear into battle.
“I have already entreated the gods, in my own manner,” said Triopas heavily. He turned back to the kline
, the conjugal couch he had carved with his own two hands, sitting wearily on its edge. “They have left me in silence.”
“But you have not prayed to Enodia,” said Hiscilla, and her voice was as quiet and calm as a clear night sky. “Raise your voice to her, my husband. She will hear you.”
Exhaustion and worry made his tone harsh. “A woman's god, some goddess of herbs and magic tricks! What use would there be in it, when even Zeus has turned his back on us?”
He had his back to her, but he could hear the rustle of her dress as she stood, the clatter of wood as she put her distaff and spindle down on the table. He felt her move to the couch, felt the hand that was laid, light and cool, on his back.
“You are right, my husband,” said Hiscilla into his ear. “All hope is gone. Our gods have turned from us, have granted their blessings to Agamemnon. We are left to fall by the wayside. What have we to lose, Triopas? The men speak of dying in battle and the women wail to think of their men dead and their children slaves. What have we to gain by clinging to the gods who would let us be destroyed? Pray to Enodia, to She of the Crossroads. Pray to Hekate, who guards the lost and the dead, for surely, Triopas, we are already both.”
Her head rested against his shoulder. Triopas managed a bleak smile that was not as stern as it should have been. “You and your women, always muttering about your goddess. I should call you all witches.”
Her breath was light on his skin.
Triopas sighed. “Why don't you ask your Enodia to save us? I would think you had more sway with her than I.”
“It must be you, husband,” murmured Hiscilla. “You are king. You decide our fate, not I. Your voice will have a power mine does not.”
Her hand slid around to his arm, and he put his own over it. Hiscilla remained young and supple, where he had already grown old and white with care and troubles. His hand on hers was like a covering of knotted oak for an ivory carving.
“What have I to lose?” he said finally, shrugging his aching shoulders. “I will do this for you, my wife. I will pray. One more sacrifice. One more plea.”
Against his back, Triopas felt her smile.