They say a blood moon rose over Troy, the night they took Helen.

That is rather like the gods.

Today is the first day. The camps have all but gathered, with the exception of some. There are whispers of a missing king of Ithaca, of a concealed coward – or perhaps a clever one.

All of the kingdoms of the Greeks in one place, gathered outside those towering walls. The sun has not yet begun to beat down on the morning.

He had tried to reason with his father – and when he could not, he came with him, tearing his arms away from his mother’s hands and into bronze plate.

He has friends in Troy.

Paris.

He is not permitted into the war tent.

He certainly is not. 

Troy is old, vast and strange. Those walls of stone and towers pierce the clouds, wrought by no mortal hands only; many great princes are gathered here, yet it may not be enough. 

Perhaps the gods will lend their aid; perhaps this is their will, and all the Achaeans were brought here to die. 

No army can remain still forever; no city can outlast a siege forever. They can pillage the townlands of Ilium only so long. 

The question is: starve them out and force Priam to terms, or find some path to break the walls of Troy?

...The boy still lingers here. 

The guards need only a few copper pieces for their silence.

Silence is not what the prince is looking for. He remains outside the bounds of the tent, though close enough to try to catch some words of the kings within.

He hears the occasional word. Helen… siege… endure. Ithaca…

Nothing he did not already know. He strains his ear further. 

Yes. This is why he does not trust guards of the common soldiery. The house of Aetos on Crete was built on blood by the swords of his fellow men, and so he can trust both their confidence and their competence. 

The boy doesn't notice until he's grabbed by the hair and thrust inside. 

"Well then. Who is this?"

He starts, his hand like a blur towards his sword.

He's already up and kicking the sword from his hand. 

"Spying is a flogging matter, boy."

…

Faced with no other option, he gives his assailant his most regal and indignant stare.

Unblinking. His eyes are a shade too blue.

“Unhand me.” 

People are crying out now and saying unimportant things, two men have his back, and so he takes the boy's throat in his hand. "WHO ARE YOU."

Where is his father–

“I am a prince. Son of Hyranon of Pylos.”

Let me go–

“And who are you?” He scans him, quickly. “Spartan? No– Cretan. Are you not? Our kingdoms are allies.”

The dizziness numbs his mouth, but it moves fast.

"You speak to the king Aetos, boy. Have you not, O Hyranon, told your son Pandora's tale? "

A calm voice cuts through the fray.

“Release him, Lord Aetos. We may discuss our legends alone.”

At once he thrusts the youth away. "Indeed. Go."

The rage, the insult…

He rises above it. 

“I wish to join the meeting.” His voice rasps.

“Ophellios, go.”

…

Very well. Not at the will of the Cretan, but at the command of his king.

He retrieves his sword and leaves.

"Hyranon. Your boy intrudes on our war councils. It was no business of mine whom you chose to bring to this war, but if the child imposes then he must go."

He sighs. “Forgiveness, Aetos. The boy is young and wishes only to help. I shall speak with him.”

The king turns, then, and extends his arms. “Let us continue with the matters of our council, lords. We cannot be seen to be bickering on our first day now, can we?”

There are some mutters of agreement. Lord Hyranon is well-liked, even by the most cynical of kings.

...

"As you wish, Hyranon."

He can be reasonable. 

Occasionally. 

"Perhaps then we turn our attention back to the war ahead. What is your counsel, chief of Pylos?"

He takes his seat, looking once at all the gathered kings.

Never once, not since the court of Sparta, have there been so many under one sun.

There seems to be mistrust, here. They are all afraid, though they do not show it. Some still don their helmets, prepared for a war they will not bare their throats at. Even Lord Agamemnon sits silently, his face hidden in shadow and bronze.

It is his turn to speak, then.

“The King of Ithaca is said to be a master of strategy. Mentored and favoured by Pallas Herself. And not to forget, our defence of Queen Helen was his plot.”

He pauses.

“I say we send a messenger.”

"We did. We sent two. The first returned seeming to have forgotten all he learned, and indeed how to fasten his own shoes. The second came back babbling about the king being mad."

“Mad?”

“Mad indeed…” he murmurs. 

The Ithacan King has always been sharper than a blade. Something is wrong here, some inconsistency.

The first messenger, the one to forget even his own name – no mortal could cause this. Surely this is the intervention of the gods.

Or one god.

“Send my son.”

"Do you jest?"

A knowing smile. “Not at all, my lord. He and the King of Ithaca share a bond. And do you yourself not wish for the boy to be far from our tent?”

That earns a chuckle from some of those present.

Damn the man and damn his silver tongue. "Can he be trusted on a mission of import? This is no child's game." And the Ithacan King might just arrange for the boy to suffer some terrible misfortune, rather than brave the war, though he should not say so out loud.