“I trust my son with my life.”

“And what of our lives, Lord Hyranon?”

"Perhaps we ought to have the choice at least. As to whether or not we trust the little spy with our own lives."

He places his hand flat on the table, and all eyes turn to him. Lord Hyranon commands a room the way a general commands his armies, or the heart commands a fool.

“He only wished to be part of the meeting. Perhaps then, lords, this mission will be a test of his character. If he succeeds in completing our number, in bringing us the King of Ithaca; then he may prove himself to you, as he has proven himself in our home of Pylos.”

There is a discussion then, but not a long one, and not one he wins. 

Damn the man. 

The King is mad.

The King is mad!

He stands over the rocky pastures of Ithaca with his shepherd’s crook, whistling long and loud.

A dog comes bounding towards him, drenched in seawater. It shakes its shaggy coat at its master’s feet with youthful vigour – and the man laughs, and it echoes all the way to Phrygia, where the giants wonder and the sirens wail.

This land, his land – his son, his wife –

The princes have not taken him yet.

"Ambrosios king!"

The King doesn't look that mad.

Perhaps the messenger was mistaken?

"All the chiefs of the Achaeans call you to Troy, my lord. It is time to fulfil your oath of old. We need you, lord."

Ah. He knows that voice.

Can they not leave him in peace?

The king does not turn, but he grins like a wolf baring teeth.

“Troy? No, friend, these are no such shores! You shall find that land when you take a left, left where the white island flies high over the sea.”

He waves his staff dismissively, as though to send the boy on his way. The dog blinks at Ophellios, not knowing whether or not to growl.

“Now leave me to my pastures.”

... Something is not right. 

"You swore an oath, O lord. Do you not think it binds you even if you forget? Do you not think the gods will remember? Do you have no more your honour?"

“Honour…” he mutters, distant. “My honour in these lands. The plants I grow for the King.”

Leaning on his crook, he kneels and kisses the grass. 

“My oath to farm.”

Alert, now. He turns to look at the prince–

And it is all he can do to keep his eyes looking wild, unfocused.

“Is that it? Do the gods require a shepherd? 

"My lord." He takes Ambrosios by the shoulders. "You are the King. You must remember yourself. Have you no healers?"

He does not seem to be listening, taken entirely by the prince’s fair hair.

His fingers close around a blonde braid, and he mutters incomprehensibly to himself about spinning straw.

Just when the king’s unsteady grip is almost too tight to bear, he looks up sharply.

“The sun. The sun!”

He steps back in a panic. “I am late for my work!”

...

"Lord Apollo! Son of fair Latona, far-shooter, my sire, attend: if ever I praised you in the halls of your father, or raised wreaths upon your temples or burned the fairest calves for you, attend, and restore the heart of Ithaca's King."

Curse this boy.

The god is not here. He is not directly intervening, not physically present. Ambrosios is not turning his back on Him.

No sign has come, and he wants it to stay that way.

He leaves now while he still can, treading with determination towards the stables. The dog follows at his feet. 

The king retrieves an ox, tying the tempestuous beast to a plow with bare hands. A stubborn donkey is persuaded to work with the promise of an apple. The creatures grunt and bray as the cart is filled with salt, and they pull their burden along as the sky offers no cloud or promise of shelter. The heat is cruel.

He sows the fields with it, killing the life that struggles now to grow – as only a madman does.

Athena. Shield me.

Unseen by mortals He comes before Her. 

"Athena, grey-eyed, daughter of Zeus, what trickery is this? I, physician of heaven, see no fault or blemish upon this mortal. Shall I be shamed, believed too weak to mend heart and soul?"

"Whatever could You mean? Do You answer every petition every mortal makes unto You? Perhaps You simply care not for this petty mortal squabble."

"Speak not unto Me, grey-eyed One, warrior-goddess, as the wise man does unto the fool; it is My son the Prince of Pylos to whom I harken."

"Perhaps then You merely care not for this mortal, who has no skill at the lyre nor in the healers' halls-"

"He shoots well; My son calls me."

It is folly to try to match the daughter of Zeus cunning-for-cunning, but it is not truly Her way to keep from war - indeed it is passing strange that she goes nearly even this far for the mortal king's petty wants and fears. 

When the prince of Pylos is alone, He bespeaks him with a plot.

Happily, she is not an idiot, and understands the notion of points-of-failure, and very quietly and respectfully and sensibly and not-at-all-disrespectfully-of-any-idiot-meddling-gods keeps her infant son under fantastically heavy guard. Because really it would be stupidly easy to assassinate most heirs. 

There comes a point in the evening where the young prince concedes his efforts, and with a sigh returns to the palace.

Lord Apollo spoke; the King is lying.

He dines with the Queen that night, one of Helen’s Spartan sisters with an ancestral fierceness to her eyes to match. Ophellios watches her closely – surely she knows about the trickery, no doubt to keep her husband close, and if that is the case… perhaps he can find a gap in the woven tale.

“How is your son,” he asks Her Majesty, sipping wine, “and how are you?”

Curious revelry, in this dining hall, for a grieving wife.

Hello, little boy. 

"I? I am... Well enough. I pray for the gods to end my husband's... illness, and I stay by his side and do all I can to watch over his kingdom. I am only grateful that our son is too young to understand."

“I too have prayed,” he replies solemnly. “For my friend. But Ithaca is indeed blessed to have such a strong queen.”

In the corner of his eye, two maids whisper. He frowns ever-so-slightly, drawing his attention back to Her Majesty.

“I have travelled far, from my kingdom to the lands of Troy. I am expected soon to return to war. I thank you sincerely for your hospitality.”

One of the maids departs in a hurried shadow. Ophellios pretends not to notice.

“I bid you, will I have the honour of meeting your heir?”