She raises an eyebrow slightly. "I am surprised to hear you say so. He is not of an age to be introduced to a prince, and very few young men would wish to visit a nursery. But if you wish to see the future King - very well."

He smiles. “Thank you.”

The dinner continues – the maid returns, and the bards perform old epics of gods and titans.

“If I may so plainly ask,” the prince speaks again, “when did the King’s illness begin?”

A hush falls over the table. 

She dabs tears from her eyes - it's not really hard to cry on command. 

She stares at him until everyone else does too, holds it a beat too long to gloss over.

Is he going to squirm? Most people do, when they've made a situation this awkward. 

"Son of Hyranon," she says faintly, "I think it is not meet for me to speak of such things. It has been some time, and came upon us gradually- excuse me." She buries her face in her hands.

Oh– oh no–

His hands fly forwards, hands that have never taken life, hands that mean only well – but he arrests their path before they lay their touch upon a queen.

They curl upon the table instead, the sweat coming quickly to his palms.

“Forgive me. I spoke bluntly, I wished only to know what has befallen my friend. We–”

“Your Majesty!” A maid rushes inside, one of the girls from before. Crestfallen, she declares, “It is the King!”

He stands sharply.

She hurries to talk to a maid, as though Ophellios has ceased to exist, speaking in rapid hushed tones-

She marches out swiftly. 

A maid will very apologetically explain to the visiting prince that the king is indisposed and the queen has gone to be by his side. Yes, immediately. No, lord, she's sorry but she doesn't know anything else. No, she's sorry, she doesn't actually know where, one of the many private chambers of the palace. No, she's sorry, absolutely no visitors can be allowed in. Yes, physicians have been summoned at once. Would he like more wine? 

At first, he is confused. And then doubtful, and then hurt all the same, and that old anger begins to rise like fire.

How dare they? How dare his friend lie to him, how dare they take him for a fool?

And then the baby cries.

Ophellios hears it only faintly, the sound of that wailing infant. Somewhere down the many twisting halls he lies, a tiny swaddled child alone in the dark, calling out for his parents.

He understands it, then. Why Ambrosios has gone to such lengths to disgrace himself. Why his wife sheds false tears to envoys and princes. Why all those on this island have each formed a thread of the tale they will chant to the rest of the world, disgracing their own lord for all of time if necessary.

Ophellios thinks then of his own mother, and of the heartbreak in her eyes when he sailed away to Ilium.

They are a family. 

But there were many families torn apart in this war, and many still to be broken.

Ambrosios must play his part.

“Very well. I will go to my own chambers, then.”

Yes. Yes, he will. Under guard, of course, there are many dangers for a prince on his own in a foreign land, perhaps even here. And of course no prince should go unattended. Servants for anything he needs. 

…

They insult him.

The fair-haired prince retires to his given bed. Though he does not sleep, he sees many paths ahead in the dark of his closed eyes.

The child continues to cry throughout the night.

“I wonder, Your Highness, if I may attempt to soothe your child?”

She does, actually, have to sleep at some point. 

In years to come she will remember that this was her one error, when she thought herself safe, when she thought herself so clever, and she will come to see what it is to oppose the will of the gods - the courses history might follow, a river that cannot be dammed -

The Queen is not available right now. 

The usual wet-nurse is not available right now. 

You can't have every single servant in a palace on guard all the time. 

This incredibly tired and miserable and harried maidservant isn't going to argue with the prince. Here, lord. 

He takes the bundled thing into his arms, carefully. The two princes gaze upon each other, the child red from crying.

Ophellios is the oldest of three. He has not left his mother all alone in the world, without an heir to replace him should he fall to Trojan blades, but his brother is hardly past suckling and his sister has yet to say her first word.

He recalls how it is to hold an infant, the correct way to support their heads and make them feel safe.

Ambrosios’ heir chokes on his tears. Ophellios feels, then, that the infant knows something about this – that he cries not for himself, but mourns for his father.

The prince of Pylos begins to sing.

Soon his voice, this gift from his sire, quietens down the crying. The child is subdued.

Ophellios steps outside, and the guards lay slumped and snoring against the great palace walls.

He carries the baby over to the plains.

There he works again. Day after day, toiling in folly, sowing salt over the yellow land like the scorching days of famine.

He senses the footsteps of the Olympian-born prince, but ignores his coming. Surely he seeks to supplicate him again. He will not go to Troy.

The king carries on in his relentless path of madness.

His breathing is tight, his hands sweaty. 

Just do it. 

He won't be able to stay to watch. 

He'll have to do it and run or Ambrosios might call his bluff, that's the problem. And he would intervene. He would, he would, he would, he tells himself, even if it would anger Lord Apollo. 

He would. 

He places the baby down in the path of the plough and runs back, too far to help, and looks back with his heart in his mouth. 

…What is that?

What is that bundle that the prince has placed before him, too far to see?

He grows closer, closer– what is this trick? What is its nature?

A tuft of black hair from royal fabric; two little hands waving in the air, grasping at butterflies.

His heart runs cold.

Ambrosios has never panicked before. 

He’d thought the baby was supposed to be safe, that was Galora’s part of the deal, protect Iskandros–

That cursed, scheming prince. No– this is not Ophellios’ wrong, no doubt Phoebus Apollo lent him the gift of foresight, told him what to do– why do the gods not leave him alone?!

He has no choice.

The plough stops in its tracks, powerful hooves mere lengths away from the infant on the ground.

And the King of Ithaca stands tall, and sheds his commoner’s clothes, and the light in his eyes is sharp and focused once more.

He runs to his child and holds him, safe.

He feels sick. 

"Behold!" He cries out, for everyone to hear, this part must be swift. "I have done as the lord Apollo commander, and so he has healed the king! Rejoice, men of Ithaca! The king is restored to us!"

"I suppose You think that was clever."

"Yes."

He stares unheeding at the King. 

His face is dark and stormy, bowed low, held close to his son.

After some time he meets the gaze of the man who has bested him. Their eyes lock in tension.

And then Ambrosios smiles.

He is amazed: the boy has done it. 

"King Ambrosios. I rejoice to see you among our number, and still more that the gods have seen fit to restore you. You were sorely missed."