He glowers at him.

“Come, Aetos,” he chimes in at last, tightening a strap on his horse with one swift tug. “He may indeed be useful, if only to carry our things.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, then. “Perhaps we could offer him as a trade for Helen.”

He turns sharply to Ambrosios, mouth agape.

“I jest.”

He meets the Ithacan's stare for a moment, then after a long moment, adds "I do not think even Paris would desire such a talkative wife."

He crosses his arms, his brow stormy.

“If it pleases you both to ridicule me, then let it be so. I will not be deterred from coming with you.”

And he takes his own horse from the stables, a white stallion with a beautiful mane, and stubbornly joins the others. The accompanying guardsmen exchange glances.

His eyebrows lift in amusement. “Does your father know that you are here?”

“Yes.”

One of them does. He prayed to Apollo last night.

"Hyranon is a busy man; I am sure that much escapes his notice. Come then, boy, and keep quiet, if you know how."

Other than the softest of huffs, he does keep quiet.

When I am a king, I will not need to suffer this treatment.

He rides along with them to Ilium, the first light of the dawn illuminating the path ahead.

“Ophellios, how is it that you know Paris?”

He rides up ahead on a black horse, taking in the gentle light rather contentedly. He would often rise early to go on walks in the early morning sun.

He misses home.

“Much the same way I came to meet you. When there was famine in Pylos, my father travelled to the courts of Ithaca and Troy, among other great kingdoms, to negotiate agricultural needs. I found that we had much in common.”

His horse is harder to control than usual, and it treads more slowly than the others. It carries not only his own provisions now, but those of the two kings ahead.

“Ha. Is there a prince that you have not befriended?”

He shakes his head earnestly.

“No. Well, there is one who rides with us who I have found difficult,” he glances at Aetos. “And Lord Agamemnon too, although he seems nicer nowadays.”

“Perhaps the gods cursed him to wear that helmet until he can make amends for some insult.”

That earns a laugh like the first notes of a lyre.

"If the gods are in such a habit, then perhaps I might beg a favour of them."

“And what, friend, might that be?”

He has a feeling he knows where this is going. Sometimes the best course of action is to simply allow things to unfold.

He glances at Ophellios and smirks. 

?

He grins.

“Ah, Aetos. As rough as an old stone. Is that a custom in Crete?”

"Oh, yes. We train from a young age. And keep up constant practice, indeed. It does not come easily."

“You do?” He asks in genuine interest.

Ambrosios chuckles and rides on ahead.

He regards the boy seriously. "Indeed. A boy in Crete who laughs too loud goes long indeed without food. A man in Crete once ignored a childish insult, instead of growing angry, and was hanged the next day."