A flash of hair like gold. He enters, eyes darting around the place.

He exhales, takes his hand away from where it was casually covering his hidden dagger. "Boy. What do you want?"

He frowns for a second at the dagger, but does not ask.

“My father sends his condolences for your fifteen soldiers.”

"Hyranon is a kind man, and always has been. Their kin will know they died with honour, as nobly as any Cretan ever did, and that their names shall go on. Was that all?"

He nods tersely, and then…

“No. I… thought to ask about you. You received a blow to the head.” He is stiff. “You bled.”

"I am well. Men do bleed in war, boy. They do worse. It was not out of contempt that I bade you look away, only true concern."

Ophellios shakes his head. “I have known men to wake up dead after such a blow. I bid you, if the great king Aetos will deign to listen to the words of a boy – call upon your physician.”

He turns to leave, but is compelled after a few paces to stop. “And do not pretend you have any concern for me, my lord. Do not pretend that you know me, or what I am capable of. I will be no man, no regent prince, if I am to abandon my people on the eve of war.”

He snorts. "I have taken far worse blows. Don't confuse courage and folly, little prince."

“And how old were you, when you took the throne of Crete for yourself by blood? People say you were hardly older than I.”

He is speaking out of turn, he knows that. But in this moment, he does not care if he is flogged.

“Some are destined for a shorter life than others. If that is my lot, let it be so.”

"Ha. You truly are bold. I was some years older than you - and I would not have been deterred, not even angered, by the doubts of older men. The fact that you are proves that you are unready. Speak with your actions."

“I will.”

He storms out, his head held high.

He returns with Menelaus after some time. Soot blackens their hands, and the exhaustion blackens their eyes.

They take their heavy places at the council.

“We have set the lands aflame. Lord Agamemnon’s men work now to dry the river routes, and the Myrmidons are arranging a blockade. Soon they will have no food; no water; no means of calling for help, unless a god should take pity on them.”

“And what have you taken in the raids?”

He opens his mouth to speak–

“Rest assured, brother;” he interjects, “enough gold, cattle and women to keep us satisfied for many months, and to make the Trojans feel the loss at every breath.” The Spartan king is pompous; larger than life.

“And you believe this will pressure the Trojans into a surrender?”

“I believe, at the very least, that it will scare them.”

Well, he definitely won't be able to sway the people now. They were mostly nervous, conflicted - none of them care much for Paris - but now their hearts are filled with rage and vengeance. 

So he goes before Paris. 

"Brother. Listen to me."

He has nothing to say to Hector.

His sword’s blade shrieks as he sharpens it, stroke by relentless stroke. The sound echoes through the empty throne room, where he perches at the foot of their father’s chair.

"Put down that sword and drop this warrior's pretence. If you are to be a prince of Troy then you will not turn away from me, child that you are, when I come to speak with you on matters of state."

A dry laugh.

“What, you think yourself our king? You are far too small for your leather boots.”

He towers over Paris. "Don't speak to me like that, dog, sitting here polishing your shiny armour like a woman's trinkets, cowering behind our father's walls - you have not even seen the horrors you have wrought upon your own people. I knew you were mad, but not that Trojan blood could be so weak."

He stands sharply, his eyes flashing. His fist tightens around his sword.

“Have you sought me out to insult me?”

"No. Your pride and your feelings are not the cause of all things. Now put that down and do your duty; come to the tower."

He growls. “Wherefore?”