"I could tell you where the attacks will come."

“Speak it. Now.”

"Four hundred men from the Cyclopean gate, Aeneas at their head."

“WHEN?”

Aaaaaaa-

-Something cracks-

"Tomorrow afternoon, three twenty-fourth-parts-of-the-day-night-cycle and fourteen sixtieth-parts-of-one-part and five sixtieth-parts-of-a-sixtieth-part after sun-highest-in-sky-time-near-the-capital-of-the-northern-European-Atlantic-archipelago."

She collapses.

Ambrosios catches her as she falls into his chest, her clutching hands going slack.

I pushed her too far–

“A healer!” He turns to his companion at last. “Aetos, find a healer!”

He's not stupid, he already called for Machaon. 

Gently, he levers Ambrosios's arms away. "Ambrosios. Come with me."

His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. 

He leads Ambrosios carefully to where Machaon waits. "Machaon. Some strange affliction has overcome the Ithacan king. Have you herbs of healing? Ointments that may repair the mind?"

“What?”

"Easy, old friend. This day has been a great strain upon you. Machaon."

Ambrosios is given a calming draught, wine and certain juicings of seeds. Aetos will gently but very firmly make sure he drinks it.

He will not!

He grasps the healer’s wrists, squeezing tight. “Machaon, listen to me. I am not the patient. The Trojan princess lies collapsed and unconscious in Lord Aetos’ hut. He is mistaken. Go to her and abandon this folly.”

Oh, this isn't good. 

He could probably force Ambrosios to drink, but then there's only his word that he went mad. He might be able to look same in front of anyone else. If this isn't something Machaon can repair easily, Ambrosios will need to be sent away, and a regent appointed at best - but in this state Ambrosios might start a feud, there could be infighting - perhaps he should humour him, there is a certain sense that -

In fact, Aetos will find himself filled with inspiration and authority and moral clarity and terrible strength. 

He takes Ambrosios's hands off Machaon like pulling away a baby, binds his arms to his side with one hand, and forces his jaw open with the other. 

He is almost too shocked to react–

But react he does; he twists and turns his arms away, bites down hard at King Aetos’ fingers–

Definitely mad. 

She's going to whisper into his ears - down, side, twist this way -

No She IS NOT unless She wishes to test Herself against the cloudgatherer, and be struck through with the thunderbolt and burn for ten years with lightning.

...Fine. 

The Goddess of Wisdom is however going to ensure that his memories of this remain clear, and wait for another time to speak with him. 

He pins Ambrose's arms with strength in that moment like Heracles, and the Ithacan king finally sleeps. 

The taste of it coats his tongue, his throat, his soul.

His muscles go slack against his will.

The world fades and fades until all is black.

The next morning, a sergeant from Lord Menelaus’ army is found dead by the camp, his skull gnawed by wild dogs.