The ram hasn't been moved, none are strong enough. It lies where it fell, slightly within the gates.

Zeus all-father, if ever I led the sacrifices for you, a dozen strong oxen, and sent up the fragrant smoke to heaven, grant me strength now.

He heaves.

By the gods. The task of fifty men – Lord Aetos is doing it alone.

With a burst of the Cretan’s strength and sweat, the great oak is propped against the wall. Trojan forces scatter, yet they join together quickly in strength, blocking their exit through the great breach.

Here goes everything.

Ophellios orients his horse towards the makeshift ramp and gallops.

It leaps off the edge, crossing the city’s great boundary; Leukos clambers down the pile of rubble, landing hard yet uninjured on the ground outside.

He leaps up onto the trunk and runs through the hail of arrows, pausing just a moment to gaze upon Ilium. 

The unnatural fire is spreading now. Troy may not fall this day, but this is more than they have accomplished all year. 

He swarms down the wall on the far side and dashes under cover to find the boy and his ill-named horse inexplicably alive. 

Truly the lord Ophel is blessed of Poseidon this day.

"We are not safe yet! Can your horse still ride?"

“Yes. Yes, get on!”

They are able to reconvene with the remainder of their men, who find in turn the rest of the Greeks as they retreat swiftly from the besieged gates, the large explosion acting as their signal to withdraw. There, Aetos finds his own steed and Leukos is freed from the burden of two kings.

Together the army return to the camp to lick their wounds, and to weigh the victories and losses of the day.

Ophellios descends from his horse, the pain in his arm growing sharper. Surely dislocated. With a grunt, he sets it back into place.

Troy is burning.

She watches with a sense of detachment, as though it were a glimpse in a mirror. 

Is this it? Is this the day the man who owns her razes the great city to the ground?

It seems not. The Greeks return, they do not go out to plunder and rape and burn until Trojan blood clogs those wide streets.

Her course is clear. 

She hurries out into the Greek camp, hugging herself.

"My lord! Oh- you are hurt-"

“I am fine.” His heart is still in the battle, his eyes on Aetos, that arrow wound in his hand.

Ophellios remembers to look at her. “Take my horse. I will return soon.”

He walks forward.

She's scared of horses. Obviously she can never ever let him know that. 

She approaches the hideous beast slowly, its sides heaving, its head tossing and snorting. 

It is obviously panicking and those hooves could crush her. 

...It can't be that hard. 

She'll try to lead it away to be... looked after... by... the slaves who look after horses?

He is gazing at Troy in flames, heedless of half a dozen minor wounds and of his hand. It hadn't damaged anything too important, and so he'd snapped off the shaft and gone on. 

“Lord Aetos.”

"What?"

“You are injured. Let me take a look.”

"Hmm? It is nothing."

He stands between Aetos and the distant view of the burning city, giving the Cretan a look.

“I am trained by Machaon. Let me at least stop the bleeding, lest you collapse like a woman.”

"Ha! I have bled more than this and stayed standing, boy. You are too young as yet to wound me even with your words. But look, if you wish. I care little."

He only winces slightly when he strips his sleeve. 

The arrow, a broadhead, punched through his leather glove, glanced off the bone, and buried itself between the bones in his hand. It hasn't pushed all the way through, but it's deep. 

He grimaces at the sight, warm fingers handling Aetos’ hand delicately.

“Come. The Pylian camp is closer.”

Ophellios leads him to his hut.

He rolls his eyes, but follows. The boy did do well today. 

Diameda is not here, and the guards have not yet returned to their stations after the battle, but another servant is there to greet them. Ophellios sends instructions for some water, cloth, and other supplies, and they are left alone.

The King of Pylos’ hut is larger than the others in this quarter, filled with furs and perfumes and delicate masterpieces of pottery. A lyre is propped in the corner, taking pride of place amongst the remainder of the king’s riches.

He gestures for Aetos to take a seat.

Typical. It's as he expected, really. 

He never knows what to say when healers tend to him, and it is strange indeed for the prince to do so. 

"I did not know you had studied under Machaon, boy. Why?"

Ophellios kneels in front of him, eyes focused as he works. They glance up only briefly as Aetos speaks.

“For moments like this,” he responds. “For if I am ever out in battle, and I or a comrade return wounded. Or if we are unable to return at all due to some injury.”

He frowns at the arrow. The maidservant has brought the supplies already, and he prepares to remove the Trojan weapon from Aetos’ flesh. “This is going to hurt.”

"Of course it is. It always hurts; you do not need to tell me. Get to it."

For that, he makes it hurt even more.

The arrow is removed and discarded. Ophellios works immediately to clean the wound and stop the bleeding, pressing down hard – perhaps harder than needed – as he wraps it tight with the cloth.

Now the spear-wound wrought by Aeneas. This is a simpler operation, but Aetos will need to discard some of his armour.

He flexes the injured hand. Good enough. 

The joints of the armour are damaged; he cannot reach the buckles himself to undo it. 

"It is not serious. The bleeding will stop by itself."

“Why are you so resistant?” He asks, growing exasperated with the Cretan’s declarations of manliness.

Fine. He undoes the armour deftly.