He falls back, a hair too slow, angles being cut off-

"You were not enough then, you shall not be now."

The shield takes three, four, a dozen hits, bruising his arm and beginning to splinter the wood-

"He lies with her every night while you waste yourself out here."

His arm is dropping now, barely strong enough to hold the shield; it exposes the join of his armour at the neck. 

"She chose a farmboy over you."

There's a dreadful crash like a bolt from Zeus, and sparks fly red-hot from the blades as Menelaus swings wildly-

And his sword glances and slides down to be locked on the hilt of Aetos's own.

Too close. 

From the bind he levers down with a roar, dropping his rended shield and grabbing the other man's sword-arm above the elbow, and with the sword pinned down he pulls.

There's a horrible pop as the joint is dislocated, and his knee comes up to strike the Spartan king's head. 

The god-wrought sword clatters in the dust. 

He falls to the ground like an eagle shot from the sky.

The world spins; his sword arm is limp, unusable.

The duel is decided.

...That did not look like a civilised duel between civilised kings. 

"Enough! Aetos is rightful victor, and may lay claim to the princess. Let Menelaus be taken to the healer Machaon, and tended. Lord Zeus has weighed their contest and made His judgement."

Agamemnon follows after Menelaus. 

"Brother. Speak to me."

He has retreated now, clutching at his right arm, terrible storms brewing behind his eyes.

“What?” He snarls.

"Why do you rage so?"

“He insults my honour.” He spits at the ground. “Let him keep the Trojan bitch. Let him sell her for gold and riches, for all I care. You and I both know the truth about him, brother.”

"What does it matter how the Cretan King indulges himself? What care you for the fate of Trojan boys? Your honour was inviolate before now; even then, surely the Cretan would have made you a trade, if perchance you wanted the girl so badly. Do you hide some secret from me, brother? Come: speak plainly. Let it be revealed, and whatever burdens your heart we shall lift together."

…

He is quiet now. 

Helen…

“It matters not.” His words are short. “I shall return swiftly from Machaon, and we will resume our feast.”

The King of Sparta departs, his face shadowy.

He saunters back to the Greek camp, and with great effort sits, and does not collapse, back down. 

"The gods have granted me victory, and the princess shall be mine. Bring her forth."

Should this happen?

Will this happen?

Has this happened?

His eyes pierce into her as she is pushed past him by many harsh hands.

The cheering is loud. He mutters words to himself that are lost to the fray.

Ophellios does not even care to look. The fool has wrought himself many more injuries now, and has probably torn open the wounds dealt earlier by Hector and Aeneas.

He will not help him any further.

The Pylians will continue their own celebrations, far from the concerns of other kings.

The other kings will make it their concern.

...By demanding that Ophellios present himself and deliver a speech, and be lauded and raised up high and toasted by many, many hands. 

It's impossible to describe the gift of prophecy. 

Imagine a man who lives all his life in a cave, feeling the shapes of things and listening to whispers, and stepping out into the sunlight. 

Imagine another sense entirely, another thing to perceive, like the future was always there but only now do you know. 

Imagine a web of things and people and places. 

Imagine strange whisperings and visions, couched in riddles, spoken by the gods. 

Imagine a deep knowledge, a familiarity with the shape of things, like a man who has watched too many plays and can always guess how they will end. 

Imagine an endless swirling vortex of maddening sights. 

All those imaginings are useless, because it's nothing like that.

As best she can guess...

Being captured by Aetos might not be the worst outcome. 

"My Lord," she whispers to him, careful not to prophesy, not to say anything will happen - her curse doesn't affect everything she says, she can say the sky is blue and not drive men mad, but this is a thing she says only because of prophecy and she isn't sure what that means. "My Lord, you are injured. Your injuries are dangerous. Let me tend you."

He looks at her, not in an unfriendly way. "Your cares are not necessary. I have suffered far worse." He returns to his wine-cup, slipping only slightly. 

He makes his speech as this all unfolds, and he is met with cheers that erupt all throughout the camp. He is the hero of the hour.

For the first time since his father’s death, Ophellios is smiling.

He feasts well indeed, and many pour forth to offer him drinks from their cup and laud his efforts. They take him seriously now, Ophellios senses; they no longer see him as a boy, as Hyranon’s son and nothing greater.

The Dionysian affair lasts well into the night.

Goblet of wine in hand, he staggers through the crowds and the great tables, the world around him dreamlike.

The Cretan King fought for her, fought almost to the death, and then has barely spoken to her or looked at her or touched her all night. 

This is not quite the shape of him that she saw...

If he sits here and goes on bleeding, he may die. 

A captive slave's ability to intervene is very, very limited. 

She could not escape the Greek camp of course. But she is a princess still: she still has her retinue, her dignity. 

Perhaps she can find a healer - the man whose future she can sense will not have her killed or even beaten for that.

So she has risen with maids in tow, and made her way onwards, stepping aside at odd moments, pausing until the flare of danger passes, and crashes hard into the lone and wandering and drunken figure of King Ophellios.

She screams. 

He turns swiftly, regards her horror–

He looks left and right, steps back, steps forth, reaches out to her in his bewilderment.

“Peace! Peace, woman, what ails you?”

She turns and sprints back to the Cretans. 

That gets his attention. 

He appears from out of the night, sword in hand, with his comrades behind him. 

"What is this? Who would dare- Ophellios. Has the wine robbed you of your wits, boy?"

He says. 

“What? I hardly touched her!” He defends, extending his hands between them.

"Keep your hands to yourself, boy. You should know better. Your father was a noble man: he should have taught you."

“I did not harm her! I know not why she screams. Perhaps she is mad.”