They go out into the place where the demigod Aeneas had led the Greek slaughter, more than a year ago. Red flowers grow now where their comrades fell. All else is quiet.
Ophellios releases the string of his bow and a bird falls from the sky. It was only a small thing, but the arrow pierced neatly its heart; there will be enough meat for feasting later.
There is hunger in the camp.
He turns, looking to his lone companion. “How many have you caught, Lord Aetos?”
Of course.
There was another reason after all to bring him along.
Would he obey, if Apollo Himself demanded it?
No.
He will not be a sacrifice, like a deer upon an altar.
He goes for his sword-
Well, he's still drawing his sword, and if Ophellios says anything else he'll knock him down with the pommel -
"Lord Apollo, forgive him, he is weak with cold and hunger and knows not what he says- it is not his crime," though of course the Olympian gods in anger care little for fairness -
He holds up a hand.
For a long time he looks wonderingly at his son.
"Would you truly, my boy?"
“I would.”
A strange feeling passes over him then, of the kind felt in battle. Somewhere beyond fear, more than terror – strange, cold calm.
He reaches forward.
“Let us be reunited at last, father.”
All right, pommel to the back of head, he'll drag the boy out of here and make some sort of apology to the Lord Apollo and find Ambrosios and cut his damn throat himself.
When he awakens the next morning, stiff with the cold, he is lying on a shattered concrete floor among the twisted and green-rusted remains of sacred braziers, and he is alone.
There is no evidence to suggest that any of it was ever real.
No god.
No Ophellios.
Any trace of the King of Pylos has long since vanished.
“Aetos!”
The King of Ithaca is silhouetted at the end of the long ruined hall. He runs towards his fallen comrade, band of men in tow.
You-
He tries to roll to his feet and grab for his sword, but his fingers are numb with the cold and all his muscles protest and his back locks - he can only groan, and roll over.
There were two on this quest. Where is the Pylian?
“Eurylochus, see to the king. I will search for Lord Ophellios.”
Very large, very gentle hands take up his shoulders and lift him from the cold floor, loop one of his arms around broad shoulders, help him to his dragging feet.
"You will be well. You are not wounded, only stunned, I think."
...
There are too many men here.
It should have been him. It should have been him.
The thought had occurred to him, when Ophellios spoke, to throw himself forwards instead but-
Not here. Not now.
Only ahead. Only there.
"You will not find him, Ambrosios."
"He is gone."
Ambrosios stops abruptly in his tracks. Turns to King Aetos. Slowly asks:
“What do you mean?”
He cannot confront the man here, not among all his men, no matter how much he deserves it. Wrath does urge him to take his sword and hold the man to account for all the ruin that his clever tricks have brought the Achaeans, for vengeance-
"Return. We shall have no trouble with plague now, I wager. Apollo took him, Ambrosios, took him when it should have been- another. We will discuss it at length, I swear to you."
He shrugs off Eurylochus's arms and staggers away, back to the camp, back to the rest of the war.
After all, there is a funeral to arrange, for a fallen king.
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