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?”
He walks to where the man called him over. It catches his eye instantly.
Bending down, he plucks the curious item neatly from the ground.
“Hm. Do you recognise this, King of Crete?”
"I do." And he does, and the rage and the grief are no longer contained - for could he not have done something?
He can now.
He snatches the pendant from Ambrosios's hand too fast to see.
"It belonged to the King of Pylos, a treasured possession. I will see that it returns to his house."
He stows away the pendant, and looks at Ambrosios for a long, hesitant second.
But what difference does it make? Perhaps it was some charm, some gift of a god to his family, extinguished with the last heir of Hyranon's house. Perhaps he only dreamt the strange light within it, or saw only a reflection of the moon.
The bleakness returns, surfacing.
He turns, and goes, and speaks no more.
Ambrosios turns to his men.
“Let us go from this place.”
He follows the King of Crete into the shadows, and then into the terrible, blinding daylight.
View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post