Lord Achilles came yesterday to deliver his condolences in person.
In the absence of any family, Aetos of Crete has been deemed the representative of the late Lord Ophellios. It is known that the two had once shared a bond, before the young king fell with honour.
Aetos does not understand it, nor does he welcome the visitors.
Feasting has returned to the camp; Apollo has lifted the blight. But the days thereafter are cold and bleak.
He laughs. "Anger is a short-lived thing among comrades, and he is no longer wholly consumed by his pride; perhaps the dull of winter has been good for him."
He's staring at the man in the chair as though he could stare through him.
“He remains an unpleasant character. I find myself… surprised, that you would keep his company.”
He shakes his head.
“But no matter. It is not my place to advise you on such things.”
"Ha! There are many who would call me an unpleasant character, boy, you among them. And you ought to speak your mind in any case; you know I shall have it out of you one way or the other."
He looks down.
“I would not call you that. I only find myself–”
Hurt.
He sucks in a breath as though wounded.
“– wishing to understand.”
The full force of his gaze pierces into him, sending a rush of cold through the Cretan’s chest.
“How could you?”
He should be careful, and not tip him off-
But Aetos has never been a careful man.
"I told you to speak plainly, boy."
“You insult me.”
His voice is dangerously low now.
“You claim friendship. Loyalty. You honour my earthly father and advise me. You come with me to that blasted hillside, even to the point of no return; to death. I make my painstaking return, wishing to see you again–”
His words quake, volume rising for just a moment.
“And you stay close to my bedside, every day and night, and stay with me when I wake up. I am told you grieved for me; whether that is true or not, I cannot say. And then I find you at that meeting of kings, and it is as though you do not recognise me; and in front of all others, you call me traitor.”
The whites of his eyes are red.
“And now you call me boy, and pretend not to know what you have done. If either of us is a traitor, then it is you. Betrayer of trust.”
He all but hisses the condemnation.
"I would not have called Ophellios traitor, not in a hundred years. But I watched Ophellios die in place of the Ithacan king, held his funeral games, called Ambrosios to account; and now I am to believe he has survived what no mortal could, and returned to us, and by sheer coincidence there is some other traitor?"
"Ophellios gave his own life for the Achaeans, what should have been Ambrosios's fate; or should have been mine, had I been quick enough to the mark. In truth he had no right to do it. If we are disfavoured by Zeus, and it is in fate that his sacrifice should have been in vain, so be it, but I will not stop the struggle, doomed though it might be."
“Aetos.”
The horror begins to seep into his bones like poison.
“Stop speaking of me as though I am not here.”
"No mortal could have survived that. What god, what apparition are you, to put on his face? Think you the Achaeans helpless, unknowing of your trickery? Perhaps you think me powerless before you, for indeed the gods are mightier than mortals - but consider, that this deed might be a cause of wrath against you, if Phoebus Apollo turns His head this way; or if you do his bidding, another of the immortal gods, whose love for Greece is strong."
“You do not recognise me.”
He leans forward to clasp his hand, to show him–
“Aetos, please–”
He takes his hand.
Squeezes.
He feels solid. But he's too thin, too warm -
- a god who doesn't know how mortal muscles work, who burns with divine fire instead of mortal blood -
"Prove it."
He looks at him with wide eyes.
“I– I know not how. You ask me to prove that I am myself. What kind of madness is this? I am here. Aetos, I am here.”
"Are you?" Unconsciously, he has retreated to the far side of the hut. "You - you do not sound like that boy who gave his own life in a moment. You do not much look like him. You - it's too perfect, whatever god you are, this seeming you have, real mortals have - flaws, injuries - you don't fool me."
He has placed down his goblet and stood in an instant, though unsteady on his feet. He cannot catch up to Aetos; he reaches out for that cursed staff, leans against it and treads ahead towards him, casts the damn thing aside and walks, walks like taking his first steps, clasps onto furniture, keeps himself upright no matter what–
”This is madness.”
It weakens him. It tears at his heart, the way his dear friend looks at him.
He stops, still lengths away from the other man.
He stops.
“Did we not go hunting together, in that blighted year before it happened? Did you not tell me your secrets that night we shared a bed under the canopy as it hailed, and– did I not beg you to keep a secret in turn?”
His breath shakes.
“See me.”
“Please.”
He stands stock still, staring at him as though he could see through him. He stares for some moments.
Hesitant his voice is then, as though weakened.
"You... you sound like him - Ophellios - is it true, how can it be true, if it is truly you then I beg you, tell me..."
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