"It should not have been me who survived the wrath of Apollo; not indeed in truth should I have remained here." He does look at the people who bow to him, and it makes him sick, if that isn't just the unmixed wine; they see him as greater than other men, and they do not know the truth. 

“Oh, right. The wrath of Apollo, and all that.” He appears dismissive. “Well Aetos, we approach the Spartan quarter now. And we have something here that may change your mind on all this business of misery.”

Before they enter the healer’s hut, Menelaus stops. He turns to Aetos with a serious expression.

“Do not let your drunkenness, or lack thereof as the case may be, white out your heart.”

"Ugh. You lurch like a blind charioteer, Menelaus, from folly to riddles. My heart is not of any concern; I am stronger than you seem to think. Am I not still here?"

…

He silently holds open the door for King Aetos, and does not follow him inside.

Then he'll push his way in, blinking in the darkness. 

There is a servant girl there, bowing. An old man in the corner, crushing up herbs. And–

A tall figure there on a bed, tucked under layers of fur.

Aetos cannot see the man’s face – but there is matted blonde hair splayed out over the cushions.

“Your Majesty,” the old man speaks up, “you must be careful.”

"...What?"

The healer only purses his lips and gestures for King Aetos to venture closer.

He shakes his head irritably and draws closer, peering down in the half-light.

He staggers back, hands making the gesture against evil. 

"Where," he rasps, "where did you find-"

It's not possible. It's not possible, he sacrificed himself, Apollo accepted it, no mortal could survive -

Lord Aetos may believe all that he likes. The King of Pylos slumbers here.

He sleeps deeply as though dead, but not quite. The days beyond have not been kind to him; he is thinner now than he has ever been, caked in dirt and blood and injury. His fair hair seems almost dark now, twisted and ripped in places. Aetos hardly recognises the figure in the bed.

But it is him.

The old man speaks carefully. “A slave woman found him crawling over the plains. He is in bad shape, but by the will of the gods he will live.”

For a long time he just stares. 

Abruptly he feels foolish, hates the sluggishness in his limbs and the sickness in his stomach that the wine has left him - he needs to think, to see, now of all times - does he dream? it would be an uncommonly clear dream - but it is like thinking through mud. 

"That... Should not be possible. Did this wretched girl see anything else? Hear anything? Is she here?"

“She serves her master now, some lord of the camp. Her story was merely this, for simple women tell simple tales; she was carrying wine in the dark to provision her house in the small hours, and a sudden figure appeared in the distance and caused her great terror. When several warriors were aroused to investigate, they found him – the King of Pylos, half-dead.”

The healer has stood now, with great effort, to spread some green paste over a cut on the young king’s forehead. Catching sight of Aetos’ bleeding palms, he frowns deeply.

“If I may, Your Majesty, your hands–”

He closes them into fists. "It is only a scratch. Half-dead how? Is he wounded? Poisoned?" The questions seem ridiculous, this cannot be-

The old man sighs. “Exhaustion, as far as I can tell. Some signs of infection, too, though it will need more investigation.”

The young king shifts, the softest noise leaving his lips. It is as though he responds to Aetos’ voice.

“Your Majesty, please lower your volume if you are able; you are disturbing the patient.”