Something about this feels...

...wrong. 

Infection. 

Ophellios had never been ill, had he? The son of the Plague God?

There is a horrible creeping dread running up his spine, freezing out the dulling warmth of the wine. 

“…Your Majesty?”

"Has he said anything?"

“No, my lord. He has not yet opened his eyes.”

The healer shuffles over to his station again and resumes his grinding of herbs.

...

Then he will sheathe his sword and settle himself down, sitting at the bedside with a grave expression on his face, and stare deeply at the man in the bed. 

It is the labour of days to wait for the young king to wake.

Anticipation and racing thoughts keep Aetos awake; and weariness drags him upright into the arms of sleep, and he passes the hours thus. 

The old man has grown used to his presence, and has learned to work around him. Sometimes, he takes pity and shares his simple food with the King of Crete. Every so often Aetos wakes up at strange hours to find a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And one day at last, soon after the seventh break of dawn, the King of Pylos opens his eyes.

"You look terrible, boy."

He closes them again and opens, eyelids blinking and heavy with ordeal.

That voice…

Ophellios turns his stiff head slowly.

"Do you know that among the Cretans, it is the height of rudeness to miss your own funeral?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. His lips are chapped and bleed when they pull.

His throat is so dry.

"Where is that useless healer - ah, never mind."

He very carefully drips water with just a little wine into his lips. 

Weary eyes look up at him with gratitude, and he accepts the drink.

Ophellios’ eyes look different – or perhaps Aetos just remembers them differently.

He has nowhere else to be. He will continue slowly to administer the drink. 

...and stare deep, deep, deep into those eyes. 

As though his very existence depends on it, he does not look away.

At last, he can remember how to form words. A little colour returns to his pallid cheeks.

Raspy, he speaks. 

“Is it you?”

What is different about his eyes?

...

"It is," he confirms quietly. "You are back in the camp - a serving -girl found you. You have been close to death for days."

“Days,” he echoes softly.

So he has been away for days. People must be worried, the Pylian camp in disarray – he sinks deeper into the cushions at the very thought.

He can no longer contain himself. "By the gods, Ophellios, what happened to you?"

He withdraws at the sudden intensity to Aetos’ voice. “I know not.”

“I recall– the temple, being with you. And then there is nothing – and I found myself somewhere in the distant forests, close to Ilium – and lost, I wandered home.”

What in the name of all the gods can he say?

"You... You do not recall what happened to you?"

“I cannot.” 

With effort like lifting a mountain he turns to face his companion. He reaches out weakly.

“Tell me – what news of the blight?”

Something deep within him aches at the sound of that voice. 

He clears his throat. 

"Gone, entirely, as soon as I returned. In that, at least, it was a success. But you - be the stars my witness, Ophellios, it has been weeks since that day. You - you asked the Lord Apollo to take you as sacrifice, and you were... Gone. We all thought you dead. You have- you have a tomb."