"Yes." He adjusts his tunic uncomfortably. 

Menelaus stares at him like he has grown a second head. “Whatever could you possibly be implying?”

"Make your own judgement. Many things and many deceptions are within the power of the immortal gods."

“Aetos,” he says slowly. “You have been through great hardship. After the death of Hyranon you took the new Pylian king under your wing, and his disappearance must have troubled you deeply, like the loss of a son to a father. But do you not think that you edge too close to madness right now?”

"No. No, Menelaus, I do not. Have we not seen the gods themselves cluster about this place, aiding now the Trojans, now the Achaeans? Or do you think it beyond their power to take on the aspect of any mortal?"

He scoffs. “You sound like Ambrosios. Have you been at the drink again?”

"Not in a week, and you are not in truth answering me."

He exhales. “Fine. I shall humour you then, King of Crete. In truth, I know not; but he looks like Ophellios and sounds like him too, so it seems that we truly have been granted a miracle. Without the Pylian forces we struggle.”

"A miracle, exactly. But whose, and why, I know not. One thing is certain, Spartan, and that is that the time for wine is over. The gods have not finished with us yet."

“Zeus above, you are being cryptic. What has gotten into you?” 

The Cretan truly has lost it.

Menelaus claps a hand on his shoulder. “Only rejoice, Aetos, for your protégé is returned; by Spartan hands, I might add.”

It's not worth arguing. 

He manages a small smile. 

"They have some use, then."

“Why, you–” He makes to chase him, grunting with laughter.

Word spreads quickly throughout the camp. The King of Pylos has returned from the dead.

He holds court as soon as he is able to sit upright, and when thinking clearly becomes no longer as a labour of Heracles. His men are all but chaos, his advisors in dire need of leadership; the entire Pylian court had almost left the plains of Ilium, no longer bound by sovereign oath to remain in this war, and many others from other kingdoms surely would have followed.

Ophellios makes sure that they are reminded of their mission. 

They have questions. All of them do. Questions about war and the days ahead, he can answer – but when the occasional man is brave enough to ponder aloud where it was their king had disappeared to, Ophellios cannot say.

They whisper rumour, but the whispers stay as they are. He is well-liked; his warriors are mostly relieved to return to some stability. The celebrations in the Pylian camp ring loud across the coast.

When he is able to walk again, though he leans heavily on an old staff, he returns to take his seat at the Council of Kings.

He has not often left Ophellios's side, but his troubles have only deepened. 

On the day he is to return to council, Aetos almost picks up the wineskin again; but no truth lay that way, only deceit upon deceit. 

He has stumbled, on confronting Phoebus, on watching the boy die, on learning the truth; but in the end there is only ever one thing to do, after you stumble, after you fall.

It is with a firm stride and a clear look in his eye that he enters, and sits, and waits to hear what Ophellios, if Ophellios he is in truth, has to say.

“Friends,” he speaks, and his voice is rich but weaker than it once was. “I thank you all for your warmth in welcoming me home. I remember very little of my ordeal, and indeed I must have suffered greatly, but to return to my comrades now elevates my spirit. Please, do not delay on my part – I am drowned in rest and eager to resume my duties.”

The Greek chieftains are not the cleverest men in their lands, nor the wisest nor the most learned; nay they are the lordliest, the most favoured of the gods, raised up the highest. 

But they are not, as a rule, stupid. 

Ophellios and Aetos, followed swiftly by Ambrosios and his men, disappear; and Ophellios does not return. That much is suspicious - it is not obvious how either of them would benefit from his death, but both are cunning in their way, and could have unseen ends. 

And then there is some feud between the Kings of Crete and Ithaca, of which neither will speak; that is more suspicious. 

They know something is afoot, these lordly men; they know not what. 

Stupid they are not, but they are not the sort of men, as a rule, who enjoy complication. There is a reason Ambrosios alone is favourite of Athena. 

All of which is to say that they are very, very happy to have Ophellios back. Hopefully things will return to normal now, and perhaps they can win their war. 

"We rejoice to find you unharmed, Lord Ophellios. It must indeed be painful to recall, but can you tell us anything of what became of you? The gods themselves take notice, and our fates weigh heavy upon us: it may be of great import."

He is silent for a long moment.

“Brave Aetos had accompanied me to a ruined temple, where I offered myself to Apollo as sacrifice in order to end the blight. After that… I recall only feelings. Glimpses of the sublime, and of great sorrow. I concentrate on them but they slip through my mind like dreams. I then found myself deep in the Trojan woodlands with nothing, no weapons, no clothes on my back. I fought my way to the camp with my bare hands alone. And then I was found.”

If that's true, then... 

...Then they have no idea what Lord Apollo wants, but such is the way of gods. 

"Well then. The blight is long gone; perhaps Lord Apollo was simply impressed by your self-sacrifice. In any case, Ophellios, we all owe you a debt, a debt we shall see repaid, when we win glory and rich treasure of the Trojans."

Agamemnon lowers that helmet he rarely seems to remove any more. 

"There is a traitor among us; perhaps someone here now."