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.
There are funeral games to arrange.
A truce is called, the pyre is lit; there is no body to burn, but there are clothes and armour and the sodden cloak Ophellios wore to his death.
Aetos says little, does not even compete, awards no prizes.
He drinks deep of the unmixed wine, and tries to sleep.
The grey days wear on; for a long time battle is held off by the driving rain, the plains of Troy turned to mud-slicks by the storm.
There is little left to do, it seems, only to ponder.
The visitors do not stop.
That dark-haired woman shows her face in one of the days after. Aetos dimly recognises her as Ophellios’ lover – his favourite Trojan girl. He does not know her name.
She comes clutching a letter in the late king’s script, having mourned so perfectly at his funeral.
He has left instructions that she will be taken care of, should he fall absent for whatever reason the gods decree. And he trusts no one more than King Aetos of Crete.
Another day, the King of Ithaca dares to come to him, sorrowful as he is.
There seems to be no end to the duties.
The Diameda girl is very quiet and very respectful; there is not much room in the camp for women without a use. He does not understand it, but it was the king's wish, and he will see it done, and no harm come to her.
The Pylians are without a king and Ophellios died without an heir, the last of his house; soon the questions will be asked about who exactly it is who keeps them there, and indeed it is not clear that the oath of Tyndareus will bind the new king, for Ophellios had fought only for vengeance.
He does not wish to speak to the Ithacan.
But his own wishes have never ruled the day, beggar or king.
"What do you want?"
“Aetos. King.”
He removes his helmet, eyes rimmed red.
“We have had our tensions in the past, but I wished to tell you that– I am sorry. Ophellios was a good man. And if there is anything I can do to ease your duties–”
A great weariness suffuses him. The wrath, in the end, was not so long-lived as the grief.
"Your meddling in the affairs of the divine. It killed him."
"Perhaps you will not have all the answers, Ambrosios. Can you bear it? Ha, I do not even think you would have held your tongue if you had known."
Ah, he can't even muster the energy to care.
"Do you truly wish to know? It would not be the first time your lust for knowledge hurt you and all around you."
He sighs.
"When you played your clever trick with the girl Cassandra, you heard prophecies no mortal ever should. Lord Zeus raged against his son Apollo, and thus it was that you brought the blight upon us; and Apollo demanded your life in sacrifice. Ophellios gave himself instead, before I could stop him. A good man died for your folly, Ambrosios, and countless miseries were visited upon the Achaeans. Was it worth it?"
His eyes are downcast, his fingers clutching the helmet until they turn white.
Was it worth it?
He answers quietly. “Yes.”
Aetos dreams of him that night. A presence in his bed, fair-haired, unclothed like that night before Apollo’s temple.
Instead of freezing cold, his skin is hot.
His muscles knot - in the dream-seeming he is rigid, thunderstruck, greedy fingers cannot reach out.
“What is it, my lord?”
His voice is distant; ghostlike.
”Has my father broken your spine?”
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