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–”
He frowns at him, uncertain. “I’m– afraid I know not what you refer to.”
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."
“What?”
His voice is quieter than Aetos has ever heard it.
"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."
“What?” He asks again, taken aback. “I will not threaten you, Aetos.”
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."
“I do. Please, friend – if you can bear it, take this weight from my mind.”
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?”
"Do the shades of the dead truly speak? Your father did not harm me, only with darts too fast to see sent you, even his own son, down to Hades."
“What do you mean?”
He leans in closer, breath like fire against Aetos’ throat. It almost hurts, like the flames of the explosion in Troy.
“I am right here.”
And he kisses there, softly.
He groans, and then he weeps; for even in sleep, even in Morpheus's strange grasp, he knows this for illusion and deceit.
“Listen to me, my lord, for this is important,” he kisses again, down his neck, hand too heavy on his chest. “I am right here.”
He goes to the mound where they buried it, the urn of ashes and no bones, and he kneels and he weeps.
There are flowers and offerings aplenty for the young king. He was a friend to all.
Aetos is alone there on that hill.
There is a terrible scream in the middle of the night, and a slave girl drops a pot of wine.
It shatters, clay pieces bursting all over the ground at her feet.
She runs back to the Spartan camp, waking up soldiers as she flees. One of them grabs and strikes her, cursing her for her loudness at the late hour – but she only points with trembling arms towards the plains.
A dark figure stands there far in the distance, staggering heavily onwards.
He collapses.
He jerks as if struck by lightning and -
- he didn't expect Menelaus to try anything -
- his guards should have stopped him, a moment of mourning, they must be dead -
He's on his feet in a second, unclad, sword in hand -
- he never slept deeply and now he barely sleeps at all, it's probably what saved his life -
For a moment he's standing, sword an inch from Menelaus's face, and then the room spins around him and the wine from last night seems to boil in his stomach and he folds into a sort of crouch.
A breath.
Oh. Not here to kill him, then.
"What do you want?"
The Spartan king wrinkles his princely nose.
“So the rumours about you are true. The great Aetos; little more than a drunk.” He prods him with the end of his sheath. “By the gods, man, when was the last time you bathed?”
He grabs the sheath and crushes it in one hand, fine leather bursting at the seams, splitting on the sword inside; his hands bleed, but he does not care. "Hold your tongue unless you want two bad arms."
King Menelaus gazes at the ruined sheath, at the Cretan’s carven hands – and he shakes his head, standing tall above the wretch.
“You bleed all over yourself. What is the matter with you?”
Worse than insult, the Spartan’s voice drips with pity.
"Our days are short and full of pain, at your behest, and you have no right to speak sharply to me." The fight has drained out of him now that he's properly awake, leaving behind a deep weariness. A moment ago he wanted to fight, to shout, to threaten and bluster and maybe call his soldiers and start a new war. Now - now he just wants the man to leave and say no more, and leave him to it.
"Did you come here only to bandy insults? I have no appetite for it."
“Not insults,” he says, and he means it truly. “But concerns.”
Menelaus sighs.
“My men found something that may interest you. But you will first need to make yourself presentable, for if anyone sights you leaving your hut like this you may lose the morale of your men.”
Why can they not just go away.
Ugh. He could drive Menelaus off, perhaps, but it would be such effort. He would have to think of things to say, maybe listen to other things, and the thought is sickening.
So he'll scrub himself, wipe the sleep out of his eyes, don his robe and girt himself with his sword, and follow, staggering only a little.
He will say nothing.
He seems unimpressed.
“That is better, I suppose. Come with me.” Menelaus gestures with his head and, with palpable relief, walks out of the shit-hole that is the Cretan’s dwelling.
He glances at him as they weave around passing soldiers. “How much have you had to drink?”
He sighs. “Why do you poison yourself so? It is unseemly. We all have reason to drink, King Aetos.”
"Perhaps you should try it. It has after all kept me here long after my time."
Menelaus resists the urge to roll his eyes. “When do you believe your time was, then?”
People are bowing to them as they walk past. He pays little notice; does not care for the everyday man.
"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.
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.
He shakes his head irritably and draws closer, peering down in the half-light.
"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.
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.
“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.
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."
"There was nothing left behind to burn, only your cloak and-" he stops, as though something is caught in his throat.
He loses the strength to keep his arm aloft, and it falls to the side.
He stares ahead at Aetos’ chest.
“I am sorry.”
He slumps back. "You should not have offered yourself so. I was not swift enough to stop you. It was Ambrosios's place to die, not yours."
Ophellios shakes his head slightly, and the motion makes everything spin. He closes his eyes. “It is not yours to decide that. Who lives and who dies.”
"It was not my choice, but that of the immortal gods. It was you who chose to seek to pervert their will. What happened?"
“I told you,” he manages. “I do not know.”
The spinning slows down now, and he can open his eyes again without feeling nauseous.
“But if I had not drunk the nectar I would have surely died.”
"Ah. Nectar."
A pause.
"Wherever did you find the nectar of the immortal gods, Ophellios? Did your father grant it to you?"
And remember, Lord of Pylos – I never came to your door.
Weakly. “I cannot say.”
"I see."
He feels a horrible unease, a sense of something not quite right like the very world tilting on its axis.
"And this... nectar... it saved you from some wound? Or healed you when you were close to death, as it is said the food of the gods can do for mortals?"
“I think,” he murmurs, beginning to struggle now with the exertion. Sweat beads on his forehead. “That it protected me.”
"I see."
He leans over to move the matter hair out of the young king's face. "You are still weak. Sleep now, Ophellios." The words stick in his throat. "For you have survived an ordeal no mortal ever could, and come back from a place whence there is no returning. Rest now."
He sighs at the older man’s touch, and finds himself pleading before he knows it. “Stay.”
He relaxes a little at last, and soon the King of Pylos sleeps again.
There is an eerie stillness to him as his companion watches.
Aetos cannot get past the feeling. Something is wrong.
Aetos is eventually persuaded by the old man to go home and bathe, and to return when he is settled.
When he enters the healer’s hut again, he finds the Diameda girl curled up in bed with Ophellios, both unclothed and resting. The Pylian’s arm is wrapped securely around her – and though Aetos has often thought of the young king as small, he sees him now as towering.
Displaced now from Ophellios’ bedside, he has little else to do but wander.
King Menelaus is training his troops outside. He shouts orders and they all move with terrifying unison. Regardless, the man seems disappointed.
“I have seen women strike more fear into men’s hearts than all of you combined.”
When he catches sight of Aetos rambling through the Spartan camp, he leaves instructions for his men to practice their forms and catches up to the Cretan king.
“Lord Aetos!”
He turns.
"Menelaus."
The man has been... A little different, lately. Still brash, still obsessed, but less quick to anger, less dismissive.
It's a strange turn.
There is a satisfaction in him knowing that he has won. Aetos has become a pitiable thing now, and Menelaus finds it easier to be civil with such a creature – even friendly.
The Cretan is no longer a threat, really.
“What news?”
He really does not want to have this conversation.
It looks like he's having it anyway.
Why fight against it? No man can help his fate. He knew that long before, but somehow never saw what it meant - that there was no need to try, to struggle, that what would come would come regardless. The cold rises up in him again.
"They found what looks like Ophellios. Injured, but alive, and with no memory of what happened to him."
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?”
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."
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."
"I wish it were not so, brother. But the pattern is impossible to mistake, when you take careful note as I have.
At every turn, the Trojans are there. At every assault, they are present. We consult the omens to raid a town; that town happens to be quartering half the Trojan army. There is a traitor."
“That… makes an awful amount of sense,” he mutters as though to himself. His dark eyes are narrow and calculating.
The other kings have grown used to this. Ambrosios occupies a world of his own half the time.
Ophellios seems troubled. “Surely none of those here would betray us? We all act under oath.”
"Oaths mean less to some of us than most of us would like; and of course there are Those who do not so much fear the wrath of the immortal gods."
It all makes a horrible, horrible sort of sense.
Ambrosios speaks up. “With your blessing, Lord Agamemnon, I wish to lead the investigation into this… traitor.”
"Do you truly? An intriguing, even bold notion, Lord Ambrosios. You consider yourself above suspicion, then? The most reliable, the most trustworthy of us, fit to investigate? One whose loyalty, and willingness to be at war, is beyond question?"
“Of course not. I know that I am not the traitor, but you rightly note that you have no proof of this. Yet. As part of my investigation, I will compile a full list of my own whereabouts over the last month with seals from trusted eyewitnesses – not from the Ithacan camp, if you are concerned.”
He smiles.
“Trust me at least on this, my Lord Agamemnon. I can be very thorough when I want to be.”
...
It...
It's still too convenient...
That sounds like a prepared excuse...
No, the problem is -
It's still more likely for Ambrosios to immediately try to take control and name himself inquisitor, if he is the traitor, compared to if he isn't - it's possible in that case that-
