“Stop this. I am tired.”

"All right," she says softly, leaning into him. "There will be time to talk when you are not tired."

Ophellios still feels rigid to the touch, but he forces himself to be less so.

Slowly, he wraps an arm around her. She gets the impression that she should not be making any sudden moves right now.

Very slowly, she leans in, making herself small and easy to hold, as she lays a hand on his chest. She's not insistent - just lets him get used to her fingers tracing patterns on his skin. 

It makes his skin crawl.

He bears it. 

After some silent minutes, he pulls himself away from her touch and rises to his feet. “I must go. I have ignored my advisers long enough.”

He looks at her one more time. “But we shall be wed in a week.” His voice is soft, but it sounds like prophecy more than promise.

Ophellios turns and leaves, and Diameda is left cold without his presence.

That night, he finds the ending to the song.

"My lords. It is as I had thought: the Pylian King now cannot be reached by any power known to us. Strange things swirl about him: nor indeed was there any word I could speak to bring him out of his sullen wrath. We must now ask - what do we do without him? For without him we are."

All eyes turn to Lord Achilles.

The time is now.

"Then we come to this point at last, my friends; perhaps already too late. For did I not counsel you twice, to end this war for good or ill; to assault the citadel all in force, and win or die? And indeed you scorned me, and wasted your strength time and again, dying by degrees, and not without pain, instead of in glory. Indeed your reluctance has weakened you, and our loss is more likely now; but there is yet hope, if you tarry no more."

He was as reluctant as any other, but he understands what it is to be a lion facing down a pack of wolves.

Ambrosios is not here to counsel them otherwise – and Ophellios has gone mad or forsaken them, and in either case the gods will judge the coward harshly in due time. Aetos is as full of air as he always is, and Agamemnon…

He grimaces.

The only man who has any kind of answer, now, is Achilles.

“Then tell us what we must do.”

At the end of the week, when the moon is at its brightest, the Achaeans shall attack.

All is quiet in the camp. Preparations are made for the slaughter – men sharpening their swords, the kings practicing drills with their warriors until they are seared into memory, offerings burned to the gods, funeral shrouds sewn.

Near-distantly, by the cliffs over the wine-dark sea, preparations are made for the wedding – men seeking flowers to line the walls, the king practicing vows to his queen until they are seared into memory, offerings burned to the gods, marriage clothes sewn.

The night before the battle, there is revelry in the broader settlement where there is silence in the Pylian camp. Tonight the men of the other kingdoms feast and drink, for this may be their final day alive.

And as some omen of victory from the gods, the King of Ithaca has returned.

He goes to visit him, of course. The healers had kept them all out, and in truth he had not thought the Ithacan would survive: those were grievous wounds, enough to loosen the limbs of any man. 

But perhaps Pallas has reached out a hand, again, to save the king; and so perhaps they march not to their doom but to an unlikely and elusive victory. 

"Ambrosios."

The king is at his study, seated with his weight all but supported by his desk.

He straightens when his guest is introduced. Aetos can see the effort that every movement takes, every shift in the wrong direction sending agony through the man. Ambrosios looks and feels like death – but he has strength enough to smile, and his lips curl as he bares his teeth.

“Aetos. Took you long enough to visit me.”

On second thought, then, he won't clap the man on the back. 

"It took you long enough to wake up. Sweet dreams?"

“Ha. You could say that.” 

He woke up thinking of them. How old they must look now, how young they seemed in his sleep. A moment of grief was all he had allowed himself upon opening his eyes.

“Tell me, brother – do reports speak true? Are we to assault Troy tomorrow, our army weakened and outnumbered?”

"We are. The opinion of Achilles prevails: we are weakened and outnumbered in any case, and will only grow more so as we wait. So our choice is to fight, or to flee. We have chosen to fight."

…

He reaches for the sword at his belt, wrapping fingers tightly around the hilt.

“Then I suppose I have woken up just in time.”

It may not be too late for strategy. He has had very little notice, yes, but notice nonetheless; precious hours before now and tomorrow’s attack.

Odds are he will probably die, going out to battle in this state. In which case, he will simply have to stay alive.

"You cannot seriously expect to walk into battle like this. You can barely stand. You have won your fill of glory, and fallen in battle; you may even survive it. It is one thing to die fighting, another to die crawling."

He barks a short laugh. "Anger does not live long in war. My quarrel with you is long ended, and I would not see you dead."

He claps him on the shoulder, forgetting for a moment that he can barely stand. "And indeed I would not - but then, you are supposed to be wiser than I."

He chuckles weakly, rubbing the sore spot on his shoulder where King Aetos clearly does not know his own strength.

“Supposed to be, yes. And yet here I am, riding out tomorrow to die at your back of all people. What a life I lead.”

With determined hands, he manages to pour his guest some wine.

And then carefully, he asks: “I take it that the King of Pylos will not be joining us?”

His mood blackens instantly, but he steels himself and draws deep from the wine. 

"He will not. I failed, Ambrosios. In truth I do not know what in fact is in his heart: I can go no further, I know the limits of my own sight. But no, he will not join us. He seems determined to stay here and - simply do nothing."

A sigh.

“I may only be half your age,” he begins in a light-hearted tone before growing more serious, “but I have travelled far and seen many peoples. In some cultures they practice a tradition of confession before battle. The idea is that, should their deaths be fated the following eve, then they will go to the Underworld with light spirits, and be judged less harshly by the gods in turn.”

He rolls up the scroll laid in front of him and props it to the side, this simple act promising Aetos his undivided attention.

“We may well die tomorrow. I sense that there are things you have not said, and that these unspoken words weigh you down. I am no god to judge you here. My friend – what happened?”

He really could do it. 

He could explain everything

He could- 

What would be the point? Just to make himself feel better?

He really, truly doesn't know the full truth. 

He doesn't really know exactly what it is, sitting in the Pylian king's tent. 

He does know - 

He knows that what he did was a terrible wrong, a betrayal of a friend - 

And at this remove, he doesn't even quite recall why. 

"...I was wrong," he begins, lamely.