"I hardly think he can have missed it."

He can’t help but smile at that, just a little.

“When we ride out to the plains tomorrow, he will marry. This may be your final chance.”

He laughs, short and bitter. "A chance, you say? A chance for what? To tell him to spurn his wife and his throne to come and be my Ganymede? I do not trust my good fortune and the gods' love for me enough to dare say such a thing."

“Yes,” he says, rather plainly. “That. Or something to that effect.”

His wife had appreciated a direct approach, that sunset behind the olive tree. It stands to reason that godlings might also, as unorthodox as this all is. 

If this will stop the feud between the Kings of Crete and Pylos, and potentially save them from tomorrow’s fate, then Ambrosios will take any strategy. Even one as mad as this.

“In any case, we might be dead by tomorrow’s dusk. It can hardly be a waste of time.”

He stares at the Ithacan king for a very, very long time. Ages seem to turn in that sky-blue gaze.

"You are asking me to, in all likelihood, die; die to buy us the ghost of a chance."

He casts the wine-cup aside. 

"As you wish."

He is gone in a blink.

An owl perches outside the tent, and hoots a low and mournful note. 

He sits solemnly in silence as Aetos leaves. 

The man is always cleverer than anyone gives him credit for.

The shadow of the owl casts itself over his dwelling, flapping its wings impatiently, and at last the King of Ithaca rises to meet it.

Walking is labour – but Ambrosios has never been anything if not stubborn. He has before been likened to a cockroach.

Step by step, threatening his own feet to hold him or else, he steps outside the hut.

The owl form of Pallas Athena is a majestic thing, purest white with eyes of a more vivid green than mortals have ever been blessed with in their world. Ambrosios has learned to recognise Her well, after one too many times attempting to make conversation with the wrong owl.

She is also rather adorable in this form, all round and bird-like. He often resists the urge to pat the Goddess affectionately.

“I am moving as fast as I can,” he responds when met with a restless hoot.

"No, you are not. If the tent were on fire you would move quicker."

From under her wing there falls a leather flask. 

"Strip off all your clothes at once. We neither of us have time to spare, and you less than I."

“My, Athena, I never knew you were interested–”

The feathers fluff outwards outrageously, and then there steps forwards the tall and lithe and muscled goddess all resplendent in silver armour, and with bitter spear, and her cheeks are scarlet and her eyes like thunderclouds. 

"I- if ever I dared to break that sacred oath, I would not - s̵̪͒t̸͙̒r̴̖̐i̶͈̚p̵̡̛."

She tosses the flask at him. 

"This is ambrosia, specifically a certain unguent taken from the nymphs of Hera's own boudoir. Rub it upon your skin, and burn the flask when you are done and try never to think of it again; it is not properly for mortals to dare to touch, but we are skirting the wrath of Zeus in any case, and may as well take advantage. And stop looking at Me like that."

“Will it do what I think it will?”

He has already begun to unfasten his clothes, a little clumsily; his eyes are fixed on the flask.

Within moments, the fabric pools around his feet. He uncorks the flask with his teeth and rubs the contents into aching muscles and scars until supple skin glows.

He is lither than other kings; the Ithacan trains his mind also. But on his own, free from comparison and that favoured cloak that conceals his weaponry, his great form impresses. 

Ambrosia. If this will save his life tomorrow, then there is time for teasing later.

She supervises extremely closely. It is only advisable: strange things happen to mortals who dare reach for the trappings of godhood. 

"In truth even I do not know what it will do. I suspect it is bottled with the water of Kanathos that restores the queen's maidenhood, and I know it to have extraordinary powers of healing, though I do not know it to have been used on a mortal."

He stops halfway. Stares at her.

“This will not disintegrate me, or turn me pink, will it?”

"I do not think so."

“You do not think so?!”

"It is not present in any tale I have heard told. It is not impossible that to consume ambrosia in excess would destroy your form as flames would, but not this little. Most probably it will only heal you. The only secondary effect I would consider anything but extremely unlikely is that it might render you a maiden as the waters of Kanathos do Hera, though it does not seem to have done so yet."

Slowly, and extremely tentatively, he resumes.

“That would be reversible. Right?”

He looks worried.

“Right?”

"Certainly. Maidenhood is in fact all too easily lost. In any case, when you are recovered enough, we must take counsel."

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you.”

He pours out the last of the divine liquid into his palm.

“Could you get my back?”

She only hesitates for a moment. One warrior tending to another's wounds is not so far outside her understanding. 

Her touch is surprisingly warm - almost hot - and surprisingly strong. His muscles ripple like water. 

She has to find her voice.

"You are right to suspect the Pylian king. What have you thought, since last we met, of the things you have learned?"

He cannot help but sigh as divine hands ease the burden of pain. With every second that passes, he feels stronger – soon, it is no longer a trial to stay upright. His fingers flex with newfound life.

“Hm? Oh. I have pieced it together, I believe – well, enough of it to get by. The King of Crete lusts for the Lord of Pylos. Loves him, even. It is not uncommon among older men to take interest in younger boys,” he explains. “But to desire a younger king is another matter entirely. I fear that, driven to near-madness by the Pylian’s return, unable to fathom that his Ophellios was alive… Aetos may have taken liberties that should never have been.”

He sighs again, for a different reason.

“But the nature of the Pylian king eludes me. If this mad theory is even the case, if there is truth to Aetos’ testimony, and I now no longer believe he is lying – how can Ophellios be both god and mortal?”

"These deeds are greater and of more import than you can know. Aetos's crime, if your thinking is right, offends Phoebus, and Zeus Himself; I fear that in bidding him go and inflame the fires of divine wrath even more, you may have invited more grievous trouble than you can imagine. For indeed it is not the affair of mortals only. As to the boy Ophellios: I do not know. Phoebus grows secretive as is not His way: something deeper even than this is afoot. But to answer your question: it is not impossible. It is a secret Zeus guards closely, Ambrosios; if you did not already know enough to damn you I would not breathe a word. Mortals can be made immortal: a certain preparation of nectar, a certain harmonious alignment - and the permission of Zeus, He claims. I am less sure. It is unwise to doubt the King's words - but perhaps unwiser still in times like these to believe them."

She draws a deep breath. 

"But that is not what I intended. What think you of the Forbidden Prophecies?"

“I think that I have taken measures to ensure that some of them will come to pass. We are doomed regardless; sending Aetos to the Pylian’s hut tonight will not devastate our chances tomorrow, but may well be the key to improving them. I will take that gamble.”

He winces as She presses down too hard on a new scar, before the skin knots together again as though anew.

“Athena – I need to see the horse of Cassandra’s vision.”