He raises his head. 

He has set aside thoughts of that night from his memory. 

(He knows, he knows more and more, what this means, what it all means - those are not the actions of a meddling god -)

But he holds to some hope-

"My quarrel with you is ended, Ithacan; it is not meet for wrath to linger too long. A fool indeed would I be to trust you, who would sell his friends without a moment of thought otherwise; but for the sake of all the Achaeans I shall tell you: a god interferes in the affairs of Troy, and what sits in that hut is not Ophellios, indeed; for he died, when you brought down the wrath of Apollo upon us all. If the gods seek to slay me here, so be it, and I shall die fighting as a goodly warrior; but I charge you instead, to see that the King of Pylos is god-touched or mad."

“God-touched, yes. Mad, perhaps. But that man did not die as you say he did.”

It’s like a shock of cold water, the decisive clarity in the King of Ithaca’s words.

“Do not think you can evade me, Lord Aetos. It will save us both much time if you were to answer my questions directly, for I will not leave, and I will be as a plague, a shadow to you to the very end, until I have the knowledge I seek. This matter concerns all of us. The entire camp, your warriors as much as mine; and I have every intention of seeing each one of my six-hundred men to the end of this siege, such that I may honour my oath and return them to their families.”

He treads forward, crossing the territory between them.

“But this practice of secret-keeping damns us all. So I ask you again. What happened?”

He sways a little at that, but he does rally. 

"I envy your confidence, but not your judgement. He has not been the same since it happened. Does it truly make sense to you that he should return so? And indeed I do not like to hear you speak to me in threatening tones. I saw nothing more out of the ordinary in the Pylian, when I came there, than I have seen in all the days since his return."

“I charge you, comrade, tell me. What did you see? What was done between the two of you?”

He sighs. 

"Very well. The truth, then. I fear that you will not like to hear it; I would have spoken out long since, had I thought I would be believed. In truth - I followed him, that night. I saw him stealthily enter Ilium itself: he set out over the Trojan plains alone, without even his retinue, and entered the city by a secret gate. I did not enter, for alone I was as well. He stayed long in counsel with our enemy, and returned far later - where I awaited him. I confronted him, and he could not deny it, not at all. He was the traitor all along, Ambrosios; I know not how he defeated your plan with the false rumour of a raid, but there are any number of ways he could have done it. It is why I appeared to soften my heart and spare old Calchas: it is probable that the old man was framed. He was the traitor, all along. It... Came to violence, in the end. That is why, friend, he is so afraid; that is why he seeks my death; that is why he has already prepared himself for when the Achaeans fall upon him in vengeance. Why else indeed would he surround his own person with so much of his entire army, if not to hold off our own forces in a massed assault? He knows that I know, and now his last and desperate hope is that the Achaeans will not believe me, for the feud between us; I fear lest he be correct."

“This is staggering news.”

Why would Ophellios venture alone to Ilium? What business would he have there?

It is Lord Aetos’ word only that stands as evidence to this information, but Ambrosios can sense it: the man is not lying.

But there is something else, there. Some kind of falsehood is present, far subtler than any conscious deception. The King of Crete weaves a narrative here, but not to trick any who might listen to his testimony. That is not his style.

Every warrior in this place has killed another man. Many of them construct stories to keep themselves sane after the fact – he was coming at me first; it was only self defence; I thought him another.

All of those stories follow the same pattern.

First: they are innocent, and the other party is at fault; indeed, the other party made the first move.

Second: left with no choice, they were cornered into action.

Third: justified violence ensued (for the greater good).

In the case of Ophellios and Aetos, it is clear that something happened beyond the parameters of the Cretan’s tale. It is times like this that Ambrosios wishes he had Sight.

What he does know is this: kind-hearted young Ophellios could not have been the traitor. He must have journeyed to Ilium for some other purpose.

“What did he say in his defence?”

"He did not deny it. He said he could explain, and then did not; I called him to account, commanded him to explain, then - and that was when he drew his sword."

Something is missing.

“That… does not sound like him.”

"No. No, it does not. This is because, as I have counselled constantly, it is not him. I implore you, Ambrosios, I know you wish it were not so - as do I - I know you wish to believe he is back - as do I - but it is not him."

…

Fine.

He will meet the madman at his level. Too many times has Ambrosios himself been in that position and been right all along. Perhaps the stars will speak, and Aetos’ outlandish beliefs will prove to be the truth.

“Let us sit, then. Tell me. What evidence do you have to suggest this?”

He sighs, and sits, and has a measure of wine poured. 

"I am not chosen of Pallas, nor do I have your letters and learning, Ambrosios. But let me explain as best I can. I saw the true Ophellios offer himself as sacrifice to Apollo, and be consumed. No mortal survives such a fate. The plague was lifted: clearly Apollo accepted a sacrifice, and was sated. Ophellios is dead." The words are harsh, grinding, absolute. "Something that looked like Ophellios came to us a month later, after any mortal would surely have starved. But not only is he not half-starved and dying, if you look closely, he is stronger than before, muscled and well-built. Because he is a god or some such thing pretending to be one of the Achaeans and not perfect in the pretence. Indeed, examine him, and you will find he lacks the scars the true Ophellios had. Is he not changed from what he was before?"

He sits back, drains his cup. 

He remembers an empty vial of glass, and promptly stops remembering it. 

He remembers the boy who fought beside him, and gave his life for the Achaeans - for him - without a moment's thought. 

The least he deserves is honour, and his memory not to be tarnished, even if it is Zeus himself who takes his guise. 

"And if you truly refuse to see - there is the matter of the girl, Diameda."

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? That would be the Trojan woman he keeps, am I correct?”

"Indeed."

He pours Ambrosios another cup. 

"I paid her little attention at first. She came to me, when Ophellios died; to him she was cherished, as a close counsellor as well as a prize. It was strange, but... well. He was a strange b- a strange man. He had ordered that I should see to it that she lived well, if anything befell him. I noticed at first - she had loved him, but did not seem happy when he returned, quite the opposite. I thought little of it: women have their fancies. But also -" he glances behind himself for a moment. "She used to wander freely, albeit under guard; she would visit people, gather things, for him. She was mistress over his other prizes, even an overseer. She has not been seen since, and you must remember how unusual that is. I suspect- she knew her master well, perhaps better than any in the camp, and she must have noticed the change. I believe she was kept quiet, somehow; and now that he is all but found out, killed. How else do you explain her disappearance?"

Watching the movement of Aetos’ shadow on the ground, he concentrates on every word.

He taps at his knee. There are inconsistencies to this; glaring gaps in this narrative. It seems unlikely that Ophellios of all people would murder a prized slave. Then again, if Aetos’ mad theory is to be humoured, this may not be Ophellios at all.

The only way to fill these gaps is to speak to the young king himself, who is very much not accepting visitors. 

Or…

“Perhaps the woman is the key to understanding this. If she is alive, she will not be so difficult to find.”

He looks up, eyes lingering on the man in front of him. The great King Aetos. He… doesn’t seem well. 

“Could you tell me more about the nature of this… violent altercation you had?”

"Perhaps indeed. Find her, and question her without showing your hand, and I am sure she will concur."

He looks down. 

"In truth I do not remember terribly well. It was after a long journey, and he was... animated. In the end I left."

“Animated?”

He stares at Aetos.

What? What does that even mean?

The King of Crete is hiding something, and he is not even doing it particularly well.

“…I see.”

He leans back; takes a sip from his goblet. He does not usually care for the heavier drink, but if it gets people talking…

“I have listened to you now; will you perhaps consider another perspective? Tell me if you think this to be plausible. Young King Ophellios gave himself to Apollo. You said yourself that you did not witness the crucial moment: the taking of life. You stepped forward to rescue him, and Phoebus was quicker, and you were knocked out – and then you woke up, and he was not there. You did not actually see him die, only saw him missing.

“Consider this also. Ophellios revealed to us all at the Council that he is the child of Phoebus. Old King Hyranon kept the knowledge private here to protect the boy, but this I have known for a long time, longer than even this war. He is no mere mortal, Lord Aetos; you cannot regard him as you would an ordinary man. I have… understanding, that Ophellios was taken to Olympus; deceased souls are typically brought down to Hades, to the Underworld – are you beginning to see what I am saying?

“The Olympian blood in the boy kept him alive. Phoebus will have intervened somehow, taken His son into His arms – and perhaps for some pursuit of prophecy He returned Ophellios to Earth. As the god of medicine, He could even have healed the boy’s old wounds – I know not this part, but what happened next was simple. The young king fought his way back home.

“Do you not remember the way he looked when he returned to us? How wretched and thin he seemed? He is like us; greater than most men. It is not the most unusual thing in the world that he regained his health; grew stronger. Aetos – the boy that he was grew up, and the frame that you saw now is only what Ophellios was destined to be by pure virtue of growing older.

“I know not why he would have gone to Troy, but I have the sense that he sought answers for all this. I questioned him about his disappearance and he did not know, and I still regard this to be true. I have a way with people, you see. The Prophetess Cassandra… with her great power, she might be the only person who could illuminate this mystery.

“As for the matter of why his behaviour was different: he went through a terrible ordeal, one that no young man should need to bear. That would change anybody.”

Ambrosios pauses.

“Do you see, friend, what I am trying to say? Do you see how many tales could be the case?”

"I know that you have wisdom from Pallas; and indeed perhaps she has passed on some insight to you, and you are saying less than you know. I did not fail to notice you speak of Cassandra; perhaps you think to anger me, and so distract me? It shall not be so: I imagine you have some other reason to suspect the girl's involvement, or else you retain your foolish obsession, that ended in ruin for all of this. I will say only this, Ambrosios: any one of those excuses of yours, I could believe; all together, and I would have to be credulous indeed, not to see that what sits in that hut is not Ophellios himself. But the testimony of the girl Diameda should tell us for a certain proof."

He sighs.

“Very well. I will attempt to find the woman – but Aetos, you must make amends with the King of Pylos, whoever he is. The fate of this war is at stake.”

"I am not so certain. It does not seem to me the honourable thing, to lie and make amends, not even for the sake of this war; I should rather go down to Hades with my dignity intact. Go and find Diameda: and perhaps we shall ravel this matter for once and for all."

“Aetos, I am not dying for this. The other kings concur. You know that we need Pylian strength. Whatever it is, it cannot be more important than condemning the last eight years of effort to nothing. Think of all those who gave their lives – would you look them in the eye and tell them what happened, when you go down to Hades?”

He stands, preparing to exit.

“I advise you strongly, friend. Send the King of Pylos a messenger. Some gifts would not hurt. And I will do as you suggest in turn, and find this Diameda. Do we have a deal?”

"I hope you do not die for this; but die you will before I give my word falsely for you, for any of you: sooner would I have you all kill me. But perhaps there is wisdom in your counsel. A messenger indeed I will send. We have a deal."

His messenger to the king of Pylos will bear an offer to talk. 

Aetos receives a diplomatic gift from the King of Pylos later that evening. It comes in an ornate chest, carved of the finest wood and gilded in gold – a commodity here now.

He stares at it for a long time. 

Eventually he dons armour, raises his shield, and lifts the lid with the end of a long spear. 

There, on an exquisite blue cushion, lies–

still bleeding, still pulsing with undead life,

a human heart.

For a moment he doesn't comprehend what he sees: some sort of message? An omen, a portent, a warning from the god. 

Then he enquires, and learns that his messenger never returned. 

So be it; the die is cast. 

One thing to reject his overture; another to murder the messenger. 

A Cretan man is dead at the godling's hands; he bows his head in mourning. 

Surely no mortal would do this. Ophellios would never have done this. Only a madman or a god would dare kill a messenger - what good does it do? it only betrays a trust, a common weal, the possibility enemies have to communicate, and to betray that trust is only to harm oneself - and only a madman or a god would send this grisly token. 

He sends word to Ambrosios: you were wrong, old friend. Be ready for war. 

There can be no return from this. He will not fight alongside the Pylian, nor does the oath of Tyndareus compel him to fight a war on two fronts: so he rules. They will lose the Cretans or the Pylians: make their choice. 

Ambrosios is not available when the message is sent.

Cloak drawn over his frame, he stalks around the Pylian camp, sharp eyes seeking out the Trojan girl.

Once, when she was a little girl, her father had taken her into town. There had been some sort of unrest, and there were siege-towers, now mostly abandoned. A soldier had let her climb one, let her walk across and play at climbing the wall. 

The important thing, he'd said, was not to look down. 

She's been borne up so high so fast, she doesn't understand why, Ophellios is- gone or changed or mad or something - the important thing is not to look down. 

She's not just a slave-girl any more. She's going to be a queen. It's madness, sheer madness, this isn't done, she knows the camp is in some kind of uproar but nobody's moved against the king, her husband, just yet; apparently he'd done something or given some order and now they're silent. 

She hasn't spoken to him since that fateful night. 

Her voice is mostly better now. 

A grand tent has been set up for her, guarded and filled with maids. She can mostly only move about there. 

She does, however, sometimes have something she hasn't had in many years: privacy. Her own small chamber. 

Sometimes she likes to sit in it and weep; today, she is returning there only to fall into sleep exhausted. 

She steps into her small haven, drawing the curtain shut behind her–

And she feels a presence behind her, and a hand clasped over her mouth.

“Do not scream.” He utters into her ear quietly. “I am not here to hurt you – you have my word as King of Ithaca. I only want to talk. Do you understand?”

She freezes. 

The thing that keeps her and her child alive and free is - 

- is probably not to scream anyway, even if Ophellios will be angry that she did not; for a king who would dare break into the women's quarters of another king, as is more than grounds for the sort of feud that burns whole countries, is also a king who would slit her throat rather than be caught, and the near-certainty of that is worse than the uncertain prospect of her - husband - being angry. 

It's not as though he can simply change his mind now. 

She nods. 

He relaxes, and lets go.

“I knew you were smart. That’s how you’ve survived here this long, am I correct?”

Ambrosios smiles at her, and… she feels safe, with that smile. Almost like with an older brother, or a father.

“King Aetos had his concerns about your wellbeing. I came to see if you were alive.”

She relaxes fractionally. Only fractionally. She lowered her guard once before, and that was- maybe it wasn't a mistake considering where she ended up, but it wasn't pleasant for her. 

"I am well. That sounds... astonishingly kind, of King Aetos," she says very carefully. 

He doesn’t respond – only looks around, taking in the ornament of this place; the lavish fabrics; the jewels in her hair.

Strange attire for a slave girl.

“I am afraid, my lady, that with the state of security in this place we do not have much time before I am caught. We have no communication with the court of Pylos. I need you to tell me everything.”

Should she?

What lies should she be telling? 

But if she refuses he might - 

"If my King and husband does not wish to communicate with you," she begins carefully, "then it is not clear to me, that I would not offend him and the immortal gods and Hera, guardian of marriage, if I were to betray his trust."

“Husband?”

Oh fuck.

“You are to be Queen of Pylos?”

What in the depths of Tartarus–

“Well. I congratulate you.”

"Thank you, my Lord."

She regards him warily. 

"My Lord - forgive me - what is all this about?"

He sighs, beginning to pace.

“Your king has fallen silent. More than that, he has made it very clear he wants nothing to do with the King of Crete, and all Achaeans by extension. My lady – this could and likely will lose us the war.”

Ambrosios falls still, taking gently her hand.

“I implore you: tell me of my friend. I have known him since he was younger than even the boy you met. What troubles him? How can it be mended? What is happening?”

“You carry the heir to the throne.” 

So Ophellios made arrangements to secure his line – to secure the mother of his child, slave girl or not. That part sounds like him, at least. 

Nothing else that she has said does.

He pushes thoughts of his own wife from his mind, carrying their child in the early months, it was late summer and everything seemed like it would stay golden forever, his son would be eight years old now–

“When did this behaviour begin, Diameda?”

"I'm- not sure- he was- a little different after he came back, I thought, but then- that night- it was like a different man in my ma- my husband's skin. I- I had never known him to strike me before - not even in the darkest times - and he - I thought -"

On second thought, she is going to stop resisting the urge to break into tears. It's not that people never hurt you just for crying, but they usually do do it less.

Something in his cold heart softens. He draws her into his strong arms, and there the future Queen can cry, and she can be safe.

“What night was this?” He asks softly.

She pulls away as soon as she can bring herself to - if she's discovered like this she can explain away him breaking into her chambers, she can't explain weeping in his arms. 

"It was- the night after he had that argument, or whatever it was, with the Lord Aetos."

“What happened? Were you present for this argument, as you describe it?” He hands her a cloth to wipe her eyes as he speaks. “Whatever might be happening now to Ophellios, I think it stems from that night.”

"I-"

"I was not - there - it was very late at night, I was asleep - but I remember... raised voices, someone called for guards - I was afraid, I only huddled in my bedclothes and waited, and then all was quiet - I thought perhaps I had dreamt it."

“Is there anything else you can recall? Was anything amiss, when you saw him next? Did he say anything?”

His manner is intense – he takes a small step forward, his eyes not leaving her own.

She backs up - space between them might give her half a second to scream - 

"I- I got into bed with him, and touched him, and the next I knew, he had me by the throat - I thought I would die - I remember, I remember he was bruised, his face - his fingernails, they were broken, the floor marked, I think he scratched it, I know not why - I don't, I don't know, I should have gone in that night when I awoke but I feared to disrupt the business of soldiers-"

Aetos… what did you do?

“I have asked much from you tonight, my lady. Forgive me. I should go now before I am seen, but if I may offer a word of advice. This knowledge, this precious gift of yours – that you are carrying the king’s child, that you are to be wed to him soon – must remain secret until you are in a safer position. It makes you a target.”

"A target for whom??"

“Anyone. Anyone who might wish to harm the king, or Pylos itself, or even you. Someone may covet your new position, for example, or wish to strike at Ophellios’ heart. Now that he has withdrawn his army, I fear the turn that this diplomatic situation will take.”

...

"Thank you," she whispers. "Good luck."

She is going to get guards. And people to taste her food.

Anything she can, to live another day. 

He nods. Bows down low and kisses her hand.

And he stands tall, draws his cloak around himself again, and departs.

Before Diameda can even draw the curtains closed, there is shouting. Armed guards rush forward, pointing spears at the shadowy figure of the King of Ithaca.

“Show yourself, intruder!”

…

He lowers his hood and raises his hands.

The two of them are brought before the King of Pylos.

At first, he does not seem to pay attention to them. He sits by the fire, back turned, plucking at the lyre as though in some kind of trance. 

The strings are stained red. Fresh blood drips down them, glistening almost in gold. He does not seem to notice that his fingertips are torn.

And then he turns his head partially, attention diverted at last – but he is not looking quite at them. The song continues softly.

There is an expectant air about him – the sense of something pressing, dangerous, like the seconds it takes in battle to react before a sword’s blow strikes you in the chest.

It's a familiar motion, to think very very very quickly. 

She's seconds away from this reflecting on her - the King isn't the man she knew, obviously, but he's - a thing made out of him, is the way she's been imagining it. 

If she defends herself or makes excuses - the old Ophellios might have listened. 

This one-

He's frightening, powerful, like Ophellios wasn't; he's also in many ways simpler. More inclined to take things to extremes - but more inclined to go along with them as well. As long as she steers it. 

Sell Ambrosios out? Tempting, but too obvious - and she thinks this being might be inclined to grow wrathful, and defend his old friend if he is attacked, for all that otherwise he might attack him himself. 

So-

"My King, I pray you, show mercy to the Ithacan: he is only afraid for you and for me, and brought an urgent warning from Pallas's wisdom of a terrible danger to my life, of secret foes who seek to murder your heir. He did no harm, nor showed anything but respect. I beseech you, accept tribute from him; his aid, and gold in store, and support in council, for his intrusion."

The unnerving melody is all that they hear for a long time.

And then–

“Did he touch you?” He asks quietly, as though his voice were part of the song.

"Not a hair on her head, Ophellios," he interrupts smoothly. This has gone far enough, and he needs to wrest back control right now. "You of all people, you who have known me all these long years, know there is no woman other than my wife of whom I ever think, nor would I ever wish harm upon one for whom you cared, so deep is my friendship for you. I only worry for you, and wish to offer the hand of friendship once again."

“Friendship is a fool’s game.”

He turns back around, face hidden now from view.

“Go, Diameda. Return to me tonight.”

"Your will, my Lord," she says, bowing, and flees departs in a submissively queenly manner. 

2 + 2 = ...

"Aetos did something, didn't he."

The music stops abruptly.

Well, he's said it now. 

Athena once said that was his curse: he saw fast, thought fast, and, alas, spoke fast. 

Well, better to run with it now than try to walk it back. 

There have been more than enough mysteries, and it's time to start untangling this whole mess before it tangles any more. 

"Old friend, maybe he broke your trust, and that is a dreadful thing, but do not spurn all men over one man's foul temper and wretched stubbornness.  Speak plainly, and let the Achaeans broker a peace, and soothe your mind."

“Speak not that name here.”

The guards glance between themselves.

"...All right."

"All right. This I will do; and you tell me plainly what troubles you, and we shall see if Athena's cunning and the strength of the Achaeans suffice to resolve it."

He lets go of the instrument. Looks down at his hands.

“You presume much, King of Ithaca.”

At last, Ophellios faces him.

“You stand now in my court. You would be wise to tell me what you were truly doing in my queen’s private dwelling.”

"Ophellios, are you bleeding?"

“Do not change the subject.”

He holds up his hands. "She had not been seen for days. You had not been seen for days. All we knew was that no messages reached you - in truth, Ophellios, I feared you might have been killed. It was out of concern for you that I sought her, nothing more."

His gaze nearly burns. “That was by design, King of Ithaca. You see now that I am alive; leave this place, then, and do not disturb me again.”

It's still not as scary as the look Athena gets when he says he doesn't know. 

"See reason, old friend. This is hardly less concerning than you being dead, in truth! Have you not seen the horrors we incur when we keep foolish secrets and snipe at each other from the shadows? I have taken pains to defend you from the whispers of those who call you traitor; such things are respected, among the gods. See that now, and let not this matter, whatever it is, cause any more strife. Whatever seems so terrible to you alone will be a lesser burden once it is shared."

“Your efforts are doomed. I will share with you nothing.”

He adjusts a string on the lyre. Ambrosios is losing his attention.

“You call upon our past friendship; go now, in its name. My part in this war is over.”

Well, Aetos might just possibly have a point. 

He can sense the change in the air, in... is that truly Ophellios? 

None of it quite fits. He can see now why Aetos says this is not the true King - but this is so different from the way he was but a few days past... 

He departs. 

His shoulders slump. 

The king sits in silence for a while–

And with his eyes closed he begins to play that old song again; the one he can never find the ending to. 

"Well? Are you satisfied now, Ithacan?"

“You know me, old friend. I am never satisfied.”

They head together to the centre of the camp where the other kings await them. The black ships loom large and cast shadows over their path.

“At your recommendation I spoke to the woman,  Diameda – and then we were caught, and taken to the king’s court to be questioned. Ophellios is not… himself. But it began long after he seemingly returned from the dead. Something happened that night you entered his chambers, Aetos; and he has not been the same since.”

He glances at the man beside him when is he isn’t looking.

“I received your message, by the way.”

"Bah. Before you were convinced I was imagining things; now you see that you were wrong, and yet you cling on stubbornly to your old conviction, yielding only slightly. I am no student of Pallas, but I think she would say that you should look at which way you will plainly be swayed, the more you learn, and be so swayed now. Or must we wait for you to learn more before you admit what you already know?"

“I know that you are hiding something from me.”

He smiles then, as though merely jesting.

“Be careful what you wish for, Lord Aetos.”

Leaving behind them their retinues, they enter the great hut that houses the Council of Kings.

It has been eight years of war. Their numbers are dwindled, some places empty, new faces replacing old.

The chair of the King of Pylos gathers dust on the far side of the chamber. Ambrosios assumes his seat next to it, near parallel to the King of Crete’s position beside Lord Menelaus. Lord Achilles sits by the Queen, brooding as he does.

There are other absences; the room is quiet, and the war goes ill.

"We are losing."

She's very blunt. 

"We are no closer to taking Ilium, which is to say that we are losing the war. We have not been able to tighten the siege any more, and plainly they have some means of supply, some god or cunning ploy we cannot discover. Every month, we dwindle, now, slowly, constantly."

"Rightly do you speak. I have seen strange things in Troy, my friends, but perhaps the strangest is that it is this misplaced woman among you who is the only one with any fire for war in her belly. Will you sit here and be shamed? Before, and again, and again, and now, I counsel that we simply rise up and take the city, or be taken in turn. I begin to lose patience."

“We have lost the King of Pylos.” His eyes flicker to Aetos. “He refuses to fight. I do not see how we may overpower the Trojans now with brute strength alone. My scouts indicate that something brews in the citadel; we need a plan.”

"Eight years of plans. Of counsel and schemes and raids and stratagems. When will you see that your answer lies only in the pitiless bronze, Ithacan?"

“I understand that we are tired. The gods know that I am too. But the Trojans currently outnumber us.” His head begins to ache. “Pallas advises me that we would not win man to man.”

"Very well. What does the Grey-Eyed one suggest, then, Ithacan king? Does She perhaps offer us some device by which we can at last test our steel against the Trojans, and emerge victorious? Does She counsel some course of action? Or have you nothing but ill tidings?"

“Not ill tidings. Strategy.” He leans forward. “If we can convince the King of Pylos to fight, we may have the advantage once more.”

"I may as well be plain: I have held back until now. What sits in that hut is not the King of Pylos, Ambrosios, and you now know that too; the true King would not hide himself away, would not dare have you hauled before him like a common criminal."

He looks at him warily. “Whatever he is, he commands the army of Pylos. At the moment my concern is keeping us all alive.”

"Then the question is whether or not we wish to placate and appease this creature by some flattery or bribery. For my own part I would consider it beneath the dignity of the Kings of the Achaeans."

Are the Kings of the Achaeans so easy to manipulate?

Yes. Yes, they are, when the speaker is Aetos King. Perhaps some among them see it, the weakness that it is to be so easily moved to wrath, to the defence of honour, which is after all so terribly easy to impugn; but if so, they do not say. It would mark one out as uniquely vulnerable, you see. 

“Mind what you say, Aetos. As far as we know, he is no creature but the King.”

“Will nobody ask why the Pylian does not fight?” He sighs. “Must I do it?”

"Just as you please, Lord Menelaus. Only beware: he does not take kindly to visitors."

“I will take no advice from you.” He states simply, as though he tires of the very fact of it. His sister in the eyes of the gods may as well be dead with her husband.

“Lords Aetos; Ambrosios. You seem to be the experts on the subject of the Pylian. Will this lose me Helen?”

"No. There is one more concern. King or not, he slew my messenger."

He pauses to let that sink in. 

"A man who had done no wrong; a good man and true. A man sent only to extend the hand of friendship. I have confirmed this many times over. If you go there, Menelaus, it may be your end, for all that you would go as a friend, seeking only to speak. Such a crime offends the very immortal gods, fellow Kings. It cannot be suffered lightly."

He makes the symbol of warding against evil. 

“The man has fallen indeed.”

“Your comrade will be remembered. And rest assured I condemn this act. But when I went to the King of Pylos, and appealed to his friendship, he allowed me to return to my camp without a second thought. I do not believe he will harm the rest of us, only...”

He doesn’t have enough to go on here. Not enough to take back control from Aetos.

What secret does the King of Crete hide? What had happened that night he fought with Ophellios?

“He has been vocal about his wrath towards you, Aetos King. Meaning there may be a way to convince him to work with us again, so long as he need not see you.”

He looks around. “There are many possibilities, Lords; need I remind you that the Pylian army is one of our greatest, outnumbering even that of Ithaca, or Crete? Do you not remember how valuable the young king was as an ally, how he was crucial to our greatest success yet in this war?”

He scans his friend. “Why does the King of Pylos rage towards you so, Lord Aetos?”

"Enough of this! That he spared your life is surprising, but hardly enough to redeem him; indeed in normal times it would be a killing insult! Whether he nurses some grudge against me or not is irrelevant; if indeed he had but slain a man of Crete out of hand, I should be wrathful indeed, but not unable to forgive, for the war's sake. But by the gods, this animal or spirit killed a messenger, and not well! Such a thing is in violation of our most sacred laws, obscene to the immortal gods; we are at risk ourselves if we do not spurn him!"

He finds himself nodding.

He is so tired.

Does it all even matter, really?

Ambrosios sinks back into his seat, nursing the headache that only grows. No matter what he says, the gathered kings seem only to grow more fanatical.

There is only one strategy that remains: they will need to suffer losses. 

Isn’t that right, Athena?

Perhaps then Ambrosios can return to this matter with renewed evidence. Maybe then he can find out what happened to the soul of his friend.

For now, they must plan the course of the brewing fight with what manpower they have left. On that matter, at least, the Lords of Achaea will listen to him.

May the gods preserve them all.

The battle does not go well. 

His injuries are great. Bed-bound he lies in dreamless sleep.

But his men are still alive.

The rest of them have not been so lucky. The Spartan camp is alight for days as pyre after pyre is burned.

A serving girl lies broken at his feet. He comes somewhat to his senses and lets her crawl away.

Hector must have known, somehow, of their position. There were simply not enough of them to fend the Trojans off. Not without taking heavy losses.

They need the Pylian.

They are unanimous in their voice when next they gather.

“Where is he?”

He is untouched, of course, not a single hair out of place. The Trojan swords broke on him, and the mud at his feet was scarlet.

But he is only one man, and the Trojans have learned something now, how to channel and buffet him, how to keep their discipline, and even he is not stronger than twenty men. 

"Will he help?"

He is weary, but unbowed. 

"I do not know. On either count. My friends, I am loath to say it, but we face Achilles's choice: one last push, until death? Or turn and go from this place?"

She fared well enough in battle. Some ribs are broken, but they will mend. 

And the many who doubted her are quieter now. 

"No. No, neither of those, Aetos. I do not understand it either, but the will of the gods is clear enough: it is not Ophellios they spurn."

They all turn with black gaze to Aetos.

"Ha. So be it. Do you send me forth from this place, then? Shall I take the Cretans and go? Or am I to die here, if a god grants you victory, if enough of you partake in this folly, if you are driven to such terrible audacity as to draw swords against me here, seeing as indeed you have no respect any more for inviolability and the wrath of the gods? Indeed perhaps it was your sympathy for a man so black-hearted as to kill a messenger that turned immortal Zeus against you. Make your choice now then, Achaeans."

“You will make the choice for us, Aetos King.”

“Will you leave us now, sail away in your black ships?”

“Will you parley, offer yourself before the Lord of Pylos?”

Their voices are like the thunder that once raged above the blasted hillside, long ago.

“Or will you do nothing?”

"Ha. Parley I would, if such were not to throw away my own life. In battle I would be glad to die; but not slaughtered like a lamb at the hand of a cursed man, having come unarmed in embassy, and betrayed. Therefore find some assurance, Achaeans, and I will go to the lord of Pylos; or else I shall go all in panoply, with my own guard, and the forces of the Cretans set to fall upon the Pylian camp in vengeance should I not return. So indeed shall it be; in either case, black war looms if you would have me parley with a fallen thing, a wolf in the guise of a man."

“Aetos,” he speaks. “You caused this. You must now fix it.”

The will of the kings is as iron.

"Ah. So indeed like the Pylian you turn upon the messenger; it was I who first brought you this ill news, that it is not Ophellios who wears the Pylian crown, and you would not believe it, and now that you are obliged to it is me you blame. Very well, Achaeans; my oath does not oblige me to obey all your whims, and I have half a mind to turn and go, but I will humour you yet."

And so he will gather his personal guard, and tell them straight: that to march into the camp is probable death. 

Not a single one of them does anything but gird his loins and volunteer. 

And so he comes to the house of Ophellios.

Warriors flock around the Pylian camp like ravens. When the Cretan embassy is sighted, they close in around the border, impenetrable. Their shields interlock; their spears point defensively.

A long-haired general speaks from behind the wall of men.

“You will turn from this place, King of Crete.”

He holds up a hand - if his own men draw swords, they are only one carelessly-loosed arrow or javelin thrown by a nervous man from ruin. 

"I will not. The war fares ill, and this matter is too grave to fear even the armies of Pylos. With your King would I speak. I come only to talk. Are you not, Pylians, concerned? I see from your grave looks and knowing glances that you are. Are you to sit alone on this plain, tasting not of war, whiling away your lives and staring at trees? Are you not soldiers of the Achaeans?"

The general hesitates only for a heartbeat.

“We follow orders from our king. You are not to trespass. I will give you one final warning.”

"And then, soldier, will you start a war against Crete, against perhaps all of Greece? Or will you rather take counsel, and send one of yours, a swift messenger, to tell the king an embassy comes?"

“The king demands your head.”

There is a pause as the general mutters something quickly to one of his men.

“But a messenger has been sent, King of Crete. For now, our oath is inviolate. You will not pass.”

"Good. Let us all wait patiently, then."

The Cretans are very good at doing not very much, as lifetime soldiers are. They can do not very much in an extremely frightening way, in fact.

The minutes pass agonisingly by.

The Pylian guard do not break their formation.

After some time the messenger returns, whispering something into the his superior’s ear.

There is a brief exchange between them before the general faces once again the Cretan emissaries.

“Our king allows you entry provided that certain conditions are met. Are you willing to comply?”

"That depends, of course, on what those conditions are."

“Your Majesty; you are to enter alone, with all weapons stripped from you, barefoot.”

"If those are the king's wishes." Of course they're not, the king is long dead, but he knows what needs to be said. 

He turns to his men.

"You know what your duty is." A long look, and a knowing one. 

He will go to see the king, then. 

He crosses the border.

The king’s guard search him thoroughly, confiscating his sword and finding every hidden weapon about his royal person.

They take his cloak then, and his shoes.

The ground is sharp and rocky. Aetos is escorted inside by ten men.

He waits for him on his throne.

The young king is all but obscured from view; row after row of armed guards stand between them as the Cretan is led inside. Aetos is afforded only glimpses of the man he once called friend.

It's not his first time going unshod. He was a man before he could afford shoes. 

"Pylian king. The Achaeans cannot win our war without you; why then do you linger here but refuse to fight? The oath of Tyndareus was binding upon your father; will you not honour it? Will you see him go unavenged, for whatever cause you have?"

…

The guardsmen shift, and for a second, Aetos can see him clearly.

Hair short now, skin pale, eyes rimmed with black–

He looks nothing like Ophellios.

He is not too proud to admit to himself that he feels a prickle of fear - but at least his doubts are dispelled. 

He won't repeat himself, just wait for an answer. 

He has had nightmares about that face.

And here it is now, daring to come to him again.

After everything. After the message that was sent; a man’s heart, freshly torn from his breast, just as the Cretan had done to him.

His warning could not have been clearer.

Ophellios stands silently; and with the elegance of a god he treads forward through the sea of warriors. Ahead. Only there.

He throws down a sword. It lands at Aetos’ bare feet with a clatter.

There is a whine of steel as he draws his own.

"No. You will not kill me. And I will not dishonour the gods by coming here in embassy and raising a sword against you; nor will you persist in this, if you have any wisdom."

“You are found wanting. You will duel. Pick up your sword.”

"And how can that end well, for me? If a god grants you victory," like You, bastard, "I shall die, and if by chance I prevail and send you down to Hades, what then? Then surely shall the Pylians go from the plains, and even if I escape, I shall go no better off than I came."

“Command of my armies you will rightfully gain should you slay me.”

"As you wish."

He takes up the sword, and joins battle. 

He is larger than Ophellios was, stronger; unless this thing has some divine power, in close combat like this the advantage is his. 

But he is weary, and worn down by wounds.

He must finished this fast. 

He presses forwards - if he can lock the thing down in the bind, his strength will be enough to finish the bout. 

He hisses through his teeth when he is close enough, "This is vengeance, you should know: for the death of a nobler man, and for what you have done to his memory, his honour."

He moves with terrifying speed, sword almost a blur.

The one who wears the crown of Pylos is stronger than the boy ever used to be. In Aetos’ weakened state, he matches him blow for blow, and the Cretan gradually loses ground.

At those words, the impassive gaze concedes to cool rage. Their blades lock together, shrieking.

“Speak not of honour.”

Ophellios shoves, and Aetos staggers back–

He twirls his sword and swipes swiftly.

The pain sears through Aetos’ shoulder. A deep gash begins to bleed in sheets.

Ophellios’ own blood on his brow gleams as though golden.

He takes a pace back; and panting, the two kings circle each other.

Ah. 

So this is to be his end. 

No mortal strength, no mere muscle, drives such blows; his arms tremble beneath them, and his sword is notched. 

Well, no matter; perhaps certain tales speak true, and there shall be an Elysian plain, wherein by valour and the friendship of the gods he might gain entry; and perchance there he can tell Ophellios that he died seeking mightily to avenge him. 

In the meantime, then, time is not his ally, and neither is nearness. His only chance - 

Ophellios is younger, less experienced. Perhaps the thing pretending to be him is limited the same way?

He rushes, feints, hacks down at the thing's legs in a strange style he saw used by a wandering soldier from far to the east, many years ago. 

He lifts his foot and stomps down, and the Cretan’s sword snaps in two.

How strange, that this moment might be the most calm he's felt in months. 

He looks into those monstrous eyes. 

"I see, now, that it was not mine to best you here: for indeed are the struggles of mortals small, in the eyes of the gods. Slay me then: send me down to Hades, and let me be judged as I have lived."

Very well. 

He takes him by the collar, forces him to his knees–

and standing tall above him, both hands white with their grip on the pommel,

he presses the tip of his silver blade to the King of Crete’s throat.

They all wait with bated breath for the moment to come. 

He cannot do it.

Ophellios takes a step back, almost staggering.

The room is silent. The pressure of the air feels almost like it will break his lungs. He sinks to his knees, panting, leaning against his sword.

And his voice is heavy as though drowning.

“Leave us.” 

Reluctantly, murmuring amongst themselves, everybody will leave. Every guard, every servant,

until the two of them are alone together in that room.

He hasn't closed his eyes, hasn't taken them off the King's merciless blue. 

He doesn't now, either, not as rank after rank files confusedly out, not after they are alone in the tent and the silence stretches. 

Was there...

He must be deceiving himself.

The old painful hope rises up in him-

He knows it for folly, but-

"...Ophellios?"

He cannot help the instinct to respond.

He looks up when called.

He looks away.

Stands slowly, his limbs as ice. The sword remains tightly gripped in his hand.

And it is like walking against the current of a roaring river, but he treads steadily towards his throne and sits heavily upon it.

His tongue is leaden in his mouth.

"It would be best for you to kill me."

Leaning back into the chair, he closes his eyes. 

When he was a child once, he swam out too far into the sea. A current swept him away and he was crushed under, pressed up against the rocks, until a servant rescued him just before the point of drowning.

The feeling is the same – but distant, almost. Like he is feeling it through a pane of crystal.

“I know.”

And it just comes out in a flood. 

"What happened?"

“Do you continue to feign ignorance?”

"I never feigned - I could not have imagined such a thing - I mean to ask how you could possibly have survived."

…

“I did not.”

"Then... what are you, now?"

The king lowers his head. There, in the polished silver of his sword, he sights his own reflection.

“Ascended.”

He does not recognise the face staring back at him.

“And fallen.”

He sheaths the blade, weary.

“Go now, King of Crete. Your revelations come too late. I am the thing you made.”

"I do not understand. None- none of this makes any sense. What will become of us? Of all of us?"

“Your bones will join your forefathers and crumble to ash. I will marry a woman I do not love. The gods will decide our fates; I see only threads.”

His eyes are glassy.

“You were warned, before you made your choice. What comes now is your doing.”

"You call that a warning?"

His voice cuts through Aetos’ remark. “I told you that you cannot afford civil war. You ignored this caution. Now you wish to reverse the consequences.”

"Is this war, then? Even now? Is there nothing that could unmake this sin, is there no way to turn back from this path, for all our sakes?"

“For the sake of the Achaeans we will not fight. But any friendship between our kingdoms is over.”

The fire casts Ophellios’ shadow over the room.

“Do not come near me again. I will not show mercy a third time.”

"Then you will rejoin the war? We need not be friends to see our work here done."

He looks at the man, silhouetted now by the flames, and wonders how it can have come to this. 

"...Third?"

“No oath binds me. I will stay here until I rot.”

At Aetos’ question, he falls silent for a long time. He grows agitated, shifting, flexing his fingers.

The answer seems to force its way out of his lips. “I nearly slew you in your sleep.”

Then why does he keep the Pylians here at all? The men are growing restless, obviously - it may not be so long before they revolt against him. It has happened before. Agamemnon - the old Agamemnon - had thought it might happen, if he gave up when the winds were against them. But his best chance - his best chance is to understand - 

"Why did you not?"

…

“Folly.”

"And why then do you stay here, if you will not fight? Why not go back to Pylos, or dismiss your men there?"

His breathing grows more laboured.

“It is in fate.”

"I find it hard to believe that it is your destiny to sit here on your thumbs while the rest of the Achaeans fight."

“Do you–” He swallows, looking up at him. “Do you ever grow used to it?”

“I would not say so, no. I would rather say that one grows stronger, braver. Courage is a virtue, grown rather than tempered.”

What he does now is complex, as is not his way; and dangerous, which certainly is. 

"Not just yet. I do not believe you will kill me, who just now declined to; and indeed in truth if you did it would go worse than you know." He's not, after all, an idiot. "Besides which it would give me the satisfaction, as I know you do not wish to give. Only answer me: what is it that you intend to do? I cannot imagine you sitting here idle, and there is only so long that you can, and remain king: be it soon or late your warriors will come to fear for their honour."

“To what end do you remain here, Cretan? I will say nothing. You may as well kill me.”

"I made my own choice long ago." He could indeed have done it, that black night, could have squeezed and waited a minute's span and been done. "Nor do I believe you will not speak, indeed in ordinary times you can hardly be stopped. Whatever it is you desire now, how will sitting here idle bring it about? What god is it that drives you to such vain expenditure of your kingdom's blood and treasure?"

The pressure in the air presses against his lungs again, spirits of the wind crushing slowly.

His flesh remains mortal, as far as he understands it. He still bleeds when cut; terrible dreams keep him awake; instinct still keeps him alive, even when reason tells him to fill his clothes with rocks and wade into the sea.

There is much he does not understand. Behind his eyes he Sees only the glimpses Apollo affords him.

He does not know why the Cretan remains here. Perhaps to torture him more, like a cat to a mouse, knowing that deep down Ophellios cannot resist him. 

He can hardly look at his face. Something fearful lies behind the older man’s eyes, something more than the damage left by the assault – blue-grey eyes like a storm – and again the Pylian king does not understand.

It makes his flesh crawl. It makes his chest seize.

…

“Something–” he grinds out, as though resisting every word. “Keeps me.”

Every word he speaks is a risk, a risk that Ophellios might justifiably cut him down on the spot, and yet...

He takes a step closer.

He towers still above the boy. 

"And what is it? What is it that binds your will, keeps you here, helpless and waiting for it to be over, what holds you down, Ophellios? What spell, what foul god's will, binds you here, and keeps you from the battlefield where your brother Achaeans fight and die? What is it that keeps you here, small, pinned, helpless, waiting?"

“One step closer and I will shoot.”

But his voice is rough, low, weak.

The memories threaten to tear him open. Head thrown hard to the floor, wrists pinned above his head, the relentless grip about his neck–

Something else – more than memory, omen – forces its way through him, clawing out of his soul, out of his throat like a parasite–

He bends sharply then, almost convulsing on his throne. His head snaps up, beads of sweat like pearls on too-pale skin – and then down again, tucked into his chest. The pain comes as a strangled sound, bitten down, down until his tongue bleeds–

Something else speaks through him.

“GO.”

Ah. 

He has always been reckless, never stupid. 

"I see. Perhaps there was a little truth to my folly, after all."

He stares into those black-rimmed eyes, blue like a storm-wracked sky. 

"Is that still you in there, Ophellios? You have strength beyond what I ever thought a man could have; be now then a spearman and a warrior brave, and master your own mind, whatever god may reach out a claw to bend your thoughts. You have made a decision, have you not?"

He takes a step forward, what might be his last. 

"You have chosen not to kill me - hold fast to your choice now."

Another step. 

"The darkness can be broken. The fog can be lifted."

Another step. 

"Do not take your eyes off me."

The arrow is pointed at him before he can take another step.

He breathes like a dying man, eyes wild. Tears come and mix with golden blood.

“Plague me no more.”

He doesn't freeze, but doesn't take another step yet. 

"I see, I see it all now." The relief is rising off him like steam. "An obvious device enough, god or monster; and yet one that escaped us all, thinking not that both I and Ambrosios could speak truly at once. I see now how you possess this man's body, and I shall see you driven out; leave now, then, and preserve what honour you have, before Phoebus Apollo sees now what you do, before Lord Zeus brings down His fist in wrath. The arm you have stolen trembles now, I see; perhaps the true King's will opposes your own. Can you keep your aim long enough to kill me? Indeed, can you release those treacherous fingers faster than I can spring and leap and deliver a blow, and keep you bound, helpless, until in time you leave the boy be? How lucky, god or monster, do you feel?"

The grief suffocates.

“You are wrong. You have always been– wrong.”

He would sooner take his own life than be touched again, held down–

H̸i̸s̴ ̸e̴a̴r̸t̸h̶l̴y̵ ̶f̵a̸t̶h̷e̸r̷’̸s̸ ̵b̷l̴o̸o̷d̴ ̵o̵n̸ ̵t̵h̷e̸ ̵g̷r̴o̶u̷n̶d̸.̷ ̵T̴h̶e̵ ̴s̷w̸o̶r̵d̷ ̴t̷h̵a̸t̶ ̶t̶o̸o̶k̸ ̵t̵h̴e̶ ̸k̸i̵n̷g̴’̴s̴ ̶l̵i̶f̷e̶.̸ ̷A̶r̴m̷o̸u̵r̶ ̷l̴i̷k̸e̸ ̷t̸h̴e̶ ̵w̸i̵n̷g̸s̷ ̶o̸f̷ ̴H̸e̸r̶m̶e̶s̵.̸

He cries out again, and the arrow flies–

But misses its mark.

It hurts – whatever tries to tear itself from his dreams, it hurts – the pain is of a different sort, something in his very soul being ripped from him.

Unwilling hands drop the bow.

He feels Aetos’ presence like a weight on the world above him as– something, something takes away his ability to defend himself.

Is this his fate? Is this why he was kept here?

Do the gods laugh at him? Is he but another Ganymede?

He would rather die than be helpless again.

He would rather–

He sinks to the ground, a voice that isn’t his own coming in gasps, echoing supernaturally through the chamber. “I am here to take a life. It is in fate– t̷h̶e̷ ̶r̶u̸i̴n̴ ̸o̶f̵ ̷t̵h̶e̴ ̴H̷o̵u̵s̵e̷ ̷o̴f̵ ̸P̷r̴i̸a̸m̵.̴”̴

And before he can take his sword and run himself through,

consciousness slips away from him.

He rushes forwards, supporting the boy's head and lifting him from the throne down to the floor. 

His heartbeat is fast and thready, the breath almost gone from him. His eyes move fast beneath sunken lids, as though in desperation.

...He could run him through now, and walk out from this place as master of the Pylians and their armies. He could win the war for the Achaeans - and be judged for it, but what is that, next to victory in all the war? He is a wicked man now in any case, no matter what he does next. 

It would even be a mercy to Ophellios, he thinks, to what is left of him. 

Instead he...

Arranges the king's limbs respectfully, like a fallen warrior, and makes of his cloak a pillow for that shorn head, remembering as he does the softness of golden locks. He bids a slave to go to find a healer. 

And he leaves, leaves the king's dwelling, leaves the Pylian camp, and sits alone among his own men and stares, stares into the fire and remembers. 

“I had to teach Athena how to hold a baby today,” he chuckles, drawing her in closer. “Me. Teaching Pallas. She had the same look you do when Argos slobbers all over your hands.”

Her hair is so beautiful, so much like copper; he tucks it gently behind her ear with hands that have not yet known war. His wedding ring glints.

“He truly does have your hair, you know.”

She looks no older, her hair untouched by grey and her face not lined with age. 

"And he has your stubbornness. It doesn't surprise me Athena was upset. She probably thinks one of you is enough." She kisses the tiny forehead, smiling when he catches a finger in his baby fist. 

“I do not know whether to take offence for myself or for our son.” Ambrosios takes the child and lifts him up. He tugs on his mother’s finger; with careful hands he can be pried away.

“Besides,” he gestures gently with the baby’s arm like a puppet. “You agreed to marry me.”

"Well, perhaps it is unwise by definition to do so, but I happen to disagree with Pallas about how many of you there should be in this world." She wraps an arm around him, now, enclosing the baby in the warm space between them as she leans forwards to kiss his lips. "My love, when will you be home? How can it take so long to win your war?"

The room suddenly loses colour but for his family.

He sighs, and with pained expression presses his forehead against his wife’s.

“Let us speak not of this. Let us only enjoy being together.”

Her fingers tighten, her fingernails dig in. "No. You have never heard your own son's voice, my King. You have not felt your wife's touch in years, and my body aches for yours. The time for fond memory is past. The time for missing us is past. Think only of your homecoming, now, and make it be so."

“My love,” he pleads, clasping her wrist where her hand lays on his cheek. “The war goes ill. I am half-alive. The gods thwart every device, and there is more division among the kingdoms than ever.”

"Oh, my dear," she purrs, cupping his face, "then it sounds like a time for you to think of something. You have tarried long enough now, my love. This problem is not beyond your wisdom, let alone Athena's. Come on now. You can think of something, can't you? All you need is to lay low Troy - are the men who imagine defences for that city truly cleverer than you? I think not. You need only find one thing, one way to creep beyond those walls."

“It is not the men, but the gods I fear. The Trojans have made a weapon of divine intervention. Ares provoked first blood; Apollo demanded my life on a pyre; Zeus keeps us all in eternal deadlock.”

There is no fire here; no smoke. Only the crisp air of rocky Ithaca and the sweet perfume of his queen’s hair. He all but leans into her, a great man in the palm of her hand.

“It is impossible.”

The child begins to cry.

She scratches him lightly, rocking the child with her other hand. 

"Then that is the field on which you must fight as well, my love. You have not yet come to understand the mind of the gods by thought alone - perhaps you never will. Perhaps it comes only from experience. How could any of the gods be swayed to your side?"

Instinctively he tends to their son, but the tears only continue.

“I know not, my love.” He screws his eyes shut as though in grief. “Galora – for anything to be simple– shh, Iskandros, it is alright– we would have to hide entirely from Their view.”

"Indeed," she says, and her tone in that moment reminds him bizarrely of the midwife, that terrible black-and-red night their son was born, "and what is it that you know about Their view? What can They see, and not see, and what could blind Them or turn Their gaze away?"

“Troy falls when you hide troops in a wooden horse that they accept as tribute. You slay them in their sleep–” 

How could this be? Could it truly be so simple?

Does he dare?

It comes to him almost in a breath. “Something new.”

"The gods listen in many places. Have you not thought that if a god dwells truly in Their temples all across the world then They must exist in many parts and one? The attention of the gods is divided, then, and it follows that They listen best to things They have heard before, and this is why we have such specific rites and prayers. And things devoted to another god, under the power of that god - these the other immortals see hardly at all."

It’s… insane. He will never be able to convince the other kings.

But in his chest swells with hope anew, and he embraces his wife and presses kisses to her cheeks.

Their son has stopped crying.

“I will be there soon, my love. I swear.”

"I know you will."

She kisses him one last time. 

"May the gods go with you, or never see you coming."

“Wait. Are you leaving?” He reaches for her, for his son. “Wait– Please, I am not ready yet. Don’t go–”

And his fingers pass through them like smoke, and like smoke they fade into the air at the swipe of his hand.

The last thing he sees is her smile.

The King of Pylos waits for Diameda in her hut.

He does not seem so scary here, surrounded by all the things she can claim as hers. In this place he is a young man – quiet, tired, tall.

There is a change in him. Less anger, more… resignation. His movements are slower as though a deep exhaustion eats away at his bones. The man is not well, but he is not dangerous today.

He turns his head to her when she enters; a tapestry of the Argonauts frames him where he stands.

And he wears something different today. Something plainer, yet fine all the same – white like a funeral shroud.

The only way is forwards. 

She enters, and bows, and goes to him. 

"My love," she murmurs, linking her fingers in his, "what a joy to find you here," she'd wanted a bath and a time to sleep alone, but those thoughts are crushed down in sheer survival reflex, "you look weary - a bath together, perhaps?"

He allows the woman to touch him, gazing at her with tired eyes.

“Let there not be lies between us, Diameda. I know that you do not love me.”

From his cloak he draws out a flower. Small, delicate, freshly plucked from the ground. Its petals are a soft blushing lilac.

There are no flowers in these lands any more – only the deep scarlet poppies that grow where blood falls, and even those are scarce. 

What Ophellios holds is a treasure indeed.

“But we may try.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and for the first time she can't think of what to say fast enough: there's a pause so long that he'll notice. 

Deny it? She would have, once before, and perhaps been believed. He was softer, before, even if he was not so flighty. But now-

"I never realised that you knew," she says quietly, "I never thought - never thought a king would have the power to see the world as I must. Never thought you would understand how - all my life and all I loved would depend on you. But..."

It hurts to speak so. 

It hurts to tear away all the layers of deceit she has built around herself. 

But she is very long practised, in doing things no matter how much they hurt. 

"But - you are wrong, I think. It... It was not for myself only, not for our child either, that I- that I would not leave you that night."

A deep breath: now, or never; and the choice is now.

"The night you... changed."

She takes the flower with a small smile, but does not draw it from his hands; she leaves it there, her small fingers entwined with his own. 

The night I changed.

He does not even flinch at the memory now. The energy to react no longer lives in his spirit. 

With that same resigned look he regards her hand as it laces through his own. She has callouses too, in different places to his own. Both their fingernails are broken. Both are pale.

There had been a time, when he was a boy and his earthly father lived and all had been simple, when he had thought he was in love with her. Perhaps he could fool himself again.

“Will it be a boy?” He asks quietly.

How in the name of all the gods is she supposed to know? 

"I can't be sure," she whispers, "but - I think so. I think... I think I feel it. It will be yours. Your son."

…

“What was your father’s name? I have never once asked you.”

"Katsaros," she whispers - it's no stranger, really, than anything else about her life recently, telling him this, and yet it feels... Strange. 

"He was - only a little farmer. He is long dead." Your soldiers killed him, cut him almost in two, for all that his eyes were too weak to be a warrior. 

He nods.

In his manner, she is reminded of the teenage boy she had known almost a decade ago.

“A king shall bear his name.”

It’s an apology of sorts, she realises. Princes have never been much good at those.

"Oh."

An eternity seems to pass. 

"Thank you. He - thank you. He would have been glad, I think."

Would he? She's not sure she knows, at this remove, what he would have thought. Probably he would not have understood the question very well. 

What is this? What is all of this?

"And... And what of us, my husband? Will you lead me, lead us, back to Pylos?"

He looks down. “I know not what is fated for us. After we are wed, I will send you home to my mother.”

It's all she's ever wanted. 

To escape this war alive - more than that, to have a home, more than that, to be raised up so high and never more have to fear for her life. 

So why is she suddenly so reluctant to go? 

Why does she suddenly, impossibly, feel like she can't leave - cannot possibly walk away? 

"Is that..."

She steels herself. 

"If that is what you will." If.

He sighs. Takes her hand and guides her to be seated.

“Speak plainly, Diameda.”

She really won't be left with even a scrap of secrecy, will she. 

She would much, much, much rather he just ripped all her clothes away - it's so much worse than being naked, being under his gaze like this. 

"I don't want to leave you like this," she confesses when it's too much to bear, "I - you may call me foolish - to leave these plains alive is all I want - but I truly cannot stand to know that you suffer so, still less to be too far away to do anything, anything at all."

He falls quiet at that.

A long time passes, Ophellios seated still like a statue.

Eventually, he confesses something small.

“This is what I know.”

Her fingers cover his. "You did not always know it. In time - you could come to know other things. Your kingdom, your people, your son, your - your queen."

“No, Dia. I was a child when I came here. My entire adult life has been war.”

He nearly chokes on the weight of it.

“I would prefer to die here.”

Her fingers tighten too much on his before she can stop them. 

She never planned for this, but-

"Are you truly so frightened to begin anew?"

“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.

Ambrosios nods slightly and says nothing. The weight of the silence pressing down on the Cretan is enough to prompt him to continue.

It’s an old trick he learned.

"I... Looking back, it is a strange thing, I do not recall what I was thinking. When the boy died- when we went to the temple, he agreed to sacrifice himself and I was too slow to stop him - and so I was so sure, so sure he must be dead..."

He feels a pang of pity for the man.

“But your feelings have changed.”

"I did not believe it at first. He seemed so- so changed."

“I know,” he says gently. “You knew him well. Better than anyone, except perhaps the girl.”

"Ha! Yes, the girl who is to be his wife. The slave girl. Sometimes I truly wonder if we have all gone mad, grinding away against the unassailable walls."

“Ah. So you know about that.” He looks at him carefully. “Madness matters little these days. It may even be a tool we can use.”

"Ah, so you wished to see if I knew, and so essayed a lure - you always were the wisest of us. Yes, indeed. I may not have your way with trickery, but I am older than all the other kings, and I have seen many such things before. Now what is this about a tool?"

He lays his hand out on the table, and gently speaks.

“Not so fast, my friend. I know when someone is trying to turn me away from the subject, and ordinarily I would allow you to do so; yet on this occasion, I feel for the sake of your own spirit that it is important that I do not. So let us return to the matter. You were friend to Ophellios, and you have doubts that he is truly dead. At the very least, you cared enough to seek out the knowledge that he is to be wed to the slave girl, which I know the court of Pylos is working to keep secret.”

Some theory begins to form in his mind. Ophellios and Aetos – a half-forged suspicion, based on very little but a gut feeling.

Athena told him to ignore those.

“And if I may say, Lord of Crete… I know that he cares for you too.”

"Does he now," he practically growls. "You seem alarmingly well-informed, King of Ithaca!"

“Yes. I rather make a point of it.” Ambrosios all but sighs, tangling his fingers in his hair with the hand that props up his head. “You forget: Ophellios is my friend too. Or was.”

He slumps back. "That he was."

Well then, there's nothing for it but the truth. He never was any good at this. 

"I... when I went before the King, he bid me take up a blade, and duel. I refused - I had come in embassy, and to betray that and raise up a blade against him would have been a terrible thing. He- he insisted, and gave over command of his men should I win. He- I was weary with wounds, and he possessed a strength no man should have. And yet... and yet he spared my life." Again.

Athena.

Who is he that wears the face of Ophellios King?

A different angle, then – one that even Aetos, with all the head injuries the man has sustained in his life, cannot so blatantly evade.

“You must forgive my forthrightness, but I must ask. The– bond, shared between you and he. Many of us have long assumed it one of mentorship, that he looked to you as senior after the death of his father. It is, of course, plausible he spared you on those terms, but– do you have any reason to suspect other… emotions?”

He says the word at remove, as though it were foreign to him. Clinical, the way Machaon speaks to dying men.

A shadow passes over the hut, almost imperceptible, and something lands softly on a wooden pole. 

There is a soft sound only Ambrosios can hear. 

He folds his arms over his breast a little too quickly, his expression suddenly guarded. "The passions of the Pylian king are not mine to divine; even when we were close as we were, he kept his own counsels; and what he is now I cannot say." And then - he should have kept his mouth shut, but - " - if he had conceived some violent love for me, beyond the bounds of custom - if his god's blood had boiled - then I cannot say."

The Ithacan’s mind whirs.

God’s blood. 

Scion of Apollo, lover of Hyacinthus, of Admetus.

A softer child. God’s blood. 

The slave-queen’s testimony; the Cretan lord’s fondness for Trojan boys. 

A cry for his head. 

How to break a king?

Softly.

“What colour are his eyes?”

"Blue. Like the sky." He frowns. 

With that, it all clicks into place.

”Oh,” he sighs, taking on a gentler aspect, “Aetos.”

It feels... it feels rather like falling. 

"I... do not think I understand," he lies.

Ambrosios pours him another measure of wine. The man will need it.

“Does he know?”

He scowls, but accepts the wine. "I always hated riddles. I know nothing of the boy's mind, not any more."

Very well. Meeting his gaze with his dark eyes, the Ithacan king puts mercy aside.

“Does he know that you love him?”

"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.”