He can’t manage it.

Machaon will stay until he can.

His son has slain his first foe in war! 

Apollo shall cast sweet sleep over him, in readiness for the celebration.

His son has come into his own, young though he may be, and he must be rewarded. 

His boy has not been quite as he usually is: perhaps it seems strange to him that the occasion has not been marked. 

The men in any case need the morale, and they cannot store all the food in any case. 

There shall be a feast.

“Of course, Lord Hyranon; we are happy to attend. There shall be no expense spared.”

It is a feast indeed, and a well-timed one too. Their third plot has failed; Ambrosios allows himself to relax this evening alongside his men.

Food, wine, women – he is not particularly interested in the latter, for none is more striking than his own bride, but it is good to see his comrades entertained.

He goes up to Ophellios where he sits beside his father, and claps him on the shoulder. The prince flinches ever so slightly from the surprise – that is alright, he did startle him.

“Prince Ophellios! Once a boy, now a man. I offer you my hearty congratulations. And Lord Hyranon – your heir has proven himself. You must be proud indeed.”

He smiles. It is strained at the edges.

"That I am. It is a great and noble thing that you have done this day, my boy. Be merry. Drink. There shall be darker days than this ahead. "

He will drink.

He certainly will drink.

He lifts an eyebrow. Perhaps the boy is drunk.

Ambrosios remembers the feeling of his first kill. It can be… overwhelming to reckon with, in the beginning, but soon it fades into distant memory. The boy– no, the young man before him has done his duty well, as he always has. He will be alright.

They sacrifice calves to the gods for him, and on the fatted remnants they feast.

Ophellios seems to be in conversation with a Trojan woman, one that Ambrosios recalls from an earlier raid. She could be considered beautiful, with dark brown ringlets and eyes like amber. Good. Let him be distracted.

Her father is dead alongside the man she was to marry and her lot will be that of a slave if she is fortunate. 

Under those circumstances, all wise words she was ever taught about modesty and shame feel like ashes in her mouth. 

Lone women don't live long in war; prized whores might do better. 

She has no idea what she's doing, but it stands to reason that teenage boys are not difficult to seduce. 

The wine sweetens her words in his ears. Her touches become all he can focus on.

For one night, he welcomes the distraction.

He staggers out of his tent, the moon shining high above the plains.

The woman is inside, left tangled alone in the sheets. Ophellios himself is only half dressed, his armour left in pieces on the ground.

He is not sure where he is going. He feels sick.

He too is far from his home and not much given to mirth: and so is this the task of wine, and women, and song. 

He is ambling throughout the Greek camps, wine-cup in hand, the world pleasantly warm and blurred about him, when he sees the boy. 

The revels are not even close to finished yet - the boy drained his cup and went with the first woman to make a pass at claiming him for a protector. Of course. 

"Boy."

He turns, and the world continues to spin with the motion, but it is Lord Aetos that comes into full relief.

The dread mingles with the wine in his stomach.

“My lord.”

He punches him on the arm, not hard. 

"Y'did well this day, boy. Seems like I was wrong about you."

He stands there, quiet. Too quiet.

"Speak freely, boy. You've earned that much."

His lips part, lower lip bruised and trembling.

Can he really? Can he really speak freely, in front of King Aetos of all people?

The words come out in terrible confession before he can stop them.

“I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of it. It– it was a boy, Lord Aetos, a child. I was no great hero, I was no warrior, it was a boy and I didn’t mean to kill him.”

The tears build up in his eyes but he does not let them fall.

Ah. 

...

He sighs. 

"Come here, boy. Sit."

He hands the boy a draught. It's wine, unmixed, stronger than the boy will have had; the Cretans make it with the pitch of a certain tree, blackened, treated in secret ways. It's resinous and rich and strong. 

This requires a little delicacy. 

"Drink up, boy, don't sputter."

Now...

"You too are a boy. But here you are, in the company of warriors and in the business of war. This boy, he was no different. He drew iron and tried to send you down to Hades, and you sent him there first. In the heat of battle, few do really mean everything they do. Be glad your instincts were correct. That is what it is to be a warrior - and yes, perhaps he was too young. You too are too young. To the gods, immortal as they are, I suspect we are all of us too young."

The foul liquid burns at his throat, but he takes it and does not sputter. A warrior would not. The king beside him would not.

Aetos’ words are the first thing that have made sense since Paris took Helen.

“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 or rather tempered."

He sits closer to him now, blue eyes fixed on Aetos alone. The king’s words are like a sermon to the starved.

“I wish to be strong. I wish to be brave.”

"Well. You have begun the right way."

A silence falls for a moment. 

"What do you fear, Ophellios?"