The world moves almost in slow motion as he turns, his eyes widening.

He takes sight of one man in Cretan colours– bow drawn back, arrow ready to pierce the Trojans’ heart–

Ambrosios’ arm flies out. His horse rears; he shouts: “NO!”

The arrow flies.

It finds home. A man two paces down from Hector collapses, blood pooling out of his mouth.

All hell breaks loose.

He rides towards Aetos instantly, holding out a hand for him to take.

He can't see and his ears are ringing and he can't balance, but he's strong and well-trained - he's heavy, but heaves himself up onto the horse. 

"HOLD! ALL OF YOU, HOLD!"

Indeed.

Still, no. 

"Do You truly wish to meet Me in battle, Ares?"

"I don't have to."

"Kill them!" Antimachus, a Trojan lord, all in panoply. "Send the Achaeans all their heads!"

With one sharp slice of his blade he sheds all the burdensome provisions. His horse flies faster now, a blur back to the Greek camp.

This was never supposed to happen– There is no time for that now, not when Aetos grips onto his middle like lead weight.

The other riders follow, swift. There are cries and sounds like thunder as Trojan arrows pierce men around them, and they collapse from their horses.

Ophellios dares to look.

He freezes in horror.

He stays behind for precious seconds, the world spinning.

There is no chance of remedying this now. There is no going back.

The dread weight of the realisation sinks low into his stomach.

He cannot waste any more time. There are those who cannot run yet, slowed down by the burden of the gifts – the cows are a lost cause, running awry in circles, knocking into the horses, trampling one man until he resembles the ground itself–

“RUN!”

Ambrosios helps some of the others onto their steeds– one man, his second in command, shields him from an arrow–

And he too flies away.

"Boy," he gasps, "remember yourself. Now!" He shakes the princeling, hard. "Listen! You have not known battle before. Learn swiftly! Look away!" He risks reaching up a hand and forces the boy's head around. "Ahead! Ahead! Only there!"

It’s like a jolt of cold water.

His eyes retrain themselves–

Ahead. Ahead. Only there.

Over and over again, a prayer–

He speaks aloud before he knows it, a determined mutter, “Phoebus Apollo, lord of the silver bow, shelter us from their arrows, Phoebus Apollo, lord of the silver bow, shelter us…”

They storm into the Greek camp, knocking over stakes and tents. Guardsmen scatter as they reach out for riderless horses. Some bear their lifeless soldiers on their backs, blood staining the ground as they tread.

Ambrosios leaps off his horse, turning desperately to count the losses.

Fifteen men dead.

Where are–?

That arrow can be three inches over there, thank you. 

It doesn't take him long to recover himself and jump down, though he lands more heavily than he should. 

"Well, Ambrosios. We have our answer, then. For the Trojans to attack us in council is a grave crime; they cannot be suaded by reason, only by strength."

He curses loudly, kicking a fallen helmet. “We had him! He was going to agree to our terms!”

“What is going on here?” He emerges, sweeping, from his tent. He frowns further when he sees his son amidst the fray. “Ophellios?!”

He is standing there, shell-shocked.

"It was not in fate, Ambrosios. The gods intend that this war go on - that Ilium topple, or Achaea fail. As for you, Hyranon - you were warned; your boy saw battle today." He spares Ophellios a brief glance. "He did not disgrace his name. But you should send him home."

Confusion. Anger.

“What?!” He turns to him, the clouds in his eyes parting, replaced by storms of a different kind. “I saved your life!”

"You did. And now I am saving yours in return. Go home, boy."

He steps forward in rage–

His arm flies out across his son’s chest, stopping him firmly in his path.

“Ophellios, gather the other kings. We must convene. Now.”

He glares at the Cretan.

But he obeys the word of his king, and will do as he is ordered.