They hear his scream across the field of battle, from the Greek camp to deep within the citadel of Troy.

He carries his father to safety on his back, the King of Pylos growing heavy and lifeless. The blood dries as it pours from his noble heart, pierced by Trojan sword.

Dead.

Faltering fingers find his son's wrist, and squeeze one last time; and then his soul flies, down to Hades, and his body is limp on the Trojan dust. 

Truly, this day's price is too high. 

There will be mourning, and wailing, and there will be funeral games; and all of that now is the Prince's- the King's to decide. 

Assuming, that is, that nobody learns the truth. 

At first, he is inconsolable.

None can reach the new king in his hut – for that is what they are now, for this wasteland has become their new home. Friends from all kingdoms have been dismissed; envoys sent away with arrows at their feet.

He is worried.

They all are.

It is on the day of the funeral that he makes his first appearance.

There is wailing and lamentation. The King was well-liked and rich beyond words. 

His corpse is all in glory atop a vast pyre - wood is scarce here, but the mountain of fuel has been gathered from distant trees and torn-down farmsteads, and already the bonfires gleam about its base. 

The new king walks through the crowds of gathered soldiers, who all kneel like the waves as he passes them. Treading only ahead, he pays them little notice.

Ahead, only there.

He looks otherworldly, standing tall like a pillar as the flames grow.

The men have not yet heard him address them, and they are waiting to. The period of mourning is fresh like a wound, and indeed the injuries sustained in that final battle continue to ache.

A breath.

Kronos seems to stop time for him. 

And the note from his lips is low and haunting. The camp falls silent like the dead, compelled to listen as though by some heavenly force.

He sings; he sings himself raw, he sings until he weeps, until the fire and fury burn his eyes red. The flames crackle and consume the man he called father as his elegy crumbles hearts of stone and turns the gods Themselves to tears.

"My son," he speaks so only Ophellios can hear, when the boy has finished his singing and his wailing, "you have done well this day. Remember how I came to you, on the night of your grief? Now is the time for you to rise, son of mine, to be the King kindly Hyranon could not be; to be the doom of Troy."

In the heavy blanket of grief it is all he can do to speak.

“If you will it, Sire; then that is what I shall become.”

He is among the last to stand and watch the flames go down.

"It is not My will of which you should think; know rather this is the will of the gods." 

He leaves.

He too remains, and watches the pyre burn down to glowing embers. 

He is silent, but when the lights fade at last he notices him. Aetos.

Few others have stayed this long.

They meet one another’s eyes on either side of the ashes. Ophellios’ are red.

He is weary, from the many duties of this day and the speaking in honour of the king, and he is more than a little burdened with wine. 

He inclines his head to the new King. The boy is still young, still brash and foolish. The secret of his parentage, Aetos will keep for now. 

He nods ever-so-slightly. His first mortal interaction in days.

Ophellios King of Pylos turns and departs. The pretty dark-haired woman stands by the entrance to his hut, taking his cloak from his shoulders as he disappears behind the walls.

He returns the next day to oversee the first day of the Games. Sitting high up on his father’s old throne, the new king seems untouchable. There is scarcely an expression on his face; he only claps and offers rewards when called for, silent like a god. The Trojan girl kneels beside him on a cushion.

She is very good and very pliant and very quiet and very publicly pretty. She is hyperaware of any tiny movement he makes. Hopefully, women like that live longer. She's not sure what's going to happen when he gets her pregnant - she's been lucky and cunning for six years, but she can't keep that up forever. Nine more months would be quite a lot, anyway. 

He will compete. Boxing, wrestling, he's nearly unmatched. Achilles' hide cannot be pierced by a mortal blade, no mortal hands could stretch his iron tendons, but the man still needs to breathe. 

Who will face him, then?

“Try me.”

He's a little weary by this point, but still sharp. 

"As you wish." Everyone has a cunning plan until you punch them in the mouth. 

He won't risk being outmanoeuvred, he'll lunge forwards into a vice-like grip and bear the Ithacan to the ground before he can try anything. 

Of course he will.

Ambrosios neatly side-steps, first baiting Aetos into tiring himself out.

He’d waited smartly until late in the rounds to volunteer his turn, after stronger heroes than he and the relentless midday sun had worn down the great King of Crete.

Athena quickens his thoughts. No matter where Aetos lunges, he is always one step ahead.

He's not as wise as Pallas's favourite, but he's not stupid either. 

If the boy can guess where he'll be, the thing to do is to choose so that nowhere is safe. 

So he's going to come into close range and stay there.

Ambrosios is clever, but Aetos is more used to fighting for his life.

For a second, it looks like the Ithacan might win – and then he gets cocky, miscalculates and strikes a second too soon, and is pinned heavily to the ground in retribution.

He congratulates his opponent afterwards and retreats to tend to his bruises.

His eyes have been fixed on Aetos all this time. 

The victor is beckoned forth to receive his reward.

He comes forwards slowly, careful not to stagger. He's not quite as young as he was, and he doesn't notice it much, but still sometimes he feels himself feathering very slowly towards the weakness of age.