The king rises, taking the prize from the slave girl’s hands. Aetos glimpses it, for how could it not catch his eye? A chain of gold and jewels in all colours, taken from one of the Trojan towns, fit for a victor. Fit for a lord.

He steps forward and fastens it around Aetos’ neck.

They are close for a moment. Ophellios can count the greying hairs in the Cretan’s beard, and Aetos can follow the path of freckles on the sun-tanned Pylian’s face. The scent of pyre-smoke and funeral incense still lingers in the young king’s hair.

“I congratulate you, Aetos, King of Crete.”

So this is the be the King of Pylos. 

The boy looks... strange. Not quite himself, and yet not a man either; not a warrior of the Achaeans, nor the child he was. 

Something different. 

He gets a grip on himself. 

"Lord Ophellios."

“Your prowess does my father honour. I know that you were friends.”

He lingers just a second too long before Aetos feels his touch no more. 

“He prized this medallion. It was taken from the severed neck of a Trojan lord at the end of our first battle, all those years ago. I trust you will take care of it.”

Each of the twelve jewels has a different symbol of the Olympian gods etched into the surface. No doubt the original owner thought this would protect him.

He feels the young lord's touch, soft and warm - it almost seems to burn where their skin grazes together.

He's used to looking down, but Ophellios can look him in the eye now - when had that happened?

When had he been made this lordly king, that over-eager boy with the big eyes and soft heart?

He bows his head and accepts the jewels. There are many who believe the gods will shelter them; very few, who are correct.

"We were. He was a good man."

Better than us all.

Ophellios nods, and offers no more the gift of his voice.

The games continue, the king watching glassy-eyed. More great gifts are awarded – swords, shields, gold, his father’s amassed wealth now distributed to the strongest. King Ambrosios wins at the archery and tries to steal the moment of reward to offer his condolences, but Ophellios’ thoughts are far away by this point.

He wonders what he will tell his family, when he goes home.

If he goes home.

How he will break the news to his mother, what his siblings will say; they hardly knew their father, not like he did. Do they still even live?

The longer he spends here in Ilium, the more distant their faces become. It has become difficult now to imagine himself sailing home – even more difficult now to imagine the return without his father.

Growing up, he would play at the feet of Hyranon’s throne while his father held court. How can he take that seat now?

He knows nothing.

He knows not how to be the doom of Troy.

There is a feast afterwards in honour of the dead. Ophellios sits at its head, leaving his food untouched.

He has competed well, this day, and the burn is still there in his muscles. He drinks heartily of the wine, and in one hand toys with that god-carved necklace granted him by the king. 

Six years, and no closer, it seems, to the fall of the citadel. All their cunning arts were stymied, and the Trojans seem numberless, those topless towers unharmed by fire and siege. 

Sometimes he wonders why Priam keeps them at this; sometimes he wonders when Menelaus will tire of the distant dream of his wife, six years another man's; sometimes he wonders if it will ever end, or if Zeus has simply decided to wear down mankind in war for some reason known only to the heavens. 

He catches Ophellios's eye. 

The dark-haired girl is murmuring to him, touching his chest gently, trying to encourage him to eat. She attempts to guide his hand to the knife; in a swift gesture, he covers hers in turn, holding it still against the table. For a moment, she cannot move – and then he lets go, and her wrist is freed, and in that hand he takes his cup of wine.

“Leave it, Dia.”

He is not looking at her; has not once been looking at her.

What does Aetos want?

He looks fine indeed in that chain of jewels. He wears it well.

Ophellios breaks eye contact, dismisses himself, and retires to his hut. He falls heavily into the bed, armour still tight around his shoulders – and if he buries his face in the furs he can pretend that, in the darkness, he is far from the sight of the gods.

Over the past six years she has come to - not relax, never relax, not for a moment; any time, for all her cares, she could be with child, or her captor's temper could slip, or some jealous Greek do some folly. But she had grown unused to flinching at her captor's touch.

When he grabs her hand like that she fears for her life again.

But she cannot, cannot allow him to fall into the habit of seeing her as expendable, dismissible; cannot afford to sulk, should not leave him be, lest it become permanent. He may hurt her; better to take that chance than become another faceless Trojan woman.

So she steels herself. 

She crawls over him, soft fingers undoing the many plates of the panoply. It's awkward at this angle, but the last thing she would do is disturb him: if he wants to hide himself, he is dangerous, she senses. 

Eventually her fingers can reach for the knots in his muscles, and very quietly, pretending as hard as she can that she isn't here so she won't bother him, she begins to rub. 

The breath is ripped from his lungs in a sigh, and he pushes his face deeper into the bed.

Over six years, the Trojan woman’s presence here has become second nature. There was a time, some years ago, when he’d thought he was in love with her. His father had quickly shut that down.

He takes care of her – of course he does, has never once raised his hand to her, servants of her own for everything she needs, and he values her counsel above all–

He winces, then, fist grasping at the cushion as her thumbs press into a particularly tough knot.

His muscles are like steel. The weight of armour, battle, grief…

She has watched him change over the years, felt the change against her own skin. The king is broader, taller, with more strength in his body than there ever was. He had wished long for strength, and it was granted to him by the gods and gruelling war – and now he cannot bring himself to use it.

Ophellios turns his fair head, cheek against the furs, to gaze at her. He watches her quietly for some time; watches how she works, watches the way her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders.

“You are a gift from the gods, Diameda.” He murmurs at last. “Why do you not go and rest?”

Perhaps she is, in truth; perhaps the gods love the dark rites of the Greeks, and some god sent her forth to the king as a gift. 

Carefully now...

"You do not seem able to rest, O king," she coos softly, fingers working their way around his neck, "so why do you imagine I could?" She presses her form against him - there's an art she'd learned, of doing this in such a way that it doesn't seem insistent, seems like careless happenstance that he can suddenly feel the shape of her entire body. "If you are troubled, then I will be there, even if you speak not." 

Ophellios turns around at that, supporting her frame with an arm around her waist. Their chests touch; he can gaze into her eyes now, properly.

He senses no insincerity to her words. They have always come from her lips like honey.

“You show me great loyalty.” His other arm reaches out, fingertips brushing her hair behind her ear. The earrings he gave her glint in the candlelight. “I know not why.”

She leans in, kissing up his neck. It does send a thrill through her - she's in so much danger here, and the boy has grown up, grown handsome and strong-

"I have known you since you were a boy," she begins, dangerous but he needs to remember how important she is, "and seen you grow into a man, into a king - it is an honour to serve."

A soft groan. He tangles his fingers in her hair now, tugging gently.

“You– call me King. I do not understand the word.”

Now here she has to take great care. He has to be deflected away from thinking about all the other women he could have; she won't be young and pretty forever. He also shouldn't feel too bad about himself, or he might take it out on her. He hasn't yet, but she's not sure it's ever come up. 

"I think it means," she says, kissing slowly lower, "that you are a leader of men-" lower, lower "and a champion, and a warrior," lower, "and among the greatest of men."

She can feel his heart race beneath her lips as she works down his chest.

“No,” he objects, though his reason feels more blurred with every kiss. “I have not yet earned that. I– fuck, know not how to. My– sire, He came to me on the day of the funeral, as the fires burned out, He told me to rise–”

Like a gorgon who calls upon men and turns them to stone, her tongue coaxes out the words from his heart and freezes them at his throat.

“He told me the will of the gods – He… told me…”

With extraordinary effort, she does not freeze. 

She's learned hints of the truth over the years: the child of Apollo. 

What message could the plague god have had for his son?

"It is a great destiny that you have, my lord," she whispers, "and you are more worthy than any other to be king. I know that you can. You will find your way - speak freely, my lord! What did He tell you?"

“His Prophecy spoke. I am to be the doom of Troy.”

She has to think very quickly and act very naturally. 

Should she slit his throat in his sleep? It wouldn't be hard - people imagine women can't hold swords. She could injure herself too, tell some story about spies - no, it's too great a risk. Try to warn them? How? Why? 

... All of this feels like the kind of thing that gets her killed. 

In fact, trying to overturn a prophecy at all doesn't sound good for her health. 

And why would she? What is the city to her, that she would risk herself to protect it? Where were the garrisons of Ilium when her own home burned?

No - her old life is gone, even if she could somehow return she would have nothing; it is time to hold fast to the one hope she has. 

"That is a heavy burden, my lord," she murmurs, "but one chosen for so great a destiny must have the quality to see it through. Apollo's sight is not clouded."

…

“I wish to think of it no longer.” But his voice is softer, now; his touches more welcoming of her.

She has said the right thing, to play to the pride of this Achaean king.

The night has fallen, and the day’s duties are over. With the feeling of her warm mouth around him, he can lose sight of it all.

The next day, he takes his father’s seat at the council.

Six years ago, he was not permitted inside. Now, he is expected.

Hyranon's loss is grievous in more ways than one. The Pylian king did much to resolve quarrels with his sweet words, and the man had understanding of war. 

"We are able, with difficulty, to hold the harbour. The Trojan allies have made no more attempts on us. We will need to squeeze harder. The walls of Ilium cannot be broken, but they may be surmounted. We must press what advantage we have."

“We cannot even decide on what gate to storm.” His fingers are pressed to his temples. “I have suggested many times the Red Gate. It is towards the back of the city, older than the others, farthest from the citadel. It will be the least defended and worst maintained. The gods–”

“Silence yourself, King of Ithaca. I tire of hearing about the gods.”