Polished bronze clatters on the floor. 

His skin is bronze and still supple, gleaming with sweat, and his muscles swell on his vast frame like a statue of Heracles. 

The spear grazed a vein in his upper arm, leaving a deep gash. Blood pours down it in sheets. 

For a split-second, he looks.

The King of Pylos grows a little paler. He tears his vision back to the wound, suddenly aware of where he is kneeling.

He cannot afford to show his distraction. 

“The injury is deep. Aphrodite’s child is strong indeed to have pierced you like this.”

But with the right herbs and treatment, he can tend to that too.

He does know how to be patient, and does not flinch when the wound is staunched. 

Sphagnum moss he recognises, and a few other things. The boy did learn well from Machaon. 

"So this day I have tasted Aeneas's steel? Strong he is indeed. A pity. Were it not for those two, perhaps we could have taken Troy today. "

A dry sort of chuckle. “Perhaps. It is all the will of the gods.”

He stands and washes his hands clean. Aetos’ blood swirls and stains the water red.

Ophellios stares at it for a moment.

"That it is. They did not give us Troy today, but still they granted us glory, and much goodly plunder from the city. Take heart, boy, this day's work was a good one."

“I am not a boy.”

His back is still turned.

"Does it trouble you to be called so?"

He looks at him darkly over his shoulder, and he does not rise to the question. His hands drip red.

"When it does not, a boy you will no longer be."

“Have I not earned your respect, Lord Aetos?”

"I did not say that."

"Boy."

He steps towards him with a scowl.

“Then what purpose do your words have? You are granted only a finite amount by the gods. Surely you do not waste them.”

"You fought well this day. Your plan was a good one; the blame is not yours, that some god saw fit to frustrate it. And yet- you are still young. Without experience. In battle today you were reckless, foolish. You had not the experience of battle to know your horse would be a liability in the narrow streets. You are brave, yes, and strong, and I admire your courage, boy."

The old anger rises.

“I took a risk, for your sake, and I saved your sorry life. We achieved our mission. We have made greater progress today than we ever have in six years. What kind of illness plagues you, that you must insult my prowess at every opportunity?”

"I saved yours, boy, time and again. Such is war. I never spoke a word against your prowess, for it is mighty. You have done well this day. Only remember your youth."

Ophellios’ patience wears thin. “You obsess over my youth. Is that because yours is fading, King of Crete? Do you hear those whispers that your days of glory are long behind you?”

He laughs, but he takes a step closer. "No. I do not pay any heed to the whispers of fools or to jesting at table, Ophellios. There too could you learn by example."

“I have been here for six years. I have fought for six years, just like you, just like the other kings. I have led battles. I have ruled my people. I have watched my father die as I carried him on my back.” They are eye-to-eye now, the heat rising in Ophellios’ chamber. “Speak not of my inexperience, Lord Aetos, for down that path you find only falsehood.”

He laughs. "Far be it from me to upset you so, King Ophellios. I never wished to hurt you."

“Leave.”

He bows low. "Sleep well, O King."

He stalks away, and waits until he is far out of earshot before any sound of pain passes his lips. 

That night there is feasting and celebration among the Greeks as thick black smoke rises from Troy. 

Water will not extinguish the cursed fire Athena gave them, and the damage is dreadful; sand must be heaped and smothered over the oily flames, and many perish in the task. 

Troy does not fall, but it is wounded as it has not been in years. 

That night, the prizes captured from Troy are passed around. 

They never listen. 

She isn't often away from a place of safety. She isn't often possible to capture. 

She can see ahead: she lacks the power to be believed. 

She's tried lying: those people can believe, and beat her for when they don't come true. 

She still doesn't understand the curse. She's trying. 

But she can believe herself. So for want of any other choice - she obeyed that eerie whisper of a future, and was captured for her trouble. 

The future is silent now. 

"My friends! Lords of the Achaeans! A great deed is done this day. Troy is dealt a terrible wound, and much plunder is ours!"

Agamemnon pauses for a cheer. 

"Among the many captives is this: this very princess of Troy. Now the question comes: who rightly has the honour to lay claim to her, and possess her for himself, or to accept rich reward, stores of gold and bronze, from old Priam for her return?"