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. 

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.”

“I have told you,” he is growing frustrated, “I have told you all that the gods play a part in this war–”

“Stop your squabbling,” he interjects darkly. “You are Kings of Achaea.”

“Why do I even try? You ignore my counsel.”

“Your mind is in the heavens, Ambrosios, while the rest of us are down here at war. Were you truly healed of your madness?”

He listens silently, eyes moving smoothly between the kings. Ambrosios has hesitated now, shocked by the insult.

He studies them all.

“The Heraclean Gate.” He presses forward. “It is positioned at the foot of the hill, we would have the high ground.”

The other kings mutter and debate among themselves.

"It matters less than you think what gate we choose. Perhaps even we ought to roll a die, in case the Trojans can simply guess. What matters is how the deed is done. Speed and fierceness are necessary; it matters less what damage we do than how the Trojans see and fear us. Your plans for setting fires are foolish, desperate. We show our strength, our valour."

“The Gate of Hestia.” He suggests calmly. The other kings almost don’t hear him, except for–

“What? With all due respect to you and your late father, young king, there is no such gate on our maps.”

“That is because it has been abandoned.” He keeps his voice level. “It was part of the original walls, and the Trojans use it no longer.”

He stirs. "Tell us of this gate, then, if it exists. And how have you come to know of it?"

“It is positioned,” he reaches over and points at the map, “just outside the north-west quarter of the city. The gate stood for some time as a ruin, a mere archway, before the Trojans filled it some hundred or so years ago. It is an overlooked part of the city’s defences, somewhere in the miles between two major gates, and its ancient construction could perhaps be brought down with a blow of enough strength. I was shown the place by Paris when we were children.”

"It is not so far away. We could bring rams, ladders, perhaps enough to be inside before our assay could be noticed..." The Mycenaean king raps scarred fingers on the throne. "Do you remember, boy, well enough to direct us once we breach it? Do you know anything of the storehouses, the granaries?"

“Lord Agamemnon, my boyhood is dead. I am the King of Pylos. I recall enough of the city.”

"Watch your tongue before the lord Agamemnon, King."

Agamemnon holds up a hand. "Peace. We shall try this hidden gate, then; and if the gods smile upon us and we take the citadel, then perhaps great glory shall be yours, young king, greater than ever your father won in all his years."

…

He nods silently, gazing at Aetos with wary eyes.

His mind is whirring, his limbs set back to near-erratic life.

“King Ophellios, work with King Aetos’ forces to breach the gate. The Cretans will break the wall and the Pylians will scale it. The rest of us will provide backup, and create a distraction: between us, we shall divide our men to attack every other gate, one by one, surprising the defence. The Trojans will be so torn between all directions that they will not think to check this weak spot.”

Troy is ancient beyond words. Tales tell of those walls of sloping stone, vast and grim like the brows of some slain Titan, being raised or carved from mountain rock by the gods in some far-off age, of the great iron fittings of those gates being wrought by Hephaestus Himself.

The Achaeans are far from the first to besiege it; they will be far from the first to succeed, if they do. 

And nonetheless, the city is here, vast and terrible; it is no easy feat. Perhaps those ancient foes had the aid of gods, or monsters. 

The little gate of which Ophellios knew is piled high, rotting bricks and mouldering stone, a patch-work long forgotten. Trees have taken root and grown through, refuse has been thrown up against it, and what was a road is now a tangle of hardy shrubs and broken flagstones. This area is rocky and dusty: nothing worth eating can grow. Houses cluster against the inner wall, unheeding of the Achaeans forces that cluster here. 

They will have perhaps a quarter of an hour before any Trojan realises their danger and moves to act. 

He rides up ahead with the Cretan king, sharp eyes examining the fault lines in the ancient wall.

A great battering ram has been constructed, requiring fifty men to carry it. The warriors of Crete, renowned for their strength, bear it high upon their shoulders. Behind them, the quick Pylians prepare to storm into the city.

“Lord Aetos. Are your men ready?”

"Ready."

He doubts that this will work, but a half-dozen attempts like this one and Troy shall surely fall.

"NOW."

The Cretans are a tough people, wide and heavily-built. This ram is of an oak tree, old and weathered, shod in gleaming bronze.

No mere mortal muscles could so easily break the walls of Troy.

But the rubble piled in the gate-

-cracks-

-crumbles-

-comes down with a juddering roar, leaving a gaping hole a man could climb through into a tight alleyway. 

A little girl pokes her head out of a window to behold the approaching army.

She is not going to move in time even if he grabs her–

Ophellios draws his sword and leers menacingly at the girl – that way she can run, she can run now and will not be trampled by the strong hooves of the Greek horses. Indeed she does, gasping and fleeing home to her mother.

Be swift, child.

A beat.

Two beats.

Three.

That is all the time he can afford her.

The gap in the wall is substantial, and for the first time in years they can glimpse the inner city of Ilium. But not enough. Not wide enough. 

He raises his sword, which gleams silver like the moon.

“AGAIN!”

He turns questioningly to glare at the boy - moments are precious - but it is done now. 

The whole area of the old gate collapses in dust and ruin. A road leads now into a district of the city itself, its wide and well-planned streets open invitingly for the invaders. 

And the hue-and-cry is raised, citizens screaming and fleeing before the Grecian hordes, men scrambling for swords or knives or tools to stand or die fighting.

Troy is large, but it is widely and evenly paved; the cohorts will be here within minutes. 

There is a terrible roar as the Greeks charge.

In the very distance, there is screaming. The bell of Troy begins to toll.

The guards will be at the other gates, distracted now by Ambrosios and his forces. Ophellios and Aetos must act swiftly. The granaries are close.

Corpses already litter the streets like flowers in a meadow. Civilians.

It matters not.

Ahead. Ahead. Only there.

Four men with hammers and knives surge at him from a doorway - an ambush, hastily planned in under a minute. 

He takes one man in half at the waist, ducks a wild blow and stabs another, crushes one throat in his hands and sends the fourth sprawling with a savage kick.

They had no hope, but they made their choice and went before Hades with honour, more than can be said of many of their countrymen. 

The Pylians are looting, running about and seizing captives and lighting fires; he has a better idea. 

"Bring us Paris!"

His men take up the cry as they push forwards, forwards; the city's streets are well in order, which means it will not take long for reinforcements to come, but also makes it harder for the Trojans to ambush them and cut off the retreat. 

They are making a wild dash now for the centre - they might perhaps light fires at Priam's citadel, but they will at least frighten the noble families and lordly households. 

He shouts directions to the others, his horse like a blur of snow.

In the corner of his eye, somebody else comes behind Aetos. He draws his bow quickly and shoots. There is a cry as the arrow finds home.

“There! The food reserves! The well!”

Burn the food, poison the water–

A young girl is snatched from her grandfather’s arms.

A woman runs desperately, her robes on fire.

Ahead, ahead–

A soldier, red and black, Cretan, kicks down a temple door. There is screaming from inside. A holy man is torn from sacred ground.

The bells toll, louder, louder–

The king of Pylos curses. “Aetos, carry on! I will join you in a moment!”

He rides swiftly back to the temple.

No, he too does not wish to invite the anger of the gods.

"I want that man's head," he grinds out to the men near him, "all his lands and treasure to the one who brings it to me."

A few peel off; the rest stay the course. 

They might actually do this. 

This should not be possible. 

The walls of Troy are inviolate. They have had many hard years - would probably all have starved if not for the favour of the gods - but they have never been invaded. 

Paris is left to hold off the forces at the main gate - they may lose, may lose everything, but his heart tells him that the frontal assault is a distraction. The Greeks cannot hope to shatter the portal Hephaestus made, or if they can all is lost anyway. 

He charges.

“What are you doing, you fool?” He snarls at the soldier, striking him hard with the wood of his bow. “Let the priest go.”

A sound like thunder causes him to turn. A sound like doom.

Hector.

Aetos cannot face him alone. Ophellios drops it all and races back ahead, but he is precious moments behind–

He falls upon the Pylians like a wolf upon sheep, hacking and slashing, until he meets the Cretan King.

Kill or be killed - it was ever thus.

Blades meet in a dreadful clash of shining iron. 

The Cretan King is strong and cunning, but he has the favour of Zeus, and the Trojan forces massing behind him outnumber this party by a long way. 

He roars and rushes Hector - no special fighting skill here, no warriors' duel. He spits and shoves and kicks the man's legs out in a quick and dirty manoeuvre that sends them both sprawling, and he clutches at the Trojan prince's throat where the gap shows in his armour, swords pinned, forcing the pommel down into Hector's ribcage-

He yells and rushes in, driving his spear with enough force to skewer a wild boar.

He twists with snake-like speed and interposes his shield. 

It still isn't enough. The force of the blow splinters the wood and sends him reeling, blood flowing down his arm; he snatches up his sword in time to parry two, three swings, but now Hector is gasping and rising up-

There is no path to escape, and he cannot defend against both the Trojan heroes; the mighty strength of Aeneas has notched his sword and sends jagged pain through his shoulders with each exchange.

But he can bring one of them down with him. 

He throws himself in close, leaving his side exposed to Hector, and with a swift motion shoves a dagger through Aeneas's ribs.

...A stray arrow swerves through the air and pierces the Cretan King's hand.

The knife scrapes agonisingly along a rib and sticks in the side of his armour; he staggers and falls.

He rises.

A familiar white stallion rears and kicks, driving a path between Hector and Aetos.

The Pylian king’s eyes burn blue into the Trojan prince with the wrath of a demigod. He swings his sword. Aetos will have a precious moment to recover.

There is movement in the corner of his eye. Hector’s second-in-command recovers, rushing in – Ophellios turns towards him and their blades clash like lightning.

He whirls back and strikes up, and in the brief moment of space rams his shoulder hard into the horse's flank; a great white stallion, which no men of these days could shift, and yet when he applies his shoulder the horse stumbles.

He brings his sword back to guard in time to hold Hector off and distract Aeneas with a jab at his face. 

"Hold firm, Ophellios!"

“I could say the same to you!”

He manages to keep control of his horse, only just.

A strike of inspiration. A manoeuvre that would perhaps be considered insane. Aetos is a great warrior and can hold off one foe alone, but not both.

He sets his beast on Aeneas and gives chase. Sheathing his sword he takes the god-crafted bow into his hands once more.

The general cannot avoid his arrows forever. At the very least he will buy Aetos some time.

A kick from the horse sends him reeling, and he is driven backwards.

Yes, that was insane. 

Ophellios is now mounted on a horse in the middle of the narrow alleyways where there isn't really even room to turn the horse around, and the common folk of Troy are slowly beginning to lose their fear and remember all these paving-stones.

He rallies and turns, slashing at the white horse with his mighty sword. 

He draws his sword, meets him swiftly with a shriek of weapons, the Trojan’s blade mere inches from the creature’s white flesh.

Ophellios leaps down, striking the horse at its flank. It speeds away.

He faces him.

"Brave of you, boy."

He gathers his strength and leaps and crashes down upon Ophellios like a boulder rolling down a mountain slope, a blow of terrible strength to break his guard and shatter his shield and cut to the quick. 

Ophellios is fast. He ducks and rolls, lunging his sword into the small of Aeneas’ back–

He is tiring now, and the Cretans are faltering. 

Soon he will be alone, and surrounded. 

For long moments he does battle with Hector - but the moment is lost.

He calls the retreat.

Ophellios is not there.

Gods damn him. 

He charges forwards heedless of the mounting chaos, rushing through the line of Trojan soldiers to see where Ophellios is caught, stuck, hemmed-in and held in mortal combat with Aeneas, the prince, the child of the goddess. 

From the ruined breast of a fallen Trojan soldier he yanks a javelin and hurls what is left of it, the tip dented and broken, towards Aeneas.

"RUN!"

He throws himself to the ground, and the javelin whirs overhead and Ophellios's stroke goes wide.

From the road he heaves a paving-stone and hurls it bodily at Ophellios on the ground.

There is a sickening crunch. The pain from his left arm floods his brain–

He runs. He runs, but not towards Aetos.

He heads towards the granary.

He yells in frustration, and headlong he dashes after Ophellios, to die slaying as many of the Trojans as he can.

He cuts a path through a dozen fools who stand in their way - and they reach the granaries, though they will never, never fight their way out. 

"Have you chosen here to die, then, son of Hyranon?"

“Are you going to help me or not?” He snaps, laying out with quick fingers the strange materials the King of Ithaca told him to arrange. He is slowed by the pain in his arm.

"Help you! I have, and I shall. Do your work while you can; I will hold off the Trojans, like a shepherd keeps the wolves from a wayward sheep."

“Gods go with you.”

Strange dark powder, spread across the vast chamber – strange cords, twisted together in foreign fashion – strange oils that he must apply, all of it strange–

Ambrosios told him to flee when the final piece is placed, and indeed, Ophellios runs.

He grabs Aetos by the forearm and pulls him along, and there is a great roar like nothing the Greeks or Trojans have seen before, like the mythical fire-mountains of Hephaestus – and the granaries erupt in flames like Hell.

Perhaps he should speak softer to Ambrosios.

The Trojan soldiers will run here with a bucket-chain, but the citizens will run away...

It is inglorious, but it is their best chance. 

"This way!"

He follows the tumult away from the fires, now spreading, towards the next gate.

They run, they run-

A flash of white like the snow of Olympus.

“Leukos!”

The horse whinnies and catches up to them, though it fears the great fire behind.

"...Whitey the white horse?"

He leaps up onto the horse - it strains mightily under both their weight, but it holds.

Even the mighty gates of Troy are not meant to be charged from the inside.

“We are fleeing for our lives and you are questioning the name of our steed?!”

Closer. Closer to the walls of Troy, ahead, almost there–

He dashes out ahead. 

Only a small garrison guards this gate: the Grecian attack here was very minor. A wooden watchtower, built on mighty posts for the clear shooting line towards the bend in the road, fell in the skirmish; but that is all.

The Trojans swarm up to bolster him, and he stands ready to meet their charge. 

Spears bristle before the horse. 

He tugs at its reins, preventing them all from being skewered–

There has to be another way out. There has to be–

“The battering ram! We can use it as a bridge!”

"ARE YOU MAD?"

He's already wheeling around anyway - it's not as though there's any other option.

The ram hasn't been moved, none are strong enough. It lies where it fell, slightly within the gates.

Zeus all-father, if ever I led the sacrifices for you, a dozen strong oxen, and sent up the fragrant smoke to heaven, grant me strength now.

He heaves.

By the gods. The task of fifty men – Lord Aetos is doing it alone.

With a burst of the Cretan’s strength and sweat, the great oak is propped against the wall. Trojan forces scatter, yet they join together quickly in strength, blocking their exit through the great breach.

Here goes everything.

Ophellios orients his horse towards the makeshift ramp and gallops.

It leaps off the edge, crossing the city’s great boundary; Leukos clambers down the pile of rubble, landing hard yet uninjured on the ground outside.

He leaps up onto the trunk and runs through the hail of arrows, pausing just a moment to gaze upon Ilium. 

The unnatural fire is spreading now. Troy may not fall this day, but this is more than they have accomplished all year. 

He swarms down the wall on the far side and dashes under cover to find the boy and his ill-named horse inexplicably alive. 

Truly the lord Ophel is blessed of Poseidon this day.

"We are not safe yet! Can your horse still ride?"

“Yes. Yes, get on!”

They are able to reconvene with the remainder of their men, who find in turn the rest of the Greeks as they retreat swiftly from the besieged gates, the large explosion doubling as their signal to withdraw. There, Aetos finds his own steed and Leukos is freed from the burden of two kings.

Together the army return to the camp to lick their wounds, and to weigh the victories and losses of the day.

Ophellios descends from his horse, the pain in his arm growing sharper. Surely dislocated. With a grunt, he sets it back into place.

Troy is burning.

She watches with a sense of detachment, as though it were a glimpse in a mirror. 

Is this it? Is this the day the man who owns her razes the great city to the ground?

It seems not. The Greeks return, they do not go out to plunder and rape and burn until Trojan blood clogs those wide streets.

Her course is clear. 

She hurries out into the Greek camp, hugging herself.

"My lord! Oh- you are hurt-"

“I am fine.” His heart is still in the battle, his eyes on Aetos, that arrow wound in his hand.

Ophellios remembers to look at her. “Take my horse. I will return soon.”

He walks forward.

She's scared of horses. Obviously she can never ever let him know that. 

She approaches the hideous beast slowly, its sides heaving, its head tossing and snorting. 

It is obviously panicking and those hooves could crush her. 

...It can't be that hard. 

She'll try to lead it away to be... looked after... by... the slaves who look after horses?

He is gazing at Troy in flames, heedless of half a dozen minor wounds and of his hand. It hadn't damaged anything too important, and so he'd snapped off the shaft and gone on. 

“Lord Aetos.”

"What?"

“You are injured. Let me take a look.”

"Hmm? It is nothing."

He stands between Aetos and the distant view of the burning city, giving the Cretan a look.

“I am trained by Machaon. Let me at least stop the bleeding, lest you collapse like a woman.”

"Ha! I have bled more than this and stayed standing, boy. You are too young as yet to wound me even with your words. But look, if you wish. I care little."

He only winces slightly when he strips his sleeve. 

The arrow, a broadhead, punched through his leather glove, glanced off the bone, and buried itself between the bones in his hand. It hasn't pushed all the way through, but it's deep. 

He grimaces at the sight, warm fingers handling Aetos’ hand delicately.

“Come. The Pylian camp is closer.”

Ophellios leads him to his hut.

He rolls his eyes, but follows. The boy did do well today. 

Diameda is not here, and the guards have not yet returned to their stations after the battle, but another servant is there to greet them. Ophellios sends instructions for some water, cloth, and other supplies, and they are left alone.

The King of Pylos’ hut is larger than the others in this quarter, filled with furs and perfumes and delicate masterpieces of pottery. A lyre is propped in the corner, taking pride of place amongst the remainder of the king’s riches.

He gestures for Aetos to take a seat.

Typical. It's as he expected, really. 

He never knows what to say when healers tend to him, and it is strange indeed for the prince to do so. 

"I did not know you had studied under Machaon, boy. Why?"

Ophellios kneels in front of him, eyes focused as he works. They glance up only briefly as Aetos speaks.

“For moments like this,” he responds. “For if I am ever out in battle, and I or a comrade return wounded. Or if we are unable to return at all due to some injury.”

He frowns at the arrow. The maidservant has brought the supplies already, and he prepares to remove the Trojan weapon from Aetos’ flesh. “This is going to hurt.”

"Of course it is. It always hurts; you do not need to tell me. Get to it."

For that, he makes it hurt even more.

The arrow is removed and discarded. Ophellios works immediately to clean the wound and stop the bleeding, pressing down hard – perhaps harder than needed – as he wraps it tight with the cloth.

Now the spear-wound wrought by Aeneas. This is a simpler operation, but Aetos will need to discard some of his armour.

He flexes the injured hand. Good enough. 

The joints of the armour are damaged; he cannot reach the buckles himself to undo it. 

"It is not serious. The bleeding will stop by itself."

“Why are you so resistant?” He asks, growing exasperated with the Cretan’s declarations of manliness.

Fine. He undoes the armour deftly.

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?"

“A princess?” He echoes quietly to himself.

“If none of you are going to speak up, then I shall have her.” He stands proudly, the King of the Spartans.

He furrows his brow, trying to get a better look at the prize on offer. He sees no princess. Is this some form of trick?