“Helen rejected you. Your wife cares little for you. You keep the company of boys because no woman will speak to you.”

It is cruel, and he feels guilty immediately upon saying it. Ophellios is unused to being cruel.

King Aetos brings out the worst in him.

He shakes his head a little, says nothing, and walks on. 

The silence is worse.

They come in time to a lonely and wild place. One could believe almost anything of this lost and lonely hill, nestled among others at the foot of the mountain but shrouded in darkness; and indeed, coming here, the soil is like ash and dust, the trees long dead and withered, and the only sound is the wind blowing through old stone. 

At the top, half-buried in dead shrubbery and dust like ash, is the collapsed facade of a temple. 

Ophellios stands still, too still, as he looks up at the ruined temple.

His eyes are larger than they should be and they blink too little; the black points are only narrow, the blue like the unknowable wells of the sea in storm. 

He has taken Aetos’ hand, squeezing it tightly. He is not sure when he started doing that.

“There is something Terrible here.”

The pendant around the King of Pylos’ neck glows hot. Like a dog eager to reunite with its master, its divine contents surge forward.

His sword is out of its sheath and his eyes are alert. 

He had not had proof with his own eyes of the boy's parentage until now, only whispers and now hearsay; until now, he could almost have doubted it, almost believed it was some great trick, some conspiracy; to see it with his own eyes still chills his blood. 

He stares for a long moment at the godling.

Then he squeezes his hand back.

"What is it?"