They go out into the place where the demigod Aeneas had led the Greek slaughter, more than a year ago. Red flowers grow now where their comrades fell. All else is quiet.
Ophellios releases the string of his bow and a bird falls from the sky. It was only a small thing, but the arrow pierced neatly its heart; there will be enough meat for feasting later.
There is hunger in the camp.
He turns, looking to his lone companion. “How many have you caught, Lord Aetos?”
"I am more used to hunger than you will ever be, young king, unless the gods wax wrathful indeed against you. Speak."
"It is not meet to ask such questions of a host. Zeus protects guests, and protects hosts also."
“You evade the question because you are a hypocrite.” He points at him with a meat-knife.
"You continue to ask because you are stubborn. Do you not remember the story of Pandora?"
The words are so familiar. It takes Ophellios a moment.
“Ha.” He responds eventually, his lips curling handsomely. “I remember that. When we first met, you posed the exact same question to my father. What is it about that tale that so compels you?”
"You remember well."
He sighs, and sits back, and drinks deeply of wine.
"In truth, it always struck me as -" unfair "confusing. Why did Lord Zeus offer the vessel at all, knowing as He must have done what would happen? Was it truly spite? Would it not seem equally wise as a teaching, if the story had been different, and Pandora had been incurious, and so robbed mankind of some great boon?" That's probably a dangerous thing to say- "but then I became a king, and had to listen to endless questions, and I saw the wisdom of it."
“Lord Aetos the philosopher king.” Ophellios’ gaze is fond. Amused.
In truth, he concurs. But one has to be careful what they say when the gods are listening.
“Why do you believe Hope was left in the box then, O sage?”
"I do not know. I never was a philosopher; I did not even know the word in my youth. But I notice, Lord Ophellios, that in all these fascinating words you have not answered my question."
“It seems we both step around the other.”
He places the knife down, leaving only a pile of small bones on the table.
“Are we locked in a dance, do you think? You are more secretive than most kings in this camp. But you are my friend, so I will tell you. The prophet has lost his Sight, except for strange omens that will not lend themselves to comprehension. The same one returns to him: a flock of birds, circling around the blasted hill some day’s march away.”
Ophellios drinks, and the wine glints red on his white teeth.
“I intend to travel there at first light. Your monster, Hope, has not left us yet.”
"You wish to set out alone into the lands of the enemy, chasing a dream, a whim of a man you admit has lost his Sight."
“Yes. I warn you, friend; do not so quickly dismiss an omen from the gods.”
Colours have returned to his vision again. The nausea has stopped. His fingers flex and his heart is renewed with energy.
“I will not be long.”
Aetos looks at him for a long moment.
The young king has grown strong - it's obvious in his broader frame, the sterner set of his face - but it's hard not to see the boy he was in moments like this.
"You do not intend to go alone."
"You will be alone in the lands of the enemy with only wild dogs and birds of prey for company. This is folly."
The agitation manifests in the tapping of his foot. “If I can defend myself against Aeneas, I can defend myself against a puppy.”
"You were not alone then. You were not weary and half-starved then. And you will have to sleep. You will have to trek for long hours, unawares-"
He cuts himself off.
"I am an older and wiser king, and I have concerns for your welfare, as any man in my place would."
Ophellios leans forward across the table to rest his hand over his companion’s. He smiles a reassuring smile, one that crinkles the corners of his blue eyes and almost fools Aetos into belief.
“I will be fine.”
In an explosive movement, unknowing, he seizes the King's hands and squeezes hard.
"You will not simply be fine! We are at war! Trojan warriors by the thousand wish you dead; your death would be a horror for your people and all the Achaeans, and sweet succour for Troy; you cannot simply cross the field alone save for your personal guard-"
The look on Ophellios’ face – the vanished smile, the startled expression – stops him.
There is silence but for the crackling of the fire.
“I do not intend to die.” The young king’s voice has become quiet. “And your concern I find strange.”
There is only the very minutest pause before he replies.
"Strange perhaps indeed you find it, young as you are. You would not be the first brave young man I would see die in his bravery, mistaking folly for courage, thinking himself greater than death as are the immortal gods."
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