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 shall see you in an hour.”
Ophellios turns and departs.
His cheeks flush red in the torchlight. He flexes his fingers again, over again.
“If I had wanted to take you by force I would have done so long since–”
Was he a fool for telling Aetos, for asking him to come on this quest? No, surely – for all that the Cretan is a rough man, he would not do anything to truly harm him.
They are friends.
One foot ahead of the other. Ahead; only there.
Ophellios turns sharply, leaving his bag half-packed. No one should be able to enter his hut after dark.
His fingers inch towards the sword on his bed.
“Who goes there?”
“Oh.” He relaxes, but not completely. The man is Lord Achilles’ favourite; where one goes, the other is never far behind. “Patroclus. What brings you here under Nyx’s shadow? You know that you are a welcome guest.”
“Forgive me. It is important that my coming here is kept secret. Especially from those who… would take interest in my whereabouts.”
His eyes rake over king’s belongings laid out over the bed.
“So it is true that you depart our camp.”
He shakes his head. “I thank you for your hospitality, King of Pylos, but I have too little time before he notices I am gone.”
His lips pull in a fascinating way. Love and exasperation altogether.
“Yes. He intends to do something drastic in three days. You intend to stop him. I cannot be seen to take another’s side, but know that I also cannot allow him to come to any harm.”
The dark-haired man nods, relief colouring his grey eyes. “Good. Good, thank you, my Lord. Know that I will do what I can to delay him until your return. You have my word.”
He hesitates before stepping forward.
“No.”
From deep within his cloak he retrieves a tiny crystal bottle. The liquid inside is like honey, but glows softly like fire; red almost as blood but warm like the sun. Strange shimmers swirl in its heart.
He holds it out to Ophellios on the end of a silver chain. It does not dangle in the air but seems almost to levitate on its own axis.
“Nectar. We found it on the corpse of a priest’s son. He was struck down as he was fleeing one of the surrounding towns of Troy – likely told to take this artefact and run. Achilles will not miss it, but equally he does not know that it lies in your hands now. Take it, and do not use it unwisely.”
Slowly, he reaches out and curls his fingers around the bottle. It is such a tiny thing, the size of a pendant.
The nectar inside seems to pulse at his touch, surging forward in its tightly-sealed vessel to try to lap at his skin.
He places the chain around his neck and tucks it quickly into his tunic.
“I… do not know what to say. Thank you.” He meets his eyes with such sincerity.
Patroclus is already leaving. “Only use it to stay alive. And remember, Lord of Pylos – I never came to your door.”
He is gone.
He stands there for some time, the weight of the pendant around his neck like wearing a star.
Ophellios completes his packing, leaving instructions for the sleeping Diameda should he not return.
Though some minutes delayed, at last he meets Aetos at the gate.
"You took a long time, Ophellios. Do you have wise doubts at last about this doomed quest? Do you fear now to leave these gates? Or are you merely absent-minded?"
“If you intend to harass me with every breath then I will leave you behind.”
He adjusts the weight of his bag on his shoulders.
“Lord Aetos, I am giving you one final chance to stay here.”
"It amuses me still that you think the choice to be yours. I will not shy away from my fate, whether it is to die defending you from the dangers beyond or to carry back your corpse to the pyre or, if a god grants us good fortune, perhaps to find what you seek; hurry then now."
Ophellios nods.
He knows not what to make of Aetos.
“Let us not take the horses. They will only draw attention to our whereabouts; come. The hillside lies to the north.”
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