There, on an exquisite blue cushion, lies–

still bleeding, still pulsing with undead life,

a human heart.

For a moment he doesn't comprehend what he sees: some sort of message? An omen, a portent, a warning from the god. 

Then he enquires, and learns that his messenger never returned. 

So be it; the die is cast. 

One thing to reject his overture; another to murder the messenger. 

A Cretan man is dead at the godling's hands; he bows his head in mourning. 

Surely no mortal would do this. Ophellios would never have done this. Only a madman or a god would dare kill a messenger - what good does it do? it only betrays a trust, a common weal, the possibility enemies have to communicate, and to betray that trust is only to harm oneself - and only a madman or a god would send this grisly token. 

He sends word to Ambrosios: you were wrong, old friend. Be ready for war. 

There can be no return from this. He will not fight alongside the Pylian, nor does the oath of Tyndareus compel him to fight a war on two fronts: so he rules. They will lose the Cretans or the Pylians: make their choice. 

Ambrosios is not available when the message is sent.

Cloak drawn over his frame, he stalks around the Pylian camp, sharp eyes seeking out the Trojan girl.

Once, when she was a little girl, her father had taken her into town. There had been some sort of unrest, and there were siege-towers, now mostly abandoned. A soldier had let her climb one, let her walk across and play at climbing the wall. 

The important thing, he'd said, was not to look down. 

She's been borne up so high so fast, she doesn't understand why, Ophellios is- gone or changed or mad or something - the important thing is not to look down. 

She's not just a slave-girl any more. She's going to be a queen. It's madness, sheer madness, this isn't done, she knows the camp is in some kind of uproar but nobody's moved against the king, her husband, just yet; apparently he'd done something or given some order and now they're silent. 

She hasn't spoken to him since that fateful night. 

Her voice is mostly better now. 

A grand tent has been set up for her, guarded and filled with maids. She can mostly only move about there. 

She does, however, sometimes have something she hasn't had in many years: privacy. Her own small chamber. 

Sometimes she likes to sit in it and weep; today, she is returning there only to fall into sleep exhausted. 

She steps into her small haven, drawing the curtain shut behind her–

And she feels a presence behind her, and a hand clasped over her mouth.

“Do not scream.” He utters into her ear quietly. “I am not here to hurt you – you have my word as King of Ithaca. I only want to talk. Do you understand?”

She freezes. 

The thing that keeps her and her child alive and free is - 

- is probably not to scream anyway, even if Ophellios will be angry that she did not; for a king who would dare break into the women's quarters of another king, as is more than grounds for the sort of feud that burns whole countries, is also a king who would slit her throat rather than be caught, and the near-certainty of that is worse than the uncertain prospect of her - husband - being angry. 

It's not as though he can simply change his mind now. 

She nods. 

He relaxes, and lets go.

“I knew you were smart. That’s how you’ve survived here this long, am I correct?”

Ambrosios smiles at her, and… she feels safe, with that smile. Almost like with an older brother, or a father.

“King Aetos had his concerns about your wellbeing. I came to see if you were alive.”

She relaxes fractionally. Only fractionally. She lowered her guard once before, and that was- maybe it wasn't a mistake considering where she ended up, but it wasn't pleasant for her. 

"I am well. That sounds... astonishingly kind, of King Aetos," she says very carefully. 

He doesn’t respond – only looks around, taking in the ornament of this place; the lavish fabrics; the jewels in her hair.

Strange attire for a slave girl.

“I am afraid, my lady, that with the state of security in this place we do not have much time before I am caught. We have no communication with the court of Pylos. I need you to tell me everything.”

Should she?

What lies should she be telling? 

But if she refuses he might - 

"If my King and husband does not wish to communicate with you," she begins carefully, "then it is not clear to me, that I would not offend him and the immortal gods and Hera, guardian of marriage, if I were to betray his trust."

“Husband?”

Oh fuck.

“You are to be Queen of Pylos?”

What in the depths of Tartarus–

“Well. I congratulate you.”

"Thank you, my Lord."

She regards him warily. 

"My Lord - forgive me - what is all this about?"

He sighs, beginning to pace.

“Your king has fallen silent. More than that, he has made it very clear he wants nothing to do with the King of Crete, and all Achaeans by extension. My lady – this could and likely will lose us the war.”

Ambrosios falls still, taking gently her hand.

“I implore you: tell me of my friend. I have known him since he was younger than even the boy you met. What troubles him? How can it be mended? What is happening?”

“You carry the heir to the throne.” 

So Ophellios made arrangements to secure his line – to secure the mother of his child, slave girl or not. That part sounds like him, at least. 

Nothing else that she has said does.

He pushes thoughts of his own wife from his mind, carrying their child in the early months, it was late summer and everything seemed like it would stay golden forever, his son would be eight years old now–

“When did this behaviour begin, Diameda?”

"I'm- not sure- he was- a little different after he came back, I thought, but then- that night- it was like a different man in my ma- my husband's skin. I- I had never known him to strike me before - not even in the darkest times - and he - I thought -"

On second thought, she is going to stop resisting the urge to break into tears. It's not that people never hurt you just for crying, but they usually do do it less.

Something in his cold heart softens. He draws her into his strong arms, and there the future Queen can cry, and she can be safe.

“What night was this?” He asks softly.