“You will make the choice for us, Aetos King.”

“Will you leave us now, sail away in your black ships?”

“Will you parley, offer yourself before the Lord of Pylos?”

Their voices are like the thunder that once raged above the blasted hillside, long ago.

“Or will you do nothing?”

"Ha. Parley I would, if such were not to throw away my own life. In battle I would be glad to die; but not slaughtered like a lamb at the hand of a cursed man, having come unarmed in embassy, and betrayed. Therefore find some assurance, Achaeans, and I will go to the lord of Pylos; or else I shall go all in panoply, with my own guard, and the forces of the Cretans set to fall upon the Pylian camp in vengeance should I not return. So indeed shall it be; in either case, black war looms if you would have me parley with a fallen thing, a wolf in the guise of a man."

“Aetos,” he speaks. “You caused this. You must now fix it.”

The will of the kings is as iron.

"Ah. So indeed like the Pylian you turn upon the messenger; it was I who first brought you this ill news, that it is not Ophellios who wears the Pylian crown, and you would not believe it, and now that you are obliged to it is me you blame. Very well, Achaeans; my oath does not oblige me to obey all your whims, and I have half a mind to turn and go, but I will humour you yet."

And so he will gather his personal guard, and tell them straight: that to march into the camp is probable death. 

Not a single one of them does anything but gird his loins and volunteer. 

And so he comes to the house of Ophellios.

Warriors flock around the Pylian camp like ravens. When the Cretan embassy is sighted, they close in around the border, impenetrable. Their shields interlock; their spears point defensively.

A long-haired general speaks from behind the wall of men.

“You will turn from this place, King of Crete.”

He holds up a hand - if his own men draw swords, they are only one carelessly-loosed arrow or javelin thrown by a nervous man from ruin. 

"I will not. The war fares ill, and this matter is too grave to fear even the armies of Pylos. With your King would I speak. I come only to talk. Are you not, Pylians, concerned? I see from your grave looks and knowing glances that you are. Are you to sit alone on this plain, tasting not of war, whiling away your lives and staring at trees? Are you not soldiers of the Achaeans?"

The general hesitates only for a heartbeat.

“We follow orders from our king. You are not to trespass. I will give you one final warning.”

"And then, soldier, will you start a war against Crete, against perhaps all of Greece? Or will you rather take counsel, and send one of yours, a swift messenger, to tell the king an embassy comes?"

“The king demands your head.”

There is a pause as the general mutters something quickly to one of his men.

“But a messenger has been sent, King of Crete. For now, our oath is inviolate. You will not pass.”

"Good. Let us all wait patiently, then."

The Cretans are very good at doing not very much, as lifetime soldiers are. They can do not very much in an extremely frightening way, in fact.

The minutes pass agonisingly by.

The Pylian guard do not break their formation.

After some time the messenger returns, whispering something into the his superior’s ear.

There is a brief exchange between them before the general faces once again the Cretan emissaries.

“Our king allows you entry provided that certain conditions are met. Are you willing to comply?”

"That depends, of course, on what those conditions are."

“Your Majesty; you are to enter alone, with all weapons stripped from you, barefoot.”

"If those are the king's wishes." Of course they're not, the king is long dead, but he knows what needs to be said. 

He turns to his men.

"You know what your duty is." A long look, and a knowing one. 

He will go to see the king, then. 

He crosses the border.

The king’s guard search him thoroughly, confiscating his sword and finding every hidden weapon about his royal person.

They take his cloak then, and his shoes.

The ground is sharp and rocky. Aetos is escorted inside by ten men.

He waits for him on his throne.

The young king is all but obscured from view; row after row of armed guards stand between them as the Cretan is led inside. Aetos is afforded only glimpses of the man he once called friend.

It's not his first time going unshod. He was a man before he could afford shoes. 

"Pylian king. The Achaeans cannot win our war without you; why then do you linger here but refuse to fight? The oath of Tyndareus was binding upon your father; will you not honour it? Will you see him go unavenged, for whatever cause you have?"

…

The guardsmen shift, and for a second, Aetos can see him clearly.

Hair short now, skin pale, eyes rimmed with black–

He looks nothing like Ophellios.

He is not too proud to admit to himself that he feels a prickle of fear - but at least his doubts are dispelled. 

He won't repeat himself, just wait for an answer. 

He has had nightmares about that face.

And here it is now, daring to come to him again.

After everything. After the message that was sent; a man’s heart, freshly torn from his breast, just as the Cretan had done to him.

His warning could not have been clearer.

Ophellios stands silently; and with the elegance of a god he treads forward through the sea of warriors. Ahead. Only there.

He throws down a sword. It lands at Aetos’ bare feet with a clatter.

There is a whine of steel as he draws his own.

"No. You will not kill me. And I will not dishonour the gods by coming here in embassy and raising a sword against you; nor will you persist in this, if you have any wisdom."

“You are found wanting. You will duel. Pick up your sword.”