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The King of Colchis had spent his life on the battlefields of the northern lands. This was nothing different nor nothing new. If anything, the man had come to know these lands just as well as he knew his own Kingdom, if only because bringing the fight to the Northern people meant that the danger avoided his own entirely. Save for the soldiers that skulked the battlefields for the sake of trying to bring yet another conflict to an end. Tython was not a warmonger. He was a man who wanted peace for Colchis, for Greece.
But it was difficult to find peace for one's Kingdom when your enemies were constantly declaring war after war upon your people. This conflict had seen both Prince Vangelis and Prince Zanon on the frontlines, though Tython and Vangelis had been fighting side by side for some time already. Zanon, on the other hand, had been leading the charge as commander of his own unit a day or two's journey away from their current position. The fighting had come to a lull. A lull that was always deceptive in its length and its purpose and always set the King on edge.
The rider had come in early in the morning, he and his horse exhausted after riding so hard and for so long. The missive had been short and to the point, stating that Prince Zanon had been gravely injured on his own front. The sheer panic that Tython had felt at that moment had been unlike anything he had ever truly experienced before. Keeping his panic pushed down and to himself, however, he was still quick to collect Vangelis and make arrangements to give leadership of their armies to the other commanders that were attending this part of the battlefields with them.
Then, the two of them had set off on their own horses, pushing themselves and their beasts as hard as they could manage in an effort to get to the younger prince. If his son were to die here, Tython would feel the slighest sense of guilt that the family's tendencies toward war had taken his life so young and with such a young son left behind. The king tried not to think too much on the potential death of one of his children even when his knuckles went white on the reins of his horse and his fingers became difficult to move with the exhertion.
He said little to Vangelis as they rode. Over the pounding of hooves and the rush of wind in his ears, there was truly little that could be said, but the king was sure that Vangelis felt even the barest sense of what Tython did. The family was close, and to know that one of their own was injured was a stressful situation to be in even despite their penchant for battle.
Tython could have loosed a breath of relief when the two of them came into view of Prince Zanon's camp, but he did not, remaining reserved and silent on the matter. They would see the damage done soon enough and evaluate their next steps once the issue was staring them in the face. There was no use in trying to plan now when they didn't exactly know what they were to walk into in Zanon's medical tent.
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The King of Colchis had spent his life on the battlefields of the northern lands. This was nothing different nor nothing new. If anything, the man had come to know these lands just as well as he knew his own Kingdom, if only because bringing the fight to the Northern people meant that the danger avoided his own entirely. Save for the soldiers that skulked the battlefields for the sake of trying to bring yet another conflict to an end. Tython was not a warmonger. He was a man who wanted peace for Colchis, for Greece.
But it was difficult to find peace for one's Kingdom when your enemies were constantly declaring war after war upon your people. This conflict had seen both Prince Vangelis and Prince Zanon on the frontlines, though Tython and Vangelis had been fighting side by side for some time already. Zanon, on the other hand, had been leading the charge as commander of his own unit a day or two's journey away from their current position. The fighting had come to a lull. A lull that was always deceptive in its length and its purpose and always set the King on edge.
The rider had come in early in the morning, he and his horse exhausted after riding so hard and for so long. The missive had been short and to the point, stating that Prince Zanon had been gravely injured on his own front. The sheer panic that Tython had felt at that moment had been unlike anything he had ever truly experienced before. Keeping his panic pushed down and to himself, however, he was still quick to collect Vangelis and make arrangements to give leadership of their armies to the other commanders that were attending this part of the battlefields with them.
Then, the two of them had set off on their own horses, pushing themselves and their beasts as hard as they could manage in an effort to get to the younger prince. If his son were to die here, Tython would feel the slighest sense of guilt that the family's tendencies toward war had taken his life so young and with such a young son left behind. The king tried not to think too much on the potential death of one of his children even when his knuckles went white on the reins of his horse and his fingers became difficult to move with the exhertion.
He said little to Vangelis as they rode. Over the pounding of hooves and the rush of wind in his ears, there was truly little that could be said, but the king was sure that Vangelis felt even the barest sense of what Tython did. The family was close, and to know that one of their own was injured was a stressful situation to be in even despite their penchant for battle.
Tython could have loosed a breath of relief when the two of them came into view of Prince Zanon's camp, but he did not, remaining reserved and silent on the matter. They would see the damage done soon enough and evaluate their next steps once the issue was staring them in the face. There was no use in trying to plan now when they didn't exactly know what they were to walk into in Zanon's medical tent.
The King of Colchis had spent his life on the battlefields of the northern lands. This was nothing different nor nothing new. If anything, the man had come to know these lands just as well as he knew his own Kingdom, if only because bringing the fight to the Northern people meant that the danger avoided his own entirely. Save for the soldiers that skulked the battlefields for the sake of trying to bring yet another conflict to an end. Tython was not a warmonger. He was a man who wanted peace for Colchis, for Greece.
But it was difficult to find peace for one's Kingdom when your enemies were constantly declaring war after war upon your people. This conflict had seen both Prince Vangelis and Prince Zanon on the frontlines, though Tython and Vangelis had been fighting side by side for some time already. Zanon, on the other hand, had been leading the charge as commander of his own unit a day or two's journey away from their current position. The fighting had come to a lull. A lull that was always deceptive in its length and its purpose and always set the King on edge.
The rider had come in early in the morning, he and his horse exhausted after riding so hard and for so long. The missive had been short and to the point, stating that Prince Zanon had been gravely injured on his own front. The sheer panic that Tython had felt at that moment had been unlike anything he had ever truly experienced before. Keeping his panic pushed down and to himself, however, he was still quick to collect Vangelis and make arrangements to give leadership of their armies to the other commanders that were attending this part of the battlefields with them.
Then, the two of them had set off on their own horses, pushing themselves and their beasts as hard as they could manage in an effort to get to the younger prince. If his son were to die here, Tython would feel the slighest sense of guilt that the family's tendencies toward war had taken his life so young and with such a young son left behind. The king tried not to think too much on the potential death of one of his children even when his knuckles went white on the reins of his horse and his fingers became difficult to move with the exhertion.
He said little to Vangelis as they rode. Over the pounding of hooves and the rush of wind in his ears, there was truly little that could be said, but the king was sure that Vangelis felt even the barest sense of what Tython did. The family was close, and to know that one of their own was injured was a stressful situation to be in even despite their penchant for battle.
Tython could have loosed a breath of relief when the two of them came into view of Prince Zanon's camp, but he did not, remaining reserved and silent on the matter. They would see the damage done soon enough and evaluate their next steps once the issue was staring them in the face. There was no use in trying to plan now when they didn't exactly know what they were to walk into in Zanon's medical tent.
Vangelis had learnt of Zanon's injury a few hours after his father. During the time in which they had fought on the same fronts and with the same armies, Vangelis and Tython had taken it in turns to work either from a position of authoritative strategy in the command tents, back from the main assault, or organising the troops and leading them into battle. In truth, Vangelis spent perhaps a little more in the latter position. Partially because the King was far wiser and more experienced in matters of war than he and could do more good from such a tactical position and partially because to lose a prince (when three others were able to step into the role) would be less devastating to the kingdom as a whole than the loss of a king.
As such, Vangelis was out on the front lines of a battle that had reached its conclusion an hour passed when Tython rode to him with news of his brother. Breaking from his supervising of coins and burial rites for the dead, Vangelis had turned, mud splattered, rain covered and dripping in the crimson of his enemies, and looked up at the man who rose his steed before him, absorbing the news with all the expression of a statue.
Still in 'battle mode', all of Vangelis' emotions were pushed down to the furthest reaches of his mind and gut, where his natural compassion and care for human life could not interfere with the working of his blade upon enemy flesh. As such, he barely flickered an eyelid at the news that his eldest brother was dancing with the ferryman as they spoke.
Yet, his actions alone spoke of great care for the man. Immediately, Vangelis yelled towards his Commander Nike and ordered the return of the bodies. He made instructions for the line they had just succeeded in claiming to be held at all costs but never advanced whilst he was absent from front himself. It was his father's instruction that Vangelis left the field and journeyed with him to Zanon's unit some days' ride ahead of them west and yet he did not argue - he simply gave the orders necessary. For, whilst his militant pride insisted that he would be able to continue the fight here without the supervision of his King, there was a voice of reason in his head that warned... though he might be emotionless now, grief and panic could hit at any time. And he would not leave his men with a commanding officer who could be rendered useless at any surprise moment. He needed to see to his family before he could be a reliable leader.
As such, Vangelis followed his father's demands and made himself ready for travel within minutes. He neither washed, nor saw to more than the most basic provisions for their journey west, knowing that anything they might need upon arrival would already be in the encampment. For the news that his brother had been struck down had been accompanied by that of his men holding true against the barbarians that had ambushed them in the night.
Windrunner was already saddled from his riding him into battle. Equally wet, muddy and cold as Vangelis, the creature blew an exhale of white mist in the dull drizzle. Despite their conditions, both seemed eager to be onward.
Pulling himself up onto the back of his old friend, Vangelis was quick to order simple provisions of food and water brought - just enough for the king and himself for a few days, had them lashed to the back of his saddle and his weapons quickly cleaned before they were sheathed and ready to go.
With a single look at his father, the two of them were off, with only the basic guardsmen to follow.
The two men rode their steeds and that of their guards with ruthless speed across the northern lands to the nearest encampment where his brother had been stationed. And it was during this time that Vangelis' more personable and brotherly nature took over from the war commander his father had found in the fields of their last battle.
Angry thoughts that were entirely hypocritical in their own right floated through his head. Like: What had Zanon gone and done now? Why had he fought himself? Why not let his soldiers handle it? Why did he have to be so reckless?
As with most moments of grief and panic, self-analysis was hardly a trait to hold and Vangelis cared little for how he would follow absolutely none of that advice himself. And, when his brother wasn't lying injured, he would have insisted on his siblings following his lead in such matters. It was curious how such a mentality could spin on its head simply through the fear of losing and loved one.
When he and his father finally road into the encampment of Colchian soldiers, a day and a half since receiving the message that his brother had been mortally wounded, Vangelis' only prayer was that the man was still alive.
He saw death every day on the battlefield - it was part of honouring the glory of Ares: the acceptance that you could die in the pursuit of his finest craft. Yet his one driving thought as their horses were pulled up short after entering the encampment at too fast a speed, was that he hadn't yet passed on so that he wouldn't have to die alone.
Descending from Windrunner whilst the animal was still drawing to a stop, Vangelis stumbled for a moment in a manner that was not appropriate for his rank, but recovered quickly, unsticking his boots from the mud he had sunk down into at his dismount and hurrying towards the medical tent.
As soldiers pointed and waved encouraging hands towards the King and his eldest son, their murmurs of greeting and respectful bows lost in the flurry of attempting to reach Prince Zanon as soon as possible, Tython and Vangelis entered the tent, their arms bent above their heads to push aside the half curtain that divided the interior from the cold of the outside world.
In the tent, a central fire pit pushed out the darkening dusk of the world beyond and set the room with both a welcoming, yet morbid glow of scarlet. The heat was hard to contain inside the shelter but it was clear that the prince was half a tent away from the light.
With an angry frown appearing over his features, Vangelis stormed forwards, a mirror image of his father as he hurried several yards inside to reach the side of his brother who seemed unconscious. Cleaned about the face in a haphazard manner that medics gave when needing to check eyes and read vitals, Zanon was cleaned than Vangelis from the neck up but more blood smeared everywhere else. The majority of it was around his groin and thigh, where a tight bandage had been fastened around his left, crimson tainting the weave and congealing into a sickening brown around the creases. Initially, the man looked dead already until Vangelis cause a shiver running the length of his body and the unsteady rise of his chest.
"Why isn't he closer to the fire?" Vangelis demanded, looking around for someone - anyone - to answer him, but his tone was one of death and anger and hardly encouraged anyone to speak.
One calmer and more experienced physician who was wiping blood of his hands after performing what looked to be a lower arm amputation on another patient came forwards.
"His Highness is set with a fever, my Prince." He answered simply. "The fire makes it worse, but the cold is not good for his wounds. We have tried to keep him as temperate as possible."
Vangelis' eyes were drawn back to his brother when he started to mumble beneath his breath - words that weren't clear enough to hear and yet stole the last of his breath each time to fail with a wheeze.
"Is he conscious?" Vangelis asked, as he moved around to the opposite side of the cot to his father. The physician was shaking his head already as he moved.
"He speaks through delusion, Your Highness. Illusions brought on by the pain."
Moving closer to his brother's side, Vangelis reached out to place a hand upon his wrist, holding on in some vain attempt to transfer some of his strength into his sibling. Instead, all he could feel was the faint sputter of his heartbeat, not strong enough to be considered healthy by a long way.
Willing to ask the hardest question of all, Vangelis turned to the physician in charge, whose name he still did not know and demanded with an expression of cold stone.
"Will he live?"
The older man, with eyes that spoke of the great numbers of men he had seen slip into the beyond, carried away to the riverman, stared right back, unafraid of the judgment that might pass upon him for delivering the simple truth to the royals...
"I believe, Your Highness, that such a choice is no longer in the hands of mortals."
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Vangelis had learnt of Zanon's injury a few hours after his father. During the time in which they had fought on the same fronts and with the same armies, Vangelis and Tython had taken it in turns to work either from a position of authoritative strategy in the command tents, back from the main assault, or organising the troops and leading them into battle. In truth, Vangelis spent perhaps a little more in the latter position. Partially because the King was far wiser and more experienced in matters of war than he and could do more good from such a tactical position and partially because to lose a prince (when three others were able to step into the role) would be less devastating to the kingdom as a whole than the loss of a king.
As such, Vangelis was out on the front lines of a battle that had reached its conclusion an hour passed when Tython rode to him with news of his brother. Breaking from his supervising of coins and burial rites for the dead, Vangelis had turned, mud splattered, rain covered and dripping in the crimson of his enemies, and looked up at the man who rose his steed before him, absorbing the news with all the expression of a statue.
Still in 'battle mode', all of Vangelis' emotions were pushed down to the furthest reaches of his mind and gut, where his natural compassion and care for human life could not interfere with the working of his blade upon enemy flesh. As such, he barely flickered an eyelid at the news that his eldest brother was dancing with the ferryman as they spoke.
Yet, his actions alone spoke of great care for the man. Immediately, Vangelis yelled towards his Commander Nike and ordered the return of the bodies. He made instructions for the line they had just succeeded in claiming to be held at all costs but never advanced whilst he was absent from front himself. It was his father's instruction that Vangelis left the field and journeyed with him to Zanon's unit some days' ride ahead of them west and yet he did not argue - he simply gave the orders necessary. For, whilst his militant pride insisted that he would be able to continue the fight here without the supervision of his King, there was a voice of reason in his head that warned... though he might be emotionless now, grief and panic could hit at any time. And he would not leave his men with a commanding officer who could be rendered useless at any surprise moment. He needed to see to his family before he could be a reliable leader.
As such, Vangelis followed his father's demands and made himself ready for travel within minutes. He neither washed, nor saw to more than the most basic provisions for their journey west, knowing that anything they might need upon arrival would already be in the encampment. For the news that his brother had been struck down had been accompanied by that of his men holding true against the barbarians that had ambushed them in the night.
Windrunner was already saddled from his riding him into battle. Equally wet, muddy and cold as Vangelis, the creature blew an exhale of white mist in the dull drizzle. Despite their conditions, both seemed eager to be onward.
Pulling himself up onto the back of his old friend, Vangelis was quick to order simple provisions of food and water brought - just enough for the king and himself for a few days, had them lashed to the back of his saddle and his weapons quickly cleaned before they were sheathed and ready to go.
With a single look at his father, the two of them were off, with only the basic guardsmen to follow.
The two men rode their steeds and that of their guards with ruthless speed across the northern lands to the nearest encampment where his brother had been stationed. And it was during this time that Vangelis' more personable and brotherly nature took over from the war commander his father had found in the fields of their last battle.
Angry thoughts that were entirely hypocritical in their own right floated through his head. Like: What had Zanon gone and done now? Why had he fought himself? Why not let his soldiers handle it? Why did he have to be so reckless?
As with most moments of grief and panic, self-analysis was hardly a trait to hold and Vangelis cared little for how he would follow absolutely none of that advice himself. And, when his brother wasn't lying injured, he would have insisted on his siblings following his lead in such matters. It was curious how such a mentality could spin on its head simply through the fear of losing and loved one.
When he and his father finally road into the encampment of Colchian soldiers, a day and a half since receiving the message that his brother had been mortally wounded, Vangelis' only prayer was that the man was still alive.
He saw death every day on the battlefield - it was part of honouring the glory of Ares: the acceptance that you could die in the pursuit of his finest craft. Yet his one driving thought as their horses were pulled up short after entering the encampment at too fast a speed, was that he hadn't yet passed on so that he wouldn't have to die alone.
Descending from Windrunner whilst the animal was still drawing to a stop, Vangelis stumbled for a moment in a manner that was not appropriate for his rank, but recovered quickly, unsticking his boots from the mud he had sunk down into at his dismount and hurrying towards the medical tent.
As soldiers pointed and waved encouraging hands towards the King and his eldest son, their murmurs of greeting and respectful bows lost in the flurry of attempting to reach Prince Zanon as soon as possible, Tython and Vangelis entered the tent, their arms bent above their heads to push aside the half curtain that divided the interior from the cold of the outside world.
In the tent, a central fire pit pushed out the darkening dusk of the world beyond and set the room with both a welcoming, yet morbid glow of scarlet. The heat was hard to contain inside the shelter but it was clear that the prince was half a tent away from the light.
With an angry frown appearing over his features, Vangelis stormed forwards, a mirror image of his father as he hurried several yards inside to reach the side of his brother who seemed unconscious. Cleaned about the face in a haphazard manner that medics gave when needing to check eyes and read vitals, Zanon was cleaned than Vangelis from the neck up but more blood smeared everywhere else. The majority of it was around his groin and thigh, where a tight bandage had been fastened around his left, crimson tainting the weave and congealing into a sickening brown around the creases. Initially, the man looked dead already until Vangelis cause a shiver running the length of his body and the unsteady rise of his chest.
"Why isn't he closer to the fire?" Vangelis demanded, looking around for someone - anyone - to answer him, but his tone was one of death and anger and hardly encouraged anyone to speak.
One calmer and more experienced physician who was wiping blood of his hands after performing what looked to be a lower arm amputation on another patient came forwards.
"His Highness is set with a fever, my Prince." He answered simply. "The fire makes it worse, but the cold is not good for his wounds. We have tried to keep him as temperate as possible."
Vangelis' eyes were drawn back to his brother when he started to mumble beneath his breath - words that weren't clear enough to hear and yet stole the last of his breath each time to fail with a wheeze.
"Is he conscious?" Vangelis asked, as he moved around to the opposite side of the cot to his father. The physician was shaking his head already as he moved.
"He speaks through delusion, Your Highness. Illusions brought on by the pain."
Moving closer to his brother's side, Vangelis reached out to place a hand upon his wrist, holding on in some vain attempt to transfer some of his strength into his sibling. Instead, all he could feel was the faint sputter of his heartbeat, not strong enough to be considered healthy by a long way.
Willing to ask the hardest question of all, Vangelis turned to the physician in charge, whose name he still did not know and demanded with an expression of cold stone.
"Will he live?"
The older man, with eyes that spoke of the great numbers of men he had seen slip into the beyond, carried away to the riverman, stared right back, unafraid of the judgment that might pass upon him for delivering the simple truth to the royals...
"I believe, Your Highness, that such a choice is no longer in the hands of mortals."
Vangelis had learnt of Zanon's injury a few hours after his father. During the time in which they had fought on the same fronts and with the same armies, Vangelis and Tython had taken it in turns to work either from a position of authoritative strategy in the command tents, back from the main assault, or organising the troops and leading them into battle. In truth, Vangelis spent perhaps a little more in the latter position. Partially because the King was far wiser and more experienced in matters of war than he and could do more good from such a tactical position and partially because to lose a prince (when three others were able to step into the role) would be less devastating to the kingdom as a whole than the loss of a king.
As such, Vangelis was out on the front lines of a battle that had reached its conclusion an hour passed when Tython rode to him with news of his brother. Breaking from his supervising of coins and burial rites for the dead, Vangelis had turned, mud splattered, rain covered and dripping in the crimson of his enemies, and looked up at the man who rose his steed before him, absorbing the news with all the expression of a statue.
Still in 'battle mode', all of Vangelis' emotions were pushed down to the furthest reaches of his mind and gut, where his natural compassion and care for human life could not interfere with the working of his blade upon enemy flesh. As such, he barely flickered an eyelid at the news that his eldest brother was dancing with the ferryman as they spoke.
Yet, his actions alone spoke of great care for the man. Immediately, Vangelis yelled towards his Commander Nike and ordered the return of the bodies. He made instructions for the line they had just succeeded in claiming to be held at all costs but never advanced whilst he was absent from front himself. It was his father's instruction that Vangelis left the field and journeyed with him to Zanon's unit some days' ride ahead of them west and yet he did not argue - he simply gave the orders necessary. For, whilst his militant pride insisted that he would be able to continue the fight here without the supervision of his King, there was a voice of reason in his head that warned... though he might be emotionless now, grief and panic could hit at any time. And he would not leave his men with a commanding officer who could be rendered useless at any surprise moment. He needed to see to his family before he could be a reliable leader.
As such, Vangelis followed his father's demands and made himself ready for travel within minutes. He neither washed, nor saw to more than the most basic provisions for their journey west, knowing that anything they might need upon arrival would already be in the encampment. For the news that his brother had been struck down had been accompanied by that of his men holding true against the barbarians that had ambushed them in the night.
Windrunner was already saddled from his riding him into battle. Equally wet, muddy and cold as Vangelis, the creature blew an exhale of white mist in the dull drizzle. Despite their conditions, both seemed eager to be onward.
Pulling himself up onto the back of his old friend, Vangelis was quick to order simple provisions of food and water brought - just enough for the king and himself for a few days, had them lashed to the back of his saddle and his weapons quickly cleaned before they were sheathed and ready to go.
With a single look at his father, the two of them were off, with only the basic guardsmen to follow.
The two men rode their steeds and that of their guards with ruthless speed across the northern lands to the nearest encampment where his brother had been stationed. And it was during this time that Vangelis' more personable and brotherly nature took over from the war commander his father had found in the fields of their last battle.
Angry thoughts that were entirely hypocritical in their own right floated through his head. Like: What had Zanon gone and done now? Why had he fought himself? Why not let his soldiers handle it? Why did he have to be so reckless?
As with most moments of grief and panic, self-analysis was hardly a trait to hold and Vangelis cared little for how he would follow absolutely none of that advice himself. And, when his brother wasn't lying injured, he would have insisted on his siblings following his lead in such matters. It was curious how such a mentality could spin on its head simply through the fear of losing and loved one.
When he and his father finally road into the encampment of Colchian soldiers, a day and a half since receiving the message that his brother had been mortally wounded, Vangelis' only prayer was that the man was still alive.
He saw death every day on the battlefield - it was part of honouring the glory of Ares: the acceptance that you could die in the pursuit of his finest craft. Yet his one driving thought as their horses were pulled up short after entering the encampment at too fast a speed, was that he hadn't yet passed on so that he wouldn't have to die alone.
Descending from Windrunner whilst the animal was still drawing to a stop, Vangelis stumbled for a moment in a manner that was not appropriate for his rank, but recovered quickly, unsticking his boots from the mud he had sunk down into at his dismount and hurrying towards the medical tent.
As soldiers pointed and waved encouraging hands towards the King and his eldest son, their murmurs of greeting and respectful bows lost in the flurry of attempting to reach Prince Zanon as soon as possible, Tython and Vangelis entered the tent, their arms bent above their heads to push aside the half curtain that divided the interior from the cold of the outside world.
In the tent, a central fire pit pushed out the darkening dusk of the world beyond and set the room with both a welcoming, yet morbid glow of scarlet. The heat was hard to contain inside the shelter but it was clear that the prince was half a tent away from the light.
With an angry frown appearing over his features, Vangelis stormed forwards, a mirror image of his father as he hurried several yards inside to reach the side of his brother who seemed unconscious. Cleaned about the face in a haphazard manner that medics gave when needing to check eyes and read vitals, Zanon was cleaned than Vangelis from the neck up but more blood smeared everywhere else. The majority of it was around his groin and thigh, where a tight bandage had been fastened around his left, crimson tainting the weave and congealing into a sickening brown around the creases. Initially, the man looked dead already until Vangelis cause a shiver running the length of his body and the unsteady rise of his chest.
"Why isn't he closer to the fire?" Vangelis demanded, looking around for someone - anyone - to answer him, but his tone was one of death and anger and hardly encouraged anyone to speak.
One calmer and more experienced physician who was wiping blood of his hands after performing what looked to be a lower arm amputation on another patient came forwards.
"His Highness is set with a fever, my Prince." He answered simply. "The fire makes it worse, but the cold is not good for his wounds. We have tried to keep him as temperate as possible."
Vangelis' eyes were drawn back to his brother when he started to mumble beneath his breath - words that weren't clear enough to hear and yet stole the last of his breath each time to fail with a wheeze.
"Is he conscious?" Vangelis asked, as he moved around to the opposite side of the cot to his father. The physician was shaking his head already as he moved.
"He speaks through delusion, Your Highness. Illusions brought on by the pain."
Moving closer to his brother's side, Vangelis reached out to place a hand upon his wrist, holding on in some vain attempt to transfer some of his strength into his sibling. Instead, all he could feel was the faint sputter of his heartbeat, not strong enough to be considered healthy by a long way.
Willing to ask the hardest question of all, Vangelis turned to the physician in charge, whose name he still did not know and demanded with an expression of cold stone.
"Will he live?"
The older man, with eyes that spoke of the great numbers of men he had seen slip into the beyond, carried away to the riverman, stared right back, unafraid of the judgment that might pass upon him for delivering the simple truth to the royals...
"I believe, Your Highness, that such a choice is no longer in the hands of mortals."
It had all been going so well, his men were pushing back the enemy, overwhelming the opposing forces. He'd joined the soldiers in the field atop his black warhorse, offering encouragement and shouting direction to various captains as the northern barbarians fell beneath their weapons. Zanon was as confident of victory on this day as he had ever been and it seemed his men were in agreement as they energetically continued the charge.
Out of nowhere an enemy assailant had charged him with a cry and he found himself all but isolated in the field, bodies around his horse's hooves instead of allies. Deflecting the blade swung at him, Zanon slashed his own down across the leather armor on the other man's back and he fell. In that moment he felt his heart racing as if it would explode, thoughts of his young son, his wife, his home, what would happen to them if he was gone, could he ever properly pass over the Styx without knowing Dion had grown into the man he knew he could be? How could he ever leave Evras behind when she was everything to him?
Closing his eyes, he took a deep shuddering breath and pictured her face in his minds eye to calm himself. They would be together again soon, and all would be well.
There was no cry this time, no warning whatsoever from the enemy who had been laying motionless beneath his horse this whole time. Zanon was only aware of the swish of the blade, his eyes opening as the pain burned through his leg and the horse beneath him gave a scream of agony. The soldier had lifted himself from the ground and swung his sword to cut both horse and rider, the weapon lodging deep in Zanon's thigh and dragging forward over the front as the prince struck out to defend himself. The second prince was vaguely aware of falling as his blade stuck deep in the cleft between neck and shoulder of his enemy, the sword leaving his hand as the horse fell atop rider and he lost track of what was what.
For a while he stared at the sky, unable to move or catch his breath, and he was aware only of a dull breathless ache in his chest and what was somehow both searing pain and numbness of his left leg. He expected a final blow to come but he was left alone, spots of darkness finally giving him relief from the pain. Somehow his men found him, carrying him back to the medical tents and dispatching word to his father, physicians tending to the wounds that they could see first. Fever set in even as they tried to clean the gash in his leg, murmurs of potential amputation whispered between those who were trying to save his life.
Zanon never properly woke in the days between injury and his family's arrival, only in moments of feverish nightmares did he cry out for Evras, her name the only thing intelligible on his lips. He longed for her cool hands, her comforting voice, but feared his need of her, the way she made him so vulnerable. Somehow he both loved and hated her at once in the darkness of his mind.
Vangelis' hand on his wrist and the hushed voices above him were the most real things he'd felt in he didn't know how long, and his eyes fluttered in an attempt to look up and see if this was real or a trick of the ferryman to take him away with the sound of his father and brother. Unable to look about, his brow shifting from the smooth lack of awareness to a wrinkled expression of distress.
"Evras.." His voice broke, and he wasn't sure that it came out as more than a groan or whisper, but he hoped they took him home. If he was going to die, he wanted to be home, he didn't want to be here.
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It had all been going so well, his men were pushing back the enemy, overwhelming the opposing forces. He'd joined the soldiers in the field atop his black warhorse, offering encouragement and shouting direction to various captains as the northern barbarians fell beneath their weapons. Zanon was as confident of victory on this day as he had ever been and it seemed his men were in agreement as they energetically continued the charge.
Out of nowhere an enemy assailant had charged him with a cry and he found himself all but isolated in the field, bodies around his horse's hooves instead of allies. Deflecting the blade swung at him, Zanon slashed his own down across the leather armor on the other man's back and he fell. In that moment he felt his heart racing as if it would explode, thoughts of his young son, his wife, his home, what would happen to them if he was gone, could he ever properly pass over the Styx without knowing Dion had grown into the man he knew he could be? How could he ever leave Evras behind when she was everything to him?
Closing his eyes, he took a deep shuddering breath and pictured her face in his minds eye to calm himself. They would be together again soon, and all would be well.
There was no cry this time, no warning whatsoever from the enemy who had been laying motionless beneath his horse this whole time. Zanon was only aware of the swish of the blade, his eyes opening as the pain burned through his leg and the horse beneath him gave a scream of agony. The soldier had lifted himself from the ground and swung his sword to cut both horse and rider, the weapon lodging deep in Zanon's thigh and dragging forward over the front as the prince struck out to defend himself. The second prince was vaguely aware of falling as his blade stuck deep in the cleft between neck and shoulder of his enemy, the sword leaving his hand as the horse fell atop rider and he lost track of what was what.
For a while he stared at the sky, unable to move or catch his breath, and he was aware only of a dull breathless ache in his chest and what was somehow both searing pain and numbness of his left leg. He expected a final blow to come but he was left alone, spots of darkness finally giving him relief from the pain. Somehow his men found him, carrying him back to the medical tents and dispatching word to his father, physicians tending to the wounds that they could see first. Fever set in even as they tried to clean the gash in his leg, murmurs of potential amputation whispered between those who were trying to save his life.
Zanon never properly woke in the days between injury and his family's arrival, only in moments of feverish nightmares did he cry out for Evras, her name the only thing intelligible on his lips. He longed for her cool hands, her comforting voice, but feared his need of her, the way she made him so vulnerable. Somehow he both loved and hated her at once in the darkness of his mind.
Vangelis' hand on his wrist and the hushed voices above him were the most real things he'd felt in he didn't know how long, and his eyes fluttered in an attempt to look up and see if this was real or a trick of the ferryman to take him away with the sound of his father and brother. Unable to look about, his brow shifting from the smooth lack of awareness to a wrinkled expression of distress.
"Evras.." His voice broke, and he wasn't sure that it came out as more than a groan or whisper, but he hoped they took him home. If he was going to die, he wanted to be home, he didn't want to be here.
It had all been going so well, his men were pushing back the enemy, overwhelming the opposing forces. He'd joined the soldiers in the field atop his black warhorse, offering encouragement and shouting direction to various captains as the northern barbarians fell beneath their weapons. Zanon was as confident of victory on this day as he had ever been and it seemed his men were in agreement as they energetically continued the charge.
Out of nowhere an enemy assailant had charged him with a cry and he found himself all but isolated in the field, bodies around his horse's hooves instead of allies. Deflecting the blade swung at him, Zanon slashed his own down across the leather armor on the other man's back and he fell. In that moment he felt his heart racing as if it would explode, thoughts of his young son, his wife, his home, what would happen to them if he was gone, could he ever properly pass over the Styx without knowing Dion had grown into the man he knew he could be? How could he ever leave Evras behind when she was everything to him?
Closing his eyes, he took a deep shuddering breath and pictured her face in his minds eye to calm himself. They would be together again soon, and all would be well.
There was no cry this time, no warning whatsoever from the enemy who had been laying motionless beneath his horse this whole time. Zanon was only aware of the swish of the blade, his eyes opening as the pain burned through his leg and the horse beneath him gave a scream of agony. The soldier had lifted himself from the ground and swung his sword to cut both horse and rider, the weapon lodging deep in Zanon's thigh and dragging forward over the front as the prince struck out to defend himself. The second prince was vaguely aware of falling as his blade stuck deep in the cleft between neck and shoulder of his enemy, the sword leaving his hand as the horse fell atop rider and he lost track of what was what.
For a while he stared at the sky, unable to move or catch his breath, and he was aware only of a dull breathless ache in his chest and what was somehow both searing pain and numbness of his left leg. He expected a final blow to come but he was left alone, spots of darkness finally giving him relief from the pain. Somehow his men found him, carrying him back to the medical tents and dispatching word to his father, physicians tending to the wounds that they could see first. Fever set in even as they tried to clean the gash in his leg, murmurs of potential amputation whispered between those who were trying to save his life.
Zanon never properly woke in the days between injury and his family's arrival, only in moments of feverish nightmares did he cry out for Evras, her name the only thing intelligible on his lips. He longed for her cool hands, her comforting voice, but feared his need of her, the way she made him so vulnerable. Somehow he both loved and hated her at once in the darkness of his mind.
Vangelis' hand on his wrist and the hushed voices above him were the most real things he'd felt in he didn't know how long, and his eyes fluttered in an attempt to look up and see if this was real or a trick of the ferryman to take him away with the sound of his father and brother. Unable to look about, his brow shifting from the smooth lack of awareness to a wrinkled expression of distress.
"Evras.." His voice broke, and he wasn't sure that it came out as more than a groan or whisper, but he hoped they took him home. If he was going to die, he wanted to be home, he didn't want to be here.
Kneeling down beside his brother, one knee in the sodden mud beneath his medical cot, the other upraised before him, Vangelis held onto his brother's arm with a strong grip. He had been injured in battle before - not this bad, but something of the sort - and he recalled how a strong hold upon something; something having a strong hold upon you was a saving grace in keeping your mind and spirit within your body. How he gave you something to fight for over simply surrendering to the River Styx.
When his brother shifted a little, showed signs and life and fluttered his eyes in a manner that suggested wanting to open them and look around, Vangelis transferred his hold from the man's arm to his hand and brought his fingers around Zanon's in a hold that would not let go.
"You'll see her, brother." Vangelis said, hoping that his voice carried through not only the tent but the murky fog that Zanon might have been lost to in that moment.
Looking up, Vangelis' gaze turned towards the nearest physicians - the main speaker who had identified Zanon's dismal prognosis and two others who had clearly been tending to the prince in his wounded state.
"When can he be moved?"
When all he received were looks of surprise that such a concept would ever be questioned with the man in this state, Vangelis felt irritation gnaw at his gut. He turned his attentions to his father instead.
"If the Gods have determined that my brother should die, then he should die at home." He told the man with the determination of one grieving a loss that had yet to pass. Whilst Vangelis had always thought that he would like to die on the battlefield, away from Midas, away from his mother, so that his death could be vaguely described in the least distressing detail required, he knew that Zanon was different. He had a wife and child. People whom he would leave to fend for themselves. People who might need to say goodbye.
"Father?" Vangelis prompted, confident that the single word on his brother's lips had confirmed his assessment of where Zanon would prefer to be right now... whether it was to be his last few days on this earth or not...
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Kneeling down beside his brother, one knee in the sodden mud beneath his medical cot, the other upraised before him, Vangelis held onto his brother's arm with a strong grip. He had been injured in battle before - not this bad, but something of the sort - and he recalled how a strong hold upon something; something having a strong hold upon you was a saving grace in keeping your mind and spirit within your body. How he gave you something to fight for over simply surrendering to the River Styx.
When his brother shifted a little, showed signs and life and fluttered his eyes in a manner that suggested wanting to open them and look around, Vangelis transferred his hold from the man's arm to his hand and brought his fingers around Zanon's in a hold that would not let go.
"You'll see her, brother." Vangelis said, hoping that his voice carried through not only the tent but the murky fog that Zanon might have been lost to in that moment.
Looking up, Vangelis' gaze turned towards the nearest physicians - the main speaker who had identified Zanon's dismal prognosis and two others who had clearly been tending to the prince in his wounded state.
"When can he be moved?"
When all he received were looks of surprise that such a concept would ever be questioned with the man in this state, Vangelis felt irritation gnaw at his gut. He turned his attentions to his father instead.
"If the Gods have determined that my brother should die, then he should die at home." He told the man with the determination of one grieving a loss that had yet to pass. Whilst Vangelis had always thought that he would like to die on the battlefield, away from Midas, away from his mother, so that his death could be vaguely described in the least distressing detail required, he knew that Zanon was different. He had a wife and child. People whom he would leave to fend for themselves. People who might need to say goodbye.
"Father?" Vangelis prompted, confident that the single word on his brother's lips had confirmed his assessment of where Zanon would prefer to be right now... whether it was to be his last few days on this earth or not...
Kneeling down beside his brother, one knee in the sodden mud beneath his medical cot, the other upraised before him, Vangelis held onto his brother's arm with a strong grip. He had been injured in battle before - not this bad, but something of the sort - and he recalled how a strong hold upon something; something having a strong hold upon you was a saving grace in keeping your mind and spirit within your body. How he gave you something to fight for over simply surrendering to the River Styx.
When his brother shifted a little, showed signs and life and fluttered his eyes in a manner that suggested wanting to open them and look around, Vangelis transferred his hold from the man's arm to his hand and brought his fingers around Zanon's in a hold that would not let go.
"You'll see her, brother." Vangelis said, hoping that his voice carried through not only the tent but the murky fog that Zanon might have been lost to in that moment.
Looking up, Vangelis' gaze turned towards the nearest physicians - the main speaker who had identified Zanon's dismal prognosis and two others who had clearly been tending to the prince in his wounded state.
"When can he be moved?"
When all he received were looks of surprise that such a concept would ever be questioned with the man in this state, Vangelis felt irritation gnaw at his gut. He turned his attentions to his father instead.
"If the Gods have determined that my brother should die, then he should die at home." He told the man with the determination of one grieving a loss that had yet to pass. Whilst Vangelis had always thought that he would like to die on the battlefield, away from Midas, away from his mother, so that his death could be vaguely described in the least distressing detail required, he knew that Zanon was different. He had a wife and child. People whom he would leave to fend for themselves. People who might need to say goodbye.
"Father?" Vangelis prompted, confident that the single word on his brother's lips had confirmed his assessment of where Zanon would prefer to be right now... whether it was to be his last few days on this earth or not...
Never, in all of his life, had King Tython ever expected to see one of his own children in this state. He had seen Vang like this, but not so bad, and it hadn't been that much of a surprise then. Vang hadn't truly been on death's door the way that Zanon was. Something in his chest clenched and he find it just slightly harder to breathe in the moment that he and Vangelis settled beside Zanon's bed. His dark, calculating gaze had trailed up and down the form of his second son, assessing his wounds on his own and attempting to work out his thoughts for himself.
He vaguely heard and understand the physicians around him, feeling rather shellshocked at seeing one of his children in this state. To Tython, his sons were invincible, infallable. There was no way they could fall and join the gods because they were trained, they were practiced. This shouldn't have happened, and that was all that was ringing in the back of the King's mind for the first few, excruciatingly long moments that he stood there beside Vangelis.
Then Vang moved to the other side of the bed and Tython stepped forward to reach for Zanon's hand, clearing his mind enough to be able to listen to what it was that Vangelis was asking the physicians and then Tython himself. Lifted his gaze from the form of his fallen child, Tython's brows knit together just slightly. "Your assessment is correct," Tython noted firmly, "If the prince is to die, it should be surrounded by his loved ones. His wife and son and his mother, at the very least," he said slowly. Tython was not sure how well Princess Athanasia would take seeing one of her brothers on his deathbed.
"But," Tython continued after a moment, "If he pulls through, he needs to be back in Colchis and away from the battlefield," he added, motioning to one of the physicians to come closer. "Get me a rag," he instructed, bringing himself down into a kneeling position beside Zanon, his hand still holding his son's. Reaching out, he took the rag that had been given him, starting to wipe some of the dirt and grime from his son's face in a gesture that was more fatherly than kingly, but entirely expected at this moment.
After another long pause, the king finally lifted his dark gaze to Vangelis, his expression contemplative but firm all at once. "I will sail back to Colchis with him," he declared, "You are more than capable of landing the last blows upon our enemies without my help." That much was true. That was how Tython had raised Vangelis. The fact that both of them were on this campaign was a matter of convenience and force. Had Tython truly wished it, Vangelis had been put in charge of this entire campaign. But Tython was not a man that would send his own sons out to war, only to not fight himself. Though, part of him wished he had held Zanon back. To avoid this despite what a warriors death would mean for his spirit.
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Never, in all of his life, had King Tython ever expected to see one of his own children in this state. He had seen Vang like this, but not so bad, and it hadn't been that much of a surprise then. Vang hadn't truly been on death's door the way that Zanon was. Something in his chest clenched and he find it just slightly harder to breathe in the moment that he and Vangelis settled beside Zanon's bed. His dark, calculating gaze had trailed up and down the form of his second son, assessing his wounds on his own and attempting to work out his thoughts for himself.
He vaguely heard and understand the physicians around him, feeling rather shellshocked at seeing one of his children in this state. To Tython, his sons were invincible, infallable. There was no way they could fall and join the gods because they were trained, they were practiced. This shouldn't have happened, and that was all that was ringing in the back of the King's mind for the first few, excruciatingly long moments that he stood there beside Vangelis.
Then Vang moved to the other side of the bed and Tython stepped forward to reach for Zanon's hand, clearing his mind enough to be able to listen to what it was that Vangelis was asking the physicians and then Tython himself. Lifted his gaze from the form of his fallen child, Tython's brows knit together just slightly. "Your assessment is correct," Tython noted firmly, "If the prince is to die, it should be surrounded by his loved ones. His wife and son and his mother, at the very least," he said slowly. Tython was not sure how well Princess Athanasia would take seeing one of her brothers on his deathbed.
"But," Tython continued after a moment, "If he pulls through, he needs to be back in Colchis and away from the battlefield," he added, motioning to one of the physicians to come closer. "Get me a rag," he instructed, bringing himself down into a kneeling position beside Zanon, his hand still holding his son's. Reaching out, he took the rag that had been given him, starting to wipe some of the dirt and grime from his son's face in a gesture that was more fatherly than kingly, but entirely expected at this moment.
After another long pause, the king finally lifted his dark gaze to Vangelis, his expression contemplative but firm all at once. "I will sail back to Colchis with him," he declared, "You are more than capable of landing the last blows upon our enemies without my help." That much was true. That was how Tython had raised Vangelis. The fact that both of them were on this campaign was a matter of convenience and force. Had Tython truly wished it, Vangelis had been put in charge of this entire campaign. But Tython was not a man that would send his own sons out to war, only to not fight himself. Though, part of him wished he had held Zanon back. To avoid this despite what a warriors death would mean for his spirit.
Never, in all of his life, had King Tython ever expected to see one of his own children in this state. He had seen Vang like this, but not so bad, and it hadn't been that much of a surprise then. Vang hadn't truly been on death's door the way that Zanon was. Something in his chest clenched and he find it just slightly harder to breathe in the moment that he and Vangelis settled beside Zanon's bed. His dark, calculating gaze had trailed up and down the form of his second son, assessing his wounds on his own and attempting to work out his thoughts for himself.
He vaguely heard and understand the physicians around him, feeling rather shellshocked at seeing one of his children in this state. To Tython, his sons were invincible, infallable. There was no way they could fall and join the gods because they were trained, they were practiced. This shouldn't have happened, and that was all that was ringing in the back of the King's mind for the first few, excruciatingly long moments that he stood there beside Vangelis.
Then Vang moved to the other side of the bed and Tython stepped forward to reach for Zanon's hand, clearing his mind enough to be able to listen to what it was that Vangelis was asking the physicians and then Tython himself. Lifted his gaze from the form of his fallen child, Tython's brows knit together just slightly. "Your assessment is correct," Tython noted firmly, "If the prince is to die, it should be surrounded by his loved ones. His wife and son and his mother, at the very least," he said slowly. Tython was not sure how well Princess Athanasia would take seeing one of her brothers on his deathbed.
"But," Tython continued after a moment, "If he pulls through, he needs to be back in Colchis and away from the battlefield," he added, motioning to one of the physicians to come closer. "Get me a rag," he instructed, bringing himself down into a kneeling position beside Zanon, his hand still holding his son's. Reaching out, he took the rag that had been given him, starting to wipe some of the dirt and grime from his son's face in a gesture that was more fatherly than kingly, but entirely expected at this moment.
After another long pause, the king finally lifted his dark gaze to Vangelis, his expression contemplative but firm all at once. "I will sail back to Colchis with him," he declared, "You are more than capable of landing the last blows upon our enemies without my help." That much was true. That was how Tython had raised Vangelis. The fact that both of them were on this campaign was a matter of convenience and force. Had Tython truly wished it, Vangelis had been put in charge of this entire campaign. But Tython was not a man that would send his own sons out to war, only to not fight himself. Though, part of him wished he had held Zanon back. To avoid this despite what a warriors death would mean for his spirit.
The words spoken above and around him were lost to his ears, the pounding of his own heart drowning out the noise until he felt a firm grip on his arm. He pushed all focus toward that touch, clinging to it with all of the strength he had to try to bring himself back to reality. In all of his battles he had never been afraid. Nervous, yes, excited and pulsing with adrenaline, but when he fought a man he was never afraid. Now laying here in the darkness, pain forcing to send him back into unconsciousness as a way for his body and mind to cope with the agony, unsure if he would ever see his family again, now he was afraid.
Vangelis' grounding grip held him to consciousness long enough for him to be aware of his father taking his hand, giving the older man what strength he had as acknowledgement that he was at least aware that the voice he heard was Tython's. If he could not be with his wife and son, with his mother and siblings nearby, at least he had his father and brother with him. All his life he had looked up to both of them as examples of leadership, he tried to emulate his father in how he raised his child, trying to be fair and firm yet ensure Dion was well aware of how much he loved him.
As the cloth brushed over his face he allowed himself to drift, wondering what it would have been like to see his son to adulthood, how he would grow with his dark curls and curious eyes. Would he look more like his mother or father when he became a man, would he be happy? A vision of a wedding, himself and Evras with grey in their hair as Dion was presented a bride he loved as much as his parents had been in love when they wed, happy smiles on all faces. He might never see that, but every blessing he could give from Hades would be passed to his son.
Zanon didn't know when the fever took him again, didn't hear his father saying he would go with him, or the hushed tones of the physician advising on how best to move him so that he could be brought home. His grip on his father and brother's hands grew slack and he dreamed then of Evras, of her face before him promising that she would take away the pain.
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The words spoken above and around him were lost to his ears, the pounding of his own heart drowning out the noise until he felt a firm grip on his arm. He pushed all focus toward that touch, clinging to it with all of the strength he had to try to bring himself back to reality. In all of his battles he had never been afraid. Nervous, yes, excited and pulsing with adrenaline, but when he fought a man he was never afraid. Now laying here in the darkness, pain forcing to send him back into unconsciousness as a way for his body and mind to cope with the agony, unsure if he would ever see his family again, now he was afraid.
Vangelis' grounding grip held him to consciousness long enough for him to be aware of his father taking his hand, giving the older man what strength he had as acknowledgement that he was at least aware that the voice he heard was Tython's. If he could not be with his wife and son, with his mother and siblings nearby, at least he had his father and brother with him. All his life he had looked up to both of them as examples of leadership, he tried to emulate his father in how he raised his child, trying to be fair and firm yet ensure Dion was well aware of how much he loved him.
As the cloth brushed over his face he allowed himself to drift, wondering what it would have been like to see his son to adulthood, how he would grow with his dark curls and curious eyes. Would he look more like his mother or father when he became a man, would he be happy? A vision of a wedding, himself and Evras with grey in their hair as Dion was presented a bride he loved as much as his parents had been in love when they wed, happy smiles on all faces. He might never see that, but every blessing he could give from Hades would be passed to his son.
Zanon didn't know when the fever took him again, didn't hear his father saying he would go with him, or the hushed tones of the physician advising on how best to move him so that he could be brought home. His grip on his father and brother's hands grew slack and he dreamed then of Evras, of her face before him promising that she would take away the pain.
The words spoken above and around him were lost to his ears, the pounding of his own heart drowning out the noise until he felt a firm grip on his arm. He pushed all focus toward that touch, clinging to it with all of the strength he had to try to bring himself back to reality. In all of his battles he had never been afraid. Nervous, yes, excited and pulsing with adrenaline, but when he fought a man he was never afraid. Now laying here in the darkness, pain forcing to send him back into unconsciousness as a way for his body and mind to cope with the agony, unsure if he would ever see his family again, now he was afraid.
Vangelis' grounding grip held him to consciousness long enough for him to be aware of his father taking his hand, giving the older man what strength he had as acknowledgement that he was at least aware that the voice he heard was Tython's. If he could not be with his wife and son, with his mother and siblings nearby, at least he had his father and brother with him. All his life he had looked up to both of them as examples of leadership, he tried to emulate his father in how he raised his child, trying to be fair and firm yet ensure Dion was well aware of how much he loved him.
As the cloth brushed over his face he allowed himself to drift, wondering what it would have been like to see his son to adulthood, how he would grow with his dark curls and curious eyes. Would he look more like his mother or father when he became a man, would he be happy? A vision of a wedding, himself and Evras with grey in their hair as Dion was presented a bride he loved as much as his parents had been in love when they wed, happy smiles on all faces. He might never see that, but every blessing he could give from Hades would be passed to his son.
Zanon didn't know when the fever took him again, didn't hear his father saying he would go with him, or the hushed tones of the physician advising on how best to move him so that he could be brought home. His grip on his father and brother's hands grew slack and he dreamed then of Evras, of her face before him promising that she would take away the pain.
Vangelis's gaze never left his brother's face as his father drew closer to the bed. Not until the king tended to Zanon's features did Vangelis break the lock upon his stare. It was as if he felt that were her to blink, to break contact with the man in this way, he would slip beyond the waters of the Styx and journey to Hades. That someone had to be there to hold onto him; be it by stare or by physical touch, to keep him locked to the land of the living. When his father tended to Zanon's face and brushed sweated hair from his brow, Vangelis was able to look to the physicians, knowing that his father had taken over that life line hold. His hand never left his brother's but his attentions were on the healers as they spoke of the best means to move his brother. His father had given his consent, so now all that needed to be discussed was the best way to have Zanon transported back home in a way that would have him survive until his destination was met.
When Vangelis looked back, it was the king that determined who would accompany Zanon on such a journey. With a childlike rebellion, Vangelis had an instinct to reject the honour he was being offered to take the command of their militia pale. Vangelis was a man who worked on a strong sense of dominance and control of the world around him and if he wasn't there, holding his brother's hand, he could not control the outcome of his survival. He wanted to be there. Journeying with Zanon back home and ensuring that everything without reality and human power was done to keep him breathing and his heart beating until he made it home to those it beat for.
Despite the power of such a feeling of rebuke, it was momentary in its longevity. The trust and faith that Vangelis had in his father quickly overtook his emotions with calm reason. For there was no man that Vangelis knew besides his own kin that would react the same way as he - move mountains and oceans to ensure the safety of their blood. Vangelis swallowed.
And yet safety of blood could be seen in two ways. It would be aboard the ship that would lead Zanon back home and to his wife and child. Or it could be here, on the battlefield, ensuring that his injuries had not been sustained for nothing. The battle that Zanon had fallen in had been won. But the war was not yet over. And to permit the enemy to encroach upon them after the removal of the Grecian commander would be an insult and crime against Zanon and his sacrifice.
A tic forming in his jaw, Vangelis' teeth ground in an expression of determination that was perhaps the most familiar upon his features. His fingers curled around Zanon's and held on harder, noting the way his brother's head had lolled and his consciousness seemed to be slipping. Whether that was good and that slumber would be the best healing for him or a concern that he was slipping further from the land of the living, Vangelis did not know. Whether Zanon could hear his words in his state or would be deaf to them, he did not know. But he spoke them anyway...
"Brother, I'll see your work done in your honour." He vowed. His free hand slid to the hilt of the blade at his hip. Its sheathed tip was already an inch into the mud but he cared not. His fingertips brushed at the pummel of the blade in an almost subconscious manner; his mind recalling the blooded oath he would make upon such a promise. "Die before I return home and I'll have words for you when I join you in Hades."
His gaze moved to that of the king’s, his determination stamped upon every feature.
"I shall see this campaign to victory and return home, Your Majesty." He stated, using his formal title in order to emboss the oath harder upon his heart. "You'll not reject your return to the capitol."
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Vangelis's gaze never left his brother's face as his father drew closer to the bed. Not until the king tended to Zanon's features did Vangelis break the lock upon his stare. It was as if he felt that were her to blink, to break contact with the man in this way, he would slip beyond the waters of the Styx and journey to Hades. That someone had to be there to hold onto him; be it by stare or by physical touch, to keep him locked to the land of the living. When his father tended to Zanon's face and brushed sweated hair from his brow, Vangelis was able to look to the physicians, knowing that his father had taken over that life line hold. His hand never left his brother's but his attentions were on the healers as they spoke of the best means to move his brother. His father had given his consent, so now all that needed to be discussed was the best way to have Zanon transported back home in a way that would have him survive until his destination was met.
When Vangelis looked back, it was the king that determined who would accompany Zanon on such a journey. With a childlike rebellion, Vangelis had an instinct to reject the honour he was being offered to take the command of their militia pale. Vangelis was a man who worked on a strong sense of dominance and control of the world around him and if he wasn't there, holding his brother's hand, he could not control the outcome of his survival. He wanted to be there. Journeying with Zanon back home and ensuring that everything without reality and human power was done to keep him breathing and his heart beating until he made it home to those it beat for.
Despite the power of such a feeling of rebuke, it was momentary in its longevity. The trust and faith that Vangelis had in his father quickly overtook his emotions with calm reason. For there was no man that Vangelis knew besides his own kin that would react the same way as he - move mountains and oceans to ensure the safety of their blood. Vangelis swallowed.
And yet safety of blood could be seen in two ways. It would be aboard the ship that would lead Zanon back home and to his wife and child. Or it could be here, on the battlefield, ensuring that his injuries had not been sustained for nothing. The battle that Zanon had fallen in had been won. But the war was not yet over. And to permit the enemy to encroach upon them after the removal of the Grecian commander would be an insult and crime against Zanon and his sacrifice.
A tic forming in his jaw, Vangelis' teeth ground in an expression of determination that was perhaps the most familiar upon his features. His fingers curled around Zanon's and held on harder, noting the way his brother's head had lolled and his consciousness seemed to be slipping. Whether that was good and that slumber would be the best healing for him or a concern that he was slipping further from the land of the living, Vangelis did not know. Whether Zanon could hear his words in his state or would be deaf to them, he did not know. But he spoke them anyway...
"Brother, I'll see your work done in your honour." He vowed. His free hand slid to the hilt of the blade at his hip. Its sheathed tip was already an inch into the mud but he cared not. His fingertips brushed at the pummel of the blade in an almost subconscious manner; his mind recalling the blooded oath he would make upon such a promise. "Die before I return home and I'll have words for you when I join you in Hades."
His gaze moved to that of the king’s, his determination stamped upon every feature.
"I shall see this campaign to victory and return home, Your Majesty." He stated, using his formal title in order to emboss the oath harder upon his heart. "You'll not reject your return to the capitol."
Vangelis's gaze never left his brother's face as his father drew closer to the bed. Not until the king tended to Zanon's features did Vangelis break the lock upon his stare. It was as if he felt that were her to blink, to break contact with the man in this way, he would slip beyond the waters of the Styx and journey to Hades. That someone had to be there to hold onto him; be it by stare or by physical touch, to keep him locked to the land of the living. When his father tended to Zanon's face and brushed sweated hair from his brow, Vangelis was able to look to the physicians, knowing that his father had taken over that life line hold. His hand never left his brother's but his attentions were on the healers as they spoke of the best means to move his brother. His father had given his consent, so now all that needed to be discussed was the best way to have Zanon transported back home in a way that would have him survive until his destination was met.
When Vangelis looked back, it was the king that determined who would accompany Zanon on such a journey. With a childlike rebellion, Vangelis had an instinct to reject the honour he was being offered to take the command of their militia pale. Vangelis was a man who worked on a strong sense of dominance and control of the world around him and if he wasn't there, holding his brother's hand, he could not control the outcome of his survival. He wanted to be there. Journeying with Zanon back home and ensuring that everything without reality and human power was done to keep him breathing and his heart beating until he made it home to those it beat for.
Despite the power of such a feeling of rebuke, it was momentary in its longevity. The trust and faith that Vangelis had in his father quickly overtook his emotions with calm reason. For there was no man that Vangelis knew besides his own kin that would react the same way as he - move mountains and oceans to ensure the safety of their blood. Vangelis swallowed.
And yet safety of blood could be seen in two ways. It would be aboard the ship that would lead Zanon back home and to his wife and child. Or it could be here, on the battlefield, ensuring that his injuries had not been sustained for nothing. The battle that Zanon had fallen in had been won. But the war was not yet over. And to permit the enemy to encroach upon them after the removal of the Grecian commander would be an insult and crime against Zanon and his sacrifice.
A tic forming in his jaw, Vangelis' teeth ground in an expression of determination that was perhaps the most familiar upon his features. His fingers curled around Zanon's and held on harder, noting the way his brother's head had lolled and his consciousness seemed to be slipping. Whether that was good and that slumber would be the best healing for him or a concern that he was slipping further from the land of the living, Vangelis did not know. Whether Zanon could hear his words in his state or would be deaf to them, he did not know. But he spoke them anyway...
"Brother, I'll see your work done in your honour." He vowed. His free hand slid to the hilt of the blade at his hip. Its sheathed tip was already an inch into the mud but he cared not. His fingertips brushed at the pummel of the blade in an almost subconscious manner; his mind recalling the blooded oath he would make upon such a promise. "Die before I return home and I'll have words for you when I join you in Hades."
His gaze moved to that of the king’s, his determination stamped upon every feature.
"I shall see this campaign to victory and return home, Your Majesty." He stated, using his formal title in order to emboss the oath harder upon his heart. "You'll not reject your return to the capitol."
Sometimes it was all too apparent how similar Tython and Vangelis could truly be. While Vangelis took the same cool approach to almost everything in life, whether it was battle or politics, Tython, in his advancing age, had come to show more affection to his family over time. Due in part to his age and his longevity upon the throne, Tython was composed as he gazed down at his second son, his brow furrowed. But that did not stop the feelings that simmered beneath his skin. The feelings of sudden inadequacy. The feelings that he should have been here for Zanon's campaign because then this may not have happened.
Sure, the Kotas were known for their massive families and their numerous sons, but that did not make it any easier when a family lost a child. Losing a child to war was not any easier in any regard, and if Zanon were to die here, or on the ship, or in Colchis, Tython would feel the same as he did then.
Dread curling in his stomach and silent grief setting the muscles in his shoulders constantly tense. Constantly coiled to spring. To get his revenge and justice for a child that should not have fallen in this foreign land. Yet, how many had he sentenced to death in a land that wasn't his? While Tython was more inclined toward peace, such was a difficult medium to find when neither side would yield to the other.
Silently contented to take over caring for his son, Tython said nothing for a while. Not while Vangelis spoke, his focus too intent on wiping mud and grime from his son's face and shoulders. The fever was quick to take him back into its grips, but Tython could not flinch, his brows furrowed deeply in quiet contemplation and silent prayer to the gods above to save his son.
Vangelis' assertion that he would stay and finish Zanon's work in his honor had Tython looking up toward his eldest son, knowing that, naturally, the boy would turn his attention to his father. Now there was a vow to Tython himself and the king nodded slowly, carefully, "See it done, General Vangelis," he said lightly, his gaze then snapping to the physicians in the tent. "I want my son prepared for travel to Colchis. If he is going to pass on the way, I would rather it be over Greecian waters than on foreign soil," he asserted calmly.
One physician left the tent to express the order to the men outside.
And then the preparations began. Men were mobilized to prepare the King's ship. Some set about cleaning the deck, others set about refilling the ship with the supplies that the crew and King would need on the voyage back to Colchis. One of the physicians began to pack his own things and his own supplies, silently counting and taking stock of what he could take with him and what would be left behind for the other healers.
All the while, Tython did not move from his position beside Zanon, his own stormy gaze observing the prone form of his son. 'Apollo, save him,' was the mantra that was ringing about his head again and again and again as the minutes began to tick by. "If there is any word you wish me to bring your mother, Vangelis, bestow it upon me now."
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Sometimes it was all too apparent how similar Tython and Vangelis could truly be. While Vangelis took the same cool approach to almost everything in life, whether it was battle or politics, Tython, in his advancing age, had come to show more affection to his family over time. Due in part to his age and his longevity upon the throne, Tython was composed as he gazed down at his second son, his brow furrowed. But that did not stop the feelings that simmered beneath his skin. The feelings of sudden inadequacy. The feelings that he should have been here for Zanon's campaign because then this may not have happened.
Sure, the Kotas were known for their massive families and their numerous sons, but that did not make it any easier when a family lost a child. Losing a child to war was not any easier in any regard, and if Zanon were to die here, or on the ship, or in Colchis, Tython would feel the same as he did then.
Dread curling in his stomach and silent grief setting the muscles in his shoulders constantly tense. Constantly coiled to spring. To get his revenge and justice for a child that should not have fallen in this foreign land. Yet, how many had he sentenced to death in a land that wasn't his? While Tython was more inclined toward peace, such was a difficult medium to find when neither side would yield to the other.
Silently contented to take over caring for his son, Tython said nothing for a while. Not while Vangelis spoke, his focus too intent on wiping mud and grime from his son's face and shoulders. The fever was quick to take him back into its grips, but Tython could not flinch, his brows furrowed deeply in quiet contemplation and silent prayer to the gods above to save his son.
Vangelis' assertion that he would stay and finish Zanon's work in his honor had Tython looking up toward his eldest son, knowing that, naturally, the boy would turn his attention to his father. Now there was a vow to Tython himself and the king nodded slowly, carefully, "See it done, General Vangelis," he said lightly, his gaze then snapping to the physicians in the tent. "I want my son prepared for travel to Colchis. If he is going to pass on the way, I would rather it be over Greecian waters than on foreign soil," he asserted calmly.
One physician left the tent to express the order to the men outside.
And then the preparations began. Men were mobilized to prepare the King's ship. Some set about cleaning the deck, others set about refilling the ship with the supplies that the crew and King would need on the voyage back to Colchis. One of the physicians began to pack his own things and his own supplies, silently counting and taking stock of what he could take with him and what would be left behind for the other healers.
All the while, Tython did not move from his position beside Zanon, his own stormy gaze observing the prone form of his son. 'Apollo, save him,' was the mantra that was ringing about his head again and again and again as the minutes began to tick by. "If there is any word you wish me to bring your mother, Vangelis, bestow it upon me now."
Sometimes it was all too apparent how similar Tython and Vangelis could truly be. While Vangelis took the same cool approach to almost everything in life, whether it was battle or politics, Tython, in his advancing age, had come to show more affection to his family over time. Due in part to his age and his longevity upon the throne, Tython was composed as he gazed down at his second son, his brow furrowed. But that did not stop the feelings that simmered beneath his skin. The feelings of sudden inadequacy. The feelings that he should have been here for Zanon's campaign because then this may not have happened.
Sure, the Kotas were known for their massive families and their numerous sons, but that did not make it any easier when a family lost a child. Losing a child to war was not any easier in any regard, and if Zanon were to die here, or on the ship, or in Colchis, Tython would feel the same as he did then.
Dread curling in his stomach and silent grief setting the muscles in his shoulders constantly tense. Constantly coiled to spring. To get his revenge and justice for a child that should not have fallen in this foreign land. Yet, how many had he sentenced to death in a land that wasn't his? While Tython was more inclined toward peace, such was a difficult medium to find when neither side would yield to the other.
Silently contented to take over caring for his son, Tython said nothing for a while. Not while Vangelis spoke, his focus too intent on wiping mud and grime from his son's face and shoulders. The fever was quick to take him back into its grips, but Tython could not flinch, his brows furrowed deeply in quiet contemplation and silent prayer to the gods above to save his son.
Vangelis' assertion that he would stay and finish Zanon's work in his honor had Tython looking up toward his eldest son, knowing that, naturally, the boy would turn his attention to his father. Now there was a vow to Tython himself and the king nodded slowly, carefully, "See it done, General Vangelis," he said lightly, his gaze then snapping to the physicians in the tent. "I want my son prepared for travel to Colchis. If he is going to pass on the way, I would rather it be over Greecian waters than on foreign soil," he asserted calmly.
One physician left the tent to express the order to the men outside.
And then the preparations began. Men were mobilized to prepare the King's ship. Some set about cleaning the deck, others set about refilling the ship with the supplies that the crew and King would need on the voyage back to Colchis. One of the physicians began to pack his own things and his own supplies, silently counting and taking stock of what he could take with him and what would be left behind for the other healers.
All the while, Tython did not move from his position beside Zanon, his own stormy gaze observing the prone form of his son. 'Apollo, save him,' was the mantra that was ringing about his head again and again and again as the minutes began to tick by. "If there is any word you wish me to bring your mother, Vangelis, bestow it upon me now."
Vangelis stepped back and permitted the medics to tend to his brother. He kept his fingers wrapped around Zanon's for as long as he could, before his presence was too completely in the way and he was quick to let them go and offer up more space. The physicians knew what they were doing and were men that Vangelis would have trust would, in this moment, know more of how to care for his sibling than he. As much as it was difficult for a powerful man of rank and privilege to accept himself inferior to others, it was a necessary poison to swallow.
Zanon was bound, rebandaged and had the additions of his person - weaponry, boots and everything that would make carrying him harder - removed, whilst new linens were found to bind him to the cot that had been rigged for transport. He would be carried by two guardsmen to the ships that lay a half mile out at shore and then returned to the safety of Midas. It was a harsh journey but one that Vangelis knew would inspire something within his brother. Something more profound and powerful than the smell of mud and blood. He would be seeing Evras. And that would keep him going until the ship pulled into the docklands of the capitol and he was carried to their home. At least, Vangelis hoped so.
When his father addressed him as a General and not as a son, Vangelis instinctively straightened. His shoulders flared and his eyes turned sharp with respect and attention. He didn't snap to a militant salute as another officer might have but he had clearly become a subordinate before a child, in that moment. He nodded at the orders that were given him, and then clasped a fist over his heart in a promise to see those tasks completed and completed well. He was fully committed to ensuring the defeat of those that had harmed his brother and, looking at the way the latest battle had fallen and how many of the enemy lay strewn across the grounds, he would have little effort to do so. Despite his personal fall, Zanon had been on the brink of winning this encounter. And Vangelis wasn't about to permit that opportunity for victory to slip from his bloodied fingers.
As the king and his second son were readied to leave the tent, taking provisions and two physicians with them, Tython turned and became a father for a moment, shedding his commanding air of a king and recognising that it was not solely his son upon that pallet but Vangelis' brother also. He offered a chance for Vangelis to pass a message to his mother and Vangelis' lips parted as if upon an idea of what to say.
He had never sent his mother messages from the frontlines. Barring a messenger to comment that he was alive every few months, he had not offered her comforting words or assurances. He had always considered there to be more risk in subtext and interpretation with every letter, never trusting his way with words to help him. He had always thought it would only be more fearful to send regularly missives and then, during a particularly difficult section of campaign, to forget for a week and scare his mother to death.
"No." Vangelis offered, his mouth closing. "You can tell her I am alive and intend to return home soon. But I have no other words." He would not change pattern now and see the Queen fear the sudden alteration.
Reaching out, Vangelis simply placed a hand upon the king's shoulder, wished his fair winds on his journey, kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them upon Zanon's leg as he was taken passed towards the entrance of the tent, and then turned away from his family.
His voice was loud and strong as he barked his commands, calling a meeting of Zanon's Captains and their Lieutenants to be summoned with immediate effect. He was, in that moment, no longer a brother or son - but a commander of men. And he did not look back.
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Check out their information page here.
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Vangelis stepped back and permitted the medics to tend to his brother. He kept his fingers wrapped around Zanon's for as long as he could, before his presence was too completely in the way and he was quick to let them go and offer up more space. The physicians knew what they were doing and were men that Vangelis would have trust would, in this moment, know more of how to care for his sibling than he. As much as it was difficult for a powerful man of rank and privilege to accept himself inferior to others, it was a necessary poison to swallow.
Zanon was bound, rebandaged and had the additions of his person - weaponry, boots and everything that would make carrying him harder - removed, whilst new linens were found to bind him to the cot that had been rigged for transport. He would be carried by two guardsmen to the ships that lay a half mile out at shore and then returned to the safety of Midas. It was a harsh journey but one that Vangelis knew would inspire something within his brother. Something more profound and powerful than the smell of mud and blood. He would be seeing Evras. And that would keep him going until the ship pulled into the docklands of the capitol and he was carried to their home. At least, Vangelis hoped so.
When his father addressed him as a General and not as a son, Vangelis instinctively straightened. His shoulders flared and his eyes turned sharp with respect and attention. He didn't snap to a militant salute as another officer might have but he had clearly become a subordinate before a child, in that moment. He nodded at the orders that were given him, and then clasped a fist over his heart in a promise to see those tasks completed and completed well. He was fully committed to ensuring the defeat of those that had harmed his brother and, looking at the way the latest battle had fallen and how many of the enemy lay strewn across the grounds, he would have little effort to do so. Despite his personal fall, Zanon had been on the brink of winning this encounter. And Vangelis wasn't about to permit that opportunity for victory to slip from his bloodied fingers.
As the king and his second son were readied to leave the tent, taking provisions and two physicians with them, Tython turned and became a father for a moment, shedding his commanding air of a king and recognising that it was not solely his son upon that pallet but Vangelis' brother also. He offered a chance for Vangelis to pass a message to his mother and Vangelis' lips parted as if upon an idea of what to say.
He had never sent his mother messages from the frontlines. Barring a messenger to comment that he was alive every few months, he had not offered her comforting words or assurances. He had always considered there to be more risk in subtext and interpretation with every letter, never trusting his way with words to help him. He had always thought it would only be more fearful to send regularly missives and then, during a particularly difficult section of campaign, to forget for a week and scare his mother to death.
"No." Vangelis offered, his mouth closing. "You can tell her I am alive and intend to return home soon. But I have no other words." He would not change pattern now and see the Queen fear the sudden alteration.
Reaching out, Vangelis simply placed a hand upon the king's shoulder, wished his fair winds on his journey, kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them upon Zanon's leg as he was taken passed towards the entrance of the tent, and then turned away from his family.
His voice was loud and strong as he barked his commands, calling a meeting of Zanon's Captains and their Lieutenants to be summoned with immediate effect. He was, in that moment, no longer a brother or son - but a commander of men. And he did not look back.
Vangelis stepped back and permitted the medics to tend to his brother. He kept his fingers wrapped around Zanon's for as long as he could, before his presence was too completely in the way and he was quick to let them go and offer up more space. The physicians knew what they were doing and were men that Vangelis would have trust would, in this moment, know more of how to care for his sibling than he. As much as it was difficult for a powerful man of rank and privilege to accept himself inferior to others, it was a necessary poison to swallow.
Zanon was bound, rebandaged and had the additions of his person - weaponry, boots and everything that would make carrying him harder - removed, whilst new linens were found to bind him to the cot that had been rigged for transport. He would be carried by two guardsmen to the ships that lay a half mile out at shore and then returned to the safety of Midas. It was a harsh journey but one that Vangelis knew would inspire something within his brother. Something more profound and powerful than the smell of mud and blood. He would be seeing Evras. And that would keep him going until the ship pulled into the docklands of the capitol and he was carried to their home. At least, Vangelis hoped so.
When his father addressed him as a General and not as a son, Vangelis instinctively straightened. His shoulders flared and his eyes turned sharp with respect and attention. He didn't snap to a militant salute as another officer might have but he had clearly become a subordinate before a child, in that moment. He nodded at the orders that were given him, and then clasped a fist over his heart in a promise to see those tasks completed and completed well. He was fully committed to ensuring the defeat of those that had harmed his brother and, looking at the way the latest battle had fallen and how many of the enemy lay strewn across the grounds, he would have little effort to do so. Despite his personal fall, Zanon had been on the brink of winning this encounter. And Vangelis wasn't about to permit that opportunity for victory to slip from his bloodied fingers.
As the king and his second son were readied to leave the tent, taking provisions and two physicians with them, Tython turned and became a father for a moment, shedding his commanding air of a king and recognising that it was not solely his son upon that pallet but Vangelis' brother also. He offered a chance for Vangelis to pass a message to his mother and Vangelis' lips parted as if upon an idea of what to say.
He had never sent his mother messages from the frontlines. Barring a messenger to comment that he was alive every few months, he had not offered her comforting words or assurances. He had always considered there to be more risk in subtext and interpretation with every letter, never trusting his way with words to help him. He had always thought it would only be more fearful to send regularly missives and then, during a particularly difficult section of campaign, to forget for a week and scare his mother to death.
"No." Vangelis offered, his mouth closing. "You can tell her I am alive and intend to return home soon. But I have no other words." He would not change pattern now and see the Queen fear the sudden alteration.
Reaching out, Vangelis simply placed a hand upon the king's shoulder, wished his fair winds on his journey, kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them upon Zanon's leg as he was taken passed towards the entrance of the tent, and then turned away from his family.
His voice was loud and strong as he barked his commands, calling a meeting of Zanon's Captains and their Lieutenants to be summoned with immediate effect. He was, in that moment, no longer a brother or son - but a commander of men. And he did not look back.