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There was some irritating proverb about not looking back when you were embarking on a journey or something, he was sure, but Silanos decided it was stupid. Looking at an empty horizon instead of watching the Isle of Kos fade away into nothing wasn’t going to make him feel any better.
He’d been disappointed to see Mihail assigned to another one of the Colchian ships that sailed first for Taengea, having thought his friend might at least make the sea voyage more bearable, but almost as if by design they had not ended up on the same vessel. Instead, Sil of course had the pleasure of travelling with Vangelis, and just to top it all off, King Tython as well. It did not speak to a voyage filled with good humour.
Not that he had much of that to go around anyway. He was, admittedly, a little sorry that Leto hadn’t shown her face on the beach. When he’d left the letter that morning, there had been a small part of him that envisioned her showing up and..well he wasn’t sure. Telling Maleos to fuck off or something would have been ideal. There had been no sign of Imeeya either, but that was maybe a good thing. Given that her cousin hadn’t already stabbed him, Sil could only hope that it meant the girl had not gone running to him, and that no-one had seen that misguided moment of..whatever she’d been thinking. Not usually a man to rebuff affection from attractive women, it was testament to a change in attitude that he had shut her down so quickly, though he’d tried to be kind. Not that it seemed to have been taken that way.
Thinking about it made the younger Valaoritis’ stomach roll. Possibly. Or, and this was perhaps testament to a lesson less well learned, it was the results of last night’s wine catching up on him in a horrible creeper of a hangover. Bracing his hands on the rail, Sil leant over to look at the water beneath, tried to will it away along with the dull headache that had been his forewarning of such a fate.
No drinking had been one of the conditions of his whatever this was, and Silanos had obeyed it to the letter, the memory of that sword point held at his chest enough of a dissuader. But the day before, everything had culminated to a point where he needed that relief. Forced to accept that he’d be on the ship to Egypt, coming too late to the realisation that maybe Leto was more than what he thought, and then as if the Gods just wanted one final laugh, Imeeya had lost her mind.
He was impossibly grateful to his midnight saviour, the woman who’d taken pity on him enough not to let him go blundering back to the Order House a drunken mess, but Sil realised he was at risk of exposing himself now if he wasn’t careful. Taking deep breaths in through his nose, the young man stood upright again and tried to appear unaffected. Some of his tolerance had apparently been compromised by the forced sobriety.
With any luck, people could just leave him be for a while, stop asking him to act as some irritating message runner, and he could stand quietly and maybe have some water and feel better. With that in mind, Sil edged a little further down the ship from where he knew the Prince to be, and positioned himself by one of the mainstays. Unobtrusively.
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There was some irritating proverb about not looking back when you were embarking on a journey or something, he was sure, but Silanos decided it was stupid. Looking at an empty horizon instead of watching the Isle of Kos fade away into nothing wasn’t going to make him feel any better.
He’d been disappointed to see Mihail assigned to another one of the Colchian ships that sailed first for Taengea, having thought his friend might at least make the sea voyage more bearable, but almost as if by design they had not ended up on the same vessel. Instead, Sil of course had the pleasure of travelling with Vangelis, and just to top it all off, King Tython as well. It did not speak to a voyage filled with good humour.
Not that he had much of that to go around anyway. He was, admittedly, a little sorry that Leto hadn’t shown her face on the beach. When he’d left the letter that morning, there had been a small part of him that envisioned her showing up and..well he wasn’t sure. Telling Maleos to fuck off or something would have been ideal. There had been no sign of Imeeya either, but that was maybe a good thing. Given that her cousin hadn’t already stabbed him, Sil could only hope that it meant the girl had not gone running to him, and that no-one had seen that misguided moment of..whatever she’d been thinking. Not usually a man to rebuff affection from attractive women, it was testament to a change in attitude that he had shut her down so quickly, though he’d tried to be kind. Not that it seemed to have been taken that way.
Thinking about it made the younger Valaoritis’ stomach roll. Possibly. Or, and this was perhaps testament to a lesson less well learned, it was the results of last night’s wine catching up on him in a horrible creeper of a hangover. Bracing his hands on the rail, Sil leant over to look at the water beneath, tried to will it away along with the dull headache that had been his forewarning of such a fate.
No drinking had been one of the conditions of his whatever this was, and Silanos had obeyed it to the letter, the memory of that sword point held at his chest enough of a dissuader. But the day before, everything had culminated to a point where he needed that relief. Forced to accept that he’d be on the ship to Egypt, coming too late to the realisation that maybe Leto was more than what he thought, and then as if the Gods just wanted one final laugh, Imeeya had lost her mind.
He was impossibly grateful to his midnight saviour, the woman who’d taken pity on him enough not to let him go blundering back to the Order House a drunken mess, but Sil realised he was at risk of exposing himself now if he wasn’t careful. Taking deep breaths in through his nose, the young man stood upright again and tried to appear unaffected. Some of his tolerance had apparently been compromised by the forced sobriety.
With any luck, people could just leave him be for a while, stop asking him to act as some irritating message runner, and he could stand quietly and maybe have some water and feel better. With that in mind, Sil edged a little further down the ship from where he knew the Prince to be, and positioned himself by one of the mainstays. Unobtrusively.
There was some irritating proverb about not looking back when you were embarking on a journey or something, he was sure, but Silanos decided it was stupid. Looking at an empty horizon instead of watching the Isle of Kos fade away into nothing wasn’t going to make him feel any better.
He’d been disappointed to see Mihail assigned to another one of the Colchian ships that sailed first for Taengea, having thought his friend might at least make the sea voyage more bearable, but almost as if by design they had not ended up on the same vessel. Instead, Sil of course had the pleasure of travelling with Vangelis, and just to top it all off, King Tython as well. It did not speak to a voyage filled with good humour.
Not that he had much of that to go around anyway. He was, admittedly, a little sorry that Leto hadn’t shown her face on the beach. When he’d left the letter that morning, there had been a small part of him that envisioned her showing up and..well he wasn’t sure. Telling Maleos to fuck off or something would have been ideal. There had been no sign of Imeeya either, but that was maybe a good thing. Given that her cousin hadn’t already stabbed him, Sil could only hope that it meant the girl had not gone running to him, and that no-one had seen that misguided moment of..whatever she’d been thinking. Not usually a man to rebuff affection from attractive women, it was testament to a change in attitude that he had shut her down so quickly, though he’d tried to be kind. Not that it seemed to have been taken that way.
Thinking about it made the younger Valaoritis’ stomach roll. Possibly. Or, and this was perhaps testament to a lesson less well learned, it was the results of last night’s wine catching up on him in a horrible creeper of a hangover. Bracing his hands on the rail, Sil leant over to look at the water beneath, tried to will it away along with the dull headache that had been his forewarning of such a fate.
No drinking had been one of the conditions of his whatever this was, and Silanos had obeyed it to the letter, the memory of that sword point held at his chest enough of a dissuader. But the day before, everything had culminated to a point where he needed that relief. Forced to accept that he’d be on the ship to Egypt, coming too late to the realisation that maybe Leto was more than what he thought, and then as if the Gods just wanted one final laugh, Imeeya had lost her mind.
He was impossibly grateful to his midnight saviour, the woman who’d taken pity on him enough not to let him go blundering back to the Order House a drunken mess, but Sil realised he was at risk of exposing himself now if he wasn’t careful. Taking deep breaths in through his nose, the young man stood upright again and tried to appear unaffected. Some of his tolerance had apparently been compromised by the forced sobriety.
With any luck, people could just leave him be for a while, stop asking him to act as some irritating message runner, and he could stand quietly and maybe have some water and feel better. With that in mind, Sil edged a little further down the ship from where he knew the Prince to be, and positioned himself by one of the mainstays. Unobtrusively.
The sailing part of any war campaign was hardly a period of ease and limited duty. It was true that once on land again and facing an enemy head on, the responsibilities that fell upon a commander (and a soldier)'s shoulders were more time urgent... tenser. They were actions that offered a direct result upon the battle before them and there was no time to make corrections should one make a mistake. The choices one made when fighting an enemy - especially one as organised and clever as the Egyptian forces in the south - had to be right first time. Or you died. It was as simple as that.
Duties aboard a sailing vessel on route to the war effort, were less severe in their outcomes. A simple mistake could often be corrected. There was often time to undo decisions that you were no longer confident on. But it also wasn't a pleasure cruise in which you put up your feet and waited for the seas to take you towards the enemy.
Not a sailor, nor a captain, Vangelis could navigate a boat in basic manners and, if left in a small vessel on his own could probably ensure that he got himself from his origin to his destination well enough. It would likely take him longer than it should and would be an entire waste of his time, but he would be able to do it. He knew enough of shipman’s work for that. But he was no captain of the waters, sailing upon them every day for decades and reading the winds like an oracle. He left such matters in the hands of Captain Myrros who he had sailed with on several campaigns before and whom he knew was one of the very best in what he did. It was the secondary reason that Vangelis' ship was the one to stand in the position of vanguard in the formation of boats that sailed towards Taengea.
Instead, Vangelis' duties were that of his men; the soldiers around him who worked alongside their sailor kin. Whilst some commanders would allow their men to rest and relax prior to their fight over the horizon, Vangelis always insisted that his soldiers be matched in pairs with the sailors of the vessel on which their boarded. They were required to work alongside their fellows, keeping their muscles working, their body engaged and their mind focused on the journey. Not excessively hard, but an activity that would keep them sharp before they were suddenly forced to be called into action.
The soldiers took shifts, some sitting out of the way or resting or eating below deck whilst others worked and then they cycled. It took time and organisation to manage such an arrangement and Vangelis was constantly prowling the length of the ship ensuring that everything was as it should be. His eyes checked the sails, the ropes, the knots that his men had worked upon, making sure that Myrros and his crew were no worse off for the interventions of armed helpers. He watched the men themselves, ensuring that they were always focused on something - be it the looking after of their own stomachs and bodies, or that of the ship. Any messages or orders or changes he needed to make, he called over his Valaoritis dogsbody and ensured that he was quick on his feet delivering such a note.
There was nothing that happened aboard Captain Myrros' ship that Vangelis was not entirely aware of. Which meant that his gaze found said retainer when Silanos moved to brace himself upon the side of the ship.
It was not uncommon for a man aboard a vessel - especially a man who had not sailed frequently - to feel a lurching illness in his belly when the ship took to the deeper waters of the Aegean. It was a perfectly simple and likely more common explanation to attribute Silanos' look of discontent and green tinge to that of seasickness than it was an evening of toping. Which was perhaps why Vangelis' assumptions shifted first in that direction.
Moving amongst the men, Vangelis waited until he was within hearing distance of the man before speaking.
"Keep an eye on the horizon Silanos. You'll be less likely to lose your morning repast."
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The sailing part of any war campaign was hardly a period of ease and limited duty. It was true that once on land again and facing an enemy head on, the responsibilities that fell upon a commander (and a soldier)'s shoulders were more time urgent... tenser. They were actions that offered a direct result upon the battle before them and there was no time to make corrections should one make a mistake. The choices one made when fighting an enemy - especially one as organised and clever as the Egyptian forces in the south - had to be right first time. Or you died. It was as simple as that.
Duties aboard a sailing vessel on route to the war effort, were less severe in their outcomes. A simple mistake could often be corrected. There was often time to undo decisions that you were no longer confident on. But it also wasn't a pleasure cruise in which you put up your feet and waited for the seas to take you towards the enemy.
Not a sailor, nor a captain, Vangelis could navigate a boat in basic manners and, if left in a small vessel on his own could probably ensure that he got himself from his origin to his destination well enough. It would likely take him longer than it should and would be an entire waste of his time, but he would be able to do it. He knew enough of shipman’s work for that. But he was no captain of the waters, sailing upon them every day for decades and reading the winds like an oracle. He left such matters in the hands of Captain Myrros who he had sailed with on several campaigns before and whom he knew was one of the very best in what he did. It was the secondary reason that Vangelis' ship was the one to stand in the position of vanguard in the formation of boats that sailed towards Taengea.
Instead, Vangelis' duties were that of his men; the soldiers around him who worked alongside their sailor kin. Whilst some commanders would allow their men to rest and relax prior to their fight over the horizon, Vangelis always insisted that his soldiers be matched in pairs with the sailors of the vessel on which their boarded. They were required to work alongside their fellows, keeping their muscles working, their body engaged and their mind focused on the journey. Not excessively hard, but an activity that would keep them sharp before they were suddenly forced to be called into action.
The soldiers took shifts, some sitting out of the way or resting or eating below deck whilst others worked and then they cycled. It took time and organisation to manage such an arrangement and Vangelis was constantly prowling the length of the ship ensuring that everything was as it should be. His eyes checked the sails, the ropes, the knots that his men had worked upon, making sure that Myrros and his crew were no worse off for the interventions of armed helpers. He watched the men themselves, ensuring that they were always focused on something - be it the looking after of their own stomachs and bodies, or that of the ship. Any messages or orders or changes he needed to make, he called over his Valaoritis dogsbody and ensured that he was quick on his feet delivering such a note.
There was nothing that happened aboard Captain Myrros' ship that Vangelis was not entirely aware of. Which meant that his gaze found said retainer when Silanos moved to brace himself upon the side of the ship.
It was not uncommon for a man aboard a vessel - especially a man who had not sailed frequently - to feel a lurching illness in his belly when the ship took to the deeper waters of the Aegean. It was a perfectly simple and likely more common explanation to attribute Silanos' look of discontent and green tinge to that of seasickness than it was an evening of toping. Which was perhaps why Vangelis' assumptions shifted first in that direction.
Moving amongst the men, Vangelis waited until he was within hearing distance of the man before speaking.
"Keep an eye on the horizon Silanos. You'll be less likely to lose your morning repast."
The sailing part of any war campaign was hardly a period of ease and limited duty. It was true that once on land again and facing an enemy head on, the responsibilities that fell upon a commander (and a soldier)'s shoulders were more time urgent... tenser. They were actions that offered a direct result upon the battle before them and there was no time to make corrections should one make a mistake. The choices one made when fighting an enemy - especially one as organised and clever as the Egyptian forces in the south - had to be right first time. Or you died. It was as simple as that.
Duties aboard a sailing vessel on route to the war effort, were less severe in their outcomes. A simple mistake could often be corrected. There was often time to undo decisions that you were no longer confident on. But it also wasn't a pleasure cruise in which you put up your feet and waited for the seas to take you towards the enemy.
Not a sailor, nor a captain, Vangelis could navigate a boat in basic manners and, if left in a small vessel on his own could probably ensure that he got himself from his origin to his destination well enough. It would likely take him longer than it should and would be an entire waste of his time, but he would be able to do it. He knew enough of shipman’s work for that. But he was no captain of the waters, sailing upon them every day for decades and reading the winds like an oracle. He left such matters in the hands of Captain Myrros who he had sailed with on several campaigns before and whom he knew was one of the very best in what he did. It was the secondary reason that Vangelis' ship was the one to stand in the position of vanguard in the formation of boats that sailed towards Taengea.
Instead, Vangelis' duties were that of his men; the soldiers around him who worked alongside their sailor kin. Whilst some commanders would allow their men to rest and relax prior to their fight over the horizon, Vangelis always insisted that his soldiers be matched in pairs with the sailors of the vessel on which their boarded. They were required to work alongside their fellows, keeping their muscles working, their body engaged and their mind focused on the journey. Not excessively hard, but an activity that would keep them sharp before they were suddenly forced to be called into action.
The soldiers took shifts, some sitting out of the way or resting or eating below deck whilst others worked and then they cycled. It took time and organisation to manage such an arrangement and Vangelis was constantly prowling the length of the ship ensuring that everything was as it should be. His eyes checked the sails, the ropes, the knots that his men had worked upon, making sure that Myrros and his crew were no worse off for the interventions of armed helpers. He watched the men themselves, ensuring that they were always focused on something - be it the looking after of their own stomachs and bodies, or that of the ship. Any messages or orders or changes he needed to make, he called over his Valaoritis dogsbody and ensured that he was quick on his feet delivering such a note.
There was nothing that happened aboard Captain Myrros' ship that Vangelis was not entirely aware of. Which meant that his gaze found said retainer when Silanos moved to brace himself upon the side of the ship.
It was not uncommon for a man aboard a vessel - especially a man who had not sailed frequently - to feel a lurching illness in his belly when the ship took to the deeper waters of the Aegean. It was a perfectly simple and likely more common explanation to attribute Silanos' look of discontent and green tinge to that of seasickness than it was an evening of toping. Which was perhaps why Vangelis' assumptions shifted first in that direction.
Moving amongst the men, Vangelis waited until he was within hearing distance of the man before speaking.
"Keep an eye on the horizon Silanos. You'll be less likely to lose your morning repast."
Oh for Hera’s sake. He’d just wanted a moment to wallow in self-pity and try not to puke up what he was sure would just be wine, because eating had not seemed advisable that morning. Just a moment. But - and Sil didn’t know how the man did it- no sooner had he stopped to hang on to the rail of the ship than the prince had spotted him and called out some instruction that was no doubt helpful to those suffering from seasickness. Fuck his life.
The young man let his eyes close for a moment, took a fortifying breath. His hands, wrapped firmly around the utmost rail of the ship, released to push him up to standing more upright. At least seasickness would be a good cover for the real reason for his discomfort.
The Valaoritis lord turned toward the voice, his face holding that sweaty kind of pallor that left no doubt as to how he was feeling, and Silanos managed a quick “Yes, your highness” before he gave a nod and dutifully fixed his gaze upon the horizon. He wished that such an action would help the queasiness that had beset him but somehow thought that it would not. He’d never been one to get sick from the waves, it seemed doubtful he would suddenly start now. He’d felt surprisingly alright earlier in the day, save for a dull headache, but it wasn’t the first time a hangover had stalked him for the early hours, only to blossom into a vile beast by noon. This was one such creature, it would seem. The wine had been cheap and plentiful, and at the time he’d been more concerned with the latter than then former.
Though being hungover was hardly an unfamiliar experience, Sil’s usual approach of drinking or smoking it away wasn’t going to happen. It’ll pass, he told himself, blinking furiously at the horizon as if it would help whilst simultaneously squinting at the bright sunlight that was not helping any with the headache. Where was Mihail with one of his mixtures when you needed him? Oh yes that’s right, on one of the other ships.
He could only hope that he might be left alone to suffer in peace, an indulgence he was not sure that Vangelis would be open to, given how he seemed to have decided Sil’s purpose aboard was to run all round the ship delivering messages so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
He would not have complained, for it was a darn sight less taxing than being expected to row or haul ropes. Just not right now though he prayed. Because right at that moment, there was a fear that if he opened his mouth he might end up delivering more than a message.
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Oh for Hera’s sake. He’d just wanted a moment to wallow in self-pity and try not to puke up what he was sure would just be wine, because eating had not seemed advisable that morning. Just a moment. But - and Sil didn’t know how the man did it- no sooner had he stopped to hang on to the rail of the ship than the prince had spotted him and called out some instruction that was no doubt helpful to those suffering from seasickness. Fuck his life.
The young man let his eyes close for a moment, took a fortifying breath. His hands, wrapped firmly around the utmost rail of the ship, released to push him up to standing more upright. At least seasickness would be a good cover for the real reason for his discomfort.
The Valaoritis lord turned toward the voice, his face holding that sweaty kind of pallor that left no doubt as to how he was feeling, and Silanos managed a quick “Yes, your highness” before he gave a nod and dutifully fixed his gaze upon the horizon. He wished that such an action would help the queasiness that had beset him but somehow thought that it would not. He’d never been one to get sick from the waves, it seemed doubtful he would suddenly start now. He’d felt surprisingly alright earlier in the day, save for a dull headache, but it wasn’t the first time a hangover had stalked him for the early hours, only to blossom into a vile beast by noon. This was one such creature, it would seem. The wine had been cheap and plentiful, and at the time he’d been more concerned with the latter than then former.
Though being hungover was hardly an unfamiliar experience, Sil’s usual approach of drinking or smoking it away wasn’t going to happen. It’ll pass, he told himself, blinking furiously at the horizon as if it would help whilst simultaneously squinting at the bright sunlight that was not helping any with the headache. Where was Mihail with one of his mixtures when you needed him? Oh yes that’s right, on one of the other ships.
He could only hope that he might be left alone to suffer in peace, an indulgence he was not sure that Vangelis would be open to, given how he seemed to have decided Sil’s purpose aboard was to run all round the ship delivering messages so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
He would not have complained, for it was a darn sight less taxing than being expected to row or haul ropes. Just not right now though he prayed. Because right at that moment, there was a fear that if he opened his mouth he might end up delivering more than a message.
Oh for Hera’s sake. He’d just wanted a moment to wallow in self-pity and try not to puke up what he was sure would just be wine, because eating had not seemed advisable that morning. Just a moment. But - and Sil didn’t know how the man did it- no sooner had he stopped to hang on to the rail of the ship than the prince had spotted him and called out some instruction that was no doubt helpful to those suffering from seasickness. Fuck his life.
The young man let his eyes close for a moment, took a fortifying breath. His hands, wrapped firmly around the utmost rail of the ship, released to push him up to standing more upright. At least seasickness would be a good cover for the real reason for his discomfort.
The Valaoritis lord turned toward the voice, his face holding that sweaty kind of pallor that left no doubt as to how he was feeling, and Silanos managed a quick “Yes, your highness” before he gave a nod and dutifully fixed his gaze upon the horizon. He wished that such an action would help the queasiness that had beset him but somehow thought that it would not. He’d never been one to get sick from the waves, it seemed doubtful he would suddenly start now. He’d felt surprisingly alright earlier in the day, save for a dull headache, but it wasn’t the first time a hangover had stalked him for the early hours, only to blossom into a vile beast by noon. This was one such creature, it would seem. The wine had been cheap and plentiful, and at the time he’d been more concerned with the latter than then former.
Though being hungover was hardly an unfamiliar experience, Sil’s usual approach of drinking or smoking it away wasn’t going to happen. It’ll pass, he told himself, blinking furiously at the horizon as if it would help whilst simultaneously squinting at the bright sunlight that was not helping any with the headache. Where was Mihail with one of his mixtures when you needed him? Oh yes that’s right, on one of the other ships.
He could only hope that he might be left alone to suffer in peace, an indulgence he was not sure that Vangelis would be open to, given how he seemed to have decided Sil’s purpose aboard was to run all round the ship delivering messages so he didn’t have to raise his voice.
He would not have complained, for it was a darn sight less taxing than being expected to row or haul ropes. Just not right now though he prayed. Because right at that moment, there was a fear that if he opened his mouth he might end up delivering more than a message.
Tython felt a comfort upon the water that he rarely felt anywhere else in the world. Maybe it was because he had spent so much of his life on and off ships, sailing to and fro, her and there. He had taken on far more campaigns than his son had, and though seasickness had taken him when he was much younger and untried during his first campaign out into the world, now the sea did nothing to him. He was well aware of how to move one's body to avoid the lurching of his stomach. He had a center of balance upon a ship that most men, unless they were practiced sailors, would never find. Thankfully, many of the men that were on this particular ship were practiced. Many had even attended to the north with him just recently.
Not one to be idle, Tython took on duties much the same as Vangelis, though he allowed his son to make all of the calls and focused primarily on navigating alongside Captain Myrros. The two of them, time and time again, would move back to the star charts, discuss, and then back out onto the deck. It was simple, but it kept his mind moving. When there was little to discuss at all, the king would set his sights on some of the more logical work. The crude maps of the Egyptian coastline that he still held from the last campaign that he carefully examined for the express purpose of figuring where they were to land.
Tython was ensured that there would be more information given to them once they landed upon Taengea's shores, but until then, his planning and his calculating took a more subdued route. They did not know how much Egypt had changed since the last campaign and it would be difficult to hash out every detail of the war and how they were to position themselves until they had more sturdy information from their allies. Athenia was absolutely no help at all, having only sent a few ships and hardly any men.
Not one to usually feel a bite of bitterness, Tython often and very silently lamented the loss of both King Minas and King Zacharias, of who Tython had joined in creating the treaty that was now failing them. Insofar, King Achilleas of Taengea had made good upon the pact, but Athenia would need to pay recompense if their agreement to aid in times of strife was wholly ignored as it was right now. That was a thought for another time, however, and Tython found himself clearing his thoughts as he trailed along the deck.
He had paused long enough to look across to the horizon himself, standing a little close to Lord Silanos. Vangelis' voice cut into his thoughts and Tython looked up just slightly toward his son and then down to the young man beside him. "You look rather green," Tython commented, watching Silanos with a critical expression, "We've barely been upon the water."
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Tython felt a comfort upon the water that he rarely felt anywhere else in the world. Maybe it was because he had spent so much of his life on and off ships, sailing to and fro, her and there. He had taken on far more campaigns than his son had, and though seasickness had taken him when he was much younger and untried during his first campaign out into the world, now the sea did nothing to him. He was well aware of how to move one's body to avoid the lurching of his stomach. He had a center of balance upon a ship that most men, unless they were practiced sailors, would never find. Thankfully, many of the men that were on this particular ship were practiced. Many had even attended to the north with him just recently.
Not one to be idle, Tython took on duties much the same as Vangelis, though he allowed his son to make all of the calls and focused primarily on navigating alongside Captain Myrros. The two of them, time and time again, would move back to the star charts, discuss, and then back out onto the deck. It was simple, but it kept his mind moving. When there was little to discuss at all, the king would set his sights on some of the more logical work. The crude maps of the Egyptian coastline that he still held from the last campaign that he carefully examined for the express purpose of figuring where they were to land.
Tython was ensured that there would be more information given to them once they landed upon Taengea's shores, but until then, his planning and his calculating took a more subdued route. They did not know how much Egypt had changed since the last campaign and it would be difficult to hash out every detail of the war and how they were to position themselves until they had more sturdy information from their allies. Athenia was absolutely no help at all, having only sent a few ships and hardly any men.
Not one to usually feel a bite of bitterness, Tython often and very silently lamented the loss of both King Minas and King Zacharias, of who Tython had joined in creating the treaty that was now failing them. Insofar, King Achilleas of Taengea had made good upon the pact, but Athenia would need to pay recompense if their agreement to aid in times of strife was wholly ignored as it was right now. That was a thought for another time, however, and Tython found himself clearing his thoughts as he trailed along the deck.
He had paused long enough to look across to the horizon himself, standing a little close to Lord Silanos. Vangelis' voice cut into his thoughts and Tython looked up just slightly toward his son and then down to the young man beside him. "You look rather green," Tython commented, watching Silanos with a critical expression, "We've barely been upon the water."
Tython felt a comfort upon the water that he rarely felt anywhere else in the world. Maybe it was because he had spent so much of his life on and off ships, sailing to and fro, her and there. He had taken on far more campaigns than his son had, and though seasickness had taken him when he was much younger and untried during his first campaign out into the world, now the sea did nothing to him. He was well aware of how to move one's body to avoid the lurching of his stomach. He had a center of balance upon a ship that most men, unless they were practiced sailors, would never find. Thankfully, many of the men that were on this particular ship were practiced. Many had even attended to the north with him just recently.
Not one to be idle, Tython took on duties much the same as Vangelis, though he allowed his son to make all of the calls and focused primarily on navigating alongside Captain Myrros. The two of them, time and time again, would move back to the star charts, discuss, and then back out onto the deck. It was simple, but it kept his mind moving. When there was little to discuss at all, the king would set his sights on some of the more logical work. The crude maps of the Egyptian coastline that he still held from the last campaign that he carefully examined for the express purpose of figuring where they were to land.
Tython was ensured that there would be more information given to them once they landed upon Taengea's shores, but until then, his planning and his calculating took a more subdued route. They did not know how much Egypt had changed since the last campaign and it would be difficult to hash out every detail of the war and how they were to position themselves until they had more sturdy information from their allies. Athenia was absolutely no help at all, having only sent a few ships and hardly any men.
Not one to usually feel a bite of bitterness, Tython often and very silently lamented the loss of both King Minas and King Zacharias, of who Tython had joined in creating the treaty that was now failing them. Insofar, King Achilleas of Taengea had made good upon the pact, but Athenia would need to pay recompense if their agreement to aid in times of strife was wholly ignored as it was right now. That was a thought for another time, however, and Tython found himself clearing his thoughts as he trailed along the deck.
He had paused long enough to look across to the horizon himself, standing a little close to Lord Silanos. Vangelis' voice cut into his thoughts and Tython looked up just slightly toward his son and then down to the young man beside him. "You look rather green," Tython commented, watching Silanos with a critical expression, "We've barely been upon the water."
Beginning to think that it was Dionysus punishing him for having stayed sober for so long, Silanos watched the distant horizon and tried to appear stoic and a lot more together than he felt. He dealt with worse, maybe not in the same situation he was in now, but he’d definitely survived worse. He just had to pass it off as seasickness, no big deal. The lord wanted to curse his luck though when he felt another presence by his side. Letting his eyes cut sideways, ready to tell whoever it was to give him a bit of breathing space, he was glad he didn’t get so far when his gaze fell upon the King himself. Was this a joke? He couldn’t be left to be miserable and reap the rewards of the previous night’s excesses alone?
Go away, go away, go away Sil willed, as he drew a long and steady breath in through his nose and prepared to force his body into a bow that he really wasn’t certain was sensible at that point. King Tython’s attention was unflinching though, and so the young Valaoritis Lord half-turned toward the man, bowed as shallowly as he could get away with and then stood upright again, blinking up at the man.
Sil wasn’t short by any means but King Tython stood a fair inches taller than him, so the Lord had to tilt his head up to look properly at the man, and the sudden change in orientation after the bow didn’t help with the nausea that clawed at him. Feeling the chill of perspiration at the back of his neck, Silanos’ hand tightened around the guard rail once more. Was this really how he used to greet most mornings? It was wretched.
He didn’t really have any words to respond to the King - he was feeling pretty gross, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that it was visible on his face. Swallowing in an attempt to settle his churning stomach, Sil attempted an answer with a few as words as possible. The less his mouth was open, the less chance he had of embarrassing himself. “Not a good sailor, your majesty” he lied succinctly, looking down at the man’s boots and trying to ignore the way his mouth was flooding with saliva.
He could subdue the urge to hurl, if he concentrated hard enough, Sil thought. He justreally needed the King to move off. Surely there were more important things for him to be dealing with than a seasick disgraced nobleman? There were a hundred other people on this ship he could choose to stand next to. Go and talk to your son Sil urged silently Leave me alone
Swallowing again and setting his teeth, he could feel his stomach rolling. It might not be seasickness, but the waves weren’t helping him. Fucking Dionysus and Poseidon having a laugh at his expense.
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Beginning to think that it was Dionysus punishing him for having stayed sober for so long, Silanos watched the distant horizon and tried to appear stoic and a lot more together than he felt. He dealt with worse, maybe not in the same situation he was in now, but he’d definitely survived worse. He just had to pass it off as seasickness, no big deal. The lord wanted to curse his luck though when he felt another presence by his side. Letting his eyes cut sideways, ready to tell whoever it was to give him a bit of breathing space, he was glad he didn’t get so far when his gaze fell upon the King himself. Was this a joke? He couldn’t be left to be miserable and reap the rewards of the previous night’s excesses alone?
Go away, go away, go away Sil willed, as he drew a long and steady breath in through his nose and prepared to force his body into a bow that he really wasn’t certain was sensible at that point. King Tython’s attention was unflinching though, and so the young Valaoritis Lord half-turned toward the man, bowed as shallowly as he could get away with and then stood upright again, blinking up at the man.
Sil wasn’t short by any means but King Tython stood a fair inches taller than him, so the Lord had to tilt his head up to look properly at the man, and the sudden change in orientation after the bow didn’t help with the nausea that clawed at him. Feeling the chill of perspiration at the back of his neck, Silanos’ hand tightened around the guard rail once more. Was this really how he used to greet most mornings? It was wretched.
He didn’t really have any words to respond to the King - he was feeling pretty gross, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that it was visible on his face. Swallowing in an attempt to settle his churning stomach, Sil attempted an answer with a few as words as possible. The less his mouth was open, the less chance he had of embarrassing himself. “Not a good sailor, your majesty” he lied succinctly, looking down at the man’s boots and trying to ignore the way his mouth was flooding with saliva.
He could subdue the urge to hurl, if he concentrated hard enough, Sil thought. He justreally needed the King to move off. Surely there were more important things for him to be dealing with than a seasick disgraced nobleman? There were a hundred other people on this ship he could choose to stand next to. Go and talk to your son Sil urged silently Leave me alone
Swallowing again and setting his teeth, he could feel his stomach rolling. It might not be seasickness, but the waves weren’t helping him. Fucking Dionysus and Poseidon having a laugh at his expense.
Beginning to think that it was Dionysus punishing him for having stayed sober for so long, Silanos watched the distant horizon and tried to appear stoic and a lot more together than he felt. He dealt with worse, maybe not in the same situation he was in now, but he’d definitely survived worse. He just had to pass it off as seasickness, no big deal. The lord wanted to curse his luck though when he felt another presence by his side. Letting his eyes cut sideways, ready to tell whoever it was to give him a bit of breathing space, he was glad he didn’t get so far when his gaze fell upon the King himself. Was this a joke? He couldn’t be left to be miserable and reap the rewards of the previous night’s excesses alone?
Go away, go away, go away Sil willed, as he drew a long and steady breath in through his nose and prepared to force his body into a bow that he really wasn’t certain was sensible at that point. King Tython’s attention was unflinching though, and so the young Valaoritis Lord half-turned toward the man, bowed as shallowly as he could get away with and then stood upright again, blinking up at the man.
Sil wasn’t short by any means but King Tython stood a fair inches taller than him, so the Lord had to tilt his head up to look properly at the man, and the sudden change in orientation after the bow didn’t help with the nausea that clawed at him. Feeling the chill of perspiration at the back of his neck, Silanos’ hand tightened around the guard rail once more. Was this really how he used to greet most mornings? It was wretched.
He didn’t really have any words to respond to the King - he was feeling pretty gross, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that it was visible on his face. Swallowing in an attempt to settle his churning stomach, Sil attempted an answer with a few as words as possible. The less his mouth was open, the less chance he had of embarrassing himself. “Not a good sailor, your majesty” he lied succinctly, looking down at the man’s boots and trying to ignore the way his mouth was flooding with saliva.
He could subdue the urge to hurl, if he concentrated hard enough, Sil thought. He justreally needed the King to move off. Surely there were more important things for him to be dealing with than a seasick disgraced nobleman? There were a hundred other people on this ship he could choose to stand next to. Go and talk to your son Sil urged silently Leave me alone
Swallowing again and setting his teeth, he could feel his stomach rolling. It might not be seasickness, but the waves weren’t helping him. Fucking Dionysus and Poseidon having a laugh at his expense.
Tython didn't hide the very slightly lifted eyebrow as he stared hard at Silanos. There was something off here and he was sure that if the air weren't so salty of sea, he would be able to smell it. However, the king was more fixated on the very shallow bow, both of his arms hanging at his sides as he observed the man very deeply. Silanos had become a puzzle in an instant and Tython's gaze was picking him apart with quiet ease. It was rare for a sailor, even one unpracticed as Silanos, to be so sick so quickly on the water. Not impossible, but rare.
And of course, that meant that Tython was going to probe deeper, glancing once up at Vangelis and then back down at Silanos as if the boy was bait and Tython was a predator. "You best become a good sailor, Lord Valaoritis," the King said in a low tone, "Because useless soldiers on boats don't last long when they're heaving their guts over the side of a ship in constant perpetuity." There was the slightest hint of amusement to Tython's tone, though it was mostly still businesslike and authoritarian.
"Find your sea legs quickly," was the only order he would give the young man before turning to look out at the sea again. The waves were rather calm thus far and there was not a storm on sight. If many of the sailors who were not wonderful sailors and who also had weaker stomachs could pull themselves up by the straps of their sandals, so could Silanos. There would be no true excuse if Silanos essentially made himself useless from Greece to Egypt. If he was, the king would begin to question his son on the reasoning that Lord Valaoritis was even on this campaign with them if he was going to be nothing more than fodder for the enemy at the end of the day.
Saying nothing else, Tython finally slid his gaze back to Silanos, observing how he was taking the calm orders from the King and how he was holding up in keeping his morning meal down. So far, so good. Perhaps toughness would work wonders?
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Tython didn't hide the very slightly lifted eyebrow as he stared hard at Silanos. There was something off here and he was sure that if the air weren't so salty of sea, he would be able to smell it. However, the king was more fixated on the very shallow bow, both of his arms hanging at his sides as he observed the man very deeply. Silanos had become a puzzle in an instant and Tython's gaze was picking him apart with quiet ease. It was rare for a sailor, even one unpracticed as Silanos, to be so sick so quickly on the water. Not impossible, but rare.
And of course, that meant that Tython was going to probe deeper, glancing once up at Vangelis and then back down at Silanos as if the boy was bait and Tython was a predator. "You best become a good sailor, Lord Valaoritis," the King said in a low tone, "Because useless soldiers on boats don't last long when they're heaving their guts over the side of a ship in constant perpetuity." There was the slightest hint of amusement to Tython's tone, though it was mostly still businesslike and authoritarian.
"Find your sea legs quickly," was the only order he would give the young man before turning to look out at the sea again. The waves were rather calm thus far and there was not a storm on sight. If many of the sailors who were not wonderful sailors and who also had weaker stomachs could pull themselves up by the straps of their sandals, so could Silanos. There would be no true excuse if Silanos essentially made himself useless from Greece to Egypt. If he was, the king would begin to question his son on the reasoning that Lord Valaoritis was even on this campaign with them if he was going to be nothing more than fodder for the enemy at the end of the day.
Saying nothing else, Tython finally slid his gaze back to Silanos, observing how he was taking the calm orders from the King and how he was holding up in keeping his morning meal down. So far, so good. Perhaps toughness would work wonders?
Tython didn't hide the very slightly lifted eyebrow as he stared hard at Silanos. There was something off here and he was sure that if the air weren't so salty of sea, he would be able to smell it. However, the king was more fixated on the very shallow bow, both of his arms hanging at his sides as he observed the man very deeply. Silanos had become a puzzle in an instant and Tython's gaze was picking him apart with quiet ease. It was rare for a sailor, even one unpracticed as Silanos, to be so sick so quickly on the water. Not impossible, but rare.
And of course, that meant that Tython was going to probe deeper, glancing once up at Vangelis and then back down at Silanos as if the boy was bait and Tython was a predator. "You best become a good sailor, Lord Valaoritis," the King said in a low tone, "Because useless soldiers on boats don't last long when they're heaving their guts over the side of a ship in constant perpetuity." There was the slightest hint of amusement to Tython's tone, though it was mostly still businesslike and authoritarian.
"Find your sea legs quickly," was the only order he would give the young man before turning to look out at the sea again. The waves were rather calm thus far and there was not a storm on sight. If many of the sailors who were not wonderful sailors and who also had weaker stomachs could pull themselves up by the straps of their sandals, so could Silanos. There would be no true excuse if Silanos essentially made himself useless from Greece to Egypt. If he was, the king would begin to question his son on the reasoning that Lord Valaoritis was even on this campaign with them if he was going to be nothing more than fodder for the enemy at the end of the day.
Saying nothing else, Tython finally slid his gaze back to Silanos, observing how he was taking the calm orders from the King and how he was holding up in keeping his morning meal down. So far, so good. Perhaps toughness would work wonders?
Silanos didn’t much care for how King Tython was staring at him, like he doubted him, or was suspicious. Whatever, it wasn’t as if the Valaoritis Lord could give it much of his attention anyway, not when he was working so hard to keep the contents of his stomach where it belonged. Still, he felt the weight of the man’s stare atop the cold prickling sweat, the lazy flip flop of his belly as it tested his resolve.
For one horrible, lurching moment, Silanos panicked that somehow the man knew it wasn’t the waves making him want to hurl, and he followed the King’s eyes towards his son fretfully. People got seasick, it was a fact. Why couldn’t the Gods help him along with this tiny little deception? It wasn’t like it was hurting anyone.
When the King spoke once more, Sil dragged his gaze up toward him again because it would be disrespectful not to and nodded blandly, trying to ignore the assessing gaze. Maybe if he just agreed the man would just go the fuck away already. And when Tython finished up with the ha, ha very fucking funny, ‘Find your sea legs quickly’, the young lord thought if he could just acknowledge that order, then it would enough, and the King would surely move on.
So he swallowed a couple of times to be sure, took a deep drag of salt crisp sea air through his nose and into his lungs. “Yes, your Majesty.”
Should have been what he said. Simple, three words. It would have been an ending to their interaction, would have wrapped things up nicely. Later, when he recounted the moment, Silanos would wonder if he’d been too ambitious with three whole words, thought perhaps he should have left it at the nod. Because being thought disrespectful was surely better than what happened instead.
The Valaoritis Lord managed the ‘yes’ well enough. It gave him false confidence, so that he thought he was home and dry, thought he could just push past that rush of saliva in his mouth. But it was too much. The bright sun hitting his face as he looked up at the King making the headache pound vividly behind his eyes, the ever so gentle lurch of the waves doing nothing to soothe the churning of cheap wine in his belly. It was as he got to the end of forming the word ‘your’, that desperate realisation that he wasn’t going to make it. His stomach flipped once: the muscles contracting sharply, and Sil broke off at the sour taste of bile in his throat, fingers tightening around the ship’s rail until his knuckles were bone white.
Clamping his mouth shut was a valiant effort, but it all came too late, and he was helpless then, betrayed by his own body. If he could have turned even, so he was looking out over the edge of the ship once more, it would have been forgivable, perhaps? But Silanos had been trying to be polite, had been trying to show the King the respect he was due and had twisted to face him as the man spoke.
That was his undoing and was the reason why, as Sil jackknifed forwards bent at the waist, the vomit that shot out of his mouth and sprayed out of his nose showered the King’s boots decoratively. For the young Lord, eyes streaming and still dribbling sour stomach acid, it was a truly horrific sight. Not just the fact that looking at puke made him want to repeat the whole process but realising what had just happened. He was trembling, and after a second, gave up at keeping himself upright and dropped to his knees, trying not to gag again as he frantically swept a sleeve over the King’s boots.The King’s boots. Blessedly lump-free, it was still a test of Silanos’ will to make himself try and mop up the mess, but how could he not? Was he going to die now?
“I’m so sorry” he blathered “ I...let me..”
The spectacle had drawn the attention of a few crew members, and for a moment, everyone stood in shock, not quite certain how to respond. But with Silanos on his knees trying to clean up their monarch with his sleeve, it seemed, at last, to spur others into action, and suddenly there were men with buckets and cloths and Sil was being pulled up and backwards, away from the scene of the crime. “I’m...I didn’t mean to!” Silanos said to no one in particular. He could only look on aghast as the King was attended to, his own sorry state immaterial.
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Silanos didn’t much care for how King Tython was staring at him, like he doubted him, or was suspicious. Whatever, it wasn’t as if the Valaoritis Lord could give it much of his attention anyway, not when he was working so hard to keep the contents of his stomach where it belonged. Still, he felt the weight of the man’s stare atop the cold prickling sweat, the lazy flip flop of his belly as it tested his resolve.
For one horrible, lurching moment, Silanos panicked that somehow the man knew it wasn’t the waves making him want to hurl, and he followed the King’s eyes towards his son fretfully. People got seasick, it was a fact. Why couldn’t the Gods help him along with this tiny little deception? It wasn’t like it was hurting anyone.
When the King spoke once more, Sil dragged his gaze up toward him again because it would be disrespectful not to and nodded blandly, trying to ignore the assessing gaze. Maybe if he just agreed the man would just go the fuck away already. And when Tython finished up with the ha, ha very fucking funny, ‘Find your sea legs quickly’, the young lord thought if he could just acknowledge that order, then it would enough, and the King would surely move on.
So he swallowed a couple of times to be sure, took a deep drag of salt crisp sea air through his nose and into his lungs. “Yes, your Majesty.”
Should have been what he said. Simple, three words. It would have been an ending to their interaction, would have wrapped things up nicely. Later, when he recounted the moment, Silanos would wonder if he’d been too ambitious with three whole words, thought perhaps he should have left it at the nod. Because being thought disrespectful was surely better than what happened instead.
The Valaoritis Lord managed the ‘yes’ well enough. It gave him false confidence, so that he thought he was home and dry, thought he could just push past that rush of saliva in his mouth. But it was too much. The bright sun hitting his face as he looked up at the King making the headache pound vividly behind his eyes, the ever so gentle lurch of the waves doing nothing to soothe the churning of cheap wine in his belly. It was as he got to the end of forming the word ‘your’, that desperate realisation that he wasn’t going to make it. His stomach flipped once: the muscles contracting sharply, and Sil broke off at the sour taste of bile in his throat, fingers tightening around the ship’s rail until his knuckles were bone white.
Clamping his mouth shut was a valiant effort, but it all came too late, and he was helpless then, betrayed by his own body. If he could have turned even, so he was looking out over the edge of the ship once more, it would have been forgivable, perhaps? But Silanos had been trying to be polite, had been trying to show the King the respect he was due and had twisted to face him as the man spoke.
That was his undoing and was the reason why, as Sil jackknifed forwards bent at the waist, the vomit that shot out of his mouth and sprayed out of his nose showered the King’s boots decoratively. For the young Lord, eyes streaming and still dribbling sour stomach acid, it was a truly horrific sight. Not just the fact that looking at puke made him want to repeat the whole process but realising what had just happened. He was trembling, and after a second, gave up at keeping himself upright and dropped to his knees, trying not to gag again as he frantically swept a sleeve over the King’s boots.The King’s boots. Blessedly lump-free, it was still a test of Silanos’ will to make himself try and mop up the mess, but how could he not? Was he going to die now?
“I’m so sorry” he blathered “ I...let me..”
The spectacle had drawn the attention of a few crew members, and for a moment, everyone stood in shock, not quite certain how to respond. But with Silanos on his knees trying to clean up their monarch with his sleeve, it seemed, at last, to spur others into action, and suddenly there were men with buckets and cloths and Sil was being pulled up and backwards, away from the scene of the crime. “I’m...I didn’t mean to!” Silanos said to no one in particular. He could only look on aghast as the King was attended to, his own sorry state immaterial.
Silanos didn’t much care for how King Tython was staring at him, like he doubted him, or was suspicious. Whatever, it wasn’t as if the Valaoritis Lord could give it much of his attention anyway, not when he was working so hard to keep the contents of his stomach where it belonged. Still, he felt the weight of the man’s stare atop the cold prickling sweat, the lazy flip flop of his belly as it tested his resolve.
For one horrible, lurching moment, Silanos panicked that somehow the man knew it wasn’t the waves making him want to hurl, and he followed the King’s eyes towards his son fretfully. People got seasick, it was a fact. Why couldn’t the Gods help him along with this tiny little deception? It wasn’t like it was hurting anyone.
When the King spoke once more, Sil dragged his gaze up toward him again because it would be disrespectful not to and nodded blandly, trying to ignore the assessing gaze. Maybe if he just agreed the man would just go the fuck away already. And when Tython finished up with the ha, ha very fucking funny, ‘Find your sea legs quickly’, the young lord thought if he could just acknowledge that order, then it would enough, and the King would surely move on.
So he swallowed a couple of times to be sure, took a deep drag of salt crisp sea air through his nose and into his lungs. “Yes, your Majesty.”
Should have been what he said. Simple, three words. It would have been an ending to their interaction, would have wrapped things up nicely. Later, when he recounted the moment, Silanos would wonder if he’d been too ambitious with three whole words, thought perhaps he should have left it at the nod. Because being thought disrespectful was surely better than what happened instead.
The Valaoritis Lord managed the ‘yes’ well enough. It gave him false confidence, so that he thought he was home and dry, thought he could just push past that rush of saliva in his mouth. But it was too much. The bright sun hitting his face as he looked up at the King making the headache pound vividly behind his eyes, the ever so gentle lurch of the waves doing nothing to soothe the churning of cheap wine in his belly. It was as he got to the end of forming the word ‘your’, that desperate realisation that he wasn’t going to make it. His stomach flipped once: the muscles contracting sharply, and Sil broke off at the sour taste of bile in his throat, fingers tightening around the ship’s rail until his knuckles were bone white.
Clamping his mouth shut was a valiant effort, but it all came too late, and he was helpless then, betrayed by his own body. If he could have turned even, so he was looking out over the edge of the ship once more, it would have been forgivable, perhaps? But Silanos had been trying to be polite, had been trying to show the King the respect he was due and had twisted to face him as the man spoke.
That was his undoing and was the reason why, as Sil jackknifed forwards bent at the waist, the vomit that shot out of his mouth and sprayed out of his nose showered the King’s boots decoratively. For the young Lord, eyes streaming and still dribbling sour stomach acid, it was a truly horrific sight. Not just the fact that looking at puke made him want to repeat the whole process but realising what had just happened. He was trembling, and after a second, gave up at keeping himself upright and dropped to his knees, trying not to gag again as he frantically swept a sleeve over the King’s boots.The King’s boots. Blessedly lump-free, it was still a test of Silanos’ will to make himself try and mop up the mess, but how could he not? Was he going to die now?
“I’m so sorry” he blathered “ I...let me..”
The spectacle had drawn the attention of a few crew members, and for a moment, everyone stood in shock, not quite certain how to respond. But with Silanos on his knees trying to clean up their monarch with his sleeve, it seemed, at last, to spur others into action, and suddenly there were men with buckets and cloths and Sil was being pulled up and backwards, away from the scene of the crime. “I’m...I didn’t mean to!” Silanos said to no one in particular. He could only look on aghast as the King was attended to, his own sorry state immaterial.
Vangelis felt no shame over Silanos' condition, when his father appeared to join the little group at the railing. Whilst the son of Valaoritis was technically in his charge, Vangelis had always operated on a theory of duty to all, but personal punishment to one. It was his responsibility to ensure that his men knew how to behave, what the rules were and how to be an effective unit. If one of them decided not to perform to that high standard, then Vangelis simply removed the problem. He didn't feel shame or awkwardness of his misplaced trust. He saw trust as integral to a military unit - and he wasn't wrong to bestow it. He simply ensured that it was never reaffirmed in anyone who had failed him.
So, when the king pointed out Silanos' lack of a steady stomach, Vangelis was neither aggrieved nor disappointed in the man. His failing was his own. He had no sea legs and should hold them stronger beneath himself. He should have sailed more as a youth, gotten used to the way the ocean made a stomach sway and shake. In the same way that young men and women were shown how to ride. A woman was permitted to have an awkward digestion during sea travel. But for a man, it was mostly seen as a weakness. Despite it being nothing of the sort. It was just lack of experience.
Leaving the young lord to defend himself against the king and having no intention of taking responsibility for Silanos' lack of exposure to seafaring, Vangelis moved to lean against the railing, his forearms braced on its edge and his eyes looking out across the sea. The scent of salt was in the air and he felt the winds in his hair. He took a long and deep inhale. He liked to sail. And in quiet moments like this, the realisation liked to creep up upon him as if it were the first time he had come to the discovery.
Such a quiet moment was interrupted, however, when his serenity was punctured with the disgusting noise of a rebellious stomach. Vangelis turned in time to witness Silanos empty his belly, bending low before the king and ejecting his guts over his boots.
The skin that tightened at the outer corner of Vangelis' face was a close to a grimace as he might normally get as he noticed the way the vomit had exited through mouth and nose. It set the boy's eyes streaming and likely burned behind his face. With a sigh of exasperation, Vangelis clicked his fingers at several of the onlookers, and within a few moments, buckets and cloths were being provided.
Vangelis reached out and grabbed Silanos by a bicep. The man was weak and heavy, but he lugged him all the same to his lumbering feet. If the man wanted to apologise, and to take the punishment Tython might issue for the insult like a man, then he would do it on his feet.
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Vangelis felt no shame over Silanos' condition, when his father appeared to join the little group at the railing. Whilst the son of Valaoritis was technically in his charge, Vangelis had always operated on a theory of duty to all, but personal punishment to one. It was his responsibility to ensure that his men knew how to behave, what the rules were and how to be an effective unit. If one of them decided not to perform to that high standard, then Vangelis simply removed the problem. He didn't feel shame or awkwardness of his misplaced trust. He saw trust as integral to a military unit - and he wasn't wrong to bestow it. He simply ensured that it was never reaffirmed in anyone who had failed him.
So, when the king pointed out Silanos' lack of a steady stomach, Vangelis was neither aggrieved nor disappointed in the man. His failing was his own. He had no sea legs and should hold them stronger beneath himself. He should have sailed more as a youth, gotten used to the way the ocean made a stomach sway and shake. In the same way that young men and women were shown how to ride. A woman was permitted to have an awkward digestion during sea travel. But for a man, it was mostly seen as a weakness. Despite it being nothing of the sort. It was just lack of experience.
Leaving the young lord to defend himself against the king and having no intention of taking responsibility for Silanos' lack of exposure to seafaring, Vangelis moved to lean against the railing, his forearms braced on its edge and his eyes looking out across the sea. The scent of salt was in the air and he felt the winds in his hair. He took a long and deep inhale. He liked to sail. And in quiet moments like this, the realisation liked to creep up upon him as if it were the first time he had come to the discovery.
Such a quiet moment was interrupted, however, when his serenity was punctured with the disgusting noise of a rebellious stomach. Vangelis turned in time to witness Silanos empty his belly, bending low before the king and ejecting his guts over his boots.
The skin that tightened at the outer corner of Vangelis' face was a close to a grimace as he might normally get as he noticed the way the vomit had exited through mouth and nose. It set the boy's eyes streaming and likely burned behind his face. With a sigh of exasperation, Vangelis clicked his fingers at several of the onlookers, and within a few moments, buckets and cloths were being provided.
Vangelis reached out and grabbed Silanos by a bicep. The man was weak and heavy, but he lugged him all the same to his lumbering feet. If the man wanted to apologise, and to take the punishment Tython might issue for the insult like a man, then he would do it on his feet.
Vangelis felt no shame over Silanos' condition, when his father appeared to join the little group at the railing. Whilst the son of Valaoritis was technically in his charge, Vangelis had always operated on a theory of duty to all, but personal punishment to one. It was his responsibility to ensure that his men knew how to behave, what the rules were and how to be an effective unit. If one of them decided not to perform to that high standard, then Vangelis simply removed the problem. He didn't feel shame or awkwardness of his misplaced trust. He saw trust as integral to a military unit - and he wasn't wrong to bestow it. He simply ensured that it was never reaffirmed in anyone who had failed him.
So, when the king pointed out Silanos' lack of a steady stomach, Vangelis was neither aggrieved nor disappointed in the man. His failing was his own. He had no sea legs and should hold them stronger beneath himself. He should have sailed more as a youth, gotten used to the way the ocean made a stomach sway and shake. In the same way that young men and women were shown how to ride. A woman was permitted to have an awkward digestion during sea travel. But for a man, it was mostly seen as a weakness. Despite it being nothing of the sort. It was just lack of experience.
Leaving the young lord to defend himself against the king and having no intention of taking responsibility for Silanos' lack of exposure to seafaring, Vangelis moved to lean against the railing, his forearms braced on its edge and his eyes looking out across the sea. The scent of salt was in the air and he felt the winds in his hair. He took a long and deep inhale. He liked to sail. And in quiet moments like this, the realisation liked to creep up upon him as if it were the first time he had come to the discovery.
Such a quiet moment was interrupted, however, when his serenity was punctured with the disgusting noise of a rebellious stomach. Vangelis turned in time to witness Silanos empty his belly, bending low before the king and ejecting his guts over his boots.
The skin that tightened at the outer corner of Vangelis' face was a close to a grimace as he might normally get as he noticed the way the vomit had exited through mouth and nose. It set the boy's eyes streaming and likely burned behind his face. With a sigh of exasperation, Vangelis clicked his fingers at several of the onlookers, and within a few moments, buckets and cloths were being provided.
Vangelis reached out and grabbed Silanos by a bicep. The man was weak and heavy, but he lugged him all the same to his lumbering feet. If the man wanted to apologise, and to take the punishment Tython might issue for the insult like a man, then he would do it on his feet.
Oh for the love of the gods.
Equal parts disgusted and furious all at once, the King could see this coming from a mile away. Even while in the midst of being vomited profusely upon, Tython could think of nothing more than punting this half-bake Valaoritis lord right of the side of his godsdamned ship. And he nearly did it, too, Tython's usually stoic gaze turning harder and more like solid iron rather than a raging storm. Darker and more prone to danger. Like a hunter stalking prey. Like a King leading men upon a battlefield.
This was an insult of the highest degree even though Silanos had been in the midst of giving Tython the verbal respect that his position required be given. That was what made this all the more infuriating and insulting. No matter how apologetic Lord Silanos was, Tython could no longer look at the young lord with any lingering respect. For every time the King would look upon the man from then on, he would just remember the weakness of the kid's stomach.
Silanos would never survive war. Not with his weak stomach. Not if he couldn't survive the chopping of waves. He would never survive the carnage upon a battlefield.
Everyone rushed toward him and Tython put both of his hands up to stop anyone from getting too close with bucket or cloth. Not until Vangelis approached and pulled Silanos up to his feet. This allowed the King, as towering as he was, and taller than Vangelis at that, to look Silanos more firmly in the eye. This would be his punishment, or at least part of it. The stench, acidic and acrid, was getting to him, but the King had never found need to vomit at someone else's bodily fluids. So he wasn't truly bothered by anything but the insult and for the need of a change of clothing and a deep cleaning of his boots.
"I am a man built upon the idea of mercy and justice, Lord Valaoritis. So you will take my judgement upon you as an act of both," the King said slowly. "You'll clean my boots and clothes properly. And this deck. By yourself, with your own two hands. When you are done, I will see not a speck nor smell the stench any longer. Have I made myself clear?" the king asked slowly, not looking at Vangelis' face. If Silanos was to insult the King by vomiting on him, the King would insult the young lord by giving him a servant's work.
"The next time you vomit on my deck, Silanos, I'll ensure that the General ships you to the front lines the first chance he gets. You'll earn an iron stomach that way, I'm sure. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to earn a spine as well," Tython said with that hint of irritation in his voice, then looked to his son. "The blandest of rations for this one. Maybe he'll keep it down this time," the King murmured, turning away to head toward his cabin, trailing SIlanos' mess with him. Another mess he would have to clean up. "You have until the sun sets high, I'll not see your filth clinging to my deck," the King threw over his shoulder on his way to change.
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Oh for the love of the gods.
Equal parts disgusted and furious all at once, the King could see this coming from a mile away. Even while in the midst of being vomited profusely upon, Tython could think of nothing more than punting this half-bake Valaoritis lord right of the side of his godsdamned ship. And he nearly did it, too, Tython's usually stoic gaze turning harder and more like solid iron rather than a raging storm. Darker and more prone to danger. Like a hunter stalking prey. Like a King leading men upon a battlefield.
This was an insult of the highest degree even though Silanos had been in the midst of giving Tython the verbal respect that his position required be given. That was what made this all the more infuriating and insulting. No matter how apologetic Lord Silanos was, Tython could no longer look at the young lord with any lingering respect. For every time the King would look upon the man from then on, he would just remember the weakness of the kid's stomach.
Silanos would never survive war. Not with his weak stomach. Not if he couldn't survive the chopping of waves. He would never survive the carnage upon a battlefield.
Everyone rushed toward him and Tython put both of his hands up to stop anyone from getting too close with bucket or cloth. Not until Vangelis approached and pulled Silanos up to his feet. This allowed the King, as towering as he was, and taller than Vangelis at that, to look Silanos more firmly in the eye. This would be his punishment, or at least part of it. The stench, acidic and acrid, was getting to him, but the King had never found need to vomit at someone else's bodily fluids. So he wasn't truly bothered by anything but the insult and for the need of a change of clothing and a deep cleaning of his boots.
"I am a man built upon the idea of mercy and justice, Lord Valaoritis. So you will take my judgement upon you as an act of both," the King said slowly. "You'll clean my boots and clothes properly. And this deck. By yourself, with your own two hands. When you are done, I will see not a speck nor smell the stench any longer. Have I made myself clear?" the king asked slowly, not looking at Vangelis' face. If Silanos was to insult the King by vomiting on him, the King would insult the young lord by giving him a servant's work.
"The next time you vomit on my deck, Silanos, I'll ensure that the General ships you to the front lines the first chance he gets. You'll earn an iron stomach that way, I'm sure. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to earn a spine as well," Tython said with that hint of irritation in his voice, then looked to his son. "The blandest of rations for this one. Maybe he'll keep it down this time," the King murmured, turning away to head toward his cabin, trailing SIlanos' mess with him. Another mess he would have to clean up. "You have until the sun sets high, I'll not see your filth clinging to my deck," the King threw over his shoulder on his way to change.
Oh for the love of the gods.
Equal parts disgusted and furious all at once, the King could see this coming from a mile away. Even while in the midst of being vomited profusely upon, Tython could think of nothing more than punting this half-bake Valaoritis lord right of the side of his godsdamned ship. And he nearly did it, too, Tython's usually stoic gaze turning harder and more like solid iron rather than a raging storm. Darker and more prone to danger. Like a hunter stalking prey. Like a King leading men upon a battlefield.
This was an insult of the highest degree even though Silanos had been in the midst of giving Tython the verbal respect that his position required be given. That was what made this all the more infuriating and insulting. No matter how apologetic Lord Silanos was, Tython could no longer look at the young lord with any lingering respect. For every time the King would look upon the man from then on, he would just remember the weakness of the kid's stomach.
Silanos would never survive war. Not with his weak stomach. Not if he couldn't survive the chopping of waves. He would never survive the carnage upon a battlefield.
Everyone rushed toward him and Tython put both of his hands up to stop anyone from getting too close with bucket or cloth. Not until Vangelis approached and pulled Silanos up to his feet. This allowed the King, as towering as he was, and taller than Vangelis at that, to look Silanos more firmly in the eye. This would be his punishment, or at least part of it. The stench, acidic and acrid, was getting to him, but the King had never found need to vomit at someone else's bodily fluids. So he wasn't truly bothered by anything but the insult and for the need of a change of clothing and a deep cleaning of his boots.
"I am a man built upon the idea of mercy and justice, Lord Valaoritis. So you will take my judgement upon you as an act of both," the King said slowly. "You'll clean my boots and clothes properly. And this deck. By yourself, with your own two hands. When you are done, I will see not a speck nor smell the stench any longer. Have I made myself clear?" the king asked slowly, not looking at Vangelis' face. If Silanos was to insult the King by vomiting on him, the King would insult the young lord by giving him a servant's work.
"The next time you vomit on my deck, Silanos, I'll ensure that the General ships you to the front lines the first chance he gets. You'll earn an iron stomach that way, I'm sure. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to earn a spine as well," Tython said with that hint of irritation in his voice, then looked to his son. "The blandest of rations for this one. Maybe he'll keep it down this time," the King murmured, turning away to head toward his cabin, trailing SIlanos' mess with him. Another mess he would have to clean up. "You have until the sun sets high, I'll not see your filth clinging to my deck," the King threw over his shoulder on his way to change.
Sil’s murmured apology died on his lips when he twisted his neck to see that it was the Crown Prince who’d hauled him to his feet, his expression just as stony and unreadable as ever. And though he didn’t wantto, the Valaoritis lord wrenched his gaze forward again to look at his King who was staring at him with something akin to disgust.
Understandable Sil thought, halfway to hysterical, because if it wasn’t him standing here, he was sure he could have found the amusement in such a scene.Or not.
King Tython’s hard stare reminded Silanos that he was the one in the firing line and the young man swallowed and dipped his head, contrition that didn’t often come so readily to the Valaoritis lord evident and undeniable in the “I’m really very sorry, your majesty” that he managed to choke out.
All words that he delivered without issue, which was almost an affront in itself. Why could the Gods not have granted him that talent before? Sil glanced miserably at the man’s vomit sodden boots and then up again into a face that did not look merciful in that moment.
And Sil’s pride - for he still had some, stubbornly clinging on despite the already humiliating situation he found himself in - stung at the instructions from the monarch as they were given. But even Silanos, hot-headed and mouthy enough to talk himself into trouble as often as out of it knew enough to bite his tongue in this instance.
“Yes, your majesty.”
And he just stood there, wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in a snare as the King went on, leaving Sil in little doubt as to how the man viewed him now. It was only when Tython turned and began walking away from that he dared draw a breath. Thank Zeus he was still alive. There had been far too many moments recently that had seen the young lord begin to doubt such an outcome, and it didn’t escape him that he wouldn’t need to try so hard to put himself in mortal danger soon, even without the King’s pointed reminder.
Finding a bucket and a rag shoved in his direction, Sil accepted it and shot a look at the sailor it had come from. They’d all heard the King’s directives and there were none who’d disobey. Silanos would be cleaning his own mess, it seemed. He turned briefly to Vangelis, hugging the bucket close to him and for a minute he was going to try and make some excuse but one look at the Crown Prince and he decided against it. “I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely towards the deck and then gave a slight bow before skulking off to find the water he’d need to sluice over the boards.
It wasn’t a fun task. His head was still pounding and whilst the act of being sick had relieved the sense of nausea a little, Sil would much rather have curled up in the hold and felt sorry for himself than been forced to endure the after-effects of the night before whilst performing such a humiliating job. He didn’t dare slack off for a moment though, not even under the pretence of his sea sickness. On his hands and knees, he scrubbed every bit of evidence of his faux pas from the ship’s decks.
It was the King’s clothes that proved the biggest challenge, Silanos hardly acquainted with what it took to clean garments. The lye soap that the ships cook had thrown at him stung his hands and the smell made him want to gag and then he’d managed to slosh water everywhere that he had to clean up too. By then end of it, he thought it might have been simpler just to have thrown himself overboard. Nevertheless, he presented the King’s retainer with some possibly clean boots and a chiton that had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Only then did the Valaoritis Lord slump down in the kind of dark corner he’d longed for all day, so he could just die quietly.
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Sil’s murmured apology died on his lips when he twisted his neck to see that it was the Crown Prince who’d hauled him to his feet, his expression just as stony and unreadable as ever. And though he didn’t wantto, the Valaoritis lord wrenched his gaze forward again to look at his King who was staring at him with something akin to disgust.
Understandable Sil thought, halfway to hysterical, because if it wasn’t him standing here, he was sure he could have found the amusement in such a scene.Or not.
King Tython’s hard stare reminded Silanos that he was the one in the firing line and the young man swallowed and dipped his head, contrition that didn’t often come so readily to the Valaoritis lord evident and undeniable in the “I’m really very sorry, your majesty” that he managed to choke out.
All words that he delivered without issue, which was almost an affront in itself. Why could the Gods not have granted him that talent before? Sil glanced miserably at the man’s vomit sodden boots and then up again into a face that did not look merciful in that moment.
And Sil’s pride - for he still had some, stubbornly clinging on despite the already humiliating situation he found himself in - stung at the instructions from the monarch as they were given. But even Silanos, hot-headed and mouthy enough to talk himself into trouble as often as out of it knew enough to bite his tongue in this instance.
“Yes, your majesty.”
And he just stood there, wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in a snare as the King went on, leaving Sil in little doubt as to how the man viewed him now. It was only when Tython turned and began walking away from that he dared draw a breath. Thank Zeus he was still alive. There had been far too many moments recently that had seen the young lord begin to doubt such an outcome, and it didn’t escape him that he wouldn’t need to try so hard to put himself in mortal danger soon, even without the King’s pointed reminder.
Finding a bucket and a rag shoved in his direction, Sil accepted it and shot a look at the sailor it had come from. They’d all heard the King’s directives and there were none who’d disobey. Silanos would be cleaning his own mess, it seemed. He turned briefly to Vangelis, hugging the bucket close to him and for a minute he was going to try and make some excuse but one look at the Crown Prince and he decided against it. “I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely towards the deck and then gave a slight bow before skulking off to find the water he’d need to sluice over the boards.
It wasn’t a fun task. His head was still pounding and whilst the act of being sick had relieved the sense of nausea a little, Sil would much rather have curled up in the hold and felt sorry for himself than been forced to endure the after-effects of the night before whilst performing such a humiliating job. He didn’t dare slack off for a moment though, not even under the pretence of his sea sickness. On his hands and knees, he scrubbed every bit of evidence of his faux pas from the ship’s decks.
It was the King’s clothes that proved the biggest challenge, Silanos hardly acquainted with what it took to clean garments. The lye soap that the ships cook had thrown at him stung his hands and the smell made him want to gag and then he’d managed to slosh water everywhere that he had to clean up too. By then end of it, he thought it might have been simpler just to have thrown himself overboard. Nevertheless, he presented the King’s retainer with some possibly clean boots and a chiton that had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Only then did the Valaoritis Lord slump down in the kind of dark corner he’d longed for all day, so he could just die quietly.
Sil’s murmured apology died on his lips when he twisted his neck to see that it was the Crown Prince who’d hauled him to his feet, his expression just as stony and unreadable as ever. And though he didn’t wantto, the Valaoritis lord wrenched his gaze forward again to look at his King who was staring at him with something akin to disgust.
Understandable Sil thought, halfway to hysterical, because if it wasn’t him standing here, he was sure he could have found the amusement in such a scene.Or not.
King Tython’s hard stare reminded Silanos that he was the one in the firing line and the young man swallowed and dipped his head, contrition that didn’t often come so readily to the Valaoritis lord evident and undeniable in the “I’m really very sorry, your majesty” that he managed to choke out.
All words that he delivered without issue, which was almost an affront in itself. Why could the Gods not have granted him that talent before? Sil glanced miserably at the man’s vomit sodden boots and then up again into a face that did not look merciful in that moment.
And Sil’s pride - for he still had some, stubbornly clinging on despite the already humiliating situation he found himself in - stung at the instructions from the monarch as they were given. But even Silanos, hot-headed and mouthy enough to talk himself into trouble as often as out of it knew enough to bite his tongue in this instance.
“Yes, your majesty.”
And he just stood there, wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in a snare as the King went on, leaving Sil in little doubt as to how the man viewed him now. It was only when Tython turned and began walking away from that he dared draw a breath. Thank Zeus he was still alive. There had been far too many moments recently that had seen the young lord begin to doubt such an outcome, and it didn’t escape him that he wouldn’t need to try so hard to put himself in mortal danger soon, even without the King’s pointed reminder.
Finding a bucket and a rag shoved in his direction, Sil accepted it and shot a look at the sailor it had come from. They’d all heard the King’s directives and there were none who’d disobey. Silanos would be cleaning his own mess, it seemed. He turned briefly to Vangelis, hugging the bucket close to him and for a minute he was going to try and make some excuse but one look at the Crown Prince and he decided against it. “I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely towards the deck and then gave a slight bow before skulking off to find the water he’d need to sluice over the boards.
It wasn’t a fun task. His head was still pounding and whilst the act of being sick had relieved the sense of nausea a little, Sil would much rather have curled up in the hold and felt sorry for himself than been forced to endure the after-effects of the night before whilst performing such a humiliating job. He didn’t dare slack off for a moment though, not even under the pretence of his sea sickness. On his hands and knees, he scrubbed every bit of evidence of his faux pas from the ship’s decks.
It was the King’s clothes that proved the biggest challenge, Silanos hardly acquainted with what it took to clean garments. The lye soap that the ships cook had thrown at him stung his hands and the smell made him want to gag and then he’d managed to slosh water everywhere that he had to clean up too. By then end of it, he thought it might have been simpler just to have thrown himself overboard. Nevertheless, he presented the King’s retainer with some possibly clean boots and a chiton that had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. Only then did the Valaoritis Lord slump down in the kind of dark corner he’d longed for all day, so he could just die quietly.
Vangelis said nothing as his father made his directives clear. It wasn't his position to offer suggestions of punishment or to take under his control the atonement that Silanos had to pay. The man who had been insulted was his father - the King - and so it was up to him just how Silanos was going to pay him back in order to cleanse both their honours.
The punishment that was meted out was fairly lenient and Vangelis did nothing to disregard it after his father had left the deck. Not that he would have if the man had given out a penance that he didn't agree with. The King's word was the King's word and he wasn't about to counter it. That would shame the both of them.
Instead, Vangelis did and said nothing when Silanos turned to look at him, merely folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. He then spent the rest of the afternoon away from the boy, ensuring that the rest of the sailors and soldiers went about their business. He permitted none of them to help Silanos - not even to fetch more water from the ocean with the bucket. All of it had to be done by the man himself.
Hopefully, all of the activity would distract Silanos' mind and ensure that his belly didn't take it over once more.
Vangelis saw to the instructions of the Captain that Silanos was not to have anything young bland bread and a few simple pieces of chicken - none of the goats milk kept below or the fruit that they had collected and stored in their hold. The man would eat only the basics to ensure his stomach was well before they continued on towards Egypt.
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Vangelis said nothing as his father made his directives clear. It wasn't his position to offer suggestions of punishment or to take under his control the atonement that Silanos had to pay. The man who had been insulted was his father - the King - and so it was up to him just how Silanos was going to pay him back in order to cleanse both their honours.
The punishment that was meted out was fairly lenient and Vangelis did nothing to disregard it after his father had left the deck. Not that he would have if the man had given out a penance that he didn't agree with. The King's word was the King's word and he wasn't about to counter it. That would shame the both of them.
Instead, Vangelis did and said nothing when Silanos turned to look at him, merely folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. He then spent the rest of the afternoon away from the boy, ensuring that the rest of the sailors and soldiers went about their business. He permitted none of them to help Silanos - not even to fetch more water from the ocean with the bucket. All of it had to be done by the man himself.
Hopefully, all of the activity would distract Silanos' mind and ensure that his belly didn't take it over once more.
Vangelis saw to the instructions of the Captain that Silanos was not to have anything young bland bread and a few simple pieces of chicken - none of the goats milk kept below or the fruit that they had collected and stored in their hold. The man would eat only the basics to ensure his stomach was well before they continued on towards Egypt.
Vangelis said nothing as his father made his directives clear. It wasn't his position to offer suggestions of punishment or to take under his control the atonement that Silanos had to pay. The man who had been insulted was his father - the King - and so it was up to him just how Silanos was going to pay him back in order to cleanse both their honours.
The punishment that was meted out was fairly lenient and Vangelis did nothing to disregard it after his father had left the deck. Not that he would have if the man had given out a penance that he didn't agree with. The King's word was the King's word and he wasn't about to counter it. That would shame the both of them.
Instead, Vangelis did and said nothing when Silanos turned to look at him, merely folding his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. He then spent the rest of the afternoon away from the boy, ensuring that the rest of the sailors and soldiers went about their business. He permitted none of them to help Silanos - not even to fetch more water from the ocean with the bucket. All of it had to be done by the man himself.
Hopefully, all of the activity would distract Silanos' mind and ensure that his belly didn't take it over once more.
Vangelis saw to the instructions of the Captain that Silanos was not to have anything young bland bread and a few simple pieces of chicken - none of the goats milk kept below or the fruit that they had collected and stored in their hold. The man would eat only the basics to ensure his stomach was well before they continued on towards Egypt.