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Yiannis loved the sea. Confined to a microcosm of society, men on a ship together established a camaraderie unmatched outside of military garrisons. It was only among his troops on the battlefield or on the decks of the ship that Yiannis disappeared into the maelstrom of drunken celebration, sober strategizing, and back-breaking labor. The others barely noticed when he steered the conversation his way. Unlike at court, where Yiannis was watched like a hawk by meddlesome layabouts, men on a ship never questioned his motives. He loved to be part of the whole, influencing things from right in the center of the throng.
Being on a ship with Vangelis and their father quite took the wind out of his sails. Yiannis could not speak freely with these men, for if he did, his brother would stare at him with enough disapproval that he just might self-combust under the scrutiny, and his father would look confused or disappointed, which would sting even more. No, he would simply have to speak simply, clearly, and honestly, without dissembling, a challenge to his very core. Outside their official preparatory exercises (limited here, due to the lack of space), Yiannis whiled away his time trying to stay fit. That, he thought Vangelis would approve of. In lieu of any reason for them to trust in his judgment, Yiannis let his father and brother handle the strategic picture; he had always been stronger in tactics, anyway. Now if only he could ensure that they allowed him to manage those.
Yiannis found himself giving the other men a wide berth. Anything he said to them would somehow be turned into a talking point by his sanctimonious brother. Something about how Yiannis was a craven manipulator, most likely. Well. Manipulation was just another word for persuading others to your point of view, and frankly, he couldn’t see anything wrong with that. Far be it from him to question how men like his father got anything done, being so honorable and honest, but he doubted that he could sincerely expect his sons to follow in his footsteps without needing to cheat. His skill with the sword, at least, was hard-won. Even if he still couldn’t beat Zanon, Yiannis was no amateur.
It was one such evening of avoiding the others that found Yiannis staring out over the sea. It brooked no argument. He wished he had its intensity, its persistence. The trouble with his ‘charisma’, so far as that went, was that it depended on constant momentum; he was at his best when trying to talk his way out of a crisis through well-applied half-truths. He would tell people exactly what he thought and what he wanted, all while spinning it to seem as though it was what they wanted as well. His greatest weapon was his willingness to cheat and control without having to outright lie- yet he knew his family would be disgusted at even that level of dishonesty. The sea, though. The sea was deceptive, until it no longer had to be. He thought he ought to learn something from that.
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Yiannis loved the sea. Confined to a microcosm of society, men on a ship together established a camaraderie unmatched outside of military garrisons. It was only among his troops on the battlefield or on the decks of the ship that Yiannis disappeared into the maelstrom of drunken celebration, sober strategizing, and back-breaking labor. The others barely noticed when he steered the conversation his way. Unlike at court, where Yiannis was watched like a hawk by meddlesome layabouts, men on a ship never questioned his motives. He loved to be part of the whole, influencing things from right in the center of the throng.
Being on a ship with Vangelis and their father quite took the wind out of his sails. Yiannis could not speak freely with these men, for if he did, his brother would stare at him with enough disapproval that he just might self-combust under the scrutiny, and his father would look confused or disappointed, which would sting even more. No, he would simply have to speak simply, clearly, and honestly, without dissembling, a challenge to his very core. Outside their official preparatory exercises (limited here, due to the lack of space), Yiannis whiled away his time trying to stay fit. That, he thought Vangelis would approve of. In lieu of any reason for them to trust in his judgment, Yiannis let his father and brother handle the strategic picture; he had always been stronger in tactics, anyway. Now if only he could ensure that they allowed him to manage those.
Yiannis found himself giving the other men a wide berth. Anything he said to them would somehow be turned into a talking point by his sanctimonious brother. Something about how Yiannis was a craven manipulator, most likely. Well. Manipulation was just another word for persuading others to your point of view, and frankly, he couldn’t see anything wrong with that. Far be it from him to question how men like his father got anything done, being so honorable and honest, but he doubted that he could sincerely expect his sons to follow in his footsteps without needing to cheat. His skill with the sword, at least, was hard-won. Even if he still couldn’t beat Zanon, Yiannis was no amateur.
It was one such evening of avoiding the others that found Yiannis staring out over the sea. It brooked no argument. He wished he had its intensity, its persistence. The trouble with his ‘charisma’, so far as that went, was that it depended on constant momentum; he was at his best when trying to talk his way out of a crisis through well-applied half-truths. He would tell people exactly what he thought and what he wanted, all while spinning it to seem as though it was what they wanted as well. His greatest weapon was his willingness to cheat and control without having to outright lie- yet he knew his family would be disgusted at even that level of dishonesty. The sea, though. The sea was deceptive, until it no longer had to be. He thought he ought to learn something from that.
Yiannis loved the sea. Confined to a microcosm of society, men on a ship together established a camaraderie unmatched outside of military garrisons. It was only among his troops on the battlefield or on the decks of the ship that Yiannis disappeared into the maelstrom of drunken celebration, sober strategizing, and back-breaking labor. The others barely noticed when he steered the conversation his way. Unlike at court, where Yiannis was watched like a hawk by meddlesome layabouts, men on a ship never questioned his motives. He loved to be part of the whole, influencing things from right in the center of the throng.
Being on a ship with Vangelis and their father quite took the wind out of his sails. Yiannis could not speak freely with these men, for if he did, his brother would stare at him with enough disapproval that he just might self-combust under the scrutiny, and his father would look confused or disappointed, which would sting even more. No, he would simply have to speak simply, clearly, and honestly, without dissembling, a challenge to his very core. Outside their official preparatory exercises (limited here, due to the lack of space), Yiannis whiled away his time trying to stay fit. That, he thought Vangelis would approve of. In lieu of any reason for them to trust in his judgment, Yiannis let his father and brother handle the strategic picture; he had always been stronger in tactics, anyway. Now if only he could ensure that they allowed him to manage those.
Yiannis found himself giving the other men a wide berth. Anything he said to them would somehow be turned into a talking point by his sanctimonious brother. Something about how Yiannis was a craven manipulator, most likely. Well. Manipulation was just another word for persuading others to your point of view, and frankly, he couldn’t see anything wrong with that. Far be it from him to question how men like his father got anything done, being so honorable and honest, but he doubted that he could sincerely expect his sons to follow in his footsteps without needing to cheat. His skill with the sword, at least, was hard-won. Even if he still couldn’t beat Zanon, Yiannis was no amateur.
It was one such evening of avoiding the others that found Yiannis staring out over the sea. It brooked no argument. He wished he had its intensity, its persistence. The trouble with his ‘charisma’, so far as that went, was that it depended on constant momentum; he was at his best when trying to talk his way out of a crisis through well-applied half-truths. He would tell people exactly what he thought and what he wanted, all while spinning it to seem as though it was what they wanted as well. His greatest weapon was his willingness to cheat and control without having to outright lie- yet he knew his family would be disgusted at even that level of dishonesty. The sea, though. The sea was deceptive, until it no longer had to be. He thought he ought to learn something from that.
Still silently seething about being vomited on only a day or so earlier, the king had considered more than once the pros of punting Silanos of Valaoritis off the side of the ship. Would he act on such a notion? No, absolutely not. However, his words up until then had been contrite and to the point. The Valaoritis boy was Vangelis' responsibility and that meant he wanted him out from under foot wherever possible. Having to look into that face only made him both irritable and tempted to do things he wouldn't normally do. King Tython was not one to truly take insults to heart, but this was one insult that he could not let go.
The boy needed to earn his iron stomach, though he was not entirely out of danger yet.
Most of the last few days had been spent speaking with the ship's captain and Vangelis, ensuring that they were on course. In the mornings and evenings, he drilled some of the soldiers, wanting to keep them in a physically fit shape despite the fact that many of these same men were part of the rowing rotations. Were the King a younger man, he would have taken to the rowing as well. As it was, he was a king and he knew his limits. Exhausting himself now would lead to his death in Egypt.
For all of his business, he had noticed that Yiannis was avoiding him. It was not hard to see, nor make sense of. Did that mean that the King was going to continue to allow his son to avoid being in any proximity of himself or his elder brother? Absolutely not. Not that they were not already, but they would need to be a united front in the coming months. Was was not foreign to any of them, but Tython's goal was to ensure that none of his sons felt lost among the rush and the overwhelming nature of battle and planning.
Hair windswept and curling lightly at the ends, Tython silently approached his son, still as lightfooted here as he was at home. "Yiannis," Tython greeted lightly, coming up beside him with his own stormy gaze on the waves. "You've been quiet, son," he said lightly, keeping his voice low so that they could have a somewhat private conversation between the two of them.
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Still silently seething about being vomited on only a day or so earlier, the king had considered more than once the pros of punting Silanos of Valaoritis off the side of the ship. Would he act on such a notion? No, absolutely not. However, his words up until then had been contrite and to the point. The Valaoritis boy was Vangelis' responsibility and that meant he wanted him out from under foot wherever possible. Having to look into that face only made him both irritable and tempted to do things he wouldn't normally do. King Tython was not one to truly take insults to heart, but this was one insult that he could not let go.
The boy needed to earn his iron stomach, though he was not entirely out of danger yet.
Most of the last few days had been spent speaking with the ship's captain and Vangelis, ensuring that they were on course. In the mornings and evenings, he drilled some of the soldiers, wanting to keep them in a physically fit shape despite the fact that many of these same men were part of the rowing rotations. Were the King a younger man, he would have taken to the rowing as well. As it was, he was a king and he knew his limits. Exhausting himself now would lead to his death in Egypt.
For all of his business, he had noticed that Yiannis was avoiding him. It was not hard to see, nor make sense of. Did that mean that the King was going to continue to allow his son to avoid being in any proximity of himself or his elder brother? Absolutely not. Not that they were not already, but they would need to be a united front in the coming months. Was was not foreign to any of them, but Tython's goal was to ensure that none of his sons felt lost among the rush and the overwhelming nature of battle and planning.
Hair windswept and curling lightly at the ends, Tython silently approached his son, still as lightfooted here as he was at home. "Yiannis," Tython greeted lightly, coming up beside him with his own stormy gaze on the waves. "You've been quiet, son," he said lightly, keeping his voice low so that they could have a somewhat private conversation between the two of them.
Still silently seething about being vomited on only a day or so earlier, the king had considered more than once the pros of punting Silanos of Valaoritis off the side of the ship. Would he act on such a notion? No, absolutely not. However, his words up until then had been contrite and to the point. The Valaoritis boy was Vangelis' responsibility and that meant he wanted him out from under foot wherever possible. Having to look into that face only made him both irritable and tempted to do things he wouldn't normally do. King Tython was not one to truly take insults to heart, but this was one insult that he could not let go.
The boy needed to earn his iron stomach, though he was not entirely out of danger yet.
Most of the last few days had been spent speaking with the ship's captain and Vangelis, ensuring that they were on course. In the mornings and evenings, he drilled some of the soldiers, wanting to keep them in a physically fit shape despite the fact that many of these same men were part of the rowing rotations. Were the King a younger man, he would have taken to the rowing as well. As it was, he was a king and he knew his limits. Exhausting himself now would lead to his death in Egypt.
For all of his business, he had noticed that Yiannis was avoiding him. It was not hard to see, nor make sense of. Did that mean that the King was going to continue to allow his son to avoid being in any proximity of himself or his elder brother? Absolutely not. Not that they were not already, but they would need to be a united front in the coming months. Was was not foreign to any of them, but Tython's goal was to ensure that none of his sons felt lost among the rush and the overwhelming nature of battle and planning.
Hair windswept and curling lightly at the ends, Tython silently approached his son, still as lightfooted here as he was at home. "Yiannis," Tython greeted lightly, coming up beside him with his own stormy gaze on the waves. "You've been quiet, son," he said lightly, keeping his voice low so that they could have a somewhat private conversation between the two of them.
Yiannis looked to the side, barely turning his head. His face conveyed his surprise, though: Tython (like Vang) always knocked him off balance by being simply straightforward. They never beat around the bush when a straight shot would do just as well, and it always caught him off guard. He unconsciously straightened his posture; while Yiannis barely noticed the shift, it would be obvious to his father. He smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment in the face of the breeze. Anything to distract from this moment. He would have to confront his father, all while knowing that he was in the wrong.
“Silence is a virtue, I have been made to understand. I hope my silence has not said anything I did not intend.”
Yiannis doubted that his father’s interest was about his relationships with the other soldiers. Fraternization did not win battles; unity did. The former had its place in promoting the latter, but his father’s interest surely lay in the optics. For one prince to avoid another, on the eve of battle- soldiers were not the most chatty bunch, but there was nothing much to discuss besides the upcoming fighting, and their readiness for it. There must be speculation already, Yiannis realized with dismay. In his desire to protect his ego, he had given Tython yet another problem to untangle.
Preparations would continue until they made land in Egypt, and his family needed his presence. Yiannis couldn’t help but resent the implication, though. Why should he come to heel? If he could have his way, he would be training, eating, and sleeping with the soldiers- but Vangelis would find some way to sour their opinion him. He moralized from atop his mighty perch of stoic disinterest. After days of keeping away, Yiannis might have left the soldiers feeling cold. They probably saw him as a pouting prince, too proud or prissy to join them. What good would talking do? Yiannis’ most useful skill, outside of strategy, was his way with words. He was not the warrior that he should have been. Better to stay silent, and perhaps they might assume him stoic and heartless like his eldest brother.
“Are the other men wondering why I avoid them? I can make overtures, make myself less scarce."
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Yiannis looked to the side, barely turning his head. His face conveyed his surprise, though: Tython (like Vang) always knocked him off balance by being simply straightforward. They never beat around the bush when a straight shot would do just as well, and it always caught him off guard. He unconsciously straightened his posture; while Yiannis barely noticed the shift, it would be obvious to his father. He smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment in the face of the breeze. Anything to distract from this moment. He would have to confront his father, all while knowing that he was in the wrong.
“Silence is a virtue, I have been made to understand. I hope my silence has not said anything I did not intend.”
Yiannis doubted that his father’s interest was about his relationships with the other soldiers. Fraternization did not win battles; unity did. The former had its place in promoting the latter, but his father’s interest surely lay in the optics. For one prince to avoid another, on the eve of battle- soldiers were not the most chatty bunch, but there was nothing much to discuss besides the upcoming fighting, and their readiness for it. There must be speculation already, Yiannis realized with dismay. In his desire to protect his ego, he had given Tython yet another problem to untangle.
Preparations would continue until they made land in Egypt, and his family needed his presence. Yiannis couldn’t help but resent the implication, though. Why should he come to heel? If he could have his way, he would be training, eating, and sleeping with the soldiers- but Vangelis would find some way to sour their opinion him. He moralized from atop his mighty perch of stoic disinterest. After days of keeping away, Yiannis might have left the soldiers feeling cold. They probably saw him as a pouting prince, too proud or prissy to join them. What good would talking do? Yiannis’ most useful skill, outside of strategy, was his way with words. He was not the warrior that he should have been. Better to stay silent, and perhaps they might assume him stoic and heartless like his eldest brother.
“Are the other men wondering why I avoid them? I can make overtures, make myself less scarce."
Yiannis looked to the side, barely turning his head. His face conveyed his surprise, though: Tython (like Vang) always knocked him off balance by being simply straightforward. They never beat around the bush when a straight shot would do just as well, and it always caught him off guard. He unconsciously straightened his posture; while Yiannis barely noticed the shift, it would be obvious to his father. He smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment in the face of the breeze. Anything to distract from this moment. He would have to confront his father, all while knowing that he was in the wrong.
“Silence is a virtue, I have been made to understand. I hope my silence has not said anything I did not intend.”
Yiannis doubted that his father’s interest was about his relationships with the other soldiers. Fraternization did not win battles; unity did. The former had its place in promoting the latter, but his father’s interest surely lay in the optics. For one prince to avoid another, on the eve of battle- soldiers were not the most chatty bunch, but there was nothing much to discuss besides the upcoming fighting, and their readiness for it. There must be speculation already, Yiannis realized with dismay. In his desire to protect his ego, he had given Tython yet another problem to untangle.
Preparations would continue until they made land in Egypt, and his family needed his presence. Yiannis couldn’t help but resent the implication, though. Why should he come to heel? If he could have his way, he would be training, eating, and sleeping with the soldiers- but Vangelis would find some way to sour their opinion him. He moralized from atop his mighty perch of stoic disinterest. After days of keeping away, Yiannis might have left the soldiers feeling cold. They probably saw him as a pouting prince, too proud or prissy to join them. What good would talking do? Yiannis’ most useful skill, outside of strategy, was his way with words. He was not the warrior that he should have been. Better to stay silent, and perhaps they might assume him stoic and heartless like his eldest brother.
“Are the other men wondering why I avoid them? I can make overtures, make myself less scarce."
Sometimes his own child was an enigma, and it threw Tython so off balance that he needed to cope with silence before he could truly reason with himself. Large hands settled on the railing, Tython conjectured that he himself had been a lot like Yiannis when he was younger. Not a man of many words and one to avoid most everyone who might have ruined the sort of solitude he had carved out for himself. Things changed overtime as Tython settled more into himself, married, and built new and stronger relationships. But he wasn't inclined to think that that had anything to do with why Yiannis was so intent on remaining reserved from the people on the boat.
Turning his gaze toward his son, Tython observed him carefully, though he did not lift an eyebrow to show that he was trying to analyze his son in the way that he analyzed a battle. "I wonder who made you understand that notion," Tython said aloud at last, wondering for actual answers rather than coy persuasion. He shifted so that he could lean a little more into the railing.
"You're generally much more open. I color myself curious," the king noted, trailing his fingertips over the wood of the ship's railing and looking out toward the ocean. This time, he did lift a brow and then glance back in the direction of his son. "I don't think that is really a question. I've seen you at work and with the men," Tython observed, "You're acting strangely and its notable to the people who matter." The soldiers. This was not Tython scolding his son, however. He was simply making stark and blunt observations about the world as he saw it.
And he saw his son as acting oddly. For what reason, he was unsure, though he also wasn't going to press the younger man too hard. Tython was not a brute force warrior like Vangelis. He could lift and use a sword with considerable skill, but his forte was every sneaky and underhanded tactic he had passed onto Yiannis. Tython was not bulky with muscle, but tall and resilient and swift on his feet. The King didn't play fair. Not in war or conversation, and he was somewhat interested in uprooting whatever it was that Yiannis thought he was doing. The slight smirk on his lips conveyed that to his son without him having to say a single word.
Even a King needed to sate boredom when battle planning and tactics grew dry. Until they landed, they truly would not know what they were up against, and though there was a contingency built for nearly every decision and avenue and everything that could go wrong, there was little more to be done until feet touched Egyptian sand.
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Sometimes his own child was an enigma, and it threw Tython so off balance that he needed to cope with silence before he could truly reason with himself. Large hands settled on the railing, Tython conjectured that he himself had been a lot like Yiannis when he was younger. Not a man of many words and one to avoid most everyone who might have ruined the sort of solitude he had carved out for himself. Things changed overtime as Tython settled more into himself, married, and built new and stronger relationships. But he wasn't inclined to think that that had anything to do with why Yiannis was so intent on remaining reserved from the people on the boat.
Turning his gaze toward his son, Tython observed him carefully, though he did not lift an eyebrow to show that he was trying to analyze his son in the way that he analyzed a battle. "I wonder who made you understand that notion," Tython said aloud at last, wondering for actual answers rather than coy persuasion. He shifted so that he could lean a little more into the railing.
"You're generally much more open. I color myself curious," the king noted, trailing his fingertips over the wood of the ship's railing and looking out toward the ocean. This time, he did lift a brow and then glance back in the direction of his son. "I don't think that is really a question. I've seen you at work and with the men," Tython observed, "You're acting strangely and its notable to the people who matter." The soldiers. This was not Tython scolding his son, however. He was simply making stark and blunt observations about the world as he saw it.
And he saw his son as acting oddly. For what reason, he was unsure, though he also wasn't going to press the younger man too hard. Tython was not a brute force warrior like Vangelis. He could lift and use a sword with considerable skill, but his forte was every sneaky and underhanded tactic he had passed onto Yiannis. Tython was not bulky with muscle, but tall and resilient and swift on his feet. The King didn't play fair. Not in war or conversation, and he was somewhat interested in uprooting whatever it was that Yiannis thought he was doing. The slight smirk on his lips conveyed that to his son without him having to say a single word.
Even a King needed to sate boredom when battle planning and tactics grew dry. Until they landed, they truly would not know what they were up against, and though there was a contingency built for nearly every decision and avenue and everything that could go wrong, there was little more to be done until feet touched Egyptian sand.
Sometimes his own child was an enigma, and it threw Tython so off balance that he needed to cope with silence before he could truly reason with himself. Large hands settled on the railing, Tython conjectured that he himself had been a lot like Yiannis when he was younger. Not a man of many words and one to avoid most everyone who might have ruined the sort of solitude he had carved out for himself. Things changed overtime as Tython settled more into himself, married, and built new and stronger relationships. But he wasn't inclined to think that that had anything to do with why Yiannis was so intent on remaining reserved from the people on the boat.
Turning his gaze toward his son, Tython observed him carefully, though he did not lift an eyebrow to show that he was trying to analyze his son in the way that he analyzed a battle. "I wonder who made you understand that notion," Tython said aloud at last, wondering for actual answers rather than coy persuasion. He shifted so that he could lean a little more into the railing.
"You're generally much more open. I color myself curious," the king noted, trailing his fingertips over the wood of the ship's railing and looking out toward the ocean. This time, he did lift a brow and then glance back in the direction of his son. "I don't think that is really a question. I've seen you at work and with the men," Tython observed, "You're acting strangely and its notable to the people who matter." The soldiers. This was not Tython scolding his son, however. He was simply making stark and blunt observations about the world as he saw it.
And he saw his son as acting oddly. For what reason, he was unsure, though he also wasn't going to press the younger man too hard. Tython was not a brute force warrior like Vangelis. He could lift and use a sword with considerable skill, but his forte was every sneaky and underhanded tactic he had passed onto Yiannis. Tython was not bulky with muscle, but tall and resilient and swift on his feet. The King didn't play fair. Not in war or conversation, and he was somewhat interested in uprooting whatever it was that Yiannis thought he was doing. The slight smirk on his lips conveyed that to his son without him having to say a single word.
Even a King needed to sate boredom when battle planning and tactics grew dry. Until they landed, they truly would not know what they were up against, and though there was a contingency built for nearly every decision and avenue and everything that could go wrong, there was little more to be done until feet touched Egyptian sand.
Yiannis’ skin prickled as he noticed his father’s gaze on him. Tython had never been one to choose subtlety; Yiannis admired the man’s cool-headed assessments of the world around him, but he found the bluntness somewhat embarrassing. Much of his instinct towards over-complicating simple matters came from his mother. Yiannis felt a twinge of envy for the soldiers, whose fathers were not accompanying them into battle. He turned his attention to what Tython said; he had already missed something, he realized, as the man joined him in looking out over the ocean. He said he was curious- but Yiannis had been so absorbed in his own thoughts he had no idea what he was curious about. Luckily, Tython continued. He rightfully pointed out that Yiannis behaving strangely set a poor example for the others aboard the ship, yet he avoided taking the scolding tone that Vangelis or Yanni might have wielded crudely against him. His father’s strategic mind applied even to the realm of the familial.
“If my behavior is notable, then I will need to correct it. I apologize for seeming colder than usual with the soldiers, but the distance may do us good. They need to respect Vangelis, and I would inevitably distract from that goal.”
Left unsaid, the implication that soldiers would rather follow him than his brother. It may not be true, after all; Vangelis strikes fear in the hearts of many by reputation alone, while Yiannis is known as a bore and a clown by all but his closest compatriots. That reputation is not undeserved; ‘clownish’ describes most of his youthful indiscretions at court, while ‘boring’ certainly describes his outward demeanor at court today. Yiannis knows that he can be more charming than that, but somehow, the important people at Colchis bring out the stuffy, humorless prince that resembles Vangelis more than anything else- a fact which he hates with every fiber of his being, and which his father well knows by now.
“Vangelis is a paragon of silence, even now when the soldiers look to us for leadership. I plan to follow his example.”
If the words sounded bitter, that too would be familiar to Tython. Although Yiannis would never let on in front of the soldiers, or civilians, he did not harbor particularly fond feelings for his eldest brother- he respected him in the abstract, certainly, but he had always gotten on better with Zanon and Silas. Vangelis represented a frustrating enigma, an untouchable pedestal, and a cautionary tale, all in one. Yiannis wanted desperately to understand his brother, to be exactly like him, and to be nothing like him. Yiannis needed to swallow his pride, and stifle his stubbornness. He had a duty to his soldiers and to Colchis, and standing here pouting was hardly fulfilling that duty- but his father had asked what he was thinking, and with Tython, unlike with almost anyone else, Yiannis always tried to be honest.
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Yiannis’ skin prickled as he noticed his father’s gaze on him. Tython had never been one to choose subtlety; Yiannis admired the man’s cool-headed assessments of the world around him, but he found the bluntness somewhat embarrassing. Much of his instinct towards over-complicating simple matters came from his mother. Yiannis felt a twinge of envy for the soldiers, whose fathers were not accompanying them into battle. He turned his attention to what Tython said; he had already missed something, he realized, as the man joined him in looking out over the ocean. He said he was curious- but Yiannis had been so absorbed in his own thoughts he had no idea what he was curious about. Luckily, Tython continued. He rightfully pointed out that Yiannis behaving strangely set a poor example for the others aboard the ship, yet he avoided taking the scolding tone that Vangelis or Yanni might have wielded crudely against him. His father’s strategic mind applied even to the realm of the familial.
“If my behavior is notable, then I will need to correct it. I apologize for seeming colder than usual with the soldiers, but the distance may do us good. They need to respect Vangelis, and I would inevitably distract from that goal.”
Left unsaid, the implication that soldiers would rather follow him than his brother. It may not be true, after all; Vangelis strikes fear in the hearts of many by reputation alone, while Yiannis is known as a bore and a clown by all but his closest compatriots. That reputation is not undeserved; ‘clownish’ describes most of his youthful indiscretions at court, while ‘boring’ certainly describes his outward demeanor at court today. Yiannis knows that he can be more charming than that, but somehow, the important people at Colchis bring out the stuffy, humorless prince that resembles Vangelis more than anything else- a fact which he hates with every fiber of his being, and which his father well knows by now.
“Vangelis is a paragon of silence, even now when the soldiers look to us for leadership. I plan to follow his example.”
If the words sounded bitter, that too would be familiar to Tython. Although Yiannis would never let on in front of the soldiers, or civilians, he did not harbor particularly fond feelings for his eldest brother- he respected him in the abstract, certainly, but he had always gotten on better with Zanon and Silas. Vangelis represented a frustrating enigma, an untouchable pedestal, and a cautionary tale, all in one. Yiannis wanted desperately to understand his brother, to be exactly like him, and to be nothing like him. Yiannis needed to swallow his pride, and stifle his stubbornness. He had a duty to his soldiers and to Colchis, and standing here pouting was hardly fulfilling that duty- but his father had asked what he was thinking, and with Tython, unlike with almost anyone else, Yiannis always tried to be honest.
Yiannis’ skin prickled as he noticed his father’s gaze on him. Tython had never been one to choose subtlety; Yiannis admired the man’s cool-headed assessments of the world around him, but he found the bluntness somewhat embarrassing. Much of his instinct towards over-complicating simple matters came from his mother. Yiannis felt a twinge of envy for the soldiers, whose fathers were not accompanying them into battle. He turned his attention to what Tython said; he had already missed something, he realized, as the man joined him in looking out over the ocean. He said he was curious- but Yiannis had been so absorbed in his own thoughts he had no idea what he was curious about. Luckily, Tython continued. He rightfully pointed out that Yiannis behaving strangely set a poor example for the others aboard the ship, yet he avoided taking the scolding tone that Vangelis or Yanni might have wielded crudely against him. His father’s strategic mind applied even to the realm of the familial.
“If my behavior is notable, then I will need to correct it. I apologize for seeming colder than usual with the soldiers, but the distance may do us good. They need to respect Vangelis, and I would inevitably distract from that goal.”
Left unsaid, the implication that soldiers would rather follow him than his brother. It may not be true, after all; Vangelis strikes fear in the hearts of many by reputation alone, while Yiannis is known as a bore and a clown by all but his closest compatriots. That reputation is not undeserved; ‘clownish’ describes most of his youthful indiscretions at court, while ‘boring’ certainly describes his outward demeanor at court today. Yiannis knows that he can be more charming than that, but somehow, the important people at Colchis bring out the stuffy, humorless prince that resembles Vangelis more than anything else- a fact which he hates with every fiber of his being, and which his father well knows by now.
“Vangelis is a paragon of silence, even now when the soldiers look to us for leadership. I plan to follow his example.”
If the words sounded bitter, that too would be familiar to Tython. Although Yiannis would never let on in front of the soldiers, or civilians, he did not harbor particularly fond feelings for his eldest brother- he respected him in the abstract, certainly, but he had always gotten on better with Zanon and Silas. Vangelis represented a frustrating enigma, an untouchable pedestal, and a cautionary tale, all in one. Yiannis wanted desperately to understand his brother, to be exactly like him, and to be nothing like him. Yiannis needed to swallow his pride, and stifle his stubbornness. He had a duty to his soldiers and to Colchis, and standing here pouting was hardly fulfilling that duty- but his father had asked what he was thinking, and with Tython, unlike with almost anyone else, Yiannis always tried to be honest.
Tython leaned easily on the railing of the ship, keeping his stormy gaze on the watery horizon ahead. This was a view that the king never found himself tiring of. The expanse of watery nothing Poseidon's domain. The waters that Tython respected more than he truly respected anything else. Soon, they would pass into Egyptian waters and the King knew he would feel that disconnect from the gods that he revered so fully, though quietly. Worship needn't always be bright and attention-seeking, and Tython prayed often to the gods for their guidance. For a king was only a king, not a god, and kings were not above the guidance that his pantheon could afford him. He was patient, and he never asked more of the gods than what he needed, for asking too much was to be greedy.
Something that Tython absolutely was not.
Listening silently to his son, the king found his gaze drifting from the watery horizon to the features of his son. He considered the man's words and then sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Vangelis can garner his own respect without you wilting like a delicate flower," Tython commented, his hands patting the wooden railing of the ship for a few moments as he thought through his next words, shaking his head to himself for a moment. "One day, Vangelis shall be King, and the people will look to you to lead military pursuits, Yiannis," Tython said slowly, "Set your own example, for the world already has a Vangelis. It does not need two. It needs a Yiannis as well, and the Yiannis I know is not a paragon of silence and still manages to lead well and turn soldiers to his court," Tython reached over and placed a large hand on his son's shoulder. One of the few rather affectionate gestures between son and father that Tython was willing to show in public.
The King was exceedingly aware of the fact that Yiannis did not always get along with Vangelis. The difference between the two sons were that one had been raised since birth to inherit a crown that, hopefully, none of the others would have to. If Tython wanted anything for his other three sons... it was the freedom to live their lives the way they sought, without the heaviness of a crown upon their heads, straining their shoulders, and turning their minds only to duty. While, in the beginning, Tython had been incredibly cross about Zanon's marriage to Princess Evras, he would have made the same choice if asked again. He would have allowed it, if only because it allowed his second son the freedom from expectation that Vangelis bore. "There is little to apologize for, son. I have seen you with warmth in your eyes. You do not need to be cold to garner respect," Tython said calmly. "I used to be much like you, I'm sure you remember," he shook his head, "But there is grace in finding a good balance between warm and cold and leading in a way that is most efficient to you."
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Tython leaned easily on the railing of the ship, keeping his stormy gaze on the watery horizon ahead. This was a view that the king never found himself tiring of. The expanse of watery nothing Poseidon's domain. The waters that Tython respected more than he truly respected anything else. Soon, they would pass into Egyptian waters and the King knew he would feel that disconnect from the gods that he revered so fully, though quietly. Worship needn't always be bright and attention-seeking, and Tython prayed often to the gods for their guidance. For a king was only a king, not a god, and kings were not above the guidance that his pantheon could afford him. He was patient, and he never asked more of the gods than what he needed, for asking too much was to be greedy.
Something that Tython absolutely was not.
Listening silently to his son, the king found his gaze drifting from the watery horizon to the features of his son. He considered the man's words and then sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Vangelis can garner his own respect without you wilting like a delicate flower," Tython commented, his hands patting the wooden railing of the ship for a few moments as he thought through his next words, shaking his head to himself for a moment. "One day, Vangelis shall be King, and the people will look to you to lead military pursuits, Yiannis," Tython said slowly, "Set your own example, for the world already has a Vangelis. It does not need two. It needs a Yiannis as well, and the Yiannis I know is not a paragon of silence and still manages to lead well and turn soldiers to his court," Tython reached over and placed a large hand on his son's shoulder. One of the few rather affectionate gestures between son and father that Tython was willing to show in public.
The King was exceedingly aware of the fact that Yiannis did not always get along with Vangelis. The difference between the two sons were that one had been raised since birth to inherit a crown that, hopefully, none of the others would have to. If Tython wanted anything for his other three sons... it was the freedom to live their lives the way they sought, without the heaviness of a crown upon their heads, straining their shoulders, and turning their minds only to duty. While, in the beginning, Tython had been incredibly cross about Zanon's marriage to Princess Evras, he would have made the same choice if asked again. He would have allowed it, if only because it allowed his second son the freedom from expectation that Vangelis bore. "There is little to apologize for, son. I have seen you with warmth in your eyes. You do not need to be cold to garner respect," Tython said calmly. "I used to be much like you, I'm sure you remember," he shook his head, "But there is grace in finding a good balance between warm and cold and leading in a way that is most efficient to you."
Tython leaned easily on the railing of the ship, keeping his stormy gaze on the watery horizon ahead. This was a view that the king never found himself tiring of. The expanse of watery nothing Poseidon's domain. The waters that Tython respected more than he truly respected anything else. Soon, they would pass into Egyptian waters and the King knew he would feel that disconnect from the gods that he revered so fully, though quietly. Worship needn't always be bright and attention-seeking, and Tython prayed often to the gods for their guidance. For a king was only a king, not a god, and kings were not above the guidance that his pantheon could afford him. He was patient, and he never asked more of the gods than what he needed, for asking too much was to be greedy.
Something that Tython absolutely was not.
Listening silently to his son, the king found his gaze drifting from the watery horizon to the features of his son. He considered the man's words and then sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Vangelis can garner his own respect without you wilting like a delicate flower," Tython commented, his hands patting the wooden railing of the ship for a few moments as he thought through his next words, shaking his head to himself for a moment. "One day, Vangelis shall be King, and the people will look to you to lead military pursuits, Yiannis," Tython said slowly, "Set your own example, for the world already has a Vangelis. It does not need two. It needs a Yiannis as well, and the Yiannis I know is not a paragon of silence and still manages to lead well and turn soldiers to his court," Tython reached over and placed a large hand on his son's shoulder. One of the few rather affectionate gestures between son and father that Tython was willing to show in public.
The King was exceedingly aware of the fact that Yiannis did not always get along with Vangelis. The difference between the two sons were that one had been raised since birth to inherit a crown that, hopefully, none of the others would have to. If Tython wanted anything for his other three sons... it was the freedom to live their lives the way they sought, without the heaviness of a crown upon their heads, straining their shoulders, and turning their minds only to duty. While, in the beginning, Tython had been incredibly cross about Zanon's marriage to Princess Evras, he would have made the same choice if asked again. He would have allowed it, if only because it allowed his second son the freedom from expectation that Vangelis bore. "There is little to apologize for, son. I have seen you with warmth in your eyes. You do not need to be cold to garner respect," Tython said calmly. "I used to be much like you, I'm sure you remember," he shook his head, "But there is grace in finding a good balance between warm and cold and leading in a way that is most efficient to you."
Yiannis bristled slightly at his father’s gentle reprimand. Jaw clenched, he nodded. His father was right; this was no way to comport himself when the other soldiers could see. They looked to their commanders to determine how to feel and what to think on the eve of war. Yiannis needed to set a better example for the men on their ship, rather than sulking about his brother’s successes and virtues. For all that he envied his brother, Yiannis also respected Vangelis. He would swallow those feelings of insecurity and keep them to himself if it undermined their reputation in front of their army. The Kotas family must put up a united front which no critics or saboteurs could breach; it was one of their greatest strengths, the ability to seem unassailable.
Tython offered him a method to save face. His father’s assurance was double-edged, in that it also pricked at his pride. The Yiannis Tython knew would lead better than he had thus far. Yiannis straightened up, turning to look at his king. He hated the reminder that he would need to bow down to Vangelis one day, but it would not stop him from doing so. Yiannis was loyal to his brother and his kingdom in spirit, even if his heart disagreed. Sometimes he wondered whether Vangelis was more suited to being king than Zanon, or if that was simply the power fate had over mortal men. Certainly, he could admit that Vangelis would make a more suitable king than Yiannis ever could.
Additionally, his father compared the two of them, suggesting that they had been similar when the king had been younger. A smart tactic, Yiannis thought cynically, even as it had the desired effect. Hearing his father compare Yiannis to his younger self, he couldn’t help but calm down.
Some of the tension he had felt since their voyage dissipated. Yiannis turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the ship. A marvel of craftsmanship, as all ships were. How much work had gone into bringing them to Egyptian shores? The food and clothes and training that had brought up Yiannis and his brothers, the match between their parents, the existence of Colchis itself- so much of the groundwork for Yiannis and his father speaking here today came from decades of preparation, and all he could do tonight was pout. No, he had to admit that even he could not be that immature, despite his resentment. Yiannis turned back to face his father, smiling wryly.
“Perhaps there is,” Yiannis said with a newfound lightness. His voice sounded affectionate and amused, which he was; whenever Tython spoke to him, he was reminded of why he was so proud to be a Kotas son. “Thank you for the lesson on leadership, father, and the lesson on brotherhood. I believe I desperately needed the reminder of what it is we are trying to do here.”
Yiannis wondered how many of their soldiers had noticed his behavior. Surely, someone would have said something? But of course, he was a prince, and no man spoke freely around a prince if he valued keeping his tongue, so to speak. He would need to re-calibrate, convince the soldiers that he had simply slept poorly, or something else which could explain a short period of crabbiness from a spoiled brat such as Yiannis of Kotas. The combination of disdain and respect he inspired among the soldiers had always given him a unique power over them.
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Yiannis bristled slightly at his father’s gentle reprimand. Jaw clenched, he nodded. His father was right; this was no way to comport himself when the other soldiers could see. They looked to their commanders to determine how to feel and what to think on the eve of war. Yiannis needed to set a better example for the men on their ship, rather than sulking about his brother’s successes and virtues. For all that he envied his brother, Yiannis also respected Vangelis. He would swallow those feelings of insecurity and keep them to himself if it undermined their reputation in front of their army. The Kotas family must put up a united front which no critics or saboteurs could breach; it was one of their greatest strengths, the ability to seem unassailable.
Tython offered him a method to save face. His father’s assurance was double-edged, in that it also pricked at his pride. The Yiannis Tython knew would lead better than he had thus far. Yiannis straightened up, turning to look at his king. He hated the reminder that he would need to bow down to Vangelis one day, but it would not stop him from doing so. Yiannis was loyal to his brother and his kingdom in spirit, even if his heart disagreed. Sometimes he wondered whether Vangelis was more suited to being king than Zanon, or if that was simply the power fate had over mortal men. Certainly, he could admit that Vangelis would make a more suitable king than Yiannis ever could.
Additionally, his father compared the two of them, suggesting that they had been similar when the king had been younger. A smart tactic, Yiannis thought cynically, even as it had the desired effect. Hearing his father compare Yiannis to his younger self, he couldn’t help but calm down.
Some of the tension he had felt since their voyage dissipated. Yiannis turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the ship. A marvel of craftsmanship, as all ships were. How much work had gone into bringing them to Egyptian shores? The food and clothes and training that had brought up Yiannis and his brothers, the match between their parents, the existence of Colchis itself- so much of the groundwork for Yiannis and his father speaking here today came from decades of preparation, and all he could do tonight was pout. No, he had to admit that even he could not be that immature, despite his resentment. Yiannis turned back to face his father, smiling wryly.
“Perhaps there is,” Yiannis said with a newfound lightness. His voice sounded affectionate and amused, which he was; whenever Tython spoke to him, he was reminded of why he was so proud to be a Kotas son. “Thank you for the lesson on leadership, father, and the lesson on brotherhood. I believe I desperately needed the reminder of what it is we are trying to do here.”
Yiannis wondered how many of their soldiers had noticed his behavior. Surely, someone would have said something? But of course, he was a prince, and no man spoke freely around a prince if he valued keeping his tongue, so to speak. He would need to re-calibrate, convince the soldiers that he had simply slept poorly, or something else which could explain a short period of crabbiness from a spoiled brat such as Yiannis of Kotas. The combination of disdain and respect he inspired among the soldiers had always given him a unique power over them.
Yiannis bristled slightly at his father’s gentle reprimand. Jaw clenched, he nodded. His father was right; this was no way to comport himself when the other soldiers could see. They looked to their commanders to determine how to feel and what to think on the eve of war. Yiannis needed to set a better example for the men on their ship, rather than sulking about his brother’s successes and virtues. For all that he envied his brother, Yiannis also respected Vangelis. He would swallow those feelings of insecurity and keep them to himself if it undermined their reputation in front of their army. The Kotas family must put up a united front which no critics or saboteurs could breach; it was one of their greatest strengths, the ability to seem unassailable.
Tython offered him a method to save face. His father’s assurance was double-edged, in that it also pricked at his pride. The Yiannis Tython knew would lead better than he had thus far. Yiannis straightened up, turning to look at his king. He hated the reminder that he would need to bow down to Vangelis one day, but it would not stop him from doing so. Yiannis was loyal to his brother and his kingdom in spirit, even if his heart disagreed. Sometimes he wondered whether Vangelis was more suited to being king than Zanon, or if that was simply the power fate had over mortal men. Certainly, he could admit that Vangelis would make a more suitable king than Yiannis ever could.
Additionally, his father compared the two of them, suggesting that they had been similar when the king had been younger. A smart tactic, Yiannis thought cynically, even as it had the desired effect. Hearing his father compare Yiannis to his younger self, he couldn’t help but calm down.
Some of the tension he had felt since their voyage dissipated. Yiannis turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the ship. A marvel of craftsmanship, as all ships were. How much work had gone into bringing them to Egyptian shores? The food and clothes and training that had brought up Yiannis and his brothers, the match between their parents, the existence of Colchis itself- so much of the groundwork for Yiannis and his father speaking here today came from decades of preparation, and all he could do tonight was pout. No, he had to admit that even he could not be that immature, despite his resentment. Yiannis turned back to face his father, smiling wryly.
“Perhaps there is,” Yiannis said with a newfound lightness. His voice sounded affectionate and amused, which he was; whenever Tython spoke to him, he was reminded of why he was so proud to be a Kotas son. “Thank you for the lesson on leadership, father, and the lesson on brotherhood. I believe I desperately needed the reminder of what it is we are trying to do here.”
Yiannis wondered how many of their soldiers had noticed his behavior. Surely, someone would have said something? But of course, he was a prince, and no man spoke freely around a prince if he valued keeping his tongue, so to speak. He would need to re-calibrate, convince the soldiers that he had simply slept poorly, or something else which could explain a short period of crabbiness from a spoiled brat such as Yiannis of Kotas. The combination of disdain and respect he inspired among the soldiers had always given him a unique power over them.
