Quoted By:
Eos appears – extending her rosy fingers over the edges of the horizon, illuminating the sky in shades of pink, orange, yellow. You breathe deeply, enjoying the time alone – amongst a cramped galley, isolation is a rare commodity. You take in the sights and sounds of the shore, as the gulls wake and say their morning prayers. In a few minutes more, Helios springs into flight as well – his radiance first an ember’s red, before its transmutation into a golden bonfire.
To your delight, the fog within your mind dissipates along with the mists along the Delian coastline – the first sign of relief in your mental condition since your sparring bout with Diomedes, King of Argos, weeks ago. Your thoughts are no longer shackled and stumbly blindly – your tongue no longer lies as thickly in your mouth. There is a residual dullness, yes – but your heart brims with relief. Some part of you had feared that you might never make a full recovery, but here is a sign that you are on the mend. You sit for a few minutes more, savoring the moment, before you stand. Rather than hiking back the way you came, you cut west across the narrow isle, tramping through the fields and meadows, with Mount Cynthus rising on your left-hand side. Deer roam freely through copses of cypress, oak and pine – the thriving underbrush providing them with ample means to hide from your passage.
As the morning moves on, you find yourself pulled along babbling brooks, cast off by Inopos in the hillside above, and searching for a safe fording (preferably keeping your sandals dry), follow them to a small lake – perhaps thirty strides across, it is home to a surprisingly large quantity of swans. You crouch besides the waters to better observe them, and listen to the buzz of insects – but your observation of the swans is interrupted.
A young man, lightly bearded and with long brown hair bound up, parts the reeds along the lakeside, walking alongside two large hounds – the dogs slip by him to lap thirstily at the water. You meet the eyes of the young man and recognize him as Andros, one of Anios’ sons – he has the same high cheekbones of his father. In his hands, he carries a bundle of larkspur, the purple flowers sacred to Apollo.
“Hail, Prince Andros!” you call out to him calmly, raising a hand in greeting. “We did not have a chance to converse last night – I am Nikandros of Thessaly.” It is not in your nature to smile easily, but you grant him a polite nod.
Andros returns your gesture before asking amiably – “What brings you here, Nikandros? I did not expect to find one of my father’s guests here at the sacred waters.”
You answer him honestly, explaining that you had hiked to the shoreline to catch the sunrise, and perhaps clear your mind – you explain that you have been a bit fuzzy since a sparring accident in Mycenae. This seems to catch Andros’ interest, and he ambles a bit closer, stumbling over the vegetation.
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