Let me first do some great thing

The arrow flew straight and true. It had been well aimed, but Arestor, son of Argus, watched with disappointment as it struck the outer circle of the painted target.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

He grabbed another arrow and let it fly. Again, despite his best effort, the projectile went wide of the bullseye and hit right next to the first. “Damn it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Philoctetes, Son of Poeas, said. “At least you’re consistent. That’s far better than most men I’ve seen. Most hit the target randomly, with very little control whatsoever. At least you hit a similar spot most of the time.”

“I suppose…” Arestor said. “Your turn.”

In an impossibly fast and fluid move, Philoctetes pulled an arrow from his own quiver, notched it to the string and fired. The black arrow pierced the very center of the target.

Arestor let out a whistle.

“Your skill must be a gift from the Gods,” he said. “I’ve been training my whole life, and I’m still nowhere near as dangerous an archer as you are.”

“No one in all of Greece is,” Philoctetes said nonchalantly. “You shouldn’t be so down on yourself about it. Besides, it might be less the result of my skill, and more the weapons I use.”

He grabbed another arrow from the quiver and held it up to admire.

“After all, Heracles himself constructed these arrows. Surely, it’s not I that makes them fly so true; it is their craftmanship.”

Arestor looked upon it with awe. Like all of Philoctetes’ black arrows, it was amazingly well-made. The sturdy shaft ended with fine feathers, claimed to have been plunked from the Stymphalian Birds after the great Heracles had slain the monsters.

But it was the arrowhead that drew the most fascination… and fear.

The blade was just as sharp now as it had been when the Son of Zeus had first taken it to whetstone, and the color… the color was a dark, sickly green. It was an unnatural shade that came from the strange substance that covered the whole arrowhead: the toxic blood of the horrific Hydra. Arestor shivered.

“How many strikes by these do you think it would take to kill that wife-stealing Trojan prince?” Philoctetes asked.

Both men laughed as the sun beat down on them and the white sand of the beach. They’d come across a rotten tree trunk washed up on shore, and the chance to test their skills had proven too tempting to resist.

“Your humility is refreshing, but you’re wrong. A great weapon still needs a great warrior to wield it and achieve its full potential.” Arestor sighed. “I’m just not blessed with the skill and strength you have been.”

“You’re a fine fighter,” Philoctetes slapped his friend on the back. “You just worry so much about comparing yourself to others. Don’t argue with me, you know you do. I’ve even heard you despair while comparing your skill in combat to Achilles and Ajax! That’s foolish. No one is as good as them.” He smiled broadly.

“And no one is as good an archer as you,” Arestor added. The men freed their respective arrows out of the driftwood target. “I thought I could at least follow my father’s path and try my hand at shipbuilding.” He motioned to the nearly finished ship hull currently sitting empty further down the shoreline.

“And the Gods know we’ll need every ship you can build for Greece,” his friend said.

“I suppose…”

“Arestor!” an angry voice rang out from the direction of the ship.

Poeas, King of Meliboea, stormed toward the young men.

“Yes?” Arestor said with slight annoyance, until he remembered who he was talking to, then realized he’d forgotten to bow. “Oh… um, yes, my King?”

Irritation twisted Poeas’ face into an ugly snarl.

“I don’t need you wasting time distracting Philoctetes,” the King said. “We need our ships finished as soon as possible! Get back to work!”

“Father…” Philoctetes began, but King Poeas cut him off with a harsh gesture.

“War is upon us all, my son.” The flash of anger faded as the King looked upon his heir. He solemnly studied the two youngsters. “War is upon us, and we all have our roles to play. Roles given to us by the Fates.”

The man had a gray beard and heavy wrinkles, but was still as imposing and strong as he’d been when he sailed with heroes.

“When I voyaged upon the Argo, I rowed and I fought. Jason led us, Heracles protected us. I followed their commands, and did what was needed of me.” Poeas placed a hand on Arestor’s shoulder. “You father did what was needed. More than just building the ship that bared his name, he rowed with us and fought alongside us.”

The old king stared at the unfinished ship.

Since news had reached Meliboea that the Trojan Prince Paris had kidnaped Queen Helen of Sparta, there had been great anticipation and excitement over the inevitable war. Arestor had seen it every day on every face since the first messenger arrived. But now, for the first time, he witnessed a face barely controlling a deep sadness.

“Now the men of Meliboea, of all Thessaly… of all Greece, are mustering to take Troy,” the old king continued. “I pray it be a quick victory, but the Gods so often have their own agendas.” Poeas stared out across the sea. Perhaps toward Troy. Perhaps toward somewhere far more difficult to locate. “Victory can cost so much…” he said, more to himself than to the young men.

“Father?” Philoctetes spoke up. When he reached out to the King, the old man seemed confused, as if ripped out of a dream and back to reality.

“Oh, my dear son...” King Poeas immediately collected himself, standing as straight and proud as only a monarch could. “My son. Your bow will wrought our victory in this war. I have no doubt. You, who were a Suitor of Helen, who wields the arrows of Heracles, are touched by the Gods.”

Philoctetes bowed deeply, not only to show the greatest respect, but to hide his face as he wiped away the tears.

It was a beautiful moment. One that should have been written down for posterity. But Arestor was no storyteller. He was a man of action, he reminded himself. “And what do you need from me, my king?” he asked as he picked up his quiver.

The old man seemed surprised when Arestor spoke. “Oh… of course, Arestor, son of Argus,” Poeas said. “Yes, you have proven you are an ambitious individual. So, you’ve been given a chance to leave a mark on this story.”

“Whatever you need of me, sire.”

“It seems the King in Ithica is struggling to meet the demand for ships,” Poeas said, pulling out a note. “You’ve done well enough here, but I am sending you there to make sure the needs of King Odysseus are achieved.”

“My lord?” Arestor asked. The order confused him. There were still ships here to be built.

“It is done,” the old king said. With the finality only a king can summon, Poeas ended the conversation. He turned to leave the beach, but Arestor had to say something.

“King Poeas, there must be a mistake,” he said. “I’m here to build you ships and sail with the men of Thessaly, like my father famously did before me.”

The sad expression returned to the old man’s face. “We all have our roles to play,” Poeas said. “Yours is not with Philoctetes. But with the men of Ithica. Build them great ships, and maybe you can sail with them. Sail well with them, and maybe you can fight with them. That is Fate’s path for you to achieve honor.”

Arestor began to argue but calls from the workers on the ship drew everyone’s attention. They had their tools at the ready and frustration on their faces. They wanted to finish the ship. The very ship he had snuck away from to play with his friend.

“We will finish the work you began,” Poeas said. “May you build better ships for King Odysseus.”

---

A massive wave rolled into the ship. More water leaked through multiple holes in the hull. In the final stretch of sea before Asia, the weather had taken a harsher turn. In the rough seas, enough water had made it through the weak points of the hull into the bowels of the ship that Arestor’s feet were submerged.

“Damn it,” he swore for the hundredth time on the journey, smashing clay and straw into the largest leaks. He pressed the filling into the crack as tightly as possible, before moving on to the next. Then the next after that.

The ship rocked back and forth as another wave washed over. After a moment of tense waiting, the filling held and no more water entered the hull.

“Thank the Gods…” Arestor breathed a sigh of relief. Shaking his head, he grabbed the wooden bucket floating by, marched up onto the deck and emptied it overboard.

In the brief moment before heading back to refill his bucket, the young man took in the impressive sight surrounding him. Hundreds and hundreds of ships filled the vast, rolling ocean in all directions. The great fleet sailing to conquer Troy was beyond what any king or hero of old could have imagined.

At the crest of every wave, sails of every color imaginable billowed and pulled forward. Arestor recognized many of the painted sigils and marks. The ship carrying Achilles led at the front. Ajax wasn’t far behind. Nor was Agamemnon, the King of Kings. Menelaus was behind them, which seemed downright lazy for the man who was taking an army to war just to rescue his own wife.

Where is Philoctetes’ ship? Arestor wondered. The sail he had painted with his friend before they’d separated, and taken different paths to war, was nowhere to be seen. It was strange, but the fleet was so vast, he figured that ship must be too far away to be seen.

The full might of Greece was at sail. I did my part to make this fleet a reality, Arestor thought. He proudly stood a bit taller.

“Land ahead!” The booming voice of the lookout bellowed.

Every head on the main deck turned in a single motion to look. In the distance, through the mist, the white shoreline shone like a beckoning flame. Beyond lay a giant stone wall, larger than a mountain.

“By the Gods!” one of the men exclaimed. “How will we ever conquer such a city?”

“We will. We must.” The proud Odysseus, King of Ithica, stepped forward. Arestor looked at the great man with awe. “The battle will be bloody, but those walls will fall and Helen will be restored to us.”

The crew, down to the last man, all roared in agreement.

“It’s a shame we can’t trick the Trojans into opening the gates for us,” Arestor blurted out, overcome with confident zeal. He immediately regretted the foolish thought. “Ah… um, my lord.”

There was a terrible, mocking laughter from the men, except for the King. He looked at Arestor thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. Before the young man could apologize for speaking so foolishly out of turn, the lookout shouted again.

“The first ships are landing!”

Arestor’s mistake was immediately forgotten by all, including by the man himself.

“The time has come, men of Greece!” Odysseus declared. “Prepare for battle!”

“Yes sir!” the men answered. Arestor joined them in donning his armor, helmet, and spear. He slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder, briefly remembering the last time he’d seen his friend.

May the Gods guide my arrows as true as Philoctetes’.

By the time they were armed and ready, the ship was near enough to the shore to see the action.

Arestor and the crew cheered as the lead ships landed. They all watched as brave Protesilaus became the first of the Achaean to set foot in Troy. Arestor let out a cry of excitement as Achilles led the mighty Myrmidons against the Trojan defenders.

As the beach drew nearer, Arestor’s heart beat faster and stronger than ever before. His hands gripped the spear so tight they went white.

This is my chance, he thought. I will leave my mark on this world. In the stories to be told of this war, I will be remembered alongside those heroes.

There was a great jolt as the ship beached itself. This is it.

“Prepare yourself, men of Ithica!” Odysseus commanded. The soldiers let out a war cry and began to leap off the ship to the white sand below.

Arestor joined them with growing fervor, landing on the sunbaked sand. The beach was hot. The sound of screams and combat was deafening. His armor was heavy. Arestor barely noticed. He drove forward toward where the fighting was heaviest.

He saw the flash of sword and spear and the crash of bodies against shields. His eyes focused on a particular Trojan soldier in the chaos. With a brave roar, Arestor charged at the enemy.

“This is my momen…”

The arrow pierced his throat, instantly silencing his roaring declaration.

Arestor, son of Argus, fell to hot sand. He still failed to notice the heat, or the weight of his armor. Instead, there was the Trojan arrow and the blood. More than that, there was Odysseus and his men, charging through the enemy soldiers. Charging into history. Slowly, painfully, he reached out after them.

He watched them fight for honor and glory while his vision began to fade. His hand continued reaching for them until everything went black.