A decade would change anyone, but a decade of war? Your body has changed–your scars are testament to that, if nothing else–but so has the inside of you. How could you ever be the same person who sat on that throne, ignorant of the screams of battle, the sights of bodies mangled by the teeth of war?
You lean back until your spine rests against the mast, the rough wood chafing your skin under your salt-eaten garment. You watch the stars, the countless lamps lighting the world beyond. You spot Argo, the mythical ship, in the sky, sailing along the river of the gods.
You left Troy with twelve ships heavy with spoils, with hundreds of souls aboard your fleet, but the storms scattered them all to the five winds. Will you find any of them again in the stars, one day?
Demodocus plucks one of the strings of his lyre, his long, thin fingers a ghostly white in the pale light of the lamps. The note, lonely and sweet, hangs in the air. "Remember the battle of the westernmost gate of Ilium?" he asks.