When a nameless Trojan, a young lad, barely more than a child, surprised you from behind and pried your spear from your hand, you found yourself defenseless, your soldiers far away, unable to help.
There was a burning Trojan corpse at your feet, the man's sword still in his clenched fist.
Stealing from the dead stains one's soul with miasma, but so what? You just do some extra ablutions later. Say you're sorry and really, really mean it. That's all the gods want, isn't it?
Demodocus interrupts your reminiscing with a skillful chord. "I think I have perfected the opening of my song to you," he tells you. "Humans will forever remember your glory." His eyes shine every time he looks at you. You truly are a hero to him. He might be a minor poet, but he's still devoted to making you a major hero, the most glorious and memorialized of them all.