Already he is tired of the aimlessness of roaming the wilds with no direction. It had been a novel experience at first, free and no one to harry him or snake him with no better excuse than simple jealousy or surge of testosterone. Not that he didn’t have these surges himself (or else why the hell would anyone challenge Apollo of all people). But he had been high on it since, had spent weeks leading Caspian towards something ‘more’ on the empty horizon.
Then they’d met the shoreline and he had almost been stopped. Almost those eager eyes turned away… but the island. That island taunted him, teased him for his reluctance to cross the vast expanse of storm darkened waters. They arrived not a single day after he saw the island and it had coaxed him free of his recalcitrance. It was suddenly a siren instead.
When their feet made landfall, salt quickly rinsed in the Meadow’s stream, he knew he could spend a lifetime not chancing a storm over that strait again. Home, he told Caspian, would certainly be somewhere on this island. Somewhere here, somewhere there was more purpose than idle (if boisterous) fun and wandering.
When the birds began to sing, soft into an early spring mist, he woke beside his brightly colored companion and he yawned with a solid flesh-twitching shake. "Caspian," he said in that rich evolving baritone. "Caspian, wake up." He sees nothing of import, nothing that ought to make him wake his sole friend - who might choose to kill him or at least maim him for his troubling his sleep. "What do you suppose came over me to get us into this sort of trouble."
Yea, great. Wonderful, Achilles. Early morning philosophy class. Exactly what every virile young man wants to wake up to discuss in the butt-crack of dawn.