Then he felt the hand gripping his arm tightly, desperately - the hand that had created beauty with a hammer in its fist. He wanted to help his father, to give him peace.
Talos' aged eyes stared expectantly at Stefanos, full of hope, but also of fear that his son would refuse his wish, the last he would ever make.
"I will go, Father...to Olympia. If the Gods grant me victory, and Nike crowns me, I'll erect a bronze as you wish."
"Thank you, my son. Yes...a bronze, beautiful, and god-like..." Talos released Stefanos' hand and lay back, relief washing over him, his wrinkled lips smiling beneath his beard. His eyes looked up at Stefanos again. "I have never stopped caring for you," he muttered, his eyes closing. "I tried finishing the bronze...of you...but my body was too weak. My son..."
