"Mad or not, you should not have touched her. Hero you may be, but she is not yours to touch."

He shoves Ophellios backwards, not hard.

The king catches his footing, though his goblet clatters to the floor.

Pride inflamed, he shoots him a glare like a prisoner’s first glimpse of the sun, and he shoves him back.

“How dare you touch me in turn?”

"Easily."

He catches the boy's wrist and turns sharply, extending his leg so the little king trips. 

He pulls him down with him, landing a punch to the Cretan’s jaw. Men have circled around them now, cheering for their kings – some try to intervene but cannot find an opportunity. They clash like two meteors, clawing at kingly robes.

Bad move, little boy. 

That puts him on top, so weight does all the work for him. Ophellios can't hold up all his weight crashing down, and so it's the simplest thing in the world to catch both wrists and pin them over his head. 

He glares into the boy's eyes, feeling him writhe underneath like a feral cat. 

"Know your place, boy."

He tries to rip his arms free but cannot. Trapped, he looks up at Aetos.

Ophellios’ eyes are so blue, so large; his jaw so sharp; the slope of his nose so noble; his lips so full and pink from the wine. Sweat glistens on his chest, which heaves through fabric torn low to his abdomen.

Aetos can smell the drink on the young king’s breath, the perfumes in his fair hair like a crown, the musk from his throat.

He looks like the statues of his father.

Ophellios twists again, trying to use Aetos’ weight against him–

It's like trying to shift a mountain. 

He holds him there for a long moment, staring down. The young king's eyes are wide, his chest heaving, muscles straining under his tunic. 

The crowd is cheering, but they seem far away. 

His skin is so warm. 

After a moment, the match won, he lets go, and staggers to his feet. 

...and back down again, to sit, the world suddenly spinning. 

Blood seeps through his bandages. 

He seizes the opportunity to rise to his knees, draws his fist back to take the advantage and strike–

Some instinct stops him. He lowers his arm.

“…Lord Aetos. Are you well?”

"...I will...

...be..."

The world goes black. 

He is there when Aetos awakens in his hut.

A bruise has formed, by now, on his pretty cheekbone. Still blue. The King of Crete has not been out for too long.

His eyes are closed, dozing on the fur-lined seat beside the bed.

His head is pounding. It's difficult at first to remember how to speak, and there's no advantage to be gained by showing he's awake, if he is in danger. 

After a long while, all he can hear is snoring. 

He risks opening his eyes. 

"What?"

Ophellios stirs and nestles further into the gathered furs.

A small fire burns close by, warming them both and casting strange lights and shadows on the young king. Beautiful, and – inhuman, almost. Like the imprint of the dawn behind a man’s eyelids.

After some minutes his eyelashes flutter open. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, his sight searches for Aetos.

Some small relief loosens Ophellios’ shoulders as he discovers him conscious. He speaks first, then, his voice sweet and a little slurred after waking.

“I told you so.”

His effort has been spent in sitting up and speaking: he is quiet for a time. 

His wounds have been bandaged again, better this time, and sweet-smelling: herbs and ointments have been applied, but even Machaon's arts cannot so swiftly restore his blood. 

"Perhaps I am growing old. I have never fainted away from battle before."

The young king sits straighter, stretching his battle-worn muscles. His own wounds have been tended to from his fight with Aeneas and the subsequent fire, but he was lucky. The gods protected him yesterday, and they are not serious injuries.

“Ha. The others were taking bets on whether you would live or die. You fought four princes yesterday, one great battle and two duels–” he blushes a little, “though admittedly ours was more a brawl.”

"Bah. None of them were conclusive. I took no very serious wounds. And they who bet I would die were fools, a little weariness has never slain a Cretan." He's studiously not looking at Ophellios-

-the boy gazing up at him eyes wide and vulnerable-

-his head is still light, he is still dizzy, that must be it. 

“It nearly did slay you.” He leans forward, long hair braided today. “Machaon said you lost a lot of blood.”

Ophellios’ eyes are wine-dark in this light, though they gleam.

“But I still bet that you would live. I tend to be a lucky gambler.”

"That you most certainly are. I have seen you be most fortunate twice today. There are fewer young warriors than I would like, who survive their first great... risk." Folly, he'd almost said, but it had worked. 

“I am certain that, had you perished, I would have come to miss your unsolicited appraisals of my technique. Perhaps in that light it is unfortunate that you survived.”

He picks up a goblet on Aetos’ bedside and holds it out to him. “Drink. Replenish what you have lost.”

"Alas, you shall go on hearing them for a great many years to come. Perhaps it would be better to grow fond of them in any case, to save yourself the trouble."

...He doesn't like to show weakness, but he likes to show idiocy even less. He drinks. 

He rolls his eyes when his fellow king cannot see.

“I shall take your counsel under advisement,” he replies plainly.

Aetos is covered in injuries, his skin paler than it should be. Ophellios rakes his eyes over him as he sits on that bed, unclothed but for the many bandages. 

He watches as droplets of the wine, watered down with river-water, run down Aetos’ throat. The man’s biceps curl with the effort of staying upright, like a sculpture rendered by the gods in sharp relief.

He looks away.

“I wished to clear the air with you about our… disagreement yesterday. I only bumped into the girl. This I swear. She is yours to… do with as you wish.” The words don’t sit right.

He does manage to drink without choking. His mouth is like sawdust - it's a welcome relief. 

Eventually his head is a little clearer and his body does not ache quite so much, and he speaks. 

"I believe you. I had thought perhaps you were carried away with your newfound fame, but that is not quite what sort of man you are, is it?"

He drinks again. 

"I will send messengers to Priam for ransom. I have no use for the girl, and there is no sense piling more hardship on the old fool's head, for all that it is his stubbornness that keeps us here."

What sort of a man am I, then?

“My father, blessed is his memory, did not raise me to be a thief.” He furrows his brow. “You will return her, then. I do not quite know why that surprises me.”