"They are soaked; we will only freeze more quickly. Strip your cloak if you wish to live, Ophellios, and pray to the cloudgatherer to spare us."

“Strip?”

His eyes are colder than the hail. "Your wet clothes will sap the warmth and strength from your limbs. Strip."

“At least turn around.”

He is not paying attention, and has already stripped his own armour and heavy cloak. 

Ophellios stands frozen to the ground at first. Probably the cold–

He remembers himself and turns around, tearing his eyes from the Cretan king and his frame like Heracles.

Almost shyly, he sheds his own clothes. It burns at his cheeks even in spite of the cold.

The fabric slides down his back and waist, like the drapery of statues, until it lies pooled on the floor. The deep wound to his side from Aeneas’ attack is an ugly scar now, out of place on his skin, smooth but for the goosebumps.

He looks over his shoulder at him, caught like the birds of the morning’s hunt.

It feels like days ago.

His skin gleams dully in the grey ghost-light of the storm. 

His gaze is piercing when he looks over - and he can see it now, the mark of divine parentage, the glow beneath the Pylian king's skin. 

"Better." He does not look away. "Gather your leaves and bracken, then; I will make a frame of branches, and we may hope to survive the onslaught."

He finds his limbs moving before the rest of him can keep up.

There is a rock in his throat that prevents him from speech. He can hardly look Aetos in the eye.

What is this, shame? He has never felt shame before.

By some miracle, though their fingers are stiff and the shivering slows them, the shelter is assembled at last.

It offers little relief.

He shows no outward sign of even noticing; it is only when Ophellios looks away that his gaze lingers on the young king's form, that his eyes track the curve of his limbs. 

"We will have to crawl in together, to escape the rain and share what little warmth there is."

At this point, the elements have worn him down like old marble.

He does not argue.

They crawl into the shelter together, and he finds the warmth of Aetos’ arms and presses himself into it.

The young king's flesh burns like fire where he touches it. 

He looks down at that fair hair, the glowing skin, the form like a marble sculpture - how ever could he not have known, how ever could he not have seen, the godliness made flesh?

His fingers tighten for a moment on firm muscles. 

He forces himself to speak. 

"We may wait out the storm like this; it may not be comfortable, but we will not freeze. Do you think you can sleep, Ophellios?"

The barrier is broken already. He pushes himself closer, curled with his arms tucked into Aetos’ broad chest.

His breath is hot against the Cretan’s neck, lips a hair’s breadth away from skin. 

“No. I dare not sleep like this.” He manages through the chattering.

He sighs and squeezes the younger man close, arms wrapped tightly around, and Ophellios can begin to feel slightly less like he is carven out of ice. 

"I will let no harm come to you while you sleep."

“What of you? Will you not rest? Are you not cold?”

"The Cretans are more accustomed to the elements, and I am larger than you, less deeply touched by the cold. And sleep too, I am well used to going without. This will not be my first or thousandth night sleeping outside in the cold, and often I did not have the benefit of even such shelter as this. Sleep if you can: you must be strong if you are to pursue this mad mission."

“I… I cannot.” He dares to tilt his head away to look up at Aetos. His nose is pink, eyes like crystal. “Will you– will you tell me your story?”

He looks down, and he can feel the younger man's breath on his cheek like the ghost of a kiss. 

"Mine is not a tale I tell often."

A pause. 

"Very well."

He doesn't speak of his early life much. He doesn't much like to remember it. 

"I was born to a poor woman: she said of my father only that he was a powerful man, mightier than any of the kings of Crete in those days. We were in station only barely more than beggars. I wandered, and begged for work."

He shifts. 

"One day, I came upon a river, and a man struggling in it; he had been wearing armour, and was half-drowned. I was able to pull him from the stream, and learned that he was a soldier; so it was that my introduction was made to the arts of war, and I proved an able student. It was just before the great wars broke out - all of Crete would have drowned in blood. In truth I began to fight only to protect myself and my siblings and mother; I do not quite know how it grew from there. Soon there were a dozen, then a hundred, then a thousand men who fought alongside me. In the end, we made a bid, and seized the palace of Crete by force, and brought the towns into submission by our hand; and I looked about myself, and realised I was the King."

Ophellios is held captive by his tale. 

A beggar turned king. A bard could not have woven together a more fascinating song.

“I– had heard you were a mercenary. I did not– know the rest.”

He buries himself in his chest again, shivering as thunder quakes the sky.

“What of the old king?”