"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 happened to the old king?”

"Died some months before. That was what started the whole affair, in fact, for he died without issue: the gods sent him no heir. By the time his house had finished tearing itself apart and chopping up Crete between them, little was left of anything he had built."

“And– you put it all back together.”

Something swells in his heart, but his fingertips are like ice and he can concentrate on little else. Aetos is the only relief, and he hangs onto his every word lest the cold overwhelm him.

He cannot afford the quiet.

“What of your– wife? Did you meet soon after?”

Unbidden, strong hands wrap around his icy fingers. 

"Almost at once. After I failed in my suit for Helen I took a wife from Crete immediately. I did not wish to leave my people to suffer bitter war like before, and I could not afford to tarry. I have one strong son now, and in time I will train him to be a good and wise king, if the gods grant it, and I shall pray that he too shall be wise, and war not visit the lands of Crete again."

There is a pause. He chafes the young man's hands between his. 

"Tell me of yourself, then. What was your life before the war?"

What about Helen did you so desire?

Ophellios looks at their hands together, dimly aware that something is wrong about this.

After some time he speaks.

“I was born to white beaches and clear skies.”

He goes still for a moment, even in all his shivering, at the memory of Pylos.

“My kingdom is beautiful. I think– I am certain you have visited before. Yes. I– remember you now, in my father’s court. I was only a child, I was allowed only a wooden sword. It– broke, one day soon after, and the shards went everywhere, and I had splinters for– gods, weeks.”

It stirs a dim memory of a boy with wide blue eyes, sitting at the knee of fair Hyranon in the days before a Trojan sword sent him down to death. 

"Indeed. A child's wooden sword should be crafted carefully, for that reason, thicker than a true sword and resistant to blows-"

He is abruptly aware that the boy is shivering violently. 

"You are still not warm. Have you a fever?"

“Ha. No.”

A smile even through cold lips.

“That is the thing. My parents, they– had wanted an heir for a long time. Long before I was born. They tried, but some– some plague, some circumstance, would always strike my brothers in infancy.

“So they prayed to Phoebus Apollo, the Plague God, for– for He had always favoured my people, and my father’s prayer had been true, and the– the offerings had been great. And He came to my mother, and– promised an heir who would be robust in health.

“I have never once fallen ill.”