They go out into the place where the demigod Aeneas had led the Greek slaughter, more than a year ago. Red flowers grow now where their comrades fell. All else is quiet.
Ophellios releases the string of his bow and a bird falls from the sky. It was only a small thing, but the arrow pierced neatly its heart; there will be enough meat for feasting later.
There is hunger in the camp.
He turns, looking to his lone companion. “How many have you caught, Lord Aetos?”
Of course. Son of the Plague God.
He killed them. Slew them to position your mother later in Time to accept Him.
"So you grew up alone? Curious. I had many brothers and sisters, though none have survived - Ophellios king, your shivering begins to worry me."
“I have two siblings. The eldest a– toddler when I left.”
He manages to gain control of his breathing, just a little.
“Then keep me closer.”
He wraps his arms tight around the younger king, pulling him close, wrapping him up.
He's so cold.
With both hands he rubs Ophellios's back.
The hail eases a little.
If Aetos stays like this, the boy will not freeze to death this night.
He manages to fall asleep at last, held like a slave girl in his camp.
His head shifts and rests its weight on Aetos’ arm; his hair falls down his back, exposing his throat.
The pendant around his neck glows as dimly as the moon above.
He lies awake for some moments after that, listening to the sound of the rain.
The pendant has a light of its own, a strange inner fire like the waters around Crete on a dark clear moonless night.
Probing fingers touch it - it's warm like a fresh-cooked meal, bright like flames in his hand.
There is something to it, a depth and beauty more than human, that steals his breath away.
His gaze lingers on Ophellios long into the night.
The birds sing him awake.
He does not know at first that he has missed the sound. Mornings in Pylos. Birds stay far from the Achaean camp – the clever ones avoid it and the foolish ones were all eaten.
What are they doing here?
It is so warm. He settles in further into his nest, lulled again into peaceful rest. The arms around him are strong, the chest under his head sturdy.
He rolls away from the disturbance and upright, clutching at his sword and-
Oh.
"Boy," he rumbles, "what has you so startled so early?" Gods, he hates the early morn. His sword is clumsy in his hand, his eyes weak in the light.
It all comes to him. The long night, the stripped armour, the solace of Aetos’ skin–
His clothes are dry now. Lord Helios has resumed his cylical chariot-ride, and the morning brings blissful warmth.
He pulls them on quickly, bare feet on the forest floor.
“Word of this will not get back to camp. Do you understand me?”
Ugh, his head.
"Do not take that tone with me before even the sun has climbed the sky, boy. What are you talking about?"
"I do not know and you will cease this foolish game and tell me." Where's the wine.
The words lodge themselves in his throat–
He forces them out.
“The events of last night. They never happened.”
"... The storm? What? Lord Zeus often sends omens beyond our understanding, and trials to test us; what do you fear would come of it if all the Greeks knew?"
"Have you lost your wits? It was freezing cold. Was that the first time you have had to huddle for warmth?"
"Our clothes were soaked through. To sleep in them would have slain us as surely as any blade!"
"Perhaps I am only quick to wrath because of the early hour, like a bear awakened from its long sleep, but I begin to think that I do not like to hear demands from you. Certainly not without some sane reason. "
“Of the two of us, you are older. I beg you, think. Think of what this will do to my reputation,” he implores.
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