"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.”