"Do the shades of the dead truly speak? Your father did not harm me, only with darts too fast to see sent you, even his own son, down to Hades."

“What do you mean?”

He leans in closer, breath like fire against Aetos’ throat. It almost hurts, like the flames of the explosion in Troy.

“I am right here.”

And he kisses there, softly.

He groans, and then he weeps; for even in sleep, even in Morpheus's strange grasp, he knows this for illusion and deceit. 

“Listen to me, my lord, for this is important,” he kisses again, down his neck, hand too heavy on his chest. “I am right here.”

The sun rises, and Aetos wakes up.

He goes to the mound where they buried it, the urn of ashes and no bones, and he kneels and he weeps. 

There are flowers and offerings aplenty for the young king. He was a friend to all.

Aetos is alone there on that hill.

A month passes.

There is a terrible scream in the middle of the night, and a slave girl drops a pot of wine.

It shatters, clay pieces bursting all over the ground at her feet.

She runs back to the Spartan camp, waking up soldiers as she flees. One of them grabs and strikes her, cursing her for her loudness at the late hour – but she only points with trembling arms towards the plains.

A dark figure stands there far in the distance, staggering heavily onwards.

He collapses.

“Lord Aetos, you will wake up.”

He jerks as if struck by lightning and -

- he didn't expect Menelaus to try anything -

- his guards should have stopped him, a moment of mourning, they must be dead -

He's on his feet in a second, unclad, sword in hand -

- he never slept deeply and now he barely sleeps at all, it's probably what saved his life -

For a moment he's standing, sword an inch from Menelaus's face, and then the room spins around him and the wine from last night seems to boil in his stomach and he folds into a sort of crouch. 

A breath. 

Oh. Not here to kill him, then. 

"What do you want?"

The Spartan king wrinkles his princely nose.

“So the rumours about you are true. The great Aetos; little more than a drunk.” He prods him with the end of his sheath. “By the gods, man, when was the last time you bathed?”

He grabs the sheath and crushes it in one hand, fine leather bursting at the seams, splitting on the sword inside; his hands bleed, but he does not care. "Hold your tongue unless you want two bad arms."

King Menelaus gazes at the ruined sheath, at the Cretan’s carven hands – and he shakes his head, standing tall above the wretch.

“You bleed all over yourself. What is the matter with you?”

Worse than insult, the Spartan’s voice drips with pity.

"Our days are short and full of pain, at your behest, and you have no right to speak sharply to me." The fight has drained out of him now that he's properly awake, leaving behind a deep weariness. A moment ago he wanted to fight, to shout, to threaten and bluster and maybe call his soldiers and start a new war. Now - now he just wants the man to leave and say no more, and leave him to it. 

"Did you come here only to bandy insults? I have no appetite for it."

“Not insults,” he says, and he means it truly. “But concerns.”

Menelaus sighs.

“My men found something that may interest you. But you will first need to make yourself presentable, for if anyone sights you leaving your hut like this you may lose the morale of your men.”

Why can they not just go away. 

Ugh. He could drive Menelaus off, perhaps, but it would be such effort. He would have to think of things to say, maybe listen to other things, and the thought is sickening.

So he'll scrub himself, wipe the sleep out of his eyes, don his robe and girt himself with his sword, and follow, staggering only a little. 

He will say nothing. 

He seems unimpressed.

“That is better, I suppose. Come with me.” Menelaus gestures with his head and, with palpable relief, walks out of the shit-hole that is the Cretan’s dwelling.

He glances at him as they weave around passing soldiers. “How much have you had to drink?”

"Not fucking enough."

“Charming. Are you even remotely sober, King of Crete?”

"A lot more than I wish I were. A lot less than everyone else seems to."

He sighs. “Why do you poison yourself so? It is unseemly. We all have reason to drink, King Aetos.”

"Perhaps you should try it. It has after all kept me here long after my time."

Menelaus resists the urge to roll his eyes. “When do you believe your time was, then?”

People are bowing to them as they walk past. He pays little notice; does not care for the everyday man.