“I do.”

His eyes become glassy.

"Stop that. Stop it. That is - in your own strange manner you are running away - and I have seen many qualities in you, Ophellios, but not cowardice."

He stands gracefully, soft drapery low on his hips. 

Aetos had thought he had seen a god before, in Apollo’s ruined temple. The vision in his mortal eyes now takes away his breath.

“As you face your fate, I too face mine. I know that I am no coward.”

The dagger remains as a jewel in his hand.

“You knew me once.”

He doesn't watch the dagger, he watches the eyes. Perhaps he can't breathe, and perhaps he will die here if he looks on a god too long; but he can keep looking, meet the boy's eyes at least - he owes it to him. 

"I still do."

“Then absolve yourself. Is that not why you are here?”

"No. No, not at all. It is for your sake and your sake alone that I have come. What do you think of me, Ophellios?"

He treads slowly down the marble steps. Aetos is burned raw under his gaze.

The godling raises his sword arm, and the tip of the dagger rests on his companion’s cheekbone. It traces down gently over his jaw and does not break the skin.

“Olympus would see you burn for what you did.”

"What is it to me? If you felt the same, I would be long dead."

He smiles again, almost… sadly.

For a moment, Aetos nearly sees a glimpse of the old Ophellios.

“Olympus would see me burn for it too.”

"Then it sounds like we have a common enemy once again."

Ophellios presses the knife into Aetos’ hands, his own palm wrapped around the blade. He does not seem to notice as it cuts him; does not blink.

“You come with promises of truth. I am waiting.”

He takes the handle, and-

Carefully, deftly, but very firmly, pries the boy's fingers off the blade. 

"I do not want you to- do this."

He tilts his head back, looking at the older man through long eyelashes. The gesture is sultry, but Aetos is aware of the dagger, now in his possession, and the softness of Ophellios’ bared throat. An offering.

Blood drips down his fingertips and onto the floor.

“Say what you mean.”

He raises up the dagger, and hurls it violently aside; it bites deep into wood, somewhere far away, and the jewel finish and fancy decoration are ruined at once with the force of the blow. 

"I love you."

…

“You are more ill than I.”

"It took you so long to notice?"

He takes a step back, almost crumpling under the weight of it.

Be still, my heart.

“I… am a husband. A father.”

He steps forwards. "I do not care. I love you."

Agony; his old companion, blurred at the edges.

“What do you hope to gain from this? That I spurn my bride and repeat those words to you, so that you may satisfy yourself nightly until the war kills us both?” He shakes his head. “You– know that I cannot.”

"Yes. I know that you can."

“I could. I could utter those words and submit myself to you. I could be ripped from my throne. Hunted by my men. My memory and that of Hyranon could lie in ruins.”

"They need not know. Are you a king or not? Do as you will, for one time in your life. "

His stare is cutting. “I am not the liar you are.”