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‘Exactly,’ said Elo. ‘You were a prince, and we were so young. We could be friends, but even princes cannot love the children of foreign merchants, much less kings. I saw everything you ever suffered, and I could not bear to be another thing that brought you pain. Better to love at a distance than break each other’s hearts. ’

Arren shook his head, angry. ‘You did cause me pain,’ he said. ‘You left me.’

‘You wanted everyone to fit into the shape you decided for them,’ said Elogast. He put his glass down and stood up to leave. ‘You wanted me to stand quiet at your side when I should have stood there loudly. But I did not deserve what you did to me.’

‘Tried to do,’ snapped Arren.

‘No Arren,’ said Elo, unbuttoning his shirt, showing the livid scar. The hand of Hseth. ‘Did. You did this. You burned people just as Hseth has. You broke my heart and called it love. You used me.’

‘I have asked your forgiveness,’ said Arren, coming back to him and standing face to face. ‘I am trying to be worthy of your forgiveness.’

Elo almost laughed. ‘It cannot be forgiven. I cannot forgive you for burning your own subjects, for turning to violence over negotiation, for sacrificing your goodness, yourself, your heart.’

‘For a kingdom!’ said Arren. ‘For a future.’

‘For power.’

Elo was right, and Arren knew it.

‘Then don’t forgive me,’ said the king. ‘Hate me. Fight me. Just don’t …’ His voice went hoarse, tightening with strain. ‘Just don’t leave me.’

Elo clenched his jaw, looking back to the candle, the stew, still uneaten. It was everything he wanted to say, everything he needed to unburden from himself.

‘I won’t leave you,’ he said. ‘Because … gods help me, I still want you to win.’

And that was not all he wanted. How he hated it when Kissen was right. He did not forgive Arren. He would not. But he felt that blossom of warmth that loosened up the pressure on his heart. In him rose the spark of life that meant, within all the pain, he could feel human again. Just for a moment.

Arren took a step towards him, eye to eye, chin proud. Elo didn’t step away. His breath caught, caught quick. ‘Till this is over then,’ he said. ‘You’ll stay?’

Elo wanted to hold his face and kiss him. He wanted to forget about all the world, and all the wrongs in it. ‘I’m so tired, of being alone,’ said Elo, his voice barely more than a breath. ‘Of killing and dying and hurting and never mourning.’ His voice cracked. ‘I’m so tired of it, Arren.’

Arren came to him. He wrapped his arms around him in an embrace so fierce it almost threw them both over.

They held each other as they had in the old days, the best days.

The simple ones. Elo’s heart ached as Arren’s chin fitted perfectly onto his shoulder, and Elo pressed his temple down onto Arren’s head.

They held each other as they would have when the world ended, and the seas rose up to swallow the lands and the gods tore each other apart.

Then Elo pulled back, and Arren reluctantly loosened his grip, sliding his hands around so they instead pressed on Elo’s chest. He would feel Elo’s heart beating, he would feel the want of him.

‘I want …’ said Elo. He shouldn’t. He mustn’t. ‘I want to not care for a while,’ he said. Not care what Arren had done, who he had become. He wanted the simplicity of flesh and desire, he wanted someone to know him. ‘I want to be reminded what living can be.’

Love and pain are not so different.

‘What?’

Elo leaned down and pressed his mouth to Arren’s. It was a clumsy kiss, unexpected. Arren’s mouth was half open in surprise. But then he dug his hand into Elo’s shirt and pulled him closer. Kissing him hard. Harder.

Tentatively, carefully, Elo moved his hands down Arren’s back, to his waist, pulling him in closer, hip to hip, and parted his mouth. He could feel the warmth of the fire in Arren’s chest, the heat of him.

With fumbling fingers, Arren reached for the rest of the buttons of Elo’s shirt, and Elo let him pull them open. He wanted nothing between them, nothing any more. No shame, no hate, no hurt, only the passion that they had only allowed to smoulder, never to burn.

Elo pushed off Arren’s jacket from his shoulders, feeling their muscles as he did so, then reached up again as it fell, took off the king’s circlet and threw it clanging onto the floor. Then he pulled up his shirt, releasing it from his trews.

The door rattled with a knock, and Elo froze, but Arren used the opportunity to push him down onto the chaise.

‘Leave us,’ he said, his voice deep and commanding as he finished Elo’s job and tore off his own shirt, showing everything.

The heavy blow of the god of war’s axe had torn a diagonal line through his ribcage, caving it in and biting his heart through the cavity.

Now, Hestra’s nest of twigs and flame filled the space with a wall of moss and lichen, the centre burning like a smouldering egg of coal.

It looked more like flesh than Elo had seen before, as if it had grown into him, become part of him.

‘There can be no secrets from her,’ said Arren, apologetically, seeing where Elo’s eyes had gone. ‘We are a part of each other now.’

As if in response, Hestra’s fire licked up Arren’s chest, dancing around his exposed bones and flesh.

Elo touched the chasm, gently, his fingers tracing around the scar.

The flames caressed him softly, not burning.

It did not look like a separate god. This was a wound Arren had suffered to save him. This was who Arren had become.

‘I understand,’ he said at last.

Arren smiled with relief and knelt before Elo.

He put his hands on his waist and kissed the centre of his chest where Hseth had burned it.

Beginning with the tips of each of her fingers, he followed the scarring down, further, over Elo’s heart, over his belly.

Elo’s breath hitched, and he threw his head back.

Pleasure rose in him. Pure, thoughtless, desperate; deep.

Then Arren loosened his belt and released his trews, dragging them down till his thighs were exposed, his knees, his shins, the cloth tangled around his feet.

The king grabbed the glass of wine from the table behind him and took a sip, moistening his mouth, then leaned down and pressed his soft lips to the tops of Elo’s legs, gentle, gentler. Then he took him in his mouth.

Elo gasped, biting his lip to keep from crying out and disturbing the guards further.

Arren drank him in, slow at first, then faster.

Wanting, needing, more and more. He wasn’t experienced, but he was passionate, all his pent-up adoration and loathing going into the movements of his lips, the flicker of his tongue, till Elo couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear to take without giving.

He drew Arren free, then leaned down to kiss his open mouth. Pulled him up onto the chaise with him, then dragging him down onto his back. In the candlelight, he looked fierce and beautiful, his skin bright, his expression full of want.

Elo kissed Arren as tenderly as he had yearned to do, as deeply as he had imagined, his legs slipping between his king’s.

Chest to chest again, heartless and heartful, burned and burning.

He winced as he felt the fire, but Hestra did not hurt him, and he didn’t release the kiss, instead kissing harder, leaning into the flame, pressing them down together.

Together at last.