On horseback, traveling along the coast with a contingent at his back, it was all so very clear to him; Achilleas, being the intelligent man he was, had of course gone straight across Egypt to their Judean outpost. It’s what Stephanos would have done in his place. To hide out in the first town he came across, at least for long, was out of the question. With his pale skin and bright eyes, Achilleas and any of his men would have been ratted out to the town leaders at once. Then they would have been hunted down and killed, or else given up to the Egyptian lords to decide their fate.

As no letter had reached the Greeks that there were prisoners, and because the spies that Stephanos sent out did not bring back reports of any Greek activity in the towns they passed, Stephanos had to suppose that Achilleas had definitely made it to Judea.

At night, while he lay on his bed roll, staring up at the endless expanse of stars, sometimes he did wonder if he was being foolishly optimistic. Because the truth was that they hadn’t seen hide nor tail of any Greek soldiers. No weapons, no armor, no campfires, no food stuffs, no waste...nothing. Any street urchin they could pay for information didn’t have anything to tell them that was relevant or an obvious lie to justify the gold and to hopefully get more.

What if Achilleas hadn’t made it this far? What if this trip was wasted and he, Stephanos and his men, were getting further and further away from a battle they needed to fight in? There was no one else he’d have allowed to search for his cousin in his place, but at the same time, he felt like a coward. No armies were pursuing them here and the worst they’d had to deal with thus far were unfriendly farmers. Once past the ships in Alexandria, it was all coastline and fishing and farming towns.

Stephanos didn’t feel a bit bad when he had his men roam through the grain field this afternoon, taking what they could carry. The Egyptians in this town were a lot more hostile than the last but another hard day of marching would bring them to Israel and then he’d find friendly faces. ...well...friendlier. It was hard to think of the Judeans as ‘nice’.

The next day was brutal. The march was hard and the pace harder. Stephanos was impatient and putting his men through their paces to get to the outpost. When he saw it in the distance, all the dust and grit of the journey was worth it. The sunburn across his cheeks and nose was worth it. He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode ahead, only to be met by a stubborn old man leaning on a staff, glowering at him. Gurion’s bald head shone in the waning afternoon light and Stephanos had to look away until the old man inclined his head a different and less reflective direction.

“What do you mean the outpost is closed?” he roared. As if these Judeans were going to stop them. For a few perilous minutes, his temper got the better of him. Frustrated with no word about Achilleas and now this man’s stubborn refusal to allow them entry, Stephanos ordered the gates of the city to be broken into pieces. If they weren’t admitted into the outpost willingly, then the Judeans would be forced to host them.

Gurion’s son, Gabriel soon joined them and negotiations began. It was admitted, at long last, that yes, some Greeks were rumored to be here, but where? No one knew. Please leave the city alone. The elders would be meeting soon to discuss terms.

Stephanos glared down at him from atop his horse. “The only reason your city isn’t ablaze,” he said coldly, belatedly remembering that he did not have the support of Taengea on his side and that he was currently at the mercy of the Kotas household, “Is due to my great and generous mercy.” These two did not need to know that Stephanos’s importance in the world had decidedly shrunk while his ego had remained the same, even inflated a bit with this latest setback.

Reining his horse around, he glowered at the Taengeans with him and looked towards the coast. Buildings straggled here and there. Fishing huts, more than likely, and he’d commandeer those for the night. Since there was a whisper of Greeks in the region, he had the first vestiges of real hope returning. Throwing a last, loathing look over his shoulder at Gurion and Gabriel, he led the men up the beach towards the first of the huts.

It was old with graying timbers and a door that screamed on its hinges when opened. “These will do,” he said sourly, dismounting from his horse and glaring around. His men broke to make camp and Stephanos handed off his horse to one of them, preferring to explore than to see to the beast’s need of water and rest. The second hut yielded no one and so did the third. There were several more in a line and Stephanos approached the fourth, a little bored now. He knew what he’d find. One room. Empty. Probably fishing tackle and a bucket. At least if they could catch some fish, they might be able to have a decentish supper. He did not know that this hut was occupied.

Krysto's gaze was locked to the form that was heading for the little shed that they were staying in. He knew that face. He knew the golden hair and the look of disdain. And all that the man felt in that moment was... pure and complete relief. It washed over him like cold water being thrown in his face, and he felt like he was in a cave, Achilleas' words echoing off the walls but Krysto hardly able to understand him. This was the best possible thing that could have happened to them both in that moment and Krysto didn't protest when Achilleas shoved himself in front of him and threw the door open.

He did protest about the blade, "Achi--"

And then Achilleas seemed to falter, his arm dropping to his side as he looked into the face of his cousin. He did poke his head out at first to look at Stephanos, his features a mask that showed nothing, but then he was ducking back into the hut, leaning against the wall beside the door and slowly sliding down until he sat on his but on the dirt floor.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head forward, trying to get a grip on the racing of his heart and how much he wanted to just scream. Scream with relief. He'd carted Achilleas from Egypt, across miles and miles and miles of beach, made a deal with a pirate to get them to safety, and then lead him even further across Judea, all the while trying to keep them out of sight, out of mind. Trying to keep watch for enemies and friends.

His head ached. It killed. He might be able to sleep restfully that night, rather than in constant fits of sleep then awake, around and around and around again. And... food. They had to have food with them. More than the rations they had been given. Just enough to not be noticed by the husband of the young woman that had been shielding them away from society.

Rubbing hard at the back of his neck, Krysto actually gripped his own growing curls, willing himself to get a grip, stand back up, and face his kinsmen. His one eye closed and he breathed out slowly once, then took in a very deep breath, finally feeling emotion burn at the back of his throat. What he had done hadn't been in vain, then. Achilleas could continue to resent him for pulling him off the battlefield and leaving others to die, but no one would resent Krysto more than Krysto. And if he hadn't, there was a chance that neither of them would have ever reunited with Stephanos at all. Krysto didn't claim to be the Prince's best friend, but they'd still grown up in the same sphere of Achilleas'.

Never once had he ever thought that he would be glad to see Stephanos' face, simply because he usually resorted to wanting to punch it for all of the bullshit that Stephanos had put him through in the past. But here, at war? Here he was glad to see the man, glad that it wasn't just he and Achilleas. Glad that there was someone else to watch their back and that his eye could rest.

Finally shoving his hands against his knees, Krysto pushed himself to steady feet, turning slowly and reapproaching the King and his cousin. Reaching out, Krysto clapped Stephanos on the shoulder, relief tinging the roughened sound of Krysto's mostly unused voice. "It is a relief to find friends and not enemies," he said calmly, then pulled his hand away, blinking against the harsh light of the Judean sands.

His one blue eye unfocused and then he closed it, leaning against the door frame of the shed and shaking his aching head. His shoulders slumped in something that wasn't exactly defeat, but more a signal that he was tired. Exhausted, actually.

Achilleas clung to his cousin like a burr, those few desperate moments where he couldn’t quite believe it, needed to touch to confirm it was really Stephanos there and not some cruel hangover of that poison which had seen him talking to ghosts and figments of his imagination. But the man was solid beneath his arm, and he couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat for a second, glad that Krysto filled the silence so he could find some composure again.

The sudden burst of laughter at Steph’s ridiculous understatement was far too loud, but Achilleas was glad it was that and not the relieved sob that he’d been afraid might come out when he opened his mouth. And the observation could hardly be denied, the dark-haired man looked exactly as one might be expected to look after nearly crossing the river and instead being spat out in a country that offered no welcome save a shabby fish store and scavenged food. Though his skin had darkened under the Egyptian sun and then the layers of accumulated grime, there was a sallowness to Achilleas’ complexion, made more by the dark circles that shadowed his eyes. Thinner too, his features cut more sharply, his weeks away from Taengea had not been the kindest it would seem.

“I’ve felt better” he replied, letting his hand rest on Stephanos’ shoulder, his fingers squeezing. “ I can’t…” There was a pause where he took a ragged breath, choked down the edge to his voice. “ ….its good to see you”

It was all a little overwhelming then, the suddeness of being surrounded by others after so many days just the two of them. And though noone was clumsy enough to ask, he could see the curiosity in their gazes, the unspoken questions that would surely come. Achilleas found himself looking for Krysto amongst the others even as Stephanos began to lead him toward where fires had been started. He beckoned the other man join them, even as he stumbled in the direction he was led.

His cousin sounded unimpressed with the rations they had to offer but Achilleas’ stomach gave a grumble at even the thought. And when they reached the fires, he sank gladly down to sitting, eyeing the fires they hadn’t allowed themselves for fear of discovery.

He ate quickly, like only a hungry man could; the bread was dry, but solid, the goat leather more salt than anything. A veritable banquet. It was only when they were sated and the clamour of the soldiers arrival settled into something quieter that Achilleas cleared his throat and asked what he almost didn’t dare to ask.

“How did you come here? Via Egypt? Did you...were there others?” His gaze had already restlessly scanned the men that Stephanos brought with him, hoping to see faces he knew amongst them, men who’d fought alongside him in Manopotapa.

There would be other conversations to be had too, he was sure, with the man sitting opposite him, but Achilleas couldn’t wait any longer to know the fate of those they had left behind, the compulsion to worry at the wound too pressing.