Anaktoria was scrubbing Cassandra's back. In a private bath. Naked.

  This was her exact recurring dream. The one she had most mornings. Sometimes twice.

  She pinched her nipple.

  "AH!"

  "What was that?" Cassandra's voice, concerned.

  "Muscle spasm." Not dreaming then. Fuck.

  How did she get here? Fragments floated up: Priam saying something about smelling like war crimes. Someone mentioning bath escort. Her own voice volunteering.

  Smooth.

  "Turn." Anaktoria's hands were steady. Captain's hands.

  Cassandra turned and reached for the wine cup. She slipped on the oil, went sideways, caught herself with one knee between Anaktoria's thighs and both hands on her shoulders.

  Anaktoria stopped breathing.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

  "I'm fine!" She gasped.

  "Did I hurt you?"

  "No." It was hard to speak. "Just. Stay. Still."

  The wine cup sat forgotten. Anaktoria's hands found Cassandra's waist. To steady her. Obviously.

  "Your pulse is very visible."

  "I know."

  Cassandra shifted. Anaktoria's grip tightened.

  "Maybe I should-"

  "Stay."

  They stayed. The business of washing abandoned. Cassandra closer now, wine on her breath, studying Anaktoria's face with the focus of the thoroughly drunk.

  "...you're architecturally pleasing."

  Damon was kind of lost.

  "Last door," the servant woman had said. Helpful.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  His shoulder ached. The wine wasn't helping this time. Neither was thinking about...

  Another door. He knocked. "Captain?"

  Nothing.

  He pushed it open. Steam hit thick. "Anaktoria?"

  "Back here." Her voice, oddly tight.

  He moved forward, hand on the wall. The steam started clearing. He could make out the bath's edge, then

  Froze.

  Anaktoria. Cassandra in her lap. Both very still. Watching him.

  "I was looking for..." He forgot the rest.

  "Good." Cassandra, matter-of-fact. "Get in."

  "I'll find another-"

  "Get in the pool." Anaktoria's voice had recovered.

  He recognized the tone. Captain's orders. But her hands were on Cassandra's waist.

  "The water's perfect," Cassandra added. "And you smell like sulfur."

  He did. That's why he was here.

  "Right."

  He started removing armor. Fingers clumsy on familiar buckles. Both women watched.

  "Need help?" Cassandra asked.

  "No."

  "You're doing that strap wrong."

  "I did it this morning."

  "Then you've forgotten." She shifted in Anaktoria's lap. "See? Now you've tangled it."

  She was right. When had simple buckles become complex? The steam. The wine. The view.

  Neither woman moved to help. They just watched him fight the leather.

  "Other side," Anaktoria said finally. "You're pulling the wrong... strap."

  The armor came free. Then the tunic. He felt their attention like heat.

  The pool steps were slippery, accident-prone.

  "It is hot."

  "Told you." Cassandra hadn't looked away once. "Your shoulder's bleeding again."

  "It happens."

  "Come here."

  "I'm fine..."

  "It needs cleaning. Come here."

  He slid fully into the water. The pool wasn't large. Three people made it smaller. He tried to find a neutral distance. The curved bottom made it impossible.

  "Closer," Cassandra insisted. "I can't reach."

  She turned in Anaktoria's lap to face him. The movement was graceless - wine and oil and proximity. Her tailbone ground down. Anaktoria made a small sound.

  "Sorry!"

  "Don't... just stay right there." Her voice had gone very controlled.

  "I need to reach his shoulder."

  "...alright."

  Cassandra leaned forward. Her hands found the wound, started cleaning. Gentle despite the wine. Focused.

  "This has been bleeding all week."

  "Has it?" Damon kept his eyes on the wall.

  "The edges are wrong. Trying to heal but can't." Her fingers traced around it. "Does this hurt?"

  "No."

  "Liar." She pressed gently. He inhaled sharp. "See?"

  "That's not pain."

  "What is it then?"

  He didn't answer. Couldn't with her hands mapping every line of muscle, cataloguing damage with divine focus.

  "You have other scars." Her palm found an old sword cut. "This one's pretty."

  "Scars aren't pretty."

  "This one is. Your art."

  Behind her, Anaktoria was desperately trying not to concentrate on Cassandra shifting in her lap.

  "Okay, you can stop now," Anaktoria's voice cracked.

  "I'm not..." Cassandra paused. Looked down at where she sat. "You're shaking."

  "No."

  "You are. Like before, when your hands..." Recognition dawned. "You're going to break."

  "I'm not—!" Anaktoria's hips bucked. Twice. Hard.

  The movement shifted Cassandra forward. "Oh..." She began processing what happened.

  "They've stopped throwing flaming rocks." Damon's voice suddenly broke the silence. Still facing the wall. "Agamemnon's talking. We might actually... " He stopped. Started again. "We could survive this."

  No one moved.

  "All of us. Together." His shoulders relaxed slightly. "You and me, we should..."

  Silence. Just breathing and water.

  "Should what?" Anaktoria's voice was wrecked.

  "I don't know. Something. After." He still wouldn't turn. "If there's an after."

  Cassandra looked between them. Wine-slow processing. "Are you proposing?"

  "No. Maybe. Fuck." His hand found his face. No turning back. "The timing—"

  "Is perfect," Cassandra said.