Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It began without warning, as if the day itself had been torn open.

One moment, the borderlands lay in their uneasy calm - smoke rising lazily from Greek cookfires, sentries shifting their weight against spear shafts, the earth holding its breath beneath a sky already paling with cold. The next, the sound came: not a single horn or shout, but a violent convergence of noise that crashed down all at once. Steel rang, voices broke, and the Trojan force surged forward with a precision that left no time for disbelief. There was no gradual awakening to danger. There was only impact.

Men died where they stood, cut down before orders could form. The air filled with the smell of iron and churned soil, breath turning ragged as battle swallowed every thought. The fighting was brutal and brief, compressed into a frenzy of motion - shields splintering, formations collapsing, commands drowned beneath the weight of bodies pressing forward. Greeks fought back with ferocity born of shock, but they were already behind the rhythm of the assault. The Trojans moved like a single will, reclaiming ground step by step, forcing the enemy back with a resolve sharpened by loss and longing for what had been theirs.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

The shouting thinned. Blades slowed, then stopped. Survivors staggered away or fell where exhaustion finally claimed them. Victory did not announce itself with celebration; it simply remained when everything else withdrew. The land lay reclaimed, the borders drawn again in blood and silence, secured just before winter could truly set its teeth into the world.

Cold crept in almost immediately, as if the season had been waiting for permission. Snow began to fall. The first flakes melted on hot metal and bare skin, hissed softly where they touched still-warm blood. Breath fogged the air. The battlefield exhaled one last time and then went still.

Silence stretched across the land, wide and unbroken. No cries, no clashing steel - only the faint whisper of snow settling over the dead. Bodies lay scattered in unnatural quiet, their violence reduced to shapes beneath a whitening veil. Spears stood abandoned, banners drooped, and the earth, torn and trampled, slowly disappeared beneath the pale promise of winter.

It was through this hush that footsteps sounded.

Measured. Unafraid. Almost respectful.

Two figures moved among the fallen, their presence incongruous against the ruin. Snow drifted around them, catching in silver hair, sliding from long feathers that dragged across the ground without leaving a mark. One looked young, almost fragile, eyes holding colors no living tongue could hold. The other seemed carved from the idea of humanity rather than its truth, wings impossibly long, weightless despite their span.

They walked as the silence deepened, as the cold settled in fully, as the battlefield crossed the quiet threshold from aftermath into memory.

Hermes walked with easy grace through the field of bodies, boots pressing into the thin skin of snow and mud beneath. Each step left a clear imprint behind him, shallow but unmistakable, a brief claim upon the earth. Beside him, Thanatos moved without sound or trace. His wings dragged across the ground, cape-like shape, black on the outside and blinding on the inside, whispering through frost and grass, yet nothing bent, nothing marked his passing. Snow fell through him as if uncertain whether he was truly there.

Hermes lifted a hand, and gold appeared in his palm as though it had been waiting for him all along. Small, round coins - dull with age, stamped by mortal hands that could never quite capture the gods. He knelt beside a fallen soldier, brushed snow from the man's face, and gently placed a coin over each unseeing eye.

"For passage," he murmured, his voice light and melodic, almost casual. His mouth held that familiar, uncanny smile - the one mortals trusted too easily - but something beneath it ached, stretched thin with sorrow he did not allow to surface.

They moved on. Another body. Another offering.

Thanatos watched in silence for a while, head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beneath the world. When he spoke, his voice did not come from one place but many - a layered harmony of men and women, children and elders, low and distant, like a funeral chant carried on the wind through stone halls.

"For all the savagery," he said, "they showed restraint. Armor still rests on shoulders. Blades remain sheathed at the dead man's side. Some were even given the kindness of burial."

Hermes's hands did not pause as he conjured more coins, their soft clink sounding obscenely loud in the quiet field. "Yes," he said. "Mercy survives in strange places." He straightened, snow settling on his silver hair, sliding down the gold jewelry that wrapped his arms, his legs, his waist. With every step, it shimmered - bracelets, anklets, chains catching the pale winter light. "Still," he added, carefully placing another coin, "I wish gold were not the expected payment."

Thanatos turned his faceless gaze toward him. Tilted his head like an owl. "Too costly?"

Hermes let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. "Too costly," he agreed, and for the first time, the grief beneath his smile showed clearly in his eyes. "How many soldiers go unhonored simply because respect has a price? How many families must choose between survival and tradition?"

Thanatos regarded him for a long moment. Then, with faint amusement woven into the chorus of his voice, he said, "It always surprises me to hear this from the greediest of gods."

Hermes stopped walking.

He looked at Thanatos, smile still perfectly in place, and corrected him gently. "No. You misunderstand." He gestured to himself - at the gold that adorned him from throat to ankle, gleaming with every movement. "I love gold. I love it as a luxury. As beauty. As something to wear, to shine, to delight the eye."

They resumed walking, Hermes's footprints continuing their lonely line through the snow.

"But I cannot understand killing for it," Hermes went on, voice calm, almost instructional. "You cannot eat gold to satisfy hunger. You cannot forge a better plow from it than from plain iron. It builds nothing that truly lasts." He knelt again, placing a coin over a young man's eyes, brushing frost from the lashes with surprising tenderness. "And I see no reason it should be needed for anyone to move on once their mortal days are done."

Thanatos's wings stirred, feathers whispering across the ground like breath over graves. "And yet," he said, his many-voiced tone softening, "for the reasons you name, it serves its purpose."

Hermes glanced back at him. Having to look up to face the tall, thin being.

"Gold is not easy to obtain," Thanatos continued. "It demands effort, sacrifice, relinquishment. When a family adorns their dead with it, when they give up what they might have kept, it speaks clearly. It says: "You were worth this loss. That we loved you enough to part with what sustains us."

Hermes considered this as snow thickened, covering old blood, softening the sharp lines of death. At last, he placed the final coin, rose to his feet, and nodded - once, slowly.

"…Perhaps," he said quietly.

They walked on together, one leaving footprints, the other leaving none, as winter claimed the battlefield and the dead were gently prepared for the journey ahead.

The land stretched out before them, wide and empty, its silence pressing heavier than any clash of arms. Snow continued to fall, softening the scars of battle, but it could not hide the absence - no breath, no movement, no life left to answer the cold. Hermes slowed, then stopped, gazing across the vastness as though trying to measure it.

"I hate this part," he said at last. His voice was quiet, the smile still fixed upon his face, but dulled, worn thin. "The knowing that this is barely the beginning."

He turned his head slightly toward his companion. "Did your sisters whisper to you?" he asked. "The Moirai. Did they tell you how grand this war will become, how long it will stretch itself across mortal years?"

Thanatos did not look at him at once. Snow drifted through his wings, vanished against the nothingness of his form. When he answered, his voice was even, distant, layered as ever.

"You already know the answer, my friend. For me, like for many children of Endless Nigh, time does not obey the same laws it does for you. Or for the mortals you shepherd." A pause. "Duration means little where inevitability reigns."

Hermes hummed softly, then let a spark of mockery curl into his tone. "Is that so?" He glanced sideways, silver eyes glinting. "Then tell me - if time means so little to you - why did you let yourself be caught in chains by a mere mortal? For weeks stranded and at his mercy."

Thanatos stopped.

A few paces ahead lay a soldier not yet claimed by the cold. His body trembled against the snow, blood spreading beneath him in a dark, uneven bloom. His breath came shallow and rushed, each inhale sounding like it might be his last. His eyes fluttered, unfocused - until they found the death. Creature is barely human. Breathtaking light of all colours wrapped in pure darkness. Silhouette too thin, too tall, so meek it felt like a breeze could blow it away.

Understanding arrived before fear had time to shape itself into words.

The soldier's breath hitched. His mouth opened as if to cry out, to plead, to pray - but no sound came. His hands twitched weakly at his sides, fingers curling into the snow as though trying to hold the world in place for just a moment longer.

Thanatos knelt beside him.

He reached out with careful slowness, taloned fingers gentler than their shape suggested, and brushed frost and blood from the soldier's cheek. The touch was cool, but not cruel. The man shuddered once beneath it, eyes wide, then slowly - almost against his will - his fear softened. Whatever he saw in god's face did not promise pain.

One of the sharp talons moved a little higher. He slid his fingers into the soldier's hair and gathered a small lock, steadying his hand as one might with a child.

The claw passed through.

There was no agony. No struggle. The soldier exhaled, long and thin, as though releasing something he had been carrying too long. His features eased. A faint smile touched his lips - small, fragile, but earnest in its withering state. His eyes drifted closed, and with his final breath came a whisper, barely a sound at all.

It might have been a thank you.

It might have been a name.

Death rose slowly, the severed lock of hair resting in his palm.

"Because," he said after a moment, voice quieter now, the chorus softened into something almost singular, "despite my age and my power, I have weaknesses like any other being." His gaze lingered on the soldier's face, already growing still. "I am well accustomed to cries, screams, and even acceptance, but I am not accustomed to praise. Least of all for something like beauty."

Pale figure was offered two coins, and with unchanging care, he placed them on the eyes of a man whose thread was freshly cut. Then searching for other breaths visible through the cold, he whispered. "When I heard someone truly find me beautiful, I couldn't help but want to stay. And for the first time, my heart was filled with greed for love and praise."

Hermes, who had watched in uncharacteristic silence, let out a low chuckle - not sharp, not mocking. It carried warmth and something like shared sorrow. "Love," he said gently. "Seems to be a stronger force than any of us gives it credit for."

Thanatos's wings shifted, feathers trailing through the snow that refused to acknowledge them. "Of course," he replied, a note of sadness threading through the harmony. "After all… this war itself is being waged in the name of love."

Hermes studied him then, more carefully. "Tell me something," he said. "If the betrayal still weighs so heavily on you… Why did you let him be young again before ending him? Why give Sisyphus that mercy?"

Thanatos did not answer at once.

"At first," he said finally, "it was decided as a fitting punishment. To ruin his bonds by his own greed and indulgence. To ensure that this time, his lack of burial would not come from clever deceit or the pride of a cunning mind."

Hermes tilted his head, unconvinced.

Thanatos's voice lowered further. "But that is not the whole truth."

Snow continued to fall between them, quiet and patient.

"I was afraid," Thanatos admitted. "If he were allowed to age naturally… he might learn to wait for me again. The way he did before." A pause. "And I was not ready to face him head-on. I had to do it when his face was young and calm with sleep."

Hermes's smile softened completely then, stripped of its mischief. He stepped closer, golden jewelry chiming faintly as he moved.

"Love," he began, voice thoughtful now, reverent even, "has a way of undoing us. It makes gods hesitate. Makes death itself weak." He glanced at the fallen soldier, at the lock of hair in Thanatos's hand. "Maybe that's why it hurts so much. And why it matters at all."

The warning came on failing legs.

The soldier had run until his lungs burned raw, until his vision narrowed and the world tilted beneath him. Blood soaked his side, every step tearing the wound wider, yet he did not stop - not when his strength faltered, not when the cold gnawed into his bones. He stumbled into the outer perimeter of the Greek camp just as dawn began to thin the night, breath tearing from him in broken gasps.

"Troy-" he tried to say, voice cracking. "The borders-"

Hands caught him before he fell. It took him a moment to gain back consciousness and enough air in his lungs to explain everything. The attack, the forces against them... and more.

By the time he finished explaining everything to Agamemnon, the camp was already awake in panic.

Shouts cut through the morning mist. Fear moved faster than any man.

At the heart of it all stood the war tent.

Inside, the air was thick with anger and smoke. Kings and generals spoke over one another, voices rising, overlapping, colliding. Maps were spread across the table, stones marking positions that no longer existed.

"This is madness! We wasted MONTHS for nothing," one king snarled. "We never should have pressed the border. We should've attacked before they had a chance to gather allies!"

"-Ally. As far as we know, only one city lends its strength."

Eyes turned toward Odysseus.

"So this was your clever plan?" another demanded. "To provoke Troy and leave us exposed?"

Odysseus stood between larger men, hands folded loosely behind her back. Her face was calm, unreadable, as if the chaos failed to touch her. When she spoke, she did not raise her voice, yet it carried.

"Everyone here knew the risk," she said evenly. "The plan was to ruin god-blessed shelter by starving them. It was discussed. Argued. Agreed upon. No one was misled."

She met their gazes one by one. "To dedicate yourselves to this cause was to accept that some plans would fail. That some lives would be lost."

A scoff answered her.

"And yet," a king pressed, voice sharp with suspicion, "you did not leave your own men to guard the border. Convenient, isn't it?"

The tension sharpened instantly.

Before Odysseus could reply, Menelaus slammed his hand against the table. "Enough," he snapped. "You accuse her as if you stood that border yourself."

The king bristled. "I-"

"You didn't leave men there either," Menelaos continued, voice cold. "Neither did most of us-"

"-Because we all knew the same truth: the plan only had a chance if the force was small. If it moved quietly. If it risked everything." Agamemnon spoke over his brother, continuing the thought. Menelaus looked at him sternly but didn't interrupt his older brother.

Some prince from the back shouted. "Argos was the one to lose the most men. And yet Diomedes isn't present! Why is that?!"

"Tydeides, with other epigoni, left yesterday to offer sacrifices to his patroness. I will be speaking in his name." Answered Eurylaus. Scepter in his hand seemed lighter than it had any right to be. When he spoke, nobody would dare to interrupt.

Outside the tent, Achilles paced.

He tried to enter once. The guard stepped in front of him without hesitation.

"I need to know what's happening," Achilles said, already bristling.

"You're not permitted," the man replied. "The leaders are meeting."

Achilles frowned. "Then ask them."

When he pressed closer, another voice cut in, sharp and dismissive. "Be quiet. Adults are talking."

Something in Achilles snapped.

He seized the man by the collar, lifting him off the ground with one hand. "Say that again," he growled, fury blazing bright and sudden.

Before it could go further, Phoenix was there.

"Achilles," he said firmly, gripping his arm. "Enough."

Achilles shook him off, still glaring toward the tent. "They let Patroclus in."

Phoenix sighed, tired and steady. Patroclus represents the Myrmidons. You fight for them." He softened his voice. "This is already chaos. If soldiers start crowding the tent, it will tear itself apart."

Achilles clenched his jaw, knuckles white, then finally released the guard. "So we just wait," he spat. "While they argue?"

"For now," Phoenix said gently. "Yes."

Achilles turned away, anger radiating from him like heat, and stalked back toward his camp.

Inside the war tent, the noise pressed in from every side - raised voices, the scrape of armor, the constant rustle of men shifting their weight as if restlessness alone might produce an answer. Patroclus stood among them, shoulders tight, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes tracked every speaker, every accusation, every half-formed plan, but the strain showed plainly in the way his breath came too shallow, too fast.

Odysseus noticed before anyone else did.

She stepped closer without drawing attention, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. It was not a gesture of possession, nor of comfort alone, but of grounding - an anchor amid the storm. Patroclus startled faintly, then focused on the pressure of her touch. His breathing slowed. The noise receded just enough.

"…Thank you," he murmured once he had himself again.

Odysseus inclined her head, nothing more.

That was when a voice cut through the tent, sharp and accusing.

"Of course, she would go whisper to his ear," a man sneered, pointing openly now. "Perhaps if our queen paid more attention to her position and less to her eromenos, this disaster might have been avoided."

The word hung in the air like a thrown blade.

Patroclus flushed, anger flashing bright and immediate. He opened his mouth to shout, denial already forming - 

Odysseus leaned in and whispered, low enough that only he could hear.

"Do not scream," she said calmly. "It is not the role of a king to raise his voice like a madman."

Patroclus froze. Then he closed his mouth. His jaw tightened, but he nodded once and stepped back into stillness. When the scepter was offered to him, he took it with both hands, waiting until the murmurs faded and his turn was undeniable.

Only then did he speak.

"I am here," he said, voice steady despite the heat in his chest, "as a prince and leader of Myrmidons, and you will treat me as such."

Then Agamemnon rose and took the scepter from Patroclus's hands.

"It was I," he said firmly, "who demanded Patroclus be given a mentor." His gaze fixed on the accuser. "Not an erastes. A mentor. And so far, Odysseus has fulfilled every expectation placed upon her."

He turned slowly, letting his words sink in. "Now," he continued, "if any of you feel so certain you could do better - lead your people, advise this council, command foreign armies, and mentor another force while attending every necessary meeting - then raise your hand."

Silence answered him.

No hands rose.

Agamemnon nodded once. "That," he said flatly, "is what I expected." he took a deep breath. "And since you seem to have calmed down, there is also another matter we need to discuss." Menelaus turned to him with wide eyes, but the king of kings didn't falter. "The soldier had one more message. That some of the men are still alive. It means that at least a dozen Argives have a chance to return."

"Did they set the price?" Asked Nestor, who so far silently followed the conversation.

"They want to negotiate."

"It's madness!" The other king shouted, not waiting fr scepter to be handed to him. "How would they prove that they are still alive?!"

"They want to meet soon in the temple of Athena. Only a fool would dare to lie in her presence."

Eurylaus waited for his turn before speaking." What's important is that we might save at least some of our people. I will go if it means saving my soldiers." The man looked at the short woman across him. "And I think Odysseus should join me."

Patroclus spoke next. Barely holding the scepter before he was heard. "But those are Argives that we are talking about! Why does she have to take care of your men?!"

Odysseus grabbed him by the shoulder, but this time not as an encouragement but to silently ask him to stop. Then she looked at the men gathered. Her voice was calm, but there was iron beneath it.

"My plan failed," she said plainly. "I will accept the consequences of that failure." She looked around the tent. Her eyes hardened, just slightly.

"But in the future, I will expect the same from you. If your plan fails, you will bear its weight as well."

The tent fell quiet - not with agreement, but with the uncomfortable realization that responsibility had been laid bare, and no one present could easily step away from it.

Later, when the noise of the council finally loosened its grip on him, Patroclus returned to the Myrmidon camp alone.

The tent flap fell closed behind him, muting the distant clatter of the army. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the familiar smell of leather, oil, and iron. His thoughts, unbidden, slipped back to the war tent - to Odysseus's hand resting on his shoulder.

She was shorter than he was. Slighter. And yet when she had touched him, the world had steadied. The chaos had softened at its edges. He hadn't felt restrained or commanded - only supported, as if someone had quietly reminded him that he was not standing there alone. And even when she was scolding him, it wasn't to shame him for his mistakes.

The corner of his mouth lifted before he realized it.

"What's got you smiling like that?"

Patroclus cursed, sharp and startled, spinning toward the sound. Only then did he notice Achilles, already inside, sprawled casually on Patroclus's bed as if it belonged to him.

"Gods, Achilles," Patroclus snapped. "Announce yourself."

Achilles grinned, unbothered. "You came in looking pleased. Didn't expect that after a meeting like this. The screams were heard from here." He leaned back on his hands. "So? How are things so cheerful in there?"

Patroclus turned away, setting his helmet aside with more force than necessary. "None of your business."

Achilles raised a brow. "It is my business if my army's about to be sent somewhere."

Patroclus stiffened. "It's my army," he said, voice tight. "Because I was there from the beginning."

Achilles scoffed. "Doesn't matter if you spent most of that time as someone's lap dog."

The words struck harder than Patroclus expected. Heat flared up his spine, and it took effort - real effort - not to shout immediately.

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," he said through clenched teeth.

Achilles sat up now, eyes sharp with challenge. "What's there to understand? You trail after her, hang on her every word - of course, it looks like you're trying to impress her. Or maybe court her."

Patroclus turned, face flushed. "That's not - no!"

Achilles's grin turned cruelly knowing. "Right. As if it wasn't obvious. You just wish you were officially her eromenos so you could actually fuck her without restraints."

That did it.

"Get out!" Patroclus shouted, the word tearing from him raw and furious. "Get out of my tent!"

Silence snapped tight between them, the air suddenly heavy with things neither of them was ready to name. Patroclus stood rigid, fists clenched, chest heaving - no longer smiling, no longer steady, the memory of Odysseus's grounding hand painfully distant now.

Phoenix entered the tent a moment later (and Kopis behind him), the flap still swaying behind him. His eyes went first to the empty space where Achilles had been, then to Patroclus - rigid, flushed, breathing too hard.

"I saw him storm out," Phoenix said carefully. "Are you-"

Patroclus let out a tired breath and waved a hand. "Sadly," he said, forcing a weak smile, "it's nothing new."

The small dog made a noise to remind everyone about himself. Patroclus picked up the dog, who, despite being young, was now twice as big.

Phoenix studied him for a moment, then sighed and chose a lighter tone. "I'll admit," he said, "I'm a little shocked you haven't moved in with the Ithacans at this point. Your dog clearly treats the queen's tent as his second home."

Patroclus barked a short laugh and flopped backward onto the bed, arms thrown over his face. "I wanted to," he groaned. "Gods, I really wanted to."

Phoenix raised a brow. "And?"

"She said no," Patroclus muttered as the pup moved to lick his owner's face. "Told me I should stay with my people. That it isn't good for a leader to be far from those who need him."

Phoenix nodded slowly. "Wise words."

"Yes," Patroclus said, quieter now. "…They are." There was a shy note to his agreement, as if admitting it out loud embarrassed him.

Phoenix took a seat nearby. "Have you thought about trying to resolve this with Achilles?"

Patroclus turned his head away. "He wouldn't understand."

"Why not?"

Patroclus opened his mouth - and stalled. His brow furrowed. "It's just… he's-" He faltered, words tangling uselessly. "He's Achilles."

Phoenix smiled faintly. "That's not an explanation," he said gently.

"It is when you know him."

"I do know him, and I can tell that both of you are acting childish."

Patroclus turned to his side. Hand gently petting the dog. "But why am I always the one who has to be 'the better man'? He always does something on impulse, and yet only I am told to behave."

"You both are told to behave. But only you listen."

Patroclus stopped before her tent and forced himself to breathe once before speaking.

"My queen?" he called. "May I enter?"

There was the faint scratch of a stylus on wax from inside, then her voice—calm as ever. "You may."

He pushed aside the flap and stepped in properly, letting it fall closed behind him.

Odysseus was seated at the low table, a wax tablet balanced in her palm, stylus moving in steady, deliberate strokes. A small stack of folded parchment lay to one side, weighted with a bronze knife. She did not look up immediately.

Patroclus's gaze dropped to the open chest near her cot.

Clothes. Travel cloak. A sealed pouch of coin.

His jaw tightened.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though the answer was already pressing unpleasantly at the edges of his thoughts.

"Writing a list of duties," she replied without pausing her hand. "In my absence."

The words landed harder than they should have.

Patroclus stepped closer. "About that, I-"

"I don't want you to come with me," she finished smoothly, still writing.

He stared at her. "I wasn't-"

"You were," she said gently.

She finally looked up then, meeting his eyes. There was no irritation there, only certainty.

"Don't." He stepped further inside. "Something about this is wrong."

"The meeting is at the temple," she replied evenly, tying a cord tight around the satchel. "Sacred ground. It would take a particularly foolish man to offend the gods so openly."

Patroclus folded his arms. "Men have been foolish before."

She allowed herself a faint smile at that. "Yes. But rarely suicidal."

He watched her a moment longer, then said, "I'm coming with you."

"No."

The refusal was immediate.

He blinked. "Why?"

Odysseus finally turned to face him. "Because you don't speak the language, and because I would spend the entire time calculating how to keep you alive instead of listening."

He opened his mouth to argue.

"And," she added, softer now, "because I would feel much better knowing you're safe here."

That stopped him.

He exhaled sharply. "You shouldn't be alone."

"I won't be alone." She gestured toward the tent entrance. "Euryalus will accompany me. A few of his men as well. Enough to show we respect the meeting, not enough to make it look like a threat."

Patroclus's jaw tightened. "That doesn't make me feel better."

"It isn't meant to."

She softened slightly at the look on his face. "Eurylaus is steady. He listens more than he speaks. That's what I need."

"And Eurylochus?" Patroclus asked, almost accusingly.

A flicker crossed her expression. Brief, gone quickly. "Hunting," she said. "And unlikely to return in time."

There was the faintest sigh beneath her next words. "If I'm honest, I would prefer him at my side. But we don't always get the timing we want."

Patroclus paced once, agitation refusing to settle. "I should be doing more."

"You already are."

"That's not the same."

She stepped closer, resting her hands on the table between them. "A leader must know when to step forward," she said quietly, "and when to remain where he is most needed."

He squinted at her. "Does Eurylochus remind you of that often?"

She shot him a look. "Shush."

Despite himself, Patroclus almost smiled.

The flap of the tent rustled before either of them could speak again.

A small blur of fur tumbled inside with all the urgency of a soldier late for formation.

"Kopis," Patroclus sighed.

The puppy wasted no time. He trotted straight to Odysseus, paws already lifting as if convinced she would meet him halfway. She did. Kneeling slightly, she scooped him up before he could attempt the climb himself.

"Well, good morning to you too," she murmured, fingers immediately finding the spot behind his ears that made his hind leg twitch.

Patroclus crossed his arms. "I'll probably have to keep him in my tent once you leave. Otherwise, he'll try to follow you."

Odysseus tilted her head at the puppy. "Would you really miss me that much?"

Patroclus snorted. "He'll miss how often you share your food with him."

She gasped theatrically. "I do not-"

Kopis licked her chin.

She melted instantly. "Oh, look at you," she cooed, lifting him higher and carrying him toward Patroclus. "How am I supposed to say no to this face?"

Patroclus gave her a flat look. "The same way you order me around without guilt or shame."

"That's different."

"Of course it is."

She held the puppy against her shoulder protectively, as if Patroclus might attempt to confiscate him. "You're fully grown."

"So is he, in his own mind."

Patroclus rolled his eyes. "You know, you'd see him more often if you let me set up my tent in the Ithacan camp."

"No."

She answered without even looking at him while rubbing the puppy's belly.

"That's favoritism," Patroclus accused. "You refuse me but not him."

"That is because he doesn't argue strategy with me."

"He would if he could."

She finally set Kopis down, though her hand lingered in his fur. Then she stepped closer to Patroclus, studying him with a narrowed gaze.

He stiffened slightly. "What?"

She reached up without warning and brushed her thumb lightly along his cheek. He flinched - not from pain, but surprise.

"You've cut yourself," she said.

"It's nothing."

She leaned closer, examining the faint line of red near his jaw. "Did you have trouble shaving?"

"I know how to shave," he said defensively.

She arched a brow.

He hesitated, then added awkwardly, "I just… don't really know how to trim it properly. Or shape it. I never had to before."

"Why not ask Phoenix?" she suggested lightly.

Patroclus stared at her. "Have you seen his beard? I doubt that man has touched a blade in thirty years."

Odysseus laughed at that - quiet, genuine.

"Sit," she said, pointing toward the small stool near the bronze mirror.

He blinked. "What?"

"Sit."

There was no room for argument in her tone.

Patroclus obeyed, lowering himself onto the stool while Kopis settled near his feet, watching with deep interest.

She stepped back, grabbing a towel, a small vial, and a washbasin.

"Apply the oil while I go fetch the blade."

He listened. The scent of oil reminded him of how Agamemnon's tent smelled. Deep herbal aroma with something smoky. He applied it evenly on his jaw, feeling an uncomfortable shiver when his fingers traced over the fresh cuts. Kopis sniffed around, but when it was clear that there was no food for him, he climbed onto Odysseus' cot, where he lay down and let out a deep sigh.

The prince smiled at the image, only to almost fall back when looking at the mirror and seeing that now behind him was the young queen with a sharp blade in her hand.

Patroclus's eyes widened as the metal glinted in the lamplight. "Wait - what are you doing?!"

Odysseus raised a brow. "What does it look like?"

"You're going to shave me?! Why?!"

"Because I don't have a beard, Patroclus," she said, smirking. "So I'm going to show you how it's done."

Before he could protest, she tilted his jaw so he would be sitting straight in front of the mirror. He tried to not tense when he felt her hand on his chin. Her hands were cold in contrast to the warmth he felt behind him as she was almost embracing him.

"You're nervous," she observed with a little smile.

"Anyone would be," he said with a chuckle that was too tight to be convincing. "Most people tense up when someone's got a blade near their throat."

"If I wanted to cut you," she said smoothly, "you'd have been dead ages ago."

"...Comforting."

"Hold still and watch closely because I will show it only once."

The blade moved with practiced precision, gliding over the stubble with gentle but assured strokes. Patroclus watched in the mirror, both amazed and bewildered by how calm she was, how skillful. Her face was a mask of composure, focused and firm.

"You're very good at this," he murmured before he could stop himself.

Her eyes did not lift from their task. "It is not difficult."

"It is," he insisted quietly. "I've been trying."

She shifted angles, trimming the line beneath his ear with surgical steadiness. Her hands did not tremble. Not once.

"You've done this before," he murmured, still stunned. "You're really good."

She didn't answer at first. Her mind drifting to different times.

The afternoon sun spilled golden light into Hector's chambers, casting soft patterns over the floor and warming the stone walls. A faint breeze drifted through the open balcony, stirring the curtains and carrying with it the scent of thyme and pomegranate trees.

Hector sat on a low stool, his injured arm bound and supported against his chest, posture careful but relaxed. Odysseus stood before him, sleeves rolled, a small tray at her side holding a blade, oil, and cloth. Her brows were drawn together in concentration even before she'd begun.

He watched her for a moment, amused. Then he said lightly, "You know, you could wait."

She paused. "Wait for what?"

"For my arm to heal," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I've managed my beard for years. I won't suddenly forget how once I can move properly again."

Odysseus clicked her tongue in quiet irritation. "And in the meantime, you'll keep scratching me every time you want to cuddle?" She replied. "It's already unbearable. You brushed my cheek earlier, and it felt like I was about to get splinters."

Hector laughed, deep and warm. "That bad?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Now sit still."

He raised his good hand in mock surrender. "As my lady commands." But it was obvious that Odysseus was the nervous one, even if she wasn't at risk of being cut. She stopped her hands from shaking when she heard her lover speaking again. "You've been staring for five whole minutes."

"I'm gauging the battlefield," she muttered, lifting his chin gently.

"It's my face, not a siege wall."

"Well, it's shaped like one," she teased, smiling slightly as she leaned in. "You've got the jawline of a fortress."

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were flirting with me, Odysseus."

She huffed, focusing on trimming the bristled edge of his beard. "Flirting with a man who hasn't trimmed his beard in weeks? Please. I have standards."

He cracked one eye open, smirking. "Be honest - would I look good with a mustache?"

She stopped mid-trim and raised a brow. "No. Absolutely not."

"Ouch." He laughed. "Why not?"

"Because you already scratch me half to death with your beard, and I'm not kissing a hedgehog."

That did it. Hector burst into laughter, shoulders shaking, which immediately made her hiss in alarm.

"Stop moving," she scolded, pressing a hand to his chin to steady him. "Do you want me to slit your throat?"

"Gods forbid," he said, still smiling. "I'd rather die in a more dignified way."

She muttered something under her breath and finally began, movements slow and careful. Despite her earlier irritation, her hands were gentle, practiced. She worked in silence, trimming and smoothing, occasionally dabbing his skin with the cloth. Hector, for all his teasing, stayed remarkably still.

When she finished, she stepped back, exhaling. "There. Done."

He leaned toward the bronze mirror, inspecting the result with exaggerated seriousness. Then he nodded, satisfied, and looked back at her. "You're very good at that."

She shrugged, suddenly shy. "I've had practice."

He tilted his head. "Where did you learn?"

"I helped Polites," she said simply. "With injured men. Cleaning wounds, trimming hair so bandages would hold. He needed another pair of steady hands. Philoctetes especially had the bad habit of getting injured and then needing someone to keep an eye on him."

Hector's brow lifted, playful. "So I'm not the only one you've tended?"

She met his gaze evenly. "You're the only one who ended up with zero cuts."

That made him grin. "Lucky me." Then he looked at her again. Adorned in colours of Troy, Hair in loose braid held together by two ribbons. He couldn't help but smile. "I can't wait for the moment you'll stay here with me."

She gave him an equally loving smile and whispered. "Me too."

She tilted his head, fingers light beneath his chin as she cleared another patch. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, a little more distant.

"I had a lot of practice in the past."

He caught her reflection in the mirror again - just for a breath. And in that second, something changed.

Her eyes softened, but not with affection. With something else. Something heavier. Her smile remained, but it was thinner now, stretched over the weight of a memory. Her gaze wasn't entirely on him anymore.

Patroclus stilled, watching her instead of the blade.

There was sadness there. Longing. Maybe even grief. He wasn't sure. But he knew what he was seeing wasn't for him. And whatever it was - it hurt.

"Odysseus?" he asked softly.

But just like that, it was gone. She blinked, the smile firming into something lighter again. Whatever shadow had passed over her face was tucked away behind a practiced ease.

She pulled back with a final, satisfied look.

"All done," she said, voice smooth again. "Now you look like a soldier."

Patroclus hesitated, but then turned to the mirror. He touched his jaw, surprised at how clean it felt. How sharp the lines looked now. "Gods. That's… better than I ever thought I could do."

"You'll get the hang of it," she said. "Give it a few days. Or ask Eurylochus if you want help again. He will probably be a better help than I."

Patroclus turned back to her, still marveling at his reflection. "Thank you."

Her smile this time was warm - real, if a little tired.

"Go on," she said, giving him a gentle shove toward the tent flap. "And try not to get in any trouble since I won't be here to fix your mess."

He laughed as he stepped out. He whistled for Kopis to follow him, and the dog obediently left the cot and walked right behind the owner.

A few hours have passed, and now the sun is slowly setting. She finished her work, and now she was fixing her makeup before meeting with the Argives to discuss the details of their mission.

She did not turn when the air behind her shifted.

"It's generally considered polite," she said calmly, "to knock. Or at least warn someone you're about to appear behind them."

Silence stretched.

Then Achilles' voice came from behind her.

"Politeness is a form of respect."

She dipped the brush again. "Then I suppose this is you admitting you don't have any."

He snorted softly, stepping closer. The mirror caught him now - barely, just the edge of his reflection behind hers.

"You're bold," he said. "Telling me how to behave."

Odysseus finished the line beneath her eye and finally looked up at him through the bronze. "Sit," she said, gesturing vaguely with the brush. "And say what you came to say. Looming is tiresome."

The boy's smile stretched. "What makes you think I came here to talk?"

"Yes," she replied easily. "You chose the one hour when most of my men aren't in camp, and yet you didn't try to drag me somewhere far." Her mouth curved faintly. "That suggests intent, not impulse."

His expression sharpened. "And does that scare you?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly and lifted the brush, pointing it at the tent walls without looking away from the mirror.

"Look around," she said.

The blond man looked around in confusion, trying to find exactly what she was pointing at.

The woman let out a tired groan. "Gods, Achilles, use your head. We're sitting inside stretched fabric and rope. Not stone. Not gates. A tent." She exhaled through her nose, almost laughing. "It's comical how easy it is to walk into one. Or how easy it would be to burn it down with a single careless ember."

Her grip tightened around the brush, knuckles whitening just slightly.

"You could kill me here," she went on, voice still even. "Anyone could. And I could do the same to you while you sleep. That's the nature of war camps. Only trust keeps us alive."

She set the brush down carefully.

"So if you're here," she said, finally turning her head just enough to meet his eyes in the mirror, "it's because you want something. So better say it so we can be done with it as fast as possible. I have other duties to attend to."

Achilles studied her in silence, something unreadable passing across his face - interest, irritation, maybe both.

His gaze drifted to her hands.

The demigod watched the way she leaned closer to the mirror, the precision of the brush as she darkened the edge of her eye. After a moment, his mouth tilted into something almost amused.

"And what's that for?" he asked. "The paint. You do it to seduce someone?"

Odysseus didn't pause. "Sadly," she said dryly, "it's expected that a woman of my status does more than wear expensive armor and bleed on maps. The war isn't dire enough tonight to excuse neglecting appearances."

She set the brush aside to reach for a cloth.

Achilles scoffed. He reached past her without asking, lifted her cup, and took a long drink of her wine.

"Funny," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Because despite having to do it, you don't seem to mind dressing up nicely when it's just Patroclus with you."

Her eyes flicked to him in the mirror. "What do you mean by that?"

He laughed, sharp and humorless. "Don't pretend you don't know."

She turned on the stool now, facing him fully. "Oh," she said, and chuckled softly. "You're not serious. You actually believe those ridiculous rumors?"

"I wouldn't," Achilles snapped, "if you weren't so obviously using him."

Her expression didn't harden. It didn't sharpen.

It went blank with genuine confusion.

"Using him," she repeated slowly.

He surged forward, anger breaking through whatever restraint he'd had. "He's always here. In your tent. Not with his own men. You send him off on your errands, keep him away from us. He sleeps here half the time."

She opened her mouth- 

"Don't," Achilles shouted, standing abruptly. The stool scraped loudly as he loomed over her. "No lies. No tricks. Just answer me this - was that your plan? Separate him from us? From me?" His hands curled into fists. "Seduce him so you have a rich prince wrapped around your finger? Or do you just want to bed him?"

The words echoed harshly in the tent.

Odysseus stared at him for a heartbeat.

Then she laughed.

It was a sharp, incredulous sound. "Gods, Achilles," she said. "Do you even hear yourself?"

His jaw tightened. "Then explain it," he demanded. "Why were you so close all the time?"

"Maybe," Odysseus said coolly, "if you actually talked to Patroclus instead of sitting on your insecure ass and sulking from a distance, you'd -"

The blow cut her off.

Pain detonated across her face, sudden and blinding. She hit the ground hard, the world tilting violently as her head struck the packed earth. For a moment, there was nothing but ringing.

"Shut up!" Achilles shouted. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! This is your fault! You ruined everything!"

Odysseus groaned and pushed herself up, hands trembling. Blood streamed freely from her nose now, dripping onto the ground. She wiped at it once, eyes wild and furious.

Her hand closed around an amphora.

It shattered against Achilles' shoulder with a sharp crack, liquid splashing everywhere. She didn't wait to see the effect. She turned and ran.

She made it three steps.

Her hair was yanked back viciously, her cry torn from her throat as she was dragged backward.

"Always like this," he snarled. "Always fighting dirty."

Then he smiled.

Wide and uncomfortably stretched. Eyes shifting between many conflicting emotions.

"But now I see why," he went on. "You can't do anything when it's fair. When it's strength to strength."

She lashed out blindly, striking him with whatever her hand found - wood, metal, she didn't know. He barely flinched. This time, his grip tightened, fingers biting into her tunic. Fabric tore loudly as he dragged her closer, the sound sharp and humiliating. In desperation, she tried anything. Digging her nails into him, hitting him with her forehead. But nothing could help her.

He slammed her back against the tent pole, pinning her there, forearm braced beside her head.

And then - 

She couldn't help but focus on how cold his hands were on her skin, as if he had come here from the rain.

How pale his skin was.

How everything around her was in ruin.

How too many scents filled the air. (Was it from the shattered bottles?)

How...dizzy she felt.

Her head was spinning.

It was just like…

Just like… like..li-

Ţ̷͙̲͎̑h̸̪̫͇͉̤͎͙̊̾̔͂͘͝e̵̢̩̺̐́ǹ̶̨̯͚̲̕ ̶̢̳̫̯͒̀̑̐͋ḽ̴̑̅̽͝ḙ̷̻͑̾̒̓t̵̰͍̥̞̝̘̿̈̌̽̂́'̸̡̨̹̗̱̆̔͆̈́̏ś̴͓͙͒̄ ̶̣͇̞̱͊̽̒͛̽ḿ̴͉̭̞ȁ̴̲̟̻̠́̊̐͛k̸̼̳̝̔̓̓̐̚̕͝e̴̢̥̻̭̦̭͙͒͒͂̎͒̈́͘ ̵͔̱̺̦͍̂̇i̴̞̙͊̿̔̾̊̈͜͜ͅt̶̬̬̉̿̃̓͘ ̴̯͈̣̓̀͗̉͠m̸͚̦͉̥̑̐̑͝͠a̸̡̱͖͈͍͐t̵̼͚̩̜̫̯͖͆̈́t̷̛̺͔͚͉̪̰̎̿͌̌̊̌ȩ̴̡̪̯͖̝̼̎r̶̘̈͌̆̎͐.̵̜̠̪̻́͌̆̄̇͘

Her resistance faltered.

To Achilles, it looked like fear was finally catching up to her.

"What," he said, low and satisfied. "Finally taking me seriously?" He leaned closer, voice rough. "Maybe now everyone will stop treating me like a kid."

Her eyes were wide, unfocused. She stared past him, breath shallow. Her grip loosened, and her hands slipped down his arms.

"Good," he muttered. "So now we can talk, and you'll actually listen instead of acting all high and mighty."

He released her.

She collapsed.

Not a stumble.

Nor a recoil.

She simply folded, knees buckling as if her body had forgotten how to stand, hitting the ground with a soft, terrible finality.

Achilles went cold.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at her lying there - eyes open, glassy, blood still trailing from her nose onto the dirt.

"Hey," he said, sharply. "Don't - don't do that."

He dropped to one knee, then both, hands hovering before touching her shoulders. "This isn't funny," he added, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. "I- I'm sorry I hit you. Okay? You can get up now."

He shook her lightly. Her head lolled to the side.

"Come on now." He tried to sound lighter, maybe encouraging, but he just kept stuttering. "It wasn't that hard. There is no reason to act like that."

He shook her harder. Her head and hands moved without any strength in them. Only her breath confirmed he wasn't actually holding a corpse.

“Odysseus.” He tried again, firmer. "Enough. I said enough."

Nothing.

His stomach lurched.

"Hey," he said, too quickly, as if speed might fix it. "Hey - look at me. It was just to scare you. But you proved your point. I made a mistake. I'm sorry. Now, please wake up."

He brushed her cheek with his fingers. She didn't blink.

The blood was still coming.

A thin sound escaped him, something between a breath and a curse. He shook her again, harder again. "Wake up," he said, voice pitching. "Wake up - gods, wake up."

She stayed limp in his hands.

Panic surged, sudden and uncontainable. His confidence shattered, leaving only the awful certainty that he had gone too far.

"No, no, no," he whispered, hands trembling as he gathered her up. Her weight sagged against his chest, unresisting, her head tipping back, eyes still open and unseeing.

"I didn't -" He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean-"

"Gods - no, no, no -" His voice broke as he held her awkwardly, not knowing how to support her neck and keep her steady at the same time. "Someone - help, I need a medic - help!"

He burst from the tent with her in his arms, fear overtaking rage completely. He ran as fast as he could. His eyes were desperately looking at every tent, silently praying that he'll be able to find the doctor, or at least someone who will help him her.

(Side Story?)

???

The war camp was silent.

No voices. No fire. Only rain - heavy, relentless, soaking through cloth and skin, drumming against canvas in a low, endless hiss.

Poppies choked the ground.

They grew where dirt should have been, thick and tangled, wine-dark and impossibly tall. Their stems knotted together beneath the rain, hiding the earth entirely. Each step sank into petals and mud, slick and uncertain, the flowers brushing his legs like grasping fingers.

The boy ran barefoot through them, heart hammering too loud in the quiet.

The tents stretched on forever. Familiar shapes, wrong distances. Ithacan markings dulled by time, rows bending where they shouldn't. There was no edge to the camp. No sentries. No sound but rain and the wet drag of his feet.

Then he saw it.

Far ehead was a sickly green tent. Torchlight glowed faintly from within.

He was walking in its direction.

It was as if his body had a mind of its own.

He felt like he had to be there, but wasn't sure why.

At least until he saw the other figure also going towards it.

Now he remembered everything.

"No," the boy whispered.

He ran.

The poppies fought him immediately. Stems wrapped around his ankles. Mud sucked at his feet. The rain blurred his vision, turned the world into streaks of red and black and green.

"Stop!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Don't go in there!"

The man didn't slow.

Panic surged, sharp and choking. The boy pushed harder, stumbling, tearing through flowers that bent but never broke. The tent loomed closer - but so did the resistance, the ground refusing him, the flowers tightening their hold.

"Please!" he screamed. "Someone please stop him!"

No one answered.

The tent flap shifted.

The man seemed to look at him before stepping inside.

"No - NO!"

The boy lunged. He ran and screamed despite the pain in his lungs. Rain was blinding him, but he pushed through. His fingers brushing the edge of the glowing canvas-

He was about to step inside when-

Darkness.

Hands closed on him.

Huge. Rough. Unyielding.

They locked around his arms, his shoulders. One massive palm crushed over his face, blinding him, cutting off the light. He thrashed, kicked, screamed into the rain, into the hand that smothered his voice.

"No - no - please-!"

He was trashing with all his might, but it wasn't enough, and suddenly he was pulled out of the tent with great force.

"NO!"

He fell.

Down into the dark.

The dark broke apart all at once.

Eurylochus gasped awake, sucking in air like he'd been underwater too long. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, his skin cold and damp despite the furs pulled tight around him. For a moment, he didn't know where he was - only that his hands were shaking and the echo of a scream still rang in his ears.

"Hey - hey," a voice murmured nearby. "Everything alright?"

He turned his head. Elpenor was sitting up across the fire, his brown hair mussed with sleep, eyes squinting with concern. The small flame between them crackled softly, throwing weak orange light over snow-dusted ground and bundled figures sleeping in uneven shapes around it.

"You sounded like you were dying," Elpenor said, trying for levity and failing. "What happened?"

Eurylochus swallowed. His throat felt raw confirming that he was indeed shouting.

"Nothing," he said too quickly. He scrubbed a hand over his face and forced a steadier breath. "Just a bad dream."

Elpenor studied him, clearly unconvinced. "You sure?"

"Yes," Eurylochus said, firmer now. "I'm fine."

Silence settled again, broken only by the fire and the distant creak of trees heavy with snow. Eurylochus' gaze drifted to the flames. They were small, struggling against the cold, the light barely pushing back the dark beyond their circle.

A familiar unease coiled in his chest.

"We should go back," he said quietly. "As soon as we can."

Elpenor blinked. "Back? To camp?"

Eurylochus nodded. "I've got a bad feeling."

Elpenor glanced around at the snow, at the half-buried tracks and the thick white pressing in from every side. "It's not like we could go much farther even if we wanted to," he said gently. "But it doesn't change the fact that we will move in the morning. I can't imagine navigating in this darkness."

The teen poked at the fire, sending a brief flare of sparks upward. "Besides," he added, softer, "everything's fine. It's just a dream. Isn't it?"

Eurylochus didn't answer right away. He kept watching the flames, the way they bent and trembled, never quite steady.

Finally, he hummed - a low, absent sound that might have passed for agreement if one didn't listen too closely.

But the feeling didn't leave.

And as he lay back down, eyes fixed on the dark beyond the firelight. He murmured to Elpenor that he would take over the watch. The youngster deserved some extra sleep, and besides, Eurylochus knew he would not fall asleep again.