Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the Greek camp didn't just feel cold; it felt sharp, like inhaling powdered glass. A heavy, grey mist had rolled off the looming mountains and settled on the plains and coats below, turning the world into a blurred landscape of damp canvas and frigid mud. The winter storms were a constant monotone gloom, wet and unforgiving. What was once a welcome contrast from the blistering sun and heat of summer had bled into a new kind of despair. 

It had been raining consistently for a week, alternating from relentless pouring that was insistent on flooding the camp to annoying drizzling spells that offered little relief.

The camp was quiet for the most part, any energy the men had was being sapped away by the weather and constant gloom of an overcast sky. Any attempt to siege or attack the Trojans had been promptly dismissed upon inspecting the terrain. The ground was waterlogged. There would be no Trojan supply trains to raid—cart wheels would get stuck in the mud. And no confrontations on the front—the slick mud made it impossible for men to find their footing in the chaos of battle. 

An extended quiet period like this would usually leave the men pent up and antsy, irritable from the lack of progression. Mercifully, no one seemed to have the energy to squabble. The men were irritable, yes, but within moments of an argument breaking out it would be ended with weary sighs and lethargic resignation. 

Eurylochus sat on a low crate inside a makeshift pavilion they had fashioned just a few months ago—once they realized a more permanent set up may be necessary and the conversion from tents to small huts began. His massive frame was hunched over, chiton soaked with mud and rainwater, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders to try and ward off the slick coolness of the air. However, just like the firewood and everything else, the damp air clung to it. Every few minutes, a deep, rattling cough tore through his chest—a sound like stones grinding together.

The large man would admit it was rare that he ever got sick, whether by some god’s blessing or his own grimy upbringing, he didn’t bother to question it. Usually, he would catch the weakness in his arms and lethargy early on—he would simply put his hammer away and retreat to the safety and gentle care of his wife until it passed within the next day or two. But there were no wives in war. Nor was there time for a second in command to hide away in his bunk because he was feeling a bit under the weather. 

So, Eurylochus had ignored the ache in his throat and weariness in his grip for the first few days. He persisted, ensuring there was enough firewood and draining canals, making sure men had mostly dry bunks and the grain didn’t mold. 

The war may have halted but that didn’t mean the maintenance of running a functional camp stopped with it.  

But the dampness wasn't just in the air; it felt as if it had settled into Eurylochus’s very marrow. Every time he drew a breath, it felt heavy, thick with the smell of wet wool and the briny rot of the nearby shoreline. He tried to suppress the next cough, his jaw tightening until it ached and his lungs screaming for release, but the spasm was a living thing. It clawed its way up his throat, tearing through the raw flesh, and forced him to double over. The sound was wet and jagged, echoing off the low-hanging canvas of the pavilion.

He wiped his mouth with the back of a calloused hand, his eyes watering from the strain. This morning a fog had settled in his mind, clouding his thoughts and slowing them down to an almost unbearable pace. Now the madness that plagued him had no voice, just the presence of looming failure that pushed him onwards. He had tried to oversee the collection of firewood earlier but after he confused the men for each other the umpteenth time he retired to the pavilion. 

Eurylochus was going to sit and clear his mind for a few minutes—that’s what he told himself—he couldn't afford to be hollowed out by a common winter fever. Then he would ensure that the cooks had all the supplies they needed for a half decent meal. 

He had been sitting for longer than a few minutes. He should get up and continue to oversee the men’s needs. 

Eurylochus didn’t move. 

Another beat of silence passed—he listened to the muffled sounds of an exhausted camp—before he tried to push himself up from the crate. His palms, slick with cold sweat, slid against the wood. His muscles didn't just feel weak—they felt disconnected, as if the nerves had been replaced by frayed twine. He gave up on the attempt to rise with a raspy huff. 

Just a few more minutes. That’s all he needed. Then he would go make sure none of the cabins were flooding. 

A shadow moved in the entrance, cutting through the grey light of the rainy afternoon. Eurylochus could feel his already wound up muscles tighten more. Perhaps he would have lifted his head to see who it was if it wasn’t throbbing and felt like it was made of bronze. Instead his face remained fixed on the struggling fire a few feet away, watching the embers hiss against wet wood. 

"I’ve been looking for you for almost a whole hour, my friend. Perimedes said you were checking the stores, but the store-master said he hadn’t seen you since this morning.” 

Odysseus. 

His voice was usually a sharp, agile thing, but today it was weary, laden with the frustration of a morning spent arguing with kings over soggy logistics. But it soothed some of the tension in Eurylochus’s shoulders with the familiar rumbling baritone. The King of Ithaca stepped into the pavilion, shaking his cloak like a wet dog. Undignified, sloppy, but entirely Odysseus. The shorter man mumbled something that Eurylochus didn’t bother to try and understand and he tried to resettle his chiton. He stopped abruptly when he saw the slumped figure of his second-in-command.

"Eurylochus?"

The soft squelching step of his sandals in the mud gave away his hesitant approach. Eurylochus still didn’t bother to look up at his king, he didn’t need to for him to know that Odysseus’s brows would be furrowing with thought. That his brown eyes would be glinting with that predatory intelligence as he dissected every movement he made. Instead he let out a slow breath, trying to keep it from hitching into a cough or rattling too much, and cleared his throat. 

“I’ll… be up in a second,” he croaked, voice thin and raspy from the abuse his throat had been taking. His speech was slower than it should have been. He tried to hide the wrongness of his voice by shifting, “Just… uh—taking a minute to dry off.”

Odysseus didn't move for a long moment, his silhouette standing rigid against the grey afternoon light filtering through the entrance. He looked between the seated giant and the limping fire for a few brief seconds before shaking his head and stepping closer. The mud sucked at the heels of his sandals as his keen eye examined the man before him even closer. He only stopped when he was directly beside Eurylochus.

He offered a low mirthless huff of a chuckle. Clearly amused by the attempted excuse.

"Dry off?" Odysseus repeated, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous territory. He didn't sound angry—he sounded like he was cataloging a catastrophe. Eurylochus could feel the intense heat of his gaze on him. The king continued, an almost baffled, if not insulted, confusion tainting his tone, "You’re sitting over three feet from a fire that is being smothered by the storm.”

Eurylochus tried to shrug, a reflexive denial, but the motion sent a spike of vertigo through his skull that made his stomach lurch. He squeezed his eyes shut, his thick fingers digging into his thighs to anchor himself. His voice was somehow more hoarse than before, an echo of its usual booming sound, “I’m… I’m fine Odysseus.” 

Odysseus didn’t answer immediately, only humming a dissatisfied note before going quiet. A blessed lack of audial simulation that eased the headache that had apparently been lingering in Eurylochus’s skull. The blessed silence was only filled by the persistent, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the canvas above and the ragged, whistling intake of his own breath. Then, a hand—calloused and surprisingly steady—reached out and pressed firmly against Eurylochus’s cheek. 

He flinched violently, hard enough that he nearly lost his balance on the sturdy crate. His eyes snapped open as he pulled away from the sudden shocking chill of the other man’s palm. Odysseus’s other hand shot out and grasped his shoulder, keeping Eurylochus steady on the crate as he finally bothered to look up. 

"Yes," Odysseus whispered, and the mirth was gone now, replaced by a jagged edge of alarm. He slid his hand up to Eurylochus’s forehead, his touch lingering. “And Troy is currently surrendering and offering us all free wine. Don't try to lie to a liar, Brother. You're warmer than the fire."

Eurylochus tried to pull back again, flinching at the bluntness, but his body wouldn't cooperate with the command. The fog in his mind was thick, swirling like the mist outside the pavilion, making it difficult to find the words he needed to defend his dignity. He wasn’t able to maintain eye contact with Odysseus, the sheer amount of concern and calculation only made his stomach twist up further. Bile burned his raw throat and he swallowed it back down, choosing to look at the post holding the wet canvas rather than the face of his friend. 

"It's just... the damp," he managed, though the words sounded like they were being dragged over gravel. He swallowed, wincing at the sharp ache it sent down his throat. Odysseus’s expression only tightened and Eurylochus realized he was now leaning his forehead into the other’s cool palm. He pulled back instantly.

"Didn’t get a lot of sleep…” Eurylochus started, but a sudden, violent spasm cut him off.

It wasn't just a cough this time; it was an upheaval. He doubled over, his massive frame shaking the crate as he gasped for air that felt like it was being stolen by an invisible hand. The sound was wet and deep, a rattling echo that seemed to vibrate in his very bones. It tore up his throat, and sent sharp stabbing pains through his weary lungs. His head throbbed, felt far too heavy and unbelievably light. Odysseus didn't pull away; instead, he stepped closer, leaning down and bracing the larger man's shoulders, his face a mask of grim determination.

"Polites!" Odysseus barked over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the heavy rain.

Eurylochus grumbled something that may have been words in protest, his eyes still closed and head hanging low. He didn’t want to be a spectacle, no need to worry Polites over something like this. He just needed a few more minutes to sit and he would be fine. Odysseus was just being dramatic like always. 

Deep down he knew he was lying to himself, but admitting that something was wrong only made the pressure of failure heavier on his struggling chest.

Odysseus was murmuring again, one hand on Eurylochus’s shoulder and the other resting on the back of his neck. After a moment, the faint limping gait of Polites announced his arrival. Eurylochus could only assume that the man’s bad leg was acting up in the poor weather, and the limp was an indicator of it. He heard the rhythm stagger then resume with a startled and urgent step. Eurylochus could feel Odysseus shift to face the approaching man.

Eurylochus himself didn’t bother to look up again, or even attempt to open his eyes. Had it been any other man he may have tried to regain some semblance of control. But this was Polites. He had seen worse. 

Unless this would be the final straw that would shatter his friend’s perception of him. Perhaps he would see Eurylochus in this weakened state—different than usual but no less pathetic—and finally decide he wasn’t worth the hassle and leave him to suffer alone. Maybe he would mock him for trying to push through, for being so weak that a simple chill had incapacitated him. 

Eurylochus just barely swallowed his own whine, grimacing as a shiver ran through him. 

"Is he—?" Polites started, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. He was at Odysseus’s side in moments, whatever small project he had been holding previously was discarded. 

"He’s been working himself into a grave," Odysseus spat, though his hands remained surprisingly gentle as he guided Eurylochus’s head back up. 

"I’m… I’m fine," Eurylochus grunted, the words hitching as his chest whistled, slurred. He didn’t want to look at either of them, didn’t want to see their concern or disappointment. He just wanted to rest. To lay down and let the rotted earth soothe his scorched skin and ease the burden between his ribs. 

"You’re a terrible liar, Eury. Truly,” Polites remarked with a bitter scoff, his usual light humor and easygoing nature diminishing into something that suited a war hardened hero. His hands were surprisingly gentle as they pressed into Eurylochus’s forehead, his frown deepening. “It’s a wonder you’ve spent so much time around Odysseus and haven't picked up a single convincing trait." 

Odysseus had the audacity to snort despite his own concerned features. On the shores of Ithaca Eurylochus may have shoved him for that but he found he currently lacked the strength for such a feat. The king seemed to notice, his thumb working small circles into the muscle of Eurylochus’s shoulder.

"Help me get him up," Odysseus’s tone was insistent but framed with an urgent warmth. A comforting brotherly tone that felt out of place in the harshness of the war. His hands moved to help brace the downed man to lift him. Without a word Polites took Eurylochus’s other side, his cool hand moving from the exhausted man’s forehead. He bit back a whine at the loss, choosing to glare at the two men. 

"I can walk," Eurylochus growled, or tried to. It came out as a wet, pathetic wheeze.

The two men ignored him with the practiced synchronicity of brothers who had long ago learned when to disregard his input. For better or for worse. Eurylochus didn’t try to fight them further on the matter, he let them move his large clumsy body with little resistance. But as they hauled him upward, the world didn’t just tilt; it inverted. The weather stained canvas of the pavilion roof spun into the muddy floor, and for a terrifying second, Eurylochus felt as though he were falling upward into the storm.

His knees buckled immediately. If not for Odysseus’s shoulder wedged firmly under his armpit and Polites bracing his ribs, he would have face-planted into the slush.

"Easy big man," Odysseus grunted, his own smaller frame struggling to find its footing in the slick earth under the weight of his second in command. Polites certainly wasn’t fairing any better, wincing at the additional weight. 

Eurylochus had enough sense to try and lean off of the man, to offer some relief on his bad leg. The effort of trying to shift his weight only made the vertigo worse. Eurylochus felt a cold, prickling sweat break out across his neck, clashing violently with the internal fire that seemed to be melting his bones.

"Don't—" Polites gasped, his voice tight with strain as he felt Eurylochus try to pull away. He adjusted his grip with gritty determination, "Don't you dare try to be noble. I am not your concern right now. Just lean."

Reluctantly Eurylochus did. Reasonably, he knew he shouldn’t, but he didn’t have the mental capacity to formulate an intelligent argument. Instead he just let his weight fall back on the man with a ragged cough. Together, they navigated the short but treacherous distance from the pavilion toward Odysseus’s fortified and private bunk. The walk was a blur of grey shapes and the rhythmic, squelching sound of their feet in the mire. To Eurylochus, every step felt like wading through waist-deep honey. He kept his eyes firmly shut, trying to ward off the rising nausea with each jerky movement.

The entrance to Odysseus’s quarters was a threshold into a different world. Inside, the air was marginally drier, smelling of cedarwood, old parchment, and the lingering scent of wine. It was a luxury afforded to the King of Ithaca, but as they guided Eurylochus toward the low, fur-lined cot, the second-in-command felt only a crushing sense of shame. The transition between the bitter outside world and the welcoming bunk sent bile up his throat and he choked back a gag. 

He shouldn’t be here. Eurylochus should be strong enough to keep going. He should be working, he didn’t deserve the comforts of a private bunk, let alone one fit for a king. Not after he had failed to do his duty like this. He clenched his jaw, making a discontented noise he didn’t want to name, his voice was weak and hoarse “I shouldn’t… medical cabins…”

Eurylochus couldn’t voice the entire thought, his voice slurring off at the end as exhaustion slowly ate at his sanity and mind. 

Odysseus and Polites didn’t even exchange a glance; they simply tightened their grip, their silence a unified front against his protest. They lowered him onto the cot slowly, trying to keep the movement from being too jarring. The wool and furs beneath Eurylochus were soft—too soft—and for a moment, the sensation of not having to fight against gravity made his head spin even faster. 

"The medical cabins are full of men with open wounds and broken bones, Eurylochus," Odysseus spoke quietly, his voice smooth and authoritative, the practiced tone of a king who could sell a desert to a drowning man. He began unbuckling the bronze clasps of Eurylochus’s waterlogged cloak, his fingers nimble despite the chill. 

"The last thing the healers need is you bringing this,” he gestured vaguely to all of Eurylochus before tugging off the cloak entirely. “into a room full of vulnerable soldiers. You’d have half the front line hacking up their souls by morning."

Polites hummed in agreement, removing the larger man’s sandals with a tenderness that he didn’t deserve. Eurylochus blinked up at the ceiling, trying to wrap his head around the words. It took more effort than it should have but eventually he could make sense of what had been spoken.

Eurylochus let out a sharp, jagged laugh that dissolved instantly into a wet, agonizing spasm. He clutched his ribs, his knuckles white against his dark skin. He battled the coughing fit for longer than he would have liked, eyes watering and chest heaving. And when he finally spoke the pain of his raw throat flared enough to make him wince, "Flawed..." he wheezed, the word barely a ghost of a sound. "Your logic... Odysseus... it’s flawed."

Odysseus paused, his hands still on the heavy, sodden wool of Eurylochus’s cloak, about to toss it on a nearby chest. Polites mercifully grabbed it and folded it before it could only add to the disorganized clutter of the room. The king tilted his head, a flicker of his usual sharp curiosity cutting through the worry. "Is it? Enlighten me, oh Great Master of the Sickbed. What did I miss?"

"You..." Eurylochus swallowed, the motion feeling like sliding a hot coal down his gullet. He forced his eyes open, squinting at the King of Ithaca. His voice lowered in an attempt to spare himself from some of the strain. "You are the King… can’t afford to get… sick."

Odysseus flicked his forehead. 

"Ow," Eurylochus grumbled, though it was more of a vibration than a sound. 

Polites responded for him, without missing a beat he lightly hit the back of Odysseus’s head, where it met his neck, with an open palm. 

"Hey!" Odysseus barked, rubbing the spot while rounding on Polites with a look of mock betrayal. "I am the King of Ithaca, Polites. And your commander! You're not allowed to hit me. I could have you executed for that. "

“And I am the one who has to make sure you don't do something foolish like flick a man who has twice your muscle mass and a fever high enough to cook an egg.” Polites didn’t bother to look up as he began to unroll a dry wool blanket from the foot of the cot. A smile was starting to tug at the corners of his mouth though, betraying his amusement. "King or not, Odysseus, your bedside manner is atrocious."

Odysseus opened his mouth to deliver a scathing, witty retort, but he caught the way Eurylochus’s eyes were rolling back—not in death, but in the sheer, heavy pull of exhaustion. The sharp remark seemed to die in his throat. The king let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh and wasn't quite a laugh. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he settled it firmly on Eurylochus’s chest, feeling the frantic, shallow rise and fall of his breathing.

"My logic is perfectly sound, brother," Odysseus said, his voice dropping the theatrical edge of a king and returning to the steady tone of a man talking to his brother. Low and soothing, reassuring in its steadiness, enough that Eurylochus might have believed him, “There are other men who can lead for a day or so if it comes to it. But I doubt the weather will allow such acts anytime soon.”

Odysseus leaned over more, his face momentarily eclipsing the flickering lamp hanging from the central post. "And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that vibrated in Eurylochus’s chest, "if I get sick, I’ll simply order you to get better so you can wait on me. It’s a very efficient system."

Eurylochus tried to muster a scowl, but his facial muscles felt like cooling wax. "Selfish... bastard," he wheezed, the insult lacking any real bite.

"Aye, but you love me regardless," Odysseus replied, his eyes softening as he adjusted the blanket resting over Eurylochus’s chest.

As the heavy warmth of the blankets finally and dry cabin began to leach the chill from his skin, Eurylochus felt the world begin to fray at the edges. The sharp clarity of the room—the scent of cedar, the flickering of the lamp, the low timbre of his friends' voices—began to bleed into a grey, hazy soup. It wasn't sleep; he could still feel the phantom weight of Polites’s hand on his forearm, and he could hear the rhythmic patter of the rain outside, but it felt as though he were watching the scene from the bottom of a very deep lake.

"He’s drifting," he heard someone murmur. The voice sounded miles away, distorted as if through a thick curtain. 

Eurylochus blinked heavily, squinting at the looming figures beside the bed, they were talking, he was certain of it. The words sounded jumbled and wrong, distorted at moments, gibberish at others. It was exhausting to keep track of, so he didn’t. He just stared through hazy vision and squinting eyes to try and recognize their faces. 

The figure directly in front of him had the same intense eyes as his beloved Ctimene, her hair was shorter than he remembered, flatter too. But that may have been a trick of the light, his own failing eyes not able to catch her usual curls and comprehend them as anything beyond a mass of brown. 

She must have heard that he was unwell and shown up to comfort him. 

Eurylochus didn't have time to try and make sense of the strange appearance of his wife. The grey mist of his mind had finally met the black velvet of exhaustion. His breathing remained heavy and labored, a jagged rhythm in the quiet of the hut, but the frantic light behind his eyes had gone out. He fell not into a peaceful sleep, but into a heavy, fevered unconsciousness, his massive frame finally still.

Chapter Text

When Eurylochus awoke again he was not on a cot, nor in the king’s cabin. The rattling in his chest remained, but it no longer felt like shards of glass—it felt like the heavy, humid weight of a summer afternoon just before a storm breaks over the sea. The bed was nicer, softer and much more comfortable. Familiar, achingly so. There was no scratchy wool or suffocating furs trying to add padding to a thin mattress. 

He opened his eyes, and the damp world was gone, the cluttered inside of Odysseus’s cabin was nowhere to be found. Instead, he saw the familiar, soot-stained rafters of his own room. Sunlight, thick and golden as poured honey, slanted through the window, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny, golden soldiers in the air. He could smell the lingering fire of the forge and hot metal mixing with the herbs in Ctimene’s garden. 

He was home. 

In his house. 

Eurylochus held his breath, staring at the ceiling. He was afraid that if he made a wrong move he may spook the presence of his home away like some feral creature. The large man didn’t know how long he sat there just staring at the familiar worn roof. Could have been a lifetime or just a few seconds. Time moved strangely here. 

"I was starting to believe you would never wake, Eurylochus."

The voice was like water after a drought. He turned his head—his neck felt light, the bronze-heavy ache replaced by a strange, floating sensation—and there she was. His breath caught in his throat. 

Ctimene.

His wife looked just as he had left her all those years ago. Like no time had passed, as if it had simply stopped moving in Same while he was away. 

She was laying chest down next to him in bed, pillow propping her chin up and bare back exposed to the world. The only covers she had was the blanket covering her lower half and a cascade of dark curls so often bound by a silver net rolling off her shoulders. A few more rebellious strands framed a face that was more vibrant than any memory he’d managed to conjure in years. Her skin was clear, soft and unburdened. She wasn't the mourning specter he feared he’d return to; she was the girl who had challenged him to wrestling matches in the olive groves, her eyes flashing with that same fire and predatory gaze as her brother. 

She was utterly captivating. 

Ctimene looked at him with a lazy, playful smile, the kind she only wore when the world was outside their doors and the morning was theirs to waste. Her brown eyes catching the golden rays of early morning sun and glowing like embers—intelligent, passionate, but so tender and warm. 

Gods above, he had missed that smile.

"Why are you staring?" she asked, her voice a low purr. She reached out, trailing a fingertip down the bridge of his nose as she tilted her head playfully, dark curls rippling. "It’s as if you had forgotten my face, my dear.” 

Ctimene’s grin grew, dimples piercing her cheeks as something playful and witty danced in her eye, “Or did you dream of some beautiful Trojan queen while you were tossing and turning?"

He blinked, that was familiar—important he knew. But he couldn’t place it. Ctimene was never the jealous type. 

"Never," Eurylochus rasped, the word feeling strange and light in a throat that, moments ago, had been filled with the grit of a winter cough. He leaned into her hand, pressing a gentle kiss into her palm, her skin tasting like home-pressed olive oil. "No queen, Trojan or otherwise, could ever hold a candle to you, my love."

Ctimene let out a soft, huffing laugh, the sound vibrating through the air and into his very bones. She leaned forward, the movement fluid and feline, pressing her forehead against his. The heat of her was different than the fever; this was a living warmth, the heat of a hearth rather than a wildfire. Perhaps the fever had never been real, it certainly didn’t feel like it, not here, not now. 

Maybe the whole war had been some odd nightmare. 

"A silver tongue," she teased, though her eyes softened, melting into a look of such profound affection that Eurylochus felt a sharp, sweet ache in his chest. Like his lungs had been rubbed raw with stones-

That wasn’t right.

"Careful, Eury," she whispered, her breath smelling of honey and the sharp thyme. "Speak like that and I might start to believe you’ve gone soft. Or perhaps the sun has finally baked your wits."

She trailed her hand down from his lips, her gentle fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a tenderness that made his heart thud wildly against his ribs. Her touch was a physical anchor, pulling him deeper into this golden reality, away from the phantom scent of mire and the sound of distant, hacking coughs.

Mindlessly he leaned into the touch, a deep rattling sigh escaping him as he closed his eyes. He was content to never leave this bed again, to remain entangled in his lover’s grasp. To feel her hand against his warm cheek. He opened his eyes a moment later when she gave a dissatisfied hum. 

"You're shaking," she noted, her playful smile faltering just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of that keen, Odyssean intuition. She shifted, pulling the linen sheet higher over her shoulder as she moved closer, tucking herself into the curve of his massive frame; he could feel her hair tickle his chest. "Did you have a nightmare? You were thrashing so hard I thought you were trying to swim through the sheets."

Eurylochus let out a long, shuddering breath. He reached out, his hand—miraculously clean of mud and blood—tangling in the dark coiled silk of her hair. He pulled her closer, desperate to feel the solid reality of her. He cupped the back of her head, inhaling the smell of herbs and fire and something uniquely Ctimene. She sighed into the touch, a sound of pure contentment that sent shivers down his back.

"I dreamt of a beach," he whispered, pulling back only to look at her face. His eyes searched hers, memorizing the amber flecks in her irises that the Trojan grey had tried to wash away. "A beach where the rain never stopped. Far from the shores of Same, further than I’d ever been before… We were there for years, Ctimene. Just... waiting for a wall to fall."

Ctimene’s brow furrowed, and she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, her eyes shifting with keen interest—so much like her brother’s but infinitely more understanding. The movement caused the sunlight to ripple over the smooth muscles of her shoulders, to catch the red tone in her dark hair. The sight of her, strong, lean, toned, was enough for a faint heat to creep up his cheeks—gods, you’d think he’d never seen a woman before, let alone his own wife.

"A beach?" she repeated, her voice airy and skeptical, though she didn't pull away. She leaned down, her chest pressing against his, the warmth of her heart beating a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic thrum of his own. She reached up, pressing a cool hand to his forehead, shaking her head slightly at whatever she had discovered. "You’ve always had a vivid imagination when you’re unwell, Eury. But a wall?” 

Ctimene frowned slightly, contemplating the words again before shaking her head and giving him an exasperated sigh. “You’ve spent too much time listening to the bards at the tavern. Walls do not take years to fall—they fall when a man decides he is finished with them."

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that sent a jolt of electricity through his heavy limbs. "Forget the beach. Forget the rain. There is no war here, my love."

The smaller woman reached out, her fingers dancing along his collarbone, tracing the absence of the scars he knew should be there. They had been there once, he was sure of it. But… it had all been a dream. A nightmare. His skin was smooth now. There was no jagged line from a Thracian blade, no puckered skin from a splintered arrow. 

He was whole. 

He was clean.

"The wall was tall," Eurylochus continued, his voice dropping to a low rumble. He felt a desperate need to explain it, to purge the memory before the sunlight bleached it away. He huffed, brows furrowing as he tried to recall the details of the dream. "And… There were hundreds of us. Thousands maybe. Soldiers. They looked like men who had forgotten the taste of home. We were gone for… so long."

Six years. 

Eurylochus had been gone from Same for six years.

Ctimene silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips. Her gaze was fierce now, that sharp, royal steel flashing in her eyes—the look of a woman who held her world together with iron will and soft words. And yet, as always it was infinitely gentle, in the way only Ctimene was. A small smile curled the corners of her lips, sympathetic and caring, “It was a foolish dream, my love.” 

He didn't answer with words. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. He felt her laugh, a low, melodic vibration that seemed to finally settle the trembling in his limbs. She hummed, a hand running through his close cropped hair. 

"You carry too much, Eurylochus," she whispered into his ear, her breath tickling his skin. "Even in your sleep, you are trying to be the shield for everyone else. But here, in this house, you are just my husband. The war is a ghost. The wall is a story. Now, are you going to keep moping about a rainy beach, or are you going to help me up so we can greet the day?"

Eurylochus wanted to believe her, he truly did, but he could still feel the dirt under his nails and the phantom feeling of heavy winter air. The clash of bronze on bronze echoed through his head like a war drum. His jaw tightened, brows furrowing as he tugged her closer. 

"Ctimene," he said, his voice cracking. He gripped her waist, his fingers sinking into the soft skin, needing to verify she was solid. "I saw... I saw your brother. I saw Odysseus. He was tired. We were all so tired."

Ctimene went still. The rhythmic stroking of her hand in his hair paused, and for a heartbeat, the golden room felt a fraction cooler. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. Her expression softened into that specific, patient look she reserved for him when he was being particularly stubborn. 

"My brother is many things, Eurylochus," she said softly, hand creeping down to rest on the back of his neck, "but 'tired' is not a word the gods ever saw fit to gift him. If he’s tired, it’s from chasing Polites around the courtyard or trying to out-talk Penelope."

Eurylochus let out a breath he felt he’d been holding for a decade. The logic of her words acted like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his memory. It was true, Odysseus was anything but tired, he was a restless soul. He looked at his hands again—they were large, yes, and powerful, but they didn't ache with the phantom weight of a sword.

She reached up, her thumb tracing the line of his furrowed brow, smoothing out the tension. Her voice lowered more, calm, if not slightly exasperated. A lingering concern remained in her brow, "You talk as if he were a king in a tragedy, my dear. It was just a dream, don’t let it haunt the waking world.”

"I saw ships," he murmured, his voice losing its raspy edge, becoming the deep, steady baritone she loved. He wanted to drop it, to forget about what reality had consumed his sleeping mind, but it kept spilling out like blood from a wound. "Black hulls... hundreds of them, lined up like crows on a fence. I remember the sound of the timber groaning in the swell."

"Maybe you’re just restless for a voyage," Ctimene teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she nipped playfully at his shoulder, earning a small grunt from the large man. "Though why you’d dream of a war instead of a simple trading run to Pylos is beyond me.” 

She sighed, finally pulling away—Eurylochus’s hands twitched, eager to reach out and grasp her, to pull her back into his embrace. Ctimene smiled, tilting her head again playfully, “You always were one for the grander scale of things."

She shifted, the linen sheet sliding further down as she sat up, stretching like a cat. The sunlight caught the curve of her spine, and for a moment, Eurylochus felt a surge of such intense gratitude that it brought a sting to his eyes. This was the reality. The warmth of the sun, the scent of the garden, the woman who was his world.

He was a lucky man indeed.