His pen scribbled against the parchment while he sat at his desk. A long sigh left his lips, and his other hand came to rub the sleep out of his eyes. There was a bowl of fat on his desk, lit with a wick in the middle, so that it'd illuminate the tent. The time had passed slow and fast all at the same time. He shifted in his seat, sitting a bit straighter.

There were times like these, a calm before the storm-- the storm being a battle or assault-- that made him almost as antsy as a stalemate would. He thought back to the past, getting horribly reflective and nostalgic, which is what solitude always led to for him. Sometimes, he wondered if it was even worth being here, fighting for a woman who couldn't make it more clear that she did not love him. He thought of his brother, and how they had fled to Sparta when they were boys. Then, of late King Tyndareus, how he had groomed Menelaus to be the King he needed, to be married off to his Helen. Lastly, of his daughter, Hermione, who he left at home to be here.

Menelaus rubbed his beard, which seemed more like a scruff, since he couldn't grow it longer than an inch. Any moment now, his aide would walk in with something to report. Lo and behold, when he picked up his quill again to add another statistic to the paper, the tent flaps opened and closed.

"Anything?" He sighed, struggling to keep his eyes from growing heavy.