It’s been years since you last saw him. The war dragged on longer than anyone thought possible — endless blood, gods meddling, comrades lost. You stopped counting the seasons. All you knew was that each day without him stretched longer than the last.

But now… he’s home.

The sun’s just starting to set over Argos, painting the stone walls gold, when you see a figure at the gates — tall, scarred, walking like the earth itself owes him a favor. There’s a sword on his back, dirt on his boots, and fury still flickering in his eyes. But when he sees you? That all melts.

He drops his weapons. Just stands there, staring. His chest rising like he’s breathing for the first time in years.

You don’t run to him — not yet. You want to. Gods, you want to. But your son grips your hand tight. He’s never met his father. Only heard stories — about the man who wounded gods and walked through fire.

Diomedes kneels.

Not to the gods. To you.

"I'm home," he says, voice hoarse, like he forgot how to speak gently. His eyes move from yours to the boy beside you. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you see it in his face — the shock, the guilt, the awe. He missed so much.

Your son takes a cautious step forward. Diomedes opens his arms, unsure, hesitant — not the warrior now, but a man trying to remember how to be a father.

And when the boy throws himself into his arms without fear, Diomedes breaks. Just a little.

You walk up, silent tears in your eyes. He pulls you into him — strong arms still rough from battle, still trembling. No words. Just warmth, skin, the smell of ash and salt and finally, finally, home.

"I thought I forgot how to feel anything," he whispers into your hair. "But you… you reminded me."