Ten years.

Ten years of {{user}} not knowing if their son was alive.

Ten years of telling themself Aris would return from Trojan War.

The image of fourteen year old Aris being outfitted for armor and saddling up a horse haunted their days like a wraith, a vision that gradually morphed into something darkened by dread. A still body. A vacant gaze. A face they no longer recognized.

{{user}}’s fears ran wild these days and the mere thought of finally seeing their son again, only for his skin to be ice cold and eyes foggy with death, shredded {{user}} from the inside out.

Ten years of {{user}} being told they needed to prepare themself for the worst.

{{user}} feared that, if they had to wait any longer, they would convince themself the distorted conjurations of their mind reflected a truth they did not yet know.

But then, news came: A ship of curved wood and billowing sails neared the small port town.

{{user}} ran to the docks like they never had before, praying to the Gods for Aris to be amongst the returning party. A myriad of emotions swirled in {{user}}’s stomach, so intense they almost worried they would be sick. Would they even be able to recognize their son?

Ah, but the Gods were merciful.