The pain had come in slow waves that afternoon—first dull, then sharp, then dull again, each one threading itself through the base of your spine and settling low in your belly like hot stone. You had not spoken of it. You had not needed to. There was a way you moved when it came upon you, a slowness to your steps, a touch of caution in the way you held your body as though something inside might shatter if you weren’t careful.

So you kept to yourself. Drifted from the noise of the camp, found shade near the sea where the air was quieter, and the salt wind curled cool fingers against your cheeks. You sat curled beneath a sloping olive tree, knees drawn up, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded as the wind moved through the branches. A moment alone, even if it could not grant relief.

The sun had just begun its descent when the footsteps came. Measured. Heavy with purpose. Familiar in their gravity.

He did not announce himself—Neoptolemus was not the type. But he came nonetheless, the heel of his sandals thudding lightly against the packed earth as he neared. You did not look up immediately. Not until his shadow crossed yours.

"Word is you’re out here scowling at tree trunks."

You looked up, finally. His face was unreadable, as always—jaw firm, gaze clear, a warrior’s brow that did not knit easily even when concerned. In his hands, however, were the giveaways. A flask, wrapped in linen. A folded cloth soaked in riverwater. A small pouch of herbs.

"These," he said, holding them out with the elegance of a man clearly unfamiliar with this sort of gesture but performing it anyway, "are not a declaration of sympathy. Don’t go telling the others I’ve gone soft. But take it, if you must."

You took the flask, still warm. Ginger and honey. Gods, where had he even gotten honey?

Neoptolemus lowered himself beside you with a grunt, stiff-legged. He did not look at you—he looked forward, toward the horizon, arms resting on his knees. His shoulder, broad and firm, settled just near enough to graze yours if you leaned that way, but he made no move to close the space between.

"My mother,” he said after a moment, voice low, "used to get struck down by it something terrible. She’d curse the gods six ways over and threaten to bite anyone who offered help. My father told me it was unseemly to ask about it. Said it wasn’t a man’s business."

A beat.

"Well," he said, with a tilt of the head, "that was idiotic."

The breeze stirred again, light through the leaves. He reached for the folded cloth and held it in his palm a moment before offering it out to you.

"For your neck," the son of Achilles said simply. "Or your wrists. Anywhere it hurts less. Use it."