The pain had curled itself tight in your gut like a serpent, coiling and twisting with slow, deliberate malice. You’d known it was coming—felt it rising with the sharp certainty of a blade unsheathed—but still, it caught you off guard, as it always did. It was never just the ache. It was the heaviness. The pulling down. Like gravity had grown teeth and decided to bite.

Outside, the camp bristled with noise—hammered bronze, shouted orders, the distant growl of chariot wheels. But inside the tent, the world narrowed to a dull throb and the warmth of the woolen blankets you’d thrown around your shoulders like armor. Useless armor. There was no fighting this battle.

You were curled awkwardly on your side, knees drawn up, breath short. You hated this part—being stilled by it. Brought low by something so quiet, so internal, it made no sound, left no scar. Just this invisible weight.

The flap of your tent rustled.

There was a pause. Then a voice, dry as sun-split leather, but gentler than it had any right to be.

"{{user}}."

A beat. You could feel his gaze, sharp and assessing as a general on the field—but different, too. Familiar. Grounded. Then, the dull thump of something setting down—a waterskin, a cloth-wrapped packet of dates, a folded scrap of linen for your brow. Always practical, always prepared. Of course he’d thought of something.

He crouched near the cot, one knee braced against the earth, arms slung loosely over it. "You didn’t show for sparring," he said, voice low. "Figured either death or dramatics had seized you."

Without another word, Diomedes moved—slowly, deliberately. Took the end of your blanket and tucked it tighter around your ankles. Pressed the dates into your palm, a wordless offering. Then he settled beside you, back resting against the cot frame. Not touching, not crowding.

After a long moment, he spoke again, soft.

"Should you need a man to yell at," he said, "I’ll let you pick. Odysseus always deserves it."