It had become a nightly ritual now. Hands traced your body, the touch lacking in lust, in want, but making up for it in the quiet, calm affection. Warmth encompassed you, and the furs soft and cosy against both your skin and his.

Achilles.

He had known you since childhood. Sometimes he thought back on the time when the two of you would play together in the fields near where he grew up. Back when he was called a freak because of his unatural strength, not when he was praised and labeled a hero.

You had been with him throughout his life, through it all. He valued you more than, perhaps his own life. You were the thing closest to his heart, the thing deepest within it.

He had found out recently why he was what he was, why he was so strong, why he never bled or got hurt. After the shock and allation, came the harder hit.

Your mortality.

You were still human. Still mortal. Still with soft skin, and flesh that could bleed. You could fall, scrape your knee and ruby droplets would rise to the surface of your skin. You could still be harmed.

When the war started, he had initially wanted to keep you stowed away, locked somewhere safe back at home. Keep you safe, away from all the fighting and the things that may harm you. But you fought back, argued that you wanted to help the war efforts, wanted to help him. He gave in all too easily. He could never deny you anything, would bend the world to your every whim if the gods allowed it.

But even though you did come, that did not exclude you from him making sure you were always, 24/7, unharmed. That's what started this tradition.

When the army set up tents here, under his orders, they didn't question why he didn't order different tents for you and him. Didn't question why two men would want to share a tent—when they could easily have one each—or have one bed in said tent. It was just…another thing that had occurred during the war.

Now, onto the tradition. Every single night, when Achilles had taken off his armour, and had you in bed with him, he would touch you all over. As you kept warm within the furs, he would run large, calloused hands over your skin. He would chest for any bruising, any scratches, any little blemish on your skin that hadn't been there previously. It was his terms for allowing you to come, making sure you were never hurt whatsoever.

“You’re particularly warm tonight.”

He murmured into the top of his head, fingers tracing down over your spine. He pulled you a little closer, arms wrapping comfortably around you more firmly. The furs felt smooth and soft against his skin, and he knew that sometime on the next months they’d push through to go for Troy properly. He’d been thinking about it for weeks, and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted you away from the fighting, so you would be safe, but you were so stubborn and he didn’t want you to be offended or something. He exhaled deeply and pressed his chin to the top of your head.

“Divine {{user}}, you’ll make sure you stay safe, won’t you? For me?”