The sun bled crimson, a wounded god weeping over the carnage of the day. Your fingers, numb from tedious work, trembled as you pushed aside the wax tablet. Another day had wasted away into the Aegean, and yet still no sign of him.

Each returning wave of bronze and leather brought a fresh sting of hope to you, only to be dashed against the unforgiving rocks of your anxiety. You knew, of course, that he was invincible. Thetis – no matter how disliked by you – had seen to that. But knowledge was brittle against the terror that clawed at your throat with every passing hour. War was a fickle mistress, and even gods could be undone by it.

You paced the packed earth floor of your shared tent, the canvas walls doing little to muffle the groans of wounded men and the triumphant shouts of returning soldiers. Your name, usually on the tip of every tongue, felt heavy, unspoken.

And then suddenly, the tent flap was ripped aside, not drawn back with ceremony, but torn open with the impatience of a man who had seen too much death and craved the solace of a single, familiar face. And there he was.

Not a demigod returning, not the glorious hero sung about in every camp, but a man. A man weary, with dust etched into the lines around his eyes and a weariness that sat heavy on his broad shoulders. His armor, usually gleaming like polished gold, was dull, smeared with the grim artistry of war. A thin line of dried blood painted a dark crescent on his cheek.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice rasp. He crossed the short distance between you in hurried steps, and the familiar heat of his body radiated through you. He reached for you, his calloused hand finding your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. He needed you, as only you could understand him even without any words spoken.

The sheer, undeniable reality of his presence washed over you. Achilles was back, alive. For tonight, at least, Achilles was home. And in the epicenter of this endless, brutal war, it was enough.