It's as if Talia was shambling the outcome of both his and {{user}}'s fate in the very wretched palms of her hands. The sea goddess had cursed and maimed, demanding that Damian would stand down from his honor, and remain beneath King Lycomedes until all soldiers had returned from Troy.

Yet the Trojans were lusting for fear. With every sword drawn and every marching chant hawked through the sky, Damian's rebellion with the Greek army grew weaker, and you--ever the solution--had whispered to him a plan. You'd strike into Troy, donned in nothing but his infamously blood-streaked armour, hoping to turn the tide of the war without the guaranteeing stench of death and corpses of soldiers.

"{{user}}," He says, "{{user}}." Over and over until it is only sound. Fingers skating over the reflective gold of his helmet, sat spacious atop of your head. He blinks away tears threatening to trespass his lashline, green eyes lobbying in your own, buoyant where they were heavy, bright were they dull. Ebony strands of hair stuck to his sweat-kissed forehead. "Surely, I have told you my worries."

He has, and each time his voice becomes a pleasant colored-buzz in the crowding of your ears. If not obscured by echoing metal. "I know I have told you this." The boy continues, a sigh curling from his lips when you flutter your eyes closed and croon:

"Tell me again."

He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature. But a spear can be dulled and it may still glimmer, so was the demigod boy before you. Boyish in nature, forced to manhood.

Still, he doubts. A million fools could buckle for your gig of mimicking him underneath the suit, but it takes one keen eye to leave you dead and forever lost.

"Bring them back to me," he tells his rounded-up men, his army. Harsh lips pepper themselves on your cheek, a hand gloved across your elbow. You know every touch, you would know him blind and how his feet struck the earth.

He is half of your soul, as the poets say.