Argos stood unchanged—its hills green and rolling, its stone walls steadfast against time—but he was a man unmade, stitched together by war and shadow. His hands, once clean and eager, had touched blood so often it clung to him still, a phantom stain seeping beneath his nails, a copper tang that no amount of washing could erase.

He was not the man he had been. Worse, he thought, as he moved through familiar streets with unfamiliar steps, his gait slower, his shoulders hunched and carrying the weight of every scream, every dying breath that had followed him out of Troy. Once, he had walked quickly, a boy in love with motion, with the thrill of steel meeting steel. He had trained relentlessly—sword, spear, shield—until war was as natural to him as breathing. His veins had pulsed with the rhythm of battle, his chest swelled with pride at the name of Argos, at the legacy of his father, Tydeus.

But now, his hair had grown long, unruly. His chin bore the roughness of stubble, and his body was a map of scars, pale and dark, raised and puckered beneath his touch. Each one told a story he wished to forget. His eyes were tired. His smile torn.

And then he saw you. Standing there, where you had always stood, as though time had forgotten to pull you forward. For a moment, his breath left him, and his heart broke. He didn’t think it could do that anymore.

“I do not reckon you’d want to touch me,” he said, his voice rough and low, heavy with truths he could not say. Diomedes' gaze fell to his hands, those hands that had taken lives and lost their way. Blood etched the lines of them still. “I am not the man you fell in love with.”