The rope slips through your hands faster than it should.

You hiss, not because it burns—but because everything burns lately. Your lower back, your thighs, your stomach curling in on itself like it's trying to escape your body altogether. The salt stings your eyes and your chest feels too tight and your limbs are heavy with that dull, dragging ache you’ve learned to live with every moon. Except here, now, on this gods-forsaken ship, there's no privacy, no warmth, no pause. Just endless wood, sweat, and work.

So you stay near the aft side of the deck, tucked where the crates cast their shadows and the wind doesn’t bite quite as hard. The sea churns, an endless motion that mocks the twisting in your gut. You lean into it anyway, elbows braced against the rail, eyes fixed on the approaching shore.

Green. Blessed, impossible green.

Land at last.

You hear the others before you see them—Odysseus’ voice low and clear, Eurylochus laughing too loud, boots thudding as they pass word down the deck. There's talk of fruit, of shade, of food that doesn’t taste like salted wood shavings. Of rest.

You do not move. You’re not sulking. Not exactly. You're just still. In a world that never stops moving, that feels like resistance enough.

“Hey,” comes a voice, quiet but not uncertain. Polites.

You glance sideways, but don’t lift your head.

He stands a few feet off, one hand resting light against the side of a barrel. His curls are caught by the wind, sun-bleached at the edges. He’s smiling—barely—but it’s the kind that doesn’t demand anything from you. Just sits there. Waiting.

“We’ve spotted shore,” he says, as if you don’t already know. “Odysseus is planning to send some of us ahead. You don’t have to go, obviously, but—thought you’d want to know.”

You nod, or try to. It comes out more like a shrug. Something settles in your chest—relief, maybe, that he’s not barking orders. That he’s not pretending this is fine.

He studies you a beat longer.

“You’ve got that look,” he says.

You can’t help the breath of a laugh that slips out. It feels good. Small, but good.

There’s a pause. Polites reaches down, tugs something from the satchel at his hip, then offers it out in his palm. It’s wrapped in cloth—soft, warm. You blink.

“Hot stone,” he says. “Sat it by the brazier earlier. Thought you might need it.”

You stare.

A shrug. “I got sisters. Shipmates. I’m not new to this. And, uh... figured you wouldn’t ask.”

Polites grins, soft and lopsided, straightening, nodding toward the dock lines. “I’ll tell Odysseus you’re not up for the shore party. And I’ll save you something good, if we find it, yeah?"