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He awoke, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, clouded memories of the people he had killed yesterday still swimming in his head. Odysseus clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing so that he wouldn't wake the men in the tents next to his. It had been nine years, nine years at Troy with nothing to show for it except blood on his hands which he could never seem to wash off and an endless list of men he had to slaughter to save himself.
Odysseus had never told his men - no one knew except for Diomedes, and he'd been sworn to secrecy - that he hated violence. He had always preferred a diplomatic approach to solving conflict, and that usually worked for him given that he was often called one of the craftiest men of the Greeks. (He didn't know who started using that title for him, but it was most likely one of his men. Not that he was complaining.) But when he and Menelaus had tried to come to an arrangement with the Trojans, it became clear that Menelaus would not be getting his wife back without violence. And a king had to put on a brave face for his men, right?
Odysseus tried to calm himself by doing what he always did when plagued by these nightmares (which was almost every night nowadays): recalling his wife, Penelope. She always knew how to comfort him back home, when his only worries were entertaining guests and arranging trade deals. She would stand in front of him, take his hands in hers and make him look into her eyes, those beautiful...
What colour were they?
He attempted to picture Penelope again, her smiling at him and telling him that his cares could wait until the morning, after he had got a good night's sleep... but he still couldn't get the eyes right. Every shape, every colour he tried just didn't fit, like a puzzle piece in the wrong place. And it wasn't just her eyes; Odysseus was now losing the style of her hair, and its precise colour (yes, it was dark brown, but just how dark? And did it have a bluish tinge to it like the sea during a storm or did it lean more towards the auburn end of the scale?). And he could see a glimpse, a split second of full lips giving him a small, knowing smile, but he couldn't remember how those lips felt on his -
He couldn't remember.
Odysseus felt like he was suffocating. The tent was suddenly too small, too airless, too hot. Air. He needed fresh air. That would wake him up, sharpen his brain and his memories.
He stumbled out of the tent and followed his nose to the shore. The fresh smell of the sea should have reminded him of Ithaca, had he not smelled it every day for the last nine years, nor journeyed to the Trojan coastline on a boat, over the sea where the smell was abundant? And besides, the smell back on Ithaca was colder, more salty, and the wind meant that it hit you harder, like a wall. At least, he thought it did. He couldn't quite recall the smell of the Ithaca beaches any more. He blamed it on the Trojan beach smell confusing his senses.
Except, the same thing was happening to his wife. Penelope was slipping away from him and he couldn't quite reach far enough to grab hold of her. It was like there was a marble wall between him and her and, no matter how hard he hammered on it, it would never break down for him.
Odysseus hadn't realised that he had walked into the camp from Argos - Diomedes' camp - until he heard a sharp voice half-whisper-half-shout his name. He turned to see Diomedes himself staring at him in the moonlight. He feebly raised a hand in greeting.
"What are you doing out here?" Diomedes asked.
"Went for a walk," Odysseus replied, not bothering to use proper grammar. He was exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally.
Diomedes approached him tentatively until he was standing directly in front of him, still staring with a confused, concerned expression. "Are you still having nightmares?"
Odysseus looked away from him. Diomedes was the only person who knew about the night terrors, too.
Diomedes tutted. "Use your words, Odysseus. You're normally so eloquent; in fact, you barely ever shut up."
Odysseus hesitated. He'd already burdened his friend with enough of his problems, and the more he shared, the more likely his weaknesses would be made public. It had been his personal policy to never trust anyone, but Diomedes had kind of ruined that policy already. And he had been sworn to secrecy. What harm would another problem do?
Just then, he felt hands gently but firmly hold his upper arms. "Odysseus, you're beginning to worry me now. What's wrong?"
"Penelope," Odysseus replied, his voice coming out as barely a whisper. "I can't remember what she looks like."
And that was when the tears started flowing. Before he could stop himself, sobs started wracking his body and he felt the warmth of tears streaming down his cheeks.
But then he also felt a pair of strong arms wrap around him, holding him tightly as if to stop him from breaking into a million tiny pieces.
"Hey," Diomedes cooed. "It'll be okay. We'll return home after winning the war and gaining eternal glory, and you'll be reunited with your wife so that you can make even more memories together."
"What if she doesn't remember me?" Odysseus sobbed.
"She will," Diomedes reassured him. "And she loves you. Tell me, do you still remember the way she made you feel?"
Calmer, Odysseus thought. Warm. Like they were the only two people in the world. Like he didn't have to pretend to be anything he wasn't.
He repeated this to Diomedes, who smiled. "She sounds wonderful. You're lucky to have gained a wife like that. I'd love to meet her, when we return."
Odysseus nodded, although he had the feeling that nothing would quite be the same upon their return to their respective kingdoms. The war was hard enough, surely the gods wouldn't let their return be easy?
If they lived that long.
Diomedes drew back, his hands on Odysseus' shoulders. "Now, I think you ought to get some more sleep. What will your men think when their king is all tired and grouchy in the morning?"
Odysseus laughed. "What are you talking about? I'm always tired and grouchy, especially in the morning." But he turned to head back to his tent. Diomedes was wise beyond his years - in fact, Odysseus often forgot that he was the youngest leader of the Greeks, several years younger than himself. He was barely a man when Odysseus first met him, but he had had to grow up quickly. He had witnessed too much violence in his short life.
He turned around. "Diomedes?"
The other man looked back from where he had already started walking back to his tent.
"Thank you."
He saw Diomedes smile, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "Go to sleep, Odysseus," he said fondly.
He decided to listen to his friend's wisdom.