Chapter Text
The sun was a dying ember hanging low in the sky, casting long bruised shadows across the Greek camp. The heat of the day had finally broken, replaced by a humid, salt-slicked breeze that did little to cool the weary and anxious men.
Eurylochus sat on a log away from the rowdy shouts and clatter of the central camp. He was trying to enjoy what little peace he could find before he would be inevitably dragged back into the fray of men bickering about who had the night watch. In front of him, a small, controlled fire crackled, its warm glow fighting off the creeping darkness. He wasn't polishing armor or sharpening a spear—not tonight—instead he was focused on a thick piece of leather and a bone needle. He was trying to repair a sandal that had seen one too many miles of rocky Trojan terrain.
His fingers, though thick and calloused, were trembling—just a fine, persistent vibration that he couldn't quite still. An annoyance more than a concern. A frequent companion that plagued Eurylochus during his quiet hours. He gripped the leather harder to compensate, the blunt end of the needle biting into his thumb.
The sand crunched nearby.
Eurylochus flinched, his shoulders snapping up toward his ears before he caught himself. His breath hitching, bracing for something. The large man didn't need to look up to know the gait, but his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird regardless. But the familiarity of the pace soothed some invisible tension in his brow.
Odysseus dropped down onto the sand beside him, letting out a long heavy groan as he stretched his legs. A big and exaggerated gesture from the smaller man—theatric perhaps, but that was Odysseus for you. Some things, Eurylochus assumed, never changed. The king, however, looked much more haggard than he had in their youth. His worn chiton was stained with the grey dust of the plain, and his eyes looked like they hadn't seen deep sleep in a month. His usually unruly curls were limp and flat, as if they didn’t even have the energy to be wild.
The silence that lingered was a dreadful and uncommon thing for being in the presence of the king of Ithaca. Eurylochus’s chest tightened slightly as it dragged on.
"Agamemnon and Achilles are at it again," Odysseus finally muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His expression pinched for a moment before he stared at the fire with a gaze that belonged to a man much older. "Over a girl. Or honor. Or the way the wind is blowing. I lost track somewhere around the second hour of arguing."
Eurylochus didn't respond immediately. He was staring at the needle, waiting for the tremor in his hand to subside so he could thread the eye again. He felt the familiar, cold prickle of sweat at the base of his neck as his brows furrowed. What Odysseus had reported about what was most likely another failed meeting wasn’t surprising. But it was far from amusing, the longer those two squabbled the longer they would be kept from home.
"Eurylochus?” Odysseus questioned after a beat too long, finally looking over at the hunched man.
"I heard you," Eurylochus replied, his voice a fraction too tight. He forced a breath out, lowering his hands a fraction to look at the weary gaze of his king. He didn’t bother trying to smile, "I'm just... the leather is stubborn tonight."
Odysseus didn’t hesitate, nimble hands shooting out with surprising speed. Despite Eurylochus flinching back at the sudden approach, the smaller man swept the needle and thread from his hand and with the effort and grace of royalty—threaded it the first try. His expression didn’t portray anything aside from the bitter exhaustion of a long night, Eurylochus’s frown deepened slightly as he took the now threaded needle from Odysseus.
Not a word was exchanged.
The large man pushed the needle through the stubborn leather and pulled it tight, securing the straps together. He took a breath, glancing from his work to the man who was now watching the fire blankly. "And let me guess—you were expected to play the diplomat?"
"I was expected to be the adult in the room," Odysseus sighed, voice rough. For a moment he ran his hand through his short beard—too dark to match his limp hair—a self soothing motion he had picked up from his time with Diomedes. The two kings had grown a fondness of each other’s presence, which was good, it gave Eurylochus a much needed break from his brothers ranting on the failing hierarchy of camp.
Odysseus stared at the fire a moment longer before he reached into the pouch of his chiton and pulled out two hard, dried figs, offering one to Eurylochus. "It’s rather exhausting, Eurylochus. Dealing with men who have more ego than sense and being expected to win a war."
Eurylochus took the fig without much thought, biting into the fruit. It was tough and overly sweet, but it was better than the charred meat they’d had for dinner or the suspicious stew being passed around the medical tents. He hummed thoughtfully, examining the wrinkles that were starting to set in his friend's face. The irony of the statement was not lost on him, but he didn’t comment on it. “The men were whispering about Nestor faking a fever to avoid the council. I’m sure you would have been able to pull a stunt like that.”
Internally, Eurylochus was grateful Odysseus hadn’t, he would have been expected to go in his commander's place.
"And let them burn the camp down before the Trojans ever get a chance?" Odysseus leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the first few stars peeking through the twilight with a bitter but bemused expression. "No. I am cursed with a functioning brain. It's a heavy burden."
Eurylochus let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh in a different decade. "A burden you carry with such humility, might I add."
Odysseus didn’t rise to the bait. Eurylochus’s gaze immediately reassessed his king. His hands hesitantly returned to his work when he discovered no indication of distress. He was almost done, a few more stitches and he’d tie the knot.
Odysseus stayed leaned back, the firelight catching the sharp, restless intelligence in his eyes—an intelligence that seemed to be eating him from the inside out. His attention was fixed at the heavens above for a moment, unbothered by the burdens of war. It was a brief second, but it eased some hollow ache in Eurylochus’s heart to see it regardless. Odysseus turned his head toward Eurylochus, his gaze dropping to the large man’s hands. The tremor was persistent, a ghost of a shake that made the bone needle skip against the hide.
He tried to will the trembling to stop, suddenly far too aware of his own body’s rebellious behavior.
Thankfully, despite the king’s undeniable wit, his attention was drawn to something else. Odysseus’s eyes narrowed, brow furrowing—something that Eurylochus had long since learned was a sign of deep thought. Then, he blinked, looking at the footwear as if he hadn't even realized his own sandal was the one Eurylochus had been fixing. The moment the larger man tied the knot and cut it with a small utility knife Odysseus took it, tracing the stitches with his thumb.
"You've been walking with a limp for three days," Eurylochus said simply. He picked up the bone needle and put it away in the small pouch Ctimene had equipped with supplies for moments like this. "It was distracting. I had several of the men asking if you had injured yourself."
Odysseus chuckled, a genuine, low sound that vibrated in his chest, as a charming smile eased his features. His hand loudly clapped Eurylochus’s shoulder as he looked at the sandal. "See? This is why I keep you around. Everyone else wants to give me advice on how to win a war. You just want to make sure I don't trip over my own feet."
"Well," Eurylochus stood up, brushing the sand from his knees and straightening his chiton the best he could. He offered his friend a small, hesitant smile. "If you trip and crack your skull open, I’m the one who has to explain it to Penelope and Ctimene. And I’m not doing that."
Odysseus’s smile faltered at the mention of their wives, the light in his eyes dimming into something soft and painful. He looked back at the fire, the repaired sandal dangling from his fingers. "Penelope," he whispered, the name sounding like a prayer or a secret.
Ah, yes, the captain’s constant yearning for his wife—Eurylochus had let his guard down, let that slip out when he should have just been silent. His expression dimmed, a slight frown creasing his face as he looked over the mournful king. Whatever light atmosphere that had graced them had vanished just as quickly as it made itself known.
And it was Eurylochus’s fault.
He should know better than to mention Penelope or Telemachus at this point. It was a fickle game among the men. Some found great comfort in the thought of home, it was their greatest motivator that Eurylochus frequently abused to get them to obey. Others were more like Odysseus, who felt the constant bitter pain of yearning for that familiarity, feeling every second that they were away. The mere mention of home was a comfort but a brutal reminder of all the time lost. It was best to not mention it at all—Eurylochus couldn’t blame them, not truly.
He had no place on that scale, it was simple for him. He did not think of Ctimene. Not because he did not miss her—he truly, deeply missed his wife—but because he didn’t wish to taint her memory with the hell he had been dragged into. Because he didn’t wish to torment himself with the thought of her. But mostly, to spend his time thinking of her would only remind himself of the impossibility of his return.
The last time he had let his thoughts linger on his dear Ctimene, Polites had spent the night reassuring him that the walls of their tent weren’t shrinking and reminding him to breathe. It was humiliating and Polites didn’t look at him the same way for the next month.
He would not risk another incident again.
Eurylochus shifted his weight, deterring his thoughts to what was currently happening—not his wife. The silence now heavy with the salt of the sea and the bitterness of regret. He opened his mouth to offer a clumsy apology, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? ‘Sorry for reminding you that you have a life waiting across the water? That your son is growing up without you?’
Odysseus was the one to break the silence.
"The boy will be walking by now," Odysseus said, his voice so thin it nearly vanished into the crackle of the flames. Eurylochus would not comment on the wet shine to his eyes. "Telemachus. He’d be... what? Three? Four?"
"Nearly five," Eurylochus corrected softly, his heart sinking further. The darkness of night had finally enclosed them, the fire’s warm light the only thing warding the shadows from consuming them entirely. It made a private, intimate space.
Odysseus let out a breath that was more of a shudder, a sound that seemed to age him decades in a single second. He closed his eyes, placing his head in his hands. "Five. Gods. Half a decade. He’ll have his mother’s chin, I expect. And my temper. Poor boy."
He looked down at the repaired sandal again, his thumb tracing the jagged, sturdy stitches once again. The King of Ithaca, the man of many turns, the silver-tongued diplomat who could talk his way out of a god's wrath, looked suddenly small. It was a sight Eurylochus hated—not because it showed weakness, but because it showed the cost.
It showed what he failed to do.
Eurylochus felt the familiar, cold weight of failure settle in his gut. He was the second-in-command, the wall that was supposed to stand between the world and his king's sanity, yet here he was, watching the Great Strategist crumble over a piece of stitched leather.
"He'll have your eyes," Eurylochus said, his voice gravelly but firm. He didn't sit back down; instead, he stood like a sentry, looming over the fire to shield Odysseus from any prying eyes that might wander past their little circle of light. His hand going to rest on the shorter man’s shoulder, a small but gentle gesture. A physical weight to ground his brother. Odysseus leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and sitting in silence for a moment longer before he looked up at Eurylochus.
“And what of you, Brother,” Odysseus asked, his voice still strained with an emotion neither of them wanted to name or acknowledge. He tried to smile at the looming giant, though it looked more like a grimace, “I’m sure you miss Ctimene.”
Eurylochus’s hand twitched against Odysseus’s shoulder, a sharp, involuntary jerk that he masked by tightening his grip for a fleeting second before pulling away entirely. He turned back to the fire, the orange light dancing in the hollows of his cheeks. The name hit him like a physical blow, a stone cast into a well that he had spent years trying to board up. To mention her in casual conversation was small, but to think, to reminisce like Odysseus did?
He shrugged, tone casual, “What of it?”
Odysseus’s hand, which had been resting on his newly repaired sandal, froze. He looked up, his brow furrowing not with the calculations of war, but with a sharp, personal confusion. He rose slowly, turning to face Eurylochus, unbothered by the height difference. The man still found a way to look down his nose at the taller man, a rather impressive feat.
Eurylochus had said the wrong thing. Again.
Odysseus was in a mood it seemed.
If he were a lesser man he may have cursed.
"What of it?" Odysseus repeated, his voice losing its mournful edge and sharpening into something incredulous. His expression twisted into something almost hostile, "Eurylochus, she is my sister. My only sister, mind you. And she is your wife for gods’ sake."
“I’m aware of the lineage, Odysseus.” Eurylochus didn't turn, he didn’t want to look into the simmering hurt in the other’s eyes knowing he caused it. But a defensive swell grew in his chest regardless. He didn’t want to risk Odysseus looking at him like Polites had. He stared into the embers, watching a glowing coal collapse into white ash. "It was my wedding."
"Then why do you speak of her as if she’s a chore you’ve been relieved of?" Odysseus stepped into Eurylochus’s line of sight, forcing the larger man to acknowledge him. The king’s exhaustion was momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of protective heat. A stubborn anger flaring in his gaze. "I sit here and I ache. I count the days by the moon and the grey hairs in my beard, wondering if she’s still laughing at the same jokes, or if she’s worried herself sick over the both of us. And you…”
Odysseus took another step towards Eurylochus, whose expression had shifted to something colder, brows knotted together. The king lifted an accusing finger, jabbing it into the other man’s chest. “You look at me like I’ve asked you to count the grains of sand on the beach! As if she does not matter at all!"
The accusation hung in the salt-heavy air, sharper than any Trojan spear. Eurylochus didn’t flinch at the finger jabbed into his chest, but the muscles in his neck were aching with tension. The pressure of the king’s finger against his sternum was a physical anchor. His accusation stung, striking some internal wound Eurylochus had left exposed. He looked down at Odysseus, his face a mask of stony indifference that was beginning to crack at the edges, revealing the raw nerves beneath.
Eurylochus did not push the hand away. He simply stood there, a mountain of a man absorbing the impact of Odysseus’s words as if they were nothing more than a summer rain. He didn't need to explain the way his throat closed up when he smelled the specific scent of wild thyme that reminded him of her gardens. He didn't need to justify the way he had meticulously scrubbed her face from his dreams because seeing her there made waking up in a blood-soaked trench unbearable.
It made the looming threat of death so much larger.
He could die tomorrow. A Trojan arrow. A well placed blow to the head. His ribs could break. Or a well timed jab of a spear could pierce his defense. He could die today. They could be raided in the night, the sentries could fall asleep—he should check, make sure they are awake—and miss the enemy’s approach. A fire could break out. The antsy men could grow tired of this war and overthrow them. Slaughter them in their sleep. He could die in the next week, survive a battle with a wound only to have a fever claim him. Or blood loss. Or the water could be poisoned. The food could be spoiled and he would never see her again—
His chest tightened in a familiar suffocating way, like a hand had reached through his chest and grasping painfully at his lungs. His heart trapped in the bony prison of his ribs, begging to get out. Eurylochus sucked in a forced breath. His fist clenched, trying to hide the way the trembling intensified.
He didn't owe Odysseus—or anyone—the map to his own devastation.
"If that is how you wish to see it," Eurylochus said, his voice flat and devoid of the heat Odysseus was clearly fishing for. He needed to get out of here, go make sure the night watch has been sorted out, that the grain isn’t moldy.
"If that's how I—?” Odysseus’s eyes widened, his hand dropping as if he had been burned. He took a step back, sucking in an offended breath, his teeth flashing with anger. “Eury, she is Ctimene! You loved her since we were boys! You followed me to war to protect our home, but you followed her to the altar because you couldn't breathe without her!”
Eurylochus couldn’t hide the flinch that time.
Odysseus didn’t seem to notice, his breaths coming in sharp and angry huffs. The king gestured frantically, desperately perhaps, searching for something that Eurylochus was determined to neglect. His tone strained, somewhere between pleading and hissing “Don't tell me you've forgotten how to feel!”
Eurylochus felt the words like a physical weight pressing him into the sand. Forgotten how to feel. The irony was so sharp it tasted like copper in the back of his throat. He felt everything—the grit of the sand in his sandals, the heat of the fire on his shins, the suffocating terror that he was one more memory away from losing his footing entirely. He could not stay here. He could not let his control slip and have Odysseus look at him like he’s some broken thing. Or worse, with disappointment.
"I have to go make sure the men know who is on night watch," Eurylochus said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. It was a deflection so blatant it was insulting. But it was an escape, the only thing that Eurylochus could think of at the moment, his eyes glancing warily around the darkness that was steadily shifting and closing in.
He needed something to do.
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned away from Odysseus, his large frame casting a shadow that swallowed the fire. He began to walk toward the perimeter of their small circle of light, his hands shoved deep into the folds of his belt to hide the frantic, rhythmic twitching of his fingers. For a brief and foolish moment he truly believed that Odysseus would let him walk away.
He should have known better.
"Eurylochus! Do not turn your back on me," Odysseus snapped, the kingly authority bleeding back into his tone, sharp enough to cut through the salt air. It was cold, commanding. "I am not Agamemnon to be ignored, and I am certainly not a stranger to be lied to. Look at me."
Eurylochus did stop, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. His back straightened, his feet even in the ground, chin lifted, eyes ahead. His hands went to clasp each other behind his back. The picture of a perfect soldier, a model of discipline and control—the exact opposite of what Eurylochus was at the moment, but he could pretend. If Odysseus wished to be king then he would be his soldier, not brother.
It was cruel, he knew, but he found he didn’t particularly care at the moment.
The silence that followed was no longer the heavy, mournful weight of yearning. It was the sharp, jagged silence of a battlefield just before the first volley of arrows. Odysseus’s footsteps were light on the sand as he circled around to face his second-in-command, but his presence was suffocating. His eyes alight with a storm of emotions.
Eurylochus didn’t move, this was his last defense.
"At attention? Really?" Odysseus’s voice dropped to a whisper, one laced with a dangerous kind of hurt. He stepped into Eurylochus’s personal space, peering up at the stone-carved mask of the man he called brother.
Odysseus didn’t reach for his shoulder this time. Instead, he began to pace—a slow, predatory circle that forced Eurylochus to remain anchored or risk breaking the soldier’s posture he had so foolishly adopted.
"I see," Odysseus murmured, his voice smoothing out into that terrifyingly calm register he used when dismantling an opponent's logic. A wolf sizing up its prey, finding the fastest way to victory. A fox looking for the entrance to a coop. A cruel light glimmering in his eye. “So that’s your plan, Eurylochus?”
Eurylochus’s jaw was clamped so tight it ached, his eyes fixed on a distant, flickering torch across the camp. He was a statue. He was a mountain. He was anything but a man with blood in his veins. He tried to ignore the nagging voice in his mind, to suffocate it with the unfeeling hands of duty.
"To go home as a ghost? To finally stand before Ctimene and have her look into your eyes only to find... nothing? Just sand and salt?" Odysseus stopped directly in front of him, his face inches from the larger man's chest. His voice lowered, a demanding whisper. "Look at me, Brother. Look at me and tell me you don't care."
Eurylochus’s eyes remained fixed on the horizon, he could not look and trust that his eyes would not tell Odysseus the truth. That he was a coward. He couldn’t open his mouth without the fear that everything would spill out and Odysseus would finally realize that his second in command was truly mad. That he was plagued with visions of death that bordered on obsession and the thought of his wife only brought more vivid visions of her mourning an empty grave. That the only way to avoid them was to work himself until his hands bled and he couldn’t move from exhaustion.
A single, violent tremor racked his shoulders, and the hands clasped behind his back gripped each other so hard the knuckles turned white. He could feel Odysseus’s breath, warm and demanding, against his chest. The silence was a cord stretched to the point of snapping.
"Look at me!" Odysseus roared, the command finally breaking through the soldier's mask.
Eurylochus almost broke, he prepared himself for it. Felt his breath hitch in his lungs, his throat tighten under an invisible weight—
"Odysseus! Eurylochus! I was starting to believe you had snuck off to fight Trojans alone!"
The voice was light, cheerful—almost forcefully so, and entirely out of place in the suffocating atmosphere.
Both men jumped, the intimate space the firelight had created shattered within seconds. Their internal storm momentarily bypassed by a sudden, jarring sense of normalcy. Polites strolled into the circle of firelight, his gait easy and his expression one of mild, pleasant curiosity. He was carrying a small bundle of firewood under one arm and a wineskin in the other.
He looked from Odysseus’s flushed, angry face to Eurylochus’s trembling form, his smile never wavering. Though his eyes—bright and observant—lingered just a second longer on Eurylochus’s hands. He was not a fool, he was a master at acting like one but all three men knew the truth. Polites chose to remain unbothered, but he was by no means blissfully unaware.
"The tension over by the main pavilion is thick enough to cut with a xiphos," Polites remarked, with a knowing tone. Effortlessly stepping between the two dogs sizing each other up as if he were simply walking through a garden. He dropped the wood by the fire with a cheerful clatter. "I thought I’d find some peace over here with my favorite Greeks. But you two look like you’re about to wrestle for the last of the wine."
He held up the wineskin, shaking it slightly. “Fear not, brothers, for I come bearing gifts to relieve your strain.”
The rhythmic slosh of the wine inside the skin and the crackling fire was the only sound for a long, fragile moment. Polites stood between them like a sapling between two clashing boulders, his presence radiating a warmth that the dying fire could no longer provide. His smile never wavered or waned, but his eyes caught every shift of posture in his friends with a dangerous emotional clarity. They met Eurylochus’s gaze for a second too long.
He knew.
Odysseus was the first to break.
He let out a sharp, jagged breath, his posture collapsing from that of a king to a man who was simply, profoundly tired. He gave one final sharp glance at Eurylochus—a promise that he had not been sated—before looking at the other man. He rubbed a hand over his face, hiding his eyes for a second before looking at Polites with a weak, lopsided smile.
"Polites," Odysseus muttered, his voice still carrying the gravel of his earlier shout. But the strain had eased some with the relief of tension. An exasperated chuckle escaped him as he took the flask from Polites offering hand. "You truly have a talent for impeccable timing, friend."
"It's a gift," Polites chirped, though he didn't move from his spot between them. He nudged Eurylochus’s hip with his elbow, a playful but firm gesture, his now freed hand went to sit on the man’s shoulder, squeezing gently. It was a silent anchor in a storm Eurylochus was sure he’d drown in, an unseen acknowledgement.
Eurylochus didn’t move at first. He stood as still as the statues in Ithaca’s squares, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The narrow world the firelight provided remained a tunnel. The pressure of Polites’s hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark or lashing out at the king he loved and feared in equal measure.
The only thing that kept him from making a fool of himself.
"The wine is from the Thracian stores," Polites continued, his voice a balm against the jagged edges of the previous moment. His weight shifted, carefully leaning into Eurylochus in a casual manner. Not enough to draw unwanted attention to the motion or trap the larger man. Eurylochus could easily pull back if he needed to. He didn’t. The weight of the other man was a lifeline.
Odysseus took a long, desperate pull from the wineskin, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the firelight reflecting in the dampness of his eyes. He looked at Eurylochus, the anger in his gaze replaced by a hollow, searching look. The challenge was still there, but the roar had been silenced by the arrival of their gentler companion.
"Eury?" Polites nudged him again, his voice dropping an octave, losing its performative cheer.
Eurylochus didn’t answer. He couldn't.
The air in his throat had turned to dry silt, clogging his windpipe until every inhalation felt like pulling a serrated blade through his chest. He tried to form the word—Polites—but his tongue felt like a heavy, foreign object, disconnected from his will. He stared at a singular, glowing ember at the base of the fire, terrified that if he blinked, the world would finally shatter into the jagged pieces he felt inside.
Polites didn’t miss the way Eurylochus’s jaw worked silently, or the way his eyes remained distant, his posture rigid. He felt the minute, rhythmic jerking of the large man's shoulder beneath his palm—a silent plea for help transmitted through skin and muscle.
"Eurylochus?" Polites spoke again, but this time it wasn't a question. It was a soft, grounding statement of presence. He waited a second more, as if waiting for some unspoken confirmation before continuing.
"The night air is getting a bit sharp," Polites continued, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather back in Ithaca. He smiled pleasantly, "And I can feel my bad leg starting to cramp. Eury, help me back to the tent before this leg gives out and I embarrass us both. Odysseus, stay—finish the wine. You’ve earned the silence my friend."
Odysseus frowned, the wine skin still heavy in his hand. His eyes met Polites for a moment, clearly looking for something. He sensed the shift in the air—the way Polites had suddenly become a buffer—but he was too exhausted, too wrapped in his own grief for Penelope, to push back against it. He let out a deep breath, settling on the log that Eurylochus had claimed before. "Go on then," Odysseus sighed, waving them off with a weary hand. "Sort the watches. I'll stay here and ensure the wine doesn't go to waste."
Polites didn't hesitate. He didn't just walk away; he maintained a firm but guiding grip on Eurylochus’s bicep, leaning his weight against the larger man to steer him like a rudderless ship. He cast one more grateful smile to Odysseus before turning his attention fully to Eurylochus, lowering his voice once more. "Come on, big man. Walk with me."
Eurylochus’s legs moved with the mechanical stiffness of a wooden automaton. Each step felt like a betrayal of gravity. The cool night air pressing heavily onto his shoulders that ached with his tightly wound muscles. But he followed Polites out of the firelight regardless of the tool. The shadows of the camp swallowed them as they moved toward the quieter, darker edge of the perimeter.
Once the crackle of the fire was hardly a dull murmur in the gentle wind and Odysseus was a mere silhouette in the distance, Polites stopped. He didn't let go. If anything, he tightened his hold. He slowly moved his other hand to Eurylochus’s chest, pressing his warm palm onto his sternum. His thumb rubbed a subconscious rhythm into the bone as he felt the way Eurylochus’s heart was still trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.
Eurylochus focused on the soothing rhythm and weight of the hand. He longed to pull away, to huff out that he was fine and simply walk to his tent like nothing had happened. It’s what a second in command should have done. But he found himself incapable of doing so, the shame rolled in his gut like soured meat.
"Breathe, Eury," Polites whispered, his voice no longer cheerful, but sharp and focused. He stepped closer, his small frame becoming a human shield against the rest of the world. Polites moved slowly, clearly, letting Eurylochus predict every movement with ease. The small man had grabbed Eurylochus’s own palm and pressed it to his chest with the hand that had been on Eurylochus’s shoulder before.
The second in command could feel the much steadier pulse of his heart. The wet but sure thump beneath Polites ribs.
"In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just follow me," Polites commanded softly. He exaggerated his own breathing, his chest rising and falling in a deep, slow cadence that Eurylochus could feel against his hand.
For a long, agonizing minute, Eurylochus fought the rhythm. His body was a fortress under siege, and his pride was the commander refusing to surrender the keys. But the physical reality of Polites—the steady heat of his palm, the unwavering anchor of his heartbeat—was a truth he couldn't argue with. Slowly, the jagged edges of Eurylochus’s breath began to round out. He mimicked the rise and fall of Polites’s chest, a shuddering inhalation followed by a long, whistling exhale.
Eurylochus finally let his forehead drop, resting it against Polites’s shoulder in defeat. The tremors in his hands didn't vanish, but they slowed from a frantic rattle to a dull, manageable thrum. Polites offered a content hum, satisfied with his work, a small smile tugging on his lips.
He let the silence sit for a moment longer before he spoke, “Do you want to talk about it?”
The question almost made Eurylochus laugh, a rattling huff was all he could manage at the moment, wet with unspoken emotions. “I want to go home and hold my wife. Make her a new necklace.”
Polites did laugh, a genuine sound that seemed to chase away the lingering darkness in the other's mind. “Gods Eury, the last thing that woman needs is another necklace.”
Eurylochus only hummed.
"He's going to ask me again," Eurylochus muttered, glancing back toward the distant orange glow where Odysseus sat alone. "About Ctimene. He won't let it go. He thinks silence is a betrayal."
"He’s a man who lives by his tongue," Polites said, pulling away only to lead him gently toward their tent. "He doesn't understand that for some of us, the truth is too loud to speak. But don't worry about the King. I’ll distract him tomorrow with some nonsense about a dream I had or a plan to steal wine."
Eurylochus managed a small chuckle, shaking his head. As they reached the flap of their tent, he paused, looking up at the stars Odysseus had been admiring. They were cold and indifferent, but they were the same stars that shone over the olive groves of home.
"Polites?"
"Yes, big man?"
"Thank you."
Polites just smiled, that same bright, defiant warmth that seemed to be the only thing the Trojans couldn't touch. "Sleep, Eurylochus. We have a war to win tomorrow."