the loving leads to bleeding

by bi_racha

Summary:

He hadn't planned on revealing his true nature to anyone during the war, no matter how long it was prophesied to last. But his plans never took into consideration the great pain of falling in love.

Leaving behind a baby not older than three months, Odysseus is forced to set off for war and face the cruel reality of pretending to be an alpha without the company of his wife. Diomedes, however, he didn't expect.

...

(I cannot stress enough how much this story was written to get Ody pregnant lol)

Notes:

Hi! This is my first fic EVER written in English... Please have mercy on me(? I've been studying English since I was a teen but all my writings are academic, so this has all the potencial of sucking ass(?

Anyways this fic is an excuse to write odydio and pregnant Odysseus, though it will focus on quite a few aspects of being an omega in that particular society.

It won't be exactly a long fic. More like a collection of events during and after the war.

I hope you like it and pretend there are no gammar or punctuation mistakes lol

Chapter 1: 1

Omegas were not supposed to be at war. Yet again, as the law of men saw fit, omegas also could not inherit kingdoms. Odysseus, however, had no other option. He ran out of them the day his sister presented as an omega too. The rest of his life was built on top of a constant, unstoppable lie.

His scent was easy to hide within the smell of sea-salt and livestock, his heats he learnt to control as a youth. His bond with Penelope helped him with most of it. The sweetest most caring and cunning alpha he ever met, his wife and co-ruler. He knew when he met her that no other alpha could take on the role of pretender with such ease and regalness. The days in hiding during his pregnancy were proof enough.

It was, perhaps, that profound devotion towards her that made the realization so difficult.

He was falling in love again.

Barely out of Aulis, skin already sun-kissed from the travels to Troy, Skyros and Mycenae, the face of Diomedes seemed to haunt him before every night's sleep. Smart, strong, young Diomedes. Not as young as Achilles, certainly a man by all the standards of men and gods, more of a warrior than most of the Achaean kings. He was married, just as Odysseus was, but cared as little for her as he did for the pleasures of royalty.

“A renowned warrior by nineteen,” Nestor said the day Odysseus arrived in Aulis covering with charming smiles his displeasure of being ripped out of his pup’s side.

“Is it true that he was one of the epigoni?” Odysseus asked, eyes running freely over the dark skin already covered in healed scars.

“Yes, the youngest of them, in fact,” Nestor said. “His father was a mentee of Athena. I am sure he is too, so I am led to believe that you shall become close friends sooner than any of the kings.”

That they did.

From their very first mission together, Diomedes had matched his wits and violence with sharp accuracy. He followed and perfected every single one of his plans, graceful as a noble but savage as a lion. He was, however, and that was Odysseus' final crack in his resolution, a sweet alpha. Not extremely so, not as much as to be a weakness. But Diomedes was compassionate, never speaking ill of omegas or anyone below his station. He worked hand in hand with his soldiers, not as a king, like Agamemnon or Achilles, but as someone who gave his life the same value as any other. Diomedes was violent when needed, and it was usually needed, but his very soul possessed a gentleness unlike any other Odysseus had ever met. It scared him as much as it captivated him.

He hadn't planned on revealing his true nature to anyone during the war, no matter how long it was prophesied to last. Eurylochus, his brother in law, was the only person who carried that information out of Ithaca. That changed just months after their arrival at the coasts of Troy.

Every battle was a vicious bloody mess of sweat, dirt and death. Diomedes fought by his side, their bodies already used to moving next to each other, a fight more like a calculated dance, spears ready and shields high. Odysseus was fighting through his heat, something he was more than used to doing. He thought it an advantage. Alphas on the opposite side of battle were always subtly affected by his smell, no matter how neutral it was. It distracted them, almost confused them at times. Still, he could have never imagined how it would affect his friend.

Diomedes’ wrath was particularly beastly during that battle. He speared necks and arms and chests, blood splattering over his face like wine tumbling out of a cup. His body was positioned almost in front of Odysseus’, curls slicked back with the blood of countless Troyans, growls bursting out of his lungs every time they got close enough to hurt the omega. Odysseus pretended to pay no heed to the behaviour, fighting his way through the Troyan lines while using Diomedes as the shield he clearly believed himself to be. Pretending and lying were one of the things that came naturally to him, but few can fight their own instincts for long.

“You are acting like an overexcited dog,” Odysseus said after the battle was won and they made their way back to camp.

“Yet you’re the one who followed me to my tent,” Diomedes said, hands occupied washing away the blood on his face.

“Well yes, to make sure you do not pester anyone else with your particular mood.”

“I am not in any particular mood,” he said, arching one eyebrow. “Unless you believe being a good brother in arms to be an unusual state of being.”

“You used yourself as a shield, Diomedes. Were you wishing to end your days at war with a forever trip to the underworld?”

“I was not trying to kill myself if that is what you imply,” he protested, frowning and throwing away the rag he used to clean himself. “Are you going to stand here in my tent in bloodied armour just to treat me like a bad-behaving child? Because I am no child, and you are no king of mine.”

“I know you're no child and I know you do not usually wish to die, but you cannot do again what you did today. That bahaviour puts you in unnecessary harm and makes me look cowardly.”

“And you care so much about your reputation…”

“I have to,” Odysseus interrupted, finding those almost unnatural grey eyes of the taller man. “That is if I wish to be believed. Kings do not listen to others unless they see great value in listening.”

“I did not plan to use myself as a shield,” Diomedes said, tense posture relaxing slightly. “It was the heat of battle and my rut is only hours aways from starting. You are my closest companion after Sthenelus. Call it instincts.”

It was as if the word unraveled something inside his body. Rut. Diomedes was going into rut. Gods, he missed his wife. He missed the feeling of a body on top of his, the warmth, the satiated instincts. The smell was obvious now that he was clean. Diomedes wore his chiton almost falling off his body, grapes and olive trees and rusted metal filling the air between them. Strong but faintly sweet.

Danger was over and his body seemed to notice. No more suppression.

He took a step back, towards the entrance of the tent, but Diomedes' expression had already changed. Scrunched nose, mouth slightly open as if to taste the air, the black of his eyes consuming the grey. The side of his chiton fell, being held in place by a simple leather belt around his waist.

No person could perceive their own scent, but Penelope often talked about his. Rain-soaked earth, roasted apples and oak wood. Odysseus never knew of an alpha that preferred such smells on his omega. Not until that expression on Diomedes’ face. He looked almost as if in pain, fingers curled into fists, tensed muscles and glassy wild eyes.

“What?” Odysseus asked, licking his lips and taking another step backwards.

“You are an omega,” Diomedes said with his characteristic neutral tone. “How in the gods' names have you managed to hide something like this for so long?”

“The gods don't mind, my friend,” he answered.

His body ached. Little needles pricking his skin from head to toes, sweat falling from his hair to his jaw. Oh how he wanted, he wanted so badly. He should allow Diomedes to take him, to do anything, to…

He shook his head slowly and bit his lips with such a strength that blood coated his teeth.

Negotiations before anything else.

“Has Athena said as such?” Diomedes asked. His words were firm, but his body was beginning to tremble. “She wanted you here, didn't she?”

He nodded. “I am one of her champions, after all.”

“Stop walking backwards, Odysseus. I am not going to take you without you desiring it,” he protested, eyes rolling like a petulant child. “There is nothing as repulsive as an unwilling lover. The souring smell should be enough to stop any idiot.”

“Yet it isn't.”

“I am aware,” Diomedes said. “Otherwise you wouldn't be walking backwards and gripping your sword. You, old fool, know perfectly well that you could fight me anyways.”

“I am barely six years your elder!”

“And a fool even so. Especially if you believe I'm telling anyone about your nature.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I do not care in the slightest if you have a heat or a rut. You are a warrior and Athena has chosen you,” he said, shaking a hand in the air like he was chasing away flies. “Now stop running away from a won battle. It does not suit you.”

“Nice and all, I am not running from you.”

“From whom then?”

“From myself, my friend. I'm afraid that one step closer and I would enter deep heat and forget even my own name.”

“Okay,” Diomedes said slowly. “Do as you please.”

They looked at each other for endless seconds, breaths quickening, warmth enveloping them.

He had Penelope's permission. She told him during his last night in Ithaca, bodies tangled and fingers intertwined, that he was allowed a lover if war lasted long enough. Someone he truly trusted.

“You can wait a year. Four heats are enough suffering, my love,” she had said. “More than that and swear to me that you will find the most trustworthy alpha within the Achaeans and make him your lover.”

But this wasn't just a lover. Odysseus was in love, he had been for weeks. He knew he would follow Diomedes to the end of the world like a lovesick fool if he didn't control himself. Penelope would laugh at him. Stupid of her, of course, because Odysseus was sure she would have fallen for Diomedes just as easily.

“Help me with my armour?” Odysseus finally asked, feet carrying him again towards the centre of the tent. “I don't believe I can focus enough to do it all on my own.”

Diomedes did help him. Even with his growing rut his fingers were firm but delicate. He untangled knots and unclasped belts with soft precision, touched his feverish skin with heart-crushing devotion.

They kissed under the light of the oil lamps, moonlight barely breaking through the top of the tent. Bare chests firmly pressed against each other, warm lips and calloused hands.

Their clothes were discarded with quick precision, their bodies falling on top of the furs with uncoordinated desperation. They kissed and pushed and tumbled, fingers leaving crescent moons on hot skin.

“I want you so much it burns,” Diomedes whispered once they laid naked on his bed, chests heaving and lips bruised. “Let me have you.”

By then his words were almost lost, but bringing Diomedes’ body closer to his own was enough of an answer. He buried himself inside of Odysseus and refused to leave until the sky turned from black to light blue.

It wasn't even close to enough, they both knew it. They bit and kissed and touched each other while they washed and dressed. This, Odysseus imagined, was not at all how it felt to have a war lover. This felt more like home, more like his olive tree bed and his sweet wife.

“Come after dark,” Diomedes said, holding his arm with none of the delicate carefulness of the night before. “When the agons are over and any necessary battle is won. I don't believe our bodies are yet tired of each other.”

They weren't. Odysseus came back to Diomedes' tent three nights in a row. They ate together, cleaned themselves, and fucked until their bodies trembled from pleasure and exhaustion.

“We should keep doing this,” Odysseus slurred at the end of the third night, face buried in the place where Diomedes' neck and shoulder met. “Every heat and rut, I mean.”

“Yes, I do believe it could be a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Diomedes said, hands busy caressing Odysseus’ back. “But I am afraid such an arrangement will require help from others. At least if we wish to protect your secret and keep our reputations.”

“My brother in law knows about my nature,” Odysseus said, teeth nipping the warm skin underneath his lips. “We don't need more.”

“We need someone from my camp.”

“Gods, you do not mean Sthenelus, do you?” Odysseus groaned. “I don't trust him.”

“But I do. He will keep the secret. He's sworn to protect me.”

“How is keeping my secret protecting you?”

“Protecting you is protecting me,” Diomedes said. “Now hush, we have so little time to sleep ahead of us. Save your complaints for the morning.”

Chapter 2: 2

Summary:

Gods, sorry if the war stuff makes no sense whatsoever. At least there is no much of it.

Notes:

Hi, yes... Who wants more food?

Anyways, I'm back(? Clearly I'm obsessed with these two, so here's more

Again, sorry if anything makes zero sense because my english failed me lol

I hope you guys can enjoy it even if there are some mistakes ❤️

(Btw your comments were so sweet I almost cried. Thank you so much!)

For someone so homesick it was quite ironic how he never truly fell in love while on Ithaca. Penelope he met in Sparta, and was desperately in love with her from their very first conversation. Diomedes he met in Aulis, and while love wasn’t his main reason to keep the man close, his own greed to understand his stoic disposition led him straight to his demise.

It could be said that he fell in love in Ithaca, perhaps, if romantic love wasn't the only one to be considered.

Telemachus was born on a rainy night. His wailing shook the walls of the palace with almost as much strength as the ferocious thunder outside. Odysseus was exhausted, more than he had ever been in his twenty four years of life, but still he held his baby. He was tiny, red and wrinkly, and angry at the world. He looked like no one in particular, but his hair was the exact same dark colour as Penelope's. Not even when Eurycleia insisted on helping him get clean could he part from his pup, so it was not surprising that his hate towards Palamedes refused to subside months after leaving Ithaca.

He couldn’t stand the mere thought of hearing his voice. Everytime Odysseus saw his face, he couldn’t help but picture Telemachus laying on the ground in front of him, seconds away from being trampled to death, and the burning fire of his hatred was fed heaps upon heaps of dry wood. It was worse after a heat. His instincts rubbed raw, needs and desires exposed to the world. His baby was older than a year now, and the man in front of him was the reason for his forced abandonment. Some days, the worst of them, he dreamt of revealing his nature simply so Palamedes could be judged by the laws of man. He was certain that forcing a royal omega to participate in war and leave behind a baby was cause for stoning.

“You’re looking at him like you want his head, Laertiades,” Diomedes said, lips hidden behind his cup.

“Can you blame me for it?”

“There was no mention of blame.”

“You did sound accusatory.”

“Don’t I always? At least when it comes to you,” he said, free hand wrapping around Odysseus' leg that was lying almost on top of one of his. “I still don’t blame you. The man almost got your son killed, and he keeps undermining your advice every time he has the chance. He thinks you’re a coward.”

“And you do not?”

“I think you did what you believed right for your family,” Diomedes said, finally looking him in the eye. “It matters not if you are a coward, as long as you’re still a warrior when in battle. It’s our nature to protect our loved ones and survive. He was wrong for toying with your instincts”

Palamedes drank and ate next to Agamemnon and Menelaus, just in front of him and Diomedes. Someone was playing a lyre, though Odysseus could not see him in the middle of countless moving bodies. To his left, far from the fire and closer to the sea, Telamonian Ajax and Achilles wrestled in a very childlike manner, pushing each other and tumbling in the sand. Patroclus watched the fight as if he was trying to decipher who was actually winning. It was apparent that constant battles were stopping, the deep siege had begun, and most generals and warriors seemed content with spending their nights dining by Agamemnom’s tent.

“Nine more years of this,” Odysseus whispered when the silence between them extended long enough. “Nine years of not seeing my baby, if I even survive. I believe I’m allowed some anger.”

“The company is not so terrible,” Diomedes said, drinking the remaining wine from his cup and allowing himself to rest against the tree behind them. The cooking fire made his half-closed eyes look like pools of shining silver. “Even so, I do not pretend to know what it’s like to miss a son.”

Diomedes’ brow furrowed, gaze falling to the ground. That particular expression always meant he was considering new information. It was equal parts terrifying and enchanting.

“What?” Odysseus asked, lowering his cup to the ground. “What are you thinking about?”

“You told me your son was three months old when you were called to Aulis,” he said so low it was almost a whisper. “That means you were barely out of your birthing bed when you left.”

“Yes, I was.”

It was the first time in years that he had to fight the feeling of shame. Talking about his pregnancy seemed dangerous and inappropriate while eating with dozens of boisterous alphas.

“Let’s not talk about these things outside our tents,” Odysseus added quickly. “I am sure you can understand the weight of his actions now that you know my secret. No need to put it into words.”

“We should…” Diomedes started, but was promptly interrupted by an oinochoe being placed in front of their faces.

“More wine?” Sthenelus asked, one eyebrow raised in clear amusement. “Your auto-imposed solitude is drawing the attention of others.”

“It means nothing,” Odysseus said. “We always sit together.”

“Not like this, you do not.” Sthenelus said before looking Diomedes directly in the eye. “Rut makes you clingy. Come on, we have to talk with Idomeneus about the ships.”

He didn’t wait for neither of them to answer, walking away with the oinochoe still full. Diomedes got up immediately, empty cup in hand, and nodded at Odysseus.

“We should talk more about this,” he said, beginning to walk. “As a precaution.”

“Of what?”

“Him being more of a problem than I expected.”

…

Councils of strategy were the main reason Odysseus was called to war. It was, if he was honest with himself, the most entertaining part of a dreadful whole. At least those times when Agamemnon stopped trying to loudly voice his more useless opinions. Most days he resorted to Nestor’s advice being enough, but not even the gentle words of Menelaus could calm the king of kings that day.

Agamemnon was already restless when he called the generals for council, and his disposition didn’t seem to improve. In fact, it seemed to worsen everytime someone dared to disagree with his ideas. Discussions of supplies and battles started when the sun was barely up and Odysseus' head pounded due to a night of poor sleep. Now the sun was at its zenith, his head felt moments away from exploding, and if he had to keep listening to the childish lamentations of the man who brought them all there, he would undoubtedly throw up at his feet. Worse of all, his heat was two weeks behind him and impossible to make responsible for his ghastly temper that rivaled Agamemnon’s.

“Calchas was clear, brother,” Menelaus said for the third time in the last hour. “No matter what we choose, we still have nine years ahead of us. We need to endure, and we need to survive. No man can fight a prophecy.”

“This is a siege,” Nestor said. His cup was the only one still full from the first servings. “Menelaus is right. Only the favour of the gods could ever change our fates, and even so, Zeus has been the only olympic to defy his own destiny the day he absorbed Metis.”

“Yes, I know this, and I appreciate your wise advice, Nestor,” Agamemnon said, hands threading through his curls with almost violent strength. “What would you have me do, brother? Our men need the supplies and they come slowly from our homelands.”

“We should begin raiding the neighboring cities and isles,” Diomedes said, voice unwavering but soft. The tone he always used when Agamemnon was being difficult. “Phocaea, Colophon, Smyrna, and Cyme are good starting points. Cities close enough for us to take.”

The following silence was more than expected. None of the other kings and princes enjoyed admitting the unmeasurable battle experience of the second youngest general. For most of them it was an uncomfortable blow to the ego. Young Diomedes, not older than twenty-one and yet one of the finest warriors in all campsites. After all, he did win two wars before the age of eighteen.

“You speak wisely,” Nestor said finally. The only one old enough to easily allow a younger alpha to be bold. “That would be the better course of action.”

“I agree,” Odysseus said slowly, pushing away his souring temper to support the sanest idea he heard all morning. “We should be able to spare two generals and their armies without compromising the siege.”

“So it is a matter of choosing,” Agamemnon said.

“Well, not if we have volunteers,” Odysseus said.

“Who would volunteer?” asked Menelaus. “Some cities could be a pain to take and soldiers will be lost.”

There was only one way to move wary royals into action. Glory and renown.

“The general who is given the blessing of calling those cities his,” Odysseus answered. “If the biggest portion after Agamemnon’s was for himself, then of course he would do it. The rest of us really only need the food. Maybe some slaves.”

“If it is like that, I'll do it.”

Achilles smiled broadly. He usually kept quiet when most of the other generals were talking, but he wasn't afraid to loudly express his opinions. No matter how wrong they were. After all, Odysseus had to remind himself constantly, he was merely a youth. A god-born youth with a severe case of overconfidence, but a youth nonetheless.

“Very well then,” Agamemnon said, tense posture relaxing slightly. “Let us do as Laertiades says. Any other volunteers?”

It was unsurprising that Telamonian Ajax volunteered after Achilles. They had a sort of harmless competition in which they tried to defy the other’s prowess constantly. Even when Ajax was closer to Odysseus’ own age, he seemed happy enough to entertain the ideas of the youngest of the generals. And so the matter was settled.

“You were unusually quiet today,” Diomedes said once they walked towards his tent.

“Well, yes, I feel like all the gods have deserted me and Apollo found me particularly bothersome. I thank you for the wise advice. If I had to listen to Agamemnon’s cries for one more second, I would have vomited all over our table.”

“Are you sick?”

“Apparently so,” Odysseus said, stopping at the entrance of Diomedes' tent. “Though I wouldn't say it is unusual to feel ill with how humid these nights have been.”

“Well, if it's not so terrible, come on then.”

“To your tent? I thought I was only a momentary company.”

“We have plenty to talk about that we’ve been avoiding.”

“We do?” Odysseus asked, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “What about?”

“If you wish me to say it out loud while my soldiers are watching us…”

“Oh, come on, I was only jesting. I’m sure you find Sthenelus to be more than enough when it comes to chaperoning us as if we were two courting princes.”

“He’s not as bad as you make it sound,” Diomedes said, opening his tent to let Odysseus enter first. “He just wants us to be safe.”

“What he wants is for me to be far away from you,” Odysseus said, walking directly towards the camp bed and lying on it as if it were his own. “He never liked me, and I bet he does even less now that he knows I’m an omega; probably thinks I will charm you and make you do as I wish.”

“Were you not trying to do that before I even knew you were an omega?” Diomedes asked, beginning to mix some of his wine.

“Were you charmed?”

“Yes, of course. It was so incredibly charming when you made me sound a war horn in the middle of a palace, or when you made me lie to a girl about her own sacrifice.”

“You still did as I said,” Odysseus protested.

“I implied it wasn’t charming, not that it wasn’t smart,” he said, passing him one full cup.

Diomedes liked his wine more sweet than sour or salty. It tasted like honey and cinnamon and rosemary. Penelope liked it in a similar manner.

“If any of the generals were to find you’re an omega, they would probably wish to send you home. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I see the real conversation has started…”

“Odysseus…”

He sighed, sitting on the furs. “Even if our patroness didn’t want me to be here, it is not that easy. My family lied for years. We hid my identity and we hid Penelope’s. You must know that all royal sons are raised as alphas from the moment they are born. Maybe Penelope could have been a powerful enough alpha to take Ithaca and have me as a consort, but I wanted my kingdom, my father wanted me to have it. I was supposed to be the king. To be returned from war as a farce and socially less than my wife will put my family and homeland in danger.”

“Then we keep it a secret,” Diomedes said, drinking the rest of his wine in one go. “That means we can’t let people notice we’re lovers. No one would mind if we weren’t of the same station, but as kings…”

Lovers. Well enough. At least they were not going to pretend they didn’t desire each other.

“I know,” Odyseuss said. “We would become the thing to be joked about around all encampments. Hard to lead an army or be listened to when you are mere entertainment.”

“So it is settled then. We share your heats and my ruts, and we keep it secret from everyone except Sthenelus and Eurylochus,” Diomedes said, leaving behind his cup and walking towards Odysseus. “What shall we do about Palamedes?”

“What about him?”

“You want him gone,” Diomedes said, sitting so close to him that their thighs touched. “The man is way too preoccupied with what you do or say; therefore, he might notice much more easily if our routines change. He could be a danger to your safety.”

Odysseus laughed without humour. “So what? Would you kill him for me?”

“Yes.”

The silence was immediate. Odysseus’ mouth felt dry even after all the wine, his muscles tensed and relaxed multiple times, the air barely filling up his lungs. It was ridiculous how one simple word could stop his own body from working properly.

“Then we should do it,” he finally whispered. “Let’s do it and be done with it.”

Chapter 3: 3

Summary:

Start praying lol

Notes:

Hi! I cannot be stopped!

Thank you so much for more than 100 kudos and all the comments!! ❤️

So, we're here I guess. I mean, tbf I did say that I wrote the fic to get to this lol

I hope you guys enjoy the chapter and sorry for any mistakes.

(Also, I studied The Iliad and Ancient Greece in uni, but I'm no expert, so any social discrepancies with the era are just ✨creative liberties✨ and the effects of omegaverse I guess)

“Have you ever seen letters written by trojans?”

Odysseus shuddered, warm breath brushing against the skin behind his ear.

The air was humid and hot and almost unbearable, but Diomedes’ chest covering his back didn’t manage to bother him enough to want the man gone. Having him next to his body satiated that senseless but instinctive need of protection he felt after sex. If he closed his eyes, Odysseus could almost pretend he was laying on his own bed, in Ithaca, while the rest of the palace slept. Diomedes' scent seemed to relax him as much as the smells of his own home. Which wasn’t surprising, considering their agreement of only laying together when nature deemed it necessary was broken only two weeks after Odysseus’ heat. Nights after nights of sharing a bed were making his scent familiar. On the other hand, it was possibly driving their secret keepers to madness.

“I have,” he said after a while, voice laced with sleep. “The day me and Menelaus were inside their palace, in fact. I’ve seen quite a few of their writings. They are not very different from ours. Why?”

“Simply killing him ourselves will not suffice.”

“Is your intention to make me feel like an inadequate lover by talking about murder just moments after being inside me?”

“You are quite adequate,” Diomedes said, and one of his hands travelled from Odysseus' thigh to his stomach, pushing him lightly towards his body. “So adequate that my mind seems to work with greater precision after I had you.”

“Now you’re just saying things to make yourself sound like the most adequate lover,” Odysseus said mockingly, allowing one of his hands to rest on top of the one over his stomach. “What about trojan letters? How are we to use them to kill a man?”

“We should frame him for treason.”

“And get him stoned to death, I assume.”

“Any other ideas, then? Other than cutting his throat while he sleeps and hiding his body where it cannot be found? Because I’ve told you he will be eventually found.”

“Do not mock me in my own bed,” Odysseus protested with no real strength. “You were the one suggesting inviting the man and making it look like an accident. As if he would ever follow me anywhere. And don’t even bother yourself; I do not think he appreciates you much since he’s seen you sitting by my side at every meal we have in Agamemnon’s camp.”

“Well then, if no other suggestion is put forward, sharpest of the Achaeans, we are framing him for treason,” Diomedes said, beginning to extricate himself from Odysseus’ body.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to my camp,” he said, putting back on his chiton and sandals with soldier-like precision but the slowness of a night of pleasure. “That is if I wish to sleep a few hours.”

“The rosy-fingered goddess is so far away yet,” Odysseus said, using the space previously occupied by Diomedes to stretch his tired body. “Do you have to go?”

“Careful, Laertiades, you sound as if you’ll miss me.”

“Do not flatter yourself, Tydides, you’re just comfortable to sleep on top of.”

Diomedes smiled. It was a sort of crooked mocking smile, and it was also his softest. His hair was growing long, dark curls unruly and wet from sweat. He was beautiful. Not in the same way as Achilles, god-like and coldly distant, or earthly and regal as Menelaus. It was a rare sort of beauty, cutting and wild, but oh so real. In a world of kings and gods, he was as handsome as he was clever, and as clever as he was human.

Gods, Odysseus was so sickeningly bewitched it made him almost ashamed of himself. He felt like a youth again; ridiculous and stupid and in love with another unreachable alpha. But this time around he didn’t have any astute idea to win the battle, no father or uncle to convince, no possibility other than war and momentary confort. After the heat and rut spent together just a month before, his own body seemed to long for contact, for closeness. How stupid of him to expect the man to stay when what they shared barely had a name. They needed to be careful, and being seen leaving his tent in the early morning, day after day, was not a show of carefulness.

“We need gold,” Odysseus finally said, watching Diomedes put on his previously discarded cuirass. “I will write the letter. You find a way to get the gold inside his tent. It won’t take much more than that with Agamemnon’s recent paranoia.”

“I’ll see to it,” Diomedes said, walking towards the door with his helmet in hand. “Rest well.”

…

Eumelia was one of the only two female servants Odysseus brought to war from Ithaca. She was quiet, beautiful, and knew more about animals and medicine than any man he ever met. Her and Myrrhine, his older and bolder servant, were among the few people allowed to enter his tent in the early morning. Most of the time, Eumelia was the one who cleaned his possessions, refilled and replaced anything that was used, and brought fresh water for Odysseus to clean himself. He knew that plenty of his soldiers believed her to be his lover. She would’ve had to be aware of his nature for that to be true, and even so, most alphas laughed at the idea of two omegas being called lovers.

Her position, however, ensured that she was the one who found him the morning of the day he and Diomedes had chosen to hide the gold in Palamedes’ tent and get the letter sent to Agamemnon.

Odysseus woke up nauseous, with a pounding headache, and trembling like a newborn deer. It was not the first morning of the last week to treat him so poorly, but that day was a particularly horrid one. His feet carried him close enough to his table before falling to the ground and vomiting inside an empty krater. His mouth tasted like death himself, skin drenched in sweat, lips quivering and eyes filled with tears.

He gagged and doubled over before vomiting again and again, until his breathing grew ragged and his lungs burned as much as his throat.

“My king,” said a sweet but scared voice.

A hydria full of fresh water was placed in front of him and soft hands brought a clean cloth to his mouth. It was almost shameful to have a servant help him clean the vomit off his face, but his body kept on betraying him every time he tried to move on his own.

“I should call one of the medics,” Eumelia said, big brown eyes full of concern. “This is the third morning this has happened.”

“No, no. You won’t do such a thing,” he ordered as fast as he could. “It is nothing but the summer heat mixed with wine and too much food. Go back to your labors. I can handle this.”

“I…” she paused. “My king, are you sure? Should I leave you alone in this state?”

“Eumelia, go,” he repeated as firmly as his strength permitted. “It is nothing. You worry as much as my mother while being half her age.”

“I’ll go, my king,” she said, lips pursed. “But allow me to at least warn your second in command...”

“Fine, woman, go away. Do as you please,” Odysseus almost screamed, vomit climbing up his throat once again.

He didn’t have to wait much for Eurylochus to enter his tent. He was dressed in his usual armour and didn’t seem surprised in the slightest to find Odysseus laying on the ground.

“You look half dead,” he said, walking towards him. “You’re clearly sick.”

“Who would have fucking guessed,” Odysseus half asked before opening the hydria and emptying half of its content on top of his head. “Have the men eaten? Are they doing something useful instead of lazing around in the middle of a war?”

“You should go see Machaon or Podalirius,” Eurylochus said, and Odysseus’ souring expression must have been especially tortured because he immediately answered his questions. “The men have eaten and are now cleaning their armours or sparring with Tydides’ soldiers.”

“Any sign of military movement inside the city walls?”

Eurylochus sighed. “Nothing, Odysseus, it’s been weeks of almost complete silence and nothing seems different today. Though there are some reports of new troops arriving from the far east. More of their allies, if we had to guess.”

“Well then, I’ll be outside in just a minute.”

“I don’t think you are in good enough health to go around camp doing gods know what.”

“I’ll do as I see fit, Eurylochus. If you wish to cry about my health you can go talk with Eumelia and have a pleasant conversation about the matter. Now get away from here.”

He waited until he was alone again to collapse to the ground, hugging his own body. He crackled like a man gone insane, throat raw and eyes wet.

Only once before his own body had failed him so severely. Oh the gods were playing such cruel games with him.

…

Palamedes was stoned to death just two days after the evidence had been planted. Odysseus watched the process from a respectable distance. Close enough to see it fully, but far enough as to seem detached. He waited for the moment of freeing satisfaction, moans of pain floating toward his ears, blood flowing freely and pooling at Palamedes’ feet. Yet satisfaction never came. It was, perhaps, freeing. One less possible problem on his ever-growing list, one less thing to weigh him down when war was more than capable of doing it on its own. But seeing another person find their fate because of his scheming was less and less fulfilling each time. Palamedes’ death wouldn’t make the war end. He was sure his nightmares of Telemachus dying in front of him were not stopping either.

“It is done,” Diomedes said when the body was carried away for a proper burial. “I am inclined to believe that the debt has been paid.”

“It has been,” Odysseus said, nodding. “I wish him a peaceful rest. May the gods take into consideration every pious act he carried out when alive.”

“Kind words, but maybe less solicitous. I do not think you will be believed.”

“We need to talk.”

Diomedes frowned, all possible hints of humour leaving his body. “I am guessing we can’t take a moment to breathe in relief.”

“We cannot. I will be waiting inside my tent. Do hurry.”

He didn’t need to wait long. Diomedes followed him briefly after entering his tent, and a bittersweet desire to laugh filled Odysseus’ chest.

Diomedes wore his armour, as he did every day, and stood next to his table like a soldier waiting to be given an order. What order should Odysseus give him? Forsake our patroness’ wishes and set me free from this war unless you want to see your child dead ? Would he obey? Will whatever fondness he felt towards Odysseus serve as some reassurance? He never knew a man so shaped for war as his lover, a warrior since birth. Would a creature of death and sharpness and duty care enough about a child born from a lover in times of war?

It mattered not, really. The truth couldn’t be hidden in circumstances like those. He could not scheme and he could not run. He was trapped again. Trapped by war, trapped by his own body.

“I believe I’m pregnant,” he finally said. “Same symptoms as when I carried Telemachus.”

“You… what?” Diomedes took a step back, mouth open wide and brow furrowed. “What do you mean? What sort of scheme would require you to say such a thing?”

“I am more than capable of speaking the truth, you giant fool,” Odysseus growled, stepping forward. “If you wish not to believe me, fine. Let me and the child die.”

“It has been barely more than a month, Laertiades. Do you hear yourself?”

“Are you such a child that you do not understand how babies are created? I know you are not a father, but a month, a day, who cares?”

It was a credit to Diomedes’ shock that he stumbled when Odysseus pushed him. He held Odysseus’ wrists, however, and brought their bodies close with the force of his faltering steps.

“I…” Diomedes started, but closed his mouth just as fast.

He looked distressed. Odysseus could not remember seeing that expression any time before. Not even in the worst of battle, with Atropos hovering the scissors over their life-threads. He looked young and afraid and so worried.

“Calm yourself,” Odysseus softly ordered. If it was directed towards Diomedes or himself he could not be sure. “Yes, it is such a short time. More than unusual, I know. But I also know my body. It is true. There is no scheme, no hidden motive.”

“Aegiale never… in years, Odysseus…”

“I know. The first time around it took me years too,” he said, freeing one of his hands to touch Diomedes’ face. “Maybe we need not worry. I lost two babies before the second month was over. It can happen.”

“It won’t,” Diomedes said with such a resolution that all fear on his expression was replaced with bitter acceptance. “As I see it the gods are toying with us. The baby will live.”

“Maybe we should ask her. Plead for help.”

“These matters are of no importance to her. Why would she answer our prayers?”

“Hopefully, for me not to die or be sent away in shame.”

Chapter 4: 4

Summary:

Oh look! A new narrator! Oh no, he's so terrified.

Notes:

Hi! Maybe I do need to be stopped because why is this chapter like 3k?? lol

Anyways, thank you so much again for the comments and kudos ❤️

Sorry if there are any mistakes (I will blame it on university making me go insane like a coward lol)

There was nothing he knew about pregnancies and babies. The first and last time he held a baby it was Cometes, Sthenelus’ first born. Diomedes was barely thirteen and getting ready to fight a war in the name of his dead father. Cometes cried as soon as he was placed on his arms, wet eyes looking at him with an anger he only ever saw in wild animals. Diomedes had been terrified to even hold him, so he returned him to Sthenelus as fast as he could.

His sister Comaetho laughed at him for hours, calling him “rough and barbaric and not at all suited for family affairs”. She was most likely right, but her exactness did not make the words hurt less. Of course he wasn’t made for family. He was built for war. His own mother had no difficulty reminding him of the oath she forced him to swear when he was not older than five. Avenge your father, gain mighty power, steal a kingdom from the hands of your enemies . She didn’t consider the possibility of that kingdom being the one belonging to her own brother. Her thoughts were of no consequence, however, since she died just months after he was crowned king of Argos.

Despite his deep fears regarding children, a king needed an heir. Diomedes knew it was his duty, but he never really allowed himself to think about the possibility of Aegiale being pregnant. In four years of marriage they never got the chance to prove how right his mother and sister were about his lack of fatherly disposition.

Now his lover was pregnant. Odysseus, clever king of Ithaca. Devoted to a family that Diomedes could not even begin to comprehend.

The instinct to run away from danger was ripped out of him at an early age. Still, it did not surprise him that Odysseus, the infamous man of many tricks, was the one to break long years of military teachings. He wanted to run, and he wanted to hide. He felt like the child he was when they crowned him, when he married Aegiale, when his father died.

Sthenelus had only needed to look him in the eye to know something changed.

“What happened?” he asked the night after Odysseus told him about the baby. “You look scared for your life. What did that cunning snake do to you?”

“I think the gods are laughing at me, brother,” Diomedes answered, hands softly trembling while trying to get his cuirass off. “They must be.”

“Just tell me what he did and I swear I’ll shame him in front of all the generals.”

“Sthenelus, he’s pregnant.”

“What? No, that’s… He must be lying,” Sthenelus stammered, walking towards Diomedes, wide-eyed and shaking his head. “It is a trick.”

“A trick with what purpose? I am of no use to him like this! Scared like an inexperienced child, thinking of running like a coward. Sthenelus, he is pregnant.”

Deep silence enveloped the tent. It was one of those inhumanly hot summer nights, his own limbs seemed to weigh him down, and he was, if war didn’t kill him or Odysseus, going to be a father.

“I will do everything that is in my hands to keep this a secret, brother,” Sthenelus finally said, putting one hand on top of Diomedes’ shoulder. “But this is not something easily hidden. You should ask your patroness for help.”

“I believe he wants to do so. Implore for a way to hide the baby.”

“You do not sound like you believe it to be possible.”

“Because I do not.” He sighed, throwing his cuirass to the ground and slumping into one of his wooden chairs. “How do you make it so the baby grows but it’s not noticed? How do you keep it safe while Odysseus fights? How are we to take care of a child in the middle of war, in the middle of a siege? Even if Athena decides to help us somehow, how am I to be a father when I scarcely know what a father is? I never really wanted to be a father. Should I just force Odysseus to leave? Because I do not believe myself capable of doing it. Ruining his reputation, putting his homeland in danger. He has to stay, it is his fate. But how is he to do it when I went and got him pregnant like a gods forsaken fool?”

He took a deep breath, hands shaking like the first time he killed a man. A child, that’s what he was. A child used to war. A coward in any other regard. He couldn’t even admit to himself that he loved the man. How could he ever be a father?

Sthenelus kneeled in front of him, holding his trembling hands on his own like few people were allowed to. They could have passed off as brothers. Same dark skin, same humped noses and downturned mouths. The only significant difference was the colour of their eyes. Grey and brown.

Would his child’s eyes be grey as his, or a beautiful mismatch of blue and brown like Odysseus’?

“I won’t chastise you for being afraid and babbling nonsense like a senseless man,” Sthenelus said, making Diomedes snort. “But answer me this. If Odysseus stays and with the blessing of your patroness gives birth to a child in secret, would you really prefer for the baby to be taken away? Born and then raised by other people far away from here? Who would do it? Aegiale or Odysseus’ wife? Maybe some other family, so he never knows where his true blood lies? For all the talk about running like a coward, I know you brother. Tell me, would you truly run away from your duty as a father?”

“If I’m not a coward now, I will be forever selfish,” Diomedes said, voice sounding as tired as he felt. “What sort of man wishes to raise a baby in a war camp?”

“A man who hopes to be a father like his own never was,” Sthenelus said, letting his hands go to stand up again. “Now stop wallowing in your misery. Let it be known that I am the last man to wish for you to get closer and closer to Laertiades, but you have to talk to him, and you both need to ask for Athena’s help. You surely need it.”

…

Odysseus was not exactly avoiding him. That is to say, he was not seeking Diomedes’ company but he wasn’t running away everytime they were close. Maybe he was the one avoiding Odysseus, considering he didn’t dare approach him even days after Palamedes’ stoning.

They talked during council meetings and they ate together when invited to Agamemnon’s camp, but at the end of the day they always walked back to their own separate tents. Diomedes flinched every time one of his hands got close enough to Odysseus’ abdomen, and Odysseus looked sicker and sicker each day. He was not really sure who was the one that required the space and distance, but it did slowly become unbearable. Too much left unsaid and so little time to resolve it. One week was more than enough time to accept their new trial.

Achilles and Telamonian Ajax came back with grain, cattle, wine and slaves. To the surprise of absolutely no one, Agamemnon decided to throw a feast in their honor. Generals and their closest men were eating and drinking and sparring like drunken youths. Diomedes never particularly enjoyed the ruckus of those types of celebrations, now even less so, with his mind occupied in thoughts of the baby growing inside his lover.

Odysseus was talking to Menelaus, charming smile on his face, and red chiton making his blue eye look lighter than usual. He was wearing golden regalia, the ones that made his skin look like gleaming bronze. It reminded him of the day he arrived in Aulis, skin red from the sun’s heat and long curls dancing around his face. Diomedes was wary of him from the very first minute, but it didn’t take much more than days of pleasing words and not so pleasing jokes to make him forget why the man was not to be trusted. He did not know when it was that he truly fell in love. Perhaps it was the first time they killed together, perhaps it was the sleepless night they spent drinking after Iphigenia's sacrifice. And he was a fool for it. For falling for someone he believed a married alpha when they barely knew each other. Even more of a fool for getting the man pregnant just a year after.

“Why is it that I find you here alone and not listening to the lies Odysseus must be telling Menelaus to get him to relinquish some of his raiding prizes?”

Nestor was probably the only man in all the camps allowed to make such bold comments.

“I do not make it a habit to meddle in other people’s conversations,” Diomedes said, drinking the last drops of his wine. “Even less so when the winner of the argument is such an obvious thing.”

“He is swindling him out of half of his new sheep, I believe,” Nestor said, looking at the distant figures of the talking men. “Not surprising. Menelaus always had a soft spot for Odysseus.”

“Yes, their wives are cousins. They’ve known each other for years.”

“Did he ever tell you the story of how he got Penelope to marry him?”

“Oh, multiple times.” Diomedes nodded. “I was there in Sparta but I was only eleven and not a serious prospect for Helen, so I did not remember much. He was very extensive with his tales of the whole affair. He brought us here as much as the Atreides brothers did.”

“And yet we continue to be charmed by him. Don’t we?”

It was a rare occasion when Diomedes felt watched like a mouse being hunted, but Nestor was laying carefully planned traps around him with an ease that only came with age.

“He tries,” Diomedes said after a minute or so. “Now, I think most of the time we are the ones who decide if we get charmed.”

Nestor laughed lightly. “Do you consider yourself willingly charmed?”

“Perhaps,” he simply said, raised his empty cup in salute and began to walk towards Odysseus.

Menelaus was the first one to see him. He raised his cup and smiled broadly, red hair falling messily over his face. He was almost too drunk.

“Tydides! Odysseus here was telling me a marvelous story about the time one of his sheep got trapped in between two massive rocks.”

“Is it the one in which he heroically saved it from a hungry wolf, or the one with desperate children trying to get it out with old ropes?”

“Oh, I don’t really remember,” he said, laughing. “Which one was it?”

Odysseus smiled. From a closer distance his face showed clear signs of tiredness. He had no cup of wine on his hands, and Diomedes hadn’t seen him eating much during most of the feast.

“The one with the children,” he answered before turning to his left to face Diomedes. “Was your talk with Nestor any fun?”

“I did not realize you were watching,” Diomedes said, pretending to drink from his empty cup like an idiot.

“I enjoy knowing what my friends are doing.”

“Do you, now?”

“I’m way too drunk for this,” Menelaus said, blank expression and empty cup dangling from his fingers. “Let’s talk sheep tomorrow, Odysseus. I think I am going to bed now. Before I do or say some regrettable thing and suffer my brother's jibes in the morning.”

He nodded as a goodbye and disappeared behind Agamemnon’s tent.

“Are we done running and playing games?” Diomedes asked once they were alone. “Because there is wine and meat. And there is a goddess we need to talk to.”

“Very well. To your tent, then.”

No one paid much attention to them leaving. Sthenelus patted him in the back, Odysseus whispered some instructions in Eurylochus ears, and they were gone.

Diomedes prepared the offerings, meat and wine and a silver spearhead he won during their last battle against the Trojans. They sat on the floor, thick rugs providing some comfort. Odysseus lit seven small candles and poured the wine before looking him in the eye.

“Before we call upon her, we should be of one mind,” Odysseus began. “Asking for different things and fighting in front of our patroness will be of no use.”

“Don’t we want the same thing?”

“And that is?”

“For the baby to stay hidden. For a suitable enough excuse for you not to fight while pregnant, and for the baby to remain with us without people knowing your true nature.”

“You want the baby to stay?”

“Do not look so surprised, Laertiades. Who else will raise him? Would you send him to Penelope? Because I am certainly not considering Aegiale a proper option.”

“I…” Odysseus looked down, brow furrowed. “I do not think it fair to send a baby to my wife and make her life harder to save myself from the trouble. If Athena helps us, then I will be selfish. I am not letting fate rip out another baby from my arms again because of this senseless war.”

“We are of one mind, then,” Diomedes said, and forced himself not to try to hold the man by his side. “Who will call her first?”

“Her favourite, of course,” Odysseus said, mischief coming back to his words. “So start talking, Tydides.”

They sat in silence for some seconds until Diomedes found the right words within him.

“Hear me, goddess Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, you who have trained us and led us here to bring glory to the Achaeans. I plead you show us favour and grant us your help in this. We need your blessing if we are to remain fighting this war.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a strong gust of wind passed through them. The fire of the oil lamps and candles flickered, meat and wine disappearing and reappearing from his vision before a tall figure of golden light took shape in front of them.

“Why are my chosen warriors planning retreat like scared hares? Why are you asking for favour in a moment without battle? What is it that threatens your might to fight?”

Her voice made Diomedes’ body tremble. She rarely presented herself in that manner outside of battle, full armour and pale eyes shining like light-reflecting silver. But her words weren’t truly angry, so it must have been weeks since she last paid attention to Odysseus or him. Probably the last time they had to fight the Trojans.

“Goddess, we ask for guidance and we ask for help,” Odysseus said, hands raised towards the imposing figure. “You told me before that my fate was to fight in this war, no matter my nature, no matter my secrets. But a baby grows inside me, and fighting now could kill us both. What am I to do if not die or be sent away to lose everything I possess?”

“A baby,” Athena said, voice losing some of her frightening godly strength, body shrinking in size and pale eyes ceasing to shine. “You came to war to fight.”

Diomedes was used to her sounding like that. More of a disappointed mother than an angry immortal. She hovered closer to Odysseus, eyes moving from his face to his stomach.

“What is it that you require of me, Odysseus son of Laertes? To take the baby away for others to raise so you can fight? Gods might be powerful, but your daughter is still human. She cannot grow outside of you.”

A daughter.

The baby inside Odysseus was a girl. Their little girl. Small and so vulnerable, so easily hurt. Raised by others, not even a nursemaid who could bring her back to her parents. Some other people, far away from war, far away from them.

“Goddess, she is ours and we do not wish to desert her, but we cannot allow others to know about Odysseus’ nature. It was your wish and it is his fate for him to fight. We beg you help us keep this hidden, to save them both and all of Ithaca from any harm.”

“Diomedes, this is incredibly foolish coming from my champions.” she said with such force that he almost brought his hands towards the knife sheathed on his leather belt. “But I will offer you this: one gift, one word of advice, and one command.”

“Yes, goddess,” Odysseus said as fast as the words were out of Athena’s mouth. “Anything you can offer us will be received with the utmost appreciation.”

“I shall keep your daughter hidden. Your body will let her grow safely but your middle will not swell as it naturally should. How you choose to hide her birth is for you to decide,” she said, raising a hand towards Odysseus. “My advice is for you to find a nursemaid to be her mother if the child lives. Let the woman raise her while you do your duty.” Her body began to shine once again, growing in size like a fire being fed. “My command is for you to fight. That is your true purpose and the reason you are here. Be sure that if your goals and mine are not equal, I will set my eyes on much more important matters.”

Her light grew intolerable, so bright his eyes burned. He covered them with one arm, lowering his head. By the time he looked up again, Athena was already gone.

Chapter 5: 5

Summary:

A choice.

Notes:

Hi!!! How are you guys?

Umm... Thank you so much for almost 200 kudos????? I still can't believe people are reading this lol ily ❤️

As always sorry if there are any mistakes and I hope you like the chapter ❤️

(Btw, time is going to start moving faster from the next chapter onwards)

“We should find that woman soon,” Odysseus said just seconds after Athena left. “We do not have much time.”

“Yes, we do not. But what about you fighting? What are you going to do?”

“Fight.”

Diomedes frowned. “Really? You are fighting while pregnant?”

“I must. Unless you can help me fake some sort of illness that would prevent me from it. The rest of the generals will not accept me not fighting without a good reason, and my position as captain will be undermined. I cannot stop fighting.”

“The baby could be hurt.”

“Well, yes. Or I could simply die.”

“Do not say that, you ridiculous man.”

“You could die!” he added, fake cheeriness in his voice. “You die and I am left to raise this child alone. How about that?”

Diomedes' gaze fell to the ground.

Oh, he knew. Odysseus knew exactly how he felt about that. From the very first moment they met, Diomedes made one thing clear; he was going to die at war. Maybe this one, maybe another. But he did not expect to die of old age, peacefully living in his palace. It was most likely the hardest thing in the world for a man like him to find a reason to live. But Odysseus had no time for self pitying, he wanted to shake him, to tell him that the time to wallow and be scared was over. They needed to act fast.

“For her I'll try not to,” he finally said and Odysseus' growing bitterness recoiled. “If she lives, then it is my duty to raise her for as long as she’ll need me. I cannot die yet.”

“Fine, then none of us dies,” Odysseus said. “We find a way to protect her, she lives, we both live, and we raise her through this war.”

“Until you leave for Ithaca.”

Penelope will love her.

It was a bittersweet thought. Of course she would love his daughter, no matter the other parent. She would raise her as her own, treat her as her own daughter. But taking her to Ithaca meant taking her away from Diomedes. How unfair could fate be again and again.

“Let’s not think so far into the future. Nine more years, remember? War will be long.”

“It is fine. I never said you shouldn’t. After all of this is over, she will probably be happier with you than she could ever be with me.”

“Stop. Let us not talk about it. Not right now.”

Diomedes just nodded, lost in his own thoughts yet again. He did that often when they first met. Once, while traveling to Mycenae to get Iphigenia, he asked Diomedes why. Why do you seem so lost in thought all the time? Nothing clever to say? Diomedes had joked, a fabricated lie covered in jest, saying his mind was young and easily bored. What he truly meant was that he never could stop thinking about if all he did was worth anything. Diomedes followed orders, he did his duty and schemed to get the best results, but he doubted himself constantly when it came to deciding his own destiny outside of war and battle. It was quite obvious from the very beginning, so it was not surprising that he would let his own daughter go if he knew it to be the honourable option, even against his personal wishes.

Odysseus supposed that Sthenelus had a point in being wary of his intentions. Diomedes was a smart man, but he was bound by duty in a way Odysseus never felt himself to be. So easy to manipulate when you knew where the cracks were. Sthenelus was fortunate Odysseus was so foolishly in love that he allowed his own weaknesses to be revealed.

“I should go,” Odysseus said after some moments of silence, getting up to his feet.

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? It is late and we already know what we must do.”

“Everyone will be too drunk to even notice you are gone.”

Odysseus frowned, anger sparking once again. “Do not tell me you want to lay with me after everything that happened this week. I did not think you were so hot-blooded.”

“Don’t play the fool with me,” Diomedes said, getting up as well. “You have stayed in my tent multiple nights before we were lovers. Are we not friends anymore because you carry my child?”

“I don't know. Perhaps this entire week of silence made me believe so.”

“You were avoiding me as much as I was avoiding you. Don't pretend otherwise.”

“Maybe I was avoiding you because you flinched every time you got close to my body. Our child cannot bite you from my insides. A smart man like yourself must know this.”

“You aren't half as amusing as you believe yourself to be right now.”

“Ah, save your lectures, great king of Argos. You were scared. In fact you were terrified. But if you believe yourself to be the only scared person in this tent right now, you would be mistaken,” Odysseus said, breath growing ragged from anger and tiredness. “I am carrying this baby inside me in the middle of a war and you think you are the only one terrified? Give me your hand.”

“What? My hand?”

“Give me your hand or I am leaving right this moment.”

Diomedes' hand was warm between both of his own. He looked away, as if ashamed of the fastness in which he conceded, but his body moved slightly towards Odysseus.

“Here she is,” Odysseus almost whispered, placing the hand over his flat stomach. “Here she will grow and she will live. We will make sure of it. And you will stop being afraid and believing yourself more dead than alive. As you said, for as long as she'll need you.” He took a deep breath, letting the hand go. “Now take your chiton off.”

He could easily admit to himself that watching Diomedes jump in surprise, something that rarely ever happened, was quite delightful after a week of coldness and uncertainty.

“To sleep, Tydides,” he clarified after entertaining moments of confusion. “This weather is way too hot for us to sleep wearing our clothes.”

They undressed in silence, clothes discarded on the ground, jewelry left on top of the table. They didn't really touch each other but they most certainly looked.

Lies had always come easy to him. Yet this he couldn't hide. It was attraction and it was love. Odysseus had missed their nights together during the last week. He missed the warmth and the scent of his lover, the laughter and secretly planning. Yes, in a way it reminded him of Penelope, but it was so completely different in the most perfect ways. If he could have them both…

Greedy. He had been greedy for love and pleasure and control all his life. So dutifully trained as an alpha but possessing the most dangerous qualities of an omega. It mattered not. If Diomedes wanted him, then Odysseus would have him again and again.

They laid together on top of the furs, naked bodies barely touching, oil lamps bathing their faces in golden light.

Unsurprisingly he moved first, laying on his side so his fingers could lazily dance over Diomedes' chest before slowly sinking them on his hair. He held the curls with that playful strength his lover seemed to find pleasurable, bringing the strands towards his face so he could smell the perfumed oil coating them.

“I thought you said it was only about comfortable sleep,” Diomedes said.

That pretended complaint, however, did not mean much with his hands already traveling up and down Odysseus'  thighs.

“Should I stop then?”

“That is not what I said. Come here,” he said, using his hold on Odysseus' body to place him on top of his own. “Of course I'll have you.”

“Good. Because if all my mornings are to be miserable, I will make the most of every night.”

…

It was not rare by war standards to be woken up by voices. War camps were naturally loud almost all of the time. Filled with shouting, fights, laughter, and the sound of metal being cleaned or put at use. Unusual was having those voices inside his tent. No one other than his servants, Eurylochus or Diomedes were allowed to bother him in the early morning. And he was not to be messed with before the sun started to lighten the sky, so they usually did not. That morning, however, two half-whispering half-shouting voices awoke him from his fitful sleep.

The left side of his bed was cold, Diomedes long awake and gone as all the mornings before. The sun was not strong enough yet to bother him through the covering of the tent, but the weather was warm and bothersome, and his head pounded painfully like every morning for the past two months.

“Be quiet!” he shouted without even opening his eyes. “By the gods, why are you talking so much and so loudly?”

“My king, I am sorry,” said a sweet quiet voice.

“You should be awake anyways,” followed Diomedes’ voice, stronger and not at all remorseful even after waking him up.

“Diomedes, I am vomiting on your face, I swear by the gods.”

“Sit up and drink,” Diomedes answered, ignoring his threats. “Before you start getting truly nauseous.”

He opened his eyes slowly, head spinning and stomach grumbling in a mixture of hunger and pain. Still, he obeyed his lover, seating on the furs and resting his back on one of the tent’s posts. Oil lamps were still lit, the sunlight barely grazing the sand outside the tent. Eumelia was holding a cup in his direction, a cloud of steam floating upwards from the hot liquid inside. She smiled at him and made a small curtsy.

“Drink, my king,” she said sweetly but concealing a sort of command only laborious women could give so freely to man of higher rank.

He accepted the cup, made a gesture of disgust, if Diomedes' hidden laughter was proof enough, and drank the liquid in a single movement. It burned his throat to painful degrees, but served as a perfect distraction from his growing nausea.

“Why were you fighting?” Odysseus asked after giving the cup back to Eumelia.

“We weren’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t dare fight a king. Even less so inside the tent of my own, my king.”

“We were,” Diomedes said, rolling his eyes like a child. “And she believes she’s won, so I do not see how her argument of not fighting a king still stands.”

“Do you feel like vomiting, my king?” Eumelia asked, clearly ignoring Diomedes in the search of making a point.

“I do not, but whatever that was, it was way too hot and certainly foul. What was it? Did you two plan to poison me?”

“King Diomedes said he knew you had been waking up feeling badly, that it would be the same today, so he asked me to give you a drink to soothe your stomach, my king. Although he said you could not stand hot liquids in warm temperature, it is surely as I was born and raised in Ithaca that the tea works better served hot.”

“Ah,” Odysseus said, forcing an impending smile to stay hidden. “As I see it both of you won the argument then.”

They frowned. A quite similar expression, made even more so by the shape of their downturned lips. It made them look rather cross all the time. They looked almost blood related…

Ah.

“Why do you say that?” Diomedes asked. “You do hate hot drinks, especially during hot weather. You have said so multiple times.”

“I did. That makes you right. What makes her right is my lack of nausea. Eumelia, thank you, you can leave us now.”

“Of course, my king,” she said, nodding at him and then Diomedes before disappearing behind the tent’s door.

“What is it?” Diomedes asked the moment they were alone. “I would have thought you would be pleased to stop the constant vomiting. I found her outside your tent and the idea came to me. You told me before that a few of your slaves know some medicine.”

He was wearing his armour and fresh clothing, but Odysseus still remembered holding him just moments before waking up.

“You have the steps memorized,” Odysseus said. “Coming and going like the ruler of both camps.”

“You enjoy it.”

The jesting accusation stole a deep laugh from within his chest. It was a bold remark coming from his lover, but it was truthful.

“Have you thought of which woman we are to choose?” Odysseus asked instead of taking the bait and fighting the claim. “There are new slave girls in all camps since the raids happened, and my first trimester is coming to its end. We need to make a choice.”

Diomedes laughed without humour. “I have not, and I still believe it is better for you to choose. She will pretend to be your concubine. Will she not?”

“Do you think Eumelia resembles Sthenelus?”

“You are becoming quite predictable, lover,” Diomedes said, shaking his head softly. “What you mean is that she resembles me . When did you choose her?”

“Would you believe me if I said that it was just now?”

“Not really, no. But I could pretend that I do.”

“As you wish,” Odysseus said, getting up to start dressing. “Some of my men believe her to be my lover, and you do look quite similar sometimes.”

“It is also easy to manage if she has been in your camp from the beginning.”

“Would you call her back?”

“We should ask her some questions before telling her the truth,” Diomedes said, already walking towards the entrance.

“We will. Go now, she should be searching for fresh water.”

Eumelia came back looking confused. She left the full hydria on top of the table and frowned, crossing her arms in front of her body in an attempt to protect herself.

“Did something happen, my king?”

Diomedes sat on one of his wooden chairs, clearly choosing to remain silent for as long as he could.

“Nothing bad, Eumelia, be at ease,” Odysseus said. “I just wanted to ask you some questions about your life in my camp.”

“I am the most comfortable servant you could find, my king,” she said as quickly as the words left Odysseus’ lips. “My mom and her mom before her had served your house for decades, and I chose myself to come here. The queen herself told the rest of the slaves I was the finest choice.”

“Eumelia, I am not mad, I swear by our gods. You are not here to be punished,” he said slowly. “You could consider this an honour presented to you. But to be sure of you being the right choice I have to ask you if you have ever laid with any of my soldiers.”

“My king,” she almost whispered, taking a step backwards as if struck by an invisible force. “No… they... no, my king. They wouldn’t touch me. They believe me to be yours.”

“And is this acceptable to you? To be thought of as the king’s lover in exchange for freedom of movement?”

“It is,” she said immediately. “I am safe and you have always treated me kindly, my king. A fair exchange.”

“Very well,” Odysseus said, looking back at Diomedes. “Shall we?”

“Go ahead,” he simply answered. “If you think it right, I’ll follow your lead in this.”

“Well then,” he said, getting closer to Eumelia so he could lower his voice. “What I am telling you now must always be a secret. Do you understand this?”

“I do, my king.”

“I need you to pretend you are carrying a child.”

“What?” she almost screamed, lifting a hand towards her lips as if trying to equally contain the words and the surprise.

“Eumelia, I am having a baby and my soldiers cannot know she grows inside of me. You will pretend to carry my child and raise her when she is born. In return you will receive the honours of a concubine. Slave no more. Not ever again.”

“The illness,” she whispered, looking at Diomedes before nodding in no particular direction. “Our king is omega,” she added with the softness of someone receiving the happiest of messages, before looking Odysseus directly in the eye. “It will be my honour to be the nursemaid of your child, my king. I shall find it the most welcome duty of them all.”

Chapter 6: 6

Summary:

Imposing lovers tell people to shut the fuck up(?

Notes:

Me: Thank you guys for almost 200 kudos!
Y'all in a week: Here, take 250+

All that to say, thank you so much, I love you guys ❤️

Anyways, here it is, another chapter!

I feel the need to say some things before we keep going, so here I go I guess. Firstly, I do not know how you guys got to my fic (please tell me if you want, I love chisme). If it was only from mythology, EPIC The Musical, a mix of both, or anything related. All that to say, this fic is 90% based on the classics (The Illiad, The Odyssey, and other works related) and 10% on my dumb imagination. So it will be bloody, messy, not at all pleasing at times. Different morals and cultures and all that.
Secondly, some future chapters may need extra CWs. I will write them in the chapter notes when needed, but they will be most likely spoilers. So if you do not get triggered, consider skipping them to get surprised lol. Otherwise please read them.

That is all! I hope you like the (gigantic) chapter and sorry if there are any mistakes (I finished it like two hours ago) ❤️

Odysseus had not needed to do much for the rumour to start growing. He ordered a new and bigger tent to be prepared near his, he put golden jewelry around Eumelia’s neck and hair, and soon enough his soldiers started laughing every time she came out of his tent. They punched each other's arms and backs, or made crude gestures to one another. Even soldiers from other camps began a strange half-curious half-amused dance of looking at Odysseus and whispering when he walked close.

Perimedes came to him just three days after everything had started, blank expression on his face and slight caution on every step. Though Odysseus knew him from their youth, he could hardly pretend to understand what the man’s feelings would be if he were to know his king’s true nature. Despite his lack of understanding, he and Polites were one of the few men Odysseus suffered lying to. There was a certain trust, yes, however he learnt to be wary of any alpha outside his family during his sixteenth year of life, when his true nature decided to make itself known.

“Some of the soldiers heard her saying she is with child,” Perimedes said, looking at the soldiers playing dice close to them. “Should we allow her to lie like this?”

“She is not lying,” Odysseus answered. “So, as you see, there is no reason to call her a liar.”

“Captain, a child? Certainly? Why not send her back to Ithaca then? She and the baby will be safer there.”

“How long have you known me, Perimedes?”

“Well, some years. Most of our youth, captain. Why?”

“Then you know I am not abandoning my child. Even less so putting such a burden on my wife’s back. When we win the war they will join me in my palace,” Odysseus said, patting him on the back. “For now she stays and she is to be treated as my concubine and the mother of my child. All the soldiers must know this. That is an order.”

He obeyed so readily that Odysseus could not even pretend surprise when Eurylochus entered his tent that same night, just moments after he put his armour aside to sleep. The sun had long since hidden and Diomedes was already there, lying on the bed while he drank wine and ate from a basket full of ripe colourful fruits as if he owned the place. His most common, usual and welcomed guest.

“A pregnant servant,” Eurylochus said the moment he crossed the entrance, oil lamps flickering from the movement of the linen. “Why the lie?”

“It was a needed one,” Odysseus said, standing in front of him while eating a slice of pear that Diomedes had cut for him. “Since I am the one who is pregnant.”

“Oh, for the love of all the gods,” Eurylochus said, running his hands through his short curls as if wishing to tear them all out of his head. “This could not be a worse time to have a child. I suppose you both know this.”

“Well yes, you guessed correctly,” Odysseus grunted, tired spirits worsening with the unnecessary accusations. “We are aware. There is nothing we can do, however, since I am already pregnant.”

“So you use a slave girl as a false display for you to hide,” Eurylochus said, humour clearly souring even more than before. “What about fighting? What about the birth? Because you will not be able to hide away for months while we are at war. Not unless you publicly leave. And if you do so, what will your excuse be? Because revealing your nature now will surely hurt your family’s honour.”

“I will keep fighting, as my patroness commands, while she hides the baby inside me. The rest is of no consequence to you. We will take care of it somehow.”

“Just like that and you believe it is done? Odysseus, it is an incredibly unintelligent choice to keep and raise this child here. At least consider a scheme so you can leave.”

“I believe he said we will take care of the rest,” Diomedes said, eyes barely leaving his wine and food to look at them. “He did not ask for your thoughts on what to do with our child.”

Eurylochus' posture straightened, as if just noticing Diomedes’ presence. “Of course,” he said, brow furrowed. “It is your child and you will do as you see fit, but three hundred and fifty soldiers are hard to control. Even more so thousands of them. Someone, anyone, could realize the truth at any moment, and secrets are not easily kept here.”

“I will not abandon another one of my babies again, Eurylochus. Not if I can help it,” Odysseus said, hands tightly closed in ire-containing fists. “With enough help I am sure we can keep the secret safe from those who would seek to undermine me. We will make sure of it. Or do you not believe yourself capable of safeguarding my secrets? Should I choose another one? Maybe our familiarity is too much of a distraction to you. Am I your captain and king or do you see my sister’s face and nature when you look at me?”

Eurylochus had the decency to look away.

He took a deep, steadying breath and gave a long enough nod to be mistaken for a short bow.

“I will do my duty and keep the secret safe, captain,” he said, voice devoid of all previous strength.

“Good,” Odysseus said. “That is all I ask of you. Leave us now.”

“You have a headstrong one as your second in command,” Diomedes said as soon as they were alone. “He cares too much to be appropriate. At least not in public.”

Odysseus frowned. “Am I to believe that Sthenelus does not act like a protective mother when it comes to you?”

“Oh he does, yes,” Diomedes said, extending a hand towards Odysseus. “What I meant is that he questions you in excess. He should have kept quiet after the first order.”

“I know,” Odysseus sighed, accepting the hand and climbing on top of the furs. “He does see my sister in me sometimes. I can see it in the way he looks at me. As if he were afraid I’ll break under the weight of everything. I shall blame Ctimene for this until the day my soul goes to Hades.”

“Well, it matters not,” Diomedes said, lips already finding that maddening spot underneath his ear. “All we need is his loyalty and obedience to your house, really. We can remind him of his place everyday if necessary. I do not mind.”

“Yes? I did not notice at all,” Odysseus said, hands quickly unclasping the broach that kept his clothing together. “Just weeks of knowing about the baby and you are already beginning to stake your claim like any other proprietorial alpha.”

Penelope was almost the same. She had always had a mellow disposition, built upon the softness of her public lie. Only her closest family and servants knew she was an alpha, so her social life was carefully created to portray her as the most delicate, well-behaving, kindest of omegas. Perhaps it was all the years in hiding that made her act like a stalking lioness the moment she knew of Odysseus’ pregnancy. She had terrified most of their servants by the time of Telemachus' birth, so it was not at all unexpected to find himself under the endearing, if not slightly vexing, overprotective temper of his lover.

“Should I not tell people to keep their unwanted opinions about our child to themselves?” Diomedes asked, lightly biting the place where his neck and shoulder met.

Odysseus gasped, head instinctively falling backwards to allow more space. “That is not what I said, you fool. Keep going.”

“Do you mean my brutish, bothersome alpha behaviours, or my biting, lover?”

“By the gods, be silent. Be silent right this moment or I am leaving the tent.”

“Both then.”

…

His painful mornings were beginning to subside by the time most of the camps heard of the news. Eumelia was looked at like a cracked vase on the verge of shattering. Soldiers and slaves alike took labours from her hands as if they could burn her skin. Myrrhine, readily and almost violently, replaced her in the usual activities inside of Odysseus’ tent, cleaning and changing and bringing fresh supplies. Odysseus knew in his heart that Eumelia was going to become exhausted of her own boredom by the time the baby was born. It was a good thing, however. She needed the reserves of energy.

Odysseus had not such luck. The morning sickness was gone but his body was far from normal. His muscles ached, flesh tender in most of his torso, humour growing restless and easily irritated, but work never ended. He moved through the camp from early morning to late afternoon, organizing and commanding and listening to his soldiers like an amalgamation of war general and head of the house.

It was not at all surprising how deeply he missed his wife day after day. Although Diomedes treated him as gently as he was capable of, he could not let Odysseus rest while he took care of both camps. They were at war and things were expected from both of them. There was no escaping duty and there was no escaping his own body.

“How are you feeling today?” Diomedes asked while they walked towards Agamemnon’s camp.

The sun was barely up and an early autumn slowness seemed to envelope all the camps. Odysseus was already in his fourth month of pregnancy. Time was moving so quickly and likewise not fast enough at all.

“I have felt worse before,” he answered. “Nothing that listening to Agamemnon’s cries and unfounded accusations cannot make better.”

“Sarcasm suits you,” Diomedes said, smiling so slightly that you had to know every single one of his expressions to notice. “It does tell me, however, that you are in good enough spirits to tolerate him and the rest of the generals.”

“We will see about that.”

They were the last ones to arrive. Agamemnon was already talking, face flushed and bared teeth like a caged wild animal. Menelaus was sitting by his side, face hidden in his hands, murmuring to himself like a man gone mad. It was an uninspiring image that the Atreides brothers painted.

“So,” Diomedes whispered to Nestor as soon as they sat in their usual places. “What is it now?”

“New troops from the northeast,” Nestor whispered back. “Their supply lines are also getting stronger and steadier. Not good for a siege.”

“Delightful! Now that you dare grace us with your presence, have you, wise Athena’s warriors, anything to suggest?” Agamemnon said, suddenly facing Odysseus and Diomedes.

“If we may hear what the things that trouble us now are, perhaps,” Odysseus said, allowing one of the Atreides’ slaves to fill his cup full of wine. “Otherwise I would find it arduous to be precise with my advice.”

“They are attacking soon,” Menelaus said, getting out of his self pitying reverie to look at Odysseus. “Our spies counted at least one thousand men more. They captured one soldier lagging behind from the second oncoming troop. He confessed they were men from Priam’s daughters-in-law homelands, ready to help Troy get rid of us.”

“The man has hundreds of fucking children,” Locrian Ajax said, sloppily resting on his chair while drinking from his almost empty cup. “Who knows how many more men he can convince to join him just because of familial loyalty.”

“That does not necessarily mean they are attacking just now,” Achilles said, blonde hair falling over his face in a mess of disheveled braids. “They could be just gathering the men. Preparing for the months to come.”

“Unlikely,” Odysseus finally said. “I agree with Menelaus. They have to attack. Their numbers are now augmented so their chances are higher. We should be getting ready for a defensive, or we will be swarmed and pushed back towards our ships before we realize.”

“And what about their supplies?” Agamemnon asked. “This is not a proper siege if they can still fill their stomachs full of food every night.”

“I suppose more raiding is in order,” Nestor said. “We have to destroy every possible ally.”

“We could probably sway some of them. Try to strike some sort of deal,” Diomedes said, not looking at anyone in particular as to seem less threatening. One of his favourite tricks. “Not everyone in this damned land will show Priam loyalty, and we are kings and princes. Are we not? I am sure we have more than enough to offer some of their leaders as to change their minds and reroute resources.”

“And would you go, Tydides, in front of foreign kings in their foreign lands to make peace and ask for their grain and cattle?” Agamemnon asked, briefly calmed demeanor quickly morphing into his usual anger. “We should kill them all.”

“I would go,” Diomedes simply said. “But, alas, king of kings, I am not the one making that decision. So as you please…”

Agamemnon shook a hand in the air as if Diomedes wasn’t more than a bothersome fly, before looking at the rest of the generals.

“What would you offer in exchange for food and loyalty?” he asked, mocking tone and raised eyebrows.

“Well, we know of someone who may soon have a daughter to bargain,” Telamonian Ajax said, clearly trying to break through the tension, while looking at Odysseus.

“Oh, by the gods, Ajax,” Menelaus grumbled. “Really? Can we not bring useless tattle into the war council?”

“Not a good time to talk about the matter, I see,” Ajax said, hiding a clearly pleased smile.

“There is nothing to talk about,” Odysseus said before anyone else tried to offer some other opinion on the matter. “I am to be a father, as many of us already are, and I wish for the baby to stay here. That is all.”

“Certainly unwise coming from you, but not at all unexpected… considering…,” Idomeneus murmured, barely lifting his face to look at Odysseus.

“It is just unwise,” Locrian Ajax countered. “Many of us left behind babies barely born to join this war. Having one of them here is as dangerous as it is unnecessary. Another mouth to feed, and a weakness to all of those who care.”

“I think we have much more important issues to discuss than a pregnant slave,” Diomedes intervened.

“You would say that,” Achilles murmured, face hidden behind his cup.

“And what is that supposed to mean, Pelides?” Diomedes asked, expression turning from neutral to irritated.

“Oh gods,” Nestor said, shaking his head. “Would you overexcited youths compose yourselves and leave these matters for feasts and simpler days? We are soon to be attacked. There are matters of greater importance, and I would prefer to dedicate my early morning to them.”

That they did. They discussed matters of strategy and supplies for what seemed to be hours upon hours. Odysseus' stomach was begging for food by the time the council was over.

“Come eat with me,” Diomedes said as they walked back towards their adjacent camps. “We should discuss some things.”

“Yes, I believe we…”

“Odysseus!”

Menelaus’ voice made all the soldiers around them turn towards the sea. He was standing close to Odysseus’ main ship, bare feet on wet sand and crooked crown on top of his head. Him and Agamemnon were the only ones who still used them. Odysseus' own crown, the one his father placed on his head when he turned twenty one, was in Ithaca, safely kept inside a chest.

“Come,” he said to Diomedes. “Whatever he needs to say I am sure you’ll want to be there with me.”

“Why?” Diomedes asked, following him anyways.

“Because his wife is Penelope’s cousin.” He paused briefly. “And there is intimidation in numbers.”

“Odysseus,” Menelaus repeated as soon as they were close enough. “You have to stop fighting.”

The half-begging half-commanding quality of his voice made Odysseus stop midstep, eyebrows raised and lips slightly pursed.

“What?” asked Diomedes, clearly taken aback.

Menelaus frowned. “Tydides, you should be the first one to tell him to stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Odysseus, I know we played pretend all these months,” Menelaus began, ignoring Diomedes’ growing exasperation. “I said nothing, of course, because we need you to win this war. There is no better strategist within the Acheans. Your mind and your ideas are duly appreciated, but you cannot believe it is right to put a child at risk like this.”

“I do not think I understand what it is that you believe to know about me,” Odysseus said, forcing one of his most charming smiles when he finally reached Menelaus. “What are we pretending?”

“Let’s not play this game now, Laertiades. I know the three of us know of your true nature. Helen has talked on multiple occasions about her shared youth with Penelope, and I am certain that Tydides knows exactly what I mean. Otherwise you would not bring him with you to hear what I have to say.”

“Does Agamemnon know?” Odysseus asked, all charm lost in favour of assertiveness. “Has Clytemnestra said anything to him?”

“No, I… I do not believe they talk enough to mention her cousins. They are not like me and Helen.”

“I will not stop fighting then,” Odysseus said as an answer. “Athena has made her wishes known to us. My daughter will be born and raised here. I will fight until this war is won or I die on these shores, Menelaus. That is what you wanted, isn’t it? For us to fight in your name, for the honour of the Acheans, all of us insulted by this abduction.”

“Yes, of course it is what I want, Odysseus, but you are not…”

“I am what I build myself to be,” Odysseus interrupted. “You were smart enough to tell your brother to get me so I could fight in this war. Let’s not be fools now, right? Things are already in motion. I will decide how my child lives. You, for your part, think of what use my departure and shame could be to you.”

“Right,” Menelaus said slowly after some moments of silence. “And you have nothing to say about this?” he asked Diomedes. “I suppose this is your baby.”

“I do not need to make my intentions clear to you, Atreides. I already have eighty ships full of soldiers fighting for you. There is no need to include you in my personal affairs,” Diomedes said, body almost completely turned towards the camps. “I do as my patroness says, as any wise man does. And Odysseus can very well decide what he wishes to do with his own life.”

“That is it?” Menelaus asked. “Just let him do as he wishes? He is a pregnant omega!”

Diomedes body tensed, posture straightening and brow furrowing. Odysseus immediately knew there were hundreds upon hundreds of things that his lover wished to scream in anger, so it was a testament to his learnt composure that he only snorted and shook his head lightly.

“That is it,” he said. “We keep fighting for you, you do not tell anyone about our daughter, and things continue as they have for the last year and a half. How about that?”

“You are the biggest of fools,” Menelaus said, running his hands over his face as if in disbelief. “Whatever. I do not even know why I should care. Do as you wish.”

Odysseus waited until he was a few steps away from them to shout. “We most certainly will!”

 

Chapter 7: 7

Summary:

War??? In this economy?

Notes:

Hi!! So, I am back(?

Look, I am inspired and sick so there was nothing left to do other than write (and rot) in bed all day.

Btw, thank you so much for 300 kudos!! ❤️ Seven chapters in and i still cannot believe you guys actually like this story lol

So, this was going to be even longer but I had to stop myself and leave the last two scenes for chapter 8 because it was going to be so fucking convoluted and messy it was honestly not worth it(?

Also, Odysseus is a bit of an emotional mess on this chapter, but I believe it is justified lol

Anyways, I hope you like the chapter and sorry for any mistakes ❤️

“Can anyone give me a fucking spear?!”

Diomedes’ shouting was almost engulfed by the sounds of battle. Screams and cries and metal piercing through flesh and bones, tearing souls out of bodies, covering eyes with eternal darkness at an unstoppable pace. His shield collided with some faceless Trojan’s body, short sword slashing the skin and muscles of one of his thighs. The man fell backwards, crying out in pain and desperation, and was quickly taken away and out of the battlefield by those brave enough to defend his body.

Counting dead enemies was an art lost to him from the time of the battle of Thebes, but since the attacks had begun, just a week after they predicted they would, Diomedes killed so many Trojans and their allies to see dripping blood and rotting bodies with his eyes closed. He left the counting in the hands of Hades. Dreaming about their soulless eyes and bloating faces was enough remembrance.

What he certainly knew was that they were desperate. The amount of battles and death in a week said it without the need of words. Both sides knew this was the last chance to gain control. Otherwise an indefinite stalemate was about to take place. Not even the knowledge of the prophesied ten years of war could stop them.

“Sthenelus! Now would be a nice time!”

He heard the horses before seeing them. Sthenelus' swiftness on a chariot was, if anyone dared ask Diomedes, an unmatched force. The soldiers around him receded, forming a much more orderly line some meters away.

A spear was placed on his hand as soon as Sthenelus was by his side. He sheathed his sword and got into the chariot in one movement he had more than memorized.

“Where is he?” Diomedes asked, scanning the battlefield while the horses carried them back towards the encampment. “I lost him when we broke through the frontlines. Where is Odysseus?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for what seems like hours. Diomedes, you are hurt.”

The mention of his wound brought back the forgotten sting. Warm blood ran from his left shoulder to his hand, burgundy drops falling off his fingers and into the earth. He was speared, but no memory of battle remained inside his mind other than killing, and killing, and killing. He could not even remember where he saw Odysseus last.

“He was just next to me, I swear.”

“I am taking you to Podalirius,” Sthenelus said, horses speeding their gallop. “We can ask after him when you are taken care of.”

“I cannot leave him out there alone!” Diomedes screamed, hands trying to take control of the reins. “Sthenelus, please.”

“He is not alone. He has his own soldiers and your own,” Sthenelus almost growled. “You are going to bleed out and die, stupid fool! You are of no use to him and the child if you are dead.”

“Ask after him,” Diomedes said as soon as the chariot stopped. “If he is there alone and something happens to him, Sthenelus…”

“I will, I swear by the gods. Now get in there,” Sthenelus grumbled, pushing him inside of Podalirius and Machaon’s medical tent.

Podalirius was on him immediately, face covered in blood and hands full of clean linen.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked, already circling him like a wolf who smelled the fresh blood of prey. “Diomedes,” he insisted. “Come on, sit down. Damn those filthy Trojans, you are bleeding all over my things.”

“My shoulder. Left side,” Diomedes said, letting himself be moved and placed in an empty chair.

The vigour of battle was leaving him, instincts and strength replaced by unbearable, bothersome light-headedness. Not a good sign at all.

“I do not know what my brother pretends to do in the middle of the battlefield when we are so full of dying men here,” Podalirius grumbled, taking Diomedes’ cuirass off with practiced quickness.

“Machaon is out there?” Diomedes asked, words slightly slurred.

“Yes, at Agamemnon’s orders. He is supposedly needed to treat minor injuries so those soldiers can keep fighting,” he said, beginning to wash away the blood covering the wound. “Is it even doing anything for us? Are we winning?”

“We are not losing,” Diomedes murmured. “Has Odysseus been here? Have you seen him?”

“Laertiades? No, I have not seen him all day. Why?”

“Wondering,” he said, and his vision went black.

…

He woke up to shouting.

The light of the oil lamps bathed the tent in such a warm light that the uncountable blood stains became even more noticeable. The sun was already setting and around him about a dozen men slept or dozed off in different states of recovery, soft moans of pain intermixing with the screaming just outside the door.

“Let me in right now Machaon! Or I will kill you where you stand!”

“Odysseus, please, there are men severely injured inside. They need to rest.”

That was Podalirius' voice. So both sons of Asclepius were trying to hold him back. Stupid man was surely making a spectacle of himself.

He was also very much alive.

Diomedes was not as steady on his feet as he wished, but he could stand well enough. His wound pounded and lightly burned, but the lost strength was coming back to him. Nothing that food and wine could not solve. He’d certainly had worse injuries before. Probably.

“Easy,” said a voice from the shadows of the tent, making Diomedes stumble. “You lost a lot of blood.”

Patroclus washed his blood-stained hands with the water of an almost empty hydria, lips curved in a small smile. He looked disheveled, half of his armour on and dark curls wet with sweat. If he was there and not with Achilles, the injured and dead were likely more than what Diomedes had initially thought.

“I need to tell him that I am fine, so he can stop shouting and angering our medics,” Diomedes said, voice dry, taking enough steps to fall back on the chair he occupied hours before. “He will keep screaming.”

Patroclus nodded. “I will tell them to let him come, then. No shouting inside here, though. Save the lovers' quarrel for later.”

“We don’t…,” he began, but Patroclus was already outside.

“Diomedes is awake,” he said as soon as he crossed the entrance. “Let him come in for a moment.” He paused. “Do not scream when you are inside, Odysseus. I beg you.”

“Gods, you are alive,” Odysseus said when he entered.

He looked around as if scared, wild eyes moving from left to right like a captured deer. His clothing had some blood stains, but he could not see any signs of injury.

“I lost sight of you in the middle of battle,” Diomedes said. “Where were you?”

“You almost die and the first thing you say is this?” Odysseus asked, and taking Diomedes by surprise, his eyes began to shine with barely contained tears. “Do you have any idea how horrifying it was to have Sthenelus of all people call my name in the middle of battle planning? Diomedes, I thought you died.”

“As you can see, I am alive. Thanks to Athena, I suppose.”

“Do not try to divert the conversation,” Odysseus said sharply, pointing at Diomedes with a finger. “How did it happen? Who was it?”

“Odysseus, I can assure you I do not remember a single thing. I was in the middle of battle. I probably killed the poor bastard that did it.” He sighed. “Please tell me I did not leave you alone in the middle of enemy lines.”

Odysseus finally approached him, expression softening as he carefully knelt in front of the chair. He draped his arms around Diomedes' legs, hugging his knees like a begging omega. It was such a vulnerable thing to do in public that Diomedes could not do much more than cover Odysseus’ hands with his own and plead his heart to keep beating. There was no other possibility than it being the sensibilities of pregnancy. Not when Aegiale did not even cry the day he sailed for Aulis, even less so beg at his feet.

“I told you. Battle planning,” Odysseus almost whispered. “Menelaus called me back after we broke through the frontlines. I did not want to leave you there, but he insisted. So you must believe me when I say that I was completely terrified when they told me you collapsed from blood loss.” He looked Diomedes in the eye. “You said you would live. For her.”

It was irrational, and Diomedes had not said such a thing. His was a promise of trying, of fighting to survive, not a reality as certain as divine prophecy. But he supposed that was not what a pregnant omega in distress wished to hear. Maybe at a later time, as a reminder of their situation, but not now, not with their possible deaths looming so close.

“I am alive,” Diomedes repeated, voice barely more than a whisper. “I was in such a deep state of concentration that I did not notice the wound until Sthenelus told me about it. Please, Odysseus, stand up. There is nothing you have to ask of me. Not like that.”

“I should have been there, fighting by your side as we always do,” Odysseus said, squeezing his legs one last time before rising to his feet. “This is the third time in a week’s fighting that Menelaus has called me back. I swear by the gods, Diomedes, I will kill the man and end this war myself. He is clearly doing it deliberately.”

“Yes, he must be. But we should discuss this somewhere else,” Diomedes said just as Patroclus reentered the tent.

“All is well?” Patroclus asked, hands now completely clean of blood. “I kept those two away for a while.” He pointed towards the tent’s entrance. “They are not easy to dissuade, believe me.”

“All is well,” Odysseus said, subtly pressing his wet eyes with the back of his hand before turning towards Patroclus. “Can he leave, or should he stay here for the rest of the night?”

“He can leave, though he will not be fighting for at least a week,” he said, and a wicked smile turned his expression from young medic to salacious soldier. He was Diomedes’ age, but the smile made him look even younger. “In fact, taking him to your tent might help him heal faster. They do say that a lover's touch can be almost medicinal.”

“Patroclus,” Odysseus protested before Diomedes could even process the fact that they had been so easily discovered. “Let us not speak so freely around so many men. Sleeping or not.”

“Right. I said nothing,” Patroclus said, smile fading. “He can leave. Just not fighting, and as much food and rest as he can take.”

“He can listen to what you are saying,” Diomedes said, standing once again. “I assume Achilles also knows. Considering his less than discret comments during war council.”

“Yes, he does,” Patroclus said slowly. “But do not worry. I made him promise to keep his mouth shut. He tends to forget that not all alphas of high standing can so freely… be, I suppose.

“Good,” Odysseus said, nodding. “Keep reminding him of it, or I’ll have him killed somehow.”

It was said in jesting, supposedly. However, Diomedes did not doubt for a second that Odysseus was capable of at least trying.

Patroclus laughed lightly and nodded back. “I surely will.”

“To make it clear,” Diomedes said as soon as they were on their way to Odysseus camp, walking slowly for the sake of his injured body. “Menelaus knows all of it, Achilles and Patroclus believe us to be two alpha lovers, and Nestor may or may not have covertly suggested that you are planning on taking me to bed soon enough. Am I missing some other participants in our secrets?”

“I do not think so,” Odysseus said, and any possible irritation of Diomedes’ temper died with his smirk. “Nestor thinks I want to have you for myself? I mean you are younger, and if we are both alphas…”

“You should be grateful I am injured.”

Odysseus was laughing when they reached his camp. Some soldiers stopped them briefly, reports and orders were given, and food preparations started by the fire. They were quite used to Diomedes presence, if the lack of questions when some of them were instructed to send word to Sthenelus was indication enough.

Inside the tent Eumelia was making all sorts of arrangements needed for replenishing after battle. Water and wine, fruits and clean clothing. The smell of the oil lamps and fresh herbs filled the place with the comfortable scents of a home, as if trying to mask the burning bodies of their dead. She was not supposed to be working, but Diomedes could be thankful for her effort.

“King Diomedes,” she said, stopping her work to look directly at Diomedes' bandaged shoulder. “Gods, what happened? Please, sit, let me mix you some wine and offer you some bread.”

“Cinnamon and honey,” Odysseus said, slightly smiling while pointing to one of his chairs. “She is right, you should sit down.”

“I am perfectly fine,” he said, but sat anyway. “I was wounded earlier in the day. Nothing too severe. I just lost more blood than was expected. And, Eumelia, you do not need to call out my title every time you address me. It seems like quite an inconvenience.”

“It is not,” she said, approaching with a full oinochoe and a much more relaxed expression. “But, of course, I will call you however you wish to be called… Sir?”

“Sir is fine,” Diomedes said, finally letting himself close his eyes and breathe while the wine was served.

His body was weak. It was the usual pains of battle, tensed muscles and skin rubbed raw in multiple places, but the wound still ached and the lightheadedness was not completely gone. He was going to lose consciousness soon if he did not eat.

“I have to talk with Menelaus,” Odysseus said after moments of silence. “We told him not to intervene.”

Some part of him, insubordinate and afraid, maybe even territorial, wanted to just let things be this way. Menealus could have his quite inappropriate needs of being a saviour fulfilled while Odysseus escaped battle and danger. But it was wrong. It was against their patroness’ wishes, and it was not what his lover had decided for himself. He had to believe that their daughter would be fine regardless.

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Diomedes said, opening his eyes. “He might listen to me better than he would listen to you. If his behaviour is of any indication.”

“Because you are an alpha,” Odysseus said, clear distaste in his tone. “Do you even want him to stop?”

“I don’t,” he said sharply, drinking from his now filled cup before raising his head to meet Odysseus' glare. “The last thing I want is for you to fight and die or lose our daughter. But we made certain decisions and I will honour them regardless of my feelings. I am also not your husband, so I do not pretend to make choices in your name just because you carry my child. That is why it was simply a suggestion.”

“Yes, I am well aware that you are not my husband, king of Argos, but what a thoughtful reminder,” Odysseus said mockingly, getting close enough to make Diomedes strain his neck. “I shall thank you for being such a solicitous alpha without even having to marry me.”

“I don’t think I should be hearing this,” Eumelia murmured, slowly leaving a plate with bread on top of the table before turning towards the entrance. “Please, if you need anything else, do not hesitate to call me… Sirs…”

“Thank you, Eumelia,” Diomedes said, softening his tone. “You can leave.”

He waited a few seconds after her leaving before rising to his feet. Odysseus was not truly angry with him, Diomedes knew as much, but he was clearly displeased.

“You are angry with Menelaus and yet you choose to make me responsible for it,” he said, taking a step forward so their bodies almost touched. “He is the one treating you like some fragile omega. I am simply afraid of you dying, like any caring lover should. And even scared I choose to bend to all your wishes. I am simply saying that if he seems so convinced that you cannot make those decisions for yourself, I should make him at least step away in the name of not angering another alpha.”

“That is the job of a husband,” Odysseus grumbled, but the fire of his irritation had already died. “And it is deeply unfair. It is exactly the reason for me not wanting others to know of my nature.”

“I know,” Diomedes said, holding one of Odysseus’ hands between both of his own. “You are a king and a war general. He should listen to you, but he is the man all of us swore to protect, we serve his brother and he is a royal alpha. You were raised like one too, so you must know how his mind works.”

“He is a dog-faced idiot,” Odysseus protested without any real strength.

“Do not lie. He is quite handsome. Otherwise Helen would not have married him,” Diomedes said, letting go of Odysseus’ hand to sit down again. “He can be a fool regardless of his appearance.”

“And he surely is.”

“Well, we agree then. Shall I speak with him in the morning?”

Odysseus frowned slightly, but nodded nonetheless. “Do it. I fear I might tell him to go to Hades if I talk to him myself.”

“Odysseus…”

“It is fine. But believe me, if he persists after you tell him to stop, I will tell him everything I wish to say. Alpha stubbornness be damned.”

“I do believe you, lover. It would not be you if you didn’t,” he said with the soft playful voice that Odysseus seemed to enjoy when they were alone. “Let us eat in peace now before I collapse from lack of food. No more talk of Menelaus. There is enough to worry about without wasting our time on him.”

 

Chapter 8: 8

Summary:

hehe

Notes:

I swear to the gods, as we say in spanish lo parí a este capítulo, which means something like "I had to give birth to this chapter". That's how impossible it felt lol

I thought this one was the last Diomedes POV for a while, but no, we'll see him next chapter too aparently, because I have no self control when it comes to writing and this chapter is already more than 3000 words long(?

Hey! Hello! Sorry for the angry rambling haha

How are you guys? Thank you for the 360+ kudos btw ❤️

I hope you like this mess of a chapter even if there are (most likely) mistakes ❤️

The tent was empty when he woke up. The sun was barely rising, and sounds of metal and barked orders surrounded the camp. Diomedes buried his face on the furs, apples and oak tree and autumn rain filling his lungs. He couldn't even remember when he truly fell asleep, just that it was in the arms of his now absent lover. Rare were the nights they shared just sleeping, but they were as sweet and fulfilling as any of their carnal activities. Regardless, if battle were not already tiring them enough to stop their nightly encounters, his wound would not have allowed him to do much other than lay there while Odysseus worked for their pleasure. Not really his first choice.

He sat slowly, softly stretching his muscles and breathing in the first cold air of the season. The wound, blessed the gods, just stinged slightly. That day, however, was going to be unbearably boring. Trapped with planning and ordering from Agamemnon’s war tent, listening to soldier reports and the constant babbling of Calchas, most likely angry and unreasonable after the discussion he was sure to have with Menelaus. Worried about Odysseus lost in the middle of thousands of Trojan soldiers.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, standing up to keep stretching and find his clothing.

“My soldiers have been making fun of you all morning,” said Odysseus as he entered the tent, full armour on and a basket of warm bread in his hands. “I tried to admonish them but yours joined in.”

“Good morning to you too, and I am sure you enjoyed the mocking well enough,” Diomedes said, still looking for his chiton.

“I cannot say that I didn’t,” he admitted, smiling wide while leaving the bread on top of the table. “What are you searching for?”

“My clothes. I swear I just left them by the bed.”

“Ah,” Odysseus said, and walked towards his own chest of clothing. “You did, but they were covered in blood. I sent some of your slaves with them.”

“You do know you are very short compared to me, right? Yours will not fit me.”

Odysseus snorted softly before throwing a blur of red cloth towards him. “This is yours, foolish man. I might soon have a collection of them now that you sleep here more than in your own tent.” He approached Diomedes with a swiftness and grace only he could show in such heavy armour. “Now redress and eat. Sthenelus and Euryalus are ruling your army with the severe hand of an angry mother, so you do not have to worry about much today other than having a talk with Menelaus and resting.”

“And you?” Diomedes asked, almost whispering as their faces got closer. “What are you doing today that you are in such good spirits?”

“Sending some Trojans to their deaths, I gather,” he answered, smirking. “And sending the rest running back inside the city walls. No more fighting for a while. Probably long months before they dare to try again.”

“Happy about not fighting? Pray that our patroness does not hear.”

“I’ll gladly keep fighting when this baby is outside my body, but believe me, in some weeks I will not be able to even walk properly. It is better to finish this soon and plan better for when they try to send us back home again.”

“Will they?”

“What? Try again?” Odysseus asked before draping his arms around Diomedes’ shoulders.

Pregnancy did seem to make him more affectionate than was common. Not that Diomedes minded.

“I do not believe they will any time soon,” he continued. “They will hide all they can. That is why we need to destroy the neighboring cities, leaving them with no options other than attacking us or staying inside and dying of starvation.”

“We should let Agamemnon send us away for some time. Offer our armies to raid or ourselves to negotiate,” Diomedes said, and not being able to resist it anymore, kissed Odysseus with the soft slowness of early morning. “We might find a comfortable enough city for you to give birth in,” he whispered with their lips barely apart.

“You are thinking about the birth already,” Odysseus whispered back. “Let us first survive these weeks to come.”

“Nothing wrong with being cautious and well prepared. Not when it is about our daughter.”

Odysseus’ mouth opened and closed a few times before settling on a small smile, eyes making a complicated dance of looking at Diomedes and looking away as if conflicted. Whatever he truly wanted to say, he was not saying. Plenty were the moments when Diomedes wished he could peer into Odysseus' mind and steal all those words that, he knew, belonged to him somehow.

“Right,” Odysseus finally said, softly kissing Diomedes once again before moving away. “Talk with Menelaus, and then report everything back to me.”

“It shall be done, my king,” Diomedes said, as mocking as it was affectionate. “Do try to survive this day.”

“Just this day?”

“And all days to come.”

…

Menelaus was still inside of his open tent, face hidden behind some parchment that he was reading with utmost attention. His camp was now almost empty, but some of his men still lingered around, spears in hands and helmets over their faces. Well, his men were truly Helen’s by birth, but his nonetheless.

“Menelaus,” Diomedes said as a greeting, standing close enough to the entrance to be seen. “Good morning, king of Sparta. I wish to steal some of your time before today’s battle begins, if you do not mind.”

Menelaus' sigh was enough of an answer. It was not surprising that he knew exactly why Diomedes was there.

“Leave us,” he ordered his soldiers before setting down the parchment and looking at Diomedes. “I heard you were speared during yesterday’s battle. Some soldiers whisper about you falling asleep in Odysseus’ tent after food, wine, and blood loss.”

“I hope you enjoyed the mocking as much as Odysseus did,” he said, entering the tent and letting the linen fall behind his back. “Although I suppose you have much more important matters to oversee other than following whispers about what Odysseus and I do with our lives when we are not fighting in your name.”

“What I’m doing has nothing to do with whispers. It just is the right thing to do.”

Good gods. So straight into a defensive position. Right.

“What is it that you believe right?” Diomedes asked slowly.

“It is right for a pregnant omega to stay away from battle. We need his mind and his mind we have. We do not need Odysseus to fight everyday. It is already dangerous enough for him to be here at all.”

“And you believe what? That I do not know this? That I do not wish for him and our child to be safe?”

Menelaus frowned. “Do you, really? Because all I see right now is a young alpha who believes himself a defier of odds. Do you even know how easy it is for a pregnancy to end badly? You should be glad that I have the power to keep him away. Instead you try to fight me and put him in danger again.”

“Menelaus,” Diomedes began, taking a deep breath. “I thought he was clear when he told you not to meddle, but in case he was not, let me remind you of this. The man carrying my daughter is a king and a general. He has people to lead, a patroness to obey and a kingdom to reign. If he is seen as someone who is not capable of commanding his own army, his reputation will be sullied, the protection of Athena removed, and Ithaca’s security endangered. He does not need you to decide for him.”

“He may be a king and a general, but he is pregnant, Tydides. I believe that is a priority.”

“And I believe that it is not your choice to make.”

“By the gods, boy! Do you truly want to see your child dead?”

Diomedes was not quick to anger, even less quick to outbursts. He had been a mellow child since the beginning of his life, only beastly when in battle. But there were certain things, things such as being accused of not caring about his own blood, that lighted his spirit with the power of a blazing fire.

“Dare ask that question again, Menelaus, and I swear I will kill you,” he growled, getting close enough to the man to smell the bitterness of growing exasperation on his scent. “You may treat me like a child all you want. I am ten years younger than you after all. But do not dare tell me that I wish my child to be dead. I am doing my duty. We both are, Odysseus and I. So when we ask you to step aside, it is in the name of doing what we believe right for ourselves. We thank you for your wishes of health towards our daughter, but you are not welcome in deciding how our lives will be handled.”

“We,” Menelaus simply said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You speak like you were his husband.”

“Good. I am happy to know you have noticed” Diomedes said. “For while this war continues, that is what I shall be to those who know the truth about our daughter. I speak through him and he speaks through me. So, since we do not truly know each other, at least respect the wishes of your friend.”

“Well, husband of Odysseus, I shall listen then,” Menelaus said, holding his hands up in the air in mocking defeat. “But I better not see you crying like a desperate child when something bad happens. Because it will happen. I assure you.”

Diomedes snorted softly. “If it does, best believe you will not be my first choice of comfort. Neither mine nor his.”

He started to walk away, ready to replace his growing anger with worry and boredom, when Meneleus called his name again.

“I do not want him for myself, Tydides,” he said, parchment again in his hands. “It is my sincere wish for you to know that those are not my intentions. I love my wife with all my blood and spirit. I just worry about him.”

“Then imagine how much I worry. How difficult it is to choose his wishes of safeguarding secrets and following Athena’s commands before the certainty of his and our daughter’s health.” He shook his head, opening the tent’s door. “This is not against you, Atreides. These are simply the choices we made. We shall live or die with them.”

…

Diomedes was only fourteen when he killed his first man. Warm blood had splattered all over his face, sweet metallic flavour covering his lips and tongue, vision turning blurry from the strength he needed to plunge the spear through some faceless soldier’s neck. Sthenelus stood by his side, as he always did, and was the one who pushed Diomedes out of the way when he froze. The problem was not the lifeless eyes, nor the taste of sickening power that came with deciding someone’s fate; no, it was the realisation of how easily a life was lost in battle. Just one moment, one choice, one wrong step, and your life was forfeit.

He could kill enemies, oh how easily he could. But it wasn’t truly your first kill the one that stayed with you, not when hundreds of them followed. It was the first friend that you saw die. Someone who lived and breathed by your side, someone who swore the same oaths as you, trained with you, knew more about you than you allowed your own family to know. That was the truth of battle, that was the awareness that haunted you.

There were days, dark and wretched and mournful, when you allowed yourself to think about the enemy as alive, real, tangible. But you crushed those feelings to survive, you pushed them aside to hide them. There was, however, no escaping the death of a beloved. It burns from inside out, it hardens you, it makes you pull away, hide from the warmth of others. Because it was such a risk to care. Because that life so easily taken could be his.

How long have I been hiding my heart for this exact reason?

Menelaus was right. How foolish it was to hope to defeat the odds.

“They’re going back inside!”

“They are retreating!”

“Push forward!” Diomedes ordered his men. “Make them run!”

His shield collided with another, face aching as a consequence of his clenched jaw, sweat running from his hair to his face and down his neck. The Trojans were running. One month after the attacks had started and they were crossing the Scamander river again, reentering the city like scared sheep running from a blood thirsty wolf. Just the defensive lines remained; those helping the Achaean army stay away from the city gates, out in the plain. It was just about to be over, war almost deadlocked.

One moment. Just one second. A desperate last attempt.

They had to make sure the Achaeans did not dare enter the city.

“Archers!” Euryalus warned by his left.

“Shields up!”

He heard the gasp even in the commotion of moving bodies and clashing spears.

The arrow was still there when he turned to his right, stuck in Odysseus’ shoulder. The same place where Diomedes had been speared just days before. So close to his neck.

Odysseus staggered, just barely, shield falling off his hand from the impact. But it was enough of a misstep for the soldier in front of him to see the opening and push forward. Without a shield of his own and still surprised by the recent wound, Odysseus’ body was sent flying backwards in one swift motion.

Diomedes’ spear was inside the Trojan’s skull before he could think about it. The sound of rushing blood filled his ears, voices muffled and vision blurred. Someone was calling his name, but it was an impossible thing to recognize the speaker. He walked towards the unmoving body, legs shaking as he fell to the ground. His hands hovered on top of the arrow before stopping himself, putting them over the blood-soaked neck instead.

“Diomedes! Listen to me!”

Sthenelus.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he babbled, hands moving aimlessly. “The pulse.”

“Fuck! Move aside, you fool! Move!”

He sat on the dirty grass as Sthenelus worked.

Diomedes knew the steps by memory; the searching of life, the pressure on the wound, the arranging of the limbs to carry the person to safety. Yet he did not even dare look at Odysseus’ face. His eyes were as stuck on the arrow as it was stuck on Odysseus.

One second, one staggering step, one arrow.

“He is alive,” Sthenelus said, holding Diomedes’ face with one bloody hand so he could look at him. “Listen to me. You stay here while I search for someone to help us move him safely. His neck might be hurt, we cannot just drag him towards the camps.”

“He is alive,” Diomedes repeated, voice shaking as much as his hands now did.

His hands were shaking. When was the last time that happened?

“Yes, he is. He is breathing. Stay here, Dio. I will be back soon.”

He was still just sitting there when Sthenelus came back with three of Odysseus’ men who remained behind them. They carried a linen cot and talked fast and loudly, though Diomedes could not make out the words even if he tried.

“Come on, move,” Sthenelus said to him, voice firm but soft, holding him by the armpits to help him get up. “They are getting him to Machaon and Podalirius’ medical tent. Go with them. I will stay and command the soldiers.”

He followed them in silence until they reached the tent, feet carrying him out of inertia more than conscious action. There he simply stood, like a soul waiting for judgment at Hades’ doors. Odysseus was the one unmoving, but Diomedes felt like death had found him instead. Limbs cold and trembling, breathing fast and desperate. Was he going into shock?

Machaon stood in front of him, brow furrowed and lips pursed. 

“Diomedes?” he asked, holding him by his unharmed shoulder. “Tydides, are you listening to me? Come on, sit down. Are you hurt?”

“Will he be fine?”

“What? He?” Machaon asked, looking towards the tent behind them. “You mean Odysseus? My brother is taking care of it. Diomedes, I need you to sit down. You are trembling like a leaf.”

“Odysseus…”

“Yes, Podalirius is making sure he is fine. Come on,” he repeated, finally moving Diomedes to sit down on one of the logs by the entrance of the tent. “Are you hurt somewhere?”

All of Machaon’s questions were answered with monosyllabic nonsense. Still, he stayed by Diomedes’ side until he stopped shaking. Some faceless slave put a cup of wine in his hands, wounded soldiers walked in and out of the tent, Helios reached his highest point in the sky and slowly made his way back down. Stars were beginning to shine when Podalirius left the tent. He looked at Diomedes with raised eyebrows and sighed.

“Why does it not surprise me at all?” Podalirius asked, clearly without wanting an answer. “Come on, it is getting cold. You can sit next to him inside the tent.”

“Is he fine?” Diomedes asked, standing up on still trembling legs.

“The arrow wound was a clean enough cut. His clavicle was slightly nicked, but not broken. There was less blood than when you were speared, that is for sure. But…”

“But? But what?”

Podalirius looked up as if searching for godsent strength, and opened the tent’s door for him. “He has not woken up yet. He should have, but his neck is bruised and there was some blood on his scalp. We believe his upper body took the worst of the fall. It is uncertain when he will wake up.”

What about the baby? What about our daughter?

He took a deep breath and nodded, following Podalirius inside. There was no reason for him to ask, not when Odysseus had never told him he was allowed to reveal it to any of their medics. Regardless, they were not trained for those matters. Odysseus needed a midwife, and they had none. Not in a war camp.

He was far from the entrance, lying on top of comfortable looking furs. His armour was off, the top of his chiton cut open and pushed aside. The blood covering his neck was gone, but some purplish bruises were beginning to bloom in its place. He looked paler than usual, lips cracked and eyelids shut so softly that some of the white of his eyes was visible. It did not look like sleep. It looked so close to death that Diomedes’ strength failed him.

Podalirius helped him sit down on the floor, and there he remained, just as unmoving as his lover.

 

Chapter 9: 9

Summary:

Send help to Diomedes(?

Notes:

Hi! You may be wondering why I'm back here so quickly(? The answer is that I am running away from uni work because it is stressing me so much I want to kms(? But these are good news for y'all. It means I'm writing more lol

Btw thank you so much for 400+ kudos!! ❤️ (I still can't believe people actually like this)

This chapter is... well... Diomedes feels all the emotions a human can feel and then gets to be happy and sad at the same time as a treat lmfao

I hope you enjoy the chapter and sorry for any mistakes ❤️

Patroclus was the first person to seek him. Diomedes was still sitting next to Odysseus’ unmoving body by the time the sun started rising, barely having eaten anything at all the night before, and just after Podalirius’ insistence. He brought Diomedes some warm bread, mixed wine, and the willingness of talking about anything that did not concern Odysseus and his health. Diomedes endured it with short answers and a pat on the back as a show of gratitude, but it had been obvious to Patroclus, and everyone around, that his humour was not one easily changed. His early shock mutated into sadness before he dozed off for some hours, and by morning, just before Patroclus’ visit, that same sadness turned into a simmering anger.

That anger was just as directed at himself as it was directed at the world. Deep inside he knew there was no real person to blame; not the Trojans, not Menelaus, not the gods, and not even himself. It was war, inevitable and real and all around them. Yet knowing the truth did not free him from the resentment. It was still there by the time the sun reached its zenith, when most of the tent was free of wounded men and Menelaus decided to approach him. A bold move if he had talked with Machaon or Podalirius before entering the tent.

He wore one of his simplests tunics, crown left behind and red hair as disheveled as if he were fighting just moments ago.

“Tydides,” he said as a greeting, sitting on the closest chair he found. “How is he?”

“Not beating the odds, as you can see.”

Menelaus slightly flinched. Deservedly so.

“Right,” he murmured, straightening his posture. “We sent the Trojans back into the city before sunset. My brother and I believe they will not attack any time soon.”

“Are you really talking strategy to me right now?” Diomedes grumbled, anger and tiredness intermixing. “Patroclus has already told me this. I do not need your reports.”

“This is not about reports, this is about making sure you know he will be able to give birth in peace.”

“If he wakes up. If our daughter even survived the fall.”

Menelaus flinched once again. Although this time he tried to uselessly hide his expression between his open hands.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, watching Odysseus’ chest rise and fall with a breathing so soft you had to be completely unmoving to notice it.

“Why are you here, Atreides?” Diomedes asked when the silence became too much to bear. “I am sure Machaon or Podalirius can keep you informed about his health. You do not need to sit by my side.”

“I came here to relieve you of your guarding duties.”

“I am not going anywhere.”

“You need to rest… And do not look at me like that…”

“Like what?” Diomedes asked sharply, sounding more like a petulant child than the tired man he felt himself to be.

“You need to rest,” Menelaus repeated. “You are still covered in blood from yesterday’s battle and you have clearly barely slept at all.” He sighed. “Above all, you need to talk with your patroness. The goddess is the only one who can really help Odysseus right now. Is she not?”

She was.

His own grief had not allowed Diomedes to see that if there was any human or god who could offer him some answer without needing much more than asking, it was Athena. Their patroness did not promise to save them from every danger, but she watched over them while in battle, so there was no reason to believe she did not know about Odysseus’ injury. Diomedes knew she cared enough about the man to answer his prayers. She was, also, the only being capable of telling him as quickly as possible if their daughter was still alive.

“Will you watch over him?” Diomedes finally asked, looking Menelaus directly in the eye. “You are right. She will hear me if the matter concerns Odysseus.”

“I will stay right here until the moment you come back,” Menelaus answered immediately, expression brightening like a dog being given a fresh piece of meat. “If anything changes you will be the first to know.”

Guilt. That was what his changing expression truly meant. He had seen it so clearly only once before; in Odysseus’ face the night after Iphigenia’s sacrifice. Why a man such as Menelaus should feel guilt for being right was not something Diomedes dared to guess.

He stood up on tired legs, barely moving to allow his body to understand the sudden change of position, before slowly making his way towards the entrance. He had not gotten very far when Menelaus spoke again.

“Diomedes,” he said, voice charged with a melancholy so deep it made Diomedes frown. “I am sorry. I truly am.”

“You do not have a reason to be sorry for. This is war. These things are supposed to happen.”

“No, you do not understand,” Menelaus said, shaking his head before looking towards Odysseus. “I was harsh. You care deeply about him and I was imprudent because of my own desperation. I told you something like this could happen…”

“And you were right…”

“It matters not if I was right,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I am sorry regardless. Even if I believe what I was doing was protecting him. You said it to me, in different words but you did. This is now your family. I came here because of mine, so I know the last thing you would wish to hear is that they are in danger for simply doing what they have to. No matter how true it is.”

Diomedes sighed, the last vestiges of his anger morphing into downhearted acceptance. Soothing irrational guilt was not part of his job description. Despite his meddling, Menelaus intentions were agreable enough to let the matter go. If he had to be the voice of reason even when he was the one suffering, it would not have been the first time in his short years of life.

“I do not need any sort of apology. However, perhaps Odysseus might once he wakes up,” Diomedes said, opening the door of the tent. “To me this is settled. You stopped trying to interfere, as we agreed. Odysseus and I took the risk and the Fates decided what had to happen. There is no softening of words that could have changed that.”

There was not much more to add after that. Menelaus nodded, smiled briefly in Diomedes direction, and turned once again to watch over Odysseus.

Sthenelus found him on his way to his own tent. He looked as concerned as a doting mother, eyes moving from Diomedes head to the end of his feet, lips pursed and nose wrinkled.

“You need a bath and food and some hours of sleep,” he said as they walked. “Although I am surprised you even decided to leave the medical tent at all.”

“Menelaus is watching over him,” Diomedes said, finally entering his tent. “ And what I need is some candles and food for offering. I have to talk with Athena.”

“You are allowing Menelaus to stay with him,” Sthenelus said, voice bathed in disbelief. “Really?”

“Am I allowing his worried cousin to stay with him? Of course I am,” he said, shaking a hand in the air like dismissing a ridiculous idea. “Please, Sthenelus, I need to pray to Athena.”

“Right, give me a moment. I will be back soon.”

True to his word, it was not more than five minutes after speaking that Sthenelus was back inside the tent. He helped Diomedes prepare the food and wine, lit up the candles and made a short bow towards the offerings before walking to the entrance.

“I will make sure someone brings you food and warm water in a moment.”

Once alone, Diomedes knelt in front of the improvised altar on top of his table, raised his hands towards the sky and pleaded.

“Pallas Athena, goddess, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus. Please, if I was ever your champion, if your heart keeps the memories of every battle we fought together, listen to my prayer this day. I am begging for answers regarding Odysseus, your chosen warrior, the one you have guided from an early age the way you did with me.”

This time the light was soft. A white blinking of brightness, a slight shift in the air, and a tall woman dressed in full silver armour stood on the other side of the table. There was no anger or accusation in her expression. She looked as Diomedes often remembered her, like a half-concerned half-disappointed mother. Sometimes he wondered if that was exactly what her warriors were to the virgin goddess. Unruly children.

“He was wounded in battle,” Athena said, figure ceasing to shine. “I was close by but not with you when it happened.”

“Please, goddess, Odysseus was indeed wounded. He has not woken up after his fall. I wish to know if he is still there, his mind inside his body, and if our daughter remains safely growing in his womb.”

“You need not worry, son of Tydeus. Odysseus’ body just needs to rest,” she said, holding a hand over the offered food until it disappeared from the plate in a cloud of fragrant smoke. “You did well while fighting. I promise to you that he will wake up soon enough.”

“I thank you for the answer, goddess,” he said, hands slightly trembling from relief. “And our daughter, goddess. Is she…?”

“Very alive.” She nodded. “Growing fast and strong. I cannot see the future as my brother does, but I assure you the Fates have a bright and glorious path setted for her. Do not worry, Diomedes, she will live.”

“Thank you, thank you goddess, I…”

“I have not seen you like this since you were a boy. So scared and desperate,” she said, interrupting his show of gratitude. “Odysseus is… a particular man. He is as much a warrior as he is a charmer and a weaver of lies. Perhaps I do not understand you humans like I thought I did.” She moved a hand in the air and the wine from the goblet disappeared. “I often tell you that you are not like your own father, and yes, I do mean in battle, but I also mean your spirit. You are so much more human than he ever was. Maybe that is why I almost offered him immortality. Your heart guides you, Diomedes, even when you pretend it does not. I chose Odysseus myself, so I know he is capable of grandiose actions, but I am asking you to be careful. I want both my warriors as unbroken as possible by the end of this war. Peace follows now, but all wars end, and the last days are always the hardest.”

“Goddess, are you disapproving of our closeness?” Diomedes asked, mouth suddenly dry. “Do you believe we will bring ruin to each other?”

Athena frowned and laid a cold hand on top of Diomedes’ head. “That is what humans do to each other. It has nothing to do with you or Odysseus. But your paths are already set, I just seek to warn you about your own humanity, as fruitless as this action might be.” She took a step backwards, smiling slightly. “Good luck, my warrior. My eyes will remain upon you both until this war resumes. From now onwards you have much to do that does not require my guidance.”

And just like the goddess appeared, she vanished from the tent, leaving the offerings consumed and as many answers as new blooming questions.

…

The process of recovery took an entire week. By then Machaon and Podalirius had already decided that it was safe to move Odysseus to his own tent, where he could be more comfortable and taken care of by his own slaves and closest brothers-in-arms. Diomedes slept by his side four nights in a row, now easily excused because of his sense of duty and camaraderie. He kept a hand on top of Odysseus' soft stomach every night. It was not round as someone would expect from a person five months pregnant, but it was indeed softer, flesh covering and protecting the place where their daughter safely grew.

His sleep, however, was fitful. Athena’s words seemed to haunt him each night, terrorize his dreams, fill his senses with a terrifying vertigo like one could only feel standing on the edge of falling.

Falling. Falling in love. It was easier to accept when there were no real dangers, when he could barely think about the almost unrecognizable word. But now it was tangible, it was alive and growing inside his spirit like a choking vine. Love made you sickly vulnerable, cracked open and ready to be slaughtered. No one ever, not even his own family, had made him feel that way. Now his heart was wide open, broken in two and placed in the calloused hands of his lover and the barely formed ones of his daughter.

Athena was right. There was no other option than reaching the end of the war as a broken man. Odysseus was going back to Ithaca, and he was taking their daughter with him. All the prophesied years in between were only built to fill his heart with senseless hope.

“I love you. I think I have loved you since that night in Aulis; the both of us drunk and guilty,” he had whispered during the last night of Odysseus’ sleep, looking at the tent’s ceiling while the words spilled out of his mouth with an uncontrollable force. “It makes me the most foolish man of them all, but I do. I would kill and die for you, my love, and you will easily allow it.”

The following day Odysseus’ eyes opened.

Diomedes woke up to coughing, a hand wrapped around one of his wrists and shifting furs underneath him. He sat as fast as he could, vision blurred from sleep and heart beating so fast he almost choked on the air he breathed.

Odysseus’ mismatched eyes were illuminated by the soft light of dawn, glassy and wide, blown pupils making him look like a terrified deer.

“It is fine, you are fine,” Diomedes said, hovering on top of Odysseus' body. “Breathe, love, you are safe.”

“Thirsty,” Odysseus whispered as soon as his coughing stopped, looking at Diomedes with such a pleading expression that his heart broke once again. “Please.”

“I will bring you some water. Wait for a moment, yes?”

They sat in silence while Odysseus drank, cold liquid spilling and running through his neck in the desperation to satiate the thirst. He did not seem to mind his now healing wound on his shoulder.

“The baby,” were Odysseus’ first words after giving the cup back to Diomedes. “Is she fine? Was she hurt, Diomedes?”

“No, no, she was not. Athena assured me she is alive and well.”

“You talked with Athena?” Odysseus asked, using his hands to flatten his disheveled hair. “How long have I been asleep?”

Diomedes sighed. “A week. You slept for a week. I talked with Athena the day after the battle and she assured me you were going to wake up soon enough. She also told me our daughter was safe.”

She said you will break me. That we will break each other. And I decided to accept it.

“Are you sure?” Odysseus asked, hands leaving his hair and moving towards his stomach. “She really said that?”

“I would not ever lie to you about this, Odysseus. Can you not feel her? Are you supposed to feel her yet?”

Odysseus looked down, frowning in concentration. “Just a flutter,” he murmured after some seconds of silence. “Yes, I feel her. Like whispers of movement.”

And just like that, so very few words, and Diomedes’ crushing desperation seemed to vanish from his mind. Relief flooded his senses, eyes watering and breath quickening. He stretched a hand towards Odysseus’ face, holding his bearded chin with trembling fingers.

“Do not do that again,” he said, words almost choking him as he got closer to Odysseus. “You ridiculous fool of a man. Do not dare try and die on me like that again, or I swear I will walk the underworld like Heracles and Orpheus themselves.”

“So heroic, my lover,” Odysseus whispered, holding the hand on his face between one of his own. “Will you bargain for my life with lord Hades?”

“I will bargain and bring you back to the land of the living just to kill you myself.”

“Delightfully romantic,” Odysseus said and the softest of smiles graced his lips. “Not if I kill you first.”

I would let you.

“Now, that is proof enough that your health is in excellent condition,” Diomedes whispered, and before Odysseus could answer with any of his quick-witted replies, he kissed him as deeply and softly as his heart allowed him.

They kissed and kissed and kissed. Hands holding hair and shoulders and necks. Diomedes imagined it was the humanly action closest to feasting off nectar and ambrosia. Did Eros laugh at the unholy resemblance?

“I missed you too, king of Argos,” Odysseus whispered over his lips. “Even if dreaming of you was an acceptable momentary substitute.”

“How could you miss me while asleep, you compulsive liar?” Diomedes asked, smiling. “Have you tricked Morpheus himself?”

“Even if I did, one should not reveal such a secret. The gods can be resentful,” Odysseus whispered before kissing him three times in fast succession, as one would kiss a beloved pet on the head. “Now tell me, my lover, how much have I missed? Are the Trojans back inside the city walls, or was my near death of no use?”

“Athena herself has told me the war is officially deadlocked,” Diomedes said, moving far away enough to look Odysseus in the eye. “Our daughter will be born in as much peace as she could while in war.”

Odysseus slightly frowned. “Right, our yet unnamed daughter. We need to give her a name soon.”

“What? Is it not too soon?”

“It might feel like it is, but believe me, it is not. So you better begin thinking, young boar, or our daughter will be born with no name and subjected to be called anything our unruly soldiers decide to call her.”

“Is this an order, my king? Should I give you a list of some sort?”

“Yes, a list,” Odysseus said, half-serious, half-mocking. “And make sure you do not choose something as insulting as ‘the one who is angry’.”

“What about ‘god-like cunning’?”

Odysseus snorted, lips quickly forming one of his characteristic sly smiles. “Right, yes. I forgot her father has such a glorious and befitting name. Of course you will choose wisely, Diomedes of Argos, god-like cunning warrior of Athena. You who…”

Diomedes kissed him once again.

 

Chapter 10: 10

Summary:

I know nothing of ancient greek geography. This is all extensively looking at maps and imagining probably incorrect stuff.

Notes:

Hi! I'm back! How are you guys?

Gods, it feels like ages ago but its only been 8 days since last chapter lol I am glad to be back.

Again, because I guess this is my life now haha, thank you so much for 480+ kudos ❤️

I hope you like the chapter and sorry for any mistakes ❤️

The days after waking up were difficult. His shoulder did not bother him much, but his body was continuously sore, and for weeks daily headaches left him unable to do much other than sit down, close his eyes and pray for relief. Diomedes was by his side at every moment he was not needed to command his men. Although, with war locked in stalemate, he seemed glad to relegate some tasks to Sthenelus and Euryalus. He was, also, much more affectionate than ever before. They did not speak about it, but his hands were usually close to Odysseus’ stomach, as if making sure their daughter was safe. There was not a single day that he didn’t spend talking with Odysseus’ men like they were his own, speaking in his name when Odysseus was unable to, helping Eumelia in friendly companionship, teaching the youngests of Odysseus' soldiers how to better wield a spear, or even sparring with Eurylochus.

They were building a life together so very fast it was almost terrifying.

Odysseus never truly ran from what he wanted, from what he loved. It was not part of him to try and outrun his desires. He wanted all Diomedes could offer him, as selfish as it was, because it was everything they could have while in Troy. Each other, their daughter, whatever feelings pushed them together. Passion, loneliness, love. So much wretched and cursed love.

One day, if he did not die there, he was going to sail back to Ithaca, to Penelope, Telemachus and his parents, and regain the life he left behind. However, now, so far away for many years to come, he knew where his heart was safest. He could not give himself wholly to Diomedes, let him bite him and declare their union in front of the gods, not when he had promised his life to Penelope; but he was not fighting love. It was terrifying indeed, to let himself feel so fiercely and yet hold back with such strength. He did not believe himself capable of even saying the words out loud, at least not to Diomedes.

“I love you both,” he whispered to an empty tent, the cold morning making him shiver as he dressed. “I love you. Melite? No, that does not sound right at all. What about Kallistrate? Also no, definitely. Eudocia?”

He groaned, hands rubbing his stomach before clasping a belt around it.

It was his seventh month of pregnancy and not even a goddess’ command seemed to be enough to fully stop the growth. It was certainly smaller than it was while in his seventh month carrying Telemachus, but it was there, soft and small and still easily hidden, but a rounded belly nonetheless.

“Pray your father has better luck thinking of your name, my sweet one, or you will be forever condemned to carry a barely tolerable name.”

“Don’t you think it is too much pressure to put on my shoulders?”

Diomedes walked through the entrance of the tent, armour on and hands full of clothing he placed on top of the bed before approaching Odysseus. He had slept there just hours ago, holding Odysseus in his arms, kissing his neck as if he wished to mark him even in dreams.

“Eumelia sends those. She says she is bored out of her mind and weaving keeps her occupied. For that she thanks you.”

Odysseus had verbally fought Achilles to get a beautiful loom his Myrmidons brought from one of their raids months before. Both his soldiers and Diomedes’ own laughed and pointed and whistled when Odysseus gave it to Eumelia. Maybe he would have laughed as well if the loom wasn’t such a bittersweet reminder.

“I do not usually wish to have learnt omega abilities, but the loom…”

“Penelope uses it well, right?” Diomedes asked, kneeling to help him put his greaves on. “You have told me she weaves beautiful tunics and tapestries. Colourful and elegant.”

“She does,” Odysseus said. “As an alpha she really did not need to, but Helen and Clytemnestra taught her so well she surpassed their abilities with ease. She made so much clothing for Telemachus that some days, pregnant and moody, I felt something akin to jealousy. It is ridiculously hard to watch someone else do things for your child that you are supposed to do, but clearly cannot.” He sighed. “It matters not. Do not ever let me near any loom, I am dreadfully bad at it.”

“Duly noted,” Diomedes said, nodding as he stood up. “Let us allow Eumelia to weave for us then.”

“Yes, or else our daughter will dress so badly we could never allow her to be seen in public ever.”

“Mmh,” Diomedes murmured, but his attention was clearly far away from Odysseus’ words. “The worst dressed baby in an encampment without babies.”

“For now, at least. Do not tempt the Fates. Too many soldiers and more and more omegas since the raidings started. Ajax, for instance, seems so very fond of this girl Tecmessa,” Odysseus said, stretching out a hand to hold Diomedes’ cheek. “What is it? What is in your mind?”

“Agamemnon calls for a meeting with all the generals.”

“And what is so different about this one compared to all the meetings we have had these past two years?”

“Nothing in particular,” Diomedes said, shrugging. “But I do believe it is a good time to make some well placed suggestions.”

“With the purpose of…?”

“Being in a proper city by the time of our daughter’s birth.” Diomedes sighed. “We need a midwife and a cleaner place, a calmer place. We are both kings, our daughter is twice over a princess. You should give birth in a soft bed with all the appropriate care, not in the middle of a war camp while trying to hide. I beg you not to fight me on this, Odysseus.”

Odysseus nodded slowly. “Right, well. I will not. You are right,” he said. “If not for me then for her. She deserves to be born as safely as possible. What do you think we should suggest to Agamemnon?”

“He has some captive Trojan soldiers that might have spoken about cities around Lycia, close to Cyprus, that have not declared any sort of loyalty towards Priam yet.”

…

War council was certainly different when battle was not at their figurative door and neither hunger nor lack of resources plagued them. Agamemnon and Menelaus’ postures and expressions served as a clear contrast from previous months. They drank and laughed as if they were in a royal banquet instead of a war camp, moving their hands in the air to call for their slaves to bring more food and wine and music.

The table was full of not usually present faces, emphasizing the laxness of the meeting. There was Patroclus next to Achilles, Nestor forcing his sons to eat, and Telamonian Ajax whispering to his half brother Teucer. Even Sthenelus was there, waiting for Diomedes to arrive.

“What are we celebrating?” Odysseus asked as he and Diomedes sat down. “Other than Trojan cowardice, I mean.”

“Odysseus!” Agamemnon cheered, raising his cup. “Happy you could join us today.”

“Headaches are getting better?” Menelaus asked, smiling.

They spoke the day after Odysseus had woken up. Menelaus insisted on apologizing, making a show of his regret by offering him cattle and amphoras of wine and a promise to stop meddling. Odysseus laughed at most of the offers, but did not refuse them. Not even after Menelaus relaxed and jokingly called Diomedes his husband. Although Odysseus did kindly tell him to shut his mouth and never make those comments in public.

“Headaches are mostly gone, thank the gods,” Odysseus said. “I am still wondering, however, why we are so joyful this morning.”

“The Trojan prisoners have finally spoken,” Nestor said, moving a plate of bread closer to Antilochus. “They even agreed to draw a detailed map of every city that might be useful to us.”

“In exchange for their freedom,” Achilles said, snorting. “As if!”

“Are we keeping them then?” Odysseus asked. “Why?”

“To make sure they do not lie,” Agamemnon said. “We will get to those cities soon enough, and we need to make someone responsible for any possible bad outcome. Let it be them.”

“Besides, if someone really wants their freedom, they would leave the city and offer gold and treasures in exchange,” Ajax added, looking at Odysseus briefly before turning back to his whispered conversation with Teucer.

“Well,” Odysseus said, raising his cup. “Cheers to that.”

Just as he and Diomedes had discussed before leaving the tent, eating and drinking was what filled most of their morning. Conversations around the table did not involve battle or raiding unless someone was trying to boast about their prowess, or mock the Trojans for their cowardice and puniness. Achilles stole a lyre from the hands of a servant to start playing it himself, Locrian Ajax and Idomeneus were playing dice with secretive movements that pretended to hide the game, and Nestor started one of his tales of old, trapping his own sons and Sthenelus in conversation.

All of it was perfectly good and expected. The more wine and warmth and joy the generals felt, the easier it was to keep them distracted as Odysseus convinced Agamemnon to agree to his and Diomedes’ plans.

“This feels closer to a feast than to an early morning council meeting,” Odysseus said to Menelaus and Agamemnon, smiling one of his more friendly and harmless smiles. “Not that it bothers me. Especially after what the last battles did to my general health. But I wonder what we should do about these new cities we now know of.”

“You cannot ever stop that brain of yours, can you?” Agamemnon asked, snorting and raising his cup to be filled again. “Very commendable.”

“We would not expect less of our best strategist. Wouldn’t we, brother?” Menelaus asked. “Nothing worse than a tactician that does not actually plan.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Agamemnon said, although he seemed more focused on his own thoughts than on the conversation. “We are raiding them. Not much to plan for it other than who we are sending. And even so we all know that Pelides will gladly offer his Myrmidons to do it again. Probably Ajax as well.”

“I am certain most of those cities are unimportant enough to raid and burn,” Odysseus said, looking at Menelaus. “Others, however…”

“Others?” Menelaus asked, raising an eyebrow. “More suited for different purposes?”

“Well, raiding can serve us for some time,” Odysseus said, now looking at Agamemnon. “Our king of kings was wise enough to send raiding parties to the closest cities, but we will be pushed further and further east if we rely on taking what we need and burning all that is left. Of course our kingdoms will continue to send all the supplies they can spare, but eight more years…”

“Out with it,” Agamemnon said, sighing. “What have you planned in such a short time?”

“Not my plan really,” Odysseus said, moving a hand in the air as if dismissing the idea. “You might remember, when we were discussing the raidings months ago, that Nestor wisely suggested we could maybe try diplomacy for stable supply lines.”

The suggestion had actually been Diomedes’, but it was not unknown that Agamemnon did not enjoy being seen as inferior to the younger generals. Achilles he tried to politely ignore. After all, he was the son of a goddess. But Diomedes was not exempt from the king’s prideful disposition. They both had agreed, he and Diomedes, that it was pertinent to use Agamemnon’s approval of Odysseus’ ideas and respect towards Nestor to win him over. No mention of Diomedes.

“Do you not care?” Odysseus had asked him. “It is your name and your glory if the idea comes to be fruitful.”

“I shall see my name glorious in battle, as I have from my youth. I do not need my ideas praised,” Diomedes had answered, shrugging and smiling like the young warrior he truly was. “And regardless, this is for our daughter. She shall be my glory for now. Gaining commercial allies is a secondary benefit.”

The plan was then established. They were sure Menelaus would agree as soon as he noticed the real intentions behind it, but Agamemnon was not very fond of being swayed. It was always a game with him. The cunning trying to persuade the uninspired.

“Of course I remember,” Agamemnon said, snorting as if the idea of him forgetting something was unthinkable. “It could be considered.”

Menelaus shook his head. “Well, brother, it is more feasible now that we know more about all the different cities,” he said, putting a hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. “Let us hear Odysseus’ full idea?”

“Odysseus’ full idea?” Diomedes asked, turning towards them as if he were not listening to the entire conversation. “How can I deprive myself of hearing about such a thing?”

“Marvelous!” Odysseus said, clapping Diomedes on the back. “No need for volunteers when I can easily ask this of you, my dear friend.”

“Odysseus,” Menelaus grumbled, face half-hidden between his hands.

He was fiercely trying not to smile, amused and exhausted in equal amounts.

“Right, of course,” Odysseus said. “I heard that some of the prisoners talked about cities where Lycia and Cilicia meet, close to Cyprus, that have not declared themselves allied to Priam. I wonder if any of them might have willing enough kings to hear the humble offerings of desperate foreign kings.”

“You plan to trick them into sending us supplies,” Menelaus said, a smile finally forcing its way out.

“How exactly?” Agamemnon asked, frowning. “I trust your persuasion well enough, if past events serve as proof of it. But these are foreign kings.”

“Yes, that is true,” Odysseus said. “But they live close to Cyprus. Most of them should speak our language and pray to our gods, and I believe all of them will like the idea of being paid in lands.”

“In lands,” Agamemnon repeated, raising one eyebrow in an expression so similar to Meneleus’ own it was almost funny to look at. “And we shall get those lands how?”

“Easily,” Odysseus said, drinking from his cup before discretely pointing towards Achilles. “He will raid city after city and kill their kings. After he does so, Diomedes and I will offer those now free lands to every king who accepts our conditions.”

“Supplies and loyalty,” Agamemnon said, nodding as if the idea had been his. “Yes, I suppose it could work. When shall we start?”

…

The sea had been a familiar sight to him even before reaching the shores of Troy. After all, Odysseus was raised and crowned in the rocky isle of Ithaca, where water always lapped at your feet and the air was filled with the smell of salt and fish. Nevertheless, even after years of watching the sea from the highest point of his palace, he could never get used to the all-consuming darkness that enveloped a shore at night. It felt like looking at the emptiness of Tartarus itself. Sky and water blending in unrelenting blackness that only the stars and moon dared try to break.

It was always sobering to see the vastness of the world around him, like a rope hauling him back to reality. War and mind games, planning and raiding and fighting. At the end of the day there was only them, the people he lied and killed and survived for.

“They are so far and yet so close. Under the very same stars,” Odysseus whispered.

There was no need for whispers, considering most of their men were deeply asleep and they had sent the night patrol far from Odysseus’ ships. It was, however, a confession of weakness he wished not even the gods to hear.

Diomedes looked up at him from his lap, where his head rested; grey eyes shining under the moonlight.

“I suppose,” he said. “The world is so very small if you put it in words.”

“Do you miss it? Argos, I mean. Home.”

Diomedes frowned. “I do not think I miss it as much as you miss Ithaca. I miss the city, in a sense. The smells and the sounds, the vineyards and markets, the people running and talking and laughing.” He sighed. “I am not used to peace, but it was not unpleasant.”

“Not the palace,” Odysseus said, smiling. “Was it not very nice?”

“It was… a palace.”

“Right,” Odysseus said, looking back towards the sea in front of them. “I think you would like Ithaca.”

“Perhaps,” Diomedes said, softly pressing his cheek against Odysseus’ uncovered thigh. “What city do you suppose will be the easiest to get on our side? We should go there first and then decide what to do once our daughter is born.”

A change of subject then. Too much dreaming and hoping for one night.

“The closest to Cyprus the better,” Odysseus said. “Anemurium or Side?”

“I agree,” Diomedes said, nodding as best as he could while lying down. “Let us try those cities and the smaller ones in between. One of them should be suitable enough.”

“Who are we taking with us?” Odysseus asked. “Because we cannot go alone, not this time. Eumelia has to come, of course, but we need more men. Not all of them need to know the truth, but at least two of them should.”

“We cannot take our seconds-in-command. They will be needed here.” He sighed. “I will take Euryalus as a trusted companion. He can know the truth if you agree.”

“How much do you trust him?”

“We swore the same oaths in our youths and fought side by side. I trust him with my life,” Diomedes said, looking at him again.

“Well then, of course I agree.” Odysseus nodded. “I will take Perimedes. Not much of a revolter, and we have known each other from youth.”

“Very well then.”

“We should take at least five more each.”

“Do you perhaps want me to write another list?” Diomedes asked, voice bathed in newfound humour. “You seem fond of them.”

“I do not need a list for ten names I can easily remember,” Odysseus jokingly protested. “Maybe you are the one who truly does, considering you have put no name forward for our daughter.”

“Forgive me, love, I have some names, but I thought it was better to let you do the choosing, since you seem so very fond of making decisions.”

Love. Would he ever tire of hearing that damned word?

Odysseus smiled, hands running through Diomedes disheveled curls. “Tell me the name. You must have one you like above the others.”

Diomedes laughed softly, face turning towards Odysseus’ body. There, lips pressed against his stomach, he whispered:

“Theocleia.”

Glory of the gods.

 

Chapter 11: 11

Summary:

Anemurium.

Notes:

I've missed you guys so much!!!! Omg university is killing me (maybe I shouldn't have taken a summer class because it has only been a week of regular semester and I'm dying lol)

Anyways, HI! ❤️ How are you guys?

As it has become usual lol thank you so much for 540+ kudos ❤️ (still can't believe it)

I hope you like the chapter and sorry for any mistakes ❤️

“Do you want to vomit?”

Odysseus groaned, face smashed against the ship’s main mast. “What do you think?”

“I think you should sit down,” Diomedes half-whispered, one hand discretely holding Odysseus’ waist. “We still have some hours before our first stop and you can barely stand without looking green like an olive.”

“This is ridiculous. I have sailed practically since I was born. Not even when Telemachus…,” Odysseus grumbled, but accepted Diomedes’ help to sit as he was doing just moments before. “Theocleia does not like the sea.”

“Then obey her,” Diomedes said, clearly trying but failing not to smile. “It is only five days at sea, and we will stop as frequently as we can. Just try to stay seated for however long your body needs it. Maybe follow Eumelia’s example?”

“Eumelia is pretending to be pregnant,” he whispered, frowning while looking towards the young woman.

She was sitting close to the stern of the ship, eyes lost in the horizon and hands placed on top of her cloth-made pregnant belly. She had been more than happy to follow them far away from the war camps, smiling and humming the entire week they took to prepare for the trip.

“Yes, and you are pregnant, stubborn man,” Diomedes whispered back, raising an eyebrow and widening his insufferable smile. “You should be more lenient with your body.”

“I will if Perimedes stops looking at me like I am a shade that has escaped the underworld.”

“He just needs a day or two to adapt,” Diomedes said. “He found out unimaginable things less than half a day ago. Soon enough he will stop staring like a confused child.”

“Euryalus seems so completely unaffected it makes Perimedes look idiotic.”

“Well, Euryalus’ king and boyhood companion is not pregnant.”

Odysseus sighed, softly squeezing one of Diomedes’ hands before letting his back rest against the mast.

“Can you talk with him again? Just… make him stop staring. The rest of the men will think him insane or start questioning his reasons.”

Diomedes nodded. “I’ll see to it, love.”

Perimedes' reaction was bothersome but unsurprising. He had looked at Odysseus with his mouth half open, ears turning pink as he blinked with such a speed that his eyelashes threatened to catch on fire. Odysseus was forced to repeat the instructions of secret keeping and preparations of travel more than thrice before being sure Perimedes understood the role he was to play for the next weeks. Him and Euryalus were going to be the connection between them and the rest of the men while Odysseus prepared himself to give birth in whatever city they were best received in. They would carry the messages, command the soldiers, and make all preparations necessary for the voyage back to Troy as Odysseus and Diomedes cared for their daughter and made sure their economic negotiations were safely established.

The birth was, to Odysseus’ own fear and disquiet, so very close that sailing immediately became a necessity. His ninth month loomed close, making hiding his state as complicated as hiding his dreadful humour. They wanted to be absolutely sure they were comfortable and safe before Odysseus was completely bedridden, so the five-day trip began as soon as all details were accounted for.

“We’ll stop in a few hours.”

Odysseus slightly startled. “Gods above, Euryalus,” he grumbled. “Maybe make some noise when you move?”

Euryalus smirked, leaning against the mast while polishing his sword. His green eyes shone with a mischievous energy that reminded Odysseus of the times when Ctimene stole food from the palace kitchens. He was much more entertaining company, and certainly less bothersome, than Sthenelus ever was. Still, he was another person who seemed to adore overprotecting Diomedes, and consequently treating Odysseus like the biggest of problems. Sthenelus sulked and frowned, Euryalus made jesting comments that were mostly veiled accusations.

“Where is the fun in that?” Euryalus asked.

“The fun is in not making me start my labours early. How about that?”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging. “I made my wife laugh and curse me her entire pregnancy and everything went accordingly. I am certain the king of Ithaca is made of much stronger stuff than a gentle princess.”

“I will show you stronger stuff.”

Euryalus laughed, sheathing his sword to hold his hands up in a show of defeat.

“Let us try not to get in a fight,” he said, pointing towards Diomedes with his head. “That foolish boy will kill me where I stand if he believes I am truly bothering you.”

“You are bothering me. Deeply.”

“You are funny, Laertiades. Perhaps Sthenelus exaggerates some.”

“Does he ever not exaggerate?”

“Well, maybe when he talks about how irritating he finds you.”

“Good to know.”

“Good to be of service.”

Odysseus snorted. “Right. I am making you run so many errands once I give birth.”

“I look forward to it. Everything for my little niece.”

…

The voyage, even without a single storm to stop them, lasted eight days and seven nights. Three more than it should have normally taken. They scouted smaller cities along the coast, taking note of the languages the people spoke, their ways of commerce, and the rules they seemed to follow. By the eighth day they had reached the shores of Anemurium. The enormous city sat close to the sea, with no walls to hide it and pebbled streets moving convolutedly inwards. It looked nothing like pristine, orderly Troy. Except for the tall palace that brightly stood in the centre of it all. That was, however, where the resemblance stopped. Troy’s palace was guarded and distant, while Anemurium’s houses seemed to sprout out of its palace like dangling grapes from a vine, surrounding the structure in a comforting and likewise suffocating embrace.

“Rulers that do not mind being close to their people,” Odysseus said, taking a deep breath to regain the sense of stability that the ship seemed to steal from him. “Let us hope they do not mind strangers as well.”

“Gods’ ordered hospitality has not failed us in any other place yet,” Diomedes said. “A city this big should abide by the gods’ commands.”

“I will tell the men to make camp,” Euryalus said, approaching them. “I imagine you will wish to go directly to the palace. Let me and Perimedes first ask around to know more about their king. Just to be sure.”

They cleaned their hands and faces, ate some of the food brought from the last visited city, and waited some minutes for Euryalus and Perimedes’ return. By the time the sun reached its highest point in the sky, the five of them, including Eumelia, were walking towards the palace. There a midday banquet was taking place. Music, laughter, singing and shouting were heard from a considerable distance. At the doors some guards watched them arrive.

Diomedes was dressed in his more elegant attires, so it was probably very hard to ignore his presence. They were not getting anything from them by begging and pretending to be desperate. This was a prosperous city, a free one. The plan was, agreed by all present, to make themselves look like a proper noble blooded house in the search of war support in exchange for lands they now owned. Odysseus, in consequence, wore a long tunic Eumelia weaved for him, and wrapped his hands around one of Diomedes’ arms to hold him closer to his body.

“Playing the sweet omega,” Diomedes had called it the night before. “Easier for us to convince them, and easier for them to lend you a comfortable bed to give birth in.”

“What do you mean ‘playing’? That is exactly what I am,” Odysseus had answered, smirking.

One of the soldiers ran inside when they approached. The other stood silently until his companion returned. This was to be expected. There was no clear protocol about what soldiers could say or not say to visitors, but their king’s word was law, therefore avoiding making decisions before having his approval was a sensible thing to do.

The gods’ commands were also law for wise men, so the words of the returning soldier were not surprising at all.

“King Amyntas says to let the foreigners clean themselves, make libations, and eat the food served, in the name of the gods,” the soldier said, nodding towards them. “May you fill your stomachs and rest from travel before having an audience to declare your intentions.”

“We thank you and your king,” Diomedes said, smiling in a way he rarely did.

They were swarmed by servants as soon as they entered the palace. Warm baths were prepared in different rooms of the palace, fruit and bread was placed by their sides, and perfumed oils were rubbed on their skins and hairs. The oldest of the servants helping Odysseus put a hand over his belly as she dressed him and smiled widely, saying a quick prayer to Artemis and Eileithyia. The woman reminded him of Eurycleia so much that he had to suppress tears while his curls were properly oiled and tied.

They ate and drank around some members of the royal house, speaking amicably about mundane things such as the state of the sea that week or the preparation of the food served. All of them spoke perfect Greek, but their way of speaking it was quite different to the ways of the Achaeans. Still, they made libations to known gods and sang stories about equally known heroes. The king talked briefly with Diomedes, though Odysseus could barely hear the conversation in the middle of so many sounds. Even sitting next to Diomedes, so close that their arms touched.

He spent most of the meal in comfortable conversation with one of the king’s daughters, Anthousa, who seemed happy enough to talk with a stranger about her soon to be wedding. Such were the rules of being an omega in the midst of loud alphas. You were allowed a sort of strange camaraderie in the name of companionship. A very convenient thing for their cause. If they could not make them establish some stable supply lines, at least Odysseus could make the omegas of the palace find him so delightful that sending them away while he was on the verge of giving birth would be unacceptable.

It was early to make them go to sleep, therefore when all the food was consumed and all the songs were sung, the king sent most of the palace to their daily labours and urged Diomedes to talk with him in private. They had rehearsed all possible conversations almost every night of preparations and every night of their trip. Even so, Odysseus could not help but feel nauseous at the simple idea of not being there with Diomedes.

“He will do fine,” Euryalus told him while they sat in the indoor gardens, waiting with only servants for company. “He might not be the smooth-tongued speaker you are, but he is a smart man, a king and a general.”

“You are worried about him?” Perimedes half-asked, hand stopping in the middle of reaching for his wine cup and looking at Odysseus like a confused child. “Really?”

Eumelia snorted softly but immediately coughed and hid behind her cup when she noticed that she had been heard.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, cheeks reddening.

“No, no. What did you mean?” Perimedes asked, turning towards her. He was, funnily enough, treating her more like a fellow soldier than an omega since their journey had started. “Is this normal? You must know since you spend quite a lot of time with both of them.”

Eumelia looked at Odysseus and then back to Perimedes. “Uh… Well…,” she said. “I should not talk about it.”

“Of course he worries,” Euryalus said, rolling his eyes as if tired from the subject of the conversation. “They are having a child together. They sleep in each other's arms every night. Wouldn’t you be worried about your wife or husband?”

Odysseus frowned. “I am allowing this to be said only because the people of this city will know us as husbands, but do not let me hear you talking so freely about my private life again, Euryalus, or so help me gods above…”

“You also have trouble not being in control,” Euryalus added, smiling widely. “But fine, I will keep silent.”

“Euryalus,” Odysseus began but was promptly interrupted.

“I hope you are finding my gardens comfortable enough, since they are my wife’s pride and joy,” King Amyntas said, walking towards them with Diomedes by his side.

 He was not a young king, but the lavish clothing and vibrant bejeweled crown helped him enough. His eyes, a brown so light it was almost golden, shone with amiability, and his greying hair gave him an air of wiseness and fatherly disposition.

“They are marvelous,” Odysseus said, standing to his feet and nodding so slowly that the movement resembled a short bow.

“I am glad to hear it. Although she will probably be gladder,” Amyntas said, smiling. “Your rooms are being prepared at the moment. Some servants will lead you to them as soon as possible for you to organize your belongings and rest. They will belong to you for as long as you need them. Welcome to Anemurium.”

…

Their room was enormous. With polished wooden furniture, a bed the size of a servant’s own room and a private balcony, it was closer to the sleeping quarters of princes than those reserved for visitors.

“I gather it was a productive conversation,” Odysseus said when the door closed behind them. “He sounded joyous to let us stay, and this place is certainly more than temporary living for strangers.”

Diomedes turned towards him, chuckling like a child who got away with some well planned mischief. “The man has no love for Troy. One might even say he detests them and all the trouble they bring to the continent. Besides, he seems very fond of the idea of expanding his domain north-westward.”

“Well, look at you,” Odysseus said, smiling as he closed the distance between them. “Such a tactician, my wise husband.”

“Yes, you play with words all you want,” Diomedes said, pulling him even closer to embrace him. “It is not me who was invited to Queen Hypatia’s quarters to weave and eat with her omega children. She found us walking towards the gardens and insisted on you accompanying her tomorrow. You know, my love, hospitality and friendliness.”

“And you said yes in my name, I assume.”

“Well of course. That is what a wise husband does. Is it not?”

I love you.

How long could he contain the words without them spilling out of his mouth like an overflowing river? He screamed them inside his mind, hiding his face in Diomedes’ neck, breathing in his scent and stealing all the warmth from his body.

“She will be born here,” he whispered instead. “Can you believe it?”

Diomedes’ quiet laughter made his own body vibrate. “I do not even know how to properly hold a newborn baby without trembling. Thinking of her birth is dizzying.”

“You learn fast,” Odysseus said, leaving his hiding place to look Diomedes in the eye. “You in particular, and all new parents. When Telemachus was born I thought I could break him by just breathing close to him. But babies are stronger than you think, and they absolutely make it known when they disapprove of something.”

Telemachus who was now two years of age. A baby no longer. He was a walking, talking child. What had his first word been? Did he still cry for Odysseus at night in the same manner he probably did during the first days of his absence? How could he be a father to Theocleia while being denied the right to be a father to Telemachus? Unfair to him, unfair to both his children.

“What?” Diomedes asked, voice softening to reach that tone he only ever used when Odysseus showed any sign of discomfort. “What saddens you?”

You know me far too well to be safe.

“Telemachus,” he simply answered. “I… I miss him even more so now that I have her.”

“I am sorry, love.”

Odysseus snorted, hands traveling to Diomedes’ face, holding him softly. “Not your war, not your choices, not your fault,” he listed, a weak smile gracing his lips. “I have been a father for the last two years but I can only have one of my babies with me. Being apart from Telemachus was a necessary condition for Theocleia to exist. She does not deserve the weight of all that, but how can she not carry it? For the next few years I will look at her and think of her brother. I know I will, I cannot help it.”

“She will not resent you for it,” Diomedes said, nuzzling against one of his hands like a big domesticated dog. “You will talk to her about her older brother and she will come to love him as much as you do. I am sure of it.”

“How? She won’t really know him. I do not know enough about him myself.”

“Well, I do not personally know Penelope, but you told me enough for me to believe she is the most patient and loving woman to ever exist. She has to be if she decided to marry you.”

Odysseus could not contain the laughter. It broke free like a bird from a cage, warming his sadness-covered bones. He melted against Diomedes’ body once again.

“She is patient, and she is loving,” he whispered, lips on top of warm skin. “She would also think you are very funny.”

“I am glad. She must be hilarious herself to keep someone like you entertained for so many years. She is probably a very good mother as well. ” Diomedes said. “I know you worry. Telling you not to is a ridiculous idea. I do not love my wife with even half of the intensity you love yours, and still I worry about her sitting alone on the throne of Argos. I worry about home, my sister and her own children. But you have told me, once and once again, how wise and capable she is. You know she will keep Ithaca and Telemachus safe. So one day, a few years from now, you will take our daughter there and she will recognize her true home, her brother and her fate. You just talk to her about it, that is what you do best after all.”

Where are you in this perfectly painted future? Will you try to reach us? Will you miss us?

“Right,” Odysseus said, breathing in grapes and olive trees and rusted metal before stepping back again to face Diomedes. “If I survive the birth.”

“Do not,” Diomedes grumbled. “I swear I was the pessimistic person between us.”

“Yes, well, most things feel upside down when you carry a child,” Odysseus said. “I could die.”

“You will not.”

“I will try not to. If it pleases you to know, I want to live,” Odysseus said, smirking. “Still, make sure you pray and make sacrifices.”

“Of course I will,” Diomedes said, frowning. “I have promised Athena and Artemis multiple sacrifices, the best of my cattle in Troy, if you and our daughter are alive and healthy after the birth.”

“Good,” Odysseus said, and softly pecked Diomedes on the lips. “Let us prepare for the next few weeks then. We deserve the rest.”

 

Chapter 12: 12

Summary:

Theocleia.

Notes:

Hi!! Have you missed me?? Because I really fucking did!

Thank you so much to all of you who wrote comments, gave me kudos, and waited for me. I love y'all ❤️

University is driving me crazy (I love my degree so worth it I guess lol), but I did not forget this fic.

If you want to ask me stuff or scream at me, I use tw (@vic_ivy) and tumblr (@vic-ivy). Follow me if you want to read me screaming at random stuff in different fandoms and political issues(?

Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter and sorry if there are any mistakes ❤️

CW: Descriptive birth scene.

They had lived two weeks of pleasant routine when their daughter decided she was ready to be born. Odysseus spent every day of their stay surrounded by other omegas, and every night in the warm embrace of Diomedes. Far from the constant necessity of vigilance born from war, his sleep became peaceful and most of his remaining wound-induced pains subsided. His belly grew enough to be impossible to hide behind his clothing, and Diomedes’ protectiveness and intensity grew with it. He kissed and hugged him even around other people, holding his waist and continuously putting his hands on top of Odysseus’ rounded middle. It was indiscreet even without the rest of their soldiers around. Still, Odysseus could not find the strength to make him stop. As ridiculous as it was, he needed it. He needed the closeness, the confort, his scent and the sound of his voice. And it was easy to get it all when they did not need to hide.

The need was such that they had fucked almost every night since their arrival; slowly, too afraid to make any possibly dangerous movement. They moaned and laughed and whispered sweet nothings that would have felt nonsensical and shameful in any other circumstance. All of it helped him feel less afraid than he probably should have. It had been just like that with Penelope, so busy and in love that truly thinking about the birth was dismissed. Nature dictated that it was supposed to feel just like that; a perfect mechanism to make omegas wish to keep having pups. Despite the lack of a mating bite, the mere presence of an alpha his own body recognized as his was soothing enough to stop his mind from running wild. At least it had been enough until that point.

His desperation and neediness would have felt humiliating if the rest of the palace were not celebrating them and their soon to be born daughter at every moment. Babies tended to do that to people. Prayers and gifts and words of encouragement were offered at every room they decided to visit or were invited to. Diomedes, even if he pretended not to, tended to get red-faced every time the attention got too intense for his liking. Odysseus, on the other hand, had to contain the wicked happiness he felt when people treated him as if he was holy.

It was the afternoon of their fifteenth day in Anemurium when the multiple princesses of the palace, reunited in the queen’s quarters, decided to start offering their gifts. Odysseus had pretended to gracefully reject all of them before accepting them as gracefully. His gracefulness, however, was coming to an end with every passing hour. He had known that very same morning that the time was upon them, but reality was slowly shaking his resolve of ignoring it with each growing sharp pain on his lower back. It had started as a barely noticeable burning on his hips, yet he knew from the moment he woke up that his labours had begun.

“Oh, please, take it,” Photine, one of the king’s daughters-in-law, insisted once again. “I have no need for it, my son is a baby no longer and you are just about to burst.”

She placed the small wooden box on Odysseus’ hands, smiling so wide it was almost funny to look at. Xanthe and Lysistrate, the two youngest of the king's daughters, nodded repeatedly at him as if the decision had been made by them all.

“Oh, well,” Odysseus murmured, forcing a smile of his own. “I do believe my baby is a girl, but I shall accept these gifts. Thank you, Photine.”

“Do not worry,” Xanthe interjected. “Those are wooden toys my father made, he gets bored and starts carving figures in dead trees. Nothing really specific for a boy.”

Odysseus opened the box slowly. There a small soldier, a horse and a shield made of dark wood rested. He took the soldier in one hand, turning it from one side to the other to examine the craftsmanship.

“It is…” He stopped abruptly, gritting his teeth and closing his hands in fists with such a strength that one of the soldier’s arms cracked. “It’s beautiful,” he gasped, trying but clearly failing to conceal the pain.

Photine placed a hand on one of his arms, eyes full of concern. Queen Hypatia, sitting by the window, looked at him and sighed like a tired mother.

“How long have you been in labour?” she asked, standing.

“What makes you say such a thing, my queen?” he asked back, hands relaxing as the pain subsided.

“Your belly dropped two days or so ago, and you can barely walk. I’ve had ten babies. I know enough,” she said, nodding towards a servant. “Charmion, call the midwife and have some servants prepare all things necessary.”

“I am fine, my queen. We may even have hours ahead of us,” he said, putting the wooden soldier back inside the box and giving it to Photine so he could stand up. “No need to make arrangements just now.”

“Do not be stupid, boy,” she chided, slightly startling him.

It had been some years since someone dared to call him that. For a queen of her age, however, it was as true as the sky was blue. Odysseus was half her age and younger than her oldest son and daughter.

“You said you have a son; you have given birth before. Therefore you should certainly know how fast things get when we believe them to be slow,” she said, approaching the place where the four of them sat. “Girls, help him to his room and tell a servant to search for his husband. He should see him before everything truly begins.”

“Of course, mother,” said Xanthe, the youngest, standing up and offering her arm for Odysseus to hold. “Let us help you.”

Lysistrate stood by his left, offering one of her arms as well. “You will make us the happiest of hosts if you allow us to give you all the comforts you need in this strenuous moment.”

They walked to his room in slow silence, stopping every time Odysseus gave any indication of being in pain. Once inside they helped him to his bed, took off his sandals, and soon went away in a flurry of movement and barked orders that most of the palace were bound to hear.

If the pain wasn’t growing more and more intolerable each second, he would have grieved the soon-to-be-lost solidarity he had acquired with other omegas. It was truly the first time in his twenty seven years of life that he had allowed himself to be what he would have been if his true nature wasn’t hidden. Selfish as he usually was, he wished to have both the privileges of an alpha and the comforts of an omega.

And just like that, as suddenly as the changing temperament of the roaring sea shifted, a suffocating terror settled inside of his chest. How could he give their babies the opportunity to have both? Far away from Telemachus and dooming Theocleia to live her first eight years of life in a war camp. He was supposed to be a father and a king. What was he there? What could he do for his babies when he could not even escape his own trap of having to choose one life over the other? What could he do for them if he died now, bleeding out on the floor of a foreign palace or fighting on the battlefield of a war that was not his?

I cannot do this. Not again.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, eyes filling with tears as the pain returned.

He looked around the empty room, oil lamps extinguished in the early morning and windows open to let the late spring sun and breeze in. The emptiness and silence were as nauseating as the pain. He had to move, do something, anything, or his mind would betray him.

Odysseus half-crawled towards the end of the bed, holding his taut belly with one arm, and started pulling the heavy blankets that covered it. He was still throwing them to the ground when Eumelia entered the room running, long blue peplos grazing the ground at each step.

“Sir,” she said, taking the remaining blankets from his hands and putting his sweat-soaked hair behind his ears with motherlike gentleness. “Let me help you dress more comfortably. The midwife is coming soon.”

“Where is Diomedes?” he groaned, letting her move him from his place and undress him without protest. “Has someone called him?”

“Some servants went searching for him. He will be here soon,” she said, softly tying the light clothing just below his chest. “Do not worry, everything is being pre…”

Any possible reassurance was stopped with the sound of the opening door. A motherly looking woman gave orders to multiple servants as they moved through the room. Warm water filled vases, piles of clean cloth, a furnished wooden stool, and dozens of different necessities that his blurred vision could barely see danced in front of them. It was preparation for war.

“I should have known it would happen again,” he whimpered, crushing one of Eumelia’s hands between his when another wave of throbbing pain enveloped his middle. They were slowly growing unbearable. “Gods, I should have remembered. Admitted it to myself at least”

“Your mind makes you forget,” said the motherly looking woman, clearly the midwife, approaching him like he was a scared wild animal. “It is easier for you to bear the birth when you forget.”

But he did not forget, not really. Pain, as terrible as it was, he was familiar with. He was a soldier after all. What he did not allow himself to think about was of his own doing. He had hidden in his lovesick happiness; he had deluded himself yet again. He pretended to ignore the deep hellish sadness and fear he had felt during Telemachus' birth and all the weeks that followed. Knowing he wasted half of the time he had with his son in sorrowful misery was such an overwhelming thought. He kept busy both times, love and reigning and war. He held back the feelings just for them to burst out of him with blood-thirsty revenge.

“I was fine just a day before the birth,” he had whispered to his mother, face hidden in her chest like he was the child and not his newborn baby. “What is wrong with me, mother?”

She had whispered back in the same soft tone of voice she used when he was younger: “nothing, nothing my sweet baby”, while tears streamed down his face. The next day Eurycleia bathed him with warm water and fed him herself while Penelope took care of Telemachus. Now he had nothing. In a foreign land with people he barely knew or cared about.

Odysseus swatted Eumelia’s hands away, keeping himself upright by holding a bedpost. “Where is Diomedes?” he growled. It was not directed at anyone in particular, but all the women in the room turned in his direction. “He needs to be here. He has to.”

If he went insane with sadness and pain he wanted him and only him to take their daughter. He should have warned Diomedes, but Odysseus did not even know if he would have dared to. Even if he had allowed himself to remember his uselessness during those first weeks, the idea of revealing such a weakness, one even seen as such in an omega, was nauseating.

“I do not think it wise, especially if you are as close as you seem to be,” the midwife said, pursing her lips and lowering her gaze in ridiculously solemn contemplation.

“I don’t care,” Odysseus snarled, feeling drops of sweat fall from his hair to his face. “Someone bring him here, now!”

“Fine, fine, we will. Alcinoe, go,” the woman said towards one of the servants, although she never stopped looking at Odysseus. “But you need to let me get closer so I can take care of you. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” he grumbled, sitting back down on the bed. “Please do something.”

He and Eumelia were walking around the room when Diomedes arrived. Odysseus let go of her shoulders and a wave of relief coursed through his body. Diomedes could take their daughter, he could have her once he went insane from the physical suffering and emotional distress.

“Odysseus…” he whispered while approaching, eyes wide with worry.

“You stay fucking here,” Odysseus groweled in return, holding on to Diomedes’ shoulders as soon as he was in front of him. “Do not move from this room even when they tell you to leave.”

The midwife slightly frowned. “Sir…”

“He stays! He fucking stays! What can he see that he already has not?”

“Are you sure?” Diomedes whispered, hands cradling his face with a softness that brought even more tears to Odysseus’ eyes.

“You need to hold her. Promise me.”

“Of course I will, Odysseus. She is our daughter.”

“No, no. I know you’ll hold her,” he sobbed. His mind, the best of him, felt sickly muddled. Words failed him. “Hold her always. Even more when I am not present.”

“My love, you are not dying.”

“You do not know that,” he snarled as another wave of burning pain made him fall into Diomedes’ arms. “Please swear it.”

“I swear it, I do,” Diomedes whispered against his ear. “I will do anything and everything for her. You know this. I know you do.”

…

Odysseus went in and out of consciousness multiple times during the whole process. They walked and sat and lay on the floor together until his waters broke. The midwife was clearly unhappy about having an alpha inside the room during the birth, but Odysseus knew that he would have gone completely hysterical if he felt truly alone. His own body and mind cried for Penelope in a way that he did not remember them doing since the first days in Aulis. He looked into Diomedes' grey eyes and tried so hard to see her blue that deep guilt settled on his chest. Why could he not have them both there, when he needed them the most?

He screamed and cried and begged the gods for mercy for what were possibly hours. Warm slimy blood ran through his legs and fell at his feet, forming a dark pool of liquid around the birthing stool. He was so dizzy that every push felt weaker and weaker than the one before.

“We are almost there,” the midwife said, hand buried between Odysseus’ legs. “I can already see his head.”

“It’s a girl,” Odysseus slurred, hand slightly slipping from Diomedes’ hands due to the building sweat.

“And how do you know that? Do tell me.”

“The gods…”

He gasped, another contraction making him double over with his teeth bared in a snarl.

“You are doing incredible,” she said, holding a hand up for Eumelia to put a cloth soaked in warm water on top of it. “Come on, tell me. The gods said she was a girl?”

“You’re trying to keep me awake,” Odysseus said, shuddering as he felt the midwife’s fingers pressing inside him while the warm cloth drank in the blood on his thighs.

“And you are a smart one, aren’t you? So you will stay awake until this is done. I know you can.”

“A god told us. Our patroness,” Odysseus said. “What are you doing now?”

“Making sure she is fine and ready to come out.”

“Is she fine?” Diomedes asked in a trembling hushed voice.

The midwife looked up, clearly resigned to Diomedes presence. “She is fine. Right position, no cord complications. Just a bit more and she will be here.”

“Well, she needs to hurry,” Odysseus murmured, leaning towards Diomedes and groaning against his chest as another contraction took his body. “Gods, please. When is this stopping?”

As fate had it, the three following contractions were the last his daughter needed. The pressure grew and receded with an agonizing push. His own screaming stopped in gasping breaths; someone else’s crying replaced it.

She is fine. She is alive and so am I.

Odysseus closed his eyes, exhausted, overwhelmed, trembling and still lightly crying. He was nauseous from the effort, too afraid to even look at his daughter while still leaning against Diomedes.

“What a strong little alpha. Are you not, sweetling? Particularly those lungs of yours.” the midwife said. “Galene, the cord, come on.”

“My love,” Diomedes whispered over his ear. “Look at her.”

“I cannot.”

“Of course you can. You can, Odysseus,” he said with a tone so unyielding it reminded Odysseus of battle. This was a battle, they both knew it. “Look at the fruits of your effort. She is perfect.”

“She is a screamer,” the midwife said as Odysseus left his place of hiding and finally opened his eyes. Her arms, still coated in blood, were holding a small cloth-covered bundle that seemed incapable of stopping her wailing. “You need to hold her for a moment before your afterbirth comes out. Let her be close to your scent.”

“I can barely lift my arms,” Odysseus lamented, eyes watering again. “Give her to Diomedes. I will have her once I am lying in bed.”

“I… I do not know…” Diomedes stammered, but his arms were already extended like he was given an order. “How should I? She is so small.”

The midwife put Theocleia in Diomedes’ arms, arranging the position until her tiny face was buried in the crook of his neck, cries slowly subsiding, turning into soft sniffles and indecipherable noises. Diomedes’ hands covered her entire body including her small head full of wet dark hair. One of her hands held onto a gold hair ring recently added in Diomedes’ new braids. Her eyes were wide open. They had the same greyish hue Telemachus’ eyes had just after his birth. His eyes were still changing by the time Odysseus had to leave him.

He kept watching them as a much more tolerable spasm settled on his lower belly, and smiled softly at his wide-eyed lover even when the afterbirth was expelled from his still shuddering body. More warm cloths slided against his legs and Eumelia ran to prepare the bed, arranging all the mess he had produced in his labour-induced insanity.

“Is it over?” Diomedes half-whispered, gracelessly moving from one side to the other as one tended to do while holding a baby. “Can he rest? Should we bring him to bed?”

“You just hold your daughter,” the midwife said, a small smile gracing her lips while piling all the dirty cloths on top of the pool of blood at their feets. “Galene and Pelagia will help me move him. Then we will place your daughter on his chest.”

The short trip across the room was torturous. His legs trembled and all the muscles of his body seemed to be made of malleable, crumbling wet sand. Letting his back rest on the soft pillows was a relief like no other he’d ever experienced. A servant pressed a cup full of water against his lips and he drank and drank and drank, until the cold liquid ran from his mouth to his still feverish neck.

“She stopped crying,” he said when his thirst had been quenched. “Is she fine?”

Eumelia walked towards Diomedes, standing behind his back to look at Theocleia. She stood there for some seconds before turning towards Odysseus with an almost blinding smile on her face.

“She is perfectly fine, sir,” she said. “You should hold her.”

Right. Here comes the hardest part and yet the easiest.

He extended his tired arms in acceptance, chest beating so fast that his breathing threatened to grow ragged yet again. This was when the fear and sorrow settled on his heart. He knew this dance, this specific battle. Even if he tried so hard to pretend it did not happen before, it made him feel like such an awful father, an incompetent omega.

Eumelia took Theocleia from Diomedes’ hands, holding her with the ease of a woman trained for service from a young age, and just as easily placed her on top of Odysseus’ chest.

The crying returned.

She was still red and wet and so small. She cried against his neck for long seconds before finding the familiar scent. Her little hands grabbed a fistful of his damp curls, making those tiny noises that babies made when trying to find confort.

“Theocleia,” Odysseus whispered as tears filled his eyes and panic filled his heart. “Oh, I am sorry, my little star.”

 

Chapter 13: 13

Summary:

Coming back to Troy.

Notes:

Hi people!! Omg it has been a million years 😭 University is trying to kill me fr fr

I have missed y'all so much, and I am very thankful for all the beautiful comments and kudos (ALMOST 800????)

Sorry for any mistakes, I hope you enjoy this chapter and that it is worth the wait.

(PS. HAPPY PRIDE ❤️)

The days after the birth were so unimaginably hectic that every moment not utilized for planning and organising for their return was filled with planning and organising for their new economic alliance. Euryalus and Perimedes were of great help, running from the palace to the beach and then back to the palace a dozen times a day. It was more than needed, considering how atrociously dreadful things seemed to be once the door of their room was closed.

Diomedes expected the tiredness, he expected perhaps some fear and sadness; and there was, of course, all of that. What he did not expect was deep bone-aching exhaustion, the sleepless nights and ridiculous, nonsensical fights. He never would have imagined that Odysseus, sly and infuriating by nature, could turn into such an empty shell of himself so quickly that it left Diomedes feeling like a seasick sailor holding onto a shipmast in the middle of a raging storm.

Theocleia was not an easy baby. He supposed that could be justification enough. She cried every night more than thrice, refused to sleep in Eumelia’s room or be held by anyone who wasn’t him or Odysseus for more than a couple minutes at a time, and got angry every time they tried to feed her milk that wasn’t Odysseus’ own. Even so, exhausted and sleep-deprived, Diomedes loved her like he had never loved before. He knew Odysseus did as well, otherwise he would not have fought his clearly souring spirits to take care of her. Still, his change of disposition was evident for anyone who truly knew him.

His usual talkativeness was quelled, playful disposition completely spoiled, and every single little thing that seemed to get out of hand angered and saddened him to an unmanageable degree. It was a divine miracle that he even allowed Diomedes to sleep by his side and hold him at night.

“You look dead on your feet,” Euryalus said, carrying the last of their belongings towards a borrowed cart. The trip back was arranged for the upcoming morning and most of the palace was a chaos of movement. “Does she wake very often?”

Euryalus wore new clothing, as most of their party did now, and the vibrant greens found everywhere in Anemurium suited his eyes and complexion perfectly. He looked younger and so alive. It was unsurprising that Diomedes seemed half dead in comparison, even with his own new clothing and gold ornaments.

“She does,” Diomedes said, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “She cries and screams and barely accepts her cot as an available option, much less sleeping with her nursemaid. Eumelia has tried every day.”

“It is only the first weeks,” Euryalus said, moving a hand in the air as if pushing away Diomedes’ worries. “We have lived in more strenuous circumstances, believe me. The good will soon outweigh the bad.”

“I pray it is so,” he sighed. “Otherwise I do not know how we will survive once we return to Troy’s shores.”

Euryalus nodded, lips pursed. “Have you told Laertiades about your intentions of changing the camps’ organization yet? That should help some.”

“I have tried.”

“Ah.”

Diomedes huffed. “Maybe try not to sound so amused.”

“You have a wife, brother, you know how these things are.”

This was not the first time they’d had similar conversations.

“Except he is not my wife, not a woman, and certainly not a soft-mannered princess. He is a king and a warrior…”

“And a sly serpent.”

“Right,” Diomedes said, eyes rolling childishly. “What I mean is that Odysseus is a king and a warrior and someone who birthed a baby less than two weeks ago. I cannot just handle it. There is no handling it, just bearing and praying for better days.

“He outright refused Queen Hypatia last afternoon,” Euryalus said, stopping his labours to look Diomedes in the eye. “I heard. He told her he would not go to the gynaeceum even if the gods themselves forced him to.”

Diomedes sighed once again, running his hands over his face. “He is so sad and enraged at all times. Here people believe it my responsibility. Once in Troy the men will not, cannot know that I have any right over him or my own daughter. And yet when I am with him, somehow, I feel both to be true. Still, there is nothing I can do other than bend and accept.”

“You love him.”

The statement was so very offhanded that his breathing stuttered, a shaky exhalation leaving his body. Sthenelus would have hated to even admit it to himself, but Euryalus had no such reservations. He had always been the one closest to his feelings, the most comfortable with them as well.

“Yes,” Diomedes said, trapped and unable to lie to one of his closest friends. “I worry. His sadness keeps me awake at night as much as our daughter does. He… he looks at Theocleia like he lost as much as he gained the day when she was born. He barely talks about Ithaca anymore, but I know his mind is there most days.”

“He must miss his son greatly,” Euryalus said, voice softening and losing its teasing quality. “He left when his son was a baby, didn’t he?”

“Yes, just three months of age.”

“Odysseus might be a king and a warrior, Dio. Raised to be one. But his nature is part of who he is. All this sadness, all this anger; it is a reasonable response for an omega who was not allowed his rightful place next to his pup and now gets to suffer through a similar separation again once we’re back in Troy. Such a contradiction he might feel himself to be. Truly, this must be the first time he can so freely hold a baby he birthed and have people know it was so. He probably wishes for this comfort to last, to even find it in Ithaca, and it angers him to know he cannot have it. He chose, or his family did; the details are of little consequence. And choosing to be known as an alpha might allow him more freedom, but he has to step on his very own nature over and over again. It must be exhausting.”

Diomedes looked down, barely containing a frustration-filled groan. “I know,” he said. “I have known from the moment he admitted his true nature to me. All this must be too much for his mind to bear after pregnancy and birth, but I do not know what I should do to make it easier. It is my place, isn’t it? He might not be my husband and he might get angry at my interference, but he gave birth to my daughter, Euryalus. I have to make sure things are as good as they can be for both of them while I have them. I am responsible for their health and safety.”

“Yes, you are,” he said as if the answer were absolutely obvious to him. “He will be displeased regardless. It is not you but the situation that angers him. You should still try. Bend and accept as you said, but take care of him even when he believes he does not need it. Do not let him hurt himself over this. He might try without even noticing.” Euryalus frowned, tsk-tsking like his own words bothered him. “I am not telling you this because I like him. He is still a liar and an overly cunning bastard. He is, however, the father of your child and the man you love. As foolish as you are when it comes to choosing, I want your family to be safe and happy.”

“Well, I thank you for your efforts,” Diomedes said, making an uncoordinated mocking bow. “I see how hard it must be to be yourself right this moment.”

“A torment, truly,” Euryalus sighed, clapping Diomedes’ back before turning back to his work.

…

That very same night they dined with the king and his family at one last banquet in honour of their alliance. Odysseus was gracious and amicable, almost as charming as he normally was, but still asked to retire early and his anxious glances towards the doors were an obvious sign of his mind being far away from the celebrations. Diomedes followed him soon after, finding him in bed with Theocleia by his side. The only sounds present were the tiny noises she made every time she found Odysseus’ gaze.

“Have you noticed that one of her eyes is darkening?” Diomedes asked, closing the door behind his back.

Odysseus looked up, nodding at his words and presence. “She will have my eyes.”

“She has your eyes,” he said, slowly lying next to them. “She seems to have my appetite, however. Poor thing,” he almost whispered, softly pressing his fingers against her rapidly growing cheeks.

Her small face and body were filling quickly, wrinkles extending to accommodate the growth. Her skin, a purplish red at birth, was darkening more and more each day. Diomedes could not wait for her baby hair to grow into thick dark curls. She had Odysseus eyes, but gods above, he knew she would look just like him. He could see it already.

“Better a fat baby than one that wishes not to eat,” Odysseus said, slightly frowning. “Even if she must wake me all the time to feed.”

“Well, soon enough she will be waking Eumelia and you will have a full night's sleep.

Odysseus snorted. “She will wake Eumelia and then she will have to wake me . We have no wet nurse.”

“Do you wish for me to find one? We still have some hours until midday.”

“No,” Odysseus said, kissing Theocleia’s forehead before turning to his right to lay fully in bed. “I want to feed her, and it will be easier to explain. No one would find a wet nurse for a slave turned concubine. Everyone will expect Eumelia to feed her.”

“How will you manage, then? I mean, running away every time she needs to feed.”

“There are not many other options, I would say,” he murmured, tone showing his growing annoyance. “She is my daughter. I will feed her, even if it has to be in secret. Finding lies to see her won’t be hard considering how well known my love for my son is.”

Diomedes hummed in agreement. “She will not need to feed every time she wakes. Eumelia can easily come to me instead.”

“A long walk in darkness with a baby in arms, passing through countless sleeping soldiers, just for a chance of not needing to feed her,” Odysseus said, huffing. “Not very smart.”

“I did not know I was not allowed in your tent anymore,” Diomedes said, holding a finger in front of Theocleia’s face so she could hold it. “Good to know.”

“Please, stop pretending to be unjustly punished,” Odysseus grumbled, and Diomedes could see his eyes rolling from his side of the bed. “I said nothing of the sort. I just meant that it is unnecessary to wake us both when she will need more of me than of you. At least the first six months or so.”

“Still, I have already told you that I plan to rearrange the camps” Diomedes began, voice softening. “It will be easier for us both that way. I want to keep close to her, even if she does not need me as much as she needs you.”

Diomedes would have her close for as long as he could, so that when the day to say goodbye came, she would know with all her heart how much he had loved her from the day she was born.

“It seems like a great amount of planning and dealing with mostly uncooperative people,” Odysseus grumbled, turning his head to the left to look Diomedes in the eye. At least he was not fighting him on the matter again. “Are you certain you can manage on your own?”

“Oh, not on my own, certainly,” Diomedes said, shaking his head. “I plan to run our seconds and trusted men into the ground. Menelaus too, if I can use your health to appeal to his guilt and concern simultaneously.”

“Clever,” Odysseus said, smiling for what seemed like the first time in hours, if not days. “Do that. I would love to see it.”

…

They made it back to Troy in six days. Their ship was so full of gifts that they could barely move or sleep on it. Theocleia, opposite of the effect she had on Odysseus while still inside his womb, seemed soothed by the constant movement. Most nights would have been spent in peaceful silence if not for the need to feed her and the impossibility to do it in the manner she was already used to. By the time they reached the shore, all their men were as tired as if they had been battling an entire army just by themselves, and Odysseus’ sour humour was a constant dark shadow hovering above them.

A crowd as big as to fill the sand from their tents to the sea was already waiting for them, whistling and cheering at the mere image of their arrival.

Diomedes looked back at Odysseus, whose arms were around their daughter’s body like he was trying to keep her away from the shouting. His face was contorted in a half-annoyed half-anxious expression.

“Sir,” Eumelia said, approaching them as their soldiers started jumping off the ship to haul the gifts to land. “You should give your daughter to me. Better they see me with her. I will go directly to your tent and prepare everything you need.”

Odysseus’s body tensed and relaxed multiple times before breathing in the scent of Theocleia one last time, and giving her to Eumelia. Diomedes watched as he forced himself to smile and turned towards their soldiers, cheering back and raising his now empty hands in the air in a clear proclamation of their triumph.

“Perimedes,” Diomedes called in the midst of even louder shouting, making the man run towards them from where he was unloading amphoras full of wine. “Make sure Eumelia reaches Odysseus’ tent without being bothered. The rest of the kings will want to speak with us immediately.”

The council lasted long suffering minutes. Agamemnon sang his praises, clapping Odysseus’ back and talking about supply lines and equipment and Troy’s fall. He did not ask after their daughter, but Diomedes had not expected him to do so; not from the man that had to sacrifice his own daughter for the war to take place. Menelaus, however, could not stop looking at them with wide, shining eyes. If Diomedes hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have laughed.

The sun was setting by the time Nestor swerved the conversation towards one of his stories with the clear intent of making Agamemnon announce the meeting to be finished. Most of them were going to feast by Agamemnon’s tent, but Diomedes excused himself and Odysseus, jokingly declaring their need to wash and see to the state of their soldiers.

Still, Menelaus could not be deterred by excuses. He followed them as soon as they started walking towards their tents.

“How is she?” he asked, smiling. “How are you?” he added, looking at Odysseus.

“She is fine,” Odysseus said without slowing his usual fast pace. “Healthy and big. Wakes very often and cries so loud your ears ring, but the gods have given us a strong daughter. An alpha.”

She is not the one that is unwell.

“Gods, I remember how much Hermione cried the first few months after she was born. Helen and I were so incredibly fortunate to have such wonderful and skilled nursemaids. I am sure the girl, Eumelia, will do an excellent job.” Menelaus said. “Nevertheless, I do not doubt you will provide some of your own slaves,” he said, smiling even broader towards Diomedes as if they were old friends.

They were certainly not, but maybe the state of fatherhood was supposed to unite men in some particular way he could not yet understand. He did not remember Sthenelus and Euryalus sharing their baby stories with him, but perhaps they did with each other. They did miss their children, that was undeniable. If the war did indeed last ten years, Cometes, Sthenelus’ older son, would be eighteen by the time they returned to Argos.

He knew he should be grateful his daughter was with him, even if he did not get to have her after the war.

“I will, of course,” Diomedes said, but abstained from smiling back. “There is much to do to provide all the comfort she needs. I will start preparations as soon as the sun rises tomorrow.”

“Wise decision,” Menelaus said. “Please do not hesitate to ask for anything she needs. A baby does need so much.”

“Thank you,” Odysseus said, voice so devoid of any emotion that both Diomedes and Menelaus winced in unison. “You can meet her once we are better settled.”

The dismissal was obvious enough that Menelaus could not do much more than nod and stand in the middle of whoever’s camp they were walking through at the moment. Probably Idomeneus’ camp.

Diomedes stopped and looked at him briefly while Odysseus kept on walking. “We will be thankful for any help given,” he said, nodding, before following his annoyed lover.

He wished nothing more than to sleep next to Odysseus and Theocleia, but the night was barely setting and he needed to know the state of his men and make the promised sacrifices.

“I will ask Menelaus to come meet her in my tent if you want to rest,” Diomedes said as soon as they reached his camp.

Most soldiers were eating and laughing by the low fire, sweating in the humid summer air. Some of them clapped him in the back like he was just another comrade, before going back to their food and duties. Diomedes had always preferred it that way when he was at war. The men still obeyed and bowed when needed, but asking for strict formality during a long sustained war was neither wise nor useful.

“You do not have to,” Odysseus grumbled, but his expression softened. “He is my friend and cousin, not yours.”

“Yes, but she is my daughter,” Diomedes half-whispered. “I will gladly introduce her myself to all of those who want to know her.”

“Very well then. Take her tomorrow.”

Diomedes stopped himself halfway to Odysseus’ lips. Wide mismatched eyes looking up at him in surprise.

They had kissed so very often in the presence of others in Anemurium that he had forgotten how distant they were while in Troy. No more reaching for his hand or kissing in the middle of banquet halls. There was no more swollen belly to caress, no reason to offer help to stand or dress. Six days of traveling should have prepared him for it, but his mind seemed slow to comprehend the change now that they were back in land.

I let myself be more comfortable than I should ever have.

“Right,” Diomedes said, standing as stiffly as an olive tree. “I will tend to my camp and make the promised sacrifices now. I’ll come by your tent in the late morning. Rest well.”

Sthenelus found him in the same exact position just moments after he was left alone by his tent.

“Welcome back,” he said, smiling. “And congratulations, brother. I saw Eumelia with your daughter and she is the only topic of conversation that Euryalus seems to find of interest after weeks away. Is she well?”

“Well and healthy,” Diomedes said, accepting the side hug and friendly messing of his hair. “She cries more than I expected, but she is fine. A strong alpha.”

He was glad for it. Glad it was so very easy to know from birth when it came to women. Glad that his little girl, living in the middle of a war, was in less danger than if she had been born an omega. She could even be quietly trained in the spear or bow and not be judged for it.

“A healthy little alpha,” Sthenelus said, nodding. “How are we thanking the gods for such a fortune?”

“I promised the goddesses Athena and Artemis the best of my cattle in sacrifice for Theocleia and Odysseus’ health. Will you and Euryalus help me gather all that is needed?”

“You will make the sacrifices now?” Sthenelus asked, raising one of his sharp eyebrows.

“I did promise the goddesses.”

“Most of the men are still awake. They will see it as unjustified. What will your cover be?”

“Odysseus won an argument and I swore to offer my cattle instead of his. A token of friendship.”

Sthenelus snorted. “You will be mocked even by your lowest of soldiers. Are you aware of it?”

“I am, certainly. I still won’t run from promises made to gods. It is not wise. And, regardless, I am truly thankful for them allowing my daughter to be alive and in good health.”

“Well, if it is how you want things to be done, I am sure that Euryalus has nothing better to do. I will go fetch him and we can begin. Better do it now so you can wash and sleep early.”

“I will need the reports of camp and army management afterwards,” Diomedes said towards an already departing Sthenelus.

“You will need no such thing,” he half-shouted. “What you need is sleep. So very much of it. You look thoroughly exhausted.”

If it only were his appearance and not how he felt at all times.

He sighed and walked inside his tent. No time for lamentations.

 

Chapter 14: 14

Notes:

So... mmh... hi?

Very, extremely quick summary of my disappearance and following actions: to be honest it was mostly me being burnt out because of university, but also I figured I don't have many things I want to include on this story before the last year of the war; so my decision is to simply write some 5 or 6 chapters with important things about Theocleia and how her growing up affects Odydio, and then move on to the actual Iliad. For this reason the next few chapters will have a slightly different structure.

Anyways, after all that babble I want to thank you guys so so much for 900+ kudos and all the beautiful comments ❤️ It is truly insane and I never could have imagined that this story would get so much love. Thank you for reading my awful english and loving odydio with me ❤️

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'm sorry for the (probably million) mistakes that it might have. I love y'all ❤️

“She has such big, beautiful eyes,” Patroclus said before making some ridiculous noises people only ever made when faced with babies.

“She is very alert for a baby her age,” Achilles added, standing farther away but smiling almost as big as Patroclus. “Pyrrhus was a sluggish little thing for most of his first months of life.”

“Two months is old enough to listen and watch her surroundings,” Menelaus, the one who was holding her at the moment, said. “Hermione was looking people directly in the eyes before turning three months of age.”

Odysseus hummed in agreement, arms crossed over his body and gaze firmly set on every movement Menelaus made with Theocleia in his arms. Odysseus was the only one sitting, but the rest of the men did not seem to mind.

Telemachus had also been a pretty alert baby, always cooing and squeaking and stretching his chubby arms for people to hold him. Theocleia was not very keen on being held for long periods of time, but she was alert and social. She also, most definitely, had Odysseus’ eyes. Big and shaped like almonds, surrounded by long lashes; one a pale blue, the other a brown so dark it was almost black. They had settled in their colours faster than he thought they would.

Patroclus was not the first person to mention the fact. Myrrhine, the first one of many, took a look at her just the day after they had arrived and immediately pointed out the darkening eye. Many of his and Diomedes’ soldiers had kept commenting on it all throughout the last two months. Now that the center of movement of their camps faced each other directly, they seemed even more comfortable spending time together, almost moving like they were part of the same army. They clearly did not mind, although some of them looked at him and Diomedes as if they thought it funny how close they had become. Logical, giving their patroness and roles within the Achaeans, but funny nonetheless.

“She wants to go with you.”

The comment brought Odysseus back from his thoughts.

Menelaus had approached him, getting close enough to the chair where he was sitting to hand Theocleia over. She was making tiny noises of distress and extending her arms towards him. The time for socialising was clearly over. She most likely wanted to feed as well.

“I think this little get-together is over,” Menelaus said, rearranging his crooked chiton and looking at Patroclus and Achilles. “She is most likely tired of us.”

“You know you do not need to visit her every evening,” Odysseus said, hiding his nose in the soft neck of his daughter. Her scent was slowly developing and he deeply enjoyed noticing the changes as the days passed. “She can barely understand what happens and I am sure you have more important things to attend to.”

He also knew they had been personally invited to Odysseus’ tent by Diomedes, who was now not present, in a quite ridiculous attempt to make Odysseus face other people that were not himself and their daughter.

He was getting better, or so he thought. He talked with people more than he did the first days after the birth, and he started commanding his army with almost as much ease as he always had. It was true, however, that his humour was sour and he barely felt like laughing anymore. His sleeping schedule was a mess of catastrophic proportions, his annoyance at people’s incompetence worse than ever before and, stupidly, he cried at every single little thing that went wrong with Theocleia. He was not drowning anymore, but he was certainly not out of deep waters.

Odysseus was exhausted and sad and so illogically angry. There was not much he could do about it. Diomedes' intervention vexed him during his worst moments, but he was getting accustomed to it. Menelaus was a usually bright presence, and watching the youthful comradery, and very obvious love, that Achilles and Patroclus exhibited was strangely refreshing.

“Yes, indeed,” Patroclus said, nodding. “We do not need to come visit every evening. But how can we miss being in the presence of such a lovely little girl? There are not many new things in this boring siege.”

“For now,” Achilles said, smirking. “My cousin does seem very keen on that girl Tecmessa. Maybe another baby will soon follow.”

As if protesting the possibility of being replaced as the new addition to their encampment, Theocleia started softly sniffling, grabbing Odysseus’ red chiton with all the strength her little hands allowed.

“She probably wants her mama,” Achilles said, as youthfully oblivious as he often tended to be.

“Right,” Patroclus murmured, shaking his head softly. “Of course, her mama.”

It had become obvious very early on that Patroclus had realised what was truly happening with Odysseus and his daughter. He was a smart man, always paying careful attention to his surroundings, so Odysseus found it somehow unsurprising. However, it was astonishing that he had not revealed the information to Achilles, who was not only his lover but his commander. Perhaps he believed it private enough, and certainly dangerous to be known, to keep the knowledge a secret.

He was not the only one. Nestor was one rushed conversation away from coming to the same conclusion. Diomedes was trying his hardest to dissuade him of the idea, but Odysseus knew it was utterly useless. The man was decades older than most of them, and he worried about Odysseus like a caring father. It was only a matter of time, if he did not know already.

“How are you today really?” Menelaus asked, standing by the door of Odysseus’ tent once the other men had left. “I tried to get information out of Tydides but he is a man of few words. I think we can agree on that.”

“He talks much more when he is not pressed to confess things he wishes not to discuss,” Odysseus said, pointedly, letting his chiton fall to one side as ungracefully as possible so Theocleia could feed. “Stop asking him about me.”

“I am worried, that is all.”

“I have more than enough with him bothering me to insanity, Menelaus. I am truly fine; exhausted, worried for her health and happiness as any father would. There is nothing more.”

Menelaus sighed, but Odysseus knew he was getting tired of asking and receiving the same answers. “Right,” he said. “Fine, I believe you, I do. But if you need anything…”

“I need you to keep acting as if everything were as it is supposed to be,” Odysseus said. “The only thing that could ruin my days and make all of our lives harder is the wrong people knowing about Theocleia’s true birth. It is already hard enough to pretend a certain cold distance. Ill-natured suspicion will make things more than unbearable."

“I will, I promise,” he vowed. “But you know it will only get harder. When she starts speaking…”

“We will deal with that when the time comes.”

He was getting increasingly annoyed and his expression must have shown it was so, because Menelaus simply nodded and opened the tent’s door.

“I will see you tomorrow then.”

“Of course. How can I miss one of your brother’s feasts?”

…

He and Diomedes had not been sleeping together lately. With their tents barely apart and Odysseus’ sour humour, their days were spent in grumbled conversations of organisation and baby routines. Before night even fell they were so exhausted but likewise aware of their surroundings to do anything more than say their goodbyes, give Theocleia to Eumelia and retire to their own tents.

The distance was not helping him with his unreasonable sadness, but his body and mind were in disagreement. While something deep inside him longed for contact and warmth, his sense of smell was making closeness with most alphas a struggle, and being touched filled him with such an illogical anger that he had stopped any attempts to rejoin his soldier’s daily training. If he had to spar with any alpha he would probably kill the man for merely touching him. That if Diomedes did not do it before him.

He knew it was a matter of time before his body regulated itself. The idea of not knowing when, however, was bothering him without measure. It was a siege, yes, so they did indeed have more freedom than if it were an active war. But it was a war nonetheless, and he needed his mind and body to be working accordingly. Especially during war council meetings.

This particular one was being carried out during the evening. The men were shouting, slamming their cups against the table, and acting all around as if the meeting were more a rambunctious banquet than an official meeting to discuss supplies and camp management. Diomedes was trying to be discreet about how much he was looking at Odysseus, but Nestor’s raised eyebrow was a clear sign of his failing.

His chest was painfully tender, he felt nauseous from the constantly changing scents of convoluted emotions, and jumping from topic to topic without order was giving him a blooming headache. He… wanted to cry.

The realisation made him gasp and hide his face behind his cup.

This is ridiculous. I need to stop right now.

Gods above, he was a king and a soldier. He was certainly not going to cry in the middle of a council meeting because he could not hide forever inside his tent.

“And what do you think about it, Odysseus?”

“Mmh?” Odysseus asked, looking at the expectant expression on Menelaus' face. “About what?”

“You’re very distracted,” Agamemnon said before lazily drinking from his winecup. “Mind you, this is why I insisted that all of you should try not to get any slaves pregnant during the siege.”

Odysseus frowned and was about to answer with less than appropriate anger when Telamonian Ajax intervened.

“Well then, terrible news I’m afraid,” he said, smiling as if he did not believe them to be bad news at all.

“I did tell you,” Achilles added, smirking in the general direction of Odysseus. “It was a matter of time.”

“Another baby. Wonderful news,” Menelaus said, smiling like a matron receiving notice of another grandchild. Perhaps he was overcompensating for his mostly self-inflicted guilt by being extremely reassuring and benevolent.  “Congratulations, Ajax.”

“Yes, of course, may the gods bless your child,” Agamemnon said, shaking a hand in the air. “I still want to know Odysseus’ thoughts on the previous matter.”

“And I still would like to know what that matter is. Considering it seems I did not hear the most important conversation over the constant loudness, and not one of you answered the first time I asked,” Odysseus snapped, voice raising in a way that was impossible to attribute to something other than barely contained anger.

A heavy silence enveloped the table so fast that he was suddenly aware of the growing crying and screaming in the distance. The rest of the men seemed to hear it too, because their eyes moved from Odysseus towards the place where the noises came from. But he did not need to watch her arrive to know what it was. That was his daughter crying.

If he decided to leave right now, go to her and act like a worried father, he did not know how Agamemnon would react. Not kindly, certainly. After Odysseus’ lashing out at the rest of the men, him leaving would be seen as arrogant and childish. It would clearly make Agamemnon’s comment about getting slaves pregnant even more poignant.

“The matter was quite simple, really,” Diomedes said so loudly that some of the men, including Odysseus himself, startled. “We were discussing the most efficient ways in which to stop any marching troops coming from the north and how to block the supply lines they offer to Troy. I am sure you have much to say about this, Laertiades. You did tell me about your ideas on how to take control of Hellespont.” He stood up, smiling so widely it was almost unnerving. “I, for my part, am out of clever ideas. I shall excuse myself, although I’m sure my presence will not be missed. Today’s meeting has run far longer than I expected and I need to attend to some personal affairs.”

Before anyone had the chance to react to such a surprising little speech, Nestor got up from his own seat and nodded to Agamemnon.

“I’m afraid Diomedes is right,” he said, smiling amicably as he placed a hand on top of Odysseus’ shoulder. “It has become rather late and I too have matters to attend to. But I am confident Odysseus can provide a quite solid plan or two for our king of kings.”

“Certainly,” Odysseus forced out of his mouth. “If that is indeed the matter at hand, I am sure I can offer some options.”

…

Diomedes was in Odysseus’ tent, softly dancing and humming while holding Theocleia against his chest. Oil lamps cast shadows around them, the deep silence and darkness of midnight making him look like a shade escaped from the underworld. It was so beautifully haunting that Odysseus’ lingering anger subsided. He watched them from the tent’s door, afraid to make any sudden move, and remembered the first time he watched Penelope moving around the palace with Telemachus in her arms. To experience it twice… That growing, profoundly overwhelming feeling of knowing everything you loved was in front of you. A perfect dream so easily broken.

“Is she fine?” Odysseus asked after some minutes, voice barely a whisper.

Diomedes turned towards him. “She is now,” he said just as softly. “She was very distressed when I found her. Tears and snot down to her chin. So upset that Eumelia did not know what to do other than go find us.”

“Is she sick? Is something wrong?” Odysseus asked, getting close enough to lay a hand on Theocleia’s forehead. “She is not hot. Was she hungry?”

“No, not really,” Diomedes said, slowly separating her from his body to let Odysseus hold her. “Eumelia took her to the medic tent and nothing seems to be wrong. Most likely not hungry, since she calmed down as soon as I held her. She has been asleep for some time now, I just did not have the heart to give her back to Eumelia.”

“We should now,” Odysseus murmured, looking down at Theocleia’s sleeping face. She slept so peacefully it was almost unbelievable that her cries had reached Agamemnon’s camp some short time before. “If she was so upset, she must be tired enough now to sleep a couple of hours without waking.”

“I can take her to Eumelia’s tent before going to mine.”

“No, I will do it. Wait for me here; we should talk.”

The walk in the quiet darkness took him no more than a few minutes. He thanked Eumelia and asked her to wake him immediately if Theocleia were to wake up. He kissed his daughter’s cheek and walked slowly back to his tent.

Diomedes was sitting by the table now, grey eyes shining in the warm fire of the lamps. His blue chiton was a mess of wine stains, sweat, and baby tears, his braided curls were sort of tangled, and his scent was so strong Odysseus hummed in acknowledgement of the fact. It was nice; strong and steadying, but sweet enough to be attractive rather than bothersome.

“Are you going into rut?” Odysseus asked, sitting in front of him.

“Possibly.” Diomedes nodded. “My body seemed to be repressing it even without marking you. I suppose it simply recognized Theocleia as mine. But it has been three months since her birth now.”

“My heat might be back soon enough too.”

“Do you think it will help with… everything?” Diomedes asked, face contorting in some sort of pained expression, as if sadness and fear were bubbling below the surface.

“A heat means a healthy body. I suppose it might help,” Odysseus said, shrugging. “You must be dying for it to happen sooner than later. Having to deal with me in this state must be deeply annoying, I gather.”

Diomedes frowned. “I am dying for it to happen if it will make you feel better,” he said. “It is hard not because I must act like the head of our non-existing house. It is hard because you are clearly suffering.”

“I am better,” Odysseus grumbled. “I tend to my camp’s needs, I take care of our daughter, I fulfill my duty as father and king.”

“You do, you try very hard in spite of how dreadfully you feel. But Odysseus, it is far from over. Today you froze in the middle of a war council meeting. For a moment I thought you were about to burst into tears.”

Odysseus snorted, lips pursed in damning annoyance. “Right, the war council meeting in which you made yourself look like a childish fool and gave us away to Nestor. Perhaps it is not only me who is very affected by all this.”

“I made a fool of myself for you!” Diomedes retorted, laying a hand on the table as if to steady himself. Yes, his rut was just about to start. “I did it because it was the fastest means to safeguard your standing and reputation in front of the other kings and princes. Something you care about.”

The words hit him like a spear going through his sternum. They were angry and tired and loving. How could he possibly be irritated with a man who cared so deeply for his wellbeing? Odysseus loved him. No anger could ever burn that feeling off his chest.

“You cannot give me that sort of power over you,” Odysseus half-begged. A confession as much as a warning. “I will fail you, you know I will.”

One of Diomedes’ hands reached across the table to hold one of his. Calloused fingers softly massaging his knuckles. They were warm; all of him was always warm. His body, his scent, the words he spoke in the silence of their tents. His was the only touch Odysseus could bear.

“How I burn myself is for me to decide,” Diomedes whispered, and Odysseus shivered. “You gave birth to my daughter. If you think making myself look foolish sometimes is a hardship, you would be sorely mistaken. You are clearly stressed and tired, and it is my duty to…”

Odysseus blinked rapidly at the cut off sentence. Eyes moving from Diomedes’ eyes to his mouth, as if expecting the words to come out even after seconds of silence.

“What?” Odysseus asked, squeezing the hand between his.

“Your scent changed while I was speaking,” Diomedes said, bringing Odysseus' hand towards his face to softly press his nose against the reddening wrist. “It did.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Odysseus deadpanned, but his voice could barely hide the smile.

“Do you feel fine? Are you…?”

“Love,” Odysseus murmured, bringing the hands close to his own face to smell the scent on Diomedes’ wrist. “Fine, so fine.”

No alpha other than Penelope had ever smelled so perfectly strong and sweet as him. Maybe, perhaps someone did, but his mind refused to accept the possibility. This was perfect, and his.

“You might want to take me to bed now,” Odysseus whispered, hot skin under his lips. “For the purpose of a healthy body and all that.”

 

Notes:

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