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The morning sun hung high, its golden light stretching over the camp, but it did little to lift the exhaustion that clung to the men like a second skin. The fires smoldered low, the scent of charred wood and stale wine thick in the air. A few soldiers stirred, rubbing sleep from their eyes, while others simply lay where they had fallen the night before, too weary to rise.
Agamemnon sat by the fire, his sword resting against his knee, the whetstone in his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes along the blade’s edge. The rhythmic scrape echoed through the quiet, a grating sound that only worsened the irritation already gnawing at his patience. The previous night had been another Odysseus ordeal—his endless stories, his exaggerated gestures, his laughter that rang too loud, too long, before it softened into something else entirely.
Agamemnon hadn’t missed it.
Hadn’t missed the way Odysseus kept talking, even when there was no one left to listen. Hadn’t missed the way his voice, once brimming with wit and charm, had softened into something raw, something almost fragile. And then, the silence. Not the comfortable quiet of a man content with his own company, but something else—something uneasy, something hollow.
Agamemnon’s grip tightened on the whetstone, his movements growing harsher as his thoughts lingered on that silence. He didn’t know why it unsettled him, why it felt like a thing left unfinished, like a battle half-fought. Odysseus was not his concern. And yet, as he listened to the wind stirring the ashes of last night’s fire, he knew that silence would follow him long after the morning sun had climbed to its peak.
And now here he was. Slouched over a log, shoulders drawn too tight, fingers twitching toward a piece of bread only to stop halfway, like even the thought of eating was exhausting. His head bobbed slightly, dark circles pooled beneath half-lidded eyes, his whole body sagging in a way that made him look like a man wrung dry. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion that clung to him, though that was plain enough—the unsteady posture, the sluggish movements—but something deeper, something worn raw and fraying at the edges. The morning light did nothing to soften it; if anything, it only made the shadows beneath his eyes seem darker, his skin paler, the lines of his face sharper. He looked like a man unraveling, thread by thread, without even the strength to hold himself together.
Agamemnon scowled, watching him with growing irritation. "Eat."
Odysseus blinked slowly, as if even the act of processing words was sluggish, delayed. His gaze drifted, unfocused, before finally settling on Agamemnon with something like recognition. A lazy, hollow smirk tugged at his lips, but it lacked the usual sharpness, the usual game-playing glint in his eyes. "What?" His voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, quieter than usual, like he’d spent all his words the night before and had none left to give.
Agamemnon exhaled sharply, impatience flaring as he grabbed the bread and shoved it into Odysseus' hands with little care for whether he took it properly. "Eat. Before you pass out and make it my problem."
Odysseus let the bread rest in his palms, his fingers curling around it with no real purpose. He chuckled weakly, but even that sounded off—thin, forced, like a man playing at amusement without actually feeling it. "You care that much, huh?"
"No. I just don’t want to deal with the headache of dragging your sorry ass anywhere."
Odysseus hummed, the sound barely more than a breath, and let his gaze drift downward. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t even looking at the bread properly. His fingers moved over it absently, pressing lightly against the crust, like he was trying to convince himself it was real. But there was no hunger in his expression, no sign that he even remembered what he was supposed to do with it.
Agamemnon watched him, the irritation in his gut twisting into something sharper, something closer to unease. Odysseus was always moving, always scheming, always playing at something, even when he was pretending not to. But this was different. He was still —not the stillness of a man at rest, but the kind that came when something in a person had gone quiet, when the spark that kept them going had dulled to embers.
Agamemnon gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with barely concealed irritation as his gaze flickered toward the pot of tea resting by the fire. The steam curled lazily into the morning air, carrying the faint, honeyed scent of chamomile. It had steeped long enough. Without a word, he reached for one of the crude clay cups stacked nearby and poured a serving, his movements rough, more forceful than they needed to be. The tea sloshed against the sides, nearly spilling over as he shoved it toward Odysseus with all the gentleness of a man thrusting a sword into an enemy’s gut.
" Drink ."
Odysseus blinked at the cup, slow and sluggish, as if it took genuine effort to focus. He squinted at the steam rising from the surface, then up at Agamemnon, one brow twitching upward in suspicion. " Since when do you serve me tea? "
" Since you started looking like you’d drop dead if the wind blew too hard ," Agamemnon snapped, arms crossing over his chest. His patience was wearing thin, stretched taut over the gnawing frustration that had been building since he first laid eyes on Odysseus’ sorry state this morning. " Drink the damn thing."
Odysseus sighed, long and weary, but he didn’t argue. He took the cup, fingers curling around the ceramic, thumb absently rubbing along the rim. For a moment, he only stared into the tea, watching the way the liquid swirled as he tilted the cup slightly, the golden hue shifting with the movement. Then, slowly, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. Small, measured. Another. Then another.
Agamemnon watched, arms still crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just waited.
It didn’t take long.
Odysseus’ blinks grew heavier, slower, like a man wading through molasses. His shoulders, already slouched, sagged further, tension seeping from his muscles bit by bit as the warmth of the tea worked its way through him. His grip on the cup loosened slightly, his fingers twitching absently against the ceramic as if trying to fight off the creeping lethargy settling into his bones. His brows drew together, a faint frown tugging at his lips.
"What did you—" His voice was quieter than before, laced with grogginess, but there was a spark of suspicion in his gaze, dulled as it was.
Agamemnon huffed, shaking his head. "You’re not as clever as you think, Odysseus." He watched as the other man’s posture slackened further, his breaths deepening despite his sluggish attempts to stay alert. "You need sleep, and if you refuse to do it on your own, I’ll make you."
Odysseus’ frown deepened as if he wanted to protest, to argue, but the words didn’t come. His fingers twitched again, his grip weak, and Agamemnon barely caught the cup before it slipped from his hands entirely. He set it aside with a grunt, watching as Odysseus blinked blearily at nothing, his head tilting forward slightly before jerking back up in a feeble attempt to keep himself upright.
" Bastard ," Odysseus muttered, though there was no real bite behind it, only the last remnants of his awareness slipping through his fingers. His head bobbed once more, slower this time, and Agamemnon didn’t bother stopping it when he finally slumped forward, body going limp with the weight of exhaustion.
For a long moment, Agamemnon only watched him. The fire crackled beside them, the scent of chamomile still lingering in the air, blending with the faint salt of the sea breeze rolling in from the shore. Around them, the camp stirred—men waking, murmuring, stretching out the stiffness of another night spent on the ground. Someone barked orders in the distance, the familiar sounds of soldiers falling into routine, yet here Odysseus sat, untouched by any of it.
Agamemnon exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned back. "Yeah, yeah. You’ll thank me later."
Odysseus gave a weak laugh, a sound that was hollow and strained, like it was forced through a throat too tired to make much noise. His words were sluggish, the edges of them curling into a slur. "Sleep is just—" He trailed off, his gaze growing distant, unfocused. His eyes fluttered, once, twice, as if the effort to hold onto the conversation was a battle he couldn’t win anymore.
Just what? Agamemnon wondered, his lips tightening slightly as he watched Odysseus’ drooping figure. A waste of time? An empty gesture? A futile attempt to escape something he couldn’t outrun?
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.
Instead, he watched as Odysseus swayed slightly in place, his head lolling to the side as if even the simplest movements required more effort than he could spare. The cup that had once been gripped loosely in his hands slipped free, clattering softly to the dirt at his feet. The sound barely registered with Odysseus. His fingers twitched once, but the action was half-hearted, a weak attempt to reclaim the cup that had already fallen out of reach.
With a sharp, irritated sigh—one that did little to mask the lingering concern gnawing at the back of Agamemnon’s mind—he reacted without thinking. His hand shot out, catching Odysseus by the shoulder just in time to stop him from pitching face-first into the dirt. The man was like a ragdoll in his grasp, too spent to even try to catch himself.
“You really are an idiot,” Agamemnon muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, a low growl of frustration, but the words held an undercurrent of something else. Something softer.
Odysseus didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His head lolled further, now resting against Agamemnon’s arm, his breath shallow and slow. The weight of his body pressed heavily against Agamemnon’s side, and for a moment, Agamemnon was almost surprised by how light he felt, as if all of Odysseus’ usual strength and defiance had simply drained out of him, leaving nothing but the shell of a man too tired to keep pretending.
He swallowed thickly, but didn’t move. Didn’t shift Odysseus off him. Instead, he held him there, just for a moment longer, as if the proximity—however unintentional—offered some kind of unspoken comfort. There was a familiar weight to it, a hollow kind of familiarity that Agamemnon didn’t want to acknowledge, even as he felt it gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He pulled his hand away slowly, but didn’t step back. He hovered for a moment, watching Odysseus’ chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of deep sleep, the kind of sleep that could only come when a man had no more fight left to give. Odysseus had always been a man who fought, whether with words, with will, or with some endless pursuit of meaning, but now? Now he was just still.
Agamemnon didn’t know how to handle that, didn’t know how to handle the sight of Odysseus—this goddamn genius, this man who had never been anything but a force of nature— broken .
He shifted his weight, uneasy, the familiar tension in his shoulders creeping back. "Damn you," he muttered, more to himself than to Odysseus. "This is your mess, and I’m cleaning it up."
But Odysseus didn’t respond. Not that Agamemnon expected him to.
Instead, he adjusted his position, making sure Odysseus wouldn’t slide off the log entirely, his muscles protesting the action but doing it anyway. He didn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave. Because even if Odysseus was too far gone to argue, Agamemnon knew he’d be the one left to deal with the aftermath.
A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back, his gaze lingering on Odysseus. Just for a little longer.
And still, Odysseus didn’t stir.