Chapter Text
Blood.
Blood, dark and wet and hot against his skin, falling from Odysseus’s lips like the river Styx, flowing crimson down his chest and across both their knees and into the sheets-
For one horrifying, frozen moment he is fourteen again, vomiting in the dirt of Thebes, blood and bile coating his skin in a sticky, choking mass of death as he empties his guts among the bodies he slayed in the city where his father died and dying, he is going to die-
He is moving before his mind has fully returned, his hands guided by what must surely be Pallas Athena’s favor as he seizes Odysseus’s shoulders, dragging him to the edge of the bed so that he can retch scarlet bile onto the dirt, so that he doesn’t suffocate himself on bloody vomit. Odysseus shudders beneath him, clinging with trembling hands to Diomedes’ chiton, dragging smears of crimson across the fabric. Diomedes sweeps his hair from his sweat-soaked forehead in a clumsy gesture, fear making his hands shake as he holds the damp curls away from the mess of blood spilling from Odysseus’s mouth.
Think, a voice that sounds eerily like Odysseus himself snaps firmly in his mind, breaking through the fog of panic. Think. Find a plan, and fix this.
Odysseus makes a pitiful, desperate noise as he pulls back, blood leaking through the messy bandages on his hands as he reaches for Diomedes, tears dripping unbidden down his face.
Odysseus doesn’t cry often. Odysseus is too damn good a liar to cry often, and yet the tears are there, cutting streaks through the dried blood staining his skin, and Diomedes’ resolve nearly breaks, but he ignores the need to fall back beside his lover and never let go and instead kneels before the small, makeshift alter to his goddess at the edge of his tent, smearing the blood still coating his hands across the dirt before the rough-hewn statue in place of a sacrifice to get the goddess’s attention.
“Athena,” he breathes, mind too full and fearful to utter a proper prayer. “Goddess, please-”
His shoulders grow heavy with her touch, the weight of her presence forcing out everything else before he’s even finished his desperate plea. The world blurs, then sharpens as her senses settle over him, quickening his thoughts and clearing his panic. Leaving only logic behind.
Odysseus watches him from the bed, watery eyes shining faintly from Athena’s blessing, blood dripping sluggishly down his chin now that he’s stopped retching, although his frame is still wracked by tremors. His face is pale, though from bloodloss or fear or sickness Diomedes cannot tell.
Think, Diomedes, Athena’s voice sounds in his mind, and he’s guided by thoughts that are not his own to another set of clothes for bandages, to Sthenelus’ abandoned cup, and he pulls the pieces together quickly enough, returning to Odysseus.
“On your side,” he instructs gently, Athena’s influence slowing his fear and calming his panic. He nudges Odysseus’s thigh with his knee as he soaks the cloth in the wine, and his lover lets out a choked noise, chest falling and rising rapidly. “Side,” he repeats, firmer this time, and Odysseus meets his gaze through tears. “So you don’t choke, Odysseus. Think, please. Be logical for a moment. Let her take your mind and still your fear.”
Odysseus lets out a gargled, muttered noise before his face twists in panic and pain, hands flying to his throat in a blur before Diomedes catches his wrists, squeezing tight to draw his friend’s attention.
“Don’t try and speak,” he snaps, and Odysseus’s eyes well with tears once more, nails leaving irritated stripes down his bloodstained skin as he claws at his mangled throat. Diomedes forces his hands away, pinning them beneath his knee as he rolls Odysseus onto his side, boxing him in between his legs in an effort to stop him from hurting himself any further. He drenches the cloth again, then prys Odysseus’s jaw open, only to draw his hand back when the man bites at his fingers, scraping the skin of his knuckles off with gnashing teeth. “Damnit, Odysseus!” he cries in anger, bringing the raw flesh to his lips to soothe it. He grinds his knee down onto Odysseus’s hands in retaliation, regretting it the second his lover cries out in pain as his injuries are aggravated. “Apologies,” he says quickly, shifting his weight off Odysseus’s injured hands and bringing one palm to his lips, pressing an apologetic kiss to the blood-soaked bandage. “I’m sorry, Odysseus, I shouldn’t have- please. Would you just let me help you?” It’s a desperate, fear-soaked, plea. He can feel Athena’s displeasure at it, the prickling judgement in the back of his mind.
This would be easier to accomplish if you simply knocked him out. He is too gone to reason with, now, and he will not accept my blessing enough to still his mind without harming him.
“I won’t hurt him,” Diomedes mutters stubbornly, and Athena draws back, petty as any god is in the end. “Goddess. Please. Be reasonable.”
You think yourself more resonable than I?
He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply. “No, Pallas Athena, never. I just- am worried, noble Goddess. Please, Ageis-bearing daughter of Zeus, forgive me, and help him.”
Her presence settles over him once more, and she guides his mouth, words spilling from his lips without his influence. “Odysseus, father of Telemachus, hear my voice. I am not the fickle and violent godling son of Thetis. Fear not my touch, and let me aid you lest you be lost to your wounds.”
Odysseus is still, beneath him, and for a moment Diomedes is not sure the man can even hear Athena’s words, lost as he seems to be in his own fear-filled mind, but then Odysseus nods, slightly The faint incline of his head is all the invitation the goddess seems to need, because a moment after Odysseus’s eyes flare silver before they roll back in his skull, unconciosness overtaking him swiftly with Athena’s assistance.
Move quickly now, son of Tydus, Athena murmurs within his mind, as he sits back on the sheets and draws Odysseus’s head to rest on his thighs. Excessive time is a luxury you do not have, now, and the Fates prevent me from interfering much further. Move faster than Achilles, and both of you may yet survive.
His blood goes cold in his veins, terror flooding his chest, and he chokes out, “Survive what? Goddess, what is awaiting us?”
No answer comes; the goddess is gone. It is just him, and the unconscious body of his dying lover, in a race against something Diomedes does not know how to predict.