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There’s a dichotomy to the sound of a war camp. It’s one that Diomedes hasn’t gotten used to even though they’ve been in Troy nearly nine years.
Groans of pain from injuries, men too injured to fight, to eat, to stand. They wail for mothers far away, beg to be sent home to die in their wives’ arms, plead with healers for death. There’s a smell of death emanating from anywhere wounds have been infected. It makes Diomedes’s skin crawl like a bad omen, he hates when it’s his men in there begging for mercy.
There’s another sound, sounds of life and laughter. Women singing happy songs as they do the washing. Men crack jokes and guffaw with their comrades, both from home and newly made. And even after a few years, there begins to be the sound of children squealing with delight as they cling to their mothers’ skirts and then even further into the war, begin to play with each other fantastic games of make-believe. This is unfamiliar, children. When they had been in Thebes, there were no children in their camp, although they hadn’t really stayed there long enough to establish anything or gain any war prizes in their own camp. The war prizes had come after the slaughter of the city.
Ajax’s little one, Eurysaces, is an adorable, chubby-cheeked boy. He is nearly identical to his father, with wide brown eyes and dusty brown curls. “Not a drop of his mother’s blood in him.” Ajax had said proudly when Odysseus had noted their similarities. This has then launched Odysseus into a rambling session about his own son, dear Telemachus, which then made all the kings and commanders groan goodnaturedly.
Diomedes watched the boy try to squirm out of his father’s arms, his bottom lip poking out in concentration. Ajax tightens his grip, laughing and holding his son up. “If we’re stuck here much longer, he’ll be joining our ranks!” He announces, swinging the boy onto his shoulders. The men burst into laughter and drink to that.
Diomedes flinches like he’s been struck. His head pounds, he can feel his heartbeat behind his skull.
Odysseus doesn’t drink as freely as he usually would. Sadness clouds his eyes as he watches Ajax and his son. Diomedes knows how much the man yearns to hold his own child, to press kisses into dear Telemachus’s brow, to tell him stories of his conquests, to tuck him in and assure him the monsters under his bed aren’t real.
At least, that's what Diomedes thinks a father does. That’s what his did, at least while he was alive and not leaving an unnecessary amount of burden on Diomedes’s shoulders.
It’s easier to lie and say that he has no memories of his father. That he was too young, only four years old when his father died. It protects the ones he has, shelters them safe in his chest where they belong. Comaetho has more memories, she shares them so freely that they’ve somewhat became Diomedes’s own memories, he’s had them longer than he had his own father. Diomedes remembers his softness, clearer than his voice or his face or his laughter or even his actions.
He thinks of Telemachus and wonders if Odysseus has imagined the way his son’s voice might stumble when he attempts to pronounce long names. If Odysseus has things about his son that he might keep to himself, in fear that releasing it will somehow curse him to never return.
And suddenly, Diomedes’s mind is not here.
He’s four again, breath stuttering in the dark in the aftermath of a nightmare. Cold feet on colder stone as he pads silently to his parents’ bed and climbs in without asking. He is much too old to do so but they haven’t chastised him yet. Instead, his father holds him tightly against his chest. The arms around him make him feel secure, safely protected from the whole world until his mother grumbles and swats at his father’s arms.
“You’re going to crush him, love.” His mother fusses. The arms around him loosen, but just a little.
“He’s a strong boy.” His father insists. “You can handle it, can’t you Dio?”
Diomedes nods into his father’s shoulder, sleep weighing so heavy in his eyes.
His mother huffs, flipping over. “If you suffocate your heir, I’m not giving you another.” She mutters, laughing his father to laugh loudly, burying his face into Diomedes’s curls.
“I’ve already got the one I need.” His father murmurs quietly. “You’re safe now.” He whispers as Diomedes drifts to sleep.
He blinks, and the war camp rushes back into focus. The last time someone said those words, promises of safety, it was a dying Argive begging for a lie. Diomedes told him yes, then watched as the man’s life drained out slowly. Eurysaces squeals with delight at being swung upside down. Ajax throws his head back and laughs loud enough to wake the Trojans.
Diomedes’s jaw tightens. He stands, using his last remaining bit of energy to not wobble like a foal learning to walk for the first time. Odysseus barely glances at him, eyes focused on the boy just out of reach.
Suddenly, Diomedes is outside his tent. The memory lingers in his mind like sweet honey on the tongue, it’s the one he holds closest, one that he hasn’t even told his sister about because if she were to refute the memory, claiming that their father would never act like that, he isn’t sure if he could shoulder that.
Eurysaces is five years old. Older than the age Diomedes was when his father died. Young enough to laugh freely, to trip and fall and cry and still be cradled. Older than Diomedes was when his mother made him swear the oath to return to Thebes. He wishes the boy he was had cried harder. Screamed. Threw a tantrum that made even Lyssa, goddess of anger, blink in shock. Maybe he could have made someone stay. If his father was as loving as his sister remembers, as dedicated as his mother does, maybe he would have stayed for Diomedes. Surely he wouldn’t have left his son and heir to carry a throne and a legacy on his small shoulders.
Diomedes doesn’t remember being coddled or praised for something small. He never learned how to play, to pull pranks on his sister, or to race in the gardens with the noble children. He learned how to grip a sharp spear and hold his tongue in front of kings older and wiser than him. How is that fair? He should have gotten swung upside down and chased around their home. He should have been getting fed honey cakes and been given sweet kisses on chubby cheeks by a father who had unbridled pride. Unabashed to show his affection like Comaetho remembers, blatant affection that seeps into stories his mother tells about his father’s delight at having a son, the same affection that sweetens the memories that make old Adrastus well up with tears.
It’s ridiculous, being jealous of a child. But still, no one swung him around or chased him pretending to be the great minotaur. He learned to keep watch, to listen, to nod along when older men asked if he was ready to avenge his father. He doesn’t particularly remember agreeing, but somehow he was always preparing to take on a legacy bigger than him.
Maybe that night in the bed wasn’t love. Maybe his father just couldn’t sleep. Maybe he let the boy crawl in just to keep from thinking. Maybe his arms were heavy not from affection, but from exhaustion. Maybe Diomedes was just in the way of a man already halfway out the door.
Maybe he’s built a whole man out of a moment.
The memory feels too soft to be real. The words are too perfect. I’ve already got the one I need. What if it’s just something he wants to have heard? Something he stitched into place because no one else remembered that night. Because no one else was there to say otherwise.
He’s clung to it like armor. And sometimes, late at night, when the camp is quiet and even the dying have fallen asleep, he wonders if the armor is hollow and brittle. He wonders if the only thing left of his father is a crushing legacy and a four-year-old boy, curled into warmth that didn’t belong to him.