[ sitting here in this quiet tent, surrounded by men whose words remind her more of her home's old stories than her own home, olivia cannot help but feel even more remarkably out of place. the chiton she wears is dirty, covered in soot like the rest of her from a hard day's work, yet only now does she begin to feel how the cloth, fine as it is, scratches at her skin, its pins poking into her sides. she struggles to listen, to keep up with their words, and while moments ago she might have delighted and been relieved to hear such blessings from the once-late lover of her current husband — now olivia only finds herself struggling to keep afloat amidst a sea of her own confusion and dread.

rights of marriage, patroclus says. a recognition of their union.

her eyes flutter to achilles in a wild burst of panic, brows drawing as the air around the little tent suddenly seems to grow thin. ]

But we — already...

[ her words taper off into quiet uncertainty. it is true — they performed no such ceremony, exchanged no such trinkets that would normally mark such a union.

but they had exchanged vows. numerous times, a promise of dedication and love and happiness, in words and in gesture, in the way they called each other wife and husband and made homes for themselves wherever they went. wasn't that enough? shouldn't it have been enough? ]

I'm sorry I... I don't think I understand... [ she glances between the two men now, and suddenly she can on longer feel any warmth from their smiles. where before they had been like beacons to soothe her flailing heart to calm they now seem too distant, unreachable.

achilles' hand is gentle and warm around hers, and yet she feels numb to his gestures. it is the sudden spike of fear elicited from that that prompts her to turn to him, to grip his hand in return and seek out her answers. but in the last moment, the words die on her lips and her questions become silent. she knows, if she were to ask, he would be quick to reassure her. as he's always done, as he's always been so very talented in doing. before, she had been content to let his words soothe her, for they were so lovely, crafted so perfectly. in this moment, she finds she cannot be sated by his words alone.

and so she looks deeper. she quiets her breath, and calms her heart. she reaches out to him where simple hands and words cannot reach, and peers deep into the heart she has grown to know so well... or so she thought, anyway, for what she finds there is more startling than the news of patroclus' return, or her very own future daughter's appearance.

suddenly, she is on her feet, nearly knocking over the cup of wine that she'd settled beside it. ]

I — I'm sorry — I have to leave, p-please excuse me—

[ wrenching herself from achilles' grasp, she tears out of the cozy little tent, suddenly removed now of all warmth and air. ]