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    Summary

    She shrieked in pain. A cry, high and keening, rang out from lips that should not have been his, a sound like the shattering of a lyre string, like the breaking of something too fragile to have ever been upon the field of war, so unlike Odysseus.

    Yet it is Odysseus’ face that twisted in pain and for a heartbeat, Diomedes faltered. It is a cruel thing, to see that visage – beloved, cherished – contorted in agony, to hear a voice that has only screamed and moaned in pleasure into his ear now raised in a shriek of torment. His grip tightened around his shield, knuckles whitening as his mind battled against the illusion, against the deception that would undo him.

     

    No. This is not Odysseus. This is Aphrodite.

     

     

    (Or, Diomedes knows that none can see the Lady Aphrodite's true form, that she appears as one's most desired, adored and loved. Yet it still takes him aback entirely when she appears to him as Odysseus)

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