castaways

by alien_called_alex

Summary:

Odysseus leaves Troy, but not with his crew.

Eurylochus and Polites are forced to leave without their friend.

Telemachus is saddled with royal responsibilities much too early.

Penelope is surrounded by suitors she wants nothing to do with.

Athena breaks the rules.

Astyanax — or Alcaeus — grows up on an island no one can find.

OR

Odysseus doesn’t kill Hector’s son and flees to an island protected by Athena, who’s basically his babysitter at this point

Notes:

Inspiration taken from EPIC: The Musical by Jorge Rivera-Herrans and The Odyssey by Homer, as well as other various Greek epics and poems.

Chapter 1: I

Summary:

Odysseus escapes Troy with an infant he’s not supposed to have. Athena helps him out. Again.

Eurylochus isn’t sure they wait any longer for the Captain. He consults Polites.

Penelope receives word about her adventuring husband. Telemachus listens in.

Notes:

welcome!! (to the shit show)

“Come then, put away your sword in its sheath, and let us two go up into my bed so that, lying together in the bed of love, we may then have faith and trust in each other.”
-Homer, The Odyssey

|•|•|•|

The wind blew cold that night. Two men snuck into the Trojan palace, unnoticed, while war raged in the city. One was young — to most people he would be considered a boy — with red hair and strength like his father. Son of Aristos Achaion, the best of the Greeks. Neoptolemus was his name, though to many he was Pyrrhus. 

The other man was less of a foretold hero and more of an unexpected one. Odysseus, infamous as he was, wasn’t exactly called on by the Fates, though he did fraternize with his fair share of Olympians. 

Odysseus and Pyrrhus weren’t in the palace of the enemy to sightsee. No, they’d come for a more important reason. They were there to eliminate the son of Prince Hector. 

He will grow from a boy to an avenger. Odysseus remembered Zeus’ booming voice. Blinded by rage as he is consumed by age. 

Poetic.

“Odysseus!” Pyrrhus hissed. “Pick up your feet.”

“Come now, Pyrrhus,” Odysseus said. “Don’t act so brooding. We’ll get the task done.”

Pyrrhus narrowed his sharp, sea-green eyes. “You’re too busy marveling at a tapestry to pay attention.”

Odysseus hadn’t noticed he was standing next to a weaving of the Trojan prince, Paris. He hadn’t exactly been marveling at it, though now he felt inclined to.

“Well, it is remarkable, isn’t it?” he stated rhetorically. “I should remind myself to request one of Telemachus for Ithaca, I think.” Pyrrhus, clearly, wasn’t amused by his stalling.

“Let’s go,” he said forcefully. “We’ll do what we came here to and leave. Simple.”

Yes, Odysseus thought. Simple as that. 

Get in and get out. 

Easy.

There were little guards in the palace while the Battle of Troy took place outside the walls, so stealth was nearly unnecessary. Those who stayed were killed silently. Odysseus hoped they wouldn’t be judged too harshly by Hades in the Underworld; they were only doing their jobs.

It didn’t take them long to reach their target. 

The door to the bedroom, Odysseus noticed, adorned lightly carved drawings of nature and the gods. He could identify Apollo and Aphrodite, representing how Hector was greatly favored by them. Odysseus wondered if Telemachus’ door had owls or a Spartan battle helmet and spear.

“Are you going in or will you continue to stand and stare?” Pyrrhus demanded. Odysseus had to admit: sometimes he really wished he could punch him in the mouth so he would be quiet. 

“Do you never take time to look around?” Odysseus asked, maintaining his composure. He didn’t get an answer as he opened the door with a simple push. “After you.” Pyrrhus glared before walking inside.

The room was smaller than expected. There was only a simple bassinet, with exactly who they were searching for inside. 

Astyanax. Son of Hector. The last time Odysseus heard the infant’s name spoken, Zeus told him to throw him off the wall separating Troy and the Achaeans. According to the Fates, Astyanax is destined to become a deadly problem. But then, looking directly upon his sleeping face, Odysseus couldn’t see it.

The infant had bronze skin like that of a statue, with dark curls that hugged his tiny ears and chubby cheeks. Odysseus couldn’t see his eyes, but he could guess they were rich brown like Hector’s. He would grow up to be very handsome.

He is none other than the son of Troy’s very own Prince Hector. The memory of Zeus reminded him of their mission. He will grow from a boy to an avenger. 

Odysseus stepped away from the bassinet. Pyrrhus caught his arm, his hand curling around the other soldier’s forearm tightly. 

“Do it.”

Now Odysseus really wanted to hit him.

“Let go of me.” He pulled his arm away without too much effort. He approached the tall window that looked out over the fighting Trojans and Achaeans. 

“You step back?” Pyrrhus asked, persecution in his tone. “You would defy the judgment of the gods?”

“He is just a baby,” Odysseus murmured. 

“He is a boy destined to become a monster. The king of the gods has asked us to destroy the threat before it becomes one.” Pyrrhus’ words would have made sense, had Astyanax been a functioning human who could walk and speak and capable of doing horrible things.

He was an infant. Nothing more.

The sound of a quietly stirring baby made Odysseus turn. Pyrrhus was holding the child in his arms. The urge to steal Astyanax away and keep him safely away from Pyrrhus and his bright hair was almost impossible to ignore. Pyrrhus meant to kill the baby in his arms.

“It’s your time to move, Odysseus,” Pyrrhus sneered. “Since you’ve made it abundantly clear you won’t do what the gods asked of you, I will. I will take your glory and then I shall end this pitiful war started by my father.” 

“You speak ill of him?” Odysseus demanded. “You would talk down on the true Aristos Achaion?” 

“I am Aristos Achaion!” Pyrrhus shouted. “And this child — he means nothing more to me than my foolish father did! I will throw him through the window you presently protect, whether I have to kill you or not.” He started forward, but he didn’t get very far.

It was at that moment that Odysseus decided what he would do.

Do not do this, Odysseus, Athena’s voice urged him. Do not anger my father. 

He’s always angry, my lady. 

Swords against knives wasn’t the most fair fight. Pyrrhus either wasn’t aware or didn’t care. 

Metal clashed against metal, fists connected with skin, the glass of the window broke and —

“You should know I am not particularly inclined to help you.”

Odysseus sits below deck of a well-made ship, face to face with his mentor. She’s his height and takes the form of a common teenaged girl who spent her whole life at sea. 

The setting is…strange. After all Odysseus has seen that night, he feels he should be lying dead in front of a selfish redhead’s feet. Yet there he sits, alive. 

“May I ask why?” 

She scoffs. “Why? You really wonder?”

He looks down at the bundle of blankets in his arms, sheltering a life. A pulsing, radiating life that continued despite the treachery it almost succumbed to. A life the gods wish to end because of an uncertain fate.

“No,” he murmurs, not lifting his head. “I don’t.”

Silence passes between the two, Odysseus seemingly very interested in the slightly moving cloth. He’s so quickly reminded of his own son that it nearly gives him a dose of whiplash. It reminds him that he hasn’t seen little Telemachus in ten years; the boy had been only two when his father left to fight.

The same age as him, he realizes. 

“When he reaches twelve,” he begins subconsciously, “Telemachus will be twenty-two. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Human life is less than remarkable.” His mentor replies. 

Odysseus shrugs. “I suppose you would think like that.” He doesn’t think he would care too much either, if he had even a fraction of her power. “If you don’t want to help me, why am I on your ship?” 

The girl stares at him for a few moments before answering: “You are here because you prayed to me, and I do not ignore my people.”

“You are risking your safety doing so,” he says. “You should not have picked us up from the beach, you know. It won’t be long until your all-powerful father unravels your deception.”

“Careful.” The girl’s gray eyes narrow in warning. 

“You know me, my lady,” he tells her. “I’m always careful.”

Odysseus gets up from his seat and lays Astyanax the infant down in the wooden manger the hostess conjured. It’s not as fancy as the Trojan palace’s bassinet, but it seems comfortable enough for Odysseus not to mind. 

“My father will not find out,” the girl starts. “But you must figure out a plan before I do anything else. Tell me, Odysseus: what do you plan to do with the son of Prince Hector?”

A good, fair question on her part. 

“I will raise him as my own,” he answers calmly. “In a place I hope is far enough away as to not be touched by the Trojans. Or by Agamemnon’s uncoordinated hand.”

“You shall take on a second son,” the girl approaches him, coming to stand by his side and peer at Astyanax. “Simply for your guilty conscience, I assume. You don’t want to be responsible for a young child’s death.”

Odysseus sometimes wonders if godly powers extend beyond telepathy. But then, that doesn’t make sense — Apollo would have taken over the world by now and filled it with outrageous music.

“He will not grow up to be a monster,” he says. “If you agree to help me, I’ll make sure he never fulfills the prophecy. I won’t let him.”

The girl turns away from him then, only showing the backside of her white dress. “He can never know about Hector.” 

She’s right. 

“I know.”

Lying to the boy is the only way to stop the Fates’ foretelling. Though Odysseus isn’t exactly thrilled about it, he won’t risk the world by being honest. 

“You realize you shall be cut off from your family?” The hostess says, back still facing her guest. “You may never return to Ithaca, the place I can see you long for. You will give up everything you love to protect one who is destined to destroy it?”

Well, when she puts it that way it sounds almost sinful. 

“Why should I give in to my longings?” he asks. “Telemachus and Penelope have lived a decade without me. I trust they will be fine.” 

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

The question burns holes into Odysseus’ heart and mind, sends pain through his injured body. He gazes at the sleeping child, peaceful and unaware of any danger he’d once been in. 

“My lady, you must understand,” he tells her. “I’m just a man.”

|~|~|~|

Eurylochus sat in a tent, quietly. Contemplating. There was no one else inside, no one to accompany him. It hadn’t been long since the Battle of Troy ended — since the Greeks won against their long-term enemy. But, to Eurylochus, it was not as happy a week as it should have been.

Odysseus didn’t come back to camp after the fight. Rumor had it: he died in action. But Eurylochus found it hard to believe. How could they have found every body except that of a commander? It didn’t make sense.

The people of Ithaca had been waiting in the Achaean campsite for two days, waiting for someone to make the call for home. They all looked to Eurylochus, naturally, but didn’t understand that he didn’t know what to do either. 

He wanted to go home, to Ithaca. To be away from the war and bloodshed fighting in the Trojan War caused. 

But he didn’t know if he can do it without Odysseus. He didn’t know the sea like he did, and he wasn’t sure he could figure it out well enough to keep the men from dying. 

But he wanted to go home. 

Chattering sounded from outside the tent entrance, and Eurylochus turned. He recognized all three of the voices. 

“Eurylochus!” called Diomedes. “Will you walk with us?”

Eurylochus didn’t particularly want to do anything. But who was he to reject one of the army’s leaders?

“Of course!” he called with false enthusiasm. He stood up and stepped into the daylight, slightly squinting.

“Ah! Welcome back, lieutenant,” Diomedes greeted him, beaming. “We were been beginning to wonder if you starved to death in there.”

“Uh…yes, sir.” Eurylochus found Diomedes’ behavior almost unsettling. Last time he saw the general, he was leading the Achaeans into battle with the fiery strength that usually consumed his whole personality. 

Beside Diomedes stood Polites and Nestor, wearing gentle smiles. Eurylochus waved to them.

“Walk with us,” Diomedes repeated the request from earlier, starting towards the center of the encampment. Eurylochus followed reluctantly. 

The camp was teeming with men, all so happy that the war was over and they were leaving victorious. Eurylochus didn’t notice anyone from Ithaca except Polites behind him, but that could’ve just been his imagination.

“Agamemnon is preparing to go home, did you know that?” Diomedes began. “Menelaus has already left; something about a call from the desert. Ajax — the greater — is almost ready with Teucer. Did you know those two are brothers?” He laughed a little. “Crazy.”

Diomedes, you cunning fellow, Eurylochus thought. What are you doing?

“Nestor, I’m sure you’re soon to leave?” Diomedes continued.

“Oh — yes, I’m leaving with Agamemnon,” Nestor said. “We are both eager to be back in Mycenae.”

Diomedes nodded, saying: “Of course, you are, of course.” He switched his gaze to Polites. “And what about you? Excited to be back in Ithaca?”

Polites shifted. Eurylochus narrowed his eyes. 

“Our commander will decide,” Polites replied wisely. “Whenever that may be. And when he does, the men and I will rejoice.”

Diomedes hummed in false thoughtfulness; anyone could see the knowing glow in his amber eyes. “Well, I hope to see you off. Whenever your…commander steps up.”

Oh, I see, Eurylochus realized. This is about me. 

“Machaon will be leaving tomorrow, at first light,” Diomedes said, not pausing in his stride at all. “I plan to say goodbye. He’s busy with soldiers still, I think.”

“And funeral plans,” Polites added. “He is rather serious about Patroclus and Achilles being —”

“Yes, unfortunate for Patroclus,” Diomedes interrupted. “He deserves Elysium for all he’s done for us.”

Bitter. Meaning he was still firm in his rivalry with Achilles, even if the young man had already died. He was still the same Diomedes. 

The four men approached the medical tent, where soldiers entered and exited steadily. Eurylochus could hear Machaon ordering people around with his confident voice. He was probably more capable of leading Odysseus’ men back to Ithaca than most captains.

Diomedes ducked into the tent, Nestor behind him. That left Eurylochus and Polites. 

Silence. 

Besides the men bustling around them, there was nothing for a while.

“Polites…” Eurylochus said quietly. “What do I do?”

Polites looked at him with kind brown eyes. “I can’t tell you what to do more than you can.” 

“Don’t — don’t be mystical, not right now,” Eurylochus shook his head. “I mean: what do I do? The men want to leave. I want to leave. But how am I supposed lead them without Odysseus? He’s my captain. He tells me my tasks and I do them. What am I left with when he’s not here?”

Polites considered that, frowning but not seeming upset. “Odysseus trusts you, Eurylochus. He chose you to be his right hand man. He knew it would be you left to lead if he fell.”

“Knew?” Eurylochus scoffed. “Odysseus never accounted for his own death. He is too strong for his own good.” Perhaps that’s what killed him. 

“Every captain accounts for his death,” countered Polites. “Why do you think every general in the Achaean army has a second-in-command? Why does a king have a prince?” 

The words made sense. Eurylochus heard them and knew what it meant, but he didn’t understand it. He couldn’t comprehend that he was supposed to go back to Ithaca without his king. 

“I see it’s not getting through to you.” Polites guessed. Eurylochus didn’t reply, which earned him a sigh. “My friend — you trust Odysseus. That much is clear. If you truly trust his opinion so much — why don’t you trust him with this? He chose you. Not me, or any of the advisors and soldiers at his disposal. You. He put his faith in you. Consider that.” 

He went swiftly into Machaon’s tent, leaving Eurylochus with his thoughts. 

He started back to his tent, arms crossed. Diomedes surely wouldn’t come look for him, though he may glare at him the next day. Eurylochus found that he didn’t care what Diomedes thinks of him.

Why don’t you trust him on this? 

Odysseus had given him many tasks around the ship on the journey from Ithaca to Skyros to Troy. Eurylochus knows it relatively well. He could hoist the sail and handle the anchor. He could order the men with some importance, and they would listen to him. 

He chose you.

“Captain!” called a soldier, a young man who looked not a day over nineteen. “We — a lot of us were — well, we were just wondering —” He took a deep breath as if calming his nerves in front of Eurylochus. “When will we go home?” 

He put his faith in you.

The expression on the young man’s face was hopeful and expectant. He truly wanted — needed — to return to Ithaca. 

Odysseus put his faith in me.

Eurylochus furrowed his brow. “Tomorrow morning. Pack your things. We depart at first light.” 

He did exactly what he told the young soldier to do that night. He packed his belongings, trusting the soldier would spread the word. By sunrise, every soldier of Ithaca waited for him.

Eurylochus stands onboard the ship, looking over the edge. The sea is calm today, almost purple in the morning sun. 

“Your orders, captain?” asks an older man. 

Every soldier stands at attention, looking at Eurylochus. He clenches his fists, uncertain of the journey but sure of himself. Polites nods to him. He turns to the man. 

“Full speed ahead. We are going home.”

|-|-|-|

Penelope saunters around the palace, checking rooms and inside closets for her son. She listens for his distinct giggles or his hurried movements from one hiding spot to another. She knows his favorite places, but she held off from them until she knew he was having fun. 

She goes into his bedroom, letting her fingers brush the door frame. “Oh, Telemachus…” she says in a sing-song voice. “Where are you?”

She peers under the bed, but there is nothing. 

She looks into the bathroom. Nothing.

She checks behind the curtains — a favorite — but still: nothing. 

He’s getting good, Penelope thinks, smiling. As he gets older, both he and his mother could have fun playing hide-and-seek games. 

She leaves the room and moves on to the next, and the next, until she finds herself standing in the courtyard. An unusual place to hide, but the only one left as a possibility. 

The outdoor area is one of Penelope’s favorite places, and it’s decorated just to her liking. She remembers when her dear husband asked for her input, and how much he cared when she gave it. 

The trees sways softly in the light wind, the grass following suit. Birds chirp somewhere in the distance, singing songs of glory and love. 

Every single one — no matter how quiet or obscure — reminds Penelope of Odysseus. 

She can recall when they made their first stroll through the thin woods; she remembers how the doves love to land on his shoulders (and occasionally head); she is reminded of how much he truly adored Ithaca and everything it had to offer.  

A giggle sounds, breaking the spell of nature. 

There he is. 

“Hmm…” Penelope hums, approaching the nearby pot. “I wonder what’s behind…here!” She seizes Telemachus by the waist and lifts him once before putting him down. 

Telemachus laughs, joy filling his young voice. His dark hair shines in the afternoon sun.

“You almost had me, you little rascal,” she admits, leaning down and nuzzling his nose with her own. 

“I’m getting good,” he says proudly. “I decided to hide here because I never have before and I know you check all the great places inside before I can get to them.” 

Smart. 

“Clever boy,” she praises him. “Now, do you want something to eat?” 

“Oh!” he exclaims, nodding. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Penelope ruffles his hair affectionately before walking back into the palace, Telemachus just behind. 

“Have you any word about Father?” he asks. “And have the floors been cleaned recently? They’re slippery.” 

Penelope chuckles. “Yes, I think it happened just this morning.”

“Does that mean Corinne is still here?” he wonders aloud. “Is she in the kitchen?”

“No, dear, I believe she left an hour or so ago,” she tells him, looking at the shiny floors herself. Corinne certainly did a great job. 

“Oh.” Telemachus frowns, slowing his pace. “But you didn’t answer my question about Father.”

Penelope slows herself, too, until she’s side by side with Telemachus. There’s hope in his eyes. It strikes her that he wants Odysseus home as much as she does. 

There has been no communication since he left, she almost tells the boy. But she doesn’t want him to know that, not yet and preferably not ever. 

What harm will a little white lie do?

“A little,” she responds finally. “Not enough for me to know when he’ll return, but it is plenty to let me know he’s alive and will come back to us.”

Hopefully. 

“I suppose a little is better than none,” Telemachus says. Penelope almost winces, already regretting her lie. “I hope to see him before I turn thirteen. Do you think he’ll be home by then?”

I don’t know. 

“I hope so, my child,” she says. “How about this: when we start planning your celebration, we will save a seat for him, right next to you, okay?” 

He blinks. “But that’s your spot.”

“This year it can be his. If you want it to be.”

There’s a few beats of silence while he considers the offer. Penelope has recently been in the business of letting him decide most things on his own. She thinks it to be good preparation for leading. 

“All right,” he says. “Let’s save it, then.”

Penelope smiles at him. “Perfect. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

She and Telemachus continue their path down the hall and turn into the dining room. To her surprise — and delight — there’s already food waiting for them on the table.

Why did the cooks do this? She wonders if it’s a special occasion she forgot about.

“Nice!” Telemachus runs to his chair and takes his pick from the lunch items. He fills his bowl with soup and lays three slices of bread on his plate, along with meat and cheese. Then, he pours water into his cup.

Penelope nods approvingly. “Very good portions. Healthy. But you should —”

“Take some grapes, too,” he finishes and plucks a handful of purple grapes. “Because they’re the finest in Greece, right?” 

“Oh, I see you do listen to me,” she replies, sitting down and plating her own meal. “Remember to thank Lydos if you see him today.”

“I will.”

Penelope sometimes wonders what she did to earn a son like Telemachus.

“So,” she begins, “tell me what you want to do for the summer.”

And so Telemachus launches into a list of desires, elaborating most on how much he wants to visit Athenian cities. He speaks on walking around with Penelope and Odysseus both. Penelope feels her heart convulse at the idea. 

The sea, too, takes up space on Telemachus’ list. He seems to have a fascination with sea life and how Poseidon rules them all so seamlessly. He sounds enchanted when he talks about it, his eyes glowing with excitement.

Penelope hopes they can hit everything on his rather long agenda, but she’s not sure if it’s possible. The Trojan War — as far as she’s aware — still rages only several hundred nautical miles away. She never wants Telemachus to be involved.

She never wants to be uncertain if he will return home to her. 

The queen and prince finish their meal after discussing summer events thoroughly. Penelope has a good idea of what she can do to satisfy her son’s desires for the upcoming months. She makes a mental note to consult her planning advisor next time they meet.

“Lydos!” Telemachus calls as they enter the kitchen and the chef makes his appearance. Lydos turns as he’s untying his apron. “The meal was delicious. Thank you.”

Lydos looks almost embarrassed at the young boy’s praise. “Why, thank you, Your Highness. I thought it would help ease your mind. No one has been particularly happy after this morning.”

Penelope blinks. “What do you mean? Did something happen?” 

“Oh,” Lydos says, his voice waning. “Did…did Corinne not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” she asks, almost using her commanding voice. 

Lydos’ eyes flick to Telemachus. He purses his lips, as if to say he won’t speak unless the boy is gone. Penelope clenches her fists. 

“Telemachus,” she says. “Leave us.”

He looks up at her, clearly confused. “But Mother —”

“I am not asking.”

Her tone changed with those words, and Telemachus goes silent. His gazes goes between Lydos and his mother before he leaves the kitchen. 

“Now, what is it Corinne was meant to tell me?” Penelope leans against the wooden island. 

“Well…you see, Your Majesty…” Lydos pauses and takes a deep breath. “There was a messenger this morning. He came to the palace before you were awake and ran into Corinne while she cleaned the floors. She brought him to the staff, where he told us he is a messenger called Simon, sent by none other than Agamemnon. 

“He told us of the war. The Greeks held back the Trojans many times, and they reached a stalemate nothing more than a week ago. According to him, it was the genius of the king — your husband — which brought about the destruction of Troy.

“But Simon then said he hadn’t come to tell us about Troy or the Achaeans. He’d come to speak with you. About the king.” Lydos stops for a moment.

Penelope can hardly process most of what he’s just said. The war…it’s over? And it was Odysseus who had a stroke of genius and destroyed Troy? She’s surprised, but more than that she’s curious. 

“Continue.” She urges him.

He clears his throat. “Corinne said you were asleep — which you were — and normally you don’t like to be disturbed. She said she would deliver the message to you and get Simon food and water in the meantime. He accepted, of course. He came a long way.

“We then all sat before Simon, watching him drink and eat. He didn’t speak for a while, not until after he was finished. Then, he told us this: ‘My master has ordered me to deliver this message to your queen and prince: the king Odysseus of Ithaca has gone missing in action. He has not been seen in over a week, and he is presumed dead. No body has been found.’”

Silence fills the room. Lydos awaits Penelope’s reaction with a slightly frightened expression. 

Missing in action, he said.

Hasn’t been seen in a week, he said.

Presumed dead. 

Yet no body has been found.

Anger courses through Penelope’s veins, enough to send the urge to fire Corinne and sentence her to death rushing to her mind. But she pushes it down, digs her nails into her palms instead.

“Anything else?” she asks. “Anything about a will?”

Lydos nods, slowly. “His Majesty has entrusted Ithaca to his oldest and only, Telemachus, when he turns thirteen.” 

“Me?” A small, frightened voice from the doorway squeaks. Lydos and Penelope whip their heads around and lay eyes upon Telemachus. “My father…he wants me to lead? Because he’s —” He chokes and suddenly turns on Penelope. “You lied to me. You lied!”

“Tel, please —” she tries. Please understand. 

“No!” he presses his wrists into his eyelids. “Leave me alone!” He runs away before Penelope can get another word out. 

She can’t believe it. She’s in utter shock. 

Her husband? Dead, presumably. Perhaps captured. She shudders, thinking maybe death is better than torture.

And her son? Her dear, dear son… Destined to rule his kingdom in only a few months. 

But the worst part?

She is powerless to stop any of it. 

Notes:

wow that was long

 

oops

Chapter 2: II

Summary:

Odysseus has misgivings about his new son.

Polites and Eurylochus face their journey.

Notes:

this chapter went through a loooot of revisions lol

“But listen to me first and swear an oath to use all your eloquence and strength to look after me and protect me.”
-Homer, The Iliad

|•|•|•|

The island Athena placed him on is nothing less than perfect. The sea surrounds him, leaving him connected to the world yet so far away. The birds fly and perch in swaying trees, alerting him of the sun’s first breath. 

The sand is softer than any he has ever stood in, blanketing his feet in pleasant warmth. The water — which can never decide whether it’s green or blue — is not too terribly cold when he wades in. 

And the sky. The sky may be the most beautiful part. It is the most peaceful shade of gold, the clouds seemingly painted onto a bronze canvas. The sun shines immaculately from Olympus, as if it has been sent by Helios. Under this light, beneath these clouds, Odysseus is content. 

He calls it χαλκός, Khalkós, his language’s word for ‘bronze’, in lieu of his surroundings. For once, Athena approved of his decision. 

Yes, the place is beautiful and peaceful, a home Odysseus looks forward to raising his newest son in.

On this day, Odysseus sits on the beach holding the child’s hands, making certain he will not topple over. He is covered in sand already, and so is his son. It would be safe to say Alcaeus is the one who does not exactly care if he is sprinkled in sand from hair to toes.

Alcaeus has begun doing many things, including a broken form of speaking. He blubbers most of the time, but Odysseus occasionally catches him saying, “Ant-ant” or “fathy”. Every time, it makes Odysseus’ heart squeeze with memory. Memories that are so far now that they seem almost imaginary; like Odysseus only conjured his first son in his mind. 

His memory now is too full of war and bloodshed, too occupied by the villains he has conquered. 

Hector. 

Alcaeus does not look like Hector. At least, Odysseus doesn’t think so.

The child is bronze-skinned like his mother Andromache, and brandishes his aunt Penthesilea’s nose. But his golden eyes and dark hair he has inherited from Paris, king of Troy. 

He does not look like Hector, and Odysseus hopes he never will. 

Alcaeus giggles, distracting Odysseus from his thoughts. He is playing with the sea water that has washed ashore, splashing it over his hands and arms, beaming. Odysseus watches, sort of mesmerized as Alcaeus is unbothered by salt in his eyes. 

Telemachus loves the sea, he remembers distantly. He loves the sand and the birds. That’s what Penelope told him in a letter she sent while he was in Skyros. He wonders if he and Alcaeus would get along, if Telemachus would take the younger child on as his brother.

“It does you no good to dwell on what could be.” A voice, coming from the figure beside him, tells him. “You shall never know, nor should you wonder.”

Odysseus does not look at her. “I know.” Alcaeus giggles as he covers his feet in sand and squeals when the water washes over them. “I don’t know if I am right for this.”

“What?” 

He sighs. “He’s a child, Athena. Just a boy, one who has barely started walking. What am I to do when he starts speaking, starts running? I have never…I didn’t get the chance to experience raising a boy the first time.”

Athena is silent for a few moments, her pale eyes trained on Alcaeus. She’s in a form that Odysseus has grown used to over the past month, a form that resembles a middle-aged woman with stunning beauty. She has become a kind of companion, dubbed ‘ant-ant’ by Alcaeus.

“That is no fault of yours,” she says quietly, “nor is this. My father is…questionable when it comes to his choices.” She smiles gently as Alcaeus picks up a seashell and examines it with great detail. “You are more capable than most men to be a father.”

“How are you so sure?” he wonders aloud. “I failed with Telemachus.”

“You cannot fail something you were never given the opportunity to do.” Athena brushes her dark hair away from her face. “Many people learn along the way. You must do the same.”

“But —”

“No. I will not let you give up on something I have given you.”

Odysseus stares at her for a moment before turning his head away. There are so many reasons he should build a boat and sail away. So many reasons he should have done what Zeus asked of him. The Fates…they could not be wrong. 

“I cannot change the Fates’ design,” he whispers, his voice so faint he’s not certain Athena hears. “How am I supposed to keep him from destroying everything?”

Athena purses her lips, seemingly thinking. “I have faith you will be able to do it. Teach him the right way. The Fates are rarely completely right, and their plans often shift. Alcaeus, I hope, will be spared the destiny of becoming a villain like his father.”

“Have someone else do it.” Odysseus blurts before he can stop himself. She turns toward him, her eyes burning into the side of his head.

“I hope I did not hear what I think.”

“Give him to Heracles,” he continues. “Give him to a god, someone Zeus has forgotten. Send him to Chiron; he has had plenty of experience.”

“No.”

“Why not? I am not — I have no idea how to raise a person. I am destined to fail, Athena, so please. Send him to someone else.” Despite the sour taste the words leave on his tongue, he does not take them back.” 

Athena glares at him. “I will not.” He opens his mouth to object, but she stops him. “I chose you for this purpose. I chose you to raise him. And he has grown attached to you now, after only a short time. I will not take him to someone else because you are having a lapse of self doubt. You are his father now, Odysseus. You cannot just quit.”

“Fathy!” Alcaeus shouts. “C’mere!” 

Odysseus glances at Athena. She shrugs. “He is not calling me.”

The former king of Ithaca frowns but stands, walking over to Alcaeus. “What is it?”

Alcaeus holds up a blue and green seashell in the palm of his small hand. His eyes beckon Odysseus to look, to care deeply about this tiny object gifted to them by the sea. 

“It’s beautiful,” Odysseus says, smoothing the surface of it with his thumb. “How about we keep it?” Alcaeus beams, closing his tiny fingers around the shell. “Yes?” 

“Y…yes!” The child says excitedly. He reaches his arms up, his free hand grabbing at Odysseus. “Up, up.”

Odysseus feels an unintended smile pulling at his lips as he lifts Alcaeus into his arms. They both look out, across the sea, and stare at the sunset that Odysseus hadn’t realized was coming. Alcaeus yawns and leans his head on Odysseus’ shoulder, his curls brushing the man’s beard. 

You are his father now. Athena’s words echo in his head as he stands before the setting sun, Alcaeus’ eyes closed as he breathes evenly. I chose you for this purpose. I chose you to raise him. 

She’s right. As usual.

“Athena —” he turns around to thank her for clearing his head, but there is nothing. She is gone. He holds Alcaeus closer to him, nodding to himself. “Thank you.” He leaves the beach then, back to his hut, and sets Alcaeus down to sleep.

|~|~|~|

Polites is no sailor. He’s been on a boat, yes, but only at necessity. Of course, this is a rather important task, and he does know how to handle the basics. He just wishes Eurylochus would captain the way he’s supposed to. 

Today, Polites has spent more than half of the morning talking to the crew, trying to help them with jobs and meals. Jobs was the easy part; it was food that gave him the most trouble. And it is food that brings him to Eurylochus’ door.

“You are the only one who can get to him!” One of the men exclaimed when he protested the idea of speaking to the interim captain.

“You are the only one who can talk to him without murderous tendencies running through your head.” Another added. 

Polites frowned. “He will come to his senses.”

“Will he?” demanded a man with sunken eyes and anger in his very breath. “Prove it.”

And so Polites stands in front of the captain’s quarters, late in the afternoon, while men complain about their hunger behind him. He is hesitating. Hesitating to speak to a man he has known for years.

But he has changed, he thinks worriedly. He is changing like Odysseus did. And now… 

No. He will not allow Eurylochus to face the same fate the late captain did. He will stop that even if it means he dies in the process.

Polites knocks on the door. “Eurylochus?” Nothing. Just the muttering of famished soldiers and the caw of far off birds. “Eurylochus, it’s me. It’s Polites.” Silence.

For a moment, Polites thinks Eurylochus is ignoring him. But he is proved wrong as the door swings open, revealing the tall, dark-skinned soldier whose hair has grown from short to mid-length. 

“What?” he asks, his gaze hard and guarded. 

Polites blinks, surprised by the intensity Eurylochus points at him. “I need to talk to you.”

“On whose behalf?” 

“Whose behalf?” Polites bristles. “My own, you dimwit.” 

Eurylochus narrows his eyes but opens the door wider so Polites can enter the room. He shuts it when they are both securely inside. “What is it?”

Polites doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks around the room, scanning it for changes. It’s mostly how Odysseus left it, save for the maps strewn all over the table and floor. Odysseus always kept them in piles by region, though there were times Polites walked in to utter chaos. He smiles warmly at the thought. 

“Odysseus! ODYSSEUS! By the gods, where is he?!” 

“He’s abandoned us! I know it!”

“This isn’t like him. He hasn’t just gone missing on a whim.”

“He is not coming back. I saw it. He is dead.”

His smile fades.

“Polites.” 

“Hm?” He turns toward Eurylochus, away from his memory. “Oh. Yes.” He goes back to looking around, trying to find a particular map. “You need to start being better at your job.”

“Better?” Eurylochus repeats. “I’m doing my best.”

“No, you’re not.” Polites peers at a large piece parchment only half-full. It starts at Ithaca, it seems, and stretches just past Skyros. The handwriting is undeniably that of the former captain’s. 

“Then what am I meant to do?” Eurylochus asks. “I am taking us home, what more do you want?”

Polites picks up an empty bottle of wine. “I did not realize your interpretation of ‘taking us home’ is drifting aimlessly through the sea and leaving your men to starve.”

“Try being me for one day, then talk to me.” 

“No. I will talk to you now.” He takes a fallen ink container in his hand and sets it right up. He looks up then, to Eurylochus, who is breathing heavily. “We need shelter and food. And it is you who is responsible for getting it. If you do not, everyone on this ship dies.”

Eurylochus clenches and unclenches his fists in unmatched stress. “I don’t know how to lead six hundred men, Polites.”

“Yes you do,” the Ithacan advisor says calmly, “but you’re scared.” Eurylochus stays silent. “You’re scared you will fail. You’re scared you will lead us all to our deaths, and so you hole yourself up in this miserable room which I know you hate.” Polites brushed dust from the top of the desk. “What would you do if Odysseus were here? What would you say to him if he were doing what you are?” 

“That’s not fair,” Eurylochus says quietly. “I’m not like him.”

“You’re right,” Polites nods. “Odysseus was not one to grovel in self-pity.” A blade whizzes past his head, lodging into a map on the wall behind him. 

“I am not groveling.” 

Polites takes the knife from the wall and turns back to his friend, holding it out to him. “Then show me.” 

Eurylochus stares at him. He looks between the knife and Polites for more than a few moments. A flash of determination crosses his face as he seizes the weapon from Polites. The native Ithacan cannot help a smile at the return of his friend. 

“Watch me.”

Polites follows Eurylochus out of the room, back to the men, who all look over, glancing at Polites before they do. Eurylochus faces them all, keeping the determined expression that he has always had. 

“Well?” One man shouts. “What’s the plan? What’ve you got?” 

“I hope it’s not more starvation!” calls another. The rest of them murmur their agreement. 

Eurylochus shakes his head. “I have failed you. All of you. I have groveled. But today I will stop. Today I shall lead you like a true captain should.” He goes the edge and points to the squeaking birds flying above them. “Watch them. Follow them! The birds know the way to land and food! Let us follow them, my brothers. Let us walk with the birds.” 

The men look to one another for a moment, and Polites feels as if he has no air in his lungs at all. He can only hope they will forgive Eurylochus. He does not know what they’ll do if they don’t. 

“What he said!” 

Everyone bursts out in shouts of agreement and excitement, and Polites can breathe normally. He locks eyes with Eurylochus, who mouths a thanks to him. Polites nods.

He knows he’s done the right thing — helping Eurylochus realize he’s fit for the role of a leader — but he has a sinking feeling in his stomach, one that he can’t shake. He can’t help but wonder:

Where will those birds lead us? 

Notes:

Khalkós - “bronze”

Chapter 3: III

Summary:

Telemachus takes up his role as king after hearing of his mother’s suitors.

Athena is confronted by an old friend.

“The idea of a king is to be a protector of the rich against unjust treatment, of the people against insult and oppression. Whereas a tyrant, as has often been repeated, has no regard to any public interest, except as conducive to his private ends; his aim is pleasure, the aim of a king, honor.”
-Aristotle

|-|-|-|

“In Ithaca,” his father once told him, “there is rarely a bad day. You will always be happy here, my son, until the day you pass into the Underworld with me.” When he first heard them, he thought them wise. Now he finds them childish. Which is saying something, considering his young age of almost thirteen. 

After he listened in on his mother and Lydos, it was like everything other than the throne disappeared from his mind. He became hyper focused on the task ahead of him: take the throne and somehow fill his father’s way-too-large sandals. How can a dead man hold so much weight?

A dead man. Because that’s what his father is now. Dead. 

Telemachus doesn’t like to think about it, prefers not to dwell on things he knows he can’t change. He doesn’t want to fall into grief like his mother. He just wants to get through the coronation and focus on the kingdom. 

Telemachus had only been preparing for a little less than year, much less time than most Grecian kings. Most of his time is spent in the king’s study — a room Telemachus remains uncomfortable in. He can never focus behind the intricate wooden table, staring down at far too many pieces of parchment paper, sending confirmations of attendance and an endless amount of condolences.

“What do you think of this?” The familiar voice sends Telemachus back into the current scene. It’s Eumaeus, one of his father’s closest companions. He’s holding up a regal cloak of purple velvet, the golden trim shimmering in the natural light streaming in from a tall window to the prince’s left.

A coronation cloak. Telemachus remembers. Yes. I’m choosing which one I want today. 

“It’s…nice,” he responds. 

Eumaeus gives him a pointed expression, folding the cloak over his forearm. “You have said that about everything I have shown you.”

“Well…they are all very nice.” The boy glances at the others lying just to the left of his vision, lovely and multicolored. 

“That may be so, but you cannot walk into your coronation wearing something nice,” Eumaeus insists, laying the rejected cloak beside the others. “Becoming king is to be the biggest ordeal of your entire life. You shall be in front of the largest crowd you will ever lay your eyes on. Not even all those people will attend your wedding!”

Telemachus clenches his hands, trying to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He has heard this speech before, from multiple sources. He understands the weight of the coronation; no one does better than him.

“My point, though,” the servant continues, “is you cannot just wear anything. You must be adorned in what you feel is perfect. Yes?”

The prince sighs, smiling despite the gnawing feeling in his stomach. “Yes.”

“All is well.” Eumaeus pats him gently on the shoulder. He then scoops up every item Telemachus unknowingly refused and left the room.

Telemachus releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as he sits down on his bed. The blanket is warm and soft and comfortable beneath him, but sorely unused. Nowadays, he spends more time in the study than his own bedroom.

Penelope always says it’s the nicest room in the palace. Its tall windows and white curtains certainly proved why she thought so. The room is consistently at a perfect temperature due to how well the sun can warm the flooring, even during winter. The bed was made with the finest materials by order of King Odysseus, and it now has mahogany colored blankets thrown across the perfect mattress. 

A room fit for a prince, Penelope told him when he turned six — the common age for royalty to receive their own quarters. 

Telemachus did very much enjoy being in the room, though he knows it would be rather futile to immerse himself in it now. He’s to be moved to the king’s suite directly after his coronation. He wonders where his mother will go — his poor mother, who has barely spoken a word to her son since the news of her husband’s death arrived. He wonders if she will be able to speak at the coronation.

A quiet knock comes from the wooden door. Telemachus sits up, tilting his head; he hasn’t been expecting anyone. He hopes he hasn’t forgotten some important visitor.

“Come in.” 

He expects the wooden door to swing open and reveal someone on the other side — as a door does when one knocks — but nothing happens. Telemachus frowns, getting to his feet.

“Hello?” he calls. No response. 

He walks over to the bedroom entrance, wrapping his fingers around the cool, golden knob, twisting and pulling gently.  When he lays eyes on the hallway outside his room, he’s severely underwhelmed. On the floor, there is a ring box.

An unwanted proposal, perhaps? How forward. Telemachus thinks, contemplating whether or not to pick it up. There’s no benefit but…what could be the harm? 

A mysterious ring box shows up on my imaginative doorstep two and a half weeks before my coronation to be king of my fairly well-known country? He sighs, reaching down and taking the strange item in his hands. What could possibly go wrong. 

The box is smaller than any other ring container he’s used to, made of smooth wood and kept together with a copper latch. He traces the simple, swirling designs on the sides. He places his thumb at the opening and flips the box open.

Inside is even more simplistic than the outside; there isn’t so much as a proper cushion for the otherwise valuable piece of jewelry. There is only a tiny, folded parchment under the treasure inside.

The ring itself is quite beautiful. The band is a twisting bronze branch adorned with minuscule leaves. Telemachus handles it with care, lifting it from its place with two fingers and peering at it. 

It’s a commoner’s ring, that much he can tell. It feels misplaced in the towering hallway Telemachus stands in. But, when he slips it on his finger, it fits much too well for its delivery to be a mistake. Someone brought him this and left before he could speak with them. 

Telemachus looks back into the box, curious about the parchment. I wonder… He lifts it out and unfolds it until it’s about the size of his palm — which is small for a soon-to-be-king. He expects a note from whoever brought him the ring, but there is only a character and a drawing:

Folded black wings with the Greek letter alpha beneath them. 

What? 

Telemachus has absolutely zero clue what it means or who wrote it. It all seems very vague and confusing and maybe a touch suspicious, too. He doesn’t know if this ring is cursed or not, and nothing in the box or otherwise tells him. 

“Telemachus?” A voice calls from down the hall. “Are you over there?”

Panic rises in the prince’s chest when he hears the thoughtful tone of the chef’s apprentice, Selene. He hurriedly packs away the note and shuts the box, attempting to stuff it into a pocket twice before remembering he has none. He settles — or, has to settle — with holding the gift behind his back with one hand.

“Selene,” he greets the black-haired girl, praying to every god of Olympus that he sounds normal. “What brings you up here?”

“Eumaeus came down to ask about food,” Selene explains as she approaches him. “For your coronation, of course. But I don’t know very much, so I thought I’d find the queen.” 

Telemachus nods. “Well. I’ve not seen her, but she’s around here somewhere, that’s for certain.” He hopes his laugh doesn’t sound forced.

Selene raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “I thought maybe you would know about the food. You know. Because it’s for your celebration.”

“Oh.” He taps his foot on the floor, his anxiety rising. “I-I don’t know much either, honestly.” It’s the truth, but it feels like a lie. He’s been so busy with legal issues and clothing preparations that he forgot about every other job that is no doubt being handled by someone he’s met more than once. 

The young cook crosses her arms, her night black hair falling around her shoulders. “What are you hiding?”

Telemachus tightens his hold on the box. “It’s royal business.”

“Right.” She says skeptically. “Isn’t it better for us young ones to stick together? Tell each other things?”

“Well, I didn’t say it was young one business,” he reminds her, bristling. “I said royal. And you are not. You don’t have the right to convince me otherwise.”

She rolls her eyes. “You will never be a real king, Telemachus. You are just a child. Just like the rest of us.”

“SELENE!” A man shouts from below. 

Selene suddenly reverts back to her old role, ignoring Telemachus and hurrying toward the staircase. “COMING!”

She leaves Telemachus by himself. In a great big palace, in a great big hall with great, big walls. He has not felt so lonely and insignificant since the day he found out his father was never coming back. 

You will never be a real king. 

She has no idea how often he thinks and believes the phrase himself. He can hardly think about the throne without also thinking of how inevitable failing is. He is barely thirteen, and now it is his time to become king? Be the man his father was without knowing who his father was? Some days, Telemachus wishes he could throw it all away and scream.

Curse you, Father, he thinks to himself. He looks at the ring from…someone. He feels a burning desire to toss it into a campfire at the sight of it taunting him. And curse you, ring of dishonor. Telemachus stares at it angrily for a few moments before walking away from his bedroom door. 

The prince travels the hallways without so much as looking at the details or decorations for the upcoming coronation. He storms past them, descending the steps with his face aflame. He ignores the servants calling to him as he passed, and, at the end of a long hallway, he shoves open the doors and throws the ring on the bed before him.

“Did you do this?” he demands. “Did you send this up to my room?”

The woman sitting upon the sheets tucks a piece of brown hair behind her ear. “Telemachus, what are you — ?”

“I want to know,” he interrupts. “Did you send me that ring?”

She reaches for it, turning it over in her fingers gently. Then, she shakes her head. “I did not.”

Then who did? Telemachus wants to ask, but he knows she will most likely have nothing. “Fine. I’ll have it back now.” 

But the woman — many years superior to him — closes her hand around the piece of jewelry. “Why would you think I sent this?” 

“Because — well — I don’t know, now return it and I’ll go.” He opens his palm, expecting her to place it atop his medium toned skin. 

“No.” She narrows her eyes, perpetually seeing through him. “Telemachus, what is going on?” 

“Nothing.” He says, but it tastes like a lie. “And you can’t say no to me. I am your future king.”

“And I am your current queen,” she retorts. “As well as your mother. You know I shall always have seniority over my son.” 

Telemachus almost flinches, but he resists. He pulls his hand back. “Nothing is happening. Just Eumaeus helping me pick out a cloak.”

He doesn’t want to tell his mother how every single option is mediocre, none catching his eye. He most certainly does not want her to know that he does not particularly care what cloak he wears. 

Penelope’s expression softens. “That is more than nothing.” 

“It isn’t,” he disagrees, not meeting her eyes. 

“To you, now, maybe,” she says thoughtfully. “But the future king of Ithaca may think differently in a decade.” She takes Telemachus’ clenched fist and unfolds his fingers gently, placing the winged ring in his palm. “It is no gift from me or anyone in the palace. It is from a god.”

Shock shoots through Telemachus’ whole body, jerking his eyes up to his mother’s ebony ones. “What? What would a god want with me? Why would one send me a ring?” 

“A great question,” Penelope admits. “But I’m not a god. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Perhaps it is a good luck charm. For the coronation.”

Telemachus doubts that, but, before he can voice this, a guard whose name he cannot remember hurried inside the room. 

“Your Majesty!” He says. “The young man Eurymachus has returned.”

Penelope sighs. “Very well. Send him inside to Amphimedon. They will keep one another company.” The guard nods and leaves instantly, not acknowledging Telemachus at all. 

The young prince looks suspiciously at his mother. “Who are they? Eurymachus and Amphimedon. I’ve never heard of them.”

“You certainly have,” she disagrees. “Amphimedon has been here for some time now. Eurymachus has only been trying for a few months.”

“Trying?” He repeats, growing increasingly skeptical. “Trying for what?” Penelope is silent. “Mother!”

She hushes him in a very gentle manner, as if he is still an infant. “Please, Tel. It is all okay. I won’t let them have me.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. They are — well, they each want my hand in marriage. They are willing to do whatever it takes.”

Anger sparks in Telemachus’ stomach. “How many of them are there? Only two?” He is doubtful of this; his mother is no common beauty. 

“Eleven, as of now,” she tells him, getting to her feet. “I assume you’d like to greet them with me?”

Oh, he certainly has some things to say to these ‘men’. “Yes. Of course. Actually — let them stay until my coronation. In fact, I shall invite the whole lot of them. Write down their names and parents and then give them to Eumaeus.”

Penelope frowns. “Telemachus, what are you doing?”

He shrugs. “I’m going to show them who the king of Ithaca is.” 

|•|•|•|

On Mount Olympus, battle matters have come to a halt. With the Trojan War finished — for over a year now — the gods have either nothing to discuss or want never to lay eyes on one another again. Athena rests somewhere in the middle: she’ll attend any meetings Zeus calls and speak to her ignorant brother, but it doesn’t particularly mean she enjoys it.

Athena finds that she spends the majority of her time on Khalkòs, helping Odysseus look after Alcaeus. Whenever she does return to Olympus, she’s either doing her best to help Hestia keep the peace or watching Alcaeus from her private quarters. 

On this day, however, Athena has spent her morning in the colossal courtyard Zeus dedicated to Hera after one of his numerous affairs. Though the queen acted unimpressed when he presented it, Athena has frequently caught her strolling in the open air. 

Athena sits on a cushioned bench, avoiding the curved armrests — which she’s always found rather obnoxious. A fountain separates her and the freshly built nursery, full of sacred birds fluttering their wings and attempting to avoid one another. Athena shakes her head, a smile perched on her face. It’s a rather stupid installment.

She watches with keen observation as a tawny owl flies to meet a slick crow on one of the top branches. The pale white and brown bird has a worm in its mouth, offering it to the other. But the crow turns its head away almost snobbishly, turning its beak up. The owl’s wings droop as it flies away, dejected. It lands on the edge of the fountain, seeming depressed. 

“Quite sad, isn’t it?” 

Athena doesn’t turn at the sound of the familiar voice. “No more sad than humans.”

“I’m not sure; animals have done much less wrong to the world than people.” 

“I think that depends on which people you speak about.” 

The silence beside her lets her know that she’s either bested him or he’s not there for small talk. Athena shifts her sight to him now, acknowledging his presence. His bronze-colored eyes and misshapen face bore into her, his mouth in a straight line.

“What is it?” she asks. “You seem…tense.”

“Not tense,” Hephaestus replies, his tone deep and clear. “Just…observing.” He has always been one of the more deductive gods. 

Athena can tell he’s not saying everything, and may very well be biding his time until he thinks it’s the correct moment. She frowns. “You seem to be thinking very deeply for observing.” 

Hephaestus adjusts the mechanical glasses she’s rarely seen him without. “May I sit with you?” 

She glances at the spot beside her. She can tell him no and he will stand if he truly has something to say. But Athena does not take after Hera when it comes to this under-appreciated engineer. She nods once, sliding over just a little so he can have more room.

Hephaestus begins to slide off his various accessories, which includes a fire-resistant jacket — an invention that came about after he discovered the power of the forge and gave Athena something worthwhile to laugh over — and his left forearm — a long, long story. 

“I just came from a meeting with Mother,” he says as he disassembles the complicated machinery attached to his arm. “Ares has gone to Troy.”

Athena cannot say she’s surprised. “He is always in Troy.” Since the war ended, her moronic brother has been trying to start it again. Useless, but he refuses to give up. 

“Yes,” Hephaestus agrees, “but Mother says this time it is different.”

“I am sure,” Athena says. “He is probably courting some unfortunate young woman. Maybe a royal. Certainly some aristocrat. All of his children must be born with a sizable amount of power before they discover they are his child.” 

The god of the forge places his detached limb beside him. “He does do this. But I am not sure if that is the issue he is addressing.”

Athena looks to him then. “My brother does little else.”

“True,” he says. “What he is doing now is not so different from his known habits.” 

“Well, then, don’t leave me in suspense.” The goddess is being sarcastic, of course; she really has no care as to what Ares is doing on —

“He is instituting a replacement for both Priam and Hector.” 

…or perhaps she does.

Athena clenches her nimble but strong hands. “By himself?”

“No,” Hephaestus admits. “My wife has gone with him.” 

Aphrodite. Athena is not the biggest fan of the ancient but beautiful goddess, though she would not say it aloud to anyone but a select few.

Aphrodite is less than shy about her affair with Ares — Hephaestus has known for centuries — and she is certainly one for gloating about her favorite mortals. Paris, for instance, who she is probably trying to convince Ares to choose.

“Apollo, too,” Hephaestus adds. “He seems very broken up about Hector and the child. He is vouching for Paris.” 

“Naturally,” Athena murmurs, more to herself than her friend. “He will be chosen, without a doubt.”

Hephaestus nods. “I think you are right.”

“They have been fighting over the throne, then?” she asks. She hasn’t been keeping up with Troy as much as she had during the war. 

“Yes. Since their king and crown prince are dead, there has much argument over the line of succession.”

Athena frowns. “But Paris is next in line after Hector.” 

Hephaestus looks at her through the corner of his flame-like vision. “Is he?”

The silence that forms after his words is full of unfamiliar tension. Athena rarely has conflict with him, and it is not a pretty picture whenever she does. She does not wish for the little boy to cause disagreement between them, but it is difficult when her limbs scream for her to rise and demand to know how he found out. This, however, has never been the right way to handle Hephaestus. 

Athena turns her gaze back to the pointless nursery: The owl is now accompanied by a crane, though the larger bird seems not to notice the owl’s sadness as it drinks from the fountain. As it lifts its head from the water, it notices its crestfallen brethren. It flies away from the fountain edge, supposedly leaving the owl alone.

Abandonment. Athena wonders if this tawny has done wrong somehow. Both and crow and the crane have rejected it. 

But, alas, the crane returns. In its long mouth is a mouse. It drops the rodent in front of the tawny, which suddenly rises from its sadness and eats the prey happily. It is grateful to the crane. It almost looks like an offering of forgiveness.

“I only found out when you returned,” Hephaestus smoothly interrupts the scene. “And I do not know where the child is. Only that he’s alive and under your protection.”

Athena shifts. “He does not suspect that I am a goddess.”

“I should hope not,” he says. “Logic says he’s a toddler.”

“He won’t ever suspect.” She finishes. 

He sighs, even his soot covered curls seeming to disapprove. “It will not protect him, Athena.”

“It will do enough,” she argues. “I won’t allow him to be hurt by anyone.”

“He’s but a child,” Hephaestus says.

She bristles. “You believe I don’t know that?”

“Let me finish.” He commands calmly. She stays silent, though she would have challenged him if he were anyone other than himself. She cares about what he has to say. “He is a child. And children tend to grow up. Eventually, not knowing about you will contribute to his downfall.” 

“He will not have a downfall.” Athena, again, is convincing herself more than him.

Hephaestus chuckles. “Every man has his downfall, no matter how blessed he may be.” He pauses, and Athena can see how he is considering what he should do. She holds her breath; if he tells anyone, Odysseus and the child will be completely compromised.

Their fates — and mine — rest in his hands alone. She feels her nails digging into her palms. She has always had a positive relationship with him; what reason does he have to turn her in? Would his strange loyalty to Hera outweigh his justified friendship to Athena?

Finally, after what felt like eternity, he speaks: 

“I will not tell Zeus. Or Mother. But I will not lie to any of them, be they find out on their own. You will have to face their wrath.” 

Athena releases her breath. She hopes it will never come to that. She has no desire to fight with her family. Still, she cannot ask for more from him. She nods. “Thank you, my friend.”

Hephaestus nods to her as she shifts her body and eyes away from him. She listens to the whirring of his engineered arm as it is wired back into place. As he leaves, the noise of his boots going with him, Athena feels calm. 

She folds her hands into her lap and stands. Before she can leave, however, something catches her eye:

Beside her, he has left a necklace. It is made of enchanted wire and is adorned with a golden and wooden circlet. She takes it into her hands and it is light as a feather. It is fit for a youngling. A boy blessed by a god. 

Or two.

She runs her fingers over the smooth gold. The necklace is not for her, yet it feels like an offering of forgiveness. 

|-|-|-|

Telemachus chose his cloak almost immediately after the conversation with Penelope. Eumaeus was thrilled at his choice, nearly jumping with pride and joy. Telemachus, after his conversation with Penelope, had suddenly grown very focused on the event and quickly decided on every aspect of it. 

“I must say,” Eumaeus told Penelope the night before, “I am very impressed with the boy. You have done well.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I am proud of him.” This is true, of course; she is often proud of her dear son. 

But ever since his strange words about showing her suitors who the king of Ithaca is, she has been worried he is planning some kind of revenge. She could see immediately that he despised the men for making unlawful advancements upon her; she is not thrilled about it herself.

Only now, she has no defense. Odysseus — her dearest husband, her only love — has died, leaving her widowed. The men are impeding on no laws, no foreign land. They are fully in their rights to ask for her hand, for she has no husband, no king. Only a son, whom none of them are threatened by.

“He’s a boy,” laughed Antinous. “He may be the next king, but he does not understand the power he shall have. He cannot do anything to us.” 

Penelope certainly hopes so. 

On the day of the coronation, she is escorted by Amphinomus — her favorite suitor and perhaps the only one she will be all right with marrying. The two sit with the other ten — no, twelve now — who all wish to be in Amphinomus’ place. 

“Do not worry, my queen,” he whispers to her. “They don’t have enough collective brains to think correctly.” Penelope laughs softly. 

“Talking trash already?” asks Eurymachus, another of her favorites. He is more of a friend than a suitor. “How very sweet.” 

Amphinomus waves him off. “Go back to your gambling.”

“Gambling?” Eurymachus echoes. “Please. You know more about bets than I.”

“A topic for discussion away from the lady.” 

Penelope shakes her head, though she cannot help her smile. The men have cheered her up a little. 

The queen slips her arm away from Amphinomus, using her hands to fiddle with the long braid over her left shoulder. Her dress is regal and black, with a ceremonious belt around her waist. Had Odysseus been sitting beside her, she would have flowing waves of hair and a beautiful white dress. But, alas, her love is gone. 

Still, she can imagine what he would say to her as she fidgets with her wedding ring. 

Nervous, dear heart? You needn’t worry, you know. He is a fine young man, worthy of the crown. And, of course, the women that will no doubt flock around him like they did me. No one can resist our naturally beautiful features, yes?

Penelope would laugh, agree, and kiss him on the cheek. If things were perfect, it would be like this.

“Silence!” shouts Eumaeus. “The Crown Prince Telemachus has entered!” 

The room quiets as everyone stands. Penelope turns, holding tightly to her ring. At the large doors is her dear son, a modest green cloak around his shoulders, silver trim falling from the sides. His dark hair is neatly styled, his eyes shining and a polite smile on his face. The clothes beneath the cloak are made of the finest brown leather, a golden belt clasped around his waist.

Telemachus walks down the aisle alone, as there is no need for a servant to carry a long train of cloth. He steps up to the preacher, kneeling. 

“Crown Prince Telemachus of Ithaca,” begins the preacher. “Son of Queen Penelope and the late King Odysseus. Do you swear on your heart, your life, and your honor that you will do everything possible to protect Ithaca, even at the cost of your life?” 

Telemachus replies: “I swear.”

“And do you swear to, to the best of your ability, choose a worthy and honorable queen to lead beside you?”

“I swear.”

“Finally: do you swear to fight for Ithaca and sacrifice everything you love to keep our wonderful nation alive?”

“I swear.”

The preacher smiles. “Then — by the power invested in me by the gods above in their home of Olympus — I name you King Telemachus of Ithaca.” He places a golden circlet in Telemachus’ curls. 

Telemachus now rises and turns to face his people. Penelope steps forward and, for the first time, she bows to her new king. 

She hears everyone around her following her lead, and she is certain everyone is revering to the king. Finally, Telemachus speaks:

“You may rise, my friends.” He folds his hands together, and Penelope spots both his coronation ring and the godly gift around his fingers. “Follow me to my hall now, and join me for a feast. Tonight is a time for celebration.” He goes up to his mother and offers his hand. “Mother.”

Penelope accepts the invitation, leading the procession of people out of the coronation hall. “Tel. Will you let me in on what you are planning now?” 

“Please, Mother,” he says. “I have everything handled. You don’t have to worry. Just — celebrate with me. Please?”

She frowns but nods. “Of course, my dear.” She sits beside the new king of Ithaca, at the head of the long table.

People begin to pour into the dining room, Penelope’s suitors fighting for seats closer to her. She does her best to ignore them, politely smiling when Antinous manages the chair directly beside her. 

“Eat, my friends.” Telemachus says. As the people begin on the starter course, he turns to the men crowded around Penelope. “Prince Amphinomus, yes? Son of King Nisos?”

Amphimonus blinks respectfully. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am honored you know of my parentage. My father wishes he could be here tonight, but I am afraid he is busy.”

“That’s all right,” Telemachus seems to be scrutinizing the prince with only his amber eyes. “Are you an only child?”

“Well — yes.” 

“Then I guess we have something in common.” 

Amphinomus stares for a moment, perhaps also sending the overwhelming tension. “Yes. That’s — that’s right, yes.”

Penelope clears her throat before anyone else can speak. “Some of these men come from very far away. Eurymachus is from Syme. You once told me you wanted to visit, Telemachus.”

“Tell me about it, Eurymachus.” Telemachus says.

Eurymachus pauses in his eating, his fork floating in front of his mouth. He puts it down, brushing off his clothes and putting a hand through his sand colored hair. “Well, Your Majesty, it’s an island between Rhodes and Caria. Beautiful beaches. Lovely wildlife. Anything your heart desires, really. It’s wonderful there.” Penelope is surprised by the amount of genuine reminiscence in his voice. 

Telemachus nods. “I will have to visit.”

Again, tension arises with his seemingly innocent words, causing some of the suitors to recede. Eurymachus, however, continues: “Of course! My father and I would be delighted to host you.” He pauses. “Your cloak is excellently chosen.”

“Thank you,” says Telemachus agreeably. “It was locally made here in Ithaca.” 

“Oh,” Penelope thinks for a moment. “By Selene’s mother?”

“Yes. I wanted it made by her specifically.”

Amphinomus smiles politely. “That’s very honorable. Locality is not always a priority with royalty.”

A cold hand snakes its way onto Penelope’s thigh, and she tenses. She glances at Antinous, who is beaming rather than looking as intolerable as he is. She, as usual, can say nothing.

“Yes, very impressive!” He exclaims. “Quite the king you’ll be, Telemachus, despite your young age.” 

Telemachus expression tightens but remains hospitable. “Thank you.” Penelope flinches as Antinous’ hand reaches her knee. “Mother?”

“Yes?” She replies normally, in a way she knows masks the uncomfortable truth. 

His gaze flickers between her and the suitor beside her as she cuts her quail breast easily. “Hm.” He reverts back to his beaming face and stands. “Friends!” 

Everything stops when the king speaks. Everyone puts down their utensils to listen, turning their heads up to him. Penelope resists a sigh of relief when Antinous folds both his hands together in his lap. Telemachus continues:

“Tonight’s been wonderful. I know now is when I am supposed to give a long winded speech about how I’m very lucky to be king. But, if I’m honest, I don’t think I am.” There is silence at this. “Many of you know about my father, Odysseus. He fought in the Trojan War, leaving when I was very small. Last year, we found out he had passed. It’s because of this that I’m your king now. So, no, I am not lucky.” Pain squeezes Penelope’s heart. He continues:

“But…I meant what I swore earlier. I may not be the luckiest man in the world — not exactly blessed by Olympians — but I will do my best to be your king. I will protect you from any and all things, be it inside or outside of Ithaca.” He smiles warmly for the first time that night. “You are my people. I won’t let anyone — and I mean anyone — harm you. I will be dead before I let that happen.” He then nods. “That’s all.” 

There is light applause as he sits. He turns to Penelope. “I meant it. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I know.” She brushes a piece of hair from his face. “Gods. You look just like your father.” She kisses him affectionately on the forehead, love for him swelling in her chest. “You will live up to him. I know it.”

Telemachus nods. “I will.” He glares at the suitors with fire in his eyes. “I promise.”

Notes:

sorry about how long this took to post!! I went between about 3 different pathways for Telemachus before landing on this one lol

chapter 4 should be up this month too

also thanks for the support on this story! it’s a real passion project, so it means a lot

Chapter 4: IV

Summary:

Alcaeus meets the original inhabitants of Khalkòs.

Eurylochus and Polites develop plans for returning home.

“I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.”
-Homer

|•|•|•|

The morning is the most beautiful time of day. It is before the people of the world rise for their daily duties; before the animals who walk the earth dutifully awaken; before even the magnificent sun.

They are words often spoken to the small boy on the island. So often that he knows them without understanding, and could — with practice — recite them to his father and aunt. Not that it’s a task that’s particularly interesting to him.

Alcaeus — he knows his own name the best — sits at the table with his father, carefully examining the utensil in his tiny hands. Father calls it ‘spoon’. Alcaeus has yet to discover what its purpose is. 

“Alcaeus,” says Father. The boy looks up. Father points to the bowl of mush in front of Alcaeus. “It’s for your breakfast.”

Alcaeus looks at the so-called spoon and then to his mush. He recalls other times in which he has eaten the familiar mush and nods to himself. He puts down the spoon purposefully. Father makes a big noise, one that Aunt calls ‘the sound of an old man’. 

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I don’t need spoon,” declares Alcaeus. He stretches out his arms and wiggles his fingers at Father. “I have hands.” 

“You don’t need a spoon,” corrects Father. “And I disagree. Every time you use your hands, you end up using your entire face and I have to give you a bath, remember?” 

Alcaeus shakes his head. “I don’t ‘member.”

“Remember. And I certainly hope you do,” Father uses his spoon to scoop some mush into his mouth. “Last time you screamed at me and then ran into the water yourself.” 

Alcaeus thinks for a moment. Then nods. “Yeah, I ‘mem — remember.” 

“So,” says Father, “why don’t you try and use the spoon today? If you absolutely hate it, we’ll try something else.”

Alcaeus taps his heels against the legs of his chair, which is much smaller and higher off the floor than Father’s. He picks up the spoon delicately and gives it a momentary death-glare. Then he shoves it into the mush and finds the sight of it standing upright amusing. 

“Look!” He giggles. “It standing!” 

Father hums — Alcaeus likes humming. “It certainly is. Now eat, son, before I’m forced to give it up to the seagulls.”

Alcaeus reaches for the spoon, finally ready to accept the new discovery and eat, but a mysterious sound from outside their house stops him. He whips his head around to look at the door, the charms on his necklace swinging wildly. He can hear something. Something moving. 

Of course, only one thing comes to mind. 

“DOGGIE!”

Alcaeus scrambles out of his seat, his little feet hitting the wooden floor loudly, and hurries to push open and go through the door, unable to hear his father’s shouting. The floor becomes sand beneath him, but that doesn’t stop him. He spots a dark figure moving somewhere near the trees that make up the only forest on the island, and he beelines for it.

“ALCAEUS!” That’s the only call he hears from Father before he disappears into the trees. 

|~|~|~|

There’s very little to do on an island full of trees, pigs, birds, and soldiers, if Eurylochus is being completely honest. In fairness, the island is not big — barely large enough to contain the group of trees by the shore that isn’t substantial enough to be called a forest — but it’s the most they’ve had in weeks. 

Eurylochus stopped the ship a few days earlier, seeing that the birds were diving down to rest. He remains confident in his decision to follow them until he can orient himself enough to find a way back to Ithaca. And the men are certainly happier here than they were on the ship.

A temporary camp was set up soon after they anchored, and already morale was high. Eurylochus swears he hears more laughter with each passing hour. The knowledge that they had to leave their peaceful bubble made his chest ache slightly.

He sits on a beach between the camp and the ocean, staring out at the horizon and the sky-high sun. 

“Well, you’re certainly chipper on this lovely afternoon.” 

Eurylochus half-expects to turn his head and see Polites — a frequent character in his life — and is surprised when he doesn’t. 

“Lycaon,” he greets the familiar face warmly. “What brings you to me? Is everything all right?” 

“Yes, yes, of course, your men are perfectly safe,” Lycaon waves him off as if rendering the question illogical. “I wouldn’t have left them to fend for themselves unless I thought they would be able, would I?”

Eurylochus nods, remembering Lycaon’s rescue of more than ten men during the Siege of Troy. To return to battle to save the lives of other men… it was a deed not many were attributed to.

“Then I hope you’ve come to provide me with company,” the captain begins, “or perhaps entertainment. That has been scarce for years.” 

“Naturally. War changes all. Humor can be more difficult to muster when you have seen your friends and family lay down their lives.” Lycaon’s long, dark hair billows in his face as he winks down at Eurylochus. “Unless you’re me: a true portrait of utter perfection.”

Eurylochus scoffs, recalling more than one time in which the Ithacan got himself into trouble with his so-called perfection. “I’m sure you capture the eyes of many maidens with a mindset like that.”

“Not as many as that blasted Achilles,” retorts Lycaon as he scoops sand into his palm and lets it fall through his calloused fingers. “So many swooning after him, and he chose the one person from whom he was forbidden.” 

“True enough,” Eurylochus laments. “It’s a story there will be many songs of.” 

“Not so many songs as stories of our journeys will gain!” Lycaon exclaims, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I can hear it already: 

“Across the ocean wide and blue

And through the stormy seas!

Sailed the mighty captain and

His men of liberty!”

The tune reminds Eurylochus of Ithacan wine and drinking songs. A song he would learn it its full length, if it was destined to be known.

“Oh, my captain, my captain, we shall be celebrated!” Lycaon spins on his heels, taupe brown eyes latching onto midnight black. “But first, it would be beneficial to get there.”

Eurylochus hums. “And so your purpose is revealed.”

“No, no,” the bowman places himself beside his general. “My purpose is not as cryptic as any Polites would give. I have a real, tangible idea. Something that is within our reach. If you’re willing to hear it, of course.”

A former captain once told Eurylochus to keep in mind the wisdom of his crew. They have much to offer; much they are willing to be gleaned. 

“Go on.”

Lycaon straightens his posture as he is given permission to continue. “There is a port, not far from here. The port of Sicily. I know you are determined to follow the migrating birds to their destination, but I think Sicily could be their end goal. Italy is wonderful this time of year, and a port city has much to offer a crew of six hundred.”

Eurylochus frowns as he considers. “You know where we are?”

“Where we are? No. Through where we are passing? Yes, very well.” He picks up a shell from its camouflage. “Welcome to the Strait of Messina, captain.”

The Strait of Messina. Of course! Eurylochus should have known before. He has studied far too many maps to have to be told he’s in such a famous, familiar place. 

“You trust in your memory?” He questions, as he knows Lycaon is no young lad. 

“Hey!” Lycaon places a hand upon his chest, obviously faking offense. “It was only thirty-five years ago that my father first took me through here! And I am spry for a man of forty-six, aren’t I?” 

Eurylochus grunts. “Spry as a stick, maybe.” A smile pulls at his lips when he hears the exaggerated squeak from his companion. 

“Not everybody can maintain this figure, you know,” says he. “Takes quite a lot of effort after being trapped upon a boat for months on end.”

Before Eurylochus can respond, the shell that once lay secure in Lycaon’s hand skipped across the surface of the sea. He watches, more than slightly captivated by how flawlessly the other man calculated the flick of his wrist and the angle of his toss. It is something that Odysseus did during times of deep thought. 

“I know,” Lycaon gloats, “I am amazing. Come on, now, I hear there is a bonfire planned. It is sure to smooth out some ruffled feathers — something you desperately need, hm?” 

Eurylochus rises as the far-off shell sinks into the sea from which it came. “Bonfires consist of large, noticeable flames and sinfully loud music. What isn’t there to enjoy?”

“Aha! There’s the youth in you!” Lycaon slaps him on the back with a grin and a laugh. “Better to have a night off before you must report my insights to your boss?”

“My boss?” Eurylochus crosses his arms as they approach the bustling camp. “I don’t have a boss; I am the boss.”

The apparently-seasoned sailor pats him almost soothingly. “There, there. Don’t fret, it gets easier. Everyone who grew up with Polites has gotten used to it.” 

Polites? The boss? Part of him knew Lycaon only said this as a joke of sorts, but it somehow rang true… 

Hm. Strange. 

When evening comes, as does the giant campfire that Eurylochus predicted. It’s a celebratory event, rejoicing in their temporary safety from thunderstorms and high waves. It almost pains Eurylochus to think about stripping them of it, but most of that disappears when his men cheer at the mention of their homecoming. 

Men returned earlier with pigs and chickens, which were now cooked and being passed around the group. Eurylochus watches the beaming faces of his men as they chew and drink and bellow, firelight bouncing off dark and light skin alike. To say it has been a long time since there has been this much sheer joy would be an understatement. The last time he witnessed something like this was the day before they left for Troy — nearly thirteen years ago, now.

So long away from home. So many years of war… and now, we get to return. 

The thought is enough to bring a smile to the captain’s face. 

“Well, someone’s cheered up.”

Eurylochus turns at the sound of Polites behind him. His friend, too, is smiling, his growing hair lightly billowing in the breeze. “Perhaps I have.”

Polites sits down beside him. “It’s a good thing. It’s difficult to lead if you never let yourself be happy, even for a little bit.” He nods at Lycaon, who is too busy teaching a young soldier to dance to see. “I saw the two of you speaking. Did he say something to improve your mood?”

Eurylochus hums softly. “He told me he remembers passing through here.”

“Unsurprising,” comments Polites. “He is a sailor’s son.” 

“He says this is the Strait of Messina.” Eurylochus tells him. He blinks in what is likely surprise. “He mentioned the Sicilian port, not far from here.”

“Yes, it’s only a week’s journey,” Polites muses, a glint of wonder in his eyes. “Eurylochus, this — this will change everything. If we were to go to Sicily, we would no doubt find food and shelter. Other people. They could help us draw a route back to Ithaca.”

Eurylochus hadn’t thought about how the people in Sicily could help them, but now it seems obvious. “If they told us true and gave us a safe route back then — ” 

“ — then we will be home soon.” Polites does more than smile at this; he beams. “This is a wonderful discovery!”

Eurylochus can’t help but agree. “And to think it came from Lycaon.”

Polites laughs. “Indeed, Lycaon often prioritizes his own amusement over this kind of planning.” He tilts his head fondly. “But he is a fierce warrior, as you know. And now a reliable sailor.”

“It’s a good thing he said something; I’m not sure I would’ve realized where we are if not for him.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have. You’re proficient at many things, my friend, but self-awareness is not one of them.”

Eurylochus laughs and lightly shoves Polites. “Oh, shut it.”

Polites flicks his shoulder in return. “Only when I’m dead.”

The two of them look out at the rejoicing men who often feel more like family than friends. Eurylochus feels his chest warm with pride at having come up with a way for his brothers to return home, hopefully quickly. That is certainly something to rejoice.

“Come on,” he says, standing up. He reaches out to Polites. “Let’s get some dancing in before we have to go back to reality, yes?”

Polites takes his hand, getting up. “I’ll follow your lead, captain.”

And so they went to dance around the bonfire with their brothers. 

|•|•|•|

Alcaeus is too far into the trees for Father to see him. He’s wrapped up in chasing what he believes is a puppy. If he were older, he would know that there are no dogs on Khalkós; but, alas, he is a toddler. 

Alcaeus slows to a stop when he comes to a clearing, looking around. “Puppy? Where you — where did you go?” Leaves rustled to his right. “There!” And he’s off again.

Alcaeus follows the continuous rustling, his necklace bouncing off his chest as he runs, and as he gets close he emerges from the brush and grabs for the “puppy”. 

“GOTCHA!” He giggles. But when he looks down, there is no puppy. “Aww.” He lifts his head. “Woah.”

The boy has found himself on the edge of a cliff that looks down at a part of the sea he’s never seen before. He forgets about the imaginary dog and waddles down the side of the hill. He wiggles his toes when they sink into the sand. 

Alcaeus scoops up some sand in his hands and — naturally — throws it up into the air. He giggles as it falls back on him. 

“Little boy?” 

Alcaeus startles at the voice he doesn’t know, falling onto the sand. He sneezes sand from his nose and brushes back the hair in front of his eyes. A tall figure approaches him. There’s two more shadows behind it, but they stay still. The figure kneels before the boy, and he lays eyes on its face.

Its skin is a blue-ish green, and its face is round, with black eyes. Seaweed green hair falls from its head, tied into a ponytail that lays on one of its shoulders.

“Who might you be?” It asks, curiosity in its eyes.

Alcaeus reaches out and uses his tiny hands to feel the scaly skin of the creature. “Pretty.” 

The creature blinks. “You think I’m pretty?” 

Alcaeus giggles and blubbers, putting his hands through its hair. “Pretty, pretty!” He puts his hands back in the sand in front of him. “You like sea?”

“I do,” says the creature. “I love the sea.”

Alcaeus stands up, turns, and runs into the water, staying in the shallow end. He waved to the creature. “Come!”

When the creature stands, it is much taller than the boy in the water, and he can see fins on its long legs. It walks to him, joining him in the water. Alcaeus splashes water up to it, lightly hitting its nose.

“Splash!” exclaims Alcaeus. “I splash be — because I like — I like playing.” 

“You like playing, hm?” The creature reaches down the grabs a shell from the shore. It blows on it and it begins to sparkle and shimmer in the sun. The creature offers the shell to Alcaeus. 

Alcaeus takes it from the creature’s sea green hand, feeling the bumps and the smooth interior. He finds a certain joy in watching it sparkle. 

“My name is Euanthe,” it tells Alcaeus, kneeling again. “I’m what you call a nymph.”

“A — a niff?” Alcaeus attempts.

Euanthe chuckles. “A nymph.”

“N… nym… ph.” He tries again. “Nymph.” He looks at the nymph. “Nymph Euanthe.”

Euanthe smiles. “That’s right. I’m a girl nymph.” She points to the other nymphs that remain partly hidden in the trees. “Those are my siblings, Euclid and Nerine. Euclid is my brother, and Nerine is our little sister.” 

Alcaeus waves at them. The two shyly wave back. “They nymphs like you?”

“Yes, they are,” Euanthe nods. “Nymphs are really good swimmers and love being in the sea. It’s almost like we’re a part of it.” She moves her hand elegantly, and a bubble of water formed in the air.

Alcaeus gasps. She guides the water easily, and he jumps up to try and touch it. She keeps it from his reach, and each time she moves it he follows. He giggles happily, and — finally — Euanthe drops the water on his head. He squeals in delight, sopping wet. 

“Child,” begins Euanthe. “Can you tell me your name?”

Alcaeus splashes around, beaming. Then he looks back to Euanthe. He again touches her face, wanting to feel the scales that he rather loved. He let go and said:

“I’m Alcaeus.” 

Notes:

I’m back!!!
I took a hiatus to finish school, and now I’m back for the summer!!

next chapter sometime in this upcoming week

<3,
alex

Chapter 5: V

Summary:

Telemachus snoops. (He’s the king. He’s allowed.)

Athena spends time with her family. (It’s not fun in the slightest.)

Penelope pretends not to notice her sons’s escapades. (She notices all of them.)

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”
-Socrates

|-|-|-|

His mother’s suitors — far too nice a name for them, in his opinion — have been in the palace for two weeks. Telemachus has admittedly not been king for long, but he’s less focused on matters of state and more on matters of keeping asses away from his mother. It frustrates Eumaeus rather deeply. 

“You’re the king of Ithaca!” The man often reminds him. “Act like it!”

Telemachus finds that his advisor’s… advice seldom aligns with the important tasks of the day. Checking around the palace, for instance, making sure the cooks and housekeepers and servants are taken care of. He much prefers talking with all of them over mulling about documents and mindlessly reading words that only jumble in his head.

He likes taking care of the people in his care. Why shouldn’t that be kingly? 

This morning, Telemachus is sitting quietly in his room, eating breakfast. His crown is set beside him, on the windowsill, and he is occupied with writing in his journal. It’s a practice he started last week, and he’s liked it very much thus far.

It gives him space to say what he’s actually feeling, seeing as he can’t simply waltz into Antinous’ quarters and shout at him. Even Telemachus knows that would be too far, despite his burning desire to do it anyway. 

Sunlight just barely seeps into the bedroom as the sun rises, and Telemachus squints so he can continue writing. The sunrise means he should be heading downstairs to the main hall, where he can keep a close eye on the men who are invading his home. That is a kingly job he takes very seriously. 

Telemachus finishes his entry and closes his journal, swapping it for his crown. He gets up as he places the crown atop his head, and he fastens a thin green cloak around his shoulders. He’s getting used to all the heavy clothing, but he’s not quite there yet and he prefers to wear cloaks that aren’t half his weight. 

Telemachus straightens his shirt before leaving his room. He twists the owl ring that is slipped on his right ring finger, trying to extinguish the feelings of anger that were already coming over him. 

A king mustn’t be angry every day, he tells himself. I must save it for a special occasion. And oh, how he planned to. 

To his dismay, when Telemachus finishes descending the stairwell and walking through the hall, there are two of his mother’s suitors already sitting on the couches. He remembers them as Eurymachus of Same and Leodes son of Oenops. 

“Your Majesty!” Eurymachus greets him and they both rise, bowing. “Wonderful morning, isn’t it?”

Telemachus kept his mouth in a straight line. “Yes. Very nice.” 

Leodes gestures to the chair beside him. “Would you like to join us, my liege?”

Telemachus has to restrain a groan at the offer but accepts anyway. He strides over to the chair and sits down. He actually did like this chair; it wasn’t incredibly firm like so many others.

“So,” begins Leodes, “about your mother…”

Telemachus narrows his eyes, just barely. “What of her?”

“Well, you must know we’re all here to compete for her hand,” says the suitor, grinning as if it were a feat to be harassing a queen. “I was wondering if, perhaps, you had any suggestions?”

Suggestions? Really?

He clenched his fists into the fabric of his pants. “I guess it depends on what you want to know.” 

Leodes perked up at that. “Well I was thinking — ”

“Oh, give it a rest, Leo,” Eurymachus cuts him off before he can say anything else stupid. “Do you really think the king wants to talk about how best to garner favor with his mother? We’re already impeding on their space; we should tread carefully when asking those questions.” 

Telemachus blinks in surprise. He wasn’t expecting anything logical to come out of any of their mouths. In fact, he was expecting exactly what Leodes nearly started, and even more annoying habits like it. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Leodes relents. “As usual.” He gives Telemachus an apologetic look. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I got carried away for a moment.”

Telemachus nods slowly. “Forgiven.” For that and only that. 

“I must say, your palace is magnificent,” says Eurymachus, clearly wanting to keep up a conversation of some sort. “One of the best I’ve seen — and trust me when I say I’ve seen plenty.” He chuckles. 

Telemachus twists his ring once. “That’s very kind of you.” He rolls his eyes internally, realizing he has to be at least somewhat hospitable. “I’m sure your home is just as… magnificent.” 

“It certainly is,” the suitor says proudly. “It would be marvelous to host you and your mother one day. If either of you wish to visit.”

Telemachus twitches slightly. That was a strange thing for Eurymachus to say if he was truly in pursuit of Penelope’s hand. If he were, wouldn’t he only mention hosting Telemachus? 

You’re thinking too hard about this, his mind scolds him. He’s here to harass Mother. He deserves what’s coming to him. 

Telemachus rises, putting on his king mask. “Can I offer you a tour around the palace? I’m sure there’s a lot you still haven’t seen.”

Eurymachus smiles politely. “That would be lovely, Your Majesty.” 

“Lovely indeed!” Leodes adds. 

Telemachus tries not to grimace at Leodes and instead focuses on getting them away from the living area. “Follow me; I’ll take you to the kitchens.”

He leads them through the tall, regal hallways that, more often than not, make Telemachus feel small and powerless. He has no memories of his father walking through them, but he’s more than positive that they didn’t make the king of Ithaca feel like an insect beneath a spyglass. 

Former king of Ithaca. 

Telemachus makes comments about the rooms they pass, playing into the tour charade. He’s careful to leave out any comments that may insinuate any of Ithaca’s vulnerabilities; those are for him to know and them to wonder. 

Eurymachus and Leodes are very responsive to Telemachus’ descriptions, asking questions that actually helps them understand the world they’ve intruded. They ask about the various traditions and history that are a part of every room they pass and wonder about the colors of tapestries. Telemachus answers them with an air of pride — pride in his country and his people.

It is because of his pride in them that he is doing what he is. No one — outsider or not — will come close to harming Ithaca while Telemachus is king. And by the time he’s done with his mother’s suitors, no one — outsider or not — will dare to try. 

“Hey, our rooms are down here,” Leodes says as they pass the guest wing. “Well — some of our rooms.”

Ah, right. Because there’s too many of them to fit in one hall. Telemachus forces a smile. 

“I hope they’re comfortable.”

— and that insects climb in your ears while you sleep. 

“They are,” Eurymachus assures him. “It’s very kind of you to — ”

“Antinous!” Leodes’ call cuts off Eurymachus’ attempt to gain Tel’s favor. “Euryades! Amphimedon!” 

The three men who were called emerge from the guest ward. Upon seeing Telemachus, they all offer a bow — although Antinous doesn’t bow nearly low enough compared to the others. 

“What’s going on?” asks Amphimedon. “Anything we should know?”

Telemachus answers, “Would you like to join us? I’m taking them on a tour of the palace; we’re heading to the kitchens now.”

Euryades nods. “I have time to spare.”

“You always make time when a king offers such a pleasant surprise,” Antinous explains. “Even if it’s a dire situation, you mustn’t reject the king.”

Telemachus doesn’t agree with that; if one of his subjects had a truly profound reason to reject something he offered them, he would allow it. He doesn’t like how Antinous seems to be creating rules he has no jurisdiction over. 

“I take it that’s a yes?” Telemachus clarifies.

All five men around him agree with their own forms of “yes, Your Majesty”. Telemachus still isn’t sure if he loves or despises how everyone calls him Your Majesty now that he’s king. He understands why, but that doesn’t stop him from being slightly uncomfortable when he hears it. 

Telemachus leads the chattering men past another wing and a stained glass window that depicts his grandfather’s coronation. Odysseus’ was placed upstairs, by his former bedroom. A sort of homage to him or something similar.

“Here we are,” Telemachus announces as they reach the kitchens. “You’re free to go inside and ask them whatever you like. And to request food. I need to go attend to something, so could you all stay here until I return?” It’s a question, but he means it more as an order. 

Eurymachus bows. “We won’t move a muscle.”

Telemachus gives him a thankful smile that’s not thankful at all. He wants to sneer at Eurymachus, but he restrains himself. He watches the five suitors enter the kitchens and begin speaking to the cooks and servers. Telemachus watches them for a couple of moments and then shoots off.

Okay, Telemachus, think, he says to himself as he walks briskly down the halls. If I want to find what I need, I need to be careful. No one can see me. Even if he’s the king, he’s almost positive no one will take kindly to finding him snooping in someone else’s quarters. 

I could just say it’s royal business, he suggests. That’s not particularly a lie, is it? It is royal business, considering Telemachus is the king — a royal — and it’s his business. 

Royal business. Makes complete sense. 

Telemachus slows his pace as he enters the guest wing. The hall is lit up, and he doesn’t see any signs of suitors wandering. He gently pushes open the first door on his left and prays there’s no one inside. 

And, of course, there is. 

It’s Peisander, if Telemachus remembers correctly. Son of Polyctor and from somewhere in Egypt. 

Peisander is sprawled on his bed, face down, and snoring loudly. Telemachus has never heard a louder snore; but that’s not his purpose right this moment. 

Telemachus creeps over to the bedside table every guest room is equipped with and quietly opens the top drawer. He grimaces at the socks he finds. Nothing interesting in there. 

He then explores the second and third drawers and still finds very little. There is a fourth drawer, but Telemachus is fairly sure Peisander doesn’t have any more undergarments he already has — which is a lot. 

It’s probably empty. He tells himself. But he doesn’t leave the room. He purses his lips and slides open the bottom drawer. To his delight, there’s not undergarments inside but instead — !

“…a necklace?” His whisper makes Peisander change his position, this time facing the Telemachus while on his side. Telemachus, again, grimaces at the sleepy, squished face of the suitor. 

Telemachus takes the necklace — made of amethyst or something of the like — and places it in the inside pocket of his cloak. Then, he leaves the room as silently as possible. 

Telemachus does the same thing for each of the suitors’ rooms, searching for anything potentially useful. Unfortunately for him, his best discoveries are the necklace from Peisander, a pair of earrings from Eurydamas, and a letter Demoptolemus received from his mother (Telemachus didn’t bother keeping that one). 

Telemachus decides he must go to the additional rooms Leodes mentioned and makes a few incorrect guesses before ending up in the right wing. It’s the wing for any of the queens’ most treasured friends. Telemachus has met many great women who roamed this wing and slept in these quarters. 

And now these men intrude. He clenches his fists. Not for long.

Telemachus comes up empty handed for most of the rooms — just his luck — before entering Antinous’. He’s much more relaxed going in, since he knows the suitor is currently occupied by the kitchens. 

To Telemachus’ mild surprise, the room is extremely orderly. The bed is made; the window drapes are closed; his shoes are lined up neatly by the door. Spick and span is what it is, if Telemachus is being honest. 

After searching the bedside table — for the millionth time finding nothing — his eye catches on a stack of paper sitting upon Antinous’ travel bag. Telemachus feels inclined to look; so he does. 

For the most part, it’s letters from his home and maps of Ithaca, which he also found in nearly every other room. But below all the junk, there lay a letter that isn’t from Antinous’ family or friends. 

My lord Antinous - 

While it is a joyous voyage you are preparing to make, I feel inclined to share with you some very important details regarding your ship. Because of the rather spontaneous nature of your journey, I wasn’t able to fortify it the way I would’ve liked.

It’s extremely sensitive to the elements — particularly rain and fires. Most ships can recover from water damage and charred decks, but this ship absolutely cannot. If there are any complications of the sort, it will sink, and you will have no way to stop it. 

It is because of this, my lord, that I implore you to remain civil to your hosts in Ithaca. They are not a weak country. I shudder to think what would happen to you if you were to displease their king or queen. 

Other than those minor complications, your ship is perfectly safe to traverse the sea. Enjoy your time in Ithaca.

Your Obedient Servant,

Thaeus

A weakness in Antinous’ ship. The perfect weakness. One that’s so easily exploitable that it feels almost like a dream. Telemachus folds the letter and placed it in his pocket, then replaces the stack of paper he went through.

Telemachus makes haste returning to the kitchens; he’s not really sure how long he’s been gone. When he arrives, the five suitors have become eight, and they are all eating and laughing. 

“Ah, His Majesty returns!” Amphimedon exclaims. “Come, King of Ithaca, join us!”

Telemachus doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

Telemachus isn’t lying when he says he’s happy. He’s much more than happy. He’s ecstatic. Excited! Thrilled, even! And all because of one letter. The letter that is basically a guide on how to weaken Antinous and possibly some of the others. 

With that fateful letter, resting in his cloak, the king of Ithaca is one step closer to enacting revenge. 

|•|•|•|

Athena returns to Olympus after three days with Odysseus and the child. She’s found herself more and more enraptured by the small human’s growth and development. She would be lying if she said she doesn’t feel a glimmer of joy every time Alcaeus calls her Aunt.

She’s never been someone’s aunt, despite her rather large family. Gods are different when it comes to these things, though, as she knows very well. Her father may have many, many children, but she only considers a small number of them her siblings. With Ares, it’s always been easy, seeing as they’ve been sparring since they were able. Ares grew much slower than Athena did, but not every god is born full-grown. 

Ares was an… interesting boy. His love for violence came out in various ways when he was young, and Hera and Zeus’ constant praise only facilitated it. If Athena’s honest, she blames them for his being so attached to grand murder schemes and wars that stretch across oceans. 

Today is a “special day” in Olympus. It’s the anniversary of Zeus and Hera’s marriage, and every god has been invited. Athena has always loathed the event — she hasn’t ever seen the point of it — and normally left once the arguing began. 

But, nonetheless, Athena has prepared herself to go. She chose the appearance of a young maiden so as to please the goddess of marriage, but made certain to keep her weapons in eyeshot. It isn’t far fetched to imagine the event becoming violent. 

Athena places her circlet of laurels upon her head — it’s her trademark. The laurels, golden as the sun, represent the many she’s placed upon the heads of worthy mortals. The last time she did, however, feels like a millennium ago. 

Athena steps out of the comfort of her home and onto the marble bridge that connects most of Olympus. She follows the singular path, eventually finding herself in front of the Olympian Temple that sits in the middle of Olympus. 

“Athena!” The voice of a messenger shoots through the air, to which Athena turns. “How are you?” 

Hermes, god of… a variety of things. He’s chosen an appearance that reminds Athena of Achilles, the late Aristos Achaion, and she casts a skeptical look at him. 

“Ares is going to be mad,” she warns. “So is Aphrodite. And Apollo.” 

Hermes grins. “I know! Isn’t it great?” 

“If you’re interested in a trip to the Fields of Punishment, yes.” 

“Oh, come on, it’s not that serious.” His unconcerned manner reminds Athena of one of his more notable attributes.

Mischief. 

Athena knows she’ll make little difference in Hermes’ choice, so she relents. “Just know I won’t be coming to rescue you.”

“Athena, dear!” Hermes threw an unwelcome arm around her shoulders. “I would never expect such a thing!”

Athena rolls her eyes as she escapes his embrace, opting to join whatever fray is inside the temple. She can hear Hermes laughing as she walks away, but she doesn’t bother sparing him another word. 

Inside, it’s bustling. Gods from every part of the world are in attendance. Athena spots the wind gods Boreas and Zephyrus chatting with who Athena assumes to be Artemis. 

Rather unusual, she thinks, frowning. They aren’t normally invited. She notices Hestia then, speaking with who could only be Nike and Hecate. Unusual indeed. 

Athena knows that Zeus harbors and strange dislike for Hecate in particular. Something about her being the goddess of magic — both evil and otherwise — makes him feel threatened. So why would he invite her? 

As she begins to wander around, chatting idly, she continues to notice the presence of gods that are either minor compared to the Olympians or disliked by Hera or Zeus. It’s exceedingly strange. 

“I suppose you’ve noticed.”

Athena blinks herself back to reality, where she was talking with Dionysus and his wife Ariadne. “Noticed?”

“The guest list,” clarifies Dionysus. He’s already holding a chalice of wine and looks to be barely enjoying himself. “Ariadne isn’t usually invited either. Though I bring her whether or not she is.”

Athena glances around the room — Is that Nemesis? — before nodding to Dionysus. “It’s not at all like past years.”

“I rather like it,” comments Ariadne, who is the epitome of kindness and wit in Athena’s opinion. “There’s people here who actually want to talk to me. It’s refreshing.” 

“I can imagine.” Athena replies. Ariadne was once mortal — the wife of Theseus — until he abandoned her. When Dionysus happened upon her, they fell in love and married, and she became a goddess. 

“I suppose you’re waiting on motor brain,” Dionysus suggests, swirling his chalice with a bored expression. 

Athena can’t deny she wants Hephaestus to be here; he’s one of the only ones she can tolerate. “He can find me when he arrives. I won’t be quite as hidden as I usually am.” She wants to investigate the new guest list. 

“If only he were single and you weren’t so against marriage, hm?” Dionysus gulps down his entire cup. “Whoever made this wine needs to be fired.”

Ariadne chuckles. “I’m fairly sure you did, dear.”

“Me?” He grumbles to himself. “Someone must’ve sabotaged it then; my wine is able to make gods drunk with a single sip! And look at everyone!” He shakes his head. “Positively sober.”

Athena doesn’t bother going back to his comment about Hephaestus. She’s had several gods assume things about them, despite their knowledge of her refusal to get married and chain herself down and his mildly infuriating infatuation with his unfaithful wife. It’s always amusing when the two of them discuss matrimony.

Athena leaves Dionysus and Ariadne to themselves and approaches three minor gods: Nemesis, Asclepius, and Aether. Revenge, medicine, and sky. 

“Oho, an Olympian comes to engage with us?” Nemesis sneers. “Shall we thank you for your time?” She’s tall, very tall, with flowing black hair and sharp green eyes. Quite the choice. 

“No.” Athena says. “I want to ask about the nature of your invitations. What they entailed.”

Aether, appearing like an astrologist, raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so curious?”

“She doesn’t think we should’ve been invited,” Nemesis spits before Athena can respond. 

“That is not why,” the goddess of wisdom narrowed her eyes. Did Nemesis think she could get a rise out of her? The goddess of war strategy? How confident. “I’m suspicious of the guests of honor’s reasons for inviting you.”

Asclepius hums softly. “They’ve never invited me before, if that’s what you’re wondering. It was quite the surprise when I received the invitation.” His choice to appear like a young doctor will no doubt please his father Apollo. 

“Do you suppose this is a scheme?” Aether asks. 

“Possibly.” Athena murmurs. “Hera seldom ignores a chance to embarrass the king.”

“Oh, are we embarrassing?” Nemesis says in a condescending tone that would make Athena strike down a mortal. “How unfortunate.”

“If you make a fool of yourself, then yes,” Athena tells her calmly. “That’s nothing to do with us.”

Nemesis glares at her. “Us. You. Like putting us into groups, do you?”

Her attempts at angering Athena fall short. Leagues short. Athena hasn’t been truly angered by a fellow god in quite a while, and she isn’t keen on repeating it. 

“Your invitation,” she says to Asclepius. “Did anything seem suspicious?”

Asclepius thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve nothing to compare it to.”

Because they’ve never been invited. Athena frowns. Making it that much easier to manipulate them.

Before she can ask any further questions, a bell is rung. It’s the Olympian Bell, used regularly during council meetings. Its ring is the loudest in existence and can reach all corners of the world if its handler wishes. 

Everyone’s heads turn to the center of the temple, where a raised platform sits. After a few moments of silence, two figures waltz down from what seems to be the ceiling and land in the center. A blue form and a pink one. 

Zeus and Hera. 

“Gods and goddesses!” Zeus begins, his voice loud and clear in everyone’s ears. “Welcome to the anniversary of me and my beautiful wife!”

Applause echoes through the room; Athena only claps softly. 

“This year is particularly special,” Hera announces, playing into the charade of a perfect marriage. “As many of you know, the Trojan War has recently come to a most abrupt close.”

Abrupt? Athena scoffs internally. It was ten years of bloodshed. I wouldn’t call that abrupt. 

“After the Grecian army retreated with their victory, Troy was left in shards,” Hera says as if it’s a tragedy Troy fell. “They were without a ruler; without a true king.” 

Athena furrows her brow, her suspicion growing. Where is this going?

“But — with the help of many of you here today — Prince Paris has been coronated as King of Troy!” 

Cheers explode throughout the crowd, none from Athena. Nemesis, too, seems appalled by the speech by her lack of support and fuming eyes. 

“So, it is with joyous hearts that we celebrate today as not only a memoir of a wonderful marriage.” Hera loops her arm through Zeus’. “But also as the day Troy rises from ashes!”

Again, cheers. Athena swears she can hear Apollo over everyone else. 

“That little…” Nemesis mutters so quietly Athena barely heard. 

“Go, now, and enjoy this day.” Zeus ends the speech. In a split second, glittering spheres begin to fall from the ceiling and land gently on the ground. 

Athena is almost certain she knows why the additional invitations were sent out, but not completely. It does no good to make accusations without merit. 

“You Olympians,” Nemesis growls to Athena. “Always messing around! To think you — who calls herself mighty — can support a pig like Paris.”

“Well, then, I suppose it’s good I don’t.” Athena says. Nemesis blinks, seemingly taken aback. Good. Athena walks away, not interested in the revenge goddess’ futile attempts to anger her. 

Athena keeps her hand on the hilt of her sword as she traverses the crowd, paying attention to any potential threat to Hera, Zeus, or otherwise. As she does, she runs directly into someone else. 

Who in the — ? Athena is about ready to chew out whoever didn’t see an obvious roadblock, but paused. 

“Heya, sis!” Ares grins, showing his sharp teeth. “Paris on the throne… it’s a happy, happy day. Isn’t it?”

For you. Athena thinks but doesn’t say, instead noticing the two behind Ares. Aphrodite, unsurprisingly, and —

“Hephaestus,” she says, almost in disbelief. Hephaestus is traipsing around with these two? “I was beginning to wonder where you were.” 

“With his loving wife, of course,” Aphrodite kisses her husband’s misshapen cheek. She is uncannily beautiful, as always. “Where else would he be?”

With the ones who care about him, perhaps? Athena bites her tongue despite the rampant desire to say something. She’s not trying to incite any fights. 

“Come, sister, talk with me!” Ares puts his arm around Athena. 

“If you don’t take your arm off me you will have to grow a new one.” 

Ares cackles at that, but obliges. “Oh, Athena. Always one for jokes, hm?” He straightens his charcoal black vest. 

“Bold of you to assume it was a joke.” Athena retorts. 

Again, he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his entire life. “I just can’t get enough of you! Come on, let’s walk together, you and I.”

Athena glances once at Hephaestus before reluctantly following her brother. He leads her to the outskirts of the crowd, where it’s just quiet enough to hear clearly. 

“Was it your plan, then?” Athena asks. 

Ares cocks an eyebrow. “Was what my plan?”

“Don’t play dumb; you’re horrible at it,” she snaps. “Are you the one who got all these minor gods to show up?”

“You think that was me?” He runs his left hand through his hair. Athena notices a golden gleam on his ring finger. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“To cause a fight,” she says like it’s obvious — because it is. “Half of the gods here either hated the war or hate Paris, and Hera just announced his coronation to all of them.”

Ares bobs his head side to side. “It’s a real fun game, isn’t it? But! Alas, it’s not my doing. If it were, there would already be bodies dropping.”

Athena doesn’t doubt that. Still, she’s not sure if he’s completely free from blame. So, she mentions her other concern. “Why are you dragging around Hephaestus like a lost puppy?” 

“A lost puppy?” Ares bellows with laughter again. “More like a sheep following his shepherd. He came with the whole Aphrodite package and he refuses to leave her side when I’m around.” He smiles like he and Athena share some sort of joke. “Do you think he’s trying to stop us from seeing each other?”

Athena glares at him. “She’s unfaithful to him, why wouldn’t he want to try and stop it?” She steps closer. “I’m sure if Aphrodite found out about your other romantic escapades, she’d follow you around, too.”

A dark expression flashes across his face. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, trust me,” she narrows her eyes at him, “I dare.”

Before anything more can happen between them — likely a fight — the unmistakable sound of blades clashing fills the temple. 

Athena unsheathes her sword and pushes through the gods doing nothing but spectating. When she does, she lays eyes upon three separate fights.

Apollo and Thetis. Hermes and Amphitrite. Nemesis and —

Oh gods.

Athena races forward and yanks Nemesis away from Hera, defending herself and her queen with her sword. 

“You?!” Nemesis fumes.

“Hello again.” Athena pushes forward, sending Nemesis sprawling into the crowd. “Have some advice: don’t attack the queen of Olympus while you’re in Olympus.”

Hera stands beside Athena, looking anything but scared. “Pathetic little girl. Doesn’t like that Paris is king.” She grumbles something beneath her breath. “I never said I was the biggest fan either.”

“Really?” Athena readies her blade as Nemesis begins to rise. “Your speech certainly insinuated otherwise.” 

“I didn’t write that slop,” Hera hisses. “I just recited it.”

Nemesis charges, again blocked by Athena’s much more powerful blade. Nemesis retreats her sword and attempts to swing at Athena’s chest, but she’s easily blocked by her opponent.

“You can’t beat me,” Athena tells her. “I’m the goddess of war.” She disarms Nemesis with a flick of her sword and points the tip at the other goddess’ neck. “And you’re in my domain.” 

“Nasty Olympians!” Nemesis shouts, slipping away from Athena. The other fights have been stopped now, too, the minor gods subdued. “You invite us here and then insult us! You wonder why we despise you so: because you care about nothing except yourselves!”

The whole temple is quiet, listening. Nemesis continues, “This gathering was nothing but a practical joke among the twelve of you. Well, by the River Styx I hope you found it funny!” Thunder booms when she says this. “This will not be the end. You started this!” She takes a deep breath. “And one day, you’ll be begging us to finish it.”

With her last word, she disappears. The other minor gods and goddesses follow her example, leaving the Olympians to themselves.

“Who do they think they are?” Zeus demands. “I should strike them all down!”

“You are the one who invited them all,” Hephaestus speaks for the first time that night. “You have only yourself to blame.”

“They’ve threatened war!” Ares exclaims. “We should take the fight to them!”

“And what, destroy the other deities who keep the world balanced?” Artemis shakes her head, a silver braid falling onto her shoulder. “That would mean the end of us all.”

Apollo gives a firm nod. “I agree! Some of my children are minor gods; are you planning to strike them down, too?”

“Perhaps we’ll only bring back Nemesis,” Hera suggests, her tone cool and dangerous. “Punish her for attacking the queen of Olympus.”

“You could’ve easily avoided this,” begins Dionysus, whose eyes have turned angry and protective. “You brought up the war and Paris! Is it not controversial enough for you?”

“The discussion of Paris should be had,” Poseidon wears a deep frown on his dark-toned face. “But it shouldn’t have happened here.”

“Paris can be discussed later,” Hestia speaks up, her often soft tone hardened by the conflict. “We have much bigger enemies.”

“We certainly do,” Hermes brushes off his foolish costume. Athena catches Poseidon glaring at the messenger god. “I can’t facilitate a war like this.”

“We would give them quite the fight,” Aphrodite muses. “At least — I know I would.”

Arguing begins between the Olympians, their clashing beliefs causing the same problem that started the Trojan War. The war that claimed so many lives; the war that violently divided the gods; the war that began with bloodshed and ended with bloodshed. 

The war that could’ve killed the little boy who ran to her whenever he saw her. 

“ENOUGH!” Athena bellows, channeling her anger. The room goes quiet. “Look at us! Fighting like caged animals! Are we not the Twelve Olympians?! Are we not the leaders of this world?!” No one responds, not even Zeus. “If we act like this — if we continue to act like this — we are doomed to become exactly what Nemesis said. We are doomed to start another war!” 

All eyes are on her, as they have been during war councils and celebrations alike. 

“Another war, so soon after the Trojans and Grecians stopped fighting, would do nothing but destroy us,” Athena voices what she’s been thinking the whole time. “I may be the goddess of war, but I do not desire more death.” She glares at Ares. “I do not condone more bloodshed.”

“We have already been threatened,” he glowers at her. “You would have us simply ignore it?”

“I would have us acknowledge our wrongs,” she implores. “To set this trap was a horrible mistake. And if we don’t acknowledge that, does that make us any better than them?” There’s no response.

Athena feels her tone soften. “Our world cannot handle more senseless violence.” Alcaeus flashes in her mind. “And I doubt we can.” 

Silence fills the room. Athena has said what she thinks; she will not apologize for it. She will accept any punishment with open arms.

“Daughter,” Zeus calls to her. She faces her father, prepared for the judgment he passes. His powerful eyes and stature are acknowledged and feared all throughout the room.

If this is my end, Athena thinks, then so be it.

And then, Zeus says: 

“What is your plan?” 

|-|-|-|

Tel has been acting strange. He tries to hide it, tries to act normal, but Penelope sees straight through him. She hasn’t mentioned it — he hasn’t come to her yet so she assumes it’s nothing dire — but she’s made a point to keep an eye on him.

That is, she keeps an eye on him when she’s not smothered by men.

When they first arrived, Penelope was willing to be welcoming and hospitable — They were princes and nobles from neighboring countries, why wouldn’t she? — but she can’t deny she’s annoyed now. 

Penelope is hardly ever alone, always being trailed and pestered by at least one of the suitors. She has been doing her very best to maintain her composure, but it is becoming more difficult by the day.

As of now, Penelope is reading in the courtyard. Correction — trying to read. Agelaus, son of Damastor, is sitting across from her, trying to “woo” her.

“What’s your ideal courting style?” He asks. “Just from my general curiosity.”

Penelope doesn’t look up from her book. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever been courted once.”

“Oh, and how did that go?”

Well, he’s sharp, isn’t he? She replies, “I married him.”

Every time she mentions her previous marriage, whichever suitor she’s speaking to becomes very awkward. Only Eurymachus and Amphinomus have ever had an actual response. Antinous, too, doesn’t become awkward at all, but his comments are never kind.

“That’s lovely! Um… how did you… meet?” Agelaus is clearly struggling to come up with more conversation. “Stupid question; let’s go back to you! What’s your favorite flower?”

Penelope has been asked that eight times already. “Lillies.” It’s a lie; she changes her answer every time one of them asks. She’s decided only Odysseus and Telemachus will know her preferences.

Odysseus. 

Every time she thinks about him, she longs for him. Longs to be held, to be danced with like she’s the only woman in the whole world. Only Odysseus has ever made her feel that way. She is more than certain no one else can. 

He couldn’t even say goodbye. 

The thought brings tears to her eyes. Along with it come the various ways in which her beloved husband could’ve died.  She’s been told most consistently that he disappeared after charging into Troy, but no one knows exactly how he died.

Penelope prefers to imagine he was fighting valiantly. That he was moving forward with his men with no intention of retreat. That when he was struck down, his final thoughts were of Ithaca. Of Telemachus. Of her. 

“Mother.”

Tel’s voice reels Penelope back in. “Oh — hello, darling.” She glances around. “Agelaus…?”

“He left,” says Tel simply. Penelope senses something is left out but ignores it. “I was wondering if you want to take a walk down to shore?”

The notion isn’t disliked. Penelope and Tel have always walked down to shore when they wanted to get away from the palace. But that was when Tel was a prince and she was a queen with limited power. 

“Have you finished all your duties?” She asks him, falling back into her motherly behavior.

Tel pouts. “Why do you and Eumaeus always ask me that?” 

“Because you tend to fall behind,” Penelope closes her book. “It’s not that we’re angry with you.” She smiles. “I couldn’t be angry with you, you’re much too adorable.”

Tel scowls. “I’m not adorable! I’m a king!”

She cradles his face and kisses his nose. “Most adorable king I’ve ever met.”

“Mother!” He complains and he sounds suspiciously like the child she’s known for thirteen years. 

Penelope retreats. “Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

Tel crosses his arms. “Maybe I should command you to help yourself.”

“Command me?” She laughs. “And how exactly would you do that?”

“Easy.” He puffs up his chest and puts his hands on his hips after adjusting his crown. “I, King Telemachus of Ithaca, command you, Queen Penelope of Ithaca, to restrain your affectionate tendencies whenever you can.” 

Penelope smiles brightly at that. “That was good!”

“See?” He reverts back to his original stance — his normal stance. “I’m an expert at kingly orders.”

A burst of fondness explodes in her chest. “Of course you are, my child.” She sighs. “You are growing up far too fast, you know. Can’t wait up for me.”

Tel stares at her for a moment before hugging her tightly. Penelope holds her son, wanting never to release him. 

He’s still so young. She tried to send her thoughts to Olympus. Let him be young. Even if it’s for just a day. Let him be young. 

“Tel,” she says quietly. He hums in acknowledgment. “You really should stop sneaking around the suitors’ quarters.”

Tel retreats from the embrace at that, sitting beside her. “You — ? What — ? How did you — ?”

“I’m not oblivious,” Penelope reminds him. “Why are you snooping?”

“I’m not snooping; I’m maintaining my accounts of the suitors by updating my knowledge of them.” He huffs. “It’s working nicely, by the way.”

Penelope sighs. “I’m sure.” 

They’re quiet for some time. Penelope wants to press — Why is he snooping? What is he looking for? — but she doesn’t want to impede on his newfound freedom. She doesn’t want him to feel like he has to hide even more from her. 

Penelope stands, taking her book from its place. “Come. Let’s go down to the shore.”

Tel brightens immediately and jumps up. The two of them follow their favorite path down to the edge of the water, chatting about anything and everything. Penelope finds herself laughing often. Tel has his father’s knack for humor.

When they reach the beach, they both feel this is their moment to relax. The king of Ithaca takes off his cloak, shoes, and vest and steps into the sea . Penelope sets down her book and joins him, not bothering to lift her skirt.

In the water, they splash and play like everything’s the same as it was before the news of Odysseus’ death. They smile brightly and laugh heartily. Penelope shrieks when he splashes her and he cowers when she fights back. 

They stay there, on the beach, by the water for hours. Penelope is sitting up, finally able to read her book; Tel lies beside her, staring up at the sky.

“Mother?” 

Penelope looks over. “Yes?”

“I know Father’s not here anymore, but…” Tel makes eye contact with his mother. “I’m still happy you’re here.”

Penelope’s heart swells with love at that. “I’m happy you’re here, too.” She grins. “Cute little pie.” She pokes him on the nose.

“Hey!” He exclaims. “I ordered you not to!”

“Oops,” she shrugs. “I guess I forgot. And I’m betting if he doesn’t run, the king of Ithaca is going to get a hug he can’t escape in three…”

Tel jumps up. 

“Two…”

He races into the water. 

“One!”

And so mother chases son into the water, neither of them caring about dirtying their clothes. The joy that radiates off the beach in this moment is something that neither Penelope nor Telemachus will soon forget, no matter what tries to pull them apart.

Come what may, they will always be Penelope and Telemachus. They will always be mother and son. 

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed the fluffy moments, because it may be one of the last ones you get… 😈

Chapter VI coming next week

<3,
alex

Chapter 6: VI

Summary:

Odysseus meets his son’s new friends.

Polites reminds Eurylochus of patience.

Notes:

this chapter was beta’d by the amazing QuinnTales08. i love you!!!!

CONTENT WARNING: nightmares, graphic descriptions of corpses, survivor’s guilt, drowning

“The fates have given mankind a patient soul.”
-Homer, The Iliad

|•|•|•|

Odysseus found Alcaeus when the little boy started babbling about which way home was. To say he was relieved was an understatement. He scooped up his son and held him like he was going to disappear. 

“You can’t just go running off!” Odysseus told the child. “It’s not safe!”

But then, Alcaeus offered him a shell with a strange glow. “I found it! But I wanna you to have it.” 

Odysseus was too overcome by affection for the curly-haired, gold-skinned boy to correct his grammar. He just hugged his son and felt grateful nothing happened to him.

Odysseus is now laying on his stomach on the beach outside their humble hut, helping Alcaeus organize the shells he collected sometime over the past several days. Although the boy is very young, he certainly has a firm grasp on patterns and similarities.

“This one next!” Alcaeus’ little hands grasp a smooth, soft pink shell shaped almost like a starfish. “It goes here.” He places it beside a soft yellow shell, also shaped unusually.

“What about this one?” Odysseus pulls a shell with ridges all across its blue and white striped surface.

Alcaeus’ face becomes as pensive as it can be at his age. “Hmm…” He looks over the five groups he’s made all by himself.  “Oh!” He takes the shell from Odysseus’ palm and puts it in the same place as a bright pink shell, striped with white. 

Wow. Odysseus can’t deny he’s impressed. He might understand this better than I do. 

There’s only a few more shells to be organized, but — in a split second — Alcaeus abandons his prized possessions in favor of running across the beach.

“AUNTY!” 

Ah, Odysseus is smiling as he turns. She’s back! 

And, yes, Athena is here, her arms open for the toddler going straight for her. She’s in her usual disguise: a woman around Odysseus’ age with dark hair, tan skin, and gray eyes. He’s rarely seen her without gray eyes; it seems to be her trademark. 

“Phoebe!” Odysseus calls her by her false name, which they chose so Alcaeus won’t ever suspect a goddess is his aunt. “Back so soon?”

“I return when I have something to report to you.” Athena says, brushing sand off Alcaeus’ hair and face. 

Odysseus knows better than to ask bluntly — he’s been glared at plenty because of it — so he kneels down to his son’s height and tells him, “Can you go pick up your shells so we can bring them back inside?” 

An excited beam gleams across Alcaeus’ face. “Okay! I’ll be so super careful! I’ll get all of them!” Before Odysseus or Athena can say another word, the boy has shot back towards the beach. 

Odysseus watches him a moment, adoring the way the sun glints on his bronze skin and dark curls, before turning to his former mentor. “So. Something to report?” 

Athena’s braided hair lifts slightly as the wind picks up. “More than one.” She opens her palm and a ring appears in the center. 

A wooden band, with carvings on the outside. Odysseus spots Greek engraved on the inside. 

ὁ βασιλεὺς τῆς νεότητος καὶ τοῦ πυρὸς κρατήσει

Odysseus peers at it almost suspiciously. “King of youth and fire?”

Athena rolls her eyes like he’s an absolute idiot for asking — which, honestly, could be true. “Telemachus has ascended the throne.” 

Odysseus blinks, his mind slowing for the first time in weeks. Telemachus? He hasn’t heard that name for years. A memory jolts him into awareness; a memory of himself, still in Ithaca, writing his will. 

If the Fates move that I shall die, then I shall entrust the kingdom to my son Telemachus when he reaches the proper age for coronation. 

If Odysseus remembers clearly, the earliest age that a man can be crowned king in Ithaca is…

“He’s thirteen?” 

A surprised expression crosses Athena’s normally stoic face. “Yes. Did you not know?”

“I-I wasn’t…” Odysseus stammers. “I didn’t think about it.” What a great father I am. 

“Hm.” She frowns, then closes her hand, concealing the ring. “I have more news besides that of Ithaca.” Her gray eyes glint in the sunlight. “My outrageously logical family decided to bring the minor gods to a gathering only to flaunt Paris’ success and embarrass those who either did not join the war or did not like the Trojan line.”

Woah. That’s… a lot.

Luckily, Odysseus isn’t stupid enough to ask if there was a fight. It’s an obvious answer, and Athena would no doubt remember it for the rest of his days. 

“War has been threatened,” she continues, staring out at the horizon. “I am doing my best to stop it.”

Odysseus purses his lips, only slightly confused. “Why must I know this?”

Athena again rolls her eyes, this time also sighing rather dramatically. “I may not be able to be here as often, which could compromise the enchantment on this island, yes?” 

Oh. That’s right. Athena visits so often because she needs to ensure that the barrier shielding Odysseus and Alcaeus from the gods is stable. 

“All it means is that you must lie low.” She tells him. “Don’t do anything that may garner attention from a god.”

“Well, I’m not planning another siege nor am I building a giant decoy to establish my success.” He says, winking. She doesn’t respond and only shakes her head. “Is there something else I shouldn’t do, then?”

She’s quiet for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. “Don’t touch the water.”

Odysseus furrows his brow at that. Don’t touch the water? 

“If we’re on an island surrounded by the sea then how are we supposed to — ?” When he turns his head to where Athena is standing, he finds it empty. His attitude deflates into mild annoyance. “Typical.” 

“Father!” Odysseus turns at the sound of Alcaeus’ voice and sees him running back up the hill, shells in his arms. “Look! I gots them all!” As the ground shifts from sand to dirt, Alcaeus trips and falls. “Ow.”

Odysseus — hearing no crying — laughs and goes to help him up. “Are you all right?”

Alcaeus sneezes once, then stands up like nothing happened at all. “I’m good!” He takes notice of the shells that fell out of his arms. “Uh-oh.”

Odysseus helps the little boy pick them back up, offering to carry some but being immediately rejected, and goes with him back into their small home. Alcaeus hurries into the room with the open door — his room — and Odysseus hears clattering on floorboards. He peeks inside. 

“Alcaeus?”

Alcaeus is too busy murmuring to himself about shells to respond. He’s organizing them again, just like they did at the beach. Odysseus can’t help but shake his head at that — though, it’s not like he hasn’t done things similar to that before. 

When evening falls, Alcaeus clambers into the common area. “I finish!” He’s wearing a bright smile, as usual. “Time to go play with my friends!”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Odysseus gently slows him down as he heads for the front door. “Friends? Who are these friends of yours?”

“Sea creatures!” Alcaeus exclaims. His eyes light up. “I can show you! Can I show you?”

Odysseus glances at their half-finished supper. “Alcaeus, I’m not sure if — ”

“Pleeeeeeease?”

Odysseus sighs, looking down at his adorable son. “It has to be quick.” 

Alcaeus shrieks with glee and takes his father’s large hand in his own. (For the record, Odysseus did not say yes because of toddler pressure; he said yes because of how proud he was of his son saying please. Obviously.) 

Alcaeus leads Odysseus out of the house. Odysseus is certain they’re heading back down to the beach — seriously, when will this child tire of that place? — but is proven wrong when their course shifts towards the forest.

“No, no, no.” Odysseus stops them before they can cross the brush. “We have to stay out here.”

Alcaeus looks up at him, his eyes confused. “Why?”

“Because dangerous things could be waiting, my boy,” Odysseus says. “And it’s my duty to keep you safe, yes?” Especially since I already failed with Telemachus. I cannot fail again.

Alcaeus looks at the trees. “But… my friends live there.” 

I’m sure they do. Odysseus takes his hand. “Come. Maybe they’ll be here tomorrow morning.” 

He starts on the path back to the house, but is stopped momentarily. “There! There they are!” 

Alcaeus’ hand leaves Odysseus’ and he’s forced to look back. “Alcaeus, stop — !” 

He stops. His whirring mind comes to a halt. His breath comes out consciously, one after the other. It is the only way he’s able to comprehend what he is seeing. 

Two creatures stand at the edge of the forest, one of them with Alcaeus in its arms. They’re tall, with skin that can only be the color of the sea itself. Their eyes are black as the deepest abyss, and they are holding Alcaeus.

They are holding Alcaeus.

“Let him go!” Odysseus begins moving without thinking. 

The one standing beside the creature holding Alcaeus takes a step forward. “Sir, please wait before y — ”

“I’ll do no waiting!” He interrupts, his gaze tinted red. “Put my son down or I swear to the River Styx you will have no arms to carry him with when I’m through with you!”

Thunder claps loudly at the vow. 

“Okay, okay, alright!” The creature with Alcaeus in its arms set him down on the ground. “We meant no harm.”

“Alcaeus.” Odysseus holds out his hand. 

For a moment, the boy doesn’t move. But he then follows his father’s order and takes his hand.

“Who are you?” Odysseus demands. No, there’s a better question, actually. “What are you?”

“I am Euanthe.” The creature who once held Alcaeus bows low, seaweed-like hair falling around its shoulders. “This is my brother Euclid.” Euclid does not bow. Euanthe stands up straight after a few moments. “We’re sea nymphs.”

Odysseus takes a step back instinctively. He’s heard of sea nymphs. They come from the water and are said to be children of Poseidon. 

Don’t touch the water. 

Odysseus pulls Alcaeus’ hand until the boy is safely behind him. “What do you want?”

“Want?” Euanthe tilts its head. “We want nothing. Your little one ran into us recently, just outside the bounds of the forest.”

“We delivered him home safely, if that’s of any concern of yours.” Euclid says.

Odysseus doesn’t like its standoff-ish tone. What does it mean coming from a nymph? Is it a warning? A sign of something awful destined to happen?

Euclid scoffs. “Look at him, Euanthe! He thinks we’re nothing but monsters!” 

“Well, he doesn’t have any reason to think differently,” Euanthe counters. “Why shouldn’t he believe us to be monsters?”

Odysseus blinks for what feels like the first time in hours. The nymph… is defending him? Why? Is it some part of a big, elaborate plan to expose the island to the gods?

I don’t like this. He thinks, making sure his son is securely behind him. 

“Your son is wonderfully polite.” Euanthe continues. Odysseus’ gaze shoots up to it — her? — and it — she? — takes a step back in response. “We have met with humans before. They have all been either very evil or very bored. But the boy… your son…” She offers a gentle smile. “He is quite different.”

Odysseus stares, unsure what to do. Apparently, though, Alcaeus does.

“Euanthe brings me back,” says the little boy to his father. “Euclid, too! They gave me the shell. Remember?”

The shell… 

That strange glow! It must’ve been the product of one of the nymphs’ magic. He thinks back to it, back to what it may have done to him or Alcaeus. Did it make them sleepy? Did it hypnotize them somehow? Did it make them forget their lives?

No, for the sake of the gods! A voice that sounds identical to Athena’s chimes in his head. You’re not sleepy; you’ve not been hypnotized; and you obviously remember your past! You just thought of Telemachus a moment ago!

But they must’ve done something to it! To influence Alcaeus! 

Or maybe you’re just a paranoid fool.

Both are possibilities. 

Still, Odysseus feels moved to give the nymphs a chance. They seem… genuine. Odysseus doesn’t trust them — not as far as he can see — but he finds himself willing to try. 

“Thank you for brining him back.” He says, shoving away any murderous thoughts. “I… I appreciate it.”

Euanthe and Euclid both nod, Euanthe leagues more enthused than her brother. 

“I suppose — if we’re to live here together — then we must live peacefully.” Odysseus continues slowly, mostly for himself. “So… for the sake of peace…” No more war. Never again. “…I will be hospitable so long as you are, too.”

Alcaeus somehow grasps the meaning of that and squeals delightedly. “My friends can stay! My friends can stay!” He’s running to hug them both before Odysseus can stop him. 

Odysseus watches with worried eyes. But he does his best to choke down the instinctual mistrust for the newcomers — Are they newcomers if they lived here before? — and prays to the gods they will not report back to their king. 

|~|~|~|

They climbed back aboard the ship after three days on land. The crew was clearly a bit sad to leave, but — more notably — they were excited to be on the way home. Polites couldn’t help but smile when he heard one of the younger soldiers express how much he’s anticipating his mother’s smothering as soon as he steps into Ithaca. He smiled because there was no “if” in the boy’s statement; there was a “when”.

Polites is also happy to see that Eurylochus has become much more confident in their ability to return safely. His spirits were no doubt risen by Lycaon’s knowledge of their location. Sailing in the Strait of Messina is much more promising than sailing aimlessly in the hopes we’re going the right way. 

Polites stands with a group of men as they adjust the sail to the nature of the wind. He’s no sailor, but he understands enough to help.

“Three—two—one—pull!”

Polites, with his fingers wrapped around the rough rope, he pulls with all his might. The others do the same, effectively causing the sail to move, however slowly. 

“Stop!”

They stop.

“…alright, that’s good.”

Polites releases the rope, his palms burning in response. He shakes them out once, allowing the air to cool them slightly. 

“Look at you, Polites!” Lycaon grins, throwing an arm around him. “A natural!”

Polites feels his face flush. “I don’t know about that, but… with time, I hope to be as adept as you all.”

Lycaon laughs. “Always humble, aren’t you?” The others murmur their agreement. “Even when in your own element. Though, of course, you have no problem being the most commanding voice on this ship.” Again, the sailors’ agreeing tones melded into a jumble.

“Not the most commanding.” Polites corrects. “I would save that for our captain.”

“Your captain disagrees.” 

Polites can’t help an amused smile at Eurylochus’ spontaneous appearance. He does it often, and it always reminds Polites of Odysseus. The former general never ceased to spring up rather randomly and at mildly inconvenient moments. 

“Captain!” Amphialos raises his hand in greeting. “Come! Eat with us!”

Eurylochus nods, though his eyes convey more besides hunger. “Of course! I’ve missed eating with you all.”

The crew laughs and whoops in response, leading Eurylochus and Polites to a table full of food they collected from the island. Amphialos presents the meal like it’s a feast — which, for them, it is — and the crew of 600 begins to eat.

“How has everything been here?” asks Eurylochus, taking a slice of pineapple. “No fights?”

“No fights.” Polites confirms. “They’re much more relaxed since the short break on the island. And much more hopeful. There’s more promise for speedy return.”

Eurylochus pauses so quickly in his eating that it would be impossible to catch by someone with eyes less keen than Polites’. “Yes. Very promising. We’re heading straight for Sicily.”

Polites feels his eyebrows twitch. That didn’t sound certain. At all. 

“Is there somewhere else we’d be heading instead?”

“Hm? No!” Eurylochus responds in much too fast a manner for Polites to believe a word out of his mouth. “No. I’m just — voicing my comments and such. Thinking out loud.”

I can see that. There’s something strange about his tone; Polites can’t quite decipher what it is. He’s either hiding something logistical or hiding his feelings. He sighs. Or both. 

“Don’t mind me, Polites.” Eurylochus says unconvincingly. “Tell me more of the crew.”

Reluctantly, Polites obliges. He gives as many details as he can, primarily recounting memories in which the crew proved themselves to be companions as well. Eurylochus lights up when he hears, a proud glint in his dark eyes. In turn, he tells Polites about the bonfires Polites didn’t always participate in, partly to remember a fond memory and partly to say Polites is “no fun”. 

“Fun doesn’t only happen during bonfires.” He protests.

“What do you find fun, then?” Eurylochus counters.

Polites thinks for a moment. “Shoving sense back into captains who believe themselves incapable of being a leader?”

A grin spreads across Eurylochus’ face. “That feels pointed.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Polites shrugs and pops a grape into his mouth. 

Hearing Eurylochus’ laugh is enough to get Polites through the entire meal.

Night falls almost suddenly. The crew packs up all the leftovers, with the help of Polites and Eurylochus, and then turn in, each of them going below deck, to their respective cots. Polites casts a glance back their captain before following. 

For Polites, falling asleep is the easy part. It’s staying asleep that gives him the most trouble. Each night, his mind is plagued with dreams full of anxiety, fear, and death. Tonight is worse than most.

Polites is standing on a balcony. A familiar balcony. The railing is made of stone that has intricate carvings and either end is circular, shaped intentionally and then finished with more engravings. 

This is the balcony outside the drawing room in Ithaca. He remembers. I haven’t been here in so long…

“Polites!” The unmistakable voice of the reigning king of Ithaca compels Polites to turn. “There you are. I’ve been searching for you, my friend.”

“Have you?” Polites tilts his head. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Odysseus waves him off. “I’m sure I’ll have the same problem with Telemachus once he’s old enough to walk.” 

At the mention of the crown prince, Polites suddenly remembers: Odysseus is not the reigning king of Ithaca; Telemachus is. At least, that is what one would expect of a crown prince following the death of —

“Polites?” Polites startles. Odysseus is looking at him, concern in his eyes. “Are you all right? You seem… off.”

Polites stares at him — at his very much alive face — before shaking his head. “I’ll be okay. The world has a way of ensuring survival.”

“Of course it does!” exclaims Odysseus. “It makes sense that I died, yes? The world never liked me much.”

Fear spikes through Polites’ mind. He dares to turn his head back towards the former king. “You… what?”

“I’m dead, remember?”

In an instant, his whole face changes. His eyes turn white instead of brown; his skin pales until he looks like a ghost; even his clothes appear battered and worn.

But the worst part — the most horrifying thing of all — is the blood that drips from his mouth and his head, and the gaping wounds on his torso and chest. 

Polites covers his mouth to keep from screaming. Odysseus gives him a confused look, drops of blood falling onto the floor of the balcony as he tilts his head.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to see how I looked at my death?” He asks innocently, but there is nothing but malice radiating through the air. “You’ve been wondering, haven’t you? How I died. How you couldn’t stop it.” The terrifying Odysseus hums to himself. “Or perhaps you’re more afraid of the idea that I’m alive.”

Polites tries to escape through what should be the balcony door, but he’s met with a blackened battlefield scattered with bodies and bones. He scampers back from the edge of the cliff that he now stands on, not wanting to be anywhere near the horrific scene.

“You’re afraid that I abandoned you all to die.” Odysseus’ voice rings in his ears. “That I decided you are unworthy and so believed it best that you sail to your insignificant deaths.”

Polites wants to protest, but his mouth won’t move; he wants to run, but his legs won’t listen. Paralyzed. He’s completely paralyzed. 

“You think you know me so well,” Odysseus’ words echo everywhere, no word outside Polites’ earshot. “But you don’t.”

The ground drops beneath him and he falls with no way to stop himself. He closes his eyes tight and braces for impact with the gravelly ground. But the expected pain of landing on rocks doesn’t come; instead, Polites finds himself submerged in water. 

The water is salty — seawater, no doubt — and Polites can barely see a thing. He swims up, his body deciding to listen to him again, and heaves in life-saving breaths. Rain pounds his head and face as he treads in the water. He looks everywhere for any sign of land. He comes up hopelessly empty. 

“You’re afraid…” The menacing voice no longer sounds exactly like Odysseus. No, instead it sounds more like all the voices of his friends and family combined into one. “Afraid of the past…”

Lightning flashes, followed by thunder, and screams ring in Polites’ ears. He knows those screams. He has heard them too many times.

The war. The Trojan War, which claimed so many lives. I couldn’t save them; I couldn’t save anyone. 

Lightning strikes again, and something appears right in front of Polites. His eyes widen and he jerks back when he sees that it’s a body. A body of a teenage boy, whose shattered helmet is embedded in his skull.

“Afraid of the present…”

When the lightning comes for a third time, Polites has to hurriedly swim away from seven ships. There are men on deck. A particular man stands out to him.

“Keep going! We must stop for nothing!”

Eurylochus? He has no chance to ask before the ships have vanished.

“But most of all, you are afraid of the future.”

Polites has to shut his eyes tight as thunder claps again and again, shielding them from the lightning. When he dares to open them again, what he sees is…

Eurylochus. Floating. Unmoving.

Dead. 

To say he screams would be the closest description. To see his captain — more than that, his best friend — dead upon the very same waters that he sails… it’s worse than any nightmare Polites has had before. 

“You are scared because you know that you cannot save him from his fate.” 

Polites feels tears burning his eyes as he is forced to listen to the horrible, awful, truthful voice. 

“Just like you could not save the soldiers. Just like you could not save your brothers.”

Polites’ chest tightens at the mention of his brothers. They fought in the war. They died in the war. 

“Just like you could not save me.” Odysseus’ corpse appears before him and he shakes his head, trying to get away from this horrific dream. 

“Leave me be!” Polites yells. “Let me go!”

The corpse of the fallen general grins and cackles. “Let you go? Why, of course. All you had to do was ask.”

Polites has no chance to do anything else before he is dragged beneath the water. He kicks and pushes and shoves, but there is nothing to take the blows. He is being pulled down by nothing.

Even so, his lungs begin to fill with seawater and his nose and mouth fail to find oxygen. Pain erupts everywhere and he can do nothing but reach for the surface, never to succeed in returning.

Wake up, Polites, he tells himself. You will not die in this nightmare. Wake up! WAKE UP!

Polites gasps as he sits upright in his cot. He pants for a while, thankful for the air that flows into his lungs. He is dry, save for the sweat that has soaked into his clothing.

Speaking of sweat… Polites grimaces at the scent of ten soldiers after a long, hard day. I need air. Untainted air. 

So, he gets out of his cot, careful to not disturb his sleeping crewmates, and walks quietly above deck. He goes to the side of the ship, leaning his arms onto the wood and simply breathing. He has never been more thankful for open air. A memory of sinking in the water unfolds when he smells the salt on the wind. 

That was not the world, he reminds himself. That world is false. The world that is true will never leave me behind. It will leave no one behind. 

“Polites.”

Polites turns at the familiar voice and relief sinks into him. “Eurylochus.”

Eurylochus begins, “What are you — ?” Before he can say another word, Polites wraps him in a tight embrace. “Oh. Are… you okay?”

“I am,” Polites says honestly. He pulls away from his captain — his best friend — and smiles. “I am.”

Eurylochus joins Polites in looking out at the dark sky. They say nothing for a long while, listening instead to the gentle sway of the boat and feeling the cool breeze on their faces. 

This is real. Polites solidifies internally. This is my world. 

Eurylochus sighs heavily beside him. Polites glances over. “Is something troubling you?”

“It’s just — ” Eurylochus shakes his head. “I don’t understand why this must take so long. All we want is to be home but instead! Instead we are hungry and tired and must stop so often that we may never make it home at all!”

Polites hums softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“I — ” Eurylochus blinks, then gives him an incredulous look. “I’m not?”

“No. You’re right.” Polites repeats. “We may stop so many times that it takes us years to make any real progress. We may run into problems and enemies that hinder our efforts. And, yes, there is always the possibility that we may not make it back to Ithaca.” 

He takes a breath, relishing the fluidity of it. “In these times, patience is imperative. You must trust that the world knows what is best for you. For us. We are as much a part of it as it is a part of us.”

“Trust the world?” Eurylochus echoes skeptically. “The world is not a deity. It can’t help us.”

“My friend,” Polites says, “this world is amazing. When you greet it with open arms. It holds so much more than you see now. Being patient means trusting that whatever you truly need will come at the right time and place.” He nudges Eurylochus affectionately. “Wouldn’t hurt to practice kindness, either.”

Eurylochus nods slowly, but does not reply. They stare out into the darkness for so long that Polites loses track of time. He doesn’t mind; he sees it as becoming one with his surroundings, if only for a moment.

Their trance is broken by a light. A bright light. Focused in one place. 

“Do you see that?” Polites asks. “There in the distance. There’s a light that barely glows. It could be an island of some sort.” 

Eurylochus moves to the sail and adjusts it so the boat stops moving. “What is it?”

“People, perhaps?” Polites suggests. “Lighting a fire. They could have food they’re willing to share.” The idea feels hopeful yet… strange.

“Fire?” Eurylochus frowns. “I see no smoke.” 

They both stare for a while before Eurylochus says, 

“In the morning, you and I shall gear up. We’ll go ahead of the crew. We’ll find what is causing that glow.”

Polites feels a wave of concern. “And… if we don’t?”

Eurylochus’ gaze does not waver from the distant light. “Then six hundred men can make the whole place burn.” 

Notes:

my beta made a point to tell me how Greek ships aren’t actually how I write them HOWEVER we then looked it up and found that I have prevailed in my descriptions.

special thanks to QuinnTales08 again!! thank you for making my work “less clunky” 😘😘

chapter VII is in the queue!!

<3,
alex

ὁ βασιλεὺς τῆς νεότητος καὶ τοῦ πυρὸς κρατήσει (in English alphabet spelled 'o vasilèfs tís neótitos kaí toú pyrós kratísei'" - May the king of youth and fire last.

Chapter 7: VII

Summary:

Telemachus is threatened.

Alcaeus reaches out to the sea.

Notes:

Content warnings: domestic fighting (verbal), threats

“Neither human wisdom nor divine inspiration can confer upon man any greater blessing than this.”
-Plato

|-|-|-|

It has been three weeks since Telemachus laid eyes on Antinous’ letter. Since then, he’s kept an especially close eye on his mother’s suitors and made an effort to keep them away from her. Unfortunately, his duties as king have stopped him from doing so more than once — it frustrates him to no end. He’s the king! Shouldn’t he be allowed to do whatever he wants?

Apparently not.

Perhaps the only thing Telemachus actually likes about his position is how he has men who will follow his orders without question. Even while waiting for the soldiers who marched on Troy to return, the Ithacan army is not one to sneeze at. Telemachus rather enjoys talking to them and asking for advice.

In the past weeks, Telemachus has met a group of soldiers who specialize in spy craft. There are five of them — an elite force or something, Telemachus doesn’t remember what they called themselves exactly — and they have all since offered themselves up as spies for him. 

“You can rely on us, my liege,” is what their leader Alexis said. “We have never once been detected by foreign forces. It’s a shame your father didn’t take us to Troy with him; we would have burned it from the inside.”

For some reason, Telemachus felt a blaze of something pure and pleasant when he pictured the five of them — Alexis, Chloé, Christopher, Sebastian, and Kallistrate — standing before a burning city. He, too, wished his father had taken them.

Maybe then he would still be alive.

So, Telemachus accepted their offering. Kallistrate and Chloé — the only women among the five — disguised themselves as handmaidens so as to not draw attention from the suitors, who they are spying on. The three men, dressed as guards, are assigned to remain always at Penelope’s side. 

“Who are they?” she asked when she saw them outside her bedroom door. She frowned. “I’ve seen them before.”

“No you haven’t,” Telemachus said hurriedly — perhaps too hurriedly, seeing as she cast a suspicious look his way. “They’re here to protect you, Mother. Just in case one of your…” He restrained any insults. “…suitors tries to harass you.”

Penelope didn’t seem utterly convinced, but she nodded anyway. “I suppose that’s all right. So long as they don’t watch me while I’m asleep. Even with your father did it, it was creepy.” 

Telemachus felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Father… stared at you while you slept?”

“Yes,” she said, and a distant, affectionate expression came across her face. “He meant no harm. He only wanted me to notice him.” She smiled. “It worked.”

That was all she told her son before she disappeared into her room.

The room that’s only hers, Telemachus remembered then. The one she once shared with Father is locked. It has been locked since news of his death came upon them nearly two years ago now. 

Well. That isn’t anybody’s fault except his father’s. 

Telemachus sits in his study, looking over papers with words that all jumble in his head. The document before him is a proposal for some sort of scientific mission.

To go on this mission our team will need the following items: a sturdy boat, a small fraction of drachmas, fishing nets, blah, blah, blah. See, it’s tasks like this that make Telemachus want to jump out of a window; it would be leagues more fun.

Telemachus pushes the contract aside and groans when he sees the paper beneath it is also a contract. For — a hunting trip? Honestly, can’t people just hunt at home so they don’t have to request all this stuff from their king who definitely has more important things to do? 

Apparently not, thinks Telemachus as he piles that contract and the next three atop the first. 

“Your Majesty.” 

Telemachus looks up and beams when he sees the young woman standing ahead of him. “Kallistrate! Good to see you.”

Kallistrate nods politely. “You as well, Your Majesty. I have come to fetch you for lunch.”

Telemachus raises an eyebrow at that. “Lunch? Since when do we have lunch?” He stands and crosses to where his cloak is hanging by the door. “And who sent that you?” 

“Lord Antinous did,” she replies. “He’s the one who organized the meal.” 

Ah. That explains why one of his spies came to get him: nobody besides him knows about their actual jobs, so Antinous treated her like a regular servant. 

Good. Telemachus says to himself as he ties his cloak around his shoulders. That means they haven’t been discovered. Hopefully, they never will be.

Kallistrate walks beside Telemachus as they approach the dining hall, her blonde hair and blue eyes punctuated by sunlight coming through the windows. Her back is straight and her expression is blank, just like a soldier. No one would’ve guessed that she’s actually fifteen. Only a year and a half older than Telemachus!

Great soldiers can be of any age, he remembers Eumaeus telling him. Don’t underestimate anyone based on young or old. 

That is one thing he and his advisor agree on.

Telemachus and Kallistrate pass through the large archway that leads to the dining hall, but stop abruptly. 

“Ah, there he is!” shouts Antinous, who is approaching them. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

Telemachus smiles tightly. “The same to you, Lord Antinous.” Calling the sorry excuse for a man ‘lord’ makes his chest burn. “I’ve heard this has been arranged by you?”

Antinous nods, grinning from ear to ear. “It has! Come, eat with us.” He gestures to the table where all the suitors are sitting with plates in front of them.

Telemachus glances once at Kallistrate before nodding to Antinous and taking his seat at the head of the table. The suitors all turn their attention to him when he sits down, as if expecting a grand speech.

He does not give one. 

Instead, he looks down at the plate of salad, mutton, and grapes and wonders if it’s safe for him to eat. As far as he’s aware, his cooks are loyal to him; but there’s no guarantee one of these asses didn’t poison it after it was prepared.

It’s surely something they would do, he thinks, frowning. I’m in the way of their unwelcome pursuits. I doubt they’re very happy about that.

“So, Your Majesty,” begins Antinous, who is sitting at the opposite end of the table, so he’s facing Telemachus. “We were wondering if you’re going to visit the kings who fought at Troy anytime soon.”

Telemachus narrows his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, in remembrance of Odysseus, of course,” says Antinous, as if he’s being sympathetic. “King Menelaus and Diomedes were great friends of your father, you know.”

Telemachus clenches his fists. He knows these kings already — they sent him letters of condolences and Diomedes even stopped by for a few days — and he is suspicious of why Antinous is mentioning them.

“You will call my father King Odysseus,” Telemachus says firmly. “And I don’t appreciate your attempts to tempt me away from my kingdom.”

“That’s not what he’s trying to do,” Peisander speaks up. “It’s not unusual for new kings to confer with other kings who have been ruling longer.”

“If I want to confer with them, I will bring them here of my own accord,” Telemachus snaps. “And you have no right to give me advice.”

“Your Majesty,” Antinous places a hand on his chest, as if he’s offended. “I’m shocked you would say those things to your guests.”

“Do you think just because you’re Ithacan that you hold power in my house?” Telemachus demands. “You may have been born here, but you don’t live here. I’m the king of this country. I’m the one who has power inside these walls.” 

Eurydamas shakes his head. “We don’t doubt that, Your Majesty. We only want to help.”

“You’ve been gracious to us despite our intrusion,” agrees Amphinomus. “And you are young. I’m sure most of us here are grateful for guidance we received during our youth.”

Nods and murmurs ripple through the men around the table. Telemachus shoves down the anger that has built in his stomach. 

“I… appreciate the sentiment,” he says finally. “But I have had plenty of guidance. Yours is not needed.” 

“Well, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” Eurymachus tells him.

“Of course,” Antinous adds. “The king of Ithaca need not be afraid.” He raises his goblet of wine into the air. “To the king’s grace and power!” 

The toast rings out as everyone raises their cups and drinks. Telemachus keeps his eyes on Antinous, whose amber eyes have not left the king. 

“May his power never diminish.” He says quietly, and drinks.

Telemachus shudders, unable to ignore the feeling of dread and danger that has washed over him. 

He’s threatening me, he realizes. He wants me to cower behind my guards and allow him to do whatever he wants. He stops himself from glaring across the table. Well, Antinous of Ithaca — two can play at this game. 

|•|•|•|

Since Father let Alcaeus’ friends stay, everything has been perfect. He plays with them every day, laughing and smiling whenever they create things out of water or enchant sea shells. Euanthe comes the most, sometimes with her sister Nerine, who’s just as little as Alcaeus.

Father always watches them play, but — no matter how much Alcaeus begs — he won’t join them. It makes the little boy sad that his father won’t have fun with him, but what he hates is how Father pulls him away from the water when he gets close.

“We can’t go into the sea, my boy,” Father always tells him. “The sea can be a dangerous place.”

Well, Alcaeus certainly doesn’t agree. He loves the sea! More often than not, it feels like there’s a force pulling him towards it, like the water wants to be his best friend. Alcaeus wouldn’t mind being the sea’s best friend. 

But Alcaeus isn’t strong enough to defy his father yet, so he resorts to stomping around and being insufferable instead.

Today, Alcaeus’ chosen path of annoyance is singing. He doesn’t sing any song in particular — he does know a few — and instead makes up a tune and lyrics as he goes. The lyrics are very simple:

Sea, sea, sea

Sea, sea, sea

Water, water

Sea, sea, sea

See? How easy is that? 

Alcaeus has been singing since the afternoon, when Father again yanked him back from the tide. He’s already on the eighth verse. How many verses are there, you may ask? As many as it takes for Father to let him swim. 

“Alcaeus…” Father mutters from his chair. “Stop singing.”

Obviously, Alcaeus continues singing.

As he sings, he stacks wooden blocks on top of each other, making what he thinks a castle looks like. Father and Aunty tell him stories of a place called Ithaca, so he’s building its castle.

“Sea, sea, sea…” He continues. “Water, water.” He places the final block that finishes the first wall. “Fishy!” 

“Gods help me…” He hears Father murmur. “Alcaeus. Son. Please stop the nonsensical music. Please?”

Alcaeus pauses, looks at his Father, and replies: “Seashells, seashells, shells and sea! Sea, sea, sea. Sea, sea, sea!” And he goes back to his building.

Father groans for what’s probably the ninth or tenth time today, but it does nothing but encourage Alcaeus. It means his impeccable battle tactics are working. 

By the time supper rolls around, Alcaeus is too tired to keep singing. He promises himself he’ll continue tomorrow, though, for he is determined to be allowed to swim sooner rather than later.

Father places a plate of fish in front of Alcaeus. “And there’s a part of your sea. The finest fish in it.” He sits down across the small table, as usual, while Alcaeus grabs his fork to begin eating. “Why are you so obsessed with the sea?”

Alcaeus shovels a mouthful of the shimmery blue and silver fish into his mouth. “Becaush it’sh aweshome!”

“Alright, alright,” Father chuckles. “Chew before you speak.”

Alcaeus swallows down his food. “The sea is more amazing than amazing.” He says proudly. “Why don’t you like it?” He huffs and crosses his small arms. “You used to like it.” 

There are a few moments of silence before any response comes — moments Alcaeus takes to scarf down half of his meal. He can’t help it, really; he loves fish.

“The sea can be dangerous,” says Father gently. “Especially for someone as little as you.”

“Little?” Alcaeus sticks his hands out in front of him and examines them. His rich brown eyes narrow. “I don’t think I’m little…”

Father leans forward a bit, his fish-skewered fork in one hand. “How about this: tomorrow, if you want, we can swim a bit. But you must stay with me. Okay?”

Alcaeus nods eagerly. “Okay! That’s — that’s more okay than okay!” He stops as he thinks. Then he smiles mischievously. “Sooo you like my song?”

“It… was…” Father taps his fork against his plate. “…creative.”

That’s plenty good for Alcaeus’ four year old mind. 

Alcaeus rarely dreams while he sleeps — he doesn’t have much to dream about — but this night, he does. He dreams of a dark sea, gazing upon the slow ebb and flow of the waves. He wants to go there. 

Come, little one, whispers a voice from somewhere in front of him. The water’s nice and warm. You’re perfectly safe here. 

From behind sounds the background noise of the only memory Alcaeus has of before Khalkòs.

…destined to become a monster…

I am Aristos Achaion!

I’ll not let you pass.

You’ll lay not a single finger on him!

No! Stop! Come back! Traitor… you’re a disgraceful traitor!

The only disgrace here is you. 

The memory is vague, yet horrid. Alcaeus doesn’t like it one bit. He much prefers the calm call of the water, whose soft, gentle words would soothe anyone to sleep.

Come, child. You will be safe and happy in our arms. Safe and happy… for the rest of your days.

Alcaeus wakes before he can take any steps towards the shore. He sits up in his small bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning. Some part of him tells him to go back to sleep; the sheets are soft and the pillow fluffy. But the other urges him to leave the house and go out to the beach.

Alcaeus considers for a few moments. Father did say they would go swimming tomorrow… and Alcaeus has longed for his only parent to join him…

…but what harm is there in wading in a few steps? It’s not like he’ll swim out to sea and never return. It’s not like he’ll drown. He’ll still be here tomorrow, and he will will be able to swim with Father.

So, Alcaeus leaves his bed and quietly creeps to the door of his room. He turns the doorknob as gently as he possibly can — with two hands — and steps out of the warmth of his bedroom. 

“…never seen anything more foolish in my life! Do you think at all before you act? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like it.”

“Oh please, like you know what it’s like to care for a child.”

“I don’t have to be experienced to know stupidity when I see it!”

Alcaeus doesn’t understand what the words mean, but he does recognize the voices saying them. Aunty and Father. She’s here! But… she’s fighting with Father. 

“…just like you,” he hears Father say, “why should I be surprised?! You think of no one except yourself.”

“If you were anybody else I would kill you.” Aunty snaps.

Alcaeus feels himself gasp and he quickly covers his mouth. Aunty would… kill Father? Father has told him that ‘kill’ means someone ‘dies’, and when that happens the someone is never, ever seen again.

I don’t want Father to die. I don’t ever want Father to die. For some reason, he felt as if he has already lost caretakers, and he is not keen on losing more. 

“…because Diomedes was always your favorite, no matter how much you deny it.” Father tells Aunty.

“This is not about favoritism; this is about your son!”

Me? Alcaeus is sure Father has no other sons, so it must be him. 

“I protected my son!”

“You did anything but! You have startled ones whom you do not want to mess with. Ones who would rather see both of you drown than spend time with their wives!”

Alcaeus wishes he understood more. He wishes he knew who Aunty was talking about. 

“I gave you one order,” she says, her volume low but her anger high. “And you couldn’t follow it for even a day.”

“And why should I take orders from you?” demands Father. “So I can feed your pride?”

“You are the most oblivious, idiotic, irresponsible man I have ever met!” 

“You want to talk about responsibility? Explain to me why my family suffers when you could kill all of the intruders with a snap of your fingers!”

Alcaeus covers his ears as he hears Aunty start to shout at Father, his eyes stinging. Why do they have to fight? What are they fighting about?

Come to the water, little one. The voice from his dream echoes in his ears. We will protect you from the darkness. Come to the water.

Alcaeus glances at the shadows of his guardians on the back porch before turning away and leaving through the side door. 

His bare feet sink into the sand, and he immediately feels better. He looks ahead, towards the sea, where he can see the moon reflected in the dark waves.

Alcaeus smiles. He walks — no, runs — forward until he feels water beneath him. He goes on still, wading as far in as he can go. He brushes his hands over the surface of the water, relishing the cool feeling on his skin.

A glow from below suddenly catches his eye. Alcaeus blinks — once, twice — and it is still there. He almost reaches down to pick up whatever it is, but is distracted by movement on the other side of him. He directs his attention there, turning his head and feet. 

There stands a man. He is halfway submerged, with long, tussled hair and eyes as green as the sea he stands in. He is leagues more muscular than Father, and his narrowed eyes convey nothing but danger.

“Alcaeus, he calls you,” begins the man. “Tell me, child. Has your father taught you of the gods?” His tone is low and threatening.

Alcaeus, though, feels no threat from this man. “Um… he says there’s someone up, up, up!” He points to the sky. “Lots of someones.”

The man stares at the boy. “You are not afraid.”

“Because you’re not scary.” 

The words shock the man into confusion, and he takes a step back. Alcaeus bounds forward until he is right in front of him and looks up at his face, which is scrunched up in utter confusion.

“Is your home here?” asks the child. “In the sea?”

The man nods slowly. “Yes.”

“Lucky!” Alcaeus exclaims. “I wish I lived here. It’s my favorite-ist place in the whole wide world!” His excitement fades as he remembers Father. “Father doesn’t like the sea. He doesn’t want me to go here anymore.” 

“To be here.” The man corrects almost gently. “If your… father doesn’t want to here, then why have you come?”

Alcaeus looks away, instead looking out to the horizon. His dark curls sway with the salt-scented wind. “I like fishes. And sand. And shells. My friends live here. I want it to be my home, too.” 

The little boy doesn’t know it, but his words have struck the man’s figurative heart. He has never heard someone speak about his kingdom like that. Speak about it with love and adoration.

Never has he met a mortal who was not afraid of him on sight. A mortal who was not afraid of what he could do to them with just a flick of his wrist. But this mortal — this child — is not afraid. It is something rare. And to this man — to this god — it is precious. 

“The sea will welcome you always,” he tells Alcaeus, whose wide, young eyes light with joy. “Never shall you come to harm when you are in the water.”

Alcaeus watches as his new friend closes his eyes and folds his hands together. When he opens them, in his palm is a bead made of sea foam.

“I will protect you, for those like you come about only once a millennia.” The man gently unties the necklace that is around Alcaeus’ neck, slides the bead on, and ties it back. 

Alcaeus looks down at his necklace that is now adorned with three charms. The new one gleams beside the gold and wooden circlets. 

“I swear it.”

|-|-|-|

Telemachus does not go when called to supper. His mother gazed at him with concern when he refused, but didn’t question him. With every day, his anger towards her harassers grows. And this day it is targeted towards one in particular.

“You called us, Your Majesty?”

Before him stands the five spies who have sworn their allegiance to him. “Am I right to think you will do anything I ask of you?”

Alexis bows his head once. “Of course. We are sworn into your service alone.”

“Good.” Telemachus stares out the window, at the kingdom that has been left to him. He thinks of his mother. He thinks of her trapped in the arms of Antinous. 

There is only one way to stop him.

“I’m going to make sure the men who trespass in my palace leave knowing who is king,” he tells the group without looking at them. “But there is one who will not leave.” 

“Not leave, sir?” The deep voice of Christopher clarifies. 

Telemachus hums to himself. “I want you to focus your energy on Antinous. All of you. Your new mission is to discover his fears and his weaknesses.”

“To do what?” asks Sebastian with his foreign accent. 

Telemachus glares out the window. “He has threatened me.” He frowns, twisting the ring on his finger. “I want him finished.”

“Our mission is to find a way to kill him, then?” Alexis asks.

Telemachus turns his gaze to them, unable to hide his buzzing anticipation. “To destroy him.”

Notes:

sooooo i realized while rereading chapter five that i forgot that Demeter exists and that she is in fact an Olympian. oops. for some reason i had it in my head that Artemis is an Olympian, but she is not. double oops.

basically there’s more than likely gonna be some plot holes or i may go back and edit chapter five idk

anywho thanks for all the support on this work!! y’all keep me going when writer’s block hits

chapter VIII soon!!

<3,
alex

Chapter 8: VIII

Summary:

Polites and Eurylochus lay eyes on an unwilling host.

Notes:

content warnings: violence

“My name is Nobody.”
-Homer, The Odyssey

|~|~|~|

When the ships anchor before the island that held the strange glow, the first thing Eurylochus sees is a wooden port. The port is easily accessible to any of the sailors that have arrived through a staircase, and it is clearly built to withstand any type of tropical weather. Eurylochus can see beams holding it up, beams that are embedded so deep into the muddy shore that he cannot tell just how far they extend beneath the surface.

“Impressive, right?” Lycaon eyes the well-made port. “Nothing less for a port city like this.” 

Eurylochus frowns. “Port city?” He looks out at the empty land ahead of them. “Since when are port cities completely void of life?”

Polites, with a sword slung around his back, comes to stand with Eurylochus and Lycaon. “Shall we go, captain?”

Eurylochus nods. “Lycaon, don’t let any of the others beyond this point. Polites and I will go first to check if it’s safe. If we don’t return by sunrise, you are to set this place ablaze.”

“What?” Lycaon exclaims, wide-eyed. “If we did that you and Polites would — ”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” Eurylochus interrupts firmly. 

Lycaon looks at them both with concern but replies, “Yes, captain.” He climbs aboard the ship once more to deliver the orders. 

Eurylochus glances at Polites once. His friend offers an encouraging smile. Eurylochus can hardly reciprocate, his heart already beginning to hammer against his ribs. 

What awaits us here?

The two of them walk forward, leaving the anchors ships behind them. The ground beneath their feet is dry and bare, dead grass covering much of the land. Eurylochus has seen terrain like this before, but never in a port city. 

“There.” Polites points to a cave, where what seems to be firelight blazes in the shadows. “The fire still burns. People must be here to tend to it.”

“Still no smoke,” Eurylochus remarks. “What kind of fire produces no smoke?”

Polites starts forward. “The only way to find out is by seeing it firsthand.”

Unfortunately, Polites is completely right, and Eurylochus trudges along beside him, trying to ease the anxiety bubbling in his stomach. 

They walk cautiously into the cave and are immediately encapsulated by darkness. Eurylochus wishes they had torches with them, but there was no fire on the ship and none visible on this island yet. 

“Look ahead, Eurylochus,” Polites says. “Do you see that glow?” 

Eurylochus focuses his attention to the stone path ahead of him. He does, indeed, see a glow. A glow that could be easily mistaken for firelight. “That’s what we saw last night.” He furrows his brow. “How could we see it if it’s this far in?”

Polites’ eyes, lit up by the warm orange glow, sparkle in the darkness. “Nature is a mysterious thing. An amazing aspect of our world.”

Eurylochus doesn’t reply. He begins to walk again, his fists clenching and unclenching as he continues deeper into the forest. There’s a strange feeling inside these stone walls, one that he can’t quite place. All it tells him is to stay alert and keep his wits about him. 

As they step towards the brightest part of the cave, a giggle echoes through the air. Eurylochus stops abruptly, his hand goes immediately to the hilt of his sword. 

“Relax,” Polites says calmly. 

“What?” Eurylochus replies, his gaze searching for any sign of danger.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors by listening to your anxiety.” Polites explains. 

Eurylochus shakes his head. “I’m fine, Polites.”

He can practically hear Polites’ expression of worry. “We will survive whatever we find here. Our past journeys are proof enough.” There’s a slight pause. “I, too, tire of the war and bloodshed. But I don’t want to live in fear.”

“Fear?” Eurylochus repeats. “I’m not — ”

“See how you grip your sword.” interrupts Polites. “I think that’s proof enough.” 

Indeed, Eurylochus’ grip on the hilt of his sword is tight. But as more giggles ripple through the darkness, he sees no reason to loosen it. 

“Do you trust me, Eurylochus?” 

Eurylochus stops abruptly and blinks, looking at his friend. “Of course.”

Polites tilts his head at him. “Then why can’t you lower your guard? I trust that you will keep me safe should any danger find us.” 

Eurylochus sighs. “Polites…”

“We can do a great many things when we allow our hearts to lead.” He says, his tone light. “More than someone with a sensible mind like you might think.”

Before Eurylochus can respond, shadows flicker around them and the same shrill giggling erupts. He instantly unsheathes his sword, pointing it in front of him, where several pairs of eyes have revealed themselves.

Welcome. A voice — many voices — whisper. 

“Stay back!” Eurylochus orders, putting himself in front of Polites. “You will not come any closer.”

“My friend,” Polites says. “Shouldn’t we try to avoid bloodshed?”

Eurylochus narrows his eyes at the glowing eyes in front of them. He doesn’t dare lower his sword, but he does lower his voice.

“We’re looking for food.”

The eyes all blink in sync. Food?

“For our friends,” provides Polites.

“Six hundred of them,” Eurylochus adds. “Six hundred men waiting for us.”

The shadows ripple through the dark. A cold feeling washed over Eurylochus, sending chills down his spine.  

“I’ll not warn you to stay back again.” He steps away from the… whatever they are. A gasp echoes through the air. “If we do not return to our men, they will turn this place — your home — into nothing but blazes.” 

Human-like arms outstretch, holding something glowing orange. Here you go. 

Polites escapes from behind Eurylochus and takes the strange offering. He smiles. “It’s fruit.” He looks back at Eurylochus. “See what comes out of just a little kindness?”

“Wait.” Eurylochus narrows his eyes at the fruit. “Pass that to me.” Polites does, and Eurylochus turns it over in his palms a few times. “That glow… it’s strange.” He frowns. 

I only know a few fruits that are said to glow like this… which one is it?

With that thought, Eurylochus places the fruit on the ground and promptly slices it down the middle with his sword.

“Eurylochus!” Polites snaps as the shadows gasp again.

Eurylochus doesn’t pay them any mind. “Glowing seeds…” Realization courses through him and he stands up, anger in his veins. “This is not an ordinary fruit.”

Polites kneels down and scoops up a few. “If these creatures eat it, then surely — ”

“It’s a lotus,” Eurylochus growls. “It controls your mind and never lets you free. These are lotus-eaters.” He glares at the shapes surrounding them. “This is why your approach is not always right. This is what you get with your open arms.” 

Polites stands, quiet for a moment. Then, he lifts his head and proclaims, “Lotus-eaters! My friend, I feel, must learn that kindness is actually just a facet of bravery.” He holds out the two halves of the lotus fruit. “I’m afraid your offering cannot be accepted. Is there any other place near here with other food we may eat?” 

Eurylochus restrains an eye roll. “Polites, they won’t — ”

A cave. 

He blinks, surprised. Did they actually… answer the question? 

“Ah, a cave, I see.” Polites repeats, his tone bright and hopeful. “Where would we sail to find this food-filled cave?” 

East.

He beams. “Thank you!”

Welcome!

Eurylochus can’t will away the feeling of surprise that has exploded in his mind. Polites asked where they could find food; and the lotus-eaters actually answered. 

This can’t be real. This must be some sort of dream. What kind of monster — because lotus-eaters are certainly classified as such — would help people they would normally kidnap and control?

“Come, Eurylochus,” Polites says, already starting out of the cave. “I suppose we must sail east, yes?”

“Yes,” he murmurs in response. “I suppose.”

He casts one final glance behind him, a feeling of dread settling on his shoulders. He doesn’t know why, but he feels as if something horrible is about to happen.

———

And so, they sail east. Polites tells the crew of their short-lived adventure, and they all seem just as enthused as him. It makes Eurylochus think maybe he’s overreacting. Maybe nothing is wrong after all. 

Maybe you’re just a bit paranoid.

Eurylochus rolls his eyes. Thank you, Odysseus.

He often wishes the former captain’s voice would leave his head. All it serves as is a reminder of the courageous, free-spirited, loyal, and slightly idiotic friend he lost to Troy.

“There!” calls one of the men. “That must be the island the lotus-eaters meant!”

Ahead of them is an island that’s bigger than Eurylochus imagined. There must be plenty of caves on it. The question is — which one?

“How strange,” says Lycaon, frowning as the ship slows to a stop. “I’ve never seen Sicily so empty.”

“Sicily?” Eurylochus echoes. Surely this couldn’t be the famous Greek port city. “How can you be so sure?”

Lycaon nods to a statue of a woman leaning down to gather flowers. “That is Persephone. Sicilians believe this is the place Hades took her from. They worship her and her mother Demeter greatly.” 

Eurylochus peers at the statue. If this is Sicily, then it is supposed to be a regal representation of their chosen patroness. But instead, stone Persephone’s fingertips have crumbled and her face is cracked and covered in moss. It has clearly been a long time since anyone tended to it.

“The people have gone and their monuments are left in disarray,” he murmurs. “How did this happen?”

I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

The crew leaves the ships happily, taking with them the wine they stole from Troy. They are expecting a feast, then. Eurylochus has a sneaking suspicion it won’t be what they think.

The group of Ithacan soldiers search the island for the cave the lotus-eaters spoke of. Eurylochus steps over trampled flowers and walks over what used to be fertile land. Exceptionally strange for a place dedicated to the goddesses of spring and nature. 

“Captain,” Eurylochus turns to Amphialos at the call. “Do you think perhaps that’s the cave?”

Eurylochus follows the soldier’s pointed finger all the way up to the tallest cave he has ever seen. It’s giant. Why is it so tall and wide? There must be some reason; this doesn’t look like something nature created. 

“I suppose we should go look.” He replies. 

Amphialos beams, his green eyes sparkling, and shouts to his fellow soldiers, “Come on! Let’s see what it has in store for us.”

Eurylochus follows the excited crowd all the way to the cave, his stomach turning as a result of his unease. Inside, it is not dark. No, there are torches mounted on the walls — high up, far too high for any one of them to reach. 

How did they get so high?

But the men are not interested in why the torches are so far out of reach. They suddenly erupt in joyous chattering. Eurylochus pushes through the crowd to see what they are so thrilled about. He stops when he does. 

“Sheep?” He wonders aloud. One of them bleats at him. “Hello to you, too.”

“I have to hand it to you, captain,” says Lycaon, “this is more than I expected.”

“Yes,” agrees Eurylochus. “Quite the treat.”

But it doesn’t feel right. It feels strange and eerie despite how bright it is. He can’t help but wonder… 

Why would the lotus-eaters tell us about this? Wouldn’t they want this food, too? So then why…?

A bleat of terror sounds behind him. He doesn’t need to turn to know that the crew has killed one of the sheep. He can hear Polites talking quietly to the dying animal, comforting it as it dies. 

“Be careful,” Eurylochus calls. “I know there’s lots of food here, but we still don’t know what may be lurking here.”

Amphialos waves him off. “You’re too mistrustful, captain. There’s nothing lurking here.”

Eurylochus locks eyes with Polites, whose gaze agrees with him. He, too, feels that they are not alone. 

Still, they don’t stop the crew from feasting upon their newfound food. They take the dead sheep out of the cave, roasting its flesh over a fire. Eurylochus sits across from Polites, facing the cavern they came out of. He chew the meat slowly, keeping his gaze trained on the torchlight. 

The crew feasts all night. Eurylochus has seen no danger; he has observed no threat. So, he turns his back to the cave, and allows himself to rejoice in their discovery. 

“Look at you,” Polites nudges him. “Letting loose a little.” He smiles. “Greeting the world with open arms.”

Eurylochus rolls his eyes. “Yes, alright, take your victory and let’s move on.” He looks out to the rising sun. “We should be leaving soon, anyway. We should start — ”

A loud and thunderous sound cuts him off. Every man’s gaze shoots straight to the cave, where the sound no doubt came from. A second thump, louder than the first, makes the ground beneath them shake. 

Eurylochus dares to take a few steps closer to the cave. He can see a shadow moving in the light of the torches mounted high on the walls. The shadow is tall. Eurylochus has no idea what it could be.

“What is it?” Polites asks, his voice low. 

Eurylochus furrows his brow. “I don’t know.”

When the third thump comes, along with it is a mighty roar full of pain and grief. The trees of the forest beside their camp lean away from the awful noise, as if they, too, are afraid of what made it. 

Eurylochus watches the shadow move forward, to the edge of the torchlight, away from the cave, and —

— he sees a foot. 

“What in the…” Eurylochus’ words leave his mouth as the giant creature emerges from its home.

The creature is impossibly tall, its muscles making it inexplicably wide as well. In one of its hands it holds a club that could kill fifty of Eurylochus’ men with one swing. It wears a long piece of cloth around its waist, but nothing else. And on its face…

Fear is not a strong enough word to describe what Eurylochus felt when he laid eyes upon the creature’s only one.

“You…” The creature — the cyclops — speaks with conviction and fury. “You killed my sheep…” Its one eye glared at them. “What… gives you… the right…” It takes a deep breath. “…to kill the things… I hold dear?”

“Eurylochus.” Polites grabs his friend’s wrist. 

“Sh.” He snaps.

The cyclops steps forward. “You… will pay for this… with your lives.”

Eurylochus feels his eyes widen and he anticipates being forced to flee as soon as the cyclops finishing speaking, but he is proven wrong. 

“Great host!” Polites hollers, stepping in front of Eurylochus and into the eyesight of the monster. “I am sorry to hear we have harmed you so deeply. But truly — this is a misunderstanding. There needn’t be any bloodshed here today.”

“What…” bellows the cyclops. “…do you have… to prove… your lives valuable… to me?”

Polites turns away from the monster, facing Eurylochus instead, who is afraid and angry. “Eurylochus — ”

“What are you doing?!” The captain demands. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I am trying — ” Polites takes Eurylochus palm and covers it with his own. He drops something into it, something that’s hidden for now. “ — to save us.” With that, he spins back around.

Eurylochus looks down at his hand. The lotus seeds? Why would Polites — ?

“I wonder, great host,” he hears Polites say, “if you have ever tried Greek wine?”

Wine? Why is he — ?

Oh. Oh. 

Eurylochus walks as casually as he can to the bottles of wine the men brought from the ship. He drops the seeds into the already open container, swishes it around, and approaches his friend, who’s busy stalling for their lives.

“Lycaon,” he growls, pulling the sailor over to him. “Take everyone back to the ships. Leave this island.”

Lycaon glances at the monster. “What about you?”

“Don’t wait for us.” He murmurs. “Now go.”

Eurylochus turns back, confident that Lycaon will lead them all away from danger, and walks to Polites’ side. 

“Allow me to indulge you,” he says, keeping his voice as still as Polites’. “This is the finest wine in the world.”

“Truly,” agrees Polites. “It would be a shame for someone as mighty as you to never taste it.”

The cyclops walks towards them, and Eurylochus instinctively steps closer to Polites. He’s never been more afraid in his life. 

But he cannot let it show. Not for anything. He lifts up the bottle, willing his arm to remain steady, and feels it taken out of his hand. He looks up as the cyclops pours the entirety of the poisoned wine into its mouth. 

“…ah.” It stares down at Polites and Eurylochus. “Who… do I thank for this… gift?”

“Oh, you needn’t thank us,” says Polites. “We are nobody compared to you.”

“Hm… well then… nobodies…” It tosses the bottle over its shoulder. “For you I, too, have… a gift.” It frowns. “You… shall be… the final ones… to die.” 

Fear strikes Eurylochus like lightning. “What…?”

The cyclops picks up a giant boulder from  the ground and hurls it at —

Eurylochus turns around so fast he thinks he may have twisted his neck. “LOOK OUT!”

He sets eyes on Lycaon — who is leading the soldiers back to the dock — and they lock eyes. 

They lock eyes a moment before the sailor and the thirty men around him are crushed by the force of the giant rock.

Notes:

and so it begins

chapter IX coming somewhere in the next two weeks.

also HAPPY THUNDER SAGA RELEASE! I’ve been pretty much binging the whole album. strongly suggest Epic the musical if you haven’t listened to it!!

<3,
alex

Chapter 9: IX

Summary:

Penelope spends time with her family.

Athena makes a choice.

Telemachus hides his will.

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.”
-Homer, The Iliad

|-|-|-|

Penelope isn’t entirely sure what’s going on with Telemachus. He’s been acting very strange lately, keeping to himself far more than he ever has. If she had no other obligations, she would be paying closer attention to her son's suspicious behavior; unfortunately for her, however, she has been forced to place more stress upon her personal safety. Her suitors -- a generous title, considering she is not even slightly interested in any of them -- have become more... persistent, in a manner of speaking. Antinous in particular has sought her out at least four times a day, consistently, for the last couple of weeks. He's certainly her least favorite of the nineteen men intruding in her home, and there are only more of them flooding through the gates of the palace unannounced with every passing day. She won't be surprised if there's twenty-five by the end of the current week.

Most of the men have been polite, more or less, in their advances. Penelope has received a multitude of jewels from them, and several questionable poems. She's in the habit of ignoring them now, but it's much more difficult to disregard a living, breathing man before you than his gift box. Antinous has caught on. This morning marks the fourth time he's approached her in her personal quarters and escorted her to breakfast. If she wasn't widowed -- if Odysseus was still alive -- he never would have dared to knock on her door. 

"Well, it's a wonderful day, isn't it?" he beams, sitting comfortably at the courtyard's only table. "Perfect for walks about the city. Do you enjoy walking?" 

Not with you. Penelope bites back the comment. "Sometimes. If the weather is clear and warm enough." 

He spreads his arms, as if presenting the bright sky and unclouded sun to her. "Is it not clear and warm?" 

"I'm afraid I'm quite busy, my lord," she responds quickly. "I have plans in the city; it wouldn't be appropriate for anyone besides my husband to accompany me in public."

"Your people would have no grace for your suitor?" he asks deliberately, his voice smooth but his tone conniving. "Surely no one would bat an eye at your potential husband." 

Penelope forces herself not to laugh. It does shock her that these men can be so utterly blind to her disinterest, but she reminds herself that the majority of them simply can't possibly care any less about her feelings. Luckily, lots of them are not particularly intelligent; unluckily, Antinous is not part of that group. There's no question that he's incredibly intuitive when it comes to strategizing how to get his way, which makes him a higher threat than the others. Her only saving grace is that Telemachus is king, and so he has the power to reject any proposals made while she is still queen. Antinous, however, doesn't seem aware or afraid of Tel's power over him. Penelope can see how much it frustrates Tel when his unwilling guest simply declines his orders. She's fairly sure it's only for her sake that he hasn't murdered Antinous in broad daylight. 

"My father and brother will be accompanying me," Penelope tells him calmly. "Does family not take seniority?" 

Antinous nods, relenting. "Of course. I hope to make their acquaintances soon, then." 

She smiles, hoping it doesn't look as false as it is. "I'm sure they will be just as hopeful."

It's quite the lie: her father Icarius and brother Perileos have always been protective of her and her sister Iphthime. It's only because of her mother Asterodeia's intervention that Penelope and Iphthime were able to be wed the first time. Odysseus and Eumelus were scrutinized and interrogated greatly before their future wives' brother and father agreed to include them in the Spartan family. Odysseus, always charismatic -- sometimes to a fault -- managed to gain Father's favor quicker than Perileos'. Eumelus began with courting Iphthime in secret; she became infatuated with him a couple of months later. Those months were somewhat painful, as Penelope watched her sister reject Eumelus again and again, until -- much like Odysseus -- he grew on her like an unrelenting weed that turned out to be rather pretty.

Eumelus and Odysseus fought together in the Trojan War, and so were very close as brothers. In a letter to Penelope, Iphthime told her that Eumelus had regaled the story of the Trojan Horse to her upon his return to Pherae. According to his likely romanticized retelling, Odysseus led them fearlessly into Troy within the giant wooden decoy and was the only general to lose not one of his men to the war. He spoke of him warmly and proudly, but Penelope gathered only one thing: Odysseus was skilled enough to keep his soldiers alive, but not to ensure the same for himself. It was frustratingly noble of him, which made it frustratingly in character. Sometimes, she wishes she were more selfish, so she could be angry with someone other than her dead husband; but, alas, all her anger melts away when she speaks to Odysseus' friends who also grieve for his absence. 

"If I had known he would not return from the walls of Troy..." Diomedes said to her when he visited. "I would have told him how much he meant to all of us. How thankful I am for him." He laughed softly, reminiscence clear in his tone and expression. "I would be dead many times over if not for him. It's my greatest regret that I could not return the favor." 

Penelope still remembers the immense grief in the fearless king of Argos' eyes, and feels badly for him all over again. Tel told her she should feel worse for herself, since she lost a husband, but she prefers to dwell on the feelings of others than herself. It keeps her from being chronically upset. 

"Your Majesty!" 

Penelope blinks back to reality when she hears the guard's call. Relief washes over her as she stands up from her seat across from Antinous in favor of facing Tel's newly appointed guard Alexis. "May I help you?" 

Alexis bows, grasping a spear in his right hand. "Your family has arrived. The king has asked you to be escorted to them." 

"I can handle that," says Antinous. Penelope watches him rise also, standing behind her as if the two are remarkably close. "Can't I?" 

"His Majesty made it very clear that I was to escort his mother, the queen," Alexis replies formally, emotionless. "I find it unlikely that he will take kindly to any allowance of my replacement." 

Antinous snorts, displaying his absolute indifference towards Tel. "It isn't like I'm going to assault her." 

For some reason, that comment sends a shiver up Penelope's spine, and she takes a step away from him. She neglects to make eye contact, not wanting to see what emotions are blaring in his. She suddenly feels very grateful that Alexis has come armed. 

"I'm afraid I have to insist," responds Alexis, conveying nothing but a desire to follow his king's orders. "My allegiance is to King Telemachus; not Lord Antinous." 

Penelope smiles. "Well, then. Thank you for joining me for breakfast, my lord." She turns to Antinous, tilting her head politely. "My apologies if I am not available for the foreseeable future. Make no mistake, it is not your doing." She directs her attention back to Alexis before Antinous can say a word. "Lead on." 

Alexis bows once more before leaving the courtyard for the safety of the palace walls. Penelope follows closely, shrugging off the foreboding feeling that remained from her interaction with Antinous. She pushes it from her mind, reminding herself that she is perfectly capable of protecting herself, if anything does happen. Antinous is the only one who has ever gotten especially... handsy with her, but she has managed to avoid it for months now. It should only become easier, as more and more prospective suitors barge into the palace. The gods truly are testing her patience, and -- if she leaves sane -- she will be seeking out whichever one bestowed them upon her and saying some choice words. Even if she is risking being struck down by lightning or something of the like, she really won't be able to sit around and let them think that all this is acceptable in any way, shape, or form. 

"Penelope!"

A smile spreads across Penelope's face when she hears her sister's voice. All thoughts of suitors leave her mind when she sees Iphthime's dark waves of hair and olive skin lit by filtered sunlight. She meets her sister with an affectionate, excited embrace. 

"You have impeccable timing," says Penelope. "You're nothing short of a savior." 

Iphthime laughs. "What, are the men vying for your attention and love that annoying?" 

"You've met men before, Iph," Penelope reminds her, pulling away to smooth her hair. "They don't recognize disinterest and even if they do, they don't care."

"Well, I can't argue with that." Iph loops her arm through her sister's. "Eumelus, Perileos, and Father are waiting for us in the tavern. They've been catching up." 

Penelope doubts Father and Perileos are "catching up" with Iph's husband. It's more likely that the lords of Sparta are actually grilling the king of Pherae to ensure that Iph is adequately taken care of. Eumelus will certainly pass Father's testing; he's been put through it many a time, after eighteen years of marriage. 

Penelope follows Iphthime out of the palace -- with little protest from Alexis, she notices -- and into Ithaca. The sun shines down on the stone ground and on the faces of Ithacan citizens, all bustling about in search of supplies they need for the day's tasks. The tavern is in the center of the town, surrounded by shops on either side, and is full of people, as usual. Greek taverns are rarely empty, seeing as they are the unspoken, agreed upon meeting place of every kingdom, city, and village. Penelope has been there on more occasions than she can count, nearly always with her husband by her side. He was always popular with the townspeople, so much so that most testified to the fact that they forgot he was king for the few hours he spent with them. Penelope never thought it strange, though; it was simply Odysseus' personality, melding into communities so easily. Half the time he didn't even realize he was doing it. 

And now I'll never see him do it again.

Penelope shoves that thought back into the deep, untouched depths of her mind, and focuses on her sister. She is talking about her son Zeuxippus, and how he has grown to have quite the skill with a blade as well as his words. She's surprised by his talent for fighting and public speaking -- pleasantly surprised. She remarks how it will make him a wonderful king, when the time comes. Penelope agrees, though she can't help but think that Zeuxippus is three years older than Telemachus, making him seventeen, but Tel has already been ruling for nearly two years. He's only fourteen, yet he has so much responsibility on his shoulders. That, and he clearly harbors great contempt for Penelope's suitors. She wonders if he is planning something... perhaps that is why he's been behaving so strange as of late. But, if that's the case, what is he planning that requires so much secrecy? 

"Sisters!" The unmistakable voice of Perileos, lord of Sparta and older brother to Penelope and Iphthime, rises through the tavern. "I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way." 

Penelope fixes him with an incredulous look. "If I ever lose my way in my own kingdom, ask if something is wrong with me." 

He chuckles, combing back his dark hair with his fingers. "Your wish is my command, dear sister." 

Penelope and Iphthime turn their attention to their father Icarius, each of them planting a kiss on his cheek before sitting down. Eumelus greets Penelope with a wave and a joke, as usual -- not a good joke, seeing as he does not seem to know any. 

"Let's get some mead in us, shall we?" asks Father. "Seems we have much to speak about." 

Apparently so, because Father ends up talking nonstop about Penelope's unfortunate circumstances. He offers a wide range of solutions, but every single one involves one or all of the men dying. Penelope isn't interested in killing anyone; she only wants them out of her home. Father and Perileos, of course, refuse to take that into account, as they are both certain one of the suitors will end up trying to do something unforgivable. 

"It is the nature of men," explains Father. "It is a terrible nature if one has found no partner. It is only inevitable, my sweet, and I would rather stop them all now -- permanently -- before it comes to pass." 

"No." Penelope says firmly. "There will be no bloodshed." She sighs. "Their advances, however, are getting... persistent, so to speak. What I really need is an excuse to remain in my bedroom all day." 

Eumelus hums thoughtfully. "Can Telemachus not order them to leave?" 

"Technically, he could," she replies. "But I told him early on not to. He should steer clear of making enemies out of elites for the time being. The only path to peace as of now is to allow them to walk freely in the palace while keeping a close eye on them. He has brought in new guards to do just that."

She's fairly certain that's why Alexis and the other three men appeared suddenly in the palace. They are guards meant to keep the suitors in line. So far, it has worked quite well. 

"It'll only get more complicated, though, with all these young men flooding in just to sneak a glimpse at you," Iph tells her. "Nineteen already, and I did catch sight of three well-dressed men coming off a boat when we came ashore. Their clothing was far too formal for a simple outing. I have a suspicion they are here for you." 

"What's three more?" asks Penelope, controlling her annoyance at the amount of audacity prancing around in her palace and her kingdom. "I can handle them. What I can't do is keep myself away from them. I have no power to reject an escort or a summoning." She despises that she has lost that ability, seeing as she is the queen but not the reigning queen. Until Telemachus finds himself a wife, she is the queen mother, who does little except run the kingdom whenever her son is away. "Unless I am occupied with something else, I have no choice but to bear witness to their feeble attempts at courtship." 

Father grunts, swirling mead around in his mug. "You and Helen would have lengthy conversations over that. She was never truly amazed by any of her suitors either. She chose Menelaus because of his acceptable courting techniques, at least in part. I am not sure she was in love with him by any means, but I know she is quite happy to have been returned to him." 

"She'd better be," scoffs Eumelus. "Do you know many people died trying to rescue her? I would hope she shows gratitude for that, whether she's in love with Menelaus or not. She had enough influential suitors to create an entire army, and all of them fought." He pauses. "Well, most of them fought. It took years to track down Patroclus and call upon his service. Of course, that meant Achilles was with him, and it was really him who did all the fighting." 

"Poor kids," Father comments. "They died far too young."

"Everyone was too young, Father," Perileos reminds him. "The war was a terrible thing. Only the worst of the Greeks have used it for glory." Penelope can tell by looking at him that he's thinking of Agamemnon, whom he always voiced hatred for. 

Though, she's heard whispers of his death. Some say he was struck down by a god, but others report sightings of his wife Clytemnestra stabbing him to death. Penelope finds the second more probable; she knows about the "ceremony" that took place before the Siege of Troy. To trick and kill not only an innocent young woman but your own daughter? It was a cruel event, set up by cruel minds. She hopes that Odysseus wasn't involved. 

She and her family spend upwards to an hour at the tavern before deciding to set off into town to shop for their own supplies. Penelope and Iphthime find themselves without Eumelus, Father, and Perileos very soon after, as they wandered to the stalls selling fabric and sewing tools. Had Iphthime not been married to a king, she would have, without a doubt, become a dressmaker. All her gowns are handmade by herself, and she refuses help from her servants. She spends quite some time mooning over string and fabric. Penelope likes to sew, too, but mostly tapestries. She finds that there is rarely a time limit for creating a tapestry, very unlike dressmaking for scheduled events. She has, regrettably, not done much weaving or sewing since she heard of Odysseus' death. 

Alleged death. A death that neither confirmed nor denied. He disappeared from his men during the Siege of Troy, and has not been seen since. Does that mean he is dead? Or has he found his way back to his men? Perhaps he got lost instead of shot or stabbed. Perhaps he is on his way home to her and Telemachus. 

Well... that is quite a lovely fairytale. Penelope must keep it in mind to help her fall asleep. 

"So, Penny," begins Iphthime as she trades drachmas for two rolls of fabric. "Have you come up with a plan to keep these men from you? You don't want them dead, I see that, but you do want them a safe distance away." 

Penelope nods. "I do. I don't have a plan yet. But I will. I will stitch a scheme together, one way or another."

"I'm sure you will." 

There's a brief, slightly awkward pause between the sisters. They start their walk away from the fabrics and to where they hope the men they arrived with are. 

"Perhaps you could play it off as something important," Iph suggests after several beats of silence. "Like... making arrangements for a royal gathering." 

"For that to work, there must be a royal gathering to arrange," Penelope says. "Telemachus hasn't had one since his coronation, and I don't think that's going to change anytime soon." He is quite anti-social for a king, not wanting to take up time, money, and space for parties. She can't say it's a bad thing; it has probably kept Ithaca's treasury full of gold.

Iph frowns, contemplating. "If I were in your shoes, I would make as many gowns as possible and tell my suitors that I'm busy working on them." She shrugs. "I don't know if that's particularly clever, but it's certainly what my move would be." 

It's not a bad idea, Penelope thinks to herself. Unfortunate for me, though. It would be splendid if I had any hobbies like... that... As her thoughts trail off into nothing, so does her pace. 

Iph stops, tilting her head at her older sister. "Penny? Is something wrong?" 

"No," she breathes. "No, nothing's wrong, you're -- " She grins, hugging Iph tightly. "You're a genius, Iph! Brilliant." She kisses her on the cheek and races back to the market they came from. 

"Your Majesty!" exclaims Ophelia, the seamstress. "Are you alright? You seem to be in a hurry." 

Penelope rushes to Ophelia's stall. "Yes, I am. Could I purchase your finest wool and silk, please?" 

"Of course." The shopkeeper peers into the wooden bin below her and takes up red wool and silver silk, placing them on the surface of her stall. "Sixteen drachmas, please, Your Majesty." 

Penelope reaches into her coin purse, which she carries around always, and sixteen drachmas clatter onto the wood. "Thank you." She tucks her new items under her arm and walks quickly back to Iphthime. 

"What are you carrying?" asks Iph, staring at the wool and silk. "For the sake of the gods, Penny, don't you own enough wool and silk?" 

"No," Penelope answers. "Not for this." 

Iph's eyebrows raise. "This?" 

"You'll see. Do come to the palace once you're done shopping." Penelope says hurriedly, turning away from her sister. 

"Wait -- Penelope! What's going on? What are you doing?" 

But she's already too far to hear. 

|•|•|•|

Athena sits in her temple on Olympus, fuming. She has not gotten over her fight with Odysseus, and she is worried she will end up killing him accidentally if she lays eyes on him now. She wants to supervise Alcaeus -- the boy has been getting in far more trouble than she hoped -- but she also has a duty here, at home. The minor gods, led by Nemesis, have not accepted any of her various attempts at peace. She is unbelievably angry with her father and stepmother for stirring up trouble, though she knows there's more to it. Someone told them to do this, and Ares has denied all involvement. She believes it to be true; he's not bragging about a possible war that he came up with. In fact, he's doing quite the opposite: moping about, complaining about how this potential war isn't his doing and demanding to know whose it is so he can quote, un-quote "beat their stealing, hogging, Olympian ass". 

"How vulgar" was the only response Athena could think to give. Mostly because she wants to do the same. 

Despite all this, however, Olympus has been quiet. Gods are not mulling about, starting foolish and useless arguments with one another, nor have there been any so-called "romantic escapades" with Ares and Aphrodite. Athena knows most of the gods have returned to the mortal realm, not only because they have mortals to look after, but also because they hate each other.

Still. It makes her uneasy to see her home so empty. 

"Come on, Athena, let's go out! It's bound to be fun! Because it's me, and I'm loads of fun!" 

Well. Almost empty. 

"I'm not going out with you, Hermes," she says for the twenty-eighth time. "Find some other goddess to pick on." 

"But Calypso is being so boring," he complains. "All she does is mope, talking about how badly she wants to be loved and how unfair her situation is, and blah, blah, blah." He waves it off as if it were a fly buzzing in his ears. "You're the only Olympian who doesn't kick me to the curb as soon as I knock on the door, so... you're my only option." 

Athena glares at him. He's wearing his usual disguise: a Spartan man with green eyes and winged sandals. He would be physically attractive to anyone; it's his personality that annoys everyone to death. Even Apollo hates having him around, which is a true mark of his character, because Apollo is easily the second most annoying god in the world. 

"Trust me," she glowers, "I'm considering it." 

"If you do, I'm going to show up again like a boomerang," he tells her. "Plus, if you kick me out you'll never know about what's going on with the Ithacan army..." 

Athena blinks, confused. "The Ithacan army? Why should I be concerned about them? Are they not home by now?" 

Hermes sighs dramatically. "No, they're not home yet. You really need to keep up with the times, Wisey." 

"Do not call me that." 

"You got it, Wisey!" 

She covers her face with her hands to keep from murdering him. "Just tell me what's going on with them." 

He grins. "Why tell you..." He snaps his fingers. Their surroundings change in an instant, going from Athena's temple to the Cave of Mortality, where gods can peer into a pool of water and see what's happening on earth. "...when I can show you! Ta-da!" He leans against the wall. "I've always wanted to do that." 

"Why did you -- ?" Her eyes dart around. "How did you get us here?" 

"Uh, I'm the god of messengers, remember?" He explains like it's obvious. "Which means I need to be able to get where I need to be in a moment's notice. So, yeah, I can teleport to places you have to walk to. Great, right?" 

Athena crosses her arms, beginning to really like the idea of tossing him down Mount Olympus. "Why are we here?" 

Hermes' smug expression drops, turning into boredom. "Fine, fine. Always so quick to cut to the chase. Boring." He approaches the pool at the end of the cave. Athena follows, standing beside him. "O Great and Wondrous Pool of Sight, show me the Ithacan army's blight." 

Athena shoots him a look of contempt. "Really?" 

"Great poem, isn't it?" he replies. "Better than anything Apollo could write. Oo, look, it's starting." 

Athena focuses her attention on the pool. Indeed, it has started to glow, people appearing in the crystal clear water. She narrows her eyes as the surroundings come into view. "What are they doing in Sicily?" 

"That's what I'm wondering!" Hermes exclaims. "But, unfortunately, I missed last week's episode, so, I'm not sure." 

She ignores him and continues watching. She recognizes Eurylochus, Odysseus' right hand, and Polites, one of Odysseus' oldest friends and best advisors. She always liked the two of them, though she never revealed herself to them the way she did with Odysseus. Luckily for them and their crew, Odysseus announced it rather loudly, all the time. It irked her greatly, quite similarly to how he's irking her now. 

Athena shakes away thoughts of smiting Odysseus and watches the scene unfold before her eyes. Eurylochus and Polites, talking, side by side, to someone in front of them. Their crew is walking away, in a large group of five hundred, clearly wanting to board the boats of their fleet. She feels herself twitch as she realizes they're not calling out for their captain and friend to come with them. Even though a few keep tossing glances back, they don't run forward to pull either of the men into the crowd. 

Eurylochus' clearly faked smile fades. Fear floods his eyes. He yells something, turning around, as a giant boulder appears in the sky and lands on top of thirty men. Athena steps back, her eyes widening. Eurylochus and Polites both start running towards their crewmates, shouting inaudibly. Another rock flies towards them and crushes the five men who failed to get out of its path. Eurylochus grabs the shoulders of one of the men and tells him to do something, just as a massive foot kicks away the second boulder. 

A massive foot. 

"Polyphemus." Athena breathes, shocked. "Poseidon's son." 

"Mhm," agrees Hermes. "And he is not happy with that crew." 

She rips her gaze away from the battle to fix him with an expression of pure anger. "Do you find this funny?! Watching soldiers die with no chance of fighting back! Is that your preferred form of entertainment?" 

"Woah, I never said that," Hermes protests, raising his hands. "If I thought this was entertaining, I would've gone to find Ares, not you. I was thinking it would be great if you -- I don't know, did something for them? You're the goddess of war, aren't you?" 

"Battle strategy," she corrects. "But yes. War, by extension." She's called herself the goddess of war many times. 

"Right, whatever," he continues. "So can't you... bless them, or something? Grant them fire powers for a couple of hours? Invincibility?" 

Athena frowns. "I can't interfere with something like this. 

"You can't?" Hermes scratches the back of his neck. "But they can't beat this thing on their own. Not without tons of people dying, at least." 

She nods. "You're right. They can't." 

His demeanor changes instantly. "I'm right? Did you just say that? Did you just say that I was right? Because there's no take backs." 

"We can't interfere with a fight that involves Poseidon's son," she speaks over his idiocy. "Not if we want to risk more unrest here." She looks down at the suffering army, so many lives already lost by the hand of the Cyclops. "We can tell them to fight hard, but we can't help them win. They must win -- or lose -- on their own." 

Athena, unable to watch any longer, turns away. She sees light seeping in where the entrance of the cave is, and approaches it. 

"You do realize you're sentencing them to death, don't you?" 

She stops. Dares to look back even once. 

"Yes." 

She then slips out of the cave with no intention of returning. 

|-|-|-|

Telemachus surveys the crates of arrows, determining if they're the ones he will use or not. He picks one up and runs his finger over the arrowhead.  

"You said these can all be set on fire?" He clarifies. 

"Yes," says Alexis. "They can be used as normal or flaming arrows. They're easy to aim and easy to shoot. They should give no trouble to the archers." 

He nods approvingly, placing the arrow back where it belongs. "Perfect. Thanks for this. I know it's not particularly a part of your job description, but..." 

"I swore my service to you, my liege," Alexis repeats for what seems to be the millionth time. "Whatever you ask of me is part of my job description." 

"Right. Of course. Thank you." Telemachus shifts on his feet. "You can, uh... leave now." 

Alexis bows and exits the room, leaving Telemachus to his thoughts. His thoughts, that have been running amok for days now, and are changing for no good reason at all. He's suddenly begun to feel... sorry, for what he's planning. Not all the suitors seem to be terrible, but still he's planning to kill them all. He's wanted to kill them all for months, but... he fears he is starting to have doubts. 

Would Father do something like this? He wonders. Kill all these men for the sake of one life? Two, if you're being technical. The majority of them are grating, yes, but only a few are truly horrible people. Should I just target them? Or keep the plan the same? He drops his head into his hands, groaning. I hate this. 

He rolls over onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He twists the ring on his finger, as he always does when he feels conflicted or anxious or angry. He didn't expect being king to be this difficult. Weighing the good and bad consequences of killing nineteen men is not something he ever dreamed he would do. Yet here he is, doing it. Here he is, thinking about how this would affect alliances Ithaca has with other kingdoms. That's politics! The same thing he has never cared about for more than five minutes. He cares about it now, because he is thinking about what the right decision is for Ithaca instead of himself. 

Sure, these men do tend to infringe and disregard Telemachus' authority, which is insulting and should be dealt with by organizing a show of power. His current plan certainly showcases that, but in a deadly, violent way he's not sure he wants his people to be linked to. He doesn't want his people to travel elsewhere and be treated differently because their king made a bad decision. Which means this affects more than just him. More than just his mother. 

He covers his face with his forearm, frustrated and confused. 

A few moments later, his door opens. He sits up in an instant, wondering who has the audacity to barge into the king's room without announcing themselves, but his wonder evaporates when he sees Mother standing in the doorway, rolls of silk and wool tucked under both arms. 

"Mother?" he asks, standing. "Why... do you have all of that?" 

"I have an idea." 

That's all she says before fully entering the room and throwing her supplies onto Telemachus' bed. 

"You have an idea," he echoes. "That's why you've just ruined my perfectly made bed?" 

"Oh, please, this is not a perfectly made bed," she retorts. "If you want to see a perfectly made bed, check my room and take a few notes." He blinks at her sudden wit. She's not normally like this, is she? "Anyway, this is more important than properly arranging pillows. I have an idea to keep the suitors in line." 

Telemachus feels his eyebrows raise. "You do?" 

"A tapestry," she says. "I will make a tapestry, and -- once I finish -- I will choose a husband." 

Shock courses through her son's veins. "You're -- You're actually going to choose one of these men to marry?" 

"No." She replies. "I'm going to make them think I'm choosing one of them to marry." 

He's at a loss for words for a few moments, trying to think of a response. 

"How -- ?" 

"If I never finish the tapestry," she interrupts, "then I never get married. It allows you enough time to write to their fathers and request for them to be called home. It will bore them, too, so I hope some will leave on their own." 

Realization fills Telemachus after she's done explaining. He smiles, impressed at his mother's cleverness and creativity. "It's a wonderful plan, Mother. It'll definitely work. At least to a point." 

Mother's expression softens when she looks at him. "Thank you. I know this has been difficult for both of us, and... believe me when I say I want it to be over as much as you do." She brushes hair from his face. "Now we can work together. On anything you like." 

Telemachus can't help but hug her. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, holding tightly to his mother. He relishes the feeling of being held by her -- something that has been missing since all the suitors started flooding in -- and it calms his anxious uncertainty from earlier. For a few minutes, he has nothing to worry over. 

"Tel." 

He retreats from Mother's embrace. "What is it?" 

"You..." She's frowning at something behind him. "Why do you have crates full of arrows?" 

Oh. I haven't told her yet. Well, now is as good a time as ever, isn't it?

"That's because I'm..." he trails off. Hesitates. 

Should I tell her?

Knowing her, Mother will try to stop him. She'll convince his spies that this is unlawful. She'll convince him that this is unlawful. Telemachus can't handle more people pulling him in all different directions. If he wants to keep his plan, then he can't tell her. 

"Because you're what?" Mother reiterates. 

Telemachus pushes down his feelings and smiles at her. "It's just something for training. I'll be starting archery tomorrow evening." 

Mother's eyes narrow only just. "Oh. Well... that's great, then. I'm sure you'll be just as adept as your father." There's suspicion lingering in her tone, but she switches topics. "Why don't you help me pick a design for this tapestry?" 

And so he does, thinking no more about his scheme to kill the suitors of Penelope. 

Notes:

hey y'all!!
updates should hopefully be coming more regularly in over the next couple of months - my summer class is almost over!! y'all's support is honestly so inspiring so thank you so so much <3

also, I'm pretty sure "Iphthime" is pronounced if-tuh-me, if anybody else gets as confused about Greek names as I do lmao. don't take my word for it though I'm pretty shit with names

update soon!!

<3,
alex

Chapter 10: X

Summary:

Eurylochus and Polites try to survive a brutal enemy.

Telemachus is told of a heinous crime.

Odysseus is warned... again.

Notes:

TW: graphic violence, reference to and description of sexual harassment and assault

If you are uncomfortable with the desc of the second TW, find the *** which begins those scenes. The same symbols will be used to indicate the end of them. Not reading these parts will not affect your understanding of the story. Please only read what you know you are comfortable with <3

“Any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”
-Homer, The Iliad

|~|~|~|

The ground rumbles beneath Polites' feet as he runs. He tries to keep track of the crew as best he can, but is distracted by also escaping thrown trees and rocks. He has his sword out -- they all do -- but they have no idea what they could do with them. It is really just a way to make them feel as if they are safer with their blades unsheathed; in reality, that is a dream. 

Polites, not wanting to stop while he's in the immediate crossfire, sets his course for a cluster of trees that could possibly hold all 563 men that survived the cyclops' initial attack. It may not, but it is certainly the best shot they have. 

"Make for the trees!" he shouts, hoping he is too far and too small for the cyclops to hear. "As fast as you can!" He then turns and goes straight for his chosen destination. Relief and hope sparks in his chest when he hears the thundering of men's feet following. 

Polites hides himself behind a tree trunk as the crew floods in. He counts them all one by one, coming up with 561 instead of 563. Though it sends a horrible ache through his entire body, he does not have time to dwell on the lives lost. He has to focus on saving the lives that remain. 

Eurylochus -- alive and seemingly okay, thankfully -- breaks away from the crowd to approach Polites. "We need a plan." 

"Keen observation," replies Polites. "It is quite obvious that a plan is necessary for any type of survival. The question is, what is that plan?" He glances at the men behind Eurylochus, who are old and young alike, and many of them wear exhausted and haunted expressions. "They are not fit for battle." 

"No, indeed," Eurylochus agrees. "If we're to kill this beast -- "

"Kill?" Polites repeats. "What the devil do you mean kill?"

Eurylochus fixes him with a skeptical look. "You know what I mean." 

"I am thinking of something, and I certainly hope I am wrong," he narrows his eyes at his captain, wondering where this idea came from. "It is impossible to kill a cyclops without the proper weapons, and -- as you can see -- we are short on both ammunition and morale." He flinches as the earth shakes violently in response to the monster's step. "You are not wholly an idiot, Eurylochus, think about what the outcome of this will be if we attempt to slay it!" 

"It is going to kill us all if we don't," Eurylochus counters. "It knows our faces, Polites. Yours and mine. It will not let us leave." 

Polites can't deny that. "I am hoping the lotus seeds knock him out for long enough so we can escape. Is that not enough?" 

"And have a monster out for our heads for the rest of our lives?!" Eurylochus says in a low voice. "I don't know about you, but I'd prefer to have peace when we return to Ithaca, not the possibility of more bloodshed." 

"Fine then," Polites relents. "If this is your will, then we will find a way. But remember: this is your idea, not mine. Don't forget that I warned you." He sighs. "Alright. What is your plan?" 

Eurylochus taps his foot on the ground for a moment before his eyes light up. "Rope. From the ships. We can use it to bring it down and kill it from there. It is going to be weakened by the wine, too, like you said." The monster brings its foot down again, and the closer proximity of it punctuates why they must act quickly. "If we can force it to the ground, then we can win." He swallowed visibly, rare fear glistening in his normally steady gaze. "I hope." 

Polites squeezes his friend's shoulder quickly. "No matter what happens, we'll have fought our hardest. If we survive, then it will be a joyous day; if we do not, I am certain we will be admitted to Elysium." He retracts his hand and turns so he's half-facing the soldiers behind him. "But for now, we have a cyclops to fight." 

The Ithacan crew huddle together for only a few minutes, seeing as the cyclops is getting increasingly closer to their temporary hiding place. Polites and Eurylochus have sectioned the men off into groups: distract, attain, trip, and archers.

The distraction team are the crew's fastest and lightest, who will be able to escape the blows of the monster's club while also slicing into the flesh on its legs.

The attainment team, the crew's quietest, is in charge of searching their wrecked camp for the rope they brought down from the ship.

The tripping team, the strongest of the men, will take the rope and pull their foe down by its ankles.

And the archers are in charge of defending everyone until their time comes to strike it in the eye. 

"If we blind him, he will be at a massive disadvantage," is what Amphialos provided. "Our arrows are weak on their own, but they can be lit with flame." 

Eurylochus nodded at the suggestion. "Do what you deem necessary."

"Why are we doing this?" asked a different soldier. "Aren't we setting ourselves up for failure?" 

"Perhaps," said the captain. "But our comrades will not die in vain."

"When you are fighting," added Poites, "remember them." 

It is these words that encourage him, too, for he is terrified of what is to come. But Lycaon and the rest will not -- cannot -- die in vain. Not while there is time to avenge their deaths and stop the taking of more life. It is what has him unsheathe his sword, the distraction team behind him, and leave the relative safety of the forest.

The monster sees them in an instant, but they have already spread out so it is more difficult for it to kill a large group like it did before. Polites sees and hears arrows flying as he and his group charge forward. As soon as he gets close enough to the cyclops, he slices a clean, deep cut into its right ankle. The rest of them follow suit, one man climbing on top of another's shoulders as they both wound their enemy. 

The monster voices its pain with a loud, deafening roar. Polites immediately shoots out from beneath it, into the open grass, and is happy to see that all his men have succeeded in doing the same. 

"What do we do now?" questions Tobias. 

"Keep out of its line of sight, if you can," Polites answers. "Stay away from its club and try to fight and run in pairs. Continue with the captain's plan; if we can wound him enough, he will be more likely to fall." He speaks quickly as he realizes the cyclops is slowly turning around. "May the gods be with you, my friends." 

"May the gods be with you." They echo. 

With that, Polites and half of the team race to the left side of it so they can make it to its backside, while the other half shoots under it before it can see them. Polites plants his feet as the ground becomes slippery, and tries not to worry too deeply about the soldiers who are fighting now. Polites barely holds his breath or thinks deliberately before he plunges his blade straight through the heel before him. He loses sight of what the others are doing, but from the enormous cry he hears, they have done their jobs well. 

"MORTAL... SCUM!" the monster yells. "You... will not... get away with this!" 

It leans down to pick up another rock as Polites retreats from it again so he can recuperate for a moment. He watches as the cyclops reaches down to grab its weapon, the back of its huge loincloth almost touching the ground. In that moment, an idea flies into Polites' mind so quickly he can't pinpoint the exact second it did. 

Is this a bad idea? The sensible side of his brain wonders. 

Don't know, he replies. Honestly? Don't care. It'll work. 

He runs forward, towards the monster who has begun to rise, and jumps so he can grab onto the hanging cloth. His grip is unsteady, though, so he stabs his sword into its back and holds onto the hilt. 

"POLITES!" shouts his team. 

"KEEP GOING!" he responds. "Don't worry about me." 

As the monster again cries out in pain, it falls briefly to the ground, its hand holding it up. It's the perfect opportunity for Polites to climb onto its now flat back, wrench out his weapon, and hurry to just below its neck. For the third time, he shoves his blood-covered sword into the skin beneath him. As he does -- and as his enemy bellows angrily -- he catches sight of Eurylochus, who is holding a coil of rope and staring up with wide fearful eyes. Polites can do nothing but offer an encouraging smile.

Keep moving, my friend, he thinks but cannot say. Do not hold back for the sake of one man.

The cyclops rises to its feet, Polites holds onto the hilt of his sword again, so as to not fall to his death. When it is standing straight, he adjusts his grip on the sword, plants his feet on its back, and drops himself down. 

As he hoped, his blade fell with him, slicing a long wound into the monster's back. He doesn't dare let go of it, for he is still too high from the ground. He has no desire to die on this day, or any day soon. The trip down its spine is long and rough, but he holds true. As soon as he knows he can survive the fall, he pushes off and rolls onto the grass. Hands instantly help him up, and he pants, trying to catch his breath. 

"Polites," says Lysander. "If I ever doubt you, remind me of this day." 

"That was amazing," agrees Tobias. 

Calix grins. "No wonder you chose to lead this team. It's your calling!" 

"That's... very kind of you," Polites feels his breath come more easily. "But the fight is not over yet. I may have injured it, but its skin is thick and its tolerance high." He remembers the coil of rope he saw Eurylochus holding. "I believe we may have attained what we need." He smiles as he sees the tripping team racing towards them -- towards the back of the cyclops. "Alright. Let's keep its attention at the front. Come on!" 

Many men may not have made it to the front of their foe before it turned around, but these are the fastest men in Ithaca. They make it before it steps twice. 

"Archers!" Polites shouts. Amphialos and his team look over. "Aim for its eye!" 

Amphialos nods purposefully. He starts talking to his men, and a few of them split off to do something. Confident in Amphialos' abilities, Polites continues to cut and jab the monster's legs, particularly ankles and knees. He stops when Eurylochus loops rope around its ankle. 

"Eurylochus," he greets his captain. "This is a good plan. It seems to be working." 

"You are worse than Odysseus about self-preservation," Eurylochus glowers. "What the devil were you thinking?! Climbing up a cyclops' back!" 

Polites shrugs. "I wasn't thinking. Not really. I had a plan, but once it started my body did the work for me." That doesn't seem to cool Eurylochus' anger. "I'm alive, aren't I? Barely hurt and what I did worked." 

"We will talk about this later," states Eurylochus. "For now, get out of the way so we can bring this thing down."

Polites does as he's told, casting his friend one last glance before returning to his men and the archers. He watches as Eurylochus and his team pull as hard as they can on the rope they have, and the cyclops stumbles. It may not fall completely, but it will certainly be off balance. 

"The captain really knew what he was talking about," remarks Amphialos. "I'm glad." 

"We all are." Polites says. 

"And to think," exclaims Calix, "we haven't lost a single man since we started with this plan." 

Polites frowns at that. A strange feeling washes over him. He looks up -- dares to look up -- and his eyes widen at what he sees: 

The boulder the cyclops was holding is falling down. 

Straight towards the archers and some of his own men.

They will die, he knows. It will crush them. 

Polites casts away his weapon. Not if I have anything to say about it. 

He races towards the endangered men as fast as humanly possible, and -- as soon as he makes it to them -- succeeds in pushing more than half out of the way. In an instant, pain explodes all over Polites' body. Blood splatters the grass and screams are muted by death. Polites' vision blurs, and he hears a faint call. 

"POLITES!"

The voice is familiar. It reminds him of a tall, brown-skinned man with dark eyes and short black hair. A man who never gives up no matter what. A man who led through impossible odds. 

"Eurylochus..." he feels himself whisper. 

And as his eyes close unwillingly, his world goes completely and utterly silent.  

|-|-|-|

Penelope sits alone in her bedroom. She is busy weaving her tapestry, humming a lullaby she used to sing to Telemachus when he was an infant. So far, her plan of keeping herself busy so as to not spend time with the suitors is working quite well.

Her new handmaidens -- Kal and Sophia -- are excellent at making believable excuses, almost like they have been doing it since they were very young. Penelope isn't sure where Tel met them and how he commissioned their service, but she is happy to have them. She is good at coming up with ways to stay busy, but not so much at avoiding suspicion as to why. 

The issue was this: she's never had to make excuses like this before. Even when she first met Odysseus and he snuck into her room unannounced all the time, it wasn't vital for her survival to create tall tales. Believable ones, at that. 

One could think that Penelope is over exaggerating when she says this is for her survival.

But she is not.

Survival is more than just keeping your heart beating steadily and your blood flowing evenly. It is also a problem involving one's mind. One's sanity. And she is completely certain she would lose it if she failed at making an acceptable excuse. 

This is only until their fathers call them home, she reminds herself as she undoes and begins redoing one of her columns. After that, everything will be peaceful again. Tel can focus on being king, and I can focus on helping him however I can. The thought calms her, and she takes a deep breath. Not too much longer. I can keep this up. I know it. 

“Your Majesty.”

Penelope turns at the call, and lays eyes on Elias, one of Amphinomus’ guards. “Oh. Hello.”

He bows politely, fist on his heart. “My lord asks you to supper. If you so wish.”

Penelope glances at her unfinished tapestry, considering. Amphinomus has always been a friend of hers. He clearly has no care for Antinous and most of the others; he has spoken about his animosity for them on more than one occasion.

“Antinous of Ithaca,” he once murmured. “I cannot imagine that he came from the same kingdom you did.”

“I am not of Ithaca,” she replied. “I am Spartan.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “You learn something new every day, I suppose. Tell me of Sparta, then. It’ll get my mind off that fiend.”

It’s true I haven’t spoken to anyone in a while, she thinks. Perhaps I should give this a chance.

And so Penelope rises and says, “I accept his invitation.”

“Lovely. He will be pleased.” Elias opens the door for her, and she leaves her quarters.

The short journey to the dining hall is silent but not tense. Penelope quite enjoys the silence; she has been without it since her family arrived. And while she loves her sister, brother, father, and brother-in-law dearly, they seem to forget just how loud they are. She lived with them for twenty years, and she was sparsely in a wholly quiet room.

Still, she’s glad they are here. It keeps her feeling safe. Father and Perileos will never allow harm to befall her. Iph, too, would not hesitate to strike any man who dares hurt her big sister.

“He waits for you inside,” says Elias as they come to a halt before the normally open doors of the dining room. “I bid you farewell and good evening, Your Majesty.”

Penelope hardly has time to thank him before he is hurrying off. A cold, foreboding feeling washes over her. It compels her — begs her, really — to turn back. To return to her bedroom and forget this ever happened.

No, she shakes the feeling away. It is just Amphinomus. Nothing to be worried over.

And so she pushes open the great doors and enters the hall.

***

The room is empty when Penelope walks in. The long table is devoid of life and is almost ominous in the darkness. She frowns, again feeling as if she should not be here, before taking up a candle from the table and using a nearby match to light it.

In an instant, warm orange firelight brightens the space. Still, there is no one.

“Amphinomus?” she calls hesitantly. “Elias said you sent for me… where are you?”

“He’s not here.”

Penelope startles at the sound of — not Amphinomus’ voice, but Antinous’. She backs away from his looming figure, trying to get as much distance between them as possible. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks with false sweetness, tilting his head. “Aren’t you happy to see us?”

“Us?” She echoes. “I see only you.”

He cocks an eyebrow and grins. “Do you?”

A hand wraps around her wrist from behind and she yelps, immediately turning and attempting to shake herself free. She drops the candle as she does, both of her hands trying to defend her.

“Let go of me!” She shouts. Another hand covers her mouth and pulls her hard into the chest of whoever is behind. 

“Why are you struggling?” The slithery, terrible voice of Amphimedon whispers. “We are not here to hurt you. We are here to do quite the opposite.”

Anger flashes in Penelope’s mind, and she stomps on his foot as hard as she can. He shrieks in pain and steps back, releasing her. She takes hold of a heavy candlestick and promptly hits Agelaus — the man who grabbed her first — on the head with it.

As he crumples to the floor, she spins around to face the five shadows approaching. “Stay away! You have no right to force yourselves upon me!”

“Please,” sneers Ctesippus. “We have every right. You have no husband. You have claimed none of us.” An evil smile cracks across his face. “So I suppose we will have to help you choose.”

“You are all in my kingdom,” she retorts. “My palace! The king you answer to is my son!” 

Leiocritus laughs. "The king we answer to? We do not answer to your son. He is not our king."

"He certainly won't be once our plan succeeds," adds Elatus. "Then there will be no king of Ithaca." 

The words make Penelope falter unintentionally. She hopes she did not hear what she thinks. That she did not hear Elatus suggest that they are planning to kill Telemachus. 

"You will not hurt my son." Her voice does not shake as she says this. Fear pales in comparison to a mother's love. "You will not touch him." 

"Oh, we won't," Antinous holds the candle she once did, still lit. "If you stop fighting, then we will stop scheming." He leans against the table. "Sounds fair, doesn't it?" 

Penelope swears her heart stops for a single moment in her chest. After that, it is pounding, hammering against her ribs because of what she is about to do. What she is about to allow them to do. 

She says nothing. She drops her weapon, loosens her stance, and waits. 

She is still as unwanted hands roam her skin. 

She is silent as cold lips touch hers. 

The only thing she feels as she is violated by the men who claim to seek her hand in marriage out of honor and love, are the hot tears that leak from her eyes. They are the only emotion that is evident on her face. Her eyes are blank, and she seems to be no more than a crying statue. One would think many thoughts would be revolving around in her head: 

Stop. 

Get away from me. 

I don't want this...

But she hears none of that in her mind. Instead, there is only one thought. One sentence. One reminder.

If this is what it takes to protect Tel... then so be it. 

***

---

Telemachus sits in the darkness of his office, staring at the box of arrows. He is thinking. Contemplating. Considering whether or not his mother's suitors deserve the harsh punishment he has set up for them. For days, he has circled around this question, and for days he has come up empty. He never knew he was indecisive until the time came for such an important decision. It is one he thought he made ages ago. 

But no. Apparently his humanity is stepping in to try and stop him right as the plan is supposed to take place. His conscience is telling him it's wrong to do this. That it's wrong to wish such harm upon men who have done virtually nothing. 

Still. He isn't ready to give up on the scheme yet. Not while he is fearful of his mother's safety. If he finds that one day he is not, then perhaps he will drop the idea entirely. 

You shouldn't need a reason not to kill people, his annoying conscience speaks up. You shouldn't be planning to kill anyone in the first place!

"But what if they turn out to be foul men with foul souls who deserve a fiery demise?" he counters aloud. "What then?"

Still. It is not your place to decide who lives and who dies. That is the choice of Thanatos alone. 

"I can think of a certain king of the gods who would disagree with you." 

You are arguing with yourself! There is no one but you telling you this is wrong. What does that show? 

Telemachus groans in frustration, covering his face with his hands and dropping his forehead to the top of his desk. "Why is this so difficult? It seemed so clear before." 

Because you have matured, perhaps. Because you have learned what it is to be a king and not a boy. 

"But I am a boy." 

Maybe physically. But you know better than anyone that your boyhood ended the moment Father's will was read. 

Well. He can't disagree with that, can he? It's true enough. He hasn't been able to do anything childish in almost two years, and he is bound to rule for many more.

He will never be a boy, he comes to realize in this moment. His childhood was taken from him. And it is more than likely impossible to retrieve it. 

"Why did you have to go and die, Father?" he murmurs to no one. "Why did you leave us here alone?" Tears sting his eyes. "We need you." 

Of course, no answer came. 

Telemachus sighs, rising from his chair and leaving his cloak draped around the back. He leaves his office -- leaves the box of arrows -- and heads for his quarters. If there is one thing he knows he must do in order to come to decision, it is sleep. He has not slept well in a while, but hopefully his luck will change for the better. 

"Telemachus." 

The smooth voice compels him to stop. He cautiously pivots his feet and then his head. Ahead of him is the glowing form of a woman -- no, a girl. A teenaged girl, wearing a pure white gown. Her hair is as yellow as the sun and her eyes as gray as storm clouds. 

"Who are you?" he asks. 

She replies, "I am the one who gave you that ring." 

He looks down at the wooden ring on his finger. The one that he has deemed his good luck charm. He never takes it off. He isn't sure why, but he feels safer with it on. 

"Why?" he breathes, uncertain of who it is before him. 

"Because you are the king of Ithaca," she says like it is an obvious answer. "And you must persevere through all odds. Wisdom will come in handy." Her silver gaze glints playfully. "Hence the owl." 

Wisdom... 

Huh. Strange to connect wisdom to a ring, isn't it?

"But I am not here to discuss jewelry with you," she continues, taking a few steps forward. Her feet are silent against the floor. "I am here to report a crime." 

Telemachus feels his eyebrows twitch. "What crime?" 

"One against someone you love dearly. The only piece of your family that you have left." 

"What?" Anger mingled with fear jumps into his tone in an instant. "What happened to Mother? Is she alright? Where is she? Is she -- ?" He swallows his words, not able to put the idea into the air. 

The girl's expression softens. "She is alive. Though I would not say she is in a state of wellbeing." She frowns. "She was assaulted." 

Telemachus narrows his eyes. "What do you mean, assaulted?"

***

"I mean," begins the girl, who he is beginning to think is a goddess, "that the men who currently occupy your palace unbidden have forced themselves upon her. Five of them. Six, technically, but one of them was rather inelegantly passed out on the floor." She chuckles. "Your mother is not an easy woman to subdue." 

"They -- ?" He can hardly speak through the fury rushing through him. "How far did they go?" 

The teenager sighs, sympathy apparent in her tone and posture. "They raped her, Telemachus. Horribly. In this very palace." She scoffs. "The audacity of men. To rape a woman in her own home is to do more than disparage and assault her. It is meant to wreck any and all self-esteem and honor she had for herself. They meant to break her down completely." 

"They will not," Telemachus states. "I will not let them. Nor will I allow them to get off scot-free." 

***

"What is your plan?" she questions. "Murder them in their sleep, perhaps?" 

He shakes his head. "No. They deserve something much worse than that. Something humiliating, just as they humiliated Mother." An idea floats into his mind, and he accepts it readily. "I know what I will do." 

The goddess -- he has decided that she is one, because nothing else makes any sense -- hums softly. "What is that?" 

"You'll see," he responds. "Can you tell me where my mother is?" 

She nods. "She is in her room. Tread lightly, if you will. She has been hurt gravely."

"Of course." 

"Telemachus!" 

He pauses in his stride. "Yes?" 

Something foreign flashes in her eyes. "Tell your mother that the queen of the gods herself has bestowed her blessing upon her. Hera will not allow anymore harm to come to her." Her being glows just a bit brighter. "And neither will I." 

Before Telemachus can ask who she is, she disappears. 

Who was that? he wonders. Surely someone on my side, seeing as she did not kill me on the spot, and how she told me of what... happened. 

Speaking of which...

He shoves any thoughts about the goddess far back in his head as he races to his mother's quarters. He doesn't bother knocking. 

When he emerges through the doors, he is met with the sight of his mother -- Queen Penelope of Ithaca -- curled up and sobbing. 

"Mother..." he whispers. 

She raises her head and meets his gaze. "I am sorry. I am so sorry, my boy." 

"Hey, no," he sits beside her, looking into her eyes and trying to sent encouragement towards her. "You have nothing to apologize for. It is they who are at fault. Not you." 

"I let them," her voice trembles as she speaks. "I did not try to stop them." 

Telemachus takes Mother's hands in his. "They forced you to let them. I know this and I was not there. I want to description. I only want to comfort you. And protect you." He squeezes her palms gently. "I will never let anyone hurt you again." 

As a sob wracks her body, she leans onto her son. He hugs her close, the gears in his mind turning and turning... 

...until he finally comes to a decision. 

"You will never see them again," Telemachus assures Mother. "I swear it on the River Styx." 

|•|•|•|

Odysseus has relented on allowing Alcaeus into the water. After Athena's warning -- and after their shouting match -- he felt far too bad for his son to refuse any longer. He allows the little boy into the sea as long as he is with his father, and he seems to be complacent with that. Odysseus is glad; arguing with a four-year-old is a much more work than he anticipated. 

It's late in the afternoon when Alcaeus bounds into the main room, having woken from his nap. Odysseus has prepared a snack for him, as he is always hungry right after sleeping.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Odysseus teases.

"Not morning," Alcaeus objects. "It's after-moon." 

Endearment warms Odysseus' chest at the mispronunciation. "Afternoon, Alcaeus." He sets down the bowl of grapes before the toddler. "Eat up, then. If you want to play in the water a little, you must eat first, yes?" 

"Okay!" Alcaeus beams and begins crunching into his fruit. "You think my new friend will meet you?" 

Odysseus chuckles. "Sure, if you want."

Alcaeus is talking bout his imaginary friend Timaeus, who is supposedly a guardian of the sea and is able to control the water itself. Odysseus has played along, waiting for Alcaeus to find the right time to "introduce them". 

"He's real," Alcaeus pouts, as if he could read Odysseus' mind. "Why don't you believe me?" 

"I believe you," Odysseus says. "I believe that he is real to you, aγοράκι."

Alcaeus crosses his arms. "No you don't. But I show you. C'mon!" 

He's out of his seat and bolting out of the hut before Odysseus can stop him. 

The former king sighs and follows, reminding himself that he was probably just as rambunctious as a child. The thought brings back memories of his mother. His mother, whom he promised to return to after the war. 

If only you could see him, Ma, he thinks as he watches Alcaeus sprint across the sand. You would adore him. 

"Alright," Odysseus calls as Alcaeus approaches the water. "Hold on. Remember the rule?" 

Again, the boy pouts. "Stupid rule." 

"Hey! Language!" Odysseus bats his son gently on the back of the head. "Grown-ups can use that language. And you are not a grown-up, are you?" 

He will be. Sooner than you think. 

Odysseus shakes away the vaguely Zeus-like voice. 

"I find my friend for you," says Alcaeus. "I call him." 

Odysseus smiles. "Go ahead." 

Where he expects a childlike shout and nothing more than a ripple of water, there instead comes a loud, practiced call, accompanies by a heavily changing tide. 

"Alcaeus," he mutters, stepping front of the boy. "What are you doing?" 

"He called me, of course." A man appears in the water, tall, muscular, and -- most of all -- sinister. His sharp green eyes are enough to tell Odysseus exactly who he is. "Hello there, Odysseus of Ithaca. Funny meeting you here, isn't it?" 

Odysseus steps back out of fear. "What do you want? How did you find us?" 

Poseidon laughs loudly. "You are on an island in the middle of the sea! You are in my domain, mortal. Not the other way around." 

"Tim-Tim!" Alcaeus rushes forward, away from Odysseus, and into the sea king's arms. 

"There's the little warrior!" Poseidon heaves the toddler up onto his shoulders. "Thank you for introducing me to your..." He stares at Odysseus with something unknown and foreign in his gaze. "...father." 

"Come play, Fathy!" Alcaeus makes grabby-hands at his father. "Pleeeease?" 

Odysseus swallows down his panic. "I'm coming, don't worry." 

The next hour is unbearably worrisome. Odysseus watches as Poseidon treats Alcaeus like playmate, tossing him into the air and helping him to swim on his own. It leaves him wondering what to do about this new... development. Poseidon shouldn't know anything about Hector's lost son, yet here he is, breaking that hope. Although, he doesn't seem to be particularly hostile towards Alcaeus. In fact, he seems to enjoy playing with him as much as Alcaeus does. It's certainly strange, but it has not yet proven to be dangerous. 

By nightfall, Alcaeus has gone peacefully to bed, leaving Odysseus and Poseidon to themselves. 

"I am sure you're wondering why I haven't struck him down, then," begins the god. "Since my darling niece did tell us all that he was dead. Yet here he is, walking and talking and running." He smirks. "Do you really believe you can stop the Fates by keeping him here?" 

Odysseus glares at him. "Why do you care? You like him. I doubt you want him dead." 

"True. He is a unique soul, you know. A type of mortal who is so rare that you must treasure them." Poseidon speaks almost with reverie in regards to the young child. "Still. It is impossible to deny that he is destined to be a killer. Do you deny that?" 

"Yes," he says immediately. "Alcaeus will not destroy the world. He will be kept by my side. Safe. I will teach him to be different. Better. That mercy is always the path to go down." 

"Ah, so you wish to lie to him." 

Odysseus furrows his brow. "What?" 

Poseidon leans against the exterior wall of the hut. "About mercy. That one should always choose to provide it without question." He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I cannot let you teach him that. See, there is an even better lesson he can learn. A lesson both of you can learn." He leans forward, just barely. "There is no mercy besides ruthlessness."

"No," the former general objects. "That -- that can't be true."

"Oh, but it is," the lord of horses saunters back to the shore. "Ruthlessness is mercy in its greatest form."

Odysseus clenches his fists. "And how is that? Do you think that by slaughtering your enemies you will succeed? To whom is your mercy thrown upon?"

Poseidon grins. "Ourselves."

With that, he sinks back into the water from whence he came.  

Notes:

feel free to murder me in the comments ;)

as my mom would say.... it's about to get krunk

sorry if the end feels a bit rushed! I really wanted to crank out my ideas for this chapter, so I think the length took a hit for that. the next one should be easier!! tysm for all your support!!!

chapter XI soon!

<3,
alex

Chapter 11: XI

Summary:

Screams ring in Eurylochus’ ears.

Fire blazes in Telemachus’ eyes.

Candles are blown out by Alcaeus.

Notes:

TW: graphic violence including body gore, mass murder (sorta), attempted sexual assault, harsh language, references to past sexual assault, reference to suicide

BUCKLE UP BUTTERCUPS THIS IS A CRAZY RIDE THAT TOOK ME TWO WEEKS

“The difficulty is not so great as to die for a friend as to find a friend worth dying for.”
-Homer

|~|~|~|

When the boulder landed, blood sprayed from under it and onto the green grass. Four soldiers are trapped underneath; although it would have been ten if not for Polites. Polites, who is one of the men who was crushed by the rock. It is his blood that stains Eurylochus' memory. It is the image of his dark eyes closing and his body going limp that makes the captain freeze. 

No, is all he can think. Not him. Not after everything. Not after Odysseus. Please -- not him. 

Polites is the only reason Eurylochus can think straight. He is the only person who cared enough to knock sense back into him while simultaneously being willing to listen to his nonsensical breakdowns. There was no one better suited to be Eurylochus' right hand. No one better suited to be his best friend. 

I cannot lose him. 

The world around him comes back up to speed when the cyclops lifts the bloodstained boulder and tosses it into the ocean. Its replacement is a giant club, which the monster now swings and brings down onto unsuspecting soldiers.

"TINY... HUMAN... SCUM!" 

Eurylochus can't seem to move his feet as blood continues to spray and stain the ground.

"What... makes you think... you can defeat... me?" 

From the screams erupting all around him, he's almost certain that they can't. For a split second, he thought that his plan would succeed. But, of course, it fell apart. And now people are dying left and right; in front and behind. He feels like even more of a failure as the bloodbath continues. With every death, it's a tally that counts against his abilities as captain. 

Odysseus never would've allowed this. He would never have abandoned men to a monster. The thought would never cross his mind. Odysseus strategized in a way that was effective while also being flexible.

Eurylochus isn't sure if that's possible for himself. He's not like Odysseus in the slightest. His plans don't succeed; he doesn't know how to be flexible. He doesn't know anything about being a captain except what he's learned on the spot, with help from -- 

Tears fill his eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. 

I don't know what to do. 

"CAPTAIN!" The shout, paired with frantic hands on his shoulders, knocks him out of his trance. It's Amphialos. "Come on, don't break away from us now!" 

Eurylochus blinks, clearing his blurred vision. Sounds begin to actually register in his ears, as well as the shaking ground beneath his feet. Normally, he would charge back into battle. But now, all he feels is nauseous. 

"There must be something we can do," Amphialos continues. "Something we haven't thought of! If you know it, you must tell us or we will all die on this island!" 

Then I suppose we'll die.

No.  

Eurylochus startles when he hears a different voice in his head.

You will not let your companions die for your own grief. Do you understand me? 

There is nothing I can do. 

Are you certain? 

Is he certain...

Realization courses through him, and he feels his head rise along with his posture. "The wine." 

Amphialos' desperate expression turns confused. "Wine?" 

Eurylochus pushes past the archer, a new determination fueling him as he approached the cluster of men that have managed to hide. The fear on their faces is immense. Eurylochus can hardly blame them; he, too, is terrified. 

"Captain," greets one of them. "Are you okay?" 

"There is no time for discussion," he states. "We must move quickly if we want a chance to survive." He glances at the cyclops, who is busy trying to stomp out the lives of some of the fastest men. He wishes he could go and yank them back, but he cannot, and so he does not dwell on it.

He explains, "Before the attack, Polites mixed lotus into his wine. I have a feeling he hasn't noticed." He nods to himself. "We wait for him to fall. When that happens, we will make his club into a spear." 

A soldier frowns. "What good will that do?" 

"We will kill it with its own weapon," Eurylochus provides. "When we are done, we will stab the spear through his one eye. There lies our escape route." 

Welcome back, Eurylochus of Same.

He is glad to be back. He steps away from the group, intending to start the plan right away, but his is stopped. 

"Wait, but..." A younger man, bloodstained and bruised, looks at his captain with watery eyes. "What about our friends? Are we going to just... leave them here?" 

A thundering step accompanied by screams punctuates the boy's words. They all flinch at the noise. 

"We can do nothing for them now," Eurylochus admits, though it makes his chest constrict and his breath thin. "But remember: we are not doing this just for ourselves. It is also for them." He narrows his eyes, as if glaring at death itself. "We will avenge them." 

That is more than enough for the men to jump into action. 

Like before, they spread out so they would be harder to kill, and sped all around their foe so it would become confused. 

"You... still... fight?!" The monster demands. "Give up!" 

In response, Amphialos and his last three archers send flaming arrows into his eye. "Never in a million years, Μαλάκας." 

Eurylochus can't help but grin at that.

The Ithacan crew surrounds the cyclops so its only way out is either by stomping lives or stepping over them. Blades and arrows are thrown and shot into the slowly healing wound on its back. The one that Polites created, before he -- 

No, Eurylochus shakes his head. I cannot think of him now. I will grieve later.

And so he helps his men divert their opponent's attention again and again, until they are running up the hill that leads to the giant cave. Men disappear into it. Eurylochus would rather not go back in there, but he has decided to stick close to them. He follows them past the tall, tall entrance and into the near darkness of the cavern.

"What do we do now?" asks someone from behind. 

"Shh." Eurylochus hushes them. He hears -- and feels -- the footsteps of the monster approaching. They cannot afford to give themselves away fully. 

A loud, deep hum comes from outside. "Hiding... in my own... home? The same place... where you... slaughtered my be... loved sheep." It growls, the ground shaking beneath them. "You... will all... pay for this." 

The steps come closer and closer, until Eurylochus is sure its attack is upon them. He doesn't know how many will die. He doesn't know if any will live. If only he never listened to the lotus eaters. Then they would not be here, but on their way home. Logic tells him they would have starved if not; but starving is a better fate than this.

Whispered prayers begin among the remaining men. Prayers to the gods. Begging them to help them. Asking for aide in return for devoted, undivided worship. Eurylochus stays quiet. He has no interest in giving himself up to a being far more powerful than himself. 

A shadow crosses into the cave. The relative light is squashed by it. Eurylochus and his men are rendered blind. 

"Time to die." 

Eurylochus presses himself against the wall, in case the cyclops is planning to collapse parts of the ceiling, though he knows it will only protect him for a little while.

I'm sorry, Polites. 

He shuts his eyes tight and waits. 

And waits... and waits... 

The silence is loud, to him. He is afraid of moving even an inch. To think that he is the man who commanded a troop of soldiers in the Trojan War, and here he stands, cowering. How many people would hear this story and laugh at his cowardice? How many gods would look down on them and cackle while watching them die? How many monsters would think the cyclops defeated them easily, and so its tale is unimpressive?

Eurylochus doesn't care which it is. He may die a coward, but he will not have died easily.

The waiting continues. 

On... and on... and on... 

Until something crashes to the ground outside. The shadow retreats, letting the rising sun seep in. 

"What was that?" calls a soldier. 

Eurylochus does not reply. Instead, he approaches the entrance to their temporary refuge and lays eyes on what is now blocking their way out. He blinks, wondering if he is seeing correctly. 

"What is it?" 

He stares at the body before him. "It's the cyclops. It fell." He glances up and sees its shoulders raising and falling still. "It is asleep. Not dead." Yet. "We must tread carefully. Come on, let's pry the club from him, like we planned." 

The soldiers of Ithaca, despite their trembling arms and legs, all help roll the giant club away from the cyclops. They all unsheathe their swords and begin hacking at it, trying to make a sharp point. Eurylochus can only hope that the lotus keeps their enemy asleep long enough for them to complete this task. 

As they chop, Eurylochus' mind wanders. He thinks of the dead men outside, eyes open and glassy, and how their bodies will eventually rot into the ground and become a part of nature. Eurylochus is not a complete idiot: he knows they cannot bring 51 bodies aboard boats with them. Still, he wonders if their souls will find their way to the Underworld. 

He wonders if Polites will be admitted into Elysium. 

He should be, Eurylochus thinks as he hacks into the club. He has always been a hero, in one way or another.

He died a hero, too. The realization brings tears to Eurylochus' eyes that he pushes away. He cannot get emotional right now. He cannot get emotional until they are back in Ithaca. 

"There," Calix pants as they finish shaping the point of the spear. "Can we kill it now?" 

Murmurs of approval from the men support that idea. Eurylochus frowns. 

"If we kill it, we trap ourselves here," he says. "If we stab it in the eye -- without killing it -- then it will move. From there, we will bring it down." He crosses his arms, puffs his chest a bit, and nods to his men. "Once and for all." 

From the way all their eyes light up with hope and determination, Eurylochus knows they have a chance.

Again, the remaining 549 men help lift the makeshift spear. Taking a deep breath, they charge forward, sticking it right through the cyclops' eyelid. It instantly wakes, roaring in pain and rolling away from the cave. 

"Scatter!" Eurylochus orders loudly. 

The soldiers spread out over the land, escaping the monster that would get up and try to kill them again. Eurylochus keeps his grip on his sword. He will not back down without a fight.

But the cyclops does not rise. It lies flat on its back, the spear still in its eye, and makes small, almost pitiful noises of despair. If it had not murdered fifty of his friends, Eurylochus may have felt compelled to leave it alive. 

"Come," he mutters. "It's time to -- "

The ground quivers beneath his feet, cutting him off. He looks back at their fallen foe, but it is not the one who made the thundering noise. Trying to quell his racing heart, he stays low and stares at the trees that are shaking from unnatural wind.

From them emerge three beings. 

Three tall, huge, ginormous monsters. 

All with one eye. 

"There's more of them?" demands Amphialos. 

"Sh!" Eurylochus bats his shoulder, commanding him to be silent. 

The cyclopses approach their fourth companion. They are no doubt its siblings. Eurylochus finds the gazes of all his men and conveys a message with just his eyes:

Hide.

The Ithacan men disappear from the cyclopses' sight as they reach the fallen monster. 

"Who... hurts you?" asks one of them. 

"Tell us... and we will kill them... for you." Another adds. It is younger, maybe, for it does not speak as slowly. 

The bleeding creature whimpers, "Nobodies." 

Eurylochus almost flinches when he hears. He frowns. Did the monster not know his face? 

We are nobodies compared to you.

A smile pulls at Eurylochus' lips as he remembers. Polites, you clever fellow.

"Nobodies?" The third cyclops repeats. "If nobody has... hurt you... then be silent." 

"Indeed," agrees the second. "If there is no... revenge... to be taken... then this is pointless." 

"Wait," their wounded sibling -- brother, perhaps -- begs. "Help me." 

Grumbles that were far too loud to be anything but the monsters echoed through the air. 

"We cannot help," the first voice claims. "We... will pray for you... brother." 

"Goodbye... Polyphemus." 

Polyphemus. 

Eurylochus has heard that name before. But where? 

He does not have time to think about it, as the deafening footsteps of the cyclopses leave their brother behind. When it is silent, Eurylochus stands up from his hiding spot. He walks slowly to Polyphemus, wondering how bad the damage is. He winces when he sees blood coursing from the wound. 

"What are you waiting for?" Amphialos questions. "Are we not killing him?" 

Eurylochus, normally, would say yes. But... something about that notion makes his chest close up. They have already wounded Polyphemus terribly; did they have to end his life, too?

Perhaps mercy is the path to take. 

He sighs, turning away from the monster. "He has been blinded. What more do we need to do?" 

"What?" Tobias' voice is piqued and confused. "He killed our friends."

"We killed his sheep."

"Hey, that is not the same," growls Lysander. "Sheep are not people." 

"No, but they were precious to him," Eurylochus reminds them. "And we killed them. This was his revenge. Yet we still live." 

Yet we still live, and they are all dead.

Eurylochus can't help but survey the battlefield. Bodies litter the bloodstained grass, and unmoving soldiers lie with their bones cracked. He stops when his gaze lands on Polites. He clenches his fists, then releases them.

Would he want me to kill Polyphemus? 

He doesn't know. He cannot know.

Not now, for Polites is dead.

Movement flashes in Eurylochus' eyes. He blinks, thinking he imagined it. But it happens again. 

Polites is... dead?

His eyes widen as he sees his friend try to sit up. He is not dead. 

He is not dead!

Eurylochus doesn't stop himself from bolting over to him, sliding onto his knees as he reaches Polites' side. Sure enough, the other man's eyes are open, though his face and clothes are covered in what is likely his own blood. 

"E-Eurylochus," Polites coughs, his voice strained. "You -- came back." 

Eurylochus nods. "Of course I did. I never leave a man behind." Polites smiles weakly. "You are safe now. We can help you." 

"No." 

Fear shoots up Eurylochus' spine so fast his vision goes white for a moment. 

Polites grips the captain's arm. "I'm -- beyond help, Eurylochus. I won't survive much longer." He breathes raggedly. "The cyclops... did you defeat it?"

"Yes," Eurylochus replies, containing his terror. "Our next mission is to keep you alive." 

"No," Polites repeats, more forcefully. "You can't. You can't." Blood spills from his mouth as he coughs again and again. "If you could just -- toss me into the sea, when you get the chance. So I can be with -- my fallen friends." 

Eurylochus grips the grass beneath him far too tightly. "No." 

"Please." The word sends pain right to Eurylochus' heart. "Please, do this for me, Eurylochus. I beg you." Tears slip from the dying soldier's eyes, cleaning off some of the blood on his face. "Don't leave me here to rot. Don't leave them. Give us -- a hero's funeral." He takes hold of Eurylochus' forearm, his hands rough from wounds and blood. "The sea will welcome us. I know it will." 

Eurylochus does not want to. He wants to reject this whole idea of Polites dying right here, in front of his eyes. He wants to lift him into his arms and force him to stay alive, if that's what it takes. 

But... the look on Polites' face makes it impossible. His pleading makes it too difficult. His desperate grip on his captain's -- on his best friend's arm says too much. 

"Okay." Eurylochus whispers. "I will." 

Polites smiles. "Thank you. Thank you..." His eyes close slowly. A moment later, his hand falls limply to the ground.

Eurylochus doesn't bother checking for a pulse. He wants to scream in anger and grief and agony, but he restrains himself. Instead, he marches back to where Polyphemus lies, wounded. He climbs up onto his stomach, where he can take hold of the spear. 

"Don't... kill me." Polyphemus pleads. 

But all Eurylochus can see is Polites' smiling face; all he can hear is his joyous laugh; all he can think of is his best friend, lying dead because of this monster.

"I don't want..." continues the cyclops. "...to die." 

Eurylochus glares, though he knows the creature can't see him. "Then you shouldn't have killed my friend." 

With nothing but brute strength, he shoves the spear all the way down, through the cyclops' head. It wails once before it goes silent and still. 

It is dead. 

Hot tears trail down Eurylochus' face. He gets off the cyclops. His men gather around him, worried. 

"Captain?" asks Amphialos gently. "Are you... okay?" 

Eurylochus almost responds, but his mind fogs and he faints before he can say a word.

|-|-|-|

An arrow hits the center of the wooden target perfectly. Three more come flying after that, each one embedding itself right where he wants. When he is out of arrows, he lowers his bow and looks to his mentor. 

"How was that?" Telemachus asks Eumaeus. 

"Nicely done," his advisor responds. "You have inherited your father's skill with a bow." 

"I have inherited nothing from him." Telemachus retorts. "When can I practice with flame?" 

Eumaeus stares at him incredulously. "Flame?" 

"That's what I said."

"Your Majesty," begins the older Ithacan, "you must understand: only those who shoot to kill dare light their arrows on fire." 

The memories of Mother crying against her son, apologizing for something that was not her fault in the slightest, and being unable to look at herself in the mirror fly into Telemachus' mind. He clenches his fists tightly. 

"Good," he says. "Death is the intention." 

"What -- ?" Eumaeus clearly wants to ask, but Telemachus shoves his gear into his arms and walks past him, back into the palace. "Wait! Telemachus!" 

The boy ignores him, crossing through many hallways before he reaches the stables. There, he finds his spies waiting, tending to their steeds. They stop what they are doing to look at him.

"Orders, Your Majesty?" questions Alexis.

Telemachus frowns. "Are the arrows ready? All of them?" 

Chloé nods curtly, gesturing to the crates full of weapons. "Of course." 

He approaches them and examines each and every one, making sure they are all sharp enough. "What about my sword?" 

"I am nearly done," answers Sebastian. "It will be finished before tonight." 

Telemachus hums. That should be fine. 

"Did you do what I asked?" was his next question, turning back around to face them. 

"It is done," says Christopher. "Over half the men agreed. Antinous, though, refused." 

Telemachus feels his eyebrows raise. "Good. I don't want him shot dead; I want him run through." His gaze flits to Sebastian. "I have high expectations." 

Sebastian grins. "Don't worry, my liege. This blade will be like nothing you have ever laid eyes on." 

Despite the fact that Telemachus has barely seen any blades due to his age, he finds that encouraging. He thanks them all and reminds them to report to his quarters when the suitors leave the palace. He makes his way back there now, not noticing the person trailing behind him. He stops dead in his tracks when he does hear the second set of footsteps -- he is only a hallway away from his bedroom now.

"Who are you?" he demands.

"It's only me," Kallistrate says as she comes to stand before him. "I didn't intend to sneak up on you." 

"Uh," begins Telemachus, "I think you mean stalk me." 

The teenager rolls her eyes -- for some reason, he doesn't take offense to it. "I just have some questions that I didn't want to ask in front of everyone." 

"Why?" he counters. "Must be important if you thought following me slyly was the way to get my attention." 

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" 

Fair.

He crosses his arms. "Alright. I'm listening." 

"Not out here," she says. "Your palace is infested." 

He snorts at that, laughing. "I know." 

The two of them continue on their path to his room, and he lets her inside when they reach it. She closes the door and locks it, almost frantically. 

"Wow," Telemachus whistles. "You are paranoid, aren't you?" 

"Listen." Kallistrate begins, whirling around to look at him. "I want to know how you are going to keep our people safe while you execute your plan."

He furrows his brow, confused. "Safe? From what?" 

"From your arrows," she explains. "From your fires and your blades. How am I supposed to know if the ones I love are going to make it through the night?" 

Telemachus has never heard her say this before. Nobody has mentioned the effect it may have on the Ithacan people.

Why has nobody mentioned that?

"I can send out an order for no one to go outside past sunset," he offers. 

"As if that will work," she replies. "Have you ever met a hyper five year old before?" 

A hyper -- what? None of this is making any sense. Why is she asking about protecting a hyper five year old?

"Okay, so, look out for children, then." Telemachus amends. Kallistrate narrows her eyes and taps her foot impatiently. He held up his hands. "I don't know what you want me to do!"

"I want you to make sure no one is caught in the crossfire," she tells him. "We'll already have twenty-eight bodies to account for. We don't need any of our people a part of that."

He spread his arms, not knowing what else to offer her. "Is that not what I just suggested? In any case, the citizens will be easy to spot; we won't hit them." 

Her fists are balled up tight at her sides, like she's restraining her anger. "And what are you going to do if one of your victims makes their way back to port and starts attacking them?! How are you planning to keep them inside this palace?!" 

A feeling of fury at her blatant disrespect goes rushing to his mind.

"First of all," Telemachus starts, fuming, "I am your king. Don't speak to me like I'm a child." She opens her mouth, but he interrupts. "Secondly, don't cut me off while I'm talking. And -- for the love of the gods can you stop acting like I can read your mind?" He huffs. "I'd love to help you figure something out, but I won't let you stand there, in my bedroom, in my palace, and allow you to ignore my authority. I'm the only one who can help you, so maybe it would help if you stop pissing me off." 

Kallistrate smirks at that. Thankfully, not in a disrespectful manner. "You're right. I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I should never have addressed you so ignorantly." She sighs. "I am just... worried. About my family." She drops her head into her hands, blonde hair spilling over them. "My sister -- Pandora -- is just starting to grow and... I don't want it to be cut short by a misstep, is all. Lord Antinous doesn't seem above killing children." 

Ah. Well, that makes a lot more sense. The 'hyper five year old' must be Pandora. Telemachus has to admit, seeing how much Kallistrate loves and cares for her sister is... sweet. He hasn't seen that kind of pure love for a long time.

"Pandora will be alright," he assures her. "And so will all the other children. Under no circumstance will any of these men touch a hair on their heads." He places a hand flat on his heart. "I swear it." 

A genuine smile appears on the girl's face. Relief floods into her eyes, as blue as the sky. "Thank you. Your Majesty." 

He shrugs. "Call me Telemachus." 

Kallistrate stares at him for a moment before nodding. Then, she rises to her feet and approaches the door. She opens it, ready to leave, but stops briefly. She turns back to him. 

"You're a great king, you know," she says softly. "I didn't know your father, but... I wouldn't be surprised if you're better at this than he." 

Heat rushes to Telemachus' face when she finishes. But, before he can respond, she is gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

———

Night comes quickly. Some might say too quickly, but Telemachus thinks the opposite. He wishes it had come days earlier. He wants nothing more than to be rid of his mother’s abusers who dared call themselves her suitors. 

Telemachus waits in the highest tower of the palace. It’s more of a large balcony, really, since it’s connected to the main halls, but it’s tall enough to be considered a tower. He can see nearly everything from here.

Lights are beginning to dim down at the market, as vendors start packing up their stalls and merchandise. With the disappearance of each warm orange, Telemachus feels the time for his plan approaching.

“Your Majesty.”

Telemachus doesn’t turn. He knows who it is and beckons them out. “What is it?”

Christopher replies, “Your mother is looking for you.”

A small bolt of panic finds its way into Telemachus’ head. He forgot that Mother is even in the palace, since she left to see Grandmother two days earlier. Telemachus didn’t expect her back so soon.

“What shall I tell her?” Christopher presses.

“Um…” Telemachus wracks his mind, trying to come up with something. “Just — tell her I’ve gone to sleep early.”

Christopher eyes him skeptically. “Are you sure, my liege?”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” he says hurriedly. “Don’t let her up here.”

The spy bows and returns to the palace to fend off Telemachus’ mother. 

For the next ten minutes it takes for the archers to arrive, Telemachus tries to keep his worry to a minimum. He can’t let anything go wrong tonight. It all has to be just right.

It all has to be perfect.

Luckily, it seems to dissipate as his men start preparing their weapons. Chloé is here, and so is Alexis. Telemachus is slightly disappointed that he doesn’t see Kallistrate, but he shakes that away so he can focus.

“Alright,” he says. “The plan is simple: nine boats are sailing into the harbor on a false fishing expedition. All of them have at least two of the twenty-eight suitors aboard.”

One of the archers shoots Telemachus a look of confusion. “What about the others?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he responds. “I’m taking care of it.”

He nods to Alexis, asking him silently to take the lead.

“Listen up!” The man begins. “This is to be one of the most vital nights in your career. You have all been chosen to defend your queen, king, and country. Show me tonight that you have what it takes.” He gestures to Telemachus. “Show your king that you have what it takes.”

That seems to encourage them all greatly. All fifteen archers knock their arrows and pull back, ready. Alexis walks around and sets each of their arrowheads ablaze. Telemachus keeps his eyes on the dark water, waiting for the boats to appear there.

Come on, come on… He prays.

The first fishing boat comes into view. The archers prepare to strike, but Telemachus holds up a hand, stopping them.

“Wait.” He commands. “We can’t give ourselves away too soon.”

He continues watching, keeping his hand raised. He sees two more boats pull out from the port, following the first into the open water. Then come two more, then three. Eight of the nine.

“Hold…” He mutters.

The ninth vessel joins the others, and they float farther and farther away from shore. When the ninth is far enough away as to not make it back in time, Telemachus points his hand at them and shouts:

“FIRE!”

And that they did.

The nine boats begin to glow with fire as the archers gear up again. Telemachus can hear the harried, frantic voices of the suitors. He can see them trying to escape.

“OPEN FIRE!” He yells. 

In an instant, arrow after arrow rain down on the wooden vessels. Screams begin to ring out into the night. Some of the men have been set ablaze. Telemachus notices one about to jump out into the water.

Oh, no, you don’t.

He seizes a spare bow, lights an arrow, and knocks it. He squints, aiming until he knows it will hit the man in the head.

A little to the left… a bit to the right… up a bit… too much, down just a touch…

There.

He lets go. His arrow finds its mark, lodging in the escaping man’s forehead. It has gone straight through his skull. He freezes in his attempt to flee, then goes limp and falls into the water.

He is dead.

Telemachus killed him.

A weird feeling tries to unsettle his stomach, but he forces it away. This will not be the only person he kills on this night.

“Amazing shot, Your Majesty!” calls Chloé. She doesn’t look at him, for she is busy firing her own arrows, but she is grinning with pride. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs.

“Your Majesty!”

Telemachus does turn this time. All thoughts of the man he killed fly away when he sees Sebastian holding his new sword. 

It’s beautiful. 

Its hilt is silver and gold coiled around one another like snakes, and the iron blade that rises from it is clearly sharp. Bronze accentuates the outer edge of the blade, and the top is just slightly wider than the rest. 

“I hope you like it.” Sebastian says.

Telemachus does not reply. He drops his bow and strides forward to take hold of his new weapon. It is light and comfortable in his hand, though clearly dangerous. 

“Amazing…” he breathes. “ένδοξος κίνδυνος.” He smiles at Sebastian. “Thank you. I love it.”

Before Sebastian can say anything in return, crashing sounds from inside. Telemachus takes the sheathe from Sebastian, ties it around his waist, and slides his sword into it. He then rushes inside, following the noise.

“…should’ve known! They are out there being slaughtered!”

“Because you failed! You retreated like the cowardly traitor you are!”

Telemachus recognizes those voices. They are those of Agelaus and Ctesippus. Two of the six men who assaulted Mother.

“We should’ve known,” says someone else. “You have never handled poison before, have you?”

Elatus. Telemachus remembers.

“It’s not my fault,” complains Agelaus. “I’m not the one who delivered the wine! I poisoned it just fine!”

Poisoned? He frowns. Who did they try to poison?

“Oh, what, so you’re blaming me now?”

Leiocritus.

“I didn’t ask for that girl to charge in,” he says defensively. “She took it right out of my hands.”

“And you didn’t think to stop her?” asks Ctesippus. 

“Do you think I want my head taken off my shoulders by some bitch?” Leiocritus shoots back. “She could’ve taken me down, I’m sure of it. I am not interested in dying — nor was I that day!”

So, from what Telemachus is gathering, these four formulated a plan to try and poison someone, but the plan was foiled. By a girl who looked as if she could fight. Perhaps one of the spies he hired.

“Please, girls don’t fight. They cower. They wait in their bedrooms for their savior.”

Amphimedon.

“It is your ignorance that messed everything up.”

Okay, so, five people planned to poison someone. 

“That’s not the point of this conversation!” exclaims Agelaus. “We are supposed to be talking about the twenty-two men out there, dying!”

“It was a setup,” concludes Amphimedon. “It had to be. It would be impossible to get everyone out there without some reason.”

Someone sighs. Then, Leiocritus speaks.

“What do we do, then? Stay? Flee? Help them? Abandon them?”

“They were stupid enough to listen to that brat,” Ctesippus snaps. “It’s their own faults. Not ours.”

“But we’re still in danger here!” continues Leiocritus. “Remember what I said about not wanting to die?!”

“I think,” Telemachus says, stepping out of the shadows, “that you will be disappointed, then.” He waves to the five men, all staring in disbelief. “Hello. Funny meeting you here, isn’t it?” 

It is Amphimedon who rises first, pulling out his sword. The other four follow suit. Telemachus surveys them all. It’s five against one, true, but…

You’re smaller. Faster. Eumaeus once told him. Take advantage of it. 

So when Amphimedon comes charging at him, he ducks, trips the man with his foot, and points his sword at his throat. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Amphimedon growls from his place on the floor.

Telemachus leans down a bit. “Wouldn’t I?” With that, he flicks his blade and watches as blood spills from his enemy’s neck. He turns back to the others with a teasing grin. “Who’s next?”

Leoicritus and Ctesippus take up that threat. They both swing at Telemachus, who quickly slides away, leaving them to crash to the floor clumsily.

“Y’know,” he says, glancing at Agelaus and Elatus. “I really thought you would put up more a fight. Considering it’s you five who somehow managed to wrangle down my mother and violate her.”

He remembers Amphimedon’s body behind him and corrects:

“Sorry. The four of you.”

Ctesippus and Leoicritus stand up. All four of them have looks of disbelief and horror on their faces.

“Oh,” Telemachus realizes. “You… really thought I don’t know what you did?” He clicks his tongue a few times, relishing his ability to treat these men as they’ve treated him. “And you call Leoicritus ignorant.”

Agelaus swallows visibly. “What do you want?”

“Want?” Telemachus repeats. “What the devil should I want from you?”

“Surely we can buy you off,” Elatus adds. “Pay you to leave us alive and keep your mouth shut about Penelope.”

Telemachus laughs genuinely. “I don’t need your money. I’m a king, remember?”

Leiocritus glares at him. “No. You’re a boy. You’re weak.” He adjusts his grip on his blade. “I’ll prove it.”

Telemachus raises his blade in time for it to clash with Leoicritus’. It’s obvious that he’s a better fighter than Amphimedon. He is physically stronger than Telemachus, since he’s an adult, but the most he does is slice a thin cut into the king’s cheek as he slips away again.

“Dammit!” Leoicritus fumes. He attacks, and this time Telemachus slides right under his legs and back up. “Stop moving!”

Telemachus waves him off. “I’m good.”

This time, Leoicritus is joined by the other three. And — yeah, that’s more difficult. Telemachus now has to worry about four swords aiming for him instead of one or two. Luckily, they cannot all stab him at once the way they are organized — which is not at all.

Telemachus continues turning sharply and sliding away, countering steel as he stands again. He uses one of Eumaeus’ techniques to disarm Ctesippus, whose sword goes flying. 

Before Telemachus can kill him, a burning sensation erupts on his arm. He hisses in pain, but his adrenaline quickly kicks in. He recovers in time to stop Elatus from decapitating him.

“Little brat,” barks the suitor. “Do you really think you can beat all of us by yourself?”

No, not really. He thinks but doesn’t say. He’s too busy straining under the adult soldier’s strength.

Elatus laughs evilly. “Say goodbye, false king.”

Telemachus braces for impact, but instead a blade is shoved through his chest from behind. Elatus gasps for air, his eyes going fearful and wide. He drops his weapon and falls to the floor.

“Not my king, you bastard.” Eumaeus yanks the long dagger out before Elatus fully falls.

“Eumaeus!” Telemachus has never been more glad to see him.

Eumaeus yelps as Agelaus charges him. “Talk later — fight now!”

Good idea.

Thanks to Eumaeus, Telemachus now has only two people trying to kill him. Of course, it’s just his impeccable luck that they’re both former soldiers and fencers.

They’re fast, too, and they’re better at catching up to speed with the teenager than the rest. Telemachus is stabbed more than once, but nowhere vital. They manage to push him into a corner, surrounding and trapping him there.

“Poor, naive boy,” says Ctesippus with false sweetness. “Whatever shall we do with you?”

“Cut the foreplay,” snaps Leoicritus. “Kill him.”

Ctesippus grins. He raises his arm to attack, but then —

— then his head flies off.

Blood erupts from the wound — can he call it a wound? — and the headless body collapses onto the floor. Telemachus uses Leoicritus’ shock as an advantage, swinging and creating a jagged red line between the suitor’s shoulders.

“Insolent child!” He cries.

Telemachus pants, backing up a step. A flash of blonde beside him catches his eye. When he looks, he sees Kallistrate beside him, blade, clothes, and skin covered in blood. 

“Kallistrate?” he asks.

“You.” Leoicritus seethes at the same time. “You’re the swine who stole that wine from me!”

Kallistrate wipes her face with her — white — sleeve. “Nice to see you again.” 

Leoicritus goes red with fury and runs at them, screaming like a wild boar. Telemachus manages to avoid his blade by ducking again, then sweeping himself back up. His purple, velvet cloak swung around him, stained with blood. 

Well, aren’t they all?

Kallistrate rams the hilt of her sword into Leoicritus’ nose, causing him to fall. When he does, Telemachus brings down his blade to cut off his foot so he could not rise again. 

While he howls in pain, Kallistrate strikes him in the jaw. He grabs her in response, forcing her weapon out of her hand.

“Let go of me!” she shouts.

Leoicritus cackles. “No, no, I’m going to show you what happens to whores who disrespect their superiors!” 

He reaches up and tears her sleeve off. That side of her dress falls, revealing skin and undergarments. 

“Stop it!” she screams, fear in her voice.

Telemachus sees the foul man’s hand raise, and something hot and powerful surges through him. Without thinking, he shoves Leoicritus away from her and stabs his blade into his foe’s stomach.

Leoicritus cries out again, through clenched teeth. He reaches for his sword, but Telemachus grabs it first.

“You will never touch a woman without her consent again,” he tells the fallen man. “Have fun in the Fields of Punishment.”

With that, he plunges Leoicritus’ own weapon through his neck.

Telemachus turns away so he doesn’t get too much blood on him, then pulls his sword out of the twitching corpse. He cleans it off with his sleeve, scarlet red seeping into the cotton.

“Y-you…”

Telemachus looks up when he hears Kallistrate’s voice. She is standing with her back against the wall, her dress torn apart, trying her best to cover herself.

She’s crying. 

A wave of sympathy washes over Telemachus. He unties his cloak from his shoulders and approaches.

“No, stop!” She yells. “Don’t touch me!”

“Okay, okay,” he stops. “I won’t touch you, I promise.” He offers the cloak to her. She leans back, away from him. “Just to cover you. If you want. You don’t have to take it.”

Kallistrate stares for several, long moments. The shouts of dying men still rage from outside, and Agelaus has disappeared. Telemachus wants to go find him and Antinous and kill them both, right now.

But instead, he stays. He holds the cloak without moving a muscle. Tears still fell from Kallistrate’s eyes, making her crystal blue eyes glisten in the moonlight streaming in from a window. Had she not just been assaulted, he would have said she’s beautiful.

Eventually, she reaches out and touches the cloak. She flinches back, as if preparing for Telemachus to attack. He doesn’t. Slowly, she digs her fingers into the velvet and grasps it. Only, she doesn’t take it. Instead, she falls, sobs wracking her body.

Telemachus instinctively catches her. This time, she doesn’t scream at him to get away. She leans onto him, letting him wrap the cloak around her.

“I have you, it’s alright,” he says quietly. “You’re safe. He’s gone.” 

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away, either. Telemachus adjusts the cloak so it covers her exposed shoulder and collar, tying it gently but tight enough so it wouldn’t fall off. 

“There!” he says, beaming. “Back to normal.”

Kallistrate looks up at him, her face stained with tears and blood. “Why did you give me this?”

He shrugs. “Because you need it more than I do.” He tenses. “No one is allowed to see or touch your body unless you want them to. He ripped your clothes, so I just… altered them a bit.”

She laughs softly. “Alter? Really? It’s entirely different.”

“Still altered.”

“You’re weird.”

“Says you, goddess of stalking.”

Kallistrate smiles — really smiles at that. "How is it possible that you're the king of Ithaca? I've never met a leader who's so..." She tucks a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. "Well. I'm not actually sure. I haven't met very many leaders. I assume they're not like you, though." She gazes at him and for the first time, he sees her as more than just a spy. "Thank you, Telemachus." 

A warm feeling envelops his body. Unfortunately, the moment is cut short by slow, mocking applause.

"How cute." 

Just hearing Antinous' voice is enough to remind Telemachus of his rage. He stands up, Kallistrate close behind.

The Ithacan lord is grinning like he is watching an amusing play. "Two children, helping one another. A king and his fair maiden. A charming story, isn't it?" He leans against the wall, not far from Elatus' body. "You've made quite the scene here, Your Majesty. Very gruesome." 

"Where is Agaleus?" Telemachus demands. 

"Dealing with your swineherd, I presume," Antinous replies. "Worry not. One of them will walk out alive." He tilts his head, taunting them. "Quite like only one of us will leave the palace tonight, yes?" 

"Yes," Telemachus agrees. "Though I predict the loser will be too mangled to be recognized."

Antinous coos at that, as if impressed. "How presumptuous. To think that I will be the loser." He licks his lips, and it is one of the grossest sights Telemachus has ever seen.

To imagine that this man kissed his mother... it is a horror in his head, and even more so in reality.

"Do you really think you can defeat me?" asks Antinous. "Come now. I want to know." 

If he is honest, he is not certain of anything. He knows he wants to impale the horrible excuse for a person and leave him to the harpies, but -- he has to admit -- he is tired. He's young, but he's not energetic. His thirteen months of kinghood have been... taxing.

"I am going to try," he says honestly. "You will die either way, you know. Either by my blade or someone else's." 

"Perhaps," relents Antinous. "But I would still die knowing I killed the king of Ithaca. The poor, little boy, who is trapped alone, with nowhere to run." 

"He is not alone," states Kallistrate. "Do not take me for a fool, my lord. I have been underestimated before." She gestures to the dead body of Ctesippus. "You can see what happened for yourself."

Telemachus frowns. "You don't have to do this. It is my fight. My honor." 

"You are my king," she replies. "Therefore it is my battle, too. And my honor." She picks up her bronze sword from the floor, twirling it in her hand a few times, getting used to swinging around the cloak, no doubt. "Hm. Interesting." 

"Children, children," Antinous patronizes as he unsheathes his long, sharp blade of iron. "Do you ever stop playing make believe?" 

A small knife suddenly hurdles its way through the air, straight for Telemachus. Kallistrate bats it away with her weapon, sending it flying back down the floor. Away from them stands Agaleus. Eumaeus is nowhere in sight.

"I'll take care of him," she tells Telemachus. "You can deal with that scoundrel." 

Kallistrate and Agaleus fight their way out of the room momentarily, leaving the king and the lord alone. 

"Here we are," says Antinous, spreading his arms like he owns the palace. "Just the two of us." He takes several steps forward. Telemachus stands his ground; he will not flee from this monster. "It's so adorable, you know. Watching you pretend you know what it is you're doing. Seeing how long it takes for you to make a mistake and see your plan fall apart." He yawns. "You know... this is not unlike when I had my way with your mother. She was so compliant. No squirming at all. Lovely." 

Telemachus clenches his fists so hard he feels his nails break the skin. "Don't speak about my mother. Don't ever think about her again, do you understand?" 

"Sure, sure," Antinous waves him off. "Tell me, Your Majesty... are you here to fight for your honor?" He hums. "Or hers?" 

"My mother's honor is not tarnished by your evil!" Telemachus exclaims. "You will never lay a hand on her -- on any woman -- again." 

His expression contorts into false sympathy. "Even if she wanted me to?" 

"You know she did not!" 

"Really? I never would have guessed. Considering she didn't say a word until she -- " 

Before he can finish, Telemachus charges. He shoves Antinous onto the floor and swings his sword at him. The suitor blocks with his own, getting back up easily and knocking Telemachus' blade from his hands. 

"Don't interrupt me," he growls. "It's rude." 

Telemachus ducks under Antinous' attack, whirling around to try and wrench the man's weapon away from him. Antinous -- much better than the others -- swipes both of Telemachus' feet from under him and pushes him so hard he skids to the other side of the room, hitting his head on the wall behind. Telemachus can't help but groan slightly, seeing as his head starts pounding violently. 

"I appreciate your attempts," says Antinous, catching his breath. "I am sad to say they are futile." He thinks for a moment. "Actually, no. I'm not." 

"None of this would be happening if not for you and your friends!" Telemachus informs him. "All you had to do was leave Mother alone. But you couldn't even do that. You gave into your urges because you're weak." 

Anger flashes in Antinous' eyes. "I am not weak." 

"Really?" Telemachus struggles to get to his feet and maintain balance, but he leans on the wall for that. He picks up his fallen sword and holds it at the ready. "Prove it." 

Despite his words of strength, he is not prepared for the ferocity of his opponent's attack. He barely manages to deflect, and, even in doing so, the tip of Antinous' blade slashes at his forehead. Telemachus stumbles, seething in pain as his vision blurs. He decides he does not enjoy head injuries.

He hears Antinous laugh through his ringing ears. "This is hilarious! To think the others had so much trouble killing you. Had I known you were so inept at fighting, I would never have sent that poisoned wine up to you." 

Memories of the now fallen men discussing that particular incident flood into Telemachus' mind.

I was their target?

Thinking about it now, it makes sense: they wanted him dead so he would not do exactly what he is doing now. They did not want him to retaliate against their assault on Mother.

"You... say you've done nothing wrong," Telemachus wheezes, his heart hammering from overexertion. "But you know that isn't true. Why would you have me killed if you weren't aware of your own crimes?" 

Antinous comes back into focus as he slowly approaches the king. "So smart. Tell me, how long did it take you to figure that out?" 

"Shut up with the incessant taunting!" Telemachus bursts, annoyance and fury hurdling through him and giving him much needed energy. "All you ever do is talk! If you want to kill me, then just do it already!" 

"You want me to kill you, then?" continues Antinous, his tone no less teasing. "You want me to lend your poor mother a hand in her own death?" 

At the mention of Mother dying, Telemachus pushes away thoughts of his own pain to glare at the man. "What?" 

"Well, she's already halfway there," he explains like it's obvious. "Thinking of herself as worthless and as a failure is the first step. Normally, it can be swayed... but if her son were to die while she was away, unable to help?" He grins, his sharp eyes glowing with deadly anticipation. "It would push her over the edge, would it not?" 

Telemachus has no time to answer, or even begin to mull over the words being spoken to him. 

Antinous swings his blade, Telemachus hurriedly shoving it away with his own. He turns on his heel clumsily, now behind Antinous. Before he can catch his breath, Antinous brings his sword down again -- and again -- and again.

With each attack, it grows more and more difficult for Telemachus to protect himself. His arms are sore and tired, and his wounds are beginning to sting. On the fourth advance, it is all Telemachus can do to shove himself into a corner and hold his sword tight as Antinous presses his iron blade against it. Telemachus strains under the pressure and force, unable to think of anything beyond: survive.

"And still you fight," sneers Antinous, far too close for comfort. "When will you learn to give up, little boy?" He smirks. "Perhaps you should take lessons from your mother. At least she knew when to stop resisting." 

Telemachus lets out a furious shout, pushing Antinous away as hard as he can. He succeeds in making distance between them, but it doesn't last long enough. Too soon, Antinous is back in action. Their blades clash together too many times to count. 

To an outsider, it would look as if Telemachus is losing. 

Perhaps because he is.

As he staggers back from an especially powerful hit, Antinous takes the opportunity to grab him by the collar of his shirt and shove him against the wall. Here, he presses the tip of his sword to Telemachus' neck, the point digging in just barely. 

"So," Antinous says, "are you ready to surrender, Your Majesty?" 

Telemachus swallows the bile rising in his throat. He doesn't dare loosen his grip on the hilt of his sword. "The only way I surrender is if you kill me."

Antinous tilts his head, grinning. "That can be arranged." 

As Antinous goes for the final blow, Telemachus uses the last of his strength to veer to the side, raise his sword, and push it forward. Pain bursts in his shoulder, and he knows he cries out. He can feel blood welling in the new wound, no doubt seeping into his shirt. He suddenly feels faint and dizzy, the world swimming around him. 

Still, he does not let go. 

"You..." The hazy voice of Antinous whispers faintly. "How did you...?" 

Telemachus, breathing hard, spits blood that has pooled in his mouth onto the dishonorable man before him. "Because I am the king of Ithaca." 

With that, the suitor slides off his blade and falls to the floor, eyes wide and heart punctured. He, too, is dead now.

I did it, he realizes. I avenged Mother. I... 

...am about to throw up.

His weapon slips from his grasp as all his strength seeps out of him. He collapses to his knees, Antinous' sword still through his shoulder, trying to breathe. He cannot see anything clearly; he cannot hear anything but shrill ringing. He knows he should feel horrific pain, too, but... all he feels is nothing.

But Telemachus refuses to let his body give up. He focuses on taking deep breaths, no matter how uncomfortable. Blood and sweat drip from his hair, and he can taste copper in his mouth. 

He wonders if this is what it feels like to be on the brink of death. He wonders if he will not make through this night, despite everything. He wonders, if he does, who will take his place.

He wonders if this is the same way Father died in Troy. 

Stay strong, my son. Never give into anything or anyone. If you do that, you will do a great many things. More than you can possibly imagine

A tear rolls down the boy's cheek as he remembers Odysseus' last words to him. 

I'm sorry, Father. 

"TELEMACHUS!"

Three blurry figures appear in his vision, running towards him. Voices shout words he cannot make out; hands press on wounds that he cannot feel. 

I'm sorry I failed you.

The same voices raise over one another frantically. 

I'm sorry I could not be the king you wanted me to be.

He jerks forward as the sword is yanked out of his flesh. He then falls forward uncontrollably, caught by someone. 

I'm sorry I could not look after Mother. 

As he is held by loving arms, he blinks slowly, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears. He feels his eyes drooping closed. But before they do, a glowing form of Odysseus of Ithaca appears before him. He stares at it, wondering if he is about to die.

"You have not failed me, son," states Odysseus. He brushes tears away from Telemachus' face. Even if he is not real, Telemachus can feel the calloused hands that used to care for him. "Nor will you ever fail me. You have made me so proud." He smiles. "So very, very proud." 

Telemachus weakly reaches out to the phantom. "Dad..." 

And as his father fades away again, so does Telemachus, drifting off into easy unconsciousness.

|•|•|•|

"IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" 

That is the first thing that Odysseus hears this morning. He is woken by his excited four-year-old -- no, five-year-old -- wiggling excitedly on his bed. 

"Your birthday?" he echoes. "Are you sure? I could have sworn you had a birthday last year." 

Alcaeus giggles. "No, silly! Birthdays are every year!" 

"No, no," Odysseus waves him off, pretending to fall back to sleep. "That can't be right." 

In response to his impeccable humor, Alcaeus very rudely jumps on top of him.

"WAKE UUUP!" 

"Okay, okay!" Odysseus sits up, Alcaeus rolling onto his lap. "I'll get up... if you can win a tickle fight." 

Before the child can answer, Odysseus starts tickling him. He laughs loudly and cheerfully, though he quickly hops off the bed and runs out of the room. Odysseus follows, chasing his son out onto the beach. 

The two of them play there for a while, starting the day with fun and laughter. Eventually, Odysseus gets tired and calls off their game. Alcaeus doesn't mind at all, too happy just being able to spend time with his father.

"When's Aunty coming?" asks Alcaeus as Odysseus catches his breath. "Can Euclid and Euanthe come? And Tim-Tim? What about -- ?"

"Slow down," Odysseus interrupts gently. "It's only the morning; there's plenty of daylight left for you to arrange a guest list." 

Alcaeus seems satisfied with that, as he doesn't inquire further about people he wants to see. "Can we play now, then?" 

Odysseus feels an endearing smile spread across his face. "What do you want to play, my boy?" 

Expecting Alcaeus to run into the ocean, Odysseus is surprised when he shoots past him, returning to the hut. He follows, curious as to what Alcaeus has found inside to create such excitement. He has never shown interest in anything besides the water. 

Of course, he is five, now. Odysseus has heard that five is the age where children begin to change and develop their abilities and talents.

Five years old. Odysseus repeats in his mind. Two years since Troy. Two years of peace. 

Well. Almost peace. 

Without the intrusion of Poseidon and the nymphs, Odysseus would be leagues more comfortable here. And while he did grow accustomed to seeing Euclid, Euanthe, and their little sister, Poseidon has yet to prove his innocence. 

Is he only interested in Alcaeus? Does he genuinely want to teach him the ways of the world, however wrong it may be? Does he truly have no plans to corrupt the boy and turn him on Odysseus?

Or perhaps he is lying. Perhaps he means to drown Alcaeus so as to shatter the prophecy. Perhaps there is magic woven into his words, and with every passing day he is pulling Alcaeus away. Perhaps he is not here to help; perhaps he is here to confuse, betray, and slaughter.

Gods are confounding, Odysseus concludes. One can never fully trust their words; they likely have incentive behind them.

Gods rarely do things without incentive, he has found. All they care about it themselves. Even Athena, who he thought was different, is only asking him to stay low for her own sake. So she wouldn't be cast out by her family. 

I don't need her, he decides as he follows Alcaeus into the room Odysseus sleeps in. I'm fine on my own.

"Look!" Alcaeus call brings Odysseus out of his mind. The little boy is bouncing on his heels excitedly. 

Odysseus, seeing what his son is standing beside, smiles. "My lyre?" 

Alcaeus nods enthusiastically. "I hear you play it before. Can you show me how? Please, please, please?" 

"Heard," corrects Odysseus. He sits on his bed, folding his hands in his lap. "Why do you want to play the lyre?" 

"Because you do," Alcaeus explains. "And I wanna be just like you!" When he beams, there are two gaps where two teeth have recently fallen out. 

Seeing that he is growing makes Odysseus a little... sad. Part of him wants Alcaeus to stay his sweet, little kid forever. But, he knows that's impossible. Children grow up. 

As long as they are given the chance.

"Well," he begins, taking up the lyre, "interestingly enough, this isn't actually mine. It wasn't always, at least." 

Alcaeus scrambles up beside him. "Really? Who had it before you?" 

"A warrior called Achilles," replies Odysseus. "He was a fierce fighter, just like Diomedes, remember? And he loved playing the lyre. He would keep us all up some nights, but we didn't mind." He chuckles softly, remembering the best of the Greeks sitting beside his companion Patroclus and singing tunes of every variety. "But, before he went away for good, he gave it to me. He said that it's because he knew he was going away, and he wanted someone he trusted to have it." He sighs. "See, he left because someone he loved very much left, too, unexpectedly. He didn't want to be without him, and he trusted no one else but me. According to him, that is." 

There's a soft, almost sympathetic look in Alcaeus' expression. "That's sad." His eyes light up. "Do they find each other? Achilles and Pa..." He struggles around the more complicated name. "Pa... tra... clos?

"Patroclus," Odysseus says with humor in his voice. "And I certainly hope so." 

For a single moment, they sit in silence. Odysseus because he is reminiscing on the loss of friends, and Alcaeus likely because he, too, feels the weight of his father's story.

"So! That being said," resumes Odysseus, holding up the instrument for Alcaeus to see. "This a very special lyre. I will gladly teach you how to play, but you should learn on a different one. This one is too big and too fragile for such young hands, yes?" 

"Where do I get a l... lie... lyre?" asks Alcaeus, testing out the new word in his mouth. 

Odysseus hums. "Well, you can buy one, if you go to the right place..." He tilts his head, considering. "Or we could make one. If you want. That way it's just the way you want it." 

"Okay!" Alcaeus exclaims, already ecstatic. "Can we make it now? Please, please, please?" 

"Hold on, now," laughs Odysseus. "It won't take a day to make. More like a couple of weeks to a month." Alcaeus deflates. "That doesn't mean we can't. You can think of it like a big project for the two of us. Who knows, maybe Aunty will let you borrow one of hers if you ask." 

Just like that, the boy is excited again.

Odysseus spends a next half an hour telling Alcaeus about the different parts of the lyre. He expected him to get bored, but the child stays focused and interested the entire time. It's when Athena steps into the house that the lesson ends. 

"AUNTY!" 

Alcaeus jumps off the bed and races out to the living area. Odysseus places the lyre back on its stand and follows. There, he sees Athena -- dressed as Phoebe -- holding her "nephew" in her arms, smiling. 

"You came!" Alcaeus beams.

"Of course I did," she says. "Did you really think I'd miss such a special day?" 

"I dunno," he admits. "You and Fathy fought last time." 

Odysseus tenses. Athena glances at him, her gray eyes unintelligible, then looks back at Alcaeus as if Odysseus isn't even there. 

"I wouldn't let that stop me, little one. I promise." 

They don't talk much as they watch and listen to Alcaeus talk on and on about everything he wants to do. The nymphs do show up -- all three, including the shy one, Nerine. She's the youngest, and despite her timid nature, she seems perfectly content with Alcaeus' opposite attitude. The two of them are clearly friends, even though they are completely different. Odysseus can't help but admire that. 

During the war, he killed enemies that were more human than not. Very rarely did he end the lives of monsters; he's no Heracles. He wonders, for a moment, if that would be different had he chosen differently in the Trojan Palace two years ago. 

If I had gone with Eurylochus and Polites... my friends... my brothers... Where would I be now?

"Cease your dwelling, if you will." 

Odysseus has to restrain an eyeroll. "Oh, are we on speaking terms, then?" 

He can feel her annoyed gaze burning into him. "Have you ever acted mature in your forty-six years of life?" 

"Unfortunately, yes," he responds. "It's been months since I've actually been able to let loose, you know. Part of that is your fault." 

"I didn't ask you to spare that boy," she snaps. 

A feeling of defensiveness washes over Odysseus as he turns to look at his former mentor. "That boy? You mean my son?" 

"Yes, that boy, your son," she growls, "the son of Hector, prince of Troy." 

"It's you who helped me hide him," he retorts. "It's you who treats him like a nephew. I didn't ask you to be part of his life, nor did I ask for you to risk your whole life for us, yet here you are."

"I risked my whole life the moment I let you on my ship," Athena says. "Had I let you both drown, it would have been a scorn on my name as a sworn protector of those who worship me."

Odysseus barks a laugh. "Worship you? Athena, I think you are amazing, but you are more of a friend to me than a patroness." He gestures to Alcaeus, who is busy jumping around with Nerine. "Do you think he is going to worship you when he's my age?"

She is silent for a moment. "I do not plan to tell him who I am. Do you intend to tell him the truth?"

Oh. Well. That was unexpected.

"No," he replies honestly. "It could make him into what the Fates believe he will be."

Looking back at the boy, a strange mixture of emotions spills into his mind. As he spins and giggles and chatters, he has no idea that his real father is dead. As for his mother, Odysseus is not sure. He would not be surprised if Pyrrhus took it upon his arrogant self to kill her. Alcaeus could be an orphan, for all his "father" knows. 

Yet here he is, playing with a friend on an island far from home.

"You did the right thing, Odysseus," Athena murmurs. "And as much as I loathe to admit: you are a good parent. Far superior to my father, as I'm sure you know."

"I am a better parent than your father, the king of the gods, who has slept with virtually every type of living thing in the world?" Odysseus clarifies. "Such standards."

She shakes her head, but there is something akin to endearment in her features. "As long as you can keep him safe from my family, then he will be okay, I think. I am sorry for doubting you." 

"Same to you." 

They watch Alcaeus wade into the water with Nerine, not speaking yet knowing they are not actively fighting anymore. As the water wanes in and off shore, the memory of Poseidon -- disguised as a mortal sailor called Timaeus -- rising from it appears, demanding attention. But not Odysseus' attention.

The retired general purses his lips. "Athena... there is something you should know." 

She raises an eyebrow. "What have you done this time?" 

"Nothing," he says. She fixes him with a look of disbelief. "Truly! This was not my doing in the slightest." 

“I find that hard to believe,” she replies. “What happened?”

“Well — ” 

“Ah! My dear niece!”

The voice emerges seemingly out of nowhere. But, sure enough, when they finally dare to redirect their attention to behind them, they see the arrogant smile of the king of the sea. His mortal form is a tall human man with darkly tanned skin, toned muscles, and eyes the color of the sea itself. His dark hair is always messy and wet, as if he has just come up for air from swimming. His clothing, as usual, is minimal, only shorts to cover his lower half.

"Amazing to see you," he says to Athena. "Thought perhaps you'd never come down, what with everything going on upstairs." 

Athena shoots a confused, angry, and worried look to Odysseus before replying, "How did you find this island?" 

Poseidon raises an eyebrow. "Oh, come now. I can understand your little minion's misunderstanding," he gestures to Odysseus, "but you? You're smarter than that."

"I am not a minion." Odysseus mutters bitterly -- perhaps a bit childlike.

"Are you trying to tell me you know about a cloaked island just because it is part of the seascape?" demands Athena.

"Now you're getting it," Poseidon confirms. His eyes land on Alcaeus. "Seems like he's having fun." 

Athena immediately steps closer to Odysseus, shielding the child from view. "You will not touch him." 

"Athena..." tries Odysseus.

"I don't know why you're here, or where you heard of this place -- "

"Athena."

" -- but mark my words: if you so much as look at him the wrong way -- "

"Athena."

" -- I will not hesitate to throw you into Tartarus myself, you deceitful, conniving -- "

"Athena! Stop!" Odysseus shouts. 

The goddess clenches her fists in annoyance and glares at him. "What?" 

"He's not going to hurt Alcaeus," he tells her. "I guarantee it." 

"Really? You guarantee it?" she retorts. "You've guaranteed many things in your life, Odysseus of Ithaca, and very few of them have been true." 

"Athena, please!" he implores her, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "Just -- trust me, alright? Do you really think Alcaeus and I would still be alive if he wanted to hurt us?" Athena is silent. "Exactly. So, please, have some faith in me. If you have any left at all." 

Her expression softens a touch. She narrows her gray eyes at Poseidon. "You are not here to strike him down?" 

"No, of course not," he answers easily. "The boy's like a nephew to me." 

As if on cue, Alcaeus shrieks, "TIM-TIM!" and is running up to Poseidon as fast as he can.

As always, Poseidon catches him gladly, scooping him into his arms. "There's the man of the hour! I believe it's your birthday today, is it not?" 

"It is!" Alcaeus says excitedly. "Are you staying?" Before the god can respond, the boy looks at his father. "Can he stay? Pleeeeease?" 

"Alright, alright," Odysseus can't help but chuckle. "If you want him here, then yes. He may stay." 

Poseidon smirks, likely because he knew Odysseus can't actually refuse him anything. "Thank you very much, Odysseus. What a gracious host you are." 

Odysseus smiles tightly. "Of course. Anything for a guest."

Alcaeus wiggles out of Poseidon's arms, then quickly grabs his hand and starts leading him towards the nymphs. "I introduce you to my friends, come on!"

Odysseus watches, trying not to feel overly concerned. The sea god has proven that he genuinely cares for Alcaeus, even if it is still difficult for him to wrap his head around. Athena stands beside him, mouth slightly agape as she observes how playful -- and decidedly not murderous -- her uncle is towards the child.

"How did this happen?" she breathes. "How did I not know?" 

"Don't ask me," Odysseus sighs. "I did not ask him here, that I promise you. I don't know when Alcaeus met him, but... he did." 

Athena hums lowly. "Well, I suppose it's fine. He seems... peaceful."

"Yes, quite the delight," replies Odysseus sarcastically. "Nothing better than someone who can kill you in a moment's notice being your son's favorite person."

She chuckles. "Such is life." 

A moment passes between them. It is silent, but somehow, they both know: they have forgiven one another. Their petty argument is over with. Whether it is to do with their common desire to protect Alcaeus or simply because they grew tired of fighting, Odysseus neither knows nor cares. At least it is no longer a concern.

The afternoon rolls past, full of sand castles, seashells, and splashing. Alcaeus is the happiest Odysseus has ever seen him. What father wouldn't be thrilled to see that, no matter the guest list? 

By the time night arrives, everyone is sitting in a circle in the sand. Odysseus retrieves a candle from inside, then quickly comes back to set himself beside his son, who is quivering with anticipation. 

"Here we are," he begins, "at the start of Alcaeus' fifth year. I think we can all agree many things have changed since we arrived here." Euclid and Euanthe smile; Nerine blushes, hiding her face; Athena nods; and Poseidon's posture straightens. "But what has not changed is our common loved one. Alcaeus is our constant." He brushes curls from Alcaeus' beaming face. "And I hope he will always be." 

Alcaeus jumps up to hug him, smothering his face into Odysseus' shoulder. "I love you, Father."

Odysseus' heart warms. "I love you, too, Alcaeus." 

The two stay like that for a few moments. Father and son, embracing. Then, Athena lights the candle with her fingers before Alcaeus can see. 

"Candle!" The boy squeals. "Can I blow it out now? Can I, can I, can I?" 

Odysseus laughs. "Of course. Make a wish -- but tell no one, yes?" 

Alcaeus nods enthusiastically. He closes his eyes, bouncing on his knees, and then blows out the candle with all his breath. Everyone cheers when the flame disappears. Then, the fun begins again, only now everything feels... better. Calmer. 

It is true, many things have changed in the two years Odysseus has been taking care of Alcaeus. He knows many things have changed in the outside world, too. Telemachus is king, and he has no idea what Eurylochus and Polites are up to. They're safe, he hopes. They were always stronger together.

That night in Troy, Odysseus had the chance to return to them. To walk the path the gods laid for him. If he had, he could very well be sitting with Penelope right this moment, telling grand stories to Telemachus. It is a lovely picture.

But... if he's honest? He likes his life. He loves his son -- he loves both his sons. 

So -- even if he had the chance to go back and choose differently -- he wouldn't change a thing. 

Notes:

OK something about the death count in this chapter - I know that Polyphemus did not kill fifty of Odysseus' men in the Odyssey or in Epic but I felt like only six deaths was way too low for a giant monster with a club. so, I have definitely taken some creative liberty with this - please do not dwell on that, this is one of the last times they're gonna mention all this

tbh, I wrote the body count before I could fact check it with google, so that's my bad as well. gotta roll with it, tho. I'm good at remembering most myths; I'm not good at remembering Homer's

ALSO I don't know where the plot went with this buuuuut I like it?? I think?? I'm interested to see what you all think of it - it sorta just came out as I was writing

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BTW. a lot happened in life and -- y'all, this chapter? 12,086 words. that's 34 pages of a Google doc. so... yeah, that might explain some of the long wait

anywho, I hope you enjoyed!! chapter XII coming hopefully in the next two weeks

<3,
alex

“Μαλάκας” (pronounced 'malakas' according to Google) - “asshole”
“ένδοξος κίνδυνος” (spelled ‘éndoxos kíndynos’ in English alphabet) - “glorious danger”

Chapter 12: XII

Summary:

Penelope speaks with her sister.

Athena reaches down to a broken army.

Notes:

content warning(s): mentions of mass murder, slight body gore

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.”
-Homer, The Odyssey

|-|-|-|

When Penelope found Telemachus bleeding, with a sword that was not his own through his shoulder, all she felt was fear. She forgot everything except for her son, racing forward and catching him in her arms as he fell to his knees. She couldn't care less about the blood and sweat that soaked into her clothing; instead, she prayed to every god she knew to keep him safe. She sent a longer, more meaningful one to Athena. Odysseus was never quiet about their relationship. Perhaps she would help Telemachus, too. 

The next thing she registered at the scene was the body of Lord Antinous. He stared at her with wide, dead eyes, his once smirking mouth open and red with blood. The moment she saw him, she thought of what happened many nights ago now. And despite the finality of death, the memory sent shivers of fear down her spine. 

Penelope saw the others as Eumaeus lifted Tel from the ground and hurried away. Her gaze lingered on all the bodies, on all the blood. Some of them seemed to have been killed rather brutally. Leiocritus had been stabbed twice: once through the stomach, and once through the neck. The blade that split his throat was still embedded in his flesh. Penelope frowned as she surveyed the rest of them, a couple of them without heads.

She hated these men, yes, it was true. But she despised senseless violence. Whoever had done this was merciless. If she's honest, she would have preferred for them all to be locked away and disgraced. Not mutilated and murdered. 

She wishes she could say she was surprised when Eumaeus explained that it was Tel's plan.

"He only wanted to protect you, my lady," Eumaeus said to her when disappointment and slight anger flew into her eyes. "He still does." 

"He is the King of Ithaca," she replied. "Not the Protector of Penelope. I understand his sentiments, but..." She shook her head. "I can't condone the way he expressed them."

Eumaeus nodded. "I don't blame you." 

It was then that she realized that the loyal servant was also covered in blood. He must've been fighting with Tel and the young girl who wore Tel's cloak. He wasn't obviously hurt, but Penelope was certain some of the blood caking his clothing was his own.

"Go get cleaned up," she told him, placing what she hoped to be an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Take your time returning. You fought bravely."

It has been two days since then now, and Penelope has seldom left Telemachus' bedside. He has yet to wake -- which means Penelope has more time to figure out what she's going to say to him. She can't just start shouting at him, and she certainly can't be as firm as she would like to when he's like this. Limp and pale upon his bed, beneath his sheets. On the brink of death, according to the doctors. The chances of him dying and him surviving are equal.

Penelope has taken to running the kingdom as best she can. She has refrained from giving any statement about the killings, saying that it is Telemachus' place to speak of it, not hers. For the most part, she holds back the people who are -- understandably -- fearful of the recent events and what may come next. Telemachus is losing his hold on the Ithacan people. The only way to fix it? 

For him to wake up.

"My lady."

Penelope tears her eyes away from Telemachus to look towards the voice. There stands Alexis, who confessed to being the leader of an espionage-oriented group working under Telemachus, per his request. If she keeps receiving new information like that, she fears that Tel's grave will be too deep for him to climb out of, if he does survive. 

"What is it?" she asks Alexis, thoughts of her son dying floating to the back of her mind. 

"There is someone here to speak with you," says Alexis.

She sighs. "Tell them to return later, if you will. I have no time for more terrified people."

"Even if that terrified person is family?" 

Penelope sits up straight when she hears Iphthime's voice. Her sister is standing in the doorway, a worried expression on her face. But all Penelope can think of is her being here. She all but races to hug her, relishing the feeling of being with her closest family member -- aside from Tel, that is. 

"How is he?" is her first question. She peers at the bed, where her nephew lays unmoving. "Gods. Is he -- ?" 

Penelope shakes her head. "No. Not yet, at least." She waves for Alexis to leave them. He bows and obeys, shutting the door gently with a soft click. 

"Poor boy," Iph whispers. She's sitting on the bed, brushing back Tel's waves of dark hair. "He looks so much like Odysseus, doesn't he?" 

Penelope feels her heart convulse at the mention of her deceased husband. "Yes. He does." She frowns. "It appears he acts like him, too." The scheme is something Odysseus would definitely come up with -- so much so that it's almost like he himself taught his son how to plan it. 

That's impossible, though, of course. Simply a coincidence.

"You are planning to chew him out then," Iph recognizes. "Even though he did this all in the name of your honor?" 

"It doesn't matter why he did it," Penelope argues. "He murdered over twenty men, Iph. There were other ways he could have punished them for -- " She swallows her last word. Iph reaches up to take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly. "Anyway, the point stands. Senseless violence is never the answer."

Iph hums thoughtfully. "If only someone had told Menelaus exactly that before he waged war with Troy." A glimmer of sympathy and remembrance for the dead twinkled in her eyes. "So many lives lost for something that could have been solved so much more easily." 

"Without so much bloodshed," Penelope affirms. "See? You understand." 

"Did you hear of the prince?" 

Penelope blinks at her sister, confused. "Prince?" 

Iph nods. "The prince of Troy. The baby. Astyanax, I believe was his name." The name is familiar, Penelope will admit. 

"What about him?" she asks, wondering how an infant fits into all this.

"He was killed," explains Iph. "By the Achaeans. He wasn't even three years old yet." 

Senseless violence, Penelope thinks. Just as I keep saying. What is the point of her telling me this?

"They killed him because they were told -- if they didn't -- that he would grow to be the downfall of Greece."

Penelope can't hide her shock. "Downfall of Greece?" 

"Yes," confirms Iph. "Would you have killed him? If you knew he would be a danger to the entire world... would you kill a two year old to save it?" 

Penelope wants to say no, of course not. But she can't force the words out. Would she kill an infant? If it meant saving her family, friends, and the whole of Greece itself... 

But the thought of slaying a baby is an awful one. They are not evil then; they are not murderous. They can't even walk.

But if they do walk, eventually they will learn to run. And then fight. And then kill. 

"You can't answer, can you?" Iph's soft voice calls Penelope back to reality. "I couldn't either. It is an impossible scenario that became very real." She shakes her head. "I can't imagine being the one to make that choice. I don't know if I would ever be able to decide." She then locks gazes with her sister. "Do you think perhaps Telemachus made a decision of that nature, too? Killing men for what not all of them did or will do, simply because he worried they would?"

Penelope frowns. "Perhaps."

It does make sense. It explains why Tel didn't kill any of them until after they violated her. The morality he likely felt -- the doubt of whether or not to kill other people for the sake of a possibility -- left him when his fears came to fruition. What was there to make him think the others would not be the same as the ones at fault? Where was the proof that perhaps a few of them were good and did not deserve death? 

Shouldn't Penelope be happy that the men are gone? That she won't be harassed anymore? Logically, she should be. 

But every time she thinks of the massacre, her throat fills with bile and she becomes nauseous. She was never great around corpses -- especially not mutilated ones.

"Why don't you take a break, Penny?" Iph suggests. "I can stay with Tel. If he wakes, I'll send for you. Take care of yourself." 

Penelope says nothing, but nods and leaves the room. She stands in the hallway, the tall walls looming over her, and then continues on her path. She follows the corridors she knows like the back of her hand until she comes to her destination. She pulls her necklace -- which she has hidden from view oftentimes -- out from beneath her clothing and stares at the key attached to the wire. The key to this door. A door she comes to frequently, but rarely steps beyond its threshold. 

Penelope doesn't walk away this time. Instead, she uses the golden key to unlock the entryway and finally lay eyes upon the room ahead. 

The first thing she recognizes are the tall windows. Sunlight streams into the dark space, lightening up an otherwise gloomy area. 

The next is the dresser. It was picked by her brother, and is strangely suitable. It has plenty of room for Penelope's chosen clothes, and even for some of Telemachus' old baby clothes. Its oak color and slightly bumpy texture will always be lovely to her.

What she sees last is what she fears most: The bed. Well, the bed frame, technically. It is more than just what the mattress lies on: it is a tree.

A tree that Odysseus grew for years before he married Penelope. A tree that he nurtured and cared for in preparation for his marriage. A tree that symbolizes his love for Penelope — his great, undying love.

Undying…

If only he could have been undying as well. 

|•|•|•|

Athena has seen many battles in her expansive lifetime. She has watched her chosen champions ride to war. She had witnessed their triumph and their defeat. She has attended festivals and funerals disguised as a mortal to celebrate them. 

Only once has she ever intervened. Only once has she ever felt inclined to share not only her knowledge, but her heart. When she did, she swore to herself it would be the first and last time. 

She’s beginning to regret that promise. 

Athena stood by the glimmering pool of water in the cave Hermes brought her to when the cyclops was brought down. She kept a close eye on the remaining soldiers, who were few in number. Her gaze followed Eurylochus as he ran to his friend — his dying friend — and tried to save him.

It will never work, she realized while Polites coughed. He cannot be saved now. He will die. 

He will die…

She did not like that thought. Not in the slightest. 

Perhaps that is why she now stands at the edge of a bloodied battlefield, appearing as Phoebe so as to not blind the eyes of the mortals upon it. Perhaps that is the reason she dares to step onto the bloodstained grass and approach the soldier who lays unmoving not too far from her.

Despite her inclinations to reach down and heal his wounds, she shifts her gaze forward. Atop the low hill is the cyclops Polyphemus, surrounded by the men who managed to defeat him. 

But defeat, Athena has found, means different things to different people. 

“Eurylochus of Same,” is what she says first when she wills herself to where he and the Ithacans stand. She frowns when she does not see him before her. “Where is he?”

One of the soldiers, his eyes wide but mouth silent, points to the ground. She tilts her head down and sees the captain lying face down in the dirt. 

Well, she thinks, isn’t this quite the heroic image.

Athena purses her lips and wonders how she should wake him. How did she normally wake Odysseus when he was like this…?

Ah, yes.

Athena kicks his leg — not nearly as harshly as she would if he were Odysseus — and waits for him to rise.

A moment later, she hears Eurylochus gasp and sputter, then pick himself up — slowly — from where he fainted.

“Polites — ” He calls softly as he turns around. He startles when he sees Athena. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” she mimics. “Do you know who I am?”

He swallows visibly and shakes his head. “No.”

Athena raises an eyebrow. She hasn’t ever seen him look this… nervous. He has none of his usual strength. His perpetually hard expression has softened into a strange mixture of fear, grief, and defeat. 

“You fought the cyclops,” she begins. “You and your men. And it seems you have claimed victory.” She gestures to the fallen beast. “I have only one question.”

Eurylochus’ gaze flickers from Polyphemus to her. He nods. 

She asks, “Did you finish the job? Did you kill it?”

It may seem an illogical question, but she knows Odysseus would have likely had mercy for the creature. She needs to be certain Eurylochus is not following his former captain’s path.

“Yes,” he answers. “It’s dead.” 

Athena senses truth in him and so believes him. “Very good. You have done what some cannot.”

“It is a monster,” he mutters. “It deserves neither grace nor benefit of the doubt.” His eyes lower. “It killed my friend.” 

Killed?

“Polites of Ithaca,” Athena says. “Is that who you speak of?” From his silence, she gathers she is right. “How integral to your success is this man?”

In an instant, Eurylochus replies: “Vital. I… don’t know if I can continue without him. At least, not for very long.”

Well, that sounds important, doesn’t it? And she can’t have Eurylochus failing this soon. He has fought too hard and lost too much.

Athena narrows her eyes at the limp body of Polites. He will not lose more.

The goddess of wisdom and war again disappears from the eyeshot of the Ithacans. She kneels beside the wounded soldier, placing a hand on his forehead. She can sense his soul approaching Charon's boat. A boat he will not step onto. 

She closes her eyes and whispers words in a language the world has long forgotten. The glow of magic fills the air as she does, and she has no doubt her eyes have returned to what they are in her true form. If any of the sailors came to see, they would not survive looking straight at her. To abandon any risks of natural mortal curiosity, Athena quickens the pace at which she speaks.

Her power flows through the wounded man's broken bones and severed spine, mending them carefully, one by one. She has never made an error in doing this before; she does not intend for this to be her first. 

When she is finished, her eyes return to their usual storm gray, and she stands up straight. She turns towards Eurylochus and the other sailors, who have gathered around her. 

"What...?" Eurylochus begins. "What did you do?" 

Athena gestures to Polites. "He will live." Surprise and relief fill the captain's face in an instant. She reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. "You have done well, Eurylochus of Same. You have been brave, and smart. Those are attributes that I reward greatly."

She cups her hands and blows into them. A necklace appears, made of silver and adorned with a charm in the shape of an owl. She drapes it onto Eurylochus' neck.

"As long as you wear this, you will be guided safely home. You will find no treacherous waters. You will come across no more wretched enemies." She nods. "You have my blessing. And so, you will be safe." 

"Thank you..." Eurylochus murmurs.

Athena turns to go then, but is stopped by a call: 

"Who are you?"

She hums to herself. Then, responds. 

"I was Odysseus' patroness. And now I am yours." It is all she says before she sweeps herself back up to Olympus.

Athena releases a breath she hadn't known she was holding when she reaches her home. She sits on her mattress, exhausted but... pleased. She is glad to have helped the men. They deserve it -- of that she is certain. Eurylochus in particular.

But why did she do it? 

Was it because she witnessed their courage and simply wanted to reward it? Or perhaps because she wanted to see them succeed. Maybe she is proud and glad that someone has killed the cyclops.

She frowns to herself. 

No. None of that is right.

Perhaps it is because when she saw Eurylochus' panic and despair, she wondered if Alcaeus would ever look the same. Perhaps it is due to the idea that the little boy could grow to be a situation just like that one.

Or perhaps she decided to help because when she stared down at Polites' broken body, all she could think was, What if this is Alcaeus one day? 

Athena will never hesitate to help him. That much she knows. The boy means far more to her than she ever imagined. He will grow to be a great man, she is certain. 

A great man... like Eurylochus and Polites. 

I will protect you, little one, she promises. No matter the cost, I will protect you like I did them. I swear it upon the River Styx.

Her eyes close and her mind falls into sleep as thunder claps below. 

Notes:

HEY Y'ALL!!

so. I know this is late. I apologize once more. BUT. I promise I have all the chapters set up to be written -- it's just that I have to find time to write them aaaand I've been ultra busy lately.

also I want to say thank you so so so so SO much for all the support on this story. I never thought it would reach more than like 300 hits and here we are with over 4k and every time I look at the comments I smile

SO. thanks for staying tuned! sorry if this chapter was a bit shorter. I hope you enjoyed it :))

<3,
alex

chapter XIII anticipated sometime near the end of October

Chapter 13: XIII

Summary:

The king awakens.

The crew continues their journey.

Notes:

content warning(s): graphic depictions of violence, nightmares, body gore, mentions of past sexual assault, description of pre-sexual assault

If you are not comfortable reading something detailed about a part of a sexual assault, feel free to skip that section. It will be marked with *** to begin and end it, just like before. Please only read what you are comfortable with <3

miss me? :)

“For a friend with an understanding heart is worth no less than a brother.”
-Homer, The Iliad

|-|-|-|

The room Telemachus finds himself in is... bright. Strangely so, really. He has to squint and shield his eyes to keep from being too uncomfortable, and even then the light stings. He raises his hand to protect his vision, but pauses when he sees the... smallness of it. It's tiny. Much tinier than it has been in the last...

Poor, naive boy. Whatever shall we do with you?

Cut the foreplay. Kill him.

No, stop! Don't touch me!

Quite likely only one of us will leave the palace tonight, yes? 

Do you really think you can defeat me? Come now. I want to know.

It's so adorable, you know. Watching you pretend you know what you're doing.

...but if her son were to die while she was away, unable to help? It would push her over the edge, would it not?

Perhaps you should take lessons from your mother. At least she knew when to stop resisting.

You... How did you...?

You have not failed me, son. Nor will you ever fail me. You have made me so proud.

TELEMACHUS!

The memories wash over him like a tsunami. He instantly feels around his abdomen, trying to determine whether or not he's still injured, but all he feels is soft fabric -- almost like that of the clothes he wore as a small child. Finding nothing, he rises to his feet. His height rises by only a few inches. 

Huh. Perhaps I really am a toddler again.

"Ah, there you are." 

Telemachus whirls around when he hears the voice. He still cannot see well due to the vibrancy of the world he's in, and so only registers a shadowy outline as the keeper of the voice.

"Who are you?" he demands. Indeed, he sounds much younger than he knows he is. "What do you want?" 

"Want?" The unknown figure begins walking -- towards Telemachus or away, he is not certain. "I want nothing from you. You have fought well; I wish to reward you." A gentle breeze sweeps over his face. "I assume you don't recognize me?" 

He shakes his head slowly. "No." 

"Good, good. You shouldn't. It would ruin the big reveal." 

Big reveal? Telemachus has no chance to question it, however, for the light somehow grows brighter and he is forced to squeeze his eyes shut tight. When he opens them, shadows have curtained whatever the light came from, leaving him in a setting he can actually see. He blinks, wondering why he is on a beach. 

The sand beneath his feet -- bare, he notices -- is soft and warm, not quite hot. He tilts his head at the seashells lined up not too far from the darkened spot where water runs up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide. He walks slowly to them, examining the multicolored, both jagged and smooth, medium and small shells. He remembers thinking of these things as treasures. He remembers finding a story for every single one he found.

But that was a long time ago. During days that did not demand so much of him. Predating the Trojan War, and his father's departure. Of course, also the predecessor of his father's death.

Before he was king.

"Do you ever long to be this young again, child?" 

Telemachus glances at the grassy ground that separates the beach and the normal land. "To some degree, maybe. Sometimes I wish things would go back to what they were before it all fell apart." He frowns. "But I would never wish to be so small again. So helpless." He narrows his eyes at the shells, like they are the root of his problems. "I will never be helpless again. Or weak." 

A laugh echoes around him. “Ohh, my sister would adore you. Not to say I don’t either, but — you’re a little explosive for my taste.”

Telemachus finally turns his head to look behind him. There stands a man, a few heads taller than him, with bronze skin, golden hair, and eyes that seem to be made of pure sunlight. He’s wearing a white toga and there’s a bow slung around his back, accompanied by the crate of arrows at his belt.

“Who are you?” he asks. “A god?”

The man smiles. “Clever boy. You may refer to me as Apollo.” His eyes twinkle. “I assume you know that name?”

Telemachus only stares back. Apollo chuckles again.

“You caught my eye, recently,” he begins to explain. “While you were busy eliminating the men who raped your mother. Very nice job, by the way. Several of my family members have been mooning over it.” 

“Mooning?” Telemachus repeats. “Why?”

“Because it was extraordinary!” Apollo exclaims. “A boy king destroying lords and princes of other kingdoms as a way to defend his mother, whom they violated? It is quite unheard of, even among the Olympians. But your intentions and execution was not what caught my eye -- it was your skill with a bow. You are nothing short of a prodigy, the way you shoot arrows."

Telemachus steps back, almost revolted at the idea. "I'm no prodigy. I've been practicing archery for months; it makes sense I'm advanced in it."

"Does it?" Apollo pats his sheath of arrows. "You are easily the best archer I've seen in a millennia. Don't get me wrong, I adore Paris, of course, but... he needed my help in striking down that poor fool Achilles." He tilts his head. "I have the strangest feeling you wouldn't have needed my guidance. I would only have had to give you a target, and you would never miss." 

"What is the point of this?" Telemachus demands. "I've no time for flattery, if that's all you've come to say. I'd like to wake up, thanks."

Apollo -- for the third time -- laughs loudly and obnoxiously. "That's hilarious! You, telling me what to do." He wipes his eyes, still grinning. "You should feel glad I'm here, you know. Who knows where you would be if I hadn't snatched you up from Hypnos' dream world." 

Telemachus clenches his fists, wishing he were his actual age so he could properly glare at the sun god. "What gives you the right to take me from that world? At least there is an end to it!" 

"Well, aren't you grumpy," Apollo mutters. "I'm not holding you hostage here, Your Majesty. I'm simply keeping you company. Is that so wrong?" 

"Maybe," replies Telemachus. "What do you plan to accompany me in doing?" 

Apollo hums. "Good question. Not one that I'll answer, mind you, because it's really none of your business. Oh!" He snaps his nimble, calloused fingers. "I do have something I need to tell you. Well -- actually, not me, one of my fellow Olympians. I volunteered for the task, of course, since I was easily the best one for the job because I can make such lovely conversation." 

"Lovely, indeed." Telemachus murmurs in annoyance. "What is it they want to tell me?" 

Apollo's chipper attitude fades when he asks. His patronizing grin turns into a grim frown, and his sparkling eyes dim. "That you shall decide the fate of Olympus. You alone shall have enough sway over our attacker -- one who can overthrow us, if they so please -- to convince them to leave us in power. A difficult fight, they say, very difficult." His gaze flickers to the horizon line, where the sky is turning gray. "Though it will not be for years, you must be prepared. If you are not..." He looks back at Telemachus gravely. "Then Olympus will fall with the gods accompanying it." 

Thunder claps in the distance -- though not too far away, Telemachus notices. Raindrops begin to fall from the clouds, quickly transforming from drizzling into pouring. He fights to keep his hair from his face and water from his mouth. 

"I don't understand!" he shouts over the rain. "Why choose me? How can you trust me to decide correctly?" 

It is not about trust, the voice of Apollo booms loudly in his ears. We have no say in who holds this power. It is not within our control -- or yours. It is simply something we accept and stay alert for when it happens.

Bright white flashes in Telemachus' eyes. He stumbles and falls into the sand, where seawater has begun to rise above it. 

You, too, must keep your eyes open and senses aware. When the time comes, little wolf, you must fight. Not only for us -- but for them.

Lightning strikes again, somewhere near him. He shoves his soaking curls behind his ears, squinting against the heavy water droplets. There is a body not far, charred and smoking. He stands up, almost knocked down by the suddenly aggressive wind, and approaches. He rubs water from his eyes so he can examine it. His eyes widen when he lays eyes upon the dead face of his mother. 

"Mom!" He cries, but he's sure no one heard. His heart starts beating rapidly in his chest, and he has to turn away from Mother -- only to see more bodies, all scattered across the beach, their blood staining the sand. His breath quickens when he recognizes Kallistrate and Eumaeus' hair and eyes. "Eumaeus -- Kal!" A bolt of lightning strikes right in front of him, making him fall and roll roughly to the edge of the shore. He coughs sand from his throat as he tries to sit up.

Do not let your guard down for anything. Keep the fire that compelled you to kill your mother's abusers. You will need it.

As if on cue, the sea yanks Telemachus from his place on land. He shrieks and instinctively tries to find something to grab onto; there is only sand and water. Before he can shout for help, he's been pulled beneath the surface. He reaches for where he can see the sun, but he cannot seem to kick himself free of whatever has grabbed him. 

Help! Help me! He prays to Apollo, staring pleadingly at the rippling sky. Please!

Stormclouds cover the sun, leaving Telemachus alone in the darkness. 

Alone. Completely alone... I'll never make it out.

And so he stops trying to break free. He lets his body go limp and his mind relax. Perhaps death will be more peaceful than he thought.

Telemachus... The faint noise does little to startle the boy. Telemachus! Wake up! He does not. Why should he? Wake up, gods damn you! He feels himself being shaken violently and his eyes fly open.

Telemachus sits straight up, breathing heavily. He touches his chest briefly, and blinks when he realizes he is no longer dreaming. His hands are back to what they are supposed to be. His body is his own. There are two hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly. They are trembling. He glances up at their owner.

"Kal... Kallistrate...?" he wonders aloud, his voice coming out hoarse. "What... what are you doing here?" He frowns. "Where am...?" He takes a moment to survey his surroundings. The blank walls, the wooden dresser, the oak door with intricate carvings. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "My bedroom. Good, that's... that's good." 

"Stop rambling," Kallistrate hisses. "You've been practically dead for a week, Telemachus! Do you have any idea what that did to the kingdom?! To your mother?!" She is fuming, more than Telemachus thought possible. "You cannot just sit there and mutter about trivial matters."

Telemachus replies, "I'm sorry."

The girl's gaze softened for a moment -- but only a split second. "Apology not accepted. Not until you tell me what the devil you were thinking allowing Antinous to impale you." Telemachus opens his mouth, but is cut off. "And don't say you didn't. I know you did. What I want to know is why."

Telemachus wants to say that it's none of her business, or that she's wrong and it was a complete accident. But there's some part of him that never wants to lie to her, and it speaks louder than the other. 

"It was the only way I could think to stop him," he begins. "I was nearly out of energy and ready to collapse, dead or not. I had enough strength to kill him, that much I knew -- though only if I played my cards right." He sighs. "I knew I would be wounded, I just... there was no guarantee it would be fatal. So... I took a chance. I killed him and let the Fates decide if I lived or died. From the look of things, they chose the former."

He reaches to twist the owl ring he kept on his finger, but finds it missing. It feels... strange, without it. It used to be something he thought of as a bad omen or a stupid attempt by a god to send condolences regarding his father. But now? Now, it relieves the stress he feels with a single twist. He began his journey with this ring; he wanted to complete it with it, too.

"Oh, um..." Kallistrate takes her hands from him to dig around in one of her pockets. Telemachus finds himself missing the feeling. She pulls something out from it and opens her palm to him. It's his ring. "I had it cleaned. Well -- I mean, I cleaned it. It had blood all over it, and I assumed you wouldn't want to wear a crusty ring." 

"No, I wouldn't." He chuckles. The wood is stained red, but it is barely noticeable. He smiles and slips it back on. "Thank you." He leans back, onto the pillows, while Kallistrate sits down in the chair beside the bed. He fixes her with a hopeful expression. "Did I adequately answer your question?" 

She purses her lips for a moment. "...yes. I suppose you did. It... makes sense. Why you risked your life." She averts her gaze. "It was just -- it was strange. Without you. Quiet. Sad, mostly." She clears her throat. "I haven't felt like that about a loss since my mother died." 

"I'm not dead," he assures her.

"No." She's fidgeting with her hands, purposefully not looking up at him, it seems. "While you were asleep, though, no one was certain. I kept thinking about you. About you dying." She amends quickly while Telemachus' heart flips. "It didn't make for a very nice week, is all. So..." She takes a deep breath and finally returns her gaze to his. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm happy you're alive. Not well, not quite yet, but alive."

"The gods heard your praying, then," he says.

She shrugs. "Maybe. That, or you're stubborn as a mule and refused to give in." He laughs, and a smile breaks through her normally tough expression. "I think that one's far more plausible." 

"Me, too." He agrees, relieved that humor has not been lost on those who care about him.

Only, he never realized how much Kallistrate cared. He thought of her as one of his spies. Nothing more, nothing less. But now that he's gotten to know her, at least a little... 

"Why did you start panicking after Leiocritus ripped your dress?" Telemachus asks before he can stop himself. Kallistrate tenses visibly. "Or -- I'm sorry, I -- you don't have to answer, it's not my business -- "

"I was raped three years ago."

Telemachus blinks. Then, he turns and adjusts so he can see and listen to her better.

***

"I had a friend," she continues. "Someone I spent a lot of time with. Damien. We'd known each other for ages. I never thought of him as more than a friend, and I assumed he felt the same." She again breaks eye contact. "I was wrong. When he told me, I... told him I didn't feel the same. He got really angry and started shouting at me, demanding to know why I didn't love him. I tried to leave, but he grabbed onto my sleeve. The seam attaching it to my dress was loose already, so it ripped right off.

"I fell. He took that moment of weakness to take advantage of me. He was taller and stronger than I was. I didn't stand a chance. When he was finally..." She cringes. "...done with me, he threw me out of his house. I had to walk back home, afraid and confused and filthy. I couldn't tell anyone about what happened. Not because I didn't want to. I just... couldn't. Every time I started to say something, it was like my throat closed up completely. Every time I saw him, though, was worse. 

***

"I never spoke to him again. I was so relieved when he and his family finally moved away from Ithaca." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "But my mind is still scarred. I don't think I'll ever fully heal. And when Leiocritus grabbed me, I..." She's quiet for a few moments. Telemachus stays silent. "It all came rushing back, basically. Like I was back in his house, trying to get away." She then looks at Telemachus, her eyes shining in the sunlight coming in from a window. "Only that time, someone was there to save me." 

Ah. Right. 

"I'd do it again," he tells her. "I'd do it for anyone. I think." He furrows his brow. "How do you know when you know yourself?" 

Kallistrate hums softly again, thinking. "I don't know. But I know you're a good person. One of the best men I've ever met. Not that the bar is very high, considering what I just told you..." She chuckles, but it sounds forced.

Telemachus returns his attention to her. "It wasn't your fault, Kal. What happened with that boy. Clearly, he was never your friend." Clearly someone needs to teach him respect. 

And now you sound like Eumaeus.

Why can't that be a good thing?

"If I ever see him, I'll be sure to toss him into the sea head first." 

Kallistrate laughs softly. "I have no doubt."

Silence passes through them for several, long moments. Telemachus finds himself not particularly uncomfortable with it. It may be quiet, but he knows someone is here with him. He could likely fall asleep like this, if he wanted.

"Kal, huh?" 

Telemachus turns his head to look at her. "What?" 

"You called me Kal." She explains. 

"Oh!" Telemachus hadn't even registered that he'd given her a nickname. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mess anything up or make you uncomfortable -- "

"Oh my gods, you are so chatty when you're insecure," she interrupts. "It's okay. It's a nice change from 'Kallistrate'. I don't mind." 

He stares at her. "Okay." And the silence returns.

Before either of them can break it, however, the door opens. Someone comes into the room, freezing when they see Telemachus with his eyes open. He feels his whole soul relax. 

"Mom." 

She's wrapping him in a tight embrace, her trek from the door to the bed nothing but a blur. He returns it just as fiercely. "My boy..." She pulls back to examine him. "Are you alright? Is anything hurting? Do you feel faint, feverish? Should I get you some water?" 

"Mom, slow down," he stops her. "I'm fine. Really." 

Mother frowns. "Kallistrate, if you could fetch the king a water jug and a cup, please."

Kal stands and bows. "Of course, Your Majesty." She casts one more glance at Telemachus as she leaves. 

Mother sits down on the mattress, continuing to survey her son. It's endearing and sweet, yes, but also more than slightly annoying. Telemachus knows when he's feeling terrible, and now is not one of those times.

"I'm okay," he repeats. "I promise. You can stop worrying."

"No one, god or mortal, can stop a mother's worrying," she replies. "That is a promise I can keep." She sighs, looking at him in the eyes. "You know you're in trouble, don't you?" 

Telemachus raises an eyebrow. "In trouble? Why?" 

"Because you slaughtered twenty-eight men and hired a group of spies not only to help you with it but also to watch over me." 

Oh. I almost forgot about that.

"I am sorry about the spying," he admits. "Truly. I wanted to tell you, but I was certain you wouldn't approve." He crosses his arms. "Why are you upset with me for exterminating the ones who invaded our home and took advantage of you?" 

Mother closes her eyes briefly. "It is not about what they have done, Telemachus. You have taken human lives."

"Humans that deserved it." He retorts.

"Be that as it may, the point stands," she insists. "There were other ways you could have punished them. You did not have to kill them. But you did. The blood of twenty-eight young men is on your hands, my son." She tilts her head to one side, disapproval and concern in her eyes. "You have killed more men than some soldiers. You abused your power as king to do it. Your father would have felt the same as you, but would not have had execution at the forefront of his mind." 

"Yes, well, Father isn't here," Telemachus reminds her, his tone bitter and harsh. "He left us. I don't want to be anything like him." 

Mother's expression turns into hurt and grief at his words. "He may not be here in the flesh, but his achievements and failures should serve as an example to you -- "

"An example of what, exactly?" he demands. "How to abandon your kingdom? How to abandon your family? How to leave your people with no leader, and tell no one about your plan for succession until after you are dead and gone, when you cannot say anything?" His eyes burn with furious tears. "I never asked for this! But he -- he decided to leave to fight in a war instead of raise me! He decided to make my memories of him nothing but words upon parchment! He decided to storm Troy! He's the one who decided to go and die!" 

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He could barely feel them through his poorly addressed anger and despair.

"He doesn't get to be an example in my life!" he cries. "Not when it's his fault he's not here to be one!" 

Mother covers her mouth with one hand for a moment before pulling Telemachus into her arms. The walls he'd put up when the news came of Father's death crumble when she does, and he sobs into her chest, ignoring how his shoulder aches. He lets himself fall apart in his mother's arms, finally feeling what he should've years ago now. 

All he wanted was to be a child. To visit islands with his parents -- both of them. To play hide and seek with more than just his mother. To be taught how to shoot an arrow not from a trainer assigned to him but his father.

"I hate him," he whimpers. "I hate him so much. More than anything." 

"I know, Tel," Mother whispers as she soothes her son by carding her fingers through his hair. "Some days... I do, too." 

|~|~|~|

Polites wakes in a bed. A proper bed, the most comfortable he's been on in years. He glances around, noticing how he seems to be in a small, wooden room. One that tilts right and left... right and left... right and left... 

I'm back on the ship, he realizes. Or... did I ever leave? Where were we before? Something about a port city... 

Memories hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Why are we doing this? Aren't we setting ourselves up for failure?

MORTAL... SCUM! You... will not... get away with this!

POLITES!

KEEP GOING! Don't worry about me.

If I ever doubt you, remind me of this day.

What the devil were you thinking?! Climbing up a cyclops' back!

And to think we haven't lost a single man since this plan started.

POLITES!

Eurylochus... 

You are safe now. We can help you. 

No. I'm... beyond help, Eurylochus. 

Our next mission is to keep you alive.

No. You can't. You can't. If you could just -- toss me into the sea, when you get the chance.

No. 

Please. Please do this for me, Eurylochus. I beg you.

Fear and confusion race their way to Polites' mind, the fear arriving first. He feels his breath coming out shallowly, followed by thoughts that moved too quickly for him to hold onto just one. He hurriedly pushed his way out of bed, tossing aside the sheets. He let out a small cry of pain when his leg tried to seize and stop him from moving. He leaned against the wall for a single moment before continuing, telling his body to shut up. 

He shoves open the door, greeted by a hallway. His wide, terrified eyes lock onto the door at the end of it. He goes to it, wobbling on his feet, and again harshly pushes it open. He seethes at the bright sunlight that shines in his eyes, scanning the dock for the man he is looking for. He finds him by the edge, looking out while holding one of the ropes. 

"Eurylochus!" Polites shouts. Eurylochus turns his head, then his whole body, his eyes filling with shock visible even from so far away.

"Polites?" he questions. "Help him!" He orders the sailors around. 

"You blasted fool!" Polites hisses as two men come to steady him. "What did you do?" 

Eurylochus conveys what looks to be genuine confusion. "What do you mean?" 

"Don't play dumb; I know you did something!" Polites exclaims. "What did you do?!" 

"I didn't -- "

"Liar!" 

"Polites, please -- "

"No!" Polites shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, I asked you -- I begged you to leave it alone, but you just couldn't listen, could you?"

"If you would just listen -- "

"You'll tell me what you did, about whatever deal you made, Eurylochus of Same, or I swear upon the River Styx I'll never even look at you again!" 

Thunder claps and the boat rocks a little more intensely, causing everyone to wobble on their feet. Polites falls to his knees, unable to balance any longer. He stares down at the wooden deck, trying to calm himself, but failing. He held himself upright with one hand, the other covering his mouth as his breath tries to leave him.

A hand touches Polites' shoulder, rough and calloused. He shoves it away, knowing whose it is by feeling alone. 

"Polites," Eurylochus says quietly. "You are not well. You should return to your room -- "

"I'm not going anywhere until you answer me," Polites snaps. 

"I'll not answer you until you're back in your bed." Eurylochus responds, heat in his tone.

Polites curses under his breath, but reluctantly agrees, hoping his breath will even once he's out of the chilly weather. Eurylochus reaches out to help him walk, but Polites again pushes him away. The two walk side-by-side, Polites admittedly having trouble -- though he's too upset to remedy it. Once they enter his room, he begins to pace, trying to find his sea legs again.

Eurylochus shuts the door with a soft click. "Polites, you must sit down." 

"Don't tell me what to do." Polites continues to walk from one end of the room to the other. He sees Eurylochus sit down, instead, looking exhausted.

"Must you be so difficult?" 

"Yes," Polites answers easily. "I'll not be easy on someone who has likely sentenced all of us to death for one life." 

Eurylochus spreads his arms. "What are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about whatever bargain you made to keep me alive!" Polites exclaims, ceasing his pacing to glare at the captain. "You should've let me die. I told you to let me die!" 

"I didn't make any bargain," Eurylochus says. "If I could've, I would've, but there was no one to bargain with." 

Polites narrows his eyes. "I don't believe you." 

"Why?" asks Eurylochus. "Because you are so certain no one would want to save you?"

"No one with that kind of power," Polites replies. "A god? Saving a mortal without incentive? I think not." 

"Well, then you think wrong." 

Polites blinks in shock. His body starts to calm, perhaps also shocked into normalcy. He starts to speak, but can't seem to formulate any words. Eurylochus is saying a god saved him... because they wanted to? Why the devil would they do that? 

"If you're wondering why she did it, I can't tell you," Eurylochus guesses -- correctly, at that. "She left before I could ask who she was. All I know is she was impressed by our defeat of the cyclops and seemed intent on saving you, so she did." His gaze lowers. "She mentioned my being brave. And smart." He scoffs. "I don't agree. Everything I did was of pure necessity, and planned in the moment. There was no guarantee we would succeed." He shrugs. "It seems the gods are on our side."

"So..." Polites begins, then stops for a moment, contemplating. "You're telling me... you didn't sell our safety or -- gods forbid -- your soul to bring me back?" Eurylochus nods. "And you didn't have any say in whether or not this goddess helped me." Another nod. Polites finally does sit, dropping down beside Eurylochus. "What is happening?" 

Eurylochus huffs a small chuckle. "I wish I knew, my friend." He glances at Polites. "But Sicily? It is done with. There will be no more deaths in this crew."

"How do you know that?" Polites asks, dejected and confounded. "You're no seer. Who knows what else we will encounter?" 

There's a brief silence between the two. Eurylochus rises to his feet, offering Polites a hand.

"Come," he says. "I have something to show you."

Polites furrows his brow at Eurylochus. He considers his hand for a moment before taking it and allowing his friend to heave him up and secure a steadying arm around his waist. "It better not be anything insane."

"Like what?" Eurylochus questions. "A cyclops limb?" Polites' face must've changed into horror, judging by Eurylochus' additional: "I'm joking."

The two walk slowly out of Polites' room, Eurylochus having to help Polites balance every now and again, and approach the side of the ship. Polites steps back a little when he sees the glowing path in the water. He tilts his head so he can see past the front of the ship. Indeed, the path continues.

"What is this?" he asks breathlessly.

Eurylochus reaches down the collar of his shirt and brings out a necklace. The rope is silver, and the charm at the end is that of an owl. "The goddess who saved you gave me this. According to her, it will lead us safely home." He sighs. "I had no choice but to trust her."

"Athena." Polites remembers. Eurylochus frowns, confused. "It was Athena, you absolute dunce. A charm shaped and carved like an owl? Helping us, the crew who used to be captained by Odysseus?" He flicks his friend on the shoulder, watching, amused, as he realizes Polites is right. "Clearly you didn't pay any attention to what Odysseus said. He talked about her all the time. Though not by name, mostly."

"Yes, well," Eurylochus says, "I try to keep him from my mind. Odysseus. Dwelling on his loss brings nothing but pain." He lowers the necklace back into its hiding place. "I have had enough of that for many lifetimes." He breaths in audibly. "Polites, if you'd died in Sicily..." He swallows. "I can't lose you. I've lost too many, too quick. I fear if you are among them I'll lose myself."

Remorse for his anger settles on Polites' shoulder. He places what he hopes is a comforting hand on Eurylochus' back. "You didn't lose me, though, did you? I'm right here." Eurylochus' eyes fill with tears, suddenly glistening. "I'll always be right here, alright? I promise." 

Eurylochus crushes Polites in an embrace before his crying truly begins. He grips tightly to his friend, Polites able to feel the back of his shirt crumpling under the pressure. He reciprocates the affection, glad to be alive, despite his fury from earlier. Knowing no one is at risk because of it makes him feel less like an undead corpse and more as the result of a miracle. 

"We're going home," he breathes, watching the water glow beneath them. A smile pulls at his lips. "We're going home."

"We are." Eurylochus pulls away, wiping at his eyes until they're mostly dry. Polites squeezes his bicep gently. "But for now, we have something else to celebrate." 

Polites hums. "What's that?" 

"You." 

Notes:

for those who did not read the part marked ***: Kal was raped as a child, by a friend of hers. The reason she freaked out with Leiocritus ripped her clothes is because her abuser did the same to her.

YAY IT'S OUT WOO

sorry for the long wait, y'all. life keeps life-ing. no matter how long the wait, though, I am determined to finish this fic, so stay tuned :)

<3,
alex

p.s. - did you catch the Forrest Gump reference? ;)