Sing, O Muse, of Agony

by IrinaHero

Summary:

In the shadows of war and duty, quiet bonds are hidden from prying eyes—some tender, some painful, and some worth breaking the rules for. This is the story of a forbidden love between Prince Hector of Troy and Queen Odysseus of Ithaca, how it all started and what the war will force them to do.

Notes:

This is my first time writing a fanfic for this fandom and I hope you'll enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Agony

Sing, O Muse, of Agony

Sing of love lost to war, of hearts bound and broken,

Of the queen of Ithaca and the prince of Troy,

Who once walked as one, their hands entwined,

Only to stand upon opposite shores,

Their swords raised, their hearts bleeding.

Once Hector swore to wed Odysseus,

And Odysseus swore to stand beside him,

A pact not just of kingdoms but of souls.

Together, they dreamed of golden years-

Of Ithaca's shores and Troy's high walls,

Of halls filled with laughter, of a future ruled not by conquest,

But by wisdom, by peace, by love.

But fate does not honor vows, nor does war spare lovers.

It was not their hands that lit the fire-

Not Hector's, nor Odysseus', nor the hands of the soldiers

who would carve their names into the dust of the battlefield.

It was Paris, reckless and blind, who stole Helen,

Who let desire weigh heavier than oaths,

Who struck the match and left others to burn.

And so Hector paid the price, though he had sworn no betrayal.

And so Odysseus paid the price, though she had only sought peace.

Bound once by love, now bound by duty,

they stood on either side of the war that was never theirs.

At first, they fought against it-

Whispers in the dark, stolen glances across the battlefield,

Fingers that ached to touch but never could.

But war does not yield to longing.

Troy needed its prince. Ithaca needed its queen.

And so, with heavy hearts, they turned away.

And the years of peace that could have been

Were replaced by fields littered with the dead,

By the wailing of widows, by fire and ruin,

By the bitter taste of blood in the dust.

By fathers burying sons, by mothers left childless,

By the sea choked with corpses instead of ships bearing trade.

By all they swore to protect, burning before their very eyes.

Hector stood before his people,

His shield raised, his name a prayer upon their lips.

Odysseus walked among kings,

Her arrows swift, her mind sharper still.

And time, merciless and unheeding, moved forward.

When the moment came, there was a fire burning,

There were vows spoken in hushed voices,

A hand reaching across the space between them,

Fingers curling together, seeking something familiar.

A ceremony. A wedding. A night when the hearts united.

But time still passed, and war still lingered.

And so they fought,

Not for hatred, not for vengeance,

But for those who had no one else to fight for them.

And the only peace they would ever know

Was the peace of distance,

Where they could pretend, for fleeting moments,

That the other still waited in the shadows,

Just out of reach, just close enough to dream of.

And if they waited long enough, they hoped-

Not just to find each other once more,

But to do so with empty hands,

Unburdened by steel, unmarked by blood,

Not as warriors, not as enemies,

But as the people, they were meant to be.

Sing, O Muse, of agony.

 

---

 

The sea curled silver beneath the morning sun as Hector stepped off the prow of his ship. The winds had carried his vessel swiftly from the eastern edge of the Aegean, yet even they seemed to hush in reverence for the day. Ithaca's shores-rocky, proud, and salt-bitten-rippled with mourning draped in ceremony.

Black banners swayed above the stone port, quietly speaking of sorrow that struck this land, and yet the island bore no air of weakness. Not even in grief.

Laertes, the old wolf of Ithaca, was dead.

Sailor, king, warrior, and father-he had once sailed with Jason aboard the legendary Argo and had fought beside Heracles, Argus, and Atalanta. Even among Trojans, Laertes was a name that stirred quiet respect. Now he was ash on the sea wind, and the throne had passed to his eldest daughter.

And she was only fifteen.

Hector adjusted his crimson cloak as he ascended the pathway that wound to the palace gates. Warriors stood at attention; some of them lean, but most were broad. The trait they shared was that they all were sharp-eyed and their skin was touched by the sun, with the quiet stillness of men trained not in parades but in battle and the roughest of seas. Ithaca's strength was not in its size, Hector noted, but in the discipline stitched into its bones.

The great hall where the coronation was to take place was carved of dark stone and mountain spirit. Torches flared in copper sconces. Noblemen from across the isles gathered within kings, princes, and generals who wore their finery like armor. Their voices were kept low, reverent, and uncertain. Grief thickened the air like smoke, and yet, it was not mourning that left them breathless when the doors opened.

It was her.

Odysseus entered, not led, not veiled, but alone. She moved with grace as her mother and younger sister followed soon after. Her mourning robes were made of Ithaca's famous black wool, making them as dark as the bottom of the ocean. The fabric was flowing, adding weightlessness to her movements, but there was no fragility in her bearing. Her shoulders were straight, her steps deliberate, her eyes unflinching. Her eyes didn't match, and her hair was long and black as oil in moonlight, coiled and braided into a practical but still elegant knot. She was short in stature but had lean-coiled strength, not dainty associated with young royalty. Her gaze burned brighter than the torches and yet filled many with chills. She was indeed a woman of secrets and contradictions.

She did not bow her head. She did not cry.

She looked at them all like a general surveying a field before the war.

Fifteen, Hector thought. Fifteen and already unshakable. Many men gathered were suddenly drawn to the unusual beauty of this clearly powerful woman. Feeling robbed by the fact that Laertes would never speak of her beforehand and by how those lucky enough to witness her would keep it a secret. Among those men were a few who hoped the woman would gaze upon them once again. And between them stood the young prince of Troy. He just couldn't help but stare at the mesmerizing eyes of the new queen. The left one had the color of bronze, similar to the one of his current armor, and the other had a dark shade of blue as if the depths of oceans were hidden beneath her gaze, waiting to drown unsuspecting victims. Maybe he was already caught? Captured in the trap with her loveliness used as a lure? How else could anyone explain the way his heart was beating so fast or how his legs were at a crossroads? Afraid to move and yet tempted to get closer.

It wasn't supposed to be like this! He was supposed to represent his father on a diplomatic mission. A simple way to gain experience and to find some allies that would be interested in his future rulership. But now Hector was worried if he would be able to use his words. Apollo blessed him with many things, but the gift of speech wasn't one of them. Years or maybe even months prior, he would dismiss such ability, but now he was more than willing to get down on his knees and beg the god of poetry and music for this favor.

When he thought of himself. Barely seventeen, still training, still learning, still depending on his patron's blessings. He couldn't imagine himself being able to stand like this. With so much ease, as if ruling for over a decade, it was nothing but a formality. This woman was just about to become a ruler of a small island, and yet it felt like he had just met a god in the making.

The high priestess recited the rites in an ancient tongue. Libations were poured. The crown, wrought in the image of two small golden wings that curved gently around queen's temples-sacred to Hermes, the guide of travelers and herald of gods, and most importantly, a source of divine blood of the royal family-was placed upon her head with solemn grace by her own mother-a woman who despite being mostly covered by the darkness of mourning robes still remained as regal and composed as spoken in songs and recalling of kings and nobles. Her hair had not yet been struck with lines of silver, and her hands were filled with small scars- badges of honor for any true craftsman.

The room was silent-awed, uneasy, watching. Waiting to see if the crown would turn out to be too heavy. If she would falter.

She didn't.

When her voice rang out, accepting the crown, it was low, clear, and steady. It echoed against the stone and settled like truth in every ear. "I accept this burden, not as a child to be shielded, but as my father's daughter. And as Ithaca's rightful queen."

Something stirred in Hector's chest. Respect, yes-but more. Fascination. Curiosity. A sense that something irreversible had begun.

Then came the moment of offerings.

One by one, the kings stepped forward, each bearing gifts. The offerings were meant as blessings-at least in form. But it didn't take a seer to read the deeper meaning of what they brought.

A prince from Thebes offered a necklace of fire-gold, set with gems the color of wine that looked like pomegranate seeds. "For a queen as radiant as Helios' own daughters," he declared, smiling just a bit too wide.

A lord from Delos presented a carved ivory comb and a mirror framed in silver. "May you reflect the beauty of your realm," he said, glancing at her rosy lips as he spoke. The queen's face didn't shift in the slightest; meanwhile, the younger princess' hand was clenched in fist-her knuckles slowly turning white.

A young king from Helos brought an embroidered robe dyed with rare saffron, boldly declaring it "fit for the future bride of a hero." But even as he spoke, the air in the chamber shifted. Odysseus tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes unreadable, and then, with a voice calm and cutting, she replied.

"As beautiful as your gift is, you should not forget the tragedy that gathered us here. It is not chivalrous nor proper to expect a mourning woman to seek a husband so soon."

A heavy silence followed. Several of the kings flinched, and others looked suddenly uncomfortable as if realizing for the first time how their gifts - jewels that had goddesses like Hera, Aphrodite, or Eileithyia engraved on them, imported silks, Egyptian perfumes, flattery disguised as a tribute - now clung to them like brands of shame. Murmurs passed between attendants. One lord hastily began adjusting the tone of his prepared speech, stammering to justify how his gift was meant to bless Ithaca's rule, not court its newfound queen.

Hector watched it unfold with amusement and quiet admiration. She had not raised her voice nor scorned them outright, and yet she had unmade their pretenses with a single sentence.

And none could argue with her.

They came one after another gifts wrapped in honeyed words, their eyes gleaming with calculation. They hadn't expected her to meet them on equal footing, probably awaiting a crying lady who jumped into the arms of the first man to show sympathy. They had not thought her capable of wielding power.

But she stood like a stone before a tide. Polite, cool, unmoved.

And then they began to stumble.

A young prince - barely older than she -stammered through his dedication, visibly sweating beneath her gaze. Another tried to justify his overtly romantic verses as a tribute to her father making fool of himself to the point where snickers and poorly contained laughs were heard among the guests.

From the high seat beside the throne, Queen Anticlea watched with cold, unimpressed eyes, her mouth set in a line that promised quiet retribution. Hector glanced her way and could not shake the thought: she looked like a woman silently taking note of who might need to be killed later for daring to belittle her child. And with the way she would glance at the sea on the horizon, he could probably make an accurate guess where she would dispose of the body(/bodies).

The air grew tense, almost pitiful, like boys presenting trinkets to the queen, realizing too late that they had misread the battlefield. So far the most respectful were nobles of Ithaca and other islands under her rule. They without a stutter bowed in respect, speaking highly of her father before blessing their new ruler.

Then came Hector.

He stepped forward with only two guards behind him, bearing long, narrow boxes carved from dark cedar.

He did not bow. He did not leer.

He knelt only briefly and looked her in the eye - not as a suitor, not as a fool blinded by beauty - but as one ruler to another.

"My queen," he said, his voice calm but practiced - too practiced, he realized. He had rehearsed this moment aboard the ship more times than he cared to admit (His crew by now probably memorized the speech perfectly just by hearing him repeat it to himself time and time again). Every syllable had been shaped with care, each word chosen to convey respect, diplomacy, and strength. And yet now, standing before her, none of that preparation felt sufficient.

He tried not to linger on her eyes, the way her hair framed her face like a crown of black fire. But gods, she was beautiful! He was a prince of Troy; he had met queens and noblewomen across the known world during his studies abroad. None had ever looked at him like this - not with longing, but with challenge. With equal ground.

Still, he kept his gaze steady.

"Basileus Odysseus of Ithaca, your black wool is a sign of luxury in my homeland. Troy honors your strength and your grief. These are not gifts to woo but ones to acknowledge the fire within your crown and respect for our history of trade. Not a promise, but a salute. I bring no jewels, no veiled intentions - only this, tokens from one nation of warriors to another. My father, King Priam, sends his deepest condolences, and I, as his son, offer this blade not as a tribute to a widow's vulnerability but to a queen's power."

With a slight nod, the prince pointed to his servants to open the boxes, revealing to the Ithacan royal family bottles of wine, a bronze ceremonial knife, and golden cups with depictions of Hermes. The last gift felt a little risky since it could be seen by some as an offense (being associated with the god of trickery and thieves), but the very moment he saw the royal family, he knew it was a good call. They might not brag about their godly heritage as some, but the very crown on the queen's head looked like a small pair of wings embracing her dark locks.

Hector looked up to see the queen's reaction to the gifts. Her face still held a smile, but her eyes sparked something when she looked in his direction. Were the cups really this good of a gift? Maybe it's because it feels a little more personal than some others, or the fact that none of them were seen as apparent attempts at courting? Or- or maybe she wasn't looking at the items but at the man holding them. That idea caused his face to heat up. He dared to look at her again, but this time, he barely contained a yelp. They made eye contact. The same (evil) spark appeared in her eyes, and her smile widened ever so slightly. His hands were shaking, and he was certain that it wasn't caused by the weight of the golden items. He was about to say something (what exactly, he wasn't sure), but the loud sound of Anticlea clearing her throat made everyone look at her. She had a displeased expression, and her face had new shades of red on it; she looked like she was about to combust when Odysseus spoke up.

"I want to thank you, Prince Hector, son of Priam, for this act of generosity. I do hope that your stay in Ithaca will be pleasant and that the new ruler lives up to your expectations.~" He was going to die. That was just a fact. The only mystery was what would be the cause of said death. Brutal but calculated actions of the basileus' parent or that oh-so-sweet trap that he got caught in before he even got a chance to react.

---

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Hector was currently sitting in the small guest room. Well... saying small might be a little rude. Especially since he's comparing it to the spacious room that he had back in Troy, Ithaca might not be as big or rich as his homeland, but it is still a beautiful place. The shores were a sight worth immortalizing in art, and even the simple guest rooms were filled with painted floral patterns and living plants. The palace felt alive in more ways than one. There was a weird feeling that the halls were designed to trick him. They looked simple at first, but he had an ominous feeling that if he got lost during the tour, he would end up wandering for hours. It made him think.

This palace is just like Odysseus.

Small and as beautiful as cunning. It was ridiculous, but he couldn't help but lay on his back and think back to those mismatched eyes and the mischievous smile. He wanted to know what she looked like outside of that mask of politeness and diplomacy. The glimpses of her actual personality were more tantalizing than any food or drink offered today. Speaking of! He should probably get some more wine, or he was worried that he would stay awake for a whole night or his mind would trail into places he wasn't ready to explore.

And with that, he ventured outside of his room towards the kitchen. It would be rude to wake up servants in the middle of the night because he had a sudden appetite for wine. He memorized the path well enough, but it didn't change the feeling of his suspicions of this place being a maze being slowly validated. Some halls felt more cramped than others, and all the murals of grape wines and ocean shores made him feel lost. He had the urge to use some thread or crumbs to mark his way to guarantee the way back. Luckily for him, he was able to safely find his way to the main hall, and the path to the kitchen was, at this point, just a formality.

Hector moved carefully through the dimly lit kitchen, his steps light despite the weight of his armor. The scent of roasted lamb and fresh bread still lingered from the coronation feast, but the hallways were silent now, the palace asleep.

His fingers brushed the smooth surface of a clay jug. 'Ithacan wine.' A strong wine with sweetness can easily ease you into drinking too much, from what he'd heard. It almost made him laugh. Another thing that reminds him of her. He lifted it, careful not to clink it against the cups stacked beside it. When he thinks back to the ceremony, he didn't participate in the proper toast. It was partly because he was too focused on talking to other guests but more so because he feared being noticed by Anticlea, who seemed to not like him for some reason. And so now he will have a small pitiful toast with unmixed wine since he didn't even dare to look for spices at the risk of making noise.

'This would have to do.'

"Stealing from your own host, Prince of Troy?"

The voice was light, amused, and far too close.

Hector turned swiftly, his grip tightening around the jug. A small figure leaned against the doorframe, her cheeks and eyes were red, arms crossed, dark, almost onyx black curls spilling loosely over bare shoulders, out of her formal garments and jewelry. Instead, she was wearing a thin robe of deep blue -likely something hastily thrown over a nightdress - which did little to hide the quiet confidence with which she carried herself.

Queen Odysseus.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. She tilted her head, watching him, her lips curving slightly as if she had caught a wolf skulking through the sheepfold.

"I-" Hector straightened, the formal words instinctive. "Forgive me, my lady. I had no intention of-"

"-waking the servants?" she finished smoothly, stepping further into the room. "Or being caught?"

Hector exhaled, setting the jug down with deliberate care. "It would seem I have failed at both."

Odysseus took a slow step closer. Her smile only grew while she carefully held the robe to prevent it from falling and possibly exposing more of her skin to the stranger. "Indeed you have~" She closed the door behind her before she stepped forward slowly, barefoot, on the cool stone floor. "And now, I'm faced with a rather difficult choice."

He raised a brow. "Oh?"

Odysseus hummed, tapping her chin as though seriously considering his fate. "Do I uphold the laws of hospitality and allow my guest to indulge? Or do I remind him that queens do not take kindly to thieves, even princely ones?"

Despite himself, Hector felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "A harsh accusation. I was only borrowing."

"Ah, borrowing," Odysseus echoed as if considering the word. Her tone was in mocking awe while she put one hand on her cheek. "And when, pray tell, were you planning to return the wine?"

Hector hesitated.

She grinned. "That's what I thought."

Odysseus took another few steps closer. Now, she was almost at arm's length.

Hector wanted to say something, anything, but all he could do was to keep himself pinned to the counter as if there was a secret passage waiting to be opened.

Hector sighed, trying to ignore the prying eyes. "If this is truly an offense, I will, of course, accept whatever punishment my queen sees fit."

"My queen?" Odysseus echoed; this time, she seemed to be genuinely surprised. "That's very formal, Prince of Troy. You didn't seem quite so stiff at the feast earlier- Well, at least not when speaking with other men gathered. Does the glorious crown prince fear a woman's attention?"

"At the feast, I was honoring your coronation," Hector replied evenly. "And I still am."

"By sneaking into my kitchen in the dead of night?"

He exhaled sharply. "I wasn't sneaking."

Odysseus gave him a look.

"...Not entirely."

The queen's sharp eyes lingered on him in the deafening silence until-

She started giggling.

For the first time that evening, he truly looked at her - not as the queen who had sat composed and sharp-witted among kings, but as a girl who was just fifteen, with laughter in her eyes and bare feet on the cool stone floor. And yet, she had the presence of a ruler twice her age, standing before him with the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders.

"You have a quick tongue, my lady," he admitted, half-smiling.

"And you have slow hands," she quipped, reaching past him to take the jug herself. Before he could react, she uncorked it and poured two cups, then she reached to one of the shelves and from there she took a small jar of honey and three pouches with spices. She mixed everything with utmost precision before sliding one toward him across the wooden table.

Hector hesitated. "Is this a test?"

"A test would imply you could fail." Odysseus raised her own cup and took a small sip. "Consider it an invitation."

He studied her for a moment longer before picking up his own cup. Wine shared was wine forgiven.

He drank slowly and thoughtfully as the woman watched him over the rim of her cup. Her shoulders seemed to be less tense and with a quiet content she allowed herself to join in indulgence. The drink was a little too sweet for his liking, but he liked the warmth of it. It burned pleasantly when sliding down his throat.

He allowed himself to study Odysseus's face a little. For a quick second, she was gleaming with joy while enjoying her drink. It was cute to see how she definitely had a sweet tooth (seeing how much honey she added to her own cup). It made him chuckle, which caught her attention.  

"Despite everything, you are quite carefree. Aren't you worried?" He asked finally.

"About what, exactly?"

"Being a queen."

Odysseus swirled her wine, watching the way the red liquid reflected the low candlelight. "Oh, I'm very worried," she admitted almost too easily. Her gaze was still focused on the dark drink, which almost spilled on her hand. "But worry is only useful if you don't let people see it."

He nodded, respecting the honesty. "A wise strategy."

"It isn't a strategy." She smiled, but there was something knowing in her eyes. For a moment, the shine in them was gone. She seemed tired until something new burned in her. Something almost predatory. "It's survival."

Hector felt a slight shiver running down his spine. He found himself liking her more than he should.

The moonlight shifted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The moment lingered, fragile yet unspoken, before Odysseus broke it with an easy smirk.

"Now tell me, Prince of Troy - do you always sneak about in foreign palaces at night, or is Ithaca just special?"

Hector chuckled, shaking his head. "Only when the company is worth the risk."

Odysseus laughed, lifting her cup once more. "Then consider yourself fortunate, Hector of Troy. Not all thieves get to drink with their captors."

And for the first time that night, Hector thought that perhaps his father had been right to send him here after all.

---

The months went by, and now, Hector was taking part in the festivities of Demeter. Since that night in Ithaca, he has only seen Odysseus in the distance. She would sit surrounded by other kings or her soldiers while he sat further from important figures. He might be there to represent his father, but it doesn't mean that many would appreciate the opinion of the prince of an isolated city, not to mention Troy's current conflict with Sparta. It might not be bloody (at least for now), but the hostility is more than obvious, and that leads to both cities avoiding potential provocations.

The sacrifices were made, and some people were drunk before the dances had a chance to start. Athens was beautiful at this time of year and Hector was glad that he was allowed by his father to join the annual hunt which was one of the main events of this almost week-long celebration. It was his chance to prove himself to other experienced hunters and nobles, and he wouldn't waste this opportunity.

The festival air was thick with roasting meat and the laughter of warriors boasting of past hunts. Yet Hector found little amusement in their noise - his mind was already in the woods, focused on the task ahead.

He adjusted his bracers, fingers tightening the straps with practiced ease. The hunt was no simple game. Even in times of peace, a man proved his worth not only in war but in the skill of the chase.

"You look as if you're marching to battle, oh glorious Prince of Troy."

The voice was too familiar and far too amused.

Hector turned, his grip still firm on the leather strap, to see Odysseus watching him.

She stood with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much space she commanded and exactly how to use it. The bow at her back, the quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder, and a hunting blade strapped to her side - these were not decorations. They belonged to her as surely as the sea belonged to the tides. She was wearing leather armor over her tunic and leather braces with bronze elements. The most noticeable was the band made out of bronze and gold. Less decorative but still a good way to showcase her status.

Hector inclined his head. "A hunt should not be taken lightly."

Odysseus clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "And here I thought you'd learned something since we last met." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a mock conspiratorial whisper. "Remind me, Prince of Troy - how does the saying go? 'A hand that steals is always waiting to be caught'?"

Hector stiffened. "I was not stealing wine."

"Were you not?" Odysseus cocked her head, her smirk widening. "Because I distinctly remember finding you in the kitchens, holding a jug of wine - looking very guilty."

Hector exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half exasperation. "I did not wish to wake the servants."

"And yet, somehow, it is still the most scandalous thing I have seen from a visiting prince," she mused, but then she seemed to be lost in thought for a second. "Well~ Now when I think about it, it was the second most scandalous thing a prince has ever done in my palace. Still, it doesn't lessen the weight of your crime."

Hector rolled his eyes. "Shall I expect you to hold this over my head until the end of my days?"

"That depends." Odysseus leaned against the post beside him. "Will you continue making it so easy?"

Hector let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "I see now why men of weaker minds would fear your presence."

Odysseus smiled at that, and for a moment, there was something warmer beneath her amusement. A quiet pride.

"Aww? And why would any of them have a reason to fear me? I was just a lovely self whenever I'm honored by good company." She chuckled briefly before adjusting the strap of her quiver. Hector heard about Odysseus' archery skills. There were many rumors circling her, but those revolving around her skills were the least scandalous ones. Some rumored that her bow was impossible to string by anyone but her; others suggested that she was trained by gods, or that she was secretly a child of Apollo, or that she already swore herself to be a huntress of Artemis, and even that she was fostered by a foreign ruler. All of them felt ridiculous, especially when they were all mentioned at once, but there was little to no proof to deny or confirm any of them. And so the fair lady remained a walking mystery.

They looked at each other in silence, but then her gaze flickered down - just briefly - and Hector watched her expression shift.

It was only for a heartbeat, but he had seen it.

Her gaze had caught on the scar along his forearm, one from a hunt from two years ago. A reminder of a beast that had nearly torn the spear from his hands. Seeing her expression, he smirked a little and even flexed his biceps to show off this proof of a won battle.

"You act as if I do not understand risk," she said bluntly. Then, she casually, almost too casually, grabbed the thread of her bracer.

Hector caught a glimpse of scattered small silver marks, a bite mark, hidden beneath the bracer on her wrist.

Older than what he has shown.

For a moment, he had no reply.

This woman even had the audacity to mimic his previous strike pose. Hector cleared his throat and tilted his head, hoping to hide the small tint of red that he felt creeping onto his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"A wolf?"

Her eyes shined with mischief. "My mentor's hunting dog."

"You are reckless."

Odysseus smirked. "And you think too much."

"You may laugh now," Hector countered, "but when you come limping back with a gash across your leg, I will be the first to say I warned you."

At that, Odysseus only hummed - a small, almost knowing sound.

But she did not deny it.

Instead, she reached for her bow and tested the string, her smirk sharpening like the edge of a blade.

"Oh, so if tragedy strikes me, I can't count on the help of a chivalrous prince? What a tragedy." She fake-sobbed for exactly five seconds before her smile returned. "What do you say, Prince Hector?" she asked. "If I can't expect your help, then how about a challenge to make this little hunt more entertaining?"

Hector crossed his arms and raised his brow. "A challenge?"

"Whoever returns with the finest catch wins."

"And the loser?"

Odysseus grinned. "Owes the winner a favor."

Hector smiled slightly with a new fire lit up in his eyes. "And please tell me what the Queen of Ithaca would demand of me?"

Odysseus pretended to think. "Perhaps I'll have you serve me wine at my next feast. Have you dressed up nicely while holding for me a tray full of sweets or savory dishes?"

Hector let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are determined to make me your servant?"

"Hmm," She placed a finger on her mouth innocently. "Perhaps~"

Soon, they were all called to go to the stables, where they would be offered horses for the hunt. Then, before she turned to leave, she met his gaze again - just for a moment.

A flicker of something unspoken. A challenge? A promise? No matter what it was, it was barely as significant as the fact that she had the audacity to wink at him!

Then, she was just gone.

And Hector, for all his certainty, found himself less focused on the hunt than he should have been.

---

The hunt had lasted hours. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult if it were not for the other hunters, who were more obnoxious. So many people gathered that it was difficult to hunt any easily startled creature.

By the time Hector had tracked and slain a stag, his muscles ached from the weight of the armor and all the equipment he had on hand, and his tunic was damp with sweat. His horse had grown restless beneath him, eager for rest. He had seen no sign of Odysseus since they parted, and though he would never admit it, he had wondered - had she bested him? Had she met trouble in the woods? He heard that she was a skilled archer (He wasn't bad either), but it doesn't take much for the hunter to become the hunted. A beast too big to be approached alone or even just a man who would take this opportunity for friendly fire. He didn't like it, but his mind was trailing into darker and darker scenarios. After some time, he started to shudder in worry that he would be met with the corpse of the young woman who would be mauled by the monsters lurking in the depths of the wilderness. He felt his heartbeat becoming faster and his breath uneven. He needed to cool off. Now! Or he will pass out from the worry alone.

And so he took a few deep breaths and with his mind calm enough he followed the sound of the running water.

Then he saw her.

She was seated on the riverbank, boots discarded, her bare feet submerged in the cool water. Her horse was nowhere to be seen, but a red fox, two hares, and a small stag were lying nearby - proof of her success.

Odysseus was clearly sore from the way her shoulders were tense, but at the same time, she looked at ease, almost as if she had been waiting for him.

"You're late," she said without looking up.

Hector let out a soft breath, setting his own stag beside hers. "I didn't realize we had a meeting scheduled."

She snickered. "We do now."

Odysseus finally turned, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "You did well," she admitted, nodding toward his stag.

"And you did better," Hector conceded.

Her smirk deepened. "Did I hear that correctly? The Prince of Troy admitting defeat?"

Hector exhaled, shaking his head. "I should have known better than to let an archer set the rules of a hunting competition."

"And yet, you agreed."

"I must be a fool then," he muttered.

Odysseus chuckled, then glanced over him. "No wounds? No lion scratches? I expected Apollo to give his champion a worthy challenge."

So she knew? Well, maybe he was Apollo's champion in the title; he felt more like a student of his. It was a well-known fact that the god of the sun favored his city, but to make such a big jump, in conclusion, felt too daring even for someone as reckless as the little queen.

Hector hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, removing his armor, and lowering himself to the riverbank beside her. The water was cold against his fingers as he reached down, washing the sweat from his palms and face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

A knowing silence passed between them. Then, as Odysseus rolled her shoulders, something shifted - a faint wince that the Trojan prince caught immediately.

Hector narrowed his eyes. He had fought enough battles to recognize what this sign of discomfort meant.

His gaze flickered to her left shoulder.

A small stain of red.

It was faint at first, but as she shifted, the blood seeped further into the fabric of her tunic.

"Odysseus?"

She hummed absentmindedly.

"You're hurt."

She waved a hand. "It's nothing."

"What happened?"

"Just carried a bloody carcass. What!? Do you think a girl isn't strong enough to carry a stag?" She pouted, but when trying to cross her arms, she hissed from pain.

"That's a childish excuse, and you know it," Hector muttered, stepping closer.

Odysseus sighed. "Fine- Someone's arrow landed near me, and my horse got startled, so I fell on the bushes."

Hector was already reaching for her tunic.

Odysseus tensed. "Hector?-"

He ignored her, pulling up her sleeve just enough to see the injury. A thin gash ran along her shoulder, the blood still fresh, staining the fabric. Dirt clung to the wound - unclean.

Hector exhaled sharply, reaching for the waterskin. "You are reckless."

Odysseus mused. "And yet again, you worry too much-" She barely finished when the feeling of cold water being poured on her shoulder gave her goosebumps. Hector let out a pleased hum when seeing the wound being cleaned off of the sand and dried leaves. The young prince put down the waterskin and seemed to look for something, muttering displeased when unable to do so.

Without another word, Hector gripped the edge of his own sleeve and tore it.

Odysseus gawked in shock, looking almost offended. "And why the hell did you do that? You ruined your own tunic!"

Hector rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, unless you have bandages hidden in your quiver, this will have to do."

He carefully wrapped the cloth around her shoulder, tying it tightly. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, his touch feather-light against her skin.

Odysseus watched him.

Hector cleared his throat and stepped back.

"Better?" he asked, avoiding her gaze.

"Didn't know you were a healer," Odysseus remarked.

"I am not," Hector admitted. "But I do know how to keep a fool from bleeding out."

Odysseus snorted. "You must be very busy in Troy, then."

Hector sighed. "You have no idea. Now please tell me is there anything else that I should look over?"

"Only bruised knee and some pain in the left ankle."

The prince nodded, after which he crouched in the shallow part of the river with his feet now up to ankles in the water; reaching out, he delicately grabbed the queen's foot and looked closely for any signs of swelling. He made her move her foot to see any reactions, but luckily, it seemed that there wasn't anything major happening.

For a moment, the river filled the silence between them. Then, Hector's gaze flickered higher-

And he saw it.

A scar.

It started just above her knee and ran high up her inner thigh. The ridges were jagged, uneven, and deep. Hector placed his hand on Odysseus' knee, and with his thumb, he caressed the lower end of the scar.

Odysseus shifted slightly, and her voice hitched - but she said nothing.

His fingertips brushed over the scar's surface, tracing its uneven path.

Too deep for a simple wound. Not a blade - it was rough, torn. It seems to be a difficult place to be attacked. Maybe she fell?

"Was that a branch or some sharp stones?"

The short woman looked up, avoiding his dark eyes. She composed herself before speaking. "Neither. It was a boar, probably way bigger than any you have ever seen."

His thumb ghosted over the ridges, measuring the depth, mapping the injury in his mind.

"This was deep," he thought.

"Y-yeah. I got struck the same moment I stabbed it with my spear."

"So you finally met someone as stubborn as you? How did it feel?" He teased with a low chuckle.

"V-very funny." The young queen tried to be sarcastic, but her voice cracked when Hector moved his hand higher, trailing the scar.

It wasn't just a shallow cut. It had torn through the muscle.

A jagged wound, poorly healed - because it was meant to be fatal.

Hector had seen wounds like this before. Ones that left men crippled.

And yet, here she was. Walking. Fighting. Laughing. No wonder she was such a daredevil! Many warriors felt untouchable after surviving lesser things.

"It healed ages ago. You don't need to worry about it - p-please~."

But he was too focused.

Scars always intrigued him with how they could better recall the histories of duels and challenges than many storytellers. It fascinated him to listen to healers being able to describe everything that warriors went through based on a few cuts, from the battles that caused it to even the healing process and details about someone's daily life. And this one in front of him was no different. He traced further up, feeling where the torn skin smoothed out again. The way the scar curved suggested the attack had struck upwards, meaning-

Odysseus had been standing over it.

"You fought it while it was charging," Hector murmured aloud, his thumb absentmindedly gliding along the scar.

Odysseus opened her mouth. A small whimper escaped her, which made her clasp her mouth with her hand before pitching in a slightly higher voice. "H-Hector-"

But the prince was too focused to notice.

His fingers followed the scar higher.

"The angle… it must have struck upwards," he muttered. "Just a little further, and it would have-" He could clearly see the picture in his head. The wild boar impaled her by her thigh, and the way she attacked with much determination. The beast was probably jumping and kicking until its last breath, explaining the uneven shape.

His gaze was still focused on the scar when moving the fabric upwards so he could inspect the long injury further. It was amazing how big it was. It had the length of her thigh, if not even longer, including its curve.

"…It must have torn deep into the muscle here, the uneven healing suggests-"

His hand went a little further and-

"I said stop!"

Odysseus kicked him.

Hard.

Straight into the river.

Hector surfaced with a sharp gasp, flinging wet hair out of his eyes. The river was shallow but cold, and as he pushed himself up, water dripped from his tunic and pooled at his feet.

For a moment, he just sat there, soaking wet. His mind finally caught up to what exactly had just happened.

He looked up when he saw it. The queen of Ithaca closed her legs, her face was red, and her knee-length tunic - was pulled up to her hip - by him-

And then - realization fully struck.

His face turned completely red.

"I-I wasn't-" He scrambled for words. "I did not mean-"

Odysseus - still red herself - crossed her arms. "Mm. You know, usually, a nobleman such as yourself would at least offer me a gift or say a few pleasantries before trying to reach that era."

The prince stuttered when trying to find his words, his face further heating up when trying to scramble some answers. The queen looked at him with a similar evil glint as from that night in the kitchen. "That shade of red suits you, my prince."

Hector groaned, rubbing a hand down his face (Luckily for him, that kick didn't dislocate his jaw).

"I was only assessing the scar-"

"Of course," Odysseus said, clearly enjoying this.

"With pure intentions!-"

"Oh, absolutely!~ Truly a purity comparable to Zeus himself."

Hector sighed, shaking his head.

"That," He growled, "was uncalled for."

"You were practically lifting my tunic over my head," Odysseus shot back, flicking a stray leaf off her knee. "And I told you to stop."

"I was examining the scar!"

"You were getting very thorough with that examination," she said, arching an eyebrow. "If I hadn't stopped you, you'd have been mapping my entire body like a cartographer."

Hector groaned, wiping his face with his damp sleeve. "Well, forgive me for being concerned about how deep an old wound was."

"You can be concerned," she allowed. "Just... not in a way that makes it look like you're trying to remove my clothes in broad daylight."

Hector huffed, looking down at his soaked tunic. "I'm freezing because of you."

Odysseus leaned back slightly. "Oh? And here I thought you were a warrior of Troy, defender of the city, son of Priam, chosen of Apollo. Surely, a little water isn't enough to shake you." She spoke with such significance and might in her voice as if she was announcing the arrival of gods.

Hector gave her a flat look. "You are infuriating."

"And yet you keep coming back for more," she said, grinning.

Hector shook his head, stepping onto the riverbank. "You fight dirty, Ithacan."

"On the battlefield, there are no winners, just survivors."

The remark carried an edge - something that made Hector pause. Odysseus wasn't just joking as she did before. There was something weightier beneath the words.

She must have noticed his shift in expression because she sighed; standing up, she fixed her clothes and leaned in, offering the prince a hand to help him stand up, which he accepted.  "Look, I got a little carried away. Don't get me wrong, the kick was deserved!- But I should've held back with the teasing. It was unnecessary, especially when I knew you wouldn't harm me." They moved carefully towards the riverbank, where Hector started squeezing his chiton to remove the excess water.

"I won't say I don't understand where that came from." He chuckled breathlessly while continuing to dry his clothes. "I'm honestly shocked I wasn't kicked earlier just for looking."

The woman chuckled. "I used to train in less while surrounded by men twice my size."

"What!?" Hector asked mid, wringing water from his sleeve.

Odysseus hesitated. It was brief, but he caught it - a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes.

Then she sighed and started mumbling something under her nose, but the only thing he caught was "The Spartans."

Hector froze. "The Spartans?"

Odysseus nodded, throwing a stray pebble into the water, distorting the calm stream. "I trained in Sparta for a few years thanks to the fosterage offered by King Tyndareus. That's at least the official story. I'm still visiting quite regularly to master some skills." Odysseus looked at her companion with worry. "Hector, are you alright?"

Hector felt a sudden tension coil in his chest. Sparta. He already knew Odysseus was an exceptional warrior, but Sparta? A city known for its brutal training, its relentless discipline, its warriors who lived and breathed combat? It wasn't just another Greek city - it was a military state. And right now, Troy and Sparta were on uneasy terms, close to outright hostility. Maintaining "neutrality" between them is comparable to preventing forest fires from spreading.

"You seriously trained under them?" he repeated carefully.

Odysseus didn't seem to notice his shift in tone. "Yes. King Tyndareus and his brother Icarus arranged it. His sons trained with me. Well, alongside me, mostly. They were older, but sometimes they'd spar with me. Mostly, it was the professional trainers."

Hector exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I see."

That explained a lot - almost half of the rumors surrounding her could be easily answered with this piece of information. But there were still some things that didn't make sense. Why had she been trained there? Why isn't it public that she was fostered there? And more importantly, did this mean she was closer to Sparta politically than he'd thought? From past experiences in political discussions, he knew that she was respected enough by the Spartan kings and their allies, but being this close to the royal family could mean so many things.

Odysseus leaned on a tree, watching him. "You just went very quiet, Hector."

He met her gaze. "I'm sorry. I just got lost in thoughts."

She frowned slightly, then gave a short laugh. "You're that shaken by the idea of me training in Sparta? And here I thought you saw me as a fair competitor."

"It's not that-" he quipped, but before he could finish, the brunette clasped her hands with an energetic bounce.

"That's good! After I have my prize to win!"

"W-What?"

Odysseus went closer and smirked before pointing at the pile of animals. "The sun is almost setting, and from what it seems, I won."

Hector glanced again at the stag he shot down. It was slightly bigger than the one caught by the queen of Ithaca, but still, it wasn't impressive enough to be called better than the entirety of her catches." Her smile widened, and her eyes glinted with excitement. But it wasn't over yet.

Because Hector had a plan.

The prince slowly turned his body towards the short woman.

"I'm afraid you lost, my queen."

"Huh? Didn't you admit your loss earlier?" She clicked her tongue and turned her head like a mother before scolding her child. "And they call me a liar. But please~ tell me how exactly you bested me if the only thing you caught is one stag?"

Hector moved slowly without making too much noise. He attempted to keep up the innocent facade but his eyes were becoming more predatory with each step taken.

"Simple-" Shrugged the prince. "It's not my only catch for today."

"What do you- Eeeep!" With a swift strike, Hector snatched Odysseus out of her feet and held her bridal style. The man kept laughing while holding her tightly enough so she would not wiggle out of his grasp. "Put me down! You are still wet and cold!"

She was hitting his chest, but it barely did anything. Hector's laughter continued until the man could barely breathe. He looked at the huntress in his arms; his smile became warmer as he said, "You might not be my biggest prey-" Hector snickered as Odysseus slapped his torso, "but you are for sure the cutest.~"

The witty queen was left speechless. She looked at him with round eyes for a moment only to avert her gaze while her cheeks still were decorated by a red hue.

"O-okay, you win. So, what do you want?"

And now it was Hector's turn to be silent. He didn't think that far. He just wanted to best Odysseus in their little game but now he could ask for anything. It would be easy to make her do something funny as a practical joke or maybe. Or he could ask for something insignificant to be over with it.

But his heart betrayed him before he even had a chance to speak. Odysseus placed her hand lightly on his chest. She could feel the fast beating of the organ. Her face was redder than before; she seemed almost dazed when their eyes met.

The queen hesitantly wrapped her hands around Trojans' neck as she whispers. "I think I know what you want - please correct me if I'm mistaken, I don't want any of us to regret this."

Hector didn't say anything; all he did was lean into her touch, but that was a more than welcome answer to her plea.

The kiss was awkward at first. They both weren't sure what to do, but once they stopped thinking, things started to work out naturally. What started as a mere touch of lips grew into something more heated and filled with many unspoken feelings. Odysseus gently caressed Hector's cheeks; she held his face as if he was about to disappear once she opened her eyes. Hector, instead, was lost in the feeling. Moments ago, he was shivering from the cold, but now he was burning on the inside. He loved how soft her lips were, her black curls brushing his skin, and how she smelled like sea salt and cherries.

Maybe. Just maybe. It was Apollo himself who aided him by using his heart like any other instrument and making it play for his little queen the sweet song of love?

---

After that day they started exchanging letters. Sometimes they were longer than some scrolls he used for studies and other times those were short but precious messages informing of safe travels and daily routines.

Hector would shamelessly admit to himself and only himself that any time an opportunity struck, he would let the sails carry him toward rocky Ithaca. He has no idea how many times in just a year he lied to his father about the problematic weather that forced him to delay his journey home. He would lay on the grass in Ithaca's palace gardens and giggle with Ody, who was relaxing on his chest, as he was coming up with a new way to describe a threatening storm that prevented him from leaving Crete for at least a week.

At this point, it would probably be easier to believe that he was cursed by Poseidon if not for the fact that he was a teenager and his dear mother seemed to understand what was going on way better than the king of Troy.

He himself rarely interacted with Spartan royalty or was invited there. Usually it was a coincidence. A shared interest of mutual allies. And so he was more than surprised when he was invited to Sparta with his father.

The Spartan court had always felt colder than its climate. There were no lavish columns like those of Troy, no delicate mosaics underfoot. Everything here was blunt: the stone, the men, the politics. Even the air seemed to demand obedience, not reverence.

Hector sat at his father's side, draped in the red and bronze of Troy, his posture perfect, hands folded in silent attentiveness. Or what passed for attentiveness. In truth, his thoughts drifted as Priam and King Tyndareus argued over sea routes and accusations of piracy thinly disguised as "accidental interference." The words blurred together like ocean waves - tide after tide of political theater. The biggest challenge for him was to not be claimed by Hypnos while the two kings were arguing like two children, not wanting to share their toys.

The discussion had been going in circles for nearly an hour when Odysseus, seated near the Spartan king, leaned forward. Her voice, calm and composed, cut through the ambient tension.

"If I may," she said. "The routes around Delos have been most contested. I propose Sparta continues to claim the southern arc while Troy adjusts northward for winter trade winds. Both ports benefit from better seasonal access, and neither risks unnecessary confrontation."

It was a clean, rational solution. Hector could see that even Tyndareus approved.

But Priam, frowning deeply, leaned back in his seat. "And what place does Ithaca have in this matter? You speak of neutrality, yet you trade openly with Sparta."

Odysseus didn't flinch. "And also with Troy. Black and white wool, olive oil, and wine move through my docks to your city's markets each season. The records are available if you'd like them."

Her tone remained respectful but firm. Unshaken.

Priam's expression didn't change, though Hector could tell the reply had stung his pride.

Across the stone chamber, Tyndareus gave a low hum of satisfaction. "She is here," he said, lacing his fingers together, "because she is a trusted advisor. One of the few I can truly rely on. And because, unlike many men thrice her age, she knows how to solve a crisis without demanding tribute first."

Priam's lip curled. "She is what - seventeen now? You would have your foreign policy built upon the opinions of a little girl?"

Tyndareus chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man unafraid of ruffling royal feathers. "And how old is your son here - barely nineteen? Would you discredit a crowned queen of Ithaca while trusting your own blood to wield a sword and shield? Should we cast aside his armor next? She's ruled since fifteen, and in two short years, she's outwitted nobles, brokered ceasefires, and strengthened harbors across the Ionian. If she were a prince with that mind, you'd already be offering a royal wedding feast in Troy."

He gestured toward the young queen. Her gaze was still focused on the maps in front of her. "Her record speaks louder than half the kings in this room. Experience, intellect, poise - and more victories than most commanders twice her age. What more proof do you require?"

As Tyndareus finished, Queen Odysseus herself turned a calm gaze across the chamber, and though her expression was composed, there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes at how her position was being defended. When Hector met her gaze, she did not gloat or smirk - she simply acknowledged it like a ruler who knew her worth. Then, as if she sensed something, she turned that gaze briefly toward Priam, unflinching. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

What surprised Hector most was what happened next. When Priam had scoffed at her age and judgment, it was Queen Odysseus who took a slow breath and said to the Spartan ruler, "Prince Hector has commanded men since seventeen. Led campaigns, even. He possesses wisdom and skill, making him worthy of being a champion of Apollo, so it means he is undoubtedly worthy of praise and respect from the people in this room.."

The silence was immediate, heavy. Hector blinked in surprise, his ears warming, and for the first time, he was aware of the blush threatening to rise in his cheeks. He managed a composed, "Thank you, your grace," though his voice had a touch more warmth than he intended.

She gave him the barest of nods, a flicker of a smile at the corners of her lips - not mocking, but kind. The same kindness he would witness so many times on the beautiful beaches of her kingdom.

And Priam saw it. Saw his son blush. Saw the Queen of Ithaca let it happen.

He said nothing, but Hector knew his father noticed everything. Every glance. Every crack in the armor.

Before any more could be said, a servant entered, bowing deeply. "Letters from Ithaca, my majesty," he said, offering a sealed bundle to Odysseus.

She stood, nodded politely to both kings and excused herself. Her footsteps echoed softly across the stone, purposeful and calm. Hector's gaze followed her until the doors closed behind her.

Then, Tyndareus gave a low hum of satisfaction.

"You would be wise to reconsider your opinion of her, King Priam," Tyndareus said. "She already rules a land of her own - she is Queen of Ithaca, not some aspiring noble seeking favor. And yet, despite how often you've questioned her every step today, she's shown nothing but poise and consideration toward Trojan royalty."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice rich with admiration - but beneath it, a strategic gleam. "She is sharp, ruthless, and loyal. As a champion of the bright-eyed goddess, she is both a strategist and scholar. The future of diplomacy, whether you like it or not. And she's proven it time and time again. You mock her youth, but she has outwitted artisans, outmaneuvered generals, and quelled uprisings with fewer resources than most of us would dare try."

His gaze drifted toward the doors she had walked through. "She is already Queen of Ithaca - respected and undefeated in court or council. And yet, she carries herself with the humility of one who understands that power is earned."

Then, turning to Priam more directly, Tyndareus allowed himself a careful smile. "I see her not just as a sovereign ruler but as someone whose potential has yet to be matched. Sparta has long thrived under wise rulers, and I imagine a future where that wisdom is doubled - shared." He let the word hang there, then added, "Castor or Pollux -either would be fortunate to share the rule with her. And Sparta, even more so."

He didn't bother masking it; he was still planning. Still imagining her not just as an ally - but as a queen of Sparta, by marriage, and by choice. There was no mention of Ithaca's succession, but Hector suspected there were wheels turning there, too. Quiet, strategic ones.

Then, Tyndareus said, almost as an afterthought, "And yes - she is beautiful. Formidable in mind and form. If that unsettles you, King Priam, perhaps it's because you've noticed the way princes glance at her way too long."

Hector's spine straightened. That comment struck deeper than he wanted to admit. Tyndareus had noticed. Had he?

His cheeks flushed again - cursed heat - and he quickly looked away. But his father had already noticed.

The meeting had dragged on for some time after Odysseus's departure, filled with quieter, less purposeful debate. The air grew heavy with strained courtesy and veiled threats until, one by one, the advisors and aides made their polite exits. Priam and Hector remained until the stone hall fell into silence once more.

Only then did Priam speak. His voice was low and clipped as he began walking alongside Hector down the shaded colonnade, their steps sharp against the marble floor.

"You were staring at her," he said flatly.

Hector stiffened slightly but kept his tone even. "I was listening."

Priam gave a dry, humorless laugh. "With your eyes? Gods help us if Tyndareus had seen the color in your cheeks."

Hector tried not to react. "She defended my record. I thought it deserved acknowledgement."

"She doesn't give things for free. Especially not flattery." Priam's voice carried a warning now. "You're lucky the Spartan king was too focused on his plotting to notice."

They turned a corner where the evening sun sliced gold through the columns, casting long shadows across their path. Priam's jaw remained tight.

"Tyndareus wants her tied to Sparta - make no mistake. One of his twin sons will be paraded like an honored gift until she accepts. His eyes shine with the thought of her ruling beside Castor or Pollux. Their raw power, paired with her cunning mind, might become problematic for us in the future."

Hector looked straight ahead, expression neutral. "She is already a queen. She doesn't need another crown."

"And yet they'll offer her one anyway," Priam muttered. "Because she's brilliant. Because she's beautiful. And because men like Tyndareus think all brilliant, beautiful things can be owned."

There was a pause, and Priam glanced sideways at his son.

"That includes you, too. So don't be a fool. Don't become an easy target for her honey-coated trickery."

Hector didn't reply. The image of Odysseus lingered in his mind - how calm she looked under pressure, how she disarmed the room without raising her voice, how she had called him worthy before all others.

Privately, he was reeling - not from his father's words, but from how close they came to the truth. Dangerous? Yes. But not in the way Priam feared.

She didn't manipulate that room for herself. She played no game for glory. She solved, she listened, and she moved the tide without splashing.

And in the private-

The way she smiled. The softness of her voice in the dark. The kisses by moonlight. Her fingers in his hair. Her heartbeat under his hand.

He kept walking, slower now, caught somewhere between memory and longing, while his father walked a step ahead - still talking of strategy, of caution, of politics.

But Hector's heart, traitorous and quiet, was already elsewhere.

With her.

Today, she made him feel worthy of being there and being treated like other kings. He hoped that one day he could be seen as truly worthy of being called her equal.

---

The night was still young, and yet the celebration was already filled with drunk guests encouraging reckless actions. Pylos was a beautiful place, and Nestor's hospitality knew no end. It was the wedding of one king's many sons. The Trojan prince feared that one day he would experience similar chaos with his family, but since he is the oldest, he has some time to not worry about it. Hector had seen Odysseus only in passing these last few months, their encounters brief and bound by duty. Tonight, however, fortune favored him. She was here, laughing in the warm glow of the firelight, speaking with Castor and Pollux.

Hector found Odysseus in the midst of a lively conversation with Castor and Pollux. The three of them stood near one of the long banquet tables, their laughter blending into the cheerful hum of the wedding celebration.

"It still amazes me how many children Nestor has," Odysseus was saying, shaking her head with amusement. "I lost count after the first five weddings I was invited to."

Pollux chuckled. "At this rate, we might as well assume every wedding in Pylos is for one of his offspring."

Castor smirked. "Maybe he's trying to marry them all off before they start a kingdom of their own and rival his."

Odysseus let out a short laugh. "It at least explains why we are here. Surely, he's already eyeing us as potential candidates for the next match."

"Speak for yourself," Pollux said, crossing his arms. "If I so much as see this old man approaching with that look in his eye, I'm making an excuse to leave."

"With your lacking social skills?" Mocked Castor. "It would be way safer for you to just jump through the window and run back home."

The three of them were laughing when Hector approached them, unable to stop himself from watching the way Castor and Pollux interacted with Odysseus. The way Castor leaned in just slightly closer than necessary, the way Pollux's gaze lingered on her when she wasn't looking. It was subtle - perhaps too subtle for Odysseus to notice - but Hector saw it clearly.

And he didn't like it.

"Still standing after all that wine, I see," Hector said as he reached them.

Odysseus turned to him with a grin. "Barely. I have Castor and Pollux to keep me steady." She patted one of the twins on the chest in a similar fashion to someone showing off their horse.

Pollux, in an attempt to be helpful - or perhaps to be in the center of attention - reached for a tray of food from a passing servant. He held it in front of Odysseus, only to lift it just as she reached for it.

Odysseus blinked at him, then scowled. "Pollux."

Pollux smirked. "What? If you want it, you'll have to try a little harder."

She gave him a flat look before going on her toes and stretching out her arm, only for Pollux to raise the tray higher.

"Don't tell me that the mighty queen's biggest weakness is the high ground - or rather lack thereof."

Hector watched as Odysseus pouted, her brows knitting together in frustration.

"You know," she muttered, "it's bad enough that Menelaus is starting to tower over me. I don't need you reminding me of how short I am."

"Starting to?" Chuckled Pollux. "Ody, He's already a head taller than you."

Castor, laughing, reached out and ruffled her hair. "There, there, little Ody. Maybe next year you'll grow."

Odysseus let out an indignant huff and swatted his hand away. "I hate you both."

"You love us~," Pollux corrected, finally lowering the tray. "Here, take your pick."

Odysseus muttered something about "insufferable brothers" but plucked a small honeyed fig from the tray nonetheless. She took a bite, still glaring at Pollux, who merely grinned in response.

Hector watched their dynamic with interest. The way the twins lingered near her, the way their eyes flicked toward her whenever she laughed - it was obvious. And yet she stood among them with the ease of a sister, not a woman entertaining suitors. Was she unaware, or was she just that good at playing obliviousness?

Hector saw an opportunity in the temporary silence and decided to take it. "Odysseus, would you walk with me?"

Odysseus glanced at him, then at her Spartan companions. "Trying to steal me away?"

Pollux frowned slightly. "We were in the middle of a conversation."

Odysseus smiled, patting his shoulder. "I'll find you both later. Don't approach Nestor and especially avoid his daughters."

She followed Hector away from the fire, toward the quieter part of the gardens where the torches cast flickering shadows against the stone. The air was cooler here, and the hum of distant conversation provided a comfortable backdrop.

"So," Odysseus mused, hands clasped behind her back, "was there something in particular you wished to discuss, or did you just miss my company?"

Hector smirked. "Perhaps both."

"How charming."

They walked for a time, speaking of lighter things - of Ithaca's bountiful fishing season, of the latest gossip from Troy, of an unfortunate incident where one of Hector's younger brothers had mistaken a senator's wig for a particularly stubborn bird's nest.

Odysseus laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "I swear, every time I hear of Troy, there's some ridiculous story involving your family."

"It keeps life interesting."

Their conversation turned quieter as they reached the edge of the garden, where a lone olive tree stood against the night sky. Hector hesitated, then exhaled. "Can I ask you something?"

Odysseus leaned against the tree, watching him. "Go ahead."

Hector ran a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure of how to phrase it. "Do you ever feel… unworthy?"

Odysseus blinked. "Unworthy?"

Hector crossed his arms. "I am to be Troy's future king, yet I wonder if I will ever be ready. No matter how much I train, study, or travel, it never feels like enough. You took the throne at such a young age, and you seem to carry it with ease. I-" He exhaled sharply. "Sometimes, I fear I will never be what my people need."

For a moment, Odysseus was silent. Then, with a soft sigh, she pushed off the tree and approached him. "I wasn't ready either," she admitted. "I became queen because my father was going mad."

Hector turned to her, frowning. "What?"

She gave a small, wry smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I might have worn the crown since I was fifteen, but I was basically a queen since I was thirteen." She sighed tiredly. "Laertes was a good king once, but he started unraveling not long after my birth. My dark hair and my weird eyes… he accused my mother of being unfaithful. I remember how he yelled the names of men he suspected to sire me as if trying to summon them."

Hector's eyes widened. "Surely-"

"It took years before Athena herself confirmed that I was my father's daughter, and yet it took more for him to acknowledge me as his own." Odysseus's voice was steady, but there was something heavy beneath it. "By then, I already felt like I had to prove my worth. Someone worthy of a crown and someone worthy of being called his child. So, I ventured to Sparta, where I trained and accepted every challenge thrown my way. And when my father could no longer rule, I secretly took his place. For two years, my father sat on the throne while I was the one to make real decisions just to protect his good name and Ithaca's stability. Not because I was ready but because I had no other choice. Then he passed away, and despite how sad it made me, it made me feel at ease. There was one secret less to hide."

"It had to be very difficult for you."

"I can't say it was effortless." Chuckled the woman humorlessly. "At first, the bright—eyed goddess had to spend weeks teaching me how to control my emotions so I would not start crying every other meeting. But with time, it became easier, and from what I heard from other kings, we are not the first or the last ones to feel that way."

Hector studied her in the moonlight. Her hair was as dark as the night, and her left eye was as bright as the stars in the sky. It was hard to believe that such beautiful features would be seen as anything other than gifts from the heavens above, and yet it happened. Odysseus was able to overcome the challenge and become the wise and beautiful woman that she is today. She was just seventeen, and so far, Hector could count on one hand the kings who (at least in his eyes) earned nearly as much respect as she did. "You've really done well."

She smiled. "And so will you."

He exhaled, feeling some of the weight ease from his chest. "Thank you."

They stood in silence; slowly, he reached for her hand. Odysseus did not pull away. The prince of Troy was fighting with himself to say something. It could be the best or the worst choice of his life. For all the moments they shared, he didn't say something as simple as "I love you." Any time he tried, he started fearing that all they had up to this point was just fooling around or a way to temporarily escape their responsibilities.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His heart was beating, and he started to worry that his hands were getting sweaty. Hector was slowly ready to let go of her hand for that exact reason when he heard Odysseus speak. Her voice was quiet, as if she was whispering a secret to him.

"You know-" She hesitated for a moment before she continued. Her gaze never left their hands. "It would for sure be easier for us if we had someone by our side."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I- What I want to say is- It's nice to have someone with you. To give helpful advice, share opinions, offer a shoulder to cry on - or-" They looked each other in the eyes. "-Or to be like this." A gentle smile adorned her face. The prince of Troy smiled as well, and while looking her in the eyes, he brought the small hand he held to his lips and gently kissed it.

They stayed that way for a long moment, fingers entwined, the night wrapping around them in quiet understanding. They lean in onto one another, just for a moment, before Hector straightens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Odysseus sighed, turning her head just as Nestor, the wise and ever-watchful king of Pylos, approached them, a cup of wine in each hand. The old king had a big grin while humming the melody that was heard from the halls, and his long beard and mustache hid most of his red face from the alcohol.

"Now, now," Nestor said, his voice warm with amusement, "what are two honored guests doing here in the shadows while the rest of us are making merry? People would shame me and call me an awful host if I left you empty-handed."

Odysseus smiled, accepting the cup. "A bit too much merriment all at once. We needed a moment to catch our breaths."

"Ah, yes." Nestor nodded sagely. "Feasts can be overwhelming. However, I have found that good company and good conversation can be a remedy for that. Back in my days, a good feast would have been more effective than more than one signed pact."

Hector took a slow sip of wine. "Wise words, my lord."

Nestor grinned. "I've had many years to gather wisdom. And to gather children, it seems."

Odysseus laughed. "I must admit. You do have quite a few."

"Enough to fill a city, some jest." Nestor chuckled. "And yet, they are each fine men and women in their own right. My son Thrasymedes, for instance - quite the archer. He recently won a contest against the son of Ares. You'd enjoy speaking with him, Queen Odysseus; you both are a fine blend of persistence and joy."

She smiled politely, but Hector felt her hand twitch. "An archer, you say? I do have an appreciation for the bow."

"Indeed! He often speaks of seeking greater challenges and learning from those with skill. I know he would be more than happy to experience a mentorship from an experienced warrior such as yourself." Nestor gestured toward the gathering. "Perhaps a conversation between you two could be enlightening."

"Ah, you flatter me, my lord. But my experience comes from my skills with logistics and tactics. Archery, for now, is nothing more than a passion of mine that I one day hope to turn into something more dependable. I don't think I would be able to bring anything to the table in that subject, at least not yet."

"And my younger son, Echephron-"Continued the king of Pyos with any less determination. His voice was still filled with laughter, if not a little slurry due to wine. "he has a keen interest in the sea. I hear you are quite the sailor yourself. He would enjoy stories of your journeys, I'm certain."

Odysseus cleared her throat. "Ah, well, I wouldn't want to take any of them from their evening. After all, tonight is dedicated to their older brother."

"Nonsense!" Nestor laughed. "A wedding is for meeting new friends and feasting at the cost of old bastards like me. And you, Prince Hector - I imagine a man of your stature has had many an offer, but perhaps-"

Hector nearly choked on his wine. "I-"

"My daughter Epicaste-"

Odysseus and Hector shared a brief, panicked glance.

Thinking fast, Hector blurted, "You see, my lord. I would be more than happy to meet your vast family, but it would make me an inadequate lover if I left my beloved in the cold of the night."

A beat of silence.

Odysseus froze her cup of wine halfway to her lips. Nestor raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.

"Oh?" Nestor said, his sharp eyes flickering between them.

Odysseus hesitated for only a moment before straightening, slipping her arm through Hector's with feigned ease. "Yes. It's… fairly recent development, and probably an experienced man such as yourself knows how hard it is for us rulers to be blessed with crumbs of privacy."

Hector felt the warmth of her touch against his skin. "We hadn't intended to make it public yet," he added hastily. "But it's the truth. And isn't a wedding a perfect time to be shared with someone your heart beats for?"

Nestor was silent for a long moment before he smiled knowingly. "Ah, love~. A force greater than war or politics. Far be it from me to stand in the way of that." Your kindness knows no bounds."

Nestor took a final sip of his wine (From Hector's cup, but nobody would dare to stop him), nodding to himself. "Well, I suppose I should seek out another guest for an introduction or two. The night is still young, after all. Maybe Ajax finished the drinking contest."

With a final, amused glance, the old king turned and disappeared back into the palace.

Once they were alone, Odysseus sighed. "Well. That happened. Should we go, or would you like to stay here with your beloved?" Teased the queen lightly.

Hector exhaled slowly. "I panicked."

"I noticed."

"And you just… went along with it."

Odysseus smirked. "Well, it was that or be introduced to every eligible prince of Pylos."

Hector shook his head, chuckling. "So, that's how it is, then? We stumble into being lovers?"

Odysseus pretended to think. "It does lack a certain… romance."

He sighed. "I wanted to do this properly. To say something meaningful."

Odysseus turned to him, her expression softer now. "Then say something meaningful."

Hector hesitated, his heart hammering in his chest. But words were difficult, even now. So, instead, he reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. She squeezed back. Then, with the other hand, he gently placed it on her cheek; he moved closer until he was able to kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, and finally, her lips. The young prince didn't move back; their foreheads were touching when he whispered, "I love you. Would you let me adore you as one does lover?"

A tear fell down her face, and Hector gently wiped them with his thumb. He looked at her with worry, only to witness a smile so beautiful that it looked ethereal. She whispered back. "Only if you let me do the same." He answered by kissing her again; it was longer than the last one but not as long as the one they shared by the river. When they parted, they both chuckled. Maybe it was from the bliss they felt or maybe lingering disbelief. No matter what it was, they were happy, and the thought that they were together filled their hearts with warmth.

A moment of silence stretched between them before she tilted her head toward the dim light coming from the doors. "So, now that we're officially lovers, should we do something lover-like?"

He chuckled. "Such as?"

She grinned. "Dance with me."

"Have you ever seen me dancing?"

"No, that's what makes it more exciting."

"Do you want to embarrass me in front of everyone gathered?"

"I only want to take this opportunity for us to act like lovers without fear of being discovered. After all, if anyone complains, we can always blame it on wine, my dear~."

Hector exhaled through his nose, half in exasperation, half in amusement. "I suppose that's only fair, darling."

She led him forward, and as they stepped into the light of the torches, the music swelled, and the world felt smaller again - just the two of them.

Two lovers enjoying their little world.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The story of two lovers continues and new faces join the story.

Notes:

Wow. I didn't expect to finish this chapter so quickly but recently I feel like a well-oiled machine. I think the next chapter of the "prequel" will also be posted quite fast but I can't promise due to holidays.

Many things had happened since that lovely night in Pylos.

The stars had been kinder then. The sea had whispered softly at the edges of the world, and laughter - true, unburdened laughter - had echoed along the high stone terraces of the guest hall. Odysseus still remembered the firelight, golden and flickering, dancing across Hector's cheekbones, warming the solemn lines of his face into something almost boyish. There had been spiced wine on his breath and the scent of rosemary in his hair - he'd tucked a sprig behind his ear after stealing it from the kitchen garden, insisting it was a crown worthy of her praise.

They had eaten late into the night, hands brushing beneath the table like shy conspirators, lips finding each other in secret between the long pauses of political talks. The sound of his laugh still rang in her memory - a rare, low, rich sound that made her chest tighten.

Those had been moments made of silk and starlight.

Now, the silk was torn and crusted with dried blood. The starlight was blocked by thick smoke curling into the tent seams. The gentle whisper of waves was replaced by distant horns and shouted orders. The scent of rosemary had been replaced with sweat, iron, ash - and the cloying sharpness of her own blood.

Odysseus sat slouched on a low stool, her shoulders hunched, her fingers trembling around the edge of the letter that had come just days before her collapse. The papyrus, worn at the corners from too much handling, was soft under her calloused hands. Hector's script was precise and steady, even as it told of chaos.

In his familiar script, he shared news both miraculous and mundane - one of his brothers, thought dead, had been found alive after all this time. Two of his other siblings, now acolytes in the temple of Apollo, were deepening their studies in healing and medicine. Of Andromache losing her patience with their unruly hound. Of how he had once again broken a wheel on his chariot in a spectacular display of overconfidence, sending him headfirst into a wall, much to the delight of the guards trying to contain the runaway horses.

She had read that line more than once. She could almost see him tangled in the reins, laughing while brushing the dust from his tunic, pride wounded but not his spirit.

But it was the final portion of the letter that chilled her blood.

A minor border skirmish, he called it. A routine campaign. Barely worth the ink it took to write it. He would depart in a few days. He promised to write again soon.

She had stared at that line for hours. A single sentence buried between ink-stained laughter and rambling affection.

Her fingers now pressed tighter into the worn creases of the letter, crumpling it slightly at the edges.

What right did she have to stop him? What power did love hold against duty, against the honor of a prince who carried a kingdom on his back?

She could have begged. Could have fallen to her knees and asked him to turn away, to ride not into battle but into exile with her. She had imagined it once, laughing softly into his shoulder as they fled across the sea, disguised and nameless, free.

But she hadn't. And now-

Her cot creaked as she shifted, her body barely obeying her. Bandages stretched tightly across her side, soaked through with old blood and dark herbs. The sting of the stitches was sharp but manageable. It was the fever that made her vision blur and the pain behind her eyes throb in time with her heartbeat.

Every breath hurt.

She wasn't in Ithaca, Sparta, or Troy. She wasn't a queen seated on silk cushions or a lover curled in the warmth of someone else's arms.

She was a commander in a war she hadn't even wanted.

Odysseus reached for a flask of water beside her cot, the clay cool against her fingers. Her hand shook as she drank. The fire in the center of the tent hissed lowly, smoke curling against the canvas above her like a warning.

Agamemnon, after years in exile, had finally seized his moment. The proud lion of Mycenae had returned not with mercy but with fire and a vengeance honed by humiliation. Reclaiming his birthright wasn't a matter of politics - it was a war of honor, of blood. His uncle, the usurper who had betrayed their bloodline, had tightened his grip on the throne over the years, convincing many nobles that Agamemnon was a reckless boy clinging to the ghosts of his ancestors.

But Agamemnon didn't come alone.

Menelaus, young and still untested, stood loyally by his brother's side. Odysseus had agreed to help, not only because of her friendship with the Spartan brothers but also because of a stubborn belief in justice. It took weeks - months - of diplomacy, favors, veiled threats, and outright lies to rally the fragmented allies. The Spartans lent their warriors out of kinship, and others followed when they saw the queen of Ithaca herself walking into war.

But the campaign was brutal.

There were sieges that ended in failure. There were cities that turned them away, terrified of being caught between loyalty and survival. There were victories won at terrible cost and rumors that Agamemnon's enemies were gathering new allies in secret.

Time dragged, blood spilled, and desperation became a constant companion.

And now, Odysseus lay in her cot, blinking against the blur of fever, her body aching with every breath. An arrow had pierced her side, and a dagger found her leg in the chaos. One of the enemy soldiers had been too close, too fast. With no time to draw her bow, she'd yanked an arrow from her quiver and driven it repeatedly into his torso until he stopped moving. She couldn't even remember screaming - only the warmth of blood down her side and the clamor of panicked voices.

One moment, she was fighting. The next, she was slipping into darkness.

She remembered the healer's barked orders. The Spartan soldier's voice hovered just beyond clarity. And yet, what haunted her more was not the man's blood. It was the voice that came after. Cool. Comforting. Distant. It was at the same time reminding her of motherly care and cold orders of a general.

"Sleep, my child."

The goddess. Athena.

Her patron's presence had been fleeting but undeniable. A hand smoothing her hair, a whisper not carried by wind or breath but memory.

When she awoke, she was stitched and bound, her armor removed, and her hair cleaned of blood. The healers had worked quickly, aided by Spartan hands.

They told her to rest. That Agamemnon was pushing the next assault without her for once. That she had done enough.

So she rested. Her eyes now scanned the quiet, firelit shadows of her tent. The smell of lavender and salt still clung to the blankets - a comfort brought by the similarly injured Menelaus who stubbornly defiled his brother's orders just to see with his own eyes that his sister in arms was alive and healing. That boy had wept at her bedside until she stirred. She was barely able to register his presence, mind spinning and eyelids feeling heavy when looking at her friend's bandaged face. She had only managed to whisper thanks before sleep took her again.

And now, in this still moment, the letter slipped from her hands.

Her body curled into itself, seeking warmth not from the fire but from memory. From the ghost of sweet stolen nights, when she'd laid beside Hector on a bed of crushed velvet and the illusion of stopped time.

His arms were strong, wrapped tightly around her. His heartbeat steady beneath her ear.

In her dream, he kissed her temple and whispered a lullaby she didn't know in a tongue she couldn't name. And though the words were foreign, their meaning was clear.

You are not alone.

Not then. Not now.

She slept, finally, not as a commander nor as a queen - but as a woman who missed the man she loved. And somewhere, between memory and the crackle of the fire, she could almost feel him beside her.

Waiting.

---

The war for Mycenae had raged long and pitiless. The alliance forged between the lion, bear, and fox - Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus - had clawed victory from chaos. The usurper's forces fell at last, and Mycenae's throne was reclaimed in blood and fire. Odysseus had returned from war limping but upright.

It had been nearly a year since the three of them first marched out to reclaim the throne of Mycenae. The war had dragged like molasses, thick and grueling. For months, they fought across fields and through city gates, clashing steel and shouting oaths, their names whispered in fear and hope depending on the banner one served. Agamemnon had returned not as a forgotten prince but as a storm.

In the final siege, the Mycenaean usurper fell, his forces broken beneath the weight of Agamemnon's rage and Odysseus' strategy. And then, with blood still drying on his tunic and the battlefield echoing with cries of victory and grief, Agamemnon mounted a horse and rode straight to Sparta.

He proposed to Clytemnestra before the celebratory fires in Mycenae had fully burned out.

This is how Helen, Penelope, and Ipithime found themselves in Ithaca nowadays after the news spread like wildfire. They had come to see Odysseus, of course, but also to deliver an invitation to the wedding. It was to be a grand affair, loud and shining with newly reforged power. A marriage to mark the restoration of a kingdom.

And to Odysseus' mild surprise and deeper warmth, they had insisted on seeing her first before traveling together to Mycenae for the grand wedding.

The moon hung lazily above the sea, casting a silver sheen across the gentle waves below. The garden, nestled in a sheltered courtyard of the palace, was lit with hanging lanterns and braziers that flickered gold in the night breeze. Vines tangled across the stone walls, perfuming the air with their late-summer blooms. Cushions and furs had been thrown across the floor with the casual confidence of girls who knew how to claim a space as their own.

A low table was strewn with half-eaten platters of olives, honey-drizzled cakes, goat cheese, and rosemary bread alongside a pair of lazily tipped wine pitchers. It was the kind of night that stretched slow and warm, the kind that loosened tongues and left cheeks glowing with drink and laughter.

Odysseus, her dark hair now let loose in soft waves, leaned back against a cushion, legs stretched and a lazy smirk tugging at her lips. Penelope was curled against her side, a wine cup dangling from her fingers. Helen lounged with the grace of a panther, her fingers idly braiding Ctimene's hair, regularly adding flowers to the brown curls while Ipithime munched happily on glazed cakes.

"You should've seen Agamemnon," Helen said, holding a daisy and a comb in her hand. "Bleeding from the leg, yelling at the guards to let him through, sword still in his hand, and the first thing he does when facing my father and siblings? Drops to one knee in front of Clytemnestra like a blushing shepherd boy."

"Seriously?" Odysseus sighed, rolling her eyes. "He didn't even wait to get the blood off his sandals? Walking straight from the battlefield to her palace like a man possessed?- It's almost impressive."

"In a romantic or terrifying way?" Penelope asked, blinking slowly as she poured herself more wine. She missed a little - splashing some on her hand and floor. She didn't notice or just didn't care.

"Both," Ody replied with a grin. "Mostly disgusting. I at least took a bath before hugging my family."

"Speaking of family, where's Menelaus? Wouldn't he like to be by his brother's side on an occasion such as this one?" Asked Helen with slight worry in her voice.

Odysseus hesitated for a moment before fixing her posture and speaking. "Menelaus- He got maimed pretty badly in the last days of the conflict. We needed three medics to hold him down so he would not try to get up and continue fighting. Agamemnon ordered to prepare a room in the palace to help him with the recovery. He might not be present for the engagement, but I bet he will be there for the wedding."

"I still don't know what to think about the fact that Uncle and Clytemnestra agreed to it," Penelope sighed before taking a sip. "What's he like, truly?" the princess asked. "Agamemnon, I mean. You fought beside him for months. Surely, you can tell us something more about him."

Odysseus paused for a sip of her wine before answering. "He's… complicated. Rough around the edges, full of pride. Definitely a bit of a jerk. But," she shrugged, "he's loyal to the bone. Fiercely protective of his family. Menelaus especially. The man would walk barefoot through Tartarus if his brother called."

Ipithime tilted her head. "I heard he nearly strangled a messenger once just for making a jest about Menelaus' hair."

"True," Ody chuckled. "The poor boy stuttered for days."

They all laughed, and Ctimene leaned forward eagerly. "And since we talk about dramas, did you hear that the son of King Oeneus got caught trying to sneak out of a temple with a priestess?"

Helen gasped. "Which one? Meleager?"

"Mm-hm," Ctimene nodded. "Apparently, his mother demanded he take a vow of chastity for a year to cleanse his spirit."

"I'd pay good silver to see how that goes," Penelope muttered, sipping again. "And to see Theseus. I heard he's desperately trying to save his face once again."

"Oh! What about Theseus?" Helen chimed in. "His recent marriage went south?"

"You just live for his suffering, aren't you?" Teased the younger Ithacan.

"I'm rightfully justified!-" Pouted the blonde woman. "Not like this jerk."

"You won't believe how he was excusing the last mess he caused!" Penelope whined with dramatic gestures, almost spilling her drink on herself and Odysseus. "He started claiming that the gods were mending with his family."

"Gods?" Odysseus snorted. "That's what they all say when they get cold feet. Next, someone will claim that Apollo told them to forget their wedding vows."

"Well," Penelope grinned, "I heard the King of Elis tried to woo two princesses at the same time. Got caught because he gifted them the same necklaces."

"Men really are terrible at planning," Helen mused.

"And even worse at executing said plans." Muttered the queen.

Ipithime chimed in. "And you believe they'll expect us to marry an idiot like that?"

"I say we form a pact," Odysseus said. "No marrying anyone unless he can survive a duel of wits with at least one of us."

"I second that," Ctimene raised her cup.

"Are you serious? A man who can outwit our Odysseus? We could just as well vow chastity while we are at it." Helen added.

"Oh, don't you worry, sunshine." cooed Odysseus with a mischievous shine in her eyes. "I'll just make sure that they'll work for their reward. For example, I would like to marry someone who would-"

Penelope, having drunk more than the rest, suddenly sat up and blinked at them with great seriousness.

"No one," she announced, swaying slightly as she pointed at startled Odysseus, "is marrying Ody. But me."

Odysseus choked on her wine, and Helen accidentally pulled Ctimene's hair, making her yelp in pain.

Penelope flung herself dramatically into her lap, arms wrapping around her waist like a koala. "Mine," she declared. "If anyone wants to marry Odysseus, they'll have to duel me."

"Pen-" Odysseus started, laughing.

"I'm serious!" Penelope whined, her face pressed into Ody's shoulder. "We'll run Ithaca together. I'll wear the crown. You can keep the fancy sword and your bow."

"I don't think that's how any of this works," Helen said, watching with deep amusement.

"I'll make it work," Penelope insisted. "We'll build a big palace just for us, have three kids, and adopt two kittens that we'll name after our favorite snacks!"

"Weren't you supposed to start your preparations for the temple, sister?"

"I still see no problem!-" Slurred the dark-haired princess. "Athena would probably approve. A bond between her champion and her priestess? Divine efficiency!~"

Helen smirked. "But what'll you do when Castor and Pollux visit? Would you really fight my brothers over her"

"Oh, absolutely," Penelope said. "Whack them with my distaff until they're flat on the tiles. Not even sorry."

"I want that in writing," Helen murmured.

"And I want that painted!" Ipithime snorted.

"I hate to break this love-fest," Ctimene continued, beaming wickedly, "but my sister's already caught the eye of someone else-"

"Mmmmf!" Ctimene suddenly made a muffled noise as Odysseus stuffed a piece of rosemary bread into her mouth and held it there. "Nothing to add," Older Ithacan said too quickly, all wide-eyed innocence.

Helen narrowed her eyes like a hawk spotting prey. "What was that?"

Ctimene, cheeks bulging and eyes sparkling with gleeful betrayal, tried to speak around the bread, flailing.

"Ctimene had too much wine," Odysseus said primly. "She's not liable for statements made under Dionysus' influence."

Helen, Ipithime, and Penelope exchanged a slow, knowing glance - and pounced.

"Who is it?" Helen demanded. "You caught the eyes of who!?"

"Someone we know?" Penelope asked, perking up against Odysseus's chest.

The brunette drained her wine cup vigorously. "Irrelevant! Ancient history! And fake one at that!"

"You're such a terrible liar," Ipithime said cheerfully.

"Odysseus," Helen purred while moving towards the young queen and wrapping her hands around her neck. She whispered into her ear. "Don't make me get persuasive."

Penelope nuzzled into her like a cat claiming territory. With a soft giggle, she asked. "Is it a Spartan?"

"No."

"An Athenian?"

"No."

"Someone we've met?" Helen grinned. "Do they have abs?"

"Ye- I mean no- I- I mean - I-irrelevant again!" Odysseus squeaked.

"She's stalling," Ipithime said.

"She always stalls when it's about him," Ctimene finally managed, still chewing the bread. "But everyone in the palace already knows about her and Hec-"

Odysseus clapped her hand over Ctimene's mouth so fast she nearly knocked over a wine pitcher. Odysseus stood up so fast that Penelope and Helen squealed and tumbled into the cushions. It was so fast it took them a second to understand that they were currently lying on the floor. But then the message hit them.

"Hector?!" The chorus of gasps echoed like thunder.

"Hector of Troy? That Hector?" Helen demanded, practically vibrating with scandal.

Penelope's eyes went wide. "The brooding prince with the scar on his chin?"

"I - no - shut up - all of you - Ctimene, I trusted you!" Odysseus howled.

"You kissed him, didn't you?" Helen indicted with glee.

"Did more than a kiss, I bet," Ipithime whispered, eyes wide.

Ctimene nodded vigorously, smug under Odysseus's hand.

The defeated sister stood up, fixed her dress, and started walking fast, trying to avoid Penelope, who attempted to catch her by grabbing her cape.

"I am invoking the Sacred Right of Deflection!" she shouted.

Helen raised a brow. "That's not a real thing."

"It is now!" Odysseus declared, already halfway to the garden gate. "And if you want secrets, maybe Ctimene should tell you ladies about her crush, Eurylochus!"

Ctimene froze. "Ody! How could you-!"

"Serves you right! You little rat!"

Penelope gasped in delight. "Eurylochus? You mean that buff soldier that sometimes acts as Ody's guard?"

"Oh, now things have gotten interesting~," Helen said with obvious amusement. She hugged the young princess, who was currently hiding her face in her hands. "Now, please spare us no details.~"

"ODYSSEUS!" Ctimene shrieked, red-faced and mortified, as laughter erupted around her.

But Odysseus was gone, grinning like a thief with a stolen crown as her friends howled in the courtyard behind her.

---

Far across the sea from the raucous joy of Ithaca - where wine-fueled laughter spilled over stone walls, and secrets flew faster than arrows - Troy slept beneath the same moonlight, quieter, slower, steeped in the hush of midnight. In one corner of the world, Odysseus fled teasing voices and drunken declarations, her heart hammering beneath the weight of a name she wasn't ready to speak aloud. And in another, Hector sat in the dim glow of a hearth, the sound of the waves too distant to chase away the ache of missing someone who felt impossibly far. The world between them was vast - filled with politics and duty and war - but for one rare night, they both found themselves thinking of the same thing: each other. Different fires, different laughter, but the same quiet longing curling beneath it all

The chamber was dimly lit, the only light coming from the fire crackling low in the hearth. Outside, the city of Troy slept, blanketed in silver moonlight and sea breeze. Inside, laughter echoed off the stone walls, soft and warm.

It was over a month and a half since Hector was back home, and not too long ago, the prince had confirmed that the queen of Ithaca was back on her island. It filled his heart with joy. He already finished writing a letter long enough to be wrapped like a scroll. While thinking of what to potentially prepare for his upcoming departure, he sat in his room in the company of his younger brother.

Paris was sprawled sideways across one of the couches, head propped on his arm as he lazily peeled an orange. Juice dripped onto his wrist, and he grimaced before licking it off.

"I swear, the cook made the stew saltier just to spite me," Paris said, tossing a peel into the fire. "I told him I prefer honeyed dishes, and ever since then, every meal has tasted like seawater."

"That's because you insulted his lamb stew last week," Hector replied from the floor, where he sat with one leg stretched out and a half-read scroll resting on his knee. "You called it 'boiled regret in a bowl.'"

"It was boiled regret in a bowl!" Paris insisted, waving the rest of the orange. "If given the chance, that poor lamb would haunt the kitchens in protest! You're just too diplomatic to admit it!"

Hector huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You know, some people say diplomacy is a virtue."

"Some people say olives are a dessert," Paris muttered. "Doesn't make them right."

That earned a proper chuckle from Hector - low and smooth, the kind that made the fire crackle louder as if in agreement. For a while, they simply sat in the silence that only came when a household full of royals, guards, and priests finally stilled. The kind of stillness you didn't notice until it wrapped around your shoulders like an old friend.

"Did you see the ambassador from Lycia today?" Paris asked, popping a slice into his mouth. "The one who looked like a disgruntled goat in silk?" Said while chewing on the sour fruit.

Hector groaned. "Don't remind me. He argued for two hours about port taxes and left in a huff when I offered him refreshments."

"I heard he asked Father if you were adopted."

"Because I smiled at him. Apparently, smiling is a war crime in Lycia."

Paris cackled, throwing his head back dramatically. "Diplomacy is truly a divine calling, huh?"

"I should've become a fisherman."

"You get seasick."

"And yet, somehow, this is worse."

Paris tossed another peel into the fire, then stretched out like a lounging cat in sunlight. "So, what are you reading now? Another boring report about temple ceremonies or...?"

"Actually, yes. Delphi wants me to open a ceremony next month. I'm making sure I don't accidentally insult my own patron god."

"Do you ever catch a break?"

"Maybe I would if you could help out more. You are fifteen. Old enough to at least write a report or two."

"Give me some slack. I only recently learned how to read and write." Whined Paris, burying his face in the pillow.

Hector rolled his eyes. "And all you did since was reading fairy tales and poetry about heroes and gods."

"I can't help it. I'm romantic at heart."

"Yeah, yeah. If that helps you sleep at night. But now, shush-I want to finish this before I leave."

"Seriously? What is it this time?"

"Didn't you hear that the war on the Mycenae has ended? Father would be too stubborn and prideful to congratulate them, so I decided to do it instead."

Paris suddenly had a sly grin on his face. He turned to face his brother. "And it has nothing to do with a certain queen~?"

Hector blinked, face perfectly composed. "I don't know what you're implying."

"Oh please," Paris laughed. "You've been walking around humming like a bard and scribbling in secret for days. You're practically glowing."

"I'm simply fulfilling my diplomatic duties," Hector said primly.

"Right. Duties that involve writing letters long enough to choke a messenger dove? Those poor birds fear your footsteps more than the barking of the dogs."

"They're just detailed reports."

"They're love letters, and you know it."

"I am a prince of Troy," Hector said with utmost dignity. "I would never use a diplomatic mission as an excuse to-"

"To sneak off and kiss the Queen of Ithaca senseless?" Paris offered helpfully.

Hector sputtered. "I - you - that is not-"

Paris rolled onto his side, propping his head on his palm. "So. Tell me, brother. What's she like? This... terrifying snake-tongued tactician queen you're so smitten with?"

Hector paused, his hand still on the strap of his tunic. He didn't speak for a long moment. Then, almost shyly, he said, "She's... beautiful. Fierce, yes. But also kind. Smart. Witty in a way that keeps me on my toes. And when she smiles - gods, Paris. It's like watching the storm clouds part."

Paris squinted at him. "You sound like a poet. Did she hit you on the head?"

"Every time I see her, I feel like I forget how to speak properly."

"That explains a lot."

"She's not what people think. Or... she is. But she's also gentle when she wants to be. With me, at least."

Paris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Gentle? The same woman whose voice makes envoys from Sparta tremble? Didn't she make a pirate lord weep mid-parley just by describing his own incompetence in iambic verse?"

"She's not like that all the time," Hector said. "Not with me."

"Not with you?" Paris repeated. "You mean to tell me that the silver-tongued serpent of Ithaca, the Odysseus, is... what? Braiding your hair and whispering poetry?"

"She does braid my hair sometimes," Hector mumbled.

Paris froze with mouth agape. "You're joking."

"She's very gentle. And thoughtful. And-"

Paris held up both hands. "No. I need a moment."

Hector rolled his eyes, standing up and tugging off the outer layer of his tunic, letting the loose fabric slip over his shoulder. "Believe it or not, she has a heart."

"Yeah, serpents have hearts just like any other living being-" Paris paused for a second, shaking off a shiver. "-they bite, too."

Hector froze. The grip on his scroll tightened, crumpling the paper. His cheeks tinted with pink.

Paris perked up and sat up straight. He looked at his brother with disbelief, terror, and amusement. "Wait. Wait. She actually bites!?"

"She - uh-" Hector floundered. Involuntarily, he tried to fix his chiton, only to unintentionally draw more attention to it. Paris leaped quickly and tugged it, uncovering a scar just visible near his shoulder, a pale crescent hidden most of the time beneath his armor.

Paris' grin somehow got wider. "Is that from her?!"

The older prince tried to avert his gaze, not being able to face his brother. "She got a little too into it. It was... the heat of the moment."

Paris fell back again, laughing so hard he nearly choked on air. "You absolute fool! And how did you hide it from our father!? Did you try to pass that off as a sparring injury!?"

"It looked like one!"

"No, it didn't; it looked like someone tried to eat you! Did she mistake your shoulder for a pomegranate!?"

Hector, ever dignified even while blushing, muttered, "It was actually rather sweet."

"You're insane!"

"She kissed it after!"

Paris groaned. "Hopeless! Completely gone! Prepare the funeral fire! I officially lost my brother!-" Any further dramatics were stopped with a pillow hitting the teen's face. He glared at his smug-looking brother until they both burst out laughing. "You know," Paris started, lying back on the couch and reaching with one hand to the bowl of fruits. "for someone who's supposed to be the symbol of order and dignity in Troy, you seem to be breaking the rules more often than I've ever broken curfews."

Hector raised an eyebrow. "Is that your way of admitting you do break curfews?"

Paris grinned all teeth. "I said more often, not exclusively."

Hector chuckled and leaned back against the column, exhaling through his nose. "Troublemaker."

"Righteous bore."

"I am an honorable man."

Paris immediately burst out laughing, nearly spilling his wine. "Honourable! You? Hector, if Father ever knew how many nights you snuck off to Ithaca behind his back, he'd - he'd burst a blood vessel and declare war before dawn."

"He probably wouldn't-" Hector began.

"Oh, he would. He'd summon the war council and call it a personal betrayal against the crown and the gods. Probably drag poor Cassandra into it and have her interpret the smoke rising off his beard as a sign of divine disapproval."

Hector groaned and set his cup down, rubbing his temple. "Thank the gods. Only you and Cassandra know." He then rolled up the scroll and placed it on the desk before sitting on the chair next to his brother with a few grapes in hand. "Or should I curse her for being such a blabbermouth."

"You better be happy that she was the one to discover those letters," Paris said while crunching on the apple. "If it was Helenus, he would pass out or yell it for the entire palace to hear."

"But she still shouldn't snoop in my room." Grumbled the older prince. 

"And you should be smarter than that. Like seriously? Hiding things under your pillow? What are you? Twelve? - Gods, love makes you act like a fool."

"Can't argue with that." Sighted Hector without any guilt or hesitation.

"You know it is not rational?" Deadpanned Paris. "Our father will probably skin you alive if he catches you misbehaving."

"I didn't say it was rational," Hector said, smiling despite himself. "But I'd break a dozen rules again just for one more night with her."

Paris was quiet for a second, still grinning but now with something more thoughtful in his gaze. "I hope I find something like that. Someday." Paris groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "What I mean-. I just… I don't like the idea of being just like Ur father. Having a bunch of concubines or casual things despite having a loyal wife. The idea of touching someone without - without meaning it. It's not for me."

Hector softened. "No, it's not for you," he agreed. "And that's not weakness, little brother. That's clarity. You want more than convenience. There's no shame in that."

Paris exhaled, then gave a crooked smile. "Honestly, you may laugh, but when I first became a prince, I thought that finding love would come naturally. Just like in those fairytales." Then he uncovered his face and looked at his brother with small signs of sorrow. "It must be nice. Being in love."

Hector looked away just for a second - just long enough to catch the sight of the crescent moon visible from the balcony door. "It is," he said.

Paris bumped his shoulder. "She's really worth it, huh?"

"Absolutely."

Paris leaned back on his hands, looking up at the blue sky overhead. "I hope I find someone like that. Someone who makes the world worth any risk."

"You will," Hector said, his voice sure. "And when you do, don't let anyone make you doubt it."

A silence passed between them again - thicker now but still kind.

Then Hector stood, stretching. "Come on. Let's spar a little. You need to work on your footwork before Deiphobus starts saying I'm getting soft."

But Paris shook his head. "Not tonight. I wanted to visit my old home on Mount Ida."

Hector frowned. "Alone?"

"I know those mountains better than I know the palace, and it's not the first time I'll be sneaking off," Paris replied. "I'll pet some sheep, and I'll be back before sunrise. Promise."

"At least take two guards."

Paris stood, brushing off his tunic. "One. For your peace of mind. But I'll be fine."

Hector studied him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "Just don't go falling in love with a mountain nymph, alright?"

Paris smirked. "No promises."

As Paris walked off, his steps light, and sure, Hector remained behind, watching until he was out of sight. A year ago, he hadn't even known this brother. Now, he couldn't imagine Troy without him.

There was still something hopeful in Paris. Untouched by the war that lingered on the horizon. Untouched by the choices that would one day shape the fate of kingdoms.

And Hector hoped - prayed - that it would stay that way for as long as the gods allowed.

---

The sacred valley of Delphi buzzed with preparation - courtyards swept clean, silver instruments tuned, garlands draped lovingly over marble columns. The scent of incense mingled with the faint perfume of spring blossoms, curling in the air like a prayer. The sun gilded everything it touched, painting the mountain sanctuary in a warm, divine sheen as if Apollo himself had reached down to bless the day with his golden hand.

Prince Hector of Troy stood near the outer temple garden, absently adjusting the folds of his ceremonial cloak for the third time in five minutes. Every time he pulled the fabric straighter across his chest, the flower crown on his head slipped just slightly, tilting like a drunken laurel wreath. He sighed in frustration, fixing it again with stiff fingers.

"You're fidgeting again," Paris said, strolling up behind him, dressed in deep crimson and gold. "That's the third time in five minutes. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Hector said stiffly, pulling the fabric into place. "This cloak keeps shifting."

Paris smirked. "You're nervous."

"I'm focused."

"You're staring."

"I'm-" Hector paused, realizing his eyes had once again drifted across the courtyard where Queen Odysseus of Ithaca stood among her retainers, the late afternoon light catching the silver embroidery on her navy robes. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes - keen, curious, constantly watching - had already found him once.

Paris crossed his arms and followed his gaze. "You know," he said casually, "you could always ask for divine intervention. This is Apollo's day, after all. Maybe he would feel extra generous today?"

Hector gave him a dry look. "Paris. Apollo has the worst luck in love, as known to Olympus. If I start praying to him about her, I'll probably end up with one of us turned into a plant or Apollo trying to seduce her."

Paris burst out laughing. "Fair. But then again, you're already doomed, aren't you? With how she has you wrapped around her little finger?"

Hector tried not to smile.

"Come on," Paris said, grabbing his brother's wrist suddenly. "Let's go say hi."

"What? Paris - no. Father's here. We're supposed to keep-"

"Father is arguing with the Delphic High Priest about grain tributes. He won't notice if you speak to her for a moment."

Hector tugged back. "We're not supposed to draw attention. Odysseus and I agreed-"

"You agreed to suffer in silence and longingly stare across rooms like a tragic figure in a play," Paris countered. "I'm your brother. I reserve the right to step in when you're being pathetic."

And before Hector could stop him, Paris dragged him across the courtyard toward the queen.

Odysseus noticed them halfway through their approach. Her brows rose in interest, but her mouth curled ever so slightly into a smile.

"Well," she said as they came to a halt before her. "A pleasant surprise. Prince Hector. Prince Paris." Her voice curled around their names like a silk ribbon. "Only the two of you? I expected the entire Trojan delegation. You usually arrive like a rolling storm."

"Helenus and Cassandra are here too-," Said Hector calmly, unable to hide a smile. "If the entire family arrived, someone could mistake it for an invasion." And that made three of them laugh. Odysseus tried to control herself at first but quickly gave up. She was only able to stop when she saw the younger of the princes bowing, his light curls falling onto his face.

"Your Majesty," Paris greeted smoothly. "I thought it was time I met the woman who's turned my eloquent brother into a man who forgets how to use words."

Hector nearly choked. "Paris-!"

Odysseus blinked, then laughed, the sound low and warm. "You give me too much credit. Your brother was already quite… composed."

"Until you winked at him," Paris grinned. "You should've seen the ceremony in Athens. The High Priest was mid-invocation, and Hector completely skipped a verse. Almost dropped the oil basin. Cassandra couldn't stop laughing when telling me about it."

"I didn't skip anything," Hector muttered.

"You mumbled the entire second half."

Odysseus turned to Hector, amusement lighting her face. "Was that really because of me?"

"I - I don't know," Hector said stiffly. "You winked. And I was holding fire. It was distracting."

"I'll be more careful with my eyes next time," she teased.

Hector, still flushing, cleared his throat and attempted to look anywhere but directly at her.

Paris chuckled. "He's been incomprehensible since he got the news he'd be opening the ceremony."

"Oh?" Odysseus looked to Hector with a raised brow. "I hadn't heard."

"I was selected to offer the blessing on behalf of Troy," Hector admitted. "The council chose me."

"As they should," she said, voice softening. "Apollo couldn't ask for a better champion."

Hector blinked, slightly stunned. "You think so?"

"I know so~"

Odysseus glanced around quickly to make sure no one was looking - then reached forward and tugged gently at the collar of his cloak, pulling him just close enough to kiss him. Quick. Deliberate. Devastating.

The flower crown fell onto the ground, but Hector didn't notice. He was ready to chase after those soft lips, but the short woman leaned back, fixing her posture, smiling innocently as if she didn't just cause the Trojan prince to internally combust.

Hector went still, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

Paris audibly gasped.

"For luck," Odysseus said, brushing a nonexistent crease from his shoulder. "And because you looked like you needed it."

Paris burst out laughing. "Oh, by the gods. She just assassinated you, and you're standing there smiling like a fool."

"I am not smiling," Hector said, absolutely smiling.

"Your knees wobbled," Paris added.

Odysseus gave a mock, serious nod. "That's my special technique. Now go, champion. Make your god proud."

Hector mumbled something too quiet to hear, but it might've been, "Yes, my queen."

Later that day, torches flickered along the stone path, and the open-air amphitheater filled with music, prayers, and smoke from sacred fires.

Hector stood at the altar, golden sash gleaming, voice steady as he called for Apollo's blessings. He was reciting the prayer in front of the fire.

But his heart beat just a bit faster.

She was watching.

Front row.

Wearing that calm, unreadable expression again.

And when he turned toward her during the final invocation, she smiled-

-and blew him a kiss.

He missed his cue by half a second and sacred offering bowl - just slightly.

Paris, seated off to the side, tried very hard not to laugh and failed spectacularly. Causing King Priam to give him a side-eye.

Hector sighed through his nose and continued the ceremony, praying Apollo would forgive just one distracted champion today.

Once the ceremony ended, the sun already set, and Celene arrived in the night sky, casting silver light over the winding stone paths and sacred olive trees. The crowds had thinned after the sacrifices were made, now just pockets of nobles lingering with wine and soft laughter echoing through the temple grounds.

Paris groaned quietly as he wandered past yet another group of older statesmen in deep debate. "Where in Hades is he?"

He had been searching for Hector for nearly an hour. Priam wanted to speak with him - urgently, as the messenger insisted - but Hector had vanished the moment the final hymn had ended. Typical. That man could dodge responsibility better than any thief in Troy and somehow still be called the prime example of an honorable warrior.

Paris adjusted the drape of his cloak and turned down a quieter path that led to the garden terraces behind the amphitheater. There were fewer lights here, the shadows deeper.

He ate some nuts that he sneakily stashed before he was ordered to look for his brother. After all, it would not look good if he was walking around the temple and sacred grounds while drinking wine. 

He walked through another corridor, this time leading to the gardens.

And that's when he heard it.

Low murmuring. A soft laugh. A distinctly feminine voice followed by-

Was that Hector?

Paris frowned and moved closer, curiosity outweighing caution. He rounded a corner near a tall laurel hedge and peeked through a gap in the greenery.

What he saw made him almost choke on the nuts he was eating. He had to clasp his mouth with his hands to mute the rapid coughing - so strong that he teared up when gasping for air. Only then did he dare to look again.

There was his usually stoic, composed older brother. Prince Hector of Troy. Champion of Apollo. Commander of a thousand men.

Pinned against the stone pathway separating two flowerbeds.

With Queen Odysseus of Ithaca pressed to his chest, fingers scratching his shoulders.

They were kissing. No - devouring each other, lips and hands and hearts like they were the only two people left in the world. Hector had one hand tangled in her dark hair, the other trailing down her back like a man bewitched. They were moving with a kind of intensity Paris had only ever read about in those scandalous scrolls Helenus kept hidden under his bed. Hector's sash and crown were tossed aside, his robes barely hanging on his hips, already exposing the trail of hair that led downwards. His lover was at least a little more decent with her clothes still on, but it seemed to be only a temporary state since Paris noticed as his brother's hand was trailing to her chest, nearing her pins.

Paris blinked. Then blinked again.

For a moment, he simply froze.

Then-

"Gods above!"

The couple broke apart like they'd been struck by lightning. Hector turned, dazed, blinking as if waking from a dream. Odysseus looked shy at first. She quickly fixed her clothes before she was calm enough to face the intruder.

"Paris?!" Hector's voice was panicked, hair mussed, his ceremonial cloak half off his shoulder. Odysseus, ever composed, got up from her lover and sat up next to him, wrapping her body in her cloak.

"What are you doing here? It's not a place for guests." Stuttered the prince while trying to fix his hair so it would not cover his eyes. A rather difficult task when the leather strap originally used to tie his hair in a neat bun was now somewhere between blades of grass in the dark garden. 

Paris pointed an accusatory finger. "I was looking for you! Father sent me! You were supposed to be meeting with the Ephors! And instead - instead, you're out here - debauching under the moonlight!"

"I wasn't-!" Hector began, then cut himself off with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's not what it looks like. We- We were just talking."

"Y-you," Paris stuttered in disbelief. Waving hands in chaotic gestures before pointing at the couple. "You - this is not 'light conversation'! This is - carnal treason! It looks like you've been ravished," Paris said dramatically. "Look at you! Hair is a mess! Ceremonial clothes abandoned like dirty rags! And for the love of gods, cover yourself!"

Odysseus bit back a laugh. Hector flushed scarlet.

"I - she - we were just-"

Paris waved both hands. "Before the ceremony, you wouldn't even hold her hand. Holding hands! And now you're - gods above - pressed against the ground like a swooning lover in a bard's tale!"

"I wasn't swooning," Hector muttered, cheeks burning. "And it's not what it-"

Paris looked unimpressed, maybe a little amused but still slightly horrified. "Did she bite you again? Because if she did, and I see another scar-"

"She didn't bite me."

"She definitely bit you."

Odysseus, amused, tilted her head. "He seemed a little tense after the ceremony. As a considerate lover, I had to do something about it."

"See?!" Paris flailed dramatically. "I told you, you're doomed. Utterly conquered. Troy has lost its champion to the serpent queen of Ithaca."

Hector groaned and shifted, trying to better support himself, slowly finding strength in his limbs so he could stand up and talk to his brother face to face. "Okay, just calm down and stop yelling-"

But as Hector stood up, Paris - now dramatically shielding his eyes - shouted, "OH, GODS! PUT SOMETHING ON!"

Hector blinked, looking down.

The ceremonial layers he'd worn were mostly gone - tunic half-untied, gold clasps undone, cape and sash tossed somewhere on the grass, leaving him in nothing but his loincloth and red robes barely hanging on his hips. His chest and stomach were fully exposed, a smudge of lip rouge on his collarbone.

"DAMN IT!" Hector cursed, snatching the loose tunic from the ground and awkwardly fumbling to cover himself. "Why didn't you say something sooner?!"

"I DID!" Paris kept his back turned, hand over his eyes like a theatre actor. "I screamed the heavens down! You were too busy doing - whatever that was!"

"I should never have let you drink wine tonight," Hector muttered, trying to fix his clothes. "How much have you had today?"

"Enough to recognize the scandal when I see it," Paris said before he smirked and then waved a hand. "Don't worry, I'll tell father you weren't able to show up.

"Wait. Really?"

Yes. I'll tell him you were... meditating. Deeply. In silence. Alone. With your clothes fully on." He cast a pointed look at the discarded belt.

"You'd lie for me?" Hector asked, surprised.

Paris gave him a look. "Of course, I would. You're my brother. And honestly? That was the most entertaining thing I've seen all season."

Hector groaned again, hiding his face in his hand. Odysseus hugged him from behind, gently petting his shoulders.

"You're lucky I like you," Paris added, already turning to leave. 

"Oh - and Ody?"

"Yes, dear prince?"

"Your Majesty, I beg of you - not the neck. Leave the poor man some dignity. If you have to bite my brother, do it preferably where the court physicians won't start whispering."

"No promises," she replied with a wink.

He disappeared down the path, calling back over his shoulder, "Don't do anything too scandalous, brother!"

Odysseus chuckled beside Hector. "I like him."

"He's insufferable."

"He's just like you five years ago."

"I was never that dramatic."

"You were on your knees begging me for forgiveness after the first time you left a mark on my neck."

"...You promised never to bring that up again."

Odysseus only laughed. She moved to be in front of him, pulled him back in by his robes, and kissed the protest right off his lips.

---

The halls of the Spartan palace always smelled of sun-warmed stone and olive oil, the air heavy with the scent of pine and sea carried from the mountains and coast. Odysseus leaned against the cool marble of the colonnade, her arms folded loosely, watching a flock of swallows wheel in lazy arcs above the courtyard. The city was louder than Ithaca, brighter too. It made her feel exposed as if her sharpness didn't belong in the light.

Her formal robes - draped in rich indigo and stitched with Ithacan silver - felt heavier than usual. They weighed like armor. She had been summoned here as an advisor, or so the invitation claimed. But Odysseus wasn't a fool. She knew King Tyndareus hadn't brought her to Sparta just for her thoughts on foreign policy.

He had sons. And sons, apparently, needed wives.

As if I'm a trinket to be bartered, she thought dryly, adjusting the rings on her fingers. One of them was Hector's. A simple yet massive signet. So big on her hand that she had to wear it on her thumb just to ensure that it would not fall off. He'd given it to her before they last parted. Not as a promise, not formally—but as a gesture. A silent defiance against the space between them.

And today, Hector was arriving in Sparta, posing as one of Helen's suitors.

She closed her eyes briefly. Just thinking about it made her jaw tighten.

"Excuse me," came a young voice, courteous but curious. "Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but... may I?"

Odysseus turned and saw a tall boy - no, a young man - approaching. He couldn't have been older than twenty but already broad-shouldered, the beginnings of muscle showing beneath his sleeveless tunic. He had dark skin and even darker hair, tousled like he'd just finished training. His eyes - green with a glint of gray - were locked on her with reverence.

She smiled politely. "Of course. You're not intruding."

He bowed with more elegance than she expected. "You're even more radiant than the stories say."

Odysseus raised a brow. "Stories?"

The boy seemed a little flustered but pressed on, clearly rehearsed. "I - I only mean... It is a surprise to see the woman famed for her beauty out in the open without any guards. However, I must say that the poets have been unfair. They didn't do you justice."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You flatter easily, my lord."

"I speak only the truth," he said earnestly, then added, "I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus. Of Argos."

Her brow lifted slightly. Diomedes? The war-born boy? She had heard of him vaguely. Child of a warrior, raised on battle hymns and city-states warring over pride. She did not expect him to look so... starstruck.

"A pleasure to meet you, King Diomedes. I'm Odysseus, Queen of Ithaca."

He blinked. Then blinked again. "Wait... Odysseus?"

Her smile turned amused. "Yes. Did you mistake me for someone else?"

Diomedes went bright red, suddenly gripping the hilt of his sword like it might steady him. "I - I thought... Forgive me. I thought you were Helen."

Odysseus laughed, not unkindly. "I'll take that as a compliment. Though I imagine the Spartan court would find it blasphemous."

Diomedes groaned softly. "Gods. I'm sorry. I - no one described Helen as much as they raved about her, and then I saw you and - well - you walked like you owned the Olympus itself."

"You're not the first to confuse confidence with divinity," she said with a wink.

Still flustered, he tried to recover his composure. "But if I may be bold, my lady... You are no less divine. We are both chosen of Athena, are we not?"

She tilted her head, finally piecing together. Where did she recognize that flash of gray from his eyes? "You follow the Gray-Eyed one too?"

"She's always been at my side, and I've heard from her stories about her other champions, but I would never imagine them being someone like you," Diomedes said with a proud smile.

She laughed again, softer this time, the sound low in her throat like warm honey poured over wine. "Do you mean because I'm a woman? Or because I'm what my dear friend calls, and I quote, 'portable'?"

Diomedes winced, his eyes widening. "No - no, gods no - I didn't mean it like that. I meant…" He faltered, then gave her a sheepish smile. "You just don't look dangerous."

Odysseus's brow arched with something between amusement and warning. "Is that so?"

"I mean-" he scrambled, "you look… kind. Sharp, yes, but... more like someone who could talk the stars out of the sky, not-" he hesitated, then added earnestly, "not someone to be feared."

She tilted her head, the smile still on her lips, but her gaze narrowing slightly. There was a flash of something predatory behind her eyes - not threatening, but ancient. Cold and deliberate. "That's sweet," she said. "But you should know, very few people who saw me show my fangs lived long enough to tell the tale."

That should have made him step back. It didn't.

Diomedes just blinked at her, then grinned - slow, wide, and a little breathless, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff and considering the jump. "Gods," he said, "now I really want to see it."

Odysseus laughed again - a delighted sound this time, unexpected and rich. "You're either brave or stupid."

"Is it not possible," he said, stepping just a little closer, voice lower, "that I'm both?"

She didn't back away. Instead, she lifted her chin just slightly, eyes gleaming. "That would explain your reputation, daredevil king"

He chuckled under his breath. For a moment, he hesitated - then reached up gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow, the gesture soft and surprisingly careful. His fingers barely grazed her temple. "It suits you," he said.

She blinked. "What does?"

"The fangs," he murmured, his gaze locked to hers. "Hidden under the charm. Beautiful. Lethal."

Before Odysseus could respond with a witty remark, a shadow crossed the marble threshold.

Hector had arrived.

His eyes swept the scene in a heartbeat - Odysseus standing comfortably close to Diomedes, the boy mid-bow, her hand extended. Diomedes took her fingers and kissed them gallantly, clearly not yet aware of the approaching storm behind him.

"Ah, Diomedes," Hector said, his tone smooth but a bit too calm. "Would you give me a moment with the queen of Ithaca? There's... news from the eastern regions I must deliver."

Diomedes looked up, clearly startled. "Prince Hector! Of course, I - yes. At once."

He bowed to Odysseus again, a little sheepishly. "I hope we'll speak again, my lady."

"I'm sure we will," she said warmly.

Once the boy had vanished into the deeper shadows of the palace, Odysseus turned to Hector with a crooked smile. 

Hector didn't smile back. "I saw him kiss your hand."

"Oh, come now," she teased, stepping closer. "He's a child."

Hector gave her a flat look. "He's taller than some of the gathered kings and built like a chariot horse. That is not a child."

"He's a teen."

"He's a teen and trying to flirt with my queen."

"He thought I was Helen." Odysseus chuckled and brushed her fingers lightly along the front of his chestplate, feeling the tension there. "Is that jealousy I hear, Prince of Troy?"

"Yes," he said plainly. "Because that child kissed your hand and made you laugh."

She leaned in, brushing her fingers over his armor. "You're adorable when you're sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

"You're brooding, then."

"Brooding is dignified."

She laughed, then kissed him full on the mouth, slow and deep and unapologetic.

When they pulled apart, she smiled. "That dignified enough for you?"

Hector's shoulders relaxed, his breath catching. He leaned in slightly. "I hate this."

"The kiss?"

"Gods, no! - The reason I'm here. Being paraded like a prize stallion. As if I care about Helen."

She touched his cheek, soft and grounding. "You're here because your father wants a show of peace. That doesn't mean you'll marry the Spartan princess."

"I don't want to dance for Sparta."

"Then don't," she said, smiling. "Dance for me."

That drew a small, helpless smile from him. "You're dangerous."

"I hope so."

She kissed him fully then, slow and unhurried like the world wasn't watching. When they pulled apart, her forehead rested lightly against his.

He touched her cheek, thumb sweeping just under her eye. "How long until the introductions?"

"Two hours. Then wine, flattery, more wine, and a speech about honor and alliances."

"Gods help me," he muttered.

She grinned. "But after that... I want a walk. Just us. The hills behind the gardens."

Hector nodded slowly.

"You still want me?"

"Always," she whispered. "Even when you're brooding."

---

The midday sun hung high over the training fields turned festival grounds, gilding the colonnades and setting the marble stands aglow. Flags fluttered in the wind - bronze, crimson, and gold - each representing a different kingdom or house. A crowd had gathered to watch the suitors of Helen display their strength, speed, and elegance under the approving eyes of Sparta.

Odysseus had intended to watch quietly from the shaded guest seats at the far end of the arena. Instead, she found herself intercepted.

"My friend," came a voice so smooth it could've been silk itself, wrapping around her like a ribbon before she even saw him.

Castor stood at her side as if summoned from sunbeams and perfume. His tunic was crisp and white, the hemstitched with twin horses mid-gallop, catching the eye like a signature. His blond hair was braided tight in the Spartan fashion, but a few curls rebelliously escaped near his temple.

"Did you plan to slip past without saying hello?" he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "That would wound me terribly."

She tilted her head, one brow rising in practiced elegance. "I'm not sure you'd notice. With all the company you keep."

"Touché." He grinned, entirely unbothered. "Still, you're in high demand today, basílissa. Father wants a word before the next bout."

Odysseus's gaze sharpened. "Since when does King Tyndareus send you as a messenger?"

Castor's grin widened, smug and charming all at once. "Since he knew I'd find you before anyone else."

He extended his arm with mock formality, fingers curved in invitation.

She didn't take it. Not yet. Instead, she scanned his face like a general reading an unfamiliar battlefield.

"And what pressing matter requires my attention between matches? A border dispute? A marriage contract? An omen?"

Castor leaned in slightly, voice low enough that it brushed her ear. "Something strategic. Athens and the borderlands. He says it's urgent."

Her lips parted in a smile, dry and knowing. "Urgent like last week's 'urgent' discussion about Cretan tariffs during the wine tasting?"

"You wound me again," he said. "I was hoping for gratitude. I'm escorting you through this sun-blasted chaos, after all."

Now, she took his arm - but more for show than necessity. "Let's not pretend this isn't a game to you."

"We're Spartans," Castor said, guiding her through the shade-dappled path to the high platform. "We turn everything into a game. Or a war."

Odysseus rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

As they ascended the steps to the royal seating, the smell of oil and sweet dates mingled with the salt-dust air. Servants in light robes moved between noble guests with trays of cold wine, fanning them with palm leaves. Somewhere below, a musician plucked a lazy tune on a lyre.

Castor led her to a cushion beside his, patting it with dramatic flair. "Sit. Rest those dangerous thoughts of yours. Think of your comfort, for once."

She sank into the seat, spine straight, legs crossed with poise. "So gallant. You and your brother really do have a flair for appearing helpful."

"We're twins," Castor replied easily. "One of us does the talking. The other does the winning."

Before she could laugh, he plucked something from a pouch at his side - a small, exquisitely wrought silver pin in the shape of a laurel leaf.

"For your cloak," he said, lifting it with the deliberate gentleness of a man attempting to impress. 

"Aren't you a little forward? Even your sister has not received her gifts yet, and this event is dedicated to her."

"Can't I simply offer a gift for a dear companion?"

Odysseus looked at the pin, then at him. "Gifts are often a form of conversation."

"Is that so? And what am I saying?" He asked as he carefully clipped the pin to her shoulder.

"That you're charming," she said. "And very ambitious."

He smiled at that. He made sure that the pin wasn't covered by the fabric of the cape or queen's dark locks; he, most delicately, moved some of her hair behind her ear, keeping his hand near her face, cupping her cheek. Then, with just enough brazenness to test her, he tilted her head and kissed her right under her bronze-color eye. A whisper of contact, warm and fleeting.

Odysseus didn't recoil. She didn't blush either. She turned back to the field as though nothing had happened at all, her expression coolly amused.

"That was bold," she said, almost idly.

"Just another way of speaking without a use of words, my lady," Castor replied. "A small promise."

She ignored the eyes she felt on her and settled onto the cushions overlooking the arena. The royal view was unobstructed. The suitors - kings, heirs, and soldiers - lined up below, their bare arms gleaming with oil and pride.

She didn't need to search for Hector. She felt his presence the moment she arrived, a tether in her chest that tugged the longer she pretended not to see him.

Soon after, Pollux joined them and sat beside her while Castor took the seat to her right.

"A pity you're not competing," Castor mused, elbow resting on his knee. "You'd likely give the boys a run for their coin."

"I doubt their pride could survive the blow," she said, half amused.

She sat composed, legs crossed, chin tilted high. From this height, no one could see her knuckles tighten whenever he stepped forward.

Below, Hector moved like something carved from old stone - slow and precise, heavy with intent. He wasn't the most massive of the suitors, but there was a stillness to him, a control that made others hesitate. His opponent was some thick-necked Thessalian heir with arms like tree trunks and the grace of a kicked goat.

"Which one is that?" Pollux asked, nodding to a lean figure stepping into place with calm, efficient grace.

"Hector of Troy," she said, not even trying to hide the softness in her tone.

"Bold of him to come," Castor mused, eyes narrowing. "Especially after the… incident at the last festivities of Demeter. Our Fathers nearly drew knives."

"I remember," Odysseus said dryly. "I had to throw my goblet at a general to stop the escalation."

Pollux gave a short laugh. "Gods. That was you?"

She shrugged modestly. "You're welcome."

Below, Hector shifted into position, rolling his shoulders back. There was something quiet about him. Not flashy. Not theatrical. But steady. Intent. His stillness somehow made him larger.

"He's not the biggest," Castor said, tilting his head. "The Thessalian heir beside him looks like he eats oxen whole."

"Size isn't everything," Odysseus murmured.

"Tell that to the women in the front row," Castor muttered.

Odysseus didn't laugh. She just turned to him, slow and sharp, like drawing a dagger from velvet. "Perhaps you should tell that to the one who's already winning."

He gave her a look, mock wounded again. "Are you rooting for the Trojan?"

She didn't answer with words. She didn't need to.

Below, the match began with the snap of a flag.

Hector moved like a tide pulling back before a wave - controlled, precise. His opponent charged like a battering ram. There was a clash, a moment of held breath, then a shift - Hector pivoted, twisted, and brought the other man down with brutal grace.

The crowd roared.

Odysseus didn't cheer. She merely sipped her wine and let a small, knowing smile curl her lips.

Pollux chuckled beside her. "You knew."

"I always do."

As the victor raised his arms, Odysseus felt the air shift.

She looked down.

Hector looked up.

Their eyes met.

And in that one second - between sweat and dust, noise and glory - the world narrowed.

A flicker of a smile passed over his lips. Not for the crowd. Not for the kings.

For her.

She dipped her chin, slow and sly. Almost a bow. Almost a dare.

And in that shared glance, everything else fell away.

The wrestling matches had ended in clouds of dust and bared chests, and now the race preparations had begun. Odysseus stepped away from the royal stand under the pretense of gathering her thoughts. She found Hector alone beneath a carved archway, adjusting the straps on his racing belt and stretching his legs in the shade.

Her heart stilled a moment when she saw him. The heat in her blood had nothing to do with the sun.

"Nice spot," she said softly, stepping beside him.

He turned before she could speak, already smiling.

"You came," he said softly.

"I always do."

She stepped into the dappled sunlight, watching the way it clung to the curve of his cheek and collarbone.

"You fought well," she said, reaching up to brush a leaf from his shoulder.

"You watched?" he asked, clearly pleased - though he tried to sound casual.

"I even sat still the whole time. Miraculous, really."

He chuckled. "And how were the royal seats? Comfortable? Lavish? Full of subtle matchmaking?"

"Subtle as a spear to the gut," she replied. "Your average Spartan courtship involves more jewelry and fewer questions."

His eyes flicked to the pin still fastened to her shoulder. "Speaking of…"

She sighed, finger brushing the falcon. "It's just a token."

"Their token."

"Hector," she said gently, "it's politics."

He looked away, jaw tense.

She stepped closer, sliding her hand into his. "But you know what wasn't politics? The way you looked at me after your match. Like you couldn't see anyone else."

"I couldn't."

Her heart softened like sun-warmed wax. She leaned in, voice low and teasing.

"I thought about cheering for you."

"Oh?" His brows lifted.

"Something scandalous," she mused. "Painting your name on my chest. In gold ink. Or streaking across the arena in a Trojan cloak."

He groaned. "Gods, don't."

"Why not~?" she grinned. "Think of the morale."

"My morale would plummet into sheer panic. I would trip on my feet and get stabbed by my own sword."

She laughed, throwing her head back. "Fine, fine. I'll settle for something tamer."

"Such as?"

"Maybe a ribbon in your color," she murmured. "Or whispering your name every time someone tries to talk to me."

"I like that one."

She studied him for a moment, fingertips grazing his jaw. Then, more seriously-

"You know, if you just proposed…"

He looked at her sharply.

"…we wouldn't have to keep playing pretend," she continued, quiet but sure. "We wouldn't have to worry who sits beside me or who hands me pins like they're claiming territory."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then he pulled her closer, hand resting gently at the small of her back.

"I want to," he whispered. "You know I want to."

She nodded. "Then make it so. When the time is right."

"I know," he said quietly. "But not yet."

Odysseus nodded, hiding the ache behind her usual humor. "Then you'd better win this race. Impress everyone. Especially me."

"Just you," he promised, stepping into the sunlight with one final glance. "Only ever you."

Notes:

Side note
In this chapter athe the beginning of the story character ages are:
Odysseus: 18/19yo
Hector: 20/21yo
Paris: 15/16yo

Once they reach Sparta:
Odysseus: 20yo
Hector: 22yo
Diomedes: 15yo
Castor and Pollux: 22+
Menelaus and Helen: 18/19

Chapter 3

Summary:

The Spartan drama continues.

The sun hung low over the Spartan plain, gilding the arena with the soft amber light of late afternoon. Dust floated in golden clouds beneath the stomping of feet, and the hum of voices surged like a tide across the stands. It was the final match of the day's games - an intense display of strength and speed held in honor of Helen's courtship. Nobles had come from every corner of Achaea to prove themselves. Victories meant status. Admiration. Recognition.

And, for some, a single look from a queen.

Hector stood near the start of the field, jaw tight, muscles loose. His bronze-tanned skin shimmered faintly with sweat, and his hair was pulled back, a strip of leather tying it at the base of his neck. His eyes were fixed on the stands.

More specifically, on her .

Queen Odysseus sat amidst the Spartan nobility, posed like a portrait of royal poise - but the curve of her lips and the slight tilt of her head belonged only to him. Her gown was Spartan white, formal, and unassuming, but on her wrist - half-hidden by her sleeve - was a ribbon wound carefully three times around her skin. Bright gold and deep red.

Troy's colors.

Hector's throat tightened. At first, he wanted to chuckle, wondering whose fine cloak she secretly ruined to have her new accessory. But seeing it there, glinting in the light, sent a flush of warmth down his neck. His gaze dropped to the dirt for a moment, trying not to let the emotion show on his face.

When he looked back up, she was still watching him - eyes sharp, smile soft.

It made him blush. Gods, she still does that to me.

Then came the sound of the announcer's voice, drawing attention to the final match. Names were being called. Men stepped forward, stretching, preparing.

He watched as other suitors were preparing for the raise. They were stretching and getting rid of a few layers of clothing. Some, like Teucer, looked quite confident, while Menelaus, on the other hand, didn't even step foot in the arena. He was standing at the entrance for a short while. The shadow of his helmet covered his face, but it was clear that he was watching Helen. But for some reason, instead of stepping forward, he instead backed away. Ever since the games started, he has never seen the teen outside of his full set of armor. That itself created a limitation to which games he would be attending. It would be easy to just remove it, but since, for some reason, he isn't doing it, he creates his own obstacles. 

It's not like he was any better, so who was he to judge?

Hector turned, focused, ready-

-and caught a glimpse of a wiry boy further down the line, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Diomedes.

He hadn't noticed the boy during the previous rounds. The lad was fast and immensely talented, especially for his age. Graceful in his movement, with the bright-eyed confidence of someone who didn't yet know how far ambition could get him hurt.

Hector was willing to offer quiet praise—until he noticed something.

Diomedes was waving.

Not unusual, many competitors waved to the stands before their event. Many suitors. At first, Hector thought the boy was waving at Helen. It would make sense. The whole damn tournament was for her.

But then Odysseus raised a hand. Not toward Diomedes. Just… back, politely. A reflex.

And Diomedes grinned . He was almost glowing from joy like a puppy after getting belly rubs.

Hector's brow furrowed.

That little bastard isn't waving at Helen. He's waving at her!

Something in his chest flared, heat crawling up his spine.

He strode toward Diomedes before he fully registered his own upcoming actions.

"Diomedes!" he called out loud enough to draw the attention of the Agrive king. "You're in the next round?"

The boy turned, blinking. "Prince Hector," he said with a grin. "I am. You too?"

"I am now." Hector rolled his shoulders. "Thought I'd test myself. Interested in joining in?"

Diomedes brightened. He smiled in a way that showed his age. Despite being a king and a warrior, he still was just a teen who was more than willing to enjoy a game. 

"Absolutely! A friendly match, then?"

"Friendly," Hector echoed with a pleasant smile that didn't reach his eyes. " Sure ." Grumbled the prince under his nose.

They lined up beside one another, and with the sound of the horn, they all rushed.

The footrace was meant to test agility and strength. Obstacle vaults, spear throws at moving targets, scaling a low wall before the final dash. All of those competitions allowed them to shine in something more than basic flattery or showing wealth with gifts presented before the court.

Hector wasn't usually the one to brag about his speed. He knew he was fast. He trained in heavy armor just to be able to move smoothly in it. But at the same time, he rarely focused on speed alone, and he knew that there were many men gathered here who would be more impressive in this race, but seeing that he had a chance to beat his competition actually made him feel more than a little happy. There was some boyish joy in doing well in those events, even if he mostly tried not to catch the attention of anyone important (Except for one person).

They started strong, matching each other stride for stride.

At first, it was competition for its own sake - until Diomedes glanced toward the stands again.

That wide smile. Those big eyes he made when glancing at the elegant figure with dark locks.

Something snapped.

Hector's focus narrowed until the world shrunk to one point: beating Diomedes .

He pushed harder. Vaulted faster. He felt like a minotaur charging to deal the final blow. Diomedes followed, fast and determined; he could hear the way the metal rings attached to the teen's hair were clinking with one another.

Neither of them noticed the other competitors falling behind. Not one of the dozen other nobles remained close. They might as well have been alone in the arena. It's not like Hector cared for any of them anyway.

By the time they reached the halfway point of the race, they exchanged looks. Diomedes had a look similar to the beast during the hunt, but Hector probably was no better.

"You're quick, old man!"

"Try to keep up, kid!" Hector barked back, hauling himself up the stone faster than he'd ever done it before.

They nearly brushed their shoulders during the turn. The final sprint was ahead.

Cheers from the crowd. Dust rising. The world narrowed again.

Odysseus was standing now, watching, her expression unreadable - but her ribbon glinted in the light. Better than any flag waving above the stands.

Hector surged forward.

Diomedes, reckless and radiant, chased.

They crossed the line so close it took a moment for the judges to decide.

The horn blew.

Hector won.

Just barely. But a win was a win.

Chest heaving, he turned to Diomedes, who was hunched over, catching his breath, grinning despite it all.

Hector stepped close enough for only Diomedes to hear.

"You've got fire, boy," he said, voice low. "But don't scorch yourself reaching for the stars."

Diomedes looked up. Slightly confused.

But then he witnessed where Hector was looking. It was just a quick glance, but it was more than enough to make him understand what it all meant. 

He wasn't the only one who got enchanted by the little fox.

Diomedes' grin shifted - becoming something more primal, sharper than it had any right to be on a boy that young. There was blood on his hands and sweat in his hair, and his eyes said one thing:

The game's on.

---

The banquet began not too long after the last of the competitions had ended when the scent of sweat and dust still clung to the skin of the victorious. Hector's hair was still damp from a hasty wash, the bruises on his arms blooming fresh beneath the fine fabric of his formal wear. The palace halls shimmered under firelight, gold catching on goblets, bronze glinting from torches, as servers swept between rows of cushioned benches and clattering dishes.

He took his seat near the center of the table, fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup. His expression was passive and carefully arranged, as it always was in settings like this. But his thoughts had nothing to do with wine or politics or winning favor.

His thoughts were with her again. But this time, it wasn't as much admiration as it was worry.

The cut on her cheek had been fresh - too fresh. A narrow line, red, deep, and clean, like the edge of a blade. It was also recent since she didn't have it while sitting in the stands, and it was still shining with blood. It was what got his attention when he'd passed her earlier in the corridor.

He hadn't meant to ask. But in the end, he did.

"What happened?"

She barely glanced at him. Once lost in thoughts, now she had her eyes focused on him; she lifted her hand to cover the wound and smiled. "Training accident," she said with a shrug, tucking a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "You should see the other guy." She smirked with usual confidence.

It was flippant. Too flippant. Even for her.

And Menelaus, who walked beside her, suddenly flinched.

The young prince hadn't said a word. Just… looked down. Turned away. Like the question was a lash across his back.

And now, seated across the hall, Hector watched him.

Despite his gentle movement, which came from an awareness of his tall stature and quiet presence, Hector could tell.

Menelaus wasn't hiding anymore.

He almost didn't recognize him when meeting him in the hall. The helmet he always wore was gone, and the only thing that remained was a simpler face guard that only covered his lower jaw. His mouth was hidden, jawline veiled by a layer of wood. Half of his face was hidden by a curtain of curly red hair, and even then, he could see the small imperfections on his face. Scars that were peeking out of the cover of hair and shredded upper lip that got exposed any time he opened his mouth. 

Menelaus hadn't spoken much during the meal. He sat with the other suitors, picking the food like half of it was poisoned and ate it slowly and methodically. It was also odd how he was drinking his wine. Always tilting his head upwards as if he was searching for something on the roof of the palace and always from one side of his mouth. His eyes flickered up every now and then - to Helen and then, most often, to Odysseus.

Always Odysseus.

He looked not at her with warmth, but there was also a hint of guilt and longing.

Did you do that to her? Did they fight?

Hector had been turning the question over and over in his mind like a dagger in his palm. He didn't want to believe it. Not from the man Odysseus saw as her younger brother. Someone who she described with many great words and supposedly aided her in last year's battle. She always spoke highly of him, and any time he saw him, he was a rather calm teen who would try to support his brother.

But now Menelaus seemed to be broken. And broken things have sharp edges.

Or maybe it wasn't him. Perhaps it's someone else. Someone who thinks they can threaten her here, among kings and toasts and olive branches. Maybe Menelaus was just a witness who was forced to stay silent? But who would dare to attack the queen of Ithaca, who was a personal guest of the Spartan king?

He hated not knowing.

He hated that she hadn't told him. And how she might not ever tell him if he won't pressure her or things won't escalate.

And worse still - he hated that she looked like she belonged here. Odysseus - short, sharp-tongued, hair an unbrushed mess of braids and wild tangles - sat at the Spartan royal table as if born to it. Between Castor and Pollux, no less. They were laughing again, feeding her wine and cheese like pet hounds, trying to win her favor. She tolerated it with dry amusement, elbowing Castor once when he tried to show her how to fold his ridiculous silk napkin into the shape of a dragon. Queen Leda would join in with Helen to the conversation from time to time. It was hard to say what they could be talking about to their veiled faces, but the body language said more than enough. Odysseus was the only woman at the table who didn't cover herself with the veil. It was explained by the fact that as the sole ruler of Ithaca, she demanded to be treated and seen as other kings and not as a noble maiden who needed to be protected from the male gaze - preferring to look others in the eyes when reading them like an open scroll. She would usually wear armor to meetings that related to politics, but at times like this, she wore an elegant dress combined with some other layers like a light cloak or fur. It never stopped impressing him how easily she fit into both of those roles. And both images made his heart skip a bit. The fierce warrior and the lovely noblewoman.                         

He watched as his beloved laughed and when not looking, King Tyndareus tilted his head to his sons so they would fill their guest's cup and start asking some questions. What those were, he couldn't tell from this distance and due to the noise created by all the men around him. But what he could easily say was that it wasn't even about politics or trading as the king initially claimed.

It was matchmaking.

And she knows it.

She looked beautiful, even without trying - scarred and lean, her arms inked and her dress brushed with soft colors. And still, she moved like a soldier; even the smallest of gestures were made with no hesitation, and almost everything had its purpose. Her gaze always followed the one who spoke to her or about her. She laughed like a woman who had survived too much to care about playing innocence. She looked nothing like a prize.

But everyone here treated her like one.

"Look at that," one of them murmured, eyes flicking toward the head table. "Odysseus. Sitting right next to the crown prince and gossiping with Queen Leda."

"She's not even from Sparta. What's she doing up there like one of the royal family?"

"Didn't you hear? She's supposedly 'advising' the king. Military counsel or some shit."

"Advising? " another snorted. "Right. Because that's what queens do these days. Strap on armor and argue with kings."

"Gods," one of the boys said, chewing lazily on a piece of meat on the bone, "she's terrifying. Did you see her arms? Her wrist looks like it was maimed by a hound."

"She could also try to pack some meat on those bony arms before she tried to get stronger. Shoulders wide, and I might not complain about her legs, but I would rather have a woman with more to grab onto if you know what I mean." Chuckled one of the older men.

"I get it. She's so flat she could pass as eromenos." That made the group laugh.

"Gods were at least kind enough to give her some proper hips and thighs, otherwise."

"I heard she fought with Agamemnon last year. Took out an entire flank by herself."

"And that wound on her face? She got that just before the banquet, didn't she?"

"She's not even trying to hide it. Doesn't even flinch."

"Seriously, though. Would you want a wife who looks like she could break your spine?"

"Depends," one said with a grin. "Is it before or after the wedding night?"

Laughter rang out around the room.

The sound of his knife slamming into his plate cracked like thunder over the table.

Several men jumped.

The one closest to him dropped his bread into his wine.

Hector didn't flinch. He pulled the blade back slowly, carefully. The roast beneath it was split clean through, and the plate cracked at the edge.

He smiled faintly. "Apologies. Slipped."

Hector came back to eating, ignoring the way the servant next to him was glaring at him and muttering something under his nose.

Sadly, it wasn't enough to stop the man from shamelessly badmouthing the Ithacan.

"-Or stroll in flanked by half the Spartan guard," someone else muttered. "She may as well have walked in on a litter of gold."

"Well, she is a queen," one boy said with a shrug. "Just not of anywhere, you know… real ."

"Ithaca," another scoffed. "That's not a kingdom. That's a rock with sheep and a fishing problem."

Laughter rippled through the group - until Diomedes, seated just off to the side, spoke up with a look like they'd insulted Zeus himself.

"Say that to her face. And hope your ancestors welcome you kindly."

"Oh gods, don't tell me you're still on her ," one boy groaned.

Diomedes turned his goblet in his hands, smirking slightly. "I'm not on her. I'm-" he paused, searching for the words, then said with heartfelt reverence, "- enchanted ."

"Tydides. She's twenty-one."

"Yes." He sighed like that fact alone was enough to make him dizzy.

"You're fifteen."

"All the more reason to impress her before the rest of you start crawling after her like flies on honey." The way he spoke with such confidence about her was as if he hadn't just witnessed most men suggesting otherwise.

"You've lost it."

"I found it," Diomedes said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. "And she is six tables away, drinking Spartan wine like it owes her a tribute."

"She's not interested in suitors," someone pointed out. "Everyone knows that. She's been of age for years. Never declared, never answered offers."

"Exactly," Diomedes said, practically glowing. "She's not some girl waiting to be picked like fruit on a vine. She chooses. She commands. She builds thrones rather than sits on them."

"She's barely a queen," another said. "More of a war veteran."

"She's a storm ," Diomedes corrected, eyes sparkling. "And I would gladly be struck."

"She's called a fox with a serpent's shadow."

"And I like clever creatures," he said, leaning forward eagerly. "Do you know what that means? She thinks faster than we breathe . Always unpredictable."

"People say she doesn't sleep. That she keeps war maps in her bed."

"Good," he said with a wild grin. "Then I'll bring ink and offer myself as a blank scroll."

Someone choked on their wine. Probably a certain trojan sitting a few tables away, pretending to not listen to the conversation.

"She's too sharp, Tydides. Too… dangerous."

"She's alive ," he shot back. "Every inch of her looks like it's survived something. Like she's always ten thoughts ahead and still watching for knives. It's exhilarating ."

"Gods, you want to marry her or fight her?"

"Yes."

"She's a commander, not a consort."

"I'll learn how to march beside her."

"She's seen more blood than any of us."

"And walked away stronger. You don't run from a woman like that—you chase her until you're worthy to stand in her shadow."

"She's terrifying."

"She's magnificent ," Diomedes breathed. "The rest of you chase smiles and garlands. I want the woman who broke a siege line and made kings listen when she whispered."

There was a pause, broken only by a low, disbelieving laugh.

"You are insane ."

"Madness is loving the ordinary," Diomedes declared, lifting his goblet like a vow. "I was born to chase impossible things, and she is the impossible."

"Poet-boy's got it bad," someone muttered. "You think you'll win her just by worshipping the ground she walks on?"

"No," Diomedes said. "But I'll show her I'm not afraid of the ground she's scorched."

A hush spread over the table.

"Gods," someone whispered, "he really means it."

"He's blushing ," another pointed out.

"And shaking."

"Is that adrenaline or lust?"

"Both," Diomedes said unashamedly. "I want her mind, her scars, her goddamn war maps. If courting her means being outwitted, outmatched, and outbled - then I'll bring flowers, bandages and a better argument."

A laugh burst from one of the boys. "You're hopeless."

"No. I'm hungry ."

"Hungry for heartbreak."

"She's fire, young Agrive."

"Then let me burn."

Some of the suitors sitting beside the young king started clasping his shoulders in laughter while others waved to servants to pour more wine. 

"Write her a poem!"

"Challenge her to a duel and propose between blows!"

The laughter surged - until it didn't.

A sharp, sudden crack cleaved through the noise.

At a table not far from theirs, Hector drove his knife so deep into the roast before him that the plate cracked beneath it, meat splitting in a brutal, decisive line - the same happening to the plate.

The sound silenced the entire table. Cups paused mid-air. Bread hung half-bitten.

Hector said nothing. This time he wasn't apologetic about his actions. The only moment of remorse was caused when being hit with a spoon by an angered servant who was now cleaning the mess on the table.

Odysseus chuckled. Maybe it was caused by Castor's witty words or maybe by the prince that she was always able to find.

---

It was late in the night, and Helen's chamber was a whirlwind of candlelight, silk, and girlish laughter. Cushions and bolts of fabric lay strewn across the floor like flower petals, and a faint breeze stirred the pale curtains, bringing in the scent of figs and sea salt from the palace gardens.

In the middle of the room, a long scroll was stretched across the floor - its ends weighed down by polished stones and a half-eaten bowl of olives. Names, names, and more names - neatly listed and most violently crossed out with ink or even, in one case, a red wax seal of doom.

Helen, barefoot and glowing with mischief, sprawled beside it on her stomach. Penelope lounged near the window, half-serious in posture but with a smirk tugging at her mouth. Her younger sister was curled up like a cat on the bed, popping grapes into her mouth one by one. Odysseus dressed down and barefoot for once, sat cross-legged with a goblet of watered wine in one hand and the other idly flipping through the unmarked corner of the scroll.

"I swear," Helen said, tapping a name with the feathered tip of her quill, "if one more man compares me to some kind of woodland creature, I'll marry the first fisherman I meet just to spite them all."

Penelope laughed. "What was the last one-' like a silver doe caught in a hunter's snare'?"

"Ugh," Helen groaned. "I'm not even sure if that was meant to be romantic or if he was threatening me."

Penelope's sister wrinkled her nose. "Sounds like the start of a tragic myth. She marries him, and boom - ends up turned into a tree."

Odysseus raised her goblet. "To dryads everywhere, trapped by poetry and poor metaphors."

They all clinked imaginary goblets.

Helen rolled onto her back and lifted the scroll high above her. "Alright, what about… hmm. Glaucus of Thessaly?"

"Crossed off yesterday," Helen said absently, chewing on the end of her quill. "Called my nursemaid a serving wench."

"Classy."

"And then asked if I had any younger sisters," added Penelope's little sister, her expression flat. "While staring at me."

Everyone groaned.

Helen scratched his name again, just for satisfaction.

"What about - oh! The tall one with the nose. Anticles?"

Odysseus sprawled beside Penelope, snorted. "The skinny one who compared Helen to a white dove trapped in a silken cage? Yes. Doves are famously flattering metaphors for women."

"Especially when they're immediately followed by 'in need of taming,'" Penelope muttered.

"Marked," Helen said, sighing. "Twice."

"Gods," Penelope's sister huffed, tossing a grape in the air and catching it in her mouth. "If this scroll gets any longer, it'll need its own dowry."

"Half of Greece is in here," Helen groaned, rubbing her forehead.

"It's a roster of errors," Odysseus said dryly.

"Better to laugh at it than cry," Penelope added. "Though the real worry is what happens when you do choose someone."

Helen fell quiet at that.

The girls glanced at each other.

Odysseus reached over and gently smoothed a crease in the scroll. "It might cause unrest," she said softly. "Some suitors came with promises. Others with armies."

Penelope nodded, her fingers folding neatly in her lap. "If someone like Ajax or Palamedes feels slighted-"

"Or their fathers," Odysseus added, "things could turn ugly."

"But we'll handle it," Penelope said firmly. "There are smart heads here. Yours included."

Helen managed a shaky smile. "Right. So… we keep narrowing down the field."

"That's the spirit," Odysseus said, leaning back on her elbows. "Alright. Next victim."

"Patroclus?"

"He's thirteen."

"Gone," Helen said, striking the name with relish.

"Who's left?" Penelope asked dryly. "You've eliminated half the noblemen of the Aegean. I think even Zeus would be like, 'Tough crowd.'"

Helen tapped the scroll. "Pheidon of Argos."

"Too many teeth," Penelope's sister said immediately.

"What does that mean ?" Odysseus asked, amused.

"He smiled like he was trying to sell me something cursed," she muttered.

Helen laughed and crossed the name out. "Alright. Gone."

"Can we talk about how we all clearly have wildly different tastes in men?" Penelope raised a brow. "I swear, Odysseus stares down generals like she's analyzing war maps while Helen's practically running a poetry contest."

Helen sniffed. "Sorry, I value charm . I don't want to marry a man who only knows how to talk about warfare."

"You don't need a husband," Odysseus muttered. "You need a bard with great hair and a fragile soul who can manhandle you and throw a tree like a javelin."

Helen beamed. "Exactly."

"And you," Odysseus turned to Penelope's sister, "just said no to a man because he had too many teeth. "

"I have standards," she said primly before popping an olive into her mouth.

Ipimthe sipped her wine, feigning serenity. "Well, my opinion doesn't count. I've taken the vows of Athena."

"That's just your excuse for being impossible to impress," Helen teased.

"I'm selective," Penelope countered.

"You're celibate," Odysseus smirked.

"I'm devoted ," Penelope shot back. "Although, if I were going to marry anyone…" She looked over at Odysseus, voice low and dramatic, "I'd kidnap you under cover of nightfall and drag you to my temple."

Odysseus didn't miss a beat. "You'd have to carry me. I don't walk into cultish marriages."

"I'd bribe you with scrolls," Penelope said sweetly. "And sweets."

"That's cheating," Helen laughed.

"I'd elope with her immediately for a honey cake," Odysseus admitted.

Penelope raised her goblet like she'd won.

"What about Antimachus?" Penelope's sister asked. "He brought you that tapestry."

"He also told me it was a depiction of Aphrodite," Helen muttered, "and it was clearly Artemis. With a stag. Shooting arrows."

"I'm not convinced he knows the difference between goddesses," Odysseus murmured.

"Crossed," Helen declared. Another line slashed.

Penelope leaned back, lips morphing into a pout. "We're going to need a second scroll at this rate."

Odysseus tilted her head. "You know, it might be faster to list the ones who haven't been offensive, dramatic, or hopeless."

"Speaking of…" Penelope's sister piped up. "What about Diomedes?"

All three older women paused.

Odysseus smiled softly. "I actually spoke with him this morning. Outside the Athena shrine."

"Of course you did," Penelope said, amused.

Odysseus shrugged, sipping her wine. "We're both champions of the goddess. He's… sincere."

"That's what everyone says," Helen agreed. "He's so serious ."

"He reminds me of my cousin's hunting dog," Penelope's sister said. "All eyes and alertness."

"He asked me if Athena's favor should be earned by solitude or action," Odysseus said with a small, fond smile. "And then he panicked and apologized for being too forward."

Penelope chuckled. "A scholar and a soldier in the body of a fifteen-year-old."

"He's sweet," Odysseus said. "Bright. Respectful. But young. Still full of sharp edges and firsts. He's more like… a little brother."

"Exactly," Helen said. "He's your age," she added to Penelope's sister teasingly.

"Gross," the girl said instantly, making a face.

The room broke into laughter.

Helen sighed, twirling the quill between her fingers. "If he were a few years older-"

"-he'd still be too intense for you," Penelope finished.

Odysseus tapped Diomedes' name on the scroll. "Leave him unmarked, but bracket him."

Helen obediently added a little [not yet] besides his name.

Then she looked down the scroll and paused, her expression softening. "Menelaus."

The room fell quiet.

"I thought he was going to leave," Helen said. "He never joined the games, always kept to the back of the gatherings. I… thought I'd offended him somehow."

"You didn't," Odysseus said gently.

Helen looked at her. "Thank you for speaking with him. Whatever you said - it helped."

Odysseus just reached forward and brushed her fingers over a small cut on her cheek.

"It wasn't a big deal," she said softly. "I'm just glad you still have the chance to find something real."

The door creaked slightly.

Clytemnestra stepped in, barefoot, her gown soft with sleep and her hair braided down one side. She looked more regal than she probably intended, but the weariness in her eyes was softened by a quiet joy.

"I heard you gossip," she said with a small smile. "And didn't want to miss out."

Helen immediately sat up. "You should've said something - I would've come to you."

Clytemnestra waved a hand. "I had to put Iphegnia to sleep. Finally, I figured I had at least half an hour before she woke to remind me who's truly in charge of my life."

Penelope patted the floor beside her. "Come sit. We're eliminating unsuitable suitors."

Clytemnestra raised an eyebrow. "Still?"

Helen made a face. "It's either this or let Father pick someone who thinks poetry is a type of fish."

"Fair." Clytemnestra stepped carefully over cushions and settled beside Helen, smoothing her skirts. "Did you cross out the one who called you fertile as the fields of Arcadia ?"

"I burned that part of the scroll," Helen replied solemnly.

Clytemnestra snorted into her hand. Then, she gladly took a piece of cake offered by the queen of Ithaca

"Anyway," Penelope continued, "we could make a short break and just start debating Odysseus's very dramatic love life."

"I have no love life," Odysseus muttered.

"You have Castor and Pollux ," Penelope's sister shot back. "That's two men. That's more love life than anyone here."

Clytemnestra blinked. "You're being courted by both of them?"

Odysseus groaned. "Don't encourage them."

"But you are the one being courted by both Castor and Pollux," Helen said, narrowing her eyes in mock suspicion. "You've spent more time with them in the last week than I have in my entire life."

"They keep showing up together," Odysseus said, mock-exasperated. "It's like I'm not courting one man - I'm courting a set ."

"Twin dowries," Penelope's sister whispered conspiratorially.

"A matched pair!" Helen grinned. "Imagine the ceremony. Would you walk down the aisle twice or just split halfway between them?"

"Don't give the Spartans ideas," Odysseus said, laughing helplessly. "Honestly, at this point, I feel like I'll have to come up with some ridiculous rumor that would scare them away."

"Scandal," Penelope whispered. "Delicious scandal."

Helen muttered into her cup, "If they're a package deal. Maybe you should just marry them both and call it diplomacy."

Everyone howled.

"I'll officiate," Helen said through laughter.

"Spoken like a future queen," Penelope teased.

Odysseus waved a hand. "Or I could escape all this and join Penelope in priestesshood."

Penelope sat up straighter. "Yes! Chastity, unlimited reading time, dresses with owl motifs…"

Helen leaned in, eyes glittering. "What a shame. Especially when you're clearly planning to marry your beloved ."

Odysseus froze, cup halfway to her lips.

Penelope's sister grinned. "You're so obvious."

Odysseus turned pink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Helen smirked. "Tall. Golden. Always watching you during the games."

Odysseus buried her face in a pillow. "Stop."

Penelope poked her arm. "Just say it. Hector."

"Mmph."

"Louder for the gods?"

Odysseus groaned. "You're all children."

"And you're in love ," Helen cooed. "And you always blush when you see him."

Odysseus threw the pillow, but she was smiling through the embarrassment, eyes shining.

Odysseus's face turned scarlet. "I do not —!"

"You do," Penelope confirmed.

"Every single time," added the younger girl. "Even when he says stupid things."

"He never says stupid things," Odysseus muttered defensively.

"See?" Helen beamed. "You're gone. Gone ."

Odysseus covered her face with her hand. "Please, just go back to judging men's teeth."

Clytemnestra reached over and gently touched Odysseus's cheek. "You deserve someone who looks at you the way you look at scrolls in the palace library."

"Like I want to dissect them?" Odysseus asked, confused.

"No," Penelope chuckled. "Like you already know their secrets ."

Helen whispered, "Or like you want to be buried with them."

"I hate you all," Odysseus mumbled, trying not to smile.

"Mutual," Penelope said sweetly. "But if Hector doesn't propose, I will kidnap you."

The scroll rolled up slightly as the wind from the balcony drifted through. The moon was sinking, the laughter steady. Somewhere in the distance, guards were changing their shifts, and fishermen and bakers would soon be waking up before sunrise. But for now, the room was their world - filled with honeyed fruit, scratched-out names, and secrets tucked between jokes.

And beneath the teasing, the smallest flickers of something deeper: love, war, and the knowledge that nothing would stay the same for long.

---

Two days have passed. It was mostly filled with the casual routine of competitions, presentations, and banquets. But Now something felt…different.

The echo of footsteps was softer than usual in the Spartan throne room that night - as if even the marble itself was uneasy.

Hector walked in with a crease between his brows, confusion simmering behind his calm expression. The summons had come only moments before - unexpected, abrupt. Most of the court was already gathered in the dim torchlight: nobles half-dressed for sleep, still fastening belts or brushing away fatigue. Guards lined the walls. Courtiers murmured softly among themselves.

Something was off.

He caught sight of Helen, resplendent even in the twilight, whispering urgently to Penelope. The twins, Castor and Pollux, stood with stony expressions flanking their father's throne, their presence more than ceremonial tonight. Agamemnon and his wife were not too far from the Spartan throne, the latter holding an infant gently. They seemed to be slightly unnerved. Most likely, they did not know the purpose of this gathering.

And then he saw her.

Odysseus.

She stood in a shadowed alcove, poised and silent. Her chin lifted with practiced regality, but Hector saw the tension in her jaw, the faint twitch in her fingers. Their eyes met for the briefest moment - no words, but the message was clear.

Neither of them had known this was coming.

Tyndareus rose with a quiet authority. The whispers faded.

"Friends. Kings. Princes. Lords," the king began, his voice steady and sharp. "I thank you for coming at such an unusual hour. The matters I bring forth tonight require urgency and privacy. And clarity."

He glanced across the gathered faces, and Hector felt something in the king's gaze shift - intentional, targeted.

"There have been rumors," Tyndareus said. "Poisonous words spoken by mouths are too foolish to understand their weight. Slights not only to honor but to hospitality."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"I speak, of course, of the Queen of Ithaca - Odysseus, daughter of honorable Laertes - a woman who is here not as a suitor nor a mere observer but by my own invitation, as an advisor. A mind I trust. A presence I respect."

Odysseus didn't move. She stared ahead with the calm mask of a queen, but Hector saw the brief flare of surprise in her eyes. She hadn't expected this defense. And no matter how kind those words were, there had to be something more behind it.

"She has walked among you as an equal. Some have been wise enough to listen to the words of wisdom she freely offered. Others… have not."

He let that linger, cool and sharp like frostbite.

"I will remind you all what kind of woman walks our halls," he continued, his voice warming now. "A queen by her own deeds, crowned not only by birth but by intellect. Trusted by kings. Guided by the owl-eyed goddess herself."

Hector watched the tension ripple through the room. This wasn't just a scolding - it was a statement of worth. And yet, as the speech went on, the tone kept shifting.

"Who else among you could parley with Sparta's enemies and leave with peace and tribute?" Tyndareus asked. "Who else could navigate a court full of wolves and emerge without a scratch, smiling like she had plotted the whole dance?"

Some of the lords chuckled politely. Hector didn't.

"She reminds me, often, of fire," Tyndareus said now, descending a few steps from the dais. "Bright. Unpredictable. Dangerous if you mishandle it. But indispensable in the cold."

Hector's stomach turned.

This was no longer about courtly respect. This was personal admiration - reverence, even. And it was only a building.

"She is, in many ways," the king said, coming to stand beside the older of his sons, Castor, "what I wish for Sparta's future: cunning, loyal, iron-hearted, and sharp-tongued." He turned to face the crowd fully. "And so I have decided to honor her not just as an ally - but as family."

Hector felt a chill crawl down his back. He didn't like where this was all going. He was gripping onto the fabric of his clothes to stop himself from jolting into action.

Tyndareus raised a hand and, in a voice clear as day, announced:

"Let it be known - Queen Odysseus shall be betrothed to my son, Castor. The match has been seen favorably by the gods and hopefully will be sealed by the end of the month."

The throne room fell silent.

Not even the torches cracked.

Odysseus stood utterly still. Not frozen in shock but controlled. Perfectly composed. Her face didn't flicker, but Hector saw the tension in her throat, in her stillness.

She hadn't known. She was being cornered in public before gods and nobles, and there was no room left to maneuver.

King Tyndareus smiled as though he'd just offered her a crown.

"I see in her not only greatness but kinship," he said as if that were an explanation. "She will be well-guarded, well-matched. And honored, as she deserves. So remember that offending her will be seen as offending my child, and no respectful son-in-law would ever do that."

Castor, to his credit, looked just as blindsided. Pollux shifted awkwardly.

And Hector - Hector felt the burn in his chest turn to full fire.

His fists clenched at his sides, but he didn't move. Couldn't - not here. Not now. To speak would be to challenge the king of this land before half the known world.

But inside, his blood boiled. Echos of his past promises roared in deafening madness.

You said you wanted me to act before someone else decided for us.

You said you wanted more than words.

He saw her glance his way. Just once.

That calm mask still held. But her eyes - her eyes were screaming.

For the first time in his life. He witnessed his beloved queen begging for help.

---

Once the guests left, the king allowed the newly engaged couple to stay in the throne room and talk, but Odysseus wasn't interested in that. Once alone, she pulled the taller prince by the collar of his tunic and dragged him through the hallways until they reached his chambers. Some female servants who witnessed it were giggling, not realizing the true intentions of the rightfully angered woman.

The chamber was warm but tense. A soft breeze rustled the sheer curtains, and the low glow of a single brazier threw dancing shadows across the walls. She let go of the light-haired man who still didn't dare to speak. Odysseus sat down - perched on the edge of the bed, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. The fabric of her dress was wrinkled from how hard she had gripped it when she heard the doors being properly locked instead of just nudged. Now, nobody would be able to listen in.

He lingered just inside, unsure how to start, how to even look at her.

"Since when did you know?" she began, quiet but sharp.

"Since this morning," he answered. "Father didn't tell me or my brother until the sun had risen."

"And yet you didn't hesitate to nod like a good little son when he made the announcement."

Castor exhaled. "I was still shocked."

"You didn't look like you were."

"Because I didn't have time to be shocked," he said. "My father made it clear it wasn't a suggestion."

Finally, she turned, her gaze piercing.

"And you agreed to it anyway."

He seemed ashamed, but he didn't deny it.

"Yes. I agreed."

She gave a bitter laugh, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Keeping herself safe in a tight hug.

"You didn't even flinch."

"What would you have had me do? Deny you? Embarrass you in front of half the noble houses of the Aegean? My king? Ruin all the respect that you earned over the years in one quick moment?"

"Don't pretend this was all just an accident," she snapped. "You've been trying to win me over since I arrived. Gifts. Smiling. Teasing. Jesting like this was some childhood game. You knew what you were doing." The pin that usually shined elegantly was now a blinding reminder of past days - even years if he had to be honest with himself.

Castor frowned but nodded. "Yes. I've tried. Because it was encouraged. Because my father and uncle said, it would be best. And because…"

He hesitated. Just for a moment, the clever prince was stuttering.

"I agreed with them."

Odysseus scoffed under her breath, gaze flicking away.

"I didn't think it was a bad idea," he continued, stepping toward her. "And I still don't."

She took a breath that looked almost painful. "Of course you did."

He stepped closer. "Ody, think about it-"

"Oh, I have thought about it, Castor," she interrupted, voice rising slightly. "Believe me. I've had to think about everything lately except what I actually want ."

His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. "This isn't just about what either of us wants. It's about what's best - for you, for Sparta, for Ithaca, for everyone tied to us."

She scoffed, turning away from him again.

"We're friends, Ody," he continued. "We've been friends since childhood. You know who I am. You trust me. Isn't that already something most noble couples never get?"

"You're not wrong," she said, tone brittle. "But that doesn't mean this is right."

"We live in a world where love comes after duty if it ever comes at all."

She said nothing, arms still wrapped around herself.

"If you married me," he continued, carefully choosing each word, "you would be joining your house with a powerful ally. You'd have the military and political strength of Sparta at your back. And I'd have you - your counsel, your brilliance. You see the world in a way most men don't even know how to listen to. I know what that could do for my kingdom. You could change Sparta."

There was a long silence.

"I'm not blind to your value," he said. "And I'm not asking you to lose yourself."

"But I would ," she said suddenly, voice cracking.

She turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, spine curving inward with the weight of it all. Her shoulders slightly shaking.

"You think it's so reasonable," she murmured, "so clean. You think it's about alliances and counsel and kingdoms. You talk about me like I'm a strategy. Like I'm a plan with legs."

"Ody-"

"You think because I'm clever that I can bear it. That I'll see the logic, and thank you for it. But I'm tired of being logical. Of being the one who sees all the angles and swallows her feelings. I didn't come here to marry a childhood friend. I didn't come here to be a convenient solution to Sparta's succession. To all of those years of fellowship, being just someone's sick way to ensure I'll birth Sparta's heir."

Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, though she clenched them tight to hide it. But nothing was able to hide falling tears and cracking in her voice.

"I'm tired of having choices made for me."

Castor stared at her, silent. Then - slowly - he moved forward and knelt in front of her. He didn't speak right away. Just reached out and gently, wordlessly, rested his hand on the floor beside hers.

"I know how it sounds. I do," he said. "But think about it - really think. We live in a world where kings barter daughters for alliances. Where girls are married off before they've even kissed anyone. Where gods take what they want and burn lives down to amuse themselves or indulge in mindless desire." He paused. "We were lucky, once, to grow up as friends without that hanging over us. Maybe we could be lucky again."

She didn't move, but her arms dropped from her chest, hands resting in her lap. She listened.

"We've known each other since we were children," he said. "We trust each other. We respect each other. You're friends with my sisters, my brother, and even my cousins. You know how to talk to my mother. You don't cower before my father. You fit , Ody. You've always fit."

Her throat tightened, but she said nothing. Her lips pressed into a flat line.

"And it's not just convenience," he added, quieter now. "You're brilliant. You're strong. You've survived things that would crush most people. And yes - my kingdom would be stronger with you beside me, but not just because of your mind. Because you make me better."

He paused, looking up at her with a rare nakedness in his expression.

Her gaze met his, watery and unreadable.

He reached up, one hand hovering near hers - but didn't touch her yet.

"I won't take anything you're not ready to give," he said. "I won't touch you unless you want me to. I swear it, Ody. I would never use you. I'm not my father. I'm not the gods. I'm not some lust-struck suitor who thinks he's owed your affection."

She looked down at him, breath trembling.

"When we were younger, you once told me I was like a brother to you," he said. "And I told you the same. That hasn't changed. I already love you like a friend. Like family. And I would never dishonor that. Just give us time. Let us learn to love each other - not like children, not like strangers bound by duty, but as husband and wife. I'll prove I can be a good partner. A patient one. A kind one. All I ask is that you let me try."

Odysseus finally looked at him.

And They both looked so young then, despite the weight of the crown's shadow. So open and raw.

She didn't speak for a long time. But eventually, she reached out and placed a hand on his cheek.

"I don't hate you," she said softly. "I just… I don't know how to breathe in this cage yet."

Castor nodded, eyes stinging. "Then we'll leave it open. As wide as it can be."

She said nothing more. Neither did he. But they stayed there, quiet and tired, the air between them filled with years of history and the bitter ache of futures uncertain.

Time passed, and she was back in her room. The first thing she did was to go to the wooden chest and dig up from it a big red cape. A month ago, Hector lent it to her when the sun went down, bringing cold towards them. She was supposed to give it back to him, but there was never the time to do so. And so she just wrapped herself around it. His smell lingered on it, calming her down just enough to finally allow her to feel exhaustion. She fell asleep soon after. 

---

The summer air in the women's courtyard was thick with the scent of wild thyme and sun-warmed stone. Ivy crept lazily up the pillars, bees hummed somewhere near the fig trees, and laughter rippled under the shade of the marble colonnade.

Clytemnestra sat on a cushion with her legs tucked beneath her, cradling a bundle swaddled in pale linen. Her newborn daughter, only a few days old, dozed against her chest with a faint twitch of her lips - as if already dreaming secrets no one had taught her yet.

"She has your nose," Helen cooed, leaning to peer at the baby's tiny features.

"She has Agamemnon's glare," Penelope said dryly. "Just in miniature."

"She does not glare," Clytemnestra protested, though her smirk betrayed her pride. "She studies."

"She squints like she's ready to assign fault," Odysseus added, lounging nearby with her back against a pillar and a fig in one hand. "Classic Mycenaean expression. Probably calculating our military weaknesses." Then, the Ithaca's queen nudged the blonde princess on the shoulder. "You better be happy that Menelaus didn't inherit this grumpy look."

The women burst into laughter, and Clytemnestra gently bounced the baby as if the child herself might find the joke funny.

Helen curled beside her sister in a draped summer gown, brushed her golden hair behind one ear. "She's perfect," she said quietly, looking at the baby's face like a priestess might regard an omen. "I can't believe you're a mother now."

Clytemnestra snorted. "It's not a divine transformation, Helen. I still enjoy wine, sarcasm, and watching you blush."

Penelope tilted her head. "Speaking of which… weren't you with Menelaus last night?"

Helen straightened slightly. "Yes?"

"Well?" Clytemnestra raised an eyebrow. "What happened? Don't make us drag it out of you."

Helen flushed, but her smile was unmistakable. "He invited me to walk in the gardens. Just us. We talked until the moon was high. He's… gentle. Thoughtful. I asked him about the campaigns he fought in, and he asked me about poetry."

Penelope placed a hand over her heart dramatically. "Gods, he's in love. No man willingly talks about poetry unless he's already under siege."

"Oh, our favorite redhead is a softie, alright," Said the Ithacan. "Who happens to also be able to wrestle with a bear."

Helen laughed softly, color still high in her cheeks.

"Also," Clytemnestra added with a mock-suspicious squint, "he is quite tall. And those shoulders..."

"Clytemnestra!" Helen shoved her playfully, and everyone dissolved into giggles.

"She is right for that one," Ody said, grinning as she stretched out her arm, flexing. "Some of us appreciate a little muscle."

Despite her lean frame, the definition in her arms was clear - slight but wiry, like a runner's, interrupted here and there by faint white scars.

Penelope leaned forward, fanning herself with a fig leaf. "Odysseus of Ithaca, you make it increasingly hard for me to protect my virtue."

"You've never tried," Ody shot back with a wink.

The girls howled with laughter again, and even Clytemnestra had to wipe a tear from her eye, careful not to disturb her daughter.

It was in this bubble of warmth and teasing that Hector stepped into the courtyard, half in shadow, tall and composed—until his eyes found Odysseus, and his poise shifted into something quieter. Warmer.

"Lady Odysseus," he said gently. "May I speak with you? Alone."

There was a beat. Helen glanced toward her sister. Penelope raised an eyebrow.

Ody stood, brushing fig juice from her fingers. "Of course."

They moved toward a narrow stone corridor just past the colonnade, where the voices of the women softened into a distant murmur behind them. Hector waited until they were alone before he spoke again. His hands cradled her face.

"You look tired, my love." 

"I didn't sleep," she admitted.

She leaned gently into the touch. Hector looked worried, but then he slowly leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered. "Neither did I."

She turned to look at him, lips tight with exhaustion and something else - frustration, fear, and longing all rolled together.

"I thought I could manage this," she said. "Play the game long enough to survive it. But last night, in that throne room - I felt like the floor had dropped from beneath me."

Her hands were starting to shake. And so she held onto Hector's arms. Her voice was cracking when she asked.

"You knew I didn't consent?"

"I knew," he echoed. "And I promise you, I'm going to do something about it. I won't let them decide your future for you."

There was a long pause. The wind stirred in the lemon trees beyond the walls.

"I believe you," she said softly, but the tension in her spine didn't ease. "But believing you doesn't make it any easier to wait."

Their eyes locked - shared pain, unspoken plans, love burning beneath the surface like coal beneath the ash.

Sadly, their moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They quickly moved from their rather intimate position into something more natural.

Just then, a servant's voice cut across the corridor. "Lady Odysseus. A message from the king - he wishes to speak with you."

Ody exhaled through her nose, expression unreadable. "Of course he does."

She turned to go but paused as Hector touched her wrist briefly. Muttering so only she could hear.

"I'll fix this."

"I know you'll try," she said, and then added, quieter, "Just don't make promises that end in war. I'd never forgive you or myself for losing you."

She walked away, her footsteps steady, a queen, even when walking toward a throne she didn't want.

Hector remained in the corridor, alone with his thoughts.

But not for long.

Helen stepped into view from the courtyard arch, arms folded tight across her chest. Penelope followed a pace behind, quieter but no less present - the weight of observation in her gaze sharper than any blade.

Even the baby in Clytemnestra's arms, now dozing again inside, had stirred earlier at the shift - as if the air itself understood something was unraveling.

"Hector," Helen said softly. Not accusing. Not begging. Just stating his name like it was a question.

He turned toward her, wary. "I'll do something. I promise."

"No." Helen's voice didn't rise, but the cut of it was precise. "Don't say that."

He blinked. "You don't believe me?"

"I believe you mean it," she said. "But that's not the same."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she stepped closer, and her words came quick and clear.

"She's being summoned like a possession, Hector. They've already decided on her future. Castor's smile is just another part of the cage."

"She won't go through with it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "She knows I'm with her. That I'll-"

Penelope spoke up then, quiet but unwavering. "And while you wait to act, others are already doing. With speeches. With rings. With armies if need be."

Hector flinched just a little. He looked between them - the future queen of Sparta and the queen of Mycenae - and found no gentleness there. Only steel, sharpened by years of knowing what it meant to be watched, bartered, and claimed.

Helen stepped closer again until they stood nearly eye to eye.

"If you love her," she said, softer now, "don't speak like a soldier with time to waste. Don't give her words when what she needs is action."

There was silence.

Then Hector nodded. Once. Quietly. As if sealing something inside his chest.

He didn't answer again. Didn't promise anything further.

He just turned and left, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the long hush of late afternoon.

Behind him, Helen exhaled slowly.

Penelope, after a pause, said to no one in particular, "Let's hope he's faster than the men writing her future."

And the cicadas began to sing again.

It felt like they mocked him with their songs, reminding him of the passing of time.

---

Orange light spilled through the olive branches like melted amber, casting long shadows across the stone path. Hector moved between the trees with the stiff grace of a man at war - not with soldiers this time but with himself.

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this."

He'd prayed to Apollo countless times. For strength. For victory. For healing. The prayers were always quiet, focused, and practical. Never this. Never revolving around her .

Now, standing at the foot of the altar, he felt strangely exposed.

The statue watched him - Apollo carved in eternal beauty, a smile curled knowingly at the corner of his mouth. Bow at his back, lyre poised in one hand. As if the god had been waiting for this moment.

Hector exhaled, slow and steady, and dropped to one knee.

"Apollo," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "I need your guidance."

The moment hung in the air like a held breath.

Then - light. Gold and honeyed, bursting like a sunrise all at once. The cicadas fell silent. The air warmed with a pulse that didn't belong to this world.

And there he was.

Apollo appeared in a swirl of gold and drama, barefoot on the stone, robes catching a wind that hadn't been there a moment before. He practically glowed , every movement a performance, every breath soaked in self-made starlight.

"My dearest Hector!" Apollo cried, arms thrown wide like a long-lost lover greeting a prodigal poet. "You finally come to me with something interesting!"

Hector rose slowly, cautious but unsurprised. "It's good to see you, my lord."

Apollo was already circling him, gleeful. "Do you have any idea how dull most prayers are? 'Fix my foot, Apollo.' 'Cure my sheep, Apollo.' 'Tell me if my husband's cheating, Apollo.' Please. " He twirled, robes flaring dramatically. "But this! At last! Love! A prince in love, and not just with a face, but with a mind sharp enough to cut through bronze armor!"

Hector sighed. "So you knew."

"Oh, please. " Apollo arched a golden brow, golden as if it were smelted by Helios himself. "You think I didn't notice the way you dodge her name in every story of your journeys? How do you press your lips tight like a stone every time your thoughts wander to her while praying in my temple?"

He grinned wide - too wide - and leaned in, his voice suddenly low and sing-song sweet:

"Or that little night in the garden of my temple, hmm? When the moon was hanging just so, and someone forgot how loud a marble pathway's echo can be?"

Hector stiffened. The tips of his ears turned the exact shade of pomegranate wine.

Apollo gasped, delighted. " There it is. That blush! Oh, I should bottle it - sell it as a love potion. 'The look of a prince caught by his god mid-tryst.' You know, I did bless that cute garden with extra privacy. Thought it might come in handy one day." The son god smiled, clearly proud of his past idea.

"I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't, " Apollo said with a chuckle. "And thank the stars for that. It was the most interesting thing that's happened in my sanctuary since that priest fell into the fountain chasing a swan."

Hector muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Apollo grinned and patted his shoulder like a proud matchmaker. "Don't worry. I'm not mad. If anything, I was offended you didn't tell me sooner. Me! The god of poetry, of passion, of divine entanglements. And you thought I wouldn't be excellent at this?"

"You have a… complicated history," Hector muttered.

"And so do you, apparently," Apollo shot back with a wink.

He nudged Hector's shoulder like a gossiping brother. "You've been guarding her like a secret prayer, my champion. I was dying of curiosity."

"I thought you'd mock me," Hector muttered.

Apollo gasped in delight. "Oh, I am mocking you. That doesn't mean I'm not thrilled about it."

He leaped up onto the altar with effortless grace, his arms spread like a performer mid-soliloquy. "Odysseus of Ithaca - storm-tongued and silver-eyed. What a creature. That mouth of hers! The wit! The fury!" He twirled again, unable to sit still. "You know what I love most? She's fiery. She fights. She thinks. And yet-"

He leaned toward Hector, eyes alight. "She's a champion of Athena. "

Apollo snorted, then burst into gleeful laughter. "Can you believe it?"

Hector gave him a wary look. "Yes. Why wouldn't she be?"

Apollo spun in place, mimicking Athena's cold precision. " Logic first, feeling later. No smiling during the strategy. Love is an inefficient distraction- '" His voice dropped into a dry, haughty imitation of his half-sister's, complete with arms crossed and nose tilted slightly too high.

Then he straightened, putting a hand to his chest. "And yet here comes Odysseus, spitting lightning and solving riddles mid-battle, charming men and women alike. Smug little beast giving speeches like she was born with a scroll in one hand and a wine cup in the other. Athena must be furious. "

Hector smirked despite himself. "You really think Athena's that bad?"

Apollo clasped his hands behind his back and strutted stiffly around, mimicking her walk like an uptight drill master. "' You must not act emotionally. You must consider political ramifications. Never ride in a chariot unless calculating optimal travel efficiency-'"

He spun, then dropped back into his own skin. "Ugh! She'd probably tell you to write a polite letter to Tyndareus and suggest a symposium about marriage alliances."

"She'd never-"

"Or worse - wait it out!" Apollo clutched his head in mock horror. "Can you imagine? Waiting around while your love marries a man who calls poetry 'frivolous' ? No, no, no. That's not love. That's politics with a headache!"

Hector's arms were crossed, his jaw unmoving. Not because he disagreed - but because, somewhere in the middle of Apollo's mockery, a thought had bloomed. Unformed. Half-wild. Dangerous.

His gaze drifted toward the horizon. Not at anything in particular, just… beyond.

Apollo, meanwhile, was still pacing, voice rising with the rhythm of complaint.

"I mean, if I really wanted to ruin your chances, I'd start quoting Athena directly. 'First, establish a council. Then, draft an argument. Finally, submit your romantic intentions in triplicate-'"

He stopped mid-stride, mid-mock, narrowing his eyes.

"…Why are you smiling?"

Hector didn't answer. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. The sort of smile born not from amusement but a realization.

Out of nowhere, the Trojan prince hugged the sun god with enough force to push the air out of the startled man. Hector widely smiled, eyes shining when he said two simple words.

"Thank you!"

Apollo's eyes went wide. Realization hit him like a bull. "No. Don't you dare! That wasn't a suggestion. That was mockery! I was mocking her! That was sarcasm wrapped in satire on top of a joke!"

But Hector was already turning, already walking away - not fast, but with purpose.

Apollo gasped. " Hector! You hugged me once, and now you think that counts as divine strategy?! You can't just ignore me! Don't do whatever it is you're planning! It's not romantic, it's… it's logistically reckless!"

No response. Just the sound of sandals over ancient stone.

Apollo slapped a hand to his forehead and slumped onto the altar like a wronged lover in a tragic play. "This is going to make the worst love poem. 'He did something impulsive because the god impersonated his half-sister in a joke.' That's not even iambic. There's no refrain. No symmetry!"

He peeked from beneath his arm with a pout. "I should've told him to write a sonnet. Or send a dove. Or at least serenade her from a balcony."

But the grove was quiet now - the air still, golden, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Apollo sat up with a sigh, pulled his lyre into his lap, and plucked a few sharp notes.

"Well…" he muttered. "At least it'll be dramatic."

***

The sun was soft now, trailing golden light across the marble colonnades and freshly raked gravel of the palace gardens. The air buzzed with quiet, the scent of olive trees and jasmine hanging heavy in the air. Odysseus walked beside King Tyndareus, their shadows stretching long on the ground.

They had been speaking of coins, ships, alliances, and tributes.

"The new trade harbor in Pylos may siphon some of our merchant traffic," Odysseus noted calmly, keeping her tone respectful but firm.

Tyndareus chuckled low in his throat. "Which is why I've already sent word to Mycenae. A well-placed festival and a few exemptions will turn the tide back in our favor."

Odysseus smiled politely. "Efficient, as always."

Tyndareus slowed his step, casting a look toward the sky as if it might whisper blessings to him directly. "Efficiency only matters when the foundation is strong. That's why I'm proud of what we've secured here."

Odysseus felt her stomach tighten.

"Meaning?"

He turned, his eyes warm but heavy with expectation.

"This union between you and my son, of course. Sparta gains a brilliant advisor and future queen, and Ithaca gains powerful protection. You've known Castor since you two were scraping knees while fighting with wooden swords. A perfect match - by any measure."

Odysseus's smile cooled. "Yes… A perfect match - arranged and announced before I had a chance to speak."

Tyndareus gave a hearty laugh. "Spoken like a true stateswoman. Calculated but not ungrateful."

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

He waved his hand as if dismissing her concern entirely. "You'll see, Odysseus. I only did what any loving father would do. You've served me loyally. I wish you to be safe, happy - powerful. I chose what's best for all of us. In time, you'll understand that."

Before she could answer - a sound cracked the quiet air.

Hoofbeats.

Sharp. Urgent.

They both turned. From beyond the outer gates, a chariot was thundering down the path, scattering doves and servants alike.

"What in-!?" Tyndareus took a step forward, guards already reaching for their weapons.

But the chariot didn't slow.

Once close enough, they witnessed a flying cape with a familiar mix of gold and red.

It was Hector.

A blur of bronze and sun-bleached hair and storm-filled eyes. He didn't hesitate. The Spartan king was quickly moved out of the way by one of the soldiers.

Odysseus felt a flash of terror - then confusion - as he leaped from the chariot like a lion, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her off her feet.

Her breath caught, her hands pressed against his chest - but in that moment, when she met his eyes, she understood.

This wasn't rage.

It wasn't madness.

This was a vow kept.

As he lifted her onto the chariot, something in her chest fluttered violently - not in fear, but in awe.

The wind whipped past them. For a short time, they could hear the screams of the angered king. The palace vanished behind a cloud of dust.

Odysseus gripped the edge of the chariot, her hair unraveling from its pins.

"Hector!" she shouted, half-laughing, half-aghast. "You lunatic!"

He didn't look at her - not yet. His jaw was set, his hands tight on the reins.

"I said I wouldn't let them take you from me," he growled. "And I meant it."

"Do you even know what you've just done?"

"I've made good on my word."

He turned then, eyes fierce. "I'm taking you to Troy. We'll be married before anyone can stop it. Before your name becomes a title to pass around like wine."

And gods help her - Odysseus smiled. A true bright and fierce smile that felt natural to her lips.

"You're insane."

"I'm yours."

For a moment, the only thing heard was their laughter and the sound of galloping horses. The couple could already smell the sea salt. They saw on the horizon the ship that Hector had prepared just for them. The crew waited, already having everything except for their prince.

Their hope was short-lived.

A line of Spartan soldiers blocked the dock's entrance. Shields locked. Spears braced. Like a wall of unyielding fate.

Hector cursed and yanked the reins. The horses skidded to a halt, hooves throwing sparks against stone, creating clouds of dust so big it made them cough.

They were surrounded in seconds.

Odysseus reached for her dagger instinctively. Hector stepped in front of her, sword on hand - but the soldiers didn't give him a chance.

He was dragged off the chariot.

Thrown to the ground.

His weapon scattered too far for him to reach.

Spears pressed down, pinning him.

He didn't cry out. But blood streaked his lip from where he bit it.

Odysseus jumped down, fury rising in her throat.

"Wait! He's done no harm-!"

"He stole you from my court!" King Tyndareus' voice roared across the stone. "He insulted my house, my daughter, my son - and me. "

Hector, pinned beneath two soldiers, lifted his head. He glared at the king, and without hesitation, he spit in his direction.

"Your house insulted itself, " he snarled. "You wear virtue like armor but sell your daughter like livestock. You only hate me because I didn't kiss your feet and offered Trojan riches in exchange.."

The room went still.

Then - a spearpoint dug against his throat. Blood started trickling down his throat.

Guards tensed, waiting for the king's order.

But the king's hand barely twitched before he heard the order.

"Stop it this instant!"

All heads turned.

Odysseus stepped forward, fury and clarity blazing in her. Her piercing glare was directed towards the king, who saw a gray light overlaying her eyes. 

Whatever this was, the goddess was watching. 

"I have an offer."

The king only made a gesture to the soldiers to back away weapons. Just enough not to risk having the Trojan prince bleed out on the ground.

"I offer you my wisdom. Not as your family but as a trusted ally and advisor. I know you struggled with the suitors. You keep trying to push them gently away without causing potential conflict, but we both know we can't stall for too long. Give me three days to complete the pact I've been working on. It will solve all your worries without any need for bloodshed."

Tyndareus stared. His look was stern but thoughtful.

"And in return?"

"You release Hector. You do not lay a hand on my lover again."

The silence was brittle. Nobody dared to speak. Not when the queen of Ithaca was this serious.

"And what guarantees that it will work? you think I will embarrass myself by presenting something that would cause more harm than good?"

"If you deem it worthy, you'll make sure history signs it with your name. If not, you can use mine. I'll take the responsibility and deal with the outcome."

Tyndareus' voice was quiet. "You would trade your name, your mind, your words - for him ?"

Odysseus stepped toward Hector.

"I would trade the whole of myself - if I chose to. But I won't have to. Because I'm not your pawn. I'm not his pawn. I choose."

She looked down at Hector, who stared up at her like she'd turned the sun itself in his direction.

"I choose this.

As it was promised. In a few days, the pact of Tyndareus was formed.  A sacred oath that willing people had to sign for a chance to win Helen's heart. The beautiful princess chose Menelaus as her husband, and they wed soon after. 

And as for Hector and Odysseus? They were currently spending the evening wrapped in each other's arms. The engagement was called off with an excuse of foretold prophecy. People didn't question it, knowing what punishment awaited those who doubted decisions made by gods and fates. 

The couple was finally free. They were slowly sailing to Troy, where Hector would talk to his father about the engagement. 

For the first time in months, the future looked bright to them.

Notes:

Fun fact: The three past chapters were originally supposed to be just one chapter of two part backstory, but as you see I couldn't stop myself from yapping :D

Chapter 4

Summary:

Lovebirds reach Troy.

The sea murmured against the hull, a slow, steady heartbeat beneath the dark, moonlit sky. The ship drifted silent and strong toward Troy, stars above like spilled pearls.

Hector sat cross-legged on the edge of his cot, bare-chested, his lower half wrapped in a thin linen drape. The sea wasn't kind enough to let him rest, so to distract himself, he decided to catch up with all the letters he didn't get a chance to read while staying in Sparta. An oil lamp rested in his palm, its glow dancing across the worn parchment in his hands. The seal had long since been broken, and the wax now lay in two brittle shards on the floor.

He could recognize the shape of the seal and the writing style of the letter anywhere. He liked to think that he wasn't affected by it, but he felt some nerves curling inside him when he was holding the message.

He reread the script, the ink dark and measured.

To my son, Hector, Protector of Troy-

May this letter find you in strength, honor, and clarity of thought. I hope to receive reports from Sparta that will detail your stay and your progress on this diplomatic mission. Your presence among the suitors should earn you praise, and through you, Troy will gain standing. I'm certain you represent our house admirably.

Yet I write with concern. A name has reached my ears - Odysseus of Ithaca. I had not anticipated her involvement in this affair, but it seems she has been invited by Tyndareus himself as an advisor. This should trouble you greatly.

She is known for her cunning. Her tongue is silvered, her eyes sharp, and her intentions rarely what they appear to be. Do not be ensnared by clever riddles wrapped in beauty. She has long relied on her feminine tactics - subtle manipulations, disarming charm. I've no doubt she is playing them now upon the Spartan princes. She most likely uses them like puppets while playing a long game under Tyndarus' protection.

There was a quiet rustle behind him - a blanket shifting, a breath catching. A moment later, a warm arm slipped around his waist, and a familiar voice, low and sleepy, pressed into the crook of his neck.

"Feminine tactics?" Odysseus's lips curved into a smirk as she read over his shoulder. "Is that what we're calling intelligence these days?"

Hector chuckled softly, careful not to jostle the lamp. "I'm not sure if he means your mind or your hips."

"Either way," she muttered, stretching against his back like a cat, "it's flattering to be considered so dangerous."

He leaned his head slightly to the side, letting her nestle against him. Her skin was warm from sleep, and her hair smelled faintly of sea salt and myrrh. She was still completely bare; the sheets pooled around her waist. The lamp's golden glow mingled with the cool sliver of moonlight pouring through the open porthole.

"I'm sorry, love. Did I wake you up?" Whispered the prince, kissing her temple. 

The queen nuzzled into gentle touch - like a cat, she rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. "More like a lack of you." Her voice is mid-yawning, but she is still expressing amusement. "It's hard to sleep without my favorite pillow." She hugged her beloved tighter. "And since you seem to not want to sleep, I can join in and see all the ways your father is going to call me behind my back."

"Well," Hector said thoughtfully, "there seems to be some truth to those words. You are dangerously clever. And manipulative. And beastly."

He turned and kissed her jaw, her cheek, and her neck with each accusation.

"You did ensnare me, poor Trojan that I am. Seduced by honeyed words and villainous schemes."

Odysseus laughed quietly, one hand brushing over his chest. "You mean honeyed wine and an offer of a challenge?  And let's not forget that you chased me on the chariot across the Spartan grounds. You're the one who stole me in broad daylight."

"Ah, yes," Hector said solemnly, "but who lured me to such madness? Maybe father does have a point?"

Ody's mouth dropped open in mock outrage. "You traitor!"

"Mm-hmm," he murmured, nuzzling her throat lazily. "You are a monster~."

He punctuated it by pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her collarbone.

"A cunning little serpent," he whispered, tracing his lips along the line of her neck.

Ody squirmed, laughing breathlessly. "Hector-"

"A harpy," he continued solemnly, dropping another kiss to her shoulder, then lower, brushing over the top of her breast.

"A little fox with too much wit," he said, the words melting into kisses against her skin, each softer and slower than the last.

Ody tried - and failed - to keep up her mock indignation. She arched into him slightly, laughter bubbling up between them.

"I'm being punished ," she gasped.

"No," Hector corrected, voice thick with affection. "You're being properly worshipped, serpent or not."

Their laughter filled the small cabin. They let their touches linger for a little longer before Hector looked for the letter that was lost somewhere in between the bedsheets. 

Odysseus, this time lying on her side comfortably, said with mischief in her voice. "Go on. Let's see if your father has more eloquent ways to describe me."

Hector cleared his throat dramatically and continued reading.

The fate of Troy should not hinge on a pretty lie.

Be wary, my son, for the serpent, may coil about even the strongest oak, and the fox may sing sweeter than the nightingale when it suits her. Keep your counsel close and your heart closer.

Both lovers burst out laughing, but then Hector seemed to be more serious when seeing the rest of the letter.

Cassandra has confined herself to the Temple of Apollo. The priests say she rarely eats, speaks only when seized by the god, and prays through the night. The high priest sees this as a sign of deepening devotion. I trust her silence is the will of Apollo.

Prepare for the arrival of the Egyptian ambassador upon your return. He will arrive in two days to discuss the possibility of sending us some of their well-trained doctors. Wear the blue chiton with the gold clasp - your mother insists. Be gracious. Honor the rites. And for the gods' sake, do not cause a scandal.

He paused, eyes narrowing.

"She hasn't left the temple in weeks?"

Odysseus shrugged softly, still pressed to his back. "Some people seek peace in silence. Or maybe she's just tired of being surrounded by noise."

"She used to go days without speaking, even as a child," Hector murmured. "But this feels… heavier."

Odysseus once again sat down and hugged her lover. "Your father sees devotion. You see, worry."

"I see Cassandra."

They sat quietly for a beat, the oil lamp flickering low.

Then Odysseus said lightly, "I like how your mother only comments on your wardrobe. That's true maternal love - making sure you don't embarrass yourself in front of foreign dignitaries."

"She also once threw a sandal at Paris because he wore too much perfume."

"Reasonable."

"What about your mother? What would she write?"

Odysseus yawned into his shoulder. "Hmm… something like, 'Brush your hair, don't pick fights with kings, buy something nice for your sister, don't set anything on fire.'"

Hector smirked. "I feel like you failed at least two of those."

"Only two?"

They both chuckled. Then Odysseus grew quiet again, her hand trailing lazily over his stomach.

"Do you think…" she began slowly, "that your father will forgive this? Us?"

Hector turned, shifting so he could see her face, her eyes lit with moonlight and something softer beneath.

"There's nothing to forgive. You didn't bewitch me."

"Didn't I?" she teased, trying to deflect.

"No," he said simply. "You made me think. And then you made me feel. My father may not understand that at first - but he will. He's a king. But he's also a man. And once, he loved recklessly too."

Odysseus looked at him for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed his temple.

"You're going to make a terrible speechwriter."

"I'll have you know I was once praised for a festival poem."

"Did you bribe Apollo to help you?"

"Flattery and bribery are two different things."

She laughed softly, and they stayed like that for a moment - leaning into each other, warm and tired and very much at peace.

"And if it still somehow doesn't convince him, then he'll have to learn in a harsh way that I didn't choose you for his approval. I chose you because you are the only woman I've ever met who makes me want to be clever. To push myself in ways I never thought possible."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're sure?"

"I faced lions, storms, and Cassandra's perfume collection. I can handle my father with hands tied behind my back."

Her lips twitched. "Very brave."

"You have nothing to fear, my heart. You've already won over my crew. And they're a rougher crowd than most kings."

Ody smiled faintly. "They only like me because I know some dirty stories from sailors."

"And taught them knife tricks," Hector added fondly.

"And because I didn't poison the food," she said with a sly smirk.

Hector laughed and kissed her forehead. "Small victories."

"But your father isn't going to be swayed by a few games of dice and a quick blade," she said quietly, half to herself.

"No," Hector agreed. "But he will be swayed by the woman you are. Loyal. Fierce. Brilliant."

That coaxed a real smile from her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

"And if he isn't," Hector added with a mischievous grin, "we'll just have to run away again. I still have the chariot."

Ody snorted. "Of course, you have."

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, the letter forgotten and the lamp already blown off and placed gently away.

"Picture it," he murmured. "Our own little home. Maybe near the river. Olive trees. A garden. Four children running underfoot."

She raised a brow. "Four?"

"Two girls, two boys. Balance."

"Hmm. Well..." she said slowly, tracing idle circles on his chest, "we may want to start planning a potential name for the first."

He blinked. "Wait. You mean-?"

She held the silence for a moment, watching the storm of thoughts cross his face, then broke into laughter.

"Gods, Hector. The panic ."

He groaned, flopping back onto the bed with theatrical agony. "That was cruel."

She grinned. "That was funny ."

"You're a menace! Worse than all of my siblings - combined!"

"Oh, I'm not that bad."

"Yes, you are, and you deserve to be punished~ ."

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bedding. She shrieked as he began kissing her ribs, her sides, and her neck.

"Mercy! I'm fragile!"

"You're a liar," he growled, kissing her again.

She giggled until she was breathless. Then, quieter:

"But seriously... What if we did ? What if Hera blessed us with little treasures for us to adore and protect?"

He looked into her eyes when he moved lower and kissed her abdomen. "Then I'd be the happiest man in all the kingdoms."

"Boy or girl first?"

"Doesn't matter. But if it's a girl, Callianeira. Or maybe Eirene."

"And for a boy?"

"Leandros. Or Aeson. Or maybe Astyanax."

"You already picked names?"

He kissed her brow. "Hope deserves names."

They lay there in the dark, the oil lamp guttering low, the moon above a quiet witness. The ship sailed toward Troy, and ahead, the future waited - brighter than either of them dared admit aloud.

---

The long, grueling voyage was finally over.

The towering gates of Troy rose in the distance, bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon sun. Banners fluttered lazily in the sea breeze, and from the ship's deck, Odysseus and Hector could already hear the faint clang of practice swords from the training grounds, the sounds of alive harbor and marketplace, and the hum of city life beyond the walls.

Standing at the prow, Hector exhaled slowly, then dropped to sit on a nearby coil of rope with a heavy, theatrical sigh of relief.

"Home," he said simply, running a hand through his salt-tangled hair. He removed the band with bronze plates just so the wind could cool off the sweaty forehead.

Ody smirked, crossing her arms and leaning casually beside him. "You mean land . You're just happy you won't have to kiss the rail every morning anymore."

Hector shot her a wounded look. "I did not kiss the rail."

"No," she said sweetly, "you serenaded it. Most affectionately. It almost makes me jealous."

He chuckled, too tired to argue. "You try having a stomach that hates the sea."

"No, thank you." Ody said lightly while massaging Hector's shoulders. "I'll happily praise the gods that blessed me with a strong stomach and good sea legs."

"And a sharp tongue," he muttered, but his lips quirked into a smile all the same. Feeling the tension from his body slowly disappearing. 

As the ship docked, a small welcoming party awaited them on the pier - and at the front, unmistakable even from a distance, were two young men: Paris and Helenus, both clad in light armor, swords slung at their sides more for show than necessity, especially for Helenus, who probably didn't train in swordsmanship until he was twelve and decided to study medicine instead.

Paris, grinning like a cat with cream, waved exaggeratedly. "Well, well, big brother! What or rather, who did you bring us?"

"Doesn't look like Helen to me," Helenus added dryly, raising an eyebrow as his gaze flicked between Hector and Odysseus.

Paris laughed, jogging forward as soon as the gangplank was lowered. He seized Hector in a rough, affectionate hug, clapping him hard on the back - hard enough that Hector staggered a step.

"And here I thought you were going to bring home Sparta's finest prize," Paris teased, stepping back and giving a low, mocking bow toward Odysseus. "Instead, you bring... a she-wolf."

Odysseus grinned wickedly, and as Paris straightened, she reached out and ruffled his hair with sisterly fondness.

"Look at you!" she said brightly. "Last time I saw you, you were all gangly limbs and sulky stares. Now you're almost respectable."

Paris groaned and ducked away from her hand, smoothing down his mussed hair. "Respectable? Gods forbid. And please be careful. Today, I actually tried to look decent."

"Don't let him fool you. He is twice as much a menace," Hector said, deadpan.

"Unfair slander," Paris said, clutching his chest as if wounded. "I am a paragon of virtue."

Helenus snorted. "Paragon of chaos, maybe."

"And you!" Odysseus turned to Helenus with a teasing grin. "You look just the same. Still the serious one."

"Someone has to be," Helenus said dryly. His gaze sharpened, studying Odysseus with open curiosity, a little confusion flickering across his features.

Hector gave a long-suffering sigh as if bracing for the inevitable. "Paris, Helenus - you already got a chance to meet Queen Odysseus of Ithaca."

"And your secret sweetheart ," Paris stage-whispered to Helenus, who immediately spluttered in surprise.

"Wait - what!?"

Paris only grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Oh, yes. A few years, apparently. Very well-kept years."

Helenus turned to Hector with an incredulous look. "And you didn't tell me? How could you!?"

"We love you, brother," Hector said solemnly, clapping Helenus on the shoulder. "But you are terrible at keeping secrets."

Helenus opened his mouth, closed it, and then huffed. "Fair."

Odysseus gave a playful curtsy. "Forgive us. It was for your own good."

"And my heart is only slightly broken," Helenus said, hand over his heart. "Truly, how could I have been so blind?"

"Apparently," Paris said with mock gravity, "our brother decided that a spartan princess wasn't enough of a challenge."

"You realize she would have eaten me alive," Hector said with a pointed look.

"I mean… Your beloved is already doing it" Paris waggled his hand noncommittally, grinning.

Hector sighed again, but this time, there was amusement beneath the exasperation. "Can we go back to you annoying me after I at least greet our parents?"

Paris gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Go on, face the beast. We'll be here providing moral support in the back."

As Hector and Odysseus passed them, Paris added under his breath, just loud enough for Ody to hear: "Try not to let Father bite your head off."

Ody only smiled sweetly over her shoulder. "I bite back."

Paris laughed, delighted, elbowing Helenus, who shook his head, smiling despite himself.

As they crossed the stone pier toward the palace gates, a servant approached the pair, bowed down, and then whispered something to the prince, who nodded in agreement; Hector murmured to her, "Unfortunately, we'll have to wait a little before meeting with my parents."

Ody raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Father's occupied with some council meetings. We'll have to wait until he's free."

"Convenient," she mused. "Gives you more time to prepare your speeches of devotion and your apologies."

Hector gave her a sideways glance. "And gives you more time to work your terrifying charm on the rest of my family."

"Exactly," she said, flashing a grin.

Paris and Helenus caught up with them quickly, Paris slinging an arm casually around Hector's shoulders.

"Since you're trapped with us for a little while," Paris said cheerfully, "might as well show your lady the sights."

"That sounds delightful," Odysseus smiled brightly, clasping her hands.

"Right!? Follow me, and I'll give you the best tour you can get," Paris said with a wink. "The one Mother wouldn't approve of."

Helenus rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. I'll show you the libraries. The gardens, if you'd prefer something civilized ."

Paris scoffed. "Pff. We have time for libraries. Come on, Ody, you want to see where we stash the best wine, don't you?"

Hector groaned. "Why did I think bringing you was a good idea?"

"Because you love us," Paris said sweetly.

Odysseus laughed and linked her arm with Hector's. "Lead the way, boys. I'll take the civilized and the uncivilized tour."

"Now that ," Paris declared, "is a true Trojan queen."

---

The palace was both grand and severe, all tall marble columns and high arched ceilings, a place meant to impress and intimidate. Statues and tapestries of gods and heroes lined the corridors like silent sentries. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of burning incense from distant shrines.

Odysseus walked slightly behind Hector, her heart thudding with every step. She knew how much this moment meant - for Hector, for her, and for the uncertain future they were about to claim.

King Priam sat upon his great chair at the head of the hall, flanked by Queen Hecuba. Time had etched deep lines into his face, but his strength was undiminished; his dark eyes were sharp as a spear, studying them with a mind trained for both diplomacy and war.

Odysseus bowed low with perfect poise. Hector knelt, his fist pressed to the marble floor.

"My son," Priam said, voice deep and resonant, though his tone remained neutral. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Father," Hector answered steadily.

"And you, Queen of Ithaca," Priam continued, inclining his head just slightly toward her. "Troy welcomes its guests."

"You honor me, King Priam," Odysseus replied, her voice calm, meeting his gaze without flinching.

There was a faint twitch of Priam's mouth - approval, perhaps, at her composure. Yet beneath it all, Odysseus felt the currents of tension already swirling.

The formalities passed quickly, and soon they were seated at the long banquet table. Servants bustled around them, bearing trays of steaming meats, fresh fruits, and goblets of spiced wine.

Conversation flowed at first with careful civility. Hecuba asked after the voyage, and Paris chimed in with colorful stories that made Helenus groan and roll his eyes.

Then Priam, setting down his goblet, turned his gaze sharply to Hector.

"Tell me, my son. What news from Sparta?"

Hector answered smoothly, his tone even, practiced. "The celebrations dedicated to Helen's birthday were lavish. The Spartans spare no expense to impress their allies and intimidate their rivals."

"And their king?" Priam asked, voice deceptively mild.

"King Tyndareus holds court with pride," Hector said carefully. "His council is...large. Many voices, often at odds."

"And what of your mission there?" Priam pressed.

Hector took a measured sip of wine. "There were...discussions. Many suitors sought Helen's hand. But the matter was resolved when we departed. Menelaus Atreides was chosen as Helen's husband."

A flicker of frustration passed across Priam's face. His fingers drummed slowly on the table.

"And you, Queen Odysseus," Priam said suddenly, turning his keen gaze to her. "I am told you were invited to advise King Tyndareus. Why?"

Odysseus set down her goblet with deliberate grace. "King Tyndareus sought counsel in managing the many suitors pressing for Helen's hand," she said evenly. "There was fear that choosing one could spark a war among the others. I was asked to help devise a solution - an oath that would bind the suitors to defend Helen's marriage, whichever way the choice fell."

A ripple of interest moved around the table. Even Priam seemed momentarily intrigued.

"And did you succeed?" Queen Hecuba asked, her voice thoughtful.

"In part," Odysseus said. "An agreement was proposed. But as always, human ambition strains against its promises."

At that, Paris gave a bark of laughter. "Wise words."

Helenus murmured something about the fickleness of mortal vows and reached for more wine.

The conversation drifted briefly to matters of Troy itself. Hecuba shared news of ceremonies led by Helenus in Hector's absence - how he had served as priest of Apollo during the sacred rites of the harvest.

"You would have been proud," Hecuba said warmly. "Helenus spoke with such conviction that even the old priests praised him."

Helenus ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased.

Yet Priam, relentless, steered the conversation back. "And the letters I sent, Hector?"

It was an indirect probe - one Odysseus immediately recognized. Priam was not just asking about the state of Sparta but whether Hector had heeded his warnings about the Queen of Ithaca.

Hector inclined his head respectfully. "Forgive me, Father. I was...occupied. I did not find the time to read all of them."

Priam's lips thinned. His gaze shifted, settling heavily on Odysseus, sharp and sour as unripe fruit.

Queen Hecuba caught the movement, her own eyes narrowing in displeasure at her husband's display.

The conversation faltered briefly. Servants came and went, the clink of dishes loud in the uncomfortable pause.

Odysseus kept her head high, her face a mask of composure. She had endured far worse than a king's cold stare.

Hector's jaw tightened. He glanced at her - at the way she kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, the slight tremor she tried to hide.

At last, as more dishes were cleared, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

"Father. Mother." His voice was steady, though something fierce burned beneath it. "I must speak plainly."

The hall quieted.

Priam gave a short, imperious nod, his face impassive.

Hector drew a breath. "I love Queen Odysseus," he said. "I intend to marry her - with your blessing."

Silence crashed down.

For a moment, even the servants seemed to freeze where they stood.

Hecuba's lips parted slightly - not in horror, but something closer to surprise...and hope.

Priam's face was stone.

"Seems rather rushed don't you think? You barely know her," he said at last, voice low and dangerous.

At the far end of the table, Paris muttered under his breath, "And yet you had no trouble sending him off to woo Helen - Ouch!" Paris glared at Helenus who just kicked him in the shin and now was shushing him.

Hector heard it, and so did Priam. The king's gaze snapped briefly toward younger sons, but he chose - for now - not to address it.

"I know her better than you think," Hector said, more quietly now. His eyes locked with Odysseus’, steady and sure. "We have been companions, advisors, friends-"

"And more," Odysseus said softly, standing with him.

It was Hector who said it first, clearing the air like a thunderclap.

"We have been lovers. For nearly five years."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Helenus gaped openly. Paris closed his brother's jaw. Maybe he wasn't shocked by the information but he was surprised that Hector was willing to admit it.

Priam's face darkened alarmingly. His fists curled on the table.

"Five years," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "And you dared to hide it? To consort with a woman fostered by Spartans ? Raised among our rivals? And expect me to welcome her with open arms?"

"She is no spy!" Hector snapped, temper flaring.

"You know nothing!" Priam roared, slamming his hand against the table. A heavy bronze platter toppled, scattering fruit across the floor.

Odysseus flinched, the sound raking across already taut nerves.

"You see?" Priam hissed, pointing at her. "She has bewitched you. A serpent in the skin of a queen!"

"Enough!" Hector thundered back, voice ringing against the marble columns. " I chose her! She did not trick me nor seduce me. I have loved her since I first knew her. No schemes. No lies!"

"You defend her well," Priam said mildly, the glint in his eye hardening. "Too well, perhaps."

The words were soft - but the accusation in them rang clear.

"I defend what is true," Hector said, tension tightening in his shoulders.

The air grew heavier, the undercurrent of the conversation darkening.

"You would tie Troy's fate to a woman whose first loyalty might lie elsewhere," Priam said, his words beginning to cut more deeply. "Can you be so certain of her heart, when even her homeland sits close to Sparta's poisoned grasp?"

"I am certain," Hector said, sharper now.

"And yet certainty is the luxury of young men," Priam murmured, voice mocking. "It fades with age - and regret."

The argument, once a measured exchange, now simmered with anger just beneath the surface.

Hecuba, seeing the change, gently tried to steer them back. "Enough of suspicion," she said, her voice light. "Surely we can judge by deeds, not shadows. Odysseus has shown nothing but respect and loyalty-"

But Priam interrupted her, rising slightly from his chair. His voice sharpened to a blade. "And what loyalty do we owe a woman whose blood is poisoned with generations of thieves and liars, whose loyalties are divided, whose presence here may sow ruin?"

The words struck like a whip.

Hector rose now as well, his chair scraping against the stone.

"Odysseus has given her loyalty to me," he said, his voice like iron. "And I to her."

"You are blinded by love," Priam snapped. "A man who forgets duty for desire is no son of mine."

"And a king who sees only enemies in those who offer friendship is no ruler fit for Troy!" Hector shot back.

The words burst out - reckless, furious.

The hall gasped.

Priam's hand slammed down onto the table. A heavy goblet toppled, wine spilling like blood across the polished surface.

Odysseus flinched, every muscle going taut.

"You see?" Priam hissed, jabbing a finger toward her. "She divides you from your kin. Even now, she drives a wedge between father and son!"

"She has done nothing!" Hector roared back. "It is you who seek betrayal where there is only love!"

The voices rose, anger and pain twisting every word.

The table shook as another goblet clattered to the floor, the sound echoing like thunder.

Odysseus shrank back instinctively, her breath coming fast.

And then-

Hecuba rose.

The queen's movement was decisive, sharp enough to sever the air between them.

"Enough," she said.

The room fell into shocked silence.

"You shame yourselves," she said, voice like the crack of a whip. "Kings. Princes. And you shout like drunken sailors, terrifying your guest."

Her gaze swept over them, cold and scornful.

"Is this how Troy's strength shows itself? In rage and foolish pride?"

Priam's face was thunderous. Hector bowed his head, shame burning in his cheeks.

It was then that the eldest prince turned to Odysseus - and saw her properly.

Saw the way she stood, pale and tense, her hands trembling slightly despite how fiercely she tried to hide it.

His heart broke.

"I'm sorry," he said thickly, stepping forward. "Odysseus, I-"

But before he could do more, Hecuba was already there.

She crossed the distance between them and drew Odysseus gently into her arms.

Odysseus stiffened, startled - but the warmth, the protection in that embrace, broke something inside her.

She sagged against the queen, trembling.

"You are exhausted, child," Hecuba murmured, smoothing a hand down Odysseus's hair. "And you have been treated shamefully tonight."

She turned to look back at Priam and Hector, her eyes flashing with disappointment.

"You will remain here," she commanded, iron in her voice. "And you will think long and hard about how you conduct yourselves."

Neither man spoke.

Hecuba gently guided Odysseus toward the side doors, one arm still protectively wrapped around her.

"You will stay in the guest chambers," she said softly. "Rest. You are not alone."

As the doors closed behind them, Odysseus caught one last glimpse: Hector, face raw with regret; Priam, glowering, his fists still clenched.

And then Hecuba's voice, warm and steady, wrapped around her like a soft blanket:

"Troy has weathered greater storms, my dear," she said. "And you - you are stronger than any gale that dares batter these walls."

Only then, safe in the queen's arms, did Odysseus finally allow herself to breathe again.

---

The great hall was almost eerily silent now, save for the low crackle of distant torches.

Hector sat stiffly, hands clasped tightly before him on the table. His heart was still pounding, but not from the argument - it was a worry for Odysseus that gnawed at him.

Had she been truly frightened?

Had he made things worse by losing control?

Guilt burned behind his ribs.

He should have kept his temper in check. Should have made sure she was safe first, reassured her. Now she was alone somewhere in the palace, maybe wondering if she'd made a terrible mistake in trusting him.

A soft scrape of cloth against stone interrupted his spiral.

Priam shifted in his chair, fixing his son with a look that was neither cold nor raging but almost weary.

"When did it start?" the king asked quietly. Voice raspy - probably from the yelling.

Hector took a slow, steadying breath.

"Not long after the Festival of Demeter," he said, voice low. "Four - no, five years ago. After the harvest rites."

He hesitated, then offered a rueful half-smile. "But if I am honest...I think I noticed her even earlier. When she was crowned. I was there representing Troy, remember? During the ceremonies for her coronation as Queen of Ithaca."

For a moment, Priam's mouth twitched - something almost like a grimace.

"Of course," the old king muttered under his breath, almost too low for Hector to catch.

Hector frowned slightly but chose not to press it.

Instead, he asked carefully, "Father...why is this different?"

Priam's gaze sharpened.

"You sent me to court Helen once," Hector continued. "A Spartan princess, daughter of Tyndareus himself. You had no fears then of Spartan influence. Why now? Why is Odysseus-"

He swallowed down his rising frustration, steadying himself. "Why is she a danger in your eyes?"

Priam leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly before him. When he spoke, his voice was once again calm and diplomatic - the way it might be when addressing ambassadors or enemies at a council.

"The difference," he said, "is simple."

"Helen is aloof. Removed. A pawn in the hands of men more ambitious than she. Her beauty draws suitors like moths to a flame, but she has a little mind for politics and little will for the scheme. She would have brought us advantages - alliances, dowries, prestige - without ever threatening Troy from within."

He paused, gaze growing colder.

"Odysseus, on the other hand..." His lips thinned. "Odysseus is sharp. Clever. Trained in courts where words cut deeper than swords. Her wit is her weapon - and she would wield it well."

"I do not fear being manipulated by her," Hector said, struggling to keep his voice even. "She is not some cold-blooded schemer. She is kind. She has been nothing but honest and good to me. I have seen her not as a queen or a counselor but simply as herself. She has a good heart and altruistic soul."

Priam scoffed, shaking his head.

"You are blinded," he said, voice edged with pity. "A man sees only what he wishes when he is drowning in love."

"And what of my mother then?" he asked, quiet but insistent. "She is not dull. Would you say she is dangerous, too?"

Priam leaned back slightly, considering the answer.

"No," he said at last, almost dismissively. "Your mother is loyal. To me. To our family. To Troy. She has strength, yes - but not the mind for politics. She never needed it."

The simplicity of the answer stung more than it should have.

Hector looked down briefly, hiding the tightening of his jaw.

He had seen firsthand the quiet wisdom in Hecuba's eyes. Had watched her guide without commanding, suggesting without demanding. She was no schemer, but neither was she blind or naive.

Still, he said nothing. What good would it do to argue that now?

There was a long pause. The flames guttered and hissed along the walls.

Priam's voice dropped lower, rougher.

"I should never have allowed you to pay respects at Laertes' funeral."

Hector blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"You heard me." Priam's voice sharpened again. "I should never have let you attend that farce of a coronation."

Hector stared, confused and faintly offended.

Priam exhaled heavily as if burdened by memories too bitter to speak plainly.

"Laertes' spawn," he said with contempt. "Colour might be different, but they have the same sharp, cunning eyes as him and for that they are not to be trusted."

There was real venom there, ancient and personal.

"You do not remember," Priam said, his voice low and tight. "You were not yet born. But when I was a young prince - your age or even younger - all my brothers were killed - slaughtered like pigs, and my innocent sister Hesione was taken. Stolen like a prize by Heracles himself. Treated as spoils of war, handed to one who offered the most. Only luck saved me from sharing the same fate as my brothers."

His hands tightened on the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening. The old king chuckled bitterly, voice rough almost like he was growling.

"And when we sought to reclaim her? When we demanded justice?" Priam's mouth twisted. "The Argonauts shielded him. Politicking, conniving, twisting truth into knots. They stood with Heracles - Laertes among them. Man of Ithaca. One of many allies of Sparta. Friend to no one but his own ambitions." Priam's eyes looked as if the man was present in the room. Instead he was back in time looking in the face of the men he was describing. “Argonauts are to this day praised by many for their achievements. People forget that they were just a group of men who were willing to do anything to climb the social ladder. Same people who defended Heracles from consequences of his heartless behaviour would not hesitate to abandon Theseus and even their own captain once their actions were too shameful and troublesome to stand by.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them.

"You think me cruel," Priam said finally, his voice worn thin. "You think of me as irrational. But I was generous, Hector. I allowed you to pay your tribute to a fallen hero respected by many. I did not poison you against the girl who now wears Laertes' crown. I extended courtesy when my heart burned with old grievances."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze heavy with warning.

"But do not mistake civility for trust. Cunning tongues have toppled greater kingdoms than Troy. And Odysseus - however sweet her face, however pure her words - carries the blood and the schooling of those who would trade loyalty for power in a heartbeat. Of those who would throw aside bonds formed and strengthened over years and even decades."

Hector sat rigid, his fists curling in his lap.

He understood his father's fear now. It wasn't about Sparta. It wasn't even about Odysseus herself.

It was about wounds that had never truly healed. About a world Priam had never forgiven.

And yet-

He thought of Odysseus's smile, her soft laughter. The nights they spent speaking of dreams and duties and fears.

The way she had never once tried to twist him or use him - but only ever stood beside him.

"I love her," Hector said quietly.

Priam's eyes flashed, but Hector did not look away.

"I trust her," he added. "Not because I am a fool. But because she has earned it. Again and again."

For a moment, the air between them hung brittle, as if the faintest breath would shatter it.

Hector pitied his father, he realized.

Pitied the man who had seen too much betrayal to believe in anything as fragile - and as strong - as love.

---

The guest chambers were warmer than the hall, but Odysseus couldn't quite stop the cold ache beneath her skin. She sat curled on a cushioned bench by the open window, letting the night air cool her flushed cheeks. Distantly, Troy's streets still murmured with life, but it seemed far away - blurred behind the weight of what had happened at dinner. She felt ashamed of herself. Usually it was nothing. She dealt with worse. Kings who's pleasure came from proving her wrong. General who assumed her gender was enough to demand more of her. But today - she almost couldn't recognise herself. She wanted to do more to support Hector but somehow she had no words.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door - tentative, almost boyish.

Before she could rise, the door eased open, and Paris slipped in, grinning sheepishly.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, already halfway into the room with an easy shrug. "I thought maybe you could use someone who wasn't trying to demolish the dinner table."

Odysseus gave a tired but genuine smile. "You're not disturbing me at all."

Paris crossed the room in a few quick strides and flopped into the chair opposite her, sprawling with careless grace. For a moment, he looked almost uncomfortable, fingers drumming lightly against his knee.

"I just wanted to say..." He grimaced, raking a hand through his hair. "Sorry. About dinner. About Father. About...everything, really."

Odysseus shook her head, the corners of her mouth lifting. "You don't owe me an apology."

"Maybe not," Paris said, tilting his head, "but still. It's not the most shining example of Trojan hospitality." He smirked. "Although, let's be honest: Father being a grumpy ass is about as shocking as the sun rising. If he ever smiled properly, the walls of Troy might crack."

That coaxed a soft, surprised laugh from her - light and fleeting but real.

Paris brightened immediately. Sensing an opening, he straightened up and grinned wider.

"And besides," he added with mock solemnity, "I figured, if nothing else, I could entertain you with my stunning wit and incredible archery skills."

She raised an eyebrow, playing along. "Archery skills, you say?"

"Don't laugh," he said, feigning wounded pride. "I've actually been practicing seriously this past season. Proper stance, breathing, the works."

Odysseus leaned forward, chin resting in her hand. "And?"

"And," he said with a grin, "I can hit moving targets now. Most of the time."

"That's no small thing," she said warmly. "Archery demands more patience than pride."

Paris chuckled. "Tell that to Deiphobus. He nearly shot himself in the foot last week."

They lapsed into easy conversation after that - about bows, old amphorae being the best targets ("Nothing beats that satisfying crack," Paris insisted), and even the merits of fletching styles.

At some point, the conversation slid naturally into softer waters.

Paris leaned his head back against the chair, looking up at the ceiling.

"Sometimes I miss it," he said quietly. "The hills, the sheep. The quiet. No court politics. Just wind, stone, and stubborn fluffy beasts."

"I understand," Odysseus said, her voice equally soft. "I love sheep. They're cleverer than people give them credit for. And warmer. Softer."

Paris turned to grin at her wickedly.

"Speaking of sheep..." he began, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Your valiant Cassandra used to be terrified of them."

Odysseus blinked, laughter already bubbling up. "Cassandra?"

"Oh yes," Paris said, settling in for a good story. "When she was picking flowers, one of the palace rams tried to eat her cape. Chased her across the courtyard like a demon. You should've heard the screaming - it sounded like a banshee."

He waved his arms dramatically, mimicking Cassandra’s frantic running. Odysseus clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles.

"You're making that up," she said between breaths.

"Swear on the gods," Paris said smugly. "Took her two years to forgive anything with horns."

Still chuckling, Odysseus reached out and ruffled his hair in a teasing gesture.

Paris squawked indignantly, batting her hand away with exaggerated offense. "Careful, lady of Ithaca, or I'll have to defend my honor and my lovely curls!"

She grinned just as another knock sounded - firmer this time.

Paris glanced at the door, smirking.

"Ah," he said, rising smoothly. "That'll be your knight in shining bronze."

As he moved to open the door, he leaned closer to Odysseus and whispered, "If you get bored of him, you can always come visit my room. We'll get drunk and play petteia till dawn."

Before she could retort, Paris opened the door and slipped out with a roguish salute.

Hector stood in the doorway, looking somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Do I want to know what he just offered you?" Hector asked dryly.

Odysseus gave a theatrical shrug. "It involved petteia, wine, and sheep, somehow."

Hector shook his head, but there was a fondness in his eyes as he crossed the room toward her.

When he reached her, he paused - just a breath away.

"I am sorry," he said, voice low and earnest. "For shouting. For...for letting it become so ugly. I never wanted you to be caught between us."

"You don't need to apologize," Odysseus said, reaching up to touch his cheek lightly. "You stood up for us. You made it clear I wasn't alone."

Still, Hector's brow furrowed. He caught her hand and pressed it against his heart.

"I should have been better," he murmured. "For you."

Odysseus chuckled softly, teasing to ease his guilt. "Well, if nothing else, you've made meeting my family seem much less terrifying."

That startled a small laugh out of him. "Is that so?"

"Mmm." She grinned. "My mother and sister already know something is going on. Hard to hide it when the whole village could see your ship anchored off Ithaca every other month."

Hector chuckled, finally relaxing a little.

"And," Odysseus added slyly, "there was the time Ctimene caught us by the olive grove. She ran straight to my mother with all the scandalized enthusiasm of a priestess catching a sacrilege."

Hector groaned. "I thought she looked far too pleased with herself the next day."

Odysseus laughed, her thumb brushing absent circles against his wrist.

“And the time you apologized to my mother when she noticed marks on my neck.”

“You know it is impossible to hide something from her. This woman knows everything .”

"You'll survive," she teased.

He tipped her chin up gently, his eyes steady on hers.

"My mother already loves you," he said simply. "That's more than I ever dared hope for."

Odysseus felt warmth bloom deep in her chest.

"And Paris seems determined to adopt me as a drinking companion," she said wryly.

"Patrons preserve us," Hector muttered, smiling.

Their hands stayed linked between them, the intimacy growing in the quiet.

"You know," Odysseus said mischievously, stepping closer so their bodies brushed, "I was wondering... Should the crown prince be worried about having someone like me in his bed?"

Hector's eyes darkened with amusement - and something deeper.

"Terrified," he said solemnly. “ That's why we are staying here. Much less likely to be interrupted. No meddling siblings. No curious servants."

"And no angry fathers?" she teased.

"For tonight," he said, drawing her closer, "only you and me."

Their lips met - soft at first, a gentle brushing, like testing the feel of a promise - and then deeper, fiercer, as if trying to erase the tension of the night with every breath.

Odysseus tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Hector lifted her easily, carrying her toward the bed with a low laugh vibrating against her mouth.

The night wrapped around them in warm, tangled sheets and whispered promises, leaving the world outside to wait till morning.

---

The morning sun slipped lazily through the thin curtains, casting a soft, golden light across the room. Odysseus stirred first, blinking sleepily, her body deliciously sore and comfortably tangled with Hector's.

He, however, showed no sign of moving.

Hector lay on his stomach, the covers barely cloaking his lower half, face buried against the pillow, an arm possessively thrown across her waist. When she shifted slightly, he only grumbled something unintelligible and tugged her closer.

Odysseus smiled to herself and traced idle patterns across his back.

"You know," she murmured, voice thick with sleep, "we can't stay in bed all day."

Hector made a low, stubborn sound deep in his chest. His arm ensuring she couldn't escape his warmth.

"I fully intend to try."

She chuckled quietly just as a sharp knock echoed through the door.

Hector groaned pitifully into the pillow.

Another knock, louder and more insistent.

Before either of them could react, the door creaked open - and in tumbled Paris and Helenus, Paris balancing a wicker basket in his hands.

"Good morning to-"

He stopped dead.

Helenus, following closely behind, peered around him - and immediately let out a strangled gasp.

The basket Paris carried slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud, the lid popping open to reveal a small collection of lovingly prepared pastries, which now rolled across the floor like startled mice.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then chaos.

"BY THE GODS!" Helenus yelped, slapping his hands over his eyes and stumbling backward.

Paris recoiled dramatically, one hand pressed to his heart. "WHY? WHY MUST I SUFFER?"

Odysseus barely had time to yank the blanket up to her chin before Hector, scowling murderously, shifted to shield her from view with his own body.

"You entered uninvited ," Hector growled, voice rough with morning rasp and clear outrage.

Helenus, still covering his face, wailed, "This is AWFUL. I'll never unsee it!"

Paris, who had recovered enough to crouch and start gathering the pastries, added with a theatrical grimace, "It's even worse than last time!"

Odysseus peeked over Hector's shoulder, amusement twinkling in her eyes. 

Helenus without looking asked with a clear worry.

"Last time?" He echoed. Odysseus was biting back laughter.

Paris shot them a tragic look. "At least then , you were mostly dressed! This-" He flung an accusatory hand in their direction. "-this is traumatizing."

Odysseus laughed helplessly while Hector simply glowered, clearly contemplating which brother to strangle first.

Helenus, peeking through his fingers, blurted, "We - uh - Cassandra wanted to invite you to the market-"

Paris interrupted brightly, snatching a pastry off the floor and inspecting it for damage. "And I thought I'd be a good host and bring breakfast to my sister-in-law before that happens." He winked at Odysseus, who smiled warmly at the title.

"But," Paris continued with mock severity, straightening up, "clearly, someone-" he pointed an exaggerated finger at Hector "-was too busy procreating to think about common decency!"

"Paris," Helenus hissed, scandalized.

"What?" Paris shrugged. "I'm just saying - after yesterday's disaster, after all that tension and drama, I thought he'd be brooding. Maybe sulking. But no. Our brother here is an unstoppable, thirsty beast! "

At that, Odysseus dissolved into giggles against Hector's shoulder. Hector, his ears tinged pink, glared murderously at Paris but said nothing, knowing it would only make it worse.

Helenus, still trying to hide behind Paris, muttered, "We should have knocked harder."

" We did, " Paris said mournfully. He tucked the half-crushed pastries back into the basket and gave Odysseus an exaggerated bow. "My lady, if you survive the company of this shameless creature, you truly have the strength of a thousand warriors."

Hector, voice like low thunder, cut in, "Leave before I reach for my spear."

Paris shot a look at Helenus. "You heard the warrior. Retreat."

Helenus needed no further encouragement. He all but bolted, dragging Paris with him.

Just before disappearing through the door, Paris called back over his shoulder, "If you get bored of him, my offer stands - you can come to my room. We can get drunk and badmouth everyone we know of. Fully clothed, mind you!"

The door slammed behind them.

For a moment, silence.

Then Hector dropped heavily back onto the bed with a long-suffering groan, draping an arm across his face.

"This," he said, voice muffled, "is exactly why I wanted to stay in your guest room. At least here, we had one night of peace."

Odysseus shook with laughter, propping herself up on one elbow.

"They're adorable," she said fondly.

Hector peeked at her with a baleful eye. "Adorable? They're menaces. And on top of that they follow me everywhere like ducklings."

Still chuckling, she leaned down to kiss his temple.

"Come on, grumpy prince. I'll help you get ready."

He grumbled but allowed himself to be dragged upright.

"Only," he said, voice warming, "if you let me help you ."

She tilted her head in mock curiosity. "Help me?"

"In everything," he said simply, threading his fingers through hers. "Always."

She smiled and kissed him again - longer this time - before slipping out of bed, wrapping a blanket around herself.

Hector watched her with such open tenderness that her heart stuttered.

Yes, the gods had seen fit to give her chaos, meddling siblings-in-law, and a kingdom full of dangers.

But they had also given her him.

And for that, she would face anything.

---

The sun hung lower in the sky when they returned from the market, their arms full of parcels and their hearts lighter than they had been since their arrival.

Odysseus was laughing softly as she entered the guest chamber, setting her spoils on a low table and rifling through them. She pulled out a neatly wrapped bundle and, with a triumphant smile, turned to Paris, who had already claimed the largest, most comfortable seat by the window.

"For you," she said, tossing the bundle at him.

Paris caught it clumsily against his chest, eyes lighting up like a child's. He peeled back the cloth to reveal delicate honeyed pastries, dusted with fine sugar and still warm from the market ovens.

"You," he declared with exaggerated reverence, clutching the sweets to his chest as if they were a sacred offering, "are my favorite family member!"

Odysseus laughed, crossing her arms as Paris dramatically rose to his feet and turned toward Hector, who had been leaning lazily against the doorway, watching the scene unfold with a fond smirk.

"You must marry her," Paris proclaimed, pointing a pastry at Hector like a general issuing a command. "Sooner rather than later."

Hector didn't even blink. He just lifted an eyebrow and with a smile said it simply as if he claimed the sky was blue, "That's been the plan all along." After which he moved closer to his lovely queen and kissed her hand.

Paris bit into a pastry, chewed thoughtfully and groaned with pleasure enjoying the sweet and sour filling. And then said with his mouth full, "Then marry her faster! "

Odysseus stifled a laugh behind her hand, and Hector merely shook his head, murmuring something under his breath about impatient siblings.

Before the conversation could get even more absurd, a servant stepped in, bowing low.

"My lords, my lady. Her Majesty, Queen Hecuba, requests your presence in the palace gardens."

Paris immediately perked up, brushing crumbs off his tunic. "Ooh. An official summons. Sounds fancy."

Hector exchanged a glance with Odysseus, one filled with silent reassurance, and together, they followed Paris through the winding marble halls to the gardens hidden deep within the palace walls.

The gardens were lush and fragrant, the air heavy with the scent of late-blooming roses and ripening fruit. Queen Hecuba sat in company of her children beneath a carved stone arbor, a low table before her, already waving for servants to bring more cups and another jug of wine when she saw them.

Cassandra and Helenus quietly joined in, lounging comfortably with the easy grace of those used to their mother's impromptu gatherings.

"Come, sit," Hecuba called, her voice warm and inviting. "There's no need for formality today."

They found seats around the table, Hector naturally placing himself at Odysseus's side, their knees brushing under the table.

Hecuba gave them a long, considering look, her expression soft.

"I owe you another apology, Odysseus," she said, lifting her cup slightly. "Yesterday was... regrettable. I would prefer today to be different. I hope to get to know the woman who has captured my son's heart."

Odysseus inclined her head graciously, though she felt her heart pick up speed. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I would like that as well."

"We'll start simple, then," Hecuba said, smiling. "Tell me - what do you enjoy? Hobbies, pastimes?"

Odysseus smiled faintly. "I enjoy wood carving, mostly. And... sailing. I grew up by the sea."

"A useful skill," Hecuba mused. “And how about weaving?”

“Sadly I seem to have too heavy a hand for such skill. I can barely manage a simple ribbon. My sister is the more talented one with wool.”

 “Ithacan wool is famed for its quality and colour. Some of my favourite chitons and himations were made with it."

Odysseus blushed lightly. "We take great pride in it. Though... I must say, the goldsmiths of Troy are unmatched. I admired so many of the pieces at the market today."

Across the table, Deiphobus - smirking - leaned over and said, "Paris probably owns half of them."

Hecuba chuckled, reaching to pat Paris's hand fondly.

"If only the rest of my children cared as much about appearances as he does. My dear Paris would never dream of appearing underdressed."

Paris preened under the praise, tossing his curls dramatically.

"I know how to dress for occasions," Hector protested, half laughing.

"Armor doesn't count," Hecuba said serenely, taking a sip of her wine.

The table burst into laughter.

Even Odysseus couldn't suppress a giggle. She nudged Hector under the table and said softly, "I think you look very handsome in armor."

Hector turned pink to the tips of his ears, and even Paris clapped his hands in delight.

“You hear that, Mother?" Paris crowed. "She likes him battle-ready. "

Odysseus laughed and added, "Truth be told, sometimes I wore armor myself. Mostly because... I was hopeless at doing my hair for formal events."

At that, Cassandra practically bounced forward in her seat.

"I'll teach you!" she said eagerly.

"And I, as well," Hecuba added with a smile. "A princess should have every skill she wishes, whether it's weaving or the art of an elegant braid."

The conversation flowed easily, light, and friendly; the tension of yesterday almost entirely faded.

But as the late afternoon sun began to dip further, a heavier presence approached.

They turned to see King Priam entering the gardens, his steps slow but sure.

Hecuba's expression tightened slightly, but she gave him a small nod of acknowledgment.

Priam settled into a seat opposite them, taking the extra cup the servants had hastily provided. His gaze, sharp as ever, landed squarely on Odysseus and Hector.

"I come not to argue," he said without preamble, his voice deep and even. "But to speak plainly."

The easy mood shifted, the laughter dimming into something more serious.

"You love my son?" Priam asked Odysseus directly, no cruelty in his voice, only intent.

"I do," Odysseus said, her voice steady.

Priam turned his gaze to Hector. "And you love her?"

"I love her with everything I have," Hector replied without hesitation.

Priam nodded, setting his cup down carefully. "Then you must understand something. You are both rulers in your own right. You, Odysseus, are the queen of Ithaca. You, Hector, are the crown prince of Troy."

His voice dropped lower, carrying more weight.

"You cannot both keep your thrones. If you want to be together, one of you will have to step down."

There was a ripple of silence around the table.

"If Hector leaves Troy, he forsakes his duty to a kingdom far greater than Ithaca. If you leave Ithaca," Priam continued, "you leave your people without their queen and your land without its steward. Neither choice is easy. Neither without sacrifice."

Odysseus felt the knot in her chest tighten. She glanced at Hector, who met her gaze with the kind of fierce, steady certainty that had drawn her to him in the first place.

"We haven't decided yet," she said softly.

Priam leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Until you find a solution," he said, "I cannot bless a future built on uncertainty. Not because I oppose your union but because I fear for your future. Love must be strong enough to carry the burden of ruling - or it will break under the weight."

He rose slowly, inclining his head slightly to Hecuba, and then turned and left, his robes trailing behind him like the sweep of a dark tide.

The silence lingered for a few heartbeats more.

Then, without a word, Hector reached across the table and took Odysseus's hand in his, lifting it gently to his lips.

"We will find a way," he said quietly, as if it were an oath.

Odysseus smiled, a little tremulous but sure in her heart. She squeezed his hand back firmly.

They would find a way.

They would face it together.

And as long as they did, there was nothing - no kingdom, no distance, no throne - that could tear them apart.

---

Odysseus stayed in Troy for a few more days before she planned to go back to her homeland, the weight of looming choices pressing more heavily with each sunset.

The days were filled with laughter, tender moments stolen with Hector, and shared meals with his family... but at night, the silence wrapped around her tightly, and her worries refused to sleep.

It was deep into one such night when she woke, the room dimly lit by the dying embers in the hearth.

Hector lay beside her, sleeping soundly, his brow finally smooth, free from the day's tensions. His arm was draped loosely across her waist, heavy and comforting.

Odysseus carefully, slowly lifted his arm and slid out from under the covers, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, glancing once more at Hector's peaceful form before slipping out of the room.

The halls of the palace were quiet, save for the faint whispers of night breezes slipping through the high windows. Guided only by memory, she wound her way through the corridors - Paris and Cassandra had shown her once, giggling and pushing each other like mischievous children - to a small, secluded shrine.

The shrine of Athena.

Set in a quiet alcove of the palace gardens, the shrine was simple, almost austere compared to Troy's usual splendor. A modest stone altar stood beneath a canopy of ivy, a carved owl perched atop the pillar - a silent sentinel.

Odysseus approached quietly, cradling a small offering she had carried tucked in her shawl - small bowls of seedless grapes and olives.

She knelt before the altar, placed her offering carefully at the base, and lit a small dish of oil with a trembling hand. The soft flame flickered to life, casting a halo of warm light around the stone goddess.

Odysseus bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the cool stone, and began the prayer - the formal words learned long ago:

"Great Athena Partenos, wise among the immortals, I offer this to you, as ever I have since childhood, in gratitude and in need..."

But the practiced phrases caught in her throat.

She exhaled shakily, the air clouding in front of her face on the cool night.

Her hands curled into fists on her knees.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't know what's right."

The confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable.

"I love them both," she said, voice breaking. "My people. And Hector. I... I can't imagine abandoning Ithaca. I built my life for them. They depend on me. But... he feels the same about Troy."

She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "How can I ask him to give that up? And how could I leave my people to struggle alone? I don't want to betray either."

The fire crackled softly.

Then, a presence - warm, ancient, and unmistakable - settled over the shrine.

Odysseus lifted her head, blinking through her tears.

Sitting comfortably on the edge of the altar, in the form of a tall woman with grey eyes bright as stormlight, was Athena herself.

She was plucking a bunch of grapes from the offering, nibbling it thoughtfully, her other hand casually stroking Odysseus' hair with the familiarity of an old friend.

The goddess's voice, when she spoke, was calm, with empathy:

"It's not often I find you so torn, my owlette."

Odysseus let out a short, bitter laugh, sliding down to sit fully on the ground with her back against the altar.

"No," she said roughly, brushing at her face. "I'm usually the one who knows exactly what to do. Always the plan, always the solution." She tilted her head back, staring at the dark canopy of ivy above. "But this time... my heart got involved."

Athena plucked another grape and said thoughtfully and lightly, "It tends to complicate things."

Odysseus hugged her knees to her chest, her voice small.

"Is it shameful?" she asked. "That I let my own feelings cause a situation that might hurt the people who trust me?"

Athena finished the first bowl, licking the juice from her fingers like a cat, and shook her head.

"Not shameful," she said. "Only human. Punishing mortals for feeling is a folly even my fellow kin are guilty of." Her mouth curved in a small, wry smile. "You love your people. You love him. Neither love is wrong."

"But it's still a choice," Odysseus murmured.

"Yes," Athena agreed, more solemn now. "A choice that will have consequences, whichever path you take."

Odysseus closed her eyes tightly. "Then what should I do? Please, guide me."

For a long moment, Athena was silent.

Then she leaned down slightly, her voice dropping low and steady.

"You are wise, child. You have always been wise. This answer must come from you."

But before Odysseus could despair, Athena added gently, "Still... I can offer you this: be patient."

Odysseus opened her eyes and looked up at her.

Athena's gaze was unwavering.

"In the past, haste served you well," she said, an amused glint in her eye - clearly referencing the night Hector had whisked her away in his chariot to prevent her forced marriage to the Spartan prince. "But this is not a decision won by speed. It is one that requires care. Reflection. It isn't only your future or Hector's. It is the fate of two life-filled lands."

Odysseus swallowed hard.

She wanted so badly for the answer to be simple. But deep down, she knew the goddess was right.

She shivered slightly - the cold stone at her back, the chill of the night seeping into her bare feet.

Athena saw it, of course. With a gentleness that made Odysseus' throat tighten, the goddess shifted down to wrap her wing lightly around her, a protective, warm embrace.

"You're tired," Athena said softly, almost a lullaby. "Don't let the cold or the doubt make you sick. Rest, little owlette. Let Hypnos take care of you. You'll need your strength."

For a moment, Odysseus leaned into the touch, closing her eyes, letting herself be just a child again - a daughter under the watch of a motherly goddess.

She stayed like that until the fire burned low, and the ache behind her eyes ebbed slightly.

When she rose at last, gathering her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Athena was already gone, only the lingering scent of fruits and smoke remaining.

Odysseus hugged herself tightly as she walked back through the garden paths, the grass cool beneath her feet. She thought only of reaching Hector and the warmth of their shared bed, but a faint light caught her eye - a soft, flickering glow coming from a small alcove near one of the palace verandas.

Curious, she padded closer, keeping to the shadows.

There, sitting cross-legged with a scroll spread open on his lap and a small oil lamp beside him, was Paris.

He was completely absorbed, his lips moving slightly as he read under his breath, slowly punctuating each word, brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Odysseus smiled softly, leaning against one of the stone pillars.

"Does everyone in this family prefer reading at the worst possible hours?" she teased lightly, voice just loud enough to carry but soft enough not to startle him.

Paris jumped a little, startled, then looked up at her with a guilty grin.

"I could ask you the same, you know!" he retorted. But his playful tone softened when he saw the thinness of her nightgown, the slight shiver in her frame. "Gods, Odysseus, you're going to catch your death out here."

Before she could protest, he got up swiftly and shrugged off his chlamys - a fine cloak dyed deep blue and edged in gold thread - and draped it around her shoulders.

She blinked, touched by the unexpected gesture.

"There," Paris said, satisfied. "Now you look properly scandalous and a little less likely to freeze."

Odysseus chuckled, tugging the heavy fabric tighter around herself.

"You're dangerously close to being called a gentleman, Paris."

He grinned, gesturing for her to sit beside him.

"Couldn't help myself," he said, tapping the scroll in his lap. "I was supposed to be asleep, but... this story is too beautiful to put down."

"What are you reading?" Odysseus asked, sinking down beside him, the cloak pooling around her like a dark wave.

He practically beamed. "The story of Pygmalion and Galatea."

At her curious look, he leaned closer, animated, like a boy sharing a favorite secret.

"It's about a lonely sculptor who carved the most beautiful woman from ivory," Paris said eagerly. "Soon after he fell in love with her. He dressed her in the finest clothes, talked to her each night and named her Galatea. He prayed to gods for a chance to be with his beloved and Aphrodite granted it, bringing Galatea to life allowing them to live happily ever after.."

He sighed happily, resting his chin on his palm. "Isn't that just... wonderful?"

Odysseus smiled at his earnestness but couldn't resist gently tempering it.

"There are versions of this story," she said carefully, "where it doesn't end so well."

Paris blinked at her, confused.

"How could a tale like that end sadly?"

"In some tellings," Odysseus said quietly, almost solemnly, "Galatea, once alive, doesn't love Pygmalion. She's her own person - not just what he imagined. And in others..." She hesitated, then added, "It's Pygmalion himself who falters. He realizes he loved the idea of her - not the living, breathing woman she became."

Paris frowned deeply, looking genuinely troubled by this idea.

"But... surely..." he began, struggling to find the words. "Surely the gods - Aphrodite especially - wouldn't grant a wish that would end in heartbreak."

Odysseus watched him, his brows knitted in a kind of stubborn hopefulness and felt something in her own heart soften.

"Maybe not," she finally agreed, with a small smile. "Maybe not."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the night air cool and still around them; the only sounds were the distant murmurs of the sea and the quiet crackle of the oil lamp.

Then Paris turned to her, curious.

"And you? What are you doing out here, in the middle of the night, barely dressed and sneaking around like some kind of goddess of mischief?"

Odysseus chuckled, tucking the edge of the chlamys more securely around herself.

"Needed to clear my mind," she admitted. "The night seems kinder to wandering thoughts."

Paris studied her face for a moment, and his playful grin faded into something more earnest.

"You're worried," he said simply.

Odysseus didn't deny it. She only shrugged one shoulder lightly.

Without a word, Paris reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a brotherly side-hug. His warmth was reassuring and grounding.

"You're not alone in this," he said firmly. "Even if you're not officially married to Hector yet... you're already family to me."

Odysseus smiled, feeling a tight knot in her chest loosen a little.

"You just say that," she teased, "because I'm the perfect partner in crime for you."

Paris laughed, his voice carrying lightly into the night.

"That too," he admitted shamelessly. "But mostly because I see what you do to Hector."

Odysseus tilted her head at him, curious.

Paris grinned, soft and genuine now.

"He's... lighter when you're around. Happier. More stubborn, too, but that's part of it," he said. "I haven't seen him smile like this to anyone else."

Odysseus felt her throat tighten, and an unexpected emotion rose within her.

She looked away quickly, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

"Thank you, Paris," she whispered.

He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, then released her.

For a moment longer, they sat in companionable silence, sharing the quiet peace of the night.

Finally, Odysseus stood, brushing down the oversized chlamys. She ruffled Paris's hair affectionately, making him splutter and bat her hand away with mock indignation.

"Enough scheming for one night," she said, smiling down at him. "Time for both of us to get some proper sleep."

Paris groaned dramatically but rolled up his scroll obediently.

"As you command, my terrifying future sister," he said with a wink.

Odysseus laughed softly and began walking back toward the guest quarters, Paris trailing behind her, the faint lamplight bobbing between them like a small, loyal star.

Odysseus made her way back to Hector's room, her steps quieter now, her heart still heavy - but steadier.

She slipped back into the bed, curling close to Hector's warmth. He murmured something incoherent in his sleep and pulled her closer without waking.

Odysseus pressed her forehead to his chest, breathing in his scent, and allowed herself to finally, finally drift into sleep.

Tomorrow would still bring choices.

And somehow, the night no longer felt quite so heavy.

Notes:

Thanks to my ADHD and awful sleep schedule I can offer you this chapter faster than expected, but I cant promise when the next one might be posted. I have a lot of plans for it, but it's hard to say how long it will take to put it together.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Time goes by. The royal woman of Ithaca and a charming prince of Troy are allowed to enjoy the beauty of marriage.

Notes:

Special thanks to FlamingWildflower for helping me with this chapter. I truly recommed you reading her fic "Voice of An Angel". It's a beautiful story filled with a perfect amount of chaos <3

She glimpsed at him first in the garden mist,

Cloaked in gray, where no light kissed.

He turned at her voice with a secret smile-

Then vanished behind the yew tree aisle.

She laughed, half startled, and gave a cry,

"Catch you yet, stranger - by and by."

---

The decision was not easy to make. One of them would have to change everything that was known to them for the sake of their love. Not to mention the steps that would have to be taken to secure such a decision. For now, the two lovers stayed together, and even if their love wasn't yet blessed by Hera, it didn't change how they felt. 

The only inconvenience that came from it was that they still had their own responsibilities. They could see one another only for so long until one of them had to go back to assigned duties. 

Sometimes, those were gods who called upon their champions to fulfill given tasks. Other times, those were armed conflicts of debates between kings. But no matter what it was, they always found a way to go back into each other's arms.

Tonight, the moon hung low over Troy, casting soft silver light through the high windows of the royal palace. The halls were quiet now, servants dismissed, celebrations ended - most of the city was too tired or too drunk from Hector's return to notice a mysterious figure slipping silently through the shadows.

The woman moved with quiet confidence, her frame cloaked in plain linen, face half-hidden beneath a servant's veil - hands holding onto a basket filled with fabrics. No one questioned her. She moved like she belonged.

She stopped at a tall cedar door, glancing down the hallway once. She left the things she carried and then pressed her palm against the wood. It slowly creaked open.

Inside, Hector was half-dressed, arm wrapped in bandages, toweling his damp hair after a bath, a lazy weariness in his broad shoulders from weeks in the field. Exhaustion didn't let him hear the door.

Until-

"Your guards need retraining," a familiar voice said with a smirk. "I got in far too easily."

Hector spun around. Eyes wide. Mouth agape.

"Odysseus," he breathed, stunned.

She dropped the veil, grinning wide. "Surprise."

A beat - and then he crossed the room in two strides, catching her in his arms and pulling her into a kiss, his hand cradling the back of her head.

"I thought I was hallucinating," he murmured against her lips. "Gods, what are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to arrive in another moon cycle?"

"You didn't think I'd let you return from battle without someone here to remind you you're still human, did you?"

"Of both of us, you are the more monstrous one." He laughed, low and warm, holding her close. "Sneaking into the palace dressed like a handmaiden, though? That's new."

"I'm very committed to the bit," she said proudly. "You should've seen me nearly get caught by a drunk noble who asked if I could bring him roasted pork."

"I'm going to find every single guard and fire them," Hector muttered, still half in disbelief. "Father would assume you tried to ambush me! You could've been arrested!"

"But I wasn't," she teased, tugging him in the direction of his bed. "And besides, it was worth it to see that look on your face."

"How did you even get inside the palace anyway?"

"Oh," she said, stepping back with mock pride, "With disguise, of course. Skirt, veil, everything."

Hector raised a brow. "I can see that. But how did you enter the city unnoticed?"

"Oh, you are going to love it~. Your menace of a brother helped."

He groaned. "Do you know how little that narrows it down?"

After a moment of silence, they both snorted.

"Paris," she clarified with a grin. "He said - and I quote -'You're going to break his heart if you don't go in tonight. Go be his reward for surviving two weeks of mud and blood.' And then he shoved a laundry basket at me."

"I'm going to strangle him."

"I think he means well. In his over-the-top way."

He let her guide him down, both of them falling back into the soft furs that lined his bed. He wrapped an arm around her waist, anchoring her to his side as their lips met again - this time slower, deeper.

"I missed you," he said against her skin.

She smiled. "I missed you more. Now, tell me everything."

He quirked a brow and asked with amusement in his voice. "Everything?"

"I want to hear how you won," she said, propping herself on her elbow. "I read the brief reports. 'Trojan forces repelled the invasion.' Boring. I want to hear how you fought. How you rallied them. Tell me what your council didn't dare to write."

He chuckled, beginning to recount the battles - the terrain advantages, the ambushes, the mistakes they'd made, and how he'd adapted. She listened closely, her hand tracing lazy circles across his chest as he spoke.

"Still undefeated," she whispered proudly.

"For now."

"And tell me, my brave warrior of Troy. How did you end it?"

"I disarmed a Thessalian captain," he said. "Used his own spear to pin him to the wall. I think his men were more afraid of me than the gods."

She grinned. "That's because you are terrifying. And talented. And handsome. It's very unfair."

He glanced down at her. "You flatter me."

"Always," she said, kissing his jaw.

Her eyes gleamed with interest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest as she listened, interrupting occasionally to poke fun or ask for details. She soaked up every word like rain.

When he finally leaned back with a sigh, her hand curled into his.

They were quiet for a beat. Then Hector, in a soft, teasing tone, said, "And what about you? What chaos did you cause while I was off bleeding in Thrace?"

Odysseus smirked. "Oh, the usual. Fixed a grain route, dodged an assassination attempt or two~."

"Standard week, then."

"Oh, and I got invited to King Diomedes' sixteenth birthday celebration."

At that, Hector's brow arched. "Diomedes?"

"Mm-hm."

There was a brief pause.

"I suppose it's a coincidence," he said casually, "that the young King of Argos is also now of marriageable age."

Odysseus looked confused for a moment - then barked a laugh. "Oh gods, Hector! Don't be ridiculous!"

"Did he welcome you personally?"

"Probably because Athena told him to. He was so awkward for most of the night. Shy little thing."

"Still," he said, voice husky, "you probably were the center of attention."

Odysseus snorted. "The only thing people cared about was how some queen of a rocky island somehow ended up on the guest list. I may have worn the only dress in the room without gold thread and a dozen jewels sewn into it."

"You say that, but you always steal the room."

"And yet here I am, hiding in yours," she said softly, brushing her thumb over his cheek - her eyes filled with nothing but admiration. "Hector, you should've seen the way people spoke about you while you weren't around. Priam is proud, but the people - they adore you." She spoke almost out of breath.

He looked away, his cheeks becoming redder with each passing second.

"You give them hope," she continued. "You make them believe Troy will endure anything."

"And what about you?" he asked, turning back to her. "What do I make you believe?"

She smiled, drawing his hand to her lips.

"That maybe I'll get to be selfish," she murmured, "and have something - someone - just for me."

He was quiet for a moment, then pulled her fully into his arms.

"You do have me," he said. "No matter what our titles are. You are mine, and I'm yours."

Her breath still warm against his collarbone, Odysseus smiled lazily, drawing idle shapes on his chest with the tip of her finger. His hand rested on the small of her back, thumb brushing slow, comforting circles. The silence between them wasn't empty; it pulsed with closeness, contentment, and that steady sense of belonging they only found in each other.

Then Hector broke the quiet, voice hushed.

"How long do you think you'll stay this time?"

She lifted her head to look at him, her hair a tousled halo around her face. "Why? Planning to get rid of me?"

"Just the opposite," he said, and something unguarded flickered across his face. "I was hoping you'd stay longer."

Odysseus softened. "I can stay at least a week," she said. "Maybe more, depending on how many times your siblings try to rope me into their chaos."

Hector let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You're already part of it," he murmured. "They adore you."

"And you?" she teased, propping herself up on one elbow.

He looked at her, eyes warm. "I've always adored you."

That made her flush, even as she tried to cover it with a grin. "So," she said, voice light but curious, "what's got you so happy about a week?"

He hesitated for half a second - just long enough for her to notice - then smiled as if he was tucking something away behind it. "Let's just say I had some plans."

"Plans," she repeated. "Should I be nervous?"

"Very~."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "Well, since you won't tell me anything about your great plans , at least what's the grand scheme for tonight?"

That wolfish smirk she knew too well crept onto his face. "We could take advantage of what you're wearing."

She blinked, then laughed, catching on immediately. "Oh, I see. You'd exploit a poor, defenseless palace maid?"

"Ruthlessly," he said, shifting them both until she was laughing into his shoulder.

"Terrible," she muttered. "You're lucky I have a thing for tyrants."

They stayed like that for a while longer, the darkness of the night sky bleeding into the deep hues of dawn, tangled in soft sheets and half-whispered promises.

---

He was there by the stream on the solstice night,

Trailing fingers through the silver light.

She ran to him barefoot over moss and stone,

But always arrived to find him gone.

Sometimes - just once - he'd leave behind

---

Days have passed. Troy shimmered beneath the honeyed glow of late afternoon, the kind of golden light that made even the war-hardened stones of its walls look soft. Inside the palace, laughter echoed down the marble halls - quick, sharp bursts that followed Hector like mischievous spirits.

Odysseus tilted her head as they passed a long corridor. "Are they always like this, or is today special?"

Hector groaned quietly. "I swear, they weren't this annoying last week."

She gave him a sly glance. "And you're not usually so rattled."

"I'm not usually the one being giggled at."

As if summoned by the accusation, Paris darted past them with the guiltless speed of a younger sibling caught mid-crime. Cassandra leaned against a column nearby, feigning deep interest in a cracked mosaic tile. Helenus stood behind her, doing a terrible job of concealing a grin. All three of them whispered and nudged each other as Hector and Odysseus passed, like children eavesdropping through a tent flap.

Odysseus paused. "Okay. What is going on?"

"Nothing," Hector said, in the exact tone of someone trying to pretend everything was fine while his house burned behind him. "They're just…"

"Laughing every time you walk by?"

"They're being siblings ." When saying it, Hector and his sister exchanged looks that felt more like a silent conversation that ended with a small nod given by the crown prince.

Cassandra gave a dramatic cough that suspiciously resembled a stifled "finally." Hector turned toward her with a warning glare, but she slipped around the corner like smoke.

Odysseus shook her head, amused. "You're sure I shouldn't be worried?"

"I'm sure," he sighed. "Annoyed, yes. Worried, no. Those little terrors are rather harmless."

She smirked. "And here I thought you were the terror of the battlefield."

He shot her a sideways glance. "Come. Walk with me. Away from them ."

"You're fleeing."

"Retreat is a tactical move."

"You're nervous."

"I'm being harassed ."

She laughed, letting him lead the way.

They stepped into the garden beyond the palace walls, into a softer world where the flowers grew in spirals, and the sea breeze carried salt and lavender. The gardens of Troy had always felt a little enchanted, but now, as they walked beneath the blooming pomegranate trees, something quieter stirred. A single note of music - light and crisp - fluttered in the air like a plucked string from a lyre.

Odysseus turned, brows raised. "Did you hear-?"

But when she looked back, Hector was no longer walking beside her. He had stopped a few paces behind, kneeling in the grass.

Her heart skipped. The music faded into the wind.

Hector looked up at her, sunlight scattered across his face, a nervous energy in his posture that reminded her not of the seasoned general but of the young man beneath the armor.

"I know we've spoken of our future," he said slowly as if each word was chosen with care. "Of where we're going. But I never asked the question - not properly. Not in the way you deserve."

From the folds of his tunic, he drew out a length of linen cloth, carefully knotted. He untied it with steady hands, revealing a necklace of fine bronze links set with tiny blue gems that glimmered like Aegean tides.

"I had it made for you," he said, voice quiet. "I hoped it would match the beauty of your eyes and that it would be worthy of someone as amazing as you. with mind sharp as a bronze sword and as alluring as depths of the wide blue sea."

Odysseus stared at him. Her hands were shaking - heart beating faster than ever before, and his eyes shining with building-up tears that would not dare to fall down. At least not yet.

"Odysseus of Ithaca," Hector continued, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Will you marry me?"

The world narrowed. Everything else - the city, the gardens, the giggles, even the note of the mysterious lyre - fell away.

Tears welled instantly in her eyes, but she laughed through them. "Hector," she said breathlessly, "you absolute fool."

He blinked. "I-"

"Of course, I'll marry you."

She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around his shoulders. "Yes. Yes! A thousand times, yes!"

He caught her with a stunned, joyful noise that barely passed for laughter and kissed her like a man who'd waited a lifetime. They stayed like that in the grass, kissing and whispering things neither would remember clearly later, their joy too big for words.

Then, still kneeling, he gently placed the necklace around her throat. The bronze warmed against her skin. The blue gems caught the sunlight, glimmering like twin stars—one like her left eye, stormy and sharp, and one like her right, sky-bright and clear.

"My queen," he murmured reverently.

"My king," she whispered back, her voice thick with love.

They held each other like that for a long moment, breath mingling, forehead to forehead. For a short while, they were together in their little world.

But then-

crunch.

A rustling of leaves.

A very suspicious shhhh! hissed behind the nearest hedge.

"Do not push me, Paris!"

"You pushed me first!"

"Be quiet, both of you! He's going to hear-"

Too late.

Hector froze. Odysseus looked over his shoulder and turned her head, squinting at the hedge.

A familiar mop of golden curls emerged, followed by a pale arm, and then Helenus tumbled out of the bushes entirely, landing with a theatrical "oof!"

Paris was next, tripping over a root with all the grace of a drunk faun. Cassandra followed, trying - and failing - to catch her younger brother, only to instead fall on top of both of her siblings.

" Were you spying on us? " Hector asked. His voice filled with disbelief and annoyance.

"We didn't want to miss it," Paris said defensively.

"You knew, " Odysseus said, almost laughing, staring at them all. "You knew he was going to propose. "

"We were ensuring it went smoothly," Helenus said, brushing leaves from his tunic.

"Smoothly?"

"We had to make sure our dear brother won't fumble and accidentally scare you away," Paris said teasingly.

"And what was your plan, huh? Catch Ody with a net in case she refuses?" Hector deadpanned.

"It was plan gamma," Paris said.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "You panicked so much you almost forgot the necklace this morning."

"I didn't panic ," Hector muttered.

"You did," Paris said. "You made Helenus check your pockets three times."

"I am surrounded by traitors."

Odysseus just laughed, throwing an arm around Hector's waist.

"Don't be mad," Helenus grinned. "You were going to tell us after, weren't you?"

"Yes," Hector said. " After. You know, like normal people. You didn't have to sit in the bushes to know what happened."

"It's not like you were helpful." Cassandra sighed. "You picked the worst place to propose. The acoustics in this garden are dreadful. I couldn't hear a thing ."

Odysseus laughed despite herself. " Unbelievable. "

Hector was red from forehead to collarbone. "We're leaving ," he announced flatly, helping Odysseus to her feet with great dignity and very little actual composure.

As they walked away, hand in hand, Odysseus leaned in. "By the way… that lyre earlier. I really did hear it, right?"

Hector paused. His ears turned red.

"Yes," he said eventually, grumbling.

"Where did it come from?"

He hesitated. But after taking a deep breath, he answered while avoiding his fiancée's curious gaze. "Apollo."

Odysseus stopped walking. "Apollo?"

"I tried to stop him." Hector cleared his throat. "But he's somehow even more stubborn than you."

"Was he serenading us? "

"I'm not talking about this."

" Oh my gods, he was. He's your patron, and he was serenading us."

Hector groaned and kept walking.

They didn't rush back. Instead, they wandered slowly through the gardens, their steps unhurried, as if the world outside the palace walls had paused just for them. Hector led her along the winding paths beneath trellises heavy with late-blooming wisteria, past fountains that glimmered with falling light, their reflections caught in the calm surface like tiny stars.

Occasionally, Odysseus would reach up to touch the necklace at her throat, fingers brushing the smooth bronze or the blue stones that matched the eye she knew he loved best. It felt like a promise, not just spoken but made visible, resting just over her heartbeat.

Hector, usually composed even in his affection, couldn't help the way his hand strayed to her back, to her waist, as if grounding himself in her nearness. They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. Every glance was a sentence, every touch a shared thought.

As the sun sank further, turning the sky a deepening gold and the sea a basin of fire, the palace behind them came to life with the quiet signals of the evening. The clatter of dishes from the kitchens, the echo of footsteps in long halls, the rise of music as servants prepared for the nightly meal.

By the time they re-entered the palace, the last warmth of the day was fading from the marble floors. Hector offered her his arm, not out of formality but because the moment felt like one to mark - one to remember.

When they arrived in the great hall, the family was already gathering. Priam stood near the head of the table, deep in conversation with Antenor. Hecuba, radiant even in age, sat flanked by Cassandra and Helenus, her smile softening as she spotted her eldest son.

Hector paused only a breath, then gently let go of Odysseus's hand. He stepped forward, quiet but sure, and bent to kiss his mother's cheek.

She looked at him curiously, something knowing in her gaze.

He smiled - not the proud grin of a prince or the steeled mask of a general, but something gentler. Full of something he'd waited years to share.

Nothing needed to be said. The way the prince smiled and the glint of the jewelry was already able to tell the story that the couple wanted to share.

Hecuba's eyes widened just slightly, then her hands flew to her lips, her expression blossoming into joy.

And across the hall, Odysseus met his gaze and smiled.

They didn't need to say anything else. The rest would come.

But in that moment, as the doors closed and the lamps were lit, it was enough. The promise was made. The hearts steady.

The evening sun melted into twilight, and the quiet hum of the palace turned to celebration.

The future had already begun.

---

Once she caught him close - so near-

He turned and grinned from ear to ear.

"I nearly had you," she dared to say,

But he laughed like thunder far away.

It felt like a game, both ancient and new,

A riddle they danced in the falling dew.

---

The Spartan palace gardens were bright with late-spring light, the olive trees casting slender shadows over sun-warmed stone. From somewhere in the palace, the soft strains of a lyre drifted lazily on the breeze. A servant passed silently with a tray of fresh figs, which Odysseus took with a grin before dismissing the poor boy with a wave.

She lounged on a stone couch in the shaded pavilion, sandals kicked off and one arm draped over the backrest, as relaxed as if it were her own home.

"So," she said, popping a fig into her mouth and eyeing the lounging figures beside her. "You two are still married. That's… frankly surprising."

Helen smiled, radiant as ever. "We're as surprised as you are."

Menelaus, seated beside his wife and sipping wine through the golden valve of his jawpiece, groaned. "You've been here five minutes."

"And I'm being generous," Odysseus shot back. "I half-expected to find Helen ruling Sparta alone while you were locked in a wine cellar."

Menelaus groaned as he sipped his wine through the subtle golden valve of his mask. "Are you going to mock me the entire visit?"

"Yes," Odysseus said cheerfully. "It's tradition."

Helen laughed lightly, brushing a curl behind her ear. "You've always treated him like an unruly little brother."

"That's because he is one," Odysseus said, raising her cup to Menelaus. "My runt of a war-buddy.

Menelaus muttered something under his breath and sipped his wine through the discreet golden valve at the base of his jaw mask.

Odysseus tilted her head at him, grinning. "How do you even drink through that thing? Are you certain it's not just a very elaborate excuse to avoid conversation?"

"Better than being a queen who can't shut up," Menelaus muttered, though his tone was fond.

Odysseus snorted. "You're growing sharp, little lion. Your brother might be proud."

"Please don't compare me to Agamemnon," he said, mock horror in his eyes.

Helen laughed and leaned into him. "He still turns red every time someone calls him 'my lord.' It's delightful~."

"I'm not red," Menelaus mumbled.

"You are," Odysseus said, grinning. "It's adorable."

He gave her a look, and she only grinned wider.

"No matter how tall you've grown or how many wars you've survived, you'll always be that gangly little prince who used to hide behind me when the court got overwhelming."

"I was shy," he said with the dignity of a man who knew there was no winning. "And you were loud."

"And smarter than everyone else, which is why you followed me around like a loyal puppy."

Helen chuckled. "You still do."

Menelaus adjusted his jawpiece with mock irritation.

"I like to think I taught him everything he knows," Odysseus said airily.

"You taught me how to cheat at dice and how to curse and insult a general in three different dialects."

"All useful things!"

Helen giggled again and reached for more wine. "Gods Ody! You're a bad influence on my poor, adorable husband."

"Me? A bad influence? No, no. That's Agamemnon," Odysseus said, waving a hand. "How is the mighty king, anyway?"

Helen and Menelaus exchanged a look - the kind only married people could share - then burst into matching grins.

"He's exhausted," Helen said sweetly.

"Oh?"

"Iphigenia learned to walk," Menelaus added, already chuckling.

"And then run," Helen continued, smiling serenely.

"And now she sprints through the palace halls like a drunken satyr," Menelaus finished. "Agamemnon's aged ten years," the prince added. "Half the time he's running after her muttering or even yelling, 'That's not a toy!' or 'Don't eat it!' or 'Who left this spear here?!'"

"She's obsessed with anything shiny or sharp," Helen added with mock dread. "He barely breathes anymore. Honestly, I think reclaiming his throne was less stressful."

Odysseus howled with laughter, nearly spilling her wine. "Oh gods, I wish I could see that. Agamemnon the Conqueror, laid low by a tiny tyrant."

"Iphigenia rules the Mycenaean palace, and Agamemnon can't do anything about it," Helen said lightly. "Clytemnestra just watches and laughs."

"She's pregnant again too, isn't she?" Odysseus asked.

Helen nodded. "Just starting to show."

"Poor Agamemnon," Odysseus said with mock solemnity. "Soon, he'll be outnumbered."

"He already is," Menelaus muttered, not being able to hide his amusement.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. The air was warm and fragrant with rosemary and wildflowers.

After a moment, Menelaus glanced over at her with a sly smile.

"Speaking of being undone… how's Hector?"

Odysseus raised an eyebrow.

Helen looked surprised. "Wait! You knew ?"

Menelaus shrugged. "You think I spent a year patching wounds and swapping battle reports with her and didn't notice that she lit up every time Troy's golden boy would be mentioned?"

Odysseus threw a fig at him. "You're insufferable."

Helen giggled behind her hand. "I always like the idea of you two together. I just wished you didn't have to be this… guarded."

Odysseus's smirk softened like sunlight shifting through the leaves. For a moment, her usual armor - the clever tongue, the practiced ease - fell away.

"It wasn't the right time to make it anyone's business," she said, voice quiet. "But now. We don't need to hide. Not anymore."

Helen's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful. Are you-?"

"We plan to marry," Odysseus said, and though her tone was steady, there was weight behind the words, as if she'd been holding them too long. "Soon, if the Fates are kind. But knowing them, it will take some time."

A hush settled. The breeze stirred Helen's veil and lifted a curl against Menelaus's cheek. The air was thick with unsaid things.

Helen, sharp as any blade beneath her grace, tilted her head. "But you're both rulers. Or heirs. Someone has to give that up."

Menelaus blinked, brow furrowed. "Wait - who steps down?"

The question lingered in the air like smoke, curling in the quiet between them.

Odysseus didn't answer right away. Instead, she traced the rim of her wine cup with a thumb as if trying to wear the words smooth before speaking them. The gardens, moments ago warm with laughter, seemed to hush - leaves no longer rustled, and even the sounds of servants seemed to fade away.

Then she lifted her gaze. Her voice, when it came, was quiet - quiet like a storm before it breaks.

"I do."

The silence cracked.

The words fell with quiet finality. Like a stone dropped into still water.

"What?" Menelaus's voice rose, sharp and disbelieving. He sat up straight, tension knotting his shoulders. "You're joking."

Helen stared. Her eyes filled with worry. "Odysseus…"

"Ithaca will endure," she said softly. "It always has."

"But it endures because of you!" Menelaus snapped. "You're the reason your kingdom survived. When your father was absent in mind and reason! You rebuilt it! You kept it safe-"

"And now I'll leave it better than I found it," she said, calm but resolute.

Menelaus opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw working beneath the gold of his mask.

Helen's voice was gentler. "But are you sure? This isn't just a throne. It's your legacy."

"I know," Odysseus said. Her gaze lifted to the gardens, to the olive trees swaying above the sunlit stones. "And I love Ithaca. Gods know I've bled for her. But Hector… when he walks through Troy, it's like the city breathes easier. Like they believe again. I've seen what kind of king he'll be."

Her voice caught for just a moment, then steadied.

"I can't ask him to step down from that. I won't."

Silence. The breeze tugged at the linens of the pavilion. A bird called from somewhere in the trees.

Menelaus looked at her, eyes dark beneath the bronze lines of his brow. "You'd give up your crown for him?"

Odysseus looked back, unwavering. "No. I'd give it up for us ."

He exhaled. Then, quietly, "Gods, you're serious."

"Have you ever known me not to be?"

Menelaus rubbed the back of his neck, eyes turned away. "I just… I thought Hector would step aside."

"He offered," she said sternly. "Twice. I said no. He's meant for more than me."

Helen studied her, something bittersweet in her smile. "You think too little of yourself."

"I think what's true," Odysseus said. "I'm a good queen. But he'll be a great king. My sister may not be ready yet, but if she marries well, the crown can pass to someone who deserves it."

Menelaus looked at her long and hard, as if trying to memorize her face at that moment. Then, at last, he gave a breath of a laugh.

"You're still impossible."

"Coming from you ?" Odysseus teased, lips quirking. "That's rich."

Menelaus leaned forward, more serious now. "Still. Don't talk about yourself like you're lesser. You're not just some island queen. You're the smartest person I've ever met - including my brother, and that smug bastard swears he invented warfare."

Both women chuckled, but Menelaus was sincere. 

"You've saved my life more than once," he added, more quietly. "Don't act like you don't matter."

Odysseus smiled at that, touched. "You know I love you, runt."

Menelaus groaned. "Don't say it like that."

Helen watched them both, smiling. "You're all such disasters."

"Yes," Odysseus said, "but charming ones."

She picked up another fig and popped it into her mouth. "Now. Have you considered arranging a Spartan tournament to find Ctimene a suitable husband? One word, and we will invite the finest men in Greece. Maybe someone with nice arms and no ambition."

"I'll talk to my uncle," Menelaus said dryly. "We'll get her a javelin-thrower with dimples."

"Perfect."

Helen smiled again, but there was a new kind of admiration in it now—one rooted not in affection, but in awe.

And for a moment, the three of them sat quietly, beneath the olive trees and the blue, endless sky, between what was and what might still be.

---

No one else saw him where she pointed out-

On the hill, in the glade, by the ruined spout.

His face was kind, though shadow-kissed,

Eyes like smoke and twilight mist.

She never asked what he was called-

For names are chains, and she was enthralled.

---

The sun hung low over Ithaca's courtyard, casting warm golden light across the packed dirt of the training yard. A soft sea breeze tugged at the practice banners and stirred the edges of Ctimene's linen dress as she stood watching, eyes wide with excitement.

In the center of the yard, Odysseus and Hector circled one another, both grinning, sweat already glistening on their brows.

"You ready to lose again, my love?" Odysseus teased, twirling her wooden short sword playfully.

"I'd be more worried about you dressed like that," Hector shot back with a smirk. "Are you trying to distract me or duel me?"

She looked down at her sleeveless tunic - cinched neatly at the waist, cut for movement - and gave a dramatic spin, making the hem flare.

"I picked it because it's comfortable to move around," she said innocently. "And I wanted to look pretty while I win ."

Hector laughed. "Goddesses help me."

Ctimene clapped her hands together. "Alright, alright! No kissing until someone hits the dirt! Go!"

"You're both terrible," Hector sighed - and narrowly avoided a low sweep that would have taken his legs out from under him.

With a flash of movement, Odysseus lunged forward, aiming a quick swipe at Hector's ribs. He parried easily, countering with a step inward and a downward strike meant to knock her back. She ducked, slid behind him, and tried to sweep his legs. He jumped - barely.

"You're fast," he said, already spinning to face her again.

"Too fast for you," she quipped.

But Hector was patient - he watched her movements, not falling for the feints, waiting for her to commit. Odysseus darted in again, this time with a genuine thrust - but he caught her wrist mid-strike and used her own momentum to turn her. She cursed under her breath as he hooked a foot behind hers and tripped her. She landed on her back with a soft thump , Hector standing over her with a triumphant grin, wooden blade resting gently on her stomach.

"Yield?" he said, panting.

Odysseus narrowed her eyes. "Not fair! You used my own trick against me!"

"Everything is fair in love and war, my dear ~."

She grumbled dramatically and flopped her arms out. "Fine. I yield. Just don't gloat too hard, or I'll have to tell Paris that he is no longer the most dramatic prince of Troy."

Odysseus took Hector's hand and let him pull her up. They dusted off as they walked toward the bench where Ctimene stood waiting, both laughing and bumping shoulders affectionately.

At that moment, Eurylochus appeared from the shaded archway, wiping his hands with a cloth and squinting at the group. "What happened this time? Has Hector finally bested our queen in single combat?"

"He cheated!" Odysseus declared.

"I won ," Hector corrected.

Eurylochus shook his head with mock severity.  "Should I be concerned that Hector's trying to assassinate my queen?"

"Arrest him," Odysseus said immediately. "Treason, obviously."

"Absolutely," Ctimene agreed. "Lock him up and throw away the key."

"I'll build the cell myself," Eurylochus said grinning towards the younger daughter of Laertes, then glanced at Hector. "After I beat him in a duel."

Hector perked up. "Oh? Careful, my friend. I'm all fired up."

Eurylochus cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "And I'm a foot taller than you."

"Oh, you're in trouble now," Ctimene murmured as she handed Eurylochus his greatsword - a massive claymore that gleamed bronze in the sunlight.

Eurylochus hefted it easily, rolling his shoulders. "Let's see what you've got, golden boy. Real swords this time."

Odysseus flopped onto the bench next to Ctimene as the two men squared up. The clash of swords was immediate - loud, fast, and fierce. Hector moved with fluid grace, dodging and striking with practiced precision, but Eurylochus was a fortress. He brought his claymore down like a storm, each swing heavy enough to shake the air.

"Oh my gods," Ctimene whispered, watching with wide eyes.

Odysseus leaned over and said in a sing-song voice, "You're staring."

"I am not."

"Mhm."

"I'm just...impressed. He's huge."

"That's one word for it."

Ctimene swatted her. "Ody!"

"Tell me you wouldn't let him carry you over a battlefield."

Ctimene turned bright red. "That is not appropriate."

Odysseus smirked. "But accurate."

Ctimene folded her arms, trying to look dignified, but her eyes kept darting back to the fight. The older of the sisters leaned in and whispered warmly. 

"You know he doesn't have to be the first to admit his feelings."

"Wouldn't he say something if he had any feelings?"

"He might feel unworthy. Remember that you are his princess. He's a good man, and he holds a lot of respect for us… maybe just too much to be honest with himself."

"And how do you know he feels something towards me?"

"Because he looks at you the same way Hector looks at me."

"Eww! I don't want to think about you two."

"You'll stop complaining once you'll need me to cover your secret dates from our mother."

Two girls chuckled before they went back to actually focusing on the fight in front of them.

The duel raged on. Eurylochus was too strong and his blade too heavy for the prince to just parry it. For now his biggest advantage was his mobility but it meant he had to act fast before he'll be tired out and in consequence lose his speed. Hector quickly ducked a heavy swing and managed to slip under Eurylochus' guard, landing a tap against his side with his bronze blade.

Eurylochus grunted, then laughed. "Alright, alright, you win."

Hector stepped back, panting. "You're a beast. I barely managed that."

"You've got speed," Eurylochus said. "I've got shoulders."

They clasped forearms with mutual respect. Odysseus and Ctimene approached, and Odysseus clapped both men on the back.

"Bravo, both of you. But now... I demand a rematch."

Hector turned to her, sweat running down his temple. "Another one? You're tireless."

"Are you too tired?"

He shook his head, smiling with something wild peeking through the mask of a prim and proper man. "I could do this all day."

Hector picked back up the training sword and Odysseus did the same thing. Younger of the sisters was already cheering for her sister. Eurylochus decided to not make the prince feel left out, also said a few words of encouragement before going silent once more. 

The queen with casual grace strolled to face her opponent while Eurylochus moved to the side, standing close to the princess almost like he was guarding her. Ctimene raised her hand like a herald. "Duel begins-"

Odysseus didn't wait. She marched up to Hector, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him in for a kiss that silenced the yard.

For a moment, he was frozen. Then his knees gave in just a little.

But it was for Odysseus more than perfect of an opportunity to step back, smirked, and sweep his feet out from under him with a swift kick.

He landed flat on his back again, breathless, as she planted her wooden sword on his chest.

"Yield?"

"You-" Hector gasped. "You beautiful, cheating-"

"Say it~."

"I yield," he muttered.

The yard exploded with laughter.

Eurylochus bent over, howling. "I knew you were dangerous, but that ? That's just cruel, my lady."

Ctimene covered her face, giggling. "You two are hopeless."

Odysseus dropped down beside Hector, leaned over, and whispered, "Still worth it?"

He groaned but smiled. "Always."

She kissed his nose and stood, offering him a hand. "Come on, fiancé. You've got a reputation to rebuild."

"And a bruised ego to soothe," he muttered, taking it.

As the sun dipped lower and the air cooled, the laughter lingered like music. Tomorrow would come with its own duties, burdens, and battles - but for now, they were young, in love, and endlessly amused by one another.

---

Years turned. She bloomed. She danced, dreamed and grew.

And the man always returned like the morning dew.

Sometimes he'd linger, a hand at his side,

Chuckling low when from her sight he tried to hide.

Always ahead, but just a step-

As though he, too, a promise kept.

---

It seems that the words of encouragement were more than enough to push the young pair to admit what their hearts felt for ages. Odysseus watched with happiness as her beloved sister sneaked outside of the palace just to see her favorite soldier. There were also times when she would visit her sister's room just to see a bouquet of flowers by the window, and she would graciously pretend that she hadn't seen it. 

A few years would pass, and Hector would smile reading the letters describing the developing love between the young pair. It started small, but now Odysseus describes how Eurylochus had recently asked her for her blessing. They were both happy for Ctimene and Eurylochus, and they were also happy for what it meant for him and his precious queen. 

Things were finally moving forward.

The quiet crackle of the hearth filled the chamber, low and rhythmic, as though the fire itself were listening. Shadows flickered across the stone walls, thrown long by the flames that curled around olivewood logs. The scent of smoke and warmed cedar clung to the air.

Hector stood near the fire, one hand resting on the mantle, watching the embers shift. Behind him, Priam sat in a carved wooden chair, the soft light painting half his face in gold and the other in deep, time-carved shadow. The chamber was still but for the occasional pop of the fire and the soft clink of the king's goblet against its tray.

"She's truly stepping down?" Priam asked at last.

His voice was low, but it carried. There was no accusation in it - only the weight of disbelief and the sharper edge of wonder.

Hector didn't turn at first. He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the flames.

"Yes," he said. "She made the choice herself." Hector took a deep breath before speaking again. "There was no pressure, no regret in her voice. She's not giving up - she's passing Ithaca to someone she trusts. Eurylochus. And she'll come here, to Troy."

The king's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the flickering light as though it might offer some insight his son had not. The lines on his face, etched deeper by years of rule and ruin, shifted as he leaned forward.

"Odysseus," he murmured, tasting the name like wine turned unfamiliar. "I always knew she was clever. Strategic. But to walk away from her crown?"

Hector finally looked back at him. "She never wanted to rule forever. She was a wartime queen. She took the crown because no one else could. But she wants to live now - not just lead."

Priam took a long breath and let it out slowly. "Many rulers claim they serve the people. Few know when to let go, and suddenly, their hunger for power is devouring their people. Immortalizing them in history as monsters."

The firelight danced in Hector's eyes, warm and fierce. "She knows. And she's not walking away from duty nor arriving here to claim your throne. She's walking toward something else. Toward a life that's hers - the life that's ours."

There was a silence, soft and heavy as a mantle. Then Priam nodded, slowly - once.

"She will be a force here," the old king said, not without a note of awe. "The court will never be the same."

"No," Hector said. A small smile touched his lips, shadowed by a firelight. "It won't."

"She'll need all that cleverness here," Priam added, his voice softer now. "Troy is rarely kind to outsiders. Even queens."

"And Troy will need her," Hector replied.

Priam studied his son for a long moment, then reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You carry more than a boy your age ever should. But if this is the path you've chosen - then walk it. And walk it proudly."

Hector bowed his head, something like relief blooming in his chest. But as he turned toward his chambers, another tension rose to meet him in the hallway.

He hadn't even reached his door before he heard his name.

"Hector."

He stopped at the sound of Cassandra's voice. She was leaning against the marble wall near his door, arms crossed tightly. Paris stood beside her, less tense, but his smile was lopsided and uncertain.

Hector raised a brow. "Should I be worried that the two of you are guarding my room like sentries?"

"We need to talk," Cassandra said. No warmth in her voice. "Now."

Hector stepped toward them slowly, studying her face. "Alright."

Paris sighed and gave a light shrug. "We heard your talk with our father, and we just want to understand what you're doing, brother. That's all."

Cassandra scoffed. " Understand ? You mean, stop him."

Hector folded his arms. "You're both being dramatic."

Paris looked to his sister, silently asking her to ease up. She didn't.

"She's really stepping down?" Cassandra pressed.

"She is," Hector said, voice calm. "The council in Ithaca has already started transition talks. Eurylochus will take the throne. She's coming here."

Cassandra's jaw clenched. "You let her give that up?"

"She chose it," Hector said firmly. "We decided together."

"She had a whole kingdom, Hector," Cassandra said, her voice rising. "Her home. Her people. And now she's throwing it all away to live in a city that will never treat her like she belongs."

"She's not throwing it away. She's choosing a life with me. A quieter one. She wants that."

Cassandra stepped closer, her voice taut as a bowstring. "You say that like it's love, but it's not love if it's built on sacrifice."

"That's not what this is," Hector said. "You weren't there. You didn't see the way she smiled when she said she was coming."

Paris gave a soft exhale and ran a hand through his hair. "I mean... I kind of get it. She always did seem happiest when she wasn't stuck wearing a crown. If it makes her happy-"

"No, Paris!" Cassandra cut in sharply. "It makes him happy."

Hector turned to her slowly. "What does that mean?"

Cassandra's gaze didn't waver. "You say you're doing this for her - but you're not. You want her here, under your roof, under your protection, where you get to be her whole world."

Hector stared at her, stunned. "You think I'm trying to control her?"

Cassandra didn't blink. Her voice was tight, barely holding. "I think you're tired of watching her shine somewhere else. You want her light, but only if it burns for you ."

Paris's eyes widened. "Cass-"

But she wasn't done. "She's giving up everything, and you let her. You're letting her disappear into your life."

There was a sharp silence, like the space after a slap. Hector took a step back as if steadying himself. His voice dropped.

"You really think I'm cruel?"

That made her falter. Cassandra's mouth opened. "I-I didn't mean-"

"You do ," he cut in, his voice raw. "You think I'm selfish. That I'd let her break herself for my sake."

She looked like she regretted it instantly, but the damage was done.

Hector let out a slow breath, eyes dark and distant. "I lie awake at night wondering if I'm asking too much. If the cost is too high. If loving me is already hurting her."

He pressed a hand to his chest as if trying to steady the storm rising there. "Do you think I don't see it? She gave up a throne, a legacy. She gave up being everything the world expected of her - and she did it for me ."

Cassandra's eyes were glassy now, her lips parted in a silent ache.

"I never asked her to," Hector said. "But she did. And I don't know if I'll ever deserve that kind of love. But gods help me, I'm going to spend every day trying to earn it."

The silence that followed felt too heavy for the hallway.

Paris shifted awkwardly, glancing at Cassandra. "He's not wrong."

Cassandra's voice, when it came, was barely audible. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I know," Hector said, his voice gentler now. "But it still hurt."

He paused, his expression softening with something tired and vulnerable. "I want to give her peace. Safety. A place where she can laugh and rest and not carry the world. And if that means I owe her everything - then I'll pay that debt in full with every year she gives me."

Cassandra looked away, ashamed. Paris placed a hand on her back, a silent gesture of comfort - or warning.

Hector turned toward the door.

"I love you, Cass," he said without looking back. "But don't confuse fear with foresight."

The corridor had gone quiet after Hector's footsteps disappeared into his chambers. Cassandra remained where she was, unmoving, her arms folded tightly around herself as if to keep the words she had thrown from echoing back into her chest.

Paris leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching her with a frown more thoughtful than angry. He waited until the silence wasn't just silence but weight pressing on both of them.

"You could've just slapped him, you know," he said finally, not unkindly. "Might've hurt less."

Cassandra flinched. "Don't, Paris."

"I'm not scolding you," he said, pushing off the wall. "Just… wondering what god's name made you say all that. That was brutal - even for you."

Her jaw tightened. "I didn't mean it to be."

"Still, you meant something ."

She didn't answer. Paris watched her for another beat, then took a slow step closer, his tone gentler. "Cass. Come on. You're not usually cruel - dramatic, yes, and cryptic as the Delphic Oracle - but not cruel."

Cassandra laughed, bitter and short. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "Any time."

She shifted slightly, pressing her back against the wall now, staring somewhere over Paris's shoulder. "Do you think he hates me?"

"Please. It's our Hector we are talking about," Paris said. "He probably already made peace with it before the door shut. He'll be moody tonight, and by breakfast, he'll be smiling again like you never said a thing."

"I still feel horrible," she whispered.

"That's good. Means you're not heartless." He nudged her shoulder lightly. "Now tell me - why did you snap like that? You've always supported him and Odysseus. You're the one who told him to bring her here, remember?"

Cassandra went still at that. Her eyes flicked toward him for a fraction of a second, then slid away.

"It's complicated."

"It's you ," he said wryly. "Of course it is."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she muttered.

He blinked. "You know, people only say that when they're about to say something crazy."

"Exactly."

He let out a slow sigh, tipping his head back. "You and your riddles."

She pressed her lips together, a flush creeping up her neck - anger or guilt, maybe both. "You wouldn't believe it," she repeated. "Even if I spelled it out."

There was a pause. Paris didn't push her further.

Instead, he bumped her lightly with his elbow again. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But don't let them eat you alive."

"I just…" She swallowed. "I don't want him to get hurt."

Paris smiled softly. "That's all any of us want. Even Hector."

She looked at him then - eyes tired, guilt still clouding her face - but something in her shoulders eased. Just a little.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Cassandra gave a small, reluctant smile as he disappeared down the corridor, leaving her in the flickering torchlight, still heavy with regret - but a little less alone in it.

---

"I dreamt of you," she said one night,

As he leaned from a rooftop into starlight.

"I never left," he softly said-

And vanished before she turned her head.

She'd chase him still, each time with glee,

Not knowing who he might truly be.

---

"She's not in the port?" Hector asked, brow furrowed. "I thought she'd be there. She always meets me at the port."

Ctimene gave a lopsided smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "She would have, believe me. But Mother insisted she rest for once. You know how she is - wouldn't stop long enough to let anyone fuss over her. Eventually, she gave in. Just this once."

They stopped outside Odysseus' chamber. Ctimene laid a hand briefly on Hector's arm.

"She's fine," she said, more firmly this time, catching the slight tension in his shoulders. "Just tired. Go on."

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and ink. Afternoon light spilled in through the tall window, salt-bright and rippling with the sea breeze. A man - young, neat, and quietly professional - was just packing up a leather satchel by the far wall. He left a small pouch filled with herbs close to the queen's bed and then glanced up as Hector entered, offered a respectful nod, and departed without a word.

Hector's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing yet.

Odysseus stood by the open window, half-lit by the fading gold of the day. She wore a robe loose over her shoulders, her hair braided back but messy with the soft disarray of someone too tired to care. A small, healing cut traced her brow. Her posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in her limbs - like a bow just unstrung.

She turned as he stepped in, and her face shifted, warmth breaking through exhaustion. "About time you showed up," she said, her voice a little hoarse but playful.

He crossed the space between them in moments, gathering her carefully into his arms. When she winced at the pressure, he immediately eased back, hands shifting to her waist.

"You're hurt," he said quietly, looking her over. "Why didn't you send a word?"

She shrugged, pulling him closer again. "Nothing serious. Just a few scrapes. My mother made me see someone. 'Proper recovery,' she said." She rolled her eyes. "You know how she gets."

Hector looked toward the door the man had exited from. "That was a physician?"

"Unfortunately," she said, tone light but evasive. "I couldn't escape her this time. She tracked me down the second I got out of the ship."

He frowned slightly, still unconvinced, but let it go.

"You came home from the battlefield, Odysseus," he said. "It's not overreacting to want you looked at."

"I know," she said. "I just hate being hovered over."

He searched her face for a long moment, and something in her expression - tired, yes, but quietly strained - made him tuck a hand gently against her cheek.

"You're sure you're alright?" he asked, softer now.

She smiled, pressing her forehead against his. "I am. Now that you're here."

Hector let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and pulled her close again, more gently this time. Outside, the sea sighed against the cliffs, and in the quiet hush of the chamber, the firelit scent of lavender wrapped around them both like a veil.

Odysseus looked at her fiancé before smiling playfully. "My sister's wedding won't happen until next month. You aren't here just because you wanted to be early, are you?"

Hector gave a sheepish smile. "Not only. I heard you were back. And - well - I wanted to see for myself."

Odysseus raised a brow. "You came all the way from Troy because you were worried?"

"That," he said, brushing her hair back with one hand, "and to invite you. Calydon is holding its spring festival again. For Artemis. There'll be music, and firelight, and wine that'll burn a hole in your stomach."

Her lips twitched. "You're inviting me to drink poison?"

"Technically," he said, deadpan. "But I'll be there to carry you when it hits."

She laughed but then paused. "I might actually be free. Eurylochus is finally getting confident enough to take care of things in my absence. I won't need to stay."

Hector grinned, but it quickly faded. "You still look exhausted."

"I feel exhausted," she admitted, sitting down on the edge of the bench. "But I'll recover."

He joined her. She leaned into his side without needing an invitation, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"You're different," he murmured after a while. "More worn."

She closed her eyes. "It's the battlefield. The worst kind - not strategy or formations, just chaos. Athena wanted me there. I obeyed, but…"

"But you saw things," Hector finished.

Odysseus didn't answer. She didn't need to.

They sat in silence, letting the weight of it settle. Then she looked up, seeing something tight behind his eyes.

"You also look tired, my love. You came for more than just me and the festival, didn't you?" she asked.

He sighed and nodded. "Cassandra."

Odysseus straightened slightly, attentive.

"She's… not well," he began. "At first it was just strange words, wild ideas. A few months ago, she caused a scene at court - accused a guest of adultery. No evidence. Just - saying it like it was a fact. And now… now she's trying to stop disasters that aren't even happening."

Odysseus's brow furrowed. "What sort of disasters?"

"She tried to burn the ships."

Odysseus blinked. "She what ?"

"She snuck out at night. Managed to set fire to three before the guards caught her. She could've died. When they pulled her away, she was screaming that she was trying to stop doom. That if the ships sailed, ruin would follow."

Odysseus was silent for a long beat. "And the ships?"

"Inspected. No sabotage, no hidden threats. Everything was fine. Father let me sail earlier than planned, and in my place, he made Paris take care of the trading disputes in Sparta just to not risk more accidents like this happening. Cassandra, for some reason, was screaming until doctors were able to put her to sleep." He looked at Odysseus, helpless. "I've never seen her like this."

Odysseus sat back, stunned. "That's not just… madness. That sounds almost like a vision."

"But she isn't a seer or an oracle. She never studied to be one like my brother, and things like that don't just appear in the span of a day."

Hector hesitated, startled. Odysseus lightly placed her hand on his knee. The closeness and familiar warmth helped the prince to even his breath.

"She sounds like my father near the end," Odysseus said quietly. "But not quite . He forgot faces. Names. Wandered through the halls like a ghost. Cassandra doesn't sound lost. She sounds… terrified."

Hector swallowed. "You think she sees something?"

"I don't know," Odysseus admitted. "But you said she's sure of what she sees. That might be a light of clarity just as well as a shadow of delirium."

He nodded, silent for a long moment. "We've had the physicians look at her. One said it could be sun-fever. Another said someone would have poisoned her or cursed her to fog her mind."

Odysseus wrapped her arms around herself for a moment before scooting closer and laying her head on his shoulder. "We'll watch her. Maybe she's seeing patterns others don't. Or maybe she's cracking. Either way, you're not alone in this."

He looked down at her, grateful. "Thank you."

He turned, kissed her forehead, then rested his chin against her hair. "Sometimes I wonder if the gods play games with us just to see how long we last before we break."

Odysseus gave a short laugh. "They do. You just have to play back harder."

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, their words fading into the sound of the wind outside. Then, with a deep breath, Hector straightened and smiled.

---

"You never lost," she said with grace,

A shadowed smile upon his face.

"I let you chase - because you dared,

Because you laughed and never cared

For rules or fear or proper name-

You played the sweetest kind of game."

She reached for him, her fingers near,

But he stepped back, his gaze sincere.

"You'll never win," he said, then sighed,

A trembling hush within his stride.

"And why?" she asked with a tilted head,

His silence thick with words unsaid.

Then, softly: "Because I don't want you to-

To catch me means I'm losing you."

She blinked, unsure, then gently frowned,

But he just looked toward the ground.

From his belt, a shell he drew-

A blade of silver, cold as dew.

Not drawn - not yet - just in his palm,

Like a storm that waits inside the calm.

---

The scent of wine, honeyed pastries, and roasted lamb hung in the warm sea breeze. Laughter rippled from long feasting tables decorated with ivy and flickering oil lamps. Music - bright with lyres and double-flutes - danced through the courtyard as nobles and villagers alike twirled on the stone floor, now serving as a dance space.

Odysseus sat with one leg tucked under her, the other lazily swinging as she leaned against Hector's shoulder at their table. She was out of her usual leathers for once, dressed in flowing blue-and-silver Ithacan ceremonial garb, her dark curls loosely braided back, the crown reflecting warm light onto her rosy cheeks. A rare sight, and one Hector had been admiring shamelessly all evening.

"She's glowing," Odysseus murmured, eyes following her sister as Ctimene spun in her new husband's arms on the dance floor.

"She is," Hector agreed. "Almost as much as you when you're scheming."

"Oh, please. This is the first time in days I haven't been scheming."

"I don't believe that for a moment."

Odysseus smirked. "Fair. I might've spent the walk here thinking about how to restructure the trade routes after Eurylochus' coronation."

"I knew it."

"I hate how easily you can read me. That's unfair."

Hector chuckled. "Well, you'll have to get used to it. After all, we are about to get married."

Odysseus smiled slowly, turning her face toward him. "We are."

She shifted to sit straighter and faced him fully. "So tell me - what have you already prepared for the grand occasion in Troy, hmm? Don't think I haven't noticed you sneaking letters to my messengers."

"I've done no such thing," Hector said far too quickly.

"Uh-huh."

He held up a hand, mock solemn. "Fine. Maybe I did… make a few arrangements."

"A few?"

"Well," he said, counting on his fingers, "the courtyard where we'll be blessed is already being refurbished - Mother insists on new marble - but I kept the old olive tree, the one near the central terrace. Thought you might like that. The guest wing's being aired out, the festival dancers from Mount Ida have been hired, and I've been secretly testing different wines because gods help me if we were served that bitter Mycenaean blend you hate."

Odysseus blinked, momentarily touched, speechless.

"You're ridiculous," she finally said, though her voice was warm.

"You love it."

"I do." She laughed. "Gods, you've done more planning than me."

"You're busy preparing to hand over a kingdom. I can handle flower arrangements."

They both smiled, quiet for a moment until Odysseus nudged his knee.

"What about the music?" she asked. "Don't tell me you picked battle hymns."

"I'd never."

"You definitely did."

He laughed. "Fine. One or two."

Hector leaned closer, lowering his voice as if it were a scandalous secret. "Mother's already started collecting fabrics. She wants to embroider your wedding cloak with silver thread from the northern markets."

Odysseus blinked, a little thrown off. "She's… making me a cloak?"

He smiled gently. "You're going to be part of our family. She wants to honor that."

There was a beat of quiet, touched and surprised.

"…I don't suppose I could get her to use a sturdier fabric," Odysseus muttered. "You know, in case someone tries to stab me during the ceremony."

Hector laughed out loud. "Gods, Odysseus. Can we have one conversation about our wedding where no one ends up stabbed?"

"Probably not."

They leaned in again, content just to sit close in the golden light. The music swelled as Ctimene and her new husband spun past again, and Odysseus let her gaze linger on her sister. "She looks so grown."

"She is," Hector said. "Though still fierce as ever."

"Mmh," Odysseus mused. "If she ends up with half the steel our mother carries, her new husband's in for a life of terror and joy."

"There you are!" Ctimene flushed and beaming, dropped her wine cup on the table. "Odysseus, I knew you'd try hiding in the corner."

"I'm not hiding. I'm taking in the atmosphere."

"You are lurking."

Odysseus raised a brow. "You were just twirling so fast your crown flew off. Should you be making accusations?"

Ctimene laughed. "I'm the bride. I can do whatever I want. And right now, I want you dancing . With me."

Odysseus groaned dramatically. "Must I?"

"Yes!" Ctimene grabbed her hand. "You've sat through enough boring state dinners with old kings who smell like figs. Come enjoy your sister's wedding!"

As she dragged Odysseus away, Hector called after her, "Bring her back alive!"

"No promises!" Ctimene called, and they vanished into the crowd of dancers.

Hector chuckled to himself, shaking his head just as someone slid into the seat beside him.

"Careful," Eurylochus said with a grin. "They'll rope you in next."

Hector smirked. "If they do, tell my generals I died bravely."

They clinked their cups together, and for a few moments, they sat in companionable silence, watching the dance floor.

"She's a force, your sister," Hector said.

Eurylochus gave a low laugh. "Both of them are. And we chose this."

"No regrets?"

"None," Eurylochus said honestly. "But I might invest in better armor before the next family feast."

They shared a warm laugh. Then Hector leaned back slightly, eyes on the crowd. "How are you feeling about it all? Becoming king, I mean."

Eurylochus let out a long breath. "Like I accidentally stole someone else's dream, and now I have to figure out how to live it."

"That's normal."

"I keep thinking I'll wake up and still be the kid sparring in the training yard while Odysseus lectures me about discipline."

"She still does that," Hector said.

"Every other week."

They both laughed.

"She's already helping," Eurylochus said. "Introductions, negotiations, sending letters to the right kings, smoothing the path before I even knew there were obstacles."

"She always does that," Hector said quietly, smiling. "Like she's already ten steps ahead but never makes you feel behind."

Eurylochus chuckled. "And yet, somehow, you managed to win her heart."

Hector raised a brow. "Somehow?"

"Well, you're charming in a brooding, honorable way. She likes puzzles. You're like one of those knotty wood ones that noble children are given to make them cry."

Hector laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

They both looked toward the dancers again. Odysseus and Ctimene had joined hands with two others and were caught in a dizzying circle of laughter and movement. Odysseus looked truly happy, her face soft and relaxed in a way it rarely was during council meetings or strategy sessions.

Eurylochus watched the dancers with a quiet smile. "She looks lighter than I've seen her in moons."

Beside him, Hector followed Odysseus with his eyes, the corners of his mouth softening as she spun through the crowd with Ctimene, her laughter rising above the music.

"She's with her people," Hector said, his voice low, almost reverent. "And with you. That matters."

There was a pause. The prince leaned forward a little, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his wine cup.

"I won't lie to you," he murmured. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm asking too much of her. She's giving up so much. Her crown. Her island. Her place . And I get to stay the crown prince. I get to keep my land. My title. My city. And she—" He shook his head. "She just hands it over. Like it's simple. Like it's nothing."

Eurylochus studied him for a long beat before replying. "It's not nothing. But it's also not something you asked her to do."

Hector looked at him.

"She's the most calculating person I know. If she didn't want this, it wouldn't happen," Eurylochus continued. "And she'd have ten contingency plans in place before you even realized what she was doing."

That got a faint chuckle out of Hector.

"I mean it," Eurylochus said. "It's her choice. And she knows what she's giving up. But she also knows what she's getting ." He gave Hector a wry look. "You, apparently."

Hector exhaled a laugh through his nose. "Not sure that's a fair trade."

"Well, Ctimene might agree with you."

Hector blinked. "What?"

Eurylochus grinned, leaning in. "She swore she wouldn't let you marry her sister unless you signed something promising that Odysseus will still visit her at least once a season. In writing . With witnesses."

Hector laughed, a real one this time, head tipping back. "I believe it."

"She said, and I quote, 'Just because you're taking her away doesn't mean I'm losing my sister.'"

"I should be scared of her, shouldn't I?"

"Oh, absolutely," Eurylochus said with mock solemnity. "She and Odysseus are cut from the same cloth - chaos wrapped in cleverness."

"I'm doomed."

"But you'll never be bored."

They laughed together, two men bound by a shared affection for the women twirling through the firelight - one now a bride, the other one soon to be.

After a moment, Hector said quietly, "Thank you. For saying all that."

Eurylochus shrugged. "You love her. That's obvious. But love doesn't mean you stop questioning yourself. I get it. Just… trust her. She's always known her path - even if the rest of us can't always see where it's going."

Hector smiled, then glanced back at the dancers. "She's going to want us to join them soon, isn't she?"

"Probably. And we'll be powerless to resist."

"Menaces, the both of them."

"Absolute tyrants."

They raised their cups in mock defeat and then drank the burning liquid.

The music swelled again - faster, louder, filled with the kind of rhythm that made feet tap on instinct and hands twitch to grab a partner. A few beats into the song, Odysseus and Ctimene spun back toward the table, breathless and grinning.

"There you are!" Odysseus called, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with the firelight and wine. "You two look far too comfortable."

Eurylochus leaned back with mock exhaustion. "Because I am comfortable. I danced three songs in a row - my legs have filed for divorce."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Ctimene said, planting her hands on her hips. "You've fought in full armor for days. I've seen you. One little wedding dance won't kill you."

"Armies don't demand twirls," Eurylochus muttered, but he was already being pulled to his feet by her tiny but relentless hand.

"Help," he mouthed to Hector as he was dragged back into the crowd.

Hector only grinned - until a warm hand slid into his.

"Your turn," Odysseus purred.

"I was going to ask you for a slow dance," Hector said hopefully.

"Too bad," she said with a wicked smirk. "This one's better."

The tempo picked up again, and some boisterous string-and-drum combination was made to send hearts racing and feet tripping. Hector glanced at the dancers. "That's not even a dance. That's a war zone ."

"Oh, come on." She stepped back just enough for her skirt to flutter, then spun herself under his arm with a graceful, showy twirl.

The fabric caught the light as it fanned around her - deep navy, edged with silver thread, a whirl of stars in motion.

"I picked this dress because it looks better when I spin," she said with a wink. "And I wanted you to see it."

Hector chuckled despite himself. "You're dangerous."

"I'm irresistible."

"Also true."

He let her tug him forward into the chaos. They moved through the whirling crowd, and for a moment, Hector tried to keep pace - hands at her waist, matching steps, dodging elbows.

"You're fast ," he said, breathless with a laugh.

"You're tall ," she shot back. "That means you can reach further when I twirl."

"I think that's a trap."

"Everything I do is a trap," she said cheerfully, then pulled him into a spin.

They were laughing by then, both flushed and a little uncoordinated but far too happy to care. Odysseus grinned wide, hair spilling across her shoulders as she twirled once more. Then, she let herself lean against his chest for just a breath.

"You're getting better," she teased him.

"I'm a fast learner," he replied, voice low, stealing a kiss to her temple as they swayed for a beat.

Nearby, Eurylochus stumbled slightly as Ctimene spun him too hard and ended up catching himself against another couple, apologizing profusely while she howled with laughter.

"Why did I agree to this?" he groaned, rejoining Hector briefly in a lull between songs.

"Because you love her," Hector said simply.

"Right." He wiped his brow dramatically. "I forgot that love means dying on the dance floor."

"And yet, you keep coming back."

Odysseus, still in Hector's arms, gave them both a smug little look. "Because we're worth it."

"Menaces," the men said in unison.

"Kings of stamina," the women shot back, already pulling them toward the next song.

And with the stars overhead and the firelight around them, they danced again - together, laughing, stumbling, spinning, full of joy and the promise of things yet to come.

The sound of Hector's boots echoed through the marbled halls of Ithaca's palace as he was led by Ctimene, her braid bouncing against her shoulder.

---

The sky split open. The spears rained down.

The earth drank fire, the rose wore a crown.

Still she searched through ruin and flame,

Calling for him with no true name.

And there he stood, at battle's edge,

Bloodless, still, by the broken hedge.

---

The gates of Troy welcomed Hector not with the usual stillness of early evening but with music - fast, jubilant music that bled through the warm dusk air.

Hector reined in his horse, brow furrowing. The scent of flowers and roasted lamb wafted through the stone corridors. Laughter - high-pitched and rhythmic - echoed off the marble walls.

Something was off.

There were streamers draped over the pillars. Bright garlands tangled through the arms of giggling servants who barely noticed the dust-coated prince returning from weeks of diplomatic effort.

He dismounted, confused. Had someone returned victorious from war? Was this a harvest feast?  

He was supposed to prepare for his wedding and it almost looks like a different one was taking place.

Before he could ask, someone grabbed his arm.

"Hector!" Helenus called, red-faced and beaming, a golden cup already tilting in his hand. "Brother, you're back!"

"Clearly," Hector said, eyeing the festivity around them. "What in the gods' names is going on here?"

Helenus swayed a little as he threw an arm around Hector's shoulders. "You've arrived just in time. Paris is married!"

"…Married?"

"Wedded this morning. The ceremony was short, but the feast? Endless. And you've got to try the fig-stuffed boar before Troilus leaves nothing left."

Hector blinked. "To who ?"

Helenus shrugged exaggeratedly. "Didn't catch her name - some foreign noble, I think? Gorgeous. Barely speaks the language. The whole thing was - oh, what did Father say - divinely ordained. "

"Wait-" Hector said, lifting his hand, "Paris got married while I was gone? Without even a message?"

Helenus, grinning like an idiot, pressed a cup into Hector's hand. "Just celebrate, brother. Everyone's happy."

Still dazed, Hector allowed himself to be pulled into the courtyard proper. The whole space was transformed - silk canopies stretched between columns, petals scattered across the stone floor, lanterns lit with honey-colored flames dancing above the guests.

And at the center of it all: Paris. Dressed in embroidered crimson, gold hanging from his neck, laughing with half the court.

"Hector!" Paris cried when he spotted him. He wove through the crowd and clapped his older brother's shoulders, grinning ear to ear. "I'm so glad you're back. I was starting to think you'd miss the party!"

"I almost did, " Hector said tightly. "Why didn't anyone send a word?"

"I wanted to. Believe me!" Paris said quickly. "But Father insisted we move quickly. The augurs said the gods smiled on this union. Father called it a sacred match - said it had to be blessed while the signs were clear."

Hector's brows lowered. "Still. You couldn't have waited another few days? I've been gone for five weeks."

Paris hesitated, his voice softening slightly. "I wanted to. Truly. But Father…" He scratched at his jaw. "He said a love blessed by the gods couldn't be delayed."

Hector's frown deepened. "What happened to your usual hesitations about commitment?"

Paris grinned. "I met her in Sparta." He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Hector, the moment I saw her - it was like time stopped. She's unlike anyone. She glows. It was love at first sight between us! Same thing you said you felt towards Ody!"

"Sparta?" Hector echoed. "You were meant to negotiate grain trade with Menelaus. Not seduce his nobles."

Paris laughed. "I didn't plan it. Fate pulled us together."

"That's not fate, that's recklessness," Hector muttered.

Paris only shrugged, still smiling. "You would've married Odysseus months - no - years ago if Father had allowed it. Don't act like you wouldn't understand."

Hector's mouth twitched at the name. "That's different. Odysseus and I planned this together. We've waited years."

Paris tilted his head playfully. "And yet here I am, married first."

Hector sighed. "When's the ceremony for the meant wedding? The one that used my preparations?"

Paris winced. "Don't be sour, brother. You'll have a better one. I promise. I'll make sure of it - double the wine and everything."

Hector rolled his eyes. "At least make sure I'll be included in my own wedding."

They shared a laugh, one of warmth and tension both. Paris glanced toward the dancers. "She's out there now - come, I'll introduce you soon."

"Your bride?" Hector looked around. "You haven't told me her name yet."

Paris just grinned. "Let her stay a mystery for a moment longer. You'll see."

As Paris darted off into the dancers, Hector sighed again and found himself a seat at the edge of the courtyard, the fatigue of travel settling in his bones.

A servant refreshed his wine.

The music continued.

Then the dancers parted.

Paris took his bride's hand and pulled her into the light.

She was veiled, her figure graceful in a gown that shimmered silver under the firelight. Her steps were elegant - familiar, somehow.

The court clapped in time as they spun, Paris guiding her with theatrical charm.

And then-

In a flash of movement, the veil slipped free.

It floated down like a soft sigh onto the marble floor.

Hector's heart stopped.

He stood without meaning to.

The bride smiled.

Golden hair, cascading like flame.

Eyes that shone with the color of dusk over the sea.

Soft, full mouth - lips he'd seen painted across murals and coins.

Helen.

Odysseus' dear friend.

The Queen of Sparta.

Menelaus' wife.

---

The battlefield groaned beneath the sky,

Its wind a long, forsaken sigh.

There she lay in crimson bloom,

A rose at dusk, kissed by doom.

No sword, no shield - just torn attire,

And fading breath beneath the fire.

He came at last with silent tread,

No echo fell, no word was said.

She looked up through the smoky light

And smiled as if the stars shone bright.

"You came," she breathed, a thread of sound.

"I feared you'd leave me where I'm found."

He knelt, his face a quiet storm,

His hands, for once, not cold but warm.

"You chased me far," he whispered low.

"I let you win - I hoped you'd know."

She smiled. "You always turned away,

But let me catch a smile, a play."

"I saw your face behind the shade.

You let me laugh. The game we made-

It mattered more than fate or fear.

And now you're here… and now we're here."

He kissed her brow with trembling grace,

And tears ran softly down Death's own face.

He drew the blade of silver hair,

And took her soul with tender care.

But as her light slipped through his hands,

He turned his gaze to ruined lands.

The wind was rising, soaked in cries-

Not hers alone, but others' sighs.

The sky grew black, the stars withdrew-

A storm of steel was marching through.

And though her race, her dance was done…

There was no time for him to mourn or cry-

Since the war only just began.

 

Notes:

I know it wasn't made clear in this chapter but all the events of it took place in the span of 5 years. The next chapters will make it more clear and I'll make sure to add character ages in notes once more of them will appear at once.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Families talk about upcoming war.

Notes:

This chapter might have some more errors tha usual since I didn't sleep at night trying to finish it while I felt inspired hahaha

But serously I wanted to thank you all for being such wonderful audience that actively keeps commenting and sending asks. I lowe writing for you and I hope you'll like the upcoming chapter.

The hall still smelled of incense and rosewater from the hurried celebration. Servants were clearing platters and extinguishing torches while musicians packed up their lyres. The flickering light caught on Hector's bronze-stained breastplate as he strode through the corridor, boots striking the marble floor with growing intensity.

He reached the high door of the royal study and pushed it open without knocking.

"Father," Hector said sharply, voice echoing against the stone walls.

Priam looked up from the scroll he had been rereading for the fifth time. He was seated by a hearth, one hand nursing a goblet of dark wine.

Hector didn't wait for permission to speak.

"I return home after months of negotiations and scouting - months! And the first thing I see is Paris throwing a wedding feast?"

Priam raised an eyebrow, setting the scroll down with deliberate calm. The chamber was warm with late afternoon sun, and the scent of oil lamps and old papyrus hung in the still air. The heavy walls seemed to press inward as father and son stared across the gulf between generations.

"Sit, Hector."

"I'd rather stand," Hector replied, his voice taut. "Tell me, Father - when exactly did you decide that hosting a celebration for the stolen wife of a Spartan king was wise?"

Priam's tone was measured, but edged with warning. "I decided nothing. Paris returned unannounced with Helen. I was as surprised as you."

"And yet you allowed this farce to happen?"

"He claimed," Priam said evenly, "that their union was blessed by Aphrodite herself."

Hector scoffed, incredulous. "And you believed him?"

"I had no choice but to listen." Priam rose now as well, the slow, deliberate movement of an old king who had borne the weight of cities and gods alike. "You weren't here when he arrived. You didn't see how he spoke. The conviction in his voice, the fire in his eyes. He said the goddess of love promised Helen to him. That their marriage is not only lawful - it is divine."

"That's not a blessing. That's madness!" Hector snapped. "How can we base the fate of Troy on the infatuation of a boy still blinded by the shine of his own reflection? Did it cross your mind that she may have been taken against her will? Or that the Greeks might see this as abduction, an insult, a direct act of war? I was there when the pact was written, Father! The war will happen!"

"I weighed it all, Hector."

"No," Hector said, stepping forward, voice rising. "You weighed none of it. You gave him your blessing without question, without counsel. You let this-this pageant of lust and vanity unfold while your eldest son returned to find the city preparing for war in its wedding garments."

Priam's face remained composed, but the quiet steel in his voice was unmistakable. "Did you speak with your brother before storming here to challenge me?"

Hector hesitated. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because if I'd spoken to him - truly spoken to him, I might have struck him," Hector admitted. "And I didn't want to strike my brother. Not in front of the people. Not during a feast. Not when the city is still celebrating. If I lash out now, the panic will spread. They'll know what this marriage really means - that war is coming. And they are not ready."

There was a silence. Then Priam turned away slightly, gazing out the narrow window toward the towers of Troy.

"You think of Paris as a child," he said softly.

"He is a child," Hector said bitterly. "A spoiled one at that."

"He is the same age you were when you first came to me, speaking of Odysseus," Priam said, turning back. "Do you remember? Eyes full of certainty. Dreams in your voice. You came not as a soldier or prince, but as a man in love, asking for my blessing."

Hector clenched his jaw. "I remember. But I was not him. I was leading armies, forging treaties. I was working side by side with Odysseus to unite scattered islands and shield the Aegean from raiders. I didn't sweep a foreign queen into my bed and bring war to my doorstep wrapped in roses."

"Be careful, Hector," Priam warned. "You speak of your brother, not a stranger."

"And what of my bride?" Hector countered. "What of Odysseus, who waited years for your approval? What of our alliance, our loyalty - what is it worth now, when my brother can upend everything with a smile and a sweet word?"

Priam sat again, heavily. "And when did I say your engagement was forfeit?"

Hector blinked. "What?"

"I've sent for her," Priam said, almost casually, as though the decision required no more effort than ordering a fresh cup of wine. "A message bird left for Ithaca this morning, inviting Queen Odysseus to Troy. So the two of you can marry."

Hector stared, stunned. "You did… what?"

"I know what it cost you to love her, to wait this long. I was skeptical of her at first - any father would be. A girl crowned at fifteen, trained like a soldier, with more scars than courtiers. But she proved herself."

Priam looked at the fire, its light playing in his lined face.

"She stayed by your side. Sent letters to Troy every month. Refused every other suitor despite pressure from her council. And when the rumor spread that the Greeks would call on all leaders to march against Troy… she delayed her kingdom's oath."

Hector swallowed the lump rising in his throat. "She didn't want to be forced to choose. Between me and her duty."

Priam gave a small nod. "So I'm choosing for her. She will come here. She'll be safe, under my protection. If Greece wants war, let them try to find the stomach for fighting a queen beloved by Troy."

Hector paced for a moment, the storm inside him quieting by degrees. Finally, he turned to his father again.

"But Paris - this still invites war. What he did - Helen is a queen. A Spartan queen. They won't forgive this."

Priam's voice dropped, old pain surfacing. "The gods who built these walls once threatened to tear them down because my father failed to pay a debt. He didn't show the respect they deserved or recognize the generosity they offered with their blessing. They buried entire cities for less. Do you think I'll risk their wrath now?"

"But what of the wrath of Sparta? Of Greece?"

"I can only choose which wrath I fear more," Priam said. "And I fear the omnipotent gods more than mortal kings."

A long silence hung between them. The fire popped gently.

Hector looked down, the sharpness in him dulled by fatigue.

"I fought so long to be worthy of her, Father."

"And you were," Priam said. "You still are."

"And now I might have to fight the people who raised her."

"Let us hope it doesn't come to that."

Hector nodded slowly. "You really sent for her?"

"I did. And when she arrives, she'll be yours. Officially, publicly, and under my house's protection. I won't betray her trust in us."

Hector pressed a hand over his mouth, then lowered it with a breath.

"I just wanted peace."

Priam's eyes softened.

"Sometimes peace comes with a blade sheathed beneath it. You've learned that by now, son." 

"But why her, why us?"

"Thousands of threads are used to make one tapestry, and we never know when Fates will use the one with our lives tied to it."

---

Nyx's veil covered the sky above the rocky island. Ithaca's palace was quiet - too quiet - and Queen Odysseus sat curled on a cushioned bench beneath the stone archway, a rolled parchment lying loose in her lap. Sparta's wax seal had already been broken. The letter's words - brief, careful, commanding - sat heavy in her hands.

Another message. Another summons.

Her fingers, still ink-stained from writing and rewriting an answer she never sent, trembled slightly. The second letter, this one from Menelaus himself, was gentler in tone than the first. But its meaning was clear.

They were gathering at Aulis. The ships would be ready. The oath of Tyndareus would be called in full. And still, she had sent no answer.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. She didn't look up.

"Odysseus," came a familiar voice - quiet, gentle, insistent.

She sighed and turned her head slightly. Eurylochus stood at the doorway, his face part worry, part determination. He stepped into the chamber carefully, eyes flickering over her form as if checking for visible damage.

"You should be with your wife," she said, her voice dry.

"She's asleep. I came alone. I didn't want to worry her. Or your mother."

Odysseus gave a tired smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That's why you're sneaking in here."

Eurylochus nodded, stepping closer, hesitating before sitting across from her. "You haven't slept," he observed softly.

"I have," she lied.

He gave her a look.

"…Not well," she admitted. "It's the war. It never leaves my thoughts, not even in dreams."

Silence stretched between them, and his eyes dropped to the parchment in her lap.

"Is that from Menelaus?"

Odysseus didn't answer right away. Her fingers traced the edge of the paper.

"Yes," she said at last. "He wrote kindly. But it's still a summons. There's no other way to read it."

"He wants you to come to Aulis."

"They all do," she muttered. "And they won't say it, but they don't just want my ships. They want me . Agamemnon's made that clear enough."

Eurylochus leaned forward, voice low. "Then let me go in your place."

She blinked, startled. "What?"

"I'll go. I'll lead the men. Represent Ithaca. I'm supposed to be king anyway-"

"Absolutely not," Odysseus snapped, surging upright. "You will not be made king just to bleed in my place."

Eurylochus stood too, frustrated. "Then how were you planning to make me king at all? If you run back the moment someone knocks, and if you still wear the weight of the crown the moment the winds shift, how do I rule if you never let go?"

"I was going to let go," she hissed. "But I won't throw you to the wolves in my stead!"

"I want to do this!"

"And I won't let you!" she shouted.

The room echoed with the force of it, the air between them sharp as a drawn blade. Eurylochus didn't speak, his chest rising and falling fast.

"You say you're ready," she said bitterly, "but your responsibility now is to be my sister's husband. That's what matters now."

"I am her husband," he said, softer but no less firm. "And I am your brother now, too. I care about her. And I care about you . That means I want you safe."

She turned away, her hand shaking as it hovered near her temple.

"You're too young," she said. "You're twenty-two. You've never commanded in war."

"And you were queen at fifteen!" he snapped. "You led soldiers by sixteen. You were your father's shadow even before that."

Odysseus turned slowly, eyes flashing, her voice low and trembling.

"I didn't have a choice, Eury. My father was a warrior. An Argonaut. He forged alliances with his sword, sealed them with promises I never made. When he died, all those debts came crashing down. I didn't just inherit a crown - I inherited a dozen battlefields I didn't choose. You think I wanted that?"

He was silent.

"I will not make you a king like that," she said, her voice hollow. "I will not make you carry blood you never meant to spill."

Eurylochus stepped closer, his hands gentle as they rested on her trembling shoulders.

"That's not what we're afraid of, is it?" he said, voice quiet again. "It's not the war. Not really. It's who we'll be fighting."

Her breath caught.

He held her eyes, his own gentle but unyielding.

"It's Hector."

She looked down.

"I keep delaying," she said, her voice cracking. "Because if I say yes - if I give in - I'll be asked to fight people who feel like family. Hector is…" She stopped, pressing her knuckles against her mouth. "He's my betrothed. Menelaus is like a brother to me. Helen's my friend. And Agamemnon… he believed in me when no other man at that war table did. I can't choose a side. And they all want me to."

Eurylochus pulled her into a hug, his hands warm and steady on her back as her breath shuddered.

"We'll find another way," he whispered. "We'll delay the draft. Buy time. Whatever it takes. You won't have to choose-not yet."

She sagged into him, exhaustion written into every line of her face.

"You haven't eaten, have you?" he asked gently.

"No."

"Come downstairs. Just a little. You need to eat something."

She hesitated. Then nodded slowly.

"All right."

As they left the chamber together, the unopened scroll from Aulis lay forgotten on the cushion - its silent demand curling softly in the dusk.

The palace kitchens were quiet at this hour - abandoned by the staff who, sensing the queen's unrest, had politely scattered to give her space. It was a rare thing to see Odysseus here without a tray being brought to her or a steward at her elbow.

Eurylochus rummaged through the pantry with theatrical exaggeration, muttering loud enough for her to hear from where she sat at the long wooden table. After a few minutes of clattering, Eurylochus opened a smaller hatch and started looking at its belongings.

"I think this sack of barley dates back to when your father was alive."

Odysseus leaned her chin into her palm, smiling faintly as she watched him struggle with a pot. "If it moves, don't eat it. If it doesn't move, it's still not food."

"That's an unfair assumption," he replied, brandishing a hunk of bread as though it were a dagger. "You forget, my cooking is only half as bad as military rations."

"Is that a boast?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"It's a mercy," he said solemnly, before plunking the loaf onto the table with a dull thud that made the candlesticks tremble.

Odysseus snorted. "Tell me, when was the last time you checked the palace inventory?"

Eurylochus blinked. "Checked it? I assumed you had someone for that."

"I do," she said. "But you are the one who somehow dug out this hidden compartment. Maybe it was one of the stashes Father made when still kicking and believing that furies were after him . "

"Well, that much is obvious." He peered into a jar of something vaguely green. "Did you know this pickled… thing is older than Polites's medical license?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Odysseus said. "Anyway, I'm not the most reliable test subject when it comes to food quality. I can eat basically anything."

Eurylochus turned to look at her, appalled. "That is not something a queen should say."

She shrugged with mock dignity. "A queen usually doesn't have to eat questionable-quality meals in trenches."

He burst out laughing. "Fair point. I still remember that siege in Thronia - you were the only one who didn't throw up after those spiced roots. Everyone else was green for days."

Odysseus chuckled. "My stomach is blessed by Hades himself."

"Well, let's be grateful that Anticlea and Ctimene aren't here," Eurylochus said, shaking his head as he tried to scrape something unidentifiable off a skillet. "They'd have us both flogged for insulting royal standards like this."

"That's true," Odysseus said. "Mother would call this an abomination. Ctimene would scream and threaten to write a scroll to the culinary guild."

"Then cry about how no noble will ever respect her if her kingdom is known for aged barley and murder-loaf."

"Murder-loaf,'" Odysseus repeated, grinning. "Very fitting name."

"Truly, it's a recipe of war crimes," Eurylochus said as he handed her a plate.

She accepted it with the cautious air of someone holding a scorpion. "I feel like I should bless it first."

He sat down across from her, holding his cup up. "To resilient intestines and a kingdom that still functions despite our culinary sabotage."

Odysseus clinked her cup against his. "And to sisters and mothers with higher standards - so we don't get too comfortable eating battlefield rations in peace."

They laughed again, and for a moment, the tension that had been coiled in her shoulders all day began to ease. The shadows of war and politics still waited, but here, in the warmth of flickering lantern light and dry bread, they could forget them just a little while longer.

Odysseus laughed. "Oh, gods. Remember when Polites hid in the cauldron when we played hide-and-seek in the palace?"

Eurylochus's eyes widened with delight. "How could I forget? That idiot thought it was the perfect hiding spot."

"It was perfect," she agreed through her laughter, "until one of the servants lit a fire under it."

They both dissolved into snorting fits, the memory washing over them like warm light through rain.

"I've never seen someone leap out of a pot so fast in my life," she wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "He was screaming like a harpy."

Eurylochus smirked. "And you-you nearly fell over laughing, sitting on the woodpile like it was a theatre performance."

"I was just a child!" she cried.

"You were ruthless," Eurylochus countered, stirring the contents of the pan. "Didn't even warn him. Just waited to see how long it would take before he smoked."

Odysseus laughed, pressing a hand over her mouth. "That's not true! I was just slow to realize someone had lit a fire under the cauldron."

"You were perched on the windowsill, watching," he said, pointing the spoon at her. "Polites screamed like a banshee when he felt the heat rise. You didn't even blink."

"I panicked!"

"You grinned."

Odysseus shook her head, the laughter bubbling out of her. "Those were simpler days."

Silence settled between them - soft, companionable. The kind of pause that didn't ask to be filled.

Eurylochus stirred the pan again, frowning in mock seriousness. "Honestly, you were evil."

She narrowed her eyes, still grinning. "I was a kid."

"And both of us were menaces. Terrorizing the servants, tricking the guards, hiding important treasures only to forget where..."

She snorted. "Gods, we're still the worst."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "True. And yet, somehow, out of the three of us, Polites is the one who is an eternal single."

Odysseus covered her face with one hand, already giggling. "It's because he's too innocent for this world."

Eury let out a laugh, his shoulders shaking. "Remember the first time he had to give you a full medical checkup?"

"Oh, gods! Don't remind me!"

"He was trembling," Eurylochus wheezed. "Face red, eyes glued to the ceiling. I swear, he kept muttering, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' like he'd committed high treason."

"I had to order him not to faint after he touched my breasts," Odysseus said, laughing now. "He kept crying about disrespecting his friend and his queen."

"To this day," Eury said, wiping his eyes, "he still prays to Athena before every checkup. Begging for forgiveness."

Odysseus leaned back, clutching her side, breathless with laughter. "He does not."

"He does. I walked past the infirmary last time and caught the tail end of it: 'Lady Athena, if I must listen to the queen's heartbeat, please do not smite me for indecency.'"

They both howled with laughter, the kind that made their ribs ache and the stress unravel for a brief, golden moment.

When it faded, the quiet returned again, warm and still. Eurylochus stirred the pan absently before speaking, his voice gentler this time.

"Polites mentioned you've been having checkups."

Her amusement faded slightly, replaced by a familiar tension. "He did?"

Eurylochus nodded but kept his tone soft. "Nothing specific. He didn't betray your confidence. Just said he's been seeing you more regularly. I… figured I should ask."

Odysseus tilted her head, the smile fading from her eyes even if the curve still lingered on her lips. "It's nothing serious," she said carefully.

He glanced at her again, catching the way her shoulders were held just a little too stiff.

"Did he say anything else?" she asked after a moment.

"No," Eurylochus said quickly. "You know Polites. He wouldn't break patient trust - not even for me."

That seemed to soothe her. Her posture eased slightly, and she let out a slow breath.

"Good," she murmured.

"I only asked because I worry," he added, voice low.

"I know," she said, finally looking at him again, eyes tired but appreciative. "And… thank you."

With a practiced clatter, he plated their humble meal - a coarse barley mash, a chunk of the ancient bread, and some half-burnt greens that looked more ceremonial than edible.

They sat across from each other, the low lantern light softening the stone walls.

Odysseus took a bite and chewed for a moment.

"… It's dry."

"Like the wit of a dying soldier," Eury muttered, stabbing at his barley with his fork.

They laughed again, the meal absurd but strangely comforting.

She touched her own goblet to his. "To foolish brothers who try too hard."

"And stubborn queens who refuse to rest."

They ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything - about how the old orchard still hadn't borne fruit this year, about the latest gossip from the harbor, about how Odysseus's hound had started limping for no reason and stopped just as suddenly.

Each topic drew her further from the weight of command, the weight of war. For a moment, she let herself be a sister again, not a queen. Not a tactician.

Just a woman who missed the simplicity of childhood, and a brother who wouldn't let her face the dark alone.

---

Menelaus stood near the open flap of the tent, staring out at the distant sea. His jaw clenched as the wind whipped at his cloak. Behind him, Agamemnon poured wine into two cups, his eyes dark and fixed on the maps sprawled before him.

"She's not coming, brother," Menelaus said finally, voice quiet but heavy. "You know that."

Agamemnon handed him a cup, then drank from his own. "Odysseus hasn't said anything. That's what worries me even more."

"She's in love with Hector," Menelaus said, turning around. "Of course, she won't answer our summons. You're asking her to make war on the man she intends to marry."

“No,” Agamemnon said. "I'm asking her to win that war."

Menelaus didn't speak for a moment. Then he took a long drink and shook his head. "She won't come, brother."

Agamemnon placed his cup down and leaned over the table. "We have Sparta. Mycenae. Argos, Pylos, Arcadia, and Thessaly are all assembling at Aulis. Ajax is already on his way. Diomedes and Nestor bring men by the thousands. But none of them think the way she does. None of them sees the battlefield like a puzzle to be solved."

Menelaus sat across from him slowly, eyes scanning the map. "Do you remember when she was fifteen? Laertes dead barely a week, and she stepped up in front of a room full of kings who doubted her. She didn't just hold Ithaca together - she made it stronger."

"She didn't ask to rule," Agamemnon said, his voice quieter. "But she did it anyway. That's why I know she can help us. She might not like it, but she can still commit to the cause."

Menelaus sighed. "We're asking her to choose between her brothers and the man she loves."

Agamemnon gave him a long look. "You're asking her to help get your wife back, remember?"

That silenced Menelaus. He looked away.

The king of Sparta was glancing at the ground while speaking quietly. His voice filled with guilt.. "She was finally ready to let go. She told me, you know. Said it was time for someone else to rule. She was going to lay down the burden, leave Ithaca to peace, and start something simpler."

Agamemnon didn't look up. "She's said many things. But that crown never left her head."

"You say that like it's a flaw."

"No. Like it's the truth." The scraping of stone on steel stopped. Agamemnon finally looked at his brother, eyes like flint. "She wore it at fifteen, she whispered words of advice when Laertes couldn't even remember her name some days. She wore it when Ithaca's enemies came in the night, and all she had were two guards and a strategy. You remember that day, don't you? She would meet us the next day with bruised arms and a ship worth of newly gained treasure."

Menelaus's jaw tightened. The redhead king held tightly onto his mask as if it was about to fall out. "I remember being wounded in Mycenae. And watching her command men twice her age like they were chess pieces while-."

"She turned that ambush into a trap," Agamemnon said softly. "Led the enemy into the gorges and collapsed the cliffs on them. All with less than fifty soldiers."

"I was there," Menelaus said, quieter. "I saw it, brother. She walked through the dust and ruin like she'd planned it all a year in advance."

Agamemnon stood and walked to the edge of the tent, pulling aside the flap to let in the brine-laced wind. "Then you know why we need her now. Troy will not fall to brawn or brute force. They built their walls with divine favor and arrogance to match. We need a mind sharper than their spears. Odysseus is that mind."

Menelaus said nothing for a long moment. Then: "And what of her heart? You're asking her to take arms against Troy - against Hector."

Agamemnon's gaze darkened. "I'm asking her to prevent a war from becoming a massacre. With her, we win. Without her, we drown in blood."

Menelaus stared at him for a long moment. "Tell me honestly. Is part of why you want her here because you think Hector won't strike if she stands with us?"

Agamemnon didn't answer immediately. The question landed too close to the truth.

Then, quietly: "If she fought for Troy... I don't know if I could face her. Let alone kill her."

Menelaus' brow furrowed. "You love her like kin."

"She is kin," Agamemnon said. "Not by blood, but by bond. We watched her rise when she was barely a girl. She stood beside us while other kings scoffed. I remember her as a mouthy teen who would sneak out with you to drink unmixed wine only for the two of you to let yourself be chased by angry rams in the middle of the night." The last part made both brothers chuckle, but then Agamemnon looked saddened at the map. "She bled with us, planned with us, spoke in your name when your voice was cracking. She was... exceptional. Still is. But more importantly. She is a family. And there is no happy future for us if we were to fight against her. Nightmares of that sin alone would be enough to bring us to the early grave."

Menelaus's voice softened. "I remember. She taught me how to hold a dagger properly, you know. I was still clumsy with it back then."

"You were barely a boy," Agamemnon said with a dry smile. "And you still are."

"I'm in my twenties. Just because you are old, it doesn't mean I'm a kid."

"Who are you calling old!? I'm still in my thirties!"

"Barely."

The banter between brothers was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. The flap lifted, and Palamedes stepped inside. Dressed in a polished tunic of soft bronze hues, his expression was composed, almost curious. There was always something theatrical about the prince of Euboea - like he was performing for an invisible audience, even when war loomed like thunderclouds overhead.

"You called for me, my lord?" he said with an elegant nod.

Agamemnon glanced at his younger brother for a moment, but when Menelaus realised what was about to happen, he couldn't look his kin in the eyes. The king of Mycenae turned to face the prince and gave him a stern look. "I need you to sail to Ithaca."

"Why so, my king?"

"To bring Odysseus here."

Palamedes blinked. "To recruit the queen?"

"Yes."

A beat. "Forgive me - but... why her?" He glanced briefly toward Menelaus, but the Spartan king was still avoiding eye contact. Then he looked back at Agamemnon. "She rules islands, not empires. The tales speak of her wit, yes - but she's small, slight. Doesn't quite fit the image of a warrior queen."

Menelaus raised a brow but said nothing.

Agamemnon smiled without warmth. "You judge by size and overlook substance. That's a mistake she won't let you make twice."

Palamedes hesitated, clearly weighing his words. "You seem to admire her, my lord."

"No," Agamemnon said before sighting. "I fear her. And that's why I want her on our side."

Something in Palamedes shifted - his posture stiffened, his smile faltered just enough to betray the flicker of jealousy. He recovered quickly, bowing his head in practiced humility.

"But preparing an army takes time. Do you expect me to depart for the entire moon cycle?"

"I don't care how many ships she can or will offer. We need her . You can forget about everyone else. Drag her here by her hair if you have to, but you better don't be back without the queen of Ithaca."

"Then I'll bring her to Aulis," he said. "With or without her men."

"Be cautious," Agamemnon warned. "She'll seem soft-spoken, even fragile. She might gift you with freshly picked flowers, cry like a lost child, or laugh like a poet's dream. But don't be fooled. If she sees you as a threat, she'll gut you like a fish. And you won't realize you're bleeding until your boots are red."

Palamedes forced a laugh. "She sounds terrifying."

"She is," Agamemnon said flatly.

The prince inclined his head once more and left, cloak trailing behind him like a curtain closing on an act.

Silence fell again.

Menelaus exhaled slowly and reached for his cup of wine. "You know she won't forgive us."

Agamemnon turned back to the map, placing a pin in Ithaca. His voice was quiet, grave. "Good. Then it means we'll live long enough to experience her grudge."

They stood in silence, the sound of waves folding into shore like fate breathing just beyond reach.

---

The palace air was heavy with the scent of drying herbs and the distant brine of the sea. In the solarium, the light had begun to dim as the sun fell, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Anticlea sat with a piece of embroidery in her lap, her needle moving with deliberate care, while Ctimene stood by the window, arms crossed tightly across her chest.

When Odysseus entered, she carried her usual guarded grace, eyes scanning the room as though expecting to be ambushed. Her voice was cool, tired. "You wanted to talk?"

Anticlea smiled gently. "Come. Sit. We won't bite."

Odysseus raised a brow at that but moved to sit beside her sister anyway, settling with a sigh as though even the act of sitting had become another burden.

"We've been talking," Anticlea said softly, glancing at Ctimene, "about the draft. And about Eurylochus."

Odysseus's expression tightened, and a weary groan escaped her. "He told you."

"He didn't need to," Ctimene cut in, voice sharp. "He was practically glowing with idiotic chivalry. Said he was ready to take your place if it meant keeping you safe."

"I told him not to be ridiculous," Odysseus muttered.

Anticlea set her embroidery aside, her fingers folding in her lap. "It's not ridiculous to care for you. You could stop delaying his coronation. He seems to be ready to fulfill his duty to the land."

"He's twenty-two," Odysseus said, almost scoffing.

Ctimene's voice cracked as she snapped, "And you were fifteen."

The words hit like a thrown stone. Odysseus blinked at her sister, stunned and silent for a moment before recovering her composure.

"I didn't want that," she said, quieter now. "I didn't choose to rule. I stepped up because someone had to. Because you were still a child, and Father -" she stopped, swallowing. "Father was already slipping. And Mother had everything else on her shoulders. So I did it. Not because I wanted it, but because I had no choice."

Ctimene's hands were clenched at her sides. "And now you're doing the same thing to the rest of us. Shouldering everything until it crushes you. You protect everyone, and then act like it's your destiny to suffer alone."

Odysseus's voice rose, firm and resolute. "Because I won't let you go through what I did! That's what being the eldest means. I will not let you carry the same weight. Ever."

"Enough!" Anticlea said, rising with quiet authority. "Odysseus, walk with me. Please."

The eldest daughter didn't find it in herself to refuse her mother, and so she followed the steady pace of the older woman.

The garden air was cool and still, touched with the faint sweetness of ripening figs and citrus. Mother and daughter descended the worn stone steps into the orchard - Laertes' orchard, planted tree by tree long before Odysseus was born. The soft rustling of leaves whispered around them like the voices of the past.

"You picked this place on purpose," Odysseus murmured.

Anticlea smiled faintly. "He was always happiest here. When the politics got too loud, when the world pressed too hard, he came here and planted. Everything that grows here, your father placed with his own hands."

Odysseus exhaled slowly. "He seemed to prefer the trees to his children."

Anticlea didn't flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on the orchard ahead, on the curling branches that reached skyward as if still growing toward the hands that once shaped them. She nodded, slow and solemn. "He understood trees better. They grew the way he wanted them to - with care, structure, and order. People… people were harder. But he never stopped loving you, not for a moment. When you were just a toddler, he noticed how you giggled when seeing sunflowers, and it was enough of a reason for him to suddenly plant a few dozen of them behind your nursery window just so you could wake up with a bright smile."

Odysseus let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I'm sorry, mother, but it seems rather hard to believe. He called me a bastard. Said I didn't look like him, so I couldn't possibly be his."

Anticlea stopped walking. The wind stirred between them, catching in the silvery strands of her hair and carrying the soft sound of leaves brushing against one another. A petal drifted past Odysseus' cheek as her mother turned to face her fully.

"He was afraid," Anticlea said softly. "And prideful. Your father… Laertes was never meant to be a king of great kingdoms. When we married, he ruled over a modest, quiet land. He was a gardener long before he was a general. He used to confess his love with apples - little things he grew himself. He'd shyly leave them by my door when he didn't have the words. That was the man I fell for and the man I married."

Odysseus didn't respond, but her fingers curled slightly against her palm.

"Then, my nephew, Jason, asked him to join the voyage. He went, expecting nothing. Came back a hero. Suddenly, his name meant something. People bowed when they saw him. Stories were sung about his achievements." Anticlea's voice was quiet, but there was a thread of steel underneath. "He didn't want that crown, not really. But once it sat on his brow, he became afraid to take it off."

Her gaze drifted over the trees, her memories clinging to every branch.

"He told himself he could carry it all. Rule expanding lands. Keep the peace. Be the hero, the protector, the king. And still be a father. A husband. He told himself he would put it down one day. Just not yet. Not when there was still more to do. He said that every year. Not yet. Not yet."

"And then?" Odysseus asked, her voice low.

Anticlea sighed. "Then his mind began to fray. The strain wore him down. He forgot things - names, places. He would mistake one memory for another. He would disappear into the orchard for hours, then return furious that no one had followed. The paranoia crept in slowly, at first. He began to think that people were whispering about him. That you weren't really his. That I had betrayed him."

Her voice caught, but only for a moment. "With madness came fear. And fear… always brings anger. That's the version you knew. The man who raged and accused and flinched at shadows. You never got to see the boy who risked his life for his companions, who would lift a wounded soldier across his back without a second thought. You never saw how he became a brother to the men he fought beside or the man who spent weeks painting your nursery, fearing that it wouldn't be pretty enough for his little treasure."

Odysseus's throat felt tight. She looked around the orchard and felt for the first time how much of her father remained here - silent, steady, patient. A contradiction to the man she remembered.

"He should've handed it off sooner," she whispered. "The crown. The kingdom. All of it."

Anticlea nodded. "He should have. But to let go would have meant admitting he was no longer the man they sang about. He clung to the myth of himself until it consumed the truth. And by then… it was too late. There weren't enough peaceful days left to make up for what was lost."

Odysseus's eyes stung, but she blinked the tears back fiercely.

Anticlea reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's face. "I see that same weight on your shoulders now. That same refusal to yield. And it terrifies me."

Odysseus swallowed hard, her voice rough. "I thought… if I let anyone else carry it, they'd break. Or everything would fall apart."

"Then let it," Anticlea said. "Just for a while. Let it fall. Let others hold the line. You've done more than enough. You don't have to become him to honor his land or people.

There was a long silence. Wind through leaves. The creak of ripening branches.

Anticlea's eyes were glassy, but her voice, honed by decades of rule and restraint, never wavered. "I was so afraid the same would happen to you. That you'd bury your softness beneath duty. That you'd forget how to be anything but responsible. So when you fell in love - when you looked at Hector and, for once, didn't see a battlefield - I was relieved."

Odysseus blinked fast, her arms crossing protectively over her chest, fingers digging into the sleeves of her tunic. "You really think it's love?"

Anticlea gave a small, amused sigh. "You know, my little lamb, I didn't trust him - you know. Not at first."

Odysseus laughed, eyes flashing. "Didn't trust him? You were ready to shoot him down with your bow."

"I was being reasonable ," Anticlea said, lifting her chin. "There were too many men at that coronation - power-hungry, lust-struck, or both - suddenly far too interested in the fifteen-year-old girl wearing a crown twice her weight. And then in strolls a seventeen-year-old prince of Troy who couldn't stop staring. Forgive me if I wasn't charmed."

"He wasn't staring," Odysseus said, grinning. "He was trying to figure out how to introduce himself in a language he at that time barely spoke."

Anticlea sniffed. "That's what he claims ."

"He would be afraid of asking servants for anything to the point he would get lost in the palace for hours !"

"If he had asked to stay one more night," Anticlea said dryly, "I would've stabbed him with my hairpin."

Odysseus burst into laughter. "Gods, I believe you. You were watching him like a hawk."

"I was watching everyone like a hawk, " Anticlea replied. "But him especially. He was polite, quiet, pretty , and very much from the wrong side of the sea. That's a dangerous combination in any palace."

"Pretty?" Odysseus teased.

Anticlea waved a hand dismissively. "Objectively. Not that it helped his case."

"And now look at him," Odysseus said, shaking her head with affection. "Still arriving in Ithaca in full armor, just in case you haven't changed your mind."

Anticlea smirked. "At least he's not dumb."

"That's what I told him," Odysseus said, grinning. "He once tried to take the helmet off at the gate, and I told him he was braver facing hostile envoys than you."

Anticlea chuckled. "I like that he's afraid of me. It shows he has good instincts."

Odysseus grinned. "You're terrifying."

"I'm a mother," Anticlea said. "It's the same thing."

Odysseus smiled again, a little softer this time. "With him, I just get to be . I can laugh too loud, or say something stupid, or fall asleep on a boat dock and not worry that someone will write a scandal about it."

Anticlea took her daughter's hand gently. "That's what I liked in him. He made you act your age again. You weren't a queen. You weren't a strategist. You were just a teenage girl who blushed and rolled her eyes and made a complete fool of herself trying to impress a boy who already liked her."

Odysseus tried to object. "I had Menelaus. I had Ctimene. I wasn't -"

"You were pretending," Anticlea said, not unkindly. "You put on a brave face for them, always. You didn't want your sister to worry, and you didn't want your friends to see you as fragile when they looked up to you. You kept the mask on for them."

She reached up and tucked a windblown lock of hair behind Odysseus's ear. "But not with Hector. With him, you were ridiculous. Lovestruck. Honest. And young . I saw it, and I thanked the gods for it."

Odysseus looked down at their clasped hands. "Then how am I supposed to go to war against him?"

"You don't." Anticlea's voice turned firm, the mother and queen perfectly aligned. "That's why I don't want you to fight. Not just for your kingdom. Not just for your sister. But for your heart. Because I've seen what duty does when it goes unchecked. And I won't watch it hollow you out the way it did Laertes."

Odysseus's chest ached. She pulled in a slow, shaky breath. "That's why I'm trying so hard to avoid the draft. If I can delay things, stall the negotiations, keep our borders quiet long enough... maybe the war won't touch us. Maybe my people won't bleed for something that isn't ours. And maybe... maybe I won't have to see Hector across a battlefield."

Anticlea nodded, her eyes damp. "Then hold that line. Not as a queen. Not as a warrior. But as my daughter. The girl your father once planted these trees for."

Odysseus looked up. The orchard her father had planted stretched around them like a memory made of light and leaves. Apple blossoms swayed in the breeze, the very first trees Laertes had grown with his own hands. Their pale petals drifted down like snow, soft and aimless, falling onto her shoulders.

And for the first time in years, the orchard didn't feel like a graveyard.

It felt like a promise. A gentle hug offered to bring her and her mother some comfort.

Anticlea glanced toward the trees, brushing a blossom from her sleeve. "You know," she said with a wry smile, "I suppose it's a blessing that one of your childhood friends became a physician. At least he knows how to trick you into looking after your own health. Even I don't know how he always manages that."

Odysseus chuckled softly. "It's true. Polites has a gift. He doesn't threaten or guilt me. He just… talks. And somehow I end up drinking the awful tonic and showing up to the next checkup like an obedient child."

Anticlea arched her brow, teasing. "You're only obedient for two people - Polites and Hector."

"I am not obedient for Hector," Odysseus said, feigning offense.

"You let him take your bow when you were feverish."

"I was delirious."

"You threw it at him and told him to guard it with his soul or you'd haunt him."

"...I stand by that."

They laughed together, the sound light, like wind rustling through the branches. A moment passed in quiet comfort. Odysseus bent to scoop up a fallen blossom, twirling its stem between her fingers, her gaze far off.

Then her expression shifted - just slightly. A flicker of something sharp behind her eyes, the subtle weight of a thought forming, precise and quiet like a drawn bowstring.

Anticlea noticed the change. "What?" she asked curiously.

Odysseus looked up, the corner of her mouth tugging in the smallest of smirks. "Nothing. Just... a thought."

"A dangerous one?"

"Possibly brilliant," she replied, not quite meeting her mother's gaze.

Anticlea gave a sigh - the kind only mothers knew how to perfect. "Try not to get arrested for treason. Or worse, scandal."

"I make no promises," Odysseus said, already turning the idea over in her mind.

Anticlea shook her head, but her smile returned. "You truly are your father's daughter."

Odysseus let the blossom fall from her hand and looked up through the orchard canopy, the sunlight catching the edges of her thoughts. For the first time in weeks, something inside her didn't feel cornered.

For the first time in weeks, she had a plan.

---

The waves whispered around the hull of the ship as it carved its slow, steady path through the Ionian waters. The morning sun painted the sea in molten gold, the shadows of gulls trailing across the surface like drifting thoughts. Palamedes stood at the prow, one hand resting lightly on the curve of his bow, the other shading his eyes as he scanned the approaching cliffs of Ithaca.

The wind tugged at the folds of his green cloak - deep jade trimmed in Euboean bronze embroidery, the mark of a prince and a practiced aesthete. His dark curls were tied back with a bronze band, gleaming like a circlet, and though the salt air had dried his skin, there wasn't a speck of grime on his well-kept boots. A polished mirror of a man.

Sharp-eyed. Patient. Bored out of his mind.

With an elegant flick of his wrist, Palamedes nocked another arrow, aimed skyward, and let it fly. It cut a clean arc through the air, sharp as a needlepoint. A startled cry, a blur of feathers - and then a splash. The gull fell like a petal plucked from the sky.

"Five," he said aloud, to no one. A sailor nearby coughed, but didn't comment.

He reached for another arrow and twirled it lazily between his fingers, staring at the narrowing gap between his ship and the distant silhouette of Ithaca. The island looked unimpressive at first glance - rocky ridges softened by olive groves, its ports modest, its watchtowers sparse. More mountain than kingdom. He'd expected something grander from the so-called queen who had Agamemnon whispering prophecy and dread into his wine.

He let out a slow breath, half sigh, half scoff.

Odysseus.

He rolled the name around in his mouth like bitter fruit. A woman named for cunning. For legacy. It sounded more like a priestess's trick than a monarch's birthright. From what little he'd heard outside Agamemnon's court, she was young, scarred by experience, and - by all accounts - brilliant.

But brilliance meant little on a battlefield.

Yet Agamemnon had insisted. No - demanded that she be brought to Aulis. Not summoned, not invited. Brought. As though the very course of the campaign would shift with her arrival.

Palamedes found it hard to believe.

"She'll be difficult," Agamemnon had warned him days ago, voice low with something that wasn't quite fear, but close. "You won't win her with threats or bribes. She has outmaneuvered men twice her age and crumbled armies to the ground with fewer soldiers than you can imagine. If she refuses to come, do not provoke her or you'll dig your own grave."

Palamedes had nodded, of course. He admired Agamemnon - the man had vision, presence, purpose. He'd follow him into fire, even if the path sometimes stank of myth over reason.

But the warning had never sat right with him.

He let the next arrow loose. Six. The bird spiraled down in a clean fall, and he marked its splash with idle satisfaction.

A dangerous queen? Fine. He could imagine a few. He'd seen the madness in Sparta's older courts, the cold brilliance of Thebes' royal women. But this Odysseus - young, bookish, clever rather than commanding? He suspected Agamemnon's concern wasn't military or political.

It was personal.

A sentimental attachment, maybe. A mentor's pride. A brother's guilt. Or maybe something more hidden so it would not reach the ears of his wife? It made way more sense in his mind than some stories of a scary leader.

Because he wasn't ordered to sail to Ithaca to bring an army.

He was ordered to bring her.

And whether she came with banners or none, swords or stories, he'd deliver her to Aulis. For strategy or support or whatever it was, Agamemnon thought her presence would accomplish.

The only question was whether she'd walk aboard willingly… or if he'd have to play the long game. Court her with caution. Fence with words instead of blades.

He didn't mind the challenge.

Palamedes drew another arrow, lazily tracking a bird overhead. He was a hunter, after all. And the most interesting prey didn't bleed right away.

Not until they were good and cornered.

This time, the creature fell down on the deck with a loud thud that startled a few people working on board and annoyed those who would have to clean the bloody mess.

Seven.

---

The hall of Ithaca's palace glowed with late sunlight, each marble pillar casting long golden shadows across the mosaic floor. The air was cool with the sea breeze drifting in through open archways, and faint birdsong echoed from the gardens beyond.

Palamedes of Euboea stood at the threshold of the music room, ushered in by a soft-spoken servant. Inside, the gentle tones of a lyre floated through the air - precise, melodic, deliberate.

Queen Odysseus sat near the open window, her figure small in the high-ceilinged room. She wore a sea-blue chiton, understated but elegant, her bare feet tucked beneath the cushioned stool. Her fingers moved with practiced grace over the strings of the lyre, each note clean and composed.

Across the room, her younger sister Ctimene sat at a loom, her head bowed and focused, though her eyes flicked up, measuring him, then quickly away.

Odysseus set the lyre aside and stood.

"Prince Palamedes," she said softly, with a smile as polished as the sun-warmed floor. "We weren't expecting your arrival so soon."

He bowed stiffly. "My lady. The winds were more favorable than the omens promised."

She took a few steps forward, not hurrying, her posture graceful but relaxed. There was something almost domestic about her - the delicate way she adjusted her hair ribbon, the softness of her tone. If he hadn't known better, he might have taken her for a nobleman's daughter, not the ruler of an island kingdom.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a low couch. "Ithaca may lack the splendor of Euboea, but I hope we'll make up for it with hospitality."

He seated himself as she poured wine, watching her carefully. She was shorter than he imagined. No armor, no visible weapon. Her body, though modestly draped, was clearly curved - broad hips, strong thighs. Not fragile, exactly, but… unassuming. Even her face was strange in its gentleness. Pale, with one blue eye and one brown, the colors mismatched but striking. They made her look ever so slightly off-center, like the world never quite settled into place around her.

Palamedes was usually rather immune to classic feminine beauty. But this was not what he'd expected.

"You've come with a message," she said as she handed him the cup. Her smile, again, was soft and a little knowing.

"I have," he replied. "From High King Agamemnon. He has asked - formally and urgently - for the Queen of Ithaca to sail for Aulis and join the Greek cause. We stand at the edge of war."

The loom paused mid-weave. Ctimene's shoulders stiffened, her hands frozen on the threads.

Odysseus, however, only nodded once. Her lashes lowered as she sat again.

"I see," she said, then added, "It's an honor to be so… urgently desired."

Palamedes opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand slightly, stopping him.

"I must refuse," she said, almost apologetically. "Though I understand the need, and I feel the weight of it keenly."

He furrowed his brow. "Forgive my boldness, your grace, but… may I ask why?"

She hesitated. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, fidgeted once before settling again, this time gently holding her abdomen.

"I'm with child," she said softly.

Palamedes blinked. "You're -? Are you married, my lady?"

Odysseus giggled - not cruelly, but like someone caught mid-polite deception. "No. Not quite. But once you inform the High King, I assure you, he'll understand why I - especially I - must remain here and why I would rather stay neutral in this conflict."

He sat back, digesting the words. Her tone was mild, almost embarrassed, but it struck him how effortlessly she bent the conversation toward quiet finality. There was no opening for argument, and yet she hadn't raised her voice or made demands.

"I see…" he murmured, eyes narrowing just slightly. "That certainly… complicates things."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." She sipped from her own cup, her eyes warm and seemingly sincere. "But I must think of Ithaca's future. My people need a steady hand, especially now. And I doubt I would last long in Troy in my condition."

Her gaze met his evenly, and for a strange moment, Palamedes felt… off-balance. He wasn't used to women speaking to him with such gentle confidence. He'd come expecting something sharp, difficult, even. This was not that.

"Of course," he said at last, clearing his throat. "I'll inform the high king as you request. If I may, I'd like to remain in Ithaca a day or two to recover from the voyage."

"Of course," she said easily, smiling again. "You'll dine with us tonight. And you'll have a full suite prepared. My stewards will tend to anything you need."

He stood with her, bowing low. "Your grace."

As he followed the servant to the guest quarters, Palamedes found himself glancing back - just once.

She didn't look like a threat. Nothing about her seemed capable of upending kingdoms. She laughed too lightly, moved too gently. Her voice didn't carry command - it carried comfort.

And yet, after a day in her company, Palamedes found himself charmed.

Utterly, unexpectedly, and dangerously charmed.

She had walked with him beneath the twisted olive trees her father once planted, their gnarled branches swaying in the sea breeze like old dancers. The orchard, she told him, had been Laertes' gift to her mother on the day they married. Each tree had a name. Each one carried a memory.

"I used to lie under that fig tree and make up names for constellations," she said, pointing up at a sun-splashed canopy of leaves. "The gods must have laughed at me. I thought I'd discovered a new one every week."

She laughed then - soft and sheepish - and Palamedes had felt the first warm flush crawl up his neck. The sound was different from any courtly laughter he knew. It wasn't performed. It was… simple. Real.

He began to count how often she smiled, how often he looked for it, like a sailor spotting light on the horizon.

By the time she brought him to the cliffside to show him where the gulls nested, he found himself answering her questions before she asked them, hoping to impress her with stories of Euboea, of his hunts, his contests, his poems.

But every time she turned her full attention on him, every time her mismatched eyes met his - blue like winter sky, bronze like a hearthfire-he forgot his own clever words. And when she smiled at him, he felt it in his throat, in his stomach, in his hands.

Gods, he was blushing.

He was blushing - a man of twenty-nine, son of Nauplius, veteran of two campaigns and three love affairs, blushing like a boy with a crush on his tutor.

She never teased him for it. That, somehow, only made it worse.

They dined beneath a vine-covered arch that afternoon, sharing fish and olives and citrus soaked in honey. She poured his wine herself and told him how Ithaca's fishermen could read the wind better than the priests. She leaned close to show him a trick of shellcraft on her cup. Her fingers brushed his once, lightly. She didn't pull away.

He found himself dreaming - waking dreams, half-built fantasies that drifted in while she spoke.

Of her beside him at Troy, not as a commander but as a companion. Her laughter breaking through the grind of strategy meetings. Her warmth cutting through the cold dawns. Her clever tongue charming half the camp into loyalty. And at night, when the fire dimmed, he would reach for her in his tent-not as a soldier reaching for power, but as a man simply reaching for comfort. For softness.

For her.

The thought startled him.

It was foolish, dangerous. She was a queen. A ruler. A mother-to-be, supposedly. She might even be lying.

And yet.

And yet he had a moment-just one-beneath the shade of an ancient oak, where he looked at her and almost said, "Come with me, but not to Agamemnon. Come with me to Euboea. Be with me."

He didn't say it, of course. He swallowed it like a fool swallows seawater. But the thought lingered.

Not for her cunning.

But for her company.

He'd come to drag a reluctant strategist to war.

Instead, he found himself wondering what it would be like to build peace with her instead.

And for the first time since landing on Ithacan soil, he felt unsure of which man he was supposed to be.

The one Agamemnon trusted - 

Or the one she made him wish he was.

That evening, after the afternoon's warmth had faded and the lamps were lit with gentle flame, Palamedes found himself lingering outside the room the queen had offered him. The breeze from the sea brushed through the open corridor, carrying with it the distant scent of citrus and myrrh.

He hesitated, fingers curling at his sides.

It felt wrong - insulting, even - after the kindness she had shown him. But he hadn't come to Ithaca to be charmed. He'd come with a mission. And the truth, regardless of how it made him feel, was still expected of him.

He found her again in the small solar overlooking the western cliffs. She was seated by a low table, sorting through correspondence, her profile lit in gold by the flickering oil lamp.

"Your grace," he said gently.

Odysseus glanced up, a touch surprised, then smiled softly. "Prince Palamedes. Couldn't sleep?"

"Not quite," he said, shifting his weight. "Forgive me. This… isn't easy to ask. But I'd be derelict if I didn't." He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes. "Some form of proof. Of your condition. For the sake of the message I'm meant to carry. Agamemnon will expect more than my word and your smile."

There was a long pause. Then:

"I understand," Odysseus said, without a trace of offense. She set down her stylus and folded her hands. "You're not the first to question me. I imagine you won't be the last."

Palamedes looked up, surprised by her calm.

"Come with me," she said simply.

She led him down a quiet hallway, through a side door into what seemed to be a personal archive. Scrolls and wax tablets filled the shelves, stacked in careful order beside sealed amphorae and weathered ledgers. A layer of dust covered most of them like untouched snow.

Odysseus moved with the familiarity of someone who had spent years managing this place. She selected a wooden case from the far right wall and opened it with care. Inside were a series of thick wax tablets bound together with leather cords, the earliest marked from nearly a year prior.

"These are from Drakon of Same," she said, offering them. "My physician since I was thirteen. He's kept close watch over my health since I took the throne. The newer ones belong to the current physician, Polites of Ithaca. You'll see the relevant notes - changes in appetite, tenderness in the lower abdomen, signs of uterine shift, headaches, balance."

Palamedes took the first tablet gingerly, his fingers brushing the worn impressions carved by the doctor's stylus. His guilt doubled when he realized how steady her hands were, how unflinching her gaze remained.

He flipped through the pages slowly, eyes catching dates - some of them months before he'd even left Euboea. Each one meticulously recorded, from her cycle shifts to anatomical details far too mundane or personal to be fabricated in a single day.

Some of the older tablets were brittle at the edges, sealed with layers of wax so thickly dusted they would have taken weeks to forge convincingly, let alone overnight.

He caught himself holding his breath.

"I can have Polites speak to you himself," Odysseus offered. "If you think it would help."

"No," Palamedes said quickly, and then again, quieter. "No. This is… sufficient."

There was silence between them as he returned the tablets and she carefully closed the case.

"I didn't want to lie," she said gently, walking him back toward the corridor. "But I knew that if I simply said 'no,' they wouldn't accept it. So I decided the truth would have to work hard enough to sound like a lie."

Palamedes looked at her in profile again - shorter than him by a head, still barefoot from her chambers, her hair pinned back without ornament.

How was this the woman Agamemnon feared?

How was this the woman he had been told might decide the fate of a war?

She smiled at him once more, the softest curve of her lips. "Good night, Prince Palamedes."

He bowed his head. "Good night, my lady."

And as she vanished into the hallway's shadows, he felt a knot twisting behind his ribs.

Because now, when he thought of Troy, he didn't imagine banners or glory.

He imagined a quiet voice reading starlight from ancient scrolls.

And hands that didn't shake, even under suspicion.

And a truth so well-worn it could only be real.

And that uncertainty stayed with him for those few days. 

On the last day. The one before his leave, he was once again invited for dinner. When he was led toward the dining chamber, he felt a small flicker of guilt he couldn't quite name. His boots tapped softly along the stone corridors. As he neared the entrance to the hall, he caught sight of one of his men posted near the outer courtyard.

Palamedes gave him a casual wave.

The soldier gave a short nod and subtly tapped his fingers to his chest - three swift motions.

Palamedes didn't react.

But as he stepped inside, the scent of roasted lamb and honeyed figs wafting through the air, something cold stirred in the pit of his stomach.

He smiled anyway.

After all, he reminded himself - 

The queen had made her choice.

Now it was his move.

The great hall of Ithaca was lit by braziers and oil lamps, their golden glow casting soft shadows across the polished stone. The table was set modestly but elegantly - figs and olives in carved bowls, roasted lamb spiced with thyme, warm bread soaked in oil. Queen Odysseus sat at the head, flanked by her sister Ctimene and several advisors. Palamedes was seated to her right, still a guest in every sense.

The conversation was light, almost tender. Odysseus asked after his travels, his ship, his verses - her voice soft, her questions well-practiced. She spoke like a hostess, not a sovereign.

"You mentioned once you'd written odes for the spring festival of Hera," she said, pouring him wine herself. "Do you remember any of them?"

Palamedes smiled, a bit sheepishly. "Only the bad ones. The kind people pretend to enjoy while glancing at the wine jugs."

She laughed - truly laughed - and he found himself laughing too. Her joy seemed genuine, and it hit him in the chest harder than he liked.

He shifted in his seat. "I admit, I didn't expect this."

"Expect what?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"You. The palace. The… calm." He glanced around, watching the handmaidens serve the next course. "Agamemnon spoke of Ithaca as if it were a fortress of ideas. A place shaped by logic and stratagems."

"And instead you found…" She gestured at herself with a wry smile. "A queen who plays the lyre and asks about poetry."

He flushed faintly. "I didn't mean offense."

"I know." She took a bite of the lamb and chewed slowly. "It does amuse me," she added after a moment, "that anyone would think to draft me."

"Because you're a queen?" he asked.

"No," she said, brushing crumbs from her fingers. "Because I'm a woman. I was never one of Helen's suitors. That oath never applied to me."

Palamedes swirled his cup, the wine catching the firelight. "True. But your name was on the document. You helped forge it. That alone makes you accountable."

She arched a brow, intrigued. "So Agamemnon wants me for my signature?"

"No," he admitted. "He wants you because he believes we won't win without you."

She stilled, the smile faltering.

Palamedes leaned forward, voice quiet now. "He said you were vital. That your mind was sharper than half his generals. That you see wars before they start and plan endings before others know there's a beginning."

She coughed. Just once. Sharp. Dismissive.

He tilted his head. "You don't believe him?"

"I believe he flatters what he fears." She took another sip of wine and coughed again. Harder.

He frowned. "Are you alright?"

She waved a hand, but her next breath caught. Her body lurched forward as a violent tremor ran through her. Blood splattered across her palm and the table.

The hall froze.

Ctimene screamed. Servants rushed forward, hands reaching. A guard knocked over a platter in his haste.

Odysseus collapsed sideways in her chair, blood spilling from her lips, staining the linen of her gown.

"Fetch Polites!" someone shouted.

Palamedes stood slowly, his expression unreadable. He raised one hand, calmly stilling the chaos.

"No need to panic," he said gently, his tone almost apologetic. "It's not poison."

Ctimene gaped at him. "What did you do?!"

Palamedes looked down at the queen, who now lay slumped against the table, her breath shallow, body twitching as another wave of agony gripped her.

"It's a common blend. Harmless, mostly," he continued. "An herb from Crete. Traditionally used to... terminate pregnancies. I may have added too much."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"I had no wish to harm her," he said softly, approaching her side and kneeling beside her. "But the matter of her condition was the only obstacle keeping her from us."

He touched her hand. It trembled beneath his. Blood still clung to the corners of her lips.

She looked at him, not with fear.

With fury.

And something colder.

Palamedes held her gently, as though she were made of spun glass. His palm brushed over her blood-matted hair, slow and reverent, before reaching for a cloth and beginning to clean the smears from her face. The blood was warm, and it clung to her skin in streaks, refusing to fade entirely.

"I'm sorry," he murmured again, wiping delicately under her chin, where it had trickled like spilled wine. "For the pain. For the loss. You deserved better."

Odysseus didn't speak. Her breath rattled faintly, but her eyes never left his face. Sharp. Unyielding.

He should have looked away.

But instead, he leaned closer, his voice dropping into a whisper - something private, almost sacred.

He leaned closer and, with heartbreaking gentleness, brushed a lock of hair from her brow. "I don't enjoy seeing you in pain," he whispered. "Truly. I would have preferred any other way. But now… now, you can come with me. You don't have to stay behind anymore."

He slipped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. She didn't resist. But neither did she react. Her body was limp, her limbs heavy.

"I'll protect you from the others," he murmured, as though soothing a frightened child. "Agamemnon doesn't understand how delicate you are. I do. You'll be safe with me."

His voice was softer and quieter. Like a prayer, or rather a confession of the sins committed.

"I know what this meant to you. The child. The safety. The roots you'd planned to grow here." His hand stilled, fingers trembling slightly as they traced the line of her jaw. "But when the war ends-when all of this is over…"

He brushed his lips against the crown of her head. Not a kiss, but something softer. Hungrier.

"I'll help you start again," he breathed, the words like a promise pressed to her skin. "You won't be alone. I'll stay with you. We can try again. Build something new. Together."

He held her tighter, as if shielding her from the cold, from the consequences, from himself.

"You won't need to be clever with me," he whispered. "Just… be mine."

And for a heartbeat, it was only silence between them. No crying. No reply.

Then he saw it.

Her eyes - mismatched, dark and light - locked on his.

Not helpless. Not dazed.

Calculating.

She wasn't planning to die.

She was planning something else entirely.

And in that instant, Palamedes believed everything Agamemnon had warned him.

He had tried to disarm a storm with soft hands and honeyed poison.

And now, cradling her in his arms, he felt it-not triumph.

But awe.

He smiled faintly, almost in reverence. "Gods help me," he breathed. "You're exactly what he said you were."

And, somehow, he found himself more drawn to her than ever before.

Not for her cunning.

But for her company.

And now, the war would have this beautiful fox with them.

One way or another.

Chapter 7

Summary:

Past and the present of three warriors.
The queen of Ithaca reaches Aulis.

The lanterns on the merchant ship guttered low, casting long shadows across the hull's underbelly where ten-year-old Odysseus hid, crouched among crates and sacks of grains. The sea rocked the vessel like a lullaby meant for someone else. Salt caked her lips. Her knife sat in her lap, blade trembling in her hand.

She stared at her reflection in the polished bronze dish beside her - stolen from the galley. Her hair, long and dark, hung in damp knots around her cheeks.

She grabbed a handful and sliced.

It wasn't graceful. Her wrist shook too much, and the knife snagged. Hair fell like shed feathers onto the wooden slats. With each cut, she imagined her father's voice growing more distant. "A bastard child." He spat it so often it stopped being a word and became a scar.

She kept cutting her hair until it was over. She looked again at uneven strands that were now barely reaching her neck. In addition to the borrowed tunic and pieces of leather armor, she finally didn't look like herself. She couldn't dye hair as dark as hers, but by cutting it and maybe wearing a bandana, she was able to be less recognizable. 

She thought for some time about changing her name, but then she realised that it was probably easier for her to not change it. It's not like anyone knew about her. Her father would never take her to any social gatherings, and even if she was somehow included, he would not talk about her. Only some Argonauts knew about her existence, but there was a low chance of encountering them in Sparta.

Not to mention the fact that her grandpa was way too happy to give her this name, even if it was a male one. She used to hate it and always pouted at him until he would find a way to win her over again and again. Sometimes it was with sweets and sometimes with fun stories, but her favourite was when he was offering to teach her some cool tricks like a knife game (And she only cut herself twice!). 

It was hard to tell how long she was sailing, but finally she reached Sparta. Odysseus moved slowly. With enough precision, she sneaked between merchants and escaped the ship with a bag hanging from her shoulder. But now came the harder part of her journey. Actually, finding a teacher.

Sparta didn't welcome outsiders with garlands and gold. Its walls were bare, its streets functional, and its people suspicious of anything that didn't bleed Laconian red.

She slept her first night in a broken stall beside the agōgé training fields, curled beside bags of vegetables. Hunger gnawed at her ribs like guilt. She woke early every day, offering to haul water, sweep stables, and run errands. Boys her age - cleaner, stronger, born to names with meaning - ignored her. Men scowled at her, but they paid her in bronze bits and crusts of bread.

Three days in, she met Kleonides of Aegytis - a broad-shouldered archer from a lesser noble line, more hunter than hoplite. He wasn't rich, but he wasn't scraping for coins either. His house, stone-walled and timber-framed, stood at the edge of the northern woods, past the agōgé fields, where the smell of pine and hound always lingered in the air.

He owned land, a few servants, a dozen well-trained dogs, and a name old enough to matter, just not loud enough to echo through Sparta's marble halls. Kleonides didn't chase politics or court gossip; his pride lay in precision, discipline, and the sharp-eyed hounds that had won him quiet renown across Laconia.

She'd been watching him from the shade of a wall - ragged, hungry, dirty from days of hauling water and sweeping stables. He was fletching arrows with practiced hands, humming something low and tuneless. She didn't mean to stare, but the way he moved - focused, exact, efficient - was different from the others.

She mimicked him with a stick and a rock.

He glanced up once, twice. Then, without a word, he tossed her a blunt practice bow.

"You've got good eyes, boy," he said, squinting. "Too sharp for hauling shit like a slave."

She stared at the bow like it might vanish.

"Pick it up," he barked. "And grip it properly." 

From then on, she worked for him.

Her days were filled with chores - feeding the hounds, shoveling dung, splitting wood, scrubbing gear until her fingers stung with cold and ash. Kleonides didn't coddle or correct with kindness. He gave commands like a soldier and expected them to be followed without fuss. If she missed a spot, he made her start over. If she lagged, he ignored her until she caught up. But she noticed that leftover food always found its way to her plate, and when it rained, he gestured silently for her to sleep inside, in the narrow storage alcove above the kennels. It was dusty and smelled of cedar and old wool, but it had a cot, a door, and a roof that didn't leak. After weeks in alleys and barns, it felt like a palace.

By the second week, he let her shoot real arrows. At first, only under his watch. Later, on her own, if she'd finished her work. He strung crude targets between tree trunks, painted boar shapes, and concentric circles. Her arms ached. Her fingers blistered. But she kept going. Kleonides didn't praise, not exactly - but when she finally sank an arrow through the painted eye of a wooden stag, he gave a grunt that almost sounded like approval.

She fell in love with the bow the way her father loved his spears. Silent. Distant. Clean.

Kleonides never asked questions about her past. He didn't ask why she flinched when voices rose or why she avoided bathing near the others. He never pried. He called her "boy" with the same gruff tone he used on his dogs - neutral, functional, and without affection. Maybe he knew the truth. Maybe he didn't care.

What he did care about were his hounds. They were his pride. Sleek, intelligent creatures bred to track, flush, guard, and obey. They listened to his whistles better than most men listened to their kings. Nobles - real ones, born to marble halls and braided bloodlines - sought him out when they wanted hounds worth the hunt. And Kleonides delivered.

When the summons came, it came with wax and a noble crest: a formal invitation to a multi-day hunting expedition in the hills outside Sparta. Several nobles and two royal exiles would be joining. Kleonides skimmed the message, tossed it to the hearth without ceremony, and turned.

"Boy," he called over his shoulder. "Pack light. You're coming."

Odysseus, crouched beside the hearth mending a leather strap, blinked.

"You mean-?"

"You deaf now?" he said, not even looking at her. "Move it. We leave at dawn."

She stared after him, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. He didn't explain. Didn't justify. Just gave the order and walked on. It wasn't affection. It wasn't softness. But it was trust. A place at his side.

And for a runaway girl carrying her grandfather's name like armor, it was more than enough.

The first day of the hunt began beneath a sky the color of hammered bronze. Mist curled around the pines like breath, and frost clung to the grass, brittle and white. Odysseus rose early - earlier even than Kleonides - eager to prove herself, to earn her place. She dressed quickly, binding her chest, fixing her cloak, checking her quiver, and the short hunting bow Kleonides had finally let her keep.

The camp was already stirring when she emerged: noble sons climbing from furs, servants stoking fires, hounds whining to be loosed. She helped Kleonides feed the dogs and oil his bowstring, her hands moving by instinct now, quick and steady. He didn't say much - he never did - but his silence had weight. The approving kind.

Then came the nobles, all polished bronze and effortless arrogance, followed by the two exiled princes. Agamemnon, tall and sharp-eyed, led with the confidence of someone twice his age. Beside him was the younger boy - Menelaus - his cloak too long, his belt slightly crooked, and his mouth twisted into something halfway between a scowl and a pout.

Odysseus watched him with caution. He looked soft, uncertain. Not the kind of boy who hunted or knew how to hold a sword. Not the kind who would last long.

But he noticed her too.

"Do you actually get to shoot with that?" he asked, nodding to her bow. His voice was high and curious, not mocking.

Odysseus hesitated, unsure if this was a trap. "If my mentor allows," she answered carefully.

Menelaus made a face like he'd just bitten something sour. "You're lucky. Agamemnon says I'm too small. He always says I'm too small."

That surprised a laugh out of her - a short, startled sound she didn't expect. "You are small," she said.

He grinned. "So are you."

"But you are smaller!"

"I'll grow! Just wait!"

And just like that, the edge dulled.

They didn't walk together, not exactly. But as the party moved into the hills, they kept near each other. Kleonides gave her tasks - unpacking gear, setting up blinds, whispering instructions she knew well by now: Watch the wind. Keep low. Don't shoot unless you're sure.

Hours passed. Boars were flushed from thickets by the dogs, and nobles took turns felling them with practiced strikes. Odysseus kept close, arrow nocked but bow lowered. Kleonides never let her shoot unless it was hers to claim.

The chance came by accident.

A rabbit, small and quick, bolted near the rear of the party where no one else noticed. Kleonides whistled low and tossed her a glance - permission.

She turned, steadied, and fired.

The arrow hit just behind the shoulder. A clean kill.

Her heart leapt.

Kleonides made a noise - a low grunt that meant approval - and ruffled her hair as he passed by. She felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the sun finally rising above the trees.

By midday, the nobles were in good spirits. They made a small camp, lit fires, skinned game. Kleonides joined them, his dogs sprawled at his feet. Odysseus sat off to the side with Menelaus, the two of them polishing spears and cleaning blood from the fletching.

"I saw you shoot," Menelaus said. "That was really cool."

Odysseus tried to hide the grin curling at the edge of her mouth. "Thanks."

"Agamemnon says I need to stop holding my knife like I'm stirring soup," he added, scowling. "I don't even like soup."

She laughed. "What do you like?"

"I love watching chariot racing. And annoying my brother."

That made her snort. "You're good at that last one for sure."

He beamed.

The sun began to dip, casting long golden slants of light across the ground. Shadows grew heavier beneath the trees. Someone barked at Menelaus to fetch water from the stream below the ridge. He groaned but got up, muttering something about how even goats got treated better.

Odysseus watched him go, then resumed her task.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

The light dimmed further.

She frowned, stood, and scanned the tree line. The stream wasn't far. But Menelaus hadn't come back. She felt a tight knot form in her chest.

She set down the dagger she'd been cleaning, grabbed her bow, and followed the path down the ridge.

The spring was tucked at the edge of a dry creek bed, not far, but far enough that no voices from the camp reached it. Odysseus trotted down the path, boots light on stone.

She called softly at first. "Menelaus?"

Nothing.

Then she heard it - a bark, sharp and low. A growl.

And a boy's scream.

She broke into a sprint.

Menelaus was up a tree, barefoot, clinging to a low bough with shaking hands. Below him, circling and snarling, was a great hunting hound - muscle-bound, snarling, teeth glinting with spittle. A thick leather collar around its neck marked it as a noble's dog.

"Stay up there!" Odysseus shouted.

The dog whirled, fixated on her now.

She reached for her bow - then cursed. Left it by the fire.

All she had was the dagger on her belt.

And a rock.

She grabbed one the size of her fist and hurled it with all the strength her small frame could muster. It cracked against the dog's ribs with a sharp thunk, and the beast let out a yelp - but turned its fury toward her.

"Run!" she screamed to Menelaus.

The dog charged. She braced herself, knife in hand.

It hit her like a wave - teeth clamping around her forearm, hot pain flooding up her wrist. She screamed, stabbed blindly. Once. Twice. The third time, the blade found a vulnerable spot.

The hound let go with a final snarl and crumpled, motionless.

Blood-soaked Odysseus bandages her arm with a piece of cloth ripped from her tunic. The sounds around her are deafening. Her chest heaved.

Footsteps. Voices.

The blood hadn't yet dried on Odysseus's wrist when the nobles arrived. They crashed through the bushes, Kleonides among them - Agamemnon close behind. 

"You mongrel! You killed my hound! You'll pay for this-"

Kleonides was the first to reach them, his cloak dragging over brush, face flushed with fury at the sight of his prized hound lying still on the ground.

"What have you done?" he shouted.

Odysseus tried to speak, but the words were caught between pain and fear. Her knees felt loose, her stomach hollow.

Kleonides came next, eyes sweeping over the scene. His gaze landed on the dead hound, then her bloodied wrist, then the dagger in her hand.

"Odysseus," he said lowly, his voice unreadable. "What happened?"

"I-I didn't -" she stammered. "Menelaus was trapped. It was going to attack him, I-"

"You killed Thane," Kleonides spat, pointing. "That dog cost more than you're worth. You'll pay for this, boy. They'll lash you in the square."

Odysseus's throat tightened. She turned to her master, panic rising in her chest. "I was only trying to help - he was in the tree, Kleonides, it was going to -"

Kleonides's jaw tightened. "You weren't told to leave camp. You disobeyed. And now you've brought noble blood down on your head."

His words struck harder than the hound's teeth.

Odysseus felt the world tilt beneath her. The pain in her wrist blurred into something deeper, hotter: shame. Betrayal. He was supposed to protect her. Believe her.

She stood there, small and bloodied, with a storm of noblemen circling like wolves.

Then Agamemnon arrived.

His voice cut through the din like a blade. "Enough."

All heads turned.

He strode forward, Menelaus clinging to his side. The boy's face was streaked with dirt and tears, his tunic torn at the hem from his climb.

Agamemnon's eyes scanned the scene, but he didn't ask for explanations. He didn't need them.

"My brother says this boy saved his life," Agamemnon said coldly, stepping between Odysseus and Kleonides.

"He claims -" Kleonides began.

"You think he lies?" Agamemnon snapped, voice sharp enough to silence the trees.

Kleonides faltered.

Agamemnon stepped closer, towering. "Would you have me write to Sparta's kings? Tell them one of their own allows hounds to attack the sons of Atreus? That a noble trains beasts to maul children, then demands punishment for those who intervene?"

Kleonides's lips thinned. He didn't speak.

Agamemnon looked at the man with silent fury. "Is this your student?"

Kleonides's jaw clenched. "He was."

"Then you're done with him?" Agamemnon asked, voice low and iron-heavy.

The man hesitated for a moment. "…Yes."

Something in Odysseus cracked. Her body swayed slightly, not from blood loss this time, but from something colder. She felt… hollow. Unwanted. As if everything she'd worked for - her training, her courage, even the risk - had meant nothing.

Then Agamemnon moved towards her, as if shielding her from the man who once trained her, without theatrics or anger:

"Then if you have a problem with him, you have a problem with me. This boy is, for now, under the protection of Atreides. Are we clear?"

The statement settled over the group like a curtain of stone.

No one challenged it.

They left the others behind. Agamemnon walked beside Odysseus down the wooded trail, Menelaus trailing close behind.

Odysseus kept her gaze low, teeth clenched against the throb in her arm. Her mouth tasted like ash. Part of her was ready for the silence that always followed - being dismissed, ignored, forgotten.

But instead, Agamemnon said quietly, "You're coming with us."

Odysseus blinked. "What?"

Agamemnon gave a small, crooked smile - not often seen, but genuine. "You've just lost your mentor. Seems only fair if someone else steps in."

“You… You mean…?”

"I mean, you saved my little brother's life. You bled for him. That makes us indebted to you." He glanced sideways at her. "Unless you want to go back to Kleonides. But I can't promise how he's going to treat you from now on."

Odysseus didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed up. All she could force herself to do was to shake her head, refusing the latter.

"You'll stay with us," Agamemnon continued gently. "We'll find you a proper mentor. Until then… I'll keep you under my wing."

Behind them, Menelaus let out a gleeful squeak.

By the time they reached camp, the sun was little more than a red smear against the hills. Smoke curled gently from a small fire pit, and the other hunting servants busied themselves with gear and preparing food.

Odysseus stood at the edge of the clearing, shoulders slumped, her bandaged arm aching with each heartbeat. The tight wrap made it hard to move her fingers, but it was better than letting the nobles see the damage.

Menelaus beamed at her, still full of boyish excitement. "Come on! I'll show you where we sleep!"

She hesitated, rubbing her sleeve against her nose, trying to chase the sting behind her eyes. Her voice came quietly and brittle. "I… I don't have a tent."

Menelaus tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"I was staying with Kleonides. I don't…" She looked away. "I don't have anything."

The words burned with shame. All her strength from earlier was gone now, stripped away with the sun. For a moment, she expected even Menelaus to look at her differently - less like a hero, more like a stray.

But instead, he grinned widely and grabbed her uninjured hand.

"Then stay with me! We'll share mine. There's room."

She blinked, startled. "Are… Are you sure?"

He nodded with the ease of someone for whom kindness came naturally. "Agamemnon always says brothers should stick together. You can be my second brother if you want!"

Something in Odysseus's chest gave a little tremble - too fragile to be called joy, but warmer than anything she'd felt in a long while.

She nodded, eyes bright with tears she didn't want to shed. "I'd like that."

The rabbit was half-skinned, its slick hide still clinging stubbornly to one leg when Odysseus paused, knife trembling slightly in her good hand. Her injured wrist throbbed with dull pain despite the bandages. The fire cast flickering shadows across her face, and she wiped the back of her hand against her cheek, smearing a line of soot.

"I've got it," came a voice behind her - low, calm, and annoyingly confident.

She stiffened.

Agamemnon crouched beside her without asking, his long fingers reaching for the rabbit.

Odysseus drew back slightly, her brows knitting. "I can do it."

Agamemnon didn't stop. "I know you can."

"Then why-"

"Because you've done enough for one day," he said simply. "Let someone help you for once."

His hand moved with quiet ease, pulling the skin free in practiced motions. Then, without looking at her, he reached out and gently patted her head - just a quick, light touch, fingers brushing through her choppy hair.

Odysseus stared at him, stunned. She didn't even think to protest. No one had ever touched her like that. Not like she mattered. Not like she was cared for.

Agamemnon didn't say anything more. Just finished the rabbit and tossed the skin aside, standing as easily as he'd crouched. "Dinner in a bit. Rest, Odysseus."

She watched him go, mouth slightly open, her thoughts tangled and hot in her chest.

Menelaus was poking at the fire with a stick when she joined him, still dazed. He looked up with a smile, cheeks rosy from the chill.

"You okay?" he asked, eyeing her as she sat beside him.

Odysseus hesitated. "Your brother… He helped me skin the rabbit."

Menelaus shrugged, tossing a twig into the flames. "Yeah, he does that."

"But… I said I could do it."

"Well, yeah. But you're hurt. And he likes helping."

Odysseus furrowed her brow. "But I didn't ask him."

Menelaus gave her a funny look. "You don't always have to ask. It's just what older brothers do."

She stared at the fire, trying to understand that. Her father, when he was lucid, rarely spoke to her, let alone offered help. And when he wasn't… he only ever called her names she tried not to remember.

Menelaus tilted his head. "Doesn't your dad help you with stuff?"

Odysseus went quiet.

The silence stretched too long, so she forced her voice up. "I have a younger sister. I'm the one who helps."

Menelaus brightened. "That makes sense. But today you got both a little brother and a big brother, so you don't have to do everything."

She blinked at him. "You really think I'm like your brother?"

"Of course!" he grinned. "Agamemnon always says I act like a goat, and you didn't even yell at me when I knocked over that saddle. That makes you the best brother already."

"I don't think goats knock over saddles on purpose."

"They would if they were smart," Menelaus huffed, then leaned closer with a mock-whisper. "Besides, Agamemnon's just cranky because he's old."

A deep voice cut in behind them. "I heard that."

Menelaus jumped, spun around, and let out a sheepish laugh. "Well, you are!"

Agamemnon crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "I'm barely in my twenties."

"Exactly. Practically a grandfather."

Agamemnon made a sound of deep offense. "You'll regret saying that the next time you ask me to help you sharpen your sword."

"I can do it myself!"

"Like you did last time?" Agamemnon raised both brows. "When it ended up duller than river stone?"

Menelaus groaned and fell back onto the furs with dramatic flair. "This is what I mean. Old people always bring up the past."

Odysseus snorted a laugh before she could stop herself, and Agamemnon shot her a mock-glare that softened into a small smile. "Et tu, Odysseus?"

She ducked her head, but her grin stayed.

Something warm had settled in her chest. Not triumph, not the hard pride she'd carried all day - but something lighter. Safer. Real.

Family.

And for the first time since leaving Ithaca, Odysseus didn't feel like she has to fight for her place by the fire.

She already had it.

---

The queen was woken up by Eurylochus, who told her that they had just reached Aulis. 

The entire dream made her feel uncomfortable. Sometimes it's hard to believe how long she and the Atreides brothers have known one another. This thought, many times, filled her with joy, but now she wasn't so sure. Three of them would train, drink, and bleed together, and now it's about to happen once again, but it was the first time she had no idea if she was happy to see them or not. 

Especially when she still felt sick after that incident. 

She wanted to kill Palamedes on the spot. Stab him with the closest sharp object available, or toss him off the cliff and watch his body tumble on the way down. But she couldn't. She was weakened by that goddamn poison and the fact that she didn't want to know what next Agamemnon would be willing to do to drag her to this mess. If she were to arrest or kill him, Agamemnon would simply send someone else. Or try to mess with her family, and she would not let him do that. Not again. 

Once on the shores, her people started unpacking and preparing the camp. While it was happening, the queen of Ithaca slowly approached the Spartan camp in hopes of finding the younger of Atreides. 

By her side was Eurylochus, who demanded to stay by her side until she fully recovered. There was also Peremides. Both of them walked close to her, which would usually annoy her, but this time it was useful to say the least. 

Her movement was slow, and she was clearly limping. With them covering her, she was less noticeable by other soldiers who would start gossiping. Still, it didn't hide her enough for some of the warriors to ask questions. 

She wondered if Palamedes would tell Agamemnon and Menelaus about his actions. Would he brag about what he did to bring her here, or would he just avoid the subject out of fear or shame? 

She didn't talk to him since she confirmed to him how many people and resources she would bring with her to the war. After that, she made her servants deal with him until he departed a week before she did. 

All the thoughts were interrupted when she realised that they had finally reached their destination. Odysseus nodded to her soldiers to wait outside while she entered the king's tent. 

The tent was quieter than she expected. Heavy with the scent of leather, sea-wind, and burnt sage, but hushed. Odysseus stepped in slowly, draped in a darker cloak now, her movement measured. 

Menelaus rose from the table the moment he saw her, his eyes widening. Even behind the wooden mask covering the lower half of his face, concern was plain.

"Gods, Odysseus…" His voice was low, hoarse with worry. "You look-"

"-Like I was dragged here under false pretenses and poisoned halfway through supper?" she interrupted with a biting, brittle smile. "You'll have to forgive me, my king. I'm not at my best these days."

He stepped forward instinctively, but stopped short. His arms still open. It was hard to say if he was about to hug her or grab her by the shoulders. Now his hands were shaking as if he were about to grip a fragile egg that would crack with the smallest amount of pressure.

"I couldn't believe it when I read Palamedes' reports. I thought that it was some sick joke. The thought that he - to you. I-I swear, Odysseus, I never ordered it," he said. "I never would have. Whatever Agamemnon thought was necessary - whatever Palamedes did - he'll face justice. Even if my brother tries to shield him."

Odysseus tilted her head. "Justice," she repeated, the word tasting bitter. "You sound sincere, Menelaus. That's almost worse."

"Did he really - Odysseus! Were you-?"

"-Gods, no Menelaus, calm down. I wasn't pregnant-"

"But-but the medical records. He described them as coated in dust with dates older than the abduction of Helen-"

"Well. That's one way to share the news."

"What?" The Spartan king looked at her, confused, while the queen adorned a soft smile.

"Citmene-' Odysseus took a deep breath, after which she genuinely smiled. "I'm going to be an aunt."

Menelaus smiled widely. "That's wonderful news! Congratulations-! Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Physicians preferred to keep it low while everything remained uncertain in the early stages of the pregnancy. Then-then your letters came."

"So the medical records-"

"They were my sister's… at least some of them. I slipped some of her tablets in between mine to make it look convincing." Then something shifted on the queen's face. She looked more serious while she clenched her fist to the point where her knuckles were turning white. "We were lucky that this son of a bitch only poisoned my cup, or I swear to gods-"

"Better keep it low before someone else hears you. Better not let anyone know about your current desires."

"And you better not tell anyone about my little lie. This rat was willing to kill an unborn child to get what he wanted. I want him to live in guilt and for others to see what your brother was willing to do."

Menelaus nodded silently. He didn't fight back, fully understanding the justified anger.

"Then you should also know that Prince Palamedes also suggested to me and my brother that you might need surveillance."

"And let me guess. He wanted to assign himself as my supervisor." 

The silence that followed was enough of an answer. 

"Let me make it clear. I'm not happy to be here. And I'm not happy that Eurylochus is here with me. You know exactly why I would prefer him to be right now in Ithaca, taking care of my sister."

"I understand." He met her gaze quietly for a long moment. "But despite everything," he said softly, "I'm… glad to see you again."

She studied him, and her expression softened slightly. Not with affection, but with recognition. Something old and tired between them.

Odysseus slightly wobbled while standing. It was enough for Menelaus to become worried. "Gods, I should've thought about it - you must be tired. Why didn't you tell me? Please sit down and let me offer something to drink."

Odysseus, without hesitation, sat down in the seat that Menelaus pointed at, and he himself sat down across from her. They sat beside a small table close to the hearth fire. On it were some scattered papers and a small bowl with grapes. 

At his gesture, servants entered, setting down two steaming clay cups of dark herbal broth. Menelaus nodded curtly, and they bowed out.

"No wine? And here I thought that you were happy to see me," teased the queen with pretended sadness. 

"You know I don't drink wine. Besides, it would be better for you to actually drink something that will help you with recovery."

"Wine heals my soul," Shamelessly responded the Ithacan. "Just because you gave up on drinking it doesn't mean that I have to suffer as well."

"Just drink your tea while it's hot."

He took a sip, wincing slightly as the hot liquid touched his skin. Odysseus watched concerned. 

"You're flinching," she said.

"It's nothing. It was just too hot. That's all," he muttered, reaching for his mask-

"Take it off," she said. Her voice left no room for argument.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, pulled the mask down.

The scars beneath were savage. Torn ridges of tissue ran from the corner of his mouth up his cheek, where once there had been soft flesh. One side of his lower lip was missing entirely, exposing crooked teeth and pink, vulnerable gum. His hair, coppery-red and curling around his ears, half-covered the other half of his mangled face and the scars that reached his brow. But she saw the way a fresh wound had reopened near the edge of one scar, raw and weeping.

She stepped forward and took his face in her hands, gently tilting it to see better. Her smile was warm and caring like that of a mother.

"Doctors told you to not open your mouth too wide or your wounds will reopen. You've been screaming again, haven't you?" she said, almost sweetly, as though soothing a child.

He gave a trembling laugh. "Since the night she left. Every time I try to let it heal, the nightmares return. And I wake up with a red puddle under my face."

"You idiot," she murmured, brushing a thumb beneath the wound. "Always bleeding for ghosts." She glanced once again at the wooden mask. "That's why you aren't wearing the bronze one?"

"Metal one stings too much when it touches an open wound. Also, the physician said to not wear it to avoid infection."

She listened and nodded. Then she turned and walked into one of the corners of the tent, rummaging briefly through a nearby chest until she found a small clay jar, breaking the seal and dipping two fingers into the paste. She tilted her head to Menelaus, silently ordering him to sit on the cot, which he did without complaining. Odysseus sat next to him and, without asking, pressed the medicine to his skin. The herbal scent of lavender and myrrh filled the space between them.

"How did you know where to look for it? Didn't you arrive here a few hours ago?"

Odysseus chuckled lightly. "Because I know you, silly. Helen used to ask me for advice any time she was preparing a gift for you, but all she needed was to trust her instincts."

His shoulders sagged slightly. "Do you… Do you think she left me because of this?" he asked. His voice broke on the last word, and he didn't meet her eyes. "Because of what I became?"

Odysseus froze mid-motion. Her eyes softened.

"Menelaus," she said gently. "You know Helen. We both do. She's silly, she's flighty, she gets distracted by reflections, but she isn't vain or cruel, not like that. She chose you after seeing this. Chose you because she saw who you really are."

His lips parted, but no sound came. A tear slid slowly down his unscarred cheek.

"You love her," Odysseus said. "And she loved you. Whatever has happened... that's a different question. But your face never frightened her. You didn't lose her because of that."

He nodded, silent, and Odysseus dabbed at the last of the ointment..

"Do you think he took her?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Paris. Do you think he… stole her away?"

Odysseus looked away, toward the open tent flap and the sea beyond.

"I knew Paris," she said. "I watched him grow up from a lanky teen to a proper adult. I taught him how to cheat in games and tricks with mirrors. He used to sneak extra honey cakes from the kitchens and blame Hector for it. He was a family as you are family to me."

Her voice faltered.

"I can't see him taking someone who didn't want to go."

Menelaus's jaw tightened. "Then she chose him."

"I don't know what she chose," Odysseus replied. "And I won't lie just to give you peace. Nostalgia clouds everything. Even the truth," she sighed tiredly. " Especially the truth."

They sat in silence for a long time. The wind rattled the edges of the tent, and the distant clang of hammers echoed like war drums.

Finally, Menelaus cleared his throat. "Agamemnon will expect you tonight. At the assembly."

"I know," Odysseus said.

"He'll talk about the honor of your arrival. About the strength you bring to the cause."

"Let him," she said. "Let him talk. We've both earned a few hours before the next performance."

Menelaus didn't reply. His shoulders sagged. The toll of it all - grief, guilt, hope - pressed down on him like armor never taken off.

Slowly, without a word, he shifted closer and let his head rest against her thigh.

She stiffened for a moment… then relaxed. Her fingers slid into his hair, absently brushing through the red curls.

He exhaled shakily, already drifting.

"I missed you," he murmured.

Her voice was barely audible, but full of something ancient and soft.

"I missed you, too."

And outside the tent, the world still burned with the heat of war - but in this moment, there was only hush and breath and old affection, stubborn and bruised.

---

The tower was silent when Hector entered.

Even the wind, which usually hummed through the high stone arches of Troy's citadel, had stilled. The torches along the hallway flickered without sound, casting long shadows that danced at the edges of Hector's cloak as he climbed the final steps to his sister's chamber.

He paused at the door, fingers curled against the polished wood. There was no sound from within.

He knocked once.

"Cassandra," he called softly, "It's me."

A pause.

Then, her voice, dry and faint: "Come in, Hector."

The room was dim. Heavy curtains had been drawn against the dusk light, and the air smelled faintly of dried lavender and ink. Scrolls were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, and in the center of it all sat Cassandra, legs folded beneath her, arms loose at her sides, eyes staring at something only she could see.

She looked impossibly tired.

Hector moved closer, stepping over parchments with scribbled, desperate words. "I came to check on you."

"You always do," she murmured.

He knelt in front of her, trying to meet her eyes. "How do you feel?"

Cassandra blinked slowly. Her gaze drifted past him, toward the far wall.

"I don't know," she said at last. "Tired. Like I'm unraveling. Like I've dreamed too long and now the waking world feels like a dream instead."

Hector reached out, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. "Did you see something?"

Her jaw tensed. "I always see something."

He waited.

She let out a shaky breath. "Some of them I don't even believe in. All the weird sights and noises. The deafening screaming of the peacock, owl, and a crow. Places that look familiar only to then change in an instant. 

Hector's arms came around her then, warm and firm, pulling her into a loose, protective embrace. He didn't say anything. Just held her.

She leaned into him, brittle as dry parchment. "It feels so real, Hector. Too real. Even when I want to laugh and say it's nonsense, the feeling doesn't go away. I want to treat it as just a dream, but it feels wrong to ignore it. Like a rumbling stomach that won't stop until hunger is solved."

"I believe you," he said quietly, though there was a tremor of helplessness in his voice. "Even if I don't understand what you see. I believe that it's real to you."

She closed her eyes. "It is."

They sat like that for a long moment, the distant bells of the western harbor tolling faintly through the stone.

"Is it true?" she asked eventually. "The war?"

Hector sighed, the weight of the word crumpling his posture slightly. "Yes. Though I haven't told the people yet. We're still trying to form a plan. I didn't want to cause a panic."

Cassandra nodded slowly. "They'll know soon."

He didn't disagree.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Why would Paris do something like this?"

He didn't answer immediately. "I don't know," he said at last. "I've asked myself that every day since they returned. He's my brother… but sometimes I look at him and wonder if I ever truly knew him. How else could someone who supported Odysseus and me suddenly sabotage years of work and effort?"

"He's not evil," Cassandra said. "But he's careless. He doesn't see the threads he's pulled loose."

"No," Hector agreed. "He doesn't."

"Where is he now?" she asked.

"He and Helen were invited to visit the house of some nobleman - Timonides, if I remember correctly. His family wanted to congratulate them. Offer blessings." Hector's mouth twitched humorlessly. "I let them go. It helps morale to see them together. Beautiful. In love. It's better for people to not assume that their prince is a kidnapper and oathbreaker."

Cassandra stared at him. "You let them go walk among the people as symbols of peace while you prepare for war."

"I know how it sounds," he said. "But it's not about them anymore. If I make them disappear, the people will suspect something-or even worse, riot. If I strike Paris down, I'll be a prince of a crumbling city before a single Greek ship lands. I need calm. At least a little longer."

Cassandra lowered her gaze. “What about Odysseus?”

Hector looked away.

"She's not here," he said, the words coming heavily. "The message was sent. All we can do now is pray to Hermes for it to reach her. And that she'll choose to go with us."

"I thought you said she was loyal to Troy."

"She is," he said. "But she's also loyal to her kingdom and her comrades. It's hard to say what Agamemnon would be willing to do to have her by his side."

"She wouldn't betray you," Cassandra said firmly. "She loves you."

He didn't answer.

"I saw her," Cassandra whispered. "In one of the visions. Standing on a ship. Eyes full of fire. She still wears your gifts."

Hector closed his eyes for a moment. "I hope that's true."

"She's not your enemy, Hector."

"No," he said softly. "But she's not our ally right now, either. Not until she is here and says it herself."

Silence fell again.

Then, hesitantly, he added, "I'm still hoping this can be stopped. Negotiated. Before the bloodshed begins in earnest."

Cassandra looked toward the window where the curtain fluttered slightly. Beyond it, the sea was already turning dark.

"Hope is a rare thing in Troy these days," she said.

"Then we must guard it all the more carefully."

She looked at him. And for the first time that night, she smiled - tired, fragile, but real.

"I'm glad you're still here, brother."

"So am I."

And together, beneath the weight of prophecy and politics, they sat - two siblings clinging to the last quiet before the storm.

---

After hours of logistics and forced diplomacy, the assembly dissolved like a receding tide, and yet Odysseus remained - still standing, arms loosely crossed, her gaze cutting sideways to where Agamemnon lingered behind the high table. His officers had filtered out, their shadows barely faded from the canvas walls.

"Stay," Agamemnon had said.

So she did. With measured patience, like a cat agreeing to be petted, though perhaps only until the second stroke.

The tent quieted as the guards outside drew the flaps shut, leaving behind only the dull flicker of braziers and the low crackle of oil lamps. At the center of the space, a worn Polis board had already been laid out on a side table - its carved wooden cities spread across the inlaid map of the Aegean, ivory figures resting in key positions.

"Since we're discussing strategy," Agamemnon said mildly, gesturing toward the game.

She quirked a brow. Her mouth curling into a smirk. "Are you asking me to play, or to teach you how?"

"I recall you were fond of this game once."

"I still am. I just don't usually play with men who forget when they've lost."

He gave a low chuckle and pulled a chair out for her, which she took with the poise of a lounging panther. He sat opposite, adjusting a piece to the southern edge.

"We're missing someone important," he began as she studied the board. "Achilles. We've nearly every king of note gathered here, but him - no sign."

Odysseus rolled one of the ivory tokens between her fingers. "You think he's hiding?"

"We know he is. The question is where - and how to draw him out."

She looked up, brow arching. "Why not send Palamedes? I hear he's good at dragging people from their homes in increasingly creative ways."

Agamemnon's fingers paused mid-reach. Just a moment. But enough for the gesture to be noticed.

"I didn't tell him to do that to you," he said finally, voice even.

"No," she said, moving the token one space east. "But you gave him permission to act in your name. You knew what kind of man he was. That was enough."

Agamemnon didn't argue. He merely pushed his marker into position with a soft clack. "He can be clever, and he knows how to follow orders. But he lacks instinct, and he too rarely plans ahead."

"Is that what you think I'll bring to the hunt?" she said, toying with a row of small wooden boats. "Instinct?"

" True cleverness," he said. "Instinct. Stubbornness. Charm. Adaptability. Theater doesn't have enough masks for all the faces you wear on a daily basis."

Odysseus gave a dry little laugh. "That sounds almost like flattery."

"It was an observation."

She tapped one of the miniature ships against the table's edge. "And what makes you think I'll succeed?"

He leaned forward, voice low. "Because you know how man's mind works and how to take advantage of it. You play with the image of innocence like a lyre to have people dancing for you. If anyone has a chance to make him join our cause, it's going to be you, sister."

Odysseus met his gaze, unreadable. "And what happens if I find him and he says no?"

Agamemnon shrugged. "Then you use one of your other faces. I know that you have at least five plans already forming in your pretty, evil head."

She exhaled through her nose, amused in spite of herself.

He moved another piece -this time more offensively. "You'll have a warship. Around a dozen crewsmen. Full rations. Access to harbors marked safe with our sigils. You'll leave at dawn three days from now."

"That soon?" she said, leaning back. "And here I thought you might at least pretend to care for sickly old me."

"You're already pretending to be sicker than you are."

Her brows lifted. "Am I?"

He smirked, gesturing to her side. "The limp. You fake it well. But I remember when someone ordered you to polish armor or collect scattered arrows. Next time, remember to change the repertoire."

She let out a short laugh. "You were watching that closely?"

"You made quite a scene with your arrival. Some people even whispered of you bringing the wrath of the gods by your side."

She placed a piece down, claiming it neatly from his reach. "Some habits die hard. Besides, if a little limp makes you and your brother feel appropriately guilty, why not indulge in the drama?"

Agamemnon's smile faltered just a little. "You're not wrong."

A pause lingered between them. When she spoke again, it was with less bite.

"You still haven't said what happens if Achilles refuses. If I find him and he won't come."

"Then we'll have to drag him here by force."

"And how would I be able to do that? I might be sneaky, but I have my limits when it comes to strength. Poisoned woman against supposed strongest warrior sounds like the beginning of a bad tavern joke."

"I'll assign you someone who will help you in that regard. I even have a few ideas for who would be able and willing to help."

Odysseus moved her piece again. This time, she sank one of her opponent's ships. "What if that won't be enough?"

Agamemnon looked at her carefully. "Then we lose the war before it begins."

Another silence. They both stared at the board.

Odysseus finally said, "Fine. I'll go. But I bring my own crew. Men, I trust. And whoever you assign to assist me, I get the final say."

"Done."

"If I don't approve, and you make him stay. If he touches a hair on my head without consent, I'll cut him into pieces, feed him to dogs, and tell everyone that he simply slipped on the ship and broke his neck."

Agamemnon didn't even flinch this time. "Understood."

"I want no surprises. No spies. No poisoned wine."

"I promise."

She gave him a long, piercing look. "That stopped meaning something, you know."

"I know," he said quietly.

Another beat passed. Then she rose, her fingers ghosting across the board as she turned to go.

"You always were good at pretending your choices weren't choices," she said, echoing an old accusation like a remembered melody.

"And you," he said as she reached the tent's edge, "were always too clever for your own good."

"Cleverness is sometimes the only weapon we are strong enough to wield, my brother," Said Odysseus while playing with one of the pieces, tilting it while not letting it fall. "It's not easy to be a woman. If not blessed by the gods, we are weaker than men; we are forced to wed and powerless in warfare. Because of it, we learn how to be cunning."

"But most women keep it secret." The king responded while gazing at the board. After some thinking, he moved his piece and removed the defeated one belonging to the queen sitting across the table. "They hide their weapon wisely under the cape of words sweet like honey, cute gestures, and pretty clothes. Meanwhile, you, sister of mine, you pride yourself in it. Doesn't it scare you that people know of your greatest strength?"

Odysseus chuckled lightly. "First, they need to believe in what they hear and see." Another piece fell down. Both players ignored it as it slowly rolled off the board and then the table. "I heard men whisper that I am a witch who can supposedly sing down the moon or dry the blood into sand."

Agamemnon looked at her amused. "Should I speak on your behalf? Make sure they know of your affinity to the purest of goddesses or our brotherhood?"

Odysseus smiled back. Her eyes were shining with mischief. "Let those men have fun with their gossip. Maybe if the respect for gods and the crown isn't enough, then fear of the mad woman will be what keeps them in check."

The king of kings let out a deep laugh. "Oh, how I missed you, my friend. Your cleverness will never stop surprising me."

She paused, smirking faintly over her shoulder. "We'll see whose cleverness wins this time."

Two rulers smiled at one another and came back to their game. Now less distracted by the upcoming mission, they were able to dedicate themselves to the pieces on the board. With precision and uncomfortable speed, they started to move from place to place. Earlier, subtle movements were revealed to be nothing but a bait that both players were too smart to bite into. 

The game lasted some time. It was a comfortable silence between two old friends that was only broken by the cracks from the hearthfire and the clicking of wooden pieces that were regularly shifted from side to side.

---

A brief clasp of hands, a nod of mutual respect, and then Odysseus slipped from the warmth of the command tent into the wind-swept quiet of the camp.

It was late afternoon, and the light had begun to turn gold, burning low on the canvas of the tents, casting long shadows between rows of weapon racks and cookfires. The sounds of the army moved around her in layers: hammering from the forges, distant voices trading bets, the creak of leather and armor as patrols rotated out.

Odysseus walked slowly, letting the rhythm of the camp settle into her bones. The game had sharpened her thoughts, but now she allowed herself a moment of softness. Her fingers brushed across the pommel at her hip, absent-minded. Somewhere nearby, a lyre played a half-forgotten tune, lost quickly to the wind.

And then:

"Odysseus?" a voice called, rich with surprise and laughter.

She stopped, turning instinctively. A tall man with sun-darkened skin and a crooked grin strode toward her with the swagger of someone who had no doubt he'd be welcome.

"Philoctetes," she said, just before he wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders.

He pulled her into a half-hug that nearly knocked the air from her lungs. She let herself exhale against him, allowing the tension to slip away just a little.

"Still in one piece," he said cheerfully. "Or close enough."

"You always mistake brute affection for charm," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You always mistake sarcasm for self-defense." He grinned wider. "Come on. You're needed."

"Oh?" she said, crossing her arms. "I've just come from a council. I'm not in the mood for another."

"This one comes with wine," he said, steering her by the elbow. "And family. The old lot. The ones who don't sit on thrones or sulk in tents. We're gathered tonight to play and you're coming to help your favourite uncle bleed those suckers dry."

Her lips twitched despite herself. "You're not giving me a choice, are you?"

"Not even a little."

The tent was large, warm with firelight and thick with the smell of spiced wine and old leather. Laughter rolled like waves inside it. As Philoctetes pulled the flap open, voices spilled out. A long table sat at the center, surrounded by men of varying ages, bearing the wear of old wars and older friendships. Ancaeus sat with his feet up, Idomeneus leaned back mid-story, and Nestor was tucked into a quieter corner, smiling into his cup.

Philoctetes raised his arms like a herald. "Look what I dragged out of a lion's den!"

Heads turned, and then - uproar.

"Laertes' girl!" Idomeneus rose halfway, arms wide. "By the gods, I thought you'd forgotten we exist!"

"I did," Odysseus called. "But I'm trying to be polite."

"You'll never manage it," Ancaeus said. "But we love you anyway."

She allowed herself to be ushered inside, finding a cushion between Ancaeus and Ialmenus. A cup of wine appeared in her hand before she could ask.

"We were just about to play a few rounds," Idomeneus said, brandishing a set of dice. "But tell me true - who here doesn't have rigged ones?"

The room went silent. Eyes darted. Shrugs. Innocent faces.

"Gods, we're scoundrels." Muttered Philoctetes while chuckling in disbelief.

Odysseus raised a brow. "Truly a den of thieves."

Ascalaphus groaned. "I'll get Teucer. He's still too green to know how to cheat properly."

His brother bolted off amid the laughter.

"Gods," Idomeneus muttered, shaking his head. "What have we become?"

"Old," said Ancaeus, glancing at Nestor and then at the Ithacan. "And clever."

Wine was poured. Stories were traded like currency. They spoke of skirmishes, of stubborn sons, of new scars and old regrets.

Someone turned to Odysseus. "And you, girl? What news from Ithaca? Or Sparta, depending on which tale we're meant to follow."

She smiled, warming. "My younger sister married not too long ago. She's expecting now."

A cheer rose from the men, cups lifted high.

"To a clever child and an easy birth!"

Ascalaphus leaned in, grinning. "So when's your turn?"

"Oh, I'm far too busy," she said, waving her hand. "Married to war, wedded to diplomacy, thoroughly entangled with the fates and currently at a bloody divorce with a goodnight sleep."

They laughed, except for Nestor, who watched her a little too quietly. He didn't speak, didn't press - but there was knowledge in his gaze. Odysseus knew exactly why, but she preferred to pretend that she didn't.

Before the silence could thicken, Idomeneus smacked the table. "Nestor! Your turn. Any news from home?"

The old man's smile deepened. "A son. Born just before I left."

A beat of silence, then collective outrage.

"Another?!"

"By the gods, Nestor, how many does that make?"

"Seventeen, give or take. I lose count sometimes," Nestor said, not a hint of shame.

Groans echoed around the tent.

"Seventeen?! The gods gave you wisdom and vitality, and this is what you do with it?"

"You're a plague," said Ancaeus.

"A wonder," added Idomeneus.

"I should've stopped drinking hours ago," muttered Philoctetes. "Now I'll dream of your endless bloodline swallowing Greece."

Someone raised their cup and drunkenly yelled. "To Nestor's loins - may we all be so lucky at his age!"

"Some of us need that kind of stamina now," Ascalaphus grunted, earning another roar of laughter.

The flap opened again, and Ialmenus stumbled back inside with a sheepish Teucer and a battered set of dice.

"Behold! The innocence!"

“Poor boy,” Odysseus murmured. "You'll be corrupted by dawn."

Ancaeus rubbed his hands. "Now we can start before the wine steals our eyesight."

Odysseus chuckled and leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Quick then - before we can't tell the difference between six and snake-eyes."

As the dice clattered across the table and more wine was poured, she let herself exhale fully, her shoulders softening. There were times in her life when she cursed dealing with her father's legacy, but at least it led her to knowing Argonauts who became to her a family in her early years as a queen. At least some of them were for her like uncles, and they always knew the way to make her smile, even in the hardest of situations.

The stars had risen high above the Achaean camp, a tapestry of glittering light stretching across the sky. The air had cooled slightly, and the fire in the Argonauts' tent crackled with defiant warmth as dice clattered on the wooden table and laughter spilled out like mead from an overfilled cup.

Odysseus had long since shed her formal manner, reclining comfortably with one leg propped on a bench, swirling a half-empty goblet as she watched Teucer lose yet another round of dice with a dramatic groan.

"You've got to stop playing if you want to keep your dignity, lad," Philoctetes said with a smirk, scooping up a knife and a quiver of arrows from the pile in front of him.

Teucer narrowed his eyes, cheeks flushed from wine and mild indignation. "You're cheating."

Philoctetes placed a hand on his chest in mock outrage. "How dare you-"

"You are," Teucer insisted. "No one rolls that many doubles without divine intervention."

"That's right," Idomeneus cut in with a grin. "Nike must be smiling on him."

"Nike would smite him for the nonsense he talks," muttered Ialmenus, sipping lazily.

Philoctetes gave an exaggerated bow. "I am simply favored by luck. And charm." While declaring the last part, he was running his hand through his goat beard. Other people in the tent laughed, and Philoctetes decided to only huff. Not dignifying the response.

Before Teucer could argue further, the tent flap parted and Greater Ajax stepped in, tall, broad, and wearing the exhausted expression of an older brother already regretting what he was about to see.

"Teucer," Ajax said flatly. "What did I tell you about listening to these old miscreants?"

Teucer turned with a wine-warm smile and then shouted in mock fear. "Brother! Run while you still can!"

Ajax sighed heavily. "Gods, you're drunk."

"Only slightly," Teucer replied, holding up a goblet that was clearly not his first.

Before Ajax could bolt, Ancaeus patted the seat beside him. "Come on then, shield-wall. Sit down before you fall down. We've got your brother's debts piling up, and someone's got to win back that nice wine he wagered."

"And his arrows," Odysseus added helpfully. "Though I've claimed one already for the ingenuity of his insults."

"I will never live this down," Teucer muttered, slumping.

"You were warned," Ajax said dryly, sitting nonetheless and taking the goblet shoved into his hand.

"When did you become so serious?" Asked Nestor with a slurry voice. "I still remember the shy boy who would tell his father of how he's ready to defend him, only to be called a brat."

"And then scream, pointing at our favourite queen, who was younger and yet joined the old Telamon in combat."

"What are we even talking about?" Ajax asked, looking around.

"The golden age," Idomeneus said with mock drama. "Like the time your little brother tried to court Odysseus."

Ajax nearly dropped his goblet. "Wait - what?! "

Odysseus chuckled into her goblet. "Oh, it's true."

Teucer groaned loudly, already reaching for his wine as if it could drown the memory. "Don't. I swear, I'll throw myself into the firepit."

"Oh no, no," Philoctetes grinned with wicked glee. "We're definitely telling it."

"I was fourteen ," Teucer protested, his cheeks already flushed a deep red. "A child!"

"All the more reason it's adorable," said Ancaeus, stretching like a cat. "Like a baby deer trying to butt heads with a lion."

"' She was so radiant,~ '" Ialmenus began in a dramatic falsetto, clasping his hands to his chest.

"' Like Artemis descended in a golden glow ~'" Idomeneus added solemnly, joining the bit with mock reverence.

"Gods, no-"

"' I shall court this noble maiden, '" Philoctetes went on, lifting an invisible flower to his nose. " But first - I must find her father ."

The tent roared with laughter.

"Stop quoting me!" Teucer wailed, burying his face in his hands. 

"Oh no, let us not forget," Nestor said, wagging a finger with mock sternness. "You first snuck out into the palace garden, arms full of crushed daisies , trying to tiptoe past the guard like a woodland spirit."

"They were not daisies -" Teucer started to argue, only to be drowned out by more howling.

"I was there!" Ialmenus wheezed. "I was halfway through my wine when the poor boy was dragged in by the servants, petals stuck in his hair like a rejected bride."

"And Telamon - your father - stood there trying so hard not to laugh when he asked what you were doing," said Ancaeus.

Teucer dropped his head to the table. "Please. I beg you all. Let me die in peace."

"No such mercy in this tent," Odysseus smirked, clearly enjoying every second. "You stuttered something about 'a lady fairer than any you'd ever seen ,' and that you sought her father's blessing to court her."

"Because you were standing with warriors!" Teucer shot at her, face burning. "I thought you were someone's daughter ! How was I supposed to know you were the Queen of Ithaca ?!"

" Ahh, and then came the best part," Nestor sighed happily. "Laertes wasn't with us on the mortal plain, so I introduced her - 'Odysseus of Ithaca, Queen, Tactician, and Sister in Arms to us all.'"

"And I, ever professional," Odysseus said with a mischievous gleam in her eye, straightening her posture theatrically, "told him, 'As the sovereign of my house and head of state, I must ask that if you seek to court me, you direct your request to me , not my nonexistent father.'"

" And he turned redder than a boiled crab !" Philoctetes gasped out, wiping his eyes.

"I believe he mumbled something about needing to 'go prepare' before he bolted from the room and locked himself in his chamber for the rest of the feast," said Ancaeus, grinning.

"He did!" Ialmenus cackled. "Didn't come out until morning!"

"I had never been so embarrassed in my life," Teucer grumbled, finally lifting his head. "You're evil , Odysseus. A menace."

Odysseus clutched her chest dramatically. "You wound me! After all these years and still no confession?"

"Because it's never happening!"

"But you said so many nice things about me back then."

"You were a girl wielding a bow. I didn't need more than that."

"How about now?"

"Now you scare me."

She sniffed. "Truly tragic. Denied by my first suitor. My heart may never recover."

"She weeps in secret every new moon," Idomeneus said solemnly, raising his goblet.

"Wailing your name to the sea," added Ancaeus, snorting.

Ajax laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink. "By the gods, I hope the entire camp hears this story."

"Don't you dare," Teucer snapped at his brother, glaring. "I swear I'll shoot an arrow straight through your tent flap."

"With what arrows?" Ialmenus quipped. "Philoctetes won them all."

The table erupted once more, laughter echoing into the night as the fire crackled and wine flowed freely. Odysseus leaned back, sipping from her goblet with the contented expression of someone thoroughly enjoying herself.

"Don't worry, Teucer," she said with a teasing smile. "If you ever change your mind, I promise to handle your proposal with grace."

"You're not going to let me live this down until we're grey and dying, are you?"

"Oh, not even then," she said sweetly. "At your funeral, someone's going to mention the daisies."

Philoctetes raised his cup high. "To daisies, dying pride, and the first heartbreak of our dear Queen!"

"May her second heartbreak never come," Ialmenus added with mock solemnity.

Everyone cheered and drank, and poor Teucer just groaned again, his face hidden once more behind his hands.

"Don't encourage them," Teucer groaned, pointing at his brother.

"Too late," Ajax said, sipping - then promptly choking as the wine scorched his throat.

He sputtered. "What in Hades-?"

Odysseus raised a brow. "Something wrong?"

"This isn't watered down!"

"Why would we water it down?" Philoctetes asked, genuinely confused.

"It's how you survive ," Ajax snapped, wiping his mouth. "You're all mad."

"You'll get used to it," Nestor said with a placid smile.

"Or you won't," Idomeneus added. "But either way, it'll be fun to watch."

Ajax stared at his goblet in horror. "This is going to kill me."

"Only your pride," Odysseus said, raising hers in salute.

Teucer grinned at him through his blush. "Told you to run."

"But now," Odysseus leaned forward, "you've got to win your arrows back. And maybe your dignity. If there's any left."

"Not likely," Ajax muttered, eyeing the dice as if they might bite him.

As the night deepened, the fire danced, and the sounds of war beyond the tent felt impossibly distant. Here, among these half-mythic men and their Queen-turned-comrade, the laughter drowned out the drums of conflict, and for just a little longer, they were not warriors or tacticians or pawns of kings - they were a strange, bickering family.

And as another round of dice rolled and the groans and cheers resumed, even Ajax found himself laughing.

The night air had deepened into a velvet stillness, and most of the camp lay sprawled in wine-soaked slumber. The flames in the Argonauts' tent had dwindled to flickers, casting dancing shadows across the empty goblets and abandoned dice. A soft breeze whispered through the canvas, cooling the flush of wine from flushed cheeks.

Odysseus stepped outside with a languid stretch, her tunic a little loose around the shoulders, her dark curls messily tumbling down from their once-neat knot. She watched Ajax in the distance, half-dragging, half-carrying Teucer like a sack of amphorae.

"If you puke on me, I swear, " Ajax muttered loud enough for the gods to hear, "I'll tie your sorry limbs into a bow and launch you straight into the sea."

Teucer mumbled something heartfelt into Ajax's chest, too muffled to decipher.

Odysseus grinned, hugging her arms against the cooler breeze, and turned toward her tent, already anticipating the comfort of her cot and pile of furs, when a voice stopped her.

"Odysseus."

She turned to find Nestor standing in the firelight, his form composed but unusually still. His expression was not the warm amusement she expected - there was a gravity to his face, the quiet solemnity of a man who had lived long enough to see the cycles of war and love repeat themselves.

She raised a brow. "As I would love to hear another of your oh so wonderful long stories of your youth, I have planned a passionate night with my pillow."

He huffed a soft chuckle. "No. And you're more dangerous when tired than most men are armed."

She quirked a smile. "You're not wrong."

"Walk with me, please," he said.

Something in his tone pulled the smile from her face. She hesitated, but nodded, falling into step beside him as they made their way across the quiet camp. Most fires had burned to embers. Somewhere nearby, a soldier snored thunderously. The sea murmured faintly in the distance, waves lapping against the shore with an ancient, patient rhythm.

They reached his tent, guarded by one of his sons - Echephron, she thought - and the young man gave her a respectful nod before letting them pass inside.

The air within was warm and smelled faintly of pine and smoke. Nestor gestured toward a low bench. She sank into it, stretching out her legs as if preparing for an interrogation.

"Well?" she said, forcing a little humor into her tone. "What great scandal are we dissecting tonight?"

Nestor sat across from her and studied her face in the firelight. "I saw your face earlier," he said quietly. "When they joked with others, when talking about love."

Her teasing expression faltered.

He went on, "You smiled with your lips, not your eyes. And when the others laughed, you didn't. Not really."

Odysseus exhaled slowly, staring into the fire. "So this is about loyalty."

"No," Nestor said firmly. "This is about you. And the pain you're trying so very hard to smother."

She looked at him sharply. "Don't try to read me like a poem, old man."

"I'm not reading. I'm remembering," he replied gently. "Because I've been where you are, Odysseus. I've seen what happens when heart and duty don't align. And I've watched too many clever minds destroy themselves trying to please both."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You always did wait until everyone else was asleep before turning wise."

"I find it works better when people are too tired - or drunk - to argue with me."

A quiet laugh slipped out of her. But then she sighed, long and low. "Fine. You win. I don't want to be here. Not in this war. Not leading this damn army."

Nestor didn't speak. He let the silence stretch, giving her the space.

"I tried everything to avoid this," she said at last. "Tried to stall. Delay. Divert ships. I even feigned a goddamn pregnancy once. I knew the moment I chose a side, I'd be choosing who to fight against. And how do I choose between Hector - the man I was supposed to marry - and Menelaus, who's practically a brother? But that way I'm harming both sides, aren't I?"

"You don't," Nestor said softly. "Not really. You just… hold on, and try not to let the tide drown you."

She looked at him, eyes sharp but tired. "You think it's still possible to keep it together? To serve this cause without destroying what I have with him?"

"I think it will be hard," he said plainly. "You'll have to guard yourself. Hide what you feel. Lie to your own men if it comes to it."

Her jaw tightened. "They'll call me a traitor the second they see me hesitate."

"Then don't let them see it. You're the best tactician among us. Use that mind of yours."

She gave him a sardonic look. "You're telling me to play a double game in a war."

"I'm telling you," Nestor said, his voice quiet but unwavering, "that the war hasn't started yet. And maybe, just maybe, there's still time to steer it away from bloodshed. If anyone can find that path, it's you."

Odysseus stared into the fire for a long moment, then finally whispered, "I just don't want to lose him."

"You might," Nestor said, honestly. "But you might not. And isn't that worth fighting for?"

She looked away, blinking against something stinging behind her eyes. Then, shaking it off, she leaned back again and blew out a slow breath.

"You're irritatingly wise when you want to be."

"I take that as a compliment."

"And what if it does all fall apart?" she asked, voice low.

Nestor tilted his head, lips twitching. He held his chin as if thinking of a genius idea. "Then I know a very eligible bachelor."

She groaned. "Don't even-"

"Tall, strong, good twitch axe, can fight boars and recite epics-"

"If you're trying to set me up with one of your sons, I swear-"

"Why not?" he said, all innocence. "Antilochus is quick-witted. And he's a romantic."

She burst out laughing, covering her face with one hand. "I did not come to this war to be part of your matchmaking schemes."

"And yet, here you are. Sharing wine and secrets."

"I'll kindly offer some hungry rats for your cot if you keep this up."

He laughed with her, warm and full. "Ah, there's the real Odysseus."

And in the firelight, surrounded by night and old embers, she allowed herself to laugh, too. For a little while, the burden lifted. Just enough to breathe.

---

The torchlight cast a golden hue over the marble walls of the war room, flickering with each gust of wind that slipped in from the open balcony. Scrolls lay unrolled across the long table, their edges pinned by polished stones, helmets, and a single half-drained goblet of wine. Hector stood at the edge of the table, palms pressed to the wood, jaw set in a grim line.

Below, the city of Troy murmured softly in the night - vendors packing up their carts, the distant echo of laughter from a tavern, the quiet footfalls of patrolling guards. Peace still reigned, but it was a fragile, fraying peace.

Hector's shoulders were tense, his eyes scanning the maps for the hundredth time that night.

"You haven't slept," came a soft voice from behind him.

Hector turned slightly, seeing Deiphobus standing at the doorway, arms folded, his face drawn with worry. His twin had always been the calmer one - more priest than soldier, more dreamer than strategist. But tonight, his concern was quiet and persistent.

"I can't sleep," Hector murmured. "Not while there's still so much to prepare."

"You're no use to Troy half-conscious," Deiphobus said gently as he stepped forward. "Your eyes are red, your hands are shaking. This isn't how we win a war."

"This isn't a war I want to win," Hector snapped before he could stop himself. His voice echoed sharply through the chamber. He looked away, ashamed. "It's not a war I wanted at all."

Deiphobus was silent for a beat. "But it's a war we'll have."

Hector sank into the nearest chair and let out a breath, his hand moving instinctively to rub his forehead. "How did it come to this? One moment I'm riding home to prepare to greet my bride, and the next - Paris has stolen a queen and brought death to our doorstep."

"You blame him."

"I blame the gods," Hector muttered. "But yes - I blame him too."

Deiphobus sat beside him, resting his hands on his knees. "We still have time. At least two moons before, the Greeks could gather their ships and sail. That should be enough for us to prepare for them."

"That's not as long as you think," Hector said. "Two moons. Sixty days. Maybe less, if the winds are with them. Maybe weeks before we see the horizon darken with masts."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

"What about Cassandra?" Hector asked after a while, his voice quieter. "She was screaming again."

Deiphobus nodded, frowning. "Helenus said she woke half of the palace with her cries. He gave her the medicine Father keeps hidden in the west wing. She's calm now. Sleeping. But whatever she saw - it was worse than before."

"She sees too much," Hector murmured, as though speaking it aloud could dull the edge of it. "And we hear too little.".

Deiphobus watched him closely. He had known his brother long enough to read the quiet shift in his demeanor: the rigid jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tension that wasn't about battle but something else. Something more dangerous.

"You're planning something," Deiphobus said softly, too softly for anyone beyond the chamber to hear.

Hector didn't answer at first. Instead, he reached beneath the table and pulled out a wooden box, well-carved, unassuming. With deliberate care, he opened it and pulled out two sheets of parchment. One was already half-written. The other was blank.

He dipped his stylus in ink.

"You're writing letters," Deiphobus said. "To whom?"

Hector hesitated. Then he spoke, low and purposeful. "To Menelaus."

Deiphobus stiffened.

"You're reaching out to the Greeks?" His voice cracked slightly, equal parts disbelief and anxiety. "Hector - do you know what Father would say if he found out?"

"Yes," Hector said. "He would rage. He would accuse me of betrayal. Maybe even threaten to strip me of command." He looked up, eyes calm, resolute. "But I'd rather be called a traitor by my father than let this war happen without trying to stop it."

Deiphobus moved to the other side of the table, placing both palms flat on the edge. "You're talking about secret diplomacy - during a time when Troy is supposed to be preparing for war. Do you truly believe Menelaus would even listen?"

"He's not a fool," Hector said. "He's angry, but he loved Helen. If there's even the faintest chance of avoiding bloodshed, he'll take it."

"And what would you offer him?" Deiphobus asked. "Helen? Would you send her back?"

Hector's mouth tightened. "I don't know yet. Perhaps. But I won't make that decision alone. That's why... I'm also inviting Odysseus."

Deiphobus blinked. “Odysseus?”

Hector's gaze softened just slightly at the sound of her name. "She's the only one with a mind sharp enough to navigate this. She sees possibilities where others see nothing but walls. She'll know if peace is even possible."

He held up the second parchment. "This letter is for her."

Deiphobus stared at him, a deep worry forming in his chest. "You're writing to your fiancée, who the Greeks want for their own campaign, and asking her to come into Troy while tensions climb by the day? Hector, if Father finds out..."

"Then I'll answer for it," Hector said. "But listen to me, Deiphobus. This war - it won't just burn cities and break armies. It will kill everything good in its path. People we love. Friends. Our men. Innocent priests. Cassandra's visions scream with fire and blood, and you know what? I might not believe her saying that she sees a burning sky, but I believe her that this war will bring death to our doorstep."

Deiphobus swallowed, his throat dry. "So do I."

"I won't stand by and let pride decide our fate. If there's even a sliver of hope to stop this, then I'll reach out with both hands, even if one of them is cut off in the process."

Deiphobus looked at him long and hard, then, with a quiet sigh of surrender, nodded.

"You'll need someone to make sure the letters reach their hands," he said. "Someone fast. Trusted."

"I already have someone in mind," Hector replied.

He turned back to the desk, the war table sprawling before him like a battlefield yet to be drawn. The candlelight wavered softly, casting slow-moving shadows across the maps and scrolls. Each flicker danced over the curves of the coastline, over the thin ink lines that marked battlements and routes, as if fate itself were hesitating.

The only sounds in the room were the soft scratch of the stylus against parchment and the occasional sigh of wind pressing against the high balconies. The sea far below murmured like a restless sleeper, gentle and distant, not yet disturbed by war. For a moment, the chamber felt timeless, trapped between dusk and decision, where the weight of destiny had not yet settled.

Hector moved with weary precision, folding the first letter, sealing it with wax. A message to Menelaus - one last attempt to speak as men rather than enemies, a call to step back from the precipice.

The second letter lingered in his hands. This one he weighed more carefully. The parchment was thinner, and the seal was more delicate. This one carried no formal proposal, no bargain. Only hope. A hope made of memories and quiet words never spoken aloud. A hope bound in the name Odysseus.

He whispered her name as he pressed the wax seal closed. "Odysseus... please. Come help me stop this."

Two letters. Two chances. One desperate reach toward the narrowing light.

The room was still, heavy with the scent of warm parchment, molten wax, and oil. The torches hissed quietly in their sconces. Outside, the wind turned - no longer a lazy breeze, but something cooler, sharper. The change was subtle, but not unnoticed.

The wind had shifted.

It slipped through the high windows in thin, snaking currents, brushing the maps with invisible fingers, curling at the edges of scrolls as if reading them. Hector remained motionless, the sealed letter in his hand, staring at it as though he might divine the future from the wax.

Then came the sound.

Not the soft wings of a dove, nor the keen cry of a hawk - but a low, grating croak. Rough as gravel. Unnatural in its weight.

A shape passed over the war table, blotting out the flickering light. Hector turned his gaze upward just in time to see a great black crow descend upon the windowsill. It landed with precision - too precise - its talons clicking once against the stone. The bird was soaked, feathers gleaming like oil, its yellow eyes sharp with cold intelligence.

It didn't move. Didn't caw again. It only stared.

Even Deiphobus, who stood several steps back, instinctively stepped closer to the table, his unease plain. There was something wrong in the room now. A stillness that no longer felt sacred, but was waiting.

"Is that...?" he asked softly.

"A bird of Apollo," Hector murmured, his voice hoarse. "But not his doing."

The crow tilted its head once, then twice - quick, mechanical. Around its leg was a scroll, bound with a black ribbon. It let him approach, let him untie the ribbon with cautious hands. The bird didn't flinch. It simply watched, silent as the grave.

Then, with a thunderous flap that scattered ash and parchment dust into the air, the crow launched itself back into the sky. It vanished into the clouds without a trace.

Hector stood alone by the window, the scroll heavy in his hand. He recognized the wax seal immediately: the twin lions of Mycenae.

Agamemnon.

His fingers tightened. He broke the seal.

As the scroll unfurled, something slipped free - small and soft. Feathers. Several of them. Pale dove feathers, stained dark red. Bloodied at the root.

Hector stared at them as they fell to the floor like dying snowflakes.

Deiphobus gasped. "That's... one of ours."

A messenger dove. Trojan-bred. Slain in flight.

The letter trembled slightly in Hector's hands. He read it silently, jaw locking with each word. It was brief. Only one sentence, but the meaning behind it was said more than any words could.

"Greedy Prince, haven't you stolen enough queens already?"

Notes:

Important notes!!!

1) Please check my Tumblr to see an art of the events that took place in the last chapter

2) Since we start a new stage in the story let me present you to the current ages of the characters:
Odysseus: 25
Hector: 27
Diomedes: 20
Paris: 22
Helen: 23
Menelaus: 23
Agamemnon: 35+
Palamedes: 29
Philoctetes: 46
Ajax the Greater: 30
Teucer: 23
Eurylochus: 22
Ctimene: 21
Polites: 24

The list will be updated once more important characters will be introduced :3

Chapter 8

Summary:

Two royals join the mission and a certain Ithacan doesn't seem to like it.

Notes:

Special thanks to FlamingWildflower for helping me with the chapter. I truly recommend you reading her work "Voice of An Angel". It's a lot of fun and never stops to surprise the readers.

Also I'm sorry if the chapter might feel a bit fillery but believe me when I say that there was no better way to set things into motion.

"Haven't you stolen enough queens already?"

No greeting. No threat. Just the truth. And the cruelty behind it.

Deiphobus read it, too, eyes widening with horror. "They intercepted the invitation."

Hector didn't move. The message curled slightly in his palm as the wind pushed against the windowpane, harsher now. More insistent.

"They're watching everything," Hector said at last. "Every bird. Every boat. Every whisper. They're listening for her name already."

"They want her as badly as we do," Deiphobus murmured.

"No." Hector's voice dropped, rough with fury. "They want her more. Enough to slit the throat of a dove in mid-flight and send back its corpse like a calling card."

He dropped the parchment beside the fallen feathers. The blood had dried, but the message it carried bled through the air now - thick and suffocating. Hector picked up the second letter again, the one for Odysseus. He looked down at her name on the wax seal. What had once been a silent plea now felt like a fragile defiance.

"We may only have one chance," he said, almost to himself. "One thread left."

Deiphobus hesitated. Then: "Do you still send it?"

"I have to," Hector answered, eyes never leaving the letter. "If she never hears our words, then only theirs will reach her."

He turned sharply toward the corridor, already calling for a scout - someone quiet, trusted, invisible.

But the echo of Agamemnon's words followed him like a curse:

Haven't you stolen enough queens already?

And Hector, prince of Troy, defender of walls not yet breached, couldn't help the hollow tightening in his chest.

If she came - if Odysseus walked willingly into this gathering storm - would she still be his?

Or would the war take her too, before it even truly began?

Behind them, the torches still burned, but the light no longer felt warm. The war room, once a sanctuary of strategies and silent resolve, now held a new shape in its shadows.

The shape of dread.

The shape of a war already listening. Already reaching. Already choosing sides.

And outside, far across the sea, the wind was still shifting.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, measured and armored. A moment later, General Eurion stepped into the room, the veteran soldier offering a crisp bow.

"You sent for me, Prince Hector?"

"Yes," Hector said, standing again, all trace of exhaustion masked by duty. "We can't wait for the Greeks to come to us. I want every possible route to our shores secured. Every beach, every cove, every inlet. We know this land better than they ever will - and that must be our edge."

Eurion nodded. "We've already doubled the guards at Cape Sigeum. Shall I dispatch scouts to the southern shoals?"

"All of them," Hector ordered. "And bring in the fishermen. Anyone who's ever sailed the coastal routes - pay them if we must. I want no ship landing on Trojan soil without our knowledge."

Deiphobus gave him a glance. "You're building a wall of water."

Hector nodded grimly. "If they can't land, they can't fight. I'll hold the sea at bay if it's the last thing I do."

The general inclined his head and left to carry out the orders. Hector leaned back over the map, tracing the line of the coast with one calloused finger.

Deiphobus stood and rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You're not alone in this."

Hector let the silence stretch between them before replying. "I know. But I am the one who must stand in front of the gates when they come."

"Not alone," Deiphobus said again, firmer this time. "Not while I breathe. And not while she comes."

Hector's hand froze on the map.

He turned away before his brother could see the storm that flickered across his face - grief, love, fear, and something dangerously close to hope.

"I'm not sure whether that comforts me," he said at last. "Because if she comes, the war is real. And if she doesn't... I may have already lost her."

After the general left and the hall grew quiet again, Hector stayed hunched over the map, fingers resting on the jagged coastline drawn in ink. But his mind wasn't on the defenses anymore. His thoughts wandered farther west - past the wine-dark sea, past the angry horizon - to the Greek mainland and the man whose wife now walked Troy's halls like a ghost in silk.

The hall was quiet again, the echoes of Eurion's boots long faded. Only the restless hiss of torches remained, their flames swaying as if in sympathy with Hector's breath.

He lingered over the map longer than he needed to. His fingers traced the edge of the coastline again - not as a commander now, but as a man searching for a way out. A hidden inlet, a forgotten cove, some secret path that might deliver her home without the eyes of the world watching. Without the bloodshed.

If she were still in Ithaca - if Odysseus had kept her hidden - could a ship reach her? Could he send a night sail across open waters, swift and silent, to carry her back before the Greeks closed in around them? His mind conjured it all in aching detail: the sails trimmed black, the oars muffled in cloth, the crew sworn to silence. A hand reaching for hers in the dark. Her voice was unsure but willing.

But then he saw it again. The scroll. The cruel seal. The blood-soaked feathers of the dove.

"Haven't you stolen enough queens already?"

The words flared like a brand behind his eyes. He could not forget the cold amusement in that single line nor the certainty behind it. Agamemnon wasn't just warning him. He was daring him. Daring Hector to reach too far, to make the mistake of trying to hold onto something the gods - or the Greeks - had already claimed.

Because even now, Hector knew Odysseus would come. Whether because of the letter or in defiance of it, he would come.

And when she did, it wouldn't just be for diplomacy. It wouldn't be as a friend. It wouldn't even be for her.

She would come as a tactician. A weapon honed in cleverness and steel. Not just to reclaim what she'd lost - but to dismantle what Hector had built.

Odysseus would come not for peace but for leverage.

Hector's chest tightened. The irony was almost unbearable: he had tried to stop a war, only to invite its sharpest mind into the heart of Troy. Not with ships or soldiers - but with a letter sealed in wax and hope.

He had opened the gates before the army ever arrived.

His hand dropped from the map. He turned away, stepping toward the high window, the sea stretching far and dark beneath the horizon's fading light. The wind carried salt and storm with it now.

She was out there. Somewhere between their shores. And so was he.

"I'll have to defend this city against the Greeks," Hector said aloud, not turning. "But not only them."

Deiphobus glanced up. "You mean Odysseus."

Hector closed his eyes.

"I don't know whether I'm fighting to protect her... or from her."

He could see it clearly now - how the wrong decision, even one made with love, could twist itself into ruin. If he tried to take her back by force, the Greeks would answer with fire. If he left her in Ithaca, the people of Troy would never forgive him. And if she came willingly?

Would she stay?

Would she choose them after all the blood and smoke?

Would he still be Hector in her eyes or just another name in a litany of those who claimed her for war?

"I thought I was reaching for peace," he said quietly. "But perhaps all I've done is give the war another face."

The flames dimmed as the oil burned lower in the braziers, casting the war room in long shadows. Behind him, Deiphobus did not speak again. There was nothing left to say.

And outside, beneath a sky that no longer promised calm, the wind continued to shift.

---

New dawn brought nothing but pain and suffering to the Argonauts, who now reaped the consequences of offending Dionysus and Akratos with their hubris, poor tolerance, and far too many jugs of unmixed wine.

The morning on the west side of the Greek camp looked less like a gathering of legendary warriors and more like a battlefield of the defeated. Men groaned like wounded animals, clutching their heads as if their skulls were under siege. One poor soul, face-down in the sand near the cooking pits, had made a pillow of his own bronze greaves and was whispering a fervent prayer to whichever god might grant mercy - or a basin. Another sat hunched beside a stack of amphorae, muttering to his liver like it had personally betrayed him.

Ajax the Greater was trying to drown himself in the horse trough, not to die, but to "cool the volcano behind his eyes." Behind him, two Thessalian archers had taken turns vomiting into the same helmet and now argued over who had to clean it. Someone was crying under a cloak near the shoreline. No one had dared check who it was yet.

Among the wreckage stood Odysseus, the only one upright and composed - though only by sheer force of will and the divine mercy of cosmetics.

She praised Athena and whichever minor deity had inspired the invention of strong kohl and stronger perfume. Because unlike the others, she had the great fortune - and tactical advantage - of being a woman. Her veil was pristine, her eyes shadowed with dark powder that concealed the puffiness beneath, and her lips tinted in crushed berry-red that made her look fearsome instead of nauseous or about to pass out (which she absolutely was). Her stomach was in knots, her temples pounded like war drums, and her throat tasted like the inside of a wine barrel that was left for a week in the open sun - but no one would know.

Some might dare call her vain or shallow, but Odysseus knew better. Vanity was just armor painted gold. The kings of the Greek camp strutted around in crested helmets and ceremonial cloaks for even the smallest strategy meetings, dressing up like prize roosters. They called it "tradition" or "symbolism," as if the absurdity of golden rings and ivory beads braided into their hair had nothing to do with looking important.

Men cared how they looked. They just needed politics or "battle readiness" as excuses. Odysseus, at least, was honest in her craft. She didn't wear rouge to impress - she wore it to disarm. To deflect. To remind her enemies, she could be both a mask and the hand behind it… and maybe she sometimes did it to feel pretty and look nice for her beloved.

She adjusted her veil with elegant fingers and took a slow breath of the sea-and-smoke-salted morning air. It smelled like damp wood, bad decisions, and the shame of yesterday's revelries.

And now, with the worst of the wounded warriors behind her and most of her chosen crew secured, only one name remained.

Eurylochus.

She knew exactly where to find him. His tent stood like a miniature fortress at the edge of the Ithacan quarters, disproportionately large for a man who claimed to have no interest in luxury. It had very quickly become a joke between fellow Ithacans: the man who wasn't sitting on a throne but built a home like a palace. Scrolls, weapons, and rare maps were piled inside like offerings to some god of war and logistics. No one else dared set foot there - except her.

Odysseus smirked faintly as she approached… until she heard it.

A thud. A grunt. The unmistakable shuffling sound of a struggle. Then, a loud crack - wood hitting wood. And a sharp curse, barely muffled.

Her eyes narrowed.

The tent flap was unguarded, hanging half-loose from its ties - an open invitation or a poor attempt at secrecy.

Another crash.

Odysseus didn't wait. She pushed the flap aside and stepped inside.

The scene that greeted her was straight out of a Mycenaean comedy.

Two grown men, brawling like bored centaurs at a wedding.

Eurylochus, shirt rumpled and hair wild like a half-plucked harpy, had someone in a loose chokehold around the waist. His opponent - a man nearly as broad-shouldered but younger, with stormy eyes and an expression of deeply offended dignity - was trying to wrestle free while simultaneously attempting to land an elbow somewhere productive.

Their limbs tangled. A table overturned. A goblet spun dramatically through the air and bounced off a scroll rack.

Odysseus stepped forward, voice like thunder breaking the clouds.

"What in Hades' name do you think you're doing?"

Both men froze. Eurylochus glanced up, still panting. The other man looked like he'd just realized he'd broken a divine law.

"Stop it," she snapped. "Both of you."

They didn't stop.

Furniture was askew, scrolls kicked to the corners, and one bronze plate had fallen with a ringing clang. Gritting her teeth, Odysseus marched to the side, grabbed the kylix from the wine stand - still half-filled with water - and, without hesitation, splashed its contents squarely over both men.

The cold hit like a wave. Eurylochus yelped; the stranger gasped.

"By the gods, what is wrong with you two?" Odysseus snapped.

Eurylochus released the other man, only enough to pull him into a choking grip. The stranger sputtered, clutching at Eurylochus's forearm.

"I said - explain!" she demanded.

The stranger tried, mouth moving around the edges of breathlessness. "I - gods - I thought this was your tent - was looking for you - he tackled me-!"

"He entered without a word," Eurylochus growled, tightening the chokehold. "Lurking like a spy."

"I didn't know!" the man gasped, kicking once against the ground. "I thought - I was going to her-!"

Odysseus stepped forward - and finally, her eyes locked onto the stranger's face.

The curls. The eyes - grayer than they had any right to be. The flush of youth barely faded. He was older now, stronger, his jaw squared, his arms thick with strength and marked with scars of a man who had seen more than one war.

Recognition struck like lightning.

"Eurylochus. Let him go," she said quietly but firmly.

Eurylochus looked up, surprised. "You know him?"

Odysseus nodded slowly, never taking her eyes off the boy - no, the man - gasping on the floor. "That's King Diomedes of Argos that you are choking."

At once, Eurylochus released him, though not without reluctance. He rose slowly, posture still coiled with mistrust, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Diomedes coughed, straightened, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Gods... not how I imagined seeing you again," he said, trying for a smile, one that faltered as Eurylochus took a deliberate step closer - shielding Odysseus in the process.

Odysseus tilted her head. "You've grown. Last I saw you, you still had your face all young and beardless."

Diomedes straightened a little. "It's been four years. Letters aren't quite the same. And even then, I had a beard growing… well, a stubble, but it still counts!"

Eurylochus didn't let the moment linger. "Now that introductions are done," he said coldly, "why exactly were you sneaking into the Ithacan camp? Without a word or messenger, who would inform us of your presence?"

Diomedes raised both hands. "I wasn't sneaking. I just... wanted to surprise her. I thought this was her tent. I didn't expect-" He gestured vaguely at Eurylochus.

"You didn't expect a man guarding her quarters," Eurylochus finished flatly. "It's a safety measure. I have the larger tent. Keeps people from wandering into hers. Clearly, a wise choice since some people already seem too eager to slip inside with shameless intentions."

He looked Diomedes dead in the eye.

Diomedes paled, eyes darting to Odysseus, then back. "N-no - I didn't mean - gods, I wasn't-!"

He faltered, guilt blooming fast and hot across his face. It hadn't even occurred to him - how it might look, walking into her tent unannounced, at dusk, alone. He flushed red with shame.

"I just - Agamemnon told me... I've been assigned to your mission. To help you retrieve Achilles. I-I - was supposed to wait for his introduction, but I got ahead of myself."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. "You're the one he's assigning?"

Diomedes nodded, sheepish. "I was excited," he admitted. "I thought... maybe we could already start planning. I didn't mean to overstep."

She studied him for a long moment - taking in the changes. He'd grown tall, broad-shouldered, no longer the wiry teen who'd sent her meticulously written letters about tactics and gods and stories of hunts he'd gone on in Argos or wars he joined in. Now, he looked like a warrior. A young king.

"You've changed," she said softly.

Diomedes beamed at the praise, though he tried - poorly - to mask how much it meant.

"I'll take your word for it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

She offered him a small smile. "We'll talk more, Diomedes. But not like this. I still have business to finish, and we'll speak again once Agamemnon joins us."

Diomedes nodded quickly. "Of course. Whatever you need. I'll be ready."

With a stiff bow - still recovering from the embarrassment - he excused himself and ducked through the tent flap, vanishing into the coming dusk.

Once he was gone, Odysseus turned slowly to Eurylochus.

"Well. That was rather dramatic."

He scoffed. "He's lucky I didn't have a dagger in my hand."

She gave him a warning look. "He's young. And eager to help."

Eurylochus's gaze flicked toward the tent flap, then back to her. "He doesn't just like you."

Odysseus blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered. "Just... be careful. With boys who think they're men."

"He's cute, don't you think? He reminds me of that boy who tried to join us for war."

"The one who was the size of his own sword?"

"Yeah! The son of Eupeithes, if I remember correctly."

"I had to check the barrels twice to make sure he wasn't trying to sneak in again."

"Luckily for you, Diomedes is too big to hide in any corner."

"No, that's worse."

She rolled her eyes but said nothing. Instead, she walked past him, grabbing a scroll from the stand, and while reading it, she started to explain to her second-in-command the details of the departure and what his role was going to be.

Eurylochus didn't need to be asked twice. He was immediately ready to join his queen.

---

The war camp stirred earlier than usual. The sun had barely stretched its golden fingers over the Aegean when horns called kings and generals to the strategy tent. Bronze helms caught the light like polished eyes. Soldiers moved like wraiths, some still shaking off the wine and ghosts of the night before.

Inside the main tent, the air was thick with the scent of oiled leather, old maps, and political tension that clung to the canvas walls like mildew. Odysseus entered calmly, one hand adjusting the edge of her cloak draped across her shoulder like a battle-worn empress. Her gaze swept the room.

Nestor nodded to her politely from the corner, already halfway into a scroll. Menelaus sat calmly; the wooden mask he was wearing covered only his lower jaw, which let him speak clearly when needed. Agamemnon sat at the head of the map table, posture stiff with the sort of forced regality that made it clear he'd been preparing for that meeting for much longer than just a few hours.

Diomedes was already present. He stood near the table in full armor: polished, functional, worn. His sword was strapped tightly at his hip, and an Ithacan-blue sash crossed his shoulder in a subtle diplomatic gesture. His braids were pulled back with more care than usual, threaded with gold and ivory beads that caught the torchlight. The rebellious strands curling around his brow, however, betrayed him as human. His eyes - iron-grey and sharp - lifted to meet Odysseus's… and then darted away again the moment she held his gaze.

She said nothing and simply took her place.

Agamemnon gestured to a scribe and began the day's business. Talk of scouting parties. Rations. Ship repairs. Nothing surprising. And notably, no mention of Achilles. But it was rather understandable. It was better for morals if nobody knew that it wasn't guaranteed that their strongest warrior was going to show up.

The meeting dragged. Men squabbled over meaningless lines drawn on crumpled maps. By the end, even Nestor looked weary. When it finally concluded, most of the commanders filed out with murmured complaints and groans about lost sleep.

Odysseus turned to leave.

But a voice called after her.

"Odysseus. Stay."

Agamemnon's tone was polite. That made her suspicious.

She slowed. Eurylochus had also paused, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade halfway out the tent flap.

"You as well, Diomedes," Agamemnon added.

He glanced back, hesitated, then stepped aside to let others pass, nodding once.

The tent cleared quickly. Torchlight flickered low behind them. "I want us to discuss important matters in my tent. Less of a chance for prying ears."

Odysseus arched a brow but said nothing. She wasn't surprised when soft footsteps followed her as she moved toward Agamemnon's private tent a few minutes later.

"You always walk like you're not being followed, my queen," Eurylochus muttered behind her. "It's an infuriating trait."

She didn't slow. "Why should I worry when I know you'll always be there for me?"

"I might not always be beside you? That's why you should be more wary of your surroundings."

"And why do you always suspect the worst out of me?"

"Because I know you."

He fell into step beside her, already scowling.

By the time they reached Agamemnon's personal quarters - a tent broader than most huts in Ithaca - the guards stepped aside without a word. Agamemnon didn't bother looking up as they entered. He was pouring wine from a heavy clay jug with one hand, flicking dust from a scroll with the other.

Diomedes was already inside, standing stiffly near a table of miniature war figurines. His jaw tightened when he saw Eurylochus enter behind Odysseus.

"I didn't realize this was a council," he said, voice dry.

"It isn't," Eurylochus answered, equally flat.

Agamemnon set the wine jug down with a thud.

"Gods, must you all start like this? You'd think I called you here to divide my will or to announce an exile."

He straightened, eyes resting a touch too long on Odysseus before continuing.

Agamemnon stood with a clap of his hands. "Now that the Queen of Ithaca has graced us, let's begin." He gestured toward Diomedes. "As discussed, I've assigned King Diomedes of Argos to assist in the retrieval of Achilles. His skills in the field are unmatched. His loyalty unquestioned. Not to mention his calm and composed mind."

Diomedes bowed sharply, face neutral.

Eurylochus grumbled. "I would question that last part."

Agamemnon looked at him, confused. "What?"

Odysseus folded her arms. "We met him this morning. Rather... dramatically, to say the least."

Agamemnon frowned. "Dramatically?"

"Let's just say his enthusiasm got ahead of your official introduction."

Diomedes visibly winced.

"Ah," Agamemnon said with a knowing grunt. "Well. He's young."

Eurylochus, standing behind Odysseus with his arms crossed, muttered under his breath: "That's one word for it."

Odysseus held her mouth shut, not letting a giggle out.

She stepped toward the war table. "I hope we can avoid any further... missteps."

"I assure you," Diomedes said clearly, stepping forward. "I'm here to follow your command, Queen Odysseus. I've read every dispatch. Studied about Myrmidons, and I have scouts ready to move the moment you give the word."

The switch in him was almost startling. His voice had steadied, and the boyish flailing of today was gone, replaced by the calm of a man who had, despite his earlier embarrassment, fought battles and earned a crown.

Odysseus eyed him thoughtfully. "I appreciate the preparation."

"And I appreciate the opportunity," he said, eyes locking with hers just for a moment - before darting down to the map.

Eurylochus leaned over and whispered in her ear, "If he starts reciting poetry, I'll drag him out myself."

She elbowed him in the ribs without looking. Only a quiet grunt was heard, followed by a cough.

Agamemnon continued, unfurling a fresh scroll. "The sooner you depart, the better. We can't afford delays. And I trust Diomedes will be... less theatrical from here on."

"I promise," Diomedes said quickly.

"And no more sneaking into tents," Eurylochus added.

Diomedes flushed crimson.

"I SAID I WAS SORRY-!"

Agamemnon coughed politely, hiding his confusion in a well-trained scowl.

Odysseus rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. "All right. We'll finalize preparations. It should take me around a day to prepare the crew and the boat for the departure. You and I," she nodded toward Diomedes, "will leave in two days after the morning meal. I want you then present at the shores in an hour, or we'll sail without you."

"Yes, my queen," he said - calm, respectful. And very much avoiding Eurylochus's glare.

"So, since we have this out of our way, I think we should focus on the last problem."

"Which is?" Odysseus raised an eyebrow.

"Actually locating young Achilles."

Odysseus looked at the man sharply. "Didn't you tell me yesterday that you had an idea where he is?"

"Well," Agamemnon cleared his throat. "My people and I were able to cross down some of the potential hiding spots, but we still need to narrow it down even further. It might change for us if a search for him will last a week or months."

The tent walls flapped lightly in the salt wind rolling in from the bay, creating the only sound in this awkward atmosphere. The air inside was warm with the scent of parchment, wax, and iron. A map of the Aegean was stretched across the long central table, its edges pinned down with half-drained goblets and bronze dagger hilts. Agamemnon stood with one hand planted on the wood, the other rubbing his temple.

The map had wooden and ivory figures placed on it that represented the lands that were crossed or that were seen as likely targets.

Odysseus leaned over the opposite side, her fingers resting lightly on a carved ivory marker shaped like a ship. Diomedes sat down nearby on a wooden stool, elbows on knees, gaze flicking between the two older rulers as they worked through the web of alliances and betrayals.

"We can rule out Troy's allies," Agamemnon said firmly, tapping a section of the map that included Mysia, Miletos, and Sestos. "If they found Achilles, they'd kill him or chain him in the square. They wouldn't hide him due to the risk of him easily freeing himself and joining at any time - he's the key to our strength."

Odysseus nodded. "Agreed. He's a threat to Troy, not an asset. They wouldn't waste food and fresh water on him."

"And the mainland on the west is mostly ours," Agamemnon continued. "Sparta, Mycenae, Argos, Pylos - Our allies would never shelter him. Not willingly. Not without risking their own standing."

"That's exactly why he wouldn't go to them," Odysseus added. "Achilles isn't just hiding from war. Someone is hiding him to protect him, or he's hiding from expectation. He'd pick somewhere no one suspects. Somewhere off to the side."

"Neutral lands, then," Agamemnon said. "Places with no declared allegiance." Agamemnon placed more figures on the map. Most of the mainland was crossed, and only part of the islands was seen as a potential place of hiding.

"Not just neutral - irrelevant," Odysseus corrected, picking up a black stone marker and placing it lightly near a ring of small islands. "Small enough to stay ignored. Quiet enough that their silence doesn't raise questions. Weak enough so nobody demands their forces and yet strong enough to be seen as a shelter."

She gestured to the Cycladic Isles - Delos, Psyria, Skyros.

Diomedes squinted. "What about temples? Some of those islands are scattered with shrines and sanctuaries. Wouldn't that offer cover more willingly than cities with established kings?"

Odysseus gave him a flat look. "Not for him. Temples are too entangled."

Agamemnon frowned. "You mean sacred grounds wouldn't offer protection? Sounds like an unlikely assumption."

"I mean, the gods are not impartial. Not this time," she said simply. "If Achilles hides in a temple, he drags that god into the war. And with half the pantheon already playing sides, there's no safe altar for him to kneel at."

"And how do you know that?" Asked Agamemnon in a low voice.

"Didn't the goddess Iris tell your brother of the tragedy that led us here? The gray-eyed goddess also warned me of the godly presence that would haunt the battlegrounds, and she would not do it if it was just her, Ares, or other companions of war."

The three men processed this knowledge in silence. Everyone knew that the gods would be more or less involved in this conflict, but to have it confirmed felt even more dreadful than ever before.

The queen tapped Delos. "Apollo already watches Troy. Achilles wouldn't risk it."

She tapped Naxos. "Dionysus doesn't take kindly to silent guests, and his cult isn't known as a pinnacle of safety."

And then she rested her hand over Skyros. "But a quiet court? One with an aging king and a small household? That's different. It's where we'll start."

Agamemnon's brow knit. "Why Skyros specifically? It's further out. Harder to reach. And not the most convenient place to start. Especially when there are at least a dozen small islands and cities on the way."

Odysseus nodded slowly. "Precisely why it's likely. Achilles wouldn't want convenience - he'd want distance. Big enough to not be easily reachable by nearby lands but close enough to not be too obvious. Skyros has no ships large enough to be a threat, no land troops, no big political ambitions. Lycomedes keeps to himself, mostly trying to marry off his daughters."

"He's old," Agamemnon muttered. "Soft-spoken. Doesn't meddle with anyone since he tries to gain an influential son-in-law."

"And he owes Peleus a favor," Odysseus added. "They fought together long ago. A personal debt that not many know about."

Diomedes leaned forward. "But why not check Naxos or Delos first? They're closer. If we're wrong-"

"If we're wrong, the wrong path will announce itself," Odysseus interrupted. "But if we're right and we take the obvious road? Someone sends word ahead. Achilles disappears again. Maybe for good."

Agamemnon exhaled. "So we go wide. Start where it makes the least sense. Force the shadow to move."

Odysseus moved the ship marker in a wide arc around the center of the map. "We won't even get close to Delos, Naxos or Ios. Loop back from Skyros. Our path looks random - but covers every critical stop."

Diomedes raised an eyebrow. "You're turning a scouting mission into a misdirection."

"I'm turning it into a trap," she corrected. "We'll see who stirs. Not just Achilles. But anyone protecting him. Your scouts will keep an eye out on the lands and islands closer to Aulis. I don't want any boat or cart to move borders without my knowledge."

Agamemnon gave her a long look, then finally cracked a smile. "Hera's breath, Ithaca - you'd have made a fine spy or even an assassin."

Odysseus smiled thinly. "Too loud a life."

Agamemnon nodded once. "Then Skyros it is. I'll see that your ship is ready by tomorrow."

Diomedes looked over the map again. "You think he's really there?"

"I think if I were him," Odysseus said, rolling up the parchment with care, "I'd go to the only place where honor can't find me. And pray no one knew me well enough to look there."

As the meeting progressed, Odysseus couldn't help but notice: whatever Diomedes had gotten wrong in charm or timing, he made up for in tactical clarity . His insights on the sea routes near Skyros were sharp. He had a natural grasp of strategy. And he deferred to her command with no ego, no protest. Just quiet eagerness and unshakable focus.

Still, she caught him glancing her way once too often when he thought she wasn't looking.

And every time, Eurylochus noticed too.

By the end of the meeting, Odysseus had already adjusted the mission outline to include Diomedes' scouts. But as Diomedes seemed to be too lost in the maps and scrolls, the Ithacan looked at her brother-in-law, who was still silently glaring, and then at the young king.

"You'll make a fine addition," she said. "So long as you keep your feet - and intentions - outside my tent."

Diomedes, who was leaning on the table, nearly fell down, scattering a few scrolls or unraveling them too much. "Absolutely. Of course. I'll - guard the outside myself if needed - wait, that sounded weird - uh-"

Odysseus waved him off, preparing to leave since most of the plan was established."

Behind her, Eurylochus muttered, "This is going to be fun."

Soon after, the map had been rolled away, and only a single oil lamp lit the wide interior. The soft flickering cast long shadows on the canvas, gilding the heavy bronze armor stands and tall, swaying spears.

Odysseus was tightening her bracer straps when she noticed Agamemnon still standing near the tent flap, arms crossed, watching them.

"You're still here," she said, not quite a question.

"You are, too."

Diomedes blinked, having just risen from his stool. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Agamemnon said slowly. "But I'd like a word with you both before you prepare to sail."

Odysseus raised a brow. "You're not about to make us chase another deserter, are you?"

"On the contrary," Agamemnon said. "I want your help with someone from the camp."

That made her pause.

Agamemnon shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "I'd like you to take someone with you. A passenger, of sorts."

Diomedes glanced at Odysseus, then back. "Who?"

"Patroclus of Opus."

That earned twin reactions. Odysseus stilled, fingers hovering mid-strap. Diomedes straightened with narrowed eyes.

"Why?" Odysseus asked.

Agamemnon didn't flinch. "Because he might know where Achilles is."

"What!?" Diomedes burst. "And you're only telling us now? After we analyzed every grain of sand in Greece!?"

"Because I'm not certain he will tell you," Agamemnon replied coolly. "Or anyone."

Odysseus folded her arms. "He won't volunteer the truth. That's what you're saying."

Agamemnon nodded. "He's evasive. And loyal - to Achilles and King Peleus, above all. We've tried gentle questions, even bribery. He says nothing."

"Then why bring him at all?" she asked, narrowing her gaze. "You don't think he'll speak, and he might cause issues with the mission. So what's the real reason you want me to take him?"

There was a beat of silence. The brazier popped softly.

Agamemnon exhaled. "Because he's young. And because I don't know what else to do with him."

Diomedes blinked.

Agamemnon looked tired now, shadows carving deeper beneath his eyes. "He's not like his cousin. He doesn't command men. He doesn't know how, and he can only use his title for so long to get sympathy or respect from Myrmidons. He is a skilled fighter but not skilled enough to fight on his own. I only know a handful of people who would manage that, and most of them possess divine blood to help them with that."

"And you can't just leave him to the sidelines because-?" Asked Eurylochus, raising a brow.

"He just like the young Tydies and your queen is obliged by the pact to fight here. If I suddenly free him from his responsibilities due to his lack of experience-"

"Any other leader present can try to avoid the war by claiming incompetence. We can't expect loyalty when some people would get better treatment for being childish." Finished the queen, her calculating gaze shifting from her brother-in-arms to somewhere further that only her mind could reach.

"Exactly. That's why I thought of assigning him to follow one of the kings - someone who could mentor him in how to take care of resources, morale, and tactics. It would also ensure that some of our better fighters are under proper management."

"Seems reasonable," Diomedes said cautiously.

"It would've been," Agamemnon muttered darkly, "if half the damn camp hadn't started gossiping like tavern girls the moment I suggested it."

Odysseus blinked. "What gossip?"

"That I was… assigning him an erastes ," he muttered. "To 'shape' him in the other kind of discipline."

Diomedes choked. "Wait - did people actually think-?"

"I said mentor," Agamemnon muttered. "A few drunk soldiers decided it meant something else. Next thing I know, the boy avoids meetings with generals and is looking like I asked him to marry a satyr."

Diomedes went still. Odysseus raised a brow, then lowered her gaze with a half-sigh.

"Lovely," she said dryly. "He seriously believed it?" asked with a mix of humor and disbelief.

"Worse," Agamemnon replied. "He broke down and cried. Locked himself in his tent. Wouldn't show up to meals. Wouldn't speak to anyone but old Phoenix."

"Gods," Diomedes said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm not blaming him," Agamemnon sighted. "He's not weak - just too soft for the camp and real war. Too many whisperers and not enough armor on his soul."

He turned to Odysseus.

"But you," he said, "you're not a threat to his reputation. You're clever. You understand what it's like to be underestimated."

"I'm not exactly known for my tenderness."

"No," Agamemnon agreed. "But you are known for your patience. When it matters."

There was a moment of quiet.

Odysseus considered the offer in silence. Then: "You're not sending him because he'll help find Achilles, but because you need him in check so he won't try to escape."

Agamemnon shook his head. "I'm sending him because the boy will drown in this war if he doesn't learn to swim soon. I can't teach him - not without scaring him deeper into his shell. But you might earn his trust."

Agamemnon opened his mouth. Closed it. "I think… he may be more comfortable around you."

Diomedes was already squinting at him, suspicious.

Odysseus blinked, then let out a low, sardonic hum. "So you thought, 'Ah yes, time to hand him off to the only person in this army without a beard."

"That's not-" Agamemnon tried. "I chose you because you're - strategic. Observant. Persuasive. Independent. You think before speaking. You command respect-"

"You want my help," Odysseus said flatly, "because I don't have a dick."

There was a beat.

Agamemnon hesitated, then sighed in complete defeat. "…Yes."

Diomedes and Eurylochus covered their mouths badly, trying to muffle a laugh.

Odysseus only blinked once, then gave a smug, satisfied nod. "Thought so."

Agamemnon groaned quietly. "Just don't tell him that's why. Spare the kid some dignity."

"Oh, absolutely," Odysseus said. "Wouldn't want to traumatize the poor boy twice."

"I need him to learn," Agamemnon said, recovering. "He can't be Achilles' shadow forever. He needs to command his own voice and be able to act in opposition to Pelides if necessary."

"And you think I'll be gentle?" she asked, half-smirking.

"I think you'll be fair," he replied. "And that's better."

Odysseus looked away for a moment, pensive, then nodded once.

Diomedes clapped his hands together. "Right. So we're sailing with an uncooperative possible informant, an overqualified schemer, and a grumpy guard dog." When saying the last part, he looked at Eurylochus, who glared back.

Odysseus rose to her feet and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Good thing you're charming, then."

"Gods help me," Eurylochus muttered.

"I wouldn't count on them," she replied, grabbing her cloak and leaving the tent.

---

The sea wind had sharpened overnight, and the gulls screamed from the cliffs. The encampment was still heavy with morning fog, but already, the smell of brine and tar mingled with the scent of oiled bronze. Soldiers moved about like ghosts - packing, sharpening blades, murmuring in low tones.

Diomedes crouched near a row of javelins, checking each shaft and tip with methodical precision. His breastplate lay beside him, polished to a dull gleam. Across from him, Euryalus sat cross-legged on a fallen beam, wrapping his wrists for the voyage with torn strips of linen.

"You know you don't have to inspect every damn spear like it's your wedding dowry," Euryalus muttered. "They'll all fly true, even if you throw them half-asleep."

"It's not the javelins I'm worried about," Diomedes replied.

"You mean the seasickness?"

"I mean the company."

Just then, Sthenelus arrived - still tying the last buckle of his armor with barely concealed irritation.

"Well," he grumbled, "we're not even aboard yet, and I'm already insulted."

Diomedes looked up. "Good morning to you, too."

Sthenelus ignored the jab. "You're leaving without a single man from your own ranks. We're your army, Diomedes, and you are our king. Not the lady from Ithaca's personal escort."

“Orders from Agamemnon. No more than a handful, all Ithacan save me."

"Agamemnon's being played," Sthenelus said, voice low. "You know what they say about her. Some speculated she delayed her call because she planned to escape to Egypt."

Euryalus flinched slightly, looking away.

"If not for Agamemnon and his second in command, Odysseus would probably not even be here with us," Sthenelus continued. "And now she's being sent to Skyros to chase ghosts with no oversight? You can't possibly believe she's going to tell us the whole truth."

Diomedes straightened, slowly slipping his breastplate over his shoulders. "If she wanted to run, she wouldn't have stayed this long. And if she wanted Achilles found for some traitorous reason, she wouldn't have insisted I come."

Sthenelus snorted. "Unless she knew you would trust her."

Euryalus stepped in before it got worse. "Look, I'm just hoping you don't cause some diplomatic disaster. Skyros isn't exactly friendly ground, and if we're chasing rumors about a missing prince-"

"A missing demigod," Sthenelus corrected. "Let's not forget the golden boy has more than enough power to smite us."

Diomedes tightened the final strap. "Whatever he is, he's needed. And she's the only one who knows where to look and how to lure him out."

"She suspects where to look," Sthenelus said. "There's a difference. The rest is just stories and riddles."

"Since when have stories failed us?" Diomedes said with a dry smile.

Sthenelus scoffed. "Since every man in this war began thinking with his sword or-" he gave a pointed look "-the other tools that lead them to follow a foreign queen like a helpless lamb."

Euryalus winced. "Let it go, Sthene."

“No, no,” Sthenelus went on. "Let's just pretend that there's no personal reason Dio's so eager to join her band of loyal sailors. We all remember how he acted in Sparta. Or during his birthday, for that matter."

Diomedes's jaw set, but he didn't rise to the bait. He turned away and reached for his helm. "You think what you like. But she's the sharpest mind in the camp. And I've seen the look in her eyes - she wants this war over before it can even start."

"She wants something, " Sthenelus muttered. "And I don't trust it. Not when most of her plans are unspoken."

Before Diomedes could reply, a new voice cut through the mist.

"You missed one," said Eurylochus, tossing a javelin to the ground beside Diomedes without looking at him.

The weapon nearly pierced the man's foot, making the king curled up where he sat.

Diomedes glanced at the weapon while his breath was evening, then at the young Ithacan. "Thanks."

Eurylochus nodded curtly, already turning on his heel. His expression had been unreadable - tight, cold, all the rage carefully buried beneath discipline.

Sthenelus watched him walk away, then said under his breath, "See? Even her own men carry shadows! This entire Island is filled with mysteries, and one of those will for sure get us killed!"

Euryalus sighed and wiped his face with the back of his wrist. "That man looks at you like you killed his dog and then spat on it."

"I've noticed," Diomedes muttered.

"Do you even know what you did to piss him off?"

Diomedes shrugged. "I have a suspicion. But I already apologized for that situation."

Euryalus raised an eyebrow. "Sure, it's not because he thinks you'll try to court his queen?"

Diomedes looked at him, confused.

His companion continued. "There are too many coincidences that this man won't leave this unmarried queen for more than an hour and the fact that he is especially grumpy to the king, who started to act bashful when complimented by her."

Sthenelus laughed at that. "That's what this is? By the gods. He's her lapdog!"

"No," Diomedes said after a pause. "He's her shield."

Euryalus looked at him, waiting.

Diomedes didn't meet his gaze. "I've seen the way he watches her. It's not about jealousy. It's fear. That someone might do something that even he can't stop."

"And will you?" Euryalus asked, half-joking, half-curious.

Diomedes's answer came quietly.

"No. But others might."

---

Polites tossed a roll of linen bandages into his satchel with a huff, muttering as he checked a few jars of salves. The wind from the sea tugged at his coat, but he barely noticed, too focused on packing - and grumbling.

"I swear to every god on Olympus," he said aloud, "if she opens one stitch or collapses on that damn island, I'm going to drag her back myself - kicking, screaming, and sedated."

Eurylochus looked up from where he was sharpening his blade a few feet away. "Still talking to yourself, Polites?"

"No," Polites said dryly. "I'm talking to you now since someone has to listen to me complain before I get stuck fishing her unconscious body out of some cave."

"She's fine," Eurylochus muttered, focusing back on his blade.

Polites snorted. "Fine? She's still pale. Still coughing when she thinks no one's listening. Still acting like nearly being poisoned to death was a minor inconvenience. For gods' sake! I had to stop her today from doing laps with other soldiers!"

Eurylochus didn't respond.

"She shouldn't even be going," Polites went on. "She should be resting. Drinking broth. Letting her organs heal fully. But no, of course not - Odysseus sees a mission, and suddenly she's made of ambition, bronze, and fucking spite!."

Eury chuckled at that. "Since when has she ever done what she's told?"

Polites gave a small, reluctant smile. "Fair point."

The soldier finally looked up. "Still. If she's going, then I'm going."

"I figured as much," Polites said. "But you could stand to stop glaring at Diomedes like he poisoned her himself."

"He didn't. But he's a stranger."

"He's also a king, Eury."

"Kings lie."

Polites gave a dry laugh. "So do queens. So do medics. So do you, for that matter."

Eurylochus grunted. "Doesn't mean I have to like him."

"No, but you're not subtle about it. You've looked ready to knock him overboard since the moment he stepped on the beach. Try at least to be a little bit more political before you are stoned to death."

"He looks too comfortable," Eury said. "Like he's already sure he belongs. Like he knows something we don't."

Polites raised a brow. "You do realize Odysseus picked him, right?"

"She accepted him. That doesn't mean I like it."

Polites leaned back on a crate and crossed his arms. "You act like she's made of glass, Eury. Or like she needs us to guard her from every shadow. She's been doing this longer than either of us. Hell, sometimes I think she lets us come along just to make us feel useful."

Eurylochus's jaw tightened. "I know she's strong. That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

Eury was silent for a beat, the wind blowing across the shore, carrying the sharp scent of salt and pine.

"He could've kill her ," he said finally. "He almost had her..., and I - I just stood there. I didn't even know what to do. And now some stranger with a crown and a smile shows up, and she trusts him, just like that."

Polites's voice softened. "You're still blaming yourself."

"I gave that man directions to her tent, Polites. Hell, I could just as well invite him to her cot."

"And you were the one who raised the alarm afterward. You were the one who ran to her."

"I wasn't the one to save her. I still made the mistake."

"We all do."

Another silence.

Polites reached into his satchel, pulled out a flask, and handed it to Eurylochus. "Drink. You're brooding again."

Eurylochus took it, muttered a begrudging thanks, and took a long pull.

Polites smirked. "Look, just… try to give Diomedes a chance. You're not the only one who wants to keep her safe. This stubborn woman will always pull out something crazy, but maybe this time we'll have an extra pair of hands to help us stop her.."

Eurylochus looked out over the waves, then back to the busy camp where Diomedes's tall figure stood, talking with his soldiers. Face emotionless and body language barely existing.

"I don't trust him," Eurylochus said quietly. "But I'll watch him. And if he does anything - anything - I won't hesitate."

Polites gave a tired sigh. "And I'll be there to patch the both of you up after."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment more before Polites added under his breath, "Stubborn. All three of you."

Eurylochus grinned faintly. "You love it."

"Absolutely not," Polites lied. He chuckled to himself and then asked his friend. "Do you remember the time Ody came back all bloody from the hunting trip?"

"The one when we were kids, and you nearly passed out seeing her leg all messed up?"

"No, The one where she was supposed to be just a guest at a festival and was smiling like a maniac!"

Eurylochus laughed out loud. "Oh, I remember that one."

***

The sun was already dipping low, casting honey-gold streaks across the hills when the hoofbeats clattered down the narrow palace room where the Queen of Ithaca was hosted by the king of Athens for the time festivities of Demeter. Her friends, with the pretext of gaining knowledge from their parents (Queen's guards) during this expedition, were currently panicking when their friend was sitting in red-stained clothes.

Polites sprinted from the edge of the courtyard barefoot, hair wild and panic already blooming in his chest. "I told you she'd get herself killed-"

"No, you said she'd end up falling down from a tree again," Eurylochus huffed beside him, barely keeping up with his longer-legged friend. "She fell from a horse. So technically-"

"Not the time, Eurylochus!" Polites grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around toward the doors. "Get the olive salve and clean water. And blankets! And figs! She passes out when she's in shock-"

"Do you think she's in shock?"

"Do I look calm to you!?"

The injured woman shifted on her bed, stretching like a cat. Odysseus seemed conscious, but something was… off.

For one, she was humming.

For another, she looked ridiculously pleased with herself for someone who appeared like someone who had fought a tree and lost.

Her one arm was tightly wrapped in a makeshift bandage made out of dyed cloth, tied expertly. But now her tunic was removed (only cloth wrapped around her chest and undergarments protecting her modesty), revealing angry red scratches trailing across her back, as though she'd been dragged through bramble at full gallop. Her braid was half undone, and she had a torn sleeve hanging like a trophy.

"You're - YOU'RE BLEEDING! How are you, not worried, woman!" Polites shouted, rushing toward her as she just lay innocently on her bed, hugging her pillow.

"Not as much as earlier," Odysseus replied, voice dreamy. She staggered slightly when her feet hit the ground.

Eurylochus stared at her arm. "That cloth has a red and gold ribbon sewn into it. Is that Trojan?"

" Might be~" she chirped, eyes unfocused.

Odysseus tried to sit up, but she instantly wobbled. Polites helped her lie back down on her stomach so he could have a better look on her back. "You're grinning. Gods, what happened? Did you fall off a cliff? Are you concussed?! Why are you humming?"

"Did you hit your head?" Eurylochus asked, suddenly concerned. "Blink twice if you can hear us."

Odysseus blinked once. Then paused. Blinked again, slowly, and gave a dopey grin.

"I met someone~" she said in a tone of voice normally reserved for poems and summer storms.

The boys froze.

The youngest of them looked mortified at her. "And that makes you happy!?"

Polites's mouth dropped open. "She's hallucinating."

"From blood loss," Eurylochus nodded gravely.

"I told you she can't join this stupid hunting, or something bad will happen! I told you!"

Odysseus waved her unbandaged hand like she was blessing a harvest. "It was during the hunt. There were trees. And horses. And-" she rolled on her bed slightly and winced mid-spin when the scratched back touched the blanket, "Okay, back's a little sore. BUT!" she pointed dramatically at them both. "I think I'm in love."

Polites dropped the clay kylix, shattering it in the process and spilling all the water on the floor.

Eurylochus stared at her. Then, at Polites. Then back at her.

"She's definitely dying."

"No one talks like that unless they're dying."

"Quick," Polites said, panic returning. "What's your name?"

"Queen Odysseus of Ithaca and future Tyrant of Greece, and now someone better get me a honey cake because I'm starting to get hungry."

Eurylochus squinted. "… That's her."

Polites dragged her toward the steps, grumbling. "You're a menace. You fell off a horse and nearly died, and all you came back with was a bandage and a crush?"

"He was very good at bandaging," Odysseus mumbled contentedly. “Very… gentle hands…and mouth…”

"Gods, she's gone."

As they settled her on the steps and tried to clean the scratches on her back - despite her dreamy protests - Eurylochus leaned close to Polites and whispered,

"Once we sail back home, do we… do we tell her mother?"

Polites just stared at Odysseus, now humming again as she started munching on one of the figs that Eurylochus brought.

"No. We let her find out like the rest of us. In horror."

***

Now, both men were laughing, remembering this situation. 

"It's hard to believe that she is still kicking." Said Eurylochus, wiping a tear from his eye. 

"He lives out of spite."

"Or because someone in the underworld is too scared to deal with her."

They laughed once again. But this time, Polites looked warmly at his friend. 

"Don't worry, Eury. She will be safe with you and your crew, and even if she does something stupid, I'm here to deal with the consequences."

"I fucking hope so," Chuckled Eurylochus. "The last time you ordered me to bandage her, she looked like I was preparing her for the Egyptian funeral."

"Because you forgot in panic that a blood stain doesn't equal an injury." Deadpanned Polites. "Next time, just poke her and bandage the places that make her squeak."

"Aye, aye."

"And help me make sure she won't try to go drinking with someone again. Puking out all the insides isn't a good way to recover."

"Then you better get a chain and help me tie her up. This woman can be strong as a horse and stubborn like an ass."

Polites rolled his eyes and finished checking on his inventory. He needed to make sure that everything needed was with him; otherwise, there wouldn't be many (if any) chances to restock the medicine before they sailed to Troy. 

At least now, Eurylochus seemed less stressed, which made the young physician very happy.

---

The canvas walls of Patroclus' tent rippled in the breeze like uneasy lungs. Inside, he sat on his cot, hands clenched in his lap, eyes fixed on the empty teacup in front of him as if he could will it to give him an answer.

A runner had just left, announcing flatly that someone assigned by Agamemnon would arrive shortly to "assist in his development."

Patroclus' blood had gone cold. Colder than it had any right to be. And yet he was sweating his ass off.

'Assigned for development ' could mean anything. Guidance. Support. Or, or-

He rubbed his palms over his knees; the goosebumps were on his entire body.

"What if it's some old general who thinks he's entitled to something?" he muttered. "What if it's like they said - what if they're trying to pair me off like I'm a - gods, I'll run. I'll row myself to Lesbos if I have to-"

The tent flap parted.

Patroclus nearly tripped over his own feet, standing up, or more accurately, jumping out of bed like a startled cat.

There was a huge dark-skinned man with almost as big a sword. He had a cold look, and Patroclus, for the love of gods, couldn't tell what that man was thinking, but he would pay good money for it because now it was so terrifying how he silently went closer.

But then he stopped and led another person to stand in front of him. Now, it seemed that the big soldier was most likely a guard of the second figure who adorned a metal band, dignifying their high status. 

H-She was…smaller than he expected. Lean with sun-kissed skin, loose dark curls tied back in a way that looked half accidental, and a gaze that pinned the room in place. She stepped in with the grace of someone who'd already checked the angles for escape and the location of all the hidden weaponry. 

"You're Patroclus," she said with a stern voice. It wasn't a question, and yet he felt like he had to answer.

He blinked. "I-I am."

"I'm Basilinna Odysseus of Ithaca. Agamemnon asked me to be your mentor, and I accepted."

Patroclus stared, confused. A woman? And that woman?

"You're… the Odysseus? Of Ithaca?"

"I've been her all my life," she said dryly, crossing her arms. "Sit down. You look like you're going to faint."

He obeyed quickly, still staring. "I thought - I mean - I was told-"

"That they were assigning you an erastes ?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

His ears turned pink. "I didn't mean to assume! I just - some of the others joked, and-"

"I'm in no need for such a service from you. Don't worry, your ass is not in danger," she said flatly. "I'm here to make sure you don't get yourself or anyone else killed. Sounds good?"

"Yes," he said in a tiny voice. His face even redder.

She smiled - just a little. "Good. I'll be mentoring you in everything: logistics, field medicine, combat, negotiation, subterfuge, ship protocol, rations, dealing with drunks, supply lines, how not to say something stupid in front of a king, and - if I have time and patience - how to hold a spear like it's not a broom."

He gawked at her.

"This isn't about becoming a hero," she said. "It's about becoming useful. Because an incompetent man at war isn't just a liability to himself - he's a danger to the people around him. I've watched men die because someone packed the wrong salve or misunderstood an order. If you ever want to be a leader or assist one, you need to know more than just how to stab a man."

Patroclus swallowed. "Right."

"But," she added more gently, "you're young. You've still got time. I don't need you to be perfect. I need you to be willing. Can you manage that?"

"…Yes. I think so," he said, surprised to find he meant it.

"Good," she said, her smile more natural and…kind. "You'll be coming with me on a journey soon. We sail the day after tomorrow at dawn."

"Where are we going?"

"A place that will challenge you," she said, smoothly dodging the question. "You'll learn more there in a week than most men learn in a year."

He nodded slowly, almost bashfully. "Thank you, Odysseus. I really appreciate this. I thought it would be something awful."

"Give it a week," she said, half-laughing as she walked out of the tent.

Patroclus exhaled deeply, slumping onto his cot in relief. "Well… that wasn't so bad," he murmured to himself. "Maybe this will be easy."

But before he could feel smug about it, he heard a low booming voice close to him. That tall man hadn't left yet.

"You poor, sweet child," came a voice from the corner.

Patroclus jolted upright.

The soldier was leaning against a tent pole, arms crossed, a half-eaten apple in hand…where did he get that apple from?

"How long have you been there?!"

"Long enough," Eurylochus replied, taking a lazy bite. "To hear that you think Odysseus will go easy on you." He laughed again.

"She seemed reasonable!" Patroclus protested. "She even smiled."

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Eurylochus chuckled darkly. "That was the smile of a storm cloud that knows your tent isn't tied down."

Patroclus frowned. "It can't be that bad."

"When I trained under her, she made me memorize every single crate we sailed with. Then made me race a Spartan messenger uphill in full gear to deliver the list. And that was a light week."

Patroclus paled. "She didn't mention anything like that…"

Eurylochus leaned in, his grin wicked.

"By the end of the journey," he whispered, "you'll beg for an erastes - just for the break."

Patroclus went very, very still.

"…Do you think I can still row to Lesbos?"

"Nope," Eurylochus said, tossing the core away. "Welcome to the war, kid."

---

The sun was beginning its slow crawl across the sky, casting a golden sheen on the organized chaos of the Ithacan corner of the camp. Leather packs were tightened. Weapons inspected. Travel rations were distributed into satchels.

Among the hum of activity, Diomedes stepped forward, sleeves rolled up, already gripping a bundled tarp and heading toward a nearby cart. "Where do you want these?" he asked, raising his voice slightly to cut through the noise.

No answer.

He glanced at Eurylochus, who was crouched by a crate, tying it off with rope - deliberately not looking up. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Diomedes cleared his throat. "I asked where-"

"I heard you," Eurylochus muttered, not pausing his knots.

A beat passed.

"Right," Diomedes said, jaw tightening. He shifted the bundle in his arms and turned instead to one of the nearby Ithacan soldiers. "Near the ship's hatch?"

The soldier nodded, not quite meeting his eye. "Yes, my lord."

"Thanks," Diomedes replied, giving him a small nod before glancing back at Eurylochus. "You know, I could make this go faster. I've packed for war enough times to know how to load a ship."

Still crouched, Eurylochus didn't look up. "Then you should know how to follow an order without needing to impress anyone like a child."

Diomedes blinked. He was already tired, dust clinging to his arms, and he'd been holding his tongue since yesterday. Eurylochus had been dodging him since they were assigned to the same mission - cutting off the small talk, redirecting tasks, and making himself too busy for eye contact. He wasn't subtle, and he clearly didn't care to be.

"I'm just trying to help," Diomedes said, voice taut but even. "If that's a crime here, I must've missed the Ithacan handbook."

That finally got Eurylochus's attention.

He stood to his full height, rope in hand, shoulders stiff with tension. Arms crossed. Eyes cold.

"You want to help?" he asked, dry and flat. "Then stay out of the way."

Diomedes exhaled sharply, forcing a tight laugh as he dropped the tarp near the cart. A few nearby Ithacans turned their heads, their movements slowing, senses tuned to the tension beginning to ripple across the yard.

"You've had a problem with me since I stepped foot in this camp," Diomedes said, lowering his voice but not his tone. "I've been patient. I've respected your space. I've tried not to step on any toes. But I'm done playing polite."

Eurylochus cocked his head. "Polite?" he repeated. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I'm not asking to be your friend," Diomedes went on, frustrated. "But I don't appreciate being treated like a stray dog circling the table."

Eurylochus stared at him for a long, silent moment.

Then he reached to the crate beside him, picked up a small strip of dried meat from the supplies - jerky from the rations - and casually took a bite before speaking.

"I know you're not a dog," Eurylochus said quietly. "If you were, all I'd need is to toss some food - and you'd go away-"

He paused and tossed the unfinished piece of meat a few meters from the king of Argos. It hit the dust with a soft thud. 

"-But you're still here."

The tension spiked like a flint on stone. Around them, the soldiers were still trying to look busy - but everyone was listening now. Afraid of what was going to happen next.

Diomedes stared at the meat for a second. Then looked up, slowly.

"No," he said, voice low. "I'm still here because lord Agamemnon and your queen asked me to be. Because she trusts me. And maybe that's what really bites you, huh? Do you feel threatened that I'll do your job better than you?"

Eurylochus's jaw tensed a muscle twitching just under his cheekbone. His arms unfolded, not aggressively, but deliberately.

"You want to help?" he asked dryly. "Then stay out of the way. I can only tolerate your face for so long."

Diomedes exhaled, sharp and frustrated. "Alright, that's enough."

Around them, some of the Ithacan soldiers turned their heads slightly, sensing the brewing confrontation. Diomedes lowered his voice, but his tone was no less heated.

"You've had a problem with me since I stepped foot in this camp," he said. "I've been patient. I've respected your space. I've tried not to step on any toes. But I'm done playing polite."

Eurylochus stared, unmoved. Unimpressed.

"So tell me," Diomedes continued, "who are you exactly? I don't mean rank - I know Odysseus trusts you. But who are you to act like my presence is some kind of personal offense? I apologized and tried to make amends, but you acted like I personally offended you. So better give me a good reason why you feel justified to act like that."

A long silence stretched between them. The wind caught the flap of a nearby tent, snapping it once like a warning.

Then Eurylochus spoke.

"I'm her brother-in-law," he said flatly. "Married to her sister not too long before the war."

That took Diomedes off guard. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

Eurylochus went on. "I've known her since before this war and before the circumstances made her a queen. Before half of you, kings remembered, she was more than a name in the council room."

Diomedes swallowed, a little quieter now. "I didn't mean disrespect."

Eurylochus's eyes hardened. "I've seen what war does to men - good men, clever men, men who start with good intentions and fine speeches while talking of honor and reminiscing about their families waiting for them. But let them stew long enough outside the comfort of home, strip away their beds and their manners, and what's left starts to rot."

He took a step closer, his voice a low growl now, only for Diomedes to hear.

"I've seen men lose their self-control. Their sense of shame. And more than once," his jaw clenched, "I've seen Odysseus almost become their victim."

Diomedes went still, color draining from his face. Mouth agape, but no sound coming out.

"I watched her crawl away from one of our allies in a foreign camp," Eurylochus continued, softer now but far more dangerous. "Covered in bruises and still refusing to tell the full story. And you know what happened to the man? Nothing. Because he was someone's cousin. Someone's noble son."

He gestured vaguely at the camp. "You're all noble sons. Kings. Some god's champions. And who knows what else."

Diomedes tried to speak, but no words formed.

"So forgive me," Eurylochus bit out, "if I don't give a damn about how many horses you've saddled or how politely you offer to carry things. My loyalty isn't to your feelings. It's to my queen and her safety."

The silence that followed was heavy. Diomedes's hands dropped slowly to his sides, the tarp long forgotten.

"I didn't know," he said quietly.

"You weren't supposed to." Eurylochus turned back to the crates. "And if I have anything to say about it, you never will. She's had enough pain without the added weight of your good intentions. And better not share this knowledge with anyone or ranks be damned, I'll make sure you'll end up at the bottom of the sea."

For a moment longer, Diomedes stood in place, gray eyes lowered in something close to shame.

Then, finally, he quietly apologized, turned, and walked away without another word.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Skyros and Achilles

Notes:

The writer's curse finally reached me and I ended up with a spontanious tooth removal. Good news is that I feel less pressure with a wisdom tooth gona and bad one is that it was awful to write with bleeding mouth hahaha

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and I'm sorry if it's going to feel a little rushed.

Also wow😳 we really reached over 100k words....I don't know what to think about it yet🙈

The waves rocked the ship in a slow rhythm as the sun dipped lower into the sea, staining the sky with orange and violet hues. Dinner had been passed out - a rough but filling meal of lentils, olives, dried meat, and flatbread. The crew huddled around their bowls on the deck, some eating in silence, others trading jokes.

Diomedes sat cross-legged, chewing thoughtfully as he wiped his hands on a linen scrap. Beside him, Eurylochus carved dried meat with a knife so precisely it looked more like surgery than supper.

A muffled groan echoed from the stairs to the lower deck.

Patroclus emerged, moving like an old man after a long campaign. He staggered across the deck, one hand on his back and the other gripping a splintering railing for dramatic support.

"By the gods," Diomedes muttered, eyebrows raised, "Did someone drag you behind the ship?"

Patroclus groaned again and dropped to the planks beside them with all the grace of a toppled amphora. "Storage chest mutiny," he said, wheezing. "I forgot to double-knot the ties before we left. Everything shifted mid-sail. It looked like a storm hit the cargo hold, and Odysseus found out."

"And? " Diomedes asked, already grinning. Eurylochus smirked while handing the teen a bowl of food.

"She made me reorganize the entire thing. Alone. And as if that wasn't enough of the punishment, she 'accidentally ' knocked a crate over and told me to do it again. It took me a whole night to finish!"

Diomedes laughed, shaking his head. "Lesson learned, kid. You'll remember those knots next time. "

" You are only two years older than me! " Wheezed out Patroclus. Then he came back to chugging all the water from the closest chalice there was, not caring to who it belonged.

"And yet, I'm not the one assigned with a mentor."

" Like you would complain. " Chuckled one of the Ithacan crewmen, but he quickly shut up when he remembered that it was a king of Argos he was talking to.

Patroclus groaned and dropped his face into his bowl. "Why aren't you afraid of her?"

Diomedes looked at him, a small flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He composed himself quickly.

"Afraid? " he said. "No. Wary? Sure. But she's not a monster. Just scarily good at her job."

Patroclus scoffed. "She looked me dead in the eye and told me that if I make another mistake with the storage, she will throw all my belongings over the board. "

" She was being generous, " Diomedes said, smirking. "She could always suggest throwing you with the belongings."

He then jerked his thumb toward Eurylochus, who had been wordlessly eating the whole time, eyes flicking between them with quiet judgment.

"If we're talking about fear, that's who I'm afraid of."

Eurylochus didn't look up. His knife continued carving with deadly precision.

"No offense, " Diomedes said quickly, raising a hand. "It's just the way you carry yourself. Like you're constantly imagining how each of us would fall in a knife fight. "

" Imagining? " Eurylochus said coolly. A small smile appeared on his face, somehow making him even more terrifying. "You think I haven't already run the math?"

Patroclus blinked. Diomedes laughed nervously.

"Well, for the record, I've never done anything inappropriate, " Diomedes offered, trying to lighten the mood. "And I wouldn't. Athena's temple taught me better. I'm a champion of chastity goddess, remember? "Honestly, I'd rather have my manhood cut off than- "

" You sure? " Eurylochus interrupted, standing abruptly. He pointed his knife directly at Diomedes's groin.

"Because that can be arranged."

Diomedes scooted back instinctively, hands raised. "It was a figure of speech !"

Before anything more could be said - or… cut - Odysseus arrived.

She crossed the deck like someone who didn't notice the motion of the sea, all ease and calm and irritating grace. Her dark cloak caught the breeze, half-royal, half-pirate. Her eyes scanned the group - Diomedes frozen mid-recoil, Patroclus sitting straight like a marble statue, Eurylochus still holding his knife at full height.

" Are we starting knife duels without me? " she asked in the fake offense. 

Eurylochus slowly lowered the blade and resumed eating. Odysseus took a seat beside them and pulled a strip of bread from the shared bowl.

"Did you eat? " Eurylochus asked without looking up.

"Some olives, an apple, and now I'm joining you for a proper breakfast," she replied. "Good enough. Polites would not complain."

Patroclus, immediately aware of her presence, straightened again. "Lady Odysseus, " he said, clearing his throat, "If you require anything, I-"

She groaned and cut him off with a raised hand. "Don't start."

He blinked. "Start what? "

" That stiff, prim tone. The respectful sycophant routine. You're acting like I'm your erastes , not your teacher."

Patroclus flushed, visibly flustered. "I just meant- "

"I'm not grooming you for a marriage, Patroclus, " Odysseus snapped. "I'm trying to teach you how not to die before you turn twenty. And stop looking at me like I'm going to pat your head or touch your thigh. I have no intention or desire to flirt with a child; I'd rather sit on a wooden, splinter-filled olisbos for the rest of the war. "

The silence that followed was thunderous. Diomedes' face twisted, probably involuntarily imagining the experience.

"I'm not a child, " Patroclus said, voice thin. "I'm eighteen."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you seriously offended that I'm not calling you a prostitute?"

His jaw dropped. He opened his mouth - then closed it again.

Eurylochus gave a rare laugh. Diomedes let out a full bark of laughter, pressing his fist to his mouth.

Odysseus grabbed a fig from someone's plate.

"Alright. Enough of this. We're two days out from Skyros. We need to talk some real strategy."

Eurylochus blinked, still amused. "Why do we need a strategy just to find someone? You said it yourself that Agamemnon allowed us to simply drag him on the boat if he starts whining."

Odysseus chewed slowly, then said, "Because if they know we're here to conscript someone into the war, they'll never let us in the palace in the first place."

Diomedes wiped his hand. "So you have a plan?"

Her lips curved into that sharp, fox-like grin.

"Oh, I do."

The others waited.

"But for the plan to work, " she said, casually reaching for her drink, "I'll need one small thing. "

" What is it? " Asked Patroclus, sitting down next to Diomedes. The young king offered one of the pastries from his plate, which the prince gladly accepted.

Odysseus smiled innocently as if she wasn't about to cause chaos within a second.

"Nothing much. Just a husband."

All three men took a bite or sip at the same moment - and immediately choked.

Bread spat. Water spilled. Patroclus's hand smacked Diomedes's back as he coughed violently. Eurylochus just froze mid-swallow, eyes wide as if he witnessed a blasphemy against the gods.

Other crewmen were no better. They all turned to look at their Queen, who just took a casual bite of her fruit.

---

Achilles adjusted the tray of fruit in his hands once more, fingers tightening slightly around the polished handles. He was not meant to be here. This hallway - thick with scented torch smoke and noble silk - was for guests and dignitaries, not disguised sons of sea nymphs.

But boredom had gotten the better of him.

Skyros had grown quiet of late. Dull, even. The same training drills in the courtyard, the same fawning chatter from Lycomedes' daughters, the same cloistered feasts and soft music. Achilles had paced the garden twice before slipping away, the way a hunting dog slips its leash.

He'd borrowed a tray from the kitchens - laden with apricots, almonds, and figs stuffed with honeyed cheese - and wandered toward the sounds of distant voices. When he saw guards posted outside the audience chamber, he ducked into a servants' passage and slipped into the colonnade, blending with the shadows and ivy.

Now, he stood frozen behind a pillar, tray in hand, the scent of citrus and lavender thick in his nose. His silks clung to his skin, dyed in delicate pinks and saffrons - utterly unsuited for the sharp edges of his shoulders or the slow-brewing heat in his blood.

The court buzzed gently around him - courtiers whispering behind fans, guards standing still as statues, and the occasional clink of a goblet being filled. But he was deaf to it all.

Patroclus.

He risked another glance past the pillar. There he stood - shoulders squared, dressed in a dark tunic with a silver clasp at the throat, the symbol of Phthia's nobility gleaming faintly. His hair was longer now, sun-warmed brown pulled back in a simple tie. But his eyes - those soft, inward-turning eyes - were the same. The weight of distance, of years lost, of words left unsaid, punched through Achilles' chest like a spear haft.

Beside him stood a man who could only be Diomedes - broad-shouldered, striking, his bearing unmistakably martial even in peace garb. Achilles had heard the stories, even here on Skyros. Diomedes, King of Argos. Warlord since he was barely more than a boy. Raised on war, shaped by it, praised by bards for slaying Theban champions and outmaneuvering generals twice his age. A living blade.

And now - he was here.

Achilles' heart thundered as he listened.

"Skyros is untouched by the quarrels of kings - for now, " Diomedes said, his voice cool and direct. "But even the farthest islands cannot sleep forever. The world is changing."

King Lycomedes, seated comfortably upon his olivewood throne, leaned forward with polite interest. "And what brings you so far afield, my lord? Argos is no neighbor of ours. The winds of war must be strong indeed to carry you here."

Diomedes inclined his head. "We were not meant to come this far. My wife and I were visiting her family in Ionia when the news reached us - Agamemnon was mustering the host. The oath to Menelaus has been invoked. Troy refuses restitution. " He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "War is certain."

Lycomedes frowned, stroking his beard. "So you sail for Aulis? "

" I do, " Diomedes said. "But not yet. I would see my wife safely return to Argos first. The crossing is longer, but the eastern winds are fair. From there, she may remain among her people. I will march later alone. "

" Quite noble dedication. "

" Thank you, kind lord. You can also imagine that on a journey this long and tiring, I would like for my wife to rest while it is possible, outside of cruel seas. This is why I ask you to let us stay for a short time. It will be greatly appreciated, of course. Such a gesture Argos will never forget."

Achilles blinked, caught off guard. He's married? It seemed... absurd. A man like Diomedes? A creature of blood and bronze, wedding a woman? Achilles had imagined Diomedes' bed shared with armor and maps, not veils and wedding vows.

His eyes slid to the woman in question.

She stood slightly behind Diomedes, still and composed, like a painted figure on temple pottery. Veiled in gauzy maroon, her arms adorned in golden rings as thin as spider silk. Her build was small - fragile, even. The silk clung to a frame that seemed more suited to lyre-playing or temple prayer than marriage to a warrior. Even under the veil, her posture was pristine, trained.

Achilles squinted. From this angle, he could just make out her eyes - one darker than the other.

The king of Skyros smiled like he had a great idea planned. "Ah, it would be an honor to guest such an important figure. And I would love to know more about the woman who captured a famous warrior's heart."

She curtsied.

"It is an honor, King Lycomedes, " she said, voice soft and sweet. But not weak. Controlled. That voice had the precision of a dagger's point. “I am Chrysanthe of Thasos.”

"And your father? " Lycomedes asked.

"Thersanon of Andros, " she replied smoothly.

Achilles furrowed his brow. Who? The name meant nothing to him. But the way she said it left no room for question.

Lycomedes nodded. "Ah yes, a noble house. Prosperous landholders, if memory serves. You are welcome here, lady. Perhaps tomorrow you might join my daughters in the garden. They love music and company. "

" You are very kind, my king, " she said, folding her hands demurely.

Achilles leaned in just a little more, curiosity gnawing at him. And then - 

She turned.

Her veiled face tilted ever so slightly toward his hiding place, and those strange eyes locked onto his.

Achilles flinched hard enough to jostle the tray. A fig rolled and thudded softly to the stone.

And then, just as quickly, she turned away.

No one else seemed to notice. The court was still murmuring around Diomedes, and Lycomedes had begun asking Patroclus some kind questions about his father's health. But Achilles remained frozen.

Achilles leaned in again - just a bit too long.

The veiled woman turned toward him - directly - and locked eyes.

Achilles jumped so hard he nearly launched the fruit tray across the hall.

She saw me.

She turned back to the king a second later, not a single hint of acknowledgment in her expression.

King Lycomedes clapped his hands. "Come. Eat with me. I would know my guests as more than names on scrolls."

Later, seated at the long center table, conversation flowed more freely. The goblets were full. Laughter bloomed here and there, always carefully timed. The harpist played a soft accompaniment, but all other music came from the corner of the hall, where Achilles sat, still and focused, half-swallowed by shadow.

He played the lyre with elegance, yet his thoughts wandered.

They were on Patroclus.

Patroclus sat near Diomedes, speaking softly with one of Lycomedes' advisors. His hair was tied back now - Achilles hated how adult it looked. His voice was lower, too. He laughed differently. But his hands… those hadn't changed. Broad-palmed and sure, with the same crescent-shaped scar on the knuckle from when they'd climbed the temple walls at fourteen.

Achilles could barely breathe.

King Lycomedes turned to the Queen with a warm grin. "You seem to be enjoying the music, Lady Chrysanthe."

She inclined her head demurely. Only then Achilles realized that she was glancing in his direction beforehand. "Indeed, Your Majesty. The musician's touch is… gentle yet sure. It's quite rare to hear such restraint. "

"She's one of my younger attendants, " the king replied proudly. "We've all come to adore her playing. Her name is Pyrrha. Would you believe she taught herself?"

Odysseus placed a hand on her chest modestly. "A remarkable young woman. I… know a little of the lyre, myself. Though I doubt, I could compare to your court's talent. "

" Oh? " the king leaned in, intrigued. "You play?"

She nodded slowly. "My father insisted on it. He thought it improper for a girl to not master the arts for a boy to not master the blade. But to be honest, it seemed I showed more potential in both."

Diomedes cleared his throat delicately, and the king chuckled.

"Well, the arts and the blade are not so different, " Lycomedes mused. "Both require rhythm, grace… and the ability to draw blood when necessary."

There was polite laughter around the table. Odysseus smiled shyly, and Diomedes - just for a second - looked like he forgot where he was.

Then Diomedes spoke.

"Speaking of noble women, I thought perhaps young Patroclus might find something worth staying for, "   he said with a knowing glance. "Love, perhaps. A peaceful future among your fine daughters. "

Achilles' hand slipped. A string twanged sharply. His shoulders stiffened.

The king chuckled. "A romantic notion! I've no doubt my daughters would be interested if only to see which of them might tame such a quiet wolf."

Patroclus offered a polite smile, though he said nothing. Achilles could tell from the angle of his head - he was uncomfortable.

How dare Diomedes? How dare he use Patroclus like that - like a lure, a bargaining piece?

But before the thought could settle, the king turned to Odysseus.

"And you, my lady, " Lycomedes said warmly,

"forgive me - we speak so much of war and treaties. What are your thoughts on Skyros?

I do hope you've found it to your liking. You must tell me what pleases you most."

Odysseus answered with practiced ease, her voice as smooth as cream.

"It is a peaceful island, Your Majesty. And very beautiful.

The gardens remind me of Ionia - except your oleanders bloom more fiercely."

The king beamed. "A flower for a flower, then. My daughters will be thrilled to host you. I imagine they'll want to know everything about Argive silk, court dances, and all the little things the war has chased from the conversation. "

Odysseus gave a soft, practiced laugh. "They shall find me a willing subject, I assure you. I find it refreshing to speak of gentler things. "

" Just so. " Lycomedes leaned back in his seat. "Do you dance, Lady Chrysanthe? Sing? Or do you prefer needle and thread?"

Achilles saw the slightest twitch in her fingers, folded neatly in her lap.

"I was taught all of those things, " Odysseus replied,

"but I find joy more in movement and meaning than in repetition.

Music, I enjoy most when it tells a story. "

" A woman of poetry, " Lycomedes nodded. "Diomedes, you're fortunate."

Diomedes gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I never doubted it."

Then, turning his goblet in one hand, Lycomedes looked at Diomedes with sudden curiosity.

"Tell me, prince - what does Argos make of Agamemnon's rising shadow?"

The laughter died down around them. Nobles leaned in ever so slightly, ears sharpening.

Diomedes set his cup down. "That depends, Your Majesty. Are you asking what Argos thinks… or what I think?"

The king smiled beneath his beard. "Whichever is truer."

There was a pause. Then Diomedes said evenly:

"The High King will march. That is not in question. But he is not the only one with power.

I believe alliances must be chosen with care. Wolves who run too close to lions often lose more than they gain. "

Lycomedes' expression sobered.

"And do you come as the lion's mouth… or his leash? "

" Neither, " Diomedes said. "I come as a man who values independence. As you do."

The king studied him for a long moment. Then he grunted and leaned back in his chair.

"You speak well, Lord Diomedes.

But men have bled for speaking well, just as they have for speaking truth."

Odysseus, ever poised, interjected with a soft, melodic voice.

"And yet it is in such moments that a kingdom defines its courage.

Not in war - but in how it prepares for it."

Lycomedes gave her a slow, appreciative nod. "Perhaps your wife should sit at council more often. "

" She does, " Diomedes murmured.

Achilles watched from behind his veil of notes. The game was in motion. The politics, the posturing, the quiet testing of blades behind smiles.

She hadn't looked at him since that first flick of recognition.

And yet, he could feel it. The way her gaze would brush past him like the edge of a knife - probing, confirming.

Then, as the king raised his goblet:

"To peace and to bright company!"

Silver and clay goblets were lifted, their ringing notes echoing across the golden chamber.

Achilles kept playing.

---

The corridors of the palace were quiet when Diomedes finally returned to his quarters. The formal smile he'd worn all evening had long faded, replaced with a tired frown and a pinch between his brows. Hours of polite conversation, ceremonial toasts, and forced diplomacy had drained him more than a week's march in armor.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to freeze when he heard soft voices and the splash of water.

Startled, he looked around - then blinked in confusion at the sight of two maids inside the chamber, folding linens and setting down fresh robes.

"What-? " he began, but one of them answered before he could even finish.

"Your wife is finishing her bath, my lord. We've brought oils and towels for the night. "

" W-wife? " Diomedes repeated, voice cracking slightly.

Oh. Right.

The whole marriage act.

He spun on his heel to face the opposite wall, ears instantly flushed red. "R-Right. I - uh, I didn't think - sorry. I didn't expect anyone here."

From the bathing alcove, separated by only a carved wooden screen, he heard a soft ripple of water - and then Odysseus's voice, amused and matter-of-fact:

"I'm almost finished. You can stop looking like you've swallowed a sword."

That didn't help.

Diomedes cleared his throat and kept his gaze locked firmly on the wall, even after the maids curtsied and slipped quietly out. The door clicked shut behind them.

A few minutes later, Odysseus stepped out of the side room, her damp hair loose and falling to her shoulders, her skin still dewy from the bath. She wore a simple nightgown - short, sleeveless, the hem brushing her thighs and tied at the waist with a belt of pale cord.

Diomedes didn't mean to look.

He really didn't.

But when he turned to speak, his eyes caught the shape of her - small but solid, a body trained for battle. Her legs were thick with muscle, strong, with defined calves and wide , powerful hips. A few old scars crisscrossed her arms, and one ran in a jagged path down her thigh, disappearing somewhere beneath the hem of her nightgown.

He looked away immediately, throat dry.

"You can use the bath if you want, " Odysseus said casually, towel-drying her hair. "The water's still hot. "

" Thanks, " he said, voice a little too quick.

He made for the bathing alcove like it was a shield in battle, only pausing when he caught sight of the large bed in the center of the room - one bed.

He turned slowly, awkwardly. "Uh… I can sleep on the couch."

Odysseus gave him a curious look as she wrung out her hair. "You could. But if the maids come in early and see us in separate spots, they might get suspicious. It's not worth the risk."

She climbed onto the bed without ceremony, tucking herself under the blankets with the calm of someone far too comfortable with dangerous things.

"We can share. I don't mind."

Diomedes hesitated. "You don't mind? " he repeated, incredulous. "Why not? I mean… aren't you even a little worried?"

She raised a brow. "About what? "

"I'm a man, " he said plainly, quietly. "And I've seen you. You know what I could - what men have done in moments like this. You're not afraid?"

Odysseus shifted slightly to face him, propping her head on her hand. Her expression wasn't mocking, just calm. Tired. Steady.

"Of course, I know, " she said. "But I'm not going to live my life in fear of every man who shares a room with me. And not of you."

She paused, then added more gently, "You're a champion of Athena. That still means something to me. I chose you for this mission because I trust your blade and your mind… and because I remember you when you were just a boy at the games, still figuring out your position in society. You were honorable, then. And you still are. "

Diomedes didn't speak. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Odysseus moved closer before asking again.

" Do you want to know why I picked you?"

He looked up from where he was unlacing his boots. "To play your husband?"

She gave a soft, sardonic smile. "To be my partner in this whole mess. But yes - also that."

Diomedes tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye. "I assumed it was because I look good in ceremonial robes."

Odysseus snorted. "You look like someone threatened to drown you in diplomacy."

He huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered. "So why me?"

She turned to face him fully, one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other absently rubbing the curve of her wrist.

"I had a suspicion, " she said. "Even before we docked, something didn't sit right."

Diomedes straightened. "With what? "

" The reports. The timing. The silence. Achilles vanishing so cleanly - too cleanly. That kind of disappearance doesn't happen without help."

Diomedes narrowed his eyes. "You think someone on Skyros has been sheltering him? "

" I know someone has. " She sat on the edge of the bed, folding one leg beneath her. "Two nights before we left, I caught Patroclus trying to break into my study. Subtle as a braying mule. Thought I wouldn't notice the draft in the door, but he's never been good with locks. "

" What was he after? "

" Papyrus. Maps. Supply logs. I imagine he hoped to find our planned route, maybe warn Achilles before we even arrived. " She rolled her eyes. "Bless his heart - he thinks he's discreet."

Diomedes leaned against the wall, arms folded. "And that's when you decided on all this? "

" Not all, " Odysseus said. "But it gave me enough. I needed a way to keep him close without tipping our hand. So I... may have untied a few storage ropes in the hold."

Diomedes blinked. “You set a trap.”

"A very soft one. When I assigned chores, I told him the rope stores needed organizing. Now he's occupied and within reach."

Diomedes laughed - quiet and genuine. "You schemed against a teen."

She raised a brow. " He schemed against me first. I just play better."

He shook his head, still smiling. "And Eurylochus? Wouldn't he be a better partner in crime?"

" He is not bad at lying, but I'm not sure how well he would keep up addressing me publicly without formalities. Plus, I don't want to make things too awkward between us. He is my brother-in-law, after all. He is currently keeping an eye on Patroclus. If he tries to sneak out or get word to Achilles, we'll know. "

Diomedes smirked. "So he's a jailer?"

Odysseus smiled back ''Exactly."

Then, her voice was calm but edged with steel. "This may be our only window. If Thetis learns we're here, she'll move him again. We need to reach him first."

There was a pause. Then Diomedes asked, more softly, "But why the husband and wife routine?"

Odysseus leaned back, resting on her palms. Her silhouette in the low lantern light was still and sharp.

"It makes us less threatening," she said. "A married warrior doesn't create worry for a protective father, and a married woman, especially one who smiles at silk and speaks of flowers, is easier to welcome into the company of noble daughters. Had Lycomedes known I was Basilinna Odysseus of Ithaca, he might have kept me at a spear's length or even further. As Chrysanthe, I'm invited into the garden."

" And where better to hide a young man, " Diomedes added, "than among places no other men would dare enter. "

" Exactly. " She beamed. "The women's wing. The weaving rooms. Private gardens. No soldier will search there. At least not without raising suspicions or causing commotion."

Diomedes shook his head, half-amused, half-awed. "You're scarily smart, my queen."

Odysseus gave a mock-curtsey where she sat. "It's why you married me."

That earned another chuckle. Diomedes looked at her for a moment longer, then exhaled and moved to wash. 

Sometime later, Diomedes returned from the bath, steam still clinging to his skin, only to find the room empty.

The lanterns were low, casting gentle gold across the rumpled sheets. But Odysseus was nowhere in sight. Her veil was still on the chair, her belongings undisturbed, but she was gone.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, silent. Then he sighed, a quiet sound more weary than disappointed.

Maybe she changed her mind.

Maybe sharing a bed - however platonically - was a step too far. He wouldn't blame her. The mission was already complicated. Pretending to be husband and wife was one thing in front of a king. It was another in the dark when no one was watching.

He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a towel over the back of his neck. Then he lay down carefully, keeping to the edge as though the mattress might catch fire if he got too close to the empty space beside him.

Sleep came slowly.

But some hours later, he stirred.

The bed shifted.

It was a small thing - just the faint dip of weight settling beside him - but enough to jar him awake. His fingers twitched instinctively toward the knife tucked beneath his folded tunic.

Then he heard it: a soft sigh, barely audible. The sound of breath evening out.

He blinked once, twice, letting his eyes adjust to the low light.

Odysseus lay beside him, curled like a cat, her braid half-undone and trailing across the pillow. She hadn't lit a lamp when she returned. Hadn't made a sound.

Only now, in the quiet of the hour, had she joined him - slipping in silently, like a shadow finding home.

Diomedes watched her for a moment, barely breathing. There was nothing strategic in her posture. No pretense. Just sleep. Vulnerable, natural, real .

And then it hit him - how the faintest trace of sea salt and cherries clung to her like a pollen to a flower.

Something in his chest loosened.

Maybe it was the warmth. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the quiet, wordless comfort of not being alone.

He let himself inch just slightly closer - close enough to feel her presence beside him. Not touching. But near.

And for the first time in days, Diomedes slept with ease.

---

The sun hadn't yet risen, and the palace hallways were still and shadowed in that eerie way all too early mornings tend to be. Somewhere, a bird chirped once then thought better of it.

In one of the guest rooms, Patroclus crept on tiptoe with all the grace of a deer that had never met a flat surface in its life. He'd managed to unlatch the window and had one leg halfway out when - 

"Going somewhere?"

Patroclus screamed.

Because he is a man, and men don't yelp in a high-pitched voice.

He whipped around, nearly falling out the window as he did.

Eurylochus stood in the doorway like a fury summoned by betrayal, arms crossed, shadows clinging to him like part of the furniture. He hadn't even made a sound approaching.

Patroclus clutched at his chest. "How can someone so big be so quiet?! Did you teleport here?! "

" No. " Eurylochus tilted his head. "You're just loud. "

" Loud? I was sneaking ! "

" Like a drunken goat, " Eurylochus deadpanned. He walked forward, grabbing the back of Patroclus's tunic like a cat by the scruff, and tugged him back in through the window. "Try again answering the question."

Patroclus flailed as he was herded inside. "I just needed some air."

Eurylochus blinked slowly. "So you thought you'd get it... from a window two stories up? "

"It's very pure air up high." Patroclus was tossed on the fur that was lying on the floor with a thud. And no. He did not yelp again…or at all, for that matter!

"Uh-huh. " Eurylochus leaned against the wall now, arms folded. "Tell me. You know something, don't you? "

" No! No. Nothing. I know less than nothing. I'm basically an empty amphora!"

Eurylochus let the silence drag. Then, casually:

"You're acting awfully protective for someone who doesn't know anything."

Patroclus froze.

"Protective? " he said with a weak laugh. "No, no, not me. I'm emotionally unavailable. Ask anyone. Stone cold."

Eurylochus stepped forward. "Then you wouldn't mind if I start asking around about... oh, say, any young noble boys hiding among the palace staff?"

Patroclus flinched. Eyes wide and droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. "What? No! I mean - why would that even be relevant?"

Eurylochus smiled slightly like a hunting dog who saw a bird ruffle its feathers. "I never said it was. Just thinking aloud."

Patroclus tried not to look panicked. He failed.

"I swear I don't know anything, " he said quickly. "Besides - if I did know something - which I don't! - it wouldn't be mine to tell!"

Eurylochus nodded slowly. "Interesting. "

" Not interesting! Completely boring! Just like me!"

Eurylochus stepped in close, voice low and calm. "You should get some rest, boy. You'll want to be well rested for the gardens tomorrow."

Patroclus blinked. "The what? "

" The princesses, " Eurylochus said with casual menace (Probably gained by years of fellowship with his terrifying Queen). "Surely, if your heart was already taken by one, you'll want to spend as much time with her as possible, right?"

Patroclus paled. "Ah - yes. Yes, of course. So much time. I - I've been dreaming of - uh - of flowers."

Eurylochus nodded. "Then name one of the princesses."

Patroclus stared. "…What? "

" One. Just one."

Patroclus opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "...Chloe?"

Eurylochus let out the world's slowest, deepest sigh. "Go. To. Bed. "

" I am being oppressed, " Patroclus muttered, slinking back toward his cot.

"You're lucky I didn't string you up like a lantern, " Eurylochus replied without looking back.

Patroclus flopped dramatically onto the mattress. "I'm not built for espionage."

Eurylochus, halfway out the door, said, "Clearly."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Patroclus pulled the blanket over his face and whispered to himself:

"…He did teleport. I know it."

---

The Skyrosian garden basked in golden afternoon light amid cushions and jasmine vines. Achilles shifted the bowl of cherries in his arms, pretending to organize them beside the stone bench. He kept his head down, scarf low over his brow, but his eyes flicked often to the group of lounging Skyrosian princesses.

They were draped in pastel silks and sunlight, their laughter rising like birdsong through the jasmine-draped garden.

And there in the center, framed by cushions and climbing vines, sat the newcomer - Lady Chrysanthe, she was called. smalll, elegant, veiled like a poet's daydream. Her voice was soft, her hands graceful as they plucked a lyre resting across her knees.

The tune was one Achilles knew.

A wistful Ikarian piece, common among traveling musicians. Gentle, but deceptively tricky toward the end - subtle shifts in timing, a rise of feeling in the final bars.

"This is so beautiful, Lady Chrysanthe, " sighed one of the younger princesses.

The Queen of Argos gave a modest laugh, eyes lowered like a bashful maiden. "You flatter me."

Another girl leaned forward, hands clasped under her chin. "You know who else plays that song beautifully? Pyrrha! "

" The one from the welcoming ceremony? "

" Yes, that one! She is so talented! She always joins other musicians when she can."

There was a collective murmur of agreement as several heads nodded. Chrysanthe's fingers stilled ever so slightly.

"Oh? " she asked, tilting her head with polite curiosity. "I didn't know that. "

"She's brilliant , " said a third girl. "She rarely plays in front of men, of course, since she's a personal servant of Deidamia. But sometimes, we hear her practicing. She's so passionate. Fierce even. "

"She's a little intense, " someone giggled. "But sweet once you get her to talk."

Her fingers danced lightly, but then-

She missed.

It was slight but clear. A flat note. Then another, sharper than it should be. She faltered again.

Achilles let out a soft, surprised chuckle.

He didn't mean to. It just bubbled up - low and amused - at the odd contrast between her noble bearing and her very mortal mistake.

But the sound cut through the garden like a dropped plate.

The music stopped.

Lady Chrysanthe stared down at her lap, and a delicate tremble ran through her shoulders. For a moment, Achilles thought she might curse under her breath. Maybe even say something mean to him for laughing.

Instead, she sniffed.

And the veil dipped slightly as her shoulders curled in, graceful and quiet. One of the older princesses leaned toward her. "Lady Chrysanthe? Are you alright?"

The young Queen didn't answer immediately.

Then she turned her face ever so slightly to the side as if trying to hide the tremble in her breath. "Forgive me, " she said, voice thick with the threat of tears. "I keep ruining it."

The lyre trembled faintly in her grip. "It's such a simple tune, but… I wanted it to be perfect. I thought, if I could just get the last part right - if I could play it for my beloved - then maybe he'd know how much I… how much I care. Soon, he leaves for war, and I don't want him to remember me as a mouthy woman with no true skill to offer. "

One hand reached up to dab her cheek beneath the veil.

Achilles blinked, caught between confusion and disbelief.

The princesses gasped and cooed immediately.

"Oh no, don't cry! "

" You were wonderful! "

" It sounded beautiful! "

" Your husband must adore you already if he hears you play like that! "

"It's just nerves!"

Odysseus shook her head gently, fingers curling into her lap. "But I keep failing . And it's the part that matters most. The part that carries the whole story. What if I never get it right?"

One of the youngest princesses turned her big, indignant eyes toward "Pyrrha, " who stood motionless near the vine-covered column. Her small arms crossed, her brows narrowed as though Achilles himself had plucked the wrong string.

"You! " she declared, tiny voice sharp. "You know the song!"

Achilles opened his mouth. "I- "

" Yes! " a third chimed in, already waving at him. "Pyrrha, come help Lady Chrysanthe! You can show her the last part!"

Achilles took a step back, eyes widening. "I really shouldn't-"

" Oh please! " said the youngest, eyes still locked on him like an accusing priestess. "She's crying. " Yelled while her own eyes started to fill with tears.

"She just wants to surprise her husband! " cried another.

"You have to help her, " someone said with tragic finality. "It's the romantic thing to do."

Achilles stared, mouth parting slightly as one of the princesses took him by the arm. "Come, come, just a few notes! She'll feel better, and it'll be so sweet to see you both play together. "

"I don't- " he tried again, but it was no use.

The princesses had already made up their minds.

"Wonderful! " one of them declared, clapping her hands. "You'll play together tonight, and Lady Chrysanthe will have her moment! "

" Yes, Pyrrha, " Lady Chrysanthe said at last, lifting her head slowly. Her voice trembled like someone trying to hold dignity together with frayed thread. "I'd be very grateful for your help. Just a quiet lesson. Maybe in my room if that won't be a problem."

Her words were soft. Sweet. Unthreatening.

But Achilles - though he didn't know who she was - felt something about her eyes. Something… unnerving. They didn't quite match the voice.

Still, he was now surrounded by seven glittering-eyed princesses looking at him like he'd just kicked a puppy.

"…Fine, " he said through clenched teeth.

"Wonderful! " one girl clapped.

"You're a hero, Pyrrha!"

Lady Chrysanthe gave a delicate smile and bowed her head in thanks.

Achilles glared at the lyre.

I'm going to regret this, he thought grimly.

---

The chamber was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of cicadas outside and the uneven strumming of a lyre.

Achilles sat near the door, tense as a bowstring. His borrowed servant robes itched, and he hated the silk cushions under his knees. The room smelled faintly of salt and crushed herbs - pleasant, yes, but too refined. Like a place where warriors were meant to kneel and pretend they were something else.

Lady Chrysanthe sat with the instrument in her lap, fingers plucking clumsily at the strings.

It was, to his begrudging relief, a terrible rendition.

He shifted slightly, glancing at the window. "Try holding the final chord a bit longer, " he offered, voice low.

Chrysanthe nodded, eyes focused on the lyre. "Like this?"

Plink. Thud. Twong.

He winced. "Less… like you're trying to strangle it."

She laughed - delicate and breathy. "Ah. I'm hopeless, aren't I?"

Achilles looked away. "It's not an easy piece."

She gave a breathy laugh and glanced up through the soft fall of her veil. "Be honest. I'm a disaster."

He hesitated. Then shrugged. "It's not… the worst I've heard. "

" Oh, good, " she said dryly. "Encouragement."

Achilles sat, still tense, on the edge of a low stool. "It's a difficult piece," he offered. "Especially for someone who hasn't played long."

Chrysanthe adjusted the instrument in her lap. "I used to watch my cousins play. I thought if I could just listen long enough, I'd absorb it. But fingers betray the ear."

She tried again. Better this time. Still clumsy but not entirely hopeless.

Achilles nodded slightly. "You're rushing the descent after the third measure. "

" Mm. " She tried again. "I always liked to surprise my beloved with music."

He blinked. "Your beloved?"

She smiled softly. " He likes music. And he's been…always good to me, always made me feel special. He would play for me the most beautiful of songs with the sound of the sea as our companion. I learned to play so I could play alongside him. To express my love the same way he did to me."

Achilles chuckled in disbelief. "It doesn't really sound like your husband. I can't imagine the son of Tydeus doing something like that."

The woman smiled in a way that didn't reach her eyes. "It really doesn't sound like him, huh?"

Achilles glanced away, unsure how to respond. He didn't know much about husbands or sweetness. Or privacy.

Chrysanthe's voice grew thoughtful. "Do you think music says something about the person who plays it?"

Achilles looked back. "What do you mean? "

" I mean… " She strummed a broken arpeggio. "Do the best musicians always come from the best people? Or is it more about the life they've lived? The heart they play from."

He frowned, caught off guard by the question. "I think… some people play because they love beauty. Others because they remember the pain. Or maybe because silence is worse."

She tilted her head. "And you? "

" I play to remember, " he said before he could stop himself.

Her fingers paused. "Someone you lost? "

Achilles' throat tightened. He looked down at his hands. "Something like that."

For a moment, the room felt too still.

Odysseus plucked out another awkward series of notes, the tune tripping near the end. She sighed theatrically and leaned back. "It always slips away right there. Like it's trying to run from me."

Achilles leaned against the column just inside the chamber, arms crossed, watching the performance with mild amusement. "You're thinking too much. That part's supposed to jump. Not tiptoe."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "I heard that before."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Odysseus smiled, gentle and curious, like she was only half-speaking to him now. "A boy I met once. At a feast in. I was invited for a political visit - King Telamon was hosting a celebration."

Achilles perked up slightly. "Telamon? You've been to Aegina? "

" Briefly, " she said. "I barely remember the king. But I remember one boy."

She set the lyre in her lap and began idly tuning it.

"He must've been ten. Fair-haired, sunburnt cheeks, buzzing like a bee through the courtyard. The kind of child who runs faster than he thinks."

Achilles chuckled. "Sounds like half the boys on the islands. "

" But he wasn't like the others. At the feast, while the nobles were too busy drinking, he climbed onto the banquet table. Right in the middle of the roasted boar and fig platters."

He laughed, picturing it. "Gods. "

" Then, " she said, drawing the memory out like silk, "he pulled a small blade from his belt - hidden, mind you. The maids shrieked. One nearly dropped a tray."

Achilles barked a laugh. "You're joking. "

" No, " she said, amused herself now. " He didn't flinch. He cut through a candle in front of Theseus - clean through. The wax hissed on the tablecloth. Then he turned the blade on the man, pointed it straight at him, and declared something absolutely ridiculous. Some grand name he'd made up."

Achilles grinned wide, eyes gleaming with nostalgia. "That's bold. "

" Bold is one word, " Chrysanthe murmured.

She paused, looking skyward with a mock-thoughtful expression. " He called himself something absurd… What was it? The Lio-"

Achilles, grinning, leaned in and said instinctively, his voice rich with remembered triumph:

"The Lion-Blooded Doom of Spears."

He laughed at first, but the smile died on his face the instant he realized what he had done.

He went very still.

The Queen's hands didn't move from the lyre. She was just watching him now, gaze calm and ancient as stone.

Achilles stood frozen, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat.

He tried to recover, but it was too late. "I - must've heard that story before."

" You must have, " Chrysanthe said softly, no accusation in her tone. Only certainty.

He took a step back, pulse racing. "I should go."

He was near to the door when her voice caught him again, cool and unhurried.

"Sit down, Achilles."

His name dropped like a blade onto the floor between them.

He turned, blood draining from his face.

Behind him, the melody began again - smooth, fluid, deliberate. She played it now like someone who had never fumbled a note in her life. There was no amateur left in her fingers.

Now he remembered. 

The dark hair. 

Those cursed eyes.

Odysseus.

The veil rested in her lap.

And the smile on her face was the same she wore when laying a snare for a lion.

Achilles stared at her, color draining from his face.

"You tricked me, " he said, voice low, furious.

Odysseus didn't stop playing. Her fingers danced one last quiet note before she rested the lyre across her lap. "I did, " she admitted gently. "Please - sit."

He didn't move. His eyes darted to the doorway.

Standing there, silent and solid, was Diomedes.

His arms were folded, but there was no mistaking the intent behind his stance. A lion at rest, still, but not passive.

Achilles' jaw tightened. In one motion, he drew the hidden blade from beneath his robe - a short, curved xiphos, steel glinting under the lanternlight. He pointed it between Odysseus and Diomedes. "Back off. Both of you."

Diomedes didn't flinch. "We only want to talk. "

Achilles' eyes flicked between them. He could leap. He could bolt. He could cut his way free. And yet…

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the blade and sat.

But not out of surrender. Not out of trust.

He sat like a storm gathering strength. "Talk, then."

Odysseus leaned forward slightly, voice calm and quiet. "You already know what it's about. The war."

His laugh was short and sharp. "You think my mother hasn't told me?"

Diomedes took a step forward. "Then you know we need you. "

" I know you're desperate, " Achilles said flatly. "But my mother is clear. I will not fight in Agamemnon's war."

Odysseus folded her hands over the lyre. "Because of the prophecy?"

His eyes narrowed. "So you've heard it. "

" Of course, " she said. "That you'll die young, but your name will live forever."

Achilles said nothing.

Odysseus looked at him, thoughtful. "I don't believe it."

His head snapped toward her. "What? "

"I don't believe it, " she repeated. "Not entirely. Not in a war like this. There are too many gods involved. Too many shifting threads. You think fate is fixed? " She leaned in slightly. "Then why do they fight so hard to change it?"

Achilles scoffed. "You talk like you know the will of gods. "

"I don't, " she said. "But I know this: there is more than one kind of glory. And more than one kind of death."

He opened his mouth, but she raised a hand. "And Patroclus."

That froze him.

Odysseus continued softly. "He's already part of this war, whether you like it or not. And if you truly want to protect him, the safest place for him… might be beside you."

Achilles ' stare turned hard. "Who do you think you are?"

She held his gaze. Then stood slowly, and when she spoke, her voice carried weight and steel beneath its velvet:

"I am Odysseus, daughter of Laertes, Queen of Ithaca. Commander of the Ithacan army. And I came here for you."

Silence.

Then Achilles' voice, cold and unimpressed: "Prove it. "

" What? " asked the king of Argos in confusion.

"If I'm gonna join the war. I'm gonna do it as a warrior, not as a protector of some weak little lady who calls herself a warrior. So prove it."

Diomedes blinked, stunned. "She just did- "  

But Odysseus lifted a hand to him again, serene.

"No, " she said. "He's right."

She turned to Diomedes, palm out. "Your sword."

Diomedes hesitated. "Odysseus- "

" Your sword."

He handed it over without another word.

Odysseus stepped forward and held it out with both hands, blade angled slightly down - not as a threat, but an invitation.

"We can fight here and now."

Achilles eyed the room, then smiled - a sharp, knowing thing.

"Nice try, " he said, smiling smugly. "I'm not stupid. You probably have a trap set under the rug or a noose in the rafters."

He stood. "We'll fight. But not here. "

" Where, then? " she asked, calm as ever.

He tilted his head. "Courtyard. Or is that too public for your pride?"

Odysseus handed the sword back to Diomedes and smiled. "Lead the way."

The courtyard was silent, moonlight catching the edges of stone and bronze.

Achilles rolled his shoulders and stepped into the circle of packed earth. His red hair glowed like a flame in the lantern light, and the grin on his face was pure arrogance. He pointed his sword at Odysseus.

"Well then, Queen of Ithaca, " he drawled, "if you win, I'll sail to Aulis. I'll fight in your war. I'll follow your command."

Diomedes crossed his arms, watching tensely from the edge.

Achilles tilted his head, eyes glittering. "But if I win… you'll be my personal servant. Clean my armor. Sharpen my blade. Pour my wine. Welcome me on your knees. Sound fair?"

Diomedes took a sharp step forward. "That's ridiculous-"

Odysseus raised a hand without looking at him. "Agreed."

Achilles blinked, as surprised as Diomedes, then laughed, raising his sword in salute. "Well then. Try not to embarrass yourself, little lady."

Odysseus only drew her blade in silence.

They circled each other, Achilles quick and loose, confident. He danced forward with a series of sharp strikes, and Odysseus deflected - barely. She gave ground, retreating, defensive. Her movements were precise but small and cautious, and the smile on Achilles' face grew with each exchange.

"She might be clever, " he said to Diomedes over his shoulder, parrying one of her slower cuts. "But she's not a fighter."

Odysseus didn't answer. She pivoted, eyes scanning his posture , his footwork.

He pressed harder - slashing, striking, driving her back. Sparks flew as blades clashed. Her movements were small, efficient, and always just enough to avoid being overwhelmed.

Achilles grinned. "You're clever but not fast enough."

Then- 

A strike. A swing.

And suddenly, he jerked back with a hiss, his blade flying from his hand as he clutched his palm.

"Fuck-!"

Blood welled between his fingers.

He stared at it in stunned confusion - but only for a heartbeat.

Because Odysseus was already moving.

A blur of cloth and bronze, she stepped in, hooked her foot behind his, and swept.

Achilles hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs - and her blade was at his throat before he could recover.

She stood over him, calm and steady.

"Yield."

He froze. The sting in his hand throbbed like fire. His weapon lay too far to reach, and her blade didn't so much as tremble.

Odysseus pulled back the blade, offering him a hand. He ignored it, sitting up and groaning. Then he reached for his discarded sword , examining it.

"What-?"

Between the leather wrappings on the hilt, sharp metal slivers were embedded - jagged, thin shards pressing against the palm where he gripped.

Achilles barely mustered it in himself to ask. "How did you-?"

Diomedes stepped forward. "When did you-?"

Odysseus smiled as she cleaned the blade with a cloth. "During the night. While you were enjoying a hot bath and soft bed."

She turned to Achilles, almost teasing. "Next time, maybe don't hide your weapons under your pillow. "

Achilles' face went crimson. "You-! You cheated!"

Odysseus gave a theatrical shrug. "Everything is fair in love and war. " She winked. "And this happens to be both."

Diomedes let out a rare, startled laugh. It was hard to tell if it was out of amazement, relief, fear…or all of them.

Achilles shoved himself to his feet, still scowling but visibly rattled. He didn't meet her eyes.

Odysseus sheathed her sword. "Pack your things, Pyrrha . We leave for Aulis at dawn."

He muttered something under his breath, but he turned and stalked toward the guest wing.

As he disappeared into the shadows, Diomedes walked up beside Odysseus, glancing at her sideways.

"You had a backup plan the whole time. "

" It was supposed to be percussion if he turned out to be more violent than expected. We needed some upper hand against the supposed strongest warrior, " she replied, voice low and satisfied. "But if he himself offers to join and follow my orders? I would be stupid to not use that opportunity."

They stood in silence a moment longer. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea whispered against the rocks.

Then Diomedes gave a soft chuckle. "You do know that he's going to make you pay for that someday. "

"I'm counting on it, " Odysseus said, watching the dark hallway Achilles had vanished into.

"And when he does?"

She smiled faintly. "I'll cheat again."

---

The wind was gentle that morning, coaxing the sails with a steady breath. Seabirds dipped in the wake of the ship, and the scent of salt clung to everything. Diomedes stood near the prow, arms resting on the rail, watching the horizon.

Behind him, Odysseus leaned casually against a coil of rope, her eyes half-lidded as she listened to the creak of the ship and the lull of the waves.

He glanced over at her. "You said back on Skyros… that you don't believe in prophecies."

Odysseus didn't answer immediately. She looked out over the water as if weighing how much to say.

Finally, she spoke. "A few months before this all began, I visited the Pythia. Just once."

He turned to face her more fully.

"She told me, " Odysseus continued, "that I would live long years of peace. That I would rule a quiet kingdom by the sea with my beloved beside me. That I would be blessed to live longer than many heroes, surrounded by children."

Her smile was faint and humorless. "Charming, isn't it?"

Diomedes frowned. "It doesn't sound bad. "

" It sounds impossible, " she said softly, still watching the waves. "Peace? In times like these? " She shook her head. "No prophecy could have looked at this world and seen that. And I don't even know where this crazy lady came up with the children."

He hesitated, then reached out and touched her wrist briefly. "Maybe she saw the end, not the middle. The peace comes after."

Odysseus looked at him, surprised - and just a little softened. "That's very poetic for a boy raised in an army camp."

He flushed slightly. "I'm not a boy."

She arched a brow, teasing. "No?"

Before Diomedes could answer, a voice rang across the deck.

"Rematch."

Odysseus groaned, low and long.

Achilles stood by the mast, arms crossed, chin lifted with a defiant sort of pride. Patroclus trailed behind him, visibly exasperated.

"Achilles, " Odysseus said, not looking at him. "I told you to go help Patroclus with paperwork. "

"I'm serious, " Achilles said, stepping closer. "The last match was unfair. You sabotaged my weapon. "

" You hid your sword under a pillow, " Odysseus muttered. "I didn't sabotage it; I upgraded it for my convenience."

Diomedes stepped between them, his tone sharp. "She already beat you. Get over it. "

Achilles' eyes narrowed. "Funny. I didn't realize she needed a big brother to protect her. "

"I'm older than you," Diomedes snapped. "And smarter."

Patroclus sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Please don't-"

" Oh? Is that what this is? " Achilles stepped forward, chest out. "Trying to prove something to your commander? What next - trying to earn a kiss on the forehead?"

Diomedes' nostrils flared. "Keep talking, and I'll write something with your face on the deck."

Odysseus gave a theatrical sigh. "Don't bleed on the ropes."

But it was too late - Diomedes lunged, and Achilles met him halfway.

The two of them slammed into the deck, wrestling with all the grace of two mountain lions in a sack. Limbs tangled, curses flew, and Patroclus started yelling something about broken ribs and responsibility.

Odysseus leaned against a barrel and watched with mild amusement, arms folded.

"Do you want me to stop them? " Patroclus asked, out of breath, half-panicking.

She waved him off. "No, no. Let them tire each other out. It's been a long sail."

Diomedes managed to pin Achilles for half a second - only to get elbowed in the ribs and knocked sideways.

Odysseus bit back a smile. "Ah, " she murmured to herself. "Boys."

The ship rocked gently as the coast of Aulis began to come into view in the distance, and the gods - surely - laughed.

After some time, the ship bumped gently against the dock at Aulis, the ramp slamming down with a thud.

Diomedes shoved Achilles half-heartedly as they descended. "Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the entire army."

Achilles bumped him back with his shoulder. "Says the guy who barely shaves? "

" At least I have something to shave."

Patroclus followed them, expression already pained. "Can you both act like grown men for five minutes?"

Behind them, Odysseus stepped off the gangplank with a tired, amused look and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

Achilles smirked and tossed a look over his shoulder at Diomedes. "You're just jealous because I got to duel your commander and didn't get flattened."

Diomedes huffed. "You lost. "

" I almost won. "

" You yelled when you dropped your sword. "

" You try holding a blade when someone booby-traps it with tiny razor shards! "

" You agreed to the duel! "

" I thought she would chicken out!"

Before Patroclus could intervene, a loud THWACK echoed across the dock. All men looked in horror as Odysseus dropped to the ground.

Everyone froze.

Odysseus staggered forward slightly, blinking. Next to her was lying a metal ladle, and a few steps behind her was a tall man who was clenching his fists so hard his knuckles were turning white.

Polites.

His brows were furrowed in righteous fury as he gestured wildly with the bludgeon in one hand and pointed at Odysseus with the other. "You-! What part of bed rest did you interpret as 'go fight the son of Peleus'?!"

Achilles blinked. "Did he just-"

Polites didn't wait. He stormed up, dropped his med kit, and tossed the Queen of Ithaca over his shoulder like a sack of onions. "You are not supposed to be dueling war heroes while recovering from vomiting blood!"

Odysseus gave a muffled yelp as she was hauled unceremoniously toward the tents. "Put me down, Polites! I won that fight! "

" You shouldn't have been in it! You're banned from sharp objects until further notice!"

"I'm not a child! "

" You stabbed yourself by accident four days ago trying to swat a fly with a dagger. "

" That fly deserved it! "

" I will chain you to the cot if I have to. "

" Just because you're my physician doesn't mean-! "

" It absolutely does!"

He disappeared into the tents with her still arguing, his voice echoing back: "And don't give me that tone! I invented that tone when you broke your toe on a wine jug and insisted it was a calculated maneuver '! "

There was a long beat of silence on the beach.

Achilles slowly turned to Diomedes, who was staring, stunned.

"…Did he just abduct your queen with a soup ladle? " Achilles asked.

Patroclus choked on a laugh.

"That, " came a new voice, dry, unbothered, and maybe even amused, "was Polites."

The three turned to find Eurylochus, arms crossed, watching the whole thing like it was an afternoon show.

He nodded toward the medical tent. "He's one of the only people in Greece who can boss Odysseus around and live to tell the tale."

Diomedes blinked. "And the…spoon? "

"He's a doctor, " Eurylochus said flatly. "He's creative."

Achilles glanced at the tents, then at Diomedes. "Think if I got hit with a spoon, I could get out of training drills? "

" I hope he hits you too, " Diomedes muttered.

Odysseus's voice echoed faintly from the tent: "I'M NOT TAKING THE HERBS. THEY TASTE LIKE TREE BARK! "

Polites' voice followed, louder: "GOOD. THAT MEANS THEY'RE WORKING."

Achilles grinned. "This is going to be fun. "

---

The air was thick with boiled herbs and ocean salt. The faint clinking of glass vials rattled on nearby shelves as Polites leaned over Odysseus, pressing a bitter-smelling cup into her hands.

She glared at him. "If this is another attempt to kill me through taste alone- "

" Drink, " he said sternly. "Or I'll pour it down your throat."

Odysseus sniffed the concoction with all the suspicion of a cat inspecting seawater. She took one sip and recoiled. "You sure this wasn't meant for cleaning bronze?"

Polites crossed his arms, unimpressed. "That was honeyed. I sweetened it. "

" Where? " she croaked. "In your dreams?"

Polites didn't dignify that with a response. He turned to the flap of the tent, peeking through before drawing it tightly closed.

"I didn't just drag you in here for your recovery, " he said. "Though, gods know, you need it."

Odysseus blinked. "Then why-?"

Before he could answer, another voice came from the corner of the tent.

"It was my request. "

Odysseus's head snapped toward the shadows - where Menelaus stepped into the lamplight.

She stared at him. "Menelaus?"

He held something in his hand. A sealed letter.

"What's going on? " she asked, tone suddenly more alert.

He handed it to her.

"It arrived yesterday. Smuggled in by a messenger who swore - on his mother's name - that I was the only one allowed to see it. No guards, no generals. Not even my brother."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow and cracked the seal. Her eyes moved across the page in silence. The flickering lamplight caught the shifting emotions in her face - surprise, confusion… and something softer.

Menelaus watched her closely. "It's from Hector. He's requesting a meeting."

Her gaze flicked up. "A peaceful one."

He nodded grimly. "No soldiers. No weapons. Just the three of us - me, you, and him."

She looked down again. " He doesn't mention Agamemnon. "

"That's what bothers me, " Menelaus said. "It's like he suspected Agamemnon wouldn't let us go. Or maybe… that the message wouldn't reach us at all if it went through him."

Odysseus was quiet for a long moment, still reading.

Menelaus added, more cautiously, "I think my brother is intercepting messages. Filtering what reaches us. This one only got through because the courier risked his life and slipped it directly to me. No heralds, no trumpets. No records."

He waited. Then asked, "What do you think? Is it a trap?"

Odysseus was still, eyes locked on the parchment.

Finally, she said softly, "It's real."

Menelaus frowned. "How can you be sure? Handwriting can be easily forged."

She smiled faintly but didn't answer right away. Her fingers trailed the inked lines.

"It's not just the script, " she said at last. "It's how he opened it. The phrasing. The…”

Menelaus tilted his head. "What?"

Odysseus folded the letter carefully. "It's not important. Just… " something from when we were young.

Polites looked at her, brow raised. "You're sure, then?"

She nodded. No one else would know how to address me that way. We invented it when we were still just teens - writing to each other in secret. In case someone else ever found the letters.

Menelaus exhaled. "Then we go. "

"I f it's the only way to stop the war."

He stepped forward, lowering his voice. "But how do we leave without raising suspicion? If Agamemnon even thinks we're moving separately, he'll stop us. Or worse - he'll follow. "

Odysseus's expression sharpened. "We let him lead the army as planned. Let him take the ships, the fanfare, the banners. He can march toward Troy with thunder and song. "

" And we? " Menelaus asked.

She gave a small, cunning smile.

"We slip away. Just the two of us. At dawn, when the others are distracted by preparation."

Polites muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, of course, you're sneaking off again.

Odysseus turned to him and patted his arm. "Don't worry, if I die in a trap, I'll come back and haunt your tent. "

" I knew you'd say that, " he muttered, already turning to reach for another vial. "You're still drinking the night tonic before you go."

Odysseus turned back to Menelaus.

"Make no mistake, " she said. "If this is real - if Hector wants peace - we have to try."

Menelaus nodded, steady. "Then we try."

Odysseus looked down at the letter one more time.

Then tucked it away inside her belt.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

Summary:

The woman of many faces.

Notes:

I'm sorry for chapter being a little short and for potential mistakes but I felt too sick to expand on some elements or to double check the text. I hope you'll enjoy this chaos ^^

The sounds of celebration filtered through the stone corridors of the royal palace in Troy - laughter, lyres, and the clatter of bronze goblets. Somewhere down the hall, young voices shouted around a game of knucklebones while servants passed trays of honeyed almonds and fruit soaked in wine.

But in one of the upper rooms, Queen Odysseus of Ithaca stood alone by a polished bronze mirror, motionless.

Her dress - soft blue linen, sleeveless, cinched just above the waist - flowed with a grace that Odysseus herself did not feel. The fabric exposed much: her shoulders, lean and sinewy; her collarbones sharp from too many long campaigns; her arms scarred with old sword slashes and a burn she’d gotten repelling pirates off the western isles.

The worst of it - the stab wound low on her right side, just above her hip - was still dark and angry in the reflection. Faint stretch lines still pulled at the skin where she’d almost died.

She crossed her arms, trying to hide herself. Then uncrossed them. Then tugged her braid forward to cover the shoulder. Her hands, so rough with calluses, fidgeted with the hem. She was used to being seen in bronze, not silk. In command, not... on display .

And it was fine - usually. She’d never been ashamed of her body before. Never needed to be.

But tonight, she wasn’t a general or a queen. She was just Odysseus, the foreign bride-to-be of Troy’s golden prince. And for the first time in years, she felt... small .

The door opened softly.

“Hm,” came Hector’s voice. “There’s a goddess in my room.”

She turned quickly, startled, only to feel the warmth of Hector’s arms encircle her from behind. His chin nestled into the curve between her neck and shoulder.

“How does my beautiful fiancée feel?” he asked softly, smiling against her skin.

Odysseus managed a weak smile. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” he said. “But something’s wrong.”

She stiffened slightly. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re never this quiet. Or this still.” He gently turned her to face him. “What is it?”

She hesitated.

“I just...” she bit her lip, gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t think I fit in here.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her voice was low. “I’m not like the noblewomen of Troy. I know that. I’m short. I’ve got barely any chest to speak of. My hands are rough. I have more scars than most soldiers.” She exhaled, jaw tightening. “Usually I wear armor. Or my title. I can be the queen, the war-leader. That gives people a reason to respect me.”

She paused, arms folded over her exposed stomach. “But now I’m just me. And I want to be part of your family, not a political figure. I want them to like me. And I know your father doesn’t. What if the others agree with him once they see... this?”

She gestured to her own body like it were something foreign and cracked.

Hector reached out and took her hands in his, slowly, like calming a horse spooked by a distant storm.

“You’re not ‘just you,’” he said. “You’re you. The woman who outran me in a race in Delos. The woman who broke general's wrist with a table fork. The woman I’ve loved since I was a teen too nervous to speak without rehearsing.”

She looked at him, unsure.

“My mother adores you,” he went on. “Paris is obsessed with you - hell he would be more offended by you not showing up on his birthday than me, and that’s saying something. Cassandra thinks you’re the only sane ruler left in the Aegean.”

“And your father?” she asked.

“Priam can’t even agree with himself,” Hector snorted. “Don’t let an old man’s pride make you forget what matters.”

Odysseus cracked a smile at that - small, but real.

“Come here,” he said, guiding her gently in front of the mirror. He stood behind her again, arms wrapped low around her waist.

“Look at yourself. Really look.”

She did, reluctantly at first.

He kissed her shoulder.

“These arms helped save entire islands.”

A kiss on her forearm.

“These hands can build boats, write treaties and gently nurse me back to health.”

A kiss on the knuckles.

“This scar,” he said, fingers ghosting near her side, “is where you refused to die. I love that part of you.”

A kiss just above the wound.

“And this-” he leaned closer, brushing her temple with his lips, “-is where you keep that impossible mind that makes everyone in the room scramble to keep up.”

Odysseus’s breath hitched - and then, as he kept going, so did a giggle.

It started soft. Then louder. She swatted his shoulder, half playful, half embarrassed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m accurate,” Hector said proudly, his hands at her waist. “I love everything I see.”

Odysseus rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.

He took in the curve of her cheek, the slope of her neck, the gold thread glinting along the edge of her dress. His gaze softened. “You could walk into the temple and be mistaken for a goddess.”

“You flatterer.”

“I’m serious. You’re... radiant.” His voice had dropped, reverent. “Like some old song brought to life.”

She laughed again, flushed and surprised, turning in his arms - and he took that moment to lift her clean off the floor with a quiet, delighted grunt, spinning her once as she gave a soft yelp of protest and amusement.

“You’ll ruin my hair!”

“I’m counting on it,” he said against her ear, voice husky now.

Their lips met a heartbeat later - her hands tangling in his short curls, his palms pressing into the small of her back. His fingers were strong, grounding, sliding up the curve of her spine with a gentleness that made her ache.

She leaned into him with a low sound, and he let her weight settle against him like something sacred. The kiss deepened - hungry and soft, aching and slow. She could feel him trembling slightly, barely holding himself back.

Then he reached up, carefully loosening the carved bone pins in her hair, one by one, setting them aside so they wouldn’t catch or stab. Her braids tumbled down, the weight of them brushing his wrists.

“I wanted to see your hair down at least once before the day started,” he whispered.

“You’ll ruin all the work-”

“It’s worth it.”

She breathed his name - and his hand, warm and certain, began to slide below the edge of her dress, curling against the bare skin of her thigh.

And then-

“AHEM.”

They froze.

At the doorway stood Hecuba, arms crossed, mouth pressed thin, brow raised to Olympian heights.

“Honestly, Hector,” she said dryly, “I send you to help her get ready and I find you doing the exact opposite.”

“I was helping,” Hector said quickly, blinking, voice going high with panic. “She - she was nervous and I was-”

“Nope.” Hecuba cut him off mid-sputter and strode into the room.

Before either of them could react, she grabbed her son by the ear.

“Mother - OW! Ow, that’s my - OW!” he yelped, staggering as she dragged him back from Odysseus like a disobedient teenager.

Hecuba gave her soon-to-be daughter-in-law a cool, appraising look. “We will have to fix your hair. And your dress.” Then she turned to Hector, who was still squirming. “You - go splash water on your face and pray to Hera for forgiveness.”

“I was trying to be romantic!”

“You were trying to crawl under her dress like a soldier in a foxhole.”

Odysseus couldn’t help it - she burst out laughing, hair half-down, cheeks bright pink.

Hecuba sighed. “Gods help me, the pair of you are already married in everything but law. Now. Let’s fix your hair, my jewel. And don’t worry,” she added with a fond glance. “You already belong here.”

The door closed behind them with a solid thud.

And Hector stood alone in the hallway for a moment, grinning like an idiot.

Gods help Troy - because he would marry that woman even if the walls fell.

---

The dream faded slowly, like smoke trailing through her fingers.

Warm arms. Laughter against her neck. Bronze mirror. The whisper of silk replaced by the scratch of rough wool and cold air.

Odysseus’s eyes opened.

The ceiling of her war tent was dark, heavy fabric stretched taut overhead. The candle beside her had long burned out. Only the faintest grey-blue light from the slit in the flap signaled the approach of dawn. Beyond the canvas walls, Aulis still slept - silent but tense. The kind of silence that came before battles. Or betrayals.

She lay still for a moment, heartbeat steady but sore. Her body, ever disciplined, already calculating time by the chill in the air and the weight of her own breath.

She reached out, slowly, brushing her fingers against the edge of the thin pillow beside her.

Empty.

The dream had been so vivid - Hector’s voice, his hands, the mirror. The heat of his kiss pressed to the scar on her side. The feeling of being seen. Admired. Loved, despite everything.

She sat up, spine straight as a spear. She had too much to do to mourn a memory.

The cot creaked as she swung her legs over the edge. Her bare feet met the cold earth floor, hard-packed and slightly damp. She moved without hesitation, reaching for the basin of water near the table.

No commands. No trumpets. No soldiers. Just the slow, methodical ritual of being Odysseus again.

She stripped the simple night tunic from her shoulders and dipped a cloth into the cool basin. She washed her face first, then her neck, her arms - moving over the scars without hesitation, but not without thought.

There were more now. Her body had become a living scroll of pain survived. And endurance carried.

She dried her skin and dressed with the quiet precision of a soldier and the grace of a queen.

First the linen wraps around her chest, bound tightly to hold her firm and still in movement. Then the soft, dark undershirt, sleeveless and fitted. Over that came her reinforced tunic of layered leather and cloth, dyed Ithacan blue, the gold stitching nearly worn from years of wear.

She pulled on her greaves, tightened the buckles with practiced strength, then stood to fasten the belt that carried her short blades.

Finally, the armor: her cuirass, light but strong, molded to her form. It no longer gleamed. She liked it that way. Let men see her coming and know she was not here to shine - but to survive.

Her fingers moved to her face, now clean and drying in the cold. She took a small case from her satchel - an old one, gifted to her by precious sister long ago. She opened it carefully. Inside: a dull copper mirror, and a little pot of rose-tinted balm.

She applied a faint color to her lips, then a bit to her cheeks. Just enough to hide the exhaustion under her eyes. Enough to look like a queen.

She paused, gazing into the bronze reflection.

In her mind, Hector's voice echoed:

“These hands can build boats, write treaties and gently nurse me back to health.”

“This scar is where you refused to die.”

She smiled faintly, despite herself.

“You made it look easy,” she whispered. “Loving me...”

The balm clicked shut.

She pulled her hair back into a braid, tight and high, wrapping it into a coil at the back of her head and tying it with black cord. Not the gold pins she wore in Troy. Not here. Not now.

When she stepped from the tent, the cold bit into her, but she welcomed it. The camp was still asleep - tents scattered like shadows across the coastal plain, the sea wind faint but ever-present. Flags stood limp. Torches burned low. The hush of a thousand warriors still dreaming.

She took her spear from the rack and stepped onto the practice field - a patch of beaten earth not far from the main fires.

And she moved.

First, slow forms - shifting her weight from foot to foot, sweeping the spear in wide arcs. Her body remembered the steps before her mind did: pivots, thrusts, parries. Flowing through motion like water over stone. Discipline. Precision. Silence.

She didn’t train to impress. She trained to remind herself who she was.

After a full set of spear forms, she switched to empty-handed drills: footwork, blocks, takedown feints. The kind Hector once liked to interrupt with a kiss and a laugh.

Her muscles warmed. Her heartbeat quickened.

Odysseus exhaled sharply and wiped sweat from her brow. The first true light of dawn had begun to break behind the distant hills, setting the sea ablaze with a molten silver hue.

Time to wake the others.

The wind off the sea rolled in soft and salt-heavy, brushing against the edges of the sleeping camp. Odysseus stood at the edge of the cliff above the tents, still as stone, her hands clasped behind her back. The sky had just begun to pale  -  that thin, silent hour before the world decided to wake.

She watched the horizon, watched the sun press its first silver cracks through the darkness.

Her jaw tightened.

Behind her eyes, the weight of too many choices shifted  -  silent, cold, and familiar. The desertion. The lies. The prophecy she’d bent sideways. The face of the man she’d used to save a thousand more.

She closed her eyes.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

When she opened them, her shoulders rolled back. Her stance loosened. Her expression softened just slightly  -  enough to read as someone who’d slept, someone who hadn’t been haunted by her own mind for hours.

She turned, heading down toward the tents. There was a glint of mischief now at the corner of her mouth, just sharp enough to pass for ease.

She stopped at a familiar tent and bent slightly to tap on the canvas.

“Patroclus,” she called, voice light. “If you don’t want me to pour water on you again, now’s the time.”

A groan. Shuffling.

“Go away,” came the muffled reply.

“I might. Or I might tell Achilles you were too delicate for morning drills.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Odysseus raised a brow. No more warnings.

She nudged one of the cot legs sharply through the side of the tent.

With a yelp and a thud, Patroclus toppled off his bedroll.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then: “Gods! Are you well ?!”

Odysseus leaned into the tent flap, smirking. “It’s how I show affection.”

He scrambled upright, curls wild, clutching the blanket like armor. “You’re impossible.”

She offered him a hand.

“This is how I treat the ones I trust,” she said easily.

He took it with a scowl and let her pull him to his feet.

As he dusted himself off, Odysseus glanced toward the rising sun, now spilling gold across the sea. She let the silence sit between them for a moment. The wind picked up, brushing a lock of hair across her brow.

Patroclus didn’t see her face just then  -  the moment her expression dropped, neutral and far away.

But when he looked back, she was already smiling again.

When Odysseus and Patroclus were done with training the sun had climbed just high enough to cast gold against the canvas tents. Most of the Ithacan camp was still sluggish - soldiers just waking, servants clattering about fires, the scent of barley and ash curling into the cold air.

But Odysseus and Patroclus had already finished a full round of drills. Their tunics were soaked through with sweat, their forearms dusted with dried earth and bruises.

Patroclus dropped to the ground with a groan, wiping his face with a threadbare cloth. “You’re evil.”

Odysseus, already unstrapping her greaves with precision, only chuckled. “You’re slow.”

“I was fast yesterday .”

“Yesterday, I didn’t make you spar half-asleep. Also you’re still leaning too much on your front foot,” Odysseus said as they walked toward the washing trench carved between low rocks. Her voice was even, instructive, but not harsh. “When I parried, you nearly toppled over yourself.”

“I was adjusting for terrain,” Patroclus said defensively, breathing hard. “You told me to read the ground.”

“Yes. Read the ground. Not fall into it.” She gave him a look. “If the ground starts reading you , you’ve lost.”

Patroclus groaned. “Gods, you and your riddles. Can’t you just say ‘don’t trip’ like a normal person?”

Odysseus grinned. “And miss the chance to sound wise? Absolutely not.”

Patroclus watched her with a kind of flat resignation. “You’re not even tired.”

“I will be. After breakfast.”

“Unfair.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Why are we this early anyway? Most people are still asleep.”

“I always wake up early. It gives more time for preparations.”

“And why I also have to join your awful sleep schedule?”

“Simple. So we will be done with warmups and get ready for your training.”

Patroclus looked at her in horror. “What?”

“Don’t worry kid. Nothing physical for now. But before we do anything we need a proper bath.”

They rounded a low cluster of boulders and came to the trench - just wide enough to sit in, filled each morning from barrels of collected rain and seawater. There was no roof, but the high rocks around it gave enough privacy from casual eyes. A simple wooden bench stood nearby for setting gear.

Patroclus slung his towel over one shoulder and stretched. “This part of training I enjoy.”

Odysseus pulled the pins from her braid, fingers deft as ever. “Then hurry before the rest of the camp stinks it up.”

She stepped toward the water, unstrapping her belt and setting it down with care. Her movements were quiet, methodical - never wasteful, never uncertain. She was like that in everything. Battle. Strategy. Even undressing.

Patroclus, half-listening, was already unfastening his own belt when he stepped around her toward the back rocks - habit. They usually washed at the same time after drills. There was a rhythm to it. He went to the far end, she stayed near the entrance. Familiar. Normal.

So when her voice cut through the quiet with a low, amused edge, it made him pause.

“…What are you doing?”

He blinked. “Going to wash?”

She turned to face him slightly, head tilted. “But why here? You should better move somewhere else.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s the closest spot.”

Odysseus blinked confused before she shrugged. “Okay. I tried to warn you.”

“Wait. What are you-”

And then it clicked. His eyes widened.

“Oh. Oh - gods-”

Odysseus was already sliding the pin from her shoulder. With a simple flick, her chiton loosened and slid down, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric.

Patroclus spun around so quickly he nearly tripped over a rock.

“ You! You’re-! You’re-!”

“Naked,” she supplied casually as she stepped into the water, the morning light gleaming on her skin. “Yes. That’s usually how bathing works.”

“You could’ve-! Warned me!”

“I did.” She smirked, gathering water into her palms and splashing her arms. “I asked what you were doing.”

“That’s not a warning , that’s a trap! ”

Odysseus chuckled, leaning back into the water, her braid unfurling in dark waves behind her. “You’re flustered. It’s adorable.”

Patroclus was still frozen, towel clutched like a lifeline. “You’re a woman.”

“I noticed.”

“We train together !”

“I train with an army of six hundred men. I ran out of patience trying to hide from any pair of eyes in the army. Bathing early is effective enough.”

She raised an eyebrow at him as she poured water down her collarbone.

“You can either get in or go find another trench. Or close your eyes and bathe blind, like a chaste hero in a tragic tale.”

Patroclus groaned into his palms. “Achilles is going to kill me.”

Odysseus laughed, a full, amused sound echoing off the rocks. “Tell him the truth that you were to dumb to realise you were following a woman into the bath.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She leaned back, letting the water swirl around her as she finally allowed her muscles to relax.

Despite his embarrassment, Patroclus eventually sat - very far from her - and began washing his arms, carefully avoiding eye contact.

After a while, she glanced sideways at him. “You handled that better than Polites would have.”

“That’s not a high bar.”

She smiled again, softer this time. “You’re a good man, Patroclus.”

“…A confused one.”

“Even better.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, water rippling gently between them. The light shifted, brushing across the pool, gold and cold.

And then-

Patroclus frowned.

His hand paused mid-rinse, and he looked up toward the jagged rocks above them. There was a pressure in the air, a sense of being watched - not by Odysseus, not by anything human , but something else. Something still and unseen, just beyond the edge of the world.

He turned slowly, scanning the ridgeline.

Nothing.

Only the flap of wings overhead - sharp, heavy - and the rush of air as a shadow passed over the water. A bird, dark and distant, wheeled high above the rocks before vanishing beyond the cliffs.

Odysseus noticed the shift in him but didn’t speak. Her eyes followed the bird’s path without comment, her mouth suddenly set in a thinner line.

“Just a bird,” Patroclus murmured, but it sounded unconvincing even to him.

“Mhm,” Odysseus replied, quietly. Then a different tone was heard from her.”For ‘ just a bird’ it seemed odd.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it was a predator. And they are this patient only when they see a prey or an enemy.”

“Maybe we are swimming in its hunting territory?”

Odysseus looked one last time at the direction where the bird was last spotted. She waited a moment as if she dared it to show up.“...Maybe.”

The moment passed. But it left a thin thread of unease behind, barely there, like a cold finger along the spine.

Still, in the stillness, Odysseus allowed herself a quiet breath. For all the trials ahead, for all the war sharpening on the horizon like a blade, this - this strange companionship, this water-warmed dawn - felt real.

And real things were worth holding onto.

Even if only in memory.

---

 Odysseus stood at the edge of the training field, arms folded, eyes narrowed in quiet appraisal. The air shimmered with heat rising from the sand, and the rhythmic sound of swords striking shields rang like a pulse through the camp. Grunts, shouted instructions, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground echoed in all directions. It was organized chaos - her favorite kind.

Next to her stood Patroclus, hands clasped behind his back, trying to emulate her poise. He looked focused, serious. But every few seconds, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other like his boots itched.

“Well?” she asked without looking at him, her gaze still locked on the sparring soldiers. She nodded toward a pair of men locked in a sweaty, clumsy duel.

Patroclus squinted. “Uh… that one-" he pointed at a stocky Mycenaean swinging too wide “ - he’s strong, but his footwork is off. He keeps overcommitting. Easy to trip.”

“Good.” Odysseus nodded once. “Why?”

“He leans too far forward?”

She tilted her head, smile faint but present. “Yes. And when he resets, he puts his left foot at a wider angle than his right. That’s from a poorly healed ankle break - he’s guarding it without realizing. Anyone watching closely would take him down in two moves. Watch.”

They both watched as the other soldier - leaner, quicker - began circling tighter, drawing the stocky one into overextension. In a blink, a swift feint and pivot led to a clean blow to the side, sending the big man staggering with a grunt.

Patroclus blinked. “That’s terrifying.”

“That’s reading the field,” Odysseus said. “Learn that, and you can fight half your battles before the blade is drawn.”

She turned her attention to a cluster of four soldiers rotating sparring partners. “And what about them?”

Patroclus studied them. “The tall one with the red sash - he's quicker than he looks, but he's not used to his new sword. Still too stiff with it.”

Odysseus glanced at him, a little more impressed this time. “You’re learning. He’s trained with a spear most of his life - he grips the hilt like it’s still a shaft. No wrist flexibility, all arm. He will have to fix that.”

Patroclus gave a small, pleased nod.

She went on, tone sharpening like a blade being honed: “Always watch the hips and shoulders, not the hands. The body gives away the intent long before the blade does. Hands and eyes lie. Shoulders don’t.”

A few feet away, one soldier raised his sword too high and left his ribs exposed - Odysseus gestured slightly. “That one’s exhausted. You can see it in the drop of his left shoulder. Give him ten more minutes and his form will collapse completely. And that one-" she pointed subtly with a tilt of her chin, “-is a showoff. Watch his eyes.”

Patroclus frowned. “He’s… looking at the others?”

“He’s performing,” she said. “Not training. He cares more about how he looks than whether he lands his blows.”

Patroclus muttered, “Achilles does that too sometimes.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a familiar voice sliced across the yard.

“There you are!”

Achilles strode toward them across the training field like the sun itself had decided to grow legs and swagger. Curls tousled, chest bare, and the usual grin of someone who expected the world to make room for him.

But before he could get another word out, Odysseus squinted dramatically, cutting across him.

“Wait - Achilles? Is that really you?” she said with mock confusion. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the strawberry glaze.”

Achilles stopped mid-step, scowling. “It was a dye. It finally washed out.”

“Oh no, I noticed ,” she said, lips twitching. “But you must admit, painting your hair red like a sacrificial ram was… a choice.”

“I had to disguise myself,” Achilles said defensively. “My hair’s one of the first things people look for.”

Odysseus tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “And yet - I still found you. Immediately , in fact.”

Patroclus snorted.

Achilles huffed. “You were lucky! That's it..”

“Tragic,” Odysseus murmured. “All that effort to look like a bruised pomegranate, only for it to end in mud and tears.”

“It wasn’t that red-"

“It was ceremonial . I thought you were about to be paraded to the gods.”

Patroclus was actively wheezing by now, hands on his knees.

Achilles gritted his teeth. “Well, I’ll have you know it worked long enough. Half the camp mistook me for a Lycian priest.”

Odysseus clapped a hand to her heart, mock-gasping. “So brave. So cunning. Hiding in plain sight as a divine fruit basket.”

Achilles raised a finger like he might actually retort - then hesitated. He turned to Patroclus instead, opting for the original reason he came.

“Pat. Let’s go. Trojans aren’t going to die on their own.”

Patroclus blinked. “We’re-”

“He’s training,” Odysseus said flatly, without looking at Achilles.

Achilles frowned as though she’d spoken a foreign language. “I’m not asking for your blessing, woman. I’m his prince.”

Odysseus finally turned to face him, one eyebrow arching with theatrical curiosity. “Are you?”

Achilles blinked. “What?”

“When you were originally summoned as a prince and commander you refused and put on a frilly dress to match the strawberry curls. And now you officially joined this campaign as a warrior under the Phthian cohort.” Her tone was mild, but her eyes gleamed. “And that cohort was placed under Patroclus’s command. Which means - technically - he outranks you, sunshine.”

Patroclus made a small, panicked noise in his throat. “I mean, it’s not-”

“And,” Odysseus continued sweetly, “Agamemnon appointed me to guide and train Patroclus in leadership and strategy. So, by the laws of command - however loosely Agamemnon bothers to enforce them - I stand above both of you.”

Achilles stared at her like she had just told him the sky was green and fish could sing.

“That’s not-”

“Chain of command,” Odysseus said with a grin that promised chaos. “Isn’t it lovely?”

Achilles turned to Patroclus, appalled. “You outrank me?”

Patroclus held up his hands. “I didn’t want this! They made it happen!”

Odysseus clapped a hand on Patroclus’s shoulder. “He’s a fast learner. You should see how he spots weak points in the line now.”

“I hate this,” Achilles muttered.

“Oh good,” Odysseus said brightly. “Since you dislike the training of the mind I have just the thing for you.”

He froze. “What.”

She pointed at a pile of neglected training shields and netting by the tent line. “Those are tangled. And filthy. Since you’re not training, and you definitely don’t outrank anyone here, you can clean them. Thoroughly. Fold the nets. Scrub the sand from the shield rims and place everything nicely on the racks.”

Achilles looked at her like she’d just stabbed him with a spoon.

Patroclus choked on a laugh.

“Get moving, fruity prince,” Odysseus said, walking past him with a satisfied smirk. “Or I’ll add stable duty. Nestor would be more than happy to have a helper with his horses.”

Achilles stood frozen a moment longer, then hissed through his teeth and stomped toward the pile, muttering oaths under his breath in four different dialects.

The morning wore on.

---

Dust clung to the air as the sun climbed higher. Odysseus and Patroclus crouched over a cleared space in the dirt, sticks and stones laid out in the shape of a small makeshift map  -  terrain lines, supply trails, and tent clusters.

“This is your southern flank,” she said, drawing a curve with her finger. “Now imagine we’re five days into a siege, grain’s running low, and half your runners haven’t returned. What do you do?”

“Ration tighter. Pull a third of the line back to protect the supply chain.” Patroclus frowned. “Or cut losses and send a few light units through the hills. Quiet. Fast.”

“Not bad.” She swapped a few stones. “Now imagine they’re being hunted. Give me an answer that keeps your men alive and your lines stable.”

He clicked his tongue, thinking.

A few yards away, Achilles sat cross-legged beside a mountain of tangled netting, dust on his face and righteous fury in his eyes. Every so often, he muttered something unspeakable in Phthian under his breath, glaring daggers at the back of Odysseus’s head.

She didn’t look up. “I hope that glare means you’re almost done folding.”

Achilles growled. “I swear to all twelve gods, if you make me sort one more bundle-"

“I’ll ask Nestor if you can assist with his horse feed,” she called sweetly.

Patroclus snorted. “You are relentless .”

“I’m a general,” she said, tapping a line in the dirt. “It’s the same thing.”

They leaned over the map again, Patroclus adjusting pebbles to represent troop placements. He was starting to see it  -  how strategy wasn’t about brute force but pressure, patience, pressure again. She was proud of him. He didn’t just react. He listened.

The sun had begun to soften into amber when a soldier jogged up from the main road.

Helmet tucked under his arm, face streaked with sweat, he slowed only at the edge of the training ring.

“Lady Odysseus,” he said, breath catching. “You’re needed. Urgently. Please follow me.”

Odysseus glanced up from the sparring circle, brows knitting briefly. She handed her papyrus to Patroclus and rolled her shoulders, her cloak already settling around her as she moved.

She didn’t ask questions. One look was more than needed for the silent exchange to happen. Just nodded and followed the soldier across the field and through the tents, her pace calm, almost relaxed.

Achilles watched her go, eyes narrowing. “That was too quiet.”

Patroclus dropped his training blade and tugged his tunic straight. “Should we follow?”

Achilles didn’t even hesitate. “Obviously.

They waited just long enough for the tent flap to close behind her before they crept close to the side, slipping between stacked crates and bundles of spears. The tent was large, canvas thick but not soundproof, and the entrance flaps were only half-tied. They crouched and peeked through.

Inside, Odysseus stood surrounded by four Spartan soldiers - hard-eyed, silent men. Kneeling before them, bound hand and foot, was a young soldier no older than thirty, his hair tangled and tunic stained with dirt and blood.

The commander who’d summoned her stepped forward. “Caught him before dawn, my lady. He was sneaking toward the southern trail. No weapons. Had a bundle with some dried food and silver.”

“Tried to desert?” she asked, voice measured.

“Yes, my lady,” the Spartan commander replied. “Lord Menelaus is with the Mycenaean brass discussing the sacrifices, and Lord Agamemnon is… unavailable.”

Odysseus said nothing for a long moment. Her gaze dropped to the soldier kneeling before her - bound, shaking, his face dirt-streaked and tight with fear.

Then, slowly, she knelt until they were face to face. The tent held its breath.

She reached behind his head, her fingers careful, deliberate, and untied the cloth gag.

The fabric fell away, and the man gasped, dragging air into dry lungs. His lips were cracked. His face was wet with more than sweat.

“Please,” he choked. “I - I didn’t mean to - I just wanted to see my family. My little girl, she’s only two - I can still feel her small hands clinging to my clothes and hear her begging me to not leave her - please, my lady, I wasn’t going to run forever, just for a few days - please don’t have me flogged-"

Odysseus raised one hand. Not harshly - gently. She pressed her palm against his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away with surprising tenderness.

Even Achilles leaned forward slightly. He had never seen her touch a soldier like that.

“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked, voice quiet as the sea before a storm.

The man swallowed. “Nicanor... Of Pylos, my lady.”

“Nicanor,” she repeated, almost like a lullaby. “You’re safe now. Do you hear me?”

He blinked, confused. “Safe...?”

“Basileus Nestor is an old friend of mine. I’ll talk to him and ensure your wellbeing.”

The man was looking at the queen like a wounded dog finding shelter. Odysseus smiled with the warmth of a mother. She leaned in and kissed the man's forehead. Her lips barely touched him but the softness of the gesture was enough to make the deserter lose all the fear he still held.

“I will let you keep your rank, and you’re not going to be punished,” she said.

Gasps fluttered through the tent. One of the Spartans stiffened in disbelief. Another looked like he hadn’t quite heard correctly.

Nicanor’s lips trembled. “I - I’m not?”

“But you’re going to help me,” Odysseus said, her hand still resting on his cheek. “There’s a task I need to take care of as soon as possible. One that requires someone who knows the southern trail well. You know it, don’t you?”

“I - I do, yes, my lady.”

“Good.” Her eyes never left his. “If you help me complete it, I’ll see you safely home - under escort. Quietly. No fanfare. No punishments. No eyes on your back. Just a path to your daughter.”

His body sagged with relief, a man whose fear had burned through and left only smoke. His shoulders began to shake, quiet sobs wracking him as he leaned forward - not to embrace her, but simply to rest against her like a man given back his life.

Odysseus let him. She wrapped one arm around his back, steady and protective, and brought her other hand to cradle the back of his head.

“Are you perhaps a goddess? Hestia in a mortal shell?”

With a quiet tone she answered. “Just a woman who understands the pain of longing.”

Patroclus stared from the tent’s edge, stunned into silence. His lips parted, uncertain if he was witnessing grace or strategy - or both.

Achilles squinted like someone trying to read a cipher. “What in the gods’ names is she doing?” he whispered.

“She’s - comforting him?” Patroclus offered, though the words felt foreign in his mouth. “Is this... is this the same woman who made you scrub shield rims with vinegar?”

“I think I’m scared again,” Achilles muttered.

Inside, Odysseus murmured something soft to the weeping man - so quiet neither eavesdropper could make it out.

Then she looked up at the Spartan commander.

“Leave us,” she said. “Let the poor man rest.”

The Spartans hesitated. Their hands twitched near their belts. One cleared his throat. “My lady, are you sure-"

“I said please.”

Her voice hadn’t risen, but it had changed  -  not a threat, not quite. Something older. Colder. Like a line drawn in sand that would become stone if crossed.

The Spartans exchanged glances. Then they bowed and filed out of the tent without another word.

Silence returned like a tide. Nicanor’s sobs had faded to hiccupping breaths. He slumped in her lap, exhausted and half-asleep. Only to soon after that be in Hypnos’s grasp.

Odysseus remained still, her fingers moving gently through his hair.

Then, without turning her head, she spoke.

“You’ve both been hiding there for far too long.”

Patroclus nearly fell backward into the crates.

Achilles whispered to Patroclus. “How. How does she always know.”

Patroclus whispered back, “Gods, maybe she is part owl.

“I can hear you and stop spying. Especially since you are not good at it”

“We weren’t spying,” he said quickly. “We were just... concerned.”

Achilles emerged as well, folding his arms. “You hugged a deserter. You’re going to cause a scandal.”

Odysseus didn’t look ashamed. She glanced down at the sleeping man and whispered, “Let them talk.”

Patroclus approached carefully, kneeling down beside the mat. “Why did you do it?”

She looked at him then - tired but resolute.

“Because soldiers who feel trapped don’t fight well. Because loyalty built on fear collapses at the first sign of loss. And because...”

She glanced again at the sleeping man, brushing his damp hair from his brow.

“Because I know what it means to be separated from those you love - and what desperation that can breed. If I can help even one soul find their way back... then I should take that risk.”

Neither Achilles nor Patroclus had anything clever to say.

After a pause, Achilles muttered, “You’re strange.”

Odysseus smirked. “Stranger than you, golden boy?”

He gave a half-shrug, half-grin.

Patroclus looked at her more closely, a mix of awe and guilt in his eyes. “You’re not what I expected from a queen.”

She smiled faintly, still holding the young soldier as he slept in peace. “Good. Expectations are the biggest trap you can set on yourself.”

---

Diomedes crossed the training yard, brows drawn tight. He’d meant to find Odysseus - she’d promised him a word before midday - but her tent flap was tied, her spear gone from its rack. No sign of Eurylochus either.

Instead, what he found was… this.

“Down! Up! Down!” Polites barked, arms folded, barely feasible from his chlamys as he paced a patch of trampled earth.

In front of him, Achilles and Patroclus were flat on their palms, sweat gleaming across their backs. Achilles looked halfway to murder. Patroclus looked halfway to death.

Diomedes blinked. “What in Hades is going on?”

Polites turned, unsurprised. “Lady Odysseus and Eurylochus had to leave. Quiet business that should take less than a week. So I’m in charge of training today.”

“She told me yesterday that we could talk today.”

“I know as much as you, my king. She left in the morning assigning me with some of her duties.”

Diomedes looked at the wheezing duo. “And you’re training Patroclus ?”

Polites nodded. “Standard stamina drills. He’s coming along well.”

“Then why is Achilles here?”

Patroclus, without lifting his head, managed a breathless, “Because he kept following me around like a shadow. So now he gets to suffer too.”

Achilles groaned, elbows trembling. “This is stupid. This is beneath me. I'm a demigod, not a pack mule.”

“Up!” Polites barked again.

“I am up,” Achilles snapped. “Up and done.”

Patroclus grunted. “You don’t get to complain. You spent most of the morning napping in the sun like a lizard.”

“I was conserving energy. Strategic conservation.”

Polites crouched beside them, grinning. “You two need stamina. You think you’ll be nimble after two hours in bronze, swinging a blade through mud? Try moving fast when your ribs feel like they’re being crushed.”

Patroclus, face pressed to the ground, mumbled, “That’s literally how I feel now .”

“Then you prove my point.”

Achilles groaned louder. “This is ridiculous. I bet you couldn’t do it either. You’re not exactly built like Eurylochus.”

Polites raised a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

Diomedes chuckled under his breath.

Polites turned. “What’s so funny?”

Diomedes held up a hand. “Sorry - just… Achilles has a point. You seem quite small in comparison to other warriors. Honestly, I thought you were more of a field medic than a soldier.”

Patroclus gasped, “He is ! He was Odysseus’s medic before the war.”

“That's queen Odysseus to you, kid.” Grumbled Polites. “-And move that ass up!”

Achilles added, “Or what? You’ll hit us with a spoon or make us drink bitter tea?”

Polites let out a laugh and stood. “All right then. I’ve got something better than push-ups.” He cracked his neck. “Wrestling match. You and me.”

Diomedes blinked. “Now?”

“Unless you're scared,” Polites said mildly.

Diomedes grinned at the man who was almost head shorter than him. “You’re on.”

Polites turned to the teens. “You two can stop.”

Achilles sprang to his feet in one graceful, sweat-slick motion, like he hadn’t just spent half an hour whining.

Patroclus rolled onto his side and lay there gasping. “Tell my story,” he croaked.

“No one’s telling your story,” Achilles said. “You’ll be fine. You just need to die for thirty seconds.”

“Thirty?” Patroclus wheezed. “Luxury.”

Diomedes toed a line in the dirt and squared up opposite Polites. “This gonna be fast?”

“Only if you’re weak,” Polites replied.

Patroclus, still sprawled in the dirt, lifted a hand half-heartedly. “I’m betting three minutes before someone gets flipped on their face.”

Achilles smirked. “Polites has reach. But Diomedes has the spine of a donkey. It’ll be close.”

Diomedes shook out his arms, smirking. “Keep talking, boys. One of you’s next.”

The open training yard in the Ithacan sector wasn’t much - just a patch of cleared earth and a few worn benches scattered under olivewood scaffolds. But it had good shade, and a better view.

Polites and Diomedes strode toward the center, dust puffing beneath their boots. Achilles and Patroclus dragged themselves to a bench, each clutching their aching arms like they’d survived a war.

A few Ithacan soldiers glanced over from sharpening spears and adjusting armor. When they realized who was stepping into the makeshift ring, they began to trickle over, curious and grinning. Few of them joined the teens sitting next to them and watching two men scratch before the match. 

“I’ll bet ten bronze ingots Diomedes wins,” Achilles said, stretching out like a cat.
Lycaon, arms crossed, raised a brow. “Sure about that?”

“He’s stronger. Has more reach. And he’s a war dog,” Achilles replied confidently. “Polites is a physician . What's he going to do, threaten him with a honey jar?”

Lycaon simply smirked and held out a hand. “Deal.”

In the ring, Diomedes stretched and cracked his knuckles. “You sure you’re up for this, physician?”

Polites just smiled mildly. “I like to keep in practice.”

Then, without fanfare, he undid the brooch of his chlamys and let it drop on the ground.

The effect was instant.

Under the draping fabric had been a build none of them expected - not the lean wiriness of a scout, nor the bulk of a bruiser, but compact power, honed and solid. His arms were scarred, his back broad, and his torso looked like it had been carved from old marble.

Even Achilles sat forward, frowning. “What.”

Patroclus blinked. “... How ?.”

One of the Ithacan soldiers leaned in with a grin. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what ?” Achilles asked, already dreading it.

“Polites was a three-time all-Hellas wrestling champion. They even used to cheer his name in Athens.”

Achilles turned his slow, betrayed gaze to Lycaon.

The man held out his hand, smug. “You owe me ten.”

“Don’t even say it,” Achilles muttered, digging into his belt pouch.

Patroclus choked out. “But he’s a medic .”

The soldier grinned. “That’s why no one ever skips their checkups.”

In the ring, Diomedes stared. Eyes wide and probably filled with concern. “…You’ve been hiding under all those fabrics.”

Polites rolled his shoulders. “People relax more around someone who doesn’t look like they can lift them by the ankles.”

The match began.

Diomedes rushed in, trying to keep momentum. He feinted, grabbed for Polites’s wrist - and found himself flipped clean over in one smooth arc, the breath punched from his chest as he hit the ground.The king of Argos hated how weightless he felt. As if he was a sheep casually grabbed for shearing.

He struggled up - and immediately got caught again. This time Polites used his weight and leverage to spin him flat, pinning both shoulders before Diomedes even had time to curse. There was no violence in the movement - just inevitability.

The crowd howled with laughter and disbelief.

Flat on his back, red-faced and stunned, Diomedes shrieked up at the sky:
“Why are you so good at this?! You’re supposed to fix people! This is the exact opposite of that!”

Polites, still pinning him effortlessly, looked down and deadpanned,
“You’d be amazed how many soldiers refuse to take their medicine.

The ring erupted in laughter.

Achilles rubbed his face. “I thought he was soft.”

“Apparently,” Patroclus muttered, “so did Diomedes.”

Polites released Diomedes with the same calm grace he’d pinned him, brushing off his hands and offering a hand up.

Diomedes, accepting it, muttered, “I think you dislocated my shoulder.”

Polites just smiled. “I’ll fix it later.”

---

Days passed.

The sun was barely past its peak when the first lookout spotted a ship hugging the southern coast, sails half-lowered and hull still slick from the open sea. No pennants flew from the mast. No horns blared to signal return.

No one was supposed to arrive that day.

Still, the silhouette was familiar - sleek, Ithacan-built - and the figure standing at its bow was unmistakable.

“Is that-?” the sentry murmured, lowering his spyglass. He shouted for a runner.

By the time the ship scraped against the shoreline, a small knot of soldiers had gathered, pulled from mid-meal or idle patrol by the quiet murmurs spreading through the camp like smoke. Odysseus stepped down first - cloak heavy with salt, boots grimy with dried blood and dust. Her face was set, unreadable, and her eyes sharp with purpose.

No trumpets greeted her. No ceremony had been prepared. She was three days early.

A few voices rose in scattered welcome, confused but warm - cheers not quite fully formed - but Odysseus didn’t pause to acknowledge them. She raised a hand only to wave off an officer who approached with questions.

“Later,” she said. “No delays.”

Eurylochus followed, similarly ragged and unsmiling. He carried a sealed case wrapped in oilcloth and a length of rope slung from his belt. Neither of them bore the look of travelers returning victorious - or empty-handed.

As they passed the supply tents, a messenger finally approached—panting and barefoot, clearly dispatched in haste.

Odysseus stopped him with a single look. “Get to Menelaus and Agamemnon. Tell them Odysseus of Ithaca has returned early, with urgent intelligence from the coast. No delays. Send for them to prepare the war tent immediately.”

The messenger nodded, startled by her tone, and ran.

Patroclus, watching from the edge of the training grounds, blinked and stood upright the moment he spotted her cloak flaring near the southern path. “Odysseus! You-”

His voice lifted with easy familiarity, half-expecting some dry comment, a grin, maybe a jab at the sweat still drying on his tunic. She always had something—some wry observation or mocking bow. She was supposed to come back with wind in her hair and riddles on her tongue, not this… silence.

But she didn’t even slow.

“Later,” she said, barely glancing in his direction. Her tone was clipped, her expression unreadable.

She moved past him like a stormcloud, her eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the training yard - beyond the camp entirely. Patroclus turned to watch her go, caught off-guard by the sheer absence of the Odysseus he knew.

That was no teasing smirk. No raised brow. No hint of mischief.

Only urgency. Only purpose.

He stood frozen for a breath longer, the weight of that word - Later - settling in his chest like a stone.

Achilles, polishing a training spear beside the mess tent, had looked up just in time to catch her passing shadow. He tilted his head, frowning.

“She didn’t say anything,” Patroclus murmured.

“She didn’t smile ,” Achilles added, already standing, eyes narrowing. “Something’s wrong.”

A few more soldiers tried to intercept her along the path - questions on their lips, scrolls in their hands - but Odysseus didn’t stop for anyone. Her walk was too fast to follow easily, too focused to question. The usual rhythm of the camp stumbled in her wake.

A hush followed her, subtle but undeniable, like the stillness before a sky breaks open.

By the time she began ascending the path to the high pavilion—its red canvas flapping in the stiffening wind—the murmurs had started.

“Why’s she back already?”

“She was supposed to be gone another three days.”

“Did something happen?”

“She’s not even limping - gods, what happened?”

And as she disappeared behind the banners of Mycenae and Sparta, the entire camp seemed to hold its breath.

She didn’t stop until she reached the high pavilion of red-dyed canvas near the hill’s crown, where the banners of Mycenae and Sparta twisted in the wind. Two guards stood tall outside. 

“Announce me,” Odysseus said without slowing. “ Now .” 

The guards looked startled, but one ducked inside. Moments later, she was waved through.

The tent was warm with lamplight and the breath of anxious war talk. Agamemnon looked up as Odysseus entered, brows drawn in annoyance at the interruption - until he registered her expression.

She didn’t bow. Didn’t smile.

She dropped the damp chart onto the table with a thud.

“We don’t have weeks.”

Agamemnon blinked, straightening. “What in Hades are you talking about?”

“You’re back early,” Menelaus added, standing. “You weren’t supposed to report for two more days.”

“I know. That’s why I came.” Odysseus unfastened her salt-stiff cloak with a sharp motion. “Because you need to hear this now .”

Agamemnon crossed his arms, wary. “Speak, then.”

Odysseus stepped to the map and pointed to the coastline surrounding Troy. “We scouted three possible landing coves. Every single one is under construction - stone barricades, ship-traps, tower scaffolds. The Trojans aren’t waiting behind their walls. They’re sealing the shore.”

“They’re preparing for a siege?” Menelaus said.

“They’re preparing to keep us off the beach entirely ,” Odysseus said. “We wait, and we won’t just be stalled. We’ll be locked out. The sea will belong to them.”

Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed. “You're sure of this?”

“I watched them work through the night,” she replied. “From the cliffs. Silent columns hauling chains across estuaries. Engineers dragging stones into inlets. We lose the sea, we lose the war.”

The Mycenaean king paced, hand dragging down his beard. “Gods. We haven’t finished provisioning. Thessaly hasn’t even sent their chariots. We’re not ready to move.”

“We don’t move the whole host,” Odysseus said sharply. “Not yet. Moving so many ships so fast? That would be suicide.”

Menelaus stepped forward, already seeing the plan in her eyes. “We split.”

Odysseus nodded. “We take a forward column - light, fast, no more than two thousand. Just enough to land, hold ground, and make it look like diplomacy. We fly peace banners.”

“And while we secure the territory for docking,” Menelaus continued, “the rest of the army follows more slowly. Supply ships, full force, prepared to reinforce or attack depending on how the Trojans respond to our appearance.”

Agamemnon stared at the two of them, suspicious. “And who exactly commands this forward column?”

“I do,” Odysseus said at once. “With Menelaus. It’s his wife we’re retrieving, after all Nobody will question his presence.”

Menelaus gave a faint, humorless smile.

Agamemnon’s lips thinned. “And what if they don’t buy your peace?”

“Then we’re already ashore,” Odysseus said. “And we’ll know exactly where to strike first. But if we stay here any longer - arguing over supply carts - they’ll have shut the entire coastline. We’ll be forced into a blind assault, or worse - months at sea, starving and circling like fools.”

Agamemnon exhaled, heavy with tension. “Even if I agree… we can’t risk divine disfavor. Not now. Not at sea.”

Odysseus nodded. “I was going to bring that up. If the winds turn against us while we’re trying to land-”

“-we’re done before we even begin,” Menelaus finished.

Odysseus leaned over the table. “So we do this right. We honor the gods before we launch. I want sacrifices to Poseidon, Hermes, Apollo and Artemis, before we set foot on a single ship.Even all four winds just to be sure.”

Agamemnon frowned. “We don’t have time to prepare-”

“They’re already prepared,” Menelaus cut in. “I made the arrangements yesterday. Chosen oxes and rams, the altar is in making. We just needed a little more time and a reason.”

Odysseus’s eyes met his. “You were hoping I’d come back with bad news.”

“I was hoping you’d come back fast,” he said. “Which you did.”

Agamemnon looked between them, still unconvinced - but the logic was unassailable.

He gave a slow nod. “Fine. Take your forward force. Make your play. But if this turns to ash in our mouths, it’s your name the soldiers curse.”

Odysseus was already turning for the flap.

“They’re welcome to it,” she said over her shoulder. “Just so long as they’re still alive to curse it.”

Notes:

Btw I recommend checking some cool new art I made for the fic. Its is all on my Tumblr (The link is below)

Chapter 11

Summary:

Philoctetes

Notes:

It was probably one of my favourite chapters to write. Sorry for potential errors but it's very late when I'm posting it.
Btw - Would you believe me if I told you that there were some scenes cut because the chapter was getting too long? I might add them to the story in the furture if there will be a good opportunity for them.

I hope you'll enjoy the chapter =^^=

The forest was ink-black and damp, the kind of dark that swallowed torches and made even seasoned warriors tread like children afraid of waking ghosts.

“This is idiotic,” Antiphus whispered, yanking a burr from his cloak. “We sail in less than two days, and instead of sleeping like sane men, we’re chasing shadows through the damp forest.”

“You’re free to go back,” Philoctetes murmured ahead, not turning. “I’ll dedicate the fresh venison to your cowardice.”

“Oh, gods,” groaned Euryalus. “He’s hunting with honor again.”

“I’m hunting because I won't survive on a ship with nothing but dried figs and bread hard enough to kill a man if you throw it right.”

“That bread is a weapon,” Antiphus agreed. “Ask Ajax. He chipped a tooth on it.”

Philoctetes grinned in the dark.

“Tomorrow, when you’re eating stew rich enough to make kings weep, you’ll thank me.”

Euryalus grumbled. “I’ll thank you when I’m not ankle-deep in thorns, walking through Hades' outhouse at night.”

They stumbled over a low ridge, the trees thinning just enough to let in starlight. Fog drifted along the ground in silver ribbons.

Philoctetes paused, crouching low. His hand brushed a hoofprint - sharp, fresh, still damp at the edges.

“Tracks,” he said, voice low but electric. “Big one.”

Antiphus sighed loudly. “Wonderful. We’re not just out here - we’re committed to the madness now.”

But the grumbling quieted.

The three of them moved silently, instinct guiding steps that no longer needed words. The forest held its breath. Branches hung still, and somewhere up ahead, a twig snapped.

The stag appeared between the trees like a breath in cold air - silent, sudden, regal.

Philoctetes didn’t hesitate.

He loosed his arrow, smooth as thought.

The stag dropped with a thud.

“By the gods!” Antiphus crowed. “He did it again!”

“Show-off,” muttered Euryalus, breaking into a run.

Philoctetes didn’t move.

Something had pricked him - just above the ankle. He looked down, puzzled. A strange, light sting. He shifted his foot. The ground under it seemed wrong - off, unsteady.

The others were already at the fallen deer, cheering, slapping each other on the back, arguing over how much of it belonged to them by “moral contribution.”

“Philoctetes, come gloat properly!” Antiphus called, laughing.

He opened his mouth.

Then blinked.

The trees blurred at the edges. A tremor started in his calf and slithered upward.

“I - y-yeah,” he tried, but his voice barely carried.

He took a step forward.

The forest tilted.

Philoctetes dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

The torchlight flickered. Distant voices called his name, sharp now, alarmed.

But he didn’t hear them.

Everything was too quiet.

Then-

Darkness.

---

***

 That day the sea was just like glass - dark, polished, and unnervingly still beneath a sky too bright for comfort. No wind stirred the Argo’s sail, and the oars rested in their locks, slack and dripping after a long, reluctant morning of rowing.

The men sprawled across the deck in messy clusters, skin flushed, eyes dazed, sweat still sweet with perfume. Bits of bruised fruit and crushed flowers littered the planks, and someone’s tunic was tangled in the rigging like a forgotten flag.

They had left Lemnos only hours ago.

And already, Heracles was done with all of them.

He stood near the brazier like a wrathful shrine statue, broad arms crossed and jaw locked with fury. The brazier’s smoke curled past him, slow and acrid, as if even it knew better than to stir the air.

“You absolute imbeciles,” he snarled.

A few men flinched. Most didn’t even lift their heads. Too drunk or too tired to care.

“I should have left you there, ” he bellowed, voice cracking like thunder across the deck. “Let you live out your days as pampered pets, getting fed grapes and brushed like lapdogs by a bunch of lonely women.”

Scattered groans followed. A few men chuckled sheepishly.

“They were very… persuasive,” Idomeneus muttered.

“They had priestesses!” Ascalaphus offered, as if that helped.

“They weren’t all priestesses,” Heracles snapped. “Some of them were governors, farmers, generals - and all of them made you their playthings inside of three nights.”

“I wasn’t a plaything,” Idmon argued. “We could’ve left anytime we wanted.”

“Oh, really?” Heracles rounded on him. “Is that why you were crying when I yanked you out of that marble bathhouse?”

Idmon turned beet-red. A few men snorted laughter, trying to hide it behind their cups.

Philoctetes, sitting with his back to a coil of sailcloth, raised both hands in a gesture of protest. His cheeks were still flushed, either from the sun or something more recent.

“For the record,” he said with exaggerated dignity, “I resisted more temptation than I accepted. And I didn’t stay in any temple or bathhouse.”

Heracles turned toward him like a bull sighting movement in the grass.

“You shouldn’t have been anywhere near a temple! Your parents would hang me in the middle of the town if you did as much as look at half of the things that happened there! Your voice still cracks like an ungreased hinge. The only thing you should’ve been seducing is your sleep schedule.”

A round of laughter burst from the men.

Philoctetes turned scarlet and opened his mouth - only to close it again, knowing he couldn’t claw his way out of that one. All he did was to mutter “You are not that much older than me.”

Jason sighed and rubbed his temple. “There was a lot of perfume.”

“There was too much perfume,” Heracles growled. “You all stank of rose oil and whatever’s worse than dignity.”

He jabbed a thumb toward Laertes, who stood near the stern rail, calm and dry and maddeningly unruffled, just enjoying his pipe. “Laertes and I had to drag half of you by the ankles to get back aboard. You didn’t walk out. You were removed. ”

“We could walk just fine.” Jabbed Theseus who for most of the time pretended to be distracted by sharpening his spear.

“Barely,” Heracles snapped and pointed at Theseus and his brother. “And two of you had hickeys on your thighs. Don’t even try to tell me that was voluntary self-control.”

“Okay! We are weak to women but it’s a normal thing.”

“Speak for yourself, boy,” Nestor muttered. “I would never cheat on my wife… I just drank too much wine and got lost in the forest.”

Jason tried to steer the conversation off the ledge. “At least none of us ended up married.”

Heracles snorted. “Another night, and a few of you would’ve been. Permanent consorts. Carried around in baskets. Eating from someone else’s hand.”

Idomeneus held up a finger. “Technically, that sounds relaxing.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw you overboard,” Heracles muttered. “I knew it would be a bad idea.”

“And why did you want to avoid this island in the first place?” Asked Idomeneus despite not looking interested in the conversation that was taking place. “You complained about it before we even docked there.”

Heracles shuddered before speaking. “One woman-governed island was enough for me, thank you very much. At least this time I didn’t have to rampage through the island naked.”

Some people laughed while others were concerned about what happened to their companion to be this traumatized. After all, it's not a common view to see Heracles shaken by a memory.

“But what about Laertes? He didn’t get tempted,” someone pointed out - possibly Idmon again, voice half-challenging, half-curious. “He didn’t even look tempted.”

All eyes turned toward the quiet Ithacan, leaning on the rail like he’d been carved from it.

Laertes gave a slow smile, let out smoke from his mouth and tilted his face slightly toward the horizon, where Lemnos had already vanished into the haze.

“Because I already have a wife,” he said simply. “And none of them were her.”

A groan rose at once.

“Not again,” Ascalaphus muttered. “He’s doing the thing.”

“Every time,” added Idomeneus, flinging an olive pit toward the sea. “The radiant Anticlea soliloquy. I swear I’ve memorized it like a hymn.”

“He’s going to mention her eyes next,” Idmon said. “Like they’ve got tides.”

“They do, ” Laertes said without shame. “And the tides know how to keep a man anchored.”

“Oh, gods,” Theseus groaned, throwing his head back. “I came on this journey to escape love poetry.”

Philoctetes, red-faced but grinning, leaned forward.

“You sound like a bard trying to win a feast.”

“Better than sounding like a boy trying to fake manhood,” Heracles grunted without looking up.

That earned a round of snickers at Philoctetes’ expense. He scowled and crossed his arms but didn’t push further. Laertes to cheer him up let him take a drag from the pipe. The teen coughed at first but then he was able to inhale some smoke without problem.

Jason, still stretched beside the brazier with his head propped in his hand, waved for silence.

“Let the man speak,” he said. “He fought for her.”

Laertes raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t fight that much. I waited.”

Jason chuckled. “You outlasted Autolycus. That’s a fight of its own.”

“Wait - that Autolycus?” Idmon said. “The thief who stole a lion’s tooth from a live lion? That Autolycus?”

“The very same,” said Jason, grinning. “My grandfather. And the most paranoid, unpredictable man ever to love a daughter. Laertes had to endure six different lectures on why ‘civilized men make dull, soul-crushing husbands.’”

“He wanted her to become a huntress of Artemis,” Laertes said with a small smile. “Wandering the hills, answering to no man. Not the wife of a prince. He called it a cage.”

“Was he wrong?” Atlanta asked, almost sincerely.

“Not entirely,” Laertes replied. “But Anticlea chose differently. And he couldn’t stop loving her just because she didn’t follow his vision.”

“Sounds like my father,” Philoctetes said, arms still folded. “Though mine didn’t want me to run wild. He just didn’t want me out of reach.”

A few of the men looked at him, curious. Philoctetes rarely talked about his parents.

“He’s a king, you know,” said Ascalaphus, nudging Idomeneus.

“Oh, right, ” Idomeneus groaned. “The rebel prince.”

“I’m not rebelling,” Philoctetes muttered.

“You joined a ship full of lunatics chasing a magic sheep,” Jason said with a grin. “That’s pretty far from a royal marriage and a throne.”

“He said I needed more ‘discipline’ before I was ready to represent Meliboea,” Philoctetes muttered. “So I found a crew of murderers, madmen, and men who talk about their wives like poets.” Before Philoctetes could say anything more, Laertes snatched back his pipe. “Oi! I didn’t finish!”

Laertes took a drag after which he blew a cloud of smoke on the teen making him cough. “You’re welcome.”

That got a round of laughter.

“But truly,” Laertes added, eyes settling on Philoctetes now with a touch of warmth, “if you’re running, you’re also learning. Maybe that’s what the old kings forget. Sons need to shape themselves before they carry crowns.”

Philoctetes blinked, caught off guard. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort. Only a thoughtful nod.

Just then, the sail gave a sudden tug. A breeze had stirred at last, faint but promising. The ship shifted beneath them, the ropes tightening with gentle groans.

Someone murmured a thank-you to Boreas. Oars were drawn in. Idle talk resumed. The wine passed again.

But for a long moment, Philoctetes sat quietly beside Laertes. He and Heracles were his closest friends and they nerf shamed him for his young age. Instead they guided him, helping him become a better man.

Some of the lessons were learned from life and some of them were just things tey learned  not to do and now they hoped that their young companion would be smarter than them.

But it’s always hard to say which lessons are going to last.

---

Years had passed since the Argo had carved her name across the Aegean. The taste of sea salt had faded from Philoctetes’ lips, replaced by the dust of travel and the scent of olive groves. He had wandered far and fought harder, but something in him still remembered the promise he made - to visit old friends once the world stopped trying to kill him. The last part of the deal could be easily questioned but at least he made sure to always see his comrades as often as the sails allow.

Ithaca rose from the sea like a sleeping beast, all jagged cliffs and quiet beauty. When Philoctetes stepped off the boat and onto its rocky shores, it felt like stepping into the memory of a song.

The palace had changed. New vines climbed the old stone, and the air smelled of seasalt, lemon balm and chamomile. But the warmth was the same. He passed the threshold unchallenged, a sign of trust that tugged at something deep in his chest.

He found Laertes in the hall. Or rather, what used to be a hall. Now it looked like a war zone - shattered pots, paint-stained stones, streaks of color across the stone wall like a battlefield of pigments. The king of Ithaca sat hunched on a stool, hair wild, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained blue and gold and violet. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, his mouth slack with fatigue.

“By all the gods,” Philoctetes said, stopping short. “Who did this to you?”

Laertes looked up, blinking like a man emerging from a dream. Then his face lit up.

“Philoctetes!”

They embraced - brief, but full of memory. Philoctetes stepped back and scanned the wreckage with a mixture of awe and concern.

“Is Ithaca under siege by painters?”

“Worse,” a female voice chuckled. “Superstition.”

Before Philoctetes could demand explanation, a more clear light laugh floated toward them like birdsong.

Anticlea emerged from the far doorway, radiant despite her tiredness. Her brown almost reddish hair was bound up in a loose braid, her robes hastily tied, but her smile made the courtyard brighter. In her arms she held a small bundle wrapped in soft wool - a bundle that squirmed and hiccupped and let out the softest, most defiant squeak Philoctetes had ever heard.

“He repainted the nursery again, ” she said, with the long-suffering patience of the deeply in love.“I told you,” she spoke to her husband through a laugh, “no one cares about old superstitions anymore!”

Laertes pointed a paint-streaked hand at her. “The flowers I painted looked like wilting hemlock. Do you want our daughter to grow up under a bad omen?”

“She’s ten days old,” Anticlea said, kissing the baby’s forehead. “She barely knows what sunlight is, much less doom.”

Philoctetes blinked.

“She?”

“Our daughter,” Anticlea said softly, stepping forward. She angled her arms so he could see.

Laertes, still covered in drying paint, beamed with open pride.

The baby nestled in her arms was impossibly small, her skin soft as dew. Her eyes were open - one a sharp, bronze , the other a deep sea-blue, flickering in the light like polished stone.

Philoctetes leaned in, breath catching. He’d fought beasts and buried friends, but nothing had prepared him for this. He touched the edge of the blanket reverently.

“By Artemis,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

Anticlea’s smile softened as she tilted the bundle slightly. “Meet Odysseus. Ten days old, and already louder than her father.”

Laertes gave a long, world-weary groan, the kind that only new fathers and old warriors could truly master.

Philoctetes raised an eyebrow. “Wait - Odysseus ? That’s a bold name for a girl.”

“Laurel and thunder, don’t get me started,” Laertes muttered, rubbing his face, accidentally staining it with a green hue.

Anticlea chuckled as she rocked the baby gently. “My father named her. You remember Autolycus.”

“Gods help us all,” Philoctetes said automatically.

“He made a solemn vow to name our firstborn,” Laertes said flatly. “Said he’d name them after himself in spirit - ‘one who is hated by many but outwits them all.’”

Philoctetes squinted. “He really thinks that’s flattering?”

Anticlea just smiled fondly. “He meant it as a blessing.”

“I told him she was a girl,” Laertes continued, gesturing wildly, “and he looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Then the world had better get used to it.’ Wouldn’t even consider another name! This old stubborn ass!”

Philoctetes snorted. “So you were outmaneuvered by your father-in-law before the child could even speak. I’m so proud.”

“I was busy painting flowers,” Laertes muttered, defeated. “I had an excuse to be emotionally compromised.”

Philoctetes burst out laughing. “You poor bastard.”

“She wears it well,” Anticlea said softly, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s downy head. “Name or not. I think it suits her.”

Philoctetes looked at the little bundle again. Odysseus was peering up at the sky like she’d already spotted weaknesses in his stance.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, maybe it does.”

Anticlea chuckled and rocked the baby in her arms. Odysseus gave a tiny grunt in response, as if to signal she’d inherited that stubborn streak.

Philoctetes leaned closer, studying the infant’s mismatched eyes. Then he looked at his friend with his grey eyes and the king queen with her green. 

“That’s not common,” he murmured.

“Neither is her bloodline,” Anticlea said, brushing a curl from her daughter’s brow. “My father, as you know, is a son of Hermes. And my mother - well, she was a shapeshifter from the north isles. Never stayed the same face two days in a row. Gods know what dances in this one’s veins.”

“Hopefully not too many lies,” Laertes muttered, though his eyes stayed soft on his daughter.

“Only the clever kind,” Anticlea said, with a wink.

Philoctetes shook his head in wonder.

“It suits her. A little mystery already.”

They stood in a peaceful silence for a moment, broken only by the soft gurgle of the infant.

“Any word of Jason?” Anticlea asked eventually. “Or the others?”

Philoctetes nodded.

“I’ve heard that his second son was just born. They named him Thessalus.Already planning alliances, no doubt,” Philoctetes muttered with a smirk. “Jason probably has scrolls laid out, planning who his boy should marry for the greatest gain.”

“Not every father thinks that way,” Laertes said, frowning.

Anticlea gently rocked Odysseus and smiled.

“We hope she’ll marry for love. When she’s ready. And if she wants to.”

Laertes nodded, folding his paint-stained arms. He looked down at his daughter again, and the lines on his face softened.

“She’s not a piece in a game. No child should be.”

Philoctetes looked between the two of them - tired, proud, whole in a way he hadn’t seen many become - and felt something stir in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or envy. Or just the ghost of a future he hadn't dared dream for himself.

He smiled.

“Then may she live free and love fiercely. And may the gods keep her away from Jason. This opportunist would for sure try to suggest a deal a two when given a chance.”

Anticlea laughed. Laertes rolled his eyes.

Then, with a smile, the queen looked at Philoctetes. “Want to hold her?”

Philoctetes stepped back like she’d offered him a burning torch. “I-uh-I’ve stabbed monsters, not swaddled them.”

“Oh, come on,” Laertes said, guiding him forward. “You’ve got steady hands. Or you used to?”

“Still do,” Philoctetes grumbled, letting himself be steered.

Anticlea adjusted his arms, showing him how to cradle the tiny bundle. Odysseus fit perfectly in the crook of his elbow, warm and impossibly small. She blinked up at him with those strange, sharp eyes that already seemed older than her days.

“She’s…” He swallowed. “She’s not even crying.”

“She knows a soldier when she sees one,” Laertes said proudly. “I’m certain she’s inspecting your armor.”The king let out a deep laugh to which others followed.

But then.

It happened.

Odysseus’s tiny hand reached up, latched onto his beard, and tugged. 

Hard.

Philoctetes yelped. “Ah - by the Styx, she’s got the grip of a giant!”

Anticlea burst into laughter. “She does that to everyone.”

“She’s a menace,” Philoctetes muttered, squinting down at her. “Just like her parents.”

Odysseus squealed with delight, her whole body wriggling as if pleased by his pain.

“She’s laughing!” Anticlea said.

“I’m not!”

Laertes leaned in smugly. “Told you she can recognise a warrior. And this little bundle of joy loves to challenge any worthy opponent for a battle.”

Philoctetes looked down again, scowling through a smile as she blinked up at him, still clutching his beard. “You little terror,” he murmured. “You’re going to rule kingdoms with an iron fist, aren’t you?”

Odysseus let go, gurgled, and smiled.

And Philoctetes melted.

“She likes me,” he said, stunned.

“Of course she does,” Anticlea said softly. “She knows family when she sees it.”

Odysseus hiccupped again, as if offering her own tiny, opinionated response.

And the three of them stood there in the painted wreck of a nursery entrance, in the soft warmth of an Ithacan evening, with laughter echoing off the stone like a blessing of the new tomorrow.

---

It was, without question, one of the most surreal sights the walls of Ithaca’s palace had ever contained.

On the floor of the solar, a ring of legendary warriors - sailors, kings, tricksters, and killers - sat cross-legged in a circle around a giggling, pudgy-legged baby girl. She wore a crown of daisies someone had awkwardly woven into her dark curls, and her tunic was slightly askew from all the affectionate tossing and lap-hopping she’d endured.

“She looks like she’s judging us,” said Nestor, brow furrowed in mock solemnity.

“That’s because she is,” said Telamon, holding a carved wooden horse and shaking it in hopes of gaining the baby's attention. “This is Ithaca’s future queen. We’re being evaluated.”

“A shame we’ll all be found lacking,” murmured Idomeneus, plucking softly at his lyre in the corner. “Except Philoctetes, apparently. She follows him like a duckling.”

“That’s because I know how to win a lady's heart.” Philoctetes said cheerfully, tossing Odysseus a stuffed puppy as she toddled into his lap. “Also because she respects me. We’re partners.”

Jason scooted closer to the baby and muttered without looking at his friend. “She’s one ,” though his voice was muffled because he was blowing raspberries on the baby’s arm, to her utter delight.

“She’s toying with us,” said Nestor, narrowing his eyes as little Odysseus smiled at him after which she looked at Philoctetes. “I swear she knows exactly who’ll give her candy.”

“She doesn’t need to know,” said Telamon, throwing up his hands. “Philoctetes gives it out like he’s trying to rot every tooth in Ithaca.”

“I’m nurturing trust,” Philoctetes said, completely unrepentant, as he handed her a fig chunk. “Also bribery. A delicate balance.”

“Corruption,” Jason muttered. “This is corruption.”

“You say that like she didn’t just trick you into giving her your dagger by looking at it and saying ‘Pointy! Pwease,’” Philoctetes replied, trying to copy the princesses’ babble.

Jason flushed. “She was so polite !” Then he crossed his arms and pouted. “My sons would only bite me.”

“Because you were always roughhousing with them, you idiot.” Complained Nestor. “Medea warned you that it would end like that.”

“How was I supposed to know that this time her nagging was justified?”

“You are seriously arguing with a woman who knocked out a dragon? How the fuck you have balls for that?”

“ Cover her ears! ” Jason yelped, diving forward and slapping his hands over the baby’s ears just in time. “She’s too pure for your foul tongue”

Odysseus squealed with delight as Jason’s hands made a floppy-ear game of her head. Then she pointed at Philoctetes’s pocket expectantly. A rattling sound attracted the baby to it like light attracted a moth.

Philoctetes ignored his companions. He removed the baby from his lap, took a step back and ceremoniously set a cloth between himself and the little Odysseus, drawing out a tiny leather pouch from the pocked that the princess tried to reach.

“Time to teach you the game of kings and scoundrels,” he announced. “Dice.”

Several Argonauts immediately groaned.

“No,” Atlanta said, “you are not corrupting Laertes’s baby-”

“Too late,” Philoctetes said. “She’s already got her lucky face. Look at her. That’s a dice shark in the making.”

Odysseus, clearly unaware of her impending criminal destiny, gurgled and clapped as Philoctetes placed the carved bones in her hands and showed her how to shake them.

“Now,” Philoctetes said seriously, as if addressing a commander before battle, “you want to roll them like this - loose grip, nice flick of the wrist, and no chewing. That last part’s important.”

He rolled his own set of dice with a practiced flourish. They landed on a four and a five.

“Nine,” he announced. “Beat that.”

Odysseus looked at her dice. Then she looked at Philoctetes. Then she flung the dice - more of a messy underhand toss than a true roll. One bounced into the leg of a chair. The other landed squarely on the cloth.

Six. And another six.

“Twelve,” Philoctetes said, blinking. “Twelve?”

The baby squealed. She might have been celebrating. Or she might’ve just liked the noise her dice made hitting the floor. Either way, she reached out toward him expectantly, clapping her hands.

There was a beat of silence, then an explosion of laughter as Atalanta shouted, “She won!?”

Odysseus, one year old and grinning through drool, patted at the dice with clumsy triumph. One landed in her mouth before Philoctetes could stop her.

“No, no - gods, not everything is food, little menace.”

Jason quickly removed the dice and Philoctetes handed her another piece of candied fig - soft and sugared, her favorite - and watched her fumble to fit it in her mouth.

“I’ve been robbed,” Philoctetes declared, holding his chest. “By a literal infant.”

“A true Ithacan,” murmured Idomeneus.

“Bet she cheated,” said Nestor, elbowing Telamon. “She’s already got her grandfather’s blood.”

“Granddaughter of Autolycus, goddess preserve us all,” someone muttered.

At that, Odysseus clapped again, demanding another fig, which Philoctetes solemnly surrendered to her as her prize.

“I’m going to tell Laertes,” Atlanta sing-songed.

“No, no, don’t,” said Jason. “We’ll all be banned.”

Just then, as if summoned by the gods of timing, Laertes’s voice echoed from the hall.

“Why is it suddenly too quiet?”

A shared panic overtook the group. Idomeneus hid the dice behind his back. Atlanta hastily tried to fix the daisy crown on Odysseus's head. Jason again covered the baby’s ears dramatically before he whispered (hissed) to others “Swear to the gods, if any of you gets us cursed, I’m feeding you to Charybdis.”

Laertes appeared in the doorway and took in the scene.

The child. The heroes. The dice. The fig-smeared grin on his daughter’s face.

He sighed, long and tired.

“I knew letting you all in the palace was a mistake.”

“She’s learning valuable skills,” Philoctetes said innocently.

“ Gambling is not a valuable skill!”

“It is if you do it well.”

“You’re all scoundrels,” Laertes grumbled, striding over and lifting Odysseus into his arms. “Every single one of you.”

Odysseus reached out toward Philoctetes again, clearly ready for round two.

“See? She’s eager to learn,” he said proudly. “That’s natural talent.”

“It’s the dice,” murmured Jason. “Or the fig bribes.”

Anticlea appeared a heartbeat later, leaning on the doorway with one brow lifted.

“What are you teaching my precious daughter this time?”

“Probability and bribery,” Philoctetes answered proudly.

“Ah,” Anticlea said, smiling. “So, practical life skills.”

“No! No one be on his side!”

“Well, she’s adorable,” Atalanta said. “And she beat Philoctetes at dice.”

Anticlea laughed and took her daughter from Laertes, cooing softly and brushing the fig stickiness from her chin.

“She’s my little genius.”

“My tiny lamb becomes a menace ,” Laertes corrected. “Between you, your father, and them ,” he waved broadly at the Argonauts, “I’m going to be raising a con artist.”

“A queen,” corrected Anticlea.

“Queen con artist ,” grumbled Laertes, defeated.

“If you’re lucky,” Philoctetes muttered. “If not, she’ll be running her own gambling ring in Thebes by the time she’s five.”

The room dissolved into more laughter as baby Odysseus, drooling and triumphant, banged a dice against her forehead and giggled.

By the end of the day most of the group moved to different activities like drying Laertes’ out of his wine or preparing for the next day’s departure. 

After all they gathered here not just to play with an infant but also to bring their companion for another battle. Now that he was informed and ready they could leave tomorrow if the winds were on their side.

Philoctetes leaned against the stone rail, pipe in hand, its embers glowing like a sleeping coal. The night air was cooler here, touched by salt and memory.

Laertes was already sitting there, his elbows on his knees, staring out at the water. He hadn’t noticed the approach until Philoctetes sat beside him with a sigh.

They smoked in silence for a while.

“You alright?” Philoctetes asked eventually.

Laertes didn’t answer right away. The pause lingered longer than usual - long enough that Philoctetes glanced over. The king’s eyes were shadowed, distant. Not troubled exactly, but unmoored.

“This morning,” Laertes said softly, “when I woke… for a moment I thought I was on the Argo.”

Philoctetes turned toward him, lips parting - but Laertes shook his head slightly, as if to wave off the concern before it could fully form.

“I heard gulls and sails flapping. Smelled pitch. I panicked when I saw the servant instead of you or Jason. Took me a few minutes before I… remembered.”

“Gods,” Philoctetes muttered.

He didn’t try to joke. He just handed over the pipe. Laertes took it without a word.

“I suppose that’s what happens when half your life was spent chasing myths,” the older man said eventually, exhaling smoke.

“We didn’t chase them,” Philoctetes replied. “We became them.”

That earned him a quiet grunt. Not quite a laugh.

The silence stretched again. Peaceful, but too heavy to be restful.

Then Philoctetes elbowed him gently.

“You know, one day soon things will calm down and you’ll be waking up to a different kind of terror.”

Laertes turned, brows raised.

“Suitors,” Philoctetes said, grinning. “Young princes with slicked hair and big titles. Elbowing each other in your hall, all swearing they love your daughter.”

“Don’t,” Laertes said instantly, face wrinkling. “Don’t say it.”

“They’ll be lining up,” Philoctetes continued mercilessly, eyes gleaming. “Bringing gifts. Quoting poetry. Trying to outwit her .”

“Philoctetes, I’m warning you-”

The younger man only laughed, “One of them’s going to call you father! Oh I wish I could see your face when it happens!”

“I’ll throw him off the cliffs before I let that happen.”

“You’ll weep like a priestess.”

Laertes groaned and rubbed his face.

“Gods. Can’t you just let me enjoy one peaceful night without a headache?”

“Nope,” Philoctetes said cheerfully. “My duty as your brother-in-arms includes emotional torment.”

Laertes finally chuckled, low and reluctant.

“She’ll eat them alive,” he said. “Every last one of them.”

“If she doesn’t, I will.”

They leaned back, watching the dark waves break like ink below.

“She’s going to be something,” Laertes murmured.

“She already is.”

“I just hope she gets a chance to be… I don’t know. A child. At least a little longer. World can be quite cruel for royalty. Some will live for hundred years without reasons to worry and others experience their first uprising before all their baby teeth fall out.”

Philoctetes nodded, tapping ash into the wind.

“You’ll raise her well.”

“So have you,” Laertes said, glancing at him. “In your own… chaotic, dangerous way.”

“Thank you,” Philoctetes said smugly. “High praise from a man who not too long ago had to stop Theseus from teaching Ody how to hold a knife.”

Laertes shook his head.

“You and my father-in-law are going to be the end of me.”

“But what a glorious end it’ll be.”

They smoked in silence again as the stars blinked open overhead, one by one, like old comrades returning to their posts. Below, the sea kept whispering.

And on the wind, just for a moment, there was a sound like sails flapping and rope groaning in the rigging.

Philoctetes didn’t mention it. And Laertes said nothing more.

But they both sat a little longer than they meant to, shoulders close, not quite ready to part with the night.

---

The sun was low when Philoctetes disembarked at the harbor, shadows stretching long across the stones. The letter from Anticlea had been brief, but urgent.

 Come quietly. I don’t know who I can trust.

Now, as the palace gates closed behind him with a muted thud, he understood why.

It wasn’t that the palace was abandoned—it wasn’t. Guards stood at their posts. Lamps had been lit. A servant bowed and offered him wine upon entry, but their eyes lingered too long, and their smiles faltered at the edges. Everything looked the same, but something in the air was wrong. Off , like spoiled milk in a silver cup.

A guard escorted him through the familiar halls, silent save for the soft click of armor and sandals on stone. No sounds of argument or laughter. No glimpses of Laertes pacing or tutors debating in sunlit alcoves. Only the whisper of distant footsteps, and once, a child’s voice drifting and vanishing just as quickly.

It wasn’t until they passed through the eastern wing that the weight truly settled in his chest. This part of the palace had always felt warmer - quieter, yes, but in a way that spoke of stories and lullabies and half-finished games. Now, the quiet was a hush before a scream.

The guard paused by a door and cleared his throat.

“She’s inside,” he said. “Waiting.”

Philoctetes gave a nod, and the man stepped back. No formal announcement. No heralding trumpets. Just the creak of the door opening under his hand.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the last gold of the sun seeping through the window and slightly burning candle. Toys lay scattered on the floor, walls covered in painted flowers and child’s scribbles. A tiny pair of sandals lay abandoned by the bed near which sat the queen. She petted her younger daughter’s hair while the child slept peacefully.

Anticlea sat on a cushion near the candle that lit her face, her back straight,one hand on her child’s hair and the other resting tightly in her lap. Her expression - proud and unreadable at a distance - crumbled the moment she looked up.

“Philoctetes,” she said, and then again, softer, “You came.”

Before he could kneel, she rose to meet him, closing the distance. Her composure cracked - just enough to show the storm beneath it.

“We should move to another room. I don’t want to wake up Ctimene. Poor baby cried for long enough.”

The argonaut silently followed the woman to another room. Once they were inside and the queen locked the door, Philoctetes felt ready to speak.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

Anticlea opened her mouth, then pressed a hand to it, eyes wet and shining. Her voice was raw when it came.

“It’s Odysseus.”

Philoctetes stiffened

“She ran,” she said. “After another fight with her father. She said she’d had enough of being shouted at, accused of - of things no child should hear. That night, I found her bed cold. It’s been over a month.”

Philoctetes’s hands clenched. “You haven’t had any word since?”

“No. I sent a letter to Autolycus, but he’s halfway across the Peloponnesus. By the time he gets the message…” She looked down at her youngest. “And I can’t leave. Laertes… he’s worse.”

He felt her hand tremble as she gripped onto her dress. Her knuckles turned white in the process.

“He forgets where he is. Who she is. Some days, he thinks she’s still small - just a toddler playing in the olive groves. Other days, he… he says things that…”

She couldn’t finish.

Philoctetes knelt beside her, hands resting on his thighs. He didn’t speak yet. Not until she did.

“I can’t send soldiers,” Anticlea finally whispered. “If people start asking questions, if someone learns that the princess of Ithaca is missing - gods, Philoctetes, they’ll start looking for her. But not to bring her home.”

She didn’t have to say it.

Not every kingdom was kind. A vulnerable heir - especially one with a reputation for divine bloodline - wasn’t a missing child. She was an opportunity.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’ll reach out to a few of my old companions. Men I trust. They can search without drawing too many eyes. They know how to listen, and how to move like shadows.”

She blinked hard, nodding.

“I’m afraid she’ll think I didn’t come for her,” Anticlea whispered. “That I let her go. That she’s alone.”

Philoctetes reached out, gently covering her hand with his callused one.

“She’s not alone,” he said. “She has your blood in her. Autolycus’s wit. Laertes’s courage - whatever’s left of it. And now she has me on her trail. And believe me when I say that I’m better than any hound.”

At that, Anticlea managed the faintest of smiles. But it faded quickly.

“Laertes called her ‘that child’ today. He didn’t even realize what he was saying or that his daughter was missing. When I told him - he just... looked at me. Like I was the one being cruel.”

Philoctetes exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting to the window and the sight of the sea.

“After we learned what happened to Heracles in his two marriages, we all feared madness more than any god.”

Anticlea nodded, silent.

“It’s not his fault,” she said at last. “I know that. But-” Her voice cracked again. “It still hurts. Some days he’s so cold . And others he’s soft again. Like the man I married. But I never know which I’ll wake up to.”

Philoctetes’s jaw clenched.

“We thought we were invincible,” he said after a long pause. “Argonauts. Heroes. Stealing from kings, outwitting gods, slaying monsters like it was sport.”

He laughed once, bitterly.

“Most of us were punished for it. One way or another. Orpheus? Was killed not too long after supposedly escaping the gates to the underworld. Jason lost everything. Heracles went mad for the second time. And Laertes…”

“And Laertes?” she asked quietly.

Philoctetes looked toward the crooked garden gate.

“He was always the lucky one,” he murmured. “Married the woman he loved. Came home from a hellish journey. Raised his children. No curses. No monsters dogging his heels… Maybe gods feared more people like him avoiding cruel fates and decided to fog his mind as a warning to anyone who would dare to repeat his achievements.”

Then he paused.

Anticlea studied him, sensing the shift in the air. “And what about you, Philoctetes? What was your curse?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly, like the breath had been trapped in him for years.

“I helped a friend die,” he said at last, the words brittle in his mouth.

Anticlea’s face softened. She knew the name he didn’t say.

“You helped Heracles ascend,” she said gently. “You ended his pain.”

“No,” Philoctetes said, voice cracking just slightly. “I gave him fire. That’s all. I built the pyre. I lit it. He didn’t know what would come after. He didn’t go in hoping for immortality. He was just ready to end the pain and die.”

His hands trembled slightly in his lap. He didn’t look at her.

“I stood there,” he said. “While he screamed. While the poison ate him alive. And I didn’t put it out. I didn’t run. I just… watched. Like a priest at a sacrifice.”

Anticlea said nothing at first. Just reached out and took his hand.

“I think about her,” she said quietly. “Odysseus. The way she used to laugh at Laertes’ terrible singing. The way she used to fall asleep holding that silly wooden horse he carved for her. And I think… gods, how do I keep her safe? How do I protect her when everything we built is crumbling?”

Philoctetes didn’t speak.

Anticlea turned to face him more fully. “You did what you had to,” she said. “And so will I. So will you. Maybe we can’t undo the damage. Maybe we’ll never fix everything we broke. But we can take care of the ones who are still here.”

He gave a small nod.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, maybe we can.”

Anticlea turned her face away, one hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders trembled.

Philoctetes gently squeezed her shoulder.

“I’ll bring her home,” he said again. “No one needs to know who she is. Not yet. Not until she’s safe.”

“And if she doesn’t want to come back?” Anticlea asked, voice almost lost.

“Then I’ll remind her,” he said, “who she is. And who’s waiting for her.”

They were like this for a short while but soon after Philoctetes moved. He wasn’t sure if it was his sense of duty or pain after seeing Anticlea’s sadness that pushed him out of there.

He stepped into the corridor, the door shutting behind him with a soft click. The sound rang louder than it should’ve. His shoulders still held the weight of the queen's grief, and the promise he’d made hung like a whetstone in his chest: I’ll find her.

But before he could map a plan or call on old favors - before he could send word to men who owed him or follow the wind in search of the girl - there was one thing left unsettled.

Laertes.

Philoctetes had known the man when he was sharp and keen as a blade. He remembered Laertes when his voice could command storms. When he would guide him like other younger members of the crew ensuring their safety at all cost.

But that had been years ago. And time, Philoctetes was slowly learning, was a thief.

He left the eastern wing, boots treading quieter now, and asked a servant where the old king could be found. The boy hesitated a moment - then pointed toward the courtyard with a bowed head.

“He sits there most of the time,” the servant said, voice low. “He doesn’t like being indoors anymore.”

Philoctetes nodded and crossed the colonnade, where sunlight washed the walls pale gold. The air smelled of thyme and sea-wind, just as it always had. But now it all felt… thinner. Distant.

He rounded the stone column and saw him.

Laertes sat in the courtyard, shelling peas into a cracked wooden bowl. His fingers trembled with each movement, fumbling more than not. The sun warmed his silver hair, but there was a distant, glassy look in his eyes - as if he was half-listening to music no one else could hear.

Philoctetes approached quietly. His shadow stretched long across the flagstones.

“Laertes?”

The old man blinked and looked up. For a moment, his eyes lit.

“Phil!” he said with a grin, bright and boyish. “You’ve come to visit? Ody will be happy to see you.”

Philoctetes stood very still. The weight in his chest pressed down, heavy as armor.

Laertes never called him like that.

“Laertes,” he said again, slower now. “She’s not here.”

Laertes chuckled, brushing a pea pod from his lap. “Of course she is. Probably off climbing trees with that scrawny son of the physician. She always comes back before supper. Wild thing, that one.”

“She’s been gone for over a month.”

Laertes frowned.

“No… no, that can’t be right. She wouldn’t leave. Not like that.”

“She did,” Philoctetes said, pain sharpening his voice. “She left after you shouted at her again. After you accused her of things that should be unspeakable. She packed what she could and vanished into the night.”

Laertes blinked, confusion clouding his face like a mist. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl? You must be mistaken.”

“Odysseus,” Philoctetes said, firm now. “Your daughter.”

The name seemed to stir something. Laertes' brows furrowed. Then slowly, his mouth twisted - not with recognition, but with something darker.

“That one,” he muttered. “Always sneaking around. Always lying. I never asked for a child like that. Never trusted those eyes.”

Philoctetes flinched. “Laertes-”

“She’s not mine,” Laertes said flatly. “She can’t be. Not truly. Not with the way she thinks. The way she - takes after him.”

“Him?”

“Sisyphus. For years he tried to get my wife… and it seems he's done it.”

Philoctetes went very still.

And then, he moved.

He reached out, seized the front of Laertes’ tunic in both fists, and hauled the old man to his feet with the strength of rage.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, eyes wet and blazing. “Don’t you dare say that. I don’t care what the sickness has taken from you - I don’t care how many years have been lost to the fog - but I know you. I remember the man who sang lullabies on deck, who talked about his wife and daughters like they were spun from starlight and sea-foam.”

Laertes’s eyes widened, bewildered.

“She is yours, and your wife loves you despite what that cursed tongue of yours is spouting!” Philoctetes shouted, his voice cracking now, trembling with fury and grief. “She is your daughter, Laertes! The one you loved ! The one you raised ! And if there is anything left of the man I once called my brother, my captain, my hero - then you will never betray that love by saying something so vile ever again!”

Tears were slipping down his cheeks now. He didn’t wipe them away.

Laertes stared.

Then, slowly - slowly - his eyes seemed to clear. His breathing steadied.

“I…” he stammered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He reached out, hesitantly. His hands, old and shaking, found Philoctetes’ shoulders.

Philoctetes collapsed into the embrace, arms wrapping around his old friend like a tether holding them both upright. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world narrowed to the press of fabric, the rise and fall of breath, the faint scent of old salt and thyme oil clinging to Laertes’ tunic.

The old man shook in his arms.

Not with rage. Not with sadness.

But with fear and regret.

“I didn’t know,” Laertes whispered again, as if trying to scrub the truth clean with repetition. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I didn’t mean to - gods, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Philoctetes pulled back just enough to see his face.

Laertes was crying.

Not like a soldier. Not like a king. Like a man who had just glimpsed what the sickness had made of him - and could no longer turn away.

“I don’t know what’s me anymore,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sometimes I see her and I think, there she is , and then I blink and I don’t remember what I was looking at. I forget her name. I forget the sound of her voice. And then - then my mouth is moving, and I hear myself speak like someone else is in my skin.”

He hugged his friend tighter, as though trying to hold something in that wanted to spill.

“I loved her,” he said, cracking open on the word. “I loved that child like the world turned for her. I used to walk with her hand in mine and make up stories about the stars. I taught her how to plant flowers and track animals. I did. I remember. But now all I see is her eyes, too old for her face, and I think, stranger. ”

A sob broke loose. He didn’t try to hide it.

“I hate it,” Laertes choked. “I hate what this… this rot is doing to me.”

Laertes gave out and knelt as he cried harder and Philoctetes knelt beside him again, and this time there was no hesitance in his touch. Just a steadying hand on a shoulder once strong enough to carry kingdoms.

“I know,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “I know you do.”

He didn’t mention the ache in his own throat, the tightness in his limbs from the shouting, or the guilt that pooled in his chest like cold water. The sight of Laertes like this - small, crumbling, afraid - made him feel like a boy again, watching a storm flatten the mast of a ship that had always seemed indestructible.

They stayed there for a long time, the two of them, kneeling beneath the rustling of olive leaves. The courtyard was still around them, the shadows growing longer.

Laertes wept quietly into his hands.

Philoctetes sat with him, letting the tears run down his own face unchecked.

Not just for the missing girl.

But for the man who had forgotten her. And for the brother Philoctetes could not rescue from the tide. For this time the monster couldn’t be defeated with the blade or an arrow.

Eventually, Laertes’ breathing slowed. His hands dropped into his lap, trembling and spent.

“Go find her,” he said, his voice a whisper now. “Please, bring her home. Tell her… tell her the truth. Before I forget it again.”

Philoctetes nodded, eyes shining.

“I will.”

And this time, it felt different. He didn’t just say it as a promise to someone he cared for. He meant it with everything he had left.

---

Philoctetes hadn’t meant to be drawn in again.

Another skirmish. Another fragile alliance dragged from the grave by oaths sworn in wine and desperation. He had told himself this one would be brief - a gesture, nothing more. He’d offer his name, his memory, the ghost of his loyalty, and leave before blood dried on any banners.

But war never stayed quiet. Not even at dusk.

He dismounted just as the sun began to sink, casting the camp in copper and shadow. Tents had already been pitched, fires lit low, and soldiers moved with the slow, wary rhythm of men too tired to lie but too proud to sleep. Bronze glinted in the fading light. Shields rested by worn boots. One man polished a blade by habit alone.

Philoctetes moved through it like a ghost, unseen, unbothered, until something stopped him.

A flicker - just off to the side. A figure stepping between the tents, armor catching the dying light.

He turned - and froze.

It was a child.

At first he thought he was wrong. That the light had played a trick, made someone seem smaller than they were. But no - the figure was unmistakably young. Slender, not even shoulder-height to the men around her. The little girl wore bronze that didn’t quite fit - greaves that slipped too low, a chestplate cinched awkwardly to keep it from sliding. A helmet too large had been pushed back, revealing a face far too small for war.

She couldn’t have been older than eleven. Twelve, maybe. Thirteen if he stretched disbelief.

The soldiers around her didn’t laugh. They didn’t jest, didn’t scold or chase her off. They listened when she spoke, murmured assent, spoke to her with respect, and stepped back to let her pass as if-

As if she belonged.

Philoctetes’ blood turned cold.

“What in the name of all cursed seas is this?” he growled aloud, striding forward before the words even finished forming in his mouth. The sheer wrongness of it lit his bones with fury. “You brought a child to a battlefield? Have you all lost your minds!?”

A few heads turned, startled - but no one moved to answer. The soldiers looked away, suddenly tense. One of them opened his mouth - but the girl stepped into the open before he could speak.

And Philoctetes saw her face.

She was older than he’d thought. Not by much. The angles of her jaw were still soft, the braid that fell behind her shoulder still that of a child - but her eyes-

Gods. Those eyes.

“Philoctetes,” she said timidly.

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

She stepped forward, slowly, chin high despite the visible effort it took to keep her voice from shaking.

“I’m here on Ithaca’s behalf,” she said.

He blinked. “Ody... Odysseus?”

She nodded once.

He staggered a step back. His hands were shaking and jaw was moving before he realised he was saying something.

“N-no. No- no-no-no- 

She stood like a soldier, still and taut and trying not to flinch.

“You’re - you're twelve,” he whispered, horrified. “You’re just a child.”

“Thirteen,” she said. “Fourteen in spring.”

“That’s not a defense!” he snapped, his voice cracking. “That’s a confession!”

The men around them stood frozen, like stones caught between tides.

Odysseus didn't look at them. She only looked at him.

“Father’s too ill to ride,” she said quietly. “He can barely sit upright. But Ithaca owes this alliance. And if we don’t stand with our neighbors now, they’ll remember when they come for us later.”

“You shouldn’t even know how to say that,” Philoctetes growled, taking a step forward. “You shouldn’t be here at all. This isn’t a game, little lamb. It’s not a story or a test or a throne to win. It’s war. There’s screaming and dying and gods who don’t answer.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t !” he snapped. “You’ve read about it. That’s not the same. You think being clever makes you ready for this? That training with wooden blades and shooting at hay targets will teach you how to kill? You think tactics in scrolls teach you how it feels to see your friend’s guts on the ground and keep walking anyway?”

Her voice wavered, but she stood her ground.

“If I don’t come,” she said, “we lose more than face. We lose everything. The other kings will see Ithaca as weak. They’ll take our land. Our people will suffer.”

“You think your people need you dying in armor to be strong?” His voice cracked again. “You think your father would want this? That I-” He cut himself off, throat tight with too many years and too many ghosts.

She swallowed. her hands gripping onto one another to not shake in front of him.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” she whispered. “I’m just trying to hold the line.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Philoctetes looked at her - really looked at her now. The dirt on her cheeks. The tremble she tried to hide. The sweat at her temples and the way her shoulders ached under the borrowed weight of the too big armour.

She wasn’t playing dress-up. She was trying to carry a crown she hadn’t grown into yet.

He felt the fury ebb, replaced by something worse. A cold, creeping sorrow that settled behind his ribs like a blade.

He stepped closer.

“You shouldn’t have to hold anything,” he said softly. “You should be home, on a hill, learning to play instruments. Not bleeding on someone else’s soil.”

Odysseus didn’t answer.

She only looked up at him - tired, fierce, too young for the armor she bore.

And that’s when he saw it clearly: the cost of all the alliances and oaths and absences. The price of peace deferred. The burden passed too soon from dying father to determined daughter.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, more quietly this time - but harder. “You shouldn’t have to carry this weight. You’re still a child.”

“I’m not a child!” she snapped. “I can fight! I can command! I’ve studied tactics since I could walk, and these soldiers listen because I know what I’m doing.”

Philoctetes stepped forward, looming over her, eyes shadowed.

“You’re still a child,” he said softly, coldly. “And that’s not an insult. It’s a reason not to let you be torn apart by some axe-happy warlord who wants his name carved in the songs.”

She faltered, eyes flashing with the sting of humiliation.

He glanced again at the men around her - soldiers, commanders, mercenaries. Some were older, others younger, none of them related to her by blood. Soldiers with sun-wrecked faces and eyes too calm for comfort. Men hardened by war, used to violence, fluent in hunger of every kind.

And she was just there. Small. Unattended. Among them.

The thought struck him like a spear through the ribs.

His chest went tight. His vision narrowed.

Gods.

She was alone.

“Do you know them well?” he asked, voice low.

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Of course,” she said quickly, a touch defensive. “They served under my father. They-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His tone cut her off like a slap.

He took a slow breath through his teeth, trying to stop the fury from overtaking his judgment. But the edges of it were already leaking out.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in through clenched teeth.

“I meant: do you know them like one knows a friend? Do you trust them?”

She hesitated.

And in that moment of silence, everything inside him twisted.

Gods. She didn’t. Or worse - she thought she should.

“You can’t afford to gamble on loyalty in a place like this,” he said, voice dropping to a growl. “Not with men who’ve spent their lives spilling blood. Not when you’re you.”

She stiffened.

“I can handle myself.”

“Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend that armor makes you untouchable. All it does is make you a more interesting challenge to the wrong kind of man.”

She flushed, the realization dawning too slowly.

“You’ve never seen what camps like this do,” he went on, voice rough now, ragged with memory. “I’ve heard what men like this say about girls in the dark. And I will not let the daughter of Laertes become some soldier’s filthy story.”

He turned abruptly, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

He pointed to the nearest tent marker. “I’ll have my tent pitched next to hers.”

A pause.

Then one of the captains stepped forward, tentative. “With respect, my lord, that wouldn’t be-”

“I am prince Philoctetes,” he roared, whirling on the man like a thunderclap. “Son of king Poeas of Meliboea. Veteran of Colchis. Argonaut. Sworn brother to King Laertes, whose daughter you now march behind like a banner in a storm.”

The captain shut his mouth.

“I will have my tent beside hers,” Philoctetes said again, colder now, voice flat as granite. “And from now on, any man - any man - who wishes to speak with her, will come through me first.”

He looked around at them all, eyes like carved stone.

“And if I so much as suspect one of you thinks of her less than your leader and respectable commander, I will take my time introducing you to Hades himself.”

Silence.

The threat hung in the air like a noose.

No one argued again.

Odysseus stood very still. Her hands were curled into fists at her sides. Her jaw was set, but her face - her face had gone pale.

Odysseus didn’t thank him. Her hands were tight at her sides, her jaw set like she was trying not to show how much she needed the help. But her shoulders sagged just a little with relief.

Philoctetes turned to her one last time, his expression softening for her alone.

“You want to command, fine. I’ll not insult you again. But even generals need guards. And even heirs need someone to make sure they live long enough to wear the crown.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. He didn’t need to. He only gave orders to the tentmakers, and that night, he slept with one ear open and his bow strung beside him.

Because there were many threats on a battlefield.

But the one thing he would not allow was for Laertes’s daughter to become a casualty of other men’s ambition.

And so Odysseus would regularly visit his tent. Sometimes it was to discuss a strategy and other times it was something as simple as a need for distraction to help ease her mind before sleep.

The war dragged on as wars do - bloodied mornings and restless nights, stalemates disguised as progress. But Odysseus had proven herself again and again, her insight cutting through the generals’ pride like a knife. She studied terrain like a gambler studies hands, her strategies quick, clever, and just this side of reckless.

Philoctetes had started to admire her. He had seen her feign overconfidence before diving into the hard truth, seen her mask exhaustion behind sharp wit. He meant to tell her so tonight. She deserved to hear it.

But when he stepped into his tent, he found her sitting on his travel trunk, the firelight catching her soft features. She held a scroll, tightly furled, knuckles white.

“Did someone bring bad news?” he asked, unfastening his quiver.

“Just some matters I didn’t finish dealing with at home.”

“Then why are you so tense?”

She hesitated. Then, in a flat voice, she said:

“It’s a marriage proposal.”

Philoctetes stopped cold.

“You’re thirteen. ”

“Fourteen in few moons,” she answered, with a practiced calm that made his stomach twist. “Old enough, apparently, to make a kingdom hungry.”

“Who?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

“A Mycenaean heir. Cousin of Agamemnon. THe’s trying to negotiate through our advisors. Since my father can’t-” she paused, swallowing hard, “-can’t speak at council anymore.”

Philoctetes sat slowly, across from her.

“And what do you want?”

She blinked. “I want what’s best for Ithaca. I probably won’t accept it since I am allied with Agamemnon and I promised him aid once he’s ready. But the offer is generous and if the throne needs a king-”

“Stop.”

His voice was quiet, but it snapped like a bowstring.

“Not what the throne needs. What you want. What do you feel about it?”

She stared at him. Her mismatched eyes shimmered, and for a moment her composure cracked.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

And suddenly she was not the clever commander or the brave little tactician. She was a child, shaking with the weight of the world on her shoulders, fists clenched around a future not of her making.

Philoctetes moved without thinking. He crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her. She froze, then clung to him with a desperate kind of silence, hiding her face against his chest.

“No one is going to force you,” he said into her hair. “I swear it. You’re not a bargaining chip. Not while I still draw my breath.”

She didn’t answer, but the tears soaking into his tunic said enough.

He stayed with her long after the fire burned low, guarding her with his presence, like a second father the Fates had sent from across the sea. The world might try to devour her - but not yet. Not while he was still here.

---

The tavern was quiet, tucked in a crooked alley far from the palace fires and garlanded streets. The smell of spilled wine and old smoke clung to its walls, and the lanterns inside burned low, casting shadows longer than the room deserved.

Outside, Ithaca roared with celebration. Pipes shrilled. Bells rang from the temple steps. The streets sparkled with lanterns and ribbons, slick with rosewater and gold. The new queen had taken her father’s throne, and the island sang with joy. It was probably the first time this place experienced jou since the old king’s passing. It was one time people forgot for a moment about the dark banners and echoes of mourning.

But inside, a warrior drank like the world had ended.

Philoctetes sat hunched over a wooden table, his shoulders drawn tight, a half-empty cup of wine dangling from his fingers. The celebration beyond the walls was nothing more than a murmur here, muffled by stone and distance.

He didn't know why he'd come.

No - he did know. But he didn’t want to admit it. Not even to himself.

He'd sailed into harbor like a ghost, dropped anchor without fanfare, and walked through familiar hills as though the land itself might forgive him. But when the moment came - when the palace gates opened and trumpets called the island’s future to its feet - he had turned away.

Now he sat with his regrets and his wine, wondering what exactly he thought he would find here.

“Gods,” he muttered into his cup. “Why the hell did I even come?”

A chair scraped opposite him. A familiar weight settled across from his.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” said Nestor.

Philoctetes didn’t look up. “Nestor.”

“Hello, friend.”

A pause.

Nestor poured another cup of wine, steady as ever. He watched Philoctetes with those old, fox-bright eyes.

“You weren’t there,” he said mildly.

Philoctetes didn’t look up. “Gods, Nestor. I am drinking.”

“Not at this table, you’re not. Answer me.”

He swirled the wine in his cup. “You know how I am with palace events. All that etiquette, all those soft-voiced flatterers. I’d rather wrestle a harpy than bow to a man wearing enough rings to sink a boat.”

Nestor raised a weathered brow. “Try again.”

Philoctetes stared at the wine like it might offer him better company. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Ah.”

“I thought I was,” he said. “Thought I’d walk into the throne room, stand by her side, maybe even smile. But when I saw the torches and the black banners - I couldn’t move. My feet turned the other way before I even knew what I was doing.”

He paused, fingers tightening around the cup.

“I didn’t even go to the funeral,” he added quietly.

Nestor’s hand, reaching for the wine, stilled.

“I thought if I stayed away, it wouldn’t feel real. Like Laertes was just... off in the hills, or asleep in the orchard, and Odysseus was still just a girl who stole olives and played tag with other kids.” He laughed, hollow and low. “But seeing her with his crown - it’s the kind of truth that digs under your ribs and stays there.”

Nestor nodded and filled both their cups again, slow and deliberate.

“Funerals aren’t for the dead,” he said. “They’re for the living. For the ones left behind to hold each other up.”

Philoctetes gave a rough, crooked smile. “I hate when you’re actually wise.”

Nestor barked a laugh. “Then the wine must be working.”

They clinked their cups.

For a while, they drank in silence, listening to the faint murmur of festival music outside. Laughter. Drums. Bells.

Outside, a chorus of voices swelled. Citizens celebrating the new tomorrow. Odysseus! Odysseus! A cheer rippled through the stone like thunder chased by bells.

Philoctetes flinched.Then he looked at his old friend and asked with a slurry tone. 

“How did you even find me?” he asked.

Nestor gave a dry laugh. “I saw your ship. I might be old, but I’m not blind, my friend.”

Philoctetes winced. “Should’ve docked in the southern cove.”

“You should’ve come to the coronation.”

The words felt like a punch to the gut.

But he didn’t answer. 

Nestor leaned back in his chair. “You know she’ll be angry - or worse - sad.”

“She’ll understand.”

“No, she won’t,” Nestor said. “And neither would Anticlea.”

Philoctetes looked down at the table. The grain of the wood blurred in his wine-slick vision.

“I’ll find a way to apologize.”

“You’d better. That girl is this close to worshipping you.”

“I never wanted her to become this,” he said. “A queen. A ruler. Another child pulled apart by duty before her bones finished setting.”

Nestor didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was gentler.

“She didn’t become a queen because you left her. She became one because no one else could.”

Philoctetes closed his eyes.

Then, quietly: “Gods help her.”

A silence stretched for a moment.

“She’s too young,” Nestor said eventually.

Philoctetes nodded grimly. “Fifteen. Laertes didn’t even teach her how to properly threaten a senate room before he started forgetting her name.”

“She’s got fire,” Nestor said.

Philoctetes took a long drink. “But the bigger and brighter it burns, the faster it dies down.”

Nestor grunted. He emptied his cup before talking. “Did you see those fools arriving to the coronation? Pompous little lords with silk cloaks and polished smiles. Half of them brought wedding gifts, not tributes. Dowries. Gold. Ancestral rings. Like she’s some mare to be bred into the next dynasty.”

Philoctetes’s hand clenched around the cup. “I remember two years ago,” he said, voice hardening. “After the war a Mycenaean prince sent his betrothal ring without even asking. She was thirteen. Still practicing sword grips with me in the olive grove.”

Nestor snorted. “Let me guess - she worried about the economy before she worried about herself.”

Philoctetes gave a hollow laugh. “Told me we couldn’t afford to insult Mycenae’s trade routes even if she was supporting his potential opposition. Said she’d consider it - for the kingdom.” He stared down into his wine. “Not once did she say what she wanted.”

They sat in silence. The kind that stretched taut and heavy, bitter as the dregs at the bottom of their cups.

Nestor leaned back, scratching at his beard, watching the lamplight flicker in the dark room.

Then he hesitated. Swirled the wine in his hand. Said, almost too casually:
“There is one way to shut the jackals up. Temporarily, at least.”

Philoctetes glanced at him warily. “Go on.”

Nestor shrugged. “If she were already wed - even just in name - it’d make her harder to pursue. Harder to trap in political snares. Maybe to someone loyal. Trusted. Not for power or heirs, just… protection. A name they can’t question.”

A beat.

“There are men we trust,” he said carefully. “Not many, but enough. One of my sons, perhaps. Or that kid Menelaus? Agamemnon would for sure keep him in check. They’re loyal. Clever enough to know a marriage in name doesn’t mean a crown in hand. It might keep her safe. Keep the vultures off her.”

Philoctetes didn’t answer at first. He just stared into his drink like it might offer him something stronger than wine.

“It wouldn’t matter,” he said finally. “You could pick the gentlest boy in the isles, and she’d still force herself to play the part.”

Nestor frowned. “You really think she’d-?”

“I know she would,” Philoctetes cut in. “She wouldn’t complain. Wouldn’t rebel. She’d tell herself it’s smart. Necessary. She’d smile when they toasted her, stand beside him at court, and start swallowing pieces of herself just to make the lie smoother.”

He set the cup down with a dull thud.

“She did it in the war,” he said, more quietly now. “I watched her march, bleed, lead. I watched her command men who’d fought longer than she’d been alive. And every time I asked if she was all right, if she was scared, she’d shake her head and say she was fine. Because being fine is easier than admitting she wants to go home.”

Nestor exhaled slowly.

“She was terrified,” Philoctetes murmured. “Every night, after the battles. Hands shaking. Eyes wide. But the moment daylight hit her armor, she was steel again. Because that’s what was expected and demanded of her. She finds her strength in hiding her emotions. That duty means self-erasure.”

He rubbed his face with one hand, rough with calluses and years.

“She’s fifteen, Nestor. But if we put a ring on her finger - no matter how ceremonial - they’ll stop seeing that. They'll start talking about heirs. About obligations. And she’ll convince herself it’s noble to go along with it. She’ll sacrifice herself on the altar of appearances before she lets anyone think she’s not ready the same way she is currently parading in her father’s crown.”

Nestor sat back in his chair, grim.

“I didn’t realize how much she’s learned to pretend.”

Philoctetes shook his head. “She doesn't even think it’s pretending. That’s the worst part. She believes it’s what leadership is. What Laertes meant for her to be.”

The tavern had quieted even further, the firelight flickering low across empty tables and worn stone.

Nestor’s voice was rough when he spoke again. “So we do nothing?”

“No,” Philoctetes said. “We watch. We stand between her and the knives. But we don’t trap her in a gilded cage just because we’re afraid someone else will. That’s not protection. That’s surrender.”

The two men sat in the hush of the near-empty tavern, surrounded by smoke and silence.

Outside, the celebration continued - laughter, lyres, bells echoing off the cliffs.

But here, the only sound was the quiet clink of two cups meeting, heavy with the weight of unspoken vows.

Outside, the stars climbed over Ithaca, and the music drifted on.

---

The air smelled of salt and thyme on the cliffs above Ithaca’s southern shore. Philoctetes sat cross-legged beneath the olive tree, pipe balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling up to the stars like lazy serpents. The sea below lapped quietly against the rock teeth of the cove. Behind him, the palace shimmered gold and pale in the moonlight, as if sleep itself were wrapped in linen.

Anticlea joined him, the queen mother still graceful despite the tiredness clear in her eyes. She sat without a word, her shoulders easing as if the quiet of the night was a balm she’d gone too long without.

“She’s doing well,” Philoctetes said after a moment. “Your girl.”

Anticlea smiled - soft, proud, and just a little sad.

“She’s a fine queen,” she said. “Better than some rulers twice her age. Gods know she has her father’s mind for law. And my stubbornness.” She paused, then added more softly, “But I worry sometimes. She acts so grown now. Too grown.”

“Sixteen,” Philoctetes mused, tapping out his pipe on a stone. “Hardly a child. But not quite done growing, either.”

“She never was quite a child,” Anticlea murmured. “Even when she was small, she wanted to listen in on council meetings. Mimicked Laertes’s scowl before she learned how to braid her hair. I just… I hoped she’d have a few more years to act her age. To sneak sweets. To fool around without worry she will offend a noble house.”

“She still might,” Philoctetes offered. “She just does it with a sword in reach.”

Anticlea laughed softly - not amused, but grateful.

“I know she’s capable,” she said. “I know she’ll endure. But endurance isn’t the same as joy.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But gods know, she’s doing better than I was at her age. When I was sixteen, I stole my brother’s warship trying to impress a girl I couldn’t name a week later. Got marooned on an island. Ate nothing but seabirds and stubbornness for four days.”

Anticlea arched an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “And now you’re one of her closest advisors.”

He shrugged. “Which should be seen as another compliment towards her.”

“She trusts you,” Anticlea said. “And I’m glad she does.”

Philoctetes exhaled, letting the smoke trail from his lips.

“I’d like to do more,” he admitted. “But I’m not exactly the ideal mentor. War, exile, being half-feral on a cursed island - it doesn’t leave you with much of a curriculum for impressionable minds.”

Anticlea gave him a sidelong glance, warm and sharp. “And yet, you’re the only one she doesn’t pretend around.”

Philoctetes didn’t answer right away. He stared out over the sea, where the waves brushed the rocks like fingers on old wounds.

“She’s trying so hard not to be a burden,” he said finally. “And that’s the part that gets me. Even when she’s afraid, she’s bracing herself for someone else’s sake. For the kingdom. For you. For the memory of Laertes. Never for herself.”

Anticlea’s smile faded into something quieter. “That’s why we have to hold her up. When she forgets she’s allowed to lean on anyone.”

“She doesn’t forget,” Philoctetes said. “She just thinks she isn’t allowed .”

They fell silent again.

Eventually, Anticlea rose, brushing off her skirts. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For sitting with me. For watching her.”

“Always,” he said.

They talked more - of governance, of old songs, of the time Autolycus tried to trade ten barrels of wine for a sea-serpent’s tooth. Eventually, Anticlea excused herself, and Philoctetes was left alone with the moon and the sea and his smoke.

He had no real reason to remain up. Just didn’t feel like lying to himself tonight.

He was tamping out the ashes in his pipe when he saw movement near the docks. A flicker of motion. A figure too small to be a guard, too quick to be an old drunkard. He sat up a little, squinting into the dark.

A shadow peeled off from the side of a docked Trojan vessel. Whoever it was moved like a thief - light-footed, hooded, cloak fluttering just enough to betray their shape and haste. But Philoctetes had trained his eyes in Colchis and Crete, on mountains and bloodied coastlines and caves so black they’d swallowed light whole. No mist, no shadow could deceive him now.

He watched, curious more than alarmed. The figure cut through the lower courtyard, skirted the servants' path, and made straight for the side gate. Not sloppy, not reckless - just confident. Almost too confident. Familiar.

And then it clicked.

The way she moved. The tilt of her head. The half-second pause at every turn, the subtle awareness of every sound, every shadow. She wasn’t just sneaking. She was measuring the world as she passed through it.

He leaned against the palace wall and waited.

Sure enough, she didn’t see him until she was nearly through the gate.

“Evening, your majesty,” he said, tone casual as the moonlight.

Odysseus jumped so violently she almost dropped her cloak. She spun on her heel, wide-eyed, mouth already halfway to a denial.

“Philoctetes!” she hissed. “What - what are you doing out here?”

“Enjoying the night air. Catching up with old ghosts. Watching the queen of Ithaca return home from a completely innocent midnight stroll through the merchant docks.”

She stiffened, squaring her shoulders. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Naturally,” he said, puffing his pipe. “And of course, when I can’t sleep, I always go prowling around foreign ships at midnight. Classic remedy. Better than warm cup of goat’s milk.”

Odysseus glared and tried to push past him with a mock dignity that might’ve worked if her hood hadn’t started slipping back.

She gave him a sharp look, shoulders stiff under her cloak. “It was just a walk.”

“Mmm.” His eyes flicked to her boots - still damp from the dock. “And your route just happened to include the far end of the port?”

“Fresh air is fresh air,” she said, brushing past him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, easily falling into step beside her. “But if you’re going to sneak off the palace grounds at midnight, you might want to wipe the dock grease off your heel. Or, say, hide the fact that your belt’s on backwards.”

She winced - just slightly - and tried to casually tuck the end of her cloak over her waist.

“And since we are talking about fashion… Isn’t that cloak a little large for you? Not to mention that red usually isn’t your colour of choice, at least it cutely matches the sails of those trojan ships.”

Odysseus tried her best to find anything to say but she just kept opening and closing her mouth. 

He glanced sideways at her, still amused but gently so. “You alright?” he asked. “Didn’t look like you were limping, but I saw you step careful crossing the ramp.”

The young queen avoided his eyes that were shining with mischief.

Philoctetes puffed again, then leaned in slightly. “And while we’re listing minor oversights - might want to do something about that mark on your neck. Left side. Bold placement. Either he aimed well or got very, very lucky.”

Odysseus let out a strangled sound and yanked her cloak up to her chin.

She froze and clutched her cloak up to her throat.

“Gods,” she muttered. “You’re insufferable.”

“I was an Argonaut, little one. I know how to spot a late-night rendezvous, especially when someone forgets to hide the evidence.” He smirked. “You’re lucky it’s me who saw you and not one of the older servants.”

“It wasn’t a rendezvous ,” she lied with the helpless air of a teenager trying to keep dignity from unraveling. “We were talking.”

Philoctetes gave a long, theatrical whistle. “He can talk with his mouth on your neck? Impressive . I’ll give him that.”

Philoctetes chuckled, not unkindly. He let the teasing fade a little, just enough to soften the edges.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell Anticlea. Or Nestor. Or the Trojan’s commander, though I might mention he should check his inventory before allowing his guests to leave the ship.” He clicked his tongue. “To be robbed of his cloak just like that?”

She let out a long, groaning sigh. “You’re going to mock me for this forever, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” he said with mock solemnity. “That’s my sacred duty as a grizzled war relic and your favourite bad influence. But-” He reached into his pouch and tossed her a sprig of mint. “Crush it into warm wine. Dab it on gently. Takes the edge off love-bruises. Smell’s strong, but effective.”

She blinked at him. “How do you know that?”

“I was sixteen once too,” he said. “Terrible judgment. Excellent taste. Better at climbing balconies than I had any right to be.”

She laughed despite herself, a half-giddy, half-embarrassed sound muffled by her sleeve.

“You’re lucky your mother doesn’t have the sharp nose of her father. Autolycus can sniff a scandal from a thousand miles.”

Odysseus was already backing toward the corridor, her dignity fraying but intact.

He grinned, entirely unrepentant, and laughed deep and wheezing, leaning against the palace wall.

But then he tilted his head, just slightly. Still playful, but curious now.

“So?” he asked. “Which one is he?”

She froze.

“I mean,” he went on, teasing again, “it is a small ship. Few too many Trojans with strong hands and charming smiles. Give me enough clues and I’ll figure it out. I’ve played this game before.”

She narrowed her eyes dangerously. “You won’t .”

“No fun at all,” he sighed. “I could’ve offered him friendly advice. How to climb a palace window without dislodging the tiles. Which steps creak. When Anticlea takes her tea so she won’t catch him on the way out-”

“Philoctetes,” she said, voice firm with warning.

He held up his hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Alright, alright. Not mentioning your mom. Got it..”

She backed into the hall, muttering something about curses and men with too much time on their hands.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered. “I’m going. Go back to your pipe, old man.”

“Happily,” Philoctetes said, giving her a mock bow.

She turned to go, tugging her cloak higher.

“Oh - and, Odysseus?” he called after her.

She paused, halfway through the doorway, silhouetted in moonlight.

“Do let me know if I need to start preparing a cradle for the next heir to Ithaca.”

She gasped - actually gasped—and whirled on him. “You-!”

But he was already laughing, deep and wheezing, his back against the palace wall.

“Go to bed, little lamb. And if you plan to keep the boy let him know I would like to meet him.”

She disappeared into the hall with a final muttered curse and slammed the door shut behind her.

The door shut behind her with a low thud.

Philoctetes stood for a while in the quiet that followed, pipe glowing softly between his fingers. The sea whispered against the rocks far below. Somewhere in the palace, a door creaked and a harpstring was plucked - someone restless, someone dreaming.

He glanced toward the corridor where she’d vanished, the faintest of smiles playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Well,” he murmured, voice low and thoughtful, “maybe her mother doesn’t have to worry so much after all.”

He leaned back against the wall, exhaled a curl of smoke into the moonlight, and let the stillness take him.

For tonight, at least, the girl got to be young.

***

---

Philoctetes woke with a jolt.

Or tried to. His whole body resisted the motion - sweat-slicked, aching, sluggish. The tent ceiling swam overhead, canvas fluttering in the breeze. He blinked, confused, breathing shallow.

Something cold pressed gently to his forehead.

“Easy,” said a low voice. Calm, firm. Familiar.

He turned his head - slower this time - and saw Odysseus sitting beside him, sleeves rolled, a damp cloth in her hand. She dipped it again in the water basin and replaced it on his brow.

“What…” he rasped, voice cracked and dry. “What happened?”

“You got bitten,” she said, not looking away from her work. “Venomous snake. While you were being an idiot in the woods.”

He groaned faintly and let his head fall back. “Not the first time a vicious beast bit me…”

Without missing a beat, she smirked. “But it’s the first time no one moaned your name after?”

A laugh burst out of him, hoarse and broken, but real. “Gods, I’ve missed that sharp tongue.”

“Then you shouldn’t go poking around thornbushes with your calves and ankles exposed,” she muttered. “That snake had a terrible taste.”

“You wound me.”

“Not yet. But your leg’s giving it a damn good try.”

He smiled faintly, then winced. “Still hurts.”

“You're lucky it wasn’t worse. Polites brought back the medicine. The venom won’t spread further.” She paused. “If you stop being an ass.”

“Unlikely,” he muttered.

She changed the cloth again with practiced hands. He watched her quietly - her furrowed brow, the strength in her grip, the coolness in her voice that masked deep worry. It caught him off-guard for a moment. She looked older than he remembered - not in years, but in gravity.

She was no girl anymore.

“I want my pipe,” he mumbled.

Odysseus gave him a flat look. “No.”

“Just a little.”

“You can barely breathe as it is.”

“I’ve smoked through worse.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Name one worse thing.”

He grinned. “Your mother’s etiquette lessons. I’ll never forgive her for making me join so I could ‘ Set you a good example ’”

Their laughter came easier now, light and brittle but real. The kind of laughter that only lives in places where grief and affection hold hands.

But then her expression shifted. She set the cloth aside and sat straighter, folding her arms.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, voice low.

He eyed her warily. “You found my pipe, didn’t you?”

“I spoke to Menelaus. And Agamemnon.”

His smile faded. “What about?”

“About you.” She held his gaze. “You won’t be sailing to Troy.”

Silence.

He stared at her like he hadn’t heard properly.

“I’ve arranged for you to be taken to a nearby island,” she went on. “One with proper healers. Clean tents. Actual beds. You’ll recover there.”

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

She didn’t flinch. “You won’t survive another march. You know that.”

“And you think I care about me ?”

“I think I care about you ,” she snapped, jaw tight. “And I’m not watching you die because of pride.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not protecting me by limping into a warzone.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’re not the same man. And I’m not a child anymore.”

“You’ll always be a child to me. And what father leaves his child alone in the middle of the war!?” he spat.

He spat the word like it burned him, like it had been buried so long in his throat it broke something on the way out.

Odysseus froze. Her breath caught mid-step. The tent, the heat, the scent of old poultices - everything narrowed into that one word hanging between them.

Father.

They stared at each other, the silence suddenly deafening. His chest rose and fell like a man who’d just hurled a spear farther than he thought he could.

Then, slowly, he slumped back into the cot, exhausted. The fight had gone out of him, but not the feeling.

After a long moment, he rasped, “You’ve become a fine leader.”

Her eyes were still wide, but her voice was steadier than she felt. “And you’ve always been part of that.”

He gave a bitter, tired huff that might’ve been a laugh. “And a good woman,” he added, quieter this time, almost shy.

She stepped closer, her expression softening. She reached out and smoothed a sweat-damp lock of hair back from his brow like she’d done as a child - like he’d done for her, too many times to count.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I still want my pipe.”

She gave a tearful laugh and swatted his shoulder. “You’ll get a fresh one on the island.”

He grunted. “Fine. But I want a good one. None of that Spartan ashwood nonsense.”

“I’ll send a word. Personally.”

They sat in silence after that. Outside, the camp bustled - soldiers shouting, weapons clanging, the scent of oil and fire drifting in through the tent’s seams. The world was moving on, spinning fast toward war. But inside, everything was still.

Philoctetes let his eyes drift closed, the ache in his leg duller now, though not gone. It never would be. But the sharpest weight had lifted - from his chest, not his bones.

She was grown. Gods, she was grown.

She’d argued like a tactician, stood her ground like a commander. She’d spoken to him not as a child begging permission, but as a queen declaring intent. And she’d meant it.

He wasn’t ready to let her go. Not truly. No father ever was, no matter how gruff or weathered or world-weary. But he could let himself believe, now, that she wouldn’t be crushed by what was coming.

No - she’d meet it head-on, eyes sharp, cloak flying, stubborn as a north wind.

He wished he could be beside her when the battle broke. Just once more. Bow in hand, shoulder to shoulder. Not to lead - he knew better than that. But to stand at her flank, to watch the fools who underestimated her learn better the hard way.

But the truth had been written across both their faces tonight: his war was done.

Hers was just beginning.

Still, he smiled faintly in the dark. Because now, at last, he believed she could win it.

Whatever it was - sword or senate, sea or siege - she’d endure. She’d outwit. She’d survive.

And gods help anyone who thought to stand in her way.

Because she was his. His wild girl with the clever eyes, who once tied his bowstring into a cat’s cradle and challenged the island boys to arm-wrestle. His storm-hearted daughter who had grown into something fierce and golden, forged in fire and duty.

A queen.

He drifted off again, lips curling faintly beneath the gray of his beard, pipe tucked beside his cot.

She didn’t need him to protect her anymore.

But by the gods, he was proud.

Chapter 12: Side Story: Hunt and Hearth

Summary:

A story of a certain boar hunting.

Notes:

Let me present you a side story that is canon to the fic. I hope you will enjoy it and the little pieces that will be menioned in the future.

The forest just past the northern ridge was thick with morning mist, dew clinging to every leaf like glass beads. Twigs cracked underfoot, birds muttered in the trees, and somewhere in the valley below, a hunting horn had cried out not long ago.

Eurylochus, ten years old and fueled by a fierce, stubborn resolve, ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, breath puffing white in the early chill. His legs ached. His boots were damp. But he didn’t care.

He was going to find his father.

He wasn’t supposed to be here—he knew that. The royal hunt was for grown men, invited guests, and the elite trackers of Ithaca. Not for sons who were told to stay behind and polish spears. But when he saw the gear vanish from the racks, the horses vanish from the stables, and the last of the riders vanish into the woods, Eurylochus had made his decision.

He would follow. Quietly. Prove himself. Just once.

The brush scraped at his arms and the dew had soaked through his boots, but Eurylochus pressed on, heart pounding with each step deeper into the woods. He followed the faint traces left behind - hoofprints in the mud, broken twigs, a feather snagged on bark - until at last, a thin column of smoke rose ahead between the trees.

He ducked beneath a bramble and stumbled into a clearing just as his father dismounted beside a small cookfire, wiping his brow and muttering to another hunter.

“Father!” Eurylochus called, breathless, triumphant.

The man spun around.

For a moment, there was only stunned silence.

Then

“ Eurylochus? ”

He didn’t sound happy.

Eury froze mid-step.

His father’s brows snapped together in that particular way Eury knew all too well - the look that preceded long lectures and very strict consequences.

“What in all the gods’ names are you doing here?!”

“I-I wanted to come,” Eury stammered, standing a little straighter. “I followed the trail. I was careful.”

“You followed - are you mad? You could’ve gotten lost, or killed, or-!” His father exhaled sharply and pressed a hand over his eyes. “I’m taking you back , immediately. As soon as I-”

Before he could finish, a voice called out from behind the trees:

“Ah, so this is where the noise is coming from!”

Out strode a man with a grin like a fox in a chicken coop, a light cloak fluttering behind him and a bow slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing. And though he didn’t look like the songs - no lightning at his heels, no winged sandals or stolen gold - Eurylochus knew him in an instant.

Autolycus.

The name hit like a thunderclap. Eurylochus’s mouth went dry. The King of Thieves. Trickster of Sisyphus. The man who’d stolen a temple bell while it was still ringing . The name that had danced through every story told around fires, every wide-eyed boyhood dream of heroism and daring.

And now - there he was. Striding through the trees with a cloak slung over one shoulder, a bow resting against his back like it had grown there. He didn’t need an entrance; the forest parted around him like it knew better. That sharp grin, those too-bright eyes - Eurylochus knew him before a word was spoken.

“Ah, so this is where the noise is coming from!” Autolycus called out, clapping Eurylochus’s father on the shoulder with easy familiarity.

Eurylochus could barely breathe.

Autolycus. In the flesh .

He’d imagined this moment a hundred times—maybe Autolycus would be taller, or flashier—but he hadn’t imagined this effortless presence , this sense that the old rogue didn’t walk through the world so much as it bent politely to let him pass.

Behind him came a girl striding like she owned the dirt under her boots. Wild hair, quiver slung over one shoulder, a smear of dirt on her cheek like she wore it with pride.

Autolycus noticed him at last and tilted his head with a wry smile.

“And who’s this then? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Eurylochus,” his father said quickly. “My son.”

Autolycus turned his sharp gaze to the boy and gave a surprisingly warm nod. “Well met, Eurylochus. A brave one, sneaking off after the hunters.”

Eurylochus stood a little taller despite himself - until his eyes darted toward the girl beside Autolycus.

He hesitated.

She wasn’t part of the hunting party. No armor, no beard, no war-weathered look. She looked more like… like someone’s servant girl. Or-

“Who’s… she?” Eury asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice, but failing.

The girl raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

Autolycus’s grin curled like smoke. “She,” he said, almost lazily, “is my granddaughter. Thought it’d be nice for the two of us to spend a little time together in the woods.” A beat. “Family bonding.”

Eurylochus blinked. “You brought a girl ? On a hunt ?”

There was a silence, sharp and sudden. His father’s head turned so fast Eury could hear the joints crack.

And for a second, Eurylochus forgot where he was. Forgot who he was.

He blinked and blurted - louder than he meant to-“But… she’s a girl.”

The words hung in the air like a dropped knife.

Silence followed.

Autolycus’s grin didn’t change. But it froze - just a little too wide. A little too still.

His father turned slowly, eyes wide with the sort of panic usually reserved for cave-ins and angry kings. His mouth opened in horror. “Eurylochus - what did you just-”

Odysseus’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, the corners of her lips twitched up ever so slightly.

She took a step forward.

Another.

Eurylochus flinched, confused - was she going to say something?

Then, without warning, her boot shot out and cracked him hard in the shin.

“OW!” Eury yelped, hopping backward, eyes watering. “What was that for?!”

“You deserved that,” she said flatly, brushing past him like a gust of wind. “Next time think before your mouth does.”

Eurylochus’s father was halfway to kneeling in apology when Autolycus finally howled with laughter - deep and genuine, like he hadn’t seen anything so funny in years.

“By all the gods,” he wheezed, wiping a tear from one eye, “he’s lucky you didn’t have your bow strung, girl.”

“She wouldn’t waste an arrow,” Eury’s father muttered under his breath, trying to salvage what little dignity was left.

Odysseus was already walking toward the tree line again, head held high, quiver bouncing lightly at her hip.

Autolycus leaned toward Eurylochus, voice low and amused. “Word of advice, lad. If you want to survive the hunt - and your pride - best remember: Artemis favors the wild girls. And this one? She’s her own kind of predator.”

Eurylochus, still limping slightly, glared after the princess.

He had no idea yet, but that wouldn’t be the last time she got the better of him.

Not by a long shot.

---

The forest breathed around them - thick with pine and the hush of damp earth. Afternoon light lanced through the boughs, casting long, flickering shadows. Every step the hunting party took was measured and quiet now, the thrill of the chase curling under their skin like smoke.

Eurylochus walked stiffly behind the adults, the ache in his shin a stinging reminder of his earlier humiliation. He still didn’t understand why everyone acted like Odysseus belonged here. A girl. In a hunt. It just wasn’t done - at least not in any of the stories he'd been told.

She walked a little ahead, bow in hand, eyes scanning the forest floor with the same focus as the older hunters. Eurylochus found himself watching her more than he liked. She didn't walk like a princess. She moved like a wolf.

A murmur rippled through the group. One of the hunters had crouched low, beckoning with a short, sharp whistle.

“Tracks,” Eurylochus’s father said, turning to his son. “Come. You’ll want to see this. Learn something, maybe.”

Eurylochus obeyed, grumbling silently.

He crouched beside the men, watching as Autolycus and two others studied the dirt. A line of deep, torn prints - fresh. Heavy. Split hooves.

“Boar,” one hunter said, nodding grimly.

“But wrong,” murmured Autolycus.

Odysseus knelt beside her grandfather, frowning. “The spacing’s strange. It’s favoring one side.”

“Wounded,” Autolycus agreed. “It’s limping.”

Another hunter stood, pointing toward a nearby tree trunk. “Here.”

A ragged tuft of fur was caught on the bark. Autolycus plucked it free and turned it in his fingers.

His nose wrinkled. “Blood,” he muttered. “And something else.”

Odysseus stepped closer, gaze narrowing. She blinked once. Twice.

And then she acted like she saw something in the fur. Something that was clear for her but not for others with the way she looked at the men around her in confusion.

“This isn’t a normal animal,” she said quietly.

Autolycus looked up sharply.

“You see it?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, still staring at the shimmering patch.

For a heartbeat, the old thief said nothing. Then he threw his head back and laughed - not loud and raucous like before, but sharp and bright with pride, like a strike of flint. He stepped forward, clapped her on the back, and ruffled her wild hair with a firm, affectionate hand.

“By the gods, I knew it,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Knew you weren’t just clever - you can see it , little lamb, can you!? You see what most men can’t.”

Odysseus blinked, startled by the sudden praise. But she didn’t shy away from it. She only straightened her spine a little more.

Autolycus turned, almost triumphant, to the rest of the group. “Argeiphontês’s blood runs in this one like a mountain spring,” he said, voice proud and dangerous. “Trickster’s eyes. Trickster’s pulse. The ichor never left our line.”

Eurylochus furrowed his brow. “Ichor?”

His father gave him a small nudge, trying to hush him.

Autolycus waved the boy off with a flick of his wrist, his focus still on Odysseus. “Later,” he said, voice roughened with fondness. “You’ll understand when you get to travel some more and meet more extraordinary people.”

But then the air had changed. The trees themselves seemed to listen now. The forest felt older. Stranger.

Autolycus rose fully to his height, eyes sharp and gleaming like a blade’s edge. The easy charm was gone. What remained was something honed and knowing, the instinct of a man who’d spent his life navigating the thin lines between gods and mortals.

He looked to the trail, then to the two children - Odysseus, steady and unblinking, her face half-shadowed by the dying light. Eurylochus, still brooding, still unsure.

And in that moment, the old man made his call.

“We make camp,” he said, voice loud and clear.

“But the trail’s fresh-” one of the hunters began.

“And the light is fading,” Autolycus snapped. “You want to track a wounded boar with the sun behind the trees? Go ahead. But I’d rather not be scraping your guts out of the underbrush.”

That shut everyone up.

Odysseus looked up at him, searching his face. He didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

“Tomorrow, we’ll follow it properly,” he said more gently. “With clearer eyes. And fewer… distractions.”

Eurylochus scowled but didn’t argue. He felt like something had just changed, and he didn’t know how to name it.

Odysseus said nothing either. But she knew.

Autolycus didn’t want them anywhere near the beast—not yet.

Because the shimmer in that fur wasn’t just strange.

It was sacred.

And sacred things were dangerous.

---

The midday sun slanted through the pine canopy, dappling the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. The hunting party moved slow and quiet now, the crackle of boots over pine needles softer, more cautious. The stink of sweat and dogs clung to everything. It had been a hard morning.

They found a small clearing ringed by mossy stone and berry bushes. Setting up the camp didn’t take too long.

“Odysseus,” Autolycus called as he unfastened the straps on his pack. “Take the skins, fill them at the stream. Should still be fresh up the ridge.”

Already slinging them over her shoulder, the girl nodded. “Be back in a bit.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, with a brief wink. “Keep an eye out for the water nymphs. Last one nearly cursed me.”

She rolled her eyes and was gone, weaving through the trees with her bow bouncing lightly on her back.

Autolycus stretched with a grunt, joints cracking, and made his way toward the circle of older hunters beginning to unpack their gear near the fire pit. Eurylochus trailed behind his father, still pretending to fiddle with the straps on his satchel, but listening.

They had only just sat down when Eury noticed it - that subtle shift. A few of the men glanced toward the trees, following Odysseus’s path with their eyes. Then, almost in unison, their voices dropped.

“She gone?” one asked, flicking his gaze toward the woods.

“Far enough,” another replied, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Didn’t want her hearing.”

“Don’t like whispering behind her back,” muttered a third, “but gods, Autolycus - bringing the princess? And to this hunt of all things?”

Eury’s curiosity sharpened like a blade. He shifted slightly, trying to look like he wasn’t listening, though every inch of him strained to catch the words.

Autolycus crouched by the fire, pulling a knife from his belt and a whetstone from his bag. “You lot gonna mutter like hens, or speak plain?”

The hunters quieted. But not for long.

“It’s not a game, this hunt,” the man continued, glancing toward the trees. “Boars aren’t sport. Especially not this kind. You and I both know that.”

Autolycus gave a slow exhale through his nose. When he finally replied, his voice “I know,” Autolycus said, voice quiet and unreadable.

That made Eurylochus glance up. There was something off in the old man’s tone. Less edge, less swagger.

Another hunter nearby cleared his throat and added, “No offense, Autolycus, but - why bring the girl? You knew what this was before any of us did, didn’t you.”

Autolycus’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer.

A third hunter leaned forward from where he sat, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. “We’re not just talking about some wild pig. There’s something wrong with this beast. The tracks, the blood, the broken trees. You knew something wasn’t right. You called the hunt.”

“I did,” Autolycus said, low and even. “There are bounties. Gold and silver flowing from three islands if the thing is brought down. A creature like this doesn’t just threaten flocks - it frightens kings. And frightened kings pay well.”

“That’s not the point,” the hunter pressed. “You brought the princess.”

The word dropped like a stone in the quiet.

Eurylochus’s father added cautiously, “It’s not just any girl, Autolycus. That’s the heir of Ithaca. If anything happened to her-”

Autolycus raised his eyes then. Slow. Sharp. Like a blade sliding out of a sheath.

“If you’ve got something to say,” he said softly, “say it.”

No one did.

Instead, he reached for the dagger at his hip and pulled it free. A whetstone appeared from his pouch with practiced ease. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone cut through the quiet, deliberate and slow.

“You think I brought her here to toss her at a monster?” he said, not looking up. “That I don’t know what’s out there? That I don’t understand what it means to protect what’s mine?”

The scrape continued.

“I raised her blade and blood. I taught her every step she takes in woods like these. And if the worst came down from the hills tonight-” He looked up, eyes flint-hard, “-it’d have to go through me first.”

He looked at the direction where Odysseus went. The forest was getting darkes and there was still no sign of the princess coming back. Then the thief looked at the blade he was sharpening with uncomfortable precision.

“She needed the air,” Autolycus said at last, quieter now. “More than she needed a cushion-filled palace.”

“But to bring her here,” someone muttered.

The whetstone stopped. Autolycus turned his gaze on them. Not angry - just cold. Dismissive. Dangerous.

“I didn’t ask for your blessing. And I won’t hear another word questioning her place here. That girl’s got more steel in her bones than half the lot of you.” A beat. “And if anyone’s worried about safety, then stay behind. There’s no shame in it.”

Silence.

Autolycus slid the knife back into its sheath. “But don’t mistake concern for command. I lead this hunt. And who I bring is no one’s business but mine.”

The matter was closed.

Hunters still shaken came back to their routines when a rustling was heard.

Odysseus reappeared through the trees with the waterskins slung over her shoulder, moving like she belonged to the forest itself. Her bow was still strapped across her back, and even from here, Eury could see the fresh streak of mud on her leg and the easy way she balanced her steps over roots and stone.

Autolycus looked up and, in an instant, all that cold edge he’d worn earlier - when he’d silenced the other hunters with little more than a look - melted off like snow in spring.

“There she is!” he called, breaking into a grin. “Thought maybe a dryad had snatched you up for good.”

Odysseus tossed the waterskins beside the fire. “It’s your fault for choosing a spot so far from the water source.”

“Why should I worry when I have such a good errand girl to help me,” Autolycus teased, rising to his feet. “You know how to ease the pain from those old bones of mine.”

She gave him a look but didn’t protest. Instead, her gaze flicked to the blade he was oiling on his knee.

“That one yours?” she asked.

“The bone-hilted - aye,” he said, holding it up briefly for her to inspect. “But that’s just the close work. You’ll be dancing back and forth with that longbow of yours, I reckon.”

“I prefer the bow anyway,” she muttered, half to herself. “The blade’s still heavier than I like.”

Autolycus grinned at that. “Still not used to it, eh? You fight like a hawk, but your wrists complain like an old fishwife. What’s the excuse now?”

She flushed slightly, looking down and pouting as she wiped her palms on her tunic. “I only just got permission to train with a real blade. Agamemnon kept saying it was ‘too dangerous’ even when Tyndarus and twins would say otherwise.”

“Ohhh?” Autolycus said, dragging out the word like he’d caught her with her hand in the honey jar. “So that’s officially training, then?”

She glanced at him sidelong.

He leaned in, mock-serious. “Which means you’ve unofficially been training since - what, little lamb? Last year?”

Odysseus tried to keep a straight face. Failed.

That mischievous grin broke across her lips like the sun through stormclouds.

Autolycus barked out a laugh and reached over to ruffle her hair with a calloused hand. “That’s my favorite rascal.”

He dropped onto a nearby log and reached into his pack, rummaging with one hand until he pulled out a small pouch. It jingled softly - bone on bone.

“Come,” he said, patting the space beside him. “I’ve got a moment to spare, and the gods know I could use a bit of luck before this hunt. Let’s see if your bones are better than mine.”

Odysseus’s expression didn’t change, but her steps quickened just a little as she moved to sit beside him. She folded her legs beneath her, already pulling back her sleeves.

Eurylochus watched from the edge of the camp, the image imprinting itself in his mind: the King of Thieves, all fire and grin now, setting out knucklebones with the heir of Ithaca like the weight of the world hadn’t just hung in the air.

The boy swallowed hard. From where he sat, half-hidden, the bitterness twisted in his gut like a knotted rope.

Of course she got to use a weapon. A real one. Not just a camp knife meant for peeling bark and gutting fish. Autolycus didn’t treat her like she was a small kid even if she was similar height to him. Didn’t call her “too little” or “not yet.” He gave her weight. Trust.

Eury’s hand strayed to the tiny knife strapped to his belt - a stubby, dull thing his father insisted was “enough for now.” Like he was still a boy chewing chalk and chasing beetles.

He felt something sour rise in his chest. It wasn’t that he hated her. Not really. But the way Autolycus looked at her—the pride, the ease—Eurylochus wanted someone to look at him like that, too.

She is a princess! She is supposed to sit around in veils, play instruments and practice embroidery! Not use a bow and knife! And She was so small! She is older but she is barely taller than him! Why would someone like Autolycus treat her like a boy!?   

They were talking weapons. Strategizing. Planning.

And Eurylochus, still crouched behind the fern, burning with envy, wasn’t even allowed to touch a real sword.

---

It was still dark when Eurylochus slipped from his bedroll.

The fire in the center of camp had burned down to its glowing bones, and the only sounds were the soft sighs of sleeping men and the occasional snore. Somewhere nearby, a hound shifted in its sleep. Pine trees loomed above, motionless in the pre-dawn stillness.

He moved slowly, careful not to rustle the blanket too loudly or kick a loose rock. His sandals were already on. His father’s spear leaned just outside the circle of tents where it had been left the night before. Eurylochus reached for it with a kind of reverence, hands wrapping around the leather-wrapped shaft.

It was heavy - longer than he was tall, the bronze tip glinting faintly in the moonlight. He adjusted his grip. The weight was solid, reassuring. Real.

Today, he will prove himself.

He’d heard them talking the night before - his father and the others - about the boar. Not just any boar. A monster. Something unnatural. Tracks too big. A smell too foul. A beast that had bloodied three islands and left hounds in pieces.But how hard it is going to fight an injured monster?

And they’d said he wasn’t ready. That none of the younger ones were.

Well. He’d show them.

He set off into the trees, following the prints he’d marked yesterday when they’d stopped to rest. He’d seen them before anyone else had. He remembered the shape. The way the mud had dried around them. Wide, sunken. Too deep for anything normal.

He’d walked for over an hour by the time the sun began to touch the treetops. His arms ached. The spear, though exciting at first, had grown heavier with every step. But he didn’t complain - not out loud, and certainly not to himself. Heroes didn’t whine. And men didn’t turn back.

He paused near a clearing, crouched low, watching. Listening. The forest was quieter now. Too quiet.

Then - snap.

His whole body went tense. He spun around, spear lifted-

And nearly dropped it when a figure stepped through the ferns.

“You’re following me,” he said, scowling.

“I’m making sure you don’t get gored,” Odysseus replied without the slightest hint of guilt. Her bow was slung over one shoulder, a quiver on her back, and the glint of a knife at her hip. She pushed a pine branch aside, eyes cool and steady.

“This is stupid,” she added, looking him over.

“I’m fine ,” he snapped. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re reckless.”

He turned to face her fully, chest puffed up. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because you’re doing something dumb, and someone has to keep you alive until you grow a brain.”

“I tracked it,” he said defensively, jabbing a finger toward the earth. “I got up early. Followed the trail. I didn’t get lost. I even brought a real weapon.”

“It’s your father’s weapon,” she said flatly. “You can barely carry it.”

“I can carry it!”

“Barely.”

“I’m not going back until I find it.”

“Are you trying to die?”

“I’m proving I’m a man .”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’re a kid.”

“So are you !”

“And I’m not the one playing hero with a monster boar.”

“You’re here , aren’t you?”

“To drag you back to camp before your father finds out and kills both of us.”

“Well I’m not leaving.”

Odysseus stared at him like he was made of clay and bad decisions. “You’re being stupid .”

“I’m not stupid!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The bickering froze the moment the forest did.

A new sound crept into the quiet: the soft crunch of leaves. A deep snort. Slow, deliberate breathing. Something big was moving just beyond the trees.

Odysseus’s posture shifted immediately.

“Wait,” she whispered, lifting a hand, eyes wide.

Eurylochus swallowed. His knuckles whitened on the spear shaft.

The sound came again. A heavy step. Then another. The sharp scent of musk and rot hit the air like a slap.

“Up,” Odysseus said, voice tight. “Climb. Now. ”

“What?”

“Tree - now , Eurylochus.”

She turned, already sprinting toward a thick pine, her bow hitting the dirt as she leapt for the lowest branch.

Eury stood frozen for half a second - then bolted. He dropped the spear as he ran, his legs moving on instinct, fingers scrabbling at the bark. Behind them, the underbrush rustled again - louder. Closer.

He climbed like he never had before.

And below, the forest floor seemed to tremble.

The forest held its breath.

Then it appeared.

The boar lumbered into the clearing like a nightmare forced into flesh. Taller than a man at the shoulder, its bristled hide was a patchwork of blood, mud, and old wounds. Broken shafts of arrows jutted from its flank. A spear - still embedded near the spine - shifted with every step, grinding against bone.

Eurylochus clutched the tree trunk so tightly his fingers ached. His breath hitched in his throat.

It was huge .

Not just wild. Not just dangerous. Unnatural.

The kind of creature from fireside stories, the kind old men described with shaking hands and wide eyes. Its tusks were yellowed and cracked, thick as clubs. Its breath came in hot snorts that steamed in the air, and with every stomp, the ground shuddered beneath it.

It was close enough now that Eury could see its eyes - milky, rimmed with red, as if hate alone kept it alive.

He looked at Odysseus. She was crouched beside him on the thick branch, eyes locked on the boar, lips pressed thin in thought.

She looked focused. Steady.

For a moment, he let himself believe she had a plan.

But then - he saw her hands.

They were shaking.

Her fingers trembled where they gripped the tree bark. Not from cold. From fear.

He swallowed hard.

The boar grunted and plowed through a thicket of thorns - and came out unscathed . The thorns snagged nothing. Didn’t even slow it.

“How are we supposed to kill that?” Eurylochus whispered, his voice almost too small to hear.

Odysseus didn’t answer right away. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, but the shaking didn’t stop.

Then, in the softest voice, she said, “I might have a plan.”

His head whipped toward her. “What?”

“It’s already wounded,” she whispered. “The spear, the arrows - they hurt it. Not enough, but… they can .”

“So?”

“So we aim for where it’s already weak. The wounds. Maybe that’s the only way to get through that hide.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed. “That’s your plan?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Unless you’ve got something better.”

He didn’t.

Below them, the boar suddenly went still.

Its head tilted.

Then it snorted - sharp and furious - and charged the tree.

Odysseus’s eyes widened. “ Hold on! ”

Too late.

The beast slammed into the trunk like a battering ram. The whole world lurched . Bark exploded outward. The branch cracked beneath their feet.

And then they were falling - air knocked from their lungs, sky spinning, earth rushing up to meet them.

Eurylochus hit the ground hard.

And the boar was already turning for another charge.

The world hit them hard.

Eurylochus crashed onto the forest floor, the air punched from his lungs. Pain seared up his leg - a sickening snap - and he cried out, curling in on himself. His ankle throbbed in a hot, pulsing rhythm, and when he tried to stand, white pain lanced through him.

Odysseus’s quiver spilled across the clearing, arrows scattered in the dirt. She scrambled, reaching for one - but the boar was already turning.

It saw Eurylochus first.

Snorting, foam dripping from its cracked lips, it charged .

“ Get up! ” Odysseus shouted. “ Run, Eury! ”

He tried. Gods, he tried. But his leg gave beneath him, and he collapsed with a gasp.

The boar closed in - closer, faster, too fast-

And then Odysseus was there , screaming his name, ramming Eurylochus’s own spear into the boar’s neck just as it would’ve gored him. The weapon sank deep, into the already wounded flesh, and the beast shrieked in rage.

The boar reached her first.

Eurylochus could only stare in horror as she dangled there, skewered on ivory, her face contorted in agony.

The tusk had torn through her inner thigh, deep enough to lift her from the ground. Blood ran in streams down her leg, dripping onto the forest floor. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry, breath hitching in broken gasps.

And still - still - she held on to the spear with both hands and drove it deeper into the beast’s neck. The blade sank in with a sickening resistance, grinding between tendon and muscle, and dark, arterial blood surged from the wound.

The boar shrieked.

It thrashed violently, rearing up on its hind legs in a frenzy, its entire bulk crashing through a sapling as if it were kindling. Odysseus was flung side to side like a rag doll, the tusk gouging deeper with each motion. Her leg twisted unnaturally on the spike, flesh splitting open wider, until the bone beneath gleamed white under the blood and torn muscle.

She screamed - but never let go.

Her arms trembled as she braced against the animal’s thick hide, blood streaking down her fingers. Again, she shoved the spear downward, grinding it toward the spinal notch at the top of its nape.

The boar slammed into a tree, snapping bark and shaking the forest floor, but Odysseus used the momentum to push —a final lunge of desperate strength. The spear bit deep into the wound, wedging into the soft notch behind the skull.

And the beast buckled .

Its knees gave out. It stumbled once. Then again.

Then, with a low, rattling groan, it collapsed forward like a felled tree.

Odysseus went down with it.

The tusk tore free from her leg as she fell, blood spurting in thick pulses as her body slammed hard into the dirt. The spear still jutted from the beast’s neck, vibrating slightly in the silence that followed.

She didn’t move at first.

Neither did Eurylochus.

The forest, stunned by the violence, seemed to hold its breath.

Then - Odysseus stirred. Her fingers dug weakly into the blood-soaked soil as she tried to lift her head. Her braid had come undone, leaves caught in her hair. Her face was deathly pale, streaked with sweat and grime, and her breath came in shallow pants.

Still, she turned toward him.

And crawled .

Shaking, teeth clenched, she pulled herself toward him across the dirt and blood and crushed underbrush.

“Are you okay?” she rasped. Her voice was barely more than a breath.

Eurylochus could hardly speak. “I-I think so.”

She smiled faintly. Her eyes, unfocused, found his face one last time.

She smiled faintly at that.

Then her body slumped.

She was unconscious before her head hit the moss.

“Odysseus?”

No response.

“ Odysseus?! ”

And that’s when he saw it.

The wound on her thigh, torn wide, gushing bright and horrifying. Flesh and sinew peeled back. And - gods - the bone . White and jagged, gleaming through the mess of her skin.

His stomach turned.

His eyes filled.

“No, no-Ody, please- don’t -” His voice broke. He clutched her, tears spilling freely now, lips trembling. “Don’t die. Please don’t die…”

He couldn’t stay there.

He had to move.

He got under her - awkward, fumbling, panicked - and hoisted her onto his back. She was heavier than he expected, dead weight in his arms, blood seeping into his tunic.

His injured ankle screamed with every step.

But he walked.

Stumbled.

Dragged her with him.

“ HELP! ” he shouted into the woods. “ Someone - please! ”

No answer.

He kept walking.

“ She’s hurt! The princess - she-she saved me! PLEASE!*”

Birds scattered overhead. The forest seemed too quiet.

He tightened his grip on her wrists over his shoulders. Her blood dripped down his back, hot and constant.

“Please,” he whimpered through tears, throat raw. “Just hold on…”

And through the trees ahead—faintly—he finally saw shapes moving. Torches. Voices.

Help.

He kept walking.

One step at a time.

---

They found him at the edge of the trees.

A boy, barely ten, limping and soaked in blood—not his own—staggering forward beneath the unconscious weight of a girl who looked like she’d fought a war and barely survived.

“ Gods- ” one of the hunters choked.

“Eurylochus!” his father shouted, already sprinting toward him. “What happened-?”

“ Help her! ” Eurylochus screamed, voice raw and cracking. “ She’s dying! ”

There was no time for questions.

Autolycus was already lifting Odysseus from the boy’s shoulders, his arms trembling despite their strength. The old thief looked at her pale face, at the gaping wound in her leg, and for once in his long, mischief-filled life - he was deadly silent.

“Get her down! Gods, gently - don’t pull her leg-”

The way he barked the order cracked like a whip. Eurylochus flinched. He had never heard the old man sound like that. Not even when a wolf cornered them in the mountains last winter. Not when a storm nearly capsized their hunting raft. Autolycus was always the calm voice, the wry joke, the quiet hands.

But not now.

Now he was sharp and precise. Fierce.

“Boil water. Strip the bedrolls. I want clean cloth now . And bring my satchel, the red one - if you mix it with the black, I’ll gut you myself.”

He knelt beside Odysseus, pressing his palm over the gash in her thigh. Blood squelched between his fingers, thick and hot.

“Is she-?” Eurylochus croaked, unable to finish.

Autolycus didn’t answer. He just looked at him - really looked - and in his eyes was something Eurylochus hadn’t seen before.

Fear.

They carried Odysseus to the tent. Eurylochus’s father pulled the boy aside, guiding him to sit near the fire as one of the hunters checked his twisted ankle. But Eurylochus’s eyes never left the tent.

It was worse than anything he’d ever imagined.

They laid her out on furs, already cut away the blood-soaked fabric around her thigh. The wound was horrible - ragged where the tusk had gouged into her, exposing muscle and torn flesh, and beneath that, something bone-white.

“She’ll bleed out,” someone whispered.

“Not if I stitch her fast enough,” Autolycus snapped. “And if anyone drops that needle, I swear to Apollo-”

“Here!” someone ran in with a silver needle. “We’ve got it!”

Her name was barely a breath. Then he was shouting orders - sharp, controlled, absolute. The camp became a flurry of motion. The air inside the tent was stifling. Heavy with copper and smoke and herbs. Bandages were soaked. Boiling water brought. Someone pressed a flask into Eurylochus’s hands, and he drank without thinking, coughing on the burn of it.

A hunter crouched next to him, wrapping his ankle with practiced hands. Other man brought him a water skin and told him to drink. The liquid inside was sweet but burning at the same time. He could barely swallow it when suddenly - without any warning - the man pulled his foot making it adjust back into the place. The pain was awful but he could barely focus on what was happening to him.

He couldn’t stop watching the tent.

The flap hung open, and from where he sat, he could see everything. He didn’t mean to look - he just couldn’t look away.

They’d stripped Odysseus to her tunic. Her thigh was torn open, the flesh a ruined mess where the boar’s tusk had gored her. Blood clung to her skin in clots and trails, seeping through the blankets they tried to pack the wound with.

One of the hunters vomited.

Autolycus didn’t.

He knelt beside his granddaughter, hands stained red as he pressed a cloth to the gash. “Hotter water. Again,” he barked. “And the silver needle. Not bronze - silver .”

Eurylochus watched, motionless, as Autolycus threaded the needle with hands that didn’t shake, even though his jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitched.

Then she moved.

A twitch, barely there. But then her fingers flexed. Her eyes blinked, foggy.

“She’s waking-!”

“Hold her,” Autolycus ordered, his voice now low and urgent. “Gods, hold her still - she’ll thrash! And someone bring a belt!”

Odysseus groaned - a raw, broken sound that cut through the tent like a blade. Her eyes opened for a split second, unfocused. Her leg jerked.

Someone brought a belt just like Autolycus ordered. Eurylochus frowned until he realized they weren’t using it to bind her - they were going to use it to keep her from biting off her own tongue.

“Bite down, girl,” Autolycus said gently, pressing the leather between her teeth. “Bite and don’t let go.”

She did.

Eurylochus flinched as the needle went in. 

The first stitch made her body spasm. She screamed into the belt, her limbs flailing until two hunters pinned her shoulders down and one her legs. Her blood frothed around the needle, but Autolycus didn’t flinch. Inch by inch, he closed the wound, even as tears streamed from her eyes.

Eurylochus cried - quietly, so no one would notice.

Then, finally, Odysseus went limp. The belt slipped from her mouth. Her eyes closed.

“She passed out again,” someone murmured, voice cracking.

“Better this way,” said Autolycus, though his hands were shaking now.

Eurylochus’s stomach churned.

He barely noticed when the hunter finished wrapping his ankle. He just stared as the process dragged on: cleaning, burning out the wound with herbs, packing it with poultices, and tying tight, clean linen over it again and again.

But it wasn’t over.

The bleeding slowed, but then the fever started. Her body burned beneath the furs, slick with sweat, trembling despite the warmth. They packed her with herbs. One of the older hunters lit a small fire outside and muttered prayers to Asclepius, to Apollo, to Hermes. Anyone who might listen.

Hours passed. Maybe more.

Finally, someone emerged from the tent.

“She’s stable,” the man said, voice hoarse. “For now.”

Everyone exhaled at once.

Eurylochus stood slowly and limped toward the tent.

The fire cracked softly in the tent. He stood just inside the entrance, hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, he just watched her - Odysseus, pale and motionless beneath layers of blankets, sweat beading along her brow. Her breath was shallow, but steady.

Autolycus sat beside her, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight painted deep lines on his face. He didn’t turn when Eury approached, but he spoke quietly.

“The fever’s started to ease,” he said. “A little. But we’re not past the worst yet.”

Eurylochus swallowed the knot in his throat. “Will she be alright?”

Autolycus didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the girl - no, not a girl. A hunter. A warrior. His granddaughter.

“I hope so,” he said softly. “She’s strong. But this… this kind of wound takes more than strength to survive.”

Eury took a step closer, guilt radiating off him like heat.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have - I didn’t mean-”

Autolycus raised a hand, not harshly - just enough to stop the spiral.

“Listen, boy,” he said, finally looking at him. His voice was tired but steady. “I’m not here to punish you. I just need to know what happened. Start from the beginning. Was there someone else out there? An enemy?”

Eurylochus blinked, caught off guard by the question. “No. No one else. It wasn’t an ambush or anything like that.”

Autolycus nodded. “Then tell me.”

Eurylochus hesitated, then sank to the ground beside the fire. His voice was low, shaky at first.

“I followed the trail. I know I wasn’t supposed to. But I thought I was being careful. I wanted to prove I belonged out here, that I could track like the rest of you.”

His breath shook. “At first, I didn’t know she’d followed me. I didn’t think anyone would.”

He looked down at his hands. “Then we found the boar. It was already wounded. I don’t know how. But it was… wrong. It didn’t act like a normal animal. Wild, yes - but it moved like it knew something. Like it hated.”

Autolycus’s brow furrowed slightly. He said nothing, waiting.

“We climbed the tree to be safe but it wasn’t enough. The beast was able to make us fall with a few hits. And before I knew it the boar was running towards me.”

He swallowed, throat tight.

“She appeared. Out of nowhere. Pushed me out of the way. She stabbed it with a broken spear. But it got her. It was so fast.”

Autolycus listened in silence, then slowly leaned back. He let out a quiet breath, rubbed at his eyes.

“You were lucky she was there with you.”

“I know,” Eurylochus whispered. “I shouldn’t have gone alone. Dad trusted me to stay in camp and-”

Autolycus shook his head gently.

“No,” he said. “We trusted ourselves to keep an eye on you. Both of you.” His voice dropped, touched with regret. “You’re still children. And children do foolish things when left to think they’re already grown.”

He looked back to Odysseus, then to the dying embers.

“That boar - whatever it was - it wasn’t natural. I could smell the godly stench. Probably it was some sort of divine punishment once again. We were lucky it didn’t reach us sooner. I don’t know how much luck was needed for previous hunters to make that opening for us.”

The tent was quiet for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire and the distant wind tugging at the canvas.

Autolycus’s hands curled slightly where they rested on his knees. He exhaled slowly through his nose, as if pushing down the storm rising in his chest.

“She shouldn’t have had to,” Eurylochus whispered. “She only came after me to keep me from doing something stupid. And I did anyway.”

Autolycus didn’t respond at first. He stared at the flicker of the firelight on Odysseus’s face. Her brow was damp with sweat, jaw slack, breath shallow but present.

“She made her choice,” he said quietly, but not unkindly. “Don’t rob her of that by pretending she was dragged into it.”

Eurylochus blinked. “But-”

“She’s like her namesake,” Autolycus interrupted gently. “Too damned clever. And too damned stubborn just like me. She saw what needed doing and did it.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed at his temples like the weight of the whole forest had settled on his shoulders.

“I just didn’t think it would come to this. Not yet.”

Eurylochus shifted awkwardly. The guilt didn’t ease, but it sat beside something else now - something heavier, colder.

“She’s going to make it, right?”

Autolycus didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Then, softly: “She’s strong. Stronger than she looks.”

Eurylochus nodded, voice almost a whisper. “Can I… stay here? With her?”

Autolycus studied him, then gave a slow nod.

“Sit. Watch the fire. She always sleeps easier when someone’s near.”

And so Eurylochus did - settling beside her, the silence shared, and the weight of the night pressing down on them both.

The fire sputtered as the wind hissed through the seams of the tent.

It had been quiet for hours, just the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft, pained sound of Odysseus shifting in her sleep. Eurylochus had been staring into the flames, chin resting on his knees, trying not to nod off.

Then a sharp gust of wind came. It swept through the tent flap and in an instant - whoosh - the fire guttered out.

Eury’s breath caught. The warmth vanished. Darkness crawled in.

Panicked, he scrambled to the back of the tent, where he knew they'd left spare wood stacked. His hand swept over blankets, packs, the side wall - nothing. The bundle of kindling was gone. His stomach clenched.

He ran to the closest tent as fast as he could to take some of their firewood, heart racing from the cold and confusion. Soon after he was back only to freeze mid-step.

Odysseus was awake.

She lay half-upright beneath her blankets, eyes open in the dark. For a moment - just a moment - Eurylochus thought he saw them shining. A faint, silvery gleam, unnatural and ghostlike, like mist catching starlight.

Then she blinked, and it was gone.

She turned her head weakly. “Eury?”

He swallowed, voice catching. “You’re awake. You - are you okay?”

“I think so.” Her voice was raspy. “What happened to the fire?”

“Wind took it. And the kindling’s gone.” He paused. “Y-your eyes…”

But she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she looked down, catching sight of the thick wrappings around his ankle. Her brows drew together, and for a second she looked more alarmed than pained.

“Your leg - what happened?”

He tried to brush it off, though tears burned behind his eyes. “It’s just… twisted. I’m fine.”

Her hand, still pale and trembling, reached for his. “You were limping when you carried me.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, the tears falling now, hot and silent. “You almost died , and I-I didn’t know what to do. There was so much blood. I thought You would die-”

“But I didn’t,” she said, flashing a faint grin. “Didn’t die. You and that oversized pig will have to try harder.”

He huffed out a laugh, but it cracked in his throat.

She chuckled softly - then winced, a cough tearing through her ribs. He was beside her in an instant, grabbing the water skin and helping her sit just enough to sip. She drank slowly, then slumped back down.

For a while, they sat in silence, broken only by wind rattling the canvas and their quiet breathing.

“They’re going to carve it up tomorrow,” Eury said eventually, his voice quiet. “The hunters. The boar.”

“Good,” Odysseus rasped. “It owes me half a leg and some really good clothes.”

Eury chuckled, sniffed. “They were talking about what to do with the tusks. Said they were too heavy to wear as a helmet.”

“Tell that to Agamemnon,” she said with a lopsided grin. “He would wear a crown made out of dragon’s bones if he could.”

“They said one tusk is going to be shown to the kings. To prove it’s dead. But Autolycus told them - he said you should have the other one and most of the reward for the bounty.”

Her smile faltered in surprise. “He did?”

“You were the one who killed it. They all agreed.”

She laid her head back on the rolled blanket, eyes soft. “I want it carved into something cool. Maybe a dagger. Or a flute that only plays angry notes.”

Eury chuckled again, but the laughter didn’t last. His shoulders sagged. The guilt was pressing in again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone out there like an idiot-”

“You saved me, Eury,” she interrupted gently. “You carried me back.”

He shook his head, blinking back fresh tears. “But you wouldn’t need saving if I hadn’t gone after the boar like some reckless hero. You got hurt because of me.”

Odysseus sighed. She reached over again, fingers barely brushing his wrist. “We were both stupid. I followed you instead of informing adults. You’re not the only one who made a dumb choice.”

“But you nearly-” His voice cracked again.

“We’re even ,” she said firmly, though her voice was barely a whisper. “Same bruises. Same bad ideas. Same victory.”

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

She smiled brightly and soon after she drifted off, breath deepening.

Eurylochus sat beside her, watching over her as the fire dimmed. But something made him glance upward.

There, faint against the canvas ceiling, was a shadow. Wings —broad and feathered - outstretched like a shield above her.

An owl.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but it was still there.

At first, it felt like a sign of protection.

But then... something else.

Not just shielding.

Claiming.

Like a dragon guarding its treasure.

It was way too easy to imagine it’s talons sinking into her shoulders.

He shivered.

And watched the princess sleep beneath the shadow of the gods.

---

Let the lyre sound for the bright-eyed maid,
Crowned in laurel, of noble blade-
Odysseus, born to Ithaca’s line,
Of mind like Athena’s, of courage divine.

In the wildwood deep, where shadows sleep,
And horned beasts through bramble creep,
A monstrous boar with tusks like spears
Brought death and ruin through long years.

But lo! From the hunt with keen-eyed grace,
She rose like dawn to take her place-
No trembling hand, no faltering breath,
She faced the beast, she laughed at death.

With shining spear in measured hand,
She struck as thunder shakes the land.
The beast did fall, its fury tamed,
By the warrior-princess the gods had named.

Apollo smiled, and Artemis stilled,
To see such strength with wisdom filled.
The forest sang, the wild winds bore
The name of she who stilled the boar.

Let the tale be told in every hall-
Of the girl who stood, unshaken, tall.
Not for the blood, nor wounds once borne,
But for glory bright as a hero sworn.

---

(Three years before the call for war)

The festival square was alive despite the very late hour - golden in the lantern light, threaded with music, laughter, and the aroma of roasting meats. Colorful ribbons fluttered from high poles while children darted through the crowd with sticky fingers and olive crowns tangled in their hair. Somewhere near the eastern tent, two men wrestled shirtless in a makeshift ring of trampled dust and shouted bets, drawing jeers and cheers with each thud of muscle against ground.

Musicians perched on low platforms, plucking lyres and blowing flutes in spirals of harmony. Dancers twirled in time, hands clasped, skirts flaring like petals. Clay cups sloshed with wine and cider, and every few steps, a different flavor met the nose - garlic, honeyed figs, lamb rubbed in spice and smoke.

Amid the revelry, Odysseus and Hector wandered side by side, plates in hand, trading bites of roasted olives and grilled cheese, Hector already halfway through his second cup of wine. He was relaxed, smiling, watching her with that particular look that said he was both amused by her and just a little in awe.

Then came the bard’s voice - cutting through the laughter like a hawk’s cry.

“… She struck as thunder shakes the land -”

Odysseus groaned. A full-bodied, dramatic sound that had Hector laughing even before he turned his head.

“Oh gods, not again .”

“Still?” he said with mock astonishment, grinning around the rim of his cup. “You are still surprised that they are singing praise about their beloved queen in your own archipelago? Honestly, I’m offended I didn’t hear it sooner. ”

She dragged him by the wrist toward the food stalls. “If I hear the words ‘blessed by Apollo’ one more time, I might throw myself into the fig cart.”

“You’re just mad because your fan club has better taste than you do.”

She gave him a look. “They made me sound like I was a cheap copy of Perseus.”

He shrugged. “To be fair, you did slay a boar the size of a wagon. Personally, I think they went easy on the scale of your heroism.”

Odysseus rolled her eyes and took the offered cider from a merchant, handing him another. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I am . In fact,” Hector leaned in just slightly, eyes glinting, “I think I’ll ask that bard for the lyrics. I’d like it performed in Troy. Maybe at a banquet.”

She stopped cold.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would~ .” He took a sip with exaggerated smugness. “Preferably with my father in attendance. I’m sure he’d appreciate the bit about you being ‘graced by Apollo’s light’.”

She swatted his arm. “You are unbearable .”

“And yet you’re marrying me.” He gave her a smug sidelong glance. “Fame suits you, my love. Don’t fight it. You deserve all the praise and more.”

She swatted his arm, laughing despite herself. “And here I thought you were above petty vengeance.”

“I’m a prince,” he said dryly. “I’m allowed to be as petty as possible.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned casually against the counter, taking the offered cider. “Funny, though… I haven’t heard any songs about you ~”

Hector stiffened slightly, then took a long drink. “That’s because I bribed every bard from Ilium to Aulis to make sure you wouldn’t.”

Her eyes lit up. “You didn’t.”

He nodded grimly. “I did. Paid in silver, wine, and once, a whole damn chariot.”

“Come on,” she teased, nudging him. “Let me hear it. You heard mine, after all. Fair’s fair.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head with grim resolve. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“It was humiliating. ”

She grinned. “Even better.”

“I was compared to a hound, ” he admitted, half-mortified.

Odysseus blinked. Then, with an utterly wicked smile: “A hound?”

“A loyal one,” he clarified hastily. “With ‘teeth like bronze blades,’ and ‘unyielding devotion.’ Like some overly dramatic guard dog from a war poem.”

“Oh, that’s adorable. ” Her voice dropped a little, her tone teasing and slow. “Maybe I should get you a collar.”

Hector choked on his drink, turning red from the neck up. “You-! Don’t say things like that in public!”

She took a lazy sip of cider. “Didn’t say you’d have to wear it in public. I would prefer to see it in the privacy of our chambers. Maybe with you on all fours if we are at it~”

“Odysseus,” he hissed, torn between embarrassment and heat.

She gave him a look of pure innocence before she leaned in closer to his ear and whispered. “I mean, you didn’t deny it.”

His mouth opened, then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, ears flaming. “You’re cruel. ”

“Only for you,” she said sweetly, brushing past him as she walked. “Come along, my faithful hound.”

He groaned, trailing after her with a helpless grin, muttering something about regretting all his life choices.

They wandered away from the bard’s stage, the song fading into the sea of other sounds - drums, footsteps, laughter, the clash of a drinking contest bell. The festive glow of torchlight cast a golden sheen over the square as the two of them strolled closer now, shoulder to shoulder, both cups half-full and slowing.

Odysseus traced the rim of hers idly. “You know,” she said, “the songs left something out.”

He glanced at her. “What?”

“My scar,” she said casually. “The big one. Inner thigh. Doesn’t rhyme well with ‘golden triumph,’ I guess.”

Hector slowed a little, voice quieter now. “That’s a shame.”

She looked up, a little surprised by the change in his tone. “Is it?”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing the small of her back. His voice dropped, intimate and deep. “I find it…” He leaned in, lips just brushing the shell of her ear. “Alluring.”

She shivered. For a breath, she forgot the noise, the wine, the crowd.

“When I think about it, I’m rather glad the song didn’t mention it,” he murmured. “Means only I get to know that part of you.”

Her breath caught.

Still, she recovered enough to arch an eyebrow. “So possessive - for a man with a dog’s reputation.”

He laughed, warm against her skin. “You did say I needed a collar.”

She elbowed him lightly, her cheeks warm and glowing, and he caught her hand before she could pull away, squeezing it gently.

They melted back into the crowd then - two figures among many - but with laughter between them like a thread, and something quieter, deeper, anchoring it in place. The night went on, full of music and mischief, and the memory of shared songs neither of them would quite forget.

“ There you are!”

The familiar voice cut through the crowd, and Odysseus barely turned before Deiphobus and Paris materialized between two wine stalls, both slightly out of breath and looking thoroughly annoyed.

“We’ve been searching everywhere ,” Deiphobus griped.

Odysseus raised her cup lazily. “We were enjoying food. There was cheese.”

Paris placed a dramatic hand to his chest. “ And you didn’t think to bring anything for me? Have I not suffered enough?”

Hector groaned, rubbing his forehead. “You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

Deiphobus gave a mock-offended look. “What are you talking about?”

“This was my trip,” Hector snapped. “My boat, my schedule, my alone time with my fiancée. And you two little shits weaseled your way aboard by convincing mother with the excuse of ‘needing fresh sea air’ and ‘wanting to study diplomacy.’”

“We do love a breeze,” Paris said innocently.

“And I diplomatically reminded the captain that you forgot to bring your cloak,” Deiphobus added with a shrug.

“You’re both insufferable,” Hector muttered.

Odysseus just sipped her cider, eyes glinting with amusement as the three of them bickered like boys in a training yard.

But then the music shifted - drums suddenly thundering in rhythm, flutes cutting into a sharper, brighter tune. The voices around them hushed, and the square began to clear at the center. Dancers in red and gold skirts stepped into formation, torches already flaring in their hands.

Odysseus straightened. “It’s starting - the fire dance.”

Paris blinked. “The what now?”

She nodded toward the growing circle. Couples were joining in now - pairs moving with deliberate, elegant steps, each partner holding a torch. The flames cast golden halos over their heads as they twirled, dancing clockwise around the musicians.

“It’s a blessing,” she explained. “Usually for couples. But anyone can join if they want to. It’s for fun as much as it is for good fortune.”

Paris’s face lit up like a boy spotting a new game. “Then I’m finding someone to dance with.” He smoothed his tunic, already scanning the crowd with a smirk. “Someone cute or sure.”

“I’m not risking setting myself on fire,” Deiphobus declared. “Where’d you get that wine, by the way?” he asked Hector.

“Second stall by the stall with grilled pork,” Hector muttered, pointing.

“Perfect. If anyone needs me, I’ll be stuffing my face in peace.” Deiphobus vanished with zero hesitation.

Hector turned back to Odysseus, watching the dancers as the circle of flames grew wider. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Twirling around in highly flammable clothing while tossing a lit torch over your head is somehow a blessing?”

“It’s in honor of Hestia,” she replied, amused. “The hearth goddess.”

He glanced at her. “Still doesn’t explain the combustion risk.”

Odysseus smiled. “Women dance with the torch to show they can maintain the hearth - keep the fire of the home alive no matter the difficulties that life might throw. Men join in to show they’ll protect that fire and their loved ones, support it. If the torch never goes out or harms someone through the entire dance, it’s seen as a sign of prosperity. Good luck for the family and lovers. A promise of a strong future.”

Hector’s eyes were steady now, thoughtful. The flames from the dance reflected in her eyes.

“And if they lose”

She shrugged. “Then they’re just bad dancers, or some superstitious elders might act offended.”

He huffed a laugh - and held out his hand.

“Then let’s not drop it.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“You’re asking me to dance?” she teased.

“I’m asking the most dangerous, chaotic and lovable woman I know to whirl around in a death spiral of flaming symbolism with me, yes,” he said solemnly.

Odysseus chuckled and slid her fingers into his.

“Then let’s burn together.”

Their torch caught from the edge of the circle, flames blooming in tandem. And hand in hand, they stepped into the firelight.

The rhythm of the drums deepened, like the thrum of a heartbeat beneath their feet, and Odysseus and Hector spun with the music, torch burning brightly in their hands. The fire painted gold along her cheekbones, her eyes catching the glow with every turn, until they shimmered like crown jewels. Her dress fluttered around her legs like it had no weight at all, catching the wind and flame alike as she twirled.

Hector couldn’t look away.

Even with the fire all around them, she was the brightest thing in the square.

Every step, every shift of her weight drew his gaze like a lodestone. Her laughter - light and breathless - rose above the drums and swept over him like a wave, and he realized with something close to awe that he’d never seen her look more alive.

She looked at him over her shoulder as she spun, torch raised high, and his breath caught.

She was fire.

After some time the music began to slow - notes stretching longer, drawing the moment out like the last lines of a prayer - and they, in perfect rhythm, stepped closer. The space between them closed. 

Their lips met.

Soft, then certain.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t for the crowd. It was for them, for the blaze that had grown between them since the day they first met. The moment sang of something ancient - of gods and vows and homes yet built.

And then-

CRASH.

“-Oh! Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry-!”

Paris stumbled directly into them, knocking his elbow against Hector’s shoulder and sending the torch clattering to the ground.

The flames sputtered-then died.

All three froze.

“I didn’t see you!” Paris babbled. “I was trying to dodge someone with a tray of olives and there was this girl who winked at me and - never mind. My torch is still lit! Take it! ”

He offered it like a lifeline, but Odysseus lifted a hand. “No - it’s not over yet.”

Hector looked to her, brows furrowed in question. But she was already kneeling, reaching for their fallen torch, its surface blackened but not cold.

“See?” she murmured, fingers brushing the edge. “There’s still embers.”

Carefully, she brought it to her lips and exhaled - slow and steady. The glowing core pulsed faintly… then brighter. A flicker of flame kissed the charred wood. It lived.

“Still with us,” she whispered.

Hector’s hand moved without hesitation. He reached up and tugged the thin leather string from his arm guard, wrapping it at the base of the embered torch to feed the flame.

Odysseus, watching him, smiled. She slipped the crimson ribbon from her hair, letting her curls fall loose across her shoulders, and gently fed it to the fire.

The flame caught, growing steady, bright once again.

They looked at one another - flushed, windswept, and grinning like fools. Proud. Triumphant.

Not because they’d danced perfectly.

But because together, they had kept the fire alive.

“...I’m still sorry,” Paris mumbled behind them.

Odysseus laughed and passed the torch to him. “Then just be more careful next time when dealing with fire. Now, go dance with your olive girl.”

Paris, always quick to recover, grinned and took off again, vanishing into the flames and laughter.

The beat of drums resumed, and couples spun back into their spirals, circling like stars around a center that burned steady and warm. But Odysseus leaned her head against Hector’s shoulder with a quiet sigh.

He tilted his head slightly to look at her. “Tired?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Dancing in circles while carrying open fire in silk turns out to be more exhausting than I remembered.”

He chuckled, brushing his fingers over the hand still looped in his. “Then let’s not push our luck.”

She looked up at him, a question in her gaze. “You want to slip away?”

He smiled. “I was thinking… stargazing. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her eyes lit up - not with firelight now, but something softer. “That sounds perfect.”

And just like that, they turned from the fire-lit square. Past the scent of roasted lamb and baked figs, past the clamor of dice games and the wild laughter of festival-goers, through the market shadows where lanterns swayed like paper moons.

They didn’t say much.

They didn’t need to.

Hand in hand, they walked toward the hills just beyond the village - where the music would fade, the crowd would disappear, and only the stars would remain as witness of their love.

Chapter 13

Summary:

Things are moving forward, but the sweetness still lingers in their throats.

Notes:

I'm sorry it took so long. There was a lot of planning regarding this chapter due to the important events for this story. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Btw there is a new short comic for this story. You can find it on my Tumblr.

The soft creak of shifting wood and the smell of salt air stirred her first. Her cheek was pressed against parchment—creased maps and smeared ink beneath her skin. A calloused hand touched her shoulder gently.

“Commander?”

Odysseus stirred with a quiet grunt, lifting her head slowly. Her braid had loosened in sleep, strands sticking out in unruly defiance. Across from her, Eurylochus stood with arms crossed, brow raised.

“You’re up early,” she mumbled, voice gravel-rough from sleep. Her back protested as she straightened. “Something wrong?”

“Routine check of the ship,” he said. “Storm was rough last night - thought I’d make sure the rigging hadn’t taken offense.” His gaze flicked to the maps sprawled around her. “What about you? Why’re you here instead of your tent?”

Odysseus blinked the haze away and looked down at the mess. Lines marked sea currents and wind directions, dozens of routes threaded like spiderwebs across the Aegean. “I must’ve fallen asleep by accident,” she admitted. “I was working on alternative sea paths. Trying to account for each of the fleets. There are over a thousand ships depending on our lead.”

Eurylochus exhaled through his nose, part exasperated, part admiration. “There are other people who can chart the stars, you know.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Yes, but I was the one who suggested this route. If it fails, if we scatter in a storm or reach Troy in pieces instead of strength, I want no one else to bear that.”

Eurylochus frowned but didn’t argue. He’d long accepted that her sense of responsibility didn’t bend easily.

As she shifted papers to make space, her hand brushed against something solid and unfamiliar. A small box - no bigger than a man’s palm - sat neatly at the edge of her desk, as if it had always been there. Made from dark oak, its surface was carved with laurel leaves so fine they looked alive in the morning light.

Odysseus stilled.

She opened it slowly.

Inside was a hairpiece, finely wrought gold shaped into olive branches, set with small but vivid green stones. The design was delicate, expensive, and unmistakably foreign.

Eurylochus leaned over her shoulder and gave a soft whistle. “Don’t tell me another overeager king is trying to win your heart with trinkets.”

But her face didn’t shift into her usual dry amusement. Instead, she stared down at the ornament with quiet dread. No note. No name. Just… knowledge. Knowledge that it was meant for her.

She stared for a long moment before gently closing the lid.

“It’s not a courtship gift,” she said quietly.

He studied her expression, then followed her gaze as she turned to the small round window behind her desk. Outside, only the sea and the newborn sun rippled into view, casting light across the open waters.

Nothing there.

And yet.

“I think I’ll change rooms,” she said after a beat.

Eurylochus narrowed his eyes. “Why? Do you think someone broke in?”

She didn’t look at him when she answered. “You could say that.”

Something cold settled in his chest.

His eyes drifted back to the oak box. His fingers flexed like he was considering throwing it overboard.

“Should we get rid of it?” he asked.

She finally turned to him. Her face was tired - beyond weary, the kind of fatigue that came not from sleeplessness but from the weight of command, from the sense that something unseen had brushed too close in the night.

“No,” she said softly, shutting the lid of the laurel-carved box. “We can’t risk offending someone who can seamlessly bring a gift like that aboard without waking a soul.”

Eurylochus didn’t reply immediately. His gaze lingered on the box, then drifted to the pale light spilling through the round window. The rising sun painted gold across her face, and he could see how it caught in her lashes - how, for all her armor and command, she looked just a little too frail in that moment.

Quietly, he said, “Then rest a little longer. I’ll make sure no one steps on the ship until you're ready. Not even a gull if I can help it.”

Odysseus blinked, eyes softening. The smallest smile touched her lips - exhausted, grateful. “Thank you, Eury.”

He gave a brief nod and turned toward the door, pausing only to glance over his shoulder. “And maybe - just for an hour - don’t be the commander. Just be… you.”

When he slipped out, she let out a slow breath and leaned back in her chair, the creak of wood soft under her weight. The sea murmured beyond the hull, steady and indifferent.

And for the first time in days, Odysseus closed her eyes - not to map winds or chart enemy routes, but simply to rest.

The oak box remained closed beside her. Unmoved, but not forgotten.

---

The war room of Troy, carved deep into the palace’s old foundations, pulsed with tension. Flames flickered along the torches lining the walls, their light casting long shadows over the carved stone table in the center - its surface littered with maps, carved tokens, and wax seals.

Hector stood at the head of the table, his armored arms crossed, face unreadable. Around him, his generals leaned in, their voices low and concerned.

“They’ll aim for our main harbors,” one of them said. “Thymbra, the beaches north of the Scamander - if they get a foothold there, they’ll surround the city within days.”

“Which is why we can’t let them land,” Hector replied, voice low but steady. “Our first priority is denying them clean access to the coast. Burn the shoreline caches. Reinforce the cliffs. And keep the fire ships anchored behind the outer reefs - out of sight.”

Another general spoke, hesitant:
“You plan to hold the entire coast?”

“Not forever,” Hector said. “Just long enough to keep them from reaching our doors while there’s still time to work something out.”

The room stilled.

“Work something out?” the admiral repeated. “You mean - diplomacy?”

Hector gave a short nod and moved a token across the board, placing it over a small coastal city - Pedasus.

“I leave in two days. I’ll meet Menelaus there before Agamemnon has time to rally his forces to the coast. If there’s a window to talk this down, it’s now.”

The room shifted uncomfortably. One grizzled commander spoke next:

“Do you believe that will work?”

Hector paused. “I think Agamemnon wants this war.” The bloodied feathers still linger in his memory, “He sees in it something for himself. But Menelaus... he may not. I saw him in Sparta - he’s determined but not blind. He can be reasoned with. If I can reach him before the bloodlust takes over, he might be able to rein in his brother.”

A murmur of cautious hope spread through the gathered men. Then:

“And if he refuses?”

“Then we fall back to contingency.” Hector didn’t flinch. “Blockade the rivers. Collapse the smaller roads through the Ida range. Thin them out and bleed them slow.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then-

A creak.

The chamber doors cracked open sharply. All eyes turned as Paris stood in the threshold, hair unbrushed, half-dressed, and breathing heavily as if he had rushed through the halls.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, stunned. “The war is coming and nobody told me?”

The room tensed.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. “Paris, this is not the time-”

“You can’t keep me in the dark, brother - this is my city too.”

The generals looked to Hector.

Hector didn’t look at him. Instead, he straightened slowly and said, in a voice that brooked no challenge: “Leave us.”

The generals paused, hesitant, but one glance at the prince’s face was enough. They gathered their scrolls in silence and filed out, heads low. The heavy door closed behind them with a dull, final thud.

Paris’s voice turned accusing, almost childish in its frustration.
“I’m not just some fool in the court, Hector. I’m a prince of Troy. This is my city and those are my people!”

Hector let out a short, bitter laugh. It was hollow and humorless - something that didn’t belong in a war room, nor in a conversation between brothers.
“A prince?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. “Since when do you care about Troy, Paris?”

Paris blinked, taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hector straightened, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “It means you lost the right to call yourself a prince of Troy the day you choose pleasure over your people.”

The words hit like a slap. Paris stared at him in stunned silence.

“You knew what you were doing when you left Sparta with Helen,” Hector continued, stepping forward, the fury in his voice tightening with every word. “You didn’t think about Troy. Not once. Not about the council, not about the people in the fields, not about the children who’ll grow up hiding from swords outside their windows.”

“I didn’t-” Paris started, but Hector cut him off.

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t know!” he snapped. “We were this close - Odysseus and I - to bring years of peace and prosperity to our people. For the future generations to live happily. Years of work, endless diplomacy, trying to thread a fragile future between kings who only know how to bleed each other dry.”

He paused, nostrils flaring. The laugh he let out could not be described if it was out of exhaustion or the mockery.

“And then you went to Sparta.”

Paris took a step back, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t start a war.”

“You took her.”

Paris barked. “I didn’t kidnap anyone!”

“And you think that matters?” Hector hissed. “You think Menelaus would brush off the fact that his wife is missing!? You think Agamemnon - who’s been expanding his reign longer than you’ve been chasing skirts - gives a damn about your feelings ? No. All he needed was the image: A king of Mycenae aiding his heartbroken brother in the quest to retrieve stolen love.” Hector pinched to bridge of his nose,“Now him providing his wealth and power to this bloodshed looks like a fucking charity.”

Young freckled prince was unable to speak. His voice stuck in his throat.

“All the years of careful politics between hostile nations. And you gave them a reason for war on a golden fucking platter.”

Paris looked away, but Hector stepped even closer, forcing him to face it.

“Fifty kings,” Hector said. “Gods only know how many ships filled to the brim with soldiers. You lit the spark. Now the fire’s coming - and it’s going to consume everything we’ve ever known.”

Silence.

Paris opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Hector stood tall, voice cold and final. “So no, Paris. You are not just some fool in court. You’re something far worse.”

Paris stood frozen for a moment, visibly shaken by his brother’s fury. Then, almost timidly, he tried to bridge the chasm that had cracked open between them.

“There’s still a chance this won’t turn into war,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re going to speak with Menelaus, right? Maybe it can be fixed. Like you said, not everyone in Greece wants this fight.”

Hector didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, his jaw locked.

“And Odysseus-” Paris ventured, forcing a note of optimism into his voice. “If she were here, the two of you could talk them down. Gods know she could argue a storm into silence. She probably could get Agamemnon to stand down. Hell! With her skills she would have him drinking with us and laughing by the end of the day!”

Hector’s shoulders tensed.

“She’s not with us,” he said curtly.

Paris blinked, not quite understanding. “Right. But we can quickly send a letter to Ithaca. She could be here in days. With her at the table, surely-”

“She’s not with us, Paris!” Hector snapped, his voice suddenly sharp. He turned to face his brother fully, his face twisted in a mixture of pain and restrained fury. “Agamemnon reached her first. Before we could do anything, he put her under his banner.”

Paris stared. “No... That can’t be true.”

“It is,” Hector said bitterly. “She’s most likely their war tactician now. Their key strategist. And she’ll be standing with them - when they arrive at our gates.”

Paris was silent, the weight of those words crashing into him like a wave. His voice dropped.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t know. I-I can’t imagine what that must feel like for you.”

The words struck with more force than any blade. The air in the chamber stilled as though the gods themselves were holding their breath.

He tried to laugh. But it sounded more like an exhausted sigh. “Yes, well. She gives them a massive advantage. And she-”

“I’m not talking about strategy, brother,” Paris cut in, sincere and breathless, “I meant… I can only imagine how hard it is to face the woman you love.”

The words landed like a hammer. For a brief, vulnerable second, Hector’s mask slipped. His mouth parted slightly, his brows lifting - almost as if he repressed this fact until someone else had said it aloud.

“Hector?” Paris asked, concerned now. “Are you alright?”

The older of the brothers looked away, eyes burning. “Get out.”

“What? Hector, I didn’t mean-”

“ Get out. ” Hector’s voice hitched this time, rising in a sharp, pained shout. 

Paris stepped forward, hesitant. “Please, just talk to me-”

Then, suddenly, Hector grabbed a ceramic water pitcher and hurled it across the room in Paris’s direction. It shattered against the stone wall in an explosion of shards and water which reached the younger prince’s feet.

“B-brother?”

“I said GET OUT!” Hector roared, the force of it echoing against the walls.

Paris didn’t try again. He turned and fled the room, the heavy door closing behind him like a tombstone.

Left alone in the war room, Hector stood trembling, breath heavy in his throat. Then, slowly, with shaking hands, he swept his arm across the war table - maps, models, and inkpots crashing to the ground in a violent cacophony.

He collapsed to his knees beside the table, bracing himself against its edge, the flames of the torches flickering behind him as his rage ebbed - leaving only grief in its place.

---

The harbor bustled with the clatter of crates, the bark of orders, and the rhythmic thud of boots on wooden planks. The air was sharp with the scent of tar and salt, thickened by the hum of thousands preparing for war.

Eurylochus was halfway through checking the rigging on one of the smaller Ithacan ships when Patroclus emerged from between two tents, hair tousled from sleep and cloak haphazardly thrown over one shoulder. He rubbed the back of his neck, blinking against the early sun.

“You’re up?” he called, voice still rough. “Gods, I’m shocked that your queen didn’t kick me out of bed today.”

Eurylochus looked up from the coils of rope in his hands and offered a half-smile. “She needed a bit more rest.” He said it with casual ease, but there was a gravity tucked behind the words that made Patroclus pause.

His brows knit. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine.” Eurylochus tugged on a length of rope, inspecting the knots. “She’s not a god, you know. Even Odysseus needs to breathe once in a while.”

Patroclus exhaled, nodding. “I suppose… something like this—leading a fleet of a thousand ships into war - it must be draining.”

“It is,” Eurylochus said simply. “And she carries more of it than most see.”

Patroclus leaned against a crate, watching the distant horizon. “Funny… I don’t think I’ve ever seen her worried. Concerned, maybe. But not…exhausted.”

That made Eurylochus chuckle - low, knowing.

Patroclus turned toward him, curious. “What’s so funny?”

Eurylochus wiped his hands on a cloth, then jabbed a thumb toward him. “Let me give you one piece of advice, since you’re training under her.”

Patroclus perked up, ready for some veteran’s insight.

“You will never,” Eurylochus said, leaning in with mock seriousness, “and I mean never , know more about her than she wants you to know.”

Patroclus blinked, caught off guard.

“You could follow her for a decade, sleep in the tent next to hers, fight side by side, and you’d still only know a fraction of what’s in her head.” Eurylochus gave him a clap on the shoulder. “So don’t waste time trying to map her like a coastline. Just sail with her, trust her, and you’ll be better for it.”

Before Patroclus could reply, Eurylochus straightened and gestured to a barrel.

“Now back to work. We’ve got enough to pack without your philosophical questions slowing us down.”

Patroclus chuckled and hoisted the barrel onto a waiting cart. “Why did you even unpack so much anyway? You do realize we’ve barely even stayed in Aulis.”

“You mean your army didn’t.” Eurylochus rolled his eyes. “Some of us unpacked like civilized soldiers. You and Achilles camped like you were expecting to be chased out by nightfall.”

Patroclus grinned. “We were prepared . Half our men slept like it was a trench war, but at least we won’t be wasting time repacking ships full of supplies we only just opened.”

Eurylochus laughed. “You’re not wrong. My back still hurts from hauling crates we didn’t even touch.”

“Could’ve just asked us for tips. Sleeping on rocks builds character.”

“Says the man who still flinches when he sits down too fast.”

Their banter was interrupted by the steady approach of gold - Achilles marching down the camp, hair gleaming like polished bronze, his frustration visible before he even spoke.

“There you are,” he called. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Patroclus didn’t stop working. He hauled a crate toward the hull and said plainly, “You’re a grown man, Achilles. I assume you can pack your tent on your own.”

Eurylochus smirked at the exchange, then squinted at Patroclus’s face.

“Wait - what’s this? Is that a beard?”

Patroclus straightened a little, grinning. “You noticed! It’s finally coming in.”

“Looks good. Makes you look… seasoned.”

Achilles made a face. “He looks like a goat.”

Patroclus’s grin faded. “What?”

“It’s patchy,” Achilles said with an almost boyish shrug, like a child trying not to pout. “You should shave it.”

“At least something is growing on my face.”

“Yeah, and it looks like it’s confused about where it wants to grow.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous of looking like a broom with mange?”

The teasing shifted, growing sharper.

Patroclus looked actually angry.

Before the jabs could slide into a full argument, a voice - smooth, low, and unmistakably amused - floated across the dock.

“I could hear your bickering from the deck.”

Odysseus emerged from the Ithacan ship, her strides relaxed but sure, a white dress that reashed to her calves. Leather bracers on her wrists. And jewlery gleaming on her fingers. Half of her body hidden under blue chlamys. There was a small quirk to her lips, but her eyes were alert, sharp beneath her tousled dark hair.

The three of them straightened.

“Apologies, my queen,” Patroclus said quickly, the flush rising in his cheeks.

Odysseus waved him off. “It’s hardly a scandal. I was going to wake soon anyway.”

Patroclus rubbed his neck. “Do you… need help with anything?”

Odysseus chuckled as she walked past him. “You’re very sweet, Patroclus, but you should be boarding your ship, better make sure you don't forget anything important.”

He turned a deeper shade of red, mumbling, “Right. Of course.”

She turned slightly, gaze flicking to his jaw. “But keep the beard. It suits you.”

Patroclus beamed - looking more confident. 

Achilles scowled.

Odysseus’s attention shifted to the rest of the beach, assessing its motion. Then her eyes landed again on Patroclus who was working looking for some more work while Eurylochis was securing the crates.

“If you want to feel useful, fetch me raptors from Agamemnon’s quartermaster. Tell him That I sent you and he will know what to give you.”

“Right away!” Patroclus said brightly, already setting off at a jog.

Achilles watched him go, expression unreadable.

Eurylochus came up beside Odysseus, voice low. “That was cruel.”

“That?” She smirked. “That was mercy. He’s safe from Achilles’s temper, and I get my maps.” She tilted her head toward the Pelides. “Besides, maybe someone will miss him enough to think twice before talking shit and then sulking like a boy denied a treat.”

Achilles gave her a look. She offered a kind and elegant smile and equally elegant middle finger discreetly covered by her chlamys.

And then, as if nothing had happened, she returned to inspecting the ropes and ordering supplies, the sea wind pulling at the blue hem of her tunic, golden morning light glinting off the flowing fabric.

---

Hours passed

The calm before the war felt almost like a game.

Almost.

The camp at Aulis had never been this quiet.

Where once there had been the endless clamor of smiths, shouting officers, and clattering arms, now there was little more than the sound of waves licking the shore and the last few tents being folded down. The ships were nearly ready. The war would soon begin.

Diomedes stood atop a low hill, arms crossed, gazing over the emptied valley like a man peering into a hollow shell.

Sthenelus stood beside him, leaning against a broken spear shaft he’d repurposed as a walking stick. His eyes were narrowed, lips thin.

“It feels wrong,” Sthenelus muttered. “Like walking through a battlefield after all the bodies have been cleared.”

Diomedes nodded. “I know what you mean. Feels… echoing. Like something's still here, but we can't see it.”

“Or like something’s missing,” Sthenelus said.

A light breeze stirred the dust along the hill’s edge. The air smelled of salt, oil, and the dying coals of cooking fires. Below, the coastline bustled with final preparations: ropes tightened, sails tested, hulls inspected for the last time.

“Still feels strange to be leaving days after the first ships,” Sthenelus added. “It’s a campaign, not a wedding procession. Why split the force so awkwardly?”

Diomedes glanced sideways. “It’s deliberate. Keeps the army moving but manageable. We’ve got thousands of men, from more cities than anyone can count. Sending them all at once is a recipe for confusion. This way, each wave can be kept in check by their leaders.”

“But Agamemnon and Menelaus?” Sthenelus frowned. “They're kings - brothers - and yet they sail apart. That’s not tradition. That’s theatre.”

“It’s leadership,” Diomedes replied. “Menelaus sails first, Agamemnon sails last. One to lead the front, one to anchor the rear. That way, no matter where a soldier looks in the line, he knows who’s above him. It reminds everyone who holds the crown - and where obedience flows from.”

“Hmph.” Sthenelus tapped the haft of the broken spear against a stone. “Still feels like we’re being scattered instead of rallied.”

Diomedes shrugged. “Order in motion. Like any formation - we march, we maneuver. The delay gives us time to reinforce or course-correct if needed.”

Sthenelus grunted but said nothing. Then, after a pause, his voice lowered just enough to imply he wasn’t entirely speaking with permission.

“I heard something strange,” he said. “One of the Ithacan ships left early. Supposedly to take a soldier out of the war..”

Diomedes’s brow furrowed, but he gave a small nod. “I heard the same. A companion of hers - badly wounded. Agamemnon approved the departure.”

Sthenelus’s tone turned edged. “Why her ship? Someone like him probably has his own soldiers and ships to travel.”

Diomedes gave a small sigh. “Because Ithacan ships are small. Light. Built to skim from island to island. You don’t need fifty men to crew one - just a few loyal hands. It’s safer for a small and discreet escort. Faster, too. If you were bleeding out, you’d want that ship, not one of ours.”

Sthenelus made a dismissive noise. “And yet it’s still convenient. First, the rumours that she helped a deserter and now she helps some allies escape? She is sending off people left and right.”

“She didn’t send him off,” Diomedes said patiently. “She helped him leave. There’s a difference. We’re going to war, not putting dying men on display.”

“She’s clever,” Sthenelus muttered. “And clever men, I can understand. But clever women? Especially queens?” 

Diomedes looked at him slightly annoyed, “Put some trust in our comrades.”

He looked sidelong at Diomedes. “You and I - we’re Epigoni. We’ve fought together. That makes us comrades. Your subjects see you as your king. They fight with us for the betterment of our land. That makes them comrades. She - She’s none of those things.”

Diomedes kept his voice level. “She’s our ally.”

“She’s a foreign ruler who doesn’t fight with our tactics, doesn’t know the needs of our people, and clearly doesn’t trust you enough to have you sail with her on some important tasks. If not for Agamemnon she would not take you to Skyros. That’s not an ally. That’s a variable.”

“She’s a champion of Athena,” Diomedes said. “Same as me. That should count for something.”

Sthenelus barked a dry laugh. “Tantalus was beloved by the gods too. Look how his story ended.”

Before Diomedes could reply, a shout carried across the camp.

They both turned, instantly alert. Voices - multiple - rose in volume. Not the organized shouts of training drills, but anxious, confused noise. A soldier ran past below the hill, eyes wide and darting, and others began clustering near the now-dismantled supply tents.

Some voices in the crowd were muttering. Others were shouting. But all of them were filled with fear and anger.

“They say it’s true!” one man was yelling. “That the first Greek to touch Trojan soil dies!”

“That’s old wives’ spit,” someone muttered - but not with confidence.

“Who’s first then?” barked another. “Do we draw lots? Do we send one of the poor bastards who can’t read or write?”

“You mean sacrifice someone,” a bearded veteran snapped. “That what this war is now? Send someone off with a pat on the back and a death sentence?”

Some sounds of struggle came from the centre of the crowd.

“What now?” Sthenelus muttered.

A cluster of soldiers - half-packed and half-panicked - had gathered near the blacksmith’s former tent. Where once there had been the din of hammer and flame, there was now only the scuffle of boots and strained voices. Some men were arguing. Others were wrestling someone to the ground.

Diomedes’s eyes narrowed as he pushed through the circle, Sthenelus close behind him.

Three men had forced another to his knees, binding his hands with a fraying strap of leather. The captive - thin, dust-covered, barely past boyhood - was trembling. Not in fear, but in a volatile mix of fury and humiliation.

“Hold him down!”

“He’s light, won’t even fight. Good as gone already.”

“We’ll be remembered for doing what needed to be done.”

Diomedes stormed into the center, voice cutting through the air like bronze.

“Unhand him. Now.”

The crowd froze.

“I said let him go!”

The captors hesitated - but the command in his voice was unmistakable. They stepped back. Diomedes grabbed the youth by the arm and yanked him upright. The boy staggered but stayed standing.

Diomedes turned to the crowd, gripping the boy by the shoulder. “You want to sacrifice someone? Fine. But look at him first.”

He forced the young man to face the ring of soldiers.

“Look at him,” he repeated. “Really look. This is the man you were about to offer up like a lamb. Not a stranger. Not an enemy. A Greek, just like you. A comrade. You would’ve killed him without knowing his name.”

He looked down at the youth. “Say it.”

The boy blinked at him.

“Your name. Say it loud.”

“…Pyrros,” he said hoarsely. “Son of Menetos. From Calydon.”

Diomedes turned back to the crowd. “Now tell me - would you kill Pyrros, son of Menetos from Calydon? Would you slit his throat or throw him off a ship just because a line in a prophecy frightened you?”

No one answered.

“You'll kill nameless Trojans soon enough,” Diomedes continued, voice quiet but unrelenting. “But this man - this face, this name - you’ll see it again tomorrow, and the next day. In the same ranks. By your fire. At your back in battle. If you can kill one of your own before the war even begins, what will be left of you when the worst comes? If you’re already making murder look like a strategy, are you ready to carry that weight?”

The silence that followed was heavy and uneasy. Pyrros stood quietly at Diomedes’s side, eyes wide, cheeks still streaked with dust and dried blood. His legs were shaking. Diomedes let go of his arm allowing the beaten soldier to go on his knees and rest a little. The king of Argos kept his arm now on the man’s shoulder to ensure that nobody would dare to harm him.

The crowd quieted - barely.

There were still mutters heard from the back.

And few finally dared to ask.

“What do you suggest, then?” asked one of the angry men, voice rough. “We flip a coin? Pick someone you find ‘expendable’? What’s your solution, king of Argos?”

Diomedes opened his mouth - but hesitated.

And that was when she appeared.

“Fifty thousand men,” came a calm, amused voice from the edge of the crowd. “And not one willing to make himself immortal.”

The crowd parted as Cephalonian queen Odysseus stepped into view, arms folded behind her back, her cloak trailing like shadow.

She strolled casually, as if she were admiring the view and not addressing an oncoming mutiny.

Two of her soldiers calmly followed suit.

“One soldier,” she mused. “Out of an army this large… imagine the stories they’d write. The songs. ‘The one who leapt first into death and carved the road for the rest to follow .’ Not a bad legacy.”

She smiled then - just slightly.

“But of course,” she added, tone shifting, “there’s no guarantee they’d write any of that, is there? Could just die like any other fool. Doesn’t sound quite so poetic then. Not to mention the difficulty of building a proper strategy based on one man’s potential bravery.”

A few nervous chuckles flickered at the edges of the group.

“I’m glad no one’s rushing to it,” she said. “Armies of suicidal men don’t tend to win wars. Or follow orders. After all, didn’t mighty Spartoi last, what? - ten minutes until they met their embarrassing end?”

The tension cracked, just slightly. A few men exhaled. One or two dared to smile.

Then, wordless, she crossed the space to where Pyrros still stood - bound and trembling beside Diomedes. The young man’s eyes were wide, rimmed red with confusion and fear, his wrists chafed raw from the bindings.

Odysseus slowed as she neared, her presence drawing the eyes of every soldier in the circle. She gave a slight nod to Diomedes - permission, or perhaps thanks - and then gently knelt in the dust beside the man.

No flourish. No command. Only a steady hand as she reached for the knots herself.

“Easy,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could truly hear it. “You’re safe now.”

Her fingers, practiced and sure, worked through the leather bindings. In moments they slipped loose, falling away with a soft thud into the dirt. Pyrros’s arms dropped at his sides, useless, trembling.

Then something cracked.

Whether it was pride or fear or just the unbearable weight of sudden mercy, it broke in him - and he surged forward.

He wrapped his arms around her, clinging like a drowning man to driftwood.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a blade slicing water.

Dust, sweat, and desperation smeared across her white cloak, dulling its once-pristine luster. His face, streaked with soot and ash, pressed into her shoulder. His hands - calloused and filthy - gripped her arms. He left stains on her white like snow clothes, her uncovered collarbones, even her cheek, where his head brushed hers.

There was a breath of silence.

Then shock bloomed. The crowd froze.

Even the Ithacan soldiers flanking her stiffened, one stepping half-forward on instinct. Hands hovered near spear shafts.

For a breath, nothing moved.

Then Pyrros blinked and looked down. His eyes fell on her - on the white dress, now streaked with the marks of him. Sea-blue chlamys was in no better condition. Her arms, stained with grit. Her cheek, grey with dust where he had touched her.

His face crumpled. “I - I didn’t mean - your dress, your - Queen, I-!”

His voice caught. He tried to step back again, hands raised in apology, horror written all over his face. Around them, the soldiers shifted. Many glanced toward the Ithacan guards, uncertain if punishment would follow.

Odysseus didn’t so much as glance at her soldiers.

Instead, she raised one hand, palm open, dismissing them with a flick of her fingers.

The Ithacans obeyed immediately, stepping back without a word, spears lowered.

Then, calmly - without a trace of hesitation - She guided him back - not harshly, but with soft pressure, until his face was visible again.

She reached out and brushed a bit of grit from Pyrros’s shoulder - an intimate, maternal gesture.

The queen looked him in the eyes.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” she said, her tone like calm water over stone. “You were afraid, and your comrades betrayed that fear. It will not be held against you. And no soldier will ever be punished for reaching toward the only hand they believe might save them.” With gentle care she wiped the dust from underneath his eye. “And a leader should never be afraid to dirty their hands - not when it’s in service to their people.”

The man looked at her in shock. His eyes red and slowly building up tears.

She offered a small, steady smile.

Then she turned, her stained cloak swirling gently as she turned to Diomedes and Sthenelus, leaving behind a silence heavy not with tension, but with awe.

And in that silence, it was not shame that lingered in Pyrros’s eyes - but something dangerously close to reverence.

Pyrros stepped back, eyes red. “Thank you,” he whispered, before stumbling away, shoulders taut with pride and disbelief.

Odysseus looked at the crowd, dust on her hands and face like war paint. Her gaze swept the crowd, calm and sharp as a drawn bow.

“You asked what the plan is,” she said. “Let me assure you - there is one. The greatest minds in Greece have already seen to that. Men who’ve dealt in prophecy and war long before most of us were born. I swear on my name that no one here will be sacrificed.”

A long silence followed.

Then, like water slipping through a cracked dam, the tension broke. The crowd began to dissolve - quietly now. Murmured apologies. Relieved glances. No more shouting, no more desperate talk of lots or doom.

Odysseus watched them go, brushing some of the grit from her cheek with the flowing part of her chlamys. Then she turned to Diomedes and offered a small nod.

“You handled that well,” she said lightly. “Very composed. Very regal.”

Diomedes rubbed the back of his neck, bashful. “You did most of the work.”

“You would’ve said something better in another minute or two. I was just impatient,” she replied. “You’re direct. I’m theatrical. We balance each other.”

The young king’s smile only widened.

Sthenelus, arms folded and unimpressed by compliments, spoke dryly. “So you stole his moment on purpose?”

Odysseus laughed, eyes dancing. “I didn’t want to miss all the fun.”

Diomedes chuckled despite himself, his ears a little pink. “Still. Thank you. That could’ve turned ugly.”

Odysseus’s expression softened. “Don’t sell yourself short. They were already listening to you. You reminded them of who they are - brothers in arms, not frightened beasts in a trap.”

Sthenelus raised an eyebrow. “You said ‘ the greatest minds in Greece .’ Who, exactly, are we trusting with our fates?”

She smiled, sly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“We both would like to know,” Diomedes added.

Odysseus relented with a quiet chuckle. “Some of the seers spoke with Menelaus. Agamemnon. Nestor. Even a priest. All of them have been in council about this. The signs are being read. A course is being charted.”

Sthenelus gave a half-smile. “You forgot to name one.”

Odysseus glanced at him sidelong - and smiled, a knowing little thing.

“You already know,” she said.

Sthenelus gave a slow, sardonic nod. “I do.”

Diomedes grinned. “You know, you really shouldn’t be giving people advice about not underselling themselves when you’re always doing it.”

Odysseus laughed, brushing a windblown curl from her cheek. “Oh, I’m plenty confident in my skills. Believe me. If I didn’t believe in them, I’d have to assume I was dragged into this mess of a war for nothing.”

She looked down at her hand - dust still clinging to her palm like a badge and two rings she always wore on her fingers were now lacking their shine due to the coat of dirt on them - and flexed her fingers once.

“I assume,” she continued with a wry glint in her eye, “that I was summoned for my intelligence. Because if Agamemnon or Menelaus were just desperate for a bit of female company in their cots, there are cheaper and less troublesome ways to get it.”

Sthenelus gave a single, startled laugh.

Odysseus shrugged lightly. “I just don’t talk about myself too much. Many men don’t like the idea of following someone who looks like me - especially not when I start winning arguments.”

Diomedes shook his head. “Then they’ll have to get used to it.”

“They will,” she said, soft but sure.

And in the hush that followed, the sea whispered like distant applause, and the smoke of the dying campfires curled into the brightening sky.

---

The air was thick with the golden stillness of late summer. Cicadas hummed lazily in the trees, and somewhere far off, the river whispered through tall reeds. They had ridden hours away from Troy - just the two of them - into the gentle wilderness where the hills rolled soft and the world seemed paused.

Odysseus sat on a smooth rock under an old pear tree, strumming a simple melody on a lyre. The sun gave an onyx shine to her black strands as she concentrated on the strings, tongue tucked lightly against her teeth.

Above her, nestled in the branches, Hector shifted with care, one hand steadying himself on the bark, the other reaching up to where the nicest of fruit glowed like lanterns among the green leaves.

“Be careful,” she called up, not looking from the strings. “You’re not exactly built like a cat.”

Hector laughed softly. “No, but my beloved happened to love sweet treats. And wouldn’t you know it? The best is always at the very top.”

Odysseus rolled her eyes, her fingers never pausing. “You’re going to fall and blame me when you break your noble neck.”

“And yet, worth it,” he said with mock gravity, plucking a pear free and tucking it into the bag that was loosely hanging on his shoulder.

Just then, the tune she’d been playing shifted, fuller and smoother than before. Her fingers found the final notes, coaxing them into a graceful cadence that lingered sweet in the air.

She gasped. “I did it! Hector, I played it through!”

He froze mid-reach, glancing down through the leaves. “You did?”

She nodded, beaming like a child. “The one you showed me last month. I kept messing up the transitions, but - just listen-”

She played it again, more confidently. The simple melody still sounded amateurish and yet it felt warm and pleasant.

Hector grinned wide. “That’s perfect, Odysseus! Gods, I knew you’d get it.” Then, distracted by the moment, he shifted too quickly - and his foot slipped against the branch.

“Whoa-!”

“Hector!” Odysseus shot up from the rock, lyre nearly dropped.

He caught himself just in time, heart pounding. “I’m fine! Fine! Not a scratch! I promise!”

“Get down here before you break something I’m fond of.”

He descended with a sheepish grin, cheeks flushed as he landed beside her and gently placed the sun-warmed fruit into her hand.

“For your trouble,” he said. “May your heroic fingers stay unbruised.”

She put down the fruit and looked at her hand. Covered in small scars and calluses. “It’s too late for these kinds of wishes. My hands are probably rougher than those of a blacksmith.”

Hector grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles “Still lovely and so I wish no more harm upon them. At least for today if I can help it.”

She gave him a look but decided to enjoy the offering anyway. Juice ran along her thumb as she bit in, humming in contentment.

Hector joined too. Now they leaned over one another while enjoying the fruit and warmth of the sun.

“You really get that excited over a song?” Hector asked after a beat, watching her with open fondness. “It’s funny. You’ve bested generals, outmaneuvered armies, and you still light up over a melody like it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

Odysseus looked at him, then down at the lyre in her lap, where her fingers still shimmered with juice from the pears they'd been sharing. She wiped them carefully on a scrap of linen before setting the lyre aside, thoughtful.

“It’s different,” she said softly. “Being good at something that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Her voice was gentle, almost wistful, and her gaze wandered to the far-off line of the sea, its blue flickering in the golden light.

“So much of what we do - what I’m good at - is strategy and words sharp enough to cut. When you win in politics or war, it usually means someone else has lost. And even when you don’t mean to, you’re always… reshaping things. Breaking them to make something new. But music…” She paused, letting the breeze comb through her hair. “Music just is. It doesn’t take anything from anyone. It’s not for gain. It’s just… beautiful. And it makes people feel whole instead of torn.”

Hector was quiet beside her, his expression unreadable but his eyes full of softness.

“I’ve never got a chance to master an instrument,” she added, glancing down again, fingers brushing the worn strings of the lyre. “But I admire those who do. It takes patience. Care. And that kind of dedication - when it’s not for power or glory - it humbles me.”

She paused, the breeze tugging gently at a loose strand of her hair.

“I suppose the only craft I’ve ever truly practiced is carving.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “But even then, it’s woodwork. Heavy-handed stuff. Nothing delicate. Nothing like this.”

She laughed softly, a little self-deprecating, and shrugged. “A far cry from music.”

Hector reached out without a word and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a quiet, brief hug - firm and warm, a wordless way of saying you’re more than enough.

And when he let go, she lingered for just a moment in his warmth before reaching into her satchel.

“I… have something for you,” she said then, more shyly than before. Her tone had softened into something hesitant. 

“For me? But it’s not my birthday or anything similar.”

“It’s not much, really.”

He turned toward her, curious. “What’s this?”

She hesitated, then placed the linen-wrapped bundle into his hands.

“Just - open it, please.”

He unwrapped it slowly, the fabric falling away to reveal a finely made aulos - twin pipes bound together with polished bronze. The design was simple, but elegant. The grain of the wood had been sanded smooth, and the mouthpieces were shaped with precision born of careful hands and long hours.

He stared at it for a moment, speechless.

“This… this is beautiful.”

Odysseus looked away, suddenly bashful. “Your mother mentioned your old one cracked. I wasn’t sure if you still played, but… I thought it might be something you’d want.”

“You made this?” he asked, his voice low with astonishment.

“I tried,” she murmured. “It’s not perfect. I don’t carve instruments often. Or… well, ever.”

He looked from the aulos to her, then back again - and without another word, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t a hurried thing. It was slow, reverent, like he was afraid that speaking might undo the moment’s magic. His hand rested lightly at her cheek, and hers curled over his wrist like something sacred.

When he pulled back, his eyes still searching hers, he whispered, “How in the name of every god did I get you?”

Her smile was crooked, her ears pink. “I ask myself the same thing.”

She fiddled with a thread on her sleeve, then looked up at him, almost timidly. “Could you… play something? For me?”

Hector's smile warmed, deep and full of affection. Then, without hesitation, he reached for the lyre at her side and held it out to her.

“Only if you join me.”

She blinked at him - startled, then laughing softly as she took the instrument with both hands.

So they sat side by side, close enough their shoulders brushed, as the sound of the river and the rustling of the leaves kept them company. Odysseus plucked out a simple, sweet tune on the lyre - unpolished but earnest, the kind of melody made not for an audience but for a shared silence. Hector raised the aulos to his lips and gently joined her, matching her rhythm with breath and tone, weaving notes around her chords like a conversation.

It wasn’t flawless. A few times, they laughed when their timing faltered. Once, the wind carried off the sound altogether, and they had to begin again. But it was charming - honest and human and warm. The music was not the kind sung in halls or carved into legend. But it was enough.

For a little while, there were no wars, no schemes, no politics or betrayals. Just the brush of wind, the taste of pears, and the quiet joy of making something beautiful with someone who mattered.

And when the song faded at last into stillness, they didn’t speak. They only looked at each other, smiling softly in the silence they’d made their own.

When the sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding orange and rose through the sky, casting long shadows through the orchard. Odysseus plucked one final pear from the pile they’d gathered, handing it to Hector with a satisfied sigh.

“We should head back,” she murmured, resting her head briefly on his shoulder. “Before someone sends a patrol after us.”

Hector groaned softly. “They’re going to, anyway. But fine. For the sake of protecting our private spot.”

A soft giggle escaped her mouth. “Better keep it safe or we will run out of places to hide from your duties.”

Together, they packed the leftover fruit and lyre carefully before making their way to the horse tethered nearby. Hector moved to mount it while Odysseus made no such effort, instead standing still with arms crossed.

He glanced back at her. “Are you planning to one day ride one alone?”

“Never,” she said with theatrical indignation. “You know I have a sacred agreement with horses.”

Hector smirked as he pulled himself into the saddle. “Ah yes, the eternal truce. ‘You don’t like them, they don’t like you.’”

“I’ve upheld my side,” she huffed, swinging up behind him with practiced ease. 

“And I’m not shocked that they struggle on their part. You are quite easy to adore.”

“They keep trying to bite my chlamys.”

“That’s because you keep hiding candied fruits in your hem,” he laughed.

“I never hide them,” she muttered. “They’re for me. The fact that those stompy beasts can smell them is their problem.”

“So territorial,” Hector teased. “Do they not share with you?”

“No. And neither do I,” she sniffed. “Except with people I actually like.”

He grinned, reins loose in hand as their horse started a slow, easy trot. “Do I count?”

“You, my sister, and Paris,” she said, patting the saddlebag fondly. “Glazed fruit is the best form of bribery, and I use it wisely.”

That earned a full laugh from him, rich and genuine. They rode slowly beneath the deepening sky, the wind tugging gently at their cloaks. By unspoken agreement, Hector took them down an alternate trail - one less traveled and curving through the reeds near the river. It would lead them back to Troy while keeping their quiet paradise a secret.

As the city walls came into view, the golden light catching on its towers, the illusion of peace began to crack.

Paris and Helenus were waiting just past the outer gates, pacing irritably.

“There you are!” Helenus called out, arms crossed. “You’re late.”

“Our father is slowly getting tired of my excuses for you two,” Paris added, hands on hips. “Do you want to cause an uproar?”

Hector dismounted slowly, helping Odysseus down before responding. “I took care of everything this morning. I had a free afternoon. Not my fault you two are always last to rise.”

Helenus grumbled something under his breath, clearly unconvinced.

Odysseus stepped forward smoothly, leaves and strands of grass from her sleeve. “I’ll help with the backlog,” she offered. “Whatever’s been pushed aside, I’ll help sort it by tomorrow evening.”

Helenus narrowed his eyes, still annoyed, but nodded. “Fine. Just don’t vanish again without a word. I was supposed to be at the temple with Cassandra. Not looking for you two.”

“I’ll try my best,” she said sweetly.

Hector turned to her then, smiling like a man who could not be more proud. “My hard working queen~.”

And he kissed her - quick but sure, warm with gratitude and affection.

“Oh gods,” Paris groaned, throwing his hands up and covering his eyes. “Gross. Right in front of me?”

“You are saying that because you are jealous.” deadpanned Helenus.

“No, I’m stating the fact that seeing my brother being like…” He waved his arm aimlessly in Hector's direction, “this will always be gross. And I feel bad for poor Ody being cursed with a shitty taste in men.”

“Careful, I’m not above throwing you into a keg of oil.” Grumbled Hector while Odysseus was hugging him while trying to hide her amusement. “And stop acting like that. you’re not five,” 

“But I feel five when you do that!” he whined.

Their laughter carried through the gate, brushing aside the tension. Even Helenus couldn’t hide a small smirk as he turned back toward the palace, muttering under his breath about "love-addled fools."

As the group walked into the city, Odysseus and Hector lingered a step behind, their hands brushing in quiet rhythm - still holding, still steady.

---

The crown prince wasn’t sure if he woke up from a dream or if his conscious mind tried to ease him with a sweet memory.

Time passed. Hector didn’t know how long.

He was still sitting on the floor, knees bent and arms braced against the edge of the overturned war table, when the door creaked open.

Soft footsteps. The faint clink of bronze.

He didn’t look up.

He knew who that was.

“I told you to get out,” he muttered hoarsely.

“I did,” Paris said simply. “But now I came back.”

Only then did Hector lift his head. His eyes were rimmed red, his face drawn. And there was his brother - standing in the doorway, holding a tray with both hands.

A pitcher of pomegranate wine with two cups. Flatbread, wrapped in linen. Bowl of fresh fruits. Roasted lamb, glistening with honey and thyme, still steaming. 

Hector blinked slowly. His voice cracked in a bitter rasp. “You think offering me food will make any of it better?”

“No,” Paris replied, setting the tray down carefully. “But I noticed you haven’t eaten anything today. Or the day before that. I was worried.”

The words weren’t smug, or wounded. They were just quiet. Honest. Worrying.

Hector stared at him for a long moment - his brow furrowed not in anger, but in confusion. In the deep, aching weariness of a man who had nothing left to shout.

“Why?” he asked. The word came out more like breath than speech. “Why are you still kind?”

Paris blinked. “What do you mean?”

Hector turned his face away, his voice raw and stripped of command. “It makes it so fucking hard. To stay angry. To blame you. To make sense of what you’ve done - what has to be done - when you keep being human.”

There was a silence, thick with exhaustion but no longer sharp.

Paris sat down across from him, cross-legged on the floor, the tray between them. He picked up one of the cups and offered it wordlessly.

After a pause, Hector took it.

The wine was dark and tart, and it burned just a little going down. The kind of burn that brought you back to your body.

They drank slowly. Neither of them said anything for a while.

Then Hector, voice a little softer now, asked, “Tell me. How did it happen? With Helen.”

Paris stared into his cup, turning it gently in his hands. It took him a while to speak.

“Remember when I went to Sparta in your place after Cassandra had that breakdown,” he said finally. “Well, at first it was all normal. Talk about trade and continuing existing deals. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And?”

“And then I saw her.”

Hector raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It was like…” Paris exhaled. “Like being struck. Like she stepped out of some old story I only half-remembered. She looked at me like I was someone seen . We talked. She laughed. I don’t even remember what I said.”

He smiled faintly. Not sheepish - wistful.

“And Menelaus?”

“He wasn’t there. Gone on campaign. She never brought him up. Not once.”

Paris drank, slower this time. His gaze dropped to the tray.

“I didn’t plan to leave with her,” he said. “But it just happened. And I was too happy to think of consequences”

Hector cursed softly, setting his cup down and rubbing a hand across his face. The lamplight caught on the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.

After a long pause: “Do you really think she’s worth it?”

Paris looked at him, unblinking. “Yes.”

There was no drama in it. No desperation. Just truth.

Hector watched him. Still. Thoughtful.

Paris added, more quietly now, “Just seeing her makes everything seem to be just a beautiful dream. With her, it feels like maybe… I could have the kind of love you have. With Odysseus.”

Hector barked a short, bitter laugh, but there was no bite to it.

“Gods,” he said, shaking his head. “Then may the Fates be gentler with you.”

He picked his cup back up. Took another drink.

Paris tried to smile, but it came out crooked - too much sorrow in his face for joy to fully rise.

Hector, watching him, finally gave a small grunt. He wanted to reach for the bread but then he looked more closely at the bowl of fruits.

“You brought sour cherries?” Hector asked, blinking in faint surprise as he reached for the bronze bowl. The fruit glistened - dark red and sharp with juice, like small drops of blood. He sniffed at them with quiet amusement, then plucked one and popped it into his mouth. Pleasant bitterness entered his mouth. “Huh.” 

Paris nodded, settling across from him. “It wasn’t easy. I had to dig into that weird little pantry chest near the hearth. Mother always hides them.

”That pulled a soft chuckle from Hector. “Still?” 

“She swears it’s to keep you from inhaling them.” 

Hector’s lips twitched, the sour cherry pit clicking lightly between his teeth. “That’s funny,” he said, voice low and almost fond. 

“What exactly”

“I used to hate them.” 

Paris tilted his head. “You’re joking.” 

“I’m not.” Hector swirled the wine in his cup absently. “Wouldn’t touch them as a child. Always complained and tossed them to Cassandra’s plate.” 

“Well, you’re one of the reasons she hides them now,” Paris quipped. “You always liked them. Or so I thought.” 

Hector shook his head, smiling slightly now. “Only started eating them in Ithaca.” Paris raised an eyebrow. 

“That doesn’t make sense.” 

Hector leaned back against the cold stone wall, his expression softening with memory. “Odysseus’s mother has this beautiful orchard behind the palace. Every time I visited, she’d bring out bowls of them. She would also make sure that I knew how much effort it took her to pick them from the trees or to preserve them for colder seasons and then she would watch as I struggled to eat them but still thanked her each time.” Hector smiled snarkily.  “Whole goddamn ritual.” 

“That sound... deliberate."

"Oh, it was . She wanted to show her annoyance with me in the most diplomatic way possible.”

Hector smirked faintly. “She knew I hated them. She brought them anyway. Every time.” 

“And you ate them anyway? For what? To be polite?” 

“I was trying to court her daughter. And Odysseus knew about her mothers schemes. But she never said anything. Just sat there with that little fox-smile, watching me choke them down.”  He shivered slightly, “At least her mother would not carry that damn hunting bow with her at that time.” 

Paris barked a laugh. 

“That sounds cruel.” 

“Oh, it gets better.” Hector’s eyes gleamed with the memory. “After a few times it happened. Odysseus would give her mother some excuse to not bring the fruit this one time and dragged me to her chamber - Said if I really couldn’t stomach them, I should at least try a version I might actually like.”

Paris squinted. “What, like stewed or something?”

“No,” Hector said, lips quirking. “She handed me a bowl of the cherries her mother had been soaking for tinctures. You know, the kind that sit in jars for ages steeping in wine and honey.”

Paris’s eyebrows lifted. “She gave you those ?”

“She said they were less sour that way,” Hector said dryly, letting the pit clink into the metal bowl. “And to her credit, she wasn’t wrong.They were sweeter, tanginess became more pleasant when mixed with the taste of wine. Way too easily went down the throat. I liked them a lot better. We both did. We ate half the bowl between us before realizing how strong they were.”

Paris grinned wide. “Wait - you got drunk off fruit ?”

“Oh, completely, ” Hector laughed. “Didn’t even realize it until we both tried to get up from bed. We ended up tripping and accidentally ripping one of the tapestries that was hanging on the wall. Her mother walked in and looked like she was about to curse us both on the spot and yet we couldn’t stop cackling.”

Paris snorted into his wine. “So you only started liking them because her mother was as spiteful as you were stubborn?” 

“It became a habit,” Hector said with a shrug. “Ritual turned to taste. Taste turned to memory. Now it’s hard for me to imagine disliking them.” 

Paris tossed a cherry pit into a bowl and grinned. “It sounds like you and I both started doing dumb things for love?”

Hector raised his cup in mock salute. “Barely the tip of the iceberg on my part.”

“You did something worse?”

“One day I’ll tell you why me and Ody didn’t stay in Sparta for the engagement party.”

“That bad?”

Hector laughed, “Father would disown me on a spot. I waited half a year to tell him what happened, but still not everything.”

“So much trouble to please our father, meanwhile the battle to win your future in-law’s approval began with a petty fruit standoff?”

“Exactly.” Hector let out a soft snort. “All great epics begin with pettiness or idiot’s pride.”

They sat in companionable silence for a beat, sipping wine. The warmth was finally seeping into Hector’s shoulders. 

“You know,” Paris said after a moment, watching his brother carefully, “for someone who’s usually so stoic, you’re surprisingly chatty tonight.”

Hector raised an eyebrow. “That’s because we’re morons drinking strong booze on empty stomachs.”

“Or brave,” Paris countered, raising his cup.

“Or both,” Hector agreed.

They clinked their cups, and drank.

After a moment, Paris asked, “What’s the worst thing you ever did for love or… selfishness?” 

Hector didn’t answer right away. His face grew still. Quiet. Then, after a long pause, he said softly.

“I killed someone.”

Paris went still.

Hector didn’t look at him. Instead he glanced at his half empty cup, “It was long ago… I used to see him as my friend and comrade. Wine loosened our tongues and revealed one too many secrets.” A bitter chuckle escaped the prince's mouth,”It turned out we had the same desire.” Hector poured more wine into the cup, “But different ways to grasp it.”

A breath. A swallow of wine.

The younger prince asked, with a voice shaky, barely louder than a whisper. “Did you hesitate?”

“Only when forming the plan.”

Paris’s voice was low. “Do you regret it?”

Hector shook his head, slowly. “Not as much as I should. It wasn’t honorable and I was way more cruel than needed, but if given a chance, I would do it again.”

Paris reached for another one.

He didn’t offer comfort. None of them could offer that at least not now. Not today. Not when the anger still lingered in the air. All they could offer was their presence. Only company.

But for now, it was enough.

---

The shores of Troy rose like a wound on the horizon - golden sands beneath an early morning mist, still and silent, untouched. A shoreline waiting, watching.

The Greek fleet had arrived.

Wooden ships creaked in the rising light, hundreds of them floating like ghosts upon the water. Oars were drawn in. Sails were lowered. Anchors not yet cast. A breath held across an entire armada.

But none disembarked.

The men - Spartans, Cretans, Boeotians, Ithacans, and more - stood shoulder to shoulder on their decks, silent and still. The sea slapped gently against the hulls, but even that seemed muffled beneath the weight of dread.

They all knew.

The prophecy whispered by priests and madmen.
“The first Greek to touch Trojan soil shall be the first to die.”

No one wanted the honor.

Eyes turned - ship after ship - to the black-sailed Ithacan vessel at the front of the formation. It floated a spear’s length ahead of the others, proud and alone. On its prow stood Queen Odysseus of Cephalonia, the Cunning. Her dark hair whipped around her face in the wind. Her cloak billowed like a banner.

The army watched her like vultures circling a wound - curious, hungry, waiting for the first cut.

She had to know what they were thinking.

They watched her ship sail ahead without pause, followed faithfully by her Ithacan and Cephalonian captains. None of them hesitated, their sails catching the wind with confidence. The other Greeks whispered among themselves, wonder mixing with unease.

"Why are her ships so certain?”

"Is this part of a trick? A deception?”

"Will she command some nameless soldier to land first?”

"A prisoner? A slave?”

"She’s clever enough for anything.”

They watched and waited for the ruse.

But there was no trick.

She said nothing. Her gaze was fixed on the shore like it was already hers.

And then - the queen moved.

She seized her spear, a long iron-pointed weapon of polished ashwood, and gripped it not as a weapon but as a lever. With sudden, breathtaking speed, she sprinted across the deck, boots striking the planks like a war drum. At the ship’s edge, she planted the spear like a vaulting pole.

No hesitation. No grand speech. No delay.

She jumped.

Her cloak flared behind her like a banner. Her silhouette arced through the air above the water, a black-winged figure cast against the rising sun.

She cleared the railing in one powerful leap, her feet crashing into Trojan sand with a spray of dust and salt. The sound echoed like a thunderclap through the stillness.

A gasp swept the fleet, as if thousands had sucked in the same breath. The earth did not open. The skies did not crack. The gods did not strike.

Odysseus stood.

Her boots planted firm in foreign soil. Her back straight. Her shoulders high. The spear that had carried her was now gripped in her right hand, blade-down, planted into the sand.

She turned, facing the ships - thousands of eyes watching, breaths held. The wind caught her dark cloak again, sending it snapping behind her like the sail of a vessel too brave to wait for a harbor.

Then, her voice rang out across the water - clear and powerful.

“You fear the fates?
Then let them take me.
For what kind of leader stands behind their men and asks them to walk into death before them?”

Her voice grew louder. Stronger.

“We are the army of a thousand ships-
Sons of kings.
Born of fire, bound for glory.
We were not made to kneel.
We were not born to wait.
We do not fear death-
We make it fear us.”

Some of the men leaned forward, gripping the rails of their ships, pulled toward her by the sheer gravity of her voice.

“If prophecy dares to whisper-
We will watch it tremble as we answer.
For we will speak louder.
And we will speak last.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge hurled at Olympus itself.

Then - movement.

Her Ithacans were the first. With roars of wild joy, they leapt from their decks into the shallows, slapping the sea with their bodies, racing toward her like sons racing to a mother’s arms. The rest of Cephalonians followed, raising their spears and shields as they charged across the sand, crying her name like it was a war cry and a prayer.

“ODYSSEUS! ODYSSEUS!”

But it didn’t stop there.

From the decks of Argive ships, men began to move - not yet leaping to war, but descending slowly, reverently. They stepped from their planks into the surf, not with fear, but awe. One by one, they walked until they reached dry land.

And there - many of them knelt.

They bowed their heads to the woman who had faced prophecy with open hands and burning eyes. Others simply lowered their weapons, placing them briefly on the sand in quiet salute before raising them again, solemnly.

Even some of the Spartans - so proud, so unyielding, and in presence of their king - crossed their arms and gave a single, low nod.

Not one man spoke against her.

They followed.

They landed.

The Greek army surged forward, one tide crashing behind the first, flooding the Trojan shore in defiance of prophecy, of fate, of fear.

And at the front, her spear still in the sand, Odysseus stood like a storm that had chosen to take human shape.

The one who today challenged the fate and won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or so they thought...

 

---

(Ten Days Earlier)

 

The sun hung low on the horizon, a smoldering disc casting copper light across the sea. The waves shimmered like spilled bronze, gently lapping against the wooden hull of the ship. The wind was mild and idle, sighing through the rigging with all the weight of a lazy dream.

It was the sort of evening that made the world feel still - as if, for a breath, time had decided to rest.

Eurylochus sat near the stern, sharpening his sword with slow, patient strokes. The whetstone rasped in rhythm, the sound barely rising above the whisper of the tide.

Odysseus stood at the prow, forearms resting on the railing, sleeves rolled, the sea’s dying light spilling across her face. She was still, eyes focused not on the horizon, but somewhere just beneath it - a place only she seemed able to see.

Nicanor leaned over the railing, feeling the salt breeze stroke his face. The bruises on his wrists had faded, and the tightness in his chest had begun to ease with each passing hour at sea.

He turned slightly, eyes uncertain but heart hopeful.

“Lady Odysseus? My queen?”

Odysseus turned slightly, offering him that same serene smile she’d worn when she first spared his life. The same one that had steadied his heart then and seemed to do so now.

He smiled back, shy. “I just wanted to... say thank you. For giving me a second chance. I thought I’d never see the sea again… not like this. Not freely.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” she said simply, her voice soft and even.

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “I won’t forget it. The others, the soldiers - they don’t talk about you like this. They enjoy repeating the rumours that can’t match your virtue. They spoke of your kindness as a weakness of your heart only to later speak of you as ruthless.They don’t know how merciful you really are.”

She shrugged gently. “Let them keep their assumptions. They’re useful.” From her lips escape a giggle. “At least some of those rumors are amusing to hear.”

Nicanor laughed. “Still. You could have just handed me back to Menelaus. Or worse. But you didn’t. You gave me something to hope for.”

“Hope is a powerful weapon,” 

They stood in comfortable silence, lulled by the rocking of the ship and the molten calm of the sunset.

“I still owe you everything, my queen.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to think of a way to collect,” she said with a gentle giggle, her eyes warm with mischief. “Will you honor your debt, soldier?”

He gave a sheepish grin. “With my life, if I must.”

“That’s a dangerous promise,” she murmured, her gaze returning to the sea. “But I’ll keep you to your word.” Odysseus said simply, gaze returning to the horizon.

Nicanor followed her eyes - and frowned.

He looked to the western sky, toward the direction of Pylos. Then at the sun. Then at the angle of the wind.

A flicker of unease passed over his face.

Something felt wrong. 

“My lady,” he said again, slower now. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but... shouldn’t we sail west?”

Odysseus’s hands folded behind her back. Her expression didn’t shift.

“We sail in the right direction,” she said.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

“…That’s not the Cretan sea.”

Odysseus said nothing.

He stood upright, his breath catching. “That’s not Laconia - we didn’t even pass Argolis”

His voice rose in panic. “That’s not anywhere near home !”

Odysseus remained still. The sails creaked. The waves lapped. The sun warmed her shoulder as if the storm swelling in the man before her didn’t exist.

And then it all cracked.

Nicanor froze.

The land loomed closer now. Red-gold cliffs and sharp beaches.

He whispered: “…Troy.”

“You said - I was going to be free!” Nicanor shouted. “You promised ! You told everyone-!”

He stormed toward her, fury overtaking confusion. “You lied! You tricked me, you cunning bitch!”

His hands reached for her throat.

But nothing came out of it.

With a sudden crash , Eurylochus came from the side and slammed him down, pinning him against the deck before he could even touch her.

Nicanor struggled, spitting curses, flailing against the larger man’s grip - but it was useless.

Eurylochus tightened the rope. Odysseus stood and walked to him slowly, eyes cold with purpose.

“No - no! You can’t-!” Nicanor began to shake violently. “Don’t make me! You know what happens to the first Greek who steps on Trojan soil!”

“The prophecy,” Odysseus said, soft as silk. “Yes.”

He stared up at her in terror. “I thought- I thought you didn’t believe in prophecies!”

“I don’t,” she replied. “But I’m not arrogant or stupid enough to challenge them either.”

“But... I thought... I thought you were taking me home. To Pylos. You said...”

“I never said that,” Odysseus said gently. “I said you will help me with a task. I said I’ll make sure you can keep your rank. I said I would speak with Nestor to not have you flogged. All of that is still true.”

Nicanor thrashed as if the very sand would burn him. “Why - why doing all of this?! Why that whole performance?! Why not just tell the truth?!”

Odysseus crouched, meeting his wild eyes with terrifying calm. Nikanor hated how kind and earnest her face looked. Like a mother consoling her crying child. “It’s too early for the army to mourn a dead soldier.” She caressed his cheek softly. Her hands weren't as soft as those of a princess but they had the roughness of hard work. The queen leaned closer as if she was whispering a secret. “For what they know, you are currently in Attica. Catching a boat ride to Pylos.”

The sunset hadn’t changed - it remained golden, warm, tender. But something inside Nicanor snapped sideways.

“No - no, you said I’d see my daughter again, you said-”

“I said that I understand the pain of longing. Your heroic sacrifice will let many Greeks reunite with their loved ones sooner than later. I said you would be free to return to your homeland,” she said, quiet as the tide. “And you will. If you survive.”

His face collapsed into stunned silence.

She stood again.

“I gave you peace at the end,” she said, voice low. “It’s more than many men get.”

The boat was lowered into the sea.

“No - wait - please, I can still be useful,” he gasped. “You don’t have to - don’t make me-”

She tilted her head and, surprisingly, her voice softened again. “It should help you on your journey.”

She held out a small pouch.

“Silver. A knife. A wineskin. And the map to Pylos with all the safe roads marked. For the road.”

He stared at it in disbelief, the absurdity of it rattling in his skull.

“That’s it?”

She gave him a small nod.

Before he could scream or weep or pray, Eurylochus and two soldiers seized him, lifted him by the arms, and hurled him from the ship.

He hit the sand hard, coughing and choking on the dust.

Odysseus leaned over the railing as the oarsmen turned the ship back toward the open water.

“You should run,” she called down to him. “Patrols come at nightfall.”

His eyes lifted to her, wild and shimmering with betrayal.

“Why?” he cried. “Why me ?”

She didn’t answer.

Eurylochus stood beside her, watching the deserter scramble through the dunes like a hunted animal.

The time passed.

The sun was low on the horizon, a wide, burning orange disc sinking into the dark mouth of the sea. The waves lapped quietly against the hull, the steady creak of oarlocks now a distant hum. The air had cooled, brushing soft against skin, a reminder that dusk was claiming the day.

Odysseus stood near the stern, her elbows resting on the wooden rail, watching the last golden threads melt into the water. Her face was unreadable, the breeze tugging at loose strands of hair she hadn’t bothered to tame. Eyes shining from tears but not letting any of them out.

Eurylochus came up beside her with two ripe figs in hand.

“Still warm from the crate,” he said, offering one.

She took it without looking. “Thank you.”

They stood in silence for a while, eating slowly, watching the colors change.

“He didn’t struggle much,” Eurylochus said eventually, voice light, almost casual.

“No,” she murmured. “He didn’t.”

“Must’ve thought he still had a chance for his crimes to go unpunished.”

Odysseus didn’t answer that, just bit into her fig. Juice dripped from her fingers. She licked it absently away.

Eurylochus glanced at her, then asked, “What was in the pouch?”

“Knife,” she said. “Around three days of rations. Weak wine. Map. Some trade metal.”

“That’s all?”

She nodded. “Nothing special.”

He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “But you did something.”

She gave him a sidelong glance and smiled. “You know me too well.”

“Mm.” He finished his fig, thumbed the skin clean. “So?”

“I marked him,” she said lightly. “Back of the neck. While he was asleep.”

“What kind of mark?”

“Small. Discreet. But the Trojans know it, especially the guards and soldiers.”

Eurylochus made a low sound in his throat, but he didn’t stop smiling.

“They’ll think he’s a runaway prisoner.”

“The ink should fade in a couple of weeks. Sooner if he finds some soap,” she said, still watching the sea. “If he keeps moving, he’ll be gone before anyone gets a good look.”

“And if they catch him?”

She shrugged, as if talking about something far away. “Then he’ll be arrested. Or killed.”

He nodded, more to himself than her. “Either way, no one in our army finds him. Or his body.”

“Exactly,” she said. “We won’t be marching past a corpse we sent. We won’t have to make excuses. And if Trojans kill him, they’ll bury him. That’s their law. Proper rites. So his soul won’t linger long in the lightless shores.”

There was no triumph in her voice. Just plain pragmatism.

Eurylochus looked at his queen. Her sight was lost in something distant. Sleeveless dress exposing her scars. The ones that Eurylochus couldn’t stop looking at were the lines on her shoulder.

“But you didn’t need to bring him out here,” he said.

Odysseus didn’t look up from the small chart she was redrawing. “Didn’t I?”

“You could’ve forced him to land later with the rest of the army. People would see it as a rightful judgement for cowardness and betrayal. Good way to set an example. It would’ve worked just the same.”

For a moment her gaze shifted at him. Then again she watched the foreign land.

“Worked, yes,” she said. “But it wouldn’t have meant the same.”

Eurylochus looked in the same direction as Odysseus did. 

Then he saw it. 

Fortifications. Troy was slowly preventing them from reaching their land. Main harbours Already secured and closest beaches guarded. They will have to tell Agamemon to move the army faster than expected.

But they will do it once they are in Aulis. Now there were some more questions lingering. Begging to be answered. 

“You tricked a man. Lied to him. Broke him. Just to get him to touch the sand before anyone else.”

She didn’t deny it.

He waited for her to say something - anything more.

Finally she snapped from the train of thoughts that haunted her. 

She still didn’t meet his eyes. Instead her tired face was watching the sunset.

“Men believe in stories more than they believe in orders, Eurylochus,” she said softly. “Now they think they have a virtuous king dedicated to his wife, stern but rightful leader, a kind commander to be trusted… and a prophecy still unbroken. Soon, they’ll have something greater.”

“What could be greater than that?”

She looked up, and for a moment her eyes glinted with something between calculation and exhaustion.

“Faith.”

They stood together as the final edge of the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky had gone soft with purple now, the sea turning glassy and dark.

Odysseus shivered just for a moment. 

After a moment, Eurylochus said, “You’re cold.”

She blinked and looked at him, surprised.

He gestured with his chin. “Go below. It’s starting to bite.”

She considered for a moment, then gave a quiet sigh. “Only if you tell the crew to the north. We need to check other shores before we can give the rapport to Agamemnon.”

“You have my word.”

He watched as she moved slowly. The exhaustion showing with each step. He once again looked at the scar on her shoulder. 

The marks made by talons. Big sharp terrifyingly symmetrical talons belonging to the being that masked as a bird, forgetting how frail mortal children are. Or maybe to prove their claim over his friend.

He isn’t sure why he keeps looking at the scars. maybe to see if nothing or nobody is putting pressure on them. If nothing tries to reopen the old wounds to remind Odysseus of her position in the food chain. 

Their men would proudly call her queen.

The poets would call her wise.

Enemies would call her terrifying.

Fools would call her weak.

But he knew who she truly was.

She was his friend whose bleeding heart was beating loudly. 

A kind soul who helped many not expecting anything in exchange. 

Brave leader ready to bleed for her people. 

A sweet girl who likes to play with sheep and shepherd’s dogs. 

And the one who couldn’t help but stare longingly at the distant smoke. The one belonging to the city they were meant to conquer. 

The woman forced to act as if the only worry came from positioning the army, and not the pain of attacking the place she was about to call her home.

His fingers curled around the railing.

He was proud. 

He was afraid.

More afraid for her than of her.

He would follow her into fire.

Even if she would be the one holding the torch that started it.

Notes:

It seems we are starting a new act in the story.
I hope you enjoyed what happened so far and that the future events will be as good if not better.

Also I'm truly asking you to check my Tumblr. There is a lot of content regarding this story. From art to asks made for the characters of this fic.

Chapter 14

Summary:

One thing leads to another.

Notes:

Before the chapter starts here is a small note as a help/guide/reminder of the timeline:

Ody(15)/Hector(17) - Their first meeting

Ody(16)/Hector(18) - Their first kiss (and they start hooking up ;3)

Ody(17)/Hector(19) - They "officially" become lovers in Pylos.

Ody(20)/Hector(22) - Adventure in Sparta

Ody(25)/Hector(27) - Present

(11 years ago)

It had started as a joke.

A harmless jest thrown across a sunlit courtyard that stank of sweat, leather, and olive oil. He was about to turn sixteen - fresh from a training campaign near the border. One of his older comrades, drunk on wine and glory, had shouted his name in the middle of a feast. But not just his name.

“Prince Hector of Troy!”

And just like that, the room had shifted.

The way women looked at him changed. Interest, curiosity, heat - all flaring at once. Laughter. Glances. One girl turned red and looked away too fast. Another lifted her eyes and smiled at him - slow, deliberate. Not because of who he was, but what he was. And that knowledge had thrilled him at first.

That was the moment Hector felt it: the shift. The way attention landed on him. Not because of anything he said or did - but because of what he was .

Prince. Heir. Desired.

It gave him a rush unlike anything he'd felt on the battlefield.

He grinned and bowed his head slightly, a gesture half-gallant, half-arrogant. Something in his chest swelled - not pride in his skill or strength - but the kind of pride that came from being wanted. Not for his sword, not for his mind. For the title he wore like armor. For the crown he hadn’t even inherited yet.

He didn’t have to chase affection. He just had to exist.

That knowledge opened doors faster than any key.

There were soft sighs behind closed fans. Lingering fingers when he reached for a goblet. The flutter of lashes, the stolen kisses behind statues and draperies. One by one, they came - noble daughters, visiting courtiers, curious handmaidens. He whispered bold things in soft tones, smiled with practiced sincerity, and made them feel like goddesses in his arms.

He had indulged. Why not? It was easy.

Maybe a little too easy.

With every conquest came a familiar ache. Emptiness. The rush was always the same - and so was the aftermath.

He never needed to ask twice. And because it was easy… it quickly became boring.

The sun was rising when he had just returned from another night spent with one of those easy victories - a cousin of some diplomat, she had laughed too loudly and talked too much about nothing, but she had looked at him like he was heroic - when he strolled into the palace solar the next morning, humming under his breath. He planned to go back to his chambers and change into something…fresh before seeing the tutor. The scent of her perfume still clung to his skin making him nauseous - or was it the wine?

He bit into a fig, relaxed and content if not a little tired.

Then he saw her.

His mother, Queen Hecuba, stood by the tall windows. She did not turn. Did not speak.

Not at first.

“So,” she said suddenly, voice sharp and cold as a drawn blade. “Will I learn of my first grandchild when some tavern girl brings a newborn into the throne room and demands an audience?”

The fig fell from his hand and hit the marble with a soft splat.

Hector blinked, caught off-guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She turned now - graceful, proud, furious. “Are you really so careless? Do you think your crown makes you untouchable? That you can use your title like bait and discard women like festival flowers once they’ve wilted with your dignity intact?”

He shrugged, biting back a grin. “It’s not a big deal.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not a big deal?”

He leaned on the stone balustrade. “They know what they’re doing. I’m not forcing anyone.”

“It’s not about force, Hector,” she said. “It’s about honor. About the way you make them feel. About how you carry yourself before the gods and your people. Is this how you want to continue the royal line? With scandal and recklessness?”

He exhaled, irritated. “You’re being dramatic.”

She stepped forward, eyes fierce. “You’re being thoughtless. This-” she gestured at  his crumpled chiton, messy hair, the lazy posture, the smug grin “ - this is not the boy I raised.”

He raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. “That’s true. Because the boy you raised was supposed to smile politely, marry some dull-eyed noblewoman from an allied kingdom, and spend his real nights in the arms of prettier concubines. Like every other honorable man in this palace.”

Her jaw clenched.

“I’m just being realistic,” Hector continued. “It’s not like I’ll ever marry for love. You and Father didn’t. That’s how it works, isn’t it? For kings. For heirs. Duty in the marriage bed, and pleasure somewhere else.”

Her hands clenched at her sides.

He wasn’t done.

“If it’s wrong, then explain why Father has how many concubines? Why do I have so many half-siblings scattered across the palace like fallen leaves? Why none of them speak to you unless they have to-?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in the next moment, the slap came.

A flash of movement. The sharp sting of skin against skin.

His head turned slightly from the force of it, and the room rang with the echo.

He blinked.

The pain didn’t last.

But her face did.

Tears slipped silently down Hecuba’s cheeks. Her chest rose with the strain of holding something in - rage, sorrow, shame. She looked like marble cracking beneath a storm.

“I know what kind of man your father is,” she whispered, voice ragged. “Don’t think I don’t. I know exactly what he’s done. Every name. Every child. Every lie.”

Her voice trembled.

“But I stayed. I bore it. I stood beside him as queen, and I raised my children with everything I had left.” Her lips quivered. “You were mine, Hector. My hope. The proof that something good could come of it. And you stand here, proud to become the very man who humiliated me.”

He opened his mouth - he wanted to say something, anything, but no words came.

Her gaze broke away.

She turned.

“Mother-” he tried, stepping forward.

But she was already gone.

The doors opened, her robes sweeping behind her like the wings of some wounded bird of prey. Her footsteps echoed, then faded. And Hector - Prince of Troy, golden heir of a powerful line - stood alone, his cheek still warm from the slap.

And for the first time in his life, he felt the sting of something that didn’t fade when the bruising did.

Guilt.

Real. Quiet. Heavy.

It stayed with him long after the perfume faded.

---

The silence between Hector and his mother had never been loud before that morning.

After the slap, after the tears, after the words that couldn’t be taken back - something shifted. Not publicly, of course. They remained a model of royal decorum. Civil. Respectful. But the warmth had vanished. Their conversations dwindled to polite necessities. Brief nods. Shared glances across crowded halls. A mother and son still bound by blood - but now carefully stepping around each other, as if afraid of triggering another eruption.

It was weeks - perhaps months - before Queen Hecuba spoke to him again with something approaching intent.

It was during a late meal, long after the others had left the table. His younger siblings had drifted off, one by one. A servant had just begun clearing the dishes when her voice cut through the hush of the near-empty hall.

“Hector. Stay.”

He paused mid-reach for his goblet, then set it down slowly. “Yes, Mother.”

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on her plate as she carefully cut into it with a knife before taking small elegant bites.

“I spoke with your father,” she said, voice measured, cool. “It’s time you began building your own name.”

He didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded, though her words tightened something deep in his chest.

“You carry too much of his shadow,” she continued. “When people speak of you, they speak of your bloodline. Not your deeds. That cannot stand if you are to lead Troy one day.”

“I understand,” Hector said quietly. And this time, he meant it.

She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Then you’ll begin immediately. I’ve arranged several appearances where you will represent our family alone. You’ll be the face of the crown, without your father beside you.”

She began to list them, still not looking his way. “You’ll attend the consecration at the temple of Apollo. The wedding of the Thessalian duke’s daughter. A meeting with the Delphic envoy next full moon. You’ll speak. You’ll observe. You’ll listen.”

Hector accepted each in turn. “Yes, Mother.”

That's how he spent a few months of his life. Joining meetings, raids, campaigns, diplomatic meetings. On every single one he acted the way he was supposed to. What he learned for sure was that Troy wasn’t as much loved as it was on his mainland and archipelago. Mycenae, Pylos, especially Sparta were neutral at best. And in some other lands he realised that his father’s name might’ve brought more trouble than good.

Any time he came back home he just continued his routines with tutors or participated in social gatherings. 

But there was still this uncomfortable tension.

He tried talking to his mother but he had no idea how to start. What to say to make things better? 

Not knowing the answer he just continued dinner without complaining.

A silence fell again - longer this time. The kind that made his throat tighten, unsure if he was dismissed or if more was coming.

And then she said, as if an afterthought, "There's a coronation I would like you to attend..”

He frowned slightly. “A coronation?”

She finally met his eyes.

“For the new Ruler of Ithaca,” she said.

That gave him pause. “Ithaca? That’s… far. We only trade with them. Why send me there?”

Her lips curved - not kindly, but with faint, almost amused sharpness.

“Ithaca is not just sea and sheep, Hector,” she said. “The heir’s father was clever. Laertes. His name still holds weight in courts and councils. Many important houses will attend out of respect. It will be a gathering of eyes. Some friendly, some not, mostly not.”

“And you want me to attend?”

“I expect you to make an effort to make a good first impression. You will be responsible for choosing a proper gift for the new ruler and I want you to stand on your own,” she replied. “Among strangers. Where your father’s name may win you suspicion before it wins you favor. I want to see how you fare when there’s no shadow to hide in.”

Hector exhaled slowly. His fingers tapped against the rim of his cup. “I see.”

She took another bite, then added, almost idly, “And besides - it may do you good.”

He glanced up. “How so?”

Her eyes flicked toward him with something sharper beneath the calm. “The princess will be crowned queen. Young. Unmarried. And yet her people already follow her. It might be a good example to witness… what is expected of an heir.”

He blinked. “ Princess?”

Hecuba arched an eyebrow. “Yes. You’ll be attending the coronation of a fifteen-year-old girl who will now carry the weight of a kingdom.”

She reached for her cup, lifting it delicately.

“Perhaps,” she said, just before taking a sip, “it’ll give you something to think about.”

And that was the end of it. She finished her wine, rose from the table, and left with her robes sweeping behind her like falling night.

Hector sat in silence, staring at the ripples in his own goblet.

“Princess,” he murmured under his breath.

But the word echoed louder than it should have.

---

(10 years ago)

The courtyard garden of the Theban palace hummed with music and half-hearted celebration. Lanterns swayed in the warm evening breeze, their glow flickering over golden goblets, dancing noblewomen, and perfumed laughter. Somewhere inside, the newlyweds were probably being toasted, or seated on gilded chairs beside their fathers as the kings negotiated things that mattered far more than love.

But Hector, Prince of Troy, leaned casually against a marble column with a goblet in hand, ignoring most of it.

“I still don’t even know who’s getting married,” Hector said, lazily swirling his drink.

“Some general’s daughter to a cousin of the Theban queen,” Rhesus muttered, barely looking up. “Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

“They’ll probably be divorced by next summer,” Diores added cheerfully. “Or assassinated. You know how these noble marriages go.”

Eurypylus chuckled softly, but said nothing. He awkwardly looked between his friends and a distant crowd of people.

“So,” Diores began, flicking wine off his fingers. “What do we call this? A wedding party without a wedding?”

“Diplomatic babysitting,” Hector replied. “They just needed an excuse to make all the allied kings talk without killing each other.”

“And drag us here to prove we’re house-trained,” Rhesus added with a smirk, raising his goblet. “Cheers to that.”

Hector smirked and turned slightly, watching the lanterns bob over the wine-dark garden. “We’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Diores said. “Back to Troy just in time for the midsummer games.”

“Race is still on?” Eurypylus asked, without much interest.

Hector perked up. “Of course it is. Chariot field’s nearly finished. They had the last of the pillars set last week.”

“I’ve been training,” Diores added smugly. “And I have a perfect strategy to win.”

“You can’t borrow any of my horses.” Grumbled Rhesus.

“Why not? Please be a good older brother at least once!”

“I’m not lending you anything! You are the worst driver I have ever seen.”

“Just because I lost to Hector it doesn’t mean that I’m bad.”

“You didn’t lose to me last year,” Hector corrected. “You almost trampled the flag waver and then you crashed into a pile of hay..”

“Because someone shouted, ‘Behind you!’ when there was no one there.”

“You believed me,” Hector grinned.

“Eurypylus, tell them I deserve a rematch.”

Three of them turned to the fourth boy, who looked unusually awkward.

Hector noticed first. “Wait. You’re in too, right?”

Diores blinked. “Yeah, you always race. You got third last year.”

Eurypylus shifted. “I’m not competing this time.”

They all turned to stare at him.

“Why not?” Diores asked.

“Wait - don’t tell me,” Hector said, half-smirking. “Your mother is again trying to send you to the temple for that piercing you got last summer?”

“N-no, I…” Eurypylus scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll be courting someone.”

Silence.

Diores blinked. “Wait - you ? Court someone?”

Even Rhesus looked mildly surprised, though he quickly recovered.

“I’ll be sailing to Caphelonia in a week.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s something that your parents planned. The last time they were talking about ‘ uniting families’ they tried to set you up with some noblewoman who was at least twice your age.”

“No! Nothing like that! I-I actually chose that person myself.”

“Well,” Rhesus said, with some surprise that was quickly evolving into a small smile. “I did not have that on my betting board. Congrats, I guess?” He raised his cup.

Hector raised his goblet with a groan. “Gods, it’s dumb. You’re skipping the chariot race for a girl? I bet you haven’t even met her.”

“I have,” Eurypylus said, surprising them both.

Now even Rhesus wasn’t able to hide his shock?

Hector asked, astonished, eyes wide. “When? How!? You spent the last two seasons going from competition to competition!”

Diores grinned wickedly. “Yeah, who’s the unlucky lady?”

Thwack .

Rhesus kicked his brother in the shin before Eurypylus could, earning a yelp and a glare.

“OW - Fine! Fine! Lucky lady, then!”

“We met in Corinth,” Eurypylus said, almost shyly. “We both were there because of the wrestling matches. We met before that and…chatted.”

“What did you talk about? Muscles and olive trees?”

Eurypylus just smiled. “She asked who I thought would win. I told her I would obviously. She said she liked my confidence.”

“So you impressed a girl when you were mostly naked and covered in oil?” Diores grinned. “That’s how you met her? That’s your courtship ?” He whistled. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“She was in the stands,” Eurypylus replied dryly. “And I wasn’t posing or anything like that.”

“Wait - she actually watched you wrestle?” Diores looked both impressed and scandalized. “That’s how it started?” He smirked at his friend. “did she cheer for you?”

“No, actually…she was there to cheer on Spartan princes… one of which tossed me off the ring.”

“True love,” Hector said, deadpan. “What happened then?”

Eurypylus smiled faintly, clearly replaying the memory in his mind. “We talked while she was waiting for her friends. She was easy to talk to.” Eurypylus looked a little far away now, as if remembering it. “Sharp-minded. Witty. Didn’t care who I was or what titles I carried.”

“Well, she clearly missed the part where you’re a prince,” Diores muttered.

“She teased me about how badly I landed one of my throws,” Eurypylus added, grinning. “Then in Sparta, I saw her again. She joined the archery competition.”

“She really competed?” Hector asked, intrigued despite himself.

“Won it, too.” Eurypylus added, warming up now, “she hit every target. Clean through the center. Even the moving ones.”

“Sounds like something you made up,” Diores grinned. “If you didn’t want to race, you could’ve just said so. No need to invent a charming goddess archer from the sea.”

Both Hector and Diores laughed, making Eurypylus frustrated and because of it he blurted out. “She’s here.”

Both Diores and Hector blinked in unison.

“That explains why you were constantly looking elsewhere.” Stated Rhesus before reaching for food from a nearby tray.

“What do you mean ‘here’?” Hector asked slowly.

“She’s here,” Eurypylus repeated. “At the party.”

“You mean a girl you are interested in and isn’t scared of you is here and you are standing here with us - ? What’s wrong with you?,” Diores questioned, sounding offended. “Well, what are we waiting for?! Go talk to her.”

Eurypylus turned, eyes wide. “What? No. Not like this. Not - at a party, especially not in a crowd like that.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy,” Diores groaned. “It’s better than talking to her family like she was an item at the auction.”

“I said no.” Eurypylus folded his arms. “I’ll speak to her soon. Properly.”

“Properly?” Hector asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He means formally,” Rhesus interjected. “With heralds. With a letter of intention. With respect.”

Diores gave him a flat look. “Gods, of course you’d say that. You still believe courtship comes with scrolls and approval stamps.”

“It’s how people of our status conduct themselves,” Rhesus said. “Not like you two - grinning drunk in the tavern and then acting like heathens.”

Diores turned to him, deadpan. “Rhesus, you don’t get a say in this. You’ve been betrothed since you both were nine. I think you’ve seen your fiancée what - three times? Talked once?”

“At least I’m not crude like you ,” Rhesus replied coolly. “Or Hector.”

Hector raised his goblet in mock salute. “Thanks. I think.”

Diores snorted. “Being crude works better than reciting poetry from across the room and hoping she swoons.”

“I don’t do that,” Rhesus muttered.

“You would if your betrothed wasn’t too busy being educated in Lesbos to remember what you look like,” Diores shot back.

Rhesus gave him a slow, cutting look. “At least I don’t leer at women like you do.”

“Who’s leering?” Diores gestured innocently. “I’m just trying to encourage our friend toward love. You remember love, right? That thing that happens outside of trade agreements?”

“Meanwhile yours doesn’t exist outside of bedsheets,” Rhesus muttered.

“Better that than a fossil in a bronze breastplate,” Diores shot back.

Eurypylus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Can we not turn this into a family spat?” 

“We have to find her,” Hector said, scanning the crowd already.

“I swear to the gods, if either of you tries anything-!”

“Relax, we’re not going to shove you into her lap,” Hector said. “Just a nudge. You can’t be so official about everything. Say hello, offer her a drink, smile like you’re not about to pass out - easy.”

“No plans. No schemes,” Diores added, even more unconvincingly.

“Fine,” Eurypylus muttered. “But promise you won’t-”

“We promise,” Hector interrupted. “Now who is it?”

Eurypylus let out a breath and nodded discreetly toward a small group gathered near the reflecting pool. A short young woman stood a little apart from the others, sipping calmly and talking to some blonde noble, dressed in an elegant blue gown. Her long black hair was braided with silver clasps. Her gaze, sharp and restless, scanned the crowd like a hawk.

“That’s… Queen Odysseus of Ithaca,” Hector said, slowly.

Eurypylus nodded, and for the first time that evening, a quiet warmth softened his face.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, voice lower now, more reverent. “But not in the usual way. Not the way the girls in silk dresses try to be. There’s something else. She doesn’t pretend. She looks at you like she’s already two steps ahead.” He paused, smiling faintly. “And I liked talking to her. It felt… real.”

Hector said nothing. He stared toward the girl across the courtyard, feeling his breath catch somewhere in his throat. He remembered the first time he met her - a month ago at her coronation. She had worn an elegant mourning gown, her crown still a little too big for her brow, but her eyes had been sharp and searching. They had ended up talking half the night with cups of sweet Ithacan wine in their hands, her voice full of bold questions and half-teasing truths. She hadn't spoken like a queen. She'd spoken like someone who knew the weight of the world already - and was still daring enough to laugh at it.

He hadn’t thought about her much since. Or maybe he had, just not out loud.

Before Hector could form a reply, Diores gave a sharp laugh and clapped Eurypylus on the back.

“Well, good luck with that,” he said, grinning. “You’ll need it.”

Eurypylus frowned. “Why?”

Hector remained silent, though he leaned in slightly, curious.

Rhesus was the one who answered, folding his arms. “Because she’s rejected every offer she’s ever received. Even from some of the most powerful houses.”

“What do you mean?” Eurypylus asked.

“No, seriously. He means everyone ,” Diores said, clearly enjoying the drama. “You know the crown prince of Mycenae? He’s been chasing after her for years . Rumors say he tried proposing at least twice before she even took the throne.”

Eurypylus blinked. “Seriously?”

“Oh, it gets better,” Diores continued. “Last time was a masterpiece. He sailed to Ithaca with an entire ship loaded with gifts - silks, gold, chariots, whatever nonsense rich men use to impress girls. You know what she did?”

Both boys leaned in, even Hector despite himself.

“She didn’t even let him past the gates!” Laughed younger prince.

“You’re joking,” Hector said.

“She sent out her guard,” Rhesus added with a slight smirk. “They shot a burning arrow into the hull and sank it.”

Hector blinked. “Wait - she burned the ship?”

“Straight into the bay,” Diores said, clearly relishing it. “Imagine all that gold just bubbling to the bottom. Two days of divers pulling sunken treasure out of the harbor like fish.”

Eurypylus stared toward her again, jaw slightly slack. “Gods.”

“That’s a bit… dramatic.” Winced Hector.

“She sent a message,” Rhesus said. “Loud and clear.”

“Still want to go over there?” Diores teased.

Eurypylus looked shaken for half a second, then stubborn. “Well… I’m not bringing a ship then.”

“Why would he try that hard?” Hector asked, brow furrowed.

Rhesus shrugged. “Probably because she’s one of the only rulers openly supporting his cousins - Agamemnon and Menelaus. Everyone else keeps quiet or stays neutral. Sparta might’ve given them shelter, but they won’t speak out. Ithaca? She stands with them. And if she’s their main ally… marrying her would strip that away.”

“So marrying her cuts that alliance in half,” Hector finished, distaste curling in his voice.

“Exactly,” Rhesus said. “But it didn’t work.”

“I’m starting to really like her,” Diores grinned into his cup.

“Of course you do,” Rhesus said. “You would admire anyone who sets something on fire.”

Diores snorted. “Not anything . But ships full of dowry bribes? That earns my respect.”

Then he looked as if in a deep thought when his smile widened. “When I think about it. I’m not that shocked that so many men tried to court her.”

Eurypylus furrowed his brows. “You mean?-” 

“Young queen who has more rumours than facts known about her or how she despite being new, knows how to present herself to the public or - you can agree with me, Hector. She does have nice hips, doesn’t she?”

Eurypylus blushed and avoided eye contact.

Hector choked on his wine, spluttering.

“What in Hades?”

“Oh don’t tell me you weren’t checking her out.”

“Shut up,” he coughed, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t-”

“I bet you were staring,” Diores said smugly.

“Shameless. Both of you.”

“Fuck of Rhesus.” Hector grumbled with a raspy voice. “Why do you two know so much about her anyway?” 

Diores shrugged. “Unlike you three I’m not seen as an heir to the throne, so nobles don’t really care about entertaining me during my stay. I just enjoy some good old gossip offered by too much free time.”

“I’m shocked that you didn’t know about it. Weren’t you at her coronation?” Asked confused Rhesus.

Hector didn’t answer - just showed him a middle finger making his friends cackle. But now, he couldn’t help but  look back toward her, watching the way her gown rippled slightly as she shifted her stance, the silver clasps in her braid catching the light like stars. She wasn’t tall or imposing, but there was gravity to her presence. She didn’t hide behind a veil, didn’t giggle like the other girls at court. She just watched . NO matter if she was alone or talking to someone.She always seemed to be aware of her surroundings.

And suddenly Hector found himself wondering - not what she wanted in a suitor, but what could impress her at all ? She had refused gold, crowns, and royal names. So what would matter to someone like her?

She felt like a puzzle. One of those foreign riddles spoken by traveling priests and merchants - unsolvable, a little maddening, and impossible to ignore.

He didn’t even realize he was staring again until Diores nudged him - this time not quite as rough.

“I don’t blame you,” Diores whispered. “But better don’t think about it. Eyrylypus called dibs.,” Diores said, grinning. “We don’t go chasing after friends’ targets.”

“I wasn’t-” Hector stammered, forcing his gaze elsewhere. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Diores said with a wink.

But Hector’s eyes flicked back one more time, just for a second. There she was, laughing softly at something her companion said, though her eyes drifted every so often, as if she too was searching the crowd for someone.

He looked away again, heart beating a little too fast.

Gods help him.

Diores clapped his hands together, already scheming. “Alright then. Operation ‘Queen hunt’ begins now. Hector and I will help.”

Hector stiffened before the words had even finished leaving Diores’s mouth.

Help?

He wasn’t sure why, but the idea sat wrong with him - like sour cherries or badly aged cheese. Something cold and restless twisted in his gut, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe as easily.

He forced a grin to his face, too sharp around the edges. “Oh no,” he said, waving his goblet lazily. “I think I’ll stay right here and enjoy the show.”

Rhesus scoffed. “I’m going to speak with someone who won’t embarrass me by association.” He pushed off from the column and looked at Eurypylus whose legs were starting to shake. “Good luck. You’ll need it more than I thought.”

“Thank you for your immense confidence,” Eurypylus replied flatly. “Truly inspiring.”

Hector gave a mock toast. “Everything for you and more.”

“You’re all the worst,” Diores said with a grin, grabbing Eurypylus by the sleeve. “Which is why I’m the only one with real friendship in my bones. Now come on, lover boy.”

“What - now?” Eurypylus blinked, flustered. “Shouldn’t we wait? She’s still talking to-”

“Exactly,” Diores said, steering him toward the reflecting pool. “You strike while the gods are distracted. Besides, if we wait too long, you’ll talk yourself out of it again.”

“But she’s - Diores - wait-!”

“Nope. Too late.”

Hector watched them go, the corners of his fake smile beginning to fall. Diores was improvising some charming introduction - while Eurypylus stood slightly behind, red in the face but determined. When Odysseus turned toward them, she offered a warm, curious smile. Polite but not stiff. Engaged.

It made Hector’s stomach turn in an entirely new way.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, not from where he stood, but her laughter rang across the garden - light, quick, genuine . She was laughing at something Diores had said, maybe. Or maybe Eurypylus. She tilted her head as she replied, the silver clasps in her braid glinting with the soft torchlight.

“Huh,” Rhesus said, stopping beside Hector. His voice had shifted - less condescending, more contemplative. “Looks like it’s working.”

Hector didn’t answer at first.

“Good for them,” Rhesus added, softer now. “He looks… different, doesn’t he? Lighter.”

Hector blinked, suddenly aware of how long he’d been staring. He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Good for them.”

But even as he said it, the words curdled on his tongue.

Because he wasn’t happy . Not really. Something about watching Eurypylus standing so close to her, something about her smile - that smile - being aimed at someone else…

He looked away.

This wasn’t about jealousy. Was it?

Sure, she was beautiful - but plenty of women were beautiful. This wasn’t about her looks. Not just that. It was the way she smiled. The way she had watched the crowd earlier like a general surveying her battlefield. The way she hadn’t looked impressed with anything when at her coronation she was offered rare jewels and saffron - but now she looked interested .

Almost like that night in the kitchen.

He clenched his jaw, tried to remind himself that it was fine. It’s fine. It’s good, even. Eurypylus liked her. She liked him back. Probably. Possibly.

And Hector - Hector didn’t even want anything like that. Right?

Odysseus giggled again, one hand brushing back her braid as she leaned in just a bit closer to say something that only his friend would hear.

Hector stared down at his nearly empty goblet.

“…I need more wine,” he muttered.

Rhesus, wisely, said nothing.

And so he finished another wine - and then another.

But the wine didn’t help.

Hector had hoped it would, hoped it might quiet the unsettled feeling twisting beneath his ribs ever since he’d seen her laugh. But the bitterness lingered.

He stood at the edge of the courtyard now, a little removed from the revelry, the goblet heavy in his hand and untouched. The voices, the music, the laughter - it all seemed distant, like a dream half-remembered. And somehow, she still stayed in the back of his mind.

His jaw tightened.

He hadn’t always been this… distracted.

Years ago, he would’ve laughed at his current self. Brooding over a girl - no, a queen - like some lovesick fool. Gods, he could still remember when everything had felt easier.

Now it feels so difficult. So difficult to even understand what he thought of her. What he wanted to know about her. 

The more he thought about it the more he felt a new rush of excitement. 

If he wanted to know more about someone so mysterious he would have to put a lot of effort. 

It would be hard.

It would be challenging.

He couldn’t help but smile.

---

(9 years ago)

The feast hall shimmered with candlelight and song. Drapes of deep crimson billowed above dancers spinning on polished marble floors, and laughter rose over the clatter of goblets and the scents of roasted lamb, figs, and spiced wine.

People loudly and proudly celebrated the wedding of Telamonian Ajax. 

Hector sat near the edge of the gathering, goblet in hand, posture formal, yet clearly distracted. His gaze drifted again - unconsciously - toward the dancers.

Odysseus was there, of course. Dressed in sea-colored silk that clung to her like mist, laughing as she danced in perfect step with Menelaus. Her dark curls bounced around her shoulders, bracelets chiming softly with every movement. She danced like the sea tide - free, untamed, always in rhythm with forces unseen.

Menelaus, golden and composed, moved with easy confidence, matching her pace and drawing the eye. The two of them had become something of a centerpiece in the revelry.

Hector didn’t realize he was staring until Cassandra, seated beside him, said in a deadpan voice, “You’re not even listening to me.”

He blinked, barely turning his head. “I - what?”

Cassandra scoffed. “Gods, Hector. You’re transparent.”

He tried to look innocent. “I’m not.”

“You stopped answering three questions ago.” She leaned over with a sharp grin. “You’ve been watching her like a starving wolf watches a lamb. A very dangerous , witty , and highly unavailable lamb.”

“I’m just - enjoying the music,” Hector muttered.

“With your eyes ?” She sipped her wine, eyes dancing. “You’re so obvious I’m embarrassed for you.”

Hector sighed and looked away, but Cassandra kept going, voice low and amused.

“Oh, and next time you hide your letters? Do a better job. I found the ones she wrote you tucked behind your ‘Treatise on Chariot Wheel Balance’ scroll. Riveting reading.”

He nearly choked. “You read those?”

“I skimmed. Enough to know what’s going on.” She smirked. “Your handwriting is atrocious, by the way.”

“You’re a rat,” Hector grumbled. “Soon I’ll have to start hiding things inside the palace walls to keep you out.”

She shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Maybe build a little secret room with a trapdoor and a puzzle. Or, here’s a thought - stop being such a coward and admit you’re in love with her.”

“I’m not -” he began, then trailed off as his eyes inevitably drifted back to the dance floor.

Odysseus was laughing again, head tipped back, her hand resting lightly on Menelaus’s shoulder. They looked - perfect. Regal. As if they belonged to some larger plan of the gods.

Cassandra caught the direction of his gaze and tilted her head innocently.

“You know,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “people are already gossiping. They say once Agamemnon reclaims the throne, Menelaus instead of staying with his brother, will instead travel to Ithaca to marry the queen.”

Hector snapped his head toward her, offended. “What?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “It’s not that hard to imagine. They’re said to be inseparable. She’s clever, well-liked, politically astute. And Menelaus will need a wife, won’t he? Not to mention that, it will be the best way for him to become a king without opposing his brother.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hector muttered, scowling now. “They’re just friends.”

“Are they?” she asked, arching a brow. “You think the rest of the world sees it that way?”

He didn’t respond. His fingers tightened around his goblet.

“It would be a symbolic union,” Cassandra continued coolly. “Two strong leaders united. A queen of mind and a king of war. Poets would eat it up.”

Hector muttered something inaudible and downed half his wine.

“Of course,” she added, tone hardening, “none of this would be said - if someone finally grew a pair and admitted he wants her for himself.”

He nearly choked again. The wine went down the wrong pipe, and he coughed violently into his sleeve. Cassandra thumped his back, far too amused.

“You’re insane,” he rasped.

“No,” she said smoothly, “I’m just right.”

He glared at her, rubbing his chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She leaned in, voice lower, gentler - but still piercing. “You’ve bedded probably half of Troy’s noble daughters without a second thought. So tell me - why does this one terrify you?”

Hector opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words weren’t there. Or rather - they were. They just wouldn’t leave his throat.

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his gaze drifted - again - toward the dancers. But this time, he didn’t even pretend to look away.

Later that night they met like they promised one another.

The moon hung low over the Aeginetan shore, casting silver ribbons across the surf. The feast had long since quieted, the sounds of revelry replaced by the hush of waves against stone and the occasional cry of a nightbird. Somewhere behind the cliffs, the palace slept.

Hector stood barefoot on the hidden beach tucked beneath a rise of rocks, half in shadow. The salt clung to his skin, mingling with the warmth still radiating from their earlier embrace. He could still feel her hands. Her breath. Her mouth on his.

It hadn’t meant to happen - not like that.

It had started as something simple. A shared glance across the feast hall. A quiet signal exchanged between them. Then hushed footsteps, quickened heartbeats, and a breathless laugh as they slipped through the garden paths and down the hidden cliff trail that Ody was more than happy to show him.

They’d come here just to swim. That was the plan.

Odysseus had kicked off her sandals first, casting him a grin over her shoulder before wading into the waves. “Well?” she called softly, waist-deep already, her dress clinging to her skin like seafoam. “What’s the point of sneaking off if you’re going to stand there brooding like a statue?”

Hector had laughed - rare, honest - and followed her into the water, feeling the sea embrace him like an old friend.

They swam beneath the stars, laughing, splashing like children. For a time, it was simple. Joyful. Free.

But then - something shifted.

She floated close to him, barely a hand’s breadth away, her smile softer now, curious. Her fingers brushed his wrist beneath the water. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And then - inevitably - they leaned in.

The kiss was tentative at first, but only for a heartbeat. Then she pulled him closer, and he answered in kind. What had begun with innocent warmth turned quickly into something else entirely - something fierce and breathless and needing.

Clothes were forgotten on the sand, wet footprints trailing behind them as they returned to shore in the dark. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

What followed was a blur of touches and half-gasped names. Her mouth on his. His hands in her hair. The world shrank to the curve of her waist, the press of her against him, the rush of the waves mirroring the rhythm of their bodies.

They made love on the sand with only the stars and the sea as their witnesses, the tide lapping near their feet, the scent of salt and skin lingering in the air. It was not gentle, not entirely - but it was real. Raw. The kind of intimacy that left them stripped down to nothing but breath and heartbeat and want.

And now - now she lay beside him, head resting on his chest, curls spread over his shoulder, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. Her hand curled loosely at his side.

He draped his cloak over her back, careful not to wake her. The night had cooled, and though she didn’t stir, he didn’t want her to wake with a chill.

She made a small, contented sound, barely more than a hum, and burrowed closer.

He smiled, helplessly.

It should have been enough - this moment. This peace. But something heavy stirred behind his ribs.

He stared up at the stars, the weight of her against him grounding him and unraveling him all at once. Her presence felt like a promise and a danger in the same breath.

He should say something. This should be when he told her.

That he loved her.

That he wanted more.

That the secret meetings and half-hidden glances were no longer enough. That he wanted to stand beside her in daylight. That now he wanted to experience everything with her from traveling the world to a simple quiet walk in the gardens.

He glanced down at her.

She used to have a hard time trying to have some sleep. But now she seemed to have an easier time falling asleep and even let herself rest for longer hours without being startled by the smallest of sounds.

She looked so peaceful. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, mouth slightly parted in sleep, her face relaxed in a way he rarely saw.

The words rose in his throat - and died there.

He let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. Barely a sound.

He wasn’t afraid of battles. Not death. Not duty. But this?

The truth was, he was very afraid.

Because if he told her how he felt and she didn’t want the same - if she laughed, or worse, if she simply left - then he would lose this . The secret joy. The soft touches. The rare, unsaid tenderness they shared in these stolen hours.

He would lose her completely.

So he said nothing.

He only closed his eyes, tightened his arm around her, and held her closer, burying his face in her hair as the tide continued to whisper beside them.

Just a little longer, he told himself. Then they would wake up and go back to their roles as prince of Troy and the Queen of Ithaca.

But for now.

He will let her sleep. Let this last.

Even if it was only borrowed time.

“I wish I was braver.”

And the sea, knowing all things, answered only with quiet.

---

It was so embarrassing on his part. That it took him almost a year to actually confess his feelings during that beautiful night in Pylos. And how it took him so much time to introduce his beloved to his family. 

He wondered many times.

How nice it would have been if he was braver.

How many beautiful moments could’ve been shared much sooner.

How many bad things could’ve been avoided.

But he couldn’t change the past.

So instead he focused on the future.

---

(4 years ago)

The morning light in Troy was always golden.

It slipped in slow through the latticework windows, stretching long sunbeams across the stone floor and up the carved walls. The room, still heavy with the warmth of sleep, stirred gently as a soft breeze teased at the drapes. In the hush before the palace awoke, Hector stirred.

His breath came slow at first, unsure if he’d truly woken or was merely passing through the space between dreams. Then, the shift of familiar weight beside him grounded him fully. His eyes fluttered open.

And there she was.

Odysseus lay beside him, facing slightly away, her cheek resting against the curve of his shoulder, a hand curled lightly near her mouth. The sunlight brushed over her bare shoulder, tracing the scars near her collarbone. Her breath was even and calm, her face peaceful in a way he seldom saw during the day, when her brow was sharp with cleverness and her eyes alight with calculation.

Now she simply looked human . Real. His.

Hector turned slightly, careful not to disturb the bed, and simply watched her.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unbidden. His heart beat slow and full with a quiet joy - one he did not always allow himself to feel. But here, in this moment, there was nothing to guard against.

The love of his life was lying in his bed. Peacefully. Warm. Breathing beside him as if she belonged here.

And gods, he wanted her to belong here.

He thought about how her visits to Troy felt like paradise pressed between the folds of war councils and royal obligations. Fleeting moments of peace and stolen laughter. And he hated the feeling that each visit had an ending. That he would eventually kiss her goodbye at the docks or watch her silhouette shrink along the hill road back to Ithaca.

He wanted this - her - not as a guest, not as a temporary comfort.

He wanted to wake like this every morning, with the rising sun and her breath against his chest. He wanted permanence. Not moments. Not pauses.

Life.

Carefully, he bent his head and pressed a featherlight kiss against her brow. She didn’t stir, only let out the softest sigh and tucked her hand under her chin.

He lingered a moment longer. One last look.

Then, silently, he slipped out of bed, moving like a shadow. He dressed quickly, simply, pulling on a robe that still smelled faintly of incense from the day before. He glanced once more at the bed - at her - and then left.

The corridor outside was hushed. Troy at sunrise always felt older than it was, carved in stone and memory. He padded barefoot through the cool halls, past drowsy servants beginning their morning work. They all gave him small nods but didn’t stop him.

The sun had fully risen by the time Hector reached the eastern wing of the palace. The smell of morning bread baking drifted faintly through the corridors, and the muffled footsteps of servants echoed beyond the pillars. But in the spinning room, all was still.

His mother sat at her loom, hands moving with slow, practiced ease. Threads of crimson and gold stretched across the wooden frame like sunlight captured in silk. The pattern was complex - waves, perhaps, or flowing hair - he couldn’t yet tell. Hecuba always said a tapestry only revealed its meaning once you had the patience to sit with it.

She didn’t look up at first, though he knew she’d heard his steps.

“You’re awake early,” she said softly, threading the shuttle through the warp. “Couldn’t sleep, or are you simply hiding from palace duties again?”

Hector smiled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither. I just… I thought I’d visit you.”

That earned him a glance, brief but knowing. “How touching. Is my son feeling sentimental at dawn, or is he circling toward a question like a hawk around a hare?”

He chuckled under his breath, stepping closer but not quite sitting yet. “Can’t a son visit his mother without being accused of schemes?”

Hecuba gave him a sidelong look, her fingers never stopping. “When that son is you , and when he’s blushing so early in the day? No. Not without suspicion.”

Hector sighed and folded his arms. “I was just wondering if you still remember the name of the artisan you were so fond of. The one who made that delicate clasp for Lady Thaleia. You praised his work to every noblewoman in Troy for a moon’s turn.”

At that, Hecuba’s brow arched with regal amusement. “Hmm. You must be desperate. I haven't seen you care about a clasp or a piece of jewelry since you were old enough to run through the mud in sandals.”

“I’m serious,” Hector muttered, though a smile tugged at his lips.

She set the shuttle down and finally looked at him directly. “I can see that. But tell me then - what urgent crisis compels the great Hector of Troy to commission custom finery? Has he at last grown tired of looking like a soldier even at a banquet?”

He didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his palms together, exhaled slowly, and then - steadier this time - he met her gaze.

“It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for Odysseus.”

At that, Hecuba’s hands stilled. The loom was silent now, threads forgotten.

She turned her full attention to him, and her face softened. “Is it a gift, then?” she asked gently. “A surprise for no reason at all?”

Her voice held a teasing lilt, but the affection was unmistakable.

Hector hesitated, then smiled quietly. “It is. And it isn’t.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering, as if the stone walls might somehow listen in. “I’ve already spoken with you and Father before, about wanting to marry her. And I know… I know it’s understood. But the more I thought about it - last night, this morning - I realized I never truly asked her. I never knelt and gave her something made only for her. And she… she deserves that. And more.”

A pause.

“She deserves a thousand kingdoms. But I can at least start with something like a necklace.”

Hecuba blinked once. Then again. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. And then her eyes shone - not with light, but with tears. They started pouring up uncontrollably causing her makeup to smudge. Beautiful red suns being cut by a wet trails.

Hector’s heart jumped. “Mother-?” He crossed to her immediately, kneeling at her side, his hand gentle on her knee. “Did I say something wrong?”

But Hecuba only laughed softly through her tears, brushing them away with the edge of her sleeve.

“Oh, my son,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “You said everything right.”

She tilted his face gently to her. “I’ve seen you wield a spear, rally soldiers, tame wild horses, face your father’s temper without flinching. But I have never seen you look as vulnerable and beautiful as you do when you speak her name.”

He lowered his head a little, sheepish. “Cassandra helped me sketch the design. I remember you talking about that craftsman - Bion? - but I forgot the full name. I was so caught up in it that I didn’t write it down, and now I-”

Hecuba waved her hand, smiling through the last of her tears. “Don’t fret. I’ll send word. I’ll make sure he works in silence and secrecy. Not a whisper will leave his workshop until you’re ready.”

Relief bloomed in Hector’s chest, and he pulled her into a hug, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice muffled in her hair. “Truly.”

She patted his back with affection. “Now go,” she said with a small laugh. “Return to your sleeping queen before she wakes up and finds an empty bed. It’s not very princely to vanish without a kiss.”

He grinned as he stood. “I kissed her forehead,” he said, blushing again. “Very gently.”

Hecuba rolled her eyes fondly. “Then kiss her again properly when she wakes. And don’t let her suspect anything until the moment is right.”

“I won’t,” he promised, already backing toward the door with the lightest steps he’d taken in days. “Thank you, Mother.”

“Go,” she said, returning to her tapestry with a smile. “And Hector?”

He paused in the doorway.

“She will say yes.”

His smile widened, and he nodded once before slipping away - his heart somehow lighter, steadier, and braver than before.

---

(Present)

The halls of the Trojan palace were quiet, their usual bustle stilled by the weight of the coming storm. Even the servants moved like whispers, as if the walls themselves held their breath.

Hector walked with purpose, every stride heavy with decision.

He kept his head down, avoiding the curious eyes of passing guards. His sandals echoed faintly across polished stone, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword - out of habit, not necessity.

He was close now. Just a few more corridors and he would reach the women’s wing. He would speak to Helen. He would end this madness before the gods had their say.

But before he could turn the corner, a voice stopped him.

“Where are you going, Hector?”

He froze.

The tone was casual, almost lazy. But there was a weight behind it that made the hairs on his arms rise.

He turned to see his father, King Priam, standing in the shadows of a column, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes as sharp as flint.

Hector forced calm into his face. “It’s nothing important.”

Priam arched a brow. “Nothing important sends you stalking through my halls like a man about to walk into a battlefield.”

Hector offered a tense smile. “It’s not your concern.”

“ Ah .” Priam stepped forward, slowly. “So it is about the meeting with Menelaus, then.”

The words struck like a thrown spear. Hector stilled, mortified. He tried not to let it show, but Priam saw everything.

He looked away, jaw clenched. “How do you know about that?”

Priam didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured toward a side chamber. “Sit. Have a drink with your father.”

Hector hesitated, then followed silently. The chamber was simple, with only two chairs and a small table between them. A decanter of warm herbal infusion sat steaming at the center. Priam poured them each a cup and handed one to his son. They both took a sip of a herbal drink. It had a light flowery aroma that reminded Hector of the traders that visited from the east.

They sat in silence.

Priam put down his cup slowly before filling it again.

Then, with the barest hint of arrogance, he asked, “Why do you insist on pretending this is noble? You’re not preserving peace. You’re betraying your own blood.”

Hector’s knuckles whitened around the cup. “I’m doing it for my people.”

“By offering Helen?”

“Yes,” Hector snapped. “I’ll bring her to Menelaus. We end this now, before it turns into something worse.”

“And what of Paris?” Priam asked, voice suddenly quieter, heavier.

Hector’s lips thinned. “He’ll get over it.”

“Oh?” Priam chuckled. “So love is a fleeting thing now? Something to discard for convenience?”

“There are things more important than his love life,” Hector growled. “Like keeping our city from burning.”

Priam’s eyes glinted. “Would you say the same of your own love life?”

Hector blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I wonder,” Priam mused, tilting his cup thoughtfully, “how you would react, if the roles were reversed. If it were you who’d taken the risk for love. If someone tried to drag Odysseus from your arms for the sake of diplomacy.”

Hector’s jaw clenched. “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Hector snapped. “Because we didn’t begin with betrayal. We didn’t tear apart a marriage and provoke a kingdom.”

Priam chuckled again, this time with a careless shrug. “You’ve done plenty of things that could earn a death sentence, Hector. Don’t pretend your hands are clean just because they’re steadier.”

Hector exhaled sharply, frustrated. “What is the point of this, Father?”

Priam leaned back, smiling now, maddeningly calm. “The point, dear son, is that I’d very much like to know what my heir is scheming behind my back.”

Hector narrowed his eyes. “How did you find out?”

Priam lifted his cup in a silent toast. “Your precious sister. Cassandra. She was kind enough to warn me.”

Hector looked away, the betrayal like a knife twisting behind his ribs. Of course Cassandra would tell him. She always saw the storm before it broke.

But he shoved the feeling down. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, firmly. “I’m going. I’ll meet with Menelaus. I’ll fix what Paris broke. And you won’t stop me.”

There was a pause.

Then Priam set his cup down and smirked. “Very well.”

Hector blinked. “That’s it?”

His father rose from his chair. “What do you expect? A royal decree? An army of guards to drag you back? No. That’s the last thing that this household needs.”

He leaned forward, voice cool. “But know this: paths like these rarely end the way you want them to. Especially when you are blinded by what you want to see and not what is ahead of you.”

---

The camp stirred with the slow rhythm of a morning after rain.

Patroclus walked at an easy pace along the beaten path between tents, the air still carrying a faint scent of damp earth and extinguished fires. Spears leaned against posts. Sandals slapped lightly against mud. A few soldiers trudged past him, bleary-eyed and muttering, clearly recovering from a rough night or an early patrol. Others moved with more intention - packing crates, sharpening blades, checking lists on wax tablets with furrowed brows and quiet urgency.

He passed two men struggling to adjust a crooked tent wall, one elbowing the other in jest while they cursed under their breath. Just a few paces later, another group was already drilling, their formation crisp, movements practiced. It struck him - how uneven everything still was. A patchwork of order and disarray. A war machine held together by determination, exhaustion, and string.

But then he crested the slight rise that marked the edge of the Ithacan section - and the tone changed.

Here, everything had a quiet rhythm. Not silence, but a kind of practiced ease. Tents were arranged in deliberate rows. Ropes were neatly coiled, water skins stacked beside them. The smell of broth simmering in iron pots hung in the air, simple and comforting. A few soldiers were cleaning their gear together - passing whetstones and oil rags without needing to speak. Others sat in low conversation, trading news or playing quiet rounds of dice while waiting for the next orders.

It didn’t feel like a war camp so much as a barracks that had learned to breathe.

From what he’d heard, most of these soldiers had sailed together from the same archipelago of small islands. They traded, played, hunted and danced together for years before the war would unite them here.These people knew one another’s fathers and brothers, knew each other’s debts and nicknames and childhood arguments. They probably argued like family, too - but it made sense now, seeing it. Why their section felt more like a single breath than a collection of strangers exiled under canvas.

He passed one pair crouched near a fire, repairing the edge of a broken shield, their movements synchronized without need for direction. Nearby, someone was marking the tally of dried rations on a slate. The Ithacan camp moved with quiet coordination, no wasted steps.

Ahead, he spotted Polites, gesturing to a few others as they unloaded chests near the medical tent. His voice was low but firm, his tone clipped with purpose. The others followed easily. It was the kind of cohesion you couldn’t fake.

Patroclus gave him a nod as he passed. Polites answered it with a half-smile - brief, but familiar - then turned back to the crates.

And just ahead, at the edge of the inner circle of tents, stood the one he was looking for. Odysseus’s tent hidden between other tents, not drawing any attention to itself like those belonging to the other kings.

He adjusted the small jar in his hands and stepped forward.

The tent smelled faintly of parchment, old ink, and the smoke of last night’s lamp. Somewhere outside, soldiers’ voices murmured in passing, their footsteps soft on trodden soil. Inside, Odysseus bent over a stack of unfolded maps and supply reports, her fingers stained slightly with charcoal.

She didn’t look up when speaking.

“Welcome, Patroclus.”

A low chuckle answered her.

“Gods, is it even possible to sneak up on you?”

She grinned faintly, still not turning. “Years of experience, dear boy.”

“Well…” Patroclus stepped inside, ducking past the flap, holding something delicately in both hands. “Then I hope this will count as a surprise.”

He crossed to her desk, grinning as he placed a small ceramic jar in front of her - filled with fresh meadow flowers. Poppies, daisies, clovers, and a few curling bluebells. Still wet with dew.

Odysseus turned at last. And her smile died.

In a sudden, sharp movement, her arm shot forward. The jar flew from the desk and shattered against the wooden chest near her cot, splintering in a spray of clay and petals. Water splashed over the floor, staining a corner of parchment.

Patroclus flinched. “What - what happened?!”

Odysseus blinked once. Then again. Her face settled - cool, almost too calm.

“Apologies,” she said quietly. “I was worried the water would soak the documents. A… reflex.”

Patroclus stared. “You nearly broke your wrist doing that.”

“Nothing happened.” The queen said automatically without even looking at her wrist. She sighed and moved from her seat, already crouching beside the chest. “Truly, I’m sorry. I’ll find you another jar. A better one.”

“No, it’s fine.” He knelt beside her, reaching for the flowers. “It’s my fault. I didn’t think before putting it right on your work.”

Together, they started cleaning the mess. Odysseus mostly focused on picking up the pieces of the broken jar while Patroclus was picking up the flowers carefully enough to not ruin them. The teen looked for a second at the water stain on the chest and ground before turning back to work.

Odysseus looked at the flower he was holding in hands and gave a breath of a laugh, dry and quiet.

“Besides,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “Why flowers? Gifts like these… might give people ideas .”

Patroclus’s ears turned faintly red as he rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced at the queen. She didn’t seem to accuse him of anything. Just curiosity and amusement. He watched as her hands with utmost care were picking the shards of pottery causing the sleeves of her tunic to move with a gentle flow. 

“I just… I wanted to thank you.”

She looked at him, curious. “For what?”

“For your teachings,” he said. “When we were setting up the camp - I was the one giving the orders - and - and they listened. It wasn’t done thanks to Achilles. But because of what you taught me about commanding and organizing, I-” he smiled shyly, “-I wasn’t afraid. I sounded like I knew what I was doing.”

Odysseus’s expression softened. “Then I’m proud of you.”

He beamed.

“But,” she added with a sly smirk, “you still have a long way to go, little commander.”

He laughed. “I know. I know. So tell me, oh so great Master Strategist - do you have any wise words for your humble student? Some hidden Ithacan philosophy, perhaps? Or maybe a riddle that can humble self-righteous scholars?”

She stood and moved toward a side table close to the hearth, picking up one of the jars. She uncorked it and poured out some grain that was in there into the bowl before filling it with clean water from a jug nearby.

Then, absently, she asked:

“Does a lie, repeated enough times… become the truth?”

Patroclus blinked. He tilted his head in thought. But it barely took him a moment to give her an answer.

“No,” he said finally, serious now. “A lie is still a lie. Even if the world believes it, it won’t ever become the truth. Lies - and secrets - always come to light.”

Odysseus only hummed at that. Her look felt distant for a moment. It was hard to say if she was thinking of something or maybe something was distracting her. 

She didn’t tell him if he was right or wrong. Instead, she glanced at him sideways, amusement glittering in her eyes.

“You say it like you know from experience.”

Patroclus looked at her shocked. Then with a small embarrassment he gave her a nod in agreement. 

She held out a hand.

“Flowers, please.”

He passed them to her, one by one, watching as she arranged them carefully in the new jar. She didn’t rush. The bouquet reformed with a slightly new fill to it. Maybe because it was now in a lighter vessel? Or maybe because the queen had her own vision for how the flowers will look once she is done arranging them.

She spoke as she worked. Carefully picking each stem and finding a proper place for it. “Everyone has secrets, Patroclus. Some we guard. Some we forget. Some… we tell ourselves for so long, we think they're the truth. But not all lies come from malice.”

“Of course you would say that.” He chuckled softly. “You’re a walking bundle of secrets.”

She laughed, openly this time. “Aren’t I?”

“Is that a hobby or your special way to take over Greece?”

The short woman chuckled. “Some secrets come from my position. Some from a series of unfortunate events and some even I forget where they originally came from.”

He leaned back, brow raised, smirk growing on his face. “And what would be your darkest one of them all?”

She gave him a mock-scandalized look. “Now that would defeat the purpose of a secret.”

But then, her smile changed.

Sharper.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing near his ear as she whispered:

“There are many things you would rather not know about me, little soldier ~”

Patroclus froze where he sat. He felt his teacher moving closer to the point where he felt her breath on his skin.

“Many people would have their own opinions on what should be seen as my darkest secret.” She chuckled lightly. “But - the one I guard the most is the one that only six people know - and two of them are already dead.”

A shiver rippled down his spine.

She pulled back, grinning like a cat with cream as Patroclus was trembling, blinking.

“Gods,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You are terrifying .”

She laughed again, bright and unburdened. She came back to her desk and came back to reading some papers before glancing at the young prince with much gentler gaze.

“I need everything ready before my departure so I’ll need your help later. Please, come back here after sunset.”

He nodded, already turning to leave. “Alright.”

At the tent flap he turned back for the last time only to pause for a brief moment. 

He glanced back once at the newly filled vase.

The bouquet was elegantly placed near the cot. The flowers seemed to be in good condition but something felt different about them. He looked closer and then he realised that all the red flowers were gone. 

Maybe they didn’t survive the landing?

Without any further thought he left the tent and started walking towards his camp.

---

The sun had barely begun to rise when Odysseus and Menelaus set out from the outer edge of the Greek host, the sky painted in grays and copper light. Morning mist curled low along the earth, clinging to the grass and the hem of their cloaks. The world was quiet in that way it only ever is before dawn - when even war holds its breath.

They shared a single horse, not out of necessity, but out of trust. The Spartan king rode behind, calm and composed, while Odysseus held the reins with steady hands. Her eyes scanned the horizon - watchful, thoughtful - her sharp mind already weighing every possible outcome.

Behind them, ten soldiers followed in tight formation, their armor muffled under travel cloaks. Five were Ithacan sailors - tall, sea-hardened, used to silence. The other five were Spartan warriors - broad-shouldered, proud-eyed, trained to hold a line until death. They rode not with banners, but with purpose. Each man knew the stakes. Each man knew not to speak unless asked.

The road to Pedasus cut through low hills and ancient groves, their branches knotted with time and dusted with silver leaves. They rode past dry creek beds and the bones of forgotten temples. There was no music of birds, no rustle of distant flutes - just hooves on dry dirt and the occasional creak of leather.

It took them until late morning to reach the gates of the city.

The city was neither sprawling nor grand - its towers low, its buildings aged but clean. Its people, what few they saw, watched with wary eyes from behind shaded windows. No one greeted them openly. No one bowed. The air here tasted of olive oil and stone - and something more bitter beneath.

A pair of Pedasian guards led them through winding inner corridors toward the stronghold, each step echoing through cool stone halls. Odysseus exchanged a glance with Menelaus. The king gave a slight nod - he felt it too. Something was wrong.

“This is the neutral ground,” one of the guards said gruffly, gesturing to a set of heavy bronze doors. “No one can cause harm without facing consequences.”

But when the doors opened, Odysseus’s breath caught - not in surprise, but in calculation.

They stepped into a hall carved straight from the hillside, cool and still. A long stone table stretched down its center, worn smooth by years and polished by careful hands. The scent of incense - subtle, foreign - lingered in the air.

And at the head of the table, flanked by no guards, sat not Hector.

But King Priam.

He wore muted gold embroidered into dark crimson robes, a ring upon every finger, his white hair swept neatly back. His eyes - those tired, ageless eyes - watched them with unreadable calm, as if he had always known they would be the ones to enter.

Odysseus came to a slow stop, her fingers tightening slightly around the hilt of the dagger at her waist. Menelaus shifted beside her, one step forward, the tension rolling through his posture like a drawn bowstring.

The soldiers behind them paused in the doorway, confused - but trained not to speak.

Priam gestured languidly to the seats before him. “Please,” he said, his voice smooth and low, “sit.”

Neither moved.

Menelaus broke the silence, voice clipped. “We were supposed to be meeting with Prince Hector.”

Priam’s smile did not reach his eyes. “My son was… unavailable. But I assure you, I'm here because I want to find a solution as much as you two.”

Odysseus did not move immediately. She scanned the room with subtle precision - no guards, no hidden alcoves, no visible weapons. Just Priam. Which made it worse.

She exchanged a glance with Menelaus. A silent agreement passed between them.

They moved forward.

Priam’s gaze slid to the soldiers gathered behind them. His expression, unreadable, lingered for a beat too long.

Then he said, in polished, calm Trojan:
“Let’s see which of your dogs can show some respect.”
The words rolled off his tongue like silk.

Menelaus’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as he rose to his feet, hand already brushing the hilt of his blade. “What did you say?”

Odysseus, calmer, lifted a hand and gently pushed him back. Her voice was dry, almost amused.

“He was testing who among our soldiers speaks Trojan. Judging by the six that flinched - I believe he has his answer.”

Priam did not deny it. He simply folded his hands together on the table. “Let’s speak privately. Shall we? The soldiers will wait outside.”

Menelaus hesitated, jaw tight. Odysseus gave the order. The warriors filed out, the doors thudding shut behind them.

The air grew heavier.

Menelaus leaned forward. The bronze mask glinted in the candle light. “Let’s not waste time. We’re here for Helen. Return her, and there is still a path that avoids bloodshed.”

Priam smiled without warmth. “And what if Helen left willingly?”

Menelaus’s expression twisted. “Then why isn’t she here to say it herself?”

“Indeed,” Odysseus added, her tone sharp and direct. “If she stayed of her own will, bring her here. Let her say so - before both kings.”

Priam’s fingers tapped lightly against the wood. “She is not here,” he replied smoothly, “to prevent you from taking her by force.”

Menelaus’s eyes burned. “You say that as if we were the ones who barged into another’s home and stole someone’s wife.”

“Peace,” Priam said with a practiced sigh. “We came here to speak, not to sharpen swords.”

He turned his gaze to Odysseus, his voice softening to something almost paternal. “Or perhaps… perhaps we came here for something else.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Priam offered her a mournful smile. “My heart bleeds, truly, for what this incident has cost you, my daughter. You and Hector - torn apart. You should have had your chance. Marriage. A future in Troy, as it was always meant to be.”

Odysseus blinked. The shift was so sudden it almost didn’t register. But then she said, sharply, “You’ve yet to mention the war. Strange thing to forget when it’s already begun.”

Priam chuckled, low and amused. “Still sharp. I see why my son favors you.”

He leaned back, folding his arms. “The gods willed Helen to be with Paris. Who am I to defy them? But you…” His eyes lingered on her. “You still have a place behind Troy’s walls. Hector waits. And I offer you protection, shelter - by his side - before the war swallows the world.”

Menelaus turned, startled. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing. For once, he looked uncertain.

Odysseus stared at the old king, and then laughed. Not kindly.

“You’re a fool.”

Priam’s expression did not change, but a coldness flickered behind his eyes.

“You offer me sanctuary?” she went on. “Now? After harboring a stolen queen, you expect me to sneak into your city like a shadow bride, while you hide behind your ‘god-blessed’ walls and call it wisdom?”

“No. But I call it a respect to yours. After all, you were the one who ensured my son’s safety from the Spartan king and it is thanks to you that he isn’t bound by this bloody pact. I just want to return the favour.”

“And what do you think will happen if I join you? Fifty kings would see me as a traitor and they would take their anger on my land and people. Because tell me, oh so great and generous King of Troy - Would you send dozens of ships to secure my people? Would you treat them with the same respect as those of Trojan blood? Or would they be treated like some dogs forced to eat scraps?”

Priam's voice turned harder. “You were to be queen of Troy. You still could be. Think of your people.”

“I am a queen,” she snapped. “The Queen of Ithaca. And I am thinking of my people. That’s why I came here instead of running. That’s why I stay - beside them, through what’s coming.”

Silence stretched. The crackling hearth filled the void, flames casting long shadows over the stone walls.

Priam’s eyes darkened. “So this is your answer.”

Odysseus met his gaze without flinching. “No. Helen is the answer. Return her - and the gods might yet show you mercy.”

“Do you really think I’m so stupid to think that it would be so simple?”

Menelaus glared at the man who was now looking at him with the same intensity. “And what makes you think we would not keep our word?”

Priam smiled as if charmed by the child's innocence. “Your brother.”

The Greek rulers stayed silent as Priam continued. “You think I don’t know why my son planned this meeting without him? We all know that he has further ambitions for this. And the same way you ask me to protect a few islands from his wrath - Would you protect my land and people from him, once he hears that he wasted all the resources only to go home emptyhanded? Would you be willing or able to stop him from sacking villages and killing helpless people just to compensate for what he already invested in?”

Menelaus raised a brow. “And you think that a war is an answer? That a carnage would keep your subjects safe?”

“I call it an answer to your soldiers stepping on my land.”

“Soldiers who are here for their Queen.”

“A queen who is now seen as my son’s bride.”

The silence that followed was chilling like winter air. But it wasn’t a petty offence or exchange of insults that brought them to this state. No. It was the shared realisation of the fact that they both agreed to war.

The only sound heard was the quiet rustling of a paper moved slightly by the wind.

Then Priam spoke up. 

“In three days the bell will ring in Troy to declare war. Until then we all have the right to safe passage. I swear upon all the gods that no arrow will be shot and no harm will be done to you.”

“The same goes to you. None of our people will attack you or your subjects until Ares sings his warcry through your vessel.”

Menelaus rose slowly from his chair.

Odysseus followed, brushing the dust from her cloak as she stood. 

King Priam didn’t move from his seat, instead he just let his voice do the bidding. 

“My offer still stands, Odysseus. We can still be a family.”

She glanced back only once.

“You had years to make this choice,” she said, “But now when you dare to raise your spear against my kin I’m not your daughter and you are no father of mine.”

Then they walked out, leaving the king of Troy alone in the flickering firelight.

---

The journey back was slow.

The path that had taken two days to reach Pedasus now felt longer, drawn out by silence and thought. Neither Odysseus nor Menelaus had spoken much since leaving the stronghold. The clatter of hooves, the rustling of brush, and the ever-present weight of what hadn’t been said filled the space between them.

By the time the sun dipped below the western ridges, the soldiers were visibly weary, their horses flagging with every mile. The pale moon began its climb into the sky when Menelaus finally tugged the reins and said, “We should stop for the night.”

Odysseus kept her gaze on the road ahead. “We could keep going.”

“We could,” he said, gentler this time, “but you look like you’re about to slide off that horse. And it’s safer to travel during the day.”

She didn’t argue. A nod was all he needed.

The soldiers made camp in a quiet grove off the road. A small fire was lit, guarded carefully from view. Bedrolls were laid out, armor unbuckled, and one by one, the men gave into sleep. A calm wind whispered through the trees, cold but not cruel.

Odysseus wandered from the fire, boots crunching softly in the underbrush until she found a hillock crowned with a twisted oak tree. She stood there a while, watching the stars emerge. The quiet of the night settled over her shoulders like a shroud.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Planning to freeze to death?” Menelaus’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing.

Odysseus didn’t turn. “Chilly air helps me think.”

Menelaus sighed, then peeled off his cloak. “Next time you sneak off to ‘think,’ take something warm.”

He stepped up beside her and wrapped it gently over her shoulders. She allowed it, pulling it tighter without a word. He sat beside her, knees drawn loosely, and together they listened to the leaves murmur above them.

“You should take better care of yourself. You are obviously tired.”

Odysseus held onto the cloak, her eyes wandering somewhere far. “What made you think that way, Mene? The fact that I’m not running like a doe, jumping through the bushes?”

The redhead man looked at her with warmth and concern. “Because I was able to sneak up on you.”

Now she looked at him properly. Now he was wearing a wooden mask. The one she carved for him years ago. Simple shape with small engravings of laurel leaves on the sides. He was without his armour and his scars and damaged eye were exposed. The mask of the king was gone. Now it was just her friend who was worried about her. 

She lifted her arm letting the king to also be tucked in by the warm cloak. Despite part of his face being hidden, he clearly smiled when moving closer to her. But the moment they both were comforted by the warmth he once again looked at her with worry.

“Despite what you said today… You still want to be with Hector. Are you?”

She smiled but in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “And what gave you that idea?”

Instead of saying something he just tapped on the piece of jewelry she adorned. The necklace that was made of brone and blue gems. Something that always brought her warmth and comfort was now making her skin burn with guilt. 

She was ashamed of herself. Of course he knew about it. She was bragging to him and Helen about it the first chance she got. And now she felt like a traitor. She could just as well wear a trojan flag instead of a cloak. 

She glanced at him nervously but there was no accusation painted on his face. He sat beside her and leaned on her with the same comfort as he always did. That made her feel at ease. At least a little. There was another reason he was here. There had to be. But for now none of them would say anything. Instead they just shared the warm cloth in this chilly night.

The distant sound of crackling campfire was dying down as there was nobody to keep the flame going. They sat together for a long while, until finally, Menelaus said, very quietly, “If you want to go to him… I won’t stop you.”

Odysseus turned sharply toward him, startled.

“You could take one of the horses,” he went on, not meeting her eyes. “A bit of food. I’d tell the others you stayed behind to scout or to speak with someone. I can color you as a victim of circumstances or deceased. I could cover for you. Just say you want it, and I’ll do it for you. To let this war spare at least one pair of bleeding hearts”

She didn’t speak at first. Her gaze lingered on him, taking in the small weariness in his eyes - the care buried beneath his calm.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “But I meant what I said, Menelaus. I’m not leaving. Not from fear. Nor from some debt or contract. I stay for my people… and I stay for you, my friend.”

He nodded slowly. Relief passed through him, quiet and honest. Despite his declarations it wasn’t an easy offer for him to make, which made it even more noble on his part. She wanted to assure her undying loyalty. But her voice faltered next, saying something closer to her heart.

“That doesn’t make it less painful or hard,” she whispered. “That it had to be this way.”

“No,” he said, and reached out, wrapping his arm around her. “It doesn’t.”

They lay together under the oak tree in the warm embrace, with silence and the cold wind as their only companions. The sky above them was clear, stars scattered like spilled salt across dark velvet.

They gazed at the lights wrapped in Nyx’s endless gown.“You remember,” Menelaus said eventually, his voice soft, “back in Sparta - how we used to sleep like this all the time when we were kids?”

Odysseus gave a quiet laugh. “Gods, yes. In the gardens. You always tried to play the ‘noble protector’ even back then. But at the end you would always hide behind me.”

He snorted. “Only after we’d raided the kitchens. You were a bad influence.”

“I was a fun influence,” she corrected. “And you never complained while stuffing your face with honeyed pastries.”

He laughed louder this time. “True. Then we got older and started sneaking out with bottles of wine instead.”

“Only for Agamemnon to scold us and make us clean the stables as punishment.”

They both smiled, soft and sad.

“Things used to be easier back then,” one of them said. But both of them shared this thought.

The other nodded. “They were easier because we were too small to be a part of the real world.”

A long silence stretched between them, not heavy, but full.

Menelaus gently tightened his arm around her shoulders.

“Everything will be alright,” he murmured, not as a promise, but as a wish.

Odysseus nestled closer beneath the borrowed cloak, letting the warmth of the it and his presence ease the ache in her chest.

Neither of them spoke again. Sleep took them slowly, as the stars wheeled quietly above.

---

The plains before the war camp stretched wide and familiar, ringed with distant smoke from cooking fires and lined with flags bearing the marks of every allied house. Banners of Mycenae, Ithaca, Sparta, Argos, and more flapped in the rising wind as the golden light of morning crept higher into the sky.

Odysseus and Menelaus rode side by side, their shared horse weary but dutiful. Behind them, the small escort of soldiers kept a respectful distance, their armor glinting softly in the sun.

“Diomedes and Ajax probably reached the camp last night,” Menelaus said, squinting toward the horizon. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if Agamemnon arrived before us.”

“At least it would be easier to deal with everyone at once than with him alone later.” Odysseus replied dryly, though there was a flicker of weariness in her tone.

Menelaus glanced sideways. “Once we arrive, they’ll expect a full account. The council will demand action.”

“We’ll give them action,” Odysseus said. “The time for quiet diplomacy is over. Now comes strategy.” She shifted slightly in the saddle. “We’ll need to announce a plan. Rally the army. Keep the message clear.”

He gave a curt nod, then added more quietly, “They’ll expect you to speak.”

But Odysseus didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was fixed ahead, locked on the sprawling rise of the war camp in the distance. It stretched across the hills like a sleeping beast beginning to wake - tents and pikes forming a jagged skyline against the early afternoon sun, smoke from cooking fires curling into the air, voices murmuring like the low rumble of a storm gathering strength.

The machinery of war was churning now. Slowly, relentlessly. And it would not stop.

Then she spoke, her voice calm but carrying an edge of tension. “Stop.”

Menelaus blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Just - stop here,” she said again, more firmly this time.

He reined the horse in without protest. Dust swirled gently around them as the beast came to a halt. Before he could ask anything more, Odysseus dismounted with a swift, practiced grace, her boots crunching softly against the dry grass beneath them. She adjusted the folds of her cloak, fingers moving with mechanical precision. Then she looked up at him.

“You need to be the one who declares it.”

Menelaus frowned, squinting slightly in the sun. “What are you talking about?”

She took a step closer, resting one hand against the horse’s flank, grounding herself. “This war - this moment - it begins with you, brother. You’re the one who was wronged. You’re the one they expect to lead. If I stand beside you now, they’ll expect my voice to speak. But they need to see you . The man who will march them to Troy. The king they’ll bleed for.”

Menelaus studied her face, searching for something hidden in her eyes. “And what about you? You won’t stand with me?”

“I will,” she said gently. “But not yet. This moment isn’t mine. It’s yours. You’ve earned it. They need to believe in you . And they will - if you let them see the king that shines brightly instead of hiding in the shadow of the serpent.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he muttered, “You don’t cast a shadow, Ody. You hold the gods-damned torch.”

She smiled at that - softly, briefly. “Even the brightest of torches burn low sometimes.”

He reached down and placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling briefly, tightly. “You’ll join us soon?”

“With the rest of the troops,” she said. “When it’s time.”

There was nothing else to say.

With a final glance, Menelaus turned his horse and rode onward toward the camp. The banners of Greece - Mycanea, Athens, Sparta, Ithaca, Argos, Pylos - flapped against the breeze like heralds of fate. The hill crested before him, and already soldiers were stirring at his approach, drawn like iron filings to a lodestone.

They had been waiting for this.

The word had spread fast - Odysseus and Menelaus had returned from Pedasus. All now hung in the balance.

Menelaus dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting squire. His hands lingered for a moment on the horse’s mane, then dropped away as he turned to face the camp. At the center of the war camp stood a raised platform, hastily assembled from beams and shields and crates, but solid enough to stand on. Around it gathered the commanders - Agamemnon, patient and grim; Diomedes, arms crossed; Nestor, leaning slightly on his staff; Ajax, a silent wall that showed no emotion.

But none of them stepped forward. They watched. They waited.

This was not their speech to give.

Menelaus climbed the platform alone.

A hush began to fall across the camp. Men looked up from their sharpening blades. Squires paused mid-motion. Even the horses quieted. The air felt dense with anticipation, thick with something sacred and sharp-edged.

Thousands of eyes turned to the Spartan king.

He took a deep breath. The kind of breath that weighed heavy in the chest and steadied the spine. And for a brief moment his eyes lingered in the direction where his friend would show up, but not now. Because now it was his duty to speak loud and clear. He removed his mask, showing the entire army his old wounds. The reminders of the permanence of his actions and choices.  

And then he began.

In one single moment the army of thousand ships heard The Master of The War Cry.

“The Trojans have refused our terms.”

His voice rang clear, echoing over the crowd like a bell. Heads lifted. Feet stilled.

“They have withheld the queen of Sparta and shamelessly claim as their own. They have chosen pride over peace.”

The wind shifted. The camp bristled like a forest bending toward fire.

“And so - by the will of the gods, and in defense of our honor - war is declared.”

It was like the striking of flint.

A low wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd - then came the shouts. Cheers erupted from the younger men. Older warriors exchanged grim nods, hands tightening on hilts and spear shafts. Somewhere, a war horn called out, its low note swallowed by the rising thunder of agreement.

But Menelaus wasn’t done.

He stepped forward, his stance firmer, voice louder, more resolute.

“This will not be a war of plunder or cruelty. This is not conquest - it is justice. We fight to restore what was stolen. We fight to show the world that kings cannot be mocked without consequence. That nobody should ever dare to take what’s rightfully ours.”

He grabbed onto his sword and held it high, gesturing to the gathered forces.

“And we do it together - as Greeks. Not for glory, not for vengeance - but for each other. For the homes we defend. For the people who look to us.”

The final cheer broke like a wave - huge, loud, unstoppable.

From the shadows beyond the camp, Odysseus watched it all.

She stood beneath the slope of some gnarled tree, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her fingers were clenched, nails digging into her palms where no one could see. The wind tugged gently at her cloak, and still she stood motionless - watching.

Her body was braced. Her breath was shallow. The adrenaline hadn’t faded yet. The weight of everything to come still pressed against her shoulders like invisible stone. And yet…

Her eyes gleamed.

There, on that makeshift dais, Menelaus stood like a king. No longer the younger brother in a long shadow. No longer the man who had once been questions when taking over the crown of Sparta. No longer someone following a banner.

Now he was the banner.

She smiled, quiet and fierce. The kind of smile forged in long nights, in hard truths, in unspoken promises.

War had been declared.

And there was no turning back.

He was ready.

And so was she.

Or she will be.

Once her hands stop shaking and her legs have the strength to lead her without falling.

Notes:

Thank you for your patience. I hope this chapter was satisfying despite how dense it was.

The next chapter will come later than usually because I'm going on holidays with my family :3

I recommend checking my Tumblr for
The are of Hector with his friends:
https://www.tumblr.com/dolihannah/789499637260222464/meet-the-gang-quick-sketch-of-hector-and-his?source=share

And a comic based on one of the flashbacks:
https://www.tumblr.com/dolihannah/788521465747226624/question-for-hecuba-what-do-you-think-about?source=share

I also recommend it if you want to ask me or the character from the story some fun questions :3
See you in few weeks <3

Chapter 15

Summary:

Troubles of father figures and their kin

Notes:

For context - In this Au Greater Ajax married before the courting of helen took place. He joined the courting not as a suitor but to support his brother (In a similar way Agamemnon was supporting Menelaus)

For once, Agamemnon had nothing to do.

No messenger tugging at his sleeve with fresh demands from the council, no complaints about grain stores, no weapons inspections to oversee. Just the soft hum of the summer air and the creak of a wicker chair beneath him in a shaded corner of the colonnade.

His thoughts wandered.

Menelaus had changed these past months - less restless, less prone to sulking when bested. It was almost laughable how obviously he clung to the little boy he claimed as his new older brother, shadowing him everywhere like a hound pup afraid to be left behind. Odysseus, for his part, had slipped into the role of protective older brother without even seeming to notice. Always keeping Menelaus in his line of sight, always stepping between him and trouble, sometimes scolding him, more often defending him.

The memory made Agamemnon’s mouth twitch into a smile. He leaned back, letting his eyes drift shut, content for once to just enjoy the quiet. He was almost dozing when-

A shout split the air.

Not the usual playful noise of boys sparring, but sharp, ragged panic.

Another voice joined it, shrill and breaking.
“He’s bleeding - gods, look at him!”

Then a chorus:
“Help! Get someone!”
“It’s bad - he’s dying!”

Agamemnon was on his feet instantly, the wicker chair clattering to the floor. He was running before his mind caught up, taking the shortest route through the shaded corridors toward the training yard.

The noise swelled as he neared - the frantic shuffle of feet, the overlapping cries. Almost a dozen boys were huddled in a loose circle, their wooden swords abandoned in the dirt. Faces pale, eyes wide, all of them backing away from whatever was in the center.

“Move!” Agamemnon barked, shoving his way through.

The ring broke open, and he saw-

Odysseus.

“Out of the way!” Agamemnon barked.

They parted. He knelt beside the child and grabbed his shoulders.

“Odysseus, are you hurt? Did someone cut you? Can you speak?”

The boy stared at him - not in pain, but in confusion . Embarrassed, stunned, but… unharmed?

Agamemnon’s eyes flicked downward. The blood was thick, seeping. But no slash, no wound. No battle injury. And then - the realization hit.

His heart gave a jolt.

No.

Not a wound. And from the look on Odysseus’s face, ‘he’ hadn’t understood it either.

Still - maybe ‘he ’ did. Maybe this was just shock. Maybe the child was already aware of what this meant. Please , let that be the case.

He stood up, forced calm into his voice. “He’s not hurt. Training’s over. Everyone, leave.”

They obeyed. Quickly. Whispering as they went, wide-eyed.

Agamemnon offered Odysseus a hand. “Come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

***

Agamemnon had aged ten years in the last hour.

He'd barely managed to calm the boy - no, the girl , he reminded himself for the fiftieth time. He’d wrapped her in a clean tunic, reassured her without sounding too alarmed, then scrubbed blood from the training stones like a man hiding a murder. The servants hadn’t seen. He hoped. And he still needs to find a way to silence the = younger trainees before anyone else finds out about it.

Gods help him if Tyndarus found out before he figured out what, exactly, he was going to tell him.

‘Hey your majesty! To thank you for your hospitality and the sanctuary for me and my brother! I decided to bring another child to be under your care and make sure to violate every single law in the process.’

Gods, he can’t even imagine how to begin with the explanations! 

Now, as the sun crept lower and his headache bloomed like Athena from Zeus’s skull, Agamemnon sat on a bench in his quarters with his head in his hands, silently contemplating the benefits of voluntary exile.

“Brother?”

He looked up. Menelaus stood in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.

“Is Odysseus okay?” Menelaus asked, appearing in the doorway, hair still damp with sweat from the training yard.

Agamemnon looked up from where he sat, trying to look as if the world weren’t crumbling under his feet. “Everything is fine,” he said, forcing ease into his tone. “Ody is… ah… changing in the other room.”

“Oh,” Menelaus said, already turning toward the adjoining door. “I’ll go check on him-”

“No!” The word cracked out sharper than Agamemnon intended, and Menelaus froze mid-step.

The boy frowned. “Why not?”

Agamemnon swallowed. “Because… you can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Agamemnon said, fighting to keep his voice level, “Odysseus is… a girl.”

Menelaus blinked at him, clearly trying to process this. “…What?”

“She’s a girl,” Agamemnon repeated, slower this time, as though that would help. “And it’s not appropriate for a boy to just walk into her room in-” he gestured vaguely, “-a situation like this.”

Menelaus tilted his head. “Why not?” 

“Because boys and girls can’t share a private space like that, remember. For example, how do the women outside of the royal family dine in a separate wing of the palace?”

“B-but we always shared a room. Or a tent. Or a blanket when it was cold. Why is it different now?”

Agamemnon opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. His skin went pale in a horrifying realization.

His mind replayed six months of memories in horrible clarity: Odysseus lining up in the boys’ drills. Odysseus eating elbow-to-elbow in the mess hall. Odysseus sleeping in the male wing of the palace.

Gods. He had housed a girl among the boys for half a year. HE BROKE SO MANY RULES BY MAKING A LITTLE GIRL PARTAKE IN BOYS’ TRAINING AND COMPETITIONS!

And worse - his stomach twisted - how many times had Menelaus and Odysseus curled up on the same bedroll after a long march? How many nights had they slept back-to-back under the same cloak? How many times those two would play in a river with nothing but loincloth on them?!

He felt the blood drain from his face. His inner voice was already screaming Tyndareus is going to kill me! Heck! GODS ARE GOING TO SMITE ME!!!

Menelaus was still looking at him expectantly, as if there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why everything that had been fine yesterday was suddenly forbidden today.

Agamemnon forced a strained smile that didn’t convince either of them. “It’s… complicated. We will need to talk about it more… once Odysseus is here with us.”

And now the older prince sat awkwardly at the edge of the low couch in his chamber, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The adjoining door to the bathing room was shut tight, muffling the faint splashes and rustling of cloth from within. Menelaus fidgeted at his side, picking at the frayed seam of his tunic.

At last the door creaked open.

Odysseus stepped inside, hair damp and plastered to her temples, a clean tunic hanging loose on her narrow frame. She moved carefully, stiffly, as though each gesture was measured against invisible pain. Her sharp eyes flicked between them - wary, proud, and very, very tired.

“Are you alright?” The question was said calmly but despite that Odysseus flinched a little before nodding. Agamemnon sighted, deciding to start with the heaviest topic right now. “So… You are a girl.”

Odysseus nodded again. Her hands were clutching too big clothes she was currently wearing.

“And why did you hide it?” The older prince tried to sound as soft as possible despite his own worry causing his voice to strain. There were so many things he wanted to understand but he should’ve started slowly to not stress the child even more.

“Um… It - it was the only way to find a mentor.”

“And why did you want to find a mentor?”

“I… I wanted to prove to my dad that I’m not worthless.” Her voice was meaker with each given answer.

“Okay…” the man sighted. “So you weren’t lying about this part. Is there anything else we should know about?”

This time the short girl was turning her head, saying ‘no’.

Before Agamemnon could say anything else, Menelaus launched himself forward and threw his arms around her.
“I thought you were dying!” he blurted, voice breaking. “You just fell and - and there was blood everywhere-”

Odysseus froze at first, blinking down at him, then let her shoulders soften. Her arms lifted uncertainly before resting on Menelaus’s back, a hesitant return of the embrace. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy. A silent terror haunting her mind.

“…Am I dying?” she asked quietly and yet deliberately.

Agamemnon’s stomach lurched.

Her voice was steady, almost calm, but the kind of calm born from sheer terror. “Because I don’t feel hurt,” she continued quietly. “No one struck me. But the blood won’t stop. And it’s coming from-” Her jaw tightened; she couldn’t bring herself to finish. “That can’t be normal. Right?”

His heart stilled.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t trembling. She asked it like someone trying not to make a fuss.

“Because I’m not hurt,” she went on, voice quiet. “But the blood won’t stop. And it’s coming from-” She broke off, jaw tight. “That can’t be normal. Right?”

Agamemnon just stared at her.

There it was.

The moment it all clicked.

She didn’t know. She didn’t even know what it was.

Which meant-

Menelaus tugged at his sleeve. “Brother? Tell us what’s wrong with her.”

Agamemnon cleared his throat, but still stuttered as trying to avoid the answer and ignore the cold sweat. “It’s… nothing to worry about. Completely normal.”

That earned him two pairs of wide, disbelieving eyes. Odysseus’s hands clenched in her lap, and Menelaus looked one breath away from crying again.

“Normal?!” Odysseus echoed, voice thin. “Bleeding down there is normal?!”

“What?!” Menelaus pressed, desperate. “How is it normal?! Am I going to bleed too?!”

Agamemnon opened his mouth, shut it again, then rubbed his face with both hands. Gods. It’s not going to get any better if he avoids talking about it. He glanced around the room - as if a nurse, maid or priestess might magically appear from the rafters to save him. Nothing. Just him, the children, and a silence swelling with panic.

And then it struck him.

The awful, inescapable truth.

His eyes widened in horror. There is no one else here.

Oh no!

No no no no no no no!!!

He was alone. Alone with this problem. Alone with two terrified children who needed comfort, and who would not rest until someone - him - explained.

The future king of Mycenae, the terror of enemies and councils alike, felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his temple.

Gods above. I’m going to have to explain a period.

He groaned before ordering kids to sit down. When they did so they still started at him with wide eyes that were clearly begging for someone to make them understand what was happening. 

Agamemnon felt the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. This was going to be the longest evening of his life.

And as he opened his mouth, and started sharing as much as he knew about the girl’s moon-blood, the sweet and innocent children became more and more mortified.

Nobody was having a good time that day. 

---

Throughout his life he had many moments like this one from the past. He was the only parental figure for his little brother and one of few adults that Odysseus would allow herself to fully trust. 

And so this feeling of being the only one adult in the room returned to him time and time again. 

Any time little Mene would ask him to kill the spider that was above his bed.

Any time Ody would need someone to help her braid her hair.  

Or any time those two would mess around and have to face the consequences. 

And now. After all this years he feels it again. 

The tent was thick with lamplight and tension.

Agamemnon stood over the table like a storm held barely in check, maps scattered beneath his fists. Menelaus and Odysseus sat opposite - Menelaus flushed with defiance, Odysseus maddeningly composed, as if this were a debate rather than a reckoning.

“You rode into Priam’s hall without my command,” Agamemnon snarled. “Do you know how that looked? Our army smiling at me as though I’d sent you myself? You undermined me before our allies, before my own subjects. Do you think that makes us stronger?”

Menelaus bristled. “We went to negotiate! If Helen could have been returned without bloodshed-”

“Without bloodshed?” Agamemnon barked a bitter laugh. “The blood was spilled the moment Troy spat on our envoys, the moment they chose insult over honor. The war began then, whether you like it or not. There was no peace left to salvage.”

Menelaus slammed his palm against the table. “We had to try!”

“You had to obey,” Agamemnon shot back, cloak flaring as he turned on them both. His glare fixed on Odysseus. “And you - you of all people should have known better than to encourage him. To walk into that den of liars and snakes-”

Odysseus lifted her chin, steady as stone. “We weren’t there for Priam.”

Agamemnon froze. “…What?”

Her voice dropped, quiet but unwavering. “We were told Hector would meet us. I thought - if anyone might still listen, it would be him.”

The name struck the air like an arrow. Agamemnon’s anger faltered. His breath caught, and for the first time since they’d entered, he truly looked at her. The young woman who sat before him was no reckless child chasing some fancy. He saw the grief beneath her calm, the unspoken wound.

Hector.

Of course she had gone. Of course she had hoped.

Agamemnon’s shoulders eased, though the weight in his voice remained. “And instead you found Priam.”

Odysseus’s hands tightened in her lap. “…Yes.”

For a long moment, the tent was silent but for the hiss of the oil lamps. Agamemnon’s expression softened, though it was not mercy - only a hard kind of understanding.

“I know what he meant to you,” he said at last. His voice was low, almost reluctant. “But the war is begun, Odysseus. Hector is no longer your betrothed - he is your enemy. You’ll have to live with that. And you’ll have to fight with that. Can you?”

Her eyes, dark and steady, met his without wavering. “I can.”

Agamemnon studied her a moment longer, then gave a sharp nod. “Good. Then let me ask you this—” His gaze narrowed. “Is there anything else I should know? Any other secrets, any other games you’ve been keeping in your clever little head?”

Odysseus shook her head. “No. You know everything now. I’ve no reason to hide anything else.”

Agamemnon’s eyes lingered on her, doubtful, before narrowing into a glare. “…The last time I trusted one of your half-truths, I ended up with a broken nose.”

Menelaus let out a bark of laughter he clearly hadn’t meant to, smothering it with his fist.

Odysseus’s lips twitched despite herself, but she held her silence.

Agamemnon pinched the bridge of his crooked nose and muttered, “Gods save me from this family.”

The oldest of the three rulers lingered at the edge of the table, glancing towards the short woman. “Very well,” he said at last, his tone edged with reluctant expectation. “You’ve caused me enough trouble tonight. Tell me, then - what would you suggest? I’d wager you already have an idea.”

Odysseus arched a brow, folding her arms. “You think I’ve sat here and planned how best to destroy the people I was meant to marry into? My would-be subjects?”

Her sarcasm was sharp enough to cut. Menelaus shifted uncomfortably, but Agamemnon’s mouth curved into a thin, wolfish smirk.

“I’d bet my crown, my throne or even a small city” he said, “that you’ve drawn up strategies against half the kings in this camp already - just in case. Don’t play coy with me, sister.”

For the first time that night, a flicker of amusement passed over her face. She leaned forward, tugged the heavy map toward her, and with a flick of her hand rolled it open across the table.

Her fingers traced the sweep of coastline, the jagged outline of Troy, the city crowned like a jewel in the center. “We might currently have an advantage in numbers, but it’s foolishness to throw ourselves against Troy’s walls,” she said. “They’re god-blessed, impervious. And the Trojans aren’t fools - they can wait behind them, supplied and sheltered, while we bleed ourselves dry at their gates. The more we strike, the stronger their resolve.”

She tapped the map sharply, tracing the rivers, the passes, the thin lines of roads leading to and from the plain. “But their strength lies in connection. Grain from the inland fields, timber from the forests, trade across the straits. Cut those arteries, strangle their lifelines - and they’ll find their walls less of a fortress, more of a prison.”

Menelaus leaned in, eyes narrowing as he followed her gestures. Agamemnon crossed his arms, gaze weighing every word.

“That kind of war will take time,” he said finally. “Time, and coin, and men we can’t afford to lose to hunger or desertion. We’ll bleed, too.”

Odysseus met his eyes steadily. “Yes. But fewer than if we dash ourselves against stone. This way, we starve their will before we starve our own. The men will grumble, but they’ll live. Better patience than a pyre.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thoughtful.

Agamemnon’s smirk returned, though this time it was thinner, more tired. “Hells. You’re dangerous.”

Odysseus’s lips curved, just a little. “I know.”

The lamplight still burned low when a shadow fell across the entrance of the tent. An Argive soldier stepped in, helm tucked beneath his arm. His eyes flickered between the three rulers before settling, respectfully, on Odysseus.

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly, “my king asks for your presence in his tent. He says the matter is… best discussed with you directly.”

Menelaus frowned, exchanging a glance with Agamemnon. Odysseus sat back in her chair, the faintest furrow between her brows. Before she could rise, Agamemnon lifted a hand.

“No,” he said firmly, already stepping away from the table. “I’ll go.”

Odysseus arched a brow. “And why is that?”

“Because,” Agamemnon replied, with a clipped but not unkind smile, “you’ll be needed here. Your plan isn’t just clever - it’s delicate. It needs detail, order, discipline. None of these kings are going to manage that without you breathing down their necks.”

He paused then, turning slightly toward her, lowering his voice so that only she and Menelaus could hear. “And also… because you should rest while you can.” His tone softened - not the bark of a commander, but the rough warmth of an elder brother who had seen war stretch far longer than anyone wanted. “The war will take everything from us soon enough. Save some strength for when it’s needed most.”

For once, Odysseus didn’t have a quip ready. She blinked, then gave a slow, wordless nod.

“I’ll come too,” Menelaus said, pushing back his chair. “If it is important, it concerns both of us.”

Agamemnon grunted but didn’t argue. Odysseus rose, offering them both a short bow of her head. “Very well. I’ll return to my camp, then. Don’t keep me guessing too long.”

With that, she slipped out into the dark, her shadow retreating toward the flicker of her Ithacan banners. Agamemnon and Menelaus walked together in the opposite direction, boots crunching softly over packed earth.

It was Menelaus who broke the silence first.
“Do you still think it was wise bringing her here? With the councils, the rivalries, all of it?”

Agamemnon’s jaw worked, but his voice was steady. “I think it’s better to have her here, protected by us, than on the other side of the walls. If she’d stayed in Troy, she’d be a weapon in Priam’s hands. This way…” His eyes darkened, calculating. “…this way, at least she fights with us, not against us.”

Menelaus’s mouth tugged into a half-smile. “And she’ll help keep the other kings in line. Gods know you and I can’t rein in every fool with a crown.”

Agamemnon groaned low in his chest. “Don’t remind me. I’m already weary thinking of the endless squabbles. Feuds over honor, who sits where, whose men eat more grain than they’re worth - by the gods, I’d rather fight ten Troys than endure one childish clash of egos.”

Menelaus chuckled. “Like you are any better. Not to mention you are worrying over nothing. I believe they’ll be professional enough. We are, after all, gathered for a common cause.”

“Professional,” Agamemnon muttered. “We’ll see.”

They reached Diomedes’ tent.

The flaps were drawn open, the glow of lanterns spilling out. Inside, a table was laid with care: two goblets already filled with wine, bread cut in neat slices, and fruit polished until it gleamed. A scattering of petals had been tossed across the table as though by accident - but not enough to disguise intent.

At the far side, Diomedes sat bare-chested, his sword across his lap. He drew the whetstone along the blade in slow, deliberate strokes, muscles tensing and releasing as if each movement were part of a calculated display. His posture was too staged, too perfectly angled toward the lantern-light to be mere sharpening.

Agamemnon and Menelaus froze in the entryway.

Without looking up, Diomedes spoke in a low, casual voice. “Ah… my queen. Forgive the state you find me in. I hadn’t expected you so soon, else I’d have-”

He turned, the beginnings of a roguish smile on his lips.

And then he saw them.

Agamemnon. Menelaus. Not Odysseus.

The smile collapsed, color flooding his face. The whetstone slipped in his grip, clattering against the blade with an ugly scrape. He sat rigid, eyes wide, caught somewhere between shame and horror.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Agamemnon’s expression was granite. “I don’t recommend,” he said flatly, “using an official summons for… this.” He gestured once - sharp, condemning - at the table, the petals, the wine.

Color rose up Diomedes’ neck. He opened his mouth - perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to die on the spot - but Agamemnon’s finger snapped up, silencing him instantly.

“No,” Agamemnon said. “Don’t speak. Don’t explain. None of us will speak of this again. We will walk away, and we will all forget it ever happened. Understood?”

The silence stretched, taut and humiliating.

“…Understood,” Diomedes muttered at last, looking at the floor not ebing able to maintain eye contact in such a situation.

Agamemnon turned sharply, his cloak snapping as he strode out. Menelaus followed, his shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.

Once they were out of earshot, Menelaus finally let out a stifled laugh. “Did you see the way he was holding that sword? Gods, he was posing like some statue in a temple courtyard.”

Agamemnon groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “This is exactly why I swore never to deal with boys barely out of their youth. They always think with the wrong heads.”

Menelaus chuckled. “Oh, that's a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Agamemnon shot him a glare. “Don’t act superior, brother. You were no better.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Menelaus said, smirking faintly.

“No. You were worse,” Agamemnon retorted, his tone flat as stone. “Shall I remind you how you behaved when we were fighting for Mycenae?”

Menelaus’ smirk faltered, his face flushing. He stumbled over his words. “Y-you promised never to bring that up again.”

Agamemnon’s mouth twitched into something halfway between a sneer and a smile. “And you, brother, are the reason I swore off tolerating the antics of youths entirely. You made me fear fatherhood more than any divine punishment.”

Menelaus groaned and shoved at his shoulder, muttering under his breath while Agamemnon walked on grimly, the image of Diomedes’ candlelit display haunting him like a curse.

---

(Few days earlier)

Hector woke to a pounding in his skull.

The chamber was dark but for the faint flicker of an oil lamp, shadows stretching long across the carved walls. His mouth was dry, bitter as ash, his stomach leaden. He sat up slowly, every movement dragging like stone, and pressed a hand to his temple.

The last thing he remembered - tea. His father’s voice, calm and weary, speaking of patience, of honor, of duty. He had risen to go, to fetch Helen, to bring her before Menelaus and Odysseus with his own hands - only for the world to lurch sideways, his body betraying him as his knees buckled and darkness swallowed everything.

Cold dread bled through him.

“No,” he whispered. His hand curled into the sheets. “No, Father…”

He stumbled to his feet, the room swaying. The door was only a few steps away, but when he grasped the bronze handle and pulled - it did not move. Locked.

The realization hit him like a spear. Priam. His own father had drugged him. Locked him away like a child.

A roar tore from his throat as he slammed his fists against the wood. “Open it! Open it!” His voice cracked with rage. “Do you hear me? You cannot keep me here! You cannot-”

Silence pressed in, suffocating. He leaned his forehead against the door, breath heaving, his fists trembling with fury. The walls might as well have been the god-blessed stones of Troy itself, keeping him prisoner in his own home.

Hours bled past. The lamplight guttered lower. His rage cooled into a sullen, throbbing ache that matched the pounding in his head.

The lock scraped. The door opened, spilling a thin wash of lamplight across the chamber. Cassandra slipped inside, cradling a small tray with a cup and a dish of herbs.

She paused when she saw him. Hector sat by the window, shoulders tense, staring out into the night as if the horizon itself had betrayed him.

“You’re… calm,” she said carefully.

Hector turned his head toward her, and the quiet in his voice was more terrible than shouting. “Calm?” His lips curled in a humorless smile. “What else would you have me be? By now, it’s been hours. Father is already gone - most likely speaking with Menelaus and Odysseus at this very moment. And I am locked here like a child who cannot be trusted to keep his own word.”

She set the tray down on a low table. “This will help with the headache.”

“And why should I trust you?” His reply was instant, sharp. His eyes narrowed. “You might as well try to drug me again.”

Her brow furrowed. “Hector…”

He rose, stepping toward her, his anger no longer buried. “I don’t know how you knew. I never told you outright, yet somehow you knew where I was going, what I meant to do. And you told him.” His voice broke with the word. “You told Father. That’s what makes my blood burn - not your cursed knowing, but your betrayal.”

Cassandra flinched, but her chin lifted. “I did it for your good.”

“For my good?” His voice thundered in the room. He took another step, fists clenched at his sides. “Tell me, sister - how is it good to chain me here while Father strides into the lions’ den in my place? How is it good to let peace slip through my hands when I had a chance to stop a war that will kill thousands of innocents?”

She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand-”

“Of course I don’t understand!” he roared. “Because you never tell me anything! You whisper riddles, you act as though you see truths no one else can, and you expect me to accept it like some wide-eyed fool! You don’t trust me enough to speak plainly, so you twist around me like a madwoman and call it love!”

His chest heaved, the silence after his words almost deafening. Cassandra stood frozen, pale in the lamplight, the tray between them untouched.

Cassandra’s face twisted, raw and trembling with fury. “You will never understand,” she spat. “How could you? Your life has always been simple.”

Hector blinked as though she had spoken madness. “Simple?”

“Yes!” Her voice was shrill, cutting through the stillness of the chamber. “You had your perfect fairytale romance. The noble prince and his clever bride-to-be. You spoke of the future with such certainty - of marriage, of children, of peace! You lived in a dream where every hardship turned to poetry. You wouldn’t know the first thing about struggle. You wouldn’t-”

“Do you truly believe that?” Hector cut her off, his voice quiet but burning.

Cassandra froze, startled at his tone.

He stepped toward her, each word deliberate. “That in all my years with Odysseus, we did not fight? That there were no nights filled with doubt, no mornings we feared the choices we made?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Hector’s eyes darkened, his voice tightening with the weight of memory. “Do you know how it felt hiding the happiest part of your life from people you love? How did it feel facing difficult sacrifices without anyone else to rely on? To deal with guilt and shame for things we had no control over?!”

A flash struck through his mind - Odysseus curled beneath the covers, shoulders shaking, whispering I’m sorry over and over until she was too tired to speak. He remembered pressing her hand against his chest, willing her to believe she was not alone, that he would not let her bear the burden by herself.

He inhaled sharply, tearing himself from the memory before it drowned him. His voice rose, raw with truth. “We were not happy because it was easy, Cassandra. We were happy because we chose to endure it together. We shared the weight. We trusted each other, even when it hurt.”

He leveled his gaze at her, and his voice cracked like a blade against stone. “And you - you make yourself suffer. You wrap yourself in your visions, in your secrets, in your loneliness, and then act wounded when no one understands. How can they, when you give them nothing? You speak in riddles, lock the door of your heart, and then blame the world for leaving you alone. That is not fate, sister. That is a prison you have built with your own hands.”

---

Two days later, the palace felt heavier than stone. Hector stormed into the high chamber where his father sat, freshly returned from his parley with the Greeks. The guards hesitated at the doorway, but one look at Hector’s face kept them silent.

“Father,” Hector spat, the word laced with fury. “What did you do?”

Priam turned slowly, regal in his composure. He wore the calm mask of a king, though his eyes flickered with the shadow of sleepless nights. “I did what I must,” he said evenly.

Hector’s fists curled at his sides. “You drugged me. You locked me away like a child while you walked into that meeting in my place.” His voice shook. “Why? Why would you strip me of my voice, my chance to stop this?”

Priam sighed, not weary - controlled. “Because you would have ruined everything.”

Hector’s eyes blazed. “Everything? Father, there was still a chance to end this without bloodshed. Menelaus - Odysseus - they came for words, not swords. And you silenced me, silenced Troy’s only hope for peace.”

Priam’s calm cracked. He slammed his hand on the table, sending tablets rattling. “I did it to protect this family!”

The words stung the air. Hector froze.

Priam’s voice rose, thunder in the vaulted chamber. “What do you think would happen, Hector, if Helen faced with her husband and struck with shame declared to the Greeks that she was dragged here, kidnapped, raped, forced into Paris’s bed? Do you think they would only come with ships and soldiers? No - Zeus himself would strike us down! He would lay waste to this city. Paris would burn. And the gods would see Troy punished for a crime beyond any mortal feud.”

He jabbed a finger into the air, eyes alight with furious conviction. “The only shield we have is ambiguity. That Helen came willingly. That she chose Paris. That she is a wife, not a prisoner. That veil is all that spares us divine punishment. And I will not see it torn away because you were blinded by ideals.”

Hector’s mouth opened, but no words came. His heart beat hard against his ribs, anger twisting into something colder.

“Then why not tell me?” Hector demanded, his voice trembling between rage and disbelief. “Why poison me in secret? Why did you let this war happen instead of finding another way?”

Priam’s eyes hardened. His tone, though quieter, struck with more weight than a shout.
“Because I did it to keep this family together.”

Hector blinked, thrown by the words. “What?”

Priam stepped closer, his presence heavy, implacable. “You still don’t understand. Agamemnon wanted this war long before a single Greek ship touched our shores. He was always going to march. Always. This… embassy, this talk of peace - it was nothing but theater. A pathetic mockery wearing a mask of diplomacy”

Hector shook his head, anger flashing again. “No. I saw - Odysseus and I would-”

“You are blinded!” Priam thundered, his voice booming off the marble walls. “Blinded by your longing for the best outcome, as if the gods ever allowed mortals such gifts! You see the world as it should be, not as it is. And that makes you dangerous.”

Hector’s breath caught, fury and confusion tangling. “What are you saying?”

Priam’s gaze bored into him, sharp as a spear thrust. “Do you even know, boy, what I did for you? I asked her. I asked Odysseus to come with me. To wed you, to stay, to be spared from fighting against us.”

The words landed like blows. Hector staggered a step back, his chest tightening. “You… you asked her-”

“She refused,” Priam cut in, his voice like iron. “Refused, because she would not betray her people. Her allies. Menelaus. Even Agamemnon. She chose them, Hector. She chose Greece.”

Silence choked the chamber. Hector’s throat worked soundlessly. He could picture her - Odysseus - standing before his father, clever eyes burning, voice steady even as it broke her heart. Loyalty over love. Duty over happiness. He understood. He hated it. But he understood.

His silence was answer enough.

And then Priam roared, a sound like a storm tearing through the room. “Tell me, Hector! Tell me that if she herself had stood before you, said those words, that you would not have gone with her! That you would not have left Troy, abandoned your brothers, to fight at her side!”

Hector’s breath hitched. His lips parted, but no words came.

Priam slammed his hand to his chest, voice breaking into desperation and command all at once. “I can bear war. I can bear the loss of people, of cities, even of Troy itself if the gods demand it - but I will not bear my children killing one another! I will not see this family torn apart from within! I love you all too much to let that happen, do you hear me?”

Hector’s voice broke out, raw but steady. “I would never do such a thing. Never. I love my people. I love my family. Do you truly think I would raise a sword against them?”

Priam’s expression softened for only a heartbeat, but then hardened again, lips pressed into a thin line. “You love them, yes. But love alone is not enough. You do not yet understand what it means to rule . I cannot just hope that you, when faced with the decision, would choose your kingdom over your beloved.”

Hector’s fists clenched at his sides. “Are you saying that you believe I would abandon Troy for her?”

“I am saying,” Priam answered coldly, “that you do not know the weight you speak of. You dream of peace and fairness as though they were real choices. But the truth is this: once you become ruler, a blade is placed above your head. A long, sharp blade, hung by a single thread. It is always there - always trembling with every choice you make. That is what it means to rule.”

Hector frowned, chest tight, but Priam pressed on, his voice almost distant, as if speaking both to his son and to ghosts long past.

“With every decree, with every judgment, you feel the thread quiver. Many kings of weaker minds try to forget it - bury themselves in drink, or women, or even in cruelty - anything to pretend the shadow with sharp edges is not there. But it never leaves. And with time, you realize the blade is not only above you. It hangs over every man, woman, and child in the kingdom. Yet it is only your hand, your decisions, that can shake the thread, can bring it closer to snapping. That is the curse of the crown. The curse that teaches you true dedication to your people and your kingdom and a curse that you are yet unable to comprehend.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.

Hector stared at his father, jaw tight, the muscles in his face working. At last, his voice came, low and cold:

“Father… I can respect you for many of your achievements. For building Troy’s strength, for guiding us through storms past. But I will never respect - nor excuse - the hypocrisy that drips from your words. You speak of the weight of the crown, of the blade’s shadow… yet you would poison your own son, lie to your people, and call it protection. That is not the wisdom of a ruler. That is fear and desperation.”

Priam’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table.

Hector stood tall, shoulders square, his gaze unwavering. “You ask me to understand the shadow above a king’s head. But it seems to me, Father, that it is your fear of that shadow that rules Troy, not you.”

Prince’s voice grew sharper, his anger losing its restraint. “And when I think of it further, it is not only fear that rules you, Father. It is your pride. Your grudges. You cling to them like armor while they poison everything around you. You speak of protecting Troy, but you let your own bitterness blind you to what could be solved without blood.”

Priam’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Hector pressed on, his tone edging into mockery. “Tell me - does your pride soothe you when you think of Aunt Hesione? She is still alive. Still well. Still smiling. I saw her with my own eyes.”

Priam’s jaw tightened, venom seeping into his voice. “Do not dare speak lightly of her. My sister was torn from this city against her will. Taken like plunder, sold as a bride-prize to another man’s hearth. That wound will never heal.”

Hector almost laughed, though the sound was bitter. “A wound? Father, she was no slave. At Ajax’s wedding I saw her myself - radiant, happy. She is close to Telamon’s wife, treated as kin, as a lady of standing. She has a home, respect, and a well loved child. She is not suffering, not rotting in some dungeon. She has fared better than you will admit. And you could have seen it too - if you had gone when Telamon invited you. But no. You ignored it, you scorned it, because you would not let go of your hatred for the Argonauts. For Telamon. For anyone who ever bruised your pride.”

Hector leaned forward, his words cutting sharper now, almost taunting. “Tell me, Father - was that the reason? Did you not go to the wedding because you feared that seeing her content, seeing her honored, would force you to admit that a woman taken as a prize was treated ten times better than the way you treat your concubines?”

Priam’s nostrils flared, his knuckles cracking against the table.

Hector’s tone dropped, bitter irony in every word. “Consider this, then: Telamon proudly claims Hesione’s son as his heir, raised with dignity as a prince. Meanwhile you, with all your boasts of honor and wisdom, would never grant such legitimacy to any of your bastards. You who speak of love for family.”

“Watch your mouth, boy!” Priam roared, the chamber shaking with his voice. His hand slammed down hard enough to scatter tablets and cups across the floor. His face was a mask of fury, his control torn away in a single instant.

But Hector did not flinch. His eyes locked onto his father’s with grim steadiness.

Priam’s fury narrowed into something sharper, colder. His voice was a blade now, not thunder.

“It is easy,” he said, each word deliberate, “to parade the best image of yourself for a single night. To smile at a wedding feast, to speak kindly to guests. It is easy to proclaim a bastard as ‘heir’ when the true, legitimate son already holds the crown and there is no risk of challenge. But when the feasting ends, when the wine runs dry, and the heir is gone? Tell me, Hector - what then? You think Telamon’s generosity would endure?”

Hector clenched his fists but said nothing.

Priam leaned forward, his eyes boring into him. “And if Telamon was the saint you paint him to be, then why did he not return Hesione when I - yes, I , the King of Troy - went before him and begged on my knees for her freedom? Why? Because even kindness bends before power. Even mercy is weighed against pride. Remember that before you praise another man’s supposed virtue.”

Hector’s breath caught, but his father did not stop.

“Odysseus,” Priam said more evenly now, almost with respect, “for all her insolence, for all her clever defiance—she always saw the bigger picture. That is why I cannot blame her for choosing loyalty to her people over love. Her choices were deliberate. Measured. She knows what the world is.”

His eyes hardened again, fixing on Hector. “But you? My son, you are still naïve. Despite your years, despite your battles. You have not learned how vast the world truly is, nor how cruel. And no one - no one - will wait for you to catch up.”

Hector’s jaw trembled, but Priam pressed, relentless.

“You think this war would vanish after a few words, that you could stand before Agamemnon and Menelaus and Odysseus and unravel a storm that has already drawn thousands of soldiers across the sea? You fool yourself. Even if Helen herself was offered on a silver platter, do you think they would sheathe their swords? No. They would claim this war is punishment earned - by Paris, by Troy, by all of us. And if their thirst for vengeance was not sated, they would come for more. For us. For your wife. For your son.”

His voice lowered, bitter with conviction. “And you would have led them straight through our gates with your ‘hope for peace.’”

---

Odysseus sat cross-legged on the floor of her tent, maps and scrolls spread around her like a miniature battlefield. Her quill hovered over the parchment, sketching troop movements, supply routes, contingencies for retreat - anything that might keep bloodshed to a minimum.

A soft knock at the tent flap made her glance up. Polites, her friend and trusted physician, stepped inside, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What is that cunning mind of yours scheming now?” he teased, leaning casually against a support pole.

Odysseus rubbed her eyes wearily, letting out a small sigh. “A plan that will keep the least blood spilled… without me looking like a traitor,” she admitted, her voice tired but determined.

Polites’s smile widened. “Ah, but you know they’ll trust you no matter what - Menelaus and Agamemnon included. They’ve always seen your wisdom.”

Odysseus allowed herself a short, hopeful smile. “I hope so.”

Polites chuckled softly. “And at least all the Chapellonians are fiercely loyal to you. They wouldn’t hesitate to face the rest of the Greeks if it meant protecting their queen.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “My soldiers older than me probably see me as a daughter, and the younger ones as their mother…”

“Ah,” Polites interjected, “but you forget. They see you as their queen. Always have. Always generous, always fair. And now they repay that with unwavering loyalty.” He paused, chuckling again. “Though I admit… some of them are extremely protective.”

Both of them laughed, teasing and remembering past moments. “Especially Eurylochus,” Odysseus said with a grin, “no matter how small he was he was convinced Hector was up to something every time he sneaked near my quarters.”

Polites laughed out loud. “Remember Corinth? The look on his face when Eury and a few of your soldiers chased him off your window?”

Odysseus threw her head back in laughter, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “It seems so silly now - but even then, I couldn’t help feeling… safe. Protected. As if my people’s loyalty were a shield around me.”

She grew quieter, the warmth of that memory mixing with resolve. “That’s why I want to ensure they won’t die in this war. Because they’ve always kept me safe, even when I was far from home.”

Polites moved closer, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. “And if anyone can make that happen, it’s you. Your people are lucky to have a queen who values them as much as you do.”

Odysseus smiled softly, looking back at her maps and scrolls, the weight of responsibility heavy but steadied by the trust and loyalty she had earned.

Soon after that Polites had gone, leaving the tent quieter than it had been for hours. Odysseus straightened the scattered maps and scrolls, rolling each one carefully before tying them with thin leather straps. The rustle of parchment and the faint creak of the tent poles were comforting, almost meditative, as she reflected on their conversation. Polites had reminded her of what she already knew - her people’s loyalty was extraordinary, something rare and precious. But thinking back to the events of a few days ago, the memory weighed heavier now.

She could still see Priam’s furrowed brow as they entered, the tension thick in the small room. She had stayed calm, speaking carefully, offering reassurances where needed, but what was important was the presence of her soldiers standing nearby. Their stillness, their unwavering attention, their subtle gestures of support - they had been her shield in that room, unspoken and steadfast. Not a single one faltered. That quiet loyalty had been more powerful than any sword.

A small smile touched her lips as the memory shifted. During that delicate moment, she had acted on another impulse, one only she could justify. A folded note had been slipped into the hand of an Ithacan soldier - someone she trusted absolutely. He had left the room unaware of the importance of the message, merely carrying it as duty required. The note was for someone special, someone whose understanding of her surpassed all others. Hector.

Rolling the last scroll neatly, she looked out of the tent flap at the dimming horizon. The sun was low, casting golden light across the camp. For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine the future - one where the war might end, where her people might be safe, and where messages could be exchanged freely without secrets, without cunning, without necessity. Then she shook her head softly, returning to the present. Duty waited. Plans needed tending. Lives depended on her.

Maybe one day Agamemnon will forgive me for being such a selfish liar.

---

Hector finally let himself collapse onto the bed, the confrontation with his father still echoing in his chest. His limbs felt leaden, his mind spinning with anger, confusion, and exhaustion. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to stop, to breathe, to exist for a moment outside the duties of a prince, a general, a soldier.

Barely had his head touched the pillow when movement at the window caught his eye. A small shape flickered in the fading light, delicate yet purposeful.

A bird.

Not just any bird. His heart leapt - its markings, its direct flight - they were unmistakable. One of Troy’s messenger birds.

Hector’s hands shook slightly as he reached for the letter it carried, freeing the bird with a quiet, almost reverent gesture. It shot into the sky like a shadowed arrow, leaving him alone in the dimming room.

The letter itself was strange. He unrolled it slowly, expecting words, commands, explanations. Instead, crude drawings stared back at him: a pear. A half-colored circle. They seemed almost meaningless.

And yet the ribbon… black wool, tied carefully around the parchment, instead of a formal seal, made his pulse quicken. 

Odysseus. 

His heart thumped hard.

He studied the drawings again, this time allowing his mind to drift, tracing memories. The pear tree - the secret place far from the city, where the world shrank to just the two of them. The warm sun on their faces. The soft rush of the river. The old tree’s shade, under which they had laughed, whispered, dreamed.

Hector’s breath caught, and a quiet laugh escaped him, soft and raw. The half-colored circle - he saw it now for what it was. A moon, with it’s stage marking the day. He now knew the time where they could reunite. She had given him a map in symbols only he could understand, a message that was entirely hers, entirely for him.

His fingers lingered on the ribbon, pressing it to his lips. The texture was familiar, intimate. He imagined her hands tying it with care, a small act of cunning and tenderness all at once. “You brilliant, impossible woman,” he murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the exhaustion. “Always a few steps ahead of everyone… even me.”

For a long moment, he allowed himself to linger in that thought. The world, the war, the anger at his father - they receded. There was only her, clever and loyal, thinking of him even in the midst of chaos. The heat of gratitude and love coiled in his chest, pulling at him, grounding him.

And yet, beneath it all, came a whisper of self-reproach. Quiet, unavoidable. Perhaps… perhaps his father had been right in some things. Perhaps he was selfish. But if kings excuse their faults and pleasures with their hearts why shouldn’t he do the same?

He rolled the letter with care, pressing it to his chest for a heartbeat longer before letting it rest beside him. The night stretched quiet and infinite outside his window. He closed his eyes, letting himself linger in the warmth of hope, love, and trust -knowing that soon, the weight of the world, the city, and the war would return. But for this moment, the heaviness was lifted, and he allowed himself to simply be - loved, remembered, and alive.

 

---

 

Bonus

Story of Agamemnon’s broken nose

 

The market rippled with heat and noise - voices bartering, gulls shrieking, carts creaking over stone.

Agamemnon moved through it like a man prepared to start a war over spilled figs. His brow furrowed deeper every time someone so much as looked at Menelaus or Odysseus.

“Remember the rules,” he ordered. “No talking to strangers, no wandering from my sight, and no accepting gifts - especially food. You won’t believe how easy it is to poison anything.”

Menelaus groaned. “You’ve said this seven times since we left the palace.”

“And you’ll hear it seven more,” Agamemnon replied darkly.

Odysseus didn’t hear either of them. Her head had already turned toward a stall where rows of jars caught the sunlight. “Honey!” she whispered, tugging Menelaus by the arm. “Look - they’ve got lavender and plum and chestnut-”

Menelaus leaned closer, grinning despite himself. “We could buy one? Just a little jar?”

“No,” Agamemnon barked, appearing behind them like a vengeful spirit. “Youi two already ate enough sweets today.”

“But we could eat it the other day,” Odysseus argued.

“Then we will buy it the other day,” Agamemnon snapped.

Menelaus folded his arms and pouted. “Why can we never get something for ourselves?”

“Maybe once you have your finances we will go back to the topic.” Agamemnon shot back.

Menelaus scowled. “But you sometimes allow Ody to do the shopping.”

“That’s because-” Agamemnon turned to gesture at her, only to find empty air. He blinked. Froze.

Menelaus followed his gaze. “…Oh.”

A terrible silence stretched.

Agamemnon’s voice dropped into a hiss of pure horror. “Where. Is. She.”

A few paces behind, Odysseus looked excitedly at the toy ship models and at the stalls filled with freshly baked pastries. The smell of warm bread and cinnamon blended nicely with the freeing breeze of the sea. She slowed near a stand selling shells, then turned and drifted toward the masts beyond the edge of the stalls. She loved to watch all the ships from different lands dock in one place. The colorful sails with detailed emblems, all the unusual smells coming from the unloaded barrels and chests, how people wearing interesting clothes and jewelry would show off weird weapons while speaking in funny ways. 

As if she was enchanted she moved closer to the harbor hoping to sneak a few more glances at the Egyptian ship filled with flowers and dried herbs.

And then-

Whump.

She bumped hard into someone rounding the corner.

“Sorry-!” she began, stepping back - until she saw his face.

He was taller than she remembered. His hair was longer and his clothes worn thin from long travels. But the moment their eyes met, everything froze.

“…Odysseus?”

She blinked. “Philoctetes?”

A beat.

Then he dropped his pack and pulled her into a hug so tight she squeaked. He wrapped both arms around her, crushing her to his chest, and breathed in like he didn’t believe she was real.

“You’re alive, ” he whispered, voice cracking. “Gods. You’re alive!”

The very moment the confusion left her body - she returned the hug with all the force of seven months of pretending not to miss anyone.

He kissed the top of her head like a father would, his rough hand cupping the back of her skull. “Ody,” he murmured. “You chaotic little lamb.”

She could feel his chest shaking against her cheek. “I-I thought - We thought - Your mother was worried sick! I thought you were dead!”

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “I’m okay.”

Philoctetes stepped back, eyes wide and glassy. “Let me look at you. Are you hurt?! Eating? Have they touched you - did anyone lay a hand-?”

The man was moving her around like she was a ragdoll while looking for any bruise or injury.

“No!” she laughed, overwhelmed. “I’m alright, really - what are you even doing here?”

He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been everywhere. Elis. Pylos. Argos. Athens - which I hate, by the way. Got chased out of Mycenae for asking too many questions. Do you know how many docks I visited? How many captains and slave traders I’ve had to bribe? I’ve looked through seven cities in less than three months.”

“You looked everywhere ?”

“I would’ve searched the Underworld if I had to!”

He grabbed her face in both hands, eyes wide, thumbs wiping beneath her eyes just in case. “You’re real. You’re safe. By all the gods, your mother’s going to cry so hard she’ll flood Ithaca.”

Then - footsteps.

Agamemnon rounded the corner at the sound of the noise, scowling like a thundercloud. His eyes locked onto the man grabbing Odysseus, and he moved before thinking.

He pulled her behind him in one swift movement and stepped between them, raising a hand.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said coldly, “but if you think you can lay a hand on my-”

Crack.

Philoctetes’s fist hit him dead in the face with a sickening snap.

Agamemnon hit the ground hard, blood streaming from his nose.

Agamemnon staggered, blood spraying from his nose. “-SSSNNGH - GODS! WHAT WAS THAT FOR!?”

“You thick-skulled bastard! ” Philoctetes roared, shaking out his hand in pain. His knuckles bleeding almost as much as Agamemnon’s face. “What is your empty head made of, bricks ?!”

“YOU BROKE MY NOSE!” The older of exiled princes tried to take Odysseus away from the dangerous man only to be hit again this time his legs felt too wobbly to get up. 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” Philoctetes roared, voice thick with fury as held Odysseus, lifting her up with one arm while the other was moving towards the hidden knife. “You greedy , crusted pervert! You claim her like a piece of market meat and think I won’t smash your teeth in?!”

Agamemnon reeled, clutching his face. “You punched me! AGAIN!!!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you with a poisoned knife, you two-legged rat! What are you, some lonely scum skulking after children?! Is this how you get your company now? By snatching little girls?!”

Agamemnon had blood all over his face, Philoctetes looked like he wasn’t willing to stop on just punching and Odysseus was too overwhelmed to speak, just clutching to argonaut’s tunic for dear life.

“You better let her go, you sick bastard!” Agamemnon barked, forcing himself forward “She’s under my care-”

“Your care?” Philoctetes’ laugh was sharp as broken glass. He shifted Odysseus higher against his side with one arm, holding her like a treasure he would not yield, while his other hand hovered close to the knife at his belt. “Gods above, you puffed-up lout - do you think I don’t see what you’re doing? You drag a defenseless girl into the back alleys, dress her like a boy, and then claim you’re protecting her?!”

Agamemnon snarled, voice rough with pain and fury. “And who are you to accuse me, you mad vagrant? You come swinging fists like some tavern brute - what do you want from her?!”

Philoctetes’ eyes went wide, his jaw dropping as if Agamemnon had just spat on a shrine. He hugged Odysseus tighter to his chest. “What do I want from her? By all the gods - I swore to keep her safe! I’ve scoured half the Aegean looking for her! I was asked by her mother! Do you hear me, you dog? I’m here to take her back to her family!”

Menelaus, leaned closer to his brother’s side, whispered urgently: “Aga… maybe don’t insult the man who just broke your nose-”

“Silence!” Agamemnon snapped, though his voice cracked. He jabbed a trembling finger at Philoctetes. “I don’t know what sort of liar you are, but she is my sister, and I will not have some wandering madman-”

Philoctetes surged forward, rage boiling over. His knife-hand twitched, and Odysseus felt his chest rumble beneath her cheek as he roared: “ SISTER?! You thick-skulled jackass! She is no kin of yours! She is Odysseus of Ithaca - the princess of Ithaca! And if you endanger her one moment longer, I’ll carve you up and feed you to the dogs!”

The square fell dead silent.

Agamemnon blinked. Menelaus blinked. Both turned, very slowly, toward Odysseus, who was pressed against Philoctetes’ side, staring hard at the cobblestones as if praying they would swallow her whole.

Agamemnon’s voice was strangled when it came out: “…You’re a what ?”

“I… may not have told you… everything ,” Odysseus mumbled, cheeks burning.

Notes:

I was writing it in the middle of the night until I was blinded by the rising sun so I'm sorry for potential errors.

I'm back from vacasions so I will be posting more often but I can't promise how consistent it will be.

Chapter 16

Summary:

Soldiers faced with weight of life.

Notes:

Hi. I'm sorry for the chapter taking long time to finish but I kept rewriting many scenes.
The battles are approaching and I have to warn you that I'm not experienced with writing them so sorry if they feel too rushed or too short.

And a small annoncement.
I'll be taking commisions. I offer to write a oneshot fic or to draw.
You can check it if you want.
https://ko-fi.com/dolihannah

Teucer drew in a long, steady breath, the bowstring creaking as he pulled it back to his cheek. For a heartbeat, the forest seemed to hold still with him - the cicadas pausing in their endless drone, the leaves hanging silent in the late afternoon air. Then he loosed.

The arrow hissed forward and buried itself dead-center into the painted circle he’d marked on a tree trunk days ago.

A small, satisfied exhale escaped him. He reached back, not hurried, drew again, and sent another shaft to join the first. A rhythm began to form - draw, release, thud . Draw, release, thud. Each strike in the heart of the target felt like a weight off his chest.

He had made this little grove his refuge: rough-cut targets against trees and fallen logs, places where his mind could quiet itself into the simple line of a shot. Out here, there was no shouting of commanders, no restless energy of the camp. Just him, the bow, and the stillness of the forest.

Until footsteps broke it.

He pivoted sharply, bow half-raised, but the tension drained from his shoulders at once. Odysseus stepped into view, moving at her own unhurried pace, a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver knocking gently against her hip.

“Odysseus? What are you doing here?” he asked, lowering his weapon but still watching her with faint surprise.

“Practicing,” she said simply, with the faintest of smiles. She tapped her bow as if to prove it. “Agamemnon and Menelaus forced me to rest before the siege.”

“And so you go training instead.” The man raised a brow with slight amusement.

“Let’s call it ‘ active recreation ’.”

Teucer smiled wider and gave a short nod. “Fair enough. Targets are yours, too, then.”

Without another word, she joined him at his side. They stood apart but aligned, and the clearing filled once again with the soft rhythm of arrows finding wood. Odysseus’s shots struck true, clean and deliberate, while Teucer’s clustered tightly at the center of his painted rings.

For a while, they said nothing, only traded arrows with quiet discipline. The sound of bowstrings twanging, the sharp thud of impact, and the rustle of branches above made up their entire conversation.

When Teucer finally broke the silence, his voice carried an almost reluctant amusement. “This is too easy. We could do this blindfolded.”

Odysseus glanced at him sidelong, one corner of her mouth curving. “You suggesting we make it harder?”

He gestured toward the peach tree standing at the edge of the clearing, its branches heavy with fruit that glowed golden in the light. “First to knock down the most wins.”

Her grin was quick, sharp. “And what are the stakes?”

“Bragging rights.”

“Deal.”

They began firing, fruit thumping to the grass below with each well-placed arrow. The soft thud of impact and the occasional rustle of leaves filled the clearing, their own breathing blending with the sound of bowstrings singing in steady cadence. It was almost companionable, the silence broken only by the sound of peaches giving way and dropping into the grass.

Between shots, conversation threaded its way into the rhythm.

Teucer drew, loosed, and clipped a peach neatly from its stem. He allowed himself a small smile before speaking. “Agamemnon shared your plans at the last assembly - the trade routes, the farms. You’ll starve Troy out without burning half of it.”

Odysseus answered with action first. Her arrow hissed through the warm air and struck home, sending a peach tumbling. Only then did she speak, her voice even, measured. “That’s the idea. Soldiers need bread as much as swords. Even kings. No walls would save the city from hunger.”

Teucer frowned faintly, lowering his bow for a moment as he considered her words. His tone was thoughtful rather than challenging. “What surprises me more is that the others agreed. Half of the leaders here are already acting like war-crazed hounds. I didn’t expect them to respect such a slow strategy, or how it lets us offer mercy.”

Odysseus smirked faintly, already nocking her next arrow. “I didn’t sell it as mercy. I reminded them that our own garner won’t last forever. Seizing farms and having them produce food for us is smarter than wasting men on walls or burning fields. And they listened, because hunger frightens them more than blade ever could.”

Her shot flew. Another peach fell.

The conversation lapsed into quiet again, both of them resuming the rhythm of their challenge. The fire-orange glow of the sinking sun filtered through the leaves, painting the grass golden where the fallen fruit piled. Every so often, their eyes flicked to the growing heap, unspoken tallying hanging in the air.

Teucer finally broke the silence, his voice quieter this time, the words slower as though reluctant to interrupt the stillness. “The way you mapped it all out - the routes, the storehouses, the choke points.” He loosed his arrow, and the fruit toppled with a dull thud. “It’s too detailed to be guesswork. Or for someone who only reads maps.”

Odysseus drew, but her fingers lingered on the string, the bow half-bent.

Teucer’s gaze was steady, though not accusing. “Makes me think you’ve been to Troy before.”

“I used to trade with them. Many of us did before this war split us.”

“True. But most would not travel outside of the main city.”

The bowstring hummed as she let it slacken without firing. For a heartbeat, the air between them changed - less casual, heavier, as though the trees themselves had gone still to listen. Odysseus lowered her weapon, her expression unreadable.

She said nothing.

Teucer raised his hand, palm outward, in a quiet gesture of reassurance. “Don’t worry. It’s just an observation. I won’t tell anyone. And I don’t think anyone else might notice.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing the truth in his tone. “And how did you come to such an observation, hm?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, he loosed another arrow, the sharp crack of the stem breaking filling the pause. He watched the peach tumble before he finally spoke, his voice quieter now, almost reflective.

“My mother used to show me maps of Troy. Not just the walls and the gates - the streets, the temples, the wells. Told me about the people who lived there. Shared stories from her childhood.” His jaw shifted as though testing whether to go further. “She made sure I knew the place, even if I’d never walked it myself. But it was enough for me to notice when someone else speaks like they’ve walked those roads.”

Odysseus studied him for a long moment, her face in shadow where the leaves shifted the light. At last, she turned back to the peach tree and nocked another arrow, her voice soft but edged with wry amusement. “You’re sharper than you let on, Teucer.”

He gave a faint smile followed by a shrug, firing again, the peach dropping with a muffled thump into the grass. “Sometimes it’s better not to let people know what you see.”

Odysseus allowed herself a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing. “Oh, on that one, we can agree.”

Odysseus loosed another arrow, the peach tumbling into the grass with a dull thump. She lowered her bow slightly, glancing sidelong at Teucer.

“How many people actually know?”

Teucer blinked, caught off guard. “Know what?”

“That you’ve got Trojan blood,” she said evenly, eyes flicking back to the tree. “That you’re tied to their royal line.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, drawing back his bowstring. The arrow hissed forward, clipping a peach clean from its branch. Only then did he answer.

“Not many. A handful at most know my mother was a Trojan. Even fewer know she’s Priam’s sister. Since most of them are Argonauts, they won’t say anything since they respect my father too much.” His lips twisted into a wry half-smile. “If not for the fact that Ajax and I barely resemble each other, most would probably think we’re full brothers instead of just half.”

Odysseus’s laugh came low and amused. “Funny. People used to say the same about me and my sister, Ctimene. But in my case, we had the same parents, same roof, yet somehow half the archipelago thought we couldn’t possibly be related.”

Teucer grunted softly in agreement, not looking away from his target as he notched another arrow. “Families are strange like that.”

The peaches fell steadily into the grass, piling up like little suns scattered beneath the branches.

Then Odysseus asked, her tone lighter than the weight of the question: “And how do you feel about it? Fighting against people who - on paper - are yours?”

Teucer shrugged, rolling his shoulders as he drew back his bowstring. “I’ve never set foot in Troy. Never spoken to anyone from there except my mother. To me, they’re strangers. Names on the other side of the field.” He loosed his arrow, watched the fruit tumble down. “I feel no bond between me and them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice stayed calm. “My brother worried about that, though. He didn’t want me to go through something that would scar me. But there’s nothing in me that belongs to this land.”

He glanced sideways at her then, his own question offered back. “And you? How do you feel about it - killing Trojans?”

Odysseus hesitated, her arrow already drawn, the string tight, and her fingers shaking from the tension of holding the arrow. For a long moment, she said nothing, only staring down the peach she had sighted. Then she loosed it, the arrow splitting stem from branch with a sharp crack. She lowered the bow slowly.

“I don’t like it,” she said at last, quiet but firm. “Not the thought of it. Not the doing of it.”

Teucer tilted his head, curious. “Because they’re enemies? Or because they’re innocents?”

Odysseus’s mouth pressed into a thin line, her gaze fixed on the tree as if it were easier than looking at him. “Because innocents always bleed first. Farmers whose fields we take. Children whose fathers never come back from the gates. Women dragged into a war they never asked for.” Her grip tightened on the wood of her bow. “I don’t stomach the thought of them suffering for kings’ pride and ambitions.”

Teucer gave a short, skeptical snort, though there was no absolute mockery in it. “Starving an entire enemy army sounds far more sadistic than killing them outright.”

Odysseus’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed serious. “They’ll starve only if they refuse to surrender. That’s their choice. It’s bloodless until they make it bloody.” She nocked another arrow, her voice steady now. “History will call it cruelty, or cunning, or cowardice. Let them. At least fewer graves will be dug once the dust settles.”

Another peach dropped into the grass with a soft thump.

The two of them stood there for a moment, bows slack at their sides, fruit scattered beneath the tree like offerings no one had asked for. The air felt heavier than before - weighted with what they hadn’t said - but also steadier, threaded with a quiet understanding neither cared to name.

Teucer adjusted his stance, lining up another shot, though his words were sharper than his aim.

“One thing I still don’t understand,” he said, loosing his arrow and sending a peach tumbling into the grass. “Why split the army? With the numbers we have, I’d have thought you’d crush Troy outright.”

Odysseus smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed on her mark. “Numbers are impressive until they’re unwieldy. They have the advantage of every soldier knowing the land and cities, sturdier than Talos himself. Smaller troops move quietly, hide better, and strike before anyone knows they’re there. and it’s easier to take control of many farmlands at once when few armies move at the same time.” She released her arrow - another fruit dropped neatly from its stem. “And besides, someone has to guard the ships. It would be foolish to leave them bare.”

Teucer huffed a laugh, lowering his bow. “You’ve thought of everything.”

Her smirk turned sly. “You know how it is. When you’re smaller and weaker than most, you learn to win with different weapons.”

He groaned theatrically, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me. I wouldn’t have minded inheriting even half my father’s height. Instead, I get to look like a child whenever I stand next to him or my brother.”

Odysseus barked a laugh, lowering her bow to her side. “And what can I say about that!?” She gestured at her own short frame in mock despair. “Before the last meeting with the kings, Menelaus asked if I’d need a stool to make sure I’ll be seen by everyone.”

Teucer doubled over, laughter breaking out of him unrestrained. He braced a hand on his knee, wheezing. “Gods, you’re serious? A stool?”

“I should’ve told him I’d just climb on his shoulders,” Odysseus muttered, though the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement.

Wiping his eyes, Teucer managed between chuckles, “If you’re lucky, maybe my brother would offer you… uppies.”

Odysseus snorted, choking on her own laughter. “Would he, now?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Teucer said with mock solemnity. “But only after me. If Ajax is handing out uppies, I’m first in line.”

That set them both off again, their laughter ringing through the clearing louder than the thrum of bowstrings. It took them a long moment to calm, shoulders still shaking, grins plastered across their faces.

When Odysseus finally glanced back at the peach tree, her grin softened into bemusement. “You realize we stopped counting halfway through.”

Teucer followed her gaze. The ground was littered with fruit, a small harvest scattered beneath the branches.

“Well,” he said, tucking his bow under his arm. “I suppose the only fair end to our wager is to pick them all up. It would be a shame to waste so much food.”

Odysseus smirked, and then she batted her eyelashes when speaking sweetly. “I will gather the arrows. You, on the other hand, are a strong man who can take the crate of fruits to the camp, right?”

“You are evil, woman.” Teucer groaned, though the smile lingering on his lips betrayed him.

---

The clang of bronze on bronze rang out across the practice field, steady as Diomedes and Ajax circled, shields crashing with each blow. Sweat streaked their faces, dust rising at their heels. There was a conversation between the dueling men, but the clash of metal was louder…well, until now that is.

Ajax broke into booming laughter mid-swing, nearly dropping his guard. “By the gods, Diomedes, I can’t - ” He had to suck in air between guffaws. “I can’t stop picturing Agamemnon’s face when he walked in! Him and Menelaus staring at you sitting there shirtless, wine poured, and absolutely no shame.”

Diomedes groaned, teeth clenched as he shoved Ajax back with his shield. “You think this is funny?”

Ajax laughed harder, nearly doubling over as he parried the blow.“ Hilarious! The High King himself, catching you in your… what was it? A romantic trap?” He wheezed. “Menelaus must’ve thought you’d lost your mind. I bet he was laughing behind that mask of his.”

Diomedes’s ears burned crimson. “This is your fault!”

Ajax grinned through his laughter, battering him with a heavy swing. “My fault? You asked what women like, and I told you the same thing my wife Tecmessa said! ‘Women like strong men.’ I never told you to invite the entire council by mistake or to decorate a tent as if you were planning an orgy!”

“You could’ve warned me that Odysseus was at the meeting with the High King!” Diomedes barked, forcing him back with a quick strike. “Do you know how suspicious it would’ve sounded if I told the messenger, ‘ Only Odysseus’ or ‘Come alone’ ?”

Ajax wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, his great shoulders shaking. “Aye, suspicious, but far less disastrous than having Menelaus and Agamemnon staring at you posing half naked over roasted lamb!”

Diomedes groaned so loud it almost drowned Ajax’s laughter. “If they tell Odysseus about this, it’s over. I’ll just march to the underworld and dive into the Lethe.”

Ajax steadied his shield after another clash, his grin still wide. “Cheer up, lad. You’ll get another chance. Odysseus isn’t blind - and you’re not exactly hard to notice.”

Diomedes ducked a strike, rolled his shoulders, and grumbled. “Another chance, huh? Assuming Menelaus and Agamemnon keep their mouths shut. Or that I'll stop being compared to this half-fish brat.”

Ajax barked a laugh, but before he could answer, a sharp voice cut across the field. But as if summoned on command, they heard a loud voice approaching them.

“Fight me!”

Both men turned. Achilles strode toward them, spear in hand, eyes bright with restless hunger. Barely past boyhood, but brimming with the arrogance of someone who already believed himself destined for glory.

Ajax blinked. “Fight you?”

Achilles jabbed the butt of his spear against the ground. “Yes. One of you. Both of you. I don’t care. I’m tired of drills! I want a real duel - something worthy of the field. Not the basics.”

Diomedes and Ajax exchanged a look, the faintest flicker of amusement passing between them.

“Shouldn’t you be badgering your own comrades?” Diomedes said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“They’re not strong enough,” Achilles shot back instantly. “I want someone who’ll push me.” His voice sharpened with boyish challenge. “Someone I won’t break in a single strike. Or hesitate because I’m their prince.”

Diomedes’s mouth curved into a smirk. “If it’s punishment you’re after, try Polites. He’ll run you into the ground until your legs give out… or toss you as if you weighed nothing.” The Argive king winced, rubbing his shoulder at the uncomfortable memory.

Achilles also winced for a moment, but then he made a noise like a kicked hound. “He only offers endurance training, and he won’t even pick up a weapon! I want a duel! A test of strength. Of skill. Not a jog through the dirt.”

Diomedes chuckled, shaking his head. “Gods save us. He sounds like a pup trying to steal the meal from the table.”

The elder of Telamon’s sons lowered his shield, studying Achilles with something closer to concern than annoyance. “You’re far too eager, boy. It’s not… appropriate to be this excited.”

Achilles tilted his head, frowning. “Inappropriate? Why? War is what we’re here for. Glory, renown. Why shouldn’t I be eager?”

Ajax’s voice was calm but firm. “Because you’re speaking of killing men as if it were a game. No one should celebrate the death of the innocent.”

Achilles stiffened, bristling. “They’re not innocent if they’re soldiers. They chose the sword. They chose the shield. They knew what it meant.”

Ajax sighed, resting his spear butt in the dirt. “Even so, unless they wronged you personally, they aren’t truly your enemies. They’re just opponents. Remember that difference.”

For a moment, the young warrior’s bright, eager expression faltered. Something uncomfortable flickered in Achilles’s eyes - then he masked it quickly, raising his spear with renewed defiance. “Opponent or not, I still want a challenge. So which of you will it be?”

Diomedes barked a short laugh, tossing his shield onto the ground. “Not me. I’ll take a break and enjoy the show. Ajax, he’s all yours.”

Ajax shot him a flat look, but before he could protest, Achilles stepped forward eagerly, forcing the match. With a long-suffering sigh, Ajax raised his shield again.

The clash was immediate - Achilles fast, sharp, his strikes biting with youthful recklessness. Ajax, taller and stronger, moved like a wall, patient and deliberate, letting the boy test himself against solid stone. Their weapons rang against each other, the rhythm fierce and unrelenting.

Diomedes dropped heavily onto a nearby log, tugging a waterskin from his belt and taking a long pull as the duel raged. Dust flew where the combatants’ feet dug into the earth, steel glinting in the morning sun.

A shadow fell beside him, and Sthenelus sat down, wiping sweat from his brow. “Gods above… Ajax still has fight in him after training with you since sunrise? I’m shocked.”

Diomedes arched a brow, lips quirking in mock offense. “Shocked? Please. The only reason he’s still standing is because he’s got godly blood in him. Otherwise, he would be wheezing like a dog as well.”

Sthenelus snorted, folding his arms. “Mm. Or maybe you just have to accept that you are no longer the biggest guy around?”

Diomedes clutched at his chest in feigned outrage. “Treachery. Betrayal. From my own comrade!”

Sthenelus grinned, leaning back as another loud clash rang out from the duel. “If Ajax loses to the pup, I’m blaming you. Clearly, you didn’t tire him out enough.”

Diomedes just smirked and lifted the waterskin again. “If Ajax loses to a boy, then we’re all doomed anyway. I’m not accepting this god-blesses menace as our only salvation.”

Sthenelus leaned back on his elbows, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he watched the dust settle around the sparring ground. “You know, I’ve always wondered… how does someone even know they’re kin to a god? Or what kind of power they’re supposed to have? Do they just… figure it out on their own? Or is it all family trees and old stories?”

Diomedes took another swig from the waterskin before answering, his voice casual but steady. “Nestor once told me that if someone’s got ichor in their blood, the god themselves comes when they come of age. Confirms the connection. Tells them their blessing. And then - ” he wagged the waterskin for emphasis, “ - offers a gift.”

Sthenelus sat up straighter, eyebrows rising. “A gift?”

“Mm.” Diomedes grinned. “Could be anything. Nectar, a sword, an artifact… literally anything. Whatever the god feels like tossing down, I suppose.”

Sthenelus let out a low whistle. “Hells. That’s better than any coming-of-age feast I’ve ever heard of.”

Neither of them noticed that the duel had ended. Ajax’s broad shadow fell over them as he strolled up, still catching his breath, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You two talk about it as if the gift is something glorious. Truth is - it’s more like a ‘shut up and stop expecting me to show up again’ gift.”

Diomedes raised a brow. “Oh? Speaking from experience?”

Ajax chuckled, lowering himself onto a nearby log. “Aye. Mine gave me bars of some strange metal, along with instructions on how to melt it. Said I could make whatever weapon I desired from it.” He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Felt less like a divine gift and more like someone handing me raw ingredients to bake my own birthday cake.”

For a moment, Sthenelus blinked - then he snorted, covering his face with his hand. Diomedes burst into laughter, nearly choking on his own breath. Ajax grinned wider, spreading his hands as if to say See what I mean?

“Gods,” Sthenelus managed between chuckles, “you’re telling me your blessing was… a recipe?”

Ajax smirked. “Exactly. Happy birthday, here’s some ore. Now stop bothering me.”

The three of them roared with laughter, the sound carrying across the training ground, cutting through the heat and sweat of the morning like fresh wind.

Achilles swaggered back toward them, chest puffed, still flushed from the sparring match. “Well,” he announced, “my gift was far greater than bars of ore. Thetis herself-”

But he got no further. Ajax snorted so loudly it broke into a laugh, and soon Diomedes and Sthenelus were cackling right alongside him.

“What?” Achilles demanded, scowling.

Diomedes wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You don’t count, boy. Your divine parent actually raised you. That’s not a blessing, that’s nepotism.”

“Embodiment of nepotism,” Sthenelus added helpfully, grinning widely.

Ajax gave Achilles a mock bow. “May we forever bask in the glow of the gods’ favorite son, who didn’t even need to earn his gift - it came with breakfast in bed and lullabies.”

Their laughter doubled. Achilles’s jaw clenched, his irritation plain, but their amusement only grew sharper at the sight of it.

Before he could snap back, a familiar figure passed at the edge of the training ground. Patroclus, heading toward the tents with a bundle of linen in his arms.

“Patroclus!” Achilles called, brightening. “Come join us!”

Patroclus slowed, glanced their way - then shook his head. “Another time. I promised Phoenix I’d help mend the supplies.” Without waiting, he walked on, his steps brisk, shoulders tight.

The laughter around Achilles tapered off. He stared after Patroclus, his expression souring, fists curling and uncurling at his sides.

Diomedes followed Achilles’s line of sight, brows lifting. “Strange. I wouldn’t have expected Patroclus to brush you off like that.”

Achilles’s head snapped back toward him, sharp as a whip. “Why not?”

Diomedes leaned on his weapon, thoughtful. “Because before we came to recruit you, he was the one lying through his teeth to Agamemnon. Every time the king asked about you, Patroclus supposedly found a new excuse. He bent over backward to keep you hidden.”

Achilles blinked, his voice low and quick. “He did?”

Diomedes nodded, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Made you a damned pain in the ass to track down. We wasted weeks chasing ghosts with the help of every spy Agamemnon could scrape together. But your mother hid you well enough to lead everything to dead ends.” He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “It wasn’t until Odysseus finally joined us that we narrowed it down. She saw the logic in this madness and knew where to look. Otherwise, we might still be chasing shadows.”

He looked over at Achilles, expecting some kind of sharp reply, maybe even a boast. But the boy wasn’t listening anymore.

Achilles’s eyes had drifted back to the road where Patroclus had disappeared, the bundle of linens long gone from sight. His gaze was fixed and faraway, narrowed like he could pierce the walls of the tents and the crowd of the camp with nothing but will alone. His hands, still resting on the hilt of his sword, flexed once, restless.

For the rest of the afternoon, the mighty warrior stayed quiet.

---

Eurylochus’s tent glowed faintly with lamplight, the smell of wine and smoke hanging in the air. The two men sat cross-legged on the rugs, a scattering of knucklebones between them, skins of diluted wine within easy reach.

Polites tossed the bones, grinning when they landed in his favor. “That’s three in a row, Eury. You’re either cursed tonight or the gods like me better.”

Eurylochus scowled good-naturedly and refilled his cup. “Or maybe you’re just cheating when I’m not looking.”

“Me?! Cheating?! Never?!”

“What about that time we played against Elpenor?!”

“... Okay… But he deserved it!”

They both laughed, the sound hushed so as not to wake the neighboring tents. After a comfortable lull, Polites leaned back on his elbows, expression softening. “Did you hear? Agamemnon actually ordered her to rest today. No maps, no scouts, no councils - nothing. Even threatened her with an actual arrest if she tries to get involved in the preparations.”

Eury’s brows rose, then he barked a laugh. “For Odysseus? That’s worse than flogging. Sitting still for a whole day? She’ll climb out of her skin.”

Polites chuckled, shaking his head. “I spoke to her earlier. She pretended it was fine, but I could tell she hated it. Still… she said she trusted us to handle things in the meantime.”

“Really? She just accepted that we will do her work?”

“I don’t know. I also saw her carrying a basket of punctured peaches for some reason.”

“She will do anything but lie down.”

“Can’t really blame her. After being dragged here, she is told to sit and do nothing.”

The silence lingered, comfortable but heavy. Then Polites snorted, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s probably scheming something behind our backs right now.”

Eury let out a sharp laugh through his nose. “Of course she is.”

“What do you think it is this time?” Polites asked, eyes glinting with mischief.

Eury shrugged, tossing a knucklebone lazily back into the pile. “Who knows? She’ll tell us when it works. And if it doesn’t - ” he smirked, “ - we’ll help her hide the evidence.”

Both men burst out laughing, their shoulders shaking as they poured themselves more wine. The sound filled the tent warmly - until a faint rustle outside cut through it.

The laughter cut short. Both of them stilled, listening.

There it was again - soft, deliberate, not the idle shuffle of a drunk soldier stumbling back to his tent.

Polites and Eurylochus exchanged a quick glance, the humor gone.

But before Polites could even set down the cup in his hand, Eury was already moving. He pushed to his feet in one swift motion, dagger in hand, and darted for the flap without a word.

“Eury, get your ass back here-!” Polites hissed, half-rising. But the tent flap had already fallen shut behind him.

Polites scowled, muttering under his breath as he grabbed for his own sword. “Of course, he runs off. Never waits. One day, he’s going to get his throat cut before I can even stand up.”

Outside, Eurylochus’s boots hit the dirt in a sprint. The night was hushed and watchful, every shadow stretching long under the low glow of scattered campfires. He caught the movement at once - a lone figure slipping quickly and quietly between the tents, heading straight for Odysseus’s.

His jaw tightened, the annoyance of Polites forgotten. He will forgive him. He always does. 

Whoever the stranger was, they weren’t just wandering.

The man didn’t slow. His focus narrowed to the shadow ahead, his dagger steady in his hand as he closed the distance in silence.

The figure never saw him coming. Eurylochus lunged, catching the man by the shoulder and dragging him down hard into the dirt. In a heartbeat, he had him pinned, knee grinding into his ribs, dagger flashing as he pressed it flat against the stranger’s throat.

“Try to scream and you’ll regret it,”

The man coughed, wide-eyed in the firelight. “E-Eurylochus-! It’s me! IT’S ME!”

Eurylochus froze just long enough to see his face clearly. 

Patroclus.

His grip didn’t ease. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, creeping toward her tent in the middle of the night?” His voice was low and sharp, all edge.

“I-I wasn’t-” Patroclus sputtered, trying to push up, but Eurylochus shoved him back down firmly.

Eurylochus’s jaw set hard. “Do you have any idea what it looks like? A stranger creeping toward a woman’s tent after dark? Toward the queen’s tent?” He pressed the flat of the blade a little firmer against Patroclus’s neck. “Give me one reason not to drag you to Agamemnon right now.”

Patroclus’s face burned red with shame. “No! It’s not like that! I - I only wanted to talk to her.” His voice cracked with the strain.

Behind them, Polites finally caught up, sword in hand. He blinked at the scene and frowned. “Gods, Eury, you’re going to crush him before he even finishes a sentence.”

Eurylochus didn’t look up. His weight stayed firm, dagger steady. “He hasn’t given me a reason to move yet.”

Polites eyed Patroclus and, softer, said, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Eury’s jaw tightened. He still didn’t relent. “If it’s just talking, then why not wait until morning?”

That broke the last of Patroclus’s defiance. His eyes dropped, voice shrinking to barely more than a whisper. “Because I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

For a moment, silence pressed heavier than Eury’s grip.

But Eurylochus didn’t move, suspicion still carved deep in his face. “That’s all you have to say?”

Patroclus swallowed hard, then forced the words out. “I didn’t want to be anywhere near Achilles tonight.”

That earned him a pause. A flicker of calculation in Eurylochus’s eyes. Still, the pressure on his wrists didn’t relent. “You could’ve gone to any other Myrmidon,” Eury said flatly.

“None of them would stop him,” Patroclus answered, voice cracking slightly. “Not if he came looking. They’d all let him in. They always do.”

Eurylochus’s frown deepened. Before he could press further, Polites stepped closer, lowering his sword with a sigh. “Eury, he’s not lying. Look at him - he’s rattled enough without you possibly slitting his throat.”

Eury shot him a sharp glance, but Polites only tilted his head. “Not yet.”

Eurylochus studied him for a long moment, his face unreadable in the dim firelight. Finally, his voice dropped, quieter, though no less firm. “So, better answer honestly. Why Odysseus?”

Patroclus’s throat worked. He hesitated, then said softly, “Because I trust her the most.”

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy. Finally, Eurylochus exhaled, sharp and rough. Slowly, he eased the blade away and pushed himself off Patroclus, though his frown lingered.

“You’re not going in,” he said firmly, standing over him. “Not while she’s sleeping. Not a chance.”

Patroclus sat up, brushing dirt from his cloak, humiliation still hot in his cheeks. “I-I understand.”

Eurylochus looked down at him for a long moment, then muttered, “You can stay in my tent.”

Patroclus blinked, stunned. “What?”

“My tent,” Eury repeated, jerking his head toward it. “Bigger than hers. And easier to explain your presence.”

Patroclus stared at him, still wide-eyed. “You’d… let me?”

Before Eury could snap back, Polites grinned. “Come on, Patroclus. I was drinking with him anyway - one more won’t make a difference.”

Eury made a noise halfway between a grunt and a growl, already turning away. “Easy for you to say. I’ll be the one cleaning up your mess.”

Patroclus scrambled to his feet, still a little dazed. “I didn’t think you- ”

“Don’t get used to it,” Eury cut him off over his shoulder. “And if you snore, I’m kicking you out.”

That won a small, breathless laugh from Patroclus. “Right.”

The three of them walked back toward Eury’s tent, the camp quiet once more - save for the soft sound of their footsteps, swallowed quickly by the heavy stillness of the night.

---

The walk back was relatively short, but for Patroclus it felt oddly long - half-expecting Eurylochus to change his mind and throw him out after all. But instead, the flap of the Ithacan’s tent was pulled aside, and he found himself stepping into a space far larger than he’d imagined.

His eyes widened. “This is… bigger than Odysseus’s.”

Eurylochus gave a grunt as if he’d been waiting for the comment. “That’s the point. Someone looking to strike at her will assume the queen takes the larger tent.” He gestured around the space, cluttered but well-ordered, with a bedroll broad enough for a man his size and armor neatly stacked in the corner. “And instead, they meet me.”

Polites snorted, dropping onto a stool and reaching for his unfinished cup of wine. “Gods, I’d pay to see that. Some assassin sneaking in, pulling back the flap, expecting a tiny queen - and finding a mountain of a soldier scowling at him.”

Patroclus blinked, still standing near the entrance. “So you’re… basically a human shield?”

Eurylochus looked over his shoulder at him, utterly unbothered. “Don’t give me that pitiful look. It was my idea.”

Patroclus’s mouth opened, then shut again. He wasn’t sure if that made it more reassuring - or less.

Polites let out a groan, rubbing at his face. “Of course it was. Both of you, reckless and self-sacrificing - her with her clever schemes, you with your damned chivalry. And then I’m the one left trying to keep the two of you alive when your luck runs out.”

“Stop whining,” Eury said, unrolling a spare blanket from a shelf and tossing it toward Patroclus. “It’s not that bad.”

Polites’s head snapped up. “Not that bad? She was ordered two months of bed rest, Eury. Two! And what was she doing less than four weeks later?” He raised his arms dramatically. The triplets of wine flying around. “Dueling Achilles like a madwoman despite the fact that she had you and King Diomedes FOR THAT EXACT PURPOSE! I nearly lost a year off my life just watching the bruises she got from that blond pest. If parrying him was enough to cause her this much harm, imagine if he actually got a chance to cut her.”

Eurylochus’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. “She won, didn’t she?”

“That’s not the point!” Polites shot back, though his exasperation was tinged with fondness. “We already established that she lives out of spite or because someone in the underworld isn’t ready to deal with her. But she should listen to her doctor more often than once for a moon cycle.-”

Patroclus stood frozen for a moment, the exchange washing over him. They bickered like brothers, sharp but familiar, their words carrying the weight of years spent side by side. It should have made him feel out of place - but instead, it eased something tight in his chest..

Eurylochus tossed the folded blanket toward Patroclus again when he noticed the boy hugging himself awkwardly. “Sit anywhere you like, if you’re not planning to sleep yet.”

Patroclus blinked, glancing around the tent. Only then did he notice that it wasn’t just Eury’s massive cot taking up the space - two smaller ones stood along the opposite wall. His brows rose. “You… have more than one bed?”

Polites, lounging on his stool with the last of his drink, smiled into his cup. “Of course. The three of us usually meet here at night. A bit of privacy, some wine, and dice games if we’re lucky. You know, a quiet company away from the rest of the camp and all the expected formalities. It’s nice to not have to call my friend by a title all the time.” He tipped his cup back - only to find it bone dry - he looked disappointed for a moment, then leaned forward, lowering his voice as if confessing a secret. “And truthfully? Another reason is so we can make sure Odysseus actually sleeps once in a while. Sometimes the only way is to keep her in here with us, away from her maps and scrolls.”

“That, and - ” Eury cut in, a sly smirk tugging at his mouth, “Polites likes to find any excuse to crash here because his own tent is a gods-damned cluttered mess. His hoarding ass turned it into a storage pit.”

Polites sat up straighter, affronted. “It’s not a mess, it’s an organized system!”

“System,” Eury echoed, half laughing, half groaning. “If by system you mean every surface buried under scrolls, herbs, jars, and whatever else you drag in. Gods help the poor bastard who needs to find anything in there.”

Polites pointed a finger at him, grinning despite himself. “And yet somehow, I always can.”

Eury let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. Then he looked  at Patroclus with a deadpan expression.“That’s the worst part. He’s right. The piles look like chaos to anyone else, but he’s the only man I’ve ever met who can fish the right leaf, powder, or blade out of that disaster in half a breath. It’s infuriating.”

Patroclus found himself smiling at their easy rhythm, the banter bouncing between them with the familiarity of old comrades.

Polites then stretched his arm toward Eurylochus with mock solemnity. “Another cup, my friend. Since the night is still young.”

“No,” Eury said immediately, not even looking up from where he was rearranging a stack of spare blankets.

Polites blinked. “What? At least one last cup.”

“You already emptied an entire wineskin. Unmixed, may I add.” Eury shot him a flat look, then jabbed a finger in his direction as he turned to Patroclus. “Don’t trust him - or that innocent face of his. This plague on legs could outdrink an army if you gave him the chance.”

Polites gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Slander! Lies!” Then, grinning, he picked up his empty metal cup and tossed it at Eurylochus, who caught it without looking. “It comes with the profession. I’m a medic. Half my life was spent testing medicines and herbs. I’m practically immune to half the poisons we know of.”

Eury finally let out a laugh, a short, rough sound. “Testing medicines? Don’t pretend it wasn’t just eating random plants and hoping for the best.”

Polites chuckled, shaking his head. “And yet here I am. Alive.”

“And making me and Ody work twice as hard to keep you that way,” Eury muttered, though there was no heat in it. “As kids, we would find him chewing some leaves like a cow and trying to note all the effects. There were too many times we had to drag him to the royal physician because his face was changing colour.”

Patroclus couldn’t help it - he laughed too. The tension that had weighed down his chest since he’d been dragged to the ground outside seemed to lighten with their easy rhythm, their bickering sliding naturally into camaraderie.

Eurylochus finally reached for the second wineskin, pouring a modest measure into each of three cups and passing them out. He sat back on his cot, cup in hand, and fixed Patroclus with a steadier gaze.

“All right,” he said, voice lower now. “We’ve had our fun. But tell me honestly - what was the real reason you wanted to stay in Odysseus’s tent?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though not unkindly. “Because I don’t believe it was only for the company. Or to avoid Achilles. There are other kings who could take you in and refuse Achilles without consequences.”

Patroclus lifted the cup with both hands, but instead of drinking, he just stared at the dark liquid swirling inside. The firelight caught on its surface, warping his reflection until it hardly looked like him at all. His lips pressed together, pale with the effort of holding something in.

“I…” He swallowed hard, trying again. “I wanted - no - I needed to talk to her.”

Polites leaned in a little. “About what?”

Patroclus froze at the question. His shoulders hunched as though the weight of it were too much. His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked restlessly from the tent’s entrance to the rugs to the shadows crawling along the canvas wall, as if some answer might be written there.

“Just… things,” he managed at last, though the word fell thin and empty. “We’re about to march. To fight our first battles. I’m joining you without most of the Myrmidons. I thought…” His voice faltered, broke, then trailed into nothing.

The silence that followed pressed tight, like the air itself had grown heavy. Patroclus’s grip on the cup trembled, his knuckles blanching white. His chest rose and fell faster, as though each breath cost him effort.

At last, with a sharp, shuddering inhale, he blurted it out - too fast, too raw to be anything but truth.

“I’m scared.”

Eurylochus frowned, but before he could reply, the dam broke. Words spilled out in jagged fragments, tumbling over each other, faster and faster.

“I’m not strong - not like the others. I don’t have divine blood, no god guarding my steps. I’m not a real warrior. I know it. I’ll never be like Achilles, or Diomedes, or even half the soldiers in this camp-” His voice climbed higher, ragged, desperate.

The cup slipped from his hands with a hollow clatter. Wine splattered across the rugs, but Patroclus didn’t seem to notice. His hands rose to his head, fingers tangling in his hair as if he could dig the thoughts out, rip them away.

“I’m afraid of dying,” he gasped. “But I’m just as afraid of killing. What kind of soldier fears both? What kind of man does?”

A sharp, humorless laugh burst out of him, wild and brittle. His whole body shook with it. “You must think I’m pathetic. A coward. That I shouldn’t even be here. I’m no leader of the Myrmidons, I’ve never been worthy of it - never worthy of her. Odysseus wasted her time on me. All of it.”

His words pitched faster, spiraling, pulling him down with them. His chest heaved, his eyes wide and glistening.

“She shouldn’t have risked her life jumping on those shores. It should’ve been me,” he choked out, the words breaking around the edges. “Not her. If anyone was meant to be cast away, to be - sacrificed - it should’ve been-”

His voice cracked, choked. The air came too fast, shallow and sharp, as though the tent itself was shrinking around him. His chest heaved; his shoulders shook.

Eurylochus leaned forward sharply. “Patroclus.”

Patroclus didn’t hear. He pressed his fists against his knees, trembling, words tumbling out between gasps. “I can’t breathe - I can’t - I shouldn’t even be here - It was a bad idea - A very bad idea!”

“Patroclus.” The voice was louder now, commanding.

Still no response. His breaths were spiraling into ragged sobs, hot tears streaking his face as he shook his head over and over. “I - I can’t go - b-but I can’t stay either - I - I-”

“STOP!”

The word cracked through the tent like a whip.

Patroclus froze. The force of it jolted him back from the brink, his eyes wide and wet as he looked up.

Eurylochus stayed crouched in front of him, voice low but firm. “Listen to me, boy. Fear doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Only monsters walk into battle without feeling anything.”

Polites sat down next to Patroclus and calmly showed him how to even his breath, steadying him as though anchoring him in place. His tone softened, almost soothing. “He’s right. Every soldier who’s ever raised a blade has felt it - the dread, the doubt. I was sick to my stomach my first time marching. Thought I’d choke before I ever made it to the field.”

Eury gave a short grunt of agreement. “Same here. More than once.”

Patroclus’s breathing hitched, his chest easing only slightly. He swallowed, his voice thin and uncertain. “H-how old were you?” His gaze shifted hesitantly to Eurylochus.

“Thirteen,” Eury said without hesitation.

Patroclus’s eyes widened in horror. “Thirteen-!?”

Before the boy could spiral again, Eury cut in quickly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t a soldier then, far from it. My father, Tereus, was the queen’s right hand - he handled the numbers, the supply lines, all the things that kept an army standing. I followed him mostly so he would continue teaching me how to read and write. I learned to count rations before I was even allowed to lift a real weapon. Everyone thought I’d end up behind a desk with a wax tablet forever.”

Polites chuckled, the sound light enough to ease some of the tension. “He’s not wrong. Back then, he was just a scrawny kid trailing after his father, carrying a tablet almost bigger than him. Meanwhile, I was getting sick over every strange herb my teacher pushed on me.” He smirked sidelong at Eury. “We were both disasters in our own ways.”

Eury huffed, but a faint grin tugged at his mouth. “Doesn’t change the truth. Whether we were behind the lines or holding them, we were scared as hell of the battles happening around us.”

Patroclus lowered his gaze, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “But I’m not a child. I’m eighteen. I should be ready.”

Eurylochus gave a quiet snort. “I’ve met plenty of people older than you who weren’t ready. Leaders, even.”

Patroclus looked up sharply. “But you’re only twenty-two. That’s not so different. Four years. I should be able to measure up by now. To you. To Achilles. To everyone.”

Eury studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. “Don’t underestimate those years, Patroclus. They’re not small. A lot can fit inside them - fights, losses, choices that change you whether you want them to or not.”

Patroclus frowned faintly, unconvinced, but listening.

“Sometimes experience lets someone younger stand shoulder to shoulder with those older. But sometimes,” Eury continued, “a few years create a gulf you can’t see until you’re staring at it.”

He leaned back against the couch, gaze going distant. “I remember when I first went on campaign with Odysseus. She was already seen as an adult - commanding, decisive. And me?” His mouth curved in a wry half-smile. “Most of the soldiers still called me a kid. Even when I tried to act older. Even when I thought I was ready.”

Patroclus’s brow furrowed. “Sorry, but I don’t believe you. Aren’t you as big as Ajax?”

“I appreciate the flattery, but firstly, I’m far from being comparable to that giant of a man. And secondly…” Eury’s grin sharpened. “You don’t really think I was this big since birth, do you?”

“At least bigger than most,” Patroclus pressed.

“Annoyingly,” Eury admitted, “I had my growth spurt quite late.”

That earned a sudden burst of laughter from Polites. “Oh, I can confirm that! He looked like a beanpole. I used to tease him endlessly for it.”

Eury’s hand shot out to punch Polites in the arm, not hard but enough to make him jerk. “Until I finally outgrew you and could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Polites smirked, rubbing his arm where he’d been punched. “I’d like to see you try that now.”

They both chuckled, but Patroclus’s laughter faded quickly. He hugged his knees again and avoided eye contact when mumbling, “And yet I’m probably the first guy here to chicken out to the point where I need a gods-damned sleepover to calm me down.”

Eurylochus gave a quiet snort. “Oh, believe me when I say there were far worse cases than you. Many men act all mighty until they actually see what war truly is. Some kings and commanders tremble thinking of a battlefield.”

Patroclus looked up, confused. “What?”

Eury’s eyes narrowed, as though turning over something heavy in his mind. At last, he spoke. “There was a prince once. Commanded an army. Respected, clever, knew how to inspire men. But he couldn’t handle it.”

Patroclus frowned. “What do you mean?”

Eury’s voice lowered. “He saw the truth of war too close for anyone’s liking. He witnessed firsthand what people do to each other. What one can take away.” His gaze went distant, almost hard. “And after that, he couldn’t look at the soldiers the same way, ever again.”

Patroclus hesitated. “And what happened to him?”

Eury’s jaw shifted, as if weighing how much to say. Finally: “He left the field. He became a scholar. Poured himself into books and teachings. Said he was better at solving conflicts with ink than steel.”

Patroclus’s lips parted, uncertain whether to feel pity or envy. “So he… walked away?”

“He found his own path,” Polites said simply. “Not everyone’s made for blood.”

Silence pressed close again, and Patroclus’s eyes burned faintly in the firelight.

“Courage,” Eurylochus said at last, his voice softer now, “isn’t not being scared. It’s being scared and standing anyway. It’s still caring what it costs.”

Patroclus hesitated, chewing at his lip before blurting, “I… overheard Ajax and Diomedes today. Talking about warriors who had divine blood in them. Do… Do any of the Cephallenians have it too?”

Eury and Polites traded a look. Then, as if on cue, both burst into laughter.

“Divine blood?” Polites snorted, shaking his head. “The gods barely bother with us out here. Small islands, small lives. We’re hardly worth their attention.”

Eury chuckled, then leaned in with a smirk. “Well, except Odysseus. She’s got ichor in her veins, more watered down than child’s wine but still counts.” 

Polites took a sip of wine before speaking casually. “But if you ever suggested her victories came from that instead of her own wit, she’d gut you with your own spear before you finished the sentence.”

Patroclus’s eyes went wide, almost shining. “So… does that mean she has some kind of power? Something she hides? Like - strength beyond mortals, or… or command of storms?”

That set Eury off in a full laugh, shaking his head. “Gods, you’ve listened to too many bards. Most of the so-called ‘gifts’ of godly kin are laughable. Barely worth mentioning. A trick of luck, a sharper sense, a knack for music. Nothing like what the songs promise.”

Still, Patroclus leaned forward, insistent. “But Odysseus - what’s hers?”

Eury rubbed at his jaw, as if recalling her words. “She once explained it to me. Said she can see through divine trickery .”

Patroclus tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

Eury spread his hands. “I’m not entirely sure. But from what I’ve seen, if she looks very closely, she can recognize a god even in disguise. And their creations, too - things hidden from mortal eyes.” His mouth curved in a faint smile. “Once she even laughed and said the gods would have to work twice as hard to fool her.”

Patroclus sat back, awed into silence. The firelight caught the wonder in his gaze, flickering brighter than the embers themselves.

Polites caught the awestruck look on Patroclus’s face and huffed a laugh. “Don’t start getting jealous of demigods, Patroclus. Trust me - attention from the gods always brings more trouble than blessings.”

“True enough,” Eury said, his voice low, a different edge slipping in. “And child-soldiers are no better.”

Polites groaned, tipping his head back. “Here we go again…” he muttered into his cup.

Patroclus blinked, curious.

Eury’s gaze narrowed slightly, his tone hardening. “I don’t trust what’s in the heads of children sent to fight wars. With what kind of twisted morals were they raised? What things might they deem acceptable?”

Polites rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it already. You’ve said that a hundred times. You’ll get us in trouble one day if you keep spitting at King Diomedes like that.”

“I don’t like him,” Eury snapped back flatly.

“Well, I don’t like your endless complaining,” Polites shot back, lifting the wine jar. “So I’ll compensate myself for enduring it.” He poured more into his cup, smiling smugly.

Eury let out a long-suffering grumble. “I should’ve gotten myself a chest with a lock.”

Polites smirked over the rim of his cup. “Wouldn’t help. Ody would just pick it open for me.”

Patroclus chuckled at their bickering, tension loosening from his shoulders. He leaned back against the cushions, warmth from the wine and fire finally sinking into his bones.

Eury noticed, his expression softening faintly. “Good. You’re finally relaxed.” He pushed off the couch and stretched. “Now, before we end up talking ourselves straight into sunrise - we should sleep.”

Polites groaned but got to his feet, gathering up the half-empty wine jar as if it were treasure. “Fine, fine. But don’t complain when I outlast you tomorrow because I’m fueled by this.”

“You’ll be fueled by a headache,” Eury muttered, shaking his head.

Patroclus rose more hesitantly, suddenly aware of how heavy his body felt. The air was still chill against his bare arms, but it no longer bit as sharply as before. “Where should I…?” he asked quietly.

Eury nodded toward the couch where they’d been sitting. “There. It’s warmer by the fire.”

Polites waved a dismissive hand. “And don’t worry. Eury can play the big guard dog. He’ll glare at anyone who comes too close.”

That earned him another punch to the arm, which he dodged with a laugh.

Patroclus eased back onto the couch, tugging the borrowed blanket Eurylochus had given him tighter around himself. It smelled faintly of smoke and herbs, worn but comforting. His heart, which had been thrashing in his chest only an hour ago, beat slow and steady now.

Polites dropped onto a pile of blankets (there was probably a cot buried somewhere underneath it) across from him, stretching out without ceremony. “Try not to snore too loud, Patroclus.” He points out to his companion. ”This grumpy ass has a way to light sleep for anyone's good.” He barely finished talking, only to be hit on the head with a pillow thrown from the other side of the tent.

“I don’t-” Patroclus began, but Polites’s grin silenced him, and to his surprise, he found himself smiling instead.

Eury shook his head, half amused, half exasperated, before settling near the doorway, cross-legged with his back against the frame. “Sleep, both of you. I’ll keep watch for a while.”

Patroclus wanted to protest, to offer to take a turn, but the warmth of the fire and the low murmur of their voices clung to him like a shield. His eyes grew heavy. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel alone.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was how strange it was - that safety could be found not in walls or weapons, but in the laughter and bickering of two friends willing to sit beside him through the night.

---

The tent was quiet, save for the faint rustle of canvas in the night wind. Achilles sat on the edge of his cot, gaze fixed on the one beside it - empty, neatly laid out, untouched. Patroclus’s absence pressed into the space like a weight.

Achilles let out a sharp breath, burying his face briefly in his hands. “Coward,” he muttered under his breath. The word tasted bitter on his tongue.

His gaze fell to an old shield leaning against the tent pole. He pulled it closer, angling it to catch the lamplight. The damaged metal returned his reflection, but not the one he knew - his hair dimmed, the gold dulled to a muted bronze, and his skin… The scratches on the metal made it look as if it was marred by scars crisscrossing where it should be smooth. For a heartbeat, he felt it was truer than his real face: a fractured thing, already weathered by battles he hadn’t yet fought.

Tentatively, he touched his cheek, his jaw. Smooth. Whole. The same boy he had always been. Always the same boy.

With a scowl, Achilles shoved the shield aside, its edge scraping against the floor. He rolled onto his cot, turning his back on the ghostly reflection.

From this angle, he faced the tent’s entrance, its flap shifting faintly in the wind. The dark beyond beckoned, an opening into the unknown. Maybe that’s better, he thought, though the words rang hollow even in the quiet of his own mind.

Because he knew the truth. He wasn’t fooling himself. The only thing that would have been better - the only thing he wanted - was gone from this tent tonight. And the empty space beside him said more than his pride would ever allow.

---

As it was planned. The army split. And one branch has already reached its target.

The plains before the stronghold shimmered in the heat, every ripple of air bending the horizon like molten glass. Dust clung thick in the throats of men and horses alike, and the stink of bronze, sweat, and leather weighed heavily as a storm. Beyond the sea of shields and spears, the small city rose from the earth in defiance. A place meant to establish the borders of Troy and the Maeonians through which one of the trade routes was connected. 

Odysseus stood with her bow in her hand, her eyes fixed on the stone bulwark that was the fortress guarding the station. Around her, soldiers shifted, coughed, muttered - some swore oaths, some murmured prayers. A hundred hearts beat in anxious rhythm, waiting for the first crack of violence to break the silence.

Diomedes moved up beside her, his armor burnished like the sun, his spear steady in his grip. His gaze flicked from her profile to the looming stronghold, then back again.

“You think they’ll surrender?” he asked, tone almost casual, though the taut set of his jaw betrayed him. “Give up their stronghold without a fight?”

Odysseus’s eyes never left the walls. She let the question linger, tasting the air, listening to the silence that pressed like a hand upon her ears. At last, she spoke, her voice low, certain.

“No.”

Diomedes tilted his head. “No?”

“They won’t yield. Not today. Not until blood stains this ground.”

Her words hung heavy, as certain as prophecy.

He studied her sidelong. “And why is that?”

She inhaled slowly, her gaze steady on the gates. “Because I can smell death already. It’s here. Looming like a vulture.”

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “And tell me - what does death smell like to you? Blood? Steel? Rot?”

Finally, she turned her head toward him. The faintest curl of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes were shadowed with something older than either of them.

“No. Death smells like ash. Gold. And myrrh.”

The words landed between them like an omen. Strange. Heavy.

The combination is too unusual to sound like a guess.

Diomedes frowned, chewing on the thought. Ash and myrrh weren’t hard to imagine. Both were the outcomes of the war. Burned cities and bodies balsamed before the funeral. Still, they felt like unusual first choices. 

He could also feel death approaching. But instead of smelling it, he felt it. The exact weight he felt before many battles beforehand. Suddenly, the weight of life was becoming tangible when it was easier to lose. He took a deep breath before facing the queen. Her horned helmet hid her eyes well, but he could feel the way she watched him carefully.

“Then the gods are already watching us,” he said. “As if we were actors on their stage.”

This time, Odysseus’s smile sharpened into something keen, dangerous. “Then we should make sure to make the first act worth watching.”

For a fleeting moment, there was no war - just two warriors, comrades bound by fate, standing on the cusp of history, aware of the countless unseen eyes gazing down upon them.

Then the horns blew, deep and shattering. The earth shook with the thunder of marching feet. Spears bristled, shields lifted, voices rose into a roar that swallowed the sky.

The play had begun.

---

The only warning came as a streak of fire across the sky. One burning arrow arced over the plain, its trail a fleeting wound against the pale dawn. It struck the earth short of the line, hissing in the dust.

Then the air filled with whistling death.

A storm of arrows rained down from the walls, rattling against shields, biting into flesh, thudding into the ground. Horses screamed, men shouted, and the neat formations of the Greeks bent beneath the sudden storm.

But it was not the archers who decided the battle.

It was the gates.

With a roar of timber and iron, the great doors of the stronghold gave way. Splinters flew, dust rose, and in the thunder of the collapse, swords rasped free of scabbards. The field narrowed to men against men, bronze clashing on bronze, cries of rage and pain rising like smoke.

The Trojans had been too few, too poorly armed, too unready. Odysseus fought her way through them with grim efficiency, her blade flashing, her shield heavy with dents. She felt the resistance of flesh, the jolt of bone, the heat of sweat and blood. And yet - she could not call it difficult.

Brutal, yes. But not difficult.

She almost pitied them. Almost.

When the fighting ebbed, when the fortress was theirs and the shouting faded into moans and orders barked by captains, Odysseus lowered her sword. She turned slowly, scanning the wreckage. Greek soldiers moved among the fallen, some binding wounds, some looting, some simply staring as though their eyes had not yet caught up to their hands.

The ground was littered with bodies, bronze gleaming dark with blood.

Her gaze caught on one figure apart from the rest.

Patroclus.

The boy was clutching a spear in both hands, knuckles white, as if letting go would shatter him. His face was pale beneath the spatter of gore, his eyes wide and distant. He did not seem to see the ground, or the dead, or even the living around him. His chest rose and fell too fast, shallow, panicked.

He was covered in blood. 

---

(Side Story)

Gold and Myrrh

 

The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and dried lavender, softened by the warm afternoon light that streamed through the lattice window. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden beams, catching on the edges of the worn furniture like tiny sparks of memory. On the bed, King Laertes lay propped against pillows. Frail. Thinner than the warrior, his age was supposed to be. The lines of time and sickness carved deep into his face. His eyes, clouded and unsteady, still held a flicker of warmth that reached out across the distance of his confusion.

Odysseus, fifteen and quietly resolute, stepped into the room carrying a small wicker basket. Inside, nestled among green leaves, lay nectarines she had picked with her mother and sister that morning from the orchard. Their sun-blushed skins were smooth, polished by her careful hands, and the faint scent of summer clung to them.

She isn’t sure why she came here. She told herself that she just wanted to make sure the fruits wouldn't go to waste, but it was a lie. She would usually visit her father only when their people needed a king. Sometimes she would guide the wandering mind of the king towards the right direction, and sometimes she acted on his behalf… even if he genuinely didn’t comprehend it. 

She used to be afraid of him - no, not him. She used to fear his hatred and disappointment. At first, she was just confused, then she decided to push herself to always do better, but now… she wasn’t sure. He was weak. Even his anger lacked any spark. He had to sleep in a different bedroom because he was getting too weak to walk up the stairs. 

At first, the cursed illness just took his memory and borrowed his mind, but now it has eaten his body too. 

She hated seeing him like this. The eyes that used to look at her with hatred, confusion, or disinterest weren’t matching the man her mother described with warmth that made her ache. His frail body didn’t match the brave warrior, hunter, and companion that his comrades and other kings would tell her about.

Laertes’s eyes lifted slowly toward her. He did not seem to recognize her, and for a heartbeat Odysseus felt the familiar pang that came with his forgetfulness. Yet as his gaze fell on the basket, something softened in his expression. A weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah,” he said, voice rough and hoarse, but carrying a spark of amusement. “Looks like I’ll have to take care of the harvest, or these fallen fruits will attract wasps. The last thing I would want is for my little girl to be scared of walking outside.”

Odysseus placed the basket on the stool beside the bed and sat down, retrieving a small knife. She began slicing the nectarines into small, easy-to-handle pieces, careful with each cut.

“They’ve already been taken care of. Your wife made sure of it,” she said gently, speaking as though continuing a conversation rather than correcting him.

Laertes shook his head, a hint of mock indignation in his faint smile. “Nonsense! My beloved Anticlea just gave birth to our second child! She shouldn’t be exhausting herself like that.” He paused, a chuckle following, and then added with playful offense, “Ah, but stubborn she is! Just like her scoundrel of a father.”

Odysseus couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped her lips. “A thoughtful husband, truly,” she murmured.

Laertes’s smile deepened, proud and unabashed. “Of course. I make sure to prove my love to my family every day.”

Odysseus, still holding the nectarine, felt the sweetness of the fruit mingle with the bitterness in her chest. The words, meant to be simple and warm, carried weight she could not share. She simply nodded, slicing the fruit with careful precision, offering a piece to him.

What a nice world he must be living in right now.

Laertes took it in his thin fingers, raising it to his lips with a faint gleam in his eye, and chewed thoughtfully.

The afternoon stretched on, golden and heavy, the world outside silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the orchard. Odysseus continued to cut and serve, listening to him speak fragmented stories. Some are detailed and others are barely audible.

Laertes chewed thoughtfully on a slice of nectarine, then sighed and shook his head slowly. “You know,” he murmured, “I think I should carve some new toys for my daughters, or at least sand the crib. It’s probably getting too rough. Might cause splinters.”

Odysseus carefully set down her knife and offered a small smile. “Everything you make is wonderful,” she said softly. “I’m sure your family treasures every one of your gifts.”

Laertes reached a trembling hand toward her, brushing it lightly over hers. “Thank you, my child,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

For a moment, the room was still, the afternoon light warm on the wooden floorboards. Then Laertes’s eyes shifted, unfocused, as if something outside the present had caught him. His brow furrowed.

“Where… where am I?” he asked, voice uncertain. “Where is everyone? And why am I lying in the guest bed at midday?”

Odysseus took a slow breath, her fingers tightening on the edge of the basket. She wanted to offer him peace, a thread of comfort in a world slipping from him. “Your wife and daughters are in the garden,” she said gently. “Under the shade of your trees. The fruits are ripe, and they’re enjoying themselves. Your friends… they’re drinking senseless, so you asked to be left here for a moment, in this room, to rest.”

Laertes’s lips curved into a faint laugh, breathy and warm. “That sounds right,” he said. “They haven’t changed a bit. Those rascals.” 

He looked at the cut fruits beside him and then again at her.

“You prepared those for me?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

His brows furrowed. But then he looked more apologetic. 

“I’m not sure I've met you yet, young lady. Could you tell me your name? I would like to know who was assisting me while I was sleeping here like an elder.”

There was a quick moment when the princess’s lips quivered, but as fast as it happened, she made it stop. With a face of kindness, she answered. 

“I’m Nobody, my king.”

“Nobody?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me, Nobody. Why are you hiding your face behind your hair?” She startled for a second. The old man smiled.“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” He then looked at her much more gently. “Please show me your face.”

Odysseus hesitated at first. And yet she followed the request. She moved her bangs behind her ears, uncovering her cursed eyes. The man looked at her silently. The girl felt her hands shivering. She suspected what she was going to hear, but it didn’t make it any less scary. 

“You are a wise woman, aren't you?”

The princess froze. Her eyes widened. 

“I can tell it from the way you look at everything. You hide it well, but I can see that curiosity and experience.” He smiled weakly. “You claimed to be Nobody. And yet it’s obvious you are a competent person. My first child… She had the exact same look when she was little. Barely welcomed this world and already willing to face any challenge.”

”He closed his eyes for a moment, a smile softening his features. “If even one of my girls grows up to be like you, I’d be the luckiest man alive.”

Odysseus pressed her sleeve to her face for a moment, hiding the tears she could not stop, before turning back to him with a steady, gentle smile.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The lines in Laertes’s face softened further. His breathing evened, and sleep began to claim him again, quietly, without struggle. Odysseus leaned forward and pressed a cool kiss to his forehead, a simple gesture she had long felt unworthy of doing.

She rose quietly and stepped into the hall, settling herself on the bench opposite the room’s entrance. The afternoon light fell across her shoulders, but offered no warmth. She stared at the closed door, the quiet pressing in like a weight she could neither shift nor escape.

He was dying. And she hated that she knew it.

Her hands rested on the wicker basket, still filled with nectarines, and she felt the bitter ache of knowing these small, ordinary moments - the fruit, the laughter, the gentle conversation - even if he didn’t know who he talked to, it felt nice -but it would soon be all that remained.

Odysseus sat in the hallway, knees tucked to her chest. She had not moved for hours. Shadows had shifted and stretched, creeping up the walls like the arms of sleep. She didn’t know what kept her there - some instinct, some quiet dread, some invisible pull in the ribs of her chest that said wait.

Then, she smelled it.

The earthy smell of myrrh and the one of ash. Scents that didn’t belong to the palace hall or the room behind the wooden door.

Her heart beat slow, deliberate. She rose to her feet and stepped toward the chamber, each footfall gentle, as though the floor might collapse under the weight of what she was about to see.

When she entered, Laertes’s chest no longer rose. His face looked calm - gentler, almost boyish in death. But she hardly noticed him at first.

There, by the bedside, stood a stranger.

He looked no older than twenty. Silver hair spilled over his shoulders, catching the lamplight like water over steel. From each side of his head, wings sprouted - small, white, but now they were hanging loosely like they had no strength in them. He had tattooed eyes on his shoulders, and he was covered in jewelry despite the comfortable and plain chiton he was wearing. His skin was dusk-pale, his posture elegant, fluid. His eyes shimmered, but any time she tried to focus on the colour, it would shift into something else. 

She knew who he was.

A messenger. 

A guide. 

Her kin.

Hermes.

Odysseus didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. She understood why he was there.

Hermes looked down at Laertes with serene solemnity despite his face having a slight smile carved like a theatre mask. In a gesture both ancient and automatic, he lifted his hand. Two gold coins appeared in his palm - shimmering, warm, perfect. A gift of peace, a payment for the ferryman.

But before he could place them, Odysseus stepped forward.

“No! Please.”

He turned to her, head tilted slightly. There was no judgment in his eyes - only the faintest glimmer of curiosity reflected on his never-changing expression, as though someone had interrupted a sacred rhythm.

“She doesn’t know yet,” Odysseus murmured. “My mother. Anticlea. She hasn’t been told.”

Hermes said nothing, waiting.

Odysseus walked to a small carved box atop a cabinet near the bed. Her fingers brushed over its lid before she opened it. Inside, among old brooches and buttons, were two golden hairpins - engraved with delicate apple blossoms. Simple, and yet the details proved the care put into making them.

“She gave him these,” she whispered. “For their first anniversary.”

She lifted them out with care, cradling them like offerings. Her voice trembled, but her hands did not.

“I remember being told... the coins aren’t about wealth. They’re about worth. That someone loved you. That someone still does. That you deserve to go on in peace.” She stepped closer to Hermes, holding out the pins. “I want him to have her love beside him. Not meaningless coins.”

Hermes gazed at her - not as a stranger, but as something older, deeper. His expression softened, and for a moment, the celestial mask slipped just enough to show awe. Gently, reverently, he took the pins.

With graceful precision, he bent down and placed one pin over each of Laertes’s eyes. The apple blossoms shimmered faintly in the half-light. His lips parted, whispering a prayer. His voice was beautiful and warm.

Then Hermes looked at her.

“You look tired,” he said softly.

Odysseus blinked, unable to answer at first. “I... I don’t know what I feel,” she admitted. “I hated how he would never tell me if he loved me. He would, for years, call me a bastard child, only to find new handmade toys on my bed. I hated not knowing what he felt towards me, but - but I never hated him. But still, I’m more worried about my mother. She will be heartbroken. I can handle it - I have to - I - I-”

Without speaking, Hermes stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was not ethereal, not distant - it was firm, honest, and warm. He smelled of gold, the lit campfire, and the herbal myrrh. For a moment, Odysseus stood stiff as though contact might undo her. Then she broke, her body leaning into him as if gravity itself had chosen sides.

“Sleep,” he whispered, voice a melody carried on a breeze. “Let Hypnos touch your heart. He knows how to soften the pain you buried.”

Her voice came muffled, small against him. “How do you know?”

“I know,” Hermes whispered, breath stirring the hair near her temple, “because I always feel tired when I grieve.”

Something inside her gave way then, like a rope snapping. She did not remember when her tears began, only that they were sudden and endless. They dripped hot onto her sleeve, her hand, onto Hermes’s shoulder. For a long moment, she thought herself weak for letting it show, but then she felt the god’s chest tremble against her. 

He was crying too.

Two beings, one mortal and one divine, holding one another in silence. No crown, no duty, no destiny. Just grief.

Darkness stole her gently after that, pulling her down like a tide. No nightmares. No heaviness. Just quiet.

***

When Odysseus awoke, the room was cold and Hermes was gone. Her father lay still, his features softened in peace, the apple blossom pins gleaming faintly on his closed eyes. For a fleeting heartbeat, she thought it had been a dream  -  but the sweetness of the fruits and the salt of tears still lingered on her skin.

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Then: a scream.

The world shifted.

A servant rushed in, face pale, voice trembling. Odysseus stood slowly, brushing her sleeve across her cheeks with a careful sweep, erasing any trace of weakness. Her back straightened, her chin lifted, her words emerging calm and controlled, though her throat burned raw.

“Tell the Queen,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Tell her... and the young princess. That their king passed away. And summon Mentor and Tereus. We must begin preparations for the funeral.”

The servant froze, lips trembling, before speaking in a meek, hesitant voice. “And... and the coronation... your majesty?"

The words struck her like a thrown spear. Odysseus paused mid-step, her hand tightening on the edge of the bedframe. She had known, of course. Known for years what must come. Knowing the weight would fall on her shoulders. Yet knowing was one thing. Standing here, with her father’s body cooling in the linens, and being called that - 

For a breath, she felt like a child again, knees in the dirt of the orchard, holding an apple too large for her hand.

But only for a breath.

She exhaled, steadying herself, and turned her gaze to the servant with a resolve that hid the fracture in her chest.

“Yes,” she said. “That too.”

And then she walked past him into the hallway, her steps steady, her expression unreadable  -  though inside, she felt the crown pressing down already, invisible and unyielding, forged from grief itself. And it accompanied a new presence. She felt the coldness of a metal near her. But there was nothing like this in the hall. No weapons, no bronze mirrors. But she felt it. The blade is lurking somewhere near.

Always present. Always ready to end someone’s life. 

After all, despite their weight and importance, lives were so easy to crumble.

Notes:

I cried when writing the side story :'3

You can see my design of Hermes (and other characters from the story) on my Tumblr page

I hope you enjoyed this slightly unfocused chapter. There were many storybits that I wanted to introduce so they will have more sense in the future. There are some big things coming and I can't wait to present it to you.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading 😽
Comments would be very appreciated >///<
The next chapter is in progress.
And if you are interested you can hop on my Twitter or ask me about the story on Tumblr 🙈
https://twitter.com/IrinaHeroe
https://www.tumblr.com/dolihannah?source=share
See you next time.