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Chapter Text

Patroclus was an interesting person. He knew that from the moment he saw him at Scyros. During their campaign against Troy and many years spent in and among the tents, most men, minus some , found him pleasant to be around. 

It was easy to notice; although aware of that, Odysseus still found himself surprised by it at only few, particular times. 

“I was looking for you, earlier,” he told Polites during an evening fire. 

“Huh?” He looked up from the flame. “Really? When? Was it important?”

“No, not really.” He had already forgotten the reason. “Around noon.”

“Ah! I was with Patroclus. We were discussing the Anatolian medical plants.”

Among the weird quotes from his best friend, it was one of those that Odysseus left without a comment for. Eurylochus only raised a brow at that and waved a hand as an answer. 

Intrigued, Odys was eager to speak to the young man the next day. He found him with the slave girl in a more isolated place. He never bothered learning their names, but he did recognise her face. The first of the girls Achilles had claimed, even though everyone knew he wouldn't sleep with them. Some still thought that he would from time to time, at least, but those closer to them, like Odysseus, knew the truth. 

“Am I interrupting?” 

They sat on the ground, looking at the sea. Their heads turned to him, surprised. Odys noticed a little wooden toy within Patroclus’s grasp before the dark-haired man hesitated with an answer.

“Actually...  Can you help us with something?" And he asked after the nod. "Say ‘a wooden horse’.”

“A wooden horse?” he repeated after a pause, waiting for the trick to show itself. 

“Heard that?” Achilles's companion looked at the girl, his voice high and carefree. “The accent is placed on different syllables. Try again, ‘wooden horse’.” Each word was said with firm pronunciation. The girl repeated shyly, barely opening her mouth, but almost catching it right.

“My wife pronounces it differently,” he admitted, seizing every opportunity to talk about her. “Spartans’ speech is… bizarre. Have you heard this before?” At an uncertain shake of the head, the King of Ithaca continued with his stories, happy to have other listeners. “My sister teases her about it constantly. One day, when she and Eurylochus- Have I ever told you about the history of their marriage?” The head moved once again. “Ha! You see, I have to keep you up to date! Listen then, both of you…”

When does a man become a monster? 

This question appeared in Odysseus’s head multiple times during the war, more and more with each year of constant fighting. 

It was a great war, a true glory for a man to participate in, well, according to Agamemnon. The King of Ithaca was smarter, however. He knew a typical show of power when he saw one. He observed the soldiers not only during battles, but also in their more peaceful times. He saw the changes in their eyes. The shifts in their mentality with each day of constant, never-ending battles. 

There were more calm moments in the camp. Odys barely remembered them, but he knew there were at least a couple. The evenings when even Agamemnon seemed content with everything. He and Achilles were seated as far from each other as physically possible that one night, he recalled. It was for the better. He remembered smiling with ale and then laughing at something Diomedes had said just a moment earlier, but the percentage in his blood made him realise the joke with a little tardiness. 

He couldn’t help himself and looked to the other side of the fire, but very briefly, not wanting to be caught staring at the Aristos Achaion and his lover. He observed as Achilles whispered something into Patroclus’s ear before leaning back and lifting the corners of his mouth, as Patroclus snorted and rolled his eyes. They reminded him of the early days of his relationship with Penelope. He missed her so much. 

But at the same time, there were some shadows over them. Odysseus couldn’t pin this feeling exactly, and yet he just knew there was something wrong. He waited until most of their company was drunk enough to not listen in. After Achilles left the group, he took the chance to talk to the boy with dark hair. 

“It’s great to relax once in a while, isn’t it?” he nonchalantly stated, taking the Prince’s place. 

Now without Achilles near him, Patroclus’s good mood disappeared. “Yes, it's a very… pleasant evening.”

“I mean, if even Agamemnon is happy-” a loud laughter cut him off. “Well, there he is.” He let out a sigh. “So, Patroclus, how do you find this war? The greatest of them all?”

The boy shrugged, confused at the question. “All wars are violent. There is no greatness in them.” 

Odysseus was fully expecting this answer, so he smiled gently before patting the other’s back. “And yet it is considered an art by most men.” 

“Most men are cruel.”

Nodding, the ruler of Ithaca answered: “Hm, indeed, they are. There is a very thin line, you know. In being a hero and a monster.” 

His voice went much, much quiet, hard to understand and hear, even from next to him. “I’m scared Achilles will cross it.” 

“You really think so lowly of him? Impossible.”

“I’m just a man. I’m not a warrior-”

“Trust me, neither am I; being a warrior of the mind is hard enough as it is.”

“But you do fight, you don’t notice the difference.”

“You’re wrong, but please do continue.” 

Patroclus didn’t. He glanced at him, searching in his eyes for a trap. “I just want it to be over. For Achilles to survive and be the same man I once knew,” he finally admitted, clasping his hands on his knees.

Odysseus pretended to want to say something, so the exiled heir of Opus would finish his thought. 

“Tell me, King of Ithaca, have you ever seen a boy you played with as a child come to you, covered in blood, himself untouched, with a gleam in his eyes, telling you all about his great joy in killing men? And then you realised all these men couldn’t come home to their loved ones. It's like I’m losing him, slowly, but I am. And it terrifies me.” 

“Sacrifices are just a part of war.”

“He keeps repeating what has Hector ever done to him. I-I’m scared he’ll find out soon.”

“We shall see,” Odysseus breathed out, reaching his hand to squeeze gently Patroclus’s shoulder.

Seeing the fury and rage consume Achilles, he knew precisely what Patroclus meant.

“Who did this?” 

“Hector,” Menelaus answered.

Odysseus, with his mind still fogged from the battle, realised it was the first and the last time he saw Achilles as just a man. Then the rest was just a monster in golden armor. 

“Who does he think he is?!” Agamemnon’s voice carried through the tent, after Odysseus dragged him out of Phytian’s, after hearing Achilles’s words about letting them die instead of Patroclus. 

“He’s grieving,” Odysseus hissed, now losing his patience.

“You could’ve let him go kill Hector!”

“And do what during that?! Kill everything in blind rage? Have you lost your mind? Hector won’t escape the fate. And Achilles is in no state to face him today.”

“Since he’s so sure of his divinity, he should have no problem with it.”

“Pride is a poison, you, of all people, should know that.”

“Watch yourself-”

Taking advantage of the opportunity of Neo’s absence, he played with a wooden horse one night after the death of the Aristos Achaion. The little figure left behind by the once exiled and now dead Prince of Opus. He took a moment to think about the purpose of the bloodshed that started all those years ago. There was enough of it now. Destiny finished its doing. And he missed his wife. 

“Agamemnon is looking for you,” he was informed after a second of silence beforehand, by Eurylochus, who had just joined him at the grave. “The mourning is over. He’s expecting a strategy.”

“Tell our men to chop as many trees as they can find,” he said as he kept fiddling with the toy. “This war must end for everyone’s sake.”

The infant in his arms was cradled tightly in all blankets he could’ve found, as tightly as he once held Telemachus. The boy reminded Odysseus of him from afar; peacefully laying in the crib, harmless, and calm. From a much closer distance, however, Prince Hector’s features were too recognizable to Odysseus. But, over there, with the crib, his mind kept repeating Patroclus’s words. 

What has Hector ever done to him?

What has this child ever done to anyone?

Maybe he just missed his family. Maybe his paternal instincts were killing him, thinking about what if it was Ithaca? what if it was Hector who had found Telemachus? It made him ignore the thunder outside, the fear of the gods had no importance to him when the child, not crying, somehow still not crying, raised clumsily its chubby hands towards him. The lack of wails, of distress was suspicious, but it only deepened the wound of the absent father.

What he was supposed to do? Leave it to die of hunger, cold, or simply be killed by another soldier? Drop the infant from a wall?

He would be forever grateful he found him before Neoptolemus did. That boy was even crazier than his father in battle.

At first, he tried to hide it. But, as his crew noticed the child, so did everyone else during the last days of finishing off the Trojans and looting the ruins. Finally, he decided to cut the charade and brought the little boy almost everywhere with him. 

“Listen, Odys,” Diomedes looked at him with disbelief and furrowed brows. “I understand you like very… innovative gifts, my friend, but… but a living child? What are you even going to do with it?”

“I was gone for ten years, my friend, I have to make amends with my wife, y’know?” he laughed it off with a smug smile. The lies for his friend sting only for a second. “A little souvenir here and there.”

“Ah, I see,” he grinned, but stayed a little taken aback. “So… Finally going home, huh? I bet you’re already halfway there with your mind. Tell my regards to Penelope. I would visit, but, well…”

“Yes, Diomedes, after ten years, I also don’t look forward to seeing you anytime soon.”

“Aww, miss you already, Ody.”

Eurylochus stayed distrustful, and Odysseus noticed that right away. He told him and Polites, of course, the true bloodline of the child. “You have to change his name,” he growled instantly. “Astyanax found in Trojan ruins is like instantly admitting the truth.”

“There was another name before, right?” Polites took a chance to speak. “Nobody remembers it now.”

“So I’ve heard,” Odys’s brother-in-law answered. “You’d have to ask the Trojan slavegirls.” 

In secret, he had done that before the departure and officially ending the great war. He had to make up a story. A lost child he found among ruins. On the other side of the city, far, far from the palace. He wanted to name it to commemorate the fall of the city. A little more trustful after that, the girls gave him the name: Scamandrius.

When a club almost smashed Polites’s head, Odysseus felt the blood leave his face. He survived, miraculously, as he suddenly pulled back just millimeters out of the monster’s weapon’s reach. The whole fight seemed miraculously overlooked by someone, if Odys would have to guess. The giant was slayed and the crew took as much as they could and carefully, but quickly, left. 

Later, during the night, Odysseus kneeled next to the provisory wooden crib, thanking whatever god blessed them during the battle. Hearing a faint sound of lyre and harp, the man turned his head to see if he was alone. As he saw nothing, he slowly looked back at the child. In the moment he did, however, he jumped in place seeing a familiar face on the other side of its bed. The godly person who visited him stood on the left side of the crib. 

“Nice kid,” Hermes said, lifting an eyebrow, as he leaned forward to inspect the baby better. He wriggled his fingers making the child laugh sweetly. “Will take a lot after his father for sure,” he snorted, shifting his gaze at Odys. 

“Thank you for your help,” Odysseus said instead of a comeback. 

“Nah, you very well might have died out there, for all I care.”

Chapter Text

Six hundred men had left for war and six hundred men returned. It was a piece of pleasant information for the ruler of Ithaca, it made him smile without a shadow of regret when they saw the island’s bay. The child currently in Polites’s care, its cooing made Odysseus smile. He took the child back into his arms, and got ready to get off the ship.

“So, which version will Penelope and Ctimene hear?” Eurylochus asked, half-whispered as only a few meters divided them from home. 

“We’ll see,” he replied, feeling his mouth close tightly and fixing the grasp on the child. “For now,” he declared a little louder so Polites, who had just appeared on his right, would hear that. “The official version: a token of victory and triumph of Greece.” 

Both men nodded, eyes fixed forward. 

“And nobody even dares to mention the cyclops,” he added with a hiss, as his teeth clenched tight. The face formed a half-fake smile, ready to present to the crowd who gathered to welcome the fleet. “Nothing happened there, just an empty aside from food, creepy cave, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Eurylochus murmured. “Anything else?”

“Don’t tell Penelope about my stories, she won’t let me breathe in peace with her teasing,” he chuckled, straightening his back. Their ship was the first to draw up to the home port. “Here we go,” Odysseus mumbled, as the plank for them was placed. 

Penelope was right in front of him when his feet touched the homeland. The boy to her right, and even if he didn’t see him during those… twelve long years, he could easily recognise Telemachus based on the boy’s similarities to both of them. 

“Ilion has fallen!” he announced proudly, supporting the infant with one hand, while the other was risen skyward. “Helen has returned to Sparta, safe and sound!” 

When the crowd was too preoccupied with cheering, his eyes went to his wife’s, but hers were focused on the little human in his arm. The boy, though, was staring at him like he was a statue of god during a prayer. Odysseus smiled at him, giving the child to Polites, and crouched to match the height of his son. He motioned for him to come closer, and Telemachus ran straight into his arms, almost making him fall on his back. Odysseus laughed sincerely, holding him with all his strength, keeping his forehead in his hair. 

Then, when he looked up to see his spouse, he tensed at the way she glared at him. It was, just like he feared, the look of hurt. He slowly got up, lifting Telemachus with him, still keeping his eyes locked with Penelope. Her lips sealed into a thin line before she closed her eyes and turned on her heel, heading back to the palace. 

He wanted to call after her, but looking at the gathering all around him, he didn’t want to cause such a scene in public. He briefly met Eurylochus and eventually Ctimene’s eyes. His sister, confused, swiftly shifted hers to look from the child with Polites, then at her brother and to her husband. 

“Ody,” she walked closer to him. “I think I’d like to know what happened,” she said slowly, with pauses. 

“Later,” Odys mouthed at her, before letting go of Telemachus. “How about you show me around the palace, huh? I’m afraid I forgot how it looked.” The boy’s face lit up like a candle, taking his hand and pulling him in that direction. With the corner of his eye, he saw Ctimene taking the child from Polites.

After a short trip around the palace, which he could never forget, he had built it himself. Anyway, he was happy to see his son, at last, to be able to meet him properly. They parted ways at the entrance to the royal chambers. Odysseus instructed him to find his aunt and uncles, and when his son was out of sight, he let out a sigh. He knocked, out of politeness. He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get any, so he pushed the door open. His wife was sitting on the bed, their living bed like their love is , her head in her palms. 

“Penelope-”

“Tell me, at least: did you miss me?” she asked, not gracing him with her gaze. Her voice was lowered and changed by her fingers covering her mouth. Odysseus could hear the shaking in it with ease despite it.

“More than you know,” he swore. “That child-”

“I know I can’t blame you-”

“It’s not mine.”

“What?” She finally lifted her head. Her dark eyes were wide open in shock. 

“It’s Hector’s. King Priam’s son,” he explained, shifting his chin to his collarbone to look at the ground beneath him. “I-” He swallowed his saliva, which seemed to be much harder at that moment. “I found him. Among the ruins of the palace. It’s a miracle he survived. It’s just an infant, a boy. I-I couldn’t just leave him there or just… just kill him, y’know. And I didn’t trust anyone else to take him.” He would’ve trusted Patroclus. “After all these years of hatred, a Trojan child makes an easy target. I didn’t know what to do. And there I thought that I could raise him as my own.”

The despair didn’t leave her features. “What if he turns against us? What if he’ll burn our home? A Trojan heir, Odysseus,” she spat out the last words with venom in her tone. “How do you want to manage this?”

“Nobody knows,” he admitted, rubbing his forehead. He shook his head, placing his palms on his hips. “Only you, Eurylochus and Polites. Nobody else needs to know. Nobody will turn him against us if nobody knows.”

“The gods surely do, Odysseus!” 

“I’ll take care of the gods, Penelope.”

She frowned, still not convinced. “I’ve waited for you, for ten years-”

“Actually-”

“Ten years, Odysseus,” she kept her voice low. “And you come to me with such an unexpected event.” 

“His name is Scamandrius and don’t worry. It’s not the original one.” He sat down next to her. “Ctimene has him for now. I supposed Telemachus could use a sibling.”

“How could you know that?” she snapped suddenly. “You weren’t here to raise him.” 

Speechless at the offense from her, Odysseus stared at his spouse, feeling lost. “I-”

“I missed you, truly.” she continued, the venom leaving her tone. “The war was long. Too long. The suitors began to come. And then-”

“Who?” Odysseus cut in, slowly raising his head from his hands. “Who dared?”

“Nobody important,” she said dismissively, too uncomfortable to speak about it. “What is important, however, is that…” She trailed off, blinking slowly. “Nevermind. I forgot what I wanted to say, sorry.”

The lie from his own wife, on the other hand from his to Diomedes, hurt badly. Right into his heart. 

“Well, whatever are we waiting for?” She got on her feet, making slow steps towards the door. “Introduce me to your son.”

“Penelope, wait,” Odysseus called after her, making her freeze in the middle of the room. He got up, making his way to her figure. He placed his hands on her waist, squeezing gently a couple of times as if to make sure she was real.

The woman’s arm went around his neck, but not pulling him closer. They kept the little distance there was between them, staring into each other eyes. After a moment, Odys put his forehead against hers, making her sigh. 

“I’m happy I have you,” he said, lifting his palms to her cheeks, caressing them with his thumbs. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” she repeated after him with a fond smile.

"And my mother...?"

Penelope's smile fell. 

“Remember to support his head, Telemachus,” Polites gently moved his hands so he held the baby correctly. 

“And loosen that grip a little, you’re going to hurt him,” Eurylochus instructed him from his chair. Reaching forward, he scratched Argos behind his left ear. The dog wagged his tail happily, sitting closer to his legs. 

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” his aunt patted his head. 

The rulers of Ithaca observed the interaction with warmth inside their chests. They entered the dining room at the perfect moment to witness that sweet scene.

“Mom, look!” His voice was a little loud, but more carefully so. The young man showed proudly the bundle of blankets in his arms. 

She walked to the boys, taking the younger for herself. She swayed a little to keep the sleeping child in that state. “I will have the servants prepare Telemachus’s old childhood bedroom.” 

“I will take care of it,” Ctimene said urgently, putting her hand on Eurylochus’s shoulder. “And my dear husband will help me.”

“Well, to be honest, I wanted to-”

“Well, it wasn’t a question, dear.” She dragged her confused partner out. 

Taking a hint, Polites stood up around the same time. “My friend, allow me to organise tonight’s victory feast in the name of Nike.” And then he left when Odys nodded. 

Argos, saddened by the lack of affection with Eurylochus’s absence, slowly ambled to his master. “Hey there, buddy,” Odysseus said with a high-pitched baby voice, lively scratching behind his ear. The father was soon joined by his son, who combed his fingers through the dog’s fur on the back. 

Penelope, holding Scamandrius as preciously as she once held Telemachus, sat down on the chair previously occupied by Eurylochus. “How is Helen?”

Straightening his back, Odys took a chair to sit down next to her. “Alive.”

Her eyebrow lifted itself, unimpressed. “I would like to believe so.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. A lot was going on in the end. I didn’t really stay behind to chit-chat with everyone. My men took the spoils for themselves and we left. After all these years, I couldn't wait to be away from Agamemnon for more than five minutes.”

“I shall write to her soon. After the emotions are more calm.”

Odys nodded, placing his head on her shoulder. “I love you,” he whispered, breaking his gaze from their older son attempting to catch tired Argos’s interest by petting his snout. 

“I know,” she chuckled, her temple on top of his.

“And then- Listen carefully, everyone! Achilles, the Great Achilles, he takes the sword, then! Then he slams it right through that wretched Prince’s throat!” 

A loud wave of awe and delight passed the huge room. A noise of applause. Odysseus tried very hard not to roll his eyes at that story. “Unfortunately, the Aristos Achaion is no longer with us,” he finished it for Eurylochus. And grave silence followed.

“What happened to him, father?” Telemachus asked, breaking it. He was sitting next to his mother with Scamandrius in her arms. 

Odysseus sat in the middle, his sister and brother-in-law on one side, his wife and sons on the other. He sighed, gritting his teeth before answering. “He was a victim of some god’s anger. Pride is a damsel in distress.”

“Why would they kill a Greek hero? Aren’t they gods’ favorites?”

“I-” he stammered, not knowing how to respond. “I think you would have to ask them one day.”

Unsatisfied with that answer Telemachus fell silent with a pout. 

“Of course,” Eurylochus decided to continue the tales, happy and drunk, and finally at peace. “Our Captain was no less mighty than him. I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories of how we conquered the beasts of the East. The battle was sweet! The Trojans didn't even see us coming! Such genius, right, Ody?”

The King was no longer listening. Instead, he observed with dread traveling down his spine as the stolen Trojan heir squeezed his little chubby fingers on the wooden horse Odysseus had brought back with him. Penelope only then noticing that, quickly snatched it from the infant, equally terrified as him, and threw it at a servant. “Burn it,” she rasped, her jaw tight. “Go burn that wretched thing this instant!”

Odysseus only watered his eyes a couple of times, shock filling him with fear right behind it. “It was hidden in my chest. Who had given it to him?” He looked around, but saw nothing suspicious. His wife, pale from the symbolism of the toy in the child’s hands, glared at him. 

“Don’t let a stray child doom your house,” he heard faintly from a weird sound, something like a wind, something like a choir. Odys's brows furrowed, now staring forward at the view of the outside. Looking at the owl observing him, in his mind he demanded the answers. He got none and the feast continued.