Chapter Text
The first time Polites met Odysseus, he did not even go by the name Polites. In fact, he remembered very little of the meeting itself. He remembered what he did not like, and how those factors were mitigated afterwards, but that meant little to him in the moment.
All Polites remembered, really, was chaos. He did not even know what chaos as a word was, but he knew things were anything but normal. People were screaming, fleeing, and fighting–who was fighting who, the child was not even sure. He just knew to run. That was the last thing his parents had said, and so he listened. He was good at listening, good at doing what he was told, good at following orders. So, listen he did. He ran, and ran, and ran until his legs could not anymore.
Fortunately, he was small, and that came in handy. It meant he could easily dodge the larger soldiers rushing to and fro, could duck away from falling licks of flame that tore up buildings, he was not interpreted as a threat from either side as he desperately tried to find safety. His family had lived in the center of town, and it took no time at all before it was engulfed.
He ran until he no longer felt the heaviness of the wet sand clinging to his legs and the muscles went numb. He ran away from the fires and the buildings, the screaming and the blood, until he reached a camp. There were tents, horses, carts, and some supplies, but the vast majority of the settlement looked unoccupied, like the habitants were away. He stared, and before he could even think about his actions, he collapsed into the center of it. Rapidly, he was lulled to sleep with the sound of the distant screams and cacophony. The crash of nearby ocean waves, the ones that normally coaxed him to sleep, could do little to block out the sound. He wanted to get farther away, but he couldn’t. He was told if he was ever in trouble to find people, so, find people he did. He found the camp, and let his legs give out.
When he woke up, it was to gruff voices, some distorted from behind metal helmets.
“What do we do with a child?”
“He’s not with us. He’s the enemy, I think I know what-”
“You forgot that he’s a child, you dipshit-”
“What’s even the difference? He will grow up to be-”
Silence descended when he opened his eyes. In the stiff moment, he scrambled backwards, right into another body. This one was not like the others, not covered in leather and plate mail, not reeking of iron and ash, and so, so much bigger. This boy was close to him in height and stature, and without thinking, he ran behind the other boy, grasping at his shoulders as if using him as a shield.
That caused an uproar. “Unhand the prince-”
“Stop.” A commanding voice said, and he ducked down further, behind the boy. The boy turned towards the new voice on instinct and without hesitation. “Odysseus, this boy is the same age as you. What would you do with him?”
The boy–Odysseus–took a deep breath. “What do you mean, father?”
Polites looked up at the figure who was more muscle than man, really. He was draped in gold and bruised, but standing. That meant he had fought and won. “I mean, would you spare him, or not? He is our enemy, and he is a child. I took you with me so you can learn more, and based on what you have learned, what would you do with him?”
He let go of Odysseus as if burned, and ran backwards behind a nearby tree, but it felt as if there were soldiers everywhere now–all around him, limping and moaning back towards camp as they regrouped. He realized the distant sound of screams had ceased, and in place of golden firelight on the horizon, nothing but thick smoke remained. He swallowed hard and grabbed onto the bark of the tree with trembling fingers.
“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Odysseus said, looking between his father and him. “Right?”
He shook his head. How could he have done something wrong if his family was attacked for no reason? Or at least no reason that he could remember. He just remembered being told to leave, and an ablaze arrow obliterating the door to his home behind him. “I–I have not.”
There was a scoff. “They all say that, kid,” said a voice from afar. Someone told them to be silent.
“I don’t even know what I could have done wrong,” he said, a tremble beginning in his voice. No, no –his parents told him to be strong, even in the face of powerful people, and a prince certainly was powerful, so if he wasn’t–then–then-
“He should be spared then,” said Odysseus, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Odysseus’ father nodded. “Very well. I will respect your decision, Odysseus.”
He said nothing. He simply held onto the tree, even as Odysseus approached him and reached out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ody. I can take you, if you want.” Not take care of you, but take you. He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
That appeared to bring Odysseus up short. “I mean, like a slave,” he said that so matter of factly that it felt like a slap. “I can take you, so you’re with someone your own age and not with who knows who. I will make sure you’re looked after and stuff.” Really, what more could he hope for? He still had his mother’s blood on him, Gods knew everything would come crashing down eventually. He was alive. That was a mercy.
“Um,” He reached out and shook Odysseus’ hand. “Very well. Thank…” he did not know if he should look at the King who introduced himself as Laertes of Ithaca, or if he should speak strictly to the Prince Odysseus. He tried to stand up straighter, and his muscles stretched and ached in protest. “Um. Thank you.”
“What will you call him?” The man asked.
Odysseus frowned. “What’s your-”
“No,” the king interjected. “You name him, Odysseus. He is your responsibility. You must give him a name.”
He stared and waited. Odysseus looked deep in contemplation. “You said that slaves are like how I learn to treat animals and tools, right? And that without animals and tools and goods a city isn’t worth much?”
A slightly exasperated sigh followed. “Not in those words, but perhaps.”
“So… I should treat him like I treat any citizen. Any member of the polis. What do you think of Polites?”
He stared. “I’m sorry?”
“The name. Polites. What do you think?”
It wasn’t his, but it was a name–it was a sign they would keep him alive. “I like it,” he said, sounding the name on his tongue.
“Good!” Odysseus beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well then, Polites, it is good to meet you. I’m Odysseus of Ithaca.”