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I never thought a day would come where I would get sick of looking at sunsets.
Ithaca had brilliant sunsets. I remember running across grassy fields and meadows, seeing the golden light follow my feet as I sat on the ledge of a weathered stone column that was part of a temple dedicated to Athena. Bright-eyed Odysseus, they would call me. The ambitious son of Laertes.
I would spend my days resting upon that column, watching the way the seas seemed to stretch an impossible distance, and wondering if it were possible for man to sail as far as their eyes could reach. Sunsets were my favourite part of each day. I would lift my hand up to the golden rays and pretend I could feel fire upon my finger tips.
I have seen thousands of sunsets, now.
It is all I see, all I look forward to, as they signify the end of another day and the start of a new one.
I don’t know how I have managed to keep track of the days, but somehow, I have.
I chose a tree to mark the day I washed up on the island. All it took was a broken shell and a coconut tree. The same tree stands beside the shore, covered in marks. And the tree beside it. And the one beside that.
I have been here for too long.
I spend my days by the shore. Sometimes I busy myself, foraging island berries, gathering sticks and stones for my own entertainment. Several years ago, during the first few months of my stay on the island I spent an entire day gathering sticks and weaving ropes, trying to build myself some sort of contraption that could help me across the ocean and find my way home.
But when the tides receded into the ocean and the sun rose again the next day, all my progress had been reverted into nothing. The berries I took would be back on the bushes, the wood I carved would be back on the tree.
Even still, I refused to give up. The very next day, I tried it again. There was no difference.
I met her four days into my stay. Calypso, she called herself. The sole inhabitant of the isle of Ogygia, which she called Paradise. Night and day she would haunt me with the sound of her voice, enchanting and alluring to any mortal. I was a weak man. I would hear the sound of her voice and my legs would move on their own, following her into that cave.
She was beautiful. But not in a way that felt familiar at all.
Her face was perfectly structured in every angle. No matter where I looked, it always seemed like those glass like eyes were following me. Her beauty was too polished to be comforting. Her skin gleams with an unnatural radiance, flawless as marble, her eyes unnervingly sharp and cold, as if carved from crystal. There's no warmth, no imperfection to humanize her; she is a statue come to life, more an idea of beauty than something truly alive. Her presence unsettles me, for no heartbeat echoes behind her perfect form, no trace of struggle or time’s wear, just a pristine and distant vision. Much too perfect to feel real.
I missed my Penelope. I missed the sound of her laughter. I missed seeing the way she would cover her mouth whenever she laughed too hard, for fear of people hearing her habit of cackling with joy. I missed the way she would sneeze and be bashful about it after, fearing that people saw her make such an unsightly face, even for a millisecond. I missed her slightly crooked smile and the gorgeous rolls of her stomach, the dip in her hips and the warmth of her soft, tender skin. The beauty marks by the corners of her eyes, the freckles I would trace, comparing them to the constellations that sailors would follow to aid their journey home. The little hairs on her arms that would raise whenever I touched her. The scent of her skin, incense and barley flour. I missed everything about her.
I held on to the image of her like a man holding onto a fraying rope as he hangs over the raging ocean. Refusing to let go, even when his hand stung from gripping too tightly.
I wept, and I wept, and I would close my eyes and try to see past Calypso’s pale, straw-like hair and cold, seafoam eyes. I would look with my eyes half closed, so I would see less of the light, until her golden hair would turn into auburn brown, and her eyes would turn into pools of honey. Into my Penelope. My beloved Penelope.
She would press herself against me, whisper promises of immortality and endless pleasures. I would feel those cold hands stroking my skin, like shards of glass threatening to slice me open at any moment. The pleasures of a goddess were unlike anything I had ever known. As a boy, I used to wonder about those mortals who were seduced by goddesses. I was amazed by them—men touched by divine hands, chosen by beings of unimaginable beauty and power.
The stories painted them as blessed, their mortal flesh kissed by immortality, their desires fulfilled beyond human comprehension. I would dream of such things, envy the heroes who had lain in the arms of goddesses, thinking there could be no greater honor. But now, having lived it, I know the truth. It is not a blessing. It is a curse. There is no joy, no rapture in being claimed by something so far removed from human warmth. The intimacy is hollow, cold. It was akin to laying with a beast far stronger than you. What I once saw as privilege has become a prison, where I am nothing more than a plaything for gods who care nothing for the heart that beats inside my chest.
The love she promised me was empty. I had no choice but to receive it, like being force fed with a golden spoon.
My body would respond, drawn to her touch as if by some unseen force; muscles tensing, breath quickening. My skin would be damp with sweat and heat with every touch.
Yet my mind was far away, resentful and detached. Each caress felt mechanical, as though my flesh obeyed out of instinct rather than desire, and every kiss, though soft and enticing, left a bitter taste on my lips. This was a prison more than it was pleasure. The more she offered, the more my soul recoiled, trapped in a cycle where my body betrayed me while my heart seethed in quiet defiance.
I would close my eyes when it happened. Pretend it was my wife, pretend I was in bed with her on a warm, sweet night. But no matter how hard I tried to force that thought, she would touch me again, and the cold of her fingertips would destroy the image in my mind faster than anything else. I knew my wife would never be so cold.
Goddesses could not die.
I could not kill her. I did not try to.
For seven years, all I did was receive her, painfully and defiantly. I no longer resisted. My limbs ached with use, my body drained of life. I couldn’t push her away. All I could do was take it and weep in the aftermath, begging my wife’s forgiveness.
I would sit on the ledge of a cliff, watching the jagged rocks below. I would look past the distance and see the ocean, vast and unending, wondering if the sea god was privy to my torment. Did he find perverse amusement in my suffering? Were Gods capable of feeling such petty satisfaction?
Was my torment a source of entertainment for him, a cruel game to pass the time? The thought gnawed at me, adding weight to my already burdened heart. The idea that my struggle could be a mere spectacle for a vengeful god made my plight even more unbearable, as if my suffering had no end, orchestrated by the cruel whims of a deity who took pleasure in watching me suffer.
I would hear their voices. I’d hear the distant sound of my old friend, laughing beside my shoulder, talking about merrily drinking wine. The sound of my brother’s firm and assuring voice on my other shoulder. The sound of my mother's gentle song, singing about how she grieved herself to death. They would fill my ears, drowning the sound of the waves.
I would pray to Athena.
I had long lost my faith in the Gods, but Athena was different. She was a friend. She has always been a friend. She was there to witness the birth of my son. I prayed that she would forgive my transgressions and extend her hand towards me once more – or if not me, my family. If she could not help me, then I prayed her protection would befall my son, and my wife.
I had come close to the end, several times.
Once, I had walked into the ocean, hoping to end my life. I waded deeper and deeper, the cold saltwater rising around me, each step a silent plea for release. Yet, unlike the relentless waves that had sought to claim me seven years ago, now the ocean seemed indifferent, almost mocking in its embrace. Instead of dragging me down into its depths, the waves seemed to spit me back onto the shore, a cruel reminder that my struggle was not yet over.
The sea, once a fierce adversary, now treated my attempt with a cold, indifferent force, rejecting my escape and casting me back into the world I so desperately wished to leave behind.
Time no longer felt real. There were days where my body felt too heavy to move. My beard was overgrown and thick with tangles, my body was reduced to skin and bones, my eyes were hollowed from the lack of peaceful sleep, yet I remained healthy. I remained alive. The island refused to let me die. She refused to let me rest. Calypso and the island were one and the same in my eyes.
During the second year, I was there for the birth of my twin sons. I numbly held the infants in my arms. God borne and perfect. My human blood had no leverage over the ichor of a god. They were not like any children I had ever met or known. There was a cool detachment in their eyes, a serene indifference.
Unlike human children, they didn’t cry for attention or reach out with eager hands; instead, they seemed to observe the world with a calm, almost aloof demeanor, reflecting their mother’s divine nature. They would always reflect their mother.
Each touch felt alien, each gesture more a reflection of Calypso’s enchantments than of any bond we might share. I struggled to connect with them, feeling like an outsider in this makeshift family, their very existence a reminder of my estrangement from the human world I once cherished.
But I could never blame them. I struggled to even blame the Goddess for my torment.
They were innocent, mere manifestations of a fate I had brought upon myself. I understood that my plight was not their fault, nor was it Calypso’s.
My situation was the direct consequence of my own actions, choices made in pursuit of glory. The gods, in their capricious ways, had merely played their roles in the grand tapestry of my life. I had sought the extraordinary, and now I bore the weight of that pursuit. The twins, with their otherworldly detachment, were but symbols of my own failings and the relentless cycle of consequence. I accepted that my suffering, my detachment, was a personal reckoning, not a punishment dealt by others. It took everything in me to realize that.
I think of my son. It has been twenty years. He must be a fine young man, now. Would he accept me as I am if I ever see him again? Would he take me in as a father, broken and battered as I am? Would Penelope still embrace me despite the weakness and filth that marred my body? Would my people still see me as their king even after I had abandoned them for years?
I held onto hope. It was all I had. All I would ever have. Hope was the last flickering flame that kept my soul alive.
Not even the divine could take that away from me.