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The wind was playing a game of tag through the carcasses of buildings, chasing the dust and ash from the fires of yesternight through abandoned streets. The city of Troy had fallen. Its abandoned, burned-down husk lay there to be taken, a spoil of war for those brave enough to dirty their hands.
They didn't plan such destruction, at least Polites hoped so, but humans plan and gods change the course of fate. In the heat of the battle, some braziers must have been overthrown and no one could afford to bother with dousing the flames. In the heat of the battle, when Ares' bloodlust sang through their veins and fresh blood stained their hands and souls, the fire took a life of its own, consuming everything in its wake.
In the heat of the battle, when they all shed their humanity and became monsters.
Victory secured and celebrated, now Polites just… wandered through what was left of the city. Without purpose and without a goal in mind. Without a weapon, even. And wouldn't his friends berate him for such a careless act had they known? But the sword, his constant companion these past ten years, suddenly grew too heavy, too accusing. A burden to carry.
He wound up in front of what must have been a temple, the pillars of the colonnade still standing tall and proud, gallantly supporting remnants of the roofing. A sombre place, encroaching inside felt sacrilegious.
Without hesitation, Polites went in.
Eerie silence ruled over the temple. Dedicated to which of the Olympians impossible to tell due to the absent effigy, the marble pedestal empty, accusing. Debris from the caved roof like corrupted offerings for a last-minute miracle littered the ground. Everything was blanketed by a grey layer of ash and soot. Except for a tiny spot of brightness directly in front of the vacant pedestal, an alluring droplet of sunshine that was somehow left behind. It drew Polites' attention like a siren song.
A flower.
Polites went down, crouching in front of the resilient herbage to take a closer look. “Amazing,” he whispered, a smile slowly spreading on his face. “The life is amazing,” he said aloud, merely for the want of it being stated.
From utter destruction, a new life could still emerge. From the worst, from dust and ashes and pain, truly amazing things could still start, Autolycus, Odysseus' grandfather, said to him that summer they spent at his place. One sweltering, restless night, when both Polites and Eurylochus were beyond worried for Odysseus, who was feverishly tossing and turning on his bed after an encounter with a wild boar. An encounter that was victorious, but not without mishaps – Polites froze in fear, his body locking up underneath the scrutinous gaze of the wild animal, unable to move even a hair's breadth. Odysseus pushed him out of harm's way, ending up with a jagged scar on his leg. In the end, Eurylochus had to carry Odysseus on his back most of the way back to Autolycus' palace, his still bleeding wound marking their trail with crimson droplets, luring the fever to the wounded.
And yet, it was the start of something truly amazing, for Athena herself graced Odysseus with her mentorship afterwards.
Still, the gods were capricious and fickle, blessing their chosen ones with their favour one moment, abandoning them for the slightest misconduct the next. And while Odysseus seemed cunning enough to remain in the goddess' grace, not even his luck might be infinite. All that was needed for it to run out was just one ill-fated decision.
The scrunching of sandals on the layer of fine ash that covered the ground drew him back to the present. “Eurylochus,” Polites acknowledged the other's presence. No need to look at the newcomer, many would sift through the ransacked city in search of him, but only two people would find him without fail. Out of them, Odysseus was engaged in a council with other kings, fine-tuning the last details before they all, finally, head home.
Eurylochus hummed in greeting. “You fine?”
“Look,” Polites pointed at the flower, not bothering to rise from his haunches, avoiding the answer. “Isn't she amazing?”
Eurylochus had to lean over him to see the herbage. “… It's just weed.”
Polites shook his head. "It's a new start. Born from destruction, growing from the ruins." He reached his hand towards Eurylochus in a silent request to be helped back up, still avoiding eye contact.
Eurylochus helped him without further prompting, the silence between them not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken words.
“I want…” Polites took a deep breath, their hands still clasped firmly. As if Eurylochus was a lifeline worth clinging to. “I want to believe in goodness. I want to believe we could be kind, that we could lead from the heart and see what starts.” He finally looked at his friend, expression no longer haunted, but determined. “I want to greet the world with open arms, even if it kills me.”
Eurylochus shivered, hoping that the chill that ran along his spine was not a premonition, but a mere gust of wind, chasing the ash through the conquered city.