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Chapter Text

Odysseus could not bear to use the infant’s name, not even in his thoughts. He’d heard the boy’s mother shouting it as Neoptolemus dragged her away. Her voice was desperate and fraught. Her screams cracked the air, splintering with such grief and affliction that Odysseus himself had flinched.

And, now, here he stood at the edge of one of Troy’s infamous walls, cradling an infant no bigger than Telemachus once was. The child even smelled like his son.

“Please, don’t make me do this,” he had begged Zeus, his insides splintering like Andromache’s voice. “Don’t make me do this.”

“The blood on your hands is something you won't lose,” Zeus replied indifferently. “All you can choose is whose.”

Odysseus could not disobey. History had shown that such a thing ended very, very poorly for anyone who tried. Spurning the clear, divine will of the gods, especially when the order was given by the Thunderer himself, was unspeakable, unthinkable.

He forced himself to look down at the infant. He was awake now. Odysseus’ heart shattered at the sight of such young, innocent eyes peering up at him. They were like dark amber, smooth and rich. The boy didn’t utter a sound or complaint. Not a single tear fell down his curious face. He was so peaceful, so calm despite the screams of his people drifting up from the city below. He trusted this stranger holding him implicitly. Odysseus couldn’t bear it, yet he couldn’t look away. Silently, he begged the infant to return to his slumber, to spare himself the terror and spare Odysseus the… What? What would a sleeping infant, as opposed to a wakeful one, do for him? What would it change about the heinous act he was about to commit?

Penelope would never speak to him again if she learned of this.

It had been so many years since he had seen her. Once, long ago, when he was a rash young man looking to prove his ability to woo women, he had been enthralled by her. Despite all her suitors, for she had nearly as many as fair Helen, Penelope chose to spend most of her time with him. They became quite close, though it wasn’t as Odysseus had imagined it. He soon realized that Penelope could not be, and did not want to be, the partner he was looking for. He didn’t hold this against her. How could he? Her mind was sharp, and her wit matched his own. There was nothing wrong with her. He loved her all the same, just not in the way he expected.

One day, while they were wandering the grounds of her father’s palace, Penelope broke down weeping. Grasping his arms, she begged him to marry her.

Odysseus thought it was a joke at first, but it didn’t take him long to realize her tears were genuine. He became understandably baffled. He demanded to know what madness had taken hold of her; she had only ever expressed aversion toward marriage.

In tears, Penelope explained that her father would not allow her to remain unmarried, and she feared the other suitors would try to stifle her if she chose one of them. She professed that she liked Odysseus, though this liking was not rooted in romance but in companionship. They were kindred spirits. Penelope swore that she would happily provide him with heirs, and she wouldn’t hold it against him if he continued his pursuit of love.

Odysseus’ heart went out to his friend. He could not imagine poor Penelope with her fire and cunning quenched beneath the thumb of some brutish man. He agreed to marry her, and not long after their wedding, they had Telemachus.

Odysseus wondered what Telemachus looked like now. Surely, he no longer resembled the baby that he and Penelope had once doted on together.

Odysseus looked down at the infant in his arms. He could hear Penelope’s quick voice now, sharp with outrage that he was even considering this:

“Monster!”

But Zeus’ words resurfaced in his mind, drowning out the imagined accusation.

“If you don't end him now, you can say goodbye to your beloved Telemachus.”

Though it sent bitter bile crawling up Odysseus’ throat, he knew he would rather have an angry friend than a dead son.

Slowly, achingly, he extended leaden arms past the edge of the wall to hold the infant out over the open air. A gust of wind blew past them, smelling of ocean salt. It was cool compared to the heat of the fires dancing through the city. The infant sniffled in discomfort at the chill and began to cry.

The noise was a knife to Odysseus’ gut. His lips moved as if to shush the child, but he couldn’t make a sound. Every bone in his body begged him to retreat from the edge, to bring the infant back to his chest where he could cradle him close and keep him safe from cruel godly whims.

But he couldn’t.

Odysseus sent a quick prayer to Artemis, pleading that she would ease the child’s fear and protect him from the oncoming pain. Perhaps it was inappropriate since the Goddess of Children was Zeus’ daughter, yet he could think of nothing else to do.

Odysseus returned his gaze to the crying infant who still wouldn’t go to sleep. He couldn’t help it: He closed his eyes. And he had never felt more cowardly.

“I’m so sorry…” He forced himself to utter the infant’s name; he owed him that much at least. It fell like a stone from his lips.

Odysseus let go.

The infant slipped from between his hands with a small shriek, and his arms jumped up in the air as though surprised by the sudden lack of weight. He didn’t open his eyes, but the infant’s fading wails painted a vivid, horrible picture in his mind. Then the cries cut off just as abruptly as they started.

Hot tears rushed to Odysseus’ eyes and spilled over. He choked on the sudden lump in his throat as his legs grew weak beneath him. He leaned heavily against the parapet, nausea churning in his gut. Then a morbid sense of duty crept over him, and ever so slowly, he cracked open his eyelids to look down.

All he could make out from the top of the tall wall was a smudge of lightness against the dirt and rocks at the bottom. It was the cloth that had been wrapped around the infant’s small body. It was simultaneously too little information and too much.

Odysseus spun around, his legs carrying him away from the sight as fast as possible. He pressed a hand to his mouth as vomit rose over his tongue.

He could still smell the infant on his palm.

Odysseus threw up through his fingers.

Artemis was already in the city of Troy. Although she was not interested in the war or the scandal of Helen and Paris, she remained to support her twin. As she observed the destruction of the once great city, she could not help but be impressed by the Achaean men’s cleverness.

Artemis frowned when she felt a prayer tickle her mind.

Odysseus of Ithaca had only ever called upon her once before, during the birth of his son, Telemachus. She had heard from his wife much more frequently. Penelope often pleaded with her for the strength to withstand her suitors or, in some rather anguished prayers, for Artemis to kill her.

Now, Odysseus was requesting that she soothe a certain child’s suffering.

Artemis flew across the city in seconds, appearing only as a buzzard to the mortals beneath her. Immediately, she sensed her father’s fading presence and zeroed in on the section of Troy’s walls where it was strongest. It quickly became clear why Zeus had been there when she spotted a man standing at the edge of the wall.

In his outstretched hands, King Odysseus—Athena’s champion, she recalled—held a crying infant.

“I’m so sorry…” He whispered the infant’s name, the wind carrying it to her ears.

Odysseus dropped the child. Artemis bit back a cry of outrage. She shouldn’t blame the mortal; men were weak against divine will. This was her father’s doing, and he had greatly overstepped his bounds. Children, all children, were under her protection. And although she was powerless to confront Zeus outright, she could still defy him in secret.

Artemis tucked her wings against her body and dove. She did not descend directly after the infant. No, it was too likely her father was watching from Olympus, ensuring that his command was carried out. Plunging after the infant would give her away, and Zeus would intervene before she could reach him. She needed to be clever about this. This had to be done at the last second, right when the infant’s death appeared inevitable to every onlooker.

The air screamed in her ears, but louder than that were the screams of the infant as he hurtled ever downward. Still, Artemis soared away from the infant’s path before wheeling around a stone’s throw from the ground. With several powerful downstrokes, her wings propelled her back toward the falling child. She kept low to the war-torn earth where her brown feathers lent the perfect concealment from gods and mortals alike. An instant before the infant struck the unforgiving ground, Artemis’ talons snapped out and seized the thin cloth swaddling him. Swifter than the mortal eye could follow, she tore the cloth away from his body and let it continue falling to the spot that would have been his grave. The naked infant’s shriek cut off as she caught him. She barely felt his weight, her strong wings carrying them both far away from the battle in seconds.

Once she felt they had enough distance from Troy, Artemis slowed down. Carefully, she placed the infant atop a small, flat boulder rising from the dirt and landed next to him. Troy was but a speck in the distance, distinguished only by its rising trails of black smoke. Artemis returned to her original form, and the infant turned his head to stare at her, his round cheeks wet and flushed with windburn.

Artemis gave him a gentle smile. “There we are, little one,” she cooed, picking him up and wiping his tears. She summoned a silver blanket, softer than silk, and carefully wrapped it around his naked body.

The infant babbled quietly, his large, curious eyes never leaving her face.

It hurt Artemis to know that, had the Ithacan king not prayed to her, this child would’ve died alone and in pain because of a war he’d had no part in, at the whims of a god that his young mind had yet to comprehend.

Artemis could only hope that her father’s ego had held true here and that he had seen Odysseus drop the infant and then looked away, already assured that his ruling had been obeyed.

Zeus, though all-powerful, was arrogant and impatient as any man. He believed his control to be absolute. That something did not happen as he commanded was incomprehensible to him. Artemis knew better. The world was not something that could be controlled. It was too big and too wild, ungovernable by any single entity. Everywhere, different decisions were being made and beliefs were being formed. One could not hope to control it all. Even the Fates needed three of them just to weave one person’s future.

Artemis waited with the infant for a long time to see whether Zeus’ fist would come down upon them. They remained where they were through the dawn and into the next day. It was only by her power that the infant did not grow hungry. Finally, after the sun began to set once more, Artemis felt confident that there would be no retaliation. The infant, who had fallen asleep in her arms, roused as she began to ferry him back to Troy. He burbled loudly, and Artemis quieted him with soft words, which she kept up until they reached the city’s bloodstained walls.

Artemis regarded Troy grimly. She could hear the armies of Achaea celebrating their victory loudly and drunkenly within. If she were to ensure the child’s continued safety, she needed to find someone who could at the very least protect him. The remaining Trojans had all likely been taken as either slaves or concubines, ruling them out as options and leaving her with only the Achaeans. The trouble there was that most of the Achaeans were much more likely to kill a Trojan child than they were to take him in. She needed someone sympathetic. Perhaps a lowly hoplite who had less emotional stake in the war.

Considering it had lasted for a decade, however, such a man would likely be very hard to find.

Artemis was persistent, though—to a fault, according to Hera, but an impatient huntress seldom caught her prey. Before she crossed into the city, she willed a shroud of invisibility over herself and the child. Then she strode into Troy, the silent infant cradled securely in her arms.

It did not take as long as Artemis expected.

Just beyond the bright epicenter of the revelries revolving around the Greeks’ enormous wooden horse, the goddess watched with intrigue as an Achaean man knelt before a weeping young girl.

“Are you alright?” He spoke softly, concern wrinkling his features. He set down the few bundles of possessions he had with him.

The tears painting the Trojan girl’s face glistened under the man’s torchlight. She gazed at him fearfully, seeming unable to reply. Her hair was in tangles, steadily falling out of the braids bundled at the back of her head. Soot blackened her hands, feet, and calves. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

The man offered her a small, kind smile. “It’ll be okay. I won’t harm you. I promise. Do you know where your parents…” He trailed off, sorrow flashing in his gaze, before clearing his throat. “Do you have any family around? Someone you can go to? Do you know where they are?”

The poor girl’s wide eyes only stared at him. Artemis didn’t think she was going to say anything, but then her mouth opened.

“I—”

“Eleni!”

Both the girl and the man jumped, turning to face the newcomer. An elderly woman rushed out of the shadows between the two broken buildings next to them. She placed herself between the man and Eleni, arms out wide to shield the girl from view.

“Don’t you touch her, Achaean dog!” the woman snapped.

The man raised his hands quickly, still gripping the torch in one. “I wasn’t— She was crying—”

The woman wouldn’t hear it. “Just leave her alone! Find a woman of age if you must satisfy yourself!”

The man’s expression twisted. “That is not what I—”

“Pol’tes! Wha’r you— What’re you doin’ over there?”

The man turned around as another Achaean soldier stumbled down the dark street toward them. He had clearly just come from the celebrations, his drunken feet tripping over each other with every step, though never fully sending him to the ground.

Artemis heard the elderly woman’s heart beat faster with fear, yet her stance never wavered in front of Eleni. The goddess would intervene if it looked like the two were in imminent danger, but first, she wanted to see what the man decided to do here. If his next actions seemed promising of his character, perhaps he would make a decent candidate for the infant’s caretaker.

“Polites,” the drunk soldier repeated when he came within range of the torchlight. He was slightly shorter than Polites but broader and older. He slung an arm around Polites’ shoulders. “What’re you doing?” He squinted at the elderly woman. “Don’ tell me you’re tryin’ to bed this hag! There’re plenty of younger women to go around—”

“Amphidamas!” Polites interrupted quickly, sounding equally offended and harassed. “My friend, perhaps some tact would serve you well. Don’t you think?”

Amphidamas barked a laugh. “‘Tact,’ he says!” He shoved Polites, and Polites, apparently not expecting it, stumbled back into the elderly woman, taking them both down. His torch hit the ground next to them. The flames sputtered but remained lit as the bracket rolled across the cobblestones.

Without the elderly woman in the way, Amphidamas’ eyes fell on Eleni. Polites picked himself up and offered a hand to the woman, who refused it and began trying to get to her feet on her own.

“Ahhh,” Amphidamas breathed. “I understand now. She’s pretty. Any chance you’re willin’ to share?”

Polites spluttered, bristling. “I’m not going to— She’s far too young, Amphidamas, that’s disgusting!”

It was Amphidamas’ turn to bristle. “Well, there’s no need to get all high and mighty about it! Just ‘cause— Just ‘cause you have the captain’s ear, doesn’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us!”

“That’s not what—”

“I don’ wanna hear it! If you’re not taking her as spoils, she’s fair game.” Amphidamas reached for Eleni, who recoiled with a whimper while the elderly woman struggled harder to push her aged body off the ground. “No point in letting something go to waste—”

Polites cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Leave her be, Amphidamas,” he said sternly.

Amphidamas ripped his arm out of Polites’ grasp. His ruddy cheeks flushed darker as he huffed with anger. “You don’ get teh decide that, Pol’tes. If you don’ claim her, she’s open for the taking by whoever wants her.”

“Amphidamas, please, you’ve already claimed plenty of women, why do you need this girl as well?” Polites appealed. “Just go back to the celebrations.”

Amphidamas scowled. “Oh, I get it. If you can’t have her, no one can, is that it? Well, guess what? You’re not the captain, so you don’ get teh tell me what the hell teh do!”

Artemis saw the punch coming. Polites did not. Despite their heated argument, clearly, he had not expected his comrade in arms to attack him. Amphidamas’ fist nailed Polites right in the jaw. Polites’ head snapped back with a short cry of surprise, but Amphidamas, in his alcohol-enhanced anger, did not stop there. He threw a second punch, burying his other fist in Polites’ gut while the man was still recovering from the first blow. Polites bent double, now breathless as well as dazed.

Artemis frowned. While Polites seemed like a kindhearted fellow, he didn’t appear to be the best warrior.

“What’s going on over here?” an authoritative voice called out.

Amphidamas and the women froze. Polites looked up, still wheezing.

Artemis glanced down the street to see a man striding toward the group from the opposite direction of the celebrations. As he drew closer, the torchlight illuminated his figure.

“What’s going on here?” Odysseus repeated, his tone much sharper this time. He stopped a few feet from Eleni and the elderly woman but paid the two no mind, focusing all his attention on his men.

Polites looked contrite as he caught his breath.

Amphidamas looked panicked. He stuttered, his inebriation doing him no favors. “Captain, I— He— She— He didn’ wan’ her, but- but he wouldn’t lemme have her.”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, sparing Eleni a brief glance before looking at Polites for confirmation. “Polites?”

Polites adopted a pained expression. “He’s… not wrong,” he admitted. “But, Captain, she’s hardly more than a child! To force—”

Odysseus held up a hand, but Polites persisted.

“Captain, you—”

“Polites,” Odysseus finally snapped.

Polites went silent, pursing his lips. His eyes darted to Eleni, then back to Odysseus and Amphidamas.

Odysseus refocused on the drunk soldier. “The war may be over, but I’ll not tolerate any of my men attacking each other. For that, Amphidamas, you’ve revoked your right over this girl anyway. Go find some water to dunk your head under. Perhaps your mind will feel more at ease after. I will locate another man for the girl myself.”

Polites started protesting again. Odysseus leveled him with a cutting look.

Meanwhile, Amphidamas didn’t move. His brow was creased with a dark expression.

Odysseus met his glare evenly. “Amphidamas.”

Amphidamas’ nose wrinkled in anger. “Yes, Captain,” he ground out. Throwing Polites one last furious glance, he brushed past Odysseus and stalked off into the city on unsteady feet.

Once Amphidamas was out of earshot, Polites stepped toward his king. “Odysseus, you can’t seriously—”

Odysseus’ straight-backed posture slumped. “Polites,” he sighed, “while your morals are commendable as always, why must they be so…” He seemed to search for the right word before settling on, “...Dumb? Please, just… Pick your battles, Polites.”

While Odysseus’ words were no doubt meant to be scolding, he just sounded rather exhausted.

Polites faltered. He stared at Odysseus with worry. Instead of answering, he asked, “Are you alright, my friend? You look… tired. I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

Odysseus waved him off but made no attempt to fix his posture. “I’m fine. Just…”

Artemis grinned as scrambling footsteps interrupted them. Eleni had helped the elderly woman back up, and the two were making a break for it, albeit not very quickly. With a quiet murmur, Artemis cast a blessing over them. They would be safe.

Meanwhile, Odysseus and Polites looked over at their retreating backs. Odysseus stepped in their direction.

Polites grabbed his arm. “Ody, let them go,” he beseeched. “Please. They’ve been through enough. The girl is too young. She wouldn’t last two weeks in the fleet.”

Odysseus glanced back at Polites. The two stared at each other, a battle of wills commencing. Despite it being clear from the start that Polites was winning, Artemis still found herself slightly surprised when Odysseus broke eye contact first. He shot another look at the women before visibly relenting with a heavy exhale.

“Thank you,” Polites told him, relief coloring the words as he released Odysseus’ arm.

Odysseus just shook his head. A faint, wry smile curved the corner of his mouth. “The things I do for you,” he huffed good-naturedly.

Polites returned the smile with a bright one of his own as he stooped down to grab the abandoned torch on the ground. “All of which I appreciate,” he said sincerely.

Artemis grew thoughtful. Polites had heart and compassion—two things she wasn’t sure she would find in great supply among the other Achaeans. However, while he was obviously stubborn enough to have survived the war, his spirit was not that of a fighter. Perhaps, though, Polites didn’t need to be the infant’s protector if he himself was already protected. Holding a spot in the heart of a king lent one no small amount of security.

Odysseus, she knew, was a warrior, but she would not risk giving him the child directly. If he was capable of attempting infanticide once, he was capable of it again. Fear of Zeus had that effect on mortals. While she knew she could scare the man into not killing the infant if he recognized him, she felt it would be both irresponsible and inappropriate to entrust the child solely to his would-be murderer.

If there was a buffer between them, though? Someone who would care for the child and whom the king wouldn’t dare harm, physically or otherwise? Perhaps that would be enough.

Artemis' mouth twisted. Hera would be proud. Here she was assigning traditional family roles: caretaker and protector.

“If Amphidamas catches wind of this, he’s not going to let it go,” Odysseus warned, nodding in the direction the escaping women went. “I don’t need the men thinking I’m playing favorites.”

Polites scowled at the mention of the other soldier. “Just have Eurylochus put him on the oars for a few days when we set out. He’ll be too tired and sore to talk to anyone then.”

Odysseus arched a brow. “Why, Polites, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s rather conniving of you.”

“Me? Conniving? Never.”

Odysseus chuckled before asking, “How’s your jaw?” He peered at the other’s face.

Polites adopted a sheepish look. His hand rose to cover the developing bruise. “It’s fine. It was my own fault. He was drunk anyway. It didn’t even hurt.”

Odysseus’ lips twisted downward, but he let it go. “Just let me know if he tries anything later,” he said.

Polites frowned, hand dropping. “I can take care of myself, Captain.”

Odysseus looked confused. “I never implied otherwise. I’m only saying Amphidamas can’t think he’s allowed to get away with attacking a fellow soldier just because I let him off easy this time.”

Polites’ mouth tightened. He nodded, conceding, but the movement was stiff. He didn’t believe Odysseus.

Odysseus reached out to squeeze Polites’ shoulder. “Just get some rest, alright? We’re all tired.”

A chorus of drunken voices suddenly rose over the city, singing raucously.

Odysseus amended, “Some of us are tired. Besides, I’ve been thinking of having the fleet set a course for Ithaca the morning after tomorrow, so all the more reason to sleep on solid ground while we can, right?”

Polites huffed a small laugh, but the sound carried an edge of strain. “Aye, Captain,” he said. He wouldn’t meet Odysseus’ eyes.

Silence fell between them. For a moment, neither moved. Still clasping Polites’ shoulder, Odysseus regarded the other man as if waiting for something. Or perhaps he was simply looking for the sake of looking. Mortals did that sometimes. Artemis watched Polites’ eyes flicker to Odysseus’ face for a split second before shying away again. She felt a touch of exasperation and perhaps the barest flicker of amusement.

A distant crash and a round of cheers echoed down the streets, breaking the spell.

Odysseus let go of Polites to turn in the direction of the chaos with a look of annoyance. “Or maybe,” he grumbled, “I’ll go make sure the men don’t kill themselves and destroy all our supplies first.”

This time, Polites’ laugh was a little more genuine. “Would you like any assistance, Captain?”

Odysseus waved him off. “No, no, it’s fine. You get some rest. You look nearly dead on your feet.”

That was most certainly an excuse if Artemis had ever heard one. Aside from his bruised jaw and disheveled chiton, Polites looked fine in her opinion. Odysseus was the one who appeared dead on his feet: face pale, eyes shadowed, hair unkempt.

Polites must have shared her thoughts. He made to argue; however, Odysseus had already started walking away. Polites frowned after his captain before shaking his head and bending down to retrieve his forgotten belongings. He turned to move up the street.

Artemis straightened out of her motionless position. She followed Polites silently, careful not to awaken the sleeping infant in her arms. The man wandered through the city as though looking for something. After meandering for some time, she heard him sigh in resignation before he entered a nearby house. It had already been pillaged of valuables. All that remained was furniture and a few miscellaneous items. Polites walked through the house gingerly as if afraid to disturb the spirits of those who had lived there. He located a bedroom and entered. Setting down his possessions, he headed for the empty bed with purpose, only to hesitate at the foot of it. Artemis watched him stare at it with a conflicted expression. The frame was finely carved, much nicer than the other furnishings of the house. It must have been a gift. Given the size, Artemis believed it was a marriage bed.

Finally, Polites grabbed the blankets and pillows on it and pulled them onto the floor, where he arranged them into a rough sleeping spot. Extinguishing his torch, he lay down for the night.

Begrudgingly, Artemis acknowledged a hint of respect for the mortal man. Though it was within his right as a victor of the war to treat his enemies and their items as he wished, he showed consideration for them even at the rebuke of his comrades.

Artemis was almost convinced that this man was the right one, but she wanted to be thorough. She took her leave from the house to explore the rest of Troy and observe the other Achaeans in their revelries.

As she traveled through the city, she happened upon Odysseus, apparently having finished reprimanding his men. The king roamed the streets alone. His sandals scuffed against the cracked cobblestones with every step, feet dragging with exhaustion. He resembled a lost spirit drifting through the Fields of Asphodel, forever wondering who they were and why they were there.

Odysseus seemed a relatively moral man. To believe he had murdered a child must have been weighing heavily on his conscience.

Artemis let him be and continued on her way. Hours passed. Although she did encounter a few men who appeared to be of solid character, none respected the Trojan captives and their city as Polites did.

Finally, when it was well past the darkest part of the night, Artemis made her decision. She broke into a run, her long, graceful strides barely rustling the sleeping infant in her arms. She crossed the city in an instant. Once outside the main gate, she bounded along the perimeter of Troy’s great walls until she came upon the cloth she’d torn off the infant over a day ago. Ever so gently, she placed the child, still swaddled in her silver blanket, on top of the cloth, ensuring that he was nestled in comfortably despite the rocks beneath it.

Before she pulled away, Artemis brushed the back of her finger over the infant’s forehead. “Wake, child,” she murmured. “He must hear you.”

Within the small, ransacked home of one of the countless Trojans they’d slaughtered, Polites fell into an uneasy sleep. His dreams were bloody and disjointed, as they often were these past ten years, but then they changed.

A noise began to echo through his current dream, interrupting him as he made to deliver the final blow to another faceless Trojan—Or was it the other way around? The roles flipped so often…

It was an odd noise, a strange, wailing cry. It reminded Polites of the wind when it caught the edge of the window or door frame a certain way. Often, when that happened, it tricked him into thinking there was a—

Polites burst upright with a gasp, one word in his half-awake mind: Infant.

Of course, then he felt ridiculous. There was no infant. It was just a dream. A bizarre one, but still a dream.

Polites glanced around, rubbing his face. He winced when he accidentally rubbed his aching jaw. It was nearly dawn, just a touch of lavender visible in the sky through the room’s broken window. He released a heavy sigh and let his head drop into his hands.

It was still difficult to comprehend that the war was over, that he didn’t need to stand up, strap on his armor and sword, and return to the front lines. It was strange to think that he no longer had reason to fear for the lives of his friends and fellow soldiers.

His mind couldn’t seem to grasp it.

A cry interrupted his thoughts. Not the cry of an infant, though. The cry of a bird.

Polites looked back at the window. A large, dark shape swooped by right outside, and a breeze rushed in through the cracks in the glass. Curious, Polites pushed his sleep-heavy body to its feet and lumbered over. He peered out at the streets of Troy, the haze of dawn making it hard to see. He squinted. Was that a—

An enormous bird of prey dived at the window, and Polites yelped, stumbling back and tripping over his feet in his haste. His rear hit the floor, and he sat there for a moment, panting. While he gawked at the window, he heard the bird cry out again from somewhere beyond his view.

Recomposing himself, he stood up and edged forward. Carefully, he leaned toward the glass to peer outside again.

The bird was standing in the middle of the street below. It stared directly at him. Polites felt like a mouse pinned under its gaze. He couldn’t move, hardly dared to breathe.

A moment passed, and the bird lifted its massive wings. Only, it didn’t take off. It just stood there, wings raised, staring at him expectantly.

Birds didn’t act this way. Polites had no doubt there was a divine hand orchestrating this event—either the bird was a god in disguise or simply doing a god’s bidding. He didn’t think it was an eagle, thankfully. Polites wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if the King of the Gods was beckoning him. Nevertheless, a god was a god. Polites did the only thing a mortal could do in the face of divine summons: He obeyed.

Exiting the house with his sword strapped to his waist, Polites turned onto the street where the bird had stood only to find it was no longer there. He cast around, baffled as to how such a large creature had been able to disappear so silently and without a trace. He walked up and down the cobblestones to no avail. The bird was gone.

Already half-convinced that his tired brain had made everything up, Polites turned to make his way back to the house.

A single sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

Polites pinched his arm. Pain flared faintly between his fingers. This wasn’t a dream.

He raised a hand in the air. He couldn’t feel any wind.

Which meant that, somewhere, an infant was crying out.

Polites waited for the crying to stop. Surely the infant’s mother would soothe it.

The crying continued.

A heavy feeling settled in Polites’ gut. He glanced around at the desolate city, the empty streets, the abandoned belongings, the charred houses.

What were the chances the infant didn’t have a mother anymore?

Polites’ heart went out to the child, and it was at the behest of his heart that he found himself turning in the direction of the distant, pitiful sound.

He followed the infant’s cries through the city. As he walked further and further, he realized that the noise had traveled much farther than should’ve been possible. As if it had been deliberately carried to his ears. The rest of Troy was still and silent. Polites encountered a few of his fellow Achaeans slumped in the streets, snoring softly in their drunken slumber. None of them appeared bothered by the infant’s cries, even as it grew louder the closer he came to the edge of the city.

Eventually, Polites stood at the gates of Troy, peering out at the awakening world beyond. What was an infant doing outside the city? Had its mother tried to escape with it and been caught?

Suddenly, Polites felt apprehensive. The last thing he wanted was to come upon a dying infant clutched in the arms of its mother’s corpse. The horrors of the war would’ve paled in comparison to such a sight. Despite his bleeding heart, Polites took a step back into the city.

The piercing call of a bird of prey froze him in place.

Polites looked up but saw nothing. The sky was clear. Nonetheless, he knew a warning when he heard one.

Polites stepped through the gates. The crying seemed to come from his left. He turned to follow it, and it grew impossibly louder, drawing a grimace onto his face. The infant must have been blessed by Apollo. The sheer lung capacity of this child had to have been on par with the god himself.

Finally, Polites spotted something on the ground a stone’s throw ahead of him. It was a small bundle, pale among the dirt and rocks that lined the base of Troy’s walls.

Polites’ breath caught.

The bundle was motionless, but the crying was deafening as ever.

A rush of energy invigorated his limbs, and Polites hurried to close the remaining distance. He nearly tripped several times on loose rocks and his own clumsy feet. As he came closer, he noticed the bundle was lying on top of a small cloth blanket. A very intentional placement, he would say.

Polites pulled his sword and scabbard out of the way and knelt next to the bundle. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“You poor thing,” he murmured.

The infant’s large eyes opened up from their previously scrunched state. They landed on him, and the wails trailed into soft sniffles. Polites’ ringing ears thanked the gods for that. Snot and tears covered the baby’s squishy, red face. Some had even managed to get into its short, wispy brown curls. Despite its distress, the infant appeared unharmed. Polites glanced around, looking for evidence of another person. Someone had to have brought the infant out here, yet as far as he could tell, no one, dead or alive, had been around. No footprints marred the dirt, no scraps of cloth interrupted the brown earth, and no indication of a struggle was visible.

Perhaps the blankets would give him some clue as to who the child belonged to.

Moving more carefully than he ever had in his life, Polites reached out and lifted the infant off the ground. He was all too aware of how soft and small and fragile it was in his dirty, calloused hands. He held the baby out in front of him unsurely. It squirmed a little, its tiny, tiny fists pulling free of their fabric prison, before settling. The blanket around its body was a soft, shining silver like no cloth Polites had ever seen or felt before. It bore no markings or embroidery. The best he could gather from it was that the family must have been very wealthy to afford fabric like this. The blanket that the infant had been laid upon was much plainer and more ordinary, just a humble rectangle of white linen. Gingerly, Polites drew the infant to his chest where he could hold it with one arm. The baby was warm. It snuggled against him, its little fingers grabbing the front of his chiton, while it gazed up at him with big, round, honey-colored eyes.

Polites melted immediately.

He didn’t have children of his own, had never really considered it an option. The only infants he’d ever held were his little sister back when he was a boy and Telemachus, who cried ceaselessly if anyone except Odysseus or Penelope tried to carry him. Meanwhile, this infant couldn’t have looked more content. The sight touched a part of Polites that he hadn’t even known was there.

A quiet, adoring coo left his mouth without permission. The corners of the infant’s eyes crinkled in delight, pulling another involuntary coo from him. Before he could get too distracted, Polites reached out his free hand to retrieve the linen cloth from the ground. He shook off the dirt and, deeming it clean enough, began trying to wipe the mucus from the infant’s face.

The baby’s brow gained a small furrow as its expression screwed up in annoyance at the intrusion. Its hands left his chiton to grasp at the cloth like a kitten.

“Hold still, little one,” Polites told it, biting his cheek against another sound of adoration. “I’m almost done.”

The infant glanced at him before going back to frowning and batting at the cloth.

Polites laughed, gave it a few more tries, and then decided it was good enough. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he said. “He’s very stubborn and exceptionally grumpy. His name’s Eurylochus. What’s your name, little one?”

The infant gave no reply. With the cloth gone, it returned to clutching his chiton and staring at him. Its little frown remained, though it was more thoughtful than annoyed now.

Polites sobered. “Where are your caretakers?” he murmured. It was less of a question for the baby and more one for the rest of the world and whichever god led him there. That had to have been why he was taken to the infant: to return it to its family. Perhaps he would find them among the army’s prisoners. At the very least, there might be a nurse who could take the infant.

Draping the now slightly mucousy linen over the baby’s swaddled body, he stood up. Another look around showed that no one had magically appeared to claim the infant. With a sigh, Polites turned and began the trek back to Troy’s gates.

The infant babbled at him, tugging his chiton. Polites heard its little stomach whine, and a realization struck him as he walked.

“Oh, little one, when were you last fed?” he exclaimed. It had been well over a day since the battle.

The infant’s stomach whined again in response.

“Alright, well, food first, and then we’ll work on locating your family.”

A pause.

“What do infants eat?”

“Polites!”

Polites jumped and looked over his shoulder.

“Where have you been?” Neoptolemus asked with surprising friendliness. He and a few other men were walking down the street towards him. “You left the celebrations rather quickly last night, and you missed breakfast.”

Polites didn’t turn to face them fully. For some reason, he felt hesitant to reveal the infant to his fellow soldiers. He tightened his arms around its little body. It wiggled and burbled once as if asking why he’d stopped.

“Oh, I was just tired,” Polites replied truthfully.

“What have you got there?” Elpenor asked, catching sight of the infant’s silver blanket. “Find more spoils?”

The other men’s eyes brightened with interest, and they drew closer.

Seeing it was inevitable, Polites turned all the way around. “Not quite,” he admitted, reluctantly showing them the infant in his arms. “I found this one crying just outside the city. I was going to try and find it some food before looking for its mother.” He paused before slowly asking, “Do any of you happen to know what babies can eat?”

The men only frowned at him, and Polites fought the urge to hunker in on himself. The infant’s eyes moved between him and the others. It made a small, unintelligible noise.

“You didn’t kill it?” Perimedes finally asked.

Polites recoiled. “Kill it?” he repeated. “It’s just an infant.”

“A Trojan infant,” another man corrected. Polites couldn’t recall his name. One of Agamemnon’s soldiers, perhaps?

“What does that matter?” he demanded.

The man raised his hands, unwilling to argue, though he didn’t retract the comment.

“It’s your choice, Polites,” Neo interrupted, though he looked faintly puzzled by said choice. His voice then dropped to a darker tone, providing a glimpse of that battlefield rage he inherited from his father. “But, know, if that infant is from one of my women, it’s as good as dead.”

Similar statements arose from some of the other men.

Polites’ mouth tightened, but Neoptolemus, though younger, was still his superior—if only by the merits of nepotism and fighting prowess. There would be no arguing with him. He dipped his head stiffly in acknowledgment.

Neo clapped his shoulder, and Polites frowned when it jostled the infant, who made a sound of annoyance.

“Good luck,” Neo said. He turned and then paused. “By the way, Odysseus announced that the Ithacan army is setting off tomorrow morning, so start gathering your spoils.”

“Polites didn’t claim any women,” Perimedes reminded Neo loftily.

Polites made a face at him. Why did Perimedes always have to try and start something? “I didn’t want any women,” he huffed. “I claimed other things.”

“Ah, yes, like babies,” said Agamemnon’s soldier. “Perhaps you’re the woman then.”

The others laughed, and Polites bit back an insulted scowl. He tried to shrug it off and laugh with them. “Well, it certainly does look like it.”

The men laughed some more.

After an awkward beat, Polites decided he was done with the conversation and said, “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

Elpenor bid him goodbye. The rest continued to snicker.

Polites strode past them as quickly as he could without being too rude. When he could no longer hear them behind him, he slowed down and sighed, suddenly tired.

The infant babbled at him from his arms. It reached for his face with one hand while the other continued to clutch his chiton. Despite the interaction just moments ago, Polites felt a smile pull the corner of his mouth. He lowered his face toward the small grasping hand.

Impossibly small fingers tapped at his chin, mouth, cheek, and nose. The infant made a delighted noise when it discovered his headband. It seized the cloth and pulled.

“Whoa,” Polites laughed, trying to extricate his headband from the baby’s surprisingly strong grip. “That’s mine, little one.”

The infant only mumbled happy nonsense and tugged some more. Its mouth stretched in a gummy smile.

Polites’ chest was warm. He couldn’t keep his own grin from making a full appearance. He wasn’t sure he had felt this innocently happy in a decade. Sure, he always put on a good show for everyone—someone had to keep spirits up because it wasn’t going to be Eurylochus, and Odysseus had far too much on his plate—but he was still affected by this cursed war just as much as the rest of them. He had the sneaking suspicion that Odysseus had begun to see through his act in the last few months, but his friend had yet to call him out. Polites wondered if Odysseus needed the false cheer as much as he did.

Humming, Polites ducked his head lower to playfully nuzzle his nose against the infant’s. The infant squealed but didn’t release his headband. In fact its other hand left his chiton to join its partner in the attempt to steal the item.

“Fine,” Polites relented. “You win.” He reached up and pulled his headband off. While he shook out his curls, the infant let out a shriek of delight and pressed the headband against its mouth. Slobber rapidly darkened the orange fabric.

Polites grimaced. “I didn’t mean you could… Oh, fine, I’ll just make another. You keep that one.” He hummed again, thinking back to the bundles of belongings he’d left in the house. “I think I still have my orange tunic somewhere…”

The infant burbled around his headband with a pleased expression.

Polites tickled its belly, making the infant kick at him within the confines of its blanket. “I almost wish I could keep you, little one,” he said, putting voice to the words he hadn’t even known he was thinking. “Alas, your family must be desperately worried.”

“The infant cannot be returned to his mother.”

Polites went rigid.

“His lineage is dangerous both for him and the whole of Achaea.”

Slowly, stiffly, Polites turned. His eyes widened. He wobbled in shock before quickly dropping to one knee. The infant kicked in irritation at being jostled. Polites didn’t dare move to soothe it.

“Lady Artemis,” he managed not to squeak, keeping his eyes on the cobblestones. The goddess’s presence was as quiet, cold, and unyielding as the moon. “You- You were the one that led me to it— Uh, him?”

“Indeed.”

Despite having already assumed a god was behind all of this, Polites was struck anew by the absurdity of everything. Things like this didn’t happen to him. Odysseus was the special one; he was the one who got all the divine attention. And, of all the gods, why Artemis? She never appeared to men.

Polites cleared his throat. “Um, may I ask why you led me to him, my Lady? That is, if he can’t go back to his mother.”

Polites felt the goddess’s power flare, stinging his bare skin, and he fought the desire to kneel deeper lest he squish the infant. He didn’t think the baby could see Artemis. It— He hadn’t reacted to her. The goddess was only visible to Polites.

Thankfully, Polites was not turned into a bloody pincushion of golden arrows^[1]. He saw Artemis’ boots shift in his peripheral vision.

“I was called to protect this child,” she said. “Though his mother is alive, he would no longer be safe with her. For the security of all, neither of them may know of the other’s survival.”

“Then what am I to do with him, Lady Artemis?”

“Raise him. Protect him,” the goddess said simply.

Polites tried not to frown. “Why not another woman? A mother or a nurse?”

“The remaining women here are not currently in any position to protect a child.” Artemis’ voice grew icy. “And your comrades have made it clear what they would do to the child if they found him with their concubines, have they not?”

Cowed, Polites nodded quickly. “But…” he dared to ask, swallowing as Artemis’ pale eyes stared him down, “why me?”

Why not Odysseus? Or Eurylochus? Or any of the other infinitely more worthy men he could think of?

Artemis sighed in exasperation, and Polites flinched. “I’ve been watching you, Polites Anastasiades^[2]. While you do not appear to be the greatest warrior,”—A grimace pulled Polites’ face, guessing that she must’ve witnessed the confrontation with Amphidamas—“you are kind and sympathetic to the Trojans and not nearly as volatile as your fellow Greeks. You seem the least likely to decide to kill the infant on a whim. You also bear the affections of a king, which lends its own protections.”

Polites’ face grew warm at the goddess’s word choice. Surely she was just referring to his friendship with Odysseus—

“​​Among all the soldiers left in the armies of Achaea,” Artemis continued, “I chose you to care for this child in the place of his mother.” Her voice became ominous. “Mortal men are so often disappointing. Prove to me that my judgment remains true and you are not the same.”

Then she was gone.

Odysseus wasn't sure he’d felt exhaustion such as this since trying to convince Achilles to rejoin the war and dealing with Agamemnon’s tantrums. It was bone-deep. It seeped into his very thoughts, making them sluggish and disjointed. He kept catching himself nodding off where he stood leaning against a building near his packing men. The dim light of evening didn’t help matters. He didn’t dare give in to sleep, though. The infant’s face haunted him. Those wide, trusting eyes were imprinted on the backs of his lids. They taunted him each time he blinked.

“...is Polites? He should be helping. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Odysseus’ eyes snapped open again, and he straightened out of his slump. He blinked hard a few times, willing the siren call of sleep to silence itself. He looked over at where Lycaon was talking to Perimedes. The two were sitting on the ground, bundling up their armor beside the smoldering remains of the bonfire from the previous night.

Perimedes scoffed. “Polites got himself an infant.”

“He had a child?! I didn’t know he claimed any women—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Perimedes snorted. “This is Polites we’re talking about. He said he found it outside the city and was going to try and locate its mother.”

Odysseus went very still. Gradually, his sleep-deprived mind began to race.

It wasn’t possible. It was a coincidence.

Yet the idea wouldn’t leave him.

He would go check. Just to ease his ridiculous worries.

Odysseus stepped out of the shadows and approached the two men. “Friends,” he greeted, garnering their attention. They looked up at him. “Forgive me, I overheard your conversation just now. You don’t happen to know where Polites is, do you? I’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

“Captain,” Perimedes said, shifting. “Didn’t realize you were over there. I think Polites has been staying in a house in the western part of the city. Near the cistern.”

Odysseus inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Perimedes nodded, and Odysseus turned. As he was walking away, he heard Perimedes whisper to Lycaon.

“Uh oh, sounds like Polites is in trouble.”

The two snickered.

“I heard he got in a fight with…”

Odysseus rolled his eyes as their voices faded behind the buildings. Sometimes his men reminded him far too much of elderly women gossiping around their looms. His amusement, however, soon faded as his worries once again piled in.

If the infant Polites found was indeed the same one Odysseus had dropped from the wall… How had he survived? What sort of state was the child in?

Odysseus’ mind conjured up a gruesome image: the infant, broken and bloody, wailing in more fear and pain than one so small and young should ever endure.

How monstrous was it that Odysseus took slight comfort in the fact that, even if the infant did survive the fall, it was unlikely to live much longer with its injuries?

Assuming it was the same infant, it was no wonder Polites had taken it in. His friend’s heart was so big—too big sometimes. He knew Polites had his own demons, but he also knew that every joke the man made and every smile he put on still had at least a kernel of sincerity. That kernel had kept Odysseus going through even the darkest days of the war. Polites’ hope, his kindness, was a wonder in a world such as this. His unerring cheer was like the flame of a candle which he kept boldly unshielded in the darkness. He held it out in the open for all to see and take warmth from. But the fact that he did not protect his flame made him vulnerable to the storms they weathered. Odysseus feared that one day, Polites’ light would grow dim, or worse, go out entirely because of his refusal to guard it.

Odysseus had warned Polites of this once, but the man only laughed and cheekily replied, “My friend, if you have happiness to spare, that’s happiness you should share.”

“Been working on that rhyme, have you?”

“Obviously.”

“And what if I don’t have happiness to spare?”

“Then I will share mine with you.”

Odysseus sighed, pulling away from the memory.

When the infant died from its wounds, he didn’t need to wonder how devastated Polites would be.

And if Odysseus had to kill the child himself…

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He desperately hoped this infant was a different one. The idea that Hector’s son had survived was both relieving and horrifying. It meant he didn’t yet have the blood of a child on his hands, but it also meant he would have to relive the pain of murdering it.

Odysseus reached the cistern and looked around for a house with signs of use. The city had felt so hollow since the end of the war. It shouldn’t be hard to locate life.

He wandered the area, coming across a few buildings that were occupied by other soldiers and their slaves. Finally, he heard a familiar voice drift from one of the houses.

“…really hope I’m not about to make you sick, little one.”

Odysseus frowned at the odd statement and strode over to the house. He knocked on the door. Beyond it, he heard a mutter of “Who…?” followed by a small voice imitating it with a curious “Ah?”

The infant didn’t sound like it was in pain. The pressure in Odysseus’ chest eased slightly. Maybe he’d been worried about nothing. Maybe this wasn’t Hector’s son.

Polites opened the door, and his wary expression turned to one of relief. Odysseus noticed that the bruise on his jaw had become an impressive shade of violet. His headband was also missing.

“Odysseus!” Polites smiled. “Perfect timing—Can infants eat figs?”

Odysseus blinked, thrown off by the non-sequitur. “What?”

“I mashed it up so he can’t choke on it, but I don’t know if it’s safe for him. He can’t be older than a few months, so if he has been given solid foods before, it can’t have been for very long.” As Polites rambled, he opened the door wider and backed up, gesturing for Odysseus to enter. He complied, and Polites closed the door behind them.

“You see, I found this infant outside the city this morning. He was all alone, and he’s very hungry…”

Polites’ voice faded away.

On the floor in the center of the room, a small infant lay on its belly atop a shiny silver blanket. It wore only a linen cloth wrapped around its bottom. It glanced at them with disinterest before closing its eyes and going back to sucking on what appeared to be Polites’ missing headband. Next to the blanket was a wooden chair with a cracked plate on the seat. The plate was covered in the remains of crudely mashed fig. A white linen cloth that looked like a section of it had been cut off hung on the back of the chair. Polites walked over to sit next to the infant on the floor. With great care, Polites lifted the infant off the blanket and sat it upright on his lap. The child gave a small, noncommittal grunt at the change. It continued mouthing on the headband with its eyes closed. Polites reached out for the fig-covered plate with his free hand and set it on the floor beside him. Then he looked back at Odysseus expectantly.

Odysseus stared.

Taking his silence for confusion, Polites repeated, “So? Can infants eat figs?”

“Polites,” Odysseus said instead of answering, “where did this child come from?”

The infant’s eyes. They were the same amber eyes that had gazed at him barely more than a day ago. Eyes that were so trusting and calm, even as he held them over the edge of Troy’s great wall. Even the linen draped over the chair was the same cloth that Odysseus had felt slip through his fingers like water over rock. He was sure of it.

Polites frowned. “I just said. Outside the city.”

“Where exactly?”

Polites observed Odysseus a little more attentively. “Are you alright, my friend? You don’t look well.”

Odysseus waved him off. “Where did you find the infant, Polites?”

Polites’ frown deepened, and he stood up, rotating the infant in his arms to hold him against his chest. “At the base of one of the walls,” he answered slowly. “A little ways east of the gates. Why?”

Claws of horror sank deep into Odysseus’ gut. So the infant was the same. Hector’s son had survived. And without a scratch, it seemed.

Had another god interfered? The child couldn’t have lived through the fall otherwise. Odysseus had dropped him from such a great height, and he had heard the cries cut off.

Odysseus blinked.

He hadn’t witnessed the impact, though. He had closed his eyes and only glimpsed the linen on the ground below afterward.

Zeus’ words echoed. “If you don't end him now, you can say goodbye to your beloved Telemachus.”

“Polites,” Odysseus began, trying to smother his rising panic, “I need you to give me the infant.”

Polites looked truly concerned now. “Why?”

“Give me the child, Polites.”

Polites only held the infant closer. His concern was bordering on wary. “Odysseus, what’s going on? What’s wrong? You look ill.”

Odysseus hardened. He wouldn’t explain. He couldn’t. His friend wouldn’t understand. “Polites,” he said. “I am ordering you, as both your captain and your king, to hand over the infant. Now.”

Polites’ expression shifted into hurt, but Odysseus couldn’t feel guilty. He needed to end the child before the child could end them. Or Zeus would surely strike them all down.

But Polites was as stubborn as he was kind. As quickly as the hurt in his gaze had appeared, it was replaced by steel. He straightened. “Odysseus, what’s going on?” he repeated, his voice stern. “Explain. I’m sure I can help—”

“No, you can’t!” Odysseus snapped. “The infant needs to die!”

Polites’ mouth fell open, outrage flashing in his eyes. “Odysseus, I thought you were above this kind of pettiness!” he exclaimed. “Just because he’s of Trojan birth doesn’t mean he deserves—”

Odysseus cut him off, the words he hadn’t yet uttered to anyone spilling out of his mouth. “No, Zeus- Zeus ordered me to kill him. During the battle, I had a vision. Zeus appeared and commanded me to kill the infant. The child is Hector’s son. Zeus told me he is prophesied to avenge his father by raining death upon Achaea, starting with Ithaca, with Telemachus. I didn’t want to do it, Polites, but I can’t defy the gods, and Telemachus— I can’t lose him, not before I even know him. So I-I—” It was gut-wrenching to say it aloud. “I dropped the infant from the city walls. He was supposed to die.”

Lines of horror were etched onto Polites’ face.

“I don’t know how he lived, but I must finish this, my friend,” Odysseus insisted, reaching for the infant. “Please, give him to me. Before he dooms us all.”

Polites stumbled back from Odysseus like he was a rabid dog snapping at his fingers. Brown eyes, typically warm with mirth, stared at him as if unable to recognize his face.

Odysseus’ arm dropped. “Polites,” he warned. His voice grew harsh with equal parts frustration and desperation.

“He’s just a child,” Polites protested, seeming to find his words. “He can’t do any harm—”

“But he will.”

“We don’t know that!”

“Yes, we do! It’s prophesied! Prophecies can’t be avoided.”

“Artemis tasked me with protecting him!”

Odysseus pulled up short. “Artemis?” He remembered that he had prayed to Artemis on behalf of the child. He had prayed for her to protect him from the pain of death. Was this how she had chosen to interpret that? “Polites, the King of Gods himself ordered the infant’s death. We cannot defy him, no matter what another god says!”

The infant began to whimper at all the shouting. Polites glanced down and shushed it, rubbing its back distractedly.

Odysseus stepped forward to physically remove the child from his friend’s arms.

Polites’ gaze snapped up. He angled his shoulders away, shielding the infant with his body. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry. “You cannot have him.” His voice softened. “Please, Odysseus, you’re not thinking straight. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Odysseus scowled as his desperation transitioned to anger. Polites may have been his oldest, closest friend, but Odysseus was still Polites’ king. Disobeying him was treason.

Polites’ eyes darted downward, and a hint of fear entered his expression. Odysseus followed the man’s gaze to his hand, which had moved to grip the hilt of his sword. He looked back up. He hadn’t meant to grab his sword. He didn’t want to fight his friend, though it was looking like he would have to take the infant by force. If it came to blows, Polites couldn’t best Odysseus, and they both knew it.

Odysseus expected Polites to relent at the threat, however unintentional it had been, but he didn’t.

Instead, Polites’ back straightened, his few extra inches of height allowing him to look down at Odysseus. “You cannot kill an innocent child,” he said simply but firmly.

Reaching his weary wit’s end, Odysseus stopped thinking—or perhaps he had stopped thinking the moment he saw the infant’s amber eyes. He drew his sword. The metallic shing echoed through the small, dark house.

Polites’ lips thinned, jaw clenching as his eyes followed the weapon.

Then his face went slack with shock.

A pale hand seized Odysseus’ sword from behind, gripping the blade as if it were a simple stick and not expertly sharpened bronze. Faster than his eye could follow, the hand ripped the weapon from his fingers and thrust the blade deep into the floor of the house a mere handsbreadth from his sandaled feet.

Odysseus whipped around. His first thought was of Athena. Then his exhausted mind took in the other details: A spotless white tunic, well-worn traveling shoes, a glowing bow, and a quiver of golden arrows. The biggest giveaway, though, was the eyes. Where Athena’s were gray and often narrowed in thought or judgment, the eyes that looked upon Odysseus now were distinctly silver, large, and moon-like. They brimmed with anger and contempt.

A trickle of fear ran down Odysseus’ spine. He heard Polites drop to one knee, exclaiming, “Lady Artemis!” but he couldn’t move.

The Goddess of the Hunt didn’t react to Polites. Her attention was on Odysseus alone. When she spoke, the rage in her voice was almost more terrible than that in her gaze.

“Odysseus,” Artemis hissed. “Nearly two days ago, you called upon me on behalf of this child’s suffering, so I saved him. He now carries my blessing. If you regret your prayer, it is far too late. You must deal with my decision lest you wish to invite my arrows upon yourself and your kin.”

Odysseus did not trust himself to reply, still too bewildered by the elusive goddess’s appearance.

“I care not what prophecies my father rambles about,” Artemis continued. “Neither he nor the other gods know of the infant’s survival. I would prefer it to stay that way. As long as they believe the child is dead, the prophecy is meaningless. And I will know if you go babbling to Athena.” The goddess’s eyes sharpened in thought. “Be aware, the infant has a given name^[3]. All names hold power, but this is the one the gods are familiar with. I will not speak it lest you use it by accident. Odysseus, you already know the title bestowed upon him by his people. Use that in place of his birth name.” Artemis motioned to Polites and the infant. “I have charged Polites with the task of caring for the child. See to it that he is able to continue doing so.”

Large silver eyes pinned him with one last piercing look. Divine power flared against his skin like a thousand arrowheads. “Do not test me, Laertiades. I am not as forgiving of men as your patron.”

Then she vanished.

Silence reigned over the house.

Odysseus gawked at the place where the goddess had stood, his heart pounding. At the edge of his vision, he saw Polites rise to his feet with the infant still clutched in his arms. After several long seconds, Odysseus managed to convince his body to move enough to look at his friend.

Polites was staring at him. There was an angry fire in his eyes, accompanied by an edge of confidence that hadn’t been there before Artemis’ intervention. Despite this, his expression was sharp with hurt and betrayal.

Odysseus was so tired. The desire to sleep returned to him with such vengeance that he staggered, his vision blurring and his mind going fuzzy. He blinked and attempted to wrap his head around the last few minutes.

“Polites…” he began. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Was he to apologize for drawing his sword on his best friend? Or for trying to murder the infant that Polites had been divinely entrusted to care for? Both? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter because Polites interrupted him.

“Odysseus, please leave.”

“Polites,” he repeated, still having no idea what he wanted to say. For once, his quick tongue struggled with words.

“I’m asking you to leave, Odysseus.” The anger in his friend’s voice might as well have been a whip striking him across the face.

Odysseus’ heart clenched. He reached for his sword and hated how Polites stepped back when he did so, but no matter how hard he pulled, he could not free it. Finally, too exhausted to feel embarrassed about admitting defeat, he turned and exited the house, leaving his sword embedded in the floor behind him.

After returning to the house he had been staying in, Odysseus finally let himself succumb to sleep. He dreamed of running his sword through Polites’ gut and then throwing the infant over Troy’s walls as Artemis shot him full of arrows and Polites’ corpse glared at him in betrayal.

After Polites fed the mashed fig to the infant, he spent the rest of the day puttering about the ransacked house, entertaining the infant, and mulling over what had happened since that morning. When the sun began to set, he put the infant to bed on the floor beside himself. After tossing and turning for a long time, he fell into a light slumber. He dreamed of Odysseus attacking him with a wild light in his eyes and being helpless as the infant was murdered right in front of him.

Neither Odysseus nor Polites woke up feeling rested.

Chapter Text

“Captain.”

Odysseus didn’t turn. “Eurylochus.”

Eurylochus stopped beside him at the ship’s railing. Odysseus waited for his second-in-command to say whatever was on his mind. For a moment, they both stood there silently watching the Ithacan army load their belongings onto the ships in the bay. Some of the men had amassed quite a collection during their decade of war. Odysseus felt a faint tug of amusement as he observed Elpenor looking rather harried with his third round of possessions. It made Odysseus glad he had his own private quarters on the ship. Off in the east, the Sun God steadily drove his chariot over the horizon.

He heard Eurylochus take a breath. Though the man’s tone was rife with disbelief, he cut straight to the point as usual. “Captain, what are these rumors I’ve been hearing about Polites taking in a Trojan child?”

Odysseus hid a wince as guilt from his actions the night before stabbed his chest. After waking that morning, his pride, shame, and conflict over the situation had prevented him from seeking out Polites directly, but he had been watching for the other man since boarding the ship.

Adopting an expression of indifference, Odysseus said, “They’re more than rumors.”

A loud, incredulous noise came from his right. Through the corner of his eye, Odysseus saw Eurylochus shaking his head.

“A ship is no place for an infant,” the man said. “Much less a ship filled with unruly, homesick soldiers. The crew won’t tolerate a child for long if it gets under their feet and keeps them up all night. How does Polites expect to take care of it? To feed it? Has he not tried finding a nurse? Or at least a woman who’s experienced with children?”

Eurylochus’ questions were the same ones Odysseus had been mulling over all morning.

“I believe Polites feels he has no other choice,” Odysseus replied as neutrally as he could. “As for finding a woman to care for it, you know as well as I that the men would kill the infant if Polites tried to pass it over to one of theirs.”

Eurylochus didn’t argue. He blew out a heavy breath, gaze lifting skyward. “Gods help us.”

Odysseus swallowed a sardonic laugh.

“This is going to be an absolute nightmare,” Eurylochus continued. “And it’ll only end with a dead infant and a devastated Polites.”

Odysseus just hummed as he tried to keep himself from frowning at the mental image.

Eurylochus looked at him. “You’re acting strange.” His eyes narrowed. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

Feigning boredom, Odysseus finally turned his head to meet Eurylochus’ gaze. “What makes you say that?”

“You haven’t offered up a plan to fix this yet.”

“Maybe I haven’t thought of one.”

“Or maybe you know something you’re not saying.”

The two stared at each other, Eurylochus with stubbornness and Odysseus with meticulously cultivated disinterest.

After a few moments, Odysseus determined that the other man wasn’t budging. He wasn’t in the mood to start an argument anyway. Not to mention, he could use someone to talk to. Artemis only told him the other gods couldn’t know; she never said anything about mortals.

“Let’s talk somewhere private.” Odysseus gestured for Eurylochus to go ahead.

Eurylochus’ nose wrinkled as it always did when he was fighting a scowl. Still, he broke eye contact first, turning to follow Odysseus’ gesture toward the captain’s quarters. Odysseus strode after him.

When they were both inside, Odysseus shut the door and faced Eurylochus, who eyed him suspiciously with his arms crossed over his chest. Despite the oncoming conversation, Odysseus’ first instinct was to tease him about being so tense. He buried the desire easily enough.

“I’m afraid it’s a rather convoluted story,” he began. “I ask that you keep your thoughts to yourself until I’ve finished.”

Eurylochus’ frown deepened, but he tilted his head in acceptance.

Odysseus sighed, gathering his thoughts as his gaze drifted around the room. The sparse furniture carried uneven layers of dust from a decade of very little use. He needed to figure out where he stored his maps when the fleet first arrived in Troy, still under the illusion that the war would be over in a few weeks or less.

He looked back at Eurylochus. “It started at the end of the battle,” he began. “I had a vision, and Zeus appeared to me. He described a great, vengeful foe prophesied to slaughter Ithaca, but… it was only an infant. Hector’s son. I tried everything I could think of to convince the Thunderer to change his mind, but he would not. He ordered me to kill the child. In my guilt, I prayed to Artemis that she would ease the infant’s passage from this world, and then… I dropped him from Troy’s walls.

“I thought that was the end of it, but, as you heard, Polites found an infant. I learned of it yesterday from Perimedes and Lycaon. I thought surely it was coincidental, but I couldn’t keep my worries at bay. I went to Polites, who was, in fact, caring for an infant. He said he discovered him that morning at the base of the city’s walls. Eurylochus, it was the same child. It was Hector’s son. I… I’m ashamed to say that I acted rashly at that moment. I had not been sleeping—”

Eurylochus snorted, and Odysseus shot him a glare. The other man only raised his eyebrows, dryly conveying that he had been all too aware of his captain’s insomnia.

Odysseus rubbed his forehead, exasperated, before continuing. “I demanded that Polites hand over the infant. He refused, claiming that Artemis had charged him with the child’s care.”

Eurylochus rolled his eyes.

“I became angry and frustrated. My exhaustion clouded my better judgment. I drew my sword on Polites, but he would not relent. Before the situation could escalate further, Lady Artemis appeared,”—Eurylochus looked incredulous—“seizing my weapon and thrusting it into the ground. She said that she heard my prayer and chose to save the infant’s life. After telling us to abandon the child’s given name, she ordered me to ensure that Polites could continue caring for him. Then she disappeared, and Polites demanded that I leave. I had to abandon my sword. I couldn’t pull it out of the floor. I haven’t seen Polites or the infant since.”

Eurylochus was only quiet for a moment. “That is some tale, Captain. If not for your history with gods and the missing sword at your hip, I would have a hard time believing it.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Odysseus pulled in a deep, burdened breath before slowly releasing it. “Do you… Do you think Polites will forgive me?”

Eurylochus’ eyebrows shot skyward once more. “And here I thought the most pressing problem was the existence of the infant prophesied to kill us all.”

“Artemis would slaughter us if we killed him.”

“But the other gods—”

“Are apparently unaware of his survival. Artemis said that they only know his birth name, but he has another title, given to him by his people, that we can use. She said that as long as the other gods remain ignorant, the prophecy doesn’t matter.”

Eurylochus huffed. “Alright. Alright, fine. Let’s say I agree that the infant should stay alive. You haven’t told me how we’re meant to keep it alive. I’m sure Polites would be a great father, but Polites is also… Polites.”

Odysseus made a noise of agreement.

“Of course, he’s like a brother to me,” Eurylochus went on. “And most of the crew likes him to some degree, but he has a habit of stepping on toes, and he’s too much of a pacifist. He’ll just roll over and take the hits, and everyone knows it.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Odysseus interjected. “You know as well as I how stubborn he gets with his ideologies, and given that he wouldn’t back down even when I pulled my sword on him, I think this infant ranks even higher on his priorities list.” He paused. “That reminds me, Amphidamas attacked Polites the other evening over a young girl.”

Eurylochus sent him a pained look. “Let me guess, Amphidamas wanted the girl, and Polites put himself in the way.”

“To my understanding.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I sent Amphidamas away. He was too drunk to accept any sort of punishment. If you would put him on rowing duty for a while, though, that would be appreciated. He can’t be allowed to think he can get away with attacking a fellow soldier.”

Eurylochus nodded in agreement, but he was squinting at Odysseus.

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the look, my friend?”

Eurylochus’ expression cleared. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” Odysseus insisted. He found himself wary of whatever had been going on in his brother-in-law’s mind, though he had no clue what it could have been.

Eurylochus waved a hand. “It’s nothing,” he repeated. “It’s not my business.” Even though technically he hadn’t been dismissed, he strode past Odysseus to the door and walked outside.

Odysseus started to go after him. “Eurylochus, really, what—”

“I would have come to congratulate you sooner; however, Aphrodite and Apollo have been throwing quite the fit on Olympus.”

Odysseus had been doing this for decades, yet he didn’t think he would ever get used to being pulled into Athena’s realm.

He stumbled around. “Athena!”

The goddess granted him something that might have been a smile. “Congratulations on winning the war, Odysseus.”

Still off-kilter, Odysseus couldn’t reply. All he could think about was Artemis’ warning and the fact that the infant he should have killed—and knew Athena would have expected him to—might very well be on the ship where his body stood. Despite being safely in his patron’s domain, Odysseus thought he could hear the creaking of a bowstring being drawn. He felt the arrow trained on his back, a threat and a reminder.

“I will know if you go babbling to Athena.”

Unfortunately for him, Athena was a hound when it came to secrets. Near instantly, she seemed to notice that something was off, and her almost-smile disappeared.

“You are on edge,” she stated. “Have I interrupted something?”

Odysseus smoothed out his expression. “No, no,” he said easily. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just been a long morning.”

Athena hummed. “Yes. There’s quite a bustle on the shores of Troy. You are leaving for Ithaca.” It could have been a question, but it wasn’t.

Odysseus smiled genuinely at the thought of seeing his home, his son. “Yes, after ten long years… And it’s thanks to you. Had you not kept my wits sharp through these trying times, I’m not sure the Horse would have ever occurred to me.”

Athena hummed again, but the sound was pleased now. She seemed to set aside Odysseus’ earlier lapse. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I did not come by for a long visit. I must go. In the wake of this war’s conclusion, someone must ensure the other gods’ egos aren’t so bruised that they tear each other apart. And, Odysseus?”

“Yes?”

Athena’s lips twitched upward once more in that almost-smile. “Again, congratulations. You deserve this. See to it, however, that this victory does not let you forget your purpose.” She straightened. “And remember to make a sacrifice to my uncle before you set sail. You don’t want to win a war only for your ships to capsize on the way home.”

“Already done, my Lady.”

“Good.”

Without further preamble, Athena raised an arm and shoved him backward. Odysseus stumbled, falling out of the goddess’s realm. As he slammed back into his body, he heard her relay one last message.

“See you soon, little king.”

Odysseus shook himself, reacclimating to flesh and bones and breathing out his nerves about the infant being discovered. He let his chest be warmed by a spark of pride at the goddess’s approval. When it came to Athena, he had long since accepted that he would always feel like a tottering child forever seeking after the adult’s praise.

Abruptly, derisive laughter from the deck drifted through his door. Odysseus glanced up. Uneasy, he left his room and stepped outside.

Clusters of men stood around the ship. Some hid their snickers behind their hands, others laughed openly, and still others, who had missed the latest gossip, stared on in confusion. Odysseus spotted the object of ridicule immediately.

To his credit, Polites’ head was high as he boarded the ship, and his exterior was calm and unbothered, if a little less animated than usual. He wore a new headband, orange like his old one, but no longer frayed and sweat-stained. Dark circles shadowed his eyes to go along with the bruise on his jaw.

And there in his arms was the infant. Armor and bags shielded most of the child from view, and what the gear didn’t cover, the small silver blanket tried to. However, from what Odysseus could see, the infant was restless this morning. He squirmed and kicked, his little hands tugging relentlessly on Polites’ chiton.

Catcalls rang out around them, some voices gaining fire while others died back with boredom. Odysseus struggled with whether or not to intervene. Most times, it was best to let the crew figure things out for themselves—it made Odysseus’ orders hold more authority for when he did intervene—but he didn’t like seeing his friend so ruthlessly mocked. Then again, it was all too likely his support wouldn’t be appreciated. But Artemis had ordered him to protect the infant.

“Alright, everyone, that’s enough. Get back to work.”

Odysseus refocused as the jeers died off. Eurylochus had appeared next to Polites, one hand raised while he faced the crew.

“We have a lot more to do if we want to set sail within the next few hours,” Eurylochus continued.

Grumbles rose, but one stern look from the second-in-command had all the men scurrying off.

“Thanks,” Odysseus heard Polites say. The exhaustion in his friend’s voice put another stone on the pile in his stomach.

Eurylochus sighed, and his gaze fell on the infant squirming in Polites’ arms. “I don’t agree with this,” he told Polites plainly. “It’s not going to end well. You have to know that.”

Worry pulled Polites’ brows together as he glanced down at the infant as well.

“However,” Eurylochus added, “Odysseus told me what happened—”

Polites’ head snapped up.

“—so I’m leaving it between the two of you. Don’t expect this from me every time. If that little beast keeps me awake all night, I’ll be the first to toss it overboard.”

Polites huffed. “Hey now—”

Eurylochus cut him off, clapping his shoulder, and walked away.

Polites rolled his eyes and glanced around the ship. His gaze landed on Odysseus standing in the shadowed doorway of his quarters.

Odysseus froze before quickly stepping toward his friend. His mouth opened to speak, but it didn’t matter. Polites’ expression hardened, and he spun on his heel to walk down the deck in the opposite direction.

Odysseus’ words died on his silver tongue as he let the other man go. He watched Polites stop by the starboard-side rowing bench closest to the bow, as far from Odysseus’ cabin as possible. He spoke briefly to Elpenor, who was organizing his things there. Elpenor said something, and Polites smiled before stepping down into the recessed part of the deck where the rowing benches were. He began unloading his belongings from his shoulders while the infant’s large eyes peered at Odysseus over his arm.

It was rough going. Not the sea, of course. No, Lord Poseidon had blessed them with relatively calm and beautiful sailing the past few days. It was everything else that was rough.

With each incoherent babble and innocent, honey-eyed look, the infant had grown on Polites more and more. Even if given the chance, he wouldn’t take anything back, but that wasn’t to say the child made things easy for him. The infant cried a lot through the first few days at sea. Polites suspected he might have been a tad seasick. Whatever the case, the crew’s teasing soon turned to irritation. Polites grew increasingly relieved each day when his rowing shift ended.

Rowing, unsurprisingly, was particularly difficult with a wriggling infant in one’s lap. He had gotten off-beat more than once to the annoyance of his fellow oarsmen. Polites didn’t dare ask anyone to hold the infant while he rowed, though, lest they decide to throw the child overboard while he was occupied.

It was a strange feeling, this distrust. It caught him off guard. He preferred to see the best in people until they gave him a reason not to; it led to a much happier outlook on their harsh world. However, Polites found he had grown protective of the infant beyond what Artemis demanded of him.

As soon as his shift was over, he scurried off to the far end of the deck away from the rest of the crew and had a bite to eat to settle himself. He’d taken to mushing up parts of his meals for the infant. The child wasn’t usually very fussy about food, and he had yet to get sick, so Polites figured he must’ve been doing something right. He hoped that if Artemis was watching, she would intervene if he did do something wrong. Polites would be horrified if he accidentally harmed the infant.

Every so often, another crew member would pass by and throw out a comment about the child. They ranged from relatively innocent observations to “Just how long are you planning on subjecting us to that thing’s presence?” or “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. Put a lid on that kid or I will” with varying levels of bite. Sometimes, they didn’t say anything and just made crude gestures or mimed throwing something overboard. It made Polites wonder when all his crewmates had turned into children.

Through everything, he kept his smile pasted on, telling himself to grin and bear it. The isolation weighed on him, though. He was tired and lonely, and it had only been a few days. They still had another two or three weeks at sea. Polites was a social person. No matter the smile he wore, the stares and jeers still grated on him after a while.

Eurylochus stopped over occasionally. Most times, he just asked how Polites was doing. Other times, he glanced at the infant and said nothing at all. While Polites appreciated the neutral company, Eurylochus always seemed worried—or exasperated. Probably both. It was in the way he looked at Polites and then looked away as the wrinkle between his brows became a little deeper than before. Polites had noticed him talking to Odysseus a few times on deck, gesturing none-too-subtly in his direction. Eurylochus never mentioned it, though, which was just as well.

Odysseus approached more than once, but Polites was far from in the mood for that conversation. If he didn’t manage to walk away fast enough first, he tossed out an excuse to throw the other man off long enough for him to hurry back to his and Elpenor’s rowing bench. Sometimes, the infant was even the one to save him by bursting into tears when Odysseus appeared too suddenly and scared him. The loud, abrupt wailing drew the glares of just about every crew member, and Odysseus would fumble with embarrassment, allowing Polites to slip away.

During these encounters, the sword Polites had pulled from the floor of the Trojan house danced through his thoughts.

The morning of the army’s departure from Troy, Odysseus’ blade kept catching his eye. Finally, he gave in to the urge and took the hilt in both hands before giving it a hard tug. In stark contrast to when Odysseus tried to retrieve it the night before, the blade slid free of the floorboards easily, sending Polites stumbling backward.

Odysseus’ sword was now wrapped up alongside his own and buried in his belongings under the rowing bench. He’d not dared to bring it out since leaving Troy. Even thinking of it, he couldn’t help but also remember how Odysseus had threatened him and the infant with that same sword. He just felt safer with it in his possession.

“Ow!” Polites yelped when his head was suddenly yanked down. Before another yank could be delivered, he quickly extricated the tail of his headband from the infant’s fingers and looked down at the beaming culprit.

“Come on now,” he admonished. “You’ve already got one headband. You’re not getting another. I can’t keep cutting up my shirt. It’s barely long enough to wear anymore.”

With his free hand, he reached over the infant to pull his old headband out from where it had gotten stuck between his chest and the child’s body. He dangled it above the infant, cooing as tiny hands reached for it and little feet kicked with delight. A warm smile crept over his tired face.

“How’s the kid doing?”

The consequences of the last several sleepless nights had Polites jumping a foot. He dropped the headband onto the child’s face and whipped around to see Elpenor raising his hands in surrender.

“Uh, sorry,” the other man offered after a second.

Polites shook himself. “Oh, no, you’re fine. I was just…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish. “Um, aren’t you supposed to be on the oars right now?”

Elpenor waved him off. “I bribed Perimedes.” He nodded to the infant. “So how’s he doing?”

“Fine?” Polites answered. Elpenor saw the infant every day when they traded shifts.

Elpenor scratched the back of his head. “Um, so… what’s his name?”

“I…” Polites hesitated and then admitted, “Don’t know.”

“Oh, well, yeah. I just meant, have you thought of a new name for him?”

This topic had been circling Polites’ thoughts since Troy. He recalled what Artemis told Odysseus.

“You already know the title bestowed upon him by his people. Use that in place of his birth name.”

“No,” Polites said, “he already has a name.”

Now, Elpenor looked uncomfortable, and through his fatigue, Polites realized how odd he must sound. He shook his head, trying to smile in reassurance. “I mean, Odysseus knows his name. He recognized the infant and… Well, I don’t actually know how he came by his name.”

Elpenor looked less uncomfortable at this and more confused. “So what is it?”

Polites’ smile turned awkward. “I don’t know.”

“What, is the captain holding it hostage from you?”

“No, we just… got into an argument, and I haven’t had the chance to learn it.”

Elpenor’s face brightened with understanding, and a gleam entered his gaze. “So that’s what’s been going on between the two of you.” Then he muttered, “I knew I should’ve started a betting pool.”

Polites stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Elpenor snorted. “It’s a small ship, Polites. You aren’t exactly subtle when you flee to the bench every time the captain tries to talk to you. Not that I mind the company, but normally, you’re the one always following him around.”

Polites’ ears felt hot. “Well, I—” He didn’t know what to say. “I- I guess you have a point.”

“So what happened?” Elpenor pressed.

Polites had no desire to rope another person into this mess. Eurylochus already knew, but Eurylochus could keep his mouth shut. Elpenor, on the other hand? Polites liked the man; he was genuine, and the war had not made him as cruel as many of the others. However, Elpenor was a sucker for gossip and tended to run his mouth, especially around Perimedes. Now, Artemis never said they couldn’t tell other mortals, but Polites would rather not risk it. The fewer men who knew the truth about the infant, the less likely it would get back to the gods.

“It’s a long story,” Polites finally said. “Let’s just say it was about this one.” He lifted his arms to indicate the infant mouthing on the headband within them.

“Ah. Must’ve been pretty bad then. You two argue all the time, and I’ve never seen the captain look both so sour and so much like a lost puppy.” Elpenor snickered. “Is he really that bitter about having to share your attention?”

Polites snorted a laugh, surprising himself. “I only wish it were that simple, my friend.”

Elpenor looked vaguely confused again, like Polites had missed the punchline of some joke. A few seconds of silence stretched between them before Elpenor asked, “Are you doing all right, Polites? You seem… tired.”

“Oh, I am,” Polites admitted. The infant had been waking him up regularly every night—him and half the ship, much to his crewmates' irritation—so Polites had taken to sleeping closer to the aft of the ship, where the wind would carry the noise away from the rowing benches. However, there, the sound of the ocean drowned out the snores and snuffling of the rest of the men, and Polites found he couldn’t sleep without it. A decade of nights spent in a camp with thousands of other people made one rather reliant on the white noise, it seemed. What little sleep he did manage to get was interrupted by the infant.

Polites glanced at the child in his arms, who stopped slobbering on the headband when he noticed Polites looking. His mouth widened in a gummy smile that made his eyes squint adorably. Polites smiled back and added, “But I wouldn’t trade it.”

Elpenor looked between them. “I believe that,” he said. “I don’t understand it, but I believe it. Still, though, you haven’t been yourself.”

Polites’ smile tightened. “Oh? Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the infant.”

Elpenor scoffed. “Hardly. I just mean you’ve been something of a ghost since we left Troy. Back in camp, it felt like you were everywhere at once all the time. You ate with everyone every evening, you kept Eurylochus’ head cool, you always knew what meeting the captain was in at any given moment, you kept track of all our more alcohol-prone comrades—”

“Including yourself.”

“Guilty. But my point is… Well, you’ve seemed distracted. Rightly so, I guess.” Elpenor gestured to the infant. “I left a baby brother at home, and he was a nightmare for my mother. But… you don’t keep spirits up anymore. You eat by yourself. You run away from the captain when you two used to be attached at the hip.” Elpenor shrugged at him.

Polites exhaled heavily. Since when was Elpenor so observant? “Well, part of it is that I’m trying to stay out of everyone’s way. The infant is my responsibility, not the crew’s burden. And you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed all the hostility toward him.”

“Fair enough. Perimedes rants about it daily. I don’t think he holds any real malice towards the infant, though. He just likes to talk about what everyone else is talking about. All bluster, no burn.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Let who hear you say what?”

Polites and Elpenor looked over to see Amphidamas striding toward them from the benches. His unreadable expression immediately set Polites on edge. Any trace of fatigue he’d been feeling was gone. He hadn’t spoken to the other man since the altercation over Eleni, but he had been waiting for some sort of retribution.

“Amphidamas,” Elpenor greeted. “Finally off the bench? Seems like you’ve been rowing for days.”

Amphidamas’ blistered hands twitched at his sides. “Yes,” he replied, throwing a narrow-eyed look at Polites. The infant mumbled something around the headband in his mouth, completely oblivious to the newcomer. Amphidamas glanced down and drawled, “Haven’t killed it yet, have you?”

Polites put on a smile and tried not to hold the infant closer. “Not yet, as the gods would have it,” he said with a laugh and mentally patted himself on the back for how genuine it sounded.

Amphidamas’ eye twitched. Polites guessed he had been hoping for more of a reaction. Well, he would have to try a lot harder than that. Polites was not about to risk endangering the infant by getting into a fight.

“You sell yourself short,” Elpenor said, clapping Polites’ shoulder. “I definitely would’ve killed the kid by now. I don’t understand how you’re able to row with him on your lap.”

Polites laughed sincerely this time. “Not without great difficulty.”

“You should let someone hold him while you row,” Amphidamas suggested. “Then again, I suppose you must not want to let him out of your sight. After all, he doesn’t have many fans in the crew. It would be far too easy for a man to just…” He motioned with his hands. “...drop him overboard. By accident, of course. The death of a child, especially like that, falling and drowning in the cold, dark sea, would be such a tragedy.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue in sympathy, before grinning and elbowing Elpenor as though expecting a laugh.

It was a little harder for Polites to keep up his smile.

Elpenor stepped away from the prodding elbow. “Very subtle, Amphidamas.”

Amphidamas’ grin turned sour, and he looked at Elpenor in betrayal.

“Unlike you,” Elpenor said with a frown, “I don’t mind having the infant on board. Brings some light to this ship. Well, perhaps a bit too much light.” He looked at Polites apologetically. “It can be a little hard to sleep sometimes—”

“Thank you, Elpenor,” Polites interrupted. “I appreciate the support.” He addressed Amphidamas. “As you can see—”

“Amphidamas, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be on the oars.”

The prick of irritation Polites felt surprised him. He couldn’t ever be allowed to just handle things himself, could he? Someone was always to his rescue. He was grateful for it, but he was also far too well aware of the label it gave him: Weak.

Amphidamas scowled and turned to Eurylochus, who stood on the gangway between the two rows of benches. “I’ve been rowing for four damn days!”

“Well, then row for four more!” Eurylochus retorted. “There’s an empty bench, get on it!”

Amphidamas growled under his breath. He shot Polites a dark look. “This is your doing. I know it, and you’ll pay for it.” His gaze moved pointedly to the infant.

Until he made that comment, Polites had begun to feel a little bad for Amphidamas. Not anymore. Still, he would rather not spend the next two and a half weeks trapped on a boat with a man who had it out for him.

“Use hypericum^[4] for your hands,” Polites told him. “I’m sure someone on the ship has some.”

Amphidamas just sneered, rolling his eyes, and stalked off toward the rowing benches.

Polites sighed. He caught Eurylochus watching him across the deck and sent his friend an exasperated look.

Expressionless, Eurylochus sniffed and turned to face the prow.

“You know,” Elpenor began, “Amphidamas isn’t wrong.”

Polites looked at him, horrified.

“No no no, not that. Just that you should let someone take the infant while you row. It might make people more… agreeable toward him if he’s not messing up the rhythm.”

“Perhaps, but who would want to take him? Certainly not Eurylochus, and Odysseus…” Polites wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. He settled for grimacing.

“Me,” Elpenor huffed. “I’m saying I would be willing to hold him while you row.”

Polites blinked. “Oh. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I like kids—they’re funny. And how hard can it be?”

Fairly hard, it turned out.

While Elpenor did manage to grant Polites a few moments of reprieve during his rowing shift the next day, the infant was as badly behaved as Polites had ever seen him. He pulled on Elpenor’s braids, poked him in the eye, and cried almost the entire time. Most of the other men swiftly grew aggravated by the racket, but Elpenor toughed it out until, finally, Polites took pity on him and told him to just put the infant back on his lap. Elpenor protested a little; however, his frazzled state had him caving very quickly. When they traded off the oar, Elpenor suggested that maybe the infant just needed to get more used to him. After all, Polites was the only person whom the infant had interacted with for nearly a week.

The idea had merit, so in the evenings, when fewer men were needed on the oars, Polites and Elpenor sat on the barrels at the back of the ship and fumbled their way through socializing the infant. They didn’t really know what they were doing, but after a few days, the infant began to babble at Elpenor as he did with Polites, as if he were trying to include the man in the conversation. He still grew increasingly fussy the longer he was in the other’s arms—it was clear that he much preferred Polites, which was oddly gratifying—but he didn’t start crying immediately. Polites could usually do about half of his shift each day with the infant in Elpenor’s arms before needing to take him back.

And they were starting to see differences in the crew’s attitude, too. There was less animosity and more indifference. The change took a load off Polites’ shoulders. He hoped that maybe, given a few more days, he might be able to go back to joking around and boosting the mood like he used to. He’d begun to feel rather useless without his old role, self-imposed though it was.

Even Eurylochus was warming up to the infant, occasionally choosing to sit with Polites and Elpenor in the evening. Elpenor had tried convincing Perimedes to give the infant a chance, but Perimedes refused to become a “simpering nurse” like the rest of them. All that was left to worry about was Amphidamas, who had kept his distance since Eurylochus’ interruption, and Odysseus.

Polites was starting to miss his friend’s company. He missed talking with Odysseus, sharing stories, jokes, hopes, and fears. He missed the quiet moments when they’d sit together and watch the stars, relishing in life.

At the very, very least, Polites wanted to know the infant’s name because he could only refer to him as “the infant” and “little one” for so long. He didn’t want the child to think that was his name.

He and Odysseus needed to talk. He knew that. Odysseus certainly knew that; he’d been trying to talk to Polites since they left Troy. Polites was just… Well, he was still angry about what happened and apprehensive about bringing the infant around Odysseus. That Odysseus would draw his sword on Polites the moment he refused to do what the man wanted both saddened and infuriated him. It didn’t matter how sleep-deprived Odysseus was at the time. Polites had been friends with his king since they were children. Did that mean nothing?

In the short time Polites had been caring for him, the infant had become like his own. Polites didn’t have much waiting for him in Ithaca. He didn’t have a job or lover to return to, his only friends were his fellow soldiers, and his parents were already well on in age when he left them. If they weren’t dead, they soon would be. He’d long since come to terms with that in the last decade. This infant had given him purpose where he hadn’t realized he was lacking one, and Polites thanked Artemis for that. He hated the thought of putting all of that in jeopardy if Odysseus was still set on following Zeus’ commands.

And, yes, Artemis had ordered Odysseus to protect the infant, but the King of the Gods had ordered him to kill the infant. Anyone in their right mind would obey the Thunderer over all others. Polites knew Odysseus wasn’t a killer if given the choice. He just didn’t know what was more important in his friend’s mind: morals or the gods. The infant’s life or the chance of risking his son’s. His friendship with Polites or his duty to his kingdom.

Of course, a simple conversation would probably fix all of this, but Polites had never claimed to be rational—most people didn’t believe him to be anyway. He led with his heart, and may Zeus strike him down the day he stopped. Right now, his heart was telling him to protect the infant, so that’s what he would do.

Polites held his breath as he carried the infant away from the benches where most of the men were asleep. It was a struggle to avoid stray limbs and belongings in the dark, but he managed to make it to the back of the ship without incident. He sat down on the deck with his back against one of the barrels. Shushing the fussy infant, he began rocking gently from side to side. The child had been working himself into a fit over the last several minutes, and Polites was worried it would devolve into a tantrum. He guessed the child must be hungry, but there was nothing he could do about that. The fleet had begun to run low on food supplies, and Odysseus had instituted rations.

The infant hiccuped, voice rising. The only thing Polites’ tired brain could think of to do was to shush him more and keep rocking. He was not in the mental state to deal with a tantrum. He cast his mind back to Ithaca when he was a boy listening to his mother calm his little sister. There was one lullaby she sang that put Syntyche^[5] right to sleep. It had been a very long time since he’d heard it. His mother hadn’t sung it since Thanatos took Syntyche from her crib down to the Underworld.

Tearing his gaze from the dark sea, Odysseus straightened up off the ship’s railing and glanced around the deck. Most of the men—even Eurylochus—were asleep except for Lycaon, who stood with him at the prow keeping watch. They’d decided to anchor the fleet for the night. The fog that had crept in was too dense to risk sailing. Around them, the moonlit air was still. Odysseus hoped the morning sun would burn away the fog if Aeolus didn’t blow it out.

There it was again. Through the snoring of the crew and the quiet lapping of waves against the fleet, someone was singing. The voice drifted through the air, so soft that, had it been windy, Odysseus would have dismissed it as such. He strained his ears to make out the words.

“This life is amazing,” the gentle voice sang, “when you greet it with open arms. Whatever we face, we’ll be fine if we’re leading from the heart…”

Odysseus’ eyes followed the singing to the other end of the ship, where the waxing moon’s dim light illuminated a figure sitting by the barrels, rocking a small silver bundle in its arms.

“No matter the place, we can light up the world. Here’s how to start: Greet the world with open arms, greet the world with open arms…” Polites trailed off, glancing away from the infant towards the foggy wine-dark sea.

Odysseus watched the child reach up and tug on the tail of Polites’ headband. Polites looked back down. He appeared to say something, but it was too quiet for Odysseus to catch. He resumed singing the lullaby and rocking the infant, who resettled immediately.

Odysseus wanted to smile, yet the sight mostly just made him sad. He needed to talk to Polites, but his friend always kept himself a few steps out of reach. He could order him to stop, of course; however, he had a feeling such an act wouldn’t be received any better than it had been in Troy. Even if Odysseus did manage to catch Polites long enough to get more than a few words in, he still had no answer to the unspoken question lingering between them:

What are you going to do about the infant?

Artemis said the prophecy was meaningless as long as the other gods remained unaware of the infant. Odysseus didn’t want to hurt him—he never had—but Zeus' warning still haunted his thoughts day and night.

Odysseus sighed. His mind was too cluttered, and Polites was the one who always helped him organize it in the past—either him or Penelope, but Penelope was a few hundred miles away, so Polites it was.

Decision more or less made, Odysseus nodded to Lycaon, who returned the gesture, and started toward the aft, taking care not to step on any of his sleeping men. Polites had stopped singing, but he didn’t seem to register Odysseus’ approach. Odysseus was surprised to note that Elpenor wasn’t with him. He’d noticed the two spending a lot of time together lately, if only because Perimedes was complaining more than usual. Elpenor appeared to be trying to help Polites out with the infant, which served to make Odysseus feel even more like a lump.

As he drew closer to the barrels and Polites still hadn’t moved, Odysseus realized his friend had fallen asleep. His heart sank even as his expression softened. He didn’t want to wake Polites, no matter how badly he wanted to talk. He’d seen how haggard his friend had begun to look even with Elpenor’s assistance.

Odysseus stopped beside Polites. His curly-haired head was propped against the side of the barrel, mouth hanging slightly open. The silver blanket in his arms seemed to glow faintly beneath the moon’s slitted gaze. Within it, two big, round eyes blinked at Odysseus curiously, the dimness of the night turning amber into shiny gray-brown.

Odysseus’ mouth tightened. He crouched down and tilted his head. The infant continued watching him. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he finally murmured.

The infant blinked again and yawned. Odysseus’ heart clenched as, for a moment, he saw Telemachus yawning wide before offering a beaming, gummy smile. Odysseus stretched a hand out toward the infant. As soon as it was within reach, the child snatched his fingers in both fists and brought them to his mouth.

Odysseus swallowed a laugh and pulled back, allowing the infant to hold his fingers but not put them in his mouth. “My hands are dirty, little one,” he admonished quietly. His smile faded. “Too dirty…”

Odysseus withdrew his hand fully, and the infant whined, grabbing the air. “You should be afraid of me,” he told the child. “What I did to you was monstrous.”

The infant continued to reach for him, babbling unhappily.

How strongly he reminded Odysseus of Telemachus. It was almost painful. His chest squeezed with a yearning to see his son again. It had been over ten years since he last held him in his arms, proclaiming his love for him to anyone who would listen. Two more weeks, he told himself. Two more weeks until he could see Telemachus.

Odysseus’ brow furrowed as something occurred to him. They had been at sea for a little over one week now. It had been ten days since Zeus ordered him to kill the infant. Ten days in which he had known of the infant’s continued survival and had done nothing about it.

Even if Odysseus killed the child right then and there, Zeus would be furious that his orders were disobeyed for so long.

Polites shifted, and Odysseus froze, realizing how things might look if his friend were to open his eyes and see him hovering over the infant. Thankfully, Polites only shivered and pulled the infant closer before relaxing. Odysseus held his breath for a moment longer and then released it when Polites didn’t move again, other than to shiver some more. The infant settled against Polites’ chest, seemingly reminded that it was time to sleep.

Odysseus glanced around before standing and walking to his quarters. He opened the door and stepped around the doorframe to crouch beside the trunk sitting just inside. Opening the lid, he began digging through his belongings. Quickly enough, he found what he was looking for and headed back outside. Stopping beside Polites once more, he carefully draped his spare blanket over his friend. Polites stopped shivering almost instantly. The infant watched Odysseus from within Polites’ arms, eyes curious as ever.

Turning away, Odysseus headed back to the prow. His mind was elsewhere, circling with probabilities.

Polites had yet to figure out whose blanket it was that he’d woken up with the other day. It was honestly starting to bug him. Of course, it had been a rather touching surprise, but good blankets were difficult to come by—gods knew Polites’ own blanket had more holes than Ctimene’s first weaving attempt. He didn’t want to steal a nice blanket from someone who’d likely only meant it to be temporary. But no one would claim it, though many said they would take it if he were offering. The blanket itself was no help, being a plain dark gray with no distinguishing marks or patterns.

Blankets aside, they had just under a week and a half left at sea, give or take a few days depending on Poseidon’s mood. Their food stores were dwindling, and everyone was on a constant lookout for an island to restock their supplies at. Due to the steady decrease in rations over the past week, tempers across the fleet had begun to flare. Until they found land, Polites had resorted to giving more and more of his own food to the infant in an attempt to keep the child’s meals regular. Even so, both of their stomachs continued to rumble throughout each day. Unfortunately, this resulted in a drastic upsurge of temper tantrums.

The crew made their displeasure about this indisputably known. All traces of their previous budding tolerance evaporated with the infant’s first full-throated wail of hunger, and attitudes only worsened from there. What started with merely a renewal of irritated grumbles and insults devolved into shouted threats and thrown items over the course of only a few days.

Polites held his peace.

But he was hungry and exhausted, too. By the time they made it two full weeks out from Troy and one week into rationing, Polites had snapped at the infant twice in one day and narrowly prevented himself from shoulder-checking Perimedes over the ship railing. Never mind the one time Odysseus tried to talk to him.

And despite hardly ever uttering more than a word of protest or reproach for all their insults, the other men’s bad tempers seemed to feed off of Polites’ own bottled frustration, making them all the more insufferable.

Everything came to a head one day while Polites was taking his shift at the oars. Elpenor stood at the bow a few paces away, trying to calm another one of the infant’s tantrums.

“Will you shut that thing up?!” Antiphus shouted from his bench in the port-side row.

“I’m trying, dammit!” Elpenor snapped, which only made the infant wail louder. He waved Polites’ old headband over the infant’s face in a futile attempt to distract him.

“Just throw it overboard!” Amphidamas called, prompting a chorus of agreements from many of the rowers. Polites fought the urge to shoot a glare at the man leaning against the mast in the middle of the gangway.

The infant’s screeching reached new heights, his Apollo-given lungs being used to their fullest extent.

Elpenor looked at Polites, his sweaty forehead wrinkled with anxiety.

Polites huffed as he rowed. “Just give him to me.”

Elpenor’s shoulders slumped in relief, and Polites tried not to roll his eyes as irritation pricked his brain. His stomach grumbled noisily.

Before Elpenor could so much as step toward Polites, Amphidamas pushed off the mast and darted down the gangway with even strides. He walked right into Elpenor and then continued to the front of the ship.

Elpenor looked up at Polites dumbly. His arms were empty. The infant’s headband dangled from his fingers.

Polites’ stomach dropped. He automatically looked around for Eurylochus before remembering the second-in-command had left his position on deck to talk to Odysseus in the captain’s quarters.

Amphidamas halted behind the prow and turned to face the men on the benches. The infant shrieked and squirmed in his blistered hands, little face beet red and smeared with snot and tears. Amphidamas met Polites’ gaze and sneered.

“What’s the verdict, men?” he called to the crew. He lifted the infant by the silver blanket swaddling him. “Overboard?”

Polites broke free of his stupor and shot to his feet. The waves caught the end of his oar. With no hands securing it, the water pulled it into the sea, where it quickly became tangled in the oars of the rowers behind him.

Polites hardly noticed. His focus was on Amphidamas and the infant only. He scrambled out of the bench recess and onto the gangway.

“Amphidamas, stop,” he began, straightening up with his hands outstretched. “There’s no need for this. Put him down. Please.”

Amphidamas laughed. “But what if I just…” He swung the infant tauntingly over the edge of the rail.

“Stop!” Polites yelped, his gut lurching at the infant’s renewed screams.

Some of the men laughed. They’d all stopped rowing. Elpenor was nowhere to be found. Polites cast around, hoping to find a sympathetic face. There were none—at least none that he could see amongst all the vindictive sneers and cold glowers. Polites was alone.

Gods help him.

Amphidamas seemed to read his thoughts. “Look at that, Polites. You’re on your own. Tell me, how’s it feel not having the Captain to protect you?”

Polites ignored the question, though it sent a pulse of indignation through his chest. “Put him down, Amphidamas,” he repeated. He didn’t care if he was begging. He wasn’t Eurylochus or Odysseus; he was capable of actually swallowing his pride.

Amphidamas’ wolfish grin touched his eyes. “Oh, you mean—” He jerked the infant down toward the sea.

Polites darted forward—

Strong hands caught his arms, pulling him back.

Polites twisted, trying to see who held him. He glimpsed Antiphus, Georgios, and Alexander. The rest of the men gathered behind them, having secured their oars and left their benches. What stunned him most was how he had fought alongside these men, bled with them, taken blow after blow for them, and suddenly they were up in arms against him over what? A few lost hours of sleep?

Polites growled. “Let me go!”

The men restraining him scoffed.

“We’ve tolerated that infant long enough,” Georgios told him.

“See?” Amphidamas said. “This is better for everyone.” His tone darkened. “Consider this payback.”

“Why do you still care about that?” Polites demanded. “The girl was too young! She wouldn’t have even made it to Ithaca!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“Your— What on Earth does that mean?! You would’ve been the one to bring her onto the ships in the first place!”

“I’m not here to argue morals with you, Polites,” Amphidamas drawled. “Though I know how highly you think of yourself because of them.”

“I do not! I’m no better than any other man here!” The iron grips on Polites’ arms tightened.

Amphidamas tsked. “Convenient, how you say that when you have an audience.” He lifted the infant over the sea—

“Amphidamas,” Polites warned, his entire body going taut.

—and let go.

The infant screamed, and the world slowed down. Polites watched the silver blanket flutter in the air as it fell. A horrified “No!” tore from his mouth. He threw himself forward, but the men holding his arms yanked him back.

Then Amphidamas caught the infant at the last second, and time returned to its normal pace. The man laughed. Others joined in.

Polites breathed heavily from within his captors’ grasp. His mind seemed only capable of registering the wailing infant in front of him. The sound hurt his ears, ringing through his skull. A dozen incoherent thoughts crowded his brain in an instant—all of them furious. For a moment, he was entirely overwhelmed.

Until his mind suddenly went still, and the world snapped into crisp focus. His harsh breathing calmed even as anger replaced the blood roaring through his veins.

Polites felt the hands on him loosen, and he burst into action.

Ripping one arm free, he whipped around and slammed his fist into Antiphus’ face. Antiphus cried out, releasing Polites’ other arm to hold his nose. The rest of the men erupted into shouts and cries while anger drove Polites’ fists into a frenzy, hitting anything and everything that got in his way.

He was sick of holding his tongue and playing the pacifist. They’d been threatening the infant since before they boarded the ship. Polites could weather the abuse. An empty taunt was one thing, but he was not about to just let them put their words into action. Even he had a breaking point, and by the gods, this day had pushed him well past it. Polites was not an angry person by nature, but never in his life had he so desperately wanted another person to feel pain.

Perhaps the war had changed him more than he thought.

Polites heard the infant shriek louder. He threw an uppercut at the man standing between them. Lycaon tried to lean out of his fist’s trajectory, but Polites’ knuckles still clipped the end of his chin. His head snapped back, and Polites stepped around him. He charged at Amphidamas before anyone could stop him.

Amphidamas’ eyes widened. He stepped back, bringing the infant in front of him like a human shield. The action only served to fuel Polites’ anger. He tackled the other man, taking him to the ground. The infant landed safely between them on Amphidamas’ stomach while Polites straddled his legs. Red tinted his vision as he beheld the man who had tried to hurt his child. Before Amphidamas could do anything to retaliate, Polites had his arms pinned to the deck beneath his knees and started throwing his fists anew. Only instead of dealing with multiple targets, he now just had one: Amphidamas’ smug, sadistic face.

The infant screamed at the violence happening inches away from him, but the noise didn’t quite sink in for Polites anymore. He was beyond sense at this point. Furious growls were the only sound that left him. Hands pawed at his arms and shoulders, trying to pull him off of Amphidamas. Polites threw them off—which, distantly, he realized he shouldn’t have been able to do so easily. He was an adequate fighter, but all this? It should have been beyond him—and kept raining down punches.

Familiar voices called out around him, but only one actually cut through the dull roar in his ears.

“Polites!”

Odysseus.

He sounded so shocked, so… worried.

Polites’ strength left him so suddenly that his vision dimmed. Fists slowing, he slumped sideways, and his shoulder hit the deck next to Amphidamas’ moaning body. The anger remained, but without the godly strength—for that’s what it was, wasn’t it?—it had little force behind it.

“Polites!” he heard Odysseus repeat. A hand landed on his shoulder before leaving as quickly as it came. Polites’ vision swam. He felt dizzy, though that probably had more to do with hunger than anything else.

“What happened?!” Odysseus’ angry voice demanded. Polites didn’t think he was talking to him.

Where was the infant?

Polites shot upright. He could still hear him crying. “Where…” The world spun.

Elpenor appeared, shoving the infant at his chest.

Polites caught his child instinctively and brought him close. The infant continued crying, but it became a little quieter once he seemed to realize who was holding him. As Polites’ vision began to steady, he realized his hands were splattered with blood. It was getting all over the infant and his blanket.

“Shit…” he mumbled absently and tried wiping his hands on his chiton, but his knuckles were evidently split and bleeding as well. He only succeeded in making himself look more macabre.

Tiny hands clutched the front of his chiton. A small sticky face pressed itself to his chest, tears and saliva wetting his skin through the threadbare fabric. The rest of Polites’ anger melted away. He cradled the child closer, heedless of the blood on his hands.

“No one wants to explain? No one?”

Polites glanced up to see Odysseus standing with his back to him. The captain glared around at his crew, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Eurylochus stood nearby, keeping Amphidamas upright after peeling the man’s body off the deck.

Polites was grimly satisfied to find Amphidamas’ face was almost unrecognizable beneath all the blood and swelling. Elpenor shifted next to him, and he startled, not realizing the other was still crouched there.

After another long moment of silence, Odysseus turned his thunderous expression on Amphidamas. The muscles of his back and arms were stiff with tension. “Anything you’d care to say?”

Amphidamas’ eyes darted around in the slits left by his swollen eyelids. He opened his mouth. He was missing a few more teeth that Polites remembered.

“I-I didn’t—”

“Amphidamas,” Odysseus warned as if sensing the lie about to leave the man’s lips.

Amphidamas hesitated under his king’s fiery stare. He glanced around at the crew, who all avoided looking at him. Realizing he had lost his allies, Amphidamas sighed.

“I grabbed the inbant frob Elbenor,” he admitted, voice nasally, some consonants flubbing on the way past his swollen lips. “But I was neber actually gonna throw hib oberboard!”

Polites glowered as fresh anger rushed through him. “You dropped him,” he growled.

Amphidamas sent him a murderous look. “And you threw the birst bunch!”

Odysseus stepped between them to block their view of the other. “Polites?” he asked, facing him.

Polites met Odysseus’ gaze, unrepentant. “Yes. I threw the first punch.”

“Why?”

“Because he was threatening to kill the infant. My infant. I’m allowed to protect what’s mine, aren’t I?” Polites narrowed his eyes in challenge. He was surprised to find he had no qualms about punching his captain, too, if he tried to object. His patience was shot to Hades.

“But we can’t sleep!” someone protested. “The thing cries all night, and we can’t catch a wink!”

“You sleep just fine, Perimedes!” Elpenor barked. “If anything, you keep me awake with all your snoring.”

A smattering of stifled snickers rose from the crew while Perimedes spluttered.

Odysseus called their attention back to him. “That doesn’t give you the right to take what’s not yours, nor to take the life of a child.” He raised a hand as more grumbles started, and the crew fell silent. Polites’ eyebrows lifted in surprise at what sounded like support from Odysseus.

“I hear your complaints,” Odysseus continued. “I understand that the situation is not ideal. However, for his own reasons, Polites chose to claim this infant with his spoils. That was his decision and his right. The child is no threat to you. Polites isn’t trying to pass him off to one of your women.” His expression grew thoughtful. “In fact, from here on, the infant will sleep in my quarters, so his presence should no longer be of concern to any of you. Should you, however, require further incentive to restrain yourselves, then you may view the infant as my child. Any harm done to Astyanax or threat spoken against him will answer to me. Do I make myself clear?”

A handful of subdued “Yes, sir’s” came from the crowd.

Odysseus waited.

“Yes, sir!” the crew repeated more cohesively.

“Consider yourselves fortunate that I’m not dealing out collective punishments for this incident.” Odysseus’ dangerous gaze swept over the crew.

Face paled, throats bobbed, and a few heads nodded quickly. Polites finally took notice of how many of them were sporting black eyes and bloody noses and couldn’t help but be a little startled by himself. His own shoulders were a bit battered, and somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, he registered the torn, stinging skin of his knuckles, but other than that, he’d barely been touched by the fight.

Odysseus looked at Amphidamas. “You, however, get the privilege of taking on Polites’ rowing shifts as well as your own for the foreseeable future.”

Polites interrupted, concerned that adding salt to the wound would only make it fester longer. “There’s no need—”

Odysseus spoke over him, still addressing Amphidamas. “You start now. Get rowing.”

It was a testament to the beating he took that Amphidamas didn’t protest and only bowed his head. He shuffled off to grab a new oar for Polites’ bench without meeting anyone else’s gaze.

There was a moment of stillness.

“What are you all waiting for? Permission?” Odysseus barked. “Go!”

Everyone scrambled to get back to their posts.

“Eurylochus, signal the other ships,” Odysseus said to his second. Polites glanced over the railing to see the rest of the fleet floating around them, each crew peering at them from their own boat. “Let them know everything is fine and to continue on course.”

Next to Polites, Elpenor stood up and offered him a hand. Polites took it, and Elpenor pulled him upright. Without conscious thought, he started rocking the infant. The motion seemed to comfort the child as he finally fell fully silent, burying his face deeper into Polites’ chiton.

“I didn’t turn tail by the way,” Elpenor said. “I went to get the captain. If you weren’t sure—”

“It’s alright, Elpenor,” Polites cut in, not unkindly. “Thank you.”

Elpenor smiled. “Of course. I’ve grown fond of the little guy anyway.”

The clearing of a throat interrupted them. They both looked over at Odysseus, who was watching them with guarded eyes.

“Polites, if you would come with me.”

Polites’ first instinct was to make an excuse and flee as he had been doing for the last two weeks. It was the memory of Odysseus’ words to the crew, his support, that stalled the urge.

“You may view the infant as my child. Any harm done to Astyanax or threat spoken against him will answer to me.”

Firstly, Astyanax? Was that the infant’s name?

Secondly, was Odysseus really going to protect the infant? Likening him to his son was a bold statement for a king to make. Polites suddenly felt like an enormous idiot for avoiding him all this time.

At any rate, after a fight like that, his captain had every right to order him around. Polites had thrown the first punch.

He looked at Elpenor and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you,” he repeated before facing Odysseus and gesturing for him to lead the way.

Something like relief passed through Odysseus’ stiff expression, relaxing it slightly.

Now, Polites just felt guilty for all the hoops he’d been making his friend jump through just to speak to him. Normally, it was the other way around.

Odysseus nodded and started toward his quarters at the back of the ship. Polites followed. He felt his crewmates’ gazes lingering on his back, but fewer were openly hostile so much as curious or wary.

Odysseus opened the door and ushered him and the infant inside. Once the door shut behind the three of them, his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled heavily. After a few seconds, he looked back up at Polites and moved toward him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his hand reaching out as if having a mind of its own.

Polites blinked as it settled in the crook between his neck and shoulder. His heart jumped in his chest.

Odysseus didn’t seem to notice. He was still waiting for an answer, eyes growing more concerned by the second.

Polites cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t think I won’t punch you too. I’m fine.”

It was too easy to fall back into old patterns.

Odysseus raised his hands in surrender with a hint of a smile. Polites’ shoulder felt cold without it.

His friend’s smile then became tentative. “And how’s the infant? He wasn’t injured, right?”

Polites looked down at the child. “I don’t think so. Just scared.”

The infant tightened his grip on Polites’ chiton as if to ensure he couldn’t be taken away again. Or rather, it was Astyanax, wasn’t it? With his honey eyes and fine dark curls, the regal name suited him—when he wasn’t covered in snot, tears, and the blood of other men.

“Astyanax,” Polites piped up before Odysseus could respond. The captain twitched. “You said that earlier. Is that his name? The one Artemis told us to use?”

“Yes,” Odysseus said reluctantly. “I heard his mother calling to him during the battle.”

“Ah.”

“So what happened out there?” Odysseus asked.

“We already told you.”

“Yes, but, Polites, that was… a little much. Elpenor came running in saying something about you, Amphidamas, and the infant, and when we finally got outside, half the crew was bruised and bloodied, and you were pummeling Amphidamas into the deck.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. There was a look in his eyes that Polites couldn’t quite place. “I didn’t know you had something like that in you.”

“He deserved it,” Polites said, trying not to take offense. He tightened his hold on the infant, who hiccuped on the last of his tears. “So…” He didn’t know how to phrase this. “I take it you’re… not going to follow through with Zeus’ orders?”

“…No.” Odysseus pursed his lips. Polites didn’t interrupt as his friend gathered his thoughts. “I… I don’t want to kill an innocent child.” He met Polites’ gaze, his brown eyes intense and imploring. “I never did,” he asserted.

“I know,” Polites said.

As if the assurance was all he had needed, something in Odysseus’ frame seemed to unclench. He continued more easily now. “And it was either kill Astyanax and face certain death at Artemis’ arrows, or take the gamble to help you raise him and get back to Ithaca, Fates permitting, without facing anyone’s divine wrath.”

“Even at the risk of Telemachus?” Polites questioned. He wanted to be sure that Odysseus wouldn’t second-guess this.

Odysseus nodded. He sounded like he’d rehearsed this to himself a great many times. “I realized the other night, if Zeus were to discover that we harbored Astyanax this long right under his nose, he’s likely to strike down the entire fleet on principle. Meanwhile, Artemis said the prophecy was meaningless so long as Astyanax never learns of his past and the other gods don’t find out. I figure our chances of everyone surviving this are higher if Astyanax remains as he is. We will just have to do our best to keep him ignorant as he grows older.”

That was good enough for Polites. “Agreed.”

Odysseus’ mouth twisted wryly. “And I suppose not facing your wrath would also be preferable. Especially given what I’ve now seen of it.”

Polites chuckled despite himself.

“The silent treatment was really starting to grate on me,” Odysseus added. His tone softened with sincerity. “I missed your company, my friend.”

Polites smiled. “I missed yours as well.”

Before they could lapse into silence, Odysseus straightened. “Now let’s get your hands cleaned up.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Gods, I think after this, you’ll have made the crew more afraid of you than they are of Eurylochus.”

Polites glanced at his bloody hands, wrapped around Astyanax. “I’m… not sure how to feel about that.”

Odysseus only laughed again as he stepped over to the room’s sole table. It was mostly covered in maps and other instruments of navigation, but there was also a pitcher of water and a bowl with a hunk of bread in it. Polites willed his stomach not to growl as Odysseus took the bread and set it aside. The captain poured the water from the pitcher into the bowl.

“Shouldn’t we save that?” Polites asked. Fresh water was a little hard to come by in an ocean of salt.

Odysseus waved him off. “It’s fine. Eurylochus and I were going over some maps before everything. We should be coming up on an island very soon, if not today even.”

Polites felt something in his chest loosen. “About time.”

Astyanax’s stomach whined in agreement, making Polites’ brows knit with worry as he looked down. Astyanax only snuffled and squirmed a little. His eyes scrunched in discomfort.

Odysseus glanced at the infant. “Here.” He grabbed the bread from the table, ripped off a small piece, and held it in front of Astyanax. The infant opened his eyes and stared at the offering. One small, pudgy hand reached out and took it. Immediately, Astyanax stuffed the bread into his mouth. For a moment, Polites worried that he would choke before he realized Astyanax was just gumming on it.

Odysseus smiled at the infant. It was the same warm smile Polites had seen him give Telemachus a hundred times. If he had any doubts left over before, they were gone now.

“Are you sure you want Astyanax to sleep in here with you?” Polites asked. “He can be very loud, especially when he can’t see me. Elpenor can attest.”

Odysseus glanced at him. “Well, I assumed you’d sleep in here too.”

Polites felt the blood rush to his face. Odysseus didn’t mean it that way, obviously. His brain just liked jumping to random conclusions. He tried to think of a reason to protest. “Um, won’t that seem like… like we’re…”

Odysseus shrugged, attention returning to Astyanax as he gave him another piece of bread. “We’ve shared cots before, haven’t we? Unless you would rather leave Astyanax with me and keep sleeping at your bench.”

“No,” Polites said, automatically opposed to the idea of being away from Astyanax that long. “But the crew will talk. I share a bench with Elpenor, if you recall. The moment he realizes I’m sleeping in here, not even Olympus could stop Rumor’s flight through this ship.”

“Let ‘em talk. We should only be at sea for another week or so.”

“If you’re sure. I wouldn’t mind sleeping away from the elements.”

“Great, now let’s fix your hands.”

Polites gave an exaggerated sigh. “Alright. Can I set Astyanax down?”

Odysseus glanced around the floor. It was relatively clear. “Yeah, he’ll be fine.”

Polites crouched down and unwrapped the silver blanket swaddling Astyanax. After spreading it out on the floor, he set Astyanax on top of it. Odysseus tore off some more bread and gave it to the infant. They both straightened, and Polites stepped over to the bowl of water. He dipped his hands in and began scrubbing with his nails while Odysseus shuffled about behind him. The water turned red in very little time, leaving Polites unsettled, though any hint of guilt for his actions had yet to trouble him. He wouldn’t change what he did, but he had never liked violence to begin with, never mind violence instigated by himself.

A hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts.

Odysseus offered a rag, chiding, “You’re going to tear your knuckles even more using your nails like that.”

Polites accepted the rag. “Thanks.”

“Of course, it’s the least I can do. I haven’t…” Odysseus’ gaze dropped. “I’ve been so conflicted about everything since Troy. I haven’t exactly been there to help you out. Hell, I’m surprised Artemis hasn’t shot me down yet. I haven’t necessarily been fulfilling her orders.”

Polites ceased his scrubbing to frown at Odysseus. “That’s not on you. I haven’t been a particularly fantastic friend either. You were at least trying to make amends. I was just… apprehensive and, frankly, still angry that you pulled your sword on me.”

Which reminded Polites that said sword was still stashed in his belongings. Perhaps it was time he returned it.

Odysseus sucked on his teeth. “Yeah, I have no excuse for that. I wasn’t… well.”

“Clearly, but it’s alright. All’s forgiven.”

Odysseus smiled. “Thank you.”

Polites returned the smile and went back to scrubbing. Odysseus’ hand moved from his shoulder, leaving it cold once more. He saw his friend crouch down in his peripheral vision. Odysseus offered Astyanax more bread, speaking quiet nonsense to him. Astyanax babbled.

Polites looked over, thinking the infant was babbling at him, but to his surprise, Astyanax’s attention was fixed on Odysseus. He babbled some more, and Odysseus laughed.

“He’s warming up to you much quicker than he did with Elpenor,” Polites commented.

Odysseus’ mirth faded. “He shouldn’t be,” he said bluntly. “I tried to kill him.”

“Zeus ordered you to. You can’t disobey the gods.”

“But isn’t that what I’m doing right now?”

“Well, a goddess told you to. That counts for something.”

“I suppose.” Odysseus didn’t look entirely convinced.

“She helped me,” Polites added to change the topic. “I think. To protect Astyanax.”

Odysseus’ eyebrows lifted. “Really? Well—” He glanced heavenward. “Thank you, Lady Artemis, for your aid.”

A breeze flitted through the room, though the door was shut, and there were no windows. Then a floorboard creaked, and both Polites and Odysseus jumped as Artemis stepped out of the shadows by the doorway.

“Well, you did ask the gods to help you,” she told Polites.

Quickly, Polites dropped to a knee.

“Stop doing that,” the goddess huffed. Polites straightened. She seemed less intense than she had been in Troy. “You leave yourself vulnerable. If you bow the moment you encounter any being that seems to be of greater power than you, one day, one of those beings will decide to slice your jugular.” She paused. “Though most men should learn to bow more often.”

Odysseus made a noise from his spot on the floor by Astyanax.

Artemis quirked an eyebrow at him.

Odysseus cleared his throat and stood up. “Apologies, my Lady. You merely reminded me of Athena for a moment.”

Artemis’s tone went dry. “Athena is not the only one capable of common sense.”

“Of course.”

Artemis returned her silver gaze to Polites, considering. “You’re more of a warrior than I thought,” she said.

Polites resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. “I don’t know. I believe that was all you, my Lady. Thank you, by the way.”

Artemis ignored the gratitude. “I may have lent you strength, but it was you who fought for the child.”

“Perhaps. And I would do it again in a heartbeat, but…” Polites looked down at his torn knuckles, beads of fresh blood welling up from them and re-staining his newly cleaned skin. “I prefer to steer clear of such things when I can.”

“One can never avoid violence,” Artemis replied, unsympathetic. “It is the law of nature. Kill or be killed. The light of a strong heart will never lead you astray, but it leaves you incapable of seeing in the darkness without it. You must learn to better defend your light, Anastasiades, or you will find out how quickly the night turns predator into prey.”

A chill curled around the base of Polites’ spine at the goddess’s words. It was as if he was hearing the nature of his death read out to him.

Artemis turned to Odysseus. “You, on the other hand, have failed almost entirely.”

“My deepest apologies, Lady Artemis,” Odysseus said with a wince.

Artemis glared at him for a moment longer and then sighed. “However, I am aware of how slowly mortal minds move. You showed today that you are at least willing to protect the child. Perhaps you can still make up for your earlier shortcomings.”

“Yes, my Lady, I can, and I plan to. I swear it.”

The goddess pursed her lips. “Do not promise such things so readily, King of Ithaca. One day, you will find you cannot keep it.” Her gaze moved to Astyanax, and her cool expression softened minutely. She gestured for the bread in Odysseus’ hand.

He passed it over.

Artemis crouched down before the infant, concealing the food in her cupped hands. When her fingers parted, the bread had been made into bite-sized pieces of only the soft middle with no hard crust. She set the pieces on the blanket in front of the infant, who began happily munching on them, before standing up. She faced Polites and held out a second hunk of bread identical to the one Odysseus originally gave her. Polites looked between it and Astyanax’s bread in confusion.

Instead of explaining, Artemis said, “Take the bread, Anastasiades. I can hear your stomach eating itself.”

Polites’ eyes widened in alarm, and he quickly took the food. “What do you mean?”

Artemis smirked and turned to slink back into the shadows on silent feet. “Farewell, both of you. I’ll be watching.” The goddess disappeared.

Polites looked down at his stomach and then at Odysseus. “Stomachs can eat themselves?”

Odysseus waved him off, though he, too, looked disconcerted by the idea. “I’m sure she meant that figuratively.” He eyed Polites with reproach. “You should’ve said you were hungry, though.”

“Everyone’s hungry,” Polites replied before nibbling the bread cautiously.

It was gone in the next instant.

Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “Not as hungry as you, it seems.”

Polites’ belly was too satisfied for him to feel embarrassed. “Well, rations were getting stricter, and Astyanax had to eat too.”

Odysseus groaned. “You could have said something. If not to me, then to Eurylochus. You didn’t have to starve yourself.”

Polites leveled his friend with a dry look. “I was already on thin ice with the crew as it was. What do you think would have happened if they saw me getting more rations than everyone else?”

Odysseus’ mouth opened. And then closed.

“Exactly. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. As soon as we get to that island and restock, the rest of the journey will be a breeze.”

Odysseus relented with a sigh. “Fine.” His gaze fell on Polites’ hands. “We should probably wrap your knuckles,” he suggested. “That doesn’t look good. Nothing feels broken, right?”

Polites looked down at his hands. The split skin on his knuckles still stung slightly from scrubbing them with the rag, but he could move all his fingers with minimal aching, so he doubted anything was broken.

“No, I think it’s fine,” he said. “Looks worse than it is. Let me clean up Astyanax first, though. I got blood on him and his blanket.”

“Alright.” Odysseus bent down to pick up Astyanax and the blanket. Polites was about to warn him that the infant would probably start crying, but to his surprise, Astyanax was perfectly tolerant.

“I see blood on Astyanax,” Odysseus said as he passed him over, “but the blanket looks clean.”

Polites held Astyanax in one arm and took the blanket to check it over. He was sure it was dirty; his bloody hands had been on it.

The fabric was pristine.

Well, it was Artemis’ blanket, as he’d determined. The infant never got too cold or too hot in it, and it never pulled loose. Not to mention, the fabric was entirely unique. It wasn’t a stretch to believe that it could magic away stains.

Polites shrugged at Odysseus and set the blanket on the table. He grabbed the rag to start cleaning his bloody fingerprints off Astyanax’s head and hair. Then he stopped. The rag was already saturated with blood from his hands, and the water in the bowl wasn’t much better. He’d just be making Astyanax more of a mess.

Grimacing, he looked back at Odysseus, whose attention had shifted to the maps on the table, and motioned with the bloody rag. “Any chance you have another spare cloth hiding somewhere?”

Odysseus looked up. “Trying to steal all my things, are you?” he huffed even as he moved to find one. Returning, he held the new rag over the bowl and poured water from the pitcher onto it before passing it to Polites.

“Thanks.” Polites began wiping the blood off of Astyanax.

The infant swatted at him and the rag, whining shrilly with displeasure. Polites snorted in amusement. Seeing that his complaints were ineffective, Astyanax seized the tail of his headband and gave it a good, hard yank. A grunt fell from Polites’ mouth as his head was jerked sideways. Odysseus snickered, and Polites shot him a glare.

“He has an obsession with my headbands,” he grumbled, pulling the tail out of Astyanax’s fist. “I already gave him my old one, so I don’t know why he’s always pulling on this one.”

“It’s adorable,” Odysseus laughed again.

“It is, but I can’t keep cutting up my tunic to give him new ones. It’s almost too short to wear.” He frowned. “Though I guess I might have to. I don’t know where the old headband went after the fight.”

“A worthy cause to lose a shirt to.”

“You would say that. You have, like, ten different chitons. I have the blood-splattered chiton I’m currently wearing, my increasingly short tunic, and maybe, if I’m lucky, one more chiton floating around somewhere.”

Odysseus raised a brow. “Well, then, would you like to borrow one of my ‘ten different chitons’?”

Polites’ heart skipped a beat. “I— No, that’s fine. I’m just complaining.”

Odysseus shrugged. “Well, the offer stands if that changes.”

Polites had to silently command his heart to calm down. “Noted.” After giving Astyanax another once-over, he put him back on the floor with his blanket. As he straightened, he flexed his fingers. His knuckles were starting to feel a little stiff. “Do you have any bandages, or should I go find some?”

“I should have a few.” Odysseus moved toward the chest at the foot of his cot. Polites watched him open it and dig through the contents before locating a couple stray wrappings.

Polites flexed his fingers again. The red abrasions on his knuckles were beginning to darken with bruising. “Maybe I’m the one who needs the hypericum now,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Not about me, I hope,” Odysseus said. He strode back over.

“Not quite.”

“Mhm.” Odysseus took Polites’ left hand and began wrapping it for him.

“I can do that—”

“Shush. It’s quicker and easier with two hands.”

Polites shrugged. He prayed his friend’s deft fingers wouldn’t stray too close to the pulse point on his wrist. He didn’t know how he would explain why his heart was beating so fast. It was like it was trying to make up for the last two weeks of separation from its favorite person.

Soon enough, both of Polites’ hands were wrapped up, and Odysseus was stepping back.

“Thank you,” Polites said and stooped down to pick up Astyanax, who yawned at him, clutching the corner of his blanket in one fist.

“Of course—”

“Land!”

Polites and Odysseus both jumped at the sudden shout from beyond their little bubble of solitude. Then they grinned at each other.

“Finally,” Odysseus exclaimed, rushing to the door.

Polites followed right on his heels, Astyanax in his arms.

“Polites, gear up. You and I’ll go ahead.”

“Me? Are you sure? I’m not leaving Astyanax on the ship. If I’m going, he’s coming with us.”

“I figured as much,” Odysseus said. He lowered his voice, but they could both still feel the crew’s prying stares on their backs. “The crew still needs time to cool off. I’d rather not leave the two of you alone on the ship.”

“Eurylochus would be here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think I proved today that I can handle myself.”

“Beyond a sliver of a doubt, my friend, but that debacle is exactly why the crew needs to cool off.”

“Fine, but if we run into trouble, I’ll be hindered.”

“That’s why Elpenor’s joining us. Elpenor! Grab your gear, you’re coming too.”

“Yes, sir!” Elpenor called from the prow. He started toward his and Polites’ bench before changing course and coming over. “I forgot to give you this back,” he said to Polites, handing him Astyanax’s headband.

Polites broke into a grin. Now he wouldn’t have to cut his shirt again. “Thank you,” he said and held it out for Astyanax, who snatched it immediately.

“’Course,” Elpenor replied as he turned to head back to their bench.

“That reminds me,” Polites said after a moment, looking at Odysseus, “I have something of yours.”

Odysseus frowned. “You do?”

Polites started walking toward the benches. Odysseus trailed after him. He waited until Elpenor hopped out of the recess, sword and scabbard tucked under one arm, before stepping down into it. “Yes, I, uh, managed to pull it out of the floor the morning we left Troy.”

“Wait, you mean my—”

Polites pulled Odysseus’ sword out from his belongings. He offered it to his captain sheepishly.

Odysseus smiled in confusion but readily accepted it. “Why did you wait so— Ah. Right.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No, it’s a fair reaction. I can’t fault you for it.”

Polites paused, a thought striking. He reached down and pulled out the ownerless blanket he’d woken up with four days ago. “This doesn’t happen to be yours, too, does it?”

Odysseus suddenly looked flustered. He took the blanket. “Yes. I just noticed that you seemed cold the other night, and I had a spare.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been spying on me now,” Polites teased. “Miss me that much, huh?”

“You wish,” Odysseus grumbled, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment with annoyance.

“Well, either way, thank you,” Polites said. “I appreciated it.”

Odysseus relaxed again, smiling a little. “Of course.”

Soon enough, the fleet was anchored off the island’s shore. The three of them—plus Astyanax—dropped into the shallows and waded onto the beach. Together, they headed into the forest toward the strange lights glimmering within.

Polites glanced between his two friends. Both had tight grips on their weapons. It was putting him on edge. And if there was one thing he had learned about Astyanax, it was that at some point, the infant had figured out how to read him like a book. If he was particularly stressed, Astyanax picked up on it and almost always started crying. The last thing they needed was the infant making a racket. Taking Astyanax at all was a risk that Polites wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but he trusted now that if it came to it, Odysseus would uphold Artemis’ command.

He spoke up. “You can relax, my friends.”

The two glanced back at him. “What?” Odysseus asked.

“He can tell you’re getting nervous,” Polites explained, nodding to Astyanax. “So do us all a service, and try to relax, my friends.”

“We’re fine, Polites,” Elpenor assured him.

Polites sent him a disbelieving look in response. In his arms, Astyanax was starting to whine and squirm.

Polites hushed him to no effect. After a moment, he sighed in resignation. Trying not to feel self-conscious about his audience, he began to sing quietly to the infant.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms…”