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Chapter Text

ODYSSEUS

The waves of the wine dark lapped gently against the hull of Darling Diomedes’ ship, a steady rhythm against the quiet murmurs of the men on board. The scent of salt and damp wood mingled with the lingering traces of old blood, the remnants of past battles that had never truly washed away.

Overhead, Lord Helios was retreating to the East once more, his golden boat sinking beyond the horizon in a blaze of deep crimson and smouldering orange. The sky burned as though set aflame, the last vestiges of light stretching long across the sea before fading into the encroaching violet of night. Soon, Lady Nyx would spread her veil, and the only light to guide them would be the pale face of Lady Selene and the flickering torches that lined the decks of their ships.

Odysseus leaned over the wooden table in the centre of the deck, studying the crude map they had sketched into the dirt. Phocaea loomed ahead, waiting just beyond the dark waters. Its walls were thick, its defenders well-equipped, but they were not prepared for a sudden strike. That, at the very least, was their advantage.

Across from him, Telamonian Ajax, broad of chest and heavy of hand, pressed his great fingers against the table, his voice rolling like thunder across the deck. “Long has Noble Achilles cast his gaze upon this city, desiring its riches and its renown. Had not his heart been burdened by the sickness of Dear Patroclus, he would stand among us, eager for the taste of battle.”

Diomedes scoffed, shaking his head, the gold in his dark hair glinting in the last light of Lord Helios. “Patroclus will rise from his bed before the next moon wanes. Pelides worries too much, and for what? What is a mere fever to a warrior? I cannot fathom it. He need not guard Patroclus as though he were some frail maiden, for he is fierce in battle and strong of limb. Soon, he will take up his spear once more.”

Menelaus folded his arms across his chest. “And tell me this – if Pelides’ heart longed for this city so, why was it left unclaimed? Why have our swords not yet rung against its gates?”

Odysseus turned to him with a wry smile, though exhaustion gnawed at the edge. “Because, Good Menelaus, not all of us march blindly toward the greatest prize. Phocaea lies far to the south, beyond the reach of our fury, while East of Troy has yielded similar spoils and swifter victories. If we had pursued every golden city upon the wine-dark sea, we would have long before marched beyond Aigyptos and set fire to the walls of Tanis.”

Menelaus frowned, displeased, but Telamonides let loose a low chuckle. “No matter now. What was left undone shall now be finished. We take Phocaea on the morrow, and Achilles may regret his absence when we return laden with spoils.”

Odysseus rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly, his fingers tracing the ridges of the map they had carved. “Aye, and we shall take it swiftly as Lord Helios brings the dawn tomorrow. The walls of Phocaea are strong, but no stone stands forever. Let our ships land beneath the cloak of night – let the sea bear us as silent as the gods’ will.” He cast a glance at Ajax. “You, great Telamonides, shall lead the first assault. Let your strength test the weight of their gates. Diomedes shall take another force through the streets, striking into the heart of the city before they can rally.”

His voice was steady, practiced, but his mind was elsewhere. He had not slept well in many nights – not since the letter that had arrived, bearing tidings from Beloved Penelope, sealed with wax that had crumbled between his fingers as he unrolled the parchment. Their son, their Precious Telemachus, had celebrated the tenth year of his life a few weeks ago.

Tenth Year.

He had left when his boy was but a babe, a soft, sweet thing who had clung to his mother’s robes and laughed at the wonder of the world. An entire decade of his life, and he had missed it all. Had missed the first words his child had spoken, had missed the days when his small feet had stumbled in the halls of their home. Was he strong now? Did he bear himself with the grace of his mother or the cunning of his father?

He had not been the one to hold him in his lap and teach him his words. He had not been the one to take him around Ithaca and show him his Kingdom as his father had done for him.

He had missed his first decade of life.

And for what?

A war that had stretched on endlessly, a prize that still eluded them after a decade of blood and toil.

Odysseus clenched his jaw, banishing the ache from his mind.

It is no time for such weakness. War does not wait for longing hearts.

“And what of the harbour? If their fleet is left unchallenged, we shall be hemmed in like boars in a hunter’s net.”

Menelaus.

Odysseus did not hesitate. “We set fire to their ships the moment our feet touch the shore. The flames will rise, and with them, the hearts and minds of their warriors shall falter. Their eyes will turn to the docks, and as they fight the fire, Telamonides shall strike.”

The man in question grinned, rolling his great shoulders. “Then let me be the first to climb their walls and tear their gates from their hinges.”

Diomedes shot one of those agreeable looks of his to Telamonides. “Who else? No Phocaean wall is built to bear the weight of Greater Ajax.”

Menelaus still frowned, cautious despite the fire of battle kindling in his gaze. “And if the defenders are swift? If they rally before our blades can carve through their numbers?”

Odysseus held his gaze, speaking with quiet certainty. “Then we press on. There will be no retreat, no faltering. The city’s leaders will gather in the central square, seeking to rally their people – there, we shall cut them down. Once their heads begin to roll upon the stones, the city shall fall.”

Menelaus exhaled through his nose, still uneasy. “And what of the city’s people? The women? The children?”

Odysseus felt the weight of the question settle upon him, but he did not allow it to crack his voice. “The city’s gold is what we seek, not its blood. Those who surrender shall be spared. Those who take up arms shall meet their end. That is the way of war.”

Silence lingered between them, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the distant cries of gulls. Above them, the last remnants of Helios’ light faded, the sky deepening into the dark embrace of Nyx.

Diomedes straightened, the decision made. “Then it is settled. At dawn, we take Phocaea.”

Odysseus said nothing, only staring out toward the dark waters beyond, where the city lay waiting. A swift strike. A clean victory.

Then he saw it.

A ripple upon the water, a shifting darkness beyond the reach of their torches.

A shape.

A ship.

Odysseus' blood ran cold. He parted his lips to speak, but the sound of splitting air filled his ears first–

Arrows.

The first whistled past his ear and struck the mast with a sharp crack. Another found its mark in the shoulder of a soldier near the prow, his cry was strangled, brief. Then came a storm, iron and death falling from the sky, thudding into the wood of their shi.

Then–

Impact.

A deafening crash. Wood splintering. The ship groaned under the force of the blow, the ropes snapping loose, the deck tilting beneath their feet.

A second impact. A third.

Through the dark, through the torchlight – shadows.

Ships.

Not just one.

A fleet of Phocaean ships.

The enemy had come to them.

A flicker of torchlight caught upon bronze, and Odysseus’ sharp eyes saw the gleam of drawn swords and raised spears. The Phocaeans had not waited for dawn. They had not lingered behind their great walls. They had come for them first.

Menelaus staggered back. “By the gods – they have come upon us while we stand unguarded! None of us are at our ships! Our men– ” He turned sharply, his voice rising. “We are not even at our ships! We are scattered!”

Diomedes had already drawn his blade, but he bared his teeth in something like a grin. “Then we reach them. We do not falter. We do not hesitate. Besides, our seconds-in-command still hold our ships.”

Odysseus’ mind worked swiftly. The battle was upon them sooner than they had planned, but if they allowed themselves to be pinned here, separated from their men, they would be slaughtered. The only way forward was to reach their own ships.

“The planks,” he said, voice sharp, commanding. “We use the planks. We board our own ships from here and attack, we do not have the time to formulate another strategy. The ambush will not break us – we take Phocaea still.”

Telamonides nodded. “Sound. We move swiftly.”

Diomedes turned, sharp and sure. “You!” He caught a soldier by the shoulder, one of his own men, an Argive with strong limbs and wide eyes. “Fetch the planks.”

The soldier nodded sharply and turned, disappearing below deck.

Odysseus hesitated for a moment before following. He caught Diomedes' gaze – briefly, just for a moment. Those bright eyes blessed by Athena never held fear at battle and war, though neither did it hold relishment at the blood that had to be spilled, this time around they were signalling that Diomedes had words he wished to share, but there was no time for it. Odysseus gave him a wry smile and followed the soldier below.

Menelaus turned towards the waves, his voice sharp as he waved his arms. “Bring the ships closer! Row! The battle is upon us! Move quickly!”

Across the dark waters, their fleet answered. Sails shifted, oars cut through the black, and their ships drew near.

The sound of battle had begun.

Beneath the deck, the plank was pulled from where it had been stored, heavier than it looked, the wood thick and solid enough to bear a man’s weight. The soldier strained beneath it, and Odysseus, with a deep breath, moved to help him. They dragged it up together, clad feet thudding against the wood as they emerged back into the night.

“Here!” Odysseus called. “This way!”

With a heave, they positioned the plank against the railing of the ship, bridging the gap between their vessel and one of Telamonides’ ships – the closest.

Ajax wasted no time. He sheathed his sword and stepped onto the plank without hesitation, his balance near perfect despite his towering frame. The wood creaked beneath his weight, yet he crossed without trouble, moving with careful steps, unbothered by the violent sway of the sea below, nor by the raging battle.

Menelaus was next, taking to the plank with a seasoned soldier’s grace, though not with Telamonides’ ease. He gripped his sword tightly as he stepped across, his footfalls cautious but swift.

Odysseus moved forward, already preparing to follow, but a hand caught his arm before he could step forward.

Diomedes.

His gaze was soft as ever, despite the battle they were surrounded by. The tension crackled in the air around them, the scent of salt and smoke heavy, but still, Diomedes did not let go.

“No, Odysseus. You take the Argive forces. I will command the Ithacans.”

Odysseus narrowed his eyes. Just what was the man going on about now. “What madness is this? My men are my own, and yours are yours.”

Diomedes' grip did not loosen. “Your mind is sharper than my sword, Odysseus. I will cut through Phocaea well enough – but I am not you. The Argives will need your wit before the night is through. Let me take the Ithacans.”

Odysseus opened his mouth to protest, for more than sword and spear, this battle required a proficiency with the bow, and while he was no Teucer, he was still better than all the men here. Though before he could speak, the sound of steel upon steel rang across the water from even the more distant ships. A clash. A cry. The torchlight caught upon the first sprays of blood.

Odysseus turned toward the sight, lips pressing into a thin line.

A moment’s hesitation.

Then he turned back to Diomedes, a sharp breath leaving his lungs.

A pause.

Then, in a low voice, with the ghost of a smirk. “You fret over me far too much, Tydides. Is this not the man who frowned upon Pelides’ own fretting but a few moments before.”

A flash of teeth. A huff of amusement.

Then, Diomedes leaned down and pressed a swift kiss to his brow.

It was brief, nearly nothing at all, yet still a flicker of warmth and reassurance headily rushed through him.

“Go, Odysseus,” he said, his voice a low murmur, barely heard beneath the din of battle. “Before I regret giving you the better men.”

Then he turned, stepping onto the plank before Odysseus could even play at being offended, walking across with far more ease than Menelaus or Ajax had before him, despite the growing violence across the waves.

He let out a slow breath, adjusting the grip on his sword. Then, shaking his head, he turned back to face the men on Diomedes’ ship. The deck rocked beneath his feet, the scent of salt and burning pitch heavy in the air, but his step was sure, his voice steady. With a sharp motion, he strode towards the Captain of the ship, his voice carrying over the din of battle.

“We strike now. Break formation! Follow my lead!”

The captain, an older Argive with brave eyes and scars that spoke of wars past, gave a sharp nod. Without hesitation, he turned, barking orders to the men below. Within moments, runners had taken to the decks, calling out the command to the rest of the Argive fleet.

He inhaled, looking to the seas, his mind already calculating the Phocaean positioning, the sea currents, the way their own fleet could move around the enemy rather than into their clutches. The Phocaeans may have struck first, yet they had overplayed their hand. They sought to take advantage of their element of surprise, pinning them down and driving them apart. Yet as his keen gaze swept over the enemy ships, he took in the way they loomed in the dark, their sails casting jagged shadows against the moonlit waters. They had formed a blockade, but it was not a perfect one. There were gaps – small, shifting, but there.

Athena, guide me through this battle. Keep me and those under my command safe with your watchful eyes, so that we may yet see the dawn.

Again, his eyes raked the Phocaean fleet, cutting through torch-lit darkness, and there – beyond the press of ships, beyond the tightening trap – stood two proud prows, already in motion. The banners of Lacedaemon and Salamis fluttered against the sea winds.

Atreides. Telamonides.

Odysseus' lips curled. Ah, but they were fine commanders, weren’t they? If he had missed the opportunity, they had taken it themselves. There was no need for him to trap the Phocaeans now – they had already been caged.

That left him only one choice.

He smiled, the glint of his teeth like a wolf scenting blood. He had no need to pen them in further. He would only strike the killing blow.

With a flick of his wrist, his sword leapt forth, gleaming bright beneath flickering torchlight. He raised it high, a beacon to his men. “Row! Row hard and cut through their lines! Let them taste their defeat – let them drown in the tide of their own making!”

The oars dipped as one, the sea churned beneath the ship’s keel, and like a spear let loose from a warrior’s grip, they shot forward. The prow split the waves, its course true, slipping between the enemy vessels like a dagger slipping between a foe’s ribs. The warriors, grim-faced and silent, braced their shields, their spears poised, their eyes locked on the coming fray.

Then, from above, the sky wept death oncemore.

Arrows, black as night, rained down, heavier and far worse than the previous attack. They fell like vengeful stars, swift and merciless, and where they struck, they found purchase in wood, in bronze, in flesh. A man to his left gave a ragged cry, his body twisting as the shaft found his throat. Another slumped forward, an arrow lodged deep in his side.

“Shields up!” Odysseus barked.

The warriors obeyed in unison, raising their shields overhead. The sound of arrows striking bronze and wood was deafening. A few cries rang out as unlucky men fell, but the rest held firm.

He did not flinch. His eyes remained locked on the enemy. A single moment of hesitation could mean death. And he could not die here. He would not die here.

Another shadow loomed, a prow carving the waves toward them, its figurehead a beast of snarling wood. Phocaean warriors crowded its deck, grappling hooks poised in their hands, their eyes alight with the fever of battle. They meant to board.

Odysseus moved as the thought formed, his mind spinning its usual web of strategies. Amid the chaos, his eye caught the gleam of a bow, fallen beside a slain warrior. In a heartbeat, it was in his hands. The weight familiar, the wood worn smooth by the touch of countless fingers, an old companion never left long, unlike his own bow.

He knelt, his fingers finding the quiver, drawing forth a single shaft. His breath was steady, his mind clear as still water.

Loose.

The arrow leapt from the string, slicing the air, and before the Phocaean could throw his hook, the shaft found its home. The warrior gasped, clutching at the arrow buried deep in his throat, his balance faltering. He fell, his lifeblood spilling upon the deck.

Odysseus did not pause. He had already reached for another arrow, his voice sharp as he called across the deck.

The ships under his command had cut through the Phocaean blockade with ease, slipping between the enemy vessels and striking from within. The element of surprise was now his, and the Argives fought with a ruthless efficiency that carved through the enemy ranks.

Odysseus moved swiftly across the deck, his sword flashing as he cut down an enemy soldier who had tried to board. He could hear the shouts of his men, the clash of steel, the splintering of wood as the ships collided in battle.

The tide of battle swelled in their favour, a crashing wave against the faltering Phocaeans. The enemy ships reeled beneath their assault, their warriors cut down, their lines broken like shattered shields upon the rocks. Odysseus’ fleet carved through them, swift and merciless, driving deep into the heart of their formation. Diomedes’ men fought with the fury of lions, their blades singing through the air, their shields locking tight as they pushed the invaders from their decks.

Odysseus stood amongst them, his sword wet with the lifeblood of those who had dared board his ship. Another Phocaean lunged – he sidestepped, swift as the wind, and his blade met the man’s neck. A single stroke, and the man crumpled. Another fell, then another. Around him, his men shouted his name, their courage burning as bright as the torches that lined the enemy’s decks.

From the enemy’s midst, a great cry rose – something in the Phocaean tongue, sharp and urgent.

And then, through the smoke and darkness, Odysseus saw it – an object soaring through the air, tumbling end over end, glinting in the torchlight. A clay vessel, its surface slick with oil, its mouth stuffed with flame.

“NO!” The warning tore from his throat.

Too late.

The vessel struck the deck with a shattering crack. A heartbeat later, the world ignited.

Fire roared into being, hungry and wild, as though it were a beast unchained. It devoured wood and flesh alike, leaping across the deck in tongues of searing gold. The blast sent men sprawling, their screams lost in the deafening rush of flame and wind. Odysseus staggered back, throwing up an arm as heat licked at his face, his eyes burning from the sudden blaze.

“DOUSE IT! GET WATER – NOW!” he bellowed, but even as the men rushed to obey, another vessel arced through the night – another shattering explosion, another wave of fire.

This one struck the prow.

For an instant, the world was but light – blinding, all-consuming.

Then came the force of it, slamming through the ship like the wrath of the gods themselves. The deck lurched beneath his feet, the mast groaned and split, wood shrieked as it tore apart at the seams.

Men were thrown into the sea, their cries drowned by the roaring inferno.

Odysseus fell to his knees, his vision swimming. The ship – the proud vessel that Sthenelus had bragged about – was coming apart, breaking beneath the force of the flames. Fire burned through his armour, searing the bronze, branding his flesh beneath. The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke, his breath choking in his lungs.

He forced himself to rise, his mind reeling, his body screaming in protest.

I have to get home to Penelope and Telemachus.

He had to fight – had to find a way to save his men, to save himself. Even though the ship was lost.

A final explosion rocked the world, a blast so powerful it splintered the deck beneath his feet. The last thing he saw was fire, yellow, orange, red and merciless, consuming everything.

Then – darkness.

The ship gave way beneath him, collapsing into the raging sea. He fell with it, fire clinging to his armour, burning, burning. The cold harsh embrace of the water swallowed him whole, extinguishing the flames but offering no mercy.

He sank, the weight of his armour dragging him down, deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Somewhere above, through the chaos and ruin, he heard a voice – raw, desperate – screaming his name.

Then silence.

And in that silence, as the dark waters closed around him, his mind did not dwell on battle or ruin. Not on the fire that had consumed his ship, nor the Phocaeans who had struck the blow.

He thought only of her.

I’m sorry Penelope.

Telemachus, a babe in her arms, his tiny fingers curling around his father’s thumb.

His heart ached.

ATHENA

The halls of the Underworld loomed vast and shadowed, their walls carved from the very bones of the earth, their ceilings lost in an endless abyss of darkness. The air was thick, stagnant, heavy with the weight of the deceased. But Athena did not falter as she strode through the corridors of her uncle’s domain, her breath unsteady, her form thundering like war drums in her chest.

She had spent countless days wandering the shores of Phocea, combing the seas, watching the restless waters in vain hope. And then, she had drifted to the banks of the Styx, pacing like a caged owl as Charon ferried the dead across the black waters, her bright eyes scanning every gaunt, weary face that passed before her. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again and again, she had watched, her body rigid with a fear she refused to name.

But she had not found him.

Desperation clawed at her throat, a wretched and unfamiliar thing. She should have been there. She should have been at his side, not upon another battle, not weaving victory for another. And now, now she was here, in the depths of the Underworld, her last hope resting in the hands of her uncle.

The great doors to Hades’ study loomed before her. She did not knock.

The doors slammed open with a force that sent echoes rolling through the chamber beyond. The lord of the dead looked up from his desk, his ink-dark grey eyes impassive, though his hand stilled over the parchment before him.

“Athena,” he said, his voice as deep and distant as the earth’s core, yet just as warm.

She barely heard him. The words burned in her throat, but she could not stop them. “Is it true?” she demanded. Her hands trembled at her sides, her breath ragged, wild. “Tell me. Has he crossed? Has my champion–” Her voice faltered, and she hated herself for it. She clenched her jaw, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “Has Odysseus, the son of Laertes, the King of Ithaca, perished?”

Hades did not answer immediately. His gaze rested on her, patient, unmoved. He did not ask how she knew, did not ask what had brought her to his domain in such a state. He simply folded his hands before him and studied her as one might a particularly difficult puzzle to solve, or a rather difficult terrain to plan a victorious battle for.

Her stomach twisted. The silence pressed against her like a vice, a terrible confirmation in itself.

She took a step forward, her nails biting into her palms. “Tell me!” she hissed, and though her voice rang through the chamber like a clash of bronze, there was something raw beneath it.

Still, Uncle Hades did not speak. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his words, as if waiting for something unspoken to settle between them.

Athena wished to scream. Wished to curse the Fates, to damn them for their silence, for refusing her the truth when she had twisted and turned every thread she could to seek it. She had pressed her father for answers, only to find that even he knew nothing of her hero’s fate. She had stood before the Moirai, demanding, pleading, but their lips had remained sealed, their hands ever spinning, weaving a story they would not yet share.

And so she had come here.

She swallowed, tried to steady herself, tried to quell the tide of bitter hope rising in her chest.

She was a goddess. She was wisdom incarnate.

She did not beg.

But still, she took another step forward, her voice quieter now, trembling. “Please.”

A flicker of something – pity, perhaps – passed through Uncle Hades’ gaze. He exhaled, slow and measured, before he finally spoke. "You should not have come here with the purpose you have, Athena."

Athena’s hands clenched at her sides, her breath unsteady. "And why ever is that?"

His gaze remained steady, cool as the river Lethe. "Because it is not wise for a goddess to be so bound to a mortal."

Her lips parted, fury rising. But he continued, voice calm, almost weary. "They are not as we are, Athena. They do not live forever. Their fates are woven with an ending, always." He studied her, his ink-dark eyes ever tired. "I am not the god of wisdom, nor do I claim to be, but I am not so foolhardy and blind that I would not notice a goddess spending days in my realm, scouring the shores of the Styx akin to a shade lost to grief."

Athena’s nostrils flared. Her grief, raw and bitter, coiled inside her chest, pressing against her ribs like an imprisoned beast. "I did not come here for a lecture on what is wise and what is not," she snapped. "I came here for news of my Champion. I came here for the truth on what has befallen him."

Lord Hades sighed once more, leaning back in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly against the wood of his desk. "Then I will tell you only this–"

Athena stilled, her breath catching.

"The Moirai have forbidden entrance into Elysium for all the gods until the war at Troy reaches its end. None shall enter, nor shall any look upon what lies beyond."

The words settled like lead in her chest. Lord Hades’ gaze held hers, and there was great pity in it. That alone made her stomach twist with something cold and unbearable.

"That is all I have been permitted to say."

Athena could feel herself shaking. Her hands, her breath, her very being trembled beneath the weight of his words. It felt like confirmation, like the final blow she had fought so desperately to avoid.

The only reason she would visit Elysium...

Odysseus is dead.

It cannot be.

Her teeth clenched, her head bowing low. "Then I thank you, Lord Hades, for your time."

Her voice was a hollow thing, empty of all but the barest remnants of composure.

She turned on her heel, her movements precise, controlled. She did not allow herself to falter, did not allow herself to weep before him. No, she would not break here.

But as she left the halls of the underworld, as she returned to her sacred halls, the rage and grief inside her could no longer be contained.

She screamed.

A sound of grief, of fury, of utter disbelief. It rang through her abode, shaking the very foundations of her domain. She tore at the golden armour upon her shoulders, let her spear clatter to the ground, heedless of the wreckage her sorrow left in its wake.

Odysseus cannot be dead.

Not him.

He was meant to return. To see Ithaca again. To stand upon its shores and take his son into his arms. To rule once more, with wisdom hard-earned and battle-forged. After earning such great kleos, to pass that on to his own son.

That was to be his destiny.

But he would not.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her temples, breath shuddering, her heart an open wound.

How could Odysseus be dead?

How?

She fell to her knees.

The marble floor of her abode was unyielding beneath her, cold as the weight in her chest, but she did not feel its chill. All she felt was the storm, raging, consuming, tearing through her like a tempest that had lost all sense of direction.

How could this be?

How could he be gone?

Her Odysseus, her cunning, clever, brilliant Odysseus.

Odysseus, who had woven words into weapons as deftly as he wielded his blade. Odysseus, who had outwitted even her at times, who had ever met her challenges and tests with a bright smile or a knowing smirk, eyes alight with a cleverness that no one apart from possessed.

It was impossible. It had to be.

But the silence of the Underworld had spoken louder than any confirmation. The weight of Hades’ gaze, the quiet, measured sorrow in his voice – it had all but sealed the truth.

Odysseus was dead.

A broken sound tore from her throat, half a sob, half a snarl of rage. Her hands pressed against the floor, trembling, golden ichor welling at her palms where her nails bit into her own flesh. The pain was distant, meaningless, drowned beneath the roaring tide of her grief.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and the past came unbidden and relentless, flooding through the shattered walls of her mind.

She remembered the first time she saw him – before he was king, before he was a warrior – a boy. A youth of but twelve years, blood trickling from his leg where the boar’s tusk had struck him, his face pale but his eyes alight with something more than pain.

Defiance.

She had watched from the unseen spaces of the world as he bit back his agony, as he refused to cry out, as he laughed instead – laughed even as his mother and nursemaid scolded him for what they deemed his recklessness later.

She had tested him. Had whispered wisdom into his dreams, had stood unseen by all but him in the olive groves of Ithaca as she taught him the art of strategy, the weight of patience, the dance of war. He had learned swiftly, keen as and strong as her own spear.

How was she to ever forget him?

Odysseus, his hands, bloodied, gripping his sword tightly as he fought beside Diomedes, the two of them moving like a single force, cutting through Trojan ranks like a tide unstoppable. She had been with them then, unseen but present, guiding his strikes, whispering strategies into his mind like a breath against his ear.

Odysseus, weary and war-torn, sitting beside a flickering fire, the shadows dancing across his face. "You honour me, Athena," he had murmured, voice hoarse from battle and salt air. "But tell me truly – when this war is over, will we be victorious, or merely survivors?"

And now–

Now there was nothing.

There would be no more words from him, no more clever riddles or fierce defiance. No more brilliant schemes spun from the threads of desperation and wit. The mind that had been destined to unravel Troy itself was now nothing but ashes.

She had not favoured him.

That word was too small, too insignificant to encompass what Odysseus had been to her.

He had been hers. Her champion. Her mortal.

The one who had walked the line between wisdom and madness with the same ease that others drew breath.

And now he was gone.

Her head bowed, her bright gaze burning with something storm-born and wrathful. She wanted to curse the Moirai for their silence. To storm the gates of Elysium itself and wrench open its doors to drag his soul back up. To undo what had been done.

But she could not.

Even she, daughter of Zeus, could not undo the will of Fate.

Her breath shuddered out of her, her hands trembling. Then what? What was she to do now?

She had not been there when it mattered most.

Why?

Why had she chosen to stand at Diomedes' side on that wretched night instead of his? Why had she not foreseen this, not turned the threads of fate in time to spare him?

She had trusted in his skill. Trusted in his luck. Trusted that, surely, he could not fall to something as base, as meaningless as a raid.

Her fingers curled into fists against the floor.

What now?

What now?

For the first time in an age, Athena did not know.

He had been her most beloved mortal, her champion, her mind upon the chessboard of war. And now – what was she meant to do? What purpose did this war even hold for her, if the mind she had most delighted in guiding no longer played the game?

Did she wreak vengeance upon those responsible? Did she turn all her fury upon the fools who had cut him down?

No. No.

That was not what he would have done. He would have laughed at the thought. Would have called her unwise for even letting that thought cross her mind.

Though all his thoughts on the subject mattered little, for Diomedes had exacted and done all she had wished to do and more. His imagination and abilities never failed to impress her.

Still, that had not stopped her for putting a thousand-year curse on that land.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

She was lost.

Lost in a way she had never been before.

Not even with Tydeus.

AGAMEMNON

The air within the great war tent was thick, weighed down by grief unspoken and loss unmeasured. The braziers flickered, their glow casting long, wavering shadows against the heavy fabric walls. The scent of burning oil and damp earth filled the space, mingling with the sweat of warriors and the lingering tang of the sea. The men gathered around his war table were warriors, kings, seasoned commanders – yet none of them sat with the strength and pride they usually carried, for the weight of the news that had come had burdened and shook them all.

Odysseus is dead.

A week had passed since the battle at Phocaea. A week since Cunning Odysseus had been swallowed by flame and wave alike. And yet his name was still spoken in hushed voices across the camp, murmured at the evening fires, uttered in quiet disbelief.

It felt unnatural, an impossible thing, like the Lord Helios failing to rise the sun or the tide refusing to pull back to sea. But it was the truth, bitter as unmixed wine.

Agamemnon lifted his gaze. Around him sat the kings and warlords of the Achaean host – grim-faced, silent, their grief unspoken but heavy in the air.

Precious Menelaus stood beside him, shoulders tight with sorrow. He had not spoken yet, though his lips parted once, twice, only for silence to take him again. At last, he exhaled, a shuddering breath, and when he spoke, it was with a voice raw, stripped of all strength.

"Odysseus is dead."

The words struck like a dull blade unsharpened by a whetstone, yet unrelenting and lodging deep, though he was previously aware of the matter. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, suffocating. Menelaus clenched his fists at his sides, his throat working against the grief that choked him. "I– I saw him die. We all did. His ship was wreathed in flame before the sea took it." His voice wavered, breaking on the final word. "He was upon it. We could do nothing."

A sound escaped from somewhere in the chamber, a sharp intake of breath, a muttered curse.

Beside him, Greater Ajax, stood grim as a tombstone. His face, usually ever jovial, had now hardened into a mask of stoicism, was drawn, dark eyes shadowed. "We searched the waters," he confirmed, his voice low and rough. "For days we sought him, until the sea itself turned against us, until the light fled from the sky." His jaw clenched, his hands tightening at his sides. “Naught remained but the scraps of his raiment – his tunic, burned to the edges, and his owl brooch, melted from the flames."

Agamemnon exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. He could picture it all too well, the wreckage, the drifting debris, the sea swallowing a man who had once seemed untouchable. His fingers curled tighter against the chair.

A shudder rippled through the gathered men. None dared to even imagine of the torment Odysseus must have endured as flame and wave conspired to claim him. No warrior among them wished to imagine such an end. The pain, the horror of burning as the sea claimed him.

He reminded himself to go make an offering to Zeus Ambu′Lii and Poseidon Ennosigaios in gratitude for preserving his younger brother’s life after this.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He let the grief settle, let it fester, for a man such as the brilliant son of Laertes deserved the rightful mourning. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, carefully measured. "And… what of Tydides?"

Agamemnon felt his stomach coil with unease. The entire Achaean camp had known of the bond between Laertiades and Tydides. Theirs had been one of the worst-kept secrets of the war, whispered among the ranks, spoken of in knowing glances.

Not to mention the numerous complaints of the noises coming from their tents…

They had been comrades in that they were both Champions of Pallas Athena, yes, but it was evident there had been more than duty that bound them together. A fierce, unyielding loyalty, regardless of how Laertiades liked to pretend otherwise. A devotion that ran deeper than mere friendship. A romantic affection, unmistakable to those who had eyes to see.

And now, Odysseus was gone. Burned and drowned in a cruel, undeserving fate. And Tydides–

Prince Sthenelus, his second-in-command, standing near the back, lifted his head. His face was gaunt, his eyes ringed dark as though sleep had long forsaken him. "Sedated," he murmured, voice devoid of anything but exhaustion. "He has not been himself since."

Menelaus swallowed, rubbing a hand across his face before he spoke again. “He did not utter a word when the ship was claimed by the waters," he said, voice hoarse. “He turned his prow to Phocaea and made for it without rest, without thought, leaving us behind. And when we arrived… he was as Lord Ares Enualios himself upon the city’s streets. He struck down all before him – man, woman, child – it mattered not. He did not plunder, did not claim gold nor prize. He brought only ruin. He just… slaughtered. Left none breathing. Not a soul. Phocaea does not stand anymore."

A silence settled over them once more, thick and suffocating.

Agamemnon clenched his jaw. He had lost one war commander to the sea and fire. But after hearing of what Tydides had done in Phocaea – how he had carved through its people without a thought, without restraint – he feared he was losing another to madness and grief.

Had he, in one fell stroke, lost them both?

Telamonides exhaled sharply, the sound terribly bitter. "It took ten men to restrain Tydides," he said, shaking his head. “To wrest the blade from his grasp, to force him down, to sedate him." He let out a humourless laugh, a ghost of his usual self. “And thus has he remained, caught in Lord Hypnos’ sanctuary."

No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

Agamemnon pressed his lips together, his gaze sweeping over the men before him. He had seen battle break warriors before. Had seen grief twist men into something unrecognizable. But this – this was different. This was the shattering of men once thought unbreakable.

Odysseus was dead.

Had the gods forsaken them all?

He was aware of what the men – both Danaans and Trojans alike – called him. The Mind of the Achaean army. The Cunning that guided their battles. And though Agamemnon had never loved these titles, he could not deny that Laertiades had brought some of the cleverest of their battle strategies into the fold.

Now that mind, that brilliance, was gone.

The entrance to the tent was suddenly thrown open, the heavy fabric snapping back as if caught in the fast currents of the rivers. A figure strode forward, tall and proud, yet the agony upon his face made him seem somehow smaller, undone.

Leucadius. Elder brother to Penelope.

Oh by the gods, Penelope.

The thought struck him with the force of a spear to the chest. If the weight of this grief hung so heavily upon them – hardened warriors, men who had seen countless comrades fall upon Trojan spears – what then of her? What of the wife who had already waited ten long years for her husband now swallowed by fire and wave? What of the boy, Odysseus’ son that he never kept mum about, too young to remember the face of the father who would never return to him?

The beauty of Leucadius’ countenance, oft remarked upon among the Achaeans, was marred by grief – his sea-green eyes, so like his sister’s, were wide, wild with disbelief, his lips parted as though he could not bear to breathe until he heard the truth from their mouths. His breath was sharp, uneven, his gaze sweeping over the gathered kings, as though looking – hoping – for any sign that the words whispered through the camp were falsehoods, mere shadows of rumour.

Then his eyes landed on Menelaus.

"Tell me it is false," he demanded, voice breaking like a ship torn asunder against jagged rocks. "Tell me it is not so – that Odysseus, my sister’s husband, the father of her child, yet breathes, that his ship sails still upon the wine-dark sea."

Silence.

Menelaus made a sound – low, pained, something between a sob and a gasp for air. His body wavered where he stood, his lips parting once, twice, but no words came. Only a shake of his head – one, then another – each motion an admission, a death knell, a hammer striking upon the bronze of a funeral urn. His lips trembled, his shoulders shook, and then, as though he could bear it no longer, his brother, who always felt everything so deeply, wept.

The sound of it was not soft, not gentle.

Sheer grief and pain.

Agamemnon swallowed against the tightness in his throat, his own grief pressing against his ribs like a vice. The tent, filled with warriors and kings, men who had painted the earth red with their blades, felt more like a tomb now, hollow and airless. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the braziers seemed to burn lower, their glow casting long, flickering shadows over their grief-stricken faces.

Leucadius stood motionless, the weight of the truth slamming into him like a chariot at its fastest. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as if the very act of drawing air had become too much to bear.

"Gods…" he whispered, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. His hands clenched at his sides, fingers trembling as they curled into fists. "No." The word was spoken in defiance, a refusal, a desperate attempt to reshape reality through sheer will alone. "No, this cannot– he cannot– "

But there was no argument to be made. No denial that could undo what had already occurred.

Agamemnon could only watch as Leucadius’ disbelief gave way to the suffocating inevitability of acceptance. His shoulders sagging, his proud stance faltering as though the strings that had held him upright had suddenly been severed. He turned his face away from them all, from the weight of their pity, his throat working against the sobs he refused to give voice to.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, before Agamemnon finally tore himself from his own thoughts. He forced himself to straighten, to steady his voice, to be the commander they needed him to be.

"Tydides must be watched," he said at last, his voice rough, heavy. "Capaneides, see to it that he does not do something foolhardy."

Like taking a blade to his heart.

The prince at the back of the tent flinched at being addressed, but he nodded, though his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Agamemnon turned then, eyes falling upon Calchas, the seer who had stood silent throughout the mourning, his face unreadable.

"Tell me," He demanded, "what is to be done now?" His jaw clenched as he forced himself to ask the question, to give voice to the thought that had circled his mind since he had heard of Odysseus’ passing. "When first I sought you out, ten years prior, you foretold that Troy would only fall through the mind and brilliance of Laertiades." His voice wavered with its desperation. "Yet Laertiades is dead."

But Calchas… Calchas merely shook his head.

"No," the seer said, his voice soft yet firm, cutting through the hush. "Laertiades is not dead."

A stunned silence followed.

Every man turned to him, hope warring with disbelief in their eyes.

Agamemnon felt his chest tighten, as if caught in the moment between inhale and exhale, between despair and desperate longing. "What do you claim?"

Calchas’ gaze swept over them all, unreadable and distant. "Odysseus may be gone," he said, "but his son lives." He took a step forward, his voice steady as he uttered the words that would change the course of the war. "Troy will fall through the mind and brilliance of Laertiades." He paused, letting the weight of it settle before he spoke again. "Prince Telemachus must be brought to the shores of Troy."

The words struck the gathered kings like a thunderclap.

Leucadius’ head snapped up, his grief momentarily forgotten, replaced by pure, unfiltered fury.

"Silence yourself, prophet," he spat, stepping forward, his hands shaking with rage. "You speak of a child – my sister’s only child! She has only but lost a husband and now you wish to steal her son?! Mine nephew has seen his tenth year only a month prior. He is no warrior. He has not even held a blade in his hand!"

Calchas did not so much as flinch. "And yet, it is his mind, not his blade, that will see the city burn."

Agamemnon exhaled, slow and measured, before stepping forward. Without hesitation, without thought, he pulled Leucadius into an embrace. It was not the stiff, formal gesture of a king offering comfort, but something deeper – for they had grown up together – him, Menelaus, Anaxibia, with Clytemnestra and her siblings, and Leucadius and his. He understood the grief of losing kin.

Leucadius stiffened at first, his body shaking with the effort to contain his grief. Then, at last, he crumbled. His hands grasped at the back of Agamemnon’s cloak, fingers curling into the thick fabric as though anchoring himself. A shudder wracked through him, but still, he did not weep like Menelaus was.

Agamemnon tightened his hold for a breath longer before drawing back, his hands settling on Leucadius’ shoulders. "I would not wish this upon any man," he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken. "Most of all upon a child."

Leucadius looked at him then, his sea-green eyes burning with something between gratitude and fury, grief and helplessness.

Agamemnon let him go and turned back to Calchas, his expression carved from granite. "And yet, you claim necessity?"

"I do," the seer replied, his gaze unwavering.

But before Agamemnon could speak again, a new voice slashed through the thick air, raw with fury.

"You will not take him!"

Every man turned, startled, as the entrance to the tent was thrown open once more.

Tydides stood there, swaying slightly, looking as though someone had driven a sword straight through his heart and left him to bleed. His face was hollow, gaunt, the shadows beneath his eyes so deep they looked as though they had been carved into his very bones. His hair was unkempt, his skin pallid, and he smelled of sweat and blood and grief.

Capaneides was the first to move. "Diomedes," he breathed, stepping toward him, concern evident in his every movement. "You should not– "

But Tydides ignored him. He staggered forward, looking as though his rage was the only thing keeping him upright. His bloodshot eyes found his, locking onto Agamemnon with a force that could have shattered stone.

He held back the urge to sigh, or scream.

"You would even consider this?" he rasped. "You would take Odysseus’ son – his precious son – and drag him into the very thing his father never wanted for him?!"

Agamemnon opened his mouth, but Diomedes cut him off with a hoarse, almost broken laugh.

"Do you even know why he named his boy Telemachus?" he demanded, his voice cracking, raw with grief, edged with fury. "Do you know why he chose that name?" His hands shook at his sides, his entire body trembling. "He named him so because it means ‘far from battle.’" His voice rose, raw and ragged. "for he wished his son to be far, far from this accursed war, from blood and bronze and death!"

Silence pressed heavy against the tent.

Diomedes took a staggering breath, his chest rising and falling as though each inhale was a battle in itself. "And now you would have him brought here?" he whispered. "To war? To these accursed shores?"

A sharp inhale from the side drew attention. Odysseus’ second-in-command had turned deathly pale. His hands trembled as he pressed them against the war table, as though keeping himself upright was a struggle.

"I…" His breath hitched, and he pressed his lips together as if trying to hold back a sob. When he spoke again, his voice was strangled. "I stand with Tydides' words."

Agamemnon turned to him fully, his face as stoic as he could hold it.

"Odysseus was always wary of prophecies," The man said, his voice trembling, his fingers digging into the wood.

"He always told me – always – that the gods' words twist upon themselves, that they would lead men into ruin if they do not tread carefully." His breath came short, and he squeezed his eyes shut as though trying to steady himself. "Perhaps… perhaps he has already set the path to the fall of Troy." His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

"Perhaps it has already been done, before…" He choked on the words, his entire body shuddering as though he could not bear to say it aloud.

"Before he…"

He did not finish.

He did not need to.

Agamemnon felt something tighten in his chest, something unbearably heavy. The air was thick with unspoken sorrow, with grief so vast it threatened to swallow them all.

But Calchas only sighed, shaking his head. "No." His voice was quiet, filled with something like regret. "The fall of Troy has not been set."

Eurylochus lifted his head sharply, his jaw clenched, his expression one of disbelief and desperate denial.

Calchas met his gaze, unyielding. "I regret this as much as you," he said, "but it is necessary."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Agamemnon let out a slow, heavy breath, the entire ordeal pressing down upon him like the shield he bore in battle. He raked a hand over his face before straightening. He did not wish to do this any more than the others, but it had become necessary to bring Penelope’s boy here to win the war. It had been ten long years of battle and war, how much longer would it go on if they tried to fight back against a prophecy of all things.

"There is nothing to be done," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "The gods have spoken. If the prophecy decrees that Laertiades’ wit shall undo Troy, then we must see it done and have Laertiades be brought here."

The words felt like iron as they left his tongue, unyielding and absolute.

"I will send a contingent to Ithaca," he declared. "Odysseides will be brought to these shores." He let his gaze sweep over the gathered men. "Any man who would take up this charge may do so."

Then, like a storm breaking over the sea, Diomedes surged forward. His wrath burned in his eyes, his body shaking with barely restrained fury.

"If you do this," he said, his voice like a growl from the depths of a lion’s throat, "then I shall pull my Argives from the field. Not one of my men will raise spear or sword in a war that would make Odysseus’ son its pawn."

The words struck like a spear into the heart of the war council. A stunned silence followed. The men shared looks of disbelief and shock. He stared at Tydides, who had most clearly lost all control of his mind.

And then–

"I shall do the same," came a voice as fierce as a summer rains.

Achilles.

What madness was this? Why in the world was he getting involved?

The ever arrogant princeling stepped forward, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes dark with quiet, lethal disapproval. "To bring a child – one who has not yet borne shield nor struck against bronze – to the battlefield is no deed of honour," he said simply. "And I will not lend my spear to a war that would demand such shame."

Odysseus’ second-in-command, who had barely been keeping himself upright, let out a shuddering breath and straightened. "Nor shall Ithaca," he said, his voice rough, thick with emotion. "You would take the heir of Ithaca from his home, from our Queen, who has already just lost her husband, and bring him here, into the very jaws of war?" His lips curled, his grief giving way to fury. "Ithaca will not stand for this. If you endanger our Pri– King Telemachus, you will not have our swords."

Leucadius lifted his chin, his sea-green eyes burning with determination. "Nor will you have my father’s men," he added. "I will not – cannot – allow for my younger sister’s son to be brought anywhere near this wretched battlefield." His gaze swept over the gathered men, his voice unwavering. "If you are to go through with this, I will withdraw my forces."

Then, he turned, his shoulders tense with desperation as his eyes sought out Menelaus.

"Menelaus," Leucadius urged. "Say something. Stand with us."

But his younger brother did not meet his gaze.

Agamemnon clenched his jaw, the muscles working beneath his skin. He knew what Leucadius wanted to hear. And damn it, so did Menelaus. Why must he torture Menelaus so.

His poor grieving brother did not lift his head.

He sat motionless, his hands clenched into fists upon his thighs, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. His face was ashen, his lips drawn thin, trembling ever so slightly. Yet still, he said nothing. Guilt twisted in his expression, his fingers digging into his palms as he lowered his head.

Leucadius inhaled sharply, as if he had been struck. His hands clenched, his whole body rigid with disbelief and fury.

Just as Agamemnon moved to speak for his younger, a scoff rang through the tent.

Locrian Ajax crossed his arms over his chest, an unimpressed sneer curling his lips. "You are all ruled by your sentimental weaknesses," he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "What is this but folly? Have we not toiled upon these shores for ten long years? Have we not bled, suffered, lost more than can be counted? And now you would cast it all aside for the sake of a child?”

His gaze swept over them with derision, “I say bring the boy."

Agamemnon need not be a seer to expect what would happen next.

The words had barely left his mouth before Tydides moved.

A roar of pure fury ripped from his throat as he lunged at the man, his fists clenched, ready to strike.

Agamemnon instinctively stepped forward, placing himself ahead of the son of Oileus, though thankfully he was not alone in acting.

Patroclus' hands caught Diomedes’ arm first, then old Nestor, swift Antilochus, steadfast Sthenelus, and Idomeneus of Crete, all of them straining against his strength, attempting to hold him back. Diomedes writhed in their grip, his breath heaving, his body trembling with rage, his face contorted with unquenchable wrath as he was held back from tearing lesser Ajax apart.

Diomedes thrashed in their grip, his breath ragged, his body trembling with rage. "YOU WRETCHED DOG!"

"HAVE YOU NO HEART, NO SOUL WITHIN THAT HOLLOW CHEST? SPEAK SUCH WORDS AGAIN, AND IN ATHENA SAITIS’S NAME, I SHALL RIP THEM OUT OF YOUR THROAT!"

Tydeus’ son has gone as rabid as his father.

"ENOUGH!"

Agamemnon’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. The fury in it was enough to still even Diomedes' thrashing, though his breath still came in ragged gasps, his muscles coiled with barely restrained violence.

His gaze was sharp as it could be, sweeping over the assembled kings, dark and seething. "I will not suffer such discord in my war council. I am your commander, and I will not be challenged! The boy will be brought to Troy. That is the will of the gods, and so it shall be done."

Voices rose, some in protest, some in wary acceptance, but Agamemnon raised a hand, silencing them all.

"I will not hear of sorrow. I will not hear of sacrifice." His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp, no less dangerous. He let his gaze settle, linger, watch as unease crept into their eyes. "I have cast my own daughter, my own firstborn upon the altar for this war."

Silence.

The words settled like a blow. He rejoiced in the way they flinched, the way the air itself seemed to tighten with unspoken horror. He ignored the way his own breath stilled, the way his heart clenched like a fist at the memory. He ignored the echoes of Iphigenia’s screams that still clawed at the edges of his hearing.

"In comparison," he said, plain and flat, "bringing Odysseus' son to these shores is no great ordeal."

No one spoke.

He let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of his words, the weight of the war that had demanded so much already. Then, slowly, deliberately, he straightened.

"This council is over. Odysseides will be brought. And I will hear no more on this matter."

PENELOPE

The dressing chambers of the Queen of Ithaca were filled with a flurry of movement, laughter, and the gentle hum of anticipation. Penelope sat upon a cushioned stool, her heart alight, her cheeks flushed with joy. It had been two days since the watchmen at the Port had spotted Ithacan sails on the horizon, and now – now, within the hour, the ship would make port.

Within the hour, he would return.

Return to her.

Her handmaidens surrounded her, their hands deft and practiced as they prepared her to greet her husband as she had promised – standing at the shore, their son by her side, just as she had vowed the day he left.

A fleeting thought flickered in the back of Penelope’s mind, one that she had pushed away before but now resurfaced in the quiet moments between her handmaidens’ chatter. There had been no news from Troy. No messengers proclaiming the city’s fall, no heralds bearing word of the war’s end.

And yet, Precious Odysseus was returning.

She frowned slightly but quickly smoothed the expression away. It was not unusual for news to travel slowly to Ithaca – so distant from the great cities of the mainland as it was. There had been times before when she had received letters from her husband well before any official word from the war reached her ears. Perhaps the same had happened now.

And truly, could she not imagine him doing just this? Holding back the final, triumphant word to surprise her upon his return? That was his way, after all.

A soft smile tugged at her lips, the thought easing the momentary flicker of doubt.

Yes. That must be it.

Her Odysseus has always been clever, always known how to craft a tale, how to hold his tricks close to his chest until just the right moment. No doubt he wished to see the joy on her face himself when he told her the war was won, when he gathered her in his arms and whispered the long-awaited words, It is over. I am home.

Penelope sighed, tilting her head as one of her handmaidens smoothed fragrant oil along her arms, the scent of lotus rising around her – Odysseus’ favourite. She could already hear his voice in her mind, already feel the weight of his hands upon her, the warmth of his breath as he murmured sweet nothings against her skin.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, anticipation coursing through her like a river after a storm.

Not much longer now.

One of the girls combed through her golden curls, gentle but thorough, her touch light as a summer breeze. "My lady," she murmured, "how would you prefer your hair to be done?"

Penelope smiled, a quiet, secret thing. "Twist it, so that most of it falls free." She said softly.

She lifted a hand, running her fingers through the strands as a memory stirred, warm and golden in her mind.

She remembered the flickering glow of the hearth in their chamber, the way Odysseus’ breath had been warm against her skin as he murmured, voice low and reverent, "Leave it down. I love seeing you like this."

She had laughed, breathless beneath him, her fingers threading through his hair as he pressed a kiss to her throat. "So easily pleased, my love?" she had teased.

And he had smiled – soft and boyish and utterly hers. "Always, with you."

The memory made her chest ache with longing, but it was a sweet ache, a joyful one. Soon, she would see him again. Soon, she would be in his arms, and their son would finally know his father’s embrace.

She exhaled, steadying her heart, and met her handmaiden’s gaze through the polished bronze mirror. "Yes," she said. "Just like that."

Her hands settled in her lap, smoothing the fine silk of her dress as she whispered to herself, barely audible,

"He is coming home."

Her heart swelled with a joy so vast it left her breathless. Ten years – ten long, aching years of yearning, of nights spent whispering prayer after prayer to the gods, of waiting at the shore, searching the horizon for the ship that never came. And now, at last, it was over.

The waiting had ended.

Her beloved Odysseus would be back in her arms.

A tremor of anticipation ran through her, and for a fleeting moment, she felt like a bride once more, as though it were the morning of her wedding all over again. How radiant she had been that day, how her hands had trembled with excitement as her mother and aunts wove fresh flowers into her hair, how her heart had pounded in her chest when she had stood before him at the altar of Hera Hyperchei, the man she had waited five years to wed. She had been so young then, so full of love and hope. And yet, even now, after a decade apart, that love had not dimmed.

If anything, it had grown stronger, steadier, unyielding in its devotion.

She caught sight of her son in the mirror’s reflection, and her gaze softened.

Sweet Telemachus sat perched on the kline, his small hands gripping his knees, his feet barely touching the ground. He was watching her, his mismatched eyes wide – one sea-green, like hers, the other as blue as the skies, like his father’s. Her sweet boy, her precious gift, who had inherited Odysseus’ clever tongue and bright grin, but her own gentle patience.

She could see it in the way he fidgeted, his fingers curling and uncurling, his brows drawn in thought. He was nervous. Excited, yes – but nervous all the same.

Just as she parted her lips to call out to him, a knock came at the door.

“Your Majesty,” a voice called from the hall. “The feast you ordered is nearly prepared.”

Penelope exhaled, steadying herself before answering. “Thank you,” she called back. “You have done well in following my orders so swiftly.”

There was a shuffling of feet, a murmured "My Queen," before the servant excused himself and left.

Turning away from the mirror, Penelope beckoned to her son with a soft smile.

“Come here, my heart.”

Telemachus hesitated for only a moment before sliding off the kline and padding over to her. His steps were careful, measured – an unconscious imitation of the father he had never met.

For the first time, her heart did not ache at the sight.

The moment he reached her, her handmaidens cooed in delight, fawning over him as he squirmed under their attention. Penelope chuckled but said nothing, instead taking his small hands in her own oiled ones, squeezing them gently.

Her voice was bright with happiness, with promise. “You will be sharing your lunch with your father today.”

The words hung in the air.

For a moment, her precious boy did not speak.

His eyes widened, his small fingers curling tightly around hers. “Truly?” he whispered, almost as though he feared speaking too loudly might break the spell of the moment. “He will be here so soon?”

Penelope’s heart swelled, a bright laugh spilling from her lips – light and uncharacteristic, almost girlish. It startled even her handmaidens, for it had been long, too long, since they had heard such unguarded joy from their lady. But she could not help it. The knowledge that Odysseus was near, that she would see him within the hour, filled her with something heady and wild, something that made her feel like the girl she had been before war had stolen a decade of their lives.

She squeezed her son’s hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, her smile unwavering. “Yes, my sweet miracle,” she said, her voice rich with happiness. “The ship will reach earlier than expected.”

Telemachus gasped, his mismatched eyes shining. “Then– then we must go now!” he said, nearly bouncing on his feet. “We must be there when he arrives!”

Penelope laughed again, softer this time, and brushed a curl from his forehead. “Patience, dearest heart. We will go soon, I promise.”

And yet, even as she said it, she could hardly bear to wait. Her hands itched to reach for her shawl, her feet longing to run down the palace steps and toward the shore, toward the man who had been gone for far too long.

Soon.

Just a little longer.

And then, Odysseus would be home.

Penelope let her gaze drift over her son, taking in every detail of him - his tunic, the rich blue chiton carefully draped over his small frame, the golden belt cinched neatly at his waist. The sandals on his feet were freshly polished, the straps wrapped just so, and for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.

He looks just like him.

Like Odysseus in the grand portrait that hung within the palace halls – proud and regal, his shoulders squared, his bearing noble yet effortless. Telemachus had chosen the colours of his father’s attire precisely, his small hands carefully selecting each piece of clothing, ensuring that he mirrored the man he had never met but longed to know.

A lump rose in her throat as she smoothed her hands down his arms, adjusting the folds of his chiton, her fingers lingering over the fabric. How fiercely he must have wished for this day, how deeply he must have dreamed of standing before his father at last.

Penelope cupped his face, her thumbs brushing softly over his cheeks. He was still so young, still so small – but already, she could see the man he would one day become, the strength and wisdom and goodness that would shape him.

She bent down, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead, inhaling the familiar scent of myrrh and olive oil that clung to his dark curls.

If not for him, she would not have survived these past ten years.

The waiting, the uncertainty, the ache of loneliness that gnawed at her with each passing year – she had endured it all for him. For their son.

There had been nights, dark and endless, when she had lain awake, staring at the empty space beside her, grief pressing down on her like a weight she could not lift. But then, a tiny hand would curl into hers, a sleepy murmur would call for her in the night, and she would remember – she was not alone.

Telemachus had saved her.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her fingers trailing down to hold his hands once more.

“I am so very proud of you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “And your father will be too.”

Telemachus beamed, his nervous energy shifting into something brighter, something steadier.

“Then let us go to him,” he said, voice firm with determination.

Ah but I am just as bad as my son.

Penelope let out a breathless laugh, relenting.

“Yes,” she murmured, squeezing his hands one last time before standing. “Let us go to him.”

And with that, she turned to her handmaidens, her excitement renewed.

“The shawls,” she ordered. “We must leave at once.”

Her heart pounded with anticipation and joy and relief, beating for him and him alone.

Chapter Text

PENELOPE

The midday sun cast a golden sheen over the port, the waves shimmering beneath its gaze. The salty breeze toyed with Penelope’s shawl, tugging gently at the edges, though she could care less in truth. Her hands were steady at her sides, her shoulders set with the grace expected of a queen, yet inside, her heart thundered against her ribs.

The royal retinue stood behind her, silent and watchful, a sea of attendants and guards draped in Ithacan finery. Beside her stood Ctimene, Odysseus’ sister, her expression a mirror of Penelope’s own – composure strained over barely contained anticipation. Her three daughters stood at her side, their small hands clutched together, their bright, eager eyes fixed upon the nearing ships.

Penelope expected Ctimene must be awaiting her own husband just as keenly as she herself awaited Odysseus. The thought made her smile.

She had long since grown relatively close to Ctimene over the years, but it had not always been so. There had been tension in the beginning, lingering resentment that was not entirely unwarranted.

After all, Odysseus had spent five long years all but begging her father for her hand before she was permitted to wed him. It was… understandable that his family had been upset by it, that they had thought her father’s reluctance to be an insult, a slight against their son’s worth and the kingdom which he ruled. When she had first arrived in Ithaca, she had strived to endear herself to them, to smooth over the wounds of past grievances.

But her womb did not quicken with child for years, and then the whispers began.

She had not been deaf to them.

They had never spoken ill to her face, nor would anyone dare to say such in front of Odysseus – who was quick to take offense in her name for the slightest of things – but the rumours had found their way to her ears all the same. That all those years of Odysseus longing, waiting, fighting for her hand had been for nothing. That she was barren, childless, not in the favour of Hera Hyperchei'ria, the patron goddess of her homeland. And as the years passed, and as Ctimene bore child after child, their relationship had only grown colder.

It was only after Telemachus was born and Odysseus had left for war that things had begun to change. Slowly, carefully.

Ctimene had visited from Same, bringing her daughters to meet her elder brother’s son. She had not spoken of the past, nor had she mentioned of Penelope’s struggles, and for that, Penelope had been grateful. Though she had never invoked her in-laws’ assistance in taking of her husband’s kingdom after his departure – not wanting them to see her as weaker, more lacking than they already did – Ctimene had made it clear, in her own quiet way, that she did not stand against her.

And now, they stood together, waiting for the return of their husbands.

Beside her, Telemachus fidgeted, his small hands clenching at his sides, though there was a shy smile tugging at his lips. He was trying to maintain his composure, just as she was. He had dressed so carefully for this day, had stood so still as she smoothed down his chiton, had beamed with pride when she told him he looked just like his father.

Now, his mismatched eyes were fixed upon the ship, watching as it grew closer and closer.

And then, at long last, the vessel reached the dock.

The moment the ship made port, Penelope could no longer hold back her smile. It broke across her face like sunlight spilling over the horizon, unrestrained, brilliant, and alight with sheer joy and love.

She had waited for this day for so long. Ten years of longing, ten years of quiet patience, ten years of believing – believing – that her husband would return to her. And now, he was here.

Her fingers tightened around Telemachus’ small hand, and she felt him squeeze back, though his grip was not nearly as steady as hers. He was nervous, she knew, but also excited – perhaps even more so than she was.

The ship rocked gently against the dock as the gangplank was lowered. Any moment now, she thought. Any moment, Odysseus would descend. He would step onto the shore, look upon her, and run–

A figure emerged.

Not Odysseus.

Lord Eurylochus.

Penelope’s smile faltered slightly, her brows scrunching in mild confusion. It was custom for the king to be the first to depart his ship, his men following behind him. And yet, here was Eurylochus, descending alone.

A terrible, creeping unease crawled up her spine.

Perhaps Odysseus was simply delayed. Speaking with the rest of the crew, perhaps, or gathering his things. There was no reason to worry.

She took a steadying breath, smoothing her expression once more. It was only when Eurylochus reached the dock that she truly saw him.

Penelope’s breath hitched.

Lord Eurylochus walked down the dock alone, his shoulders heavy, his steps slow. He was weary, that much was clear – but it was not just exhaustion that marred his face.

His eyes swollen, rimmed red, as though sleep had eluded him for days. Or as if he had been… weeping.

A strange, inexplicable unease curled in Penelope’s stomach.

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to remain still, to keep her expression serene, composed. She would not let uncertainty rattle her – not yet. Odysseus will descend soon, she told herself. He would step onto the shore, meet her eyes, take her into his arms. And then he would meet his son for the first time, and everything would be–

“PAPA!”

Alcamenea – the youngest of Ctimene’s daughters – tore away from her mother’s side, darting toward her father with the unguarded joy only a child could possess, her sandaled feet pattering against the wooden docks as she rushed toward her father.

Eurylochus barely had time to brace himself before she flung herself into his arms, burying her face against his chest. Asterodea and Astydamea were close behind, their laughter ringing through the air as they followed suit, no longer keeping to decorum, seeing that their sister did not either.

Eurylochus said nothing at first. He simply held them, his arms tightening around his daughters as though he might never let them go.

It was a sight so undeniably sweet, so achingly tender, that Ctimene looked as though she were fighting back tears.

Penelope should have smiled at the reunion. She should have let the moment warm her heart.

And yet…

She could not look away from Eurylochus’ face.

From the exhaustion in his eyes.

From the grief in his gaze.

A cold, dreadful weight settled deep within her chest.

He knelt, embracing his daughters tightly – too tightly. As if he could not bear to let them go. It had been ten long years since he'd seen them and they had grown up so much since–

No.

Something is wrong.

The thought slid through her mind like a cold whisper, unbidden and unwelcome.

Something is wrong.

Her breath caught. Her fingers instinctively clutched Telemachus’ hand tighter.

The midday sun, so golden and bright before, now felt cruel against her skin. The waves lapped gently at the docks, unaware of the horror creeping into her heart, of the fear clawing its way up her throat.

Penelope stepped forward, her hands clasped before her, her smile now a memory.

She forced herself to speak, to remain composed as she had done for a decade. “Lord Eurylochus,” she said, her voice careful, measured. “I had wished to greet you truly, but I doubt any welcome of mine could surpass the one that you have already received.”

She gestured toward his daughters, still clinging to him, their small faces buried against his chest. Eurylochus swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as if he wished to speak but could not.

He did not answer her.

He did not even look at her.

She barely had time to question it before a movement at the gangplank caught her eye.

Another man was descending from the ship.

A man she knew well.

A man she was as close to as her own brothers.

Menelaus.

Penelope’s breath caught.

Her brows knit together. Why was he here? The King of Sparta, stepping off Ithaca’s ships, onto Ithacan soil.

Her sharp eyes flicked over his face – his fair skin splotchy, as though he too had been weeping, his fiery hair dishevelled, his red-rimmed gaze incredibly soft as it settled upon her – his noble features stained with grief.

And then behind him, two others followed.

The first, a man, broad-shouldered and solemn, with thick black curls and a beard – both unkept. Penelope recognized him, though she had not seen him in many years – not since the day Helen had chosen her husband.

Ajax, son of Telamon.

Her heart seized in her chest.

Penelope’s pulse pounded against her ribs, louder than the waves, louder than the distant calls of the gulls overhead.

Her feet moved before she could think, stepping forward too quickly.

Something soft slipped from her hair – a single flower, twisted into her hair delicately that morning. It fluttered to the ground.

She stepped on it before she even realised.

A quiet crunch.

She glanced down.

A bloom from the spring Odysseus had built for her.

The world wavered.

Her gaze lifted, and she saw Menelaus watching her, his hazel eyes red-rimmed and full of sorrow.

Slowly, his arms lifted – open, waiting. An invitation, an offering, as if he were waiting for her to step into them. Just as her own blood brothers would have done.

As if she were a grieving sister, and he a brother offering comfort for a loss she had not yet named.

Her chest tightened. She could not move.

No.

No, no, no.

Her lips parted, her voice unsteady. “King Menelaus, where is my husband?”

Silence.

The wind stirred, lifting her shawl, whispering through the dock’s wooden beams.

She swallowed.

“We have prepared a great feast,” she tried again, forcing her voice to remain steady, noble. A queen’s voice. “In honour of our king’s return.”

No answer.

Nothing.

Her hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists, forcing herself to breathe.

She desperately looked to Menelaus, stepping closer. “You are my own family,” she whispered. “I love you as dearly as the brothers I once shared a cradle with. And now, I beg of you – please tell me where my husband is.”

A broken sound tore from Menelaus’ throat.

And then – he wept.

A great, gasping sob, his shoulders shaking, his strong hands lifting to cover his face.

Penelope could not breathe.

Her vision blurred, the dock tilting beneath her feet.

Ajax stepped forward.

In his hands, he held something.

Penelope blinked.

A torn scrap of fabric.

Burnt, tattered, edges blackened with soot. A deep purple that once bore the richness of royalty.

Purple.

The cloak she had woven for Odysseus.

Her breath came too fast, too sharp.

Ajax said nothing as he extended his other hand.

A small, melted fragment of gold.

Her fingers reached forward, as if of their own will, as if they did not belong to her.

The metal was warped, its shape ruined, but still, she knew it.

Her thumb traced the edges, the grooves where her fingers had once pressed, fastening it to a cloak she had wrapped around her husband’s shoulders a thousand times.

A brooch.

His brooch.

The one he always clasped onto his chiton, the one she had pinned in place herself before he had ridden off to war.

The wind howled through the docks.

She stared down at it, her vision swimming.

The brooch in her palm.

The burnt fabric curled between her fingers.

It had been early, the sky still streaked with the last remnants of the night, when she had fastened this very brooch onto his cloak.

Odysseus stood before her, dressed in the armor of war, the deep purple cloak draped over his shoulders, the fabric she had woven with her own hands. He had always teased her for fussing over him, but that morning, he had said nothing. He had only watched her, his dark mismatched eyes filled with so much grief, sorrow, longing and pain.

She had clasped the brooch in place - Lady Athena’s symbol, an owl with outstretched wings, etched into the gold. A blessing. A prayer.

Protection.

Her fingers had lingered there, pressing the pin shut, smoothing the fabric over his chest as if she could hold him in place, as if she could keep him from stepping onto that ship, from leaving her behind.

Tears burned in her eyes.

“Penelope,” he had murmured, his voice breaking.

And she had looked up, only to find that he, too, had tears in his eyes.

Odysseus, who had stood unshaken through storms, through battle, through the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders - he had wept.

The sight had shattered her.

She had not cared for dignity, had not cared for the hundreds of Ithacan men who stood at the docks waiting to set sail. She had only reached for him, and he had reached for her in turn, pulling her into his arms, pressing her against his chest as if he, too, wished to never let go.

His breath had been uneven against her hair, his arms like iron around her.

“I will return,” he had whispered, he had promised, his forehead pressing against hers, his voice thick with grief. “I swear it. As soon as I am able, I will come back to you.”

“I know,” she had whispered, though the words had nearly choked her.

Because she had to believe it.

Because if she had not - if she let herself think of what the gods might take from her - then she would have broken entirely.

He had pulled back just enough to look at her, his calloused fingers brushing away the tears that streaked her face.

“My clever Penelope,” he had murmured, with a sad, knowing smile.

Ten years had gone by since then.

She swayed.

Where was he?

Where was Odysseus?

Why was he not here?

She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

The dock beneath her feet felt unsteady, like the deck of a ship lost at sea, drifting into an abyss.

The purple fabric.

The melted gold.

Her hands curled around them, clutching them as if holding them tight could keep her world from unravelling.

A sob clawed at her throat.

The weight in Penelope’s hands was unbearable. The ruined brooch, the scorched fabric – it burned against her palms, searing through her skin, through her bones, through the fragile barrier of hope she had clung to for a decade.

Her breath shuddered. The world blurred.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she did not fall.

Tears, warm and silent, slipped down her cheeks.

She did not know when she had begun to move, only that suddenly she was walking – her steps unsteady, her body trembling as if caught in the midst of a great storm.

Menelaus had not moved.

His arms were still open, waiting.

And Penelope, grief-stricken and lost, fell into them.

A sob ripped from her throat, raw and broken. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of his tunic, clutching at him as though he were the only thing anchoring her to this world. She buried her face against his chest, gasping for air between sobs, her body shaking violently in his embrace.

“Menelaus– please,” she choked, her voice barely more than a whisper, a plea, a desperate prayer. “Tell me… tell me where my husband is – where is he?”

Menelaus held her tightly, his strong arms wrapped around her as if to shield her from a truth that was already crushing her.

Why would he need to shield her?

It was her husband’s duty to do so, not his.

“I’m sorry,” he wept. “Penelope, I– forgive me. Forgive me.”

Her fingers curled tighter, fisting the fabric of his tunic, her breath coming too fast, too ragged, sobs wracking through her chest. She could not stop them, could not control them – pain consumed her.

Menelaus’ hand cradled the back of her head, his own shoulders shaking beneath her touch.

“I should have protected him,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I should have– gods, forgive me.”

Something sharp and sudden cut through the air.

A scream.

A terrible, wrenching cry of denial.

Penelope flinched, her body jerking as she instinctively turned toward the sound.

Ctimene.

Her sister-in-law had fallen to the floor, her hands digging into the wooden planks of the dock as though trying to ground herself to reality. Her face was contorted with anguish, her lips forming silent words before another piercing scream tore from her throat.

“No,” Ctimene gasped, shaking her head wildly. “No, no, NO– ”

Why was her sister-in-law screaming?

Why had she collapsed?

Her ears were ringing, a dull, suffocating sound that drowned out everything else.

She did not understand.

Her mind refused to understand.

Where was Odysseus? Why was he not here? He promised her that he would return to her waiting arms after the war ended. Eyes filled with adoration and love and sorrow, strong, infallible arms holding her and keeping her ever safe. Where was her husband?

Something moved in the corner of her vision.

Penelope blinked, struggling to focus.

A blur of blue and gold.

Telemachus.

Her son.

He was on his knees before her, his wide, tear-streaked eyes looking up at her in confusion, in fear.

Mismatched eyes like his father.

His hands reached out, trembling, as if trying to touch her, to comfort her.

His lips moved, but she could not hear him over the dull, suffocating roar in her ears.

Why was he on his knees?

Why did her body feel so heavy?

And then – the ground was gone.

She was falling.

When had she fallen?

A great, gut-wrenching sob rang through the air. It took her a moment to realize that it was her own.

Tears blurred her vision, but through them, she could see her son reaching for her.

The weight in her hands slipped. The brooch, the fabric – gone.

Her body crumpled onto the wooden dock, knees colliding with the ground, hands trembling against the splintered surface.

Telemachus' hands cupped her face.

His touch was so warm. So careful.

His small fingers wiped the tears from her cheeks.

He was speaking, saying something, but she could barely hear it over the gasping sobs clawing at her throat.

Ajax.

His broad shoulders were rigid, his expression carved from sorrow.

And then, softly–

“Odysseus is dead.”

Something inside her shattered.

A sound that was neither a scream nor a sob tore from her lips, something broken, inhuman.

Her vision failed her.

Somewhere, she could hear Ctimene’s screams.

Somewhere, she could hear Menelaus sobbing her name.

Somewhere, she could hear Telemachus shouting ‘Mother!’

“Odysseus”

TELEMACHUS

“MOTHER!”

Telemachus lunged forward just as his mother’s eyes rolled back and her body collapsed in King Menelaus’ arms.

Everything around him blurred – his breath came too fast, too sharp. His chest ached with the force of his panic. His mother wasn’t moving.

His mother wasn’t moving.

A terrible, keening wail shattered the air. It rose above the sounds of the sea, raw and filled with despair. At first, he didn’t understand where it was coming from. Then, he saw her–

Aunt Ctimene.

She had fallen to her knees, her hands clutching desperately at her husband’s tunic, as if she needed something solid to keep from breaking apart completely. Her entire body shook with sobs. Lord Eurylochus was kneeling beside her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his face pressed into her hair. He, too, was trembling.

Nearby, his cousins stood frozen, their young faces wet with silent tears.

But Telemachus couldn’t look at them for long.

His full attention was on his mother, pale and limp in King Menelaus’ arms. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs as he stumbled forward, reaching out with trembling hands.

The man clutched mother closer, his familiarity with her something he was not entirely comfortable with, rocking slightly, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his cheek to her hair. His breath hitched, and Telemachus saw the way his tears fell onto her face as he whispered apologies – again and again.

“Is she– ?” His voice was thin, strangled. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t finish the question.

Menelaus lowered his head, his ear close to her parted lips. For a horrible, endless moment, Telemachus thought he would say nothing – that he would look up with sorrow in his eyes and confirm the worst.

Then, at last–

“She is still breathing,” the King of Sparta choked out, his voice desperate. “Her heart still beats.”

Telemachus choked on a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His knees nearly buckled with the sheer force of his relief. He almost fell forward, almost let himself collapse right there.

But he couldn’t.

Not now.

His mother needed him.

She was so pale. Her breath too faint.

“We need a physician,” someone barked.

Telemachus turned toward the speaker – a great warrior, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, the same man who had given his mother the burnt cloth and melted gold. His face, though steady, was pale. He grasped the shoulder of another soldier, commanding him with urgent force. “Go! Quickly!”

The soldier bolted, his footsteps pounding against the stone as he ran toward the palace.

Telemachus forced himself to move, to push past the fear constricting his chest. He knelt beside his mother, brushing damp strands of hair away from her face.

He had never seen her like this. Never so still. Never so fragile.

The dock was spinning. The voices, the cries, the screams, the sobs – they were too much.

Telemachus’ hands curled into fists. He squared his shoulders, forcing himself to be strong and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears that burned behind them. He bit down hard on his tongue, pressing it to the roof of his mouth, desperate not to cry.

But it did not work.

The tears still came.

His father was gone.

His father was dead.

The words pounded in his head, over and over again, like the crashing of waves against the shore.

He sniffed sharply, rubbing his shawl across his face. His father would not be proud of him if he cried in front of the men he had so valiantly fought with like this. He would be embarrassed of him, ashamed of him, of Telemachus being weak.

He was his father’s heir.

He would never get to meet his father.

Telemachus wiped his own eyes swiftly. Enough.

He straightened his back, lifting his chin.

No more weeping. Not now.

Telemachus sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to push past the fear clawing at his chest. His mother was alive. She still breathed. But she needed help – now.

His sharp eyes caught the soldier sprinting toward the palace gates, his armour clanking with each step. It would take too long. The physician might not even be there; he might have to be fetched from the villages, they could not keep his mother here on the docks till then.

His mother could not stay here. Not like this.

She needed to be home.

“Wait!” Telemachus barked. His voice, though high with youth, carried with a force that froze the man mid-step.

The soldier turned, brow furrowed in confusion.

“It will be faster if I am to bring her to the Physician myself. The palace is not that far,” Telemachus said, pushing to his feet. He turned to King Menelaus, his small hands already reaching for his mother. “Give her to me.”

He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Gently, he shifted Mother’s unconscious form into Telemachus’ waiting arms. But he was only ten – small still, despite the weight of the world now resting on his shoulders. He struggled under her weight, arms trembling as he tried to hold her close.

“I have her,” a deep voice rumbled.

Telemachus looked up to find that big man beside him. The great warrior lifted his Mother as if she weighed nothing, cradling her carefully in his arms.

“I will carry her,” He said. “Lead on, son of Odysseus.”

Telemachus swallowed hard, giving a curt nod before turning on his heel and striding toward the palace. His legs burned with the effort of keeping pace, but he did not slow. His mother needed him.

As they walked, Telemachus cast a glance at the attendants who stood near the docks – men and women who had served the house of Odysseus for many years. Some had once cared for him in his infancy, others had tended to the palace long before his birth.

“You there,” he said, his voice steady despite the raw ache in his chest. “See to my aunt and uncle. Bring them safely to the palace.”

His words felt foreign on his tongue, like they belonged to someone else, someone older, stronger – someone worthy of giving orders.

But the attendants did not hesitate. They did not question him.

There were no reassuring smiles, no amused glances, no gentle jests about the little prince acting like his father.

Not this time.

They only nodded immediately and hurried to do as he said.

And it hit him – truly hit him.

They had seen and heard everything.

They knew.

His father was dead.

And he was king.

He was king.

A strange, hollow feeling settled in his chest, like a great cavern - deep and empty.

He clenched his jaw, blinking back the tears that threatened to fill again and turned back to his mother.

The warrior who bore her stood silent, sorrow lining his brow. Telemachus stepped forward, reaching out to steady her as she lay limp in his arms.

“The chariot,” he said. “We need to get her to the palace.”

He nodded wordlessly, adjusting his hold on Mother as they moved toward the waiting chariot.

King Menelaus and the other man stepped forward at his call, their faces solemn as they moved to assist.

With great care, the warrior lifted his mother onto the chariot. Telemachus climbed in beside her, his small hands gripping her arm, as if just by touching her he could anchor her to this world, even if it meant keeping her away from his father.

With great care, they laid Mother upon the cushioned seat. Telemachus climbed in beside her, his hands gripping her arm, as if his touch alone could tether her to this world.

Sorry, Father.

The thought came unbidden.

I know that you and my mama love each other dearly but… but I need her more right now.

The chariot jolted forward.

The wheels rolled over the stone path, the steady clatter filling the silence.

His father was dead.

His hands trembled slightly as he curled them into fists in his lap.

He found that so hard to believe.

His father had always been larger than life, a painting created ever gently and lovinglt with brushstroke after brushstroke in the form of his family's stories of him. He who was the architect of their Royal Palace, who was the wisest of Kings, who was as great a warrior in arms as he was of the mind, who had been claimed by Lady Athena herself as a champion.

He was a true King.

Telemachus did not feel like a king.

He felt like a child who had lost his father.

A father he had never met but had dreamed of and longed for every day. A father whose portrait he had greeted each morning in the halls of the palace he had built. A father whose adventures and exploits had been his lullabies and nighttime stories all his life.

A father he had not met but had always known.

And now–

Now, he would never meet him.

The chariot rumbled forward, but Telemachus scarcely felt its movement.

His burning eyes were locked on his mama's pale face, on the flutter of her lashes, the slow rise and fall of her breath.

Never had she seemed so delicate.

A breath shuddered out of him. He curled his small fingers tighter around the edge of her shawl, holding onto it as though it might hold her together.

A soft sound reached his ears.

King Menelaus wept.

Shoulders shaking, a trembling hand pressed to his face, the great King of Sparta wept.

Telemachus would have gone to console him, had he not wanted someone to console him as well.

No, not someone. His mother. He wanted his mother to take him into her arms and hold him as he cried, cried over the shattering of all his dreams of meeting his father, of all his wishes of reuniting and living together as a family.

He had seen how his cousin sisters had run to their father.

Why could it not be so that I get such a chance? To run into the strong arms of my welcoming father?

Why should only I be robbed of such a wish, condemned to forever live in the absence of his father.

They had known and remembered their father before he had left for Troy, I did not even have that, only two months past as I was when my father left me behind.

The weight of grief was thick in the air, pressing down like the tide before a storm.

A voice, deep and solemn, broke through the hush.

“I am Prince Ajax,” said the man with broad shoulders and thick black curls, who had carried his mother to the chariot. His voice too was rough with grief, but steady. “Son of King Telamon of Salamis.”

Telemachus blinked at him, his thoughts sluggish, his mind still trapped in the chaos of everything that had just happened.

King Telamon’s heir.

He knew the name, of course – all the whispers from the shores of Troy sang of how Ajax the Greater was one of the greatest warriors of the War at Troy, a man whose strength had been second only to the Demigod Achilles himself.

And yet, the thrill that might once have filled him at such an introduction did not come. He simply nodded, distracted, his fingers still curled in his mother’s shawl.

Another voice followed, this one smoother, more composed.

“I am Idomeneus,” said the second man – his skin darker than Telemachus’ own, his posture upright and regal. He was far more put-together than Prince Ajax, despite the sorrow in his gaze. “King of Crete.”

A king.

Telemachus instinctively started to bow but caught himself at the last moment.

I am a king now, too.

A hollow ache settled in his chest as he nodded instead.

King Idomeneus inclined his head in return.

They were his father’s companions, men who had warred beside him beneath Troy’s high walls, men who had no doubt broken bread and shed blood in his company. He ought to have welcomed them properly, honoured them as befit their station and their deeds.

Yet all his attention was drawn elsewhere.

Because his mother was still unconscious.

And she was still so pale.

He swallowed hard, shifting closer to her. His fingers brushed against hers, and her skin was cold.

Too cold.

His mother’s skin had always been cool to the touch – cooler than any other’s he had known.

When he was younger, it had puzzled him.

“Why are your hands so cold, Mama?” he had asked once, his small fingers pressing against her palm in quiet fascination.

She had laughed, a light, golden sound, and gathered him into her lap, her arms sending something warm through him despite the coolness of her hands. She had pressed her nose to his, a gesture so soft, so delightful, that he had giggled, squirming against her.

“Because, little one,” she had murmured, “your grandmother, my mother, was born of the rivers.”

Telemachus had gasped in delight. He had heard the tales before, whispered among the serving women, sung by the bards of their land, of how their King got himself a bride of such noble blood. The daughter of Lady Periboea with the blue hair, of Lady Periboea of the shining scales – daughter of the Titan Oceanus and Titaness Tethys, whose waters were the great river which encircled the entire world! He had not known that she was a goddess.

“Grandmother is a goddess?” he had breathed, his eyes wide.

His mother had nodded, smiling.

“And because she was my mother, some of her lingers in me.”

Telemachus had reached then, tiny fingers brushing over the faint sea green scales that scattered like glimmering pearls across his mother’s shoulders. They were not like a fish’s scales – softer, finer. Telemachus loved to nuzzle against them.

“Like these?” he had asked, wonder in his voice.

His mother had laughed, nodding. “Just like these.” She had pulled him close then, tucking him beneath her chin, her fingers trailing through his curls. “And just like that, my blood runs a little colder too – cool, like the waters of the rivers.”

He had laughed at that, delighted, pressing his cheek to her shoulder, marvelling at how she felt – not cold, not warm, but something in between.

Now, as he curled his fingers around hers once more, the sensation that met Telemachus was not the coolness of a flowing stream.

It was ice.

Bitter, unyielding.

A cold that did not feel like life, but like the absence of it.

It was difficult to touch. It made something deep inside him twist in fear.

His grip on her hand tightened.

“Mother,” he whispered.

She did not stir.

His throat tightened.

She had to wake up.

She had to.

The silence stretched on – not truly silent, for King Menelaus was still weeping – but no one else spoke.

Until Prince Ajax, once again, broke it.

“You are the very image of your father,” he murmured.

The words struck like an arrow let loose from a bow.

Telemachus flinched.

It was the first time he had ever heard those words spoken by someone outside of Ithaca.

His breath hitched. His fingers curled tighter around his mother’s hand, letting the chill try to calm him down.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to respond.

Should it not bring him pride? Should it not stir something within him, some flicker of honour, to be likened to the father he had never known?

And yet, it only made him wish to weep.

King Idomeneus exhaled softly, studying him with eyes that held more years than Telemachus could begin to comprehend. "Telamonides speaks true," he murmured. "It is… striking. I did not expect to see a younger Odysseus awaiting us when I stepped off that ship."

Prince Ajax nodded, his thick brows drawing together. "It is uncanny," he agreed. "The same eyes, the same cut of the jaw, the same look of sharpness. You will grow into his face entirely, in time."

Telemachus swallowed, his throat tight.

He should have felt honoured, hearing such words from men who had fought beside his father, men who had seen him in battle, who had known him beyond the stories told in Ithaca.

But all it did was remind him that he would never get to stand before his father and hear those words from him.

The chariot slowed, then came to a halt.

They had reached the palace.

King Menelaus wasted no time. Without a word, he rose, lifting Mother in his arms as though she were no heavier than a child, and strode forth onto the stairs leading up to the palace doors.

Telemachus followed immediately, quick on his feet, keeping pace just behind him. He heard King Idomeneus and Prince Ajax step down as well, their presence looming behind him.

The guards stationed at the entrance stiffened as they saw them approach. Their eyes landed on their unconscious queen in King Menelaus’ arms, and at once, they moved forward, concern clear on their faces.

"Go," Telemachus ordered, his voice steady, though the weight of everything felt as though it were to crush him. "Fetch the physician. Bring him to one of the free chambers in the family wing."

The guards hesitated for only a breath before bowing deeply.

“Not my parents’ chamber,” he added, his voice firmer now.

The guards nodded, understanding, and hurried off without another word.

Telemachus turned back to Menelaus, gesturing toward the inner halls. “This way.”

They passed through corridors that had once felt smaller. Warmer. Now, the high ceilings loomed, the walls stretched endlessly, and the firelit sconces did little to chase away the vast emptiness.

It felt… different.

Larger.

Emptier.

At last, they reached one of the unoccupied chambers in the family wing. A room that had always been empty. One of many.

His mother had spoken of these rooms before – softly, wistfully.

She had told him that these rooms had been left empty for his future younger siblings.

Siblings that would never come now.

Because his father was dead.

King Menelaus carefully laid Mother onto the bed, smoothing her hair away from her face with a tenderness that made something in Telemachus’ chest tighten. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay grounded. The physician would arrive soon. Until then, all he could do was ensure everything was in order.

He turned toward the door just as a pair of servants rushed past, arms full of fresh linens. They nearly stumbled when they caught sight of him– no, not him. Their eyes had landed on the foreign man standing behind him. Their faces flickering with confusion

Telemachus realized, then, what they must have been doing.

They had been preparing for his father’s return.

His stomach twisted.

They did not know yet.

One of the servants hesitated, glancing at him uncertainly. “My prince,” she started slowly, her gaze flickering to the others before settling back on him. “We were making ready for the king’s homecoming. The feast, the–”

“The king is dead.”

The words left his lips before he could think to soften them.

Silence crashed over the room like a wave.

The linens slipped from one of the servant’s arms, forgotten. The other let out a small, choked sound, eyes wide. Both of them stood frozen, the shock carving deep lines into their faces.

He straightened his back, gripping the hem of his tunic tightly. “You two,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady despite the raw grief still clawing at his chest. “Escort King Idomeneus and Prince Ajax to the guest chambers, they await at the Palace Entrance.”

He had no doubt they had lingered behind to see to their men, ensuring all had arrived in due measure.

The servants did not move.

“Go,” he said again, quieter this time. “Take them to the guest chambers.”

The two stared at him, stricken, as if the weight of his words had only just begun to settle upon them. But after a long, frozen moment, they bowed stiffly and murmured, “At once, my king.”

My king.

The title sent a shudder through him.

The words did not feel right.

It was not meant for him.

And yet, no one hesitated to obey him anymore.

As the servants hurried away, their faces pale and their steps uneasy, Telemachus turned back into the chamber.

His mother had not stirred.

King Menelaus sat at her bedside, his face buried in his hands.

Telemachus slowly stepped forward, taking his place beside her once more. He swallowed, forcing himself to focus. His heart ached for her – for the way she lay there so still, for the cold creeping into her fingers.

But another part of him burned with unanswered questions.

He turned to Menelaus, whose shoulders remained hunched, looking as though his grief near suffocating.

“King Menelaus,” Telemachus said quietly. “Tell me– how did my father... d- die?”

The King of Sparta slowly lifted his head from his hands. His eyes, red-rimmed and wet with sorrow, locked onto Telemachus properly and for the first time, he truly looked at him.

Then, he paled.

His expression crumpled. His lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came. Instead, he simply looked at him – no, through him, as if seeing a ghost.

And then, like a man seeing a spectre, he whispered, “By the gods…”

Telemachus stiffened.

King Menelaus pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, shaking his head. “They have blessed him,” he whispered. “Blessed Odysseus with a son who bears his very image.” His voice cracked, his gaze drinking him in. “Your mother… has left very little of herself in you.”

He drank in Telemachus’ face, as though memorizing every detail, as though time itself had rewound, and the friend he had lost stood before him once more.

Telemachus opened his mouth, but no words came.

Menelaus’ hands suddenly reached forward, cupping his face with a tenderness that startled him. His palms were warm, roughened with years of war, but his touch was achingly gentle.

He held him as though he were something precious.

Something fragile.

Something lost and found again.

Tears slipped freely down Menelaus’ face. His breath shuddered, uneven and breaking, as he whispered, “You have his eyes.”

Telemachus remained frozen. He did not know what to say, what to do.

He wanted to turn, to check on his mother, to finally hear the truth of what had happened to his father. But right now – right now, all he could do was sit there, still and silent, as King Menelaus wept.

A sudden shuffle of footsteps saved him.

The physician had arrived.

The door to the chamber swung open, and the old man stepped inside, his face drawn tight with worry. A group of healers followed closely behind, their gazes immediately flickering toward Telemachus before landing on the still figure of his mother on the bed.

They froze.

For a moment, all was still.

Then, Telemachus found his voice.

“See to her,” he nervously ordered, stepping away from Menelaus. “Tell me what is wrong.”

The physician and his healers all bowed deeply. “At once, my king.”

My king.

The words still felt strange, still did not feel his.

But he had no time to dwell on it.

He turned to watch as the healers rushed forward, gathering around the bed, their hands already working to examine his mother.

And Telemachus waited – waited for them to tell him if his mother would be alright.

The physician, with deep lines of worry etched onto his face, pressed his fingers gently to his mother’s wrist, feeling for her pulse. A healer beside him held a small bronze mirror to her lips, searching for the faintest breath. Another carefully unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders, fingers pressing lightly against her skin, searching for fever, for wounds, for anything.

Telemachus stood motionless.

Fists clenched at his sides.

The room felt too still, too quiet.

The only sounds were the shuffling movements of the healers and the uneven breaths of the grieving king beside him.

He wanted to say something. Do something. But all he could do was watch.

The physician finally exhaled, nodding slowly. “Her pulse is steady, though weak.” He turned to Telemachus. “She has collapsed from grief and shock, my king.” His voice was calm, careful. “She needs rest, warmth, and care. I will prepare something to help her regain her strength.”

Telemachus swallowed. His hands loosened, fingers uncurling slightly.

“She will wake?” he asked, his voice trembling more than he intended.

The physician hesitated. “Yes. But grief is a heavy thing.” His eyes softened. “Even when the body recovers, the heart does not heal so easily.”

Telemachus’ gaze dropped to his mother’s face. He had never seen her like this – so still, so absent. His mother, who had always been bright, poised and graceful, whose voice had always been steady even after all these years, now lay fragile and pale against the silken sheets.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to nod. “Then do what you must,” he whispered. “Please ensure that she has everything she needs.”

The physician bowed once more, then gestured for the healers to begin their work. They moved swiftly, arranging warm cloths, preparing mixtures of herbs, speaking in hushed tones as they attended to their queen.

Telemachus took a small step back, watching them for a moment longer. He wanted to stay – wanted to sit by his Mama's side, to hold her hand and will her to wake, wanted to crawl into her arms and never leave, wanted to sob his heart out – but a part of him knew there were other things he needed to do.

His father was dead.

You made so many promises to me Mama, of how everything would be perfect once he returned. But they are saying that my father never will come back.

And if he won't come back, then have I lost you too?

And he was king now.

He turned back to King Menelaus, who was still watching him with sorrow-filled eyes.

“Will you tell me now?” Telemachus asked, his voice quiet but firm. “Tell me how my father died.”

Menelaus inhaled sharply, then closed his eyes. His hands, still damp with tears, pressed together as if in prayer.

Then, in a voice hoarse with grief, he finally began to speak.

The torches flickered against the high stone walls of the palace dining hall, casting long shadows over the great feast laid out before them. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the spiced aroma of Ithacan wine. It was a meal fit for a victorious homecoming, yet there was no celebration in the air – only the heavy fog of grief.

Telemachus sat at the head of the long table for the first time – the seat not even his mother took, always leaving it vacant for his father – his small hands resting on the polished wood, his goblet untouched in front of him. Across from him sat King Menelaus, his face worn with sorrow, his red beard dull in the dim torchlight. King Idomeneus and Prince Ajax sat to his either side, their expressions solemn, their plates barely touched.

This was not the welcome they had expected.

This was not the feast that they had been preparing for.

Aunt Ctimene and her children had chosen to retire to their estate with Uncle Eurylochus, seeking solitude after ten long years of separation. Telemachus did not begrudge them. He, too, had longed for a moment alone.

Though he was so terribly envious.

And he had taken it.

Before the feast, when he had ensured that his mother was in the care of the healers, Telemachus had slipped away to the sacred spring his father had built for her. It had been a place of love and happiness – his mother had always spoken of it with a soft smile, tracing the stone with her fingers whenever they spent their mornings there and she spoke of his father’s devotion to her.

It was the place where he had always seen his mother at her happiest. But today, Telemachus had knelt beside the waters, his fingers tracing the smooth rock, and wept. He buried his face in his hands, his small frame shaking, his shoulders wracked with silent sobs he had held back all day. He had tried to be strong – to be the son his father would have wanted him to be.

But he was only ten.

And he was so alone.

His father was gone.

Burned alive on a ship, trying to save his men like a true hero. Had he been afraid? Had he suffered? Telemachus prayed it was not so, yet the questions haunted him, creeping back into his mind no matter how hard he tried to push them away.

He was supposed to be sharing his first feast with his father today, seated at his side, reunited at last. Instead, he sat in his father’s place, surrounded by his father’s comrades – fatherless.

He did not know what to do.

As he sat at the table, dressed in the finery of a prince – but no longer a prince – he forced himself to be composed. He could not let these men see his fear and nervousness.

He cleared his throat, the sound small but carrying in the vast, nearly quiet hall.

“I welcome you to Ithaca,” he said, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “I only regret that it is not under happier circumstances.”

King Menelaus set his goblet down, nodding solemnly. “You honour us, young king,” he said. “Your father would be proud.”

Proud.

The word sent a fresh ache through Telemachus’ heart.

Prince Ajax let out a rough, quiet breath, his thick fingers drumming absently against the table. Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, “We could never get your father to shut up about you.”

Telemachus’ head snapped up before he could stop himself, his heart stumbling in his chest. His father… had spoken of him?

Something in his expression must have given him away because the Prince let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no humour in it. “Surprised, are you?” he said, his voice gentler than before. “Do not be. That man spoke of you more than he did of himself. And that is truly saying something.”

King Menelaus smiled faintly, though it did not quite reach his sorrowful eyes. “It is true,” he murmured, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. “Every man boasts of his father’s name, wearing it as a mark of pride. Yet Odysseus…”

He exhaled, his gaze distant, as though lost in a memory. “He never spoke of himself as the son of Laertes. Never as the King of Ithaca. No.” Menelaus looked at Telemachus then, his eyes moist. “He was always, always only the father of dear Telemachus.”

Telemachus’ throat closed.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping it tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

He had always wondered.

He had spent so many years looking at his father’s portrait, whispering to it in the quiet hours of the night, asking if his father thought of him. If he had missed him. If he had truly cared.

And now, sitting before these men – these men who had fought beside his father, who had known him in ways Telemachus never would – he had his answer.

His father had loved him. He had loved him so much. Just like Mama said he did.

If they are all right, then why did you not fight for me father? Why did you not try to live for me? Your son who everyone claims you longed to reunite with?

A single breath shuddered out of Telemachus, but he did not allow himself to cry.

Instead, he swallowed the ache in his throat and whispered, “Tell me more.”

And so they did.

They told him of a man who could weave words like a weaver her finest fabrics, who could get even the gods to stop and listen to his words. A man who could outwit anyone and everyone and slip past death itself with nothing but his wits if he wished to. A man who could match wits with Pallas Athena herself, whose cunning was his greatest weapon – greater even than his sword and spear.

But more than that, they told him of a father who had missed his son so much it that he had always mentioned it, as though he could not bear voicing it out. A father who, even at the shores of Troy, fighting a war, had thought of and spoken of Ithaca every night – of the son who waited for him, of the wife he longed to return to.

A father who had dreamed, more than anything, of coming home.

Their words made him want to cry terribly.

He let their words settle in his heart, heavy and warm, of a father who loved him truly, before he finally spoke again.

“Why have you come, all three of you, with men at your backs?” His gaze flickered toward the entrance, where the banners of Sparta, Crete, and Salamis stood side by side, their edges barely shifting in the still air. “Ithaca welcomes you of course – but why do you bring such a host to Ithaca, only to speak to me of the news of my father’s demise?” His voice grew tight, the pain in his chest pressing harder. “Surely the war at Troy demands more of you.”

At first, none spoke.

Prince Ajax was the first to move, exhaling a breath through his nose. He shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening over the goblet in his hands. “You are sharp,” he muttered, shaking his head with something like reluctant admiration, making Telemachus want to preen. “Gods, ten years old, and already so very much your father’s son.”

He chuckled, but there was no humour in it. “Odysseides, through and through, undeniably so, young Prince.”

Telemachus’ eyes flickered toward him, his expression hesitant.

Then, evenly, he said, “King.”

Prince Ajax blinked.

Telemachus’ voice did not waver as he corrected him. “I am not a prince anymore. My father is dead.”

He could not have anyone insulting him so, even if it were unintentional. Father was... gone. And as his heir it fell to him to keep his glory and protect his legacy. Mother always said that anyone who insulted him insulted his father, and that was something he musn't ever tolerate.

Prince Ajax’s mouth parted slightly, as if to say something, but in the end, he only nodded. His large hands curled into fists on the table, and he lowered his head, murmuring, “Apologies, King Odysseides.”

A glance was exchanged between the men, silent and heavy with meaning.

Then, as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, King Idomeneus and Prince Ajax both turned toward King Menelaus.

King Menelaus did not look at them.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and then finally met Telemachus’ eyes, though his gaze still distant. “Ten years ago, before the war began, the Achaeans gathered at Aulis. We were met by the seer Calchas, who spoke of a few prophecies that would define this war.” He lifted his head, his expression grim. “One such was that Troy would fall if Prince Achilles fought by our side.”

His voice lowered, a weight behind every word.

“Another,” he murmured. “Prophet Calchas prophesied that only the mind of Laertiades would bring about the downfall of Troy.”

A hush fell over the hall.

Telemachus frowned. Laertiades. Son of Laertes. His father.

And yet…

His father was dead.

A prophecy unfulfilled.

Perhaps this seer had interpreted his visions incorrectly? Had his father’s death not been fated? Had they come here to tell him that his father’s death had doomed them all?

But then–

Telemachus inhaled sharply, his eyes widening and his fingers tightening on the table as realisation hit him.

No.

The prophecy had not spoken his father’s name.

Not Odysseus.

Laertiades.

The mind of Laertiades would bring about the downfall of Troy.

And Telemachus – he too bore that name. He was of that same blood, the grandson of Laertes, the only son of Odysseus.

His breath caught in his throat.

They had not come because his father had died.

They had come because the prophecy was not yet fulfilled.

Telemachus did not hesitate.

“No.”

The word fell like a stone into a puddle, its weight sending ripples across the gathered men. Prince Ajax's thick brows lifted in surprise. King Idomeneus blinked, lips parting as if to speak but finding no words. Even Menelaus, ever composed, tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. It was clear that they had expected to plead, to persuade, perhaps even to manipulate him to their cause. But Telemachus was no fool. He was his mother’s son, his father’s heir, the blood of Odysseus and Penelope running strong in his veins. He would not be ensnared by clever words or veiled omens.

They had not even asked the question yet.

Bur he had seen it already, the moment Menelaus spoke. The moment the prophecy left his lips, the moment their eyes turned to him, expectant.

The son of Odysseus was to take his father’s place.

They thought him a child, a child who could be guided, persuaded, carried forward by the will of men greater than he.

But Telemachus was the son of a man whom Athena herself had championed. He would not be so easily led.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm, steady.

“Forgive me,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Forgive me, noble men, for denying you before you have even spoken your request in full.”

Still, they said nothing, only staring at him in that shocked silence. So, he pressed on, frustrated by how childlike his voice sounded in front of these great men.

Telemachus lifted his gaze once more, meeting each of theirs in turn. “I will not go with you,” he said, voice unwavering. “Prophecy or no prophecy. Troy may yet stand, and the war may still rage, but I will not leave Ithaca. I am still young, and my father…” He swallowed, the words burning in his throat. “My father is dead.”

His voice did not falter, though grief weighed heavy on his chest.

“I am but a child. I celebrated my tenth year only a few weeks past.” His hands curled into the fabric of his tunic. Mother always scolded me and told me that was a bad habit. “And though I carry my father’s blood, I do not yet carry his wisdom, nor his strength. I do not carry the skills honed through years of war and hardship.” His voice lowered, firm but unwavering. “You ask me to take up his place, to fulfil the prophecy in his stead – but you ask for something I cannot give.”

For the first time, King Idomeneus spoke. “Your father would have wanted you to take his place.” His voice was firm, though not unkind. “Odysseus fought not only for glory but for duty, for honour. He would have wanted his son to do the same. You are his son, his blood, the only one who can see this war to its proper end.”

Telemachus’ eyes darkened, and he turned to the King of Crete.

“Forgive me, King Idomeneus,” he said again, his voice quieter but no less certain. “But I do not believe you.”

The older man frowned. “You doubt that your father–”

“There is no one in this world who knows my father better than the woman who raised me,” Telemachus cut in. “No man, no warrior, no king. And she has told me – time and time again – that my father never wished for me to be anywhere near a battlefield. He wished for me to be spared the bloodshed, the horrors of battle”

A shadow passed over King Idomeneus’ face, but Telemachus did not stop.

“My mother has waited for my father’s return loyally for ten long years. She has lived in the memory of him, endured the sorrow of his absence with unyielding faith.” His voice softened then, yet it did not waver. “And now, with his death, I fear that she will lose herself in her grief. How can I leave her now, when she needs me most? Would you have me abandon my own mother to suffer alone, only to return one day to find myself not only fatherless – but orphaned entirely?”

The words struck their mark. Even Prince Ajax, a warrior who had most clearly known only the battlefield for years, looked away. King Menelaus closed his eyes briefly, as if pained by the truth of it.

Telemachus let the silence stretch between them, the weight of his words sinking deep into the great hall. The three kings – seasoned warriors who had stormed the walls of Troy, who had bathed in the blood of their enemies – looked away, as if unable to meet the gaze of a ten-year-old boy who spoke of grief with such raw honesty.

It was almost amusing.

Almost.

Telemachus took a breath, steadying himself, and then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice lighter, conversational even, though his sharp mismatched gaze never wavered. “Do any of you know why my father named me Telemachus?”

The reaction was immediate.

All three of them – Menelaus, Ajax, Idomeneus – flinched.

It was small, barely a movement, a slight stiffening of shoulders, a twitch of a jaw, a tightening of fingers around goblets. But Telemachus saw it.

And he did not understand it.

A frown creased his brow. He had expected thoughtfulness, perhaps confusion, but not this. Why would such a simple question elicit such a response? What was it that made three war-hardened men react as though he had struck them with a blade?

His fingers curled against his tunic, but he did not let himself linger on it. Instead, he gave them a strange look before continuing.

“The meaning my father had in mind,” he said, “was ‘far from battle.’”

King Menelaus exhaled sharply, almost a sigh.

“My father named me Telemachus,” he continued, voice quieter now, “because he did not wish for me to ever see the horrors of war. Not as a soldier. Not as a warrior. Not as a king who must fight. He wanted me far from it.” His gaze swept across them, searching their faces, their eyes. “Do you think he would have wanted his only son – his heir, his legacy – to step foot on the bloodied shores of Troy?”

No one spoke.

And in that silence, Telemachus had his answer.

He let out a slow breath, looking at them all. “Ithaca is my home. My mother is my heart. I will not forsake either.” He straightened, his voice quiet but resolute. “I am sorry, but my answer will not change.”

Telemachus stretched forward, reaching for the goblet placed just out of his grasp. The maids always teased him about spilling the water whenever he tried to grab it, and true enough, his fingers nearly knocked it over. But he was careful this time, curling his small hands around the cool bronze before drawing it to him.

He took a sip, the tartness of the grape juice making him scrunch his face slightly. He knew that everyone else at the table had wine, but his mother did not let him drink it yet. She said it would be years before he was ready for such things, that he was only a child, and so he drank what had been set aside for him. He nearly let his expression linger, but then he remembered where he was, who he was facing. Quickly, he schooled his features, placing the goblet back down with measured ease.

He placed the goblet back on the table carefully, this time making sure it would not tip.

King Menelaus watched him, his sharp eyes catching everything. Slowly, he exhaled and spoke. “Your mother has done well.”

Telemachus blinked like an owl, caught off guard by the words.

King Menelaus was almost thoughtful as he regarded him. “Penelope has raised a noble and brilliant son – one who understands duty, who speaks with wisdom beyond his years.” He paused. “A true man of his house, so ready to protect the women of his family.”

The words were not unkind, but there was something in them that made Telemachus stiffen. He did not respond. He only lifted his chin slightly, waiting.

The older man leaned forward slightly. “I understand your worries, young King,” he said. “Your concern for your mother, your duty to Ithaca. You have been taught well. Your devotion to your mother is admirable. But tell me–” his voice dipped, lower, more measured now, “–what do you think will happen if the Danaans are defeated at Troy?”

The hall seemed to still.

Telemachus’ fingers tightened slightly against the table, though he willed himself not to react.

Menelaus did not let him look away. “If the brave sons of Achaea all fall to the Trojans, do you believe the rest of Achaea will be spared?”

A chill settled in Telemachus’ chest, an instinctive, creeping fear he could not suppress.

Menelaus did not smile, nor did he speak with cruelty. His voice remained calm, almost sorrowful, as he continued, not letting him answer. “If the sons of Achaea fall, do you think the rest of our lands will be spared? That the Trojans, after slaughtering our finest warriors, will simply return behind their high walls, content with their victory?” His voice was quiet, measured, but each word sent a shiver of unease crawling down Telemachus' spine.

“No. They will not. They will not stop at Troy. They will come for the mainland, for our cities, our homes, our families. They will pillage our great palaces, steal our treasures, and take our women.” He exhaled slowly. “And you, son of Odysseus – you who speak of your mother with such devotion. Tell me.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you believe she will be safe?”

The words struck deep.

Telemachus felt the fear coil in his chest, cold and sharp. His mother. Queen Penelope.

Beautiful, brilliant Penelope, daughter of an Oceanid. A demigod in her own right, whose otherworldly beauty had made her known across the lands, even if it were not so like her cousin.

He swallowed hard.

He was not blind.

He had seen the way men looked at her, even in Ithaca – guards, merchants, travellers passing through. That first, fleeting moment of that disgusting hunger in their eyes before reverence overtook them, before they remembered just whose wife she was, before shame tempered their gazes.

But his father was no longer there to be remembered. If the war was lost? If there was no one left to protect her?

His stomach twisted.

He had never thought of it. Never even considered–

King Menelaus’ voice cut through his thoughts. “Your father was one of the strongest men on our side. A warrior without equal, a mind unmatched. The Trojans feared him in battle. Hated him. Even now, they would gladly take your mother – not only as a prize, but as an insult to his memory. A final blow to his legacy.”

Telemachus’ breath came sharp and uneven.

A final blow to his legacy.

His mother– his mother–

He clenched his hands beneath the table, nails digging into his palms.

He had never cared for war. Never wanted it. He had only ever wanted to stay in Ithaca, to protect his home, to stay by his mother’s side, to have his father beside him.

But…

Ithaca would not be safe if the war was lost. His mother would not be safe.

He would not be safe either.

If they wished to erase his father’s legacy, the first thing they would do is to kill him.

Telemachus’ chest felt tight, like a knot pulled taut, impossible to undo. His breath was uneven, shallow. He willed himself to remain steady, but his eyes burned.

He did not want to leave.

He did not want to abandon his mother, not after everything, not after ten years of waiting, ten years of longing for the return of the man they had both loved so fiercely, even if Telemachus himself had never known him in truth. He did not want to be the one to shatter her heart. And he knew that this would shatter her heart in its entirety.

So soon after losing his father…

But he knew that King Menelaus was right.

If the Achaeans fell, Ithaca would not be spared. The war would not end in Troy – it would come for their shores, and when it did, his mother, his home, everything he held dear, would be lost.

The thought of his mother – who before today had always been so strong, so unwavering – being taken as a spoil of war made his stomach churn, made him want to throw up. She was a queen, daughter of an Oceanid. She was daughter to one king, wife to another king, and now a mother to a king too. A woman of wit and beauty unmatched. A woman of such patience and devotion, who had never once wavered in her faith, who had endured a decade of loneliness, never knowing if her husband would return.

And now, if he did not go, she would suffer again. But this time, no patience or faith could save her.

His hands clenched into fists beneath the table, nails digging into his palms. His breath came short, sharp, but he bit his tongue, willing himself not to falter. He could not cry. Not in front of these men.

His mama would break if he left.

His grandparents – his grandmother, who had been ailing these past few weeks, had been holding on to the hope of her son’s return; his grandfather, who had spent years waiting for father to come home – what would become of them? Would they even survive the loss?

Would they be able to accept his own leave to Troy?

His father’s death had not yet been spoken aloud to them. He had forbidden it, fearing that the truth would shatter them beyond repair.

And now, if he left, would he return to find them gone?

A sob built in his throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing his face into something still, something composed. He lifted his gaze once more to Menelaus, the firelight flickering against the sharp lines of the older man’s face.

They all watched him, waiting.

He was only ten years old.

But there was no one else.

He was the son of Odysseus.

He was Laertiades.

The prophecy had not been fulfilled.

And if he did not go, if he did not take up his father’s place – then the war would be lost. Ithaca would be lost.

His mama would be lost.

His fingers curled tighter against his palms. Slowly, he exhaled.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, hoarse with the weight of the decision that crushed his chest.

"I will go.”

The words barely left his lips before silence fell over the hall, deeper and heavier than before.

He saw it in the way they looked at him – the shift, the realization that they had won. That he had given them what they wanted.

Prince Ajax exhaled, shifting in his seat. King Idomeneus, always the most open of the three, gave him a slow, solemn nod.

And Menelaus…

The King of Sparta only watched him for a long moment. Then, he inclined his head slightly, his expression a sorrowful smile.

Telemachus forced himself to sit straighter. To school his features into something dignified. Something like a king. Like the portrait of his father.

Even as his heart cracked, even as he already mourned the goodbyes that would come, even as he wondered if he would ever see his mother’s face again.

Even as he feared that, like his father, he too would leave Ithaca… and never return.

Chapter Text

PENELOPE

Penelope woke to the murmuring of voices, to the scent of crushed herbs thick in the air.

The chamber was dim, its walls heavy with shadows, the light of oil lamps flickering like restless spirits. For a moment, she did not know where she was. The bed beneath her was soft, the covers drawn high, but the air was too still, too quiet – empty of the familiar sounds of her son’s voice, of the sea-wind breezing in, of the faint scent of olives from the tree that her marriage bed was made of.

She turned her head, slow and aching, and the movement sent a dull throb through her skull. At once, hands fluttered at her side, gentle but insistent.

It came to her then. The words – words shaped like knives, words that cut and marred her unscarred skin, twisting the gash upon her heart that had already been bleeding for ten years.

Odysseus is dead.

Penelope pressed a hand to her chest, as if to steady the shuddering thing within. The breath in her throat felt sharp, her ribs too tight to contain it. Her fingers curled over her heart, as though she might soothe it, but there was no balm for this wound, no salve for the ruin left in her.

There was a hysterical laughter bubbling within her. Odysseus?! Dying?! Leaving her?!

How could that even be so?

He had promised her a hundred different things. He had yet to keep those promises, yet to fulfil them. How could he have died, how could he have died and she not known.

“My Queen,” a woman’s voice urged, soft with worry. “You must not rise. Be still I beg of you.”

A healer, clad in fabrics weaved in the colours of Ithaca, her brow furrowed with concern. Another hovered nearby, grinding something into a paste, her hands steady but her gaze flickering toward the bed – toward her.

Penelope swallowed, the weight in her chest pressing deeper. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. “Where– ” She paused, gathering her strength, trying to think. “How long?”

The healer hesitated. “A full day and a night, my Queen. You collapsed, and we feared– ” She cut herself off, glancing down as if ashamed to speak the thought aloud.

Penelope did not ask what they had feared. She could feel it in her own bones, the weariness that stretched beyond the body, sinking into the soul itself. A great hollowing out, as if a piece of her had been torn away and cast into the sea. She pressed a hand to her chest, over the place where her heart still surprisingly beat, though it felt ruined, shattered beyond mending. Her breath came unsteady, and she turned her face away.

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackling of the lamps.

Then, quieter now, she asked, “My son. Where is he?”

A strange look passed between the healers – fleeting, uncertain. The first woman swallowed. “He has been…” She hesitated, glancing toward her companion as if for guidance. “He has been entertaining our guests in your absence.”

Guests.

Menelaus, Eurylochus, Telamonides, Deucalionides.

Though was Eurylochus even a guest?

Why has so many of them come...

The words were careful, chosen with too much weight. Penelope’s fingers tightened over the linen of her coverlet.

A chill spread through her, slow and creeping.

She lifted her head slightly, her gaze sharp though her limbs were heavy. “Speak plainly,” she commanded, though her voice was but a whisper.

The woman stiffened. She cast another glance at the other healer, but there was no help to be found there. Wetting her lips, she bent her head and pressed on, though her voice quivered like a leaf in the autumn wind. “It is said that Prince– ” A breath. Then, “It is said that King Telemachus has pledged himself to go to Troy. To fight in his father’s place”

For a heartbeat, the words held no meaning.

Then the breath left Penelope’s lungs in a rush, as if she had been struck.

She pushed herself upright, dizziness be damned. “No.” The word rang out, fierce despite the rawness of her dry throat.

The healer winced. “My Queen, I only– ”

“Telemachus is not king.” The words lashed out like the crack of a whip.

She was trembling, though not with weakness. It was something deeper, something colder – fury laced with disbelief.

And then, her son going to Troy?

She stared at the healer, as though she might wrench the truth from her lips by force alone. “Where did you hear of this?”

“The palace– ” The healer twisted her hands. “It was spoken last night, at the feast. The prince himself said it.”

Penelope stilled.

No.

It could not be.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, as if trying to break free from its prison. Telemachus, her son – her baby. Barely ten summers had passed him by. His hands, uncalloused by sword or spear, his soul untouched by the horrors his father had no doubt seen. And yet they said–

“He is but a child,” she whispered, the words barely more than breath. “He has never held a blade, never known battle. He would not– ”

She stopped herself.

Would he?

Her son, who weighed each decision a hundred times before making it. Her son, who had inherited his father’s mind, his mother’s patience. He would not speak lightly. He would not say such a thing in haste, grief or jest.

A great and terrible silence filled her.

Then she whispered, “No.”

“This cannot be.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold stone floor bit into the soles of her feet. Hands caught at her arms, steadying, restraining.

“My Queen– please! You must rest.” The healer at her side clutched at her in desperation, her face pale with worry. “Your body is still weak, if you strain yourself, your heart may– ”

“Then let it,” Penelope snapped, wrenching herself free. “I must go to my son.”

A dozen hands reached for her, maids and healers alike, their voices rising in a chorus of protest, but she would not – could not – heed them. What was pain, what was exhaustion, what even was the value of her life when her son’s life hung in the balance? She could not stay abed, waiting, weeping like some helpless woman in a tale sung by bards.

No, she would find him. She would stop this madness before it took root.

Uncaring of her dishevelled state – her hair loose and unbound, her body clothed only in her night-robes – she stumbled from the chamber. The maids, seeing her will no doubt, thankfully ceased their pleas and instead moved to steady her, guiding her forward, though they cast each other uneasy glances.

She passed through the halls of her own home like a shade unmoored from the living world, the walls and torches blurring at the edges of her vision.

A guard stood at his post, and at the sight of her, his reddened eyes widened, filling with overwhelming grief.

“Where is the prince?” she demanded.

The guard bowed, lower than he ever had before. “He is with the men from Troy, my Queen, in the Grand Hall. Good Princess Ctimene is with him, along with Noble Eurylochus.”

Her lips parted, a thousand questions on her tongue.

Eurylochus? Ctimene?

How could they, who had loved Odysseus so, who had known him as brother and lord and king, stand by and allow this madness to unfold?

Why? Why ever would Telemachus need to go to Troy?

It made no sense.

There was no need for Telemachus to take his father’s place.

Because his father was not dead.

He could not be dead.

She would know. She would know.

Odysseus had always belonged to her, as she had to him. If death had taken him, then surely, surely, she would have felt it true – felt the earth tremble beneath her feet, felt the air shatter with his absence, felt her heart stop in its rhythm.

But there had been no such thing.

Her vision blurred, the weight of her grief pressing behind her eyes, but she forced herself forward. She would not cry. Not yet. Not here.

The doors to the Grand Hall loomed before her.

A servant moved to announce her, but she did not wait. With a breath, she stepped inside.

The air was thick with murmured voices, with the scent of wine and burning oil. At once, the hall fell silent.

All rose as one, heads bowing in deference, in respect. Strong Ajax, Faithful Idomeneus, and Menelaus himself, stood at her son’s side.

And there, in the great seat of Odysseus, sat Telemachus.

Her child.

Her boy.

Sitting in his father’s place.

It took all her strength to incline her head, to school her face into a mask of welcome, though her heart raged and sorrow clawed at her ribs.

“Be seated,” she bade them, her voice smooth as running water, though it cost her much to keep it so.

The men obeyed, lowering themselves onto their cushions once more. She moved forward, unhurried, though the weight in her chest grew heavier with each step.

“I pray you, pay no mind to my state,” she said, lifting a hand to brush a stray lock from her face. “It grieves me that you have come to my hall and found so poor a welcome. I should have met you as honoured guests, with offerings of wine and words of courtesy, but sorrow has clouded my judgment, and for that, I must beg your pardon.”

At once, Fair Menelaus, shook his head. “No, Penelope,” he said, his voice ever familiar despite these years. “There is no need for such words. The tidings you have received are cruel, and no woman who loves her husband true would bear them lightly.”

She flinched. The movement was slight, near imperceptible, but her son saw it – her son, who had ever watched her with careful eyes, who had learned the shape of her sorrow even when she had not spoken it.

Still, she forced a smile, soft and knowing, a queen’s smile, though it did not touch her heart, nor her mind that continued to spin. “You are kind, Menelaus,” she murmured, nodding toward him. He was a man she had known since she was but a girl, a man who had been as a brother to her in her youth.

Odysseus was not dead.

Her heart whispered it with every beat, with every breath she took. For ten long years she had waited, for ten long years she had endured this curse of loneliness. How could he abandon her now? After everything?

No. She would not believe it. Her husband would not forsake her so.

She turned her gaze to Telemachus, her son, her only child. How small he looked upon that great place, how weary, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of grief and duty. Those unidentical eyes of his father that he inherited, were rimmed red with tears shed, yet he smiled at her – softly, relieved, as though certain she would now set all things to right with her mere presence alone.

Yet there was worry, too, in the way he looked upon her, in the way his young eyes searched her face.

“My Good Mother,” he said, his voice quiet, with the airs of a man true instead of the child that he was, “You should sit.”

With a glance, he motioned for a servant, his voice measured but firm as he called for food and drink suited to her current state. A simple, thoughtful gesture.

A fresh wave of sorrow swept over her.

When had her son learned to bear such burdens? When had he become so accustomed to her sorrow? When had he understood the turn of her face that meant her grief and sorrow?

She lowered herself onto the seat in front of him, inclining her head in thanks. But even as the scent of warm bread and honeyed figs filled the air, she did not eat. Instead, she turned her gaze upon the gathered men and smiled.

“I must confess,” she said lightly, her voice warm, as though speaking of some idle jest, “That I have heard the strangest of tales.” She let out a soft laugh, the sound like the gentle stream of a slow river. “A most curious thing indeed.”

It was subtle – the stiffening of shoulders, the flicker of glances exchanged between men – but she saw it.

Her smile did not falter.

“Word has reached my ears,” she persisted, ignoring her heart and head, “that my son – my child, my Telemachus – is to sail to Troy.”

Silence fell, thick as the mists that curled over the wine-dark sea.

No man met her gaze.

No voice rose in reply.

No one – save Telemachus.

He held her eyes, and she knew.

Knew as she had always known him.

As she had known him when he was but a babe in her arms, when his small hands had reached for her with unshaken trust. As she had known him when he had taken his first steps, when he had spoken his first words, when he had sought comfort from her in the dark of night.

He looked guilty.

He looked as he had but few days ago when he had stolen honey-cakes from the kitchens, when he had spilled ink upon his father’s old attempts at maps, when he had stayed up long past the hour of sleep, hiding beneath the blankets with a lamp and his books.

But this– this was no childish folly.

This was war.

King Idomeneus cleared his throat, shifting. “My Gracious Queen,” he began, his tone careful. “This has ever been our way. A son must take his father’s place upon the battlefield. He must avenge him.”

The words barely had time to settle before Penelope spoke, unable to control herself any longer with the ringing in her ears.

“Odysseus is not dead,”

Telamonides turned his gaze upon her, his brow furrowing as though he beheld a thing both sorrowful and perplexing. Beside him, Menelaus exhaled, slow and measured, as if preparing himself to speak reason to a woman lost to madness.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ctimene, Odysseus’ dear Ctimene, turn her face away, her lips pressed together, sorrow plain upon her features. Eurylochus, ever steady, reached for her, his hand moving as if to soothe, to comfort, but she raised her own in warning, sharp and firm. Her glare met him, and he stilled, his hand falling away as if burned.

She swallowed, summoning the strength to keep her voice even, to keep it from shaking with the rage and grief clawing at her throat. Then, lifting her head high, she repeated, her voice as clear as a struck lyre-string.

“Odysseus is not dead.”

A flicker of pity passed over their faces, fleeting yet unmistakable.

She saw it in Menelaus, in the way his mouth tightened, in the way his eyes darkened with some unspoken grief. She saw it in Telamonides, whose great hands clenched upon his knees as if restraining himself from speaking some unwanted truth. She saw it in the cast-down gazes of the lesser men, in the way they averted their eyes as if to spare her dignity.

They did not believe her.

It did not matter.

Her breath came steady now, her spine straight, her chin lifted with the pride of a woman who had endured much and would endure more still.

“You have seen wrong,” she said, her gaze sweeping over them all. “You have not searched enough. And now, you abandon a man who fought for you, for your people– ”

Her eyes locked onto Menelaus, her words striking like a well-aimed spear.

“For your wife.”

He flinched, ever so slightly, but she saw it.

And still, their faces were painted with sorrow.

She knew what they thought.

That she was mad. That grief they had brought to her home and hearth had unmoored her, cast her adrift upon the waves of despair until she could no longer see reason. That she was like Niobe in her mourning, unyielding, lost to the weight of what could not be changed.

Let them think it.

She would not yield.

She could not bear to yield.

If Odysseus were dead, then so too should she be. She had never lived in a world without him – could not fathom the thought, could not bear it. The mere idea of it was an impossibility, an absurdity beyond comprehension.

She would not begin now.

Her husband was not dead.

Her husband would return.

And until he did, she would wait.

She would wait until Hermes Psychopompos himself came to bear her unto to Lord Hades’ halls.

Penelope’s hands curled into fists in the folds of her robe, the fabric twisting beneath her grip. Her breath came slow and measured, though it felt as though a storm raged within her.

“And,” she said, steady as she could hold it in her state, “as the matter of Od- my husband being dead is but a most evident misconception, there is no reason for my son to take his place. No reason for Telemachus to fight in this forsaken war.”

She looked at them – these men, these warriors who had fought alongside her husband, who had stood by him through blood and battle. She searched their faces, waiting for the argument, the protest, but none came.

Instead, it was Menelaus who spoke first.

“Beloved Penelope,” he murmured, and there was a weight in his voice, a quiet sorrow that sent a chill up her spine.

He exchanged a glance with Eurylochus, and something passed between them. Then, at last, Eurylochus sighed, running a hand over his face before he looked at her with something close to pity.

“There is a prophecy,” he said.

The words struck her like a blow, her aching head worsening.

“A prophecy?” she echoed, and she almost laughed at the absurdity of it. A prophecy that would require Telemachus to fight?! Menelaus’ gaze was grave, Eurylochus solemn, and Idomeneus sat silent, his lips pressed into a hard line.

Her mind reeled, grasping for some explanation, some sense to be made of this madness. And then – she turned her head, seeking out the one person who had yet to react.

Ctimene.

Odysseus’ younger sister, her sister by marriage, the woman who had watched her son, her own nephew, grow up all these years in front of her eyes. She sat still, her face drawn, her hands folded in her lap. There was no flicker of surprise in her eyes, no gasp of disbelief, no pain or sorrow or fear.

Penelope knew, then.

Eurylochus had already told her of this scheme.

Her breath hitched, and she did not know what to do.

Her limbs felt heavy, as though she had been cast into deep salt water, her body sinking, sinking, unable to find the surface. She could breathe and survive and swim had it been the waters of her grandfather, but to be thrown into Poseidon Pontomǽdohn’s realm like this by the ones she had trusted…

Before she could speak, before she could demand to know the truth of this so called prophecy, a voice – young, earnest, and unshaken – rose in the hush of the hall.

“Mother.”

She turned, and there he was.

Her son.

Her child.

Ten summers old, with eyes too wise, too knowing for a boy his age.

“This is the only way,” Telemachus said, his small hands pressed against the arms of the chair he sat upon – his father’s chair, too large for him still, swallowing his frame. How could the rest of them not tell the way he was trying to make himself looker bigger. Her child. “This is the only way this war will end. This is the only way peace will come forth, and everyone will be safe.”

She could not bear it.

“No,” she said at once, her voice firm. She shook her head, rising to her feet with every bit of strength within as she faced him, the weight of command in her words. “You will be silent. You are but a child, Telemachus, and I am your mother. I will not allow it.”

She turned sharply, eyes unknowingly glowing as she sought out the guards standing near the great doors.

“Bring the Old King here,” she commanded.

There was no need to say his name.

Laertes.

Odysseus’ father.

Telemachus’ grandfather.

The man who had once ruled this island before he had handed his throne over to his brilliant son.

The guard bowed and made to leave, but–

“Stop!”

The voice that rang out was not one of the warriors, not one of the kings or soldiers.

It was Telemachus.

He had leapt to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his small frame trembling with something desperate.

Penelope turned to him in shock.

Her son – her good, gentle son – had never spoken to her so.

He did not shout, did not scream, did not raise his voice in anger.

And yet here and now, he stood before her, his breath coming fast, his cheeks flushed, his innocent eyes wet with unshed tears.

“I know,” he said, his voice shaking now, “I know it is cruel.”

He swallowed, looking at her with something like pleading.

“I know it is unfathomable because you love Father so much,” he whispered. “But you have to come to terms with the truth.”

Her breath stilled.

“He is dead.”

The words tore through her. Her hold on the table was perhaps the only reason she had not fallen to the ground.

“It is my duty,” Telemachus pressed on, his voice steadier now, more sure. “As my father’s son. As his heir.” His chin lifted, his shoulders straightening, as though he sought to make himself taller, older than his ten years. “I must take his place on the battlefield. I must fulfil this prophecy in his name.”

Penelope could not breathe.

What do I soothe first? My bleeding heart or my unbelieving mind?

She could only stare at him, feeling as though her heart had been ripped from her chest, torn apart and laid bare before them all.

Slowly, she turned her gaze to the men seated beside him.

Ajax.

Menelaus.

Eurylochus.

None of them met her eyes.

Her hands trembled, her nails pressing crescent-moons into her palms.

Then, her gaze fell upon King Idomeneus.

A man who had sons of his own.

And so, her voice hoarse and breaking, she asked,

“What would you do, Deucalionides?”

Her lips parted, the words barely more than a breath. “If it were your own son in my child’s place?” Her voice wavered. “Would you take him to war as easily as you do another’s son?”

A silence hung between them.

Then, he exhaled.

His face was akin to the statues that lined the entrance to her palace, his expression carved from stone.

And then–

“I would do my duty,” he said simply.

The words sealed her fate.

And Penelope felt herself break.

A laugh escaped Penelope’s lips.

A bitter, hollow thing.

“Words are winds,” she murmured, shaking her head, her eyes burning with something sharp and scornful. “You speak of duty, of gods and prophecies, for it is not your child they seek to thrust into the fist of war.”

Her gaze cut to Eurylochus, and though she did not rise from her seat, a woman’s wrath coiled tight within her. The squeezing tightness in her heart slowly spread to her neck and she forced herself to ignore it.

“And you,” she said, her voice quieter now, yet no less piercing. “Tell me, Eurylochus – do you think Odysseus will forgive you for this?”

Eurylochus stiffened.

“For taking his son to war?” she continued, tilting her head - though playing off the unberable dizzines that came along with it was a task in itself. “For allowing this to happen?”

The hall was silent.

Eurylochus did not answer at first. He could not.

His jaw tensed, his hands curling at his sides as though they ached to hold a blade, to fight against this unseen battle raging before him.

Would he raise a blade to Odysseus' wife to drag Odysseus' son to war?

“It is duty,” he said at last. “For the safety of us all.”

His voice was steady, but only just.

“We will ensure he never sees battle,” he continued, looking at her now earnestly. “I swear it. He will never so much as lift a sword.”

Penelope’s nails dug into the flesh of her palms.

Eurylochus swallowed.

“I protested it,” he admitted, quieter this time. “Amongst the others, I fought against it. But there was no other way.” His breath wavered. “I do not wish this either, Penelope.”

His voice was raw now, and there was something in his eyes – something like regret, something like shame.

Good.

“But this is the will of the gods.”

The words felt rehearsed, as though he were merely repeating what had been told to him, as though he had spoken them to himself over and over again until he believed them to be true.

But Penelope saw the guilt, plain as day, carved into his face.

“Mother, please.”

His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but it struck her like a spear to the heart.

Penelope turned to him, her Telemachus, her child, and saw the way his hands trembled against the arms of his father’s great seat, saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed back something thick and painful.

But it was his eyes – those mismatched eyes that had once belonged to Odysseus, one dark as the storm-wracked sea, the other blue as the morning sky – that unravelled her.

He was pleading with her.

Her lips parted, another sharp retort on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. She drew in a breath, let it fill her lungs, and exhaled slow, steady.

And when she finally spoke, it was with a voice like silk stretched too thin.

“If it is the will of the gods,” she brokenly said, tilting her chin, “then who am I to say more?”

There was a long silence.

Then the men relaxed, the tension in their shoulders easing with her giving up her son for their war, and the conversation shifted back to talk of the war, of Troy, of thia prophecy that had damned them all.

Penelope did not listen.

She merely lifted a piece of bread to her lips, let the taste turn to dust in her mouth, and waited.

The moment the feast had ended, she acted.

She did not look at the warriors, nor at Eurylochus, nor even at her husband’s sister, whose sorrowful gaze had followed her all evening, she could not stand to.

She merely rose, laid a gentle hand upon her son’s shoulder, and, with a quiet murmur of his name, guided him away.

No one stopped them.

Perhaps they thought she wished to put him to bed, to comfort him, to soothe away the weight of what had transpired.

And in a way, they were right.

But it was not to his chambers that she led him.

No – she took him back to her chambers, the chambers she had shared with his father, the chambers that still smelled faintly of olivewood and salt, as though her husband had only just left and would return before the sun had set again.

She shut the door behind them.

Locked it.

Then turned.

Her breath was ragged, her fingers trembling at her sides as she faced her son through the pain radiating through her, ready – ready to scream, to demand, to understand what could have possibly possessed him to agree to such madness, prophecy be damned!

But before she could speak–

Telemachus moved.

He threw himself at her, small arms wrapping tight around her waist, and–

He cried.

A great, shuddering sob tore from his throat, his body trembling against her own as the floodgates burst and the weight of it all came crashing down upon him.

Her heart stopped.

Then–

“Oh, my love,” she whispered, her fury forgotten, her grief swallowed whole by the sight of her son weeping against her, her baby.

Penelope held him.

She pressed him close, cradling him against her chest, he was still that little boy who clung to her skirts, seeking comfort from all the world.

She pressed a kiss to his curls, ran her fingers through his hair, rocked him gently as his sobs wracked his small frame.

And as his tears soaked into her robes, as his cries shook the walls of the chambers where she had once laid beside his father, her heart bled. Her poor child. Her poor child who she had neglected in her grief.

Penelope tightened her arms around her son, feeling his small body quake with each sob. He clung to her, his fists gripping the fabric of her robe so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She wished she were stronger. She wished she could have lifted him with ease, as she once had when he was smaller, when the weight of this grief had not yet settled upon him like a stone.

But he was not a babe anymore.

He was a boy– her boy, but a boy nonetheless, growing taller, heavier, and she was no warrior, no woman of strength. She struggled to lift him, stumbling under his weight as he cried into her chest. Her arms trembled as she half-carried, half-dragged him toward her bed, her knees nearly buckling before she reached it.

She collapsed onto the bed with him, pulling him against her, curling her body around his as though she could shield him from all the pain, all the sorrow, all the truth that had torn him.

And then, between the sobs, between the gasps of breath–

“You promised me.”

Penelope stilled.

“You promised me, Mama,” Telemachus wailed, lifting his head, his face red and wet with tears, “You said– I would meet him– you said Father would come home! You said– I would get to see him–” His breath hitched, his body trembling violently. “How could he– how could he die?”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he buried his face against her once more.

Penelope felt something in her chest fracture - the ache radiating through her.

Her fingers tightened in his curls as her other hand clutched the back of his tunic, as though holding him closer would somehow stop this, somehow take away his pain.

“I want my father, Mama,” Telemachus wept. “I want to see my father– I want to hug my father, and I want him to hold me, I want him to– ” his voice broke, desperate and raw, “–to give kisses to me, just like you do.”

Her breath caught short.

Her son – their son – wanted him. Had longed for him, had ached for him, had spent his whole life waiting for a father who had not come home.

And now, with every voice around them declaring Odysseus dead, Telemachus was breaking beneath the weight of it.

How could she keep insisting?

How could she cling so stubbornly to hope when it was ripping her son apart?

Penelope’s lips trembled, and before she even realized it, she was weeping.

How am I supposed to choose between them?

Great, silent tears slipped down her face, dripping into Telemachus’ hair as she pressed kiss after kiss against the crown of his head, holding onto him like he was all she had left.

Because perhaps – perhaps he was.

She rocked him as he wept.

Her Odysseus dead?

The man who had woven himself into the fabric of her soul, who had kissed her lips and whispered promises into her skin, who had left his island kingdom in her hands ten years ago to hold onto while he was away.

He was thought dead.

And she had left their son to bear the weight of that grief alone.

“Oh, my little heart,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she cradled Telemachus closer, rocking him as though they were both still caught in some terrible nightmare, as though, if she just held him tightly enough, she could make all of this disappear, she could take away all his grief and pain. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

She did not know how long she wept – if it was moments or eternity – but eventually, her sobs turned to soft, broken gasps. She pulled away just enough to cup her son’s tear-streaked face, brushing trembling fingers over his cheeks, as though she could wipe away all his sorrow.

And then, through the grief, through this pain crushing her heart, she whispered, “How do you think I could bear it?”

Telemachus blinked, his breath still ragged, but he did not speak.

“How could you ask me to send you there?” Penelope asked, her voice hoarse, her tears falling freely. “How could you ask me to send my child – the only piece of your father I have left – to the same awful land where he died?”

Telemachus stiffened in her arms, but Penelope didn’t let him go.

“You are just a boy,” she whispered. “This is not right. I cannot allow it. I will not allow it.”

She held his face between her hands, her grip firm, desperate. “We will go to your grandfather. Laertes may be old, but he is wise, he can – he must – think of something. Anything. Hmm?”

But Telemachus was already shaking his head.

“No,” he said softly, “Mama… no.”

Penelope’s stomach turned to ice.

“The prophecy,” Telemachus whispered, his eyes red but steady. “It says that only the mind of Laertiades can bring the fall of Troy.”

“The war has gone on too long,” He continued, his voice quiet, solemn in a way no child’s voice should be. “The Achaeans cannot afford another loss. I understand that. I always listen to your lessons. I always listen to my tutors. I understand what is at stake here if we lose.”

Penelope wanted to scream.

Wanted to shake him, to demand that he stop speaking like this, that he stop acting like a man, when he was still just a boy.

But he wasn’t just a boy.

He was his father’s son.

And he believed in what he was saying.

Still.

Still.

“I cannot bear it,” she whispered, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks.

Telemachus swallowed hard.

And then, gently, he reached for her hands, pulling them away from his face and holding them in his own.

“I will come back to you,” he promised.

Penelope’s breath hitched.

Ten years ago, another man had spoken those same words to me, one who wore the same face.

Odysseus had promised, too.

And now he was gone.

Her fingers tightened around Telemachus’ smaller hands, gripping them as if she could keep him here, as if she could tether him to her side and never let him go.

But Telemachus only looked at her, his gaze filled with something terrible – something resolute.

“This is for Ithaca,” he said softly. “For my people. For my family.” His hands squeezed hers. “For you.”

Penelope let out a broken sob.

“I will not take up the sword, Mama,” he whispered. “By all the gods, I swear it.”

TELEMACHUS

The ship rocked beneath him, the steady rise and fall of the waves a rhythm he has not yet grown used to. The scent of salt and wood filled his lungs, the creak of the hull a constant murmur in his ears. The vast blue of the sea stretched far and wide, endless and entirely unfamiliar.

Telemachus sat on the deck, legs tucked beneath him, hands curled into fists in the blue of his tunic. It had been three days since he left Ithaca – three days since he had stepped onto a ship for the first time in his life – and already, he missed home so terribly that it ached in his chest.

He missed home.

He missed his mother’s goodnight kisses, the way she would tuck the blankets around him and press her lips to his brow as she whispered a quiet blessing for peaceful dreams. He missed the sound of her voice as she told him stories of heroes and gods, of kings and monsters – stories that always, in some way, led back to his father.

He missed his father’s portrait, the painted likeness that had stood in the great hall for as long as he could remember. Every morning, he had made it a habit to greet it, whispering a soft Good day, Father before running off to break his fast. It had been a foolish thing, he knew, to continue to speak to a painted face, but it had made him feel closer to the man he had never met. His mother had started the tradition after his father had left, and she had always spoken with such great joy of how his first words had been papa, calling out to the man in that portrait.

Now – now that he knew that his father was truly gone – he wished he had spoken to it more.

He swallows hard, forcing the lump in his throat down.

Then, unbidden, another thought rises.

His grandparents.

A fresh wave of sadness washes over him.

His mother had sent Grandpa Eumaeus to Grandfather in the end, though she had given him strict instructions – Do not let the Queen Mother know. Grandmother had been unwell for some time now, and the news of what was happening – the knowledge that her only son died and her only grandson was being sent away – would only worsen her condition.

But Grandfather–

Telemachus gripped the edge of the bench, staring down at his hands.

Grandfather had stormed into the palace the moment he had heard, his old sword clutched in his shaking hands, his face red with grief and fury.

"I will cut open any man who dares take my grandson from me!" he had bellowed, his voice raw, broken.

And all the while, he had wept.

Wept for Telemachus.

Wept for his own son.

For Heroic Odysseus, who had and will never return home.

Not even Aunt Ctimene, nor Uncle Eurylochus, nor the half-dozen guards who had rushed to his side, had been able to calm him.

In the end, it had been Telemachus who had stilled him – Telemachus, whose very face had made his grandfather shatter.

Because he bore the face of his Grandfather’s only son.

Because Telemachus had his father’s face.

He had always known it.

He had seen it reflected back at him in polished bronze and still water – his likeness to his father’s portrait, had seen it in the lingering glances of the subjects of his father’s kingdom where all but his own son knew him.

It had made him feel both proud and sorrowful when he was younger.

To look like the great Odysseus, the father from his mother’s stories, the father who had loved him – that was a blessing, was it not?

And yet, the only parent he had ever known – the only one he would ever know now – was his mother. His mother, with her golden hair and fair skin, with her glowing eyes that matched only one of his own. His mother who he looked nothing like.

She had always said it pleased her, his resemblance. That it made her feel as though a piece of his father had never left her side.

But now…

Now, his father was dead.

The thought made his throat tighten, made tears burn in his eyes. Telemachus bit his tongue hard, blinking quickly as tears stung his eyes. He would not cry. He could not cry.

Instead, he forced himself to think back to his mother.

He saw her in his mind as she had been upon the docks, her usually neat golden hair falling in a disarray of long curls over her shoulders. She had been weeping, her hands muffling her sobs as she watched him sail away. Grandfather had held onto her, though Telemachus did not know if it was for her support or his own.

It had been strange – heartwarming – to see them like that.

His mother had never been particularly close to her husband’s parents.

And yet, it had been him – Telemachus – who had brought them together.

Not through joy, but through love.

Through fear.

Through the grief of losing yet another of their own.

And that, at least, was something.

Telemachus looks down at the satchel resting beside him. It is worn, the leather darkened with age and softened from use, but it is sturdy, well-crafted – built to last. His father’s satchel.

His fingers trace over the edges of it, the same way they had when his mother had pressed it into his hands the night before his departure. It had belonged to his father, she had told him, that he had left it behind because he had not wish it damaged when he left for Troy. He promised to take care of it to the best of his abilities to his mother.

Telemachus swallowed past the ache in his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he unfastened the satchel and reached inside, pulling out the bundle of letters his mother had given him. The parchment was wrapped tightly in cloth, bound together with a cord. They were heavier than they looked, or perhaps it was the weight of responsibility that made them feel so.

His mother had made him swear upon the altar of Pallas Athena not to open them, not to hand them over to anyone but those for whom they were intended.

"Swear it, Telemachus," she had said, kneeling before him, hands trembling as they held his own.

And he had sworn it, had pressed his hands together in prayer to the Bright-Eyed Goddess, asking for her protection, for her guidance.

He had never seen his mother look so troubled.

She had given him instructions: “Go to the Laconians first. Find one of your uncles, any of them, though Leucadius would be best. Then, go to the Acarnanians, to my– your mother’s eldest brother, King Alyzeus. Do not stray from this path.”

Her voice had been firm, but he had seen the sorrow in her eyes.

She had worried for him.

She had worried, too, for her brothers.

All seven of them had gone to Troy to retrieve their cousin, Queen Helen – Aunt Helen, as his mother had always insisted he address her. It had been a war fought for her name, a war that had taken so many men, and his mother had spent years fearing she would lose her brothers just as she feared she would lose her husband.

And now– now she had lost her husband, she had lost his father.

Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut.

His father is dead.

The thought came again, unbidden, crashing into him like a wave. It did not feel real. How can it? How can someone who has loomed so large in his life – his father, the great Odysseus – simply be gone?

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, and he furiously rubbed at them with his tunic.

He will not cry.

He must be strong.

The letters in his lap seemed heavier still.

He tightened his grip around them, breathing deeply.

He had a duty now. A duty to his mother. A duty to his father’s name. A duty to the land of his people.

And he will not fail.

Telemachus stilled as a cloth appeared before him, the fabric pristine, white as seafoam, gently swaying in the salt-kissed air.

He blinked, his teary eyes widening in surprise.

Someone stood before him – someone radiant.

She glowed, her presence luminous in the bright light of the afternoon, like the last golden rays of the sun clinging to the skies of Ithaca. Her hair burned like fire, falling over her shoulders in thick waves. Her eyes – so bright, so piercing – reminded him of his mother’s, but where his mother’s glowed with warmth, hers burned like the flames of the hearth.

She wore armour, that gleamed in the sunlight, a spear resting lightly in one hand.

Telemachus swallowed hard. He knew who she was.

He had seen her in the great statue his father had sculpted with his own hands, in the carvings on the walls of the biggest Temple in all of Ithaca. He had heard his mother whisper her name in prayers, had listened to Grandpa Eumaeus speak of her favour upon his father.

And sitting before her now, so real, so present – he felt small. Insignificant.

Still, he forced himself to speak.

“Lady Athena?” he asked hesitantly, further frustrated by how hoarse his voice hoarse sounded from his unshed tears.

The goddess nodded, her gaze steady as she studied him.

There was something in her expression – something he had become deeply familiar with. Grief?

Telemachus clenched his fists.

Lady Athena was his father’s patron. His father, the great Odysseus, who had been renowned as the favoured of the goddess of wisdom and war.

And yet, Odysseus was dead.

The question burned on his tongue, bitter and angry, but he did not let it pass his lips.

Why did you not save him?

Why did you not bring him home?

Instead, he merely looked at her, waiting.

Lady Athena exhaled softly, as if she knew what he was thinking. She extended the cloth again, more insistently this time.

“Wipe your face,” she said.

Telemachus hesitated only a moment before taking it. The fabric was impossibly soft, finer than anything he had ever touched – softer than silk, lighter than air. He pressed it to his cheeks, wiping away the remnants of his embarrassing tears, though the sadness in his chest remained.

When he looked up again, Lady Athena’s gaze was still on him.

“I have been watching over you, Telemachus,” she said at last, her voice quiet yet firm.

His brows furrowed in surprise.

She continued, a bit stilted, as if choosing her words carefully. “At first, it was for your father’s sake. Odysseus was my chosen one, my champion. He loved you deeply – he longed to see you.” She paused, then added, “He would have been proud of the boy you have become.”

Telemachus’ throat tightened.

His father had loved him. He had wanted to return.

He already knew this – his mother had told him countless times.

But hearing it from a goddess…

Lady Athena glanced away for a moment, as if composing herself. “And then, as the years passed, I watched for my own sake.” She met his gaze again. “I was impressed with you, Telemachus.”

His breath caught.

Impressed?

By him?

Not by his father, the clever Odysseus. Not by his mother, the wise and steadfast Penelope.

But by him.

A faint heat crept up his neck, a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

It felt… strange.

To be noticed by a goddess.

To be admired by the very one who had guided his father.

For a moment, he forgot his sorrow, forgot the weight of the satchel on his lap. He did not feel like a grieving boy, lost at sea.

He felt–

No.

He had to remember.

His father was dead.

And no amount of divine favour had managed to change that.

He clenched his fists again, the cloth still balled in one hand.

Lady Athena watched him in silence, her bright eyes filled with something he could not name.

Telemachus whispered, his voice cracking, “I had wanted to meet him. More than anything.”

Her gaze did not waver.

“The feeling was mutual,” she said softly.

Telemachus blinked.

“He had wished to meet you,” she continued, her voice carrying something he could only call regret. “More than anything. He fought, not for his kingdom, not for his home – but for you. To return to you.”

Telemachus looked away, swallowing hard. It was too much. The words pressed against his heart or lungs, aching.

The goddess moved, and when he turned back, she was lowering herself onto one knee before him.

Telemachus flinched.

A goddess, kneeling before him?

His breath caught in his throat.

“I intend to take you as my champion, Telemachus,” Lady Athena said, her voice steady. “I will protect you and keep you safe, just as I once protected your father.”

Telemachus stared at her, eyes wide.

She was choosing him.

Him.

A boy who had never even held a sword in battle.

He felt impossibly small beneath her gaze, and yet – something in his chest warmed, like a flame catching in the wind. He lowered his head, shy but determined.

“Thank you, Lady Athena,” he murmured. “I– I accept.”

Lady Athena nodded, satisfied. “You need not thank me,” she said simply. “No harm shall come to you. I will make certain of it.”

She rose to her feet and, to his quiet amazement, sat beside him.

A goddess. Sitting beside him.

It should have felt strange.

And yet, somehow, it did not.

Not entirely.

It was comfortable – comforting, even.

Though… not as comfortable as sitting next to his mother.

The thought tightened his throat, and suddenly, the tears returned, burning hot behind his eyes.

He tried to push them down. He tried.

But Athena was looking at him now, her brows furrowed, her expression confused. No – worried.

The sight did him no favours.

“I miss my Mama,” he whispered.

The moment he spoke, the dam broke.

Tears spilled over his cheeks as the words tumbled from his lips, broken, choked between sobs.

“I have never been apart from her for so long,” he confessed, his voice shaking. “I– I want my mama’s kisses. I long for her hugs. I have not been able to sleep well since this journey started without her lullabies and–”

His shoulders trembled.

His mother had always been there. Always.

And now, she was an ocean away. For the first time in his life, he was alone. Away from his Mama.

A rustle of movement, and then – warmth. Telemachus startled as Lady Athena pulled him close, her grip firm but… hesitant.

He blinked.

Was she hugging him?

It was awkward, not quite the way his mother embraced him – but it was something.

And, strangely, it was comfortable.

Strangely… familiar.

Impossible though it was.

He had never met Athena before.

Had he?

He barely had the time to question it further before she began to hum, her voice low and steady.

A lullaby.

Telemachus stiffened.

It was familiar. He knew it.

But how?

His mother had always been the one to sing to him, and yet this melody, this voice–

His lashes fluttered as exhaustion crept over him, heavy, unrelenting.

How do I know of this melody?

The question lingered in his mind for only a moment before he surrendered to sleep, safe in the arms of a goddess who had sworn to protect him.

The days passed like the rolling waves beneath their ship, steady and unrelenting. The scent of the salt that filled Telemachus’ lungs was not entirely unfamiliar – he had grown up in an island after all. The ache for home still lingered, though it had thankfully dulled beneath the weight of his new purpose.

He was no longer simply a boy taking his father’s place in fate and its demands – no, Lady Athena herself had taken him under her wing. She had chosen him.

Each morning, before the sun had fully risen and the sea was still kissed with the last breath of night, Athena called him to train. At first, he had been surprised by her sitting by his bedside and waking him to demand he come to train. He had never held a weapon before, never swung a blade in earnest. A prince he was, yes, but not a warrior – not like his father, nor the many kings and heroes who had followed the call to Troy.

But Athena had given him no choice.

"Stand, Telemachus," she had said on the first morning, her voice firm yet not unkind. "You are your father’s son. You must be ready for the path ahead that you are destined for."

And so, he had obeyed.

She had given him a sword – wooden, yet so finely crafted it felt almost sacred in his hands. It was smooth, perfectly balanced, nothing like the comparably crude wooden swords he had seen the older boys in Ithaca play with in the courtyard. The first time he gripped it, he had marvelled at how it fit so perfectly in his grasp, how natural it felt to hold.

He had turned to Athena then, curiosity burning in his chest. "Where did you get this?"

The goddess had merely smiled, the barest curve of her lips, and replied, "I carved it myself."

Telemachus had nearly dropped the blade in shock.

A goddess – one of the Olympians themselves – had carved a sword for him? For him?

Surely that was no small thing.

He had considered, briefly, whether he ought to offer some form of reverence, whether he should place the sword upon an altar, or dedicate a prayer to it before training. But when he asked, Lady Athena had merely chuckled, shaking her head.

"There is no need for that," she said. "It is a gift, Telemachus. For you and your training, nothing more."

Still, the knowledge sat heavily in his chest, warming him in a way he did not quite understand.

A gift.

From her.

So he trained.

He learned to hold the sword properly, to swing, to pivot on his feet. He was clumsy at first, unused to the weight of a weapon, but Athena was patient. Her corrections were swift and sharp, her instructions clear. She guided his movements with the ease of an artist brushing out pigment.

And slowly – so very irritatingly slowly – he began to understand.

Each day he grew steadier. Each swing became more precise, each step more sure. His muscles ached ever uncomfortably, but the pain was a welcome thing, a good distraction, but also a reminder that he was learning. That he was growing into something greater – like a hero from the tales.

And yet, for all the wonders of his training, it was the moment with Uncle Eurylochus – he had looked so sorrowful when Telemachus had addressed him as Lord that he felt guilty doing so – that had caught him most off guard.

It had happened not long after his first lesson.

He had been speaking with Lady Athena on the deck, the sun casting golden light upon the rippling sea. The goddess stood beside him, tall and radiant, her presence steadier than the mast of the ship.

And then–

"Who are you talking to?"

Telemachus had turned to find Uncle Eurylochus watching him, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted in what could only be confusion.

Telemachus had blinked. "Lady Athena," he answered simply, motioning toward the goddess standing at his side.

What happened next would be forever burned into his memory.

Uncle Eurylochus’ eyes had comically widened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from the water. For a long moment, he said nothing – only stared, as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

And then, in a flurry of movement, he all but threw himself to the ground, falling onto his knees so quickly that Telemachus half-worried he had injured himself.

"Pallas Athena!" Uncle Eurylochus spoke out, his hands pressed together in supplication. "We are deeply grateful for your continued watch and protection over our Kings! I shall sacrifice 50 rams in your name and honour once we reach the shores of Troy."

Telemachus had stared.

Athena had sighed.

She did not even look pleased at the offer of sacrifices in her name, confusing him. I thought Gods enjoyed that manner of thing?

Regardless, the days at sea stretched on, and Telemachus found himself growing accustomed to his training, to the quiet presence of the goddess at his side. He had never imagined such a thing – to be so near to the divine, to learn from the Bright-Eyed One herself. Yet even as he adjusted to this strange new norm, there was one thing that unsettled him still.

"Lady Athena," he said one evening, as the sky burned crimson and gold, the sun sinking into the sea. "It feels strange that only I can see you."

Athena, seated beside him, tilted her head in silent inquiry.

He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the wooden sword she had given him. "It must look absurd to everyone else – to see me speaking to the air, as though I were… as though I had lost my mind."

The words had barely left his lips before Athena sat up, eyes flashing like lightning.

"Who has said such a thing to you?" she demanded, her voice edged with steel.

Telemachus startled at her sudden intensity. "No one! I only meant– "

"I will ensure that none who have such thoughts about you will be allowed to have another thought cross their mind," Athena declared, rising to her feet with a grace both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Her gaze swept over the deck, sharp as a blade, searching, suspicious.

Telemachus followed her gaze in alarm, his heart sinking as he saw how her piercing stare landed on the crew.

"Truly, Athena, no one has spoken ill of me!" he insisted, rising quickly. "It was only a thought of mine, nothing more! Please, there is no need for– "

But Athena was not so easily pacified. Though he spent hours after assuring her that no one had insulted him, that it was but a fleeting concern, she still seemed unconvinced.

And worse still – she glared at the men aboard the ship, as though waiting for one of them to slip, to say something that might justify her wrath. Telemachus had never seen so many grown men go about their duties in such fearful silence, feeling the Goddess’ fury and presence though unable to see her still.

Yet, after that day, the goddess made herself visible to all.

The reaction was… not as he had expected.

It had started at dawn. Athena had appeared on deck, standing tall beside Telemachus as they practiced their drills. The sun cast a golden halo around her, her armour gleaming as if the very heavens blessed her presence here. She was unmistakable, undeniable – a sight no mortal could ignore.

And ignore her, they did not.

A great many of the men working aboard the ship stopped mid-task, eyes wide, hands frozen in place. Some simply stared, their jaws slack, as if their minds struggled to comprehend the sight before them. Others fell to their knees at once, whispering prayers, their hands trembling.

One poor soul, who had been tying a rope, let it slip from his fingers entirely. The heavy rigging crashed onto the deck beside him, nearly sending him sprawling. Another, who had been hauling barrels, forgot himself so completely that he tripped over his own feet, the barrels rolling away in disarray.

And then, there was Uncle Menelaus – another man who had stubbornly insisted he call him Uncle.

Telemachus had never known a king to be so thoroughly unmade in an instant.

Uncle Menelaus had been carrying a great many things at the time – scrolls, maps, and some rather fine looking daggers, no doubt treasures from his long years at war. He had been walking with the practiced ease of one accustomed to such burdens, his expression composed, regal – until he caught sight of Athena standing besides him.

He froze.

Then, as if struck by some form of a blow by one of the deathless ones themselves, his arms slackened. The scrolls, the maps, and the daggers tumbled from his grasp, scattering across the deck.

And then he tumbled as well.

With an undignified yelp, Uncle Menelaus lost his balance and went crashing down onto the wooden planks, landing face-first with a heavy thud. A sharp intake of breath followed – a collective wince from all who bore witness.

Telemachus, stunned, barely had time to react and offer his hand in assistance before Uncle Menelaus pushed himself up, groaning. He reached for his face, his fingers grazing the freshly forming bruise upon his cheekbone.

Silence stretched across the deck.

Then, from beside him, Athena sighed.

"I sometimes forget the effect my presence has on mortals," she murmured, not particularly apologetic.

Telemachus pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to laugh.

Uncle Menelaus, still kneeling, finally seemed to find his voice. "Lady Athena," he rasped, eyes wide. "You honour us with your presence!"

Athena inclined her head, as if this were a mere formality, not the cause of a king’s rather undignified downfall. "Rise, King of Sparta. You need not kneel."

Uncle Menelaus scrambled to his feet, still clutching his bruised face. "I did not expect– " He glanced at Telemachus, then back at Athena, then at Telemachus again. "You were– training him?!"

"Of course," Athena said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Uncle Menelaus blinked. Then, slowly, his gaze turned to Telemachus, as if seeing him in an entirely new light.

He shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

Uncle Menelaus exhaled, shaking his head. "Your father was truly favoured, brave child," he muttered, rubbing his face once more before stooping to retrieve his scattered belongings.

Telemachus watched him, then glanced at Athena.

She arched a brow.

And this time, he did laugh.

The days passed, and Telemachus found that Athena’s presence, though strange at first, had become a comfort to him. Her voice, when she spoke, was a balm to the restless ache in his heart. She corrected his footwork with patient instruction, parried his clumsy strikes with ease, and steadied him when his form wavered. She did not coddle him, nor did she treat him as though he were fragile. Instead, she moulded him, her words shaping him as deftly as a sculptor’s hands shaped clay.

He had never felt so seen.

And yet, no matter how much warmth her presence brought, it could not compare to the comfort of his mother’s arms. Nothing could.

His heart ached at the thought of her – his mother, left behind in Ithaca, carrying her grief alone. He could not bear to imagine her in sorrow, nor think of the silent halls of their home without his father’s presence to fill them. How was she faring? Did she eat? Did she sleep? Or did she wander the palace as she often had in his childhood, gazing out to the sea, now waiting for a son as she had waited for a husband who would never return?

He clenched his fists at the thought, the weight of homesickness pressing against his chest like a great stone.

But then, there was Athena.

When she saw the shadows darken his expression, she did not press him to speak. Instead, she would gesture for him to stand, and they would spar until his limbs ached and his mind had no space for sorrow. Sometimes, she would simply sit beside him in silence and hold him, the rhythm of the waves filling the void where words might have been.

And Telemachus, to his own surprise, found great solace in her company. Even with the way she looked at him and hovered around him. It was not the distant, impassive gaze of a goddess merely overseeing her charge. No – there was something sentimental in the way she studied him.

It was in the grief that lingered in her eyes when she thought he was not watching. It was in the way her lips would press together, as if holding back words that she could not bring herself to say. It was in the way her hand would hang near his shoulder, as if she wished to offer comfort, only to pull back before she could. It was in the haunted look in her being as she gazed at him, as though she kept seeing someone else in his stead.

It was in the way she cared for him.

It was a quiet sort of care, the same kind his grandmother had always shown him – that attentive hovering and fussing, looking after his every need without him as much as uttering a single word. His grandmother often looked at him in much the same way too, with the same fondness, the same sorrow. You remind me of your father when he was your age, she would say, a small, sad smile on her lips as she recounted his father’s childhood mischief to him.

And now, Athena looked at him as though she saw someone else in his place.

It did not take much for Telemachus to understand who.

His father.

Athena missed him.

She, the great and mighty goddess, daughter of Zeus Aegiōchos, had not cast her Champion Odysseus aside. She had not forgotten him, nor had she dismissed his loss as the natural fate of all mortals.

She mourned him.

That knowledge settled in Telemachus’ heart like the cool waters of his Mother’s spring – dragging him down with its weight but comforting nonetheless. It relieved him.

Since he had found about his father’s… his father’s death, he had feared that his memory would fade beyond Ithaca’s shores, that the gods who had once blessed him would turn their gaze elsewhere. That Great Odysseus, for all his cunning, all his great heroics, all his brilliance, would be nothing more than another name lost to time.

But Athena Ageleia had not forgotten.

It was in her every glance, in the way she carried herself, in the way she looked after him.

His father had meant a great deal to her.

And somehow, knowing that, the world felt a little less lonely.

The days had continued pass in a similar manner, the Archipelago surrounding their vessel on all sides. The men tried to speak to him and get to know him better, but he had found it most uncomfortable – the shyness that mother had always said he must overcome when it comes to his elders – to talk these people who he had never met before. And that was without mentioning the guilt that lined their faces every time they looked at him. His father would not want him here, that had been most evident to the men who had dragged Odysseides to war despite his father’s vehement disapproval of the matter.

If only my father was here to protect me.

But he is dead, and it is now unto I to protect his kingdom and his legacy.

But would it not be so perfect? If he came back from the dead to protect me?

Still, they looked after him most dearly – much like Athena herself. Though their guilt fuelled care and concern made Telemachus incredibly uncomfortable. One such instance being now, with the smoke of the small cooking fire at the centre of the deck reaching up onto the skies as the men spoke in lively tones, their voices carrying over the crashing waves. Telemachus barely listened – he was far too occupied with his growing discomfort with the situation at hand.

Uncle Menelaus and Uncle Eurylochus, for reasons known only to them, seemed determined to make him eat enough for three men. No matter how much he protested, explaining again and again and again that he simply could not eat that much, they kept piling more food onto his plate!

“This will put some strength on you, lad,” Uncle Menelaus said, slapping his shoulder so hard that Telemachus nearly dropped his cup of watered wine, which his mother would be most upset about had she known he was drinking wine at his age, regardless of how it made him feel.

“A growing boy needs his fill,” Uncle Eurylochus added, giving him another piece of bread.

Telemachus groaned, setting down his half-finished meal. “I am full, truly! If I eat any more, I fear I shall fall into the seas and sink like a rock!”

Uncle Menelaus only chuckled, ignoring his complaints as he sliced a piece of meat in half and placed that onto Telemachus’ plate as well.

Before he could attempt another futile protest, a presence descended upon the deck – divine, radiant, undeniable.

A great hush fell over the men.

And when he turned his head, Telemachus nearly choked on his own breath.

Athena stood before him, carrying a full set of armour in her arms.

The bronze gleamed in the firelight, polished so finely that it almost seemed to glow. It was magnificent – intricate engravings ran along the surface, each piece crafted with an elegance that no mortal smith could ever hope to match. The helmet, with a great horn on each side, crested with horsehair dyed in deep purple, shone like the morning star.

Telemachus had never seen anything so beautiful.

Gasps filled the air as the men sprang to their feet – Menelaus, Eurylochus, King Idomeneus, and Ajax (who had demanded to be called Greater Ajax when they reached Troy) all immediately fell to their knees, their heads bowed in reverence to the goddess.

You would think they would get used to it and act normal after all this while.

Athena paid them no heed, and Telemachus ignored his embarrassment on their behalf.

She strode past them as though they did not exist, her focus fixed solely on him. And to his utter horror, she then knelt before him.

The world seemed to still.

Telemachus could feel the incredulous stares boring into him from all sides. He was certain that his ears had gone red – perhaps his whole face, in truth.

Athena’s sharp eyes studied him carefully before she spoke.

“This armour,” she said, “was forged by none other than Lord Hephaestus himself. It is yours, Telemachus.”

The breath caught in his throat.

He stared at her, then at the armour, and then back at her. “L-Lady Athena, surely– surely not for me– ”

“It is yours,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “It will ensure that no harm befalls you.”

He swallowed thickly, glancing at the others for some kind of reassurance – only to find their eyes filled with a mixture of awe, disbelief, and something else… something like reverence.

Athena, either unaware of their reactions or entirely uncaring, rose to her feet and beckoned for him to stand.

“Come,” she said, “try it on.”

He hesitated only for a moment. Ordinarily, he might have felt shy, perhaps even humiliated to be dressed in front of so many men. But… the armour looked so cool!

And it was his.

So, with a determined nod, he stood and let Athena help him don the pieces.

The breastplate settled snugly over his torso, its weight lighter than he had expected but still reassuringly solid. The greaves fit perfectly against his legs, and when Athena placed the helmet upon his head, he could feel the brush of the horsehair plume behind him.

He had to admit – it felt amazing.

Athena stepped back, her keen gaze sweeping over him with great scrutiny. Then, unexpectedly, she took hold of his shoulders and turned him this way and that, as though inspecting a prized statue that was to be placed in her temple.

She hummed in approval. “It suits you.”

The praise sent a rushing warmth to his chest.

But then Athena continued, “I will entrust its safekeeping to one who will watch over you in the Achaean camp.”

Telemachus perked up immediately. “Who?”

Athena only ruffled his hair through the open crest of his helmet, a knowing smile on her lips. “You shall see soon enough. For now, finish your meal, and ensure that you eat well – mortals require sustenance!”

And just as quickly as she had arrived, she vanished, taking the armour with her.

The silence left in her wake was deafening.

Telemachus turned to face the rest of the men – only to find them staring at him as though he had sprouted wings and declared himself a god.

Uncle Menelaus’ expression was frozen in slack-jawed astonishment, while Uncle Eurylochus looked utterly bewildered. Idomeneus seemed at a loss for words, and Ajax – Greater Ajax – was rubbing at his temples as though trying to convince himself he had not gone mad.

It was, quite frankly, incredibly uncomfortable.

Telemachus cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Well,” he said, attempting to sound casual, “I suppose I should… finish eating?”

No one responded.

For a long moment, they merely stared at him, then at the space where Athena had stood, then back at him again.

Then, finally, Uncle Menelaus sighed deeply, rubbing his face as though he had just aged another ten years.

“I need a drink.”

That incident had made matters even more uncomfortable, everyone staring at him as though Athena would whisk him away to Olympus and make him a godling any moment now. It was so silly, these were grown men, some of the best warriors of Achaea. Why were they acting like this?!

Though, Athena’s comment on entrusting his armour to someone who she deemed right to watch over him had made him wonder. Just who would that be, someone who Athena herself thought fit to protect and take care of him. Was it to be one of his mother’s brothers? His kin by his father’s side had been disregarded by the Goddess after all.

As the ship neared the shores of Troy, it was one of the few things on Telemachus’ mind.

So this is the smell of Troy.

Sun-warmed earth and foreign fires burning in the distance. Blood and fish and war. The land his father had been forced to spend the past ten years in, away from home and Telemachus and Mama.

He swallowed hard. His fingers twitched at his sides, clenched and unclenched, his breath coming a little too fast. He was here. He was in Troy. He had left Ithaca and now he stood at the very edge of battle and war.

A weight shifted on his shoulder.

Feathers brushed against his cheek, soft and familiar, and a small, warm beak nuzzled gently against his skin. Telemachus blinked and turned his head just slightly, enough to see the round, bright eyes watching him with something knowing.

Athena, in the form of an owl – Owl-thena, as he had started calling her.

She was the most adorable thing in existence!

And even better – she let him pet her!

So he did, bringing a hand up to lightly stroke her small, feathered head. She hooted, a quiet little sound, and nudged her head further into his touch, as though trying to soothe him.

It helped.

Not completely.

But enough.

A heavy sigh escaped him. He clenched his hands once more before releasing them, squared his shoulders, and turned his gaze toward the shore.

A gangplank was lowered, the ropes creaking as it settled onto the wooden dock. Men moved about, securing the ship, unloading supplies, calling out to one another. The sounds of the Achaean camp buzzed in the distance – voices rising in commands, the clash of metal, the murmurs of those who had fought and lived to see another day.

Unlike his father.

Telemachus hesitated, nervousness and fear consuming.

Until a hand was extended toward him.

Uncle Eurylochus.

His palm open, steady, waiting.

Telemachus inhaled sharply.

And then, with a deep breath, he reached out and took it.

Uncle Eurylochus’ grip was warm, strong, grounding.

With careful steps, He followed him down.

Down onto the docks.

Down onto the shores of Troy.

HEALER OF A FISHING VILLAGE IN THE OUTSKIRTS OF KLAZOMENAI

The healer knelt beside the sleeping man, his fingers pressing gently against the stranger’s wrist, feeling the steady but slow pulse beneath the skin. The flickering light of the oil lamps cast long shadows over the small hut, the air thick with the scent of herbs, seawater, and old blood.

Behind him, the fishermen stood in uneasy silence, shifting on their feet, their wide eyes fixed upon the figure laid upon the healer’s pallet.

“It is a miracle,” the healer murmured at last, his voice hushed as though he feared speaking too loudly would break some divine enchantment. “This man holds the blessing of the gods, of that there is no doubt.”

The fishermen stirred at his words. One of them muttered a quick prayer under his breath, fingers twitching toward the small amulet of Lord Poseidon hanging from his neck. Another rubbed at his arms, as if trying to ward off a shiver.

The healer did not blame them.

When they had first brought the man to him, over a month ago now, his body had been more ruin than flesh. His skin had been scorched, raw and blackened in places, peeling away in others. Deep wounds marred his limbs, as though he had been dragged across jagged rocks by the cruel hands of the sea. His breath had been shallow, weak, barely there at all.

The healer had thought him lost.

And yet.

The burns that should have taken his life had faded into scars faster than should have been possible. The wounds that should have festered, that should have stolen the man’s limbs or poisoned his blood, had closed.

Not fully. Not yet.

But fast enough that the healer could not deny the truth before him.

It was unnatural.

It was divine.

One of the fishermen broke the silence.

“Is this a test?” he asked, his voice hushed, uncertain. “Some god’s trial upon us?”

The healer hummed, his gaze never leaving the sleeping man. His breath was steadier now than it had been the days before, his chest rising and falling with a quiet rhythm, his face, though still gaunt, no longer bearing the shadow of death.

“It may be,” the healer finally said, solemn. “Perhaps the gods watch us now, weighing our deeds. But of this, I am certain – whatever you have done in saving him, it is a great thing.”

The fishermen murmured amongst themselves, some whispering prayers, others nodding in agreement.

The healer turned his attention back to the man.

His survival alone was already an impossibility. But at this rate…

“If his body continues to heal as it does now, then in two weeks’ time, he will be whole once more.” He exhaled, pressing a damp cloth to the man’s forehead. “But his mind… that, I cannot say. There is a pain upon him – one far deeper than wounds of flesh. And it lingers still.”

The fishermen fell silent.

The rivers and seas whispered outside, waves lapping at the shore.

The man did not stir.

Chapter Text

TELEMACHUS

Telemachus sat in silence, his small hands folded neatly in his lap, though his fingers ran absently over the fabric of his tunic, tracing the intricate embroidery upon the hem of his tunic – his grandmother’s work, needle and thread drawn with care and love. The war tent loomed vast around him, heavy with mingled scents of sweat, leather, and oil, thick hides thrown over. The voices of kings and warriors – his bedtime stories brought to life – rose and fell, though to him they were no more than distant murmurs.

His mind had drifted far from Troy, far from the warm wind and the clamour of men and the endless clang of bronze that was hurting his ears so terribly.

He was thinking of Ithaca.

Of home.

The sea-winds that carried the scent of salt and olive trees through open courtyards. The cool marble floors that chilled bare feet in the height of summer, and the thick woollen rugs that warmed the soles in winter. He saw in his mind his father’s palace that he had been raised in, the island hills dotted with grazing sheep that he had ran across and played in, the rocky cliffs overlooking the endless blue. The sprawling land of Cephallenia, where fishermen and shepherds alike spoke his father’s name with pride.

And father’s face.

Always, my father’s face.

Polymetis Odysseus – Clever Odysseus, a king most beloved by his people and sung of even beyond their shores. His image had been everywhere in all of Cephallenia, not just in the royal palace atop Ithaca’s greatest hill. In the humble homes and great halls of their people. In the bustling markets where merchants told tales of their King’s cunning. In the fishermen’s shrines, where offerings were left to the Lord of the Seas with whispered prayers for his safe return. In the city squares, where bards with well-worn lyres sang of his wit and courage. Even the shepherds who lived in their humble cottages, carved his likeness into wood – crude and heartfelt, with hands that had never forgotten the king they loved.

Father’s presence was everywhere.

Everywhere but where it mattered most.

He was in the great hall anymore, where once he had dined with his people. Not in the courtyard where he had trained soldiers with steady hands and firm strength. Not in the gardens, where Telemachus liked to dream – only dream, for he had no memory of it – that he had once lifted his son into his arms and cradled him, had once told him stories of gods and monsters beneath the shade of an old olive tree, much like Mama did.

No. His father was gone, off to fight in a faraway war, now gone forever.

Mother used to weave him back to life.

Telemachus closed his eyes and saw again the tapestries that adorned their home, hung with such reverence along marble walls: his father as king, as warrior, as husband and father and son and brother. A hundred portraits, a hundred forms, born of thread and grief. They were labours of love, of longing, of devotion and grief.

When he was younger, he had asked Eurycleia about it. He had seen his mother, sometimes day after day, sitting at her loom, her glowing eyes in a haze, her hands steady as she wove, the threads slipping through her fingers like water. He had watched her work, the patterns forming beneath her touch, and always – always – there was his face.

Why does Mother weave so much? he had asked.

The old nurse had placed a hand upon his head, her voice as gentle as the touch of a mother bird upon its young.

“When your mother misses your father most deeply,” she had said, “She takes to her loom. She weaves him into being, brings him back with her own hands. She does it to prevent the grief of their separation from swallowing her whole – for your mother is a noble woman who loves her husband true. This is how she endures. With each thread, she binds herself to the promise that he will return to her someday."

A hope.

A promise.

A promise that would never be fulfilled.

Telemachus’ chest tightened.

Odysseus would not return. And now he had left her too.

He feared to think of what she was doing now, in the wake of his father’s death.

Was she still weaving, trying to hold onto a husband who would never again set foot upon their shores with wool and loom, threading her husband’s face into wool in a desperate fight against a grief too vast to name? Or had she stopped altogether, the final thread left loose upon the loom, the promise undone, the weight of her sorrow too great to bear?

The thought unsettled him.

His Mama had always been strong. So strong, so steadfast, as even his Grandmother had once begrudgingly admitted. But how much sorrow could his precious mother bear before she broke?

His father was gone. He was gone.

If she is alone now…

His hands clenched.

He would pray. He must pray.

Pray that the gods would strengthen her heart. Pray that they would grant her health, that she would not waste away with her sorrow. Pray that Grandmother Periboea went to her only daughter.

He had already lost a father.

He could not lose a mother too.

Mama…

His hands curled tighter in his lap.

He had left her behind, left the only home he had ever known.

A boy among men. A son without a father.

But he was his father’s son.

He lifted his chin and did his best to swallow the grief burning in his throat.

His father’s name was on his shoulders and he could not shame it.

Telemachus sat still now in front of all these men, his hands pressed against his knees, his back straight though his limbs ached with the exhaustion of his travels. He did not fidget. He did not shift in his seat. He did not let his shoulders slump, though he longed to. Uncle Eurylochus had been upset that Telemachus had been forced to come here and meet with the other kings before even resting momentarily from his journey. But Telemachus had not protested. Not once.

He bore the name of Odysseus.

And so he must endure.

Agamemnon – Telemachus did not like to call him King Agamemnon, for though the title was right and proper, it tasted strange on the tongue. It did not sit right. Perhaps it was the man’s presence – imposing, yes, but cold and distant and strangely treacherous, behind a lion’s mask, like some of those men who stared at his mother when they left the palace for a walk around the markets. Or perhaps it was the way he had spoken, too measured, too certain, like one who had never been questioned. But most of all, it was because Telemachus remembered, with a quiet sort of awe, that he too was a king now. Not in strength, perhaps. Not in years. But his father’s title had been passed to him, whether he liked it or not.

They were equals.

And so, King Agamemnon was simply Agamemnon.

It had been him who had welcomed him to the Achaean camps, his voice ringing clear above the hum of the camps. He had led him through the tents, introducing him to the gathering of high kings and warriors, the great names his Mother had whispered into his ears as lullabies and he had learned about in his lessons.

He had met Nestor, kind-eyed and silver-haired, and his son beside him, all youthful strength and reverence. Achilles, golden and brilliant like a hero from a bard’s song, had nodded once – curt, unreadable – but it was his companion, Patroclus, who had smiled at him – soft and kind, like warm bread on a cold day.

Telemachus had smiled back, shy but sincere.

He had also been introduced to Locrian Ajax, whose scowl seemed carved into his face, and to a man named Thoas, along with others whose names blurred together like water in a stream. Telemachus had bowed, stiff and polite, speaking with care and dignity, determined to do his part honourably.

Now, he sat with them, trying to listen.

Trying to understand.

The conversation was steeped in words of war – something called siege lines and supply ships, movements of their enemies? Their tones were clipped, impatient. Things were not going well. Telemachus could tell, even if the language of battle was not yet his own.

He kept quiet, still. But his head ached with the strain of sitting straight, and the weight of so many eyes pressed against the back of his neck. His body was tired, but his mind… his mind was sharper than it had ever been.

And then the entrance to the tent shifted.

A group of three men entered.

The first among them was tall – so tall – with scars slashing down the side of his face like lightning over stone. He looked dangerous, like one of those hunting dogs that Argos enjoyed roughhousing with but had scared him only slightly. He blinked. It was not the scars that caught him.

It was his eyes.

Gray and hollowed, rimmed in dark exhaustion. This man looked terribly unwell. Not just tired. Sick. It clung to him like a second skin.

Telemachus felt a ripple of worry. Something about him made his chest tighten.

And then–

He saw her!

Owl-Thena!

Perched upon the man’s shoulder as if she belonged there all along, her feathers soft and ivory, her bright eyes glinting with something deeper than any mere bird should possess. Telemachus did not even think.

“Owl-Thena!” he cried, joy lighting up his whole face.

She turned her head sharply, those great eyes finding him at once. Then, with one elegant motion, she took to the air, flew across the tent, and settled back upon his shoulder with a soft flutter of wings.

Telemachus giggled. light and unguarded, relieved by her presence. He turned his face toward her, nuzzling gently into her feathers with his nose, as he had always done.

But the tent had fallen silent.

He looked up.

Everyone was staring at him.

Brows drawn, mouths slightly parted, warriors and kings alike frozen as though he’d just grown wings himself.

Confused, Telemachus blinked.

“...Have they never seen an owl before?” he whispered to her.

Someone – a man he didn’t recognise, tall and broad, with a thick beard and arms crossed over his chest – tilted his head, staring not at the owl, but at him.

“What did you call it?” the man asked, pointing.

He looked between the man and Owl-Thena, puzzled by the question. Owl-thena stared at him.

 Telemachus frowned, his young brow creasing with confusion. He glanced at the man again and gently shook his head.

“She is not an it,” he said, voice quiet but firm, the same tone his mother used when correcting the younger servants. “She is a she. This is Lady Athena.”

He lifted a hand slightly, careful not to startle her perched proudly on his shoulder.

“I call her Owl-Thena,” he added, with all the patient explanation of a boy used to being the only one who knows – years of courtyard games had prepared him for this! “When she is in this form. An owl.” He glanced sideways at the bird with a soft, fond smile. “But she is Athena, still.”

At that, the man who had asked him the question went pale. His eyes widened, face blanching as though the blood had been drained clean from it, and his mouth opened slightly – but no sound came out.

Telemachus blinked, confused by the reaction. He glanced around the tent. All the others were staring too. Not at Owl-Thena, not even at the tall, scarred man who’d entered with her, but at him.

Gobsmacked.

The way one might stare at a thunderclap that spoke your name.

He turned back to Owl-Thena, brow furrowed. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked, barely more than a whisper.

But Owl-Thena just turned her head and gently patted his cheek with her wing.

Soft. Reassuring.

No, child, her touch said. You did no wrong.

Telemachus’s frown deepened slightly, but he nodded, trusting her. He always did.

The silence in the tent thickened until it was broken by the faintest shift – Agamemnon, blinking like a man shaken from a dream. His mouth opened, then closed again, before he gave a small shake of his head.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, almost too low for anyone to hear. “Odysseus’ son.”

Telemachus looked at him suspiciously, unsure what he meant there and why he invoked his father’s name. Then, louder, with the echo of command returning to his voice, he turned his attention to the newly arrived men.

“Tydides,” he said. “This is a surprise. We had word from the Argives that you would not be joining us.”

Telemachus’s heart skipped.

Tydides.

That name he knew!

Diomedes. Son of Tydeus. Part of the Epigoni. King of Argos. His tutors had spoken of him with reverence, his mother with a fondness whose root he had never found. A man who fought at his father’s side. One of the greatest warriors of the Achaeans, second only to Achilles in fame.

And he looked terrible.

It was not anything obvious. He was not limping, was not bleeding – but there was something frayed in the edges of him. His skin, though sun-darkened, was pallid beneath the torchlight. There were bruises, faint but visible beneath his eyes, and his stance – so upright, so sharp – seemed to be held together by tension alone.

Telemachus stared.

This was the man Athena brought?

The others who came with him – likely part of his retinue or in his confidence – stood silent. Telemachus glanced at them briefly, but there was no spark of recognition. It did not matter. Everyone’s attention was on King Diomedes now.

Owl-Thena shifted slightly, talons tightening gently on his shoulder. Not painfully – never painfully, Athena would not hurt him – but just enough that he felt her weight more sharply. I have not left you, she seemed to say. I went to bring him.

So she had gone to fetch this man. Diomedes. She had not abandoned him after all. Owl-Thena had left him most distraught when she had suddenly abandoned her perch on his shoulder when Menelaus and Agamemnon had insisted they proceed to the commanders’ tent without pause.

But why him?

“The runner you sent had said this was but a routine war council,” King Diomedes spoke then, and his voice was jagged with exhaustion, like gravel scraping across stone. “He said nothing of Ithaca’s ship returning. Nothing of his son.”

Telemachus flinched. Not from the words – but from the look in the King’s eyes. It was mot anger.

Pain. Grief. Ache.

Agamemnon’s lips thinned. “It was not deliberate. You are misreadi–”

“I was not invited with due regard,” Diomedes interrupted. His voice was calm, but it had the kind of weight that made Telemachus understand why the other kings held their tongues. “And now I know why.”

A quiet tension bloomed in the tent, like the moment before a storm breaks.

King Diomedes wavered – just barely, for a flicker of a moment. A falter so brief only someone truly watching him would notice. But Telemachus was watching. Every detail. Every flicker. His mother had taught him to observe men like one observes the sea. If you missed the first pull of the current, it might already be too late.

Then his gaze shifted. Those sunken, burning, hollow eyes locked on him for the first time.

And Telemachus, despite himself, felt his breath catch.

He felt looked at – not seen, not in the simple, dismissive way most men did – but seen through. Like the man was peering past his skin, into the bones of him. Like the man saw a shade of his loved one standing in his place. Telemachus frowned, unable to comprehend what he had done to elicit such a reaction.

It was not unkind. Just... intense.

Was the King of Argos dear to his father?

“He will come with me,” he said.

The words should have startled him. But they did not. Telemachus already knew. Even before this man had looked at him like that. Owl-Athena’s presence in itself had confirmed it.

Agamemnon frowned. “That is hardly– ”

“I am not asking,”

The tent was utterly silent. Not even the fire crackled. Agamemnon's mouth opened, closed again. The King seemed unsure of how to proceed. Telemachus just watched on, trying his best to glean any information he could find on everyone present from the scene unfolding.

Ugh.

He found it so terribly exhausting – constantly thinking, constantly worrying, his mind twisting itself into endless knots. Everything was so confusing, so tangled, and he wished, not for the first time, that he did not have to think at all.

My father was known to be the best at these games anyway.

Then, the thought of his father settled fully in his mind, and the momentary humour faded.

He missed him.

It was strange, he supposed. To long and mourn a man he did not remember, had no memories of.

And yet…

That man had been his own father.

“I had more of him than most,” King Diomedes said then, voice lower. “It is no secret to any man in this camp that Odysseus spent more nights in my tent than in his own.”

Telemachus turned sharply.

What?

“Nearly all his belongings – his clay tablets, his stylus, his bowstrings, his weapons – rest still in my quarters.”

There was sorrow and pain in his words.

“And that is not even to speak of the goddess,” he added, casting a brief glance toward Owl-Thena. “She came to me. Told me. Her will was most clear. ‘Watch over him,’ she said. ‘Take the boy.’”

Then King Diomedes looked above him – not even at him, Telemachus noticed. It was strange.

“The armour she has had forged for you rests in my tent even now,” the king said. “She has entrusted it to me. Though I assure you that you will have no need to wear it.”

At that, his eyes widened, lips parting in a small, startled breath.

He remembered now! Athena’s voice ringing in his mind like silver bells under moonlight:

“I will entrust its safekeeping to one who will watch over you in the Achaean camp.”

A soft gasp left him, and all at once, his earlier confusion melted into clarity.

It is him.

She meant him.

This man – scarred, worn, clearly formidable – this was who she had meant.

Telemachus stepped forward slightly, his young face lit with resolve, chin tilted in quiet defiance of the silence around him.

“She said it,” he spoke up, clearly, though his heart was pounding. “Athena said those words to me. When she had me try on the armour. She said she would entrust it to someone who would watch over me. If it is him–” he turned to the King of Argos “–then I trust her choice and will follow her will.”

There was a flicker of movement in the tent.

Idomeneus gave a slow, firm nod. “I heard it too,” he said. “The goddess spoke.”

“I heard it as well,” rumbled Greater Ajax – no longer simply Ajax, for now they were in Troy, and he would be known by the title he demanded. “To go against Lady Athena’s will is not a wise decision – especially now that we have already lost one of her champions.”

His father.

Telemachus hated how every mention of him brought back his sadness, like the tide that always returned to the sands of the shore.

Uncle Menelaus exhaled and gave a sharp nod of his own, eyes flicking between Tydides and him. “Aye. The Great daughter of Zeus Aegiōchos spoke in front of us all.”

Uncle Eurylochus, still standing stiffly behind him, groaned low and rubbed a tired hand across his face, muttering under his breath. He looked every bit the weathered man who had arrived to Ithaca to pick Telemachus up for war, now forced to relinquish him to the care of another.

Finally, he let out a breath that sagged his shoulders.

“Evidently,” he said gruffly, “I cannot go against the gods and their will.”

He stepped forward, toward King Diomedes, and met his eyes with soldier’s solemnity. “He is my King,” Eurylochus said. “He is a boy, yes – but he is a King. The Ithacan camp is right beside the Argives, so we shall frequent it – as we did in the past. But still, Take care of him, Tydides. See that he remains so.”

King Diomedes inclined his head, just once. “On my life,”

Owl-Thena ruffled her feathers and nestled deeper against Telemachus’s shoulder, her bright eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Telemachus frowned up at the man.

He could not meet his eyes.

There it was again – that flicker. That guilt.

Why?

What did he carry that made him look away?

He was not sure what he expected – something proud and noble, perhaps, as befitting one entrusted by Lady Athena herself. But the King of Argos was avoiding his eyes, the line of his jaw tight, his mouth drawn.

Guilt.

It reminded him of the look men bore when they stood before his mother in judgment, when they had been caught with their hands where they ought not to be, stealing grain, breaking oaths, or lying to the crown. That same unease. That same shame.

It made Telemachus narrow his eyes.

This man was fidgeting just the same. It made Telemachus watch him with greater suspicion, though he could not say why he was acting so.

A gentler presence shifted behind Diomedes, and a man stepped forward, not nearly so large or grim.

“I am Sthenelus,” the man said gently, his voice like warm oil poured over chilled stone. “Prince Sthenelus of Argos.”

Telemachus gazed upon him politely, still seated as he was, his hands folding briefly in his lap. There was something warm and genuine in the man’s voice that Telemachus couldn’t help but trust. He gave a little nod of his own in return, though still wary.

“It is an honour, Prince Sthenelus,” he murmured, as he’d been taught to say.

Sthenelus’s smile faltered slightly as he looked him over. “You have not washed, have you?” he asked after a moment. “Since coming ashore?”

Telemachus blinked again, then shook his head. “No. I came here straight from the ship.”

At that, Sthenelus’s face twisted in something between dismay and irritation. He turned sharply to glance around the tent, shooting a look that said he was none too pleased with the entire council.

“No one thought to offer him rest or refreshment?” he muttered sharply. “Not even water?”

A few men looked sheepish. Uncle Eurylochus let out another weary sigh.

Telemachus felt incredibly uncomfortable.

King Diomedes, perhaps sensing the weight of it all pressing too heavily upon Telemachus’ slim shoulders, cleared his throat and turned toward the entrance of the tent once more.

“Then we’ll take our leave,” he said, tone brisk and final. “The King of Ithaca comes with us.”

The words made Telemachus flinch – not from dislike, but surprise. King of Ithaca. He did not think he would ever get used to hearing it spoken aloud, not like that. So simply. As if it had always been true.

He sighed in relief. Was he finally to go now?

He glanced about the room, unsure what was expected of him. But then Sthenelus extended his hand, open and steady, and though Telemachus hesitated for half a breath, he took it. The man’s grip was strong and rough, yrt comforting in a manner that resembled Uncle Eurylochus, and it gave him just enough courage to rise to his feet.

As they began to move, Uncle Menelaus stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm. His fiery hair gleamed in the torchlight, and there was a softness in his gaze that made Telemachus’s chest ache.

“Go rest, Odysseides,” Uncle Menelaus said fondly. “You have had a long journey. The River Scamander flows not far from the Argive camp if I have not forgotten. A soak in its waters should wash the sea from your limbs and bring back some of your strength.”

Telemachus looked up at him, blinking at the tenderness in his tone. The King of Sparta had always seemed like a figure from a story – his mother had rarely spoken ill of him, even when she had cause, for this whole war had been started on his account. But he had been the one to insist on Telemachus coming here. That still left him unsure of what to think.

But even now, there was fondness in the lines of his face. Fondness for him. For his father.

Telemachus nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said, with all the careful dignity his mother had instilled in him. “For telling me.”

Uncle Menelaus gave a faint smile and squeezed his shoulder once more before stepping back.

As Sthenelus led him toward the exit, Telemachus glanced back once final time at the gathering of kings. Some watched him with curiosity, some with sadness, some still in stunned silence from his earlier declaration about Lady Athena. A few smiled faintly at him, and King Nestor gave him a gentle nod of encouragement.

As Telemachus turned to follow, he caught one last look at Uncle Menelaus – and saw the way the Spartan King's gaze flicked not to him, but behind him. Toward King Diomedes and his men.

There was a warning in it. Or something more layered, something hard to name.

Telemachus tucked that away, too.

Uncle Menelaus cares for me. He cares for Mother. He cared for Father too, I think. But he will not go against his brother.

Not against Agamemnon.

The thought settled into his heart like a pebble in deep water, and the cool wind of the open war-camp greeted him once more.

The path toward the Argive camps was not long, but it stretched out under Telemachus’s feet as though the earth itself wanted to keep him from reaching it too quickly. It was cool and clear, and the wind carried the scent of sea salt and old ash – smoke from the watchfires that ringed the Greek encampments like a second wall.

Sthenelus had instructed him, firmly, to walk ahead.

“You are too small,” the Argive prince had said with a huff, adjusting the wrappings around his bracers. “You will vanish into the dark if we let you trail behind. Like a leaf on the wind.”

Telemachus had blinked at that. Small? Small?!

He had half a mind to turn around and say something in protest, something about how he was nearly grown and that he was most definitely going to be taller than his mother any day now! Which had to count for something. But he swallowed it down, jaw tight. These were men who had fought alongside his father. Men who had seen battle, seen Troy at its peak and continued to work towards its fall. He did not wish to sound petulant.

So, he obeyed.

Still. Small. Hmph.

King Diomedes walked ahead of him, leading their group with long, purposeful strides. The firelight caught on his dark tunic and the hard planes of his back. He had not uttered a word since they had left the others – not even to Sthenelus or Euryalus – who was the other man who accompanied them. It was like a silence wrapped tightly around him, heavy, deliberate. Telemachus watched him carefully, trying to read the shape of the man from his gait, the way he carried his body.

He walked as though he was used to carrying more weight and was still adjusting to its loss.

The silence stretched long enough that Telemachus found his thoughts drifting again, circling around and around the thing that had bothered him from before. The words the King had spoken in the tent, the ones that kept echoing in his head:

“Odysseus spent more nights in my tent than in his own.”

It was confusing. Odd, even. Telemachus did not understand it – and when he did not understand something, it itched at him, like salt and sand on the skin after a swim in the seas.

Eventually, curiosity won.

He tilted his head up toward the tall figure in front of him, clearing his throat. “My King?” he asked hesitantly. “May I… ask something?”

He did not turn. But he slowed slightly, just enough to show that he was listening.

Telemachus hesitated, then continued. “Why did my father sleep in your tent so often? I thought – well, the Ithacan army surely had a space for him. He was their king. Would he not have had his own quarters?”

He blinked. “I just thought at least kings would get their own tents. Even if other mere soldiers did not.”

It was a genuine question. And yet–

Behind him, there came a sound. Two sounds, in fact.

Choke. Splutter. Gasp.

Startled, Telemachus turned sharply. Sthenelus had gone stiff and seemed to be half-coughing, half-smothering something behind his teeth. His eyes were a little too wide. The moment their gazes met, however, the man’s expression shifted – far too quickly – into something perfectly neutral, like a mask being pulled down.

It was so quick that Telemachus couldn’t be sure what he had seen. Surprise? Panic?

Suspicion lit quietly in his chest.

Beside Sthenelus, Euryalus had grabbed a fistful of his chiton and yanked it up over the lower half of his face, as if warding off a cough, or hiding a laugh, or maybe both.

“What happened?” Telemachus asked, brows furrowing. “Did you choke? Is something of matter?”

“We are fine,” Sthenelus said immediately. Too quickly. “We are fine. Euryalus here just… walked through a patch of dust. It got in his throat.”

“Mmhmm,” came the muffled reply from Euryalus, still hunched and half-hidden behind his chiton.

Telemachus narrowed his eyes a little. He might have been young, but he wasn't stupid.

They were definitely hiding something.

Still, he acted as though he understood their words and turned forward once more, thoughtful, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

King Diomedes still had not spoken.

Telemachus frowned. “My mother and father shared their chambers,” he said aloud, not looking at anyone in particular. “At home, I mean. My mother always said… that husbands and wives should sleep side by side, should they be lucky enough to love each other.”

His voice caught a little near the end, but he pressed on. “She missed him terribly, you know. Even after all these years. Mother never said it outright, but I could tell. The way she looked out to sea always. The way she never stopped speaking of him.”

His steps slowed, shoulders curling in slightly.

“I miss her,” he added, quietly. “So much. More than I know what to do with sometimes.”

The road beneath his sandals blurred a little, his eyes stinging.

He did not mean to say so much. It just… spilled out. The grief curled in his chest like smoke, thick and hot and aching. Talking about her made it worse and better, both at once. And he wanted – needed – to say it somewhere. Maybe even to someone who had known his father. Maybe especially to them.

There was a long silence.

No one laughed this time.

Not even a cough.

And when Telemachus dared to glance back again, he saw Sthenelus looking at him with an expression very different than before – quiet, gentle, maybe even a little remorseful. Euryalus had lowered his chiton. He looked… not embarrassed, but thoughtful. Wistful, maybe.

But it was King Diomedes who finally broke the silence, voice rough like old rope.

“She… never gave up on him?” he asked. “Not once?”

And though Telemachus was almost certain the man was speaking of his mother… it was hard to shake the feeling that he was talking about something else, too.

“No,” he said, quiet but certain. “She never gave up on him. Not once.”

The words sat in the air like a vow, steady and sure.

“She always believed he would return to her. Even on the days it felt as though he would not even return.” His voice was steady now, no longer trembling with unshed tears. “Mama… she held on to her hope in a way I do not think anyone else could. Or would. Our maid Eurycleia called her one of the most steadfast people she has ever met – a true credit to Hera Hyperche’ria.”

He took a deep breath, glancing down at his feet as they moved over the flattened earth of the path. “The palace walls back in Ithaca are covered with tapestries. All of them about him. My father. Woven by my mother’s own hand.”

He could picture them even now – the rich indigo skies, the waves embroidered in silver thread, the stitched likenesses of warriors battling under Troy’s gates, their bronze spears flashing beneath an imagined sun. She had never seen the war herself, but she had pieced together its shape from the tales that reached their island: stories brought by bards, by wandering sailors with wonder and heroics in their mouths.

“She made them of whatever tales made their way to us from the shores of Ilion. Every piece of news. Every name.”

The words came tumbling now, steady and unbidden.

“Mama missed him so greatly,” he said. “That there were many a night when I would find her standing by the old olive trees in the courtyard – silent, not moving. Just… staring out toward the sea. As if she was waiting to see his sail on the horizon.”

Telemachus paused, a lump forming again in his throat, bitter and rough. He swallowed against it.

“And even when King Menelaus came to Ithaca,” he said slowly, “With his men and his banners, saying my father was gone – when he brought his entourage and his grief – she still did not believe him.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“She refused to believe it. Even then. Not until I cried in front of her.”

His sandals scuffed against the dirt, and he slowed, his heart squeezing tight, thinking of how tightly his mother had held him to her. “I thought… I thought it was madness. I thought she was clinging to something that was no longer there. Though I would never utter such words to her.”

His fingers curled at his sides. “I wanted to leave. I wanted to protect my mother. I wanted fulfil this prophecy in my father’s name to keep her safe and make him proud.”

He blinked hard, but the memory came anyway.

Her face. The way it had crumpled when he had said the words: I will come back to you Mother.

She had not cried in front of Menelaus. Not even in front of the court.

But later, alone, in the still of the night – he had heard it. The sound of something breaking. Quiet, raw, like the sea cracking open.

Telemachus rubbed at his face, guilt heavy in his chest like stones. “I did not mean to cause her more pain.”

Behind him, there was only the sound of their footsteps and the soft sighing of the sea wind along with the muttering sounds of the camp.

He did not know if the silence that followed was judgment or understanding from them. And wanted to curse at himself for suddenly speaking

But when King Diomedes finally spoke again, his voice was low and even.

“You were trying to protect her,” he said. “Even when it hurt.”

Telemachus said nothing, jaw clenched.

“She... she sounds like she was stronger than most,” King Diomedes added, after a moment. “To love so deeply and to lose it all and still be able to endure. Many a woman would not be able to claim the same.”

DIOMEDES

The tent was too clean.

Diomedes stood just inside the entrance, watching as he stepped across the threshold, his sandals making barely a sound on the freshly swept floor. Sthenelus had seen to it personally – barked at the slaves to scrub and clear, to make the space look less like a soldier’s hovel and more like something suitable for a guest. For his guest.

For his son.

He had been barely in his senses – doused with those herbs as he had been since his death – when Lady Athena herself had come to them with the decree. Her voice still rang like a blade in his ears. You will take him. You will guide and protect him.

As though it were so simple.

As though it were not the cruellest of orders.

He had not said a word to her then. Had not dared. He could barely think beneath the sudden roar in his ears, the rushing thrum of blood behind his teeth. But he had bowed his head – obedient, loyal, like the dog he had always been – and accepted her will.

And now here the boy was.

Here he was.

His breath caught as he looked at him — really looked, unlike the first glance he had at him when it felt as though he had returned and stood before him. The child moved like someone trying not to take up too much space. Like someone trying very hard to be good. He hesitated just past the edge of the entrance, mismatched eyes flicking uncertainly to the beds, to the brazier, to the table strewn with half-read scrolls, clay tablets and goblets. It looked too large around him. It felt too large.

Gods.

Diomedes could see it, clear as day – that damnable resemblance. The line of his jaw, the sharp cut of his brow, the weight of thought behind that single, sky-bright eye. It was him, all of it. His father reborn, His father undone, him in a body that was not quite his. A softer nose. Higher cheekbones. Hair that carried, in the light, the faintest sheen of blue-violet – like the sea under Lady Selene's light.

Penelope’s blood was in him. That nymph blood – Diomedes had seen enough of Achilles and the Icariades to know it so. The boy was not entirely him. But that made it worse, somehow. As if the gods had taken a masterpiece and repainted it just slightly off.

Diomedes’ hand curled tight at his side.

So many times – so many times – he had sat in this very tent and spoken with that infuriating little smile that he had reserved for his child, calling himself the Father of Dear and Precious Telemachus. Gods, he’d said it with such pride. As though his voice alone could keep the boy safe.

“I gave him a name to keep him out of war,” He had once told him, lying on Diomedes’ cot with a half-empty goblet in one hand. “Far-from-battle. Far-from-trouble. I want him to live, Diomedes. I want him to live a long, quiet life.”

That name. Telemachus.

And yet now – now the very same boy stood here on the edge of a battlefield, with Phocaea’s bones barely cold in the dirt, and Agamemnon, ever unsatisfied, speaking already of legacy and war. That little prophet of his – the one who had let Agamemnon’s own daughter bleed out on the stones – whispering of portents and futures that Diomedes wanted no part of.

How dare they.

How dare they pull this child into the jaws of the same war that took his father. How dare they treat him like a symbol, a name, a second coming of a man who could not – would not – return.

Diomedes had not decided yet. Whether to pull the Argives from the war altogether. Whether to let Agamemnon rot in his own hunger for conquest. He could barely think past the smoke and the silence of the sea. Barely hold himself together in the face of what was missing.

Because that was the worst of it. Not the boy’s presence. Not even the damnable similarity.

No – the worst of it was absence.

The absence of him.

Odysseus was a wound beneath his skin. Festering. Burning. A fire that refused to go out even when the war did. Destroying Phocaea had done nothing. It had not eased the ache. Had not brought peace. It had not brought him back.

And… and it never would.

Diomedes stared at the boy, and for a moment, the sight of him made it hard to breathe. Not because he looked so much like Odysseus – but because he did not.

Because he was not him.

Because the gods had left him with only this.

"Well," he said finally, voice rough, bitter in the back of his throat. "I suppose this is yours now."

He gestured vaguely to the corner of the tent – his bed, the neatly folded blankets upon it. The boy looked at it, then back to him, as if not quite sure what he was supposed to do with any of this.

And Diomedes for all his years in battle, had no answer. No plan. No strategy for dealing with this– this grief in the shape of a boy – his son.

His Dear Telemachus did not speak as he crossed to the corner of the tent. He only moved slowly, deliberately, as though the air had thickened around him. Diomedes stood still, watching. Watching as the boy sat himself on the edge of the bed, unbuckled his sandals with careful fingers, and then – like papyrus folding into itself – curled up on the bed, pulling his knees tightly to his chest.

He made no sound.

But Diomedes saw the way his shoulders shivered. The way his head pressed against the tops of his knees like he was trying to disappear into the space between them. The slight, sharp inhale that meant tears were coming but the boy did not want them heard.

Gods.

Sthenelus had been right. The boy was so small. Too small to be here. Too young for this burden. What were they thinking, bringing him here? What was Lady Athena thinking, shoving him into Diomedes’ hands like this, as though he were still whole enough to do anything about it? as though his hands could protect and heal when all he had ever done was destroy?

How was he meant to protect this child?

He had known fear in many forms. On the battlefield. In the dark of a tent with bloodshed and doom hanging akin to a blade over their heads. In the long silences between wars when the world felt too quiet to be real. But this – this was something else. A cold, gripping panic.

The kind of fear that clutched at a man’s ribs and whispered: what if something happens to him? what if you fail him? what if this is all you have left, and you cannot even save it?

His hands trembled before he forced them still.

The boy sniffled again, trying not to, and Diomedes flinched.

His mind spun, casting about for anything – anything – that might distract this child. Give him something to hold onto. Gods, he had seen Sthenelus with his own children, always knowing the right tone, the right little story, the right kind of joke to draw out a smile.

Diomedes was not Sthenelus.

He was not a father. Not in any way that counted.

But he turned, grasping at whatever thin threads memory gave him, and his gaze caught on a small, dust-covered chest tucked behind the cot.

It had sat there untouched since before their departure for that ruinous raid. Since the last time he had brought it in, arms full of carved wood and a grin on his ever mesmerizing face, talking about how his boy was going to learn all the stories of the gods by hand, with play, not clay tablets and the like.

Diomedes’ heart slammed in his chest.

No. Not that.

But–

Yes. That.

A gift from father to son, even if the father was not alive to give it.

His throat dry, he crossed the tent and knelt beside the chest. The old wood creaked under his fingers as he lifted it and brought it back to the cot.

He knelt down beside the bed and placed it gently at Telemachus’ feet.

“This,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to remember the way Sthenelus always softened his tone around his little ones, “Belonged to your father.”

The boy stirred, eyes lifting, rimmed with pink. His gaze flicked to the chest, then back to Diomedes.

“For me?” he asked, voice whisper soft. A child’s voice. Too young.

Diomedes managed a nod.

Telemachus shifted upright slowly, cautiously, climbing to his knees as if unsure he was allowed to move at all. His small hands reached for the lid, pausing just before touching it, looking back at Diomedes for confirmation.

He nodded again.

The boy opened it.

What spilled out were the years. A decade’s worth of love, sculpted and whittled and painted. Carved ships, a little owl whose wings could flap, a dancing satyr with limbs that moved on pegs. Hundreds of little fragments of stories in wood and cloth and colour. He had made them all. Diomedes remembered every one.

He watched as the boy’s eyes widened in shock. Watched as his mouth fell open.

“All of this is for me?” he breathed.

Diomedes swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said. “Your father made them. Every one of these. He– he talked about you, all the time. Thought about you. Always. Each of these was made with you in mind, with your name on his lips.”

He had meant it as comfort.

But instead, the boy crumpled.

Tears burst from him like a dam breaking. There was no holding it back now – no stiff upper lip, no quiet sniffling. The child wept, sobs wracking his small frame, arms folded tight around his chest as if he could keep the world from splitting apart.

Diomedes panicked.

No training could prepare him for this. No war. No crown, no prophecy, no stratagem.

He knelt there helplessly, hands hovering, not knowing whether to reach for him or leave him be.

“I– he– ” Odysseus’ Telemachus gasped between sobs. “He left when I was just– a baby– two months old– how could he talk about me– for ten years– how could he love me– when he never knew me– ?”

His voice cracked open like a wound.

And Diomedes, trembling, reached out with a shaking hand and did what little he could. He placed his hand carefully on the boy’s back and pressed it there, firm and steady, a tether in the storm.

“He knew you,” Diomedes whispered, voice shaking. “He knew you. You were his heart, child. You were his world.”

Telemachus sobbed harder.

Diomedes shut his eyes and held fast.

Because for one terrible moment, it felt like holding Odysseus again – except he was small now, and crying, and he was not coming back.

Diomedes stayed knelt, hand still on the boy’s back as he cried, his small frame trembling with the kind of sorrow no child should have had to feel – ancient and raw, far older than ten years, and far too heavy for such slight shoulders to bear. At least Diomedes had had the comfort not even being of age to understand truly what it meant that his father had died.

He did not know what to do. His hand hovered again, then returned. He rubbed slow, awkward circles between the boy’s shoulders, as he had seen Sthenelus do when his son had skinned his knees. It felt like the wrong gesture, clumsy and too small, but it was all he had. The boy kept sobbing – ragged, hoarse, choking sounds – like something had split open inside him, something long held and now irreparably unbound.

Diomedes’ chest ached. Gods, it hurt. Watching this child grieve the ghost of a man he’d never known – not truly –  grieve a father who had only held him once or twice before war had stolen him away. Grieve the idea of a man. The loss of a future that was never given to him.

His hand tightened slightly where it rested. And he spoke – because silence would break him, and because the boy’s cries were too loud not to be answered.

“He never stopped thinking about you.”

Telemachus made a keening noise in response, low and cracking and childlike. Diomedes swallowed against the tightness in his throat and kept speaking.

“For ten years,” he said, slowly, steadily, like he was reciting something sacred, “All he wanted– all he ever wanted – was to get back to you. And your mother. That was his goal. Not the war. Not glory. Not even Ithaca, in truth.”

His voice faltered for a moment. He steadied it.

“It was you.”

Telemachus didn’t respond, but his sobs deepened – less shocked now, more full-bodied. Diomedes could feel the boy shaking beneath his hand.

“Other men,” he went on, quieter now though quicker - anything to get Odysseus' baby to quit weeping, “They would speak of their fathers. Of their line. Of the great deeds done by the men who came before them – and what kleos had been passed down to them as their inheritance. But not your father. No. He… he did not look backwards.”

A bitter breath of a laugh escaped him. It sounded almost like awe. Diomedes had always and always been the son of Tydeus foremost, before anything else.

“He looked forward. To you. He called himself the Father of Dear Telemachus like it was a title. A medallion of sort. A crown he wore with pride. That was his pride and joy. You were his pride and joy.”

Telemachus made a soft, wet sound – a hiccup, or maybe a laugh tangled in tears – but did not lift his face from where it had buried itself in the crook of his arm.

Diomedes kept speaking. He had to.

“He would sit where you sit now and talk about how clever you already had been. How sweet. How good. Said he would not even have to teach you to be cleverer than all the rest, and be better than him – undoubtedly you already were. Said you would grow up far from war, far from all of this.”

His throat worked hard around the next words.

“He did not wish this life for you. He hated this life. He fought in it because he had to. He even killed the man who had forced his hand by threatening your life to get him to fight in this war. But you? He wanted more for you. And gods help us, we were meant to give you that. Somehow. Your father would rage and his shade would not rest if he knew you had been brought here.”

His voice broke. He blinked hard and looked away, jaw clenched, grief blooming behind his eyes like a second sun.

Telemachus had grown quieter now, still crying – but softer, spent. He uncurled just enough to reach down into the chest, fumbling through the toys with clumsy fingers, damp with his tears. He pulled out the owl with flapping wings, holding it gently, reverently, as though it might crumble if he was not careful, as though he would create anything but perfection for his beloved child.

Diomedes watched him cradle it, and the hurt in his chest deepened. He did not know if this was comfort, or cruelty, what he was giving. Perhaps it was both.

But the boy turned, blinking up at him, face flushed and tear-streaked, voice hoarse and raw as he whispered:

“He really talked about me? Every year?”

Diomedes nodded slowly, blinking back the sting in his own eyes. “Every year,” he said. “Every passing moon. Every day, I should think.”

He reached out, hesitant, brushing a strand of dark hair from Telemachus’ damp forehead.

“Your name was the one thing he never forgot. Even at his worst. Even when… even when everything else was falling apart.”

Telemachus clutched the owl tighter to his chest.

Diomedes’ hand fell back to his side, unsure again, but he remained kneeling, steady as a hill.

Outside, the camp crackled faintly with firelight and shifting armour and the murmurs of men pretending they were not weary of this long war. But inside, the silence was different now – heavier, yes, but full, not empty. Full of something the gods had tried to tear from him, but that still lived here, stubbornly, in the shape of a boy and the broken heart of a man who had once loved the father.

And now loved the son.

He did not say that part.

Not yet.

But he would.

He would.

ODYSSEUS

The river rushed beside him, swift and lapis, its waters singing a song he did not yet know. The scent of damp earth and fresh greenery filled the air, mixing with the lingering sting of the burns upon his skin. He had always loved the sound of water – the crashing of waves against Ithaca’s cliffs, the soft lapping of the tide against his ship’s hull, even the roar of the storms felt like an adventure to take.

But this river was different.

It was not the sea.

It was not home.

Odysseus exhaled, his fingers idly tracing the linen that wrapped his arms, the fabric rough against his skin. It had been more than a week since he had awoken in a village on the outskirts of Klazomenai, a city whose name meant nothing to him, among people who whispered of his survival as though it were some kind of miracle.

Perhaps it was.

The healer had certainly thought so.

"A mortal being should not heal so fast," the old physician had muttered, shaking his head in something between awe and unease. "By all rights, you should not have lived through such wounds to begin with! I tell you, had I not seen the blood you were covered in when they dragged you to me, I might have thought you some god in disguise."

Odysseus had laughed at that.

He had leaned back upon his cot, winking through the pain. "It would not be the first time someone has mistaken me for a god, good healer."

The old man had stared.

And from that moment forward, his hands had been gentler, his words more cautious, his gaze filled with something dangerously close to reverence.

Odysseus had seen that look before.

Had it seen it directed to Dear Helen hundreds of times – though thankfully the Healer’s gaze lacked the lust that had always been directed to his Cousin by marriage – and now the healer looked at him in the same way.

A god? No.

A demi-god? Hardly. The closest connection by blood he had to the divine was his mother’s grandfather.

But he did not correct the old man.

Let them believe what they would.

Let them wonder how he had survived, how his flesh mended itself faster than any mortal’s should, how he had walked so close to death only to return.

Odysseus, son of Laertes, husband of Penelope, father of Telemachus, had lived through worse.

And he would live through this, too.

He had to.

For somewhere beyond the rushing waters, beyond these foreign lands, beyond the reaches of gods and fate, his wife still waited.

His son still waited.

And he–

He was not done with living just yet.

The river sang beside him, its blue waters murmuring secrets only the gods could understand. The air smelled of damp earth and growing things, of life renewed and water unyielding. Yet beneath the green and the cool, the sting of his burns still lingered, a quiet reminder that he had just barely escaped from death - but not enough.

Odysseus exhaled, staring down at the linens wrapped around his limbs, feeling the itch of healing flesh beneath them. He had been in Klazomenai for more than a week now, but it was not Klazomenai that haunted his thoughts.

Phocaea.

That was the last thing he remembered - the battle on the seas, the sound of arrows, the scent of burning oil thick in the air. He remembered the screams of men drowning, the way fire had danced across the surface of the water, eating through wood, through flesh, through any hope of survival. He remembered Diomedes’ ship, the one he had taken command of, tilting beneath his feet as the sea swallowed it whole.

And then- nothing.

The next he had known, he had awoken in the care of a village healer, wrapped in linen and half-convinced he was still among the dead.

Now he sat here, miles away from Phocaea, miles away from the battlefield, alive when by all rights he should not be.

That was no feat of skill, no mere luck of the tides.

A god had saved him.

That much was clear.

But which god?

The question gnawed at him, unsettled and uncertain. He would have sent up a prayer to Athena immediately, but the sting of shame held his tongue. His plan - his brilliant, calculated plan - had floundered, turned to ruin beneath the weight of unforeseen hands. To pray to his patron now felt almost - embarrassing. He could already imagine her, lips curled in that all-knowing yet disapproving frown, her bright owl-eyes sharp with condescension.

So instead, he sat by the river, turning the thought over in his mind, debating which god to thank for the preservation of his life.

Poseidon? Maybe so - Athena had mentioned that the King of the Seas was on their side, and Odysseus was well aware that without him the war effort on the side of the Achaeans was doomed; that was why they had practically dragged him away from his newborn son and his barely-out-of-the-birthing-bed wife.

Proteus? A fair possibility - the Old Man of the Sea had many secrets, and Odysseus had learned long ago that deities such as him worked in ways mortals could not always see.

Glaucus? Perhaps - he had always had a soft spot for sailors.

Triton? …Possible. He was known to guide lost men back to shore, was he not?

He frowned, turning the possibilities over in his mind like dice in a gambler’s hand. But there were too many names, too many potential hands that could have plucked him from the jaws of the sea. To call upon the wrong god would be to invite insult, and he could afford no divine ire.

So, he settled on the simplest course.

He would not name them.

Instead, he would speak to the god who had saved him, whoever they may be.

With that thought, he took the small piece of bread in his hands, dipped it into the cool water, and shut his eyes.

“O Great Deity! You who have pulled me from the deep,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You who have stayed my death when it was near, who have carried me to safety when the sea sought to claim me - whoever you are, accept my thanks.”

He let the wet bread fall into the river, watching as the water carried it away.

An offering, meager as it was.

A prayer, cast upon the currents.

And now he would wait.

The river churned and twisted, the currents pulling in ways that no natural tide should. The water darkened, a deeper blue than the sky, than the sea, than anything Odysseus had ever known. He opened his eyes, heart pounding in his chest, and beheld the form rising from the depths before him.

A god.

A being of the sea, formed from its very essence. His long hair flowed like an unending stream, cascading back into the river as though it were part of it, never truly separate. The water around him shifted, darker currents swirling like living shadows, coiling and uncoiling at his will. His skin was a luminous, radiant blue, shining as if the very ocean had given him its light.

Odysseus did not hesitate.

His hands folded in reverence, his knees struck the damp earth. He bowed low, pressing his forehead to the ground, for he knew who stood before him.

He knew those eyes.

Glowing sea-green, deep and endless, holding the weight of untold centuries. Familiar eyes. Eyes that, though touched by divine power, though radiant with an ethereal glow, still carried something unmistakable - something that struck Odysseus deep in his heart and soul.

His wife’s eyes.

Penelope’s eyes.

The realization hit him like a wave against the hull. She had inherited these eyes. She had been blessed with them, a gift from the one whose blood ran in her veins.

Her grandfather.

Oceanus.

Odysseus’ breath caught in his throat, and his hands clenched into fists. A sharp, sudden ache spread through his chest, deep and raw. Penelope.

Was she well?

Had word already reached Ithaca? Had some well-meaning fool already sent a herald to proclaim his death?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

His Penelope, his sun, his anchor, his soul - she would not bear it.

Odysseus knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

If their places had been reversed, if he had been the one left behind, only to hear that she was lost - gods, he would not have survived it. He would have abandoned everything, let the sea take him, let the world fade to nothing. What was a throne, a home, a kingdom, without her?

And yet-

A second thought, clearer now, steadied him.

Telemachus.

His son.

His precious, beloved son.

No. He would not have given up, not truly. He could not.

To abandon his boy - to leave Telemachus without father or mother - such a thing would be cruel. Unforgivable. And she- his Penelope- would never forgive him for it.

No.

She would live. Because he would.

Because they were not two, but one soul split between two bodies. Because they were bound in life as in love, and she would not succumb to grief so long as he still breathed.

He swallowed thickly, the pain still present, but the resolve stronger.

And then, voice hushed, he finally spoke.

“Lord Oceanus?”

The deity before him - Titan of the endless waters, elder of all seas, father to the rivers and the nymphs - regarded him with knowing eyes.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

Approval.

Recognition.

Odysseus did not dare move. Did not dare breathe.

The god had answered his prayer.

But now - what would he ask of him?

Odysseus exhaled, pushing down the ache that threatened to rise within him. The sheer presence of the god before him sent a deep, bone-deep weariness through his limbs—not from fear, for Odysseus was not so easily cowed, but from the weight of divinity itself. To stand in the presence of one of the eldest of the gods was to stand before the very essence of the world. And yet - he was Odysseus. He had spoken to gods before. Had argued with them, bargained with them, even tricked them when the moment called for it.

So, he did what he did best.

He smiled.

“A thousand thanks to you, Great Lord Oceanus,” Odysseus said, his voice rich and warm despite the tension in his chest. “For pulling me from death’s grasp, for delivering me to safety, for granting me the chance to return to those I love. I owe you my life, and for that, I am in your debt.”

Oceanus regarded him, the river lapping at his form as if in reverence. His presence was vast, ancient, unknowable, and yet his expression was one of curiosity.

“You knew who I was the moment you saw me.” It was not a question. “How did you recognize me, King of Ithaca?”

Odysseus grinned, tilting his head. “Your eyes.”

The deity raised a brow, and Odysseus chuckled, always happy for an excuse to speak of his wife.

“They are the very same eyes that you passed through your daughter to my own wife and son,” he said, voice thick with tenderness and longing. “I would know them anywhere.”

Lord Oceanus was silent for a moment, his sea-green gaze assessing. Then, his lips quirked, and his expression softened in satisfaction.

“So, you are wed to one of my granddaughters,” he mused.

Odysseus inclined his head, pride evident in his posture. “Indeed, I am. Penelope of Sparta, daughter of Periboea.”

The god exhaled, something like amusement flickering across his features. He nodded, looking pleased.

“Good,” he said simply, as though confirming something to himself. “Then, in saving you, I have aided two of my granddaughters – not just one.”

Odysseus blinked. He felt the meaning behind the words, the weight of what Oceanus was implying, but before he could fully grasp it, the deity spoke again.

“I did not save you purely out of kindness, mortal,” Oceanus continued, his voice like the crashing of waves, deep and echoing. “I did so for Athena’s sake.”

Odysseus stilled. “Athena?”

Oceanus’ expression was unreadable, but his next words were not.

“You are Odysseus, are you not? Athena’s pride and joy?”

Odysseus gaped.

For a moment, he wondered if he had misheard. If his mind, still weary from injury, was playing tricks on him. But no - the god’s gaze held nothing but certainty.

He knew what Athena thought of him. He had always considered her a friend, a mentor, perhaps even something akin to family in the strangest of ways. But she did not share in that sentiment.

Did she?

She was a goddess. He was her mortal champion, a tool of her design, a warrior she favoured - but nothing more.

Was he not?

His many pathetic attempts to worm his way into her affections, to get even the smallest indication that she cared for him beyond strategy and war and glory, had always been met with little more than exasperation. Fondness, perhaps, but distant.

But this - this was her grandfather speaking.

A Titan. An Elder God.

Would he lie?

Odysseus’ heart thundered. He did not know what to do with this information, did not know how to feel. But before he could spiral further, Oceanus spoke again, voice steady, unshaken.

“I did not wish for my granddaughter to suffer the pain of losing a mortal so dear to her,” the god said simply. “And so, I saved you.”

Odysseus swallowed.

He was dear to Athena?

Her pride and joy?!

The thought was almost too much to bear.

But he forced himself to focus, to push down the emotions clawing their way up his throat. This was not the time to dwell on it. Later. Later, when he was not kneeling before an Elder God with the weight of all of whatever this was pressing down on his shoulders.

Instead, he inclined his head. “Then you have my gratitude, Lord Oceanus. Twice over now.”

Oceanus regarded him for a moment longer before speaking again.

“You wonder why your wounds heal so quickly.”

Odysseus exhaled sharply. “Aye.”

“It is my doing,” the god said simply. “I have granted you a blessing. But if you wish to keep it - and if you wish to return to Ilion safely - you must not alert the other gods to your survival.”

Odysseus stiffened. “Why?”

“The Fates themselves have deemed it vital that your survival remains unknown before you reach Troy once more,” Oceanus said gravely. “If you are discovered before then, there will be consequences.”

Odysseus’ lips pressed into a thin line. He did not like this. He liked it not at all.

But he was no fool.

When a god gave such a command, one did not ignore it.

His mind flickered back to when he had first awoken here, to the immediate instinct to call upon Athena, to reach for her guidance. He had nearly done so. Had nearly whispered her name in prayer.

Now, he mentally thanked himself for his hesitation.

If he had called upon her, if she had answered - what would have happened?

Would he have lost Oceanus’ blessing? Would the Fates have intervened?

He shuddered to think of it.

And so, as much as it irritated him, as much as he despised being forced to move like a piece upon the chessboard of the gods-

He complied and nodded.

“I will do as you command, Great Lord,” he said, bowing his head. “My survival will remain a secret.”

Oceanus studied him for a long, tense moment.

Then- he smiled.

“Good.”

And just as he had come, the god melted back into the river, his form dissolving into the very waters from which he had risen. The currents calmed, the swirling darkness faded, and soon, it was as though he had never been there at all.

Odysseus remained still, staring at the place where the god had stood, his mind reeling.

Athena’s pride and joy.

The thought lingered, wrapping around him like a whisper of the divine.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

Then, muttering a prayer of thanks- not to Athena, but to the one who had just saved his life - Odysseus rose to his feet.

He had a war to return to.

Odysseus stood at the edge of the bustling port of Klazomenai, the scent of salt and fish thick in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of tar and the wood of freshly repaired and painted ships. The Achaeans had always known how to bring war, to lay waste to cities and claim their spoils, but Phocaea? He had never thought it would truly come to that.

The plan had been simple enough - Telamonides, Menelaus, Diomedes, and he had all discussed it at length. If the city could be taken, it would be. If the opportunity did not present itself, they would turn back toward Troy and the war that still raged there. But surely - surely - when his ship had gone down in flames, the others had abandoned the attack. Had they not?

He tightened his grip on the linen bandages that wrapped his arms, pushing down the irritation curling in his chest. If they had gone ahead and sacked Phocaea without him, he would not be pleased. Ten years he had given to this war - ten years of blood and wit and strategy - and they thought to leave him behind for the spoils?

Over my dead body, he thought, before grimacing. Well, perhaps not the best choice of words, given the circumstances.

He shook off the thought and approached a stocky man loading barrels onto a docked ship. The man looked weathered by the sea, his hands calloused from years of labor, his tunic stained with salt.

Odysseus cleared his throat. “Friend,” he said smoothly, offering one of his most charming smiles. “Would you know of any ship sailing to Phocaea? I have business there.”

The man turned to him - stared at him, really - as though he had just spoken in some foreign tongue, he knew had an accent for this was not his tongue of origin, but to look at him so? Why it was insulting. His expression twisted into something between bewilderment and disbelief before he scoffed, shook his head, and walked away without a word.

Odysseus blinked.

Well, that was most odd.

Undeterred, he tried again. He found another sailor - an older man with a thick beard and sharp eyes - who was overseeing the unloading of crates marked with trade seals.

“Excuse me,” Odysseus said, stepping closer. “I seek passage to Phocaea. Do you know if there are any ships bound for it?”

The man’s head snapped toward him so fast Odysseus thought he might have startled him. But no - there was no fear in his gaze, only warning.

“You’d do well not to ask such questions,” the old sailor muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flickered around, scanning the area as if to make sure no one else had heard. “Lest some Phocaean away from his lands hears you.”

That was - strange.

Odysseus frowned. “Why would a Phocaean care if I seek passage to their city?”

The man exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath that Odysseus didn’t quite catch before shaking his head. “Find another destination, stranger,” he said firmly, then turned away, focusing back on his work.

Odysseus gritted his teeth, frustration starting to mount. He was missing something. There was a piece of information here that he did not have, and he hated being in the dark.

So he tried again.

This time, he found a younger man - one who looked less cautious than the last, though no less wary. The man was organizing ropes and checking the rigging of a nearby ship, and Odysseus approached with careful ease.

“Forgive me,” Odysseus started, keeping his tone light. “I have been away from news for some time and am trying to find my way. Tell me, is there a ship bound for Phocaea?”

The young man’s hands froze mid-motion.

Slowly, he turned, giving Odysseus a long, assessing look. His gaze dragged over the bandages wrapped around his arms, the fading bruises that still marred his skin, and something in his expression shifted - like realization, like understanding.

“You have not heard,” the young man murmured.

Odysseus straightened. A slow, uneasy feeling crept up his spine.

“Heard what?”

The man exhaled, shaking his head. “There is no more Phocaea.”

Odysseus stared.

For the first time since washing up on these shores, true shock slammed into him.

“No more-” He stopped, licked his lips, and forced himself to focus. “What ever do you mean?”

The man’s expression was grim. “Gone,” he said simply. “Ruins, destruction, carnage. There is nothing left.”

Odysseus felt as if the ground beneath him had shifted. That- that was not possible.

Phocaea had been a strong city, well-defended, rich in both resources and warriors. The Achaeans were powerful, yes, but for the city to be completely destroyed in such a short time-

That was not the work of men alone.

As if reading his thoughts, the young man added, “From the stories I have heard, it seems that some god sent their own blessing for the city’s destruction. So great and horrendous was the ruin left behind.”

A god.

A god had intervened.

The world tilted around Odysseus, his mind struggling to grasp the words spoken to him. No more Phocaea.

It had been barely over a month since his battle there - since he had stood upon the deck of Diomedes’ ship, since oil and fire had swallowed them whole, since the sea had dragged him into darkness. He had expected some fallout, some consequences, but this? This was impossible.

His fingers twitched at his sides, itching for something to do, something to hold onto, but there was nothing but his own racing thoughts.

So he forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to smile. Forced himself to move forward, because if he stood still, he might drown in his own disbelief.

With practiced ease, he let the shock fade from his expression and turned back to the sailor before him. “And where does your ship sail, friend?”

The young man gave him a cautious look before answering, “Adramyttium.”

Odysseus hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Adramyttium. It was too close to Cilician Thebe for his liking - a city allied staunchly with Troy, a place where he would need to tread carefully. And all because that frustrating, thick-skulled Achilles had not done his job and taken the city when he first boasted he would.

The first thing he would do once he returned back to the camps would be to strangle him himself. Infuriating demi-god.

But frustration would serve him no good here. He swallowed his irritation and exhaled smoothly, stretching his lips into a charming smile. “Most perfect,” he said, as if it were exactly what he wanted to hear.

The young sailor didn’t look entirely convinced. “You will work aboard if you want passage,” he said firmly. “to pay your share.”

Odysseus nodded, already weaving his lie before the sailor had even finished speaking. He gestured toward the linen bandages wrapping his body, shaking his head with exaggerated exasperation. “A terrible household mishap,” he said, voice light and careless. “The ever-present dangers of dealing with old parents, you see. But worry not - I am more than fit for work.”

The sailor eyed him for a long moment before huffing out a breath. “Fine,” he said. “Come aboard.”

Odysseus nodded gratefully, but as he fell into step beside the man, another story came to him as easily as breathing. He let his expression shift, softening at the edges, letting his mouth tug downward ever so slightly, enough to make him seem genuine. “It is a journey I must take,” he said, voice touched with a sorrowful sort of wistfulness. “To return to my son, you see.”

The sailor glanced at him.

Odysseus sighed, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “I have not gotten the opportunity to raise him,” he said, letting just the right amount of regret lace his words. “But visiting my own old father here has enlightened me. A man should be there for his son, should he not? I must go back. I must raise and protect him well.”

The sailor’s expression softened, and Odysseus knew immediately - a family man.

The young man clapped him gently on the back, careful of his bandages, and nodded approvingly. “You’re a good man,” he said. “Come, we leave soon.”

Odysseus smiled, bright and easy, though his heart twisted painfully at his own words. Telemachus.

His precious boy.

What was he doing now?

Perhaps playing with boys his age, laughing without a care in the world. Perhaps running through the fields of Ithaca, his dark curls bouncing in the sun.

Would that Odysseus could see him. He longed for him so terribly.

He swallowed down the ache, pushing it behind his mask, and followed the sailor toward the ship.

As they walked, he glanced at the man beside him. “Tell me,” he said casually. “This god who brought destruction to Phocaea - who was it?”

The sailor’s face darkened. “There are whispers,” he murmured. “Songs of horror, traveling from Phocaea’s ruins.”

He said nothing, letting the man continue.

“They speak of a monster,” the young man said, voice hushed as if the mere words might summon it. “With glowing eyes - bright and piercing, akin to the great Goddess Athena herself.”

A cold chill ran through Odysseus’ spine.

“But it could not have been her,” the sailor added quickly, shaking his head. “What great goddess like her would do such a thing to that peaceful city?”

Odysseus remained silent, his mind turning, calculating.

“They say,” the man continued, “that this thing carved through Phocaea like a blade through a woman's flesh. That it spared no one in sight - not man, not woman, not even children.”

Odysseus exhaled slowly.

A god. A monster. Eyes like Athena’s.

And destruction so great that Phocaea had been erased from the lands.

Odysseus’ blood went cold.

Blessing of a Goddess for the destruction of Phocaea.

Bright eyes akin to the Goddess Athena.

Carving through Phocaea.

His breath shallowed. His mind reeled.

No. Surely not.

It could not be.

It could not be.

Odysseus fought against the conclusion forming in his mind, against the sheer absurdity of it. Diomedes would not - could not - have done this. He was a warrior, yes, but not a reckless butcher. He was a king, a shepherd of men. He was not the sort to let wrath consume him so utterly.

And yet.

His last memory of Diomedes surfaced unbidden:

The care in his blessed eyes, the way his grip had tightened around Odysseus’ arm, steady and unwavering amidst the chaos of battle. The kiss - feather-light, pressed against his brow - so filled with warmth it had sent an ache through him. His fretting, his worry, the ease with which he had handed over command of the Argives, just so Odysseus wouldn’t risk himself by walking the plank.

Little good that had done in the end, he thought bitterly. I fell anyway.

Diomedes had loved him. That much was undeniable. He loved him fiercely, protectively, in that steadfast way that was so uniquely his.

But to raze a city in his name?

To butcher men, women, children, all for grief?

Madness.

Absolute madness.

And yet - Odysseus felt heat coil in his gut at the thought of it.

To be mourned so devastatingly. To be avenged so ruthlessly. To be loved so deeply that an entire city was burned to the ground in his name.

His lips curled.

Oh, when he saw his Diomedes again, he was going to push him down onto his bed and show him just how grateful - how utterly flattered - he was by his devotion.

But first, he had to get back.

Boarding the ship, Odysseus greeted the other men with his easy, practiced charm, introducing himself under the false name he had given the captain. He took up a job suited to his still-healing wounds, careful not to strain himself, careful to play the role of a simple traveler.

His mind, however, remained sharp. Focused.

His plan formed swiftly.

From Adramyttium, he would secure passage to Thrace.

The Greek fleet, stationed near the Thracian lands, would inspect any ship from Adramyttium before permitting it through. An order Odysseus himself had recommended, a precaution against Trojan subterfuge.

And when they stopped his ship, they would see his face.

They would recognize him.

His name had been spoken countless times across the Achaean ranks, his commands followed without question. There would be no mistaking him for a ghost.

He would return.

And when he did - oh, he would return - he had a certain king of Argos to deal with.

A slow smirk played at his lips as he leaned against the ship’s railing, watching as the shores of Klazomenai faded into the horizon. But as the wind tugged at his hair and the sea began to stretch before him, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To home.

To Ithaca.

To Penelope and Telemachus.

Were they safe? Were they well?

He imagined Penelope, ever steadfast, ever strong, waiting as she always had. He imagined Telemachus, growing into the man he was meant to be – their son, his son.

Were they happy and safe?

His hands tightened against the railing. Gods, he hoped so.

Because no matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many lies he spun or obstacles he overcame – they were the reason he endured.

And he would return to them.

No matter what it took.

Chapter Text

HECTOR

The chamber smelled of olive oil and wine, and something sharper beneath – the lingering edge of incense that had long since burned away. Hector sat at the head of the gathering, the carved backs of the royal chairs curling like the mane of a lion behind the gathered. The heavy stone walls of the chamber were streaked gold with firelight, and for a moment, it was quiet save for the soft creak of old joints and shifting weight on gold-adorned thrones.

The discussion had been circling for some time now – spiralling like vultures around a dying creature – until one of the Elders, Lord Ucalegon with white brows like wings and fingers gnarled as olive roots, leaned forward with a low grunt.

“It is odd,” he said, slow and considering. “That the Achaeans have not tested the gates. Nor sent forward any skirmishers. No sound from their horns, no smoke from their camps. Not in… nearly a month, at least.” His eyes flicked toward Hector. “A strange lull, would you not say, my prince?”

Before Hector could answer, a soft, bitter sound cut through the chamber – sharp and derisive.

A scoff.

All eyes turned, as one, to where Cassandra sat – curled in the corner of the chamber as she always was wont to do during such gatherings, her tunic draped around her too-thin frame, hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. Her gaze was fixed not on the Elder, but on the flame that flickered low in a copper brazier near her.

The Elder frowned. “Have I spoken foolishness, child?”

Cassandra turned her head slowly. Her face looked older in the firelight. Older, and far too tired for someone so young. Out of all his siblings, she was the one who worried him the most.

“Have you not been listening at all?” she asked flatly, voice rough with disuse. “Have you not heard the tales carried up from the South? From the fishermen and traders who still manage to pass through?” Her eyes flicked up, sudden and sharp. “Odysseus is dead.”

There was a pause. A hush – soft, but not silent.

“Dead?” the Elder repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue.

Hector sighed. Quietly, but not with irritation. With worry. He watched his sister carefully, the tremor in her hands, the dullness in her gaze. She had not been sleeping. He knew this. He had found her two nights ago standing atop the inner wall, barefoot and muttering to the moon.

Still, he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “My wife’s brothers brought the same news. Odysseus fell at Phocaea. He led the Achaeans to burn the city, but he did not return from the flames.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber, a rustle of fabric and disbelief.

Paris, lounging half-drunk in the second seat to Hector’s right, grinned and lifted his cup.

“Well,” he said, voice bright and oiled with arrogance, “that explains the silence. Their mind is dead, and the rest of their limbs are lost without it. Perhaps we should send them a guide.”

He laughed. No one joined him – save for a few of his hangers-on, flatterers draped in perfumed silks with little dirt beneath their nails, though Hector had a feeling Paris did not take notice of it.

Still smiling, he raised his kylix in a toast.

“To the death of Odysseus,” he said, “and the soon-to-follow death of the Ahhiyawāns.”

Cassandra flinched as though struck.

Before she could speak, another voice broke across the room – rough, irritated.

“Spare us, Alexandros,” Deiphobos muttered, leaning forward from where he sat beside Helenus. His knuckles were scraped raw again – another sparring session gone too long, too hard, as was his way – none of them ever listened to him. “If you left your chamber and set foot on the battlefield more than twice in a season, perchance you would know better.”

Paris scowled, but Deiphobos went on.

“The Achaeans are not sheep. They are wolves. Strong wolves. Their might does not lie merely in a single man’s cleverness.” He glanced around the room, eyes catching on Hector’s. “Odysseus was no doubt valuable, all our prisoners call him the most important of their strategists – yes. But he was not their only. Do not fool yourselves.”

A low, thoughtful murmur answered him, more serious this time.

Hector leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his bearded chin.

“They are not broken,” he said at last. “But no doubt they are shaken. A man like Odysseus… his death matters. The gods favoured him. Or once did.”

He glanced again toward Cassandra. She was staring down now at her hands.

He wished to go to her. Wished to send her to her chambers to rest. But he knew she would not go. She was never so frequently allowed amongst others anyway that she liked to savour it.

“And what say you?” he asked softly, this time directing the question to her, not the chamber. “Do the gods weep for him?”

Cassandra raised her head slowly. Her eyes met his – glassy and haunted.

“They weep,” she whispered. “But not for him.”

She paused, then turned her gaze toward the open window, where Troy’s night sky lay scattered in stars.

“They weep for what comes next.”

That sent a silence rippling through the chamber, though Helenus did not allow for it to last long.

His voice came low and calm, but in that way it always did when a great prophecy spoke behind it. There was a note to it – something quiet and final, like the last breath before a blade falls.

“I too disagree with Alexandros.”

The room stilled again. Even Cassandra looked toward him now – not with scorn or weariness, but with something like caution. Her twin rarely spoke in council, and never without reason.

Helenus stood slowly, the patterned fold of his robes brushing the floor. The firelight caught in his eyes – golden, like a lion’s.

“Anyone who believes this war will end with Odysseus’ death, is mistaken,” he said, scanning the room. “The Fates have wound their thread tightly. It frays at the edges, but the heart of it still holds. And the heart of it is not the man.”

He stepped away from his chair, into the centre of the chamber, his shadow cast long behind him.

“It is the line. The seed. The child of Odysseus – Odysseides – he is the hinge upon which this war shall swing. The Ahhiyawāns have seen it. That is why they will bring him here, ripping him from his mother’s arms.”

A murmur stirred through the chamber. Some in surprise. Some confused. Paris rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but Deiphobos silenced him with a hand raised.

Hector stared at his brother, lips parted slightly. The prophecy… had not yet reached him.

Not until now.

And not until the deathless one at his side leaned in, smiling like sunlight on a blade.

Lord Apollo.

He was lounging as he always did – on the armrest of his throne, golden hair falling in waves, one knee drawn up, lazy and poised as a cat in heat. No one else could see him. No one else ever could. But Hector felt the weight of him, warm and cold at once, a pressure just at the edge of flesh.

“You see?” the god murmured, voice a low melody that buzzed against Hector’s ribs. “The Fates do not lie. They twist, yes, they bargain, but they do not lie. The Achaeans brought the boy here because they were told to. Because they were warned. And now you are warned.”

Apollo’s fingers brushed his shoulder, featherlight.

“He is already outside the walls. That little son. That little heir. Telemachus he is called.”

Hector felt something tighten behind his heart.

He turned his head toward the council. His voice, when he spoke, was bronze wrapped in cloth.

“The boy,” he said. “Odysseus’ son. He is here. Camped outside the walls of Troy, in the Ahhiyawān encampment.”

Gasps rang through the chamber. The murmur turned to noise, to exclamation.

“The boy is here?!”

“They brought him to war?!”

“The son of Odysseus…!”

Paris laughed aloud, slapping the arm of his seat. “Then perhaps we should send the boy a gift! A dagger, or a spear – and a man to accompany it! Or better yet, a map – to find his father in Hades Anax’s realm.”

But others were more serious. Deiphobos leaned forward, brows drawn in a heavy line. One of Hector’s brothers-by-marriage, the bright-eyed leader of the Maeonians, frowned and murmured something to his own brother about prophecy, about inherited danger.

Amid it all, Hector sat still, feeling the cold taste of ash in his mouth.

He said nothing for a long while.

Then Apollo’s voice brushed his ear again, soft, almost humming.

“Better his son,” the god sang sweetly, “than your own.”

The words struck deep.

And Hector saw it – in a flash, in a vision no doubt sent by the god who favoured him: his boy, Scamandrius, screaming on the battlements, flames behind him, Greek swords below. A prince in the mouth of ruin. A child offered to stone. His wife held back and weeping below.

His fingers clenched around the edge of his throne.

There was no glory in slaughtering a boy. No honour in hunting a child.

And yet.

And yet.

He would kill Odysseus’ son a hundred times over if it meant his Scamandrius would live.

He closed his eyes for one long breath.

Then opened them again.

“We have a choice,” He said slowly, voice ringing out over the council. “We can wait. And hope the Moirai look elsewhere. Or we can act. While he is still outside the walls. While our own blood is not yet spilt through whatever deed he is destined to commit.”

One of his other brothers-by-marriage leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with calculation.

“Then, we must be precise,” he said, folding his hands atop the table. “A frontal assault will draw the eyes of the Ahhiyawāns. Let them believe it is only another skirmish. We send our fiercest men to press the edge of their camp – make them bleed, make them rage – but not break, we will not be able to do it, and so it must only be a distraction.”

He glanced around the room, jaw tense. “While they are occupied, a smaller force moves beneath the front of distraction, strikes deep through the southern ridge where the hills give shelter. Into their camp. Into the heart of it.”

“Into his tent,” another prince murmured.

Amphimachus nodded. “Yes. But we must be sure. We must know it is him. Else we risk bringing the wrath of the gods for killing some orphan or slave child they have dressed in finer cloth.”

There were a few murmurs of assent. Deiphobos crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. Even Paris looked pensive now, swirling his wine.

Hector remained silent.

Because Apollo was singing again.

“You will know him by the eyes,” the god whispered, warm breath curling into Hector’s ear, making him all but shiver. “Sky-bright and sea-gleam. Mismatched. Though divine blooded in the flesh, unlike his sire. You will see it the moment you lay eyes upon him. There is no mistaking the blood of Odysseus.”

Hector breathed out slowly and stood.

“There will be no confusion,” he said to the gathered chamber. “The boy is his father’s very image. It is in his stance. In his visage. In his eyes – one as soft as sun-touched sky, the other as eerie as the glowing green of the seas. You will know him the moment you see him.”

Several of the men stirred at that, exchanging glances, though none questioned it – used to this as they were. Even the most cynical of them grew still with the weight of this pressing in.

“We do not need fire,” Hector continued. “We do not need slaughter. Let the larger force strike where they expect us. Loudly. Brutally. Let it be a show. The true hand strikes swift and silent.”

He paused, gaze sweeping across the room.

“He is a child. Likely does not know how to lift a blade, let alone use one. This does not need to be drawn out. There is no honour in the suffering of a boy.”

His jaw tightened.

“Make it quick. Make it clean.”

There was no cheer at that. Only the sound of warriors nodding in solemn agreement, of bronze being promised to a task none of them would admit aloud was a cruel execution.

Apollo purred, satisfied.

“Good,” he said into Hector’s thoughts. “Now all that is left… is the knife.”

Hector gave the word he did not wish to give.

“Prepare for battle. I will speak with the guards. We will strike before tomorrow’s dawn.”

Lord Apollo smiled beside him.

Cassandra looked away.

DIOMEDES

Diomedes had taken Dear Telemachus to the river.

It was early then, just past midday. The light bright on the water. Telemachus had said nothing as they walked – only carrying that owl in his hands, careful, like it might break apart if the wind hit it wrong.

The river had been low and clear, the kind that coiled through the soft hills like a ribbon. Diomedes had stripped down to his waist and gestured to the water. “Come on,” he muttered. “It will help you feel better.”

Telemachus had offered him a small, shy glance – and then, with no hesitation at all, had walked right into the current.

It had surprised him – how easily the boy moved in the river, how sure-footed he was. The water reached his waist, then his chest, and still he swam like it was second nature. Dove like a seabird. Flicked water at Diomedes like some impish nymph, and then laughed – a real sound, light and bright and boyish – nothing like his father.

His mother’s blood, Diomedes had thought, watching him. That daughter of oceanid, his dark black hair glinting a blue-violet hue in the light of Lord Helios. The river curved to him.

Diomedes had brought along two slave women to help clean the boy, to wash his hair and dry him off, but Telemachus had shaken his head at them. “I can wash myself,” he had said, lips pressed together. “I go to the spring all the time back home. I do not need anyone to help me, as long as it is not salt water.”

Diomedes had let him be.

When they returned to the camp, the boy’s cheeks were flushed and warm, hair curling in damp waves against his neck. He walked with a little more energy, a little more colour. He still said little, but he looked less… haunted.

He had curled up on the cot again – still clutching that owl – and Diomedes had turned to speak to Sthenelus about what they intended to do next now that this child was brought here. But by the time he turned back, the boy was asleep. Flat on his side, one arm tucked under the thin pillow, the other draped across his chest. Mouth slightly parted. Breathing deep.

Diomedes had not even seen him slip away.

Though it was evident that the boy was tired, so he let him rest, though the entire thing still felt so jarring to him – Odysseus’ precious son, sleeping in a war camp instead of the soft sheets of Ithaca.

It was dusk now, and the golden light bled orange and red over the plains beyond the Argive camp. Smoke curled lazily from the fires. War would not come tonight – but Diomedes’ nerves had begun to prickle, like a blade brushing too close to skin. Telemachus had not eaten.

He rose from his seat and crossed to the cot, crouching down beside it.

“Telemachus,” he said softly, voice pitched low. “It is time to rise.”

No movement.

He reached out, touched the boy’s shoulder lightly. “Come on now. Wake up. The sun is setting – you must nourish yourself.”

Still no response.

His chest began to tighten. He pressed his hand firmer against the boy’s shoulder, shook once.

“Telemachus?”

Nothing.

Diomedes stood sharply, heart hammering now, and strode out of the tent with all the force of a general in battle. Outside, the cool evening wind caught his hair. A slave woman passed by, a basket of folded tunics in her arms.

“You!” he barked.

She froze.

He gestured her forward, quick and sharp. “Come. Odysseides in my tent – he will not wake. Try to rouse him.”

The woman nodded, nearly dropping her basket, and followed Diomedes into the tent.

She crossed to the cot, bent down, murmured softly to the child in the way nursemaids do, brushing his hair back from his face. Then firmer – shaking his shoulder. Still he did not stir.

Diomedes stood rigid as stone, watching. Terrified beyond thought.

When he had been that age he was already half a warrior – practicing on the regular with sword and spear and shield – but this was Odysseus’ well treasured child, he doubted the boy such upheaval – both of the mind and the heart – as he had these past few weeks. Would that hurt him to such an extent? Had the Moirai so cruelly taken away Odysseus’ son right after they took Odysseus himself?

But then – then finally, the boy shifted. A slow, groggy movement. A sleepy breath pulled in. His mismatched eyes blinked open, dazed and bleary.

The slave woman let out a soft laugh of relief. “Just sleeping deep, my king.”

Diomedes let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding. His hands trembled. He curled them into fists behind his back.

Telemachus blinked again, confused. “Did I… fall asleep?” he mumbled.

Diomedes nodded. He did not utter a word about how frightened he had been. How much the silence had pierced through him like a spear. Instead, he moved to the cot and ruffled the boy’s hair – it was curlier than Odysseus’ – ever careful.

“You are safe,” he muttered. “You are safe.”

Telemachus blinked up at him, groggy and blinking away sleep. His little hands picked up that wooden owl from where it was lying beside him, clutching it tighter to his chest.

“Am I not… supposed to be safe?” he asked, voice still fuzzy with dreams.

The question stopped Diomedes cold. His breath caught. That tiny, bewildered voice, asking with the barest trace of genuine confusion. He stared at the boy for a moment too long.

Then he shook his head. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course you are.”

But he could not lie properly. Not in this. Not with his throat so tight. So instead, he changed the subject, gesturing vaguely with one hand as though brushing something away from the air.

He turned to the slave woman. “Help him get ready,” he said quietly, and then crouched again so he was eye level with Telemachus.

“You have not eaten since you came here,” he said, keeping his voice steady, gentle even. “And there has been feast… after feast, in your father’s honour. Since… since it all happened.”

Telemachus’ eyes were still fixed on him, mismatched and wide. He did not speak.

“So,” Diomedes went on, “we shall go. Eat something. Sit where it is warm, with the others – no doubt some of your mother’s brothers are there too. It is just for a little while.” His voice dropped lower, “It would do you well to familiarise yourself with the others present, and being present for these events of high honour held in your father’s name… it is a good thing for a son.”

He did not tell him how he had not gone to a single one of those feasts. Could not. He could not sit and drink to the memory of Odysseus with how the grief was consuming him so entirely. Sit with those who he had barely tolerated in life. Agamemnon had probably already drowned half his grief in wine, and Menelaus likely stumbled through toast after toast, slurring through his Odysseus’ name in his tears. Diomedes could not stomach it.

Would that he could grieve like that. Would that he could let it out. Would that he could accept his death.

But grief had sharpened him instead. Turned every soft place inside him to tension and blade.

He gave Telemachus one final look – his hair mussed from sleep, eyes still heavy, the owl tucked under his arm like a shield, it was so jarring how similar yet dissimilar he looked to his father – and then nodded once to the slave woman.

“Make sure he is dressed well,” he muttered. “Something that fits him.”

And then Diomedes turned and stepped out of the tent, into the darkening air. His limbs felt heavy. His shoulders ached with the weight of what he had not said.

He needed to find Sthenelus. Maybe hear something that would bring him back into himself.

He passed more fires, the scent of roasting meat thick in the breeze, men’s laughter rising in drunken crescendos from one corner of the camp – the feast had already begun. A war camp in mourning. A war camp pretending it was not.

He found Sthenelus near the edge of the encampment, half-shadowed behind a supply tent, speaking in low tones with Euryalus. They both stiffened slightly when Diomedes approached, their voices halting.

“Sthenelus,” He said, arms crossing, voice low.

“Ah. There you are,” Sthenelus said, too quickly, eyes flicking toward Euryalus as though they had just been speaking of him.

They probably had. Diomedes did not care.

“We need to talk,” he said flatly, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “Something is– ”

But he stopped. Not here. Not yet. Not until the knots in his chest untangled enough to speak clearly.

He exhaled, slowly.

Sthenelus frowned. “What is it?”

Diomedes shook his head once. “Later. Just… stay near. Keep your ears open. There is something wrong in the wind, I know not what it will bring.”

Was it merely the aftershock of thinking he already lost that child, or the weight of prophecy that had started to settle on his back like a second skin?

Sthenelus sighed and shifted to the side, patting the earth beside him. “Sit, Dio,” he murmured. “You are strung too tight. Even your shadow looks ready to snap.”

Diomedes hesitated. For a breath, he stood above them akin to some carved bronze from a hero’s grave, all fire and rigidity, his mouth pressed thin. But then, something in him cracked – a faultline, quiet and long. He sank down beside his family, knees drawing up, arms resting atop them.

“He is safe,” Sthenelus said, softer now, with the easy steadiness he had always possessed – not cunning like Odysseus, not divine like Achilles, but solid. “The boy is safe. Here, in our camp, under your protection, under mine, under the eyes of every Achaean who ever owed his father a debt. No harm will come to him.”

Diomedes did not reply, jaw clenched too tightly to allow it.

Euryalus leaned back on one elbow, his other hand lifting to brush idly through Diomedes’ hair – a gesture that might have once made him lean into it, close his eyes. Now it just made him still more.

“Maybe,” Euryalus mused, too light, “we should have kept you on those herbs a few more days. You were quieter then. Softer.”

Sthenelus’ gaze snapped toward him, sharp as a thrown dagger. “Watch it,” he snapped. “That was not given in the manner that you speak. It was given so that he did not end up tearing himself apart – too much of anything is bad, herbs of that nature are not meant to be taken frequently.”

Euryalus shrugged, unapologetic. “Still.”

Still.

Still, Diomedes thought, dragging a hand down his face. Still, I remember too much.

The herbs had dulled him then, yes. Blurred the edges of things, made the pain slow like honey in winter. And for a time, it had felt… merciful. Like drifting in the surf, just before the tide drags you under.

He remembered flashes of it now, disjointed and floating: the flickering firelight against canvas; the sound of waves breaking; the phantom weight of a hand in his own that was no longer there.

How could he forget?

He had lost the greatest love of his life.

He had watched the ship burn. Forced to stand afar and watch it go down. Wishing that the heat of it would blister and burn his skin instead. The roar of the flames consuming sailcloth and oars and the body of the only man who had ever truly captured his heart.

It should have been me.

That ship had been his. His by right, his by command, his by curse. But in his foolish attempt to protect Odysseus – his refusal to let him walk that board – he had doomed him instead.

He had killed him. He had killed the man he loved more than the war, more than glory, more than himself.

Diomedes rubbed at his chest. The ache there bloomed again – dull and deep, a weight of grief that no blade could cut away.

And then–

A voice.

“I am ready.”

Diomedes turned, breath catching.

There, just outside the dim firelight, stood Telemachus.

He wore a blue chiton, fresh and clean, the hem brushing his knees. A gold band circled his head, pulling his dark curls back from his brow. He stood very still, owl cradled against his ribs, expression uncertain.

Painfully like his father.

It knocked the breath from Diomedes’ chest. Not just the look of him, but the bearing – the way he held himself, not as a child, but as someone trying to stand taller than the weight on his shoulders. A boy trying to be a man, too soon. Oh how Odysseus would weep if he could see the sight.

He rose.

“Good,” he said, voice soft. “Good.”

He did not trust himself to say more. He rose in one smooth silent motion and turned to glance once to Sthenelus, then to Euryalus. “Up,” he said quietly, but with bronze in it. “We are going to the feast.”

Sthenelus nodded, already pushing himself to his feet with the ease of someone who had been ready the whole time. Euryalus followed more slowly, brushing dust from his knees, eyes flicking to Diomedes, then to the boy.

Telemachus stood waiting, small and still at the edge of shadow. That owl was still in his arms – ever-present, as though it were some sort of tether – he was still a child, of course he found comfort in toys, especially one made so painstakingly by his father. He looked at Diomedes uncertainly, those strange eyes reflecting the firelight, too young and overwhelmed.

Diomedes reached out a hand, palm up.

“Take my hand,” he said, and it was the softest thing he’d said in days.

Telemachus did not hesitate. He stepped forward and took it.

His fingers were small – warm, fine-boned, a child’s hand trying to hold onto something solid. He did not speak, only pressed in close, the owl clutched tightly in his free arm.

They began to walk.

The camp spread around them in a sprawl of firelight and wood, its edges soft with the coming dark. The feast was in full swing now – laughter and raised voices, the clink of goblets and knives tapping on bronze all loud and clear even in the distance. The smell of roast meat lingered thick in the air, smoke curling like a thousand spirits overhead.

And the looks began.

They came like wind through wheat: subtle at first, then undeniable. Heads turned. Murmured voices. Eyes following.

“There he is.”

“That is him.”

“The boy. Laertiades’ boy.”

Diomedes saw it all. Telemachus saw it too.

He felt it in the way the child moved. How his steps grew smaller. How he edged in closer. How his fingers curled tighter around Diomedes’ hand, gripping now instead of merely holding. By the time they neared the held feast, the boy was nearly tucked against his hip, shoulder brushing his side, eyes downcast.

He was trying to disappear.

Diomedes glanced down and saw it – how the boy had turned his face just slightly away from the eyes, from the voices. The golden band on his brow caught the light too easily. A beacon.

Without breaking stride, Diomedes tightened his own grip in response. Just enough to say I know. I see you. You are not alone.

Sthenelus and Euryalus flanked them, wordless now, falling into a quiet escort. They understood – without needing to ask, without needing to speak – that this walk, this showing of the boy, was not just for the feast.

It was for all the Achaeans.

To say: He is ours now. And if anyone even dares to harm him, you will answer to the Argives.

They passed through the heart of the camp, firelight painting the edges of their path gold. The tables loomed ahead – raucous and flickering, full of men. But he walked steady, Telemachus at his side, held safe in the circle of his hand.

When they reached the edge of the feast, Diomedes stopped.

He leaned down, voice low and meant only for the boy.

“You stand tall here, Telemachus. Your father once walked among these men. Now you do. That is no small thing – you have nothing to fear and nothing to prove, remember that well.”

Telemachus looked up at him, the firelight dancing in his eyes. He said nothing. But he nodded. Once.

It was enough.

The feast buzzed with the false merriment of mourning – the kind of celebration that tried to outrun its own sorrow. Fires snapped and spat along the perimeter, men lounged on low stools and benches, oenochoes of wine already passed between calloused hands. Meat roasted on bronze spits, its scent heavy in the cooling air, and songs – or what passed for them – rose in disjointed chants and drunken callouts.

Diomedes walked slightly ahead, his steps measured and slow, his mind still swirling. Beside him, Telemachus followed without protest, the boy’s soft leather sandals whispering against the dirt.

They were met with glances – some curious, some pitying, many that held admiration. But none dared speak as they passed. Not to Diomedes. Not to the son and heir of Odysseus.

Many tables had been set up – uneven, patched with spare planks and stacked crates – but laden with food: lamb, olives, bread, honey-slicked figs, bowls of grapes, and trenchers of fish thick with herbs. Half a hundred men already sat there, and more leaned around the edges of the gathering.

Menelaus noticed them first.

He stood, a little unsteady, a goblet in hand. His eyes were wet and red-rimmed, and his beard glittered with wine. “There he is,” he said too loudly.

Telemachus startled slightly, stepping closer to Diomedes’ side. He placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and held him there, attempting not to roll his eyes at the King of Sparta – his affections had never been a secret. He led Telemachus forward, not to the head of the table but not to the end either – to a seat close enough to the fire’s warmth and still slightly removed. He pulled out a stool for the boy, not speaking, only guiding.

Telemachus sat stiffly, posture perfect. The golden band caught the firelight, and his eyes gleamed – one sea-green, the other sky-blue. They all looked to him and saw Odysseus. But all he could see when he looked was what was left behind – Odysseus’ hopes and dreams and wishes, all burnt down.

A bowl of lamb was passed down the table. Some figs. Bread. Telemachus reached for nothing.

Diomedes leaned toward him, his voice low. “Eat. Even if your belly says no. Your body must still survive the weight of all this, you have undergone a strenuous journey.”

Telemachus nodded slowly. Then, obediently, he reached for a piece of bread on the table, tearing it into small pieces and eating them one by one.

He sighed quietly as he watched Telemachus pick apart the bread like a small little bird of some kind, taking each piece with a politeness rather than hunger – as though he was afraid of hurting the bread. His limbs still looked too thin beneath the fabric of the chiton, and the hollows of his cheeks had not yet filled back from his journey. The bread alone would do nothing.

He reached for a spare clay plate.

Without a word, he began piling food onto it: a generous helping of salted olives, a few honeyed figs still warm from the fire, crusty bread with a good thick crumb, a piece of roasted fish glistening with herbs and oil, and a carved strip of lamb, still pink in the centre. The smells rose up – sharp, sweet, briny, rich.

He placed the plate in front of Telemachus with the care one might give a soldier his sword.

“Eat,” he said, low but firm. “You have had nothing since you arrived. And I know not when you last had a full meal before that. So you will eat now. Well at that.”

Telemachus blinked at the plate, wide-eyed. He opened his mouth to protest, some quiet insistence, no doubt, that he did not need so much, that he was not that hungry – of all things to pick up from his father it had to be this one – but Diomedes caught it before it left his lips.

“No,” he said sharply, but not unkind. “Do not argue.”

Telemachus closed his mouth. Then pouted, just a little – that faint downturn of lips, that soft crease between his brows, young enough still to sulk but proud enough to try not to. He glanced once toward Diomedes, clearly weighing whether to speak again.

Diomedes simply arched a brow at him. “Eat.”

The dear child obeyed.

He picked up a fig first, sticky and soft, biting into it gingerly. Then a few olives. A piece of bread, a flake of fish. One by one, slowly at first – then with increasing rhythm, like some inner hunger had been waiting for permission.

Diomedes watched in silence, elbows resting on his knees. And he felt – to his own surprise – something ease in him. Not entirely. But enough. Enough to breathe.

A strange feeling bloomed in his chest, catching him unawares. Not the clean, precise affection of command. Not the strategic protectiveness of a general with a charge. But something warmer, heavier.

Love and fondness.

He watched Telemachus tear his lamb in neat little pieces, his fingers stained dark with fig, his owl set carefully beside the plate like a guard. He was quiet still – unlike Precious Odysseus – but there was something more alive in him now. The flicker of a boy beneath the grief. Not Odysseus. Never Odysseus. But his in the truest way. And in some inexplicable, undeniable way… Diomedes’ now too.

Was this how fathers felt? This strange mix of tenderness and the urge to shield and scold and feed in equal measure? This ache that ran not like grief, but like care?

He did not know.

He only knew that if anyone here so much as looked at Telemachus wrong – he would break their neck for it.

He glanced over at Sthenelus across the fire, who gave him a look – one brow raised, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Diomedes scowled at him in return.

Sthenelus said nothing. But Diomedes could hear his voice in his head anyway.

Yes. That is what it looks like. Father.

How was he to know anyway, it is not like Diomedes remembered having a father well.

He looked back to Telemachus, who was reaching for a second fig, his fingers a little sticky, but surer now. He ate it slowly, eyes fixed on the plate. Then, suddenly, he looked up and began looking over the tables around them. His gaze flicked between dishes, over bowls and platters, clearly searching.

Diomedes caught the movement instantly, alert to it as he would be on the battlefield, but gentler in his response. Encouraged, even. The boy was looking for something – good. Hunger, real hunger, had begun to awaken.

“What is it?” he asked, leaning in slightly. “What do you wish to eat?”

Telemachus’ eyes flicked toward him, uncertain for a moment. Then he shifted on his seat, lowered his voice like it was a secret.

“Are there… are there honey cakes?” he asked, hesitant, hopeful, soft as a breeze. “Do you have those here?”

The words were so small and honest that they caught in Diomedes’ chest. For a moment, he was struck dumb. Not by the request itself – but by the sheer innocence of it. The simplicity. This child, who had seen such grief far too large for his small frame, still wanted something sweet. Something soft. Something normal.

He was still a child, barely ten years of age.

And he had asked for it like it was asking too much.

Diomedes felt the sting in his throat before he could stop it. Gods. Was this what fatherhood was? This urge to cry because a child had asked you for cake?

He swallowed hard, then, in an almost unconscious act, reached back into memory – not his own, but Sthenelus’s. He mimicked the way he spoke to his sons when they were small: low and gentle, not sharp, not clipped.

“We do not have honey cakes here,”

Telemachus’s face fell. Diomedes did not like denying Odysseus’ babe of anything but what was he to do here.

Watching it was painful – the corners of Telemachus’ mouth pulled down. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, wide already, seemed to grow even larger with the sadness that rose in them.

“Never?” he asked, voice cracking like a thin branch underfoot. “You never do?”

The question knocked something loose in Diomedes’ chest. He blinked, trying to remember.

“No, no– ” he said quickly, trying to reassure him, though the panic was rising in him like floodwater. “Not never. Just… not often. We have had them a handful of times, when… when a raid brought in fine goods. Honey from the South. Good flour. Then, yes. Once or twice.”

He did not expect Telemachus to cry.

But he did.

His small face crumpled, his mouth pressed together in a futile effort to stop it, but the tears came anyway. Big, silent ones at first, running down his cheeks with barely a breath. Then a quiet, shuddering sob, and another. He turned away slightly, as though embarrassed by it – but Diomedes saw.

Diomedes had held the line against Hector himself. Had been wounded and poisoned and bled for glory and gods. But this? This was what terrified him.

Clumsily, he reached out and pulled Telemachus against his chest. His hands – calloused and scarred – folded around the boy like a makeshift shield.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, voice rough. “I am so sorry.”

He did not even know what he was apologising for.

For not having honey cakes?

For the raids?

For this life?

For the fact that a child like this had to sit in a place like this and cry over something as simple as honey cakes?

Telemachus pressed his face into his chest and sobbed, breath hitching painfully.

“How could he have lived like this?” he wept, muffled against Diomedes’ tunic. “How could my poor father have died like this? Without even… even honey cakes?”

Diomedes frowned, smoothing a hand down the boy’s back without thinking, instinctive now. The question still lingered in the air like smoke: How could my poor father have died like this? Without even… even honey cakes?

It was a fair question. A child's question. An impossible question.

And yet…

He was not even aware Odysseus liked honey cakes. The man had never particularly cared for them – had once shrugged off a whole lot of them to one of his brothers by marriage, saying they cloyed in the teeth. There had only been one among them who had a known craving for them, really.

His brothers-by-marriage.

Damasippus

Clearly, this preference for sweets had come from the line of Icarius, rather than Odysseus himself. But Diomedes felt his tongue falter from letting Telemachus know. A strange fear coiled in his gut – irrational, absurd, and yet very real.

What if this – this small, strange difference – lodged in Telemachus’ heart like a wedge? What if the boy, bright and soft as he still was, grew older and remembered this sadness, this absence, and blamed his father for it? Not for wars or leaving, but for not liking honey cakes?

It was silly. And yet Diomedes could see it – this child’s mind, trying to make sense of absence by measuring it against what little it knew. Against such lack.

So he shifted.

He reached down and gently wiped a tear from Telemachus’ cheek with the back of his knuckle, rough but careful.

“As one grows older,” Diomedes said, with all the wisdom he could scrape together, “the taste for sweets… it lessens. Fades, even. Not because they aren’t good, but because the world begins to taste sharper. Salt and smoke and spear. You start to miss simpler things. Honey cakes… become more a fond memory than meal.”

Telemachus sniffled and looked up at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped together, but wide with sincerity.

“Truly?”

Diomedes nodded, slow and solemn. “Truly.”

And for a moment, the boy accepted it. Maybe even believed it. He tucked his face back into Diomedes’ shoulder, quieter now, no longer sobbing – only the occasional hiccup, the slow rhythm of breath returning to calm.

Then–

“By the gods,” someone said, disbelief riding the edges of his voice like a chariot on loose wheels. “It cannot be.”

Telemachus jerked his head up, startled. Diomedes turned, his body automatically shifting to shield the boy, hand reaching for the dagger at his belt.

But it was not a threat that stood before them.

It was Imeusimus.

“By the gods,” He breathed again. His voice cracked, thick with disbelief and wonder. “Telemachus?”

Diomedes rose to his feet at once, bringing Telemachus with him, though he kept a hand at the boy’s back, steadying.

Telemachus turned slowly, blinking up at the stranger.

And the man – his mother’s brother – took a single shaky step forward, his eyes shimmering.

TELEMACHUS

Why is this man looking at me like that?

His eyes – dimmer than his mother’s, more like fresh thyme than the waves of the sea – were damp with something that Telemachus could not understand.

Was he going to cry?

He had seen that look before.

His mother did the same thing when she thought no one was watching, when she ran her fingers over Father’s great bow or sat at the loom staring into nothingness. Her face would twist just so, her eyes dark with longing, her lips parting as if she might call for someone who would never answer.

The man’s expression was exactly the same. And he had called out his name in familiarity – as though he knew him well.

Then, softly, he whispered, “By the gods…”

The man was staring at him, his expression raw with emotion.

“You…” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

His hands trembled where they hung at his sides.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he sank to one knee.

His hands, steady despite his shaking breath, extended outward in offering. And then, in the gentlest whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the moment, he said–

“Hello, Telemachus.”

Telemachus stared.

The man swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as if to hold back the wave of emotion threatening to break.

“I am your mother’s sixth brother,” he murmured.

Telemachus’ breath stilled.

His mother’s brother.

His eyes widened. He stared at the man before him, taking in the golden hair, the fair skin, the eyes – those unmistakable green eyes that were so much like hers despite the different shade.

His lips parted, a name slipping from them before he even realized he had spoken it.

“…Uncle Imeusimus?”

A single tear escaped the man’s eye.

With a quiet, shuddering breath, he nodded.

Then, carefully, he beckoned Telemachus forward.

Telemachus hesitated.

Shyness warred with longing. His hands curled into his tunic, his fingers tightening against the fabric. He looked to Diomedes, who gave him an encouraging nod. Slowly, he walked toward his uncle in hesitant steps. Each movement felt too big, too loud, as if he were stepping across the deck of a ship rocking in uncertain waters. And yet, the moment he reached Uncle Imeusimus’ open arms, his body moved on instinct.

He fell into the embrace.

The coolness of his uncle’s touch startled him at first, his breath hitching at the unexpected chill that seeped through the thin fabric of his tunic. Cold – why is he so cold?

But before the thought could fully form, he scolded himself. Of course he is cold. Mama is, too.

A lump formed in his throat.

The cold reminded him of her. Of the nights she held him close when the winds howled against the walls of their home, of the way her fingers brushed through his hair when he could not sleep. Mama…

He shut his eyes for a brief moment, gripping onto his uncle’s chlamys as though it might bring her closer.

Uncle Imeusimus exhaled softly, a hand settling against the back of his head. “You have your mother’s face,” he murmured.

Telemachus swallowed hard, holding back the urge to cry. It was the first time he had ever heard those words and it made him feel so happy!

People always told him he looked like his father. Always.

If he had a ship for every time someone told him so, he was certain he would have the greatest fleet the world had ever seen. He briefly imagined it – every man who had ever said it handing him a ship as they uttered those words. The vision almost made him laugh.

Almost.

But compared to his mother, his father had always been a distant spectre – now forever destined to be that way. Telemachus wished to look like his mother – to see her in him. His mother was fair in every manner he was dark in. It bothered him, that he should look nothing like the person he loved most in the world, his own mother.

A rough voice broke through.

“Stop hogging him, Imeusimus!”

Telemachus pulled back slightly, turning toward the man who had spoken.

He stood just behind his uncle, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips curled in mild exasperation. His golden hair was not as dark as Uncle Imeusimus’, closer to mother’s, the colour of morning sunlight rather than the rich, deep gold that adorned the halls of his father’s palace and the ornaments of his home. And his eyes–

Green.

Like Uncle Imeusimus’. Like Mama’s.

Uncle Imeusimus laughed, the sound lighter than Telemachus expected.

“My apologies, elder brother,” He said, though there was no true remorse in his tone. He turned back to Telemachus, his smile warm. “This is Thoas, our father’s fourth son – your Uncle Thoas.”

Telemachus blinked.

Thoas.

He knew that name.

Mama spoke of him often, usually with fond exasperation. He had been the wild one, the mischievous one, the brother who never quite listened yet somehow always got away with it. Telemachus recalled her stories of his youthful antics, of the trouble he and his twin brother – his Uncle Perileos – used to cause.

It felt strange to put a face to the name.

He straightened his shoulders, preparing to greet him with the same careful politeness Mother had taught him. But before he could even get a word out, Uncle Thoas reached forward, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him into a firm embrace.

Telemachus gasped.

The coldness of Uncle Thoas’ embrace was just as surprising as Uncle Imeusimus’, if not more so, for there was nothing hesitant about it. His grip was strong, steady, warm in its own way despite the chill of his skin.

With a quiet breath, Telemachus conceded.

He let himself be held.

He did not understand it.

These men had been strangers only moments ago, yet…

They felt like family.

Uncle Thoas pulled back, the linen of his chlamys shifting with the motion, and fixed his green eyes on Telemachus. He looked him over – not roughly, but with the same critical intensity Mama used when checking him for scrapes after a fall, or when he said he was fine but had clearly been crying.

Then, slowly, he frowned.

His cold hand lifted, and with surprising gentleness, he wiped a tear from Telemachus’ cheek using the pad of his thumb. “Why are you crying?” he asked bluntly.

Telemachus stiffened.

Before he could answer, Uncle Thoas glanced up sharply – right past him, toward Diomedes. There was something pointed in the look, something questioning and just shy of accusing.

Telemachus panicked.

No.

They couldn’t know. Not this. Not that he had cried over honey cakes, of all things. It was stupid, shameful, childish—and now that he stood between two tall, cold-handed warriors of his mother’s blood, it felt even more foolish. He opened his mouth, fumbling for some excuse—

But Diomedes stepped in first, his voice calm, steady, unbothered. “He was crying,” he said, “because there are no honey cakes here.”

Telemachus froze, face burning.

“And,” Diomedes added, before Telemachus could sink into the earth, “because his father had grown out of liking them.”

There was a pause.

Then, surprisingly, Uncle Imeusimus let out a quiet chuckle. He crouched again, back to Telemachus’ eye level. “Ah,” he said softly. “That I understand. Truly.”

Telemachus looked up, uncertain.

Uncle Imeusimus gave him a playful smile. “My twin brother and I have been stealing honey cakes from your father whenever we got the chance during the entirety of this expedition. He always let us, pretending like he never wanted them in the first place – how bizarre, as though someone could not want honey cakes.”

A laugh – half-snort, half-scoff – came from Uncle Thoas. “I never understood it, you know.” He straightened, gesturing with his hand. “Though Laertiades was always a strange man. Clever, yes, but who dislikes– ”

“Watch it!” Diomedes snapped.

Uncle Thoas turned slowly, brows raised in dramatic innocence. “What?” he said, blinking as though genuinely puzzled. “All I spoke of was–”

“Watch how you speak,” Diomedes said again, more tightly this time, his voice low but unmistakably serious.

Telemachus blinked, confused by Diomedes’ sudden sharpness.

Why was he angry? What had Uncle Thoas even said? Telemachus wanted to know more about his father’s time here – painful as it might be. Every story, every crumb of memory, was something he could cling to, something that brought him closer to the man he had lost before truly knowing.

He turned to Diomedes, opening his mouth to speak – but Uncle Imeusimus placed a quiet hand on Uncle Thoas’ shoulder.

“Let it be,” he murmured, voice gentle.

Uncle Thoas huffed, his expression flickering somewhere between defiance and reluctant understanding. He looked back at Telemachus, gaze softening, and gave a stiff nod. “Fine,” he said, more to Uncle Imeusimus than anyone else. “Fine. The boy does not need that now.”

Uncle Imeusimus gave a small, sorrowful smile. “It is still fresh. We forget that.”

Uncle Thoas rubbed a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath before they both turned back to Telemachus.

“Would you like to come with us, little one?” Uncle Imeusimus asked, crouching slightly again so their eyes could meet. “Your other uncles are waiting to meet you, our eldest brother Alyzeus was most wrought when he was informed that you had arrived, and he had not been told. They would be pleased most greatly to see you – our Clever Penelope’s son.”

Telemachus hesitated.

He did want to meet them. He wanted it very much. But… he glanced at the plate Diomedes had placed before him, still warm, still full.

His stomach growled softly.

Face flushing with embarrassment, he shifted on his feet, clutching at the hem of his tunic. “I… um… I am hungry.”

For a beat, there was silence. Then, in perfect unison–

“Oh, by the gods!”

“We nearly dragged him from his meal?”

“Penelope would never forgive us if she knew!”

Uncle Imeusimus straightened immediately, hands raised in apology. “Forgive us, Sweet Telemachus! We did not mean to interrupt–”

“You should have said something sooner!” Uncle Thoas added, looking genuinely scandalized. “You are so thin! In my own mother’s name, look at you – have those scoundrels who went to fetch you not been feeding you properly?”

“I am feeding him properly,” Diomedes muttered from behind them, folding his arms with exaggerated patience.

Uncle Imeusimus turned to him. “Of course you are, Tydides, we do not question you on this. It is just – he looks so much like our Penelope did at that age, and she never ate enough yet she was always running about here and– ”

“Please do not compare me to Mama when she was little,” Telemachus mumbled, feeling his face turn redder than ever.

Diomedes sighed, long-suffering. “Telemachus is staying in my tents,” he said. “If you wish to see him, you are most welcome to visit. I would much prefer it if you would not pull him from his plate next time.”

Telemachus brightened. “I do wish to see you again! Mama gave me letters for you.”

That caught their attention.

Both his uncles straightened as though struck. “She did?” Uncle Imeusimus said, looking truly pleased.

“Oh, we will visit,” Uncle Thoas added, more serious now. “You could not keep us away. I do wish to ask how she has been faring – oh my sorrowful sister who has lost so much.”

Right. That.

His father, and now him.

They each leaned down then, pressing kisses to his forehead in turn. Uncle Thoas’ was brief and rough, like he did not quite know how to be soft. Uncle Imeusimus’ lingered, his fingers briefly brushing Telemachus’ hair, his eyes filled with something wordless – joy and sorrow, tangled together.

Then they were gone, the chill of their presence leaving with them.

Telemachus turned to find Diomedes watching him with a look that was almost fond.

“Eat,” he said simply.

Telemachus smiled, cheeks still flushed and obeyed. He picked up a piece of bread, tore it carefully, then used it to scoop up some of the seasoned lamb. But instead of eating it himself, he turned and held it up to Diomedes’ mouth.

Diomedes blinked.

For a moment, he looked so genuinely surprised that Telemachus giggled.

“You have not eaten either,” he said through his laughter, nudging the bread closer.

Diomedes raised an eyebrow in shock, then, without a word, he leaned forward and accepted the bite from his hand. He chewed, slow and deliberate, eyeing Telemachus the whole time as if trying to solve a riddle he had not expected, he looked like Eumaeus did when one of the swine kicked him unexpectedly.

“You are not wrong,” he said finally, swallowing. “But eat your share first. I refuse to lose a battle to a ten-year-old over honey cakes and lamb.”

Telemachus grinned and went back to his meal, warmth finally blossoming in his heart.

AGAMEMNON

Agamemnon’s jaw was clenched so tightly he felt as though he could hear his own teeth grind. The tent was stifling – too many bodies, too little sense. He sat rigidly on the elevated seat at the head of the war council, elbows on his knees, hands folded tight enough to blanch the knuckles, the seat to his right strangely empty.

It was barely past dawn. Half the men in the tent had not slept, and the other half looked like they had not truly woken. The bronze of armour and weapons along the tent walls caught the cold light, a dull shine of wear and exhaustion.

To his left, Precious Menelaus was slumped sideways in his seat, a rough blanket draped over his shoulders, his face blotchy and eyes puffed. He had cried himself to sleep, again. Agamemnon did not have the energy to be upset about it anymore. The grief hung too heavily in the air. It made everyone ridiculous – he too felt like weeping every time he thought of Odysseus too strongly.

Alyzeus sat beside Menelaus, gripping a now-crumpled papyrus in his hand as if it might crush the words written on it. He looked akin to a man who had not blinked in an hour, rubbing at his temple as though the pain there might be hurting him beyond any given relief. Across from him, his younger brother Leucadius was sniffling openly, one hand pressed to his mouth, his other gripping his own knee with white-knuckled ferocity.

Agamemnon rubbed the heel of his palm against his brow and exhaled slowly through his nose. He had the patience of a god, but only when people were not accusing him of things that made no damned sense!

“You hid it from us!” Alyzeus had shouted earlier, and Leucadius had begun weeping right after – right there in front of the generals and captains. “You knew and you said nothing!”

Agamemnon had said nothing in return. At first.

But now? Now his patience had worn itself thin.

“What exactly would I gain,” he said, voice tight and dry, “from hiding your sister’s ten-year-old son from you? Are you listening to yourselves?”

They had not answered. Had not needed to. Judging by the redness of their eyes, the dishevelled state of their tunics, and the clear salt lines down their cheeks, they had already been to see the boy – and wept over him.

Alyzeus stood abruptly, the papyrus rattling as it dropped to the floor. His voice shook with emotion, but not uncertainty. “She has promised – sworn in the name of Hera Hyperchei'ria and Athena Axiopoinos – that she will use herself as a blood sacrifice and curse every man on these shores if something happens to her son.”

The tent went still.

Leucadius let out a strangled sob, pressing both hands to his face now. “Oh, our poor little sister. So full of grief she thinks of ending her own life – she is not well. We must send her word, anything to calm her gentle heart–”

Gentle heart?!

Half the men in the tent turned to stare at him in disbelief.

Agamemnon’s head slowly swivelled in his direction, brows lifting in flat incredulity. “Leucadius,” he said, voice deadpan. “She threatened to use her death as a curse, not a cry for help. She did not swoon as women are wont to do. She all but declared war on us.”

The tent burst into a series of murmurs and shuffling. One of the Myrmidon commanders muttered something about “shades dragging ships into the sea,” and another captain made the sign of warding and praying to some goddess of their pantheon.

Alyzeus pinched the bridge of his nose and whispered something that Agamemnon did not catch – but it sounded like prayer or profanity.

“She has lost nearly everything,” Leucadius moaned. “And now her son – her only son is here in this cursed place– ”

“He is safe,” Agamemnon snapped, cutting through the theatrics. “He is with Tydides of all people. That boy will outlive us all.”

“But that is not enough!” Alyzeus snapped back. “It will not stop her if something happens. And what then? You think you can afford to provoke our Penelope, daughter of Periboea herself, who the gods themselves adore and praise? She has the blood of the gods running her veins, more so any mortal here, I should remind you all well. You think her promise a bluff?”

Agamemnon stared at him.

No.

No, he did not think it to be a bluff.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of it settle heavy on his chest. “Then we keep the boy safe,” he said. “And we keep her from finding reason to bleed. That is but the only way forward.”

He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly, a low, frustrated breath that did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. By the gods, none of this would be happening if Dear Odysseus had not gone and gotten himself killed.

The thought was as bitter as it was familiar.

His jaw tightened. His right hand balled into a fist against his knee, and he had to force himself to breathe through it. The weight of the war, the council, the cursed land beneath their feet – all of it – pressed down harder every time he allowed himself to remember.

Why had Tydides – possessive, ever-watchful, maddeningly protective Tydides – let Odysseus out of his sight then, of all times? What raid had possibly been worth the risk? What moment of arrogance or oversight or divine whim had stolen from them the only man Agamemnon trusted at his side?

By Argive Hera herself, it felt like he was being cast into Tartarus, like Sisyphus and his boulder – only instead of a stone, it was this damn war that kept rolling down on him.

They had been stuck on these cursed shores for ten years. Ten years of dead daughters and buried friends. Ten years of dwindling morale, of watching men grow old under foreign skies. Each passing day more exhausting than the last. And Odysseus had been the only one who could still make him think, still keep his wits sharp when the others dulled with despair or drink or madness. Odysseus had been his – his right hand, his friend, his sanity.

And now?

Gone. Left behind on a field too far from his homeland, with near nothing to remember him by – not even ashes or bones.

The tent burst open, and Agamemnon’s head snapped up. A scout stumbled inside, breathless, dust on his face and panic in his wide eyes.

“They are moving!” the soldier gasped. “The Trojans – they are moving, my King!”

Achilles scoffed, rising to his feet in a smooth, fluid motion, his arm looping around Patroclus’ waist to pull him up as well. “So they finally grow brave,” he drawled, golden hair catching the light like a god’s. “After days of hiding behind their tall little walls like frightened rats.”

He cast a sharp look at the others – at Agamemnon, at the commanders still seated in shock. “We will ready ourselves. The Myrmidons march.”

Patroclus’ hand hovered at Achilles’ arm, silent and alert, eyes already scanning the tent like he was memorizing every face for the last time.

Agamemnon turned sharply to the scout. “How many?”

The soldier hesitated – only for a moment – but his voice trembled as he said it: “A strong host, my king. Not just a show. They mean to fight.”

Another silence. This one colder.

Agamemnon’s jaw clenched again. Damn it all.

Tydides had been clear – painfully, publicly clear – that he would not commit his men to the war while Odysseus’ son remained in the camp. He would not risk Telemachus, not even for the gods.

And now, with a strong host on the horizon and Diomedes’ men held back by their own commander’s grief and stubborn sense of loyalty… things would turn ugly very quickly.

He turned toward Alyzeus, eyes sharp. “Put your men on the field.”

Alyzeus bristled. “You ask me to–”

“I understand your fears,” Agamemnon cut him off, his voice low but firm, the edges of it raw. “Believe me. If it were my son brought here, I would feel the same. But we do not have the good fortune of choice anymore.”

His gaze flicked to Leucadius, pointed. “In removing your men and your father’s men, you endanger your sister’s son. The very boy you wept over last night. Every soldier you keep from the field lessens our chances of keeping this camp secure.”

The tent shifted again. Some heads turned in silent agreement.

Agamemnon softened, just slightly. “I too am fond of Penelope, you know this well,” he said. “None of us wished for this. But so long as we win our battles, Telemachus will remain safe behind our lines. That is the only way.”

Leucadius looked stricken. He turned to his elder brother. Alyzeus only sighed, rubbing at his forehead again, his expression tight with pain.

“…Very well,” he said at last. “I will lead them. They will take the field.”

Leucadius hesitated, but the inevitability had already settled. With a reluctant nod, he too agreed. “We will march with you.”

Agamemnon gave a tight nod. “Good.”

Then he sat back again, weary and burning, the war rising anew in his veins. One hand went to the empty seat by his side.

And in the quiet recesses of his mind, he missed Odysseus so very terribly.

The moment the decisions were made, the stillness shattered.

The tent exploded into motion – men rising from their seats, commanders barking orders even before they had left. Armour scraped and clinked, bronze catching the sharpening light of dawn. Agamemnon remained seated for a heartbeat longer, watching it unfold.

He rose at last, slow but certain, the weight of command settling around his shoulders like a cloak of heavy gold.

Agamemnon stepped outside and into the open air. The morning sky was hard and pale, streaked with amber. The wind carried the brine of the sea and the stench of blood and sweat. He could hear the distant calls echoing through the Achaean camp, horns sounding the alarm, summoning warriors from their tents.

He spotted Achilles in the distance already striding down the slope with Patroclus close behind, his Myrmidons forming around him like a gathering storm already. Fast and obedient, they moved with terrifying purpose. Good. Let the Trojans meet the fury of Achilles first.

Further down, Menelaus had thrown off his blanket and was struggling into his armour with the help of two squires, still pale-faced and watery-eyed but moving. Alyzeus and Leucadius had vanished into the chaos to muster their battalions, and Agamemnon could only hope that they would hold firm once the fighting began.

“Good. Send word to the eastern flank – reinforce the palisades. No exceptions.” He called out to one of the men under his command, who nodded and ran off.

Agamemnon turned to the rising host of Achaeans. Thousands upon thousands, arming, forming lines, shouting commands, tightening straps and lifting spears. The ground shook beneath them, like the drumbeat of war rising in the deep.

The Trojans were coming.

And this time strangely, it felt as though the gods themselves were watching with bated breath.

He drew his sword, bronze catching the dawn’s light, and lifted it high above his head.

“TO THE LINES!” he roared. “HOLD FAST AND FIGHT!”

A thunder of war cries erupted in response.

And Agamemnon descended into the storm.

The world was fire and bronze and screams.

Agamemnon cut down a Trojan soldier with a roar, the edge of his blade catching just beneath the helmet, splitting skin and bone. Blood sprayed, warm and bright, and the man crumpled like wet clay. Another came at him – a younger warrior, too eager – and Agamemnon sidestepped, slamming the hilt of his sword into the boy’s jaw before burying his blade in his gut.

They were endless.

The Trojans came in waves, mad with battle fever, emboldened by whatever cursed wind filled their ranks this morning. The Achaean line was thinning – too many breaks, too many gaps. He saw it in the way men clutched at wounds mid-step, in how shields buckled under spear blows, in the twitch of retreat behind their eyes.

They needed the Argives.

He spun around, panting, sweat streaking down his face and dripping into his eyes. Behind him, yet another Achaean dead lay twisted in unnatural poses. Ahead, the sand was already stained red.

Then he heard the cry.

“TEUCER!”

The name cut through the din of war like a struck bell. Agamemnon’s gaze whipped right. He saw it – a black-feathered arrow arcing low, a sickening thunk as it buried into Teucer’s side. The archer staggered, bow falling from his hands, blood blooming from beneath his arm as he crumpled to his knees.

“NO!”

A bellow answered the cry – Telamonides, charging to his brother’s defence. But no sooner had he lifted his shield to cover Teucer than a spear found his own exposed flank. It tore clean through the bronze like papyrus. The giant of Salamis faltered, face twisted in rage and disbelief, before crashing down beside his brother.

Agamemnon surged forward – but a line of Trojan footmen intercepted him, shields raised, spears poised.

“Out of my way!” he thundered, slashing at the first one, cutting through his shoulder to the chest. But more came, like frogs in a flood.

He fought like a man possessed. Blade swinging, shield battering, blood slicking the grip of his sword. His arm ached, his shoulder screamed, but he did not stop. He could not afford to.

Then–

“PATROCLUS!”

The voice rang out, raw and stricken, and Agamemnon’s head snapped toward it.

Achilles.

Across the field, Achilles was clutching Patroclus – who lay bleeding, a Trojan spearhead jutting cruelly from his thigh. Achilles’ looked wild, face pale with terror. In his distraction, a Trojan soldier lunged at him – but Achilles turned, too late.

A spear grazed his shoulder, slicing through golden skin.

Agamemnon’s heart dropped.

The fool who dared touch Achilles was dead a heartbeat later, cleaved open by the Myrmidon prince himself. But it was not enough. This was madness. Madness.

Teucer, Ajax, Patroclus, Achilles – all struck in the same span of moments? Was this divine wrath? A curse?

Achilles bellowed again, and with one arm, he hefted Patroclus over his shoulder. Agamemnon broke through the last of the Trojan line, cleaving a path toward them.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Get them to the camp!”

Achilles did not argue. Blood dripping from his arm, he dragged Patroclus back while Agamemnon moved to shield their retreat. Ajax, groaning but not yet dead, was hauled by two Myrmidons, Teucer slung between another pair.

“Get them out!” Agamemnon roared, his throat raw from screaming. He fought like a wall behind them, cutting down anyone who dared approach, until the four injured men had disappeared behind the shield line.

What sort of madness was this?

Four of their finest – downed. Wounded.

He turned back to the fray – and saw something that made his blood run cold.

In the centre of the chaos, dozens of Trojan soldiers were running.

Running toward the ships.

“NO!” Agamemnon howled, voice cracking from the force. “The SHIPS – THEY ARE GOING FOR THE SHIPS!”

But it was too late. The Trojans had broken through a section of the flank, and a spear of their force now raced along the sand, making for the black-hulled vessels. Fires glinted in their eyes.

If they reached the ships, they would burn the entire fleet. They would be trapped here.

Then someone blocked his path. A tall figure, dressed in gleaming bronze, face split into a wild grin.

“Ah,” said Deiphobus, son of Priam, eyes shining like polished armour. “And here stands the great King of Men. Come to greet the end of his kingdom?”

Agamemnon did not hesitate. He struck.

Deiphobus parried with a laugh, sidestepping with infuriating grace. “You are late, Agamemnon. The gods have already chosen their side.”

“You will need more than Lord Ares’ favour to keep your guts inside your body, Pallas herself favours us.” Agamemnon growled, slashing again, then again, forcing the man back.

The two circled each other in a blur of blade and blood. Deiphobus was quick, taunting between attacks. “You see the panic, do you not? The unravelling? Your best are falling, one by one.”

Agamemnon lunged, grazed his shoulder. Deiphobus hissed, retaliated with a sweeping blow that Agamemnon barely deflected.

Then the prince grinned wider and said, “But it is not your ships Hector wants.”

Agamemnon paused just long enough to hear it.

“What?”

Deiphobus’ eyes gleamed with amusement and malice. “It is the boy. Your Odysseus’ whelp. The one hidden behind your lines. Hector means to spill his blood as tribute to our victory. You think we would not know with Lord Apollo himself on our side? Your schemes of using the boy to win this war? Fools thinking that Noble Hector would allow for such a thing to happen.”

Agamemnon’s heart stopped. A cold spike drove through his spine.

Telemachus.

That was their goal all along.

He feinted left, then brought his blade down hard across Deiphobus’ shield. The Trojan staggered, and Agamemnon took his chance. He slammed his shoulder into the prince’s chest and hurled him back into the sand.

No time to finish it.

“GUARDS!” he shouted, already turning. “SHIELD THE SON OF ODYSSEUS!”

He ran, blood pounding in his ears, voice booming like thunder across the battlefield.

“TO THE BOY! TO THE BOY! FALL BACK AND DEFEND ODYSSEI—”

The rest of the name was swallowed by the chaos.

But the battle had shifted.

And now, it was not the ships at stake.

It was the last piece of Laertiades still left in the world.

Chapter Text

TELEMACHUS

Telemachus sat cross-legged on a blanket in the tent, staring at the bowl in front of him with quiet dread. It was not that the food was too bad – bread soaked in broth, some dried figs, and a wedge of pale cheese – it just would not go down. Not properly. Every time he tried to swallow, it felt like his throat caught on something invisible, like his sadness made solid.

Across from him, Diomedes was watching him like a hawk.

“That is but your third bite,” the man said flatly.

Telemachus glanced up, sheepish. “I am chewing!”

“You are brooding.”

“I can chew and brood,” he mumbled, stabbing a fig with his fingers and popping it into his mouth.

Diomedes did not laugh, though his mouth twitched. “You will need strength. If something were to happen– ”

Telemachus looked away. “Something is always happening.”

Silence.

Then the sound of Diomedes exhaling through his nose, sharp and irritated. From what he had gathered, the King did not like being helpless, and Telemachus had started to understand that Diomedes considered protecting him not just a duty, but a way to feel useful.

He wished it helped him eat better.

He missed Ithaca.

He missed the way the olive trees turned golden in the late light, the way the goats wandered too close to the cliffs and got scolded by old shepherds. He missed the sea breeze curling into the halls, the salty scent of his home. He missed the soft shuffle of his mother’s sandals, the press of her cold hand against his hair.

He missed sitting on her lap and letting her feed him warm, honeyed cakes even though both of them knew was far too old for it!

He missed her sweet humming.

And above all, he missed the comfort of knowing his father was out there somewhere, in command, outwitting and besting kings and monsters alike. If Odysseus were alive, everything would be better.

His mother would not be heartbroken and alone.

He would not have to be here.

The bowl wobbled slightly as he picked it up again, determined to finish it.

The night before drifted back to him, soft and strange yet comforting all the same. His uncles – at least, the ones still alive – had come to see him.

Uncle Leucadius had walked in and immediately burst into tears, which had been startling. He had clutched Telemachus’ face and kept saying, “You’re her boy. Gods, you look just like her,” through heavy sobs. It had made Telemachus terribly happy, having yet another person comment on how he looked like his Mama! Uncle Leucadius too had the same sea green eyes as Mother. Not the olive-dark of her other siblings.

Uncle Alyzeus had pulled him into his lap, grumbling about how tall Telemachus had gotten and how he had forgotten that he was not but a babe in his sister’s arms – Telemachus had resisted the urge to pout at that – and ran his fingers through his hair in a way that made Telemachus bite his lip hard. He had to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep from crying outright.

It was too much like Mama.

Too much like home.

They had told him that not all her brothers were here.

Two were already gone.

Uncle Perileos had crouched beside him and explained gently – almost proudly – how his Uncle Damasippus had driven a spear through the son of Ares before falling, and how his Uncle Aletes had dragged a son of Zeus into the sea to drown, even as he bled from wounds that could not be bound.

Heroes, they said.

Dead, he had thought.

He did not know those two uncles, but his heart had squeezed painfully anyway. His mother had lost two of her brothers and her husband before her son even arrived at this cursed shore. How much more pain was she expected to carry?

He hated the war for that. For her.

And then the morning had come like thunder.

The clash of shields. The cries of soldiers sprinting past the tent. Dust kicked up in waves. Panic crawling under the skin of the camp.

Diomedes had been pacing at his side when he had gotten up, rubbing at his eyes, the older man’s sword already belted to his waist, barking orders at anyone who came too close. When Telemachus asked what was happening, the man had snapped–

“The bastards are trying something. Maybe a raid, maybe a full charge. Trojans never have the spine to face us straight – always something tricksy.”

Telemachus had not bothered interrupting Diomedes as he continued. He just sat there while the King went on. About cowards, about foolish commanders, about whatever divine spite had led to this war dragging on for ten years.

It occurred to Telemachus that the man did not really expect him to answer.

He just needed to speak – to unload some of the fury, the tension and upset that had been ringing through him. And somehow, Telemachus being here, being safe, gave Diomedes that space. Like Telemachus could be a rock in the river.

Something still.

So he let him.

Now the food in his bowl remained mostly untouched, despite Diomedes’ tight-lipped glare. The sounds of war still hadn’t stopped. Something was happening out there.

War and battle.

Telemachus looked down at his hands. They were trembling – fear.

A part of him wanted to fight. To do something. To stop being a silly babe hidden behind walls while the people his Mama loved kept dying.

Though, he had noticed something odd that morning, something that stood out amidst the cries and chaos of battle bleeding into camp: none of their people had left. Not the Cephallenians, not the Argives under Diomedes’ command. They had not even readied or armed themselves.

Some of them had come to their tent and sat with him, telling him about his father and his antics – Uncle Eurylochus followed by a handful of Cephallenians with weathered faces – the loss of their king had been a heavy one for them he could tell. Diomedes stood to the side, obviously tense but saying nothing.

Uncle Eurylochus had taken a seat beside him with a sigh that sounded far older than he looked. “We came to check on you, little King.”

Telemachus had frowned at the title, but did not protest it.

I am their King, me, not anyone else.

A man with a bent nose and sun-darkened skin nodded solemnly. He had introduced himself as Polites, “an old friend of your father,” he said, with a sad smile. “One of his oldest. Fought beside him in Troy, and before that, travelled with him across the Archipelago. I knew him before he was king.”

Telemachus’ chest tightened at the way the man said knew.

In the past.

Even now, even after all this time, hearing his father spoken of as though he were truly gone stung like salt in a wound.

Polites laid a hand on Telemachus’ shoulder. “Your father would not have wanted you here.”

Telemachus felt a wave of frustration rise. “But he is not here. And my mother–”

“Did not wish for you here either,” Uncle Eurylochus said gently, but firmly.

“You are a child,” another man said. “A brave one, perhaps. A dutiful one. But still too young.”

“It is an insult to your father’s memory,” Polites said. “To drag his only son to the battlefield.”

Telemachus rose to his feet, heart pounding. “I did not drag myself here for glory. I came because there is a prophecy – because if I do not, then Ithaca will fall, my mother will – ”

“We know,” Diomedes interrupted. “We have heard it all. Still does not mean we must tolerate it.”

It was a strange sort of protest – their refusal to fight not from cowardice, but loyalty, loyalty to him and his father. Their swords were laid down in defiance of the very fate that demanded Telemachus be part of this war.

Telemachus sat again, hard, fists clenched in his lap.

They did not understand.

Of course, he knew his father would have never wished for him to be here.

He had heard it in nearly every tale he had been told of his father from his Mother, Grandmother and Grandfather. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. But what choice did Telemachus have? If he had stayed in Ithaca, war would come to them anyway. If he had stayed hidden, others would die in his place.

He had to be here. He had to.

Before he could say another word, the light in the tent dimmed suddenly, as though clouds had swallowed the sun. The air shimmered – and then, in the space beside the tent's entrance, Athena appeared.

Telemachus straightened at once, his breath catching.

She looked… dishevelled.

I didn’t know deities could look like that, Telemachus thought.

Not physically – no strand of her fierce red hair was out of place, and her armour glowed with the sharp gleam of the stars – but there was a tension to her posture, a frenzy in her bright eyes that unsettled him. She seemed more storm than goddess, her presence crackling in the stillness of the tent.

“Summon your men,” she said without any greeting, her voice urgent. “Now. You must march into battle.”

Diomedes frowned. “The rest of the Achaeans will mana–”  

“They are losing,” Athena corrected sharply. “Because you are not there. The gods are pushing the Trojans forward. They exploit your hesitations. They ride on the backs of your indecision.”

“But if we leave–” Uncle Eurylochus began, glancing toward Telemachus.

“If you stay, you endanger him even more,” Athena cut in. She stepped forward and laid a hand on Diomedes’ shoulder, her eyes flaring with an emotion Telemachus could not place – fear, perhaps, hidden deep beneath a mask of divine command.

“You are amongst the finest warriors I have ever deemed worthy of my favour, son of Tydeus,” she said, not softly but with weight. “You have slain what men thought unkillable. And I need you in this battle if the Achaeans are to survive it.

“This is not your time to stand still,” she continued. “This is the hour for wrath and blade – spill your grief and sorrow upon the battlefield. You must move.”

Neither man spoke. The tent felt suddenly much smaller, the weight of her words pressing in on all of them.

Then Athena turned to Telemachus.

She said nothing to him.

But he understood it all the same: Athena was worried. Truly worried. But she would not – could not – bring herself to say it aloud. Not here, not in front of men and soldiers and king.

Kings.

Uncle Eurylochus was the first to rise. He gave Telemachus’ shoulder a final squeeze, then turned to the gathered Ithacans. “Come,” he said. “You heard the goddess.”

The others followed, quickly and without protest now that a divine command had been given. There was no more room for defiance, not when the gods themselves had taken the field. Even so, Polites lingered for a moment, his brow furrowed.

Then, wordlessly, he reached out and ruffled Telemachus’ hair, the gesture far too casual and warm for the tension wrapped around them. “Keep that head on your shoulders, little prince,” he muttered. “And maybe do not grow up too fast – your father’s heart would not bear it.”

Telemachus swallowed and tried not to cry. He could only nod.

And then they were gone. All of them.

Only Diomedes remained, arms crossed, unmoved. His jaw was tight, like it had been carved from stone.

Athena turned to him.

“I said you must go,” she repeated. “The line will break if you do not. And if it breaks, this camp will not stand.”

Diomedes did not move, even though Athena herself was telling him to.

“You do not trust me?” she asked.

“I trust you, Goddess. With my life and more. You have guided me since I was but a boy.” he said, voice low. “But you ask me to leave him here. Alone.”

“I do not ask,” Athena replied. “I command.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There are no gods among the Trojans that I cannot face. But their ranks are bolstered by three of my kin… and so the men will keep falling. I cannot stand in the place of a mortal – four great warriors from the side of the Achaeans have been forced to retreat. You are the only one who can hold them back today.”

“He will be safe if the Achaeans do not lose today.”

Telemachus watched Diomedes’ face shift, flickering between reluctance and duty, until at last the King relented. He turned to Telemachus, crouching just a little to meet his eyes, and offered him a grin – tight, but real.

“I will be back before you finish your broth,” he said.Telemachus huffed a laugh. “I have barely touched it.”

“Exactly.”

The joke was thin, the moment fleeting, but it was something. Diomedes clapped him on the back once, stood, and strode out of the tent without looking back.

As soon as he was gone, Athena exhaled deeply and reached toward one of the sealed chests at the rear of the tent. From within, she pulled out the armour that she had had commissioned from Lord Hephaestus himself – so finely crafted that it was plainly obvious that some god of their pantheon had made it, though too small to belong to any grown man. It shimmered and glowed against the light of the braziers, intricate engravings on its gold surface, forged for him and him alone.

Telemachus stared.

“I thought you said I would not be fighting,” he said carefully.

“You will not,” Athena answered, sharp and sure. “This is only for your safety. A precaution.”

He nodded, stepping forward as she began to dress him in piece by piece. The breastplate settled snugly over his torso, though it was cold at first, then warm as his body fit beneath it. She fastened the straps with quick, practiced movements, then slid the bracers onto his forearms.

She worked in silence, her brow furrowed ever so sli

ghtly, as though some calculation played out behind her eyes.

Finally, she placed the two horned helmet upon his head, carefully as though she was worried she might crush his head.

Do helmets crush a mortal’s head?

Was this something I should worry about?

When she finished, she stepped back and looked at him – not with pride, but with worry. She raised a hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“You will stay here,” she said, softly now. “You do not leave this tent. No matter what you hear. No matter what you think you must do. Do you understand me?”

Telemachus nodded.

“I shall be back soon,” she said.

He reached up and covered her hand with his. “May fortune favour you in battle, my lady.”

That made her pause. The corners of her lips tugged upward. Then, in a comforting and soothing gesture, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead before ruffling his dark curls, just like Polites had moments ago – though far less gently.

Then she turned and was gone, as sudden and bright as a falling star.

Telemachus took a deep breath in and sat down, continuing to slowly eat.

Everything is going to be fine.

AGAMEMNON

They were losing.

They were losing, and there was nothing Agamemnon could do to stop it.

Every command he gave seemed to vanish into the screams and smoke. Shields clanged like bronze thunder, and the air stank of blood and sweat and fire. No matter how many lines he tried to reform, how many rallying cries he bellowed, the Trojans pushed harder – like wolves that had caught the scent of weakness.

Hector was nowhere to be seen.

That alone struck a chord of dread through Agamemnon’s spine. The prince was missing, and if he was not among the men charging the frontlines, then he was somewhere else. Somewhere worse. Somewhere with a different purpose.

Like near the camps.

Near him.

“Gods,” Agamemnon breathed, blinking through the haze. “Odysseus will never forgive me. Penelope will never forgive me.”

Iphigenia. The thought came like a blade to the chest. First her daughter. And now – her dearest cousin’s only son? Her sister's boy?

Clytemnestra would tear him limb from limb.

She would make a tragedy out of him so profound that even the Furies would weep.

“We need to hold the damned line,” he shouted at a pair of passing Achaeans, though he was not sure if they were even his men.

We need to protect that boy.

If anything happened to Telemachus – Troy would never fall.

And then, like a spear through the fog, he saw them.

Rushing across the battlefield, bronze flashing, shields raised, voices shouting in defiant song: the Argives.

Tydides’ men.

And beside them – impossible no it cannot be so – the Cephallenians.

Agamemnon stared, slack jawed.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no – why in the gods’ names are they here?!”

They had refused to fight, all of them, loyal to Odysseus in a way that bordered on madness. They had made their choice. Odysseides’ safety above them all.

And now here they were, charging straight into chaos.

He tried to shout – tried to call out to Tydides, to anyone – but his voice was swallowed by the rising clash of war. He could not reach them. Could not warn them.

Could not stop them.

The Goddess. It must have been her.

Only a deathless one could have shifted Tydides’ resolve.

Agamemnon cursed beneath his breath and gripped his spear tighter, eyes scanning the field desperately. There must be someone, he thought, someone still close enough to the camps, still able to break through the Trojan lines and reach the boy if Hector was, indeed, making for him.

“Find someone,” he hissed to himself, heart pounding as he gutted another Phrygian. “Find someone you can trust.”

Odysseus would have known exactly who to send – would have picked some clever, unseen blade to slip through the carnage like wind through reeds.

But Odysseus was gone.

Agamemnon whirled, eyes sharp, searching for someone – anyone – who could be his answer.

Just then, he caught sight of a familiar figure amidst the blood-soaked press of men and war cries – the curved cheekbone, the broad shoulders, golden hair bound back in a familiar knot.

Perileos.

One of Icarius’ many sons. Telemachus’ own uncle – more than that, a warrior he knew could be trusted.

“Perileos!” Agamemnon bellowed, cutting down a Trojan in his path. No response. “PERILEOS!”

The man turned only slightly, confused, trying to place the voice amidst the chaos. Agamemnon cursed, slashed through another attacker, and shoved forward akin to a boar charging through. He carved a path of blood, the desperation lending strength to every blow.

He could not afford to waste time.

At last, he reached the man’s side, grabbing him by the upper arm. Perileos whirled, blade half-raised, recognition flickering in his eyes.

“Atreides?” he shouted over the din.

“I need you to listen,” Agamemnon barked. “It is about the boy. It is about Telemachus.”

That was all it took.

Perileos’ face turned. His jaw clenched, and his grip on his sword tightened. “What about him?” he asked, voice suddenly low, deadly serious.

Agamemnon was already panting from exertion, sweat pouring down his face, blood – his and others’ – coating his arms. He dragged in a breath, remembering the words, the damned words, that had pierced through him like a curse.

“He means to kill him,” He said, eyes locked with Perileos’. “Hector. I heard it from Deiphobus himself. He is not after the ships. Not after any of us. He is after Telemachus.”

Perileos stood utterly still.

No scream. No denial. No panicked gasp.

Only the barest flicker of emotion in his dark eyes.

The look of a man who had just heard a god whisper doom in his ear.

“That is… my sister’s child,” he choked. “Her only child.”

Agamemnon nodded, face grim yet panicked. “I need you to get back to him. I cannot– I cannot leave this front. But if Hector reaches the camps–”

“He will not,” Perileos said immediately. His voice was colder than the winter winds. “Cover me.”

Without waiting for permission, he began pushing his way back, shouldering aside Achaeans and enemy alike, sword singing, desperation and fear and rage clear in his every swing.

Agamemnon turned, pressing himself to the man’s flank, blocking for him, driving back Trojan after Trojan like a damned lion possessed.

It had to be now.

Before Hector made it to the boy. Before the prophecy was broken. Before Odysseus’ son fell, and with him, every hope they had.

Perileos surged forward, Agamemnon on his heels guarding his back.

TELEMACHUS

Telemachus had given up on finishing his food.

The bowl had long since cooled on the low table beside his cot, the figs untouched, the bread going stiff. One of the older slaves – her name he could not quite recall – had tried to coax him into eating a little more, hovering at his side with a soft word and a gentler touch. But he had only shaken his head.

“I cannot,” he whispered, embarrassed. “I cannot bear to.”

She had not argued. Just bowed her head and stepped away, leaving him in the quiet.

Now, he lay curled on his bed, still in full armour, the weight of it pressing down like the thoughts he could not shake.

The tent shook slightly with the wind, but he did not look up. Outside, the screams and clangs of battle continued like a distant storm, and each shout made his stomach twist tighter. His fingers curled instead around the toys his father had made for him, the ones his father had carved himself, by his own hand.

An owl with soft, rounded wings. A snake with a flicked tongue and painted eyes whose tail could be moved. A lion, bright and strong. A soldier in a crooked helmet.

He smiled faintly as he made the owl nudge the snake’s side with its beak, and the snake whip its tail in return. A quiet little scuffle, not a battle. He kept his movements careful, precise – he had spent the better part of the last hour arranging the rest of them into place. They sat in a semicircle around the base of his cot, watching silently, as if an audience to his quiet war.

He did not wish to knock any of them over. He did not wish to start all over again – that sounded ever so tedious. It took so much effort to place them accordingly in the first place. Nothing made him cry like whenever someone messed with his play.

Besides, at the moment, this was the only thing he could control.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, legs drawn up against the chill, though the armour helped slightly with it. It was perfect, as expected of divinely made armour. He did not try taking it off. Athena had asked – no, commanded – that he keep it on, and though adorning it made him feel all sorts of ways, there was little he could do but obey.

And wait.

“Come back soon,” he whispered into the quiet. He was not sure if he meant Diomedes or Athena or everyone.

Would that my father could come back too, how nice would it be.

Telemachus was being silly again.

He blinked back the dampness gathering in his lashes and sat up straighter, brushing the edge of his helmet where it tickled his brow.

No more tears!

He was not a child!

He looked down at the toys again – his own little kingdom – and reached for the soldier with the crooked helmet, holding him aloft between his thumb and forefinger.

“Now see here,” he said in a gravelly voice, frowning sternly at the lion and the owl below. “This is absolutely not the formation that will lead us to victory. The snake is on your left flank. You will never hold the line like this!”

He moved the lion forward a step. “Roar! I hold any line I please!” he declared in a booming voice, then leaned him into the owl’s side. “Owl-thena agrees with me, do you not, Owl-thena?”

Telemachus raised the owl, fluttered its carved wings as best he could, and gave it a gentle, deep voice, doing his best to make it sound like Athena’s, “Indeed. Roaring is a perfectly reasonable strategy.”

He snorted to himself, half-laughing. “You two are impossible,” said the soldier, crossing his little wooden arms with a resigned sigh. “This is exactly how kingdoms fall.”

Telemachus let out a real laugh this time. It bounced gently off the inside of the tent, a little too loud, and he immediately glanced toward the door, pulse quickening. But there was no shadow there. No sudden movement.

The battle outside was a din, but here – here was his place.

A stage for his father’s toys.

He made the snake coil suddenly and hiss, giving it a voice full of mischief: “While you squabble, I strike from below!” It darted – well, he darted it – beneath the owl, who gave a squawk and flapped in surprise.

“Snake!” shouted the soldier. “Treachery!”

“He is clever,” said the owl, sounding quite thoughtful now. “Mother once said that cleverness is more dangerous than strength.”

That sobered him just a little. His hand froze for a moment midair.

“Mother…” he murmured, voice suddenly quieter. “You always said that. You always told me to watch, not just act.”

Then, softly, to himself.

“If you were here, would you believe that I am watching well enough?”

He gave the owl a thoughtful look, as though it might answer.

Instead, he cleared his throat and reached for the lion again, setting it between the owl and the snake. “Very well,” he said, and now the lion sounded tired but brave. “Then let us stand together. I will not let the world fall. Not again.”

The toys stood as they had before, but somehow now they felt different. Poised. Ready.

Telemachus sat very still, then nodded to them.

“I will hold the line too,” he whispered. “Just like you.”

He had just begun to reset the owl’s wings – the left one had tilted too far and he was worried it might break – when the voice rang out.

A man’s voice.

Loud. Sharp. Full of command.

“Spread out,” the voice barked, clear even through the thick tent walls. “He will be close. Look for the Ithacan banners – they will not be far.”

Telemachus froze, fingers still holding the owl mid-flight.

“Find the son of Odysseus.”

His heart dropped like a stone.

“Looks just like the father, I am told. He will not be hard to spot once you see him. Dark curls. Light in the eyes. He is but a child. Kill him if you must – just do not let him escape. Bring his body back without damaging it, I wish to see proof of his death. Remember – the son of Odysseus must die in order to ensure our victory.”

The soldier’s voice was unhurried, almost casual in its cruelty. That made it worse.

Telemachus could not breathe.

He could not think.

Only stare, wide-eyed, at the front of the tent where that voice had come from.

They were here.

Whoever they were, they were here, and they were looking for him.

The son of Odysseus must die.

No.

No, no, no.

The toys slipped from his fingers. Though he clutched the owl tightly in his hand. His other hand clutched at the edge of the bed, the pressure grounding him. But it was not enough.

A scuffling of boots sounded outside, and then another voice – this one lower, with the lilt of command in it – said calmly, “As Prince Hector commands.”

Hector.

The name hit him like a blow to the chest.

Prince Hector.

Best of the Trojans. Slayer of Achaeans. Untouchable, unstoppable.

He had heard the name whispered with dread even by the bravest of the Greek captains – Mama had never allowed for him to sit in on tales that had traversed across the seas about the man.

But whatever he was, Prince Hector was not supposed to be here. Not near him. Not near the tents.

Not near where he was supposed to be safe.

Telemachus began to shake.

His hands gripped the edge of the cot so tightly the wood groaned. He bent forward, nearly doubled over, gasping, trying to breathe. The air did not want to go in. It scraped his throat and burned his chest.

He was going to die.

He was going to die right here, with his toys on the ground and his food uneaten and no sword in his hand – and his mother, his mother would never even know how it happened. Her heart would break. She had already lost his father, and now she would lose him too.

And the worst part–

The worst part was that he was all alone.

“Athena,” he whispered. “Lady, please. Please.”

The door of the tent stayed closed.

The voices outside moved. Left, then right. Boots thudded into earth. Commands were shouted again.

Closer.

Telemachus pressed a hand to his chest. “Breathe. Breathe. You are being stupid. You are being stupid, you are being stupid, Mother says you are clever, you have to be clever–”

They were looking for Ithacan banners.

That meant–

They did not know exactly where he was.

That meant he had time.

He could run.

The thought lit up inside him like a torch in the dark, and with it came a terrible clarity.

He had to get out. Now.

Before they searched this tent. Before they found a boy with Odysseus’ face.

He crawled toward the door slowly, heart hammering so loudly he was sure it could be heard.

He pulled back just a slit.

And saw him.

A tall man, darker than Diomedes, darker than even Telemachus himself, with a lean face and sharp eyes. His hair was tied back, his armour was dark bronze, streaked in something red, and the way he moved–

The way he moved was not like the other soldiers. This was not a man obeying orders.

This man looked akin to a King.

Telemachus bit back a gasp and closed the door again. His knees scraped against the floor. His whole body was trembling, heart pounding so hard it felt like it would leap out of his chest.

Hector.

That was Prince Hector.

There were twenty of them. Or more. And he was ten. He was ten years old, and he had only practiced sparring with wooden sticks, never once raised a blade in real anger, and gods – the gods – were letting this happen?

Tears filled his eyes, hot and stinging.

He did not want to die. Not here.

Not like this.

“I don’t want to die,” he said aloud. “Please. Someone. Please.”

Telemachus curled tighter into himself, knees drawn to his chest, the weight of his armour now feeling more akin to some sort of cage or prison rather than protection. His arms wrapped around his legs, and in one small fist, he clutched the wooden owl so tightly for a moment he feared it might splinter.

The first sob came out as a hiccup, muffled by the crook of his elbow. Then another, quieter one, lips pressed to his knees. He bit down hard, willing himself not to make noise, not to draw the attention of the Trojans that moved just beyond the wooden walls of the tent.

He could not stop shaking.

His mother always said that Father would keep them safe.

“Your father will protect us,” she would whisper into his hair, her hand a comforting chill against his back on stormy nights. “There is no mortal cleverer than him, and there is nothing he would not do for you.”

But where was he now?

Where was the cleverness, the cunning? The endless stories of sharp escapes and silver-tongued victories?

Why was he not here?

He was dead.

Telemachus pressed his forehead hard into the curve of his knees, the tears hot and fast now, soaking into the cloth beneath his helmet.

He wanted his father.

He wanted the man from the stories. The man with the bow no one else could string. The man who could trick a god and smile doing it. The man who chose to go to war instead because he did not wish to harm him. The man who had spent ten years past carving toys for the son he had not seen since he was but a babe.

That man who had loved him.

He wanted him.

If King Odysseus truly did love his son, then how could he leave him like this at this moment?

How could he be dead, and Telemachus still be alive, shaking in a tent like a leaf on the wind, while strangers spoke his death into the dirt?

“I don’t want to be brave,” he choked. “I want you, Father.”

He looked down through tear-blurred eyes at the toys arranged on the floor – the soldier with the crooked helmet, still standing at the front; the lion beside him, the snake poised in a makeshift circle like it were keeping guard.

They were not just mere toys. They were pieces of his father. His father had carved them with his hands. Had painted them. Had made them. Had placed a part of himself into each line and curve.

How could someone who had loved him enough to do that not be here now?

“I need you,” he breathed, barely making a sound. “Please. Just once. Please come.”

But nothing happened.

No shining light. No burst of divine wind. No voice whispering in his ear with clever instructions or heroic plans.

Just the wind rattling the tent again.

And the footsteps, louder now.

And the voice of Prince Hector, somewhere to the west of the camp, calling another quiet order.

Telemachus buried his face deeper and tried not to sob again. He made himself still, like the owl in his grip. He imagined it flying, strong and watchful, like Athena’s own familiar.

Maybe she was watching.

Maybe someone was.

He wanted to believe it. But the fear gnawed at his ribs like wolves, and all he had to hold back the tears was the owl in his hand, worn smooth from years of love.

A toy.

A memory.

He closed his eyes and pressed it to his cheek.

The idea struck like lightning then – swift, brilliant, and impossible to ignore.

The river.

The Scamander.

It ran not far from the Argive camps, its waters always cold, always moving. And freshwater – sweet and untainted, just as Mama had always insisted. Freshwater meant he could breathe beneath it. Grandmother Periboea had whispered it to him once when he was younger, tucked beneath her as his mother swam in the spring. Mortal lungs might strain and falter, but he was of her blood – and so long as he was in water that had not touched the salt of the seas, he would not drown.

He could hide there.

He could live.

A cold ripple of hope spread in his chest, and he sat up quickly, clutching the owl harder. “The Scamander,” he whispered, eyes wide. “They will not search the river. Not there. They would not think–”

He forced himself to breathe in.

Then out.

Then again.

It was a rope. The barest, thinnest rope. But it was a rope nonetheless – and right now, for him who was akin to a drowning sailor in the seas, that was more than enough to cling to.

He wiped at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, even though his hands trembled and his shoulders quaked. His face felt hot and raw from crying, but he pressed the tears away as best he could. There was no time for more. No more sobbing, no more curling in the dark – no more being silly and childish.

He was still scared – so scared – his whole body buzzed with it, but that did not mean he could not try.

“I just have to reach it,” he murmured to the owl. “Then I’ll be safe. Just for a little while. Just until someone comes back.”

Athena would return. Diomedes would. The others would come.

They had to.

His fingers curled tighter around the wooden figure. “Just a little longer,” he whispered to himself. “Be clever. Be quick.”

He turned, crawling slowly to the tent’s door once more. His breath caught as he eased the door open slightly and peeked out.

Silence. No shadows. No boots. The path between the tents to the eastern fields was empty.

He took a shaking breath and stepped out.

The wind met him first – cool, stinging where it kissed the trail of drying tears on his cheeks. His boots crunched softly in the dust. His legs felt like jelly under the weight of the armour, but he moved.

Step by step.

He pulled the door shut behind him. Neatly. Quietly.

No sound, no light. Just another empty tent.

He walked quickly, hugging the owl to his chest with one arm. His other hand hovered at the edge of his belt, near the small dagger he had once thought was for show. Now, it felt like the only solid thing he owned.

Ten steps. Twenty.

He glanced toward the nearest hill and cursed softly under his breath.

Fool! He should have brought a blanket. Anything to hide his face, to cover the face that marked him, the eyes that gave him away. Anyone who had seen Odysseus in battle would recognize him.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “Stupid, stupid.”

A voice rang out behind him – sharp and clear.

“The son of Odysseus is not in the Ithacan camps!”

Telemachus’ stomach dropped. His knees nearly gave out.

They were searching. And they were not far.

He ran.

His feet slapped against the dirt, loud now, too loud, but he could not stop. The Scamander was not far. Just past the field. Just beyond the edge. He knew the route. He had walked it before.

He ran faster.

Behind him, voices rose.

“Did you hear that?! That way–!”

He did not turn. He did not dare.

His breath came in short, frantic gasps, his vision blurring once more – not from tears this time, but from the speed, from the fear pounding in his chest like the loudest of songs he had ever heard played.

It was why he did not see the man until they collided.

One second, Telemachus was running blind, feet pounding against the earth, heart crashing against his ribs. The next – he slammed into something solid. A body. Arms grabbed him.

“Telemachus!” a voice gasped, song-like yet desperate.

Telemachus looked up, breathless and stunned.

It was Uncle Perileos.

His uncle looked just as he felt – winded, wild-eyed, sweat streaking his brow. His hair clung to his face, and his armour was askew, but none of that mattered. Because in the split second their eyes met, all of that terror turned to something else:

Relief.

“Gods,” Uncle Perileos breathed, pulling him into his arms. “Thank the gods, I found you–”

A voice behind Telemachus rang out like a blade through mist.

“There he is.”

Telemachus went still. His blood turned to ice.

He twisted, only slightly, and saw the shadow behind him. Bronze glinting. That same calmness in his tone.

Prince Hector.

“No–” Uncle Perileos snarled. His arms tightened, and he yanked Telemachus behind him with a firm grip on his wrist, shoving the boy behind his body like a shield. “Behind me,” he barked. “Stay behind me.”

Telemachus clutched the owl tighter, legs trembling. He could not move. He could not think.

His uncle stood firm, sword drawn now, eyes locked on the man before them.

“Hector,” he spat, like the name itself was poison. “Do you feel no shame? Hunting a boy who has barely seen his tenth year?”

The Trojan prince stood still in the grass, his sword still sheathed, but his expression unreadable. The wind stirred the ends of his dark hair.

“This is war,” Hector said. “And war is not made of fairness. It is made of choices. Hard ones. Necessary ones.”

Telemachus saw his uncle stiffen.

“I will carry the guilt,” Hector continued, voice steady but quiet. “And it will consume me, I know it. But I will live knowing my family – my son – will survive because of it. Just as you had no qualms bringing a boy into a battlefield, I have none in ensuring he will not become a man.”

Telemachus’ stomach twisted. His knees shook.

“I am not—” he tried to speak, but his voice caught. “I’m not ready to die.”

Telemachus stumbled back.

Then fell.

Suddenly, the world tilted.

His hands scraped against the rough ground, his forehead hitting hard. He let out a small cry, dizzy and dazed.

Everything was spinning.

And then came the sound of metal.

A sword being drawn.

His uncle’s voice was a roar, full of fire.

“RUN TELEMACHUS!”

Telemachus blinked the blur from his eyes. His hands clawed at the dirt.

“I–” he tried to stand, tried to lift himself with trembling limbs.

His knees screamed. His head pounded. But he did it.

He turned and fled.

Telemachus ran like the ground was fire and the sky was falling and he needed to find shelter.

His legs moved before he could stop them, before the pain could take him down again. He ran the way he had come, back toward the Argive camps, the only place he knew that might protect him.

Behind him, the sounds of battle clashed – bronze on bronze, war cries and curses. The ground seemed to quake with it.

The wind whipped against his face, drying the fresh tears that streaked his cheeks, but others quickly replaced them. His feet hit the ground too hard, his legs stumbling over uneven steps, the breath rasping in his throat like glass stuck. The owl was still clutched tight to his chest. His heart beat against it, loud and frantic, as though it were trying to escape.

He knew not if the pain in his head was from the fall, or from the fear, or from this sudden scream.

That scream.

Uncle Perileos had screamed.

It was a scream that sounded like something torn in half. Like a mountain breaking.

A terrible, pain-filled scream.

His uncle’s voice.

“No,” Telemachus whispered, half-sobbing, half-breathless. “No no no, he– he’s fine– he’s strong, he– he wouldn’t– he wouldn’t let Hector– ”

He was saying the words more for himself than anyone else. Because if he stopped saying them, he might stop moving. And if he stopped moving, they would find him. Just like they had sworn they would.

Tears blurred his vision. He blinked them away, only for more to fall.

“That wasn’t him,” he whispered, trying to convince himself. “It wasn’t him, it wasn’t—”

But he had heard it.

Clear and unmistakable.

Uncle Perileos, screaming in pain.

His heart shattered in his chest. His legs burned. His lungs begged for air. The world tilted again, but he kept running. He slipped once, almost fell, but caught himself with a palm to the dirt. His other hand stayed curled around the owl, knuckles white with the grip. He did not even feel the pain where he scraped his skin. The only pain that mattered was in his head and his heart, and so he had forced himself to get up.

The camps were close.

He just had to make it.

He just had to make it.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, someone– please be there–”

Papa I need you.

Behind him, the sounds of battle still echoed. But the scream no longer repeated.

That silence was worse than anything.

And still, Telemachus ran.

He tripped again. This time his fall was harsher.

The ground met him hard and cold. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, fresh blood welling on his mouth.

He did not know how long he lay there – five seconds? Ten? – before he pushed himself back up. His legs were trembling, his arm scraped raw, but he kept going.

The edge of the Argive camps was ahead. He could see the faint outlines of the tents. He knew this place. He had been safe here. He would be safe again.

He just had to make it a little further.

Yet he couldn’t.

He couldn’t get up.

He tried. He really tried.

He pressed his palms against the earth, shaking and scraped, elbows locked and knees twitching. But his body wasn’t listening anymore. His legs quivered and collapsed beneath him, and his head swam in a way that made the world spin.

The tents blurred before him. Everything was smeared and red.

Blood, he realized distantly.

That’s why it hurt so much. That was why the world kept tilting sideways. His head had struck something – again. The ache throbbed dully now, like it had settled into his skull and was beating a war drum in time with his heart.

“Please,” he mumbled. “Just a little… just a little more–”

But then he heard it.

A voice. Soft, tired, and not far behind.

“Please do not make this harder than it already is, Odysseides.”

Telemachus froze.

He did not need to look. He already knew.

But he turned anyway, slowly, the way someone turns to face a storm they cannot outrun.

Prince Hector stood there, not ten paces away. He looked as worn as the voice that had spoken – his shoulders slumped, his hair unbound and tangled, and his sword already drawn. He was breathing heavily, as though he had run just as far and fast as Telemachus.

As though this was costing him something.

Telemachus blinked, and blood ran into his eyes.

That’s what it is, he thought vaguely. That’s what’s blurring everything. Blood.

The pain in his head made sense now. He’d struck it too hard. Twice. Maybe more.

Is this how I will die?

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to.

“Please,” he said aloud, voice trembling and thin.

He dropped the owl.

It fell beside him with a soft thud, landing in the dust like a little broken thing. Telemachus did not dare reach for it. He needed his hands. Needed them to push himself backward, even if only an inch. Even if it did nothing.

He pressed his palms to the earth and inched away from the man before him, eyes wide and full of tears. His breath came in frantic hitches. The wind burned against the drying blood on his face.

“Please don’t,” he whispered. “Please, I don’t– I don’t want to die. I’m not– I’m my mother’s only child.”

He didn’t care how pitiful he sounded. He was pitiful.

Fatherless. Alone. Injured.

And afraid.

So afraid.

“I haven’t done anything,” he pleaded. “I haven’t– I didn’t kill anyone– I haven’t even seen real war yet–”

Prince Hector looked at him.

His face was carved with sorrow.

Real, heavy sorrow.

His eyes were hollow in the fading light, his jaw clenched like it hurt to speak. His whole body looked like it was breaking under the weight of what he was about to do.

But what did that matter?

What did guilt matter if the sword still rose?

What did it matter if he looked mournful while he killed him?

Hector raised the blade. Slowly. As though he had to force himself to do it.

Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut.

He curled in on himself, arms drawn over his head, chest heaving with silent sobs. Somewhere in the dirt, the owl waited – abandoned.

He thought of his papa.

Will you come for me?

That was all he wanted to know.

When he died – when his head was struck, when his breath left him – would Papa come?

Would he guide him to the Underworld, like the heroes of old?

Would he even know?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I’m sorry Mama.

Then he waited.

For the blow.

For the end.

ODYSSEUS

The shore finally gave way.

Odysseus stepped onto the sand with a grunt, his small vessel creaking behind him, water lapping at its hull like some manner of untrained hound. His boots left prints on the packed earth as he surveyed the empty stretch of beach. No sentries. No signal fires.

And more troubling – no ships guarding.

He shaded his eyes with one hand, gaze sweeping toward the northern waters.

Nothing.

No sails. No silhouettes.

Not a single trace of the Thracian inspection fleet that he had put into place.

His jaw clenched.

The Greek fleet, stationed near the Thracian straits, was supposed to monitor all ships sailing near here. His idea. His order. A barrier against Trojan trickery, though it had yielded them fruit a plenty and saved them from many a raid. And now they were just... gone?

“Gone for a month,” he muttered to himself. “And already the walls start to crack.”

Typical.

He shook off the salt from his cloak and started up the slope toward the camp. His camp. And though the Achaean lines were quiet, unnervingly so, the faint metallic hum of battle drifted from somewhere far off – echoing like a restless god behind the hills.

Of course.

Of course he would arrive during a skirmish. He rolled his eyes and kept walking, one hand brushing the hilt of the knife at his belt.

Just to be safe, he plucked a sword from the ground as he passed – a short blade, clearly Achaean. He turned it in his palm, weighing it, testing the balance. Passable. It would do.

The tents of the Ithacan camp stood ahead, their once-pristine lines of canvas now smudged with dust.

He rounded a corner – and found a soldier standing there, spear in hand, bronze dully gleaming.

The man froze, eyes wide with horror. His jaw dropped open, lips trembling.

“You are alive–” the Trojan began.

Odysseus smiled without warmth. “Surprise.”

The blade slid into the man’s gut before he could blink.

The Trojan gasped, coughed, fell – body twitching in the dirt. Odysseus stepped over him without casting him a glance, casually kicking the corpse aside like it were a broken spear.

But he paused then.

Frowned.

How in the gods’ names did a Phrygian get into our camps?

The defences most certainly should have held. There were watchmen. Routines. Patrols. All things Odysseus had seen to himself. This was no coincidence. This was breach.

His eyes narrowed.

He moved slower now, walking through the outer rings of the tents, his steps measured. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the scent of wrongness. In the distance, the battle still roared – sporadic, frantic – but here, there was no movement. No sound save the wind tugging through canvas.

Then he saw them.

Three men rounding the edge of a tent, Phrygian leather beneath bronze armour. Their mouths fell open as one.

They recognized him.

He could see it – the disbelief, the dread. Word had spread, clearly. That he was dead. That the infamous king of Ithaca had drowned or burned or vanished into smoke.

Disappointing news, evidently.

“Odysseus–” one managed, half a gasp.

He did not permit them to finish.

They came at him fast – panic making them sloppy. Now why is my sheer presence inducing them to panic? The first rushed in low, aiming for his gut. Odysseus sidestepped and let the man’s own momentum carry him forward, driving his sword clean through his side. A twist. A shove.

Dead.

The second slashed wide – too wide. Odysseus ducked beneath it and rammed the hilt of his blade into the man’s nose. Cartilage cracked. The Trojan howled, stumbling back, only to be gutted moments later.

Dead.

The third screamed and lunged blindly, bloodlust and rage mingled. Odysseus caught his wrist mid-swing, yanked him off-balance, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat. He collapsed, gasping for air he would not find – though he could most certainly attempt to seek it in Erebus.

Dead.

Odysseus straightened, panting once.

Three. Infiltrators. And that made four with the man before.

He exhaled slowly.

Just how many had crept into their camps while he had been gone?

He turned, the sword still warm in his hand, and surveyed the path ahead – the heart of the Ithacan camps. His eyes swept for motion. His ears strained for sound. If Phrygians were here, inside his camps, then something had gone deeply, catastrophically wrong in the time he had taken to return back.

“Please…”

The word was small.

So small that Odysseus almost missed it, buried beneath the wind and the far-off echoes of bronze and screaming men. But he heard it. He heard it, and it stopped him mid-step like an arrow through the chest.

There was pain in the voice, yes – but it was not merely the pain that took him aback. Youth.

That was no grown soldier begging for mercy. That was a boy. A boy’s voice, raw and ragged, barely under the cracking age. The kind of voice that still tripped over its own tongue sometimes. The kind that had not yet learned how to harden properly under the weight of war.

Odysseus turned before he even thought to.

He moved toward the sound, his heart beginning to thud differently now – not the rhythm of battle, but of something worse. Something deeper and distantly familiar – like the voice had made him feel all these bursting emotions once, a long time ago. Something sick and twisting in the pit of his gut, dredging up old instincts that had nothing to do with swords or war councils or clever lies.

He passed through another section of the camp. The wooden tents whispered around him akin to some warning shade.

No allies here. No Ithacan guards. No generals. Just the wind. Just the stink of oil and blood. Just–

“Please don’t,” the voice said again, thinner this time. A whisper cracked over gravel.

And that accent.

That twist of dialect, the shape of the vowels – Ithacan.

Odysseus' pace broke into a run.

He was not aware on how far he went, how many rows of tents he passed, but when he reached the clearing at the heart of the Ithacan ring, time slowed.

There he was.

Hector.

Prince of Troy. Gleaming in sunlight that had no right to fall so gently. The great lion of Ilios, standing straight-backed and still, a bronze spear slack in his hand.

And below him–

A child.

Lying crumpled on the ground with dirt on his skin and blood in his hair. Blood streaking from the hairline down across one eye, no doubt turning the world crimson on that side of his vision. The boy stirred slightly on the ground, his fingers twitching near a patch of dust where a small wooden carving lay – half-buried, almost lost.

Odysseus did not look at the carving yet.

His eyes were locked on the boy’s back. On the way his small form moved beneath the armour, rising and falling too fast. On the wild mess of dark hair, matted with sweat and blood. The child’s body was thin – starved, maybe, or simply too young – but he was not wounded beyond function. No visible gashes save the smear of blood on his brow. The blood Odysseus had seen streaking down into his eye.

The boy had not yet seen him.

He was too fixed on Hector. Too curled beneath the shadow of that famous spear.

Odysseus’ brows drew low. His breath hissed in and out through his nose.

The voice.

It echoed again in his ears, even now that silence had returned. That accent – that tongue. The slight lift of the end of a phrase, the curl of certain consonants.

Ithacan.

But no. No, that made no sense.

He took a single step forward. Then another. Slowly, the blood that had roared in his ears after the earlier fight began to drain away. Replaced by something colder. Sharper.

Why would a boy speak like that here?

It could not be one of his men’s sons. They did not bring children to war. Not even the most careless lords among the Achaeans had done that. It was not merely impractical – it was suicidal. And unthinkable.

Odysseus knew every man under his command. Knew which of them had wives. Knew which had children waiting. Some had babes born just before the ships left, though none of them were as young as his own babe. Some men carried whittled toys as talismans of home. But none had brought them here. That was sacred – only slaves were found on war camps, it was known.

So who in the name of all the gods did they manage to drag in?

And in his absence?

The thought struck him hard. His absence. He had only been gone a month – barely that. Just a sliver of time in this yawning, cursed war. And in that sliver, it seemed the earth had shifted. The sun had tilted. Men had grown careless. Foolish.

Had they taken captives? No – this was no Trojan child. That voice, that shape – it was not Phrygian.

Odysseus’ eyes finally dropped.

To the wooden carving.

The wooden carving lay in the dirt beside the boy who spoke like an Ithacan.

Simple. Familiar.

An owl.

That owl.

A child’s toy owl.

His son’s toy owl.

Odysseus stared.

He did not move. Not even to breathe.

The world narrowed to a single point.

His thoughts flared and collided. Refused to align.

No. No. It is NOT possible. He would be– he would be too young. He was a babe in Penelope’s arms when we left. Just learning to walk. Barely able to smile and laugh. He should be safe. He should be with Penelope. I left guards. I left everything. All for him I left–

It was as though a great hand reached up from beneath the earth and took hold of his spine. Held him still. Held him captive in his own body.

He had carved that owl. Years ago. With a crooked little blade and a warm fire and Diomedes chuckling beside him. It had been a gift. A small one. But made with patience and gentleness and laughter. He remembered the way the grain curved. The nick at the bottom where he had cut too deep. The tiny wings. How he had imagined the joy on his son’s face when he would hold it in his hands.

And now it lay here.

In the dirt.

Next to a boy who trembled under a Trojan spear.

He blinked.

But the world did not change.

The child did not vanish.

The owl did not disappear.

He could not see the boy’s face from where he stood.

Odysseus took one step forward.

The blood drained from his face, and the ringing in his ears only got louder and louder.

No.

It could not be so.

It was not possible.

Telemachus was safe. He was far away. He was at home. He was with Penelope. With guards. With tutors. With books and food and warm fires and the sea wind of Ithaca – not here.

Not in this cursed place. Not on this blighted shore.

The owl rolled in the dirt.

Odysseus saw blood on the boy’s scalp again. Saw his hands, scraped raw. His knees, trembling. The clothes were Achaean, the armour magnificent – as though divinely crafted.

Athena.

Still the boy trembled.

Still he begged.

Odysseus could hear him clear as the spring morning sky, closer: “Please, I don’t– I don’t want to die. I’m not– I’m my mother’s only child.”

I am my mother’s only child.

Not just the word. Not just the voice.

The boy.

My boy.

My Telemachus.

Odysseus’ sword dropped an inch in his grip, like the weight of it suddenly grew too heavy to carry.

The earth tilted again beneath him, but this time he did not right himself.

He could not.

Everything in him – every wall he had built, every defence he had sharpened, every mask he had worn through ten years of blood and battle – split. Not cracked. Not splintered.

Split.

Like the sky before the storm.

He watched numbly as Hector of Troy stood over his son, with a spear poised in his hand, like he might end that precious life Odysseus had helped bring into the world.

There was no reason for Telemachus to be here.

No possible reason. No logic, no explanation that would not collapse under the weight of itself. Telemachus – his child, his only child – was in Ithaca. He was with Penelope. With his mother, Anticleia. With his father Laertes, still tending his farm, slow and silent in his twilight years, likely spending them regaling his only grandson with tales of his son.

They would not let him come here. They could not. They would keep him safe. That had been the point. That had been the whole point. All of this. This war, this decade of pain, this bronze shield Odysseus had draped across his soul – it had all been so that he would never have see war. So that his son would never know the smell of smoke and blood and rotting men.

And yet.

There he was.

The owl carving caught Odysseus’ eye once more.

The boy’s hand trembled as he tried to reach it. Not even to hold it, but just to touch it. Something to anchor him. Something that was his. His fingers closed, shakily, around the tiny figure.

And then – slowly, agonizingly – he began to crawl. One knee. Then the other. Blood smeared the ground where he had lain, and now his hands slipped in it as he pushed himself back.

Away from Hector.

Away from death.

“I haven’t done anything,” his boy said. Telemachus. His Telemachus. “I haven’t– I didn’t kill anyone– I haven’t even seen real war yet–”

The voice cracked.

Odysseus wanted to rip his own ears out so he could never hear such agony again. So he could unhear the fear in them. The pain in them. His boy– his precious babe who was barely bigger than his arm the last he saw him, who could not fall asleep without his father singing to him, for whom this father of his had given up everything to go to war – that precious child was begging for his life on the shores of Troy.

Troy.

Telemachus’ blood was already spilled here. On this cursed soil.

And Hector was raising his spear.

The sun gleamed against the bronze as it lifted, a slow, steady motion, practiced and unhurried.

Odysseus’ mouth moved, but no sound came.

No. No, the gods are not so cruel.

But the gods are cruel. He had known this. Had seen it. In the wasted eyes of starving widows. In the faces of sons broken by their fathers’ legacies. He had whispered prayers into blood-soaked sand and gotten nothing in return but silence and rot.

But not this. Please, not this.

His breath hitched. His heart was a war drum, thundering against the cage of his ribs.

And all the while, the world around him felt wrong. Dimmed. Slowed. As though the moirai themselves were drawing out this moment, drawing it like a bowstring pulled taut, waiting for the snap–

“TELEMACHUS!”

His voice tore the sky.

His boy flinched at the sound, turning his head, and in that heartbeat–

Hector paused.

The Trojan prince had seen him.

Hector’s arm had begun its arc, deadly and true – but for the barest instant, his head turned. Not fully. Just enough. Just enough.

The hesitation saved his son’s life.

He raised the sword in his hand and ran. His feet pounded the earth. His lungs burned. He was unarmoured, half-mad, no shield to his name – but none of that mattered. None of it would ever matter again.

His child. His dear child, crawling away in blood and terror, trying to escape death.

Odysseus did not feel the wind against his face. He did not hear the battle in the hills. He did not register the war around him. Instead he slammed into Hector with the full weight of his body.

Bronze met bronze.

The spear tip glanced off the ground and skidded aside. Not buried in his boy’s chest. Not through his throat.

Telemachus was alive.

Odysseus did not speak. There were no words. His heart burned now for only one thing – rage.

He struck.

If the gods themselves stood in his path now, they too would fall, he cared not.

Their bodies collided like falling stones. Hector was strong – Odysseus remembered that now, remembered the man’s size, the way his arms had crushed shields like bark – but no strength of his could match the fury rolling through him. He would rip everyone who was involved in this apart with his own two bare hands if he needed to do so.

He drove his sword toward Hector’s exposed side, howling like some ancient thing from myth. Hector twisted, deflecting the worst of the blow with the shaft of his spear, then stumbled back. His footing broke. They hit the earth together in a storm of limbs and bronze once more.

Odysseus was on him in an instant, knees pinning, blade raised. He struck once – twice – saw sparks fly as Hector raised a bracer to shield himself. He slammed his forearm into Hector’s throat and roared.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?!”

His voice was ragged, unrecognizable to even himself – an animal's cry, raw with terror and grief and fury too deep to name. His blade arced again, and Hector barely deflected it, the edge shearing past his cheek, carving a line of red across that proud, golden face.

“Do you have no shame?” Odysseus bellowed, striking, again and again, like a man possessed. “He’s a child! A child! And you – what kind of man raises his spear against a boy?!”

Hector shoved upward, driving a knee into Odysseus’ side, forcing a breath from him. They rolled – dust and blood kicking up, bronze grating on bronze. The Trojan prince twisted free and rose, spear in hand again, his eyes dark.

“No shame?” Hector spat, circling, chest heaving. “You, Odysseus, would burn the world to protect yours. Do not lie. Do not pretend. I see your face even now. You would cut down the gods if they stood in your way.”

Odysseus surged to his feet, teeth bared. “I would!”

Hector’s voice cracked with the force of it. “I would do the same for my son. For my wife. For Troy! For the ones you and your butchers have attempted to starve for a decade!”

Their blades met mid-air, clanging like thunder, each man driving the other back and forward – ten years of hatred, ten years of grief, ten years of loss.

“I care not about your city!” Odysseus snarled, jamming his shoulder into Hector’s chest, driving him back step by step. “I care not about your noble cause! That is my son – my child – whose life you nearly stole!”

Hector’s voice shattered through the clash of their blades like a war horn:

“ AND I WOULD DO IT AGAIN!”

Odysseus froze – just a fraction of a heartbeat – but Hector seized the moment, driving him back with a blow that jarred his bones.

“A thousand times, Ahhiyawān!” Hector roared, sweat and blood streaking down his face, his eyes wild now – not with battle-lust, but conviction.

The kind of madness only love could make holy.

“If it meant my son will live! If it meant my wife will peacefully wake beside me! If it meant Troy will not burn – I would strike down every boy your son’s age with my own hand!”

The words rang in Odysseus’ skull, and for a breathless instant, it was not Hector’s face before him – it was his own. A mirror of grief. A reflection of what he might have become if he were the one behind the walls, watching ships tighten around his home like a noose.

But then – from the corner of his eyes, he saw his Telemachus again.

Still trembling. Still trying to push himself back.

And all rational thought burned away.

Odysseus screamed – a sound wrenched from somewhere deeper than words – and swung.

His sword cleaved the air with enough force to tear it in two, and Hector barely ducked aside. The blade missed his neck by a whisper. Odysseus struck again, again, and again, no longer thinking, no longer calculating, only feeling – rage and terror, white-hot and blinding.

What if I hadn’t heard him? What if I’d arrived a moment later? What if I’d been too slow? TOO LATE?

He slammed the pommel of his sword into Hector’s temple. The prince staggered, dropped to one knee, and Odysseus was on him, kicking the spear aside, pressing his blade to Hector’s throat.

“If you would murder a child for your city?” he growled, voice shaking with fury. “Then your city deserves to fall.”

Hector’s lip curled – not in fear, but in defiance.

“And yours doesn’t? Ten years you’ve killed our sons. Burned our homes. Tell me, Ahhiyawān, would you even know how many fathers screamed my name when your blades slit their boys’ throats?”

Odysseus struck him.

Open palm, across the mouth.

Blood flew.

But Hector did not stop. Did not flinch.

“You made us monsters. You made us desperate. You came for our walls. You brought this war – you – and now you weep because it touched what you love?”

Odysseus’ breath caught in his throat.

He would have done the same. Had done the same. Would do so much worse.

But this– this was his child. His son. The one pure thing left in a world drowning in rot and bronze and blood. And Hector had dared to raise his hand against him.

His grip tightened on the hilt.

“You speak of desperation?” he rasped, the sword pressing closer to Hector’s skin. “Then let me show you mine.”

He would kill him. He would do it and damn the gods and damn the war and damn every law of man and fate and Olympus itself.

Odysseus drew in one final breath – then let it go like a curse made flesh.

And drove the blade down.

It punched through skin, sinew, and pride with a shuddering finality. Hector's body jerked once beneath him – a sound between a gasp and a growl clawing its way from his throat – and then stilled.

Odysseus did not move. He knelt there, breath tearing through his chest like a broken thing, hand still on the hilt, pressed deep into the hollow beneath Hector’s ribs. Blood pooled beneath the Trojan prince, dark and steaming in the dust. His eyes, wide and stunned, began to glaze.

He stared at the body beneath him. At what was once a man, a warrior, a father. A mirror.

No triumph. No victory. No solace.

Only the slow, rising tide of sickness in his gut. The tremble that began in his fingers and worked its way up through his arms.

Telemachus

He staggered back.

His sword slipped free from Hector’s body with a wet sound, and he let it fall. It hit the ground beside him with a dull, metallic thud. His knees buckled and he collapsed beside it, palms in the blood-soaked dirt, lungs burning like bellows.

His son. His son.

A sob.

A voice.

“Papa…”