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Chapter Text

Odysseus had a small breakdown the first time he realized what was happening.

He was calmly walking through the secret passages of his palace, the ones he had walked so many times alongside a fearful Polites and a brave Eurylochus, lost in memories of his best friends and their shared childhood.

The last moments of both were etched in his mind. The gruesome, bloody death of Polites and the terrible, quick death of Eurylochus still haunted Odysseus in his nightmares.

Every day it became harder not to think about them. Peace felt undeserved and heavy with a sense of emptiness and nostalgia Odysseus had never felt before.

That’s why he always wandered through the secret halls. Trying to let the echo of the laughter of those boys they once were fill his mind, hoping to silence the screams that wouldn’t let him exist in peace.

Odysseus stared silently at the end of the corridor, where three small figures were drawn.

On the right, a burly man with a large sword. On the left, a man with glasses and a shield. And right in the middle, a man wearing a crown.

His eyes filled with tears that blurred his vision. His throat tightened as he pressed his forehead against the porous stone.

The screams came back stronger than before, killing every echo of a happy past that had silenced them temporarily.

Then everything hit him at once. The war, the cyclops, the storm, Poseidon, Circe, Scylla, Zeus, Calypso, the suitors. All he could hear were screams. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the palace corridors anymore—no, he was in Troy, on the ship, in the Underworld, on the island. And all he could hear were screams.

At some point, he started screaming himself, trying to drown out the voices that tormented him. But then, a punch landed on his cheek. That, surprisingly, made all the voices stop at once. Completely. For the first time in years, Odysseus's mind was totally silent.

Until he heard Polites scolding Eurylochus. Wait, what?

When he looked up, Ody was in shock. He felt his entire body go stiff, and his brain short-circuit.

Athena would be so disappointed to see her former champion, known for his silver tongue, completely lost for words.

“Hey! You can’t just punch him like that!” yelled Polites, right in front of Odysseus, trying to stop Eurylochus, who didn’t even seem interested in Polites’ words.

“You said we had to help him,” Eurylochus complained, looking annoyed, as if it were obvious, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“But not like this! You can’t just go around punching people like that!” Polites argued back, clearly determined to defend his point.

Odysseus almost laughed. It looked like any old interaction between Polites and Eurylochus, so many years ago, when none of them carried so much weight on their shoulders and, above all, when the three of them were alive.

“Well, it’s not like I can go around punching people,” Eurylochus replied, irritated, crossing his arms and looking away. “Turns out, when you're dead, you can’t really touch people,” he muttered, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I don’t even know how I managed to hit Ody,” he added, before going silent and stiff.

Polites and Eurylochus looked at each other, stunned, their eyes wide, beginning to pale quickly. Both of their gazes landed on Odysseus, who was still on the ground, looking at them as if—well, as if he were seeing a ghost. Or two, in this case.

“Ody…” Polites turned slowly, his eyes wide and his palms facing out like he was trying to calm a wild animal. “Hey, old friend, can you see us?” he asked gently.

Still dazed, Odysseus nodded slowly, his heart in his throat and his eyes wide. It had been years since he’d heard that voice so clearly.

Sure, Polites had been one of the first voices in his head, but over the years, that voice had begun to distort—until Odysseus almost completely forgot what his old friend had sounded like.

It hurt to realize he had forgotten the voice of the man he always called his best friend. But with Polites right in front of him… oh yes, Polites was right in front of him.

“I’ve completely lost my mind,” he suddenly whispered, letting himself fall back onto the floor. He covered his eyes with his palms, which did nothing to stop the tears. “I don’t just hear them anymore,” he muttered through clenched teeth, clearly upset. “Now I see them too,” he finished with a trembling voice.

For a moment, his mind drifted. Suddenly, he was back on the cliff of Calypso’s island. He could feel the hands of his fallen comrades pushing him closer to the edge, ready to claim the soul of the one who abandoned and betrayed them.

He could hear their desperate final screams. He could see the blank stare on Polites’ corpse. The unreadable look on Eurylochus’ face before the lightning struck him.

Until Eurylochus’s voice suddenly brought him back.

“Captain,” Eurylochus said slowly.

Odysseus groaned, turning on his side on the floor.

The image of Eurylochus closing his eyes before dying hit Odysseus like a blow. The collective scream of his men turned into a ringing in his ears. The scars from the lightning on his own body began to ache. The smell of burned wood assaulted his nose.

And the guilt, the damned guilt that would never let him be, stabbed at his chest like so many times before since he came home.

“Please, shut up,” he whispered with a broken voice, curling into himself. “I had no choice. You killed the cattle of the Sun God,” he muttered, pressing his hands over his ears to try and stop the voices of his dead friends, who were once again starting to scream.

“I know,” said Eurylochus after a pause that felt like an eternity. “I know, Ody.” He sounded defeated. “And I’m sorry,” he finally said.

Odysseus froze. Eurylochus would never apologize.

His brain should know better. Eurylochus had always been the kind of man who stood by his ideals to the end. That’s why he had been his right hand.

That’s why Odysseus trusted him more than anyone—until that trust nearly got them killed several times, until it finally did.

But the illusion of Eurylochus didn’t seem to get the message.

“For putting you in that impossible position, and for everything that came before and after. I hope one day you can forgive me, Captain,” he said, with so much pain in his voice that Odysseus wanted to believe this illusion’s apology.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he asked, catching both figures’ attention. Odysseus sat up just enough to see them. “Eurylochus died hating me. You think you can convince me otherwise?” he asked with a sick amusement in his weak voice.

If his brain wanted to play games with him, he wasn’t going to sit idly by. He hadn’t been Athena’s champion for nothing. He could fight dirty—even against his own mind.

The illusion of Eurylochus flinched and stepped back in surprise. It was so similar to the real Eurylochus’ usual startled reaction that Odysseus wanted to scream.

“Of course not, Captain!” he suddenly shouted, stepping forward and crouching to Odysseus’ level. “I never hated you, my friend,” he said with pain in his voice. “I had just lost hope,” he added, his dark gaze locking onto Odysseus’s, as if he could see straight into his soul.

But illusions couldn’t do that.

Odysseus was ready to argue with the illusion of Eurylochus until a hand landed on his shoulder, shocking him.

Eurylochus kept talking, but his words faded into distant echoes as all of Odysseus’ focus went to the hand on his left shoulder.

That was impossible. Illusions couldn’t touch him. Except for that one time on Ogygia, Odysseus had never felt the touch of his old comrades. He had assumed it was exhaustion, hallucinations, or Calypso’s magic.

But now, his world was turned upside down.

At some point, a hand from Polites took his, tugging gently as if trying to get his attention. Odysseus could only look at him without really seeing. Logically, this was all in his mind. But it felt too real.

“For the Gods’ sake, Ody! Snap out of it!” Polites shouted, finally snapping him out of his trance.

His old friends' faces were full of worry and anguish, clearly affected by Odysseus’ reaction. Who knows how long it had taken him to respond. Odysseus certainly had no idea. Honestly, he didn’t know much of anything right now.

“Odysseus?” asked Eurylochus slowly.

There was a chance. A tiny, minuscule, microscopic chance that this was real. So, just in case, he dared to speak.

“Are you really you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, eyes full of disbelief.

Polites, beside him, let out a small laugh, full of relief and resignation. Eurylochus sighed heavily, as if he couldn’t believe the question.

“Yes, Ody, it’s really us,” Eurylochus finally said. His smile was small—but real. Something Odysseus hadn’t seen in a long time.

Not just since Eurylochus died. No. Even before that, Odysseus had long lost the right to see his second-in-command, brother-in-law, and old friend smile.

Too bad he didn’t get to enjoy it for long. The corners of his vision were turning black, and his eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

He wanted to stay in that moment for as long as possible. Even if it was a dream, a hallucination, or a spell—he just wanted to stay with them. Just once more. Just a little longer.

But before he could do anything, Odysseus collapsed against the cold floor, the echo of his friends’ voices fading far into the distance.

Hoping, with all his heart, that the dream, hallucination, or spell would haunt him again in the morning.

Chapter Text

Odysseus woke up in his bed next to Penelope, with a terrible and inexplicable pain in his body. His wife was peacefully asleep, pressed against Odysseus’s chest, just like every morning since he finally came home.

One of her hands rested over his heart, and the other wrapped around him. As if she wanted to protect him. As if she wanted to keep him from leaving again.

Odysseus loved how protective Penelope could be—not just with him, but with their son and their people, whom she had protected alone for the last twenty years.

A small smile spread across his lips as he saw Penelope mumble in her sleep. Helen might be the most beautiful woman in the world to everyone else. But Penelope was the most beautiful woman to Odysseus—also the smartest, and the most powerful, and…

Odysseus chuckled softly, realizing his mind was wandering again. Then he remembered the night before. His smile began to slowly fade.

Carefully, he pulled Penelope closer to him as he started to process what had happened.

He’d had a strange dream. Sure, he always had nightmares about his crew. Their screams and accusations were always in his mind. Even now, he could hear them faintly in the back of his head, yelling and blaming him. But something was missing.

He remembered the cold hands of Polites and Eurylochus—the cold hands that had touched him so gently. They were so cold, and they felt so real. But that didn’t automatically make them real.

Odysseus had been hallucinating for too long to believe that everything he saw was real. And clearly, his two dead friends were not real under any circumstance.

“I can hear your thoughts from here,” said Penelope suddenly, snapping Odysseus out of his trance.

He jumped, thinking for a second that his wife really could hear his thoughts. Logically, that was impossible—but so was seeing your two dead friends from over a decade ago.

It took him a few seconds (and a deep blush) to realize Penelope was joking and chuckling softly at his reaction.

Her eyes were open, and her smile was small and gentle. Her eyes reflected the same love they had shown twenty years ago. Before the war, the abandonment, the deaths, and the endless journey.

Odysseus laughed quietly before looking at her. Her face had beautiful wrinkles that showed her age but didn’t dim her beauty.

He couldn’t help but kiss her all over her face. Penelope burst out laughing.

Until she finally pushed him away, giggling something about breakfast and royal responsibilities—none of which Odysseus actually heard.

But, much to his regret, he let her get out of bed. Letting her go almost felt like going to war all over again.

“Get dressed and come to the dining room,” Penelope said, kissing his forehead. “Telemachus wants to have breakfast with his father,” she added sweetly.

Odysseus’s eyes lit up suddenly, and he nodded with renewed excitement. His son wanted to have breakfast with him, and Odysseus wouldn’t miss the chance to make memories with his only son.

Penelope left the room, and a few minutes later, Odysseus got up to get ready, thinking about the things he could teach Telemachus that day.

His clothes were still in the same place after twenty years. They didn’t fit him like they did before the war. But then again, he wasn’t the same man who had left.

No, now he was a monster wearing the shadow of Odysseus’s face, Odysseus’s voice, and Odysseus’s family.

He stopped at the door at the thought. Yes, maybe he wasn’t Odysseus anymore. But his family was still his.

Odysseus had died in Troy, even if no one had noticed—that was where the King of Ithaca took his last breath. And that was where the monster was born, taking his place, killing his men, ruining lives, all to come home.

Yes, he was a monster—but no one could say he hadn’t fought for his family.

He took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out of the room—only to be greeted by the same figures of Eurylochus and Polites, who looked at him with nervous, tense smiles.

“Hey! You really passed out down there, huh, Ody?” said Polites with a nervous tone.

Odysseus looked at them, then kept walking toward the dining room as if he hadn’t seen them at all.

Great. Now he couldn’t go to Telemachus. He’d never risk having an episode in front of his son. He’d never let his boy carry that weight. So he did the only thing he could: ignore them completely.

“Can he not see us anymore?” Odysseus heard Eurylochus ask.

“Probably because you let him fall down the stairs!” Polites yelled.

If he weren’t hallucinating, Odysseus might have taken that as the reason his body hurt so much. But that was impossible. These hallucinations were just that—hallucinations. Simply remnants of his friends that his brain was throwing at him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s not my fault Mr. ‘Nobody’ started singing like we were back with the cyclops!” Eurylochus retorted angrily.

Much to his dismay, Odysseus let out a small laugh—and quickly covered his mouth to stifle it.

Can you blame him? Eurylochus and Polites had been dead for years. He’d never be caught in the middle of their ridiculous arguments again. So yes, he laughed at his hallucination’s comment. That’s how bad his mind had gotten. Not that it was anything new.

“Wait,” said Polites with an accusatory tone Odysseus knew all too well. “You’re listening to us!” he shouted in frustration.

“Unfortunately,” muttered Odysseus, deliberately ignoring how Polites started ranting about being respectful to the dead and all that.

He finally arrived at the dining room, where his wife and son awaited him with radiant smiles and a feast so big that Odysseus knew he couldn’t finish it—but he sat at the head of the table anyway, ready to enjoy it.

They chatted for a while before the illusions of Polites and Eurylochus started circling around Telemachus, talking about how much he’d grown and how strong and handsome he looked now.

Odysseus kept eating slowly—until a drawn-out laugh from behind him made him freeze, fork midair, eyes wide.

“Oh! Little Telemachus isn’t so little anymore, huh?” said Elpenor’s voice suddenly. “Uncle Elpenor can’t carry you on his back now—you’d break it!” he added before laughing with watery cackles, ignoring how Polites scolded him for saying that and how Eurylochus chuckled under his breath.

“Captain, when are you going to invite me for a drink, huh?” he asked, sitting across from Ody, who did his best to ignore him and the sudden smell of wine that hit his nose.

“He’s been ignoring us since this morning,” said Eurylochus, annoyance clear in his voice, sitting down at the table and glaring at his old captain.

“Wow, always so quick to turn the crew against him, huh?” said Elpenor with amused sarcasm, with no real reproach—just the way a drunk old man would say it.

Odysseus chuckled quietly, so softly that only Elpenor and Eurylochus noticed.

“Hey! He heard me. How are you, Captain? How’s home treating you?” Elpenor asked cheerfully.

Odysseus didn’t answer. He usually didn’t talk to his worst hallucinations (even if these were weirdly cheerful). But he honestly felt like telling Elpenor everything—maybe out of guilt, or maybe because it had always been easy to talk to the wine lover.

“Well, since you won’t answer, I’ll tell you: I’ll be around more often. The rest are coming soon—you better prep a feast!” he said as he hopped off the table and walked out of sight. “And wine!” he yelled from afar.

With the silence restored, Odysseus wondered if his death was approaching or if his broken mind was just messing with him again. But one thing was certain—Elpenor wasn’t lying.

Odysseus knew it. He had always known when his men were lying and when they weren’t.

And Elpenor wasn’t lying.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since Polites and Eurylochus stopped bothering him. Well, they were still around—same with Elpenor and all the others who had started to arrive—but at least they weren’t annoying him anymore.

Instead, they just lingered nearby. They generally didn’t stray far from Odysseus, though sometimes they would leave for a few hours and return with more comrades.

Today, all of them had disappeared. Odysseus figured they had gone to look for those who were still missing. So, he took the chance to make his move.

He asked Telemachus and Penelope to leave the castle for a few hours, and he also told the servants to prepare a full feast.

Penelope wouldn’t be Penelope if she didn’t worry about Odysseus’s odd request, so he just told her the truth: it was a banquet for his dead men.

She understood. Naturally, she thought it was some kind of ceremony to honor his fallen crew. So she agreed, taking Telemachus with her.

The servants didn’t take long to set the table and prepare everything before leaving to enjoy their day off, as Odysseus had ordered.

That left him alone, sitting at the head of the enormous table, staring at all the food laid before him, waiting.

He could hear the shouting and hollering even before the doors opened—but he didn’t move.

“Captaaaain!” someone sang out, dragging the word playfully. A chill ran down Odysseus’s spine. It had been years since someone called him that without fear or reproach in their voice.

“Hope you listened to Elpenor and made something tasty!” yelled another voice, happily.

Finally, the doors opened fully, and suddenly all the noise stopped. Odysseus stood up, turned around, and faced them directly.

He only managed to give them a quick glance before looking at the floor. The voices started invading his mind again.

He was back on the ship, watching nearly all of them sink to the depths by Poseidon's wrath. He could hear his men screaming for his help.

Then he was on Ogygia, at the edge of the cliff, being pushed closer and closer to the end. They wanted him. They claimed him. They wanted revenge for being left to die.

This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms

How much longer 'til your luck runs out?

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

Odysseus clutched his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel himself moving without moving. So many hands dragging him to the abyss.

Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart

How much longer 'til the show goes south?

No matter the place, we can light up the world

Here’s how to start…

He could feel the lightning scars from Zeus burning again. He could hear the desperate screams of thirty-six men dying because of him.

How much longer ‘til we all fall down?

Waiting, waiting, waiting

Greet the world with open arms, greet the world with open arms…

He felt like his mind was shattering into a thousand pieces—until soft, cold-as-death hands held his own.

Odysseus flinched, stumbled back, bumped into the table, and caught a decorative vase just before it fell.

Silence ruled the dining hall, broken only by his ragged breathing.

Slowly, he set the vase back in its place and dared to look up at his crew.

They were all there. Every single one of the six hundred men who had marched to war with him and never made it back. All of them stood before him.

They looked at him with concern—some even with fear—and the younger ones had tears in their eyes.

Odysseus looked away again as the voices started tormenting him once more. He did everything he could to calm them just enough to speak over them.

“As I promised,” he began slowly. His voice came out firm, but ended in a trembling whisper. He took a moment to breathe, steadying himself against the table until he could speak again.

“There’s a feast for all of you. So please… take a seat.”

Once he finished speaking, he sat down slowly. His body was still trembling, and his mind was racing. But he still managed to sit and wait for the others.

One by one, cautiously, they started to sit down after a few minutes. Odysseus didn’t look at them—he didn’t dare. Instead, he focused on beginning to eat once everyone had taken their seat.

“Captain,” Eurylochus began hesitantly.

Odysseus quickly shook his head. A fresh wave of mental assault—his men’s screams tearing through his mind—left him disoriented.

It took him a few minutes to remember that Eurylochus had spoken, and why he had refused so quickly. Eurylochus was dead.

“Don’t call me that. I’m just Odysseus,” he finally said.

For some reason, all the voices called out to him again—but this time, using his name. That had never happened before.

He looked up, expecting to see them mocking him—but all he saw were eyes filled with worry and pity.

When the ringing stopped, he spoke again, slow and dragging the words.

“Eat. This feast is for you,” he ordered before returning to his meal.

Slowly and with visible hesitation, they began to eat. Odysseus wouldn’t lie—he missed hearing them talk, especially because the voices in his head were starting to overpower him again.

He could barely see his plate, and his hands trembled so much he could hardly keep eating. Everything around him seemed to shift, jumping from one memory to another, never staying still.

He slowly closed his eyes when the memory of Zeus towering over his ship appeared before him. He started to cover his ears when he heard Eurylochus calling to him—with that resigned voice of someone who knows what’s coming and can’t escape it.

But then, Perimedes’ voice brought him back.

“How’s your wound, Captain Odysseus?” the young man asked, clearly nervous, clearly uncertain—but with genuine concern behind his words.

It took Odysseus a few seconds to understand what he meant, until he remembered the mutiny.

Suspicious, Odysseus began to pull aside his layers of clothing until he revealed the scar. It was long and straight. Surely there was a matching one on his back.

“It’s just a scar now,” he finally answered, his voice low and broken.

A glance at the table showed that everyone had finished the feast—except him. He still had more than half of the meat on his plate.

Without thinking, he handed his plate to Eurylochus, who was sitting to his right, then rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“Captain, I—” Perimedes began, his voice just a thread. “I’m sorry,” he finished in a whisper.

Odysseus didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Mainly because he didn’t know how to respond.

“Why are you apologizing?” he finally asked, lifting his face from his palms. “I made it home at the cost of your lives,” he continued as he slowly stood. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. Shouldn’t I?”

“But you always do, Ody,” Polites said suddenly, freezing Odysseus in place. “You always do,” he added, his voice unreadable.

Odysseus didn’t answer. The voices were rising quickly again. He covered his ears with his hands, even though he knew it wouldn’t calm or silence them.

His surroundings began to shift once more. His body trembled. He could feel himself speaking—maybe even shouting—without actually hearing his own voice.

He could feel himself moving forward. He could feel the hands of his crew guiding him toward the abyss. He could, he could, he could—

He could feel arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. Then more around his neck, his chest, his hands—so many hands, so many cold bodies pressed against his.

“We forgive you, Captain,” whispered a distorted voice.

Odysseus let out a drawn-out groan, right as the corners of his vision turned black, dragging him into the depths of sleep.

And for the first time in a very long time, silencing his nightmares.

Chapter Text

Odysseus woke up slowly, still tangled in the blankets of his bed.

It was warm. Too warm. There was a body pressed against his side, cold as marble.

Wait.

A body?

He sat up immediately, heart pounding, scrambling away from whoever was beside him. He stared for a second.

Cold skin. Familiar hair. A scar along the jaw.

"Calm down, Captain," said a voice from somewhere nearby.

Odysseus turned. Elpenor was leaning against the bedpost, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t a damn ghost, just a man who had pulled a long night shift.

"Perimedes was afraid he scared you," said another, gentler voice.

Polites.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, eyes closed. Another crewmate was sleeping against his shoulder.

Odysseus almost smiled.

He scanned the room.

They were everywhere.

Curled up in corners, stretched across chairs, using curtains as blankets, pillows as makeshift bedding.

Somewhere between a funeral and a family reunion.

They looked less like soldiers, and more like... children. Brothers. Boys who had refused to leave.

And they were all there. In his room.

"That’s why we let him lean on you. Hope you don’t mind," Polites added, completely unfazed.

Odysseus turned toward the left side of the bed.

Perimedes was curled up tightly, sleeping like he had on the ships—back when the blankets weren’t enough for everyone and someone was always cold.

He looked so young it made Odysseus’s chest ache.

He reached for a folded blanket at the end of the bed and carefully draped it over him.

Perimedes sighed softly, half-asleep, and tugged at Odysseus’s arm, pulling him back down beside him.

Just like when he’d been a scared little boy at war.

Odysseus sighed and laid back, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling.

He couldn’t move without waking him.

And the guilt was crawling back into his throat like it always did.

Most of them were barely older than Telemachus. Some of them even younger.

He shut his eyes, bracing for the voices. The screaming. The accusations.

But they never came.

He sat up again, hands flying to his ears on instinct— only to find silence waiting for him.

Real silence.

He slowly lowered his hands and looked around.

Some of them were watching him. A few were already halfway out of their makeshift beds, concerned.

"I don’t hear the voices," he whispered.

No one answered at first.

"Is that… good?" Eurylokhos asked hesitantly.

Odysseus thought about saying yes.

That for the first time in years, he could breathe.

But instead, a heavier thought pressed down on him.

Did that mean they were going to leave?

"Why are you still here?" he asked, ignoring Eurylokhos's question. His voice trembled, and he didn’t bother to hide it. "You had your feast. I even gave you a damn ceremony. What more do you want?"

Perimedes cracked one eye open and looked at him.

"You promised we’d all make it back home," he said softly. "And we did. That’s why we’re here."

Odysseus swallowed.

"We fought Poseidon together, Ody," Eurylokhos said with a small smile.

"We came home together," Elpenor added, without even opening his eyes.

"We killed the suitors together," said Perimedes, now fully awake.

"All except Polites," someone muttered from across the room.

Polites turned bright red.

"Moral support counts!" he yelled, but no one was listening anymore—

because everyone was laughing.

Even Odysseus.

He let out a quiet, broken laugh and collapsed back into the bed, too tired to fight them anymore.

They kept talking for hours. Arguing about who snored, who took the most space, who hid Elpenor’s wine.

Until Penelope stepped into the room.

And, one by one, the ghosts slipped away.

Odysseus curled up in the sheets again.

And for the first time in decades, he slept without guilt.

He had kept his promise.

They all came home together.