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Chapter Text

The day Lady Nereis came to Ithaca, the sea wore its gentlest face.

Her ships arrived at the sixth hour, sails pale as gull wings, hulls lacquered the deep green of olive leaves. Her heralds’ horns trilled once, twice, then fell silent under the hush that always seemed to rise from Ithaca’s cliffs when strangers came ashore.

Polites watched from the upper terrace, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He could read a fleet at a glance—weight, speed, intent—like other men read faces. These ships were not built for war. Their oars lifted and dipped with courtly precision. The banners were wide and heavy, made to be noticed. Zakinthos blue, laurel-wreathed sun in gold.

Odysseus stood at his shoulder, the wind drawing a few unruly strands from his hair. “Arkeon sends his niece,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “He is not reckless. If he wanted to pick a fight, he’d have sent spears, not silk.”

Polites hummed his agreement, eyes narrowed against the brightness. “A peace offering, then. Or bait.”

“Or both,” Odysseus said dryly, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You have the guard?”

“I do.”

He did not need to say that he would sleep in a chair outside the guest wing if he had to, that he had walked the corridors himself at dawn and checked the latches on the shutters. He had taught every man under him that hospitality was a kind of sacred war: the kind you win with watchfulness and restraint.

The procession from the harbor wound like a stitched thread up the hill to the palace—musicians first, then gifts borne on lacquered trays; Zakinthian wine in bellied amphorae; a hawk hooded in scarlet; a bolt of linen fine enough to see breath through. And at the heart of it all, Lady Nereis.

She was younger than Polites had expected—perhaps twenty-five summers to his thirty-two—with a queen’s poise and a swimmer’s shoulders. Her hair was bound in a braid heavy as a rope, threaded with coins that winked in the sun. Her eyes, when they lifted to the palace, were not cowed. If anything, they looked hungry.

Penelope waited at the top of the steps in a deep blue chiton, a smile like calm water. Odysseus’s welcome was warmer than ceremony required. Ithaca had learned to show its teeth with the gentleness of a hound.

Polites watched more than he looked. He watched the way Nereis’s gaze slid to the palace guard and lingered—no, not to the guard. To him. He watched the tilt of her head, the dart of calculation, the faint intrigue when her eyes found the man in plain bronze with the laurel brooch at his shoulder.

She was a hunter too, then.

He bowed when presented. “My lady,” he said, voice low from years of sand and salt. “Welcome to Ithaca. I am Polites, commander of the guard.”

“Polites,” she repeated, as if tasting a fruit. Her smile flickered at the edges. “So the songs did not exaggerate. I had begun to think Ithaca kept its legends in jars.”

“Ithaca prefers her legends walking,” Penelope said pleasantly. “They are more useful that way.”

“More trouble too,” Odysseus added. The four of them smiled, the way skilled knife-fighters might touch blades to test the metal.

Protocol unfurled like a well-practiced dance: gifts received; thanks given; attendants ushered to their quarters; the hawk carried to the mews with gentle hands. Wine at the next hour. A tour of the olive press and the outer courtyards, because Lady Nereis’s steward had said she loved to ‘understand how a land breathes.’

It was during that tour that Polites felt the first shift in the air—the subtle way a breeze turns before a storm.

He kept a respectable distance behind the party, as custom demanded. Lady Nereis let herself drift to the edges of conversation until, at a bend in the path, she fell into step beside him as if by accident.

“I have long wanted to see the place that made Odysseus,” she said. “In Zakinthos they say the stone of Ithaca breeds foxes and fox-men.”

“We have more fishermen than foxes,” Polites replied. “And more vintners than both. We have learned that offering wine stops most invaders in their tracks.”

She laughed, appreciative. “You deflect with wit. That tells me you’d rather talk about anything but yourself.”

“It tells you,” Polites said mildly, eyes on the turn of the corridor ahead, “that the lady of the house is just beyond that archway. And she is far more interesting than I am.”

Nereis’s glance flicked to him. “Humble. That tells me something else.”

He did not ask what. The guards he’d placed at the archway straightened as they approached. Polites lifted a hand—a signal more felt than seen—and they eased the crowd along, the way good shepherds do with nervous sheep. Lady Nereis fell back to Penelope’s side with the practiced ease of someone who knew she had not been dismissed, only delayed.

Polites let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

~+~

He did not think of himself as lacking. Polites did not ache for what other men called Eros. He had no hollow places shaped like kisses. He had a boy’s hand tucked trustingly into his, the memory of a friend’s weight slumping in sleep beside a dying lantern, a queen’s gaze steady as a shore. He had the old comfort of the stars. He knew the sea’s voice in every mood. He could pick Telemachus’s laughter out of a crowd.

He loved these things with the same quiet, fierce thoroughness he had given to war. That was enough. It had always been enough.

So he moved through the first days of Nereis’s visit as he moved through everything: with care, with attention, with habit. He made sure he was never alone in a room with her without an open door and servants moving through. He set Eurylochus at the far end of any space where he stood guard; Eury had a way of being loud without speaking. He made certain Nereis’s maid, a sharp-eyed woman called Erato, was always near.

And yet—no matter how he placed the pieces—the board kept changing.

A silk ribbon “dropped” at his feet while the court watched the hawk fly. “Would you…?” Nereis asked, eyes lowered, and when he handed it back with a soldier’s neutral care, her fingers lingered as if she were testing the warmth of his skin.

A private question pressed close at a banquet—“Do you ever tire of duty?”—asked softly under the cover of music. 

He answered truthfully, with a smile. “No,” he said. “It keeps my hands steady.”

A morning in the practice yard when she arrived with her steward and asked—too idly—if he would show her the Ithacan guard’s stance with a spear. “We train our girls to use knives,” she said, the curve of her mouth amused. “Perhaps you can teach me the spear.”

“Your steward seems steady enough. Perhaps he can assist with the demonstration instead,” Polites replied lightly, and handed the practice spear to the man before stepping back to instruct from a distance. Nereis held his gaze, a spark in hers that made a note in his mind: that look belonged to someone who was used to getting what she wanted.

He told Penelope that afternoon, in the low-cool of the solar where the queen kept her lists. He did not bother with preamble. It was one of the ways he loved her: with the honesty he had trained into himself.

“She is unused to hearing the word ‘no,’” Penelope murmured, fingers poised above a tally of grain. “And you are a challenge she mistook for an invitation.” She looked up, her eyes keen. “Do you feel unsafe?”

“No,” Polites said. “But I feel… observed.”

Penelope’s mouth softened. “I’ll have the tapestries in the west gallery… adjusted.” It was a gentle way of saying she would move the palace women—whose presence could sweeten or sour any air—closer to where Nereis liked to wander. “And I’ll speak with her maid.”

“I’d prefer to handle it quietly,” Polites said.

“You are handling it quietly,” Penelope replied. “I will handle it… delicately.”

He almost smiled. “Our best weapons.”

“Mm.” She lifted the wax tablet and made a note. “Be careful, Pol.”

“I always am,” he said, and meant it. It had kept him alive. It had kept them all alive.

~+~

It came to a head on the fourth evening.

The palace had a place where the sea sounded nearer than it should: a long, arched gallery along the west wall where the wind curled in through narrow windows and ran its fingers over stone. In the soft hour before supper, when the heat backed off and the sky began its slow descent into amber, Penelope liked to walk there and let the salt work the knots from her shoulders.

Polites liked to check the hinges on the doors and shutters—and keep an eye on the queen at the same time.

He was there that night with a carpenter, testing the catch on a stubborn shutter, when Erato—Lady Nereis’s maid—popped around the corner, breathless.

“My lady asked for you,” she said, voice pitched just loud enough for the carpenter to hear. “She lost an earring in the tapestry hall. She begs your help.”

Polites wanted to decline—to send somebody else—but he could not afford to offend. Instead, Polites nodded. “Of course.” He gestured to the carpenter. “I’ll return.”

Erato led him—not to the tapestry hall, which was one flight down—but along the west gallery to a small alcove half-hidden behind an old fig tree planted in a clay jar. The sea sounded loud there, as if it were just at the threshold. The alcove’s shutters were open. The light was gold and complicated, sifting through leaves.

Nereis stood with her back to him, one hand lifted to her ear. She wore Zakinthian blue, the same as her banners. The coins in her hair chimed faintly when she turned.

“Commander,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve lost something most valuable.”

Polites paused a measured three steps away. “Your maid said you needed help.”

Nereis glanced down the hall, eyes unreadable. “She’s very efficient.” She took a step closer. “I am glad you came to help me.”

He inclined his head, palms warm at his sides. “Your earring?”

She touched her earlobe as if only just remembering, then smiled. “Ah. Yes. My earring.” Her gaze ran over him in a way that made him feel like a prized stallion up for auction. “But since you are here…”

A voice inside Polites told him to leave.

He did not move. He had given his word to be courteous. “My lady?”

Her smile widened, quick and bright as a knife-tip. “Since you are here, you may tell me why you keep running.”

“I’m not running,” Polites said gently, taking a step back. “I’m walking at a polite pace.”

“Toward the door,” she countered. “Always toward the door.” She took another step and smoothed a hand along the edge of his cloak as if feeling the weave. “I admire a man who knows his duty. I admire more a man who knows when to set it down.”

He moved back half a pace, enough that her hand fell. “My duty keeps other people safe,” he said. “I don’t set that down.”

“You could, for an hour.” Her voice dropped, the way a hunter lowers bait into a trap. “The world will not end if you relax your hold.”

His mouth softened with something like sadness. “It never ends,” he said quietly. “It simply arrives. And I am at the gate.”

She laughed, low. “The songs were right. Clever. Patient. The sea’s own calm.” Her eyes went hot. “I will have you smile for me.”

She reached for him.

Polites stepped back and lifted a hand, palm out—the gesture he used to stop boys from running near the cliff’s edge. “My lady,” he said, tone still gentle, now threaded with iron. “No.”

The word was not loud. It did not need to be. It was the same word he had used to keep a spear-thrust from breaking a boy’s ribs. It was the same word he had used at Troy over the bodies of sleeping children, telling his men to lay down their blades. It was a word built to hold a door shut against a storm.

Something flashed, then, in Nereis’s face. Not hurt. Not shame. For a beat, something feral. Then she smiled, and it was as bright and false as the coins in her hair.

“How dare you speak to me like a child,” she said, light as silk. “Do you think I don’t know my own mind?”

“I think,” Polites said, keeping his voice mild, “that I have told you mine. I do not want what you want. I will not be blind or cruel about it. But I will be clear.”

Her fingers—quick and hard—hooked in the edge of his cloak and yanked.

It was not a lover’s tug. It was a grapple.

She closed the distance, palm flat against his chest, face lifted, breath wine-sweet. He did not think to be flattered. He thought: control the hands. He caught her wrist—not roughly. The way he had caught Telemachus’s when the boy reached for a pot on the fire. He turned his body so that her momentum pushed past him, so that she could not pin him against stone, so that the worst she met was the air.

“Let go,” she hissed.

“I will when you step back,” he said, low. “Nereis—”

He should not have said her name. It made the air too intimate. It gave her a string to pull.

She pulled it.

She lurched into him, mouth crashing to his, and when he refused the kiss, she twisted in his hold, wrenching her wrist roughly in his hand. Polites tightened his hold and she winced. There was a brief scuffle as Polites withdrew himself, pressing a hand to Nereis’s shoulder to hold her away. Then, Nereis threw her head back, and let out a sound that was not fear so much as triumph sharpened to a scream.

Then she wrenched her wrist from his hand, stumbled into the fig pot so that it rocked, and flung herself to the floor.

By the time Polites inhaled, the corridor was full of feet.

He did not reach for her. He did not touch her. He stepped back, palms open at his sides, and he made his face as still as stone.

Eurylochus was first through the arch, eyes wild, one hand on his sword as if the world had wronged him personally. Two more guards skidded to a halt just behind, expressions turning from alarm to something like disbelief and fear the instant they took in the tableau: Nereis on the floor, sobbing, hair coins clattering; Polites standing rigid, hands empty; the fig tree swaying as if the wind had teeth.

“My lady!” Erato cried, dropping to her knees so quickly she scraped them, gathering Nereis up in competent hands. “What—”

Nereis pressed a hand to her throat, choking off a sob. Her eyes shone wet. “He,” she cried, voice breaking on the single syllable, “attacked me.”

It was a beautiful performance—made all the sweeter by the bruise already blooming on her wrist where Polites had held her away.

Eurylochus’s gaze snapped to Polites’s face, seeking permission to set the world on fire.

Polites lifted a hand a fraction. It was enough. Eurylochus strangled whatever he had been about to say. The other guards stared, stricken.

They knew him. Gods, they knew him. They knew the way he stepped between drunk men and the scullery girls on feast nights and dispersed them with a look and a joke. They knew the way he walked the courtyard at dusk to be sure the lamps were lit for women crossing after sundown. They knew the way he dissolved violence as if it were salt in water.

“Protocol,” Polites said softly, without looking away from Nereis.

Eurylochus’s jaw flexed. He barked orders like a man waking from a bad dream. “Clear the corridor. Fetch the queen. Send for the king. Call for… for the healer.” His voice shook on the last, then found a soldier's iron. “Pythios, Davos, with me.”

Two guards—boys, really—stepped forward with lengths of cord in their hands and eyes like open wounds.

Polites turned his wrists for them as if offering a gift.

“No,” Eurylochus said. It came out like an injury. “Pol—”

“Protocol,” Polites repeated. “We do this by the book. No one bleeds.”

“No one bleeds,” Eury echoed, like a vow he wanted to set his teeth into.

The cords were rough, digging into the skin of his wrists. Polites stood very still and thought about the stars.

Penelope arrived first, moving so quickly that the hem of her chiton snapped against her ankles like a sail. Her eyes went to Nereis, took in the smudged hair, the bruise, the way Erato had wrapped her cloak around her like a hero pulled from the sea. Then her gaze found Polites’s bound hands.

Something in her face stilled.

“Lady Nereis,” she said with calm that could float a boat. “You are safe.”

“Am I?” Nereis whispered, slipping her hand from Erato’s and pressing the heel of it to her brow. “Your man grabbed me.”

Penelope’s glance flicked like a knife to the bruise. Then, a heartbeat later, to the fig pot—that ridiculous, rocking witness. Then to the open shutters, and the width of the alcove, and the fact that Polites stood three steps away, not two, not one.

Odysseus was not long behind her. The king took in the scene the way he took in winds: with a single deep breath, and then with a captain’s patience. He did not go to Nereis first. He did not go to Polites. He made himself walk the length of the corridor, look at the angle of light, study the scuffed clay on the floor where a body had fallen.

“Lady,” he said at last, stopping a respectful distance away. “You have my word as your host and as a king that you will have justice. And you,” he added, turning to Polites, “have my word as your brother that we will find the truth.”

Polites inclined his head. “Yes, my king.”

Nereis drew herself up, cloak sliding from her shoulder with theatrical grace. “In Zakinthos,” she said, voice calm now, “men are punished for laying hands on a woman of the house.” She looked at Polites like a hunter sighting a stag. “Do you punish yours?”

“In Ithaca,” Penelope said, so softly the olive leaves seemed to hush, “we begin with listening.”

Nereis blinked, as if the room had tilted under her feet.

Odysseus’s gaze did not leave Polites’s face. “Commander,” he said quietly, almost intimately. “Will you go with Eurylochus to the guardroom and place yourself in custody?”

“Yes,” Polites agreed. He did not hesitate. “Of course.”

Eurylochus looked like someone had shoved a spear through his ribs. “Pol—don’t—”

“This is the safest way,” Polites said, and smiled, actually smiled. “I have nothing to worry about. But we do not hand the court a story with teeth.”

Eurylochus swallowed and nodded, the motion jerky. “Aye.”

Polites turned then, as the corridor parted around him like a river around a rock. Servants peered from doorways. A boy with a wooden sword—the one who always stood too straight when Polites entered a room—ducked back, eyes wide. Telemachus—god, no—Telemachus, hair askew, tunic half-laced, had come at the sound and stood at the far end of the hall with his shoulders set and his face gone white with fear.

“Uncle?” the boy said, the word small and broken.

Polites did not go to him. He did not say it’s fine, little lion; this is a drill. He lifted both bound hands an inch, in the smallest of salutes, and said, steady, “Watch the sky for me tonight. I’ll be back with you before long.”

Telemachus’s chin trembled. He nodded hard, once. Penelope’s hand was already on his shoulder, firm, anchoring.

They took Polites to the guardroom, not a dungeon, because Ithaca had not kept one since the war. It was a plain, square space with a barred window and a bench and a hook for a lantern. Eurylochus locked the door with hands that shook only when he pulled them back out of sight.

“We’ll fix it,” he muttered, half to himself, voice ragged. “We’ll… Penelope will… Ody will…” He looked up, eyes wet in a way that would have made the men under him blink and look away anywhere else. “Say something clever, you bastard.”

Polites sat on the bench as if lowering himself to the edge of the sea. The cords bit into his wrists. He would have bruises come morning. He thought of the stars above the west grove and of Telemachus’s trust in the spaces between them.

“I’m not clever,” he said. “I’m patient.”

Eurylochus swore softly and pressed his forehead to the bars for a long moment before leaving, every inch of him promising violence to the first thing that deserved it.

When the door’s bolt slid home, the room was very quiet. The sea seemed farther away, as if it had stepped back to let the island handle its own.

Polites leaned his head against the cool stone and closed his eyes.

He did not think of the moment she had called his name and turned it into a weapon. He did not wonder how you measure truth when two mouths keep different clocks. He did not let shame or anger slither in through the cracks of this small room.

He counted his breath the way he had on nights when the sky was all smoke and the ground all iron. He matched it to an old cadence: in, the stars; out, the tide. He let the quiet gather around his stillness like armour.

When the key turned again, the light beyond the door had shifted—late sunset, edging toward night. Odysseus stepped in alone and closed the door with care.

For a long beat, the two men looked at each other through the simple miracle that was breath.

“Tell me,” Odysseus said. Not king, not judge. Brother. “All of it, from the first stitch.”

Polites did.

He told him about the ribbon and the spear and the open doors. He told him about Erato’s breathless errand and the fig tree and the coins in Nereis’s hair. He told him about the word no, and how she had reached for him and how he had caught her wrist and how he had stepped away.

He told him about the kiss and the scuffle.

Odysseus listened the way he fought: with his whole body. When Polites finished, he did not speak for so long that the night seemed to lean in against the window to hear too.

At last he said, very quietly, as if to himself, “She knows exactly what she is doing.”

“And so do we,” Polites said.

Odysseus’s mouth curved, sorrow at one corner, pride at the other. “We do. Penelope is already weaving her plans. She has the maid and the corridor and a fig leaf and half a dozen men and women who saw too much and not enough. She will make a net.”

He reached then—carefully, not as king but as friend—and took Polites’s bound hands in his, thumb finding the raised veins along the wrist, as if to promise that a pulse still meant a path.

“I will not let them use you to teach us a lesson,” Odysseus said. “Not Zakinthos. Not anyone.”

“I know,” Polites said.

Outside, the light had gone that rich, honeyed colour that made Ithaca look like a place the gods had once loved and then remembered again. Somewhere in the palace, Telemachus’s voice rose and fell, uncertain, trying to be brave. Somewhere, Penelope’s loom sang its soft and patient song, thread drawing thread.

“Watch the sky for me,” Polites had said.

He lifted his face toward the thin stripe of it the window allowed. It was enough.

The war was over. But there were other battles now: fought with cords and claims and the careful placing of words. Polites had always known how to hold a line. He would hold this one, too.

And when the stars came out, he would count them, as he always had, and know that somewhere in the palace a boy he loved was counting with him.

Chapter Text

Three days.

It took three days for Penelope to gather the court.

Not a war court—this was not a mutiny or a traitor’s betrayal. But neither was it the quiet settling of a private matter. Zakinthos had sent a noblewoman. A guest had made a charge. The commander of the Ithacan guard stood accused.

The stones of Ithaca were old. Older than kings. They remembered the weight of stories. The island demanded a hearing.

And so the people gathered—elders from the mountain villages, traders from the port, fishermen with sunburnt faces, priestesses in robes that whispered as they walked. The council court convened beneath the open sky, in the amphitheater carved into the cliffs. It was a place made for truth: no place to hide, and the sea always listening.

Odysseus sat high on the platform, beside Penelope and the three elders. But he did not wear his crown. That had been Penelope’s insistence. “You are his brother,” she’d said. “We cannot ask you to choose between the law and the man who bled beside you. Let the court see you bear witness. Not judgment.”

He had not argued. His silence had said enough.

Polites stood before them, unbound now, but still flanked by two guards. Eurylochus stood like a pillar behind him, jaw clenched, every muscle singing to be loosed. Telemachus sat just behind Penelope, eyes fixed on the ground, fingers curled into his tunic. The boy looked sick with worry.

And beside Polites, resplendent, was Lady Nereis.

She was radiant in white, dressed with care: gold at her throat, coins in her hair again. She sat with her steward and her maid, draped like Ariadne on her throne of accusation. The bruise on her wrist was on full display. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, though no one had seen her weep.

Penelope rose. Her voice was quiet but clear. “We are here because an accusation has been made, and Ithaca does not turn away from judgment. King Odysseus recuses himself from these proceedings. In his place, the elders and I preside. We begin with the charge.”

One of the elders—a priestess of Athena—stood. “Lady Nereis of Zakinthos, speak your truth.”

Nereis stood slowly, as if her bones were made of stone.

“Honoured court,” she said, voice heavy with injured dignity. “I came to Ithaca in friendship. In goodwill. I sought only to strengthen ties between our islands. I was shown hospitality. But behind that mask of kindness, I was hunted.”

A murmur stirred in the gallery. Penelope raised a single hand, and it stilled.

“I was alone in the hall,” Nereis continued. “I sought only an earring—lost in the shadow of a fig. The commander came to help me. That was what I believed. But then—” She shivered, performed with precision. “His face changed. His hands—his strength—”

She pressed fingers to her throat.

“He desired me,” she said. “And when I refused, he grabbed me. Threw me to the ground. I believe… if I had not screamed…” She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

She did not cry. She did not plead. She played the perfect guest, shocked and wounded. A noblewoman scorned.

“In Zakinthos, the punishment for such behaviour is death,” Nereis continued, her voice wavering. “I demand the same from Ithaca.”

There were murmurs, loud, shocked. The court listened. Some frowned. Some nodded. Some looked at Polites and saw only the sternness of his face, the strength in his arms.

But to put the commander of the guard to death? Such a thing had never happened on Ithaca.

Penelope watched everything.

The second elder—a priest of Hermes—turned. “Commander Polites. Do you wish to respond?”

Polites stepped forward, without flourish, without anger.

Then, with quiet grace, he said, “I will answer, but first, I must be honest in a way I have not been.”

And then—before the whole court, before the sea and the king and the people who had trusted him with their lives—he told his truth.

“I do not feel what she says I felt. I do not feel such desire for anyone. Not for men or women. Not for sweet-smiling maids or powerful kings. I have never wanted a kiss. I have never burned for someone’s bed. I do not feel the hunger others speak of as though it’s in the blood.”

The amphitheater was utterly silent.

He continued, voice calm.

“I have loved. Gods, I have loved. But not that way. Not the way she implies. I am not broken, nor cold. I simply do not crave touch like that. And I never have. I did not want Lady Nereis. I never pretended I did.”

He turned, slowly, so the room could see his face.

“This is not a defense of character. This is a fact of self. Lady Nereis pursued me from the day of her arrival. At the time in question, her maid fetched me to help the lady find a lost earring. There, she made her intentions and interest clear. I told her no. I moved away. When she reached for me, I held her wrist—not to harm her, but to keep space between us. When she fell, I did not touch her.”

He looked toward the elders.

“I know the price of such claims,” he said. “I have seen good men fall for less. But I am innocent. If the court believes I should be punished for defending myself, I will accept it. But let the record show I did not yield to cruelty, nor desire.”

Polites stood straight as a spear. He looked to the court. “That is my truth. I will not ask your pity. Only your clarity.”

Penelope stood. “Let it be known,” she said clearly, “that Commander Polites has served Ithaca without stain for many years. Every soldier who trained under him was taught restraint, protection, and how to listen first. I call for testimony and compurgation.”

Eurylochus stepped forward first, face thunderous.

“I’ve served with him since we were boys,” he said. “I’ve seen him step between a shouting merchant and his wife. I’ve seen him carry wounded soldiers for miles on his back. I’ve seen him say no a thousand times and never lose his kindness. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t—” His throat worked. “I have watched him make food with his bare hands for children who had nothing. If he says he is innocent, then gods help you all if you call him a liar.”

Then the guards came forward—each one of them. It was not one or two or ten. Nearly all of them had assembled in their best tunics, polished armour, and swords sheathed out of respect. They filed forward, each swearing on the hearth fire, each vouching not for what they had seen in the corridor—but for the man.

“I served with Polites at Troy,” said one. “He slept in the sand and gave his tent to wounded men.”

“He teaches respect like it’s a war technique.”

“He made us swear oaths—about conduct, about protection.”

“He’s the safest man I know.”

“He walked my sister home from the olive press every day for a week,” said another. “And never once looked at her the way men look when they want something.”

Dozens gave testament: he helped with training; he walked women home after long shifts; he refused drink if he was on duty. Not once had he given cause for doubt.

Then, at last, Odysseus rose.

He did not speak like a king.

“I have trusted Polites with my life,” he said. “With my wife. With my son. If I had a second soul to spare, I would put it in his keeping.” His voice dropped, and in it was grief. “That this happened under my roof is a stain I will carry. But if we cannot see the truth for what it is—then we are not the Ithaca we claim to be.”

The court was quiet again.

Penelope stood.

“Ithaca,” she said, “has always placed the greatest weight on truth. But this matter is tangled. Nobility stands on both sides. Words clash. If the truth hides beneath feeling, we must call on one who sees with other eyes.”

“Let us call on divine wisdom.” The priestess of Athena turned to the sky and raised her arms in prayer. “Daughter of Zeus. Owl-eyed goddess. Athena Parthenos, bright-eyed judge of the wise, who sees what is hidden, lend us your truth.”

The people turned their faces upward.

A long moment passed.

Then—a whisper of feathers.

An owl.

Large, grey, and solemn as dusk itself.

It swept down from the cliffs with no sound but the wind, gliding in slow circles until it landed—calm and sure—on the back of the bench beside Polites.

It did not look at Lady Nereis.

It fixed its amber eyes on Polites. And it bowed.

Not deeply. Not theatrically. But deliberately.

Then it turned, looked toward Penelope, and blinked once.

The court exhaled.

A sign. A judgment. Athena’s favour.

The elders rose. The head priestess of the island—old as olive trees—stepped forward and lifted her staff.

“Ithaca hears the voice of the gods,” she said. “And finds Polites son of no house but ours—blameless.”

A cheer rose from the guards, ragged and full of relief. Telemachus buried his face in his hands. Eurylochus laughed, sharp and broken. Polites did not move. He only looked toward the owl, and gave it a slow, silent nod.

Lady Nereis stood. Her face was unreadable.

“I will return to Zakinthos,” she said. “The gods have spoken.”

She did not apologize. She did not meet his eyes.

She left the court without another word.

~+~

That night, the stars were bright over the western cliffs. Polites stood there alone, the owl gone, the court dispersed.

Odysseus found him there, wine in hand.

“She left with her sails furled,” the king said. “No threats. No messengers. No war.”

Polites nodded. “She got her answer. That was all she came for.”

Odysseus’s jaw tightened. “Don’t worry, I’ll be letting Arkeon know what happened here. Nereis will be punished. I’m sure she’ll—”

“No.”

Odysseus blinked. “No?” he echoed, turning toward him fully. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean,” Polites sighed, the weight of the last few days settling deep into his shoulders, “I don’t want Nereis to be punished. I won’t risk political consequences over something that… doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Odysseus’s voice sharpened. “Pol, she assaulted you!”

“She kissed me. That’s hardly a severe offense.”

Odysseus stepped closer, frowning. “Polites, what she did was despicable and unacceptable. You know that, right? It doesn’t matter if she just kissed you or if she raped you. It was wrong.”

Polites’s eyes flicked away. He didn’t argue, but his silence was heavy. During the war, he had seen what happened to women when soldiers decided they were owed something—how their lives could be torn apart. That wasn’t what this was. He was no damsel in distress. He was a soldier, armed, trained, stronger than her. He could have stopped Nereis at any time.

And he hadn’t. So really, wasn’t it his fault?

Odysseus must have read it in his face, because his expression shifted—anger cooling into something quieter, fiercer. “No. Don’t you start that. This isn’t about strength, Pol. This isn’t about whether you could have fought her off. She used your honour against you. She cornered you, ignored your ‘no,’ and tried to turn the court against you when you refused her. That’s not your fault. Not one heartbeat of it.”

Polites let the words hang between them, unsure if he believed them. The old instinct to shoulder the blame was stubborn. But he saw the truth of Odysseus’s conviction, the way the man’s hands curled as if to hold the truth steady for him. For his friend’s sake, if nothing else, Polites inclined his head.

“All right,” he said.

It wasn’t agreement. Not yet. But it was the closest he could come. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Odysseus studied him. “You should be angry.”

“I’m tired,” Polites said simply.

Odysseus was silent for a moment, then sighed. “You were brave today.”

Polites glanced up. “I was honest.”

“Same thing,” Odysseus said, though his voice had softened. “I’m sorry you had to bare that truth before the whole court. I’m sorry she left you no choice.”

“It’s alright,” Polites murmured. “I’m not ashamed of myself. Eros and Aphrodite may pass me by, and I’m glad for it. I’ve lived well, loved well—in my way. I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’ve lived as I chose, and I am proud of everything I’ve done and accomplished—whether others call it flaw or not.”

A flicker of warmth crossed Odysseus’s face. “You’ve never been flawed a day in your life. Well… except for the part where you decided following me to war was a good idea.”

Polites’s laugh was low and brief; he bumped his shoulder into Odysseus’s in quiet camaraderie. “I wasn’t going to let you get killed on your own.”

They stood together in silence—shoulder-to-shoulder. Below them, the waves pressed softly against the cliffs. Above, an owl winged silently back into the dark, leaving only the stars.

Polites tilted his face upward, feeling the old cadence return—

In, the stars; out, the tide. 

In, the stars; out, the tide.

Somewhere in the palace, he knew a boy he loved was counting those same stars. And beside him, his brother offering his shoulder. And tonight, that was enough.