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It takes them nearly two weeks to reach the coordinates of the convening Achaean fleet. 

He kisses Penelope and Telemachus goodbye one last time, and departs for war. As much as he’d rather string that damned Palamedes from his ankles and drag him through the mud, he has to admit the man had outwitted him severely. It isn’t very often that Odysseus finds himself backed into a corner he can’t roll out of. And the consequence of his foolishness is this; a bitter back-and-forth of loss to last for gods-know how long. The oracle only foretold of a conflict that will seem endless, and a harrowing return home. Odysseus already laments his loss of time. 

And as if to rub salt into his misery, Agamemnon has him running around like a little messenger boy, to truly hammer in his humiliation. Which is stupid; why would any self-respecting man with a loving wife and newborn child want to wage war on foreign sand? Clearly kings like Odysseus are of a rare breed. Kings like Agamemnon, however, seem to sprout up from the earth like weeds. And kings like Agamemnon don’t like kings like Odysseus.  

But it’s whatever. It doesn’t matter now. In fact, the longer he can stay away from the moronic stench of Agamemnon and the other haughty kings, the better. He’s in no rush to get his soldiers killed, or his sanity sapped. It’s unfortunate that he’s had to deal with Ajax the Greater’s blithering about being “late to the party,” but he makes due. He can probably extend their journey to pass the one-week mark if he takes enough turns and bumbles through the isles under pretence of not knowing any better. 

At least Ajax the Greater keeps to his own boat. The retrieval party only deployed with two; and thank the gods for it. Odysseus doesn’t think he could’ve handled having to man the same small ship as Ajax the Greater. It’d be a test of wills he’d surely fail.

“Smell something in the air, Laertiades?”

Odysseus snorts. 

“What am I?” He grins over his shoulder, watching Diomedes as he walks up to the stand beside him. “A blood hound?”

“Aren’t you?” Diomedes mocks, eyeing him. “Out for blood?”

“Maybe the urge for it will lessen once I’m washing myself of it day by day.”

“Until that happens,” Diomedes leans down to whisper in his ear, “try to keep your nose to yourself. Lest you wanna’ have it cut off.”

“Are you threatening me?” Odysseus’s grin widens. 

“I am… nudging you to reconsider my inevitable involvement when time comes, is all,” Diomedes shrugs, hands up in the air as a sign of his innocence. He straightens out, resting his hands behind his back. Odysseus rolls his eyes at him and leans back against the hull. 

“I take it there’s no one who doesn’t know what happened, then,” Odysseus mutters. It’s not really a question, because he’s not asking. He already knows. Agamemnon likes to brag, and Palamedes is not one to hide his accomplishments. He had never liked Odysseus much to begin with. 

Diomedes grimaces. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, looking out into the ocean. “For what it’s worth, I’d sniff out for his blood too, were it me.”

“Out-witted by a moron,” Odysseus hangs his head, taking his hat off just long enough to to run his hands through his hair. “What has this world come to?”

Diomedes snorts, clapping Odysseus over the shoulder and giving him a firm shake.

“Lighten up, Polytropus.” He shakes him again, enough to coax Odysseus into glaring at him from over his shoulder. “There’s time yet for your sinister hubris to draw something out.”

Odysseus chuckles, mostly because Diomedes is funny, though his sarcasm is anything but easy to swallow. Still, his old friend is a refreshing balm compared to the itchy rash that Agamemnon and his council never fail to flare up in Odysseus’s mind. He’s already had to deal with cooling more than a handful of headaches, and he hadn’t even been on camp that long before being shooed away to go play fetch. 

He hums under his breath and looks back toward the open ocean. An endless expanse of water stretching out far past what the eye can see. The horizon is a clash of blue on blue, a stark line that blurs into a brilliant orange as the sun sets. Soon enough there will be nothing but one long black canvas before them, as if their ships were sailing into the night sky. 

There is a sort of tranquillity in this, he muses. A calm before the storm. He has to admit that though it’s a blow to his pride, being chosen to act like a dog fetching a bone has its perks. He eases himself to lean further into the hull, letting his weight fall to his arms.

“Did you just come up here to dig at me?” Odysseus breaks the companiable silence. He rolls his shoulder, hoping to loosen the kinks in his back. He hopes he’s as nonchalant as he thinks he is. 

Diomedes offers Odysseus a smirk, as subtle as it is. He’s not very expressive, beyond the exasperated look he usually carries over his brows whenever someone decides to ruin his solitude and speak to him. But Diomedes sought out Odysseus, not the other way around. The exasperation is unwarranted. 

“You’re not as important as you think, Laertiades. Humble yourself. I don’t spend nearly as much time thinking about you as you think.”

“And I–” Odysseus flicks his wrist at him “–think you’re full of bullshit.”

“Nice,” Diomedes rolls his eyes. 

“Well?” Odysseus prompts. 

Finally loosening the stick up his ass enough to lean against the hull beside him, Diomedes tilts his head and says, “tell me about your plan.”

Odysseus grins. 

“What plan?”

“Don’t try that with me. I’ll throw you overboard.”

Odysseus raises his arms in defeat. He earns himself another shoulder-shove. He thinks it’s unwarranted. 

“I already know where he is,” Odysseus explains, looking back toward the ocean. “It’s not hard to guess. I mean, how do you even hide away a demigod?”

Diomedes hums in agreement. 

“If I’m being honest,” he starts carefully, “I didn’t think they were real.”

Odysseus knows who Diomedes is talking about. He plays the part anyway. 

“Prophecies?”

“Demigods.”

Odysseus nods along.

“Never met divinity?” Odysseus jokes, though it fails when Diomedes gives him a flat look. Odysseus snickers. “Worth a shot.”

“And it’s also besides the case,” Diomedes says. “It feels like we’re being sent to chase our own bleeding tails.”

“Calchas seemed certain. And he’s never been wrong before.”

“Prophecy is fickle, Odysseus, even you know that.”

“I do,” Odysseus agrees easily. “And so does this Achilles’s mother. Can you imagine it? You, a goddess, manages to defy the Fates and bear a child that can turn the tides of a war dripping with divine intervention. Only for another prophecy to declare his untimely fate. You know the nature of the divine.”

Diomedes nods with a grimace. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t chained him to the bottom of the ocean,” Diomedes says. 

“That would definitely have made our job a whole lot harder,” Odysseus laughs. He straightens out and stretches his arms over his head, wincing. His back pops a moment later, and he sighs. 

“But we don’t have to resort to begging the Earth Shaker.”

“Thank the gods,” Odysseus agrees, settling back. He stares into the ocean once more. They’ll reach the first of the isles by dawn, sailing east as they are. But to have the perfect cover-up, they’ll need to circle down south and approach their destination from the west. Can’t have anyone asking why their band of sailors decided to pick the furthest island to dock and rest up. Being undercover also reminds Odysseus that he’ll have to ditch his beloved hat, because it’s his staple item, and he can’t afford to get caught right now. Which is so unfortunate; Odysseus quite likes his hat. 

“Will we need to do any begging for wherever we’re headed then?” Diomedes asks with a grin.

“Nah,” Odysseus answers, waving him off. “I’ve heard Skyros is much more hospitable to travellers than an Olympian’s palace.”

“Ah,” Diomedes chuckles, shaking his head. “May the gods protect me from your ire, Polymichanos. I feel like a fool for not figuring it out.”

“What can I say?” Odysseus smirks, and reaches over to punch the taller man’s shoulder. “I like to call it divine deduction.”

“If Athena hears you say that, she will smite you.”

“So worth it.”

Skyros is beautiful in all the ways Ithaca isn’t. 

Lush with greenery, it’s an island to envy, if it weren’t so helplessly irrelevant. A small paradise, teeming with colourful wildlife that frolics within thick emerald forests. The water pools lapping at the powdery beach shores are incandescent and crystal clear. The port isn’t very grand – lined with wooden columns and several statues carved from stone situated like guardians facing the open sea – but it’s just big enough to have their two ships docked and their party received with open arms. 

Odysseus feels like this is the perfect island to waste a few days on, perhaps let the days flow by while he lazes around and drinks by the shores. Agamemnon can wait for his dogs to bring back his stupid bone; his back aches and he’s tired and Lycomedes is known for his honourable upkeep of xenia. 

Unfortunately, Diomedes hates him, and shoves him to the front of the group before he can slink off. Which sucks. Because now he has to play diplomat for a bunch of meat-heads – plus Diomedes, the traitor – instead of letting someone like Ajax the Greater create an entertaining display of bull-in-a-temple. Oh well. 

“I was hoping to snag an audience with your king,” is what Odysseus starts with when prompted by the island guard. “We are merchants, you see.” He gestures to his chiton, which isn’t anything impressive. “And the birds have told me that Lord Lycomedes’s daughters fancy exotic fabrics.”

He can feel Diomedes’s flat stare on the back of his head. He refrains from snickering. 

“An audience will be granted,” one of the guards agrees. When their group is urged to follow their escorts, Odysseus turns to Diomedes and sneers at him. 

“Is Athena not your patron goddess? Can you not think for yourself?”

“Why draw up plans when you’ve already got one?” He counters.

“I want to get drunk and fall asleep on the beach.”

Diomedes rolls his eyes. 

“Tough luck.”

What’s ever better is that they leave Ajax the Greater behind to keep an eye on the ships. Not that Skyros has a reputation for pirates or thieves, but Odysseus can’t stand the man no matter how good he is at throwing a javelin. Diomedes knows how to play to Odysseus’s rhythm, and Ajax is a blithering moron on the best of days. 

It also means that now, Odysseus can get drunk and fall asleep on the beach, and no one will snitch. 

Lycomedes palace is carved of marble and white stone, the perfect isle sanctuary to fit the rest of the isle aesthetic. Tall columns stretch overhead, connected by intricately carved arches with large gaps to reveal the cloud-speckled sky. Tranquil blue pools fill the deep stream-like grooves built around frothing fountains, giving the illusion of marble stepping stones amongst open waters. Their group is led through a long hall that bleeds into a massive open-space pavilion. It follows the design of the rest of the palace; white and pristine and island-like in its obscurity. 

“Please wait here,” their escort instructs, gesturing to the seating area. It’s clear Skyros doesn’t host large gatherings, but their group is small, so they’ll make due. “I will call upon the king.”

Odysseus nods and shoos them away. 

Diomedes sits to his right, and leans over to nudge him in the ribs. 

“What’s your great ploy, then?”

“Who, me?” Odysseus gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “Plan? Plot? Ploy?”

Diomedes deadpans. 

“Are you done?”

“You’re no fun,” Odysseus sighs. “And the plan is simple, really. We are merchants here to sell our wares to the lovely maidens of Lord Lycomedes’s house. Silks, jewels, gems, whatever I managed to snag from Agamemnon’s chest of treasures.”

Diomedes’s eyes widen, and he digs his elbow further into Odysseus’s ribs. 

“You. Did. Not.”

“Tell him it was a hawk,” Odysseus chuckles. “It’ll be so funny.”

“How is this supposed to do anything but persuade Agamemnon to hang your head?”

Odysseus grins and nudges Diomedes back. 

“I’ll tell you tonight,” he promises, ignoring Diomedes’s pointedly annoyed look. “I’m in no rush to get out of here. And I have a date tonight.”

“Really?” Diomedes raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Fancy Penelope’s wrath when you bring home a bastard?”

“I was actually talking about the wine, but you really are no fun.”

Before Diomedes can sock him across the face, Lycomedes and his guard arrive from the entrance of the palace interior. 

“Ah!” He opens his arms out in a flourish, blue robes bellowing out in the soft wind. “Travellers from across the sea. Welcome to Skyros. I hope the winds were kind.”

“We thank the gods for it,” Odysseus agrees, bowing his head. He feels Diomedes follow his lead, as well as the three others behind them. “And for guiding us to your gracious abode.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Lycomedes asks, settling into the high seat placed upon an elevated platform at the head of the pavilion. He’s got a careful smile crafted on his lips as he surveys them. “I must admit, we don’t see many uncharted merchants here.”

“Which is such a misfortune,” Odysseus plays along. “Considering your beautiful daughters deserve to be treated to the finest of garments. Lucky, then, that we happen to have exactly that.”

“Travellers are always welcome to Skyros,” Lycomedes announces, already nodding off several servants with silent orders. “That you are merchants simply elevates our enjoyment. I can only pray that our hospitality is to your liking.”

Odysseus is about to agree, leaning into the King’s subtle interest in their (non-existent) wears. 

“No doubt we will,” Diomedes cuts before he can say anything, placing a hand on Odysseus’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can share our trades with you tomorrow? We mean no disrespect to you, gracious host, but we are weary from days spent on open waters. I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to supply you with the appropriate enthusiasm. With rest, I can guarantee our best quality of service, one deserving of a king’s court.”

Lycomedes, thankfully, doesn’t wilt at the suggestion. Odysseus pats Diomedes on the back for his quick thinking; Lycomedes is apparently fiercely protective and doting toward his daughters. And buttering up a king with daughters never hurt anyone. 

It’s also the perfect cover for the suspicion written over his face at the mention of said daughters; the perfect cover to explain the suspicion of why merchants would be crawling along his shores at the calling tides of the Achaean fleet converging for war. And a well-spread prophecy about a certain demigod living under his roof. But Odysseus doesn’t say anything. Lycomedes is a smart man, but simple in nature.

They are waved away to follow Lycomedes’s servants, who split their group in two and guide them to separate rooms. Come tomorrow and he’ll have to figure out a way to get Achilles to reveal himself, or for a more… underhanded plot to reveal him. But that is a worry for Odysseus of tomorrow. 

Right now, Odysseus does the only logical thing that can be expected from a man and flops right onto the soft silk sheets the moment the servants scurry away. 

“Oh island blessings,” Odysseus moans into his lush pillow, clutching it close. “My only woe of Ithaca is the lack of silk.”

“Ithaca is a trading port,” Diomedes points out, settling on the other bed and running a hand over the sheets. “You shouldn’t have any lack of silk.”

Odysseus ignores him and buries himself further into his bed. 

Skyros is humid where Ithaca is dry, and his skin is dewy as he dresses into the visitor garments provided by the palace. It’s a bit unpleasant, but he keeps his complaints to himself. Diomedes has already left for the summon of Lycomedes, leaving Odysseus to take his time dressing himself up. 

Breakfast is an entertaining ordeal when he reaches the pavilion, where rows of fruits and bread and meats line the low floor table. Lycomedes sits at the head, dressed up from yesterday, arms laced with gold. Diomedes is already seated to the King’s right. Odysseus joins him, settling as inconspicuously as possible.

“How kind of you to join us, traveller,” Lycomedes jests, his smile as sharp as it had been yesterday. “Please, help yourselves.”

Odysseus tears into the bread with as much appreciated gusto as he can manage, humming appreciatively as he eats. Diomedes eyes him like he’s a spectacle; to be fair, he probably is. But Lycomedes soaks up Odysseus’s praising noises, or at least, he looks like he is. A goddess wouldn’t entrust just about anyone with her against-the-Fates child. There is an undercurrent of suspicion that laces every twitch the king makes. 

Luckily for him, Odysseus doesn’t really care. Lycomedes can’t do anything to him unless he does something first, and Odysseus is hoping that he’ll be able to simply observe and locate his way out of this whole ordeal. Achilles is not a daughter of an old, possessive king of Skyros. It shouldn’t be too hard to spot him among the daughters. 

At least, that’s what he’d told Diomedes last night. Turns out, Skyros breeds daughters like goddesses breed impossible demigods. 

Lycomedes’s daughters, all eight of them, trail into the pavilion, instruments and looping jewellery clasped in their grasp. He hears Diomedes snort into his wine, and he elects to ignore him in favour of ruminating over how it might not be as simple to find their prophesied hero as he originally thought. 

Lycomedes’s wife is a source of pondered mystery, in that she (allegedly) gave birth to eight (alleged) daughters without ever showing her face in court. She wasn’t present when news spread of Theseus's demise, nor is she here now. Not that her existence can be questioned. As Lycomedes’s daughters trail to the floor one after another, it’s nearly impossible to say that Lycomedes slept around and found out.

They were all tall, almost unnaturally for such young women. Almost like divinity. Most likely some strain of Amazonian that escaped the clutches of secrecy. Regal in their stance and broad-shouldered, Odysseus laments over the fact that he won’t simply be able to look at each one and guess as to which figure looks the most masculine. They’re all well-muscled too, lean and toned and pale under the pleats of too-convenient-to-be-coincidental chitons. None have prominent chests, and their curves are either straight or hidden. 

Diomedes loudly sips from his cup. Odysseus throws him a dirty glare. 

“These are my daughters,” Lycomedes introduces, as if he and his mysterious wife were blessed with the fortune of no sons. Odysseus wouldn’t even be surprised if some of these girls weren’t actually blessings of distant Amazon blood and instead the product of sons playing dress-up. Odysseus half-wonders if this is the usual state of Lycomedes’s house, or if this is a special occasion for their crew. 

“Beautiful, truly,” Odysseus starts, putting a hand to his chest. None of the girls look up from where they prepare a performance. Odysseus uses the opportunity to rake his gaze over them under the guise of appreciation, taking in the straight noses, slanted ocean eyes, and pale bodies. They really do all look similar; any one of them could be Achilles, except perhaps two eldest. Odysseus wonders if he can send a bird over to Calchas and see if he can dig up something specific, like the colour of Achilles’s hair or the slope of his brow. Not that that would do anything but narrow the options. Damned Amazonian blood. 

“Fabrics aren’t the only taste I can appreciate,” Odysseus eventually turns back to Lycomedes. “Double-lined pleats, however; for the humidity of Skyros, I wouldn’t have guessed that to be a choice of fashion.”

Diomedes gives him  a long warning stare. Odysseus, again, ignores him. 

Lycomedes’s smile sharpens. Maybe that comment cut too close. Oh well. Odysseus thinks it’s endlessly amusing, how suspicious-without-actually-admitting-to-it Lycomedes can get. 

“I never quite caught your names,” Lycomedes says in lieu of an answer. The gold bracelets along his wrists jangle obnoxiously as he gestures to them. “Perhaps you’d do us the honour of sharing a tale or two?”

“Of course,” Odysseus raises a cup to the king, and then pats Diomedes on the back hard enough for the man to drop the grapes in his mouth. “My companion brings stories to life, my lord. I’m sure you’ll never want to hear another story again after he’s done.”

Diomedes glares at him as he clears his throat, eyes narrowed into dark slits. He mouths something along the lines of “I’m going to kill you and throw your body into the sea” but that could easily be lost in translation. 

“Ah, where to begin,” Diomedes starts slowly, because he is, after all, favoured by Athena. He twists up a story straight out of his ass, something about a pretty lady and men who fought for her hand through silks and cottons, and how they almost won the competition until the fair maiden chose royal blue as her favoured colour. It’s so unbelievably stupid that Odysseus is surprised Lycomedes doesn’t call on their bullshit and kick them off his island. 

Instead, he lets Diomedes dig their grave deeper and instead goes back to looking at the eight daughters. 

Huh. Looks like observe and locate isn’t going to work here. Achilles is a demigod, and even if Odysseus wasn’t one himself, legends dictate that any Fate-defying child of the gods must have a sign. Something that reveals the divine in their blood. Odysseus has his wings. Perseus had been fabled to have had lightning in his eyes and a touch that always felt like lightning. There is always a tell. Always a hint that something is not quite right. 

The daughters of Lycomedes are all beautiful, in a faraway, regal sort of way. They are all probably at least as tall as him, though that’s not an impressive feat on its own. They all have long hair braided down their backs, blonde and brown and two who have dark curly locks. They all have ocean eyes. Pyrrha and Ismene play the lyre, and one of the middle daughters, Deidamia, plays the aulos. The other five girls begin to dance. The pleats – double-lined and weighed down by heavy clasps – sway minimally in their movements, revealing nothing.

“–to be had, but his longing for company has him addled. If I’m being honest my lord,” Odysseus tunes back to Diomedes’s false tale. “I think he chose your exquisite island for more than just a taste of wine.”

It’s Odysseus’s turn to glare at Diomedes, but the asshole is still smiling at Lycomedes, whose gaze flickers between the two of them, calculating. 

“A weary traveller in want of a warm bed, eh?” Lycomedes teases, and Odysseus refrains from strangling Diomedes right there at the king's feet. “We have many servants willing to see to a lonely man’s needs.”

Odysseus grits his teeth in a tight smile and digs his thumb into Diomedes’s thigh. 

“Ah, while that would be… most generous, my lord, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the performers before me.”

It’s a bold move, vying for a king’s daughter like this. He takes a long sip of his wine and wonders how many more cups he’ll need to drink before his vision starts to blur. 

The king’s smile twitches. Diomedes looks at him like he’s lost his head, which is completely unfair, considering that it’s his fault their in this mess. 

“They are worthy of admiration,” Lycomedes agrees slowly. “Remind me, merchant, of your name?”

“Hermione, my lord,” Odysseus pointedly ignores Diomedes’s incredulous stare. “My mother had always wanted a daughter, but was struck with five sons. I, the youngest, was often a victim to her whims.” It helps that these garments were meant for someone a few inches taller and similar to his own. He spreads the extra fabric to settle over his legs in a way that would mimic a woman’s, pressing his knees together, raising a shoulder and resting an elbow delicately on the table. He must look so foolish right now. Diomedes is snickering at him from behind his cup again.

Lycomedes laughs, and it doesn’t sound strained or disbelieving. Odysseus is lucky that he isn’t an old man, or this kind of ploy may not have been allowed to slide by. 

“And I a man blessed with many daughters,” Lycomedes says, sweeping a hand to where his eight children perform. “They look forward to browsing your collection, Hermione of…”

“Nowhere,” Odysseus offers with a dainty shrug. He’s glad he’d thought to shave before docking. He’d look so stupid doing all this with a grown beard. 

“Clever,” Lycomedes muses, but doesn’t press. “I would be pleased to see your wears, merchant from Nowhere. Perhaps after sun-high?”

“Perfect,” Odysseus agrees. 

They eat to their fill, and Odysseus snags a wine pouch to slip under his robes before the servants start packing the table together. Lycomedes and his daughters trail into the palace, leaving Odysseus and Diomedes and their advisors to meander their way back to the ships. 

“Hermione,” Diomedes mocks, rolling his eyes skyward. “Of Nowhere.”

“Longing for company?” Odysseus hisses back, shoving Diomedes’s shoulder. The man laughs. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m playing your game, Laertiades.” Diomedes shoots back. 

“Let’s just hope that Agamemnon’s jewels are to their liking,” Odysseus grumbles, walking up to the docks. He waves to Ajax, who waves back from the ship. 

“You know,” Diomedes hums, walking beside him as they make their way to the ships. “This isn’t actually all that bad of a position to be in. Maybe your mother of five men decorated you one too many times. Maybe you have a preference for shoulders instead of hips.”

“If I did, Penelope would kill me. She’s got nice shoulders.”

Diomedes fake-gags. Odysseus snickers. 

“But you’re right, as much as it pains me to admit it,” Odysseus continues. A plank is drawn out for them, and Odysseus leads them up to the deck. “Get into his court, swoon after a servant in front of him, and maybe get a closer look at his daughters without him getting suspicious.”

“You just vied for one of his daughters,” Diomedes deadpans. 

“Meh, it can be played off as an embarrassment to admitting the truth. Did you see any young men in his court?”

“A few,” Diomedes ponders. “Most were serving food. I guess seven Amazon-blooded daughters will lessen the desire to be surrounded by women.”

The two walk down the deck toward the trapdoor that leads to the storage and sleeping quarters beneath. Odysseus waves Ajax over as they approach. 

“Any luck?” The man asks. 

“It’s… a process,” Odysseus admits, opening the latch and climbing down. “Might need a few more days. We’re in no rush–”

“Agamemnon said to be hasty–”

“If we want to succeed, we cannot rush,” Odysseus stresses. Ajax closes his mouth, displeased. “Lycomedes knows about the prophecy, and Achilles was hidden here by a goddess. I have a few ideas, and a desperate last measure.”

“Odysseus with a desperate last measure,” Diomedes mocks a wince. “May the gods never be so cruel.”

The chest stuffed under his bed is filled to the brim with jewellery and clothes. Exploits from Agamemnon’s journey of destruction that followed him as he led his fleet beyond Sparta. Odysseus doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about taking stolen goods; only slightly disappointed at how easy it had been. The whole thrill of stealing stolen from him by a general who can’t see his own toes. But it’s whatever.

Ajax makes an affronted noise, most likely recognising Agamemnon’s seal along the chest. Diomedes sighs and crosses his arms, watching Odysseus wrestle with the lock of the chest with a pin until it clicks open. 

“Now, here’s the not-desperate-back-up-plan…”

They set up their prizes along long tables provided by local merchant stalls. Nearer to the palace but still within the marketplace, Odysseus has Diomedes run their fake stall while he himself urges people to visit them. 

It’s not hard to attract attention. Agamemnon has a mighty collection of reaped goods from all over, and it shows in the distinct exotic nature of craftsmanship within each piece of jewellery. The garments strewn along their stall all vary in colour and textures and prints, from common Spartan shapes to lesser-known island designs. Odysseus doesn’t bother naming the islands, mostly because he knows how easy it is to get caught in his lie if he did. He’s a merchant, but not one known for memory. At least, according to himself. He lets Diomedes handle geography-curious buyers and lets himself tell fake tales of their travels instead. 

Lycomedes himself doesn’t grace them with his presence until the evening, but it’s alright. It’s fun to play merchant and make some money off of Agamemnon’s goods. He might go deeper into the market later and buy something himself. Premium wine for the sea, perhaps. 

Diomedes pockets his fair share of coins too. 

When Lycomedes does eventually show up with his gaggle of daughters, the sky is a blazing orange and the sun plays the horizon like the string of a lyre. Odysseus greets him with open arms and a big smile. He privately exchanges a look with Diomedes when he spots a few men among the royal procession. 

“My lord, how wonderful to see you again so soon!” Odysseus exclaims, taking the king's offered hand in both of his. His hopes the oils he slathered upon his callouses make his hands softer than they are; a suggestion by Diomedes, alongside the one where he should wear one of the sloping too-long chiton from among Agamemnon’s treasures. He can’t bring himself to be too embarrassed; playing mad and then getting called out for it does wonders to humble a man’s hubris. Plus, it’s almost Ithacan mahogany.

Still, he wonders if tightening the belt around his waist so much was a wise move. It seems almost provocative. 

Whatever. 

Odysseus gestures to their stall, where Diomedes has quickly restocked the tables with the finer clothes they had hid until now. Semi-hidden with alluring glints of light are jewelled adornments of various colours and sizes. Small instruments are set in a crate on the side. They even managed to snag a few extra weapons from Ajax, ones long and broad and built for sturdy hands. Diomedes, upon Odysseus’s instruction, hung them right at the front of the stall. 

“Hermione of Nowhere,” Lycomedes nods, taking his hand back. He nods again to his daughters, a silent permission, and they break away from their lingering group to scour over their goods like flies to a carcass. Odysseus refrains from staring too hard; he needs to be subtle right now. Slick in all the right places. 

… maybe this whole shtick is getting to him. 

“I hope our collection pleases you, my lord,” Odysseus bows his head. He glances at Diomedes, who stays behind the stall, arms crossed over his chest as he chats with some of the girls. “My pockets already feel fuller.”

Lycomedes huffs a chuckle, though Odysseus doesn’t allow himself to believe he’s gained any favour with the man. 

“You found your accommodations suitable?” Lycomedes asks, keeping a watchful eye on the girls who pick away at their stall. Odysseus chances a look at them, disappointed to find three of the alleged daughters examining the weapons. Stupid Amazon blood. 

“More than so, my lord,” Odysseus moves to cross his arms, and then thinks better and folds his hands over his elbows instead. “Food and wine beyond our needs…”

He trails off, seemingly uncertain. Lycomedes turns to him, a small smirk on his face, as if he’s proud he can read Odysseus so well. He refrains from rolling his eyes. 

“Ah,” the king ponders almost mockingly. Odysseus lets his tone slide off his shoulders. “This must be about the, ah, longing your companion mentioned.”

“Curse him for exposing my mortal desires,” Odysseus huffs, rubbing a palm over his face. He glances up, desperate, and catches the sight of one of the young male servants accompanying the daughters. Not a guard, but perhaps a carrier. Curly black hair that sits above his neck and amber eyes. He lets his gaze linger on the poor chap. “But alas, I am but a man.”

“Indeed,” Lycomedes side-eyes him critically. “However, I must inform you that my daughters are–”

“Oh!” Odysseus turns to the king and bows his head, wringing his hands together. “My lord, I must apologise for my crass behaviour. You fed us and gave us beds, and yet I disrespected the state of your family. My tolerance for wine must have waned while on sea, but still, it is no excuse.”

Lycomedes seems appeased by Odysseus’s lie. He eases back on his heels. Odysseus doesn’t raise his head until the king speaks again. 

“A man is only a man, at the end of the day,” Lycomedes says, as if to pity him and his insatiable desires. “No harm is done. If anything, would I not be a gracious host if I did not offer aid in your need?”

He must think of himself so highly, to offer Odysseus a way to work through his supposed frustrations. He bites back a snort. 

“I couldn’t possibly even suggest, after–”

“It would be my pleasure to allow you a taste of Skyros women,” Lycomedes interrupts, a gleam in his eye as he takes in Odysseus form; his cinched belt, the slight hitch in his shoulders, the flowing garment that hangs low past his knees. There’s no way he didn’t notice Odysseus’s lingering gaze. “Or men.” Lycomedes grins as if offering a beggar gold coins. “Consider it a gift from me. Pick whichever servant catches your eye, Hermione of Nowhere. I shall have an advisor inform them where your room is tonight.”

Odysseus plays bashful and bows his head again, hoping the tremble of his shoulders from holding back his laughter comes off as eager gratitude. His eyes find the lad with the dark curls, the one holding a lyre in his hands while the blonde maybe-is-maybe-isn’t daughter inspects the rest of the weapons alongside two of her sisters. He seems close enough to the girls. Poor lad. Odysseus almost feels bad when Lycomedes follows his gaze and pinpoints his catch. 

“Ah,” he hums, smirking. Odysseus plays the part of underling beneath his sandal. “Consider it done.”

Diomedes is granted another room for the night on Odysseus’s request, one fulfilled by Lycomedes with ease now that he seems to have deciphered their true intention. The king has lost a bit of his suspicious edge, and treats them like regular guests. The lack of mention of Troy probably helps. Diomedes thinks it’s actually Odysseus’s tight belt. 

“Choke on wine and die,” Odysseus mutters under his breath when Diomedes passes him in their bathing chambers, clasping him over the shoulder.

“I’ll try my best,” Diomedes smirks before disappearing down the hall. Odysseus finishes his bath unhurried, taking his time to slather oils along his scalp and allowing the hot water to ease his sore muscles. Though he hasn’t done any fighting yet, sailing for days on end always leaves him with knots. Or maybe that’s just from the tension of being away from home. 

He shaves again, because he needs to keep up his ruse, but also because he hates the growing process and the way it itches. He dries off, dresses in the visitor gowns folded by the baths, and leisurely makes his way to his room. 

The dark-haired servant is waiting inside once he enters. 

He’s seated on the one klismos in the room, pushed to the corner and opposite to the bed. The lad doesn’t look too nervous, sitting patiently with his hands folded over one another, feet pressed firmly on the ground. His eyes snap to Odysseus when he enters, watching him like a hawk as he closes the door behind him. 

“Lord Lycomedes doesn’t dilly dally,” Odysseus chuckles, locking the wooden hatch of the door. He glances at the boy from the corner of his eye. He hasn’t moved an inch. He probably hasn’t even blinked. Odysseus turns back around and leans on the door, crossing his arms. “Well then, your name?”

“Patroclus, sir,” the servant – Patroclus – answers, dipping his head in customary respect. He looks young, definitely younger than Odysseus, and unusually muscled for someone who is supposedly a mere servant of the king of an irrelevant island. Maybe he’s just athletic. Odysseus doesn’t like jumping to conclusions, even though his heart picks up at the thought of his sheer luck. Because the name also sounds familiar, like he’s seen it written down somewhere before. 

He begs his great grandfather for his blessing of good will and hopes that this stroke of luck isn’t a curse in disguise. It’s just too good to be true. Because…  

“Patroclus,” Odysseus rolls the name on his tongue, glancing at the ceiling and tapping his fingers along his arm and he thinks. “I’ve never met one before. It’s a unique name.”

“I hope it pleases you, sir,” Patroclus answers carefully. Guarded and, when Odysseus looks back at him, his eyes squint with a sudden alertness. 

“None of that,” he waves his hand and pushes himself off the door. Moving past Patroclus, he lets himself drop onto the bed, leaning on one arm as he uses the other to brush his hair out of his face. “Please, call me by my name. We are equals here.”

“Of course, Hermione.”

An idea sparks in his mind, and he lets it toss and turn in his head as he regards the young man in front of him. This is either going to be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, or the most embarrassing, or perhaps the decision that gets him kicked off of the island. Hmm, the choices are all equally exhilarating. He wonders which one he’ll regret the least. 

“Ah,” he sighs, letting himself lean back further on his arm. Patroclus watches him like a bird of prey. Odysseus is sure he’d be a warrior of might on the battlefield; his arms speak of strength, and his shoulders are broad for just a servant boy. “That’s not actually my name.”

Patroclus’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head. 

“It was an… unusual name for a man.”

“You think?” Odysseus snorts. “But I think my real name will give you an even better kick.” He offers a hand. “Please, call me Odysseus.”

Odysseus can see the way Patroclus’s mind quickly pieces things together, and he can see the very moment that realisation hits him. He springs out of his chair like a snake, spine coiled and arms raised in defence. He looks… not angry, not scared, but apprehensive. Like he’s waiting for Odysseus to strike. 

“King of Ithaca,” Patroclus murmurs, frowning, as if reciting his name from a list in his mind. “The one who–”

“Proposed the Oath of Tyndareus, yes, yes,” Odysseus waves him off. He suddenly feels tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up into Skyros silk and sleep. “And though my memory isn’t all that great, I think I remember a very specific little prince that–”

“You knew,” Patroclus grits out suddenly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You’re here to–”

“Funnily enough,” Odysseus cuts him off, inspecting his hand. Even just a single use of oil managed to soften his palm. He wonders if he could snag a bottle for Penelope. “I didn’t actually come here for you. Though you are on my list of stragglers to collect after I finish up here. I was honestly just going to tell Agamemnon that you died or something.”

Patroclus’s brows furrow in confusion. He’s an open book, poor lad, without an ounce of facial control. Odysseus supposes it’s a good thing. 

“So you… you discovered me by what, sheer luck?”

“Did you know I am among Hermes’ kin?” Odysseus grins at the man over his fingers. “I guess I’m just lucky.”

Patroclus fidgets here and there, never taking his eyes off Odysseus as he slowly lowers his arms. He’s got a good temperament, if nothing else. Odysseus has no memory of Patroclus of Opus during the whole mess with Helen’s marriage. He’d been but a name and age and piece of land on a list of many. Odysseus wonders just what he’s doing here, on Skyros; an island claimed as Achilles' ticket to defying prophecy. 

“You’re here to drag me to war?” Patroclus asks uneasily. 

“Nah,” Odysseus crosses his legs on the bed and drops his other hand into his lap. He’s so tired, and all he did today was lie about being a merchant. Hermes forgive him for being such a pathetic offspring. “I wasn’t even going to look for you. I’m actually only out here for one person.”

Odysseus has been keeping an eye on Patroclus since this little meeting of theirs started, so he’s able to catch the hitch of his shoulders, the widening of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw. 

He knows exactly when he’s hit the mark. 

Because years ago a rumour carried over messengers birds and wayward spies and loose-lipped merchants on the shores of every kingdom; rumours of how the King of Opus exiled his son after some violent and disgraceful accident and sent him away to live under a different king. And Odysseus doesn’t know why he hadn’t put the pieces together sooner. The King of Opus never answered the call to arms because he had never pledged an oath, as a married man himself. His son was nowhere to be found. How convenient for Opus. 

But rumours never shared where the little prince of Opus landed, which is unfortunate for a rumour-collector like Odysseus himself. And yet… and yet this banished not-prince is here of all places, hiding away among Lycomedes’ court of servants, arms toned and shoulders broad and a fighting tension in the way he regards Odysseus. Like a trained warrior. 

He idly wonders if he’ll get socked in the face for asking who Patroclus’s mentor was. And with whom he trained alongside to end up on such a remote, politically irrelevant isle. 

Because Odysseus doesn’t believe in coincidences. Luck? Sure. He is of Lord Hermes’ descent. Luck, he can count on. But this? It’s fruit too plump to be anything but rotten on the inside. 

“I’ll keep my oaths,” Patroclus says in a rush, which… isn’t something Odysseus is expecting, to be honest. Maybe this is a diverging tactic to keep eyes away from Achilles? Or perhaps he doesn’t even know Achilles, and this is all just one big coincidence, and Lycomedes just so happens to harbour two runaway princes on his island of Amazonian daughters. Maybe Odysseus is being made a fool, but, well, he’s already dressed with a cinched belt and he’s already put gold clips in his hair and his hands have been softened by oils and all of Skyros thinks Odysseus is Hermione, fifth son of a woman who had wanted a daughter, of an island called Nowhere. 

Odysseus tilts his head to the side. 

“How many of Lycomedes’s daughters are actually daughters?”

Patroclus’s eyes widen, but the fight seems to drain out of him. His fists go lax, and he plops back onto the klismos with an air of defeat. 

“Two of them are sons,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. 

“Among eight?”

Patroclus gives him a flat stare, and Odysseus can’t help but laugh. 

“Okay, fine, no more games,” he huffs, rubbing at his brow. “Gods, no one is any fun around here.”

“What do you want, Lord Odysseus.” It’s not a question.

“Eugh, please, no Lords here,” Odysseus scrunches his face. “I’m just a… messenger, if you will.”

“Descendant of Hermes,” Patroclus snorts without mirth, letting his head drop into his palms. “Apt. What do you want, Odysseus?”

“Nothing from you, don’t worry,” Odysseus waves at him like’s able to dismiss all his worries with a flick of his wrist. “I’ll tell Agamemnon you’re dead. Or that I couldn’t find you. You aren’t who I’m after.”

Patroclus hesitates for a moment, seemingly at battle with himself. His shoulders hunch, and the grip on his hair tightens. And then:

“It’s Achilles you want.”

Odysseus sighs. A point for luck, it seems. 

“If it’s any consolation, it’s not me that wants him. It’s the Fates.”

Patroclus raises his head and glances at him from between his fingers. He looks as tired as Odysseus feels. 

“And if he refuses?”

“Then he refuses,” Odysseus shrugs. He lets his arms drop, lets himself fall against silk sheets with a sigh. “We’ll lose. I’ll get to go home sooner, or I’ll die.”

“You sound awfully okay with that notion,” Patroclus points out. He sounds amused at least, which is a plus. Better than being strung tighter than a bow and ready to strike. 

“Meh,” Odysseus shrugs again. He closes his eyes. “I’m the moron who proposed the whole oath. Achilles knows what will happen should he choose to join us, and he knows what will happen if he doesn’t. Agamemnon made sure that no matter the outcome, it’s on my head." Then he snorts, because he doesn’t know why he’s saying these things to an exiled prince also shirking off his vows. Maybe he really is just that tired. “Regardless, none of that concerns you. Pray tell, Patroclus; which fair maiden is the invulnerable demigod?”

He hears Patroclus snort again, this time with a lighter air. He hears him shift. Odysseus doesn’t bother opening his eyes. 

“You are known for your cunning, King of Ithaca. Guess.”

Odysseus peeks an eye open and grins at the young man. 

“Looks like you are some fun, after all,” he chuckles. Settling back, he hums in thought. “But unfortunate timing. I’ve got no guesses yet. They are all very…” He gestures vaguely into the air above him. 

Patroclus laughs then. It’s a nice laugh. 

“And you are very…”

Odysseus peeks an eye open again just in time to catch Patroclus wave a hand around his shoulders. He glares at the boy. 

“So it’s not surprising.”

“You dare mock a king?”

“I thought you were just Odysseus?”

Odysseus snorts again, failing to conceal his cackling. 

“Oh, you are fun indeed. Let me have my guesses with you, then.” When Patroclus hums in concessions, Odysseus continues. “So. Exiled prince, and I’m assuming this is shortly after the debacle with Helen’s marriage. You seem well-trained, and your instincts are honed; I’d wager you were deposited to Achilles homeland. You are friends with him, yes? It only makes sense; how else would you have met? I’m guessing it had been a fun time growing up with a demigod. What island was he from again…?”

Odysseus openly muses, but Patroclus doesn’t fall for the bait, and simply grins at him, amused. 

“Well shit, no takers. Okay, well, that information is irrelevant anyway. So now we have two childhood friends raised together; an exiled prince and a demigod. Or perhaps you were exiled later and only recently became acquainted? No, that doesn’t add up. Rumours of your banishment spread years ago. Childhood friends it is. Say, the prophecy says his hubris rivals that of a god. At least, it implies it. Is it true?”

“He is…” Patroclus ponders for a moment, his smile soft and easy. Which is funny, considering he’s been caught in his lie. It’s all very funny, actually. Here he is, catching a man in his lie; Odysseus, who failed to lie his way out of war. He wonders just how much resentment he needs to muster to unwillingly drag these young men into a war too. He wonders if the effort is worth it. 

“He is prideful, yes,” Patroclus admits after a pause. “But he is also just as devoted. Few are able to get close to him, but for those that do, he would burn the world for them.”

There is a gentle fire in Patroclus’s amber eyes. Odysseus thinks it’s far too fond of a look for friends. He doesn’t comment on that though. 

“And you would be one such lucky companion?” He asks instead. 

“Perhaps,” Patroclus shrugs, leaning back on the klismos and crossing his arms. “How would I know? Achilles is infamous; I think the whole world would know if he was living on Skyros.”

Odysseus cackles again, curling into himself and burying himself further into the silk sheets. When he’s done, he’s managed to worm his way toward the pillows. He doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Cute,” he mutters with a lazy grin. He waves his hand in what he hopes is Patroclus’s direction. “You’ve been real fun. Now I’m off to sleep.”

Patroclus moves to get up. Odysseus can hear the rustle of fabric, the tell-tale sound of footsteps leading to the door. 

“Don’t leave,” he says before Patroclus can unlock the door. He feels the young man’s weighted stare on his back. “Not to sound provocative, but Lycomedes will be on my ass if you leave now as well-kept as you are. He’s a suspicious king, that one.”

“Two runaway princes,” Patroclus reminds with mirth. 

“Exactly. And Agamemnon’s timing is abysmal at best, so now everyone is on high alert.” Odysseus finally cracks an eye open and peers over his shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you played along and stayed for the night. Sleep wherever, I don’t care.”

“You think I won’t snitch you out?” Patroclus wonders aloud, though he doesn’t move to the door again. Odysseus feels a smile creep along his face. 

“Then it’s your ass I’m dragging to war, and you can deal with the General King. But also, I’m asking really politely. It would be mean to refuse.”

Patroclus snickers, but Odysseus doesn’t bother him anymore. He closes his eyes and snuggles into the plush pillow beneath his head. He wonders if he can smuggle one or two back onto the ship. He wonders if tomorrow he will wake up to Lycomedes kicking him off his island after being ratted out. He wonders if he should plan an escape first thing in the morning, and an excuse for Achilles’ absence written out in print. 

The bed dips behind him, and a solid back presses firmly against his own. Patroclus runs warm, an island heat simmering beneath his skin. He tugs a share of the blankets into his grasp. Odysseus lets him. He’s too tired to care. 

Patroclus is gone by morning, but Odysseus isn’t all that surprised. Lycomedes greets them with breakfast again, which is nice, and asks how well he slept. There’s a gleam in his eye, and Odysseus hopes the satisfaction of downing bread and cheese with fine island wine translates to a post-coupling glow. 

“Splendid, my lord,” he gushes, reaching for more grapes. Lycomedes’s smile widens. “Couldn’t have asked for better arrangements.”

They set up their stall again by sun-high, with more of Agamemnon’s treasures displayed. Diomedes is exasperated at best, but plays along. It’s not like he’s not enjoying Odysseus’s tormenting; he insists Odysseus wear a cinched belt, which is humiliating. He rubbed oil into his palms this morning too, which is double points for Diomedes. He offhandedly wonders if he’ll have any callouses left by the time they leave this stupid island. 

Lcyomedes, thank the gods, doesn’t end up accompanying his daughters for their trip through the marketplace. Odysseus can only send a prayer of thanks to his great grandfather for the luck. Instead, six of the eight daughters make their way to their exotic stall with excitement, maids and manservants trailing after them.

Odysseus immediately spots Patroclus, which is really funny, because Patroclus spots him at the same time. He looks… he doesn’t look stressed, which is good; it means Odysseus isn’t on his bad side, which is better than what he can say about most others. But today, instead of mingling with the daughters, Patroclus hangs back from the group until he can walk up to Odysseus without being conspicuous. 

“Greetings, Hermione,” Patroclus says. Under the sun, his skin is a vibrant bronze free of blemishes. He’s got the makings of a small beard at his chin, and Odysseus can appreciate how it adds to the ex-prince’s charm. He’s got dimples when he grins at him, holding a basket under his arms. Charming indeed. “Fine morning?”

“You’ve got a lavish after-glow for someone who didn’t even get any,” Odysseus rolls his eyes. Patroclus chuckles into his fist. 

“If Achilles really were on this island,” Patroclus muses, eyes roving over the daughters in equal measure. Cheeky bastard. “I’d warn you that he was livid upon my return.”

“Ooooh,” Odysseus mocks, smirking. “Such possessive nature for a dear friend!”

“Don’t be provocative.”

“I’m not being provocative. Just funny.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Half of Lycomedes’s children look miserable all the time,” Odysseus points out. Patroclus hums in ascent, as unhelpful as ever. “How is one supposed to measure up displeasure?”

“Well,” Patroclus explains slowly, and his face tells Odysseus just how much he’s enjoying himself. “Two of them are sons that are forced to dress as girls. Another is tempted to become a hunter of Artemis to avoid being wed. One is blamed for mothering a bastard son. And one sucks at playing the lyre.”

Odysseus’s eyes widen, and he spins around to stare at Patroclus. To his credit, Patroclus looks a bit sheepish at having spilled such information. 

“No way,” Odysseus gawks, and then he laughs in disbelief. “That’s too unreal. He got one of Lycomedes’s daughters pregnant? Were you not–”

“Don’t make fun of him,” Patroclus chides without heat. “Things happen when you’re young and surrounded by young people.”

“Talking like you have any experience growing up.”

Patroclus eyes him then, more considerate, his gaze raking up and down his form. Odysseus lets him take in his fill. 

“We can’t be too far apart.”

“That’s the divine blood being useful. You’d be surprised. I have a son.”

Patroclus snorts. 

“So does Achilles.” And then, after a small pause. “Well, he might have had one. Were he on Skyros.”

Odysseus barks a laugh, earning the attention of several people nearby. One of Lycomedes’s daughters glares at him from the corner of her eye. He tries to remember her name. 

“Another mystery to add to the growing list,” Odysseus starts after recovering from his laughing fit. Patroclus looks far too pleased with himself. “Whose side are you on, Exiled Opus prince?”

“It may come as a surprise, but I will uphold my vows.” At Odysseus’s surprised stare, he adjusts the basket in his hands and turns to look at him properly. “It’s dishonourable, no matter how young I had been when they were made. I’ll fight at Troy.”

“And Achilles?”

“He…” Patroclus glances at the group of girls animatedly chatting with Diomedes. He lingers on blonde hair. Odysseus rakes his brain for her name. “He won’t be pleased, but he’s a grown man. He can do what he wants.”

“Do you know about his prophecy?”

Patroclus' face seems to sink at that, and Odysseus feels the slightest bit bad.

“Who doesn’t?” He tries to joke. It falls flat. “Of course I don’t want him to die. But his hubris is so grand it starred in his own prophecy.”

“Do you think he’ll join us?”

Patroclus shrugs then, melancholy vanishing from his eyes as quickly as it had set. When he looks back to Odysseus, his mirth has returned full force. 

“I can’t say, really,” he ponders aloud. “If Achilles were on Skyros, I’m afraid you’d just have to seek him out yourself. I can’t speak on a demigod’s behalf.”

“Cheeky,” Odysseus shakes his head with a grin. “It’s not too late to break your vows.”

“And be condemned down below? I think I’ll take my chances with the Trojans.”

The girl with long blonde hair and sea blue eyes glances at them again. She looks at Patroclus, and then at Odysseus, catching his gaze for a brief second. When she looks away, she does so with no small amount of irritation. 

He thinks her name is Pyrrha. 

He thinks he sees Patroclus’ smile widen from the corner of his eye. 

Odysseus requests for company again that night. Lycomedes is all too happy to supply, apparently satisfied that his daughters have bought extravagant and exotic clothes to gush over. He doesn’t specify for Patroclus. 

Patroclus arrives at his door anyway. 

“Was I really that good?” Odysseus smirks, opening the door wider and allowing Patroclus entry. He locks the door behind him. 

“And so very humble about it,” Patroclus rolls his eyes. “When do we set sail?”

“Way to kill the mood,” Odysseus sniffs. He goes to where a small jug of watered-down wine sits along a table, and pours out two cups. He then hands one to Patroclus, who accepts it with a nod of thanks. 

“I’ll probably earn some unfortunate ire if I leave any later than three more days,” he explains, taking a sip from his cup. “Say, if Achilles were on Skyros, would he be pleased to know you're headed for war?”

“You, King of Ithaca, just happen to ask all the right questions, don’t you?” Patroclus smiles against the rim of his cup. 

“That’s a no, then,” Odysseus snickers. He flops onto his bed and crosses his legs. Patroclus sits back against the klismos. 

“If you ever do meet Achilles in person, you might want to ask your perfectly-crafted questions to him instead.”

“Only if I ever meet him,” Odysseus agrees. “Which will obviously never happen, because he’s not on Skyros, right?”

Patroclus nods solemnly. 

Odysseus drains the rest of his cup and sets it aside. When he crawls into bed, he is intimately aware of Patroclus’s eyes on his back. 

“You tire like an old man,” Patroclus teases. 

“I am an old man.”

“… you’re joking, right?”

Odysseus doesn’t bother mentioning the divine blood, even if it’s just a fraction. Clearly, it’s enough to make a difference. Instead, he buries his head into his pillow and, after a pause of consideration, pats the space behind him. 

“Well, might as well make the most of the night.”

“You’re so polite about it,” Patroclus mocks, and Odysseus can practically hear the eyeroll. But Patroclus doesn’t leave, and instead Odysseus listens to the swish of his robes and the clap clap of his sandals as he walks around, puts his cup down, and walks some more. The bed dips behind him just like last night, and then a back presses against his. Just like last night. Patroclus seems to have discarded his tunic like himself, because the entire expanse of his back is warm and solid and pure skin against his own. 

Odysseus informs Lycomedes that they will leave Skyros in two days' time. He declares that one day will be spent selling whatever is left of their collection, and the second resupplying themselves from Skyros’s abundant market. He declares this loudly and with gusto. Every daughter of Lycomedes hears him. Only one looks angry about it. 

He wonders if Patroclus has actually told Achilles of his plans to depart and uphold his vows. He wonders if their companionship is close enough that it will dampen Achilles’ mood. He wonders if he should sleep with one eye open. 

Odysseus tasks Diomedes to play merchant again that day, much to the man’s chagrin. He claims it’s all in line with his plan, and doesn’t mention how it’s satisfying to see the stoic and stony-faced king have to barter deals with other greedy merchants as payback for cinching his waste and softening his hands and shaving his face to be smoother than porcelain. He doesn’t mention any of these things, but he suspects by the glare he receives that Diomedes is well aware. Good for him. 

He himself doesn’t linger around their stall. Today he lets himself wander, inspecting the rest of the market with his heavy pocket of gold at his aid. He chats with the locals, and dares to finally mention Troy. Most don’t know much of what’s going on, seeing as Skyros has no part to play in the retribution of Helen’s… complicated kidnapping. But it’s whatever. He snags details about Lycomedes’s daughters; Deidamia has a lot of gossip trailing after her back about her bastard child. Odysseus refrains from chuckling at the blatant disgust. 

It also makes him wonder just how many of Lycomedes’s children know about Achilles. Maybe all of them do. If that were the case, it’s going to make his missions a little bit more complicated. 

But it’s not a grand deterrent. He doesn’t let himself get too caught up in the logistics. Skyros is pleasantly warm, and he lets himself enjoy the bustling city, one of the king’s wine sacks hung loosely at his hip for him to sip on from time to time. 

By the time he reaches the royal courtyards, he’s pleasantly warm and his brain tingles just a little bit. 

Lycomedes is nowhere to be seen, but his daughters are. They practice their hobbies out under the gentle sun. He lets himself idle closer, mingling with the servants wandering here and there. Without the suspicious eye of the king, he lets his gaze drift. 

He spots the infamous Deidamia sitting under the shade of a tree, her weaving equipment spread around her. Next to her is a wooden cradle hidden under a thin cotton sheet; the only reason Odysseus can even recognise the mass beneath is because of his own son. Perhaps the princess is hiding her son out of shame. Or perhaps it’s simpler, and she’s blocking him from getting sunburnt. Odysseus is curious enough that he tempts asking the princess if he can take a look. He refrains from doing something so stupid. 

But if Achilles was able to hide away on this island long enough to not only get a girl pregnant, but for her to also give birth, it would mean that the two youngest daughters of Lycomedes can be crossed off of his list of suspects. The eldest, of course, is simply too old to fit the timeline. There are two boys among these daughters, though Odysseus can’t tell if he’s already eliminated one from his list. All these alleged daughters are just this side of androgynous. It’s mildly annoying. 

He searches for blonde hair then. Most of the girls have blonde hair, though in varying shades of golden. Two of the girls play the lyre together, both blonde with long hair braided down their backs. They both have sea blue eyes. He idly thinks about how smart it is, to choose to hang around daughters that look just like you. 

Instead of condemning himself to a headache, Odysseus turns his back to the courtyard of girls and instead looks for a familiar face amongst the servants. 

It’s convenient that Patroclus has been given the role of carrier. He stands idle by the marble pillars of the courtyard, a tray of grapes in his hands as he attends to the high ranking ladies. When Odysseus spots him, it doesn’t take more than a second for the man to meet his gaze. He smiles at him, and it’s a cute look. A bit boyish, with dimples and warm amber eyes. His hair is decorated with golden clips. 

Odysseus walks over to him. He feels someone’s glare burn against his back. 

“Hermione,” Patroclus greets, eyes swimming with mirth. He offers his plate of grapes. Odysseus picks a few from the stem. 

“My dear Patroclus,” he says, and he doesn’t even have to fake the giddiness in his tone. “How is Achilles this fine morning?

“Hm, I’ll have to write to him,” Patroclus hums in thought. “Considering he’s not here on Skyros.”

“I didn’t peg him for the jealous type,” Odysseus muses as if Patroclus never spoke. “Unless it was for his supposed glory.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t fallen to your knees with the amount of ill-will the daughter of Lycomedes seems to be cursing upon you.”

Odysseus lets his eyes drift to the courtyard again. 

Most of the daughters of Lycomedes pay him no attention. Most of them. 

There are ocean blue eyes glaring at him like he’s personally ripped her braid from her scalp. He’s sure her name is Pyrrha. 

“Is it true that Achilles has been blessed with divine strength?”

“He always won our wrestling matches,” Patroclus answers, giving Pyrrha a small wave. The girl’s glare thickens. “It was quite unfair.”

“You think he’ll snap my neck in my sleep if I do something stupid?”

“Maybe. He’d have to be on Skyros for that to happen.”

“Well then,” Odysseus grins, and he leans closer, pressing himself higher on his toes. “Glad Achilles isn’t on Skyros.”

To his credit, Patroclus looks just as shocked as Pyrrha does when Odysseus presses a kiss to Patroclus’s cheek. 

He hums against his skin, but it’s a quick peck, and they’re in public. He retracts himself as quickly as he kissed, rocking back on his heels. The glee in his stomach unfurls like a fern when Patroclus’s face blooms with a handsome flush. 

When he dares to look back at Pyrrha, he swears he sees the glint of fangs bare behind her painted lips. 

Odysseus turns back to Patroclus and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Consider that a thanks for the wonderful company last night. I’d suggest packing your belongings. We leave in two days.”

Patroclus’s warm laughter follows him all the way out of the courtyard. 

Despite the fact that he’s pretty sure he knows which daughter is actually a demigod in hiding, exposing him is trickier than simply finding him out. 

For one, he’s still a guest of Lord Lycomedes, and disrespecting him can mean facing punishments which Odysseus would rather avoid. He can’t just go around accusing their host of harbouring a prince, let alone two; and on the off chance that Odysseus has his guess wrong, he’ll be accusing a princess, and then he might as well sacrifice himself to the gods above. 

No, what he needs is a ploy. 

Patroclus is less than useful, but charming all the same, and gave Odysseus just the right titbits of information to lay out a plan. Best case scenario, and Achilles will be revealed. His plot doesn’t really involve a way to convince the demigod to join the war should he refuse, but uncovering him is his job; it’s then up to the Fates to see if Odysseus returns to camp empty-handed.

But for now he doesn’t let himself worry about that. For now, he has a scheme to hatch. 

He wasn’t lying to Patroclus when he spoke about needing to leave in three days' time. Lycomedes thinks they’re leaving in two. So he has two days to set things into motion. He’s faced greater odds before. 

Odysseus instructs Ajax to gather their small crew and hide their weapons near the cliffside, which act as the Eastern border of the city. It’s close enough to the marketplace, but away from the central palace and the heavily-armoured guards. He tells Ajax to have his men stationed there in the evening of the second day, and to attack at sunset. 

Diomedes already knows the plan, because he’d helped craft it. He sets shop up near the edge of the marketplace, closer to where Ajax and his men will settle. He’ll have weapons lined at the front of the stall. He’ll have himself face the open market, where buyers’ backs will be toward the city. 

He doesn’t share the details of his plan to Patroclus. For all that the man has kept his silence to in regards to Lycomedes, Odysseus can sense that his loyalty to Achilles is probably far stronger than his companionable agreement with Odysseus. He can’t even tell if Patroclus would rather Achilles fight alongside him, or for his friend to stay behind and live a long, unobscured life. 

It’s an unfortunate choice to choose from, when one knows the outcome. 

He doesn’t ask for a companion that night, mostly because he’s tired, and there’s probably something in the air of this island that seems to soak up his energy like gauze. He shares a bath with Diomedes, taking turns rubbing grime from each other’s backs. Diomedes makes a comment on how the oils seem to be doing his callouses wonders. Odysseus pours cold water over his head in return. 

Diomedes leaves before him, but Odysseus takes his time drying his hair. He hates waking up to an unruly mess on his head, and also, sleeping with damn hair gives him headaches the following morning. So he takes his time, enjoying the warm steam permeating through the baths from the hot water streams. He dresses leisurely, barely attempting to knot his robes more than a loose tie on his waist. 

Pyrrha awaits for him in his room. 

She’s wearing the signature laced pleated chiton, the heavy clasps weighing the cloth down and pressing in all the right angles to obscure any curves from view. A model of modesty, with her golden hair braided down her back. She might have been the picture of beauty were it not for the nasty scowl splitting nearly splitting her face in two. 

Odysseus carefully closes the door behind him. Pyrrha is already sitting on his bed, so he wisely keeps his distance and plops down on the klismos instead. 

The irony of this scene is not lost to him. 

“My lady,” Odysseus bows his head gently. He fights back a smile. “To what do I own this pleasure? Though I must say, this is quite a… forward approach, for someone as highly–”

“Shut up,” she snarls, voice deep and rich and very much not belonging to a she. 

“Ah,” Odysseus raises his head. His smile breaks loose on his face. “Right. My bad. What have I done to deserve your ire, Antitheos.”

Achilles bristles, and Odysseus doesn’t even try to pretend that he doesn’t notice the sharp fangs when Achilles gnashes his teeth at him like a wild animal. Divine indeed. There is always a tell. 

“You fucker,” he growls, hands balled into tight fists, arms shaking. Odysseus wonders if he should pray to his grandfather for a swift journey to the Underworld. “I should rip your head off and stick it on a spike!”

“At least put clasps in my hair when you do,” Odysseus can’t help but say. “I’m told gold is my colour.”

Achilles shoots up from the bed, and Odysseus barely has time to throw himself to the side to avoid the rampaging blonde. Achilles skids to a halt, crashing into the klismos. Odysseus mourns over the bruises that will most definitely form on his hips as he scrambles to stand from where he fell. He’s going to be sore for all the wrong reasons tomorrow.

“You think this some fucking game?!” Achilles seethes, flexing his hands. The muscles in his forearms ripple. Odysseus is confident this guy can make do on his threat. “You think you’re funny?”

“I mean–” Odysseus quickly ducks out of the way, the klismos missing him by an inch and crashing into the wall behind him. “I do think I’m a little funny.”

With a roar, Achilles charges forward. He’s as fast as lightning, a blur of gold that Odysseus can barely make out. He attempts to side-step toward the window – he’d rather take his chances with a fall than trapped in a room with an enraged demigod – but he’s not nearly as fast. Achilles snatches his arm in his hand and yanks, sending Odysseus flying. He grunts as he lands on the ground, barely able to appreciate the slight cushioning the carpets provide before a large hand snakes around his throat and squeezes. 

Odysseus chokes, hands scrabbling against Achilles’s iron grip. He kicks his legs to no avail; Achilles sits on his hips, his other hand pinning Odysseus’s wrist next to his head. 

“Patroclus has no drive to fight,” Achilles hisses, pressing harder until Odysseus starts seeing spots in his vision. He bucks, but Achilles might as well have been a boulder. He doesn’t even budge. “He does not belong in a war that has nothing to do with him.”

It has everything to do with him, Odysseus wants to say. And everything to do with you. 

As it is, he can barely gasp, his airways blocked. His fingers pry uselessly against Achilles’.

“You come here to seek me out, and you play your dirty tricks on my friend. I know of you, Polytropos. Liar. Schemer. Coward.”

That one’s not fair, Odysseus wants to argue. I have a son I’d like to raise. 

“But I won’t let you take him,” Achilles continues, lowering his head so he can snarl right in Odysseus’s face. His eyes are a stormy ocean storm, and his perfect complexion is marred by the severe creases of his rage. “I won’t.”

Odysseus feels the strength leave him like water leaking from a cracked jug. He writhes and chokes, trying to alleviate the unyielding pressure, but to no avail. Looks like this is what one gets for trying to play smart with a demigod. 

I should’ve jumped out the window sooner. 

“Achilles,” Patroclus says softly. Odysseus can’t see him past the black blotches in his vision, past Achilles' enraged face. “That’s more than enough.”

The hand around his neck vanishes, and Odysseus gasps, gulping the abundant air greedily. Too quickly. He coughs and sputters, instinctively curling on his side and clutching at his throbbing neck. Achilles lets him, getting off of him. Odysseus’s vision swims, and he barely registers the grip someone takes of his arms before he’s yanked to his feet. 

He’s very much tired of the manhandling, but can’t seem to get his feet to stay under him. He stumbles, and the grip on his arms tightens. A moment later, he feels his back meet soft silk. He realises a second later that someone has thrown him on the bed. 

“Look what you did,” someone says. Odysseus blinks rapidly, trying to clear away the haziness of the scene before him. “He’s going to bruise now.”

“I should break his bones,” Achilles mutters. 

“I would–” he breaks off into a fit of coughs. Trying again, he rasps, “I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Asshole,” Achilles seethes. 

“I told you to play nice.”

Odysseus’s eyes clear up just in time for him to catch Achilles giving Patroclus a deadpanned stare. He gestures to Odysseus. 

“That was me playing nice.”

“Really?” Odysseus replies sceptically. His voice is wrecked, and he winces at the burning fire in his throat. He gingerly rubs at his neck. “I beg of you to choose another plaything.”

Achilles harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest. Patroclus sighs, and moves to fix the fallen klismos, leaving the blonde to glare daggers at Odysseus in his wake. 

“I really did tell him to have a civil meeting with you,” Patroclus says as he straightens the klismos. He falls into it, crossing his legs and leaning back with another sigh. “For context, I had to convince him not to kill you in your sleep.”

“That wouldn’t have been a very glorious tactic,” Odysseus points out, voice rough. 

Achilles bristles. 

Patroclus raises an unimpressed brow at Odysseus. 

“Do you like angering powerful beings who can kill you?”

Odysseus shrugs, then winces when everything in his upper body twinges. 

“It’s part of my charm, I guess.”

Patroclus huffs a laugh. He seems oddly calm for someone who is a) about to deploy himself into a war and b) who just witnessed his companion-friend-lover-secret-third-thing nearly strangled Odysseus to death. 

Odysseus is the only normal person in this room. 

“What are you even doing here?” Odysseus winces, sitting up. 

“To talk,” Achilles grits out. Odysseus blinks at him. 

“Come again?”

“To. Talk.”

“… are you serious?”

“UGHHH!” Achilles grabs handfuls of his hair and yells at the ceiling. 

“He’s infuriating!” He shrieks, turning to Patroclus and pointing to him while brandishing his other hand at Odysseus “I can’t deal with this! Break your vows! I can live without glory!”

Odysseus feels like he’s in some kind of dream. 

“No you can’t,” Patroclus admonishes gently, pushing Achilles finger away from his face. He then also points to Odysseus without actually looking at him. “You nearly stabbed that poor vendor yesterday for no good reason.”

“He was looking at me weird!”

Patroclus deadpans at him. 

“And I can’t very well break my vows.”

“Fuuuuuck my life,” Achilles groans loudly, slapping his palms over his eyes. He slumps down on the floor, bowing his head between his knees. 

Odysseus cautiously raises a hand. 

“If I may ask,” he starts carefully, looking between the two. “Am I dead?”

“No–”

“Unfortunately.”

“–you’re not,” Patroclus rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat, casually crossing his arms. “Congratulations, Polytropos. You’re fulfilling a prophecy.”

It takes Odysseus an embarrassing amount of time for everything to click. He hopes Athena isn’t watching him right now. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly. He blinks at the two men. 

“Yeah,” Achilles mutters, glaring at Odysseus through his fingers. “Oh.”

Odysseus swallows, grimacing as it burns all the way down. Achilles sure has a god's grip in him. Which isn’t surprising, considering he is a demigod. A demigod of prophecy. A tidal wave that will swarm through Troy.

“You’ll die,” Odysseus rasps. He doesn’t know why he says that. He should be happy that he doesn’t have to resort to desperate measures and earning the wrath of a demigod on the battlefield. He shouldn’t question this stroke of luck, and how he’s probably going to pay for it later in life. 

“Yeah,” Achilles huffs, straightening out to sit on his heels. He looks at Patroclus, and then turns to Odysseus. He’s grinning, something sharp and absurd and animalistic. From beneath the fan of his thick golden hair, Odysseus can see that his ears are just a bit too pointed for a mortal. “My mother said the very same thing.”

“And you’re going anyway?”

“Patroclus is going anyway,” Achilles says, and he glances back at the dark-haired man. They stare at each other, talking without words. “Damned vow.” He gets up and starts for Odysseus. Odysseus holds back from flinching or scrambling away, though he watches with no small amount of wariness as the blonde sits at the edge of the bed. “I was going to sneak onto your ship and cause this whole scene. It was going to be so funny.”

“You were always planning on joining the war,” Odysseus mumbles, realisation splashing over him like cold rain. “Ah, what a fool I must have looked.”

“On the contrary, it’s still been fun,” Patroclus grins, getting up and joining his friend. Odysseus makes room for them both despite knowing it’d be better to kick them out. Some warrior of the mind he’s turning out to be. “You are so talented in bed.”

“Cheeky,” Odysseus snorts. “No hard feelings if you leave now. This bed isn’t very big.”

“Shut up,” Achilles says gruffly, shoving his leg over with more force than necessary and pushing him to the edge of the bed. Odysseus rolls his eyes and settles on his chosen pillow. There’s only one other one, but he doesn’t particularly care about who claims it. He feels Patroclus dip down behind him, an expanse of warmth at his back. Unlike their previous nights, this time an arm slings across his waist. It’s nothing restricting. Nothing like the grip Achilles had had on his neck. It’s going to bruise so ugly tomorrow. 

He doesn’t turn to see how Achilles situates himself, but a moment later knuckles brush against his spine. He refrains from laughing. Clingy brat. 

“I have a wife,” he mumbles into his pillow. Achilles snorts from somewhere behind him. “I have a kid.”

Patroclus laughs. 

“So does Achilles.”

To no one’s surprise, his neck is an ugly mirage of black and purple and red the next morning. His wrist is no better, with distinct finger-shaped bruises painted on his olive skin. 

Patroclus at least has the decency to wince in sympathy. Achilles takes one look at him and grins, feral and proud. 

“Serves you right,” Achilles snarks, shoving Odysseus out of the way to inspect himself in the mirror. “For trying to be sneaky.”

“Hubris worthy of the divine,” Odysseus mutters just loud enough for the blonde to hear. Achilles snickers, unashamed. 

“I’m going to look so stupid,” Odysseus laments, gingerly poking at the discoloured blotches on his neck. There’s no way he can lie about these and claim them to be marks of passion. It looks exactly as bad as it is. 

“So pathetic,” Achilles agrees. 

“Is it too late to switch tactics and beg you to stay here?”

Achilles harrumphs, but doesn’t grace him with further response. He’s busy rebraiding his hair and dressing in his garbs. Odysseus doesn’t remember him ever taking them off, but without the heavy fabrics and weighted clasps, he’s every bit a man as Odysseus himself. Broad shoulders, sculpted muscles and no hair or breasts in sight. He binds himself anyway, and Odysseus finds it endlessly amusing, how good Achilles is at it. He probably shaves everyday too. This is so funny. 

“I should give you a match set,” Achilles mutters, “right on your face.”

“You can’t really blame that on being creative,” Patroclus points out. Both Odysseus and Achilles whip around simultaneously to face the man. Patroclus raises his hands, feigning innocence. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“No way,” Odysseus gawks. His ears feel hot. 

“No fucking way!” Achilles exclaims louder. His whole face is flushed. He points to Odysseus, disbelief written all over his face. “Him?!”

“You’re the one who tried choking him!” Patroclus argues back, throwing his hands in the air. “This is your fault!”

“Tried?” Odysseus cuts in with a scowl. “He did.”

“I should have been quicker,” Achilles broods. “Now everyone will think I’m into–”

“People who are smarter than you?” Odysseus offers. He jumps away when Achilles swipes at him.

“There is no prophecy about Odysseus the Asshole,” Achilles growls. His face is still a brilliant shade of red. “We don’t need you.”

“Ah,” Odysseus grins. “So it’s ‘we’ now.”

“Shut UP!”

“I can’t believe this,” Patroclus mutters in his hand. He’s smiling, watching the scene unfold through the gaps of his fingers. “I’m into morons.”

Diomedes chokes on his wine when Odysseus shows up for breakfast. 

“By the gods,” he mutters, eyes wide as he takes in the state of his neck. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Odysseus doesn’t bother answering him. He fills his plate with cheese and chews like a starving man and prays Diomedes doesn’t notice how hot his ears are. 

Diomedes fully notices. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. Odysseus pointedly ignores him, as well as all the looks he’s getting from everyone else around them. “You actually got–”

“Shut up,” he hisses, elbowing the man in the ribs with all his might. Diomedes wheezes in pain. “Not a word. Not a single word.”

“I didn’t know you had a type,” Diomedes continues to say words. “Dark hair and brown eyes, huh?”

“May you be struck by lightning and may your wine always taste terrible.”

“Such drastic curses,” Diomedes snickers. “At least Lycomedes won’t question you anymore. He might even let you take that boy with us.”

Odysseus doesn’t say anything, because Diomedes is an asshole and deserves to be kept in the dark. 

Lycomedes spares him the comments, but there’s a gleam in his eye, like he’s won some bet and just earned Odysseus’s gratitude for the rest of his life. Odysseus lets the man think what he wants, because two days from now he’ll never have to see him again. Instead he plays merchant with Diomedes during the day, fills his pockets with little trinkets from passerbyers, and lets himself relax for the day. They’ve got two days to restock their supplies for the journey back, and extra food and drink won’t hurt anyone on camp. If Odysseus can snag as many days as he can between now and having to face Agamemnon, then it’s all the better. 

Well, he thought he’d get to relax. He’s sorting through the several longer cloaks that Diomedes has spread out on their stall, reaching for one that is a pleasant dark red, when a hand gets to it first. 

Achilles pulls the fabric from Odysseus’s fingers and inspects it as if it were the dirt beneath his sandal. His gaze flicks between the garment in his hand and Odysseus, letting his eyes rove over his body, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. 

He’s dressed no differently than he had when Odysseus had arrived; a fair maiden of Lycomedes line; Pyrrha of Skyros. His hair is braided down his back, and his pleated chiton leaves everything to the imagination. Under the sun his eyes are like twin pools. 

“Hmph,” he scoffs, twisting the fabric between his calloused hands. Calloused from playing the lyre or, more appropriately, calloused from training with a sword. He holds it up, and Odysseus, still frozen, feels the fabric brush against his face. “Less dull; this makes you look ashen.”

There are many things Odysseus can say right now. 

“Like rubies?” Is his chosen statement, which is moronic. He’s a bit at a loss right now though.

“No,” Achilles muses, dropping the fabric and shifting through them. Odysseus can feel Diomedes’ stare, his curious tilt of his head as he watches, to his own understanding, a daughter of Lycomedes chat with Hermione of Nowhere. 

“No?”

“No,” Achilles repeats, more insistent this time. He keeps rifling through the assortment of clothing until he snags at one ribbon. It’s a brighter red, though no ruby in hue. When Achilles holds it up to his face, it’s only then that Odysseus realises he’s staring at his eyes. 

“I–”

“Yes,” Achilles nods to himself. He reaches for his shoulder before he can react, and roughly pulls him forward until he’s bent at the waist, head dipped and staring at his own wares. 

He feels more than sees Achilles work his fingers through his hair, carding through his curls and doing… something. Odysseus, for the life of him, can’t tell. It’s only after a few minutes have passed and Achilles finally finishes whatever it is he’s doing that he shoves Odysseus away as quickly as he pulled him. Odysseus stumbles a step, hands immediately shooting up to his head. 

There’s a thick lock of hair above his ear that’s been twisted in a rope-like design. He feels the sheer quality of the ribbon running through it, spiralling between strands of his hair. He feels his ears heat up. Achilles smirks, arms planted on his hips, proud of himself. 

“Much better,” he says, as if he didn’t just… just what? Braid his hair? Twist a ribbon through it? Make a spectacle of both of them?

“Are you–” Odysseus’s breath hitches, and he quickly clears his throat. “Are you fucking for real?”

“Hermione,” Diomedes whispers sharply in warning. Then, straightening out, he turns to Achilles and smiles tightly. “Ah, I apologise on my companions behalf, princess–”

“Of course I’m for real,” Achilles taunts right back as if Diomedes had never spoken. “It’s a much better look. Don’t be disgraceful and take it off.”

“Disgraceful?” Odysseus bawks. “Are you out of your mind? This looks like a courting gift!”

“Really now?” Achilles rolls his eyes. “Don’t be foolish. Only a moron would court you. I’m just bestowing upon you my mighty favour.”

“Humble much…”

“I ought to rip all your hair out and shove it down your throat,” Achilles growls, flexing his hands. His grin is borderline feral, like a wild lion spotting its meal. “That’ll show you to dismiss my favour.”

“Unbelievable,” Patroclus interjects, stepping up beside Achilles and planting a hand on his shoulder. Achilles is taller, and probably made of stronger stuff, but lets Patroclus push him away from the stall regardless. Odysseus can’t help but snort at him. “I told you to be nice. Not play god.”

“I am being nice!”

“Isn’t that the servant you slept with?” Diomedes whispers into his ear.

“Shut up,” Odysseus hisses back. 

“This isn’t nice. This is harassment,” Patroclus admonishes. He flicks Achilles on the head. Odysseus is a little surprised at how bold these two are, acting the way they are in the public eye. Then again, they will also be leaving for war in two days time. Odysseus supposes it is rather fun to watch strangers gawk at their display. 

“Patroclus,” Odysseus nods to him. He watches realisation wash over Diomedes from the corner of his eye. “Good to see you, though I’m curious what you’re doing here.”

“It was actually Pyrrha who wanted to come visit your stall, merchant of Nowhere,” Patroclus grins, looping his arm through Achilles’s elbow. “Said there was a handsome man selling handsome garments.”

“Ah, did he now?” Odysseus hums, feeling his ears prickle. Diomedes' head whips between Odysseus and their two guests like a dog watching a discus being thrown back and forth. 

“No I didn’t,” Achilles grits out, but he keeps Patroclus’ arm snug against his own. “I complained about a slimy little liar taking up space in the marketplace with a desperate need for a haircut.”

“Hey now,” Odysseus pouts. “It’s usually covered. Cut me some slack.”

“What?” Achilles and Patroclus ask in varying degrees of confusion. 

Sighing, Odysseus reaches into his robes, groping through the pocket stitched in the inner seam near his belt. He pulls out his trusty red hat, and slips it over his head. The insignificant weight is a comfort over his hair. A warm welcome. 

Achilles and Patroclus stare. They stare, and they blink, and they do so in sync. 

Then Achilles starts laughing. Pointing and laughing, mind you. Not a shred of etiquette. 

“That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen!” He cackles. “Like a jug turned over!”

“It’s…” Patroclus coughs into his fist. “It's nice.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Odysseus smirks, adjusting the hat slightly. “My wife made it for me. That’s all that matters.”

“Eugh, she must hate you,” Achilles scoffs, calming down from his laughing fit just enough to stare at Odysseus before laughing some more.

“She says I look charming,” Odysseus crosses his arms.

“It’s nice,” Patroclus tries again, mildly more convincing than last time. His smile twitches. 

“Okay,” Diomedes cuts in loudly. All three of them turn to the man simultaneously, as if just now noticing his presence. 

“Okay…?” Odysseus echoes. 

“No, actually,” Diomedes seethes, turning to glare at him before thinking better and glaring at all three of them. “Someone explain. Now. Before I throw this whole stall off the cliffside.”

“I can’t believe you fucked the demigod of our prophecy,” Diomedes mutters into his palms. After a small pause, he banefully adds, “and his lover too. What the fuck.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Odysseus huffs, glaring at his companion. “We. Did not. Fuck.”

Diomedes looks up from his hands long enough to pointedly stare at his neck. Then he goes back to being a nuisance and laments his woes into his palms. 

“That was Achilles’ doing,” Patroclus explains, entirely unhelpfully. Beside him Achilles preens as if he’d been praised. 

Diomedes grimaces. 

“I think I’m better off not knowing, thanks.”

“We really are lucky,” Odysseus continues, settling his arms on the wooden tabletop. They’re seated in a different courtyard now; one lined with oil lamps and an open ceiling that showcases the bright colours of the sunset above. “I mean, we didn’t even have to resort to begging.”

“I think I’d rather have begged.”

“There’s time left to do so,” Achilles smirks. “It’s about time people started respecting me like that.”

“Oh, stuff it, would you,” Odysseus rolls his eyes and throws a grape between Achilles’s brows. The blonde glares at him. “Your head might explode before we even get to Troy.”

“I’m surprised you’re even going,” Diomedes admits before Achilles can reply. Three heads turn to him, but he doesn’t stop. “You are aware of the prophecy, right?”

Patroclus’s smile seems to tighten. Odysseus finds the groove pattern of the wood fascinating. 

Achilles chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then:

“Yes,” he replies easily, unhurried and unbothered. As if his life isn’t just sand in a timer tipped just right, so his grains of life slip by faster than anyone can process. As if him choosing to go to war isn’t too far off from a man seeing the executioner's axe and baring his neck. “I am aware.”

“Then why?” Diomedes presses. Odysseus can sympathise, but that doesn’t mean he likes this sudden questioning his companion has brought upon them. Maybe because Diomedes is younger than him, in between himself and these two young princes. Maybe because he’s just another man fulfilling his vows even though he doesn’t want to. Maybe because, unlike Odysseus, Diomedes isn’t as good a liar, and isn’t very good at convincing himself that everything will be okay. 

Diomedes is the kind of man that hurts at the sight of fallen youth on a battlefield not even meant for them. 

“Beyond the promise of eternal glory?” Achilles asks, voice full of mirth. Odysseus winces, picking away at the wood under his fingers. “Of being known as the greatest warrior to ever live?”

“A man’s hubris is something to behold,” Odysseus mutters, mostly to himself. Achilles definitely hears him. He smirks. Pride for his pride. 

“Half man,” Achilles corrects smugly. “Half god. It’s my destiny.”

“To fight,” Diomedes presses. “To die.”

Achilles hums. He eats another grape. He’s so relaxed. So relaxed for someone like him, destined by the Fates, his string already cut. 

“Well,” he continues without urgency, without any remorse. “I can’t very well let Patroclus fight on his own. He’s good, but not as good as me. And he’s not even in the prophecy. And as for your prophecy…”

Achilles turns to Odysseus, and he’s grinning, something wild and fierce and attractive on his face. 

“We all die eventually. The difference is; I’ll never fade.”

Dying is the easy part, Odysseus wants to say. You don’t suffer when you die. The rest of us do. 

He doesn’t end up saying anything. 

That night, Odysseus is already in bed when his two headaches sneak into his room. 

They aren’t even subtle, but at least this time Achilles is dressed in a white himation rather than his pleated chiton. The last thing Odysseus needs is rumours of him bedding one of Lycomedes’s daughters. 

“You have your own rooms,” Odysseus grumbles into his pillows. “Achilles, you are literally a princess. Your bed is probably three times the size of mine.”

“Probably closer to four,” Achilles hums, and Odysseus feels the sheets shift and the bed dip as someone crawls toward him. 

“There’s not a lick of common sense to you.”

“When you first spoke to Lord Lycomedes,” Patroclus starts slowly, “Achilles thought you were pretty.”

It takes a few seconds for that statement to register. When it does, his head shoots up, and he stares at the dark-haired man with wide-eyes. His ears prickle. 

“… what?”

“You had guessed it right,” Patroclus continues. He’s made his way to the bed, his sandals undone and chiton loosely tied around his waist, leaving stretches of his bronze skin out for the eye. He clambers closer, and Odysseus watches him, not moving an inch himself. Patroclus gets close enough to whisper into his ear. “He’s the jealous type.”

“No way,” Odysseus hears himself mumble. “He was–”

“Stop talking like I’m not here!” Achilles fumes. He pushes Patroclus’s face away, and suddenly gold is invading his personal space. “You’re infuriating. Both of you.” And then, after a pause of consideration. “And ugly! And stupid!”

“I have a wife,” Odysseus tries. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with feathers. “And a son.”

“So does Achilles,” Patroclus snorts, leaning his head on one hand. He looks so giddy. Damned young people. “Luckily you won’t bring any bastards home with you.”

Odysseus is about to say something smart. Something cheeky, maybe something stupid. Something like “my wife wouldn’t actually mind” or “we barely know each other” or “you’re the bastard” or maybe even “I don’t have to be the only one going home.”

But he doesn’t get the chance to. Achilles is already kissing him. 

He kisses like Penelope does, which isn’t as surprising as Odysseus thinks it ought to be. She’s got naiad blood in her, and kisses like she’s trying to drink him up. Achilles does the same, grasping Odysseus’s face with both his hands, fingers curving behind his ears in a bruising grip, and his lips pressed firmly against his own. He seems to want to drown him, breathe in all his life from his chest and leave him a husk. Achilles barely lets him catch his breath before he’s pushing his tongue in. Violent and impatient. 

Odysseus hates that he likes it. 

Odysseus is left panting by the time Achilles has had his fill. It’s a reprieve to his own pride when he sees the bright ruby flush painting his high cheeks. 

“You…” Odysseus draws in a sharp inhale, trying to calm his titan of a heart from breaking through his ribs. “You thought I was pretty?”

Achilles flush deepens into a charming red. Odysseus gets to appreciate it for all of half a second before Achilles shoves his head into his pillow.

“Shut your mouth, you nuisance,” he growls. Above him, Patroclus snorts. 

“You’re so dumb, honestly,” he sighs. With Achilles’ hand still pressed into his hair, Odysseus can only watch from his vantage below as Patroclus gently pulls Achilles into a damningly soft kiss. It’s not nearly as violent or desperate, like they’ve done this countless times before. Achilles’ other hand moves to cradle Patroclus’s cheek, tracing delicate patterns in his jaw, under his eye, above his brow. 

“Why didn’t I get that treatment,” Odysseus grumbles. The two men break apart, Achilles groaning in displeasure. 

“Do you ever shut up?” He asks, pushing against Odysseus' head again. 

“Sometimes,” Odysseus muses, voice muffled by the pillow. “When I’m sleeping, usually. You two should let me sleep, actually, now that I mention it.”

“What are you, an old man?” Achilles snorts, leaning down to his eye-level. Odysseus wants to flick him between the brows. 

“Yes,” Odysseus says. Achilles snickers, then when Odysseus doesn’t claim his joke, he straightens out, confused.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“He’s lying,” Achilles says to Patroclus, who’s watching whatever is happening with no small amount of amusement. 

“I don’t think so,” Patroclus grins. “Said something about being a descendant of the divine. Hermes, was it? Athletics and energy.”

“Oh my gods,” Achilles murmurs. “This can’t be real.” He turns back to Odysseus. “You have divine blood?”

“Couldn’t you tell? It’s part of my charm actually.” 

Achilles just pushes Odysseus further into the pillow. 

“That would mean you have a type, Achilles,” Patroclus grins. “Older–”

“Shut up!” Achilles grabs Odysseus by the shoulders – he’d really like to stop being manhandled at every opportunity – and pushes him at Patroclus. Odysseus catches himself on the man, but the force sends them tumbling into the sheets. Achilles laughs at them, obnoxiously loud, and Odysseus turns to glare at him over his shoulder. 

“You are abysmal,” he grumbles. Arms loop around his neck. Damned young people. 

“My turn?” Patroclus asks. At least he has the decency to do so, not that he waits for a response. He kisses gently, like he’d kissed Achilles. His hands are warm where they wrap around his shoulders and bring him closer. He’s compelled to comply. Feels compelled to brace a hand over Patroclus’s warm chest. Feels compelled to hum when he feels a hand trail down his spine. 

“Wow,” Achilles hums appreciatively. “That’s so hot. Maybe this war won’t be so bad.”

Without breaking the kiss, Patroclus grabs a pillow and throws it at him. Achilles cackles like a madman. 

“I can’t believe it took you that long to fuck the demigod and his lover,” Diomedes mumbles, packing up their leftovers good. They don’t have many things left – and the residents of Skyros can now claim to have bartered over Agamemnon’s goods – which makes the process of cleaning out their stall a whole lot easier. They’ll be able to set sail by sundown, and with suspiciously unfair winds – he’s got this whole weather anomaly to explain why it took so long to return to camp – they should arrive at the Achaean fleet in two days time. 

“I think you’re just jealous,” Odysseus mocks, folding a hefty cloak and pushing it into the chest.

“Of what?” Diomedes scoffs, gesturing to Odysseus’s neck. The ring of bruises from being strangled still lingers like an angry shadow. It does wonders to disguise the bite marks. Maybe he should wear this cloak instead…

“Jealousy isn’t a good look,” Odysseus grins, nudging Diomedes with his elbow. 

“He would know,” Patroclus calls out, and the two of them turn to see Patroclus and Achilles walk up to their half-disassembled stall. They’ve got travel bags hanging from their shoulders and Achilles has a sack of belongings in his arms. For once, they aren’t dressed in loose island garbs and pleated fabrics; now, Achilles wears bronze armour that carves into the contours of his body, hugging his lithe waist and decorating his broad shoulders with traces of gold. Patroclus’s own armour isn’t anywhere near as flashy, but it’s flattering, and Odysseus pointedly doesn’t stare at the swell of his arms when he brings a hand up to wave at them. 

Penelope is going to mock him for the rest of time if she ever hears about this. 

“Yeah, I would,” Odysseus snipes without heat. “Achilles can’t go one minute without attention. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m going to sail with Ajax,” is what Diomedes responds with. “This is beyond what I signed up for.”

“Dio…” Odysseus deadpans. “We’ve fucked too.”

“Yeah,” Diomedes grimaces, hefting more items into his arms. “It was nowhere near as provocative as whatever… this is.”

“More room for us, then,” Achilles puffs out his chest. “In fact, do us a favour and throw yourself overboard.”

Diomedes looks pained. 

“We don’t even know each other.”

“Yet,” Odysseus points out. 

“Don’t threaten me with a bad time,” Diomedes deadpans. Patroclus snickers, and he’d probably have said something funny, because Patroclus is funny, but then there’s a sharp battle horn ripping through the air. 

Oh, Odysseus thinks dazedly. He watches everyone around him tense. He watches the civilians around begin to panic. Right. I totally forgot about Ajax.

Odysseus doesn’t draw out his sword, but that’s about the extent of it. Around him, Diomedes jumps into action, also having clearly forgotten about their little plot. 

It’s a true testament to whatever training they received, the speed in which they move into formation. Achilles darts forward and grabs one of the swords still hanging from their stall, and Patroclus pulls one from the sheath at his hip. Odysseus feels a hand plant itself on his hip and shove him back, and then he’s met with the expansive bronze of Achilles' back. 

Ajax the Greater and his men round up from the cliffside, dull swords in hand, and stop right where Odysseus had instructed them to, making noise and roaring up a storm at the edge of the marketplace. 

Odysseus grabs Achilles’ wrist in an iron grip to keep the man from charging. It would be back luck for his first round of bloodshed to be their own soldiers. 

“Ah,” Diomedes says slowly, straightening out from his crouch. He looks sheepish at least. “I forgot about them.”

Achilles whips around to face him, and then turns fully to glare at Odysseus. 

“What is happening?”

“Well, you see,” Odysseus starts slowly, gently stroking Achilles fist in what he hopes is a calming matter. From over his shoulder, Odysseus watches Patroclus sigh and re-sheath his sword. “This was all going to be so funny, later, if it had worked. And it did! To a… certain extent. You did grab the sword! I had guessed that you’d have grabbed the sword.”

“You’re plan…” Achilles starts slowly, voice flat. Odysseus smiles as wide as he can. “Was to lure me into a fight?”

“In… kinder words, yes.”

Achilles fist unfurls, and Odysseus gets to appreciate the feel of hard callouses against his fingers for all of a single second before Achilles clamps his large hand over Odysseus’s wrist. When he smiles, it’s a sharp thing that showcases his sharp teeth. 

“You asshole,” he seethes, still grinning with too many teeth. His grip is near bruising. Odysseus kind of wants to ask if that’s a thing for him. 

“In my defence,” he tries, raising his other hand placatingly. From behind Achilles, Patroclus face-palms. Beside him, Diomedes offers him a sympathetic shoulder pat. “It would have been so funny.”

As Achilles drags him to the ships by his arm, fuming and cursing up a storm, Odysseus can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this war won’t be as terrible as it might have been. Prophecy be damned, but Achilles was right; they’re all going to die eventually. 

Might as well make the most of it.