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Eurylochus had been on boats before. Plenty of times—small canoes and humble boats meant for a day’s fishing—but he had never been on one intended for the sea before. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the small ship that frequented the waters between Same and Ithaca.
He hadn’t expected it to creak so much.
The sounds of the ship were constant, like the vessel herself was alive in some strange possessed way. Wood shifting against itself, ropes groaning as though strained by the simple act of floating, planks creaked as men walked, something kept rattling on the starboard side. It sounded tired. Old. Uncertain. None of those things inspired confidence in the young boy.
His father had told him that the ship was old, the crossing was brief, and there was nothing to worry about.
Eurylochus wanted to believe his father, desperately. The man was a wise and gifted blacksmith, experienced in his craft in ways that Eurylochus himself hoped he someday would as well. Unfortunately, he was not a sailor. The young boy knew that. He knew that his father didn’t truly know that there was nothing to be afraid of on the vessel.
Unless his father was wrong. The thought itself felt like a crime, fathers were meant to be sure, never wrong. But he had seen his make mistakes before.
This could be one of them.
The thought lodged itself in his chest and refused to move.
It was a stupid thought.
Eurylochus stood near the rail, fingers pale where they curled around the worn wood. His hands hurt. It took him a moment to process that it was because he was gripping the wood too tightly, splinters biting at his skin. He wasn’t even sure he had reached out and started holding the railing. He spared a glance from the nearing coastline to the wood, frowning when he found himself unable to move his hand from it. He didn’t bother trying again.
The ship rolled beneath his feet, a slow, uneven sway that never quite settled. The ocean rocked it like a cradle, intending on putting the crew and captain to sleep so she could steal them to her depths. Eurylochus glanced over at the captain over his shoulder, just to be sure, to double check. Each shift of the ship sent his stomach lurching, his breath catching like he’d misstepped on uneven ground.
A sudden sharper roll of the ship made his knees buckle slightly, and he froze, heart slamming hard enough that he was sure someone must hear it. The vessel rattled again, wind whipping through the sails like an unforgiving wheezing laugher.
Don’t cry, everyone will see. You will embarrass Father. Don’t make him regret bringing you.
A shadow fell over him.
His father, Sideris, didn’t speak at first, the large man always had few words, he never needed them. Eurylochus found it both admirable and terrifying, it left too much open for interpretation. However, he could not imagine his father being any other way, any less of the humble and sure smith he was. It was inspiring for the child.
The blacksmith looked over the approaching coast of Ithaca, heavy brows furrowing on his firm face as he looked across the water. His large hand rested firmly on Eurylochus's shoulder. A heavy and sure weight, solid warm and familiar—affectionate. The touch startled him despite himself. The boys shoulders tensed instinctively before he could stop it, breath hitching in his throat for just a second. He looked at his father, the sure set of his face, confident and calm.
The phantom grip on his heart eased slightly at the sight, his hold of the rail loosening along with it.
Sideris’s hand didn’t move. It didn’t squeeze or pull him closer. It simply was—steady as stone, warm through the thin fabric of Eurylochus’s tunic.
“We will be at the dock soon,” his father said at last, voice low, roughened by years of smoke and heat, a familiar bass that resonated in Eurylochus’s ribs. The large man tilted his chin toward the coastline, gesturing to the steadily approaching docks.
Eurylochus nodded.
It was busier than the docks of Same, much busier, a whole fleet of ships creaking in unison like they spoke some forgotten language. Ships that were made for treks over the open sea, large vessels that were proud, reinforced, angry. They looked like they were ready to swallow the small fishing boats that idly next to the goliaths. People buzzed about on the gnarled wood, moving supplies and filling the air with endless chatter. On the streets of Ithaca—from what Eurylochus could see—people moved with a different kind of grace in their step from the people of Same. They had more purpose, more meaning with each step.
The boy and his father didn’t move during the docking process. Not even when the heavy hand was lifted, Eurylochus didn’t move, he waited for Sideris to step away from the rail and start talking with the crew. A shipment of well crafted utilities along with a few personal items that the royal family had requested. All crafted by his family, forged and perfected with their steady hands. Soon it would be Eurylochus’s turn to craft, he was nearing the age of apprenticeship, which was the only reason why his father had allowed him to come with him to deliver their goods to the palace.
It was an honor really, and exactly why he could not mess it up.
Eurylochus stayed where he was for a moment longer, even after the ship had settled against the dock. His legs felt oddly untrustworthy, like they belonged to someone else. The ground beneath him was still—as still as a boat could be—but his body hadn’t caught up to that fact yet. The phantom sway lingered, echoing through his knees and spine.
“You can let go now,” his father said gently when the crewmember walked away, not looking at him.
Eurylochus glanced down at his hands in surprise. His fingers were still clenched around the rail, knuckles pale and aching. He forced them to loosen, one by one, flexing them as sensation returned in a sharp persistent ache. His father walked away again as the boy inspected his hand for a splinter.
The dock smelled different from Same. Salt, yes—but layered with pitch and rope and foreign spices. Everything felt louder here, sharper. Even the voices carried differently, overlapping and colliding in a way that made Eurylochus’s head buzz. Not unpleasant, just different.
He followed close behind Sideris as they disembarked, careful not to drift too far from his broad back. It acted as a wall between Eurylochus and the world. People brushed past them without a second glance—sailors hauling cargo, merchants arguing over space, messengers weaving through the chaos with practiced ease. No one slowed for him. No one noticed how tightly his shoulders were drawn, how his breath still came a little too fast.
The air felt thinner on Ithaca’s side, sharper somehow, like the island itself could tell he didn’t belong yet.
Eurylochus was happy to be on dry land again, the flutter in his chest slowing as he walked on the firm ground. He doubted that he would ever be fond of traveling at sea.
Sideris continued to effortlessly weave through the crowd, unbothered by the chaos. Eurylochus kept pace behind his father, careful not to stumble, careful not to lag. His gaze set at on his father’s shoulders and nothing else. He had to consciously keep his gaze from drifting to exotic looking goods and people. He had been told to be focused, obedient, good. The last thing he wanted to do was get lost or separated, waste his fathers time looking for him.
He fought the urge to reach out for a guiding hand when someone managed to pass between them. Apprentices didn’t need to have their hands held. And that’s what Eurylochus was going to be. He had to prove to his father he could handle this.
Eurylochus’s hands found the fabric of his chiton and bunched it up instead of reaching.
“Mind your posture,” Sideris spoke without turning. Not unkind. Just firm. “You’re representing more than yourself today.”
“Yes, sir,” Eurylochus answered immediately. His spine snapped straighter, even as his heart pounded harder. Representing the forge. Representing his family. Representing his father’s reputation—earned over decades of work that never cracked, never failed.
He didn’t want to face the look his father gave him if he failed to please him.
The walk up the winding paths of Ithaca was a test of endurance that Eurylochus hadn't expected. The incline was steep, the stone steps worn smooth by generations of feet. While Sideris climbed with the rhythmic, untiring gait of a man who spent his days swinging a heavy hammer, Eurylochus felt the burn in his calves. He didn't complain. The boy knew better. He kept his chin up and his shoulders back, even as sweat began to itch at his hairline.
A small cart accompanied them, led by a humble donkey. Eurylochus knew what was within the cart, the masterful work of his father, each piece a testament to his skill. Instead of reaching for his father’s hand when—once again—someone stepped between them, he opted to place a hand on the cart. He could hear the clinking of heavy bronze and shifting within the cart, a quiet, gentler echo of his fathers forge. It was a welcome familiarity for him, allowing him to take a deeper breath than he had since he stepped on the dock.
By the time they reached the palace courtyard, the air was cooler, scented with cedar and roasting meat.
The palace was beautiful, decorated and large, but to Eurylochus, it was a minefield of things he mustn't touch. Sideris came to a halt near a broad stone colonnade, where a man in fine linen robes—the King’s steward, perhaps—was waiting with a tablet in hand. Servants walked with a distinct grace around the courtyard, unbothered and distant. Guards posted around every corner, heavy bronze breastplates gleaming in the sun angrily. Their stern gaze unwavering and harsh—dangerous.
Eurylochus looked at his father, his expression was just as collected and calm as it had been for the entire journey. However, his shoulders were tense now, his posture more rigid and alert.
The boy’s chest tightened again, eyes darting to look around the courtyard. Unease prickled up his spine like a spider was making its way up his back—or perhaps it was the sweat tickling down that caused him to shiver.
One of the soldier's eyes met his own for a brief second, narrowing as they took in the blacksmith’s son. Eurylochus looked at the ground, examining a small beetle that marched uncaringly at his feet. He took a small step closer to his father, hopefully not enough to be a bother or in the way. But close enough that the large man felt like a barrier between the boy and the guard.
He didn’t bother trying to listen to what they were saying—maybe he should have been. Eurylochus looked up at his father attentively, trying to make sense of the conversation that he already missed the context for. A mistake on his part. He should have been listening. His father would have wanted him to.
Before the cruel thoughts could spiral any further, his father turned to Eurylochus. His large hand moved to the boy’s shoulder instinctively, warm and steadying, like a fire’s guiding light in the dark. Without meaning to, he leaned into the touch, a small breath he hadn’t known he was holding escaping. Sideris offered him a gentle squeeze, never enough to hurt, but enough to mean something.
“Stay here,” Sideris commanded softly, removing his hand. “Watch, but do not wander.”
“Yes, Father.”
Eurylochus folded his hands behind his back, fingers tapping against his wrists. He stood like a statue, watching as his father, the official, and a servant or two began the tedious process of tallying the crates. They spoke of bronze purity, of the weight of grain-measures, craftsmanship, of the specific tempering required for the royal hearth-tools.
Maybe, once he was older, it would all make more sense than it did now. Eurylochus hoped it would.
For the first ten minutes, the boy was a model of Greek virtue. He tracked the flight of a hawk above the cliffs. He counted the columns of the porch. He memorized the pattern of the dirt beneath his sandals. The beetle on the ground had passed, a group of men were debating something to his left. He never moved, only ever shifting his weight to the side to give an important looking man space to pass him once.
He tried to be like the guards, shifting his feet to mimic their stance. He had no weapon, no bronze chest plate, but he could pretend to be guarding the cart. Eurylochus felt a youthful joy run through him as he looked over the courtyard with a new eye. Searching for threats. When the palace guard caught his gaze again he didn’t cower despite the way his stomach dropped.
They were guarding together.
By the twentieth minute, the "discipline" began to feel like a physical weight. Being a guard with no one trying to take what you were protecting was not as amusing as it seemed. The excitement of joining his father and being included in his work had long since worn off. He hadn’t expected it to be so… boring. Unnecessarily stressful perhaps. With little reward. Eurylochus wasn’t even helpful, he was just standing, waiting, probably getting in the way. His father had likely had to slow his pace through Ithaca so his son would not get lost. The boy was probably only adding to the burden of his father rather than assisting in easing it.
Eurylochus chewed on the inside of his cheek, glancing at his father, who continued his work unbothered. His toes wiggled inside his sandals of their own accord. His gaze drifted from the mundane bronze crates to a movement in the garden nearby—a flash of decorative fabric behind a laurel bush. The boy leaned over slightly, trying to peer around to see whatever had caught his attention.
He caught himself, snapping his eyes back to his father’s broad back, straightening his back. His feet shifted as he evened his weight again, brows furrowing. Be a man. He didn’t want Sideris to see him falter and think he was too young. He liked spending time with his father, traveling with him. If he fails he may be left home with his mother when he’s called away again.
Eurylochus couldn’t have that.
Then, a sound broke his concentration. It wasn’t the low rumble of the men’s voices. It didn’t belong in the sounds that he had learned was the droning buzz of the courtyard. It was new, different. A soft rhythmic thwacking coming from the same corner he had seen the vibrant colors before.
Eurylochus tilted his head just an inch. From behind a large terracotta amphora, a boy appeared.
The boy was smaller than Eurylochus—but most children his age were—perhaps seven or eight summers old. His cheeks still held a comfortable amount of baby fat, his toned skin smooth and mostly unblemished. Layers of vivid and intricate fabric swaddled him—the flash of color Eurylochus had seen before. He had a mop of brilliant red-gold, unruly curls and a face that seemed incapable of staying still. He was holding a sturdy wooden sword, but he wasn’t practicing forms or fighting invisible foes. He was trying to see how many times he could bounce a fallen olive off the flat of the blade without dropping it.
Thwack. Thwack. Splat.
The olive hit the dust. The younger boy hissed a curse that made Eurylochus’s eyes widen—that was a word for sailors, not for palace grounds.
The boy looked up, catching Eurylochus’s gaze. He averted his gaze from the well dressed boy on instinct. Staring was rude. Especially towards someone adorned with fine jewelry and an intricate sash. His mother had taught him better. However, the smith’s son couldn’t help but slowly peer over at the other, curiosity winning.
Most children would have been embarrassed to be caught playing while the adults worked—Eurylochus definitely would have—but this boy’s eyes lit up with a terrifying, predatory sort of glee. One that made an uneven weight sit low in his gut. The golden haired boy didn’t look away. Instead, he grinned, a lopsided, gap-toothed expression that signaled the end of Eurylochus’s peaceful afternoon.
The stranger didn't walk; he darted, weaving through the crates with the agility of a mountain goat until he was standing directly in Eurylochus’s personal space. It had happened in what felt like less than an instant, a testament to the boy’s experience with dealing with the chaos of a crowded courtyard. The boy had been across the space one moment, and then suddenly next to Eurylochus, less than a foot from him.
Eurylochus startled, stiffening his posture reflexively, leaning towards where he heard his father speaking. He cast a single, brief glance at Sideris, who hadn’t seemed to notice any shift from his son. But the lingering tension in the muscles of his father’s back did little to settle the racing of his heart.
The well dressed stranger seemed unbothered by Eurylocus’s discomfort. They only tilted their head like a curious creature, dark brown eyes shifting with a dangerously intelligent intensity. The grin persisted though.
“You’re very still,” the boy stated not unkindly, his voice high and energetic. He circled Eurylochus once, inspecting him like a curious bird. Or perhaps a predator sizing up its prey. “Are you a statue? Did your father forge you out of bronze? You look like you’re made of bronze.”
Eurylochus felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, though it was hard when the boy was now standing on his tiptoes to peer into his eyes.
“I am an apprentice,” Eurylochus whispered, trying to keep his lips from moving too much. It was a lie, he wasn’t an apprentice yet, but the title gave the boy mock confidence. He could pretend to be an apprentice and the boy would leave him alone.“I am being obedient.”
The younger boy’s grin didn't falter at the word obedient. If anything, it widened, turning into something sharper—a challenge.
“Obedient,” the boy repeated, tasting the word like it was a strange, bitter fruit. He was silent for a moment, eyes churning as he examined Eurylochus further.
“That sounds very boring,” the younger boy decided, punctuating the statement with a playful jab of his wooden sword toward Eurylochus’s knee. He didn't make contact, but the proximity made Eurylochus flinch, eyes darting to Sideris again. The boy puffed up his chest slightly, drawing the other’s attention back to him as he proudly declared, “I’m Odysseus. I’m never obedient. It’s much more fun that way.”
Odysseus—a name that felt familiar, Eurylochus had heard it before he was sure—paused for a moment. Letting the words sink in before he leaned in, excitement gleaming in his eyes and boyish grin. “Do you want to see the kitchens? I know a way through the crawlspaces where the guards can’t reach. We could swipe some honey cakes before the banquet starts.”
Eurylochus felt sweat trail down his back. He looked at the wooden sword, then at the boy’s expensive, vibrant sash, then back to his father’s broad, industrious back. Which was turned to him. His father expected him to obey. He may leave Eurylochus behind if he didn’t listen and got lost. Or he would have to spend a whole boat ride back with his father giving him that weary look. And then Eurylochus would have to face the sea alone.
“I cannot,” he hissed insistently, reminding himself more than scolding Odysseus. He paused, trying to think of something that a loyal apprentice would say. “I am here on business. My father is the master smith of Same.”
Odysseus rolled his eyes, a dramatic gesture that involved his whole head and a scoff. “Your father has his back turned and no one will see us. I am sneaky… Unless you are just scared of a little honey?”
The boy’s eyes gleamed, watching the squirm of discomfort that ran through Eurylochus, who, despite his better judgement, had scrunched his face. The heat returned, a mix of embarrassment and sharp frustration. “Honey,” he repeated, pitch raising at the insult, “I am not afraid of honey!”
Odysseus’s grin sharpened into delightful triumph, like he’d just plucked the answer he wanted straight from Eurylochus’s mouth.
“Oh,” he said brightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he hummed thoughtfully. “That’s good. Though, if you were afraid of honey, it would explain your sour face.”
Eurylochus’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have a sour face,” he muttered, immediately regretting it. He had spoken. Spoken more than he should have. He was supposed to be good, obedient so his father would let him follow him again. Although, Sideris had said nothing about remaining quiet.
Odysseus’s eyes lit up again, a sharp impish giggle accompanying his grin, “You're still making the face! Like you have never had something sweet in your life.”
The smith’s son glowered at the smaller boy, cheeks warm. “I am not.”
Odysseus gasped theatrically, clutching at his chest like he’d been gravely wounded. “You are,” he insisted, delight sparkling in his eyes. His teasing giggle continued, “It’s like you’re sucking on a citron!”
“I have never seen a citron,” Eurylochus shot back before he could stop himself. His ears felt warm now, his palms sweaty. He looked over at his father out of habit. The man was preoccupied talking about something actually important.
Odysseus froze. Then his grin broke wide and unrestrained, laughter bubbling out of him in quiet, breathless bursts as he ducked behind his hand. “Oh, gods,” he whispered, eyes shining. “You’re incredible.”
Eurylochus had no idea how that could possibly be true. Nor did he understand how Odysseus had come to such a bold conclusion. His shoulders tightened, torn between indignation and the creeping realization that he was—somehow—enjoying this. Just a little. It felt dangerous but more friendly than everything else on this strange island.
“I really must stay,” he said again, softer this time, as though repetition alone might fortify his resolve. “My father needs me.”
The boy didn’t want his father to scold him.
Odysseus studied him for a moment, head tilted, amusement gleaming wildly in his eyes. He planted the tip of his wooden sword against the ground and leaned on it like a seasoned warrior addressing a council. “No one will miss you, you are doing nothing but standing.”
“I will be missed,” Eurylochus insisted, though his voice wavered. The words cut sharper than he cared to admit. He glanced again at Sideris again, who was now frowning slightly at a tablet, deep in discussion. Still not looking. “My father told me to stay.”
The younger stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his dark eyes dancing with a mischief that felt like a spark near a hayloft. “But I need a partner. Someone tall to reach the high shelves. You’re tall. We’d be a legendary team.”
Eurylochus blinked. A "legendary team." The words tugged at a part of his brain that usually only woke up when he was playing with wooden scraps in the dirt behind the forge. But the tug of his father’s silence was stronger.
“I’m not a partner,” Eurylochus whispered, his fingers twisting into the hem of his chiton until the fabric groaned. He searched for words, his jaw working, as he tried to sound sure and firm. Just like his father, “I’m the blacksmith’s apprentice. I do not have time for childish… things.”
That went well.
He tried to recover, mentally stumbling until he found some way to cover his hesitance. “I was commanded to stay. I must listen.”
Odysseus huffed, a sharp puff of air that blew a red-gold curl off his forehead. He looked genuinely offended, as if Eurylochus were a puzzle piece that refused to fit into the right slot. He straightened his back, his small frame expanding with a sudden, borrowed dignity. He tucked the wooden sword into his sash and lifted his chin.
“You don’t understand,” Odysseus said, his voice dropping into a formal, ringing tone that sounded like he was mimicking an old man in the assembly. “I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, and I am the Prince of Ithaca. By royal… uh—decree, I release you from your father’s post and command you to assist me in the Great Honey Cake Extraction.”
The boy remained proud, head lifted and expecting. Like the execution of his will had been nothing less than flawless.
Eurylochus blinked. He looked at the boy’s gap-toothed grin, then at the dirt on his knees, and finally at the way his "royal sash" was slightly frayed at the edges. A prince? A prince wouldn’t be using a wooden sword to bounce bruised olives. A prince wouldn’t have dirt under his fingernails. He would be busy with tutors and important things, not plotting a heist.
A small, nervous bubble of a laugh escaped Eurylochus’s throat before he could choke it back. “You’re not the prince,” he scoffed, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and newfound bravado. “You’re just... a boy. A loud one.”
Odysseus’s eyes went wide, a shock of prideful anger crossing his expression. His voice raised, getting higher and more strained, “I am! Ask anyone! Ask the guards!” He pointed a dramatic finger toward the stern man in the bronze breastplate.
Eurylochus looked at the guard. The man didn't even blink. He remained as still as a mountain.
“He’s not looking at you,” Eurylochus pointed out, gaining confidence. “If you were a prince, he’d be bowing. Or at least making sure you weren't eating dirt.”
He crossed his arms, trying to look like Sideris when a customer tried to haggle over the price of a plowshare. He would not be tricked, he would be just as wise and steady as his fathers “You’re just trying to get me in trouble so I have to go back to Same and never come back.”
Odysseus’s face flushed a deep, indignant red that rivaled the sunset. He opened his mouth to roar a protest, but then he stopped. His eyes narrowed as they darted to the guard, then back to Eurylochus, and a slow, wicked transformation took place. The anger didn't vanish; it evolved into a sharp, gleaming intelligence.
Like a wolf waiting for its prey to tire.
He didn't yell. Instead, he leaned in until their noses were inches apart, smelling faintly of cedar and crushed mint.
"He doesn't bow because I told him if he did, I’d put salt in his bedding," Odysseus hissed, his voice vibrating with a conviction that made Eurylochus’s knees feel like they were back on the rocking ship. "And he doesn't watch me because he knows he can't catch me. No one can."
“Salt in his bedding?” Eurylochus repeated, his tone skeptical. Looking from the guard to the small boy before him.
“Amongst other things,” Odysseus whispered, his eyes dancing. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Master Apprentice? You’re too busy being a statue.”
Eurylochus felt a sudden, sharp prick of resentment. It wasn’t just that this boy—this Prince, if he were telling the truth—was mocking him; it was that he made Eurylochus’s world of soot and straight lines feel small. Gray. He didn’t like that.
He had to prove him wrong.
Odysseus leaned back, seeming to sense the reckless shift. His wooden sword returned to his hand like an extension of his own arm. He didn't look like a boy waiting for permission; he looked like a king waiting for a general to report for duty. "The kitchen windows are open."
Eurylochus looked at his father. Sideris was laughing now, a rare, deep sound, as he shook hands with the steward. He was occupied. He was proud. He was safe.
"If we get caught," Eurylochus whispered, his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, "I am telling them it was your idea."
Odysseus’s grin was blinding, a flash of white in the afternoon sun. Almost manic with its intensity. He turned and bolted toward the shadows of the colonnade without checking to see if Eurylochus followed. With one last, lingering look at his father’s broad back, Eurylochus took a breath of the sharp Ithaca air and ran.
He told himself it would be the only time he indulged in such schemes.