Chapter Text
Winions, is what they were called, according to Polites. Odysseus called them Lotus eaters, which personally, he thinks makes more sense logically (Where does winion even come from?), but whatever. Polites had said it with such fondness that arguing with him felt like unnecessary cruelty.
They were small. Soft. Laughably unthreatening. Wide-eyed and wandering, the world was a pleasant dream they had no intention of waking from.
He didn’t trust them.
But what harm could critters, high and unaware of the world around them, do?
Athena didn’t disagree with his plan, or she’d have shown up to lecture him again. She had already scolded him recently for forgetting the proper creed of a warrior of the mind, and did not bring it up. She could have forgotten of course, but that felt unlikely. Actually, it was a common argument recently, his actions. Now that the war ended, Odysseus found more point in listening to his friend’s advice on relaxing than the war goddess’ insistence he stay alert. Something his lady had clearly noticed and disapproved of.
She never was a fan of Polites, despite Odysseus’ advocacy. She acknowledged he had a purpose, as all soldiers do, and Polites even more so as a medic as well as fighter, but nothing else. She considered him a bad influence on her champion, and made said belief clear. Still, even his goddess agreed that, while not as important, good morale was an ideal factor, both in war and outside. To keep men fighting, prevent treasonous acts, and keep enemies on edge. Fear festers too easily.
And so; when Odysseus conceded to allowing the pets, he felt secure in the knowledge that was her lack of presence.
Polites beamed when Odysseus consented to bring a few of the winions back with them. Just a handful, a trail run, Something to lift spirits before they returned with a larger group to explore the eastern cave.
It worked. Gods, did it work.
The men took to the winions like children take to stray pups. Laughing when they tripped, cooing when they curled up against warm ankles, or dozed atop folded cloaks. Arguments broke out over which ones liked whom best. Even Eurylochus, who distrusted everything, softened when one of the creatures followed him around like a shadow.
Odysseus watched from a distance, arms crossed, pretending not to smile.
He would absolutely brag to Athena about this later.
If she gave him the chance.
As opposed to his childhood, in which he saw her every month, or during his reign, where she appeared during important events he made sure to invite her to, she only came now when she believed herself needed. As goddess or mentor, never friend. And she had made it very clear in recent years that she was not his friend. Odysseus, naturally, ignored this with the same stubbornness he applied to most warnings. He might not be her friend, but she was his, and that was enough for now.
The winions, for their part, seemed… pleasant enough. Affectionate, in their way. Odysseus doubted they were capable of love, not truly anyway. How could they be, spell-bound as they were? But they chirred and leaned into touch, responded warmly to laughter.
…He really hoped none of his men were foolish enough to feed them from their already dwindling rations.
He would check.
Something about them unsettled him. Not enough to refuse his men (though if they were feeding treats to the critters from their own food supply, then yes he’d refuse his men), but enough to feel perpetually off-balance.
Sometimes, only sometimes, when he glanced toward the creatures, they did not look as empty-headed as the stories claimed they should be.
Their eyes lingered. Tracked. Watched.
Aware. Too aware of the world around them. Some of the winions felt amused. Others, while he hated to admit it, felt almost cruel. Curious, eager, sympathetic… all at once. All with one thing in common: a look of interest. Some had even seemed pitying, but they watched all the same.
As if they were watching toys perform on a bard’s command.
It was fleeting. A trick of the light, perhaps. But the sensation prickled along Odysseus’ spine, sharp and deeply unpleasant.
It was a hyper specific feeling, a crazy one, even he has to acknowledge that much, one Odysseus was quite uncomfortable with.
Then he would blink, look again, and they were just creatures once more; soft, smiling, blissfully unaware. Rolling on the deck. Gnawing on bits of rope. Chirping at nothing at all.
No one else mentioned it. Not Polites, not Elpenor, not Perimedes, not a single man.
Most of whom had already grown dangerously attached.
And none were as cautious with the beings as Odysseus was, not even Eurylochus. Whatever Odysseus was experiencing, it did not seem to be a shared problem.
He’d seem insane on the very first stretch of travel to voice such concerns. And he was much too close to returning home to his family, to Peneolope and Telemachus, to allow himself such weakness in front of his men. Madness was a luxury he could not indulge.
Besides, Athena would have warned him, would have brought it up during her lecture, had they provided any real threat to his fleet. And if this were a test, a lesson of his observation skills, a lession in which he’s likely failing given that he has no guesses as to what the purpose would be (but still better than the rest of his fleet to notice at all!), the goddess wouldn’t allow such dangerous risks after a heavy war. Probably.
So, as he gathered the troop for exploration, he said nothing.