Chapter Text
Sing, my dear Muse, of Katana, the wandering warrior whose path carried him across distant seas and battle-scarred lands, yet whose fate even now remains uncertain. Many were the trials laid before him after the fall of Troy, and many were the lands he saw as he struggled to find his way home. Storms had broken ships beneath him, strangers had offered both shelter and betrayal, and more than once the edge of death had followed close behind his steps.
Yet for all his endurance, the end of his journey still lay beyond the horizon.
Ten years had passed since the war ended. The armies of Greece had long since scattered back to their kingdoms, their victories fading slowly into memory as the years carried them forward. One by one the great champions of that war had returned to the halls they once ruled. Some welcomed with celebration, others with grief for the scars the conflict had left behind.
Only one remained absent.
Katana, the masked warrior whose blade had once burned with strange markings beneath the sun of Troy, had not returned to Ithaca.
Stories of him still traveled the harbors of distant islands. Sailors spoke in hushed voices of the warrior with the porcelain mask shaped like the face of an owl, whose horns curved forward like those of a furious bull and whose long black hair fell in wild strands to his waist. Some swore they had seen the red scabbard at his side gleaming in foreign ports, while others claimed he had vanished entirely, swallowed by the endless sea that lay between the scattered kingdoms of the world.
Rumor had grown where certainty had failed.
But far from the roads of men and the restless movement of ships, Katana still lived.
Beyond the known routes of sailors lay a lonely island called Ogygia, where steep cliffs rose from dark water and forests grew untouched by wandering travelers. The island carried an ancient stillness within its soil, as though the passing of years meant little beneath its shade.
There, beside the quiet edge of the sea, Katana often sat alone.
The porcelain mask concealed most of his face, its narrow eye slits reflecting pale light whenever he turned toward the horizon. Beneath the mask his long hair stirred in the slow ocean wind, dark strands tangled from years without the careful attention of servants or companions. The horns that curved from the sides of his head caught the fading sunlight in dull flashes of red, sharp against the quiet sky.
His great katana rested beside him, the familiar weight of it pressing into the sand where he had set it down.
The markings along the blade had once glowed brightly in battle, though now they remained still and silent, as though even the weapon itself had grown weary of waiting.
Some distance behind him, half hidden among the trees, another figure watched.
Dusekkar, the goddess who shared the island with him, hung quietly in the shade of a tall cedar tree, her expression thoughtful as she observed the warrior seated at the shore. She had taken a curious interest in the mortal who had arrived upon her island years before, washed ashore by storms that even the gods themselves had not fully understood.
Yet for all her power, she could not free him.
The island held them both.
Katana did not know the true nature of the force that bound Ogygia in its quiet isolation, only that every attempt to leave had ended the same way: with broken ships, treacherous currents, or winds that turned suddenly against him.
And so he waited, staring out across the endless water toward a home he could not reach.
…
Far across the sea, the island of Ithaca had not waited so patiently.
The palace of Katana still stood high upon its hill overlooking the harbor, its pale stone walls catching the light of morning as ships drifted slowly through the calm waters below. Olive trees spread across the slopes surrounding the estate, their silver-green leaves shifting softly in the wind that carried the scent of the sea inland.
At the gates of the palace, a guard stood watch.
Shuriken leaned lightly upon the long spear resting beside him, his gaze drifting across the road that wound its way up toward the entrance. Though the armor he wore bore the crest of Ithaca, the young guard carried himself with the quiet humility of someone who had not been born among nobles.
Once, his father had tended swine in the hills beyond the city.
Now Shuriken served the household of the absent king.
Years earlier, when the palace staff had struggled beneath the growing burden of uninvited guests, Hyperlaser had quietly offered both Shuriken and Vine Staff positions within the estate. Neither of them had shared blood with the ruling family, yet Slingshot had welcomed them without hesitation, treating them with the easy familiarity of siblings rather than servants.
The memory of that kindness had never faded.
Inside the palace, the halls were already alive with movement.
Servants moved quickly between kitchens and storerooms, their arms filled with baskets of bread, fruit, and freshly roasted meat. Large jars of wine were rolled carefully along the floor toward the banquet hall, where laughter could already be heard echoing against the high ceiling.
The suitors had begun their feasting early that day.
For nearly three years now, noblemen from neighboring islands had filled the halls of Ithaca, each one claiming that his presence had been invited by courtesy or tradition. In truth, every man seated at the tables shared the same ambition.
They had come for Hyperlaser.
In the center of the great hall, seated upon a raised chair beside the long banquet tables, Hyperlaser listened quietly as the voices of the suitors swirled around him.
His white peplos fell in clean folds across his shoulders, the fabric held neatly in place beneath the rich blue himation draped over one arm. Golden patterns traced the edge of the cloth in delicate lines, glimmering faintly each time the lanterns overhead shifted in the breeze.
Beneath his clothing, scars stretched across much of his skin, pale marks left behind by the fire that had once threatened to claim his life. The blue horns that rose from the sides of his head had been broken long ago, leaving only worn stubs where their full curves had once been.
His sight had not survived the flames.
The world now came to him through sound, through the movement of air and the subtle vibrations of footsteps across the stone floor. Years of careful listening had taught him to recognize each voice in the room, each familiar rhythm of breathing or shifting cloth.
Today the hall was louder than usual.
At the far end of the hall, the bard’s song continued.
The quiet strumming of the lyre carried gently through the chamber, each note weaving itself through the air between bursts of laughter and the scrape of goblets against the tables. The melody itself was not unpleasant. In another setting, perhaps in a calmer evening beneath the open sky, Hyperlaser might have listened to it without objection.
But the story the inphernal chose to sing was a cruel one.
It spoke of the war at Troy, of the long years spent beneath its walls, and of the many warriors who had struggled to find their way home afterward. The bard’s voice moved easily through the verses, recounting shipwrecks and wandering voyages with practiced ease, describing men who returned to ruined households and families who waited long after hope had begun to fade.
The hall listened with casual interest.
For the suitors, it was merely another tale.
For Hyperlaser, the words settled far more heavily.
He sat very still in his chair, his hands resting lightly against the carved wood of its arms as the song continued. Without sight, the world reached him through sound more clearly than it did most men, and the bard’s voice carried every detail of the story with uncomfortable clarity.
The creak of the lyre’s strings, the careful pauses between verses and the subtle rise in the singer’s tone whenever he spoke of warriors lost at sea.
Hyperlaser’s brow furrowed slightly..
He knew these songs well. They had followed the war home like restless ghosts, spreading through cities and villages alike as bards shaped grief into stories that could be carried from one place to another.
Most of them ended the same way.
The warrior never returned.
The melody drifted onward, soft and relentless, describing another ship broken against hidden rocks beneath a storm-dark sky.
A faint murmur of approval rose from the tables nearby as one of the nobles reached for another cup of wine.
Hyperlaser lowered his head slightly.
Around his neck the ruby Katana had crafted so many years ago rested against his chest, warm beneath the thin fabric of his clothing. He could feel its familiar weight there whenever he breathed, a quiet reminder of hands that had shaped the gold and polished the stone with careful patience.
The bard’s voice rose again, describing a soldier’s wife waiting alone beside the sea.
Hyperlaser drew a slow breath.
For years he had endured the presence of the suitors with measured calm, answering their boasts with quiet patience and refusing to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing his frustration. That restraint had become a kind of armor, worn daily until it felt as natural as the folds of the garments he dressed in each morning.
But the song was wearing against it.
Each verse pressed a little harder than the last, lingering on the same cruel possibility that had haunted Ithaca for a decade.
The idea that Katana had been lost somewhere beyond the horizon.
Another line of the song drifted across the hall.
This one spoke of a warrior’s home standing silent while strangers slowly claimed it.
The laughter of the suitors continued between the verses, careless and untroubled by the meaning woven through the bard’s words.
Hyperlaser’s fingers tightened slowly against the carved arm of the chair, the knuckles whitening beneath the pale scars that crossed his hands.
He lifted his head slightly, listening to the melody for another moment before speaking.
“Enough,” The word carried clearly across the chamber.
The bard’s fingers hesitated briefly against the strings, though he did not immediately stop.
“Choose another song,” Hyperlaser continued, his voice calm but edged now with unmistakable firmness. “One that does not dwell so heavily on the grief of those who waited for men who never returned.”
The hall shifted uneasily at the request.
Before the bard could answer, another voice rose from within the hall.
“Let the man sing.”
Slingshot stepped forward from the shadow of the pillar where he had been standing, the movement drawing the attention of several nearby nobles who turned in mild surprise at the interruption.
His posture remained straight despite the tension gathering across the chamber, the pale folds of his white chiton falling neatly beneath the light blue himation draped across his shoulders. The cloth mirrored the colors worn by Hyperlaser, though it rested more loosely against his frame, shifting softly as he moved. A slender wreath of gold leaves circled his curly white hair, the metal catching the lanternlight in faint flashes as he came to a stop.
The words lingered in the air for a moment after he spoke.
Across the room, Hyperlaser remained still, listening carefully as the sudden quiet settled over the hall. The tightness that had gathered in his hands eased slowly, his fingers relaxing against the carved arm of the chair as he leaned back once more.
There was something different in Slingshot’s voice.
Not hesitation, nor the careful restraint he had grown accustomed to hearing from his son during the long years the suitors had filled this hall.
Resolve.
Around the tables the nobles shifted uneasily, their earlier amusement giving way to curiosity as more of them turned their attention toward the young prince now standing openly before them.
And somewhere in the middle of the hall, watching the exchange with quiet interest, Subspace began to smile.
For most of the evening Slingshot had remained silent near the pillars, observing the behavior of the suitors with growing frustration. Their laughter had filled his father’s hall for years now, their careless feasting draining the wealth of the household while they waited for Hyperlaser to choose one of them as a spouse.
None of them seemed to take him seriously.
Slingshot drew a steady breath.
“The bard sings what the gods inspire,” he said calmly, his voice firm despite the tension he felt gathering in his chest. “Many families suffered after the war. The song belongs to all of them.”
A few of the men exchanged glances at his words.
Then a soft chuckle drifted from the middle of the hall.
Subspace leaned back in his chair, turning the stem of his cup slowly between his fingers as he studied the young prince from across the table. The wine within the cup shimmered faintly as the lanternlight flickered across its surface.
“So the boy speaks,” he said lightly.
His gaze lingered on Slingshot with quiet interest.
Subspace had watched him carefully throughout the evening, noticing the determination that had been gathering slowly behind the prince’s careful composure. The resemblance between Slingshot and Hyperlaser was clear enough in the set of his posture and the deliberate way he held himself before the gathered nobles. Yet where Hyperlaser had endured years of waiting with quiet patience, the son carried something far less restrained beneath the surface.
There was a restless energy in him, something that shifted and pressed against the careful control he tried so hard to maintain.
Subspace found that far more interesting.
The scattered laughter that followed his earlier remark rolled easily through the hall, but Slingshot paid it no attention, allowing the sound to pass over him as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
“Tomorrow,” he continued, raising his voice slightly so that the entire hall could hear him clearly, “I will call an assembly of Ithaca. There we will speak openly about what has been happening in this house.”
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles.
“You have feasted here long enough,” Slingshot said. “If you seek my father’s throne, you should return to your own homes and ask properly for my father’s husband. You will not continue devouring the wealth of this household as though it were your own.”
The room fell briefly silent.
Then Subspace’s laughs cut through the suffocating silence.
“An assembly?” he repeated, amusement dancing easily through his voice. “And what do you believe that will accomplish, prince?” His gaze drifted lazily across the hall.
“Unless, of course, your father plans to attend.”
Several of the other suitors chuckled at that.
Subspace leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with faint curiosity as he studied Slingshot’s expression.
“And tell me something else,” he added. “Earlier this evening you were speaking with a traveler near the doors. Who was he?”
Slingshot hesitated for only a moment.
He remembered the stranger clearly: the calm voice, the steady reassurance that Katana still lived somewhere beyond the horizon. Even now he could not say with certainty who the traveler had truly been, but he knew one thing.
The words had changed something inside him.
“He was an old friend of my father,” Slingshot answered simply.
Subspace lifted his cup again, watching the young prince carefully over its rim.
“Is that so?”
Slingshot met his gaze without wavering.
“Yes,” he said. “And he believes my father will return.”
The laughter in the hall faded slightly at those words.
Subspace studied the prince for another long moment before slowly raising his cup in a casual salute.
“Then we shall see,” he said.
The laughter in the hall gradually returned, spreading from table to table as the conversation shifted once more toward wine and idle boasts. Chairs scraped softly across the stone floor, and the bard—after a moment of uncertain silence—resumed the quiet melody of his lyre.
Across the room, Hyperlaser remained seated in stillness, listening as the familiar rhythm of the hall reassembled itself around him.
Yet Slingshot’s words lingered longer than the laughter.
He had heard the certainty in his son’s voice. Not the stubborn bravado of youth, nor the desperate hope that sometimes surfaced when the subject of Katana arose, but something steadier than either of those.
Hyperlaser’s fingers rose unconsciously to the ruby resting at his throat, the polished stone warm beneath his touch. The memory of that quiet evening returned to him with uncomfortable clarity, carried on the weight of the necklace resting against his chest.
For a moment—brief and unwelcome—another thought followed it.
What if the boy was right?
The idea lingered only a heartbeat before the familiar discipline of reason pushed it aside. Ten years had passed since the war ended. Storms had swallowed ships, kingdoms had risen and fallen, and the sea had claimed more warriors than any battlefield ever had.
Men lost that long rarely returned.
Hyperlaser lowered his hand slowly, allowing the ruby to settle once more against the fabric of his peplos.
Still, Slingshot had spoken with a confidence he had never heard from him before.
And though Hyperlaser said nothing, a quiet awareness settled somewhere deep within him that the evening had shifted in a way the suitors had not yet noticed.
Around the tables the voices continued, careless and loud as they always were.
But for the first time in many years, the stillness of Ithaca had begun to move.
And far away, beyond the reach of its shores, a wandering king still gazed across the sea that separated him from home.