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Chapter Text

The sea stretched endlessly beneath the moonlight, its surface rippling like silk woven with silver. The ship rocked gently against the tides, a lullaby that should have pulled even the most troubled minds into slumber. But, Odysseus could hardly close his eyes for longer than a moment.

He emerged from his cramped sleeping quarters, the salt-heavy breeze brushing against his skin, carrying whispers of the distant war that awaited them. His hands found the wooden railing as he exhaled slowly, watching the dark horizon.

A large part of him longed to turn back—to Ithaca, to Penelope, to Telemachus, whose laughter he had barely memorized before being torn away.

But the gods had no mercy for such desires.

A quiet shuffling behind him made him turn. Patroclus sat near the mast, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them as if bracing against the cold. Odysseus knew it was not the sea air that made him shiver.

"You should rest," Odysseus said, his voice low, though it carried easily over the quiet sounds of the ocean.

Patroclus did not answer at first. His gaze was fixed on the dark horizon, his youthful face a study in tension and exhaustion. Finally, he muttered, "So should you."

Odysseus let out a soft huff of amusement but did not push the subject. Instead, he moved closer, leaning against the wood beside him. Silence stretched between them, the only sound the creaking of the ship and the water lapping against its sides.

"You found him," Patroclus said at last, voice edged with something that was not quite anger, not quite sorrow. "If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here."

Odysseus glanced at him, then back at the endless sea. "I did what was asked of me," he said simply.

Patroclus let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. "He was happy there, you know. Or at least… safe." His fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. "But you dragged him out."

Odysseus sighed. "I did," he admitted. "And if it means anything, I’m sorry for it."

Patroclus looked at him then, his expression unreadable in the dull moonlight. "Are you?"

Odysseus did not answer immediately. He thought of Achilles, of the way the boy had stood in that hall dressed in a silky veil and skirt, covered in gold beads and bangles— typical of a dancer. A woman. His eyes were alight with something like fury and relief when his ruse had been exposed.

He thought of his own son, of the day he had held him in his arms and whispered false reassurances, knowing he would not see him grow. He thought of his wailing cries as the waves carried him and his crew away.

"I never wanted to go to war either," Odysseus finally admitted, his voice softer now. "But some things are set in motion long before we ever have a say."

Patroclus studied him, searching his face as if looking for some hidden answer. Perhaps he found it, or perhaps exhaustion dulled his anger, because he let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the wood.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply watched the sea, the stars reflected in the neverending dark water.

At some point, Patroclus' breathing slowed, his body sagging slightly with sleep. Odysseus hesitated, then carefully shifted, letting the boy rest against the side of the ship.

He stayed a little while longer, watching the horizon, listening to the rhythmic crashing of waves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and left Patroclus to his dreams.

~

The first arrow came faster than Patroclus could react.

One moment, he was disembarking onto the shifting sands, the din of war rising around him—the next, something heavy slammed into him, knocking him backward. A dull clang rang in his ears, and he gasped as he hit the ground.

Above him, Odysseus loomed, bracing his shield where the arrow now quivered, its tip embedded deep in the bronze.

“Stay down!” Odysseus barked, his voice sharp as a blade. His sharp eyes flicked over Patroclus quickly, checking for wounds before he pivoted, scanning the battlefield. “Keep your head down and stay down!”

With that, he was gone, slipping into the chaos with the ease of a man who had long learned to command it. Patroclus, still flat on his back, sucked in a trembling breath. His heart slammed against his ribs, his limbs shaking from a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something else—something close to awe.

Odysseus moved with purpose, his voice cutting through the cacophony as he barked orders. "Archers, hold—aim for the spearmen before they charge! Shield up, Antilochus, or you'll be missing an arm before noon!" He grabbed a trembling young soldier and shoved a helmet over his head before pushing him toward the fray. "You—back to the ships, get more javelins. Move!"

Arrows rained down, the air thick with the tang of brine and blood, but Odysseus was a force that would not break. Even as he guided an archer’s shaking hands, even as he deflected another strike with a swift raise of his shield, he remained firm. Steady.

Patroclus, still kneeling where he had fallen, could only watch.

He had always known Odysseus was cunning, had heard the stories of the man who could talk circles around the gods themselves. But here, now, he saw the warrior—the leader—who turned chaos into something almost controlled.

A firm tug on his arm jolted him back to reality. One of Odysseus’s men was dragging him up. “Come on! We’re moving inland!”

Patroclus scrambled to his feet, gripping his sword with damp fingers, and followed.

~

The camp had already been prepared long before their arrival, rows of tents dotting the sandy shore like silent sentinels. The moment they stepped past the initial chaos of the landing, the world felt eerily quiet.

Patroclus pushed into an empty tent, breath still coming fast. Achilles would come here—he had to. The battle had barely begun, but the distance, the uncertainty—it made his skin itch.

Odysseus stood just outside, watching him.

“He’ll be alright,” Odysseus said. It wasn’t a question, but Patroclus could hear the weight behind it—the unspoken but, are you?

Patroclus swallowed hard. He nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Odysseus didn’t leave. Instead, he sank down onto a crate just outside the tent, as if he had nowhere else to be. He didn’t try to fill the silence. He simply waited.

Patroclus sat in his own quiet, listening to the distant clang of weapons, the occasional shouts beyond the camp. He counted his breaths.

Then—footsteps.

Achilles burst through the tent flap, hair wild, armor glinting. He looked—alive. His eyes swept over Patroclus, and before Patroclus could think, they were in each other's arms, Achilles holding him tight enough to bruise.

Odysseus stood, stretching with a quiet grunt. He glanced at them once, then turned and left without a word, giving them what little peace this war would allow.

~

Odysseus sat on a makeshift bench outside one of the healer’s tents, rolling his shoulder experimentally. The arrow was still lodged deep in the muscle, the broken shaft jutting out from his armor. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound, soaking into the fabric beneath the bronze.

He exhaled through his nose, watching the chaos around him. Men groaned on stretchers, some missing pieces of themselves they’d never regain. Healers rushed from body to body, pressing linen to wounds, stitching flesh back together with hurried, steady hands.

He could wait.

He’s had worse than this.

The thought had barely settled when a familiar voice cut through the din.

“Sit down.”

Odysseus turned his head just in time to see Patroclus storming toward him, dark eyes sharp with irritation.

“I am sitting,” Odysseus pointed out, arching a brow.

Patroclus scowled. “On a bench outside the medical tent, bleeding all over the place. Just let me fix it—it’ll take only a moment.”

Odysseus sighed, but there was no real argument in him. “Fine,” he relented, moving inside to let Patroclus work.

Patroclus moved quickly, hands practiced and sure as he pressed against Odysseus’s shoulder, assessing the wound. “This will hurt,” he muttered before yanking the broken arrow free in one clean motion.

Odysseus barely flinched. “That all you got?”

Patroclus rolled his eyes, already pressing a cloth against the wound to slow the bleeding. “You’re worse than Achilles,” he muttered, reaching for a needle and thread.

Odysseus huffed a laugh, letting the woman man do his work. He could feel Patroclus’s focus in the steadiness of his fingers, in the careful way he stitched, tying each knot with precision. It was clear he had done this many times before.

Within minutes, the wound was dressed. “There,” Patroclus said, wiping his hands. “Now you can go back to pretending you’re invincible.”

Odysseus chuckled. “Much appreciated.” Then, with little warning, he reached out and ruffled Patroclus’s hair, the same way a father might tousle his son’s.

Patroclus froze.

A faint flush crept up his neck as he stared at Odysseus, completely dumbfounded.

Odysseus grinned. “Good work.”

The moment stretched for a beat longer—then Patroclus snapped out of it, scowling slightly as he shoved at Odysseus’s arm. “Out. Get out of my tent.”

Odysseus stood, still laughing as he stepped outside.

Some of the passing soldiers eyed him strangely, as if they couldn’t quite understand why the great Odysseus had just walked out of the medical tent looking amused about it.

Odysseus only shook his head, still chuckling as he strode back toward his side of camp, rolling his newly bandaged shoulder.

~

The air inside the war tent was thick with sweat, smoke, and the stench of self-importance. A heavy map lay sprawled across the wooden table, scattered with markers representing their forces, their enemies, and the spoils yet to be claimed.

Odysseus leaned back in his chair, half-listening as Agamemnon droned on about the division of future plunder, his hands gesturing grandly as if he already held Troy in his grasp.

“And of course, the greatest share will go to the most deserving,” Agamemnon declared, puffing his chest.

Odysseus snorted, rolling his eyes. “So, to the ones who actually win the battles? Or just the ones who talk the loudest about them?”

Diomedes bit back a smirk. Nestor sighed. Agamemnon, predictably, scowled. “Do you have something to say, Ithacan, or are you just here to test my patience?”

“Oh, I’d hate to test it,” Odysseus drawled, propping an elbow on the table. “Gods forbid we stretch the limits of something already so fragile.”

Before Agamemnon could bark a response, the tent flap was pushed aside, and Achilles and Patroclus strode in, unmistakably late.

The tension sharpened instantly.

Agamemnon turned on them with a smirk, like a wolf who had just spotted fresh prey. “Ah, the golden boy finally graces us with his presence.”

Achilles, never one to ignore bait, bared his teeth. “Some of us had better things to do than sit around squabbling over treasures we don’t have yet.”

Agamemnon leaned forward, clearly pleased to be getting under his skin. “And what, pray tell, was so urgent?”

Odysseus sighed, rubbing his temples. Here we go.

Achilles took the challenge without hesitation. “I was training,” he said sharply. “Unlike you, I actually plan on winning this war.”

The insult landed hard. Agamemnon’s fingers curled against the table, his expression darkening. Around them, the other men stiffened, bracing for another inevitable clash.

Odysseus flicked a glance toward Patroclus, who was already inching closer to Achilles. Without a word, Patroclus pressed a hand to his arm—a subtle touch, barely noticeable in the heated moment.

Achilles inhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing more.

Odysseus, taking his cue, exhaled and stood up. “Well, now that our fiercest warrior has deigned to join us, perhaps we can get back to the tedious business of strategy instead of watching two oversized children bicker over who’s more important.” He clapped his hands. “Shall we?”

Achilles scoffed but sank into his chair. Agamemnon huffed but relented. The meeting, finally, resumed.

Odysseus barely listened.

Instead, he watched Patroclus and Achilles. Their hands had found each other beneath the table, fingers intertwined in a silent tether. It was a simple thing, but in this room—full of war-hardened men planning destruction—it was almost startling in its softness.

Patroclus must have felt his gaze because he glanced over.

Odysseus gave him a small, knowing smile and nodded once.

Patroclus’s face turned red as he quickly looked away.

Achilles, noticing the reaction, turned a sharp glare onto Odysseus, misinterpreting the moment entirely. His expression read clearly: Mind your own business.

Odysseus only smirked and leaned back.

~

When the meeting ended, Patroclus lingered, stepping up beside Odysseus as the others filtered out.

“You don’t care?” he asked, voice quiet but firm.

Odysseus arched a brow. “About what?”

Patroclus hesitated, then gestured vaguely. “Me and him.”

Odysseus snorted. “As long as it doesn’t interrupt my sleep, I don’t care what the two of you get up to.”

Patroclus turned scarlet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Odysseus laughed and, before he could stop himself, reached out and ruffled Patroclus’s curly hair.

Patroclus immediately swatted his hand away, flustered beyond belief.

“Good luck with that one,” Odysseus said, nodding toward Achilles as he strolled away.

Patroclus huffed but couldn't stop a small, reluctant smile from tugging at his lips.

~

War hardened even the most gentle of men. That was a fact.

But, Odysseus—no matter how horrific the grueling day of battle had been— always grew a little softer when he marched back into camp and saw Patroclus waiting outside the medical tent.

Patroclus had been merely a boy when the war started. And, maybe, just maybe, watching that boy grow into a man felt like seeing his own son again.

~

The air was thick with the stench of blood, burning wood, and the sweat of men who had fought too long under the blazing sun. Odysseus barely noticed any of it. His steps were slow, measured, exhaustion weighing down his limbs as he trudged back toward camp.

The battle had been brutal, but it was over.

Then, he saw them.

A small procession of soldiers, heads bowed, carrying a body draped in bronze and crimson. The last light of the setting sun turned the armor golden, gleaming as if still alive.

Achilles’ armor.

Odysseus stopped cold.

His pulse thundered in his ears as his eyes locked onto the still figure. The shape, the familiar strength—his mind refused to process it.

No.

Achilles couldn’t be dead.

The camp had been alive with whispers of his invincibility. He was the best of them, a demigod among mortals. It wasn’t possible.

Then the bearers lowered the body, and Odysseus saw the face beneath the helm.
His stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat.

Patroclus.

The shock was like a blade to the gut.
Odysseus pushed forward, shoving past the murmuring men, until he dropped to one knee beside the fallen body.

Patroclus lay still, his face pale beneath the smudges of blood and dirt. His lips, which had so often carried warmth and laughter, were slack in death. His empty eyes stared at nothing.

Odysseus swallowed, throat tight, and reached out with careful fingers. He brushed his hand over Patroclus’s face, gently closing his eyelids. His fingers lingered a second too long, as if reluctant to let go.

A soldier beside him muttered something about the gods, but Odysseus barely heard it. He let out a slow, unsteady breath and bowed his head.

He should say a prayer. Some final words to honor Patroclus’s life, his kindness, his loyalty. But the words lodged in his throat, unspoken.

Instead, he whispered something too soft for the others to hear. A quiet offering only for the dead.

A sharp cry broke through the heavy silence.

Then, a blur of gold and fury.

Achilles.

He tore through the camp with inhuman speed, his breath ragged, eyes wide with a terror Odysseus had never seen before. The moment he saw the body, something inside him broke.

“No.” His voice came out strangled, barely more than a breath. Then louder, rawer— “No.”

Achilles dropped to his knees beside Patroclus and grabbed him, shaking him as if sheer force could wake him. His hands, always so sure, clutched desperately at Patroclus’s shoulders.

Odysseus hesitated, then shuffled forward, hands half-raised. “Achilles—”

“Stay away!”

The words were a snarl, but the pain behind them was unmistakable. Achilles clutched Patroclus’s body tighter, pressing his forehead against his, his entire body trembling. His breaths came in short, broken gasps, as though he couldn’t draw in enough air.

Odysseus stood and stepped back. He watched as Achilles rocked Patroclus’s lifeless form in his arms, as if willing warmth back into him.

Then Achilles let out a sound that didn’t belong in this world. A scream, hoarse and raw, that scraped against the sky.

The sun was sinking now, casting long shadows across the camp. The dying light touched the edges of Patroclus’s face, making it look almost like he was merely sleeping.

Odysseus clenched his fists.

There was nothing to be done.

He watched for a moment longer, his chest hollow, before finally turning away.

The other men followed him, their footsteps heavy with unspoken grief. As he walked, Odysseus silently prayed that Achilles would be reasonable in the days to come.

But deep down, he already knew better.

Chapter Text

The funeral pyres had long since burned out, but the scent of charred wood and sickly rot still lingered in the air.

The war had not stopped for Achilles’s death, nor had it slowed for Patroclus’s. 

The camp moved on, as it always did, and the soldiers fought as they always had. But Odysseus felt the loss like an iron weight pressing into his ribs, like a son wrenched from his grasp before he ever had the chance to tell him he was proud.

Patroclus had not been his by blood, but Odysseus had watched over him, had shielded him in battle, had seen the light in his eyes when he looked at Achilles, had found something achingly familiar in it all. He had been young, so young, and now he was gone. It felt wrong, all of it.

And now, in his place, stood him.

Neoptolemus. Son of Achilles. A boy Odysseus felt duty-bound to protect and planned to take under his wing the way he had with so many others. But Neoptolemus was not Patroclus. Where Patroclus had been kind, Neoptolemus was ruthless. Where Patroclus had been open, Neoptolemus was closed off and brimming with defiance.

Odysseus had been the first to greet him when he arrived in camp, expecting grief, expecting the hollow weight of a boy who had lost his father. But Neoptolemus had only been bitter, his face screwed up in a scowl the moment his gaze landed on his father’s grave.

Now, Odysseus found him there again, standing over the burial mound, arms crossed, eyes burning with something unreadable. 

Odysseus had come to pay his respects, as he did every night when he could steal away from the duties of war. But tonight, he arrived just in time to see Neoptolemus crouching down, his fingers curling into the dirt where Patroclus’s name had been carved into the stone (like a second thought, which he was still bitter about).

Odysseus frowned. What is he—

Then, Neoptolemus moved. His hand dug into the earth, and with a sharp, deliberate motion, he began to scratch the name away.

Odysseus was upon him in an instant.

His hand clamped down hard on Neoptolemus’s wrist, yanking him back before he could deface it any further. Neoptolemus flinched, caught off guard, and when he turned to glare at Odysseus, there was genuine shock in his eyes—followed immediately by outrage.

“What’s your problem?” Neoptolemus snapped, jerking his wrist back.

Odysseus didn’t let go. His grip was firm, his fingers digging into the boy’s skin. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, dangerous, barely restrained.

Neoptolemus glowered at him, then gestured sharply at the grave marker. “My father shouldn’t be buried with some random nobody.”

Odysseus’s breath caught in his throat. His grip on Neoptolemus’s wrist tightened before he released him entirely, shoving him away. “You ignorant little…” he hissed.

Neoptolemus staggered back a step, eyes flashing with fury. “What?”

Odysseus clenched his fists at his sides, barely restraining the impulse to grab the boy again, to shake some sense into him. His grief was a raw, festering wound, and Neoptolemus had just ripped it open with his carelessness. 

“Do you have any idea who he was?” Odysseus demanded, voice shaking—not with fear, not with weakness, but with rage. With sorrow. “Patroclus was the reason your father even fought in this war. He was his heart, the only thing keeping Achilles human. And you dare—” His breath came out ragged. “You dare call him some nobody?”

Neoptolemus scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t care who he was,” he said, voice laced with cold indifference. “Achilles was my father. He was the greatest warrior who ever lived. And now he’s buried with a dirty slave.”

Odysseus saw red. He took a sharp step forward, and for a moment, Neoptolemus hesitated, his bravado faltering just slightly.

“You don’t know anything,” Odysseus spat. “You think heroism is just how many men you can cut down? How much blood you can spill?” He shook his head. “Patroclus was ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

Neoptolemus’s jaw tightened. “I am Aristos—”

“Enough,” Odysseus cut him off. He turned away sharply, unable to look at the boy any longer without feeling a coil of sickness tighten in his stomach. Without feeling the crushing weight of everything lost.

Penelope. Telemachus. Patroclus. Achilles.

Neoptolemus huffed, clearly unwilling to back down so easily, but Odysseus was done. He kneeled before the grave, running his fingers over the name that Neoptolemus had tried to erase, as if touching it could somehow make up for what had nearly been taken.

In a voice just above a whisper, he murmured, “What am I to do with him?”

There was no answer, only the wind and the distant sounds of the restless camp. Neoptolemus scoffed one last time and turned on his heel, stalking away without another word. Odysseus didn’t watch him go.

His fingers traced the letters of Patroclus’s name one last time, then curled into a fist. He swallowed the lump in his throat and exhaled shakily, staring down at the grave of the boy he had come to care for like a son.

Alone beneath the quiet sky, Odysseus bowed his head and grieved.

~

The battle had turned sour.

What had begun as a calculated advance had collapsed into chaos, the Greeks scattered as the Trojans retaliated with ferocity. The air was thick with the clash of bronze, the screams of dying men, the metallic scent of blood choking the battlefield. The sun burned high above, and the earth beneath their feet had turned dark with spilled lifeblood.

Odysseus moved through the battlefield like a storm, cutting down those who dared cross his path, his shield a wall, his sword an executioner’s blade. He barked orders to his men, calling for them to hold their ground, to rally. His mind was sharp, assessing the field, the enemy, the weak points in their line—

And then he saw him.

Neoptolemus.

The boy was fighting, reckless and unrelenting, his blade slick with Trojan blood. His firey red hair was unmistakable, a banner of war among the chaos. But there was arrogance in his strikes, a dangerous confidence in the way he moved, as if the gods themselves had promised him victory.

And then Odysseus saw the shadow moving behind him.

A Trojan soldier, massive in build, raised his spear—aiming straight for the back of Achilles’s son.

No.

Odysseus moved without thinking. He lunged forward, knocking aside another enemy in his path. He reached Neoptolemus just as the Trojan warrior thrust forward, and with a savage roar, Odysseus drove his shield between the boy and the killing blow.

The spear slammed into bronze, the impact rattling Odysseus’s arm. Without missing a beat, he twisted, grabbed the Trojan by the throat, and wrenched—there was a sickening crack as the man crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The barbaric nature of the kill did not occur to him at the time.

Neoptolemus turned, breathless, eyes wide for just a moment before they narrowed.

Odysseus glared at him. “Stay down,” he snapped, voice rough and torn.

Neoptolemus scoffed, shaking off his momentary shock. “I had it handled.”

“Handled?” Odysseus barked a humorless laugh. “You were about to be gutted like a pig, you arrogant—”

“I am Neoptolemus,” the boy interrupted, lifting his chin. “The new Aristos Achaion.”

Odysseus’s blood ran hot, shaking his limbs and pounding in his ears like a war drum. He grabbed Neoptolemus by the shoulder and shoved him back a step. “You think the gods have already written your glory for you, boy?” he hissed. “That you can throw yourself into the fire and come out unburned? That name doesn’t make you invincible.” His grip tightened, and for a moment, Neoptolemus actually hesitated. “That name has been buried in the dirt with the men who bore it before you.”

Neoptolemus wrenched himself away. “Then I’ll prove I deserve it.”

With that, he turned and ran straight back into the fray.

Odysseus cursed, rage sparking through him. Foolish, reckless— 

He had fought alongside Achilles. He had seen how the man had believed himself untouchable, how his pride had carried him to ruin. And now, his son was marching the same doomed path.

Odysseus had no time to think—only to move.

He followed, carving his way through enemy after enemy, keeping Neoptolemus in his sights. The boy fought with brutal precision, a natural killer, but he lacked control. He was all offense, no defense.

And it was going to get him killed.

Odysseus saw it before it happened.

Neoptolemus, too caught up in the fight, did not see the second soldier closing in from his blind spot. Too slow. Too careless.

Odysseus did not hesitate.

He surged forward, intercepting the strike meant for Neoptolemus with a brutal counter of his own. He slammed his shield into the enemy’s face, heard the crunch of bone, then drove his sword straight through his gut.

Neoptolemus turned at the last moment, catching sight of what had nearly been his death.

For a second, only a second, there was something like awe in his face.

Then it was gone, replaced by an irritated scowl.

Odysseus was breathing hard, sweat and blood running down his face. He grabbed Neoptolemus by the collar, yanking him close. “You listen to me, boy,” he snarled. “This is not a game. This is not some play for you to carve your name into history. This war will swallow you whole if you let it.”

Neoptolemus shoved him back. “Let go of me.”

Odysseus’s jaw clenched. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Neoptolemus glared at him, breath heavy. “Then let me die a warrior, King of Ithaca.”

Odysseus stared at him.

For a moment, all he saw was golden Achilles. The same defiance. The same recklessness.

The same doomed fate.

Then, a horn sounded in the distance—the Achaeon's call for retreat.

Neoptolemus turned and sprinted toward the Greek lines. Odysseus exhaled sharply, wiping tacky blood and sweat from his brow. He started to follow, but pain suddenly flared in his side—a wound he hadn’t even noticed. He groaned and fell to one knee in the burning hot, blood slick sand.

A soldier grabbed him, dragging him toward safety as the Greeks pulled back. Odysseus let himself be pulled, but his eyes remained locked on Neoptolemus, who ran ahead without looking back.

Something heavy settled in Odysseus’s chest.

He had never been able to stop Achilles. And he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop his son either.

But gods help him, he was going to try.

~

The days stretched into weeks, and Odysseus found himself watching Neoptolemus more than he cared to admit. Not out of mistrust, not entirely, but out of something heavier—something he could not yet name. It was not concern, nor affection, but a quiet, pressing weight that settled deep in his chest.

He kept watch from the edges of the battlefield. Neoptolemus fought like his father—furious and reckless, a blade wreathed in flame. But Odysseus saw the missteps, the rawness that came with youth. His strikes landed true, but they were wild, wasted in their excess. Every fight left him bloodied, panting, and unsatisfied. And yet, he emerged victorious, unscathed in ways that Odysseus knew would not last.

Once, in the thick of battle, Neoptolemus stumbled—not enough to fall, not enough to be noticed by the others, but enough for Odysseus to feel his own body tense, a step forward already half-formed. But Neoptolemus caught himself, spun, and drove his sword into the enemy’s gut without hesitation. Odysseus exhaled sharply and stepped back into the chaos of war.

Later, after the dust of battle settled, Odysseus lingered by the medical tent. He never entered, never asked, but his shadow passed through often enough that the healers no longer questioned it. When Neoptolemus was absent, he told himself it was relief that he felt. When he was present, it was definitely irritation. He was Achilles’ son—of course he was here, of course he had torn himself apart just to prove a point. Odysseus would step away, unwilling to linger too long, unwilling to acknowledge the silent pull that kept him returning.

In war councils, Odysseus left an empty seat beside him. He never mentioned it, never so much as gestured to it, but it remained open. The generals and kings filled the space around him, their voices thick with exhaustion and rough with desperation. Neoptolemus stood to the side, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. He never took the seat. Perhaps he did not notice. More likely, he refused.

Odysseus never asked.

There were other moments, small and inconsequential to those who did not know the weight of them. The way Odysseus would reach for an extra ration of food and wordlessly pass it to Neoptolemus after a battle. The way his gaze lingered whenever Neoptolemus argued with his men, his voice too sharp, his patience too thin. The way he took up a whetstone one evening and wordlessly sharpened Neoptolemus’s blade, setting it beside him before walking away.

Neoptolemus never spoke of these things, never acknowledged them. He ate the food. He took the blade. But he did not look at Odysseus as he did.

But one evening, after another long battle, Odysseus entered the war council late. His usual seat remained open, and beside it, for the first time, Neoptolemus stood just close enough that, for a moment, it almost seemed as if he would sit. His fingers curled slightly, the smallest movement, an almost-decision. Then, as if realizing himself, he pulled away, arms crossing over his chest, his face unreadable.

Odysseus said nothing.

And so the weeks continued like this—silent offerings, firm refusals, and the ever-present, widening space between them.

~

Sleep did not come easily to Odysseus.

He had spent too many nights with a sword beside his bed, too many years listening for the faintest sign of danger, too many lifetimes learning that peace was only ever an illusion. The war had dragged on for too long, and though his body screamed for rest, his mind would not still.

So, he left his tent.

The camp was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of dying fires and the distant murmurs of men lost in troubled dreams. The sea whispered beyond the shore, a rhythm older than war, older than the gods. The cool night air pressed against his skin, a brief reprieve from the heat of the battlefield.

And then he saw him.

A lone figure laid in the shallows, red hair stark against the dark waves.

Odysseus's breath caught.

For a terrifying moment, he saw Achilles. Not as he had been in life, but as he had been in death—ashen and cold, stripped of his invincibility, of his arrogance, of everything except the weight of mortality.

But no. This was not Achilles.

It was his son.

A sick dread coiled in Odysseus’s stomach. Without thinking, he moved, shedding his chiton and wading into the water. Then, with a surge of instinct, he dove forward and grabbed Neoptolemus.

The boy screamed.

He thrashed violently in Odysseus’s grip, kicking, shoving, clawing. Odysseus, thrown by the fight in him, nearly lost his hold. He’s alive? The thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

Neoptolemus ripped himself away, stumbling in the waist-deep water, and they faced each other—both breathing hard, both drenched and furious.

“What in Hades are you doing?” Odysseus barked, his voice raw with something between anger and relief.

Neoptolemus turned away, water lapping at his waist. "What does it look like?”

Odysseus narrowed his eyes. “It looks like you’re a damned fool.”

Neoptolemus scoffed. He did that often—scoffed, sneered, rolled his eyes. He carried the arrogance of a boy who had been told all his life that he was great before he ever had to prove it. “You think I'm a coward who would do such a thing, don’t you?” His voice dripped with disdain. “That I’m some broken little thing that needs your pity?”

Odysseus studied him. The defiance in his stance, the sharpness in his voice. The way his hands curled into fists.

He didn’t answer.

Neoptolemus let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t need you to save me.”

Odysseus’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care what you think you need.”

Neoptolemus whipped around, sending a spray of salt water into the air. “I don’t need a father!”

The words hung between them, raw and piercing as an arrow from Apollo himself.

Odysseus’s heart lurched.

It was not about him, he knew that. It was about Achilles. The ghost of a father Neoptolemus had never known, a legend he could never reach, a name that would weigh him down for the rest of his life.

And yet.

And yet, Odysseus could not help but feel the words twist inside of him like a knife.

He had never been able to be a father to his own son.

And here he was, failing at it again.

His hands, still tense from the fight, loosened. The rage in his chest cooled, giving way to something deeper. Something hollow.

Neoptolemus, expecting another argument, another scolding, looked taken aback when Odysseus simply turned and waded back toward the shore.

“You should sleep,” Odysseus muttered as he pulled on his chiton. His voice was quieter now, rough with something unspoken. “Big battle tomorrow. Try not to get yourself killed.”

Neoptolemus huffed, still standing in the water, watching as Odysseus walked away.

Odysseus did not look back.

As he made his way through the dark, the weight in his chest grew heavier.

Grief was an old companion of his. But tonight, it was a cruel one.

He grieved for Telemachus, the boy he had left behind, who had grown without him. He grieved for Patroclus, who had never been called a son, but had felt like one. And now, he grieved for something that had never even been his to lose.

Neoptolemus didn’t want him.

That was fine.

Odysseus had spent a lifetime being unwanted.

~

The weeks blurred together in a haze of blood and exhaustion.

Battle after battle, the Greeks found themselves forced back, retreating inch by inch toward the sea. Each day was another struggle, another fight to hold the ground beneath their feet. The weight of it settled over the camp like a suffocating fog, pressing down on weary shoulders and tired souls. Odysseus saw it in the hard set of Diomedes’s jaw, the deep lines etched into his brow. He saw it in the restless, agitated movements of the soldiers, their hands twitching toward their weapons even in uneasy sleep. And he saw it in Neoptolemus—the way his impatience burned hotter with every retreat, his temper a wildfire waiting to consume everything in its path.

The war should have ended a lifetime ago.

Something had to change.

Odysseus exhaled slowly, his mind turning over possibilities, searching for a way to break the stalemate before it broke them. His fingers idly worked at the small wooden horse in his hands, the blade of his knife carving smooth lines into its shape—an unconscious habit to keep his anxieties at bay.

Then, as he studied the tiny figure in his palm, the idea struck him with sudden, perfect clarity.

He knew what to do.

~

The invasion of Troy was barbaric. 

Odysseus had known it would be.

Fire consumed the city, smoke curling into the sky as screams echoed through the streets. Blood slicked the stone beneath his feet, the once-mighty walls of Troy now nothing more than a cage for the dying. The Greeks cut through its people like beasts let loose from their chains.

And in the midst of it all, Neoptolemus carved his own path of destruction.

Odysseus caught glimpses of him through the chaos—his sword flashing, his movements wild and unrestrained. He tore through men with ease, his face unreadable beneath the crimson streaks splattered across his skin. There was no hesitation in him, no restraint. Only the raw, unchecked fury of a boy raised on war and vengeance.

Odysseus had spent months trying to guide him, to steer him away from becoming no more than a weapon. And yet, as he watched Neoptolemus now—erratic, merciless—

As he raises his shield to block a Trojan guards’ spear, he could only hope the boy would return home a decent man.

~

The child barely weighed anything.

Odysseus held him over the edge of Troy’s highest wall; the city burning beneath them, the sky above them black and heavy with the weight of their sins. The boy did not cry—too young to understand, too innocent to fear.

There was a deep tremble in his fingers but his arm held steady. 

He had seen too much, lost too much. He didn't want to lose this too.

With a final breath, Odysseus let go.

The war was over,

And he could only hope that he would return to Ithaca, to Penelope's arms, a decent man.

Chapter Text

The ship rocked with an easy rhythm against the gentle waves of the sea. The night air carried the scent of salt and damp wood, mingling with the lingering traces of sweat and smoke from the night’s dying fires. 

Most of the crew had long since settled in, leaving only the occasional shuffle of tired men keeping watch and the rhythmic creak of the ship cutting through the silence.

Elpenor sat cross-legged on the deck, leaning against a crate, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Perimedes lay beside him, arms tucked behind his head, staring up at the stars, listening with a bemused expression.

"I'm telling you, Peri, he's incredible," Elpenor whispered, voice hushed but eager. "You should’ve seen him back in Troy—he just knew what to do, always thinking five steps ahead. Even Aristos Achaion couldn’t—"

"Elpenor." Perimedes sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "If you love him so much, maybe you should ask him to marry you."

Elpenor scowled and shoved him at the shoulder. "Shut up."

Perimedes chuckled, unbothered. "I mean, it would make sense. You never stop talking about him."

"Because he deserves it!" Elpenor insisted. "None of us would be here without him— and Troy would probably still be standing." He leaned back against the crate, arms crossed. "Odysseus doesn’t just fight. He thinks. Achilles was powerful, sure, but brute force isn’t enough. Someone like him—"

"Someone like him doesn’t need you worshiping the ground he walks on," Perimedes cut in, rolling his head to the side to glance at him. He wasn’t annoyed, just amused, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You know he’s just a man, right?"

Elpenor scoffed. "That’s easy for you to say."

Perimedes only smirked. "And hard for you to hear."

Elpenor rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest at the teasing, the familiarity of it. The two sat there for a moment, the sea’s gentle chorus filling the silence.

Then Elpenor’s gaze drifted, catching sight of the amphorae stashed near the hull. He straightened, eyes gleaming mischievously.

“Peri.” He nudged him with his foot. “Let’s have a drink.”

Perimedes slowly cracked an eye open. "You're an idiot," he muttered, then turned onto his side, clearly uninterested in being dragged into whatever trouble Elpenor was about to get into.

Elpenor ignored him, already on his feet, moving quickly and quietly to the stash. He knelt, fingers brushing against the cool ceramic of one of the amphorae, grinning as he worked the stubborn seal free. The smell of aged wine wafted up, rich and heady, and he tilted it forward, eager for a taste—

“Elpenor.”

The voice sent a shock through him, like Zeus himself had tapped his lightning tipped fingers against his spine.

Elpenor nearly dropped the amphora, heart lurching. He turned too quickly, scrambling to hide his guilt, and found Odysseus standing in the dim torchlight.

The man wasn’t angry—at least, not outwardly. His expression was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his gaze, something that spoke of exhaustion deeper than mere lack of sleep. He stood with his arms crossed, shadowed in the faint glow of the torches, watching.

Elpenor swallowed. "Uh—sir?"

Odysseus stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Drinking at this hour?”

Elpenor hesitated, glancing at Perimedes for help, but his so-called friend remained utterly still, feigning sleep like a coward.

“I—just a little,” Elpenor tried, attempting a sheepish smile.

Odysseus exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple before fixing him with a steady look. “Go to sleep, Elpenor.” His voice was quiet but firm, the kind that didn’t invite argument.

Elpenor opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Odysseus stepped closer, and before Elpenor could react, a strong hand rested at the back of his neck, guiding him gently but insistently away from the amphorae. The touch was warm, steady, not rough or punishing—just enough to make it clear that the conversation was over.

Elpenor barely had time to process it before Odysseus let go and walked away, shaking his head, disappearing into the dark.

For a moment, Elpenor just stood there, dazed. His hand lifted to the back of his neck, rubbing absentmindedly where Odysseus’s hand had been.

It had felt—strange. Firm, but not unkind. Something about it reminded him of home, of childhood memories long since faded.

It had almost felt like a father’s touch.

~

The salt of the sea hung in the air, thick and warm, clinging to Elpenor's skin like an extra sheen of sweat. He sat near the bow with his legs dangling over the edge, the heels of his sandals tapping gently against the wood. One hand rested under his chin, the other limp across his lap, fingers twitching with restlessness.

The island rose like a sleeping beast from the ocean, its jungle shrouded in a heavy, cloying mist. Somewhere in there, Odysseus and half the crew had vanished almost three days ago. 

They desperately needed more supplies, so Odysseus set off with multiple men and left the rest to guard the ships. Elpenor was a part of the latter group. He’d watched Perimedes sling his satchel over his shoulder and laugh off his concerns with that lopsided grin.

“I’ll be back before you can miss me,” he’d said, and Elpenor had rolled his eyes.

Now, the shore was empty. Silent. Still.

Behind him, the remaining men played a half-hearted game of dice under the sailcloth, the murmurs of their voices barely rising above the slap of the waves. Elpenor, along with the other men left behind, had been tasked with watching the ship, tossing out old refuse, and checking supplies. Odysseus's reassurances that they would return soon echoed in his mind.

But "soon" had become a stretched, fraying word.

Elpenor shifted to lie on his side, cheek resting on his arm as he looked out toward the island. Elpenor tried to be logical about it. Odysseus was with them. If anything had gone wrong, surely he would’ve sent someone back. 

Or maybe not. 

Maybe there was no one left to send.

The thought lodged in his throat and sat heavy on the back of his tongue like ash.

~

The sky had already begun to dim, bruising at the edges, when Elpenor sat up again. His back ached from the wooden planks, but he barely noticed it. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking sleep out of them.

They’d be back by morning. They always came back eventually.

Then—shouting.

Voices broke across the shoreline like a wave.

Elpenor jerked upright, heart in his throat, scanning the far edge of the beach. At first, he saw only movement—shadows shifting through the thick mist—but then shapes began to form. Men. Dozens of them, stumbling forward in clumps. Their steps were heavy, some limping, some leaning against each other exhaustedly, others carrying supplies and sheep. Armor glinted dully beneath streaks of grime and blood. Torn tunics, cracked shields. But, they were alive.

Odysseus led them, a sheep slung under each arm.

He was a fixed point in the chaos, his expression grim but composed, guiding the men forward with calm certainty. Behind him, familiar faces came into view—scarred, dirtied, but breathing.

Elpenor didn’t wait.

He leapt down from the ship, his legs hitting the sand harder than expected. His knees nearly gave out beneath him, but he staggered upright, stumbling across the beach as fast as he could. He scanned every face, searching, breath coming in short gasps.

Where—

“Elpenor!”

It came from behind him—no, beside—and before he could turn, something collided into him with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. Arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clutching him like a drowning man. Elpenor froze for half a second, startled by the sudden warmth, the press of a forehead against his collarbone.

“Peri?” he breathed.

The other boy didn’t answer, not right away. His arms only tightened, shaking with each breath. He buried his face deeper into Elpenor’s shoulder like he could disappear there.

“You’re okay,” Elpenor whispered, more to himself than anything. His own hands hovered for a moment before slowly, carefully, settling around Perimedes’s back. “You’re okay.”

Perimedes nodded mutely, his jaw moving but no words forming. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, dirt smudged across his cheek and temple. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“What happened?” Elpenor asked softly.

Perimedes didn’t speak.

He clung to Elpenor with a strength that didn’t match how tired he looked—arms locked around him like he’d been drowning for days and just now breached the surface. His breath hitched against Elpenor’s neck, uneven and shallow, the way people breathe when they’ve run too far or lost too much.

Elpenor didn’t ask. He couldn’t. The words sat in his throat like stones. He just held him, one hand on the back of Perimedes’s head, the other gripping his cloak tight in case this moment—this fragile, shivering moment—slipped away like everything else had been lately.

And then the quiet started to change.

Elpenor looked up, gaze drifting past Perimedes’s shoulder as the rest of the returning crew trickled down the beach. They moved slowly, their bodies heavy with something that didn’t look like just exhaustion. Their faces were hollow—drawn and gray—and the way they held themselves, dragging their limbs as if they’d aged years in three days, told Elpenor what he hadn’t wanted to ask.

They had lost men.

He began counting, silently, lips moving without sound. A lump formed in his throat. There were gaps—clear as the sky. He didn’t know how many yet. Just that the spaces between the men felt wrong.

One of the younger sailors, barely older than Elpenor, stumbled to his knees in the sand. He looked around—once, twice—and whispered a name. When no one answered, he whispered it again. Then again, louder. His voice cracked. A moment later, he was sobbing into the sand.

Others joined. Some wept openly. Some staggered back from the group as if the realization physically struck them. Grief poured out in gasping waves—wails, choked cries, muffled curses toward the sky. There was no order to it. Just pain.

And still, Perimedes didn’t speak.

Elpenor’s hand was still in his cloak, but now he pressed his forehead against his friend’s temple, eyes wide and glassy as he stared over the shoulders of the mourning crew. The air was thick, too quiet under the noise, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Then Odysseus stepped forward.

He stood near the water’s edge, the sea lapping at his boots. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a grim, unreadable line. Salt and blood and mud streaked his arms. His gaze swept the crowd—slow, sharp.

“Enough,” he said.

Not a shout. Just a single word, low and final. Like it had been waiting in him, simmering.

The men faltered. The crying ebbed, tapering off into sniffles and ragged breaths. A few looked away from him, ashamed. Others looked straight at him, desperate for something—an answer, a reason, a command.

Odysseus looked back at them, his eyes hard. And yet—there was something else under the surface. Something trembling just behind his gaze. Elpenor saw it and couldn’t name it.

“They’re gone,” Odysseus said. “And I know what you want to do. You want to fall to your knees. You want to stay here and cry until the sea swallows us whole. I know, because I want that too.”

The men were silent now. All eyes on him.

“But we will not give the dead more of our lives. We honor them by living. We honor them by surviving. That’s what they died for.”

He looked down, for just a breath.

“Don’t let it be for nothing.”

A hush fell, deeper than before. The kind of silence that came after thunder.

Then Odysseus raised his voice—not yelling, but full, commanding, like a tide rising behind every word. “Load the ship. We leave this cursed place before it claims any more of us.”

The men moved.

Not quickly. Not confidently. But they moved. They turned away from the shore and began the quiet, grim task of preparing the ship. Sand shifted under tired feet. Ropes creaked. Voices murmured low and reverent, like they were in a temple.

Elpenor still had his hand on Perimedes’s back. Gently, he guided him toward the others.

“You’re okay now,” he whispered. “We’re okay now.”

Perimedes didn’t answer, but he walked.

The two of them reached the ship last. As they stepped aboard, Elpenor glanced back.

Odysseus stood alone, just for a moment, on the shore. His hand had risen halfway to his face before he stopped it—before he forced it down again like the motion itself betrayed something. His shoulders were drawn, rigid.

Elpenor saw it. The too-bright shimmer in the corner of Odysseus’s eye. The way his jaw tensed—not with rage, but restraint.

Elpenor turned away, silently. One less pair of eyes on him.

The sea awaits.

~

The storm had raged for what felt like hours, stretching the night into something endless. 

The sky was a writhing black mass, split open only by flashes of lightning that illuminated the chaos in brief, violent bursts. Thunder cracked so loudly it felt as if the heavens themselves were splitting apart. The sea churned, throwing the ship about like a child's toy, waves crashing over the deck and drenching the men to their bones.

Elpenor's hands were blistered and raw from hauling ropes, but there was no time to stop, no time to rest. The storm did not care for their exhaustion. It did not care that they had barely begun their journey home, nor that they had already suffered so much. It demanded more.

He gritted his teeth and pulled, the coarse rope digging into his palms. His arms screamed with effort, but it wasn’t enough. The wind caught the sail again, billowing with a force that nearly tore him from his feet. 

His heart pounded in his chest. 

He could hear the shouting of his crewmates, the frantic orders thrown across the deck, but it was all muffled beneath the deafening howl of the storm.

Elpenor tried again, throwing his weight back, but the wind was stronger. The ship lurched violently to the side, and he stumbled, his boots skidding over the slick wooden planks. His grip on the rope slipped, and in a single terrifying moment, he felt himself falling.

His back hit the deck hard. The air was knocked from his lungs, and for a second, all he could do was lie there, stunned, as the rain pelted his face.

No. He couldn’t stop. If he failed, if the sail tore free, the ship could capsize. They would all die. Perimedes would die.

With a choked gasp, he scrambled back to his feet and reached for the rope—

But someone was already there.

Odysseus.

Elpenor barely had time to react before Odysseus took hold of the rope, his movements quick and decisive. He heaved, bracing himself against the force of the wind, and the moment Elpenor found his footing again, he joined him. Together, they pulled, muscles straining as they fought to bring the sail under control.

“Hold fast!” Odysseus shouted over the wind, his voice sharp, commanding. “We tie it down now, or we lose it!”

Elpenor nodded frantically, struggling to match Odysseus’s strength. His arms ached, but he ignored the pain, throwing everything he had into securing the sail. His fingers fumbled with the knots, trembling from cold and exhaustion, but Odysseus was there, his own hands moving with practiced ease. In seconds, it was done.

Elpenor sagged forward, gasping for breath. The worst of it had passed. The sail was secure. The ship would hold.

But the panic still coiled in his chest, hot and suffocating. His hands trembled at his sides, his heart hammering too fast. The storm still raged, and he could still hear the howling wind, the crashing waves, the memories of men wailing from loss because of the cyclops just days before—

A hand settled on his shoulder.

“Steady,” Odysseus said. His voice was calm, but firm, even as the storm howled around them. “Breathe.”

Elpenor obeyed without thinking, dragging in a shaky breath. Odysseus’s grip was strong, grounding, like an anchor in the chaos.

The panic didn’t vanish, but it loosened its grip just enough for him to think clearly again.

“Good job, kid,” Odysseus murmured, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go. He turned away, already barking orders to the rest of the crew, guiding them through the madness as if he had done this a thousand times before.

Elpenor watched him move, watched the certainty in every step, every word. Even now, when they were battered and weary, when the sea itself seemed to fight against them, Odysseus stood firm.

The storm raged on, but under his command, they endured.

And slowly, agonizingly, the winds began to relent. The waves shrank. The ship rocked less violently.

By the time the clouds began to break apart, revealing slivers of pale moonlight, the worst had passed.

Elpenor let out a shaky breath, his hands still trembling at his sides. He looked up at Odysseus, standing at the helm, drenched in rain and exhaustion, but unyielding.

After everything they had suffered—the war, the Cyclops, the men they had lost—he still stood. He still led.

Elpenor didn’t know how he did it.

But as he watched Odysseus, unwavering even in the face of complete and utter disaster, he knew one thing for certain:

If anyone could get them home, it was him.

~

They were so close to home.

So painfully, achingly close.

Elpenor could still feel the wind from that night, hear the sound of it howling as it pulled them forward—toward Ithaca, toward everything they had fought for. He could've sworn he saw it shadowed against the horizon. 

And then… chaos. He hadn’t seen the moment the bag tore open, hadn’t seen the gusts escape like shrieking ghosts, but he had heard the scream Odysseus made when he woke.

Now, the ship was still. Docked at yet another unknown shore, the sail limp, the wood creaking softly beneath him as the wind whispered through the rigging—mocking.

Elpenor sat with his back to the rail, cloak soaked through, one knee pulled up to his chest—back aching, head heavy. Beside him, Perimedes rested with his head on his shoulder, sound asleep—or as close to sleep as any of them could manage now. His breathing was slow, his body heavy with exhaustion, and Elpenor didn’t dare move for fear of waking him. Perimedes had barely rested since Troy.

The ocean stretched out before them, still and indifferent. 

On the sand, Odysseus sat alone, hunched forward slightly with his hands on his knees, staring out at the water as though hoping to rewind time. He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived. Just a few hoarse orders, then silence.

That silence unsettled Elpenor more than the storms ever had.

Elpenor let his head fall back against the railing, the sky above him empty, cloudless. His muscles ached, his eyes burned, and Perimedes—sweet, exhausted Perimedes—breathed softly beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder like a child who hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

The warmth of his weight was the only thing anchoring Elpenor to the moment. Otherwise, he might’ve drifted right off the ship and into the sea.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Perimedes, and let his eyes trail to the forest line. Some of the crew had gone inland to scout—he didn’t know who exactly, just that Eurylochus was among them.

He clenched his jaw.

Eurylochus. The bastard had opened it. The bag of winds—gifted by Aeolus himself, kept safe through storm and hunger and madness—and he'd opened it.

Elpenor himself had heard the rumors of gold, precious jewels, godly artifacts, and more within the bag, but every time he looked towards Odysseus, slumped over the ship's railings and gaze stubbornly locked on the horizon, the greed watering in his mouth disappeared. He had slapped Perimedes over the head when he, half jokingly, suggested they steal it when he's asleep. Eurylochus, the second in command, had done what the rest of the crew never dared to. Whether it was from greed or jealousy, Elpenor didn't care. The result was the same: all their efforts undone in an instant. 

Ithaca had been on the horizon. Now, it might as well have been a myth.

He rubbed his face, trying to chase the weariness from his eyes, but it clung to him like the scars etched into his skin from war. 

He worried about the crew who’d gone inland. He should have gone with them. He's the youngest amongst them all, the one with the most energy. He could have done something. But, he froze up, like he always does—

He stops the thought before it can spiral.

He tried not to look at Odysseus, but his gaze kept drifting back. The man sat completely still, like something inside him had finally broken in a way that couldn’t be patched up. Elpenor looked away, ashamed for staring, and focused instead on the warm weight against his shoulder.

Perimedes was quiet. His face was pale in the low sun, lashes twitching faintly in sleep. Elpenor pressed his arm just a little closer around him.

Then—

A noise from the trees.

Elpenor’s head snapped up.

Someone burst from the trees: Eurylochus. His breath was ragged, his face flushed, clothes rumpled. He made straight for Odysseus, kicking up sand behind him.

Elpenor sat up, careful not to jostle Perimedes, and watched closely.

Eurylochus spoke quickly, words pouring out in desperate urgency, but Elpenor couldn’t hear the words. The sea hissed and sighed and swallowed every syllable.

Odysseus listened in silence. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was tight, alert. He turned to the woods, already stepping forward—but Eurylochus caught him by the arm and gestured hard toward the ship, pointing. 

Elpenor narrowed his eyes. Whatever he was saying, Odysseus didn’t like it.

The look on Odysseus’s face was all teeth and disbelief. He squared his shoulders, shook Eurylochus off, and walked into the forest alone.

Elpenor didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out in a short, sharp exhale.

Then, Eurylochus turned and made his way toward the ship, climbing aboard like nothing had happened. He dropped into a seat with the others by the mast, reached for a cup of wine, and laughed at something one of them said.

Elpenor stared at him for a long time, tight-lipped and silent.

He said nothing. Just pulled Perimedes closer under his arm and leaned his head back against the railing, the weight of the day dragging at his limbs like ironclad shackles.

~

They had been turned into pigs.

That’s what Eurylochus had claimed—raving, half-drunk with terror. Apparently, a woman wrapped in silk and sunlight had welcomed the men into her home, fed them, smiled sweetly… and cursed them. Now they squealed and pawed at the ground in the shape of swine. And Eurylochus wanted to leave them behind.

Odysseus clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. He didn’t have room for anger. Not now.

He walked alone through the forest, the path winding, the branches thick and glossy with dew. The air shimmered unnaturally, almost humming with magic.

In his hand, he rolled a small white flower between his fingers—delicate, pale, and laced with a sharp scent that clung to his fingertips. Moly, Hermes had called it. The god had appeared in a blur of gold and speed, practically tripping over himself in his excitement, babbling about the witch—Circe—and her sorcery and Odysseus’s fate.

Odysseus hadn’t asked for help.

But he had taken the flower.

He chewed it now, tongue recoiling at the acrid, peppered taste. It hit his mouth like lightning—bitter and overwhelming, burning the roof of his mouth as he forced himself to swallow.

He coughed once, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His other hand didn’t leave the hilt of his sword.

His legs ached. Every step felt heavier than the last. It had been weeks since he’d truly rested. Not since Troy. Not since the sea had taken them and tossed them like leaves in the wind. Not since that cursed bag of wind had burst open and pulled them back to the middle of nowhere.

They had been so close.

And now? Now they were lost again.

Odysseus's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his sword. They were counting on him. His crew. His men. Every one of them, even the ones who doubted him.

He hadn’t brought them this far just to lose them to this.

He crested the hill—and there it was.

Circe's palace rose from the forest like a dream wrapped in gold. Marble columns curved toward the sky, blooming with ivy. Warm orange light spilled from the open windows. The sound of soft music drifted through the air, delicate as a lullaby. A breeze carried the scent of herbs, salt, and something sweet—like honey and fresh bread.

It looked like comfort. Like safety.

He didn’t trust it for a second.

He inhaled through his nose, slow and steady, then stepped forward and pushed open the wooden doors.

Inside, it was warm. The light was golden and gentle, flickering from dozens of oil lamps. The scent of roasting meat and spiced wine was stronger here, wrapped in the perfume of blooming flowers and smoke.

And there she was. Silk and sunlight.

Circe looked up from a low table, lounging as if she had always known he would arrive. Her beauty was quiet but impossible to ignore—eyes like polished amber, lips soft and painted with the faintest curve of a smile. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. She did not rise. She only watched him.

"Welcome, traveler," she said.

Her voice was even and soft, low—like silk brushing skin. He couldn’t read her eyes. They were calm, almost kind, and somehow worse for it.

He nodded, throat tight.

Before he could speak, two women drifted into the room—nymphs, or something like them. Barefoot and silent, they moved like dancers, balancing trays of steaming food and pitchers of wine. One brushed past his shoulder as she placed a bowl of olives on the table, casting glances at him through lowered lashes.

They looked at him—quick glances, not quite mocking but too knowing. One of them smiled, then whispered something to the other behind her hand. They looked to Circe, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Odysseus didn’t look at them.

He kept his eyes on Circe.

She gestured smoothly to the cushioned chair across from her.

“Sit. You must be tired.”

He hesitated, then moved slowly, sitting across from her with the grace of a man who hadn’t let go of his sword since Troy. His hand rested on his thigh, close to the hilt.

A cup of wine was pressed into his hand—deep red, almost black in the flickering light. He nodded in thanks, lifting it carefully to his lips.

The nymphs giggled again and melted away, disappearing behind silk curtains.

Circe watched him. Her hands hadn’t moved.

“Enjoy yourself,” she said simply. “You look hungry.”

Odysseus took a slow drink.

The wine was rich and velvety. It filled his chest with warmth, his tired bones sighing in momentary relief.

He placed the cup down with care.

Circe still hadn’t looked away. Still smiling. Still silent.

He didn’t speak either. Not yet.

“You drank,” she said. Her voice was gentle, coaxing. “I hope it was to your standards.”

Her smile widened into something sharper and she raised her hand.

The wand seemed to appear from nowhere, pale wood glinting like bone. She moved it in a tight arc and muttered something in a voice not meant for men’s ears—foreign, thick with power.

The spell cracked against the air.

Odysseus felt the force of it brush over his skin like a sudden heatwave—and then, nothing. No dizziness. No shift. No transformation.

He stayed exactly as he was.

He stood slowly.

Circe blinked. Her smirk faltered.

“No,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Odysseus watched her calmly. He rested a hand on his sword again—not drawing it yet, but close enough.

Circe’s chair scraped back. She rose to her feet with sudden grace, hand disappearing into the folds of her gown.

“A god,” she spat. “Some god gave you protection.”

He said nothing.

Her hand darted out again, and this time it wasn’t a wand she held—it was a dagger, thin and curved, the blade gleaming like obsidian in the firelight. She pointed it at him, amber eyes burning.

“You think I’ll kneel just because you have a god's favor?”

Odysseus’s voice was calm. “I came only for my men.”

“They came into my home,” she snapped. “Snarling, laughing—filthy animals.” Her glare hardened. “I gave them what they deserved.”

“They were starving,” Odysseus said. “Scared. Tired. We’ve been lost at sea for months. I know they look rough, but I swear by the gods—my men have good hearts.”

Circe let out a laugh, cold and humorless. “What do I care for the hearts of men? We both know men only think with their—”

She didn’t finish.

He moved the second her face twisted in disgust.

One step. Two. A single breath between them.

Then his blade was at her throat.

She froze.

Her eyes widened, and for the first time, something real flickered across her face. Not anger. Not contempt.

Fear.

The dagger in her hand trembled slightly. Her lips parted like she might speak—but she didn’t.

Odysseus stared at her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I just want my men.”

She held his gaze for a long time. Then, slowly, she lowered her dagger.

The air between them stayed thick. The silence stretched. She glanced toward the door, the hallway beyond. Then she sighed and slowly backed away from his blade.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “Your men—every last one of them—I’ll return them to you. No harm. No tricks.”

He didn’t move.

“But,” she purred, “you’ll have to earn it.”

He didn’t like the tone in her voice. The way her gaze dragged over him like appraisal. He didn’t like the soft smile curling again on her lips.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You,” she said. “Stay the night. In my bed. That’s all I ask.”

He stared at her.

She tilted her head. “I'll let you leave if you so wish,” she added lightly. “But, your men will stay here.”

Odysseus swallowed.

He thought of his crew—scared, somewhere in this house. He thought of the sea, and how much it had already taken from them. He thought of Ithaca, and Telemachus. Penelope.

His heart cracked quietly inside him.

He lowered his sword.

“Fine,” he breathed.

His voice was quiet. Almost inaudible.

Circe’s smile returned, slow and satisfied.

He couldn’t look at her anymore. He couldn’t even look at himself.

“I’ll release them by dawn,” she said, already turning toward the corridor. “Come.”

He followed her, one foot after the other, like a man walking towards death.

~

The candles had long since burned low. Shadows swayed on the walls, cast by the dying hearth. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees—soft, ever-moving.

Odysseus stared at the carved ceiling, unmoving, hands folded over his stomach like a statue on a tomb. His sword rested against the wall, just within reach, though his fingers no longer twitched toward it. He was too tired. Too heavy.

Circe had seen him flinch earlier—when her hand reached for his, when she leaned in, her touch more ceremonial than seductive. He had let her press him back into the pillows. Let her begin to undress him. But the tremble in his fingers, the way his eyes had remained fixed on the ceiling even then, had made her pause.

She hadn’t touched him since.

Now she lay on her side, head propped in her hand, watching him with those unreadable golden eyes.

“You’re unlike any man I’ve encountered before,” she said at last, her voice far too loud in the soft dark.

Odysseus turned his head toward her. His expression didn’t shift.

“Will you let my men go?”

Circe laughed softly—more breath than sound. It was raspy and strange and not entirely amused.

“For the first time,” she whispered, “I think I will.”

He exhaled. His whole body deflated. He sagged back into the pillows as though he’d been holding his breath for days.

“Thank you,” he murmured, like a prayer. It was the softest thing he’d said in years.

Circe was quiet for a while. Then, almost cautiously, “You didn't want this, did you?”

He didn’t answer.

“I thought it was fear,” she continued. “But I think now it was something else.”

Odysseus let his gaze drift back to the ceiling. “You talk too much.”

“It's a habit.”

He gave a small, half-hearted smile at that. Another stretch of silence, softer now.

“I know what it means,” he said finally, “to betray someone. Even by accident. And I’d rather die than…”

He couldn't finish, but she just nodded, eyes watching him like a hawk. The wind scraped gently against the walls.

His voice, when he spoke again, was a little rough, but clearer. “There’s a boy in my crew. Elpenor. He tried to climb to the top of the mast once—to see if Ithaca was hiding behind the clouds. He slipped and got stuck halfway, hanging upside-down like a fool.” A breath of a laugh. “We had to drag him down with ropes and fishing nets. I think he cried harder when I yelled at him than when he slipped.”

Circe blinked, surprised by the sudden offering. Circe’s mouth curved. “He’s still with you?”

Odysseus nodded. “Still trying to find Ithaca in the clouds.” 

“Did he think he’d actually see it?”

“He thinks with his heart. And very little else.”

She hummed in amusement. “I have a nymph, little more than a child, who believes the birds in the sky are long lost poets sent by Apollo. Every morning, she leaves a bowl of honey outside my door. Says they like sweet things. I told her to stop attracting every insect on the island to my door and she called me bitter.”

Odysseus turned to look at her again.

There was a strange peace in her face now, a slowness in her limbs, like she too had come down from some invisible ledge. She watched him for a while, expression unreadable, then finally turned onto her back beside him.

No more words were needed. They stared at the ceiling together.

~

It was night again—cool and humming with the soft sounds of wind whistling between tree branches. The moon hung full and low, casting a pale silver sheen across the stone walls of Circe’s palace. Oil lanterns glowed gold, hanging from the walls like little suns.

It was their second night staying with Circe and her nymphs.

The wooden table before him was impossibly long, filled end to end with foods that would have made the richest kings weep. Platters of roasted meat still steaming from the spit, spiced olives, honey-dripped fruit, fish seared with wild herbs, jugs of thick wine, and warm loaves of bread that tore apart like silk. 

Odysseus sat at the head, Circe beside him, her elbow resting lightly against his. She spoke softly to a tall, sharp-boned nymph at her side, a quiet smirk tugging at her mouth, but her fingers remained wrapped around his wrist like a chain of ivy. Not possessive. Just resting. And, strangely, comforting.

Odysseus wasn’t sure of the last time he’d felt comfort.

His eyes wandered, not quite seeing at first. But then they landed on his men—his crew—and slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to ease. They were smiling. Gods, they were actually smiling.

Around him, his men lounged on cushions and worn rugs, soft laughter spilling into the warm air. They leaned into one another easily, shoulders brushing, cups raised, full for the first time in weeks. His gaze flicked to the youngest of the crew.

Perimedes was retelling a story from their voyage, too many gestures and not enough detail, his words slurring just slightly with wine. A nymph beside him leaned close, her dark eyes shining with quiet amusement. Adeimantus, still grieving the loss of his brother to the hunger of the cyclops, had been reluctantly pulled into a fast footed dance by two younger nymphs, and was now all smiles and flushed cheeks.

And, near the center of the room, was Elpenor.

The boy was sprawled out across two cushions, laughing with his whole chest as he leaned back against a nymph’s shoulder. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess, and his cup nearly empty. Someone had tried to tie ivy into a crown on his head, but half of it was sliding off. His sandals were gone. His plate was empty. His mouth was running a mile a minute.

Odysseus couldn’t help the small, involuntary smile that tugged at his lips.

Elpenor had always been a little ridiculous. Clumsy, overeager, easily distracted. He hadn’t been trained like the others. He didn’t fight with the same edge. Half the time, he got too drunk, too loud, too soft. And yet—he was here. He had followed Odysseus through every island, through storm and fire, through hunger and blood. Never once asking for more than his share. Never once turning cruel.

He reminded Odysseus, painfully, of the boys who followed Achilles into war—young, shining-eyed things who didn’t understand what death could look like until it was in their arms. The ones who cried when the horses got wounded, who gave their rations to dogs. The ones who didn’t last long.

And deeper than that, quieter and sharper, Elpenor reminded him of Telemachus, of what he could be at that very moment. Somewhere in Ithaca, his boy was probably laughing just like that—messy, loud, unashamed—with Penelope at his side, giggling at his boyish antics.

That thought made Odysseus shift in his chair.

He felt it like a weight behind his ribs—a pressure he couldn’t quite name. Paternal, maybe. Or protective. Or guilty. Elpenor was not his son. He knew that. But the way the boy laughed, the way he tipped his head back to speak to the nymph beside him as though the world were wide open and safe—it made something stir in Odysseus’s chest that he wasn’t ready to probe.

He watched as Elpenor passed a piece of cracked bread to the nymph beside him, dramatically announcing something about hospitality and “the laws of Zeus,” his voice carrying over the table with theatrical flair. The nymph giggled, and Elpenor, always eager, beamed with pride like he’d just won a duel.

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. The boy was a fool, but he had a good heart.

“They seem to have taken full advantage of my hospitality,” Circe said, her tone light, almost teasing. She kept her hand loosely on the armrest beside Odysseus, her posture composed.

Odysseus glanced across the table. A few of his men were already drunk, cheeks red and gestures exaggerated as they passed around food and wine. Eurylochus was feasting like a man starved his whole life, drawing wide-eyed stares from both his crewmates and their newly bonded sisters. An older crewmate was dancing, terribly, while one of the nymphs mimicked his moves with mocking precision.

“They need it,” he said simply.

Circe gave a short nod. “You all do.”

There was a pause—one not uncomfortable, but not quite warm either. Circe’s eyes stayed on the dozens of dancers.

Across the table, Elpenor was now hiccuping into a bowl of grapes, half-listening to Perimedes ramble about his rowing skills.

Circe followed his gaze. “That one. He’s a bit of a mess.”

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh. “He is. Always has been.”

“He’s quite young,” she said.

“That’s no excuse,” Odysseus muttered, then softened. “But I know. He... reminds me of someone.”

Circe didn’t press, just took a slow sip of her wine. They both watched Elpenor swat at a candle like it was a moth, then let out a bark of laughter at something Perimedes said. The moment caught him unexpectedly—Elpenor’s flushed cheeks, his clumsy joy, his youth. Something about it made Odysseus’s chest tighten.

“I hope,” Odysseus murmured, “that he has more nights like this.”

Circe said nothing, but her hand stayed on his arm.

He didn’t add what he was really thinking.

He didn’t say: Please, gods, don’t let him die, don't take him too soon.

Instead, he drank. He smiled faintly. He let the moment breathe.

And for one night, in the warm firelight of a sorceress’s hall, Odysseus believed—for just a moment—that peace was something they might be allowed to keep.

~

The night had softened into its quietest hour. Most of the wine had been drunk, the music had faded to a gentle hum, and the nymphs had drifted to their chambers with soft laughter trailing behind them like perfume. The great hall now flickered with the last of the lanternlight, its shadows lengthened and slow. The men of Ithaca slept curled beneath woven blankets and furs, some of them still with smiles on their faces.

Elpenor had not gone to bed.

He had slipped away before the others noticed, his limbs loose with wine and cheer, his cheeks flushed from dancing. The air outside the palace was cool and sweet, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the whisper of ivy climbing the marble walls. 

He climbed—half on a dare to himself, half because the stars were calling. His hands gripped the ivy-covered railings, clumsy and eager, his feet dragging against the polished stone with each uneven step. Wine clung to his breath, and sweat dampened his temples, but he moved with a strange determination, like he was chasing a dream he’d only half-remembered.

The roof of Circe’s palace was not meant to be reached. His bare feet padded along the warm stone, ivy brushing against his ankles, his breath fogging faintly in the night air. He giggled to himself as he laid down among the curling vines, stretching his arms wide, reaching up as if his fingers could grab every constellation in the sky.

He thought of the feast. Of how Perimedes had laughed so hard at something he’d said that wine had nearly come out his nose. Of how Odysseus—King of Ithaca—had smiled at him. Not the clipped, distant grin he gave the crew, but a real one. Like he was proud. Like Elpenor wasn’t just a tagalong boy from Ithaca, but something more. It made Elpenor’s chest ache in the most wonderful way.

He watched the stars wheel overhead, murmuring their names like lullabies. He thought of Odysseus and Circe, sitting at the head of the table and watching over them all like the king and queen of gods. He thought of the warm feeling he got when Odysseus clasped his shoulder and told him to sleep well. 

He thought of home. 

And he fell asleep.

~

The morning came too fast.

His mouth was dry, his head a hammer of regret. A sluggish haze pressed behind his eyes as he sat up slowly, blearily blinking against the sun. Voices drifted up from below—laughter, footsteps, the clink of plates. Breakfast.

He smiled. Perimedes would be looking for him. He should’ve gone down last night. He should’ve said goodnight. He should’ve said—

Elpenor rose to his feet, too fast.

The world tilted.

He stumbled toward the edge of the roof, still drunk on sleep and wine and dreams. There was a ladder. He knew there was a ladder. He just had to—

His foot slipped.

The stone was still damp with morning dew. His hand grasped at ivy that gave way. He slid forward, scraping against the marble, a half-formed shout caught in his throat.

And then—below—he saw Perimedes.

He saw the joy on his face fall into horror.

He heard him shout his name.

And then Elpenor hit the ground with a sound that split the air.

His spine cracked.

Everything stopped.

~

There was a stillness in the air that Odysseus didn’t trust. The garden outside the palace was washed in a pale light, the kind that didn’t feel like morning so much as the world holding its breath. Birds remained silent in the trees. Even the nymphs were absent—no soft singing, no distant laughter. Just silence.

Circe walked beside him, her hands folded loosely before her, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Odysseus could feel it in his bones before he saw them.

His men were already gathered beneath the high walls of the palace, their figures still and quiet. The moment he saw them—saw how Eurylochus stood with a hand to his mouth, how Perimedes was crumpled to his knees—Odysseus knew.

His steps slowed.

And there, at the base of the palace wall, sprawled out like a fallen sparrow, was Elpenor.

A dark cloak had been thrown gently over most of him, but Odysseus could still see the blood at the base of his skull, the awkward angle of his limbs, the curls of hair tangled with ivy.

Odysseus didn’t speak.

He just stared.

Perimedes hadn’t moved from the boy’s side. One hand rested lightly on Elpenor’s back, the other clenched into a fist against his mouth. His knuckles were white. His shoulders shook every so often, though he made no sound.

“He—he must have climbed up after we went to sleep,” Perimedes said finally, not looking up. His voice was hoarse when he quietly added, “He likes to watch the stars before he sleeps.”

Odysseus walked forward slowly. Each step felt like a boulder had been strapped to his legs.

“He fell?” he asked, though he didn’t need to. The evidence was right in front of him.

Perimedes nodded, miserably. “I—I think he heard us waking up and meant to climb down, but he…”

Odysseus crouched beside the body and gently reached forward, brushing a small leaf from Elpenor’s cheek. The boy’s face was peaceful, despite the blood. Like he’d still been half-asleep when he fell. 

His skin was already beginning to cool. Odysseus's jaw twitched at that realization.

“...Captain? What—what do we do?”

He stayed silent.

Losing one man shouldn't have been so jarring. But, it was.

Elpenor was one of the first to eagerly volunteer for the war. Elpenor had been just a boy then—bony shoulders, a sunburnt nose, calluses on his palms from training with wooden spears. He was too young, too eager. One of the village boys who always hovered a little too close whenever the warriors gathered, eyes gleaming like a stray dog waiting to be noticed.

He had approached Odysseus one afternoon near the harbor, fists clenched at his sides, voice cracking with hope.

“I’ll fight for Ithaca,” he had said. “If you’ll let me.”

Odysseus hadn’t known what to say. There had been dozens like him, sons of fishermen and farmers who thought war was glory wrapped in bronze. He’d barely nodded, maybe offered a vague, distracted answer. But Elpenor had taken it like a vow.

The next time he remembered seeing him clearly was when they first touched Trojan sands. Odysseus had been pacing between the weapons carts, shouting for javelins, for shields, for men who knew how to hold a line.

Then he saw him. Elpenor—just a boy still, barely taller than his spear, looking pale and trembling where he stood.

Odysseus didn’t pause. He had grabbed a nearby helmet, shoved it over his head, and ordered him to get more javelins from the ships.

Odysseus hadn’t even known his name then. He was just another body—green, untested, easy to lose in the chaos.

But now… now, he could see the way Elpenor had looked at him. Not just with fear, but with belief. With trust. Like Odysseus was the kind of man who could bring them all home. Like he was someone worth following.

Now, he lay on the ground. Broken, and far too trusting of a man he never should have followed in the first place.

Odysseus rose slowly. The ache in his back and knees felt ancient.

“We have to leave,” he said, very quietly.

Perimedes turned slowly and blinked. “What?”

“The winds are in our favor today. And there’s a storm coming from the east. If we wait, we risk—”

Perimedes stood, swaying slightly. “He’s not even cold.”

Odysseus closed his eyes.

“I know.”

“You’re really going to just leave him here?”

“There’s nowhere to bring him,” Odysseus said, trying—failing—to sound calm. “You want him on the ship? Where would we keep him, Perimedes? Wrapped in cloth? In the hull beside the food? Do we let the flies have him, or do we pretend he’s just sleeping below deck?”

“Don’t—” Perimedes flinched. “Don’t say it like that.”

“I’m—I’m not trying to be cruel.”

“But you are,” Perimedes said, and for the first time, his voice cracked. “You are.”

Odysseus felt something in him twist.

Perimedes took a half-step forward, fists tight at his sides, not quite threatening, but on the edge of it.

“He called you great,” he said, voice low and shaking. “He loved you. He believed in you.”

Odysseus turned his face away.

“You can’t even look at him now,” Perimedes whispered. “You can’t even say his name.”

“Don’t think this doesn’t hurt,” Odysseus said, his voice hollow. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t feel it in every part of me.”

A long silence passed.

Eurylochus stepped forward quietly. He placed a firm hand on Perimedes’s back, murmuring something too soft to hear. Whatever he said, it was enough—Perimedes’s head fell, and his shoulders sagged. Eurylochus guided him away with gentle, steady hands.

Odysseus remained where he was.

Circe came to stand beside him, arms crossed loosely, her eyes on Elpenor’s still form.

“I’ll see that he’s buried,” she said quietly. “He will make a swift journey to Hades.”

Odysseus nodded silently, jerkily, his eyes stinging.

The others drifted away one by one, shoulders hunched, faces pale, leaving only Odysseus, Circe, and the boy who would never laugh again.

Odysseus didn’t speak. His hands shook faintly. There were no tears, not yet—but the pressure behind his ribs was unbearable.

He stepped back, once, then again. One last look.

Then he turned away.

The air smelled of salt and smoke.

They would carry Elpenor with them, in memory only. 

Just another name to etch behind his eyes.

Another ghost to speak with in dreams.