Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
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Odysseus did not like being on a ship again. The gentle swaying of the deck beneath him made his stomach churn with unease. The sea was calm—deceptively so—and the King of Ithaca dared not imagine how he would fare if they encountered a storm.
He couldn't fathom why he had agreed to this journey. Guilt, perhaps. After missing twenty years of his son's life, trapped in an endless cycle of trials and torments, Odysseus found he couldn't deny Telemachus anything.
The prince had proposed they visit the kings Odysseus had fought alongside at Troy.
"They all mourned your death," Telemachus had said, eyes bright with purpose. "They should know the truth of your return."
And Odysseus, against his better judgment, had agreed.
The problem was that such a quest required him to board a ship once more. To cross the treacherous sea that had stolen decades of his life.
And so here he stood, the legendary King of Ithaca, gripping the ship's railing with such force that his knuckles blanched white against his weathered skin. His breathing grew increasingly ragged, coming in quick, shallow bursts. Nausea coiled in his gut like a serpent. The waters remained placid, yet in his mind, he was caught in the fury of Poseidon's wrath again.
Lost in his struggle for composure, he failed to notice Damon's approach. When the helmsman gently touched his shoulder, Odysseus whipped around with a startled expression, heart hammering against his ribs. Recognition dawned, and he shook his head, shame washing over him.
"I'm sorry," he grumbled, voice rough as stone. "Didn't see you coming."
He drew another deep breath into his constricted lungs. "I'm okay. You don't need to worry," he added, though neither man could tell who he was trying to convince: Damon, or himself.
Chapter Αʹ: Refuge from Poseidon's Breath
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The ships cut through the morning mist like blades.
Odysseus steadied himself and turned from the rail, forcing his senses outward, forcing discipline back into trembling hands. He needed to see this voyage with clear eyes.
The ship he stood on was a sturdy bireme—sleek, with a narrow hull built for speed and maneuverability. Fifty oars, twenty-five on each side, extended like skeletal limbs, dipped and rose in steady rhythm. The painted prow curved into the shape of a boar’s head, a tribute to Ithaca’s rugged spirit. Above the deck, a single square sail of deep crimson caught the mild breeze, stitched with the emblem of an olive branch crossed by a spear—Athena’s mark and his own.
The main deck was not empty. Around Odysseus moved a small but capable group: twenty-five men, a blend of young adventurers and seasoned warriors. Damon stood near the quarterdeck, giving quiet instructions to a few of the younger sailors. His brother Philemon knelt beside a coiled rope, charting the course with careful attention. These men had been personally selected—trusted hands, loyal hearts, men willing to sail under Odysseus’s banner even into the jaws of Hades if it came to that.
Telemachus was adjusting the rigging near the mast, hands swift, movements sure. He had inherited his father's keen instincts but tempered them with a steadiness Odysseus admired. Watching him now—shoulders set with purpose, jaw clenched in determination—Odysseus felt a pang of something dangerously close to pride.
Only two others stood truly apart on this vessel: Odysseus and Athena. She was visible only to him and his son, standing by the mast in gleaming bronze, her owl-gray eyes scanning the horizon. Her spear rested easily in her hand, a silent promise of vigilance.
Trailing alongside their ship was the second vessel—a heavier trireme built for war. Three banks of oars drove it forward with the strength of a hundred warriors aboard. Fresh sons of Ithaca and neighboring islands crowded its deck, some seasoned veterans, most young bloods eager to carve their own sagas. The prow of their ship bore the carved likeness of a roaring lion, teeth bared, as if daring the sea to test its fury.
At the stern of the warship stood Lysandros, the old veteran chosen to command them. He was a man weathered by decades of combat, his hair white, his face lined with the scars of forgotten battles. Though well past his prime, his eyes still gleamed with the sharpness of a hawk surveying the field. He barked orders in a voice that brooked no argument, and the younger warriors obeyed without hesitation.
Athena moved to Odysseus’s side, her steps silent, her presence heavy with quiet strength.
"You should speak to them," she said, voice threading into his mind like a whisper on the wind. "They follow you into the unknown. They need your voice to anchor them."
Odysseus set his jaw. He had spoken enough in his lifetime—rallied armies, fooled kings, sung songs to gods and monsters alike. Words had saved him before. Words had doomed him too.
Still, Athena was right. She always was, damn her.
He called out across the water, his voice carrying easily over the waves:
"Men of Ithaca, Naxos and Phocis! Sons of honored warriors, heirs to the blood of heroes!"
The men quieted immediately, faces turning toward him, the weight of expectation settling on their shoulders.
"I have crossed these seas before. I have battled storms and monsters, gods and men. I will not lie to you: the sea is treacherous, and so are the lands we seek. This journey will test you in ways you have never imagined."
A pause. His gaze swept the crowd, hard as flint.
"But you are not alone. You sail with me—and I sail with you. We are brothers on these waters. Hold the line, trust your shieldmates, honor your oaths, and we will return stronger than we left."
A roar rose from both ships—spears clashing against shields, fists pounding on wood—a wordless surge of courage. Damon grinned, pride blazing in his face. Philemon allowed a small smile to creep through his usual solemn mask. Even the grizzled Lysandros allowed himself a firm nod of approval across the water.
Telemachus looked at his father, admiration clear in his young face. Odysseus only nodded, silent. Words were easy; surviving them was harder.
The sun was climbing higher now, burning the mist into ribbons. Ahead, the sea stretched open and blue, endless in its promise of glory or ruin.
Athena’s hand brushed the hilt of her spear. Her expression was unreadable.
"The first trial awaits you soon," she murmured, unheard by any but Odysseus.
"Pray that your strength is enough."
And with the two ships carving a steady path across the wine-dark sea, the new odyssey began.
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~End of Chapter 1 – Transition~
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The first day at sea stretched long and uneasy.
The men settled into the rhythm of sailing, but tension simmered beneath the surface. The older veterans bore it well, familiar with the ache of the oar and the hunger that gnawed deeper than the stomach. The younger ones—those whose lives had been soft compared to war-hardened hands—fidgeted and complained in low mutters when they thought no one listened.
Food was dry rations—hardtack, salted fish, thin wine. Enough to fill a belly, but not to lift spirits. The endless roll of the sea left more than a few green-faced and retching over the side. Even Philemon, practical as he was, spent long moments gripping the railing, breathing through a sour stomach.
Nightfall was worse.
Sleep was a cruel trick on a ship: the boards never stopped creaking, the waves never stopped rolling, and dreams came fragmented and strange. Men woke with cramps in their legs, or flinched at the phantom crash of waves against rocks.
Only Odysseus, Telemachus, Damon, and a handful of others slept soundly—and Athena, of course, never slept at all. She kept silent vigil, her eyes never leaving the horizon.
By the second day, patience thinned like fraying rope. Jokes turned sharp. Young warriors snapped at one another over trivial slights. Even the veterans grew grim. Hunger gnawed harder when the rations dwindled toward their second portion, and the thought of more days at sea weighed heavily on every man aboard.
As the sun began its slow descent, staining the waves with fire, Telemachus pointed suddenly from the prow.
"Land!" he shouted. His voice cracked with the strain of excitement.
Heads turned. Men scrambled to the rails, shading their eyes against the golden light.
There, low on the horizon, rose a sliver of green and gold—a dark mass of forested hills surrounded by a white line of sandy shore. Palm trees, real trees, swayed in the warm breeze, and somewhere beyond them, the faint glint of freshwater rivers teased the eye.
Lysandros’s voice boomed from the second ship.
"Lower the sails! Prepare to beach!"
Cheers rippled across both vessels. Hands moved swiftly, energy reborn. Some laughed aloud, the sound raw but genuine, a desperate relief bubbling to the surface.
"Not rations tonight," Damon said, clapping a hand on Philemon’s shoulder. "Real food. Maybe even meat, if the gods are kind."
Odysseus watched the island carefully. His instincts, honed over decades, prickled at the edges. Islands did not simply offer kindness; not in seas where gods still played their cruel games.
Beside him, Athena stood silent, her face carved from stone. She did not share the men’s laughter.
"Be wary," she murmured in his mind. "Not every gift is a blessing."
But Odysseus said nothing. Not yet. His men needed hope more than warnings tonight.
They had survived the first trial—the trial of endurance—and now a different test awaited them, waiting in the twilight beneath the trees.
The ships turned toward the welcoming shore, oars biting the sea like teeth. The island loomed closer, the promise of food, fire, and rest just within reach.