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The club is struck down the rough ground of the Cyclopes’ cave, and my heart is struck down too.
A wooden object of violence, swung in such carelessness and casualty, that somehow ended up cracking the skull of the only thing tethering me to sanity open - making his precious curls drip with blood instead of water, and his eyes glaze with the oblique tint of death instead of the joyous twinkle that usually resided there.
Polites - a name spoken in reverence and whispered in adoration into the dead of Nyx, yet never to be sung in an epic or applauded at the stage of an amphitheatre. The people who have known him spoke only praises of him, but he was overshadowed by me - the youth who craved to be in the centre of attention, the crown prince of Ithaca, a young boy with his mind set on appearances and reputation.
Perhaps Polites was not to be remembered by a name, since he had a profound impact on whoever he met that couldn’t be described by a series of syllables. Everyone whom he encountered was instantly captivated by his beauty and kindness, and fascinated by his “open arms” philosophy, so much so as they tried to live by it themselves. They became gentler and considered their actions before succumbing to the lure of aggression, turning into better people in the process. I noticed his influence on me as well - how in the Trojan War I chose to spare the innocents and never seize women as bride-prizes, how I bartered with Zeus himself to save poor Astyanax in exchange for my own body and dignity.
The faint lightning-shaped scars snaking along my back and torso still steadily pulse with pain, and I’m reminded of the night that followed my sacrifice to the King of the Gods - when Polites became aware of the torn tissue Zeus inflicted to mark me. He had been so sweet and understanding, telling me I wasn’t cheating on him and that the scars were a sign of strength to show I incurred the Thunder Bringer’s destructive lust. To further his point, Polites leant down and trailed kisses on the path which the bolts scathed, and the belief in my goodness was slowly restored with every touch of his lips.
He is was - my light, sunshine incarnate moulded into human form, the best husband anyone - man or woman - could ask for. His guiding hand, assuring I would always be merciful and compassionate, was present ever since our childhood, and it showed me the right way out of every tough situation, shining with all the care and affection I desperately yearned for as the future monarch and later King of Ithaca. With him by my side, it was easier to view people positively and to suppress rampageous tendencies when they threatened to overcome my will.
What will I do without him to hold me at night and whisper sweet words into my ear? What will become of me when the constant reminder to greet the world with open arms will fade away to obscurity - or worse, make me bitter and cold, like the thing I tried to avoid for Polites?
I think of his smile - a grin that made even the stoic Eurylochus lighthearted; of his curls - luscious and carrying the fresh scent of hyacinths; of his skin - golden in Helios’ light and dusted with freckles I liked to nip at and tickle; I think about the entirety of the breathtaking being that used to be my beloved husband, and I realise I couldn’t bear to live a life without him.
The dead body of my light stares at me with hollow orbs, and his head lolls down in a seemingly final act of independent movement. His glasses, manufactured by one of Hephaestus’ trained metalsmiths to treat his myopia, slide down his nose and shatter into miniature shards of glass, scratching his previously flawless facial skin and filling it with oozing blood.
“C-captain, my love,” Polites rasps out, tilting his face upward to face me.
“I’m right here, sweetheart, I’m right here,” I cup his face in my hands, eager to hold the one I hold dear for what might very well be the last time.
“Odysseus - I’ll always love you, even in the Underworld I’ll make sure I’ll never forget...” he murmurs while droplets of blood and saliva amalgam drip down his lax mouth.
“You’ll fight Charon and avoid the River Lethe?” I ask, impressed. Would he do it all for me - even at the price of his own peril?
“Of course - won’t you?” My husband curls the last of his smiles on the surface of his face, and I press the last of our kisses to his plump lips. He sighs at last, somehow relieved that his suffering had come to an end, and I cradle him within my arms.
Tears come flowing out of my eyes like the aforementioned river of Hades’ realm, and I cling onto my love with trembling hands. My sword drops to the ground as I reach for his head and remove the scarlet bandana that used to restrain his wavy hair, and I shakily tie it to my wrist - to serve as my last artefact from Polites.
The fabric feels smooth over my sweat-oiled skin, and I fidget and unroll it to distract myself from the frozen corpse below, though my eyes subconsciously wander to it every time they catch a glimpse of his bloodied chiton.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
A scream attempts to force its way through my throat. I choke it down - the Cyclops can’t witness my vulnerability. A whimper plays on my vocal cords. I muffle it with a hand on my mouth - my crew can’t see me broken.
Gone are the days where I had a confidante who I could show my pain to, and a love to help me heal it.
“Captain, we should get moving - don’t let him kill more men!” Eurylochus urges me, laying a firm hand on my shoulder. I remain crouched beside Polites, unable to will my body to move from his vicinity.
“I can’t,” I utter and gulp back a tide of tears forming in my eyes.
“Odysseus,” my second-in-command pleads, the use of my true name rather than ‘captain’ making my gut clench. I want to take control of the situation and rescue my crew from the monstrous Cyclops, but I find myself useless and limp - and the mind which my mentor Athena commended - helpless in face of the creature’s dire threat.
I glance upward at the ceiling of the cave, the darkness above as suffocating as the prowling Cyclops with the club staring at me with his blazing red eye. An idea crosses my mind - so unfit for the legendary King of Ithaca, yet the only one I have.
“Athena!” I call my godly mentor in agony, and my scream echoes through the cave’s walls in unnatural volumes.
For a moment, all is stale - only the rhythm of my breaths heard in the vastness of the Cyclopes’ domicile, and when my mind gets used to the silence I am transported to my mentor’s realm of Quick-thought.
The jagged walls of the cave are replaced by an expanse of pearly stars dotting cerulean heavens, and the ground shifts to the upper side of an ornate golden hourglass spinning lazily in the space. Athena, donning her signature owl-shaped warrior’s helmet, spins to meet me with a wide avian glare in her eyes, and gestures with her hand to raise me upright. My body is pulled from the glistening surface, and I levitate for a while before settling back to my feet - which should have collapsed from my despair but rather held me by some spell of the goddess.
“My lady - I beg for your help. You know how much Polites means to me, and what a good man he was. I can’t be your Warrior of the Mind in this state unless you help my pain,” I request, trying to restrain my raw emotion from seeping into the prayer.
“I’m sorry, Odysseus, but I can’t interfere with the Fates’ thread, nor with Thanatos’ dealings. You are a warrior, and while I’m aware the loss of a spouse can cause,” she pauses to consider her words, “discomfort to your kind, it should not overtake your logic like it did in this instance. I shall forgive for this lapse in judgement, for I know your consort Polites had been dear to you, but I’m afraid I shall leave you to deal with these affairs of the heart alone - or else I’ll find you too weak for my mentorship.”
“Then what is it that we’re standing on?” I know she has the power to mitigate my pain, yet she chooses not to for her negligent, divine, reasons. If I am to prove my skills with the mind, she may use her abilities to ease my suffering, or better - find a way to retrieve Polites to the land of the living.
“An hourglass,” Athena replies, unblinking eyes fixated on me with their odd glint of curiosity - so different from the one my light adorned.
“An hourglass represents control over time, correct?”
“I observe you have retained some semblance of intelligence, King of Ithaca, but I shall not digress from my stance,” she insists.
“Then I will take my own life,” the threat comes unbidden out of my mouth, and I realise I actually mean it. Without Polites - my guiding star, my life will turn morose and glum, and I will find myself purposeless - wandering about with no motivation to lead my crew or live life at all. Life without him would be equivalent to daily torture in the Fields of Punishment - a fate I will not wish upon my worst enemies.
Athena gasps, taken off guard for a moment. “There is a way where I may help you,” she intonates carefully, “but it isn’t ideal. I shall spare you the sorrow caused by the loss of your husband, but the cosmos shall retaliate with an action of a similar calibre to balance my alterations.”
“What is it, Lady Athena?”
“You shall forget every memory you have of Polites.”
I freeze, and she continues. “Your previous life with him shall be erased, and a new wife will be woven for you from the discarded threads of the Fates - one you will love with the same passion as Polites, and who will love you back-”
“That’s wrong. I can never love anyone like Polites, and you have no right to force a woman on me! I will not taint my body with a man or a woman but him, for that would break our sacred wedding vows. What you’re suggesting is cheating!” I berate, not willing to accept the solution she has offered. I had sworn to stay loyal to Polites at the day of our marriage, and I have kept that oath ever since. Even though countless men had offered me relief during the war - when Polites had been healing in the tents and I had been camping by the enemy fortress, I denied their seductions and chose to keep my most intimate moments to my husband alone. Only to save Astyanax did I sleep with another, and it was in great regret. What Athena is suggesting, for all her supposed wisdom, is something I can’t abide by!
“Would you prefer to weep over him for the rest of your life until your anguish becomes too much and you would resort to suicide?” Athena counters.
I consider her words and recognise their truthfulness. What good will come out of eternal mourning for one I can’t receive - repeated nightly terrors of his demise, nightmares of me reaching toward him yet never able to touch?
I inhale deeply and raise my tear-ridden eyes to meet hers. “I accept your offer, my kind lady, but I must ask a favour of you before you work your spells. Could you please let me relive my best moments with my dear Polites before you take them away?”
She tilts her head in consideration. “I shall allow that, Odysseus.”
“Thank you, Lady Athena. I’m forever indebted to you,” I bow my head in appreciation, and I’m transported back to a time when everything used to be much simpler, and I was just a boy madly in love with his best friend...
Helios’ brilliant glow cascades down the Ithacan Palace grounds as I roll down the grassy hills with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old child. Laughter bursts from me, and I climb back for another cheerful slide and hold onto the thick barks of the surrounding olive trees for support. Ctimene and Eurylochus, my sister and my closest friend from court, respectively, encourage me from atop one of the trees and giggle when I get dirt stuck in my matted sepia hair after another less successful descent.
“Bet you can’t go for another round!” Ctimene challenges.
“You’re on!” I declare and prepare to sprint back to my starting position, when I hear a rustle in the tall hedges fencing the grounds from the grand marble pavements leading to the palace. I glance to its source, and I’m met with the sight of a scrawny tan boy, about my age, wearing a simple chiton caked with dirt and a burgundy substance, and worn leather sandals that have seen better days. I approach him carefully, but while he momentarily flinches, he quickly applies a smile to his face, and waves shyly to me.
“Who are you, why do you look like that?” I wonder, shaken from his dishevelled state that is so unfamiliar to a prince raised in the comfort of magnificent halls and constant nurture.
“I’m Polites,” he simply responds.
“Where are your parents?” I inquire, surprised why a boy my age was gallivanting around the royal palace without his guardians.
“My father was taken by bad people,” Polites shudders, and my eyes widen from the absurdity of what he was telling. I never knew a single bad person in the world - everyone in the palace only wants to serve me, and my friends are always nice and respectful. Even the annoying children of diplomats coming from faraway islands to negotiate with my father could never do such vile things.
“And your mother?”
“She never existed. My father told me I was a gift from someone very special,” he says casually, and I can’t believe what he was implying. Every baby is born from a mother and a father - that’s what my tutors taught, so for Polites to be born without a mother... he must have been spawned by the gods themselves!
“Are you a demigod?” I jump in my place excitedly, delighted from my luck.
“I... don’t know,” he shrugs, and I frown. I guess my time as an epic hero hasn’t come yet. But Polites seems like a nice kid, and my heart comes out to him. No kid should live like he does, and I would be heartless to shove him out of the grounds.
“Doesn’t matter! I’ll still play with you,” I offer my hand, and Polites takes it timidly.
As the hours go by, Polites begins to get along with my group of friends, and even Eurylochus - who is always wary of strangers, greets the new arriver with open arms to our games.
When the sun sinks to the horizon and colours the sky with the oranges of dusk, and we are all laughing and panting from exhaustion on the ground, my mother finds us with unkempt chalyms and chitons and puffed hair and crosses her hands in awe of the view played before her.
“What mischief are you up to now, kids?” She queries in bemusement.
“Nothing, mother,” Ctimene denies and brushes off the dirt from her clothes.
“No need to lie, I can smell a bit of lighthearted fun from the top of the Acropolis!” My mother lifts Ctimene off the grass and tickles her until she giggles. “And who is this young fellow you’ve collected?” She signs with her head to Polites.
“His name is Polites and he doesn’t have parents. His father was taken by bad people,” I explain.
Her brows furrow in shock. “That’s terrible! How much time were you alone, Polites?” The Queen crouches to match his height.
“Two weeks,” he answers without looking at my mother. He is terrified that she will banish him, but I will do everything to ensure that won’t happen! Polites is too friendly and fun to leave behind.
“Oh dear!” She exclaims. “Are you hurt?”
Polites seems hesitant to reply. “I’m fine.”
“Mother, I want Polites to stay with us,” I cross my arms with a determined expression.
She studies my new friend for a second. “I see no problem with that. Come, Polites, I’ll show you to your new room.”
“Will it be by my room?” I ask.
“I can arrange that,” my mother grins, and leads Polites away from Ctimene, Eurylochus, and I as we cheer for the acquisition of our new playmate.
My cheers are the loudest.
Afternoons full of joy and playfulness.
Diligent studying alongside one another.
Sneaky glances during sparring sessions.
Eloquent diary entries detailing the peculiar flutter I experience every time my eyes meet Polites’.
Risking myself to save his life from the boar.
Dreaming of his lips on mine.
Telling Athena I want to do something about it.
Helios’ light splashes once more upon the realm of the mortals, and a decade has passed from the first time I laid my eyes on Polites’. It is during the golden hours when the sun favoured our kingdom, and especially my friend - whose bronzed tan glimmered with an ethereal light similar to the halo of the deathless ones. We sit on the windowsill of my room, hidden from the rest of the world, and I can’t help but admire the beauty of the boy before me. I experimentally stroke his fingers, attempting to intertwine our hands, and he doesn’t retaliate and squeezes my palm in affirmation.
“It’s beautiful today, isn’t it?” Polites gestures to the sun-basked garden visible from my room but never tears his gaze from mine.
“It does wonders to your hair,” I compliment, not wanting to be too forward with my flirting.
“And your eyes,” he stares at me as if mystified and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.
I have to tell him. I remember tomorrow I have to sail to Sparta to court the famous Princess Helen on behalf of Ithaca, and how badly I want to avoid pretending I love her when my heart belongs to Polites. I must confess my attraction to him before I’m promised to another.
“Polites, there is something I have to tell you,” I pause to cup his face, testing if he will back off, but he instead leans into the touch, accepting. “I love you; I’ve loved you since I was twelve, but tomorrow I have to deport for Sparta to offer my hand to Helen, even though I don’t want anything to do with her, or girls for that matter,” I chuckle grimly.
“You’re the only thing I have on my mind, the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever had the advantage of seeing, and a kind soul I can only strive to be like. I won’t blame you for not reciprocating my feelings, but please - know that even if I will end up with a woman, you will still dominate my dreams and fantasies. I apologise if you’re now uncomfortable being in my proximity-”
I’m silenced with a passionate kiss to my lips, and an embarrassing squeal comes out of my mouth before shifting to a moan as I thread my fingers through his curls. They’re soft and fluffy and smell oh-so good, so I play with them while I pull him closer to me, tongues swirling around one another in an intricate, hungry dance.
We detach - gasping and visibly flushed, and Polites beams at me with his signature smile - the one which always made my heart skip a beat. “Ody, I would never, ever feel uncomfortable with you, for I’ve been in love with you since the day I learnt the definition of the word. You’re beautiful and promised me a place among the court even though I was a commoner. You deserve every bit of love the world has to give, my dear, and you must always remember that,” Polites takes my hands and kisses them gently.
“Poli, I want to see you,” I tug at his chiton, and he blushes a deep shade of red.
“I’m not sure you’ll like what you see,” Polites mutters.
“I’ll also remove mine - if we’re going to be husbands, we’ll have to see each other,” I try to convince him. “Plus, I don’t think there could be a single thing I would hate about you, my love.”
“You won’t hate it; it would scare you,” he clarifies.
“Polites, you’re the sweetest person I’ve ever known, how could I be scared of you?”
“Because of this,” he slowly slips off his chiton to reveal a breathtaking figure marred by scars, and a brilliant tattoo of a sun emblazoned on his stomach. I trace my finger over the outline of the luminous emblem, and it glows brighter, in an almost blinding display of light.
“What is this? What are those?” I lightly stroke the brutal-looking scars surrounding the tattoo. I can’t believe he hid these marks from me for all this time - signs of clear torture and misfortune.
“Remember the first time we met? When I told you I don’t know if I’m a demigod?” Polites questions, and I nod. “I was lying.”
“What?” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Yes, it was - still is - too traumatic to tell anybody. The last time someone knew... was after my father was raped and murdered.”
“No... Polites this is horrible,” I embrace him and draw calming circles on his defined arm muscles, hoping it would soothe him.
“I know. My father was relatively young and handsome, an easy target for powerful men. They broke into our house at midnight and took him there. I heard the screams, so I woke up and climbed to the top floor, but when I arrived - it was too late. His body was lying on the bed and spilling blood and what-not everywhere, and the abusers were still there, waiting for me to show up for whatever twisted reason of theirs. They approached me, scarring me until I bled, and that’s when this brand,” he rubs the tattoo, “appeared above my head. The sigil of Apollo. They were terrified, knowing Apollo would avenge his kin and former lover, so they ran away. I treated the injuries by using my innate healing prowess, until I came about your palace, and met you.”
“Poli... I don’t know what to say. You didn’t deserve any of that - and I would be completely fine if you won’t want to go any further with this relationship. We can only kiss - and I’ll be fine with that. Just let me know what your boundaries are, okay?” I reassure him with a squeeze to his hand.
“I won’t give them the luxury of turning my off from the love of my life because of what they’ve done. Besides, I’ve been waiting for too long to express how much I adore you...” Polites smiles mischievously and tests the waters by slowly unclipping the owl adornments that held my chiton. “Is it okay that I will-?”
“Take the lead? There’s no one I’d trust with treating me more than you,” I smile, and lead us to my bed.
“It would be a scandal if known - that you’re an eromenos...” Polites murmurs in worry.
“So, it won’t be,” I wink and pull him down.
His hands and lips over me.
Secret touches hidden by the shadows.
Asking my mother for permission to get married.
Hands intertwined under the wedding altar.
The drafting to the Trojan War.
Stolen kisses in our tent.
The horse blazing within the walls of Troy while we storm out.
It is night upon Troy - no more Helios but Selene instead. Shouts of horror and battle cries ring in abundance, almost inseparable from the explosions of Greek fire and catapults raining down on us. The horse - the endgame plan for our army I devised in desperation, is already reduced to charcoal and billowing ashes, and an oval perimeter of abandonment surrounds it. No person - Trojan or Achaean - dares to get closer.
I slash my blade at my remaining adversaries, ducking under their strikes and injuring their legs and other non-lethal areas. The medics’ tent is nearby, and within it Polites - my constant reminder to never kill unless required. Throughout the decade of meandering conflict, I had learnt the exact places in the human body that can trigger a loss of consciousness rather than death, so I target them to minimise the losses. I used this tactic to advance quickly through enemy territory - by the time the soldiers would wake up, we would have already been long gone.
Another enemy soldier appears from the darkness of one of the alleyways - but he is different. His movements are swift and graceful - a dance of sorts, and an odd, out of place light flashes in accordance with his every advance. I try to evade him - but to no avail. He grabs my hand and plunges a sword through my gut - yet no pain arrives.
That’s when thunder rumbles in the air, and the elusive figure dissipates into the air. A golden eagle perches on a nearby tower and stares at me, my body tensing to his otherworldly, intelligent gaze.
“Who was that?” I wonder out loud, scouring my surroundings for a remnant of the shadowed soldier or the eagle which has flocked away.
The eagle screeches in reply and returns to its previous spot. My gut clenches when I realise the golden eagle is the animal form of Zeus - the King of the Gods himself. There must be a vital reason for his presence...
“A vision, of what is to come, cannot be outrun, can only be dealt with right here and now,” his deep voice bellows.
“Tell me how,” I feel unnerved by his ominous description, hence I take a step back, and grip the hilt of my sabre tighter in caution.
“I don’t think you’re ready,” he comments with a dismissive glower that makes me feel so much smaller and insignificant.
“A mission - to kill someone’s son, a foe who won’t run, unlike anyone you have faced before,” Zeus elaborates.
“Say no more. I know that I’m ready!” I state in irritation. For ten years I have fought this wretched war, and I am sadly familiar with the stench of blood and the sight of rotting flesh. I prefer not to end a life, but if the Thunder Bringer commands it, I shall do it. That’s what every good devotee would have done.
“I don’t think you’re ready!” He insists, yet in complete dissonance with his claim - he proceeds to mentally whisk me away to the location of the son he mentioned.
The hazy image of a room replaces the alleyway in my mind’s eye. I am led through it by an unseen force until I arrive by a rocking crib tucked away in its far most corner. I peer over it - and inside lies the single thing I couldn’t make myself harm - the sin Polites wouldn’t forgive me if I had committed it.
“It’s just an infant; it’s just a boy. What sort of imminent threat does he pose that I cannot avoid?” I hold the baby’s chubby hand, but his fingers slip away from my sweat-coated hand.
“This is the son of none other than Troy’s very own Prince Hector - know that he will grow from a boy to an avenger, one fuelled with rage as you’re consumed by age. If you don’t end him now, you’ll have no one left to save!” Zeus reasons.
“You can say goodbye to Polites,” he threatens, and while my heart aches for a moment, I know the young Prince of Troy - Astyanax - won’t bring upon my love’s end like Zeus foresees. How could a boy, the same boy that held his stuffed horse with such care and innocence - kill Polites? The only instance where I would be forced to bid farewell to my husband would be if I slaughter this poor child and submit to that skewed vision.
“I can raise him as my own or send him far away from home! Make sure his past is never known,” my mouth brims with counteroffers - anything to make Astyanax retain his living status.
“The gods will make it known,” the Thunder Bringer asserts.
Suddenly - I remember who I’m standing before, and what other assets I have to persuade him to spare the infant. The God King is known for his lust and desire - perhaps if I’ll seduce him, he will allow me to keep Astyanax and return him to his mother - Andromache. I hope she is still alive. I’m repulsed by the idea of sleeping with someone but Polites, but if it’s the only way... I’ll try to convince him by other means first.
“I’d rather bleed for you, down on my knees for you, I’m begging - please!” I beg.
“This is the will of the gods,” he says with finality, his eagle form shifting to a humanoid form - with flashing yellow eyes and black hair. He looks younger than I would have expected and is clean-shaven, muscular form and sharp jaw making his figure very attractive.
No other option. I rise to my feet and reach to caress his face with one hand and guide his arm to grab my hip. I wear my best sultry look and whisper: “You look so gorgeous, I like a man with power.”
Zeus looks taken aback momentarily, then chuckles and leans into my touch. “You’re bold.”
“Does the will of the gods remain unchanged?” I purr and trace my finger along the lines of his muscles.
“Be good, and I shall let the infant live,” he tugs on my chalyms, and I place my hands on his shoulders, reeling him closer.
I condition my mind to think he is Polites, to allow his hands to roam over me like they are Polites’, to let him pull me to a cloudy bed and use me for his pleasure like he is my husband. I had to be subservient, to comply with his every desire even though it hurt me, to entice him enough until he will let the unfortunate son of Hector live. It is the only way to satiate him - and what is a mortal against a god?
After my body is spent and aching, and my awareness succumbs to Hypnos’ domain, I sense a hand - soft and uncalloused by the blades of war, shaking me with kind determination awake. I yawn and attempt to push myself up, but my open jaw grimaces from the pain boiling in my belly. I open my eyes, and see Polites leaning over me and planting a kiss on my forehead, a baby wrapped up in a blanket gibbering nonsense in his hand. I didn’t deserve his care and warmth, not after I had slept with another - even if it was for an ulterior motive.
“Morning, my love,” Polites smiles and offers me the infant. “You both appeared here about an hour ago.”
“Poli... I need to confess something,” I deny Astyanax, and Polites frowns in worry. “This child... I had to carry out filthy actions to get him. You may not forgive me for what I’ve done - but it was the only way to spare him.”
“Ody, if it was to spare the soul of a naïve, sweet being like this boy, I’ll forgive you,” he assures, but my doubts persist. I’m not sure I warrant his amnesty, even if he’ll give it to me.
“This boy is no ordinary Trojan - he is the son of Prince Hector, and was doomed to kill or be killed - by the gods themselves. Zeus was the one to carry out the order to me, but I couldn’t do it. I pleaded to him, begged, but without success. The only way to change his mind was to lay with him...” I whimper and tears well up in my eyes. “He hurt me, defiled my body with scathes! I’m so sorry, my light.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. This was the only way to save him - Zeus wouldn’t have yielded otherwise,” Polites comforts, petting me in relaxing motions.
“But the scars... They’ll show me and you I belong to him always! I was so weak to let him mark me...”
“It takes courage to fight back, but an even greater courage to endure. These signs are battle ranks of honour - that you withstood the Thunder Bringer in the flesh. I would never feel shame or disgust studying them, but pride - for you sacrificed yourself to save the pure soul of a child. Come now, I’ll show you how much I appreciate your strength, love,” my husband lays over me and pecks every jagged line and scratch marring my skin, setting Astyanax beside me so he’ll catch some most-needed rest.
The following morning we locate Andromache and retrieve her son to her before sailing back to Ithaca. She is beyond grateful, and thanks us for maintaining dignity even in times of war. We don’t confide with her the tribulations I faced to guard the life of the Prince of Troy, seldom we’ll come off as flaunting, and simply share a knowing gaze between us.
It has always been the two of us.
Assurances and hugs in our cabin on our way home.
A time of solitude for us on the Lotus Eaters’ isle.
The Cyclopes’ cavern - HIS SLAUGHTER, HIS BROKEN STARE!
Nothing.
My son - Telemachus.
My wife - Penelope.
What was I sobbing about?
A decade later
Polites meanders endlessly in the halls of Elysium, passing between ethereal banquets stuffed with delicacies and bubbling springs of pleasantly warm water. The other heroes of the Trojan War - venerated by either side of the conflict - dine and laugh among their comrades as if their battletime camaraderie hasn’t faded since their departure to the Underworld.
Polites bores his eyes at the joyful meeting with apathy. What luxury does Elysium hold if you aren’t united with your loved ones? Polites tried to seek his father among the treasured ascended souls, but never found him. Hades had proposed to summon forth the spirit of his father, but Polites declined last-minute. His memories of the man who raised him to childhood were scarce and fuzzy, and he hadn’t felt a connection to him as his father figure.
He did meet Anticlea, whom he regarded as a mother in all but blood, but they had to part ways to their individual sections of the Underworld. She had died as a regular woman, not as a champion against tremendous odds. Polites sometimes wonders if he deserves his place at Elysium as well - for his only merit was his marriage to the more heroic and competent Odysseus, but his two friends always find that particular ponder baffling.
The aforementioned friends - a soul and a god - are the sole sources of consolation Polites has in this Odysseus-less realm. The former - Patroclus, is now timidly chuckling amid the fallen Achaean soldiers with Achilles’ arm slung over his shoulder. Polites knows of his reserved nature and reclusive attitude, yet he seems delighted to be with his lover and band of soldiers. He sheds his gaze away from the chattering group. They remind him too much of what he can’t receive - his love with him in paradise.
Hades - the kind deity who has always seemed to be demonised in the land of the living, constantly tried to stop Polites from checking in on his husband from the small windows peering into the Overworld, from fear of what would happen to his friend, and Polites listened. For ten years he has deprived himself of learning what has occurred to Odysseus. He still lives - of that the son of Apollo is sure, since he hasn’t arrived at Elysium yet, but how does he live? Did he become a hermit and now secludes himself in the mountainous mainland?
He can wait no longer.
Polites slips out of the banquet and descends down the manicured, nebulous hills leading to Erebus and Hades’ palace. He looks for a second at the guards flanking the ebony gates of the walls, and they quickly part and let him in. They know he is a friend of their Lord and automatically admit him in every time he arrives to cross Erebus. He passes corridors and climbs stairs until he reaches the throne room, where Hades is drinking from a goblet of fine wine and smirking at Polites as he approaches and bows.
“Polites, my friend! What brings you here this fine day?” He inquires.
“I have waited for too long to see my husband and his state after my untimely demise. I wish to see him, my Lord,” Polites inclines his head in respect.
Hades furrows his brows in an expression akin to sympathy. “Are you sure you want to learn of his fate? It is cruel, even for us - the deathless ones.”
“What could be cruel for the almighty gods?” The demigod wonders.
“This is my last warning, mortal,” the tone of the immortal is laced with the sombreness of inevitability. He knows that despite his warnings, Polites would still crave the truth.
“Let me know!” Polites insists.
“He forgot.”
“What?” He asks.
“The heartbreak following your death was too much for his soul to bear, so his mentor suggested that he shall forget every memory of you to stop him from deteriorating to suicide. A wife and a son were created for him, and he believes they had always existed in his life. Odysseus has just today reunited with his ‘wife’ after a decade of voyage in the Mediterranean to return to her,” Hades tells him, and Polites breaks down to tears. Odysseus had promised not to forget! How could he... how could his love choose to diminish his image from his mind...
“Why... he promised!” He weeps.
“Would you have preferred that he die?” The god quirks a sceptic brow.
“He would have been with me that way,” Polites murmurs.
“Odysseus’ intent was to kill himself; it was Athena who recommended selective amnesia as a final resort.”
“To hell with her!” Polites shouts on an impulse. It’s easier to blame a goddess than his former husband.
“I’m afraid I cannot lure her to my dimension, though I can assist you,” Hades says thoughtfully.
“Please,” maybe the ruler of the Underworld, one of the Big Three, could restore his husband’s memory. Polites holds up the flickering hope close to his heart.
“As you know, my dominion extends to dreams as well. I could allow you passage to Odysseus’ dreams, where you could revitalise his memories of you. Maybe there he will remember your face and previous connection.”
“Take me there,” Polites requests, inhaling deep and donning a new look of perseverance.
“Good luck,” Hades wishes, and in the blink of an eye - Polites is gone.
I drift to sleep next to my wife. Twenty years of adventure between enemy land and hostile seas have taken their toll, and my tired limbs and body savour the smooth texture of the silk sheets under me coax me to a careless slumber.
A landscape appears before me. Calm, whitish, serene - so unlike the horrid lands that have plagued my nights while I was on my way home. A man sits at the centre of it all, dressed in a simple cotton chiton and smiling at me with glimmering eyes framed by odd glass and metal embellishments. He is familiar, so familiar - the freckles on his nose and cheeks as recognisable as the star-charts I memorised in my youth. His magnificent hazel eyes, mundane yet unique, are flecked by an array of vivid hues that I gladly drown in. Have I done this before?
I have a wife, a child, but why do I feel more comfortable with this dream-man than any of them?
“Who are you? You’re beautiful...” I comment, feeling traitorous and foolishly enamoured at the same time.
“I’m Polites.”