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Chapter Text

Below on the trampled earth, the crying queen Andromache was restrained by two Greek soldiers, her screams spent. A horror so profound it stole the very sound from her lungs.

Andromache lifted her eyes at the wall of the tower, the wind carrying the distant shouts of Greek soldiers and the crackling of flames consuming Troy. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, held a wriggling bundle in his hand.

Odysseus stepped onto the parapet. The wind tugged at his cloak. He gazed down at the assembly of his men, their faces smeared with soot and blood, their eyes gleaming with the frantic energy of victory and survival. He raised his voice, not in a shout, but in the clear, carrying tone of a commander giving a final, unpleasant order.

The bundled child struggled against its confines, held aloft over the fall.

The baby inside couldn't be seen, fully covered and appearing as nothing more than a squirming creature rather than a human boy.

"NOOO!"Her scream tore through the air as she watched the squirming bundle, its cloth already stained crimson. What horrors had these monsters inflicted upon her innocent son?

“My brothers! You look upon this child and you see an infant,” he began, his voice stripped of all warmth, a tool of flint and iron. “You see innocence. Your heart, what is left of it after these long years, may yet stir with pity. I tell you now, strangle that feeling. Tear it from your breast and cast it into the fire that consumes this city.”

The words tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "Please, he is just a boy!" Andromache pleaded, her voice broke on the word. "What threat can he possibly be?" She struggled against the holds on her arms. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of bone. Each beat a painful thud against her chest, the bitter taste of fear flooding her mouth as she begged the men around her to spare her child.

He shifted the weight of the babe, not roughly, but with a terrifying practicality.

“This is not an infant. This is a seed. The seed of Hector. The seed of Priam. The last seed of the house that defied us for ten years, that cost us our brothers, our fathers, and our sons. If we plant this seed, what do you think will grow?”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the men.

“A tree of vengeance. Its roots will be watered by the ashes of Troy and the memory of this day. In twenty years, a man will stand before us, wearing the face of our greatest enemy, with a claim to this land we have paid for in blood. He will raise an army from the shadows of our forgetfulness, and this war… all of it… will have been for nothing.”

"Please don't do this! Don't kill him!" the queen cried. Faint, pained, inhuman cries of her infant could be heard in the wind. The blood on the swaddle... had they cut the babe's throat? "By all the gods, he is but a babe! Would you, warriors of Greece, fear an infant's cradle? STOP!"

His jaw tightened. The child began to whimper, a small, mewling sound lost in the wind.

"Some would call this cruelty." Odysseus paused, his gaze sweeping across his men. "I call it foresight. We shall purge the last corruption of Troy so that Hellas might finally know peace. So that the sons you return to, and the sons you will father, will never have to sail to this shore again.”

"Spare him... Spare him, please!" She fell to her knees, fingers clawing at the dirt, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face as she begged the man with the desperation only a mother could conjure for her child.

He looked down at Andromache, his eyes offering no apology, only the implacable verdict of necessity.

“This is the last duty of this war. The hardest one. It is not for glory. It is not for spoils. It is for an end. A true end.”

He held the child. Not as a sacrifice. As an exhibit of his logic.

“Remember this moment not as a shame, but as the price of our future. The House of Troy falls with this last prince. Let it end here.”

And without ceremony, without a final roar of hatred, but with the grim finality of a man closing a heavy book, he held the infant. Over the edge. Above the main fire cauldron. No hesitation. Just release.

The act was not one of passion, but of policy. A silence fell, colder and more absolute than any battle cry.

Andromache screamed for her son, as he burned in the fire, his cries soon silenced as nothing was left of him but burnt ashes and red coals.

Her vision went dark, and she slumped before she could see the rest of the scene.

~~~~

Three days passed after the execution of Prince Astyanax, and in that time, Odysseus wasn't seen again by his fellow kings and soldiers. While the troops regrouped and the spoils of war were distributed, Ithaca's king remained lost.

Eurylochus feared the worst; some remaining Trojans could have found their captain and killed the man for what he'd done at the wall.

In the dead of night, Odysseus returned. His face remained hard, his jaw tight. The metallic scent of blood clung to him despite the sea air. His cape was wrapped tightly around him, hiding his torso and left hand underneath. Blood stained what could be seen of his chiton and armor. With each limping step across the sand, his sword hand dripped crimson. 

Their Captain must be in pain. In more ways than one.

Eurylochus voiced what all present soldiers were thinking: "Captain? What happened? You're bleeding."

Eurylochus saw Polites reaching for Odysseus, but their captain refused to be touched or helped. Bruise-like shadows hollowed his eyes, making him appear decades older than his years. "I'm fine." Odysseus's gaze drifted toward the distant shore. "Gather the men. We leave for Ithaca at dawn."

Their Captain stumbled on board, closing the cabin door behind him without another word. 

Eurylochus exchanged a glance with Polites. He was the second in command, and Polites was their Captain's childhood friend. Divide and conquer.

"You heard the captain! Gather supplies! We're going home!" Eurylochus ordered, and was answered with answering yells of their men. He saw to their departure while Polites knocked on Odysseus's door with medical supplies in hand.

Only once they had set sail the next day did Eurylochus see Polites sitting with his back to their Captain's quarters, slumped on the ground.

"Polites? How was he?" He asked, shaking the smaller man by the shoulder. When the usually smiling man turned his head, Eurylochus saw tears streaming down his cheeks.

"He took the supplies," Polites said, his voice hollow. "He... he won't see anyone. For three days." He wiped a hand across his mouth, unable to say more.

Eurylochus inhales sharply. Odysseus was a cunning and intelligent man, as well as a king. What could've possibly happened in Troy when he left them for Hector's palace? Or after he threw the young prince from the wall.
"Did he say the reason for this... isolation?" Eurylochus lowered his voice. "Beyond the obvious."

Polites heaved a shuddering breath, close to tears, "Just said he needs to pray, for what he did."

"Oh." Eurylochus looked between the tearful man and the closed door and breathed the salty air of the sea. "Very well. If he seeks three days of solitude for prayer, so be it. Make sure his meals are delivered." 

With that, he left, unsure how to deal with the situation. Odysseus was a smart man, favored by the Goddess Athena. He made the right choice in executing the enemy prince. The blood of an innocent infant was... some would argue a heavy load to bear, but Odysseus would recover from it. He had to.

~~~~

For two days and nights, true to his word, Odysseus remained inside his cabin, never leaving the small room

He accepted meals from Polites, requesting only soft fruit and water.

Penance, he explained. He had sinned by killing an innocent life, even if it was for the greater good of Greece. He needed to supplicate, he said. His murmurs and humming were heard from the cabin and no more. 

Eurylochus intercepted Polites, who carried planks toward the Captain's cabin. Once questioned, Polites explained, 'He said he's going to build a votive offering, to rest the child's soul. Since the body was destroyed.' Seeing tears well in Polites's eyes once more, Eurylochus dismissed him to carry out his orders.

As the third night of their journey fell, the crew saw their Captain exit his cabin carrying a small wooden raft. Markings were etched into the wood, and a bowl was secured to its surface, a small offering for a small infant.

Odysseus wordlessly set a clay tablet upon the raft, the dead prince's name visible in the flickering torchlight. He wrapped it in cloth as if swaddling an infant.

Meager offerings joined the tablet: a single piece of bread and a wooden carved toy horse, placed with deliberate care.

"What's he doing?" Perimedes asked in a whisper loud enough to be heard by all those who gathered.

"He seeks the gods' favor." Elpenor whispered back, always indulgent to the ruder man, "For it was his hand that sent Prince Astyanax to the underworld..." His shoulders dropped on his exhale.

Lycaon crossed his arms, "The wrath of the gods must be upon him," He whispered to the others.

"The personal offering must appease them; he is favored by Goddess Athena after all," Amphialus reassured.

They all watch their captain chanting prayers under his breath, the moonlight glinting off the clay tablet as he lowers the small raft adrift on the inky sea. The waves carried the small tomb out of sight.

Odysseus retreats to his cabin once again wordlessly.

At the first light of dawn on the third day, he emerged onto the deck, dark bruises under his eyes but bearing himself once more as a regal king, his head held high and his steps even.

He nodded to Eurylochus in greeting, "Thank you for watching over the fleet." His smile looked torn, but he stood tall. "How are the men?" 

Eurylochus squared up beside the other man.  The set of Odysseus's shoulders, the clarity in his eyes—these signs of their captain's return were enough to soothe Eurylochus's own frayed nerves. 

"We are running short on food after the war, but otherwise the men are in order."

Odysseus nodded, looking at the sky thoughtfully, "Very well, we'll change course to the nearest island. Resupply before continuing our journey. " 

Tension radiated from Odysseus. While his eyes continuously scanned the horizon, one hand gripped his opposite bicep, knuckles white. Was this reaction merely to news of their short supplies, Eurylochus wondered, or did some other concern weigh upon his captain?

"Do your wounds still need tending to, Captain?" Eurylochus remembers how their captain hid himself in his cape when he returned, how he limped unnaturally, hiding his right hand and his chest.

Odysseus turned to him, surprise flashing across his face for a brief second, then he smiled, waving off the concern, "No, no. Do not fret over me, brother. The flesh wounds do not bother me."

The mental wounds went unmentioned. 

Eurylochus couldn't judge the man for treating what he had done with such weight.

Odysseus was a father. His son was an infant, too, when he left Ithaca. It must've been different for him as it was for Eurylochus to execute such an act.

"CAPTAIN!"

Moments after Odysseus gave his orders, a shout from the railing distracted Eurylochus from his musings. Amphialus, looking haggard and wide-eyed, came to retrieve them.

"Something's on the water!" Lycaon shouts.

Odysseus rushed to where a crowd had gathered around the ship railings. He stood rigid at the rail, the knuckles of his clenched hands white as bone. All were yelling and pointing at a small bundle floating on the sea.

"What is that?" Amphialus shouted.

"Looks like Captain's votive!" cried Lycaon.

"Could it have floated back to us?" Elpeanor watched.

"Think, man!" Perimedes cut in. "Our ship moves forward, cutting through the waves! How could a simple raft return against the current?"

Eurylochus joined the others, his own eyes widening in shock at what they were all seeing.

It looked exactly like Odysseus' votive, a small raft with a clay tablet wrapped in cloth, but this one contained no tablet, only a wriggling live being struggling to free itself from the cloth.

Odysseus' eyes, shadowed and restless, swept the horizon again and again, as though expecting some phantom threat to rise from the waves.

"Lower me in a boat." Their Captain ordered in a frenzy, hopping inside one of their rowboats, the men hurried to comply, their curiosity and shock overwhelming their senses.

Six hundred men watched their king step inside a rowboat, reach the floating piece of wood, and take the being from it. They all watched in awe as their captain unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pink human baby.

"IT'S THE BOY!" Lycaon exclaimed.

"Astyanax died in Troy. This isn't him." Perimedes scolded with a scoff.

"It can't be human. Why would a human child be on the sea?!" Alcimus clung to another man in fear.

"It's a child of the sea!" Amphialus prayed to the waters below them. "Poseidon has sent us a child from the depths!"

They all watched as Odysseus returned on board, their anticipation mounting with each moment.

Their captain returned to them with a babe cradled in the crook of his elbow. A boy with soft light curls and blue eyes, serene and radiant in their Captain's arms. He held no fear in the chaos of rough men and urgent voices. 

"This isn't any ordinary child." Odysseus exclaimed for all his fleet to hear, "My prayers are answered, but not as I expected. This is our forgiveness from the gods for our sins in Troy."

Crew members gathered closer; their eyes fixed upon the sacred babe. Beautiful beyond measure, the child possessed eyes the color of the sea and hair as golden as the sun above.

"God Of The Tides took my offering and has given us a gift instead. A child, spared from the deep." The child clung to their captain, watching the rugged, disheveled men around him curiously, his eyes wide in wonder.

"The gods have sent us a foundling." Polites steps closer, smiling at the beautiful boy. He caresses the infant's tiny fists, and the boy takes his finger with a small, delighted noise. "They entrusted this child to our care..."

"It's an omen," Elpeanor says, looking at the boy. The others murmur their agreements.

"Great Earth-Shaker himself received our offering and, in his mercy, has returned to us this blessing!" Amphialus smiled, putting a hand over his heart.

"A child entrusted to us in exchange for the one we slayed in Troy," Odysseus says, caressing the boy's golden hair. "We shall take great care of it." 

Their captain smiled down at the child with warmth in his eyes, a rarity his men hadn't seen in the last decade.

Chapter Text

Troy burned like a funeral pyre, its screams weaving through smoke that tasted of copper and ash. The air itself wept, thick with the ghosts of fallen kings. Odysseus crept through the palace’s skeletal halls, where shattered Minoan vases lay like broken bones amid rushes soaked with wine. A fresco of Apollo—his face blackened by smoke—watched from the crumbling wall.

"Who is there?" Odysseus held his sword ready, searching for a target as he crept through the empty palace.

"A vision."

He jumped and turned. A golden eagle sat on the windowsill, its talons scoring the marble like claws on a gravestone, its back illuminated by the burning city. Outside, Troy screamed; a chorus of dying men and splintering wood. The bird’s feathers shimmered with unnatural light, casting shifting shadows that danced like Fates across Odysseus’s sword. Each cry from below made the eagle’s head twitch, its golden eyes reflecting the city’s flames as if mirroring hell itself.

"Who are you?" Odysseus asked the golden eagle, not yet lowering his sword. 

"A vision, of what must come. What cannot be outrun, only faced here and now." The eagle evaded the question; it must be one of the gods in animal form. Odysseus thought, trying to keep his peace.

"Tell me how," he said, lowering his sword.

"I don't think you're ready," The eagle's beak curved into what might have been a sneer. "It's a mission to execute someone's son. A foe who won't run. Unlike anyone you have faced before..."

He sighed in relief, nothing more than another foe to kill. "Say no more. I know that I'm ready." He turned away and pushed open the door before him.

"I don't think you're ready." The eagle disappeared in the mist.

Odysseus pushed the door open. And there, a crib of polished cedar, sat in the empty nursery. Flames barely had touched in this room. A noise escaped the crib.

"It's just a baby," he said, looking into the crib where his enemy lay—left alone and wriggling in soft fur. "It's just a boy." He whispered. The child turned toward him, laughing and revealing toothless gums. "What sort of imminent threat does he pose that I cannot avoid?"

The eagle reappeared on the nursery's windowsill. "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." The eagle with glowing eyes seethed from the windowsill, "One fueled with rage, as you're consumed by age."

Odysseus's breath caught in his chest as he looked down at the infant's wide blue eyes. The eagle flapped its mighty wings, sending a wind to sway the crib and Odysseus's hair. "If you don't end him now, you'll have no one left to save."

The infant babbled, his voice high and sweet. Outside, the war drums beat a funeral rhythm, but here, only the child’s tiny sighs stirred the air. Odysseus traced the blue veins pulsing beneath the boy’s translucent eyelids—delicate as river reeds. In this cocoon of lamplight and stolen warmth, the chaos beyond the windows dissolved, leaving only the scent of milk and clean wool.

Odysseus took a deep breath. His mind turned over the prophecy's words. "What will happen if he's left to live?" 

The eagle laughed, an unnatural, chilling sound. "If Astyanax is allowed to live, he would inevitably seek revenge for the fall of Troy and the death of his father, Hector. Furthermore, it is foretold that he would eventually rebuild Troy."

Those exact words, huh?  Odysseus thought distantly, his hands shaking.

Odysseus’s calloused palm, scarred by a decade of war, brushed the infant’s downy cheek. The boy’s skin was impossibly soft, like petal against stone, yet he nuzzled into the roughness with a gurgle of delight, tiny fingers curling around Odysseus’s bloody knuckles. A burning sensation built behind Odysseus' eyes, and he blinked against the moisture that threatened to spill down. A tide rising in his chest as the infant’s laughter echoed in the burning nursery. He swallowed hard, the taste of grief sharper than any sword he’d wielded.

"How can such a sweet child be the same you speak of?" Odysseus brushed the boy's hair back. Telemachus looked the same as he did when he left Ithaca. "I could raise him as my own..."

"The child grows. Roots dig deep. Vengeance blooms in the blood of Hector. Your halls will echo with his father's name." The eagle shrieked in anger, "The babe's breath is the spark that reignites Troy's pyre. Quench it here... or watch your own house burn to ash."

Odysseus turned over the words, "I can send him far away from home."

"He'll find you wherever you go," the god countered.

Odysseus squared his shoulders, jaw grinding like millstones. He met the eagle’s burning gaze without blinking, his thumb stroking the hilt of his sword, challenging the prophecy, "I'll make sure his past is never known."

The eagle glared back, "The gods will make him know."

The eagle's words were chains, binding him to a terrible choice. Damn it all. He thought.

"I'm begging you..." His eyes closed, burning.

"He's bringing you down on your knees." The eagle mocked.

"Mercy," Odysseus whispered.

The eagle's laugh scraped the air. "Mercy is for kings who keep their thrones."

"Why are you telling me this?" Odysseus raised his sword, the blade catching the light from the burning city. "Why me?" Anger threatened to force his hand.

"This is the will of the gods." The eagle spread its wings, and the wave of power threw Odysseus back down. The finality of its declaration showed that the very universe would weave itself around the words to make sure they'd happen.

The stench of burning pitch and roasted flesh choked Odysseus’s throat, thick as the oily smoke that clung to his skin. Beneath it, the coppery tang of blood—so potent he could taste it on his teeth—mingled with the sweet rot of slaughtered flesh.

On the ground, looking up at the eagle, Odysseus hung his head in defeat, "Very well, my lord. I will see to it. The boy will be executed as you commanded." He rose to his feet and bowed, stepping back. He lifted the lightweight boy into his arms and looked at him. 

The infant, no older than Telemachus when Odysseus last saw him, was still unable to sit. His swaddling cloth bore the embroidered crest of Troy—a fallen horse. The infant was a flame untouched by wind—pure light in a world of smoke, his trust as fragile as a moth’s wing yet bright enough to blind a warrior to his own sword. 

The child gripped his chiton in its tiny hands. Odysseus’s fingers froze mid-reach, hovering over the infant’s throat. His knuckles whitened around the dagger’s hilt, then slackened. A tremor ran through his arm as he let the blade clatter to the floor. Consequences be damned, he thought.

But they didn't have to be damned.

They could be avoided or at least controlled.

He caressed the child's hair, a beautiful boy, with golden curls like sunlight and eyes the color of the Aegean Sea—a perfect likeness of Prince Hector and his wife.

"Well? Why'd you hesitate?" The eagle asked impatiently.

Odysseus inhaled, thought of what he was about to do, and exhaled.

"I do not hesitate, divine messenger." He said, bending down to collect his dagger. "Prophecies are curious things; they speak of what must be, but rarely of when." He hugged the child closer. "I will fulfill what has been foretold," he said to the god, cradling the boy to his chest, stroking his back. The infant didn't even protest or whine, a well-behaved boy...

The eagle's wings beat the air like a drum as it took flight. "You've been warned." Odysseus clutched the child tighter, the words echoing in his skull as he retreated into the shadows.

Odysseus took the boy with him as he sat on the floor, settling the infant in his lap and looking down at him. The boy babbled softly and reached to grab for the shiny owl on his armor.

"I'm a warrior of the mind." Odysseus whispered to the boy, letting him tap his cold armor to his delight, "By all means of logic, you should die."

It would eliminate the bloodline. His mind supplied. Prevent future war, and complete the destruction of Troy with no hope for the survivors to rebuild it.

"I'm just a man..." Odysseus cradled the boy, looking at his large eyes. It looked back at him, no comprehension of his grim future.

He could end it in a breath—a swift plunge of steel into that soft neck, severing the thread of life before it could weave into the tapestry of vengeance the gods had foretold.

But those eyes, they looked at him with nothing but trust and innocence. If this boy were to be a raging avenger, Odysseus could see no trace of it. He dragged a hand over the child's face, covering his eyes, "Close your eyes... Spare yourself the view." The boy giggled, and as soon as his hand was removed, his eyes were bright and on his executioner again.

"How could I hurt you?" Odysseus whispered, broken by the simple question.

He lifted the boy, feather-light and delicate as morning dew, and pressed his lips to the downy cheek—kissing not simply flesh, but the ghost of his own son left behind in Ithaca.

Vulnerable and helpless. Innocence incarnate.

"I'm just a man," Odysseus repeated again. The affections of a father, denied for ten years while war kept him from his own son, flared protectively in his chest. "If I end you now, I won't have anyone to save, precisely."

Suppose this was the will of the gods. Fine. Odysseus was only one man. But a very cunning man, indeed. Prophecies could be vague on purpose; they were left to be interpreted by the receiver.

"I'll try every way." He said with finality, holding the boy to his chest, tucking him under his chin, and humming a song.

While the infant drifted to sleep, he made a plan. 

First, the pressing immediate concern is killing Troy's prince.

Prophecy-wise, Fate dictated that Hector's son would avenge him and rebuild Troy. But what defines "son"? Is it in spirit or in blood?

Raising Astyanax in Greece, completely separated from Trojan culture, would effectively kill "Hector's son." The boy could be given a new Greek name and identity.

But for the people down below, still fighting, the son of Hector dying in spirit wasn't enough. The three logical reasons for the child's end were still unquestionable pressing matters. The boy had to die to end the bloodline, to destroy hope for the future, and prevent future wars.

The body of the young prince had to be destroyed as well.

Or at least, believed to be destroyed.

Child secured. Cloak drawn. Odysseus ran. Shadows clung to the palace walls like hands.

He could find a goat's kid, mangle the body and rip off its defining features, swaddle it, and sacrifice the animal in the child's stead. Burn in fire before it could be discovered.

He needed to buy time.

~~~~

Odysseus held the infant to his chest, looking down at the burning remains of Troy reduced to ash. The infant slept, his breaths puffing like dandelion seeds against Odysseus’s chest.

Odysseus pried a piece of crumbling mortar from the great wall of Troy, still warm from the city's death throes as it was being burned. He pressed the gritty stone into the infant’s sleeping fist, guiding the tiny hand to place it against the scarred limestone. "Behold," he whispered, his voice dry as dust. "The walls of Troy, rebuilt by the prince's hand." A laugh, sharp and humorless as a dagger’s point, escaped him.

He bundled the boy, his living, breathing, world-ending secret, beneath his cloak, the woolen wrap a second skin against the ash-choked air.

This was one of the weaker ploys he had conceived to appease the prophecy, but nevertheless, he would try them all.

"Although the prince of Troy no longer exists, he was thrown from the wall of its tower into a fiery cauldron; only ashes remain now," Odysseus said aloud to the empty air, as if reminding the universe itself.

Thunder booms overhead, but he paid it no mind.

He was gambling Zeus wouldn't smite him where he stood for misinterpreting the words. The weight of the lie settled over his shoulders. He played a dangerous game.

The infant's breath was a soft, steady rhythm against his neck, a tiny sign of peace in the chaos of the sacked city. How could such tranquility exist if it wasn't meant to be protected?

Odysseus looked down at the sleeping infant, his voice a soft vow meant for the gods to hear. "You will be executed. The world will see it done." The promise, to his own heart, meant something else entirely. "I will carry this to the end." 

~~~~

He spent the days after the immediate victory hiding and dodging the troops of Greece. He watched from the shadows as the queen and other women of Troy were taken away. Helen was secured, Achilles and their other fallen brothers' bodies were recovered, and no immediate danger followed. Troops and fellow kings prepared to disembark with their spoils, impatient to return home. 

Odysseus, on the other hand, had another form of preparation to be done. He went to the storage room, gathered what the child would need for immediate survival, and acted out however he thought could appease the requirements of the prophecy.

His thoughts crashed against each other like waves in a storm, each idea colliding with the next, none finding purchase. Yet he tried each and every one.

The immediate threat of the young prince's faked death being discovered seemed to pass, yet vigilance remained his constant companion.

Once most of the other troops had left Troy, Odysseus deemed it safe enough to return to his own men, hidden under the cover of night while the child slept and he bled from his encounters with stray Trojans seeking vengeance for their fallen prince.

who slept through the chaos, protected under his cloak.

~~~~

Odysseus paced the small cabin while the infant slept soundly on his bed.

He had kept the boy fed with mashed plums and berries so far. He thanked the gods for the child's calm. He wasn't sure what he would do to quiet the infant should he begin to cry. Thankfully, nothing worse than whimpers ever escaped the child; it was a divine mercy in itself.

If Odysseus wanted to keep the boy alive without argument from his crew and nullify the prophecy, this child could not be Astyanax of Troy anymore. He had to devise a plan to represent the boy as someone else entirely.

Before it all, he had to ask Polites for the milk of the poppy, framing it as a medical need for wounds he had sustained during his absence. He sent prayers to Morpheus, the god of sleep and dreams, as he dabbed the infant's lips with it, deepening his sleep.

"Forgive me... It's temporary." Odysseus hummed a song he remembered Penelope murmuring to Telemachus, swinging the baby on his arms slowly.

While the boy slept, he made a plan; first, he could ask Polites for materials to build two identical sacrificial rafts. It had to be small so that the material used would not cause suspicion.

Odysseus worked by lamplight, the scent of resin sharp in the cramped cabin. His knife scored grooves into the olive wood, shavings curling like amber ribbons onto his cloak. The stink of burning hair still clung to his cloak, a reminder of Troy's final hours.

He carved wood scraps into miniature rafts, his hands trembling with the weight of deception. Each notch he cut echoed with the scrape of blade on bone. Ropes rubbed his wrists raw and bit into his palms as he bound the wood together, each sting a penance for the lives he'd taken, the prince he now stole from death's grasp.

At each raft’s center, he secured Kylix cups, their rims still sticky with wine from Agamemnon’s last feast. Big enough to hold the small boy and their rims high, offering protection from splashing waves.

He prayed it would keep the swaddled child safe and buoyant.

With a charred stick, he drew Poseidon’s trident into each prow, identical twins. The scent of burnt wood mingled with salt air as he tested the knots, each pull a prayer against the waves’ hunger.

Fishing lines, strong enough to land tuna, became the second raft's lifelines. Odysseus could anchor one end to his window's bronze ring, the other to the raft’s center post. It would keep the second raft from drifting too far from their fleet.

He wouldn't forgive himself if he suddenly lost an infant to the sea... If Poseidon claims him, he thought, I’ll burn the ocean itself to find him.

On the third night, when the sun had set, he finally exited the cabin. He carried the first offering raft, ignoring the greetings and stares of his men as he went to the main deck. Putting on a show for six hundred men, he kneeled in front of the raft, praying to the gods. In front of the fleet, he carved a clay tablet with Astyanax's name on it, the only source of light being the few torches his men had lit.

Under his breath, he prayed to the gods, "On this day, I surrender Astyanax, son of Hector, to the sea. As Troy no longer exists, neither does its prince." He wrapped the clay tablet as if it were a child to be swaddled, settling inside the Kylix cup.

His men whispered behind him, watching his moves in the torchlight. He had chosen the night for this purpose; they wouldn't be able to distinguish the small differences between the two rafts by dawn.

He set other offerings he had gathered inside the bowl as well, a wooden chiseled horse that he had made for Telemachus in their time of war.

"God of the tides, Poseidon, I beg you to take this offering as it is personal to me. Hear my plea and drown this Astyanax, prince of Troy, in your deep waves. Shall the prophecy be appeased..." he prayed, his voice barely a whisper as he set a piece of bread inside his small-scale ritual.

The god of the tides should understand that even this small piece of bread was a significant offering, given their scarce food supplies.

"At dawn, return to us the child's vessel, should his name die in your hands while his body lives from your mercy..." Tears gathered behind Odysseus's eyes like rain in a drought-cracked bowl, ten years of dammed grief finally breaching the walls of his cunning. He kept his voice to himself, begging on his knees for mercy as the child's mother had done.

The raft hit water. It floated away. The fleet watched their captain. Odysseus watched the raft. Waited. Then returned to his cabin to the sleeping child.

Odysseus watched the infant's chest rise and fall. How could he sleep? he wondered, remembering Telemachus's restless nights. 

His chest tightened as memories of the son he left behind flooded his mind, his son held in Penelope's arms, her hand waving goodbye. The weight of him still in Odysseus's mind, if not his arms, after ten years apart.

The boy's peace felt like a mockery of the world. Outside, the ship creaked with the weight of men and spoils of war, while inside, the infant's peaceful slumber seemed to defy the violence that had brought them to this moment.

"Prophecies," Odysseus muttered to the sleeping infant. "Gods speak in riddles, mortals die in confusion." He lifted the swaddled boy, no longer named, and hugged him to his chest, inhaling his soft hair. "But not you. I'll take every precaution, do anything I must." He caressed the boy's curls, longing for the fatherhood he had missed for a decade already. "Children shouldn't have to suffer for the greed of men."

Tomorrow, if everything went well with his plan, he could introduce the child without concern and start proper care for his food and cleanliness.

He stayed humming to the child until the first rays of dawn entered through the porthole.

He then redid the swaddle around the child and secured him to the Kylix of the remaining small raft. His fingers fumbled with the knots, trembling as they secured the infant to his toyish boat. Would the Sea God drown the boy as soon as he was lowered to their domain? Would the child accidentally get picked up by seagulls? Should he have inflated animal bladders to keep the raft floating? Too late now.

He held the edge of the raft, his hands tight on the wood, willing it and praying for mercy, to help him with his plan as he lowered the boat gently to the water through the porthole.

"Please... Please return him to me..." He wept, salt water hitting his face and hair. Once the raft hit the water, he watched with careful eyes for any hint of drowning or water in the wood. The child slept deeply and untroubled. The waves gently rocked the boy.

Odysseus exhaled, a shudder wracking his frame as the weight of what he dared, defying fate, deceiving gods, cradling his enemy's heir, settled like stones in his gut.

He exhaled shakily, tying the strings to the bronze ring of the window. "Thank you, my lord. I will hold the greatest offering for you upon my return." He promised the calm waves.

Odysseus murmured to the tides, his eyes unwilling to leave the form of the small boy. 

But for this to work, he had to go out and put on another show.

He took a shuddering breath, trusting the gods to watch over the child for a moment, then headed up to the higher deck.

Chapter Text

Their journey continued, their troop now one passenger more.

Odysseus named the boy Outis—Nobody—which is somewhat amusing and possibly cruel. But when alone, Eurylochus had heard their captain murmur 'Mētis' instead, the syllables nearly identical yet weighted with different meaning.

Eurylochus would have mocked him for the 'cunning' narcissism, but the sight of the babe curled against Odysseus's chest, warrior-king turned nursemaid, stole the words from his tongue.

He hadn't yet been blessed with fatherhood with Ctimene; he didn't understand the sheer fondness in his friend's eyes when he regarded the infant. Eurylochus studied his captain, who had strapped the boy to his chest with a sling while scouring the horizon; babbling noises of the child filled the ship wherever he went.

Odysseus had ordered his men to watch the flying gulls, claiming the birds' flight patterns would guide them to land. In truth, it must've been a captain's ploy—a meaningless task to occupy their restless minds and hands. But as hunger gnawed at their bellies and thirst parched their throats, the men's focus could not be tethered to the sky for long, dragged back down to the agony of their own bodies.

Eurylochus paced the aisle between the rowing men, the olive planks warm beneath his sandals. The sun beat down with relentless fury, scorching their shoulders as sweat made their decade-old clothes stick to their warm flesh. The rhythmic creak of oars in oarlocks mingled with the whispered rumors passing between the exhausted men, their voices barely heard over the slap of waves against the hull and the cries of gulls overhead.

He passed Elpeanor, who wiped sweat from his eyes, his oar groaning in its lock. "By the gods, what do we feed an infant?" he rasped to his benchmate. "We’ve no wet nurse aboard."

"Forget the kid, what are we feeding ourselves?!" Perimedes complained with anguish and wrenched his oar skyward with a guttural cry, leaving Elpeanor to strain against the sudden deadweight.

Amphialus's weathered hand cracked against the back of Perimedes's head, the sound sharp even over the creaking of the ship. "Stop moaning and row!" He growled, his voice rough. "Captain said we'll reach an island soon. Have a little faith." Amphialus scolded.

Eurylochus stopped by their bench, scowling. "Row as if your lives depend on it; for they do," he thundered, his voice accustomed to command. The salty tang of sea air mixed with the sour smell of sweat-soaked men created a potent musk between the benches. The rough wood of the oars blistered their hands, each stroke sending fresh pain up their arms.

He watched Perimedes groan and fall back into rhythm. The meager rations were affecting morale, fraying the men’s spirits to threads. He closed his eyes, ran his tongue over his parched lips, and tasted salt and desperation. His lips moved in silent prayer. His calloused fingers found the medallion of Ares hidden in his tunic—a plea to the god for strength to face their fates.

Odysseus’s intellect had saved them more times than he could count. But even the sharpest blade could miss its mark when rusted by sentiment.

Eurylochus’s gaze was drawn back to Odysseus, where Polites held him in animated conversation, speaking of infant care and homecomings. But Odysseus wore not a captain's impatience, only a faint smile that carved unfamiliar lines into his face; a face that had launched their fleets and woven deceptions for a decade, now... different. The light caught the silver thread of a scar above his brow, a relic from some forgotten skirmish where Polites had earned its twin.

These two, bound since boyhood by shared battles and loyalties, spoke now of Ithaca’s olive groves and plans woven from memory. To Eurylochus, it felt more like a distant myth. 

He looked away, feeling like a boy eavesdropping on men’s secrets.

He envied Polites's naive optimism; his own vision of Ithaca was a green dream fading beneath the relentless sun, as distant as the day he’d first pledged his sword to Odysseus.

He returned his focus to the crew and guided them to the rhythm of rowing, where some had fallen behind. Hunger was a silent enemy, gnawing at discipline. A hungry soldier made mistakes; mistakes got men killed. The ship groaned like a dying beast, waves slammed against its hull, while above them, the gulls cried, flying aimlessly across the sea.

It was past noon when Odysseus allowed the men reprieve. The fleet was signaled to stop, and food rations were distributed between the 12 ships, along with the retelling of the events that followed the foundling being fished out of the water.

The men stared at their meager rations, fingers trembling as they divided the stale bread. Hunger had hollowed their faces, carving shadows beneath their cheekbones. No laughter echoed across the deck now; only the scrape of teeth against hardtack and the occasional sigh of defeat.

Odysseus handed the baby to Polites, the only soul aboard the man trusted with the child besides himself. Polites cooed and settled the child on his lap while Odysseus disappeared into the lower deck. Six hundred men watched their king leave while they gnawed on hardtack.

Lycaon broke off a piece of his stale bread, turning it over in his calloused hands. "Can babes eat bread such as this?" he wondered aloud, crumbs catching in his beard.

His answer was a murmur of confused and or clueless noises. Alas, they were six hundred men. Not a single woman on board to guide them through raising an infant. 

Amphialus, being one of the older men, shared his wisdom, "My wife used to make crushed fruit for our daughter." He sighed, looking to the sky with longing. "She must be so old by now..."

Polites jostled the baby on his hip. "A goat! If we had a goat, the baby could drink milk!" The crew stared as if he'd suggested sprouting wings.

"And how do we get a goat in the middle of the sea? On a ship?!" Eurylochus groaned, running a hand down his face. "What do we feed the goat then?"

Polites puffed his cheeks and swayed the boy on his hips, "It was a suggestion! Maybe the gods will send us something for the baby!" 

"Why don't we ask them to send a food source for the rest of us as well? We can't ask the gods for things without angering them!" Eurylochus's frustration mounted like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"Enough," Odysseus appeared, taking the Outis from Polites. The infant’s fists were tiny rosebuds clutching at air, turning to Odysseus like a sunflower. For reasons unknown, the child craved Odysseus's hold over them all. "We've been following the gulls for a while. I'm sure we'll reach an island soon." 

The crew watched their captain cut bread into long, thin sticks and soak them with water. The baby cooed in delight, tiny fists closing around the softened bread as gumless mouth worked at the morsel, drool glistening on his chin.

The crew unashamedly stared as the man who led them to war and slayed hundreds of warriors wiped the babe's chin with the edge of his own cape.

The crew exchanged glances. None dared voice what they all knew. Not that there was any doubt who would raise the boy when they returned to Ithaca.

~~~~

The sun bled into the sea, setting the waves ablaze with liquid gold. Their rations dwindled, their hopes rose and fell with each sunrise, until at last... Three days of chasing gulls ended at one dusk. The birds vanished into a silhouette of land on the horizon, a dark mountain rising from the sea.

As they drew nearer, darkness approached like a purple bruise spreading across the sky. The sun, no longer the merciless tyrant of midday, softened into a golden coin sinking in the sea. Its heat lingered on their sun-scorched shoulders, but nightfall brought the promise of reprieve and coolness. They stared at the fading light gilding across the waves, turning the water into a shimmering path that seemed to lead directly toward the island.

"Captain! I see light from that island!" Polites announced.

The men gather around the railings and look at the island where the birds fly towards. Grins split weathered faces. Men clapped each other’s shoulders, pointing at the distant shore. A tired cheer rose, the wind carrying promise with the smell of fire and food.

"It's the port of Ismarus," Odysseus murmured, his voice grave. The cheering seized in their throats.

Polites wrung his hands together, "Isn't that-?" 

"The land of the Cicones." Alkimos sneered, signaling their fleet to kill off their lights in other ships as well.

"Yes," Odysseus whispered, unusually put down, his hand resting on the back of the sleeping child strapped to his chest protectively. "They were the Trojans' allies in war."

A beat passed. The implications hung between them like a weighted net, threatening to pull them under. 

Odysseus's fingers traced the infant's curls, his gaze distant. "The gods have delivered us to a crossroads," he murmured to himself. "My brethren, what do you say? Do we raid the city or leave and take our chances on another island?"

Eurylochus’s gaze flicked from Odysseus, standing resolute at the prow, to the oarsmen slumped on their benches, exhaustion etched in every line of their bodies. "We should raid them, sack their city, and take their food supplies." Eurylochus crossed his arms, "We're currently fighting against the current, and we're low on food and nourishment. It's impossible to continue on like this." Odysseus watched his men nod in agreement with their second in command.

Odysseus breathed in slowly, his eyes locked on the distant island. "Any who oppose this course, speak now."

"Wait! There must be another way!" He spread his hands, pleading with his crewmates. "The war is over—must we seek more bloodshed? Let us leave these people in peace." His gaze flicked across the hardened faces of the men he'd fought alongside for a decade.

Perimedes rolled his eyes at their captain's best friend. "Polites, we can't just hug our hunger away. We need to feed six hundred guys!" He put his hands on his hips, scowling at the other man, "I for one cannot row another day without some real food in me!"

Several other men grumbled their agreements.

Odysseus placed a hand on Polites's shoulder, his gaze fixed on the distant shore. "If we don't get that food, our lives are lost." He murmured softly.

"If you take a life to save a life, does it justify the cost?" Polites asked his friend, his eyes imploring.

Eurylochus's fingers tightened on the ship's rail, his knuckles white. "Where was their pity when they struck our men down?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Did the Cicones show pity when their allies gutted our wounded?" His voice dropped to a blade’s edge. "Mercy is for victors, death for those who lost."

Their captain's gaze shifted between his best friend and his second in command.

Eurylochus steps to Odysseus's right, "Captain, we are the victors of the war, we don't have to ask permission or for trust now. We can raid that city, sack their town." He put a hand on top of Odysseus's shoulder, "We have to feed the men. We didn't survive the war to starve now."

Silence stretched as both sides made their statements. Their captain thought.

Odysseus sighed, "Eurylochus?"

"Yes, captain." He stepped forward.

"Rally half the troops; you'll raid the city of Ismarus tonight." Odysseus watched the lights of the city. "Our men are not to use any lethal force in this fight."

Eurylochus jolted, looking at their king. The man whose sister he had married. The man who threw an infant from a wall and now... Now he cradled another, not meeting his eyes.

"Sir, let me get this straight," Eurylochus had to hold back on his scoff, "You want no lethal force in a city-wide raid?"

"That's correct." Odysseus finally turned and met his eyes. Jaw set like stone. His eyes were alight with a cold fire. Not a muscle moved as the waves rocked the ship.

The deckboards, dark with seawater, mirrored the storm gathering in Eurylochus’s chest. "But sir, what exactly do you expect?" Eurylochus narrowed his eyes, "There's a reason I object. The second we attack, there are bound to be some deadly consequences-"

"Their leaders and warriors were all slain in Troy." Odysseus countered, his voice tightening with anger, "No lethal force, don't kill. What about that doesn't connect?" Odysseus stepped up to his second in command. Despite being shorter, their king stood regal, demanding respect. The slowly waking babe, strapped to his chest, did not diminish his intimidating pose.

"The war was full of gore; we've shed enough blood." Odysseus faced the fleet, his voice carrying across the waves to be heard onthe adjacent ships, "Troy drowned in blood! Will we add Ismarus to the list? No more. Just steal what we need and then retreat. Let us sail home with clean hands." Odysseus’s voice was a ship’s anchor- steady, immovable, dragging them all forward, as it had done in Troy. 

Eurylochus’s breath caught, objections dying in his throat.

Odysseus turned away without another word, his back like the impenetrable walls of Trojans, and he walked away.

Duty warred with doubt in Eurylochus's chest; a familiar battle, but one with no glory, only scars.

He won't even lead the raid himself. Eurylochus thought, What does he think will happen in the heat of the fight? When we are met with resistance...

Eurylochus' shoulders bore the weight of six hundred oar-strokes, each one a reminder that loyalty was a heavier burden than any shield.

He watched his captain standing at the nose of their ship; the sounds of the infant waking up and whining filled the deck, followed by their Captain's shushing voice.

~~~~

The oars slid into the water. Silence. Eurylochus’s hand rested on his makhaira's hilt. His pulse hammered against his ribs. Too quiet. Too dangerous.

The air crackled. Men gripped oars like weapons. Eyes darted. Ears strained. Every creak of their rowboats against the waves was a scream.

The island crept closer as the water turned shallow. Eurylochus’s knuckles whitened on the rail.

Shields scraped against the boards. Sandals scraped the boats as they landed ashore. The island loomed. Dark. Waiting.

Sweat stung eyes. Salt on lips. The taste of fear and anticipation hung in the air. No one spoke.

A flicker. Between the dark trees. A twig snapped. Eurylochus spun. Sword already drawn. Shadows danced. Nothing. Everything.

A flash of bronze. Eurylochus’s blood turned to ice.

The first arrow hissed. Then a scream behind Eurylochus.

Eurylochus raised his hand. The world held its breath. Then—down with a shout. The fleet surged forward like a released arrow.

Chaos erupted. Eurylochus charged. Sand flew. Blood sprayed. The world shattered into the clash of steel and screams.

~~~~

While Eurylochus led the assault on Ismarus, a different kind of tension simmered aboard the ships left behind.

Polites watched as half of their troops left for Ismarus, the air tense with the conflict between Eurylochus and their captain.

Polites didn't exactly agree with raiding the city, but at least he was reassured by Odysseus's choice. No other harm had to be done.

Odysseus already had enough on his conscience.

Ever since waking up, Outis kept crying in Odysseus's arms, where he stood isolated in the nose of their now-empty ship, trying to calm the boy with shushing noises. Where no one had yet dared approach him or offer help. Where their crew left their Captain's ship for others.

"Captain?" Polites stepped forward. Outis kept whimpering, the first time the poor baby had fussed since he arrived.

"Polites," Odysseus turned to him. Dark circles hollowed his eyes, and his hands trembled with a fine tremor. The skin of his forehead creased with exhaustion that hadn't been there even after a decade of war. "I'm not sure why he keeps crying." His voice rasped like sandpaper.

The infant’s lips worked at empty air. Tiny fists bunched and unbunched. A thin, reedy cry pierced the silence.

"Maybe he's hungry?" Polites reached forward, arms open to receive the child." Odysseus transferred Outis faster than ever, his fingers trembling as they reluctantly released the child. "Shhh, calm down, sunshine, you're alright." Polites rocked the infant, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur. His gaze darted between the babe’s toothless mouth and his despondent friend. 

Odysseus ran a hand through his salt-crusted hair, his eyes staring into the horizon, where their troops had left for Ismarus. 

Polites could sense the dim spirit of his friend as if his own. "You're unhappy," Polites murmured, petting the child. Outis's cries finally calmed to small whimpers. "What bothers you, my friend?"

Odysseus exhaled sharply and finally met his eyes. Oh, by all the gods... Even in starlight, Polites saw the depth of his friend's exhaustion. Where Odysseus let go of breath, Polites inhaled. "Ody, when was the last time you slept?"

"I haven't." His friend stared at his hands. Those same arms that had ordered the raid, palms that had slain enemies and prince Astyanax, and had cradled Outis. He kept his gaze on his trembling fingers, seeing phantom horrors Polites couldn't.

The stench of Troy's burning walls still clung to Polites's nostrils; a ghost in the gust of sea wind.

"Talk to me." Polites grabbed Odysseus's palm with his free hand, obscuring his view and dragging him away from the railing to sit with him on the damp boards, settling the hiccuping infant on his lap.

Odysseus sighed, his entire body deflating like a sail suddenly deprived of wind. In the silence and emptiness of the deck, he leaned his head on Polites's shoulder. "Every time I close my eyes, I dream of Troy," he confessed, his voice hoarse. "I feel fire on my skin, ashes choking me." Polites felt dampness on his shoulder. "I keep hearing Andromache's screams from that night..."

Polites's mind flashed back to that night in Troy - the flames painting the sky orange, the screams echoing through the streets, and most horrifying of all, the small form silhouetted against the fire as Odysseus, face set like stone, released the infant over the fall. 

Polites's shoulders tensed where Odysseus rested. He took a deep breath and reached for Odysseus's head, settling his hand over his friend's head. Odysseus's shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on his hands as though he still saw blood on them. Guilt had sunk its claws deep into his dear Odysseus's heart, and Polites saw no way to ease that pain. "Not every choice is black and white," he murmured. "You only did what you had to do..." The lie tasted bitter in his mouth. He desperately wished Odysseus had found another way, made another choice...

An infant was thrown over a wall into a fire cauldron...

Odysseus had killed an innocent baby.

Polites's breath came in shallow gasps. He pressed himself against the raised railing, fingers tightening on the child in his lap. The gods had given Odysseus another child in exchange for the one he killed. It had to be the will of the gods. It had to have been the right choice.

"I can't sleep," Odysseus insisted, but despite his words, his head pressed more heavily to Polites. "I can't let him get hurt..."

"My friend..." Polites ran his fingers through Odysseus's hair soothingly. "I'll keep my eyes on Nobody. You can rest," he reassured.

Odysseus snorted into Polites's shoulder, shoulders shaking with either a sob or a mirthful chuckle. "You'll keep your eyes on who?"

A shaky laugh escaped Polites. "You cheeky man, I'm not the one who named the boy." He wiped sweat from Odysseus's brow, leaving a smear of grime. His king, his childhood friend, Polites's closest thing to a brother... really needed some rest.

Silence. Then Odysseus leaned, really leaned, into Polites, letting his weight sag heavily against his friend. A surrender no crewmate would ever witness, this collapse of the captain’s armor was reserved for empty decks and private breaths. The sea breeze carried away a weakness only the waves could observe.

The silence stretched so long that Polites assumed his friend had finally surrendered to sleep's welcome embrace.

"Polites?" Odysseus murmured, "How long can I keep weaving this lie?"

Polites looked at the dark deck, unsure what to say. What lie did his sleep-deprived friend speak of? Did he doubt his authority over their men? Was he worried about his argument with Eurylochus?

"I'm not sure what this 'lie' is..." he started carefully, feeling Odysseus shake with renewed sobs. "And I know the world's not always pretty, and there are times it feels too hopeless to go on." Polites rested his head back against Odysseus as well, absorbing the tremors in his friend. "But no matter what, you have me. My sword, my loyalty, my life- they're all yours. I'll always be by your side. Whatever comes, we'll face it together."

Odysseus grasped Polites's chiton with trembling hands, clutching him. "I feel so lost, Poli..." His captain sobbed the admission with great shame. "I don't know what I'm doing... How can I navigate these uncharted waters? How can I keep everyone safe from my choices?"

Polites shuffled the now thankfully silent child to wrap his hand fully around Odysseus's shaking form. "Hey, that's alright. You don't have to have all the answers," Polites reassured, squeezing his friend. "I've always depended on you. You've saved me from so many threats in our lives, but just this once..." Polites held back the tears threatening to fall. "Let me be your guiding light."

Odysseus hiccuped, nodding against his shoulder silently. 

Polites cradled the whimpering infant against his chest as Odysseus’s head grew heavy on his shoulder—a sacred burden, this trust to hold two fractured souls in his arms. The child’s fretful cries softened against his tunic; Odysseus’s breath shuddered against his neck. The fragility of them both, entrusted to his hands. He anchored the moment as best as he could the restless babe, their captain undone. 

Distant noise shattered the tranquility of the moment.

A chorus of screams ripped through the stillness; first a distant howl of human agony, then the distinct smell of fire smoke on the wind.

Proof that Ismarus burned, and their peace with it.

Odysseus scrambled to his feet to look at the island again.

Where once distant lights twinkled in the city, now smoke rose to the sky, the entire city glowing as flames engulfed it.

"What have they done?" Odysseus whispered in horror.