Chapter Text
“What if there is a world where we do not have to live this way?” She says, keeping her back turned, choosing — perhaps in favor of her cowardice, — not to look at him, choosing instead or stare at the emptiness of her domain ahead, waiting with bated breath for his answer.
“Perhaps there is,” Odysseus says. His voice sounds tired, weary. Perhaps she should have chosen another time to bring about this conversation, a time when he wasn’t already exhausted from all he had gone through. But her impatience had won over her reason, as it so often did these days. “But that world is not that one, and,” he pauses for a moment as if hesitating. “I am afraid that world is out of my grasp.”
She nods, understanding. Perhaps she had always known that even the strongest of regrets would not be enough to garner forgiveness so easily. So she turns, sparing him one last glance, watching as he stares longingly at the door before him, longing for the one who stood inside, waiting, and Athena does not mean to stall their reunion even more than she already has.
“Very well,” she says, unable to stop her voice from wavering.
________
She watches from a distance for the following days. Odysseus did not settle well in Ithaca. She knew he was no doubt relieved to be back in his homeland, but she also knew the haunting images of gods, monsters, and dead comrades never truly seemed to go away.
She watches as Ithaca regained its king, as Laertes regained his son, as Telemachus regained his father, as Penelope regained her husband. Athena stands silent, invisible, and watches from afar as they make up for twenty years at war and at sea.
She watches and longs for a world where things had gone differently.
________
Athena did not know much of her grandfather.
She, of course, knew of his domain, of his history, of his ruling, the golden age — or so they called it. She knew of the prophecy he had received, the prophecy that his children would overthrow him as he had done his own father, and how that had scared him into eating his own children. She knew of how he was deceived by his children, as well as gods and creatures that had grown vengeful for the suffering they had spent in Tartarus and in his stomach, and the following punishment that ensued for him.
Perhaps if there was a way, she would have gone to the underworld and demanded his council — after all, Kronos was the Titan of time. Perhaps it was he who could explain how she had come to the situation she was in.
And where she was, was back in time, back in the past.
She stopped in her tracks when she had flown to Ithaca and caught sight of a boy, the age of ten it seemed, happily running along the island’s paths with his friends — friends who should have been long dead. One had fallen at the hands of a cyclops, the other had fallen to the Thunderbringer — looking as if all was well in the world when Athena was well aware that it was not.
But for the following days, she only stood in Ithaca’s gardens, watching, waiting, and did not try to approach him. She had condemned him for being her Warrior of the Mind, and perhaps it would have been better for him had they never met at all.
She wonders if the other gods had been affected by this sudden reverse in time, as well. After all, they were all essences of the cosmos, surely someone other than her knew? But it seems not, for there was a council meeting only days later, and everything played out as it usually did, with Poseidon and Demeter bickering over how several of Demeter's crops laid near the sea had been drowned in a flood by a tidal wave brought about by whatever had angered the earth-shaker that day.
When the meeting ended and the gods dispersed, Zeus called for her as he often did, and she felt herself involuntarily flinch at the sound of his voice. She could see his eyes narrow, but he did not comment and simply motioned for her to follow along. And that she did, even if reluctantly.
So they walked through Olympus’ gardens, through the marble columns encased by vibes, lush bushes of brilliant green swaying in the wind, and flowing fountains with glittering waters against the bright light of Helios’ sun. She tries to ignore the suffocating smell of ozone that had been clawing its way into her lungs ever since the council and does not meet his eyes, for she fears that if she did, she would not be able to prevent the torrent of thoughts that echoed you tried to kill me over and over in her head.
“What is the matter with you?” He asks, glancing at her and back to the clouds that slowly drifted through the sky.
“I've somehow traveled back to the past and it appears that nobody else seems to have any knowledge of the past few decades except for me alone,” is what she does not say. Instead, she averts her eyes and says, “Nothing is amiss,” even if the words rang empty to her own ears.
“Whatever it is, I find it would be best if you told me,” Zeus insists. But his insistence is neither commanding nor demanding, it is only an offer, an opening, and it is one she would rather not take at the moment.
“I assure you, I have it under control, father,” she says. She does not, but she does not want to admit that either.
“Very well,” Zeus dismisses.
That night, she dreams of storms and tempests and haunted eyes of a man she had failed in more ways than one.
________
It took her a ridiculously long time to realize she no longer bled, that her skin was no longer marred by cuts glowing with gold, that she no longer had stinging burns, and that her ichor no longer pooled over the floors that she walked past. It seemed as if all evidence of the past few decades were wiped away as if they did not exist at all.
But Athena knew they existed, and that was enough to ensure they did.
Or rather, she hoped it was.
But even through all of the endless questions she had of how, why, what now, she still made sure that she flew down to Ithaca every day, either choosing to be invisible or lurk in the trees as an owl and watched as Odysseus played with Eurylochus and Polites, watching as the three boys ran around the woods. Though oftentimes, the former two ran while the latter one merely followed. They acted like the children they were, but not how Athena remembered them to be.
But she still watched, watched, and relished how easily Odysseus seemed to smile these days, eyes blazing with contentment, no longer clouded by fear and paranoia from the years he spent at war and at sea.
Athena would watch and wonder how she had ever let this boy slip through her fingers.
Sometimes, she also watched this boy, content and happy as if nothing had ever gone wrong, and wondered if she had somehow dreamed the past few decades, or if they were some sort of prophetic vision. But no, prophetic visions came in vignettes, that much she knew. And dreams did not feel so real, either. Dreams did not feel so realistic, did not feel so vivid. She could still remember the feeling of burns and wounds in her body and could not shake away the feeling of regret that seemed to plague her every action.
But all of her questions were somewhat answered a few weeks later when she had come to Ithaca to see the three boys conspiring, bet over a display of stones with Odysseus leading. She had almost forgotten about her boar until she overheard their plans of how to capture the rabid animal.
“We should make sure it's completely trapped. Otherwise, it might run away,” Odysseus said, placing a large jagged stone between three smaller pebbles. The stone, she assumed, was to represent the boar; the smaller pebbles must represent him and his friends.
“But wouldn't that be dangerous?” Polites cautions, frowning slightly.
Athena listens distantly to their conversation and feels herself smiling, remembering how it had gone the first time. They had managed to succeed, with the boar cornered between the three boys. It would have almost gone perfectly until the boar turned its course and ran to attack Polites. Polites had frozen back then, unable to move before Odysseus had shoved him away and struck the beast with his spear.
She watches as the three boys ran into the woods, and it happens just as it did the first time. She watches as they manage to corner the boar, watches as the boar turns to attack Polites, watches as Odysseus shoves the other boy away and lands the killing blow, and watches as the three boys cheer in celebration of their victory.
She watches from the shadows and does not hesitate to smile.
They all ran back to the palace, no doubt excited to boast about their victory to the whole island, excitedly chattering as they recounted their journey and ran up the palace stairs. Athena watched, perched on the branches of a tree beside the windows as the three boys enthusiastically recounted their story to an amused Laertes, Anticlea, and Eurycleia.
It is only a few days later that he returns to the garden alone, eyes fluttering across the greenery as if he expected something. So she stood and waited, knowing what would come next.
“Show yourself,” he says, circling the clearing, eyes darting back and forth as if he expected another boar to come running towards him without warning. “I know you're watching me, show yourself.” Athena does not. She plans to do it eventually, of course, but for now, she silently stands there and watches as he turns away from where she is stood in the gardens and loudly — and falsely — proclaims: “I can see you!"
Still, she humors him. “How can you see through my spell?” she asks, lifting her invisibility and trying to hide her quiet amusement as he jumps and turns to her, his eyes flickering with recognition at the sight. It was painfully obvious who she was, with her wings spread, spear and aegis in hand. She tilts her head, examining him, waiting for what he would do next. Or rather, if it would mirror what he did before.
His expression suddenly twists with that familiar sense of mischief she had so often seen back in those days. He was Hermes’ grandson, and Odysseus took to lying and mischief like a musician would a lyre. “I was lying, and you fell for my bluff!”
Athena does not confirm nor deny his claims, simply choosing to roll her eyes, raising a hand of acknowledgment. “Well done. Enlighten me, what is your name?” She already knew, of course, but she still chose to test him.
And he reacts the way she expects her to. “You first, and maybe I will follow,” he challenges, the same way he did the first time.
“Unfortunately, you will find that two can partake in this game,” she opposes.
Odysseus only grins in amusement, shaking his head. “Do not be modest; I am well aware of who you are, goddess,” he says, allowing a flicker of reverence to pass through his expression as he raises his arms as if imitating her wings. “You are Athena.”
“That I am,” she nods and lowers herself to one knee, meeting his level. Gods were often taller than mortals, looming almost threateningly. She has only ever done this for one other person, and that was Telemachus. In Olympus, lowering herself to even a minor god would appear embarrassing, even more so when it was to a mortal, but she could scarcely care about that anymore. “If you are looking for a mentor, I will assure you your time will be well spent,” she offers.
It has been a decision she had spent the last few weeks pondering upon. Because perhaps he truly was better off without her. She would only condemn him to a war, to twenty years away from home. But she also knew his talents as a warrior were not given by her alone. He had his own wit, his own talent, his own strengths, and it was those that had drawn her to him in the first place.
And even she wasn't sure whether or not she would be able to prevent the Trojan War. So even if his departure was inevitable, she would make sure he was as trained and ready as he could ever be, if that was even possible for a mortal.
Odysseus’ eyes lit up with clear excitement, though he quickly masks it, trying — and failing, — to wear an expression of calm, as it did not succeed in hiding his delight. “Sounds like a plan, Goddess and man, bestest of friends?” He proclaims with a grin, raising his hand to her.
This time, she does not decline his offer, even if her attempt to return a high five appeared rather awkward. “We'll see where it ends.”
And this time, she would make sure it ends well.
________
It was then that she realized that she really had gone back in time. If things would proceed the same, then she would need to prevent Odysseus’ departure to Troy. She would have to make sure Eris wouldn't throw her apple, would have to make sure Aphrodite did not offer Paris the most beautiful woman in the world and would have to make sure Helen of Sparta was not kidnapped.
But she also wonders how easy it would be to prevent. Surely the fates must have been disturbed by the sudden reversal of their strings— and prophecies were hard to defy, even for a god. A visit to Hades was growing more tempting. But according to Zeus’ words, Kronos had been cut into pieces in Tartarus, so she didn't know if he would be of any help at all.
She wasn't sure if Hades would allow her, either. Her uncle was rather calm, but he would not simply allow entry to the underworld for no reason. Perhaps she could tell him of her true intentions, but she doubted any other god would ever believe her tale and would rather not be labeled mad or hysterical. Otherwise, that would just be another obstacle to achieving her goal.
But for now, she trains with Odysseus.
But it was different from the way she trained him in the past, the past that seemed to be forgotten by everyone but her. She trains him in the way she did Telemachus for those short few weeks. Softer, kinder, more gentle, more considerate. She remembers how rough she had been with him, often snapping echoing sentiments of: “An enemy would not show you mercy if you let your exhaustion win against you on a battlefield. You can rest once you are dead, and not a moment before.”
She, for all her knowledge, was unaware of the limits when it came to a mortal's body back then, often pushing whoever she had chosen to guide to fight, fight, and not give up; a moment of rest might only cause more vulnerability. But now, she trains him differently. She trains him how she used to train Telemachus, allowing him to rest whenever he had fallen out of breath. But Odysseus was often insistent, pushing for more, insisting that he could go on much longer, even if he was already heavily panting and trembling from the exertion. Still, she often found herself smiling at his determination.
Perhaps she knew now why he never protested before.
Sometimes, when they sparred, she found her thoughts wondering. Sometimes, it felt as if she were manipulating him, raising strings in the way a puppeteer would a marionette. She had trained him and welcomed his affections as if she had not abandoned him once before, and she had given him the title as her Warrior of the Mind without telling him of the weight of that title.
But still, they trained, and fought, and she would grant his request for her to stay after training sessions and sit with him under an olive tree, listening to him chattering away about Anticlea, Laertes, Ctimene, Polites, Eurylochus, about whatever filled his mind that day. She would sit and listen in the way she had never allowed herself to in the past.
There were also times she wondered whether this reverse of time was a curse, another form of condemnation after she dreams yet again of storms, thunder, and a helpless cry of her name at the edge of a cliff one night. After all, Odysseus had finally returned home back then. What if she were unable to change anything, what if she were unable to stop him from twenty more years suffering the wrath of gods and monsters and screams of comrades slain?
But every day, she would fly down to Ithaca and watch as this small boy, so different from the man he knew him to be, run around the forest with his friends, help the swineherds, help his father in the vineyards with smiles as bright as Apollo’s golden sun and think that maybe, just maybe, it would all be worth it, if she could diminish even the smallest bit of his suffering, somehow.
This was what she had asked for, was it not? A world where they wouldn't need to live the way they had before. Perhaps this was her chance to—
Her spear suddenly slips through her hands, and clatters on the grass. Odysseus is staring up at her, delighted fervor in his eyes as he happily exclaims: “I got you!”
Until he blinks, his own words seeming to sink into his head. He had beat her, with far too much ease, too. He looks at her curiously, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Athena? Are you all right?”
His kind words only seem to burn her, because she knew she did not deserve them. It burned in the way she imagined Icarus must have felt when he flew towards the sun, warm, comforting, but burning all the same. Perhaps she should tell him, it would be right to tell him. But there was a small, cowardly part of her, that feared he would hate her as he used to if she were to tell him of what she had done and what he had to do as a result.
“Well done,” is what she chooses to say, and she hopes that the strain in her voice is not audible enough for him to hear.
“You should have easily been able to block that,” Odysseus said, frowning. It was a simple strike, one a goddess of wisdom should not have lost too so easily. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. All is well,” she says, even as the assurance rings empty to her own ears.
But it should be, because all was well. She could start over, she could fix everything. But still, she looked at Odysseus now, still a boy, and could not rid herself of the image of his haunted eyes and bloodstained hands — all because of her.
Because everything was her fault, to an extent. Perhaps if she had not fought over the golden apple, perhaps if she had not forsaken him to a war, perhaps if she had not abandoned him on the cyclops’ island, perhaps if only she had stayed and had explained instead of letting his grief fuelled words attack her to a personal degree, perhaps if she had put down her pride, he would not have needed to suffer as he did.
There was regret, but that regret seemed even harder to stomach when the events that caused it seemed no longer plausible to anyone but her.
There were times when she did want to tell him, times when she would dream once again of haunted eyes and could not chase away the thought that he should hate her for all she had done to him and she would want to crumble when those eyes who had every right to despise her lit up with such reverence.
But Athena, for all her claims of being the goddess of wisdom, knew, somewhere deep in her, that she was a coward. So she looked upon this young prince, who would grow to be a king, then her warrior, then the sacker of cities, and could not find it in herself to tell him of the truth because she was terrified he would hate her.
“If there's anything wrong — I can help!” Odysseus offers. And his smile still burns.
“No,” she declines. “I appreciate the offer, but it is not needed.”
The days pass, and their training sessions continue, and she finds herself dreaming of a past no longer present, of a blinded cyclops and the wrath of Poseidon and words of her loneliness spat in a fervor of anger.
But even so, every time she returned to Ithaca, Athena looks upon Odysseus and cannot find herself to tell him of that past, the past that she would do everything she could to prevent from happening again.
________
The years pass, and Odysseus grows to be eleven, then twelve, and he grows under her watchful gaze. He grows as a warrior, grows as a boy, and grows in all the ways she remembers him growing in that long-forgotten past. She still watches as he played with his friends, mingled with the citizens, helped the swineherds, and excitedly ran up to her whenever she appeared before him no matter the numerous times she had already done so before, watching and relishing the image of the boy whom she had let go so easily back then.
They spent time together after training, and during the times he would run out of things to say, he would ask her about Olympus, about the other gods, and listen with reverence as she told him tales from Mytikas where most of the gods resided.
And during those times, she did not hesitate to smile.
“Did you ever play ephedrismos with your friends when you were younger?” He asks hands outstretched on the grass that tickled his cheek, his head laying on his palms, fingers locked.
Athena leaned against the tree and pushed back thoughts of a water nymph and a daughter of Triton who had died by her spear. “I was never a child,” is what she chooses to say instead.
“Oh,” Odysseus said, remembering. “Well, what did you do with your friends, then?” He asks instead.
Murdering them is what she does not say. She would rather not scare him away, after all.
But the days passed, and he grew under her mentorship, and he played with his friends, and Athena still dreamt of a past long forgotten but still relished in the golden days that she would no doubt carry for as long as time allowed her to.
But it is not all peaceful, for at thirteen, Odysseus tells her of how Laertes seemed to be growing more hysterical, and in the same year, he is crowned king because his father was far too unstable to continue ruling.
And she watched, invisible to everyone but him, in the corner of the throne room as he kneeled before a man, and a crown was placed upon his head. She watched as Odysseus recited oaths of protection for Ithaca and watched as the crowd cheered for a king who was younger than most of those who stood in the pews.
She watched as Odysseus’ eyes scanned the throne room and met her own. She watches how, despite it all, a grin tugs at his lips, and his eyes glimmered, bright as Helios, the golden crown placed upon the head of someone far too small to bear its weight, shining bright against the chestnut brown of his curls. And, she does not hesitate to return it.
At fourteen, the burden of royalty falls upon his shoulders, and she spends several nights guiding him through a flurry of reports and state matters that he finds incomprehensible after spending several nights awake. At fifteen, Helen of Sparta was declared to be of age for marriage, and suitors, including Odysseus himself, gathered in the Spartan citadel to ask for the most beautiful woman in the world to be their wife.
They both knew in a sense that he stood little chance. Ithaca was a small island compared to Sparta, Pylos, Mycenae, and several others. She doubted a princess like Helen, who raised and held with the reverence that one would give a goddess, would choose the king of small, tiny Ithaca.
But she still urged him to go, because she knew of who would be there and how smitten he would be for her.
So she appears invisible to one of the evening feasts and is unsurprised to find him staring at a girl with jet black hair and warm brown eyes who was sitting next to Clytemnestra and Helen at the head table, aimlessly chattering with her two cousins.
Penelope is just as Athena remembers her, bright, intelligent, and as witty as Odysseus.
Athena glances back at her warrior, looking as if he would have been drooling if only he had not been raised to be a prince and a king who had been told numerous times how much appearance mattered. She does not hesitate to smile, gently taking him in quick thought and lightly elbowing his shoulder. “You are aware you look ridiculous staring, yes?” She tells him, not bothering to prevent the amused grin that pulls at her lips when he flushed red.
“I am not staring,” he dismissed, though they both seemed unconvinced.
She finds that she is right to be, for just as she predicted, only days later does he come running up to her, singing songs proclaiming his love for Penelope and practically begging her to help him earn her favor.
“I am not a goddess of love,” is what she tells him, but she still stands by and watches as he spends most of his time with Penelope, unlike the rest of the suitors who tried to earn King Tyndareus’ favor for Helen’s hand in marriage, and she watches how Penelope giggled when his usual eloquence seemed for fail him, leaving him to be a stuttering mess.
By the time Helen’s husband is to be declared, Zeus had called for another council meeting, and she knew displeasing her father would not do her any favors, so she informs Odysseus she might be absent for a while and makes her way to Olympus.
The meeting goes as it usually does. Athena sits by her father's side and curses herself for having to restrain her own body from flinching when he raised his voice and wanting to turn away from the reeking sense of ozone. What happened in the Arena had happened years ago — if anything, it had not happened at all by this point. But Athena still foolishly cannot let it go.
So she sits and impatiently waits as the other Olympians bicker over trivial matters and raise inquiries about minor inconveniences and obeys her father when he asks her to follow him once again. She has never felt the title of favorite daughter burn as badly as it did in that moment.
But still, she returns to Sparta, to Odysseus, and is pleased to see him giddy, only to feel dread claw into her chest as he tells her of an oath to Helen.
She realizes, then, what a foolish mistake she had made in leaving. It was the same oath, she knew, the same oath that had condemned him to fight in Troy, the same oath that had forced his hand into a war he so desperately tried not to join, and the same oath that would bind him to sail away from his family.
She curses herself for having let her guard fall enough to allow him to make that oath and for failing her promise of protecting him.
She needed to prevent the war now more than ever.
________
At the age of sixteen, Odysseus returns from another visit to Sparta and immediately starts planning construction around the palace and carving the trunks of an olive tree, where she knew he and Penelope’s brilliant marital bed would soon lay.
At seventeen, he excitedly tells her news of their engagement, elated at the confirmation of his marriage with Penelope. And at eighteen, Athena watches from a corner of the hall as they are pronounced husband and wife, and does not hesitate to smile.
She chooses not to interrupt his day, watching from a distance as he interacts with his groomsmen, Eurylochus and Polites, the former who he had said would soon be married to his sister Ctimene, and watches as he dances with Penelope. It is only near the end of the evening when he calls for her, does she appear.
“Congratulations,” she nods and watches as his already bright smile somehow grows tenfold.
The years pass in a flurry of gold. Odysseus introduces her and Penelope; she watches as the couple happily runs through Ithaca’s streets and does not hesitate to smile when Odysseus tells her that Penelope is with child.
She allows the time to slip through her fingers before she realizes Peleus is holding his wedding ceremony, Eris will soon throw her apple, and Athena has found herself far too caught up in Ithaca and has not drafted even a semblance of a plan.
So she enters Peleus’ wedding ceremony with the rest of the gods and watches and waits. He and Thetis were practically already married by this point. After all, the nymph had been promised to him they already had a son, though an official wedding was never held. So here she was, waiting for Eris and her apple of discord and cursing her stupidity.
When Eris throws the golden apple and it is proclaimed to belong to the fairest in the room, she watches as the apple gets caught between several female goddesses but interjects when it is left to Aphrodite and Hera. They do not listen, and they are still led to Paris despite her desperate protests.
Athena, in her desperation, offers him the greatest kingdom, everlasting wisdom, and the title of being the greatest warrior and the most powerful man. Hera offers him wealth, power, land, and lordship. Aphrodite offers him the most beautiful woman in the world. But even so, all of her efforts fail to futility.
Paris still chooses Aphrodite.
Helen is still kidnapped.
Athena had failed.
So she arrives at Ithaca's gardens a few days later as she had so many times before. But this time, there was a cold ache that had seeped into her chest, and she bore news of her failure, even if Odysseus did not know the failure was hers. But when she appears, she finds him and Penelope sitting under an olive tree and stops when she realizes what Penelope is holding in her arms.
She had known Telemachus was to be born soon, but the thought had slipped her mind in her flurry of panic about the golden apple. So she freezes now, seeing the sleeping child in Penelope’s lap, only to return from the fog that had settled over her when Odysseus excitedly called: “Athena!”
She turns to him, seeing him running over as he so often did, but more careful this time, gently shielding the infant that lay in his arms, his smile as bright as the sun as he held him towards her.
And Athena hesitates, as she did the first time. But this time, it was because she looked upon the sleeping infant now and thought of how she had once again failed him as well, as she had also failed his father. But Odysseus glances at her before his lips pull into a teasing grin. She already knew what he would say, again.
“Does the goddess of wisdom not know how to hold a baby?” He teases.
Once again, she chooses to stay silent, fondly roll her eyes, and gently take the infant in her arms. Telemachus looks just like Odysseus as she had remembered him to be. Except his small eyes, which open to be the same brown shade as Penelope's. Telemachus coos and his small hands grasp her thumb.
Despite that ever-present chill in her chest, Athena does not hesitate to smile.
She could tell him another time.
That night, she dreams once again of wooden horses, Odysseus agonizing over throwing an infant off the walls of Troy, and the blinded eye of a cyclops.
________
In the end, she need not tell him, for only a few days later a messenger from Mycenae appears in Ithaca and tells Odysseus of the war.
He tells her of his plan to act as if he had gone mad. Odysseus could both fight and strategize, but Athena knew that his witty and calculating mind were his most valuable assets. She had titled him her warrior of the mind, after all.
And he acts well. She would have almost believed him to be mad if he had not told her of his plan directly. He wore women's clothes when leaving the palace, sometimes even inside to erase suspicion. He ate like a rabid dog in front of the messengers and guests, his cutlery discarded, and spun ridiculous tales that sounded as if they did truly come from a madman.
Until the messenger, Palamedes had forcefully taken Telemachus from Penelope’s arms and held a sword to his small body. Odysseus could have almost killed the man in a fit of fury. Perhaps he would have, but he could only do so much when Telemachus was in his arms and Penelope, who had thought her son to be dead only moments before, was weeping beside him.
And Athena watches, frozen, and curses herself for not being present in the past. Because perhaps if only she had known if she had known when he would instigate the oath if she had known of what lengths the messenger would have gone to, she would have had a better chance of preventing his departure.
So she stands there, staring helplessly at the man she had once again failed and cursing both the past and the future for having not given her enough knowledge.