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Word that Doom Incarnate had entered the Crossroads had already been passed to Odysseus twice before the Shades began gathering about his table in earnest, hissing and chattering, struggling to keep their already nebulous shapes.
Doom is here, came the whisper barely voiced, the speaker indistinguishable. Odysseus closed his eyes briefly, let his hands freeze upon his reports for just a moment – the Shades liked to see him as discomforted as they were by bad news.
“You’re sure?”
Of course, of course, of course, came the hiss from the little figures crowding him, borrowed from the wind through the leaves and rustling of clothing. Many of them had lost their voices long ago, could only demonstrate their feelings with exaggerated expressions in the wordless way of Shades rendered down to their purest essence, no longer enough psyche to speak.
“The Goddess invited him, I heard,” Odysseus said, hands resuming their motions, calmly folding the parchment before him carefully and neatly, turning his already nonsense letters into an entirely different cypher. “It is… unexpected that he would actually accept, I grant you, but—”
There was a disdainful shudder that ran through the Shades, their flickering expressions settled in unison to discontent.
“There is no reason to assume he means the Goddess or our cause ill.”
It’s Doom, the Shades didn’t say. He couldn’t help but be what he was.
“I hear you,” Odysseus said, turning to look at the largest Shade, representative of the rest – still intact enough, just, to speak on occasion rather than emote. “I do. But... we’ve met ours already, haven’t we, Eurylochus? He will pay us no mind. What I need to know is if he’s a threat to the Goddess, to the mission, or to the safety of this camp. Those are the only questions I need answered regarding him and his presence here.”
The Shade’s face curdled, became a picture of contempt. Odysseus turned away sharply, pretended to watch Hecate chanting at her cauldron. Somewhere beyond the light of the fire the antlered shape of Doom stood in the distance, staring in the same direction.
There was a chill wind about the Crossroads. Odysseus felt himself shudder briefly, hunching his shoulders against the shiver down his spine. He’s watching you, came the thought, impossible to tell if it was voiced by the unease of the Shades or solely in his head, his own gut instinct speaking.
The distance was enough that he could not see much more than a silhouette – certainly not the eyes of Doom or where they might be gazing. He felt them nonetheless.
He tapped his fingers against the table meditatively, closing his eyes after a moment to try and place the tune. A snatch of half-forgotten siren song? No, not quite, though it had been woven faintly through it. His wife at her loom, humming loudly to indicate he should stop intruding upon her space and leave her and her women to their weaving, shoo, Odysseus. He stopped tapping and opened his eyes again.
There was something familiar about Doom’s silhouette, he realised. He had known it the moment he saw it, but once the shock of instinctive recognition wore off there was also the sense that he had seen it before, out of the very corner of his eye – at the gates of Ilium as the wooden horse disgorged its secret, watching from beyond the sheep-pen of Polyphemus, hidden among the giant figures of the Laestrygonians as their rocks crashed into sea and ships – never close and clear enough to say with surety that it had not been some trick of light or shadow. It had not been Odysseus who met his Doom on those occasions, after all.
Drawn by some terrible instinct for confirmation he began to walk towards Nemesis, skirting the light of the cauldron fire. The horned head did not turn to follow him, yet the sensation of new eyes upon him did not cease.
“Nemesis,” he greeted as he came within earshot and she turned to look at him, frowning.
“Ugh,” she said, and he laughed, feeling the tension in his back and shoulders ease a little.
“I hear a family reunion is in order,” he said lightly, teasing. “Dare we hope Doom is at the very least a neater visitor than dear Strife?”
“For someone who claims to hate fishing you sure do a lot of it,” Nemesis said, rolling her eyes, but she settled into a more casual stance, hand going from gripping Stygius to merely holding. “Feh. You think we all know each other so well?”
“Obviously not,” Odysseus said, grinning. “Although I must say, a mortal might think you and he have some working relation at least – is not your Divine Retribution often someone’s Doom?”
“How dare you,” Nemesis said flatly, and he held up his hands, backing away a casual step, laughing.
“Beg pardon,” he said. “I won’t suggest as such again, I promise you.”
“You’d better not,” she said. She turned, the plates of her armour clinking slightly, too well-made and maintained to do something so harsh as clank, and frowned as she looked towards Melinoë’s distant tent. “Nothing good happens when Moros turns up,” she said.
“Well, it’s in the name, isn’t it,” Odysseus said, and she shot him a look.
“It’s in the domain. We’re not Olympians. The children of Nyx are what we do, our aspect is our purpose and we are bound to it.”
“Hm,” Odysseus murmured, glancing at gleaming Stygius and away. So that was why Hecate would not grant Nemesis the task with which she burdened Melinoë. Above and below was chaos and disorder and while Eris was clearly thriving Nemesis was probably the weakest she had ever been, nowhere near as inescapable as she should be, what with no one being judged, no one getting what they deserved.
He was not sure they ever had, but he kept that thought very firmly to himself. The will of the gods was the will of the gods and his mortal life was done. No use resenting any of it.
“Is he likely to stay? Will it have an effect upon the task of the Goddess if he does?”
“Straight to it, that’s better,” Nemesis said approvingly, evidently considering it more important to reward his incredibly rare foray into straightforwardness than react to the reminder that Melinoë’s task was not hers. “Who knows?”
“Oh come now—”
“You asked, I answered,” Nemesis said, glancing down at him with a sardonic smile, pale gold eyes bright with malicious amusement, before shrugging her broad shoulders. “He’ll probably go again soon enough. The Fates keep him on a tight leash.”
Then what is he doing here? Odysseus did not ask, saying instead, “Good to know. I truly do hope he is neater than Eris, at least.”
“Hmph. No doubt. The Fates would never stand for mess they didn’t make themselves.”
“A terrifying thought,” Odysseus said lightly, not surprised to hear her scoff as he moved on, winding his way towards Melinoë’s tent, well aware she would not have returned just yet.
“Odysseus.”
He stopped promptly at Hecate’s voice, turning his head slightly to keep an eye upon what would have stopped him short regardless if she had not spoken – the scroll of minor prophecies unfurled where any might read it, the figure beside it preventing just that for most.
At a glance, Doom had the ashen skin of all the Nightborn Odysseus had seen. He had the snow pale hair of sleeping Hypnos rather than the starless black of Nemesis, and the royal purple eyes of Eris – he had never seen the eyes of Hypnos open, and so did not know if that was another trait the brothers might share – but like Nemesis he was clearly a fighter, broad and well-muscled, something made especially evident by his armour, or lack thereof. Curious that he should cover his arms and shoulders and leave his torso entirely bare. But then, gods did not have to be practical about armour. Odysseus rather respected Nemesis for actually understanding the point of wearing it, and he would bet upon her winning a wrestling match any day besides.
He hadn’t been quite sure what he expected Doom to look like – more like grim Charon, perhaps? – and yet seeing him he was exactly as Odysseus felt he probably should have expected. Very clearly a son of Nyx, for all he had never seen the goddess save the traces of her in the myriad faces of her children, and a rather handsome one too – no wonder mortals seemed drawn to him despite themselves.
“Madam,” he said to Hecate, bowing just deeply enough to convey respect without forcing him to entirely lose sight of the most recent child of Nyx to find and enter the Crossroads – his stance had shifted slightly when Hecate had called Odysseus’ name, grown more focused. There was no threat from Moros that Odysseus could sense – not that Hecate would tolerate it in any case – but there was something intent in the way he now studied Odysseus, far more overtly than Odysseus was studying him.
“Heard about our new arrival, did you? Come to ascertain fact from fiction firsthand?”
“Just a little worried about the potential ramifications,” Odysseus said easily, moving closer to the great cauldron Hecate stood by to say quietly, “It bodes rather ill, does it not? Doom joining us here?”
“Lord Moros was invited, I think you’ll find.”
“All the children of Nyx are but that doesn’t mean they all show up,” Odysseus said. “Is it a brief visit, as with Master Charon or Eris? Or do appropriate lodgings need to be found? They’ll have to be away from the busier areas of the camp, or risk disrupting the spirit paths, the Shades aren’t going to want to risk getting too close, and I need their information promptly, not delayed because they felt the need to divert themselves to avoid him.”
“The Shades will make do if they must, and if lodgings are required I will be the one to decide them; do not let our guest distract you from your current project. ‘Tis too important to concern yourself with such trifles.”
“I’d hardly call the embodiment of Doom a trifle,” Odysseus said, glancing briefly towards Moros, noting his bright purple gaze fixed upon the two of them before focusing on Hecate again. “And I’ve been working through the options, and have eliminated the least likely prospects. All that remains is the matter of deciding the best, inasmuch as the word applies. Give me a few nights more and I’ll know the only path to take.”
She nodded approvingly, and he cleared his throat before saying tentatively, “The Goddess…”
“Melinoë invited him. We can but hope she knew what she was doing when she did so, for if there is a burden to be borne from that choice, it must be hers – don’t fret so, Odysseus,” she chided, and he did his best to rein in his apprehension, quickly smooth his furrowed brow. “Melinoë is a goddess grown, and his presence here could just as easily represent Doom for our enemy, don’t you think?”
“We can but hope,” Odysseus said.
Lord Moros was in fact a better guest than Eris by just about every measure Odysseus could think of, not that that was a particularly hard task. He seemed polite and well-mannered and at the very least made an actual attempt not to be a nuisance, something Eris did at every opportunity. If there was a threat in his presence it seemed no more than the one any handsome youth could be to the good sense of a young woman with less need for recreation than Melinoë – or so Odysseus might have thought if not for the skin-crawling sensation of being watched that afflicted him so often, the knowledge that settled upon him like the heaviest of crowns that there was something nearby that could destroy him utterly without even noticing… and it was noticing him.
It was a sensation, the Shades were happy to complain to him, that seemed common among those that had the displeasure of seeing him in their usually brief mortal lives. Odysseus had lived longer than many of his contemporaries – ten years of war had done for many and another ten years at sea had meant that his return to Ithaca had eventually involved a long list of gone names and passed crowns, of ties ended and trades re-negotiated – but he had certainly seen the Doom of others often enough that he was easily accepted as part of that company.
While he was convinced that the Shades were not lying to him and that they did feel some innate and instinctive discomfort at the presence of Lord Moros, he was quietly certain and rather unnerved by the thought that the feeling of being observed was a separate thing. Related, certainly – he was sure it was hardly a coincidence that he started feeling watched the moment Moros settled into the Crossroads – but he and the rest of the Shades were not in fact having the same experience.
The problem was he couldn’t think what Moros could possibly want with him. He was already dead. If the dire, abiding vengeance of the all-destroying god had not been placed upon him when he entered the realm of Hades the second, more permanent time, it seemed unlikely he had managed to earn it since. Though not impossible, he had to admit.
If he had an idea of what Moros wanted he could bargain, he could trade, he could do whatever he had to do to at least last long enough to see Melinoë’s task done, his contract with Hecate fulfilled – Doom could not be avoided, only ever delayed. A brief delay for a god, however, could be many years as a mortal counted them.
The tiny spirits that had been hovering near his table scattered, diving into nearby bushes, and Odysseus turned with a ready smile and welcoming posture, already knowing who approached.
Up close, the eyes of Moros were not in fact quite the same shade as those of Eris, though they were both brilliantly unnatural, a colour more befitting a gemstone or dye than an iris. Odysseus found himself reminded of the richly dyed blankets upon his wedding bed – almost a perfect match in the wavering candlelight – a thought he promptly resolved never to acknowledge or touch again.
“Good evening, Lord Moros. I hope your stay at the Crossroads thus far has been pleasant?”
“My greetings to you,” Moros said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. Odysseus might have stifled a laugh with anyone else, noticing the care in his movements caused by one of his few pieces of armour – the wicked curved point of his gorget resting like a dagger upon his sternum, ready at any wrong movement to pierce the breast it was supposed to guard. He was not remotely inclined to laugh at Moros. “And my thanks for your kind welcome. The Crossroads are an adjustment for me, but one I find I do not mind.”
“Delighted to hear it,” Odysseus said, darting a glance beyond Moros. Every Shade that had previously been in sight had mysteriously absented themselves – they were not adjusting as fast as Moros it seemed. “If you’ll excu—”
“Would you be willing – that is, would you care to join me in the taverna?” Moros said quickly, and Odysseus blinked, letting his hand settle upon the table behind him, steadying himself discreetly. “I would like to speak with you.”
“Ah. Well, when you ask so politely…”
“It is not… The taverna is the appropriate place for casual socialisation, yes?”
“Yes,” Odysseus said, pushing himself away from his work table and leading the way towards the taverna with the same resolve as a man heading to the gallows rather than a place to drink and make merry, frantically trying to ascertain Moros’ motives. “This way.”
“The Princess said that you enjoy spending time there,” Moros said, long legs keeping pace with ease, his hand upon the hilt of his strange needle-like sword to steady it, his head turned to keep Odysseus within sight. “I have procured a bottle of refreshment I hope suits your taste.”
“Oh, I’m sure—” Odysseus started to say, only for his gaze to fall upon a bottle of Ambrosia set upon the table Moros led him to once they entered the taverna’s clearing and cut himself off. He was afflicted by the sudden feeling of having made a considerable misstep, impossible to entirely correct.
“Here,” Moros said unnecessarily, gesturing for him to sit, and the sense of vertigo intensified.
“You spoil me, offering Ambrosia at… almost first greeting,” Odysseus said, tentatively nudging the bottle away, towards Moros, from where it had been placed exactly centre upon the table. “Even the Goddess had to work up to it, and we’ve known each other…” He paused, frowning slightly. “Actually, you know, I’m not entirely sure. Gods age differently, of course, and with Chronos… Well, time is currently somewhat ill-defined for those of us previously used to keeping track of it.”
“I must admit, I am unfamiliar with the customs here,” Moros said apologetically, even as he began to pour what Odysseus assumed would be his own cup, until he offered it across the table with a somewhat awkward hopeful smile. “I shall endeavour to follow the gifting patterns more familiar to you in future. I hope you will still partake – I assure you, I offer it as measure of my esteem for you only, and do not consider it to place you under any obligation to me, nor do I expect any reciprocation.”
“Fortunate, for I cannot afford to do so,” Odysseus said lightly, taking the cup reluctantly after a moment of frantic consideration both for and against accepting. It seemed much heavier in his own hands than it had looked while held by Moros, as if its contents were actual liquid gold. “Ambrosia is not easy for a Shade to come by, I’m afraid.”
“Nor is it for myself, usually,” Moros said. “But I have had ample occasions to acquire the currency the Broker prefers, so here at least it was simple enough to trade for a bottle to share with you.”
Ample occasions to acquire bones – well of course Doom would have, Odysseus thought. He took a careful sip of Ambrosia, wishing – probably the first time anyone ever had – that it was wine he could feel free to gulp with abandon instead. He licked his lips, and caught bright amethyst eyes darting down to track the movement.
“As you say,” he said, shrugging a little as if it didn’t matter. Seeking to make light of it and unable to help himself, he joked, “Who am I to say no to the food of the gods?”
He meant it entirely in jest, only for Moros to respond earnestly, “You are Odysseus of Ithaca. Sacker of cities, renowned for trickery and cunning, man of many turns and hero of mortalkind. If you would prefer to accept just the one cup to be polite, then—”
“Uhm, that’s… hah, I was joking, milord. I am not saying no to your kindness, I assure you.”
“Oh,” Moros said, ducking his head a little as if embarrassed. “I’m glad. Still, I should have asked others beforehand. It is only… I wanted to make a good impression, I suppose.”
There was an untruth in his words Odysseus could sense – not a lie, but not entirely honest, a single facet of the truth. He considered the likelihood that it was merely the type of white lie that oiled social interaction – of course I am delighted to meet you! – and dismissed it, warily, with the view that if he must he could reconsider it later.
“It is my error,” Moros said, earnest as a first-time suitor fretting over the adequacy of his gift. “I know better now, and will follow the correct etiquette next time.”
“Next time,” Odysseus echoed, carefully neutral.
“I am eager to know you better,” Moros said, as if those weren’t words to put a chill down a mortal spine, send a man hieing to the Oracle to beg a way to avert their fate. “Is it not how it is done here? I have seen the Princess offer you gifts – as she does Nemesis, and Dora, and even Eris.”
He meant he had seen Odysseus accept them, and would be unlikely to take any prettily worded excuse Odysseus could offer more than once.
“It is how the Goddess chooses to do things,” Odysseus said carefully. “You will not offend if you do not. It is not expected of the children of Nyx to offer anything to the Crossroads or its inhabitants. You are all welcome by Hecate’s oath.”
“Ahh. Then it is my choice, and I may choose to gift you something regardless?”
“...You may,” Odysseus said. “I can hardly stop you.” He smiled, and spread his hands in a helpless welcoming gesture. “What man doesn’t like a gift now and then?”
Moros smiled, transforming his usually serenely disinterested face. “I do not know about mortal men, but I certainly liked receiving an offering.”
“I do not doubt,” Odysseus said, picking up his cup and raising it towards him before taking a deep swallow that did nothing to soothe his nerves, however light it made him feel. “But of course such a thing is different for a god.”
“Not so different, I think,” Moros said lowly, watching him drink. “What does Ambrosia taste like, to a mortal?”
“To a Shade,” Odysseus corrected. Mortals were fine playthings for gods. Shades were lost petteia stones, captured by the unbeatable opponent. One of them should remember that. “It is like… suddenly being able to taste a colour, or see a sound. It cannot be described in mortal terms because there is no comparison that could possibly be made. Though we used to make them, of course – after returning from a long journey a man’s first bite of bread baked upon his own hearth might be as glorious as Ambrosia, or the wine of this or that vineyard was as sweet as Nectar, and so on. It never was.”
“And your journey was so very long,” Moros said, his voice sympathetic for all his eyes betrayed him – like most he was more interested in the dangers upon the way. Well of course he would be – every one of them had been his in some way for Odysseus’ fleet.
“It was,” Odysseus agreed after a long moment, staring into his cup. He could feel Moros studying him, and waited for the inevitable query for more detail – about the Laestrygonians, perhaps, or the construction of the horse, the stark choice between Scylla and Charybdis, the screams of men eaten by Polyphemus—
“All gods know each other, no matter how far they live from one another – at least, we know each other for gods, regardless of disguise. But mortals have no such recognition of each other, and must use other means, is that not so?”
“It is,” Odysseus said warily, startled by his line of inquiry and frowning slightly in anticipation of some kind of trap – perhaps unknown even to its speaker, perhaps unmeant, but still a trap nonetheless.
“After twenty years, your wet-nurse recognised you by a scar,” Moros said, unnatural eyes fixed upon Odysseus’ face, unwavering. They were the brightest thing about him, made all the more startling by the contrast of corpse grey skin and hair the colour of sun-bleached bone.
Despite the Ambrosia offered and accepted Odysseus could taste sea spray upon his lips, at the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.
“Yes,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat, his cup casually tilted so that the reflection he watched break and reform, serene as ever, was his companion’s face rather than his own. “From a boar.”
He did not want to be terse. He wanted to be polite. He did not want to be friendly in truth – it was never worth the risk of a god suddenly taking offence one way or the other. Politeness was surer, respect was safer, though of course there was never any guarantee with gods. You could be favoured one minute and discarded the next and never know why.
Melinoë had invited Lord Moros herself, and as a son of Nyx now that he knew of it he would always be welcome at the Crossroads. If he chose to stay, Odysseus could not always make himself scarce. Enemy or ally he was bound to work around him.
So far in all interactions he had observed Doom Incarnate had been… courteous. Though of course he still made most uneasy – certainly so the little Shades of the taverna, clustered in tighter, smaller groups than their usual wont, their wordless conversations faltering, frequently too quiet or too loud in misguided attempts to cover their fear, though the subject of their careful avoidance seemed not to notice. Moros was himself an attentive companion, seemingly focused solely with his own conversational partner, gemstone eyes bright with interest, a faint dusting of colour upon his cheeks despite drinking more sparingly than Odysseus could manage in such awkward circumstances.
“It would have been… here?”
Though his words sounded querying, Moros did not look down, his fingers unerringly brushing the edge of the long-healed scar above Odysseus’ knee, the twisting mark of the dead boar’s wrath that carved the leg, his touch ice cold against the skin.
The boar had stunk, Odysseus remembered, a vast heaving thing bristling with fury, and the pain of the tusk ripping him open had been instant and blinding, the sudden gush of blood down his knee hot over skin gone cold, though he didn’t remember being anywhere near frightened enough, too young and unwise to understand the danger. Not of the boar, but of the wounding, the jagged edges that could have chosen not to knit cleanly and well, the sickness that could have taken hold in reddened flesh, become a fever to steal his wits and gone too high too long never returned them –
Odysseus closed his eyes, concentrated on the heavy wood of the table’s worn edge beneath his hand, the lingering taste of Ambrosia upon his lips, the murmuring of the Shades. The Crossroads, the taverna. His grandfather was not there to berate his sons for Odysseus’ own impatient folly – or if he was, he had long since faded as most Shades did, grown undistinguished in face and form, barely visible. The boar was not there, heaving its last breaths with Odysseus’ spear in its shoulder. Only the chill touch of Doom lingered.
“Yes,” he said as evenly as he could manage. “There.”
Moros withdrew his hand and picked up his own cup, eyes glancing briefly away from Odysseus’ face for the first time – to check that he had not bared skin moving his hand away, Odysseus realised, and that the touch had been skin to skin beneath his chiton rather than upon it finally started to sink in. Gods had different mores, he knew. But somehow he doubted Melinoë – or perhaps Nemesis would be the more apt comparison, given her relation to Moros – would have done the same. Then again, Eris he could well believe would do so, and reach higher for no greater reason or purpose than his discomfort.
He took a small desperate sip of Ambrosia to conceal the urge to grimace at the thought, lest his companion thought it a response to him.
“Lord Moros—”
“So many moments of Doom, so many more evasions,” Moros said, and the bewildered delight in his voice stopped Odysseus short.
“That must be… rare for you,” he said cautiously after a moment.
“Oh yes,” Moros agreed, pouring more Ambrosia unbidden into Odysseus’ cup. “Rare indeed. It was why of all the inhabitants of the Crossroads I was most eager to make your acquaintance. The Princess has been very welcoming, of course, and Hecate kind, in her way, but I have never had much chance – or interest previously, I suppose – to speak with a mortal such as yourself.”
“I…” am not that interesting, Odysseus wanted to say, but already understood that would lead to Moros arguing against the statement, and he knew well his own weakness for flattery and sincere interest in his stories. If he was drawn into telling them he would be less focused on Moros, on what information he could gather from his speech or expressions. “Thank you, Lord Moros. Will you tell me how you have been settling in? Is there anything that can be done to make your stay more comfortable? You do intend to stay…?”
He watched the god’s mouth curve up into a disarmingly pleased smile, the faint flush upon his grey cheekbones a shade darker. “For as long as I am welcome, yes.”
Odysseus closed his eyes briefly, and pressed his hand to his temple to pass it off as the Ambrosia creeping up on him, as if it had the same effect as strong wine. “Good to know,” he said, and poured Moros another drink with steady hands.
It should not have surprised Odysseus, as well-mannered as Moros was, that he should actually follow up on his declaration of intent to get to know Odysseus better. It should not have, but it did – he had thought Moros adequately satisfied by their conversation in the taverna, which had ended only when Odysseus had been called away by an unimpressed Hecate, who forced some vile supposedly sobering concoction upon him and sent him to collect the latest reports, only two of which were new. He felt certain it should have earned him a little more grace than the few nights it took Moros to approach him again.
That was unfair to Moros, no doubt. He had never been anything but polite in his dealings with the inhabitants of the Crossroads, with Odysseus himself. And yet Odysseus could not help but remember Dora laughing as she told him what Moros said in good humour – the work can grow repetitive, lose its spark. So they liven things up from time to time.
“So then… were you ever certain you had finally met your Doom?” Moros asked, a faint crease to his brow. “Or did you truly think there was always a plan of escape to be discovered, no matter how dire the circumstance?”
There had been so many moments when the wine-dark sea had beckoned, as welcoming as a kylix filled to the brim. Always his will to live had been stronger – I will bear it and make the best of it.
He caught the faint smoky scent of green grass burning beneath Melinoë’s fiery feet as she approached and immediately diverted his thoughts, reaching for the cheerful mien she knew best from him.
“Well to be quite frank with you, Moros – may we be informal thus? I had the hardest time untangling myself not from near-fatal situations, but the arms of certain goddesses… my greatest weakness, looking back…”
There were so many chances to stop, so many times he might have given in, might have chosen the waves or the witches, and knowing exactly what awaited after his mortal lifetime he had still chosen Penelope. But people always preferred to hear of goddesses and glory, so that was the part he played up. After all, the best lies were true ones – he did indeed have the most trouble untangling himself from witches, if not quite as the phrasing implied – and for all Odysseus was a famed liar people were ever eager to believe he was of course speaking the truth to them.
“Ah, indeed… but how was this a weakness? As I understand your wife Penelope stood by your side despite your indiscretions…”
Indiscretions. Odysseus grimaced slightly. Don’t refuse the goddess’ bed, not then, not if she’s to release your friends and treat you well yourself… Still, he had stayed a year though he could have risked begging to depart earlier, and he'd come to remember Circe fondly enough for all their poor beginning and his poor piggish crew. She was hardly the worst thing that had happened to him on his voyage home – far from it.
“I trust I do not overstep,” Moros said. “I know this can be a sensitive topic with those from the surface.”
Odysseus shook his head, glancing at Melinoë out of the corner of his eye, watching them curiously. What did gods know or care of marital fidelity? What did Doom want with Penelope? What did he want to hear?
“Aye, Penelope stood by my side… because I only told her so much about my indiscretions as you call them. Then when we reunited after death, I had to tell her the rest. She had spent her best years awaiting an unfaithful man.”
“I see,” Moros said, though Odysseus doubted he did. “After everything you’d been through, did your relationship end in an amicable way, at least?”
Perhaps Melinoë had spoken of it, that Moros should immediately assume their relationship had ended when all he said was that she had waited for an unfaithful man. Rare had been the marriage ended by that when Odysseus was alive, however many women might have envied Medea in their hearts. “Aye, surprisingly enough… it did.”
There. No reason for Doom to seek Penelope, to ask further of her. As far as Moros would or should care, she and Odysseus had lived and died and parted, as mortals were expected to do.
Melinoë moved away towards her garden, apparently decided that she did not need to speak with him after all, but Moros stayed, still looking at him, a strange unreadable expression upon his face. “So,” he said, “you do not consider yourself married any longer?”
“Hah,” Odysseus breathed incredulously. I see, indeed. A dozen ill-thought responses raced to be the first to leave his mouth, and he had to wait a moment before he could risk speaking. “For most, marriage vows end upon death, milord,” he said at last. “So it is for mortals.”
“You do not, then,” Moros concluded, something tense relaxing in his shoulders. “That is… good. I mean… Shades do so often cling to their ideas of mortality. Those that refuse to adapt are the ones most swiftly rendered to…” he gestured briefly at the little green spirits that hastened back and forth across the Crossroads. It was not at all what he truly meant to say, Odysseus was sure, but he let it go with a shrug, itching for the conversation to be over.
“You need not worry about that. I have ever been determinedly adaptable, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I do not fear that at all,” Moros said, and smiled at the startled laugh that escaped before Odysseus could stop it.
“To be direct with you, Master Odysseus, I am what you might call an admirer.”
An admirer.
It was one thing for young Melinoë to hang upon his word and treat his stories with far more earnest respect than they deserved, but quite another to hear such a thing said so frankly by ancient Doom, who had watched his life play out in truth and…
“Gradually, perhaps grudgingly, I grew very impressed.”
“Od?”
“Goddess,” he murmured, idly turning the sealed little bottle of Nectar round in his hands. Moros had offered it with such diffidence he couldn’t find it in himself to reject it, no matter what might be assumed by the taking. That he was open to friendship, he hoped. Of all the entities a man should know better than to cross, the Fates and inescapable Moros certainly ranked highly. He would have to be very diplomatic rejecting the next Moros offered, if indeed there was another.
“Are you drinking again?” Melinoë asked. He didn’t need to look at her to know the sympathetic little frown she was wearing, nor guess at the assumptions she was making.
“Nay, Goddess. The bottle is sealed, you see?”
“Were you about to, then?” Melinoë said, sinking down onto the bench beside him, her hand reaching out –
“It was a gift,” Odysseus said, tucking it away with a careless shrug. “Others are picking up your generous habit, Goddess.”
“Oh,” she said, expression clearing a little. “I didn’t mean to start a trend or anything. It just seemed the thing to do? It’s an old custom, so I keep being told.”
“If it gains you good will with your allies, ply them with as much Nectar as you need.” Gods can be fickle, he did not say. Anything that might stay their hand even a moment is never wasted.
“Yourself included?” Melinoë teased, and he grinned.
“Oh, you could never lose my good will, Goddess. Save your bottles for those more reluctant to be charmed. Nemesis, perhaps?” he suggested slyly, and watched her pale face suffuse with colour.
“Nemesis is – we are – she’s really not that – oh, you’re teasing me,” she realised, and scowled as he laughed.
“She’s a tricky one, aye?”
“She’ll crack,” Melinoë said confidently, and he stared at her a moment before laughing even harder.
“Such determination, Goddess! Are you making friends or going to war?”
“With Nemesis it might as well be both,” she mused.
“Pity poor implacable Nemesis, faced with such equal resoluteness,” Odysseus said. “I suppose you’ll wear her down as water does the mountain – drop by drop, Nectar bottle by Nectar bottle.”
“You make it sound like I’m forcing her to be my friend,” Melinoë said indignantly.
“No, Goddess. Some will never be won no matter what you offer. If Nemesis accepts your overtures of friendship you can trust that she does so because she and she alone chooses to do so. She just seems… a little harder to win over than most. That’s all I meant.”
“Some things are worth the effort,” Melinoë said, a flush darkening her white cheeks again.
“Are you calling me easy, Goddess?” Odysseus wondered, pressing a hand to his wounded heart, only to laugh as she stammered an outraged denial. “I suppose I am famously weak to witches,” he decided, winking outlandishly as she rolled her eyes. "Let us hope Nemesis proves to have a little chink in her armour for one too, hm?”
“I’ll just have to make one if she doesn’t,” Melinoë decided. “It is worth it, I think. To make peace. Be friends.”
“Friends, of course,” Odysseus said, suddenly weighed down by the reminder of the bottle of Nectar resting in his pocket.
“Master Odysseus.”
Odysseus jolted, upsetting the careful order of his parchments and turning them into a jumble that destroyed any message anyone could hope to glean from a glance.
“Ah, Lord Moros – I mean Moros, forgive me, habit—”
“Mortals do not tend to worship me,” Moros said, hands clasped behind his back, making the curious forward lean of his body towards Odysseus more obvious. “So I am curious – did the Olympians require such titles from you?”
“Erm, not – not as such,” Odysseus said. “It was… expected, I suppose, as a matter of respect.” Self-preservation might have been more accurate. “To say it was required… Most mortals aren’t really… conversational with gods, shall we say?”
“But you,” Moros said, an edge to his voice Odysseus could only read as a kind of eagerness, of flattering fascination – a singer hearing a new tale to turn into a song… or a dog presented with a bone to crack and sup upon its marrow.
“I was favoured by some, true, but others…” Odysseus shrugged, smiling as if it no longer mattered. “Well, I’m sure you are perfectly aware of those circumstances.”
“Oh, they made you very entertaining,” Moros said brightly. Odysseus kept smiling, very certain not even a flicker of the emotions he felt upon hearing the words showed on his face. His voice might have been another matter, so he kept his mouth firmly shut. “Or your responses to the circumstances, I should say. As frustrating as I found it at the time, the way you avoided me in those moments was most…” Moros hesitated, clearly seeking the right words, eventually deciding upon, “...Impressive.”
“Ah,” Odysseus said. “Uhm. Would it be bad taste to thank you for the compliment?”
“Oh,” Moros said, his face flushing for some strange reason, “No – of course I meant it as a compliment, I assure you. Very much so.”
“…I thank you, then,” Odysseus said, immediately resolved not to think too deeply about it. Moros had had little scope for interaction prior to the Crossroads, so Melinoë said. The ease with which she conversed with Moros would be admirable, if there was not still some mortal instinct within him that froze every time he witnessed it, begged him to divert Doom’s attention, try and keep her from inevitable harm.
“You are worthy of being complimented,” Moros said earnestly, and what was a man supposed to do before that? “The things you have seen and done, your cleverness and schemes—”
“Not all successful,” Odysseus interjected, suspecting himself no more able to divert the conversation than he could properly steer a ship caught in a storm.
“Even so,” Moros said. “Failure only enhances eventual success – imagine how the war of Ilium might have gone without you, should you have actually succeeded in your attempt to remain in Ithaca.”
“Imagine,” Odysseus said distantly. Ink began to devour Thessaly under his hand and he blotted it hastily, cursing under his breath. “Perhaps it would have finished sooner, who knows?”
“My Sisters would,” Moros said simply. “I suspect it would have taken far longer with your absence, and ended less satisfactorily for your allies, rather than ended sooner.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Odysseus intently as if comparing how his features had changed from that long gone day when he had tried to feign madness to evade the same oath he had devised. “It was then, I think, that you first began to catch my attention – your attempt to evade the Fate you were well aware of, and how you turned it so upon the one who forced your hand.”
“I don’t remember his name,” Odysseus lied, fingers growing suddenly stiff and clumsy as he began to tuck his recently annotated charts away.
“Palamedes,” Moros said, smiling as if they were sharing a joke. “He placed your son in the path of the plough. I saw him most clearly in your eyes in that moment – and he, I believe, saw me in them too.”
“Did he,” Odysseus said, hand briefly touching his belt where the pouch of Knuckle Bones no longer hung, given over to the Princess of the Underworld’s keeping. He felt his mouth twist, made to remember in full the taste of the bitter harvest he’d sown and finally been forced to reap, faded but never forgotten. “Good.”
Moros’ smile widened, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with true delight. “His Doom was inevitable from that moment on,” he agreed, stepping a little closer. There was something about his stance, the tilt of his head and the look of his eyes that reminded Odysseus more of a young girl than an ancient god, something almost coquettish. He turned away instantly before the thought could settle, checking that no unrolled parchments remained on the pitted old table upon which he worked. It had been a long night.
“May I assist?” Moros asked, their shoulders brushing as he stepped up beside him, and Odysseus’ hand went to the little owl badge that pinned his cloak, its face blurred by constant touch and polished to mirrored bronze by the habitual brush of his fingers, dear but not precious and so safer to wear to battle than the golden hound and fawn he had departed Ithaca with. Blunted by use and time it had still drawn blood as he scrabbled frantically in the water to release himself from his chlamys before it could drag him down, his fingers spasming briefly around the lump of metal before releasing it to sink without a trace into the depths alongside his ship and men.
Hecate’s triple moon was under his hand. Not an owl. His clothes were as dry as his throat, his fingers steady and unstained with anything but ink.
“Ah, better not,” Odysseus said evenly. “I have – I have an order to things, you see. Everything in its place.”
“Oh, of course,” Moros said, nodding politely in acknowledgement, putting his hands behind his back in apparent deference, though he didn’t move away. “I’m sure you must – it was foolish of me to think you didn’t.”
“I mean no offence, of course,” Odysseus said quickly. “I’m sure you would be careful, and if the Headmistress says you may see them I have no objection, it’s only that I have to take them to her now and for efficiency’s sake it would be easier to organise them myself...”
“Of course,” Moros repeated, kindly, as if Odysseus was worrying over something absurd. “We shall have to speak another time, when you are less busy.”
“Yes,” Odysseus said slowly, feeling an uncommon kinship with a corralled stag. “Forgive me—”
“There’s no need for that,” Moros said, shaking his head, the pale waterfall of his hair rippling. He was smiling still. “Perhaps, if you are amenable at that other time, we might visit the baths now that they have been purified? I have some salts.”
It might as well have been an order rather than a suggestion, though he sounded – absurd to associate such thoughts with such an ancient being, older than Titans and Olympians both – as hopeful and proud as a boy requesting to join his first hunt.
Odysseus bowed rather than reply with a voice that threatened to betray him. There was, after all, only ever one answer when a god asked something of you.
His sailors had joked – with less and less mirth and more and more spite as their journey lengthened – that Doom pursued Odysseus as relentlessly as kings and princes had chased Helen, as equally desirous to take him as a wife.
Cheerful lamentations about how devastated Lord Moros must be that their destined meeting kept being evaded had eventually turned to callous speculation upon the size and shape of the phallus Odysseus would be forced to take when the surely infuriated god finally had him in his grasp. The sole consensus had been that there would be no oil to ease the way.
Odysseus remembered every single one of those jokes he’d heard and overheard as Moros began to remove his clothing before the baths, setting each piece neatly aside, and had to turn away.
The jokes had been merely jokes, vicious as they had become, but he still kept his back to Moros as he disrobed himself, making sure his clothing and assorted parchment-filled pouches were a safe distance from the water – perhaps overly so, but it never hurt to be careful as it so frequently did to be careless.
Moros was not angry with him – any more, at least. Odysseus had been ‘extraordinarily frustrating’ at the time, so he'd admitted… but he had then added that he had grown very impressed, something that had not soothed Odysseus’ nerves as much as he might have thought it would. There were countless stories about mortals who interested gods, after all, and barely a single happy ending among them. For the mortal, that was.
Perhaps his crew would have been pleased to hear it – to know that all of Odysseus’ clever evasions had availed him nothing in the end and only ensured Doom’s continued interest even after death.
Not, of course, that Moros was interested in the way they’d once suggested. Odysseus was no Ganymede or Hyacinthus to overwhelm a god with desire to rut his thighs. Being Odysseus was trouble enough, as his grandfather would say, and then pretend to be offended by his grandson rolling his eyes at the bad joke.
Moros was watching him intently from the water, examining his nude form with bright-eyed interest. Odysseus wondered suddenly if, given the similarity in style of clothing, the god was shaved as smooth as he’d heard Egyptian traders claim was right and good, and had to shake his head to loosen the thought before entering the water, neither too close or too far, hopefully, to give offence to his companion.
The sigh in response to the heat of the water was almost instinctive – felt like the memory of a thousand such moments compressed into one. In time, he supposed, he would feel it less and less as he lost his sense of self and shape the way all Shades eventually must and should – though he had stayed whole a great deal longer than most even before his contract with Hecate.
A hum from Moros had Odysseus opening his eyes again, glancing over to meet the stare he’d grown to expect from Moros, as intensely curious, and as unselfconscious about it, as a child.
Hecate had spoken of Moros being sheltered, seemed to regard him almost as youthful as Melinoë for lack of worldly experience. Perhaps it was that Odysseus was mortal and could not think on the same eternal scale as the deathless gods, but while the way Moros stared certainly had a child’s openness, it did not seem to him to have a child’s intent.
“I rather thought those were attached,” he blurted for want of a distraction, darting his gaze from Moros’ empty brow to where his circlet of gnarled horns lay upon the stones surrounding the edge of the baths. Moros laughed, clearly unoffended – almost delighted, even.
“It gives me great pleasure to know you contemplate my appearance often enough to have opinions upon it,” he said, and thankfully did not linger on that line of thought and give enough time for Odysseus to think about trying to explain otherwise – “Poor Mother Nyx, imagine.”
“They might have grown in adolescence,” Odysseus said lightly, “as do a stag’s. Or perhaps you were never an infant after all?”
“There are many who would call you impertinent and worse for such words,” Moros said, smiling. Whatever heat Odysseus had been able to sense from the water disappeared, left him chilled.
“Milord—”
“Not I,” Moros said. “Master Odysseus – may I call you Odysseus?”
As if a god needed permission to address a mortal – or the Shade of one – however they liked, though it said something Odysseus did not care to think upon for long that Moros had waited so long to ask, and that when he did he chose to do so when they were naked.
“You may,” Odysseus said with mock-gravitas, careful to smile, careful to bow his head, careful to make a fine joke of it. He did not offer the nickname Melinoë had for him, and Moros did not ask for it.
“Odysseus,” Doom Incarnate said softly, and it sounded nothing like the song of the sirens that he knew he could no longer recall correctly, and everything like the truth of it. Every hair on his body stood on end.
Moros reached out and gestured to his eyes, circling one curiously with the tip of his finger, careful not to actually touch, politely ignoring the way he stilled. “Your pupils went very wide,” he said, a peculiar note in his voice, interest or… “I don’t think that’s how people usually react when their name is called, is it?”
“Sometimes,” Odysseus said, looking away. Moros made a soft noise, something amused and contented, and let his hand fall away, quiet splashing giving away his movement back – though it felt likely he was still closer than he had originally been when Odysseus first entered the water.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Moros said, and Odysseus chuckled weakly.
“I do love a good hot bath,” he said, and Moros smiled as if pleased to please him.
“I did ask, about the kind of gifts and activities shared between inhabitants of the Crossroads. If I err, I hope you will be kind enough to regard my actions in the spirit they were meant. The way things are done here is different – not that I was very familiar with either the Olympian or the Underworld practises either.”
He stays with our sisters, Nemesis had said dismissively, back when Moros was a temporary visitor. Imagine the mess otherwise. He keeps himself separate. Does his job. I don’t know what else to tell you.
Perhaps that explained his unfamiliarity with the ‘practise’ of making friends. If a god could truly be friends with a mortal. Or a Shade.
“Ah, the Goddess being as exemplary as ever, I suppose?”
“The Princess is surely a most worthy being to emulate,” Moros said, which Odysseus could hardly dispute, no matter how it had resulted in his current situation. “Though I did ask my sister as well, and Dora.”
“Always wise to collect information from multiple sources,” Odysseus agreed. Moros seemed to preen a little, as if Odysseus had offered anything but affirmation for common sense.
“Nemesis suggested spending time at the fishing pier—” Odysseus grimaced briefly, but not nearly briefly enough, for Moros hastily continued “—but when I spoke to the Princess she advised that though fishing is a common enough diversion among Crossroads inhabitants – enough to warrant a pier, at least – it is not one you yourself particularly care for.”
He gave one of those incredibly disorienting uncertain smiles that belied how ancient he was, made him seem very much the beardless youth he appeared to be. “I do not know why my sister would have suggested it if she knew you did not care for it – I am sure she knew I did not inquire with someone else in mind.”
“There is a difference between knowing with the mind and understanding with the heart,” Odysseus said, letting his head fall back to stare at the wide-eyed moon above. “One can have the knowledge of something, but if the truth of it is not felt in the heart also there will always be doubt regardless.”
“She sounded amused when she said it,” Moros said, sounding puzzled.
“Oh, well in that case she was merely playing a joke, on one of us at least. She knows full well I had enough of fishing in my mortal days.”
“You were king of an island, yes? I cannot imagine it was not an important industry for your people.”
“Mm, it was,” Odysseus said, wrinkling his nose. “The stench of fish guts in summer was quite something else. The stench of fish guts at all times of the year, honestly.”
Ithaca had long ceased to be his kingdom or responsibility yet he still found he did not want to truly speak of it, as if to draw a picture of it in the mind’s eye of Moros was to send him there. In Penelope’s hands and care it had become a jewel to match his wife, a dowry a hundred men could not resist, though Odysseus had seen kingdoms far richer in his life, palaces more worthy of the name, lands more blessed. Beautiful as Ithaca was to him it had never been as bountiful as songs and poems claimed, mountainous and scrubby and commonly the punchline of jests involving goats – but he had loved it anyway. One did not speak of peaceful kingdoms to Doom.
“To be honest,” Odysseus lied, “the aversion to fishing was a later development.”
Moros’ lips twitched, as Odysseus had suspected they would. His eyes gleamed, eager as ever to be allowed to pick at Odysseus’ journey home, take a moment there had been a chance for Odysseus to meet his end and unravel it, the better to admire the threads Odysseus had slipped through by chance or cunning. “To be at odds with the god whose bounty you rely upon to survive his own domain… It must have been… difficult.”
“Terrifying,” Odysseus said, truthfully despite all the cheer with which he spoke.
“The Princess has said that you are… averse to your assistance to her being known to her Olympian allies.”
“Perhaps I am as forgotten as any other mortal man upon crossing the Styx,” Odysseus said with a shrug, “but having already known ten years of a god’s displeasure I’d rather not find out I have yet more to know.”
“I find it very difficult to believe you could be forgotten so easily,” Moros said, and for all Odysseus examined his expression he found it impossible to discern whether he meant to compliment well or comfort badly.
“You flatter me,” he said at last, looking away.
“Yes,” Moros said, and Odysseus froze for a second before hauling himself out of the water as casually as he could manage, the time for relaxation over, throwing a glance towards his pile of clothing, so far from reach. “But I mean it also.”
He left the water far more gracefully than Odysseus, efficiently squeezing water from his long hair as Odysseus dragged his fingers through his own, staring blankly. Moros was as free of body hair as an Egyptian might wish, it turned out.
“We should be getting back,” Odysseus said, without any hope they would in fact be doing so shortly. “Others must surely be waiting for their own time here also.”
“Thoughtful Odysseus,” Moros murmured, his eyes warm and bright beneath their lashes as they examined him, moving slowly from his feet upwards in a one long lingering look until he reached his face. As used as he was to nakedness, Odysseus was not used to feeling exposed by it, and he moved towards one of the pillars, where a pile of folded linen waited to dry off excess water for those occasions the warm night air didn’t work fast enough for those with no time to wait.
Moros’ hand closed upon his wrist, a restraint for all its tenderness, and it was meant to be tender, Odysseus sensed, like Penelope’s hand upon his cheek before she tugged him towards their bed –
“I am prettier than her, and taller than her, and more lovely,” Calypso hissed in his ear, as if any of those things mattered when he had not seen his wife in twenty years, as if Penelope’s mortal beauty alone was all that she could possibly imagine would make Odysseus weep with longing for home. The scent of citrus and bitter pine was overwhelming, filled his throat with the memory of bile. “I could make you immortal—”
“Odysseus,” Moros said fervently, and Odysseus wrenched his eyes open, gasping – an invitation, Moros must have felt, surging towards him to take his lips with clumsy eagerness, pressing into him as if he could force living breath back into a Shade.
He tasted of blood one moment and of seawater the next, honey-sweet Lotus turning to black-rooted Moly even as Odysseus identified them. The blunt spearhead of his phallus, raised for a battle his opponent had already lost, pressed urgently into Odysseus’ scarred thigh, seemingly eager to bury itself wherever it would inside his body. Strands of long hair dragged wetly over Odysseus’ chest, clinging like a spider’s thread as Moros turned his head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Odysseus looked at Moros’ face, flushed with heat, eyes dark with desire – nearly black, the royal painted clouds of sunset devoured by oncoming night. His thoughts felt cold and distant, observing as he leaned back against the pillar and guided the god between his legs, pressed his thighs together to sheathe that eager weapon between them.
“Cunning Odysseus,” Moros whispered, cock jerking as if his hard thighs were soft and welcoming, all a god could possibly desire.
Moros’ hand fell upon the boar scar, strangely livid in the wavering light, and traced the jagged seam in the brown flesh with gentle fascination. His other trailed up across tensed muscles to rest upon Odysseus’ chest, over where his heart no longer beat.
“Clever Odysseus,” Moros said, teeth grazing the lobe of Odysseus’ ear as he began to rock slowly, gently, into the offered cradle of his thighs.
“Resourceful Odysseus,” was murmured to his brow, damp with water that should have been sweat, and followed by a kiss, swiftly given, swiftly departed.
“Wily Odysseus,” was gasped into his mouth as he shifted at the god’s direction, flexed the muscles of his legs and grabbed sharp hips with enough apparent thoughtlessness to conceal the intent to steady and guide.
“Generous Odysseus,” was groaned into his shoulder as Moros’ movements grew fiercer, his phallus slick between the well-trailed valley of Odysseus’ thighs, his fingers pressing deep black marks into shuddering flanks.
(Sly Odysseus. Deceitful Odysseus. Cruel Odysseus. Hateful and hated. I am disliked by many, all across the world, and I dislike them back. So name the child—)
“Odysseus—”
His name became a chant, the singing of Calypso, the crashing of waves upon the shore, the drumming of his heart within the wooden horse – cramped, the smell of cut wood and oiled leather and metal armour dizzyingly overlaid, teeth scraping his palm as he pressed his hand ruthlessly over the mouth of Anticlus, smothering his attempt to call back to the voice imitating his wife.
You’ll choke him, Diomedes hissed, as if he didn’t know Odysseus was absolutely prepared to do just that if it kept the stupid bastard quiet. He was furious, so angry and so afraid – his heart sounded like thunder in his ears, so loud it drowned out what few noises could escape beneath his hand, the muffled panting for air.
Moros kissed him again, cloyingly sweet, and Odysseus opened his mouth and let him in, closing his eyes with the same terrible resignation he had seen upon Anticlus the second before he let go. Mere mortal brawn could hardly throw a god – not his, certainly, nor even Ajax’s. Moros was a solid heavy weight and beneath him Odysseus understood himself to be as fragile as a bird, hopelessly outclassed in the hands of a god.
He turned his head and groaned as Moros sank his teeth into his shoulder at the same moment he spent himself between tensed thighs, hands clutching convulsively at Odysseus’ hips as if he was spilling within his body instead of upon. He murmured something into the flesh between his teeth as his hips stuttered to rest, his body growing even heavier against Odysseus, lax with satiation.
He stirred after a moment, reaching for Odysseus to try to take him in hand, but Odysseus shook his head and rasped, “No need,” with exhaustion that could pass for embarrassment, implied an answer to an unasked question.
“Oh,” Moros said lowly, kissing the shoulder that would have been bruised if Odysseus had still been flesh and blood and fondling his soft phallus briefly anyway, gentle tugging strokes as if checking just to be sure. When it did nothing more than twitch briefly in response he smiled and let his hand fall between smeared thighs instead, gathering his own seed with curious fingers to rub along Odysseus’ scar as if anointing it.
The moon above was unforgivingly bright, let Odysseus see it all through even half-closed eyes – the caress of that pale hand, the stirring of the god’s loins even so freshly spent, the brilliant purple eyes wide and soft with something that looked like love in a face bright with pleasure, gazing upon Odysseus with delight.
His throat felt warm, fanned by Moros’ breath as he panted for air Odysseus didn’t need between tender little bites from ear to collar, seeking the perfect place to mark. His hands felt cold and damp and trembled faintly as Moros laced their fingers together.
There was movement, pale green and silent, along the path back to the Crossroads, Shades pretending to be oblivious to the springs, expressions too embarrassed to sell the lie.
“You are a wonder to behold,” Moros breathed, and Odysseus pushed himself closer, sought his lips and found them with a fierce open-mouthed kiss that turned to something long and lingering and left no space for flattery or deeper thought.
“You gods,” he imagined Calypso snarling faintly, words he’d heard imitated by laughing Hermes, offered as if Odysseus should laugh too, her response to the order for his release from the same god that had wrecked him and sent him to her shore. “You are always jealous and hate to see a goddess take a fancy to a mortal man.”
“Perhaps we should have stayed in the water,” Moros said lightly, pulling back just far enough to pick up a linen square and start rubbing Odysseus down – I am a horse again, Odysseus thought inanely, head echoing and aching – heedless of his own still-damp skin, the puddles of water forming at his ash grey feet.
“It is time to go back to Crossroads,” Odysseus said instead. “The Goddess will return soon. She might like the respite of the springs also after a long night.”
“As you wish,” Moros said, assisting unnecessarily with his dressing before turning to his own. He smiled as Odysseus carefully picked up his circlet and bowed in clear offering to allow Odysseus to place it upon his head, then grasped his hands before he could pull away and guided them in how to rearrange his damp hair to suit it.
“There, now you look like a—” Odysseus blinked, Penelope’s fiercely proud ‘king’ fading from his ears along with her fussing hands upon his cloak and brooch, determined to have him look his best on the day of his departure. “God,” he finished weakly, as if he could ever forget.
The garden was a neat little thing for all its contents frequently were not. Carefully sectioned, each plot contained something different, save those times Melinoë required one reagent more than any other. Currently it was cattail and poppy to be harvested, for incantations of restoration and relief, dreams and slumber – not that Odysseus would tell the Goddess he knew as such. She liked to explain how best to plant and harvest and utilise them, and he liked to pretend he knew nothing of them beyond admiration for their stubborn will to grow and a reminder of the goodness of the earth. Moly was the only witching plant whose use he cared for and it did not take to Melinoë’s garden, had to be harvested by godly hands in misty Erebus.
There had been Moly in the flowers Moros had given him, the arrangement so incongruous and held so carefully in his strangely uncalloused warrior hands Odysseus had accepted it before he even realised fully they were being passed to him. Every bloom had been plucked wild, not grown or cut, and carefully chosen with an eye for colour and composition, if nothing else – Moros had not the skill of his dexterous Sisters, so he explained, to weave them into a fitting garland.
Odysseus had stared for longer than was polite at the proof that Moros intended to continue what Odysseus now had to consider his courtship before seeking out a container to put them in, though the only thing close to hand had been an Ambrosia bottle, remnant of their night at the taverna. Torn between offending by placing the flowers in the dregs of Ambrosia – if Ambrosia could be said to have dregs – or by seeming not to value them at all by having no place for them, he had chosen the one that did not leave him awkwardly clutching a fistful of flowers for however long Moros wished to speak with him, smiling with hopeful appeasement as he turned the bottle into a vase, careful to try and keep the composition intact, reassuring Moros it was a temporary arrangement only.
Moros had laughed and assured him it was fine, as Odysseus had expected he would, eyes warm with satisfaction that could not come solely from the acceptance of the gift, had to have its source in the way Odysseus treated them – the joining, perhaps, of the two gifts to become one, the association between them, one courtship offering to another in seamless continuity.
The flowers were bright and fresh in the bottle still, Ambrosia adding an extra gleam to their petals and leaves.
Odysseus shook his head and crouched down, running a finger over a poppy’s crimson petals. “Looking very fine,” he told it as he stepped back again, though it was the memory of sun-soaked and cloudless summer days it brought to mind that he was really complimenting.
“They’ve grown well,” Melinoë said, kneeling beside him and efficiently divesting the plots of their occupants, setting them to one side to be rendered into the components she needed before carefully turning the earth over for a new seed. “Thank you for taking care of them in my absence, Od. I know you’ve been busy lately. I barely seem to see you.”
“A terrible hardship, to water and weed on occasion,” Odysseus said solemnly to watch her snort inelegantly, “but one I endure.”
“Don’t listen to him, little ones,” Melinoë crooned to her plants. “He cares that you grow big and strong, really.”
“Really,” Odysseus agreed. “Not that they need the help, I’m sure.”
“It’s the little things that make the difference,” Melinoë said firmly. “Care and attention are needed to thrive, for many things, not just plants.”
“Ah, I see. Have you tried watering Nemesis?”
“Od! And no – last I tried she rejected the Nectar I meant to give her. I can never tell if she’s going to accept or not – sometimes she does, sometimes she gives me such a look, you know.”
“A tricky one, indeed,” Odysseus said, smothering a laugh as a cough. “Keep trying, Goddess. Divine Retribution is better to have with you than against.”
“That’s not why I’m doing it,” Melinoë protested, turning to scowl at him.
“I know it is not,” he said soothingly.
“I just want us to get along,” she grumbled, and he coughed again. “Lord Moros never rejects my offerings.”
“Mm. Make them often, do you?”
“He’s really not so terrifying as all the Shades would have you think,” Melinoë said, as if Odysseus himself was not included among the Shades and their discomfort with Moros. “He’s very polite, and diligent, and he could use more friends. I hear he’s approached you a few times, in fact?”
“Yes,” Odysseus said slowly. “He has. Is – Forgive me if I overstep, but your relationship with him…”
“What relationship?” Melinoë asked, blinking mismatched eyes at him. “We’re friends, of course – or I’d like to think so at this point, anyway.”
“And he has not… you do not think…”
“Odysseus,” Melinoë said curiously, “are you asking if Lord Moros is interested in me?”
“It would be easy,” Odysseus said carefully, “for someone unused to such overtures to mistake them for something more… romantic in nature. Or not mistake them, as the case may be. Not my place to judge.”
“Are you worried about me?” Melinoë laughed, opening the little lilac pouch she usually kept at the small of her back and selecting the new seeds for her garden.
“Always, Goddess,” Odysseus said.
“Lord Moros has not said anything on the matter,” she said, after studying his expression intently for a moment. “I would not mind, I don’t think, but I don’t have time for romantic entanglements right now anyway – why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what, Goddess?”
“Like – oh, never mind. Giving Nectar is a friendly gesture, is all.”
“So long as all participants are aware,” Odysseus said, not risking even a glance to where Nemesis would usually be on guard.
“Really, if anyone should wonder about the intentions of Lord Moros it should probably be you, Od – he is quite the admirer of yours,” Melinoë teased, grinning as she patted the earth down upon her newly planted seed – garlic, Odysseus thought, fresh uprooted from the surface above to eventually be harvested below. The mundanity of it delighted him, planted with just as much care and concern as the disconcerting seeds of Chaos or the ugly roots of mandrake.
“I’ve noticed,” he said.
“Who hasn’t,” came the unimpressed voice of Nemesis, prompting Odysseus to turn and greet her with a grin he knew didn’t reach his eyes.
“Ah, Nemesis! Come to get your hands dirty?”
The look she gave him was venomous, and his laugh didn’t need to be faked at all.
“Forgive me, couldn’t resist,” he said cheerfully, stepping to one side to avoid Melinoë’s swat at his ankle with her spade.
“You rarely can,” Nemesis said darkly, folding her impressive arms – presumably to demonstrate her immense restraint in not immediately using them to turn him into a fine paste, he assumed – and glaring. Though not entirely at him, he noted, hiding a wry smile at the way her gaze flickered to the back of Melinoë’s head, bent over her little garden, encouraging her seeds to grow.
“Pay no attention to Od, he’s in one of his moods,” Melinoë said, dusting off her knees and scrubbing her hands upon her saffron skirt before turning to face them. Nemesis instantly fixed her stare back upon Odysseus as if it had never wavered in the slightest, while he folded his own arms in mirrored imitation of her, a lopsided grin on his face that only made her irritation more true and prominent. “Did you have something to say, Nem?”
Inescapable Nemesis, goddess of righteous retribution, much revered, of boundless sight, alone rejoicing in the just and right – Nem. Surely one day he would no longer be surprised by such things.
“Came to see what was taking so long,” she said, casting a disdainful look at the freshly planted garden. “Thought you were getting more efficient than this.”
Melinoë rolled her eyes expressively. “I stopped a moment to gather some necessary ingredients for an incantation the Headmistress and I are planning, if that’s alright with you. Once it’s done it’s back to work, I assure you.”
“Good,” Nemesis said grimly, while Odysseus pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Chronos isn’t going to slay himself.”
“We could but hope,” Odysseus muttered, massaging his temple. The contemptuous look from Nemesis in response was entirely earned, he supposed.
“I want to speak with you,” she said flatly, before turning to Melinoë and telling her to ‘buzz off’, much to her irritated – if not entirely serious – outrage. She watched Melinoë dart huffily away to Hecate and her cauldron, waiting until the singed grass had regained its colour before swinging back to face Odysseus with a grim look. “About Moros. Being interested in the Princess.”
“If he is that’s between them, surely,” Odysseus said. “Or perhaps just him, since the Goddess doesn’t, and I quote, ‘have time for romantic entanglements right now’.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Nemesis said impatiently. “She’s right, she doesn’t. But even if friendship is all she and Moros desire…” she sighed suddenly, her broad shoulders lowering slightly – she would never do something so fallible as slump. “You remember what I said, back when he first started showing up?”
“He’ll probably go again soon enough?” Odysseus said dryly.
“Don’t play dumb,” Nemesis said irritably. “Everyone knows your reputation by now, there’s no point.”
“I’m honoured you think so,” Odysseus said brightly, bowing a little in her direction, not bothering to hide his smile at her rolled eyes and huff of exasperation.
“Don’t,” she said. “We children of Nyx are what we do, remember. Our aspect is our purpose and we cannot be otherwise. I don’t have any quarrel with Moros – I rarely saw him before this, and that’s for a reason. But he can’t help being what he is.”
“Doom Incarnate,” Odysseus said soberly, and she nodded sharply.
“He brings Doom. He can’t help it, he can’t stop it. No matter what, he dooms those around him.”
“You think… Melinoë. Or her task.”
“Right,” Nemesis said, exhaling. “The Fates are gone, but just because it’s no longer woven doesn’t mean he’s free of his purpose.”
“I care for the Goddess and the ultimate success of her mission as you do,” Odysseus said after a long moment, staring blindly at the fresh-turned earth with its slumbering seeds, a roaring in his ears like the hungry sea. “But I’m not entirely sure what you expect me to do.”
“You? Nothing. I don’t know,” Nemesis said. “I just need to know someone else is on the lookout too.”
“You think,” Odysseus said slowly, “if his attention is divided, not solely upon the Goddess, it may lessen the influence of his aspect, however unintended on his part, upon her?”
“I didn’t say that,” Nemesis said, frowning.
“You didn’t,” Odysseus agreed. “Forgive a mortal his poor understanding of divinity.”
“Just…” Nemesis sighed gustily. “Forget it. You’ve already met your Doom, it’s not like he can do anything to you.”
The Record Keeper and the Learned Sage were a blessed addition to the Crossroads, and their chosen locality a most convenient one. Though the taverna still bustled outside of their corner – the occasional cat knocking over a pile of yellow gourds, Shades drifting back and forth between the sturdy wooden tables carrying cups and platters in peaceful echoes of living habits – it was difficult to see when kneeling between them and hunched over their proffered scrolls, boxed in between haphazard stacks of books. It gave an enclosed feeling that lent itself well to focus without forcing isolation.
Terrible for his posture though it was, he rather liked being so low, and spreading the parchment across the ground was more convenient than constantly taking them to the nearest table. That it made him difficult to spot from the entrance at a glance was mere coincidence.
“I mislike having to seek you out, particularly if I have to do so to find you in some darkened corner of the taverna. Did you think it was restored solely to indulge your memory of mortal vices?”
“You wound me, Lady,” Odysseus said, lurching upright to press one hand to his heart, sliding parchment back in the Record Keeper’s direction with a foot as he turned to bow to Hecate. “As you can see, I am not here for pleasure, only information. I cannot be blamed for the Learned Sage and the Record Keeper having the excellent taste to set up where the atmosphere is convivial.”
“Hm, and only information the entire time, I’m sure,” Hecate said dryly, ignoring Odysseus’ honest ‘of course!’. “Is there a particular reason you suddenly find the records of Melinoë’s attempts against Chronos so fascinating?”
“It is hardly sudden, only that my information was not so neatly compiled previously,” Odysseus said, stooping to gather another piece of parchment and pass it back to the Sage with a smile of thanks. “I am trying to discern if there are any patterns to be found – such hidden currents and ill winds that turn her journey from triumph to tragedy, and if they can reliably discerned and avoided... or if it is merely chance that such an enemy appears here or there, that this or that ends her attempt. If she lacks training or luck, in short.”
“Your dedication does you credit,” Hecate said, arms folding in a way that suggested she was not giving a compliment.
“But?” Odysseus offered warily, brow creased in confusion.
“But not your sentimentality. We have spoken of this, Odysseus.”
“As you say, my lady,” he said, waiting for elaboration, for Hecate was not one to let her displeasure lie.
“I am not Melinoë’s mother. On this I have been clear.”
She had, not that it had stopped Melinoë grasping for the only mother she knew anyway – just as fatherless sons sought their sires did daughters too seek their mothers, he supposed. And though it tore them both in different ways, he didn’t think Melinoë regretted placing that honoured title upon Hecate, no matter how often and sternly it was rejected.
Hecate’s expression, even half-hidden behind mask and hat brim, was grim and intent. “You are not her father,” she said.
“Perish the thought,” Odysseus said instantly, hands raised in glib refusal. Grim Lord Hades was not called such for nothing.
“Nor are you her uncle, of which she unfortunately has quite enough already, or any male relative at all. You are not her guardian, and she has no need of such from you.”
“Of course not,” Odysseus said. “A mortal patronise a god?” He laughed, but Hecate did not join in his awkward amusement.
“Perhaps you long for those lost years with your son,” she said, and Odysseus felt his smile freeze and grow sickly, “—and think witnessing Melinoë’s growth is much the same thing. It is not, Odysseus. Presence does not equal parentage.”
“No, Madam,” Odysseus agreed. There was a fine tremor in his hands that he could not account for, and he put them behind his back to wait it out. Neither the Record Keeper or the Learned Sage would speak of it – names went before voices, and voices went before shape. He wondered how long it would be until he too was some voiceless Shade with nothing but a title and vague features haunting the realm of Hades to be dragged out when needed, the Veteran Tactician. “I assure you, I do not forget that Melinoë is first and foremost a goddess, even one I have been so… fortunate as to see grow. A goddess with a most wearisome burden at that. I seek only to assist as I was first contracted to do – as a tactician.”
“Hmm. So your survey is prompted only by concern for her success, rather than her safety?”
“You don’t fret over a blade, no matter the throat it’s destined to cut. You need only keep it sharp,” Odysseus said with a dismissive shrug. Quieter, more sincere and more believable: “She is not safe unless she succeeds in any case.”
“That is so,” Hecate agreed, her stiff posture relaxing slightly. It amused Odysseus slightly that she wanted him to be entirely practical about Melinoë and her task but only believed him regarding it when he let a sliver of feeling through. Well, he’d always been good at reflecting his host when he needed to be trusted. “Very well, then – what is it exactly that you seek to prove or dismiss?”
“That is a sure way to taint the data, tricking the mind into seeing connection where there is none.”
“But you seek something.”
“It is only… something Nemesis mentioned. Currently I am looking at the weapons and boons favoured by the Goddess – how often she chooses a certain one, how many times she succeeds with them, the level of fear under which she can comfortably operate, the number and type of enemies she falls most often to… and most particularly any outliers.”
The broad-brimmed hat tilted, allowed a glimpse of Hecate’s frown, easy enough for him to read with long familiarity, despite only having a third of her face to work with. “…What thought has Nemesis put in your head, Odysseus? You know as well as I that she cannot succeed in Melinoë’s quest, for a multitude of reasons.”
“Ah, no, nothing like that,” Odysseus said, only a little relieved to be back on track. “I think she has made as much peace with your reasoning as she is ever likely to. It’s, hm…” he considered how best to phrase his concern, glancing over towards the taverna’s entrance. Not within his current line of sight but within Hecate’s would be the scroll of minor prophecies, bereft of its usual stern guard.
“Oh? I thought you had reached your peace with Lord Moros? Has he not been gifting you to that effect?”
“Oh, you noticed?” Odysseus said lightly, and she laughed.
“Rather difficult to miss all the bottles of Nectar exchanging hands about the place.”
Odysseus was sure at least one had passed between himself and Moros thrice in all – he had not been able to decline when first gifted but his attempt to try and return the unopened bottle without offence had been received instead as an attempt to reciprocate, and it was opened on the third occasion with Moros insisting upon sharing it with him, to honour his generosity.
“One might almost mistake his bribery for courting, if his attentions were not equally obvious elsewhere.”
Odysseus grimaced, and her expression sharpened. “You swore to me, Odysseus.”
Understanding her misconception instantly he held his hands up in supplication, saying hastily, “It is not – Madam, it is not a matter of paternal feeling, I swear to you –”
“Where Melinoë chooses to place her youthful affections is of no concern of yours –”
“Of course,” Odysseus said quickly, eager to divert her thought. “Of course it is not. That is not… Nemesis’ concern, it is that Lord Moros, his presence here… that it may be affecting the success of the Goddess. Not intentionally! But… he is Doom.”
“He is,” Hecate said, slow and even. “And you did not consider that Nemesis might have an ulterior motive in voicing such thoughts to you?”
It was a relief to know that he was not the only one seeing something budding between the two – though budding seemed far too benign a description at times for the sheer aggression Nemesis showed. Not that Melinoë didn't accept and match her with relish. Perhaps that was normal when women courted between themselves? Or something to be expected from Silver Sisters and the types of goddesses that they were?
So long as Melinoë was happy... and so long as Hecate knew too the threat such barbed emotions might prove. Love and lust were powerful things indeed – to Aphrodite all but three Olympians fell sway. The heart should always be accounted for as best it could.
“Considered, and dismissed,” Odysseus said, waving a hand. “The tangled web of divine relationships is far beyond me, and it is certainly not my place to say anything even should they become a tripping hazard in the path of the Goddess. Nemesis surely knows that.”
“So you think there may be some truth in her concern.”
“I cannot dismiss it entirely,” Odysseus said carefully. “You contracted me to consider these things, after all. Everything that could affect the outcome of all we are fighting for. Perhaps the Goddess only took one too many Testaments and that is why she fell. Perhaps she dismissed a small enemy to focus on a greater one, only for that nuisance to land the killing blow. Perhaps she grew too complacent. Perhaps she underestimated her foe or overestimated herself, and perhaps it is nothing more than that. But perhaps –”
“You must also consider that perhaps it is the limits of your own mortal understanding that drive your fear and your understanding of the situation, or lack thereof.”
“Perhaps,” Odysseus agreed.
“Ever seeking to cut a new way out of the labyrinth even with the path already threaded,” Hecate sighed. “Clever though you are I doubt you will be have much luck divining between happenstance and Fate but so be it. It is a better preoccupation than the bottom of a cup, at least.”
He thought it highly unlikely he would ever know the answer himself, had sought the files out as a distraction rather than with any hope of satisfying the nagging question Nemesis had set upon his heels. I just need to know someone else is on the lookout too. Still: “Most gracious Titaness,” he murmured, bowing again.
“Do not speak of this new paranoia to Melinoë. Her focus must remain upon Chronos.”
“You have my word.”
“I would rather your oath,” she said, her stare somewhat akin to the hard probing look he’d received from carrion birds displeased to find him still moving. “As you gave regarding Circe and Calypso, when Melinoë was small.”
He blinked a moment, then remembered – Melinoë in her saffron dress that reached her knees, old enough to wander and to wonder, becoming enamoured in earnest of witchcraft and all its disciplines, asking so many questions. “Too young to be hearing of your conquests, however relevant, Odysseus,” Hecate had warned, and made him swear not to mention Circe or Calypso unless Melinoë asked of them first, and to say nothing then beyond what was fit for little ears.
He had sworn, though it hadn’t been necessary as far as he was concerned – he’d had no intention of speaking ill of Calypso or Circe to Melinoë, or indeed of speaking of them at all. It was irrelevant information – at the time Melinoë had been barred by her blood from the surface, but even so if their paths should manage to cross one distant night how they would treat a fellow witch and goddess would obviously differ from how they treated mortal men. He had no reason to say anything more than “I have heard of Lady Circe, yes, she does indeed specialise in transformation spells, little goddess,” or “I don’t know if it would be the same kind of magic as conceals the Crossroads, little goddess, you would have to ask Calypso herself, and word has it she cannot leave her isle.”
What purpose would it serve to taint the joy Melinoë felt in magic and witchcraft with talk of how ill-used a mortal could feel on the other side of it? What good did it do to crack the pedestal upon which she placed her fellow witches? (Would it even crack?)
“As Earth and Sky be my witnesses,” he said, unsure why he shuddered, “upon the downward flow of the Styx, I swear. If doubt should come to Melinoë regarding Moros and his presence and intentions here, it will not be from me.”
“A strong oath indeed,” Hecate said, as if she would have accepted something less. “Do not forget to bring me those reports regarding the movements of the forces of Chronos approaching Olympus.”
“Of course.”
“And do not become overly concerned with this – the nature of Doom is a mystery far beyond even you, man of many turns. Remember: a man dies not for the many wounds that pierce his breast, unless it be that life's end keep pace with death, nor by sitting on his hearth at home does he escape his appointed Doom.”
“Yes, Madam.”
He watched her depart, just long enough to reassure himself, then turned back to the Keeper and Sage with a wry grin. “Well. Don’t suppose I have to swear you to secrecy, eh?”
The identical eye rolls he received made him laugh softly – then his head went up as he watched a train of spirits form and begin drifting towards Melinoë’s tent. He gathered the scattered parchment and reorganised it with the swift ease of long practise, sliding neat piles back to their respective owners before rushing to the centre of the taverna. She might not check. But she might.
A sharp whistle brought a familiar crew of Shades to him, expressions a mix of eager and exasperated as they crowded him, grumbling interestedly as he grabbed flower centrepieces and candles and swiftly set them into a nonsensical arrangement that almost resembled a battle plan. An empty cup swiped from a close Shade and – “Those were days, eh, lads?”
A groan answered him, and he nodded seriously. “You’re right, it was more like…” he leaned over the table, frowning in concentration as he moved a spoon to the left and angled it just so – “that, wasn’t it?”
“Od?”
“Goddess!” Odysseus said, cheerfully startled, straightening up too quickly with a wince. “Ungh, too long hunched over reports.”
“Or too long spent carousing,” Melinoë observed, clicking her tongue unsympathetically as she stepped up to peer at the table arrangement, brow furrowing as she tried to work out what battlefield was supposedly represented.
“If I still had my beard I would look twenty years older and there would be no eye rolling when I complained of my back,” Odysseus said, mock-scowling.
“You can’t have a bad back, Od, you’re a Shade,” Melinoë said, rolling her eyes.
“You didn’t think so when I told you you were getting too heavy for my poor shoulders to keep playing your horse,” Odysseus pointed out.
“Headmistress backed your word!” Melinoë protested, scandalised. “She said I was getting too old anyway for such –”
“Horseplay?”
“– games,” Melinoë corrected firmly. “And I knew mortals suffered things like that, and that you were once mortal. Of course I believed you both!” She folded her arms and scowled, examining him. “I bet you could still carry me really.”
“Not if you still kick as you did then, Goddess. You’ll find myself and horses agreed about the actual necessity of a strong kick to the ribs to prompt movement. Not to mention –” he nodded at her glowing feet.
“Oh! Did I hurt you back then, Od? I’m sorry, I never thought—”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, Goddess, never change,” he said. “Rest assured, I wore those blisters with pride.”
“Od…”
“I jest, I jest.” He waited for her to look at him, then confided seriously, “A Shade cannot blister.”
“Ugh,” Melinoë whirled, stomping – mightily successfully, if only by virtue of her dainty feet also being fiery – back towards the heart of the Crossroads. “I’m going to speak with Nemesis!”
“Good luck, Goddess!” Odysseus called after her. “Maybe ask her if she’d like to go fishing!”
Odysseus was not meant to go upon the surface. Strictly speaking, his prohibition from the surface should have been less ‘not meant’ and more ‘couldn’t’, bound as he was to the Crossroads and Hecate’s service, but there were many loopholes to be found in technicalities.
It was not that he was in any way truly important, he held no delusions about that, but it was still an unnecessary risk to take when there were many who could bring the information needed to help him understand and circumvent the shape of the battlefields above and below.
Not to mention that under the sky and upon the earth he had less… substance was entirely the wrong word. But mortal light revealed him, shone through his skin thinly. Unwilling to anchor himself in rotting flesh and forgotten bones the longer he stayed the more drained he felt – the more hollowed out, a pomegranate divested of seeds. He could pass on words, and parchment if he was quick, as he always tried to be, but he could not hold a cup long enough to sip, no matter if the contents were wine or Ambrosia. His dagger would pierce no flesh, only an enemy Shade.
There was nothing like seeing what had become of the living world he'd left behind for a sense of clarity, however, so he remained rooted under the shade of an old and blighted olive tree, watching the flashing movement of Athena’s shield and spear in the distance, the plume of her helm moving at the battlefield’s front because where else would she be?
Her favour had shielded him once, but she did not sense him watching – a Shade was beneath Olympian notice. He stayed hidden anyway, watching the ebb and flow of the battle, the arc of her spear, the brutal slam of her shield into her foes, used more as weapon than it ever was protection. Not once did his eyes stray from her; not once did her grey eyes happen upon him.
Melinoë had said Hephaestus claimed she was testing his work, and she was, furiously divine.
He began to laugh, and kept laughing until he was doubled over, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, his hand pressed to rough bark the only thing preventing him from going to his knees.
I sing of Athena, he remembered a boy of his name and face crowing, shining with the invincibility of youth, sure of his patron and place. How distant the memory seemed. Guardian of the city, that fearsome goddess who cares with Ares for warlike works – the sacking of cities, the scream of battle, the clash of the fray – and also ensures the army’s safe parting and homeward return.
“Farewell to you, Goddess,” Odysseus croaked, voice still shaky with laughter, stolen by the wind, but he couldn’t remember the entreaty that followed the hail. For him there was no more to be sung.
He turned away and started picking his way back to the Crossroads through the cold corpses and rubble. He did not feel Athena at his back, and knew she did not feel the loss of his gaze upon hers. He did not feel chilled, despite the congealed blood and dust he walked through. He did not feel much of anything.
It was only upon passing the wards and entering the Crossroads once more that feeling began to return – his skin warmed, the colours of everything became clearer, shapes more defined, his sense of smell returning in a rush of earth and grass and the smoke of the many candles that lit the groves. He swayed, hand going to the empty pouch that had been his excuse to leave before the sun rose.
“Idiot,” Nemesis said, seizing his shoulder and turning him roughly to face her, scowling as he blinked dazedly up at her. “Whatever kept you up there better be important.”
“Always is,” Odysseus said, carefully stepping back, wobbling slightly even with her hand tightening on his shoulder. “I’m far too fond of myself to risk it otherwise.”
“Hmph, sounds like you,” Nemesis said, relaxing her grip slightly. “Next time use one of the messenger Shades, that’s what they’re here for.”
“Some things I just need to see myself,” Odysseus said. “Wouldn’t want to give the good witch or the Goddess faulty information now.”
“Reconsider,” Nemesis said bluntly, releasing him with a shove that sent him tottering back a step or two before he could recover. “Some things aren’t that important.”
“Would you miss me?” Odysseus wondered, fluttering his eyelashes at her, and she turned away with a disdainful grunt.
“The Princess would mope,” she said, giving away far more with the simple statement than she probably intended. “Hn. Moros too, probably.” The sideways glance she gave him was sharp and knowing.
“Well I’d hate to see that,” Odysseus said blithely, as if ignorant to her golden stare. “As you wish, then, Nemesis, I’ll take more care in future.”
“Ugh, don’t phrase it like that. Save that kind of thing for my brother. He’s the one that thinks you’re worth something.”
“A wonder,” Odysseus muttered to himself, scrubbing exhaustedly at his face.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Odysseus said. “It’s good to be back. I think I need to rest a while, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t, and I don’t care,” Nemesis said, but when he glanced back halfway across the glade she was still watching him intently, arms folded, making sure he reached his destination and the slight sway in his steps didn’t turn at any point to stumbling or a fall. He laughed quietly to himself, waiting until she’d stalked back to her guard post before changing course aimlessly, eventually sinking to his knees among the wheat that filled Melinoë’s garden. It did not look or smell much like the stuff his farmers would have grown, harvested as it was from the Fields of Mourning and godly in proportion, but it was close enough he could almost feel the sun.
Wheat, for incantations of respite. He could use some of that.
The night air of the Crossroads was still and sweet, and Odysseus closed his eyes and listened – faintly, the sound of witches chanting at the great cauldron, the buzz of insects singing to each other and the night, the steady pad of bare feet against the earth, speeding up as they neared, the whisper of clothing, accompanied by the muddled scent of all Odysseus had come to dread as a mortal man, one moment blood on bronze the next sea-soaked linen –
“Moros,” he said, opening his eyes to find Moros staring down at him, eyes sweeping him up and down as if seeking damage, lips thin with worry, his hand slackening upon the hilt of his sword as if he’d been expecting to have to use it and the sight of Odysseus removed that burden.
“I was concerned,” he said, honest as ever. “I am pleased to see you are safely returned to the Crossroads.” He hesitated, frowning slightly before crouching beside Odysseus. “You are well, Odysseus?”
“A funny question to ask a Shade,” Odysseus said with a laugh, before seeing his frown deepen and hastily adding, “I am well enough. I had to stay a little longer on the surface than is really good for me to get the information I needed, that is all.”
“You will be well?”
“I will,” Odysseus said politely, pushing himself to his feet before assistance could be offered. “You needn’t concern yourself.”
“How could you think I would not?” Moros said, standing much more smoothly and moving closer – ready, Odysseus had no doubt, to offer his hand or arm if need be, carelessly discarding the stiff formality that kept him so noticeably separate from just about every other inhabitant of the Crossroads.
“Forgive me,” Odysseus said, brushing at his clothing to give himself a moment to recover from the light-headedness that should not have come with moving too suddenly. “I am not – not at my best at the moment.”
Moros tilted his head, expression softening. “Of course,” he said. “Do you need assistance?”
“I – thank you, but no.”
“The Princess will return soon,” Moros said in apparent non-sequitur, keeping careful pace beside him as he began to walk away from the garden. “She is carrying the keepsake I gave her,” he explained at Odysseus’ brief glance. “The count has begun. She may yet prevail, but I imagine you would prefer not to worry her. Should we make haste to Lady Hecate? Surely she can help in some way?”
“She’ll have no sympathy and rightly so. Rather slink past to the taverna,” Odysseus said, shaking his head, offering a playful grimace of embarrassment that he was convinced did nothing to conceal how much he wished he could drink himself into oblivion. “My mistakes are mine to carry.” As always. “I’ll recover.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Moros said. “The taverna, then, if that’s truly what you wish.”
It wasn’t, but the groans and indistinguishable noises of his fellow Shades that passed for chatter and made him wince were still preferable to Hecate’s probing questions, so he settled himself at a table and watched Moros try – unsuccessfully, for the taverna-keeper immediately acquiesced whenever Moros requested anything – to barter for something.
“I feel I am missing an experience when they just give me what I ask for,” Moros said, returning with a bemused look at his prize. “But I am not entirely sure what it is.”
“Ambrosia, eh?” Odysseus heard himself say, voice distant to his own ears as he watched the bottle be placed upon the table. “You spoil me indeed.”
“I honour you as I should,” Moros corrected, and for all their busy surroundings they might have been back at the baths again for the intimacy in his voice – it belonged there with the press and slide of wet flesh, the cold marble at Odysseus’ back and the warm body between his legs. “Sip now, Odysseus.”
Obediently, Odysseus sipped. His cup was chipped slightly where it rested against the corner of his mouth, a drop of his single mouthful of golden Ambrosia escaping to smear his chin. He shuddered, slightly more centred, though it would be a guess whether it had been the brief walk or the divine nature of Ambrosia that recovered him more.
Moros reached out and touched his chin, brushing away the errant drop, fingers cold as the winds that flung Odysseus’ fleet towards the Laestrygonians, colder still than the spray of water from vast rocks crashing into the sea, driving his ships into each other with such screaming of wood and men he would never hear its like again save in his dreams. His chest heaved with the urge to bring the blood-mixed foam accidentally swallowed back up –
Ambrosia only, indescribable on the tongue. His chiton warm and dry, his cloak dusty at the hem. Moros was watching him, intent and focused as ever, smiling, one hand still upon his chin and the other resting above Odysseus’ knee to steady him as he leaned in.
Odysseus understood at once – in the same moment he realised he had in truth known the instant he understood Moros was not offering gifts of friendship but courtship – that Moros would continue to gift him things to reassure him that his desire was not (only) carnal but true. Bedding Odysseus would be his pleasure but having him was the joy, not the sex.
He could not sail away. There would be no release but Moros eventually tiring of him, as gods tended to do, and there was no counting how long that might be. But Moros was unlikely to hurt him in the taking – all physical sensations were somewhat muted to a Shade regardless – and what objection could Odysseus give?
Over Moros’ shoulder he caught sight of Melinoë standing before the list of minor prophecies. He was too far away and entirely the wrong angle to actually see her frustrated scowl but her dissatisfaction and lingering pain were evident in the set of her shoulders – she’d braced herself exactly so since she was a child – and how long she stared up at the parchment without moving.
Odysseus set his cup down carefully, let himself take a single unnecessary breath for the first time since his death, and smiled back.
Moros might claim his hands were not as clever as those of the Spinners but for the work to which he put them they were adroit enough, undressing Odysseus with ease and encouraging him to return the gesture, teaching him the fastenings of his armour and the clever knots of his shendyt.
His hands were careful too, charting Odysseus by touch from scalp to sole – the involuntary twitch when he trailed his fingers too lightly, the suppressed flinch when he pressed too hard, the curl of his toes in response to a confident stroke of his phallus, the stifled huff of involuntary laughter to one too delicate.
The back of his neck and how the scrape of teeth made him freeze. (Meat like outstretched arms between the teeth of Polyphemus, blood dripping from his sneering lips to drench his spine like sweat and be smeared by Moros’ lips, not a speck of copper upon them when he turned Odysseus’ cheek and kissed him slow and sweet.)
The groove between hip and thigh and how the slide of fingers with just the right pressure and intent made him gasp. (The rich scent of hot fat wrapped twice around pieces of meat from the cattle of Helios and dripping upon a distant fire, making it spit and roar and bring a wash of heat even beneath the oppressive chill of Doom.)
The spot beneath his left ear and how a kiss there brought startled colour to his cheeks. (Colour that would never come to the men dragged from the Lotus-Eaters, their faces hollow and pale and drained of want and will, no desire to eat what could never match the sweetness of the Lotus.)
The back of his knee and how a badly configured grasp would make his leg kick out but pushing his leg up or apart made him go still and compliant all the same. (Muscles burning with the strain of clinging grimly to the fig tree above the maw of Charybdis, no foothold to find and nowhere to climb, the roots too far below and its branches out of reach above.)
A kiss to his nipples did nothing but embarrass, but the lap of a tongue made his back arch. (Red-lipped, red-teethed and red-tongued Scylla, grinning widely as she tore his shrieking men apart, still reaching for him as she ate, red-nailed.)
The exact grip to make him thrust into Moros’ hand, the precise stroke to make him moan, how delicately his testes preferred to be handled, how much roughness they could take. (The softness of Moly petals and the brief touch of Hermes’ hand, laughter in his warning and warning in his laughter – get an oath or she’ll unman you.)
How to open his body with slick oiled fingers and breathless praise, sweet as siren song, promising him knowledge – promising him… he could no longer remember, only the hook of it in his ears, in his head, a key to which he’d lost the lock, down, down, king of--
An embarrassing failure of imagination on Odysseus’ part, that he had somehow not anticipated Moros would take him upon his back like a new bride despite the ease of other positions – and comfort him like one too, reassurance offered with every new inch invaded, paeans murmured in his ear as Moros sheathed himself slow and sure and inevitable within him.
He could hardly say he would prefer to be mounted like a dog, but to be treated like a virgin felt like being once more at sea, only a raft between him and the roaring of the storm and the thunder of the waves, sea and sky endless and against him at every turn with land nowhere in sight. Endure it, endure it, what else is there to do?
Lips upon his, too brief to dismiss as lust and too sincere to be only affection. The tide began to retreat, the endless churning of blood and water in his ears fading enough that the distant cry of white-winged seabirds sounded more like words:
Wondrous.
Glorious.
Beloved.
Odysseus. Odysseus. Odysseus.
“Uhn – Moros?”
“Am I hurting you?”
Odysseus blinked at him, uncertain if his ears were still playing him false, then barked a sharp laugh that turned into a groan the more it made his body shake around its invader. What would be achieved if he lied and said he was? Would Moros withdraw? What good would that do? He was already upon the altar; a sacrifice’s throat half-slit could not be made whole.
He swallowed, too, a not so clever remark about how many maidens could only wish their husband showed as much consideration on their wedding night. The gods had a sense of humour in his experience – incomprehensible and cruel. It would be unwise to place himself as a bride in Moros’ thoughts, even in jest.
“No,” he said, watching Moros study him avidly before leaning down to kiss him, brief and plentiful, long white hair tumbling over their shoulders in a silken avalanche. It didn’t in any way conceal the eager tremble Odysseus could feel in his muscles, a hunting hound at heel straining in wait for its master’s word to be set upon prey.
Odysseus laughed again, helpless to stop it. He was certainly not the master in such a scenario. “You can move,” he said, voice warmed with humour, and Moros surged –
Drowning was not pleasant in Odysseus’ experience – it was a violent struggle, painful and fearful, and Odysseus had never reached the fabled calm that allowed Thanatos to take a sailor – the peace between the panic and the end. His chest had never stopped burning for air, his throat seized with longing, hands clawing blindly for the surface, for air, for just one moment more of life. He could never swallow enough salt to close his eyes and accept such a Fate.
Doom’s lips were sweet as Nectar. Nothing hurt.
down, down
Someone groaned somewhere far away on the vast battlefield, and again as the next wave rocked his entire body, made him gasp and arch and realise he’d been speared like fish, pierced so deep there was no escape but whatever hungry mouth fulfilled their desire with him.
oh but you’re beautiful upon the hook, come closer, little lost sailor, wave-tossed wanderer, closer, closer...
“Oh, you are beautiful,” a voice said, hungrier even than Scylla. “To think you would grant me this.”
What could a mortal grant that a god couldn't just take?
Low and intimate, that voice, that hunger: “I wanted you like this in the ruins of Ilium, by the gates you opened to let me in to meet every man, woman and child of the city.”
The city had been beautiful, its ruin monstrous. He would do it all again if he had to.
“I thought it merely a passing fancy – hah! brought about – brought about by the satisfaction of such a prophecy as the fall of that great city. But when next I sought you, and you slipped my Sisters’ threads and my fingers – again –”
A thrust to make him moan, drive all words from his opening mouth, readying to spin a defence.
“And again,”
Another, deep and aching and yet without pain.
“And again—”
A ragged noise like that of a man dying, though whether it was the little death or the final one was somehow impossible to discern.
“Rarely have I been so frustrated. I could not help but want you more and more the more and more you evaded me.”
Odysseus could certainly feel his wanting, buried inside him and still trying to get deeper, the slap of skin where he was denied further entry like a frustrated curse.
He meant to respond, to try and divert Moros, but groans were all he could get past parted lips, and each only seemed to spur Moros on, driving him harder, fiercer, the loving kisses upon Odysseus' gasping mouth no gentler than the endless thrusts and almost as wild. A relief, then, that he’d been worked open so embarrassingly thoroughly with such excessive oil, or so it had seemed before Moros began moving.
“I saw you washed up upon the Phaeacian shore, escaped once more, and all I could think was how I desired you. To lick the brine from the secret parts of your body, to tangle my hands in your ragged hair and taste the sea upon your lips, to sheathe myself in you within sight of the ocean and ravage you twice as thorough.”
He had feared wild beasts in the shadowy wood he dragged himself to, bedding down beneath thorn and olive, but feared them less than the bitter cold of a night lying exposed to dewfall and the chill of the river breeze at dawn. Despite it all he had not known to fear a god’s approach to his leafy bed, to wake entwined rather than not at all.
Gentle as the snowfall that beguiled a weary traveller to rest without shelter: “Then to bathe you, to oil your skin and comb your hair and pet you until you yielded – as you yield now.”
To yield – to gods, to Fate – was to endure. Odysseus was well experienced there – he just had to scrape together enough to outlast the next five seconds. The next, and the next, and the next, until it was easier to count the minutes passed than the seconds still to be endured and easier to tell himself just five minutes more and this too will pass. Those five minutes strung together to reassure him he could bear the next five hours, and hours upon hours showed the likely shape of five days. The days to weeks. The weeks to months. The months to…
Time meant nothing to the deathless gods but it had once meant so much to him. A few seconds more. A few minutes more. A year and a day. Eventually this too would pass, this too he would survive: even if some god breaks me apart, I will go on. Oh but he had been an arrogant man.
“So beautiful, the cunning working of your mind, your steadfast determination, I could not but grow to appreciate you. To admire rather than begrudge.”
All his life, from Ithaca to Ilium and back, Odysseus had fled Doom. He was not special in that regard. For every person that could not help but walk the Spinners' web with eyes wide shut there was another that chewed like a wolf at their own entangled limbs to escape... and brought Moros to them all the swifter.
Unhappy man, if your heart knew how much distress Fate has in store for you, you’d stay here and keep this home with me.
To be pinned beneath Doom at last felt like bleeding out, vision blurred with patches of light as everything grew distant, all heat and will to move drained away to an end overwhelmingly cold but painless and peaceful.
It felt like drowning as his lost crew had described it – like water closing over his head at last and throwing him down into the depths, the world a moving wall of lovely colours, of sea shells and glittering fish, quiet, beautiful.
It felt like being an object of adoration, teeth in his neck and searing cold hands upon his hips, words of love sweet as honey dripping in his ears as he was taken, as he gave, a field to the plough, the sea to a ship’s bow.
It felt like his shivering body tangled with limbs sheened with sweat in the aftermath, satisfied kisses scattered lazily across his face and neck and wherever Moros could reach without jostling him, a hand combing the trail of hair down his stomach to his groin, damp with proof of his pleasure.
“My admirer,” Odysseus heard himself say faintly, the laughter that came when there was nothing else settling within his chest, bubbling in his throat.
“Yes,” Moros said, smiling eyes and smiling mouth as delighted Aphrodite to see. “Didn’t I follow you far and wide, through every twist and turn? You were a delight to watch, a marvel – how could I not admire? And I have you now,” he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice, his hands cupping Odysseus’ face as he leaned in to press their mouths together. “I have you.”
“You have me,” Odysseus said, closed his eyes and swallowed salt.