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Odysseus hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he’d been able to breathe.
Perhaps it was merely the prior seven years — it was most definitely the prior seven years — but when he crawled from the underbrush and startled those poor girls in the river, he felt drowned. He’d washed up on this shore already dead, left in the sand by the waves as flotsam. If he could walk, could move. He didn’t know if he could speak.
Then that too-kind princess had helped him. She’d never touched him, kept her distance and gave him clothes to cover himself. She’d helped him into the city, helped him find asylum, and he could not begin to understand why. Since when had such kindness been awarded to him? Since when had anyone decided he deserved that care?
But these people did, somehow, care. They fed him. Opened their doors to him. And the King — that kind, kind man — had seen his weeping and done nothing outwardly cruel for his weakness. He’d merely called for games, and allowed Odysseus to move his mind to something else. And when it continued, when those memories of Ilion from another lifetime drenched him in sorrow once again, he could not breathe and still the King told the bard to stop. These people cared for his wellbeing.
He thought, perhaps, telling his story as these Phaeacians wished to know would help. He was not sure it had. So late in the night, so far into the delirium of the darkness, the influence of Iacchus weighed heavier than ever on him.
The King had walked Odysseus to his room personally. He’d raised a gentle hand to Odysseus’ shoulder, intent on some comfort, but when the muscles in Odysseus’ bicep tensed in anticipation the King withdrew his hand without question.
“If you need anything,” he said, deep eyes the color of rainstorms boring into him, “and I mean anything, please let me know. Rest now, King of Ithaka. You are a treasured guest in my house; there is nowhere safer to be.”
Odysseus wasn’t sure if his insistent gentleness should be offending him, but regardless his bowed his head in thanks and slipped into his room. There was a lock on the door, even, though Odysseus waited until he could no longer hear the King’s footsteps before bolting it.
You know I despise when you lock yourself away, my love.
Odysseus violently shook his head and yanked at his hair. He couldn’t breathe again.
How sad. You wish to escape me? You must know you never can. You must know that I will never leave you.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Breathe, Odysseus, you fool.
He had to leave this room. This palace. This island. This life.
How long had he been pacing this room? How long had it been when he finally turned to the window and saw the moon so high in the sky? He could no longer recall. There were times, growing more frequent over the last year, that Odysseus looked around and realized he did not know when he’d gotten to where he was. That island looked so similar everywhere, even if by that time he could see the angle of a branch and know exactly where he was. He must have walked those shores hundreds of thousands of times. Just looking over the waves, always scanning for some ship on the horizon, no matter how far.
There never was. And when he was forced to return to the goddess’ home at sundown he forced himself so far out of his body, so far out of his mind, that he could no longer recall the details of what happened in her bed.
It was just as well. He didn’t wish to remember.
Perhaps he really was so cerebral; he’d been able to leave his mind, but not his body. Because even if his mind forgot, his body always remembered. He could still feel her touch on him. Could feel her breath on his ear. The feeling of emptiness once she was done with him. The ache of his body while he lay there awake, sweat drying icy-cold on his dulled skin.
How much sleep had he gotten in those seven years? It never felt like much. If he slept at night he risked waking to the goddess atop him once again; if he slept during the day, the goddess got upset with him. And despite how far he was able to fling his consciousness, he was never able to escape the memory of her punishments. He knew his body never would, either.
She’d made him dull. Simple in the mind. He knew her games, knew what she wanted from him, knew all she did was a vie for power; he had been an advisor to kings during the war, he knew how to play subservience while holding the real power. But he’d never been able to figure it out with her. Had never been able to find even a foothold of power while staying subservient — it never mattered. She wanted nothing but submission. And after the first few years, he gave up on trying. Gave up on being clever. Gave up on using any bit of the training his patron had given him.
A bird croaked outside; the sound of it sent Odysseus to the floor, arms over his head like ducking from an incoming projectile on the battlefield. Every muscle in his body tensed, every breath strained to leave his lungs. But the silence spread, and the bird did not croak again, and he was able to lower his arms and realize he was crouched in the center of his room like a child afraid of thunder. He fell back, feet out from under him, to lay there propped on his elbows.
“If you need anything, and I mean anything, please let me know.”
Odysseus took a few more scraping breaths before crawling to his feet. Were his hands shaking again? He pressed them together. It did not help.
He was in the hall. He could not entirely remember crossing the room, nor opening the door, nor shutting it behind him, but looked around and noticed the open archway leading to the balcony at the end of the hallway. He wrung his hands together again, then raised his himation up around his shoulders, tucked his trembling fingers beneath it, and made for that balcony.
It overlooked the gardens, beautiful and paved and cultured like nothing he’d ever seen. The orchards and gardens the goddess had kept were wild, organized only in the way their creator would understand. The Phaeacian garden was not that. The paved walkways were always cleared of weeds, short ground-cover trimmed along the edges. The large-petaled flowers that were open during the day were now closed, drooping, as if they, too, were asleep. The low-lying palms bounced in the seabreeze, fluttering and rustling. Odysseus pulled his himation tighter around him again, when that wind blew from the ocean, when it cut through the thick wool of his cloak.
“I thought I may find you here,” came a voice from behind him, and Odysseus would rather die than admit later that it startled him badly enough to send him cowering to the ground again, himation over his head. He was mostly sure that voice had said something else, but he did not hear — the blood rushing in his ears was so, so loud.
“…do not wish to touch you,” said the voice. “Not when you are in this state. Can you hear me, Odysseus?”
He knew that voice, or rather who it belonged to, and carefully lifted his head to see King Alcinous, crouched by his side. The concern he’d hardly shown the night before was now carved deep into the lines of his face, darkened in the now stormy color of his eyes.
“Yes,” was all Odysseus was able to grind out.
Alcinous took a long deep breath. “I did not mean to startle you. I— I have been pacing this night, too, and this balcony is such a good place to calm the mind. You were a bit… absent, when you retired to your room. I worried for what you may be thinking.”
What he may be thinking. Odysseus could have laughed at that, if he could find the ability to do so beyond breathing. “Fair,” is all he said.
Alcinous settled against the terracotta wall behind him, the railing of the balcony pressed against his left arm. Odysseus wasn’t sure if he should relax a bit, too, or if he even could. What would this king want with him? He knew not what he could give.
“May I ask, then?” he said, which Odysseus could be glad for. He was wasting no time. “What is it that troubles your mind?”
What troubles you, my love? How shall I ease you?
“I’m tired,” is all Odysseus was able to come up with, all he could say to the goddess then and all he could say now. And for a long moment, all he could do was sit up, dig his nails into his palms, and try to focus on how real Alcinous looked beside him. He didn’t entirely realize that meant he was staring until Alcinous shifted uncomfortably and spoke.
“It is nothing I have done, surely?” He flicked his eyes up, then back out at the gardens. “I hope I have not—”
“No,” Odysseus hurried to say. “No. Only trying to… This is all real?”
He hadn’t actually meant to phrase that as a question, but it certainly came out like it. And the moment it did, a sad understanding came over Alcinous’ face. Something all too knowing.
“You said,” Alcinous started, voice low and careful and so, so soft, “you said you were on an island before coming here, trapped. Other than that, you have given very little detail of it. You weren’t alone, there, for all that time?”
This, too, was phrased as an accidental question. Odysseus swallowed the lump in his throat and had to remind himself to breathe.
What troubles you, my love?
You know I despise when you lock yourself away, my love.
“I wasn’t alone,” Odysseus managed to croak out. “I— I was stuck on that island with a goddess.”
Alcinous was very clearly trying to keep his expression neutral, and was only moderately effective at it. “A goddess.”
For another moment, Odysseus couldn’t seem to find the ability to speak, tongue twisted, throat tight, mute again because of that horrid goddess.
You just won’t stop talking about that woman! You must learn to control that slick tongue of yours.
Odysseus opened his mouth and spoke if only to break that voice from echoing in his mind, to force himself to realize there was no magical rope around his throat, no gag over his lips.
“I am not—” came fumbling out, and Odysseus leaned against the wall, tried to ground himself. “She was not— I have a wife. The only— only woman I have ever loved. And I…”
If he’d spent seven years trying and failing not to cry about Penelope, he had no ability to even attempt holding back his tears, and hunched over himself again to muffle the whimper that escaped his chest. He raised his himation to his lips, his face, buried himself in it, and only when Alcinous set a steady hand on his knee did he turn his head. This King didn’t need to say anything, not with the sorrow embedded in the wrinkles of his old face, the knowing empathy that had been so unknown to Odysseus for so long. When had he last felt this, with anyone? Not the goddess. Not the Aeaean, who had even helped he and his crew eventually. Not his soldiers. Not Eurylochus, not since they’d escaped the Laestrygonians. Not since he’d lost his other captain and dozens of men in the cyclops’ den. Since the fall of the city, since the night of the Palladium heist, since…
How long since anyone had felt anything but hatred and disgust for him?
“How long?” asked Alcinous, so quietly again, so carefully. “How long since you have seen her?”
Odysseus choked on a cry and buried his face once again. “Almost twenty years.”
Silence again. If it was judgmental silence, Odysseus couldn’t tell.
“My son would be your daughter’s age,” Odysseus added, unaware in his mind that he was still going.
…just won’t stop talking!
…stop talking!
…must learn to control…
Put that mouth of yours to something sweeter, won’t you dear?
“Nearly,” Odysseus squeaked. “I left when— when Telemachus was nearly a year. I didn’t get to see his first steps. His first words. His first time running. First time swimming. First time leaving the palace grounds. First time he asked his mother about me. His first— his first everything. His laughter, I remember.” His head bowed, hands shaking violently again, and even when he pressed them together he couldn’t get it to stop; it just transferred up his arms, shook his bones. “So shrill. Sharp and high and so— so carefree, so pure. I hear it. I hear it all the time. In my mind. In my dreams, in the wind in the trees, in the waves on the sea. I…”
Alcinous had been watching his hands, the shaking, the continuous fidgeting, and took one of Odysseus’ hands into one of his own. Squeezed it tight.
“I do not know if he will want to see me,” Odysseus muttered. “If he will embrace me when I return, or wish I had stayed gone.”
“Do not think that,” Alcinous said, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. “If your son is anything like you, he has the curiosity and will to want to see his father again.”
Odysseus leaned all the way into his raised himation, and Alcinous moved closer, arm over him, leaving as much of Odysseus untouched as he could but still enough to comfort. For the first time in many, many years, Odysseus thought he wasn’t cringing away from this touch.
“You are a brave man, Odysseus of Ithaka,” continued Alcinous, head lowered to try and meet his gaze. Odysseus wouldn’t raise his. “You have suffered far more than most, and still strive to return home. That alone is admirable. And more than most you deserve to see your family. So,” he rolled on, before Odysseus could say anything, lips already parted, “with all that is in my power, I will get you home.”
For a few minutes, Odysseus couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words, but also felt that nonexistent tightness around his throat, the hold of godly power.
“…Thank you,” is all he was able to manage, before his throat closed up again, and he had to focus only on catching and forcing his breaths.
Perhaps this King was watching that, too. Because slowly Odysseus began leaning more and more into Alcinous, mirroring his steady breaths, unconsciously following the direction given to him. His vision straightened a bit, arms stopped shaking, head stopped swimming, until only his hands trembled and his body unfocused — his usual state, these past years. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to feel that solidity he’d had in his body, before his departure from the war. Even on the field, he’d managed better than this.
You’re really quite pathetic, you know that? Even for a mortal man.
“I think it’s probably time to retire,” Alcinous said eventually, many minutes later, when the moon was at its peak in the sky. Odysseus raised his head and dropped his himation, blissfully distant once again. “Allow me to walk you back?”
It wasn’t and was a question; Odysseus nodded nevertheless. Alcinous peeled himself away from him, stretched his arms, and got slowly to his feet. Odysseus had his head still tipped up at the moon, so he almost missed when Alcinous offered him a hand to help him stand. He was saying something. Just what it was, Odysseus couldn’t comprehend. So he took his hand wordlessly and put as much energy as he had into standing, over shot, and swayed forward. Alcinous steadied him, good-natured smile on his face, and held Odysseus up by the shoulders.
“What?” Odysseus breathed, when he realized his host was speaking again. Alcinous repeated himself, paused, frowned, and took a deep breath to send merely a small smile as he nudged them both to walk. He knew Odysseus wasn’t there, that much he could tell, and it was making Odysseus’ skin itch. No, not his skin, but layers beneath, where his nails couldn’t reach. It itched, and itched terribly, and it took every bit of his willpower to not scratch at his arms.
You’ve gone a touch mad, you poor thing.
“I’ve not,” he croaked. “I’m not.”
…told you, just do as I say and this won’t be so taxing.
“…Always hurts,” he squeaked.
Then hush, and feel me around you.
“No, no,” Odysseus murmured, lurching back from the touch on his arm. “No, please, I’ll…”
What you’ll do is spread your legs, or shall I tie them there?
Odysseus could feel those fingers gripping his spread knees, to manhandle him, to balance herself, and he tore away to slam into the wall. That voice wasn’t hers, that answered. Wasn’t the goddess, who tried taking his hand again, though he ripped it away.
Please stay still, darling- oh, must you struggle? Your eagerness shows itself plain, but you must calm down my love. You know I control our pace.
The touch burned. Scalded through his skin, charred the bones beneath. He thrust himself away, cried out when it returned, and eventually, finally, felt those hands retreat, different as they felt. Untouched, he could slide down the wall, could hold himself, could wipe away his own tears and rock himself like a fussy newborn.
So pathetic. This is my punishment, I suppose, being sent helpless mortals.
Odysseus shook his head and dug his nails into his scalp until he could feel warmth beneath them. Until hands took his wrists again and held them tightly, and did not let him go. That was— that grip— like a snare round a rabbit’s foot. And Odysseus thrashed, not noticing the additional voices, the additional footsteps, and tried only to get away from those hands, that snare-like grip.
“Please!” he shrieked, and the snare released. He hit the wall and curled up at the base of it, hands numb and cradling his head. He couldn’t— he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it.
When she said he could leave, he thought she was lying. That she was fucking with him again. That it would just be another excuse to torment him.
She told him he could swim away, once. It’d been almost a year since he washed ashore. She came to him one morning and said there was a sandbar out in the ocean, past the borders of her domain, and he could almost definitely flag down a ship from there.
He was desperate. He waded into the sea and swam as far as he could go. He felt the sharpness of shells and corals beneath his feet, cutting into the flesh of his soles, and decided to swim fully. He swam over bottom-feeders and colorful fish and saw no evidence of a sandbar. So he called back to her; his arms were growing extremely tired, and he could only keep himself afloat so long. He’d grown weak and weary, after recovering and growing sick again over and over, almost certainly due to her trickery and torment.
He’d called to her. Asked where the sandbar was. And she giggled mirthfully, like a girl in youth, like shells tumbling over rock. Odysseus couldn’t wade in place anymore. He couldn’t stay afloat. He began to feel the drag of the ocean tugging on his legs, and desperately made for shore; he wouldn’t make it, and he knew that.
So she called and said she’d help him, in her infinite kindness, if he agreed not to complain while she bedded him that night. He hesitated, until he could hardly keep his head above the water, and agreed with fervor, pleading.
He was back on shore and gasping before he was aware anything had happened. She wasn’t wet at all, certainly not having swam to fetch him. He hadn’t known what to do with himself, the rest of that day, and continuously felt his own body pulling away from him, an emptiness in him growing like rot in fruit, hollowing him out. She had him on his back against the sand, swinging a leg over his lap and sinking her weight against him, head in the crook of his neck, momentarily nursing the damp skin there with kisses and small bites, then settling with a noise akin to a contented purr.
When she led him to bed that night, he could hardly keep his head straight. He was mostly sure that was the first time he’d truly escaped his body, when he’d truly been able to distance his mind from reality. And he enjoyed it. It meant She was farther away.
So when she came to him, sat weeping on the shoreline, and told him with fury in her eyes that he was to leave, he did not believe for a moment that she was telling the truth.
The gods do as they wish. Why may I not? They take their women. They never give them back. So Fates forbid I keep a man I love.
He began building his raft that very day, unsure if she’d become upset with him if he waited. She didn’t like waiting, especially when it came to her games. She gave him an axe. He went up into the dense and wild forests to hack at wood and branches and vines the entire rest of the day, returning only after she had eaten and did not touch or speak to him. She only lay in bed, faced away, refusing to move when he asked if she was all right.
She didn’t answer.
Until the next morning, when he woke to her bent over him, heaving, riding him as he slept.
I was a fool last night. I must make the most of the time we have left.
Odysseus began to weep. Tried to get up, slide away; her vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead; her hand raised and that magic sunk like wire around his neck, like fire burning down his throat, and he choked on it.
She released while riding him. He did not. She slid off, out of breath and breaking her spell, and Odysseus curled up on his side and wept and waited for himself to soften.
She was gone by the time he was able to stand, no longer feeling his legs.
He built the raft for the whole day. He did not stop to eat, to nap, to look over the ocean and weep. He wanted it all to be over as soon as possible.
He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. They shook constantly.
That night she forced some food down his throat and dragged him to bed and rode his face until she came and he turned over once she was asleep to flee silently to the sea. Sat there shaking, bowed to the gentle surf, to gouge his salt-encrusted nails into his face and forcibly vomit all the food in his stomach.
She woke him similarly the next morning.
I have so little time left with you, my dear. I want to memorize you — your face, your hands, the feel of you inside me, the croak of your voice, the smell of your skin, your… everything.
He couldn’t feel his arms or legs anymore. His heart beat erratically, always.
He built the raft more. Bound slats of wood together with vines and rope of grasses, nailed wooden logs into a makeshift sail. She watched him from afar, eyes scoring into his back, slashing him apart. He ignored her and began weaving a sail.
That night was… not the same. He wished it was.
She forced some food down his throat again, more delectable and delicate than usual, and Odysseus realized only when she took him from his chair and his body fell prone into her that she’d once again fed him ambrosia. Whatever somewhat limited supply she had was saved only for when he was too resistant or she was too impatient, and each and every time it made the resolve he was usually able to keep up dissolve to nothing.
Ambrosia was so terribly, terribly sweet; he was sure it was a delicacy for the gods. For him, it made his mortal stomach churn. Made his muscles weak and strong all at once, blended his mind into nothing but obedient mush, all sensations pleasurable and all emotions intense. So, so intense.
That’s right, lovely. Feels so good. You know how I like it. Just like that. Just like that.
He hiked her legs up, hands under her knees, clasped firmly around her thighs. Was this enough for her? It had hardly ever been enough for his Penelope, who liked bites and kisses along her neck, down her breast. He lowered himself, sucked the skin there at her throat, just under her jaw, just how his beautiful wife liked it.
Ah! Fuck, you like that? Like how tight I am? Again. Again. Tell me, my love. Tell me how I feel, as you bury yourself within me.
And he did. He’d done as she wished, even when he realized the taste of that skin in his mouth was not the salty-sweet sweat and resiny styrax and lavender of her perfume. Even when he realized the tight heat he thrust into was not the same, not the same, not the same—
…so lucky, you know, fucking a goddess. You know how many men wish for this? You’ve spent so long resisting, but I can always seem to pull you back with my cunt, hm? Fuck. Finish— finish inside me, lovely. Please.
How she pleaded, at the end of the act. Not as though it mattered; she always like getting him moving, first, convincing him this is what he wanted, then nearly always ended up locking her legs around him, ankles wound together at the small of his back. His Penelope had used to do that, sometimes, and had barely been able to get her legs comfortably around him, with how wide and muscular he’d used to be.
He supposed he’d wasted away, in age and torment.
She held him there, hands buried in the gnarled curls of his hair, tugged him once, and he lowered himself to meet her lips. The heat that’d been slowly rising like the flames of a fire in his gut sunk and puttered out as he released within her, just as she’d wanted. Always what she wanted. And she held him there, chewing his lips, moaning into him, savoring every inch of him, until he was soft and his arms couldn’t hold himself up anymore. When she released him, he settled by her side, and she pressed kisses and bites just bordering on painful down the side of his neck and collar. Possessive, as always.
The gods will always mock me. Fuck them. For these few last days, you belong to me.
Odysseus cried as he wove, the next day. Watched the horizon and thought about how old his son had gotten, what wrinkles his wife had acquired, unfamiliar, when he returned. What time had been missed.
He couldn’t feel much of his body at all, then. His head spun, always, and if he stood too fast or turned too quickly he collapsed to the ground, momentarily unconscious. Perhaps it was the ambrosia, still wound between his veins and just underneath his skin.
She noticed. She always noticed. She used that to her advantage, that night, the next morning — did not bind him in any way, only hit the side of his face when he drifted off or tried to escape, and cried out in pleasure when his body went limp like momentary death.
Mortal weakness, always so interesting! Look at you, pet. How lucky you are that I love you.
He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, what day it was, or who he was, the next day. She woke him with her lips over him, head bowed and eyes staring up. He lay there as still as he could, watching her emotionlessly, waiting for his body to force the reaction to end this horrid moment. He released into her throat. She drank greedily and looked deep into his eyes again.
Odysseus didn’t work on the raft, that day. He went to the cliffs, tried to throw his feelingless, worthless body off of it, and was dragged by the ankles back to her home by vines and earth.
He lay motionless as she beat him, was limp when she healed his wounds. Was silent when she bound his feet tightly and handed him the sail to weave, and did as she said. She watched closer, that day. He didn’t recall what it was she did to him, that night, nor the next morning. All he knew is that he was sweating when she dragged him to the shore, feet still bound, and told him to finish the raft. She left. Angry, probably.
Useless, vile, horrid creature!
Trying to escape so easily? Is it not enough, knowing you can abandon me here?
Odysseus wasn’t sure when he’d gotten the axe back but when he was finally aware again he was standing with the axe in his hand and a cluster of her gardening destroyed in front of him. Beach thorns embedded deep in his calves, serrated leaves having cut through his sun-darkened arms, bloodied scrapes of rough stone over his elbows and knees and feet. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.
That’s how it had started, when his father began to lose his mind.
She dragged him back home and cleaned his wounds without saying a word. Odysseus didn’t dare speak. She bandaged the cuts, but used none of her power to heal them; he knew she had the ability to do so, for she’d used it after she beat him not long ago. Then she stood and looked him up and down in disgust.
This is some kind of pathetic mortal attempt at protest, isn’t it? Are you doing this because you’re disliking how I pleasure you? Because you hate how deeply I care for you? Foolish man. What time I have left with you I intend on making the very most of. What shall you do? Protest further? Feel free. If they’re taking you away then I may as well leave a mark on you, make sure you never forget me, either.
The next day he did not remember.
Then the next after that.
And when he woke next with her arms around his chest, the both of them bare naked, he could once again feel his body. He raised his hands resting by his sides and stretched them, then curled his fingernails into his palms. Even after he released it, the lingering stinging pain made him smile.
He did remember that day. He remembered leaving the moment she rolled off of him, then made his way swiftly to the beach where his raft lay.
It was crude, but certainly functional. The single mast he’d erected was now hanging with the woven sail. The wood was tight enough together not to allow water inside. It was no great vessel, and he didn’t think it was likely to get him to Ithaka, but it could get him away from Ogygia, and that was more than enough.
Then his captor appeared from behind him, coiling her arms around his waist like rough ship-rope, and once again, as always, Odysseus felt the air unable to fill his burning lungs. Like he was drowning.
When Hermes appeared the next morning, there to ensure Odysseus’ departure —
When he sat cross-legged on his raft and adjusted his sail —
When the wind picked up and took him from the mild winds of Ogygia —
He could still see Her, stood on the shoreline of her domain, like she was sure this was just another game that ended with Odysseus in her grasp.
“…will be nothing to send back, Alcinous.” Arete sat on their bed as he paced, still talking. “And if we do, what then? He arrives home a broken man, unable to think or speak or eat?”
“That was only the second day,” Alcinous mumbled.
“Dear.” Arete got to her feet, bare and frigid on the tiled floor. “I need some acknowledgement you hear what I say.”
“Of course I do.” Alcinous turned, stopping in his pacing, hand still raised to his bearded chin, arms crossed a bit petulantly over his chest. “I always hear you, my sweet. But this is— more complicated.”
Arete crossed the room to take her husband’s hands, to pry them from the shielded position, and guided him back to the bed so they could both sit on the edge.
“It was only the second day,” Alcinous echoed, trying to focus on his wife’s thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “That he did not eat. He feasted with us all that first night, he took part in all activities, he was as charming and cunning and prideful as the stories say.”
“Until the—”
“Until the song,” Alcinous cut off, not having to wait to know what she was going to say. “And only I noticed. He was… mostly fine, telling his terrible story. Until—”
“—The last handful of years,” Arete finished.
“He is merely…” Alcinous tipped his head to the side, thought, tipped it to the other, and added, “paralyzed. Stuck in that— those— moments. Wherever he is, it is not Phaeacia.”
The both of them thought for a very long time. Arete rested her head on his shoulder, breathing deep, and Alcinous scanned his mind for anything — anything — that could be a solution for the state of their guest.
He really wasn’t lying, that he was so… usual, that first evening. Even coming into the city alone and strange, even knowing to bow to his wife before he, Odysseus was an excellent, well-mannered houseguest. He showed little humility, while wrestling, but who would with the skill he had?
Then the second day. Perhaps he’d finally thought of where he was, that night, restless in sleep. Alcinous would never know for certain what it was. But they broke their fast well enough, spoke with civility, and only past midday did Odysseus excuse himself to rest. Only fair, Alcinous had thought at the time, until one of his servants came to tell him that their guest had momentarily collapsed in the hall, and refused all help. He’d made it back to his room just fine, when Alcinous arrived minutes later with a physician, but found Odysseus sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the window, so blank and lifeless in those dead grey eyes that Alcinous had shivered and rethought how well their guest really was.
He was fine physically, mostly. The biggest of them was an old and gruesome scar on his thigh that appeared to be a point of pride, almost, when Odysseus explained it was from a boar-hunt from his youth. There were many more small scars along his arms and legs, warrior’s scars, from stray blades and fragments of projectiles and broken shields on the battlefield. A particularly nasty arrow-wound carved into the middle of his chest, between ribs, and Alcinous could tell just by looking at it that it’d been nearly fatal. It was only when the physician came to his ankles and wrists, to newer lacerations and markings, that Odysseus truly turned himself away.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he’d said, head shaking, holding his arms close to his chest. When the physician said they had to at least check them, bandage them if they were still raw, Odysseus brought his legs bent up to his chest and tucked his head down before he raised his arms to the physician. Alcinous noticed the hand-shaking, then, not overly dramatic but noticeable, and the physician only frowned and cleaned the still-red markings around his wrists. From being bound, Alcinous could tell. From something like rope being knotted too tightly around his skin. His ankles, too, showed the same. Alcinous had sat on the edge of the bed, beside Odysseus, and waited for the physician to finish so Alcinous could thank him and dismiss him.
“You were not… imprisoned?” Alcinous asked, once they were alone, once Odysseus had begun wrapping himself back in his himation. “Where you were before this. You weren’t…”
Odysseus didn’t have an answer for a while. It couldn’t have been an easy thing to answer, Alcinous thought, and felt a bit guilty for asking when he leaned over and saw the utterly dead-eyed look on his guest’s face.
“Imprisoned…” Odysseus muttered, staring off. “Not as you would imprison a criminal, an opposing soldier, how you would imprison a guilty slave or livestock to be slaughtered.”
That was distinctly not the answer Alcinous was looking for, and he wasn’t even positive what he was looking for. “Were you unable to leave, where you were?”
Odysseus said nothing, then nodded and lowered his head to his knees.
“And your captor, they bound you.” Alcinous nodded down to the reddened marks on his wrists and ankles. “Did they have a reason, or were they merely mad?”
There was another long pause, as Odysseus seemingly decided for himself what was true.
“…I do not know,” was all he was able to say, all he was able to vocalize before he evidently thought too much about whatever had happened to him. His breathing picked up, eyes somehow more distant, and before Alcinous could predict what was happening Odysseus was hyperventilating and scrambling back in the bed like Alcinous was his captor. Those gnarled, shaking hands grasped at the sheets and blankets, as though preparing them to be used as a shield.
“I suspect—” he started again, sounding as though he’d not meant to speak, like the words had burst from him, but he did not stop himself as he continued. “I suspect that to her, I was akin to a war prize, in a fight that I do not think mortal men can begin to approach understanding of. I was proof of something.” I know not what that was, he didn’t add, but Alcinous could hear it in the air.
And for the thousandth time, Alcinous only felt his heart sink further with a weight he’d not felt in many years.
This was a man near his own age, one who’d already lived through war and marriage and fatherhood, however brief. He’d led an army, led his people, warriors of great renown. Taken his own war prizes, likely enough. He had strength like few others, a tact to him that was unrivaled, and a comfortable wit that only challenged others to quip back.
How thoroughly, then, were men able to be whittled down to the barest shape of their soul.
That was all he was able to think, watching this hero scramble back in a bed now looking far too big, eyes wide and lifeless as a corpse, mouth agape, muscles twitching. Alcinous reached for him only once, when Odysseus began moaning and scratching at his arms with such fervour he was bleeding before Alcinous could realize what was happening. Taking his hands did not help; he panicked further, and all Alcinous could do was drop his hands and allow his guest to gouge out his own flesh. All he could do was run to the door and call for the physician to return. He appeared quite swiftly, and made no evidence of disagreement when Alcinous demanded he give him a sleeping draught.
Arete hadn’t known all the details of that moment. Alcinous didn’t have the heart to tell her.
“I think I will walk with him,” Alcinous said, eventually, when Arete had closed her eyes to get as lost in her thoughts as Alcinous had in his own. “Around the island, or even just the city. He… cannot seem to connect that he has left the island he came from, that he lives now with real people. That whoever was keeping him before has no further effect on him.”
Arete peeled her eyes open and gave the smallest hint of a smile. “You know, Nausicäa had suggested something similar. You were not the only person to see him start to cry, at the feast.”
Something prideful filled Alcinous’ chest, at that, but sunk a bit when he recalled how hopelessly their guest had spoken of his son.
“Yes,” Alcinous muttered, as though not even aware he was speaking, “that would certainly help. I will fetch him after he wakes.”
Odysseus never wanted to move from that bed.
He didn’t know if he’d ever slept on something so comfortable, so plush, so enveloping with warmth that he found it hard to move at all. His bed at home, carved from the olive tree, tangled sheets in the mornings and just cool enough in the nighttime breeze — it hadn’t been hard, but it had been firm, because Penelope couldn’t stand too-soft beds. He hadn’t liked them either, before he woke up in this guest’s bed, bundled in blankets.
Perhaps he was just more tired than he’d ever been.
He was definitely more tired than he’d ever been.
He didn’t know what time it was, what time of day, how long he’d slept. It didn’t particularly matter to him, he realized. What did it matter if he wasn’t going anywhere for the time being? If he was still under the close watch of the King? He was well used to being helpless. At least he could be helpless in a large cozy bed, now.
When he woke after collapsing in the hallway, there was a constant ache of his head; not a headache, not that pulsing pain that shocked through a skull that had been hit too hard. No, his scalp burned, and it took him a moment to remember how deeply he’d buried his nails into his head, how he’d rocked back and forth against that hallway wall with claws latched like a wildcat into his head. His hands had been re-bandaged, and his arms, too, which now had lines of red seeping through the bandage. Had he done that? Clawed into his own arms? He honestly couldn’t say.
There was a knock at the door. One that, Odysseus realized, had woken him not moments ago. Another knock, another knock. He couldn’t manage to croak out an answer, now when he opened his mouth and felt nausea snake down his spine, like sickness having crept up on him in his sleep. He couldn’t answer, not without immediately feeling bile rise in his throat.
The door creaked open anyways. He hadn’t had the ability to bolt it shut when he’d likely been carried there, he realized, and felt a shiver sweep like razors over his skin again.
You know I despise when you lock yoursel-
“Odysseus?” called the voice on the other side of the door, distinctly not hers. “I thought I heard you moving about in there — are you awake?”
He couldn’t answer. Still, he rolled over on his side and somehow got the motivation to lift his aching body from those warm cotton blankets. He didn’t know how quickly he could move at all, with that nausea still stuck like sap in his throat, and crept himself to the side of the bed. There had to be a chamber pot in that room. He scanned; found nothing.
The door creaked open, and there came that voice again — “Odysseus?”
He opened his mouth to reply, tell them to leave, whatever he was able to do, and found himself lurching, tumbling over the side of the bed to palm the cold floor and dry heave. He didn’t think he had eaten anything substantial the day before, but in all honesty he couldn’t remember. Clearly it hadn’t been enough to vomit it up right away, hopefully at all.
Unfortunately, the movement and noise had alerted the voice at the door, and in an anxious hurry the door swung open the rest of the way and shut behind the person who entered.
“Oh, dear,” said the voice, and the door opened again. Odysseus couldn’t understand what he was saying, for a moment, only attempting to choke back down the bile trying to rise. Before he could lift his head again, footsteps were crossing the room to stop beside him, and suddenly there was a bucket in front of him, acquired from— where?
“‘M fine,” Odysseus mumbled, shoving the bucket and sitting upright. He was fine, he told himself, just exhausted and a bit nauseas. He leaned back against the side of the bed, closed his eyes for a moment, and swallowed over the lump like tar in his throat.
Above him was the King. His older face was twisted up in concern, beard puffed out to the side as he pursed his lips, watery eyes peering down at him with almost exactly the look his own father used to give him. When a younger Odysseus would get caught doing something stupid, or dangerous, or both. That expression had very quickly morphed into a concerned confusion, as the old King’s mind wore down further. Like he wasn’t quite sure why Odysseus was doing the things he was doing, or why he had trouble recognizing his children, or why he was suddenly in a different place.
…said your father went mad, didn’t you? Is it hereditary? Will you go mad, too? Are you already slipping, my dear?
“…fine,” Odysseus echoed, then rubbed his face in his hands and turned back up to Alcinous once again. “Just a bout of dizziness. I am well.”
Well. Now that was funny.
“Yes,” Alcinous agreed. “You are well. Just checking — you wouldn’t answer your door. I do not know if you heard me knocking.”
“Didn’t lock it.”
Alcinous leaned over, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Hm?”
Odysseus shook his head. “Didn’t… I didn’t get to lock the door, last night.”
That appeared to only perplex the King more. “Why must you feel the need to lock the door? You are safe, here. None enter this room without your explicit permission. I have made sure of it.”
Odysseus tipped his head up to Alcinous, not needing to point out that he had, in fact, just a moment before walked into the room without permission. Still, Alcinous let his face fall in acknowledgement and raised it back up to persist on his original point. You are safe, here, he’d said. Odysseus thought he may be able to believe it in his mind; in his body, he couldn’t even attempt it. Because when Alcinous next moved, simply shifting his draping himation over his collar, Odysseus felt himself flinch without meaning to. If Alcinous noticed, he didn’t say anything to indicate that he had.
“I’d like to walk about the city with you,” Alcinous said, eventually.
Walk with me. I ask so little of you, my love, my dear, why must you throw such a fit every time? Just walk with me. Why must you hurt my heart with such fits every time?
“Okay,” Odysseus answered, not thinking before he opened his mouth, and with a barely contained excitement the King took his hand and lifted him to his feet.
The city was… nice. Temperate, like Ithaka’s summers. Fruit trees were always in bloom, it seemed, and no plants appeared to be wilting at all. The buildings were clean, well taken care of and painted beautifully, vibrantly. Each Phaeacian had a look of… contentment, on their faces, with clothes as vibrant as their homes. Children played in the street, tossed balls to one another, threw down knucklebones, chucked rocks at trees…
The children used to do that, in Ilion. When he’d snuck into the city, when he’d seen the playing and heard the laughter. He heard nothing but the cracking of fire and screaming of the lost, after that.
“You like it?” Alcinous had been glancing his way, watching his every minute expression, picking him apart like a vulture to a carcass.
Odysseus wasn’t sure. It was… haunting, seeing a city like this, seeing anyplace like this. Happy, relaxed. How long since he’d been either of those things?
“Peaceful,” was all he was able to croak out, watching a mother sat on the raised porch of her home, cradling a baby.
Alcinous paused for a very long while. When he spoke again, Odysseus realized he’d been watching him still, figuring out what he was thinking.
“It reminds you of your home, doesn’t it?”
Odysseus did not turn his head to his host, only bowed it a bit and pulled his himation further up. “Perhaps,” he said.
“I did not show you this to mock you, Odysseus,” Alcinous continued, turning back to face the street. His arms were still folded up under his himation, face still carefully neutral, eyes still watchful. “I… simply wanted to show you, give you something… concrete, to look forward to. I understand you are a bit fragmented, being here, after so long on that island with that goddess, but…” His head shook, then straightened his gaze. “You are there no longer, my friend. I know it will take a bit longer, and it is difficult being here, but… I am here to help you.”
I am here to help you, my lovely. Why must you push me away so cruelly?
“Yes,” Odysseus spat out, “I know.”
Alcinous peered at him from the side. “If you’d like more space, I understand. I would just like to get you home as soon as I can, in the best state we can manage.”
You put yourself in such terrible states of being. Do you wish to wallow? Is that it? Perhaps you believe this all to be your own fault. That the deaths of all your men is due to your own hubris. And is it not? Do you not deserve to live like this, drifting as a shade long before your death?
“No,” Odysseus croaked, then realized he’d stopped walking, then realized he had in no way answered this man who is helping him out of the kindness of his heart. He shook his head, wrapped his arms around himself underneath the draping himation, nails digging into the blood-stained wrappings around his forearms. It wasn’t enough to stop that voice in his head, wasn’t enough to make him able to think again, wasn’t enough to make him steady enough not to jump when Alcinous took his hands.
“Enough of that,” he said, gentle and quiet, not allowing Odysseus to wrench away. “No. Enough of the self-inflicted pain, Odysseus, look at me.”
He certainly had the voice of a King, demanding in a way that held no belittling, no misplaced greatness; Odysseus had no choice but to look up and meet this man’s dark eyes. There was only kindness there, nothing comparable to the gaze of that goddess. He was never going to say something similar to her words, never going to blame him for his own misfortunes, even if deserved.
It had been a very long time before Odysseus had been able to place his faith in a person like this.
“I need you to promise,” Alcinous said, as low and careful as always, “to please come to me when that voice does not stop. When you need to harm yourself to feel something. When you feel as though you are losing your mind. Come to me, and we will fix it however we’re able. Think not of what burdens you may place on us, on me — look around. There is little else that claims my attention, here. Promise me you will do this to the best of your abilities, please, Odysseus.”
He was telling the truth, wholly and genuinely. Odysseus did not know how he could tell that, after so long of nothing but lies and twisted truths, but he could.
So with a long breath, feeling the ground beneath his feet, the wind on his skin, and no bindings on his body, said, “I promise.”