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There was a breeze in the air. It drifted idly, skimming across the ocean’s surface, and splashing up saltwater. The breeze was gentle as it brushed the sides of the boat, gentle as it swept through the cracks in the planks, through his hair and across his face. Despite the seemingly soft nature of the wind, the sails were angled in such a way that no breeze was too gentle to propel them forward, homeward bound. It certainly did not hurt that they had men on the oars at all times, of course, though at later hours like now, their numbers had dwindled, as they had rowers going in shifts throughout the night. Still, the soft splashing of water resonated through the body of the ship, loud enough to permeate Odysseus’ quarters, and threaten to lull him into a slumber. He shook himself awake as his eyes began to fall heavy again, forcing them to open once more.
It was as if the whole world wanted him to sleep. The water rushing beneath each oar, each gentle swoosh, and the whistle of the wind like a reed flute played by Pan himself. Despite this, he could not. Every time his eyes began to close, he heard the chatter of men outside his door, the footsteps creaking each wooden plank, it reminded him of the bag which he held in his hands, and the rules to Aeolus’ game.
The events which transpired upon his return from Aeolus’ island still remained at the forefront of his memory, and he mulled over it as one may mull over a stone, flipping it over and scanning each divot and blemish. His men had looked at the bag, then at him, hungry with curiosity. To his credit, he had tried to explain some polished version of the truth. He knew that his men were not familiar with the world of monsters and gods. At least, not as intimately as he was. Despite his attempts to discredit what Aeolus’ winions had said, he could tell his men had rejected his explanation.
Odysseus felt that he understood well enough. He wouldn’t trust himself either if he were in their shoes. Even though they’d agreed not to open the bag, Odysseus was no fool. Curiosity was a deadly force, fatal and intrinsic to mankind, and it would only be a matter of time until their curiosity outweighed their trust in him. Having such foresight, though, he resolved to never give them the chance. Perhaps that had been his downfall.
Initially, he’d opted to carry the bag with him everywhere he went. If this was Aeolus’s game, then he would play. His crew’s eyes followed him closely, but he paid them no mind. If getting them home meant his men turned against him, well, that was a price he was willing to pay. Glory meant nothing to him next to the prospect of seeing Penelope again.
That was what he reminded himself of that night, when he locked the door to his chambers and fought to stay awake. By the time morning came around again, he pulled his stiff limbs off the ground and staggered to breakfast. The eyes continued to follow him, and he kept his head down. When the barest sparks of irritation began to ignite, he fought them back, eased with the idea of Ithaca. Despite his annoyance, he was no stranger to sleepless nights, and he knew how to maintain a level head under such stress. He held to this, even as his crew hurled jabs at him. And at night, he clutched the bag to his chest and thought of what he would do first when he got home.
When day four rolled around, he pulled himself off the dusty floor. The sun had yet to reach over the horizon, rays barely falling on the deck of the ship. He stood at the bridge of the boat, watching over his men as they each rose with the sun and came up for their daily rations. He rested a hand on the bag. On his left, it was knotted tightly to his side. And on his right, his sword hung from his girdle. It was these two items which allowed him to relax. His men still watched him like harpies. Or like he was the harpy. That had remained the same. At least he had the high ground that morning. The sun rose behind him, a shield to their latent and seeking eyes.
“Captain!” Eurylochus greeted him as he approached.
“Eurylochus,” he greeted in response.
“How are you, my friend?” Said Eurylochus. Unsure of how to respond, Odysseus turned to face the lower deck. Eyes followed him keenly. After some silence, he responded.
“They’re watching me,” he said. Odysseus glanced back at Eurylochus. He was quiet for a moment, then another.
“Sir,” He said, followed by a long pause. His eyes wandered across the horizon, searching for a place to fall that was not on Odysseus. Despite the chatter on the deck below, it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Thick enough, bleak enough, like the wine dark tides underneath a stormy sky, one could drown in it. Disbelief so tangible in the air that you could cut through it with a blunt knife. He thought he could hear Eurylochus saying something, but it was all distant to him.
“Has everyone gotten their rations for today?”
“Yes captain, but—,” Odysseus had already started towards the area of the lower deck, where whomever was assigned to rations had been handing them out all morning.
Just as expected, as he stepped to the very end of the short, indistinct line, their eyes fell to his side, to the bag. Chatter, as he passed, silenced, and movement, stilled. Only when he had cleared them by several increments did they continue talking, and even then, it was in hushed whispers.
Though the line was short, the wait dragged on. He couldn’t quite tell if it was actually taking that long, or rather, if it was a figment of his own perception. Either way, as he watched the wind drift through the sails, forcing them across the waves, he could feel something pulling at his side.
There was the familiar shink of metal against its casing. The world blurred for a moment, then, it all stilled. There was a face, eyes shining with fear. And there was a sword at his throat. And, as his tunnel vision faded, and sensation returned to him, he could feel the hilt of the sword in his hand. He was white knuckling the leather wrapped surface. Ragged breaths tore through his chest, and his heartbeat raced in his ears. He brought the sword down, sparing more than a glance at his side, where, to his relief, the bag still rested.
He looked back up and gasped. He cast the sword from his hands. It clattered to the floor in front of him. The man on the other end of his sword— Perimedes as he’d come to recognize him—had a hand to his neck, where he rubbed the skin there. As he brought his hand away, Odysseus was relieved to see neither blood, nor blemish. He was not glad for long though, as the fear on his face quickly morphed to shock, then anger.
“You— you selfish bastard!” Perimedes yelled. At his wits end, Odysseus finally found his voice.
“Listen to me, all of you!” He shouted, swiping his empty hand around gesturally at the growing crowd on the deck, all with their eyes glued to him. “There is no treasure. There is only storm, contained in here,” he gestured to the bag.
“If the bag is opened, we will be sent back to where we started, weeks from home and unable to—”
“How are we to trust you?” Peremedes cut him off. “When you grow softer every day!”
There were murmurs of agreement from the surrounding crew. They only added to the ringing in his ears.
“Rest assured,” He spat, “I have but one goal in mind. To return to Ithaca, with as many of you as is possible. And I will take whatever measures necessary to ensure this happens.”
He cast one final glance at Perimedes.
“Do not try to take the bag.”
Grabbing the sword from the ground, he walked off, unsure of where to go, just firmly knowing that he could not stay where he was. He was lucky, he supposed, that after an outburst like that, he was not needed for the rest of the day. Or for the rest of the week, or, likely, the rest of their time on the ocean. Since Aeolus’s isle, he needed not to chart a path home, since the wind guided them in the right direction. He slunk through the halls like a beggar dog. His hands trembled, and his chest seized with each rapid breath. Quiet and undetectable, he slipped into his quarters, closing the door behind him, and propping something up behind it.
By day five, he could feel the sleep loss catching up to him. He knew he looked worse for wear by the worry that shone in Eurylochus’ eyes. Or was it distrust? He couldn’t quite tell. He hadn’t bothered leaving his quarters that morning. Around midday was when Eurylochus came to his door.
“Captain,” He said, remaining on the opposite side of the room, away from where he was hunched. “The men wish to know when you will join us on the upper deck.”
“Never,” Odysseus responded, “Not until we arrive on Ithaca’s shores.”
“But Captain,” Eurylochus said, voice taking on a confrontational lilt. “How are we to make it home without your guidance?”
“Follow the wind,” He said, “Ration the rest of our food, we should not need to stop, as we will feast when we return to Ithaca.”
Not even Eurylochus could convince him to leave his quarters. Not with his words still fresh in his mind. “How much longer can we keep this up?” He’d said. “We’ve been getting by on luck. Betting lives on it.” He didn’t say his name, but he didn’t need to. They’d lost many men to the cyclops, but Polites’ death had hurt him the most. It was a low blow to him, but not low enough for Eurylochus to abstain. It was so low, though, that he wondered if his trust in Eurylochus was misplaced. But as he took over most of his responsibilities, Odysseus knew he had no room to contest. And, he reasoned, words were no act of traitorship, not when he kept his doubts to himself after Odysseus asked. Eurylochus was his brother, they’d grown up side by side. That was more than enough reason not to doubt him. And it was more than he could say for most of his crew. Even so, each time Eurylochus brought him food, he kept a keen eye on him.
When the guilt tugged especially hard, he wondered what Athena would make of him. It had been mere weeks since she had rescinded her mentorship. Yet, he felt as though it had been years, for how much he had changed. For one, the owl-engraved medallion which held his cape to his chiton had a gash through the center, courtesy of Athena. There were two, but the other one was missing, destroyed, presumably, also courtesy of Athena. He’d fashioned the remnants of both into an exomis of sorts, though he knew it looked worse for wear. For two, there was a hefty scar across his face, trailing up over the bridge of his nose from his jaw. And there were the nightmares. It was almost easy to stay awake, as they followed him like a wolfhound. Each bump and knock in the night sent his heart rate up and quickened his breathing. As his eyes shot up to the door in front of him at the sound of footsteps on wood, he figured that he was no Warrior of the Mind. Not anymore.
Some ugly mix of anger and regret curled in his gut. He wondered what Polites would make of him now. He wondered if he would look at him with disdain, or with sympathy. Would he comfort him, or curse him like the rest of his crew? Polites was far too kind, far too generous to have affiliated with someone like him. That was what had gotten him killed in the end anyways. He’d spent weeks since his death mulling over what could have saved him. Perhaps if Polites had been on a different boat or in a different fleet, perhaps if—but there was no what if that could bring him back. There was no what if that could wash his blood from his hands. And there was another reason, there was far too much blood on Odysseus’ hands to be like Polites, and far too much guilt.
He held the bag tightly to his chest every night, unwilling to let it out of arms reach. Not when they were so close. On day seven, he’d heard shouts coming from the deck.
“Ithaca! We’re home!,” they’d shouted, or some variation of it. He had so desperately wanted to haul himself off the floor to see his kingdom for himself. But, as he cradled the bag in his arm like he would his boy, he knew that he must stay where he was. There was no room for error here. Not when the difference meant miles of impenetrable ocean, between him and his dear Penelope. He’d seen her in his dreams every night for the past ten years. Only recently, had she been replaced by night terrors. Visions of war, of the child, and of the cyclops. But they were as good as home. Oh, how he would hold her, how he would kiss her! He longed to sleep next to someone again. Next to her again. To be held close and protected. To feel safe. To make her smile and laugh. To see their beautiful child, who he barely got to know before he went to war.
In truth, he didn’t know how long it was until they made it to shore. He didn’t even know if they were truly able to see the island on the horizon. He’d been fighting back the urge to go see it for himself all day. But, in the dead of the night, he’d reasoned, when everyone was asleep, he was more than capable of protecting the bag. And he was desperate, desperate for some glimmer of hope.
Odysseus had stumbled up to the deck a while ago. Wind swept through his hair, with more vigor than it had from within his quarters. He’d quickly come to lean against the railing of the deck, using one arm to hold himself up, and the other to cradle the bag. Exhaustion had caused his legs to tremble beneath him. Unable to keep balance as the ship rocked, he fell to his knees. But on the horizon, quite faintly, he could see light. The faint lights of Ithaca. So, so close.
So that left him where he currently knelt, watching Ithaca approach. Throughout the war, and subsequent journey, he had dreamed of what he would do when he returned home. And now, those dreams were quickly becoming a reality. He could feel Penelope’s arms around him and hear her voice.
“Just keep your eyes open,” she said. He couldn’t wait to make some more memories with her. And return to his throne, right beside her. And finally, finally be a father. His head was so heavy, and he resolved to lean it on the railing. It couldn’t hurt, he reasoned, to simply rest for just a moment. Just a second, then he would be more alert than he’d been since Polites died. And perhaps the nightmares would leave him for just a moment. He could see Polites in his mind, telling him to rest, watching over him. Protecting him, even though he couldn’t do the same. It was like a heavy blanket over him, drowning out all the light. But Ithica was right there. Though, it felt like the island moved further away the closer they got. All he wanted was to hold them all close. But it seemed as though everything had gotten in the way. This time, he swore it would be different. This time, he would hold them in his arms once again, and never let go.
“Just keep your eyes open.”
He wondered if he would even recognize them. Telemachus must be nearing twelve by then, and Penelope? Neither age, nor distance could fade his love for her. But he wondered if he would even recognize her. Surely, he would. Nobody could change that much, right? And there was the far scarier alternative. What if she didn’t recognize him? There was so much blood on his hands, so much death in his wake. But he was the same. Hell, he’d been trapped on the same battlefield for ten years. And here he stood, with his arms outstretched towards the horizon, towards Telemachus, towards Penelope.
He could hear them.
“Keep your eyes open.” They said.
And his eyes, near impossible to keep open.
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Wake up.”
“Wake up.”
“Odysseus, they’re opening the bag, wake up!”
His eyes shot open.
“What have I done?” he’d asked himself after he dropped the infant off the balcony and heard the snapping of his head on the rocks below.
“What have I done?” he’d asked himself after the cyclops slaughtered his men, slaughtered Polites.
“What have I done?” he asked himself now, as the wind whipped across the surface of the boat, released from the bag he’d so carefully guarded for those nine days. At once, Ithica, his beautiful kingdom, disappeared from the horizon, and he felt any ounce of hope plummet with his heart. He cried out as his home became a speck, and then distant nothingness.
He caught sight of Aeolus, as they watched from atop a breeze now turned gust.
“Where’s the storm taking us?” He yelled, loud enough that they could hear it over the howl of wind. They crossed their arms as anger flashed across their face like lightning.
“You broke the rules of the game; I said to keep the bag closed,” They said. He opened his mouth to dispute this, but quickly snapped it shut as Aeolus continued.
“If I had to guess, you’re headed to the land of the giants.” With that, Aeolus disappeared into the winds and rain began to beat down from the heavens in a torrent.
The waters churned angrily around the boats, threatening to send them beneath the ocean’s waves. The boat rocked as the wind pushed them backwards in the water, and Odysseus found himself being tossed off his feet by a rogue wave. He hit the planks of the boat’s deck, which roughly scraped his skin as he slid. Right beneath the mast of the boat, the bag remained, suspended in the air by the force of the winds rushing into the sky. He stood as a plan began to form in his mind.
Wasting no time, he darted towards the bag. The strings flailed in the wind, but he quickly took hold of them and began to pull. The storm was far too strong though, and it remained open. The boat rocked violently again, and his men slid across the deck. In the crowd, he could see Eurylochus, and he called out to him.
“Help me close the bag!”
To his relief, he started towards Odysseus. At least someone on that ship remained unfaltering.
“But sir, it’s too late!”
“We can save whatever wind is left to use again later! Come on!”
With that, Eurylochus picked up the pace. Odysseus handed him one of the drawstrings, and together, they were able to pull it shut. Wind stopped funneling out of the bag, and the ships finally slowed in the waters. But waves still crashed at the sides of the boat, cresting far into the sky. Faintly, as a particularly massive wave peaked above the boat, he could see something begin to emerge.
Water began to curl into a helix, which quickly converged and formed a figure who looked down upon his fleet. Odysseus spared a glance at his crew, and while fear and confusion twisted their faces, he was not so lucky. Dread gnawed at him. He didn’t need to look up to know who stood above him, nor did he need the voice which seemed to boom like rolling thunder over the crest of waves.
“Odysseus of Ithaca!” The voice shouted.
“Do you know who I am?”
He knew it all too well.
“Poseidon.”