#<- oh I've been keeping track - darn anons tormenting my favorite prophet :(

[just-a-mer]

"I'm not here to yell at you about the prophecy, or talk about... everything that had happened. Those conversations will come in time, I'm sure. I simply wish to be with you." He hums, moving to sit beside the prophet, not quite touching them but still close enough that they could feel where he was, should they wish to initiate anything.

A beat of silence passes over the two. It hurts to see the prophet so distraught, even worse, that the king can do no action to help outright. Instead, his presence is offered. Something he hopes does not still hold the scent of blood and rage. "Just because I made it to my palace does not mean this home is forgotten. You are family to me, Tiresias. Just as much as Penelope and Telemachus. I'm not going to abandon you here."

ooc: I see the anons are still tormenting Tir - feel free to save this until after or place it in a separate time. Up to you! (Spoilers for the Ithaca saga, of course. When does a man become a monster? /silly)

Time in the underworld was imperceptible. Somehow, against that well-known fact, this break felt longer. Odysseus had been gone; his voice silent and his presence invisible. The only remaining piece of him was the seashell threaded charm that clicked on Tiresias' staff when shifted.

Then, he was back. The king stepped onto the island with sandal-clad feet, approaching the prophet with a small, weak smile. His cape is back, clipped over his shoulder with an old pin he had long forgotten. The depiction of the owl had been carved away, redesigned with scales.

"Hey there, star." He greets. Odysseus' voice is heavy with the weight of so much left unsaid. Tales of monsters and mistakes. Mortal and familiar. His heart is still fighting against his mind each night, and his eyes reflect the tiredness. Guilt clawing silently at scars.

[ the prophet, sat at the bottom of one of the cliff faces, barely moved. Even looking up, it didn’t feel like they even were looking. Everything about them seemed just as tired, but they seemed more broken than before, and their voice reeked of desperation to get out of their self-fed isolation ]

“What? Who—? Oh. Ody. Oh not now, please love, I can’t— not today, okay. You’re tired and I’m— . . . you don’t need to keep visiting, now. After everything. You made it back. Go enjoy your time, will you? Be with your family. For me.”

[thrpr0phetuseek]

[ as though it was possible, they leaned as far as they could into his embrace, fading in and out of touch with reality in every cry ]

[ they stay like that for a long time, just two souls mingling (ring-ting ting-a-ling /j /silly) before eventually the prophet shifts hesitantly out of the embrace, choking back tears just to speak ]

“You made it back. How’d it go? How are they—your family.”

ooc: I see the anons are still tormenting Tir - feel free to save this until after or place it in a separate time. Up to you! (Spoilers for the Ithaca saga, of course. When does a man become a monster? /silly)

Time in the underworld was imperceptible. Somehow, against that well-known fact, this break felt longer. Odysseus had been gone; his voice silent and his presence invisible. The only remaining piece of him was the seashell threaded charm that clicked on Tiresias' staff when shifted.

Then, he was back. The king stepped onto the island with sandal-clad feet, approaching the prophet with a small, weak smile. His cape is back, clipped over his shoulder with an old pin he had long forgotten. The depiction of the owl had been carved away, redesigned with scales.

"Hey there, star." He greets. Odysseus' voice is heavy with the weight of so much left unsaid. Tales of monsters and mistakes. Mortal and familiar. His heart is still fighting against his mind each night, and his eyes reflect the tiredness. Guilt clawing silently at scars.

[ the prophet, sat at the bottom of one of the cliff faces, barely moved. Even looking up, it didn’t feel like they even were looking. Everything about them seemed just as tired, but they seemed more broken than before, and their voice reeked of desperation to get out of their self-fed isolation ]

“What? Who—? Oh. Ody. Oh not now, please love, I can’t— not today, okay. You’re tired and I’m— . . . you don’t need to keep visiting, now. After everything. You made it back. Go enjoy your time, will you? Be with your family. For me.”

[thrpr0phetuseek]

[ they let out a shaky breath, before immediately turning to hug Ody, and breaking on the impact as they begin to cry ]

[ there’s not an explanation, though the air hangs still awaiting one. Just two people; old, forgotten and rotting with scars not yet healed. One burning full of rage, one drowning in sorrow and remorse. Two people, who love each other far more than the other can comprehend. Two people, who have suffered so much, but not for nothing, no matter how they feel it has no affect. Two people, that’s all they may be, but they’re two people enough ]

ooc: I see the anons are still tormenting Tir - feel free to save this until after or place it in a separate time. Up to you! (Spoilers for the Ithaca saga, of course. When does a man become a monster? /silly)

Time in the underworld was imperceptible. Somehow, against that well-known fact, this break felt longer. Odysseus had been gone; his voice silent and his presence invisible. The only remaining piece of him was the seashell threaded charm that clicked on Tiresias' staff when shifted.

Then, he was back. The king stepped onto the island with sandal-clad feet, approaching the prophet with a small, weak smile. His cape is back, clipped over his shoulder with an old pin he had long forgotten. The depiction of the owl had been carved away, redesigned with scales.

"Hey there, star." He greets. Odysseus' voice is heavy with the weight of so much left unsaid. Tales of monsters and mistakes. Mortal and familiar. His heart is still fighting against his mind each night, and his eyes reflect the tiredness. Guilt clawing silently at scars.

[ the prophet, sat at the bottom of one of the cliff faces, barely moved. Even looking up, it didn’t feel like they even were looking. Everything about them seemed just as tired, but they seemed more broken than before, and their voice reeked of desperation to get out of their self-fed isolation ]

“What? Who—? Oh. Ody. Oh not now, please love, I can’t— not today, okay. You’re tired and I’m— . . . you don’t need to keep visiting, now. After everything. You made it back. Go enjoy your time, will you? Be with your family. For me.”

[just-a-mer]

The king wrapped both arms around Tiresias, allowing the prophet to lean as far as they wished into the embrace. He was thinner; another sign of his change. No longer the war-hardened mer he had been. Yet his hold remained firm, showing that he would not let go. He would not leave them here. Not alone.

Odysseus raised one hand to brush the tears that slipped past the blindfold with his thumb, placing a gentle kiss to their forehead. "Cry as long as you need. You do not have to say anything about it." He whispers, running his other hand in slow circles over their back. His own eyes brim with tears, yet they do not fall. He doesn't allow it. "Just know that even if we change, I will still be here."

ooc: I see the anons are still tormenting Tir - feel free to save this until after or place it in a separate time. Up to you! (Spoilers for the Ithaca saga, of course. When does a man become a monster? /silly)

Time in the underworld was imperceptible. Somehow, against that well-known fact, this break felt longer. Odysseus had been gone; his voice silent and his presence invisible. The only remaining piece of him was the seashell threaded charm that clicked on Tiresias' staff when shifted.

Then, he was back. The king stepped onto the island with sandal-clad feet, approaching the prophet with a small, weak smile. His cape is back, clipped over his shoulder with an old pin he had long forgotten. The depiction of the owl had been carved away, redesigned with scales.

"Hey there, star." He greets. Odysseus' voice is heavy with the weight of so much left unsaid. Tales of monsters and mistakes. Mortal and familiar. His heart is still fighting against his mind each night, and his eyes reflect the tiredness. Guilt clawing silently at scars.

[ the prophet, sat at the bottom of one of the cliff faces, barely moved. Even looking up, it didn’t feel like they even were looking. Everything about them seemed just as tired, but they seemed more broken than before, and their voice reeked of desperation to get out of their self-fed isolation ]

“What? Who—? Oh. Ody. Oh not now, please love, I can’t— not today, okay. You’re tired and I’m— . . . you don’t need to keep visiting, now. After everything. You made it back. Go enjoy your time, will you? Be with your family. For me.”