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adrift-in-thyme · 7 months ago

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I know I already posted a fic today but I was on a roll and ended up finishing this one too.

It's my first EPIC/The Odyssey fic yay

Set in the universe of @silvercaptain24's AMAZING fic Son of Poseidon, Child of the Sea (if you're an EPIC fan and haven't read it yet GO READ IT IT'S SO GOOD). Tysm for letting me write this, Silver!!

Fic beneath the cut

CW for descriptions of injury, blood, and death

Water is like a mirror.

He has seen them before, these shards of captured prism. They have lain on the beaches of countless islands, after countless storms of his own making. They have lain there like discarded beads, shining back up at him in the mocking colors of the rainbow.

Sometimes, they are splattered with the crimson gore the ocean didn’t have a chance to wash away. Sometimes, crystal clear, glinting with blinding strands of bejeweled sunlight.

No matter how damaged, no matter how sullied, they are all the same. Reflecting. Always reflecting.

That is what the sea does too. It traps the images that flit above it, ensnares them, paints them in traitorous color.

He matches them, those waters he is crafted from, that cover him in foamy waves of silken fabric and bleed into his aching irises.

Those waters that he breathes and consumes (that consume him more and more each day, that chase away the earthen shades of his hair and eyes — those steadfast browns and streaks of age-adorned silver, that devour his salt-torn flesh, sear his broken mind like ravenous flame).

The leafy emeralds, and stormy grays, and midnight blues, the hues that balance gracefully in between all these — they are the shades he is composed of now. When he looks at the sea, the sea looks back at him.

And he despises it.

It is odd to be certain. The Son of Poseidon should never fear the waters of the vast deep, much less abhor them. Then again, he has never truly been that volatile deity’s offspring, has he?

No, since his awakening in this strange world of familiar unfamiliarity, of mysteries and pain, he has known that this is not where he belongs.

He feels them often. Memories, recollections of a past he cannot obtain, a past belonging to the nameless, faceless person he knows he once was. They plague him all throughout the burdensome light of day. Only occasionally do they disrupt his sleep. Those vulnerable moments when his eyes slip closed, when his mind relaxes and his will along with it…those moments belong only to Poseidon. The god whispers into oblivion, words he can seldom comprehend, murmurs of plots and plans, shouted commands. Every utterance sets his feet moving…though often not by his own choice.

But the memories, these torturous wonderful things, they haunt every moment he is allowed freedom. They gather at the back of his mind, crowding in, hissing, then screaming that he notice them. That he…

Remember.

He reaches for them again and again, even while they slide out of reach like scaly fish, shimmering tantalizingly as they slip away.

Remember, they screech, taunting and kind, excruciating and lovely. Remember what you have lost. Remember them.

A babe without a face, beloved, beautiful. His giggles are like the songs of early morning, joy spilling over in rivulets of precious gold, as tiny, chubby hands grasp at a short beard.

A queen with blurred form, graceful and loving and sharp as a blade, more striking than a goddess. She looks at him with a sorrowful smile. He aches to caress her and wipe away her tears.

A woman with the weight of living carved in rivers upon her flesh and hair the same color as his own. A woman with worn hands and a caring touch.

A man with circular spectacles and eyes that smile. The Son of Poseidon cannot see his face, but he knows that he is kind.

And another man, a brother, stalwart, bold, and strategizing. Fierce is the way he loves. Cold and unyielding are the paths of his intelligence.

These people, this kingdom of ruin, he knows them. And yet they are as foreign as his own two hands, as unfamiliar as the eyes that gaze back at him from within a haggard visage.

Their voices pierce him like the pointed ends of a trident, whirl around him like the waves on the sea. Their cries suffocate him, rend him into pieces.

In their wake, he is nothing.

Not a son of a god. Not a warrior or a princely ruler of this yawning emptiness Poseidon claims is their own.

He is nobody. Nobody. Nobody. As dense and unsubstantial as the emerald liquid that rushes forward at his beckoning to plunge men into its eager jaws.

It is better, he supposes, better than how he feels when Poseidon invades his mind. For beneath his clawed grasp, he is dangerous, fickle, unrestrained by unspoken rules of mercy and kindness. He becomes someone…but that someone is a sadistic pawn.

He is well accustomed to being the pawn of those more powerful than he. That does not make it any less of a burden to bear.

A weapon and a wraith — those are the roles he fulfills. At least, for the majority of this mindless thing they call life.

With the young boy, with Telemachus, it is different.

Telemachus is unlike anyone he has ever met. He is as gangly and eager as a newly sprouted tree, shooting up toward the sun without heed to where it will go once it breaks through heaven’s gates. His hazel eyes, so similar to those the Son of Poseidon has beheld somewhere, somewhen in the past, are speckled with sorrow well beyond his years. But they are alive, bursting with determination, with youthful fervor and boundless emotion.

He is a garden of bursting bloom, rushing past its careful borders. He is a foal, daring to gallop, a hatchling plunging into the coursing tides. He is a mighty wolf pup, playing at being fearsome, but with a heart as soft as a silken carpet of moss.

When he comes close, when he touches the Son of Poseidon, when gods forbid he embraces him with that foolish, foolish, and wholly complete trust, he feels, oh he feels.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is more than what his father has made him, his mind has made him. He has a name, wrong though it may seem; he has a purpose, punishable though Poseidon deems it; he has hope, daunting though his tentative embrace of it may be.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is loved.

He does not know what he has done to deserve it, if anything (if he is even correct in his assumption about the emotion he detects in those sparkling eyes). But he treasures it. He holds it close and he wraps it in layer after layer of armor until none can take it from him.

Not even the God of the Seas.

He takes that love and, clumsily, awkwardly, fiercely, he offers his own in return.

He shouldn’t, though.

Your love is dangerous, something whispers, a part of himself not even a deity can bury. Your love is deadly.

Anyone who gets close to you is a corpse walking.

And so he tries to restrain it, tries to quash it, hide it from the light in which it flourishes. But then, Telemachus will come, all smiles and laughter and will point out the stars above them, or boast of his mother’s strength, or tell tales of his “harrowing” adventures with the family dog.

He will come and he will stand close, so close their shoulders touch. And a smile will tug on the Son of Poseidon’s lips. His heart will soften anew.

“You remind me of him, Zael,” Telemachus says, one day when they are resting on the deck of Diomedes’ ship staring up at the constellations. “Sometimes, I look at you and I see him. Or what I think he looks like.”

Telemachus lifts his head from where it had rested on his shoulder and turns to him. In the boy’s eyes is that same vulnerability he has seen in those shards of glass. Something precious, something perilous, something lovely.

“I look at you and I see Odysseus. My father.”

The other words are clear as crystalline waters. Yet, the name ushers from his lips slurred and nearly incomprehensible. It burns all the same, burns like Poseidon’s fury, like the blood that coats his hands, like the memories that vie for his attention and never come forward to receive it.

“I am not him.”

The words come out and the Son of Poseidon hardly realizes that he speaks them. He can feel nothing save for agony and horror. Fear that Telemachus has just done something he shouldn’t have, jostled a thought that should never be touched. A thought that is sharper than his father’s trident, more broken than the bodies of those he has slaughtered.

“I’m not your father. I beg of you not to place false hopes on someone such as I.” He thinks a tear slides down his cheek, its trail harsh and heated. It is difficult to tell. All liquid feels the same. “I am no one, Telemachus. Believing me to be someone would only lead to disappointment.”

“Of course!” Telemachus nearly sets a hand on his arm, then seems to think better of it. He pulls back. “Of course, you aren’t him. I know that! I wasn’t trying to…” He shakes his head, seeming to attempt and compose himself. “I apologize. I should’ve kept that to myself.”

The worst of the pain slips away, carried by a mighty wave. Remnant aches cling to him, like ghostly strands of seaweed. The Son of Poseidon heaves a sigh.

“Think no more on it.” He grasps Telemachus’ hand, tries for a smile. “You did not cause any harm.”

The shattered grin the lad gives him in return hurts almost as much as the sound of that name.

…

It takes a bit for Telemachus to relax again, even longer for him to drift off. When he does, he is slumped on the man whom he named after the sea, mouth slightly agape, cheek moving up to crease his eye. The Son of Poseidon spreads his cloak over the boy’s shoulders. He brushes his knuckles against his cheek. And he wonders why that action feels infinitely more familiar, more real, than those words of defeat had when they left his mouth.

#not me listening to ruthlessness and get in the water way too many times while writing this #i thoroughly enjoyed torturing ody hehe #and poor baby telemachus too #i love this au so freaking much #can't wait to see where it goes!!#trin writes #epic the musical #the odyssey #odysseus #telemachus #ficlet #prolly gonna post this on ao3 too #but i might do that tomorrow

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