#i have so many sketches and headcanons and stuff to do for Tir I need to get on it

[thrpr0phetuseek]

[ they sigh, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull and hold him close while the other ran through his hair ]

“I know I can’t see you Ody, and I know that you’ll want to return home and be with your family, but I also know that right now, you’re tired and frankly, so am I. You can stay here as long as you like or need. You can come and go freely, and by the gods, if it’ll help relieve something, bring me a kopis and we can spar to take any weight off your shoulders. I’ll listen to you talk both good and bad, and I’ll let you stay without even having to talk at all. I don’t know what you need in this moment, or what you’ll need in the future, but just know that I’ll drop everything to help you. You deserve to feel peace again, love. Don’t be afraid to show emotion, okay? The journey’s over; you can cry now.”

[ they think about saying more, about try more to comfort their friend, but they bite their tongue and swallow words with a bitter taste. Not today. He’s suffered 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]

Odysseus wishes to counter their statement. His presence was something he couldn't imagine being wanted, let alone comforting. With the blood on his hands and the scars of the past littered across his form, he found himself far from the playful child he used to be, or the curious brother, the witty general to six-hundred men.

It aches, truly. In his journey home, there were few moments he allowed himself to stop and think. To work through his emotions. Even then, he always pushed it back until the thread of his mind snapped, and he was shoved into the depths of guilt and hate.

Once he made it home, it was as if everything came crashing down. He no longer had a goal to distract him. No monsters to fight beside his own. Each night, he was left holding the sliced wind bag at his side, pacing the halls with his bow at the ready, as if expecting another foe to walk from the darkness. The beach became a terror, and he feared the deep. The thunder was deafening.

The voices of his men - his friends - were always at his side. Sometimes, they were comforting and warm, but most of the time, they berated him for his choices. He could hardly tell when they were ghosts or his own manifestations, to the point where the two became one.

"Yes." He manages to say. It's all he can say. Tiresias can not see the distress, the tiredness, but the image of him within that prophecy painted a fair picture of the king now.

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 hum, resting a hand atop his head and brushing through his hair ]

“Nonsense. You’ve comforted me, your presence alone is enough, now I’ll comfort you.”

[ it takes some thought before they can truly begin to fathom a response, but eventually it comes ]

“When I first saw that prophecy, it was in that moment with you. I didn’t know who you were—the songbirds never give names—and I didn’t know anything of what you had gone through. All I knew, was there was this man. It wasn’t until you turned around, when you stood there with your wife, covered in blood and broken beyond repair, I finally got an understanding of who you were. Odysseus, listen to me. That had always been destined for you. That journey home. You were always going to end up home eventually, and you were always going to slaughter the suitors. It never was going to be your wife and son, not if the whole prophecy had changed. You never would, neither would they. Moirai knew what the gods would do to get you home. They knew there were certain things that they could do. They could get away with.”

“They’re vengeful now, but they’ll rest eventually. Give them time. You understand, those were the sons of the men you went to war with. Unlike your crew— those ghosts learned to forgive because they had someone to teach them that way. They got to know you for you, in every good and bad way. The suitors never had that chance. They were bruised and bloody, lost and insecure. They knew nothing of you, so they did as they pleased and loved what they did. They’re vengeful now as any soul would be, and they may be vengeful years later, but by then, they’ll have realized for the best of you that of which they did, and if Moirai choose, they’ll finally meet the fathers they never could.”

“I know it’s hard, love. It will be for many years to come. We’ll all be here to support and help you, though, and we won’t ever make you face it alone. You understand that, right?”

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.”