#ill go back to the canon ending tomorrow im just in a Mood these past days haha

[wolfythewitch]

do you happen to have any more thoughts on the what-ifs of odysseus?

like a continuation of the sketches of ghost Odysseus or something

Oh!! I do have a short thing I wrote, basically where I got the captions from haha

I'll put it under the line. It's mostly just word vomit because I was thinking about it too hard and couldn't properly draw it out

Tw for description of death

Here is what death feels like:

It is agony. Death makes a home in the spaces of your ribcage, winds around the walls of your chest, and roots itself into the skin on your bones. It is a memory, it is a pull, it is an emptiness that seems as vast as the sea.

Death isn't an absence, it's a remembrance.

Odysseus is dead. Or he isn't. We don't truly know when he makes the transition from living to dead, from breathing to still. One moment, his heart beat in time with the world and the gods, and then it stopped, and that was that. He will tell you otherwise, and you must believe it. After all, a corpse does not move. He is right. Odysseus is an anomaly. He isn't right.

We do not know how or when or why. The people who might have known are now long gone, sunk somewhere on the ocean floor, and the only one alive to testify thinks himself a living man. See, it isn't really important though, is it? He was alive, and now he's dead. Or perhaps he is neither, perhaps he's something much worse.

The damned man drifts at sea, and water flows through his bones and down his throat. He chokes on it. Salt clings to necrotic skin. His gaze is dull, his eyes sunken. He has them pointed on a single spot in the horizon, doggedly leaning forward as if it could propel him faster homeward. It doesn't, and he's a fool to think so, but it soothes him.

His tongue is rough and rimmed with salt. There is blood under his finger tips, so dark it looks like tar.

He prays. Silly, the gods don't listen to the dead.

An island appears from the mist. It looks too good to be true. Ah well, it's not like you have anything to lose.

Here is what death looks like:

He looks like a shade, like a monster, like a corpse. His skin is pale under his cloak, his eyes hooded in shadow, his cheek sunken. In the light, all you can see is teeth. His legs are red with blood and it's the only color to paint him. The courtyard is littered with the body of the dead, eyes open in screams that will never sound. Twelve nooses are pulled taut underneath the trees, white feet swaying in the wind.

Death walks among them, and he smiles.

Here is death:

He lives in Ithaca, nestled in its heart. He is a haunting, he is a ghost.

The king is home. This is cause for celebration. Music rings through the kingdom for seven days straight.

The queen and the prince attend the festivities. They are withdrawn but happy. The kind is nowhere to be seen, but that is to be expected. He's had a long journey.

There is talk, once a month passes by. They rarely see him, and when he makes an appearance, his hair is drawn and wild. His himation is pulled close around him. His fingers are bony and thin. He does not look well. There is talk.

The servants gossip, when the royal family do not listen. They speak of the walls, of the smell of rot that followed the damned man home. It grows too strong to stomach. They've taken to hanging mint and herbs to try and cover it up.

Water seeps through the cracks in the walls. The floors are constantly slick with water. Puddles pool in the stone.

The queen only smiles and waves away their questions. The prince is not so merciful. Any rumors are nipped at their source. There is a coldness to him. It is strangely close to fear.

The king is nowhere to be seen. Somehow, this was the most familiar.

Here is where death goes to die:

An oar, a winnowing fan, a sacrifice. He kneels and pushes the oar into the soil, whispers a prayer through cracked lips.

He does not get back up again.