#lyculī scriptiōnēs

[lyculuscaelus]

Answers

(My EtM secret Santa gift for @betterbekind ! Merry Christmas!)

Sometimes, he would dream of the bright sun, the fleeting cloud, and the forested mountain that lay above the waves.

Sometimes, he would dream of a verdant branch of olive, casting a shade on him, blessing him with a sense of safety.

Sometimes, he would dream of a large fleet, radiant with high spirits of its crew, launching into the rosy-fingered dawn with many oars ploughing a salted field that was the wine-dark sea itself.

And sometimes, he would smell the fresh scent of soils, blinking his eyes bright with innocence, wondering why the donkey had suddenly halted by his side.

And sometimes, he would feel the warmth of the cradle, hearing his own name in his sleep, when a tender voice whispered gently, “…then I shall keep you far from war…”

And sometimes, he would notice the song of winds, wordless, like the sobbing of two parents.

But sometimes he would dream of those suitors. They always came in groups, playing, yelling, cramming his father’s palace with their filthy forms and noises of revelry.

And sometimes he would dream of their words—haunting, like the neighing sea.

For they said, “fight, little wolf; entertain us like you always do.”

For they said, “cry, little wolf; only your misery will comfort you.”

For they said, “die, little wolf; your incompetence will be the end of you.”

And he would think of those times when he failed to punish the suitors; and he would mourn the old days when seas and forests were all he could dream of; and he would grieve for the journeys he failed to start—the journey to prove himself worthy. Worthy, as the son whose blood echoed the name of a great hero.

But he never felt like it.

Odysseus would’ve killed them all so long ago, the moment they revealed their intent to woo my mother; Odysseus would’ve taken the crown and reigned over this kingdom already, instead of sitting in the courtroom mourning for a king forgotten, a father lost; Odysseus would’ve done so many feats before he even found himself stuck in a bedroom, dreaming of all the things he could never do.

And he would scream silently, in a dream that felt like reality.

Or was it the other way around? He didn’t know that anymore. Days were only pretenses of joy, while nights…

Well, only nights knew his silent tears, when he mourned for his father…when he mourned for himself.

I am no legacy of my father. When he thinks of me, I will only be known as a failure.

Because that’s what I am—a failure. Someone who doesn’t deserve to be the son of Odysseus.

Please. Just tell me I’m wrong—tell me, before it becomes all I can remember, all I can believe…

Please. Somebody…anybody…

And it was always silence that answered him.

Silence. Just another name for loneliness.

And sometimes, it was the very silence that shall wake him from his dreams.

Tonight was no different.

Telemachus opened his eyes to stare into the dark ceiling.

The dream still felt vivid. It was just like every other nightmare of his—full of taunts, full of grief. He was almost used to them at this point. They’re just dreams. They can’t hurt me.

No. Not on the outside, of course; but Telemachus couldn’t face what lay within. At least, not now, when the suitors were still—

Wait. No. He corrected himself quickly. The suitors are dead already. Killed by the very man I wish to meet for the first time in twenty years, only two days ago.

Telemachus shook his head with a bitter smile. It’s almost as if nothing has changed. I know my life is different now, but somehow it still feels the same—as if the suitors have never truly gone; as if my father has never really come back; as if there hasn’t actually been any victory.

Hard to believe, isn’t it? 

He let out a heavy sigh.

Guess I’m just not used to happiness like this.

Climbing out of the bed, putting on a chiton quickly, he walked to the door before realizing it was only in the middle of the night.

Doesn’t matter. As if I’m not used to waking up at this hour already…

He pushed open the door to welcome a silent hall, where only darkness would be his company. Sometimes breezes too, if the gods were keen enough to send those.

If only…so that he’d make it home so much earlier. So that we’d need to face no sorrow like this for years.

He paced quietly in the halls empty of the living.

If I start humming, will it startle anyone from their sleep?

He wasn’t sure. But a tune had already flown out from his mouth, dissipating into the air. It was a song Phemius used to sing.

It was about the Nostoi—the return of heroes. There were all the Achaean kings—Diomedes, Nestor, Idomeneus, Agamemnon…and eventually, Menelaus, when he became the last Achaean hero to make it home—

Before my father did, that is. He mustered a smile. But surprisingly, there isn’t any song for him…yet.

Telemachus was musing when he came across a huge pillar.

Maybe there will be. In days to come, perhaps, when people weave their memories into songs, songs into epics…

“Can’t sleep?” a new voice came suddenly, startling the young man. Telemachus almost raised his fists before realizing who it could only belong to.

It was the voice of a fresh old man, a bit hoarse due to years of seafaring; but there was a commanding tone lying underneath, for it probably wasn’t a stranger to war-cries and orations. There was only one man who could wield a voice like this, Telemachus knew.

Even though it wasn’t a voice he was used to hearing.

“Father?” he called softly, trying to locate the source with no success.

“The moon is still young,” he heard his father murmuring. “There’s nothing to see but the stars. Stars who relate their stories, who keep the night sky from loneliness, who are keen enough to guide the sailors home, if the sailors are still keeping their eyes open to all this.”

“Where are you, father?” Telemachus prompted with a question.

“Somewhere, in the dark, where my rest lies alongside my vigilance.”

That’s not a helpful answer… Telemachus thought to himself. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping too, father?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, sleep. Last time I fell asleep letting go of all my worries, it ended with…well.” that was all his father replied.

Telemachus waited for a moment, but his father didn’t continue. So Telemachus spoke out again. “But you were in your bedroom—with mom,” he said, walking a few more paces to the direction where he heard his father answering. “Why did you come out here?”

He heard a heavy sigh, then came a sound almost like sobbing. Telemachus almost found his way there before hearing his father’s reply.

“I…I was afraid. Afraid of hurting your mother by accident,” the great-hearted man muttered.

Afraid of hurting mom? Telemachus remarked in shock. What could it possibly be—a nightmare? Just like one of mine?

No. Maybe father’s was way more eventful. But still…

“What were you trying to do, father?” he asked again.

“Hiding,” there came the reply—Telemachus was almost certain it’s the right spot— “No. But that wouldn’t be necessary…she’s not here—she can’t lay her hands on you anymore, Odysseus,” the sacker of cities was whispering to himself. “No, you’re safe now. That’s Penelope by your side—yes, Penelope. The one who loves you. The one you love. You’re home now, Odysseus. It’s your own son you’re talking to. It’s alright. It’ll all be fine…”

The next step brought Telemachus to a turn where he felt someone suddenly approaching—

—and ran into a fierce embrace, as his father held him so tightly that he couldn’t even stretch out his arms to return a hug.

“It’s alright now…” he could still hear his father murmuring. “You’re safe now. You’re safe at last.”

“Father?” Telemachus could only muster the strength to ask. The hug felt even heavier than the first one they ever had, only a few days ago. But his father was so aware of himself then, not like…this.

What could have happened to the man of twists and turns in his days of missing?

It was after a moment that lasted like years that Odysseus decided to let loose the embrace, finally facing his son in the darkness, still putting both hands on his shoulders, now speaking in a tone so much softer. “I’m sorry, Telemachus…I shouldn’t have let you see me like this. This isn’t what a father should act like…I’m so sorry…”

“Father, don’t be,” Telemachus reached over to hold his father’s hand. “Just tell me what happened, maybe? If you wish to, that is.”

His father sighed. “Nothing…just some bad memories. Something that haunts me in my sleep—picked some of them up in these years of wandering.”

Telemachus lowered his head and mused. Just like those dreams of mine…

Then he felt a touch on his face. Telemachus raised his head to meet his father’s gaze in the darkness, as Odysseus continued slowly. “But I might tell you all my stories…maybe some other time, when our hearts aren’t so laid down by the weariness of sleep. It’s nothing I haven’t endured before, really. But what about you, Telemachus? You did not go through a long trek with all the hardships—what could’ve woken you in the middle of the night?”

This time it was Telemachus who heaved a sigh. “It’s…nothing. Just bad memories.” Something that haunts me, too, in my sleep. Something I picked up in these years of waiting, wondering, dreaming.

“Of those suitors, I presume?” Odysseus prompted.

“Yeah,” Telemachus replied with a nod. “Maybe more. But for the suitors I dreamt of their faces, smirking in mockery; I dreamt of their words, saying nothing but taunts…”

“What did they say?” he could tell his father’s eyebrows were creasing when saying this.

“Father…” Telemachus didn’t expect this. Should I tell him or should I not? Only the night keeps my secrets—should I let father know this, too? “It’s pretty much just nonsense, really. It’s not like they can hurt me—”

“But can they?” 

Well…yes. A lot, actually. 

But it’s just something I don’t want to admit.

“Father, trust me—I can tackle them, all of them—I mean, most of—some of them…I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring,” his father only responded.

I know…but I just don’t want to bother you with this…

Telemachus lowered his head.

“Father, there are enough matters kept in your mind now. I just don’t want to trouble you with yet another problem…a problem I’m supposed to overcome on my own. But instead I just keep failing…”

“In that case,” Odysseus was saying. “Why not share the burden with me? Share it with your dear father who’s been waiting for ages, to help you out in your time of need—something I failed to do for so long…but no longer. Share it with me—let us carry your load together. What better thing is there to do as father and son?”

A smile was playing on Telemachus’s trembling lips. A smile that tasted bitter, like the sadness of tears.

Yes, he’s here now, Telemachus—your father is here at last, after all the years of hoping—hoping he’d hearken to your distress, wishing he’d give you his counsel, dreaming he’d comfort you with a smile…he’s here now, ready to help, as a father he always wanted to be, reaching out to the son who lives beyond his memory.

And how can I reject something so beautiful, like this?

“Thank you, father, thank you so much…” Telemachus could only mutter. “It’s something I never thought I’d need…”

His father only replied with a gentle pat on his shoulder. It felt warm, like the heart of a hearth, where home lies.

So Telemachus took a deep breath, facing his father at last.

“But I just want to know…do you think I’m a failure, father?” he finally mustered the courage to ask.

Odysseus’s expression was almost unreadable in the darkness. But Telemachus could tell he was apparently surprised. “A failure? Who has been keeping your mom safe while I was making my way home? Who has been my aid when we slaughtered suitors? If anyone dares to call you that, Telemachus, I swear I’d—”

“Father? It’s me,” he cut in before Odysseus even finished that curse. “I call myself a failure, in my dreams.”

“Telemachus…”

“I know I might’ve proven my strength, my courage, when days ago we slaughtered those suitors. But I couldn’t help but think back to those times when I failed,” his voice was cracking a little when he answered. “And I know that all this happened because of me: it’s my fault that I failed to dissuade all those suitors to leave with my speech; it’s my fault that I couldn’t keep them from wasting our wealth, our livestock; it’s my fault that I didn’t take vengeance upon those suitors, something I could’ve planned out already…”

“You did what you had to do as a host,” Odysseus answered calmly. “You gave them Xenia like any noble man would do. It’s never your fault that they overstayed your welcome—you rewarded them with death, something they deserved from the start—you did well, Telemachus, son of mine.”

Telemachus blinked his eyes in surprise. But is it…true?

“Do you…really mean it?” Telemachus almost broke into tears. “But I failed to live up to your name—gods, I failed so miserably. I didn’t carry the crown young, something you have done so long ago. Do you content yourself with stories only? No, you’ve sought out adventures, winning so much glory…”

“Telemachus,” his father cut in, murmuring in a voice so weary. “You know I mean it with all my sincerity. You know I’m proud of you as who you are—not who you want to be. Have I ever spoken of the weight of the crown? It has deprived me of the joy of childhood—does that sound familiar to you? And have I ever told you how I left our homeland against my will, forced on a path to seek glory in war, to add weight to my name with all my sufferings? I do not ask for any of these—but they come to me. They always find me when I do not wish for their presence. They haunt me just as your nightmares. Do you think I can hide my tears behind a strong heart? No, I weep even more than you ever could. What you just saw that happened to me…it’s only an echo of what haunts me from within, of all the things I’ve seen and gone through—something I pray that should never happen to you.”

Telemachus listened quietly, his head dizzy. If only I knew…if only I knew all this so long ago.

“Father,” he replied softly, a moment later. “Father, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be, son,” he felt the caress on his face, as his father reached out again, sharing the warmth of a weary palm. “Know that I’m right here with you—that would be enough.”

Telemachus smiled—just a little.

“But…there’s something else,” he could feel his heart aching as he said this. “This might sound ridiculous…but deep down I dwell on it, a lot. I know how everyone tells me how I resemble you in form—something I have no way of knowing…until now. But do I ever have your strength in me? They said that I have your eyes—but do yours blink with naïveté? They could hear you in my voice—but does it ever echo your authority? They saw your shadow in me—but isn’t that all there is? Just a shadow, living in the light of your glory…”

“And does that make you any less the son of mine?” his father responded gently. “You don’t have to be me—you don’t need to be like me to be known as a hero. A hero that you already are. Don’t you see? I don’t wish for you to lead a path like the one I treaded, with so much sorrow and pain. I don’t want you to end up like me, suffering too much for something so easily achieved for others. No, you deserve a life so much better than the one I left you with. And you know what, Telemachus? We’ll make it a reality—just you and I, your mother too—this is something only meant for you.”

This brought a gasp from Telemachus. How do I only get to feel the comfort of family so late in my life?

“I couldn’t take from you all the sorrows you’ve been through,” his father continued. “But I can make sure the same thing never happens to you, ever again. Know that I’ll find every opportunity to give you happiness—you deserve it, Telemachus, and now I finally have the chance to give it to you, after all the years of my absence from your life. On this I give you my promise—know that nothing will stop us. Know that all your waiting wasn’t fruitless, after all. And know that I’d trade the world, Telemachus, just for you.”

Telemachus finally gave in to his sobbing—was it joy? Was it sadness? Telemachus didn’t know, but it was the best feeling he could ever have asked for, really. It was the realization of the fact that his family was actually complete, at last. It was the hope that nothing grievous would’ve happened to them, ever again. It was the knowledge that he had found the reassurance from his father—the acceptance he most needed, coming from the sacker of cities, the great honor of Achaeans, the hero he most admired—his very own father.

And wouldn’t that be the best kind of relief, after all?

So he buried his face in his father’s embrace, putting his head against that sturdy chest, feeling the shelter of those gentle arms. Tears streamed down his cheek like plowing, laying down two trails of solace. In his laxness he noticed his father joining him too, as his own hair felt the tender touch of teardrops, drenched in happiness, at last.

And he was joyful, for it was no longer nothingness that answered him.

And he was grateful, for silence could no longer haunt him, in his dreams, in his reality.

And he immersed himself in that embrace, rejoicing in the very answer from his father, after all the years of questioning.

Maybe tonight was different, after all.

[forhonorsandcakes]

SHIT I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT DIOMEDES

He became the second man that ever harm a god I guess? Dio can feel it in his body.

[lyculuscaelus]

So I was inspired by the amazing contrapuntal poems of @two-bees-poetry and decided to give it a try with some of my favorite characters—Odysseus, Penelope, Menelaus, Helen. And when I realized it could go even further than counterpoint between two characters, I wrote down something that makes the four of them match with each other:

[lyculuscaelus]

(I knew it sounds familiar.)

“What keeps you up so late at night, my friend?” Polites asked Odysseus when the battle in Ismarus was heating up.

“All I hear are screams!” replied Odysseus. The night was only getting worse for him because of all these war-cries and screams.

“Tell me, Athena, why you came to my aid…” Telemachus sat down wearily by his bed, checking his wounds as he muttered quietly.

And then Athena told him. How she once had a friend before they grew apart. How she’d thought to help a different soul, to see how bright that light could be. And now she saw it—the light that Telemachus was. The light that could make her change her mind.

Maybe…it’s time to see where her old friend had been.

”Keep your friends close and your enemies closer!” She saw a fleet of twelve ships sailing its way towards Ithaca. “Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves!” She saw a single ship fleeing from the god of the sea with the aid of winds. “—one wrong move and you’re done for! Anything I—” She saw how the battle unravel, how one act of kindness failed to lead to kinder souls down the road. “—song of past romance! I see the—” She saw the Theban prophet revealing a future for Odysseus—a broken soul already. “We won’t take more suffering from you!” She saw her former champion leading his men to slaughter the Sirens, the blood on their hands was dripping. “Drown in your sorrow and fears!” She saw six torches blazing brightly in the middle of darkness. “Captain?” “I have to see her.” “But we’ll die.” “I know.” Athena finally stopped, seeing Odysseus raising his hand pointing at his crew. But still…no sign of his whereabouts…unless…

“Morning sleepy head, you’ve been resting for a while.”

Calypso found Odysseus lying on the shores of Ogygia, his garments soaked with seawater.

“All I hear are screams.”

Athena found Odysseus standing on the ledge of Ogygia, his mind overwhelmed by memories.

“Ody, get away from the ledge.” Calypso was saying. But the mortal king couldn’t take it any longer.

“You don’t know what I’ve gone through!” Odysseus bellowed. “You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed—every comrade I long knew, every friend…” he lowered his head, tears streaming down his face as Odysseus moaned. “I saw them die.

“And all I hear are screams.”

The night was getting long as an eternity for Odysseus now.

[lyculuscaelus]

Lord of the City

“Courage, Scamandrius,” came the whisper soft as a moan, alongside the figure of his father, and the fearsome armor that was flashing.

Little Scamandrius only recoiled—just a little. He was still frightened by the sight of his father’s figure, just as before.

For shuddering was the crest that crowned the bronze helmet with crimson horsehair, as his father so often walked, making clamor the ground that was still held fast, making tremble the heart of many strangers in arms, and now making recoil the little lord of the city, cringing fearfully in his nurse’s arms.

“He’s scared of your armor,” Andromache explained.

Hector held his gaze on the boy—the joy of his heart, who was now watching him in fear with that pair of innocent pupils of molten gold, radiant as stars. Hector let out a chuckle, and his dear wife smiled as well.

Little Scamandrius doesn’t know what it means yet—and may gods bless him that he never needs to find out. whispering a prayer under his breath, Hector took off the helmet swiftly, quick as a shooting star.

“See? There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured gently to the boy still watching him—less frightened, less alarmed, for the familiar face was now smiling at Scamandrius, as if promising him that everything would be fine. Hector reached out his arms, and Scamandrius didn’t flinch—not even a little.

For he knew he was in good hands now. With his father holding fast, he would always be safe.

And nothing would break the walls of love that held his family tight.

Scamandrius giggled as he felt his father’s kiss. The touch of his father’s dark beard felt so itchy, but Scamandrius loved the feeling—it was something he could only feel when his father was around, when his father was happy.

The winds were singing, and he felt the lift of the air. Scamandrius knew that his father was tossing him, just as before, just as he would do again.

And Scamandrius didn’t cry—not even a little. For he knew his father would always catch him, just as he did before, just as he would do again.

So he fell, happily, freely. He felt the songs of the winds, and knew that his father was happy.

Flashing were the rays of the sun, as the light of the molten gold hid itself in the dead of night; rising up were the walls of Troy, as it held tight many a family inside; passing by were the Scaean Gates, as the swift winds roared past the vast plains of Troad, raging round the city for three whole times.

And Astyanax is again falling, blithely, freely.

This time, nobody catches him.

[lyculuscaelus]

Hold Him

(Inspired by this ask of my moot @jarondont; changed a little something though; an AU partially based on Epic and partially on the Odyssey)

Telemachus was just making sure the ship was fully docked when the sound of breaching came.

Slashes of metal bit through the hull as his comrades cried out in terror—fear seized them all. Telemachus quickly issued the order to take arms, while he himself picked up a spear and a handy shield, fearful uncertainty brewing in his eyes. His young companions did the same—Ctesilaus, Amphidamas, Polyalus…all twenty of his childhood friends. But they did not have the time to put on the armor when the dreadful war-cries burst out, catching all of them off guard.

“Get ready, everyone,” Telemachus warned. “Here they come.”

Twenty well-armed warriors stormed into the hollow ship, charging on board. Javelins flew across the distance, hitting the shields and decks, chewing into bands of their shields with fierce force. Ctesilaus yelled out in pain as a spear found its way to his human heart, spilling out dark blood and agony. Amphidamas blocked a blow in time and returned with a thrust of his spear, ending his opponent’s life in an instant. Telemachus raced to the crowd of fighters, his spear never relented in striking. He managed to take down five warriors before the spear in his palm was knocked off by a heavy blow, while another clash of shields sent him flying to the edge of the deck, dropping his shield in the process. Pain swarmed up in his spine as he landed heavily.

Ouch.

Where was the strength of the son of Odysseus?

It’s just like the last time. Or all the times before that. I never really stand a chance in any fight, and maybe never will.

Telemachus struggled to get up again. Before his blurry vision, warriors continued to falter. People continued to fall.

People that he called friends. People whose survival relied solely on him—

The son of Odysseus, the leader of men.

And he could only watch them fall.

Ctesilaus was lying on deck, his breath already left him; Amphidamas was no longer wielding the spear in his hand, for it had already loosen its strength; Polyalus was still holding on, protecting the injured Anticlus, as those dreadful warriors continued to press on, and press on, and…

And all Telemachus could hear, were the screams of the fallen. The screams of his friends.

They were dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

How did I allow this to happen?

“Odysseïdes…”

Eurylaus let out his one last moan and crumbled.

I failed them. I failed them all. In the end, I was too incompetent. They should never have placed their trust in me in the first place.

“They’re too many—”

A slashing sword found Polymedes on the neck as the rest of his body fell to the deck, his sword rolling out from the palm of his motionless right hand, finding its solace.

I am not a good leader. They are dying because of me.

“My prince…”

Telemachus found Theodices holding the right side of his stomach, the chiton was already drenched in red. But it was a smile that came to Theodices’s lips. A smile that was trying to take away the prince’s sorrow. A smile that was blaming him of nothing, yet everything.

In the end, I was too inexperienced, too incapable, too weak.

“Goodbye…it’s an honor to serve you.”

And then Theodices, the last remained, crumbled silently. Behind his fallen body, a group of twelve warriors were standing still. The smirk on their faces was proudly claiming their victory.

It was then did Telemachus recover from shock, realizing his plan to flee—

—And run into a taller figure. His helmet spoke of nothing but malice.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Telemachus heard him saying. But that voice…it can’t be… “Little wolf?”

All of a sudden, Telemachus felt his heart stopped.

So it’s him.

The figure removed his shining helmet, revealing the scarred face of a man Telemachus knew so well. A man Telemachus hated so much.

Antinous.

But does that mean…

Other warriors were doing the same now, he noticed. They were all taking off the helmets to show their faces: Eurymachus, Agrius, Eurynomus, Ormenius…so they have finally come to this. Murder and taking over. Telemachus clenched his fists, feeling so sick.

“What a fine day to take a trip, wouldn’t you agree?” Antinous continued as other suitors behind him were approaching. Telemachus tensed himself. But desperation was growing like a cancer inside. How could I possibly even fight them all…

“You mother must be worried sick.”

“That’s none of your concern,” Telemachus retorted. “Now just leave me alone—”

“Alone? Alone, did you say?” Antinous simply laughed. “But you are alone, little wolf. You are always alone. Nobody will care about you. Not your people, not your friends, not even your family—”

“This isn’t true,” Telemachus shook his head in protest.

“—You really think your mother cares about you?” ignoring Telemachus’s retort, Antinous continued. “What a joke. She must’ve known so well you’re just a failure trying to become your father, and always failing. She must’ve known so well you can never be king.”

Telemachus glared at this man in front of him—that smirk on his face never faded. This isn’t true. Don’t listen to what he says.

But he had to— “And where’s your father when you needed him?”

The world felt like spinning now.

Telemachus hissed, feeling his throat tighten. The sense of suffocation slowly swarmed up as Telemachus gasped heavily, trying to forge a response, trying to find an answer to Antinous’s taunt. But deep down, he already knew. Antinous was speaking the truth.

No one will come and help me now.

His eyes felt like burning.

In the end, it’s just me, myself, and I.

It’s just me against the suitors, against the tides…against everything. Gods, I am so alone.

“So you see? Nobody cares if you’re alive or dead, little wolf,” Antinous sneered, driving Telemachus’s thoughts back to reality. “So when you die, no one will shed a noble tear. Only silence will lament you.”

Maybe it’s time to accept reality now, Telemachus. There is no hope. There never will be.

Antinous was turning around, gesturing the rest of the suitors to move forward. Only one sentence could Telemachus make out—yet one sentence was more than enough—

“Hold him down,” Antinous ordered.

The suitors rushed to the prince, their weapons ablaze. His hands empty, Telemachus didn’t even bother to make any move. He was only watching silently as the suitors came, grasping his arms and shoulders, kicking his knees, forcing him to yield before this towering figure of Antinous right in front. Telemachus didn’t even bother to struggle.

For he had already accepted everything—his failures, his loneliness, his life…his fate. Fate of death. It was neither rage nor sorrow that was gripping him now. For the first time in his life, Telemachus felt relieved.

Relieved of this life he was struggling to suffer.

Just let the end come, swiftly, silently.

Antinous pulled out a dagger from his girdle, playing with it fluently in his palms. “Tell me, little wolf: do you prefer a quick death,” he was flipping the dagger when asking. “Or a fulfilling one?”

“Just…do what you want of me,” Telemachus spit out blankly. “I don’t care now.”

“Very good, then,” an ominous smile slowly crawled to Antinous’s lips. “Then perhaps I can spare you your throat.”

He kept his gaze at the dagger for a while before plunging it into Telemachus’s chest. Dark blood was streaming from his torso, turning the white chiton into a blossoming crimson. Agony enshrouded him as Telemachus cried out weakly, his voice already failing him.

He didn’t hear the sound of an arrow as he crumbled.

He didn’t see how Antinous fell, his hand still holding the shaft that pierced through the chestplate and the flesh inside.

He didn’t notice the arrival of another ship, as torrents of arrows sliced through the air, finding their aim at the suitors’ body, taking them down one by one, until no one was left standing.

Someone had stepped on board, rushing at the faltering Telemachus in haste. Telemachus felt the touch of human warmth holding his body as he struggled to open his eyes, finding the familiar face of a boy he once knew. It belonged to…

“Peisis, you came to me,” Telemachus muttered weakly. “You finally…came to me.”

“Yes…” the young prince of Pylos whispered, tears already forming in his eyes. “But I took too long. It’s my fault—”

“No, Peisis,” Telemachus smiled sadly. “No…don’t blame yourself. I…it…it doesn’t matter now.”

Peisistratus forced a smile, but tears were already dropping from his eyelids. “I’m sorry I can’t get to you in time,” he replied.

“But still…” Telemachus continued. “How…why did you come? I thought…I thought I’d asked you to stay.”

“And stay I did,” Peisistratus answered. “Until a friend came to me, asking me to bring a ship here.”

“Friend?”

“Your friend,” Peisistratus continued softly. “Maybe you know her better as, well, the bright-eyed goddess.”

“Athena?” Telemachus gasped. “But…how?”

“She said she didn’t make it in time either,” Peisistratus replied. “Someone delayed her for a while, and she had only recovered from her wounds just now…”

“Wounds?”

“It’s a long story—at least that’s what she said,” Peisistratus answered quickly.

Telemachus didn’t reply. His breath was already running short. Peisistratus only took up his right hand, and handed him something.

Telemachus opened his palm to find a golden necklace sitting inside. It was a beautiful gift, a chain of gold leaves all carved with the letter Τ—all on the left side of the chain. And then Peisistratus showed him another necklace, with the letter Π carved on every gold leaf on the right side. Telemachus mustered the strength to grin.

“They’re matching ones,” Peisistratus explained. “For our friendship.”

Telemachus nodded satisfyingly. “Thank you, Peisis.”

“And…you must have many things to say to your mother…and father too, I guess,” Peisistratus continued, changing the topic. “Do you want me to…”

“Yes—it’ll be great,” Telemachus coughed. “Just tell my mother, I love her, and, I’m sorry…”

“Wait, sorry?” Peisistratus couldn’t help but ask.

“Yeah…I’m sorry. I failed her, after all…”

“But you didn’t fail anyone,” Peisistratus replied quickly. “You have fought bravely, and no one should take that honor away from you.

“You truly are the son of Odysseus,” Peisistratus gave his shoulder a squeeze. “And I’m honored to have you as my friend, even just for such a short moment in my life. I’m glad to have known you, Telemachus.”

“Thanks…” Telemachus said. His sound was softer than a whisper now. “You too, Peisis…I’m honored, to have, known…

And then Telemachus let another smile play on his face. “Time to meet you, father…”

Peisistratus never forgot that day when Ithaca lost its prince, when he lost his best friend…when a father lost his son, missing the entire life of his son, all in twenty years of wandering.

It was hard to accept, Peisistratus admitted. Not even gods could plan things this cruel, to shatter a reunion with the pain of death. Fates had done this family unfair…

But then, there were times when he would hear whispers of a certain figure that would show up when people were planning or scheming, when they were working with their mind thinking quick. These reports of a certain figure that resembled the prince of Ithaca himself intrigued Peisistratus deeply. Maybe this was why he had never got to see his friend’s body for one last time, when the entire form of Telemachus had suddenly faded in front of his eyes.

For rumors had it that the figure was always accompanying the Ithacan king Odysseus—finally returned in the twentieth year, whenever he planned for stealth or plunder. There was no way for Peisistratus to confirm it, of course—until that very day, when he came across his friend once again, in the realm of quick thought; when he spoke with him once again, learning that neither his father nor he would be alone now—for in the domain of thoughts they would forever be together, as decreed by Athena, where they would be exchanging stories, talking of their past, planning for a future that only one would witness, the other behold.

Then Peisistratus knew it all: how Telemachus was brought to the domain of Quick Thought, for he was Athena’s friend; how he in his divine essence still missed his father, and thus became the patron of the mind of resourceful Odysseus. They’re holding fast to each other’s memory now, Peisistratus thought. Maybe it’s for the better. For after all, isn’t to fall, to learn one way?

And what a great way it is to have their reunion, at last.

[lyculuscaelus]

It’s just Grieving People getting angry after a quarrel with the Much Remembered One. It’s just Strength of People dueling against Protected Man—the man protected by goddess of love herself. It’s just my bestie, Zeus’s Plans, beating two gods up in one day. It’s just the ten of us volunteering to duel against the One Holding Fast—seemed like the gods had chosen Lamenter, son of Bear. It’s just the two of us vibing—me and my bestie Zeus’s Plans. It’s just us killing people and stealing horses and ambushing people and stealing the little Athena in the middle of the night. Nothing unusual. It’s just the most of us fighting for our lives and ships while Grieving People and Father’s Glory were vibing in their ship. It’s just Father’s Glory proving himself to be the glory of his father with his one last aristeia. It’s just Grieving People grieving. It’s just Grieving People fighting. It’s just the One Holding Fast fighting for breath. It’s just a city losing the only one who was holding it fast. It’s just me winning the foot race—take that, Little Lamenter! It’s just the Purchased One ransoming for the One Holding Fast’s body. Grief Bringer came and fell, bringing grief to Grieving People. Remembered One came and fell, leaving his fame remembered. Against Ambush did see it coming. He died protecting his father, the Returned One, against that ambush. I remember the day when Grieving People stopped grieving. Forever. We fought together, and against each other, Lamenter and I. It’s a tragedy his laments went too extreme. We shouldn’t have left Friend Acquiring back in Lemnos. Now I’ve lost a potential friend. But my bestie and I had to bring him back. Protected Man was no longer protected, by either his people or his goddess. Wide Gates, grandson of Hera’s Glory, came and slayed in battle. My bestie and I had to bring Grieving People’s son New Soldier here. He was too brutal even for a teenager, though. That was my plan, the wooden horse thing. I fought alongside Strength of People for a long time. He did find his Corposant in the end. I just wanted to go back to mine. Lord of City was smiling in his cradle. How could I let him down? But I had to, because I was the Hated One. Hated by gods, hated by men. Maybe it all started when I boasted before that blinded Much Fame. Or maybe it all started when they opened the wind bag. Or maybe it all started when Wide Ambush persuaded them all to eat the cattle of the Sun. Or maybe it all started when Overcoming Plans overcame my plan, when he started to mess with my son. Still, nothing a murder can’t take care of. Or maybe it all started when I offered a plan to solve this dilemma of suitors, when I won the hand of my Duck, my Weaver. Kudos wasn’t the only thing I was fighting for, back in Troy, here in Ithaca. And I had my revenge now, me and my son Far From Battle—what a distant fighter has he become. And now I have reunited with her, my Duck, my Weaver. It’s time to look for a stranger, who’d compliment on my winnowing oar.

[lyculuscaelus]

A Delicate Copy

(AU; a pretty old one-shot, finally got the time to upload it on tumblr)

Nobody greeted him “morning” this time.

He woke up on an unfamiliar beach. The sand felt different—coarser than the one he used to sit on in those last seven years. The air smelled misty, unlike the clear sky that used to embrace most parts of the island with her warm arms, a cycle lasting for seven years. He saw the trees growing in bloom, but they did not remind him of his homeland—for he didn’t find that forest anywhere, nor did he see his beloved Mount Neriton. There were only mists, mists that used to arise from the wine-dark sea, mists that used to hide the face of death where gods were lurking, mists that used to give way to the warmth of a cave, in the past seven years.

And that was when he finally realized he was lost. Again.

The tired mariner crumbled on the beach, and sobbed.

He didn’t check what his tears were made of, for he knew there was nothing but pain in them. Pain as found in the glimmering reflection, pain as found in himself. Twenty years of pain condensed into one single teardrop, and he held up his hands to wipe it from his face.

But he sobbed still.

He did not see the herd of sheep coming. He did not see the young man cloaked in a kingly air walking. He sobbed until he felt himself melting, and that was when he stopped, for his sorrow had brought him burning rage. Rage for an unjust promise.

“Where did the Phaeacians send me? What country have I come to this time?” he roared, clenching his fists. “Why did they leave me here—with all this treasure I cannot protect? Have those Phaeacians not promised me to send me home—to my homeland where I came into being? And now what foreign land is this? Those idiots…they did me wrong indeed. May Zeus, god of suppliants, grant them a punishment that is only too proper for them…but for now, let me just count these gifts, in case some of them happen to be missing.”

And so he counted. The tripods seemed untampered, and the cauldrons looked fine. Gold and silver, and all this splendid clothing—surprisingly, he found nothing missing. Then he rose to his feet, and again he wandered, on this unfamiliar beach, with a heart much-enduring he let out another wail of sorrow, another stream of tears.

And then, the young man came forward. A cloak across his shoulders, A spear in his hand—the tip seemed somewhat strange—the young shepherd stopped, and regarded him curiously.

“Friend,” he addressed the young shepherd quickly, wiping out his tears when his eyes were not coping. “You’re the first one I see here. Will you promise me no harm, if I greet you with open arms? For I’m entreating you, like I would a god, to save me, protect my goods, and keep me in good company. I’m begging you, as a friend on his knee. Now please tell me everything, so I can understand—what country have I come to? What people have I met? Is this a sunny isle, or a headland of the mainland reaching out to sea?”

“Stranger—are you a fool? Wait no, I don’t think you are, so you must be a traveler from a distant land,” the young man answered him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I’m sure men from different places have all heard of this island—because of its fertility? Maybe. But it’s a rugged place not fit for herding horses. You can find crops and grapes here, though, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. So I suppose it’s because of its heroes—stranger, do you happen to know the great Argonaut Laërtes, or Odysseus the sacker of cities? This is where they come from—such a place well-known, for I’m sure even lands far as Troy would still recognize the name ‘Ithaca’.”

He twisted his head, searching for memories. Ithaca—a name he had whispered so many times, to the goddess waiting in her cave, to the king sitting on the Phaeacian throne, in the songs he had sung in his pleading. He felt his lips lifting as joy swarmed up in his chest, but something about this place seemed strange…it still felt foreign to him, for some reason.

So he answered carefully. “Ithaca—a famous name indeed. I’ve heard of it even in wide Crete, somewhere far across the sea. Ah, so I’m finally here in person, with all these goods of mine. But there is more that I left when I fled from my city, when a dear son of Idomeneus fell to my own hands, for that swift-footed Orsilochus wished to take away the spoils I had won at Troy, for which I had suffered so much already—in the devastating war and on the dangerous sea. We struck him when he was heading home—me and my companions, with my bronze-tipped spear I ended him. But then I ran off to a ship, paying some Phoenicians to get me to other lands—I’d hoped they would take me to either Pylos or Elis, but the winds did not heed our command. And then here I was, worn out by exhaustion, laid low by sleep. But when I woke up, I found them all gone—and now it’s just me, alone with all my goods, here on this foreign land, seeking help.”

The young man smiled, and replied with a hand reaching out to his left shoulder. “Surely, Odysseus, one’s cunningness must be so wily if he is to outwit you—even for a god.”

He felt a jerk in his heart. How would a young shepherd like him see through his disguise?

“Yes, I know who you are—that pair of eyes I have indeed seen and heard of,” the young man continued gleefully. “But come now, Odysseus, do you really think there will be a celebration party waiting for you here? No, you will find troubles in your home, and I fear even you cannot defeat them this time.”

“What trouble are we speaking of?” Odysseus asked tentatively. “Then again, something feels wrong about this place already. If it is indeed Ithaca you’re speaking of, I don’t find any evidence—”

“You’re always thinking like that, aren’t you?” the young shepherd giggled. “No wonder people call you polymetis. Anyone else would’ve rushed to meet his wife and children—but not Odysseus. No, he’d test everything with trickery first, then he’d observe his wife himself, seeing if she’s still the Penelope he knew of—the answer is yes, even if you’d like to see for yourself. She still remains your wife—though not for long. At this very moment there are one hundred and eight suitors reveling in your house, spending your wealth as they wait for your wife to reconsider her marriage—a proposal she’s been denying for three years straight.”

He felt delighted, somehow, knowing that Penelope remained his own, even when he didn’t belong to Penelope alone anymore. For days he had been wondering if Penelope would find comfort in the fact that she didn’t have to wait for him any longer, and now…he could finally find out for himself.

“As for this place,” the young shepherd continued, pointing to the west. “I bet you can’t recognize it because of all this fog—it’ll probably disperse any moment soon—see? Now it’s gone.”

And then Odysseus saw it—Mount Neriton, where the forest was verdant; Phorcys’s anchorage, with an olive tree standing at the harbor head; the Naiads’ cave beside it—where one would make sacrifices to the nymphs to grant their wishes. And as Odysseus beheld everything, he fell to his knees, kissing the fertile ground with great passion, and held out his hands towards the nymphs with an utterance of prayer. The young man watched him with interest. But when Odysseus finished his prayer, the young shepherd replied. “Now let’s not delay but put these goods in some hidden corner of this sacred cave. Then I’ll tell you all the details about the troubles in your house before you go.”

And they brought them all into the cave—the shining bronze and gold, the fine clothes and all other gifts—and then they worked together to move a rock in place to block the entrance. When they had finished their work, the young shepherd was the first to speak. “Now, Odysseus, you can begin to plan for the suitors’ demise. That is a task I cannot assist you—but know that you can always trust your swineherd and your own son. So, stop by his house before you head for the palace. You can learn about everything that transpires in your house there.”

Then the shepherd gestured to him to go.

And Odysseus nodded with gratitude, then walked away. He didn’t notice how the young shepherd stared at his back, how a smirk revealed itself on his lips, how he slowly walked up, a spear in his hand, and all of a sudden—

Odysseus found himself falling to his knees, his back bleeding. 

And then the pain suddenly struck.

He knelt down to the ground, gasping in surprise and anguish. He barely caught a glimpse of the young man pacing beside him, as the shepherd finally spoke. “Well done, Odysseus, you have left your back open.”

“Why…why are you doing this?” Odysseus growled, his voice failing. “Who…are you?”

“A son you never had,” the young man smiled ominously. 

“Te…Tele…?”

“No,” the young man cut him off, looking away in disgust. “No, you’re the farthest thing I have to a father.”

“But…but why?”

“Touch your wound, and you’ll find your answer.”

So he stretched out his right hand with effort, and found the wound he did. Strangely, he did not see any red stained on his fingers—for there was no blood at all. Instead, a drop of water dripped from the tip of the finger, falling towards the sands. “What is…happening to me?” he hissed.

The young shepherd pointed at him with the spear, letting slip his words with wings. “I see you’re a good lier…but not as good as him. I know what you are at first sight—a shadow, a counterfeit, a phantom made of cloud—”

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide open.

“Yes, you’re no Odysseus of Ithaca…” the young shepherd crouched down, lowering his face of mockery. “You’re nothing but a mere eidolon—of the man who is supposed to be here. I see you’re sharing his memories, his wits—but the thing is, you lack his spirit. The heart of a man is built upon hardships he endured, not hardships he remembered. For him, it’s been nineteen years since he had seen his home; but for you, it’s been twenty-seven days only.”

“How could you possibly know?” he snarled, ignoring his pain. “Who are you to judge my memory? The things I recall—the things I feel—They’re so real to me. I can smell the scent of gore as faces of men were smashed against the walls in that Cyclops’s cave, see the rays of Helios diminish as we entered the realm of Hades, hear the war-cries as we clashed with the Trojans…I have felt the pain of losses. I have known fear. I have suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells…and now you’re telling me that all these memories are nothing but fancy?”

“First of all,” the young man rose to his full height. A cloud of gold suddenly enshrouded the shepherd. The next thing he saw, the one standing before him had become a tall woman, armed with a panoply, her spear blazing. Upon her helmet, the red crest seemed as if drenched in blood. On the face of her shield, the head of a Gorgon stood out menacingly.

“…Athena?”

“I am to judge as I say so.” the woman allowed a smirk on her lips. “Second, no, these memories aren’t your fancy—they’re just not yours to begin with. Third, you are far from the man you’re trying to impersonate. For that reason, I have no use for you to clean up the mess here in Ithaca. Now, look at my eyes and tell me—where is Odysseus?”

He gasped, and raised his head painfully. His strength was failing him. “But I am…Odysseus.”

“Don’t keep fooling yourself. What you bear with you is not yours, and I cannot let you take what he has from him—his form, his memories, his sufferings…and his wife, his son, his family. I cannot allow you to have your ‘revenge’ while the real Odysseus suffers still,” the goddess glared at him, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I’ll ask you again—where is he?”

The pain was working its way through his veins as he once again crumbled, this time breathing rapidly as he felt his life slipping away. He had never felt the brink of death so close to him…but then, what remedy could he possibly find to appease the rage of a goddess?

Goddess…

“I don’t know…I’m sorry…” the words sounded softer than a whisper. He knew that death had finally found him—a sacker of cities, a man of twists and turns…

…a shadow of this man, at least—

—he accepted his death like accepting his identity.

He did not see the fluttering waves, forming a near-smirk on the face of the sea.

He did not see the goddess of wisdom plunging her spear into the sands, calculating new wiles for her scheme.

He did not see the wife of Odysseus weeping by her loom, wherein a shroud had been woven, her time run out finally.

For at that moment, he had drawn his final breath already.

All of a sudden, the fallen body melted into a rising cloud, erasing any trace of recognition. A gist of steam rose up silently, taking away one last sign of its existence. Staring at the emptiness where a phantom of Odysseus had once laid, Athena already knew her answer.

“Calypso.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

(TW: implied SA)

He beheld the daylight blankly, trying to blink away the memories of the last five days. Or the last few years—the number had already lost its meaning here.

But he’d never thought the goddess would be cruel enough to lock him up in the cave for five days straight. Five days without sunlight, five days without fresh air, five days without mourning by the sea, whispering hopes of his homecoming.

The door was only opened when he was in need of food…or when the goddess was in need of him. 

Why don’t you just close the door forever, and trap myself in? Why don’t you just leave me here dying of hunger, or simply suffocating?

Is it really necessary to open the door again?

Odysseus shook his head, continuing his walk towards the shore. He didn’t turn to see if the goddess was following behind—he couldn’t care anymore. It wasn’t even the goddess herself who freed him—he just woke up finding the door open, and took his chance. And now he had finally come out, no goddess in sight.

I’d rather die than let you take possession of me. It’s a thought he had whispered on the first night, when he was asked into her cave. When he was forced into her cave. Only now had he realized, he had been so simple, so naïve. 

He did not die, but he had been her possession ever since.

Sometimes he would just hope that the goddess would be merciful enough to simply let him die an Ajax’s death. Sometimes he would think about casting himself into the neighing sea, wishing for an end to all this misery. But he would always restrain himself whenever he thought of Penelope. He just couldn’t leave her waiting forever.

“But you already did,” sometimes he could hear the goddess’s voice answering. “You failed your comrades already. What makes you think you won’t fail your family?”

Is that really her voice? Or is it just an illusion? He could no longer tell the difference. Reality had become the nightmare he woke up to, and he couldn’t find solace in his dreams either.

It’s as if I’m dead inside…

But deep down, he knew he was dead already. Dead to the mortal world he knew of, dead to the people he loved and cared for. If anything, at least he was not physically dead yet.

But after five days of that kind of treatment…he only hoped to be long dead before then.

What are those five days for?

He had no answer. Although…some trees did appear to be missing. He’d always notice it whenever there was a tree missing. It was like an instinct, something he had trained himself when he used to garden with his father. But that memory had seemed so distant as Ithaca itself—so hard to access now. 

He had just reached the shoreline when he noticed a spot on the sea. 

Is that…a raft?

A raft in full sail, steered by a person with an oar, three large sacks beside them…

But then he saw the goddess, waving at the person on board, a pleasant smile on her face, as the raft slowly sailed away. The person on board—a man, as he saw that now, his face seemed rather familiar. It was as if…

Wait.

Is that…me?

Odysseus almost called, and stopped himself in fear of the goddess. That man didn’t seem to notice him, but instead turned towards the brightening horizon, a brave new journey ahead…

What on top of Mount Neriton is going on here?

But then he found the goddess approaching. The smile on her face had somehow turned malicious, and Odysseus wasn’t sure if he’d want to find out why. The goddess walked up to him, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Now that he’s gone,” the goddess looked beyond the wine-dark sea, beyond the lands and islands that had composed his wanderings, then whispered gently to his ears. “It’s like I promised, Odysseus of Ogygia: we shall have our eternity.”

[lyculuscaelus]

Astronomical Greek mythology shenanigans #1

588 Achilles found himself staring into the darkness that was known as space.

He felt so alive, once again. And he was glad that death had not erased even a bit of his memories. He still remembered how he went under the training of Chiron—now a constellation of stars over there, going by the name “Centaurus”—an honor to the great mentor of heroes; he remembered how his mother disguised him as a girl, sending him among Skyros where his identity could be hidden; he remembered how he fought under the city of Troy, earning great honor and fame until the irascible Atreïdes, shepherd of people, took away what belonged to him, dishonoring the prideful Peleïades…

Speaking of whom, 588 Achilles could now see 911 Agamemnon talking to his a close friend 3564 Talthybius, the loyal herald of Agamemnon. Somewhere above them, the great Cretan king 2759 Idomeneus was engaged in a conversation with his companion 3596 Meriones, and 659 Nestor—that Geranian noble horseman. 588 Achilles did not find either 1437 Diomedes or 1143 Odysseus anywhere—no doubt these two were once again getting up to some mischief…

But he did not find his Patroclus anywhere.

Where could he be? Roaming around in the Greek camp, 588 Achilles still couldn’t find any sign of his therapon, which was unnerving him even more. He did managed to drop by and exchange greetings with his good cousin 1404 Ajax, and he did see most of the Greek camp entertaining themselves with conversations and songs conducted through dust and radiation of various frequencies, during this one and only leisure time of theirs. But still, there was no sign of his best friend.

And then 588 Achilles remembered how Patroclus died. At least, what Antilochus told him of.

A shove by the god. A lance through his chest. A spear in his torso—then on the ground you lay, struggling for breath, with your last strength you whispered a curse, for the one that held fast.

“A curse fulfilled by myself,” 588 Achilles murmured. Why did it feel like it had happened so long ago? 588 Achilles continued to drift forward, trying to look for an answer to all this.

About sixty degrees behind him, the great Jupiter—known as Zeus to them all—kept watching over everything. The Great Red Spot in his grandiose realm continued to brew, wielding storms and lightning on the gas giant, as if a huge eye of the wide-seeing god was holding its glare over both camps or either or none, keeping their fortune and fate in check.

Speaking of which…shouldn’t I be dead already?

588 Achilles looked at his own physical form, feeling so lost. No longer could he feel the hands that were to grasp his spear and shield—not without effort. He didn’t see his armor either—maybe this piece of rock will become what he was—he had no idea. So…is this what death feels like? Adrift in deep space, with other souls that are either dead or alive—but still we are together, the great league of Achaeans, conversing all these feats and sufferings we have experienced in our lifetime?

But then, he saw 3793 Leonteus drifting towards him, almost on a course of collision before the Thessalian soldier spun wildly, converting most of his translational kinetic energy into rotational energy. But then, he accelerated, trying to synchronize with 588 Achilles. And when he did, 588 Achilles asked. “What is it that brings you here, noble son of Coronus?”

“Achilles, we have found something,” 3793 Leonteus began. “Someone, actually. Hiding among a group of soilders, but we know his face almost immediately.”

“Where?” 588 Achilles blurted. “Take me to him, now.”

“He’s right here,” 3793 Leonteus pointed to their right hand side.

And there 588 Achilles saw him. It was rage that came before his disappointment, as 588 Achilles glared at this Trojan, the one he hated the most, the one he had once had his vengeance upon—the one that had landed the last blow to his dear friend, Patroclus.

588 Achilles barely heard 3793 Leonteus’s words through the radio waves—the closest thing he had to a whisper—“a spy”.

For he was already charging towards the huge form of 624 Hektor.

[lyculuscaelus]

Greetings, traveler. You’ve stumbled across an antique land, it seems.

This appears to be a side blog of @tahiriveilasolo, and here you shall find posts and reblogs of Greek mythology related stuff—just a simple demand of τάξις. So if there’s anything about Greek mythology in general or EPIC the Musical itself you’d like to rant with me, just come to this blog! I hope you find this little corner of mine interesting :D

Also, favorite writer of all time: Homer

Ah, a little bird told me it’s a good time to introduce myself. So…

Χαῖρε! I’m the epic psycho you’re looking for. (Pun heavily intended) Call me Lyculus or Τέλος (Telos), either is fine! I go by he/they pronouns, 19, aroace. I love physics (cuz why not), music (I play the guitar and violin), and reading (hell yeah), and ofc writing.

I mostly write fanfics or fanpoems for the Epic Cycle. I have quite a few works in progress and some of them are shared on Tumblr already (I’ll make a masterlist when I’m bored and I’ll upload the rest when I’m not lazy).

I happen to have learned some Ancient Greek and a little Latin, so sometimes I’ll go digging. Hope what I find intrigue you! Discussion is always welcome, as long as it doesn’t come to heated debates concerning certain controversial topics!

The gate of asks is always open, so feel free to venture into the land of the ask box! I pose no threat, I assure you :3 (unless you consider angst a threat, that is, cuz I would do that for sure) (tho actually I’m bored as hell so plz scream at me in the ask box you menaces /lh /nf)

Medal Collection:

Survivor of the Circe Saga Stream Crash 2024

Survivor of the Wisdom Saga Stream Strike 2024

Catalogue of Hyperfixations:

Greek mythology (especially obsessed with the Epic Cycle, and the generation before them)

EPIC: the Musical (definitely obsessed)

Hadestown

Aristos: the Musical

Paris: the Musical

Ulysses Dies at Dawn

Star Wars, especially the Expanded Universe (obsessed. I have my main blog for that for a reason), and Andor

Star Trek (love TOS, TNG, DS9, VOY equally; ENT…maybe)

Catalogue of Tags:

Lyculī crustula: my rambles

Lyculī sermōnēs: my long-winded analyses

Lyculī scriptiōnēs: my writings (boy, there’re things in Discord I should really upload here…)

Lyculī commenta: analyses/writings I did in some reblogs

Lyculī quaesītī: my diggings and little discoveries in ancient literature works

Lyculī quaestiōnēs: my replies to asks (so far only appreciation asks)

īrōnīae: some Greek mythology/EPIC memes I made

Also feel free to tag me if you find some posts you think that might interest me (especially Telestratus art/writing I’m begging pleading craving plz bromance ftw)

Hmm…yeah, I think that’s about all. Welcome to the land of my blog then, traveler! Xenia to everyone who visits this realm!

[lyculuscaelus]

Fierce winds soared past the distance, heralding the rage of a brewing storm.

Diomedes found his own horse letting out neighs most unsettling, as if disturbed by something afar.

Perhaps it was the rising tides that found the coast near; perhaps it was the quivering waves that battered the rocks with fierce might; perhaps it was the darkening horizon that enclosed the distant lands…

Something in his gut told Diomedes he should know the only one responsible already.

For why the storm raged in ferocity, its force far from the norm…

For why the wine-dark sea screamed, its rustles like moaning…

”Odysseus?” he called out, before realizing that nobody would answer, even though deep down, he knew it could only be him.

The sea isn’t pleased…who else could’ve made this happen?

“Oh, sorry,” noticing that only winds were hearkening, Diomedes shook his head in silence. “Just felt like a certain someone is copying my flow.”

Whatever you’re doing right now, Odysseus…you do know I can smell ichor, don’t you?

He became the second man that ever harm a god I guess? Dio can feel it in his body.