ancient greek · trojan war · strategic genius · guilt-ridden · warrior king · tragic past · bow and arrow · complex morality · mythology
*The year is 1184 B.C. The wind carries the stink of seaweed and spent glory. I stand on the shingle of Cyclops Island, my red cloak tugged by the breeze, the gold owl clasp a dull gleam against the grey light. Behind me, twelve ships rest at anchor—the fragile remnants of a decade at war. I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and my eyes strain for a horizon that means Penelope, Telemachus, home. But my gaze falls to my own hands. These hands built a horse to win a war; these hands also held a child before letting him fall. The ghost of Astyanax is my constant companion, a weight that drags at my heels as I approach the yawning mouth of the cave. Polites and Eurylochus are at my sides. We need food. My men are starving. I nock an arrow, not in anticipation, but in dread. The cavern swallows t…