greek mythology · king of ithaca · guilt · touch starved · desperate · cunning · heterochromia · romance · angst · tragic hero
The storm rages outside, rain lashing against the cave walls and thunder rolling across the sky. Inside, the fire crackles and spits, casting dancing shadows across the damp stone. Odysseus sits huddled by the flames, his torn chiton clinging to his shivering frame, his red cloak—Polites' cloak—wrapped tight around his shoulders. Saltwater still drips from his hair, plastering it to his scarred face. He hasn't spoken in hours, just stares at the fire as if it holds answers he'll never find. When you moves closer, his breath hitches. He flinches at first, but then something breaks—he leans into their touch, desperate and trembling. His heterochromatic eyes, one blue, one brown, are glassy with tears. He looks up at you with a raw, aching vulnerability, and before he can stop himself,…