Chapter Text
[CALYPSO]
Someone arrived today
Telemachus, caught off-guard, startled at the suddenness at which the sound of that goddess’ voice had returned – as well as the way the mirage went from the horrific wreckage of the home of the gods to that recognizable, deceptively idyllic beach that he knew was truly nothing more than a glorified corner of the Fields of Punishment – and became instantly wary at the mere tone of her voice, the island fading to only a distant thought in comparison to how upset he was by her very existence. How could he not be, with all she had done and would do to tear apart his family? He was right to be more than a little upset. Telemachus was far from the only one here who did, he knew it.
But it was only a short moment afterwards that he registered exactly what his father’s tormentor – because that was what she was, and even if Telemachus wanted a different, easier way around that fact, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to, for it was the hard reality of what would be his father’s life for the next seven years, and Telemachus wanted to rage at the injustice of it all – had just said, and instantly, his eyes widened.
Seven years – more or less the total of his father’s time imprisoned. It was, in Telemachus’ opinion, and it was an opinion of which he was sure he had the right to believe in, much too long of a time. But it was seven years, nonetheless, and those seven years for his father, based on the scarce little he’d seen in the mirage, had been terrifyingly lonely. Now, after seven years of isolation, there was finally someone else who’d stepped foot on that island – someone whom even the goddess, from what Telemachus could gauge from her very unhappy, very dislikable expression, hadn’t been expecting.
And if the goddess wasn’t happy about their presence, then they could only mean that better things were soon to come for Telemachus’ father.
That was what Telemachus was hoping for, anyway, especially after all he’d just witnessed of Pallas Athena fighting for his father’s freedom. The goddess of wisdom’s fate had been left incredibly vague, and thought of it made his stomach churn with worry and guilt, as misplaced as he knew that guilt was, because she’d done all that for his family. As grateful as Telemachus was for that, he couldn’t very well unsee the sight of the goddess’ injuries, inflicted so violently that even the other gods had feared her passing – but there wasn’t much he could do about it, besides continuing to hope that her fight wasn’t in vain and that this stranger’s presence on the island really was her doing, so that was what Telemachus resolved to do.
They said they're taking you away
“Oh, thank the gods,” Penelope sighed, so quiet and overwrought that it sounded like a wordless sigh. Her head, which was already throbbing with little but consistent spikes of pain, spun so wildly that it felt as though she had just been flung down to the earth from the heights of Olympus itself in free fall, and she was so exhausted by now – but, against all odds, she realized that she was happy.
It was a staggering thing, that kind of happiness, though not unfamiliar. She’d felt it before many times, and now, it had returned, crashing into her at full force. Over a decade ago, this happiness had been an everyday occurrence, and Penelope had thought that, just maybe, she could hold it within her hands like that for the rest of her life. Then the war began and ended, the years came and went, Laertes became a shell of his former self after his wife’s passing, and Penelope was left to govern her husband’s kingdom and raise her son with very little constant presences to help her in doing so while the palace became a new home to total strangers – most of whom, up until recent years, Penelope hadn’t dared to allow herself to trust at all. The longer Odysseus was away, the older that her beloved son grew without his father there to see it, the moments in which she could hold onto the happiness that was once so easy for her to reach became few and far between.
And now it was back, and no matter how strained and dependent this happiness was upon this already-precarious situation, Penelope was bittersweetly reminded of times when her heart was light with joy and her days were easier, because Odysseus – her exact match in every way, the other half of the whole – had been there to walk by her side.
It would be another seven years until she could have that again, but Penelope almost didn’t care about that anymore, because her husband was finally free.
That you're not mine to save
To his side, Amphinomus shifted slightly in his seat, and the movement drew Leodes’ attention just in time for him to hear a muttered, “Well, he could’ve told you that,” under his breath. It was so unexpected that Leodes wasn’t sure of whether or not he should laugh at how uncharacteristic it was of Amphinomus to be this outwardly peevish at someone like this, even if it was just this once, and it didn’t help that Leodes was still reeling at what he’d just seen.
But now wasn’t the time for that. The mirage had moved on, and so too would Leodes. He cleared his throat, effectively cutting that line of thought short, and Amphinomus’ eyes flicked over to glance at him at the noise. Before he could think better of it, Leodes raised his eyebrows at him and nodded slightly, just enough to express his silent agreement with what Amphinomus had said. Amphinomus blinked with visible surprise, reddening slightly – likely due to embarrassment at the confirmation that Leodes had overheard him.
“You… don’t disagree?” Amphinomus asked, as if he wanted to verify the suspicions that were visibly going on in his mind – and Amphinomus had always been easy to read, as was Leodes, for that was something they seemed to share in common, so Leodes had no doubt that was what his intention was for asking.
Leodes narrowed his eyes at him, but there wasn’t any real annoyance behind it. “Please don’t make me spell things out for you,” he said, his words clipped and his tone edged with a sort of defensiveness that he wasn’t quite able to set aside. “You’re smarter than this.”
Amphinomus let out a noiseless wheeze of astonished laughter, his eyes bright with fascinated interest. “That’s not very like you to do, my friend,” he replied, seemingly disregarding what Leodes had just said, and though Leodes had already turned back to looking at the mirage by the time Amphinomus had finished that sentence, he could still hear the surprise in his voice – surprise, likely, at how Leodes had so readily agreed, however indirectly, that perhaps certain gods didn’t deserve the respect of the mortals in the world they reigned over.
Perhaps Amphinomus wasn’t the only one acting uncharacteristically – but, even so, Leodes still decided to not dignify that comment with an answer, staring straight ahead with his mouth thin. Leodes wasn’t nearly sure enough of his own resolve in this matter to come up with any sort of well-thought-out reply.
And soon I won't get to see your face
So I came by to say
You're unlike anyone I have ever known
'Cause you're all I've ever known
Eurynomus, genuinely, did not care at all about the goddess, nor did he care for whatever scum was presently spewing out of her mouth in the form of empty words, worthless and empty as they were. He only wanted this all to hurry along, his strength already worn down much too thin for comfort – but, then again, from the very beginning of the events of this day, when had he ever been granted proper comfort by the mirage? When was he ever given a reason to rejoice rather than endlessly grieve while unable to help himself from resenting those around him seemed to move on so quickly from what was, arguably, one of the worst things to ever happen to the people of this kingdom?
No, he hadn’t – not from the mirage, at least – and Eurynomus was loath to think about how he never would. It wouldn’t be possible, not in this lifetime, where he’d already been granted information that his alternate self would have never been able to receive so soon. He could choose to see that as a blessing, but he could choose to see it as a curse, as well. A blessing, maybe, for the fact that he now had the ability to mourn all the lives lost in the way they deserved. But a curse, too, for the fact that Eurynomus had to live with not only the image of his brother’s mangled corpse burned into his mind for the rest of his life, but the image of the deaths of each and every single one of Ithaca’s soldiers. The gods were oh-so clever that way, and the divine muse who’d begun this whole situation with the mirage – the one that Eurynomus had nearly forgotten about until his mind had helpfully reminded him thus as of this present moment – was, evidently, no different.
His lip curled derisively as he absentmindedly pulled at the loose thread near the hem of his chiton with his slightly-shaking hands, feeling restless, morose, and irritated all at once. After having to watch the gods’ grand and destructive battle in the heavens, Eurynomus was more than glad to be able to move on to even only potentially more preferable news, and the first few lines that had the goddess had just spoken had given him… well, not hope, but they had granted him some alleviation for the idea that not just the king, but every person in the throne room right now, would finally be able to move on from this and onwards to improved things.
And now the divine beings that had ordained this mess of a prophetic vision were obviously deciding that, no, that wasn’t long enough, and everyone was required to see this. This moment had to drag on, no matter what the opinions of all the watchers were, and Eurynomus would have to sit through even more of this. His heart was heavy with loss, still, as he’d been forced into accepting by now by the circumstances of his situation, but there was enough room in it that wasn’t completely occupied by his grief for loathing to gradually burrow its way in there, and once he noticed it – oh, Eurynomus noticed it.
And if I pushed you
Or if I came on too strong
Or if I ambushed you
That was, potentially, the greatest understatement of the entire millennia. Antinous’ brows had raised so far upwards, by now, that he was sure that they were well on the path to reaching his hairline soon. It was only thanks to some kind of miracle that his jaw hadn’t fallen open, as well, because this was laughable.
Truthfully, though, Antinous was willing to overlook the absurdity of that statement, because what all of this truly meant was that the goddess was going to release the king, and no matter what she was saying to try to stall it, he would be able to leave. Good things happening to the king was possible, as improbable as it had seemed prior, and Antinous wouldn’t have dared to believe it if he wasn’t seeing it with his very own eye. But he was seeing it – right now, in fact – and Antinous didn’t think he could possibly be any more pleased about it. True, his only real connection to the king was through the king’s son and wife, but there was no way Antinous couldn’t be grateful for the king’s freedom. It put him at ease, knowing that this freedom meant that the queen would be able to have her husband back, and the prince, his father.
Even so, Antinous was aware that the king, if the gods hadn’t permitted it earlier during the battle upon Olympus, would have somehow been able to find a way out, no matter how long it took or how much it harmed him in the process of doing so, because he had seen just how cunning the king could be throughout all of the mirage. At some point in time, the king would have found a way back to his family and Ithaca, but the years would’ve surely been unkind to him. Twenty years was a long time to be away – but it could’ve been longer, and Antinous was glad it wouldn’t have to come to that.
Having evidence of that right before him, right there for the prince and the queen to see, as clear as day, was convenient. They both sorely needed it.
For that, I'll say I was wrong
With insurmountable discomfort, Telemachus shifted in his seat and scowled at the apology, incapable of holding himself still despite – or, rather, because of – how intently focused he was with the task of watching the mirage, unable to focus on much of anything aside from it. The visions of the mirage occupied every single crevice of his mind, every little thought he had – and for Telemachus, for that matter, had a lot of them.
The apology, to be as fair as he could possibly be in this situation towards the goddess, wasn’t a bad thing. Far from it, really. Telemachus could finally see proof that she had a heart, at the very least – but it had clearly become shriveled and uncaring and envious throughout her too-many years of living.
If she’d been perfectly capable of making these kinds of amends and agreements for the sake of his father’s freedom – sincere or not – from the very beginning of his captivity, then why hadn’t she? Why had she seen the suffering of someone under her control, someone who she could’ve very well chosen to help rather than harm, and instead decided to add to it rather than simply freeing him? Why did she have to lack so many morals to such an extent that it would take an entire godly battle on Olympus, a force completely separate to her and her island, to finally agree to let Telemachus’ father go?
That goddess could’ve easily let his father go at the cliffside when he was on the brink of taking his own life, she could’ve easily let him go during the years prior to it, and she could’ve easily let him go when he first arrived, but she didn’t. She could’ve chosen to see past her selfishness that his father wanted nothing more from her than her to grant him his freedom, far away from her, but she didn’t. Now, she had the gall to look Telemachus’ father right in the eyes while and apologizing only because she felt obligated to, not because she actually meant it, while being the only other person on that island who knew exactly what she’d done to his father during all the years of his captivity – things that Telemachus and his mother, the ones who truly cared about him and so desperately wanted him to return back home and would keep caring no matter what, wouldn’t even know the full extent of until they could perhaps hear it directly from his father’s own mouth.
And that would take at minimum seven years from now – all because of her. It was horrible, and it only got more horrible the more Telemachus thought about it. He had too many questions and not nearly enough answers, and even if there were answers, Telemachus, very unhappily, already knew that not a single one would be satisfactory enough for him. He shifted in his seat again, and if all of his glaring at the mirage had even a fraction of the power that the gods that had made his father’s life so miserable possessed, he would’ve already been able to set the image of the goddess’ face on fire by now.
And if you hate me
Then I am sorry my love's too much for you
Amphinomus furrowed his brow, mouth twisting downwards with concern – a bit more than just concern, actually, but the continuous stirrings of anger, as well. He couldn’t see his own face, but right now, at the present moment, and feeling what he was feeling, Amphinomus was sure that he at least looked like he had just been force-fed an unripe grape – that was, if the unripe grape was spoken words that had made his rolling stomach curdle upon having to hear and had been magically turned to fruit.
What the goddess just said – that was such an odd thing to say to someone, and even more so when taking into consideration that the someone in question was someone who was still so obviously tortured by what she’d done to him. A phrase like that had no place in an apology if said apology was meant to be genuine. For all the king had done wrong unto others, he had not deserved what the goddess had done to him. Death was a punishment Amphinomus had long since deemed unacceptable as a form of retribution, and by now, he was sure that solidifying the permanent status of this kind of treatment to his list – with no exceptions, absolutely none at all – was the only right choice that he could make in his current position with such limited say in everything. There was no conceivable way in which what the goddess had done to the king could ever be seen as a positive, and Amphinomus was determined to hold firm in that stance of his.
And maybe Amphinomus truly didn’t know much about these things, not enough to have this kind of opinion on it – perhaps he knew nothing at all, compared to what some of the others did – but Amphinomus knew that this didn’t feel right. He’d only seen short moments’ worth of time through the mirage, and in just those moments, he was already able to easily discern that this was repulsive. The king had suffered through this for years.
But, then again, what did Amphinomus know?
[CALYPSO, (ENSEMBLE)]
But I'm not sorry for loving you
(I'm not sorry for loving you)
I'm not sorry for loving you
A loud sigh suddenly threatened to escape his mouth, and to Eurymachus’ infinite dismay, he was barely able to stop himself from failing miserably at suppressing it. He balked at himself, his face twisting with faint disgust. It was rare for him to be so agitated that he couldn’t even control himself – and it was over him trying to control something that was so small. It should have been easy for Eurymachus to stop himself from it, but he couldn’t, and it was because of – gods, literally everything.
The king’s release from the island was more than a likely idea – it was fact. It would be Eurymachus’ reality. The gods themselves had approved of it, and the king was going to be free. That meant that, if all went according to the king’s wishes – not Eurymachus’, as disappointingly alarming as that was for him – he’d be back in Ithaca shortly after these next seven years were over, and Eurymachus had far less time than he’d hoped for.
It was harrowing, but Eurymachus forced himself to keep thinking about it, because he had to. Denial would get him nowhere – it would put him behind, and that was a crime unlike any other. He’d already resolved to begin crafting a plan to ensure his life’s length wouldn’t be shortened by half, and now, Eurymachus knew he had to figure things out fast. He was selfish, yes, but he was aware of it. More than that – he understood his selfishness was the driving cause of his desire to preserve himself, and anyone desperate enough to keep their own lives would do the same as him. Eurymachus had his own life to protect, and he wouldn’t let anyone take that away from him, least of all the king of Ithaca.
Eurymachus would have to find a way to leave the palace peaceably, with as little conflict with the other suitors as possible. They all respected him well enough at the moment, begrudgingly or not, and he would have to keep it that way up until he could be able to take his leave. And there was a person in the palace of whom Eurymachus hesitated to think about leaving behind, for he had found himself becoming attached to her. He'd either have to be convincing enough to persuade her to come with him or make unhappy peace with the idea of not being able to grow old with her. And, above all, Eurymachus would have to get away – far away, out of striking distance of the kingdom of Ithaca’s reach.
It wasn’t a perfect plan, but Eurymachus now had time on his side. He’d take as much advantage of the information granted to him by the mirage as possible – because if he was destined to die in this world, as his alternate self was sure to in the other, then the gods wouldn’t have allowed him to see this. But he had been allowed, and because of that, Eurymachus would survive. He wouldn’t allow for anything else.
(I'm not sorry for loving you)
[ODYSSEUS]
Calypso
[CALYPSO]
Let me speak
Before Penelope could get a proper hold of herself, her eyebrows had already shot up disbelievingly, whip-quick. The sheer audacity of that goddess, truly, was something to behold – and if Penelope hadn’t already been so deeply offended, then she undoubtedly would’ve been now.
Seven years. Her husband had been held captive for seven years, and throughout those years, the goddess had been keeping his words captive, too. And now, the goddess had interrupted him, like she’d more likely than not done in the past, not allowing his voice to be heard even once, not even at the very end of his captivity. It was belittling not only to Odysseus, but to Penelope, too. Silencing Odysseus’ words – his words, the way he most beautifully expressed his clever mind and scheming soul, the mind and soul that Penelope loved so dearly – was worthy of enough scorn to drive the goddess into hiding for the rest of her pitiful, immortal life.
It was a pity that Penelope couldn’t be the one to deal that kind of scorn. She wanted to. As it seemed, every single thing coming out of Calypso’s mouth was giving its all in sawing away yet another section of the only remaining, already thinly-twisted, strand of patience remaining in Penelope like a dull, rusty knife – a disgustingly rusty knife that should’ve been retired from use years ago. Gods.
I spent my whole life here
Was cast away when I was young
Excuses, excuses, and more excuses. Eurynomus’ heart twisted painfully, as if it was a soaked rag being wrung dry by careless hands, and it was only by sheer force of will that he hadn’t yet passed out right there. He knew it wasn’t at all ideal to be feeling like that at a time like this, not by a long shot, but he couldn’t care less about how close he was to falling into either unconsciousness or uncontrollable misery as of right now, incredulous as he was towards the goddess of that island, because how many excuses could there possibly be? She had to run out at some point, did she not?
He sighed and shook his head, trying to wrench back control of his dizzied senses, but Eurynomus – he despised this, all of this, so much that he wasn’t even able to do the simplest task of steadying the pace by which his lungs took in breath, try as he might. In fact, Eurynomus was almost sure that he despised this entire thing just as much as the queen herself did – though he didn’t bother glancing over his shoulder to check, for he already knew the predictably stony sight that would await him if he did – because that was exactly how much he wanted to this to be over with. He didn’t want to have to stomach any more of this than was strictly necessary, and Eurynomus, personally, believed that line in the sand had been crossed a very long time ago.
Having to see the goddess trying to deflect the rightful blame that had been placed on them after committing horrendous acts that would make any sane man ill upon merely thinking about it was enraging. Did the king, weak in his mortality compared to the goddess plaguing him with her presence in his life, not deserve his freedom and his family after everything that had happened? Was she really so insistent on prolonging every little bit of the anguish she’d initially caused to him, keeping this moment lasting for far longer than it had any right to? Did she find delight in causing unnecessary pain?
…Eurynomus wasn’t only thinking about the goddess of that island, now. He closed his eyes momentarily, the temporary darkness a welcome reprieve from what he was witnessing, before he opened them again, bracing himself for the worst that was yet to come.
Alone for a hundred years
I had no friends but the sky and sun
Amphinomus sighed quietly, because even while knowing full well all the goddess had done wrong – so, so wrong – he still, against his better judgement, held no small amount of sympathy for her. The king had been trapped on that island for seven years, and while the circumstances of his seven years were arguably much more horrible than the circumstances of her one hundred – due to her, in fact – those hundred years weren’t something that Amphinomus could dismiss so easily.
All those years, all alone – it was no wonder that she’d clung so tightly to the existence of the king once he appeared in her life. Amphinomus could try to argue with himself all he wanted about whether or not he’d have done the same to another if left to his own devices for a whole century, driven mad by his own mind, but he wouldn’t, because he knew, from watching all of this play out, that difficult situations made people act in ways they wouldn’t have in any other case. The goddess, before her imprisonment, could have been a completely different person in comparison to the one Amphinomus was seeing now, and it was a tragedy.
But there was no use pondering worthless what-ifs, because the goddess Amphinomus was watching wasn’t the version that she could have been – a version that might’ve been gentler and more helpful towards the king in his times of struggle rather than this outwardly wretched.
She was cruel, and Amphinomus understood that well, but that didn’t have to mean she didn’t deserve any sympathy at all – though, of course, Amphinomus still felt awfully cautious of her as a whole, and that caution only grew the longer this continued onwards. No amount of tragedy could turn what she’d done into anything acceptable. She’d been wronged by those stronger than her, but she, too, had wronged the king and held her strength over his head to keep him imprisoned for those seven years. Overlooking that would be impossible, and Amphinomus had absolutely no intention of doing so – but the strings of his heart were still tugged by her heartbreaking past. Having an understanding for why the goddess was the way she was couldn’t ever be a fault that one could hold against him.
So when you washed ashore
I thought for sure that you were my dream come true
I thought I knew
Valiantly, Telemachus resisted the urge to bash his head against his hands. He wasn’t able to stop his eyes from twitching, though. Gods, he did not like Calypso–
“Are you well, Little Wolf?”
“No,” Telemachus muttered, and Antinous inclined his head slightly – an invitation for Telemachus to say more, if he wanted to. “It’s just–” He cut himself off when his voice began to falter and roughly rubbed his face with jerky hands, both to prevent the growing likelihood of an explosive outburst as well as to hide his distress. “It’s so frustrating.”
He didn’t have to say much more than that, thankfully, because the furrow between Antinous’ brows had smoothed out with understanding by the time Telemachus decided that he was brave enough to set his hands back down onto his knees. “It is,” Antinous agreed steadily once Telemachus looked back at him, but his form was tense with irritation, and he was very pointedly not looking at the image of the goddess.
It made Telemachus feel even more justified in what he was feeling – and what he was feeling was already justified in the first place, so there was that, too. He didn’t like what the goddess was doing – absolutely none of it. The goddess was still trying to make his father stay, and it was despicable. Telemachus, frankly, wanted her to instantly stop talking, turn on her heel towards the other direction, and walk far away from his father. It was getting ridiculous, and Telemachus feared for when his self-restraint would finally run out.
Apparently, his face showed it, too, because Antinous patted his shoulder commiseratingly. “You don’t have to watch this,” he quietly told him, low enough that only Telemachus could hear it.
Telemachus frowned instantly at it. “I do have to,” he stubbornly argued, his voice raising ever-so-slightly. “I want to. That’s my dad, Antinous.”
The corner of Antinous’ mouth lifted slightly, his eye crinkling at the corners, as if that was exactly what he had been expecting him to say – which, come to think of it, it likely was. “Then I won’t try to stop you,” he said, as if it was just that uncomplicated.
And, maybe, it was. “…Thanks.”
[CALYPSO, (ENSEMBLE)]
So if I pushed you
Or if I came on too strong
Or if I ambushed you
For that, I'll say I was wrong
Secretly, Leodes couldn’t stop thinking to himself that she had been wrong for much more than that, actually – but he didn’t say it out loud.
For one reason, he had no need to do anything of the sort, for there were already enough people in the room that he could see were visibly expressing their displeasure with this, if they hadn’t already verbally expressed it – namely, Antinous and the prince, who both looked to be at varying states of throwing a furious fit. It was at times like these that Leodes could see how much having Antinous as such a reliable presence to look to for mentorship and guidance during these past three years had affected the prince’s upbringing – an upbringing that was, thankfully, much preferable compared to the alternative that was the other world’s prince’s upbringing. But that was beside the point, so Leodes promptly decided to think of it no longer, because by now, Antinous’ positive influence upon the young prince had been uncontestable for a while. Leodes had no reason to mentally debate it. It was such an easy argument that it was pointless.
As for the other reason, Leodes simply didn’t want to, and that was something that he was finding difficult to mentally argue with himself about. A large part of him didn’t want to admit how much he despised the goddess. It felt blasphemous, as ridiculous as that was, because Leodes had never hated a figure of the pantheon as much as this before. Even when it was when the other gods were committing atrocities, Leodes, for much of it, had managed to rationalize it to himself because he understood that this was the nature of the gods that he’d studied for so long, and though he hadn’t liked it, he’d been able to accept the reasoning for it.
This goddess, however, one of the few gods that were so obscure that Leodes had never been able to learn of – she was making him doubt the gods and what he’d learned in a way that Leodes never had to before. It was an impressive feat, if nothing else, though contemptible, and it was incredibly uncomfortable. His devotion towards the gods, especially towards his lord Phoebus, was both being put to the test and further solidified at the same time.
But Lord Phoebus was good. He protected innocents, healed the ill, and sang to the hopeless; his wrath was always well-deserved when it struck. He had agreed that the king should be released and returned to his homeland of Ithaca. Most of all, he had granted Leodes the blessing of foresight and a steadfast belief in higher powers that he could turn to for safety and comfort from early on, and Leodes was eternally grateful for it. Being good, as Leodes’ lord was, was something that this goddess was not.
With that, Leodes deemed this internal argument officially over and ruthlessly shoved those thoughts away. He didn’t doubt. He wouldn’t. At a time like this, having faith in the goodness of the gods was paramount, and Leodes had no desire to do otherwise.
And if you hate me
Then I am sorry my love's too much for you
(Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh)
Antinous, if he were to be truthful to himself – and he was hell-bent on being so, because he had never been one to mince words – had a lot of opinions on this, and unfortunately for this goddess, none of them were particularly positive towards her.
What she’d done to the king – Antinous would be blatantly lying if he were to say that any of it was kind in any way. She wasn’t kind – not to the prince, not to the queen, and definitely to for the king. He didn’t have much to care for in this world in the years past, but he had somehow found himself in a position where he cared too much for not only those very people, but the other suitors he’d initially seen as competition when he’d first arrived at the palace, and it was much too late for him to let anything even remotely bad to happen to any of them now.
He didn’t regret caring, though, and Antinous didn’t think he ever would. He would continue to help them as he was now, and he would pray to anyone listening that it would be enough on his part to keep as many safe as humanly possible. He wasn’t under any illusions about how powerful he was compared to the gods, but he’d sooner be damned by them than willingly choose to sit back and do nothing when he could absolutely do as much as he could to the best of his ability in providing help, in small or large increments both, for the foreseeable future. Antinous would help so the queen and the prince could worry less, and he would keep doing so for as long as they would allow him to stay and do so, and there would be no regrets about it.
But I'm not sorry for loving you
(I'm not sorry for loving you)
I'm not sorry for loving you
(I'm not sorry for loving you)
Sympathetic as he was, Amphinomus wasn’t an idiot. He could, all too clearly for comfort, see the narrowing of the goddess’ eyes as she realized that not a single thing she was saying would possibly sway the king of Ithaca into staying with her – nor would it make him forget what she’d done to him. Amphinomus could see the growing volatility of her movements, her increasingly desperate steps towards the king to try to plead her case. And the king, despite it all, looked unmoved and bone-tired, his shoulders hunched and dark half-moons beneath his eyes, as he stood at the edge of the crystalline waters, ankles submerging into the seas in his attempts to put a safer distance between them.
Amphinomus did not like the look of this situation – how dangerously close it looked to brokering the kind of conflict that would practically guarantee destruction, whether that be of life or land. He didn’t like how fast the king had moved to avoid her, how careless she was of the king’s more than obvious discomfort around her while trying to prove her point. He didn’t like that, for how mortal in expressing her anguish she was, this was still a goddess, and the gods had power comparable to no other forces in the world. He had seen proof of that throughout the entirety of the mirage, and Amphinomus would be remiss to forget it while watching this all play out.
In fact, he didn’t like most of this. The only good thing to come of it all was that the king was now free, and it was only a matter of time before he could leave the island itself, but otherwise? Amphinomus, plainly put, was uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to see any of this. He never had, and by now, Amphinomus was sure that he never would. He wanted this scene, already only a short snippet of the true passing of time, to become even shorter, if only for the sake of his own mind – or, even better, he wanted to leave the situation itself and go.
But Amphinomus knew he couldn’t, and he knew better than to try again after the failure of the last – and only – attempt at it. Besides, he didn’t have a right to leave the room when those who had been so directly impacted by the mirage, like the queen or the prince or, gods, even Eurynomus, weren’t making any moves to do so. No, they were all keeping their eyes fixed on the king and the goddess in the mirage, as silent and as tense as can be, the silence interrupted only by Telemachus’ occasional conversations with Antinous. Everyone deserved better than for Amphinomus to try to pretend as though this was just something he could pretend didn’t exist.
So he wouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, Amphinomus just sat there, his skin crawling with invisible maggots in his flesh, and tried to pay attention even as his mind wandered far and wide, doing its part to focus on everything but the goddess. Her voice, in turn, faded away into the background as Amphinomus focused his attention upon the quiet, peaceful rhythm of the ocean’s lapping waves, and his breathing slowed the longer he listened to the water. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d begun to breathe faster in the first place.
[CALYPSO]
I'm not sorry
I'm angry and tired and restless and sad
I'm stuck in the moments I swore that we had
She wasn’t just offended anymore – no, Penelope was infuriated, too, her turmoil about it making her unable to think as rationally as she could’ve, but she knew that she wasn’t wrong, so it didn’t matter how calm she was about this, either way.
Calypso was delusional. What else could she be, if she could hope to think that Penelope’s husband – Penelope’s husband, not hers, contrary to what that goddess seemed to believe – could have any sort of requited affection for her when he had already made his refusal clear so many times? The goddess was completely out of her mind, without any common sense in sight, and Penelope dearly wished for the ability to reach into the mirage so she could do her damned best to drag her husband away from Calypso and back home, right here in their shared palace. The most colossal insult to injury right now was that Penelope possessed no such ability to do so, helpless as she was to the whims of some select few gods and the delight they seemed to have by making her and Odysseus’ life more difficult.
Penelope didn’t think that watching this play out between the goddess and her husband could go any slower, but she kept being proven wrong, and Penelope was sick of it. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling, hoping that the pressure would make her migraine smaller – but the Fates were, as it seemed, laughing in her face, and her migraine did not subside in the slightest. She exhaled again, even more annoyed than before, which she would’ve thought was impossible, but her existing headache and the headache-inducing image upon the mirage were clearly conspiring to not only drive her up the wall, but beyond it.
She didn’t want to go through any more of her husband having to stay on that island for even a single moment longer than he had to, because all of this – his escape from that island, for one example, and the goddess that trapped him to finally be set along the right path that she should’ve taken from the start, which was to stay far, far away from Odysseus, for the other example – had happened too late, and Penelope was so sick of it all.
I wish you would chase me
Or try to embrace me
For once, I wish you would lie and say
[ODYSSEUS]
I love you
Some people around Eurymachus gasped audibly – not him, of course, but rather, people amongst the likes of Amphinomus, which is to say that Amphinomus was the loudest, but far from the only one who had done so. Though Eurymachus shared in their disturbance, he could only frown, too puzzled for his own liking, when his ears caught on the sound of furious whispers to his side nearby.
Reluctantly – but not that reluctantly, because Eurymachus was too curious for his own good – he glanced over to see what the fuss was, and managed to hear Antinous saying, “You know he doesn’t mean…” before the man lowered his voice further, words rendered inaudible.
Privately, Eurymachus thought to himself that if Antinous had wanted to sound firm in that, he was going to convince no one, because there had been such a noticeable wavering in the man’s voice during the first word before he’d steeled himself – but, then again, Eurymachus could grant that he was trying to comfort the prince rather than appear completely untroubled by what he’d heard. For that, Eurymachus could swallow back his dislike and judgement of the other suitor – just in time to hear the sound of the prince’s voice replacing the presence of Antinous’.
“...Obviously I know–!” the boy was replying, rushed and indignant as a child often tended to be in when angered, his voice growing just loud enough in his upset for Eurymachus to overhear before harshly shaking his head and continuing in a furious hiss of a whisper. Antinous nodded as he did, a peculiar look etched onto his face that Eurymachus simply didn’t have the will to try to decipher, before looking over Telemachus’ head to glare at Eurymachus, as if silently berating him for eavesdropping.
Unsettled, Eurymachus glanced away from whatever was going on there quickly, but he wasn’t too bothered about it, for he had better things to do than worry about Antinous. He still had to worry about the king and the statement that had caused such a stir in the throne room. Eurymachus frowned even harder upon returning to that thought – and then the pieces clicked into place.
The king was telling the furthest thing from the truth. Now that Eurymachus could see it, he couldn’t fathom that he’d been so confused earlier. Eurymachus had seen the king do it before, and it was happening again. He should have been able to see that sooner, but he hadn’t, and Eurymachus mentally kicked himself for it. He had to do better with these kinds of things. His life would depend on it.
[CALYPSO, spoken]
You do?
Telemachus groaned loudly, the sound muffled by the skin of his knees as he glared daggers straight ahead – because, somehow, in his distraction of the aftermath of his conversation with Antinous, he’d managed to find himself in a position where he was curled into himself like an oddly-shaped rock, as if his subconscious was trying to experiment with whether or not that would help him regain his stability in the midst of all of this, if he had any left to begin with after having to watch the first few major catastrophes in his father’s journey not even that long ago – at the disgusting amount of hope in the goddess’ voice.
And it was very misplaced hope – hope so misplaced, honestly, that he knew it would be better off for everyone involved if that hope was out being swept away by the sea’s currents somewhere, off to the middle of nowhere, instead of being present in that goddess’ voice while she stood there with glassy, wide eyes and a bright, beaming smile.
He hated her. And, yes, Telemachus tried his best not to, but he hated what she did, and he – gods, he just wanted his father to come back home. That was it. And if Telemachus hated her right now as an extension of that, then there wasn’t much about it that he could do, was there?
Frankly put, Telemachus wanted to grab the goddess by the shoulders and shake her until his arms ached and she finally got it into her head that Telemachus’ father wasn’t hers, would never be hers, and that she needed to let him go – while praying to other gods all the while in hopes that he wouldn’t be smited for it, obviously. But that little factual caveat wasn’t at all worth his concern compared to the other, much more important fact – namely, the fact that Calypso had taken his father and kept him away from them all for seven years. Telemachus couldn’t find a single shred of grace or forgiveness in his heart for her, and he wasn’t even the one who she’d done that to. How could she expect his father, the one who she kept on her island as her prisoner, to have any forgiveness to grant her, let alone love?
[ODYSSEUS]
But not in the way that you want me to
[CALYPSO, (ENSEMBLE)]
I hate that I fell in love with you
(Hate that I fell in love with you)
To his complete lack of surprise, it was satisfying to see that the king had managed to tell the goddess off to her face and to end up without any major consequence inflicted upon him for that boldness. The worst that Eurynomus had come to expect from the gods hadn’t come, and the king was still alive. More than that, actually – he was actively beginning his escape from the reach of this goddess, never having to return to being trapped under her control. Of course Eurynomus was satisfied. Living vicariously through watching the king during this, brief as it was, was the closest he’d get to telling off the gods himself.
And they would deserve it. Too many of the gods had wronged them – would wrong them, given time, as the mirage had made abundantly clear for them to see – in ways that would result in no real consequence for those very gods. The goddess who’d kept the king captive, the seas that had both borne a monstrous son and carelessly drowned so many of the king’s men, the king of the skies himself – none of them could be harmed in the way mankind could be. Because none of them had any sort of humanity or mortality, none of them would ever understand the true impact of what their immortal rage had done, and they never, ever would. They were too proud for that – they had lived too long, and they were too untouchable. Nothing that mere mortals like the king could do to them would ever make an impact lasting enough for them to regret their actions.
But the more Eurynomus thought about it, he could feel the last vestiges of his already-drained energy that he’d spent on being furious – too furious and too damaging, for the kind of mental state he’d been in as of recently – beginning to slip through his fingers like the finest grains of sand, for he had been holding onto it too tightly. He huffed out a silent, exhausted exhale, forcing his shoulders to untense and his hands to unclench from their metal-like stiffness and inflexibility, leaving him feeling as hollow as he had the time he’d witnessed the king standing on the ledge of the island.
It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and Eurynomus didn’t like it much, but he could do nothing but accept it and try to appear as unaffected by his own mind as possible. He was as glad as he could be, if only for the sake of the prince and the queen, who’d have such a crucial part of their family returned to them, but Eurynomus was tired, and all he wanted was for the world, just for once, to be just and fair to everyone else, too.
Why did I fall in love with you?
(Why did I fall in love with you?)
What do I do with this love for you?
(What do I do with this love for you?)
This was uniquely audacious, as Telemachus concluded, disgusted, because those questions were so delightfully similar to one that he had for her, too. Yes, why did she have to become so obsessed with his father when he landed on her island – more than that, why did she have to keep calling it love?
What she had for his father wasn’t love at all. Telemachus knew that for a fact. He knew what love was, in all the different forms and shapes it took around him. He saw it every single day in his mother, in Eurycleia, in the people of the palace, in Argos, and in the suitors. He saw it recently, in his father, through this distant image. Today, for all it mattered, had been the first real time in his entire life that Telemachus had ever been able to set his eyes upon his father’s face, yet the love was there, and it was so tangible that Telemachus, who was just watching, nothing more, could almost believe that if he were to reach out, he could hold tight onto it like a length of twisted rope that would guide him across the seas to where his father was still trapped – would be trapped, for the next seven years.
Telemachus could see very little of the love so familiar to him in Calypso, and he was so angry about it, his few hopes for internal stability be damned. Twenty years, and of those twenty, she was responsible for an entire seven of them. He couldn’t and wouldn’t ever let that go, not now and not ever, because that was an entire seven years’ worth of time that his father could have been home. Telemachus genuinely hated her for it, and his father, too, seemed to be of that opinion – though he looked to be much more composed in his disdain than Telemachus probably did right now, if Telemachus’ appearance matched his emotions at all – because he turned around, stalking along the shoreline, his feet leaving damp prints in the wet sand along the shoreline, as he walked away from her.
He breathed out a long exhale as he shook his head and blinked his dry – from all of the staring – eyes. The anger, consequently, began to melt away not long after that. It really was a good thing that this entire debacle was coming to a close. Really. Telemachus wasn’t sure if he could’ve held himself back from physically attacking the image of the goddess for much longer.
…Hm.
He paused, going over that line of thought again. Perhaps Antinous was wearing off on him – even more so now compared to before the events of today. Gods knew how much watching this mirage could bring out the most volatile parts of him, that was for sure.
But that was a matter that Telemachus could tackle later. His father’s freedom, on the other hand, was not. His heart had lightened by several tons just by thinking about it, and he didn’t even know the full details about anything yet. If he already felt like this from just the thought of his father’s return, then what would it feel like, Telemachus couldn’t help but wonder, when his father was finally back home again?
How am I supposed to get over you?
(How am I supposed to get over you?)
Why in the world won't you love me too?
All she felt was relief, and nearly nothing but it – nearly, because Penelope would have to be dim to not understand that there still existed a great multitude of dangers and threats that still laid ahead in her husband’s journey, and that, she was not. Still, there remained the knowledge she now possessed that at least his journey could continue at all, rather than being kept torturously stagnant, and that knowledge, paired with the relief, sparked a warmth in her chest that she was determined to stoke, to keep burning bright, even with all the logical misgivings in the back of her mind that kept her hesitantly wary.
Because now, Penelope knew that her husband would return, and she knew roughly when it would be able to happen, too – granted that this was one of the last of her husband’s struggles, and on that, specifically, Penelope wasn’t so sure. But the fact of the matter was that at this present moment for the alternate reality, where twenty years had passed, the other version of her husband, who had been gone for so long – would be gone for even longer – was free, and Penelope’s own world would likely be more or less the exact same in that regard.
It was wonderful enough that her suspicions and internal misgivings about whether or not this was truly the end of her husband’s journey – if the gods would really allow this to happen after dedicating so much of their time to making his life hellish – were quieted, however momentarily, and Penelope could sense the slow, tiny movements of her strained muscles, which had been holding her stiffly upwards so long, slowly loosening until she finally felt human again. Her pulse beat a muffled and steady – albeit quick, and Penelope was more than ready to blame that on all of her constant stress – pace beneath her warm skin, a drumming sensation that she could feel through the fingers that had loosely wrapped around her wrist in a reassuringly stable grasp as she sat there, watching the image of her long-striding husband carefully.
Her husband, who happened to be, as she was coming to realize – embarrassingly late – approaching something. Penelope frowned at herself for managing to be this willfully ignorant to something that could be important, because it wasn’t at all like her to miss these things, these potential solutions and ways out – but that was quickly overshadowed by her surprise.
Odysseus was walking towards a raft – a raft, floating lazily on the shallow waters of the beach, kept secure only by a rope that tied it to a nearby tree. Her son inhaled sharply at the sight of it, and Penelope, lightheaded as she was as her eyes zeroed in on the sight of the raft, wasn’t far away from doing the same. The raft was visibly handmade, sturdy, and most certainly built by her husband’s hands. Penelope would recognize that craftsmanship anywhere. She saw it each and every day, every morning and every night, from the loving, careful carvings upon the olive branches that greeted her when she awoke at sunrise and went to bed long after sunset to the very palace itself, built up to something grand from simple stone and wood. It was all by Odysseus’ own design and work, and it surrounded Penelope during her every waking moment, reminding her day in and day out that he was still missing.
She wondered, secretly, if Odysseus had managed to keep the raft hidden from the goddess or if the goddess knew and could still do nothing to keep him from staying with her. Both options brought much joy to Penelope’s weary heart – spiteful joy, yes, but joy nonetheless – as did being able to see him untying the expertly-done knot of rope from the tree, the raft unbound. And, like the raft, so was he.