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Chapter Text

Odysseus could not bear to use the infant’s name, not even in his thoughts. He’d heard the boy’s mother shouting it as Neoptolemus dragged her away. Her voice was desperate and fraught. Her screams cracked the air, splintering with such grief and affliction that Odysseus himself had flinched.

And, now, here he stood at the edge of one of Troy’s infamous walls, cradling an infant no bigger than Telemachus once was. The child even smelled like his son.

“Please, don’t make me do this,” he had begged Zeus, his insides splintering like Andromache’s voice. “Don’t make me do this.”

“The blood on your hands is something you won't lose,” Zeus replied indifferently. “All you can choose is whose.”

Odysseus could not disobey. History had shown that such a thing ended very, very poorly for anyone who tried. Spurning the clear, divine will of the gods, especially when the order was given by the Thunderer himself, was unspeakable, unthinkable.

He forced himself to look down at the infant. He was awake now. Odysseus’ heart shattered at the sight of such young, innocent eyes peering up at him. They were like dark amber, smooth and rich. The boy didn’t utter a sound or complaint. Not a single tear fell down his curious face. He was so peaceful, so calm despite the screams of his people drifting up from the city below. He trusted this stranger holding him implicitly. Odysseus couldn’t bear it, yet he couldn’t look away. Silently, he begged the infant to return to his slumber, to spare himself the terror and spare Odysseus the… What? What would a sleeping infant, as opposed to a wakeful one, do for him? What would it change about the heinous act he was about to commit?

Penelope would never speak to him again if she learned of this.

It had been so many years since he had seen her. Once, long ago, when he was a rash young man looking to prove his ability to woo women, he had been enthralled by her. Despite all her suitors, for she had nearly as many as fair Helen, Penelope chose to spend most of her time with him. They became quite close, though it wasn’t as Odysseus had imagined it. He soon realized that Penelope could not be, and did not want to be, the partner he was looking for. He didn’t hold this against her. How could he? Her mind was sharp, and her wit matched his own. There was nothing wrong with her. He loved her all the same, just not in the way he expected.

One day, while they were wandering the grounds of her father’s palace, Penelope broke down weeping. Grasping his arms, she begged him to marry her.

Odysseus thought it was a joke at first, but it didn’t take him long to realize her tears were genuine. He became understandably baffled. He demanded to know what madness had taken hold of her; she had only ever expressed aversion toward marriage.

In tears, Penelope explained that her father would not allow her to remain unmarried, and she feared the other suitors would try to stifle her if she chose one of them. She professed that she liked Odysseus, though this liking was not rooted in romance but in companionship. They were kindred spirits. Penelope swore that she would happily provide him with heirs, and she wouldn’t hold it against him if he continued his pursuit of love.

Odysseus’ heart went out to his friend. He could not imagine poor Penelope with her fire and cunning quenched beneath the thumb of some brutish man. He agreed to marry her, and not long after their wedding, they had Telemachus.

Odysseus wondered what Telemachus looked like now. Surely, he no longer resembled the baby that he and Penelope had once doted on together.

Odysseus looked down at the infant in his arms. He could hear Penelope’s quick voice now, sharp with outrage that he was even considering this:

“Monster!”

But Zeus’ words resurfaced in his mind, drowning out the imagined accusation.

“If you don't end him now, you can say goodbye to your beloved Telemachus.”

Though it sent bitter bile crawling up Odysseus’ throat, he knew he would rather have an angry friend than a dead son.

Slowly, achingly, he extended leaden arms past the edge of the wall to hold the infant out over the open air. A gust of wind blew past them, smelling of ocean salt. It was cool compared to the heat of the fires dancing through the city. The infant sniffled in discomfort at the chill and began to cry.

The noise was a knife to Odysseus’ gut. His lips moved as if to shush the child, but he couldn’t make a sound. Every bone in his body begged him to retreat from the edge, to bring the infant back to his chest where he could cradle him close and keep him safe from cruel godly whims.

But he couldn’t.

Odysseus sent a quick prayer to Artemis, pleading that she would ease the child’s fear and protect him from the oncoming pain. Perhaps it was inappropriate since the Goddess of Children was Zeus’ daughter, yet he could think of nothing else to do.

Odysseus returned his gaze to the crying infant who still wouldn’t go to sleep. He couldn’t help it: He closed his eyes. And he had never felt more cowardly.

“I’m so sorry…” He forced himself to utter the infant’s name; he owed him that much at least. It fell like a stone from his lips.

Odysseus let go.

The infant slipped from between his hands with a small shriek, and his arms jumped up in the air as though surprised by the sudden lack of weight. He didn’t open his eyes, but the infant’s fading wails painted a vivid, horrible picture in his mind. Then the cries cut off just as abruptly as they started.

Hot tears rushed to Odysseus’ eyes and spilled over. He choked on the sudden lump in his throat as his legs grew weak beneath him. He leaned heavily against the parapet, nausea churning in his gut. Then a morbid sense of duty crept over him, and ever so slowly, he cracked open his eyelids to look down.

All he could make out from the top of the tall wall was a smudge of lightness against the dirt and rocks at the bottom. It was the cloth that had been wrapped around the infant’s small body. It was simultaneously too little information and too much.

Odysseus spun around, his legs carrying him away from the sight as fast as possible. He pressed a hand to his mouth as vomit rose over his tongue.

He could still smell the infant on his palm.

Odysseus threw up through his fingers.

Artemis was already in the city of Troy. Although she was not interested in the war or the scandal of Helen and Paris, she remained to support her twin. As she observed the destruction of the once great city, she could not help but be impressed by the Achaean men’s cleverness.

Artemis frowned when she felt a prayer tickle her mind.

Odysseus of Ithaca had only ever called upon her once before, during the birth of his son, Telemachus. She had heard from his wife much more frequently. Penelope often pleaded with her for the strength to withstand her suitors or, in some rather anguished prayers, for Artemis to kill her.

Now, Odysseus was requesting that she soothe a certain child’s suffering.

Artemis flew across the city in seconds, appearing only as a buzzard to the mortals beneath her. Immediately, she sensed her father’s fading presence and zeroed in on the section of Troy’s walls where it was strongest. It quickly became clear why Zeus had been there when she spotted a man standing at the edge of the wall.

In his outstretched hands, King Odysseus—Athena’s champion, she recalled—held a crying infant.

“I’m so sorry…” He whispered the infant’s name, the wind carrying it to her ears.

Odysseus dropped the child. Artemis bit back a cry of outrage. She shouldn’t blame the mortal; men were weak against divine will. This was her father’s doing, and he had greatly overstepped his bounds. Children, all children, were under her protection. And although she was powerless to confront Zeus outright, she could still defy him in secret.

Artemis tucked her wings against her body and dove. She did not descend directly after the infant. No, it was too likely her father was watching from Olympus, ensuring that his command was carried out. Plunging after the infant would give her away, and Zeus would intervene before she could reach him. She needed to be clever about this. This had to be done at the last second, right when the infant’s death appeared inevitable to every onlooker.

The air screamed in her ears, but louder than that were the screams of the infant as he hurtled ever downward. Still, Artemis soared away from the infant’s path before wheeling around a stone’s throw from the ground. With several powerful downstrokes, her wings propelled her back toward the falling child. She kept low to the war-torn earth where her brown feathers lent the perfect concealment from gods and mortals alike. An instant before the infant struck the unforgiving ground, Artemis’ talons snapped out and seized the thin cloth swaddling him. Swifter than the mortal eye could follow, she tore the cloth away from his body and let it continue falling to the spot that would have been his grave. The naked infant’s shriek cut off as she caught him. She barely felt his weight, her strong wings carrying them both far away from the battle in seconds.

Once she felt they had enough distance from Troy, Artemis slowed down. Carefully, she placed the infant atop a small, flat boulder rising from the dirt and landed next to him. Troy was but a speck in the distance, distinguished only by its rising trails of black smoke. Artemis returned to her original form, and the infant turned his head to stare at her, his round cheeks wet and flushed with windburn.

Artemis gave him a gentle smile. “There we are, little one,” she cooed, picking him up and wiping his tears. She summoned a silver blanket, softer than silk, and carefully wrapped it around his naked body.

The infant babbled quietly, his large, curious eyes never leaving her face.

It hurt Artemis to know that, had the Ithacan king not prayed to her, this child would’ve died alone and in pain because of a war he’d had no part in, at the whims of a god that his young mind had yet to comprehend.

Artemis could only hope that her father’s ego had held true here and that he had seen Odysseus drop the infant and then looked away, already assured that his ruling had been obeyed.

Zeus, though all-powerful, was arrogant and impatient as any man. He believed his control to be absolute. That something did not happen as he commanded was incomprehensible to him. Artemis knew better. The world was not something that could be controlled. It was too big and too wild, ungovernable by any single entity. Everywhere, different decisions were being made and beliefs were being formed. One could not hope to control it all. Even the Fates needed three of them just to weave one person’s future.

Artemis waited with the infant for a long time to see whether Zeus’ fist would come down upon them. They remained where they were through the dawn and into the next day. It was only by her power that the infant did not grow hungry. Finally, after the sun began to set once more, Artemis felt confident that there would be no retaliation. The infant, who had fallen asleep in her arms, roused as she began to ferry him back to Troy. He burbled loudly, and Artemis quieted him with soft words, which she kept up until they reached the city’s bloodstained walls.

Artemis regarded Troy grimly. She could hear the armies of Achaea celebrating their victory loudly and drunkenly within. If she were to ensure the child’s continued safety, she needed to find someone who could at the very least protect him. The remaining Trojans had all likely been taken as either slaves or concubines, ruling them out as options and leaving her with only the Achaeans. The trouble there was that most of the Achaeans were much more likely to kill a Trojan child than they were to take him in. She needed someone sympathetic. Perhaps a lowly hoplite who had less emotional stake in the war.

Considering it had lasted for a decade, however, such a man would likely be very hard to find.

Artemis was persistent, though—to a fault, according to Hera, but an impatient huntress seldom caught her prey. Before she crossed into the city, she willed a shroud of invisibility over herself and the child. Then she strode into Troy, the silent infant cradled securely in her arms.

It did not take as long as Artemis expected.

Just beyond the bright epicenter of the revelries revolving around the Greeks’ enormous wooden horse, the goddess watched with intrigue as an Achaean man knelt before a weeping young girl.

“Are you alright?” He spoke softly, concern wrinkling his features. He set down the few bundles of possessions he had with him.

The tears painting the Trojan girl’s face glistened under the man’s torchlight. She gazed at him fearfully, seeming unable to reply. Her hair was in tangles, steadily falling out of the braids bundled at the back of her head. Soot blackened her hands, feet, and calves. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

The man offered her a small, kind smile. “It’ll be okay. I won’t harm you. I promise. Do you know where your parents…” He trailed off, sorrow flashing in his gaze, before clearing his throat. “Do you have any family around? Someone you can go to? Do you know where they are?”

The poor girl’s wide eyes only stared at him. Artemis didn’t think she was going to say anything, but then her mouth opened.

“I—”

“Eleni!”

Both the girl and the man jumped, turning to face the newcomer. An elderly woman rushed out of the shadows between the two broken buildings next to them. She placed herself between the man and Eleni, arms out wide to shield the girl from view.

“Don’t you touch her, Achaean dog!” the woman snapped.

The man raised his hands quickly, still gripping the torch in one. “I wasn’t— She was crying—”

The woman wouldn’t hear it. “Just leave her alone! Find a woman of age if you must satisfy yourself!”

The man’s expression twisted. “That is not what I—”

“Pol’tes! Wha’r you— What’re you doin’ over there?”

The man turned around as another Achaean soldier stumbled down the dark street toward them. He had clearly just come from the celebrations, his drunken feet tripping over each other with every step, though never fully sending him to the ground.

Artemis heard the elderly woman’s heart beat faster with fear, yet her stance never wavered in front of Eleni. The goddess would intervene if it looked like the two were in imminent danger, but first, she wanted to see what the man decided to do here. If his next actions seemed promising of his character, perhaps he would make a decent candidate for the infant’s caretaker.

“Polites,” the drunk soldier repeated when he came within range of the torchlight. He was slightly shorter than Polites but broader and older. He slung an arm around Polites’ shoulders. “What’re you doing?” He squinted at the elderly woman. “Don’ tell me you’re tryin’ to bed this hag! There’re plenty of younger women to go around—”

“Amphidamas!” Polites interrupted quickly, sounding equally offended and harassed. “My friend, perhaps some tact would serve you well. Don’t you think?”

Amphidamas barked a laugh. “‘Tact,’ he says!” He shoved Polites, and Polites, apparently not expecting it, stumbled back into the elderly woman, taking them both down. His torch hit the ground next to them. The flames sputtered but remained lit as the bracket rolled across the cobblestones.

Without the elderly woman in the way, Amphidamas’ eyes fell on Eleni. Polites picked himself up and offered a hand to the woman, who refused it and began trying to get to her feet on her own.

“Ahhh,” Amphidamas breathed. “I understand now. She’s pretty. Any chance you’re willin’ to share?”

Polites spluttered, bristling. “I’m not going to— She’s far too young, Amphidamas, that’s disgusting!”

It was Amphidamas’ turn to bristle. “Well, there’s no need to get all high and mighty about it! Just ‘cause— Just ‘cause you have the captain’s ear, doesn’t mean you’re any better than the rest of us!”

“That’s not what—”

“I don’ wanna hear it! If you’re not taking her as spoils, she’s fair game.” Amphidamas reached for Eleni, who recoiled with a whimper while the elderly woman struggled harder to push her aged body off the ground. “No point in letting something go to waste—”

Polites cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Leave her be, Amphidamas,” he said sternly.

Amphidamas ripped his arm out of Polites’ grasp. His ruddy cheeks flushed darker as he huffed with anger. “You don’ get teh decide that, Pol’tes. If you don’ claim her, she’s open for the taking by whoever wants her.”

“Amphidamas, please, you’ve already claimed plenty of women, why do you need this girl as well?” Polites appealed. “Just go back to the celebrations.”

Amphidamas scowled. “Oh, I get it. If you can’t have her, no one can, is that it? Well, guess what? You’re not the captain, so you don’ get teh tell me what the hell teh do!”

Artemis saw the punch coming. Polites did not. Despite their heated argument, clearly, he had not expected his comrade in arms to attack him. Amphidamas’ fist nailed Polites right in the jaw. Polites’ head snapped back with a short cry of surprise, but Amphidamas, in his alcohol-enhanced anger, did not stop there. He threw a second punch, burying his other fist in Polites’ gut while the man was still recovering from the first blow. Polites bent double, now breathless as well as dazed.

Artemis frowned. While Polites seemed like a kindhearted fellow, he didn’t appear to be the best warrior.

“What’s going on over here?” an authoritative voice called out.

Amphidamas and the women froze. Polites looked up, still wheezing.

Artemis glanced down the street to see a man striding toward the group from the opposite direction of the celebrations. As he drew closer, the torchlight illuminated his figure.

“What’s going on here?” Odysseus repeated, his tone much sharper this time. He stopped a few feet from Eleni and the elderly woman but paid the two no mind, focusing all his attention on his men.

Polites looked contrite as he caught his breath.

Amphidamas looked panicked. He stuttered, his inebriation doing him no favors. “Captain, I— He— She— He didn’ wan’ her, but- but he wouldn’t lemme have her.”

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, sparing Eleni a brief glance before looking at Polites for confirmation. “Polites?”

Polites adopted a pained expression. “He’s… not wrong,” he admitted. “But, Captain, she’s hardly more than a child! To force—”

Odysseus held up a hand, but Polites persisted.

“Captain, you—”

“Polites,” Odysseus finally snapped.

Polites went silent, pursing his lips. His eyes darted to Eleni, then back to Odysseus and Amphidamas.

Odysseus refocused on the drunk soldier. “The war may be over, but I’ll not tolerate any of my men attacking each other. For that, Amphidamas, you’ve revoked your right over this girl anyway. Go find some water to dunk your head under. Perhaps your mind will feel more at ease after. I will locate another man for the girl myself.”

Polites started protesting again. Odysseus leveled him with a cutting look.

Meanwhile, Amphidamas didn’t move. His brow was creased with a dark expression.

Odysseus met his glare evenly. “Amphidamas.”

Amphidamas’ nose wrinkled in anger. “Yes, Captain,” he ground out. Throwing Polites one last furious glance, he brushed past Odysseus and stalked off into the city on unsteady feet.

Once Amphidamas was out of earshot, Polites stepped toward his king. “Odysseus, you can’t seriously—”

Odysseus’ straight-backed posture slumped. “Polites,” he sighed, “while your morals are commendable as always, why must they be so…” He seemed to search for the right word before settling on, “...Dumb? Please, just… Pick your battles, Polites.”

While Odysseus’ words were no doubt meant to be scolding, he just sounded rather exhausted.

Polites faltered. He stared at Odysseus with worry. Instead of answering, he asked, “Are you alright, my friend? You look… tired. I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

Odysseus waved him off but made no attempt to fix his posture. “I’m fine. Just…”

Artemis grinned as scrambling footsteps interrupted them. Eleni had helped the elderly woman back up, and the two were making a break for it, albeit not very quickly. With a quiet murmur, Artemis cast a blessing over them. They would be safe.

Meanwhile, Odysseus and Polites looked over at their retreating backs. Odysseus stepped in their direction.

Polites grabbed his arm. “Ody, let them go,” he beseeched. “Please. They’ve been through enough. The girl is too young. She wouldn’t last two weeks in the fleet.”

Odysseus glanced back at Polites. The two stared at each other, a battle of wills commencing. Despite it being clear from the start that Polites was winning, Artemis still found herself slightly surprised when Odysseus broke eye contact first. He shot another look at the women before visibly relenting with a heavy exhale.

“Thank you,” Polites told him, relief coloring the words as he released Odysseus’ arm.

Odysseus just shook his head. A faint, wry smile curved the corner of his mouth. “The things I do for you,” he huffed good-naturedly.

Polites returned the smile with a bright one of his own as he stooped down to grab the abandoned torch on the ground. “All of which I appreciate,” he said sincerely.

Artemis grew thoughtful. Polites had heart and compassion—two things she wasn’t sure she would find in great supply among the other Achaeans. However, while he was obviously stubborn enough to have survived the war, his spirit was not that of a fighter. Perhaps, though, Polites didn’t need to be the infant’s protector if he himself was already protected. Holding a spot in the heart of a king lent one no small amount of security.

Odysseus, she knew, was a warrior, but she would not risk giving him the child directly. If he was capable of attempting infanticide once, he was capable of it again. Fear of Zeus had that effect on mortals. While she knew she could scare the man into not killing the infant if he recognized him, she felt it would be both irresponsible and inappropriate to entrust the child solely to his would-be murderer.

If there was a buffer between them, though? Someone who would care for the child and whom the king wouldn’t dare harm, physically or otherwise? Perhaps that would be enough.

Artemis' mouth twisted. Hera would be proud. Here she was assigning traditional family roles: caretaker and protector.

“If Amphidamas catches wind of this, he’s not going to let it go,” Odysseus warned, nodding in the direction the escaping women went. “I don’t need the men thinking I’m playing favorites.”

Polites scowled at the mention of the other soldier. “Just have Eurylochus put him on the oars for a few days when we set out. He’ll be too tired and sore to talk to anyone then.”

Odysseus arched a brow. “Why, Polites, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s rather conniving of you.”

“Me? Conniving? Never.”

Odysseus chuckled before asking, “How’s your jaw?” He peered at the other’s face.

Polites adopted a sheepish look. His hand rose to cover the developing bruise. “It’s fine. It was my own fault. He was drunk anyway. It didn’t even hurt.”

Odysseus’ lips twisted downward, but he let it go. “Just let me know if he tries anything later,” he said.

Polites frowned, hand dropping. “I can take care of myself, Captain.”

Odysseus looked confused. “I never implied otherwise. I’m only saying Amphidamas can’t think he’s allowed to get away with attacking a fellow soldier just because I let him off easy this time.”

Polites’ mouth tightened. He nodded, conceding, but the movement was stiff. He didn’t believe Odysseus.

Odysseus reached out to squeeze Polites’ shoulder. “Just get some rest, alright? We’re all tired.”

A chorus of drunken voices suddenly rose over the city, singing raucously.

Odysseus amended, “Some of us are tired. Besides, I’ve been thinking of having the fleet set a course for Ithaca the morning after tomorrow, so all the more reason to sleep on solid ground while we can, right?”

Polites huffed a small laugh, but the sound carried an edge of strain. “Aye, Captain,” he said. He wouldn’t meet Odysseus’ eyes.

Silence fell between them. For a moment, neither moved. Still clasping Polites’ shoulder, Odysseus regarded the other man as if waiting for something. Or perhaps he was simply looking for the sake of looking. Mortals did that sometimes. Artemis watched Polites’ eyes flicker to Odysseus’ face for a split second before shying away again. She felt a touch of exasperation and perhaps the barest flicker of amusement.

A distant crash and a round of cheers echoed down the streets, breaking the spell.

Odysseus let go of Polites to turn in the direction of the chaos with a look of annoyance. “Or maybe,” he grumbled, “I’ll go make sure the men don’t kill themselves and destroy all our supplies first.”

This time, Polites’ laugh was a little more genuine. “Would you like any assistance, Captain?”

Odysseus waved him off. “No, no, it’s fine. You get some rest. You look nearly dead on your feet.”

That was most certainly an excuse if Artemis had ever heard one. Aside from his bruised jaw and disheveled chiton, Polites looked fine in her opinion. Odysseus was the one who appeared dead on his feet: face pale, eyes shadowed, hair unkempt.

Polites must have shared her thoughts. He made to argue; however, Odysseus had already started walking away. Polites frowned after his captain before shaking his head and bending down to retrieve his forgotten belongings. He turned to move up the street.

Artemis straightened out of her motionless position. She followed Polites silently, careful not to awaken the sleeping infant in her arms. The man wandered through the city as though looking for something. After meandering for some time, she heard him sigh in resignation before he entered a nearby house. It had already been pillaged of valuables. All that remained was furniture and a few miscellaneous items. Polites walked through the house gingerly as if afraid to disturb the spirits of those who had lived there. He located a bedroom and entered. Setting down his possessions, he headed for the empty bed with purpose, only to hesitate at the foot of it. Artemis watched him stare at it with a conflicted expression. The frame was finely carved, much nicer than the other furnishings of the house. It must have been a gift. Given the size, Artemis believed it was a marriage bed.

Finally, Polites grabbed the blankets and pillows on it and pulled them onto the floor, where he arranged them into a rough sleeping spot. Extinguishing his torch, he lay down for the night.

Begrudgingly, Artemis acknowledged a hint of respect for the mortal man. Though it was within his right as a victor of the war to treat his enemies and their items as he wished, he showed consideration for them even at the rebuke of his comrades.

Artemis was almost convinced that this man was the right one, but she wanted to be thorough. She took her leave from the house to explore the rest of Troy and observe the other Achaeans in their revelries.

As she traveled through the city, she happened upon Odysseus, apparently having finished reprimanding his men. The king roamed the streets alone. His sandals scuffed against the cracked cobblestones with every step, feet dragging with exhaustion. He resembled a lost spirit drifting through the Fields of Asphodel, forever wondering who they were and why they were there.

Odysseus seemed a relatively moral man. To believe he had murdered a child must have been weighing heavily on his conscience.

Artemis let him be and continued on her way. Hours passed. Although she did encounter a few men who appeared to be of solid character, none respected the Trojan captives and their city as Polites did.

Finally, when it was well past the darkest part of the night, Artemis made her decision. She broke into a run, her long, graceful strides barely rustling the sleeping infant in her arms. She crossed the city in an instant. Once outside the main gate, she bounded along the perimeter of Troy’s great walls until she came upon the cloth she’d torn off the infant over a day ago. Ever so gently, she placed the child, still swaddled in her silver blanket, on top of the cloth, ensuring that he was nestled in comfortably despite the rocks beneath it.

Before she pulled away, Artemis brushed the back of her finger over the infant’s forehead. “Wake, child,” she murmured. “He must hear you.”

Within the small, ransacked home of one of the countless Trojans they’d slaughtered, Polites fell into an uneasy sleep. His dreams were bloody and disjointed, as they often were these past ten years, but then they changed.

A noise began to echo through his current dream, interrupting him as he made to deliver the final blow to another faceless Trojan—Or was it the other way around? The roles flipped so often…

It was an odd noise, a strange, wailing cry. It reminded Polites of the wind when it caught the edge of the window or door frame a certain way. Often, when that happened, it tricked him into thinking there was a—

Polites burst upright with a gasp, one word in his half-awake mind: Infant.

Of course, then he felt ridiculous. There was no infant. It was just a dream. A bizarre one, but still a dream.

Polites glanced around, rubbing his face. He winced when he accidentally rubbed his aching jaw. It was nearly dawn, just a touch of lavender visible in the sky through the room’s broken window. He released a heavy sigh and let his head drop into his hands.

It was still difficult to comprehend that the war was over, that he didn’t need to stand up, strap on his armor and sword, and return to the front lines. It was strange to think that he no longer had reason to fear for the lives of his friends and fellow soldiers.

His mind couldn’t seem to grasp it.

A cry interrupted his thoughts. Not the cry of an infant, though. The cry of a bird.

Polites looked back at the window. A large, dark shape swooped by right outside, and a breeze rushed in through the cracks in the glass. Curious, Polites pushed his sleep-heavy body to its feet and lumbered over. He peered out at the streets of Troy, the haze of dawn making it hard to see. He squinted. Was that a—

An enormous bird of prey dived at the window, and Polites yelped, stumbling back and tripping over his feet in his haste. His rear hit the floor, and he sat there for a moment, panting. While he gawked at the window, he heard the bird cry out again from somewhere beyond his view.

Recomposing himself, he stood up and edged forward. Carefully, he leaned toward the glass to peer outside again.

The bird was standing in the middle of the street below. It stared directly at him. Polites felt like a mouse pinned under its gaze. He couldn’t move, hardly dared to breathe.

A moment passed, and the bird lifted its massive wings. Only, it didn’t take off. It just stood there, wings raised, staring at him expectantly.

Birds didn’t act this way. Polites had no doubt there was a divine hand orchestrating this event—either the bird was a god in disguise or simply doing a god’s bidding. He didn’t think it was an eagle, thankfully. Polites wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if the King of the Gods was beckoning him. Nevertheless, a god was a god. Polites did the only thing a mortal could do in the face of divine summons: He obeyed.

Exiting the house with his sword strapped to his waist, Polites turned onto the street where the bird had stood only to find it was no longer there. He cast around, baffled as to how such a large creature had been able to disappear so silently and without a trace. He walked up and down the cobblestones to no avail. The bird was gone.

Already half-convinced that his tired brain had made everything up, Polites turned to make his way back to the house.

A single sound stopped him dead in his tracks.

Polites pinched his arm. Pain flared faintly between his fingers. This wasn’t a dream.

He raised a hand in the air. He couldn’t feel any wind.

Which meant that, somewhere, an infant was crying out.

Polites waited for the crying to stop. Surely the infant’s mother would soothe it.

The crying continued.

A heavy feeling settled in Polites’ gut. He glanced around at the desolate city, the empty streets, the abandoned belongings, the charred houses.

What were the chances the infant didn’t have a mother anymore?

Polites’ heart went out to the child, and it was at the behest of his heart that he found himself turning in the direction of the distant, pitiful sound.

He followed the infant’s cries through the city. As he walked further and further, he realized that the noise had traveled much farther than should’ve been possible. As if it had been deliberately carried to his ears. The rest of Troy was still and silent. Polites encountered a few of his fellow Achaeans slumped in the streets, snoring softly in their drunken slumber. None of them appeared bothered by the infant’s cries, even as it grew louder the closer he came to the edge of the city.

Eventually, Polites stood at the gates of Troy, peering out at the awakening world beyond. What was an infant doing outside the city? Had its mother tried to escape with it and been caught?

Suddenly, Polites felt apprehensive. The last thing he wanted was to come upon a dying infant clutched in the arms of its mother’s corpse. The horrors of the war would’ve paled in comparison to such a sight. Despite his bleeding heart, Polites took a step back into the city.

The piercing call of a bird of prey froze him in place.

Polites looked up but saw nothing. The sky was clear. Nonetheless, he knew a warning when he heard one.

Polites stepped through the gates. The crying seemed to come from his left. He turned to follow it, and it grew impossibly louder, drawing a grimace onto his face. The infant must have been blessed by Apollo. The sheer lung capacity of this child had to have been on par with the god himself.

Finally, Polites spotted something on the ground a stone’s throw ahead of him. It was a small bundle, pale among the dirt and rocks that lined the base of Troy’s walls.

Polites’ breath caught.

The bundle was motionless, but the crying was deafening as ever.

A rush of energy invigorated his limbs, and Polites hurried to close the remaining distance. He nearly tripped several times on loose rocks and his own clumsy feet. As he came closer, he noticed the bundle was lying on top of a small cloth blanket. A very intentional placement, he would say.

Polites pulled his sword and scabbard out of the way and knelt next to the bundle. His heart squeezed in his chest.

“You poor thing,” he murmured.

The infant’s large eyes opened up from their previously scrunched state. They landed on him, and the wails trailed into soft sniffles. Polites’ ringing ears thanked the gods for that. Snot and tears covered the baby’s squishy, red face. Some had even managed to get into its short, wispy brown curls. Despite its distress, the infant appeared unharmed. Polites glanced around, looking for evidence of another person. Someone had to have brought the infant out here, yet as far as he could tell, no one, dead or alive, had been around. No footprints marred the dirt, no scraps of cloth interrupted the brown earth, and no indication of a struggle was visible.

Perhaps the blankets would give him some clue as to who the child belonged to.

Moving more carefully than he ever had in his life, Polites reached out and lifted the infant off the ground. He was all too aware of how soft and small and fragile it was in his dirty, calloused hands. He held the baby out in front of him unsurely. It squirmed a little, its tiny, tiny fists pulling free of their fabric prison, before settling. The blanket around its body was a soft, shining silver like no cloth Polites had ever seen or felt before. It bore no markings or embroidery. The best he could gather from it was that the family must have been very wealthy to afford fabric like this. The blanket that the infant had been laid upon was much plainer and more ordinary, just a humble rectangle of white linen. Gingerly, Polites drew the infant to his chest where he could hold it with one arm. The baby was warm. It snuggled against him, its little fingers grabbing the front of his chiton, while it gazed up at him with big, round, honey-colored eyes.

Polites melted immediately.

He didn’t have children of his own, had never really considered it an option. The only infants he’d ever held were his little sister back when he was a boy and Telemachus, who cried ceaselessly if anyone except Odysseus or Penelope tried to carry him. Meanwhile, this infant couldn’t have looked more content. The sight touched a part of Polites that he hadn’t even known was there.

A quiet, adoring coo left his mouth without permission. The corners of the infant’s eyes crinkled in delight, pulling another involuntary coo from him. Before he could get too distracted, Polites reached out his free hand to retrieve the linen cloth from the ground. He shook off the dirt and, deeming it clean enough, began trying to wipe the mucus from the infant’s face.

The baby’s brow gained a small furrow as its expression screwed up in annoyance at the intrusion. Its hands left his chiton to grasp at the cloth like a kitten.

“Hold still, little one,” Polites told it, biting his cheek against another sound of adoration. “I’m almost done.”

The infant glanced at him before going back to frowning and batting at the cloth.

Polites laughed, gave it a few more tries, and then decided it was good enough. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he said. “He’s very stubborn and exceptionally grumpy. His name’s Eurylochus. What’s your name, little one?”

The infant gave no reply. With the cloth gone, it returned to clutching his chiton and staring at him. Its little frown remained, though it was more thoughtful than annoyed now.

Polites sobered. “Where are your caretakers?” he murmured. It was less of a question for the baby and more one for the rest of the world and whichever god led him there. That had to have been why he was taken to the infant: to return it to its family. Perhaps he would find them among the army’s prisoners. At the very least, there might be a nurse who could take the infant.

Draping the now slightly mucousy linen over the baby’s swaddled body, he stood up. Another look around showed that no one had magically appeared to claim the infant. With a sigh, Polites turned and began the trek back to Troy’s gates.

The infant babbled at him, tugging his chiton. Polites heard its little stomach whine, and a realization struck him as he walked.

“Oh, little one, when were you last fed?” he exclaimed. It had been well over a day since the battle.

The infant’s stomach whined again in response.

“Alright, well, food first, and then we’ll work on locating your family.”

A pause.

“What do infants eat?”

“Polites!”

Polites jumped and looked over his shoulder.

“Where have you been?” Neoptolemus asked with surprising friendliness. He and a few other men were walking down the street towards him. “You left the celebrations rather quickly last night, and you missed breakfast.”

Polites didn’t turn to face them fully. For some reason, he felt hesitant to reveal the infant to his fellow soldiers. He tightened his arms around its little body. It wiggled and burbled once as if asking why he’d stopped.

“Oh, I was just tired,” Polites replied truthfully.

“What have you got there?” Elpenor asked, catching sight of the infant’s silver blanket. “Find more spoils?”

The other men’s eyes brightened with interest, and they drew closer.

Seeing it was inevitable, Polites turned all the way around. “Not quite,” he admitted, reluctantly showing them the infant in his arms. “I found this one crying just outside the city. I was going to try and find it some food before looking for its mother.” He paused before slowly asking, “Do any of you happen to know what babies can eat?”

The men only frowned at him, and Polites fought the urge to hunker in on himself. The infant’s eyes moved between him and the others. It made a small, unintelligible noise.

“You didn’t kill it?” Perimedes finally asked.

Polites recoiled. “Kill it?” he repeated. “It’s just an infant.”

“A Trojan infant,” another man corrected. Polites couldn’t recall his name. One of Agamemnon’s soldiers, perhaps?

“What does that matter?” he demanded.

The man raised his hands, unwilling to argue, though he didn’t retract the comment.

“It’s your choice, Polites,” Neo interrupted, though he looked faintly puzzled by said choice. His voice then dropped to a darker tone, providing a glimpse of that battlefield rage he inherited from his father. “But, know, if that infant is from one of my women, it’s as good as dead.”

Similar statements arose from some of the other men.

Polites’ mouth tightened, but Neoptolemus, though younger, was still his superior—if only by the merits of nepotism and fighting prowess. There would be no arguing with him. He dipped his head stiffly in acknowledgment.

Neo clapped his shoulder, and Polites frowned when it jostled the infant, who made a sound of annoyance.

“Good luck,” Neo said. He turned and then paused. “By the way, Odysseus announced that the Ithacan army is setting off tomorrow morning, so start gathering your spoils.”

“Polites didn’t claim any women,” Perimedes reminded Neo loftily.

Polites made a face at him. Why did Perimedes always have to try and start something? “I didn’t want any women,” he huffed. “I claimed other things.”

“Ah, yes, like babies,” said Agamemnon’s soldier. “Perhaps you’re the woman then.”

The others laughed, and Polites bit back an insulted scowl. He tried to shrug it off and laugh with them. “Well, it certainly does look like it.”

The men laughed some more.

After an awkward beat, Polites decided he was done with the conversation and said, “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

Elpenor bid him goodbye. The rest continued to snicker.

Polites strode past them as quickly as he could without being too rude. When he could no longer hear them behind him, he slowed down and sighed, suddenly tired.

The infant babbled at him from his arms. It reached for his face with one hand while the other continued to clutch his chiton. Despite the interaction just moments ago, Polites felt a smile pull the corner of his mouth. He lowered his face toward the small grasping hand.

Impossibly small fingers tapped at his chin, mouth, cheek, and nose. The infant made a delighted noise when it discovered his headband. It seized the cloth and pulled.

“Whoa,” Polites laughed, trying to extricate his headband from the baby’s surprisingly strong grip. “That’s mine, little one.”

The infant only mumbled happy nonsense and tugged some more. Its mouth stretched in a gummy smile.

Polites’ chest was warm. He couldn’t keep his own grin from making a full appearance. He wasn’t sure he had felt this innocently happy in a decade. Sure, he always put on a good show for everyone—someone had to keep spirits up because it wasn’t going to be Eurylochus, and Odysseus had far too much on his plate—but he was still affected by this cursed war just as much as the rest of them. He had the sneaking suspicion that Odysseus had begun to see through his act in the last few months, but his friend had yet to call him out. Polites wondered if Odysseus needed the false cheer as much as he did.

Humming, Polites ducked his head lower to playfully nuzzle his nose against the infant’s. The infant squealed but didn’t release his headband. In fact its other hand left his chiton to join its partner in the attempt to steal the item.

“Fine,” Polites relented. “You win.” He reached up and pulled his headband off. While he shook out his curls, the infant let out a shriek of delight and pressed the headband against its mouth. Slobber rapidly darkened the orange fabric.

Polites grimaced. “I didn’t mean you could… Oh, fine, I’ll just make another. You keep that one.” He hummed again, thinking back to the bundles of belongings he’d left in the house. “I think I still have my orange tunic somewhere…”

The infant burbled around his headband with a pleased expression.

Polites tickled its belly, making the infant kick at him within the confines of its blanket. “I almost wish I could keep you, little one,” he said, putting voice to the words he hadn’t even known he was thinking. “Alas, your family must be desperately worried.”

“The infant cannot be returned to his mother.”

Polites went rigid.

“His lineage is dangerous both for him and the whole of Achaea.”

Slowly, stiffly, Polites turned. His eyes widened. He wobbled in shock before quickly dropping to one knee. The infant kicked in irritation at being jostled. Polites didn’t dare move to soothe it.

“Lady Artemis,” he managed not to squeak, keeping his eyes on the cobblestones. The goddess’s presence was as quiet, cold, and unyielding as the moon. “You- You were the one that led me to it— Uh, him?”

“Indeed.”

Despite having already assumed a god was behind all of this, Polites was struck anew by the absurdity of everything. Things like this didn’t happen to him. Odysseus was the special one; he was the one who got all the divine attention. And, of all the gods, why Artemis? She never appeared to men.

Polites cleared his throat. “Um, may I ask why you led me to him, my Lady? That is, if he can’t go back to his mother.”

Polites felt the goddess’s power flare, stinging his bare skin, and he fought the desire to kneel deeper lest he squish the infant. He didn’t think the baby could see Artemis. It— He hadn’t reacted to her. The goddess was only visible to Polites.

Thankfully, Polites was not turned into a bloody pincushion of golden arrows^[1]. He saw Artemis’ boots shift in his peripheral vision.

“I was called to protect this child,” she said. “Though his mother is alive, he would no longer be safe with her. For the security of all, neither of them may know of the other’s survival.”

“Then what am I to do with him, Lady Artemis?”

“Raise him. Protect him,” the goddess said simply.

Polites tried not to frown. “Why not another woman? A mother or a nurse?”

“The remaining women here are not currently in any position to protect a child.” Artemis’ voice grew icy. “And your comrades have made it clear what they would do to the child if they found him with their concubines, have they not?”

Cowed, Polites nodded quickly. “But…” he dared to ask, swallowing as Artemis’ pale eyes stared him down, “why me?”

Why not Odysseus? Or Eurylochus? Or any of the other infinitely more worthy men he could think of?

Artemis sighed in exasperation, and Polites flinched. “I’ve been watching you, Polites Anastasiades^[2]. While you do not appear to be the greatest warrior,”—A grimace pulled Polites’ face, guessing that she must’ve witnessed the confrontation with Amphidamas—“you are kind and sympathetic to the Trojans and not nearly as volatile as your fellow Greeks. You seem the least likely to decide to kill the infant on a whim. You also bear the affections of a king, which lends its own protections.”

Polites’ face grew warm at the goddess’s word choice. Surely she was just referring to his friendship with Odysseus—

“​​Among all the soldiers left in the armies of Achaea,” Artemis continued, “I chose you to care for this child in the place of his mother.” Her voice became ominous. “Mortal men are so often disappointing. Prove to me that my judgment remains true and you are not the same.”

Then she was gone.

Odysseus wasn't sure he’d felt exhaustion such as this since trying to convince Achilles to rejoin the war and dealing with Agamemnon’s tantrums. It was bone-deep. It seeped into his very thoughts, making them sluggish and disjointed. He kept catching himself nodding off where he stood leaning against a building near his packing men. The dim light of evening didn’t help matters. He didn’t dare give in to sleep, though. The infant’s face haunted him. Those wide, trusting eyes were imprinted on the backs of his lids. They taunted him each time he blinked.

“...is Polites? He should be helping. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

Odysseus’ eyes snapped open again, and he straightened out of his slump. He blinked hard a few times, willing the siren call of sleep to silence itself. He looked over at where Lycaon was talking to Perimedes. The two were sitting on the ground, bundling up their armor beside the smoldering remains of the bonfire from the previous night.

Perimedes scoffed. “Polites got himself an infant.”

“He had a child?! I didn’t know he claimed any women—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Perimedes snorted. “This is Polites we’re talking about. He said he found it outside the city and was going to try and locate its mother.”

Odysseus went very still. Gradually, his sleep-deprived mind began to race.

It wasn’t possible. It was a coincidence.

Yet the idea wouldn’t leave him.

He would go check. Just to ease his ridiculous worries.

Odysseus stepped out of the shadows and approached the two men. “Friends,” he greeted, garnering their attention. They looked up at him. “Forgive me, I overheard your conversation just now. You don’t happen to know where Polites is, do you? I’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

“Captain,” Perimedes said, shifting. “Didn’t realize you were over there. I think Polites has been staying in a house in the western part of the city. Near the cistern.”

Odysseus inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Perimedes nodded, and Odysseus turned. As he was walking away, he heard Perimedes whisper to Lycaon.

“Uh oh, sounds like Polites is in trouble.”

The two snickered.

“I heard he got in a fight with…”

Odysseus rolled his eyes as their voices faded behind the buildings. Sometimes his men reminded him far too much of elderly women gossiping around their looms. His amusement, however, soon faded as his worries once again piled in.

If the infant Polites found was indeed the same one Odysseus had dropped from the wall… How had he survived? What sort of state was the child in?

Odysseus’ mind conjured up a gruesome image: the infant, broken and bloody, wailing in more fear and pain than one so small and young should ever endure.

How monstrous was it that Odysseus took slight comfort in the fact that, even if the infant did survive the fall, it was unlikely to live much longer with its injuries?

Assuming it was the same infant, it was no wonder Polites had taken it in. His friend’s heart was so big—too big sometimes. He knew Polites had his own demons, but he also knew that every joke the man made and every smile he put on still had at least a kernel of sincerity. That kernel had kept Odysseus going through even the darkest days of the war. Polites’ hope, his kindness, was a wonder in a world such as this. His unerring cheer was like the flame of a candle which he kept boldly unshielded in the darkness. He held it out in the open for all to see and take warmth from. But the fact that he did not protect his flame made him vulnerable to the storms they weathered. Odysseus feared that one day, Polites’ light would grow dim, or worse, go out entirely because of his refusal to guard it.

Odysseus had warned Polites of this once, but the man only laughed and cheekily replied, “My friend, if you have happiness to spare, that’s happiness you should share.”

“Been working on that rhyme, have you?”

“Obviously.”

“And what if I don’t have happiness to spare?”

“Then I will share mine with you.”

Odysseus sighed, pulling away from the memory.

When the infant died from its wounds, he didn’t need to wonder how devastated Polites would be.

And if Odysseus had to kill the child himself…

He swallowed the lump in his throat. He desperately hoped this infant was a different one. The idea that Hector’s son had survived was both relieving and horrifying. It meant he didn’t yet have the blood of a child on his hands, but it also meant he would have to relive the pain of murdering it.

Odysseus reached the cistern and looked around for a house with signs of use. The city had felt so hollow since the end of the war. It shouldn’t be hard to locate life.

He wandered the area, coming across a few buildings that were occupied by other soldiers and their slaves. Finally, he heard a familiar voice drift from one of the houses.

“…really hope I’m not about to make you sick, little one.”

Odysseus frowned at the odd statement and strode over to the house. He knocked on the door. Beyond it, he heard a mutter of “Who…?” followed by a small voice imitating it with a curious “Ah?”

The infant didn’t sound like it was in pain. The pressure in Odysseus’ chest eased slightly. Maybe he’d been worried about nothing. Maybe this wasn’t Hector’s son.

Polites opened the door, and his wary expression turned to one of relief. Odysseus noticed that the bruise on his jaw had become an impressive shade of violet. His headband was also missing.

“Odysseus!” Polites smiled. “Perfect timing—Can infants eat figs?”

Odysseus blinked, thrown off by the non-sequitur. “What?”

“I mashed it up so he can’t choke on it, but I don’t know if it’s safe for him. He can’t be older than a few months, so if he has been given solid foods before, it can’t have been for very long.” As Polites rambled, he opened the door wider and backed up, gesturing for Odysseus to enter. He complied, and Polites closed the door behind them.

“You see, I found this infant outside the city this morning. He was all alone, and he’s very hungry…”

Polites’ voice faded away.

On the floor in the center of the room, a small infant lay on its belly atop a shiny silver blanket. It wore only a linen cloth wrapped around its bottom. It glanced at them with disinterest before closing its eyes and going back to sucking on what appeared to be Polites’ missing headband. Next to the blanket was a wooden chair with a cracked plate on the seat. The plate was covered in the remains of crudely mashed fig. A white linen cloth that looked like a section of it had been cut off hung on the back of the chair. Polites walked over to sit next to the infant on the floor. With great care, Polites lifted the infant off the blanket and sat it upright on his lap. The child gave a small, noncommittal grunt at the change. It continued mouthing on the headband with its eyes closed. Polites reached out for the fig-covered plate with his free hand and set it on the floor beside him. Then he looked back at Odysseus expectantly.

Odysseus stared.

Taking his silence for confusion, Polites repeated, “So? Can infants eat figs?”

“Polites,” Odysseus said instead of answering, “where did this child come from?”

The infant’s eyes. They were the same amber eyes that had gazed at him barely more than a day ago. Eyes that were so trusting and calm, even as he held them over the edge of Troy’s great wall. Even the linen draped over the chair was the same cloth that Odysseus had felt slip through his fingers like water over rock. He was sure of it.

Polites frowned. “I just said. Outside the city.”

“Where exactly?”

Polites observed Odysseus a little more attentively. “Are you alright, my friend? You don’t look well.”

Odysseus waved him off. “Where did you find the infant, Polites?”

Polites’ frown deepened, and he stood up, rotating the infant in his arms to hold him against his chest. “At the base of one of the walls,” he answered slowly. “A little ways east of the gates. Why?”

Claws of horror sank deep into Odysseus’ gut. So the infant was the same. Hector’s son had survived. And without a scratch, it seemed.

Had another god interfered? The child couldn’t have lived through the fall otherwise. Odysseus had dropped him from such a great height, and he had heard the cries cut off.

Odysseus blinked.

He hadn’t witnessed the impact, though. He had closed his eyes and only glimpsed the linen on the ground below afterward.

Zeus’ words echoed. “If you don't end him now, you can say goodbye to your beloved Telemachus.”

“Polites,” Odysseus began, trying to smother his rising panic, “I need you to give me the infant.”

Polites looked truly concerned now. “Why?”

“Give me the child, Polites.”

Polites only held the infant closer. His concern was bordering on wary. “Odysseus, what’s going on? What’s wrong? You look ill.”

Odysseus hardened. He wouldn’t explain. He couldn’t. His friend wouldn’t understand. “Polites,” he said. “I am ordering you, as both your captain and your king, to hand over the infant. Now.”

Polites’ expression shifted into hurt, but Odysseus couldn’t feel guilty. He needed to end the child before the child could end them. Or Zeus would surely strike them all down.

But Polites was as stubborn as he was kind. As quickly as the hurt in his gaze had appeared, it was replaced by steel. He straightened. “Odysseus, what’s going on?” he repeated, his voice stern. “Explain. I’m sure I can help—”

“No, you can’t!” Odysseus snapped. “The infant needs to die!”

Polites’ mouth fell open, outrage flashing in his eyes. “Odysseus, I thought you were above this kind of pettiness!” he exclaimed. “Just because he’s of Trojan birth doesn’t mean he deserves—”

Odysseus cut him off, the words he hadn’t yet uttered to anyone spilling out of his mouth. “No, Zeus- Zeus ordered me to kill him. During the battle, I had a vision. Zeus appeared and commanded me to kill the infant. The child is Hector’s son. Zeus told me he is prophesied to avenge his father by raining death upon Achaea, starting with Ithaca, with Telemachus. I didn’t want to do it, Polites, but I can’t defy the gods, and Telemachus— I can’t lose him, not before I even know him. So I-I—” It was gut-wrenching to say it aloud. “I dropped the infant from the city walls. He was supposed to die.”

Lines of horror were etched onto Polites’ face.

“I don’t know how he lived, but I must finish this, my friend,” Odysseus insisted, reaching for the infant. “Please, give him to me. Before he dooms us all.”

Polites stumbled back from Odysseus like he was a rabid dog snapping at his fingers. Brown eyes, typically warm with mirth, stared at him as if unable to recognize his face.

Odysseus’ arm dropped. “Polites,” he warned. His voice grew harsh with equal parts frustration and desperation.

“He’s just a child,” Polites protested, seeming to find his words. “He can’t do any harm—”

“But he will.”

“We don’t know that!”

“Yes, we do! It’s prophesied! Prophecies can’t be avoided.”

“Artemis tasked me with protecting him!”

Odysseus pulled up short. “Artemis?” He remembered that he had prayed to Artemis on behalf of the child. He had prayed for her to protect him from the pain of death. Was this how she had chosen to interpret that? “Polites, the King of Gods himself ordered the infant’s death. We cannot defy him, no matter what another god says!”

The infant began to whimper at all the shouting. Polites glanced down and shushed it, rubbing its back distractedly.

Odysseus stepped forward to physically remove the child from his friend’s arms.

Polites’ gaze snapped up. He angled his shoulders away, shielding the infant with his body. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry. “You cannot have him.” His voice softened. “Please, Odysseus, you’re not thinking straight. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Odysseus scowled as his desperation transitioned to anger. Polites may have been his oldest, closest friend, but Odysseus was still Polites’ king. Disobeying him was treason.

Polites’ eyes darted downward, and a hint of fear entered his expression. Odysseus followed the man’s gaze to his hand, which had moved to grip the hilt of his sword. He looked back up. He hadn’t meant to grab his sword. He didn’t want to fight his friend, though it was looking like he would have to take the infant by force. If it came to blows, Polites couldn’t best Odysseus, and they both knew it.

Odysseus expected Polites to relent at the threat, however unintentional it had been, but he didn’t.

Instead, Polites’ back straightened, his few extra inches of height allowing him to look down at Odysseus. “You cannot kill an innocent child,” he said simply but firmly.

Reaching his weary wit’s end, Odysseus stopped thinking—or perhaps he had stopped thinking the moment he saw the infant’s amber eyes. He drew his sword. The metallic shing echoed through the small, dark house.

Polites’ lips thinned, jaw clenching as his eyes followed the weapon.

Then his face went slack with shock.

A pale hand seized Odysseus’ sword from behind, gripping the blade as if it were a simple stick and not expertly sharpened bronze. Faster than his eye could follow, the hand ripped the weapon from his fingers and thrust the blade deep into the floor of the house a mere handsbreadth from his sandaled feet.

Odysseus whipped around. His first thought was of Athena. Then his exhausted mind took in the other details: A spotless white tunic, well-worn traveling shoes, a glowing bow, and a quiver of golden arrows. The biggest giveaway, though, was the eyes. Where Athena’s were gray and often narrowed in thought or judgment, the eyes that looked upon Odysseus now were distinctly silver, large, and moon-like. They brimmed with anger and contempt.

A trickle of fear ran down Odysseus’ spine. He heard Polites drop to one knee, exclaiming, “Lady Artemis!” but he couldn’t move.

The Goddess of the Hunt didn’t react to Polites. Her attention was on Odysseus alone. When she spoke, the rage in her voice was almost more terrible than that in her gaze.

“Odysseus,” Artemis hissed. “Nearly two days ago, you called upon me on behalf of this child’s suffering, so I saved him. He now carries my blessing. If you regret your prayer, it is far too late. You must deal with my decision lest you wish to invite my arrows upon yourself and your kin.”

Odysseus did not trust himself to reply, still too bewildered by the elusive goddess’s appearance.

“I care not what prophecies my father rambles about,” Artemis continued. “Neither he nor the other gods know of the infant’s survival. I would prefer it to stay that way. As long as they believe the child is dead, the prophecy is meaningless. And I will know if you go babbling to Athena.” The goddess’s eyes sharpened in thought. “Be aware, the infant has a given name^[3]. All names hold power, but this is the one the gods are familiar with. I will not speak it lest you use it by accident. Odysseus, you already know the title bestowed upon him by his people. Use that in place of his birth name.” Artemis motioned to Polites and the infant. “I have charged Polites with the task of caring for the child. See to it that he is able to continue doing so.”

Large silver eyes pinned him with one last piercing look. Divine power flared against his skin like a thousand arrowheads. “Do not test me, Laertiades. I am not as forgiving of men as your patron.”

Then she vanished.

Silence reigned over the house.

Odysseus gawked at the place where the goddess had stood, his heart pounding. At the edge of his vision, he saw Polites rise to his feet with the infant still clutched in his arms. After several long seconds, Odysseus managed to convince his body to move enough to look at his friend.

Polites was staring at him. There was an angry fire in his eyes, accompanied by an edge of confidence that hadn’t been there before Artemis’ intervention. Despite this, his expression was sharp with hurt and betrayal.

Odysseus was so tired. The desire to sleep returned to him with such vengeance that he staggered, his vision blurring and his mind going fuzzy. He blinked and attempted to wrap his head around the last few minutes.

“Polites…” he began. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Was he to apologize for drawing his sword on his best friend? Or for trying to murder the infant that Polites had been divinely entrusted to care for? Both? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter because Polites interrupted him.

“Odysseus, please leave.”

“Polites,” he repeated, still having no idea what he wanted to say. For once, his quick tongue struggled with words.

“I’m asking you to leave, Odysseus.” The anger in his friend’s voice might as well have been a whip striking him across the face.

Odysseus’ heart clenched. He reached for his sword and hated how Polites stepped back when he did so, but no matter how hard he pulled, he could not free it. Finally, too exhausted to feel embarrassed about admitting defeat, he turned and exited the house, leaving his sword embedded in the floor behind him.

After returning to the house he had been staying in, Odysseus finally let himself succumb to sleep. He dreamed of running his sword through Polites’ gut and then throwing the infant over Troy’s walls as Artemis shot him full of arrows and Polites’ corpse glared at him in betrayal.

After Polites fed the mashed fig to the infant, he spent the rest of the day puttering about the ransacked house, entertaining the infant, and mulling over what had happened since that morning. When the sun began to set, he put the infant to bed on the floor beside himself. After tossing and turning for a long time, he fell into a light slumber. He dreamed of Odysseus attacking him with a wild light in his eyes and being helpless as the infant was murdered right in front of him.

Neither Odysseus nor Polites woke up feeling rested.