SCP Foundation

The travel has stolen the daylight from Helios' blessed sky, and I arrive under the cover of night. The ship creeks to a stop, and finally — finally — comes to rest at the dock. It's only then, when its motors calm and go silent, when all that awaits is the city beyond the shoreline, I let out a weary breath.

As I pass bloodied wood and metal, the stench of iron burns against the sea. I pause, briefly, to stare down at the claw mark that had breached part of the bow. The ache is back. I try to brush it off, and turn my gaze to the shore. The brief relief that comes is little more than an illusion.

My joints creek, almost dangerously, as I drop down onto the sand. It'd be a lie if I said I did not falter upon hitting solid Earth. How long has it been? How long at sea, I wonder, as my eyes trace up the horizon to the shapes of the city against the trees. Weary, damaged, I stumble away from the ship and into the forest. Do they seem more wicked these days? Their leaves wither on their stems.

...perhaps I have been gone for longer than I thought.

The idea weighs like a stone in my stomach as I force myself through the trees and up the hill. Metal limbs squeak in protest, and I lift my hood over my head as I travel.

The city is far different than what I remember. And far… emptier.

There's something tense and grim in the air. When I enter, my claws again treading on cobble and not dirt, I scan the once-gilded streets. Homes of mud bricks, of stone, now altered with filigreed metal and twisting patterns.

They are already succumbing to rust.

There is much disrepair in the streets around me. The ache in my chest suddenly starts to bleed once more, and each look across the city, towards the disheveled storefronts and homes, is nothing but another stab in my gut. My people still walk, my people still live — but many look haggard. I see tired eyes and hear quiet words, and I wonder just what they have been through. What they have survived.

I feel as though I am a ghost. A specter that has slipped through the gates of the House of Hades, right past the Acheron and its dreaded guardian, and back to the living world. The people who wander the streets do not even look at me when I pass. And I fear I recognize none of their faces, whenever I peer at them. These people, the street they inhabit, feel a painful sort of unfamiliarity.

I realize, then, that I too must feel unfamiliar.

A woman who sits leaned against a wall meets my eyes, but her golden optics do not react to my face. They just fall down at her hands, again, as she continues reciting her quiet prayer.

A fear dawns on me: I have returned to my kingdom a stranger, donning ruined rags like the beggars who lay huddled in the streets corners. With joints half rusted from decades of wear, and eyes exhausted from sleepless nights — with a heart as broken as my city.

I try to meet the eyes of others, try to speak with those I see on the streets — but it is a struggle to arrest their attention for long. They gaze past me, murmur pleasantries, and then return to their business. None see me, none recognize me. None of them look at their once-king with even a spark of recognition in their old, bronze circuits.

There is a growing pit in my stomach.

How much has time taken from me? How much has the war and mantle of Nobody eroded from me?

I shake my head, lying to myself that that plain act will discard away the thoughts. It doesn't, of course; it continues to gnaw at me like a starved beast, the fear in my chest almost paralyzing.

The old market is not as I remember, I realize as I weave silently through the small crowd that has gathered there. The stalls and vendors I once knew have long closed — they are long gone, perhaps even from this world. The signs are all changed, but the wood and metal in their corners are still somehow weathered — as if they have been there for years. It's emptier, like everything else has been. It's quieter. It shocks me to see the once grand city in such a sorry state, as though Ithaca itself has been at war.

Has it?

What has transpired, in my long absence? Were we attacked? Harmed? Did famine strike, while I toiled at sea? My brow furrows beneath my hood, beneath my helmet. Uncertainty lay heavy in my head.

…I wonder about the state of my palace, my home — my family — and the ache within the pit turns to a throbbing pain. I squeeze my eyes shut, as I trace my talons against the stone wall of a building I pass. I cannot lose focus.

And so I walk on.

It's foolish to make any approach to the palace, especially knowing so little of what has plagued my city. Yet still, I find myself drawn down worn roads, a specter of familiarity haunting their outlines. I recognize some of these scattered spots, but it's all… changed. The streets here are ever still, not a soul about against the dark.

But something catches my eyes. A shape, somewhere in the shadows.

There is a construct that lay by the gate to the palace. A machine hound, of bronze and gold, whose crystal-lens eyes are dull and scratched with age. Its chin rests solemnly upon its paws, and the two spurs of articulated metal that make its ears perk and swivel at the sound of my approach.

I stare down at it, and feel my legs begin to shake. I drop to my knees, but barely hear — let alone feel — the clang of the impact against old joints. I only hear the single word I force past my lips:

"Argos."

And the hound springs to life, as I cup his mechanical face in my own trembling bronze hands.

Its old engine turns to delighted rumbling. Motors and magitech lighting up his form, bladed tail whipping joyously against the air.

"Then there is hope still," I croak out, and I feel my eyes burn. "You know me. You know me."

In time, the sun sets again, and me and Argos meet the new day with a shadow of hope.

Under the walls of Ithaca, we watch the people come and go. Most of them are other beggars like me, signaled by their decaying bronze implants, haggard animals following in their wake. From within the crowd, I spy a priestess of MEKHANE, anointing a chosen few with sacred oils, while a small choir of followers elevate their synthetic voices upwards to the skies. Behind her, there's a young noble. Our eyes cross.

He has silver hands and feet, as is tradition among the high-born of this land; he wears a richly woven but worn down tunic. I look at his eyes, at his face — and in them, I recognize my own.

Slowly and with a heavy heart I move through the square and position myself near the group. One of the aides of the priestess waves me over. They ask if my implants are in need of oiling and I nod. The priest's many hands pat me, touching the points of power, the thaumic runes and the conduits of gold. My old joints are revitalized and I breathe easy once again. They offer the same gift to Argos, who wags ever so slightly and turns back to stand behind my figure.

When I look up again, the young man is looking at me.

"Where are you from, old man?" he asks. "Your arms are those of a soldier of Ithaca. And the gift of the Goddess has changed your expression, and dare I say, your physique."

Tears flood my eyes, for this is the first time I've heard my son speak. And his voice is akin to mine in every way.

"I hail from this land," I muster. I look around us, towards the gathered faithful, then to the buildings around us. "I… May I talk with you in private, oh noble man?"

He looks me up and down, almost furrowing his brows, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he gestures towards a gateway behind him, where we crouch. Argos follows, and lays down the cold pavement.

After a while, the man says restlessly, "If you're an Ithacan soldier, tell me, have you met my father, Odysseus? He sailed away nearly twenty years ago, to fight under Adytum and never to return," he asks eagerly, an old and familiar curiosity living in his eyes. I stay silent for a moment, drinking in his features: nose, eyes and ears are my father's and mine. His mouth is his mothers. He hasn't grown a beard yet, but when he does, I'm sure it will be as regal as mine. These are the features of my Telemachus. Of my son.

"Oh, you must be Telemachus," I say with a heavy heart. "Yes, I know your father. He was my captain, the brilliant man. He spoke greatly of you, always with the sorrow that he might not live to see you again in his life." I take a deep breath. "My name is Elpenor, and I was one of your father's soldiers," I lie, for I do not yet know if he has strength to endure the truth right now. And the lie hurts in the place where I might once have had a heart.

He blinks twice, and a new life enters his eyes. "Is this the truth?" His voice is almost breathless. "Where does he know? Are you perhaps his herald, sent before him to warn of his impending arrival?" he asks, his eyes boring into my skull. He is desperate to know.

My hands start to shake. "I speak the truth. I… I sadly do not know the fate of your father. We were separated a long time ago, but he bade me to reach Ithaca and help his son and wife with whatever endeavors they may need me for, if I came back first," I answer in turn. I add, "…before he returns himself, of course."

"But where is he? Where is his crew and all the other men under his command?"

"Again, I do not have the answer. The sea was merciless to us, as were those who followed in its wake." I paused for a moment to consider my words. "We have lost many in the war, or during our fight on the black pontus. I myself fell overboard during our scuffles with the Laestrygonians," I say. "But tell me, prudent Telemachus, how are things here? Are they as bad as they seem?"

A sadness enters his eyes. "They're worse," he says quietly. He looks at Argos, of course unable to recognize him as one of the many hounds we had in our palace, and sighs. "How much do you know? What news has traveled over the waves?"

"I know of nothing since I set sail from under Adytum." I answer. "Our ship was lost in the first days of our return back home, and even before that the starmap has stopped working. I haven't seen our kin ever since."

He pauses to consider. "Much has happened, honored Elpenor. The Empire is fragmented — the holy triumvirate has been broken, and a civil war has befallen upon our country. Details are scarce, but Amoni of the Pillars fell to infighting between the Prophets. There's whispers of Mistress Trunnion falling to heresy, and Emperor Bumaro declaring war upon her people in Hedwig's absence. The people don't know who to follow anymore, and many renounce the belief in MEKHANE. Some have even fallen to the corruption of the rust." His words cling like metal against metal. "New and strange cults arise in her stead. Cults of gods of many hands, and of gods of sky and thunder and of horned gods who demand sacrifices. Many póleis and also the cities of Aegypt have been conquered by peoples of the sea: by the Lukka, the Sekelesh, and the Sherden sailing on their cedar ships.

"There are even some beggars who speak of a sarkic warlord, commanding a fleet of dreaded behemoth-ships, who hunts our heroes, who slayed the witch-king. Hunting those that haven't fallen to the onslaught of this civil war," he says, sadly. He hasn't seen the glories of our empire, and yet he still resents their loss.

"And within my beloved Ithaca?"

"Things aren't much better. Mother manages to keep the city together through her iron cast strength and determination. But there are many suitors, led by the perfidious Antinous, Ithaca-born, who aims to marry her and replace Odysseus as rightful king of this land. They say she's weak. That a woman shouldn't lead a city, shouldn't be in place of their rightful king. He and those of his ilk have made of our palace their stronghold. They are unwilling to let go and leave."

An echo of rage bubbles inside my soul as the black blood in my veins starts to boil. How dare they. How dare they. How—

I take a deep breath, and I realize something. An idea sparks into my head, bright as day. I almost smile. "Fret not, Telemachus, for I have a plan."

Telemachus and I walk up the mountain, towards the akropolis, and behind the priest and her followers, who branch off towards a domed temple.

I sorrowfully touch the cyclopean stones when we come before the palace. I feel their age on the tip of my talon, I feel the memories that have transpired here: my grandfather's, my father's, mine and now my son's. He turns back to me, a quizzical look on his face, but doesn't say anything. Even Argos doesn't say anything. He just sits down next to me, a quiet whimper leaving his engine, and then we continue our move.

We march on, entering the halls that I call home. Argos doesn't follow — I can feel that this isn't his home, now. Not yet, anyway. I pet him one last time before I continue along my son deep into the halls of my fathers.

It feels almost like home. Almost — there is an alien quality to it, some shadow of doubt and unfamiliarity. These corridors take the shapes of those I have once known, but I mustn't let my guard down. The presence of three unknown men near one of the halls only reminds me of this.

They are all finely dressed, in the silks covering their unalloyed gold, and try to appear as warriors. But I see right through it — the lack of scars and divinely embedded battle-implants betrays them.

"Greetings, Telemachus, did your leisure stroll do you well?" asks the one in the middle — their leader, it seems — in a voice that barely sounds human. It's just a hollow echo, one of unfulfilled greed. He doesn't even look at me, the beggar that dares come before him. He treats me as if I wasn't there.

Still, Telemachus answers, his tone a forced politeness, "It was edificating, walking through the masses of those who are living in misery, of the many people seeking asylum in our walls." His words are firm. "It is our divine purpose as basilei of the Goddess to help them, wouldn't you agree?" my son answers and the man nods, though it is a gesture even emptier than his heart. "This duty is the reason why I have brought this man to my palace." He points to me with his head. "To bring him much needed shelter."

The mask of kindness falls at once. The thing scoffs. "Look at the boy, thinking this is still his palace." He stares me down, disgust entering his golden eyes. "Don't you have enough pointless mouths to feed already? Don't you see that beggars and scroungers are the bane of our city?" His two companions nod in quiet, revolted agreement. "Always hanging around the good, free men, asking them for money and food. What a truly pitiful way of living, that of someone who exists at the expense of another man's good will." The three almost laugh.

I can feel Telemachus' fist tighten, but he doesn't say anything. Good man. He just stares at them with a determination in his eyes — he does so until one of them waves his hand, as if he was my son's friend, and the laughter falls down. "Regardless, your mother wants to see her little cub, so come with us. Better not leave her waiting."

And though I know my son would want to do nothing less than to comply, we follow the small group.

The inside of my palace has changed greatly in my absence. What once was a great hall that, among the greatest mechanical wonders and treasures, welcomed the greatest dignitaries of the Empire, was now a den of lecherous and lazy bloodsuckers who lay in the large triklinion, pilfering the reserves of food and gold and bothering the servants.

Worst yet, there's a few dozen of them, all pathetic things that have never known hardship. That have never known love. That have never known duty.

On the farthest end of the room is the throne of Ithaca, the seat of power whereupon I and all my fathers before me once sat.

Today, a woman sits on it.

She is Penelope, and she is wise, discreet, cautious, and as beautiful as the day I left for war.

She is my wife.

She notices us enter, and a cold anger falls upon her face, directed towards the leader of the group who received us.

"Greetings, my queen," the suitor sneeres. "How does the weaving of the shroud for your dead husband go? Have you realised that your cunning schemes are pointless, yet?" His tone is full of mockery.

From atop the throne, my wife looks down at him, her eyes as cold as iron. "Your insolence wounds me, Antinous. Please leave my sight so I can talk to my son in peace," she answers with the most regal of composures, but there is a strength behind the words — one forged in terrible fury. When she does turn to us, however, her face lights up ever so slightly. A shadow of a smile enters it. "Hello, Telemachus. How are things in the undercity?"

He sighs. "They go badly. The people are still scared that the raiders will return. They lack food and even though the priests do all they can to help them with their implants, a great many are rusting away into nothingness." He pauses, and looks around the gathered. "Some fear that the presence of unwanted guests in our palace may have angered the Goddess. That it may be poisoning the land due to their neglect. There are those that point out that many of the suitors are princes that come from far and wide, seeking to supplant our rightful ruler," my son speaks, and speaks truth. But the men in the hall boo and shriek in response, throwing goblets of wine, and various chunks of uneaten food at him.

He ignores them, and continues, "I have brought from the city a beggar, who receives the name of Arnaeus. He has fought the Flesh before and now seeks asylum here, among our walls." He lies well. He has taken after his father.

"Bring him forth, my son."

I walk forward, and my eyes meet those of my beloved Penelope. Our sight remains lock into one another for what seems like an eternity. She has perfect eyes, unaugmented and of a color I've seen every night in my dreams for the last twenty years. How I missed those eyes.

Deep, deep in their emerald green, I know she recognizes me. She knows that I am the man she has once loved, uncertain if I am still me. She is weary, and does not want me to know she knows — but I know her better than my own heart. I almost smile.

Then we both blink, at last, and she hides behind her cold mask once more.

"From the strength of your gaze and the bronze of your arms, I can see you are a formidable warrior, touched by the grace of our Goddess," she speaks carefully and she examines me up and down. Every crease, every scar, every crevice of my body laid bare in front of her. Her, who from a top the throne can see how I've changed, in the last twenty years, how the war and the sea have turned me into an old piece of rope on a trireme, a well used machine that has achieved its purpose but still longs to function a little bit more. Her, wondering if there's still anything left of Odysseus within me.

I fall to my knee. "Divine daughter of Icarius, that is true. I have fought the sarkic menace all over the dark sea, from Gyaros to Adytum. I aim to honour you in every way. I—" I am interrupted by the hollering of the suitors, who again throw their trash in my direction. I spare them a look, and in the light of the candles recognise some of them. Sons of the nobility of Ithaca and the wider Empire, sons of the heroes that fought in the war but now don't dare to raise a hand against the injustices that plague the land — sons of men I have once considered friends.

They are scared of not living up to their forebear's legacy and scared of the changing times.

They are all cowards.

"Cease this at once." Penelope's voice booms throughout the hall. "This disrespect for my guests is thoroughly unacceptable." This is only met by the laughing and the cheering of the mob. She looks back at me, and says: "But fret not. A choice has been made."

Sudden silence falls over the crowd.

"A choice on what?" A voice asks from inside the crowd, full of fearful hope.

"A choice on who I shall marry." She answers, very slowly, very deliberately. She looks at me, and I approve of her next move with my eyes. She almost smiles once more, and the next time she speaks, her voice is much louder, much more determined. "There shall be a trial. A trial of wits and of strength. One that only someone alike to my deeply mourned husband in both body and mind could solve. Only that man will be worthy of my hand and of the throne of Ithaca."

Her eyes drill into mine.

The silence chokes the room for what feels like an eternity, until circumspect Penelope waves over a servant, whispering something in her ear, before the woman leaves. After a moment, she comes back, with a novice priest who carries a cube of metal with extreme deference. The cube is placed on the center of the hall and all of the suitors look at it from the sidelines. They are all perplexed and just a bit amused, but nevertheless stay silent. They really do think this might be their only chance to get what they want, however strange.

At last, Penelope speaks again: "This here is a gift from MEKHANE, a boon of the Goddess, discovered by my husband in times of yore. It is an enigma that only he could figure out and make use of." He looks at the gathered. "He who achieves the same feat shall marry me and reign over Ithaca."

A heavy weight falls on all of the suitors as cruel determination enters their hearts. They know what must be done.

In one swift movement and with much screaming begins the scramble to get the hands over the cube. A great tide of suitors runs to the middle of the hall, fighting, struggling to hold the artifact, shouting, yelping and hitting each other in the face and body. Their fists and metal teeth fall down on another as profanities escape their lips — both against men and against the Goddess. Only after a young man from Phthia draws a knife does the fight stop. Telemachus walks over and requests peace.

"This contest should be done in an orderly manner," he says. "After all, no savage man would be worthy of ruling over the land."

And thus the struggle transforms from a brawl to a far less brutal but nevertheless just as uncivilized affair. The suitors gather in a line, each of them eyeing the rest with hate, each trying to open the box before them. For hours and hours they think and ponder the nature of the metal. Some hit it with forks, swords, and sticks. Others try to whisper spells that could not possibly ever breathe power into.

One by one, they all desist on their attempts. In time, the night passes as the last suitor surrenders and leaves the cube in the center of the room, before the Queen.

Silence falls once more.

The crowd looks back at Penelope, who still sits upon the throne.

"Has everybody had their attempt?" she says, almost mockingly. "This perhaps means that none of you are worthy of my hand and my love."

Suddenly, I lift a hand. It is shaking.

"I haven't had a try yet, oh honored queen," I say. I am met by the laughter of the men in the room. They think a beggar stands no chance in this trial, but still they don't move to stop me from touching the cube.

Their pride betrays them.

I close my eyes and feel the coldness of the iron-like material on my bronze fingers. I smile when I realize I still remember it, all those years later.

I run their tips along the surface, feeling the familiar protrusions in its texture. My smile widens. I lift it with ease using my left hand and carry it through a crowd of suitors that parts at my sight, bringing it over to one of the mekhanical marvels in the room — a large bronze cauldron that hums with unseen energy, forgotten for twenty years. I place my right hand on one of the engravings on its surface, that of a man atop a cloud unloading lightning upon an unsuspecting ship below. It lights up, and I feel that same lightning carried through the copper circuits of my right arm, through the veins and nerves in my torso, that flare in pain, through the silver circuits of my left hand, and finally, to the Tongue of MEKHANE that I hold in my left hand.

Everything goes white for a second.

When the world returns, a screech fills everyone's ears. A wave of confusion travels through the people gathered there. When they speak, air doesn't come out of their throats. Grumbles and choking and shrieking and howling follow. Hands holding their faces, scratching their necks, eating their heads, pulling out their hair.

For such is the effect of the voice of the Goddess, to those that are not worthy. To those whose hearts are empty of love and understanding.

I look at Penelope, who watches me with interest. Then, she speaks, with a language that only I understand.

"Welcome back, husband." Her tone is quiet.

I smile.

"Thank you, dear." Mine is barely more than a whisper.

She smiles.

"I love you, and I've missed you dearly."

Tears fall down my face.

"I know. I have missed you too. I'm sorry that you had to suffer twenty years alone."

Tears fall down her face, too.

"But I am alone no longer."

We both laugh, at once, with happiness that's heavier than any metal, than any task, than any duty the world of man has ever known.

"You are not. But first let's get rid of these pests that have invaded our home."

I lift my right hand from the mekhanic engine, and Her voice goes silent. When Penelope speaks again, she does so normally, lifting a hand, pointing at me.

"I'd like you all to welcome back my husband, Odysseus, returned from war, to reclaim his rightful place on the throne of Ithaca." Her tone is full of hatred, now finally let go after so many years of tolerating these vermin. She looks at them, her eyes burning.

A great uproar follows suit. The dazed suitors lash out, at each other first, but then at me. A man I recognize as Demoptolemus charges with a sword, screaming about injustices and impostures. I stop his arm with mine, crushing the bone beneath with just one move of my hand. I swing the metal cube wide, hitting many on the head and on the torso. Eurymachus tries to grab my neck but a metal foot stepping on a flesh one makes him desist.

Antinous walks towards me, wielding a spear. He is fierce, but not as fierce as Orok or Saarn, the warrior klavigars of Adytum, not as powerful as Bumaro, prophet of MEKHANE and mad emperor on Her stead, not as frightening as Polyphemus, not as calmly dangerous as Helios, or as subtle as Circe, not as savage as Ieva, who devoured my crew and not as grand as the sea and the sky that batter our shores.

Not as strong as Penelope.

His spear swings wide and clatters harmlessly on the floor, and he runs away like the dog he is, not even looking back. The rest of the vermin follow, fear in their eyes and regret in their limbs.

Before long, they are all gone.

And there are no more words to be spoken.

Somewhere on the horizon, the sun is setting. Its light barely shines through the mist surrounding the island.

There is only two of us, now, standing on a balcony on a tower far above the city, the ruin almost made manifest. The polis is not what it once used to be, but now, none of that matters — the only thing that does is her warmth in my arms. Her hair, her smell, her voice — right now, she is my whole world. I find myself having fallen to my knees, my hands grip the linen of her dress as that long-lasting longing within my chest erupts. I feel her hands upon my shoulders, as she crouches to be eye-to-eye.

Our heartbeats align, and I tell her everything.

I speak of the fire and the sea, the metal and the flesh, the love and the sorrow. I speak for hours, my heart still haunted by everything I have survived, almost as if hesitant to accept that I am actually here. That I have returned at least. That this is not all a dream, that come morning I won't wake up on the ship, surrounded by nobody but ghosts of once men.

I don't need to be saying this. I could just as well show her what I have seen with my very own eyes — but that is not what she deserves. It would not be the same, because then, she couldn't live through it with me. I couldn't look her in the eyes each time I feel like collapsing, each time I feel like I cannot possibly bear the weight again. I'm too afraid to know she would not be with me.

But each time, she is there — she is there with me, her palm and soul interwoven with mine, and each time, I know it is going to be alright.

When in time I finish speaking, a silence falls above Ithaca — perhaps for the first time in years. Darkness is soon to follow, and before long, the city lights up with torches.

It takes all my strength not to turn away from the fire.

Below us, on a square right in front of our palace, my son is speaking to some men. I cannot see their faces from up here, but there is a few dozen of them, all hooded and tired. My guess is that they are the priests and priestesses, holy men of Ithaca. Their words do not reach me, but I do not need to hear them to know that he is saying that I have returned. That the people need to know that Odysseus has not been lost to the sea.

I sigh, and briefly close my eyes. He is a good man, and I know he wishes well, but some part of me wishes he wasn't doing this. I do not know if I have it in me to bear the burden of leadership again.

But then she takes my hand — so carefully cradles those sharp claws that caused naught but harm — and I open my eyes. I open my eyes, and again we are one, and again I know that we can bear that weight together. A warm hand cups my face, and I lean against it as though it is the only thing that is keeping me from collapsing.

There are many things I should want to ask her. To know what has happened with our country when I was gone, where have our prophets gone, or indeed even what has she heard, when she sat here in solitude for all those years. But I say nothing. I don't think I could force words from my mouth even if I wanted to. Right now, all that matters is her eyes and mine, intertwined — happy, for what is likely the first time since we can remember.

After a long while, she finally speaks. Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "So, what now?"

I tighten our embrace. I bury my head against her chest and as tears fall down my cheeks, I smile. The breathless laugh that escapes me sounds so foreign.

"We live to see sunrise."

Her hand guides my face up, so that my lips meet hers, and we are one.

At last.

I take a deep breath, and close my eyes. There's memories before them still: images of fire burning on the horizon, imprints of screams shattering the silence of the night. They all echo through my mind as my heart starts to beat faster and faster, racing like the drum of an engine. I take another breath. Then another, then another, until the beating fades, the machine inside me cooling once more, in spite of what my eyes still see.

In time, the memories wash away, like dust upon the wind.

Like blood upon the sea.

I open my eyes again, and look into the orichalcos reflection before me. I try for a smile, lost somewhere between the unkept beard and wrinkles and broken, dried-up lips. I barely look like myself anymore. I barely look like anyone anymore.

Still: this needs to be said. Even if they will not see me again, I would rather they remembered me a man rather than a half-forgotten idea of one.

I stare at the helmet's eyes, and slowly sigh.

"Penelope, dearest," I say, my voice almost breaking, "I wish you would never have to hear these words. I wish that you'd never be gifted this memory, because it would mean I wasn't there to tell you yourself. But you know me: I have always treaded firmly in the world as it is, so I must live by my principles. I must be sure that you will hear what I have to say, before you too sail down the Acheron.

"I have been many things, not all of them suitably. I have been a warrior when I should have been a husband, a leader when I should have been a father — a liar when I should have been a lover. I wish it weren't so. I wish so every single day, when I close my eyes and find my bed empty, when I wake up to the sound of men toiling under sails instead of your beautiful voice, your beautiful smile. I wish I didn't heed the call when I first heard it, that I remained where I should have remained — where my true duty, my true love lay."

I look away for a few seconds, salt forming on my face that has nothing to do with the sea. I close my eyes, swallowing as I feel the wound inside my soul bleeding. I only turn back when my hands are no longer trembling. "And you, my beloved son. My little Telemachus. You've grown, I'm certain, to be the best child a man could ask for. Your mother would not have allowed you to be anyone but the person I'm sure you are. I hope you realize the treasure the world has gifted you, when it has given you the privilege to be raised by her. I wish I was there too, to see you grow into your mother's strength and kindness.

"But I cannot change the past. And I cannot change the future, for I fear another mantle was given upon me. One I again did not ask for, and one I again cannot ignore — but one that I will not wear like I have all those that came before it. One that will not take me whole like it so desperately wants to.

"You have seen what I have seen, if this contraption works correctly, and you know what is at stake. You know what I have to fight for, if I survive. What we have to fight for. But I will not permit this new duty to be like all the other ones forced upon me. I will not surrender to the whims of another power, no matter how just. I will not leave you to fight another war. I will not let them take me. I will not permit it.

"But I will also not live under the delusion that my survival is a given. That it has been written in the strings of my fate that I will ever be given the chance to see you again. And if…" I swallow. "…if that were to be the case, I know that the mantle I now bear will be passed to another. One who will inevitably return to Ithaca alongside my corpse. Along this memory.

"He too, I'm certain, will not be made to bear the weight, just as I am not. He too will be unable to fight against the Queen in any way that matters. None of us will be. We cannot ever win against a foe that grand. Against a foe with so much might in her arsenal. But I want you to know this: we do not have to.

"I have long since accepted that, even if I return home, I will not finish the quest bequeathed upon me. Not in the way that the mantle wants me to, in any case. But there is another way, I've found somewhere between waking dreams of my home, to win this conflict. One that I ask of you to follow — even though I do not deserve to ask you for anything — if I do not make it home.

"The Queen's might may never be broken, but the wheel beneath which she wants to break us all can be. That which pushes her strength forward, which wishes to come into this realm once more to subjugate us all — it can be defeated."

I look into the eyes of the helmet once more. I barely see anything but my own features inside that old metal thing.

"There is a disease that plagues our world. A disease through which the Queen drinks her power. It is not a concrete thing, not one we can fight and destroy — but it nevertheless haunts our country and sea, unwilling to let go.

"I have travelled far and wide, and I have come to see one thing: that the only way through which we ever win, through which we save our world from that which wants to take it, is if we change. If we live to die another day, together.

"So please, promise me this, my dearests: lay down your swords and spears. Lay down your fires and warships. For when you hold them all, it is not your hand that guides them towards the enemy — it is the Queen's."