#epic!calypso

[gale-gentlepenguin]

Calypso: It’s been 8 years. I am a litteral goddess. How are you not interested in being with me?

Odysseus: You’re not my wife.

Calypso: Your wife can’t be that great?

Odysseus: you’re right…

Calypso: I knew it I…

Odysseus: She’s better than great.

Calypso: … I know I shouldn’t be surprised but yet I still am.

[itsajollyjester]

I’m Not Sorry For Loving You (wip!)

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 16: Epilogue)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

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CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Epilogue

-

A shiver ran the course of his spine, and he wasn’t sure if it was the twilight breeze or the memory it brought. Far across the blues of the water, seven years continued to live and breathe. The nymph had taken far more than time.

His wife lay sleeping in their bedroom. Odysseus, the great war hero of Troy, hadn't yet found the bravery to tell her all that had happened in the great expanse of the sea.

In some way, she must've surely predicted some of it. Penelope, with all her wit, must've seen how different he was now. More than wrinkles and scars stained the body of the soldier. Tremors lay in his hands that couldn't be tamed by rest or massage. Quick motions of the body arrested his mental capacities, and on more than one occasion he had stumbled away from his beloved bride with a pale face and feverish desperation. Her loving hands so often like a phantom that reminded him of things long since dead.

He stood now on their balcony, tracing the furthest depths of the horizon. Ogygia must've lay somewhere in the great expanse. But as the soldier searched, as his eyes grew weak, he realized that he simply could not find it. Real as it were in the shaking of his breath, the nervous shifting of his eyes, the island wasn't anywhere near.

The shore had ended. Space and time separated them. Perhaps one day, his mind would catch up.

He looked away. The aged soldier turned around. He climbed back into bed and listened to the soft hum of Penelope’s breath. He was home.

-

Link to previous chapters

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 12)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

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CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Days 2,199-2,224

The raft had afforded Odysseus many pleasant afternoons out on the water. In some contortion of reality, he had convinced himself that the water wasn't really Ogygia. He'd finally gained some semblance of distance from the island sailing around its shallows.

He'd gotten particularly good at using the homemade sails. Although there wasn't ever very much wind to catch, he could now efficiently direct the gusts to push him along in whatever direction he pleased. His raft was far more cooperative than he had expected. He was free to sail- only hindered by the invisible barrier that surrounded the island. One that held still like impossibly thick glass.

Today though, he didn't care for sailing. He merely sat on the wooden planks, feeling the gentle caress of the sun against his shoulders. The rock of the raft, like an infant’s cradle. Gentle and smooth, rolling over every passing wave gently.

A cradle. A rocking cradle.

He closed his eyes, opened them again. He was in Troy, standing before the cradle of a baby no larger than his helmet. Little and innocent, with big brown eyes that caught the blaze of the torches.

He felt a familiar shake enter his hands.

A baby, cursed to die in a cruel test of the gods. Willed to suffer for no true reason. He remembered the screams, the agonizing screams of the women in Troy. One of them might've been his mother. Did the woman who nursed him watch his fall? Odysseus hadn't watched. He'd only heard. He couldn't stop hearing, the wail of the child, the sudden stop. The cries, the smell of the smoke, all of it was back, rushing over him like a hurricane, suffocating.

“Odysseus?”

The boy had trusted him at first. The child had met him with an open eyed look of wonder when he took him in his arms. No older than Telemachus had been, precious in his innocence. The infant didn't know about war, or the gods, or suffering, or death. He could still hear the screams.

“Odysseus, breathe, my love.”

Someone was talking to him. Their voice was distorted, as if extended and muffled. He couldn't think, could hardly comprehend it.

Helen the beauty had been saved, but how many women suffered the brunt of their army? How many other infants had died? Not just one, surely not just one. Infants and women, strewn about the city like debris. He could taste the ash.

“Odysseus, hold on-”

There was water on his face. He shook, and was immediately forced back into the present. He looked around wildly, searching in terror for the torches, for the soldiers. He saw neither, his eyes instead falling on the woman now sitting beside him. Calypso, with concern and confusion knit into her eyebrows. She held a cup of water, presumably what now ran down the sides of his hair.

“Shh,” she murmured, running her hand across his back gently. “You were only dreaming. You're alright, my darling.”

“I wasn't… dreaming,” he managed, his chest still heaving. “It just-” he couldn't explain himself, couldn't force his madness into words. He put his hands onto his face, digging his nails into the aged skin. The pain was something real, something he could ground himself to.

“Shh, my dear… drink this,” the nymph’s delicate words found his ear. She took one of his hands in her’s and moved it aside.

He looked at her, some part of him desperate to find a reprieve. Was that true concern on her face? Was it another mockery? He chose to believe the former, couldn't digest the latter in his current state. His head nodded almost urgently and he took the cup being offered. It was warm to the touch, smelt like citrus and herbs. His hands trembled, nearly spilling the liquid inside.

She put her hands over his’ and steadied them. Together, they guided the cup to his lips. The smooth tea slid down his ragged throat. As it poured, he managed to feel his nerves reel back. He was here, in the present. Troy was but a distant memory. The tea was rich and fragrant. Her hands were soft.

He finished it. “It follows me everywhere,” he whispered. His eyes traced the lines of the wood. “Troy. The war. The boy. The soldiers. All of it. I've lived it a thousand times over, and I'll live it a thousand more,” His head shifted up again. She was staring at him, an inexplicable expression on her face.

Calypso’s gaze lingered on him, long and heavy. She was deliberating something, though he couldn't predict what. Perhaps a goddess couldn't comprehend the madness of war and time. He wasn't sure what he wanted, couldn't strategize a solution to the constant suffering conjured by his own mind. It never ended, never ceased, and there was no tea that would take it away forever.

Calypso didn't speak. She gave no rebuttal to his declaration. She merely opened her arms. A silent offer, warm and free.

A long blink cut through his vision. Odysseus leaned towards her. He sunk into her arms. He began to weep. The goddess listened.

-

Odysseus had found it increasingly difficult to find things to distract himself with. Now that the raft was finished, the only things he truly spent much time on were his figurines and practicing with his bow. It was hardly enough to keep him sane. On some occasions, he would look up at the slowly darkening sky and realize that an entire day had been spent giving Circe nymphs to spend time with or adding sheep to the cyclop’s lair. He'd already manifested dozens of soldiers, people from his childhood. His collection was extensive, increasingly requiring more and more space to display.

At the very least, his figurines required more tools. Tools that had to be made, knives that had to be fashioned. Projects that ate away time and gave his hands something to do.

He was fashioning yet another soldier when she approached. This one had long hair, held back with twine. He was called Diagoras, and he was pinning for a pretty young woman back home. He carried a lock of her hair in a small amulet around his neck. His voice was deep, deeper than it should've been for his age. Odysseus couldn't quite recall if the boy had been real.

“I've made this for you,” Calypso stated, kneeling down beside him. She cast a look at the dozens of figurines around them, before holding forth an item that had been held behind her back.

It was a leather belt equipped with several long, sturdy pockets. An adjustable golden hook kept it latched. It was the sort of thing a sophisticated artisan would have, practical, yet beautiful to look at.

He took it in his hands and examined it. It would be helpful for various tasks. He could carry his tools more efficiently, keep his supplies with him at all times. His eyes darted up to her in anticipation. “It's very nice,” he said, carefully fixating on her features. He'd learned to read her well over the course of their time together. He could tell when something lingered in the back of her gaze. It wasn't wise to accept the gift without knowing its cost.

“I thought it would be helpful,” Calypso mused, holding her hands together in front of herself. She smiled pleasantly. It reached her eyes.

He exhaled. “It will be. Thank you.” He stood up, wrapped it around his waist and clasped it. It fit perfectly well.

“And if you need tools, supplies, or anything at all for it-”

“All I have to do is ask,” Odysseus completed. The rules of the island had been well established. He could have anything, anything at all, except for the only thing he wanted.

-

The air smelt like roasted garlic and onions. A fresh mixture of herbs, mixed with the comforting, earthy smell of lentils. At first, he couldn't believe it.

It took him back to so many years ago. To the shores of Ithaca, after a long day of training. The scent that would capture the air of their home and leave him famished. Lentil stew.

“Is that…?” He asked, approaching the pot with widened eyes. As suspected, the pot was brimming with the dish.

“Lentil soup!” Calypso concluded, her face bright. “How's it smell?”

“Absolutely wonderful,” he admitted honestly, unable to control the emotion on his face. “We used to eat that when I was a boy- how did you-” he shook his head, remembrance captivating him. A week before, the nymph had asked him a string of questions that he hadn't understood at the time. Questions about his life before. What foods he had enjoyed, what he used to do for fun, his favorite parts about Ithaca. He saw the fruit of the discussion now, aromic in the pot.

The goddess took a bowl in her hand and spooned a generous portion into it. “You'll have to tell me if I got it right,” she teased, handing it over to him enthusiastically.

Odysseus took the bowl and sat down, brimming with anticipation. It smelt like home. He took his spoon, blew off the steam, and put it to his lips.

It was hot, all of the ingredients particularly fresh and rich in taste. The goddess was a fine cook, and this was one of her best.

But it wasn't entirely right. The garlic was too strong, the lentils too few. It wasn't precisely like what he remembered. He turned his spoon around in it, trying to decipher whether it was better or worse. Regardless, it was-

“Delicious. Thank you, Calypso,” he remarked genuinely.

-

“I have another gift for you. This one is really special,” she'd told him. Her gifts had become frequent once more, similar to his first year on Ogygia. Whatever this was must've been particularly special, as the nymph was practicing overflowing with excitement.

He hadn't particularly wanted to leave his figurines. He had just started on his old ship. An especially difficult endeavor, given just how fragile the wood could be. Even still, it was nice in some degree to take a break from the work. To go and see whatever gift necessitated a trip across the island.

She led him back towards the palace. At first, a brew of uneasiness had captured him. He absolutely loathed the cascading marble- that was something that hadn't changed in the slightest in the years he'd spent on the island. “I've spent months working on this, my darling,” was what she said that eased him to some degree. It was something tangible. An item. He'd followed along, the slightest bit of curiosity taking the place of his previous anxiety.

She led him down the entryway corridor and to the right. It was a door he'd only opened a few times before. A private dwelling place of her’s, where she presumably spent time working on crafts and other hobbies.

The moment she opened the door, he saw it. Her gift.

It was a woven tapestry. Taller than he was, longer than the side of his raft. It took up a great portion of the opposite wall. The thread shimmered in the sun that poured in from the windows, and he had to squint to make out the details at first. They approached together, and he was able to take in its depiction.

On the top left, a child ran across a vast shore. A boy with dark hair and a beaming grin. He was brimming with childlike enthusiasm, kicking up the sand behind him. Beside him, the same boy, but a bit older, throwing a javelin through the air. To his right, the boy engaged in a wrestling match, successfully pinning his opponent to the ground. The tapestry was woven with such mastery that he could almost see the grin on the child’s face growing at his victory.

“Do you know who it is?”

His eyes continued down, traveling through the story. Next, the young boy, now a young man, was studying books- poetry and statecraft. Expectation had met his face. Responsibility was now etched into his eyes. He had facial hair, wore the clothing of nobility.

“It's… me,” he whispered. He reached forward, touched the cloth. His likeness studied the book in his hands. Younger, less torn by age.

The next depiction was of a wedding. His form beside a woman cloaked in yellow, her face not visible. Penelope. He stared longer than he had at any other scene yet, gazing at her depiction, as though staring would lift the veil, would allow him to see her. She hadn't worn yellow on that day. He could still see the red fabric cascading like fire down her back. His bride, alive like a flame- mellowed here, hidden.

“Do you like it?”

He eventually tore himself away, continued on. To the immediate left, his likeness holding a bundle of blankets. Telemachus, only his dark hair exposed, wrapped in swaddling cloth. He felt the breath leave his lungs. His son. His darling, infant son. He could still feel the gentle weight in his arms, the impossible lightness of the most beautiful gift Penelope had ever given him.

He forced himself to move on after a small eternity had passed. To the side, a large vessel, with himself standing at the mast, sword in hand. Soldiers surrounded him. And then Troy, with the horse, and the fire. The flames flickered in the light, captured the city in a hellish hue.

The cyclops stood beside it, and Circe, and a depiction of the underworld. His story, laid out for him in vibrant thread. He was left without words, unable to vocalize all that he felt. It was like his figurines all over again. A physical, tangible expression of all that had happened. Cathartic, overwhelming relief.

Scylla was next. The goddess had utilized every detail he'd ever told her. Her hollow, black eyes, her mocking smile. He could see her move, could see her approach their ship.

And then the ship again, now outside her lair. He was holding a sword, fighting another soldier. Eurylochus. And then the moment he was stabbed in the back, and then the cows. Zeus.

And then, the island. She made it larger than Scylla, glimmering and idyllic. Its trees impossibly green, the water still and crystal-like. He was washed up on the beach, Calypso knelt beside him. His stomach twisted. The next scene, the pair of them, standing side by side on the island. Twin smiles on their faces, birds flying behind them, everything perfect and alight.

And then the last depiction. It was Ogygia, still Ogygia, with a rainbow cast over it. An impossible rainbow. There wasn't ever any rain. Calypso and Odysseus stood together, hand in hand.

The tapestry ended. He looked over it again, trying to find something he'd missed. It was his entire life story depicted in thread- a complete rendition, and this was its ending.

“Do you like it?”

Odysseus felt his jaw clench. There was no more room for anything else to be added. It was a perfect rectangle, perfectly planned. This was its corner, its conclusion. Ogygia. Calypso. The end of his story.

Because of her.

“I made it just for you, Ody.”

The white sand beaches, spilling into eternity. The rest of his life, the coast of the island. The same waves. The same birds, the same damn sky.

“Don't you love it?”

Because of her.

Rage, scalding and vicious, unlike how he'd ever experienced it before wrapped itself around his body. Gripped his fists, made them clench- manifested in his chest, forced it to heave. So many years had been spent wasted in sunken misery. His eyes darted back up to her portrayals of his family. His boy was a young man now, his childhood shed in his father’s absence. The veil of orange, hiding his wife’s precious face. The veil of time, and distance, and the spell of a goddess, separating them. His wife, a weaver herself, perhaps married to another, perhaps beside herself with grief.

Because of her.

“Ody?”

He lunged towards her, all at once, the crazed madness of ire possessing him. His hands were around her shoulders before he could tell what he was doing. Then they fell, together, collided into the marble floor. He was atop her, murderous, vicious.

His right hand took the knife on the belt, the tool belt she'd made him, the gift, the mockery of a gift.

She was staring up at him, wide eyes filled with horror, not comprehending what was happening. Eyes full of pride, and lust, and insatiable greed.

He drove the blade into her neck. All of the strength he'd ever possessed ripped through her flesh. Hot gold poured forth from the wound, drenched his face. He was yelling, screaming something he couldn't comprehend. He watched her face contort with confusion and agony, relished in it.

He ripped the knife out, pulled it back, drove it down again, this time piercing her heart. A fatal wound, another fatal wound.

In the heat of battle, his instincts had saved his life countless times. But now, they only pushed him forward, ground the knife down again, now into her mouth. Her whorish, deceitful, wicked mouth- gagged her, empowered him, he took the knife again-

And all at once, he was unable to move. His arms hung in the air, paralyzed like a marionette. The knife clattered to the ground. Her shock had worn off. He had no more mastery over his body than he did the rising of the sun.

He hadn't had the ability to consider what the consequences of his outburst would be. Even now, he didn't care. The ire had burned hotter than his melancholic desperation ever had. He watched her slowly shift upwards, waited for his punishment. Some horrible, agonizing pain that would leave him paralyzed for days, maybe even weeks. He didn't care. Years had been spent, what could she possibly do of any consequence now? At least he could hold onto the agony, digest it. It was real, physical, unlike the years that had spilled away like discarded ink.

But as the golden ichor slowly melted away, as the wounds on her body disappeared into nothingness, he saw no retaliation on her face. Not a stitch of anger. Only some meager mixture of disappointment and pity.

“You've suffered so much, my love,” she murmured, shifting out from under him. She took his face in her hands and peered back at him. Her eyes were impossibly silky and warm. He hung still, unable to move, unable to contort even his face.

She took him in her arms. The King of Ithaca couldn't shake, couldn't tremble, couldn't manifest his rage. He hung, delicate as a feather, suspended by the will of an immortal. Another deity, there to break the rest of his will. One of many, perhaps the last.

-

Link to other chapters

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 9)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

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CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Days 1,670-1,689

He took a bite of the cooked egg she had placed in front of him. It was well seasoned with salt, and it still had the faintest smell of smoke on it. It was impossibly delicious- richer in taste than any egg he had ever consumed before Ogygia.

He had started eating again a few weeks back.

At first, it was because of a growing feeling of discomfort provoked by her hand feeding him. An even deeper feeling of disgust was born over how long he'd been letting her do it. He was a fully grown man, the King of Ithaca. He was able to feed himself.

Besides, he had finally realized just how weak he'd gotten, and more importantly, he began to care again. It was a more passive form of motivation, one that could only barely persuade him to continue on. But it was enough to get him out of bed, and enough to force him to put the fork to his lips.

He didn't see her as often anymore. Her presence had become significantly less pronounced. He often noticed after hours of being on his lonesome that the goddess wasn't following him. He wasn't sure what to make of the development. It was a subtle thing, and yet impossibly profound.

Regardless, she always found him when she needed to. They still ate meals together, and there hadn't been a single night since he'd arrived on the island that she hadn't spent the night with him. But now, he could sometimes feel the weight of being alone.

Some days were easier than others. Quieter. But even when there wasn't anything external tormenting him, he still had to deal with the weight of his own mind. His own mind, that when left undistributed, was perfectly capable of drowning him in all that had happened. All that had been lost. All that was being lost because of his years spent on Ogygia.

His son would've been… 15 by now. 16, maybe- 17 at the oldest. He had long since lost track of time. A young man. What did he look like? What did he act like? The last Odysseus remembered, he was a red-cheeked infant with a terrible habit of grabbing his mother’s hair.

Odysseus prayed that he looked after his mother, now.

Penelope. His bright eyed bride, now practically middle aged. Her face would've lost some of its youth, but none of its charm. He imagined her often, trying to predict all that had occured in his absence. He chose to believe- had to believe- that she was still waiting for him. That even after so many years, she had held out hope. That she loved him enough to persevere in the foolish belief that he would find a way back to her.

He sometimes found himself looking into the reflection of the spring. He too had been lost to age. His skin folded next to his eyes. His own hair had streaks of silver. The war had aged him. The sea had taken its toll. But the island- the island had made him look older than he was.

He wasn't the same man Penelope remembered.

-

It started one afternoon when he had found his old flintrock knife. Somewhere in the passage of time, he had lost it. But after a day spent traversing through the woods near the palace, he had found the handmade tool. Laying dormant next to a log that he must've cut down sometime in the haze of the past.

He had taken the knife, twirled it in his hands. In his first couple of years on Ogygia, he had utilized the tool every single day. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he had given it up.

Out of principle, he slid it into his waistband.

It gnawed at him that it hadn't been used. He didn't have a purpose for it, not now. He wouldn't return to refining half-logs and making nets for his map. There was no point in that. But he would find something. Something to fill his time. He wouldn't let himself fall into insanity. Somewhere across the sea, his family was waiting for him.

A few days later, he found use for his tool. Another felled log had driven the idea into his head. It was remarkably stupid- but once it came into his mind, he found no reason to push it out.

He sat down, carved out a small piece of the wood with his old axe, and began to whittle it.

He had carved figurines a handful of times as a boy. It was a simple, juvenile hobby. Even still, when he'd finished the first figure, he couldn't help but smile at it. It was a small horse, complete with a carved latch-hook on the bottom. The horse that had won their army the city of Troy. He remembered the cheers of his men, triumphing in the ruins of the sacked city. It was a distant memory, blurred at the edges, but it was his. He sat the horse down beside himself.

He started on a cyclops, next. The figures that filled his dreams and mind were materializing before him. He took his time with the details. He traced its horrible scowl carefully, emphasizing the rage that had concentrated on its face when he'd seen the men who had killed his beloved sheep.

There was no reason to rush. He merely delighted in the activity, finding some echo of meaning in the work. He felt his breath settle with every scrape of the knife against the grain.

He watched the thin curls of wood spin off like fluttering butterflies. Every curve of the knife steadied his hands. For a moment, the sound of the knife against the wood drowned out the perpetually rushing tides in his mind.

-

She'd made something new that evening. Some sort of beef, coated in herbs and cooked in oil. It tasted rather nice. He ate it slowly, trying to remember what dish it reminded him of. Something from when he was a boy, a memory long since faded.

“...I wanted to ask you for something,” he said after the sound of shifting food and the crackle of the fire had taken over the place for conversation.

“Of course, what is it?” Calypso responded, so quickly it appeared almost awkward. She had already been glancing up at him every so often, but now her gaze fixated and intensified.

“I want to build a raft,” he explained. He saw the way her face immediately contorted, and spoke again, quicker. “I know that I can't leave. It isn't to get away. I just… want something to do. I miss being on the water. When I was a boy, we used to sail around the coast for sport. That's all I want, really.” He didn't know why he offered so much information, but it spilled easily from his tongue. There was a gentle, subtle pleading in his voice.

Calypso tilted her head ever so slightly, watching him. “...That's perfectly fine,” she consented with a nod. “The spell will be there, of course. But you know that.” She smiled, an almost apologetic look on her face.

He felt a small thrill rush through his chest at her acceptance. It was more than he'd expected. “Thank you,” he breathed. He remembered his first attempts years before- how the wood would rot in a matter of hours. At least now, he'd have something. He could live with the peace that if he ever had the opportunity, he'd have a means of escape. Besides, it would give him something to do. Something real, besides figurines, to distract him from the whispers, from the hours he was tempted to spend in the crevices of his mind.

-

He was lost in a trance, hypnotized by the dreams that had entirely consumed the night. He had been rendered unable to sleep- the images of soldiers drowning, pleading, dying painted on the front of his eyelids like a sick theater act that wouldn't stop repeating.

He walked away from the palace quickly, trying to distance himself from it. Perhaps if he got away from the marble, the remnants of his nightmares would stay there. They always came back at night, always, but he could find some semblance of peace in the daylight hours.

He continued on, pushing through the familiar brush. He could feel the weight of the night still lingering in his body. In his twitching hands, his tightened chest. His body always seemed to remember.

He came into a clearing. There, sitting on a stump, was the cyclops figurine he'd made. He jumped slightly, not expecting to see it. He hadn't remembered leaving it out.

“You scared me,” he murmured under his breath, his voice hoarse, rough. He glared at the wooden cyclops accusingly. He picked it up and held it to the slowly developing daylight. “It's not my fault that you're ugly, you know. I was merely being true to the source material. If anything, I made you prettier.” He managed a smile at his joke.

He sat down, looking over the carefully carved frown on its lips. “You were easier than Circe. Too drunk to do much damage in the end, huh?” His voice took a mocking edge. “Fell for the wine- didn't think I'd do something to it. Stupid monster.”

The words felt strange leaving his mouth. Foreign conversations that he'd only ever had in his mind, now taking shape in reality. The smile fell from his face, his expression stiffening.

“But you still managed to kill six of them, didn't you? My brothers. Polites. My best friend.” A shaky breath tumbled out of his lips. “You treated them like they were trash. Smashed them like glass bottles.” He traced his finger over the club in his hand.

“I shouldn't have stopped at that cave,” he decided aloud. He shook his head quickly. “I should've known better. It was too easy. I should've realized it was another damn trick. Nothing could've been easy for us, could it? Always some trick, or test, or something.”

He sat the figure back down on the stump. He held onto it still, trying to maintain his grasp on something concrete. A breeze rustled through, carrying the faint scent of salt from the shore. For a moment, he was back. Back on his ship, rocking back and forth against the quickly growing tides.

He squeezed his fists, open and shut, trying to bring himself back. He grit his teeth and picked up his latest project.

An unfinished rendition of Circe. Only her dress was done so far. “You'd probably think all of this is funny, wouldn't you?” He murmured, his eyes glazing over. “That I'm here, at the mercy of some… woman. That I denied you, only to-” he stopped mid sentence, the words drying in his mouth. A long moment passed before he could bring himself to speak again.

“Maybe I should've let you keep my men as pigs,” he murmured, touching his finger to what would be her hair. “They'd be alive, at least.” He wasn't sure why he kept talking, but the altercation with the cyclops had seemed to give him permission. Broken an ice he didn't know had formed. “Maybe it would've been even easier if you had killed me.” He forced himself to smile. It was funny, wasn't it? “I'll make nymphs for you, eventually. Give you some company.”

He turned the wood in his hand. Even without a face, he could see her smile.

“...But I'm going to make my palace next. And then… Penelope and Telemachus.” Their names left his voice in a hushed whisper. He felt his chest contract at the sound. An unintended prayer. His hand touched the knife at his waist. He wished he had a reference point for his son’s face.

-

If the wood was too dense, the raft would sink before he got past the shallows. If it was too light, it would immediately be torn up by the waves.

The trees near the river were too damp. The wood would rot quickly, even without the goddess's spell. The ones to the north of the island- dried in the heat of the sun, would be better.

He spent a full day assessing trees, running his fingers down the bark. He seemingly had all the time in the world to ensure he was doing his best possible work. And one day, if, no when, he got the chance to use the raft, he would be prepared.

The old axes he'd made years before for the log grid came in handy. It was a pain to refine the wood. His body had grown weak, his muscles slowly wasting away over the years. It was hard work. Each swing of the axe sent shocks up his arms. And yet in some way, he found meaning in the ache that settled in his joints, in the burn that consumed his arms and back. When the bark scraped his hands raw, he welcomed the sensation. The injury was real, tangible, unlike the ghostly torments that came in the late evenings.

His body, weak and battered as it was, was still capable.

Five large trees would hopefully produce enough wood for the project. He trimmed off their branches, smoothing down the logs with one of his longer axes. The stone blade was horrifically inefficient compared to proper metal tools. It dulled with every strike against the bark. Several had broken so far, and it would take time to make more. Time that he had.

He left the logs to dry on the beach. The remaining moisture would be pulled out of it by the sun, and he could begin the process of binding them together with vines. Then, he would make the sail. Eventually, he'd have a proper boat. His means of escape, when the tides of life changed. He had to believe it would come. It was all he had left. A distant, impossible hope.

-

It took Calypso remarkably longer than he would've predicted to learn about his figurines. But today, in the midst of concentrated whittling, he heard the familiar crunch of her sandals.

He attempted to push them under a bush. He wasn't sure why- but the idea of the goddess seeing his project embarrassed him.

“What are you hiding?” She asked. She was closer than he thought- staring over at him with her nose scrunched. She moved her foot forward, her eyes glowed, and the branches of the bush curved outwards. She approached, leaned down, and picked up the nearest piece. The Trojan Horse, now rendered more detailed than before.

He felt his face burn with discomfort.

“How cute,” she mused, turning it over in her hands. “You made a horse! Did you have a horse back in Ithaca?” she peered at it closely.

“It… in Troy, when I was a soldier, we constructed a giant horse,” he cleared his throat. “It was my idea. A battle strategy.”

“Oh? Was it some sort of weapon?” Calypso ran her finger down its side.

“Sort of. My men were hiding inside of it, and the Trojans brought it inside the city walls. They thought they had won. When they were all sleeping, we climbed out of it and took the city.”

“How clever,” Calypso remarked, affection wrapping around her words. She held the horse out for him to take. “And what else have you made?”

Odysseus inhaled. There was no point in holding anything back, now. Besides, it had felt strangely cathartic to tell her about the horse. He picked up the other figures on the ground and held them out to her, one by one.

“This is the Cyclops I fought,” he explained. “His eye looks like that because we stabbed it with a giant spear.”

“Did it kill him?”

“No. And this is my ship- the one I had… before. The head of the fleet. And this is Circe. She was a witch we ran into. She turned my men into-” he held out another figurine. “-pigs. Hence the… pig.”

“You're recreating your journey,” Calypso concluded, smiling at him. “That's so sweet. Do you need my help making them?” She peered down at the Circe figure.

“No,” Odysseus responded immediately. He sat them down, one by one on the flattened log beside him. “...I like doing it myself.”

“...Have you made one of me yet?” Calypso continued, glancing back at him.

“No,” he said without elaborating further. As stupid as it was, the idea of carving her body disgusted him. He shouldn't have been so familiar with it. Thinking about it filled him with revulsion.

“...Well, you've got to save the best for last, hm?” She winked at him, a playfully intonation hanging on her tone. She reached forward, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You're so cute.”

He shook his head, as if that would make the kiss fall off his skin. “...Thanks,” he replied bashfully. He picked up his knife again, turning it in his hand. “...Calypso?” A question had been raised in his mind. He wasn't sure why he cared- why he thought to ask.

“Yes?” She asked, holding her hands in front of herself.

“Why haven't… you been watching me anymore? I've been working on these for a while. You've only just noticed,” his words came out awkwardly. He looked down at the carved pig in his hand.

“...I figured that you'd like the space,” she admitted, shrugging. “And I want you to be comfortable here, my love. I figured that… maybe all of my… effort had been driving you away.”

Comfortable. He nodded, slowly. “...Right,” he said. He sat back down, feeling the burn of his strained lower back. “Well… I don't know if you remember, but a few years ago- when I first got here- you gave me a quiver…”

“I recall.”

“-and the… arrangement, if I remember correctly, is that I could have arrows for a week if I-”

“-spent the day with me.”

“...Yes. I was wondering if that was still… available,” he finished. He looked down at his hands. Over the past couple of weeks, calluses had once again formed across his palms. His hands were cracked, sore, and yet he realized that they didn't shake nearly as often when he had work to do.

“Of course!” Calypso responded swiftly, her voice suddenly alight. She touched a gentle hand to his shoulder. “I'd love that.”

“...I'll let you know when,” he responded. He put his knife to the wood, etching more detail into the wooden witch’s hair.

His shoulders had begun to ache. He found himself lost in the meticulous act of carving for hours, resulting in a dull, thick pressure that had settled around his shoulder blades. For an instant, he thought of Calypso's hands- how they had moved around his shoulders before, kneading away the stiffness with practiced ease. How her gentle palms had taken away the tension.

The thought materialized in his mind all at once. He cringed, feeling the rise of hot, acidic disdain for the idea rising in his throat. How could he even think-?

He sat the knife down, as if staying stationary would leave him complacent to the idea. He reached for his figurines instead, lining them up in front of himself on a tree stump. He traced the carefully carved details, trying to ground himself to something that mattered. He ran his thumb over the horse’s mane, feeling his breathing slowly steady once more.

-

It was another new dish. She'd gotten more creative recently. This was some sort of ocean fish he didn't recognize, covered in a yellow sauce he was likewise unfamiliar with.

“...How did you manage to blind the cyclops?”

He hadn't expected her question. He glanced up at the goddess who was stirring a pot over the fire.

“...I gave it wine mixed with lotus. It made it fall asleep,” he explained, taking his fork and pushing the fish around. “We used the time to make its club into a spear, and then when it woke up, we stabbed it.”

“That's so clever,” Calypso replied. Her voice sounded genuine. It wasn't her usual, sometimes patronizing flattery. She cast a smile back at him. “But you didn't kill it?”

“No. I was trying to show mercy,” Odysseus remarked. Mercy that had cost hundreds of lives. He felt the memory threaten to rise. He inhaled sharply. “...Which… anyways, what kind of fish is this?” He couldn't stand to think about it. He couldn't let himself spiral. Not now.

“Octopus,” she replied, her hand turning methodically over the pot.

He made a face. It was never a dish he particularly cared for. Ever since he was a child, the shape of their freakish bodies disturbed him. He pushed it away with his fork and settled for another bite of his carrots.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he heard her muse.

He looked up, frowning in confusion. “What?” He asked sheepishly.

Calypso crossed her arms, grinning. “Behold, the mighty Odysseus, mastermind of Troy, slayer of monsters, warrior of the gods- unable to face the terrible, horrible octopus in pear sauce.”

He blinked at her. Then, a laugh, light at first, then louder, sprang from his throat. He shook his head, watched as her smile widened. He didn't understand why at first- until he recognized the sound leaving his throat. An old, unfamiliar sound. Laughter. True laughter. It had been so many years.

When was the last time he'd laughed like that? The halls of Ithaca? A jest shared with Polites outside the walls of Troy? He couldn't recall. He stopped laughing, forced himself to clear his throat. He had laughed here, with her.

“Well… I'm not that hungry anyways,” he dismissed. He felt the whimsical expression of the goddess in him.

He sat the plate down beside him. His hands were trembling, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he'd scared himself. Scared himself by allowing himself to laugh. By growing so comfortable as to laugh. Or maybe it was the way she looked at him, quiet satisfaction heavy in her dark eyes.

He looked at her again. In the light of the fire, she almost seemed to glow. For a moment, she looked impossibly divine. He forced his eyes back down.

“I'm glad you're smiling more now,” she said after a moment, her voice impossibly soft. She left the spoon in the pot and approached, taking her seat next to him.

The fire cracked, its embers like fireflies in the evening sky. He could smell her perfume, feel her presence, as persistent as the tides. He considered moving. Abandoning the camp. He could go to the sea, or to the clearing in the forest. Go somewhere, anywhere other than here.

But his body betrayed him. He felt heavy, impossibly still. He could only stay, rooted to the log. The glow of the fire captivated his features, rendering shadows into dancing jesters.

He felt the salty breeze grow heavy in his lungs. Staying a moment longer wouldn't change anything.

-

Link to the other chapters

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 5)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

---

CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Day 705

-

The majority of Odysseus’ days recently had been spent remeasuring the cliffside. He had long since accepted that this would be one of the more inexact parts of the map, given the impossibility of properly measuring and recording the jagged rocks and steep overlook above them. For one thing, he had been entirely unsuccessful maneuvering his log in between the stones. They were far too uneven- and his aerial view from the cliffside itself offered a decent enough idea of what it looked like from above. Enough to etch it in, anyways. But recently, he'd designed a more flexible measuring system. A series of rope, tied together in a net. Every square measured a half-log by half-log. It was hard to maneuver, harder to keep straight- but it was much more flexible for certain landscapes. It helped him clean up his depiction of the river’s bend, and it was a new tool for his ever growing arsenal.

Today was a break from the rocks. Instead, he'd taken to extending his hand dug-perimeter so that it cut through the center of the island. He was partially concerned that his measurements were off- resulting in his lack of progress. Forming a center line would at least give him another point of reference. Still, it would take hundreds of holes, each a few logs apart. Weeks of work.

The sun was slowly melting down the sky when he finally allowed himself an opportunity to rest for the day. Digging was always especially hard on the body- and he'd been doing it with such a ferocity that he'd practically blinded himself to just how bad the pain had gotten. His back was rigid and achy, his hands practically numb to sensation.

He fetched his map from nearby and allowed himself to sit down. The gentle breeze of the island tugged at the smallest of tears at the corner of the page. He peered down, letting out a slow exhale.

He let his eyes close for a moment. He was so very tired. He recalled an afternoon in Ithaca, when he'd helped lay the foundation for Penelope's garden outside of the palace. It had been meticulous work, ensuring every paver was completely level. He remembered looking down at his hands coated in calluses and caked in mud- how proud he had felt. It had been an honor to dirty his hands for her- to use his own sweat and labor to bring her joy. He had planted her the most beautiful orchids in the world.

The orchids on Ogygia brought him no such joy. As his eyes fell on the small representative feature on the map, he felt nothing more pleasant than utter indifference.

But as he stared at the symbol, he felt his chest grow tense. The garden, sketched in by his very own hand, seemed to form the letter “T”. It was hard to see at first. The end of the letter was spindly and faint, where the flowers ended at a stream’s edge. But sure enough- the flowers formed the shape of a long line, cut through by a shorter one.

His breath hitched. He bent over, narrowing his eyes at the paper.

Above it, to the left, the edge of a forest- an “L”. Unmistakably! A long, thin stretch apart from the rest of the forest by a few log measures, separated distinctly by a pathway. He hadn't considered it before, had naively overlooked it, but he saw it now.

Excitement grew in his stomach as he continued on, sprawling over the papyrus. Where a small bridge crossed over the river, an “X”. Where the river dipped down, a “U”.

“XLTU”. It didn't mean anything, not yet. He was missing letters, neglecting them somewhere. He felt his heart begin to race in his chest, beating so loudly it interrupted his thoughts. “P”, where the spring was- if one counted the road next to it. “P” for Penelope, he was so close to her, now. And an “H” beside it, the shape of a valley in between the hills. “E”- the jagged shape of the cliffside, jutting in and out. It was becoming so clear, now. He just hadn't seen it. He'd been too tired, too distracted to see it before.

“XLTUPHE”. Incoherent still, but closer. He could feel it, deep within his gut.

He wrote the letters in the sand, hands trembling. Something was still off. The “P”- perhaps a “T”, instead. The road, ignoring the spring. XLTUTHE

He sat the paper down on the sand, terrified he'd accidentally tear it.

Another “E”- the contour of the sand along the grass in the northwest- and another where Calypso grew fruit trees. The “U”, nonexistent- the river dipped too much, too unevenly to count it. He scribbled out his letters in the sand as he continued, writing out the new approximation.

“EXELTTHE”

He felt the air leave his lungs. EXELTHE. One extra T, but that was no matter, he'd contrived another by mistake. It said EXELTHE, clear as day, hidden in the contour of the landscape. “Exelthe”. “Go forth”. A command. A simple, but now painfully obvious solution. The answer. The key.

He could hardly catch his breath. Joy rushed into his body like a tide. The gods had been testing him for years- but he'd proven himself worthy, yet again. His wit had cracked the puzzle of Ogygia. He had won.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, trembled out of his lips. He'd done it. He snatched the map from the ground, quivering with anticipation. He attempted to stand up so quickly that his heel slipped in the sand and he fell. He laughed at the error- effortlessly laughed for the first time in years.

“Calypso!” He cried out, glee married to his voice as he sprinted through the sand. She was further down the beach, still in eyesight, preparing supper over the fire. His vision blurred as he kicked up the sand behind himself, holding the map like a fragile vase he was afraid to break.

He trembled with excitement as he ran towards her. A grin crawled across his face, pure delight rippling through his chest. “Calypso!” He cried again.

“Odysseus?” Calypso greeted him, standing and turning from the fire in front of her. She looked perplexed by his expression- by the look on his face, but he didn't give her the time to question it.

“I did it!” He announced feverishly, holding the map forward proudly. “It was a game- always just a game! And I solved it, Calypso!”

She looked back at him, feigning confusion. He laughed. “Don't play dumb- exelthe!” he said, pointing to the “L” of trees. “There's the L- and the T- I found all of letters-” he squinted, trying to remember where the second “E” had been hiding. “But I found it- see- there's the E!” He traced the letters where he found them, looking up occasionally to see her face. For once, he wanted to see her face.

“What are you talking about?” She asked carefully, her face contorted into a frown.

“You aren't looking at the map-” he tsked, shaking his head quickly. “Look- look, Calypso- it spells ‘exelthe’- now you have to say it!”

“What?” She narrowed her eyes at the papyrus. She bent her head down. She was playing him for a fool, hoping he hadn't really found the puzzle.

“Say it!” Odysseus insisted, his voice raising in volume, every word trembling out of his lips. “Say it! Say ‘exelthe’! SAY IT!” He was yelling now. He couldn't help himself. His entire body shook wildly.

She didn't say anything at all. Her eyes only met his’ again, big and sad. She looked as though she finally understood something. She looked as if she wished she didn't.

But she was cheating. He'd won, and she was refusing to admit it. He reached out, grabbed her wrist, yanked it desperately. “You're not saying it, because it'll let me go! It'll let me go home! I figured it out fair and square, Calypso! Say it, and- and I can go! It's too perfect! Look, it says it right there!” He shook the map in his hand, gripping her wrist tighter yet. “You're just not looking at it right, tilt your head-” he moved his other hand, took hold of her jaw, shifted the map.

She didn't respond. Tears welled in her eyes, but her tongue remained mute. She didn't pull away.

“You put those damn letters there!” Odysseus cried, his voice raising an octave. “You left that message, and now you want to take it back because I figured it out! Say it, damnit!” He dropped the map, took hold of her shoulders, shook her.

Calypso’s voice was cautionary and soft. “...I can say ‘exelthe’ if it pleases you, Odysseus-” His breath hitched when the word left her mouth. The code word- the solution- spoken by the goddess herself. He looked around wildly for some consequence of it. A ship, or a clearing in the water, or some sort of sign. The sun glistened the way it always did. The clouds looked all the same. It was the all too familiar island, without change. “...But there's no… puzzle here. There's no game. You haven't found anything. Whatever you’ve created in your mind- it's not… real.”

He let go of her shoulders. He picked up the map. His vision blurred. The world felt as though it was slowly tipping- tipping over. He tried to find the letters again. They weren't as clear, now.

“It's not… real?” he repeated softly. “It's not… You're just saying that, aren't you? You're just tricking me…?” The enthusiasm in his voice had died. He looked back at her, wide eyed and pleading.

“I swear it by Zeus, Odysseus,” she said carefully. A vow. “It’s not a trick.”

A short, cough of a laugh escaped his throat. It wasn't real. Any of it. Any of the patterns he'd found had been merely coincidence or contrived. It was just a map. A highly detailed, pointless map.

“There's no answer.” His words came out in a rasp. His hands trembled on the papyrus. His knees sank into the ground before he realized he was falling.

A shrill, guttural eruption tore through his throat. His own voice echoed in his ears, burning with agony. His hands clutched the papyrus and gripped it- tearing it down through the middle. It was useless. Useless. There was no solution, no letters. He felt the lick of the campfire on the back of his hands- tasted the heat. He turned, threw the scraps into the fire.

“Odysseus-”

“It's not real!” he cried, tears choking out of his eyes, blinding him, spilling down his face. “None of it’s real!” He lunged for the stack of maps sitting against the tree. It never rained, they never soiled.

He threw one after the other into the fire. He screamed again. His body heaved back and forth, like a ship caught in a storm.

He watched every one of them burn. Ink, papyrus, weeks, months, years, curling into ash. The letters that have never existed, the hope he'd forced into existence, disappearing in a matter of seconds. The fire roared, devoured them. He only stopped screaming when his throat could no longer force a sound.

-

Link to other chapters

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 8)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

---

CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Days 1,619-1,648

-

The rising and setting of the sun was of no more consequence than the endless cycle of the tides Odysseus spent his days staring at. Days bled into weeks, into months, into years. An endless, inevitable pull.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten to the shore that day. Maybe he'd walked directly there on the cobblestone trail by the palace, or maybe he'd meandered the long way down by the coast first. Maybe it didn't matter at all. He was free to watch the morning tides in the cool shade.

Even if there were other people on the island with them, he would recognize the sound of her footsteps anywhere. The gentle, impossibly light crunch of sandals against the sand. Drawing nearer to him, always drawing nearer.

She sat down beside him, close enough that her arm grazed his’. His eyes didn't peel away from the water.

A cup was pressed to his lips. He opened his mouth, accepted the cool spring water. He hadn't yet realized how dry his throat had become.

“You need to drink more water, my love,” she chided, running her thin fingers against the side of his face. He couldn't recall the last time he'd pulled away from her. “You'd wither away without me, wouldn't you?”

He closed his eyes. Time abandoned him, pulled away like a teasing lover. The sound of the waves became a lullaby. It pulled him away, further and further…

-

He was sitting by the fire. It wasn't yet evening.

She made him eat more, now. Before, he'd go the day before supper would come around, and she'd serve him the familiar dish of fish and olives and figs. She'd recently taken to making more meals- one when he first woke up, and another mid-day. He could've been mistaken, but this seemed to be the mid-day meal.

He didn't have the will to eat. Until recently, he would neglect the extra dishes, refuse them. Eat less and less of his dinner. He grew accustomed to the feeling of his limbs becoming weaker. He felt age and neglect take their toll, day by day.

He wasn't sure when she started insisting. When the only way to stop the pestering buzz of her voice was to force chicken and pomegranate seeds down his throat. But he had noticed it in his body. The uncomfortable feeling of the energy provided by the extra food made it more difficult to slip away into the crevices of his mind. She couldn't let him have even that.

She took her seat beside him, a plate prepared in her hand. On it, something new. Some sort of cake, drizzled in honey and adorned in berries.

He didn't move to take it. His limbs felt leaden, helplessly stiff beside him. The night before, the whispers had been intolerable. They'd kept him awake. He hadn't deserved to sleep- hadn't deserved to live, when so much had been sacrificed. So much had been sacrificed, just for him to be here, sitting on an island-

An exasperated sigh left her lips. “Come on, Ody,” she pestered.

He sat still. He could outlast her, this time. He could let his eyes gloss over, could try and go to the place where her voice no longer reached him. Where time became malleable, and matter became meaningless. He went there as often as he could. Her damn food was making it harder, but he could resist. If he died, if he starved, maybe that would be preferable-

“You didn't eat this morning, or yesterday,” she murmured. Had he not? He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He didn't care. “You have to eat, dear…”

The sweet taste of honey found his tongue. He blinked a long, slow blink. Her fingers were to his lips, feeding him. The cake melted on his tongue. He didn't pull away. He merely sat there, stiff, allowing her to manipulate his body. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much sugar. Back in Ithaca, certainly. Back home.

“I take such good care of you,” Calypso whispered to herself. She said it like a vow. “I love you so much, Odysseus. I won't let you destroy yourself.”

-

The fire captivated him. In it's dancing embers, he swore he could make out shapes. It was just like the bedroom ceiling. If he looked for long enough, he could find familiar faces, shapes, places. Eurylochus was speaking to him now with a long, split snake tongue. Whispering. If he was still enough, perhaps he could make out the words.

“You wouldn't get so stiff if you sat with better posture,” he heard her say. Her fingers were moving along his shoulders, massaging away the tension that had grown rigid as stone within them.

Her touch was as familiar as the sand beneath his feet. He sighed, letting the air leave his lungs passively.

“There, doesn't that feel better?” She moved, shifted to the front of him. Took his jaw in her hands and made eye contact.

He peered back at her eyes. In them, a sort of desperation brewed. Anticipation that had welled and grown like thick vines over the course of years. Hope, like the last kindling of a fire that had been kept alive. She was searching for something, hunting in his dulled eyes.

He breathed in the smell of her perfume. The fire whispered behind her. Whispered an idea. It materialized in his mind. He exhaled.

-

He would have to be subtle for his plan to work. She wouldn't believe a sudden shift. It would take a couple of weeks to exact. A couple of weeks for him to convince her something had changed.

And something had changed. He felt motivation fall back onto him like an old, familiar cloak. He couldn't let himself waste away. He couldn't give up, not entirely. Not when there was still a chance to escape.

He started with mere looks. When he'd typically be moved to stare off aimlessly, he started looking at her. For only a few seconds at first, then longer. Stolen glances between natural transitions in the day.

She noticed immediately. His glances were met with widened eyes and almost girlish shifts of her stance. Once or twice, he compelled the faintest of smiles onto his lips before looking away.

Her reception was palpable. She started doing even more than before- fixing him more cakes, rubbing perfumed oil into his hair, trimming his beard obsessively. It was almost nauseating, but he permitted it for the time being.

Then came the touches. It was subtle, realistic. He would let his hand graze her’s when taking his plate of food. He'd brush his knee against her’s when standing. He’d let her help him stand up.

He swallowed back the rising guilt in his stomach. He loathed the idea of Penelope knowing what he was doing- what he was sacrificing to try and get back to her. But after all that had happened- all that had been done, this was hardly the worst of it. This wasn’t close to the worst betrayal of his marriage bed.

Two weeks later, he decided to make the attempt.

She was standing behind him, combing through his hair. It had become a daily ritual. She would run perfume through the shoulder length locks, whispering sweet comments into his ear. Today, she was singing.

He felt the comforting rush of deception enter his body. It was exhilarating- his first real bite of inspiration in well over a year. Since his maps had turned to ashes in the wind. He tried to push back the tremble that entered his hands.

“Calypso,” he started. He tried to make his voice silky and low. He looked to the side, looked up- found her eyes. “...I… I've been thinking…” he paused, letting anticipation well up in her eyes. “...I haven't been very… appreciative of everything you've done for me over the last few years… The last couple of weeks, I feel like… I've finally seen you.” He smiled at her. Weary, persuasive, masked with false humility. He watched as her eyes grew wide with hope.

“Really?” She whispered. Her voice was shaking- collapsing with glee. Pure joy unlike he'd ever seen before consumed her pupils.

“Really,” he confirmed. He reached out and took her face in his hand. It was so simple of a gesture, but entirely unlike anything he had done in years of captivity. Affection. Affection that hadn't been forced by a spell or manipulation. This was just like the cyclops, just like Troy. A game to play.

“Odysseus, I-” she started. Her cheeks had flooded with red warmth. He put a finger on her lips.

“Shh,” he cooed. His heart was pounding inside of his chest. He couldn't mess this up. He couldn't flounder it, not now. “...Why don't you go meet me in our bed, Calypso? I'll meet you there soon, once I'm... Ready. I want to do this right, for once.” He tried to muster the flirtatious enchantment necessary to convince her. To persuade her away, into the palace, far from him. To trust him enough to wait, to take her eyes away for once.

He was sickened by the lovesick jubilation that captivated her features. True happiness overcame her, bumbled out of her lips in a bashful giggle. “Alright,” she agreed. She stepped back, refusing to tear her eyes away from him immediately.

But he was successful. Calypso eventually turned away, scampered off in the direction of the center of the island. As soon as he was convinced she had gotten far enough away, he exacted his plan.

He ran faster than he could ever remember running. Weak as his body was, red hot adrenaline began to course through his veins. It propelled him towards the waves, through them, into them.

He swam as if captivated by a foreign madness. He thrust his body forward, forcing strength into limbs that had long since lost their muscle. He moved as if pursued by a terrible beast, swam for his life, for his freedom. This was his one chance. The first time in years that the goddess hadn't been watching him. He had to make the moment count. He had to get away. He didn't consider the impossibility of it all. How, even if he got away, he would certainly drown in exhaustion somewhere between Calypso's isle and Ithaca. But that didn't matter, not really. It was one thing to die trying. It was another to waste away for decades longer, defiling his marriage, losing his mind in an oasis. It would be more worth it to join the voices of the ocean’s depths. To die how so many of his men had.

He didn't realize it immediately. He was so intensely fixated on swimming, that he couldn't recognize that he was being suspended in the water. He hadn't truly moved more than a dozen yards past the island.

It was only when reality overtook him, and he managed a look ahead. The waves moved, but he didn't. Dread filled his limbs.

He didn't know how long he'd been swimming for. Only that his body burned with exertion. Still he tried, still he fought. Throwing his arms forward with as much strength as he could muster. As a child, he was one of the fastest swimmers in all of Ithaca. He could beat almost all of the other young boys in a race. His shoulders were wide- he had what his mother had affectionately referred to as a “swimmer’s form”. That gave him no success now. His hope slowly whittled into familiar helplessness. Withered away as he became disoriented with exhaustion- as every joint in his body was set ablaze.

He could feel her presence. He hadn't dared to look back at the shore, and yet somehow he knew she was there. Her spell had outlasted her surveillance. Calypso had made it impossible to leave.

It felt as though years passed before he had the will to finally look back.

She was standing on the shore. His eyes were blurred, and he was unable to make out her expression. But when he saw her, the last bit of fight left his body.

He let the tides carry him back. His lungs seized and burned, his limbs grew hard. He drew nearer to the island.

Perhaps she'd torment him with some sort of debilitating injury. Something that would force him into physical submission permanently. She could cripple his knees, or ankles. He'd be entirely dependent on her help. He'd known what she was capable of the first day he met her- when the word “goddess” had met his ears. He awaited her wrath. He didn't care for whatever punishment she'd inflict. It didn't matter. Nothing that happened on the island mattered.

He looked again at her expression when the water brought him to the coast, placed him down before her.

She wasn't angry. The predicted fury wasn't at all present on her face. Rather, an almost fatigued look of despair. Disappointment. Her eyes were glossed over, her lips straight.

“I thought you were finally happy,” she said slowly, voice fragile. She turned her eyes down. “...You lied to me.”

He didn't have a rebuttal. He didn't care to construct one. Deception hadn't worked, and there was no more reason to lie. He didn't even have the motivation to pull himself into a standing position. She'd come get him, soon enough. Pull him to the shade, make him sit, fetch him water-

Calypso turned around. She walked away from him. Odysseus had seen so very much of her in the last few years, and yet the sight of her back was foreign to him.

-

The water was gentle, as it always was. The sun rested just above the horizon as the morning slowly settled in the sky.

She was sitting beside him. Not close enough to touch. She wasn't saying anything. She held out a cup of water.

He took it in his hands.

He had spent years hating her voice. Loathing the way it tumbled over his voice, sweetened it. But its absence today was felt. For the first time in years, Odysseus felt alone.

“Calypso,” he started. His voice broke before it fully formed.

His eyes traced the sea. The perpetual push and pull of the tides.

“I'm so… tired.”

The water rushed onto the shore. A cloud brushed by the sun.

“I know,” she replied. He felt her hand touch his back. “I forgive you.”

He exhaled.

-

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[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 10)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

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CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

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Day 1,703

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The morning felt heavy in his limbs. It was as though the dewfall rested on his body, heavy as stone, and held him down. He didn't want to leave the bed, couldn't fathom having the energy to fulfill the obligation he'd accepted. It was easier to stare out the window, watch the way the sun’s rays refracted against the glass. Far simpler to become enchanted by the dance of the shadows created by the tree that grew in front of the palace. Ever bending, ever curling. A persuasive hymn.

The energy to get up came to him all at once. A sharp, stubborn tick that pushed his feet off the side of the bed, made him stand. Pulled him towards the wardrobe, helped him dress himself. The faintest whisper of determination. He wasn't sure who brought it forth, how it was able to survive in the bedroom’s stifling air. And yet it did.

The goddess was waiting for him outside, bright eyed and enthusiastic. She had been positively delighted when he'd made the arrangement the day before. A day together, and arrows in exchange.

The two started off, side by side. An effortless path.

Calypso floated beside him, her perfume tying itself to her painted smile. “May I ask what you want arrows for?” she asked, leading the pair of them away from the marble palace. She had complete dominion over the activity of the day, and the King of Ithaca merely followed.

“...I want to practice shooting,” Odysseus responded honestly. “It's been years.” He'd had to reteach his body so much, recently. How to endure labor, how to tolerate physical strain. In turn, his body had reminded him of old habits. Building, running, swimming. Things he'd been proficient at in another lifetime. Before the island. It begged and nagged him to return to them. He entertained the idea now that foreign, subtle persuasion towards productivity had been born again in him.

“Were you a good archer before?”

“...An excellent one.”

“Oh, really? Why don't you show me?” She mused, clasping her hands together in front of herself. “That's what we can do today. I'm not in the mood for shells, anyways.” She reached over, draped her hand on his shoulder. He felt the weight of his old quiver materialize against his back.

He nodded, pleased by the proposition. It would make the day less of a waste. He touched his hand to the quiver and ran his finger across an arrow. It was an old, familiar sensation. His body remembered.

They walked together, side by side, down the cobblestone path. He'd go to a clearing by the cliffside, where tall pines stood. There'd be plenty of targets to aim at. Leaves, animals, bushes. The anticipation in his stomach grew. He'd see whether the skill had died during his time on Ogygia. He prayed it didn't.

“You know, I learn more about you by the day… Do you ever wonder anything about me?” Calypso asked. Her words cracked through his busied mind.

He tilted his head towards her. There on her face was the familiar look of expectation. Deep longing twisting around her features. It was a look he knew well; one that often preceded outbursts of emotion, expressions of frustrated disappointment.

He tried to configure a question in his mind. Something to satiate her quickly. “...Why are you stuck here?” A stark question, one that he realized afterwards he probably shouldn't have asked; but it was the only thing he'd ever particularly wondered about her. The goddess was hellbent on his captivity. He'd attempted before to convince her to leave with him- to abandon the island together. She'd made it clear that it wasn't possible, that she couldn't leave, even if she was interested in sailing away from the paradise. He wasn't sure if it was simply another trick or not. Whether she too was just as incapable of escape as he was.

Calypso’s face contorted. A dreary expression of melancholy took hold of her eyes. He regretted his question, and she spoke. “...A long time ago, there was a war between the titans and gods,” she explained, her voice gentle as a passing breeze. “My father was a titan… I was just a girl at the time. I didn't understand what was happening, not really. Only that my father needed my help. I tried my best to assist him,” She looked at him, tried to see if he understood.

He did. He nodded slowly in comprehension. She was cursed by the gods, confined to the island as a punishment for her crime.

“...And will the gods ever…?”

“No. I… I have no reason to believe so, anyways,” a dry laugh tumbled out of her lips. Cold and bitter, stained by years of withering hope. “And I don't… have the privilege of dying. I've been here for a hundred years, and I'll be here a million more,” she whispered, the words drying up as she spoke them. She became silent, swallowed her voice.

He watched her. He hadn't ever seen her look the way she did now. It was desperate, raw- marked by vulnerability that wasn't conjured or masqueraded. Visible grief at a life spent entirely alone. He could see it, somehow. What the island had done to her- how it had aged her, despite her eternal, divine youth. Twisted her into something she hadn't been before.

Something formed in his chest. An emotion he hadn't managed to feel in years. A foreign object, slowly developing in his heart, growing against his better judgement. Something that should've been impossible for him to feel for her. Something he could hardly manage. Miniscule, but genuine. Pity. “...I'm sorry, Calypso” he murmured, somehow meaning it.

He made eye contact with the nymph. In her eyes, a pool of water. Genuine sadness cradled the brims of her eyes. She nodded, looked away from him. For a moment, he could see what she was. What she had been, long before he had arrived.

A silence settled between them. Nobody spoke but the wind and their footsteps. Whispers of the past crept through the air. Quickly fleeting, impossible to hold. The echoes of time.

They approached the clearing of the forest. “...Well, anyways,” Calypso broke through the tension between them. Her voice was now returned to its typical intonation. “Let's see what you've got, hm?” She smiled, handed him a longbow he hadn't realized she was holding.

Odysseus nodded. He took the bow from her, feeling its weight in his hands. Lighter than the one waiting for him in Ithaca, but heavier than the ones he used to practice with. He stole an arrow from his quiver. The movements were smooth and methodical, reminiscent of a time long since passed. He knocked it, feeling the tension of the bowstring grow tighter and tighter.

He stepped back towards the cliff, getting distance between himself and the nearest tree. Along its curled bark was a knot in the wood. A natural bullseye, teasing him. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on it.

He felt a breath leave his body. Steady on the balls of his feet, he felt the wind rustle against him. Heading east, only slightly. He felt the influence on his arrow, predicted it. He turned the arrow’s head ever so slightly. He released his hand.

The arrow cut through the air in a whiz. It flew, straight and precise, the evidence of practice in its flight. It pierced the center of the knot with a satisfying thud.

Odysseus’ gaze fixated on it. Dead center. After so many years, he had fired a perfect shot. Excitement threatened to rise in him. He was still a seasoned warrior. The island hadn't taken that.

“You're a brilliant archer!” the nymph praised aloud, her voice warm and light. She clapped her hands together. “How long has it been since you've practiced?”

The question gave him pause. It was simple enough, and yet it reminded him of a painful reality he had tried to neglect. He wasn't sure how long he'd been on Ogygia. When he'd first arrived, his count had been meticulous. But somewhere, somehow, in the midst of exhaustion and misery, he'd stopped counting. He cleared his throat, tried to force back the growing discomfort in his chest. “I… don't know. How long have I been here, Calypso?”

“Not terribly long- I just meant that you haven't reached for your bow recently, that's all,” she dismissed, a sweet smile lining her lips.

He shook his head, unsatisfied by her answer. He knew she knew. “No, I mean… how many days?” How many years? He looked at her, silently pleading for honesty.

Her eyes caught the slightest golden glow as he stared back at her; he was unsure if it was the sun or something else. She hesitated, but spoke. “...One thousand, seven hundred, and three,” she replied, the words leaving her mouth like a poem.

A shiver danced across his spine. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the number settle in his mind. 1,703. An impossible length. A horrific amount of time. 1,703 days. 1,703 nights.

He felt bile threaten to rise in his stomach. Over 4 years. How much taller had his son grown in that time? How much of Penelope's hope had dissipated? He gripped the bow, tried to steady himself. He couldn't let his pulse grow swifter, couldn't let his mind spiral out of control. He sucked in a deep breath, made himself hold it.

He took another arrow from the quiver and aimed it, upwards now, to a beautiful crimson bird sitting on a high branch. He had to focus on what was real. What he could hold. What he could control. The bow. The bird. The arrows. Physical and tangible.

His arrow tore through the air, struck the creature before it had the chance to turn its head. He stared, watched as it fell. A red echo, dropping through the air. Beautiful and dead.

“Nothing tries to fly away here,” he commented softly, fixating on the bird. A victory undeserved, irregardless of the size or distance.

“...I could make you moving targets,” Calypso offered, standing up from her sitting position. She took stones from the ground. Her eyes began to glow, and the rock changed colors- warped into clay, light and thin. Targets the size of apples. She stepped back and threw one in the air. It was impossibly light, flying high above the treeline as if carried by wings.

Odysseus turned quickly, aiming the longbow up. He felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins. He fired. The arrow cut through the sky and found its target. The clay ruptured in half, crumpling mid air.

Calypso cheered. He felt another twinge of pride. She threw another. This one began to twist in suspended figure eights, twirling clockwise aggressively. He aimed, let another arrow fly.

It went just to the side of the target, missing it. Odysseus quickly reloaded, faster than he knew he still could. He aimed again, and this one hit.

“I just need practice,” he mumbled, loading another arrow as the goddess prepared another target.

He continued firing at them, hitting most, and only growing more determined when he missed. The arrows were endless. It was methodical, corporeal. He lost himself to it. Felt every arrow leave the bow like a bird in flight. Watched as the wind bent it, pushed it towards its target. It reminded him vaguely of his youth in Ithaca, when the best thing a young boy could be was a good archer. All of the hours spent drawing his bow, learning the skill through sheer determination and time.

He dared to imagine himself back home. Any great skill he still had wouldn't show itself on a battlefield ever again. He'd resign himself to being a mentor. He could teach Telemachus. He imagined himself, standing beside a boy who hadn't ever known a father. He imagined teaching him everything he knew. How to feel the wind against his hand, how to account for it. How to twist an arrow in his thumb to feel its weight. All of the secrets that would be whispered down their family line, father to son, a thousand times over. He allowed himself to dream. Arrow after arrow flew.

Her voice cut through his trance, demanded he come back to reality. “You're incredible,” she swooned. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, how many targets had been struck. She'd gotten creative with them- making them different shapes and sizes, moving at different distances in different shapes. She paused now, standing up from her position on a nearby fallen tree. “Won't you show me how to shoot? I've never tried to fire a bow before.”

Odysseus cocked his head in her direction, his perception of the goddess returning. He'd gotten lost in the practice, halfway forgetting where he was. “I doubt you've had much of a reason to use one,” he replied, his statement teetering on comedic. He returned the arrow in his hand to the quiver.

“I haven't,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. She approached him, determined but light. “But it looks fun! Show me?”

He wanted to continue practicing, but as he watched the goddess, he remembered the price of the arrows. A cost he'd agreed to. He nodded. “You'll want a shorter bow for yourself, this one will be too tall,” he said, holding up his own as if to prove his point.

She looked down, picking up a stick that had fallen nearby. In an instant, it curled, warping into a longbow more appropriate to her height. She stepped beside him, holding it. She turned her head up towards him and smiled.

“Try shooting the tree,” he offered, gesturing back to the tree he'd started on. It was close to them now, easy enough for a juvenile boy to strike. He remembered training young men before, how their eyes had darted away nervously at his gaze and instruction. Boys, really.

Calypso took the bowstring in her hand, pulling it back. Her hand was wrapped around the grip awkwardly, too high and loose. The arrow shifted in her hand, wobbling up and down.

Odysseus frowned, watching the clumsy attempt. “Watch me,” he offered, taking his own bow and holding it up. He drew it back, trying to display the way he held its center. “You need to move your hand down. You're off center, that's why it's moving like that.” He had seen many such mistakes with young soldiers, had corrected them more times than he could count.

Calypso moved her hand slightly, a frown on her lips. She fumbled again with the string, pulling it back, but not nearly far enough. A soft huff left her lips. The bow wobbled again, unsupported by her stance. “I just can't get it,” she complained. “...Won't you help me?”

Slowly, mechanically, he moved towards her. Stepped behind her, keeping his distance, but lining up his arm beside her’s. “Move your hand and grip it-” he murmured, pushing her wrist with his fingers. “And keep your elbow straight, that's the most important thing. You need there to be enough tension.” He nudged her arm, raising it higher. “Keep your shoulders square and move your legs apart.”

“I can't pull the string back far enough,” Calypso decided aloud, disregarding his other crtiiques. Her head moved towards him ever so slightly. He could smell the perfumed oil on her skin. She leaned against him, let her hair graze his jawline. “Won't you help me pull it?”

She was a goddess. He'd seen her turn stone to clay, and yet she was unable to draw back a bowstring. The peace that had settled in him when firing the arrows was slowly dissolving, developing into nausea. His body knew what she wanted before his mind did. Tension blossomed in his arms, traveling through the rest of his body like a venom. And yet he reached his arm around her, put his hand over her’s. He pulled the string back further. She'd fire the arrow, and he could go back. She could go back. He made himself look at the tree before them. One strike, one success, and she'd be pleased.

“Let go on three, two, one…” he counted quickly. They both let go, and the arrow whizzed through the air. It struck the tree, a few feet above his previous shot.

“Look at that! You're the best teacher!” Calypso sang pleasantly. She turned to the side, faced him directly. The longbow fell from her hands. Her body was against his’ in an instant- their skin overlapping.

“...Thank you,” he managed, immediately overwhelmed by the pressure against him. He stepped back instinctively, his eyes darting back to her.

She smelt like honey, suffocatingly so. Sweet, sickly sweet. Her eyes were wide, round as the seven olives, filled with the temptation of favors that demanded payment. “Why don't you allow me to show my appreciation…” she whispered. She put a hand to his waist, curled it inwards. Persuasive and hungry.

“Calypso, please, he whispered, taking gentle hold of her wrist. He didn't move, didn't jolt away the way his mind demanded he did. He'd dissolve the moment, let her lust leave naturally with the breeze. He'd turn her attention away, distract the nymph.

“What's the matter?” her voice came out in a melodic whine, wrapped around his neck and choked him. She moved her other hand to his shoulder, her chest now flush against his’.

He tried to remain calm, tried to compose his voice into something more persuasive. “I just… don't want to spoil our day together,” he insisted, carving a smile onto his face. “Let's keep practicing, it's been so long since I’ve-”

She pulled her hand from his grasp. “I won't spoil anything, Ody. You'll love this. Let me show you…” Her arms were around him again, her lips on his neck. Her lips, moving like a spider, crawling across him, faster, ready to paralyze him.

“Calypso, I don't- I don't want to take advantage of your kindness, let me- let me shoot for you, why don't you watch-” his words broke up, became frantic. His mind lost its edge, dissolved away as fear took the place of wit.

“Shh,” she whispered against his skin. Her hands moved faster now. She pushed herself against him, rocking like the tides.

He felt panic take hold of his body. Fear seized his hands, made them shake. His stomach turned, tension and nausea fighting for dominance. “Calypso, please,” he pleaded. “I don't want to right now. I'll do anything else you want, anything,” He'd pull the clouds apart if she wanted, tear down the palace brick by brick and rebuild it, rearrange the stars in the sky if it pleased her. In a sudden jerk of restraint, he tried to pull away. “Just not-”

An involuntary cry left his mouth as piercing pain jolted through his ankles. Blades, ripping into his skin. Then more, then more, puncture wounds, crawling up, searing and sharp. He didn't have to look down to know what was taking hold of him; thick vines, covered in thorns, working their way up his legs.

“Why do you fight me, Odysseus? After so many years? After everything I've done for you?” Calypso cried, her voice raised, dripping with ire, its sweet sugar shell now gone. Her fingers grasped his face, forced his eyes to meet her’s. He preferred the thorns, couldn't fight either. Her nails curved in, cut into his face. “Why do you make it so hard to love you?”

And then her lips were against his’. Hot and bitter, the tears that had sprung from her eyes salting his tongue. His heart tore through his chest, terror gripping his body. The pain in his legs grew more agonizing, the thorns growing and twisting. He felt the rush of his blood watering the plants that only grew with her frustration. Her hands tangled in his hair, her madness sucking the breath from his lungs. He was choking, drowning, dying just like his soldiers, just as helpless. Her hands moved, crawled across him in a crazed conquest. Unrestricted, unwilling to restrain themselves. Forever demanding. There was no ceiling to stare at, no way to force his mind to die to time. He was stuck, rooted to the ground. Rooted to reality, on Ogygia, with the goddess.

She tore herself away from him. Off of him, moving away. In a sudden flurry, with unclear provocation. “I didn't mean to get carried away,” he heard her say. He could still feel her skin. He could still smell her. He could hardly hear her.

A gasp left his lips as the thorns abandoned the sheath of his skin. They curled downwards, back into the earth. So quickly he hardly caught a glimpse of them.

His legs were covered in trails of blood. Wrecked with punctures, dark red, coated with the smell of metal. They began to contort, shifting as a gold glow enveloped his legs.

He watched as the injuries withered away like rapidly decaying vegetation. The thorns had entirely returned to the ground that bore them. Every scratch, every welt melted off his skin.

There was no evidence of what had happened besides what clung to his memory. What would live in his mind, and resurface in the late hours of the night. His body would remember, even if there weren't scars.

“Take another shot. I want to watch. You're a brilliant archer, Ody.”

Her voice like a spell, once again a sweet song. The tears had dried on her face, and her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. His own blurred. He couldn't force breath back into his lungs. It was too heavy, too hard.

“Take another shot.”

He could still taste the salt on his tongue. His hands curled in and out of fists. He tried to focus, tried to bring himself back.

He would do as he was bade. He could hardly see, and yet he found the discarded longbow. He took it in his hands again. His trembling hands. He held it up, drew it back. He wasn't balanced, his shoulders weren't straight.

The arrow flew from his grasp. It wobbled as it left him, teetered in the wind. It landed to the right of the pine- toppled to the ground, its flight broken. It clambered against the ground with the same inaptitude of his breath.

“Try again, my love. You'll get it this time.”

He could feel the phantom sting in his leg. Or perhaps he had orchestrated that in his mind. Or perhaps it didn't matter at all.

He took another arrow. He aimed. He fired again.

-

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