He had spent over a hundred years trapped in the darkest pits of the underworld, Tortured endlessly and forced to change into something he barely recognized anymore.
He had fought and run and begged and threatened and submitted and pushed until he felt like he had nothing left inside, Nothing left worth fighting for.
In a moment he made what felt like a crazy decision to write a letter and send it out, Of course he didn’t expect much to come of it, Probably much expected the lowly demon to eat it the moment he took his eyes off it, But instead he got a reply.
And then another.
Everyday he found himself watching the sky for more then just the birds and beasts flying over head, Everyday he felt himself fighting a little harder to make it to tomorrow, To read and write.
Through all the hell he’s been through, And the pain and bloodshed, It felt like he was finally at the end of the journey.
So why were his feet frozen to the cold stone? Why did it feel like his chest was going to collapse in on itself? Why couldn’t he steady his breathing or heart rate?
His eyes were locked onto the cool, Shimmering surface of the pool in front of him, The unsanctioned tear between realms that would finally free him from this nightmare.
Finally get him to one reason he’s kept fighting so long for…
He nearly jumped feeling Frida’s hanf on his shoulder, Looking up at her for only a moment before she, In her usual impatient manner, Shoved him through the rift.
It took him a moment to readjust, The air feeling cooler and smelled fresher, The stone beneath his feet still cool but no longer unnaturally so, There were no lost souls to light up the cave but the pool still shimmered just enough for him to see
“… Apollo..?”
( @apollo-is-appalled sooo I tend to get a lil carried away when writing, lmk if I should change anything)
Yet though it is always metrically regular, it never becomes monotonous; its internal variety guarantees that. This regularity imposed on variety is Homer's great metrical secret, the strongest weapon in his poetic arsenal. The long line, which no matter how it varies in the opening and in the middle always ends in the same way, builds up its hypnotic effect in book after book, imposing on things and men and gods all the same pattern, presenting in a rhythmic microcosm the wandering course to a fixed end which is the pattern of the rage of Achilles and the travels of Odysseus, of all natural phenomena and all human destinies.
Bernard Knox on “the creation of epic verse” (dactylic hexameter) in his introduction to The Odyssey
