"Tell me, O Muse, of the man of many devices, who wandered full many ways after he had sacked the sacred citadel of Troy." Aye. But first, the very man's tale of battle. Prior to the razing of Troy, before his feud with the gods. The tale of a man. The tale of a fool, a monster and a king. An infant, no older than two summers. A lonesome eye, roughly the vastness of a grown and mighty steed. A ship, drowning in its woes. A gown, enchanted with deceit and honorable cause. A ballad of beauty and longing, and the sting of sacrifice. The tale of a —

  "— man! Wake, you bumbling fool! Wake, before I make known your lazed nature throughout all of Ithaca!" A calloused palm gripped the shoulder of Ithaca's Ruler and General. Petals parted in a slurred groan, vocals rumbling deep within. The scratchy, annoyed voice prevailed through even the strongest of attempts at slumber.

  "Rise, Odysseus! You've until the time I finish my piss to awaken, or you'll not be invited to enjoy our grand mead!" The creaking of wood pierced the battered consciousness of the king, his shoulder being rightfully relieved of its previous pressure. A pause, chased by a pestered grumble.

  "–stubborn vlaka." Weight shifted, an auditorial trail of footsteps tracking from bedside towards the hull's upper deck hatch providing a temporary relief to the man of royalty. Temporary:

  "And don't keep it in your mind that your shoddy attempt to fake slumber tricked the likes of me, Ody." Curse this bastard man; Curse Eurylochus and his insight. The sound of rusted metal shifting in place interrupted pestered thoughts, followed soon after by the grunt of a man and the slamming of a bronze latch. Covers stirred, woolen fabrics casting aside as posture moved to decline the idea of repose. Olive skin gleamed, dampened and accentuated ever so gently by beads of resting sweat. Candle-casted shadows crept upon every inch of the internal hull, Apollo himself ceasing to touch much of the room. The latter half of one's countenance was left in utter darkness, halved features visible only to the most perceptive. Clothed limbs slung from the barren cot, dual-jointed digits furling before hitting the ground. Core shifted, rotating with legs upon axis. Fingers slid tenderly across straw, drifting towards thighs in their search for estranged and discarded clothing. "By the gods," Temper tested and quivered at the struggle, pupils dilating in their attempt to find the king's tunic. With time, digits snagged the corner of the rough fabric, ripping it out from under one's shoddy pillow. An exhale, of the audible kind, departed the figure as his back deflated ever so dramatically.

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  Weight rose, the straining of floorboards protesting the man's standing. Gentle movements snuck a finger through the loop of a candledish, raising the mobile flicker to traverse the room alongside frame. His girdle was fetched, along with sheath. Once the waist adorned the accessories, attention was turned towards the weapon rack. Finished wooden pegs glinted subtly in the soft glow of the inconsistent flame, the gleaming blade of the king's xiphos begging the man forth silently. And forth he went, tender fingers wrapping around the leather strip wrapped hilt. A clang echoed into the darkness, enveloping the near entirety of the room as digits removed the weapon from its rightful spot. Knuckles paled, grasp turning from that of correct stature to an obsessive grip. Previously suffered nightmares returned to the ruler of Ithaca, visions of pain and sorrow. Lids sealed optics behind a cape of further darkness, a hushed prayer to the Pantheon slipping through torn and chapped lips. Revitalized through his own faith, the general sheathed his blade before turning to feast with his men. May they dine together one last time, before reaping havoc and terror amongst the rebellious Troy.