"Must you go, Ody? What of Telemachus? What of our livestock, and our property? What about us?" Mourning and sadness dripped from the glimmering, pooled hues of the beautiful queen. The woolen peplos of royal design piled upon the ground, the dainty woman's frame collapsed in a pitiful heap.

  "We tried, my love. They've found me in my place of hiding, and call upon me yet to join their ranks. If I decline, the hope for land and livestock will see its bitter end." The king, posture slumped in equivalent levels of depression, tied together the straps of his cuirass. A calloused palm ran against the reflective bronze shine of the grand Corinthian helm, mournful exhales escaping our hero. The helm was turned, optics watching the distorted reflection of a singular tear fall from a rosy and sun-kissed cheek. Salty liquids splashed against the back of the helm, digits slinging the armor piece to his side. Hues shut, a breath of sorrow escaping into the chilly air. Figure spun, pivoting in place. Sandaled feet clacked into the silent darkness of the night, frame dropping to a kneel before his wife. A hand slipped beneath dark locks, pressing the royal couple's foreheads together. "I'm sorry, Penelope. . —”

  Sobs ceased, the heroic figure choking on his own cries. Digits held the pendant within their grasp firmly, knuckles whitening at the prolonged pressure. Optics locked, shaking with anticipation and fear, with the hazy trail of mystical blue fog. Breathing, ragged as ever, quickened as the king realized just exactly what that implied. The presence of a god, just minutes ago, had swept through this very catwalk. Limbs shook at the thought of standing once more, though wine had started its job of revitalizing both consciousness and muscle. Tasseled waistband curled along with legs, the frame dropping to a crawl upon hands and knees. Slowly, so very slowly, the figure made his way back to his sword. Digits clasped around the hilt, the bloodied steel blade glimmering with its own ravenous hunger for battle. Despite the protest of his muscles, the king rose, looking worthy of Ares' challenge. Fingers rose, smearing his bloodied lip in a distasteful path across cheek. Cranium hung low, darkened visage forcing itself to rise from the ground. Red and swollen eyes glimmered in the flickering light of the burning wall, the comfortable temperature of the abode having turned to that of searing pain inside. Shoulders hunched, everso weary, as the figure stalked back out upon the catwalk. Midway across the elevated platform, to the right, led a staircase back to the streets of Troy. Across the catwalk, where the trail led, sat Hector's servant housing. Inside, laid a wailing Astyanax, cradled in the shaking arms of Andromache's trembling midwife.

  The muffled sound of screams and cries carried a saddening undertone to the already horrific scene of blood and death. Cranium turned, hues scanning over the city of Troy. The gods' temples were set aflame, piles of food and supplies stacking in certain areas as Greek men sacked every inch of the city. A group of Achaean soldiers kicked in the door of a common man's house, the shadow of blood spattering across the dimly lit window nearest the door. A crash drew the king's attention back towards the door of the servant-house. Fingers brushed at the pendant, feeling safety and familiarity in the god-given device. Steps were made, the weight of the gods' eyes bearing down upon Odysseus' back, our hero stopping mere inches from the door. Steeling his nerves, the king inhaled before —

  "Aghhe—!” Frame collapsed, a forearm connecting and sliding down the door, weight slooping sideways against the wood. His blade had been dropped, digits clutching his side in searing pain. Cranium turned to face his attacker, hues locking with . . . nothing. The absence of man struck the king almost as hard as the pain of his imagined stabbing. Brows furrowed, a shaky breath hardly managing its escape from throat. Optics looked upon the absent wound, free fingers grasping at the pendant. A steady stream of a hazy blue liquid appeared at the touch of the necklace, pouring like a fountain from the mystical blue slash in his side. "What in the gods. . . Who plays such tricks upon me, and wishes my collapse during a time so dire! Show yourself, Deity!" Polites son of Priam emerged from the darkness, a cloak of hazy blue flowing from his shoulders.

  "Ruler of Ithaca. Oh, how my daughter hath spoken your name dearly. Rise." As if possessed, the king chambered to his feet. A shudder crawled down the man's spine, leaving the cold tendrils of fear creeping along neck. Petals parted, the frightened king attempting to sputter out a sentence to the Pantheon's leader. "Z, . . Zeu—"

  "Speak not, son of Laertes. I come to you as a sign of my own good will towards a man of your kind, attacking you only to sample you to your future if you do not listen closely. The boy inside that house, he is of great potential. But not a potential the likes of you could harness. You've led the deceitful charge to kill his father, and hold good graces with Achilles, the man's slayer. In due time, the boy will grow. And with him, his hatred for those who took his dear father from him. He will come for you, for your son, your wife, and your kingdom. You will lose everything, no matter the effort to stop him, for I will it so. That is, unless you kill him now.” Brows furrowed, nose scrunching as the king moved to argue. Yet another interruption. "Kill him now, Odysseus. Sacrifice the boy to the gods, or you and everyone you love will die at his hands. Let us witness your response, not hear it, for actions scream where words whisper." And with that, the god of gods and king of kings, disguised as Odysseus' old friend Polites, stalked down the staircase and into the shadows. Within seconds, the flapping of grand wings split the sky. A shriek, capable of ridding a man of his hearing, pierced through even the most violent of skirmishes as the Eagle of the Pantheon took his leave.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Left with more questions than answers, the king slumped against the abode's outer wall. As if all at once, fire crept around and danced upon the doorway and railings nearest the previous house, seemingly chasing the ruler. The flickering orange glow casted a malevolent hue upon the darkened, somber expression of our hero. Blade had been retrieved from the ground, shoulders rolling as nerves were steeled once more. "One life, to save many. That is a just and reasonable cost, surely. For Zeus himself orders it so,"

  A sandaled foot met the shoddy door, the wooden frame creaking and snapping away from its post as the barrier gave way. A startled cry came from the hiding midwife, only increasing the infant child's wailing. With the ominous backdrop of Hephaestus' forge at the king's back, the shadowed figure stood menacingly in the collapsed doorway. As if seeing Thanatos himself, the servant screamed a blood curdling scream. The cries of an infant boy split through the fine fabrics of sheets, attempting to cover the boy as if a loaf of bread. The ruler raised his blade, the glimmering and bloodied tip angling itself at the woman. "Out. Leave the boy. Return to the crowd with your life, or perish." Crackling flames only added to the seemingly evil in the man's gravely and sorrowful voice. With a sob, the servant up and ran past the king, leaving Astyanax son of Hector, to die at the hands of Odysseus. Gladius sheathed, digits ripping away the boy's disguise. As if bestowed with the knowledge of his own death, the child's panic and screams only increased in magnitude at the sight of our hero. Beady, tear-filled eyes met those of the king's, equally tearful.

  —Cleaned and oiled hands slung around the head of the swaddled infant, dried petals pressing a tender kiss to the boy's forehead. "Protect your mother, Telemachus, for she is fragile in her glass-like beauty. I will return, and when I do we will share the greatest of our wine in kylix made of gold. I'll teach you everything my father and Athene taught me, and we will live on to die our respective deaths of old age." —

  A tear ran gently down the bloodied cheek of the king, digits scooping the infant into his arms gently.

  "Oh, son of Hector. How you remind me of my own child, Telemachus. I am to hurt you greatly, beautiful infant of Troy. Please, cease your cries, for they've filled me with anguish deeper than any I've ever felt in mere moments." Sobs broke words apart, the king shuddering and heaving with each cry. The swaddled body of the boy squirmed, wails of Astyanax attesting to the child's persistence and stubbornness. Frame stalked back through the abode's far door, leading up to a grand tower within Troy's walls. Such a tower was bestowed upon the servant-house as a gift from Hector for the successful delivery of Astyanax, and would further prove to be the boy's end. Each sorrowful step chipped at the king's heart, the echoing of feet against cold stone leaving the man with nothing but the next stair. Eventually, sweaty and dirty locks met the wind of Troy's protective walls.

  The fiery scene, looking as if a depiction of Hephaestus' forge itself, played out below the king. Whatever was burning was wheeled out of the city, laying upon horse-drawn carts. A group of Trojan prisoners sat, kneeled in distanced rows at the tip of Achaean swords. Gusts of air blew the tunic of the king, despite being saddled by cuirass. The vision of a grand archer picked the midwife out upon the group of seated prisoners, who had spotted the dark figure upon the tower. Screams of denial and pleading left the tied and bound figure, the distant sound feeling equal to a stab through the king's heart. "Forgive me, son." The infant raised, despite the joint protests of the imprisoned servant and the child himself. With a final sob, the boy was casted from the stone walls of Troy. The world seemed to stop, the only sound audible being the infant's final wails. Within seconds, it was over. A child's life had been taken, at the gods' command. An infant, no older than two summers. Dropped to his demise by the troubled hands of Odysseus.