Book I · Ῥαψωδία α

Yap at me Muse, about this guy who was lowkey built different,

who literally couldn't stay in his lane after he absolutely demolished Troy fr fr:

He was out here vibing in everybody's cities, living in their heads rent-free,

ngl he was catching major L's on the ocean, straight up in his feels,

trying to keep himself and his squad alive and heading back to base.

they were out here acting real smooth-brained and did themselves dirty,

absolute NPCs who had the audacity to feast on Helios's cattle,

and he said "bet" and canceled their whole return journey.

Spill the tea about all this, divine bestie, Zeus's daughter, we're all ears.

posted up at home already, fully clocked out of the war and off the ocean, safe and cosy.

But this one man, nah, still locked out, lowkey starving for the comeback and for his girl,

because this baddie of a nymph Calypso, no joke a literal goddess, had him on lock,

keeping him tucked in her cosy little cave, fully delulu about being his wife.

the gods sat down and spun the thread that said yeah, this man gets to head home,

back to Ithaca, and even there he couldn't catch a single break, I swear,

not even with his ride-or-die crew. The gods all felt for him, every last one,

except Poseidon, who would not let it slide, holding the grudge for daysss

But anyway Poseidon had dipped way off to vibe with the Aethiopians out in the boonies,

the Aethiopians, who split into two squads, basically posted at the edge of the map,

some chilling where the sun clocks out, some where it pulls up for its shift,

showing up for a fat hecatomb of bulls and rams, a whole sacrifice glow-up.

were all assembled in the halls of Olympian Zeus, full group-chat energy.

And the father of gods and men kicked off the convo, taking the floor,

because down in his chest he was lowkey stuck thinking about flawless Aegisthus,

the one that famous Orestes, Agamemnon's boy, straight up bodied;

"Oh my days, the way these mortals keep pinning everything on us gods is actually wild.

They swear all their troubles come from our side: but nah, it's literally on them,

out here multiplying their own pain past fate with their reckless choices,

exactly like right now: Aegisthus went way past what fate even called for and

fully knowing it was a steep-death plot, because we warned him first, us,

we slid Hermes in there, the sharp-eyed Argus-slayer, to drop it in his ear:

don't body the guy and don't be rizzing up his wife, that's a hard no,

because the payback's coming straight from Orestes, Atreus's grandson,

That's what Hermes said, meaning well, but he just couldn't get through

to Aegisthus's head, no matter the solid advice: and now he's paid the whole bill at once."

Then Athena, eyes glinting and locked in, came back at him with this:

"Father of ours, son of Kronos, lowkey the absolute top of every throne,

and may anybody else who pulls the same stunt get folded the exact same way.

But honestly my whole chest is on fire over Odysseus, that big-brain who's been through it,

the unlucky one, who's been catching pain far from his people for ages now,

on an island ringed by water, like the literal belly button of the sea,

the daughter of Atlas, that menace who clocks every single depth

of the whole ocean, and he's the one personally holding up the pillars,

the tall ones, that keep the earth and the sky apart, no thoughts just vibes.

His daughter's the one keeping that poor crying man hostage,

charming him so he ghosts the memory of Ithaca: but Odysseus, that man,

he's so desperate to even just clock the smoke curling up

off his own land that he'd rather just die. And your heart, Olympian,

does it not flip even a little? Did Odysseus not earn the w,

on the wide plains of Troy? Why you this pressed at him, Zeus?"

Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer hit back with this answer for her:

"My child, what kind of take just slipped past the gate of your teeth?

How could I ever ghost or forget Odysseus, that godlike one,

on offerings to us deathless ones who hold the wide sky on lock?

Nah, it's Poseidon, the earth-holder, who stays unbothered-but-fuming,

permanently heated over the Cyclops, the one whose eye got cancelled,

godlike Polyphemus, who flexes the most raw strength

daughter of Phorcys, the one who runs the restless salt sea,

after she linked up with Poseidon down in his hollow caves.

So ever since then Poseidon, the one who literally rattles the ground,

isn't straight up ending Odysseus, just keeps bouncing him off his homeland.

for his comeback, how he gets home: and Poseidon's gonna let go

of his grudge, because there's no way he can stand alone

beefing against all the immortal gods when nobody's backing his play."

Then Athena, grey-eyed and dialled in, came back at him again:

ok so if this is genuinely the vibe now for the blessed gods,

that big-brain Odysseus gets to head back to his own house,

then let's send Hermes, the runner, that Argus-slayer,

out to the island Ogygia, like full speedrun,

the comeback of patient Odysseus, that he's actually coming home for real.

Meanwhile I'm gonna pull up to Ithaca myself, so I can hype his son

even harder and slot some fire and nerve straight into his chest,

get him to call the long-haired Achaeans into the assembly

butchering his crowded flocks and his shuffling, twisty-horned cattle.

And I'll ship him off to Sparta and to sandy Pylos,

to get the tea on his dad's comeback, in case he hears something,

and so the kid stacks up some solid clout among people."

the divine golden ones, that carry her clean over the wet sea

and over the endless land too, riding shotgun with the gusts of wind.

And she grabbed her sturdy spear, tipped with sharp bronze,

heavy, huge, solid, the one she uses to fold whole rows of men,

and she took off, shooting straight down from the peaks of Olympus,

touched down in the land of Ithaca, right at Odysseus's front gate,

on the courtyard threshold, gripping that bronze spear in her palm,

full cosplay as a guest, Mentes, the chief of the Taphians.

chilling out front of the doors playing draughts, keeping themselves entertained,

parked on the hides of the cattle they'd slaughtered themselves, like that's normal.

And the heralds plus their hustling servants were on duty for them,

some mixing wine with water up in the big bowls,

and setting them out, while others were carving up loads of meat.

And godlike Telemachus was the very first to peep her,

because he was sitting among the suitors with his heart all heavy,

picturing his goat of a dad up in his mind, like if only he'd pull up

and snatch his own honour back and run his own stuff again.

Turning all that over, parked among the suitors, he spotted Athena

and beelined straight for the front door, lowkey ashamed in his chest

that a guest had been left standing at the doors so long: pulling up close,

and he found his voice and hit her with these winged words:

"Hey, welcome, stranger, you'll get treated right with us: but first

get some food in you, then you can tell us what you actually need."

Saying this he led the way, and Pallas Athena fell in behind him.

he carried the spear over and stood it up against a tall pillar,

slotting it into the polished spear-rack, where loads of other

spears of patient Odysseus were already lined up waiting,

and he walked her to a throne and sat her down, smoothing a cloth under her first,

Then he pulled his own fancy chair up beside her, off to the side from the others,

the suitors, so the guest wouldn't catch the ick from all that racket

and lose his appetite mid-dinner, stuck among those entitled clowns,

and also so he could quietly slide in some questions about his missing dad.

a beautiful golden one, streaming it over a silver basin,

so they could wash up: and she dragged a polished table over beside them.

And the respectable housekeeper came round with the bread and laid it out,

loading on plenty of dishes, generous with whatever was on hand:

all kinds, and slid golden cups beside the pair of them,

while a herald kept circling back to keep their wine topped right up.

Then in came the suitors, those arrogant ones: and after that

they dropped into their seats in order, settling into the chairs and thrones.

the maids stacked the bread for them high in the baskets,

and the young lads filled the bowls right up to the brim with drink.

So they all sent it on the good food laid out ready in front of them.

But once the suitors had killed the craving for drinking and eating,

the singing and the dancing: because those are the garnish of a feast.

And a herald pressed a gorgeous lyre into the hands

of Phemius, who sang for the suitors, and only because he had zero choice.

So he struck up the lyre and launched into a beautiful song,

holding his head right up against hers, so the others wouldn't catch it:

"Dear guest, are you gonna be salty with me for what I'm about to say?

This is all these guys actually care about, the lyre and the singing,

easy money for them, since they're eating up another man's livelihood for free,

lying somewhere on dry land, or the waves are rolling them round in the sea.

If they ever clocked that man pulling back up home to Ithaca,

every single one would be praying to be quicker on their feet

instead of richer in gold and fancy clothes, no joke.

of comfort left for us, even if some person walking this earth

swears up and down he's coming back: his homecoming day is just gone.

But come on, tell me this and lay it out for me straight:

who are you and where from? Where's your city and your folks?

bring you to Ithaca? Who'd they claim to even be?

Because there's no way I think you got here on foot, let's be real.

And spill me this honestly too, so I actually get the deal:

are you a first-time visitor, or are you a family friend

seeing as that man was the type to get around and know everybody."

And then grey-eyed Athena came back at him with this:

"Alright then, I'll lay all this out for you super straight.

I'm proud to be the son of war-minded Anchialus,

Right now I've pulled up here with my ship and my crew,

sailing across the wine-dark sea to people who talk different,

heading to Temese for bronze, and I'm hauling glinting iron.

My ship's parked out in the countryside, away from the city,

And we're proud to be family friends, the two of us, going way back,

right from the jump, if you wanna roll out and ask the old man,

the hero Laertes, who they say doesn't come into town

anymore, but stays out in the fields, just grinding through it

whenever the exhaustion grabs him by the limbs,

as he crawls his way up the slope of his vineyard rows.

So now I've pulled up: because they were saying he was around,

your dad: but the gods are clearly blocking him on the road.

he's still out here alive somewhere, held up on the wide sea,

on an island ringed with water, and rough men have got him,

total savages, who are probably keeping him there against his will.

But for real, now I'm gonna prophesy for you, the way the immortals

even though I'm no seer and don't actually read the birds.

He won't be cut off from his beloved homeland much longer,

not even if he's bound up in literal iron chains:

he'll cook up a way back, because the man's always scheming something.

are you really the son of Odysseus himself, big as you are?

You look scarily like him in the head and the gorgeous eyes,

no joke, since we used to link up so often back then,

before he shipped out to Troy, where all the other

ever since then I haven't laid eyes on Odysseus and he hasn't seen me."

And switched-on Telemachus came back at her with this:

"Alright then, stranger, I'll lay it out for you super straight.

My mum says I'm his son, but personally I

Honestly I wish I'd been born the son of some blessed man

who got to grow old just chilling on his own estate.

But as it is, the most unlucky guy of all mortal men,

that's who they say I'm from, since you're the one asking me this."

"Nah, the gods didn't exactly set your line up to be a nameless flop down the road,

not when Penelope brought a kid like you into the world.

But come on, tell me this and lay it out for me straight:

what's this dinner, what's this crowd, and why do you even need it?

the way these guys lowkey seem to me like they're feasting all over me, arrogant and outrageously entitled,

straight up feasting all over the house. Any switched-on guy would be heated,

catching all this disrespect up close, if he had even a scrap of sense."

And switched-on Telemachus came right back at her with this:

yeah this house was lowkey loaded once, properly stacked and spotless,

back while that man was still around and posted up on home turf.

But now the gods rerouted the whole thing, plotting bad vibes on purpose,

because they made him vanish, ghosted him harder than literally

if he'd gone down with his boys in Trojan territory,

or in the arms of his people once he'd wrapped the whole war up.

Then all the Achaeans would've built him a tomb together,

and he'd have handed a fat legacy to his son down the line.

he's just gone, no trace, no word, and to me he left

nothing but pain and grief: and I'm not only sobbing over him,

since the gods cooked up plenty of other miseries for me too.

Because every single big shot who runs these islands,

plus everyone lording it over rugged Ithaca,

all of them are courting my mum and bleeding the house dry.

And she won't say no to the marriage she can't even stomach,

and she can't end it either: meanwhile they're eating away

Then Pallas Athena, properly fuming on his behalf, came back at him:

"Oh my days, you genuinely need Odysseus back so bad, he's been gone way too long,

the man who'd lay his hands on these shameless suitors.

Because if he pulled up right now and stood at the front doors

the exact same build of the guy I first clocked

back at our place, drinking and just vibing out,

on his way up from Ephyra, from Ilus, son of Mermerus:

because Odysseus had sailed out there too on his fast ship,

to smear on his bronze arrowheads: but that man wouldn't

hand it over, since he properly feared the gods who live forever,

so my own father gave it to him, because he loved him so much:

if Odysseus showed up to these suitors built like that,

But ok, all this is sitting on the knees of the gods,

whether he comes back and collects his payback, or he doesn't,

right there in his own halls: but I'm telling you to figure out

how you're gonna shove these suitors clean out of the house.

tomorrow call the Achaean heroes to the assembly,

say your piece to all of them, and let the gods be your witnesses.

Tell the suitors to scatter back to their own places,

and your mum, if her heart's set on getting married,

they'll sort the wedding and put together the bride-gifts,

loads of them, as many as should follow a beloved daughter.

And for you personally, I'll drop some clever advice, if you'll listen up:

crew up the best ship you've got with twenty rowers,

whether some mortal tells you, or you catch a rumour

straight from Zeus, the kind that mostly carries word to people.

First roll up to Pylos and ask Nestor, that legend,

then push on to Sparta to ginger-haired Menelaus:

If you hear your dad's still living and on his way back,

then yeah, worn down as you are, you could grind out one more year:

but if you hear he's dead and gone, no longer with us,

then come back home to your beloved homeland

loads of them, as is proper, and hand your mum to a husband.

But once you've finished all that and got it locked down,

then think it through, deep in your head and your chest,

about how you're gonna kill these suitors in your halls,

to keep acting like a baby, you're way past that age now.

Or have you not heard the clout that Orestes, that legend, racked up

across every mortal, since he merked the one who killed his dad,

sly-minded Aegisthus, the one who slaughtered his famous father?

be brave with it, so even people born later say good things about you.

But me, I'm gonna head down to my fast ship now

and my crew, who are probably proper fed up waiting on me:

keep this on you, and take my words to heart."

"Stranger, honestly the things you're saying come from a good place,

like a father to his son, and I'm never gonna forget them.

But come on, hang back a bit, even though you're itching to leave,

so you can wash up, vibe out, treat yourself a little,

something prized, properly lovely, a keepsake that'll be yours

from me, the kind of thing close friends give to friends who pull up."

And then the goddess, Athena with the grey-eye stare, answered him:

"Don't hold me back any longer, I'm itching to get on the road:

hand it to me when I swing back through, to carry home,

and pick out something properly nice: it'll earn you a solid one back."

Saying this, off she went, Athena with the grey-eye stare,

and like a bird she shot up and out: but deep in his chest

even harder than before. And he, clocking it in his head,

was lowkey stunned in his soul: because he reckoned she was a god.

And straight away, the man like a god in looks, he went over to the suitors.

A famous bard was singing for them, and they sat there in silence

of the Achaeans, the one Pallas Athena dropped on them out of Troy.

And up in the high room, picking up on that haunting song in her heart,

the daughter of Icarius, switched-on Penelope,

came down the tall staircase of her house,

And when she, gorgeous among women, reached the suitors,

she stopped by the post of the solidly built roof,

holding her shiny veil up in front of her cheeks:

and a loyal handmaid stood close on either side of her.

"Phemius, you know so many other things that put people under a spell,

deeds of men and gods, the stuff bards make famous:

sit there and sing them one of those, while they sip

their wine in silence: but quit this one song,

in my chest, because the grief that hit me just won't let up.

This is the head I keep aching for, never able to forget,

my man, whose fame runs wide across Hellas and the heart of Argos."

And switched-on Telemachus came back at her with this:

for entertaining however his mind moves him? It's not the bards

who are to blame, nah, somehow it's Zeus to blame, the one who hands out

to hard-working men whatever he wants for each one.

There's no shame on this guy singing the grim fate of the Greeks:

that lands the freshest on the ears of whoever's listening.

So toughen up your heart and your chest enough to listen:

because Odysseus wasn't the only one who lost his homecoming day

at Troy, plenty of other men went down too.

the loom and the spindle, and tell the handmaids

to get on with their jobs: the talking's gonna be the men's business,

all of them, and mostly mine: because the power in this house is mine."

And she, properly stunned, turned and headed back into the house,

And going up to the upper room with her handmaid women,

she cried then for Odysseus, her dear husband, until

Athena with the grey-eye stare dropped sweet sleep onto her eyelids.

Meanwhile the suitors kicked up a whole racket through the shadowy halls,

Then switched-on Telemachus started speaking to them:

"You suitors of my mum, carrying this over-the-top arrogance,

for now let's just enjoy the feast and cut the shouting,

because it's a lovely thing to listen to a bard

But at dawn let's all go sit down in the assembly,

every one of us, so I can lay it out for you with zero filter:

get out of my halls: go arrange your feasts somewhere else,

eating up your own stuff, taking turns from house to house.

to keep grinding down one man's whole livelihood for free,

then chow down: I'll be calling out to the gods who live forever,

in case Zeus somehow lets the payback finally land:

and then you'd all get wrecked inside this house, no compensation owed."

genuinely shook that Telemachus spoke up so boldly.

Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, hit back at him:

"Telemachus, the gods themselves are clearly tutoring you

to be a big-mouth speaker and run your mouth so boldly.

over sea-ringed Ithaca, even though it's yours by birthright."

And switched-on Telemachus came back at him with this:

"Antinous, even if you're gonna be salty at whatever I say,

yeah, I'd actually be down to take that on, if Zeus is handing it out.

Because being king is honestly not a bad gig: in no time your house

gets stacked and you yourself get way more respect.

But sure, there are plenty of other Achaean kings

in sea-ringed Ithaca, young ones and old ones,

but me, I'll still be the master of my own house

and the servants Odysseus, that legend, won as spoils for me."

Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, came back at him with this:

"Telemachus, all this is sitting on the knees of the gods,

but keep your stuff and stay master in your own house.

May no man ever pull up to strip your property by force,

against your will, while Ithaca's still got people living in it.

But I'm dying to ask you about the stranger, my guy,

to be from? Where's his family, where's his home soil?

Is he bringing some news of your dad on his way back,

or did he pull up here chasing some need of his own?

The way he jumped up and dipped instantly, didn't even hang around

And switched-on Telemachus came back at him with this:

"Eurymachus, yeah, my dad's homecoming is gone for good:

so I don't trust any news anymore, wherever it rolls in from,

and I couldn't care less about any prophecy my mum

But this stranger's a family friend of ours from Taphos,

and he's proud to be Mentes, son of war-minded Anchialus,

and he runs things over the oar-loving Taphians."

That's what Telemachus said, but in his heart he already knew she was an immortal.

vibing out, and they waited for the evening to roll in.

And while they were still vibing, the dark evening came over them:

then each of them headed home to lie down.

And Telemachus, where his bedroom had been built up high

that's where he went to crash, turning loads of stuff over in his mind.

And right alongside him, holding blazing torches, walked loyal-and-clever

Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor,

the one Laertes bought way back with his own wealth,

and he respected her in the halls same as his loyal wife,

but never once slept with her, dodging his wife's anger:

she's the one carrying the blazing torches alongside him, and out of

all the servant women she loved him the most and raised him from tiny.

and he sat down on the bed and peeled off his soft tunic,

then just handed it straight over to the clever old woman's waiting hands.

And she, folding it up neat and smoothing the tunic down,

hooked it on a peg right beside the corded bed,

the silver one, and sliding the bolt home with the strap.

And there all night long, wrapped up snug in fleecy wool,

he lay plotting in his mind the journey Athena had laid out.