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Odysseus knew the second he turned to face his son that his luck had finally run out. The last grain of sand had fallen through the hourglass, dusk had turned into night, and fate had set her shears onto the thread of his life at last.

The sun had long since vanished behind the horizon, most of the palace having fallen into slumber already, leaving Odysseus alone in the torchlight of his private chambers to pour over some minor issues that required his attention.

Astyanax’ footsteps had echoed through the empty hallway, reaching his ears as if the two of them were all alone in the world. Odysseus knew the sound of all the footsteps of his family by heart, but today Astyanax had sounded different. The energetic, youthful and confident step of a young man nearing maturity had vanished, it’s place taken by the step of a man old beyond his age. The step of a man carrying a burden that forced him down to his knees, melting him into the stone ground under his feet.

Astyanax had neither knocked nor had he announced his entry. The quiet creaking of wood had been Odysseus’ only warning. Looking up from where he stood at the table, the smile that had sneaked onto his face at the presence of his son fell the second he took in his expression.

Hollow, empty eyes stared back at him, eyes of a boy who had seen things that he never should have known of. The love that had rested in them just this morning when Astyanax had hastily said goodbye to him to go and train had been snuffed out like a dying ember, as if it had never existed in the first place.

He swayed under the weight of the burden thrust upon him, plaguing and threatening to knock him to the ground. His trembling hand gripped the handle of a dagger, hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The blade gleamed under the flickering fire of the torches, unblemished and hungry for blood.

Astyanax did not need to say a word. Odysseus knew. He knew and still moved away from the table, hand not reaching for the sword that laid on top, and took a step towards him.

“Son,” he said, the word that had always been relief and curse at the same time now threatening to swallow him whole. “What troubles you?”

No answer. A flicker of fire burned in Astyanax’ eyes at the title, but it was not a gentle one, even if it fizzled out as quickly as it had appeared. He did not move, only boring his eyes into Odysseus, as if he were not Astyanax’ father but a stranger in their halls, a stranger who had taken the place of the man he had thought to know.

“Father,” Astyanax spoke, sounding like he could barely cough up the word. He was quiet, too quiet, far from the outspoken and talkative boy Odysseus had raised. His hand seemed to crush the dagger under his grip. “Say that they’re lying.”

Pain coiled around Odysseus’ heart like a snake, out to choke and squeeze it until it beat no more. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were. Not specifically, at least.

Maybe it was Zeus, punishing him for his defiance sixteen years ago.

Maybe it was Apollo, seeking revenge for his son whom had found his death in Troy.

Maybe it was Poseidon, wanting to see him fall through the hands of his own, the same way Odysseus had broken through the walls the God had built with his own sacred animal.

Maybe it was all of them.

“Lying about what?” Carefully, he took another step towards Astyanax, keeping his voice soft and his posture low, as if he were approaching a startled horse. Or rather, a monster lurking in a cave.

Astyanax shuffeled backwards, not enough to be a step but enough to make it known he didn’t want his father near. Odysseus tried to ignore the pain in his heart; none of his sons had ever flinched away from him. The movement was only minor though, for Astyanax corrected it by taking a step towards him in return. There was no grace in it, only the weight of a man carrying a sword too large and heavy for him into battle, ready to strike down his enemy.

“They said you took me away.”

He had.

Odysseus still remembered the fire that had warmed his skin in the deep of the night while he had sat removed from his loudly celebrating brothers at a lone campfire, humming for his little boy, willing the child to sleep as he cradled him in his arms.

But he doubted that this was what the Gods had shown him.

“My son-” He took another step forward, slowly reaching out his hand to do...what? Embrace his boy. Make him drop the dagger. Tell him that everything would be alright.

But he had gone a step to far. The embers of destruction that had flickered in Astyanax’ eyes earlier lit up again, awaking his blood and turning into a wildfire. His beautiful features contorted into a scowl, the monster swallowing the man alive.

“Don’t call me that!” he shouted, moving the hand that held his dagger, not yet to strike but not far from it either. He trembled, his chest heaving from barely restrained fury that begged to be unleashed.

Odysseus stilled, moving back a step while instinctively raising his hands to placate the hate that possessed his son. His expression must’ve fallen even more at what Astyanax had said, renouncing his family like that as if it meant nothing. It wasn’t the first time he had done it, but this time, it wasn’t spoken in childish rage over a forbidden treat. This time, Astyanax meant it.

Forcing his heart to stay in one piece, Odysseus watched Astyanax bite his lip bloody, not finding release for the rage that consumed him. Tears stung in Astyanax’ eyes, tears of anger or sorrow—Odysseus wasn’t sure which—but they were tears that he wanted to wipe away, take his son into his arms and hold him as he had done sixteen years ago.

But he didn’t dare to. Not yet. Not when Astyanax was still so wound up, ready to strike at any second.

“You killed him,” he stammered, heavy breaths blocking his voice. “You killed my father.”

I am your father, Odysseus wanted to plead, cup Astyanax’ face and hold him close, stroke over his hair that was so similar to Odysseus’ own despite not being from the same blood. He had raised Astyanax; him and Penelope and Telemachus.

And yet, no matter how much he wanted to deny it—before Astyanax had been his son, he had been Hector’s.

Had he killed Hector?

He hadn’t, no. Achilles had killed him long before Odysseus could have even thought about it. To Astyanax though, it wouldn’t make a difference. Achilles was dead, as was Paris, and all those from whom he could have gotten his revenge. Only Odysseus was still here, alive, while Hector was not.

“Yes,” Odysseus whispered, eyes briefly darting to the ground before looking back at his son. “I did.”

There was no reason to correct Astyanax. Odysseus may not have killed Hector, but he had killed his kingdom and all that would have been his according to his birthright—he might as well have driven the blade into Hector’s heart himself.

Astyanax didn’t react, merely staring at him with his empty, teary eyes, as if it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Hesitantly, Odysseus took another step forward, slightly lowering his hands, fingers aching to feel the embrace of his son and tell him it had all just been a bad dream. Even if it would be a lie.

“I’m so sorry, Ast-”

Astyanax lunged at him before he could have evaded. Fingers dug into the collar of his chiton, shoving him backwards. They crashed against the table, its legs screeching as they were dragged across the floor. Astyanax loomed above him, pressing Odysseus down with enough force to tear his heart out.

“You killed him!” His face contorted in pain and rage, the blade gleaming in delight as it shot down towards Odysseus’ throat. Odysseus barely caught his son’s wrist before the tip could have buried itself in his skin to end his life. Heart racing, his free hand wrapped around the arm that held him down, trying to calm him, to pull him off.

“Let go! You killed him, you-!” Astyanax could not finish his sentence, muscles straining against Odysseus’ tight hold, his whole body trembling to escape and deal the finishing blow.

Every fatherly instinct inside Odysseus screamed at him to stop. To not grip his son so roughly, knowing very well he would wear bruises tomorrow, bruises that would show that his own father had laid a hand on him, even if only in self-defense. Astyanax was strong, struggling like a wounded lion to break out of a cage.

Odysseus did not care about his own life, for his throne. If that were all that was on the line, he would have let go, spread his arms and let Astyanax have his revenge, he’d let him tie his corpse to a chariot and do to him what Achilles had done to Hector.

But the word of Zeus had been clear. If he died, Astyanax would stalk into the bedrooms of his mother and brother and murder them in their sleep, just as he would have ended Odysseus’ life. He would burn down his kingdom, only to weep among the ruins of the only home he had ever had, with nowhere else to go and no one left to take care of him and protect him.

So Odysseus cried in his mind alone, holding his son’s wrist as if he wanted to break it forever.

“Let go, you-! You murdered my father, my home, my kingdom! You took everything from me!” Tears fell from Astyanax’ eyes, the only sign that told Odysseus his son was still inside the avenger he had become. The boy that would cry for those who had been wronged and whose smile was brighter than the sun.

“Son, please, drop the blade-!”

Astyanax was strong for someone so young, stronger than Odysseus had been at his age. And while Odysseus may have been a warrior once, those times were long gone, a speck of dust in the face of the fury of a boy carrying the weight of his fallen kingdom on his shoulders.

Time was running out. If Astyanax would not drop his dagger, Odysseus would grow too weak to hold him, the pain he already felt in his arms as they fought against Astyanax only growing worse with every passing second.

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your son! I’m a son of Troy, the kingdom you murdered! Hector was my father, and you killed him!” His voice broke under his shouts and screams, tears flaying his vocal chords and ripping them apart. His muscles strained under their effort to take the life of the man who had taken everything from him.

Odysseus hissed as the blade nipped at his throat, a thin stream of red flowing down his skin. His own eyes filled with tears, not from the barely registering pain, but from the pain of his son. His son, whose face switched between rage and sorrow like day and night. His son, who called a man whom he had no memories of his father.

His son who wanted to murder the family who had raised him, all because Odysseus had been dragged into a war he had not even wanted to partake in sixteen years ago and had come home with a child that was not his by birth.

“Astyanax, please, I beg you, don’t do this!” Odysseus’ hand trembled around Astyanax’ wrist, his strength seeming to flow into the hands of his son, as if his own body wanted to make sure the prophecy would come true.

In the back of his mind, he could hear a low, thundery laugh.

He didn’t listen to it.

“You dare ask for mercy after what you did?!” Astyanax pushed more of his weight onto Odysseus’, the bones of his hand digging so deeply into his skin that Odysseus was sure his son would crack a rib any second now. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you! You and mother and Tele who pretend to be my family while you stole me from my home! They’ll all see what you are once I do to you what you did to my father!”

Astyanax’ voice may be contorted by rage, but all Odysseus could hear were the cries of his little boy whose world had just been destroyed by the Gods, uncaring to the damage they caused and only interested in their own twisted entertainment and displays of power.

Odysseus’ leg twitched where it rested beside Astyanax, tears stinging in his eyes and blurring his view. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hurt his boy.

“Son, please-” His words cracked, both under the strain of Astyanax’ strength and under the pain of him rejecting Odysseus as his father. “I love you. I love you so much. Drop the blade, I beg you, my child-”

He wanted to scream, to hold him by his shoulders and tell him everything the Gods hadn’t bothered to show him. Paint over the images they had put into his mind, the portrait of the hero of the Greeks, the inventor of the Trojan Horse, the slayer of Troy, the man who stood cold-heartedly amidst a heap of ruins where once a kingdom lay, blood dripping from his sword and skin.

That was what Astyanax had seen.

He had not seen Odysseus begging, kneeling, prostrating himself before Zeus to spare him from killing an innocent infant after the God had shoved Astyanax into his hands, deriving amusement from his struggle.

He had not seen Odysseus hold Astyanax over the walls of Troy, his hands gripping the blanket he had been wrapped in so tightly that it could have torn. Tears streaming down his face, a million eyes digging into his body. Watching as he turned abruptly, his legs giving out under him as he fell to his knees, holding the boy close to him and weeping until the child had started to cry from distress as well.

He had not seen him driving his men insane on their journey home, racing around their ship like a tornado because they now had an infant on board who would have needed to be nursed, but no mother or nursemaid or even an animal who could have offered milk along with them.

He had not seen him standing before Penelope after ten years apart, with another woman’s child in his arms, tears in his eyes as he begged her to accept a boy as her own who one day may be her and Telemachus’ murderer.

His son. His precious boy whom he loved just as if he were his own. Who was his own.

“Stop lying to me! All you love is your victory over my homeland!”

But Astyanax did not see it. The blade dug into his throat and Odysseus shut his eyes and kicked Astyanax in the side.

The pained gasp that fell from his son’s lips as his grip loosened and he stumbled backwards hurt him more than a blade could ever do. The faint crack in Astyanax’ eyes that broke through the pain, the cry of a child that deep down had still thought his father would never lay a hand on him, no matter what.

Another bruise on his boy’s body from his father. He had promised to never hurt him and yet he did, even if only to spare him the pain of crying at the graves of his family.

Astyanax’ grip around the dagger had been too tight to make him let go, but Odysseus was on him before he could even think about raising it again.

Hand coiling around Astyanax’ wrist to keep him from lunging once more, Odysseus forced his son into an embrace, wrapping his free arm around him to hold him close. “I’m so sorry,” he stammered, carding a shaky hand through his son’s hair, pushing his head against his shoulder. “I love you. I love you, my son.”

Astyanax’ body burned from all the anger and hate coursing through his veins. “Let go!” he screamed, hand trembling and shaking as it strained against Odysseus’ wrist, aching to drive the blade into his father’s flesh a hundredfold. His other hand clawed against the back of his chiton, tearing and pulling and scratching like a wild wolf wanting to get one last human between its fangs before its death.

“You- you stole me from my mother’s arms like a prize!” His voice broke, the tears that soaked Odysseus’ clothes blocking his voice and revealing the grief underneath the rage that possessed his boy. “You destroyed everything and took me like some war trophy, to prove that you killed my entire bloodline! You killed my family and made me your damn pet to laugh at! Let go!”

While the tip of the dagger still trembled dangerously close to his throat, Odysseus’ arm began to grow numb under the raw power that had taken hold of his son; Astyanax could easily break his bones if he wanted, with all the strength that flew through his boiling blood. And yet, all Odysseus could focus on was voice of his little boy, an ugly amalgamation of all his cries as a child, whether it be over a lost toy or a scrapped knee or a nightmare; only that this time, the cries shook him as if he had seen his son murdered on a battlefield.

Odysseus ignored the pain in his arm, the pain in his shoulder as Astyanax’ hand found its way up and dug his nails into the skin, the pain in his throat from the light wound. He gently scratched over Astyanax’ scalp where his hand still carded through his hair and placed a kiss on top of it.

“You’re not my prize, you’re my son,” he whispered, tears clouding his own voice just as much as that of his son. “I love you. If I had known- if I had known you were my son before he put you in my arms and it was too late already, I would-”

He didn’t know what he would have done. He couldn’t have done anything. Just because he had broken though the Trojan walls didn’t mean he had any right to tell Achilles not to avenge his friend and it didn’t mean he could tell the other kings to pack up, go home and leave Helen in the hands of Paris.

He couldn’t have stopped it, or he would have become a traitor.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, leaning his head against Astyanax’. “Forgive me. If not me, then your mother. Your brother. They are not at fault, it’s mine to carry. They love you, just like I love you, my son.” He closed his eyes, tears slipping from them like raindrops. “Lower your weapon, I beg you.”

He did not flinch or move even a little when Astyanax’ hand clawed itself out of his shoulder, leaving bloody scratches in its trail as it moved upwards, desperately seeking something else to pull, to hurt, to torture. Odysseus let him burrow his fingers in his hair, tugging and yanking at it as if he wanted to behead him with just his strength. It hurt, but it didn’t matter, as it was the same little boy who had tugged on his curls back when Odysseus had carried him across the seas and he had barely anything else to offer him to play with. Astyanax had wanted to rip his hair out even then, but when he had been an infant, it had been playful. Now it was full of sorrow.

“I’ll kill him,” Astyanax just repeated, voice balancing between anger and pain with little grace. “You took my father, I’ll take your son! You took my kingdom so I’ll burn yours! You deserve nothing after murdering my home, my family, my people!”

“No, I don’t.” Odysseus pulled him closer, if that was even possible, feeling his son’s heart beat against his in rapid succession, a wild beast hurling itself against its cage. The tip of the blade was thus brought closer to his throat as well, and his arm grew weaker by the second. If he let go, the force with which Astyanax fought against him alone would drive the dagger into his flesh. “But I love you anyways. You were my son the second I carried you in my arms, your mother’s son the moment she laid eyes on you and Telemachus’ brother ever since he first held you.”

He pressed another kiss onto Astyanax’ hair, silently crying into the soft curls. “I destroyed your kingdom, and I would destroy a thousand more if it meant you laid safe in my arms. I’ve brought ruin to your family, but neither the kings nor Gods could have made me kill my child. And that’s what you are. My son. My child. My child whom I love as my own, because you never were anything else.”

He choked down a sob, holding Astyanax close. “Put your blade down, I beg you.”

Astyanax almost crushed the dagger with how tight he held it, shaking like a leaf in the wind. The hand clawing at Odysseus’ hair felt desperate, gripping at whatever was in its way to release the fire that pressed against his insides and wouldn’t find any release. Tremors raked through his body the more he let his tears fall.

“I’m- I’m not your slave, damn it, I’m not your son, I’m-” He sobbed, forcing his hand stronger against Odysseus’ wrist. The tip almost grazed his throat, so close to cutting the thread of his life in two. “I don’t belong to you!”

Odysseus’ breathing hitched. It hurt. It hurt like tossing his arm into the mouth of a starving lion and letting the beast tear it apart until all that was left was numbness and haze.

“You don’t belong to me,” he whispered, nuzzling his head against that of his son, drowning his tears in his hair. “But you belong with me. Always. I love you.”

No answer. He barely flinched as Astyanax tore out a few strands of his hair in his battle, feeling the hand move down towards his neck, nails digging into the skin. Restless like snakes, until they soaked themselves in the blood that flew from Odysseus’ wound. They stilled, but did not vanish, only tightening their hold as if Astyanax wanted to claw Odysseus’ throat open with his hands alone.

A sob raked through Astyanax’ body as he lifted his head, hitting both of theirs together with how close they had been, but no one said a word.

Odysseus’ heart broke at seeing all the tears flowing down his son’s cheeks. Pressing his lips together, he leaned his forehead against Astyanax’, looking at him with sorrow-filled eyes, the eyes of a father sitting at the deathbed of their child, knowing they’ll leave the world before him.

“I love you, Astyanax,” he whispered. Astyanax looked at him as if he wanted to scratch his eyes out, a thin trickle of blood running from his lip where he had bitten himself again and again.

His face twisted, fury giving way to pure grief as his hand left Odysseus’ throat, returning to claw at his back like a feral wolf. He slammed himself against Odysseus’ body, sobbing.

With a quiet clatter, the dagger fell to the ground.

The sudden lack of resistance against his wrist hit Odysseus like a whiplash, making him tumble backwards, but not enough to let go of Astyanax. His arm felt numb, trembling from the lingering strain, but even if it hurt, even if the skin were falling from his bone right now, he’d still have wrapped his arms around Astyanax, holding him as close as possible, one of his hands still carding through his hair.

“Shhh...” In a swift motion, Odysseus kicked the dagger far out of reach, letting it slide into a corner so he could focus solely on his son. His son, who still clawed at his back in search for relief, crying, the other hand digging into the fabric of Odysseus’ chiton, wanting to tear it apart.

Odysseus moved his numb hand over Astyanax’ back, ignoring the sting and ache. “Everything will be fine. I know you’re hurting. I know you’re angry. It’s alright.”

Astyanax sobbed, curling his hand to a fist and weakly hitting against Odysseus’s shoulder. “I hate you…! I hate you and mother and Tele and this kingdom and- I hate you…!”

“I know.” Gently, Odysseus brushed a stray lock of hair from his son’s face and kissed his forehead. “I know, my boy.”

The gesture only threw Astyanax deeper into his grief, sorrow and pain switching places in his eyes by the second while his fingers curled around the air where his dagger had been, still wanting to hurt Odysseus so they could share the pain he felt.

“You should’ve let me die,” he stammered, digging his head into Odysseus’ shoulder until he could feel his skull pressing against his bones. “You should’ve let me die with my family. I didn’t want this. I don’t want to be alive when they- when father and mother-”

Odysseus tried to blink the tears in his eyes away at hearing Astyanax call those his family whom he had no memory of instead of those who had loved and raised him. It didn’t work. Tears already flew. Gently, he rocked them side to side, holding Astyanax as if hr might vanish should he let go even the slightest bit.

“No,” Odysseus said, shaking his head only to lean it back against his son’s. “You wanted to live. Even when you were just an infant and didn’t understand what happened, you wanted to live. And even if you hadn’t, I would have done anything to make your life worth living.”

Astyanax sniffed, hitting Odysseus again, stronger this time. Good. If he had bruised his son with his attempts at self-defense, it was only fair Astyanax bruised him in return.

“How would you know?” he shouted, anger slipping back into his voice, mixing with the pain. “You don’t know me! You didn’t know me! I was just another Trojan to kill, the son of your enemy!”

“You would have known,” Odysseus whispered, the memory making him tremble even today, “if you had seen yourself.”

That fateful night weighed on his mind like a ball of iron, and during all those sixteen years, there had not been at least one where he had not startled awake thinking he was falling, having dropped his son off the walls in his dreams after all.

“I tried to sing you to sleep. Make you close your eyes so you wouldn’t see the height.” Penelope was the only other person to know about this, since merely talking about it proved too painful, even with his friends who had been there with him.

“But you wouldn’t...you kept looking at me, even as I held you over the walls. You were too young to understand, but you kept looking at me like I was supposed to protect you. Like you were already mine.”

He tightened his grip around Astyanax as if a hole would suddenly appear in the ground and swallow him. “And you were. You were my son, and you wanted to live, even after I destroyed everything that belonged to you.”

Odysseus didn’t bother holding anything back, his tears, the way he trembled and shook, the way his voice broke. It was grief, but it was the grief of a father who had almost lost his son due to his own failure. The grief of love. And Odysseus would never hide his love from Astyanax.

Astyanax trembled too, from rage or sorrow Odysseus wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter, for he would hold and soothe and comfort him anyways. Always.

“Shouldn’t have been such a coward,” he said, crying into Odysseus shoulder. “I was- I am a Trojan. I’m a prince. You just didn’t want to have the blood of an infant on your hands!”

Odysseus flinched as he hit him again, already feeling the bruise bloom on his collarbone. “You killed an entire kingdom, my kingdom, my father, my mother, but you were too selfish to kill me! If you had loved me, you would have let me die and see me parents again!”

It hurt. It hurt, because he couldn’t deny it. If Astyanax had been older, if he had been of age and they had met in battle, Odysseus wouldn’t have thought twice about killing him.

But he hadn’t. He had been given his son as an infant, and there had to be a reason. Zeus might have thought this reason to be further torture upon his soul, but to Odysseus, that reason was because Astyanax had always meant to be his.

“If being selfish is what saves your life, then I will always be selfish,” he said, carding his fingers through Astyanax’ hair. “I loved you from the moment you looked at me. You were mine the second they told me to kill you. And a father who loves his son doesn’t let him die. Hector couldn’t protect you anymore, so I did.”

The mention of his real father made Astyanax flinch again, pushing himself closer against Odysseus as if enough darkness in front of his eyes could make the images that he must be seeing go away; whatever the Gods had shown his boy in their ruthlessness, things he never should have seen with his own eyes.

“He wasn’t there because you killed him! He should’ve protected me!”

Odysseus’ heart tore at hearing Astyanax stammer, so full of grief for a man whom he had never known. The fist that had been hitting him uncurled, digging back into his shoulder instead, scratching against the little wounds Astyanax had already left there.

“You let him die,” he said, sobbing. “You let them treat him like he wasn’t a prince, the greatest warrior of my home! You let them drag his corpse through the dirt like a dog! They desecrated and dishonored him and you did nothing!” Astyanax spoke with such pain, as if he had been there himself to see it. “He was my father and you just watched!”

“I know.” Odysseus pressed his lips together. “I failed him. I failed you. I’m so sorry.”

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known that Hector would be the birth-father of his future son. Odysseus had only seen Achilles’ treatment of Hector in the passing, not finding pleasure in the whole ordeal, but not having spoken up against it either. It hadn’t been his fight, not his revenge, not his murdered friend to seek retribution for.

Still, he had known of the chariot. He had known of the days Achilles had spent stabbing his grief into a dead corpse. Maybe, if Odysseus had been a stronger, a more honorable man, he would’ve stopped it. If not for Astyanax, then for the honor of someone who had fought bravely for his kingdom and deserved to rest in peace.

But he hadn’t. Nobody had.

To this day, Odysseus still cursed himself for not having been enough of a tyrant to never let these tales spread to his island. That he hadn’t been the kind of man who would cut off the tongues of six-hundred men and deny all outsiders entrance to his kingdom, just to make sure his son would never have to hear the stories about Troy. It was not the kind of man he had ever wanted to be, but perhaps it would have made him a better father.

The Gods would have told Astyanax about his past soon enough, but with how things had turned out, the boy had practically grown up on those stories.

Six-hundred men Odysseus had brought back, all with tales to tell. He had come home to a ten-year-old son who wanted to have every minute of his father’s journey recounted. He had raised two children who knew they were the offspring of the man who had invented of the Trojan horse.

He had been forced to listen to Astyanax recounting the death of Hector with glee, as if it wouldn’t have been his own father in another life.

For all these years, there had been nothing more he could have done other than pray that the Gods would have mercy—if not on him, then on his son—and spare him the fate of having to know about his origins, about the Trojan blood that coursed through his veins while his mind thought like an Achaean.

But the Gods knew nothing of mercy, and the only bandage left for Odysseus to heal his son with was his love, and the hope that if would be enough. “He would have wanted you to live,” he murmured weakly, parting strands of Astyanax’ hair between his fingers.

Astyanax shuddered, his breath hitching as he shook his head, fingers tightening in Odysseus’ chiton. “No…” he stammered, “no, he wouldn’t! He would have wanted me to die as a prince of Troy instead of living as the child of our enemy!”

Are you happy now? Odysseus wanted to ask the Gods. Were they happy now that his son wished to die? For a war and a loss that had never been his and never should have been his burden to carry? Were they happy now that they had taken the joy and life from his son’s eyes and made him think of his father, the man who had begged and pleaded to raise him, as an enemy?

“No, he wouldn’t.” The sorrow in his voice did not vanish, but hardened to a firm resolve. “He was your father,” he said, even though it pained him to acknowledge it. “He would have wanted you happy and alive.”

Astyanax only sobbed harder, as if the mere idea that Hector could have died so that he could live was unimaginable to him. He only continued shaking his head, his soft hair brushing against Odysseus’ skin. “You don’t know that. How would you know?”

“Because I’m your father and I want you happy and alive. That’s why.”

He was not a Trojan. But he was a father. And as a father, he knew that he would have cast his life away in an instant if it meant his boys would be safe and sound, even with the ‘enemy’, as long as they were honorable and treated his sons well. If another kingdom had attacked Ithaca while both of his sons had been infants and Odysseus had died, his only grief would have been knowing he had not been able to protect his family.

Hector would have wanted Astyanax to live, and Odysseus wanted him to live.

“You’re not my father,” Astyanax whispered, so full of grief, as if he had to convince himself before all, if only so he could carry out his duty as a son and avenge his father. “You’re Tele’s father, not mine. I’m just...a foundling. I don’t belong here.”

As Astyanax leaned against Odysseus like he wished him to disappear merely by forcing his weight against him, his knees finally gave out, the come and go of tension having taken their toll on his muscles.

Even with one of his arms numb, Odysseus kept a tight grip on his son, sinking down to his knees with him and pulling Astyanax to lean against his chest.

He would never let him go. Even if the Gods came to take him, even if Hector himself would rise from the Underworld, he would never let him go.

“You do belong here. You belong to Ithaca and Ithaca belongs to you. If you weren’t my son, I would have given you away the second we came home. But you are my son, just like Telemachus is, and my sons belong together.” Trembling, he shuffled around on the floor, adjusting his position so that Astyanax could lean against him more comfortably.

For years, ever since he had brought Astyanax aboard his ship to sail homewards, this had been one of his worst fears—although he had feared it to happen in another way first. That Telemachus would not accept Astyanax as his brother. That his son, who had waited for him ten long years and had never known his father, would see him come home with another child and think he had been replaced. That Telemachus would think because Odysseus had seen Astyanax grow in a way he had never been able to with him, Odysseus preferred Astyanax over him.

His father had come back with a baby that demanded a lot of time, time that should have been his alone. Telemachus would resent him, resent Astyanax—so he had thought, at least.

Thus, he had torn himself apart. After the war, after finally breathing the air of Ithaca again, he had been tired, could have slept a thousand years without waking, but he hadn’t. Because his wife, his kingdom, and most of all his sons had needed him. And before he had wanted to be a king again, he had wished to be a father.

All the love that he had amassed in his heart for ten years he had poured onto Telemachus, and he had done everything that he could to make sure Astyanax would not be the ‘foreign child’, but Telemachus’ brother and the second prince of Ithaca.

And now the Gods had intervened and had given him the opposite first—Astyanax thinking that because he wasn’t his by blood, Odysseus would always be Telemachus’ father more than he was his.

“You’re lying. Tele is- Telemachus is-” Astyanax stammered, not shouting and screaming and clawing anymore, but still not able to let the weight of his fallen kingdom pass from his shoulders into the grave of his forefathers. Burrowing himself deeper in Odysseus clothes, he said, “If Tele hadn’t been there, you never would have taken me. This isn’t my kingdom.”

“What do you mean? I would have loved you all the same, even if I didn’t already have a son.” He didn’t enjoy it, this talk about worth and the way Astyanax was measuring himself against Telemachus as if this were a contest where he could only lose, as if Odysseus’ love for both of his children didn’t already exceed any level measurable.

One of Astyanax’ hands disentangled itself from Odysseus’ clothes to wipe over his eyes. Not that was of any use. “You only took me because you already had an heir,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from all the crying. “If you hadn’t had a prince already, you never would have kept me. You only loved me because I was no threat to your throne, because you never would have to put a Greek crown on a Trojan prince and hand your kingdom away to the enemy.”

Why? Why did the Gods have to deal this fate to him and his family? Sixteen years of peace, only for his son to think of himself as ‘the enemy’. Sixteen years of love, and yet one second of awakening the Trojan blood inside him had been enough to leave his ties to Ithaca and his family close to severed.

“You’re not the enemy,” Odysseus whispered, closing his eyes in response to the sting of his tears. “You were a child. You are a child. And if Telemachus were younger, or if he weren’t to inherit my crown, I would hand the throne to you in an instant.”

Not even for a second had he thought about what it would mean to put a ‘foreign prince’ on his throne. Astyanax wasn’t foreign, he was Ithacan. An Ithacan prince, just like Telemachus. ‘Lord of the City’, not of Troy, but of their own.

“Your blood may be Trojan, but you are Achaean, just like your family. Just like me and your mother and your brother and your kingdom. You could never be a threat to me.”

No one would paint his son as the enemy. The outsider. A threat. Odysseus had defended his son against the hesitancy of his crew, against the worries of his advisors who had painted the darkest pictures about what a foreign child in the royal family could mean, and he would defend him against anyone who made him believe he didn’t belong. Even if that someone was Astyanax himself.

There had been a reason Odysseus had explicitly forbidden anyone who knew about Astyanax’ nobility from spreading the word and destroying the story Odysseus had so carefully crafted. No, Astyanax had always been a simple orphan he had taken in. Not even Telemachus knew the truth. Only Penelope and those who had been with him and watched as Odysseus had tried to throw him to his death.

Astyanax was not a foreign prince. He was Ithaca’s prince. His prince.

“That’s not true,” Astyanax whispered, tugging at his own hair this time, as if he wanted to tear off the Greek mask and reveal the Trojan beneath. “You destroyed my future. You destroyed the kingdom I was supposed to inherit. You killed all my people, and now I’m the only one left.”

Astyanax wept for the very same kingdom he had so gleefully rebuilt and destroyed in his own childish play in the past, back when Troy had only been a myth that he could revive with his wooden soldiers and horses. Back when Hector had only been a man, and Odysseus had still been his hero.

“You took everything from me and brought me here, where I am nothing. Just-” Sniffing, he rubbed over his eyes, reddened from all his crying. “Just a spare. Not even a replacement. Nothing.”

“Don’t say that.” Odysseus’ hold around Astyanax became stronger, wanting to protect his son from himself. “I destroyed your kingdom, I know that, but-” His breathing hitched, and he leaned his head against Astyanax’. “I never wanted to take anything from you. You aren’t nothing. Ithaca loves you, just as I do. My life would have been so much worse if you weren’t here to share it with me. Even if you don’t see your value, I see it, everyday. I have just three reasons to live, and you are one of them, my son.”

For a moment, Astyanax’ sobbing was the only sound in the room, the quiet of the night along with the flickering and cracking of torches wrapping them in isolation.

For a moment, Odysseus dared to hope that he might have found the correct words to finally break through the Trojan walls a second time, even if they were not guarding a city but a heart now.

“I don’t believe you,” Astyanax said, shaking his head as if he had to chase the mere thought of it being the truth far away. He still clung to him, didn’t run away or push him off. The little boy inside him wanted to believe, but the son of Hector forbid it.

“If you- If you had to choose between me and Tele, you would never-”

“No one makes me choose between my sons.”

Astyanax flinch at the sudden roughness in Odysseus’ voice. Odysseus pulled him closer, his fingers tightening were he held him, as if there were an enemy about to lunge through the door from whom he had to defend him.

“But-”

“No one.”

Odysseus’s heart stilled, quieting, waiting for a noise that wouldn’t come. An old instinct from his Trojan days, when blades had threatened to sever his head and it seemed like time had stopped. The instinctual feeling of someone nearby, someone who wanted to harm them, him and his friends, and by extension, his wife and son. An anger that made his blood boil and freeze at the same time, deadly either way.

There was no one here, he knew it. No one to harm them. But he had already been forced to choose once. Astyanax or his family. Living with the guilt of murdering an infant or living in constant anticipation of an attack.

They had all wanted him to choose, every God, king and man who had watched that day. He would not choose again.

“No one,” he repeated, eyes burning with something dark, something sealed deep inside of him that he hoped he never would have to set free, “makes me chose between my sons. Not you. Not Telemachus. No counsel, no king, no God, not even-”

His hands trembled and his chest heaved, both from fear and from rage, even if tears still silently fell from his eyes. He didn’t dare speak the name, in fear of provoking him to appear after all. Zeus was watching them, he knew it, eve if he couldn’t feel his presence.

Odysseus had defied him once when he hadn’t thrown Astyanax over the walls, and he would defy him a second time by proving his prophecy wrong, no matter what it took.

Zeus wanted him to suffer, if only for his amusement. But Odysseus wouldn’t give it to him. Even if he came and demanded him to choose between his sons, he wouldn’t chose. No one would ever make him chose again.

“No one makes me choose between my sons and lives to tell the tale.” Those were not his thoughts. Not the words of a loving husband, of a gentle father, of a benevolent king. He wasn’t without mercy and heart. But the eagle had tried to strike him once, and he wouldn’t be caught off guard a second time.

Whoever threatened not just one but two of his reasons to live should not go into battle expecting mercy. He didn’t want to be a monster, but if that was what it took to protect those dear to him, then he would be. Even if his opponent was a God.

Gently, too gently for a man who had just declared war onto everyone even daring to think about threatening his family, he pushed Astyanax’ head away from his shoulder. Not completely, but enough to lean their foreheads together, enough for him to look at his face.

A little of the survivor of Troy had died in Astyanax’ eyes at Odysseus’ change of tone, a tone he so rarely, if ever, used with his sons. Only when they had done something stupid—stupid enough that it could have gotten them killed. Like the day Astyanax had played near the cliffs leading to the shore despite Odysseus having forbidden it, leading to him slipping and almost falling to his death. Again.

But something of the hollow, empty look that Astyanax had worn earlier and that a man of sixteen years should not wear had vanished. Not completely. But a little. Odysseus carefully cupped his face, wiping away the tears staining his cheeks, and looked into the heartbroken, devastated eyes of his boy, so torn and lost and angry at everything the world and the Gods had thrown at him today.

“Do you understand that?” Odysseus asked, walking a fine line between firmness and breaking. He did not care about his own tears or whatever injuries and bruises Astyanax had given him. All he cared about was his son knowing where he would always have a home.

“Do you understand that you will always be my son and that no one will ever take you or Telemachus from me? Do you understand that you were never anything less than wanted and cherished, and that you and Telemachus are equally loved, because my love for both of you is boundless?”

He pressed his lips together, leaning his head harder against Astyanax’, wishing he could make him feel all the love that burned inside him like a warm fire, all the thoughts that floated in is mind when he saw his son. Gently, he rubbed his thumb over Astyanax’ cheek, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Do you understand that?”

Looking at Astyanax, Odysseus did not see an avenger. The only thing he saw was his son, his boy, his little warrior who was so grown up already but still so small. Astyanax’ eyes were glossy, wanting to cry a new kind of tears, a kind that encompassed the grief of all he had lost in just a single night and that Odysseus was so desperate to rebuild, even if Astyanax tore down ever stone that Odysseus placed.

He sniffed, voice trembling just as much as his body. “Father...”

The word alone shattered and repaired Odysseus’ heart all over again, over and over and over. It never should’ve been spoken with such deep-seated sorrow.

“Tell me,” Odysseus whispered shakily, letting his hand wander from Astyanax’ cheek back to his hair, gently stroking over his soft curls. “Tell me you understand. Please, Astyanax.”

Astyanax flinched as he bit his already bloody lip, hate and love flickering through his eyes before he instinctively leaned into Odysseus’ touch. A faint nod. “Yes,” he murmured, forcing the words out of his blocked throat. “I understand.”

Odysseus let out a quiet breath of relief, though his body was still taut like a bowstring. He didn’t let him go. Didn’t let him look away, avert his eyes.

“You are my son.”

Pressing his lips together, Astyanax forced down another sob, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought the noise back. Another shaky nod, another almost inaudible whisper. “I’m your son.”

Odysseus wished he could smile at the words, and he tried to, but the weight of the night hung over him like a curtain of iron, only allowing a faint twitch of his lips. But it didn’t matter. Astyanax was his son. And no matter how often he forgot, Odysseus would always remind him. Ithaca would always be his home, even if he tried to burn it down. Astyanax could bruise and scratch and hurt him as often as he wanted, but Odysseus would never stop loving him.

“Yes, you are,” he murmured softly as his body trembled from both relief and the fear of letting go of the tension. “You always will be.”

Sobbing, Astyanax rubbed his already soaked-through sleeve over his sore eyes before letting his gaze wander to Odysseus’ throat. Two thin trickles of blood had dried where the blade had grazed him, flowing down to vanish beneath his clothes. On his shoulder, where his chiton exposed a bit of his skin after having been torn at so roughly, faintly bleeding scratches peaked out, messy and ugly.

“I hurt you…” Astyanax stammered, as if he only now realized what he had tried to do earlier.

But Odysseus only shook his head and took his son’s wrist into his hand, gently rubbing over where he had pressed so hard not even an hour ago. “You were angry and hurt. I hurt you. I kicked you. I’m so sorry.”

Something wild entered Astyanax’ eyes, a glimmer of life, even if it was the kind of life that turned against itself. Again, Odysseus wanted to smile—his boy, his little boy, so compassionate for those who were wronged, even when he shouldn’t be.

“No,” Astyanax said, hesitantly freeing his hand. “No, that’s not the same, you’re not-” His gaze dropped to the ground, to what little space there was between them. “You’re not supposed to forgive me, I dishonored fa-...father, and I dishonored you, and your- our house and family and-”

“Shhh.” Odysseus wanted to hear none of it, none of the unjust self-blame, and only spread his arms. “Come here, my son.”

Astyanax didn’t move, unsure, hesitation passing through his eyes as he lifted his gaze, as if he had to debate if he was even allowed such closeness, as if a time could exist where Odysseus would ever not embrace his son.

“Father…!” The hesitation passed, the mask of forced self-control fell, and Astyanax threw himself into Odysseus’ arms.

He could have knocked them both to the ground with the strength with which he had flung himself against Odysseus, but Odysseus would always be there to catch his son. Even if he had to catch his balance, he held them upright. Wrapping his arms around him tightly, he felt Astyanax do the same, clawing at him again, but no more because he wanted to hurt. It was a searching touch, searching for the anchor that had been by his side for sixteen years and would remain there until the day the Underworld would claim him.

Stroking over his hair, Odysseus let him weep, let him release of all the emotions that were still stowed within, too much for a man and far too much for a boy. The flame of anger and hate and rage had not died down, not yet, but it was controlled now, surrounded by the mist of confusion and the rain of sorrow.

It was fine. It would all be fine. Astyanax had the entire rest of his life to be angry at him, and Odysseus would guide him through it every time, no matter if it he had to stop a dagger again or just fight against Astyanax’ inner demons. He would protect his son, always, from himself, from his past, from the souls of the dead that clung to their last and lost prince, and from the pain Odysseus had caused him merely by fighting in a war he had never wished to be part of.

“I tried to kill you...I’m sorry, father- I’m so sorry,” he heard him weep, fingers loosening and tightening around his clothes, his longing for comfort and his guilt battling inside him.

“So did I,” Odysseus murmured, closing his eyes to block out the memory. “Long ago. But everything’s alright now, it’s all over, it’s all done now, my son.”

Perhaps that was the punishment. Since Odysseus had not suffered through the guilt of murdering an innocent infant, he instead had to suffer through the guilt of almost killing his own son—and because that was not enough, never enough for the King of Gods, because he had defied him, that very guilt was passed down from father to son.

They had both tried and almost succeeded in killing each other. But Odysseus would make sure that Astyanax never had to wear the memory of today as heavy as he himself had to wear the memory of that fateful night sixteen years ago.

“That’s not the same…” Astyanax said, pressing himself closer against him, searching for the warmth of his heartbeat and the proof that, despite him denying it, Odysseus’ words were not empty.

“It is.” His words would never be empty. “I forgave you long before you were old enough to hold a blade. I can only hope you that one day, you can forgive me too.”

Astyanax didn’t answer, but if his faint nods were anything to go by, he did not hold it against Odysseus for dangling him over that wall, so close to certain death. Odysseus’ only relief was that Astyanax had been too young to remember this moment, unless the Gods had showed him that as well. Still, let it be Odysseus’ memory and guilt to carry for the rest of his life, not the one of his son.

“What do I do now?” Astyanax asked, shaking under the pull of two sides tearing at him and wanting to claim him as their own. The call of the deceased, wailing from the long gone ashes of his fallen kingdom, the call of the legacy he had been supposed to inherit, the blood that made him one of Troy—and the winds of Ithaca, the kingdom with its two princes, with a mother and a father and a brother who looked at him with loving and living eyes and embraced him as their own.

“I need to- but I can’t kill you,” he stammered, squeezing his eyes shut to hide from the weight of responsibility that tradition demanded. “Who am I now?”

Deep down, Odysseus wished he could erase Hector from Astyanax’ mind, so that he never even had a reason to think he had more than one father and mother, more than one kingdom. But Astyanax was one of both worlds now, whether they liked it or not.

“That’s for you to find out,” Odysseus eventually said, trying to seal his own tears, though not very successfully. Was this what it felt like to give a daughter away for marriage? “You will always be my prince and my son, even if you deny your home. You can be a prince of Troy, you can be a son of Hector, if that’s what you want to be. You can be whatever you want.”

It wouldn’t be that easy, not with one of his kingdoms being a dead myth now, but a naive part of Odysseus’ soul still hoped it would be.

“Whatever you are, I will love you. Even if you call yourself a son of Hector and a prince of Troy. If you’re happy, then so am I. And I’ll always be here if you want to call yourself mine.”

Astyanax didn’t seem soothed by that answer, likely having hoped for a simple solution despite knowing there wasn’t one. But as long as Astyanax was here, as long as Odysseus could wrap his arms around him and hold him and show him he was loved, it was fine. There was more than enough time for him to find out who he was. And even if he didn’t, even if he never found an answer, Odysseus would always be his safe haven to return to.

“I don’t know,” Astyanax said, so small in front of the two kingdoms calling his name. “I’m his son...but you’re my father.”

A sound of defeat escaped him as he burrowed himself deeper in Odysseus’ embrace. Odysseus let him, his own heart slowly healing under the warmth of Astyanax acknowledging him as his father. While he did say he would love Astyanax either way, deep down, he wasn’t sure if he could ever recover should Astyanax renounce their familial bond forever.

He would not hold it against him. But it would be a loss he could never heal from.

“I’m your father,” Odysseus repeated. For Astyanax, for the sleeping palace and all its inhabitants, for the kingdom, for himself, and especially for the Gods to hear. Nothing could tear him away from his son. No blade, no prophecy, no curses. Nothing.

Astyanax still trembled and shook from the exhaustion of all that had transpired in such a short time today, turning minutes into decades and centuries. It was late at night already and Astyanax had to be tired, if not from the weight of the world, then from his usual adventures and training around the island.

So full of life, he always was. Odysseus would not let anyone take the spirit of life out of his eyes ever again.

Gently, he stroked over Astyanax’ back, willing him to rest and calm his heart. There would be enough guilt, worries and questions for them to face tomorrow.

“Father?” Astyanax murmured, his tears slowly drying, the spring inside him running empty.

“Yes?”

A moment of hesitation. Then, small and quiet, almost inaudible, “Do you still love me?”

“Always,” Odysseus replied before he even could have thought about it. What a question. What was the all-consuming feeling in his chest that wrapped itself so warmly around his heart and threatened to make it burst from pride and joy every time he looked at his son if not love? “I never stopped loving you, and I never will.”

Another small noise sounded through the empty room, almost a whimper, the sound of a man allowing himself to be a boy while he still could. Astyanax’ body felt like a warm blanket on his, and he could only hope Astyanax’ felt the same.

“...promise?”

“Promise.” The hand carding through Astyanax’ hair stilled but did not let go. “You should sleep a little. Whatever you wish to know tomorrow, I will tell you. But you need to rest now. You had a long day.”

Astyanax did not respond, but Odysseus felt his body grow heavier, allowing himself to lean against him more thoroughly as Hypnos led his son down the path of sleep. He had grown so much. It whad been only yesterday that he held the little bundle of cloth in his arms, the gentle rocking of the ship and his own movement lulling his baby into sleep. Back then, he had appointed Polites to make ensure the ship was as quiet as possible, every word not strictly necessary forbidden until Astyanax had fallen asleep.

How time flew.

Astyanax may be a grown man soon, but deep down, he would always be the little boy Odysseus had carried across the sea all these years ago.

“Father?” His voice was sleep-ridden already, his mind somewhere between sleep and wake, the only thing keeping him awake being the occasional sniff or sob that remained trapped in his body.

“Yes?”

“Will you be there when I wake up?”

Odysseus looked down at his son. His eyes were opened just enough to let the low light in, clinging to consciousness like a lifeline.

Placing a kiss on his hair, he whispered, “Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

With those words the final one of Astyanax’ wounds seemed to be bandaged—if not forever then at least for today. Closing his eyes, Odysseus felt Astyanax’ breathing hitch occasionally, but slowly evening out and get deeper, heavier.

Odysseus would not move. Not until he knew his son was asleep so deeply that not even a thunderstorm could wake him anymore. Gently, he kept stroking over his back, holding him close. He had made a promise, and he would keep it—even if he had to stay awake the entire night, Astyanax would not be alone tomorrow. He would not be alone when the guilt and memories flared up again, either from what happened today or from the tales of a fallen kingdom that was now suddenly his own.

The Gods may have made Odysseus carry the weight of the world alone, but he would not let his son go through the same.

Things would be...difficult tomorrow. Would Astyanax want to know about Troy? Would he strive to find out as much as possible about his lost homeland, would he ask Odysseus about all the stories he had never told because they had not been meant for the ears of children? Would he confide in his brother, with whom he had always been so close?

Would Odysseus have to explain to Telemachus why he had kept his brother’s nobility secret from him?

Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe Astyanax would cast the topic aside, leave it to rot in its grave until he felt ready to unearth whatever secrets lied within his original family. Maybe Astyanax would deny his heritage and live his life as a simple son of Ithaca.

Or he would be both, forced to balance the responsibility of his current home and the one he had lost, figuring out how to honor and preserve what was not there anymore and could never be rebuilt, not in the way it had once been. Odysseus could send his son away and make him found a city on another shore under the name of Troy, but even then it would never be the same kingdom.

He’d have to tell Penelope. He’d have to tell Telemachus too, who never knew about the prophecy, never knew, for his own sake, that his little brother might one day be his murderer. But they would see the wounds on Odysseus’ body, Penelope would know, and Telemachus deserved to know too. Astyanax would be ridden by guilt, and Odysseus could only hope that Telemachus would not hold it against his brother. If Telemachus were to look at him with resentment, Astyanax would be devastated.

But Telemachus had grown into a kind and compassionate man. It was less his judgment that Odysseus feared, but more Astyanax’ own.

He choked down a sigh.

Whether he liked it or not, Zeus had taught him well. He hadn’t been ready back then, no matter how much he had argued with Zeus beforehand that he was, he had not been ready to throw Astyanax off the walls, he had not been ready for Astyanax to come and kill him despite knowing it would happen, and he was not ready for what would come tomorrow.

Still.

If there was one thing he had been ready for, it was being Astyanax’ father.

And if he knew one thing about his family, it was that his wife was the best woman that ever graced the Earth with her presence and that Telemachus was already a much better man than he ever could have been at his age.

They would forgive Astyanax, just as Odysseus had forgiven him. Perhaps Astyanax would never fully forgive himself, just like Odysseus could never fully forgive himself for even thinking about killing him, but that was alright. Odysseus held enough forgiveness and love in his heart for both of them.

It didn’t matter if Astyanax was Trojan or Achaean, it didn’t matter how much of both sides he would pour into his self.

First and foremost, Astyanax was a son of Ithaca. He was the second prince of their kingdom, he was the son of Penelope and the brother of Telemachus. He was ‘lord of the city’ not just of Troy, but of their own as well. The love of their people belonged to him.

A tired smile tugged on the corners of his mouth, and Odysseus gently leaned his head against Astyanax’, closing his eyes to join his son in the realm of sleep and dreams.

Because that’s what he was. Before all, Astyanax was a son of Odysseus.

A son whom he loved.