#bleakness

He had looked for Elpinor, down there. Because his death had been so fresh, and so stupid. To survive the war, the cyclops, the storm, the sea god, the witch, only to fall from a roof? Where was the justice in that?

He should know better than to expect justice by now, in any form. Most of the time, he does. Justice is a useful tool in ruling an island or fighting a war, but when it comes to survival…

Anyway, he didn’t see Elpinor in the Underworld. He saw the face of the first man he killed in battle, staring unblinkingly up at him from the murky waters, as if judging him silently. Just as he’d done when he fell to the ground outside the walls of Troy, the light of life fading from his eyes as one hand weakly crept toward the spear in his throat.

He could have screamed into the waters, as some men had. Demanded to know what the dead wanted of him. It was a war. He hadn’t asked to go, but he had vowed not to bring shame to himself and his family once he got there. He had a beautiful bride waiting for him, and parents to make proud, and whatever these Trojans had done to incur the wrath of Menelaus, he was going to do his best to destroy them. He has no business feeling guilt over the death of one pathetic enemy soldier. By now he is responsible for the deaths of hundreds. None of the others followed their ship through the Underworld, judging him with dead eyes.

What did the others see? No one spoke of it. Nireus had cried silently but constantly until he fell at last into sleep, Theasides had screamed and thrashed around as though he were being attacked, and Odysseus himself had stood there with his lips moving silently in conversations no one else heard. But no one spoke of what they saw. Not then, and not in the weeks that have stretched into months since they returned to the realm of the living.

Are they living? These days hardly seem to count as life. Perhaps they are all dead already. But the men are still hungry, the blazing sun still burns their skin, they still wake and sleep. When there were more of them, a whole fleet trailing behind, there were jokes. He doesn’t often remember his life on Same, but he does remember the early days of the trip from Troy. High on victory and spoils, full of hope and excitement at the prospect of returning home. The shouting and laughter had been loud enough to travel over the waters, spreading from one ship to another, infecting the entire fleet with happiness.

Sometimes he thinks of Polites and wonders how much would have changed if he had lived. Probably the captain would have listened to his foolish trust and naivete one time too many, and they would be in the Underworld already. He’d like to believe that. Because if it’s not true, then Polites…no, he wasn’t right! He had loved Polites, too, but that man had never seen the world as it truly was. He’d never seen the danger and darkness all around them. He’d been great with a bow, but he’d had no common sense.

And yet…Odysseus had trusted Polites. Had he lived, the captain might have relied upon Polites to guard the wind bag. Perhaps Polites could have persuaded him to trust Eurylochus, too. They could have taken it in turns, ensuring that bag stayed closed, and the captain wouldn’t have nearly killed himself from lack of sleep.

Sharing that duty would have been the smart thing to do. Hadn’t he said as much to Odysseus? Hadn’t he offered to share the burden? But no, the captain had been stubborn, as he always was, trusting the wind bag to no one but himself, going without sleep until first his temper began to crack, then his focus began to wane, and finally until the waking hallucinations began.

Eurylochus is the second in command. He couldn’t just sit back and watch his captain, his friend, his brother destroy himself in such a way! And yes, maybe…yes, he had been hurt that Odysseus would not share the responsibility. Weren’t they brothers? Wasn’t he next in the line of command? Why wouldn’t Odysseus trust him to watch the bag while he slept? No man on board would have dared try to take it from him by force.

The captain didn’t trust him. That was what it came down to. Odysseus hadn’t trusted him. He had chosen to destroy himself rather than accept help from Eurylochus. That truth had burned a deep, angry hole inside him and at last he had lost his temper, tearing open the bag to prove to himself that there wasn’t really a storm inside. The captain’s stubbornness had convinced him that the gods were playing games, giving them an empty bag and laughing as they watched to see how long Odysseus would deprive himself of sleep to protect this bag of nothing. He’d wanted to prove that he was smarter than Odysseus, that failing to trust him had been a mistake.

Instead he’d proved the opposite, and the guilt of that has been a constant companion to him ever since. The deaths of those 552 men at the hands of the sea god—he carries just as much of the blame for that as the captain. Odysseus was the one who told the cyclops his true name and left him alive. But Eurylochus is the one who opened the bag that brought Poseidon to them.

What would Ctimene think of him, if she were to see him now? He can imagine how he looks: burnt, scarred, emaciated, filthy, shoulders rounded by years of guilt and weariness. If that didn’t stop her embracing him, the knowledge of all that he’s done surely would. He left home to bring her honor, and nothing he’s done since the war is worthy of honor. All he can do is continue to look out for the remaining men as best he can.

Not that it matters. He’s never going to see Ctimene again, if she ever truly existed at all. He will never taste another bite of soft goat cheese or watch the wind rippling through the leaves of the trees on his island. It is not that he’s resigned to his own death, though there are moments when he thinks he would find it a welcome relief. No, he will not go down without a fight, not as long as his men need him, not while he still has a job to do. There’s a chance, just a small one, that they will find a place that has food, shelter, relative safety. With full stomachs, a week of good sleep, and no one trying to kill them, it’s possible that the morale of the crew might improve. It could be that life will become worth living again.

But making it home? The only one who still believes that is Odysseus, and how he continues to do so is anyone’s guess. It’s impossible. Poseidon won’t allow it. Defying the gods seldom ends well for those foolish and bold enough to try. The captain’s luck has brought him this far, but it can’t last forever.

The only big question remaining is what will come next. Gods? Monsters? Death? Peace? Or simply day after day of slow starvation, watching what little hope remains in the faces of his friends fade into desperation and madness? He doesn’t like to think about that, so he focuses on smaller questions. Which way the wind is blowing. How much safe drinking water remains. Whether they will catch any fish, or if they seaweed they chew on will make them sick. How long he’ll be able to persuade his friends to exercise, practice combat, stay active.

Whether the growing rift between himself and Odysseus, which gets progressively harder to ignore, is from the guilt of the secret he carries, or perhaps the guilt that Odysseus himself carries. Has he done something to upset the cold, harsh man who he used to consider a friend? Or is his captain simply angry at him because he still lives, when Polites does not?