#btbp

Saga raised her head, glaring at him briefly before running a hand through her short hair in a vain attempt at composure. Her heart was pounding beneath the fabric she had so desperately clutched, though her expression betrayed nothing but irritation. She wasn’t sure what grated more—the nickname or his audacity.

Polites chuckled as he shifted his attention to the sword they had removed from her earlier. The blade glinted faintly in the dim light, its edge clean yet battle-worn, a contradiction that tickled his curiosity. Holding the weapon between calloused fingers, he traced the intricate designs etched into the hilt—bronze laurel leaves intertwined with bold geometric patterns. It spoke of opulence and power, but also unmistakable authority. The sword's balance was impeccable, and its craftsmanship bore the mark of someone who had carried it with pride and precision. Yet, there was something odd about it—something that tugged at the corner of his thoughts.

“This sword has Agamemnon’s designs on it,” he finally said, lifting his gaze to Saga. The weight of his observation hung heavy in the tent.

Saga felt her pulse spike, her face paling despite her efforts to remain composed. Her hands froze mid-motion, halting Eurylochus’s attempts to unbuckle the remaining pieces of her armor. “Found a spare on my way here as I had lost my own,” she offered quickly, her voice steady though her heart hammered like a war drum.

Eurylochus raised an eyebrow, but shrugged off her words with little care. “Shame,” he said as he grabbed and tossed the sword aside with a dull clatter. The lack of reverence for the artifact brought a strange pang of relief to Saga. He turned his attention to the bow resting nearby, its sleek curve catching the faintest gleam of the dwindling daylight. “You do archery, eh? I assume you’re efficient?”

Saga’s breath hitched. Her hands fidgeted, tugging lightly at the frayed ends of her chlamys—a movement so telling she felt the air thicken around her. “I… was being taught before…” she managed, her words fading into uneasy silence.

Polites chimed in before Eurylochus could press further, his tone softer yet still laced with camaraderie. “Give him a break, his trainer probably died. It’s okay, my friend. We can finish your training. Perhaps Philoctetes or Teucer can teach you.”

Saga blinked, surprised by the sudden reprieve. She bit back a sigh of relief, letting her shoulders sag slightly as the tension eased. “Mm… thanks,” she murmured, keeping her gaze low while her mind raced.

Eurylochus's lips parted, his next words on the verge of spilling out, when the air outside the tent was split by the sharp, resonating blast of a horn. The sound carried through the camp with an undeniable urgency, scattering the quiet hum of soldiers at rest. Saga flinched at the noise, her pulse quickening as the atmosphere shifted from tense camaraderie to hurried chaos. Around them, men rose from their seats, the scrape of boots on dirt and the clatter of weapons filling the air as they darted from tents and leaned toward the commotion outside.

Polites and Eurylochus exchanged a look—a glance steeped in silent understanding. “Captain is back,” Polites muttered, his words clipped with the efficiency of someone who didn’t need to elaborate further. Without hesitation, he dashed from the tent, his movements swift and sure as he joined the mounting activity beyond the canvas walls.

Eurylochus turned back to Saga, his hand motioning for her to remain seated. Though his gesture was casual, his tone carried an unspoken order. “Stay put,” he said simply before disappearing into the fray. The tent flap swayed in his wake, letting in brief flashes of the chaos unfolding beyond—a whirlwind of shouted commands and restless bodies.

“Elpenor, grab the ropes! Achaemenides, tie them to the hosts!” Eurylochus’s voice rang clear amid the noise, his orders cutting through the din like a blade. 

Saga remained motionless, her mind a storm of thoughts as she tried to make sense of the chaos. The distant clang of swords being strapped onto belts and shields scraping against wooden posts added to the symphony of commotion that surrounded her.Sharp calls of orders rose and fell on the wind like waves crashing onto a rocky shore. Her fingers twisted the edge of her chlamys almost unconsciously, her knuckles whitening against the fabric.

Odysseus, she guessed, her throat tightening as she gulped slowly. He’s here.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a rhythm that seemed to echo louder than the soldier’s hurried footsteps outside. This was the man she was supposed to follow—the figure whose name carried equal parts awe and fear. The realization burned through her nerves, sending sparks down her spine. Without thinking, against every instinct and order she’d received, she rose to her feet. Her legs wobbled slightly, unsteady from the weight of her decision, yet her resolve pushed her forward.

Saga moved to the entrance of the tent, the heavy canvas brushing against her shoulder as she pulled aside the flap with trembling hands. The blinding light of the midday sun struck her eyes, momentarily disorienting her as she blinked against its glare. The world outside came alive, more vibrant and overwhelming than she'd anticipated.

The horn bellowed again, its piercing cry reverberating through the camp. Soldiers shouted to one another, their voices layered in an unintelligible cacophony that carried urgency and anticipation. Boots kicked up clouds of dust as men scrambled into positions, some racing toward the water’s edge.

Her gaze settled on the enormous ship slicing through the waves as it approached the shore. The large vessel’s hull gleamed like polished onyx, its figurehead carved into the likeness of Athena, her stern gaze directing its course. The creak of ropes unraveling from the mast joined the rush of the waves and the hurried splashes of soldiers diving into the water. Ropes flung from the ship’s haul fell to the waiting men below, slapping against the ground with dull thuds. The soldiers wrestled the cords into their grasp, their synchronized grunts accompanying the strain of their pulls.

Planks rattled against the sand, each thud seeming to echo louder than the last, as the soldiers scrambled to fetch the boarding ramp. Saga’s breath hitched, her chest tight with the weight of anticipation. Her gaze darted to the towering ship, its shadow sprawling across the shore and swallowing the chaos of the camp in its enormity. The horn blared again, the sound so sharp it reverberated against her ribs, and Saga stiffened as the resonance seemed to call for her very attention.

Her fingers dug into the tent flap, clutching it so tightly the fabric strained against her grip. She gulped, her throat dry and raw, and cast a glance upward toward the vessel as her heart thundered against her ribs. Odysseus—this had to be him. This was his ship. The man she was meant to follow had arrived.

There was no ceremony, no pause for grandeur, when the ramp struck the edge of the hull with a dull but decisive clatter. Saga flinched, startled by the swiftness. Soldiers poured from the ship in a steady stream, descending the plank like water cascading down a cliff-side. They carried oversized loads—skins of meat slung over broad shoulders, bundles of rough-hewn wood clutched against armor—and their steps were heavy with purpose. Boots thudded rhythmically against the plank, the sound blending with the shouts and commands that rippled across the shore.

Each soldier bore a mark of identification—a pinkish band tied to their arm, a sash hanging from their waist, or streaks of dye smeared across their helmets. The color stood out against the stark backdrop of muted bronze and hardened leather, a strange uniformity that drew Saga’s attention. She craned her neck to catch a better glimpse, but found herself engulfed in motion.

Men bustled around her in waves, the air thick with the stench of damp carcasses and splintered wood. Saga grunted as she tried to maneuver through the crowd, dwarfed by their imposing forms. The tangle of bodies jostled her; she ducked to avoid the sharp edges of a swinging trunk and sidestepped just in time to avoid the brush of cold, slimy skin.

As the crowd thinned, she paused, catching her breath and steadying herself on her feet. Her eyes darted toward the boat’s bow, where the commotion seemed to settle into organized chaos. It was then that her gaze snagged on two familiar figures—Eurylochus and Polites—standing near the foot of the ramp.

They weren’t alone. A third figure emerged in their midst, commanding attention despite his smaller stature. Saga squinted, her brow furrowing in confusion as the realization struck her harder than she expected. The man was short—remarkably short. Shorter than her.

…That’s it? That’s the great Odysseus? Pfft—

The man stood cloaked in a heavy chlamys-like cape, its pink hue matching the uniform accents of the surrounding soldiers. The fabric hung over his frame in loose folds, swallowing his form and dulling any trace of grandeur. His ruffled curls tumbled into a thick, unkempt beard, both darkened by the unforgiving salt and sun of the battlefield. At first glance, he seemed almost too ordinary, like a figure one could lose in the crowd.

But his eyes told another story. They held the weight of countless battles, each line etched around them like a scar from wars waged on sand and sea. Wisdom and weariness mingled in their depths, and even as they often lingered on the ground, they commanded attention without effort.

He wasn’t scrawny or towering like the soldiers who bustled around him, nor did he bear the sharp, striking features of a hero sculpted in marble. His presence was understated, almost to the point of blending in. He moved without flair or grace—a man of stiff, straight-backed efficiency. He was not one to waste motion or words.

And yet, when he spoke, the surrounding air seemed to shift. His voice carried the bite of winter’s wind, sharp and crisp, cutting through the noise like a blade. Words fell from his lips with the precision of a seasoned tactician—calculated, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. In those moments, no one thought about the simplicity of his looks or the quietness of his gait.

Standing a head shorter than Polites, his stature seemed mismatched against the looming figures surrounding him, and yet there was a power in the way he carried himself. His broader chest and shoulders hinted at strength, though he left his armor discarded on the ground beside him, a deliberate act that seemed to speak volumes. He strode forward like a great wooly ram leading its flock, exuding an understated yet undeniable authority that drew soldiers to him instinctively.

Saga squinted, her brows knitting together in disbelief. I am serving a short king, great. The thought barely had time to settle before her stomach tightened, realizing where Polites was gesturing. Her breath caught as she watched the captain’s deliberate steps lead him toward her tent—her tent. Her mind raced, every nerve screaming in alarm.

Without thinking, she spun on her heel and dove back inside, the canvas flap brushing against her back as she scrambled to put distance between herself and the outside world. Her pulse pounded in her ears, nearly drowning out the muffled commotion of the camp. What had she done? What had they seen? Her chest tightened, panic clawing at her throat. She forced herself to breathe, but it came out shallow, uneven, like a bird trapped in a cage.

The tent felt suffocatingly small now, the dim light casting long, shifting shadows across the ground as the fabric walls swayed. Saga crouched low, tugging the edges of her chlamys closer as though it might shield her from the inevitable. She bit her lip, cursing herself under her breath. She should have stayed hidden, should have followed the orders to “stay put.” But now... it was too late.

The silence outside was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of movement. Then came the footsteps—steady, purposeful, and growing louder. They stopped just outside the tent, and her heart seized. The flap parted with a sharp motion, and Polites stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He held the entrance open, allowing another figure to follow.

The captain.

Odysseus stepped into the tent, his presence somehow filling the small space despite his unassuming stature. His eyes, a deep and piercing hue, scanned the room briefly before landing on Saga. He tilted his head slightly, the gesture thoughtful, his expression calm yet far from passive. His gaze was... unexpected. It lacked the hardness she’d prepared for, replaced instead with something softer—curiosity, perhaps, or even recognition.

“Odious?” The word fell from his lips in a tone so gentle it caught Saga off guard, her mind racing to interpret its meaning. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Instead, she simply sat there, frozen in the weight of his gaze, feeling the cracks in her carefully constructed disguise begin to widen.

A grin spread across Odysseus's face as Eurylochus joined them in the tent, settling beside Polites at the edge of the cot. The captain’s movements were deliberate as he approached Saga, his hands gently but firmly resting on her shoulders. His piercing eyes gleamed with an intensity born of longing and curiosity—a yearning to hear news of the world he had left behind.

“How fares Ithaca, my cherished kingdom?” His voice carried the richness of authority, yet beneath it lay the faint tremble of vulnerability—a man torn between duty and a deep yearning for home. “My beloved Penelope—has she endured the years well? Does she still hold the halls of our home with grace and patience?”

Saga froze, her mind racing for answers she didn’t have. Penelope... who is Penelope? She struggled to recall any mention of the name, any piece of information that might anchor her response. The pit of uncertainty welled in her chest, yet her resolve held firm. If nothing else, she had her wits.

In an attempt to subtly reassure, she leaned in and softened her voice to a gentler, more calming tone. “She is well,” Saga murmured, nodding slightly for effect. “She misses you dearly, and hopes for your safe return.”

Relief washed over Odysseus’s face, his features relaxing as her words sank in. His grip lightened on her shoulders, though his searching gaze remained steadfast. “And Telemachus?” he asked, his voice dipping as emotion crept into his tone. “How fares my son? He must be nearly a man now, tall and strong. Has he risen to meet the call of adulthood?”

Saga’s pulse raced. Telemachus? Oh no—who’s Telemachus? She swallowed her unease, lifting her chin slightly as she crafted her reply. Her words carried no weight of certainty, but she ensured they didn’t betray her ignorance. “...Getting there…” she said carefully, keeping her tone steady despite the growing discomfort in her chest. She prayed her hesitation hadn’t revealed too much. “...He has started to lift a sword.” 

Odysseus tilted his head, his eyes softening as a wistful expression flickered across his features. “Ah, my boy,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a fondness that seemed almost out of place amidst the tense air of the war camp. “Even from afar, I see him—his eyes, his stance. I hope he carries the strength and wisdom of his blood. Perhaps when this war is over, I shall see for myself how he has grown. He was only a babe when I left…”

His words hung in the air for a moment before Polites broke the silence with a playful grin. “The captain talks of nothing else but his crush,” he said with a wink, his teasing tone cutting through the somber moment like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Eurylochus smirked, catching the jest immediately. The two soldiers leaned in, their camaraderie palpable, and began to hum a soft, lilting tune, their voices warm with mischief. “Penelope~” they sang in unison, drawing the name out like a bard’s refrain.

Odysseus’s face flushed slightly, his composure slipping just enough to betray his embarrassment. “You scoundrels,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice. The faintest of smiles tugged at his lips as he shook his head, a man both exasperated and humored by his companions' antics. Turning back to Saga, he seemed to reclaim his steady countenance. “What about Ctimene, eh?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face as he cast a pointed glance at Eurylochus.

The soldier, caught off guard, groaned dramatically before burying his face in his hands, prompting a chorus of chuckles from Polites and Odysseus. Saga seized the moment, working hard to keep her expression neutral even as her mind raced. She committed the names—Penelope, Telemachus, Ctimene—to memory, her instincts telling her they were vital. She straightened slightly, drawing on every bit of her composure.

“She is also well,” Saga said carefully, willing her voice to remain steady. “All of… Ithaca awaits your return from the war.”

Odysseus’s gaze lingered on her a beat longer, searching for something unsaid in the quiet that followed. Finally, he nodded, his voice steady yet weighted with expectation. “Good,” he said simply. “Ithaca waits, as do I.”

Eurylochus broke the solemnity like a stone tossed into still water. “Smelly’s decided to join us in the war,” he declared, his fingers rubbing idly at his weathered cheek. His tone was teasing, though the sharpness of his gaze spoke of scrutiny. “He’ll need training. I doubt he’s prepared to take on a Trojan, with arms like those. Barely any meat to ‘em.”

Saga bristled, the indignation flaring hot in her chest. She raised her arms instinctively, inspecting them as though trying to disprove his claim. Wha— I do— she thought indignantly, glaring at him before biting her tongue.

Polites chuckled, his easygoing nature softening the edges of the moment. “I offer to help!” he chimed in, adjusting the pink band tied across his forehead. “After all, I was the one who stumbled into him. Makes sense that I should take him under my wing.”

Odysseus turned slightly, his expression pensive as he weighed their words. His silence stretched just long enough to press unease into the air before he spoke, his question blunt and exacting. “Can you fight, Odious?”

Saga froze, her lips parting as a flood of half-formed responses rushed to her mind. She bit her tongue to anchor herself, trying to hold back the wave of uncertainty. “...With my fists,” she admitted finally, her voice quieter than she intended.

Odysseus exhaled deeply, shaking his head in visible disappointment. “Not enough,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of experience. “A soldier must wield a sword and a bow, preferably both, and with skill. Fists will not win battles or pierce Trojan defenses.”

Saga floundered, panic tingling at the edge of her thoughts as she struggled to find her footing. “I—” she stammered, wracking her brain for anything that might convince him she wasn’t hopeless. Her voice wavered, betraying the struggle she felt. “I’m a fast learner... and I have... uhm…” Her words faltered, crumbling under the mounting pressure.

She could feel their gazes on her, scrutinizing, expectant. Why was it so hard to speak? She wasn’t some stranger to playing a role—she was an actress, for gods’ sake! Yet her tongue felt heavy, her thoughts jumbled. The part she needed to play—to improvise with confidence—felt like slipping sand beneath her feet. Saga clenched her fists, willing herself not to falter again, though she hated how much effort it took to steady her voice. Come on, Saga, think!

Saga felt the weight of Odysseus’s question pressing down on her like armor too heavy to bear. Words stuck in her throat, tangling in her hesitation. She could feel the captain’s piercing gaze on her, expectant and unyielding. Her heart thudded louder in her chest with each passing moment.

Then, like a sudden breeze, Polites stepped in. His voice broke the tension, carrying the easy warmth of someone well-practiced in easing difficult moments. “Captain,” he said, his tone measured and calm. “Surely this soldier feels worn from his journey. Look at him—his eyes show exhaustion. A bit of rest and a proper meal would do him well before training. Once refreshed, I’m confident he’ll be ready to join us in the battlefield.”

Polites’s smile was subtle but genuine, the kind of expression that disarmed even the sternest of leaders. Saga watched him carefully, the edges of her panic softening as his words redirected Odysseus’s attention away from her.

The captain’s gaze shifted, his expression relaxing incrementally as he considered Polites’s suggestion. After a beat, he sighed, the weight in his shoulders easing slightly. “Fine,” he said, his voice carrying the authority of finality. Adjusting the owl-printed cuffs on his biceps, Odysseus turned his attention back to Saga one last time.

“Rest, soldier,” he said, his tone softer than before but still threaded with expectation. “Your presence here is valued. May you not endure too many years of war.”

With a nod, the captain turned, the weight of his presence lingering even as he strode out of the tent.

Saga’s shoulders sagged in relief, the tension that had been knotting her muscles finally unraveling. Polites glanced her way, his expression warm and reassuring as he leaned in slightly. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, his voice calm yet carrying an air of confidence. “We’ll make a proper soldier out of you soon enough.”

Eurylochus snorted as he rose from his seat, dusting off his hands with exaggerated disdain. “I don’t know how you’ll manage that,” he said, his words dripping with skepticism. His sharp gaze swept over Saga, lingering long enough to make her stomach twist. “Smelly looks more like a water boy than a fighter.”

The words stung more than Saga wanted to admit. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as a surge of indignation burned beneath her skin. I could punch him right now, she thought, the fantasy of landing a satisfying hit briefly flashing in her mind. But she held her tongue, biting down hard on the urge to retaliate. Her silence seemed to fuel Eurylochus’s suspicion. He smirked, tilting his head as though trying to unravel her thoughts.

“He can’t even speak up for himself,” Eurylochus continued, his tone growing sharper. “Like some child scolded by his mother too many times.”

Saga felt her throat tighten, the ache of words left unsaid rising like bile. But before she could break her silence, Polites spoke up again, cutting through Eurylochus’s jeers with quiet precision. “He is not the soldier the Trojans are expecting,” Polites said, his gaze steady as he cast a knowing look at Saga. His voice carried a subtle conviction, one that gave his words the weight of truth. With a soft wink in her direction, he added, “Odious has the agility most of us don’t. I bet he’ll deliver more surprises than you or the captain think.”

Eurylochus hesitated, his smirk faltering for the first time as he considered Polites’s words. A flicker of doubt crossed his features, the faintest crease forming on his brow. Finally, he sighed, the sound thick with reluctance. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered, turning his head to leave.

Saga watched him go, her jaw unclenching as she exhaled quietly. Polites offered her another reassuring glance, his easy smile lingering just long enough to soften her nerves. For the first time since entering the camp, she felt a faint glimmer of hope—an ally in the chaos, perhaps.

“Get some rest, Odious,” Polites said softly, his voice warm and steady. He stepped over to the hay-stuffed bed where Saga sat, crouching just enough to pat the makeshift pillow with his hand. “We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll make sure someone trains you with that bow, yeah? Then we’ll get some muscle on those strong arms with some proper roasted lamb. You won’t even recognize yourself by the time we’re done.”

Saga stared at him, the weight of the day pressing down heavily on her now. The exhaustion she had buried under the rush of adrenaline and anxiety seeped back into her body, pulling her shoulders down and slowing her thoughts. She nodded, her movements sluggish. “Polites... thank you,” she managed, the words thick with fatigue but genuine in their gratitude.

Polites lingered for a moment longer, offering her one last peaceful smile. There was something grounding in his presence—a quiet reassurance that, for now, things would be alright. With a gentle motion, he rose to his feet and stepped toward the tent’s exit, his figure silhouetted briefly against the light outside before he vanished into the daylight.

Saga sighed deeply, her body sinking into the rough hay beneath her as the weight of exhaustion finally overtook her. She let her head fall to the edge of the makeshift bed, her chlamys draping loosely around her frame and the hidden book pressing gently against her chest. The tension she had carried all day seemed to melt away, replaced by the soothing rhythm of the world beyond the tent.

The scent of the ocean lingered faintly in the air, a mixture of salt and damp earth that curled around her like an invisible embrace. Outside, the waves rolled steadily against the shore, their gentle cadence blending seamlessly with the rustling movements of soldiers settling into their own morning routines. The occasional murmur of voices, the scrape of armor being removed, and the soft creak of worn leather boots formed a symphony of white noise—a lullaby for weary souls.

The sea's siren call grew stronger, calling to her westward. Her boots crunched gravel and sand, each step measured, each breath more strained in the growing cold. The wave slap was more even now, a rhythm that fell in line with her growing determination. Questions flew through her brain, filling up her mind with unwanted visitors. Was this the right ocean? Could she ever navigate these waters? But the moment her eyes fell on the strip of coastline where a vessel had once been, her dreads receded. The answers she sought seemed to reveal themselves in the absence of that vessel, the loss of which was a whispered path she had to follow.

She didn't need to follow when her eyes found him—a lone man standing at the water's edge, his back to her, commanding attention easily. His chestnut hair curled and blew in the rough wind, every lock catching the sunlight like burnished bronze. It framed shoulders wide and unyielding, chiseled with strength that appeared to transcend the boundaries of mortality.

At the very first look, he was a tall and dramatic figure—a man who overshadowed the men who had bled and perished before him. There was a ferocious strength to his shape, the way his furled chest swelled with each deep breath, the slow tremble of his arms as he stood rigid. His legs, planted far into the sand, stood firm under the body of a warrior who carried not just weapons but the weight of fate itself.

Unlike the limp bodies of the dead army, he possessed an energy that set him apart from any Greek soldier Saga had ever encountered. His body told a story for itself—one of victories claimed, gods defied, and a legacy that breathed fear into the hearts of his foes before they even ventured to cross paths with him. His armor was much nicer than the rest, in better quality and shape, signifying his importance. It shone as if it was made by Hephaestus himself. 

Saga's boots betrayed her advance, the sand grinding against them loud enough to be picked up by the wind. The warrior shifted, tilting his head in a manner that caused him to appear as though he'd heard her hours before the noise reached him. When he moved, his gaze landed on her like a physical impact—a cross of seriousness and savagery that caught her off-beat.

His golden-sun-lit face was as if hewn from marble but animated with life. Forceful eyebrows framed eyes that had the weight of countless wars etched in their invisible lines below the surface. His lips, finely chiseled but taut, possessed a secret control, as if once words poured from them like fire but now smoldered silently.

His complexion was as white as a dawn that had been kissed by the sun, but it had a strength that was at odds with vulnerability. There was joy there too—a quasi-incongruous glow in his face, the smile of a man who had experienced greatness and had endured it well. But it was fleeting, overcast by a shadow that descended on his face like a cloud. Anger, hot and unyielding, serpentine with animosity coiled beneath the surface—a betrayal so intimate it left an unhealed rift in his heart.

Saga could not but be awed and afraid of his presence. He was no man; he was a living legend, and to stand before him was to stand at the edge of a storm. Saga recognized at once who he was. She didn't need an introduction after the books that she had read. So he hasn't left the waterside after talking with his mother… The book presented you as marvelous, but they clearly have fallen short of your might. "Captain Achilles," Saga began, clearing her throat before she bowed to him in deference. "I—"

"Go, soldier." The warrior stood with his back turned, rage burning in his heart as he looked out across the sea. "My heart is darkened and my patience is worn. I have no desire for words nor for the company of wandering spirits."

Saga paused before standing up straight again. Despite the logical speeches she'd read and seen, his tone caught her off guard by how casually he spoke. She scratched at her neck. At least this disguise works. How do I…? "Excuse me for going on, captain. I am confused—perplexed, so to speak. I cannot locate where my commander has left nor where his camp is."

Achilles’ gaze bore into her, sharp and probing as if peeling back layers of her very soul. He took deliberate steps toward her. “Which god claims your loyalty, soldier?” he asked again, his voice was low and unwavering. His fingers shifted subtly on the hilt of his great iron sword, a gesture both deliberate and threatening, as though daring her to give the wrong answer.

Saga hesitated, the weight of his question settling on her like a boulder against her breasts. She could not afford to make a mistake here—not with him. Her eyes flashed to the sand beneath her feet, and her mind wrestled to remember Hermes' domains. What was he the god of? Guiding the dead? Is it even wise to claim him as someone I serve? "Hermes," she stated, her voice steady but soft. "God of… guiding the deceased to the underworld." It was a guess, but the only one she could make. 

Achilles tilted his head, his mask of a face, though the storm in his eyes grew darker. "A convenient decision," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Travelers carry news—and secrets. Tell me, are you with the kings of Troy?"

Saga's breath caught; her fists clenched on either side of her. Her heart pounded, and she shook her head anxiously. "No, Captain Achilles," she answered quickly, trying to cover the tension with a cloak of determination. "I owe allegiance elsewhere. I am simply seeking to find my commander's camp." Her words were a balance of truth and falsity, but she felt the force of his gaze. Please believe me, I don’t wish you any harm; I just need directions. 

He regarded her silently, his fingers clenching infinitesimally tighter on the sword. There was no misunderstanding the tension in his posture, the clench of his jaw as though wrestling with words unsaid. She had read about his rage and his pride; she knew of his strength and his authority, but the man before her was more nuanced than anything put to paper could express. He exuded danger, yes, but beneath the cold metal of his attitude was something else—a spark of curiosity, of warmth, buried deep. A moment of silence was shared as she gazed at the legend. 

"Your armor," Achilles finally spoke, nodding slightly toward her worn-out protection. "Not one of the servants of Odysseus would wear. He is cunning, indeed, but his soldiers are not so… tattered."

Saga straightened her spine, heat rising to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, stepping closer, his imposing frame blocking out the sea’s horizon. “You’re not like them,” he said quietly, his voice dipping into something softer. “Or is it merely a disguise?” His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something just as unsettling. “I’ve seen enough betrayal to know it often wears an innocent face.”

The term betrayal created a new spark in his eyes—anger that boiled in them like a seething fire that could not be extinguished. Saga swallowed. "I don't wish to lie to you," she spoke hesitantly, tilting her chin up so that their eyes could meet. "I am lost, as I've told you. I am seeking Odysseus' camp. That's all."

Achilles stood gazing at her for another moment, his face impassive. Then, with a faintly perceptible sigh, he turned back to the sea. "Be swift in finding your commander," he said, his voice cold once more. "And pray your path does not cross mine again." He raised his hand and pointed toward the enclosed camp toward the left before turning away from her once more. 

Saga couldn’t deem Achilles as a cold figure who disliked her; there was enough interaction to deem otherwise. However, remembering the recent matter at hand, the soldier seemed to have not taken lightly that his favorite plaything was stripped from him. It made her blood boil at the thought, but there was nothing she could do. It would be one thing to ask him to guide her and another to ask him to fight again. She couldn’t, she reasoned. She did not know the man well enough to try and tell him to lift his sword for the victory of his comrades. As far as she knew, he just asked the gods to make the Greeks lose the war. She chose the smart action, bowed, and left him, reasoning that there would be another time to converse with him when he was in a calmer state of mind.

Arriving at the camp was a far more disorienting experience than Saga had imagined. It teemed with movement, noise, and raw power. Men's groans pierced the circle of metal on metal, a din of battle preparation. Soldiers sharpened blades, the rhythm of metal on stone merging into the far-off chorus of voices yelling commands.

The cries of the animals pierced through the din, shrill and persistent—a murmured shout of goats and oxen bound near the tents, to be slain or consumed. The fire roared fiercely on pyre torches, their dancing flames casting lurid shadows across the expanses of piled-up canvas tents. The smell of smoke and perspiration and cooked meat clung heavy and close, blended with the earthy odor of trampled ground under the innumerable feet that paced and waited.

Saga walked among them, her footsteps deliberate and cautious. Is this… state they are in normal? Do men live like this in all wars? It’s disgusting. She wrinkled her nose at the horrible smells and interesting sights. The air seemed to get hotter and thicker as she did so. She couldn't help but feel she was intruding; she was, but the warriors barely registered her presence. Their focus was consumed by tasks—some lounging outside their tents with nut bowls and fruit, enjoying fleeting moments of peaceful relaxation, while others sprinted back and forth between racks of weapons, shouting orders as if the foe already stood on their threshold.

There was a rhythm to the anarchy, a warped harmony amid the chaos. Shields were stacked in tidy piles, spears stood upright like a thorny forest, and provision carts creaked under the weight. Saga noticed smaller groups of men playing dice games, laughter cutting through the tension like a soothing balm to raw nerves. At least they still find ways to enjoy themselves, I suppose. 

The camp was a sprawling spiral, with the outer edges lined by small, worn tents that appeared hastily pitched. As Saga moved inward, the tents grew larger and sturdier, leading toward a grand tent at the center, reserved for captains of the various kingdoms. Around this hub, the soldiers were grouped by their commanders, their sections marked by distinct armor styles, weaponry, and traces of unique cultures. It was a surprise Saga could get across the outer ditch so easily without being questioned, but assuming the best, the Greek clothes she stole were helping her stay unnoticed. 

While this outward display of preparedness, she felt the tension beneath. Speech was muttered when not yelled, and glances were cast out toward the horizon, where Troy's city lay hidden behind the ridges. Saga swallowed thickly, folding her chalyms tighter around her. Every step through the camp made her more sensitive—sensitive to danger, to being seen, to wanting to remain invisible.

As Saga progressed deeper into the camp, its magnitude overwhelmed her. The dense spiral of tents and movement was difficult to distinguish from where she had to proceed next. She chewed her lip, peering between groups of soldiers, some marching briskly, others in subdued chat. She stepped aside for a couple of tall warriors to pass by, their laughter accompanying them, but her attempt to be unobtrusive accidentally placed her in the path of another man.

The soldier carrying wooden crates suddenly shifted, his footing wavering before he had it stabilized. "Woah, watch where you're going, lad!" He laughed, chuckling softly. "Could've knocked me over with that one."

Saga’s heart lurched in embarrassment. She raised her hand in a hurried gesture of apology, her voice fumbling as she spoke. “Sorry! I’m awfully lost…”

The man turned to face her, revealing a cheerful disposition rare among the hardened warriors she had seen. His curly brown hair fell in spirals across his forehead, brushing against a reddish-pink band tied snugly around his head. His tunic was plain, its fabric slightly frayed but immaculate, draped over his chest and down his legs and baring his shoulders. Plain as his attire was, there was a real warmth emanating from him that tightened Saga's nerves at once. Her mind reeled as she tried to assess whether he would see beyond her disguise, but his warm smile showed no sign of mistrust. 

"Lost, are you?" The man said, setting the boxes down effortlessly. His tone was easygoing, but there was something in what he was saying that seemed to be asking for conversation. "What are you looking for?"

Saga hesitated for a moment, his gaze drinking in the smiling face of the man and his aura of tension-scented camp. He didn't bear the set faces of warriors gearing up for combat, and for a moment she couldn't help but wonder if this was a person she could trust. But she kept quiet, dreading speaking too much. "I seek…" she began, her eyes darting towards the center tent of the camp. She stiffened slightly, attempting to keep her voice even. "My commander's camp. I don't know where to go."

The man rested his head, his eyes furrowing slightly as if considering her words. "Your commander, eh?" he mused, stroking his chin with his finger. "Not a very good soldier if you can't even locate your own camp, are you?" He laughed, the jab softened by his friendly tone. 

Saga bit the inside of her cheek, unsure whether to laugh or feel defensive. “I’ve only just arrived,” she replied quickly, trying to sound convincing. “I’ve been disoriented, and I’m very tired...” Her pulse quickened, her nerves buzzing as she waited for the man—a soldier with a rare smile—to respond.

“You’re carrying your armor around; of course, you’d be tired,” he replied effortlessly, his smile remaining as steady as his footing. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, not in judgment but with a curious glint. Then, with an easy grace, he placed a hand on his chest and bowed slightly, the gesture was respectful but lighthearted. “Perhaps I can guide you. Just be sure to remember the way next time. What’s your name, soldier?”

Saga opened her mouth but stumbled. “Od—” she started, only to falter as she realized he meant her name, not her captain’s. Panic flared in her chest. I can’t say Odysseus, but what do I even call myself? It’s too late to go back now… Her thoughts raced before she blurted, “…ious. Odious. That is my name.”

The soldier’s grin widened, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement. “Odious, like the odor. So you smell?” His voice dipped into a teasing lilt, the words accompanied by a chuckle that bubbled up freely.

Saga’s face flushed red, her embarrassment was immediate and tangible. “What? No! I don’t smell—” she spluttered, the indignation in her voice matching the crimson creeping across her cheeks. She crossed her arms defensively, unsure whether to argue or shrink away from his infectious humor.

Polites shook his head slightly, his laughter softening but still lingering in the air like a melody. “Relax, lad. I’m only jesting. You newcomers are always wound tighter than a bowstring.” He gestured toward her armor and gear before hoisting the wooden boxes back into his arms with practiced ease. The effort seemed second nature; his movements were fluid and unbothered. “Come, tell me where you need to be—I promise I won’t get you lost.” His words carried an unexpected warmth, a rarity amid the tense preparations for war. “Who is your captain?” 

Saga hesitated before following him, her steps small and unsure as she scratched her neck nervously. The camp seemed even more alive now that she was walking alongside him. Men shouted orders to one another, carts creaked as they rolled over uneven ground, and fires burned steadily in raised pits, their smoke curling into the air. Saga kept her eyes low, careful not to draw unwanted attention. “I’m looking for Captain Odysseus,” she finally admitted, her voice soft, as though the name itself might betray her.

“That’s my captain.” The soldier replied without hesitation, his smile widening into something impossibly bright. He paused for a moment, recollecting his thoughts. “But… I haven’t seen you around before. Surely I should’ve spotted a strawberry head like yours sometime during the nine years we’ve been fighting Troy.”

Saga’s breath hitched, heat rising to her cheeks. I… need to come up with a story on how I got here. She adjusted her chalyms instinctively, the fabric settling closer to her scalp. “I… am new,” she stammered, searching for a believable answer as her pulse quickened. “I was recently sent from… uhm…”

He glanced at her; the boxes balanced easily against his chest as he walked with a tune under his breath, a cheerful counterpoint to the tension hanging in the air. “I didn’t realize Ithaca was sending reinforcements,” he said, his tone light, though curiosity flickered behind his words. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”

Saga froze inwardly, her mind racing for an explanation. What do I even say to that? Her grip tightened on her belt as she forced herself to respond, her voice quieter than she intended. “…I was the only survivor.”

The soldier slowed for just a moment, his expression softening as he turned his head slightly toward her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sincerely, his cheerful tone fading into something more somber. Though brief, his compassion hung in the space between them, and Saga struggled to maintain her composure, her disguise feeling more fragile with each passing second.

The silence between them lingered as they continued down the crowded camp, the soldier noises all around them filling the air. Saga gazed at the ground, her boots scraping against the dirt with each step. The man didn't mind the quiet; his boxes hung just so in his arms as he whistled a soft tune to himself, one Saga couldn't place but that seemed strangely reassuring.

She could sense the weight of the conversation hanging awkwardly between them. I have to do something—anything, she thought frantically, giving the soldier a sidelong glance. "I didn't catch your name, soldier," she spoke out quickly, her voice a little higher than she would have liked.

He turned his attention away, his smile lighting up his face again as if he was relieved by the change of topic. "Oh! Polites," he said with a warm smile, his voice friendly and inviting. His smile grew wider, with a catching energy that Saga found reassuringly familiar. It was clear he had no intention of going back to the serious subject they'd dropped.

"Ah, Polites," Saga said, practicing the name on her lips as her gaze flashed toward the cluster of tents before her. "Thanks for your help. The camp appears… bigger than I expected."

Polites smiled wryly, his steps unhurried as he navigated the maze of tents with practiced ease. "You get used to it after a while. Once you know where all the things are, it's just another labyrinth you're accustomed to." He adjusted one of the boxes in his arms, shifting its weight effortlessly, and nodded toward the path ahead. “We are almost there. The captain should be returning on his ship soon. He had to go return a maiden to her father to regain Apollo’s favor.”

“So I’ve heard,” Saga muttered, the grimace on her face betraying the frustration she barely managed to conceal. The story of the maiden weighed heavily on her mind, but she forced herself to suppress her thoughts. This wasn’t the time to dwell on the injustice of it all.

They fell into silence, the din of the camp filling the gap between their words. Saga followed Polites as he weaved through the narrow paths, deftly dodging oncoming soldiers and stepping over the occasional slumbering form sprawled on the ground. The smell of sweat, smoke, and the faint tang of sea air lingered in the heat, the sun above them relentless and unforgiving. Saga could feel its rays pressing against her back, her skin prickling beneath the stifling layers of her chalyms.

Her exhaustion began to claw at her resolve, each step heavier than the last. The lack of sleep from the past days finally began to take its toll, her vision blurring slightly as she rubbed her eyes to stay alert. Polites glanced back over his shoulder, his grin undeterred by the sweltering sun. “They sent you with the wrong armor, too,” he teased, his voice tinged with the same lightheartedness that seemed to follow him everywhere. “We’ll get you suited up properly. Can’t have you looking like a stray out here.”

Saga jogged forward to catch up, her cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. I would hope there’s better armor than this… I can barely hold all of this up. “Here, let me help,” she offered, reaching out to take one of the smaller boxes from Polites’ load. 

He arched a brow before handing it over with a shrug. The weight of it nearly pulled her arms downward, much heavier than she had anticipated. It toppled into her hands and fell to the ground, scraping her arms. Saga stumbled slightly but regained her footing, picking up the box quickly with a grunt of effort.

She earned a chuckle from Polites. “Careful there,” he said, his grin widening. “You don’t want to topple over again.”

Saga clenched her jaw and hoisted the box higher, determined not to show weakness despite the ache already building in her arms. “I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice firm despite the strain.

Polites emerged with his mouth agape, as though to speak, but paused, cocking his head that fraction and squinting forward, as though checking their destination. His pace slowed for a moment, and his eyes were elsewhere for a moment. In a few minutes of making his way through the tent labyrinth, his face brightened, and he dropped the box he had been carrying with a practiced thud. Taking no pause, he moved to Saga, his smile spreading as he gently pulled the small box from her stiff arms. He hefted it easily, as if its weight was that of a loaf of bread, and set it atop his own in a tidy stack.

"Eurylochus!" Polites shouted, his voice resonating with a boyish and warm enthusiasm that traveled through the busy camp. "We received a new arrival from Ithaca!" His smile broadened as he pointed toward Saga, his excitement sufficient to catch the eye of a couple of soldiers nearby.

Saga stood up a bit taller, her breathing quickening with the scrutiny. She cinched the straps on her armor tighter and tried to steady her panicky breathing, her exhaustion creeping at the corners of her vision. Though Polites' amiability was reassuring, her senses prickled at the thought that she might be unwelcome. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked off in the direction in which Polites was pointing.

The sound of creaking wood accompanied the gentle sway of the recently hoisted boat as a man stepped into view atop its deck. His skin, dark as the rich earth, stood out in stark contrast to the pale complexions of the soldiers surrounding the camp, their gazes instinctively drawn to him. He carried himself with a calm authority, his presence cutting through the din of the camp with a weight that demanded attention.

His square jawline lent his face an unyielding strength, as though it had been carved from stone, a testament to the resilience he exuded. Broad shoulders framed his powerful build—muscles that rippled beneath the loose folds of his tunic with every deliberate movement. His chest and arms spoke of a lifetime forged through war and hardship, each line and sinew a reflection of his capability.

His eyes, at first appearing black from the reflection of the midday sun on the water, gleamed as he turned his attention toward Saga and Polites. Something was piercing in his gaze—an unreadable mix of quiet wisdom and hard-earned wariness that only deepened the air of command he carried. A breeze caught the edges of his tunic, and the faint scent of the sea seemed to linger around him, as though he carried the very essence of the ocean wherever he went.

Saga cleared her throat, adjusting her attire. Huh. I wasn’t sure where… uhm… darker people stood in this day and age. Glad to see he is an equal. 

Eurylochus gripped one of the boat’s sturdy ropes with ease, the muscles in his arms flexing as he slid down with practiced precision. He landed on the shore in a fluid motion, his boots kicking up a faint cloud of sand before he broke into a steady jog toward Polites. Each step carried an air of effortless power, his presence demanding attention without the need for words.

As he approached, his sharp gaze drifted to Saga, who instinctively straightened her posture and bowed low, her movements stiff yet respectful. Eurylochus’ eyes lingered for a moment before flicking past her toward the empty horizon behind. His brow furrowed, and a frown darkened his features. “Just one?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with incredulity. “What’s one soldier going to do in terms of assistance?”

Polites, unfazed, flattened his face but kept his tone calm. “He was the only survivor of the storms on the way here,” he replied simply, his words carrying the weight of both explanation and defense.

Eurylochus exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing together in a thoughtful line that made his broad features seem smaller for a moment. Finally, he turned toward Saga, bowing slightly with a gesture that was both formal and genuine. “My apologies, soldier. What is your name? We are happy to have you, regardless of the circumstances.”

Polites’ expression shifted, a snicker slipping through as he chimed in before Saga could answer. “It’s Odious.”

Eurylochus straightened, his frown melting into something far more mischievous. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and the air seemed lighter as he smirked at Saga. “Odious?” he echoed, his tone laced with amusement. “Quite a name for a soldier.” His eyes held hers for a moment longer, the teasing expression paired with a flicker of curiosity that Saga couldn’t quite decipher. “Come, Smelly, let’s get you out of the heavy equipment and into something more practical.” 

Speaking of, there were a lot of gods in this world. Saga didn’t necessarily consider a higher power too much back in her homeland, but it was clear she would have to acknowledge their existence in this story. She knew Apollo, whom she had met, and she naturally leaned toward favoring him. However, she didn’t fancy the idea of being swept away with him when she had a mission in mind. It was clear he favored the Trojans in the war, which she assumed was the city that lay in ruin across the East Bay. There were also many others mentioned: Athena, who stopped Achilles from killing Agamemnon in anger; Hephaestus, a god who couldn’t walk but a great crafter and blacksmith, who comforted his mother Hera, who seemed to be the queen of the gods, with Zeus as king. Thetis was also mentioned, a sea nymph that was Achilles’ mother and tried to... seduce Zeus? Saga sat up and looked through the first book again. She couldn’t tell if she was simply pleading or playing another game. Whatever she did, it worked. 

Saga wasn’t sure if she was supposed to know what the gods were up to. Surely, the mortals wouldn’t know. Why did the book enlighten her on their actions? Perhaps it would play a role further on, but she considered herself blessed to have not only the knowledge of what they were doing but with the ability to see them, as it was mentioned not everyone could. 

The book also told her where Odysseus was, whom the librarian instructed her to follow. She was also told not to change canon events, but it felt as if she already did, having met the god of the silver bow. Nevertheless, she could follow one order, and that was to follow Odysseus. Surely, he should be sailing back shortly. Her eyes grew heavy; everything in her wanted to sleep. She knew if she did, though, she would fall behind and get caught. In a world where women did not have rights, she would not be caught dead being treated like an object. 

Despite her body begging her to rest, she sat up and slid off the bed, standing in her chosen tent. She raised her arms and stretched her muscles the best she could. Glancing around, she was able to spot some spare sandals next to where she found the clothes she wore. They were almost too big, but that didn’t stop Saga from ensuring they were snug on her feet. She sighed in exhaustion, her shoulders falling back on her collarbone as she lifted her head. Her legs shook, forced to stand after a long night. Her head drooped to the floor, her eyes catching sight of her old clothes soaked in the corner. She sighed, running her new, healed hands across them before she scooped them up. I need to get rid of these, she sighed. I can’t have the gods suspect I am not from here. I need to blend in. 

She tore her shirt in two with great effort, using some of the buttons from her jacket to create a clasp on it. She rinsed it out and flogged the fabric as if to dry it before she wrapped it under her chlamys across her chest. It was cold to the touch, but it would have to make do. She clasped it in the back and jumped it up and down. It wasn’t as successful as a normal bra, but it did the job well enough. Her old one was too vibrant of a color to wear. 

The sun greeted her immediately when she pushed back the leather tent flap. Her eyes squinted, and her hands clutched her old, cold clothes. She shook the dirt out of her sandals before strolling toward one of the fires. The pyres still burned, the smell not letting up. Saga was careful where she placed her feet, not willing to damage herself again after being healed. She plugged her nose before ducking under the smoke. As she made her way through the bodies, armor, and blood, she squatted down and tossed her old clothes into the fire. The heat from the flames dried the rest of her hair, and the wind subsided. 

Most of the bodies had turned to ash; there was very little of them left. Saga wasn’t sure whether or not to be relieved or disgusted by the sight. From her assumption, they were all similar to Agamemnon, but the massacre was something she wished she never set her eyes upon.

It won’t be the last time, Saga forced herself to face the truth. This is war. 

She stepped away from the pyre, circling the armor wasteland. She scanned the weaponry before picking up a familiar xiphos. It was thinner in the middle of its blade before it widened out near the top. It was double-edged to Saga’s fortune. She gently turned the blade in her hand. I should hold onto this, she thought. This could save my life. I don’t know how to use it, but... She picked up a strap that would hold the blade before hooking it onto her belt. Her soul ached to wield a bow, but when she recalled their draw strength, she decided against it. 

Saga tapped her foot against the ground, glancing at her reflection in the bronze blade. She still looked like a woman, despite wearing men's clothes. It was her hair. Her strawberry-golden locks were a dead giveaway, as they only added to her beauty. She closed her eyes shut. If there was one thing she loved about herself, it was her hair, and she didn’t wish to cut it so easily. 

But the reality of the world around her rested heavily on her mind. If she could not hide her identity, she would never be able to disguise herself again. Even the gods saw her as an object; it explained how Apollo treated her. 

Her hands ran through her hair, pulling it up and letting each strand fall like a wave until only a few remained in her grip. Saga raised the xiphos to it. With a swift motion, she pulled on her hair and sliced the few strands. It was like a hot knife to butter: the cut was clean and perfect, showing her the blade would do the job. 

She would’ve continued, but the distant voice stopped her. She froze, catching her breath and holding it. Her heart started to beat faster as her grip around the blade tightened. Slowly, her head turned to look around the pyre. Her eyes caught a glimpse of a tall figure guiding a blue-glowing human away from the pyres toward the ocean. A few moments passed before she silently took a few steps forward to get a better view—

Her foot clanged against a helmet, sending it tumbling down the hill she was on. It made noise all the way down, getting louder each time it contacted the ground. Saga reached out to it, but it was too late. “No—” she winced as it landed at the bottom of the hill. Her heart stopped as her head snapped back toward the figures. 

The taller one heard it, his head snapping toward the direction of the sound. Like lightning, he zoomed toward it before running what seemed like air across the pyre before he stopped, his gaze resting on Saga. 

Before Saga could get a good look at his appearance, she raised her xiphos toward him in defense. Her breath quickened and her face hardened. “Do not come any closer.” She finished her sentence as soon as she realized she could likely do nothing against him, and her voice croaked with more fear than intimidation. 

The god floated in the air above her. The wings on his talaria sandals kept him afloat, flapping gently before resting on a patch of air. One of his legs was bent up while the other was stretched down. A linen, silk garment was draped over his waist, which didn’t cover much of his legs. He had a similar chlamy to Saga's; only the fabric seemed richer and flowier in the wind. He had a youthful, muscular body that was slightly thinner than Apollo’s. In his smooth hands was a staff. It was a normal caduceus with a bulb at the top and wrapped around the stick were two snakes carved into it with wings at the top. It was half his height, and he carried it with ease. His head was tilted curiously, showcasing his soft, sturdy jawline. Covering his chestnut-colored, wavy hair that reached his neck was a petasos: a large hat that covered his glowing eyes, accompanied by sown wings on the side of it. It covered most of his face in a shadow and suited him quite well. It was mostly round with pointed edges on the front and back of it. His skin was a nice peach color—not too tan, not too pale. It was difficult to get a sense of his strength when he zoomed side-to-side constantly. 

Saga was really slow compared to his speed. He dashed side to side silently as if he were testing her. He waited for her to adjust her xiphos to his position before he moved in the air again, observing her carefully. 

Saga’s fear was quickly replaced by anger. “Stop moving!” She growled, holding her xiphos tightly. 

The god floated closer, pressing his chest against the tip of the sword before dramatically pressing the tip of his finger down on the blade, staring at her curiously. “My, you are gorgeous, darling.” He grinned, his voice lighthearted and almost gay. “I’m surprised you can see me. You must be related to Aphrodite somehow; what are you the god of?” 

Saga’s eyes softened, keeping her eyes on him. Each time she lifted the xiphos, the god simply frowned and pushed it away with ease, the blade not harming him at all. He twirled his staff and flew around her, observing her. He was like a dog with zoomies; he simply couldn’t stay still. Saga’s eyes twitched as she tried to keep her eyes on him. “Would you stop moving?” She tried to snap, but it came out politely. “I’m not a god; I can’t keep up with you.”

He laughed gleefully, twisting and turning before he lay in the air in front of her, his elbows resting on the air as his hands upheld his face. He kicked his feet behind them, swaying them back and forth. “What a surprise indeed,” he cooed. “No mortals can see us, yet here you are, looking me directly in the eye as if you have the authority to do so. Awh, I love the cute pride of humanity.” 

Saga stared at him curiously, looking back and forth. “Who are you? Why are you h—”  She stopped herself, trailing off as she saw a crowd form around her. Fear grew in her chest like mold on sick fruit. She expected that she had been caught by the Greeks. However, the crowd wasn’t one of the living beings. 

Men stood around her and the god, slowly approaching. They were all naked and glowed a soft, blue hue. They stood strong and proud, with chiseled figures and scars across their bodies. Some of them hung their heads in shame, while others looked at the interaction curiously. Some of them murmured among themselves before one of them stepped further. “Hermes, god of trickery and messaging, please do not delay in your duties.” One of them said it with a hoarse voice. “I am Stavros, a fallen soldier who fought under Agamemnon’s command. Hear me and my comrades’ plea. Guide us to the underworld so we may be united with our fellow fallen soldiers. We burned on the pyre for days, our souls waiting for you to lead us to our fate.” 

The god allegedly named Hermes frowned, zooming toward the brave soldier. “Be patient, darling. It’s a virtue you will have to learn where you are going. I will get there, but it’s not every day you see a woman raising a sword like a warrior~ a rather curious sight, no?” His hand gestured toward Saga.

Stavros, the soldier, would’ve continued to speak if he hadn’t cut himself off the moment he met Saga’s eyes. It was as if he didn’t expect her to see him. Unlike Saga’s eyes solely staying on his face to not see the rest of his exposed figure, his eyes raked over her. The rest of the soldiers followed suit, before some of them began to weep bitterly, falling to their knees as they cried out to Apollo, asking why the god had to claim their lives and take them away from the world before they could enjoy a beauty like her. Their laments were long and soft, mostly to themselves, though some dared to raise their voices.

It was a pathetic and violating sight, and it made Saga squirm in her place with some of the words they uttered. She fought the urge to punch them but figured it wasn’t something she could do because they were dead. The prayer that radiated through Apollo’s chest when Saga first met him flashed in her mind. Her heart stopped, and she raised her hands in a panic. “Shh! All of you shut up!” She hissed, raising her xiphos again. “Do not call on him! I—He cannot know I am here!” 

That phrase alone was enough to stop the messenger god in his tracks. He looked back at her curiously. 

Her plea, however, did nothing to stop the men that wept. They continued to ask Apollo for healing and a second chance, so they may have their way with her. The remaining soldiers who heard Saga’s plea laughed to themselves, voicing various phrases that questioned her authority as a woman, degrading her with each word, Stavros included. 

Her anxiety only grew when she saw the sun in the sky shift as if it stayed still. She recalled how fast the gods traveled, and from what she read in the book, Apollo was one to answer their prayers. I can't—I need to follow Odysseus! She knew none of the dead soldiers would be able to help her, so she ignored them to the best she could. Walking toward the one who could potentially help her, she dropped the blade to the ground and reached out, grabbing part of Hermes' cloak. To her surprise, his eyes were on her the whole time, but her grip was enough to stop him from zooming around. 

Although his eyes were covered by his hat’s wings and shadow, it was clear Hermes wore an expression of confusion: he couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended or appalled. He was at minimum, impressed by how strong her grip was and how it stopped him in his tracks.

Saga used her trained grip to keep a hold of him, trailing her hands down his cloak before falling to her knees in front of him. Her hands gripped his ankles lightly, her fingers gently running along the top of his feet. She hesitated, grimacing at her position. She never thought she would be begging a man for anything, yet here she was, at the feet of a god on her knees. “Hermes,” she began, her voice wavering. She watched the soldiers move back to give her space as her head drooped to the floor. “I know you don’t know me; I know I am inferior here, and I have no authority to ask you this, but I need your help, I…” she sighed, forcing her pride to submit to her needs. “I have strict instructions from the one who sent me to follow a man named Odysseus, and I... cannot be seen by men as I am now. I have to stay out of Apollo’s sight before he comes to take me away. Please tell these soldiers to stop praying to him; I don’t want them to call Apollo here, or my mission will be in failure.” 

There was a moment of silence amongst the deserted camp. Saga’s hands tightened around his ankles, her arms stretched out to reach them. She waited a moment before she dared to lift her head to meet the god's eyes, nothing but helplessness within her gaze. 

Hermes’ gaze softened immediately, having come undone by her touch alone. He would never admit to it, though. He turned to face the soldiers and raised his staff in his hand. “Cease your prayers,” he commanded. “Apollo has claimed your life in payment for Agamemnon’s offense against him. He will not reverse your state. Go; wait by the shore toward the west. I will guide you to the underworld once I am finished here.” 

The soldiers obeyed immediately, grumbling to themselves. They rose from their knees and walked toward the ocean, their heads low and facing the earth. One by one, each of them faded from sight as they walked to the water. 

Saga watched Hermes' feet touch the ground in front of her. She saw his staff float in the air on its own before he rested his hands on her head and right shoulder. “Darling, I hear your prayer,” he smiled softly, his hand rubbing her shoulder and neck. "Please enlighten me on your situation. Who sent you? It is unwise to send a woman into war, where my grandson Odysseus is currently occupied. To send you to follow him is to send you into battle, which I’d never want to do to a woman, especially one as stunning as you… It is clear why Apollo had an immediate attraction toward you.” He traced his other hand along Saga’s hair gently, as if it were an attempt to soothe her. "Awh, tell me, darling, why do you need my help?”

She felt one of Hermes’ hands travel to her chin, lifting it up to meet his eyes. Saga stood to her feet, still looking up at the god as she clung to her chlamys. She cleared her throat and did her best to form her explanation in her head, trying to give as little information as she could. I still don’t know if I can trust this god; he was not in book one… 

“Well? Don’t keep me waiting, hun, I’m curious!” 

"I... don’t know how to explain the one that sent me, but if I don’t follow Odysseus, I... believe I will not be able to make it back home.” 

Hermes tilted his head, zooming in a circle before floating in front of her again. “And where is home for you?” 

“Italy.” 

Hermes paused, staring at her with a more intense glare. His eyes glowed brighter as they narrowed. He stopped zooming around and floated in the air, gently bobbing up and down. “Italy?” He repeated. “That’s not a name used for the land next to Athens for a long, long time.” 

Saga clamped her mouth shut.

Hermes looked to the side, wrapping his fingers around his staff again. "You... are not from here, darling.” His eyes widened, and he laughed to himself, spinning in a circle in the air again. “Oh, how exciting! It’s been a long time since we’ve had another adventurer from the future!” 

Saga stared in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what ?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it doll,” he cooed, smiling brightly. “I think you are asking for a disguise, no? Something to shield your identity from mortals and deities alike. You’re in luck,” he zoomed around Saga again, surveying her. “I currently have a bone to pick with Apollo, so I am more than happy to help hide you from him! Oh, this is going to be so fun!” He exclaimed with great joy, flying in the air with swift speed before spinning in front of Saga again. “He will never know where you went! Awh, I can imagine the look on his face! Hilarious, darling, hilarious.” 

Saga stood still as she processed what he was saying. “Wait… you’re helping me?” 

“Of course!” He gleamed, extending his hands out before giving a bow. “It’ll be the cow prank all over again! He’s looking for you, no?” 

“W-Well,” Saga stammered, scratching her neck. “He instructed me to wait here until he came and picked me up so the Greeks wouldn’t harm me…” 

“Haha! This will be perfect,” Hermes extended his staff and lifted Saga’s hair. “Mm… First things first, your hair needs to go. We cannot have golden locks showcasing your beauty like that.” 

Saga frowned. “Right, yeah…” She bent down to pick up the xiphos before placing it on her hair, breathing in deeply.

“Awh, darling, hold on,” Hermes zoomed in closer to her, taking the xiphos from her hand. “You’ll hurt yourself that way. Let me help,” he pushed her hand out of the way before grasping Saga’s hair in his hand. 

With a few quick strokes of the sword, Saga felt her head become immediately lighter. She couldn’t see what the god was doing, but she saw her strawberry-blonde hair fall to the floor. She stood still, feeling the blade scrape against her head closely. She gripped the end of her coat nervously. 

Hermes continued to work at her hair quickly, his tongue sticking out as he spun around to face her. He clapped his hands, smiling. “Awh, beautiful! You look fabulous, darling!” He glanced around quickly before grabbing a shield from the ground. “Have a look yourself.” 

Saga almost dropped the bronze shield from its weight but managed to lift it enough to see her reflection. 

Hermes gently offered a hand to pick up the shield, making it easier to hold up. 

As Saga observed her reflection, she saw her hair cut on one side like a wave, with a little bit of length on the left side of her face. The right side was almost buzzed, creating a shortcut like a guy. No strand of her hair stretched past her shoulders. It shaped her face just enough to make herself look more masculine. It highlighted her jawline and neck, making them look stronger than they were. 

Hermes flew closer to Saga before tapping her nose. As he did so, the remaining feminine features of her body seemed to have faded away. To the naked eye, she appeared as an agile man. Her eyes widened, and she smiled greatly. “Thank you," she stopped, immediately hearing that her voice was deeper. “Hello? Hello? ”

“Mm, yes, I do think that’ll do,” Hermes smirked, resting one foot on the ground. “Now, you must keep your hair short and out of sight if you want to fool the gods. Should at any point your hair fall below your shoulders, the illusion will not work. I suppose you could keep it pinned up in a helmet, but do be wise about it,” he laughed, pressing his hand on his bare chest. “Oh, but I’m sure you will have no trouble fitting into the camp to find my grandson.” 

“Hermes, thank you, I..." Saga exclaimed, looking at her new appearance again. “How can I thank you?” 

"Mm, no need, darling. Messing with Apollo is all the thanks I need,” he grinned wider, his eyes gleaming under his hat. He tipped the hat to her politely. “I cannot wait to see his reaction when his favorite plaything is gone from his sight!” 

“His what? ”

Hermes chuckled and zoomed around Saga again, flying through the air at swift speeds. “I hate to cut our meeting short, darling. I will check up on you to make sure you find my grandson once I am done, but I know the soldiers waiting at the bay have been so patient with me.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Do be a doll and try not to die; I’d hate to have to guide you to the underworld so soon.” 

Saga opened her mouth to speak, but just like Apollo, he zoomed off toward the ocean, yelling something at the dead soldiers before guiding them to a place she could not see. 

Saga ran her hand through her newly cut hair, missing the length of it already. The air chilled her neck. She sighed, looking at herself in the shield again.

The moment she met his eyes, his gaze softened. They twinkled like topaz in the sunlight. They held a soul so powerful, so divine. It was a spirit that had seen hundreds of thousands of years. Everything in Saga told her to fall flat on her face in fear, for it was not common to see a god and live. The look of fear on the corpses’ faces on the pyre suddenly became relatable. They were awestruck and terrified for their lives, and so was she. 

But Saga never showed fear on her face. She buried it deep down and hardened her stare to cancel out any visible motion. She couldn’t stop her hands quaking in fear, but she did her best to keep calm in the face of a god. She let go of her clothes and raised her hands as fists, ready to fight. 

The god before her lowered his bow, his gaze softening further. His rage quickly subsided and he returned his arrow to his quiver. He stared in awe himself, his eyes raking over her. He offered her a gaze which she had never seen before. She had seen men look at her with desire, but his gaze was softer, kinder, and more gentle. He took a step toward her, then another step. He slowly approached her as if not to startle her. 

However, his advancements did scare her. She backed up, fists raised as she forced a face of anger, suppressing her fear again. “Stay away,” she warned, her breaths quickening. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she knew deep down that if he tried anything, she would be helpless against him. Don’t… please don’t hurt me…

He stopped as she spoke, taking a moment to register her voice. He bent down and set his bow on the ground slowly, not breaking eye contact with her as he did so. He rose to his feet with his hands raised, showing he approached unarmed. He took a bigger step to close the gap between them as he stared down at her. 

Saga trembled the closer he got. It became increasingly difficult to mask her fear. The stress she accumulated in herself made the pain in her body worse. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move. She felt trapped in her skin. Never in her life had Saga been so afraid of another. The power that illuminated him made her very soul shudder. The pessimistic feeling only rose in her chest: you don’t meet gods, you survive them–

The god’s hand gently cupped her face as he knelt to her level. His face hovered close to hers at he looked at her solemnly, full of care. “Why do you tremble, little sunlight?” 

His voice was soothing like a sunrise, almost buckling Saga’s knees. His touch was magnifying, and it was warm on contact. She had never experienced an encounter like this before, and it was spinning her brain. She couldn’t help but let out a shaky sigh the moment his thumb rubbed her cheek, but it did not ease her anxiety. She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips quivered and her teeth chattered in fright. The worry of saying something wrong caught her by the throat. A few tears fell from her eyes as she stared into his; despite her efforts, her fear was displaying itself for him. 

Was it a concern that she saw in his gaze? He rested his forehead against hers, his other hand wrapping around Saga’s waist securely. Before Saga could process anything else, he leaned forward. 

He kissed her. It was a gentle, caring kiss that rested on her lips. His eyes closed as he did so, and it was no quick kiss. It lingered as his hand around her waist traveled to clasp her hand into his, stroking it gently. His other hand tilted her head gently for him to get a better angle, stroking it as if she were a treasure to him. 

Suddenly, a surge of peace ran through Saga’s body from her lips to her toes, banishing every fear that settled in her. His kiss was soft and warm as if the intention of it was to ease her soul, and ease her soul it did. Saga stopped trembling as if it was a command, and her eyes closed in rest, her body relaxing. She was confused; normally, she would push away someone having the audacity, but there was something about this deity that welcomed her with such grace, that she didn’t wish to move. His touch felt as if it was healing her body and taking away her pain. The only thing that hurt now was her hands, and she didn’t want to go back to the pain she was in. She didn’t resist, welcoming his affection as if she had never had affection in her life until he showed up. 

The god broke the kiss slowly, hovering over her lips for a moment as his dazed eyes looked at hers. He smiled softly, his hand traveling from her cheek to her neck. “Better?” 

As his lips left her–to Saga’s surprise–the anxiety did not return. She opened her eyes softly and met his, the realization of the moment hitting her like a truck. Her face turned red and all she could muster to do was nod. Did… Did a god just kiss me? 

His smile widened, which only made him more attractive in her eyes. His thumb ran along her hand as his other hand came back onto her shoulder. He took a step back and lifted Saga’s hand, observing the torn bandages around them. His hands trailed hers gently, not causing any pain. He found the beginning of the bandage wrapping and started to unwind it and take it off. His voice was soft as he spoke. “You shouldn’t be in a war camp, little sunlight.” 

Saga’s eyes widened when she saw what he was doing. She tried to pull her hand back, wincing as she did, but his grip was firm on her wrists and she only felt pain when she tried to break away from his grasp. “No, please–” 

“Trust me,” he paused, his voice soothing her. He finished unwinding the bandages and tossed them aside. He grabbed her other hand and did the same before holding them in his hands gently, observing them. 

The size difference was immaculate; her hands in his compared to a child resting their hands in an adult’s. His hands were perfect with soft crevices and they could engulf hers if he decided to close his fingers around them. However, Saga’s hands shuddered as the wind blew across them. They were ripped in every part, skin peeling off in various directions and blood pouring from the cuts laid across them. Bruises encased her knuckles; the god could tell they were blue and purple due to the light he gave off. Her hands had the appearance of ones that had just gotten out of war. 

The god wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing them gently. He noticed how it made her squirm and wince, and how a tear fell from her cheek in pain. He closed his eyes, lowering his head to her hands before placing a kiss on her two thumbs. A warm, yellow glow came from his hands and surrounded hers, shining brightly like a small sun. As soon as it came, it settled and disappeared, and the god stood up, moving his hands back so Saga could look at hers. 

The pain in her hands was gone. In the reflection of his light, Saga could see her hands were as good as new. There were no scars, no bruises, and no blood. She held her hands up and stared in wonder, moving her fingers gently and marveling how they didn’t ache with each movement. H-How?! She stared at the god with gratitude and awe. “Who… Who are you?” 

He looked confused. “You are not from here, are you?” He said in a matter-of-fact tone. He held out his hand to the west, the silk clothes draping from his left arm as he bowed in greeting. “I am Phoebus Apollo, radiant hue, brilliant and pure as the sun’s bright view. God of healing, prophecy's sight, archery’s master, in music, delight. Poetry’s soul, and plagues’ dire force, in justice, I take my righteous course. Seeker of good, defender of meek, bringer of loveliness minds do seek. To you, little sunlight, I offer my peace, in my embrace, all fears shall cease. With love’s sweet touch, and gentle care, my heart’s affection, I do declare.” 

“...Apollo,” Saga glanced to the ground, thinking. “...Thank you, for… healing my hands…”  His words were so eloquent and fair as if they bent to his will. Was this real? Surely, she was dreaming. She never considered Greek mythology as something real, but it was more real now than it was before as if she had stepped into their story.

…Wait–

Saga glanced around, patting her clothes. She had a book a while ago, one that the librarian told her she would be entering. She glanced around, unable to spot it on the ground. Where did she leave it? She needed to keep it with her, for she had instructions to follow a man from it. She grew more anxious the more she looked for it, spinning around and trying to peer into the darkness to see if she dropped it. 

Apollo glanced up from his bow and tilted his head. He exhaled softly and wrapped Saga in his arms, tilting her head up to look at him. “I freed you from fear, tore away chains of dread—Oh, why do you Greeks, to old fears, again be led?” 

Saga stopped the moment she felt his arms around her, her breath hitching as she met his divine eyes. Her heart eased once more, which enabled her to speak. “I–I’m not… Greek…” 

His eyes glowed softly, his hands traveling along the edge of her chlamys down her chest as he lifted them, speaking clearly rather than poetically. “So these are stolen?” 

Saga clamped her mouth shut, glancing to the ground. “N-No–” 

“A liar's guise, so poorly shod,” he leaned down to her level again and pressed his lips to her neck affectionately. “It's unwise to deceive a god.” 

A blush claimed her face at his affection. Saga tried to get away, pushing at his chest, but he held onto her tightly. The way his hands traveled around her waist made her think he wanted something more. Why do you have to be so close– she tried to recollect any information she could about Greek mythology but came out empty-handed. She knew next to nothing, which only worried her more. What… are you going to do to me? 

Apollo hummed, grinning at her attempts to escape. “A shy liar as well?” He teased, whispering gently in her ear. “If you’re going to play hard to get, at least tell me your name, little sunlight.” 

She couldn’t tell if she was enjoying his presence and affection or despising it. It felt powerful: nothing she had ever experienced before. However, it was something she did not ask for, and part of her felt violated. Am… Am I even allowed to feel violated in this… time? Her thoughts raced. Do… Do people consider this an honor or a horror, to be… she shuddered at the thought. Held by a god… “Saga,” she admitted, unable to muster the will to lie to his face again. 

Apollo’s left hand ran through her long hair as he planted another kiss on her neck. “Saga,” his voice dripped soothingly as he spoke her name, forcing her to blush. “In a realm where lilies grow, Madonna’s bloom, in north winds blow. Delicate strength, in snow’s embrace, a name that bears both grace and face. With heart so brave, in land anew, facing all with skies so blue. Aphrodite’s touch, in beauty’s sheen, your courage, strength, forever seen. In you, the essence pure and kind, a gentle force in heart and mind. Saga, dear, in lands afar, you shine, our guiding star.” 

Saga’s shoulders relaxed once more as she looked at him, shocked at his compliments. Shine? But… I’m a street girl. I–

Apollo met her eyes and smiled gently, reaffirming what he said. His voice was as sweet as honey and smelled like the morning rain. “Fear not, my Saga, for I am here, to chase away each haunting fear. Though divine, my heart does beat, longing for your love, so sweet. With tender voice and gentle hand, in your presence, still I stand. No harm shall come, no shadow near, for in my arms, you're safe, my dear. As moonlight bathes the world in peace, Feel warmth, let all your worries cease. With each caress, affection grows, In endless love, my heart bestows. Be calm, my muse, in star's embrace, together, we'll defy all space. From now 'til time's last whispered sigh, my love, eternal, cannot die.” 

Saga stared at the god as he uttered words of grace with skill. Her heart fluttered with hope and thrill like a butterfly taking off from a flower. She basked in his glow, cracking a faint smile. His words imbedded and sowed themselves into her mind, and turned her cheeks pink. “Wow… I…” her voice was breathless, it almost squeaked. “You’re… really good with words.” She was not normally shy and submissive, but Apollo had drawn it out of her naturally. Part of her didn’t believe him; was he whispering sweet nothings to make her bend a knee? The other side of her desperately wanted to cling to his words like they were law. “T-Thank you…”

It was as if he read her thoughts. “Take my words as law, for amid the suffering, you were the only thing I saw.” His voice turned into a gentle whisper as his hand pushed the hair out of her face and he gently kissed her forehead. “You are a glorious creation, Saga.” 

She gave in, blushing profusely as she rested her head on his chest, letting him pull her closer. 

He stroked her hair gently as he looked down at her. “Such a delicate thing…” He stared up at the dark, rotting camp. His light dimmed, and a part of that former, rageful flame lit in his chest. "Are you from noble Troy, where the Greeks did employ cunning wiles to steal you away, from your homeland where you lay? Is that why your hands bear the stain of battles fought, wrought in pain? Oh, did they wound you, leave you torn, in the quiet hours before the dawn?" His gaze darkened. "I have come to cast my judgment, fierce, for Chryseis, stolen from her father's tears. Chryses, my priest of noble Troy, beseeched, but in vain, for the return of his joy. They took her as prize, denied ransom's plea, if such fate has met you, my love, I see, I shall usher more death, herald more dread, as the perilous scene unfolds ahead."

Saga’s blood ran cold as his words ran through her ears. Suddenly, her surroundings made much more sense. She was able to connect the dots; he was the killer of the soldiers on the pyres; he was the reason the camps were so empty. The Greeks failed to give back a woman under ransom. Women are sold like property? She exhaled a shaky breath. Did he kill these men for stealing girls like prizes? …Women don’t… her thoughts raced, and her heart rate quickened. Her command from the librarian flashed before her mind. How am I supposed to follow this Odysseus guy when I am nothing but an object? 

Apollo’s hands wrapped around her unexpectedly, trailing her back and running through her hair as his gaze filled with concern. “Why does your blood run cold? Is it true?” 

“No, I’m not from Troy,” Saga stared up into his eyes. “...sir.” She hesitated, wondering if she should explain to him her situation. Would he even believe her? Am I so different from the women here that I attracted your attention on sight? “I–” 

“Hear me, O god of the silver bow,” a voice faintly cried from the distance. It was so faint, it should have been impossible to hear. It sounded as if the voice had come from inside Apollo, speaking to his soul. It continued in a plea. "You who guard Chryse and sacred Cilla, and reign over Tenedos with your power, just as you once answered my prayers and brought wrath upon the Achaeans, hear me once more. Lift this dreadful plague from the Greeks."

Apollo glanced up toward the sky before letting go of Saga and stepping back. He reached down and picked up his bow on the floor. As he raised his bow, so did the sun in the east behind him. He glanced back at Saga, his gaze solemn and caring. “My priest, Chryses, calls out in prayer, I must answer, leaving this despair. Heed my call, Saga, for they shall not take advantage as they have sought. Stay hidden from the Achaeans' view, don't let them take what's dear and true. I wish to know you more, it's a pity so, our time is cut short, but I'll not forego. I'll return to whisk you away, to safety, where we'll forever stay, free from the sufferings of war's dark night, together, we'll embrace the light." 

Saga reached out to him, opening her mouth to speak his name, but he shot up into the sky at a great speed, sending a wave of impact from where he stood and vanishing in the sunrise as he traveled north. Apollo faded into the light as if he owned it. It was as if he was never there. 

The silence surrounding Saga was deafening, and the fires of the pyres simmered down. She grazed her lips with her healed fingers, standing still as she clutched her garments with her other hand. Did the entire interaction take all night? It was so quick, so sudden. She sighed, her heart slowly hardening again in the god's absence. The wind also subsided, slowing just like her thoughts. She tried to process what just happened. I… Was I supposed to meet a god? He claimed he loved me… but he doesn’t even know me. She glanced to where he last stood. He wants to whisk me away, but they treat women like objects here, allegedly… But it seems he respected women enough to attack an entire mortal army for– her thoughts were cut off as her eyes met an object on the ground that reflected the sun. 

It was the book she brought with her. 

Saga rushed over and picked up the book, dusting it off and clenching it. Oh my gosh, I thought I lost my only way out… She peered down at it, making sure it was the same. It was, and it was without scratch or tear. How did it… get here? 

Saga stood quietly, wandering over to the tent she was in before and climbing inside. The bed was much more comfortable after being up for most of the night. Her clothes remained soaked in a pile beside the bedding, but she paid no attention to them. Okay, for now, I’m out of sight as Apollo instructed… She paused. I need to find Odysseus… But where is he? 

A gut feeling told Saga she would find answers in the book she was holding. She didn’t ask any more questions as she opened the pages, dusting them off as she started to read. Perhaps… I should’ve done this before going anywhere…