#demodocus

If someone reads the Odyssey we notice there are many characters that narrate a story.

We firstly have Phemius, the self-taught singer who sings against his will for the suitors the tales of the heroes of the Trojan War especially their fate after the war

Second we have Nestor, Helen and Menelaus that focus on Odysseus in particular or the events that surrounded him

Then we have Demodocus the blind singer of the Phaeakes who sings the events of the Trojan War

Last but not least Odysseus himself who tells us his own story the infamous Odyssey

All the narrators or storytellers cause something to happen or emotions to their audience. For example Phemius causes Penelope to come down, for us to see and hear her. Helen Menelaus and Nestor introduce us to our hero. Demodocus is causing the reaction of Odysseus that reveals him to his audience and forces him to tell his story. However something differentiates Odysseus from the other narrators within the Odyssey

Odysseus tells his own story

And that shows to his narrative. Odysseus is not just aligning some facts or information he knows. He is telling his own story: traumatic events that happened to him, memories that scarred him, memories that seem pleasing to him...and that shows to "inconsistencies" to his narrative

He speaks positively or negatively in several places showing the ups and downs of his mood as he speaks

Some parts of his narrative he slides over (see for example Ismarus) as if he doesn't want to talk about it or elaborate and extends other parts (see Polyphemus)

Sometimes he speaks positively of himself or his men and at others he berates them depending on how the events of his narration go

Oftentimes he stops to breathe and the Phaeakes encourage him to go on and he does collecting his thoughts

At times he inserts some small information to the story while others he omits it

And the emotions show

He starts by speaking about his homeland. He is nostalgic, positive, dreamlike even

He becomes dryer as we get to the events of the trip

He sometimes needs to stop and collect himself

He is encouraged to speak which means he hesitates

He stops sometimes to possibly enjoy the praise he receives

He waits for people to stop talking or ask him questions and assist his narrative

Homer didn't just give us a flashback story of someone speaking in first person. HE GAVE US A LIVE NARRATION a narrator who appears to speak in real time with all the "flaws" of the conversations such as the fact not all events are given the same severity, the pauses and all.

I believe this is a massive reason why the Odyssey is being retold and loved. Because imagine how lively it was in antiquity to have your narrator pause and speak and think instead of directly singing the whole thing like someone else telling it but instead we see Odysseus live being affected by the emotions of his own narration and adding or omitting details. We can almost imagine him tearing up or being angry or sad or happy or relieved as he speaks!

HOMER YOU WERE A FUCKING GENIUS!

Posting these as I get them done like most of my art, not saving them for each subsequent day, and I've already had three done by now so here's the second! It's Tav's Demo! Sweet kid, shame about his face getting stolen. Hope you like! :D

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“My dearest Alessandra,” Kallias reads aloud. “I hope you will forgive my boldness, but word has reached me that the king did not accompany you to your latest outing at the estate of the Christakoses.”

I leap forward, trying to snatch the letter from his grip, but Kallias stands out of my reach, never ceasing in his reading. “In fact, it’s rumored you spent the evening with a childhood friend. This has dared me to hope that perhaps you’ve ended things with His Majesty. You, of course, know of my business travels. They’ve kept me from your side too long, but I think of you daily. I miss your conversation, your smile, the way you look away from me when you’re overcome by my generosity. Who the hell wrote this?” Kallias’s eyes skip to the end to find the signature. Then he barks out a laugh. “Orrin wrote you a love letter!”

I stand, trying to rip the damned thing from his hands, but Kallias keeps jumping out of reach.

“When I look at the night sky, I cease to see its beauty. All I can think of is you. Your sable hair and how I long to run my fingersthrough its lengths. Your lips, ripe as cherries—how I long to taste them. Your fingers are as dainty as butterfly wings, and your eyes have a shine to rival the light of stars.”

“Damn you, Kallias, give it here!” I throw myself at him, and this time, instead of dancing out of reach, he turns to shadow.

Along with the letter, which is now safely out of my reach for as long as Kallias likes.

“That is unfair,” I say.

Kallias wipes a shadowed tear of mirth from his eyes. “How could you keep this treasure from me?” He reads, “Your voice could command the world to stop spinning, the plants to stop growing, the wind to cease blowing, the bugs to stop chirping.” The king erupts into a fit of laughter.

“Chirping bugs. In his love letter to you!” Kallias clenches his stomach with both hands, and in doing so, he loses his grip on the letter. It solidifies instantly, and I snatch it up before it even hits the ground.

I tear the damn thing to shreds and let the pieces fall to the floor.

“Not all men have skill with a pen,” I say through gritted teeth.

Kallias turns toward my stack of letters. “Tell me this isn’t his first letter. Oh, please say there’s more!”

“There isn’t,” I assure him.

“A pity. Oh, I haven’t laughed that hard in—well, at least a year. Alessandra, are you blushing!”

“No. If my face is heated, it is from the fury I feel toward you.”

“For making fun of me. For thinking it humorous that anyone should want to write me a love letter.”

Will he never see me as a romantic prospect?

Instantly, the joviality disappears from his face, replaced with utter seriousness. “Alessandra, I do not tease you. It is only Orrin’s attempt at poetry that amuses me. You are worthy of all the poets’ notice, but that”—he points to the shredded pieces on the ground—“is not worthy of you.”

Somewhat appeased, I challenge, “And I suppose you could do better?”

“I most certainly could.” He looks sadly upon the torn scraps at the floor. “Did you have to destroy it? I could have framed it and saved it for whenever I’m having a bad day.”

“Shut your mouth.” I return to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I refuse to let a smile grace my face.

But Kallias’s mirth is so very contagious. And I enjoy his smile more than I care to admit.

A large weight joins me on the bed, but since it’s half on top of me, I know it isn’t Kallias.

“Good boy, Demodocus,” the Shadow King says, picking up the ball and tossing it away again. Demodocus races after it once more. To me, he says, “You have a good arm.”

“And you have impressive aim.”

He lifts a brow. “Surely you’re not accusing me of intentionally throwing the ball at you.”

“That’s exactly what you did.” But why? “If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask for it. Though I’m disinclined to give it now that I know you practically ordered your dog to tackle me.”

The corners of his mouth turn up. “It wasn’t your attention I wanted. I was curious to see how you would react to Demodocus.”

“Why?” I ask, baffled.

Demodocus gallops toward us before dropping the ball at the king’s perfectly polished shoes. He raises it in a black-gloved hand before hurling it toward a group of ladies sitting in chairs along the creek. Demodocus streaks in front of them, racing to catch his prize, and a volley of shrieks rises into the air.

The king arches his neck slightly, as though this proves his point. Whatever that may be.

“You react well to the unexpected,” he says at last. “And you like animals. That’s two things I didn’t know about you before.”

“And you are devious.” Siccing his dog on unsuspecting ladies.

“Now surely you’d already guessed that about me,” he says, pushing off from the tree. He steps into the light, and I step backward with the movement, keeping the appropriate distance. His grin grows as he looks me up and down.

“Something funny?” I ask.

“I’m merely admiring your attire once again. Tell me, is the corset not meant to go underneath the blouse?”

“It’s not a corset. It’s merely styled after one. I like the way the laces look. Why hide them?”

The king takes a moment to digest that. “You are going to cause all kinds of trouble in my court.”

I can’t tell if he’s worried or amused by that.

“Just look at how you’ve already changed things. If you will excuse me.” He turns to the side. “Demodocus! Come, boy!”