@songsofdivinity sent a raven: “Promise me one thing—don’t pretend this was nothing.” (Calypso for Odysseus)
He still couldn't believe he was going home, a twist low in his gut, an ache in his chest as he looked down to the hand on his arm. This had been meant to be his Meadow of Asphodel, a field of beauty that held it's own charms true. But not the ending one would hope for, unable to decide if he should smile or cry.
Home. Ithaca. The hills, the palace, the goats, faithful friends and family.
Which he'd made for himself here, on the isle, with a goddess that gave so much without asking for anything else in return but that he love her. And he had. Did? Gods, this was cruel for no purpose. He'd let the dream die, a sacrifice tossed into the growing pyre that was the love he'd carefully tended and stoked for Calypso. And now he was to leave, there was no option to stay. For all her craft, and his promises, he'd been unable to truly relinquish the hope that he'd one day make it home to see father, home, her…
"I could never.'
That at least was true, lifting her hand to kiss pinkie knuckle, passing across the other three and turning her hand to kiss the palm. The same soft, gentle hand that had wiped the cold sweat from his forehead when he'd woke throat hoarse from shouting. The names of his men, the kings that he'd stood beside in Troy, the gods who'd turned on him and left him here like so much flotsam. Like spoiled children discarding a toy they no longer cared to play with.
And was he not doing the very same? Heard Hermes talking with Calypso, as he was sure he was meant to, and moved as swiftly as the god himself to the beach without a thought. It had been immediate, the old drive roaring through him like a chimera, rattling frame and flesh into action. It was only at her gentle touch that he recalled her at all, and he was disgusted with himself. But that didn't stop his frantic work.
A part of his heart would be left here, the home that had always ever been a consolation.















