BOOK OF ASTYANAX

CHAPTER 5

“ASTYANAX”

----------------------------------------

Odysseus’s eyes remained on the boy in the crib—Astyanax, Zeus called him—without a word. Images flashed before his eyes of the dreadful future he saw, the sight of Ithaca burning at the hands of that monster returning to him. But the warrior he saw then, standing at nearly twice his size with the physical strength to wield that massive axe… there was no way he could accept he lied before him at this moment.

There was no way that monster who would one day bring so much suffering and Astyanax, who couldn’t have brought to this life anything but joy, were the same.

The sheer idea of it was beyond his human comprehension. To see such evil and madness in one who smiled with such innocence, who reached his fingers out with such blissful ignorance, was something only a god or a monster could do.

Both of his hands gripped the side of Astyanax’s crib with enough force that he threatened to snap its guardrails in two. The god’s words echoed through his mind—the declaration crackled like thunder, urging him to do something no mortal should ever do. The act of infanticide that he forced upon him was one befitting of only a monster.

It was an act that couldn’t be justified. Odysseus grit his teeth, pressing them together so hard they could crack, and finally he released his hold on the crib. To rely on murder to solve the problem he was faced with would be enough to forsake him.

He grasped the child and lifted him in one movement, and turning, all of the dread he felt within boiled to the surface at once. “There must be another way!” he shouted.

With an inhuman expression that couldn’t be read, the eagle simply looked on. Odysseus wondered to himself, why did the gods torment them so by taking such forms and giving such ultimatums? Could he find a way to save his family and his soul?

“I’ll take him back to Ithaca. —I’ll raise him as my own if that’s what it takes!”

“You’ll regret it; he’ll burn your house and throne when he discovers what you’ve done. He’ll stop at nothing to bring you to ruin, and in the end you’ll have nothing.”

His legs were unsteady, a far cry from the posture he had in battle less than an hour ago. He despised the decision thrust upon him; he hated how weak he was, that an infant could bring him to such despair. But it was the ‘will of the gods’.

“Then I can send him far away! I’ll make sure his past is ever known!” he said. Compared to his pleading before, his voice was muffled and his words choked.

“He’ll learn. The truth always reveals itself,” Zeus retorted. “There’s only one choice.”

“I can run! My family and I can go somewhere far away, where—”

“He’ll find you wherever you go. He’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“No… I’ll make sure he can’t find us! Wouldn’t that do it?”

“The gods will make him know. Many of them hate your side for the war, and their anger will only fade long after your bones become dust. Divine retribution cannot be escaped.”

“Then… Then I’ll… I’ll take him and ensure he—”

“Enough!” the god declared, accompanied by the crashing sound of thunder.

He stopped, his voice trembling and his words fading before they could even be realized. The terror of such divine presence ensured he could speak no longer.

“It is the will of the gods! You have no say, mortal!”

Even now, Odysseus continued to cradle Astyanax in his arms. Without any shred of understanding for the situation they were faced with… without any knowledge of what was at stake, and what would never come to fruition if the stranger who held him chose blood, a simple and unrefined cry escaped the unknowing child’s mouth.

“Men rise and fall, just as civilizations fade to dust,” Zeus said. “Today, it is Troy. Tomorrow, your kingdom will burn. The only thing you can do is choose when. Whose blood will spill? Who will pay the price of this war? The decision is yours alone.”

“No… please…”

“—So choose.”

Odysseus fell to his knees and clutched the infant closer to his chest. “Please, don’t make me do this!” he shouted, defying his own fear. “Anything but this!”

“Choose, Odysseus, for only by burning can you save those you love from the fire.”

From where he kneeled, Odysseus could see the eagle begin to fade away. Almost like a cloud, its tangible form began to shift and twist, held together no longer. Then it was gone, its form carried away by the wind. Truly, Odysseus was abandoned by the gods.

In that room, holding the infant close to himself with such despair, he was left alone, with nothing but his own thoughts to accompany the void that steadily grew inside.

All he could think about, at that moment, was the world he left behind.

※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※

Just as life ends, it begins.

With every such genesis, pain follows.

That pain, it could be said, is evidence of love.

With an audible crack, a door swung open and slammed against the wall. Before it could even bounce off the surface, the man’s figure bounded through at a high speed. Every rushed footstep brought him closer and closer; a mix of the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the intense emotions swirling through his mind quickened them.

At the other end of the room, the labor of birth had just come to its conclusion. “Lady Penelope, breathe…” one of their servants said in an attempt to calm her.

“Penelope,” he called out. Finally, he stood before her bed. His eyes were widened at the sight and, beyond that, the realization that the time was finally upon them. It was long-awaited—a moment he yearned for so long, and yet one he feared more.

Eyes as blue as the ocean settled on him through the unspeakable pain she was feeling, with long, silky raven hair that reached down past them. In a state of mess, she looked much rougher than usual, and yet even so, in his eyes reflected a woman whose beauty could not be stated. “Odysseus,” she muttered, forcing herself through the pain.

“I just heard,” he said through breaths. “Did I…?”

Did I miss it? he was going to ask, but his question was answered before it could even be voiced. The moment came as a shock to him; it wasn’t one that was expected so soon. But his shock, and the fear that accompanied it, was quickly drowned and washed away as soon as he laid eyes on the fruit of his beloved’s suffering.

Cradled in the arms of Eurycleia, the very woman who tended to him when he was younger, was their child. His own heart melted at the sight—a feeling he experienced perhaps once or twice before in his life. It was an overwhelming sensation.

“Odysseus.” Eurycleia smiled, and she urged for him to come closer. Although her black hair was greying and the burden of time wore her down, she was still every bit the woman he knew, whose passion and loyalty to his family was as undying as the gods.

He approached, reaching out almost instinctively for the yet unnamed child. Like a torch he was passed. Like one, he was ‘illuminating’ to the Odysseus who hadn’t yet known war. He held a piece of both parents, he noticed; Penelope’s black hair that contrasted with his dark brown, and his own brown-colored eyes that contained such light.

Before he realized it, the terror he felt before no longer plagued him. In its place, something else existed. It was something he couldn’t classify or quantify. He held on to it with all his might. He predicted one day, he would need some of it for himself.

He was silent. With every fiber of his being, he tried to contain the emotion welling up inside of him. But it boiled to the surface faster than he could manage to bottle it up.

“…Odysseus.” The voice was weaker than usual. That was to be expected.

He looked up from the infant and directed his attention to the meek voice, which belonged to none other than his wife. Despite her unimaginable pain, a smile painted her face. It was something a daughter of Sparta rarely showed; he wanted to protect it with his life. He was willing to go to war for her, if he was pushed to.

“You’re… crying,” Penelope said. She looked like she was stifling a laugh.

“Ah.” So that was what he felt trickle down his face.

Strangely enough, he didn’t care. For a king to shed tears like that was a strange sight, surely, but Odysseus was no normal king, and so his maids didn’t bat an eye. Eurycleia, too, could only smile at the sight of the gentle king’s joy.

×　　×　　×　　×

“What should we name him?” Penelope asked.

Still bed-ridden, she now held the nameless infant close to her chest. Her question was one that hung in the air… unsaid before now, but considered by both of them all the same. Instead of deciding on what name to give him before, they simply elected to watch him without a word, Penelope from inside her sheets and Odysseus from his sitting position on the other side of the bed. Truthfully, they were both clueless.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Odysseus answered honestly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think this far ahead. I thought that… maybe when I saw him, a good name would come to me.”

Penelope stifled a laugh. No doubt, the pain of birth lingered with her, but it wasn’t worn on her face. She was strong. In many ways, she was stronger than him.

“You carried him. Do you have any ideas?” he asked.

She thought for a moment, bringing her unoccupied finger to her chin, and then proposed, “How about Laertes, after your father? Wouldn’t he be overjoyed at that?”

“Well… I’m sure he’d appreciate it, but our son really doesn’t look like a ‘Laertes’, does he? His face looks much more innocent than that. In that way, it’s kind of like yours.”

“You’re not wrong… look at how he sleeps,” she said with a gentle smile.

“What about ‘Icarius’, after your father?” Odysseus asked. “It’s a noble name.”

“You thought ‘Laertes’ wasn’t innocent enough for our son, so you propose ‘Icarius’?” Penelope laughed. “My father is a Spartan to his core. And didn’t you say you wanted our son to have a more gentle name? One befitting of a peaceful era?”

“I did say that. I guess you’re right.” A sigh escaped him. It was a hopeless endeavor; how would they ever find the ‘perfect’ name for their son when they struggled so?

“How about your name? ‘Odysseus’ is the most noble I can imagine.”

Saying nothing, he shook his head. “I don’t want that for our son,” he declared in refusal of it. “I want him to be a far gentler man than me, and ‘Odysseus’ means ‘to hate’; it almost feels like a curse, naming him that. I don’t know what my father was thinking.”

“Then we’ll find something better. Something perfect.”

But that wasn’t quite as easy as one would expect. The two of them continued to cycle through names for a while—none of which truly stuck with them—in search of the one that would encapsulate everything they wanted for their son. One befitting of everything they wanted to give him, and the world they endeavored to entrust him with.

The discussion lasted hours, and still they were no closer.

That was, until Odysseus came to a conclusion.

“The world we’re imagining isn’t one we can comprehend. Perhaps no mortal can. Maybe the ‘perfect name’ we’re seeking should come from someone much wiser.”

Penelope looked perplexed. “So then, you’re proposing…?”

“Only one person has the privilege, I think. Tomorrow, he’ll be named.”

Penelope nodded in agreement, and so they finally came to a decision.

Telemachus, it was decided. ‘Far from battle’, the name meant, for the world they envisioned for him was one that existed far from the flames of war and suffering.

※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※　※

“Astyanax…” he muttered. ‘Lord of the city’. Given what he would one day do, it was an appropriate one. He would be the last bastion of a bygone city, and the one to avenge its memory. Additionally, his father was considered Troy’s greatest warrior.

Hector, prince of Troy. Son of Priam and brother of Paris. He was an honorable man, Odysseus always thought, to the point where his death affected even him. They were enemies, and yet the respect he held for the prince could not be overstated.

That prince was dead now, and so was his killer. Now he held his son in his arms.

The circumstances of their meeting loomed over him like a great shadow. As pure as the child looked, and as innocently as he cooed and reached out for Odysseus, unspeakable and horrible thoughts breached the soldier’s mind and ravaged his soul.

He was sitting now, his back leaned against one of the room’s walls and the child in his arms. He’d been there in that position for a while now, and there he sat in… mostly quiet. Occasionally, certain words and strange mutterings would break the silence as he considered each and every option he had. He could ignore Zeus’s warnings, or…

No. I can’t.

He couldn’t even consider it. How could he? He continued to look at the boy whose name he could not bear to speak or even think any further. He saw past him, to an event of his past that happened so, so long ago. One he could never forget.

The feelings he felt that today began to well up once again. Slowly, they accumulated, and with no one else to speak to, he addressed the infant he cradled directly. “How did we get here?” he asked. “What happened that caused all of us to reach this point?”

Who could truly be blamed for the world they created? Who threw the first stone, and who retaliated? Who fought, killed, and bled to bring them all to this specific future?

They weren’t finished fighting, even now. Troy was mostly theirs—the Greeks dominated them rather easily thanks to the horse—but he could hear the sound of war outside the window of this very room. Strangely, it seemed like that war couldn’t touch them where they were… like the room was in a space none of them could reach.

They were never finished. Even when Troy was naught but rubble, the fighting wouldn’t end. Eventually, this boy would grow, and he would learn of the misdeeds of the man who carried him at this very moment. He would burn everything he loved to the ground.

Odysseus’s mind retreated to the only place it could. Home. It was the same place he always returned to in his mind, when the fighting and the death and the bloodshed was too much for him to bear on his own. He thought of Penelope, and above all…

“…Telemachus.”

At that name, the boy looked at him in confusion. He couldn’t understand anything he said… he was ignorant of it all. He knew nothing of war because he was too young and innocent to comprehend it. In his eyes, Odysseus could see a familiar sight.

“Such innocence… it reminds me of my own son,” he said to the boy who did not understand a word he uttered. “You’re as old as he was, back when I left for war. He didn’t know anything either… didn’t even know who I was, or why I was leaving.”

…

“It’s been ten years since I left. That’s how old Telemachus is now.”

He often thought about it: the world he left behind. While he fought… while he claimed so many lives in the name of war, his son and wife’s lives continued on without him.

… And if he didn’t act, his son’s would come to a violent end. The thought invaded his mind; he desperately wished to avert his eyes from it, but how could he? What kind of a father am I, if the price I have to pay to protect him is too much for me to bear?

He clenched his teeth again and, pushing himself off the ground swiftly, he returned the infant to his crib. Laying down once more, in the same position Odysseus found him in, the child’s eyes looked up at him curiously. Why did he have to look at him like that?

The act of drawing his blade was one that was taken without conscious thought. It wasn’t his intention to do so; he had no desire to select between two awful decisions. And yet, even so, it was done. In his hand, gripped with both shaking hands, was his sword. They trembled… oh, how they trembled… But I can’t afford to let them die.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice so quiet that it was likely inaudible to the infant… not that it was something he could understand or comprehend even if he could hear it.

“Please… don’t look. I can’t… if you look at me like that…”

He released one hand’s grip on the sword’s hilt and used it to cover the boy’s eyes. Even so, he still didn’t react like one normally would. How could he? He didn’t know what a sword was. He didn’t even understand the concept of ‘death’ or ‘finality’.

… But they did know pain. They had a will to live, didn’t they? Even if they didn’t understand the intricacies of life and death, the natural preservation to survive existed in every being. The right to want to live was integral to each and every person.

He moved his hand. Again, the infant looked up at him. It was smiling.

“How could I hurt you…?” he choked, and his blade was returned to its scabbard. He stumbled back a step, nearly losing his balance, and his foot slammed against his helmet by accident. It bounced and rolled against the floor for a moment.

He lifted it from the ground and looked at it. Off its metallic surface, he could see his own face reflected back at him. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. What could he do, when he was too weak to end the biggest threat his kingdom would ever know?

He turned his attention—his anger, his desperation—to the world and the gods above. To those who forced this decision on him, who relished in the suffering of men, he grit his teeth and addressed. “What am I supposed to do? What do I do…?”

…

“WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO!?”

“WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME!? WHY DO I NEED TO MAKE THE HARD DECISIONS!?” he shouted at the edge of tears. No—he already passed that point. The gods’ trials pushed him over the edge already, and for perhaps the first time in ten years his cheeks were moistened, painted by the awful choice he had yet to make.

“Why the hell… why won’t you answer me!? What awful act have I done, what crime have I committed, to be punished in such a way!? I just don’t… I don’t understand!”

His cries were answered by a long, unbroken silence. He gripped his helmet tighter.

He never asked for this. He never wanted any of this. He didn’t want the ‘glory’ that came with toppling Troy, nor did he care for the affair that led to the war. All he ever desired during those ten long years was one thing, and one thing only. It was the thing that allowed him to keep fighting—that kept his spirit ignited despite all he suffered.

“I want to go home.” He turned away from the crib and with a resolution he left the infant there. In three rushed steps he reached the door, and he grasped the handle. It turned, and he continued. He was going to leave; his home awaited him. His love awaited him.

He stopped. The door was open now, and one of his feet already crossed the threshold. He suspected if he reached the other through, he would never be able to force himself to return. Even with all the lives he took during the war, he just didn’t have it in him.

He turned to face the crib again. Right now, that child was an innocent one without the capacity for violence, but eventually… What kind of monster will he become?

“Penelope…” he voiced. He could almost see her, standing in front of him in her infinite beauty. He imagined her clutching Telemachus in her arms. How could he explain this to them? —That he had the chance to save them but failed to take it? Would they blame him? Would they forsake him for his weakness? Was the opposite worse? Maybe.

But what was he supposed to do? What could he do, when he was just a man? When, try as he might, all he could do was resist and flail his arms and legs? When he lacked the power to change fate, to escape what was decided for him, what could he do?

“Penelope, what am I supposed to do? What should I do?”

She wasn’t there. She couldn’t respond to him. He knew that. But he reached his hand out anyway and silently pleaded for her to take it. “But if I run now… if I leave this boy here and flee, and I allow him to become an avenger… what will happen?”

He could see every future that diverged from this point. All of them were revealed to him. Like branches of a tree that grew from this single moment, rooted in that crib, Odysseus could see them expand and grow. They mutated. He was repulsed by the colossal monstrosity that would remain if it wasn’t culled at the roots.

But there was something in this world that was even more disgusting than that.

He couldn’t see it, but he was sure he hated the expression he wore on his face. It was a look of hatred, or maybe one of fear. He wasn’t sure who it was directed to. Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe monsters then and monsters now were one and the same.

With an iron grip he raised his helmet and wore it once again, each and every moment requiring every last bit of strength and willpower he could muster. Every motion was akin to a stringed puppet’s. Each lacked passion but was filled with an awful purpose.

The infant looked up. The look of fear returned to its face when it saw the helmeted monster that approached. The monster’s hand grasped it by the blanket that shrouded it with a tight grip that refused to let go, and it was raised into the air as if it were poison that prevented the monster from carrying it the same way he did before. If he did, then his spirit would surely give out before the task could be complete.

His legs moved without directive. He knew not where he was going, but he understood what was about to be done. It had to be done, he decided, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to do it. If he gave himself the choice, he knew what he’d do.

Even so, the same thought repeatedly echoed throughout his mind and soul.

It refused to give in. It wanted—needed—to be heard. The void inside him only intensified. It grew deeper and deeper. It made him sick. He wanted to throw up.

He stood at the precipice now, and he reached his hand over the edge. Around him, flames burned as bright and hot as the sun and smoke stopped his breath. Below, he could see the amassed soldiers, Trojan and Achaean both, clashing and bleeding. He didn’t care; it was the kind of hell he deserved for the crime he was about to commit.

His grip slowly loosened. He wanted to shut his eyes and blind himself from the world, and from the thing he held suspended, but couldn’t. He wasn’t cold or heartless enough.

The thought still wouldn’t leave him. It had to escape; it had to be said. It was an awful, evil, despicable, disgusting, repulsive, unforgivable thought that could never come to pass, but it forced itself through the seams anyway. His heart could no longer contain it.

Over the edge of the tower, he begged it. One simple, selfish request.

“—Forgive me.” Such a foolish thing, forgiveness. It didn’t erase the crime.

He let go of the world and steeled his heart. His grip released.