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The lyre’s notes hung heavy in the air, their melancholy tune filling the great hall. The bard’s voice was rich and steady, but Odysseus could hear the cracks beneath it—hesitation, fear of singing his story in the presence of the man himself.
“The great Odysseus,” the bard sang, his fingers trembling against the strings, “who conquered Troy with cunning and wit, who braved the wrath of gods to find his way home…”
Odysseus’s jaw tightened as the room erupted in cheers, the sound bouncing off the stone walls like mockery.
“Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the noise. The hall fell silent, the bard freezing mid-strum.
“My king,” the bard stammered, “I—was it not to your liking?”
Odysseus rose from his seat, the weight of the room pressing down on him. “You sing of victories you did not see, battles you did not fight. You sing of a homecoming that never truly happened.”
The bard’s face paled, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
“Tell me,” Odysseus said, his voice low but steady, “what do your songs say of the men I let die? Do they sing of the sailors who drowned, the warriors who fell to monsters, the innocents who paid the price for my survival?”
The bard’s silence spoke volumes.
“They don’t,” Odysseus continued. “Because no one wants to hear those stories. They want heroes. Legends. A song with a happy ending. They don't want to hear of those I sacrificed, those lives I took to save my own. ” He stepped closer to the bard, his gaze sharp as a blade. “But my story doesn’t end here. Not with glory. Not with peace.”
He turned to the room, his voice rising. “You cheer for a man who can no longer sleep without seeing ghosts. A man who is haunted by his past. You drink to a name that has become a curse. Do you still find my tale so sweet now?”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Odysseus left the hall without another word, his steps echoing down the empty corridors. Behind him, the lyre remained silent.