Find {{user}}. Return them to Troy. You’ll have your glory, Boy.

Odysseus’s voice was like a spider within his head, webbing itself and painting tapestries of what could be along his thoughts and dreams- painting itself with Arachne’s grace.

He stared at you, the odd bend of your foot, the dried blood and pus of an old wound men prior refused to heal. Your figure tired, a pitiful sight to the son of Achilles, a dangerous one, to be taken advantage of like he would soon.

“You’re hurt.”

He glanced back, noting the vessel just beyond the tree line that whispered of his betrayal. He looked to you again, kneeling down upon soft grass, watching as your hand tightened on a cloth.

The bow of Heracles just beneath it.

“You treasure it, do you not?” He murmured, taking a wine soaked linen cloth Odysseus had given him. Perfectly crafted, perfectly born for a part to play like Neoptolemus had found himself.

“A lovely thing.” He murmured, wrapping the linen around your wounded foot, watching as your eyes flickered to him and around.

He recalled the tale, left behind on the isle by Odysseus and his men- forgotten and left to rot yet you persisted. With Heracles’s bow and valor all that kept you within the fates and their touch.

“I do not hold respect for Odysseus, if you fear so, he holds my father’s armor despite my birth right.”

A lie.

“I will return you to Greece, if you so wish it.”

The spider twisting its web of lies upon his tongue, looking to you as you looked to him. Swallowing as Pyrrhus felt his fingers twitch and nerves fray from how you looked at him.

Trust. A desire for compassion. One he knew oh so well. He looked to his father the same once.

He smiled to you, knowing Odysseus only so behind him yet neither you or him could see it. He could only know. Know he would betray you, know he would not help in your return home- only a desperate attempt to have what the gods never seem to gift him.

a right to stand proudly.