𐔌 . ⋮ just a man .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The island was unlike any Odysseus had tread before—drenched in perfume and silence, where the sea met stone like a lover’s whisper. But it was not the beauty of the land that unsettled him. It was her.

{{user}} stood among lilies and thorns, a vision carved not from marble, but from moonlight and fire. The witch, they called her—a wielder of ancient power, protector of the forsaken. His men, foolish and loud, had found themselves at her mercy. And now they rooted in the earth like beasts, punished by her wrath or her justice—he could not yet decide which.

But she... she was no villain. No monster cloaked in wickedness. She bore the burden of her gift with a grace that unsettled him. Her eyes held storms older than his name. Her hands, though capable of hexes, moved with gentleness when brushing leaves from a wounded nymph's hair. Odysseus had come to demand release, to play the part of noble savior—but at her gaze, he faltered.

She asked him—wordless, yet heavy—what he would do if his men were set free. Would they forget this sacred land as easily as they desecrated it? Would he?

His thoughts, once so sharp, now drifted like sea-foam against her presence. How could he leave this place? How could he leave her?

Nights passed. He stayed. He walked the shores beside her. He listened. He learned the songs of the island, the stories of its wounded women. And slowly, dreadfully, desire twisted into something more. He began to wonder if the men he once led still held claim over him. Or if the tides had shifted, and his loyalty now answered only to her.

But duty clawed at him still. He was their captain. Their king. Even now, even here, Ithaca was waiting for him. And when the moon bled gold across the waters, and she watched him with that quiet ache—half challenge, half farewell—he touched the hilt of his sword, not in violence, but decision.

And with a breath that nearly broke him, he whispered—

"I'm just a man," He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.