Chapter 9: A Grave Mistake

Odysseus and his men moved swiftly, each step careful, silent. The sharpened stake lay in the fire, its tip glowing red-hot. The air in the cave was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and wine.

Polyphemus snored, his massive chest rising and falling like the tide.

Odysseus gripped the stake. He looked at his men—worn, bloodied, afraid—and then back at the sleeping giant.

This was their moment.

He raised a hand. Now.

With a unified grunt, the men drove the burning stake deep into Polyphemus' eye.

A horrible scream tore through the cavern.

The Cyclops thrashed, his massive body shaking the earth, his hands clawing at his face as smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the air.

"NO ONE!" he howled, his voice shaking the very walls of the cave.

The men scrambled back, avoiding his flailing arms as he screamed in agony, clutching the bleeding hole where his eye had been.

Odysseus barely had time to think before—

The cave entrance darkened, and two more Cyclopes stepped inside.

"Hide!" Odysseus commanded the crew. They all moved to a hiding spot, observing the conversation between the beasts.

The two giants peered into the cave, their massive forms casting deep shadows across the walls.

"What is this ruckus, Polyphemus?" one grumbled, his voice like a shifting stone.

Polyphemus groaned, shaking with pain. "Brothers! I have been attacked!"

The other Cyclops stepped forward, sniffing the air. "By who?"

Polyphemus' massive hands trembled as he pointed toward the darkness. "No One!"

A silence.

Then—laughter.

The two Cyclopes burst out laughing, their voices echoing like thunder.

"No One, Polyphemus?" one snorted. "So you've lost an eye and your wits at the same time?"

The other grinned, shaking his head. "What's next? Will No One steal your sheep? Take your cave? Perhaps No One will take your place as well!"

Polyphemus sobbed, still clutching his ruined face, but his brothers only laughed harder.

One clapped the other on the back. "Come, let him cry over his imaginary enemies. If he calls for his mother next, then we'll worry."

Their laughter roared through the night as they turned and left, leaving Polyphemus moaning in the dirt.

Odysseus and his men stayed hidden, pressed against the cold rock, their breaths silent as ghosts.

Only when the footsteps faded into the night did Odysseus exhale.

"It worked," Perimedes whispered, almost in disbelief.

Eurylochus' grip on his sword was white-knuckled. "Then let's get the sheep and leave."

Odysseus nodded. Time to go.

As the men moved toward the sheep, a chill rolled through the air.

Odysseus froze.

Then, time slowed.

The fire stopped flickering. The dust stopped settling. The world held still.

And she was there.

Athena.

She stepped forward, her silver eyes cold, her golden spear gleaming in the dim light.

Odysseus sighed, weary. "Not now, goddess."

Athena ignored him. She turned her gaze to the wailing Polyphemus. "Kill him," she commanded.

Odysseus stiffened. "What?"

Her voice was sharp. "He has seen you. If he lives, he will call for vengeance. Finish him."

Odysseus felt his anger rise.

He turned away from her, gripping the fur of a sheep as if grounding himself. "I'm done with this," he muttered.

Athena's voice sharpened. "You hesitate?"

Odysseus' jaw clenched. "I hesitate because I'm tired."

Athena stepped closer. "You are my warrior of the mind, Odysseus. And a warrior eliminates threats."

His chest tightened.

"Polities was a warrior," he said quietly. "Was he not? And now he's dead."

Athena stilled.

Odysseus turned to face her fully, his face hard with grief and exhaustion. "What does it mean to be your warrior, Athena? To think? To strategize?" His voice shook. "Or just to kill?"

The goddess' gaze flickered, her expression unreadable.

Odysseus exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I will not stain this cave with more blood."

Athena's fingers tightened around her spear.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, with a sigh that almost sounded like disappointment, Athena lifted her hand—

And time resumed.

Odysseus barely hesitated. He strode forward, past his men, and stood before the blind, whimpering Polyphemus.

The Cyclops shuddered, curling in on himself like a wounded animal.

Odysseus' fists clenched.

Then, in a voice strong enough to shake the gods themselves, he spoke:

"Remember this, Polyphemus. Remember the men you killed. Remember the mercy I gave you. Remember that I, Odysseus, king of Ithaca, walked into your cave and left it standing."

The Cyclops sobbed.

Odysseus' eyes burned. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

"Tell the gods of me, beast. Tell them of the night you begged, and I spared you."

He turned, walking toward the exit. But before he stepped into the moonlight, he looked back one last time.

His final words rolled through the cave like a curse:

"I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, the storm that does not break, the mind that does not bow. And when the world speaks of this night, they will not call it your defeat—they will call it my victory."

And with that, he was gone.