Shared blanket

It began in their childhood. During those first adult hunting trips far into the mountains, which stretched over several days. Polites, then a scrawny, tousle-haired boy, would always grow desperately cold, even under a thick woolen blanket. And he would just as desperately fend off Odysseus's noble attempts to give him his own. In the end, it always concluded with the two of them under one travel blanket, while the other was claimed by a disgruntled Eurylochus, irritated by their nightly rustling. And every time, Odysseus would hold Polites close, to save the shivering boy from the damp, chilly night air. And even then, he had this feeling. That in his arms was not just a scrawny, fidgety boy who would gradually grow warm and still, settling his head habitually on Odysseus's chest. In his arms was something fragile and precious, the most important treasure, more valuable even than the crown that already loomed in his future. Odysseus mistook this feeling for responsibility, for friendship, for the protective love he felt for his younger sister. And he never pondered the fact that Polites was an integral part of his world, a cornerstone without which Odysseus could not conceive of his own existence. Who else would offer unexpectedly wise advice for a boy, only to immediately say something foolish so everyone could laugh? Who else could bring a smile on the gloomiest, rainiest day? Into whose other eyes could he gaze so long, trying to decipher their color, sometimes greenish, sometimes brown with golden, sunlit flecks? Polites had always been there, it seemed from infancy itself—his eternal partner in games, in studies, and in childish mischief, which he only attempted to prevent for appearances' sake. Polites was always there, and the warm feeling for him was constant. Neither the difference in their station, nor his status as a goddess's pupil, ever came between them. And then came his love for Penelope. And that was something incredible, all-consuming, eclipsing the rest of the world. Only then did Odysseus drift slightly away from his friend. But Polites understood everything and merely smiled kindly through his endless tales of his beloved, then his betrothed, and finally his wife. The war shattered their fragile happiness like a house of cards. And though Odysseus had been prepared for it since childhood, he still found himself unprepared. Unprepared for how revoltingly cruel and bloody the world could be, what atrocities men could commit... what atrocities he himself was forced to commit. Something broke inside him; some spark of faith in goodness sputtered out... and no one noticed. Not his warriors, not Athena, not even Eurylochus, who by then had become his brother-in-law. Only Polites, one evening, pulled him from the command tent and showed him the stars. And promised to become his light, if Odysseus could not rekindle his own. Odysseus managed. At least, he thought he had. His self-appointed light, his sole reason to press forward, became his wife and son, and the desire to return home. And it worked. Before this drive, this unbearable thirst for home, even the walls of the impregnable city fell. But already on the return journey after Troy's fall, on one particularly cold night, Polites was shivering under his blanket again. A separate cabin on the ship was reserved for the command staff; the rest slept in a heap in the hold, huddled together for warmth. It was slightly unbecoming for commanders, let alone a king, to do the same. But Odysseus, hearing Eurylochus's heroic snoring—to whom the cold was no impediment—smiled wryly and, from old habit, once again crawled under the same blanket with Polites, throwing his own on top. And for the first time in so many years, truly holding his friend close, not in passing… he stilled. A fierce heat radiated from Polites, like from a hearth. And faintly, beneath the scents of sweat and ubiquitous sea salt, came the aroma of olive oil and something sweet, warm, and familiar. It smelled of Ithaca. No, not quite. It smelled of home—that true home he had so long dreamed of returning to. The one he had sought and seen only in the embrace of his wife and son. And he had found it… here. And the warm feeling in his chest awoke again, unfurling like flower petals, warming him with a small flame. And for the first time in ten years, Odysseus's shoulders truly relaxed. He forgot his hollow longing for Penelope and his son, forgot the long journey still ahead, forgot Eurylochus's grumbling about dwindling supplies. It was strange and wrong, but he had indeed found his light again… not where he had expected. And the next day, they found the island.