That summer, I had just turned twelve. Too old to be a child, yet too childish to be a young man. I didn’t play with other children often—I had the feeling they avoided me. So, I spent most of my time alone or with my father, who taught me how to clean fish for the market. Sometimes I helped my mother in the kitchen or the garden. With no brothers or sisters, I didn’t mind working with both “men’s tasks” and “women’s tasks,” though I never understood why work needed to be divided that way. Who decided it? The gods? Men? It made no sense to me. Athena herself was the goddess of wisdom and war—and she was a woman. If even she didn’t fit their little boxes, why should I?
I wasn’t one to linger near the palace. Boys like me, sons of no one, didn’t belong in the shadow of kings. But the meadows just beyond? Those were mine. The wildflowers didn’t care whose blood ran through my veins, and the sun never chose its favorites. I spent my days there, barefoot and free, chasing dragonflies and pretending the stick in my hand was a hero’s spear.
That’s where I saw him for the first time.
It wasn’t just him, of course. A whole group of boys filled the clearing, their laughter ringing out like bells, louder and richer than the sounds of the meadows. They moved as though the earth itself bent for them—sons of noblemen, their sandals clean even after running through the grass. But it was him who drew my eye.
Odysseus. I didn’t know his name yet, but I didn’t need to. He stood at the center of the group, and even the other boys seemed to orbit him like planets around a sun. His hair was dark and wild, curling around his ears like the vines that grew along the cliffs. His tunic, though simple, was finer than anything I’d ever worn, the fabric moving with him like it had been made to obey him. But it wasn’t just his clothes, his hair, or even his presence that struck me.
It was the way he seemed untouchable. He didn’t carry the weight of the world the way my father did, with shoulders slumped from years of hauling nets and fish. He didn’t have the wary eyes of my mother, always scanning the horizon for a storm that might ruin our catch. No, Odysseus walked as if he had never known fear, as if every step he took would land on solid ground. He was a prince. I was a fisherman’s son. He had the confidence of someone who knew the world would rise to meet him, while I had only ever known how to bow my head.
And yet, at that moment, none of it seemed to matter. Because he was chasing a butterfly.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Its wings were like the stained glass windows I’d heard about from traveling bards, shimmering with colors I couldn’t name. It flitted above the boys, teasing them, its movements so free it made my chest ache.
“Catch it, Odysseus!” one of the boys shouted, and the others joined in, cheering him on.
Odysseus grinned, his teeth white against his sun-tanned skin, and leapt toward the butterfly. He was quick, faster than I thought he’d be, but not fast enough. His hands missed the butterfly by inches, and it rose higher, just out of reach. The boys laughed, but not cruelly, and Odysseus laughed with them, undeterred. He tried again, and again, his movements growing wilder with each attempt.
I don’t know what made me step out from where I was hiding in the grass. Maybe it was the way the butterfly seemed so fragile, its wings beating frantically to escape the chaos. Maybe it was the look on Odysseus’s face—not frustration, but something more playful, like he wanted to prove he could outsmart it. Either way, before I knew it, I was standing there, my voice cutting through their laughter.
“Wait!”
The boys turned to look at me, their faces blank with confusion. I felt my cheeks burn, but I didn’t move. My eyes were on the butterfly, which was still hovering nearby, as if waiting for what I’d do next.
“You’re scaring it,” I said softly. “If you move too quickly, it’ll think you’re trying to hurt it.”
Odysseus tilted his head, and for a moment, I thought he’d laugh at me. But he didn’t. He stepped back, his dark eyes studying me like I was something he couldn’t quite figure out. “And what do you suggest?” he asked.
I knelt in the grass, holding out my hand. “Be still,” I said, as much to myself as to him.
The butterfly fluttered lower, its wings catching the sunlight, and then—impossibly—it landed on my finger. I held my breath, afraid even that might scare it away. Around me, the clearing went silent. The other boys stared, their mouths slightly open, and when I dared to glance up, even Odysseus looked... impressed.
“How did you do that?” he asked, stepping closer.
I shrugged, not sure how to explain it. “You just have to be patient,” I said. “Butterflies trust quiet hands.”
He crouched down beside me, close enough that I could see the specks of green in his eyes. “Polites,” I said, before he could ask. “That’s my name.” I blushed even harder. Who was I to introduce myself to the prince of Ithaca? A prince whom I would one day serve at best—or die for, if the gods were kind enough to make me useful in war.
“Polites,” he repeated, like he was testing the weight of my name. It sounded sweeter when he said it, as if, on his lips, even I carried noble blood. Then he grinned, wide and easy, and for the first time, I saw the boy behind the prince. “You’re good with butterflies. But are you good with spears?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered.
He laughed, standing and offering me his hand. “Then come on. Let’s find out.” His hands were soft and clean; mine were calloused and smelled of the sea, of fish I had gutted earlier that morning. Mine would age and shrivel long before I did, but his—his hands would remain unmarked, golden.
I hesitated, glancing at the other boys. Their faces didn’t scorn me outright, but I could see it in their eyes: “Do his golden hands really reach for yours—hands of mud and clay?”
The butterfly took off as I stood, its wings flashing like a goodbye. I watched it disappear into the sky, feeling something in my chest I couldn’t name.
From that day on, Odysseus and I were inseparable. He was a prince, born for glory, and I was no one at all. But when we were together, it didn’t seem to matter.
He was the sun, and I wasn’t even the moon. I was just the shadow that followed the sun. No one notices the shadow when the sun is gone. That’s how I felt—necessary, but invisible. Though I never felt this way with him. It was so easy to be Polites, the fisherman’s son, and for him to be Odysseus, the heir of Ithaca, when it was just us. We didn’t even think about titles. We were just two boys who loved to dream.
He taught me how to wrestle, how to stand up to other boys, even how to scare animals twice my size. Of course, he was always better than me. At everything. I felt as if the gods themselves applauded his every step, as if his boyish feet carried more weight than a centaur’s. And I? I was just a boy. Not an extraordinary boy. Just a boy.
"Odysseus and Polites were here" we would carve into every tree, as if claiming our territories and conquering kingdoms. His name, clear and bold; mine, small and messy, because I could barely write without a proper education. He – the boy who chased butterflies, and I – the boy who taught him how to catch them. Who would have thought we were friends?
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Echoes of Polites
Historical FictionIn the grand tales of heroes and gods, some voices are destined to be forgotten. "Echoes of Polites" is the untold story of a man whose unwavering loyalty and quiet courage helped shape Odysseus's legendary journey home. Polites, a steadfast compani...
