The Blindness of Fate: A Seer’s Warning, A Cyclops’s Denial.

A deafening roar shook the earth beneath Telemus’s feet, the vibration crawling up his spine, settling in the hollow of his chest. He stood at the mouth of the cave, feeling the damp chill from within mix with the acrid sting of the sea air. For a moment, he faltered, his breath shallow, like a man trapped between two worlds—one of earth and stone, the other of prophecy and doom.

“Seer,” came a rumbling voice from within, thick with amusement. “You’ve wandered far for nothing.”

Telemus’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He stepped forward, his sandals scraping against the jagged rock. He could hear the sheep rustling behind the Cyclops, their bleats thin and frightened in the vastness of the cave. The fire was low, casting only flickers of light, and yet he could feel Polyphemus’s presence, as if the darkness itself was shaped by the monster’s towering form. His laugh came again, deep and rolling, though it did not reach his one remaining eye.

Telemus had seen it—seen all of it, clear as a blade poised over soft flesh. The blood, the screaming, the blindness. Polyphemus, writhing in the dirt, roaring in helpless rage. Odysseus’s men fleeing into the night like shadows. He’d seen it, and the sight had burned itself into his mind, unshakable, inevitable. He had not wanted to come, but the vision had been a heavy stone pressing on his chest, and now it was here—this moment, this choice, the weight of it crushing him.

“I came to warn you,” Telemus said, his voice thin but steady.

Polyphemus shifted, a massive silhouette in the half-light. “Warn me?” he echoed with amusement. His great hand waved dismissively through the smoke. “What threat could come to me here? No man could defeat me. Not in my own home.” His voice had the careless arrogance of one who had never known fear. His single eye gleamed in the dim glow of the fire—a bright, untouchable thing. “What is this vision of yours, seer? A dream? A whisper from your weak gods?”

Telemus hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He looked at Polyphemus—really looked at him. The Cyclops sat on the floor, idly picking at the wool of a sheep resting at his side, his massive frame relaxed. In that moment, he seemed almost innocent. There was no malice in his eye, no cruelty in the way he stroked the creature beside him. And yet, beneath the surface, Telemus could feel it—the thread of destiny pulling taut, tightening with every passing second.

The gods had spoken. His vision was clear. And yet…

Would it be cruelty to tell him? Or was silence the greater sin?

Polyphemus’s voice broke the silence, a deep rumble in the belly of the cave. “Come now, seer, don’t cower in your riddles. Speak plainly or be gone.”

Telemus swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He stepped deeper into the cave, his hand brushing the cold stone of the wall as though it could steady him. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, but his face betrayed nothing. He had been chosen for this—for the burden of truth, no matter how heavy. His father had warned him once: A seer speaks, and the world changes. But it does not change kindly.

“You will be blinded,” Telemus said at last, his voice low and firm. “A stranger will come. He will take your sight. No power of the gods will save you.”

Polyphemus went still, his hand frozen mid-stroke over the sheep’s back. For a long, breathless moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Then, slowly, the Cyclops’s great lips curled into a sneer.

“You are a fool, old man,” Polyphemus growled. His eye narrowed, locking onto Telemus with a gaze as sharp as any blade. “Do you know who I am? I am the son of Poseidon. No man—no mortal—can harm me.”

Telemus stood his ground, though he could feel his heart thrumming wildly beneath his ribs. He had seen the truth. It played behind his eyes even now, a vision of pain and suffering. He wanted to scream it, to force Polyphemus to understand. But what good were warnings to a creature so wrapped in his own certainty?

“You will not listen,” Telemus said softly, more to himself than to the giant. “You never listen.”

Polyphemus rose then, towering over him, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. The sheep scattered, bleating nervously, as his massive frame blocked out the firelight. “I will not be threatened by a weakling who hides behind the gods’ tricks,” the Cyclops thundered, his voice shaking the walls. “You come into my home with your visions, your petty whispers of doom. But I am Polyphemus. No one comes here without my leave. No one leaves without my will.”

Telemus’s fingers dug into his palms. His mind raced, the vision unraveling before him in unbearable clarity—Polyphemus screaming, clutching at his destroyed eye, the blood spilling down his face. He had come here to stop it, hadn’t he? To alter fate? But here, now, standing before this creature, Telemus realized the bitter truth.

There is no stopping it.

“Go, seer,” Polyphemus growled, his voice now cold and sharp, the playfulness gone. “Tell your gods they waste their breath on me.”

Telemus stepped back, his chest tight, a thousand words left unsaid crowding his mind. But what could he say to change it? Fate had already wound its way around them, a noose tightening. The Cyclops could not see it, blind as he was in his arrogance.

With one last look at the giant, Telemus turned and left the cave, the weight of his steps as heavy as the future bearing down on them both.

Outside, the wind screamed against the cliffs, carrying with it the taste of salt and decay. Telemus leaned against the stone, his knees weak, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The sky above him had darkened, thick clouds rolling in like waves. The gods were silent, as they always were, their hands ever out of reach, their will as cold and indifferent as the sea.

Why had he come? To speak a truth that could not be heard? To warn a creature who had already sealed his fate? The fire inside him—the urge to do something—was fading, replaced by a dull ache in his chest. A seer could see the future, but he could not change it. He had known this. And yet…

The wind howled louder, tugging at his cloak, as if the island itself were mourning what was to come.

For a long time, Telemus stood at the mouth of the cave, his eyes staring blankly at the horizon. The storm was coming—he could feel it in his bones, in the tremor of the earth beneath his feet. Polyphemus would be blinded. The blood, the agony—it would all happen. And he, Telemus, would carry this knowledge like a stone in his chest, its weight never lifting.

He turned from the cave, walking toward the cliff’s edge where the sea lashed violently against the rocks below. As the first drops of rain fell, he whispered to the wind, “The eye of the storm cannot see the wind.”

The words slipped from his lips like a prayer, or perhaps a curse. There was no answer. There never was.

Telemus stared out into the vast, churning sea, feeling the pull of it, the endless depth of the world’s indifference. He had done what he came to do, but it was as hollow as the cave behind him, as hollow as the eye that would soon be blinded.

Above him, the storm broke.

And far behind, from deep within the cave, Polyphemus laughed.