“Rage—Muses, recount the rage of Achilles, Thetis’ son—deadly, ill-fated, that cost countless lives, casting to Hades’ house so many stalwart souls, great fighters’ souls, that made their bodies carrion for the circling birds.”

An aged man sat, blind eyes on the bloody flames of a fire, as his audience watched his story come to life in the gloom.  In the crook of one arm, the man cradled a small lyre.  As he spoke, he strummed the strings softly, caressing the notes as he caressed his words.

Each listener was intent.  Some watched the man; others watched the fire or gazed into the darkening evening.  Two especially marked his poetry:  one a slender woman, the other taller, sterner, and gray-eyed.

The man wove his thread until moonrise passed.  Finally, he let his words die into silence, and no others followed.  Understanding, the men and women rose.  Old Homer would continue his tale tomorrow.  The legend they all knew almost as well as he did would wait until the next evening.

As the audience drifted away, Homer remained by the fire, his head beginning to nod.  The evening was pleasant, the weather temperate.  He would rest under the stars tonight and enjoy the gentle breezes that blew from the nearby sea, wild and refreshing with salt.

When he opened his eyes, the fire had died down to gently throbbing embers and the air was windless, breathless.  The world was holding its breath, Homer thought.

Two women drew towards him, walking along the path that led to the seashore.  They were conversing quietly at first, but when they reached the old man, the taller woman spoke aloud.

“We have come far to see you, Homer, harper of hero tales.”

“Welcome,” Homer bowed his head but did not rise, “What do you seek?  Tales I can sing you, but I do not think that is why you have come.”

“We come to un-sing a tale sung long ago, to undo a tale of rage and woe.  Of what I speak, I think you know,” the stern woman’s face held the glimmer of a smile as she half said, half chanted her words.

“There is but one tale for which people would come far to see me,” Homer paused, his gaze focusing on something invisible, and then he finished, “Why do you seek to un-sing the tale of Ilium and Achilles?  Who are you that you imagine you could?”

The second woman, who had been silent until now, spoke softly, “I am Thetis, mother of Achilles.”

Instead of surprise, Homer felt only quiet, and after a moment, he asked Thetis’ companion, “Then are you the goddess Athena?”

“Truly you are one after my own heart, old Homer, for you are discerning,” Athena smiled.

“What errand brings you to an old singer of tales?”

“We have come to change the past, and so to change the future.  Too much was lost during the war upon the shores of Troy, and the tale of Ilium should never have run its course.  Envy stole the reason of the gods as deftly as though it had been my thief brother Hermes,” Athena answered.  “Achilles’ mother and I have come to you, wise Homer, who knows the tale so well, because only you can convince Paris to change the judgement he made which led to war and ruin.  I or Thetis would go, but we cannot, for we lived in that age and in every age and change from age to age.  To go back as our present selves would rend the seams of time.”

She paused a moment, then said quietly, “Will you go?”

“I am willing, yet how will I convince Priam’s son to change his choice?”

“Tell him the tale you have told the world.  Perhaps he will listen to your wisdom; perhaps he will desire in cowardice to avoid his doom; perhaps—” she paused, lowered her head so that the hood of her cloak cast her face in shadow, and then continued, “I know not what may be.  I cannot foresee the future that may spring from the altered past.”

Homer bent his head slowly, thoughtfully, and when he lifted it, the world around him had changed.