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Here he was at last, on his knees, head bowed like a supplicant. The grains of sand digging into the palms of his shaking hands felt like absolution. Home. Finally.
He tried to picture the last time he'd been on this very beach, more than two decades ago. He couldn't. He'd never actually been here before. It was a different man that had held Telemachus against his chest as the waves had lapped against the shore, and he couldn't even recall that man's face.
Had he been smiling? Surely he had been, because Penelope had been standing beside him then. It was one of the things he'd clung to in his most hopeless hours, that certainty that if he could stand beside her once more, everything would be okay. He'd be able to truly smile and perhaps be closer to the man he'd lost somewhere on his journey home.
He wanted to weep or scream or fly apart. So overwhelming was the relief and anticipation of finally being within reach of Penelope and Telemachus. He felt paralyzed now that he was so close, though. The feeling had crept in, that, should he lift his head to behold his homeland, another obstacle would be there to greet him with a sardonic smile.
The sailors muttered of his likely insanity as he lay prostrate, and they gave him a wide berth. The hum of sailors and fishermen washed over him like soothing waves until a thread of conversation caught on his fractured mind.
Penelope was beset with suitors. Years they'd been left unappeased and they grew more and more restless. Fear for the queen of Ithaca and the young Telemachus, who had not yet returned from his travels, poured forth from a grizzled fisherman. Odysseus was up, lightning fast and grasping the man, demanding more information, no doubt with an animalistic look in his eyes. In fear, the answers he sought were freely given.
Of course there was another obstacle. One hundred and eight suitors. But what were so few men before a monster? Yes. Men didn't stand a chance against what he'd become to survive. Blood would spill. Ruthlessness was mercy afterall. He knew that well now. Only blood would appease the gods.
Six hundred lives had already been lost. He'd pay that price again to get to Penelope and Telemachus. But the gods were gracious, weren't they. Only just over a hundred men wasn't a high price at all, really, after everything else.
He'd need time to plan, of course. Killing a hundred men wasn't exactly a simple task. Surprise would be useful. He seemed to be in Athena's favor once more, which would make things easier. He felt the heaviness in his heart lift with purpose. In fact, he began to laugh- a broken, twisted sound that had people averting their eyes as he made his way to an old friend's house. The swineherd's home would be perfect to hide out at until he was ready to enact this final task.
He supposed, idly, that he should be horrified he was willing to face his task with so much joy in his heart. But he'd learnt, hadn't he? He'd been a terribly bad student at first, but he had finally learnt what the price of empathy cost. Yes. He wasn't weak anymore. He would do what ever it took, because there was no mercy left to give.