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The purple hold of dusk gently grips the edges of shadow that clings to the halls of the Palace of Ithaka. It splashes the stones in a myriad of colors, the setting sun mixed with the darkening purples of night to create a twisting kaleidoscope of shadow across the walls. The tapestries that adorn it rustle in an invisible breeze with a gentle force.
Somewhere far below lies a city undisturbed. The waves rock boats gently against their docks, sailors returning home from a fresh fishing trip with their hauls. The lights and fires in hearths begin to glow as families gather for dinner, prayer and rest. The soft whistle of the wind is the only real noise that permeates it. The stone streets are quiet as the lowly, little island settles in rest.
The same would be true for its palace as well, yet there is one thing that breaks apart the peaceful serenity of the place.
The blood.
Every room and every wall was stained with the viscous and running blood of a hundred and eight pigs sent far too late to the slaughter. Their bodies litter it, too: forms mangled, bones broken, and faces twisted in silent screams that never heard outside its walls. Though even now, within them, the din of death drones across the walls even with the bloodshed long over.
Like a cold and icy chill. A chill so quiet and hung in the air, permanently staining the palace walls in the eternal memory of horrid carnage.
And yet somehow, despite this, despite the bodies and the blood and the foul trace of slaughter, this was the safest it had felt in decades.
The only movement that shifted across the static landscape was in the main hall, the epicenter of the slaughter.
Odysseus relinquishes a sigh deep from within him. His bones ache as he settles his bow right on top of his throne in the center. His eyes linger over it, passing from the seat to the other two that sit to either side.
His gaze doesn’t linger for long as he hears something shift behind him, his hand instantly darting for the weapon once more. But it still and stops when he sees who stands there behind him.
“...Father?”
Telemachus stares into his father’s eyes in mute silence. His hands grip around the edges of his helmet, blood splattered across its face. His hair, tangled by the armor, is splayed across his face in a messy array, almost mirroring the matted hair of the man in front of him.
Grey eyes stare into grey eyes with abject intensity, the silence a ripple mounting into a crashing tidal wave.
“...Son.”
Telemachus drops the helmet, sending it clattering to the floor. It doesn't take long for Odysseus to see how his hands shake, how the simple word seems to grapple some lucidity into the boy’s gaze. As if shifting this from a dream to reality in an instant.
Telemachus runs a hand through his hair, trying to stay back the stray curls with a nervous energy as a half-smile peeks onto his lips.
“All my life, I’d have died to meet you,” the boy admits, voice small, as if threatening to break at any moment now. “Thought about your name so much it hurts.”
Odysseus tilts his head, shifting off the cool steps that lead up to the thrones, crossing the room closer to his son. Telemachus simply watches him, unable to move his feet from where they stand.
“For twenty years, I’ve dreamt of how I’d greet you. Oh--” his voice finally gives way, cracking gently. “And now you’re here. I-- Can’t find the words.”
Odysseus stops, his gaze softening, his hands gripping the edges of his bloody cloak as he no longer stares into the man in front of him, but a little boy.
“All my life I’d have died to know you--”
A son clings to the edges of a window in the furthest, highest tower of the palace. His head hangs out, hair whipping in the breeze. His gaze widely stares out at the sea, as if willing something to appear on the horizon. Every movement of the gulls across the clouds, every simple change of the breeze, tempers the flames of the boy’s hope brighter, and brighter.
“Days and Nights I wish that I could show you--”
A son sits at the edge of one of the long docks that stretch into the sea. He dangles his feet in the water, feeling the way they gently lap his ankles. He grips something in his arms. A satchel.
One at a time he produces small bottles from within its confines. Rolled into each is a small piece of paper.
Letters, Drawings, Notes.
With as much ease as he procured them, with a gentle motion, he sets each bottle into the ocean, watching for hours after as they’d eventually disappear on the horizon.
“For twenty years I never could outgrow you, oh--!”
A son curls into the arms of his mother as they both sit next to the hearth, the warmth of the flame filling his bones with a mirth. His eyes hazily droop as his mother continues her story, about a powerful bow, a magic boar, a goddess--
It always worked the trick to drift him to sleep.
“And-- Now you’re here.”
Odysseus' footsteps continue once more as he sees the boy’s gaze shift, his head turning to the side as his momentum and confidence slowly dwindles and fades.
“I can’t help but wonder-- What your world must be,”
Telemachus’ vacant gaze stares out to the sea once more. His hand shifts on the windowsill as he stares across the horizon and the kindle that had burned for twenty years slowly began to die.
He stands, and walks from the window, unable to bring himself to stare at the blue of the seas any longer.
“If we’re like each other, If I have your strength in me.”
Telemachus spits blood from his lips and grits his teeth, collapsing on the ground, his face twisting into a growing fury.
Above him, Antinous laughs and leers, holding in one hand a crumpled stack of notes. He reads them aloud, mocking and laughing at the boy as his fury grows, and grows.
And Telemachus lets out a growl he never thought himself capable, anguish filling his body as he stares at the notes that had washed back ashore once more, untouched.
“All this time I’ve wondered if you’d embrace me as your own.”
Telemachus stares widely where the ancient, old bow sits right above the central throne of the palace. His eyes trail across each groove, each crack and dent, every place where the wood was worn by fingers gripping it.
He gently prises it from his holster, his fingers wrapping where much older ones had sat decades ago. He gingerly takes the drawstring, holding it in his gaze with an intensity.
He is motionless, quiet for a few moments, his fingers threatening to draw the string across the bow’s length. But something stops him.
He sets the bow back and never touches it again.
“Twenty years-- I’ve wandered. For so long I’ve-- Felt alone.”
Telemachus’ gaze lifts as he feels something touch across his face. Calloused, cold hands that had only known anger and hatred for so long cupped his cheek as if it was fine pottery, gently tilting his head upwards.
“Oh my son, look how much you’ve grown.”
A father stares over a long workman’s bench, his hands rapidly moving over the length of olive wood that they clasp. Sweat pours down his face as he tilts his gaze up, a glowing, happy woman standing in the doorway watching.
He quickly crosses the room, beaming as they both stare at the new bassinet he had carved. The strongest, sturdiest wood on the island carved into a delicate and slim bed. His hands clasps her abdomen, right where he feels the rounded bump, and he smiles tenderly at the object in deep thought.
“Oh my boy, sweetest joy I’ve known--”
The father sits at the side of the bed in trepidation, eyes wide as he watches the little bundle in the woman’s chest shift. His eyes are wide, and yet hesitant, and it is only when the woman extends the baby out to him does he take it with gentle care.
He nestles the bundle in his arms, his hand gently crossing over his son’s face. The boy’s fingers grapple to the fingers that touch them instantly, and his father breaks down into sobs instantly after.
“Twenty years ago I held you in my arms!”
The father gently rocks the boy in his arms, looking far out into the sea. Somewhere along the docks his eyes can make out the outline of the Mycenaean warships that sit and wait. Gently, he presses a kiss to the boy’s head, setting him down and only allowing the tears to fall when he collapses into the woman’s arms.
“How time has flown. Oh…”
Odysseus' hand falls from his son’s face, gently grasping his shoulder instead. He looks across his boy’s every feature, taking in what he had taken from her, and what he had taken from him.
“Used to say I’d make the storm clouds cry for you--”
Above Odysseus, a storm of lightning and thunder brews.
He stares out across the flames of Troy, where the buildings are sacked and burned, the people slaughtered. The outline of the horse, his greatest machination, stood looming over, the dark clouds swirling it like an ominous halo.
In his arms is an infant boy. A boy Odysseus can’t bring himself to look at further as he holds him over the edge of the tower and feels the fabric loosen from his grip.
“Used to say I’d capture wind and sky for you--”
As the winds ripple from the bag in his grip, Odysseus cannot help how his gaze stares into that of the sea god he currently flies through the skies and away from. As he slinks back into the ocean, gaze filled with hatred and lips filled with curses, he can’t help but wonder if he would have done the same if his own son was hurt. If he would slaughter any who would threaten him.
Was that even a question?
“Held you in my arms! Prepared to die for you!”
Odysseus is collapsed to the ground, tears welling from his eyes.
He rests a hand against the metal ridges of the plow next to him, its blades cascading upturned dirt. The smell of salt hangs in the air as he grips the bundled baby in his arms. A hot and boiling gaze drifts to the captain standing near him, the cursed man who had come to fetch the dues the Achaeans were due, and the war that had washed up on his shore.
Palamedes only sneers and smiles down at him.
“Oh-- How time has flown.”
Odysseus grips his shoulder tighter, and Telemachus winces gently. When the old king tries to pull his arms away, though, the boy keeps them there, gripping his wrists tightly.
“I can only wonder what your world has been, things you’ve had to suffer, and the strength you hold within.”
Odysseus' hand gently moves to rest over Telemachus’ chest, right above where his heart pumps with fervor.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to reunite with my own. Twenty years we’ve wandered, but today you’re not alone.”
Odysseus’ grip tightens.
“My son, I'm finally home!”
And his arms fly around his boy, and Telemachus wraps his own around him tightly.
Son and his father stood and embraced proper for the first time in either’s life.
“Father, how I’ve longed to see you!”
Odysseus’ eyes well with tears, his gaze half-open as he clutches his boy in his arms.
Twenty years he had spent dreaming of this embrace, even if the little baby boy in his mind was no longer.
His son was clearly shaken. Telemachus’ body trembled lightly in his arms, his arms vibrating with a sporadic intensity that shook them both. But when Odysseus stares into his eyes, there is no fear, nor disgust, nor hatred. It is only the palpable brightness of relief and comfort.
He presses his forehead against his son’s, gripping him tighter.
“Telemachus-- I’m home,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the boy’s forehead. Tears well in Telemachus’ eyes as his mouth opens and he mouths it in repetition, the word ‘home’ barely making it out of his lips before a sob renders it unintelligible.
Then, Odysseus' eyes glance up as he sees a shift of movement. Amongst the rafters, a shape moves. It is dark, far too dark with the torches extinguished and the night coming quicker and quicker. But his grip laxes around his son as he sees it, and they part, his gaze more firm.
“Go-- Tell your mother I’m home. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Telemachus’ eyes widen as he nods quickly.
“Of course.”
Odysseus watches as his son disappears down the halls, off to tell the news of his return. It isn’t until he hears the soft movement of wind behind him that he turns, only seeing the momentary shift of a grey bird dart from his vision.
He shifts once more, trying to catch the animal that constantly swirls just out of his view.
“Show yourself--” he says, a melancholic smile forming on his face.
“I know you’re watching me. Show yourself.”
Odysseus only stops when he finally sees the woman stood, the furthest away at the open doors of the palace. Her back is turned, her flowing, silver armor glinting in the growing moonlight.
Unlike last he had seen her, her form is relaxed. No weapons or shields lay in her hands and instead, she holds a bundle in her arms of an unearthly silken material, wrapped with the fibers of an olive branch.
And it’s only when Odysseus starts to move towards her that Athena moves just barely to look at him, the single eye in view staring with a softness and humility the man had never seen in the goddess before. The other has a shattering scar of pure white across it, almost mirroring the one that still burned across his arm.
“You were never one for hellos.”
Goddess and man regard one another, staring each other down as Odysseus stops right in front of her, hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t sure what he expected, what repercussion for last they had spoke she could give that he hadn’t already suffered, and--
What he did not expect was her arms wrapping around him, cradling him in a soft embrace. The metal of her armor felt like warm wool instead of the cold material he was used to.
Odysseus stands in shock for a few beats, before his arms slowly wrap around her, and they embrace proper.
Athena’s voice echoes through his mind, the soft tick of the hourglass now muted, subdued and quiet in his brain as she reaches out one last time to him.
I Can’t Help But Wonder
What this world could be
If we all held each other
With a bit more empathy.
I can’t help but feel like
I led you astray.
What if there’s a world where
We don’t have to live this way?
Slowly, she unwraps her arms from him and presses the bundle into his hands. He stares at silent questioning, but she tilts her head, urging him onward. And so he gently unwraps it.
Inside is the most beautiful golden fruit he had ever seen.
To describe it would do it little justice as it glimmered softly in his hands, shifting prismatic with the dimming light. Odysseus’ eyes widen as he stares at the glimmering Ambrosia in his hands, food of the gods.
He stares up once more at the goddess and Athena only offers a weak smile.
This was an offering.
Odysseus.
Man-slaying Odysseus.
God-felling Odysseus.
Odysseus,
Tamer of the Winds;
Comrade of Witches and Gods;
Survivor of Zeus’ Thunder and Poseidon’s Storms;
Castaway of Ogygia;
Surveyor of the Underworld;
Scourge of the Seas;
Hero of Troy.
Gods had ascended on far less attributes before.
Is that what she wanted now?
Could he help her rebuild a more peaceful world?
But apotheosis would force him to abandon his two most important epithets, the two that pale in comparison to the others, the two that gave him the power to earn those others:
Husband of Penelope.
Father of Telemachus.
-- And so he presses the fruit back into her arms, reclasping the bundle as shock slowly builds on her face.
If that world exists,
It’s far away from here.
It’s one I’ll have to miss,
For it’s far beyond my years.
You might live forever,
So you can make it be.
But I’ve got one endeavor,
There’s a girl I have to see.
Athena is quiet. So quiet for so long, it starts to make Odysseus uneasy again, a look on her face that was almost reminiscent of their past.
And then, she smiles, a sweet and caring gaze.
“Very well.”
She raises her hand up towards the sky, palm opened and outstretched, and Odysseus knows exactly what it is.
With little hesitance, he raises his hand and slams it against hers, giving her a high five.
And Athena, Lady of Wisdom, Goddess of Strategy, Mentor of Odysseus and Telemachus of Ithaka, and their Friend, dissipates into silver on the wind.
Several Days Pass
It took some time for Odysseus to fully feel acclimated back in his home. The drone of war, the guilt of blood, and the fear of revenge never truly left his heart or mind, but his family helped to settle it.
He returned to his throne, and the people cheered, welcoming the return of their king with an excitement and joy rivaling the wildest parties across distant, more opulent shores.
He returned to Penelope, and awoke every morning with her pressed in his embrace and her kisses pressed to his face, his heart full of love and his body full of warmth and never a question of her love for him persisting in his mind again.
He returned to Telemachus, and got to see just how much his boy had grown, what he knew and how he saw and felt, what he thought and what and where his interest lied, and got to finally teach him what he had missed.
Odysseus returned home.
Several Weeks Pass
Odysseus leans his head back, sighing in content as he feels Penelope card her hands through them. He had shaved, cleaved his hair off and allowed it to be washed and groomed, the silky strands now more and less rough. They lay, twisted in the blankets of their bed.
Slowly, Odysseus brings a hand up to one of the poles that holds their bed aloft. The one carved from the roots of the tree beneath them. He gently rubs his hand over an even older carving, a slanted heart across the wood.
Penelope watches, and smiles, and presses her lips sweetly and warmly to his scalp.
He would never leave this again.
Several Months Pass
One day in the gardens, where Odysseus had been steadily carving something - a habit he was quick to return to as his hands grew restless - Telemachus approached him.
Stacked in his hands were dozens, and dozens, and dozens of notes. Written across a decade or so.
For him.
Odysseus can’t keep the tears from his eyes as he reads every single one.
And they remain in the drawer of his nightstand still.
Several Years Pass
Odysseus bites his lip, trying to keep his composure as he stands before the audience of people gathered before him. He is dressed in more finery and gold then he thinks he ever has in his life. Penelope grips his arm to his side. Both of them stare at their boy in front of them.
A wide, anxious smile spreads on his face and it only grows as Odysseus presses the smooth, silver crown atop his head.
King Telemachus turns, spending only a few moments to address the crowd formally. The people cheer for their beloved prince turned ruler.
And then when he turns back to his parents, he pulls them into a tight embrace, face wet with emotion.
Several Decades Pass
The purple hold of dusk grips the peaceful air of the Palace of Ithaka. The halls are quiet, a settled peace across them as the night slowly blooms.
Somewhere far below, a prosperous city slowly draws from bustling to rest.
In the years that would follow the coronation of Telemachus, Fourth King of Ithaka, a beautiful peace reigned. War seemed a distant concept for the small island as trade opened, economy bustled, and the world looked a little brighter every day. In the air of spring, the city was even more beautiful. The blossoms of flowers lining every windowsill, a blushing, expansive garden kept by the city’s late queen flourishing in the cool winds of the evening.
An owl soars overhead.
The silver streaks of grey that dart across the sky are fast for most to even see. Catching the soft windfall, the creature dips down towards the island, slowly approaching the massive palace with lights still aglow in its halls. It flies straight through an open-face window and into the study of the King.
Telemachus is bent over a desk, gingerly studying an expansive map of the entire Aegean. His face is weathered, age settled over his features. He smiles all the same, his cheeks widening with laugh lines and his eyes crinkling on the edges as he sees the owl settle on the back of the chair he’s sat in.
As he turns to shift, he is no longer met with the creature, though.
The goddess Athena smiles down at him softly and warmly, arms crossed as she leans against the back of the king’s chair.
“What-- Is that ?” she asks, raising an eyebrow with a huff.
Telemachus smiles, placing one hand on his hip and one across his face to rub across his slowly growing beard.
“What? I thought it was about time I started one,” he says with a wide grin. “And I could ask you the same thing! What is that ?”
He motions towards the woolen, bright eyepatch over one of her eyes. It is woven with the delicate visage of flowers.
“I thought it was about time I started wearing one,” she mimics with a smile to her face.
Telemachus barks out a laugh, smacking her on the shoulder. His smile then slowly fades as he gives her a more serious look.
‘What brings you here? Not that I don’t enjoy your visits, it’s just--”
His voice slowly dies as he sees how her face mimics his, the smile slowly fading and her eyes growing softer, more filled with hurt.
“I heard.”
Telemachus nods slowly, drumming his fingers lightly against the edge of the desk.
“He’s a few doors down,” is all he says with a quiet silence. “He doesn’t-- Have much left.”
Athena rubs her head lightly, her fingers carding through her hair. For all the death she had known and wrought in her immortal life, this was one of the first times she was ever forced to face with so much force and emotion.
“Do, uh-- Would you like to be there when he--?” she starts to say, but he cuts her off, waving a hand.
“Have your privacy. I’ve given my goodbyes already. And besides, I-- “ Telemchaus pauses, his face tense.
“I don’t think I can handle seeing him again like that.”
She nods in understanding, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Her grip is firm, and he leans into it slightly, suddenly taken back to a much different time.
They remain quiet a few moments before she moves, starting her way to the door.
“I will be quick.”
She follows the steps down the hall, eventually stopping at the door at the very end. Athena allows her gaze to rest on the wood, as if studying its grains, before she gently pushes the door open.
The beautiful bedroom of Odysseus and Penelope of Ithaka stands before her, the walls covered in tapestries, once filled with scenes of sorrow and grief and now filled with images of a loving family. And in its center the beautiful wooden bed. The canopy of leaves overhead are blooming, soft,white, star-shaped flowers sprinkling across the foliage.
Her eyes are trained on the little olive buds as she walks forward, her eyes eventually drifting downward. She tilts her head, seeing the bed is empty. A small smile forms on her lips as she feels eyes pressed on her.
“Show yourself--” she says, speaking into the room, looking around it briefly before she can see the outline of a figure watching her from the room’s balcony. The outline of dull grey eyes staring into her own bright silver ones.
“I know you’re watching me. Show yourself.”
Then does Odysseus shift, the light of the room catching him as he leans further against the balcony awning. His form is hunched, silver hair spilling down his back and down his face in a twisted, wizened beard. A thick, wooden cane sits in his grasp and he hobbles across it. It was some miracle he was standing at all as he elicited a sharp, pained cough, gripping his chest.
Athena is quick to walk to his side, pressing a hand to the old king’s back. He offers her a smile, before his dull eyes eventually train back to the ocean. She joins him, watching the dark waves.
There is silence.
And then she starts to whisper, a gentle and calm voice that perks the king’s ear slightly as he turns to her.
I Couldn’t Help But Wonder--
What It Could Have Been.
If you Chose to Join Me
And Not Your Family Instead.
And Still I Have to Wonder,
Is it a Choice that You Regret?
Standing Here at the End,
Is It Something I Just Can’t Get?
Odysseus regards her, and then a cracked, worn smile comes to his face.
And a laugh forms on his lips. And she can’t help but smile, joining him as she chuckles lightly.
One Day, You’ll Hear What I’ve Said,
And That Day, You Will Understand,
One Day,
If It’s Not Today.
With Goddess and Man,
Bestest of Friends,
Athena wipes the tears that slowly form at the edges of her eyes, forcing them down as she mutely nods.
At Least We Got To See Where it Ends.
She holds a hand out, and Odysseus backs up, his eyes narrowing as she opens her palm, remembering the last time she offered him something. But resting in her palms is a single bronze drachmae.
“So you have no trouble getting to her this time.”
Odysseus smiles, taking the coin and pressing it in his palms.
“Gods only know I’ve kept her waiting long enough again.”
Odysseus is quiet for a moment and when Athena sees the edges of tears prick his eyes does she allow her own to flow freely and she takes him in her arms, hugging him tightly. He presses his face against her, tears streaming down his face.
Only when do both their tears subside does he speak, whispering softly for only her and the wind to catch.
This is My Goodbye, My Friend.