Chapter Text
Telemachus wasn’t a good King.
“Stop dragging me into Quick-Thought,” he hisses at Athena, as she stares at him with blank eyes. “I know what I’m doing, so let me do it.”
“No, you do not,” Athena replies breezily. “Watch the man’s hands.” Telemachus follows her pointed finger, to where the man’s fists are clenched, gripping at his chiton. There is a noticeable shape near his thighs, sharp and short. “He could kill you at any second, and he is not hesitant to do so. You do not entice the same fear your father does.”
It’s true. Telemachus, while taller than his father, was a joke in comparison. His face is softer, clearly his mother’s, and his limbs were skinny and weak. His use of a sword was rudimentary at best, and while his bow skills were on par with Odysseus's, it did not bring him much respect, due to Paris’s… actions.
“I’m going to drink his blood,” Telemachus says, anger flaring up. He was not his father, but he was still the rightful King. He earnt the damn crown, and he will keep it.
“Careful, little wolf,” Athena soothes. “No man’s life is worth an eternity in the Fields of Punishment.”
“What should I do then?”
“I am the Goddess of Wisdom, not politics.” She smirks. “Figure it out, child.”
Telemachus is thrust back into his body, and he gags on the air rushing back into his lungs.
“I deserve to have a share of your damn gold,” the man says. “Your father killed my son—”
“Your son was Poseidon’s victim, not my family’s,” Telemachus snaps, shouting. “Go take it up with the Sea God if you’re so bothered.”
The man steps back.
“Go on,” Telemachus urges, laughing, “Do it. Incur his attention.”
Odysseus’s body had been found, sickly pale and cold, on the shores of Ithaca. Poseidon’s message was clear. The fisherman in Ithaca have lost their livelihood, and have turned to farming and livestock.
The man swallows. “I have lost my money, my food.”
“Then take new opportunities, do not sit and wait for me to give you everything. You are not a child.” Telemachus’s face softens, his voice following suit. “I need more herders for the goats. They are eating and giving me new babes faster than I can handle.” It is an invitation.
“Thank you, King.”
The bow is always easy to string, Telemachus finds. It is easy to pull back, to shoot. It always lands in the middle of the target. His mother was not there to congratulate him anymore.
There is silence in the castle now. The suitors, bitter, had left, wanting to find a wife. The servants have withered. The animals had shied away from the new King, bewildered by the absence of his mother with her clever, constantly moving hands, and the warmth she had taken down to Hades with her. The guards and army shy away from Telemachus, with his cruel face and awkward hands.
Telemachus finds no pleasure in seeing the empty halls.
“You require company,” Athena says, appearing beside him. “I leave you alone for days and weeks, and you are always alone. No friend, no child, no wife, it is pitiful. I suffer watching you suffer.”
“I will die soon,” Telemachus says. “There is no good need for any of those things. I must just wait the days out.”
“Stupid child,” Athena murmurs. “You must live, not just survive.”
The quiet in the castle is disturbed when Menelaus visits Telemachus, with gifts from Sparta. They are cruel gifts: swords for young boys, and a donkey for a wife, jewellery to decorate his daughters. It seems they do not know about his failures as a man.
“My daughter, Hermione, is ripe,” Menelaus says, laughing. “She was to be wed to Pyhrrus, but…”
Telemachus forces himself not to spit on the ground. “I do not want another man’s crumbs. I will find myself a wife and earn her father’s favour.”
“How will you do that?” Menelaus says, smirking. “Your castle is empty. Not a serving boy nor slave girl to be found. How will you earn a father’s favour when you are desolate?”
Telemachus grits his teeth. He will be a better man than him.
There is a prince in his throne room.
“ Peisistratus,” Telemachus says.
The Prince has grown: he is taller, broader, scarred. There are lines across his forehead, his hands carry more scars, more life. His eyes are searching.
“I wish to live in Ithaca,” Peisistratus says. “My father wants me to find a wife, but I will build my own wealth before I do that.” There is a hesitant silence. “I have heard what has happened,” he says, discreetly. “I didn’t think I’d come to find you alone. I thought at least now you’d have a wife, or a few slaves to keep you warm, keep you company.”
“It is hard to enjoy such pleasures when my parent’s wedding bed still lies untidied.”
“Do you make your own food?”
Telemachus has not had a proper meal in months. His wine stores are running low. “I live however I can.”
Peisistratus offers him a look, not quite pitiful but rather one that offers a solution. “If you allow me, we will build Ithaca again. You are vulnerable to attack.”
It’s true: the guards have retreated to their homes, serving the earth more than they serve their King. There have been whispers, grins, circling the island Kingdom, waiting.
“I will welcome you into my home.”
Athena visits after a month of silence.
“I have not found peace with my father since your father’s death,” she says to him. “He calls me stupid for sacrificing so much to have him saved, only for Poseidon to end him.” The scar on Athena’s face is ugly. It draws marks down her left side, down past her collarbone and farther past her breasts, her stomach. Telemachus finds no ugliness in it, but rather beauty. She is loving, and that is why she has it.
“I have tried to find peace since you last visited me,” he tells her. There are servants serving him food, and slaves to keep him company in his bed. There is no real happiness in the act, just mindless pleasure. “It is slowly returning life to me, to the castle.”
She smiles at him, soft. “The boy is kind to stay with you. I am glad you have made a friend.”
Telemachus laughs softly, for the first time in months. “I am glad he is here, too. I believe that Ithaca will again be prosperous, soon enough.”
There is a tight feeling in his gut, but it loosens when he hears his name from Athena’s mouth, vaguely soft like his mother’s.