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Chapter Text

He feels a thief, stepping into a life he has not lived in twenty years—a stranger to his own wife and son in many ways.

He has changed, and Ithaca with him.

The dear queen Penelope smiles at him as he bends to an aching knee at their marriage bed when he wakes with the rising sun to kiss her cheek and brush back her hair as he tends to a kingdom he has not led in decades. But he sees the way her brow furrows as she looks him over and pets over the gray in his beard, the streaks of white in his hair.

They are unfamiliar with each other, but they have been granted a new chance at life, at marriage—thank Hera.

“It is far too early for you to leave,” Penelope says, letting her hand drop to the bed.

“I have much to attend to,” he says. “Ithaca is a strange place to me now, and even under your careful eye, there is much for me to do to know this land once more. The men are headed for the hills. Telemachus has not yet experienced the drive, and I intend to not miss it.” He rises and steps to the vanity to reach for a leather thong to pull back his hair. Behind him, he hears the sheets rustle as Penelope sits up.

“To think I have only just had you with me for not even a cycle of the moon and you are looking forward to gallivanting about the island.”

When he looks back to her, he sees her admiring him with a soft, fond look. “Two days,” he says. “It is not a long ride, and the farmers there would’ve likely penned the yearlings in. We’ll simply be driving them down.”

“Two days,” she says. “Perhaps I can let you go a little longer.”

He returns to his queen’s side and kisses her and then again.

“Take care of my son,” she says. “Though I am sure he is plenty capable on his own.”

He leaves his wife, once again, on their wedding bed and passes through his home, faltering over the polished marble of the entrance hall. He must reach out for a pillar and pause with his back to the room as an icy grip creeps up over his spine and settles heavily on his shoulders. He quickly looks over. The palace is still quiet at this hour.

The room stands empty and cleared. He’s not had the heart to entertain within this room since his return. He is not quite sure what he will do with it, but he regains his strength and courage and carries on.

Telemachus is already gathered with the men including the master of the stables, Menander, who has been the master of stables since Odysseus was crowned.

“Father,” Telemachus says with a smile.

Odysseus smiles and first wraps his arms around his son and brings their heads together. “My son joining for his first drive. I never thought I’d see this day.” He then turns to Menander. “Menander, my old friend.” The master of stables nods his head in a bow.

“My king,” he says. “We are glad to have you returned for this season. And for your son to join us at last.”

Odysseus grins. “I look forward to it. Shall we mount then?”

Menander nods. “We shall.” The man then does something surprising. He comes and wraps his arms around Odysseus and hugs him as a father would a son. It is brief before Menander composes himself. “It is a blessing to have you returned, my King.”

The sentiment is a surprise and touches Odysseus in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. That someone is pleased to see him beyond his wife and son.

“Then let us ride. Telemachus, with me.”

The ride to the foothills takes Odysseus past the olive groves of his homeland, growing heavy with the future harvest. He rides a well trodden path at the front with Telemachus at his side. While Ithaca is known mostly for its olives and wine, there is a proud tradition among the people of heading into the hills where a small band of wild horses has taken roost since the temple of Poseidon had been built near Mount Neriton.

As an island nation, they know, better than most, to revere the god of the oceans, though Odysseus’ feelings towards the god have soured in his long years. He is sure he would cause Ithaca’s ruin if he were to ever set foot in that temple, so instead he will ensure they send their sacrifices to appease the god and keep him at bay.

But he remembers a time when they were favoured once. The stories of his youth was that the first horses of Ithaca did not come on ships from the mainland but were rather gifted from Poseidon himself. The legend goes they walked straight out of the waters and onto the land and have made it their home ever since. They make for fine mounts once properly tamed and saddled. Sturdy, sure-footed, and with keen minds.

The yearly drives up into the mountains are meant to collect the yearlings for training to be sold either on the island or among other kingdoms in need of a well-minded mount. It had been Odysseus’ favourite time of year growing up and he has long been looking forward to return to some semblance of normalcy.

There are no ghosts that can follow him here. No blood-soaked marble to haunt him. The countryside is peaceful. The people clear from the road as they pass with many waving and holding up favours for them as they pass.

For now, they are pleased their king has returned. He is not monster to them but hero.

They ride hard to the foothills, which takes until evening and the sun has set low. The lord Diocles of this region is all too glad to welcome them into his home and to meet his wife and his many daughters, of whom many are looking to be married.

Odysseus keeps Telemachus close to his side with an arm hooked over his shoulder. It is hard to reconcile the image of this young man with that of the child he had left. There is much he has missed in Telemachus’ life, but he is hoping he can hold onto the young image of his son before he will be wed.

Odysseus and his men are fed and entertained that night by the lord and Odysseus watches his son skirt around one of the lord’s daughters. She is a beautiful thing and perhaps might make a great queen.

The lord Diocles sits with Odysseus, likely to curry favour where so many of his country men had fallen at the hands of Odysseus and his bow. Perhaps he considers himself to be lucky to have only daughters.

“We are grateful to host you and your son, my King,” he says. “It is always an honour to participate in this tradition and tend to the herds as my family has for generations. You’ll be pleased to know the herd is well. We’ve counted sixteen this year for your men to run down.”

Odysseus hums and reaches for a bowl of dates. “That’s well within what I was expecting. Have they been sexed?”

“Ten fillies and six colts. All headstrong. We’ve been blessed in your absence. Poseidon must surely be smiling down upon us for the horses are well and good.”

The date suddenly tastes bitter in his mouth. “Perhaps,” he says. He then rises. “And we should keep it that way. I think I will retire for the night.”

Diocles stands suddenly. “Of course. Your rooms are this way, my King.”

Odysseus lies in the dark with an arm thrown over his head. He listens to the sounds of his men and their merrymaking. It has been years since he has heard such sounds—shortly after they departed from Troy, perhaps, before Odysseus ended up as the pawn of the gods and his men nothing more than collateral.

He has little to celebrate for.

As night draws on and his restlessness ceases to abate, he straightens his chiton as he rises and pads out of the room and down the halls, taking care to avoid any servants that might still be about so that he might sit outside of Diocles’ house in silence. The stars are clear and the moon is present and full, meaning the tides will be high. Poseidon will be lapping at the shores of Ithaca, practically at Odysseus’ doorstep.

Get in the water.

He knows he will never set foot on the water ever again if it can be helped.

He scoffs to himself—a king of the island too afraid to sail once more. They should call him a coward.

“Oh—father. I didn’t know you were still out.”

He turns then at the approach of Telemachus. He stands in front of Diocles’ daughter, the one he saw his son chasing after this night. She remains shrouded behind Telemachus.

Telemachus seemingly remembers his manners and introduces the girl. “This is Eirene, father. The eldest of Lord Diocles' daughters.”

Odysseus nods to acknowledge her, and Eirene bows deeply. “It is an honour to be in your presence, my King.”

“You do your father proud,” Odysseus says, even though he knows his son should not be sneaking about late at night with Diocles’ eldest before she has married. His son should be more careful than to play with the hearts of young women.

“Telemachus,” he says. “Escort Eirene to her chambers.”

Telemachus blushes and nods. “Of course.”

“Then come out with me.”

“Yes, father.”

They skitter away as young lovers do when captured in the light of the public, and Odysseus is briefly reminded of when he and Penelope were once like that.

He’d like to blame Aphrodite for their passion and their fumbling early on, but he knows they were just young—young and experiencing lust of which they never had previously.

Telemachus is quick to return and stand next to his father, his feet squared with his shoulders and his arms crossed across his chest. He holds himself as a serious, mature man.

Odysseus suddenly chuckles. “I remember when I first met your mother. I could not keep my eyes off of her. I thought her to be a nymph or a goddess in disguise for her beauty was striking.” Almost enough to go to war for, but Odysseus swallows that thought and tucks it aside. “Be careful,” he says then. “And remember yourself. You are their prince. Do not let your fleeting desires guide your feet. It’ll only end poorly.”

Telemachus dips his head. “Of course, father. I . . . I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right. You’re young, but remember yourself in those moments.”

Telemachus nods quickly. Odysseus lets his wisdom sit for a moment before turning his gaze to the softly rolling hills in the distance.

“What do you know of the run?”

“Hm?”

Odysseus nods his head towards the hills. “We’re not known for our horses. Not like other nations and kingdoms, but we still run them down from the hills every year.”

“My tutors told me of their trad value,” Telemachus admits. “The yearlings we take in will be trained and sold for next year. Most will be taken off the island.”

“And other than their monetary value?”

Telemachus puffs his cheeks in thought. “They were a gift. From Poseidon, I think. He sent them to us because he favoured us.” Telemachus turns his bright eyes to his father. Odysseus feels entirely too seen then.

No one knows of his fight with the god. A god broken, bleeding by Odysseus’ own hands. A god favoured by his people. A god Odysseus was raised to revere. A god who sent horses. A god who protected their land and hasn’t once shown displeasure in the aftermath of what Odysseus has wrought with his hands.

Please.

“He did,” he says softly to Telemachus before clearing his throat. “They remind us of his patronage. His mercy. If the horses are well, then he is likely pleased. Do not forget this, Telemachus. You will learn as the horses are trained.”

Telemachus nods and sighs, his shoulders falling as he relaxes. “Mother never . . . never spoke much of you. In the years between. She always said how excited you were when I was born.”

A son, Odysseus. I have born you a son.

“But I learned of you from your men, the ones who stayed behind. Menander especially told me how quick you were with the horses. How you got them to trust you.”

“Trust, yes,” Odysseus says. “Trust is key with the horses. As you’ll come to learn, they know whether or not you’ll be ready for them, so it is always best to learn what it is they need and adjust. Did Menander ever tell you of the stallion I attempted to tame?”

A brief smile graces Telemachus’ lips as he shakes his head.

“There once was a black stallion upon the hills,” Odysseus says. “I was about your age upon my second or third run. And there stood, on his lonesome, a black stallion with a regal head, proud stance, and untamed mane. He ran with no mares or other stallions, and I thought myself foolish enough to run him down with the yearlings and take him for myself. Menander warned me against it. That some stallions are better left on their own, but I didn’t know better. He out paced me at every step. He weaved around the traps I laid for him to guide him down the hills. I roped him once and he promptly dragged me off my steed.”

Telemachus stifles his laugh against his fist.

“It is wise to learn when you have been defeated,” Odysseus says.

“Oh, of course.”

“My thoughts did return to that stallion from time to time. I tried to chase him down the following year, and he gave me another go at it. Almost as if he were taunting me.”

“What did you do about the stallion then?”

“Oh, I left him. He was too wild to truly be tamed. And then your mother was pregnant, and I had less time to chasing stallions all over the damn hills.” And then the call to war began.

“Do you think he’s still out there?”

“It’s been many years since then. Likely not. But if he was a good stallion and he bred many mares, then his children will carry on his legacy.” He reaches over to squeeze Telemachus’ shoulder. “Get some rest, Telemachus.”

“Yes, father.”

“When we return home, though, we should talk, you and I. There’s much I want to know about you.”

Telemachus carries that slight smile again. “I’d like that.”

There is so much he wishes to share with his son, and he hopes that in time the terror that has gripped him will lessen and he can share his adventures with Telemachus so that his son might never repeat the mistakes of his father.

Odysseus and his men rise before the sun. After a quick meal of dates, milk, and honey, they take to their horses to ride up into the hills where the yearlings have been chased into an open field sectioned off by fences of stone. Menander aids in arranging the men as Odysseus sinks into his saddle with practiced ease. It has been many years since he has participated in a run, but already his body is anticipating the twists and turns of the yearlings as they buck against the ropes and hollering of the men as they are driven from the only home they have ever known.

“With me, Telemachus,” he says, squeezing his legs and urging his horse into a slow canter as Telemachus rides at his side. They will be responsible for driving the yearlings in from the left as Menander watches from the head of the field and is there to guide the riders and the yearlings down the road back to the village. A handful of other riders will be driving the yearlings down from behind and from the right.

Together, they move as one.

Odysseus calls out and points to where Telemachus should be. Tells him how he should be watching the horses. Their ears. The tilt of their heads. Where they rest their weight. A grey colt snorts and bucks as Odysseus hollers at him to keep moving. Telemachus learns from his father and eventually finds his voice, keeping his horse up on a quick trot as the yearlings are pushed towards the gate and down from the hills.

For once, all dread from his gut, all burdens from his shoulders, all worries from his mind cease to exist.

They chase the yearlings down as their forefathers have for generation, accepting this boon from Poseidon that he has blessed them with. The yearlings are pushed through the gate as the riders settle in from behind. Odysseus pulls back and watches as Telemachus fills the space. He could use some critique for his posture in the saddle, but he is proud to see how far his son has come in his absence.

But then, Odysseus feels a change in the winds, a sudden stir from the east that means only rain in the future. He turns in his saddle and catches sight of a lone horse. It stands stock still, its coat a deep black and marred only by a white and grey streaks of a brindle patterning, its legs and withers pockmarked by small scars. Its long mane and tail are buffeted by the change in the breeze as it catches Odysseus’ gaze and drops its head to graze.

By the arch of its neck, it can only be a stallion, likely kicked out of his own band by the head stallion based on the scarring. He might be lucky enough to take a mare from an older stallion in a year when he’s more grown and mature. Have his own foal.

But as Odysseus continues to look at the stallion, his stark black coat standing out among the dappled greys and bays that are more common among the horses here, he can’t help but wonder if this is a descendant of the stallion he chased those years ago.

“Telemachus,” he calls out as he turns his horse to the side.

Telemachus trots to his father’s side. Odysseus points across the field. “Look at him,” he says.

“I see him,” Telemachus says. “What about him?”

“I may not have been able to catch that stallion in my youth, but with you here—” He turns to look at Telemachus. “What say you?”

Telemachus grins. “If you think so.”

“Menander,” Odysseus calls out.

“Sire!”

“Run the horses down. Telemachus and I will follow after I have shown him how to chase one down.”

Menander nods. “I will expect your return, sire.”

“With me,” Odysseus says. He urges his horse into a quick canter and Telemachus is not far behind. They charge up the hill to the end of the field, passing through the narrow gate at the back, and trotting up through the grasslands of the hills. The stallion is not far, though he raises his head and catches wind of them and quickly picks up his feet.

“Now,” Odysseus says. “This is not like a hunt as you have grown accustomed to. Horses are quick, but they are easy to be herded if we work as one. I will steer him and you will act as the buffer. And like this we should get him to where we need to go.”

Telemachus nods. “Lead the way, father.”

So they ride. They follow the path the stallion has set and charge after him as Odysseus points to where he wants Telemachus to be. Telemachus does as he is told and Odysseus splits from his son to ride up the hill, urge his horse faster before he takes a wide arc to get out in front of the stallion as the beast has slowed to a trot. The stallion throws his head once before taking a slow turn to the right. Odysseus hollers to get the stallion moving and he throws his head again before icing out his back legs and charging down to where Telemachus is to herd him closer to the fence.

Odysseus doubles back and nudges his horse into a quick lope to catch the stallion off up ahead before carefully guiding him, nudging him to the gap in the fence. He hesitates and throws his head back before charging through the small gap, and Odysseus yells to Telemachus to follow after him.

Together, they run the stallion down, turning as he turns, running as he runs until the stallion is soaked in froth and sweat, foaming at the mouth just as their own mounts are until they finally chase him down the hill to the path that will take them to the pens.

“Keep pushing him!” Odysseus tells his son, and Telemachus is all too content to do as he is told and keeps the stallion moving ahead at a brisk trot as they come down the road.

From there, with the gates and fences on either side, they run the stallion down, keeping to a quick trot as they eventually catch up with Menander and the other men. The stallion is joined with the other yearlings, standing tall amongst them and in sharp contrast with his near black coat.

Odysseus slows his mount to a walk, patting the creature’s neck as she hangs her head low and blows through her lips and catches her breath.

“I see you were successful in the chase,” Menander says.

Odysseus grins and nods, pushing back his hair where it’s escaped from his tie. “An easy catch when there are two of us. A tad too curious for his own good, I’d say, seeing how close he was to the pen to the begin with. Most of his ilk wouldn’t be that far down the hill.”

“Perhaps it is for the best then, my King. I suppose he will be yours.”

Odysseus smiles. “I have not had my own mount in years. Either that or for my son. It would be good for him to learn and take on a horse of considerable size and strength.”

“I will see that it is done, my King.”

“You have my thanks, old friend. Now, let us finish this work.”

The sun is setting as Odysseus rests upon the high fences of the corral keeping the yearlings penned in as a group. They are a nervous bunch, huddling close to each other, but they are provided forage and water. They’ll be left to settle for the next few days. The stallion, however, has been separated into a small round pen. It wouldn’t do well to have him run with the younger colts or fillies.

The stallion runs the length of the circular pen, tossing up dust from the dry dirt beneath his hooves. His coat is still slick with sweat as he runs the length of the pen only to stop, hook his head over top of the highest railing and whinny before he resumes running yet again.

These are the dangers of working with an older wild horse. They are often much harder to work with, much more strong-willed and stubborn, but they will let the stallion make his paces for now and have him exhaust himself. Then will the work begin.

Telemachus soon joins him after having untacked his steed in the stables. He takes up a spot to Odysseus’ left. “He looks more weathered now that he’s up close,” he muses before stretching out a hand to point at a few scars marring the stallion’s chest. “Could he have been kicked?”

“Band stallions will often kick out young competition. He likely stepped into a challenge he couldn’t win, but over time that will fade. Have you ever seen such a horse like him though? His coat is not common.” And, indeed, that is what draws Odysseus to him. The brindle patterning is nothing he has seen before and gives off the look of a lightning bolt. “What do you think? Of trying to handle him?” he asks.

Telemachus blows through his lips. “He looks like he could be mean.”

“He could. But once you learn his tells, you’ll be able to see that most of his behaviour is posturing. They rarely bight once they realize you’re in charge here.”

“If you think I can,” Telemachus says.

Odysseus sets a hand upon his son’s back. “I have all faith in you that you can.”

The following days settle with a growing tedium as Odysseus settles into the rather mundane manners of being the figure head of a kingdom. Forever his Queen Penelope has managed quite well in his stead, but he knows the lords are more eager to listen to him now that he has returned. It is expected that Penelope will resume her weaving and tapestry making with the ladies and step back from the court more officially, but Odysseus considers that to be a waste. At this point, Penelope is more familiar with Ithaca’s needs than he is. She should remain as his equal for as long as she should like, and Odysseus makes that creed known, much to the dismay of his lords, but they respect him too much to lose their confidence in a way hero—one of the only men to return from Troy.

It is strange to suddenly be embroiled in politics and finances. To sit at a table in newly dyed robes rather than kneeling in the dirt covered in a week’s sweat and the blood of a Trojan squadron. To have his hair plaited instead of sheared for mere practicality. To be treated with a sense of distance and fear for he is their king instead of their brother, a tried-and-true warrior that was no different from the men he led and saved and lost.

While settling into his role as king, he leans on Penelope’s knowledge of the land to make his decisions, attempting to exude a sense of leadership without really knowing how to anymore. He has not been a king in a long time, and he is unsure of how to inspire confidence and leadership—the last of his men had mutinied and body still aches from the evidence of their distrust.

For the most part, his lords speak of harvest, of trade, of their problems with each other, and their hopes for their sons and daughters. They speak of the peasants who wish for more and their displeasure in the peasants wanting more. Odysseus intercedes where he can, putting forward his years of service under Agamemnon to good use to appease the lords while also providing perspectives on why they should have some respect for the people who work their fields and tend to their houses. Most of the lords seem skeptical, but Penelope, with the grace given to her by Hera, lays a delicate hand on Odysseus’ scarred wrist and speaks to the room.

“His kingship has his reasons for why you should consider caring for those under your house,” she says. “For we are nothing without the people that clean our houses, serve our foods, and stitch our linens. They tend to us so that we might fight wars for them.”

“This is all well and good, my Queen,” says one lord. “But what of the men your dear husband slaughtered under this very roof? Slaughtered in righteousness to protect his house, yes, but we must know the houses of the deceased men will want to take their flesh. Why must we worry about the wants of the peasants when Ithaca has new enemies to anticipate?”

To this, Penelope has no answer, for there is none. Hector and Paris may be dead. The sirens may be dead. Circe left behind in her exile. The Cyclops blinded and even Poseidon—bleeding, begging, and broken—has been dealt with. But the memory of man is short and narrow minded. The houses of the men Odysseus so callously took with his own hands will want answers and Ithaca is no Troy. She has no walls, no grand armies. Her king is aging, his body weary, and Odysseus is loathe to let his son continue his father’s monstrous actions.

“They will be dealt with in time,” Odysseus says.

“Dealt with how?” they ask.

“As they always will be,” he says. “Through treaty and trade. I will discuss this no more until it is time.”

He stands suddenly from his seat, and Penelope is quick to rise as he takes to his feet and strides out of the room, away from his lords until he is as apart from them as he can be.

Penelope is soon to find him, curling her hand over his shoulder and slipping her other onto his arm. “I think you handled that rather admirably despite your long absence.”

“I feel as if I am ill suited for these matters. I’ve been a warrior too long.”

“And you will be a king again. Ithaca has missed her king. I’ve missed her King.”

He turns to her, pulling her tighter to his side so he can lean his head against hers, breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume. “There is so much I do not know. I do not know who returned from Troy, truly.” He huffs a small yet uncomfortable laugh. “Am I still that man?”

Penelope pulls away from her, twisting her body to face him directly as his eyes search for hers. She raises a hand to his face to cup his cheek. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Twenty years,” he says.

“Those years without you mean nothing now. You’re returned to me.”

But how can she know what he’s seen? What he’s done?

We beg of you, the sirens said.

Don't you know that pain you sow is pain you rеap, Polyphemus said.

A Greek who reeks of false righteousness, said Poseidon

“Come to bed with me,” she says. “You look weary.”

He nods and goes with little protest.

Chapter Text

“Don’t take your eyes off him,” Odysseus calls out as he sets his feet on the bottom railing of the corral to lean on the top railing as Telemachus stands in the centre of the pen and pushes the brindle stallion to lope. 

“He’s got some energy about him,” Telemachus says as he swings the rope in his hand to encourage the stallion to move quicker. The stallion pins his ears and kicks his back legs. 

“He’s young and scared,” Odysseus says. “But he’ll see reason. When he’s ready, he’ll come to you.”

“And how will I know that?” Telemachus’ shoulders are raised and his eyes wide. 

“When he slows and dips his head. When he’s clearly tired and worn.”

“Come on then,” he says to the stallion and swings the rope again. The stallion shakes his head in the fuss and continues to run.

Over time, Telemachus finds his footing and relaxes once he’s able to stand up to the stallion and show to him that he will not be backing down. Eventually, the stallion lowers his head, comes to a trot, his coat slick with sweat.

“Lower your hand now,” Odysseus says. “As he slows, turn your back to him. See if he will join up with you then.”

Telemachus nods, licks his lips, and turns his back slowly, but then the stallion pins his ears, and Odysseus is vaulting over the railing before he can think to pull Telemachus behind him and raise his hands and voice to ward the stallion off. The stallion, spooked by the display, turns and shakes his head before trotting back to the edge of the corral. 

“Open the gate!” Odysseus says. “Run him out of here.” One of the stables hands moves quickly and opens the round pen to let the stallion run out to the solitary pen he is being kept in.

Odysseus let out a breath and claps his hand to Telemachus’ shoulder. “All right?” he asks.

Telemachus nods. “I guess he wasn’t ready to join then.”

“Not at all, but no matter. We’ll reduce his forage, make him hungry and tired. He’ll listen then.”

Telemachus nods. “If you say so.”

The first temple Odysseus sets foot into is that of Athena. His patron has been silent ever since he returned, and he does not know whether or not to be grateful or concerned. His journey is over, of course, but since the gods have taken an interest in him, he is ever vigilant that they might call upon him once more.

He has come here of his own volition, with a dire need to commit a sacrifice in Athena’s honour. After several nights plagued with dreams of ill intent, he goes to his patron in hopes she might provide clarity. He offers a calf to the priestesses there, and he stays for the sacrifice before being asked to be left on his own so that he might commune with Athena should she be listening.

“I have completed my journey,” he says, looking up to the carving they’ve made in her honour. He thinks of commissioning another so that they might capture her likeness more. She is more stern than caring. More warrior than mother. “But I still feel as if I am adrift. This is my kingdom, my home, but it is unfamiliar to me. My people look at me as if they are meant to know me, but I am at odds with their needs, and I feel as if it is only a matter of time before I am called again to war and the fighting will never cease.”

He looks to his hands, and there is a slight tremble within them. He curls his fingers into his palms. “You chose me,” he says. “For a reason because you knew I was the only one to succeed in the trials presented before me. The horse. The siren. Polyphemus. The Underworld. You knew. You knew I would overcome them, and I did, but the suitors. There was no other option, was there?” He turns his face to the statue, searches Athena’s marble gaze. “There was no space for words or platitudes, but only wrath and blood. But where has that left me? Another war I cannot hope to win? My people are tired. A generation of men dead under my watch, my leadership. What am I to do?”

The temple is silent. The braziers serve as his only source of light, and the temple feels bereft. 

Odysseus feels a surge of anger well up within his chest. “Was I nothing to you? Was I just a pawn in these games for the gods to amuse themselves with? To see what a mortal like myself is willing to do in order to return to his home ?” He must be careful here, or he might risk Athena’s wrath.

But he made a god beg once.

Are they truly that different from him?

But before he can give himself over to his anger, he composes himself. “I should take this as the gift that it is. That my people still see me favourably. That my wife and son love me. I will not take what I have been given for granted.”

He bows towards the statue, at a loss of what else to do when faced with the silence from Athena. But she is a god and he is mortal. It was folly for him to think he could demand her audience.

He returns to the palace long after the sun has set and crosses the main room just as a cold sensation climbs his spine. He twists, eyes wide, searching in the dark for a foe that isn’t there before he catches sight of the pale chiton, one of the palace servants.

“My King?” she asks, her soft voice carrying across the empty room.

He swallows. “It is nothing. Why don’t you rest for the night?”

She bows. “If my King asks me to.”

He is alone again in the empty room.

Empty, empty, empty.

The blood has long been cleansed, but even in the dim light, he swears the dark streaks in the marble are that of blood.

The yearlings are taking well to taming. Most, if not all of them, are to be shipped to the mainland within the coming months. Menander has overseen their training for the most part, and put Telemachus to work when the stallion proves unruly to work with. 

The stallion continues to puzzle Odysseus. Horses are beasts, the same as dogs, and are ruled by things like hunger and water. Dogs listen well when plied with food, and horses follow the same logic. At least, they should.

The stallion has been separated from the yearlings since his arrival. He has had his food rationed and ran until he sweats and froths and bows his head, and yet he will not listen nor join with Telemachus when Telemachus bids him to. The stallion remains stubborn, as if he knows he should not be here. 

He charges Telemachus on two separate occasions, causing Telemachus to scurry up the corral fence to escape a rather painful bite. Menander suggests they leave the stallion for a week and give him rest, for the stallion has clearly grown distrustful of Telemachus and won’t join with him, and Odysseus agrees. They will try again another day. 

Once the stallion has been pushed back into his pen, Odysseus remains to watch him for a time. The stallion turns to the food and water he’s been provided, and eats and drinks graciously. His chest heaves with a deep sigh and his tail swishes in an irritated manner as he stamps his foot to scatter the flies that gather in the heat. Up close, Odysseus can inspect the scars, the places where hoof and teeth have taken skin and hair from the stallion’s back and chest. When the stallion notices Odysseus’ presence, he pins his ears and bares his teeth for a moment before taking up another mouthful of forage.

Clearly, the stallion needs a firmer hand.

There are many ways to taming a beast.

For the horses that do not respond with a gentle hand, a firm one will have to do. This requires considerable patience and ropes. 

In the corral, a central post is added, pounded into the dusty ground to provide a means of support. Odysseus has Telemachus stand outside the pen as Menander and another stable hand see to running the stallion in as Odysseus holds a coiled rope. 

“Lock the gate, Telemachus!” Odysseus calls out as the stallion trots past, blowing through his nostrils as Odysseus keeps the post in between him and the stallion. He holds the coiled rope aloft and spins it idly until he can align the shot and cast the rope. It settles over the stallion’s head, catching on his neck. The stallion whinnies and pulls back as Odysseus loops the other end of the rope around the post so that the stallion cannot move, cannot escape. 

The stallion tries to shake his head, but the rope pulls taut and the stallion cannot move elsewhere.

“Easy,” Odysseus says as he attempts to calm the stallion, but the stallion continues to not see reason. He tries to round the post and charge at Odysseus as best he can, but he has little space to move himself and soon holds himself still, nostrils wide, head held high, and his eyes wide as he breathes and breathes. 

“Easy.” Odysseus holds his hands aloft as he approaches the stallion with a careful step and then another. 

The stallion stands and for a moment, Odysseus thinks he can stretch out his hand, run his fingers over his withers and down the delicate brindle stripe. Until the stallion swings his head about and attempts to bite Odysseus as best he can while tied. Odysseus immediately pulls back.

“Perhaps we should wait,” Menander calls out.

“Perhaps you are right,” Odysseus says. They will wait until the stallion has relaxed into his new bonds and with this perhaps they can make a halter on him. If they have to sack him, they will, but the stallion will soon learn that pulling against his masters will not get him what he wants.

To improve Odysseus’ standing with his own lords and people, Penelope suggests they hold a feast to celebrate his return. They have not yet properly celebrated his return, and now that the palace has been cleaned and cleansed, it is only time to remind the people of their king. He has returned to them. The gods smile down upon them. They will be blessed for years to come.

Odysseus is, at first, against this idea. He does not find a large feast to be pleasing one bit. The idea of having to be surrounded by so many others, entertain them with his mere presence, and paint a smile on his face when all he wishes he could do is slumber for another ten years and forget his hardships, does not please him.

But as Penelope says: “It will do you good to remind you that you are loved here.” She rubs a dollop of oil into the scars on his back to soften the tissue. 

He has not yet told her how he received such scars.

“Loved,” he says. “Loved when I was betrayed by men I have known since birth and servants who once served my house faithfully. Betrayed by all who have walked my home, drank my wine, and eaten my food.”

Penelope sighs behind him. “And are those men not dead now?” she asks, her voice low and considerate. “You may consider what you did in that moment absolute slaughter, but you did not deny their advances for twenty years like I did.”

Odysseus tenses, holds his breath before relaxing and sitting up in bed, sitting next to his wife. She folds her hands in her lap, her skin taking on a sheen from the oil. He sighs and takes her hands in his, and she lets him. 

“I do not intend to make light of what they had put you through,” he says though he does not know all the details, and they have not yet spoken to each other of their hardships. 

“What difference does it make?” she says. “That they are dead by your hand. Rather them than my son. They disrespected you. I was mourning your father, holding out hope that my husband would return, and they would not listen. Twenty years, Odysseus,” she whispers.

They have been separated far longer than they have known each other he realizes. He loved his wife, truly. A woman of Sparta who came standing tall and proud even though she was leaving her homeland, her people, her family behind. He had been so proud to call her wife, to call her queen. 

They had barely known each other before the war came.

“I wish I could take back all the time that was taken from us,” he says before he kisses her hands irreverently. “That you wouldn’t have had to live as a widow for all those years.”

“I would do it all again if it meant your safe return,” she says softly.  

Her unshakeable faith in him makes him momentarily breathless. That she would live this cycle again and again if it meant he would return to her. 

“The suitors,” he finally says, and he knows what he wants to say, what he means to say. Even if it confirms to him his deepest shame and regret. “I would wet my blade with their blood again and again to keep you safe.”

He is that monster that was spat out of Troy, that faced down monsters and gods alike to be reunited with his wife, his son, his home. 

Penelope kisses his forehead. “Leave your burdens here, my King. Let us celebrate your grand return.”

The feast is welcomed with a fervour among the people. They have a fattened calf with which to celebrate and make a worthy sacrifice to the gods with an attending priest to bless the feast. They sit in the same hall where Odysseus slew those hundred suitors while they plotted to kill his son and rape his wife. The brazers that line the walls cast a warm glow upon the room that 

Penelope is fine form. Her attendants have dressed her in fine silks dyed a deep and rich purple. Her hair is elaborate braided and coiled upon her head, and it is only easier for Odysseus to note the gray streaks in her hair that now match his. With a cup raised, filled with sweet summer mine, she serves her husband first and makes an impassioned speech about his return, that Ithaca’s king has been returned to her. They will be blessed, their harvests will be bountiful, and their families are once again united as they should be.

She hands Odysseus, with a smile, the cup of wine, and as she steps back, he overlooks the hall at his people—courtiers, guards, servants, soldiers. 

All that he has done is for this. For peace on Ithaca.

So he raises his cup. “The gods smiled upon us that day in Troy,” he proclaims. “And they smile upon us now to witness my return to you all.” He then stands from his seat to walk among them. “But even though I had left the war so far behind me, the bloodshed followed me.” He stands in the center of the room, looking to his feet briefly and thinking of the blood that soaked his feet. 

He raises his head and looks around those who remained loyal in that time. That did not seek glory or fortune for themselves while their king was presumed dead. 

“Your steadfast belief in my return will not go unnoticed,” he says. “For we will weather whatever comes our way.” He raises his goblet and the people take up theirs and they drink to start the feast.

By the end of the night, Odysseus feels almost giddy on the sweet wine as the feast wipes away any ghosts that may linger yet in the hall. The people are pleased to see their king with their queen. The lovers have been reunited, and the family is whole. As Odysseus settles into bed that night, he feels almost at peace.

Work with the yearlings progresses over the season, and soon many of them are tacked and halter broke. They’ve taken to handling of their legs and hooves. They stand when tied, and very few are still reactive when hands are set upon them. Soon they will be shipped to the mainland and sold, but one remains resistant among them.

The stallion has been separated from the others in the months since they ran him down from the hills. He kicks out and squeals at those who approach him. He’s been haltered, but he’s head strong and stubborn. He stands where he’s tied, but there is little life in him. It puzzles Odysseus considerably.

While he attends to matters of the kingdom, he knows Telemachus is set on tempering the stallion. He brings it up at dinner about how he wants to use a saddle blanket on the stallion—show him that there is nothing to fear of this process. Odysseus coaches his son with patience, but Telemachus is set on working with the stallion in earnest. He needs to be approached with force, not with patience.

Odysseus has the years and experience to know Telemachus’ downfall will be his youth, but his son must learn on his own. So the next day, he stands at the ring side to watch as Telemachus works the stallion in a circuit to tire him some before approaching him with the saddle blanket. 

The stallion, at least, is holding his head lower, not as high strung as he usually is. And he listens to when Telemachus calls, slowing when Telemachus asks. Indeed, progress has been made, but Odysseus still watches with baited breath as his son approaches the stallion to swipe the saddle blanket against his side.

The stallion’s ears twitch back, but not pinned. His tail swishes and he stamps a back foot, more to scare flies than anything, Odysseus thinks. And still he climbs the wooden fence to perch up higher, to give him those few precious moments more to reach his son should the stallion turn his ire on him.

Telemachus, again, swipes the blanket along the stallion’s side. On the left. Then the right. The stallion’s sides twitch and he stamps a foot again, but he stands well as Telemachus lays the blanket on his back and allows for the stallion to grow used to the sensation, the new weight on his back before he asks the stallion to, “Walk.” He clicks his tongue next and the stallion does walk with the halter lead held in Telemachus’ hand.

Odysseus breathes a sight of relief, watching the stallion’s body as Telemachus has him walk in a steady circle before urging him into a quicker trot. The stallion snorts but does as he is commanded, his head coming low, his ears set back in irritation, but he trots on. He moves well, Odysseus realizes. He’d make a good mount for anyone, even a lord despite the scarring on his body. 

Telemachus calls whoa and the stallion slowly comes to a stop. Odysseus forces another breath out that he finds himself holding as Telemachus goes to the stallion’s side to begin running his hands all over his body. His neck, his head, the tops of his ears to the other side as he runs his hands down his chest, his legs. The stallion raises a leg when prompted even with a bit of effort.

“You’ve been working hard with him,” Odysseus says.

Telemachus twists back to smile at him. “You gave him to me to work.”

“And your work is admirable.”

Telemachus then sets a hand on the stallion’s back. The stallion remains unmoved as Telemachus applies pressure in different spots, warming the horse up to the idea of bearing more and more weight. He then presses both hands on the stallion’s back and the stallion’s head comes up with a jerk.

“Telemachus,” Odysseus warns.

“I see,” his son says, as he backs off and allows for the stallion to crane his head back and sniff at him curiously. When the stallion relaxes, he tries again. Applies more pressure to the horse’s back and when he doesn’t react, Telemachus grows bolder.

He mounts the horse.

The stallion nervously paces with Telemachus seated on his back as he holds the rope lead in his hands to try and steer the stallion’s head. Odysseus finds himself holding his breath without meaning to. 

Telemachus pulls back on the stallion’s head and the stallion steps back and back. “See?” Telemachus says, turning to grin at his father. “He’s come to heel. He knows who his master is.” 

And then, as the stallion looks to Odysseus there on the fence, just on the edge of jumping into the pen, the stallion bucks suddenly, throwing Telemachus from his back and trampling him in the process, hard hoof colliding with soft skin.

Odysseus jumps in and hollers at the stallion as he raises his hands to ward the beast off. Telemachus lies crumpled on the ground, clutching his chest at where the stallion’s strong hoof struck. He pulls him back by his arms to the edge of the fence as one of the stable hands opens the gate and herds the stallion away, allowing the stallion to run out into an adjacent pen.

Odysseus breathes hard as he looks at his stricken son, whose breath comes in great, pained gulps. Odysseus pulls his chiton away to look at the rapidly bruising skin where the stallion hit him. “Breathe, my son,” he says, he wishes, he bids. 

Telemachus takes in a gasping breath, screwing his eyes tight in pain.

Menander, called forward by the commotion, enters the pen with a hurried step. “My king,” he says. 

Odysseus holds up a hand. “He is alright. Stricken, but for other than some bruising, he will be right. But make it known, none will handle that horse other than me.” He’s had enough of this dance, and he will make that stallion know who is his master. 

Menander nods. “Of course, let us see to the young master then.”

They help lift Telemachus to his feet as he cries in pain from being moved. He is taken to the house and seen to by a healer for the bruise to be seen on his chest. Penelope comes to them then, rushing into the room to sit at the bedside with Telemachus’ chest bared to the room for all to see the bruising and swelling. Thankfully, he has not broken anything, but he is sore.

Odysseus stands at the back of the room, a hot thrill of anger coursing through him. His son has been harmed. His son has been struck. And the beast waits outside.

Odysseus turns his back to the room to stalk back out to the pens and on the way he grabs a whip.

“Step up!”

The sharp crack of the whip pierces the night air as the stallion bucks in protest at being worked to run again and again. His chest is heaving, his body marked with frothy sweat. Odysseus feels just as ragged, but he keeps the stallion moving. He will not stop until one of them collapses, and even then, he will not accept defeat.

This beast hurt his son. This beast will come to know what fear is.

He cracks the whip again behind the stallion as he runs, snorting with his eyes wide. He has not dared approach Odysseus and his fury since he stepped into the pen and driven him in punishment for striking his son. 

“Whoa!” he calls sharply and the stallion skids to a stop. He holds his head level, nostrils flared as Odysseus paces. “Do you know respect now?” he says. “Who is your master now?” He stalks forward and the stallion raises his head, his eyes wide with a peak of white showing at the edge. 

So the stallion does know fear.

“It seems you have more to learn.” He cracks the whip, and the stallion squeals and prances in place before Odysseus cracks it again. “When will you learn!” The stallion runs. “You’ll not know peace until I allow it. You’ll not rest until I give it.”

The stallion lopes about the pen, no longer has hurried as he has been, but still he runs with this unfathomable stamina he has. Never has a horse required so much work. What drives a beast to work itself to death? What pushes them to never trust the hand of their handler? What makes them bite and lash out when they know it will only bring them a hard hand?

The stallion then stumbles, and Odysseus holds himself still. The stallion’s legs tremble in exhaustion as he comes to a walk, but just as Odysseus lowers the whip, open to joining with the stallion, the best pins his ears curls back his lips and lunges as if to bite. But Odysseus is quicker, snapping the whip quickly but jerking back to avoid the stallion’s teeth.

They both fall back to opposite sides of the pen, Odysseus’ chest heaving as he sits back against the fence post as the stallion, with great effort, bends his buckling legs beneath his body and falls to his side on the ground with a great sigh.

The fight has gone out of him, and so, too, does it leave Odysseus’ body.

Odysseus turns his gaze to the night sky. “What have I done to deserve this?” he ponders to himself. “Why can I not have peace?”

“You think yourself deserving of peace?”

The voice brings his attention forward, not to the horse, but to the man that has taken the position of the horse. He sits upon the ground just as Odysseus does, his arms draped on the lower rung of the fence as his long, curly, dark hair hides his face. He wears a dirtied, stained chiton that was once a striking white and royal blue in colour. His long legs lie partially folded beneath him as if he had collapsed right then and there. And when he raises his head, for Odysseus to see the scars on his chest, the mark from where a trident had found its mark over and over and over and over–

Odysseus finds his breath stolen. His heart beats loudly and painfully in his chest as the the Earthshaker sits before him.

He scrambles to his feet. He is unarmed, but he has been unarmed before. If he is to face down this god, then so be it. But he will not be cowed—

But the god does not rise, only stares at Odysseus with a deep sense of exhaustion. There is none of that haughty tone, none of his anger, none of his deep seated hate that chased Odysseus across the ocean. 

“Nothing to say?” Poseidon says as his brow furrows at Odysseus’ surprised silence.

Usually, Odysseus knows what to say in these moments, to twist the situation into what he needs it to be, but he is worn down from the life he has lived and the struggles of returning home. To know that the stallion has been the god all along is almost too much for him to bear.

“You struck my son,” he says.

“Yes,” Poseidon says as he sneers, “Just as you struck mine.”

If this is how their story will truly end, then Odysseus stands his ground. He raises the one weapon he has, the whip. “You should know by now, then, what I am willing to do for my family. Rise again and I will strike you down.”

Poseidon holds his gaze and then dips his head as if to acknowledge the truth in Odysseus’ words. Why wouldn’t he? He already bears the marks, the scars from Odysseus’ wrath.

How does it feel to know pain?

“All this time,” Odysseus says. “It was you. Why? Why did you come here of all places?”

“To understand,” Poseidon admits.

“Understand what?”

“You.”

Odysseus is struck silent. He thought that he would’ve driven the god away from him. The last he had seen of him was at his feet as he bled. The water’s edge splashing up against Odysseus’ ankles as he held the trident against Poseidon’s throat until the water and blood soaked sea foam swept over the god and he disappeared from sight.

“What about me?” Odysseus demands. “Was it not enough to drown my men? To chase me over the earth? To drive me mad?”

Poseidon raises his head. He looks nothing like the proud and angry god that chased Odysseus across the ocean. "I never wanted to drive you mad. I only ever wanted to know what drives you. What possesses a man to endure as much as you have?" He looks at Odysseus not with anger or resentment, but instead a deep weariness that is seen in the lines of his face and his limpid hair. "To defy gods."

Odysseus lowers the whip in his hand. He eventually drops it and leans back against the fence post before sliding down to sit on the ground. "You let yourself be treated like a beast, for what? The enjoyment of it all?"

"To understand what it means to endure."

Odysseus shakes his head and turns his gaze to the stars above. He might never understand the games that gods play or the reasons for why they do things. For why would a god like Poseidon take on the form of a beast to be treated like one? To be yelled at. To be denied food and water to break his spirit. To be ran until he falls from exhaustion.

To endure.

"Twenty years," Poseidon muses. He has let his head fall to let his hair obscure his face. "And not once did you falter. Not once die you become untrue to yourself. A monster you became, but what else could you have been after Troy?"

Odysseus' heart gives a painful lurch in his chest. Twenty years. It's been twenty years since he left for Troy, called away despite his best efforts. And when it came time to wheel that giant horse into the city and slaughter Troy's sons at night while they slept, he felt nothing. It was what he had to do in the moment.

"I can't imagine it was easy to be treated like a beast," Odysseus says. 

Poseidon scoffs. "It wasn't easy to be stabbed by a mortal, and yet."

"So what now?" He looks back at Poseidon who raises his head, leaning back against the fence post. "You walk back to the ocean and I stop looking over my shoulder."

"If I had wanted to kill you here, I would've sent a wave." Poseidon sighs. 

"Then why didn't you?" Odysseus snaps. He is so very tired of being treated like he is nothing by the gods. "All your power. All your might, and I still draw breath."

"Exactly. I don't understand it myself. You were born to Ithaca. Born to me, and yet you heard her call. Not mine." He then looks to Odysseus with dull blue eyes. "I realized it far too late when you favoured her domain more than mine, and by then you were well on your way sailing to Polyphemus' island. You prefer mind over might."

Odysseus straightens his spine. "I did what I had to."

"I know. It has . . . taken me a long time to realize that. You and I will never fully understand each other. And I doubt you'll come to my temple or ever look to the ocean as you once did. But." Poseidon then heaves himself to his feet with considerable effort. "I want you to consider this a truce." He towers over Odysseus as he has many times previously, but Odysseus does not feel cowed as he might have. And as he considers his words with Poseidon standing there, hand outstretched, Odysseus blinks and-

The stallion stands before him. Odysseus almost feels relieved that he gets the beast instead of the god.

He raises a hand and the stallion sniffs him curiously before bumping up against Odysseus' fingers. He doesn't think he'll ever understand what he has been through, what he did to endure, to survive and return to his family. But he understands what he must do now to put his past to rest. 

He gets to his feet and steps to the gate of the corral. He pushes it wide open and stands to the side as the stallion's ears perk forward. It takes only a moment before the stallion rushes forward, and he runs, out of the stable grounds, out of the pens, and back to the hills where he belongs, if that is where he will truly stay.

Odysseus learned not to question the gods for the things they do, and if this is meant to be a truce between him and Poseidon, he'll take the peace it gives him.

He returns to his household then, weary but no less heavy in his spirit. He returns to the bed with his wife, his queen, and finds peace in his rest.

The next day, he sits with his son as he works on stringing a bow and Telemachus heals from the stallion's kick. 

"I turned him loose," Odysseus says.

Telemachus looks crestfallen for a moment before Odysseus assuages him of any guilt he might feel.

"There comes a time when a man must admit defeat. I pray that you will only know of it when working with horses and not on the battlefield. Stallions are hard headed, stubborn, with a fire in their chest that is only rivalled by a dam and her foal. But wear that mark proudly while you have it. You've accomplished much more than most at your age."

Telemachus leans his head back against the wall he rests again. "Is this your way of telling me to accept a gracious defeat?"

Odysseus smirks. "Perhaps."

Odysseus passes by a room intended for the queen and only the queen. Though Odysseus knows if he knocks, he'll be granted entry so he does.

He finds his wife inside, sitting at her loom with her hair loosely tied back. She pauses in her work to accept him and he comes to kneel where she sits. 

"And what brings you here today?" she asks.

"Can a man not simply watch his wife work?"

"I suppose he can."

And as she sets her hands on the loom, pulling threads and weaving them together, Odysseus feels as if he has finally returned home.