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"Your father" I said "You should hate him. Do you ?"
"No. I do not." Telemachus whispered.
"Why not ? He hurt you."
"Goddess, he is... He was the man I aspired to be. I never really met him, I know it. Troy changed him. The war changed him. My mother loved him and told me the stories– the same one you probably told Telegonus–, I loved him. I... He was my father."
Telemachus stayed silent a moment. I didn't speak, letting the silence slowly fill the blanks in his story.
"My mother loved him. But, when he came back, he didn't love us anymore. I am nothing like him, I- I could not bring myself to kill those slaves when he told me to ! I would have died at Troy, Goddess ! It is like I am not his son, I am just... one of his sons. I'm just a man."
He turned his face so I could not see it anymore. Was he crying ? Probably not. I like to think he was thinking about his father, or maybe silently praying to the Gods.
In all my years of living, I have never seen a man so troubled before. Even Prometheus was calm when he talked to me, all those years ago. Even Medea was sure of herself and of her crimes.
And Telemachus has never been so soft and vulnerable with me before.
"You knew him, Goddess. You knew him better than I did. My mother told me, once, about all the nymphs he laid with during his journey. But you... You were different. My father spent a year with you, he..." He laughed softly. "He sat at this exact chair didn't he?"
I smiled sadly. "You have his eyes."
"... I know."