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It's all Odysseus can do not to grasp for Telemachus' hand when he slips away. He knows why, oh how he knows that it would bring suspicions for the prince to linger around a beggar, but that makes it hurt no less. His boy, his darling boy. Grown so much in the twenty years since Odysseus last laid eyes upon him.
The walk from Eumaeaus' home wasn't nearly enough time. Days would not have been enough for Odysseus to willingly let his son go. But willingness does not matter here. Either he does this, lets his son go and keep his cover, or he lets the filth in his palace continue their evil. And that is something he refuses to allow.
This is his family, his house, and he will defend them. These suitors will learn what it means to cross Odysseus, king of Ithaka. However, he must wait, and plan. Let the suitors think him a beggar, let them prove definitively to the hidden king that they have no respect for xenia. For now, Wisdom counsels patience, and so he will plot.
Already, Odysseus sees the beginnings of what must be done. Spies how the men invading his house scatter their weapons so, within easy reach of any man who might wish to hide them away. Even from where he sits against a pillar Odysseus can smell the wine on their breaths, strong enough that he doubts any water went into the mixing bowls they fill kylix after kylix from.
And then something else tugs at his attention. The sound of bare feet on stone, common enough in this place filled with men, but of interest for its familiarity. Not Telemachus' footsteps. No, those are too new to him, for all that he thinks and hopes he would be able to pick them out amongst many.
No, these steps are lighter, graceful in their near-silence. Penelope. His heart sings at her approach, chanting her name over and over, longing to greet her. At the same time his mind cautions no, gentle, do not draw attention. It's a fierce battle, for as much as he is a man favored by Athena, by Wisdom, the man of the greatest wits of the age, so too is he a man driven forward by boundless devotion to his wife. They are all but equal, one moment one voice having the greater sway, then the other.
Penelope sweeps through the room while he fights with himself, her head held high and her graceful feet dancing away from the wandering hands of drunken men. She's just as beautiful as she was the last day he saw her, grasping at each other's hands in the moments before he set foot upon his ship, Telemachus already wailing.
Her eyes are no less clever, she sweeps her gaze across the room, searching for anything amiss. There's little different between the days, Odysseus is sure. Bard playing, suitors drunkenly cavorting among endless feasts. Beggars pleading for scraps from the table. But what is this, a new beggar among them? Even still, he can read the question in Penelope's eyes, and she draws closer to where he sits.
Beggar or no, she is his host and she would greet him. He trembles with restraint, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as she approaches. Odysseus manages it, barely, but it all falls apart when she takes his hand between hers, gentle but strong with the corded muscle of a weaver's hands. And then that voice in his heart takes control and he bursts into sobs at the first words from her lips.
"Welcome, friend. What brings you to our halls?"
He collapses into her, bowing over her hands, clasping at her arms and legs where she has crouched before him. All that rises from his lips is an endless litany of her name. He's sobbing, he knows that, but he can't stop now that he feels the warmth of her. Knows she's real, at last. No more endless days upon the sea, no more captivity upon that nymph's island. Ithaka's soil beneath his feet is real, Telemachus and Penelope are no dream anymore. She touches his cheek with gentle concern, and at last Odysseus raises his gaze to her. She scans him quickly, her eyes widening with recognition, realization. Turns to snap behind her.
"Telemachus!" The boy appears at once. "Why did you not tell me there was a man here with news?"
Confusion flickers in the boy's eyes for a heartbeat, but he does not otherwise show it. He dips his head in a show of apology. "Forgive me, Mitera. Might I lead him to another room so you both could speak?"
"Please do." As Telemachus helps Odysseus to his feet, Penelope turns to the suitors who so carefully pretend to not be watching them. "Return to your meal, if this news is pertinent I will of course share it."
Inside the small, out of the way room, Odysseus collapses at her feet anew, emotions overtaking him. But Penelope was ready, already kneeling once more. She places a hand under his chin and lifts it up so he can look her in the eye.
"Am I right, could it be you?"
He nods, tears streaming down his face. No use denying it now. Certainly not to her, nor had he hid the truth from their boy. "I'm home at last, my heart. Years of wanderings could not keep me from this nostos."
"How can I be sure? Other men before have come, saying they are Odysseus."
"Ask me anything you wish, and I will answer. I will have no secrets from you."
"What were you wearing, that day you left?"
How could he forget? "A cloak of deep dye like wine, woven by your own hands. Clasped with a golden pin of a hunting hound, a scrap of fabric from Telemachus' own clothes pinned to the inside, where it could rest over my heart."
Penelope gasps, her eyes gleaming. "oh, it is you! What happened, to delay you so?"
Odysseus squeezes her hand. "Ask me again another time, dear one. When those men no longer fill this palace. I would have them dealt with first." If they play this right, his failure to maintain composure can be recovered. They can spin the story so the suitors are none the wiser of his return.
Penelope nods, standing. "I will tell them you are an old comrade-soldier of my husband, and you bring news of his death at last. So too will I lay a challenge before them. In honor of my lost husband, any man to take his throne must be as skilled and as strong as he, shall string the great bow he left behind and shoot through twelve axes to demonstrate their mastery of themselves."
He can work with that. Odysseus remembers that bow well. None of those men would ever suceed in such a task, but it buys them time for him to work. To hide those weapons he spotted earlier. So Odysseus inclines his head in assent, a sly smile curving across his face.