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When the boy first enters the hut, Odysseus can't keep from staring. It's impolite, and he's sure that Telemachus would have seen had he not been so deep in thought to notice the beggar that watched him with wet eyes. He moves to stand, to offer his seat to the prince out of respect, but Telemachus only waves a hand.
"I'll find another." He says. His voice is youthful, light and firm and perfect in a way only a parent can find no fault in. It keeps him frozen, and Odysseus is glad that he stayed sitting, certain that his legs would have given way from how weak they felt. The last he had heard his son's voice, it had been an infant's wail, shrill and high as he planted a kiss on plump skin. Tiny fingers had come up to tug on his hair, his clothes, but he only pried them off gently, staving off the bitterness that crept in as the heralds called his name.
He drinks in the sight of him now, all grown. He is an adult now, taller than Odysseus. Shoulders broad and arms firm, eyes the same dark shade of his mother's. Dressed in gold and linen, he looked every bit like the prince his lineage calls him to be. Still, Odysseus knows he would have known him even while dressed in rags or filthy from toil. He looks just like his father, from the sculpt of his face to the curls of his hair. His son. His son.
It is all he can do to keep from reaching out and holding him, gods be damned.
Still, he keeps quiet as Telemachus and Eumaeus converse, keeping a watchful ear as they trade information on Laertes, on Penelope. Odysseus bristles as they talk of the suitors, of how they gorge themselves in his own halls. How they woo his lover shamelessly.
"How have you come to be this way?" He croaks out, if only to save face. "Surely a king would not leave his palace in such disarray."
Telemachus looks at him with an expression carved out of grief. "There is no king here, stranger." He says. "My father left twenty years ago. We've yet to hear news of him, or his death."
Twenty years. Twenty fucking years. He stifles the urge to laugh, lest it breaks down into tears. Time has aged him, worn him down and dragged down his heart. Sorrow washes up against him like the tide.
"Laertes grieves," The swineherd says, "Since you left for Pylos, he's not touched food nor drink. It's an ill fate, to have lost both son and grandson."
"I am home, now." His son replies, "Go, as fast as you can, tell my mother. I will wait here for you."
Eumaeus nods, getting swiftly to his feet. He gives Odysseus a kind look, before he runs out the hut, off to carry news to the queen.
Thus, he's left alone with his son, in a disguise that makes him a stranger in his homeland. Telemachus strips the last of the meat from the bone, throwing it to the dogs. They bark excitedly, pawing at the air to catch the oil slicked bone. He laughs, hand reaching out to scratch the ear of one.
He's beautiful. All these years, all these years spent fighting. Truly, he's a cursed man. To have had so much time stolen from him, an absence left in his place. This was what was stolen from him, the privilege of being a father. Now, the prince gazes at him with indifference, and he cannot even reach out to touch his son.
Telemachus looks up at him, an indiscernible look on his face.
"You've come from far away." He says softly. "You've traveled far, have you not?"
"A fair bit." Odysseus replies.
"Have you– have you heard of Odysseus, son of Laertes? Any news of him?"
"I–" Odysseus falters. His quick tongue fails him. "I'm sorry."
Telemachus wilts. "It's alright."
The dogs whine, scrambling back into the corner, half chewed bone long forgotten. Telemachus sits up, wary, eyes darting from wall to wall. He does not see the way the hut fills with mist, the way the air weighs down like Aegis on his back. Athena, with her brilliant plume and gleaming eyes, leans down by Odysseus' ear.
"Reveal yourself." She whispers, tolling bells singing in her voice. "Hide no longer."
With weaver's fingers, she pulls away his disguise.
One second he's a foreign beggar, and the next he is Odysseus, king of Ithaca, sacker of cities.
Telemachus staggers back, eyes wide. His hands tremble at his side.
"Telemachus." Odysseus says, and he cannot help the love that wraps around the name, warm and stilted.
"Stranger." Telemachus responds, and Odysseus cannot help but flinch. There is fear on his face, terror so stark Odysseus fights the urge to draw out his sword. "You look different."
"Do you know who I am?" He asks softly.
Telemachus lowers his gaze, head bowed. "A god, surely." He says. He pleads. "Spare us. I can arrange a sacrifice, gifts wrought from gold. Anything you desire."
"No." Odysseus shakes his head. He feels faint, even while his voice is steady. "No, why would you think such a thing? Telemachus," He repeats, "Look at me."
His son, shaking, looks up to meet his gaze. He reaches out to cradle his cheek, hands calloused by war trailing softly down his skin. He leans forward, kissing the crown of his head. A tear falls unbidden, sinking into his curls. "I am your father." Odysseus whispers. "I am Odysseus."
But Telemachus only shakes his head. "No–" He says. "No, this must be a trick, or some sort of jest. How cruel." He spits out, even as fear wars in his eyes. "Haven't you gods done enough? No man, not even my father, as great as he was, can do what you have done."
"Telemachus–" Odysseus starts.
"You cannot be who you say you are." His son begs. "Please. I have hurt enough."
"Athena brought me here, my son." Odysseus says gently. I've spent twenty long years away, praying for the day I get to see you and Penelope once again. I spent nights dreaming only of home, and days bitter of the distance between us. I would not lie to you. The goddess had put on me a disguise, to keep me from being recognized as I walked the streets. But she's allowed me to reveal myself to you."
He sits back down roughly, leaning forward with his weight on his thighs. Quietly, he murmurs, "Won't you grant your father the chance to hold his son again?"
Telemachus wavers, expression fractured. Tears well up in his eyes, glassy and bright. A sound crawls out of his mouth, broken and sharp, and he rushes forward, flinging his arms around Odysseus. Strong archer arms come up to brace him, curling tight.
"My boy." Odysseus weeps as he holds him close. He kisses his cheeks, his temple.
"Father." Telemachus whispers. His hands come up to clutch at the folds of his cloak, the cloth slowly growing damp with tears.
They both shudder on these foreign words, trembling with the relief of finally knowing what it felt like to touch a dream.
"I'm here." Odysseus says. "I'm home."