Chapter Text
When Telemachus’ ship docked, he hadn’t expected the ambush.
“Parry,” Athena whispered quickly in his mind, and he quickly used his spear to block the sword. “Quickly Telemachus, behind you.”
Telemachus simply shoved his double-spear backwards, and he heard a man groan.
A body slumped over on the ground.
“Good job,” Athena said, and Telemachus watched as Amphinomus fell dead to the ground. His eyes were wide with horror.
He just killed a man. He had never killed a man before.
“There’s no time for that right now,” Athena said in his mind. “Right now, the only thing you have to do is survive.”
Telemachus knew she was right, and it took every ounce of strength inside him to pull away and continue defending himself.
He tried, he really did. At least no one could tell him that he hadn’t tried.
“There are too many of them.”
Before he knew it, the suitors had cornered him on all sides. Eurymachus and Melanthius eventually got ahold of him, and there was nothing Telemachus could do to break their hold.
“Telemachus, I’m sorry,” Athena said, sadly.
“No.”
“I’ll figure something out.
“Athena, please don’t leave me.”
But her presence was gone, and his thoughts slowed down.
The suitors forced him into a kneeling position.
Antinous stood in front of him, holding what Telemachus recognized as his father’s old Scythian bow. The drawstring was attached to one of the horns, but was otherwise unstrung. According to his mother’s stories, it had been a gift from a man named Iphitus his father met, and originally belonged to nomads in Asia. They invented the bow, and there was no other bow on earth like it. It needed to be strung in a certain way, and because these bows didn’t exist anywhere else in Greece—only Odysseus knew how.
“Your father used to string this in five seconds,” Penelope smiled, holding the bow close to her chest. She stood up and put the bow down on the mantle. It was unstrung, and it looked so unlike any bow Telemachus had seen in his short life. It looked almost like a serpent, or a bird taking flight. Not a straight line, like the bows the guards had. “He would set up these twelve axes, then shoot arrows through the holes, over and over again, for hours, every single day.”
Telemachus, who was eleven years old at the time, stared at the bronze epsilon axes in bewilderment. The blades were attached at the top, middle, and bottom, with two very small crescent shaped holes near the handles between each attachment, which were tightly bound to the shaft.
He reached out to touch the axe delicately, circling the holes with his finger. “But they’re so small!”
“Your father was an incredible man,” Penelope picked him up. Telemachus wrapped his legs around her waist and hung his arms from her neck while she held him. “He’s going to come back one day, and he’s going to get rid all of these suitors. And then we’ll finally be safe.”
“You’ll be safe, mama,” Telemachus said. “I’ll protect you.”
Penelope kissed him on the cheek. “It’s my job to protect you, sweetie, not the other way around.”
“Your whore of a mother thought she could best us by wasting our time stringing this impossible bow,” Antinous waved the stick around, the drawstring slapping him in the face.
“My mother isn’t a whore,” Telemachus growled.
“Maybe not, but tonight,” he threw the bow to the side, taking off the quiver and discarding it as well, arrows scattering on the ground. Antinous leaned down and grabbed Telemachus’ face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You are.”
And suddenly, Telemachus was very, very afraid. Steeled his expression, refusing to show anything but defiance. “What does that mean?”
“Hold him down, boys,” Antinous smirked.
Telemachus kicked and writhed as Melanthius and Eurymachus pulled him flat on his back while another suitor untied the rope around his chiton.
Antinous got in between his legs, holding his hips down while Telemachus futilely tried to kick him off. He cut one of the sleeves of Telemachus’ chiton with a dagger.
Antinous pushed in, and blurred together in a wave of searing pain, and Telemachus could scream. Melanthius took the opportunity to shove himself inside of Telemachus’ mouth. He instinctively bit down, and the man screamed.
After ripping Telemachus off of him, he punched him in the gut. Telemachus spat out the blood, gagging from the taste.
“Uh uh, we won’t be having any of that, little wolf,” Antinous said, squeezing his neck tight. “Or we’ll break down your mother’s door.”
The entire world stopped, and nothing that was happening mattered anymore. “No.”
Antinous had a wicked glean in his eyes.
“You don’t want that?” He asked, rubbing the side of Telemachus’ neck with his thumb.
Telemachus shook his head. This couldn’t happen to his mother. “No.”
“You or your mother, boy,” Antinous said. “Choose.”
His heart pounded, his body was shaking, and all he could think about was his mother. Their hands on her. He wasn’t even a woman—what would they do to her?
She had always protected him. She refused to return to her father’s estate and remarry because she wanted him to have his birthright, and for the family to be reunited when Odysseus finally returned. He had to protect her.
“Me,” he said. He felt disgusting. “Do whatever you want to me, just don’t hurt my mom.”
“Then be a good little bitch.
It felt like his soul was being ripped apart, his body torn from the inside out while the men around him laughed and imitated his screams. He wanted to do was cry. He wanted his mom. He wanted to be a little kid again.
But he couldn’t fight back, because then they would hurt her. She was always so strong, stronger than Telemachus, but this was too much. He was being ripped apart from the inside. He just wanted her to hold him and sing to him like she did when he was a small child. Antinous finished, and Telemachus started crying.
“Aww, he’s crying for his mommy,” Antinous laughed along with the other men. He didn’t realize he said it out loud. Antinous cradled his cheek, uncharacteristically tender. Telemachus hated him.
Then he whispered in his ear. “She’s next, boy.”
Telemachus balked. “But—but you said—”
Antinous grabbed his dagger, frowning. “I lied.”
Telemachus was shaking, silently praying to Athena. Melanthius and Eurymachus held him down while Antinous pressed the daggeragainst his neck. “Any last words, Prince Telemachus of Ithaca?”
The boy glared at him, trying to take his death bravely. He spat on Antinous. “Fuck. You.”
Antinous slapped him across the face, and Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut. Despite this, he wouldn’t cry or beg for mercy. He knew they had none to give.
Then he heard the sound of a bow snap and he felt warm liquid drip onto his chest. He opened his eyes and saw an arrow in Antinous’ throat. The man fell to the side.
“Let go of my son,” a hooded man growled. Telemachus’ father’s bow fully strung, and the man was holding it.
That meant—
Eurymachus and Melanthius let him go while the sounds of men screaming erupted. Antinous gurgled on his own blood, and Telemachus pushed the body fully off of him and held his chiton closed.
He watched the light slowly fade from Antinous’ eyes while arrows flew past them and men fell to the ground dead. Telemachus felt a warm sense of satisfaction creep on him, and he wanted to vomit.
He looked up and saw a man in the distance—the man who fired the arrows. He drew another from his quiver. The suitors were running back towards the palace, and he went after them.
Telemachus pulled himself up, slowly. It hurt when he took a step forward, but he needed to get to safety. The palace wasn’t far from the beach.
Bodies littered the ground as Telemachus walked, and he heard the screams. He walked through the gate and into the courtyard, making his way towards his room.
That was when he saw Melanthius kneeling on the ground, and the man who must’ve been Odysseus holding him down. The man was out of arrows, but he had a sword. Telemachus propped himself against a column to watch.
“—mercy, please—” the man sputtered, coughing up blood.
“Mercy? Mercy?!” Odysseus growled, twisting the blade in his chest. “You raped my son, and you want me to show you mercy?!” He pulled the sword out. “This will be your only mercy.”
Odysseus swung the sword and Melanthius’ head fell to the ground.
Telemachus felt a strange sense of catharsis. The last man was dead.
Odysseus’ eyes turned to meet his. Telemachus almost couldn’t believe it. “…father?”
Something in the man’s eyes melted. “Son?”
Telemachus didn’t want his father to look at him. He was disgusting—bloody and bruised, holding his chiton shut with his hands. He didn’t look like the future king of Ithaca. But then again, Telemachus would’ve been a disappointment to his father no matter what.
Odysseus slowly approached Telemachus and reached out his hand, but Telemachus instinctively flinched. He hated himself when he saw the look on his father’s face.
“D-did you kill all o-of them?” Telemachus whispered.
“Yes,” Odysseus said. “I had to. After what they did—”
Telemachus didn’t know how much he saw. He hoped it wasn’t much. He couldn’t live with himself knowing his father saw him like that—
“How much did you see?”
Odysseus didn’t respond for a while. “I saw enough.”
If Telemachus wasn’t humiliated before, he certainly was now that the realization that his father saw dawned on him. His skin suddenly felt like acid and nausea found its way to his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Telemachus burst into tears. “I’m weak, I’m a disappointment—”
“No,” Odyssseus cut him off. There was pain in his voice. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that—I should have been here.”
“Why—” Telemachus sniffled. “Why weren’t you?”
Odysseus’ face fell, and Telemachus instantly regretted the question. Gods, he should just be happy his father is back, shouldn’t he?
Then why was a part of him terrified?
“I… angered Poseidon,” was all he said. Telemachus wondered how.
“How did you know it was me?” He asked. “Or at least where I was?”
“A friend told me,” Odysseus said. He unfastened his ragged chlamys, using the pin to fix Telemachus’ chiton. Telemachus’ belt was missing, so Odysseus draped the fabric over his shoulders. It was covered in blood, but so was Telemachus. He was just glad he felt less exposed.
“Thank you,” Telemachus murmured. “Um, Father.”
“Son—”
“I always wondered… what it would be like when we met,” Telemachus wiped his eyes. “I n-never pictured this. I wish it were different.”
“May I hold you?” Odysseus asked. His voice broke.
Telemachus nodded. Odysseus pulled him into a tight, but gentle hug. He kissed the top of his head and they were both crying.
“I wish I got there sooner,” Odysseus said. “I wish I could’ve protected you. I would do anything for you.”
Telemachus looked up and saw Melanthius’ severed head. He shuddered.
“Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Odysseus asked.
Telemachus shook his head. “I just want to go to my room and be by myself.”
“Okay,” Odysseus helped him stand up. Telemachus pointed to the room that was his, and his father let him lean against him. He hated how helpless he seemed. As if the whole situation wasn’t humiliating enough.
Odysseus took notice of the shrine and altar in Telemachus’ room. “Is that Athena?”
He nodded. Telemachus walked over to his bed and collapsed on it. He was exhausted.
“Where are your clothes?” Odysseus asked.
Telemachus pointed to the wooden chest in the corner. “There.”
Odysseus opened it and pulled out a fresh chiton and put it neatly on the bed next to him. “You can throw what you’re wearing away later. We can see about replacing it, if you want.” He gave Telemachus a soft, sad smile. “I need to talk to your mother now.”
He started towards the door.
He’s going to tell her.
“Wait—” Telemachus sat up. Odysseus turned around.
“Yes, son?”
“Don’t…” his eyes welled up with tears. “Don’t tell Mom what happened, please.”
“I don't think that’s a good idea, Telemachus,” he said. “She’s your mother, she can help—”
“You or your mother, boy.”
“Please,” Telemachus asked, his voice raspy from all the crying. “I don’t want her to know, to look at me like that.” Telemachus wiped his eyes.
“I don’t think she would—“
“Pease,” Telemachus desperately pleaded. “It’s embarrassing and she doesn’t need to know. It would only hurt her.
He pursed his lips. “She’s going to see that you’re injured. And so will the physician.”
“Then swear him to secrecy, and tell her that they just tried to attack me, nothing else,” he begged. “Please, I don’t want people knowing about this.”
Odysseus reluctantly agreed. “Okay, I won’t tell her.”
Telemachus finally released a shaky sigh of relief and relaxed. “Thank you.”
Odysseus smiled again, and left Telemachus alone. He was crushed by the weight of the silence.