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Blood drips down the side of Odysseus’ face, intertwining with the ichor stains that he never bothered to scrub out. His chest heaves, lungs burning with exertion, and his vision blurs with the ire buzzing in his brain. It's the roaring thunder of a storm, the crashing of waves against the ship he lost, the screams of men as he takes their lives. Six hundred. One hundred and eight. One.
He is all that remains in the palace that has been rent asunder by the bodies he’s left in his wake. Gore seeps into the stone of his home, limbs and entrails hanging off every corner and wall as if a mockery of the regal decor that hangs above him. Having dropped his trusty bow near the entrance of the armory when the bloodbath began, Odysseus’ fingers are wrapped around his spear in a tight grip, an all too familiar feeling. He doesn't know if it reminds him of his days before the war, or if the flashes of Poseidon's trident replacing it are all in his head.
His hands are shaking. The enemies are gone and his palace is eerily silent as servants hide and the night shrouds the palace from any wandering within Ithaca. Still, he can't calm down. In his mind's eye, all he can see is the rage of Achilles as he desecrates Prince Hector's body. All he can see is the rain pouring down as the son of Troy hit the ground far below him with a devastating crack and the infant’s cries ceased in an instant. All he can see is Polites, left mangled and torn by the club of the cyclops. All he can see is Eurylochus, eyes spent empty with grief until they were simply no more, leaving him a burnt body floating in the ocean. All he can see is Scylla ripping his men in half, the Laestrygonians hurling boulders at his fleet and sinking his ships as his men screamed for their captain, Calypso and her hands trailing over his sea soaked chest, the water filling his lungs, the smears of blood that he can never seem to escape.
All he hears are screams.
The spear in his hand flashes gold once again and the decapitated body in front of him is suddenly no longer dead, instead letting out weak, shuddering breaths as the shine of gold mixes with a seafaring blue. Poseidon, the god of the sea, left begging for mercy. Odysseus hardly remembers using the force of the windbag to hurl himself at Poseidon, driving his spear deep into his abdomen. In truth, he didn't even think it would work. How could he, a lowly, disgusting excuse for a man, be able to touch such a force? But he had no other options and he had watched Diomedes, a dear friend, do the same to that of Ares and Aphrodite. It had been so long ago.
Odysseus stumbles back as he turns to his palace and brings a blood covered hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow, streaking even more blood across his dirt speckled olive skin. He is far too hot beneath his cloak of animal skins and long, wooly hair that frizzes and curls from the humidity of Ithaca. He wishes to weep, to die, to find another target to tear limb from limb. The energy hums beneath his skin, a static of bloodlust that has yet to be satiated. Odysseus knows hunger like no other, having starved for the better part of three years before Calypso’s island, but that had been nothing compared to this– compared to the need to make them suffer as he did.
Surely, he hadn't killed them all yet. Surely, there was one more that he could fight. Surely, it wasn't over–
(Would it ever be over?)
“... Father?”
Drops of blood fling against the wall as Odysseus whirls his spear towards the voice, stopping only when its sharpened end presses against the soft skin of a man's neck. It takes a moment, a cruel, heartbreaking moment, before Odysseus’ eyes, crazed and reflecting the crimson of the blood surrounding him, flicker with recognition of the boy that had been held down to his knees by the suitors, struggling with tears in his eyes as they crowded him like scavengers.
He looked so small then. The woe of being a prince without a father, unable to be properly trained or cared for, and the woe of being the son of scrappy Odysseus. He looks small now, his spear and shield having been dropped to the ground and his helmet in his hands, just below the spear that Odysseus has pointed at him. His eyes, as blue as his mother's, are wide with awe. There isn't a trace of fear within them.
The spear clatters to the stone floor as Odysseus drops his arm, the tightenness in his chest and the grief clouding his mind loosening as he stares at what he knows to be Telemachus. What he knows to be his–
“Son.”
There had been a strength to this boy that Odysseus saw as he fought. A singular man could almost never hold his own against dozens of pursers as Telemachus had. He'd been scared, evident by the way he screamed for them to get away, but he had been just as brave as he was worn down, fighting until his very last breath. Odysseus barely registered it at the time, unable to see past the scorching flames that enveloped his own heart.
Telemachus is not scared now. He looks every bit the boy he is despite the sharpened jawline and the way that his height puts him a fair bit taller than Odysseus, something he no doubt got from his gracious mother. There aren't enough words to describe him– to describe how young he looks, how old, how beautiful, how disheveled. He is somehow everything that Odysseus imagined in his dreams and nothing like anything he could have pictured.
“You are… the great Odysseus,” Telemachus’ voice cracks a bit on his name and his hand lifts, reaching out as if to touch Odysseus’ face, and halting immediately when Odysseus flinches.
“Not so great anymore, I'm afraid,” Odysseus murmurs, and he is very aware of the haunting picture he must paint. He cannot imagine a world where Telemachus dreamt of his father and saw the haggard, tainted man in front of him, covered in scars that peek through the truly horrifying amount of blood soaking his skin. He is suddenly very glad that his original plan to kill the suitors, as bare as the day he was born as a statement to who he is and shedding the lies of his identity once and for all, did not come to fruition.
His attack on Antinous had been a snap decision, one carelessly made and that could have been his end if it hadn't been for the advantage of striking at night in a setting he knew better than the fields of Troy. A stupid decision, yes, but it seemed to have worked out in the end.
“I disagree,” Telemachus says, his voice airy and light for all the sadness it holds. “What you have done today is…”
There is a moment where Telemachus looks around, the awe lost in his gaze as he takes in the massacre that surrounds them. Shame is not strong enough of a word to describe the feeling spiking through Odysseus’ heart as sharp as his spear. He does not remember where Telemachus had been during the middle of it. All he recalls is the way he traveled from man to man and physically tore them apart. Had he seen the atrocities Odysseus committed, only seconded to that of his crimes during the war? He does not regret any of it, no, but he does regret the fact that Telemachus had been forced to experience it firsthand.
“I'm sorry,” is all Odysseus can think to say.
It brings Telemachus’ eyes back to his and there’s a moment where his expression is unreadable, far too conflicted for Odysseus to decipher.
“Are you hurt?” Telemachus asks, far too soft.
Odysseus knows that he did not get out of it completely untouched and the aches of cuts and slashes make themselves more than apparent. Still, he shakes his head. The blood all looks the same anyways.
“I have been through far worse. It’ll be fine.”
There is a brief moment of quiet as Telemachus looks over him, taking in the monster that is his father. As he does, Odysseus realizes his error.
“Are you hurt?” He asks. It has been so long since he has had to care about the state of another person.
Telemachus blinks in surprise before assessing his own body. There's blood; not nearly as much, but it smears across his leather armor– far more casual than the bright bronze battle armor that Odysseus is used to.
“I– I think so…?” Telemachus pauses for a few tense moments as he thinks, as his instincts relax and his mind realizes the battle is over. He suddenly appears very lost as everything hits him all at once and his mouth parts in shock. His chest rises and falls in harsh stutters.
“Telemachus?”
“Oh gods,” Telemachus stumbles back, nearly tripping over a body– part of a body– as he blindly reaches for a pillar to lean against. “I nearly–” Visions of Telemachus frantically throwing men off of him, barely able to hold his own against so many spears. “You– it's you, after all these years–” Visions of Odysseus’ hood falling down and revealing a paradox of a man, barely recognized from the painted portraits of days long since forgotten. ”Oh gods–”
Odysseus raises a hand, a feeble attempt of comfort that falters in the air. Is that too much? Would he even wish for his father to touch him? His father, soaked in death, that knows not how to even parent a boy, let alone calm him?
Telemachus shudders, on the brink of heaving. He is a sheltered boy, the prince of a small kingdom that has been without a king for twenty years. He has never been in a fight before, never seen so much horror. He desperately tries to blink back tears, using the pillar to hold himself up.
Odysseus is just as lost.
As Telemachus’ shock wears, so does the hatred fogging Odysseus’ brain and the reality of what he has done strikes him. When he arrived, he likened his palace's destruction to the sacking of Troy but, as he looks around at the sons of men he once knew, he realizes how true that statement is. It reminds him vaguely of the gore ridden state of his ship after they passed through Scylla's lair– a state that he could barely stand to look at as he stared straight ahead, his back facing it all.
At least then, even at the gates of Troy, there was a part of him that held guilt for the lives taken at his hand. Here, the only guilt he holds is that he couldn't draw out their suffering more. He thinks that's worse.
There is a sudden whoosh that passes over his skin, further drying out the blood caking it.
“Telemachus,” a voice, distant and far too familiar. The air stills as the hairs on the back of Odysseus’ neck rises and he whips his head towards the sound.
There, standing many feet taller than Odysseus and Telemachus both, is a woman of bluish grey shades in bronze battle armor. Her eyes glow a divine white, lacking any pupils, and her nose, sharp and inhuman, connects to her upper lip in a way that can only be described as beak-like. Feathers surround her neck and spill into her hair while snake-like scales on her forearms act further as armor pieces. She moves strangely, rotating her head in the way an owl would, and chittering as her movements, jagged and distinct, give her the uncanniness that only a god is capable of having– far too human to be something monstrous, but far too magical to be something human.
It has been ten years since he has seen her and, in that time, she has not changed at all– except in the wickedly serrated scar that passes over one of her eyes, shaped like that of an unruly lightning bolt that branches off in thin, white lines across her cheek and beak-like nose. It gives him pause, fills him with a million thoughts and emotions all at once, and he nearly says something before he realizes that her focus is not on him at all.
Athena flutters close to Telemachus, emitting bird-like cooing noises as she ushers him away from the pillar. “Come along now– both of you,” she nods at Odysseus, her voice just as off putting and monotone in its inflections as he remembers.
Odysseus has no choice but to follow quietly, watching with calculating eyes as Athena badgers his boy with reassurances.
“It is over, Telemachus, there is no need to cry,” she murmurs, her hands gentle as she pushes him forward. Despite that, Telemachus begins to properly weep, shuddering as he processes everything.
“That– that was really scary–” Telemachus sputters. There is something about the whine to his voice, the hunch to his shoulders, the insecure sobs that betray how young he truly is that rings eerily familiar to Odysseus, reminding him of a headspace that he, too, seeks out when he is scared.
The pieces fall into place, leaving Odysseus with widening eyes and a twisting, conflicting series of emotions that he cannot even begin to sort through. One of them, he knows for sure, is a simmering feeling of resentment as his old mentor chirps and clicks, poking and prodding at his son for injury and shuffling him over to a fountain in the courtyard when she finds none. The night is brisk and warm with torches, ignited by the wave of Athena's hand, leaving the area brighter than the shadows that Odysseus used to his advantage. In the distance, the call of morning begins as the sky lightens with the beginnings of the sun.
Odysseus’ exhaustion is palpable. He is used to going days without sleep, but fighting for hours without sleep is something that not even he is capable of. His muscles ache with a soreness that he will feel until he dies and he finds himself slightly swaying, unable to– or perhaps unwilling to– sit beside Telemachus as the boy shakes. Instead, he watches from afar, unsure of what he should do or even how real this all is, as Athena summons a cloth and uses the fountain water to wipe off the blood from Telemachus’ cheeks, puffy with tears.
The water had been tainted a couple hours ago with the blood of Eurymachus, a man that Odysseus left thrown over the fountain's edge with a sick satisfaction when he had only the moonlight to guide him. Now, however, there is no sign of any murder taking place nor is there sign of Eurymachus, himself. Surely another bit of Athena's doing.
“Could you not clean him with magic?” Odysseus muses, trying to ignore the discomfort prickling within him. He is far too old for this nonsense, but seeing Athena reopens old wounds that he'd forgotten he had.
Athena's head tilts in a stuttering, animalistic movement. “I have found that it is far more grounding to give a physical sensation for one to focus on.” Her hand pets Telemachus’ hair and it is as if Odysseus is looking at the reflection of a life he never had in distorted water.
With him, Athena had never been soft. She was not cruel, nor was she malicious, but she was prone to a cold bluntness that hurt more than it helped and she often had very little patience for the weaknesses of man. She knew, logically, that men had to eat, had to sleep, had to heal, and would approach these factors with structure, but she found those things tedious and often looked down on any shortcomings Odysseus had from commiting the crime of being human. There was never any room for emotions in war and the idea of Athena petting him, grounding him, after a bloodbath is laughable.
From Odysseus’ perspective, they were friends, yes, but befriending a god is always going to have downsides. They simply cannot fathom the perspectives of those who are beneath them and, the goddess of wisdom in particular, cannot fathom the emotions that the human mind is plagued with. That is most evident by the fact that Athena did not return his feelings and, in fact, took wild offense to them.
“I see…”
“The boy is much like you,” Athena continues, sparing him a knowing glance. “In more ways than one.”
“So I've gathered,” Odysseus tries not to sound bitter.
It's strange– this whole affair. It hasn't hit him yet that he's home, that the enemy is defeated and that he is safe. He stares at Telemachus, at his son, and finds himself stuck between being unable to recognize his own child and knowing exactly who he is. He first saw Telemachus when he arrived, watching him from a distance as he prepared to set sail. He hadn't even realized who it was until he overheard Antinous discussing the prince's departure.
Gods, he hasn't even taken the time to process Penelope either– the way she gracefully strolled past him before giving her challenge to them all, one that Odysseus knew impossible for any man besides himself. It had been a message for him, though it was one she had no way of knowing he would receive.
And now there’s this. Seeing Athena for the first time in ten years, seeing her dote on his son in a way that he wished for years that she would do for him, and having to reconcile with every single change that has happened since he left. Ten years of slow, horrific war. Three years of pain and starvation. Seven years of waiting, counting every miserable second that passed. After all of that, it is more than jarring to be faced with so much in such a short time.
Odysseus knows that if he sits, if he lets himself actually think about it, his mind will likely fracture. So, for now, he opts to focus on the childish jealousy brimming to the surface.
When Telemachus is clean, he shudders and takes a deep breath, steadying himself in a way that Odysseus recognizes. He does not know how long Athena has been training his son, but the way he clears his mind is undeniable proof of it. She is already teaching him her techniques and, from the way his tremors die down with the comforting winds blowing through his hair, he is particularly receptive to them.
“How–” Telemachus’ voice cracks, the markings of a boy growing up, and he clears it with an embarrassed cough. “How do you two know each other?”
The pause before Athena speaks is loaded and it brings the tension from the armory out into the courtyard.
“We are old friends,” she says, quiet and with something softening her tone.
Odysseus huffs a small laugh. “Yes, old indeed.”
There is a small glint of recognition in Telemachus’ eyes, one reflected in the questioning look he sends Athena, but she does not explain any further and Odysseus follows that lead. If she does not wish to divulge that information right now, that is fine with him. Dredging up the past seems ill advised after everything that has happened.
Athena lifts the rag she used on Telemachus towards Odysseus. “Do you wish to be cleaned as well? I do not imagine it’s very comfortable being crusted in blood. You… used to hate it.”
There were days during the war where Odysseus came back to his tent with so much blood soaked into the clothing beneath his armor that even washing it was a fruitless endeavor. For that of Achilles, who thrived on the battlefield, or that of Diomedes, who thirsted for blood as if he needed it to survive, it was the mark of an excellent day. For Odysseus, it left him feeling perpetually dirty and tainted.
Agamemnon would often jest that Odysseus and his people were lazy and prissy for they preferred to stay out of such affairs unless absolutely necessary. For Odysseus, he only wished to keep his people alive and to avoid being stained in so much blood.
(The blood of dear Polites, smashed to mush beneath the club of the cyclops. The blood of his comrades, torn to shreds by Scylla's heads. The blood of the suitors, smeared across every surface from the bow and spear of King Odysseus.)
“Could you not clean me with magic?” Odysseus asks again; a test.
“I could, if you would prefer that. You used to enjoy my magic quite a bit as well,” Athena chuckles, a rueful thing.
Telemachus reaches forward, grasping the rag with the tips of his fingers. “I could do it. If– uh, if you like. Father.”
There is something endearing about the way his cheeks turn a rosy hue, but it is equally as heartbreaking with how hesitant he sounds referring to Odysseus. It is as if the word father is one that he has never spoken before.
“You do not have to do that, Telemachus,” Odysseus responds softly, any hint of resentment evaporating on the spot. It is immediately replaced with a thick fondness that sits heavy in his chest. There is a small spot of shame– a boil of self-loathing for how could he possibly think ill of dear Telemachus? How could he ever blame him for the fact that Athena clearly prefers him?
“I want to,” Telemachus murmurs, reaching back and dipping the rag in the fountain. He gestures for Odysseus to sit beside him, in-between him and Athena, and Odysseus can only silently obey in spite of his previous hesitation. The smile, small and filled with relief, that Telemachus gives him is more than enough to make it worth it.
Telemachus wrings the rag of its water and shakily brings it up to Odysseus’ cheek, wiping away at the ever drying blood. He is a little too rough, far sloppier than a man of his status should be, but Odysseus moves with his scrubbing. It is evident that his little boy is trying his hardest, and Odysseus finds himself distracted by the way Telemachus bites his inner cheek, the epitome of focus. He looks exactly as his mother does– as she did when Odysseus left.
Gods, he wonders how much she has changed.
“Gentle hands, child,” Athena trills, making Odysseus snap his head towards her with a soldier's alertness. When he sees it's her, his shoulders relax. Despite the way he intrinsically feels her presence in the tranquil calm and apathy that follows her in an aura, he had entirely forgotten all about her.
Telemachus puffs out his cheeks. “I'm trying! It is not as if you would be any more gentle.”
That causes Athena to chuckle and, this time, it is Odysseus who feels as though he is missing the joke.
Telemachus does let up, however, and spends a couple minutes going through the motions of wiping away the blood dripping off Odysseus’ skin. The silence between the three of them is a loud humming that rings in Odysseus’ ears. It is not quite tension that suffocates him, but the anticipation of what comes next.
His son is seemingly unphased through it all– his face fallen into a perfectly neutral expression as the repetitive actions calms him even further. It's a very intentional look, a schooled expression to hide behind after such displays of abject vulnerability. Odysseus knows the truth, however, and can see the heavy thoughts plaguing him. He runs the rag over every scar Odysseus has on his face, neck, and the exposed parts of his chest as Odysseus shrugs off the scraps of blood-soaked cloak remaining on him. The question of how they came to be is seen in how his eyebrows twitch.
When he reaches the cuts and scrapes Odysseus procured during the fighting, he frowns and blinks a little too quickly as he dabs away at the blood. He looks to Odysseus for a reaction every few seconds, despite nothing being given. It stings, but it is nothing that Odysseus has not dealt with before.
“I'm… really glad that you're okay,” Telemachus mumbles, barely audible.
Odysseus swallows thickly. He brings a hand to cup Telemachus’ cheek and uses his thumb to brush away the tear trailing down it. “Only because of you. I have only managed to stay alive this long because of the strength you gave me.”
Telemachus covers Odysseus’ hand with his own and his face twists with grief. “I have no strength to give, Father. I– I couldn't even–” His voice breaks and he averts his gaze, ashamed. “Even with Lady Athena by my side, I could do nothing. I could be of no help. If you had not shown up when you did…”
Fate is a tricky thing. Ten years ago, Odysseus killed someone else's son with the promise that his own would be saved. That promise meant very little, however, since it was only the son of Troy that he would be saved from. Anything could have happened in the last ten years and anything could have stalled Odysseus just long enough to miss the suitors’ plans to kill his boy.
But…
“I believe that you would have held your own against them,” Odysseus says earnestly. He'd heard their plans as he approached, the idea of trading his son for Odysseus’ submission, and is fairly confident that, if given enough time, Telemachus would have been able to break free. “You did, for a while. Far longer than I would have ever expected a boy of your age to.”
Doubt trickles down his face with his tears.
“I only wish I was as strong as you…” Telemachus says, and Odysseus can feel Athena's watchful gaze sharpen. He doesn't let her correct his insecurity, however. He remembers how she would respond to his own lapses in faith.
“You are stronger,” Odysseus assures him. In truth, he is actually glad that Telemachus is not as strong as he is. Mostly because Odysseus is not strong, and he never has been. What he showed tonight was not strength, nor was it strength to get through the last ten years. It was something else entirely, something shameful and desperate.
And, if Telemachus were any closer to Odysseus in that way, then that would mean he faced unspeakable horrors that Odysseus would rather shoulder on his own.
Telemachus’ eyes shine, as pure as the surface of the ocean, and he crumples before the adoring gaze of his father.
”Daddy.”
Telemachus leans forward, resting his head on Odysseus’ shoulder. His fingers gently trace along Odysseus’ arms and he nuzzles into the crook of his neck.
Odysseus tries not to shudder. For every year that passed in the war, he assumed that he would never get to hear that title. By the time a boy is ten, it is far more common for him to address his father as just that. There is no time for childish titles as a prince, Odysseus knows this well. Still, he often dreamed and in those moments of weakness, that is the name called in the warble of a voice he has never heard. It cannot be understated how much Odysseus has longed to hear that sweet sound.
Just as well, he cannot recall the last time someone touched him with love, genuine love, and he basks in his son's affection. He blinks back tears as he wraps his arms around Telemachus, pressing a kiss to the boy's crown.
“Thank you for saving me,” Telemachus whispers, muffled and cracking as he tightens his hold on Odysseus. “Thank you for coming home.”
Odysseus nods, absolute. “I will never let harm come to you again, my boy. And I am so sorry that it took so long. I never stopped trying to get back to you– I swear it on my life.”
“I never stopped looking,” Telemachus admits, sounding small. He sniffles, clutching Odysseus with all the strength in his growing body. “Momma never stopped waiting.”
“Where is she? Your mother?” Odysseus tries not to sound too excited, too pushy, too impatient.
He loves his son, and he knows that a conversation with Athena is long overdue, but he has waited twenty years to see his Penelope and, after hours of slaying in her name, he wishes to check on her. If nothing else, he needs to know she is okay after all the chaos.
“In her room. When I returned to everything in disarray, I made sure to stash her and her ladies-in-waiting in the safest area of the palace.” Telemachus, a bit regrettably, pulls back to reveal his red-rimmed eyes. Though, the usual anxiety and stress that Odysseus saw him carry as he went about the palace have all but faded. Even the fear that left him shaken has bid its farewells.
“Good boy, protecting your mother like that,” Odysseus breathes a sigh of relief, running his fingers through Telemachus’ hair. The boy visibly brightens and Odysseus returns it with a smile. “Go tell her of my return and that the palace is safe. I'll be there in a moment.”
Telemachus glances at Athena over Odysseus’ shoulder, who sits as still and silent as a statue. It would be unnerving if not for the comforting way it reminds him of the war– as comforting as those times were, anyway. Then, Telemachus rises and takes a few determined steps forward, only enough to meet the gardens of the courtyard. There, he picks a flower and returns to their side, offering it to Athena shyly.
“Thank you for your help in battle, my lady.”
Telemachus bows his head as she takes it, trilling with amusement, and bashfully ducks away. He makes it to the archways leading inside before he stops again, gazing back at them with a far off look, in awe and disbelief. He lifts a hand and waves at Odysseus, more of a small greeting than a goodbye.
Odysseus, unable to stop the smile gracing his face, waves back and chuckles when Telemachus scampers off, rushing to find his mother like a little boy on a mission.
With him gone, Odysseus’ smile falls with his hand and the warmth Telemachus brought into the courtyard is taken with him, leaving nothing except for Athena's cool apathy. It appears darker, too, even with the torches inflamed and the morning passing ever so slowly.
Odysseus slowly turns to eye the flower, a beautiful blooming purple, as Athena twirls it between her long, slender fingers. He raises an eyebrow at her and she quickly answers his unspoken question.
“Your boy sees it fit to offer me flowers and rocks he deems ‘pretty’ in return for my presence,” she says, ever fond. “I told him it is unnecessary, and that the spoils of his combat would be more than enough. He is very insistent. Stubborn, you could say. I allow it because he only really does it when he is feeling…”
“Small,” Odysseus finishes, that bitter feeling beginning to bubble up again. He shifts in place, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs.
“Yes,” Athena says softly; knowingly. She always knows.
“You are good with him,” Odysseus comments. “Good to him.”
“As are you.”
Odysseus hums, noncommittal. He disagrees. He was not the one to calm Telemachus down when he panicked. He was barely able to navigate their first conversation. Though, he supposes no one would know how to interact with their son after twenty years.
“I appreciate you watching over him,” Odysseus says instead. He ought to show gratitude. He would rather she protect his son than him.
“Of course. I have spent many nights watching over your Penelope as well, ensuring that she slept through the time you were away.” Athena always speaks quite stilted, as if language is unnatural to her or as if she has to pick and choose her words amongst millions more. This time, however, it is more awkward than anything.
Odysseus has always been the better of them at talking. He was a wordsmith, able to manipulate his tone and body language to charm even the coldest of hearts. For all that his allies damned the son of Laertes, they also never declined a meal with him either. Achilles would swear to the gods that Odysseus was the bane of his existence, the reason behind his downfall, and would then share a drink with him not even an hour later.
It is what he does. It is who he is.
But he is a different man than he was in those times, and most of those allies are dead.
He has long since lost his words, unable to sway even himself after everything. In a way, his jagged bluntness is far more similar to Athena's intonation than anything else.
“And you have mentored Telemachus? He is your new warrior of the mind, then?”
Athena hesitates, unbecoming of her. “It seems that way, yes. He is… my friend, I suppose.”
Odysseus cannot deny how that stings. “And you do not find that to be a weakness?”
Ten years has numbed him to her abandonment. He has long since moved past it, long since realized that the machinations of the gods is not something that he should involve himself in. That said, the memory of their argument– arguments is fresh.
He remembers the way she stared at him, looking at him as if she truly could not recognize him. She had been so filled with rage, with a betrayal that ignited within his own veins. She never understood him, not really. His headspace had been one born many years before the war had even occurred, before she had even become part of his life. Thirteen years old is too young to wear a crown of such weight and he had never really recovered from the strain, even with how much his mother tried to help.
Athena saw it as peculiar at best, and a detriment at worst. She despised Polites for his constant assurances that Odysseus could do what he wanted, be what he wanted. Odysseus supposes that the years of resentment between his goddess and his best friend had been partially what led to his anger when Polites died and she did nothing but dismiss it.
The build up of guilt and her inability to accept what he needed had been a horrible blow.
Athena sighs, touching the flower's petals with a gentleness unlike her. “I have found that being a warrior sometimes requires one to be kind to their greatest weapon. Mortal men are far more brittle than that of which they yield, and even the sharpest of spears will require maintenance. Assisting Telemachus when he is resting allows him to be an even stronger warrior when he is not. It is something I learned rather recently.”
Because of you is left unsaid.
“I see,” Odysseus murmurs, thoughts turning like a wheel within his mind. “And that is worth the effort then? Is it not bothersome?”
“... no, I cannot say it is. I–” Athena pauses and places the flower in the bloody water of the fountain. As it floats, the red fades into a crystal clear water capable of reflecting the stars in the sky. “I have come to find it rather enjoyable. I believe that, if not held back by my own expectations, I could have found it enjoyable in the past as well.”
Odysseus does not know how to respond to that. He knew that things would be different when he returned home. He knew that Penelope would not be the same, that his parents would not be the same, that his people and kingdom would not be the same. What he did not expect, however, is just how different his mentor would be. After years of longing for a softer touch, for a friend that he could reside in, she has changed.
How is he supposed to feel about that? If she was capable of changing now, that meant she had always been capable of it and simply chose not to. Perhaps she did not think it worth it for he who brings as much grief as wily ole Odysseus.
“You were not bothersome, Odysseus,” Athena continues, expanding her grey toned wings and hovering them barely an inch away from his skin. It is as close to a hug as anything she has ever been willing to give him. “And I apologize for making you believe that you were.”
“It was years ago,” he says, a frequent reminder he gives himself.
“Indeed, and I can't help but feel as though I led you astray, causing far more strife than I ever intended,” Athena's feathers ruffle in displeasure. “I only wished to see you succeed. If I knew how far things would go…”
The hurt in her usually monotone voice has Odysseus closing his eyes and resting his face in his hands. “Did you hear me? When I called out to you?”
In ten years, Odysseus made it a point not to utter a single prayer to Athena. He figured that she would take it as a sign of disrespect and ignore him regardless. After Circe's island, he invested most of his offerings to Hermes and Zeus, desperate to appease his only godly ally and the arbiter of fate.
The only exception had been on that dreaded island…
“I did,” Athena answers plainly.
“Hermes says that he was not the one who fought for me,” Odysseus eyes the scar striking across her face. The timing and shape of it is too perfect. “Was that you?”
“It was.” She brings a hand up to drag her finger across the bumps. “Father had not been pleased with my request. He believed your fate to be too uncertain and that my involvement would be tampering with it, and bordering on disrespect to Poseidon’s wishes. In return for your release, I am to bear this scar for the next ten years– a reminder that not even gods are to intervene.”
“I am surprised he even granted your request,” Odysseus admits. He and Zeus had never been on the best of terms, even during the war.
“He is a father before he is a god,” Athena says. “Or, at least, that is what he would say while he wept for the sons slain in battle and the daughters that meddle in business not even he can protect them from.”
Odysseus shares a similar sentiment. It got him ostracized during the war when he refused to stand there as a soldier over being a father or husband. Penelope and Telemachus had been far more important to him than an idiotic oath ever was.
“Thank you for saving me,” Odysseus figures it is the least he can give her.
Athena nods, an elegant curtsy. “If only I had done it sooner.”
Yes, if only.
Odysseus grimaces and pushes himself to stand. His legs, after hours of stalking through his palace, burn with effort. It is as satisfying as it is concerning– both parts a proof of his age and a reminder that he is still alive.
“Odysseus,” Athena stands with him and he turns to face her, looking up at her thin, towering figure. She inhales and interlocks her hands in front of her. “I understand if you do not, or cannot, forgive me. In the last ten years, I have found that I cannot forgive myself either. I was hurt and I acted hastily because of it. I only wish… if we cannot start over, then I only wish that we may continue on pleasantly. For the boy's sake, if nothing else.”
The gods are grand– more than anything thought possible. There are no words to describe how extraordinary they are, nor is there any way for Odysseus to express how apparent it is that they operate based on their own superiority. It is something you feel more than something you can point to, but every god that Odysseus has ever faced, including bratty demi-gods, has had an air of arrogance to them. They relish in the knowledge that they are inhuman, and they rarely even try to understand the human experience before they force their way in and wreck lives that they will likely never remember.
Athena had been the worst of all because, for a time, he genuinely believed that she had been different. She did not gaze upon him as a form of entertainment, or a mere animal that will die before any significant portion of time has passed. She was cold and relentless, but she still cared for him. Or rather, he thought she cared for him. The pride blazing within her during their final fight reminded Odysseus much of Zeus' rage, and it became clear that it had never been the case.
The being that stands before him now is something completely different. There is something softening her edges, something that doused that flame and left her feathers sunken.
“I don't believe there is anything to forgive,” Odysseus offers as a mere olive branch. “I am far too old to be holding grudges, my lady.”
Her eyes crickle at the edges as she smiles. “We both know that is not true, but I will take it for what it is.” She pauses before lifting a hand to his shoulder. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you or your family. Rest assured, I will be sticking around this time and, as I mentioned before, I would not mind being there for you… if you were to need it.”
Odysseus still does not know how to feel about this shift in his mentor, but a small part of his heart warms at the offer. It had been all he'd ever wanted when he was younger, and it is bittersweet to finally have it.
“For the boy's sake,” Odysseus parrots with a boyish grin, unable to let that feeling permeate the air. Athena's smile falls, only a touch.
“Indeed, for the boy's sake.”
Odysseus pats the hand on his shoulder, a small gesture of appreciation, just as a small voice calls out behind him.
“Father? She's waiting for you.”
Odysseus looks fondly at his son, nodding before he turns back to Athena. “Well, duty calls. If it goes well, I'll add something nice to your altar.”
“And if it doesn't?” Athena muses.
“... if it doesn't, I'll be sure to tell Telemachus about that time you fell in horse dung.”
Athena squawks and pushes him away, leading him and Telemachus to trade places. As Odysseus passes his boy, he runs his fingers through his hair and whispers a promise to come back out once they're done. Telemachus hugs him, quick and desperate for one last piece of affection, and toddles over to Athena, sticking close to her side with wide eyes as he asks about the dung story.
It leaves Odysseus on his own as he travels up the familiar staircase that leads to his bedroom– their bedroom.
His feet, bare as to avoid attracting sound as he ran through the palace, are cold against the marble steps. He has traveled these steps hundreds of times and memories of them coincide with the present time, filling him with a sense of nostalgia– as if no time had passed at all.
He slowly presses forward, into the empty hallway that leads to their room. He feels eyes on him, belonging to the maids and servants dismissed by Telemachus as they peer out of the rooms they're cleaning to see what has happened. They, no doubt, heard the screams.
He pays them no mind and stops just before the doors– large and arched, custom carved by a young Odysseus to have the visual of a tree with curving branches and flowers falling from its grasp. In the corner, there is a jagged ’Ody + Pen’ in a little heart. Penelope had done it, bored of watching him carve away for hours on end.
He stares at the door, closed shut with the thinnest line of light passing under the bottom. Should he knock? She is expecting him and it is his room, but perhaps twenty years away from each other calls for some formalities? Would she even recognize him?
Odysseus’ hands tremble as his palms begin to sweat, the first showing of nerves that he's had since he arrived home. He has been through so much to get here. He kissed the grounds of Ithaca when he washed on shore, but his work had not yet been done. This is it. This is what he has been working towards for so long, the light at the end of ceaseless suffering.
What if she does not…
He pushes open the door with a shaky breath, refusing to entertain his anxieties for another moment. He is as nervous as he was on their wedding day, but that doesn't mean he has to make a fool of himself like he had stumbling up to her, stammering about his love in front of his family. That had been so long ago he’d almost forgotten the way her eyes shined. Almost.
When he enters, he sees them– the same gorgeous blue of the ocean that he loves so much. There are wrinkles at the corners and grey wisps of hair smoothed beneath her golden headpiece, but she is no less beautiful than the day he left. For a moment, they are both barely seventeen years old, staring into each other’s eyes knowing that they are going to spend the rest of their lives together.
Well, a lifetime has passed and they are the closest to one another than they have been in decades.
There is a long silence as they stare, desperately searching for what is real and what is a cruel dream. Finally, Penelope steps forward, her plum colored dress dragging behind her, and cups his cheek. It takes every bit of strength he has remaining not to crumple beneath her touch. His throat tightens with a lump that bobs as the need to cry nearly consumes him.
“Is it really you?” She whispers, so much emotion packed into those little four words.
He doesn't have an answer for her, not one that would satisfy either of them. Blood taints his touch as he gently pushes her away, hardened by so many years of war. She has to understand who he is now, what he is now. Every ounce of him wishes to fall into her arms and pretend as if the world around them no longer exists, but he cannot do that without telling her. She deserves to know, he needs her to know.
So he tells her. He tells her everything, his face twisted in a grimace as he spits out every word. He tells her that he is not the man she fell in love with, and that he will never be the same. He asks her, pleads with her really, not to leave him because the idea of her discarding him after everything poisons his mind. He could never blame her, of course, after everything he did, but he is selfish and he cannot fathom a life without her.
He tells her everything, stripped of any reason he would have to spin any more lies, and answers as truthfully as he can. He tells her of Polites, of Eurylochus, of the six hundred men that were lost because of his own foolish decisions. He tells her of Zeus, of Poseidon, of the infant and the cyclops. He tells her of the siren that he butchered while it disgraced her face, the creature that sang to him while her monsterous heads picked off his men and snuffed out the torches he knew would lead to their doom, and of the trades he had to make in order to continue on.
The only thing he cannot tell her about, not in its entirety, is what happened with Calypso. He dances around it, offering up every scrap of information about his encounter with Circe, but none for Calypso. He promises he remained faithful, as much as he possibly could, and he knows that Penelope believes him, would never doubt his devotion to her, but he fears that the words send a feeling of wrongness throughout his body that he simply cannot shake.
Instead, he switches gears when it becomes too painful and tells her of Hermes, one of the few joys on his journey, and tells her of his mother, of whom he got to say goodbye to even if she could not respond back. He talks and talks and talks, begging her to hate him as much as he hates himself and praying to any god that holds any sympathy to him that she won't. He does not tell her of the suitors’ fates, for he imagines she already knows, but he does tell her of how he pointed a spear at their son and watched him cry without being able to do a single thing to help him.
He is not the man she married. He is not the man she loves. He is not what was promised to her all those years ago and he wishes so badly that an apology would be enough.
Throughout his rambles, of which take over an hour alone, she listens. She never once interrupts, only waiting for his pauses to gently prod him for more details with a contemplative look on her face. Her eyes are sharp, not quite cunning but brimming with something knowing and a braced preparedness. She doesn't reject him either, not like he fears and has imagined a million times in his nightmares. He knew she wouldn't, he knows her, but twenty years is a long time and his greatest fear is that he would not know her anymore.
Finally, she asks the dreaded question. She asks him to move their bed, anchored to the floor with thick roots, and he sees red– the red of all the blood he had to spill to get here, only for her to suggest something so ridiculous, so absurd, so– so– so heartbreaking.
He snaps at her, the newer version of him exploding out like a popped boil and infecting everything he touches. It’s the resentment he held towards Telemachus and Athena flaring in a heated blaze of fire that he can't control himself enough to put out. He's angry, he's hurt, and there's that small part of him crying and tantruming because how could she say this to him? After everything he did, after everything he went through to get back home, how could she suggest that their life, their love, is expendable?
He doesn't know what he expects, but it's not for her to snap back with angry tears cascading down her face. Years of her own isolation and hurt bubbles to the surface and there's a stinging pang in his chest as she shouts, as she cries, as she declares that nothing could ever make her stop falling in love with him. As selfish as it may sound, it's the reassurance he needs to fall to his knees, fists tangled in her dress, and press his cheek against her lower thigh.
He weeps, then. And her lower lip wobbles as she runs her fingers through his wooly hair.
He should have never doubted her. He continues to, day after day, as he asks more and more of her, but he shouldn't. She has long since proven that she loves him as much as he loves her.
In the beginning, before the war and before Telemachus was a thought either of them entertained, he collapsed at her feet just as he does now. In those moments when the world was too big and Ithaca was too small, he'd seek solace in her arms. She would smile and care for him readily, even if she never had to. He was king, and that should make him strong enough to handle the mantle alone. But she still stayed by his side– still let him soak the chiton draped across her as he babbled like a baby.
She never judged him or demeaned him, like anyone sane likely would– like Athena indirectly had. She cared for him and watched over him. She made sure he was safe and loved.
Just like she does now.
Penelope slowly lowers to her knees, wrapping her around him and holding him close. He nuzzles against her, inhaling her sweet scent, and they sit there in each other's embrace for a long time. With every passing second, Odysseus’ walls are knocked down and his mind is cracked open like an egg, exposed for only his Penelope.
“I saw… I saw Momma in the Underworld,” he whispers, as if it's a secret and not something he'd already told her. His voice is small, the smallest it's been since he last saw Hermes.
Even at his most volatile– either when he screamed at Poseidon while flashes of a decades worth of anguish at him sniffling and regressing more and more, or when that anger returned to eliminate the threats that invaded his home– he never fully went under. He couldn't. It wasn't safe enough.
With his son, with Athena beside him, he got closer than he would've liked and pushed it away for the sake of his boy, for the sake of being the great King Odysseus returning from a tiring adventure.
But it wasn't just an adventure, and he isn't just returning home. Penelope's tightened hold on him proves that, just as much as her tears do. It's a reconciliation with what he once was and the memories that will forever consume him. It’s the final stop after so much suffering. It's the ability for him to truly rest for the first time in twenty years.
“I wish you didn't have to find out like that,” Penelope says, her own heart breaking in two at the grief of losing a mother. “I'm here for you, my love. I'm here.”
So much hurt, so much abandonment. His mother died waiting for him to come home, his mentor left waiting for him to become the warrior she needed, but Penelope has been waiting too and she is right here.
“I'm small,” he tells her, just as quietly. “I'm sorry. I love you.”
He says it as if one contradicts the other; knowing that his headspace, leaving him foggy and far too needy, will only burden her in a time where she deserves focus too. He fought so hard to get home, but she fought just as hard to make sure there was a home for him to get back to. She shouldn't have to comfort him, or care for him like this. He should be doing it for her after everything he's put her through by virtue of choosing him as a husband.
She shushes him, however. “There is nothing to apologize for, Odysseus. Nothing to fear. I love you too.”
But there is much to fear and, try as he might to put on a strong front, Odysseus is falling apart before her. He weeps, like that of a child, and clings to her like he did in every single one of his dreams. This time, however, she does not disappear before he can reach her. This time, she tightens her hold on him, murmuring reassurances that he can barely understand.
The sound of her voice is enough to soothe him, though, and he rests his head on her shoulder. She tells him that she loves him, that he's home, and that he's safe. In turn, he tries to do the same. In his childish lisp, more of a choked babble than anything self-assured, he says that he will never leave her side again.
And the two of them watch through the window as the sun rises on a new day.
And it rises again and again and again.
And Odysseus is finally home, able to rest beneath it.