Chapter Text
“What HAPPENED?”
Penelope had come running out of the palace the moment they’d stepped close enough to see, Ligeia finally left at the stables so Telemachus could help his father walk. His mother was pulling on her long woolen shawl, one she threw on after sleeping, and Telemachus realized she must have been napping while they were out.
“Hello, mater,” Telemachus greeted.
“What did— what—” Penelope shook her head incredulously and took hold of her husband’s shoulders the second they had walked through the grand entrance. “You left for the day, how could this have happened?”
”Fell off my horse,” Odysseus said, so matter-of-fact that Penelope had to glance between them twice.
“Some hunters ran by with dogs,” Telemachus said, sighing, explaining the rest of his father’s statement. “Kleon spooked and chased them, pater got bucked off.”
“Gods above,” Penelope breathed. “Athene give me strength. Come sit here, I’m going to get the doctor and—”
”My love.” Odysseus laughed and shook his head. “I have some bruising, that’s all. I’m not gashed open or mauled, I’m alright. Let me sit just sit and rest my leg.”
It seemed to cause her physical pain, but Penelope obediently sat him down in the same chair he’d taken that morning and the night before. Odysseus sighed and smiled and brushed a hand along his wife’s arm, something that appeared to be a deeply intimate motion, and Telemachus had to hide his smirk when his mother huffed, sat beside him, and pouted. At the very least, Telemachus was pleased to see a childhood daydream once again coming true; from all the stories he’d heard from his mother and his grandparents, it seemed his father was rather careless when it came to his personal wellbeing. And now, after spending the day with him, Telemachus could confirm that his father was, in fact, deeply unconcerned with his own health.
One of the kitchen slaves — the one Telemachus had seen eavesdropping that morning — came in with a small supper of skewered lamb and honeyed cakes. Telemachus had not been told directly, but he’d been listening to his parents from afar. The King had not had good, hearty food in quite a long while, and everything they’d eaten recently was seeming to avoid roast meats and heavy meals. He could only conclude that his father had been living off of what he could find for a long, long time.
Still, the honeyed cakes were some of Telemachus’ favorite foods, so he certainly wasn’t complaining. The lamb was good, but even after a long day of riding he wasn’t all that hungry.
“Father,” he said, once they’d mostly finished eating and Penelope had at least re-wrapped his injured arm. His father looked up with that same mild smile. “Before it gets too late, I should try to brush out some of your hair.”
He nodded, not giving too serious of an answer, so Telemachus glanced at his mother. She nodded too, smiling only a bit. Perhaps they were both tired, he realized, and left to fetch a bristle-haired brush and plenty of oil.
When he returned, the young slave girl had mixed and poured wine. There was no one else in this part of the palace, not even too many servants or slaves, so Telemachus supposed it was far more casual a setting when his father told the girl to pour herself some, too. His mother smiled upon seeing him again and joined him in heavily oiling Odysseus’ hair. Telemachus brushed through what he could, braiding the non-matted hair out of the way. The dread that’d formed at the base of his neck and behind his ear was a solid mass, and Telemachus didn’t want to even begin digging into that one, yet. So he started brushing out the smaller strands coiled together with his mother doing the same with her fingers.
Not even a half of an hour later, Odysseus had closed his eyes in contentment and appeared to fall asleep sitting upright. There was a tiny, happy smile permanently melted onto his face.
It must have been past midnight by the time Telemachus and Penelope had brushed out all save the dread at Odysseus’ neck, which they had to leave lest they be up until morning. It was difficult trying to wake his father, asleep in his chair as he was, and Telemachus was tempted to tell his mother they should let him sleep there. But after last night’s lack of sleep, they knew it was a bad idea, and were finally able to rouse Odysseus.
“It’s time to sleep, pater,” Telemachus said, when his father grumbled something about being disrupted. His grey eyes opened blearily, lighting up a bit the moment he realized his son and wife were in front of him, and happily went with them when they tugged him to stand.
“Tired,” he muttered. Penelope huffed, and Telemachus thought it must’ve been a laugh.
“Yes, love, we know.” She raised him up more and helped him with his limp. “Work with me here. Walk, Odysseus.”
He grumbled incoherently and raised his head. He walked more diligently, then, not leaning his whole body-weight on Penelope, but still Telemachus followed them to their room to ensure his father wouldn’t decide to give up and bring them both to the floor. They successfully got him onto the bed, and Penelope kissed her son good-night.
“Àποχαιρετίζω, apochairetìzo, pater,” Telemachus said, and raised his hand to his father. He didn’t notice nor did he respond; he was already asleep again. “I’ll take my leave, then.”
He and his mother were trying not to laugh aloud as Telemachus left the room. It was quite quiet, by then, and pitch-dark outside.
Telemachus had strange dreams. It wasn’t unusual for him, either, but it was strange to see his mind so strangely focused on Argos, his father’s old hound. Apparently the dog had been not more than a year, around Telemachus’ age, when Odysseus left. And Telemachus hadn’t noticed, not until very recently, that Argos had finally died when his master returned… And he supposed it wasn’t terribly strange, for they very occasionally had hounds live to the age of twenty, but it was like Argos was waiting for Odysseus so he could die at peace.
Perhaps his thoughts were more on dogs due to the hounds they ran into that day. He may have been hunting plenty of times, but dogs were not an area of expertise for Telemachus, so that was the only explanation he could think of.
And when he’d been shaken from his slumber by more shouting, it was still dogs on his mind as he stumbled to his feet and hastened to his parent’s bedroom. He shooed away the blessedly small group of startled slaves and servants to slip into the room and shut the door behind him. He was glad, at least, that it was nearly daybreak; he supposed the rest his father had the night before allowed him (and them) to sleep a bit longer.
“Telemachus,” Penelope called right away, and Telemachus shook his head and forced himself the rest of the way awake. His father was sitting upright in bed, so that was one thing that was slightly better than the previous night, but he was gasping for breaths like he couldn’t get enough air. It was a panicked movement, the way he keeled over and gasped, hyperventilated, hands shaking again, tears streaming down his face.
“Father,” Telemachus cooed, stepping up to the bed and stopping short when his father flinched and lurched back. “It’s okay. You’re home, pater. Do you know where you are?”
He looked like he was going to try and answer, but only a squeak burst from his chest and then he was gasping for air again.
“Breathe.” Telemachus sat on the edge of the bed and raised a hand towards his father.
“Don’t touch me!” Odysseus shouted, rasping painfully from his throat. He curled away from the raised hand and jolted at Penelope on his other side.
“Okay,” Telemachus said, scooting back. “Okay, father, I’m not going to touch you. No one is going to touch you.”
“No.” He was shaking his head again. “No, no.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his palms to his head, frantic, trembling more visibly.
“Pater,” Telemachus started, but his father did not raise his head. “Pater, can you tell me about your dream?”
He couldn’t seem to be able to answer. Odysseus’ head was still shaking, not able even to look up when Penelope urged him on. So for a moment, a few minutes perhaps, they sat in silence and simply let him catch his breath.
Until a knock came at the door, and he jolted upright. His hand looked to be reaching for something, likely looking for a weapon, so Telemachus hurried to the door and opened it. Just enough to let his father see who was there, just enough to not let this person inside.
“I’m sorry, sir.” It was one of the errand boys, a bit out of breath as well. He glanced only once back at the King, then seemed to realize they were all looking at him, and continued. “There’s someone here from the north of the island. He brings gifts, says he has something for the King himself.”
“Who?” Telemachus straightened up a bit, thinking of who it could possibly be. “Did he not give a name, an explanation?”
“Not— really, sir,” the boy said. “Said his name was Alkeides, that’s all.”
There was a creak behind them, and Telemachus turned to see his father on his feet. There was a pallor to his face that made him look a bit sickly, but he otherwise moved like he was awake. Like he was no longer affected by whatever dreams he’d had. And Telemachus supposed that was fine, if he wanted to think about something else, to focus on an entirely different issue.
“Send him in,” Odysseus said, voice still rasping. “Send him into the central court.”
The errand boy nodded hastily and ran. Telemachus shut the door and turned to his parents, to his mother still sitting with a worried expression.
“Pater,” Telemachus started.
“Please.” Odysseus was tying his hair back and turning to take his himation from the back of a chair. “I… I don’t wish to dwell. I must think of something else, do something else.”
Telemachus was right. He walked to his father trying to fix the large draping wool, righted it at his shoulder, and pinned it for him. He looked grateful, and Telemachus decided not to comment on the slight tremor in his hands.
“I will join you shortly,” Penelope muttered, only then moving to stand. “I take some time longer than you men to ready for the day.”
She met Odysseus’ eyes, holding that gaze for a moment to make sure he was truly fine, then sent a small, weary smile and stood. Odysseus clapped his son on the shoulder, fixed his short sword to his belt under the himation, and left the room without saying anything else. Telemachus turned to his mother.
“Go,” she said. “Keep an eye on your father. I need a moment to wake up.”
Telemachus was aware of his mother’s morning routine and of how long it took for her to fully wake up. He breathed out a laugh and followed his father before something else could happen.
He had to jog to keep up. Odysseus hadn’t slowed down for him, evidently still lost in thought, and startled a bit when Telemachus was finally able to walk in step with him. Neither said anything, though, plainly ignoring whatever state the King was still in, and Telemachus decided to keep a careful eye on the sword at his father’s waist.
There was, in fact, a stranger standing in the central court. The inner colonnaded room had been one of the more difficult rooms to have cleaned up from the massacre, blood dried in each crevice of the worn marble. It’d had to be re-polished, brushed down and painted, and had only dried the day before. The stranger standing in the middle, peering around at the freshly redecorated room had a large satchel slung about his midsection, something that almost resembled a baby-sling. His face was older, worn, drooping with age and hard work, tanned from the sun. Telemachus was sure he was familiar.
“Good morning,” the man greeted, turning the second he heard noise and bowing his head to Telemachus first, then turning to Odysseus. “I apologize for the earliness of my arrival.”
”Fine,” Odysseus grunted. “What is the purpose of your visit? Who are you?”
At that, the man took a few steps forward and ignored the look of mistrust from the King. Telemachus set a hand on his father’s arm, stilling it from where his fingers hovered over his blade, knowing this older man meant no harm. He didn’t. He fell to kneel in front of the King, clasping his knee in supplication.
“My King,” he said, “I am here to ask forgiveness. It was my hunting party that inadvertently harmed you yesterday; I had not known who you were until my sons informed me. I have brought your fine colt with me, and brought him to your stables upon my arrival.”
Was that the gift? Telemachus didn’t think that counted. He opened his mouth to ask, and was interrupted by his father telling the man to rise.
“Cease,” Odysseus said. “What have you brought?”
So he didn’t think Kleon counted as a gift, either; his eyes were on the satchel, moving as the man stood. Telemachus took his hand off his father’s over his sword, suddenly unsure of the visitor as well.
“I heard of the passing of your old hound,” said the man, which was not what Odysseus or Telemachus had been expecting. “Argos. He had been a legendary hunter in his prime, and long into his old age. After realizing how I harmed you, sir, I remembered my finest bitch whelped and had just last week weaned her last litter, and was a daughter of Argos himself. She, too, is a very excellent hunter, though she grows old as well. This was likely her last litter, and was a small one.”
At that, the man began to shift around the satchel, untying it from his shoulder to kneel once again and set it open on the floor. Inside were three pups, just old enough to be free of their mother. Two were the usual tricolor hounds usual to their islands, prick-ears half standing, white chests of fur with white snouts and black noses. The third pup was some diluted version of that, lighter coloring and darker brindling atop the back instead of saddle-shading. The half-standing ears had a bit of feathering along the edges, and the sickle-tail curling over the back was fringed with longer fur. Telemachus thought Argos had some bit of feathering, when he was younger and not dirty and mangey.
“They are beautiful,” Telemachus said, kneeling down to let the lighter one sniff his hand. All three bumbled over to him, yipping and squeaking. Telemachus cooed at them, sat fully on the floor, and picked up the lighter brindled one. His father had not yet said a thing, though, so his head craned back to look at him, at what could possibly be wrong, while the puppy in his hands licked his cheek.
“They are…” Odysseus had a strange, unreadable expression on his face. There was a glassiness to his eyes, something overwhelmingly emotional, so Telemachus quickly got to his feet and handed the puppy to his father.
“They are named, technically,” the man said, “but young enough not to quite know. The one you hold is Mimaikulon, a girl, the one with more white is Xarmaon and the one that’s already crying is Ilarodos, both boys. Noisy boy, that one.”
The King didn’t seem to know what to do with that. There was a cracked smile, something only slight in the corner of his lips, and Telemachus couldn’t help but smile, too. He picked up Ilarodos under his armpits and held him up, and almost immediately he threw his uncoordinated head back and howled. He wasn’t hurt, but Telemachus set him down anyway.
“You meant to use them for hunting?” Odysseus held the puppy tighter against his chest and smiled a bit more when Mimaikulon nosed his beard.
“Yes, sir.”
”Never heard of the naming rules for hounds, then?” Mimaikulon licked his face. “Quite long names to shout on a hunt.”
The man shifted back on one foot and looked like he was trying to keep his face from reddening. He was looking rather miffed by the comment, and Telemachus had to guess most of his pack had similarly long names. “Well,” he huffed, “we shorten them during hunts, of course.”
“Hm,” the King hummed. He said nothing else, though, and Telemachus picked up the slack before this man could become offended by them.
“Thank you, sir,” he hurried to say, “for this truly special gift. I promise you these hounds will be taken care of most royally.”
The hunter looked for a moment more between father and son but must have decided not to take offense after all. He bowed deeply to Telemachus and turned to the King to do the same. He began to turn, then turned back and took a step forward to gently pat Mimaikulon’s small head.
“Goodbye, little ones.” He stepped back and nodded respectfully to Odysseus, then finally spun on his heel and left the central court. He was hardly out of view before Telemachus was back on the ground, rolling over the puppies and scruffing them. And for that minute, while Telemachus played with the pups on the floor, his father held Mimaikulon and appeared to catch his breath, bring himself fully back to reality, stroking the pup’s furry ears and smiling slightly. Before either of them knew it, Penelope was stepping into the central court behind them and gasping.
“Oh, blessed day!” She lifted her arms, crying out, startling Odysseus so much he nearly dropped the dog in his arms. “Little ones! This is what the visitor brought?”
The two on the ground yipped and howled and danced around Penelope’s legs. Telemachus got to his feet. His father handed off Mimaikulon to a very pleased Penelope, who smushed the puppy to her face and cooed incomprehensibly.
“They are Argos’ grandchildren,” Telemachus said, and Penelope lowered Mimaikulon to look between he and his father. “The dam was one of Argos’ daughters.”
Penelope held the puppy in her arms out straight and clicked her tongue. Mimaikulon crooked her head and raised half-standing ears all the way up, and Telemachus could see right away why his mother had done so. With her ears up straight, feathered-fur hanging off, eyes wide and round and golden, long snout whitish and faintly speckled, she looked nearly identical to a much younger Argos. There was even an off-center streak of white up to her brow.
“Yes,” Penelope agreed, “yes, she is Argos’.”
Odysseus smiled, and perhaps it was his finally de-matted hair and trimmed beard and aware eyes, but Telemachus thought he finally looked like that vase-portrait Telemachus had been trying to make real his entire childhood.