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Odysseus dreamt of Achilles. That radiant boy who shone like the sun reflecting off summer waves, who would enchant men with a word and turn them against him with another. Even caked in blood he exuded a cleanliness, as if any mortal’s miasma slid right off his godly form. Each evening he would soak his feet and salve them with fragrant oils, and the scent would carry throughout the entire camp, soothing strained nerves and reminding the men that for as long as they had him, they were sure to win.
If not for that godsdamned stubborn head of his. All his quarrels would have been amusing if they hadn’t also cost them all their time and sometimes their lives.
Still, Odysseus had liked him. He’d always had a fondness for those of strong will; they made for great companions, once forged to his liking. Had Achilles been a little less mulish, and had the Achaeans fought as one like intended instead of distracting themselves with senseless competition, perhaps the war would have been over and done within a year.
It was strange how often that thought crossed Odysseus’ mind. He dreamt of joined forces, of fighting side by side with his brothers instead of spending half his time separating them like cats by the scruffs of their necks. He dreamt of the glory that would have followed them all home, of telling his son about shining Achilles of the swift feet, how he would strike his enemies down as farmers cut wheat, graceful even in battle.
Though he dreamt of the tragedy, too, that was the boy’s untimely end.
He had chosen fame in death over a long life. At least that is what the poets said. But everyone who’d seen it knew that the life had left him the moment his love’s body had been returned to him. Odysseus would forever remember that steel-cold glare, blue as his mother’s domain and just as hollow. He would forever see Hector’s maimed corpse after Achilles had dragged it around the city behind his chariot. It hadn't been fame that had driven him to his death, but rather the complexity of his grief; a thousand more laps around Troy’s burning ruins would not have made him whole again, and he’d known it.
Still, the smell of those oils filled him with an odd sense of comfort. Odysseus woke to it now, blinking away the darkness to find himself, as usual, in—
Oh, gods.
Not as usual. Not in the slightest.
Odysseus found himself pillowed on the softest of downs, tucked up to the chin in comfortable warmth. The air was fresh and free of the stench of metal, and the sun that tickled his face was gentle instead of blistering. He opened his eyes fully and found Penelope standing nearby, by the doorway that led to the bathroom.
“Good morning, love,” she said, and Odysseus tore his eyes away and hid in the covers. He’d grown used to the occasional mirage, dreaming or lucid, brief or lasting minutes, but none had ever felt so real. He did not know how much longer he could stand being taunted by his own mind like this before he would begin to tear at the seams, turning mad like so many heroes before him, mountains worth of strength going to waste on a mind that could not keep itself together.
Odysseus squeezed his eyes shut and hoped to wake up. But of course it was never that easy.
The bed dipped under a foreign weight, and Odysseus was touched through those cloudsoft covers, a hand gently passing over the length of his arm. “Odysseus,” said his wife, clear and real beside him, and there was nothing more difficult than keeping his eyes shut and resisting. “Darling, are you alright?”
From between the undrawn curtains, a breeze flowed in, crisp and salted. Birds sang. The air was fragrant with cypress and pine, wafting in from the bathroom. This Penelope was gentle with him, unlike most of his delusions. Were this a regular one, she would have turned to ashes already, or grown fangs and claws and torn into him before begging for mercy, or simply run away too fast for him to keep up. But she remained at his side, consistent in her presence instead of fading in and out, and so warm with life.
“You arrived yesterday,” she told him, as if she knew his thoughts. “At dusk, do you remember? You went to sleep right away.”
Against his will, Odysseus sifted his mind for memories. And there they were, right at the surface like flotsam, floating amidst the shipwrecked remains of him.
He rose to look at her, dappled in the morning light as she was, already clothed and with her hair up. She made a pitying nose as his face cracked like broken clay, catching that grimace in her hands. “It’s alright,” she said, guiding his head to her shoulder. Odysseus clung on for dear life. With better footing in reality now, the realisation hit him once more, and with tenfold force.
He was home. He was really, truly home.
He remembered the songs he and his men used to sing at their campfires, sinuous longing wrapped in words, shouted into foreign skies. There was little the bards loved more than this: the bittersweet ache of returning to where one had started, changed by one’s adventures but welcome all the same. Homecoming. A long journey’s end.
He had no fluid left in him to cry, but he heaved all the same, pressing his forehead to that delicate curve, held in his wife’s arms as though he might sag into himself without her, collapsing under his own weight. There would be many more moments like this, he was sure. He would come face to face with this truth again and again, and each time it would feel just as unbelievable as that first glimpse of land. Each time he would hesitate to believe it, afraid it might be torn from him again.
The sun might have set and risen again by the time Odysseus peeled himself from Penelope, holding her at half an arm’s length, staring in lingering disbelief. His wife. His love. The aching, beating heart of him, kept safe for all these years. He dared not touch her face, fearing his hands were filthy with blood and dirt and gods knew what else, but his eyes lingered there, truly taking in the shape of her now, those folded lines around her eyes, the weight of her features hanging gently lower. Her face was just a bit narrower, her legs spreading a little thinner where they were folded under one another, but still there was that fullness to her that he loved. He had fallen in love with her for that: not her body, but the way she seemed to fill it out, present and steady in herself, a world’s worth of mystery behind those chestnut eyes.
His wife. The one he fought for. The one who made it all worth it.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, against all odds smiling, helpless and stupid in his shock. Well, always a little stupid for her. His greatest strength and greatest weakness.
Her smile was a sunrise, and Odysseus thought he might die from joy. He was full to the brim with sorrow, and yet that smile made him feel like a boy again, pleading and pleading Athena to help him talk to the most beautiful girl in the world against her better judgement, because he had known he would love Penelope forever the moment he’d laid eyes on her. To woo her with directness had seemed foolish to Athena, but in the end Odysseus had come up with an idea all by himself, and had, in a quiet moment between negotiations for Helen’s hand, struck a conversation with the only person who had ever made him feel weak in the knees.
Poplar? she’d laughed. It would collapse within a week.
You’re right, Odysseus had said, and he may have been red as beets in the face, but Penelope had observed him all day, as he had observed her, so he forgave himself for the boyish crudeness. I rather think it would. So let me make you something better.
They sat together now, in that bed he had built her with his own hands, that living olive that had its roots just outside, the room having been constructed around its branches. Odysseus was not well, and he feared he might never be well again because he was sure to die before he had the chance to feel alright, but somehow, amidst all of that, this moment stuck out. He had this. His world might upend itself again today, but right now he was here with the woman he loved. For this single moment between time and space, he could pretend that everything was in order.
“You’ve seen better days,” Penelope said at last, running her thumb along the edge of his jaw, “but I would still take you over most other men.”
“Most?” Odysseus asked, finding himself smiling as well. Something easy at last, something he was accustomed to. Penelope slid closer to him, holding his face still, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, filthy though it was. Her lips came away just a bit shiny with the oil of his skin.
“I jest,” she told him, before he could come to terms with what had happened. “Or do you see another king at my side?”
And any doubts that might have rushed in when he was left to brood over this were snapped out of existence, because she was right. On his way up to their bedroom, Odysseus had not seen a single person that was not dressed in the colours of the palace staff, no one who looked in any way out of the ordinary. Penelope had welcomed him without a moment of hesitation, as if that spot in her arms had been reserved just for him. And defended, too, by the sounds of it, since the guard at the gates had told him there had been men who were willing, men who would have taken Odysseus’ place in a heartbeat.
She had never stopped waiting, though she’d had thirteen years to consider. Had she known? Had she dreamt up visions of where Odysseus was, always sure that he was headed homeward? Or was it sheer will that kept her believing, an inability to imagine a life without him?
“I never want to leave your side again,” he confessed. It felt like a confession, though she already knew this. It felt raw and vulnerable after an eternity of keeping such secrets close to his chest. All his strength and endurance had paid off, and now he got to crumble to pieces in front of his wife and tell her all his weaknesses. For all his determination to see Troy fall, all he’d ever wanted was to return to his love.
“You will not have to,” Penelope told him, and now the tears did come after all. All this time she had reigned on her own, a queen without a king, a wife without her husband, a beating heart without its counterpart, and now Odysseus was here, and he would never leave again.
Just for a moment, he felt the relief of it despite knowing there was little truth to it. It was another defiance, almost, to draw it out for as long as he could, to sit in his victory despite knowing it was short lived. He would never leave Penelope again. Not until death got its talons in him and tore him from her loving arms. The fact that that day might have been close was an afterthought, or at least Odysseus made it so. He would not have his world turn to ashes before his eyes when the fire had not yet started.
“I will not let you go again,” Penelope told him, and Odysseus gave a bitter laugh. He hadn’t wanted to go. He’d stood by his oath to come to Helen’s aid out of honour and loyalty to the city that had brought him his wife, but it had not been easy. He’d tried to fight it. He would have fought the world.
“You make a mess of me,” he said through the tears, shaking his head. Penelope drew him back to her shoulder, where he remained for a few moments, breathing through the onslaught. There was so much that demanded to be felt, some of which was nearly as old as his son.
Eventually, it was Penelope who spoke again first. “I’ve drawn you a bath,” she told him. Odysseus nodded.
“I smell it.”
“Would you have me wash you?”
The offer was heavy. She would have done it; and Odysseus would have let her. As far as Penelope knew, there was no reason to refuse. But his body was littered not just with scars but fresh wounds, and those were not so easily explained. He did not want to spend his first day on Ithaca rekindling old ire—for it was not old at all, but painfully recent, still tender like a bruise.
An outright no was impossible, though; he had never been able to say no to her. So instead he looked down at himself, aiming for something resembling humour. “I would not have you tire yourself out with all the work that needs to be done,” he said. “Or dry your hands with a dozen soaps.”
The soaps they both liked best were gentle, dried rose petals and buds of lavender, cedar ash and oils. Her hands would be softer than before.
“You shall have your privacy then,” Penelope told him. Seeing him, reading that it was not about her, but about having someone else look upon his mess of a body. “Find me at breakfast when you’re done.” She did not ask if he still knew the way.
“I will,” Odysseus said, offering a small smile. He would have to get used to that gaze of hers again, all-seeing, as if he wore his skin like clothes.
Penelope rose, but did not part from him before kissing him again, slow and feather-light, on his forehead. Odysseus looked up at her, devastated. A mess indeed, melting into nothing between her skillful hands.
“I love you,” he said. He had waited so long for her to hear it again, to tell her from such a short distance as opposed to across the sea.
Another kiss, and one beside it. His temple, his cheek, the stretch of his neck where he had always been sensitive. Odysseus closed his eyes, all of his hair rising. “I love you,” Penelope echoed. Not in response to his statement, but a declaration of her own, spoken close to his ear.
He had not thought it possible, not so soon after arriving, but his body reacted all the same, no more immune to her charms now than it had been when he’d left.
Gods.
She spared him any more—spared them both, really, considering that he felt guilty for even just touching her in this state. He watched his wife’s face as she withdrew, that touch of lightness, of playfulness, that made everything feel a little less like a battlefield, the dust not yet settled.
“I love you,” he said again, because he could. That smile again, that blinding light that could have brought lesser men to their knees. She stepped away from him and reached for the door.
“I love you.”
And then she was gone, leaving Odysseus alone in the room.
Their room, where he had slept many, many nights, though he had spent far more nights away from it. He was so used to the hard floor or thin-spread bedrolls that he felt almost swallowed by the softness beneath him, wrapping around his legs like water. The inside of the covers were impossibly warm against his skin, and the morning sun soaked the room in gold.
So little had changed. The golden-tassel curtains, the red matching that of the canopy over the bed. The pillars that stretched up to the ceiling, their capitals in artful swirls, painted golden. The vines growing from the outside in, from the balcony over to the stairs that led up to it, the chairs at the bottom where he and Penelope would spend endless nights, sharing stories and wine.
Here he was. He supposed much time would pass until he stopped thinking about it, until he woke up in his home without being startled by the fact that he was, well, home.
Odysseus inhaled the scent of it once more, steaming herbs overpowering his own smell, and he peeled the covers aside and went to the bathroom. There a large bronze tub had been filled with water, and the surface of it was dotted with bay and laurel leaves, floating gently together. This room had no balcony, but there was still a large window that looked out over the rocky mountains on the far side of the island, cypress and pine trees reaching for the sky. He and his friends had hidden there often, chasing each other across that rough terrain, feeling like the entire world belonged to them.
He had slain Athena’s boar there.
Odysseus tore his eyes away. He wondered what he would have wanted, were she with him still. He wondered what he would have said. You were right, perhaps. Because she had been. I would kill him a thousand times if it saved us all the trouble. I learned my lesson. There is no need to forgive me my naivety; I will pay the price for it for the rest of my life. But know that you were right.
He looked at himself in that great bronze mirror that had been a wedding gift from Eurylochus, standing before himself nude and unhidden, all his faults on display. Not a spot of him was undirtied, and underneath that grime his skin was damaged from years of relentless sunlight, sagging with age. His hair was matted into knots so thick he feared he might have to crop it near to baldness. His bones showed through in most places.
And there, in the few soft spots he had left, red wounds slashed across his skin. The one on his stomach and back he had been familiar with, the matching lines where the sword had torn through him, but there was his thigh as well. It was a miracle that it had given him so little trouble. He did not remember Eurylochus ever bandaging it, saving all the supplies available for the more urgent issue of his gut, and until the guard had pointed it out, Odysseus had forgotten ever having been hurt there after the boar. The scabs were clearly defined and no longer oozed pus, and the skin around them was no hotter than the rest. Somehow, miraculously, none of his wounds had grown infected—or if they had, perhaps Hermes had asked some small blessing from his brother of light and sent it to the ship alongside his gift of swift travels.
Though there were the old hurts, too. The scars he had collected along the way, wounds that he had not had the supplies to heal properly, that had gotten infected, ugly strips of skin that looked like cracks in the earth. The spoils of his victory. The price of his return.
You look like shit, Eurylochus had told him. And now, seeing the full extent of it, Odysseus could only think: indeed.
And for what?
Odysseus shook his head. He could not think this way. For the chance to return home, that was what it had all been for.
He made his muscles, still aching with soreness, move over to the tub. The water cast fingers of mist into the air. The tub was large enough for two, but whenever Odysseus had suggested sharing it, Penelope had told him she would not burn herself alive like he did just to get clean. Odysseus ran his fingers along the rim of it, curved outward and carved with delicate designs. He did not remember the last time he’d bathed in hot water.
His body trembled as he manoeuvred himself inside, but then the heat enveloped him, soothing the sting from his weary muscles. Odysseus sighed, his nose blowing bubbles in the water as he sank. He could hear his own heartbeat, his ears rushing with silence. He doubted he would ever swim in the sea again, that he could stand to wash himself in water that he could not feel the ends of. His feet pushed against one wall of the tub, his head against another, his hands at the bottom. This water held him gently and did not hurt him.
He emerged, pushing hair from his face. Set across the tub was a wooden tray with bars of soap of varying scents and colours, as well as a stout bristle brush. Odysseus dreaded having to work through the mess that was his hair, fearing he might have to have the water tossed out and refilled twice before he was truly clean, but there were smaller containers by the mirror as well, buckets he might use to clean off the rest of the filth. He grabbed a bar, one infused with mint and almond blossom, and began.
It was tedious work. His hair came first, all the knots and tangles in it, the shiny roots and dried scabs. His arms grew weary from raising above his head, and he had to stop in intervals to let them rest. Every so often he would dip his head beneath the surface again and start anew, washing and washing again, until he was satisfied with the lack of resistance when he ran his fingers through his hair. Some of the matting loosened beneath his hands; the rest might be untangled with brushes later. He hoped.
The rest was simple enough, though his wounds made it difficult to reach every part of his body. A burning pain would singe through him when he made a wrong movement, and behind his eyes there would be flashes of light and colour that would only fade when he brought his attention back to his hands, working them with intention, scrubbing the foaming brush over his skin until the water turned dark with dirt.
Odysseus felt watched. There was a prickling inside his skull like a forewarning, like an arrow whizzing near silently through the air. He supposed he was being watched. Downstairs were three dozen men who did not know what to make of him, and his wife who did not know how much of her beloved husband was still left inside him, and beyond the gates of the palace was a kingdom who had waited years and years for their king and would now keep their eyes and ears keen to see if he lived up to the expectations he himself had set.
Gods, he did not feel ready to be king. Not when he could hardly see as far as his next step.
Odysseus stepped out of the tub, having to put some effort into not slipping on the smooth marble. By the mirror were combs and scissors, razors and tweezers. He hardly remembered what he’d looked like before leaving for war; the full extent of his beard had only come in afterward, as if urged on by the trials he’d passed that’d made him a man. Odysseus grabbed the length of his beard and cut a straight line, just to get the worst of it out of the way, before trying his best to shape it. He had built up some amount of skill in grooming himself, but his hands trembled relentlessly. It was not an even cut.
The razors cut into his skin as he moved on to his arms, his legs, his chest. The hair there went easily, but his body seemed eager to part under the blade, gushing at the slightest twitch of his wrist. His neck, his stomach, his groin all bled under the copper, until the ache in his muscles was joined by the burning of his skin, tender all over. Odysseus used the fresh water to wash away the blood and lingering hair.
He looked at himself in the mirror once more, dozens of pink lines where he had been cut. At least he was clean. He had not felt properly clean since leaving Aiaia, and even then he had felt strange about it; Circe had shown them a spring they could wash themselves in, and the water there had never grown dull no matter how soaked with dirt or sweat they were. Afterward, Odysseus had felt as if he had been scrubbed down to his very soul, stripped of his sins and regrets, of all that made him himself. The feeling had passed, but he had still made sure not to join the men in their games to avoid getting filthy.
But this was different. He felt lighter in the wake of all he had rid himself of, all the scratching hair and heavy grime. The cuts hardly felt out of the ordinary. He felt sorry for whatever servant would have to clean up after him; for a moment he considered doing it himself, but Penelope was waiting, and now that he’d eaten the day before, the hunger he had grown numb to tossed its head like an angry bull. He had to go.
His feet found the way easily, moving without conscious thought to take him to the dining hall, where the round table he was used to had been replaced with a much larger one, rectangular and big enough to seat every man he had brought with him. Odysseus paused for a moment, taking in the sight before him: men he had grown as familiar to as himself, all of them cleaned and shaven now, their wounds tended to, their hands either on each other or on the food in joyful camaraderie. Odysseus had not looked at them properly in a while, his sights always set to greater things. They, too, had been hidden from themselves and each other in their exhaustion, and were now glowing with the simple pleasure of the first good meal in ages.
Odysseus took his seat at the head of the table beside his wife, with Eurylochus at his right. The two of them exchanged nods and smiles, and Odysseus felt that rush in his chest again, the sharp excitement of knowing he was where he was meant to be. Eurylochus knew this for the grand, shining victory it was; and once again, this realisation came with the aftertaste of doubt, of bitter dread in tow, but Odysseus was determined not to allow it into his heart. Not yet.
He turned and caught Penelope eyeing him, a curious sort of look as she seemed to take in this new appearance of him. He returned that look, though nothing at all had changed about her since he’d last seen her, as if to say you’re a feast for the eyes as well. She smiled, laying her hand on his arm for a moment before looking out across the table. Odysseus was about to follow her eyes when a voice came from beside him.
“Captain.”
It was Daedalus, a blond youth with teeth like dice, named after the master craftsman of Athens. One of Odysseus’ youngest. He had kept spirits high at Troy with his songs, his delicate hands working the knots from his brothers’ shoulders.
Odysseus knew him the moment he heard his voice. He did.
Still, his body moved faster. Blue eyes stared back at him, wide with fright, his hand yanked back from where it’d been on Odysseus’ shoulder. Odysseus’ eyes followed the length of his own arm, all the way to where he was pointing his knife at Daedalus, which he had found and grabbed without looking, without even thinking.
Around him, the hall fell silent.
He laid the knife back down as gently as he could, brushing a strand of hair out of his periphery, but already he was shaking, his vision narrowing to a thin point of focus. “What is it?” he asked, but he could not look at the boy, could not look at anything, had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the feeling that the world was spinning. His entire body felt poised to strike, like a scorpion with its tail raised high, unable to resist the urge to stab into anything that got too close. It was in his nature—or so it felt. To attack first and assess later, because now that the war was over there was no strategy to follow, no plans to lay out in advance, and he only had his instincts to rely on. They had never failed him. They were the one thing he could rely on.
But no more, clearly. Now they made him raise weapons against a boy nearly young enough to be his son, and would not rest until even this foe was struck down. Odysseus clenched his fists beneath the table, digging newly clipped nails into his palm.
And then, lightly, there was a touch on his forearm that did not make him want to run. Odysseus opened his eyes, and beside him was Penelope. When she saw that he did not pull away, her hand travelled the rough surface of his arm, up to his hand, undoing the tight clasp of his fist to tangle her fingers with his.
His shoulders sank. In an instant, he felt clearer.
She looked at Odysseus, kindly, patiently, before directing her gaze at Daedalus. “How was your sleep?”
The boy’s eyes jumped from her, to Odysseus, to her again, uncertain. “Good, my lady. Very good. We are grateful.”
Odysseus heard that smile, that barely-there exhale of breath. “Wonderful.” She then turned her attention to the rest, speaking to the entire room. “If there is anything at all you lack, you need only say the word. You men of honour are our esteemed guests.” Her gaze wandered around the length of the table, addressing every man individually; Odysseus saw Daedalus blush when it was his turn.
He willed his hand not to close again, for he would have hurt his wife in doing so, and instead the tension rose up his body to his jaw, bringing his teeth together. Penelope had not said a word about it, but Odysseus was sure she had expected him to bring back more. Men of honour she called them, for the war must have been long and hard indeed if this was all that was left of them. Every man in the room was a hero to his homestead, rich with glory and praise.
Every man in the room would, were Odysseus to hold true to his own honour, be executed for treason before nightfall.
“So eat and drink your fill,” Penelope told them, “and all other matters can be discussed once you are strengthened for the day.”
From the corner of his eye, Odysseus saw Daedalus retreat, knowing this for the dismissal it was. And indeed, everyone else heeded her word as well. In his yearning for his wife, Odysseus had almost forgotten how much he loved his queen, how thrilling it was to watch her weave so few words into such complex webs and command the minds of even the most cunning of men. With only a little flattery, she had made them docile, tuning their ears to unsaid orders: whatever they had to say, they would say on her terms.
Well, Odysseus supposed it was for his sake, not hers. He lightly squeezed her hand in gratitude. She smiled at him, that secret expression where only her eyes betrayed her, while the rest of her passed for a mere housewife, generous and kind and simple. She reminded him a little of Circe—with the crucial difference that Penelope had not made a habit of hurting those who would oppose her, preferring clever tricks and schemes to cause them to hurt or humiliate themselves instead. Before the war, she and Odysseus had been alike in that regard. They would spend hours devising, planning, the politics of all of Achaea discussed in the privacy of their bed, between tangled limbs and shared pleasures.
It did not surprise Odysseus that she had reigned alone in his absence. She had never needed a man at her side, had always been whole on her own.
Penelope only released his hand when Odysseus pulled away first, looking over once more before beginning to eat. There was barley bread and sliced figs, eggs and dates, and—Odysseus’ favourite—tiganites drizzled with honey. Another thing to come home to.
Beside him, Eurylochus chuckled at the sight of him reaching for them. Odysseus froze for a moment, forcing himself not to snap his head around. He knew where the voice came from. There was nothing to fear.
“That’s much better,” Eurylochus said, motioning at Odysseus’ face, the cleaner shade of his skin, his unstained clothes, the neater cut of his hair—though he had only cut as much as was necessary to combat the tangles, and had left the rest long, keeping most of it out of his face with one of Penelope’s clips.
To ignore him would only raise the tension, but Odysseus had nothing to say.
“I feel better,” he told him. Some platitude, something that might allow him to be left in peace.
He did not want to kill them. He never wanted to kill anyone again, and were it up to him, he would consider him and his men even.
But what sort of king provided those who’d betrayed him with food and bedding? What kind of fool would he be to allow his men to continue with their lives unrebuked? If his people found out about it all, he would lose any respect he’d ever had or could ever hope to gain.
He would have loved to return to Ithaca in sweet harmony with his brothers, provide them shelter for weeks and months to come, celebrating their victory until they all grew weary of his rocks and his olives and returned to their own families. He would even have loved to never speak of their time at sea again, letting it all sink into the earth like rotting leaves, leaving space only for the future.
Instead, their very presence in his palace was a threat to them all.
When breakfast was done, Penelope did not, as anticipated, take the men aside to listen to their words, whatever they may have been. Instead, she excused both herself and Odysseus and took him out to the back of the palace, down winding marble stairs to where the flat peak of the hill gave way to a gentle decline, where nature was untouched and left to flourish. She had hooked her arm into his, the two of them walking close as they descended into the woods.
“You seem troubled,” she said.
Odysseus believed that. And he would tell her about it one day, but he couldn’t yet. Instead, he reached for something easier, something that might make Penelope laugh and say oh, you always worry so much, if only you’d just asked.
“Where is Telemachus? I did not see him at breakfast.”
Penelope did not laugh. Odysseus felt caught. “Still asleep, most likely,” she told him. She did laugh then, but Odysseus knew the difference, recognised when she allowed him to get away. She had done it often when the weight of his kingdom became too much; she never forced him to speak, but sooner or later he would always give in, buckling under the weight of the lightness she offered him. “He is like a cat.”
At that, Odysseus felt warmed. He, too, had preferred to sleep through the day’s heat as a boy and explore the world at night, but his father had trained it out of him. A king rises with the sun, he would say, as though he had not tried everything in his power to keep Odysseus beneath him for as long as he could.
Telemachus would not be king for a long time, either, but instead of greed it was because Odysseus did not want his son to grow up as he had, living with the burdens of a king while being treated as a clueless prince. Telemachus would have all the time in the world. Penelope, it seemed, had already done a good job of practising more lenience than either of their parents had. The thought that Telemachus was free to do as he liked, that he was a boy first and prince second, made Odysseus smile despite everything.
There were many dangerous spots on Ithaca, steep cliffs and cutting rocks, uncovered caverns and rotten tree roots, but on this side of the island the landscape was a tender thing, smooth as if drawn with a single stroke of the brush. Odysseus used to walk with Telemachus out here, swaddling him with his back to his chest so he may watch the world as they went. He’d been so fond of nature, would squeal with delight at every bird and rabbit, trying to catch the sunlight with his hands.
“He comes here often,” Penelope told him, as though his thoughts were written on his face. “Would you see his favourite spot?”
“Of course,” Odysseus said.
He was aware he was being strung along, taken away from his men because Penelope had noticed his tension. And the men’s tension, too, no doubt. What an image they must have made, friendly among themselves while distant toward their captain, shrivelling under his gaze like snuffed flames.
He would speak to Eurylochus, figure out what they would do with this. There was the sour thought that he would not understand, but Odysseus had to trust for now. He would not keep his mind occupied elsewhere while he was with his wife. He had been away from her long enough.
Penelope led him down familiar paths, under looming trees that only partially blocked the sun. It streamed down in glowing rays, lighting the earth in front of them this way and that. The air carried the thick scent of needles. Odysseus made himself breathe, gathering all the scattered pieces of himself into one. He was here. The ground crunched pleasantly under their feet, and Odysseus remembered having come here even before Telemachus had been born.
They walked for a while, until eventually Penelope took a turn off the beaten path, weaving in between trees, releasing Odysseus’ arm so she may lift her chiton and avoid getting it caught in the burrs and thorns. Odysseus followed, and soon enough the trees gave way to a clearing. Framed by mountains on either side, a lake blue as sapphires lay in curving lines along the landscape. Odysseus knew it: he had swum in it with Penelope, tracking the breadth and length of it. She had always been faster in the water than him, cutting effortlessly to her destination, circling him in playful taunting. The bank of the lake inclined gently along its perimeter, leading up to an old oak that spread its branches wide and thick.
“Oh,” Penelope said, following Odysseus’ gaze to the tree. “Seems he is up already after all.”
But Odysseus had no time to search for anything else other than what had caught his eye at that moment. From across that wide expanse of grass, a brown silhouette perked up where it was resting by the trunk of the oak, the two of them caught in their shock.
It was a miracle he had not died. And yet, after that brief moment of recognition, his beloved dog tossed his head in excitement and let out a series of barks as he took off, bounding toward him with nearly the same speed he’d harboured when Odysseus had left. They would run races, the two of them, up and down and up the hills again, matching in their speed. Even from a young age his family would wonder how such short legs could carry Odysseus like the wind, how he’d only ever been second to swift-footed Achilles.
Argos slammed into him with that same speed now, knocking him onto his back and into the carpet-thick grass.
“Odysseus,” gasped Penelope, though the humour showed through in her voice when Argos immediately began licking across Odysseus’ face, his tail whipping his legs. So he had never grown out of that, it seemed.
Odysseus pressed his eyes and lips together as he gave the dog’s face a thorough rub, blindly finding all the spots he liked: behind those ears he still had not grown into, under the sleek chin, in rapid motions over his neck. Argos melted beneath his hands, laying his entire weight onto Odysseus’ chest, writhing against him with joy.
His longing had belonged mostly to his wife and son, but he had missed Argos greatly as well, with his unending loyalty and sweet spirit. Odysseus was sure he would have recognised him yesterday as well, before he’d washed the world’s weight off his body.
He brought himself to a sitting position through Argos’ incessant shoving, bringing one hand to the floor behind himself for balance while the other patted Argos’ back, his shoulders, petting his head where it was resting beside his own.
“Mother!” came a voice, echoing out from the same direction that Argos had come. Odysseus looked up and saw Telemachus as he came running. Because that was who he was. Odysseus knew. Even if he had not called Penelope that, he’d have known his son in an instant, as if all those years his eyes had been waiting for this exact shape. He would have known him among a thousand. “Mother, look,” he said, his breath short from running, “I taught Argos a new trick! I woke up early to practise with him, and—”
His gaze moved downward, noticing Odysseus where he sat in the grass, holding the dog that, for all Telemachus knew, did not know him. Argos had always been distrustful of strangers. Odysseus gently pushed him off and rose.
He looked like Odysseus. Forty years younger, surely, because Odysseus had aged rapidly under the weight of his past, but it was him, as if Odysseus had been carved from his son’s youthful face, all the joy and innocence and softness cut away into harsher edges. But there was Penelope in him as well. He had her raven hair and earthbrown eyes, and his skin was lighter than Odysseus’ own, mixed with Penelope’s pale complexion. The mole Penelope carried on her cheek had slid down to sit just under his mouth. Those lovely eyes mustered him now, curious and with a sharpness that Odysseus knew all too well.
“Telemachus,” Penelope said, passing a loving hand over her— their —son’s head. “This is your father.”
Odysseus heard the words as if underwater. He couldn’t believe he was hearing them at last, was seeing his son grown nearly as tall as him, that boyish face lighting up without hesitation, without a moment of doubt. He thought he might hesitate, that he’d keep his hands firm at his sides until Telemachus set the pace, careful not to intrude. He’d never really known his father, after all. But Telemachus bounced, at once caught up in an excitement that made Odysseus ache.
“He came back?” he asked, bright-eyed. Then, to Odysseus: “You came back!”
He had the voice of a growing boy, breaking on some syllables—even more so, it seemed, when he was excited. And it was all worth it, then. That pure, shining joy, the way there was not a second’s worth of disbelief. Odysseus’ eyes stung, and he hardly had enough time to open his arms before Telemachus was pushing himself between them.
“I told you he would,” Penelope said.
Odysseus’ arms were heavy. This, too, he struggled to believe, to arrive in the reality that he got to have this at last. But he made himself lift them, fighting against that shivering doubt, and embraced his son. He was tucked under his chin, nearly a man now—but not quite. After all these years, he was still Odysseus’ boy, and he got to hold him the way he should have been able to all along.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Telemachus said, looking up at him. Odysseus passed his hand along his head, that mass of too much hair, dark as Penelope’s and curled as his own. This close, he saw that his eyes were rimmed black, painted like a woman’s. “I thought you’d be taller.”
Odysseus made a sound between a sob and a laugh, blinking at the sky, bitterness and gratitude beating in his chest in alternation. He’d been gone for so long. He was here now. His boy had grown so much. He was still so small. So much time had passed. So much lay yet ahead of them. “You are not the first to tell me this.”
Telemachus lowered his head once more, laying his ear to his father’s beating heart. “I thought you’d never come back.”
And—Odysseus was almost sure it was meant in jest, but even that tore at his heart. To think that his son had been without a father for as long as he could remember, that Odysseus knew him a little while he in turn knew nothing about Odysseus save for what Penelope had told him, that this boy had had to grow up never knowing if his father was dead or alive or lost somewhere, never knowing if he would ever return, and that, in his youth, he would not know it for the tragedy it was—
Everything else melted away. The only pain Odysseus knew was this, and it was the greatest of all.
He peeled himself away and dropped to one knee, holding his son by the shoulders with desperation. “Telemachus,” he said, barely more than breath. There were no words, but it was better to say it badly than to not say it at all. “Listen. I can only imagine what your life has been like. Every day of my life I will grieve that I was not there to see you grow into who stands before me today. But son,” he said, and new tears flooded his eyes as he did. He had someone to call by this name now, not just an idea he would whisper to in his sleep. His son was real and tangible before him, and Odysseus squeezed his shoulders, looked in that face that was so like his own. “I never stopped trying,” he told him. “Never. I also wish I could have been here sooner, but Telemachus, every day since I left, I thought about you. I thought about how I’d get home to you and your mother. Nothing in the world was ever more important to me than this, because—”
His voice left him, breaking off into air. Odysseus lowered his head for a moment, tears streaming to the tip of his nose, dropping down to soak into his tunic. “Because I love you,” he finished. “I loved you when you were just a babe, and I love you now, and I cannot wait to get to know you.”
Telemachus held his gaze, steady like his mother, his eyes only a little damp. “I feel like I already know you,” he said, and—Odysseus was dizzy with joy. He swore the ground might rise to meet him any moment, and he did not know what to do with himself. He might have torn the earth in two just to ease the feeling that seemed to claw its way out of him.
“Do—” He did not know how to ask, but he tried anyway. He could not wait to make the mistakes he should have figured out years ago. He could not wait to find his place in fatherhood through work and work and work. “Do you like to be kissed? May I?”
Laughing, Telemachus bowed his head. “Mother is very generous with them when no one can see.”
Of course, Odysseus thought. She would be. Keeping her affections close to her chest as it was something that might be used against her, but letting it pour forth behind closed doors, an unstoppable current. She was the same with Odysseus, would rarely kiss him if there was anyone to see it happen. Odysseus imagined her and Telemachus alone, him laid across her lap as she toyed with his hair and told him stories of his father. He imagined all the quiet hours, and how they might have been good even without him. He hoped they had been. He hoped his absence had not been a rift torn through the palace, sucking in all that came near. He wanted there to be love regardless, and a wholeness nourished by Penelope’s example.
Though he himself had not felt whole in thirteen years.
He brushed back Telemachus’ hair with a gentle hand, feeling the thickness of it, the winding twists and curls, and he leaned in close to plant his lips to his son’s forehead and kiss him until he felt like it had gotten through. He would spend the rest of his life catching up on giving his son the love he had been missing, for as capable as Odysseus was sure his wife was, every child deserved two parents. He himself knew the struggle of feeling loved only by one.
Penelope’s hand placed itself on his back once more, grounding him in his floating exuberance. There is time, it meant. All the time you will need.
Odysseus released his son, and he did not know how he could be any prouder of him than he already was, but then, when he sensed that Odysseus was finished crying—as finished as he would ever be, at least—he seemed to light up once more.
“Father,” he said, as if testing the word out on his tongue. “Do you want to see the trick?”
Odysseus did not know what to say. Of course he did. He wanted everything his son would give him. “Let’s see it.”
They both got to their feet: Telemachus with impressive speed, Odysseus with Penelope’s help. “He loves this,” Penelope told him, and Odysseus only had a moment to look at her and relish in the delight of getting to watch their son together before Telemachus demanded their attention once more.
“Look!” he called, having arranged Argos in front of him, where they could all see him. He set one hand out in front of himself, balled to a fist, and drew the other back as if aiming with a bow. Argos watched him, tail wagging. Then the imaginary arrow released with a hiss of air from Telemachus’ mouth, and Argos yelped and dropped to the floor, unmoving.
“Argos?” Telemachus called, pretending he could not see him. “Argos! Where are you?” Argos stayed still.
It was just a game, nothing unusual for a boy his age. Most dogs were taught to play dead for fun. Odysseus swallowed the sourness that rose in him and made himself smile. “I believe you killed him.”
Telemachus found Argos lying there, visibly breathing, but formed his face into an expression of shock. “I killed him!” He dropped to his knees, laying his hand over the dog’s breast. “He is dead, Father. What will I do without him?” Real despair, then, etched into that innocent face. “My most loyal companion, my counsel in war, and I have sent him to his death.” He buried his face in one hand, heaving with feigned sobs, a world’s worth of grief rising from his chest.
Odysseus ground his teeth so hard he thought he might hear them crack any moment now.
“Telemachus,” Penelope said beside him. She must have seen it in his eyes, the tugging conflict, the loss for words. “Have you eaten, dear?”
“Not yet,” said Telemachus, unwavering in his role, his voice dejected, his eyes red-rimmed.
“Let us go to the orchard then.”
“Alright!” And just like that he was changed, the light returning to him all at once. He patted Argos twice, causing him to spring back to life and tackle him to force himself between his arms. “Yes,” Telemachus cooed, holding his panting face, “you were amazing, my friend! The best stage death I’ve ever seen. Come on.”
Telemachus rose to his feet to jog ahead, heedless of the dirt on his tunic. Argos followed, trailing at his heel at a steady pace. “Whatever strawberries you’ve had on your journeys, Father,” Telemachus called, turning to walk backwards, light feet manoeuvering through the foliage and back into the woods like he knew them by heart, “I guarantee mine will be better. Or I shall no longer be Telemachus, slayer of Argos a hundred times over!”
He thrust his fist into the air, and Argos gave a bark of agreement. A gardener and an actor, then. An artist, too, if the paint on his face was any indication, the steady line of kohl under his eyes that arched upward toward the temple just a little. A whirlwind of a child, untamed and unruly.
Odysseus’ father would have beaten him bloody.
Odysseus himself was near mad with love.
He shared a look with Penelope, finding all his wonder mirrored back to him as they followed their son. If nothing else, it was the three of them. Everything else felt a little duller in the face of this.