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Telemachus was anxiously fiddling with the keys as he attempted to enter the armoury, the sound of whistling arrows periodically cutting through the calls and screams. Each time, one voice died with it, and though Telemachus could not bring himself to feel any sympathy for these men who had occupied their halls for years, the stench of blood and other bodily fluids made his stomach feel like a ship on high seas.
He had just docked his boat in Ithaca’s harbour when Athena had urged him on to hurry. She had not spoken to him, to his confusion, nor shown herself in form of man or owl. Typically, his mentor was a lot more direct in her advice, not usually possessing the patience to paint a picture between the lines or seeing the sense of it.
But Telemachus hadn’t gotten where he was by doubting his goddess, and so he wouldn’t start now.
The door finally clicked open, Athena still suspiciously silent in the back of his mind. Her presence was an assurance nonetheless as he let instinct guide him into selecting the spear most similar to his own.
He had, stupidly, left his weapon in his room when he departed, assuming he had neither need nor space for it on the ship. And while that had been true, the continuously rising tensions in the palace over the past few weeks should have at least made him wary of the circumstances of his return.
Not that it mattered now. He would have to do with whatever weapon was available and pray those feral dogs busied each other until he reached his mother’s door. (She still had to be safe. There was no way so many of them would still run around in the halls and die if they had already—well...)
Another warning brush from Athena, this time more insistent, let him slip behind the nearest pillar, just in time for a pack of five suitors to enter the armoury, vicious grins on most of their faces.
“I can hardly believe that the sharpest of kings just left the armoury unlocked. Are you sure this isn’t a trap, Eurymachus?“, spoke one of them with narrowed eyes as he scanned the corners of the room.
His words made Telemachus freeze in his tracks. ‘Sharpest of kings’, the suitor had said, and though it certainly was no official title, there was only one king in Hellas he had ever heard referred to as such.
A small sense of confirmation, yes, confidence filled his mind, and with it sent his heart right into his throat.
He was here.
His father, his precious mother’s husband, was alive and had come back. Yes, if the suitors’ continued cries of pain were any indication, he had decided to rid them of their plague by terminating them.
He had come to save them. Just as Mother always said he would.
He had to tell her! Surely, his father would want to see his mother as soon as he was done down here! Telemachus certainly couldn’t imagine another two minutes apart from the love of his life after 20 years spent away from each other.
All previously harboured thoughts of glory and finally getting to truly use his fighting skills were cast aside to ensure his parents got the reunion they deserved. He was pretty certain there was very little Telemachus wouldn’t do to give his mother her smile back, to let the always present yearning in her eyes bleed away in favour of fulfilment. His childhood dreams were a small thing to sacrifice in comparison.
Telemachus lowered his spear as far as possible, letting the suitors arm themselves without interfering. Silently, he slid alongside the shadows on the walls, from pillar to pillar until he had eventually reached the door.
Just as he was about to slip through it, a shadow appeared in the doorway, looming and dripping with fresh blood. Telemachus stumbled back, motion aborted by all the alarm bells going off inside his head.
Every one of his instincts commanded him to retreat, except one of them. One much more powerful than the rest, one he only knew to identify due to the feeling of his mother’s hand in his hair or her arms around him.
No matter how terrifying the man before him might have looked, some part of Telemachus had immediately filled with warmth at the sight of him, and oh. He wasn’t aware that it was possible to miss someone right before him so much. (Was this what his mother felt all those years ago? This irrational sense of trust only given to so very few people? If so, Telemachus felt as if he only now truly understood her unfaltering loyalty. He would have stayed loyal to a feeling like this one, too.)
The man (his father!) stalked on, red gleaming eyes fixed on Eurymachus’ form. They were nothing like the warm brown his mother’s tapestries had him picture, much more filled with icy fury. The air almost seemed to cool around him, he himself being the cold north wind which lets the goosebumps rise on your arms.
But he didn’t mind, he swore he didn’t. After twenty years, of course a man had changed, but if any of his mother’s stories were to be believed (which they were, they always were), the core of this man was a father and a husband.
This fury would never be directed at him.
Eurymachus soon found himself impaled on a blade, a heartless man pierced through the middle of his chest, with one last breath escaping him before Thanatos ultimately took his soul along.
“Mer-”
“Mercy?” The rumbling voice of his father answered, filled with barely contained indignation.
“Mercy?”, The icy shell of his wrath started to crack, revealing something as close to true hatred as Telemachus had ever seen in a mortal, „You plotted to kill my son.”
Despite not being surprised, Telemachus still felt slighted by their blatant disregard of sense and reason. How would they have imagined his murder aiding them in wooing his mother?
“You planned to rape my wife.”
Ice filled his veins at once. Ah. So that was it.
“All of you are going to die.”
His hands clenched around his spear, the temptation to impale at least one of these rabid beasts and let them suffer increasing with every picture his mind conjured up. How dare they. How dare they even consider touching his mother in any way, how—
‘Focus.’ Athena called, the first word she had spoken to him since sending him out in search of his father, ‘The fight is not over yet.’
Reassuring as his lady's presence was, Telemachus could not help the twinge of concern at the weakness in her voice. She sounded different, fragile where there was usually only firmness to be found. Where there usually was an eternal flame, there now only was a flickering candlelight, ringing for air.
‘There is no time for an explanation right now. Get out of this hall.’
Due to the carnage having pulled his father into the centre of the room, the path between the doorway and him was now unobstructed save for the corpse of a suitor, which would be easy enough to either avoid or jump over.
Telemachus still took care in keeping quiet, lest the few suitors still alive would look to him as a target and obstruct his father. The darkness of the hall was barely distinguishable from the one of the armoury, all torches having been put out. The only light he could make out was that of a few weakly glimmering torches, mostly drowned in blood and only illuminating the faces of their former carriers, now perpetually sculpted into grimaces of suffering.
Still, there weren’t a great many people as knowledgeable about these halls as him. He had grown up in them and more than once made his path through various tunnels and hallways without a ray of light to aid him. As long as he was careful not to trip on any of the new additions, there would be nothing between him and his mother.
As he made his way through, he had to suppress the urge to vomit into one of the vases, the adrenaline having suppressed any of the smells which now returned full force.
The corpses were barely a few minutes old yet, and still the rancid odour of rot was already starting to fill the air. It might have just been his imagination too, the sights certainly enough to be responsible for the nausea.
If anything, the urge to add his own fluids into the mix only spurred him on to get to the hallway faster. Perhaps he shouldn’t bring his mother here, necessarily.
A side room close by or even the hallway will probably do well enough for whatever romantic speeches his parents were no doubt going to hold once they have each other back in their arms.
It was with utter relief that Telemachus opened the door to the stairs, the fresh air blowing into his face feeling akin to a blessing of Aphrodite to his sweaty skin.
But his relief was short-lived, as no second later Athena nearly screamed at him with the sense of WATCH-OUT-DANGER.
Just in time too, as no two seconds later an arrow had embedded itself into the door at the same level his head had been before.
Hurriedly, Telemachus turned around to see whoever the new threat was, only to come face to face with the same man whose appearance had filled him with such an incredible sense of safety no two minutes prior.
Except that feeling was gone now. The only thing left now was fear.
Because now there was no reassurance that this man’s fury was not directed at him, would never be directed at him, that the beast, the monster which had appeared in their halls had only been such to protect them (him and his mother. Ithaca. His mother. Him).
He had been wrong. His mother had been wrong. His father’s eyes, red, red, not brown, were locked in on him in the same fury, the same hatred. And Telemachus wanted to open his mouth, wanted so desperately to call to the man inside this monster and pray to all the gods on Olympus that the only reason he had an arrow aimed at his chest was that this man did not recognise his own son.
But he knew that he would not be granted such mercy. Eurymachus had not been. Agelaus had not been. Leocritus had not been. So, he would not be either.
Even as the sound of a string being loosened rang through the air, Telemachus didn’t truly process what it would mean to him.
He knew what death was. Had seen it more often today than ever before. But that didn’t mean he knew how to confront it. It seemed like a far away dream, a terrible nightmare he would wake up from.
The thing that made it real was the sensations of Athena’s utter desperation ripping through him and the space around him, a wave of emotions so strong they could have come from Ares instead of his sister.
Time stuttered.
Once.
Twice.
His father’s eyes widened as they truly landed on the boy before him for the first time.
For a moment, quick thought almost seemed to settle, enough so for his father to reach out his free hand and lunge for the arrow hovering right in the middle of them.
Telemachus didn’t move.
Athena’s presence left his mind with an agonised cry, and Telemachus knew his father’s hand wouldn’t make it in time.
At least, he knew it was a mistake. That his father didn’t see his son and deem him enough of a failure to execute right with the rest of the vermin.
But, well, perhaps that would have been the kinder fate, to the king of Ithaca.
Telemachus used the last moment of slowed time to meet his father’s eyes, to let a small but genuine smile spread across his face.
Forgiveness.
Time snapped back into place, and Odysseus’ aim rang true.
—————-
Odysseus’ world stood still as the arrow completed its path.
“No..”
His mouth spoke without conscious control, his mind forced into a place far, far away from here to escape the crushing pressure suddenly forcing the air out of his lungs.
“No.”
The first thing Odysseus felt was the dull sting in his fingertips, the sensation of the bowstring digging into his skin having not yet quite faded.
Then, suddenly, rapidly, his soul was forced back into the terrible terrible body it inhabited.
Blood.
An arrow burrowed right in the heart of a boy.
A boy with Penelope’s eyes.
A boy with his own hair.
A boy with a smile as kind as—Oh god. He had smiled. Smiled as his father looked him into the eyes and shot him, his son had smiled at him as he had destroyed the one thing he had sworn to never, never hurt.
„No, No nononononononono-“ Odysseus choked on a broken off sob as he sunk to his knees at Telemachus’s side, the still warm blood soaking into his pants. There was so much of it, but maybe—maybe if he brought him to a healer fast enough, then—
It didn’t matter that the wound in his chest wasn’t pulsing, it didn’t matter that his skin was already cooling, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t breathing—Odysseus' reality for the past 10, 20 years had always been a happy family, the two people in the world he would sacrifice everything for. There was no reality in which his son wasn’t alive and well.
There simply couldn’t be. Because if there was, what did that make of Odysseus? He had given up every single god-forsaken principle he had ever dared built himself, had stepped on the legacy and last wish of his best friend with bloody feet and justified all 600 families he had left without father, son or brother by the means of keeping his family safe.
No monster would ever slay his family.
‘But it already has. You brought it into these very halls.’
A cruel voice whispered in his mind. Eris, perhaps, for it certainly was a cruel lie it was telling.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—I should have recognised you, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to-”, Odysseus cradled the face of his son with both of his hands. It still had remnants of childhood softness clinging to it, every muscle so fully relaxed in his father’s safe hands, „I’m sorry son, I swear, I will fix this, please, forgive me-”.
„Please, answer me.”
„Please.”
„Please…”
At some point, Odysseus forgot whom he was praying to. His son, to answer him, to forgive him. Apollo, to heal the wounds his own vile hands had caused. To Thanatos, to leave his son's soul right where it was. To Hades, to release it from his realm.
„Please.”
The Gods had never shown him clemency.
„Please!”
Odysseus begged until the body of his child had grown cold under his own. Begged until his legs could no longer hold him up and he collapsed on his side, still clinging to his son as if he could keep the hands of the underworld away by will and desperation alone.
When his voice gave out, he continued in his head. No other thought was allowed entry, for Odysseus was well aware that once one slipped through, a flood of others would follow.
Time became irrelevant. Minutes, hours, it was all the same to him. Life had lost its meaning.
He had slain it with his own hands.
Had nothing continued to happen, Odysseus reckoned that he would have stayed right there, until either he died of thirst or of heartbreak. But a hand on his shoulder had forced him back out of oblivion, grief making his thoughts viscous as honey.
(They were still too much. Too many.
Shut up.
Be silent.)
As he lifted his eyes to meet those of whomever had discovered his misery, his agony doubled in on itself with such violence his heart might as well have exploded in his chest.
Right in front of him were the very eyes he had seen go empty.
“Odysseus?”
Penelope, his Penelope asked with a tone in her voice he couldn’t quite read.
Rare were the people who could hide their emotions from him, but Penelope had always been one of the only people able to lie to him. Though she never used that ability for anything else but silly jokes before.
There was grief, he could see. Of course there was. But there was so much more he could see but couldn't place. The only thing he dared do was nod after he had slowly managed to climb up on his feet.
Her eyes, golden sweet eyes flickered from him to the arrow in their son's chest. She closed her eyes with a sharp breath, her head tilting down, fists clenching at her sides.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
There was nothing Odysseus wanted to be able to do more.
“I can’t lie to you.”
Her breath shuddered in her chest, shoulders curling in ever so slightly towards her ears. Hiding her face away from him.
Everything in him yearned to embrace her.
He knew better.
When her eyes returned to him, they were empty. Odysseus knew she met the same emptiness when she looked at him, too.
“I love you,” she whispered. “But you know I can’t forgive you for this.”
He could only nod yet again.
She walked over to Telemachus’ long cold body, a hand reaching out to brush his hair out of his face. With a kiss to the forehead, she closed his empty eyes.
Like that, he looked as peaceful as a babe sleeping in his mother’s arms.
“Help me.“
At his confusion, she gave him a small gesture, and he lifted his son into his arms, following as his wife led the way. Two decades ago, this scene would have been a daily occurrence, and had filled the King's heart with all the love in the world. There would be no happy memory to keep, after this.
They went, through familiar halls and corridors, through winding paths until they had reached the room Odysseus had longed for for so long. The sunset was starting to peak out across the horizon, dyeing the room a flame gold.
They sat down at the feet of the olive tree, the red of the sun almost hiding away Telemachus’ paleness. The red on his chest almost seemed like just another shadow, his skin regaining just a touch of warmth under the sun’s gentle caress.
He leaned against Penelope, as she laid his head on his shoulder, their son resting on their lap.
She pressed a knife into his hands, another one staying in hers.
They need no words.
They know no agony an edge can cause will match the one they feel.
One last time, he indulges in burying his hands in his son’s soft locks, one last time he appreciates his gentle features, one last time he burns his wife’s precious face into his mind.
He presses one last kiss to her head.
He will find them again. Even if he has to break himself out of the Field of Punishment, he will burn down all of Hades and Olympus, until he had his son back into his arms. His wife back into his arms. Happy, together, with smiles not frozen in death.
When the knife plunges into his heart, he expected there to be pain. But there was none.
Only the cold, numbing touch of a well familiar goddess.
‘Rest, old friend. Goodbye.’
A smile rested on his lips when he finally passed on.