Knowing she wasn’t.
A pointed cough from across the room shattered the moment. Odysseus stilled, inhaling deeply, grounding himself in her presence before forcing himself to turn.
“Telemachus,” Penelope started, her voice softer now, a light flush creeping up her neck as she realized their son was standing there.
The boy, his son, said nothing. He only stared, mouth slightly parted, his expression unreadable. But Odysseus wasn’t blind. There was something shining in his son’s eyes, something raw.
Understanding.
Recognition.
Distance.
Gods.
“Mother,” Telemachus stammered, eyes locked on his wringing hands. “Father…”
He didn’t look up. Didn’t meet their eyes. Didn’t need to.
Odysseus knew, then, what he had refused to see.
They would not fall apart without him. Not her, not their son. They had built themselves into something unshakable, something stronger than even he had dreamed.
And it hit him with a force stronger than any wave:They will go on without him.
He struggled to keep his breath steady, to keep his hands from trembling at the weight that had been lifted from him suddenly.
From the weight that had been placed upon his shoulders.
If he had never returned, if he had followed his men to their watery graves, his wife, hisqueen, would have continued to rule. She would have ruled well, with the love of the Ithacan people.
Telemachus swallowed hard, flexing his fingers before balling them into fists at his side, his throat bobbing. “I did speak to him,” he admitted, voice raw, “with Eupeithes.”
Odysseus stilled under his confession, his wife inhaling sharply at his side. Her hand brushed his arm, lingering there.
His son did not waver, he held the king’s gaze. “I thought… I thought that if I listened to him, if I could try to understand, I could stopthisbefore it began, before it spiraled.” His hands flexed once again. “I was wrong, Father.”
Odysseus studied him, studied the way he did not flinch under his father’s harsh scrutiny. His son stood tall, owning his mistakes, his choices.
The Ithacan King should have been furious.
Should have chastised him for giving a snake the opportunity to speak. To harm his mother, his queen.
But for the first time since sailing from Ithacan shores, Odysseus saw his son, not as a boy, not as the wide-eyed infant. Not as the wary young man he had returned to.
But as a king.
“You faced him,” he murmured, quiet. “And then you faced me.”
Telemachus inhaled sharply through his nose, nodding once.
A smile pulled at Odysseus’ lips. Not one of amusement, but ofacceptance. Of understanding. Relief.
“Ithaca will be in excellent hands,” he said finally, soft enough for only his family to hear.
Telemachus’ brows furrowed, mouth opening to clarify. But Odysseus turned, reaching for his wife’s hand. He brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her wrist.
“Come, wife, let us retire.”
