Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was everything he had ever wanted. Everything he’d dreamed of. And yet, he couldn’t reconcile the man soaked in the blood of his enemies with a head lodged onto the end of his spear thrust in the air with a roar of triumph with the kind, understanding father in the pictures hung on the walls.

Telemachus could only imagine the lines Odysseus must’ve crossed to become the creature standing in his father’s halls. He’d come to help fight the suitors off, but now… he didn’t want his hands to become as stained as his father’s. Was this really the man he’d idolized?

If Telemachus allowed himself to kill those who’d already surrendered - even for the sake of his mother - would he become the same as the monster standing before him?

So he stepped aside and allowed Odysseus to take the rest down on his own. This man - this beast - needed no help. Telemachus would just get in the way.

He averted his eyes and tried to pretend he couldn’t hear the tell-tale thwang of a bowstring. Screams echoed through the empty halls. Torches flickered and died as they were dropped by the still warm corpses of fallen men. A shadow darted between pillars, arrowheads cutting through the darkness. Desperate cries and ragged breaths were cut off abruptly, accompanied by dull thumps as the suitors hit the ground.

The kills had started off clean, but the more murder Odysseus unleashed, the harsher people’s deaths. Telemachus had come here to help, because after all, these men deserved to die.

But not like this.

Blood littered once pristine halls. Men were littered on the floors, left to grow cold, silent cries still on their dead lips. Some of them had died cleanly, with just an arrow slitting their throat. Some had their limbs hacked off with their own swords. The massacre left nothing behind but slowly stiffening bodies sitting in still warm blood.

Was this what they’d been fighting for? Waiting for? Was this the man his mother clung to, the man his grandmother died for? Was this the man he had wanted to become?

The room was plunged into silence. There was nobody left to kill. Telemachus could feel his heartbeat thrumming in his fingers, and forced himself to keep his breaths slow and even. This monster was a murderer, killing in cold blood, ruthless when begged for mercy. He killed his second in command and crew. But he wouldn’t kill his own son…

Would he?

He wouldn’t kill Penelope, that much Telemachus was certain of. He’d heard Odysseus scream at the suitors for daring to think about going near her. But was Penelope the only place he drew the line? His only driving force?

Would he even care about his son at all?

Telemachus didn’t know, and he didn’t think he had much time to find out. If he continued to lurk in the shadows, Odysseus might kill him, thinking he was a suitor. Of course, he might kill him anyways, but…

All his life, Telemachus would’ve died to meet his father. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if he really would die upon meeting the man. Telemachus took a deep breath and called out, “Father?”

A voice, deceptively soft even though it had been screaming murder a moment ago, replied. “Telemachus?”

The young man stepped out from behind the pillar he’d been hiding behind. He tried not to gag at the rising stench of coppery blood and focused on the figure before him. Odysseus was looking at him with something akin to wonder, but his father’s smile sent shivers down his spine. It was unnatural to see the man smiling, covered head to toe in the blood of his enemies, his sandals drenched and stained with the leaking life of the suitors. His gentle smile did nothing to curb the insanity in his eyes.

Telemachus had often dreamt of how he would greet his father if the man ever came home. Now, with this monster before him, he couldn’t find the words. Every syllable dried up in his throat before he could even think of getting it out. How was he supposed to talk to this man? How was he supposed to accept him back into the family after this? How was he supposed to pretend that they had anything in common?

How was he supposed to allow his father anywhere near his mother after this rampage?

He’d spent his life in his father’s shadow. Not only could he never be better than the man who’d been lost overseas, but he could never outgrow him. Could never stop longing for something he had thought he would never have.

Well, now he’d outgrown him. Telemachus never wanted anything to do with Odysseus again. He would never be able to look at him without seeing the bloodlust in his eyes, without seeing phantoms of corpses falling to the floor.

For so long, Telemachus had felt all alone. Now, he would give anything to feel alone again.

“I… why?” he croaked, finally forcing himself to focus on his father’s face and not on the horrors surrounding him.

Odysseus didn’t answer him. “Oh, my son,” he said, his face softening, “look how much you’ve grown.”

He stepped forward, one blood-soaked hand stretching out towards Telemachus. Instinctively, Telemachus flinched back, drawing his sword in defense.

Sorrow flitted across Odysseus’ features. “Son?”

“Why,” Telemachus repeated, gripping his weapon.

The monster tilted its head curiously, blood dripping from its hair, like it couldn’t comprehend what might be wrong with this situation. “They threatened you and your mother,” he said simply, like that reason was enough to justify anything that could ever happen.

There was no soul left behind his kind eyes.

“You mutilated them,” Telemachus whispered, gesturing to the decapitated, slashed bodied behind them. “You’re an archer. You could’ve just shot them. But this…” he trailed off, staring blankly at the hundreds of bodies surrounding them.

“I used to say I'd make the storm clouds cry for you,” Odysseus said calmly. “Used to say I'd capture wind and sky for you. Held you in my arms prepared to die for you, so why does it come as a surprise that I would kill for you?”

Telemachus shuddered and stepped back. “This was wrong. They deserved to die, but this is wrong.”

Something in Odysseus’ face hardened. “You and Penelope are my everything. The only reason I’m here when the others couldn’t be. All I ever wanted was to reunite with my own, you were the reason I survived, the reason I was willing to fight a god. I was not about to let mere mortal men slow me down. You are my reason to fight, Telemachus.”

Telemachus swallowed down bile at the thought that hundreds of lives were snuffed out on his behalf. “Are we the reason, or are we the blame?”

Odysseus shook his head. “No, my son. You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t. What are you?”

A monster, whispered the wind. A monster, called the empty halls. A monster, echoed an ancient voice from the underworld. A warrior, promised Athena, deep in his mind. One of the greatest I ever made.

His father smiled sadly. “Just a man. I was just trying to get home. Telemachus, please. Let me make this up to you.”

But the boy shook his head. This was not his call to make. He stepped aside, clearing the way for the blood-coated man before him. He might not be ready to accept his father, not yet, but it wasn’t his choice that mattered. “Penelope is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Telemachus.”

Not my son, not anymore… not yet.

“Go on, Odysseus.”

Not father. Someday, maybe, they could be a family again. He couldn’t help but wonder what that would be like. Would it be everything he was searching for, or would he have to find what he was looking for on his own? He didn’t know yet.

Not family. Not quite.

But someday, they would get the chance to try again.