Page 11 of Elysium
THERE WAS NOT A CHANCE he was going to sleep tonight, not after his rage burned through him. Not after he watched the light dim in Penelope’s eyes.
Odysseus prided himself on being a man that kept his head, even when blood soaked the ground. Even after the years at sea and at war, he could see through the chaos and make a call.
He had never met the man that stood before his wife mere hours ago. Even in a rage, in a terror, he had never snapped like that.
And never, ever , at Penelope’s expense.
He watched the waves crash on the shore, arms resting on his knees. The smell of brine and sand leveled him, if only slightly.
“The sea keeps you awake, too?” A voice came from behind him. Odysseus couldn’t even bring himself to tense at the sound.
“The sea,” the old king sighed, “holds everything.” He turned his head to look at his guest and found his son. Telemachus smiled sadly, taking a spot on the sand next to him. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Telemachus shrugged, “I don’t sleep easily,” Odysseus wished he could have missed the hurt in his son’s voice, “Haven’t for years, really.”
The boy that Odysseus had conjured in his head over his time away did little justice to the man that sat beside him now. Telemachus was easily a head taller than he was now, and although lean, he could see the strength his son carried. Both in his arms, and on his shoulders.
His eyes no longer sparkled, not like they did when he was born. There was a grief to his gaze that tore at Odysseus’ heart. If it weren’t for his mother’s eyes… he would swear he was looking into a mirror.
The old king had the luxury, at twenty, to not have felt the weight of the world on his shoulders… He had not given his son that same peace.
He had been dreading this moment, selfishly.
He knew reckoning with Penelope would be hard, but it would be built upon a love like no other, a past filled with memories.
With Telemachus… they did not have that.
He had barely been a year old when the war called his father away.
“I should have been here,” he said finally, releasing a ragged breath.
“You weren’t, and we survived.” His reply was cool. Even with his words directed at Odysseus, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride as his son spoke. He would make a fine king.
“You did more than survive,” Odysseus swallowed the lump in his throat, finding tears burning behind his eyes once more.
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a while, neither one moving, neither one speaking. “You have to be gentle with her, Father,” Telemachus broke the silence. “She is the strongest woman I have ever met, but she carries so much.”
Odysseus leaned back on his hands, looking up to the sky. “I left her to fight my battles. To raise my son, guard my home… I made her carry it all.” His chest tightened, the sting of shame burning him hotter than any battle wound. “All while waiting, never knowing the fate of her king.”
“Don’t do that,” Telemachus cut in, his voice sharp, “Don’t speak of her as if she’s a story, waiting for a better ending. She didn’t just wait , Father. She ruled.”
The older man let out a sad laugh. “I know who your mother is, son.”
“Do you?” His voice was no less harsh. “Because I’ve watched her sit by the hearth, night after night, gripping a blade she never wanted to yield. I’ve seen her break when there was no one there to comfort her. She doesn’t need your praise, Father. She needed you.”
Odysseus didn’t respond - how could he? Each word from his son rang truer than he would have wanted to admit.
His absence had shaped his son into a fierce protector, a young man hardened by necessity.
He knew Telemachus didn’t speak out of distrust for him, but from a deep, raw, understanding of what his wife had been through.
“Telemachus…” His voice cracked, and he reached out before snatching his hand back, ashamed of how his son had grown beyond him. They were strangers, tethered only by blood and a name.
“I thought I hated you,” the boy said, his voice unaffected.
“For the longest time, Mother would tell me stories of the roguish king she fell in love with. How the King of Ithaca won her heart in a matter of days, and showed her what it meant to be treasured, to be a righteous king, but an even better man.”
Telemachus laughed, but his laughter carried both irony and pain.
“I thought she was lying. Stories to tell a young boy who desperately wished to know his father.” He took a steady breath.
“I heard them calling her name, night after night. They pounded on her door and mocked her strength. I saw her fight to hold this kingdom with trembling hands, and I was just a boy.”
From the corner of his eye, Odysseus watched as his son gripped at the sand, as if trying to find an anchor in his painful memories. “Son, we don’t have to talk about-”
“Yes, we do. You don’t understand what the last twenty years have been for her, for us.
Silence was suffocating in a house where danger lurked.
She carried Ithaca on her back when no one else could.
You speak of battle, but she fought wars of her own.
Those men, they-” His voice faltered, failing him.
His shoulders shook, tears darkening the sand.
“My son,” He started, but no words came. A man of wit and cleverness, and he was left speechless beside this young man. He opened his mouth, closed it. Every word in the world abandoned him, leaving him mute before his son’s grief.
“She will never stop loving you, King of Ithaca.” Telemachus stood, turning away. His voice was raw with grief. “But gods, be the man she believes you are.”