Chapter 30: 29: then he kissed his son and cried

Eulises

I wake to Argos licking my face then nestling his big head against mine.

"Hello, boy," I say, smiling a little, and petting his soft ears. "You ready? We're going hunting. One last time for both of us, eh?"

"Do you want see where we buried your mother?" my father is already up, packing breakfast into a satchel.

"Yes, then I must go and make up for lost time of telling my wife how beautiful she is every moment," I say.

"Yes, you shall. I expect the house will be up soon," he says, helping me up. Argos follows us happily, as we hike down to the family cemetery.  The dawn is bright and something like hope beats in my chest. These are my woods. I am home. I am finally home.

"You were right, as usual," my father says, walking to her grave, uncapping a bottle of his finest whiskey, and starting to pour it over the grave, "He did come home. You win, as always."

"You know when my mother and I met in the Underworld she said she wanted me her son and heir, to have any whiskey you might have promised her—,"

"It's been so quiet with you and your boy gone, I'd forgotten what it was like to hear my own thoughts," my father, completely ignoring me.

"She did though, she'd want me to have it," I say, "She said as much---,"

"You haven't even stomached breakfast, boy. Also, I sent you with two good casks of it," he says.

"Yes and one was stolen by a spoiled red-haired grief stricken prince," I say.

"I don't suppose I'll get that comment explained."

"You can if you like."

"Will it be the truth?"

"How am I to know? I haven't begun to say it yet," I say, stroking my mother's headstone. She'll be glad I'm home now.  I break off more of my bread and hand it to Argos.

"Did you feed your entire breakfast to the dog?"

"No."

"Did you eat any of your breakfast?"

"Also no," I hand the dog the rest.

"So quiet, it was horrible," he says.

"I can't imagine. I've been with me. Now, I need some weapons," I say.

"We're visiting your mother's grave."

"My mother would want me to have weapons; she'd like what I'm going to do."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've not thought of it yet, so I wouldn't know," I say.

"Fine, I should have a few bows that would suit you, none to your draw strength. I'm an old man," he says.

"My hands aren't steady enough," I admit, holding them up, "I don't know if it's the lack of food or---it doesn't always happen just when I think of---" I don't finish that. My hands tremble more as I speak.

"I'll get you a dagger," my father says, keeping the pain from his voice.

"And I'll have whatever bows you have—I can look imposing enough with it,"  I say, "I don't know what my draw strength is at this moment but I doubt if it's what it was."

"Just a couple of long bows, as I said they're only for myself or Telemachus if he fancies target practice though your boy prefers the mental arts of close combat to a bow," he says.

"He doesn't need to prefer combat at all," I mutter. He never needs to go to war. He's not allowed to.

"Come on," he puts an arm around my shoulders, "Let's get you cleaned up and ready to go home."

Back at the cabin, he finally bids me wash and go put on a clean set of clothes. The guest room is well stocked. Argos hops on the bed and I lock the door before stripping to examine my injuries. Countless burns and scars, mostly from Calypso, though several old wounds from the war, most noticeably the burn on my gut from cauterizing a spear wound. Patroclus, hours before his own death, putting an iron to my skin. He was the only one I'd let treat me, though even him I distrusted in general, but when it came down to it, I let him, betting on him not noticing the ichor in my blood after being accustomed to treating Achilles. Either he never noticed or he didn't care for he had my blood on his hands after that and said nothing.

I clean up quickly, washing and shaving and trimming my hair as best I can with a knife. I don't look more myself I don't think, but at least I feel more myself. My father has simple, neat clothes, and I choose a black shirt and black pants, as well as heavy boots. I still don't look by any means wealthy but at least I don't look like a beggar either. I put on a knife on my waist, just a hunting knife but it is something.

Then I set about cleaning Argos, who is dusty and dirty from sitting watch for me.

"Did you wait the whole time?" I ask, kissing his face before wiping his fine coat down with water and then with oil.  "Handsome dog, I wish you could tell me your tales from our absence."

"Did you lose your mind or are you talking to the dog?" my father asks, knocking on the door.

"Talking to the dog," I say, returning, to find he's set out food. "I'm going home."

"You're eating breakfast before you collapse," he says, tiredly, "When did you last eat a full meal?"

"Willingly?" I frown. Circe's island more like. On the ships I was too careful with rations to do anything but abate my own hunger. Calypso? Half her things were poisoned or to drug me into submission so I avoided those. No, it was Circe.

"Bacon?" I would ask about everything, making her laugh. She'd brought me a meal on the shore, this was before the boat was finished and she was pretending we wouldn't leave.

"It's clearly bread, you're ridiculous," she said.

"But made with pork products?" I asked, eating it anyway.

"Okay, yes, fine but it was an actual pig."

"Good."

"Probably."

We both laughed.

"I don't know," I lie to him, because I'll not speak of her. I should have told Hermes to tell her that I hoped she was well, because I do. No, he wouldn't have delivered that. And he said she had someone else by now. I hope she doesn't think of me. We don't need to. She ought not need me anymore.

"Good, then, eat," he said, pushing my shoulders down so I'd sit, "And stop feeding your food to the dog."

"Great way to  know I am not being poisoned," I mutter.

"I'd be very upset and concerned and not stop bothering you, but we both know you made jokes about poisoning regularly before," he says.

"It's only half a joke now, that's the problem," I say, eating anyway.

He sighs, watching me eat all the same, studying new lines and scars on my face and hands. "What happened on your forehead?"

"Here? A rock," I say.

"Why?"

"It was in someone's hands."

"Whose?"

"Someone who is dead."

"You really won't speak of it?" he asks.

"I'll tell Penelope, who is my wife, who is perfect and always will be and must know my full mind, because I can speak to her of anything," I say.

"Good enough."

There's a knock on the door. When neither of us immediately move:

"Grandfather! Can I borrow some weapons? It's for a good reason that doesn't involve me committing homicide, please?"

"That's your son," my father says, unnecessarily, as he gets up.

"Don't tell him who I am," I say, leaping up as well.

"Why not?"

"I---" I have no idea. Except that I don't know how to face him now. "Just don't. Say I'm someone who knew me."

"You do know you? Fine, whatever—come in Telemachus," he says, going and opening the door.

"Yeah, so I need a lot of weapons for a perfectly non-violent reason you would approve of, in fact I have several reasons you may select one that you feel most comfortable with ---hello Argos what are you doing up here? I missed you boy," the boy walks in, he's tall as I am. Dark curly hair hanging almost to his deep ink black eyes. He's strong though, with thickening arms and a quick step. His clothes are clean and fine like a prince, and his skin tanned from many days in the sun. he drops to his knees happily to let the dog lick his chin.

"Oh hello, sorry grandfather I didn't know you had a guest or friends in general anyway could I take one or six weapons for experimental non-human-stabbing purposes?" he asks, all in one breath, still petting the dog.

"No, now this is a traveler who knew your father," my father is not a good liar he's the odd one out in this family, but Telemachus doesn't seem to note it.

"Hello, I'm Telemachus—that's my estate down there, well it is until my father comes back until then it's mine and my mothers. Were you a soldier? Do you want to come and help me with an interesting project that might involve pursuits general to a soldier?" he asks, brightly bouncing up to his feet and extending a smooth hand to me.

"Yes, I am a soldier," I say, shaking his fingers, a lump rising my throat.

"Did you know my father in the war?" he asks, hopefully.

"Yes," I say, my voice catching, "He's coming home soon."

"Really? How do you know that? Did you speak with him?"

"I'll be on the porch, come on, dog," my father is done with me apparently.

"I did; he should be home soon," I say, recovering myself, "Tell me, what of your mother? Has she remarried? I know your father is presumed dead."

"No, she hasn't, she's waiting for my father, she loves him ridiculously as well as intentionally, and she cries for him often, but now there's loads of men who want to marry her and they're disgusting and I might have caused them to hate me so much that they want to kill me so I'm probably going to have prove my manhood and kill them, but I haven't any weapons so I came here to borrow the hunting things," he says, cheerfully.

"Good, I mean—yeah that sounds like a really reasonable plan we, I mean you, should do that," I say, rubbing my face.

"What's your name?" Telemachus asks, helpfully.

"It's—,"

"His name is Eulises he is your father you don't need to lie to him, potentially everyone else is fine though," the goddess appears between us, then vanishes.

"What?" Telemachus blinks at me, "Is that true?"

"Yes," I say, my hands shaking, having no idea how now he'll react not only have not come home but I lied when I did.

He launches himself into my arms, sobbing. I barely catch him and keep us both upright, then I stagger as well under his weight and we sink to the floor, clinging to each other. My body shakes with sobs as the realization that I am finally holding my son, washes over me. He's a man now of course. Tall as I and he holds me so tightly it hurts. I sob and cling to him, putting my hand through his hair and squeezing him to me like I can never let him go.

I hold his face from me, putting my rough fingers on his smooth skin, studying him and learning the new curves of his face, a tiny scar by one eye, the mark on his ear from tripping and falling on the stones in the garden.

I don't know what he sees me in me. In my war weary, lined face. I don't know what he remembers or how I even appear to him. At some point my father returns, sees us hugging and crying on the floor, and then leaves again.

"I missed you so much," he says, grinning now, a pretty sweet smile just like his mother. His dark eyes glitter with youth and trickery.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, gripping the back of his head.

"Where have you been? Tell me all—what happened?"

"I can't summarize, suffice to say that I ran into ill luck and have been fighting to come home this whole time, now I've finally succeeded," I say, taking a long breath. He's pleased to see me, content and happy as though it's the most natural thing in the world that I should be home. Perhaps it is.

"We missed you! Mother and I, we were well, but then your letters stopped coming," he says, sadness crossing his face.

"I know, I was well beyond anywhere where I could write to you. But I will tell you and your mother all," just once I think of it or even find how to tell them something like the truth.p

"Of course, we must go and find mum--,"

"First, we must get rid of those men," I say, going to my father's racks of weapons, "I need a plan and I'll not endanger your mother by revealing myself yet."

"There are a lot of them," Telemachus says, "But together we can surely take them! You're a great warrior."

"I—," I have no idea if I can fight, let alone twenty men? I'm in no shape. I can barely keep food down. I fought those two yes but they were drunk and thought it was a game. "We shall see. I want a plan first before I do anything. And your mother will keep as she is for now. If I revealed myself it would be obvious and all of them would come for me, they already want to kill you I doubt they'd take kindly to my return."

"No, they wouldn't. All right what's the plan?" he asks, eagerly.

"It's in formulation, first, reconnaissance."

"I come back and he's saying the word reconnaissance," my father, massaging his forehead.

"You can help, grandfather!"

"You don't have to help, father."

"What I'm hearing is that the pair of you need supervision."

"It will please him to supervise me," I tell Telemachus.

"It will not; it will give me a headache."