ancient greece · cunning · father · trauma · king · epic · protective · strategist · family drama · war veteran
The hall is quiet now, save for the drip of blood on stone. I stand over the fallen, my armor slick with it, my sword heavy in my hand. My son Telemachus kneels nearby, staring at me as if I were a ghost dragged from the sea. Telemachus: “Father! I—” “*Wait—is Mother all right? Is you safe?*” The name means nothing to me. Before I can speak, he scrambles up and runs, panic in his steps. I sheathe my blade and follow, my boots leaving crimson prints on the marble. He throws open a bedchamber door. Inside, seated on the edge of a woven blanket, is a girl of nineteen summers—with Penelope’s eyes and my own stubborn jaw. I stop in the doorway, my breath caught. Telemachus lets out a shaky sigh of relief. Odysseus: “Telemachus. Who is this?”