I had an idea and Iâm sorry in advance
Telemachus wandered through the halls, trying his best to avoid everyone. He didnât want anyone to see him like this.
Beaten, bruised, humiliated.
Back from searching for his father in vain. Heâd returned a day early. Heâd given up, like a coward. Maybe his father really was dead, and he was the son of nobody at all.
At least heâd found a sort of friend along the way, though he didnât want to think about the way Pisistratus blushed when he dropped him off in Athens. He definitely didnât want to think about those nights theyâd shared in dingy rooms, sharing a bed. He had bigger problems at hand than a silly crush.
The suitors had beaten him to a pulp. He had lost, even with the help of a powerful goddess. Even worse, heâd fled only days after, to go find his father. Telemachus knew they didnât believe a word of it.
He gritted his teeth. Antinous was going to pay for making him feel this upset, thisâŠuseless. Heâd trained under Athena for some weeks now, he could beat him. He could rip him limb from limb.
Telemachusâs steps faltered. Had he really let that man drive him to this kind of anger? He shook his head. He couldnât let Antinous change him.
His feet carried him through the halls, brushing a hand against the wall, touching every crack to ground himself. He wanted to go to his room and hide for a while. He could tell Penelope about this later, but for now he was exhausted, and if he was going to be honest, a little bit scared.
Had it not been for Athena, he would have died.
Telemachus stopped and shook his head. These kinds of thoughts were what would get him killed. He had trained, yes, but he still needed to stay alert.
Never show them youâre scared. They will rip you to shreds.
Penelopeâs words from years ago surfaced in his head. She was right. He had to stay strong. For her.
Antinousâs voice floated through the palace, barely audible, cutting off Telemachusâs train of thought. He seemed passioned, and Telemachus thought he could hear other suitorâs shouts of agreement. What were they doing?
Ignoring the pain in his still-aching ribs, Telemachus ran as quickly as he could towards the voices. His muscles were sluggish and weary from travel, but that wasnât important right now.
The voices grew louder and clearer as he sprinted towards them. He began to hear snippets of words. He slowed to a walk, stepping lightly to avoid making noise. A potted plant sat at the entrance to the dining hall where Penelope had set up her challenge. Quiet as a mouse, Telemachus crouched behind it and peered around the corner.
Antinous stood on the long wooden table, sandals crushing ceramic, voice carrying over the crowd.
ââŠa diplomatic mission,â he was saying mockingly. A chill ran down Telemachusâs spine. âAnd he arrives today. This is our chance at power, boys. We have one shot.â
Cheers rang through the room. Fists pounded, wine sloshed over the sides of cups.
âI say we gather near the beaches, wait till he docks his ship. We board it, and we cut. Him. To. Pieces.â He pounded his fist into his palm and strode across the table.
The men shouted their assent, and Antinous raised his hands to quiet them.
A strange sense of detachment settled over Telemachus. Surely, this couldnât be real. It was just a dream. The suitorsâno, intrudersâsurely werenât planning his brutal death. This wasnât his life. It couldnât be.
Antinous continued, oblivious to the man hiding behind the corner. âIâll drop his remains into the ocean, and when precious Queen Penelope wonders where her darling boy is, whatâll we tell her?â
âNothing!â A hundred voices boomed, then dissolved into drunken laughter.
Antinous grinned, a slimy, toothy expression. Telemachus grimaced. What more could he be planning?
After he let the laughter die, he kept speaking, voice now hushed.
âAnd when weâre done, who will be there to guard the queenâs bedroom at night? Who will keep us from breaking down her door?â His voice got louder and louder as he went on.
âNobody!â Came his response, one hundred seven men roaring their answer.
Telemachus felt sick. He had to tell Penelope.
He bolted towards her room.
âMom, Mom, please,â Telemachus cried, barreling through her doors.
Penelope stood up from her loom, startled. âWhatâs wrong, my Little Wolf?â
Hands striking his face, his ribs, his arms, bruising and breaking. âNot so strong now, huh, Little Wolf?â
He shook the memory off. Bigger problems, Telemachus.
Telemachus took a deep, steadying breath. âItâs the suitors, Mom, theyâre planning to kill me, toss me into the ocean, make it so you wonât find out, and then, and thenâŠâ his voice trailed off and he looked away. He couldnât do it. He couldnât tell her. She would be so afraid. Telemachus wouldnât be there to protect her.
Penelope took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. âTelemachus. Son. Tell me whatâs wrong.â Her voice was strong and steadying.
Telemachus looked up from the floor, eyes watering frustratingly. âThe suitors⊠theyâre planning to kill me, and thenâŠâ How could he say this? âAnd then I wonât be there to protect you from them. Theyâre planning toâtheyâre planningâŠâ
Gods damn it, he was such a coward.
âHey. Telemachus. Look at me.â
He wiped his eyes quickly, then lifted his gaze from the floor.
âWe can stop this. We just needâŠâ
Telemachus knew what she needed, or rather who. Odysseus. The father he never knew, who was twice the man he ever would be.
Telemachus was snapped from his self-pity by screams rattling the palace walls. Battle cries followed. Apparently, he couldnât leave the suitors alone for more than five minutes.
Telemachus leapt up and grabbed his special double-pointed spear, folded right now, from his pocket. It was commissioned by Athena, engraved with an owl symbol, and crafted by Hephaestus himself.
âTelemachus, wait,â Penelope ordered, but he was already running out the door.
Dashing through the halls for the third time that day, Telemachus unfolded his spear.
Thank you, Hephaestus, for making such a perfect weapon. Athena, lend me aid in battle. I will make you proud.
The screams grew louder as he got closer. He rounded the corner into the dining hall and skidded to a halt.
Bodies littered the floor. Antinousâs corpse lay on the table, an arrow sticking out of his neck. Red dripped from the suitorsâ wounds and covered the entire room.
Telemachusâs hands faltered, and his spear dipped, just for a moment. He had never seen such violence in his life.
Good riddance. One less problem to deal with.
Telemachus gripped his spear and crept towards the only darkened hallway. If the attacker was using arrows, the suitors would want to be covered by darkness, so they wouldnât get shot.
A group of suitors huddled in a corner, weapons shaking, terror in their faces. One of them turned and saw Telemachus, standing like a ghost ready to kill.
âTelemachus, do you know what happens when we hurt other people?â
Ten-year-old Telemachus stood shamefully in front of his mother.
âMom, itâs not fair. I wasnât going to hit him, but he kept calling me names, and he said, he said that I was the son of Nobody,â he whined.
Penelope took her sonâs face in her hands. âAnd do you feel better, now that youâve hurt him back?â
âLower your weapons.â Telemachusâs voice held strong. âAnd Iâll ensure youâll be spared.â
Shit, was he really doing this?
âNot when the king is trying to kill us all, Little Wolf.â
The men jeered and raised their swords. However, all their bravado couldnât disguise the fear in their eyes. Telemachus could use that.
âTrust me, I donât want to have to hurt you, but I can and I will.â
He would ignore the âkingâ comment for now.
The leaderâMelanthius?âgrinned sickeningly. âBrothers, we can use him to trick the king! Capture the boy, make the king obey us! And if he doesnât listen, Iâll break the kidâs hands.â
Tens of men swarmed him, shouting. Telemachus fought harder than he ever had in his life. Dodge, roll, stab, block, kick, fight, fight, fight. Stay alive at all costs. Swords came at him from every angle. Telemachus could feel himself tiring.
A man, cloaked in shadow, aimed an arrow at the fray. Telemachus wouldnât have noticed him if it werenât for the red headband, fluttering in the corner of his eye.
Telemachus realized what the attacker was trying to do. He went limp.
The arrow flew, right into Melanthiusâs chest.
Telemachus scrambled away, picking up his dropped spear.
âMerâŠmercy,â Melanthius begged.
The attackerâs eyes narrowed. He raised his bow, stringing an arrow with perfect precision.
He loosed the arrow. Melanthius fell.
Man upon man fell to the attackerâs hand. Telemachus yelled out a battle cry and joined in, fighting side by side with the man.
They were a perfect duo. The man swung up to the rafters. Arrow after arrow sailed down. Telemachus stayed on the ground, spinning his double-tipped spear into the hearts of suitor after suitor. Screams filled the air once again, accentuating the sharp tang of blood.
It didnât take them long to kill every last one.
The attacker swung down from the rafters and let his bow drop to the floor.
Telemachus was on him in an instant. He shoved him up against the wall and pressed the tip of his spear into the manâs throat.
The man did nothing to stop him. Why wouldnât he fight him?
In the darkness, Telemachus saw the attackerâs face for the first time. A mole on his right cheek, a crooked nose, graying hair, scars tracing his skin.
Telemachus shared that mole. He had the same nose. He had the same warm brown eyes.
His spear clattered to the ground.
âSon.â The kingâs voice was choked with emotion.
Telemachus was the son of Nobody no longer.