Chapter Text
Telemachus’s sleeping face is streaked with the morning sun. His eyelids shimmer with Helios’s rays, the corners of them creased in gold, sparkling in an almost magical way. Odysseus’s most beloved treasure.
It is a peaceful day, a quiet one. He hopes for all the others to be so as well.
Telemachus should soon wake from his mid-day nap, bursting with all the energy and excitement that one small body hardly seems able to contain. He has grown so quickly in simply a year, from an infant with lips spilling with words only decipherable to his own mind to a baby that is able to babble a few simple ones that Odysseus understands.
He cannot wait to be here for the rest of them.
He is kneeling by the cot now, drinking in the sight of his darling boy, so beautiful in this haloed light.
There is a charming tradition among parents of the kingdom, a fun test of sorts to delve into the workings of a young babe’s mind: an assortment of objects would be placed in front of the child, each carrying their own meaning, and depending on which their child chooses, it would indicate the path that they would tread in their futures.
There are items sprawled behind Odysseus, ones that he has just set up:
A wooden sword from the training grounds, whose choice would mean a child that valued ambition above all else, to fight for the glory of the individual and the ancestry.
A gold coin from the treasury, whose choice would mean a child that would know the value of wealth, that would be aspiring with their riches and even more with their fortunes.
A reed pen from the library, whose choice would mean a child that cultivated knowledge, with an endless well of curiosity and a fortified mind for all the things learnt.
A wooden horse carved from Odysseus’s own hands, whose choice would mean a child that craved adventure, with legendary dreams and a spirit that burned just as much.
Odysseus is curious about his son’s heart, wanting to know every part of Telemachus that he would want to give.
He remembers his own father telling him of his own test when he was a child, saying that there was not even the slightest bit of hesitation when Odysseus picked up the pen, scrawling unintelligible words onto his palms as his mind ran faster than what his hands could comprehend. Ctimene, his father had retold with a chuckle, had instead chosen the sword, picking it up and prodding Odysseus with the sharp end of it, declaring war on her brother at the ripe age of sixteen months.
His son with his brilliant mind and his beautiful heart, what would he choose among the four?
Telemachus starts waking up now, gurgling in babyish tones and hums. There are few things Odysseus loves more than this sight, his son blinking the remnants of his dreams out of his eyes, blearily meeting the world once again with a gummy smile and waving hands.
He would never be separated from his wife and son if it were up to his own volition, wanting to spend every possible waking and dreaming moment with his two loves. How could anything else matter, no trade disputes or diplomatic contracts, no court to be held or nobles to accommodate, when there was the choice of having his sweetest joy in his arms?
It is often a subject of jokes between his Penelope and himself, her teasing that Telemachus would not be able to sleep well otherwise if he continued to carry him around at every possible second, and him teasing back that their son was just as clingy to his mother as he was to his father.
Gods, how he adored them both.
“Papa!” his son squeals, eyes crinkled with delight as he stretches his arms outwards, wanting to be held.
“Look at you, my little light,” Odysseus coos, reaching down to stroke the soft curls atop Telemachus’s head. The boy’s giggling is like the harmonies of wind-chimes, the one melody his heart needs. It is his favourite sound in the whole world.
As he lifts his boy from his cot, he feels as Telemachus’s arms wraps around his neck, holding him gently as if there was never the fear of being let go. His veins hums with warmth, the hearth inside of him singing of home.
“I’ve got you sweetheart,” he says, pressing a kiss onto the tip of his nose. Telemachus giggles in response, scrunching his nose in contentment.
He would trade the entirety of Ithaca to preserve his happiness.
Gently, he lowers them both onto the ground, crossing his legs beneath him as his son wriggles in his hold. He shifts Telemachus towards the items, and smiles as he watches his son’s eyes sparkle with curiosity, little arms reaching towards them as if imagining them in his hold
“I’ve placed a few objects in front of you, my boy,” he murmurs gently, fondness welling up again with the babbles passing his son’s lips, “You can choose whatever you like.”
“The sword, the pen, the coin or the horse,” he says, pointing at each of them respectively, “There is no wrong choice. Each of them have their own magic.”
The sword for his son’s inner strength. The coin for his son’s vast fortunes. The pen for his son’s unquenchable knowledge. The horse for his son’s adventurous spirit.
Perhaps he should want for something. It is a small but valued superstition in their kingdom, and most parents harbour their own desires for this, merchant families vying for the coin or scholars urging for the pen. It would expected for him to secretly want for one or the other for his boy, the sword for a warrior or the pen for a prince.
But he is father long before he is a king.
He would love any choice of his son’s. He would be proud of any path Telemachus chooses as long as he is happy.
“You choose the one you like the best and bring it back to me, alright?” he says softly, patting his son once more on the head for good measures.
Telemachus babbles an affirmative, turning his head to nod sagely at Odysseus as if having received a divine command. Odysseus’s heart is so, so full.
Slowly, Telemachus begins to crawl towards the items, stumbling on little legs used to being carried. Odysseus wants to cradle him back into his arms again, a fierce fondness rushing through him at the sight of Telemachus reaching the items, eyes darting back and forth in wonder.
He is adorable. His sweetest and brightest light.
Telemachus observes the sword first, fingers curling around the handle as he lifts it high above his head. His little warrior ready to conquer worlds, defending his legacy and his family’s honour. His son, who will pick up a sword to fight for what he believes in, who will not be cowed away by his enemies but stand his ground.
Affection thrums through his veins, his darling boy with the spirit of a hero already.
He shifts his attention to the gold coin after, setting the sword down and grasping the coin between pudgy fingers. He holds it up as he traces its golden ridges, seemingly enamoured with the way light glints off of its surface, burbling in appreciation at its gleam and glamour.
Odysseus is ravaged with sheer fondness at such an innocent fascination. His son with an entrepreneur’s drive, understanding the value which lies before him, a skill that would eventually develop into commerce and trade.
Then came the reed pen. Telemachus picks it up as he drops the coin, the slender pen balanced between his grasping fingers. He places the tip upon his skin, and Odysseus watches breathlessly as his son seems to follow a memory he does not know, staining his fingertips with ink as his clothes are splotched with burgeoning blacks.
Eurycleia will be displeased with the marks against his swaddle but Odysseus’s throat is too thick with emotion to care. His son with words scrawled upon his palms like his father, his son with a mind as radiant as his mother. He will be an incredible prince.
Telemachus reaches for the horse at last, setting the pen aside beside him. Its wooden grains are streaked with ink at his first touch, and it almost feels like indelible fingerprints upon Odysseus’s own heart.
He has made many similar toys for Telemachus, of ships and animals and flowers, all carved by Telemachus’s cot as he slumbers away, his Penelope beside him weaving her tapestries, and it had never failed to bring a smile to his lips when Telemachus enjoys them.
They are made with all the love inside of him for his own love.
Odysseus watches as his boy marvels at the wooden horse, giggling as it swayed back and forth on its rocker with a wonder that fulfilled Odysseus unlike anything else. His boy, who he hopes will never lose his sense of adventure even as grows older, who he wishes will always possess a mind full of possibility and desires ready to be accomplished.
Soon, Telemachus shifts his attention elsewhere instead, moving around back to the wooden sword then to the reed pen then to the gold coin, a repeating cycle once again. It is a bit confusing truthfully, Odysseus had never seen nor heard of such a thing from others, neither nobles nor commoners, most children would have chosen their items by now.
But Odysseus can only feel pride welling up inside of him, even amidst the confusion. His son is not bound by one path, by one of the values of the world among so many others. He cannot help but admire his beloved boy’s open-mindedness, the way he explored every option with unfiltered curiosity, observing them all in turn.
And yet even still, as Telemachus makes his rounds across the items, he does not settle on any one of them, his interest flitting like a butterfly from flower to flower.
He crawls back towards Odysseus in the end, laughter still spilling from his lips like a radiant balm. He could listen to this sound forever. Telemachus settles himself comfortably in his lap, tiny fingers tugging lightly at his sleeve and Odysseus wraps his arms around his son instinctively, powerless to his son’s wordless demands.
“You do not want to choose any of them, sweetheart?” he asks softly, brushing his fingers across the apples of his cheeks. It would be a unique decision, but one Odysseus would respect. His son’s heart after all, might simply be too much for anything to characterise.
But Telemachus shakes his head, patting his chest with his small hands. His face breaks open into a toothy smile, one that is like sunlight incarnate, as he declares: “I choose Papa!”
Oh.
He didn’t realise he was an option.
Oh.
The words strike him somewhere in the chest, somewhere between his first and final breath, tightening them to an almost painful degree. His heart is somewhere in his throat, and he struggles to swallow it down.
He loves him. It is the only thought he is capable of, the only thing making him up, there is nothing left inside of him except for this love. It swells inside all of him, twice the volume and thrice the feeling, the adoration expanding until he is not sure how it has not overflown, how it has not soaked into the soil beneath the ground, the clouds above the sky.
Such a wet, bleeding thing his heart is, beating only in the synchrony of two names.
The edges of his vision is blurring, and so is the rest of the world, but it does not matter, nothing beyond the bundle in his arms matter anymore. Only his boy. Only his Telemachus.
He loves him so, so much.
A choked cry crawls out of his throat, grating against the heart that seems to be permanently lodged there. And then, he is crying, uncontrollable sobs wracking his frame as he holds his boy. His precious, sweetest boy.
How could there have ever possibly existed a world before him? How could he have ever possibly survived before him? It sounds like such an impossibility now, a husband and a father scrawled upon the foundations for who he is in a greater magnitude than his name.
He only knows of love. He only wants to know of love. It is such a painfully beautiful thing.
“Papa?” his son is babbling, patting his cheeks and forehead with his small hands, each point of contact sending another sigh of warmth through him.
“Okay?” his son asks, face scrunched in concern, fingertips brushing across his eyelids soaked with tears. He is so young and he is so lovely, and Odysseus loves him so much.
“I love you,” Odysseus says, wanting to heave out his heart alongside it. It is not enough to convey what is inside of him, all these broken parts softened by his son’s words, all these jagged pieces soothed by his son’s touch.
“I love you,” he says, chanting the words again and again, “I love you Telemachus. I love you, my boy. I love you. I love you.”
He never wants his boy to forget, wants to embed the words upon his soul until there is no other alternative, until the memory burns as bright as the truth.
“I love you,” he says, the words choked out between his tears, “I love you so much Telemachus. I love you.”
There is nothing he would not do for him, no war too large to fight, no weight too heavy to carry. If the world had to burn for him to be safe, he would be the one lighting the match.
“Papa,” his son chimes, his voice like twinkling bells. He is this boy’s father, he is this boy’s papa , what a privilege it is to be so.
Odysseus leans himself across his boy, arms still curled around his sweetest joy, as if to shield Telemachus from everything that may dare scar his body, shadow his heart. He presses his lips against his temple, salty against the tears that have streaked his skin, and hopes it is able to convey even a fraction of the adoration he holds within him.
“I would choose you as well sweetheart,” he murmurs hoarsely against his skin, barely louder than a breath, “I would choose you and your mother each and every time, over everything else. There is nothing more important than you.”
He presses another kiss, sweeter and softer, upon his crown, and feels as the wisps of Telemachus’s hair tickles his nose. “I love you,” he says, the first and second and third time, all of what is inside of him cracked open, spilling out onto the floors beneath him.
“Love Papa!” his son says in response, and Odysseus truly does not think his heart could break any further. He would break apart the world for this boy.
“My sweet love,” he murmurs, and breathes through the pain that is this love and the love that is this pain, “Life will not always be so simple, but I will be here, alright? Your papa will be here for you, and he will be so proud of you and he will support you and he will stand by you, but most of all, he will love you.”
He traces the shape of his son’s face with featherlight fingers, the bridge of his nose, the crinkles of his eyes, the bow of his lips, wiping away the tears that have fallen upon him, “My lovely, darling boy. You will grow up strong like the sword, witty like the pen, astute like the coin, and bold like the horse, and I will love you throughout it all.”
He will always, always love him. It is a fact as true as the gods.
Telemachus smiles, almost as if in agreement, and Odysseus, with lips still trembling, smiles back.