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"Again," He demands, little fingers forming little fists. They thump softly the hem of Penelope's dress, and she only smiles. "Again."
"You've heard it so many times, dear one." Penelope says, lifting Telemachus up onto her lap. He is immediately distracted by the firelight catching onto the golden jewelry braided into her hair, like stars against the dark sky. She takes a strand and curls it around her finger, uncoiling it onto the child's nose. He shrieks out a peal of laughter.
"Again." He says. He is too young to know many words, cheeks still blush with so much youth. Certain words, however, were familiar and spoken frequently. Story. Again. Mama. And his first word, "Papa."
"Well, if you insist." Penelope hums. Her heart beats painfully in her chest, a sadness she hopes will never reach her son's eyes. She catches the beginnings of it now, when he would call out to his wayward father in the middle of the night, the way her singing could never really replace the deep timbre of his lullabies. "Where do I begin?"
And she begins where she always does, with a courting, with a deal, with an oath. With a war.
Telemachus often finds himself waiting. With his feet planted firmly on the ground, roots dug so deep he looks out onto the wide open sea and only feels dread. His eyes are always open, always watching. Watching the old men grow restless, as the young left behind grow older, braver. Watching as his mother's smiles wanes with each coming year.
He is waiting, and he doesn't know what for. Does he wait for a homecoming? For a herald to come running, panting from the exertion, bearing the words, "the king has returned"? Does he wait for the Ithacan sails to blur into the horizon, colorful fabric blotting out the sun? They must have been massive, those ships that sailed off to Troy. A thousand ships is a mighty number. Telemachus can barely count up to the hundreds. Maybe he waits for nothing at all. Maybe he waits for the waiting to be over, for the hope to snuff out like lamplight.
Telemachus is ten when the war is over. He is in the orchards, with old Laertes, who's seen better, brighter days. He is holding his grandfather's hand in his own, gnarly fingers intertwined with his knobby ones. A servant bursts in, and all but shouts, "Troy has fallen."
Laertes all but faints. His weight falls on Telemachus, who by luck alone, manages to catch the elderly man before they both tumble to the dirt. The servant rushes forward to aid them and get him into a sitting position, and Laertes only weeps, rumbles of thunder from his great chest.
"Why do you cry, grandfather?" Telemachus asks. He will realize why, when he is older. "This is good news, is it not?"
"It is, my boy." Laertes replies, face still slick with tears. "It is good news."
Telemachus is ten when he holds his mother's hand and scans the shoreline, waiting for the sails to appear, for the fleet to come home, his father at the prow.
Telemachus is ten when the sun sets, and rises, and sets again. He waits, running up and down the sand, footsteps washed away by the tide. He is often joined by Penelope, or Eumaeus, or Eurycleia. Laertes joins him once, though only briefly. The sorrow in his eyes twists unease into Telemachus' gut.
News of Agamemnon's return stirs the people, and of Nestor's and Diomedes'. Menelaus is still missing. The kings are coming home.
Telemachus is ten when Troy falls. And then he is eleven. And he is twelve. And he is kept waiting. The trips to the shore grow from daily, to weekly, to monthly, to none at all. The horizon stays empty, and Telemachus is left with a rage he cannot quell.
He tries to make out the shape of him. Cobble together an image from his mother's stories, from the memories his grandfather reluctantly gives him. There is a scar on his thigh from where a boar pierced his skin, Eurycleia tells him. He tries to imagine it, pink as gums, like a lightning strike. He rubs the pale skin of his own thigh, and imagines his father looking back before he sailed off to war.
Another half of a decade has passed by. He has grown further into himself, lean and tall. His limbs are now stronger with age, and he can fight as well as any soldier.
The men of the kingdom are growing antsy, clearly restless at their king's absence. He is much too young to claim the throne, gangly and awkward and quiet, but it's clear that they are growing dissatisfied that a queen still rests on it. The young nobles of the kingdom grow loud and confident. Hungry things, they want for wives, for riches greater than their names. Telemachus does not care for them.
Laertes has exiled himself to work the farm, refusing the crown. His hair has wilted from grief, and his face is lined so heavily it looks as if he was a corpse. Telemachus wonders if death runs in the family, if the gods must truly hate him to have his father die at sea and his grandfather to die right before him.
Still, his eyes stray to the gates, often filled with traders and citizens alike. Mother says that father looks a lot like him, with the same nose and crooked smile. She says that he'll know him when he sees him, that Telemachus is as much his father's son as he is his mother's. He looks among the strangers for his reflection, for the lanky limbs and mess of hair. And then he tries to envision himself older, muscles filled out and hardened by war, curls of a beard framing his jaw. He tries to think of a crooked smile, of deep set eyes the color of a cloudy sky. He tries to make the mirage smile. It only stares back at him, expression dark as flint. He wonders if his father is a cruel man.
A year crawls along, and his halls are constantly filled. There are beasts that lounge in his home, mouth wet with meat and wine. They try to woo his mother, with rough words and a sly smile. They try to entice her with gifts and riches, with promise of valor. She stares ahead stone faced, and he is proud.
He would fight them, if he could, but they are stronger, and they outnumber him. He feels like a lamb, in a wolf's den. He mouths his father's name, incurs it like a curse, angry and hateful.
The suitors laugh, arrogant. He vows vengeance, and he discovers an emotion stronger than hope: spite.
When Telemachus is twenty, the first wisps of hair start to sprout from his chin. He is delighted. His mother is stricken.
When Telemachus is twenty, he leaves home for the first time, boards a ship and treads the same waters that swallowed his father. He comes home.
A beggar offers him a seat. He refuses. And he waits.