Chapter Text
Around the time he lost count of the bodies whose blood bathed him, Odysseus had found some rhythm to his assault.
The men who dared call themselves “suitors” appeared to wise up to his tactics, keeping their torches low and spreading out into larger, if looser clusters of foes who would be likelier to wound their hunter than the panicked, scattered groups that had initially attempted to take advantage of the corners he had built into his home.
He ducked around yet another corner, catching the faint flicker of fire where a sconce wouldn’t be, and in one breath nocked, aimed, and loosed an arrow into the neck of yet another of his prey. He ignored the choked scream that bubbled past the boy’s blood-filled lips, darting forward to snuff out the fallen torch before it could both give away his position and set his house on fire.
A breeze whispered past his neck when he bent to his task, and instinct had him whirling around—away from another suitor he’d missed in the dark—that he barely caught the sight of an archer ducking around the corner in a swish of dark fabric amidst the next seconds of chaos. Odysseus wondered if one of Penelope’s servants had taken up arms against the scum that had littered their halls after all, and frowned. It was strange; he couldn’t recall having had them trained before leaving for Troy. Then again—he slowly bent to pick up the torch that had rolled perilously closer to a tapestry, looking away from the blood that soaked the floor, his sandals, and his hands—a lot could change in twenty years.
He moved further along the path towards the hall where they welcomed guests, silence and suspicion ringing a din in his ears. Odysseus’ trail was bereft of suitors, much more so than he expected, though he had already thinned them down in the past hours. Surely at least some of them had thought to ambush him in the meantime, or build up a steady defence to the room. Still, he kept his guard up in case even one of them had thought to be cautious enough and catch him unawares—and his caution served him well, for he nearly tripped over the corpse of a suitor a mere few stades away from the hall.
A tall, shadowed figure beside the body spun to face him, and Odysseus only registered the fine gleam of their armour when a relief-worked shield blocked his sword from striking armour and skin. In the moment it took for him to process the familiar ivy designs over the hammered bronze, Odysseus’ gaze had already flitted past the shield and tough aegis to the grey eyes of his estranged mentor. His breath caught as, in a moment entirely uncharacteristic of him, all words—all thoughts and fantasies about what to say to her should they ever meet again, all half-whispered prayers and laments—evaporated from his mind.
Athena’s face was expressionless, but the goddess of warfare evidently took pity on him, for the flicker of firelight dimmed and warped unnaturally as she slowed time around them. In the sanctuary of Quick-Time, they stayed silent, and Odysseus wondered if she, like him, was at a loss for words. If her appearance had been a result of his prayer; or if she had already been watching over Penelope and Telemachus as she had over him, and this meeting was naught but chance.
Nonetheless, he knew the pride of the gods well enough to recognize that she would not relent to the first word. “It appears I’ve abandoned mercy after all, as you once wished for me,” he said, forgoing any more obvious greetings.
“So you have,” she murmured, lowering her shield. Her tone was guarded, and it took a moment for him to realize that any ability he’d once had to read it at all had been lost to time. And now, there was no Diomedes, no Achilles, and no other favoured hero to bend their heads together and discuss their patron goddess’ will and wisdom. “And it has served you well.”
Odysseus averted his gaze, sucking in a breath even as the unsaid told you so hung in the air. He smelt ozone, remnants of Zeus’ power that clung to the aegis vest and Athena’s own magic. Had that always been there?
“It has,” he admitted.
Athena hummed. Then: “You have one last battle ahead of you, before you truly reach home. Be sure to win it.”
Odysseus straightened, meeting the steely glint of her eyes once more. “I will.”
She nodded, some emotion flickering past her face, and added, hesitantly, “It is good to see you here. I had… worried, when I couldn’t find you.”
“You looked for me?”
At this, she stiffened. “I needed some convincing. I am only glad that you still hoped to return.”
It was Odysseus’ turn to still. Had she seen him on Ogygia? Had she witnessed the state he’d been in under the forced opulence of the goddess of that obscured island? Had she been the one to urge Hermes to convince Calypso to set him free, to bring the raft to Odysseus when he’d been lost and unwilling to trust?
Had she been capable of aiding him the entire time?
“You should be proud of your own,” she said lowly. “Tel—your child is wise in ways I had long forgotten.”
“Is—have you both spoken?”
Something like slyness slid into her expression, though it was still far too guarded to be anything but a shadow of her old openness. “We have. You will be surprised, by the person you will find. And, I suspect, rather proud of the wisdom gained.”
“I can’t believe I’m this close,” he admitted, grip slacking on his bow. The corridor was still unnaturally dark around them, and he supposed by now that she was unlikely to drop him back in real-time seconds away from certain death. “When I left, he was but a babe who could fit in my arms. I don’t doubt I’ll love the man he’s become.”
Athena hummed, looking slightly uncomfortable—the open display of sentiment must have been it, she had always been slightly off-put by the times he bared or followed his heart. But she only bowed her head and rested a hand on his shoulder. The age-old gesture of support warmed him as much as it shocked him—but he brought his hand to cover hers anyway, a silent acceptance of the olive branch, to move past old hurts as much as they could.
“I don’t doubt you will, either. But heed my words, Sacker of Cities: once you have staked your victory, be open to the changes that lie before you. Much of Ithaca is different from how you left it, and things will need… significant improvement, before your land prospers again, but not all that you find is for the worse.”
He dropped his hand, sensing an end to the conversation and reaching automatically for an arrow from his quiver. From the corner of his eye, he also spotted movement: perhaps the anonymous archer he’d encountered had not been of the household after all; the tall and slight figure shadowed still across a torch but given away by the shimmer of their silk peplos. Athena followed his gaze, and the slyness returned to her face much more strongly this time.
“Perhaps I shall ease this reunion,” she said, and snapped the world back into motion.
The archer yelped and shoved themself back when Odysseus was snapped out of the cover of Quick-Thought, as he leaped forward, snagging a torch from a nearby sconce. They scrambled for the cloth across their shoulders—a veil, or hood, but stiffened and dropped their attempt when the fire lit their face along with his. Odysseus watched as strong shoulders hitched in ornate blue fabric and muscled hands stilled and kohl-lined eyes widened, a silence stretching across the hallway as they took in each other’s appearance.
The stranger, his defender, swallowed. “Father?”