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Life at the palace had become easy.
When he had first arrived, Antinous had sized up every man and boy who had come before him, men like boulders and knob-boned children and everything in between, all the suitors he would need to outperform if he wanted to one day sit on the throne. He had been twenty-five himself: an unfortunate age indeed, for he was older than the boyish, more beautiful men vying for the queen’s hand, but younger—and thus less experienced—than the sullen, war-hardened soldiers who could offer her security and wealth. Antinous himself had no wealth to offer; his father owned both coin and land, but he had sent Antinous to Ithaca to make a name for himself instead, without leaning on the deeds of his family.
It was a noble thought in theory, Antinous supposed. He had heard many men proclaim the names of their fathers to the queen, long lines of kings and demigods, but she had been unimpressed. Antinous would have been ashamed to present her with the comparatively meagre lineage that was his father and practically no one else of importance.
Marrying into royalty was his only chance at building something he could call his own, but he had quickly realised it was a fool’s errand to try and win over the queen’s heart—or even just her mind, appealing to the health of the kingdom. Out of a hundred good men, Antinous knew he was not the finest choice by far, and even the greatest of them had been unsuccessful at swaying her decision.
So, it had all come to a standstill. The queen had fed and sheltered them as was proper, but had given them little else than that for the first few years. Some would leer and call to her in passing, expecting her to duck her head and blush, but instead she would fix them with a chilled glare, her eyes like onyx polished to a shine, and Antinous would watch with amusement as his fellow suitors shrunk back and did not speak for hours after.
They were not worthy of her, Antinous knew—none of them were. Deluded though she was, caught up in the hope that her lord husband would return to her at last, she was surprisingly level-headed in all other matters, wise beyond her years and her sex. To this day Antinous felt guilty for having stayed so long, a burden upon the palace’s treasury, even though he knew there was no use waiting for something that would never happen.
The thing was, though, that it was that exact wisdom of hers that had led the queen to a compromise. Some time in the sixth year, eight years after the fall of Ilion, she had called them all to the Great Hall, a mighty, torchlit room with ceilings so high Antinous had to crane his neck to see them. She had asked about their skills and talents, one by one; by now, they had all gotten to know each other well and could point out the best cook, the best singer, the strongest bull among them. They had become brothers over the years, and would no longer shove at each other for a woman’s attention, neither the queen nor the servant girls they would swoon at in passing. They had answered honestly, one after the other.
Antinous had known it for what it was. He had stepped forward, the sea of men parting to reveal him. “My lady,” he had said, searching for practised, recited words that he had never had to use outside of his father’s palace. “Among my brothers, I am the most skilled in swordplay.” He'd paused, allowing space for the men’s hums of agreement, and he did need to refer to his father now, for he had no other way to prove his honesty without drawing his sword. “My father was Eupeithes, a great warrior and ally of Odysseus. I would be honoured to begin earning my keep by teaching all I know to the young prince.”
The prince had perked up at this, seated at his mother’s side, carefully silent. He was her shadow, the two of them rarely seen apart. In the beginning, it had been for both their safety, and Antinous did not blame them. Now, though, the point was another. Even if the queen were to remarry, Telemachus was still the firstborn son. He would be king one day, and this was a crucial learning opportunity for him, seeing how times of strife and conflict were handled appropriately.
“I will have schedules written for my son’s teachings,” the queen had said, her voice low and lovely, carrying to the very edges of the hall with ease. “A prince’s education is valuable.” She’d let her gaze wander around the room, addressing each of them with that crisp look, the way she held herself with grace and fierce power at once. A warning. “My son will report to me each week. Those whose performance I do not deem adequate will leave the palace once and for all.” Her eyes had met Antinous’. “As for all the rest, I expect you will fulfill your new duties with diligence.”
That was how it had started. Antinous had felt more victorious than he would have if Penelope were to have chosen him as her new husband, for marriages were tedious, necessary work, but this was where he thrived. He had always enjoyed fighting, urging his own tutors to take his teachings farther long before he was ready. He was not wise, nor sweet-voiced or gifted in crafts like some of his brothers, but he was quick, and he knew how to wield a sword like it was an extension of himself.
Life had become easy because this had given Antinous a chance to repay even just a little of the kindness the queen had shown him, however reluctant she had been to give it. It had become easy because Telemachus had taken a liking to him nearly in an instant, his initial wariness fading the moment they first met in the palace’s armoury, a space for sparring and teaching between bronze plates and weapons. He would ask about Antinous’ life in between strikes of his wooden practice sword, his body growing to adapt to the steady strain, and his confidence with it. It had become easy because Antinous had always wanted a brother, lonely as he’d been with nothing but his father’s company, and this was as close as he had ever come to such a thing.
Telemachus was wonderful. He had his mother’s grace and his father’s wits, often opting to circumvent the methods Antinous taught him to defeat him with trickery instead. Antinous would show him how to deflect a blow, instructing the young prince to try and hit him, and as often as not it would still be Antinous with his back to the ground, having to yield to avoid being poked in the side with the tip of Telemachus’ sword. He was a bright boy, a joyful boy, and he learned quickly in all fields, if the stories of the other men were to be believed. His voice was slow to yield to the cracks of growth, but he moved like a dancer more often than not already, so any sort of music that did not involve singing was child’s play to him. His needlework was his weakest suit, for it was impossible for him to sit still long enough to get it right, but he was not discouraged; and besides, a king hardly needed to know how to embroider. He had taken it up to make his mother happy, to gift her his creations when she seemed to need it most, and whenever he failed, he would always try again.
The first birthday after the beginning of this arrangement had come and gone unnoticed; Telemachus had not mentioned it until the day had almost been through, laying gasping for air in the grass after a particularly fierce sparring session. Antinous had nudged him in complaint; he would have given him something, had he known.
“You have given me plenty,” Telemachus had responded, flush with exhaustion but all the more content for it. It had warmed Antinous’ heart, but still he had vowed to make sure that next year would be one he would never forget.
And now, it was time.
They were smaller in number than they had been the year before; the queen had grown milder in demeanour, but she had held true to her promise that unworthy men would be sifted out. Still, with a few dozen of them left, it was easy to get all the arrangements set up in the short time that Telemachus was away. Having grown to be considered somewhat of a leader among his brothers—though he truly could not say how that had come to be—Antinous had taken charge of the planning, and was now handing out instructions to each of them, sending one man away with the presents to wrap them, another to Telemachus’ room to clean it, and a handful of others still all around the palace, balancing on each other’s shoulders to hang up garlands and other sorts of decorations.
Wringing his hands amidst the lively bustle of the preparations, Antinous took a moment to breathe. It was a sad time for the prince. His hope was weaning after so many years of praying for his father’s return, and he had set out on one final search, one final attempt at evading the grief that had been catching up to him for a while now. Antinous wondered if it was the right time, if Telemachus would not rather be alone when he returned. Over time he had gotten to know him quite well, but not entirely. He had never seen him cry, nor act like anything other than his gleaming, energetic self. If he came home dejected and in need of support, Antinous was not sure he would know what to do.
“You are troubled,” said Penelope from beside him, having approached noiselessly. Antinous startled, then softened. Her eyes were searching, warm with joy for the occasion.
“I am,” Antinous admitted. The wind sent his hair flying, and he followed the movement, looking out over the horizon where Telemachus would soon reappear. “Might I ask your counsel, my lady?”
The queen disappeared from his periphery. Antinous looked down to see she had seated herself on one of the stairs that led up to the entrance of the palace. Antinous sank down beside her.
“Are we doing the right thing?” he asked. It was summer, and the sun skipped off the surface of the sea like a thousand golden coins. Antinous had to close his eyes. “Forgive me if I presume, my lady, but… I do not expect Telemachus will return with your husband.”
“That is true,” Penelope said, surprising him. All this time she had held onto hope, clinging on like someone drowning. A beat passed; there was more she wanted to say, Antinous could tell, but she was thinking about how to say it. “You think he will be too struck by grief to celebrate,” she said at last. Antinous nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I would not want to tear at the wound further.”
“That is noble.” She turned to him, looking up at his tension-torn face. “You care greatly for him.”
It was not a question, he knew. It was easy to see for all who cared to look.
“Yes,” Antinous said again. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted it to be good, at least, so that Telemachus might have one more good memory before the weight of adulthood began to burden him, one more night of merriment before duty called and he would truly become a man, taking the late king’s place.
“Then there is nothing to fear,” Penelope told him with an odd sort of finality. “He knows he is dear to you, and you are dear to him in turn, as are most of the other men. Should he bring dark news, I expect we will all be there to catch him when he falls, won’t we?”
Antinous looked at her, stunned for a moment. All these years, her undying optimism had seemed to him like folly, a rare crack in her otherwise flawless intelligence, but he thought he could see the truth now. It was not folly, nor the senseless, raging denial of a woman too lost in love to see reality. It was the opposite. She seemed certain in the same way she’d always been, but there were openings there now; Antinous thought it was not her husband she was holding onto. He did not think she truly expected to see him return.
Perhaps she had simply been stalling her suitors until her son came of age because she knew that he was just as worthy of a king as his father had been. Perhaps she had kept them all around so Telemachus would grow up weaving close bonds with his people, so he would grow into a ruler who faced his citizens at eye level, seeing them as individuals rather than pawns to play. Antinous’ father had told him of old King Laertes, his endless cruelty and thirst for war.
Odysseus had put an end to it and left only this behind. He had died in what would likely be the last war Ithaca would ever see.
The island already had a king, and a beloved one at that. When he was needing, his people would provide. Penelope sat at the feet of her creation now, the net she had woven over the years, and Antinous realised that he had greatly underestimated her.
“Yes,” he said, assured. Penelope smiled, as if she could see his thoughts written on his face and knew that he understood.
“Call me when it is time,” she said, standing. “There is someone I need to speak to.”
Antinous stood as well, bowing his head. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Thank you, Antinous.”
She took her leave, and it was with a smile that Antinous returned to his plans. A cake had been made, brightly dyed and large enough to feed them all twice over. The gifts had been wrapped and loaded onto carts. A goat had been bought and brought over, pure white and barely a year of age. Antinous had it all brought to the Great Hall, which had been decorated so densely that it was hardly recognisable.
He eyed the garland that stretched across the length of the room. Happy Birthday, little wolf, it read, a moniker the men had given him: first for his resemblance to his father, who had been called a wolf at Troy for how strategically he would strike down his foes, but now, years later, Antinous thought there was another meaning. Just like a wolf cub, Telemachus had been raised not just by his parents, but by half the island. He was the sum of all their skills, and all their minds, too, his humour a mixture of the jokes they liked best, a mirror to their kindness, his growth honed on the stone of their support.
Antinous hoped he knew how loved he was. He hoped Telemachus would not see it and think only of the father he had lost.
As the sun began to set, the signal came: a great war horn that had been one of the men’s gifts to Penelope. The prince was home.
Immediately, Antinous herded them to the Great Hall, yanking the doors shut by their great handles. It was dim, though not dark; Antinous wished there was a quicker way to light the torches that hung high above after they were extinguished, but they had to remain lit for now.
“Someone call Penelope,” he ordered, cocking his head in the direction of a smaller door at the side of the hall. And someone would indeed have gone, had they at that moment not been alerted by the call of an owl where it landed on the chandelier above. It was far larger than an ordinary bird had any right to be, and the room shivered with the energy of it, the sheer magnitude of a god compressed into such a concentrated form.
“She is coming,” said the owl, tipping backward to soar across the room and land in their midst, changing shape mid-flight. The men stepped back to make space for her, though she was not clad in her usual armour, nor did she carry her mighty spear and aegis.
“Athena,” said someone, and the name washed over the room like a wave. Antinous stood frozen for a moment; he had never been in the presence of a god before, least of all the wisest and most skilled of them. Her features slashed terribly, sharp as a man’s, and her eyes had remained devoid of colour even after her transformation.
“I hear there is a celebration,” she said, a voice that chased chills down the spines of all who heard it. She was smiling, but the gods were terribly difficult to read. Antinous did not know if she was offended for not having received a direct invitation.
Someone pushed him lightly forward, and Athena’s gleaming eyes locked with his. He held out his hands to her, shaking palms facing upward. “Yes, great goddess,” he said. “Prince Telemachus is twenty today.”
“I see,” Athena said, considering. She towered far above all of them, half again as tall as Antinous himself. “And where is the prince?”
It was a trick question. She must have seen the ship. “Coming soon,” Antinous told her regardless, because he was not the sort of man who could afford mind games with the gods. “It is a surprise.”
“What a shame.” Athena paced slowly, her hands behind her back. Where she trod, men scrambled to get out of her way.
“Goddess?”
“I fear he will not get to see this surprise you have planned,” Athena said. Antinous tried not to shiver. They had done nothing to draw her wrath, and even if they had, her preferred mode of punishment was not murder, nor to toy with her victims to draw out their panic before she killed them. There was something else.
“Why is that, Pallas?”
“Because he did not find what he was looking for.” The room filled with the weight of that statement, the meaning they could all anticipate: Telemachus was hurting, and badly. “He will go to his room and try to wrangle with his thoughts,” Athena went on. “I need you to stop him.”
The men exchanged glances. They had all grown close to Telemachus over the years, but none of them knew how to go about this, how to comfort him over the confirmation of a truth that everyone but he had known already. Antinous lacked the delicate skill of words that would have been necessary for such a feat.
“Allow me,” said Penelope, closing the door behind her. Athena smiled, coming to a stop in her pacing.
“That is better still,” she said.
And so it was decided. Penelope went to pick her son up from the docks, for she knew him better than any of the others did, better still than Athena herself. In the meantime, the men finished up the work they had not been able to attend to before the signal had come: setting the table, arranging the presents in a more pleasant way, setting up what few instruments they had been able to lend from the townsfolk nearby and assigning a man to each.
“Brothers,” Antinous addressed them, standing on a table, and the room fell silent to listen. “If Telemachus comes through that door, it will mean that there is something to be salvaged. It will mean that he is willing to forget his sorrows for a few hours. I want no man to show pity tonight. We will not talk of the king. Just for tonight, there will be nothing amiss.”
“Let us give him a birthday he won’t forget.”
The men turned. It was not one of them who had spoken; it was the beggar who had let himself into the palace a few days ago. Antinous had reported him to the queen right away, but she had told him to let him be, and so they had. This man stepped out now, away from the dark corner he had pushed himself into.
He was filthy, and perhaps a little mad, but otherwise harmless. If this man was as set on making Telemachus happy as the rest of them were, then he was one of them. After all, Antinous himself had been an unwelcome guest once, and all his brothers with him.
“The old man speaks true,” Antinous declared, thrusting his fist into the air, and he was met with shouts of agreement before they all realised at the same time that it was wiser to be quiet. “Be merry, my friends,” he said, ducking low now. He looked to Athena, who was watching in approval. “Make it a celebration he will tell his grandchildren about.”
The door creaked; the men dispersed, exchanging excited whispers. With a motion like felling a tree, Athena snatched the fire from the torches, dousing the room in darkness. The door opened, daylight streaming in, though only barely.
“What is this?” came Telemachus’ voice. His mother responded.
“Go inside, love.”
Antinous watched from his hiding spot behind the presents as she gently nudged him along. In this blinding darkness, there was no way for him to give a signal, but he was sure Athena had a plan.
And indeed, when Telemachus was far enough inside the room, the fires re-ignited themselves, rushing like doves from her hands. The room was flooded in light, and all at once the men jumped out.
“Happy Birthday!” they shouted in near unison. Antinous watched the prince’s face closely, witnessing the flicking facets of surprise, then apprehension, then understanding. Then sadness, the sort that latched onto happy moments as well and sought to snuff them out like an envious sibling.
Antinous approached, determined to combat it before it could take root. He opened his arms for him, willing them not to tremble; he and Telemachus had never gone beyond the sort of touch that was inevitable during combat, but the young prince looked like an embrace was just what he needed. Antinous tried to take the weight from his gaze, to not look at him as though he’d heard what had happened and wanted to comfort him. It was merely an act of affection for the birthday boy.
Telemachus walked into the embrace, slowly at first, then with more momentum on the last step. It took all of Antinous’ self control not to run a hand over his head, to not hold him as close as he no doubt needed. He just gave him a brief squeeze before releasing him, a hand on his shoulder.
The other men were looking to him for guidance. Their leader, though elected only by mutual agreement.
“The prince has returned,” Antinous declared festively, leading Telemachus forward where the others could crowd him, delivering gentle slaps on his back. “Twenty years he is old. Not long now till offers of marriage will start coming in.” He felt Telemachus tense beneath his hand, but he saw the look on his face also, annoyance and fondness in equal measure.
“Athena,” he whined. “Help me.”
Athena, from where she was leaning against the wall, was watching it go down with barely contained amusement. “I fear he is right, young wolf,” she said. “You are a man now.”
“I have been a man for years already,” Telemachus protested, though it only earned him a gentle pinch to his cheek from his mother.
“But you’ve grown so handsome in all that time,” she cooed.
“Mother.”
Antinous shot a brief look at some of the men, who were lying in wait, still unsure what to make of the situation. At his signal, they hurried to the instruments they had set up, harps and flutes and lyres made from ash and oak. They began to play, and the air swelled with the cheerful tune of their song.
“Come,” Antinous said. A seat of honour had been prepared at the table for the prince, complete with colourful cloth draped over the back of his chair, shining in his favourite greens and blues.
“You did all of this for me?” Telemachus asked, taking it all in. Antinous guided him down into his chair, frozen in wonder as he was.
“Of course,” he said.
“It’s your birthday,” said Iromenes, a ginger youth only a few years older than Telemachus himself. It was him who taught Telemachus to work the needle. “We could not let it pass like last year.” General agreement rang through the room; how foolish indeed for Telemachus to think he was not worth celebrating. It had happened once, and would never happen again.
Cake was served, with the largest piece going to the prince himself. They all waited in anticipation as he raised the first bite to his mouth, watching his face melt in delight. It was all worth it, then. Looks of triumph were exchanged, and after that the tension eased.
Antinous had finished his second slice of cake by the time Telemachus could no longer feign politeness and pretend not to be deathly curious about the presents. “What is it?” he asked, pointing at a vague block wrapped with woven cloth.
“You’ll have to open it to find out,” Antinous told him. He looked to his mother then, as if asking for permission, still a boy at heart. The queen humoured him and nodded.
Though the wrapping was humble and at times non-existent, the presents the men had found were glorious indeed, each bringing more light to Telemachus’ eyes than the last. There were weapons: finely made bows and bronze spears and shining swords, thin and nimble like the man who would wield them. There was pottery and tapestries depicting his favourite tales of heroes and monsters. There were pastries, clumsily made as the men had ushered the servant girls out of the kitchens, insisting on baking themselves, but the love was evident in every crumb and morsel. There were dyes for him to paint with, and fine clothes for him to wear. Antinous himself had found a lovely tunic for him, brightly coloured like the sky, with golden bangles and rings to match.
Antinous found himself thinking that Telemachus wore fine things well. He found himself gathering ideas for next year, and the year after that, looking for ways he could bring joy to him on each birthday that followed, because he deserved it. He watched Telemachus unwrap his presents, starry-eyed like a child, demanding to know the donor of each one so he could embrace them. He watched his brothers, too, as they watched Telemachus in turn, feeling an odd sort of kinship with them that he hadn’t before. They were his friends, and some of them he loved dearly, but it was another matter entirely to feel connected with them through this: the love they shared for the man they had started out cursing, but had come to harbour deep affection for.
When his eyes searched for Penelope, he found that she was already looking at him. If she truly was as skilled at reading people as her husband had been, Antinous was sure she already knew what he was thinking. He hoped she knew that he was grateful to her, too, for having warmed up to the men, for allowing them to be brothers and uncles to her son like this.
When the last present had been opened and the last word of thanks had been delivered, Athena stood from the table.
“Are you leaving already?” Telemachus asked. She smiled, a small twitch of a motion on her handsome face.
“Not yet, young prince. There is one more gift you have yet to receive.”
At this, a murmur went through the hall. Divine gifts were unspeakably rare, and often powerful beyond compare. It was surprising enough that the goddess had chosen Telemachus as one of her favourites at such a young age, before he had many accomplishments to speak of, but this was special indeed.
Telemachus stood as well, as though he knew the honour being bestowed upon him. But Athena did not move. She did not retrieve some package or another from a secret hiding spot that even the men had not known about; she simply raised her right hand and cast a swirling sort of motion with it, a surge of godly power rushing through the room.
For a moment, it was hard to tell what had changed.
Then the first man noticed. It was Lemnos, a dark boar of a man, who had been the last to pick his seat and had been left sitting next to the beggar, and he shrieked as he saw that the man beside him was no longer a beggar at all. Antinous pushed his chair back to peek over the heads of his brothers. Where before there had been a mass of sagging skin and white hair wrapped in a tattered shroud, there now sat a younger man dressed in a white tunic and a red cloak. His hair was chestnut and his beard much shorter than before, and his frame was broader, though visibly eaten by hunger. He was weeping, but even through the tears Antinous could see that his dark eyes matched that of the prince.
“I suppose it is not just a present for you,” Athena said, and only then did Antinous notice Penelope, frozen in her shock, both of her hands covering her mouth.
Oh.
“Reveal your leg, stranger,” someone demanded, only to earn himself a smack across the head from his neighbour.
“Don’t be foolish, do you think Athena would bring an impostor?”
Oh.
Chaos erupted, a cacophony of questions and creaking chairs. The king was crowded, even as he rose from his seat, and Antinous saw a look in his eyes that he knew all too well.
Antinous put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The room fell quiet. “Stay back,” he told his brothers. “He was brought here to reunite with his family. Give him space.”
The men moved, albeit reluctantly. A channel was formed for the late king, though he was late no longer. His knees trembled as he moved, approaching Penelope with tiny steps, tentative like a newborn doe. Once he was within reach, Penelope reached up to touch his face, slowly, as though she was afraid it would go straight through him.
Antinous had never seen much emotion on the queen’s face, which he was sure was by design, but when she embraced her husband now, it was like a dam had been broken. It was quiet, quiet enough to hear their choked-out breaths that they shot into each other’s shoulders. Antinous nudged the man beside him, thin-built Alexander, and motioned to the harps. Alexander went, and not long after there was the illusion of privacy in the noise he created, a tender tune that plucked at the heartstrings as his fingers plucked the harp.
“Sit,” Antinous said into the room, and one by one the men sat, pretending to be absent, to not bear witness to this scene that would no doubt have songs written about it.
Antinous caught sight of the prince, standing at the margins of the hall, watching on with his face unreadable. Perhaps he was unsure of this. Antinous could only imagine what it was like to be reunited with a parent after so long; his own mother had died in childbirth, and he could not imagine meeting her today, this woman who had given him so much, though he recalled so little.
A little longer, and Antinous would have come to him, taken him outside to catch his breath. All this must have been a lot to take in. But right at that moment the new-but-old king released his wife and addressed him.
Though he shared this joy, Antinous did not listen, only lifting his gaze from his plate of crumbs every so often to ensure Telemachus was alright, that he did not need a break and was only too proud to ask for it. This was not his. Telemachus had been without his father for long enough, and there was no way to observe their reunion without it feeling like an unjust intrusion.
He exchanged looks with his fellow men, suitors no longer, though they had not been that for a long time. They had the same uncertainty about them, the lack of direction they must all have felt right now.
In the king’s absence, they had found their place.
Now that Odysseus had returned, what were they?
No sooner had he formed that thought than Telemachus was calling his name. Antinous’ head shot up, searching him in the room, and being met with the brightest of smiles as he was coming toward him, leading his father by the arm. Clearing his throat, Antinous stood.
He was wartorn, that much was certain, and what little skin had not grown over with hair during his journey was pocked with scars of all shapes and sizes. He had the haunted look of all those who had killed. Still, he was Antinous’ king.
“My lord,” he said, dipping his head.
“This is Antinous,” Telemachus said. “He taught me how to fight.” And his face softened a little there, a twitch of his nose that always came out when he was in thought. “He is my friend.”
It suddenly occurred to Antinous that there was no denying what three and a half dozen men were doing in the palace, however amicable they were acting. And then, a moment later, it occurred to him that Odysseus had lived among them for days, and that, if he had wanted them dead, none of them would still have been standing. Antinous hoped he had seen enough; he hoped that the fondness his son had for the men was enough to spare their lives.
The king was looking up at Antinous with still-damp eyes, his tears glistening in his beard, grown thick and unruly. When he held out his hand, Antinous saw that it was trembling.
“A friend of Telemachus’ is a friend of mine,” he said. Antinous took his hand, shook it once.
“Your son is wonderful,” he told him, which only served to make Odysseus tear up once more.
“Of that I am sure.”
Telemachus beamed at them both, a smile like sunlight breaking through the clouds, and then he was leading his father away again. Antinous watched as he introduced him to each of the men, stumbling over his words at times; he watched the king, weary and shaking, listen to each of the men’s praises of Telemachus, for each of them had much to say about him.
Things would surely change now. Antinous was sure that most of his brothers had stopped pursuing the throne long ago; those who would still have liked to be king had surely given up hope after a while. Penelope was steadfast, a fixed star. It was not the filling of that vacuum that he lamented, nor his brothers, who Antinous knew as well as himself and could easily read the bitter sweetness from.
Without a doubt, Telemachus deserved a father.
Only, if Antinous were to cast aside all empathy and wishes for the boy’s best, he found that he was afraid of losing what he had. He was afraid of losing Telemachus. And the others were, too, all of them meeting Antinous’ eyes when he glanced at them, each of them as lost as he was.
They had all vowed to make this birthday one of a kind. It would not do to be sad on a day like this. It was, after all, a task that had become as easy to him as breathing: to rally his brothers, channel them into a common cause.
It had not been his plan to involve Athena, but she seemed to see the decision on his face and appeared beside him in an instant, summoning enough cups for them all with a wave of her hand. Together they knocked the cork from the barrels that had been retrieved from the palace’s storage rooms earlier and handed out cups of wine. Telemachus had never liked the taste, but if there had ever been a cause for a toast, it was surely this one.
When Telemachus was done with the introductions, Antinous took a breath to steady himself and hopped up onto a table.
“My friends,” he began, a waver to his voice now. He let his gaze wander, reaching his brothers first, then Telemachus, then Penelope, then the king where he was holding onto them both. “Twenty years ago, Ithaca gained a king.” He paused, considering. “And lost another. Today they stand reunited, against all odds and twists of fate. Drink,” he called, lifting his own cup, “to the king who has made his way back home. To Penelope, who has treated us with hospitality and kindness when we were least deserving of it. And,” he said, his gaze resting on Telemachus, who looked back in turn, “drink to the young prince. May you receive what you have given a thousand times over.”
The room exploded into cheers, the noise trumped only by Athena’s call, who had retaken her owl form and perched herself on Telemachus’ shoulder. He looked so happy, Antinous thought. His family was complete, his grief forgotten, a flush high on his cheeks so short after having drunk deep from his chalice. In such a short amount of time, his life had turned around entirely, shifting into what it should have been all along. Whatever happened next, Telemachus would be alright.
Antinous found that the efforts he’d gone to for this celebration were the least he would do for him. If it meant he would get to see him smile like that again, he would have given Telemachus the world.