It had grown very late and Telemachus sat alone beside the great hearth. His mother had gone off to bed and his father was still down at the shore. The man spent a lot time there just looking up at the stars. Telemachus had been wanting to join him, he just… hadn't yet.
Instead, he sat tipped back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. He rocked lightly, carefully keeping the precarious balance. It wasn't something he had to think about, practiced as he was in the art of rocking a chair on two legs. His mother, always worried he would hit his head, had scolded him for it countless times throughout his life.
He gazed into the roaring fire, just letting himself soak in the quiet of the hall. It had been years since he enjoyed the hearth fire with any peace. The last time that he could recall was the last time his mother had enjoyed it at all. Soon after, there would not be a night when it wasn't surrounded by carousing, drunken, arrogant freeloaders. In the two short weeks since his father's return and the scouring of blood from their palace, Telemachus had been letting himself savor the new experience. He loved it. For so long the only way to escape the unwelcome voices of the suitors was to retreat from his home entirely. The stoney beach below the palace, where his father sat now, had been his preferred hiding place. He wondered briefly if his father would come in and join him by the fire. For a few nights he'd been thinking about asking him. He just… hadn't.
His calm breathing matched the subtle rocking of his chair. The fire roared and snapped as it enveloped him in its warmth. An occasional ember popped loudly and flew out onto the stones near his sandaled feet. The sharp sound didn't disturb him, but actually made his lips quirk up toward a smile. It was all just so nice. Far away, a little part of him feared this was just a dream from which he would wake. For two weeks, that part had been growing smaller and further away.
The legs of his chair gave a faint creak as he rocked back and forth, back and forth. He let his chin drop onto his chest as the firelight danced in his eyes. The flicker and crackle lulled him gently as his thoughts began to vanish like the smoke up the chimney. He could feel the fabric of his chiton where his interlaced fingers rested atop it. The rich smell of the woodsmoke seemed to wrap around him like the fragrance of temple incense. The fire's warm glow stabbed at the edges of darkness all around him as if trying to keep him safe from it.
Out the corner of his eye a dark figure moved into the hall.
Telemachus sighed. The hall was no longer his own. His shoulders tensed. The peace would soon be taken from him.
These bastards never could just leave him alone. He hated the men in his home. Hated them. Always crawling from every corner, leeching their food and wine.
He steeled himself for the customary ridicule.
The suitor stopped in front of his mother's door. Telemachus could hear the light clank as a hand touched the metal door latch. Immediately his heart began thundering in his ears. He couldn't even hear the fire anymore. The time had finally come. A suitor was willing to cross the sacred boundary of his mother's threshold.
The rest would not be far behind. Telemachus would tear them apart or die trying.
He did not think but shot from his seat, sending the chair clattering across the stone floor. He ran, seeing only red, and slammed his body into the man. The man grunted as he was shoved violently against the door. Telemachus was on him again before he even hit the floor. He screamed, his voice almost animal. He punched and kicked at the man on the floor who yelled something, but he couldn't hear his words. He didn't care anyway. The man blocked some of his blows and moved quickly. In the blink of an eye he was up and behind Telemachus, overpowering him. The younger man wasn't strong enough to fight off the wiry pair of arms that suddenly gripped him across his chest. He tried to smash his head into the man's face behind him. The man groaned in pain and then pressed the side of his face to Telemachus'. Telemachus could smell the coppery blood from connecting with his nose or lip. The man's beard bristled against his ear. There was rumble of words he couldn't hear. He couldnt move. His arms were lashed so tightly against his sides, his fists unable to connect with anything. Why wouldn't the man fight him? He just kept him trapped. He kept talking. Why did he keep talking?
"Don't touch my mother!" he heard himself screaming again. He didn't recognize his own voice. Hot breath on his cheek and the words in his ear wouldn't stop. "Fight me!"
Instead the man lowered him to the floor, as he continued to thrash in his grip.
As Telemachus felt the touch of cool stone against his knees, he finally heard the words.
"I'm not them."
Telemachus froze and it all came into focus.
The fire, the stone, torches down the corridor. There were no more suitors. His mother was safe in her room. His father was home. He was sweating now, his heart beating too fast.
"I'm not them. I promise you." The words repeated against his ear. The arms unlocked, but didn't let go.
He knew that voice. It was the one he'd dreamed his whole life to hear. Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth contorting into a grimace. What had he done?
"I'm sorry." The words came out in a strangled whisper. "I'm so sorry!"
"Son-"
Telemachus tore from his father's loose grip. He hauled himself off the floor and ran. He heard him calling after him. It didn't matter. He couldn't face his father. Moments later he found himself locked inside his room, forehead against the door, crying.
He never saw the pain on his father's face or his hands left open helplessly. He never saw his mother open her door and kneel beside her husband on the floor. He didn't see her wipe the blood from his mouth as tears of guilt slipped from the corners of his eyes. All Telemachus knew, all his mind could rail against him, was that he had attacked his own father. And he felt sick knowing that eventually he would have to go back out there and face him again.