Odysseus found himself wide awake in the pre dawn. He could tell the darkness was losing its grip as it paled at the edges. All was perfectly still. The only sounds were the ever present distant roar of the sea and Penelope breathing softly beside him. He loved the touch of her fingers on his arm and her face against his shoulder. He would have marveled yet again at the experience if not for the one thought crowding all else from his mind. Telemachus.
He moved his free hand up and his fingers prodded gingerly at his ribs. He tested them, breathing deeply. They ached but nothing more. He didn't have to touch his face to know it was bruised. A stale taste or blood was still in his mouth.
He needed to see his son. The way he had run off, the guilt in his voice. Odysseus ran his hand over his eyes. It wasn't his fault. Telemachus had to know that. He lay there turning everything over in his mind. He told himself to stay put. It was too early. He should wait. He told himself he just wanted to satisfy his own guilt. That was part of it, but his son's apology, the sight of him running… Well, he tried, but he couldn't remain in bed any longer.
Very carefully he unwrapped his arm from Penelope's gentle hold. Even more slowly, he removed himself their bed. She did not stir. He padded across the cool stone and quietly slipped from the room. In the hall he moved as not to draw the attention of an early servant who was busy about the hearth.
The corridors were silent save for his own bare footsteps. He admonished himself as he made his way closer to his son's room. Telemachus was surely still asleep. He should leave him alone. His son probably didn't want to see him anyway. He was nothing more than a reminder of men who ruined his and his mother's lives for years. Deep down he understood that thought was madness but last night made him feel sick, made him feel like... a monster.
In the burgeoning light Odysseus stood in front of Telemachus' door. He kept telling himself to go back. He didn't listen. Instead he stood there in the silence for what felt like ages until, finally, he raised a fist to the door.
He listened but heard nothing from within. He waited. No matter what his thoughts railed against him, he just waited.
A quiet voice on the other side of the door pulled him suddenly out of his ruminations.
"Father?"
A lump rose in his throat. "I…" he hesitated. "Can I see you?
" The next few seconds left him holding his breath. The empty space was torture.
And then, "You want to?"
The question felt to Odysseus like a cold hand had reached into his chest, clutched his heart and squeezed. For a second his breath caught. He let his forehead fall against the door with a light thump.
For the last twenty years! But he didn't say that. He didn't ask how he could ask such a thing. All he could manage was "Please."
The pause that followed was like a knife.
"Ok." He heard his son say, voice barely above a whisper.
Relief surged through his body. He inhaled quickly and let the breath out, long and slow. Odysseus lifted his head off the door and took a step back as the latch moved on the other side.