Work Text:
But First, Survive
“You can manage this, Telemachus,” Athena repeats, though the boy didn’t respond to her the first time.
Young man? Where is the dividing line, really, with mortals? How old was Odysseus when first Athena took him under her wing?
“Your leg is broken, Telemachus,” Athena repeats, because knowledge is her domain; is the only thing it sometimes feels like she can offer people. Wisdom is so much harder, after all; and the wisdom to know when to engage in battle even harder still. “If you don’t set it soon—”
“I know,” Telemachus finally breathes out. “I know. Just… just give me a moment, all right?”
Athena hesitates, and then settles on the ground next to the shuddering boy. “I can do that.” She hesitates, and then asks, still trying to be gentle and not sure she succeeds, “Why?”
“Because I killed a man,” Telemachus says, his head rolling to the side, to where Karolos stares unblinking up at the sky.
“Thanatos will be by to take his soul soon,” Athena soothes, glad to understand at last the source of Telemachus’ distress. “He will wander until such time as he gathers coins for Charon.”
What color had been in Telemachus’ face vanishes, his lips turning blue-white. “Should I… should I send someone to place the coins upon his eyes?”
Athena stares at the youth. “Telemachus, he tried to kill you.”
“Yes,” Telemachus says evenly. “But he didn’t succeed.”
“Only because I assisted you!” Athena hisses. “He is your enemy. You are clever; at least as clever as your father. Why would you give an enemy a boon?”
“Because I do not wish him to be my enemy any longer.” Telemachus blinks, and there are tears in his eyes. “Because he is dead, and I am not, and I do not need any discontent between us to last into the Underworld.” The tears begin to fall. “He is only two years older than I. He did what he thought he must, because the other suitors have been… they are all…”
“Terrible,” Athena declares, passing judgment on the lot. “Would that I could have Apollo strike them down with plague without endangering your own people, I would do so.”
“I don’t know if I would,” Telemachus whispers. “This isn’t… when people tell stories of my father, they aren’t about grappling with another scared man atop a cliff until you both almost fall to your death. I wanted to fight monsters. To fight creatures that no one else could fight. To defeat them with my mind, not with…”
Athena reaches out, gently taking Telemachus’ hand in hers. “All battle is scared men grappling for what control they can seize. Part of the duty of kings—and of a god such as I—is convincing people that it is not. That it is usually glory and wonder. Clever decisions, and destined combat so grand that it is written of for eons and eons to come.”
“Not stupid boys choking on their own blood in the mud,” Telemachus says, his breath coming in rough sniffles again.
“That is part of wisdom, though.” Athena strokes Telemachus’ hair away from his eyes. “Knowing that both parts are true. That there is glory, and there is cleverness… and there are people’s children, choking to death on mud and blood.”
“I don’t know if I want to be king,” Telemachus moans. “I want to do my father proud. To protect my father. To protect Ithaca. But I… I’m scared.”
“That’s because you are wise, Telemachus.” Leaning in, Athena presses a cool kiss to Telemachus’ brow. She is not Ares, to make him forget his pain in the glory of battle. She is not Apollo, to soothe his aches with a simple touch. But she can help to sharpen his mind; to turn his thoughts from the horror and the agony to more useful paths. “And you will make a good king.”
“I have to survive to kingship first,” Telemachus says, squeezing her fingers tight between his. “You said… my leg is broken.”
“Yes,” Athena reiterates.
“What…” Telemachus swallows. “What do I do? If I call out, I’m more liable to get a suitor than someone I can trust to help me, and they…” Telemachus closes his eyes, his breath hissing out between his teeth. “They will not treat me kindly.”
“They will not. We must get you back to the palace and your mother’s protection without the worst becoming aware of what has happened.” Athena gestures down from the palace, closer to the water. “Those reeds there. With them and some of the long water-grasses, you can form a splint that will get you where you need to go.”
Telemachus nods his head, digging his fingers into the gravel that has been his bed for the last half hour. “I’ll need you to show me how.”
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Athena promises.
And Telemachus begins to move. He doesn’t cry out as he does; doesn’t start sobbing, as Athena half expected him to. So many boys do, when Ares fades from their eyes and they realize all that they have done and all that they have seen in the midst of war.
Telemachus sees what he has done; sees what has been done to him; and he moves forward, just as his father did.
Just as his father hopefully does.
The going is slow, though, his body fighting him every step of the way. His breath rasps harsh in his throat; is one of his ribs broken, too? No lung is punctured, Athena is sure of that, but there are other ways to hurt the chest.
Halfway to the bed of reeds, Telemachus turns his head to her, and asks, quietly, “Will you sing to me?”
Athena hesitates. “I am not a great singer; no Apollo or his sirens.” “I know. You’re Athena.” Telemachus fixes his eyes again upon his destination. “You’re the one I want to hear sing, not him.”
Drawing in a slow breath, Athena sings a song she learned a long time ago.
A song that Odysseus sang to his men, under a canopy of stars, as they all embarked on what was hoped to be a quick war with Troy. A song of travel; of adventure; of hope and victory.
A song that did not come true for the father, but perhaps it was instead meant for this moment; to soothe this man, who gasps and struggles and finally comes to where he needs to be.
Athena settles next to him in the mud, heedless that it dirties her clothing, and strokes her fingers through Telemachus’ hair. “You are so very brave, little wolf,” she murmurs.
“I’m just doing what I have to do,” he says, leaning into her touch.
“And that makes you far braver than many, many others,” she says, kissing his brow again; bestowing onto him the knowledge of how to splint his leg and get himself to where he needs to be to get proper treatment and care.
She doesn’t let him go immediately, though.
She holds him, this piece of Odysseus’ heart, and wonders if the father will appreciate what she has done for his son, or if he will fear what her involvement in Telemachus’ life might bright instead.