Chapter Text
Neoptolemus is twelve years old when they send him to war.
The great tactician, Odysseus, is the one who the Greeks send to find him. It’s the much-enduring Odysseus who tears him from his mother’s arms, whispering promises of prophecies that only he could fulfill. It’s sharp-tongued Odysseus who kills Pyrrhus and drags Neoptolemus out of the ashes.
It’s no surprise that Neoptolemus finds himself on the shores of Ithaca when he hears Odysseus, the man of many turns, has returned to his country after ten years lost at sea.
The rumour has it that Odysseus has lost himself. If the whispering of the people is to be believed then Odysseus has returned not quite himself—he’s shiftier, craftier, and always on guard, watching and waiting for someone to strike him in the back. He’s no longer the same Odysseus he was before.
Neoptolemus thinks that whoever is spreading these rumours must not have known Odysseus during the war.
Ithaca is polite to their guests. Neoptolemus was greeted by an escort the second he stepped off his ship and the soldier has been leading him towards the castle, no interest in making small talk with him. That is, Neoptolemus has heard that Ithaca’s reputation of being kind to their visitors was shattered upon Odysseus’s return—supposedly, the faint stench of blood still clings to the marble floors. Neoptolemus doesn’t envy the maids left to clean whatever remains of Odysseus’s scheming. He doesn’t envy many people at all actually.
“Neoptolemus of Skyros,” Odysseus greets him the second Neoptolemus steps inside the palace, “to what do I owe the honour of your visit? I’m certain you’re not here for pleasantries.”
Odysseus’s palace is not the grandest one Neoptolemus has ever seen, but it’s sturdy. It’s much like Odysseus himself, Neoptolemus can’t help but think; unassuming from the exterior, but frightening from within. Whoever decorated the palace had done a good job, Neoptolemus thinks as he looks around. The atmosphere is almost comforting even with the reminder of the 100 men that Odysseus slaughtered, their blood staining the floor that Neoptolemus is standing on.
Ithaca itself is nothing special. Its reputation of being rocky and barren is not an exaggeration. Throw a man with a lesser mind than Odysseus on Ithaca and there’s no potential for greatness in the rough earth; Odysseus himself put Ithaca on the map.
“The rumours are true. You’ve returned.” Neoptolemus bows to Odysseus, the way Deidamia had taught him to.
“That I have,” Odysseus chuckles. “And I must say, if it were my choice, I would have been here much sooner.”
“The rumour goes that you angered a god,” Neoptolemus continues, raising his chin to look at Odysseus. Odysseus hasn’t stood from his throne, his posture straight-backed and his hands perfectly still.
Odysseus glances down at Neoptolemus, a twinkle in his eyes as he says, “It’d be more accurate to ask which ones I haven’t angered.”
“You speak as if you haven’t had Pallas Athena guiding your actions your whole life,” Neoptolemus grunts in what is his best attempt at diplomacy, though it’s probably much more hostile than he intends. “A man like you cannot pretend to be hated by the gods.”
“A man like me can pretend to be anything I’d like, Neoptolemus,” Odysseus answers, quick-witted as Neoptolemus remembers.
Neoptolemus isn’t twelve anymore. It’s been ten years and he’s grown into the sharp edges of his body. He’s filled in his frame—the same sleek, swift one that his father had had—and he no longer fears Odysseus. He doesn’t see the monster who had taken him from everything he’d known, promised he’d make him great, and then turned him into exactly what Achilles was before him—consumed by rage and pride, a monster who destroys only himself. No, he looks at Odysseus now and he sees a man. He sees a man with flesh and blood like every Trojan that Neoptolemus had cut down himself in the war. He’s not afraid of Odysseus any longer and seeing the great king of Ithaca sitting in front of him proves it.
“Neoptolemus, why have you come to Ithaca?” Odysseus asks again, the glimmering twinkle gone from his eyes and replaced with something more sinister.
“Diplomacy,” Neoptolemus answers curtly.
“What have you ever cared for diplomacy?”
“Is it not proper manners to welcome back a respected man?”
“Ah, but you have never respected me.” Odysseus smiles. Neoptolemus wants to punch him. He wants to drag his dagger straight through Odysseus’s flesh. He knows Odysseus can bleed now and all he wants is to see it happen. “I ruled you through fear alone and to my disadvantage, it appears I no longer have that over you.”
“I’m not a child anymore.” Neoptolemus bites down on his lip, drawing a thin seam of blood that trickles into his mouth.
Odysseus waves his hand. “I’m a father, Neoptolemus, and my son is your age. You’ll always be a child to me.”
The son of Odysseus should have a greater reputation than he does. Currently, Neoptolemus’s only impression of Telemachus, prince of Ithaca, is that he’d assisted his father in the massacre of suitors who had fought for Queen Penelope’s hand. To have a father like Odysseus is to be thrust into greatness—why has Telemachus not grasped it like Neoptolemus has with Achilles’s legacy?
“Your son. Telemachus, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Where are the tales of his greatness? What has he done to live up to Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans?” Neoptolemus presses forward, watching as Odysseus’s strict expression breaks for a moment. His son is his weakness, that much is known about Odysseus, son of Laertes.
“Telemachus is young—”
“I am young as well, am I not?” Neoptolemus cuts Odysseus off, his gaze burning.
Odysseus’s eyes widen. He’s had the upper hand ever since Neoptolemus had stepped on Ithaca’s soil, but Neoptolemus can tell that something is shifting in their power struggle now. “You are young, I stated as much earlier.”
“And yet, I have a legacy. More than just the son of Achilles. They will know me by name when I die. Who will know your son as anything other than a footnote when they tell your story?” Neoptolemus sees Odysseus’s hand twitch. This is what he’s wanted since Odysseus pulled him out of his mother’s embrace and he’d grown to be something he’d never wanted.
This is the revenge that Neoptolemus has chased for ten years. Neoptolemus can see his father watching him from beyond. Odysseus brought both Achilles and Neoptolemus into the war and neither of them had made it out. Neoptolemus had gone into war and emerged a different person. He’d left his former self on the bloodied battlefield grounds and he’d never looked back. He blames Odysseus because if he doesn’t then who is there left to blame but himself?
“Your ‘legacy’,” Odysseus spits the word with so much venom that Neoptolemus flinches, “will be nothing but bloodshed and pain. They will remember you for your cruelty.” Odysseus pauses, looking at Neoptolemus like the boy means nothing to him—Neoptolemus is pretty sure he doesn’t. “I would rather my son fade into obscurity than live a life like yours, rotten and vicious, remembered for nothing but the lives you took and the agony you caused. When they tell my son’s stories, they will mention his gentle hands and how he breathed life into a kingdom his father left behind. What will they say for you? That you burned cities and murdered infants for nothing more than your own amusement?” Neoptolemus twitches at the memory of Astyanax. “That your hands were made to kill and maim? That’s not a legacy to be proud of, Neo. You are not a hero and you will never be celebrated as one. You’ll be remembered as Achilles’s son, who fought for less than him and destroyed everything he touched.” Odysseus breathes in sharply before finishing, “Have the decency to be ashamed.”
Neoptolemus freezes. There’s blood on his hands and in his mouth. He thinks of Astyanax and the way the baby had reached for his fingers before he’d shut his eyes and dropped it. He’d been cruel, he knows that, but cruelty is needed to win a war, isn’t it? He couldn’t have let Astyanax live. It’s in his name—overlord of the city. Had Neoptolemus let Astyanax live, he would have doomed them all to a future where Astyanax’s vengeance grows stronger than anything, rendering the entire ten years of war useless. Neoptolemus had done what nobody else could. He’d ended the war himself.
So what if his legacy is one of bloodshed? It’s better than none at all, isn’t it? Neoptolemus wasn’t born with gentle hands. He came out of his mother’s womb angry. He was born covered in blood, screaming with rage. Neoptolemus has never mourned the boy he could have been because he knows he was always destined to be this. Even if Odysseus hadn’t dragged him into the Trojan War, there would have been another war—there is always another war. Neoptolemus was not born to be gentle. He was born to burn cities to the ground and make his enemies bow at his feet. He does not have hands that breathe life like Odysseus’s son supposedly does, he has hands that destroy.
The war did not ruin him. He was born ruined. He was forged in a blaze, taking the worst parts of both his mother and his father; his mother’s stubbornness with his father’s bloodthirsty rage. Achilles left behind a legacy of destruction and he’d created a son to follow in his footsteps. Neoptolemus had asked his mother, before leaving for the war, if this was what his father would have wanted for him. Deidamia had sighed that there wasn’t much Achilles had ever wanted except for Patroclus.
Neoptolemus knows why his father never sought him out. He knows why he never met the man whose stories he’s been hearing since birth. Neoptolemus had heard that Patroclus was the only good part of Achilles and Neoptolemus carried no part of the man that his father loved more than his own life—he was just the reminder of a life Achilles did not want.
“Your son has only grown to be gentle because you did not have your hands on him for twenty years,” Neoptolemus finally decides to say, the words sticking between his lips. “Let us pray to your beloved Athena that you don’t ruin him now like you did me.”
Odysseus’s gaze turns steely, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Thank you for the pleasure of your visit, Neoptolemus,” he says, faking sincerity like any great diplomat would.
“You could just tell me to get the fuck out.” Neoptolemus sneers.
Odysseus shrugs. “I believe I just did.”
With a curt bow towards Odysseus, one lacking any warmth or respect, Neoptolemus turns away and exits the place, refusing to spare any more glances towards Odysseus. It’s not like he needs to look behind him to know that Odysseus’s eyes won’t leave his back until he’s completely out of his vision. Neoptolemus wouldn’t be surprised if Odysseus sent soldiers to keep an eye on him until he’s firmly outside of Ithaca’s borders. Neoptolemus had only fought in the war for a year, but he’d learned that Odysseus can claim he believes in diplomacy and honour, but he doesn’t trust anyone other than himself.
He supposes he and Odysseus have that in common.
Neoptolemus strolls through the streets of Ithaca, the port growing in view as he walks toward it. When he’d planned his trip here, he’d expected to find Ithaca in ruins—any country would crumble when left without its king for twenty years—but apparently, Queen Penelope has a better head on her shoulders than most kings do. He knows that Prince Telemachus is too young to have been in charge so it must have been Penelope doing all of the heavy lifting. Ithaca is prospering just as much as it was before Odysseus had left—perhaps even more. It’s not surprising, really. Neoptolemus had assumed that the woman who caught the eye of Odysseus, the mastermind of war, would be extraordinary. Neoptolemus can imagine the two of them hunched over battle plans late at night, giggling as they discuss which kingdoms they want to conquer next.
It’s this thought that snaps Neoptolemus out of his daydreams, finding himself no longer standing near the docks and instead, wandering through the trade markets of Ithaca.
Ithaca’s surprisingly lively and the markets seem to have good deals—Neoptolemus figures it wouldn’t hurt to kill a little more time before he sails back home. It’s not as if he has anyone greatly desiring his presence.
Neoptolemus browses the markets, stopping to peruse some of the stalls, but not purchasing anything. Nothing quite catches his eyes until he spots a boy standing at a stall, regaling the saleswoman with some vivid tale.
The boy is likely around his age, perhaps a year or two younger, and his face is youthful. His cheeks are round and his dark hair falls down his forehead in wisps. His frame is slim; he’s tall and lanky and he moves with a certain awkwardness like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his limbs.
He’s pretty, Neoptolemus thinks.
Neoptolemus freezes as he looks at the boy. He’s pretty? Is that what one of the greatest warriors in all of Greece, the son of the aristos achaion, thinks when put face-to-face with a moderately attractive man? Frankly, he’s embarrassing himself.
“—but then, she told me that on the night before her wedding, he told her they could not be married because he’d already taken a wife in Mycenae. Mycenae!” the boy laughs and it’s the most beautiful sound that Neoptolemus has ever heard. Neoptolemus had long since given up on searching for the beautiful in this world, content to live with the destruction that his hands brought about, but this boy—Neoptolemus has heard this boy say a single sentence and now he’s rethinking his entire outlook on life. If a boy like this can exist in a world so rotten then what is Neoptolemus’s excuse for being cruel?
“Mycenae is awful,” Neoptolemus chimes in, causing the pretty boy to look over at him. Neoptolemus’s mouth immediately snaps closed as his eyes widen.
He had not meant to say that out loud.
The boy’s grin widens as he looks at Neoptolemus. “Is it? I’ve never been, but my father knew King Agamemnon before his death. They didn’t get along, but my father says few did with Agamemnon.”
“Yes, I’ve been on occasion,” Neoptolemus manages to say, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The boy is looking at him with wide, bright eyes and it makes Neoptolemus feel almost uncomfortable. “Agamemnon was—” Neoptolemus pauses, wondering how truthful he should be so as to not scare the boy away and eventually decides to say, “He was disagreeable.”
“You met the king!” the boy says with excitement. “You must tell me about it—you seem very well-travelled.”
Neoptolemus takes a closer look at the boy’s features. There’s something that’s bothering him about this boy. He seems familiar—something about his face strikes Neoptolemus as someone that he’s seen before, but he knows that he’d remember meeting someone quite as beautiful as this boy.
His eyes are sharp; bright blue irises that flit around the room like they’re constantly analyzing everything. He looks like he’s intelligent in a quiet way. He’s unassuming, but in the way where you might find a blade between your ribs if you look away from him too long.
But there’s also a certain goodness about him. Something pleasant and almost naïve. He looks like he was born with the ability to burn cities to the ground, but he chose to be kind instead. He chose to let his hands heal instead of kill.
Neoptolemus’s gaze snaps onto the crook of the boy’s nose and then flits down to the gentle curve of his lips. He looks back up at the sharp, perceptiveness of his eyes and he knows exactly where he’s seen those eyes before.
There’s only one man alive with eyes like that. There’s only one man in all of Greece who can strike fear in Neoptolemus’s stomach with just a look.
“Would you tell me stories of your travels? I always find interest in hearing the tales of others. I’ve been to Sparta, but not much else,” the boy says, reaching forward to grab Neoptolemus’s hands. His hands are mostly soft, typical of a prince, but with callouses on the tips of his fingers. Neoptolemus can tell that he knows how to use a weapon. Perhaps not well, but he has the basic knowledge.
Neoptolemus tries to turn away, but he can’t bear to tear his hands away from the soft grasp. “I apologize, I should be getting back to my kingdom. My mother will be waiting—”
“Surely you can stay for dinner,” the prince of Ithaca and the son of King Odysseus says, his eyes bright as he looks at Neoptolemus. “Your mother cannot miss you so much that a few hours would be devastating.”
Neoptolemus really should have realized sooner. Telemachus does not have his father’s colouring, but the shape of his features is nearly a mirror. He assumes that the bright blue of his eyes must have come from his mother, but the shape, the inquisitive glances, and the terrifying perception are all ripped straight from Odysseus’s face.
“I really shouldn’t—”
“Just a few stories. You must tell me about Mycenae,” Telemachus insists, tightening his grip on Neoptolemus’s hands.
Telemachus is looking at Neoptolemus so sweetly—Neoptolemus doesn’t think he’s ever been looked at like that. Under Telemachus’s gaze, he feels like he’s worth something. He really can’t say no.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Neoptolemus mutters, biting down on his lip. Telemachus’s eyes light up and he grins at Neoptolemus.
“Wonderful!” He grins, finally releasing Neoptolemus’s hands. “Your name? What is it? You have the hands of a warrior.”
This is the moment when the façade that Neoptolemus has built for himself falls. His name is known across the kingdoms. Neoptolemus brutalized armies and murdered innocents; his reputation is engraved into his name. The second Telemachus hears Neoptolemus’s name, he’ll no longer want to listen to his stories. No longer will the boy with the soft hands and kind eyes look at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
He can’t lie. He can’t hide behind another persona. He can’t tell Telemachus that his name is Pyrrhus and pretend to be the kid untouched by war that he once was. It’s not who he is anymore. His cruelty is part of him now. He wanted attention, well now he has it. It’s his own fault that the attention he garnered was never one of admiration. He has to live with that fact.
“Neoptolemus of Skyros.” Neoptolemus bends into a sweeping bow, one with far more respect than the one he’d given Odysseus. “Pleasure to meet you, Prince Telemachus.”
“You know my name?” Telemachus seems shocked, those terrifying eyes of his looking Neoptolemus up and down.
Neoptolemus coughs, “Your father and I are… acquainted.”
“Of course! Prince Neoptolemus! You fought in the war with my father!” Telemachus’s head tilts to the side as if the realization is just now hitting him. “I’m sure there are plenty of war stories about my father you could tell me.”
Neoptolemus is sure that there are plenty of stories he could tell, he just isn’t sure whether Telemachus would want to hear them. He has no idea how much Odysseus has told his son of the war. Neoptolemus has no idea which of Odysseus’s exploits are ones he parades around, celebrating his shrewd mind, and which ones are the ones he keeps hidden, preserving whatever shred of humanity he still believes himself to have.
He shakes his head. “Your father must have told you the good ones already.”
“Hardly,” Telemachus scoffs. “For all my father’s reputation of being prideful, he refuses to speak of his exploits in war.”
That doesn’t surprise Neoptolemus. He knows just as well as all the other soldiers who fought in the Trojan War that Odysseus’s actions were some of the most deplorable. It’s not as if he blames Odysseus—no, he knows all too well that in order to win a war, you must forget your mercy—but Odysseus’s reputation was frightening among the soldiers. Often, there was gossip among the men that if you so much as looked at the great tactician wrong, he’d order you stoned to death.
Those rumours weren’t based on much truth; Neoptolemus can’t remember anything Odysseus had done that didn’t have a reason behind him. However, the sentiment behind them remained chillingly true. Neoptolemus had seen Odysseus decimate armies of soldiers for their cause. His mind worked at a million miles a minute, constantly preparing for every outcome. His reputation of being shrewd was earned. Neoptolemus can understand why Odysseus might not want to speak of those days with his family.
“You haven’t considered that there may be a reason your father isn’t interested in sharing his stories. His actions during the war may be too brutal for your delicate ears, prince.” Neoptolemus sneers, whatever kindness he’d formerly had slipping away. It’s not in him to be kind for very long.
Telemachus rolls his eyes. “Of course his stories are brutal. I’m fully aware that war is not some grand party where the battles are won through hugs.” Telemachus starts to wander off, Neoptolemus following behind him. Telemachus glances behind him to make sure Neoptolemus is following as he continues on, “I swear, this whole kingdom believes me to be naïve. I’m very aware of the stories about my father.”
So Telemachus isn’t quite as soft as Neoptolemus had originally assumed him to be.
“You believe you could handle the truth?” Neoptolemus asks as Telemachus continues leading him down winding pathways.
“For years, men I did not know lived in my house. For years, these men threatened my mother and I. For years, I listened to my mother’s suitors plot my death when they believed I could not hear.” Telemachus turns around to look at Neoptolemus, pressing his finger deep into Neoptolemus’s chest. “My father went to war, but he was not the only one fighting battles.”
Telemachus drops down onto a nearby rock, stretching out his legs in front of him. Neoptolemus had followed Telemachus through a stretch of forest and they’re currently in some sort of clearing, surrounded by trees and the soft trickling of a river nearby.
“I heard you helped your father murder the suitors.” Neoptolemus stays standing, shifting awkwardly on his feet.
“I did,” Telemachus answers, tilting his head backwards to look at the sky. “Under my father’s command, I killed the maids too. I wonder often if that was a mistake.”
Neoptolemus looks at Telemachus. Telemachus is much more intelligent than Neoptolemus had thought. His naïveté doesn’t seem to be genuine, but instead, seems to be a weapon designed to lower the guard of those around him.
“Your hands,” Neoptolemus begins, struggling over the words. “They’re soft.”
“Thank you?” Telemachus stares blankly at him.
“No, I mean—” Neoptolemus sighs deeply. Socializing has never been his greatest strength. “You don’t have the hands of a warrior.”
Telemachus blinks once. Then twice. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult or compliment me right now.”
“Feel my hands.” Neoptolemus shoves his hands toward Telemachus. Telemachus obliges with a sly grin on his face, running his fingers over Neoptolemus’s calloused palms. “My hands are rough because—because of the things I’ve done. Yours are not like that.”
“So you are trying to compliment me!” Telemachus grins and Neoptolemus doesn’t miss the way he keeps holding onto his hands even though he certainly doesn’t need to anymore.
Neoptolemus scoffs, “I do not compliment people.”
Telemachus laughs and he pats the spot next to him on the rock. Neoptolemus awkwardly obliges, his limbs stiff. Telemachus looks at him, his gaze calculating. “Tell me one of your stories. Something from war. Something where you’re the hero.”
“I don’t have many of those,” Neoptolemus answers. Stories that he’s the hero of are few and far between. Cruelty drips out of him like poison. He doesn’t fight for honour—he fights because he’s had blood on his hands since he was born and this is the only way to prove it’s real.
“Then tell me a story where you’re the villain.” Telemachus shrugs.
Neoptolemus clenches his jaw. “You won’t like me much when you hear those.”
“Who says I like you now?” Telemachus teases, leaning his head in close to Neoptolemus and by the gods, he’s even more beautiful up close. The way Telemachus looks at him, it’s—it makes him feel wanted. He doesn’t feel like all he’s meant to do is destroy when Telemachus looks at him with those beautiful blue eyes.
For some strange reason, Neoptolemus wants so badly to be liked by Telemachus. He’s never cared much for what others think of him, but Telemachus is different. He thinks that being loved by Telemachus might feel like being loved by the sun. He can’t help but envy whatever woman Telemachus eventually chooses to take for a bride.
“I won the war,” Neoptolemus decides to say. “I will be remembered for much, but I hope that one is first. I take no pride in my cruelty, but it had to be done. If not me then someone else.”
“Do you regret it?” Telemachus asks, tilting his head to the side.
Neoptolemus sucks in a breath. He could lie. He could say that he wishes his hands were clean. He could say that he imagines another life where he just gets to be a kid. He could say that he doesn’t feel like the only place he truly belongs is on a battlefield. He could say that he feels guilt for everything he’s done.
The problem is that while he knows he could lie, he has a feeling Telemachus would see right through him. He isn’t the son of Odysseus for nothing.
“No,” Neoptolemus answers sharply. “It had to be someone. Why not me?”
“Come with me, Neo.” Telemachus stands up abruptly, reaching for Neoptolemus’s hand. Neoptolemus nearly flinches at the nickname, barely able to hold his shoulders back. Odysseus had been fond of calling him Neo. He’d used that faked familiarity to drag Neoptolemus into the war, promising that he’d make Neo great just like his father.
It’s different when it comes from Telemachus’s lips. From Odysseus, it’s a manipulation tactic; it’s just another weapon in his arsenal. From Telemachus, it has a genuine fondness in it. Neoptolemus isn’t opposed to it.
“You’ve dragged me around far too much today,” Neoptolemus huffs, walking behind Telemachus despite his words.
Telemachus glances behind, grinning when he sees Neoptolemus. “And yet, you follow me anyway.”
Neoptolemus can’t really argue against that.
Before he knows what’s happening, Telemachus is wandering into Ithaca’s castle, Neoptolemus still just a few steps behind him. Neoptolemus grinds his feet into the ground and stops completely still just before entering the castle grounds. Telemachus seems to notice his hesitance and turns around.
“Neo? What’s wrong?”
“Are we going inside the castle?” Neoptolemus asks.
Telemachus looks at him like he’s stupid. “Yes?”
“I can’t.”
“Why? I’m hungry and my parents surely won’t mind an extra guest at dinner,” Telemachus reaches forward to grab Neoptolemus’s arm and Neoptolemus yanks his arm away.
Neoptolemus can’t tell him that he’d been inside the castle just a few hours ago. He can’t admit that he’d stared King Odysseus in the eyes and told him that he’d ruined him.
He doesn’t know how Odysseus will react when he sees Neoptolemus inside his castle, chatting with the boy that he’d insulted mere hours before. Odysseus had told Neoptolemus, in not so many words, to get out of his kingdom and not return. What will he say when he sees that his son has made friends with the most hated member of the Greek army?
Friends. Who is Neoptolemus to believe that the prince of Ithaca sees him as a friend? They’ve had exactly one conversation. He certainly doesn’t see Telemachus as his friend.
“Your father and I did not always get along during the war. I don’t know if he would like to see me.” It’s a gross understatement, but it works in the moment
“Nonsense!” Telemachus scoffs. “I’m sure my father will be pleased to have someone to discuss the war with.”
“But your mother—”
“She will be ecstatic to see that I’ve made a friend.”
There’s that word again. Friend. Are they friends? Is this what it is to have a friend? Neoptolemus doesn’t think he’s ever had one before.
“It would be impolite—”
“Now I just feel you’re making excuses.” Telemachus furrows his eyebrows, his eyes squinting into a carbon copy of Odysseus as he scans Neoptolemus’s body. “If you don’t want to come to dinner with me, I’d rather you tell me upfront.”
“No, that’s not it. I—” Neoptolemus sighs deeply. He doesn’t have any other plausible excuse. “I will accompany you.”
Telemachus lights up, immediately turning around to head back into the castle. “Brilliant!”
Neoptolemus supposes that if anything, it’ll be fun to see Odysseus’s mouth drop open at the sight of him having dinner with the royal family of Ithaca.
Odysseus’s jaw does, in fact, drop at the sight of Neoptolemus sitting at the table with Telemachus.
He walks in accompanied by Queen Penelope, their arms looped around each other. He’s very quick about straightening his posture and pretending he isn’t shocked, but Neoptolemus had once had to spend hours trapped inside a wooden horse with the man—he likes to think he knows Odysseus better than most.
Penelope, on the other hand, looks pleased to see him. Neoptolemus doesn’t think she knows who he is, otherwise, her reaction would be much different, but she just seems happy to see Telemachus with another boy his age.
He can definitely see where Telemachus’s looks come from. The blue of his eyes comes from Penelope, but the rest of his face is practically a replica of Odysseus.
A part of Neoptolemus is sure that Odysseus must hate that his son has his face. When they’d been inside that infernal horse, Odysseus hadn’t stopped talking about how much he missed his dear wife and son, remarking constantly that he hoped his son was growing to look like his wife. It had not been the first time that Neoptoemus had been inclined to stab Odysseus out of annoyance and it certainly was not the last.
“Father, mother!” Telemachus grins at his parents. “I hope it’s alright that I’ve brought a friend for dinner.”
“Friend?” Odysseus sputters. Penelope places a hand on Odysseus’s chest and that seems to calm him down a little, reminding him that he’s supposed to be Odysseus, the great tactician and king of Ithaca.
“Of course, it is, Telemachus, we have plenty of room at our table,” Penelope says with a twinkle in her eye. “I was not informed you were visiting Ithaca, Prince Neoptolemus.” Neoptolemus does a double take when Penelope says his name—so she had recognized him. He’d been right to assume that the wife of Odysseus would have to be just as sharp as him. She glances over at Odysseus, smiling in a perfect picture of innocence. “I’m sure this information must have slipped my husband’s mind or else he would have told me immediately.”
Neoptolemus has to stifle a laugh.
He spent so long fighting alongside Odysseus and he’s never seen the man be humbled like this before. Odysseus had always had some kind of retort to shut up whoever dared to speak against him, but it looks like he melts under his wife’s gaze.
Neoptolemus finds it no surprise that it’s known far and wide that Odysseus’s weak points are his family. Odysseus makes no effort to hide the longing gazes he sends at his wife or the glowing praises he sings of his son whenever he’s away. To get Odysseus to do your bidding, all you would need to do is bring Telemachus and Penelope to your feet—Odysseus would surely follow.
Neoptolemus has no such attachments. To make it clear that you have something you care about is to make it clear that you are weak. Neoptolemus does not speak of his mother outside Skyros. For all the Greek army knew when Neoptolemus fought alongside them, he hated his mother and would never return to her if he had the choice. Deidamia would approve of the tales that Neoptolemus spins. She knows all too well the danger of letting people too close.
The world thinks that all Neoptolemus wants to be is his father, but he’s always had his mother’s heart.
“I must have forgotten, dear,” Odysseus says softly to Penelope, his eyes not leaving Neoptolemus.
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” Penelope tuts as she takes her seat at the table. “Tell me, what brings you to Ithaca, Prince Neoptolemus?”
“I’d heard the rumours that Odysseus had returned and felt it appropriate to visit,” Neoptolemus answers quickly. “It’s not often that a warrior spends twenty years away from home and then still returns. I figured he must have changed during the war.”
“I didn’t know you came to see my dad,” Telemachus whispers towards Neoptolemus, who promptly ignores him.
“And it seems you haven’t changed at all since the war. Still brash and rude.” Odysseus takes his seat at the head of the table. His tone is light as if he could simply be making a friendly jest, but his words are dripping with malicious intent.
It’s not a problem for Neoptolemus. He’s well aware that his distaste for Odysseus is shared. He’s fairly certain that Achilles hadn’t gotten along with Odysseus either—perhaps it’s genetic.
“Odysseus, don’t be rude,” Penelope chides.
Odysseus waves a hand. “Don’t be silly, my dear. Neo here knows that I'm joking, doesn’t he?” Odysseus narrows his eyes at Neoptolemus. “He was a great fighter. He had a large legacy to live up to and yet, he still somehow made it his own.” Odysseus pauses and then adds, “In his own brutal way.”
Neoptolemus’s head snaps to look at Telemachus. “Your father and I do not like each other.”
Telemachus’s mouth drops open.
“And succinct as always!” Odysseus laughs. Penelope is looking at him, expecting him to fix this all with some diplomatic wave of his hand, but Odysseus just presses on the wound harder. “I have no problem with Neoptolemus visiting, but I do question his intentions. I only seek the best for our son, don’t I?”
“Dad!” Telemachus hisses.
“I’ll tell you my intentions.” Neoptolemus slams his hands on the table. Odysseus looks at him, clearly amused. Neoptolemus hates him. The blood on his hands is his fault. “Your son is weak,” Neoptolemus says, pointing a finger at Telemachus, who flinches at the action. Odysseus raises his eyebrows, daring Neoptolemus to continue. Well, if he insists. “I will train him.”
Well, it’s not his reason for coming to Ithaca, but it’s a fairly decent excuse. He knows that Telemachus isn’t a skilled fighter—he doesn’t need to spar with him to know that. He can tell by the way Telemachus moves around; the fluidity of his limbs lacks the sharp instinct of a warrior.
He’s certain that Telemachus would not be opposed to Neoptolemus training him. It’s an excuse, but it’s a good one. This blood on his hands has to be worth something. Neoptolemus doesn’t think he belongs anywhere besides on a battlefield, tearing through flesh, but if he’s training Telemachus then he’s still on a battlefield.
“You’ll train him?” Odysseus says with a breathless chuckle. “Do you really believe that out of everybody in the world, I would choose you to train my son?” Odysseus leans across the table, baring all his teeth as he grins. “I wouldn’t have trusted your father with my son, let alone you.”
“My father was great.”
“Your father was great,” Odysseus spits with vitriol, “but you are not him.”
“I will train your son,” Neoptolemus repeats.
“You will not even train my dog.”
“You are pathetic.”
“Do not speak to me like that when your hands are far heavier than mine.”
“Yes, because I won the war for you. You should be grateful for the weight I took from you. The Trojans would have slaughtered you if it were not for me.”
Odysseus tuts, “Always such a large ego, little Neo. To think that you’re proud of what you’ve done. You won the war, but what was it for? All anyone sees when they look at you is exactly what you believe yourself to be, a m—”
“That’s enough!”
If the sharp pitch of Telemachus’s voice isn’t enough to snap Odysseus and Neoptolemus out of their argument then the screech of his chair against the floor surely is.
Both Neoptolemus and Odysseus shut their mouths, their heads snapping to look at Telemachus. Neoptolemus is clenching his fist tightly at his side, deep red blots of blood dripping out of the crescent-shaped marks his fingernails have left on his palm.
“Do I not get a say in this?” Telemachus asks and Neoptolemus can tell that he’s doing his best to appear princely. Telemachus commands attention with his words, squaring his shoulders and his jaw in a way that almost has Neoptolemus flinching—Odysseus had always done the same when commanding an army.
“Telemachus, you have no idea what you’re getting into with Neoptolemus. I fought alongside him and he is—”
“Father, I am old enough to make my own decisions,” Telemachus interrupts sharply. “The tales of Neoptolemus’s victories are far and wide. I would like to train under him.”
“I cannot allow that,” Odysseus insists.
“Father—”
“Odysseus,” Penelope finally chimes in, having been content to listen to the exchange until now, “let us speak in private.”
Penelope stands up, expecting Odysseus to follow her. Odysseus shoots one final look at Neoptolemus and then he follows Penelope out. Neoptolemus sucks in a breath, uncurling his fingers and feeling them pull away from his palm tinged with blood.
It’s so easy to blame Odysseus. It’s so easy to say that he’d never have become what he is if it weren’t for Odysseus, but he knows that’s not true. He knows that even without the Trojan War, he would have been dragged into bloodshed sooner or later. It’s what he was made for.
He just hates that he’s reminded of that every time he stares into Odysseus’s eyes. He hates that Odysseus can say one word and reduce the son of the best of the Greeks to nothing but a pathetic twelve-year-old boy, desperate for glory and attention.
Gods, that’s all he ever wants, isn’t it? Attention. He wants what his father had. He wants, he wants, he wants. He always wants more than he deserves. Achilles deserved his glory. Neoptolemus doesn’t.
But then again, how does one even begin to live up to the legacy that Achilles left behind?
“Neo?” Telemachus says softly, his eyes flitting over Neoptolemus’s bloody palms. “Are you—”
“Let’s spar.”
“What?”
“Spar,” Neoptolemus repeats, enunciating the word slowly. “If I’m going to train you, I need a sense of your abilities.”
Telemachus’s eyes widen. “You were serious?”
“Of course I was serious. I don’t waste my time with false promises.” Neoptolemus stands up, waiting for Telemachus to follow. “Where are your training grounds?”
Telemachus leads him there, walking with the delicate ease of someone who has never stared death in the eyes and won. Neoptolemus walks behind, each heavy step shaking the earth because intimidation is the most important weapon after your sword.
The training grounds are better than most that Neoptolemus has seen. Really, he’s not surprised. Only the best for Odysseus, king of Ithaca.
Neoptolemus digs around the weapons, producing two wooden swords and tossing one over to Telemachus. Telemachus catches one with ease, his fingers gripping the handle tightly. His reflexes are good, Neoptolemus thinks, but he’s unsure of himself.
Telemachus seems the type to fight dirty. He doesn’t think that Telemachus would hesitate to bite and pull hair if it guaranteed him a victory. Neoptolemus agrees with that. Those who care too much about honour always put their faith in the useless. Battles are not fought for honour. Battles are fought for victory.
“You said I was weak,” Telemachus mutters as Neoptolemus squares up in front of him, cracking his shoulder and then holding the sword in front of him. “Did you—”
“You are weak,” Neoptolemus answers, immediately striking forward. Telemachus rushes to block, but overestimates Neoptolemus’s angle and only sends himself stumbling a few steps to the side. “Watch your back,” Neoptoemus says as his foot kicks the back of Telemachus’s knee, sending the boy toppling to the floor while he’s distracted.
Telemachus scrambles to get up, immediately back on the defensive. “You could go a little easy on me,” he huffs, doing his best to parry Neoptolemus’s strikes.
“No.” Neoptolemus shakes his head. He pushes forward again, landing a hit on Telemachus’s chest that’s definitely going to bruise. “You won’t learn that way.” Telemachus stumbles backwards and digs his heels into the floor to try to stabilize himself. His sword falls from its position for a moment, no longer guarding his face, and Neoptolemus takes the opportunity to punch Telemachus straight in the nose. Telemachus groans, one hand clutching his nose and the other raising his sword again as Neoptolemus hisses, “Always guard your face.”
“My father—he said—” Telemachus tries to say between his grunts, but Neoptolemus isn’t interested in talking about Odysseus anymore so he strikes sharply with his sword, sending Telemachus’s weapon flying out of his hands and across the courtyard.
Neoptolemus hooks a foot around Telemachus’s leg and the prince of Ithaca goes crashing to the ground, falling flat on his back. Neoptolemus points his sword at the pale skin of Telemachus’s neck, his legs on both sides of Telemachus’s body. “I win,” Neoptolemus announces, watching the quickening rise and fall of Telemachus’s chest. “No wonder Odysseus didn’t want me to train you. He was afraid I’d kill you.”
He’s exaggerating.
Well, not entirely.
Telemachus isn’t awful at fighting. He’s clearly had some training. He knows how to hold a sword and where to strike to catch an enemy off guard, but he lacks any real-world experience that would sharpen his instincts. Neoptolemus fights with the raw power of someone who has seen war firsthand. He fights to kill. Not to injure, not to maim, and not to subdue. He fights to slaughter.
“I’m not that bad,” Telemachus grunts, breathing heavily as he stares down the tip of Neoptolemus’s sword.
“Then why do I have you pinned to the floor?” Neoptolemus sneers, pressing his sword further into Telemachus’s neck. The weapon is wood so it won’t kill him or anything, but Neoptolemus does hope that Telemachus understands that he is a threat.
Telemachus grins. “If you wanted me under you, you could have just asked.”
Neoptolemus flinches so hard that he almost impales his sword in Telemachus’s neck.
“I do not.” He scowls, pulling his sword away and letting Telemachus get off the ground. Telemachus rubs at his neck, almost as if he’s missing the point of the sword against his skin. “Don’t be foolish.”
“You have no sense of humour,” Telemachus huffs as he scrambles off the ground, dusting himself off.
Neoptolemus doesn’t like Telemachus teasing him like that. It’s not that Neoptolemus wants Telemachus or anything like that—his observation that Telemachus was pretty had been just that; an observation. He has no interest in being the future king of Ithaca’s royal consort or anything of the sort. He has no interest in the soft pink of Telemachus’s lips or the sparkle in his eyes. No, certainly not. It’s just that Telemachus’s teasing remarks strike him far too close to the heart than he’d like to admit. Does Telemachus really think it’s that funny to imagine that someone like him could love someone like Neoptolemus? Neoptolemus knows very well that Telemachus is far too good for him, but the reminder still stings.
He looks at Telemachus and knows that he will never be like Telemachus. He will never know what it’s like to be loved so simply. He will never have someone who loves him the same way they breathe—love will never be instinctual for him. His instincts are all forged in battle. Love and a slit throat are the same thing to Neoptolemus.
“Again,” Neoptolemus demands, squaring up in front of Telemachus once more.
“Again?” Telemachus’s jaw drops as he bends over to pick up his sword. “My face is bleeding right now.”
“Training does not end until your hands are ripped to the flesh,” Neoptolemus says, once again advancing on Telemachus. He slows down slightly this time, letting Telemachus try to read his body language to determine where to block.
One of Telemachus’s blows actually slips past Neoptolemus’s defences, nicking his side. “I don’t think that’s healthy,” Telemachus mutters, breathing heavily as he tries to block each of Neoptolemus’s strikes. “My mother always says that everything should be done in moderation. You have to respect your body’s limits or else you won’t actually learn anything.”
“This is how I was taught,” Neoptolemus answers, pushing forward and landing a hit on Telemachus’s shoulder.
Neoptolemus was trained to be just as good as his father. The son of Achilles does not go a day without being reminded that he is, in fact, the son of the best of the Greeks. Neoptolemus would train until his hands split open, until his vision went blurry, until he passed out from fatigue. It was not proper for the successor to Achilles’s legacy to rest. Neoptolemus was trained as a weapon since his birth. He knew how to hold a spear before he could walk. So what if Neoptolemus felt his bones ache with the weight of exhaustion? So what if he ripped open his skin with each hit, blood dripping off him just like it would drip from his opponent? He knew since the day he’d come into this world that he’d be great; this was the only way to achieve that.
He’s twenty-two years old, training the son of Odysseus and he’s simultaneously twelve years old, listening to Odysseus promise him greatness. He’s twenty-two years old, gripping a sword in his hands and he’s twelve years old, fighting in a war that he doesn’t even know the origin of. He’s twenty-two years old, a cold-blooded monster and he’s twelve years old, a cold-blooded monster.
“Do you think I’m a bad warrior?” he asks, striking Telemachus’s chest twice.
“No,” Telemachus grunts.
“Then it works, doesn’t it?” Neoptolemus watches as Telemachus’s stance slips and he stabs forward, hitting Telemachus squarely in the stomach with his sword. “That would have killed you if this were real. You will always be weak if you don’t learn how to turn off everything except your killing instinct.” Telemachus charges at him, but Neoptolemus is quick on his feet and sidesteps him. Telemachus slips forward, his knees sliding across the stone flooring. “You cannot feel the pain. You cannot feel the exhaustion. All you can feel is blood. Get up. Fight me.”
Telemachus stands up in a rush, blood dripping from his nose and coating his knees, the skin hanging off from where he’d slid across the floor. He charges Neoptolemus again, but Neoptolemus blocks each of his strikes, countering each one with an even faster thrust.
He pushes Telemachus back, grabbing the front of his tunic and pulling him in close. Telemachus’s eyes widen as he tries to use the new distance to strike Neoptolemus, but Neoptolemus knows better and shoves Telemachus backwards, once again sending him sprawling to the floor with a sword held at his throat.
“You’re weak,” he spits, pressing the wooden tip of his sword against the soft skin of Telemachus’s neck. “Get up. Get up. This isn’t over until one of us is bleeding out. You’ve barely even touched me. How do you think you can be a king if you cannot fight? You’re weak, Telemachus. Nobody will ever remember you for anything other than being the son of Odysseus. Is that what you want? To be nothing more than a motivation for your father when they tell his story? Tell me, is that what you want? To be forgotten? To be nothing?”
“Fuck you!” Telemachus shouts, blood dripping down his face. He kicks forward, managing to knock Neoptolemus’s sword out of his hand with his knee. Neoptolemus glances around him wildly, searching for the fastest escape, but Telemachus is on his feet in seconds, pushing Neoptolemus back until he has the older boy pressed against a wall, the edge of his sword straight against the flesh of Neoptolemus’s throat.
Neoptolemus swallows dryly. Telemachus is breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath as he holds the blade against Neoptolemus’s neck. The lower half of his face is stained with blood and his hair is slick with sweat. The piercing blue of his eyes is locked onto Neoptolemus’s face and he looks more beautiful than Neoptolemus has ever seen him.
He likes this look on Telemachus’s face. He likes the fiery determination, the indignation, the rage. He likes this Telemachus just as much as he likes the sweet one who could grow flowers with his touch alone. He thinks that not as many people get to see this Telemachus.
“That’s better,” Neoptolemus breathes out.
Telemachus lowers his sword. “Were you—were you trying to piss me off?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Neoptolemus cocks an eyebrow. “Besides, it’s not as if I said anything untrue.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Telemachus laughs as if he is in disbelief. “Do you really think you’re that much better than me?”
“I am better than you.”
“Then why is my sword against your throat right now?” Telemachus echoes Neoptolemus’s words from earlier, clearly proud of himself.
Neoptolemus laughs and kicks his foot around Telemachus’s leg, sending him crashing down. Neoptolemus grabs Telemachus’s sword the second it slips out of his grasp and drops down to sit on Telemachus’s chest, pressing the blade against Telemachus’s throat the same he’d been doing just moments earlier.
“You were saying?” he chuckles, settling his weight on Telemachus’s chest. Telemachus tries to buck him off, But Neoptolemus just keeps his weight steady.
“Why is it that I can’t tell if you like me or hate me?” Telemachus asks, his head tilted to the side.
“I don’t care much for you at all, prince.” Neoptolemus sneers, finally standing up and letting Telemachus scramble to his feet. Neoptolemus doesn’t care for anyone. To care for someone is to have a weakness and Neoptolemus has none of those.
“You were much nicer when we first met,” Telemachus grumbles, wiping some of the blood off of his face with the back of his hand.
Neoptolemus shrugs in response. “I don’t desire to be liked. I desire to make you stronger. I will not be able to do that if I am blinded by affection for you.”
“Ah, but you can see the possibility of being so overcome with affection for me that it blinds you?” Telemachus grins, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m very charming, aren’t I?”
“You’re delusional.” Neoptolemus rolls his eyes, but Telemachus isn’t entirely wrong. Something about him is endearing. Neoptolemus can’t tell if it’s genuine or a ploy to get people close enough to hurt them, but Telemachus has an air about him that makes him feel comforting. You look at Telemachus and you wish to be loved by him. Neoptolemus can only imagine what it must feel like to have the sun shine on you like that.
“Neoptolemus.” Odysseus is standing off to the side, watching Neoptolemus and Telemachus spar with interest in his eyes. Penelope is next to him and his arm fits perfectly around her waist, holding her close to him with a kind of desperation that Neoptolemus recognizes. “Let’s speak in private.”
“Of course.” Neoptolemus nods, following Odysseus out of the training area, watching Penelope approach Telemachus out of the corner of his eye. He tears his gaze away from Penelope kneeling in front of her son to examine his skinned knees. Telemachus looks small in front of his mother, waving her off like it’s no big deal. Neoptolemus knows that Penelope must look at her son as if he’s perpetually a child. He doesn’t know if Deidamia ever saw a child when she looked at him. He doesn’t blame her for that though—he doesn’t blame her for much.
Odysseus leads Neoptolemus into what he can only assume is his study. The desk in the middle of the room is piled high with stacks of papers, not an inch of free space on the surface. Neoptolemus isn’t a king. He has no idea if that much work is typical of a king or if Odysseus simply insists on doing all his work himself because he trusts no one else. He supposes both can be true.
Trust is not something that comes easily to him and he knows that Odysseus is the same.
“My dear wife thinks it will be good for Telemachus to have you here,” Odysseus begins, making sure the door is shut behind the two of them. Affection for Penelope seeps through each one of his words. Love is frightening and Neoptolemus thinks Odysseus might be the best example of that. “I was away for twenty years. I don’t get much say in what she thinks is best for Telemachus. I do not know about his years of loneliness and such; Penelope believes it will be good for him to have a friend.” Odysseus pauses. There’s always a ‘but’ with him. He wasn’t known as the great tactician for nothing; Neoptolemus doesn’t know if Odysseus ever says what he truly means. “What I do know about is you.”
Neoptolemus squares his shoulders, his jaw tightening. He knows that the Neoptolemus who was born in the war is the real Neoptolemus—Pyrrhus is dead—and Odysseus knows that Neoptolemus. The rest of the Greek army hated him and he’s sure Odysseus did too, but a part of him is convinced that Odysseus will forever pity him. Odysseus brought him into that war. Neoptolemus might not blame him, but he thinks Odysseus does.
“Why do you want to stay in Ithaca? There is nothing here for you,” Odysseus asks, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
Neoptolemus shrugs. “Must I require a reason? Perhaps I’ve grown fond of your son.”
“You do not make attachments.”
“That I do not,” Neoptolemus barks out a laugh. “I learned that from you.”
“So why then? Why stay here?” Odysseus questions. Neoptolemus opens his mouth and Odysseus holds up a finger to silence here. “We can skip past your brooding. I knew your father—I’m sure you share the same penchant for dramatics. Just tell me truthfully. What are you looking for? What do you want?”
Truthfully? Neoptolemus doesn’t know what he wants.
Ever since the Trojan War had ended, he’s been wandering from kingdom to kingdom, searching for something to make him feel alive. He’s only ever felt like himself while on a battlefield, but now that the war’s over, is there even anything left of him? Who is he when he’s not tearing flesh from bone, ripping skin with his teeth?
It feels like there could be something here. He looks at Telemachus and feels like he could learn something. He’s never felt that before.
It’s not like he could go back to Skyros. His mother would gleefully accept him back, but that would be the problem. Deidamia loves Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus doesn’t know how to bring back the boy that his mother loved. He’s not Pyrrhus anymore—he hasn’t been in a long time. He’ll never find himself in Skyros.
“I don’t know,” Neoptolemus answers bitterly, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he chokes the words out. “I haven’t found what I’m looking for anywhere else. Why not here? I don’t know who I am when I’m not fighting, Odysseus, and I’m sure you know that better than most. I don’t know what I’m searching for, but I can’t stop until I find it.”
Odysseus looks at him, his eyes over-analyzing every single movement that Neoptolemus makes. Neoptolemus has never been able to read Odysseus—he finds a similar annoyance in Telemachus.
“I shouldn’t have brought you into the war.” Odysseus shakes his head. “You were just a kid.”
“I don’t care about that,” Neoptolemus objects.
“But—”
“That’s not why I don’t like you. I don’t like you because you’re a self-serving asshole who everyone thinks is much nicer than you are,” Neoptolemus says bluntly.
Odysseus chuckles. “I suppose you’re right.”
“The prophecy said you wouldn’t win the war without me, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then there was no other option. There’s no argument. I don’t care that you brought me into the war.” Neoptolemus clenches his fist at his side and then unfolds it, repeating the gesture and relishing in the way his fingernails dig into his calloused skin each time. “You cannot take credit for ruining me. I did that to myself and I take pride in it.”
There’s a moment that Neoptolemus thinks he’ll cherish for the rest of his life; Odysseus actually looks surprised.
“When I brought you into the war, I looked at you and saw my son. I needed to pretend you were older than you were to justify my actions,” Odysseus admits, clenching his jaw. “Achilles was dead, but I couldn’t help but think about how I would react if someone had brought my son into war when he’d been just a child.”
“I was never a child,” Neoptolemus points out. “My father and I had that in common.”
Odysseus is silent for a moment as if he’s trying to steel himself to say something.
“Whatever it is you’re fighting yourself over, just say it. Haven’t we already established that I’m not a child?”
“During my trip home, I visited the underworld,” Odysseus says softly.
“Mortals don’t go to the underworld and return.” Neoptolemus raises an eyebrow.
“I did.” Odysseus pauses again, whatever uncertainty that had previously leaked into his voice has now dried up. “I saw so many who had died. So many I hurt. Ajax would not even speak to me let alone hear my apologies.” Neoptolemus never met Greater Ajax, but the story of his death was rampant when he’d first joined the Greek forces; just another name in the list of needless deaths. “I saw your father.” Neoptolemus flinches at the words. “He asked me about you.”
“Did he—was he—” Neoptolemus can’t form the words.
Did he ask about me because he cares or because he was afraid that I’d sully his legacy? Did he regret it? Does he wish he had more time with me? Did he regret it? Did he ever find happiness? Did he regret it? Does he ever think about how he left me? Did he regret it? What does it feel like to regret?
“I had not seen you in nearly three years. I told him of your war exploits. I told him that I’d never seen another soldier fight like you. I told him of your courage and bravery. I told him that you were never once injured in battle,” Odysseus sucks in a breath. “He was proud of you. He’d always cared for you more than he let on. Patroclus told me once while the two of us were far too drunk for our own good that Achilles had made him promise to look for you when the war ended. Achilles knew his life would end in the war and he’d ensured that Patroclus would show you all the parts of Phthia that he loved so much. None of us thought that Patroclus would die first.” Odysseus shakes his head. “They were inseparable even in the underworld.”
Neoptolemus can feel his hands shaking.
He’d never even considered that Achilles cared for him. Achilles left. Deidamia told him as much. Achilles had no desire to raise the son he’d fathered with a woman he didn’t love. Deidamia used to laugh bitterly that Achilles would never be able to love anyone in the world except for Patroclus and himself. She’d made it clear that Neoptolemus needed to understand that he was no exception lest Achilles hurt him like he’d hurt her.
What does it mean if Achilles did care about him? What does it mean if Achilles loved him, but still never put any effort into being his father?
It was easier to wrestle with the legacy of being Achilles’s son when he was so sure that Achilles did not care for him. Achilles is proud of him. Despite everything that he’s done, his father is proud of him.
Now there’s a sinking feeling in Neoptolemus’s gut. He could disappoint Achilles now. He’d never once worried about sullying his father’s legacy because he’d been convinced that Achilles did not care for him. Now there’s something at stake; he has something he could lose. He’s never fought to defend before—only to take.
“He regretted much in his life, but you were never one of those things,” Odysseus finishes.
Regret. What does it even mean to regret something? Neoptolemus has been told so many times he should regret what he’s done. It was cruel to kill Astyanax and it was unnecessary to kill Priam, but he regrets none of it. Neoptolemus always did what he thought was best. Why should he regret doing what he still thinks is right?
He always used to be so sure that Achilles was right in all of his decisions. Achilles refused to fight because he was disrespected and Neoptolemus was proud of his father for standing his ground. Every unjust act that his father committed could be justified by him. Neoptolemus doesn’t remember ever meeting his father, but he feels like he knows Achilles better than he knows himself.
If the brilliant Achilles can regret then what makes Neoptolemus so different? If the great, shining, godlike Achilles can wish that he’d done things differently then what does that mean for someone like Neoptolemus, not half as great as his father was?
“You look like your father, you know?” Odysseus remarks, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Neoptolemus’s face. He waves a hand as he continues, “Sure, you have your mother’s hair, but your face is his. Sometimes I forgot I was talking to a child and not the best of the Greeks during the war. If I glanced at you too quickly, I saw Achilles and I always had to do a double take. It’s frightening, honestly.”
Neoptolemus has been told that he looks like his father, but he’s never really believed it until now. His flaming hair is a gift from his mother and she’d delighted in it. Pyrrhus, Deidamia had christened him before Neoptolemus had discovered a darker part of himself and pushed Pyrrhus deep inside him. The rest of him is pure Achilles; his sharp nose and height come from his father the same way his fighting ability does. Deidamia used to tell him that he was always too pretty to be considered handsome—no one would ever be afraid of someone who’s beautiful like a woman—but that Achilles was the same way and nobody ever told him he was too pretty to be dangerous.
“You can stay. I’ll have the maids prepare a room for you,” Odysseus says and Neoptolemus is finally finding it in him to breathe again.
“Thank you,” Neoptolemus breathes out and he’s not talking about Odysseus letting him stay in Ithaca. “Your son—” Neoptolemus starts, stumbling over the words. “Telemachus, he—he looks like you. I recognized him without needing to hear his name. Your influence on him is palpable.”
Odysseus sighs, “Much to my disappointment, I know that’s true.” Neoptolemus finally manages to stumble over to the door, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other. Just before Neoptolemus leaves, Odysseus calls out, “Neo, I hope you find what you’re searching for.”
Neoptolemus doesn’t think he’ll ever like Odysseus, but he thinks he understands him better now. They can be civil now, he’s sure.
Neoptolemus steadies himself and manages to say, “I do too.”
“Are you staying?” Telemachus asks, appearing in the doorway of Neoptolemus’s guest room. The guest room is nice, much better than most of the dingy inns that Neoptolemus has spent his time in while travelling Greece.
“Yes,” Neoptolemus answers with a nod. “Your father gave me permission.”
“You could have told me about your relationship with him. I would not have forced you here,” Telemachus says, entering the room. He looks around, clearly trying to understand Neoptolemus better by examining his surroundings—unluckily for him, Neoptolemus doesn’t like to make himself at home anywhere at all.
“We are not friends.”
“Aren’t we?”
Neoptolemus stares Telemachus down, admiring the way Telemachus refuses to back down. “We’ve had barely two conversations—one of them ended with you bleeding at my feet. What about that sounds friendly to you?”
“I told you of my struggles and fears. I told you of the blood on my hands. Does that mean nothing?” Telemachus insists. “I refuse to believe you have no affection towards me whatsoever.”
“You told me of the blood on your hands, but I did not speak of mine. It sounds to me as if you gave me more than you got.” Neoptolemus sneers, standing up from his bed to stand face-to-face with Telemachus.
Telemachus scoffs, “Oh, please, everybody knows about the blood on your hands, Prince Neoptolemus.”
The way Telemachus says his name is mocking; the title is dripping with vitriol.
Neoptolemus likes it.
“I know of the infant, of Priam, of Polites, and everyone else you slaughtered for victory. Your victories are well known across kingdoms,” Telemachus finishes and Neoptolemus doesn’t miss the way he sneers at the word ‘victories’ as if it’s laughable to call anything that Neoptolemus had done in the war a victory. “What is it that you’re so ashamed of?”
“I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done.”
“You sure seem to act like it.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to have blood on your hands,” Neoptolemus growls, his face inches from Telemachus’s. Neoptolemus is both taller and larger, but Telemachus doesn’t shrink back whatsoever.
“Then why don’t you show me?” Telemachus steps closer, angling his head up to look Neoptolemus in the eyes.
“I will.” Neoptolemus turns away, his voice sharp as a knife. “Tomorrow during training. I’ll show you what war looks like. I’ll show you what it means to kill everything you touch.”
He means this to be definitive. He leaves no room for argument—no space for Telemachus to wedge himself deeper into Neoptolemus’s brain than he already has.
Neoptolemus can’t find it in him to hate Telemachus. Hate is always so easy for him, but now, it isn’t. He doesn’t form attachments. Attachments make you weak, but somehow, Telemachus has crawled into Neoptolemus’s brain and made a home there. Telemachus has refused to leave, occupying all of his thoughts with an incessant desire for more.
He doesn’t know what to do with all of this want.
All he knows how to do is push away anything that tries to get too close. He’d been nice to Telemachus when he’d been under the impression that they would never see each other again. Now he’s forced to confront the fact that something in him wants Telemachus; something in him is rattling at the walls of his ribcage, desperate to prove that he could hold something beautiful in his hands and not destroy it.
The other parts of him know that he could never do that. He’s not made to love. He’s not made to be gentle. Neoptolemus kills that which is good and lets the rotten fester inside his stomach.
So he has to push Telemachus away before his want gets the better of him. He can’t find it in him to hate Telemachus, but he can absolutely find it in him to make Telemachus hate him. That’s easy enough.
“I will never know what it’s like to destroy everything I touch. I’m not you.” Telemachus turns on his heel, stopping when he’s standing in the doorway to turn around and point at Neoptolemus. “We could have been friends. I liked you. Know that you ruined this. Know that my hatred for you is your fault. Know that my father can forgive you, but I won’t—not now that you’ve disrespected me. Know that we will never get back what we had in the forest.”
“That is fine by me,” Neoptolemus spits. “I did not care for your attention before and I certainly do not now. I need nobody’s approval. My father was the best of the Greeks and I am made in his image. You’ll regret this.”
Telemachus sighs, “You were right. You ruin everything good that comes to you.”
With that, Telemachus leaves, slamming the door behind him. Neoptolemus sinks onto the bed, burying his head in his hands and digging his fingers through his flaming hair. He tugs at the strands, relishing in the pain at the base of his scalp.
If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s making people hate him.