Chapter 2: The King Will Return

The sun poured through the arched windows of the palace in Ithaca, bathing the stone floors in warm light. A gentle breeze carried the scent of the sea, mingling with the faint fragrance of olive trees.

Inside the royal chambers, Penelope sat with her ten-year-old son, Telemachus, guiding his small hands over the wax tablet.

"Λόγος," she said softly, her voice patient. "It means 'word.' Try to carve it neatly."

Telemachus huffed, pressing the stylus too hard. "Mother, why must I learn this when I could be training with the sword?"

She smiled, smoothing his unruly curls. "Because a wise king must wield more than just a blade. Your father—"

"My father fought with both!" Telemachus grinned, eyes alight with excitement. "The men say he was cleverer than all the kings of Greece! Tell me about him again!"

Penelope hesitated. She had told these stories countless times, yet each time, the longing in her heart grew sharper. Still, she could never deny her son this request.

She set down the tablet. "Very well. But only for a little while."

Telemachus beamed, sitting up straighter.

"Your father was not born a king," Penelope began, adjusting her seat. "He earned it."

Telemachus tilted his head. "Earned it? How?"

"He fought," she said simply. "When he was young, Ithaca's throne was contested. Several men believed they had a right to rule, and they waged war on one another for the crown. But your father… he didn't just fight for power. He fought for the people of Ithaca, for their future. The others fought with greed, but your father fought with purpose."

Telemachus leaned forward, his stylus forgotten. "Did he win?"

Penelope smiled softly. "Of course he won. But his greatest challenge came after the war. The fields had been burned, the stores emptied, and the people were starving. Your father worked beside them to rebuild Ithaca, proving he was more than a warrior—he was a leader."

Telemachus' chest swelled with pride. "What else did he do?"

"Well," Penelope said, her voice dropping into a playful tone, "there was the bear."

Telemachus' eyes went wide. "The bear?"

She nodded, her smile widening. "It was the first year of his reign. A great bear had wandered down from the mountains, prowling the woods near the village. It had already killed livestock and even attacked a shepherd. The people were terrified, but your father… he wasn't."

"He hunted it?" Telemachus guessed, his excitement bubbling over.

"He did," Penelope said. "He took only his knife and a single torch. When he found the beast, it charged at him, claws swiping like blades. But your father didn't run. He held his ground, dodged its blows, and fought it barehanded."

Telemachus gasped. "Did he win?"

"Of course," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "He killed the bear with his own hands and carried its carcass back to the village himself."

Telemachus' grin stretched ear to ear. "I want to be just like him!"

Penelope brushed her fingers through his hair, her smile softening. "And you will, my son. But remember, a king is more than his strength. Your father is wise, too, and that is what makes him great."

A sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber, snuffing out the nearby oil lamps. The air crackled with unseen energy.

Then, a voice rang out, smooth as flowing water yet carrying the weight of Olympus itself.

"Rejoice, Queen of Ithaca, for the war is ended."

Penelope stood swiftly, shielding Telemachus as the golden figure of Hermes, the messenger of the gods, materialized before them. His winged sandals barely touched the ground, his staff glimmering with divine energy.

Telemachus gasped, eyes round as dinner plates.

"Is it true?" Penelope demanded, stepping forward, her heart pounding. "Has the war truly ended?"

Hermes inclined his head. "Odysseus of Ithaca stands among the victors. Troy is no more."

Relief washed over her, so overwhelming that her knees nearly buckled. She clutched her chest, inhaling sharply.

"He returns?" she whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

But Hermes' gaze darkened. "His journey is not yet done."

Penelope frowned. "What do you mean?"

Hermes did not answer immediately. His golden eyes flickered with something she couldn't place. Pity, perhaps? Or forewarning?

"He sails for home," the god said at last. "But the will of the gods is ever fickle."

A chill ran down Penelope's spine. She opened her mouth to question further, but Hermes had already begun to fade, his form dissolving into golden mist.

Telemachus grabbed her hand. "Mother…?"

Penelope forced herself to smile.

"Your father is coming home," she said again, with all the conviction she could muster.

But deep down, she feared the gods had not finished with him yet.