The palace, for twelve long years a hive of whispered plots and fawning nobles, had erupted in a frenzy of feverish cleaning. Servants flitted about with brooms, others with jars of food or drink. 
   "The king's on his way!" they sang, a song that had started as a mere whisper in the morning but had grown louder and louder with every repetition. The king was on his way, and already he was clearing out the stagnant misery that had taken hold of the palace.
   The boy smiled at the sight. Two years now he'd watched nobles go up to his mother with honeyed lies and false condolences, their gazes toward her but never looking at her. No, they had only ever coveted the throne, a secret so superficial it was a small wonder they hadn't dropped the pretence.
   Gone were the days he'd stare out the window, wishing for a sliver of sail, a tiny speck of hope that his father was still alive and not buried in some unmarked grave. 
   No, he did not look upon a grey, motionless sea. There, in the distance, struggling for supremacy against the sky's blue canvas, a single white sail, glimmering in the sun. Then another. As if the Goddess Athena were raising her victory banner across the horizon, twelve sails appeared, one after another.
   Even from afar, the boy recognised their ships.
   "The king's on his way!" he roared. He did not stride out with the long and measured steps befitting the king he would one day need to be. He ran, like an excited dog, like a desperate son, eager to hurl himself into his father's arms.

The galley cut through the waves, spurned forward by the western wind. The crew of the weather-worn assembly of wood and human ingenuity laboured in the sun, sweat beading their brows. Though fatigue gnawed at the men's bones, tempting them with sleep and the cool deck, none heeded the siren's call. For home was in sight, and all wanted to hold something other than an oar.
   At the bow of the ship stood the captain. His once-neatly kept hair had turned into a wild mane, feebly held together by a string of cloth. His armour gleamed in the sun; he'd had a mind to take it off again, but he could not bear the thought of his people seeing him in any less than his best.
   "Penelope, I will see you at last." The captain sighed, the faint traces of a smile playing around his lips.
   The man beside him, tall and built like an ox that learnt to stand on two feet, put a thick hand on the captain's shoulder. "Captain, what of the boy?" He gestured to the child, barely even two years old, whose tiny hand clung to the captain's tattered tunic ends.
   "He'll have a mother," the captain said. He thumped his fist against his chest. "And a brother."
   The man's brows knitted together, his face a tangled mess of admonishment and exasperation. But he said nothing, simply sighed and shook his head slowly but deliberately.
   "They'll understand," the captain said, softer now. "Would you have had me hurl the boy off the walls and please the gods?"
   "It's been more than a decade, captain. Time changes people."
   "Ready the men. We're close to the shore."
   The man sighed again, then saluted and lumbered away. The captain watched him as he returned to the deck, barking orders at anyone in earshot. He was a good man, and the captain would entrust him with his back in a heartbeat.
   "But I'll acquiesce to no demands to be a monster," the captain mumbled. Damned be the gods who had made the demand, and damned be any man who sided with them.
   The captain tousled the boy's dark hair, a stark contrast to the captain's own blond.
   "Worry not. We're almost home," he said, his voice soft and gentle.
   The boy didn't speak. His eyes were locked on the horizon, to the palace on the cliff, surrounded by olive trees; to the white houses with their red and gold banners; to the gaggle of figures moving on the beach ahead.
   Home. The word left a bitter aftertaste in the captain's mouth. 

The crowd's cheers surged from the beach like a tidal wave, threatening to drag the boy along even as the first galley made landfall. The ship's worn wood parted the pristine white sands while water cascaded from its bow, cutting a dark, muddy path wherever it went.
   Even before the vessel had come to a standstill, even before any had time to put out the gangplank, a figure launched himself from the bow. His battered armour glistened in the sunlight, the bronze adorned with scars of battle. A helmet, plume lost to war, sat atop a head of unkempt hair. The cloak, once dyed the vibrant crimson of blood, now was tattered and frayed, faded to a dulled red.
   His grandmother's hand trembled in his own as she released a long-held sigh. A tremor not unlike the quiver of his mother's hand on his shoulder. The man marching towards them was not like the kings the boy had grown up hearing about. His beard unkempt, hair matted, the weariness of the world etched into his face.
   Yet the parted crowd, bowed in reverence, allowed no mistake: this was their king, his stride as majestic as it was confident.
   The man stopped before the boy, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
   So this is my father, the boy thought. The man he'd only known in his bedtime stories, from the gossip of palace servants--and from the nobles' eulogies. The boy clenched his fist hard enough for his fingers to leave their marks in his flesh.
   Then he was torn from the ground and whirled in the sky, his stomach churning from the motion and his eyes spinning. When the world came to a stop, he was held aloft by broad arms, looking straight into the deep blue eyes of his father, eyes that reflected his own.
   "My son, how you've grown," the king said, his deep voice thick with emotion.
   "Welcome home, my love, my Odysseus." Tears streamed down the queen's face as she flung her arms around the king with such force that he stumbled.
   "Penelope! Mother! I've come home!" Odysseus roared, and again the crowd erupted in cheers.
   From the ships, too, emerged men. Men who reunited with families eager to see the safe return of a husband, a son, a brother. All at once, the people who had sunk to their knees in reverence sprang to their feet, and everywhere people were falling into each other's arms, crying tears of joy and relief.
   One man approached the boy's group, leading a small child by the hand.
   The boy squinted against the sun. "Father, someone's approaching." He pointed.
   Odysseus nodded. "Wait a moment." He let the boy down, then spun and approached the man.
   The boy couldn't guess at what they discussed, but soon enough his father turned back to them, now holding the child's hand as he approached them. His mother squeezed his shoulder, and the boy winced.
   "Allow me to introduce to you," Odysseus said, "to our son. To your brother, Telemachus. To Astyanax."
   Though the beach was a cacophony of tearful reunions, a heavy silence hung between the royals.