The boy has grown.

Not yet into his father’s stride, but taller than he was, shoulders straighter, voice not quite a man’s but shedding the crack of boyhood. He walks ahead of you now, sometimes, though not without glancing back to be sure your feet still tread behind his.

You remember when he clung to your leg, wild with tears because a goat had butted him. You remember carrying him across flood-swollen fields. Now his hands rest on the hilt of a blade he does not yet know how to wield.

You are walking the ridgeline, slow and steady, boots breaking the frost from the grass. The plants have been fed. The rooms cleaned. And still he wanted to climb—said he could think better with the wind on his face.

So you follow.

At the top, he turns. His cheeks are flushed, curls wild from the breeze. Ithaca lies behind him, soft-edged and smoky in the late afternoon light. The sea flickers like a spilled bowl of bronze.

“Do you remember him?”

His voice is sudden, unsure. He does not look at you when he speaks.

You shift your weight, lean on your staff. “Aye.”

He nods, thoughtful.

“I mean before the war.”

“Aye,” you say again, quiet.

There is a pause.

“What was he like?”

Your eyes move across the hills, down to the shadowed olive groves below. You see the bend in the trail where Odysseus once broke a wheel and laughed like it was the gods' own joke. You see the tree where he carved your name and left it for the boars to ignore.

“Like the sea,” you murmur. “Gentle, if you knew how to read it. Fierce, if you didn’t.” And it is true.

“Have you ever see him throw a spear?” he calls, breathless—Telemachus is far ahead now—skidding to a halt by the pigpen. “They say he never missed. That he could put it clean through a man’s shield, and the man behind it.”

You grunt. Not unkindly.

He grins—cheeky, sunburnt, wild with wind. He’s left the palace sandals behind, somewhere near the tree line. He never bothers with them when he’s out here. Not with you.

You reach for the pail, the weight of it easy in your hands, and pour it steady into the trough. The pigs grunt their approval, snouts nosing deep into the grain. Telemachus watches, squinting into the sun.

“He must’ve been strong,” he says, more to himself than to you. “To string that bow. I tried once. Mother didn’t see. I nearly tore my shoulder out. I think the bow laughed at me.”

He laughs at himself, too, short and soft, like he doesn’t want to admit how much it stung. A hawk wheels overhead, sharp against the sky, and you watch it for a moment, then turn back to your work. Telemachus trails after you.

“I think—” he starts, then stops. Kicks at a stone. “I think I’d know him, if he came home. Even if he looked different. Even if he didn’t say anything.”

He glances up at you then, face tilted, still boyish at the edges.

“You think that’s foolish?”

You don’t answer. But you pause just long enough in your steps that he notices. His mouth twitches.

“I knew you’d say nothing. That’s why I like coming out here. You never lie to make me feel better.”

You shoulder the sack of feed and say nothing still. Telemachus doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’ll be like him, one day,” he says, quieter now, more for the leaves than for you. “Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll be something else. I don’t know yet.”

A pause.

“But I want to. I want to know. Do you think I can, Eumaeus?" He smiled at you. "Will you be there to see?"