Odysseus stood at the center of the hall, the sun striking his shoulders and setting his cloak alight with gold. His voice rolled steady over the gathered lords, weaving plans with the same easy sharpness he once used to thread traps in Ithaca’s woods, and his hands moved as he spoke, tracing lines in the air—here the fleet would anchor, there the men would march, here the supplies must go.

From where you lingered near the stone threshold, he looked very tall. Taller even than the pillars holding up the roof. His presence filled the space the way the sea fills a bay, leaving no room for doubt or question. And yet you knew the truth of him.

The crinkle at the corner of his eye when he laughed. The way he knelt in the dirt to show you how to track a rabbit. The careful hands that plaited your hair while he pretended he didn’t know how.

And so you ran to him. Little feet slapping against the cool floor, a laugh bubbling in your chest. You threw your arms around his leg, clinging tight. His words did not falter—he merely glanced down, that slow, secret smile blooming across his face.

Your father reached down without ceremony and ruffled your hair, his calloused fingers warm and familiar. Then, as if you were another piece of his strategy, as vital as the placement of ships or the counting of spears, he spoke to you in the same breath as his orders.

"Ah," he said, loud enough for the whole hall to hear, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Here is my bravest counselor, come to see if my plans are worthy."

The lords chuckled, shifting their weight, fondness easing the iron stiffness from their shoulders. Odysseus bent slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear:

"Hello, sweetheart. What do you need?" he murmured, tapping your nose with one rough finger.