Of Waves and War

29: then he kissed his son and cried

Eulises

I wake to Argos licking my face then nestling his big head against mine.

"Hello, boy," I say, smiling a little, and petting his soft ears. "You ready? We're going hunting. One last time for both of us, eh?"

"Do you want see where we buried your mother?" my father is already up, packing breakfast into a satchel.

"Yes, then I must go and make up for lost time of telling my wife how beautiful she is every moment," I say.

"Yes, you shall. I expect the house will be up soon," he says, helping me up. Argos follows us happily, as we hike down to the family cemetery.  The dawn is bright and something like hope beats in my chest. These are my woods. I am home. I am finally home.

"You were right, as usual," my father says, walking to her grave, uncapping a bottle of his finest whiskey, and starting to pour it over the grave, "He did come home. You win, as always."

"You know when my mother and I met in the Underworld she said she wanted me her son and heir, to have any whiskey you might have promised her—,"

"It's been so quiet with you and your boy gone, I'd forgotten what it was like to hear my own thoughts," my father, completely ignoring me.

"She did though, she'd want me to have it," I say, "She said as much---,"

"You haven't even stomached breakfast, boy. Also, I sent you with two good casks of it," he says.

"Yes and one was stolen by a spoiled red-haired grief stricken prince," I say.

"I don't suppose I'll get that comment explained."

"You can if you like."

"Will it be the truth?"

"How am I to know? I haven't begun to say it yet," I say, stroking my mother's headstone. She'll be glad I'm home now.  I break off more of my bread and hand it to Argos.

"Did you feed your entire breakfast to the dog?"

"No."

"Did you eat any of your breakfast?"

"Also no," I hand the dog the rest.

"So quiet, it was horrible," he says.

"I can't imagine. I've been with me. Now, I need some weapons," I say.

"We're visiting your mother's grave."

"My mother would want me to have weapons; she'd like what I'm going to do."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've not thought of it yet, so I wouldn't know," I say.

"Fine, I should have a few bows that would suit you, none to your draw strength. I'm an old man," he says.

"My hands aren't steady enough," I admit, holding them up, "I don't know if it's the lack of food or---it doesn't always happen just when I think of---" I don't finish that. My hands tremble more as I speak.

"I'll get you a dagger," my father says, keeping the pain from his voice.

"And I'll have whatever bows you have—I can look imposing enough with it,"  I say, "I don't know what my draw strength is at this moment but I doubt if it's what it was."

"Just a couple of long bows, as I said they're only for myself or Telemachus if he fancies target practice though your boy prefers the mental arts of close combat to a bow," he says.

"He doesn't need to prefer combat at all," I mutter. He never needs to go to war. He's not allowed to.

"Come on," he puts an arm around my shoulders, "Let's get you cleaned up and ready to go home."