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Like all Witchers, Telemachus of Ithaca doesn’t cope well with peace. 

“Come out,” he calls, creeping through a beautiful paradise with his double swords drawn. Sand creeps in between his sandaled toes, a soft wind blows his short-cropped dark hair out of his eyes, and the palm trees sway invitingly in the distance. “I’m not falling for this! Come out!” 

“What ever do you mean?” asks a lilting voice, and he whips around to see a woman who definitely wasn’t there a second ago. She angles a hip at him invitingly, her dark eyes sparkling in the perfect sunlight. 

“Are you Calypso?” he demands. She must be. Every inch of her from the dark unblemished skin to the charmed jewelry hanging from her arms and neck screamed sorceress, and it wasn’t like this side of the Continent was particularly bursting with them. “Dispel the illusion, now.” 

“You Witchers,” she sing-songs, skipping out of sword-range. “Always talking about work. Don’t you ever want to relax? Don’t you want a home?”

“Not particularly,” he says, and kills her. 

Magic users never really know what to do when Witchers refuse to join their banter, but this kind of lack of situational awareness is almost comical. Telemachus tries to feel embarrassed on her behalf as her head rolls from her shoulders and he sheathes his swords. 

The illusion falls with her death, and Telemachus stares unimpressed at the desolate landscape that surrounds him. Yeah, he hadn’t thought that the “paradise” behind the run-down inn he’d left his gear and horse in was real, but some real-world maintenance wouldn’t have gone amiss. 

Whatever. He had a job to do. 

“Hermione? Hermione of Sparta?” he calls out. “Are you here?” 

A girl peeks out from the corner of a ramshackle hut. “Who are you?” 

Dark-haired, five years old, looks precocious for her age. She fits the description, at least. He crouches so he doesn’t tower over her. He’s learned kids tend to like that sort of thing, though he doesn’t know how much it’ll comfort her when a dead body’s lying between them. “I was hired by your mother and father to find the sorceress that kidnapped you. Did she hurt you?” 

“You’re a Witcher.” Her eyes are wide. 

He tries to keep his shoulders open, his posture unthreatening. If she starts crying, he’s going to lose it. “I am. My name is-” 

“You’re a monster,” she says, and it comforts him that she says it so matter-of-factly. This is a girl who likes following crawling lines of ants in the dirt enough to wander off and get kidnapped, according to her mother and all the evidence he’s found. Telemachus is nothing more than another beast to study. He can live with that. 

“Did she hurt you?” he repeats. 

She bites her lip. “No. But she hurt the other man.” 

The other man? When he took the contract from the innkeepers Helen and Menelaus, it had seemed like their daughter was the only one to be taken. Calypso had only just set up in Sparta since being run out of her last town, when Ogygia’s women had finally cottoned onto the fact that the late nights their husbands were spending “working” and their village illusionist were connected. “Who?”

“I dunno,” she says. “He’s been here longer than me.” 

And she’s only been here for a day or two, so that doesn’t tell him much. But if this man is hurt… “Where is he?” 

“Um…” She points back where he came from, where the illusion had painted a rolling sea. “I think… over there?”

He walks over, and sure enough, he finds a man struggling to his feet, staring at his dark, gritty surroundings. He has thick stubble, his clothes are slightly torn, and his back looks as if it’s been whipped some time ago, but he doesn’t look as if he’s going to keel over right then and there. 

“Am I free?” he’s muttering to himself. “Truly?”

“You are,” Telemachus calls, and the man startles and turns. “Calypso is dead. Are you hurt, friend?” 

The man’s gaze darkens as it skips from Telemachus’s medallion to his eyes. “I’m not your friend,” he sneers. “And I certainly don’t need help from your kind.” 

He almost prefers being called a monster. “Alright, sir. There was a young girl here, so I’ll be taking her-” 

“Like hell you will,” the man growls, scrambling to his feet, and Telemachus frowns. 

“I’m duty-bound to bring her home.” 

“Home?”

“To her parents,” Telemachus says, bewildered. For some reason, the man loses his aggressive posture at that. “To fulfill my contract.” 

“Oh, well, if it’s to fulfill a contract,” the man scoffs. 

Telemachus grits his teeth. Serves him right for attempting to show a stranger some kindness. “I’ll be in the inn ten minutes east if you need me. Goodbye, sir,” he says stiffly, and leaves the man to walk by himself. 

He goes back to where Hermione is staring blearily into the distance. Gods above, he hopes this girl isn’t too affected by whatever she faced. Thankfully, it seems like Calypso liked to give people what she thought they most desired - a home in paradise, views of scantily clad female bodies, whatever - until she got bored, and it looks like the girl hadn’t suffered too much beyond simple exhaustion and homesickness. 

“Can I pick you up?” he asks her, and scoops her up when she shrugs. She wriggles for about three seconds before sagging into his hold. 

“You’re not going to hurt me, will you?” she mumbles into his shoulder sleepily. 

“Nah,” he says back. Judging by her immediate soft snores, she seems to believe him. 

There’s a bit of a scare when Helen sees her daughter limp on top of him and thinks she’s dead, but they fix that pretty quickly. Then there’s all the typical stuff when he returns children to their parents: laughter, crying, scolding, and awkward looks at him as if to say, Well, you got your money. We don’t want you here around the impressionable girl you just saved. Go run off into the woods and do whatever animals like you do after a hunt before we run you off ourselves, Witcher. 

Which is unfair, maybe, but Menelaus does lie and say there are no rooms available at the inn when Telemachus doesn’t smell any new arrivals since he left, so it’s probably not too far from the truth. He doesn’t need a warm bath or a soft bed, however much he’d like those things, so he bargains himself into a free meal of bread, meat, and a singular apple and is soon ready to be on his way. 

He’s brushing Athena down in the stables when he notices the man from earlier slinking in. He doesn’t smell explosives or fire on him - it is not fun to be inside a barn when it’s burning, which he’s unfortunately learned the hard way - so he doesn’t pay him much mind. Telemachus has often been treated as an attraction of sorts, like a collision of two horse-drawn carts or lightning striking a tree. Impossible to look away, dangerous up close. 

Athena nudges his pocket with her head and he sighs, letting her finish off his apple. She needs some down time too, even after the couple hours she had during his hunt. They’ve been moving from town to town a lot recently, but that’s what happens as contracts grow rarer. 

“Ithaca.” 

He’d expected the man would say something and Athena had always been aware of him lingering in the corner of her vision, so neither of them react. What’s he supposed to say to a man addressing him and saying nothing else? He keeps brushing Athena down. “Yes?”

The man looks confused for a second, but keeps going. “I need to get to Ithaca.” 

Oh. “Sounds great. Best of luck.” 

“I- I need you to take me there.” 

“Please.” 

The man’s lip curls. “What?” 

Telemachus puts down his brush, tucking his long brown hair behind his ear before turning to face the man. He knows that he’s well built enough to scare almost any person when he glares at them, and this man’s tiny. “I need you to take me there, please.”

“I’m not going to-” 

“Oh, what’s that?” he says, bending towards Athena’s mouth. “You think we should just go, and not listen to any irritating men who don’t know their manners? I think I agree.” He flashes a smile at the dumbfounded man. “She’s a smart horse. I tend to listen to her.” 

He leads her out and mounts her, ignoring the man’s sputters. 

“Good day, sir,” he says cheerfully, and then yanks on the reins as the man dashes in front of Athena, a horse visibly ready to run. Is he mad? “Sir!” 

“Please,” the man says, voice breaking, and Telemachus frowns, raising an eyebrow. 

“Please what?” 

“I- I need to get home. The sorceress had me for a full week. My wife will be terrified.” 

“So?”

“It’s only a two days ride away,” the man says. “I know Witchers are uncaring brutes, but you seem- a little less like that. There are raiders in these woods, and I’d never make it through them alive if I wasn’t accompanied.” 

Uncaring brutes? A little less like that? Gods above, this man’s manners are worse than Telemachus thought. 

“I’ll- I’ll pay you,” the man says, digging in his pockets when Telemachus doesn’t respond. “Five crowns now, five when I make it home.” 

Ten crowns, just for an escort job? It’s almost suspicious, but the man seems sincere enough. He probably thinks his wife has found another lover in his absence - it’s the only thing that might explain his desperation. 

Well, it’s not Telemachus’s business, it’s only two days, and money is money. He sighs. “Fine.” 

“Thank you,” the man says, and moves to climb on the horse’s back. Telemachus clicks and she moves away. 

“Don't touch Athena.” 

“Then how am I supposed to-” 

“Walk,” Telemachus says levelly, “or find another escort.” 

The man frowns, but doesn’t argue. Thank the gods. A few minutes pass in silence. 

“What’s your name?” Telemachus asks, maybe abruptly. Calling him ‘the man’ in his own mind is getting old. “If we’re to travel together, I may as well know it.” 

The man looks at him distrustfully. “Nobody.” 

Well, if that isn’t the fakest name he’s ever heard. “Lovely. Your mother was creative.” 

“Don’t talk about my mother.” 

Oh, this is going to be so boring Telemachus might cry. “Fine, fine. Let’s just… go.” 

- - -

About two hours of mostly silence into their trek towards Ithaca, the man - Nobody, apparently - is starting to lag behind. It makes sense, with the pace Telemachus has allowed Athena to set, and Telemachus is surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. He’s not going to stop unless Nobody lowers himself to ask for a break, though, and by his set jaw, it’ll be at least half an hour until he does. 

In the end, Nobody’s body decides for him. Mid-step, his leg crumples, and he falls with a strangled cry to the ground. 

Telemachus pulls Athena’s reins, turning her in the road. “What happened?” 

“Nothing. Nothing,” the man pants, rising to a knee and falling again. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” 

“Well, that doesn’t matter, does it?” Nobody snaps. “I suffered under a sorceress’s tender mercies for seven days. I have enough strength to keep going.” 

And though the man probably isn’t aware of the fact that no Witcher enjoys being compared to a mage - it’s something about the fact that magic users are born to chaos and Witchers are made for order, despite all their similarities when it comes to how poorly the common folk see them - it’s still a low blow. Telemachus huffs and dismounts, tossing Athena’s reins over a branch. 

“We can stop for a while. It’s fine.” 

“Why?” the man says suspiciously, though he does stop trying to stand. 

Telemachus sighs. “Why what?” 

“Why are you… being kind to me?” 

“I’m already leading you through the woods,” Telemachus says, exasperated. “Why wouldn’t I let you rest?” 

“You’re a Witcher.” 

Gods. Telemachus thinks vaguely that the vitriol in this man’s voice should be bottled into poison. It’d be… potent. “Sure am. And here I am, letting you rest.” 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to drag a corpse through these woods,” he says, tired. “I’d like to get paid.” 

“You could take all my money off me right now,” the man retorts, then flinches. 

Telemachus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Would you like me to?”

“…No.” 

“Then I won’t.” 

The man doesn’t seem to believe him, by the way he clutches his thin purse closer to his waist, but he sits there catching his breath all the same. Telemachus takes the time to run his hands through Athena’s mane. 

“That contract paid well,” he mutters to her, trying to collect his thoughts. “With that and ten crowns, we’ll have enough to get some more ingredients for potions. I’m running low on Kiss.”

Athena nickers at him. You’re so reckless, he imagines her saying. What if you get injured? Or, more likely, And apples, right? And sugar. And the good hay. And-

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. “It’ll have to wait. We’re going to Ithaca first.” 

Ithaca. For the place he’s named after, he doesn’t know much about it. It’ll be his first time there since- since he can remember, really. 

“This’ll be fun,” he says wearily, and turns to see Nobody watching him intently. “What?”

“You talk to your horse?” 

It’s just like when he’s at the keep for the winter and a fellow Wolf needles him for how close he is with Athena, apart from how this is worse because he doesn’t care for this man’s opinion at all. “Well, she’s the best company around. Aren’t you, girl?”

The man ignores the taunt, standing slowly. “I always imagined Witchers to roam the Continent in packs. Like…” His gaze catches on the medallion lying on Telemachus’s broad chest. “Like wolves.” 

Maybe they did, once. Telemachus is far too young to know for sure. “Nah. We walk the Path alone.” 

“Completely alone?” the man repeats, looking almost… sad. It rubs Telemachus the wrong way. 

“Just me, myself, and I,” he says, forcing himself to sound like he couldn’t care less. “Ready to go?” 

Nobody either doesn’t hear the question or doesn’t want to respond. “Isn’t it… lonely?”

“Never known anything else.” 

“Is she… she looks like a good horse, at least. Strong, intelligent.” 

“She is,” Telemachus says, instead of the hundred other more cutting things he could say. “Athena’s her name.” 

“Goddess of wisdom,” the man says. 

Telemachus frowns. “Goddess of war.” 

“She’s a war horse, then?” 

“Every Witcher’s horse is,” he says. “The ones that aren’t don’t last. Ready to go?” 

This time, Nobody nods. Telemachus climbs up onto Athena, and they continue on. 

- - -

After that, conversation comes easier. Not easily - the man clearly still has an oddly strong grudge against Witchers - but Telemachus has a better time. They talk about the weather, about horses, about travel. Only small talk, but it clears the air. 

He makes the mistake of wondering aloud if the reason Nobody wants to return to his wife early is because he doubts his wife’s fidelity. He gets an earful about how wonderful his wife is, and how trustworthy, and for that matter how intelligent and beautiful and kind and loving, and by the time Nobody finally pauses to take a breath Telemachus is slightly dizzy with the sheer force of love this man clearly has for his wife. It’s quite sweet, actually. 

“Well, of course I love her,” Nobody says when he voices this, audibly affronted. “We’re all each other has.” 

“No children?” Telemachus asks. 

Nobody’s face shutters. He turns away, and Telemachus has the distinct feeling he’s said something wrong. “No. None.” 

Shame, Telemachus thinks privately. The man might hate Witchers, but he’s obviously bursting with love. Any child of his would have to be considered lucky. 

- - -

“How old are you?” Nobody asks at one point. 

Telemachus frowns. “How old are you?” he shoots back. 

“Forty-five,” Nobody says easily. Oh, sure. He’ll say that, but not his actual name. “And you?”

Actually, Telemachus isn’t completely sure. He’s lost count. Embarrassing, because he knows he can’t possibly be over twenty-five. It’s only that there’s no point in counting. “Nineteen, I think. Maybe twenty.” 

“Nineteen?”  

“Twenty,” Telemachus snaps, like it matters. 

The man frowns. “I thought your kind were immortal.” 

They’re not. Telemachus has almost seen more Witchers die than beasts. “Well, we all have to start somewhere,” he says, grinning with enthusiasm he doesn’t feel, and kicks his horse into a faster canter. 

- - -

When the sun dips below the horizon, they make camp. They’ve made good time, and Telemachus makes sure to spend time brushing Athena down extra well as a reward. Nobody keeps himself busy, clearing an area of twigs for sleeping and eating and gathering dry wood for a fire. 

In the dim twilight, smiling faintly at Athena nickering as she lays down to rest, he looks younger than before. Telemachus can imagine Nobody as a young man, suddenly - someone energetic, warm, optimistic. He wonders what happened to turn him into… this. 

Nobody catches his gaze across the fire as they eat and his lips twist downward. He glances away for the hundredth time that day, and Telemachus finally points it out. 

“Why do you hate me?” 

Nobody startles. “What?” 

“You won’t look at me,” Telemachus says, without judgement. “You laugh with me one moment and look guilty the next. I’ve seen people act this way before, but never as much as you do. Do you have something against me or against Witchers as a whole?” 

Nobody sighs. “It’s not you.” 

“So it’s all Witchers, then?” He takes Nobody’s silence as assent. “Fine. Don’t suppose I can change that. What, did one of us run after taking a contract? Just because one Witcher decided to-” 

“I had a son, once,” Nobody growls roughly. Telemachus startles. “One of your kind took him.” 

Telemachus sighs and looks away. It’s an old story, one he knows all too well. “I see. The Law of Surprise.” 

“No.” Telemachus turns, surprised at the venom in the man’s voice. “We didn’t do anything of the kind. We would’ve known our child could have been taken. We- We would never-” 

“That’s not how the law works,” Telemachus says. “You must have-” 

“We didn’t.” Nobody breathes heavily. “We didn’t. Another man, Palamedes, was saved by one of your kind, another Wolf Witcher, and promised him whatever came to greet him first when he returned home- but then he came to our home, and placed our son in front of him- and- and then our son was gone, taken-”

He covers his face in his hands. Telemachus stares, uncertain. 

Unlikely? Yes. But possible? Almost certainly. Some Wolves had been far less cautious than others when it came to little things like double checking the ancestry of the children they were given, especially in the later days when Kaer Morhen’s ranks were growing thin and there was the very real - and, as it turns out, very justified - fear of the Wolves dying out altogether. 

All that seems in poor taste to say, though, now that there’s a crying man in front of Telemachus. He reaches out hesitantly and pats the man on the shoulder. 

“I’m… sorry,” he tries. “That shouldn’t have happened.” 

“He was so young,” Nobody says, gripping his hand like it’s a lifeline, and apparently this is sharing time now. Telemachus tries not to long for the silence of a few hours past. “He was so smart, and so brave, and he was crying when they took him- the last time we saw him-” 

“I’m sorry,” Telemachus repeats uselessly, but suddenly Nobody has jerked upright to look at him with an expression that looks eerily like hope. 

“Is it- is it possible he survived? You’re a Witcher. You would know-” 

“No,” Telemachus says, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t hope for that.” 

“Why?” the man asks, almost wildly. “Maybe-” 

“There are… trials,” Telemachus says, his words measured. “Alchemical. Athletic. Not all pass.” 

“Well, even if he didn’t pass-” 

“Not all survive,” Telemachus corrects, heart in his throat. He cannot blame Nobody. It is not his fault Telemachus once woke after a week of agony to see the corpses of his best friends fallen around him. “And after that, there were purges. There were massacres.”

“Surely-” 

“There are fewer Wolf Witchers left,” Telemachus breathes, all agony, all grief, “than I have fingers on one hand.” 

Nobody falls silent. 

“Your son is dead,” Telemachus whispers, and though his tone has a mark of finality he hopes it is also gentle in the way only shared sorrow can be. “All you can do is pray he died quickly.” 

- - -

Nobody stops crying, eventually. Telemachus is grateful. There’s nothing worse than a silent night beside a crying companion. 

“Do you think,” the man whispers, when he’s laying on the bedroll and Telemachus spreads out on the hard ground, “that he remembered me? Us? If- If he ever grew to be- older? Than he was?”

The question is stuttered and nonsensical. Telemachus understands it anyway. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” he murmurs, as fair as he can be. “I know one Witcher who remembers an old song his mother used to sing to him. I know another that remembers his father beat him and his mother daily, and not much else. I know several who remember nothing before the trials at all.” 

Nobody takes this in silence. Then: “Which are you?” 

“Oh, the last,” Telemachus says easily. “I know where I’m from because I was told. But besides that…” He trails off. 

Nobody’s eyes look sad in the dim light. “Are you… okay with that?” 

It’s a confusing question. He might as well ask if Telemachus is okay with the fact that the sun rises in the east. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Oh.” 

Telemachus feels as if he should say more. “I’ve always been curious,” he admits. “What my parents were like. Whether they remember me. But there’s little point in wondering.” 

“When were you taken?” 

“Oh, I can’t remember,” he says. “I was four? Five? Somewhere there.” 

“Gods,” Nobody whispers. “I can’t imagine.” 

“I don’t remember them, really,” he says, trying to be comforting and probably missing the mark. “Odysseus and Penelope, their names were. That’s all I- Nobody? Are you alright?” 

Nobody has jerked upright, face ashen. “What?” 

“Are you okay?” Telemachus asks, sitting up himself. “Is it your leg?” 

“What- You-” Nobody presses a hand to his heart as if to stop it beating out of his chest. “What’s your name?” 

“What? You don’t know?”

“I don’t- Just, please-”

“They call me Telemachus of Ithaca,” he says, mock-bowing. He rises to see Nobody’s lips go white. 

“What?”

“Heard of me?” He’d be surprised if he had, actually. Telemachus doesn’t give his name out much, unlike a certain Witcher who had scores of songs - songs! - written about him. He’s comfortable with obscurity. 

Nobody doesn’t seem like he’s going to say much else, so Telemachus shrugs and lays back down again. 

“We’ll head out at sunrise,” he says. “Get some sleep.” 

His plan is to wait to pass out until Nobody’s breath evens in sleep, but for whatever reason, the man doesn’t fall asleep for hours. Telemachus ends up falling asleep first, strangely comforted by his companion’s presence. 

- - -

The next day, Nobody is different. More tired, perhaps - Telemachus isn’t sure if he got any sleep at all - but at the same time far more energetic. He keeps asking things, like what Telemachus remembers of his pre-Witcher past (next to nothing) and how he found Athena (bought her, obviously. Telemachus isn’t sure to be offended by how apparently Ithacan folk stories warn men to lock up their horses to prevent Witchers from making them their loyal cursed steeds). It’s not… alarming, per se, but it does seem out of character for the man who spent most of yesterday glaring at him. 

“What do the other Witchers call you?” Nobody asks at one point. 

Telemachus fights a smile. “Little Wolf, mostly.” 

“Wolf,” Nobody echoes, his gaze resting on his medallion before coming back up to his face. “That, I understand. But little?”

“I’m the youngest,” Telemachus says, tilting his head. “The youngest still alive, I mean.” 

“Youngest? Aren’t your lot constantly stealing new children every minute to feed your numbers?” 

Telemachus rolls his head on his neck, staring at him until the man shrinks slightly. 

“I- I mean. You’ve been taking new children.” 

“We haven’t, actually.” 

“What? Why?” 

Too many answers. We lost the mutagens. We don’t remember how to use them. We didn’t like going to sleep with the screams of dying children ringing in our ears. We realized that bringing more Witchers into a world that wants us dead was too much like raising lambs for a slaughter. 

“We got bored of it,” he says instead, deliberately goading the man into a fight. 

Nobody, unfortunately, doesn’t give him one. 

- - -

Telemachus finally breaks when Nobody asks how Witchers become Witchers. “And why do you want to know?” he snaps. This personality change has made him uneasy, but he feels bad when Nobody flinches back. 

“No reason, I just- is it painful?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“I care about you,” Nobody says bafflingly. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

Telemachus is comfortable enough with prejudice, as common as it is, but concern makes him itch. “It’s in the past.” 

“So it did hurt.” 

“Yes, it hurt!” Telemachus cries, wheeling on him. “Have you ever been broken apart and turned into a killing machine? Something more animal than man? If it didn’t hurt, it would be far more terrifying!” 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Nobody stammers. “I didn’t-” 

“Why do you care?” Telemachus snaps. “Your kind never does.” 

It’s so satisfying to set him apart, to berate him for it. Your kind. He understands, for the first time, the reason humans are always so eager to declaim Witchers as other.  

“I do!” Nobody cries, but Telemachus is no longer listening. 

“You’re just a man,” he spits. “I’m a monster. I was remade into the shape of a beast to die for you. I know what you think of me. I don’t need your- your-” And he stops, because before he can finish his sentence, he sees that Nobody is crying. “What?”

“You’re no monster,” Nobody says. “You’re- You’re Telemachus. You’re not- You could never be-” 

“Where is this coming from?” 

Nobody’s gaze is frenetic, going from his eyes to his cheekbones to his hair without ever settling, as if he isn’t sure he wants to look at Telemachus but can’t pull his gaze away. “I- My son-” 

“Your son is dead,” Telemachus spits. 

Nobody flinches hard. “Before, I could only wonder about my son’s world,” he says weakly. “And I could only hope that even if he didn’t remember us, he’d be happy. And now, looking at you-”

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Telemachus hisses. 

“No,” Nobody says, and before Telemachus can move away, reaches up to cup his cheek. “No. You could never disappoint me.” 

Telemachus looks at him, eyes wide. This is- It makes no sense. He turns his head away, and Nobody lowers his hand.

“Are you happy?” he asks quietly. “As a Witcher?” 

Telemachus doesn’t know what the man’ll do when he says no. Because- because of course he’ll say no. What Witcher is happy, carrying on a dying profession, living on the road, the only certainty being that you’ll be spat on by the strangers that you help everywhere you go? 

But of course, there are always times like this. Meeting someone with hope in their eyes, earning soft touches freely given and freely gained. And Telemachus loves saving lives, no matter how grateful people are. And winters at Kaer Morhen are warm and full of hope and life, no matter how much the keep and the Witchers inside remain haunted by echoes of the past. 

This is not a life he chose. But is he happy with it? 

“I have made this life my own, like all Witchers,” Telemachus tells Nobody honestly. “I would fight for it with everything I have. I am as happy as I have ever been when I am on the Path.” 

Nobody smiles. It looks, eerily enough, exactly like the expression Telemachus makes in the mirror when he is trying not to cry. “I am happy to hear it.” 

- - -

When they enter Ithaca, Telemachus feels a change go through him. 

It makes no sense, but he swears he recognizes this road, that field, those cottages. The heat beating down on the landscape makes it sway, making him imagine trees smaller, giving him deja vu. This has never happened to him before. 

Nobody is watching him closely. “What?” Telemachus asks, and Nobody says nothing. 

There is a thought Telemachus has - a suspicion he has had ever since late last night. It cannot be true. 

But- if it was-

“It’s this house,” Nobody says. Telemachus knows before he turns what it looks like, though the garden is brighter, roof is patched, and the shutters are painted. He’s been here before. He is certain of it. 

There’s a feeling rising in his chest, heady and knowing. Like the aftereffects of drinking Cat, seeing visions in the dark. He feels like he’s soaked in blood, in bile, unpresentable and filthy and far too naive. 

Nobody stumbles as he walks up the path, his bad leg nearly giving way, and Telemachus catches him. Nobody smiles gratefully. “Thank you, son.” 

Son. 

It could mean anything. It doesn’t mean- 

No. No. He is Telemachus of Ithaca. Not- 

He is a Witcher. He survived the Trials. He is of the School of the Wolf. He doesn’t belong here, in a home with a garden and a family. 

Nobody sees the look on his face and his face falls. 

“Won’t you come in?” he says, almost desperately. “I want you to meet my wife.” 

“No thank you, Nobody,” he says, trying to smile as he moves his hands away. He mourns the loss immediately, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. 

“Son,” the man repeats, this time with all the meaning in the world, and cold ice floods Telemachus’s veins. “I- Please. At least let her see you?” 

“I must return to the Path,” he says, stumbling back instead of crying. “I need to leave.” 

“Will you return?” 

Never, he thinks, because he remembers nights of crying for his mother and nights of agony as the Grasses ripped him apart and nights of aching loneliness, and none of it is as bad as the thought of staring at parents who never raised him and knowing they are still haunted by his absence. “Perhaps.” 

The man must know it is a lie in the way he shifts, as if the land he has named himself with is too holy to stand upon. But instead of fighting, he smiles and raises a hand to Telemachus’s cheek. Close enough to smell with Witcher senses, but not close enough to touch unless Telemachus moves. 

He does, just for a moment. Lets his father’s palm brush his cheek. Imagines a world in which it does not feel foreign. 

And then he draws back, taking a breath and bowing his head. “Well met, Odysseus.” 

Odysseus - because it is Odysseus, this man he has lived with for two days and dreamed about his whole life - gazes at him as if committing his looks to memory. Telemachus has no need. No matter how long he lives, he already knows he will never forget this. “Well met, Telemachus of Ithaca. Live well. Be- be happy.” 

“I will,” he whispers, and means it.