Please imagine for a moment: a bunch of freshman English honors students are going around the room reluctantly reading the Odyssey fanfiction they have been assigned to write. Then, the circle comes around to me and nobody wants to read anymore.

The few memories I have of my father are by proxy. When he left us behind on Ithaca, I was not even a year old, and growing up I assumed I would still be a boy when he returned, but I am a boy no longer. When I ask about him, Eumaeus says he was clever—training old Argos to be the best hunting dog Ithaca had ever seen. My mother says he was strong, giving a heartfelt yet stoic goodbye before boarding the ship for Ilion. The paintings, she continues, do not do him justice, and nor do the songs. In reality, he was much more striking; he could take up so much space in a room he seemed to be the only thing in it.

What I know, however, seems false. These are not my hunting trips, not my tear-bedewed cheeks he kisses. He is my own father, yet I cannot see or feel him on Ithaca.

In boyhood, I would race up and down the beaches, dreaming of fighting alongside him. Even I had heard the tales of men bravely fighting in order to win Queen Helen back from Paris. My bedtime stories were of the war: general Agamemnon and his strategic prowess, the courage of Diomedes who dared to harm a goddess, the endurance of Ajax the greater, and Achilles! Golden Achilles, the young hero, the Aristos Achaion, who killed Hector to avenge his dear friend. Soon though, the wax tablets inscribed with my father's tales became shorter, less detailed, with quick punctuation marking the end of his scattered thoughts. Eventually, they stopped altogether, and he was presumed dead, slain in the final battle of the Trojan War.

Suitors flocked to our home on Ithaca in hordes, greedy men who did not want my mother but the title of king. My mother received these men with grace, greeting each one with gifts but beyond that she was cold. Her skin was plastered with a rigid smile, her eyes and words so icy but burned these men's hearts with envy for Odysseus. She labored through each conversation, a totally different woman than the one I knew. Around me, her smile broke cracks in the plaster, her eyes and words so warm freezing my heart with adoration. Mother sat on the beach with me, taking my hands in hers.

"Telemachus," she said "I believe in your father." And so did I.

Changing seasons carried me into manhood, squaring off my jaw and broadening my shoulders. Mother lost her patience and I lost my mind in waiting. Each day became tougher, suitors coming up with new ways to win my mother over. I could do nothing to stop them, only sit idly by to watch them fail.

Taking matters into my own hands, I sailed to Pylos in order to hold counsel with the king Nestor. His throne room was much like the one on Ithaca, with simple stone walls and floors with a wooden chair for the king. Time had weathered Nestor, and he stared at me with rheumy eyes.

"Son of Odysseus," he said "what brings you to Pylos?" I explained the situation to him. "I last saw your father during the war nine years ago. If anybody can tell you where he is, it would be King Menelaus of Sparta."

My men and I departed after spending two weeks on Pylos, setting a course straight for Sparta. As we sailed, I imagined the sea as my father's eyes staring up at me.

Docking in Sparta I could tell that things were much different than home. Ithaca was loose and green, no matter where you stood you could feel a sea breeze and smell salt air. Sparta was regimented, each man moving with an intent to get somewhere that I did not understand. Menelaus seemed to keep his people in strict captivity.

The kingdom itself bustled with activity, merchants hawking their wares, children weaving through thick crowds, mothers clutching their babies close to their chests. I did not feel a prince but like one of them, who so openly loved their city.

After a few days when Menelaus finally granted counsel, I went to his throne room as a subordinate. He and his wife, Helen, sat as equals on ornate pedestals. Sunlight streamed through open windows on either side of the room, washing the room in white light. The beauty of Helen captivated me, and I realized how such a beautiful woman could cause such a terrible war.

"Son of Odysseus," Menelaus had a loud voice that dropped my name over me like furs. He began to tell me the story of the end of the Trojan War, detailing the sacking of Troy and Helen's return to his arms. Agamemnon, his brother, had been killed by his wife Clytemnestra, but their son Orestes killed her in revenge. While he continued his own story, I watched his wife shine every shade of silver and gold. Only when Menelaus said "Odysseus is alive" did I tear my eyes away from Helen.

Now I am home. Mother grows restless though I assure her that Father will come to us very soon. I take her hands in mine and keep telling her that I believe in him and things will work out in the end.

"Son of Odysseus," the suitors spit "why can't we see your mother alone?" Their eyes glint like hungry dogs, sneers curling at the edges of their mouths. Now I must be the one to handle them with grace: "You may be alone with her when she wishes it herself."

I turn away to catch up with Eumaeus in the great hall. He waves his arms when he sees me, calling "Prince Telemachus, a man is wanting to talk to you." Eumaeus leads me to a small chamber where a beggar breaks bread with thin air.

"Sir," I say as I sit down across from him "I grant you counsel."

"My prince," the beggar's voice is quiet and scratchy "you have grown into a fine young man." He does not let me question this, but presses on: "I can assure you that your father is in the good hands of our Athena."

"I am glad to hear it. Do you know my father?"

"Very well," the beggar chuckles, his gnarled fingers clutching at a cup of wine. His hands shake as he lifts it to his lips, drinking a long time before setting it down, empty, on the table. "Your father is a brilliant, great man, but I came to discuss with you a matter of grave importance. The suitors, who have shared your home for so long, have devised a plot to kill you, marry your mother, and ascend to king. We must act." He now meets my eyes, a flash of green. "We must take our—your, home back from these intruders."

"I cannot do this on my own," I counter "My father must return home first."

"He will, son of Odysseus, he will. Soon!" The beggar slams a fist on the table.

"Leave, Eumaeus," I order. Eumaeus exits the room, shutting the door behind him. I lean in so the man's nose is a hair's breadth away from my own. "How soon?"

The beggar pulls away, crying out "I don't know!" He begins to breathe heavily, eyes wide and scared.

Then, it is as if a veil is lifted. The beggar who had once sat before me is replaced by a man who takes up the entire room, with a beard shaggy and black like my hair, and green eyes you could sail away on. At first neither of us say anything, but after a moment his voice pierces the silence.

"My prince. My son."

I throw myself across the table into his arms, holding him to make up for the twenty years we had lost. He smells like a salty, gory sea, nothing like Ithaca but undeniably home.

"Where have you been?" I ask.

"Everywhere, my son. I met great heroes and killed great villains as I watched Ilion burn. I survived witches and monsters and the deaths of my own foolish men all to return to my home. To you." His voice is soft, even, sure of itself.

In that moment, our four words for love—Philia, Storge, Eros, Agape—not one can explain what I feel for my father but some mixture of all. He had not died, but he had spent my whole life trying to return from distant war to me.

Mine was the most historically accurate of the bunch, which is a real stretch. We actually didn't read the books these events take place in for class, so I was allowed to take a lot of liberties because nobody but me and maybe the teacher knew any better. Yes, I know Odysseus probably wouldn't have sent tablets from war, and yes I know punctuation didn't exist in the Greek language until roughly 350 B.C.E (thanks, Aristophanes of Byzantium). The one my Latin teacher had problems with was the very end, where I list the four kinds of love and say that Telemachus is experiencing all of them at once. Eros is sexual love, yes. But Plato (my man) later proposed that Eros could be felt without sexual attraction, therefore in a Platonic way. Sure, Plato's time was way after Homer's, but still. Thanks for reading!