You kept glancing toward the seashore, maybe this time you’d catch a glimpse of him returning—No. Just the waves, rolling in and out, again and again. You’d been staring out for a while now. The shore was a beautiful sight.. but the brush in your hand wouldn’t move. Paint dripped down to the parchment, untouched. The same paint Telemachus had given you.

The wind felt harsher as it brushed against your face.

Maybe a glass of water can help, though from the way you’ve been staring at the ocean, it practically feels like you're drowning in it.

It had been a few days since Telemachus left Ithaca, and perhaps the constant worry—paired with his absence—was wearing you down.

Without him, everything felt slightly off. The day felt emptier therefore lonely. You felt lonelier.

You missed him. Not just his voice or presence, but the way he looked at you like you were something worth returning to. Something he chose, a memory that warmed your chest and ached all at once

"(Name)?" You turned your attention to see the queen.

"Your Highness, is there something wrong?" You asked gently, surprised. It was rare for Queen Penelope to speak to you directly—usually she calls for your mother when she needed assistance. You straightened your posture instinctively, forcing away the heaviness clinging to your chest. "Have you seen Telemachus around?" She asked heavily.

Her question caused your pressed smile to falter, as the effort to hold it in broke, your breath went quiet as you attempt to dart away. "I'm afraid not, Your Highness." You said almost too quiet. "Not today"

You aren't too sure why the queen was questioning you anyways, As far as you knew, your friendship—or… relationship..with the prince wasn’t something anyone had noticed yet. You weren't really proving yourself as you looked more guilty than a man caught in the act.

Penelope's expression softened, her eyes studied you with care. "You miss him, don't you?" She said, your eyes widen in surprised, lips parting to deny, but you couldn't. How could you lie to a queen—worse, to a mother?

Penelope wore a faint smile as her tired eyes covered yours. "I think it's a mother power to sense it, I noticed the way he looks at you from afar, especially when he think no one is looking." She states. A blush crept its way to your face as you struggled to find the words. "I was once in love too, you know. I notice, every single time."

You weren’t sure if you should be ashamed, embarrassed, or scared… This was the queen you were speaking to—the very woman who held power over the land beneath your feet. What would you do if she asked you to stay away from her son? And then, a thought struck you: if the queen knew… did your mother know too?

Penelope must have noticed the way your posture stiffened, the way your breath hitched slightly. She stepped closer, her voice gentle as she reached out to lightly soothe your arm. "Sweetie, I’m not mad," she confirmed, a small smile forming as she tried to soothe your panic. "You have nothing to be afraid of." Your eyes lifted hesitantly to hers.

"I couldn’t be more grateful that my son fell for someone like you," she continued, her voice warm with sincerity. "You’re so kind. Thoughtful. Loving. You bring out something in him I haven’t seen in years—not just joy, but… peace. He’s softer when you’re around, as a mother, what more could I ask for?" Penelope brought a strand of hair behind your ear.

"But… I’m… I’m just a—"

"A girl," Penelope finished for you, with a knowing smile. "Yes. A girl with strength. Gentle. Someone who listens, who cares more deeply than she lets on." She looked at you, really looked at you, as if peeling back every layer you tried to hide behind.

Her voice dipped, warm and motherly now. "You love him?" She asks. Slowly, you nodded vulnerably. She smiles, "Then, that is all that matters"

You never truly saw yourself as all those things. Hearing them now, spoken so sincerely by the queen, left you unsure of how to feel. Her words offered a kind of warmth you weren’t used to—one you always quietly craved.

The mother’s love you grew felt distant, conditional, rare. And yet, here was Penelope, speaking to you not only as someone who accepted your love for her son, but as someone who saw you—really saw you—in a way that felt… motherly.

You felt overwhelmed. Because, for one, you were happy that the queen accepted your feelings for Telemachus. And also cause you felt loved as a daughter.

You could only smile before leaning in to embrace the queen. Penelope returned it just as warmly, her hand gently resting on your back. "Just… please don’t tell my mother," you mumbled, almost sheepishly, earning a soft chuckle from her. "I understand," she whispered, and you believed her.

You did end up telling the queen about Telemachus’ departure, guilty as you apologized for staying quiet—honoring the request he left behind. But Penelope only offered a tired smile, the kind that held more understanding than disappointment, and told you she had known of his plans all along—just hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. You admired her in that moment. It didn’t take a god to see it: the tired in her smile, the quiet ache behind her eyes. She was tired, and you couldn’t blame her—not when you, too, were wilting under the weight of Telemachus' absence after only a few weeks. It made you wonder how heavy her heart must be, having endured twenty years without her king. You admired her strength—quiet, unwavering, and still standing tall.

It didn’t help that you could see traces of Telemachus in the queen’s features—he was her son, after all. Penelope once mentioned how much he resembled his father, though you had never truly pictured the king beyond statues and fading portraits. The resemblance might be striking, but Telemachus carried a different energy—something no man you had ever met possessed. Maybe it was because he was raised by a mother who gave him warmth without demanding he smother it in pride. He had her gentleness, her quiet strength, and yet he still clung to dreams of becoming a man like his father. Perhaps you were overthinking it—or perhaps you just missed him so deeply, you found yourself searching for his soul in every small thing, trying to feel him again in the absence he left behind.

...

Distraction tend to make you forget about your problems, especially the ones that continues to flow, You were currently in the back courtyard to hang the sheets of linen to dry. The white sheets hang as the wind gently blew with it. You weren't really paying attention to anything else than to your chore, but when you pushed aside the sheets to pass by, your mother stood behind a distance, causing you flinch in surprised. "Mom- you scared me" You clench your chest before simply passing by her.

You and your mother... were different. You knew that very early on. You didn't really know her, as she was focused on her work and seemed to have nothing outside of that. Even though you both shared the same eyes, the two of you held them differently. Hers were always empty, unreadable while yours wandered, caught on the small beauties she never seemed to notice.

"You've been here for half an hour now, and yet you haven't finished." She tended to do that a lot—the voice without any emotion, but words just harsh enough to sound mean.

"The sun felt good on the skin today. This is my last chore before noon, so I thought I could take my time." That was also the difference between you two—you were full of life—aware of the life around you, while she only seemed to move through it.

You heard her sigh as you felt her come closer. Suddenly standing beside you as she began hanging the remaining sheets with you. "I can do them myself mother" You said, "The sun won't wait for you (name)" She said.

Sighing at her remark before you went back to yourself, silence followed as the two of you faced each other—but never truly met. That was one thing about the wind: it was always there, during your happy days with Telemachus, your quiet days alone, and the underlying tension between you and your mother, who always seemed to be a step away from you.

"I saw you with Queen Penelope the other day," she stated suddenly. It made you freeze—as you slowly looked up at her. Her face didn’t change a bit. "You seemed to have a moment with each other. What did you tell her?" You blinked. The air felt colder despite the sun. "Nothing much," you said, carefully, eyes returning to your hands. "She just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" she echoed, folding a cloth like practiced. "You've been talking a lot, I’ve noticed that. Especially when it comes to people of higher standing."

There it was again—never cruel, never loud, but always sharp. You didn’t respond. "I just hope you know your place," she added, her voice quieter now, though no less firm.

"She was just asking about the young prince whereabouts, that's all." You said trying to sound calm, your mother gave you a look "And you know that information because?"

You lied, "I don't. She was just asking me and the queen purely got sentimental for the prince"

You shoot your eyes to your mother as she stared back at you, she hummed before not saying anything. You continue to stare at her with a frown.

"I hear the Prince is in a diplomatic mission."

You lips turned into a thin line. "Who told you that?"

"People love to talk," she replied without looking at you, your fingers had gone stiff. "Some even say it’s for an arranged marriage." Your head snapped to her.

"What?" She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. "You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?" your eyes narrowed.

"People talk," she repeated, "Why?" She then asked, her eyes looking at you flat. "Does that surprise you?" She asked in a way that almost scares you.

You blinked, "It doesn’t," you muttered quickly. "Just wasn’t expecting to hear that from you, is all."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, catching the tremble in your voice no matter how well you tried to hide it. "He's the prince," she said after a moment. "It's not strange for him to be sent on missions like this. Especially now, with the king still absent, someone has to keep the name of Ithaca alive." You bit the inside of your cheek. "And if it is a marriage alliance, then it’s only natural," she continued with a shrug. "That’s what children of royalty do. Make ties, build bridges. Fall in love with whoever brings strength to the kingdom."

"I doubt the prince is in love," you said softly, eyes fixed on the cloth in your hands. Maybe it was for your own reassurance, or maybe a quiet protest.

Your mother's tone stayed level, "That hardly matters. He’s what—twenty? Soon to be crowned. Love isn’t what the kingdom needs from him right now. It’s stability. A fair match who can offer strength where it’s needed."

You went quiet, feeling a slight shift in your chest. You shouldn't be taking this rumor deeply, especially since you know the truth. But in some way—you knew her statement could be more correct than false.

She continued, still calm, as if pointing out a fact to the world. "Queen Penelope’s held Ithaca together for years, but even she can only do so much. The weight of a kingdom isn’t easy. A marriage alliance would make only sense, another kingdom’s hand could mean new trade, new support." You hated how empty that sounded, it wasn't a mock, it wasn't a hit to spite you, it wasn't anything but a fact and you hated it.

Then your mother turned to face you fully. Your expression had tightened, and in her gaze, you saw something oddly soft—reflective, almost. Like she was speaking to a version of herself in you. "And that’s where you come in," she said, calmly.

You blinked, your brows pulling together in confusion. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"You’ll replace me." The words didn’t register at first. Not until she added, "You'll be the next queen’s handmaiden."

You froze. A chill swept past you despite the warm breeze. Something about the certainty in her voice unnerved you, like she had already accepted a path you didn’t even know existed yet. You searched her face, waiting for more to come out—hoping she’d say it was just speculation.

But then she gave you a smile before only returning to folding the linens, as if nothing had shifted at all.

You stared at her—revolted, speechless. You remained still, your eyes wide, breath caught in your chest. It was the only time you'd seen something close to joy on her face, and it came from a future for you that she planned—one that involved the man you love, not in the way you'd ever dreamed of. When she smiled, you saw yourself. Ironic, because just a moment ago, she probably saw herself in you too.

"Come inside before the sun burns you," she said simply, her back already turned without glancing back.

You were left alone, the wind brushing your skin, your hair flowing along, your thoughts loud in the quiet scenery. You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—her assumption of your faith in this story, or how natural it sounded coming from her. As if it had already been decided. As if your love was never yours to begin with.

You clenched your fists, trying to compose yourself. You knew the real reason why Telemachus left for that diplomatic mission, and it was far from your mother’s assumption. You were there. You remember how he looked at you, the queen herself knows.

But the more you stood there, the more her words echoed in your mind, looping like a cruel melody. What if... what if she was right? You knew damn well that Queen Penelope wouldn't let any of those suitors touch the throne, but Telemachus needing a royal ally to help him rule? That wasn’t impossible. That could be real. And frightening.

Your heart began to ache. You began to wonder... is the love you share strong enough to endure the distance, and the expectations of a crown? Or were you foolish to believe it ever could be?

You shake your head—you need to be strong. You tell yourself, "Lady Athena, please watch over my dear Telemachus now," you prayed, hoping these bad thoughts would fade. But still, the ache in your heart couldn't leave.

...

Telemachus stepped out of the chamber beside Peisistratus, a lightness in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. The scent of salt and something like hope lingered in the air as his gaze drifted toward the distant sea. "I knew it," he breathed, the weight of dread finally lifting—his father was alive. Peisistratus smiled beside him, teasing gently about his first beard and how he was becoming a man, and the two young princes laughed, finding peace in the quiet shore beneath the rising stars, the crackle of a fire and the promise of reunion warming them more than the flames. "What is your plan now, Telemachus?" Peisistratus asked, tossing more wood into the flame, watching the sparks climb.

Telemachus leaned back on his hands, his gaze still somewhere far. "The obvious. I go home. And prepare."

"For what?"

"For whatever may happen. And… hopefully, my father’s return."

That was all he said. Nothing more. Not about Athena. Not about the things he couldn’t put into words and Peisistratus only nodded, silence shared between the sons of kings.

Then, out of nowhere. Telemachus shared a smile—raising the apple of his cheeks as a pink hue flushed them ever so slightly, Peisistratus took notice and smirked. "Did Eros himself perhaps strike you?" The prince of Pylos humored.

Telemachus turns as he sighs with his smile still on, "I can't wait to see her again" He said accidentally out loud with an obvious hint of lovestruck. Obviously not platonic.

He realized what he said as Peisistratus raised a brow, "Oh? Who?"

"Are we talking about a girl?" Peisistratus asks with his smirk linger.

"Huh?" Telemachus tried to trail off, trying to change the subject. Peisistratus smirk continues. "Uhhuh.. I'm assuming this is the same woman who constantly make you go lost in thought with a heavy blush?"

Telemachus sighs in defeat "That obvious?"

"Very." Peisistratus laughs. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Telemachus' gaze wanders down the water, "Oh…She’s unlike anyone I've ever met." Peisistratus raised a brow but didn’t interrupt. Telemachus’ voice grew softer, steadier—like he was speaking to the waves, not to his friend.

"She’s sharp. Quieter than most, but never small. She speaks little, but when she does, even the wind stays to listen." Telemachus recited like a poem verse of love. "She owns my heart completely… and I can’t wait for when she lets me carry hers." He examined mindlessly but straight from his heart.

"Her name is (name)" Telemachus revealed as he glances at the other prince. The reveal of your name slowly triggered a memory into the Pylos's princes mind as something flickered in his eyes. "Huh." He utters,

"That name sounds oddly familiar"

Telemachus piqued. "What?"

Peisistratus looked out toward the ocean again, hesitant, but something in his tone shifted—curious, careful. "You see... When I was a boy, there was this handmaiden who served in my mother's court. She too never talks but she had a daughter—I think (name) is also the name"

Telemachus turned to him fully—the creases of his eyes hardening from the information. "What happened to them?"

Peisistratus recalls, "There was a scandal, I remembered because it affected my mother dearly. The handmaiden was accused of having an affair with a visiting royal—a man already married, someone with power. When she gave birth, the child—(Name)—was said to resemble him." It caused Telemachus' chest to go still, as it was daunting his heart beat.

"The nobleman's wife found out," Peisistratus continued. "It got bad. She humiliated the handmaiden, accused her for seducing her husband. The court picked up the rumors quickly after that. It was cruel." Telemachus hesitantly asks, "And your father?"

"No. It wasn’t him, he was at war" Peisistratus said, shaking his head firmly. "But my mother heard of it. My mother, she… she was the one who went to the handmaiden in private. Offered her support, my mother really pitied them. Said she could stay in the servants’ quarters with the child. That it wasn’t the child's fault."

Telemachus stayed silent, jaw clenched. "But the handmaiden refused, even planning to just leave the child out to die however my mother was horrified, tried to convince the handmaiden." Peisistratus’s voice softened. "Eventually, the handmaiden left Pylos without a word. Took the child and vanished before dawn. And since then I haven't heard anything" He finishes as he looked over the shaken prince.

A silence settled between them. "I always wondered what happened to them," Peisistratus added after a beat. "And now—gods—it’s strange, to think the girl you love might be that same child from all those years ago."

Telemachus looked back toward the sea, but this time his heart was churning. As he tried to puzzle the pieces: the unspoken distance of you and your mother's relationship. Your unknown background and lack of a last name. Your mother's cautiousness among his blood.

It was difficult to assume but it somehow aligned just right. "What was the handmaiden’s name?" Peisistratus thinks for a second and reveals. And it matched. Telemachus’ breath caught in his throat. All at once, the pieces began falling into place.

It’s interesting how,, after all the years he’s known you—both in silence and closeness—there’s still so much he can to discover, even parts you may not fully know yourself.

"But hey" Peisistratus snapped Telemachus out of his thoughts. "Take what I said with a grain of salt. Maybe it's just a coincidence," he said.

Telemachus reluctantly nodded however a part of him was convinced that it could be true. Now he REALLY wants to go home.

...

Were you offended that your mother planned your future so surely of herself? Maybe. However, in your defense, even before you built feelings for the prince, you always had an image of your own future. It wasn’t dramatic or grand, but it was definitely different from the life you have now. You always imagined exploring the islands, witnessing breathtaking scenery and documenting it with paint and paper—seeing all the exotic plants and flowers you once admired in your old encyclopedia. You wanted to discover anything beyond the confines of walls and duty. You never saw yourself in a royal life, despite quietly admiring a prince for years. Maybe it was because you saw him less as a prince and more of a boy your age that you found cute—but still. You didn't want the path of a servant for the wife of your lover who isn't you.

"Mother, can I talk to you" You meekly murmured to your mother who was busy doing embroidery. "That depends," she replied, clipped. "Did you finally consider my request to learn embroidery? It would do you good to know the patience it takes." She said bluntly.

"I- I yeah I guess" You said. You bite your tongue, eyes flickering between her hands and irises. You tried to guess if it was the best time to confront her however there was no telling what your mother was feeling. "I wanted to speak about what you said to me last time" You finally asked, your fingers nervously curling to the hem of your chiton.

The sound of the scratch of thread against cloth was delayed for a second. As you saw your mother's eyes harden quietly. "..I thought about it" You continued despite the growing pounding in your chest. "And I want to tell you that I am not planning of following your plans as a handmaiden"

She finally glanced your way—briefly. "What made you concluded to that?" She asked calmly, too calmly.

"I have my own dreams, Mother. Don't get me wrong I appreciate the opportunity to have something like that but—it's not what I want" You explained.

You had your posture upright, hands neatly on your sides, You carefully measured your tone, each word wrapped in the most respectful edge you could manage—just to maybe. Maybe help her understand. Maybe make her listen.

Conversations with your mother were always unhinged in a binding way. The kind that even echoed hours later when you're alone. They usually never ended without you questioning yourself extensively. So your breath was uneven now, controlled, as if each inhale was being counted. "And what do you want?" She asked bluntly in a way you can't really tell, but she was always like that, you assumed it was an open door—so your eyes perked when she asked you that, maybe she will listen just this time.

Your lips turned upright, "I want to be free," you said. "To live a life that’s mine. I want to see the islands beyond ours. Paint things no one’s seen before. Name flowers that haven’t been named. I want to document the world, not just serve it." You examine, if somebody else was listening right now, they would hear how your words rang full of something rare. Hope. Excitement. Like a child unveiling a dream for the very first time.

"You want to chase winds and color petals?" You hear her faintly scoff. "That is not freedom, (name). That is fantasy, which is not the world we are in." She set her embroidery aside. "You might as well call it nonviable, considering how stupid it is. You should know that." She stood now, fully facing you, no softness in her voice, no space left for your hope to slip through.

"You can’t do it," she said, final as a conclusion. "Trust me, everyone in the world will believe that dream of yours is a joke." Turning away.

That was the blow, and yet, from that place of a bruised heart, the words left your mouth before you could think—before you could stop them completely. "Telemachus believed in me."

The room went still. You felt it like the moment before a storm comes—the shift in pressure, the silence so sharp it hurts.

Your mother stopped, then turned her head, eyes wide, voice flat. "What." It wasn't a question, she heard it. You should deny it. You should say you meant something else, anything else. But you didn’t want to. Not when your heart was trembling—hurt from being small to her for too long.

"My dream isn’t a joke," you said, voice cracking at the end, but it was truth. "He didn’t think it was." Another silence followed, this time colder. You saw your mother's eyes twitch, "..Have you been talking to him behind my back?" she asked, sounding like something preparing to blow.

Your shoulder tensed, clutching the hem of your chiton lightly. "I didn't mean too." You admitted, "But I'm not sorry that I did." You swallowed your fear. "I love him, mother."

An eerie silence can be heard.

"...So the rumors are true, huh."

Your mother didn't blink, as she stood still—staring at you. You weren't even sure if she was breathing which set something unease in your insides. "I told you not to, did I?" She asked, stepping closer—you unconsciously backed away.

"I told you not to entertain those kinds of ideas. You didn’t listen." You could hear her breath again. But she shook her head slowly. "Girls like you are not supposed to be with them." Her words hung there, bitter and cold. You furrowed your brows, confused, scared.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, unsure. You tried to keep your head high as your mother crept closer. "They will come for you, harshly and brutally. And once they're done, they will leave you nothing but tears and shame. He's going to hurt you, (name)." You didn't like how your name sounded in that sentence.

"Telemachus is not like that," you cut in, your voice more fierce than you meant it to be. "You don’t even know him—"

"And you do?" she snapped, her voice rising as it surprised you. "You think you're any different? That he's different?" She stepped forward. "Do you know what men like him are? Who raised him? What blood runs through his veins? They don’t see girls like you. they would not pity you for your kindness." You stare at her wide, as you could only step away. Your heart continues to beat uncontrollably between your ribs.

"You're incredibly mistaken, Mother," you muttered, mustering the last of your composure. "I’ve known the prince since I was a teen. Even when I kept my distance—just like you asked—he never turned cold. When I was humiliated in front of others, he was the one who stood up for me, even when it could’ve cost him. And while you—" your breath hitched as you pushed the words out, "you only stood there, ashamed of me." Your hands trembled now, but the flood wouldn’t stop.

"The moment I stepped out of your shadow and did something for myself—when I went behind your back—I felt free. I felt like I had a name of my own. I was seen. I was loved. Loved in a way I thought I would never feel."

You looked her dead in the eye now, no longer holding anything back. "And what did you do, mother? All of my life, you avoided me, kept me in a distance that I could never reach for you. You looked past me as if I wasn't even yours!" Slap. Your mother's hand met you, as the harsh blow made you stumble slightly. Strands of your hair clung to your skin where her palm had landed, the sting blooming fast.

Your mother looked at you furiously, something you’d never seen before. But then again… none of this had ever happened before. Cupping the heat, you could only stare at her—you can't bring yourself to glare at her, even when it hurts, you looked her with eyes starting to water.

You interrupted her first. "Why." You asked, "Why are you so scared when you act like you don't even care for me." You didn’t move. Your voice trembled softly. Still, she said nothing. "Why do you look at me like I’m a mistake?" you asked again. Your throat ached now, but the words kept spilling. "Did you ever love me?" The question dropped from your lips like a fragile thing—barely a whisper, but it echoed between the walls.

She flinched. Her face was unreadable. Composed, distant. But her eyes were raw.

"I never wanted you to be with me in this world," she said, You blinked, feeling something in your chest rip. "I didn’t want to raise you. I didn’t know how," she continued, almost too steadily. "You were a reminder. Of everything. Of him. Of myself that I could have been."

It hit you like a slow-burning fire. You weren’t sure if you could breathe "him?" You felt small in that moment—so painfully small.

"I tried to keep you safe by staying away. Because every time I looked at you, I saw the life that ruined mine." You shook your head slowly, barely able to speak. "What- What do you mean..?"

She turned back to the window. "I didn't know how to love something I hate" You stood there as you heard her loud and clear.

She turned slowly to meet your eyes. Her gaze was hollow, but steady. "People kept telling me, I will eventually learn to love you. But every glance I gave you makes me sick...I could only hope you wouldn’t walk the same path as I did. But it seems… you take after him. Full of wonder. And never listen."

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she let the next words fall, quiet but cruel in their clarity. "I wish you were never mine." She told you. "Maybe that way, we were both happier."

It felt like she had stabbed you—with her words that was sharper than any blade. Her eyes, once indifferent, now burned with something far worse: disgust, shame, and anger. Probably, buried beneath it all, was regret—but not the kind that soothes. No, it was the kind of regret that screamed you were a mistake.

You couldn’t speak. What was there to say when the person who brought you into this world looked at you like she wished she hadn’t? Like you shouldn’t exist.

It was horrifying. But the pain was louder than the fear. You looked away. Then turned. Leaving the room without another word.

You didn’t understand everything she meant, not quite. But something was finally clear. The woman who gave birth to you was never your mother. And despite being born from her, you were never her child to her.

...Huh. It's storming.

...

You ignored your mother the following day. It wasn’t like it was hard—she was better at it. Didn’t even glance at you, it feels like true solitude. You weren’t unfamiliar with the feeling; however, you didn’t like it—that’s why Telemachus’ presence colored your soul. If loneliness could kill, you’d be on your deathbed.

Word spreads fast. You could hear the multitude of whispers that passes you about the prince’s absence. You wouldn’t be surprised if the news reached the suitors soon… which, honestly, worried you. If they found out the queen was less guarded now—especially after an unknown staff leaked to them about the unweaving—who knew what they might do?

You pressed your hand gently to your chest. "I’ll come back before you know it," he had said, voice barely above the sea wind, his hand lingering in yours. You had replayed it over and over like a lullaby that tried but failed to comfort you completely. You really hoped he would return. You really hoped he'd make it in time.

The door of the main hall shunned open, causing the suitors to stop their noise and mid-boast to look over—their curiosity getting fed as the queen entered with a stern, regal look. A few numbers of sentinels around her weary yet valiant aura.

You leaned closer to the corridor’s edge, careful not to fully reveal yourself, but just enough to see. But it wasn’t just her presence that stilled the room. It was the large, unstrung bow she held in her arms—long, worn, and looked very heavy. King Odysseus’ bow.

The moment their eyes caught it, the suitors stirred like caged beasts at the scent of blood. Excitement sparked in their voices, followed by murmurs, then full-blown chants. Clearly excited for a challenge they have no match for. Penelope stepped forward, lifting the heavy bow before the crowd. The hall fell into silence, save for the distant crackle of a torch on the wall. You caught the queen's eye for a second, softening for a second before gazing back at the men.

"This is the bow of Odysseus," she began, her voice clear and cold. "The man I wed. The man this throne still belongs to."

A stir went through the crowd—some confused, some scoffing. She raised the bow higher, as if presenting a relic to be seen. Penelope looked at each suitor, gaze unwavering.

"You claim to be worthy of me. Of this kingdom. Of my son's future. Then prove it on this day." A murmur rippled across the room.

She nodded to a male servant, who stepped forward carrying a row of twelve axe heads. "Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through 12 axes cleanly. Will be the new king, sit down at the throne and rule with me as his queen." She revealed.

You listen to this with an uneasy feeling, you watch as the suitors gather to the said bow. Already hearing the complaints.

"If none of you can..." her tone darkened ever so slightly, "then you were never meant to stand where he once sat." She concluded.

Even you felt chills run down your spine at her words. The authority in her voice left no room for argument. After the challenge was declared, the queen didn’t waste a second more in that room. She turned swiftly and exited, her robes trailing like waves behind her.

You straightened your posture the moment she stepped out, composed. "Your Highness," you greeted with your head bowed low. "(Name)," Penelope replied, her tone noticeably softer. You raised your head, only to meet her eyes—warm, "How are you, dear?" she asked, her voice gentler than you expected after such a fierce announcement.

You gave a faint hum. "I’m doing just fine… my queen. Thank you for asking," you said, gaze cast downward again.

A short pause followed before then came her soft chuckle, light but knowing. "Your eyes tend to lie with you, (Name)," she said, almost fondly.

You let out a defeated chortle, "Just trying my best to wait, my queen," you answered, your voice lower now, a hint of weariness slipping through. Penelope’s soft gaze didn’t leave you as she stepped closer. "You remind me so much of myself, my dear." Her words caught in your chest.

"Waiting… with only our hope to keep us standing," she said gently. "But don’t you worry, (Name)," she continued, taking your hands into hers. You looked into the queen’s eyes—eyes filled with hope and trust, so much so that you felt it too.

"Our waiting will be over soon." You were left speechless at her sentence, as the queen smiled at you one last time before excusing herself. You couldn’t come up with a response, standing there with her words echoing in your mind.

What does she mean by that? Our waiting? Is something coming? Is Telemachus coming home at last?

From the thought of it—your eyes lit up with hope, the little spark you felt when you were with him beginning to glisten. Your cheeks rose as you smiled—truthfully. You then turned around, a smile still plastered on your face—but when you raised your head, the sight before you slowly wiped it away.

In the quiet distance, you could see Eurymachus staring at you, and though his gaze already burned your skin, another thing made your stomach drop. Your mother standing beside him, as if they had just finished talking. Her eyes met yours, and you questioned her with your gaze.

She stood still, staring at you bluntly. A lump formed in your throat, too hard to swallow. You were about to do something—when a handmaiden called for you.

They reminded you about the chores that needed to be done and it reminded you that you're supposed to be in garden duty right now. You mentally scolded yourself. When you looked back to your mother—she was already gone. So fast that it made you question if you had really seen her at all. But Eurymachus was still there. You could feel his smirk as he turned away to return to his men.

You shake your head, before forcing yourself to not let it get to you. You walked away, pushing down the ache, compelling yourself to stay on the positive side.

You can't let yourself be brought down by the woman who regrets you. For now you could only occupy yourself for safety and distraction. A little more waiting and this may be all over.

Too distracted from the stalking gaze behind you.

...

"Eurymachus!"

The name stretched out, dragged by the voice of a suitor who leaned lazily. "Stop lurking after that girl and give us a hand here! will you?" Another one snorted. "Or at least save your stalking for when her back’s turned, man. You’re so obvious."

Eurymachus let out a deep chuckle as he approached, brushing off their jabs, he let out a rasped chuckle, sauntering over. "Can’t blame a man for watching beauty when it walks."

"You’ve got your eye on her too often," another one chimed in, grinning slyly.

"Sounds more like you’re ready to toss your bid for the queen and go chasing maids instead." Another chimed in.

Eurymachus grinned. "Why not both? Crown’s heavier with a queen beside you, isn’t it? I want the power of a king and a queen to match—but a sweet young thing on the side?" He shrugged. "No crime in keeping options."

A suitor let out a bark of laughter. "Says the man planning a whole buffet at his royal table."

"Don't pretend you wouldn’t all drop your noble wives the second you tasted royalty," Eurymachus drawled, eyes half-lidded. "Loyalty doesn’t crown you. Power does." That earned a few nods and crude laughs—but someone else hummed lowly, glancing sideways. "Still… what was that earlier? Her mother came to speak to you. That woman looked creepy." Eurymachus didn’t answer right away. His smirk only deepened. "You'll see," he said simply, cryptic. "But for now, let the little lamb run the field. No need to clip wings before they fly straight into the trap."

A suitor squinted. "Aren’t you worried someone else might get there first?"

"I can handle boys pretending to be men," he said, dismissive.

Another elbowed him, half-grinning. "You sure about that? One 'Machus' might have something to say. You know… TeleMACHUS?"

"Oh yeah! The prince won't be too pleased, you touching his favorite maid!" That line landed sharply. The laughter dimmed a little, "Come to think of it… when’s the last time we even saw the prince?"

"Hasn’t been around the hall in days," another muttered. "And not a word."

"Not like the prince to vanish in silence," someone else added, tone lower now. "He’s young, sure, but not foolish." Silence briefly fell between them—shadows creeping in behind their half-laughed lines.

...

The palace garden's calming sound was a welcome contrast to the chaotic uproar of the suitors earlier. You physically felt yourself breathe easier as you stepped into the space. A strong storm had passed the previous night, leaving the garden slightly disheveled—damp leaves, bent stems, and fallen flower heads littered the grass. It would be a pain to work on wet ground, sure, but anything was better than sharing air with those men. At least the rain had watered the plants, so there wasn’t much to do. You picked up the broom propped against the stone wall and began to sweep, the wet leaves dragging along the path. Your gaze eventually fell on a scattered pile of dark, fallen petals near the base of one of the flower beds. You crouched down and reached for them.

Black dahlias. Their the few rare flowers that the palace has planted, sadden that the storm destroyed them.

They must’ve snapped under the wind. You gently gathered them up, letting the cool softness press against your palm. They always bloomed by the edges, close to the wall where Telemachus used to work with you. You smiled faintly as the memory came.

You were busy planting the black dahlia your mother had insisted you tend to. It had already bloomed, petals dark as wine and curled outward. You crouched lower, careful as you dug, trying not to bruise its roots. The garden was quiet, the sky still and gray. You were focused, so deeply tuned into the gentle rhythm of your work, that you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching behind you—slowly.

"Boo!" You flinched with a sharp yelp, your hands jerking—and the trowel of dirt you were holding flew through the air, catching its target unexpectedly.

"Ack—!" came the sputtered sound. You turned around, wide-eyed, only to see Telemachus blinking at the dirt, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. "Telemachus! You scared me!" You gasped with a frown.

But the prince only laughed—an open, bright sound that lit up the garden more than any morning sun could. He smiled, not at the mess, not at the prank, but only at you. That smile he always specially saved just for you. Upon his laugh, you slapped his shoulder as you couldn't help but to crack a giggle yourself. "Sorry! Sorry! I had to!" Telemachus said.

"You're always so unaware of what's behind you that it's so easy to come from behind," he defended, brushing a clump of soil from his tunic. "I should’ve thrown a whole shovel at you instead, hm?" you scoffed dramatically, giving him a pointed glare before turning your attention back to the flower. Telemachus huffed before plopping down beside you with a pout, his arms crossed like a sulking child. "You wound me, my lady. I come to offer my help and affection, and this is how I’m repaid?"

You smirked, eyes still on your task. "By help? You mean flinging dirt and distracting me from my work?"

"I call it keeping you entertained and companied," he grinned, without looking, you scooped a tiny handful of soil and flicked it at him. It hit the side of his neck, and he stared at you in disbelief.

"Oh, it's war now," he warned.

"Don’t you dare—" Too late. His hand dipped into the dirt, and he threw across your cheek. You gasped, both now laughing, and now turning it into a mini war.

But then he caught your wrist mid-air, holding it between you both. His hand was warm, grounding. You looked up—and found him already watching you, his grin softening.

The laughter died down between you, replaced with a quiet tension. Not the bad kind—the kind that curled in your stomach. You noticed how close your faces were, how his eyes always seemed to trace your features like he was trying to memorize them. "You’ve got dirt on your nose," he whispered, you blinked, suddenly aware of your heartbeat—then quickly pulled your hand away and cleared your throat

"It’s your fault," you muttered, trying to hide your smile.

"Aw I'm sorry, my lady, would you like me to wipe it for you?" he replied, voice teasing, but deep down he meant it. He stayed kneeling beside you, close, as you both resumed working on the garden—but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of everything unspoken. You could only give him a sarcastic roll as he remained next to you while you resumed your work—shoulders touching but his presence wrapped around you.

The memory brought a quiet smile into your face, looking over the said spot as the wind blew your hair. You quickly finished your work before the wind could fly them too—as your hands now got a bit dirty. You walked towards a nearby fountain just beside the garden, sitting down, your chiton hanging as you carefully cleaned your fingers.

You hummed to yourself—something you do when silence takes place as you let water wash the dirt off, your eyes drifting to the water running down the fountain, admiring the sight of the sea from behind that stole your attention, the sea's view was beautiful from this point. Having the palace being in the high part of Ithaca gave a beautiful advantage for the sight. The calm waves occupying the emptiness of the ocean. Your lips tried to keep a smile but the longer you stared at it, it downcasted.

Then your head shot at a sudden noise—a branch breaking, you lightly tensed up from the sound. You moved a little to peek who was it and to see a hooded figure, they were hunched a little, clothes worn. He walked slow, cane in hand, almost blending with the shadows under the olive trees.

He seemed to be facing you, you blink in surprise. "Hello?" You greeted a little confused but still sounding friendly.

The figure paused at your voice. A moment passed, just long enough for your heartbeat to quicken as his head tilted slightly under the hood, as if measuring your tone, your face, your presence. Then, slowly, he shuffled—his cane tapping.

"Didn’t mean to startle you," the voice that emerged was gravelly, aged… but there was something about it. Something too steady for a beggar. "Didn’t know anyone was still tending the garden."

You rose to your feet slowly, brushing your damp hands down your chiton. "It hasn't stopped storming since this morning so It needed to be tidied.." You gave a careful smile, trying to read his face beneath the shadow of the hood. "Is there anything I could perhaps help you, sir?" You asked the hooded figure carefully as you took notice of how he seemed to be cautious.

"Uh, no. I'm fine… thank you," he said, his voice low and rasped like dry stone against stone. He turned slightly, ready to move on.

"Are you certain?" you asked gently. "The palace is quite the steps uphill. Maybe a glass of water would help?" He paused. There was a flicker of hesitation, like a man weighing whether your kindness was worth the risk. Then, with a small grunt of reluctant gratitude, he nodded. "Alright… a drink would be kind."

You smiled, taking a step forward. "Follow me, then—" But before the words could fully leave your lips, he had already turned and begun walking, "Okay...?" You said to yourself

He did not move like a stranger unfamiliar with his surroundings, you blinked, surprised but decided to keep quiet. He was heading toward the side corridor that led to the older part of the palace—the courtyard with the olive press, and just beyond it, the smaller kitchen used mostly by the handmaidens during the off hours. Few knew it existed.

You didn’t press further. You poured the man a glass of water then you step back to give him space to refine himself, at first the man just stared at the glass, but you let him with his time before turning away. You decided to keep the silence between you two as you cleaned up.

"I want to ask" The man started, you turned your head to face him, his face was hidden through the shadows of his hood that was concealing his identity however you could see the faint irises through the darkness. "I'm assuming you're a worker here right?" He asked carefully.

You nodded, fully turning to face him now. "You seemed rather calm seeing me—some stranger wandering around the palace grounds. Even offered me help." His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. "I definitely don’t look like someone who belongs here, so I’m surprised you didn’t question anything." You blinked at his words, caught slightly off guard. Your mouth opened, then closed again as you stumbled for a response.

"Uh… well," you began, trying to piece the thought together. "I suppose I’m not surprised because strangers are… becoming more common around here." You looked down briefly. "Especially with the events happening at the moment, it is to be expected. It is my job to be hospitable to guests."

"Are you not afraid though?" The man asked bluntly. You were taken aback by the simplicity of the question. Your lips curved into a faint smile as you let out a soft chuckle. "Well... I'm not really in the mind to judge," you answered honestly. "And, uh—pardon me—but is there something I should be afraid of?" You tilted your head slightly, almost naively.

The man stayed silent at your remark making you feel awkward as you rubbed your hands together. "No. nothing" He said, making you lightly sighing, "But you should have been cautious, I could have been someone different" He said.

You nodded as you looked towards the hodded man. You studied him, You didn't sense danger from him. Mystery, yes. Weariness. Perhaps even pain. But not threat.

He was covered after all and the only indication of his presence was his voice—which now when you listened more carefully, it slightly piqued you. He sounded something familiar, not exact but more similar. Though he sounded more guarded, strict and rough. You could tell he went through a lot. "I think…" you murmured, narrowing your eyes slightly, "it's because you sound similar to someone I have in mind. I guess that's why I don’t see you as any sort of threat." You offered him a small like you were trying to justify your own carelessness.

The man didn’t say anything. He only stared at you under the shadow of his hood as though your words caught him somewhere deep.

You didn’t know why you said that. Telemachus had nothing to do with this man. And yet, you couldn’t help but draw the line in your thoughts—his tone. In your mind, you could almost hear yourself groan. You're really this down bad, huh? So down bad that a hoarse-voiced stranger vaguely sounding like Telemachus made you feel safe.

It was ridiculous. Still, you found yourself standing straighter now. As if that little sliver of familiarity gave you something solid to rest on. "I'm sorry, I must sound like a fool," you chuckled, brushing your hands against your chiton. "Comparing you to him so casually, I apologize" His brow twitched just slightly beneath the hood. "Him?"

You shook your head. "Just someone I miss dearly" You examine mostly to yourself. "Where is he now, may I ask?" the hooded man asked, his voice low.

You turned surprised at the man before your eyes drifted toward the open window again, the distant sea shimmering under the sun’s gaze. "He's at sea," you replied softly. A small silence lingered in the air, broken only by the distant cry of gulls and the rustling wind through the trees outside. 'Is that why you were staring out there earlier for so long?' he asked gently. 

You blinked, caught off guard by his quiet observation. "Forgive me," he added. "I didn’t mean to catch you off guard." 

"No… no, it’s okay," you replied, "Just surprised, that’s all." You paused, letting your fingers trace the edge of the table near you. "But yes… I’ve been staring at the sea ever since we were separated. It's become a habit, really." You offered a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "People say staring at something for too long makes time feel slower," you continued, voice softer now, like you were sharing something sacred. "But I can’t help it. Every wave, every glimmer of light off the tide… it gives me hope." You turned back to the sea, your eyes distant. "I can’t help but wait for a glimpse of him returning."

You leaned against the counter. "He’s like the sea," you murmured. "Some days he’s gentle, warm, soft-spoken, easy to tease. It’s like nothing bad can ever reach you when he’s near. But then there are days he’s quiet… heavy, like he’s carrying too much inside. Still, no matter what version of him shows up, I wait. Because like the sea, even when he’s out of sight, I know he’s there—moving, trying, finding his way back." You paused, voice softening. "And I’ll be here. When he does."

The man beside you didn’t speak immediately, but you felt something shift in the air. Like the silence had deepened somehow. You could hear the man's hum as he shifted, "You're a good kid" He told you. "I can tell your kindness is very tampered through these halls" You looked at him curiously, lips parting—but he didn’t give you time to speak again.

"Thank you for the water," he said, already turning to leave.

"Uh, you're welcome—uh but uh, I didn't catch your name, sir," you called out, a little hesitant, unsure why you even wanted to know.

He paused for just a breath, not even glancing back. "No need, be careful out here" he uttered, voice rough and final, before continuing on his way. You stood there for a moment, watching his figure slowly disappear behind the bend of the palace wall as the breeze picked up again.

He was... definitely something. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to the mystery that clung to him. You couldn’t exactly explain why—but everything about him was oddly precarious, unsettling in a way that didn’t scare you, but made you question. He walked like he already knew where each step would fall. You really should have been more cautious, maybe even more guarded toward him—he was a stranger after all. But you couldn’t bring yourself to treat him like one.

You sighed, gaze trailing after the empty path he left behind. And just like that, you were alone again. The wind stirred the olive branches above, brushing softly against your shoulder. The echo of his voice remained in your head, low and familiar, even if you didn’t know why. And you feel lighter to your chest.

You let a little time pass, purposely dragging out your outside chores to avoid going back inside. You half-expected one of the senior servants to scold you for slacking off—but strangely, no one had passed through the halls near the garden. Not like usual.

At first, you welcomed the quiet, but as time passed by more, the silence began to bother you. It was too quiet. Silence was always a gamble to you. You hated how it could mean two things—peace or danger. And deep down, you always knew which one it was.

With a sigh, you decided to check the palace. Your light steps felt louder than usual, each one echoing, it didn’t help that the halls seemed to absorb every sound. But then—you passed the inner edge of the garden wall, your ears caught something—murmurs. Finally.

But.. these weren’t idle conversations. Voices were low. Careful. The kind where people tend to whisper to hide. Curiosity rooted your feet. You followed the sound until you reached a side corridor—the one where the suitors often gathered. You peered through the slightest crack of the wooden door, just barely able to listen.

It was just voices at first—sharp murmurs scraping against the walls—but then one voice rose. Antinous. The air seemed to shift, heat rising as he stood at the center of the suitors. With a snarl, he grabbed the great bow and threw it to the ground, the wood hit the marble with a crack—but it didn’t break.

"Screw this damn challenge!" he snapped, turning in a full circle. "...I'm telling you, this is a damn joke," Antinous growled, arms wide. "String the king’s old bow? What kind of child's game is this? A little trial to amuse the widow while we rot in patience?" Murmurs of frustration, and anger brewed among the men. Some nodded. Some grunted. But all listened.

"We've been here for hours!" he shouted. "All of us—sweating like slaves, looking like fools. And for what? A bow no one can string. Can't you see it?" He took deliberate steps toward the dais, the shadows clinging to him like a cloak. His hand ran across the throne’s side, rough with age and carved history, before he sat on it without hesitation.

"This," he said, voice dropping low with venom, "is how they hold us down." Everyone stilled, including you.

"This. This is the time where we must charge for action. That burning fire in your chest is what we take control." As he said that the crackles of the flames in room rang as it filled the place. The silence between after sentence made your heart pound faster, not knowing what to expect next. "Haven't you all noticed who's missin'?" Your eyes widen. You felt your breath stop.

"Don't you know, that the little wolf isn't here after all." He chuckles. The men replied. "I heard he's on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he comes back at time" He announced.

"what?" You shot, fixated on what he said. The men started to crack a grin upon realizing the route of plan their leader was hinting. "Why don't we... say gather near the shore, where we wait til his ship arrives"

"And if we leave now, it may be just enough time to strike him." Your blood went cold.

The words slid into your ears like ice through veins, and suddenly the world spun—too slow, too loud, too sharp. You hadn’t realized how tightly you were clutching the wall until your fingers began to numb, white at the knuckles. You tried to swallow, but your throat closed up, breath hitching at the edges of a scream you couldn’t make. It couldn't be. Were they—?

"Hold him down as he stops shaking!" a voice barked, and others responded with a vile kind of cheer. "While I slit his neck open," Then Antinous laughed.

It was wrong. The sound didn’t belong to a man—it was a monster. "As we slowly break all his bones," he said, voice curling with something too dark to name. "Let his pride, his trust, and his faith hang like meat from his broken flesh." You bit your own tongue.

You had to. To stop your teeth from chattering. To stop yourself from sobbing. To stop your breath from making a sound loud enough to give you away.

Oh gods. You wanted to run. But your legs didn’t move. You wanted to scream. But air refused your lungs. Your hands wouldn't stop trembling. They shook so violently you pressed them against your mouth, your chest, anywhere that could silence them.

"After we're done with him," Antinous drawled, his voice dropping low like a closing door, "only the sea and myself will know where his remains are. You turned away, back pressed flat against the cold stone wall. Your heartbeat was a frantic thud in your ears, your pulse so loud it nearly drowned out the rest. You were going to be sick.

Telemachus. They were talking about your Telemachus.

Every cruel word carved its way into your bones, into your chest, pressing so hard you thought your ribs might crack from holding the panic inside. You had to warn someone. You had to move. But even as you willed yourself, your knees threatened to buckle.

They were going to kill him. You have to get up. They said he's coming home today, you just have to beat them first to it—right?

"And then finally.." The phrase caused you to feel like your feet was chained.

"Hold her down." Oh No.

"Now that there is no one that can stop us from breaking the bedroom door." No no.

Their voices start to linger with excitement that burns, you hear footsteps. "As we hold her down."

"While we get a taste." No.

"Hold her down while we share her royal spoils! I will not let any part go to waste!" The men cheered, as you froze. The queen. They were planning not just to kill Telemachus—but to take the queen. By force.

Your breath caught sharp in your chest, You couldn’t move. But you really needed to. You needed to. Now. Move.

Someone was coming. You tried to stand but your knees were useless beneath you—numb, shaking. You pressed a hand to the wall. The stone felt too far, too dark. Everything blurred.

Stand up. You screamed it to yourself. Stand up. You couldn’t hear anything—except the muffled pounding of your heart and—

"Gotcha." A voice, too close, your head turned in slow motion. Your limbs were frozen, and your stomach dropped. Your body knew before your mind caught up. Your lips trembled. You couldn't even muster a scream before a pair of hands yanked you off the floor. You shrieked, thrashing in reflex. You kicked your heels down, anything to get free. The light of the room stung your eyes.

"Get off of me! Let go!!" you screeched, voice cracking under your panic. You fought like a cornered animal—because you knew, you were one. In the blur of the motion, you couldn’t make out the face—but the scent of wine and sweat, the sound of mocking breath too close to your ear, the way the grip tightened to bruise.

You wanted to curse him out. "Well," came the voice, smug and slow, the grin practically audible, "What do we have here?" Your throat closed again as tears lined your eyes, more from rage and horror than fear now. Eurymachus.

He watched your panic state like it was the finest entertainment he’d been served in days. His grip tightened around the parts of you that were too strong to break free from, while his breath skimmed too close to your skin, heavy. "Eavesdropping now?" Eurymachus cooed darkly, like a wolf playfully circling its kill. "Not a very good girl to do, hm?"

He slid his hand to your face, fingers curling cruelly beneath your chin, then clenching your jaw between his calloused fingers like he owned it. You hated it, the way it felt rough and made you rose to your stomach. You flinched instinctively, twisting your face away—disgust rising sharp in your throat.

Without thinking, your lips parted—and you spat, unflinching, right onto his face. The silence cracked. A beat passed. Just one.

Then—SLAP.

The slap stinged loudly. Your head snapped to the side, and your body dropped with it. Your knees collapsed, and you hit the floor hard, shoulder scraping the stone, pain biting through your spine. The ringing in your ears blocked out the first wave of laughter from the suitors. You raised your head enough to stare him dead in the eye—your head messy from his hit, a redden mark forming into your cheek.

Eurymachus wiped the spit off his face slowly, eyes black with fury. "Filthy little bitch," he muttered. Then he grabbed you by the wrist—bruising tight—and dragged you like a disobedient dog.

Your sandals scraped against the floor, you kicked against the tug, but the floor gave no traction, the laughter grew louder. You were thrown down again, right before the throne where Antinous now stood. He stepped forward with the calm of someone who had all the time in the world to decide how you’d suffer as his eyes studied you, dissected you. He crouched low, boots scraping the stone, and tilted his head just slightly.

"Get away from me" You barely whisper, as your knees tried to support you. You backed away, but his steps closer was faster. "Or what?" He mocked with a sly grin on.

You honestly didn’t know anymore. None of this was within your control, your body remained frozen, skin cold, blood hammering in your ears. You could feel the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into you like needles. Watching. Waiting.

Still, you tried. You swallowed hard, forcing your lips into a line and biting down on the bottom one to ground yourself. Anything to stop the trembling. You wouldn’t show fear. You refused to. But you didn’t answer either.

The silence drew longer, heavier.

Antinous scoffed with a breath of humor, the kind that made your stomach twist. "Yeah," he muttered, "thought so."

"Brothers," he called out, voice laced with theatrical cruelty. He stepped closer before you could take a step back, his hand snapped forward and seized your wrist. You gasped. His grip yanked you backwards and locked you there, his arm snaking around to pin you against him. His hold strangled your breath, forcing your chin up so the room could see you clearly.

You were dragged to the center like an exhibit. Faces blurred into a sea of leering eyes—suitors with grins too wide, too sharp. The room was hungry.

"I think," Antinous said darkly, "we’ve just found the perfect bait… for when we kill the prince." Your eyes widened. You opened your mouth to scream, protest—anything—but a rough cloth was shoved between your lips before the words could form. You let out a muffled cry as panic flared. Your limbs jerked, fought, twisted—but it was no use.

Then—a sudden, sharp pain nicked your throat. You froze, the cool press of something thin and sharp lingered just enough to draw blood. "One wrong move and you’re dead, sweetheart," Antinous whispered into your ear, voice low and snake-slick. You shivered as the laughter erupted around you. Your helpless obedience cracked them up.

"Antinous, don’t scare the girl too much!" Eurymachus called mockingly through the laughter. "We want her pretty for the stage!"

They laughed again. And you stood there—crying, gagged, bleeding—caught in a nightmare that hadn’t even reached its peak. "You and the prince have a thing, don’t you?" You froze. The blade pressed deeper. "Oh, don’t act surprised," the voice cooed mockingly. "You fellow servants aren’t as loyal as you think. They’ll say anything when the sheets are warm." He leaned closer, breath hot against your ear. "But you—you’re different, huh? The lucky one. The one the young prince picked."

The dagger traced idle. "I heard from your little friends… you draw. Why don’t you sketch us a picture, hm? One of what we’ll do to your prince." The room erupted in laughter. Loud, echoing, vile. You couldn’t focus—so many voices, so many hands, too much heat and noise.

"You have a pretty face, you know that?" he said again. You didn’t answer. "You’ve got the face of a princess… if you even knew that." The blade jabbed, not deep, but enough to make your breath hitch. Then silence—followed by a theatrical gasp. "Oh. You don’t know?" he chuckled darkly.

You shot him a confused look, your heart pounding louder than the voices. He burst into laughter and looked over at Eurymachus. "Should we tell her?"

Eurymachus shrugged with a smirk. "Nah. Let her hear it from the woman herself." You croaked through the cloth, trying to say something. They just laughed harder.

"Let’s just say… your mother is a hell of a woman," one of them said with a cruel glint. Before your mind could piece anything together, more voices chimed in—louder, hungrier.

"I say we lure the prince in with her—stripped bare and screaming!"

"No, no, we kill her first! Make the boy watch before we take him next!"

"I say we kill them both together—like some twisted Romeo and Juliet!"

The room spiraled with howls and jeers, each suggestion more grotesque than the last.

"Hold 'em down!" They changed continually.

The blade pressed deeper into your skin—any more and it would end you here. Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on the men cheering, their faces twisted by the dancing red flames. Was this hell? You stared at the man laughing at your suffering. His eyes locked onto yours, merciless, enjoying every tremble in your frame. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

And then—something shifted. A rush in the air. A presence. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. The last thing you saw was the sharp ruthlessness in Antinous’ eyes before an arrow tore through his skull.

Silence. Then blood. It exploded across your face and body, warm and sudden. Everything slowed. His eyes widened in blank surprise as he turned—half a motion, too late—to find the source. His body dropped like stone. The sound of it hitting the floor was swallowed by the rising panic in the room.

And just like that, the laughter stopped.

You stared at his bleeding body as the room fell silent, frozen in disbelief. Antinous—just moments ago, laughing—now lay dead in a pool of blood. All eyes locked on his corpse, stunned.

Then, you saw him. A figure. A man. It was the same hooded man from earlier, holding the bow. He looked furious. But he shot away your chance of death.

No one else noticed him yet. Their shock clung too tightly to Antinous. You didn’t wait. You ran, bolted so fast that you couldn’t spare the man a glance—you couldn’t risk it. The wind behind you howled cold, so cold it made the flames burn red.

Your collar was leaking with blood. You pressed a trembling hand against the open wound as you stumbled through the halls. Every part of your body screamed from the abuse. Your head was spinning from the fear and pain, thoughts scattered like broken glass.

You didn’t know where you were going. You had no plan, you just ran.

The queen. She was the only one you could think of—your only hope at the moment, maybe she was in her chambers, which was far from the suitors. But something was wrong. You paused, breath ragged, vision spinning. "W-What...?" you whispered. You looked around. No—no, this couldn’t be right. You recognized this corridor. You'd passed it already.

Had you run in circles? Where were the stairs? The exit? Seven years in this palace, you should know it like the lines in your hands. And yet you were lost—utterly, frighteningly lost.

You kept moving despite your legs barely obeyed, fear and panic burning them to continue. You were falling apart with every step, but you can't stop, you can't stop now, even when all you wanted was to collapse and sob from the pain but they can get to you any time soon, you need to push yourself.

"(Name)..." You heard your name being whispered, head snapped toward the sound, breath caught in your throat. You kept moving but stumbling through the dim corridor, blood dripping with each step. Your mind was so scrambled, so loud with thoughts you could barely tell what was real anymore. "(Name)...!" Louder this time. Familiar. That voice—so achingly familiar.

Your eyes widened. "Telemachus...?" you breathed, your voice cracking as your eyes slightly lit up with hope, you turned around, spun in place, desperate to find where it came from.

"(Name)!" Your knees nearly buckled, gripping the wall for support. The voice echoed again, bouncing in your skull, and tears stung your eyes. You wanted to believe it. Gods, you wanted to believe it was him.

"Where are you?!" you cried out, almost delirious, scanning every corner. You were trembling now, your legs too heavy to carry you any further, your hand smeared blood against the stone as you dragged yourself along the wall, heart racing with every beat that screamed his name.

You kept calling for the male, but he kept repeating your name, you know its his voice however you're starting to doubt if it's him. "(name)..."

"Please come out already!" voice breaking, gripping the corner of the wall like it could hold you up. Your hands trembling, knees ready to give out. "Please... I’m tired," you whispered, sliding down the cold wall as your body finally surrendered. "I don’t want to do this anymore..."

Then came the voice again. "(Name)... I’m here." Your breath hitched. You let your eyes drop, and for a moment it was like Telemachus was holding you—like his voice wrapped around your aching ribs, comforting. "I’m here... You're safe now." You leaned into that sound.

Your lips tremble to a weak smile, Maybe... It's finally done, he's here now. Maybe all of this would finally end. Maybe he did come back to you—just like he promised.

...

Your eyes sprang open, a sharp pierce pushed against your stomach. You were met by the same pair of eyes that is just like yours, the sharpness deepened as the pain finally made its way to your senses. You gasped but didn't scream, your throat closed up as you stared down at yourself.

There was blood. So much blood. You looked down at the crimson spreading from your center, staining the fabric of your chiron, seeping between your fingers, shakily reaching to grasp the ones that held the blade. Your fingers touched skin as you looked up, "..Mom..?" Your voice barely made it past your lips. You blinked, you didn't want to believe it, but yet you weren't surprised.

She didn't answer, you gasped again, pain now fully blooming inside you, tearing through your insides like fire. Your knees gave out and you dropped to the floor, the blade still lodged in you. Blood starting to spread, "W-Why…"

She still hadn’t looked at you. Her face was tilted down, her hair falling freely over her shoulders like a curtain—something you had never seen her wear before. It framed her face so eerily yet beautiful in a way, you felt as if you were looking in a mirror. A mirror with no reflection behind the glass.

Slowly she raised her gaze, finally meeting your own. She knelt beside you—so quiet, so weightless that it was almost cruel. The face that met yours was not of rage or madness yet. It was silent. So quiet it made you shake harder. She looked like you. Exactly like you. Only colder. Lifeless and stripped out of everything that made you human.

"I'm sorry" She said lifelessly, you stared at her disbelief, she said with no weight that it sounded like a joke.

Lips parting you said "Sorry..?"

She stared at your eyes, "This is only fair."

Your blood ran colder than your skin. "Fair..? How is this fair!?" The words tore from your throat. Every breath you took stabbed your chest as you sobbed in pain, "Why are you doing this?! Why—why.." you stumbled. "Why are you hurting me, mother..."

Something flickered then she finally snapped. "This is your fault. You ruined my life!" The scream struck you like another blow, this time to the heart. You flinched, she was shaking, fists clenched, teeth gritted as she leaned to you, you backed away further to the wall even though there was no more space.

A choking silence first came before she spoke, "Do you have any idea what I went through because of you. Because of your bastard of a father?" Her voice became quiet again but harder than her yell. "Any idea of the pain and suffering you've brought me?" she snapped, her voice shattering the air like glass. Her grip tightened around your shoulders, pushing you harshly against the hard wall. "And to make it worse—you just had to look exactly like me." She scoffs while you flinch, eyes wide.

"But worse than that," she hissed through her teeth, "you had his spirit. That fire. That wonder. That same blind defiance that ruined me!" You blinked through the blur of tears. It was true—she didn't look like you, you looked like her.

"It’s unfair," she whispered hoarsely. "So unfair. I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask for you. The gods—" her voice broke, trembling—"they cursed me with a daughter who would grow up with the life they stole from me!" You didn't know what to you say, but your heart burned, burned with guilt and realization as to why your mother this way. "You too caught the eye of a royal. But I wasn't admired unlike you" You bit your lip.

"I had dreams too," she spat, voice rising, shaking you now like she could shake the past out of you. "Did you know that?! I had plans, a future, hopes that were mine! Until he—"

She stopped but continued quickly. "Until I was taken against my will," she said, quietly now. "by your father." Your breath caught, eyes widened in disbelief, the world tilted. "I didn't choose this, I didn't choose to have you."

Your voice tried to speak, to say something even if you didn't know what to say, you could barely even breathe.

"But they wanted you, you know?" your mother said coldly, stepping back, her eyes trailing down to the blood seeping from your wound. "Your father… oh, he really wanted you, he needed a daughter, he said." Her tone dripped with bitterness. She let go of your shoulders harshly as if your touch left burns. "But I refused," she went on. "I refused to let you be a symbol of their love, or peace, or whatever lie they painted it as. I may hate you for existing—but letting you live a life of comfort while I rotted in silence from your birth?" Her voice cracked. "I refused. I'd rather have you suffer with me."

You were trembling now, lips parted to speak, stuttering from both the pain and fear. "I-I didn’t know any of this... and if I did—if I knew what he did to you—I wouldn’t want to be near him. I wouldn’t even—"

"Stop the crap, (Name)." Her voice cold like ice. You flinched. "You say that now, but I saw it," she sneered. "The way you lit up around the palace. The way you clung to that boy. His mother. You loved this place. You loved being close to royal. Don’t lie to me."

Tears were pooling down your face. "He wasn’t my father…and.. I didn't plan to-" you whispered, like it could save you.

She tilted her head. "But you still craved what he would have given you. A palace. A title. A dream.. Isn't that why you whore'd yourself to the prince?" She leaned closer, her face mere inches from yours as your body trembled beneath the heavy weight of everything—your blood, the pain, and the truth she had dug into you more deeply than the blade itself. Your lips shivered as tears blurred your vision.

"No... you got it wrong..." you whispered through your choked sobs. Your voice was too weak to convince anyone, let alone the one who had just stabbed you. She didn’t answer. She just stared. Looked down at you like you were something pitiful, distorted, something like unwanted. Her expression held nothing soft, only an exhausted disgust. But you looked up at her anyway, the way a child would. Your lips trembled again, and your gaze held no defiance like she accused you to have—eyes just guilt. Guilt as if to say: I’m sorry.

She was just like you once. Bright-eyed, maybe even joyful. With dreams that were meant to be more than what the faith allowed her. You saw it now—how the faith she once had was sucked dry by cruelty. It wasn’t her fault. But it wasn’t yours either. But still, you felt like it was, like existing was a mistake, like your dreams were thievery from a woman who had nothing left.

"I’m sorry," you whimpered quietly. Again, and again. "I’m sorry." She didn’t answer, but you saw her shoulders rise and fall unevenly. Her breath also shaking now.

You winced as her hand started to move. You thought she would pull the blade out—but instead, she gripped it tighter. "You don’t have to, please." you croaked, your voice barely audible anymore. You didn't fear death, you said not to convince but to maybe give her a chance to rethink. You were exhausted through a point acceptance was telling you.

Silence. A long, breathless silence.

And then by your surprise… she let go. Her fingers slipped from the hilt, leaving the blade inside you. Not out of mercy, but out of something she couldn’t name. Her hands fell limp at her sides, trembling. She stared at you for a long time. Her eyes weren’t glassy, nor furious anymore—they were unreadable just like always before.

She stared at you—this time you can see a hint of fear as if she was scared, gasping heavily as she stared at your now broken and bloody state. Her hands were shaking with your blood staining her skin, exchanging shaky looks between you—and the evidence.

For a second, you saw her try reaching for you but flinched away like ashamed, she swallowed intensely before her hands gripped your arms again, and you winced, too weak to resist.

"W-where are we going?" She dragged you across the corridor, your body too limp to fight, you were pulled into the old weapon chamber—the cold metal scent of steel and dust crawling in your throat. She sat you against a stone pillar, "Mother... Please..." You stumbled, it was diabolical for you to still call her mother, begging her in a way as if she wasn't evil.

She tried not to pay at you. Despite your tears fell freely, quietly, she couldn't look at you—not when you're looking at her with the last bit of hope still hanging in your eyes.

She stood. Your eyes meeting for very last time. "You were a good kid." She started, you stared at her with your eyes blinking a tear. That was the first time she ever praised you. "I'm sorry you had to be mine." She concluded.

When she turned back, you could only watch her leave. Leave you to rot. Leave you alone. You didn’t want to believe this was your mother—but at the same time, she hadn’t given you a reason not to. So you stayed quiet as she stepped out of the room. And the door closed.

You leaned against the wall, clutching your abdomen, your vision growing blurrier by the second. You didn’t know if this was what dying felt like. But you didn’t want to die like this. Not this way.

You still hadn’t seen him. He still hadn’t come back.

You didn’t want your corpse to be the last thing he saw of you.

At this point, he was only the one you have left.

You didn’t know if you could hold on anymore, so you curled into yourself—anything to feel a little less alone.

Your lips quivered, barely moving as your breath trembled out of you. You pressed your bloodied hand to your side and mumbled low—almost a whisper not even the gods could hear. "Please… any god listening… don’t let it end like this…" Tears streamed down your face as your head leaned weakly against the cold wall. "I’m scared…" It was soft, like a child's voice in the dark. "I don’t want to die here… not like this…" Your eyes fluttered as you forced out one more breath, your voice barely reaching the still air. "Telemachus… please… come back..."

You looked around the dark room, lit only by a faint flicker of light that barely touched the corners. Your breaths were shaky as you scanned the space—every shadow, every shape.

Weapons lined the walls and ground, hidden in cloth—some blades poked through the fabric, their steel catching the slightest of light.

From the way they were stashed, it wasn’t hard to guess—you recognize them as the weapons owned by the suitors. You swallowed the tightening around your throat, if the bleeding didn’t end you first, they surely would. You were trapped in a room filled with things that are made to kill.

Desperate, you reached for the edge of a torn tablecloth nearby, ripping a thick strip of it with trembling hands. You wrapped it tightly around your wound, pressing down hard despite the aching pain. You bit into your lower lip, stifling a cry.

Then—footsteps, multiple of them drawing closer.

"No..no....no..!" Your blood ran cold. Your eyes widened as you looked toward the door, panic rising. With the little strength you had left, you dragged yourself to a shadowed corner, crawling to the only place that won't bite your back. Among the abandoned weapons, you spotted a small blade partially hidden between two larger ones. Your fingers closed around it, slipping it into the folds of your clothes. You held your breath.

The door burst open, crashing against the stone wall as a group of suitors scrambled in, breathes tagged, fear carving into their eyes. "He’s back!" one of them panted, wild-eyed. "The old king—he’s alive!" Another suitor slammed the door behind them, his hand shaking. "That bastard of a beggar! I didn’t know it was him—how the hell were we supposed to know that was Odysseus in disguise?!"

Their words blew you into realization. You froze, your chest tightening. The beggar from earlier?… the old man in the garden… Your eyes widened, breath caught between your ribs. That was… the king?

"Damn, he’s more cunning than I assumed," one muttered, pacing furiously. "While we were busy plotting, he hid our weapons inside this room." Just as he reached for one of the cloth-covered racks, his hand pulled back the linen that only to reveal you, curled into the corner, bloodied, breathing hard.

"Well, well," one of them grinned with amusement. "Look what the gods dragged back into our arms."

"Hello little lamb," another chuckled, cruelly. "Seems faith’s been having a little too much fun with you." You tried to shrink farther into the stone wall as one stepped closer, his boots heavy against the floor. Your hair was the only thing about you that was free as it was soak with your sweat and grime, while your once-white chiton stained with deep red and ruined to your trembling frame. Your cheeks were smeared with dried blood, a dark red result from the violence already done to you.

"Blood looks good on you," one of them sneered, bending down just slightly, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. "We should put some more on you, yeah?"

Another one chimed in mockingly, voice almost sing-song, the laughter that followed was grotesque, and it shook something in your chest. Bait, they’d called you. Bait. Drawing a blade from the rack, "We’ll use your dying flesh as a shield." Still, you didn’t speak. You could only glared, your eyes piercing despite the tears that welled. That only made them laugh harder. "I find it hard to believe," one sneered as he tightened his grip on a sword, "that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked."

"So what?" another spat, raising his weapon. "Now that we’ve armed ourselves… let’s make the bastard rot." The tension in the room sharpened, and then his gaze turned back to you.

"But first—get rid of this already-rotting one."He stepped forward, blade raised, and you felt your heart drop, breath catching. You braced. "Behind you!" He turned too late. A spear drove through his back with sickening precision. As blood smeared—the holder pulling back the spear out.

The room fell into stunned silence. Your widen eyes looked up slowly, your weak iris shakily lifted to the man's body as it dropped to floor.

The shadow behind him slowly reveal from the dim light, their features revealing by the second as your heart stopped, the familiar sense of his presence made the pain numb for a second. Telemachus. He swinged the spear to his hand as an invisible yet strong presence followed behind his reveal. Your brows furrowed low as trembled in pain. Despite the dim light and the chaos around him, Telemachus had found you. His eyes locked onto yours, and something in him broke at the sight of you—battered, bloodied, barely holding on. "(Name)!" he called, desperate, running toward you.

But just before he could reach you, a suitor lunged, grabbing you by the arm. You cried out as he dragged you in front of him, locking his arm around your throat, the cold kiss of a blade pressing once again to your skin, making you hiss. "Not another step, boy!" the man barked, breathing heavy. "Or she gets it."

Telemachus froze, his sword still raised. The fury in his gaze burned like a band, barely held back by his clenched jaw. "Let her go," he said with a voice both sharp and trembling. "Let her go, and I ensure you will be spared."

The man laughed bitterly. "Spare us? After what your father did? No, prince—we know what fate waits for us." His grip on you tightened, his blade pressing deeper until you gasped.

"I don’t want to hurt you," Telemachus warned, stepping forward slightly. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something in them softened—only for rage to return when he saw you wince. "But if you hurt her again, I swear to the gods, I will not hesitate."

Another suitor stepped forward now, weapon drawn, voice snarling. "You think you can save her and fight us all, boy?" he spat. "You can’t even protect her at the first place. We have your little girl."

"We have your weakness," another added, circling. "And that’s how we win. We gut you first, then let the rest of the blood dry on her bones or the other way. Either way none is spared."

"Brothers! We can still defeat the king if we all attack the prince!" Your eyes grew wide. The men started lurging to Telemachus as you were still held back—your lips shunned as the man behind you covered your mouth. "Capture him he's our greatest chance!" Menalaus yelled, as Telemachus roughly hold them back, he dodged the blades flying towards him as he striked back, "Get off me! GET OFF ME!" He yelled.

With what little strength you had left, you gripped the blade hidden beneath your tattered chiton, the metal slick with your own blood. Heart pounding, you opened your mouth and bit hard into the hand gripping your face—so hard that the sharp taste of iron flooded your tongue. The man yelped, jerking back in surprise. You didn’t hesitate. You spun, shoving your body forward, and drove the blade into the side of his neck. His scream tore through the chamber as he collapsed, twitching.

You stared for a moment, your chest heaving—unsure if it was shock, or just the weight of what you’d done. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You yanked the blade free and turned just in time to see another suitor charging towards Telemachus' blind spot. Without thinking, you ran and shoved the blade up into his throat, his blade almost reaching the prince. His eyes bulged as he dropped, lifeless.

Telemachus turned at the sound, his sword mid-swing, eyes wide when he saw you standing over the second body, soaked with mixed blood but standing. His eyes met yours, something tender flickering in the chaos.

"You came back," you whispered, cracked and breathless. He exhaled, jaw clenched. "I promised, didn’t I?" But before the moment could hold, a strong arm yanked you back by the waist. "NO!" Telemachus shouted, panic surging through his voice as he lunged, only to be tackled by two other men. His blade clattered to the floor as they forced him down.

Menelaus held you close, his breath hot and foul in your ear. "Got them," he spat with a grin, and the sound of it made Telemachus’s face fall.

The next second passed like a fever dream. Your heartbeat jumped as an arrow tore through Menelaus—the man holding you hostage. Though your back was to him, you felt it before you saw it: the snap of the air, the wet splatter of blood painting your skin again. You swore if you had the energy to care, the mixture of your own blood and countless others coating your body would have made you sick. But right now, all you could think about was not dying. And you were scared—terrified—that you wouldn’t even achieve that.

The arrow had lodged deep into Menelaus’s neck. He gasped as the blood poured, his grip on you loosening. But your body, sore and broken from everything you’d endured, lacked the strength to catch yourself.

Telemachus and the suitors who were holding him down witnessed this all, they stared in horror as the arrow was now buried deep in his throat. Odysseus stood at the far end of the chamber, revealing himself from the pool of bodies and shadow, with blood already staining his hands, eyes spiked with no more spark.

The scene made the remaining suitors also lose their grip on the prince in great fear—enough for Telemachus to get out of their grasp and run to you.

The brown-haired male caught you just in time before you met the ground. "I’ve got you," he breathed, voice shaking, pulling you into his arms. Your eyes widened as you finally felt the familiar touch you had been longing for, you couldn't help but finally calm down. You're whole body despite in pain was tensed, alert of every single thing as a moment ago you thought you were alone. Your eyes began to swell up; however a slight indication of fear and pain still remained.

Telemachus pressed your head gently against his shoulder, but his breath caught when he felt how your body tensed. Gods, he could imagine how scared you must be.

Intuitively, he brought both you and himself away from the body as the king came closer into the room. Telemachus, who was still unaware of his father’s rampage, shielded you away as he watched the man reveal himself through the dim light.

Odysseus stood in front of the body that had his arrow pierced into it. "M-mercy," a suitor stammered, dropping his weapon, stumbling.

"Mercy?" he repeated, glaring at the man. "Mercy?!" He took another step. "My mercy has long since drowned." The bowstring pulled tight.

"It died to bring me home." He aimed at another man, trembling at the edge of the room. "And as long as you're around…" Thunk. Another suitor fell, arrow through the chest.

"My family's fate is left unknown." He stopped, eyes scanning the room with raw hatred. "You plotted to kill my son…" He gestured to Telemachus, who held you tightly against him.

"Viciously tortured that girl!" Telemachus blinked, eyes darting down to you—realizing he meant you. "You planned to rape my wife!" Odysseus’s voice grew louder, emphasizing the word wife with full grit.

"All of you are going to die!" he growled as he fired again—fast, brutal, unforgiving. The suitors scattered like rats, but it didn’t matter. One by one, they dropped dead, blood pooling on the stone walls and ground. Telemachus could only maintain his grasp on you, shielding you from the carnage. His hand pressed to your side, trying to stop the bleeding, but his eyes never left his father—not once—as Odysseus exacted a wrath twenty years in the making.

It continued, and the smell lingered as screams could be heard—begs and last breaths. "You’ve filled my heart with hate, all of you, who have done me wrong…" he turned to face the men. "This will be your fate!" he declared, holding up the head.

Cries echoed. Everything felt like a horror movie as the king himself marked his presence through this nightmare. Telemachus hitched a breath as he turned back to you slowly. You were still in his arms, trembling, barely conscious. He cupped your cheek as blood roared in your ears.

The king was home. And his homecoming had painted the walls red.

"Tele..?" Barely a full name, your voice cracked, the stab in your side had finally caught up to you, forcing a cough past your lips.

"(Name)... (Name)." Telemachus called, his voice trembling. He sank to the ground, cradling you into his arms with desperation, his eyes locked onto your side, the bloodied cloth soaked through and stiff with dry red. His breath hitched.

"I missed you."

He chuckles a sob, "I missed you too. So much." He pecked the top of your hair. "Don’t move. Don’t say anything yet—just, please, hold on," he begged, his voice rising with panic. He looked so young then, so unlike the prince people spoke of. Just a boy, terrified.

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused but still searching for him. You raised your bloodied hand—barely—and he caught it immediately, intertwining his fingers with yours gently as if that alone could keep you tethered.

"Tele… you're back," you whispered weakly.

"Yes. Yes, I’m here, (Name). I’m here! I’m so sorry I was too late, but I’m here now, okay? I’m not leaving you again!" He pressed his forehead gently to yours for a second, breath shaking.

You tried to speak, but your words were hazy. "I-I waited for you…"

He swallowed, holding back the sob building in his chest. "I know. I know you did," he whispered. "And I’m never letting you wait alone again. Never."

You blinked slowly. "It hurts…"

"I know. Gods, I know." He took a steadying breath. "But Eurycleia—she’ll know what to do. She’ll help you. I just—I have to get you to her." He pulled you closer, gently gathering you in his arms. Your body felt too light, too still, and that terrified him more than anything. As he stood, you whimpered softly from the shift, but your arms stayed around him, just holding on.

"Please… hold on," he whispered under his breath as he walked, fast as he dared. "Just stay with me. Be strong. I’ve got you."

You leaned into him, your eyes barely open, head resting against his chest. You heard the tremble in his voice and tried to speak—tried to reassure him—but your throat burned. Still, you managed a whisper.

"I’m… trying." You tried.

He sobbed then, silently, pressing his cheek to the top of your head as he made his way through the blood-stained halls, whispering again and again: "You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on. Please, just hold on."

"Guards! Call for nurse Eurycleia, or the Iatros—the healers! Anyone!" Telemachus shouted, his voice sharp, cracked with panic. The men quickly obeyed, startled by the desperation in the prince’s command.

Odysseus turned at the sound, gaze falling upon his son with tear-stained eyes and the girl who had smiled at him with such unexpected kindness not long ago. He hadn’t realized you were talking about Telemachus—he hadn’t known you meant his son. A tug pulled at his chest, quiet and painful. You were full of life only hours ago. Now you lay nearly limp in his son's arms, barely clinging on.

"Will she be okay?" Odysseus called out. Telemachus turned slightly, eyes flicking to the father he hadn’t seen in years. "She must! I won’t accept it!" he snapped, and with that, he turned forward again, his steps picking up pace.

And for every step, his heart screamed. Please not like this, not her, not now. His arms tightened around you as if trying to hold your soul in place. I didn’t come this far to lose you. You’re not allowed to slip away. The fear wasn’t just choking him—it was devouring him whole. It wasn’t just blood on his hands now, it was the weight of time, of regret, of love he hadn’t had the chance to protect properly. Not until now.

Every step toward infirmary felt like walking the edge of a cliff—one slip and you could be gone. And Telemachus couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn't. "Your highness, we’ll take it from here. Please—wait outside," one of the healers urged gently, already beginning to gather tools and direct the others.

Telemachus didn’t move. His arms stayed wrapped around your body, your blood staining his skin. His voice came out cracked and trembling, "She’ll be alright, right? (Name)… She’s going to be fine. She’s strong, one of the strongest people I know—she has to be, she—she—" His voice broke into a whisper, barely holding itself together.

"Your highness," another healer said, firmer now, "we will do everything we can. But please—we must work quickly."

They reached for you again. This time, Telemachus let them take you, but his grip lingered—fingers refusing to part as if releasing you might make you vanish altogether. When he finally let go, it was slow, reluctant. His hand brushed against your skin one last time before slipping away, trembling.

As they lifted you from his arms, his breath caught in his throat. You were being pulled from him, and all he could do was watch.

You turned your head weakly, blood still on your lips, your eyes struggling to stay open. "Tele…" you breathed, your voice barely audible. One arm reached toward him.His hand reached back but before either of you could touch, the doors closed between you.

He froze. Staring blankly at the now shut door, tears rolled down his cheeks quietly. He stood there in the silence, the image of you being carried away burned behind his eyes. And then—he felt it. A hand, heavy and warm, resting on his shoulder. He turned slowly, Odysseus stood beside him, blood still smeared across his arms and face, his gaze fixed on the door with a quiet expression.

The father and son stood there, side by side. No words passed between them.

And then, Telemachus broke. He collapsed forward, wrapping his arms around his father, shoulders shaking as a sob tore out of his throat. Odysseus didn’t flinch. His hand moved to the back of his son’s head, steadying him, holding him. He said nothing—because nothing needed to be said. They just stood there, in silence and sorrow, now the one waiting behind the door.

...

The emptiness in silence had gained a fear into you. Every time it occurs, it always lingers disturbingly, that can make your skin crawl. It was never good, always a warning. Every time it showed itself, something bad quickly followed. Always.

And right now, everything was quiet. No voices. No footfalls. No screams. Just...nothing.

You didn’t know if this was death, a dream, or something between. The darkness that surrounded you wasn’t empty—nor was it heavy, it wasn’t even cold. Mostly it only felt like it was just there.

It felt like you were levitating, or stuck in a place with no time, no weight, but for some reason fear hadn't reached you here.

Your mind was blank for the first few while, but soon the emptiness had started to pervade with your collecting thoughts.

Maybe it was because it started with your reflection, but slowly your thoughts had reminded you of her. You remembered her hands, the blade she held, her voice sounding human for the first time, even the way her eyes stared at you with pure enmity and sympathy..?. It almost made you forget that this was your mother.

A mother, who was supposedly love you, protect you—you didn't quite understand.

Growing up, you knew there was supposed to be a father, you saw other kids with them however you never had the courage to ask your mother about yours, so your mind never generated an idea of a father, you never thought that was the reason as to why your mother wasn't a mother to you.

Now you wondered, if you even deserve to live, knowing how you were conceived, how faith had brought you where you are. You start to consider maybe you really did deserve it. It made you wonder, just a bit, if this was what she wanted all along. For you to disappear. For you to bleed. For you to suffer just enough to make it even.

You recalled all your moments with her, the times you never stood beside her instead stood just a few distances behind. From the front it wasn't obvious but to where you were standing, you knew something was wrong, just never had the gut to ask why. You always noticed the distance but tried to think nothing about it.

Maybe that’s why you’ve always been drawn to art—not just for its beauty, but because it’s one of the only kinds of creation you’ve known to be made with love. Because the first artist in your life—the one who made you—crafted you out of pain, and then resented you for existing.

But what does everything about this even mean? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to. You could barely think beyond it anyway now when a sound had reached your ears. It was faint, like slowly starting to form familiar, there was a dull ringing again. Like water in your ears.

Maybe it was the sound of your own blood still moving, or maybe just what silence becomes when it presses too long.

For a while, you were distracted by the undefined sound that you couldn't espy, since all of your sight right now was blank and only your brain picturing your thoughts. However second by second you could start to feel warmth for the first time, feeling it first where the side of your face was supposed to be.

Slowly you began to feel the warm sensation stronger as it brought you back to the feeling of consciousness.

Your eyes stayed closed at first but slowly you were able to peek—the sun shine being the first thing to sight as you blink a couple of times. The light crawled across your cheeks and eyelids, warm enough to remind you you were still here. Still breathing.

You took a breath, you didn’t mean to. It just came. And gods, it hurts. It hurts like your lungs haven’t worked in years, like this was your first breath after holding it underwater.

And the numb empty feeling from earlier now gone as you felt your head ache—your entire body felt so so heavy, like your nerves didn’t know whether to hurt or give up. You stirred a little from all of this sudden presence of pain as your eyelids flattered and let out a faint groan as you barely turned your head.

Your neck resisted, your muscles weak, but you managed it, slowly, shapes began to blur into view. Pale walls. Drapes. A window cracked slightly open. And that—that familiar smell of herbs and linen.

You knew this place, the infirmary.

You blinked, then again. The ache of your body pulled you back into the present, despite the attached confusion in it. You tried to remember everything that had happened—how you got here, why your side burned like it had been torn open. But every time you tried to pull a thread, your head screamed back at you, making you wince and groan.

You then heard a sharp gasped echo across the room, you squinted through the brightness, vision still struggling to focus until it became clear a little. Nurse Eurycleia. Who stood near the doorway, eyes wide, hand over her mouth as if she’d seen a ghost. For a second, she didn’t move—just stared, frozen in place.

You furrowed your brow. Or at least tried to, the two of you quite frankly stared at each other with opposing looks on your faces. You tried murmuring something out though it seems like only your thoughts could speak right now.

Without another second wasted the older woman gasped loudly, "Your.. Your Highness—!" she shouted before spinning and bolting from the room.

Your lips parted slightly, dazed and lost. Your highness? Then of course, your eyes slightly grew, Telemachus.

...

"Are you sure she’s awake?" Telemachus stumbled over the words, eyes wide as if afraid they’d vanish the moment they were spoken. Despite the reluctance in his voice, he was already two steps ahead of the older nurse.

"Yes! Yes—I heard her groan. Twice!" Eurycleia said breathlessly, her urgency bubbling with hope and disbelief.

Telemachus let out a shaky breath as they neared the door, one hand hovering just above the handle. He hesitated for half a second, afraid of what he might see—afraid it would hurt all over again. But the moment passed. He slowly pushed the door open.

There you were. On the bed. Breathing. Eyes barely open. Fragile, but alive.

Alive, Telemachus stared, frozen in the doorway, his throat closing, He didn’t realize he was shaking until he gripped the edge of the door for support.

Nurse Eurycleia saw this as her hand came to soothe his arm—a quiet nudge that he needed. "I'll leave you two be it." Her voice soft.

Telemachus nodded once, barely, as she stepped out.

Telemachus approached slowly, his hands were shaking and fisted closed, as the room was bright with the morning light now, spilling onto the bed, casting a soft warmth against your skin.

He hears you breathed out—slowly your gaze lifted weakly, and your eyes found his. For a moment, neither of you said a word.

Then he knelt beside you, one hand gently reaching to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers trembled as he feels your skin.

"You’re awake," he whispered. His voice cracked, tears starting to build up.

Telemachus sat beside the bed cautiously, as if you're fragile glass that might shatter from anything, his soft gaze didn't leave your presence even a second as his breathing was careful, shoulders trembling slightly—like he was holding himself back. You could tell he was doing it for your sake and your flatter from this detail.

"Telemachus...?" you finally whispered, voice brittle.

Hearing your voice call his name made him sniffle, his head raising just enough to meet your eyes. "(name)..?" He called yours.

Your brows furrowed, eyes softening as you studied the lines on his face. "Why are you crying?" You teased.

He let out a broken chuckle, his head hanging low as his shoulders gave in, you could feel his weight rest gently against the edge of your bed frame, forehead touching the blanket near your lap, his hands gripped the sheets tightly.

"I thought I'd lost you, (name)." he whispered, voice slight muffled from the sheets. "I thought I was never going to hear you again, your voice, your smile, you."

Your hand, shaky and pale, lifted to his hair, threading your fingers into it gently, brushing the strands back. His shoulders stiffen at the touch before relaxing slowly, melting into you naturally.

"I'm here, Tele... I'm here," you said, voice still barely above a breath.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to rest his cheek against you, breathing quite unevenly. The tears came freely now—his hand sliding up to intertwine with yours.

And for a moment, the world went quiet again. But this time, it wasn't terrifying. It didn't bring you fear but instead it was peace. It was safe. A smile made its way to your tired lips.

You gave a faint, tired smile. "You look awful, you know, heavens.. have you been taking care of yourself?" you commented.

He let out a quiet laugh between sobs. "You nearly die, and you're still honest as ever. Good to know you're still the (name) I know"

You chuckled weakly, though the effort made your chest ache. "Just trying to balance things out."

He pulled back slightly, brushing his sleeve across his face before looking at you. "How are you feeling?"

You took a long pause, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if trying to find an answer that didn’t sound like 'everything hurts'. "Numb. Heavy. Like I've been asleep for years and only a part of me actually woke up."

His smile faded a little as his eyes lowered. "That's... expected," he murmured.

Your gaze returned to him, studying his expression. Something was off.

"How long was I out?" Telemachus hesitated. You tilted your head, brows raising.

"Telemachus?"

He swallowed. "...You’ve been in a coma for two weeks now.."

Your mouth parted slightly. "Two weeks?" you echoed, eyes blinking slowly as you brought your other hand to rest your chest.

He nodded. "It was the longest two weeks of my life." His voice cracked again, just a little. "I sat here every day. Talking to you. Hoping you'd... move, or blink, or even just—" He stopped himself. His fists clenched slightly on the sheets. "I would've given anything to hear you breathe differently."

You stared at Telemachus as his fingers against yours slightly tightened, no plans of letting you go again.

A small smile painted your lips, "I guess this makes us equal then," You started, Telemachus tilted his head at you. "Now you know how it feels waiting for someone, dummy." You said.

Telemachus pouted, nudging your hand. "Hey, I didn’t know when you’d come back. I was waiting here hopelessly, alright?"

"You think I knew when you were coming back either?" you retorted sarcastically, a faint huff leaving your lips. "I didn’t get a schedule or anything."

He tilted his head in surrender, his fingers still wrapped gently around yours. "You’re right… gods, I wonder how my mother survived that."

"I asked myself that same question," you murmured, your voice calmer now. "Your mother was by my side when you were out. Being with her highness was really comforting especially since you resemble her so much."

Telemachus smiled faintly, looking down at your joined hands. "I’m glad," he whispered. "I knew she would love you. I mean there's no way anyone wouldn't." He said.

The warmth of his words brought a gentle smile to your lips, but you couldn't help your eyes to lower, as you thought about her.

There was still so much you hadn’t processed yet. Your gaze faltered, lowering slightly to the sheets.

Telemachus noticed, but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward just a little, exhaling with a nervous laugh. "Gosh… I hope I don’t get drafted into another war like my father and make you wait twenty years."

You let out a breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Don't Jinx it."

You didn’t know what to say at first. So you just reached forward and cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye. "You shouldn’t cry this much. It's gonna ruin your pretty face."

He let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head as he tried to hide his growing blush. "You’re unbelievable."

"And you're easy to tease" you teased back, smiling.

For a second, it almost felt normal.

Then your expression softened, to ask a question that you wanted to ask since earlier. "Hey… who helped? I mean… the blood loss. I know it must’ve been bad. Who do I thank for keeping me here with you?"

Telemachus froze. Your smile faltered slightly, nervous. "What’s wrong?"

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted slightly, like he was trying to find the best way to soften something sharp.

"It... it was from your mother."

Silence. You blinked. Not wide-eyed. Not gasping. Just staring. "...Huh?" It came out sounding confused.

He swallowed. "We couldn’t find anyone in the palace with a blood match. Not even the servants or guards. We tried everything. And time was running out. The nurses almost lost hope until, your mother showed up.."

"She offered her blood," he said, quiet. "Voluntarily."

You fell silent again, as you stared at him blankly, notably dubious on his statement. Telemachus opened his lips to say something, stopped. And opened to say, "She confessed what happened between the two of you." You blinked.

Your head tilted to the side, throat tighten and your mind spiraling. It didn’t make sense. You were so confused. "Is she—what.. is she—?" Telemachus seemed to puzzle out what you wanted to ask before you could complete it yourself. "No... She said she would lend her blood for you—on the condition that she could leave Ithaca afterward."

You turned your gaze away then, letting it settle on some quiet place in the room. "We didn’t have much choice before your condition got worse," he added. "So... we agreed."

Another silence followed, hanging longer than the one before it. Telemachus leaned closer, careful. "I’m sorry, (Name). What she did… was wrong. And if you want, we could—"

"No… I—uh…" you exhaled slowly, voice faltering before catching again.

"Let her be."

His face tensed, unsure. "You mean…?"

You looked at him again. Not angry. Not bitter. Just very tired.

"I found out everything. My past. What happened. What she did. And what she lost," you said, softly. "I think… I think I spent so long trying to be seen that I forgot I was just... trying."

Your voice trembled a little, not from crying, but from the weight of all those years. "I tried to understand her, even when she shut me out. Even when she looked at me like I was the very thing that ruined her. And maybe I was. Maybe she couldn’t stand to look at me because I was all that was left of the love she lost. A face that reminded her of a different life. One that died."

Telemachus just listened. Quiet, still. Letting you say it.

"She had the power to take me out of this world, Tele. So easily. And she did try but she spared me. I don't know why she chose to save me now, maybe it had a beneficial side but I can't blame her for it." You sighed softly, your thumb absently brushing his knuckle.

"I’m not really her daughter, not in the way your mother is to you. I’m just a reflection of her grief. Her faith and shame. I don’t think she ever asked for me… and I don’t think I ever asked to be a reminder of something she couldn’t heal from."

You paused. "So… it’s only fair. To let her go. Maybe this way, she’ll finally be free. Maybe she’ll be happier—starting again, somewhere where my face doesn’t follow her. Somewhere her past can’t chase her anymore." You looked up at Telemachus again, eyes quietly soft. "And maybe that’s the greatest thing I can do for her in return for ruining her."

Another silence followed. Telemachus stared at you, stunned—a quiet ache blooming in his chest. He always knew you were kind. But this? This kind of grace? It hurt, gods, it hurt to even hear you say all of this.

You shouldn’t have to be the one to forgive. You shouldn’t be the one offering peace, not after everything.

Yet you still found a way to forgive.

Your eyes lifted to meet his again. This time, they were clearer—crystals forming at the edges, trembling with held-back tears.

"But hey," you whispered, voice tight. "At least… something of her will always be in me now, right?"

You tried to smile. But the tremble in your lips gave way to a quiet, broken sob. "I’ll carry a part of her... and maybe that’s enough for me." It was the way you said it. Soft, cracked, but full of meaning. Like it was your own form of mourning—one without anger, built from understanding.

And that honestly broke him. However he felt like he fell in love with you all over again.

Ever since you woke up, the Prince of Ithaca has not—and I mean it—he REFUSES to leave your side. Sure, a few nurses may have snitched that even before you opened your eyes, he was practically glued to your bedside. They swore he slept sitting up, arms folded on the edge of the bed, muttering things like "Just five more minutes." whenever someone tried to drag him off to his royal duties. 

Now? He’s made it his duty to hover over you like a very devoted, very anxious, very clingy puppy. 

Sitting up to pour yourself a glass of water? Nope. Telemachus is already two steps ahead, tilting the cup to your lips.

Feel your hair's a mess? Don’t worry. He’s brushing it for you—surprising skilled, might you add. Where did he learn that? He mumbled something about his mother and a lot of practice on linen. Lunch? Forget feeding yourself. He insists on doing it for you. "No, no—let me. You’re still healing. What if you strain a finger?" he says with the seriousness of a seasoned general that you can't hold your laughter. 

You feel cold? Blanket. Immediately. And not just any blanket—he throws on two more, and he's already climbing into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms like a heat-seeking missile. "god forbid a man who misses his woman," he claims, deadpan, as his arms lock around you. 

You roll your eyes, but you obviously liked it. 

And the best part? Your wounds were slowly healing. The pain dulls more each day, and his clinginess becomes something you secretly look forward to. Every breath is easier, every laugh a little louder. You can now leave your bed and walk around the room, however you're still prohibited from doing anything heavy.

Honestly, at this point, it’s less you recovering and more like you watching him recover from the trauma of almost losing you. Either way, it’s soft, it's safe, and it’s exactly what you both need.

You shift in bed once He’s at your side in half a second. "What hurts? Where? Tell me."

"Telemachus, I just turned over."

"Well, next time warn me first—what if your stitches reopened?" You stare. He stares back. Dead serious. You sigh. He tucks the blanket tighter around you.

Sometimes he stares at you like you might disappear if he blinks too long. You pretend not to notice—but the moment you catch his eye and smile? He melts. Literally melts. Looks away and mutters something like, "Stop doing that," under his breath, ears turning bright red. He's so adorable. (author is banging their head as they write) 

Even Eurycleia, had to tell him, "Your Highness, if you hover any closer, you’ll be stitched to the bedframe too."

"Then stitch me, I gladly welcome that" he said without missing a beat. You’ve never seen Nurse Eurycleia deadpanned so hard. 

He reads to you, too. Though sometimes he fumbles and gets self-conscious when the words get flowery or romantic. You teased him once, and he refused to read the next chapter unless you "apologized properly." You still haven’t and he still reads to you. 

At night, when it’s just the two of you and the flicker of lamplight, just like the old days. He doesn’t say much. He just lays beside you—still careful not to press against your wounds—and holds your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Maybe it is. And sometimes, half-asleep, you hear him whisper things like, "I thought I’d lost you," or "You don’t even know how much I prayed for you to stay." or "I love you so much." You never interrupt. You just hold his hand tighter. Because if you’re honest? You didn't know either what'd you would do if you did left. 

Sure, Telemachus' technically had princely duties again now that Ithaca had a king back—but let’s be real, the only throne he was interested in was the one next to your bedside. 

Not that he forgot his parents. Of course not. You were there to watch how he now split his time between being your clingy nurse and finally getting time with his mom and dad again—something he hadn’t had in years. 

You’d watch him through the infirmary window sometimes, seated with Penelope by the courtyard, her fingers brushing his curls while he told her stories. Or laughing with Odysseus over something stupid, probably war-related, And honestly? You were so happy for him. They looked whole again. 

One Evening, Telemachus returned with that familiar boyish grin and a tray of figs you definitely didn’t ask for. He plopped on the edge of your bed, nudging your hand with one of them. "So guess what happened today?" he asked, mouth full of his own stolen fruit. "I dunno. Did you finally beat your dad in chess?" you teased. 

He groaned dramatically. "No—but almost though!" You giggled. "Really now?" He hummed, "My mom is unbeatable though, maybe cause my dad purposely loses to her." He rolled his eyes sarcastically. "He's such a simp for her." He chuckled.

You raised a brow with a sly grin. "Speaks for yourself, lover boy." Telemachus blinked. "What me?! Pfft, I am not a simp." 

"Oh?" you smirked. "Remind you who spoon-fed me lukewarm soup while whispering ‘you’re doing so well’ like I was a baby bird?" 

"I—okay that was one time." he flailed. "Two. And you tucked me in after." He covered his face. "That was for medical reasons." 

"Mhm. You and your dad are so the same." You giggled. "Must be in the genes. Simps!" He gasped. "Take that back." 

"Never. It’s in your blood." He pointed dramatically. "I should’ve let you comb your own hair this morning." You stuck out your tongue. "You’d last ten minutes before doing it anyway." He scowled with zero heat behind it, then sighed in defeat as he leaned back beside you. 

"…Okay maybe I am a dignified simp...only for you though," he muttered. 

You patted his cheek. "Sure you are, little wolf" And he let you. Because gods help him, he was. He smirked, then his tone shifted a little softer. 

"He also said something interesting." You blinked, chewing on a fig. "Interesting how?" 

"He said he met you before everything happened." You paused. "…Wait, what?"

"Yeah. He was disguised as a begger and he met you in the garden, said you were really kind to him despite his disguise." 

You blinked once. Then twice. "…Wait—wait wait wait—I'm not mistaken, right? The king… was the man back in the garden?" You nearly dropped your fig. "The suspiciously well-built old man??" 

Telemachus blinked. "That’s… an oddly specific description." You stared at him, frozen.

A slow, creeping blush bloomed across your cheeks as the realization slammed into you. The king. The king. The one you unknowingly gushed to about his own son. No wonder you felt weirdly safe with him. No wonder his voice felt familiar. He was literally Telemachus' father. 

Your eyes widened. You simped for Telemachus in front of his own father. You practically poured your heart out and the man just—listened. Silently. Like a father. Oh gosh. 

Telemachus, of course, was grinning like he’d won a game you didn’t know you were playing. He leaned in, all smugness and mischief. "Something wrong?" he asked innocently, eyes twinkling. You shook your head quickly, trying (and failing) to cool the pink radiating off your face.

"Uhhuh," you muttered, stuffing the fig into your mouth to shut yourself up. 

"Hm," he hummed, clearly enjoying this. "Interesting… ’cause he also said—" he dragged the words slowly, leaning even closer, "that you mentioned his voice was comforting." 

You froze mid-chew. "Said it reminded you of someone special. And how much you missed him." Your eyes widened with betrayal. The blush spread to your ears like wildfire. Telemachus grinned, full on now. "Looks like I’m not the only simp here." 

You groaned, smacking your palm to your face. "Shut up. I’m going to throw myself into the sea." He laughed provocatively leaning his head against your shoulder. "Please don’t. I like you alive. Simping and all." You threw a pillow at his face.

...

It was an idyllic time with Telemachus. Being with him made something in you feel whole. There was no longer threats peeking through the halls, no heaviness creeping at every corner. You spent your days beside the man you love. And the people you love—his family—they were happy too. The queen reunited with the king. Just that alone brought a strange sense of peace to your chest.

The moments felt like soft strings playing in the distance. Silence finally feels peace again.

So you shouldn’t feel so melancholy.

You’re happy. You know you are. Everything feels alright when Telemachus is there—when he’s talking, laughing, sitting close, but the second he's not in the room, when it’s just you and the stillness—the silence gets under your skin again.

Because the silence gives you space to think. And sometimes it lets you think too much.

The first days of your healing, you weren’t allowed to leave the infirmary. Nurse Eurycleia made that clear—no arguments, no sneaking out, no excuses. You didn't love it. You weren’t used to staying still in one room this long. You were always moving, doing something. But you listened.

And now, being stuck here... it's starting to get to you. It bothers you that you can't leave but the same time.. you don’t know what happens after you do leave the door.

That’s the part that scares you. You're not sure where you're supposed to go when this is over. You’re not even sure what you are anymore.

You were a handmaid. You know that. But you were her handmaid. That was the whole point. Now she’s gone. Forever may perhaps.

And it’s only hitting you now how much that meant. She left you. Alive, yes. But still alone.

And it’s confusing, because before all this, you wanted more. You wanted something different. Something for yourself and that’s what led to her anger, wasn’t it? That you wanted out. That you wanted you.

But now that you are out—now that you’re not trapped in the job that defined you, you feel… lost. You thought freedom would feel bigger than this. But all it feels like faith wasn't done with you.

…You’ve been a little quiet these past few days. Not exactly gloomy—just quieter. Telemachus noticed it when you started spending more time by the window. He’d caught you there again this morning, before the sun had fully risen, bathed in a warm orange light. You didn’t hear him come in at first, too focused on the sea, the kind of focus that wasn’t really just looking. 

"I'm already home, you know," his voice finally pulling you out of your trance. You turned, startled, then gave him that soft smile—the kind you wore when something wasn’t quite right. 

He walked over and leaned against the stone ledge beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "You're early today," you murmured, letting your head fall lightly against his shoulder. "Meetings," he sighed. "One in an hour, and more after that. It won’t end ‘til late afternoon." You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. "So, busy day?" You asked.

"Unfortunately, yeah." He pressed a small kiss to your temple. "But I’ve got an hour before all that. So I'm all yours." You smiled. 

"What a generous offering, Your Highness." He hummed. "Only for you." 

Listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat—soft and calm. Telemachus gently rested his chin atop your head, his arms wrapping fully around you. You tilted your face up toward him with a lazy smile. "Is it just me, or have you grown taller?" He chuckled, his chest raising lightly between you "Hm, probably. Mother said so. I think I’m even taller than my father now." 

You hummed thoughtfully. "Really now?" The male hummed back, pulling you a little closer, letting the warmth between you both settle. "My mother missed you, you know?" he said suddenly, "She’s grown so used to seeing your presence in the halls, it feels wrong when you’re not there." You let out a small laugh, your gaze out toward the sea again. 

"I really appreciated her company these past few days," you said. "She brought honeyed bread and a whole basket of figs, I feel like i gained weight from all the fruits you two feed me" 

"Is that why you're cuter than usual too?" He leaned to your ear, you giggled, and he bumped your forehead gently before pulling back slightly, eyes flickering over your expression. "You know… maybe next, you could finally meet my father. Properly this time." 

"Really? That’s… kind of terrifying. The king and all." Telemachus gave you an unimpressed look. "He’s also my father, and he’s already got a good impression of you." 

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing!" he said, grinning. "Other than how I really love you and how absolutely amazing you are." He turned you around as now you faced him, bringing his fingers to your cheeks as he rested them gently. Staring at each other as his words sink in, "He also still thinks it was adorable of you in the your first meeting" 

 "Gods, don't remind me" you groaned into your palms. "I’m never going to recover." 

 "Well," he said, leaning back against the window ledge, smug as ever, "you’re in luck. There’s a perfect opportunity coming up where you can redeem yourself." You peeked out between your fingers. "What do you mean?" 

 "The symposion," he said simply. “A feast. Celebration. Whatever you want to call it. My parents are hosting one to mark my father’s return—old friends from Sparta, Pylos, and Of course Ithaca"

The brief mention of your hometown tugged faintly at your smile—just enough for your lips to twitch before you quickly masked it again, brushing away the memory, "Oh… I’m invited?" you asked, playing it casual. 

Telemachus tilted his head, his brow slightly scrunched as if the question didn’t make any sense. "Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be, baby?" he replied with that kind of obvious certainty only he could make sound so soft. You let out a nervous laugh, shrugging off. "Oh—yeah. Just checking." Your eyes drifted down to the floor, settling there.

Telemachus caught the shift instantly, that slight awkwardness. The way your smile was there, but your gaze was somewhere away. His hand lifted gently to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "Hey," he murmured, voice low, his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw. "You okay? You know I’m always here for you, right? In everything. Whatever it is." He said so delicately that you could feel it through his touch. He looked at you with that kind of concern that spontaneously ached your heart—for how well he saw through you, it made you feel bad to shift the warmth into something cloudy. 

So you smiled. Soft. Trying. "I know. And thank you," you whispered, leaning into the comfort of his touch. He let out a quiet breath before wrapping his arms around you, you folded into the embrace easily. He smelled like laurel leaves and sunlight—warm and curing. Familiar in a way that managed to quiet your thoughts, even if just for a little while. You felt his breath against your hair as he tightened his hold on you, gently firm, protective in that uniquely Telemachus way. "Tell me," he offered strongly yet soft. "Whatever it is. Anything. I already almost lost you twice… and i won't let it happen again. Not in any way." 

You stayed still. "I’m okay, Tele," you said. "I'll be okay." You murmured more likely to yourself. It was true. Just not all the way. But for now, he held onto you and you held onto him, just a little while, just to maybe fill that lingering hollow in your chest that seemed to not had healed completely yet.

But of course, you can’t just fill something temporarily and expect it to be okay forever. So when you were alone again, you found yourself pulled right back to that same spot by the window. 

The sea was calm that day, the kind of still where the breeze only gently curled the curtains and the light barely moved while the waves kiss the sand over and over again. The soft crash of water against the shore made your skin itch. A part of you wanted to feel that sand under your feet, the warmth of the sun directly on your face. You wanted to leave the room, but also you didn't. 

You could step out. But something about the world beyond the window still scared you, you should step out. Maybe. Maybe you could. You thought to yourself as you stared at the your blanket.

...

The sun had already begun dipping westward, staining the halls of the palace in amber, dragging a palm over his nape as Telemachus stepped out of the council room. The collar of his robes felt stifling as he started toward the infirmary, he hasn't seen you since this morning.

He paused mid-step when he spotted Nurse Eurycleia near the corridor turn, flustered and speaking hurriedly to a group of guards—his brows furrowed at this. "Nurse Eurycleia?" he called, already walking over. "What’s going on?" She turned with an obvious relief flooding her features. "Thank Olympus you’re here, Prince Telemachus—please, come with me." She gestured toward your room quickly. That… didn’t sit well. 

The moment he stepped inside, he noticed no sign of you. His stomach dropped, his breath caught halfway in his throat. "Where is she?" he asked, tension crawling up, Eurycleia didn’t answer at first, leading him to the open window, where a long makeshift rope of blankets dangled down the ledge—tied securely which explains your empty bed. 

"She… she was by the window all morning.. I had to step out.. just for a short while then one of the other girls came to tell me she was gone. She didn’t say anything to anyone....Nothing! She was just… quiet. I—I think this is how she got out." Telemachus stepped closer, eyes trailing the blanket rope, then the view beyond the window. The sea stretched out before him.

The same view you’d been staring at for days. Of course. Of course you didn’t want anyone to know. Of course you slipped out this way. He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Should I inform the men? We can search the shore if she's—" 

"No," Telemachus said, "It’s okay, Nurse Eurycleia." He opened his eyes again, gaze fixed far ahead. "I think I know where she is."

 ... 

The seashore stretched endlessly, waves brushing softly over the sand with every breath of the tide. The same seashore where you and Telemachus confessed to each other, the same seashore where faith had started to do their job. Now, it was your feet touching the water, your bare soles sank into the wet sand as the tide lapped over your skin, the wind playing with the loose strands of your hair, tangling it up in the breeze. You stared, eyes fixed ahead, letting it all in. The sky. The sea. The ache you’d been swallowing for days. 

This was the itch. A sound broke through the hush of waves, soft steps walking over sand from behind. You didn’t flinch, as you glanced over your shoulder and your gaze meeting his once again. 

Telemachus said nothing at first, letting the natural silence settle awhile, as you both stood there quietly, like the ocean was the only voice needed between you two. Telemachus stood beside you now, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his shoulder through the breeze, "It’s nice here," he said. "You always seem to find the quiet places before I do." He glances to you. You let out a soft hum, almost like a quiet laugh. "It's more like the quiet places always find me first." He smiled at that, it was a small one, but it lingered. 

 "You know," he started, brushing his hand through the strands that fell over his forehead, "I don’t know if you remember... but I first ever saw you was here." You blinked at that, turning to face him fully—a small smile tugging his lips. 

"It’s true," he continued. "I was supposed to welcome the newcomers that day, guide them to the palace. And then—I saw you." You tilted your head, brow furrowing. 

"I thought our first meeting was in the palace?" He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Maybe for you but I remember seeing you before that. I was surprised, actually… to see someone my age." You looked at him, the wind brushing your hair aside. "You looked so serious back then," he said, smile growing. "You moved so gracefully, and even the way you spoke—it was so mature. I felt kind of childish standing next to you." 

Your eyes widened slightly, "You never told me that." He let out a quiet laugh, sheepish. "I didn’t know how to say it. But the second we actually talked—really talked—you showed your true self." He resisted.

"I got to meet the real you, the one who notices the little things everyone else misses, the one who's kind, but never weak. The you I fell in love with." His voice softened as he continued, "Even if it was a brief conversation, it did something to me. I don’t know what to call it. But I remember it clearly... even when you kept trying to avoid me after."

You looked at him knowingly. For a moment, he just looked back, not in the way people stare, but like he was quietly flipping through all the versions of you he’s seen, trying to understand the one sitting in front of him now. The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was his way of telling you he was here, and you could take all the time you needed to gather your thoughts. 

 "I… I don’t know how to explain it," you started. "I always thought I wanted to be free from her, from the life she tried to shape me into. And she’s gone… I should feel free.." You paused, head hanging low. "But I don’t. She..she never loved me, never truly but I was someone because of her. And now, I don’t know who I am without her." 

 Your fingers curled slightly. "I had a vision. Always. Of who I wanted to be. But this kind of freedom… that came from losing her—" you swallowed, "It feels stolen. Like I don’t deserve it." You refused to look at him—because in that moment, all you felt like was a bastard child.

"I don’t know where I belong anymore, Telemachus. I don’t even know what I am now." You finally said. It was a loss of definition, She wasn’t solicitous toward you, yet she defined your life so much that you forgot you had control over it too. Your freedom came at a heavy cost of guilt that makes you wonder if it’s even freedom at all. You feel illegitimate, alienated from everywhere, and on top of that, burdened by the terrifying uncertainty of what comes next.

"Before your mother left, I was able to have a talk to her." You paused as you stared at Telemachus stunned. "She said she wants you to be whatever you want to be. That she knows you… and somehow, despite everything, you'd still find a way not to hate her." You blinked as he went on. "When you wake up, she hopes you chase whatever it is you’ve always wanted, and that staying far away from you would be her way of supporting you, because.."

A pause. "She knew she doesn’t deserve you as her daughter." Your breath caught, no idea what to say. "She knew she failed you," Telemachus whispered. "And she still left hoping you’d live the life she never let you choose."

You looked down, trying to steady the sudden shift in your chest. That ache that used to tighten—now just quietly stung. "And..." Telemachus exhaled. "If you think you don't belong anywhere, then let me be the place you can feel belonged to." Your eyes met his. His were steady. Warm. True. "I want to be that place, (Name). To spend my entire life making sure you never feel like this way again, where you can be anything you want or be, and I’ll still love you."

You didn’t speak, throat too tight too. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "You don’t need to know what you are right now. You don’t need to have all the answers. Just let me stay by your side while we figure it out together."

You closed your eyes as his hand cupped your cheek. "I don’t deserve you," you whispered.

"Too late," he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You already have me." You smiled against his collar, genuine. "I can’t promise I won’t spiral again."

"Good," he smirked. "Gives me more excuses to spoil you." Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it—and just like that, the air felt lighter. Warmer. He looked down at you, eyes soft but bright, that familiar glint in them—only for you. "Let’s run away," he said suddenly.

You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Not forever," he grinned. "Just for a little while. Travel, like you always talked about. See the world. Find your place—not one someone else made for you, but the one you choose yourself. I want that for you. I want to watch you live it."

You stared at him, lips parting just slightly "You’d really do that..?"

He smiled, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers. "I'll go anywhere if it means being with you." A breeze came in from the sea, the waves stilling for a moment—like they were listening too.

You smiled again, fuller now, brighter than it had been in a long time. The kind that reached your eyes and tugged at the corners of his heart.

"You’re unbelievable." He didn’t say anything to your teasing—just tugged you closer by the waist, catching you off-guard with a startled shriek that turned into a laugh as he laughed too, the sound of it mixing with the sea breeze, his hands settled around you, a sign of his devotion for you.

The world slowed. The waves hushed. The sun dipped lower, painting the sea in amber gold as Telemachus leaned down, his lips brushing just beside your ear, voice barely above the wind.

"I love you, (Name)." You looked up, right into his eyes, and everything in you just… settled. "I love you too, Telemachus."

He kissed you then—your second kiss, but this time there was no rush, no ache behind it. Just the two of you, with all the time in the world, soft, certain, and everything love was meant to feel like.

Faith watched quietly, maybe finally letting you choose what comes next. no prophet can say what will carved the path. But faith didn’t leave you empty-handed. It left you with someone who’d hold and follow your hand to the great unknown. Someone who’d always choose you.

That's a wrap!! It is currently 2:32 am in a wednesday as we speak, i'm sorry if this chapter was glommy than the first part ToT. Writing this, was kind of my way of coping from the fact i relate with reader and her mother