{_N0-va_}

ׂ╰┈➤  [𓏵]- your name

Telamon has never known grief.

He has never known how to mourn, how to weep, and much less, over— over a mortal. A fragile, finite lifespan, incomparable to his that has been sparked and kept alight since the start of Robloxia's creation.

Telamon's heart has not beat ever since he came into exiestence. Not when he first ascended to be the God of war and the sun, not when he fights on the Heights with others, and certainly not when you crash landed into his life, tangling and intertwining so deeply with his life he could not pull you out of it.

But his body did not reflect his heart.

It showed in the way he was, though intrusive in regards to how he behaved around you, always being in some form of physical contact with your body, hands on your waist, sometimes tugging the drawstrings of your hoodie as you fiddled with your control panel, deciding with what petty hacks to use next.

Telamon was gentle. Yes, he'd never admit that out loud, he'd rather tear his heart out and feed it to 1×1×1×1 instead, but he was in fact gentle. He never hurt you, though he could have, perhaps it's that thought that he could, just chooses not to, that scares you more.

That night, by the lake, as ducks swam and nabbed the bread crumbs you materialized and threw into the lake, Telamon had ran talons, sharp as a blade's, almost scorching in its touch akin to the sun, through your hair, yet made no move to scare you.

After that same night, he impromptuly decided your tiny apartment was also his humble abode, making himself comfortable on your couch alongside spare blankets and pillows from your storage. That action, it became a ritual, of sorts.

No matter what you were doing, maybe cooking dinner, relaxing on the corner of the couch his body wasn't occupying watching trash TV, at the dining table finishing some last minute library work, he'd run his talons through your hair. Slow, deliberate, and just bordering on as tender as a god can be.

"Telamon… enjoys the feeling of you."

Was his reply everytime you asked why he did that. Why he bothered to concern himself with your mortal self, why he made the decision, every day, every moment, to continue the decision of staying over eveyrthing else.

"He does not… have anything more important as of now."

Lies. At that point, he has been staying with you for around, what, months at that point? Close to around four. If you hadnt blocked the admins and HQ's numbers, you'd probabaly be fielding hundreds of calls, most likely demanding Telamon back for pressing matters.

However, Telamon had, and still, deems you more important than anything else. The media was covering reports on how he never showed up at SFOTH anymore despite the expirience being his pride and joy, and how he trailed after you on the streets whenever and wherever, acting like both a lost but fierce bird.

Some nights, you gave yourself the selfishness of thinking that peerhaps, Telamon did love you. That a god like him, heart unbeating and emotions barely in existence, did indeed, reciprocate the affection you try so hard to suppress to prevent hurt.

But alas, you and he, knew that would never happen anytime soon, ,much less in your lifetime. Telamon was a master of the swords, a teacher of the techniques. But, he was no student in any other matter, much less in emotions, of all things.

But you never knew the nights where Telamon watched you. How he'd sit on your desk chair in the dark, wings folded under his robe as he watched you, talons sometimes itching to brush a stray strand of hair from your sleeping face, but not doing so knowing it'd wake you.

Telamon took in every detail about you. Your lashes, soft and curled. Hair, strung over slightly creased sheets and pillows, hands that were relaxed and curling beside your face, a leg almost going to fall off the mattress, stopped only by the blanket tangled around your body.

The god never considered anything nor anyone adequete enough for his gaze to land twice, much less even look at all. Telamon was a vain, arrogant and prideful one. Citizens either revered or despised him, nothing in between. It had never mattered to him, he didnt care what fragile feeling mortals felt for him.

But with you? Oh, with you. He was no more than borderline putty in your hands, almost like a loyal puppy, which he vehemently denied. Builderman even made a joke about how you kept him on a leash with how you ignoring Telamon for his foolish antics caused the god to cave so quickly, offensive, but Telamon was gracious enough to let that comment slide.

But it was no joke. Telamon did what he could to make you happy and not the opposite. Two months into the inpromtu living arrangemnt he forced upon you, he made sure he didnt mess up the living room after seeing you come back home multiple times, exhausated.

Telamon watched you practically collapse into your bed, shoes half off, and there was a small, dull ache that resided in his chest. He was not knowledgeble about emotinons, but he had studied the human anatomy and function enough to know you were mostly likely hungry.

Which, ended up with him waking you up two hours later, with what he called soup. It was just water mixed with chicken broth and some very… questionably cut carrots in them. Raw, still. His ear wings were ruffled, and you swore there was carrot shaving in his hair.

"Telamon has made you sustenance. He sensed your stomach making a noise, and he is offended you dare mock his efforts."

Was the avian's huffy response to your barely contained giggle to the poor thing. And so, to appease the god's pout, you took a sip of the broth. Bland, he added too much water, it had a faint colour solely because of the stock. And you could barely stomach a bite of carrots.

Yet, it tasted better than anything you had made. In that moment, that sliver of peace and comfort, a frozen memory locked behind time, Telamon felt as if he truly, could one day understand you, in your lifetime. That one day, he could finally, be something other than a unfeeling god.

How ironic must it be, that heart of his, only decided to move, to cling and grasp onto life like it never did, when yours had ceased? When your breathing didn't even fade like the beautiful motion it was to him, but ceased abruptly, when the light left your eyes and your body went so limp and still.

“No, no, you cannot- you cannot leave— Telamon commands it!”

His sleeve, ombre and majestic, stained with crimson and creased where your hand had grabbed it. His talons, soaked in blood and gold as he held your head up, tears he swore he'd never be able to create pouring like downfall as his vision blurred.

Battle, chaos, what Telamon revered, what he craved as the god of war and the sun, raged around him. His creation, the creation he had deemed a imperfection, the vessel of his hatred in his conquest to be the perfect being, was the cause of it.

And they were the reason you were dead.

The next few moments passed in a blur of pure rage, and despair that Telamon didn't know, for the first time in his godly life, how to handle. Blades clashed, sparks flew, ichor and corrosive blood spilled and painted the streets.

The god fought, consumed by emotions so deep the only way he knew to process it was by fighting, and 1×1×1×1 had laughed, visceral and mocking as he egged him on, taunting and making him even more rage fueled as he drove his swords into her shoulder.

It ended with Clockwork's powers managing to pause the abomination of hatred in time, enough for Builderman to swing the Banhammer, and Telamon all but collapsed, hands and body shaking from tremours he had never once experienced as he stumbled to your body.

Telamon's talons, used for battle, to slay and conquer, held onto your limp form so tightly, breathing shallow as he couldn't form any words, because some foolish, naively stupid part of him thought you were just playing around, that'd you'd come back to him, and tell him it was all just one big joke.

But you didn't. You remained as you were, cold, unmoving, head lolled to press against his chest where his heart pounded like a drum, eyes half lidded and blank, blood half corroded black and green mixed with crimson as your hand didn't move up to give him the ghost of your touch.

He held you— no, cradled you, like you were the last thing keeping his sanity intact, even as your body long since stiffened, even as Builderman tried to gently tug him away, and something visceral and strained escaped Telamon's lips. Raw and desperate and so human that if Telamon was in a sound state he would've been disgusted.

Not a scream, nor a sob, just… barely audible, pained like a wounded animal's, like it was him that was stabbed instead of you. Like it was him that died instead of you. The tears falling down his face and onto your blood and ichor stained hoodie, crumpled and bruised, stained quickly.

He struggled hard when Doombringer pulled him away, barely hearing the coaxing from him, talons digging into flesh as a proper screech escaped him, so loud that it shattered the bits of the glass windows still in thier frames, buildings with forming cracks trembled as he kicked and clawed while he watched Builderman use his powers to pull over a white cloth to cover your corpse, wings flaring and feathers falling out from the scuffle.

Telamon had fought, fought until the infinite amount of will in him burned into embers as his body finally went limp in Doombringer's grip with Builderman and Brighteyes in front of him, gently guiding, which was failing, him back into reality.

His chest was tight, it hurt, and the breaths coming out of him were mixed with uncontrolled sobs that made him hiccup and choke on his own spit, strained chirps of distress as his ichor and blood stained talons reached out, as if with sheer will, he could bring you back.

He had lost his world.

And even he, powerful and everlasting, was helpless against the fate that has befell you both.

Cruel, as it is ironic. A pity you'll never witness Telamon experience the one thing you had longed for him to feel.

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fin.