#apollo etm

Callias' fever finally broke one damp, gray morning. Sweat stopped shining on his brow and settled instead into a faint sheen. The sharp edge in his breathing eased, and in its place came his favorite weapon—sarcasm. He went from barely lifting his head to rolling his eyes at you whenever you fussed, swatting your hand away when you tried to check his temperature, complaining that the salve smelled like "a forest got angry on my face."

"Look at you," you told him once, smearing the last of the minty paste along his jaw. "Back to scolding the world. You must be feeling better."

"I'll feel truly healed," he rasped, "when I'm not eating seaweed five times a week."

Peisistratus built himself a life here the way he built everything—out of jokes. He stacked driftwood into proper seats, claimed one log as "his throne," and dragged it around the clearing whenever the sun shifted. He turned chores into games: who could carry the most wood, who could climb the rocks fastest, who could make Telemachus crack a smile when the prince was trying very hard not to.

He also made himself a shield without saying that's what he was doing. When you got too lost in your head, he bumped your shoulder, tossed you a fruit, or challenged you to a race down to the waterline. When the island felt too quiet, he was loud on purpose.

Telemachus also found rhythm in the cove.

He started mapping the currents with the same focus he'd once used memorizing Ithaca's coastline. With Calypso's help, he learned where the water pulled hardest, where the waves curled back on themselves, where bits of ship and rope liked to wash in. He scratched little notes into smoothed bits of driftwood with a burnt stick, hauling them back to the hut to line up on the floor.

"See?" he said one afternoon, crouched beside you, fingertip tracing lines he'd carved. "Here, the current pushes anything that breaks off the reef straight into the cove. If we anchor there—" he tapped one edge, "—we might catch more than just scraps."

You watched his hand move, the slow patience in him. The way he treated the sea like a puzzle he could solve if he just looked at it long enough. And later, when his fingers wrapped around your wrist or brushed your cheek, it hit you that he studied you the same way—always careful, always trying to understand where you were drifting so he didn't lose you.

Nights were the closest thing to peace.

You sat around the fire with a bowl in your hands—fish again, or stew if Calypso's traps had been kind that day—while Callias spun exaggerated stories about his time in Bronte's court, or Peisistratus tried to teach you some noisy Pylian song that never seemed to end. Telemachus laughed more now. Not often, not loudly, but enough that when it happened you felt it like a little victory in your ribs.

Sometimes, when everyone else had dozed off or wandered toward their bedding, you stayed behind on the damp sand at the edge of the cove. You let the waves lap at your ankles and tilted your face up to the stars.

"I'm fine," you told the sea. "I'm safe. I'm happy. I promise."

You said it enough times that the words almost sounded true.

Almost.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

The day it all pressed in again, the sky was already bleeding into evening.

You and Calypso walked side by side along the rocky curve where the jungle met the shore, your feet slipping a little on the wet stones. The tide was low, leaving dark patches of seaweed clinging to the rocks like long, slick hair. The wind smelled like salt and something green.

Calypso hummed as she moved, no words, just notes that rose and fell like the tide. Every so often she bent at the waist, her locs spilling forward as she reached down to tear a strip of seaweed free, shaking it once before dropping it into the woven basket hooked over her elbow.

You did the same, fingers numbing a little from the cold water that splashed up when you pried the weed loose. The sky over the water was turning gold at the edges, streaked with pink and soft purple as the sun leaned toward the line of the sea.

You'd been quiet, you knew it. You heard the silence piling up between her humming and your own thoughts.

It wasn't the same kind of quiet as before, when grief and fear wrapped around your lungs. This was different. Heavier in a new way. Because now, when you looked at Calypso, you saw her a little differently.

Not just as the lonely girl of a cursed island, not just a nymph who smiled and served food and tucked blankets around Callias when he shivered.

A goddess.

Atlas' blood.

Power woven into her in ways you were only just starting to notice if you looked closely enough—the way the vines listened when they touched her arms, the way the tide sometimes shifted as soon as her bare feet hit the sand.

You'd been turning it over all day, like a stone in your palm you couldn't put down.

Calypso's song trailed off mid-note.

"You're quiet today," she said, voice cutting through the hush of the waves. "Quieter than usual, I mean."

You glanced up. Her head was tilted toward you, eyes dark and soft in the fading light. The last of the sun painted her skin warm and gold at the edges.

"Have you been alright?" she asked. "You've barely said a word since morning."

You felt the question land right where you'd been pretending nothing sat.

The truth bubbled up first: I'm seeing you differently. You're not just trapped here like us. You're a goddess, and I don't know what that means for any of us. For me.

But the words stuck behind your teeth.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek instead, turning back toward the rock in front of you. "Nothing's wrong," you said, forcing your mouth into something that felt like a smile. "Just thinking."

Calypso's brows knitted a little. "Thinking about what?"

You huffed a small laugh. "About how Callias is gonna complain about seaweed again tonight," you lied. "He'll act like we're feeding him rope."

The joke came out lighter than you felt, but you made yourself roll your eyes for effect.

Calypso blinked—then giggled, the sound like shells clinking together. "He always complains," she said, amusement curling her lips. "But he eats every bite."

"Exactly," you said, smiling a little more real this time. "He lives to suffer."

She laughed again as she stepped over a tide pool, skirts hitched up so they didn't get soaked. The two of you kept moving along the rocks as the sun sank lower, the sky darkening at the edges.

You told yourself she believed you. You told yourself you believed you, too, but the lie barely settled before Calypso straightened.

"I think we've gathered enough," she said, lifting her basket with both hands and shifting it comfortably against her hip.

You blinked down at your own basket—full, heavy with the seaweed you'd scraped from the rocks—and nodded. "Yeah. Looks like it."

You hoisted it up as you followed her along the narrow stretch of shore. You expected her to angle left—toward the freshwater creek where she always rinsed the day's haul—but instead, she kept walking straight, deeper toward the path that led home.

"We're not washing these tonight?"

Calypso shook her head. "We'll do it in the morning," she said. "With the boys. It will give them something useful to do."

You snorted softly under your breath. "Callias is gonna complain."

"And Peisistratus will laugh at him," she added with a grin. "And Telemachus will pretend he's above all of it."

You hummed, pushing aside a low branch. "That actually sounds about right."

The two of you walked a little longer, the light dimming fast as the sun dropped behind the far cliffs. Shadows stretched long across the sand, the tide creeping in with soft, foamy sighs. Fireflies blinked in and out between the trees, their faint yellow glow catching in Calypso's hair whenever she passed too close.

Her humming started again, and for a moment the only sounds were her voice and the steady thrum of waves eating at the shore.

But then—another sound drifted toward you.

Laughter.

Calypso paused mid-step. Her head tilted. You slowed too, your basket dipping slightly as your attention snapped forward.

There—voices. Multiple. Familiar. Loud enough that whoever it was clearly wasn't worried about being heard.

You and Calypso shared a look, a silent question in your eyes.

You pushed forward first, your free hand brushing aside the thick curtain of ivy hanging around the entrance to the clearing. And as you stepped through them, you froze.

Because sitting near the firepit, legs stretched out like he owned the place, hands carving wide gestures in the air as he spoke—

Was Hermes.

Hermes.

In the camp like he had simply flown down for tea.

Peisistratus sat beside him, laughing while he slapped his knee every few seconds like he'd heard the funniest thing ever. Callias, still pale but clearly improving, leaned forward on his elbows, wide-eyed and grin bright.

Hermes flicked his wrist dramatically mid-sentence. "—and then I told him, 'If you didn't want to become my little bartender, perhaps don't make a deal with the god of thieves,' and oh, you should've seen his face—"

Peisistratus wheezed while Callias slapped the ground, and Hermes grinned like the sun itself had given him permission to misbehave.

But your gaze snapped to the one person who wasn't laughing.

Telemachus.

He sat a little apart from the group, near the shadows by the tree line. Not quite turned away, but absolutely not joining in. His jaw worked tight, clenching and unclenching. His foot tapped once—sharp, irritated—against the dirt.

His eyes kept drifting toward Hermes, quick and wary, like he was watching a storm cloud forming right beside him.

Then, whenever Hermes looked his way, Telemachus snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost comical—shoulders stiff, a soft huff puffing out of him like he was trying very, very hard not to show how on edge he felt.

And you stood there at the edge of the clearing, basket still hooked against your hip, staring at the scene in front of you.

No fucking way.

Your stomach flipped.

Of course Hermes showed up. Of course he was telling stories. Of course Telemachus looked like he might either bolt or start pacing like a guard dog.

Because why wouldn't the god of thieves just drop into your campsite at dusk?

You barely finished the thought when Telemachus' head snapped up—like he felt you before he saw you.

His whole face changed.

The tight jaw eased first. Then the tension in his shoulders sank. Then—slowly, like he couldn't stop it—his mouth softened into a small, relieved smile. He pushed up to his feet, brushing his hands on his tunic as if he wanted to look composed, but the way his ears pinked gave him away.

"____," he said, your name leaving his mouth like an exhale he'd been holding onto all day.

You opened your mouth to answer—

—but you didn't get the chance.

Because Hermes suddenly appeared at your side. Close enough that the air stirred against your cheek as he popped into existence, sandals hovering an inch off the ground. His nose nearly grazed your temple, his grin bright and wicked as ever.

"Well, well, well," he purred, voice warm and smug. "Look who washed up pretty."

You flinched, and the basket slipped right out of your hands, seaweed slapping the dirt with a wet splat as you stumbled back a step.

"ZEUS' BLAZING BALLS!"

Hermes blinked, then laughed like he wanted to hear the echo of your shock again.

Peisistratus immediately fell backward off his log, wheezing; Callias coughed before outright dying laughing, curling into himself as his shoulders shook.

Telemachus ran a hand over his face—but he was smiling. That small, quiet, helpless smile he got when you surprised him.

"That's Callias' fault," he said, shaking his head as he walked toward you. "He's been around her too long."

Callias lifted a hand like he was accepting an award. "Proud of you, love!" he rasped hoarsely.

You covered your heating face with both hands. "I didn't—he just—he was right there—"

Hermes only grinned wider, leaning in with a conspiratorial sparkle in his eyes. "I'll appear wherever you need me, little musician."

"Please don't do that."

But Hermes just wiggled his brows like he absolutely planned to do it again.

Behind you, the ivy rustled—and you felt the shift before you turned.

Calypso stepped into the clearing.

But not the soft, dreamy Calypso who hummed lullabies while crushing herbs. This Calypso's entire posture changed in a heartbeat.

Her smile died instantly. Her eyes narrowed like something sharp lived behind them. Her jaw tightened as the grip on her basket whitened her knuckles.

And then, in a voice sweet enough to cut glass, she hissed, "What are you doing here?"

The air tightened around the words.

Even Hermes straightened.

Peisistratus stopped laughing, Callias froze mid-grin, and Telemachus took a small, instinctive step closer to you.

And Calypso—bare feet silent, posture drawn tall—stared at Hermes like the ocean itself had crawled up her spine and whispered fury into her bones. And for the first time since stepping onto the island, you felt something cold and ancient coil under your ribs.

Hermes clicked his tongue, casual as ever. "Tsk, tsk. You really can't help yourself, can you, Calypso? Always one to repeat fate." He said, tilting his head at her like she was a scolded child.

Calypso's eyes darkened, the vines near her ankles coiling tighter, as if reacting to her pulse.

She didn't answer.

Hermes shrugged carelessly—like her fury was just a breeze ruffling his curls.

"Relax, island queen," he said, waving one hand lazily. "I'm not here for that." He gestured vaguely to her—her past, her curse, her isolation. "I don't care about your unresolved issues with Olympus."

Hermes dug into the satchel at his hip.

"I'm here on official business." His tone shifted—still playful, but beneath it something sharp, something that said listen.

Calypso's jaw clenched. "Official," she repeated quietly. "From who?"

Hermes flashed a dazzling smile as he pulled out a rolled parchment bound in dark ribbon. "You know the drill."

Before she could take it, he flicked his wrist, and the parchment spun upward into the air, unraveling mid-flight.

Gold sparks burst from the curling edges, swirling through the clearing like fireflies. Smoke rolled off the glowing letters as they burned themselves into existence, lining the air with thin, bright strokes.

Every strand of your hair lifted at once. The boys tensed.

Hermes nodded upward. "Straight from the big man upstairs."

The messenger god crossed his arms as he looked at Calypso, grin still warm, but eyes flickering with something older. "By order of Zeus," he announced, "you are to release the mortals currently residing on your island. All four."

A rumble rolled faintly overhead. Thunder—quiet but unmistakable—echoed across the island.

Your breath hitched.

All four.

Relief slammed into you so sharply your knees nearly wobbled. Callias let out a low, exhausted mutter. "Finally," he breathed, flopping backward onto the grass. Peisistratus grinned so hard it nearly tore his face in half. "We're leaving! Woo-hoo!" he shouted, punching the air.

But Telemachus—Telemachus turned to you.

Not the parchment.

Not Hermes.

Not Calypso.

You.

His eyes warmed instantly, a smile tugging at his lips, the kind that meant more than words.

He stepped closer, just enough that your shoulders brushed."We're going home," he whispered like he hardly believed it. "We're really going home."

His fingers brushed yours—hesitant, hopeful—and your heart answered without asking permission.

But the warmth barely had time to settle before Calypso's voice cut through the clearing.

"No."

It was soft at first, barely a breath, but then—

"No." Her voice cracked sharper, louder. "NO—no, no, no—not again."

Everyone froze.

Calypso stepped forward, the vines around her ankles tightening like they were bracing her to the earth. The sea breeze caught her hair, but her eyes—

Her eyes were wild.

"You can't just—" she breathed, chest rising too fast. "You can't take him away. Not so soon. Not again."

Hermes exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, already massaging his temple. "Calypso—"

But she wasn't listening. Her voice jumped—tumbling, cracking between a sob and a laugh that didn't sound like it belonged in a human throat.

"I finally—finally—had something that wasn't loneliness," she said. "Something that didn't hate me for my father. Something that didn't make me feel like I was rotting in this place."

Her hands shook as she pressed a palm to her chest.

"And now they're taking it away. Of course they are. Of course they are."

Telemachus shifted instinctively closer to you, the side of his arm brushing yours—protective even when he didn't speak.

Calypso's smile snapped wide, broken and bitter.

"I haven't suffered enough, right?" she laughed, almost wheezing. "Hundreds of years on this cursed rock—just waiting. Counting the days by storms and gull cries. Watching ships come, watching them leave—never allowed, never chosen."

Her gaze tore upward, straight into the sky.

"Haven't I paid enough for Atlas' sins? Or will they drag me through another century, another millennium, until my bones turn to coral?"

Hermes floated a little higher, uneasy now. "Calypso—pull back—"

But she was unraveling too fast.

"I am never allowed to touch happiness. Every time it brushes my fingers—every time someone looks at me like I'm more than a curse—Olympus rips it away."

She pressed her fists against her temples, shoulders trembling.

"I tried. I tried to be gentle. I tried to make this place a home. I tried not to hope."

Then her voice rose again, fractured.

"And now... now you want to take Odysseus from me again!"

The word whipped out of her like a dagger.

Odysseus.

She didn't say Telemachus' name like you thought she would. She said "Odysseus," and the moment it left her mouth, every sound in the clearing died.

The breeze stopped. The fire popped once, then dimmed. Even Hermes went still.

And you—

You felt the earth tilt because suddenly her heartbreak wasn't about you, or the boys, or even this island.

It was older. It was deeper. And it had nothing to do with the son of Odysseus standing behind you.

But Calypso kept staring at the sky as if she hadn't just torn open the past in front of everyone, breathing like the world was collapsing under her bare feet.

The silence stretched. Tight. Painful.

You were the one who broke it.

"...Calypso?"

Her head snapped toward you fast; her eyes—wide, wet, frantic—locked onto yours.

"You said Odysseus..." you whispered.

She blinked confused, not understanding—or refusing to.

"What?" she breathed. "No, I—no, I didn't—"

Her laugh cracked halfway through as she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her skin.

"I must've—must've had a slip of the tongue," she said with a shaky smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I meant Telemachus."

You shook your head slowly. "No... you said Odysseus."

Her throat bobbed.

"As in King Odysseus of Ithaca..." You stepped forward a little. "...Prince Telemachus' father."

Calypso flinched, but she didn't look at you; her eyes drifted to Telemachus. Standing beside you like a frozen statue, brows drawn tight at the edges.

Her lips parted as sadness broke on her face.

A deep, terrible sadness.

You took another small breath.

"I know your story. Not the one the sailors whisper. Nor the one bards only half-believe. But what really happened here on this island between you and King Odysseus."

Her breath hitched—sharp, ragged.

"You loved him," you said quietly. "You healed him. Fed him. Kept him alive for seven years."

Calypso's chin trembled, wiping at her face again even though the tears kept slipping, but you just kept speaking.

"But even then... even after everything... he wanted to go home. Back to her."

A sound cracked out of Calypso, halfway between a sob and a gasp.

"He always did," she whispered, voice tiny.

You drew in a breath and stepped away from Telemachus. You felt him move behind you—instinctively reaching, almost grabbing your wrist—then stopping himself, letting you go.

Hermes shifted as he prepared to interfere if needed, watching with a tight, unreadable expression.

You approached slowly until you stood right in front of her.

"Calypso," you said softly, "I know what that feels like." You swallowed, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. "Loving someone who could never love you back... I know what that does to a person."

Images flickered up without permission.

Andreia's hand brushing Telemachus' arm, her laughing too sweetly, leaning too close.

You sitting on the edge of your bed back in Ithaca, stomach sinking, telling yourself she was better—prettier, softer, noble-born. How perfect they were together.

You forced those old thoughts down, burying them where they belonged.

"But... loving someone who doesn't love you back doesn't make you broken. It doesn't make you a curse. And it doesn't mean you're meant to be alone forever."

Calypso's jaw trembled, like the words hit somewhere she'd been trying very hard not to feel.

"You've been punished for something that wasn't yours," you went on, voice even softer now. "Atlas rebelled. Not you. But you paid the price. You loved Odysseus, and he still left you. He chose her—"

You stop. The words hang there, unfinished.

Penelope. You almost said her name. You almost held up Odysseus' wife like a mirror, like proof that Calypso wasn't enough.

Calypso's breath caught—because she heard it anyway. The ghost of that name sits between you now, ugly and unspoken.

You swallow. Reroute.

"—and now you think this—Telemachus—is just history repeating itself."

You took another step, close enough now that you could see the way her eyes glimmered—anger, grief, hope, fear, all tangled like seaweed in a storm tide.

"You're not a villain, Calypso... You're just a woman no one came back for."

Tears clung to the goddess' lashes before dropping into the dirt below. She stared at you like you'd walked right into the oldest room of her heart and lit a torch.

Like you'd peeled back every wall she'd spent centuries building.

And for a moment—one fragile, aching moment—the cursed daughter of Atlas looked so heartbreakingly human, as if the truth hurt more than the punishment ever did.

Calypso's breath shuddered in and out like she couldn't decide whether to collapse or bite.

For a second, the vines at her ankles loosened—just a fraction—like even the island held still to see what she would do.

Then her eyes slid past you to Telemachus.

And something in her face... settled.

Not calm. Not peace.

Decision.

"You speak like you understand," she said softly, voice raw at the edges. "Like you can name my grief and make it behave."

Your throat tightened. "I'm not trying to—"

"Yes, you are." Her smile trembled. "You're trying to fix it. Mortals always think pain is a thing you can mend if you say the right words."

Behind you, Telemachus shifted. You felt him close the distance without realizing he'd moved—felt the heat of him at your back like a shield.

Calypso noticed.

Her gaze dropped to where his hand hovered near your wrist—hovered, but didn't touch. Like he was trying to be good. Like he was trying not to claim you in front of a goddess who understood claiming too well.

Her lashes fluttered once.

"Look at you," she whispered, almost fond. "Always standing where you think you can hold everything together."

"Calypso," Hermes said, tone careful now. "Don't."

She didn't even look at him.

Instead, she stepped closer—slow, barefoot, silent. The firelight caught the wet tracks on her cheeks, and for a heartbeat she looked young. Just a woman. Just lonely.

Then she lifted her hand and reached—not for Telemachus.

For you.

You didn't move fast enough. Her fingers brushed your cheek, cool as river-stone, and the whole clearing shifted—like the island leaned in.

Your skin prickled. The hairs on your arms rose.

Telemachus' hand snapped around your wrist in the same instant, finally touching, finally holding.

"Calypso..." he said, voice low and dangerous in a way you'd only ever heard once or twice before. Not angry, but fear sharpened into steel.

Calypso stared at his hand on you like it was a language she hadn't heard in years.

Then she laughed once again—small, broken, almost amused.

"There it is," she murmured. "Same vow. Same grip. Same face."

Telemachus' jaw tightened. "I'm not him."

Calypso's eyes flicked up, bright and wet and cruel all at once. "No," she said softly. "You're worse."

The words hit the clearing like a slap.

Because Odysseus had begged to leave.

But Telemachus—

Telemachus would burn the world to stay.

Calypso's thumb slid along your cheek one last time before she pulled her hand back, tucking it to her chest like she was savoring the feeling.

"You want to go home," she said, voice gentler now, almost sweet again. "All of you."

Hermes lifted a brow. "That's generally how 'release them' works."

Calypso ignored him.

She looked at you, and her smile turned tender in a way that made your stomach drop.

Not sweet-tender. Not safe.

It was the kind of tenderness that came right before someone decided you were theirs to keep—like she could wrap the word care around your throat and call it mercy.

Your stomach tightened. Your hand hovered uselessly at your side, fingers flexing like they wanted to grab your own wrist and pull you back before you got too close to the edge of her.

Then her head turned—slow, deliberate—and her eyes landed on Hermes.

The tenderness vanished.

Calypso's jaw worked once. Twice. Like she was chewing down words that had been rotting in her for centuries.

Then she looked straight up toward the sky, toward Olympus, toward every invisible seat of judgment that had ever watched her life like entertainment.

And she spoke to Hermes like you weren't even there anymore.

"Tell them... Tell them I refuse."

Hermes sighed like he'd already heard the story a hundred times. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Calypso—"

"No." Her head snapped toward him, and the look in her eyes made your skin prickle. "No, don't Calypso me. You fly down here with your scrolls and your sparkles and your official business like this is a simple errand." Her laugh cut out rough. "As if I'm not the one who bleeds every time you deliver it."

Hermes' mouth twitched, the start of a grin that didn't really form. "It's not personal."

Calypso's eyes widened, offended like he'd spat in her face. "Not personal?" she repeated, louder. "My punishment is not personal?"

Thunder rumbled faintly overhead—not Zeus' full voice, just that quiet warning that reminded you who owned the sky.

Calypso didn't flinch and lifted her chin like she was daring it.

"How long?" she demanded, voice cracking at the edges. "Tell me that, messenger. How long am I meant to stay?" She swept her hand over the island like she was showing him a cage. "How many storms? How many ships? How many mortals do I have to watch leave before I've paid enough?"

Hermes' shoulders rose in a slow, tired breath. He looked at the decree still glowing above the fire like it gave him a headache.

"Calypso," he said again, and this time there was a warning under it. "Don't do this."

She stepped forward, bare feet silent, anger making her taller.

"Do what?" she snapped. "Ask for my happy ending?" Her voice shook on the word happy like it was something she barely remembered how to say. "Ask when I get to go?"

Your throat went tight because she wasn't begging the way mortals begged. She was demanding the way gods demanded—like the question itself should split the world open and give her an answer.

Hermes rubbed at his forehead like he was bored of her pain. Like he was trying not to look at it too closely.

"I don't decide that," he said, tone flat. "You know that."

Calypso's laugh came again—sharp and ugly. "Then who does?" she shot back. "Zeus?" She tipped her head, eyes bright with fury. "The council?" Her voice rose, echoing off the trees. "Which one of them is going to look me in the eye and tell me I've suffered enough?"

Her chest heaved. Her locs shifted with the movement, damp ends brushing her shoulders like seaweed.

"Or is it like you said," she went on, voice trembling, "that it 'balances itself'?" She spat the phrase back at him like poison. "Is that what you're going to tell me again? That time will fix it? That loneliness is just—just part of the deal?"

Hermes' expression tightened. The lazy look on his face slipped for half a second, irritation flashing through.

"You're spiraling," he said.

Calypso's eyes flashed. "And you're lying," she snapped right back. "Because you've done this before. You've stood on my shore before with your little scroll and your little sigh." Her voice cracked as she pushed the words out. "You freed Odysseus. You sent him home. And you left me here to rot."

The name hung in the clearing like smoke.

Telemachus went rigid beside you. You felt it in the way his fingers tightened around your wrist like he was fighting the urge to step forward and put himself between you and her, between his name and his father's shadow.

Hermes exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing just a bit. "Yes," he said, clipped. "And look—here I am again. Because the decision was made. Not by me."

Calypso's eyes glistened. She blinked hard like she hated that tears existed in her face at all.

"So that's it," she whispered. "You take. And take. And take."

Her voice rose again, louder, shaking the air. "When do I get chosen? When do I get to leave? When do I get to be more than a punishment?" She flung one hand toward the sky like she could grab Olympus by the throat. "I have done my time!"

The vines at her feet jerked, tightening, crawling up the rocks like the island itself was reacting to her anger. The fire flickered, the flames stretching and shrinking like they couldn't decide whether to fight or hide.

Peisistratus shifted on his log.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye—him sitting up straighter, laughter gone, face suddenly strange. Like something in Calypso's words had crawled into him and turned his thoughts sharp.

Calypso kept going, voice rising, climbing, ready to break into a scream.

And then—

"Why don't you choose me?"

The words landed like stones in still water.

Calypso's mouth fell open. Hermes' brows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hair. Callias choked on nothing.

Even the vines seemed to pause.

Telemachus went rigid beside you. "Peisistratus—"

"No." Peisistratus held up one hand without looking away from Calypso. "I'm talking." His voice had that joking edge it always had—except it wasn't really a joke this time. It landed wrong. It landed hard.

He lifted his chin, looking straight at Calypso like he'd decided to be stupid on purpose.

"Besides, you keep saying nobody chooses you," he said, and his mouth twisted like he didn't know whether to laugh or spit. "So why don't you just... choose someone else?"

Calypso stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "What... did you say?"

"You heard me." Peisistratus took a step forward, palms spread like he was presenting an idea at dinner instead of throwing himself into a god's mouth. "Like—hello?" he said, gesturing to himself with both hands. "I'm right here."

Telemachus' head snapped toward Peisistratus so fast it was almost violent—eyes wide, like what the fuck are you doing.

You stared, your brain lagging behind your ears.

Peisistratus kept going anyway, because of course he did.

"Choose me," he said again, half-laughing, half-challenging. "Why do you want him?" He jerked his chin toward Telemachus without looking at him. "Why do you want Odysseus all over again? If you want someone to stay, pick somebody who actually can."

For one beat, nobody moved before every head had snapped toward him—different kinds of shock flashing across different faces. Callias looked horrified, like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream; Telemachus looked genuinely stunned all at once; Hermes stared like Peisistratus had just walked onto a stage he didn't know was there; Calypso's expression went blank—too blank—like her face had been wiped clean.

And you—

You just stood there staring at Peisistratus like you'd never seen him before because that wasn't the Peisistratus you knew.

Not the sun-lazy boy who turned hunger into jokes and fear into songs. Not the one who made the island feel lighter just by being loud.

This was... something else.

He spoke like it was nothing—like the air wasn't tight, like a goddess wasn't standing there with her grief still dripping from her mouth. He brushed sand from his palms, rolled his shoulders once, and gave a little shrug that said well, someone had to say it.

He walked across the clearing, stopping right beside you—close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his—and tossed his hands behind his head like he was watching a play he already knew the ending to.

Calypso stared at him, blank-faced and dangerous.

Peisistratus smiled anyway, bright and easy, like he was offering her fruit.

"Look," he started, voice steady, "I'm just saying. If they want a deal, I can be the deal."

Peisistratus kept talking, eyes still on Calypso.

"Trade me. Straight up." He tipped his chin toward Telemachus like he was pointing out a tool, not a person. "Send the prince home. Send Callias home. Send her home." He flicked a glance at you—quick, almost careful—then back to Calypso. "And you don't have to be lonely."

Your stomach dropped.

Telemachus let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Peisistratus—"

"Don't," Peisistratus said, finally glancing at him, and there was warning in it. Not anger—just that quiet tone that meant let me finish.

Hermes hovered there, arms crossed, looking like he'd like to vanish again just to avoid being part of this.

Calypso's mouth parted slightly, like she didn't know whether to laugh or bite.

And before the pause could even breathe—

Callias moved.

He hobbled up with a dramatic limp that would've fooled anyone who didn't know him. Pale still, but his eyes were bright—sharp as knives. He scoffed as he walked, like the whole thing was ridiculous.

"Why would she do that?" Callias said, loud enough for everyone. He laughed once—short, mean, on purpose. "Calypso, love, be serious. Trade him?"

He slid in beside Peisistratus like he belonged there, and then—like he was claiming a spot—he leaned against Peisistratus' shoulder, heavy and lazy, as if he were waving him off. Like Peisistratus was a little too excited and Callias was here to "help."

Your brows knit without you meaning to.

Callias' hand flicked, dismissive. "He's a prince of Pylos. Important. Loved. Useful." He tilted his head toward Peisistratus, like he was presenting him as evidence. "People will notice he's gone. People will come looking. People will cause problems."

Peisistratus didn't move, but you felt his shoulders tense under Callias' weight.

Callias kept going, voice smooth, offhand—like he was chatting at a feast instead of building an argument in front of a goddess.

"Whereas me?" He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-hurt. "I'm not a prince. I'm not a legacy. I'm not anyone's big, precious heir." He smiled, small and sly. "I'm just... Callias."

Your chest tightened.

You lifted your voice—soft, instinctive. "Callias... what are you—"

"Shh," Callias cut in immediately, not even looking at you; not mean, but like he couldn't let you interrupt the rhythm.

His eyes stayed on Calypso as he straightened slightly, letting the charm slide over his words like honey.

"Think about it," he said, tone warmer now. "If Olympus wants four mortals off this island, they'll be satisfied if only the important ones leave. Telemachus? Gone." He flicked his gaze toward Telemachus just long enough to make it sting, then back to Calypso. "The others? Sent away."

He took a small step forward—still limping a little, still acting fragile, but his voice was steady as stone.

"And you," he said gently, "you don't go back to silence."

Telemachus' hand tightened around your wrist again, like he was grounding himself.

Peisistratus glanced at Callias with something like disbelief, then let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head like of course you would.

Callias smiled at Calypso like he was trying to make her feel seen then he lifted his brows, and his tone turned almost playful—almost teasing.

"What does he have," Callias asked, nodding toward Telemachus, "that I don't?"

You felt heat crawl up your neck; your mouth opened again—half panic, half anger—

But Callias kept talking, like he could feel you about to stop him and decided to speed up.

"I can do something he can't," Callias said softly.

His gaze flicked—just once—toward you and then back to Calypso.

"I can love you. Because his heart clearly already belongs to someone else."

The clearing went even colder.

Like the words pulled the air straight out of everyone's lungs.

Telemachus' thumb twitched against your wrist.

Peisistratus' smile faltered for the first time—just a hair—like even he hadn't expected Callias to say that out loud.

But Callias' eyes stayed on Calypso, steady as a dare.

"And if you want someone who won't spend seven years dreaming of a wife across the sea," he added, voice low, "then don't choose the boy who will leave you the second the door cracks open."

His mouth curled—soft, almost kind.

"Choose someone who can actually stay."

And the worst part was the way he said it like he meant it.

You didn't know why your stomach dropped so hard at that.

Maybe because it sounded too neat. Too final. Like he'd already accepted a version of the ending you hadn't even let yourself picture yet.

Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. "Don't be ridiculous, Callias," you blurted, voice sharper than you meant. "We're all leaving."

Callias didn't flinch, he just turned his head slightly as if he'd expected you to say that exact line.

"Be realistic, ____."

That softness—gentle—made it worse. Like he was trying not to scare you while still pushing the knife in.

You started to shake your head, but he kept going, eyes flicking to Calypso for one quick second before coming back to you.

"She's still a goddess," he said, quiet but firm. "Cursed or not. Punished or not. If she decides she wants something... she can take it."

Your throat tightened.

"And yes, Olympus might punish her," he added, voice low. "But that doesn't stop her from doing damage first. It won't stop her from killing any of us if she snaps. You think Zeus' decree is going to matter to her when she's breaking apart in front of us?"

Callias shifted his gaze toward Telemachus and Peisistratus and let out a short, humorless breath.

"He's the prince," he said, chin tipping toward Telemachus. "Peisistratus is one as well." His mouth twitched like the word tasted bitter. "You really think the world won't burn if either of them goes missing?"

He let the question hang, then looked back at you—eyes steady, smile thin.

"But me?" He gave a short, hollow laugh. "What's Bronte gonna do—send a mourning letter?"

You opened your mouth—ready to fight him, ready to drag him back into reality—

—but the look in his eyes stopped you.

Because for a second, the sarcasm wasn't there.

Just something flat and tired and hurt in a way that didn't need poetry to explain it.

"The life waiting for me back there?" he said, quieter now. "It's not a life. Not really." He swallowed, jaw tightening once like he hated himself for saying it out loud. "I'm a servant to a crown I didn't choose. I serve a kingdom that has never once acknowledged my worth. The only thing waiting for me is the same stuck position. Same leash. Same princess who thinks cruelty is a hobby."

He gave a small shrug, like he was talking about weather.

"At least here?" he said, glancing at the jungle and the sea like he could already see his future between the trees. "Here I can have peace. Or something close to it." His smile turned faint—real, for a split second. "Here, I don't have to be useful to be allowed to breathe."

Your chest clenched.

"Callias—" you started, voice cracking on his name.

He shook his head once, barely.

"I'm not doing this for her," he said, nodding toward Calypso without even looking her way. "I'm doing it for me."

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his smile softened into something that didn't feel like a joke at all.

"I want to matter somewhere," he said. "And maybe here... I finally can."

Your throat burned.

You tried anyway, you couldn't not try.

"You could come back to Ithaca," you said, voice shaking. "I—We'd make room—we'd—"

Callias' eyes didn't harden, but they sharpened a little, like he needed you to understand the full shape of what you were offering.

"And what happens when others like me try to follow? How long before Ithaca becomes a refuge for every castoff trying to breathe?"

You stared at him, stunned.

He stepped a little closer, enough that you could feel the heat of him and could see the tiny tremor in his fingers that he was pretending wasn't there.

"I'd rather stay here. Start over where no one knows me. Where I don't have to serve or bow or play pretend."

Telemachus' breath hitched, almost silent.

Peisistratus' arms dropped from behind his head. He wasn't smiling now. He watched Callias like he didn't know whether to grab him or protect him or just... understand him.

Callias turned his head toward Calypso at last, and the whole clearing seemed to hold its breath with him.

"If you want me," he said plainly, "I'll stay." His voice didn't shake when he added, "Not because I'm cursed... But because I choose to."

Calypso's expression flickered—anger still there, grief still there—but something else slipped through for the first time. Confusion. Hope. Fear.

Her gaze drifted past Callias, past Peisistratus, to Telemachus.

And the way she looked at him made your stomach twist again, because even now—even now—some part of her still reached for that shape. That story. That pattern.

But Telemachus wasn't looking at her, he was looking at you.

Like he was bracing for you to disappear.

Like he was quietly begging you not to leave him alone in this moment.

Calypso's lips parted, and her throat bobbed. She hesitated—caught between ghosts and the living.

Then, slowly, like it hurt her to do it, she reached out.

Not toward Telemachus.

Toward Callias.

Her fingers hovered for half a heartbeat—uncertain—before they finally closed around his hand.

Callias didn't hesitate; he took her hand like it was a decision he'd already made, but his eyes... his eyes didn't look relieved.

They looked like someone finally laying down a heavy thing he'd been carrying too long.

With wet eyes and a shaking mouth, Calypso held Callias' hand so tightly it was as if she feared the island would take him back out of spite—she couldn't decide if this was mercy or another kind of cruelty.

The fire popped.

The waves kept whispering.

And somewhere above the canopy, the sky stayed empty—quiet as if Olympus was listening to see what choice you'd let stand.

Hermes was the first one to get tired of it. He exhaled hard—loud on purpose—like you were all children standing around a spilled cup.

"Alright. We need to move. Now. If you want to make it home with a little push."

You blinked, still stuck somewhere between relief and nausea; Telemachus' eyes flicked up at Hermes like he didn't trust a word that came out of that mouth.

Peisistratus finally found his voice. "Move where?" he asked, sounding like he didn't want to believe it until he could touch it. "So, we're just—leaving?"

Hermes clicked his tongue. "Yes," he said, like the answer was obvious. "Leaving. The thing mortals do when they're not trapped on cursed islands."

Then he reached into his satchel.

The motion made everyone tense. Even Calypso's jaw tightened again, like she expected another parchment, another trick, another insult dressed up as a smile.

But Hermes pulled out something small—just a little bag, dark cloth tied tight at the neck. It looked too plain to matter, which somehow made it feel worse. Like the real power didn't need to show off.

He tossed it toward Peisistratus.

Peisistratus fumbled it—nearly dropped it—caught it at the last second and stared down like it might bite. "What is this?" he asked, eyes wide.

"A wind bag," Hermes said casually. The messenger god pointed at the bag with a lazy flick of two fingers. "Don't open it here," he warned. "Unless you want this whole camp to get launched into the sea like a bad joke."

Peisistratus froze. "Noted."

Hermes nodded, pleased, then kept talking—like he was explaining a shopping list.

"It's not as strong as the one I caught for Odysseus years ago. That one was... special. This one's just decent."

Just decent. Like he wasn't holding weather in a pouch.

"But it'll cut your trip down," Hermes continued. "A few hours instead of days. Assuming you don't do something stupid. Which—" he glanced at Peisistratus, "—I'm saying with love."

Peisistratus lifted the bag like it was sacred. "I won't even breathe wrong," he promised.

Callias made a soft sound—half laugh, half disbelief—without looking away from the shoreline. Calypso stayed silent, eyes glossy and distant, like she was listening to a song only she could hear.

Hermes dug back into his satchel again.

"And before anyone asks—yes," he said, voice sharper, "I conjured you a boat. I'm not sending you out there with a prayer and a plank."

He waved his hand vaguely toward the beach, like the boat should've already been obvious.

"It's medium-sized," he added, as if reviewing it. "Sturdy. Enough room for the three of you and a few supplies. Food, water, some basic things that should last until you reach Ithaca. Try not to waste it. Or do. You mortals love suffering."

Hermes lifted off the ground a little, sandals fluttering. He dusted his hands together like he'd finished his part.

"I'll go back to Olympus. Let them know the decree's been completed."

His eyes slid, quick and bright, toward Callias.

"With a minor tweak," he added, and his mouth tugged like he found himself hilarious.

Calypso's face hardened again, but Hermes only shrugged, completely unbothered.

"Still," he said, tone light, "as the Bronte servant said—if the more important figures are headed home, no issue should arise."

Your stomach turned at the way he said it. More important. Like Callias was a loose thread Olympus wouldn't miss.

Telemachus' posture went stiff, anger flashing hot and fast across his face—but Hermes didn't give him time to speak.

He tipped two fingers in a lazy salute, grin bright again.

"Good luck." And just like that, the air shimmered; and with a quick flash of gold and wind, Hermes was gone.

The clearing fell silent again, but it wasn't the same silence as before. This one had a direction, an ending.

This time, it was Callias who broke it.

He squeezed Calypso's hand once—small, grounding—then looked at you, eyes steady.

"It's time," he said softly.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded even though it felt like your head belonged to someone else.

Telemachus finally let go of your wrist—slowly, like it hurt—and moved first, like a man forcing his legs to obey.

Peisistratus moved too, clutching the wind bag like it was the last piece of fate he'd ever be trusted with.

Calypso didn't speak, she just turned and started walking, leading the way through the trees with Callias beside her.

You followed.

The path felt different now. Smaller. Too short. The jungle brushed your shoulders like it was trying to keep you. The sound of the ocean grew louder with every step until it swallowed everything else.

And then you broke through the last line of trees, and the beach opened up.

There really was a boat.

Medium-sized like Hermes said, pulled up onto the sand like it had always been waiting. The wood looked new in the moonlight, the rope coiled neat, a small stack of supplies tucked inside: bags of food, jugs of water, a folded cloth, a few tools you didn't recognize but Telemachus immediately did.

Peisistratus let out a shaky laugh. "Oh my gods, finally," he breathed, and hurried forward.

Telemachus moved with him—already lifting the supply bags, placing them inside, checking the edges of the boat the way Odysseus must've taught him. He looked like he was trying to stay busy so he wouldn't feel anything.

You trailed behind, your feet dragging through the sand, heavy, like the island had poured lead into your ankles.

And when you turned, you saw them.

Calypso and Callias stood where the forest met the beach—right at that break between shadow and open sky.

The jungle framed them like a doorway.

Calypso's hair moved in the sea breeze, eyes still wet. Callias stood beside her like he belonged there already, shoulders squared, expression calm.

You didn't know why you stopped.

Your feet just... planted. Right there in the sand, halfway between the boat and the tree line, something in you refusing to keep walking until you understood what you were leaving behind.

The surf rolled in and out with that soft, steady hush. The moonlight stretched across the water in a long silver path, too pretty for how ugly your throat felt. Behind you, you heard Peisistratus shifting supplies, heard Telemachus' quiet movements—rope, wood, water jugs.

But you couldn't look at them.

You looked at Calypso and Callias, and they watched you back.

Your brain wouldn't stop.

Callias staying? That can't be right.

Your chest tightened hard, fast.

I can get him off the island. I can. I can make it happen.

The thought came reckless, desperate.

Maybe if I ask Apollo—

Because Apollo had promised you the universe. Apollo had burned half the sky for less. If you called him—if you begged—if you promised him anything—

You could fix this.

You could make it so nobody had to stay behind.

Your fingers curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you stood there and tried not to shake.

And then your thoughts snapped clean in half, because Callias moved.

He broke away from Calypso without a word and started walking toward you.

Hobbling. Limping. Each step looked like it cost him pride, but he didn't slow down. He didn't look away.

He stopped right in front of you.

Close enough that you could see the faint sheen of salt on his skin. Close enough that you could see his lashes clumped slightly, like he'd wiped his eyes at some point and pretended it didn't happen.

You both just stared.

No jokes. No sarcasm. No Callias-voice to soften the moment.

Just him, standing there like a choice made flesh.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The words got stuck behind the tight knot in your throat.

Callias stared at you for a long second longer—then let out a broken little laugh that turned into a sigh. His smile showed up after, but it wobbled at the edges, like it didn't know how to sit on his face anymore.

"Gods," he breathed, shaking his head once. "Look at you."

Your eyes burned. You blinked hard, like you could blink the feeling away.

He swallowed, his voice going softer than you were used to hearing from him.

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me," he said.

Your chest caved in.

"No," you tried—because your body wanted to argue, wanted to fight him, wanted to drag him by the wrist and shove him into the boat whether he liked it or not. "Callias, don't—don't say that like—"

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. Not harsh. Just certain.

"I mean it," he said, like it was the simplest truth he'd ever told. "I've had... a lot of things happen to me. None of them felt like mine." His mouth twitched, bitter for a second. "But you?"

His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

"You saw me," he whispered. "Not as a tool. Not as someone's servant. Not as... whatever Bronte decided I was supposed to be." His laugh came out quiet and rough. "You made me feel like I mattered."

Your throat pinched so hard it hurt; you shook your head, frantic. "You matter anyway."

He smiled at that—small, sad, fond. Like you saying it didn't change the world, but it still mattered because it was you.

Then he lifted his hands.

Slow. Careful.

Like he didn't want to scare you off with how gentle he was being.

His palms framed your face, warm thumbs resting at your jaw. You froze under it, breath catching, because Callias touched people like he was usually trying to prove he didn't care—and this wasn't that. This was... honest.

His eyes softened.

Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

It was light. Quick. Like a blessing. Like goodbye.

And before you could react, he pulled you into him.

His arms wrapped around you, tighter than you expected, his body shaking once as if he'd been holding this in the whole time. You clutched him back instantly—arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric at his back like you could anchor him to you with nothing but will.

"I'll miss you," he whispered, voice breaking on the words.

It went straight through you.

"I'll... I'll miss you too," you said, and it came out strained, wet at the edges. You hugged him tighter, fighting the burn in your eyes because if you started crying you didn't know if you'd stop. You hated yourself for it—hated the selfish part of you that still wanted to drag him into that boat.

Because you knew.

You knew that when you left, you'd never see him again.

You buried your face into his shoulder for a second, breathing him in like you could store him away somewhere safe inside you. Salt, smoke, herbs. Callias.

He stayed holding you for one more heartbeat—then forced himself to pull back.

His hands slid down to yours, fingers lacing with yours as he stepped backward. He didn't let go.

He walked back toward Calypso like that—moving backward, still holding your hands, still looking at you like he was trying to make the moment last longer without saying it out loud.

Your arms stretched between you until they couldn't anymore.

Your fingers slipped, and then you were standing there with your hands empty.

Callias turned back to Calypso's side and stopped beside her again, shoulders squaring like he was putting the mask back on. Calypso didn't touch him this time, but her presence leaned toward his like the island itself knew to keep them close.

Once again, you watched them, and they watched you.

The wind picked up, teasing your hair across your cheek. The waves kept talking. The boat creaked softly behind you, impatient.

You forced your feet to move, turning away—slow, like it hurt—and started toward Telemachus.

He was near the boat now, hands on a rope, but his eyes stayed locked on you, worried and tight like he was scared you'd fall apart before you reached him.

You took two steps, and then Callias called your name.

"____!"

Your whole body flinched at it.

You turned fast.

Callias stood a little forward from Calypso now, just enough to be seen. His mouth opened like the words fought him too. His eyes were shining—watery, stubborn, trying so hard not to spill over.

He swallowed, and then he said it, voice quiet but clear, like he needed you to carry it with you.

"I... I'm not sorry for loving you," he admitted, breath shaking once. "Thank you for loving me."

His smile came after—small and real and wrecked around the edges.

Your chest cracked.

The words he'd said kept looping anyway—like your mind refused to let them go, like it needed to replay them until they finally meant what they were supposed to mean.

I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.

I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.

I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.

They repeated. Again. Again.

And your eyes widened slowly, like something in you finally woke up, and your breath hitched, because now—now—you understood.

Not in that vague, "oh, he cares about me" way you'd tucked him into. Not in the safe little box labeled friend that you'd been grateful for, because gods, you'd needed him to be safe.

You understood in the ugly, too-late way.

All those glances that lasted one second too long.

The way his jokes always had teeth, but never pointed at you unless you asked for it.

The way he'd roll his eyes when you got soft, like it annoyed him—yet he'd still be there, still hovering close, still handing you the better piece of fish without saying why.

The way he always stood a step behind you... but never away.

Like he was giving you space to breathe, but refusing to let the world touch you without going through him first.

He hadn't been just your friend.

He'd been waiting.

Waiting in the quiet places. Waiting behind sarcasm. Waiting behind that "I don't care" mask that fooled everyone except the people who stayed close long enough to see the cracks.

Waiting for a space in your heart that would never open fast enough.

And you—you—

You hadn't seen it.

Not really.

Maybe you'd felt it sometimes, like a warmth at your back, like a hand hovering near your shoulder without touching. But you'd turned away from it every time it got too real, because you couldn't afford another complicated thing. Not with gods watching. Not with Telemachus in your orbit like gravity. Not with survival taking up all the room where feelings were supposed to go.

So you'd smiled. You'd laughed. You'd leaned on him.

And you'd never looked at what that did to him.

Until now.

Your throat tightened until swallowing hurt. Your hands trembled at your sides like they didn't know what to do with themselves. You wanted to say something—anything big enough to make it right, something that could reach across the sand and fix the timing, rewind the story, give him a softer ending than this.

But all that came out was your breath. Wet. Thin. Useless.

Callias held your gaze for one last heartbeat—eyes shining, mouth still fighting for that steady little smile.

Then he nodded once, like he'd made peace with what you couldn't change.

And with that, he and Calypso turned back into the forest. Callias walked with that limp still pulling at him, but his head stayed high. Calypso moved beside him, bare feet silent in the sand, her hair catching the wind like seaweed in water.

And together, they disappeared into the tree line.

Green swallowed them up.

The vines closed.

And it felt like the island itself had decided: that's it.

A soft creak behind you made you flinch.

The boat.

You forced your feet to move, even though every step felt wrong. You climbed into the boat like your body was doing it for you. Peisistratus was already there, sitting too still for once, his usual grin gone like he'd left it on the beach.

Telemachus steadied the side as you stepped in, his hand hovering at your back—not quite touching, like he didn't know if you wanted comfort or space.

The boat pushed off.

Water took you without asking.

The shore slid backward. The line of sand grew thinner. The jungle rose behind it—dark, thick, endless—until it all started to look like one solid wall of green.

You stood at the back of the boat, staring.

Staring like if you watched hard enough, the trees might open again and Callias might be there, waving like this was just another joke, like he'd change his mind at the last second and sprint down the beach—

But nothing moved.

Only the wind.

Only the waves.

Only the island shrinking.

Fog started to gather low over the water, creeping in like a slow exhale. It crawled across the surface in pale sheets, wrapping around the edges of the island until the shoreline blurred, then the trees blurred, then the whole shape of it started to fade like a memory you were trying not to lose.

Your chest tightened all over again.

Your lips parted, and the words fell out before you could stop them—small, broken, honest.

"Bye, Callias."

The fog swallowed the last piece of land.

Just like that, it was gone.

And you stood there with salt on your face and emptiness in your hands, knowing you'd never see him again.

The fog didn't just take the island. It took him. All those weeks of jokes, of standing behind you, of waiting—gone into grey. And you couldn't even see where.

Your hands were still open. Like they were waiting for him to take them again.

He wouldn't.

A shift beside you—quiet.

Telemachus had come up behind you without you noticing. His eyes were fixed on the fog too, not because he expected to see anything, but because he understood what you were losing. His jaw clenched once, then eased.

He didn't speak. He didn't try to fix it. He just stayed close—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours—like he was silently promising he'd hold you up if the grief finally knocked your legs out.

And the boat kept moving.

Toward Ithaca.

Toward home.

Toward a life that suddenly felt heavier, because part of you had been left behind on an island that didn't let people return.

☆

☆

The hours after that blurred into something hollow.

You didn't cry—not right away. It was like your body couldn't decide what emotion to pick, so it chose none. Numb was easier. Numb was quiet. Numb meant you could keep standing without folding in half.

The island was long gone, swallowed by fog and distance, but you still faced the direction it had been. Like if you stared hard enough, you might catch the outline again—dark green against the stars. Like you might see a limping figure step out of the trees. Like the world might change its mind and give you one more second.

It didn't.

The boat drifted with the tide, rocking slow and lazy, the sea turning into a wide, black mirror under the night sky. Earlier, Telemachus and Peisistratus had argued softly about the wind bag—about using it now, about not wasting it, about saving it for the morning when the light came and they could see where they were going.

In the end, Telemachus had made the call.

"We use it at dawn," he'd said, voice steady even when his eyes weren't. "Let the current carry us for now. We'll need the push when we can steer with it."

Peisistratus had grumbled something about "princes and their planning," but he'd agreed. They'd tied the bag down, tucked safe near the supplies Hermes had left—dried fish wrapped in cloth, water skins, a small knife, a coil of rope, a spare oar.

Now the boat just... floated.

Peisistratus was asleep off to the side, sprawled like he'd been dropped there by the gods themselves. His mouth was open, his head tipped back against the plank, and he snored with the kind of confidence only Peisistratus could manage—like even the sea couldn't judge him.

You sat near the edge, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, staring at the dark water.

You couldn't stop looking at it.

It felt wrong to look anywhere else.

Like if you turned your head, that would be the moment it became real.

A soft shuffle came from behind you—wood creaking, cloth brushing.

You didn't move at first. You didn't even blink.

Then Telemachus' shadow fell across you, and he lowered himself down beside you, careful and quiet. He didn't crowd you. Just settled close enough that you could feel his warmth when the wind shifted.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The sea made small sounds against the boat—gentle taps and soft sloshes, like it was trying not to interrupt.

Telemachus stared out at the horizon that didn't exist at night. His hands rested on his knees. His fingers kept flexing like he didn't know what to do with them when they weren't holding a weapon or a rope or you.

Then, soft—so soft you almost missed it—

"____. I need to say something," he said quietly. "And I need you to let me finish before you argue."

Your throat tightened immediately, but you didn't answer yet; instead, you nodded.

He took a breath. Let it out. His hands gripped the rail like he was steadying himself.

"I'm sorry."

The words landed wrong. You opened your mouth—to argue, to stop him—but he shook his head once, firmly.

"You said you'd let me finish."

You closed your mouth.

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, not just for tonight. Not just for... all of this." His jaw worked once, like he had to force the words out. "I'm sorry for every time I backed away from you."

Your head turned a fraction. Not fully. Just enough to show you were listening.

He stared at his hands like they were the problem. "Andreia," he said, and his mouth twisted around her name like it tasted bitter. "My court. My parents. Even when I wanted to—" He cut himself off, breath catching. "Every time someone else entered the room, I... I detached."

He frowned harder, eyes flicking once toward you, then away again like he didn't deserve to look you in the face while saying it.

"I don't know how to explain it," he admitted, quieter now. "It's not because I'm ashamed of you. Gods, no." His voice sharpened like the idea offended him. "Never that."

The next words came slower, like he was building them carefully.

"It's because I'm not used to being seen... being loved."

That landed in you, soft and heavy at the same time.

Telemachus' shoulders lifted with a breath, then fell. "When it's just us, it feels... safe." His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice warmed, like he was talking to himself more than you. "Private. Like something holy. Like if I speak too loud about it, the gods will notice and take it away."

He let out a small, humorless laugh. "So when people show up, I try to look like I have control. Like nothing touches me. Like I'm only a prince and never—" he hesitated, swallowed hard, "—never a boy who's terrified of losing the only person who makes him feel like he's enough."

Your chest pinched.

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, still not looking at you. "And you deserved better than that. You deserved me standing beside you every time. You deserved me claiming you when it mattered."

His voice went softer, almost shaking. "You crossed oceans for me."

That made your eyes sting immediately—hot, sharp.

"You gave up Olympus," he continued, and now he finally looked at you, and there was something raw in his face. "You gave up being around gods who... who cherished you from the moment they knew you. Gods who didn't hesitate. Didn't waste your time. Didn't make you feel like you had to earn a place."

His throat bobbed.

"And after everything, you still found me." He blinked hard, fast, like he was fighting something in his eyes. "You're standing beside me right now like you didn't just bleed for it."

You swallowed, trying to speak, but your voice caught.

Telemachus' breath shook, and when he spoke again, it came out like a confession.

"I think—" He paused, a small, startled sound leaving him, like he'd just realized something too big to hold. "I think I knew it before. Somewhere deep down. Everytime you sang and looked at me like I was your whole world."

He let out a quiet, broken laugh. "I knew."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, flustered—like the feeling was too big and he didn't know where to put it.

"But I didn't understand it. Not fully. Not the way I do now."

His voice cracked on the next part, and he looked away for half a second like he was embarrassed by how much he meant it.

"You're not just... someone I love. You're the center of my story. And it's hitting me all at once."

His lips pressed together, fighting for control.

"You matter," he said, voice cracking. "You matter so much it terrifies me. Because I've spent my whole life watching people leave. Watching my father leave. Watching my mother wait. Watching—" He laughed, helpless. "Watching myself stand frozen while the world moved."

He turned toward you fully, leaning in like gravity was pulling him.

"But you're still here."

His voice broke completely on the last word.

"You're still here, ____. And I don't know how to tell you what that means. I don't have the words. I just—" His hands lifted—hesitated—then one of them found yours, slow and careful, like he was asking permission with every inch.

"Stay with me," he said, and the words came out so earnest it almost hurt. "Let me be yours."

Your breath caught.

His fingers tightened around yours, and yes—his hand shook a little.

"I'll spend the rest of my days making up for my mistakes, making up for every moment I froze. For every time I didn't reach for you fast enough. For every heartbeat I wasted not saying this," he said, voice low and steady now, like he'd decided something. "If you let me."

Your eyes burned. You blinked hard, but it didn't help.

"Telemachus..." you started, and your voice wobbled.

He flinched at the title like it struck him."Don't," he murmured.

You blinked. "Don't what?"

"Don't call me Prince Telemachus," he said, softer, almost shy. "Not right now."

That pulled a small, startled sound out of you. You tilted your head. "It's not the first time I've said your name," you whispered, trying to tease him through the ache. "What's wrong with it now?"

Telemachus' nose crinkled—cute, quick, like he hated that you'd noticed. "It just—it feels formal. Distant. Like I'm someone you serve instead of someone you—" He stopped, ears going red.

"Someone I what?" you teased, because you needed something light after all that weight.

He mumbled something.

"What?"

He mumbled again, louder this time. "Someone you kiss apparently."

You laughed—real, bright, surprised out of you. "Telemachus."

His whole face softened at the sound of his name in your mouth.

Just his name. No title. No prince.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"Telemachus."

His nose crinkled again, and you wanted to bite it.

"One more thing," he said quietly.

"What?"

He hesitated, then added, even quieter, "I want... I want what my parents have. A name for each other that no one else uses. Words that belong only to them. I—" He stopped, swallowing. "I want that. With you."

You tilted your head. "A nickname?"

He nodded, ears still pink.

You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin. "Hmm. Let me think. Telemachus... Tele... Machus..."

His nose crinkled again—but this time, something flickered in his eyes. A shadow.

"Machus," he repeated quietly.

You stopped.

Machus the Meek.

Andreia's voice echoed in your memory: "Machus the Meek... No bite. No command. The kind of man who prefers reciting lessons at his mother's feet rather than holding court."

You wanted to punch her all over again.

"No," you said firmly. "Not that."

He looked at you, surprised.

"That's her word," you said. "She made it ugly. She made it small." You reached up, cupping his face. "But you're not small, Telemachus. You're not meek. You're the person who stood between me and a goddess tonight. You're the person who learned the currents so we could all go home."

His eyes went bright again.

"So I'm taking it back," you said. "I'm making it ours."

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

You smiled. "Machi."

He stared at you.

"My fighter," you said softly. "That's what it means to me. Not meek. Not small. Mine."

His breath caught.

"Machi," he whispered, testing it.

And then his face did something you'd never seen—like the word had reached inside him and touched something that had been hurting for a long, long time.

"____," he said, voice rough.

"Yeah?"

Telemachus' hands lifted to your face, warm palms cupping your cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed to say it until it became something solid. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to earn my courage."

You shook your head, voice trembling. "You didn't—"

"I did," he interrupted, gentle but firm. "And I won't do it again."

And then, Telemachus leaned in and kissed you.

Soft at first—careful, like he was scared you'd vanish if he did it wrong. Then deeper, just for a second, like he couldn't help it. Like all the fear and relief and want finally had somewhere to go.

His hands still trembled a little against your jaw.

When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed touching, and something settled between you—something that felt like finally.

You laughed a little—quiet and wet.

Telemachus exhaled, the sound shaky. "Please," he whispered once again, like it was a prayer. "Stay."

You smiled through tears and kissed him again—short, sweet, sure.

"I'm here, Machi," you whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."

And as the boat drifted under the wide open sky, with the wind bag tied down and dawn still hours away, you held onto him like the sea couldn't steal this part too—like if you kept your hands on what was real, the gods would finally get bored and let you live.

A/N: ok... yeah... hi 😭if you haven't seen my last announcement/psa, yes your girl has returned from her little slumber 😭 life been life-ing and i been trying to pace myself and not burn out or start hating writing (bc that's when it gets dangerous fr). but i'm here, i'm editing, and i'm posting again so we UP!! NOW ABOUT THIS CHAPTER........ 😭 first of all, Calypso had me SICK. like i knew i wanted her pain to show but writing her spiral?? writing her saying Odysseus?? i was sitting here like "oh we're really doing this huh" 💀 but the stuff i've been seeing about Calypso/how other people write her, she's my bby as well and I can't go hurting my bbys frfr. second—don't beat me up too bad about Callias... i'm begging 😭 y'all i was deadass crying writing that goodbye it tore me tf up BAD. like i wanted Callias and mc together so BAD i had to stare at my screen like "i'm the author why am i suffering i can change ts???" 💀💀 i NEED to make a callias oneshot or something bc my HEART. AND FINALLY—YESSSSSS Y'ALLLLLLLLLLLL 😭😭😭 THEY KISSED. MY BABIES FINALLY KISSED. not even gonna lie it wasn't giving fireworks-and-confetti bc let's be fr mc and telemachus been circling each other for a minute like two confused planets 😭 so this was more like "FINALLY y'all caught up with yourselves" LMAOOO i was lowkey was ready to shake them both!!! anyway i hope y'all been okay and taking care of yourselves fr. shit has been getting ugly out here and i know everybody got their own battles. thank you for still being here, for commenting, for being sweet and patient even when i disappear like a cryptid 😭🫶🏾also yes—i've got more chapters coming. i'm just editing/fixing stuff so it's not a mess. my perfectionism be trying to fight me but i'm learning to just WRITE and not torture myself trying to make every sentence the best sentence ever written in human history 😭 okok i love y'all BAD. see you next chapter 🖤

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️

from simp_0207

[CALYPSO DESIGN]

MY BABY CALYPSOOO MY GODDESSS I HAVE A FIC FOR YOU I PROMISE LOVE 😭😭😭

[HERMES DESIGN PRT.2]

my man fr, he look like he's annoying in a good way 😭😭 love me a little jokester 

[MC DOODLE SHADED]

i swear your art always make me feel like i can be an artist and then i try drawing and its chicken scrap!! olololo lemme know when you start your comics/webtoons cuz IM SAT

[APHRODITE DESIGN]

prettiest goddess in all the myths, my venus goddess 😭😭❤️

from DragonWhiskers12

[DOODLES]

LOLOLOL not your apollo design revolting---he said upgrade me plz 😭

[EROS DESIGN]

hehehe this just got me inspired to finish up a new chapter for my new eros fic lolol

from chari

[MC DESIGN]

ooohhh my bby~ she looks so sweet and innocent---PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS?!

from keltheartist

[MC DESIGN]

DNCJSDNCJSOKDC i love this ahhhh--  

You had walked these halls so many times that you barely needed to think about where you were going, your feet knowing the way on their own, your movements steady and confident.

Yet, you couldn't help but reflect on how different this all felt from when you first arrived

Back then, you had been a frightened, scrawny child, uncertain if you would even find a place here.

Now, after years of training and being in Penelope's service, you had grown into someone with purpose, someone the queen trusted and relied upon

You passed by tapestries depicting scenes of Ithaca's heroes, the vibrant colors muted in the early morning light.

You often found yourself drawn to these tapestries, seeing in them reflections of the great stories Penelope would tell you.

They reminded you of the legacy you were now a part of, a history that you had once thought too grand for someone like you

As you reached a large set of double doors, you paused for a moment before gently knocking. The sound echoed softly down the empty hallway, and you waited until you heard the gentle voice from within:

"Come in."

You pushed the heavy door open, entering the room with a bowed head.

Penelope sat at the windowsill, dressed in her mourning clothes—a deep, rich purple robe, embroidered delicately along the edges. Her dark hair was partially covered by a veil, the fabric thin enough to let light pass through, giving her a ghostly, almost ethereal appearance.

She looked out across the sea, her gaze distant, the waves shimmering under the morning sun. When she heard you enter, she turned, her lips curling into a soft, tired smile.

Even as she smiled, the weight of her sorrow remained, etched into her features—a weariness that never seemed to leave her.

"Ah, ____," she said, her voice gentle, yet carrying the weight of her lingering sorrow.

You curtsied, lowering your head respectfully. "Good morning, Queen Penelope. I've come to help you break your fast."

She nodded, her smile not fading, though the sadness lingered in her eyes, a weight that never seemed to truly lift. You walked forward, approaching her carefully, the tray balanced delicately in your hands.

As you set the tray down on the small table beside her, you couldn't help but take in her tired features—the lines that worry and waiting had carved into her face, the weariness that seemed to cling to her even now.

Your time in Ithaca had been a story of struggle and small victories.

After arriving by boat those years ago, you had found yourself amidst many others—orphans and the poor—standing outside the towering halls of Ithaca, each of you hoping for work.

You remembered how you were overlooked at first, Ithaca's head servant dismissing you and a few others with barely a glance; he had been the one in charge of hiring new servants, particularly while Odysseus was gone and Penelope was wrapped so deeply in mourning that she rarely involved herself in the day-to-day matters.

His face was stern, his patience thin, as he waved you off, deeming you too young and weak to be of any use.

You had felt a deep pang of disappointment, a sense that perhaps you truly were not enough. It was a familiar feeling, one that had often accompanied you since you lost your family.

But fate had other plans.

Just as you were about to turn away, Penelope herself had appeared, her figure somber and regal as she passed by. Her eyes caught yours, and something in your pitiful state must have struck her heart.

She paused, her dark eyes lingering on you before she stepped closer, her hand reaching out to gently caress your face. Her touch was soft, her expression filled with a mix of melancholy and tenderness.

In that moment, it felt as though a small ember of hope had sparked within you—a feeling that perhaps you were worth more than the hardships you had faced.

"You look as sweet as a dove," she had murmured, her voice laced with a deep sadness. "Such bright eyes for someone so young."

It was in that moment that she made her decision. She called you forward, and despite the objections of the head servant, she decided to take you under her care.

You were to be trained under other servants until you were old enough, learning the ways of the palace, how to serve properly, how to carry yourself with grace and dignity.

Over time, you became one of her personal maidens, trusted with tasks that others were not, your bond with her deepening as the years passed.

You came to understand her sorrow and her strength, admiring the quiet resilience she carried each day.

Penelope had given you a chance when no one else would, and you felt a deep loyalty towards her—a loyalty born from both gratitude and genuine admiration for the woman she was

Now, as you stood beside her, offering her breakfast, you could see the years that had passed reflected in both of you—her, still mourning but holding on, and you, no longer that lost child from the docks but someone with a purpose, with a role in the grand halls of Ithaca.

There was a sense of pride in how far you had come, a feeling that perhaps you were slowly repaying the faith Penelope had placed in you all those years ago.

The weight of that trust and your determination to be worthy of it were always present, driving you to do your best every day.

Penelope glanced at the tray before her, her tired smile softening further. "Thank you, ____," she said, her voice quiet. "You have always been a light in these halls."

You bowed your head again, a warmth spreading through your chest at her words. "It is an honor, my queen," you replied, your voice steady, though you could not help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

As Penelope began to nibble on the bread and sip the goat's milk, she looked at you thoughtfully. "____," she said, her tone gentle but weary, "what news do we have of the suitors?"

Your face faltered for a brief moment, the exhaustion of dealing with the suitors creeping into your expression, but you quickly smoothed it out, replacing it with a cheerful smile. "Prince Telemachus is handling them well, my queen," you said brightly, though in your heart, you felt the cracks beginning to show. The suitors were restless, and each passing day seemed to test the young prince's patience more and more; you could sense that the tension was growing, and it was only a matter of time before something would need to give. "He's been taking them on hunts and finding ways to keep them occupied. He does his best to ensure they remain... entertained."

Penelope sighed, her eyes lowering to her lap. Her fingers traced the edge of the table idly, the tiredness once again visible in her features. "How long can I keep them at bay?" she whispered, almost to herself. "It's been twenty years now... how much longer must I hold them off?"

The sorrow in her voice was palpable, and for a moment, the silence in the room seemed to deepen, broken only by the distant sounds of the waves outside.

Knowing your place, you tried to offer her comfort, your voice gentle but resolute. "My queen, remember what your husband promised you?" you began softly, stepping closer. "You told me once, in confidence, that he swore he'd sooner fall into the River Styx than betray his vow to you. King Odysseus will find his way back to you, no matter the trials he faces."

Penelope looked up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She gave you a watery smile, her shoulders lifting slightly as she sighed once more, her posture relaxing just a bit. "Thank you, ____," she whispered. "Sometimes... I need reminding."

As she finished her meal, Penelope glanced at you again, her expression softer. ____, would you perhaps sing for us tonight at dinner? The halls could use some joy, and your voice has always been a comfort to us all."

You smiled warmly, bowing your head. "Anything for you, my queen," you replied, your voice filled with warmth and sincerity.

☆

☆

The palace kitchens were bustling with commotion. The air was filled with the smells of herbs, freshly baked bread, and simmering stews as people moved back and forth, their arms full with ingredients, plates, and cooking tools.

Voices overlapped, cooks shouting out commands, and scullery maids scrambling to keep up with the rapid pace. The clinking of pots and pans rang out like a steady rhythm, the heartbeat of the palace.

You moved gracefully through the chaos, the tray held carefully in your hands until you found an empty space on the counter to place it down. You glanced up just in time to hear a voice raised in frustration.

"Gods above! Another request for roast peacock and olives, as if we're swimming in olive oil and gold!" The man in question was the head cook, a greying, scowling figure by the name of Argon, his face twisted in annoyance as he ranted to a younger kitchen boy. His voice was deep, roughened from years of shouting over the din of the kitchen. His hands were covered in flour, his apron stained with the work of the day.

The moment his eyes landed on you, however, his fierce expression softened considerably, and the scowl fell from his lips. "Ah, ____," he called, cutting himself off mid-rant, his eyes crinkling kindly. "How are you, girl? Did the queen enjoy her breakfast?"

You gave him a polite bow, smiling as you replied, "She did, Master Argon, thank you. Though she did ask if it would be possible to have a lighter broth for her dinner later on. She's not feeling up to anything too rich today."

Argon's face softened further, a gentle smile replacing the frustration. "Of course, of course. Anything for the queen," he murmured. But his face soon fell back into a scowl, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "If only those no-good suitors were anything like the queen. They want to eat like kings every single night! Extravagance, waste... they're draining the storage dry with their demands." He let out a gruff sigh, slamming a rolling pin onto a pile of dough with a bit more force than necessary.

You hummed in understanding, your brow furrowing slightly. "Perhaps I can speak with Prince Telemachus," you offered, your voice gentle. "Maybe he can convince them to bring in more from their hunts. They should replace what they take if they want to keep demanding so much."

Argon looked at you, his eyes warming as he paused his work. "You're too kind, ____. Always thinking of everyone else. A real beauty, inside and out." He reached out and patted your arm gently before turning back to his dough, the scowl still lingering but tempered by your promise. "Go on now, and watch out for yourself. Those halls are filled with troublemakers."

You nodded, offering him one last smile before turning to leave the busy kitchen.

As you walked down the quieter hall, the hustle and bustle fading behind you, you were suddenly yanked around a corner, your heart leaping in surprise.

You found yourself face-to-face with a familiar grin.

"Cleo!" you gasped, a laugh escaping you as you steadied yourself. Cleo was a striking girl—pale skin, long blonde hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, and bright green eyes that always seemed to be filled with mischief. She was beautiful, with delicate features and a playful smile that could charm just about anyone.

Cleo giggled, her eyes sparkling. "Sorry, sorry! I just had to catch you before you disappeared again," she said, her voice light and teasing. "Are you free later? A few of us girls are planning to head over to where the young suitors will be gathering after dinner. We thought we'd do a little... mingling." She waggled her eyebrows at you suggestively, her grin widening.

You furrowed your brows, shaking your head. "I can't. Queen Penelope has asked me to sing tonight at dinner."

Cleo groaned dramatically, then giggled once more. "No worries, we'll just have to use your beautiful voice to get serenaded by those dashing suitors," she teased, nudging you lightly.

You scoffed, a smile tugging at your lips, though you couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. "You know better than to be fooling around with those suitors, Cleo," you said, your tone more serious. "They aren't interested in anything more than fleeting entertainment. You could get hurt."

Cleo just rolled her eyes, her expression shifting to one of nonchalance. "Oh, ____, you worry too much. They're rich, and we're just servants. I'm just having fun while it lasts. It's harmless." She waved her hand dismissively, her green eyes twinkling with defiance. "Not all of us have a handsome prince practically hanging on our arm."

You blinked, feeling your cheeks grow warm at her words. "Cleo, it's not like that," you stammered, waving her off, but she just laughed, giving you a knowing look before skipping away down the hall, her laughter echoing behind her.

You watched her go, your face still flushed, before you shook your head, letting out a sigh. You had to get back to your duties, and today that meant ensuring you completed Penelope's request.

As a personal handmaiden, your duties varied greatly, often requiring you to attend to the queen's comfort, whether it was keeping her space tidy, arranging her garments, or fetching whatever she needed; but today, all the queen asked of you was to bring music back to the halls.

You headed towards a small shed built on the edge of the palace grounds, a place dedicated solely for your instruments.

Not too long after you had settled into the palace, Penelope had discovered your talent for singing. She had been utterly moved, telling you that your voice was the first thing that had stirred her heart since her husband left for war.

Wanting to nurture your gift, she had this little structure built to hold the growing pile of instruments she would acquire for you.

Whenever Penelope came across a unique or exotic instrument—whether it be at a market, a gift from a visiting dignitary, or a trinket discovered in the palace storerooms—she would have it sent to you.

You always seemed to master whatever instrument she placed in your hands, your fingers learning the strings, keys, or beats with an ease that brought joy to her otherwise weary heart.

The inside of the shed was filled with an assortment of Greek instruments—lyres of varying sizes, an aulos, a kithara, and a pandura.

But there were also instruments that were much more exotic: a Chinese guzheng with its shimmering strings, a small djembe drum with intricate carvings, brought by a trader from distant African lands, and even an erhu with its hauntingly beautiful tone.

Penelope loved seeing you interact with these exotic gifts, marveling at how easily you brought each one to life with music.

You stepped into the shed, the familiar smell of polished wood and aged parchment wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

You selected your favorite lyre, the one Penelope had given you first, and turned back towards the private courtyard—a space often used for rehearsing or practicing away from the prying eyes of the palace.

The courtyard was quiet, filled with blooming flowers and shaded by tall olive trees, providing you with the tranquility you needed.

You began practicing the song the queen had requested, your voice rising softly amidst the rustling leaves and the gentle breeze."I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free..."

The song was one of love and loss, a haunting melody of tragedy and reunion. It was a ballad you created for her; a tale of lovers separated by fate, only to find each other again through trials and tears.

As you sang, you did not notice how the sun seemed to shine down on you a little brighter, as if the heavens themselves were listening.

The small flowers around you swayed gently, their blossoms leaning towards you as though you were their light.

The air seemed to hum in harmony, a warmth spreading through the courtyard, and the leaves of the olive trees rustled softly, almost in applause.

There was a beauty in the moment that felt almost divine, as if the earth and sky were united by the sound of your voice, each note resonating with the hope and pain carried in the song.

And as the last note rung out and you struck the final chord on the lyre, you felt a warmth roll over you, like the embrace of sunlight on a cold day.

A low voice sighed from nearby, whispering, "Gods, I don't think I could ever tire of hearing you sing..."

Startled, you opened your eyes, your gaze shifting towards the voice.

Leaning casually against the trunk of a tall cypress tree stood a young man, his presence subtly commanding the tranquil courtyard. His hair, dark and curly, fell in messy waves around his face, some strands clinging stubbornly to his forehead and cheekbones.

He was dressed in the fine garments of royalty—a rich, deep blue himation draped over a white tunic, the fabric of which was adorned with golden embroidery along its edges.

His skin held a warm, sun-kissed hue, with faint traces of stubble gracing his jawline and upper lip, giving him a rugged, almost wild look. His build was lean but solid, showing a life that spoke of training and discipline.

Though youthful, there was a quiet intensity in his sharp features, a hint of something deeper beneath his calm, collected exterior. He seemed almost a part of the earth itself, grounded, unwavering, and watching.

You breathed out softly, "Prince Telemachus."

The young man's smile widened at the sound of your voice, his eyes lighting up with a mix of admiration and warmth as he began making his way over to you, his footsteps quiet against the stone pathway.

Telemachus reached you and, without a hint of hesitation, plopped himself down on the grass beside you.

Internally, you wanted to fret about him getting his fine clothes dirty, but you knew better by now—Telemachus had always been one to ignore such trivial concerns, brushing them off with that same carefree grin.

He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a boyish delight. "I swear, I could listen to you sing that a hundred times over. Especially the part where you..." He cleared his throat, attempting to mimic a line, though his voice wobbled in a way that was both charming and utterly off-key. "...Wᵉeᵖ fᵒr ʸoᵘ, mʸ lᵒsᵗ lᵒvᵉ..."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound spilling out as you shook your head, nudging his leg gently. "Not quite, my prince. Perhaps leave the singing to those of us who aren't heirs to Ithaca," you teased, setting the lyre aside. He chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Before he leaned back, though, he hesitated. "Wait a second..." he murmured, and his fingers reached out, brushing away a stray lock of hair that had fallen over your cheek.

Your breath caught as he leaned in closer, his hand lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

His eyes met yours, the warmth in them somehow soft yet piercing. His lips curled into a smile, his gaze holding yours as he hummed in approval. "...There."

The space between you seemed to vanish, and your pulse quickened, your heart racing over this simple, fleeting touch.

You swallowed, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you looked back at him, your thoughts whirling. Surely he could hear the drumming of your heart?

But then he pulled away, completely relaxed, as though he hadn't just sent you into a whirlwind of overthinking.

Telemachus stretched back, lying flat on the grass with a contented sigh, his arms tucked behind his head as a makeshift pillow. His eyes drifted closed, his face bathed in the golden light of the sun.

His expression was carefree, as though he hadn't a worry in the world, and you watched the way the sunlight traced the lines of his jaw, highlighting the boyish softness that lingered in his face.

His curls shone like burnished bronze, his skin glowing with the warmth of someone untouched by the weight he carried.

You couldn't help but think how effortlessly at ease he seemed, oblivious to the way he'd set your heart into overdrive.

Suddenly, he popped open an eye, startling you out of your thoughts. You quickly looked down, fiddling with the strings of your lyre, pretending to adjust them.

Telemachus sat up, his gaze fixed on you, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Mother told me you'll be singing tonight," he said, his voice soft.

You nodded, your eyes still cast downward. "Yes, my prince, that is correct."

Telemachus hummed, absently toying with a blade of grass between his fingers. "Will you be playing her favorite song?" he asked, his tone curious.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Of course, my prince," you replied. His mother's favorite song was one you knew by heart, each note infused with the hope she carried through the years of waiting.

Telemachus' eyes softened, his smile turning sad. He looked up at you, his gaze earnest. "I'm glad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I fear it's the only thing that's been keeping her 'here'."

You both knew what he meant. The weight of the years was heavy on her, and there were moments it seemed her spirit had almost drifted away.

There was a silence between you, the kind that held shared understanding, until suddenly, Telemachus' lips curled into a smirk. His features glowed with a mischievous charm, his gaze twinkling as he leaned closer.

You couldn't help but notice the light scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose, almost hidden beneath the shade of his dark curls.

"Tell me, ____," he said, his voice teasing as he looked up at you from under his long lashes, "will you ever write a song for me?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your heart raced, warmth rushing to your cheeks.

Little did the prince know, you had written hundreds of songs about him—about the love you harbored for him but were too afraid to speak of. You turned away slightly, trying to calm yourself before stuttering out, "O-of course, my prince. All you need to do is ask."

Telemachus chuckled, the sound soft and almost affectionate. "It's okay," he said, shaking his head, still toying with the blade of grass. "I'd rather you write one for me without asking, for me to be your muse. Otherwise, it wouldn't be any better than me paying for a song, would it?"

Before either of you could say anything more, loud voices cut through the tranquility of the courtyard.

You looked up, startled, to see a group of suitors ambling down the courtyard, their voices echoing off the palace walls. They were dressed in hunting gear—thick tunics, leather belts, and their bows slung across their backs.

The men spoke loudly, laughing amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.

Telemachus let out a groan, throwing his head back, cursing softly under his breath as he stood up, brushing the grass off his garments.

The group of suitors moved closer, one of them impatiently calling out, "Little Wolf! We're waiting for you; hurry up! We want to hunt a bit before we head back for dinner."

Another laughed, elbowing his friend as he added, "Maybe we can charm some 'desserts' out of a servant or two while we're at it." The rest of them laughed in agreement.

Telemachus cast a glance down at you, his eyes softening for a moment as if checking to see if you were alright. But after noticing that you seemed unbothered by their crassness, he frowned, turning back to the suitors. "It's uncouth for you all to lust after another household's servants," he said, his voice stern.

One of the suitors laughed him off, shaking his head. "A servant is a servant, no matter the location, Telemachus," he replied dismissively.

It was then that one of the suitors, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scruffy beard, took notice of you sitting on the ground behind Telemachus. His eyes narrowed, and a sleazy smile spread across his face. "Well, hello there," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance as he began to move toward you.

Before he could take another step, Telemachus moved swiftly, positioning himself between the suitor and you.

The easygoing smile that had once graced his lips was replaced by a cold, serious expression. His eyes darkened as he stared down the suitor, who paused before letting out a derisive laugh. "Ah, I see. This one's taken by the prince, is she?" he sneered.

Telemachus didn't rise to the bait, his voice steady and uninterested. "We're wasting daylight. If you want to hunt, let's get going," he said, sidestepping the taunts.

With a few more muttered comments, the group of suitors eventually turned away, moving on with their plans.

As they walked off, Telemachus stood still, waiting until they were at a good distance before turning back to you. He offered his hand to help you up, and with one graceful motion, he pulled you to your feet with ease, his strength evident as he lifted you almost effortlessly.

You steadied yourself, murmuring a soft thank you. But just as Telemachus was about to walk away, you found yourself reaching out, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Prince Telemachus," you called softly.

He turned, his face softening as he looked down at you, his full attention on you now.

You had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his gaze, your fingers slipping from his wrist only for his hand to turn, grasping yours gently in return. The warmth of his palm against yours steadied you.

You swallowed nervously, pushing through your frazzled thoughts. "Would it be possible... to get the suitors to cut back on their extravagance? Or perhaps encourage them to bring in more from their hunts? The kitchen storage is running low. The demands are getting quite... difficult to manage," you said, your voice almost a whisper.

Telemachus met your gaze, the intensity in his eyes fading into something gentler as he offered you a small smile, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. "Of course, ____," he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "I'll take care of it." 

You had a room to yourself, and that was more than most servants could ever dream of.

Servants usually stayed in the common quarters, sharing their space with others—no privacy, no quiet moments, so having your own room—albeit a tiny one—felt like a luxury, a place where you could gather your thoughts in peace, surrounded by familiar, if simple, comforts.

In this space, the worries of the palace faded, leaving only the gentle hum of your own heartbeat and the soft echo of music that seemed to linger even in silence.

Here, you could lay down the weight of duty, if only for a little while.

And for that, you were thankful.

You hummed softly to yourself as you prepared for the evening's performance.

Your chiton was simple—white, loose, and flowing, cinched at the waist with a thin cord. The cloth was light, airy, and allowed you to move comfortably—perfect for an evening of singing.

There was nothing grand about it, yet the purity of the white fabric gave you a sense of grace and calm.

Settling onto the stool, you picked up your lyre, letting it rest gently in your lap.

As your fingers moved deftly along each string, coaxing it back into tune, you began to oil them, the scent of olive oil filling the small room.

Suddenly, a warmth bloomed at your fingertips—a faint, tingling sensation. It was a sensation you couldn't quite place—a hum that seemed to pulse through the strings, the kind that felt almost... alive.

As you worked, the hum deepened, like a heartbeat echoing through the wood.

For a fleeting moment, the air in the room had grown thick, a hush settling over everything as if the world outside had faded, leaving only you and this ancient instrument.

Your fingertips continued to tingle, and you swear you felt a pulse beneath them, steady and calm, mirroring the beat of your own heart.

And for a fleeting moment, the sound grew in warmth, the strings shimmering faintly as they caught the light filtering through the window.

A shiver ran through you, and you stilled, watching the faint glimmer along the strings with wide eyes.

The resonance felt almost like a whisper of something familiar, a presence that had lingered since childhood—one that filled you with warmth and promise.

It felt like a quiet companionship—a steady hand guiding you forward, filling you with an inexplicable sense of safety and purpose.

A soft knock on your bedroom door pulled you from your thoughts, making you jump slightly; the room returned to its quiet normalcy in an instant. 

The glow had faded, the hum of the strings softened to silence, as if the lyre had settled back into itself, leaving you to wonder if you'd only imagined it.

Setting the lyre gently on the table, you rose from the stool, smoothing down your chiton.

"Come in," you called, your voice steady despite the lingering confusion in your mind.

You couldn't help but glance back at the lyre for a brief moment, wondering at the strange warmth you'd felt, before turning your attention to the door.

The wooden door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

As the light spilled across his face, your heart skipped a beat; it was Telemachus. "My prince, you're back so soon..." you started, but your words trailed off as you noticed the strange, almost dazed expression on his face.

He stood there, framed by the light of the hallway, his expression unsteady, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He looked different—his usually composed demeanor replaced by an almost haunted look. His clothes were rumpled, his hunting cloak hanging loosely around his shoulders, as if he'd forgotten to fasten it properly.

Dust clung to his boots, and his hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching ever so slightly.

Worry tugged at your chest, and you took a hesitant step forward, your fingers hovering just above his arm. "Telemachus... Are you alright?"

At the sound of your voice, his gaze sharpened, focusing on you as though you'd just pulled him back from some distant place.

He let out a shaky breath, and you could see his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, as if he were catching up with the reality before him.

For a moment, he looked at you with eyes wide, unblinking—caught between disbelief and relief. His lips parted, and then closed again, unable to form the words.

"My father..." he whispered finally, his voice so low you could barely hear it. 

Your heart stilled, your breath catching in your throat. Your mind raced, filling with the countless possibilities that lay behind those two words.

Telemachus' face twisted, as if he were caught between two worlds—one of sorrow and one of hope—and for a fleeting moment, you feared the worst.

Though you had never met King Odysseus, the stories Queen Penelope had shared of him and the drawings depicting his glory made you feel as though you knew him.

Tears stung your eyes before you could stop them, "T-Telemachus... I'm so sorry—"

But before the weight of grief could settle, Telemachus surprised you.

Instead of breaking down in tears, he reached out, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that sent a jolt through you.

His fingers trembled against your cheeks, his palms warm and steady, but what struck you most were his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. A wild, uncontainable joy danced within them, making them look brighter, alive with an intensity that took your breath away.

Then, a smile—a raw, unfiltered grin—broke across his face, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, making the expression even more radiant and true.

"No," he breathed, his voice trembling with an awe that sent shivers down your spine. "He's alive, ____... my father... he's here." The words fell from his lips like a revelation, his voice rough, as if he hardly believed it himself.

Your mind raced, trying to process what he'd just said. You searched his face, looking for any sign of jest, but all you saw was truth—pure, shining, undeniable truth.

You rapidly blinked away your tears as a wide, disbelieving smile spread across your face. "How...? How do you know? Where is he?" The words tumbled out, your voice breaking with emotion.

Telemachus laughed softly, the sound wavering with a touch of disbelief, his eyes misting with the same overwhelming happiness you felt. "I'll explain everything, I swear, ____. But there's no time—we need to act now, and I need your help."

Without another word, he released you, slipping his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around you in one swift movement.

The fabric was thick and heavy, carrying the earthy scent of pine and the faint, lingering trace of the day's sun, mixed with the warm, familiar scent of him—a hint of cedar and a faint musk, the unmistakable scent you'd come to associate with his presence.

It fell around you like a shield, warm and protective, and he gently tugged it closer around your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your arms.

"Come with me," he urged, his voice a soft command, filled with a mix of urgency and something else—a quiet, unspoken trust.

The look he gave you was steady, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that moment, you understood: Whatever lay ahead, he wanted you by his side.

He bustled you out of the room, keeping you close as he led you through the dim corridors, his steps swift but cautious, his hand hovering just above your back.

The two of you always stayed to the shadows, avoiding the eyes of others.

You could feel his fingers brush against you whenever you faltered, grounding you, guiding you through the dark.

Every so often, you glanced over, catching the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes darted to every corner, his shoulders tense beneath the weight of everything he now knew.

Your heart pounded, questions swirling in your mind, but you kept your silence, understanding that patience was key.

At last, the two of you slipped through a side door, stepping into the cool evening air; the castle seemed to grow quieter as you moved further away from the central halls. 

The sound of livestock and the earthy scent of hay thickened as you approached the swineherd's hut—Eumaeus' humble dwelling.

The ground beneath your feet turned to packed dirt, the rich smell of hay and animals mixing into the air.

The hut was far from the castle, a place that seemed almost forgotten, where the night's darkness wrapped around you both like a cloak.

You tugged gently on Telemachus's arm, and he paused, leaning down to catch your whispered words. "Telemachus, dinner will start soon..." you murmured, your voice laced with concern.

He gave you a reassuring nod, a small smile touching his lips. "Don't worry," he whispered back. He turned towards the door, giving a peculiar knock—three sharp raps followed by two softer ones.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Telemachus ushered you inside, his hand resting briefly on your back as he guided you into the dim space.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

The interior was humble, the flickering orange glow of a small hearth barely illuminating the walls. The smell of livestock—hay and the musky scent of pigs—lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke.

You looked around, taking in the rough-hewn furniture, the clay pots along one wall, and the woven blankets thrown across a worn bench. It was a simple space, but there was warmth here, a sense of comfort that spoke of long years of loyalty and care.

Your gaze shifted, and you stopped when your eyes landed on two figures standing a bit further back.

You blinked, recognizing one of them as Eumaeus. You gave the swineherd a sweet smile in greeting before your eyes strayed to the unknown man, standing behind Eumaeus, his form shadowed and hunched.

Eumaeus responded with a fond smile before walking over to Telemachus, giving him a knowing grin, his tone teasing. "So, you're off to get help, and of course, it's her you bring," he said, chuckling as he patted Telemachus on the shoulder.

Telemachus shrugged, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned Eumaeus's smile with a shy grin. Eumaeus added, "Well, you did say you'd go get the best option around, didn't you?" with a teasing lilt, making Telemachus' ears redden slightly.

But your eyes stayed fixed on the other figure.

He looked old, his clothing tattered and dirty, the lines on his face etched deep by years of hardship.

He held himself like a beggar, but there was something else in his eyes—a glint, a sharpness beneath the surface.

As you stared at him, you saw the flicker of something familiar—an underlying wit and mischief that tugged at the corners of your mind.

Telemachus stepped next to you, his voice gentle. "____, this is—"

Before he could finish, you stepped forward, bowing deeply before the man. "King Odysseus," you said, your voice steady, a hint of reverence beneath it. "It's a true honor to be in your presence. Queen Penelope has spoken of you often. To finally meet you is a joy I cannot express."

As you rose, a soft smile graced your lips—warm, sincere, with a hint of knowing.

Telemachus turned to you, his brows furrowed in amazement. "But... how did you...?" he asked, incredulous. "He looks nothing like my father—he's disguised!"

You gave a soft laugh, casting a gentle look from Telemachus to Odysseus. "True," you said, your eyes twinkling with mirth, "but no disguise can hide the soul. You both share the same mischievous eyes, the same spark that no cloak or dirt could ever conceal." You turned your gaze back to the man, and a wide grin spread across his face.

Odysseus chuckled, the sound deep and approving, his eyes crinkling as he watched you with newfound respect. "Bright girl," he murmured, his voice rich with admiration, before turning to his son. "You picked well, Telemachus," he added, his tone carrying a hidden meaning that made the prince flush, though a smile spread across his lips.

The lines on Odysseus' face softened as he gazed at his son—a glimmer of pride, a silent acknowledgment of the bond between them, as if he saw something of himself in Telemachus reflected back.

Odysseus' face then shifted, the warmth in his gaze dimming as his face hardened. Lines carved by years of war and hardship deepened, casting shadows over his stern features. He straightened, rising to his full height, and for a moment, it felt as though he filled the entire room.

The faint firelight flickered against his face, casting him in sharp relief, illuminating the fierce, hawk-like gaze that held each of you captive.

His presence was undeniable, almost overwhelming—a commanding energy that seemed to radiate from him, rippling through the room like a gathering storm.

Despite the humble rags draped over his shoulders, there was nothing of the beggar about him now; he stood like a king, his bearing more regal than the finest robes could ever convey.

He got straight to business, reexplaining what he had told Telemachus—his troubles, his arduous journey back, and the suitors that plagued Ithaca.

As he spoke, his voice was low but unyielding, every word imbued with a simmering fury that was barely restrained, like embers waiting to ignite.

He spoke of the suitors' disrespect, his jaw clenched as he described their mockery of his home and family. His fists tightened, and you could see the faint tremor in his hands—a testament to the deep, barely contained wrath within him.

It was a silent promise, an unspoken warning that whatever mercy he might have once shown had been long spent.

"These men—these pretenders—desecrate my halls, mock my family. They think themselves safe, sheltered by my absence..." he said, his voice rising before he stilled, inhaling deeply; the air seemed to grow colder as he clenched his fists, the tendons flexing beneath his weathered skin. "But they will learn," he continued, his tone edged with steel, "that no man defies Odysseus and walks away unscathed."

Eumaeus and Telemachus exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting to mirror the intensity that radiated from Odysseus.

You could see the tension in Telemachus' posture, a mix of pride and anticipation flickering in his gaze as he watched his father, fully understanding the force about to be unleashed.

It was as if, in this moment, Odysseus' years of suffering had crystallized into a single, unbreakable resolve, his very presence a testament to his unyielding will.

Then his gaze shifted, softening as it settled on you, Eumaeus, and Telemachus—a quiet resolve in his eyes that held both respect and a trace of weariness. "But with you—the few servants and handmaidens who have not betrayed Ithaca... we might have a chance," he continued, his voice steady, softened with a gratitude that flickered beneath the tension etched in his features.

You blinked, momentarily bewildered, the word hanging in your mind.  "Betrayed?"

Odysseus's eyes snapped toward his son. Telemachus stilled, his shoulders tensing before he sighed and turned to you. "The others... the handmaidens... they weren't just fooling around with the suitors. They were trading secrets, leaking information, undermining us."

A chill settled over you as the weight of his words sank in.

Suddenly, the betrayal felt closer, sharper.

Faces you'd trusted flashed through your mind, but none stood out more painfully than Cleo's—the friend you thought had been as loyal as you were.

The realization struck you like a blow—the loss of her loyalty an ache you hadn't anticipated. 

Her smiling face flashed before your eyes. You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories. "Cleo... what have you done..." you murmured mournfully, your voice breaking.

Odysseus' gaze softened for a moment, understanding glimmering in his eyes, but his voice remained steady, resolute. "Greed, lust, ambition—they cloud judgment and poison loyalty," he said. "Such betrayal will be answered. But right now, we must focus on what lies ahead: reclaiming our home."

Nodding, you steeled yourself, your shoulders squaring with determination. Odysseus gave a curt nod, pleased, and continued, outlining the plan and what would happen next.

☆

☆

Telemachus swiftly led you back to your room, his hand still holding yours firmly, the warmth of his grasp grounding you through the turmoil of emotions.

Outside your door, he looked both ways cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows before turning back to you.

"Just stick to the plan, everything will be fine," he whispered, his voice soft, almost a plea, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze; he still hadn't let go as if reluctant to release you.

You breathed out slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Okay," you whispered back, staring up at him.

The hood of the cloak swallowed your features, almost entirely hiding your face. It was only then that you remembered you were still wearing it.

You glanced down at the heavy fabric and whispered, "Your cloak..."

You began to move, reaching to take it off, but Telemachus quickly stopped you, his hands gently hovering over your own. "No need," he smiled, his eyes kind, lingering on you for a moment longer before he hurried off, the echo of his footsteps fading into the dim hallway.

With a soft sigh, you pushed open the door, stepping back into the small solace of your room.

You moved towards the window, staring out at the night sky. The stars were beginning to twinkle, scattered like tiny diamonds across a velvet expanse.

The cool evening air drifted through the cracks, and you breathed it in, letting it calm your nerves.

You knew dinner was just around the bend, and you quickly moved to finish getting ready.

Shedding Telemachus' cloak, you folded it neatly and set it on the bed. You reached for your lyre, giving the strings one last careful tuning, listening for the perfect resonance.

Then you knelt before the bed, pulling out a small clay box.

Inside was the golden laurel leaf—a gift from years ago. It glistened in the dim light, shimmering just as it had back then, a symbol of your devotion.

You carefully set the wreath upon your head, feeling the weight settle in place, completing the look. Just as you adjusted it, there was a knock at your door.

Startled, you quickly pushed the box back under the bed, smoothing out your clothes before moving to open the door.

It was Cleo, her familiar smile greeting you as she peered in. "Dinner is almost ready," she said, her tone cheerful, "and your area is set up for you to begin playing."

You gave her a small nod, the corners of your lips lifting. "Give me a moment," you replied, turning to fetch your lyre.

As the two of you walked towards the dining hall, you fought to keep your face calm, your lips from trembling, your eyes from welling up with tears.

Every step felt like a battle—the kind that raged silently inside, tearing at your heart and leaving you gasping for strength.

There was so much you wanted to say—to scream at her, to demand answers. The betrayal twisted deep in your chest, tearing at your resolve.

Cleo was your first friend after becoming Queen Penelope's handmaiden.

You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories.

To find out that she had betrayed Ithaca—it was worse than you could ever imagine. The memories flooded you as you walked, each one twisting the knife deeper.

You clenched your jaw, forcing a neutral smile, fighting the growing storm inside you.

The hallway seemed endless, the echoes of your footsteps a steady reminder of the façade you had to maintain, even when it felt like you were shattering inside.

Soon, the dining halls came into view, the dim lighting growing brighter as the torches along the walls flickered. The air filled with the low murmur of muffled conversations, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

As you approached the doors, your steps slowed.

Cleo let out an excited gasp, clutching your arm. "Look," she whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. She nodded towards the cracked door.

Through the narrow gap, you could see the lavish feast already underway.

The grand table was laden with extravagant food—platters piled high with roasted meats, bowls brimming with ripe fruits, flagons of wine that shimmered in the torchlight. Honey-drizzled bread, golden and steaming, lay in abundance, filling the air with a warm, rich scent.

At the table sat the suitors, loud and boisterous, their voices raised in merriment, laughter echoing off the high ceilings as they drank and talked without restraint.

Cleo pointed to the center of the table, her gaze brightening as it landed on a striking figure. "That's Antinous," she said, her voice hushed but filled with admiration. "Son of Eupeithes. Isn't he handsome?" She sighed dreamily. "He's from a powerful house. He could have anything he wants."

Antinous' blond hair gleamed under the torchlight, his piercing blue eyes commanding attention even amidst the chaos. His rugged handsomeness was undeniable, but there was an arrogance about him—a smugness that twisted his expression as he spoke, gesturing grandly to those around him.

You gave a disinterested hum, your eyes trailing from the group of men to the far end of the table.

There, alone amidst the noise, sat Penelope. Her head was bowed, her gaze downcast, her posture tired.

She looked as if the weight of all the years had finally settled on her shoulders, her only company, a simple bowl of broth set before her.

You leaned towards Cleo, your voice barely a whisper. "I think I'll go ahead and start playing."

Cleo turned to you, her brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure? You usually warm up?"

You shook your head, a small, strained smile tugging at your lips. "I'm fine," you said softly.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door fully and walked inside.

The atmosphere shifted as the door creaked, the suitors' raucous voices faltering, several heads turning your way.

Penelope looked up, her eyes meeting yours, and for a brief moment, a smile of relief crossed her face, her shoulders seeming to lose some of their tension.

You made your way towards the cushioned seat set a few feet before the table, your lyre clutched close to your chest.

As you moved, your eyes discreetly scanned the room, searching for Telemachus.

But despite your hope, he was nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh, you began playing the Queen's favorite song.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way.

Till shadows fade and dawn returns, I'll wait where echoes stray."

As the soft melody filled the room, moonbeams from a nearby window bathed down on you, the soft silver light reflecting off your white garments, making them shimmer ethereally.

During the day, you soaked in the sun's favor, the golden beams warming your skin, and now at night, it seemed the moon offered you the same devotion, casting a glow that seemed almost unfair.

You swayed gently as you played, your eyes closed, your fingers expertly plucking the lyre's strings with a grace that spoke of years of practice and devotion.

Penelope sat with her eyes closed, her hands clutched to her chest, a single tear escaping down her cheek.

Even the suitors, loud and arrogant just moments before, had fallen silent, captivated by your voice and the haunting melody.

As you strummed the last note, the final echoes of your song fading into the stillness, a silence hung over the hall.

It remained until Antinous broke it, clapping loudly. "Bravo!" he called, his voice echoing, and the rest of the suitors immediately joined in, their applause filling the room.

From across the hall, Antinous stared at you, his gaze lingering, his eyes piercing through the distance. It made you shift uncomfortably, the intensity of his attention unsettling.

He flashed you a smile, the kind meant to charm, and spoke in a loud, confident voice. "Your voice is extraordinary. I wish we had such talented singers back home."

You forced a polite smile, your head dipping slightly in thanks.

Not a moment later, the double doors pushed open, and in walked Telemachus, followed closely by a man cloaked in rags—Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar.

The room fell into hushed murmurs, the air thick with confusion and curiosity.

Antinous was the first to react, rising from his seat, his gaze narrowing on the two figures as he crossed his arms arrogantly over his chest.

"Telemachus," he began, his voice dripping with a mix of mockery and irritation, "who is this you've brought to our feast? Another beggar to entertain us?" He gestured dismissively towards Odysseus, his lips twisting into a sneer. "I thought the castle had already enough mouths to feed, or perhaps you're running out of servants and need the charity of beggars now?"

The other suitors erupted into laughter, their cruel voices echoing off the stone walls, jeering at the sight of Odysseus. Some called out taunts, others shook their heads in disdain, whispering amongst themselves about the audacity of Telemachus to bring such a figure before them.

Telemachus stood tall, though his jaw tightened at their ridicule. He opened his mouth to speak, but Penelope beat him to it.

She rose from her seat, her gaze cutting sharply towards Antinous, her voice carrying a strength that commanded silence. "Enough," she said, her tone polite but leaving no room for argument. "He is our guest, and as such, he deserves respect."

She looked to Odysseus, her expression softening, though there was no recognition in her eyes. "Please, stay for dinner and enjoy a beautiful show. You are welcome here, traveler." Her words were measured, her smile gentle but tinged with weariness.

Odysseus' gaze lingered on Penelope, his eyes softening at the sight of her, a longing flickering across his face that he quickly masked with a humble bow of his head. "You honor me, my lady," he replied, his voice rough with a practiced humility. "I shall accept your hospitality gratefully."

Penelope nodded, her eyes shifting to Telemachus, offering him a small, reassuring smile before sitting back down, her fingers once more wrapping around her untouched bowl of broth.

Odysseus moved to the side, his eyes watching the suitors with a careful gaze, observing the men who had taken over his hall, violated the sanctity of his home, and pushed his family to the brink.

The tension was palpable, a quiet storm brewing under his composed exterior, his resolve only solidified by the disdain thrown his way.

Antinous called out suddenly, his voice dripping with derision. "Servant girl! Play us another tune, something a bit jollier!" His command was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the hall.

For the first time in a long while, you saw the Queen's face marred by anger. A scowl darkened Penelope's features, her eyes narrowing as she snapped, "Don't you dare order her around." Her voice carried a chilling edge, a fierce protectiveness that hushed the room instantly. "She will play what I deem fit." Her gaze locked with Antinous', daring him to challenge her authority.

The room tilted into a tense silence.

Telemachus sat by her side, his face betraying a small flicker of sadness. He watched his mother, seeing the strain in her eyes—the fight she had been holding for far too long.

The suitors, who had grown accustomed to Penelope's patient endurance, were visibly taken aback by her outburst. For years she had kept her emotions under a tight lock, never allowing a crack in her composure.

Your voice broke the silence, soft and gentle. "My Queen... would you like for me to play your song again?"

Penelope turned to you, her expression softening, a warmth returning to her eyes. "Yes, dear, please..." she whispered, her lips curving into a grateful smile.

Once again, your voice filled the dining hall, the haunting melody echoing from the lyre's strings.

As you sang, Odysseus' eyes were fixed on you, his expression one of awe. The sound of your voice stirred something deep within him, the notes wrapping around his heart, cracking the walls he had built.

He felt his chest tighten, realizing with a pang of bittersweet sorrow that the song was an ode to him, a reflection of Penelope's undying love.

It made his longing to set things right grow more urgent, more determined.

As the final note lingered in the air, fading into the hushed silence of the room, Penelope waved you over, her hand lifting gently. To your surprise, she said, "You may take a short break, dear."

You froze for a moment in shock, your eyes darting up to meet Telemachus'. He gave you an encouraging nod, a supportive smile on his lips.

Slowly, your own lips twitched up into a smile, and you bowed your head in thanks. "Thank you, my Queen," you murmured, preparing to step back and head towards where the other servants ate.

But before you could move, Penelope's hand gently grasped your arm, her touch soft yet insistent. "Stay," she said, "eat here tonight."

You stilled, your heart fluttering in both nervousness and an unexpected warmth. Your eyes flickered towards Telemachus again, and his smile only widened, nodding once more in encouragement.

You smiled back, bowing your head slightly before agreeing, "As you wish, my Queen."

Before you could find a seat, Telemachus was already on his feet. He moved swiftly, fetching a chair and placing it beside Penelope, ensuring you had a place at her side.

You whispered your thanks as he pushed the chair forward for you, a sense of gratitude swelling in your chest as you took your seat, the warmth of their kindness enveloping you amidst the otherwise hostile room.

After a few minutes of peaceful eating, Antinous burst into the conversation, his voice rough as he drank deeply from a large goblet of wine. "Telemachus," he called out, irritation clear in his tone, "are you going to tell us who's this beggar you've brought among us?" He sat arrogantly at the head of the long table—Odysseus' rightful seat—before standing slowly, each step deliberate as he strolled down the length of the table towards them.

Odysseus bowed his head slightly, speaking up in a humble tone. "I am Aethon, from Crete," he said, his voice steady despite the eyes on him. "I am merely traveling through, looking for a place to rest and fill my belly for the night."

Antinous stopped in front of him, a scoff escaping his lips as he looked Odysseus up and down, his eyes filled with disdain. "A beggar indeed," he sneered. "Look at you—filthy, ragged. Ithaca should be above sheltering such wretches." He shook his head, his voice laced with contempt.

You clenched your jaw, suppressing the scowl that threatened to mar your face, feeling the bubbling anger rise. Not only was he speaking to your King—whether he knew it or not—but his actions went against xenia, the sacred rule of hospitality.

It churned your stomach, the blatant disrespect cutting deeply.

Odysseus, however, did not waver. He met Antinous' gaze evenly, a small smile playing at his lips. "It is true," he replied, his tone calm, almost serene. "I may be in rags, and my journey long, but those who forget the value of hospitality, who dishonor their guests—well, they may one day find themselves in need, and then what kindness will be shown to them?"

Antinous' face flushed, the suitors around him shifting awkwardly at the rebuke. The room tensed further, the silence thickening as the arrogance on Antinous' face twisted in irritation.

The pressure had been building for weeks.

Penelope's steadfast refusal to choose among the suitors, Telemachus' bold return, and now the appearance of yet another beggar—these affronts piled on top of each other, pushing Antinous further than ever.

It wasn't just Odysseus' words, but the culmination of the disrespect he felt as Penelope continued to defy them.

Instead of apologizing, instead of righting his wrong, Antinous' hand moved swiftly, striking Odysseus across the face.

A collective gasp echoed in the room.

You flinched, your hand flying to your mouth, horror widening your eyes.

Penelope's face blanched, her hands tightening around her bowl as she tried to mask her shock.

Telemachus looked ready to leap from his seat; his body tensed like a coiled spring, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes flashed with anger, the strain of holding himself back clear in every line of his posture.

The fire in Odysseus' chest, tempered for years, flickered, and he smiled inwardly, knowing that soon it would blaze.