#telemachus x reader

The palace floor was cold beneath your sandalled feet, the light from the torches slowly dimming as you made you way along the endless corridors back to the room the queen of Ithaca had so kindly provided for you and your mother while you were staying on the island. Your mother was a friend of the queen and so the two of you were visiting for a few weeks. You felt like you’d be getting lost in this palace right up until the day you sail back home, the expanse too large to learn the layout of in time for it to have any benefit. You walked with your head tilted down somewhat, hoping to avoid any attention you didn’t need, but when you heard footsteps, you felt the urge to look up and find out who was making their way towards you. As you lifted your head to the height of the man walking your way, your eyes lock with his and you immediately realise who you have just encountered. Prince Telemachus, son of the great Odysseus and Penelope. You’d seen him at dinner earlier that evening, sat talking with his father, words spoken as if they had never heard the other speak before, you suppose that could be the case as Odysseus has only recently returned from his voyage home from Troy. The boy was handsome, brown hair lying in subtle curls and tanned skin from years in the sun, kind eyes and a small smile as he stopped in front of you.

“Good evening, you must be the guests my mother spoke of. I am Telemachus, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke with such an air of confidence that you felt sure he’d make a great king one day. You responded with a gentle nod of your head, feeling as though a bow or curtsy to a prince in the halls at night would be unnecessary, giving him your name and offering a gentle smile. You had noticed that in this growing space of time the prince had not yet taken his eyes off of you, looking at you, your face, your eyes, your hair, even your lips that were all cast in a golden glow from the dying embers of the torches. He was looking at you how one might look at a precious gem, or at the artistry of a perfectly carved lyre, looking at you as if you were art. You tried not to blush under his gaze.

“I was just looking for my way back to my room, I hope I’m not bothering you.” You speak softly, not wanting your voice to echo in the long corridor. He smiles and turns to stand beside you, his hand slowly coming to rest on the small of your back as he turned the two of you around began walking with you.

“You’re not bothering me at all, I can walk you back.” He says, glancing sideways to appreciate the flickering glow cast over your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You’d never felt such a gentle touch as the way he currently had his hand resting on you, feeling the cold on your skin even through your dress when he finally took his hand away to walk beside you. He waited a moment incase you were to speak to him, but he took your silence as a queue to speak to you instead, suddenly desperate to hear the gentle notes of your voice.

“Have you been shown Ithaca yet?” He asked, turning his head to face you to listen for your answer.

“No, my mother has been too busy to walk with me.” You respond, you’d wanted to go on your own, but had been advised against it so had spent the last two days wandering the palace instead and speaking to the other women that lived here.

“I can show you around if you’d like? I could take you to the shore, the sand is always warm here.” He says, mesmerised even by your very few words, he hoped to all the gods that you’d accept his offer and he could spend time with you. He didn’t know why he felt such strong desires to be with you, but he knew that now he’d seen you, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you for a very long time.

“I’d like that.” You hum, your voice edged with a smile as you turned to him. “Thank you.” He smiled back wider and knew in that moment that he wanted to make you smile as much as he possibly could. To make you happy and make you laugh. But that would have to wait until the morning. You reached your room and Telemachus wished you a goodnight, taking your hand to whisper a kiss to the skin on the back of your hand before you closed the door and left him thinking about nothing but your eyes and your smile.

The next morning, you opened your door to Telemachus waiting already where he said he would be the night before, greeting you and talking already about the days plans. So that’s how you found yourself unexpectedly, walking towards the gates of the palace of Ithaca with the Prince beside you, offering you his arm the moment you stepped outside the gates and entered the village. You took it, and let him guide you, let him show you everything he loved about his island. You had not expected to meet this boy, let alone to have him so charmed by you that he would show you parts of his island, spending a day in the village and then meeting again the next morning to continue your tour of the island. He showed you the small temples where statues of gods and goddesses stood tall, Athena, Zeus, Persephone. There was people he introduced you to, friends he spoke to when you passed by, but never once did he let go of your arm, keeping you close by the whole walk through the village and down to the shore. The two of you walked closer to the lapping waves, conversations now flowing like honey, laughter and stories emerging from both of your mouths. You’d never met anyone like Telemachus and likewise Telemachus had never met anyone like you. In a few short days you knew more of him than you had never known of anyone else in your life. He didn’t know much of love, but he could guess that if falling in love were to feel like anything, it would feel just like this, if love were to look like anything, it would look like the sun on your hair, reflecting off of the ocean onto your lips and your eyes and he knew that he didn’t ever want to spend a day without your smile. He thought of the conversations with his father, Odysseus telling him that it wouldn’t be long until he’d take the throne as King of Ithaca, and that he’d need a queen. At the time it felt ridiculous, like finding a queen would be completely unnecessary for him to a good king, but now, sat on the sand under the shade of a nearby tree with you sat beside him, it felt like the easiest and most reasonable truth. If you’d have him, if you’d accept, he’d make you his adored Queen and you could live with each other’s smiles forever. Maybe he was being too hopeful, maybe naive, to think that a girl he’d known for less than three days would ever want that, but he could tell that you were falling too. And the truth is that you were. He’d shown you a whole new world in just a few days and made you feel a way you never knew was possible. So when he leant towards you and softly pressed his lips to yours under the sun, you knew that you’d say yes to anything Telemachus ever asked you. You’d be his wife, his Queen, you’d be with him forever. Because this boy who walked you back to your room, had walked right into your heart and you knew he wasn’t leaving any time soon.

So this is how a dancer lives. Full of golden jewels and bells. To be able to do what they do, I should get drunk on wine. I should make myself forget for whom I am about to dance. I know I do it for him, for his mother, for those who sheltered me, but it still overwhelms me.

With those thoughts, I had left my chambers after the maids took care of me, of my dress. Of the bells that rang now every time I stepped. I know I promised them I would help with the entertainment part of the night. But now, there were more men than I could have thought. Tonight, some envoys, who wanted to strengthen the alliance, came. It didn’t matter who came; it mattered that they were always welcomed and put to dine with the royal family, and I, well, I was supposed to entertain them while others discussed military and trade agreements. The queen said I could improvise.

Before they announced me, before I stepped in front, ready to do what they asked, I prayed: to Apollo, to give me his fire to burn with it as I dance on his songs, to Aphrodite to give me her blessing so I can charm people like I was taught, and to Athena to help me keep my mind when they try to get everything else from me.

It was everything I could do in that moment, so I would not lose myself. When I stepped into the big hall, I could feel the eyes, the curious and lustful ones. I could hear whispers, and while the musicians still sang for them, in my head was pure agony. In the room, the music spilled like wine, it felt like an escape for me and paradise for others. I tried not to look at them, at him. But their eyes burned on my skin, like they tried to figure out my shape under the silk.

Before starting my performance, I went to them—to the queen and the prince, who stood separately along with the envoy at a table across the great hall. My eyes lingered where they shouldn’t, or on whom, right before my bow in front of them. But I couldn’t keep it for myself—all that fire, all the fear and tension which travelled through my body. When I raised my head, my eyes met his, just for a second, but that second was enough to see the wander in that gaze. It was enough for my eyes to see how his brows were knitted together, like something displeased him.

Before I began to dance, I took a deep breath, hearing my heart louder than the music. Let them look at me, I told myself. Let him watch.

I used my body, my voice, everything I had. The bells on my ankle rang to the rhythm that the musicians prepared for me. The silk twisted on my legs, swiftly, like water tried to learn the curve of my thighs. I sang about lands across the sea, about kings who sailed to come home, about heroes who mourned their lost ones, and then about love, about the poison with a taste of honey. Everyone loved to hear the stories of gods and heroes, some for the bloodshed, some for the epic journey with a happy ending. And I knew that the queen’s plan was working. They would always fall for this. They would always look at a beautiful thing and do anything to reach it; they would make me twirl on their pinky finger until my feet ached, but this time, I would play them.

In the midst of music, I could hear the kylikes, the wine spilling, the whispers, the laughs, but at least the queen had time to discuss the important matters, even though I could swear that the one who had to be a diplomat was too drawn to her, and not as a queen.

I already knew that some of them would come eagerly for me, that they would come to touch what was not theirs. So I played with them, I smiled, I sang for them. I whispered sweet words, my fingers lingered on their necks, but gods, how much I hated it. My smile meant nothing. I wanted to get out of their touch, to run, to find my light in this crowd. But then, one dared to keep his hand longer on my waist and lean closer to me, like he had the right to that.

“Nightingale… what else can you sing on your knees?”

A whisper, one that made my skin crawl. But my smile didn’t falter. I was luring them into my game. I just took the man’s hand from my waist and got away from him. A twirl and another man thought he could get me, but I didn’t let him touch me. He had, however, enough time to graze the edge of my himation.

From the corner of my eye, I saw it—a seat, empty. His seat.

I searched for him in that crowd, in those glares, but it was like he vanished. The kylix he once held had no more wine. I don’t know why, but at that moment, what I felt was something between rage and betrayal. He left me alone; he left me to drown in my own misery.

Or maybe he had to talk with the envoy, with some guests. He was a prince after all. And he had no obligation to stay with me; he was nothing but a fleeting dream for me. But I couldn’t help but feel more astray.

The music stopped, just as I did. I could feel the beads of sweat going down my spine, my neck, while my breath was heavier. I stopped looking for him, I made a reverence, a thank you to the public, to the queen who prepared these beautiful clothes for me, to my body that carried me here.

The queen smiled softly at me. She knew the hardships of being a woman, of being watched and desired, but never in the way you had  wanted. She knew that her plan worked, and her eyes showed gratitude for my help. But I was tired, I was disappointed. Every word I sang, every move I made was for only one person, and that person left. Left me searching for him, but now, my mind was a haze.

I followed the maid who came to guide me to a table, one where I was alone, so I could enjoy my peace for a while, until the guests would ask me again to dance. I was given wine and olives, and I couldn’t be more grateful for them. I poured the wine down my neck way too fast, way too eager, like it could ease the aching in my back and feet.

I enjoyed my little moment of peace, even though it didn’t last long enough for the wine to fill up the void in my heart. Someone already came for me, an envoy, at least he looked like one by his clothes. I felt like he was about to devour me with his eyes.

“Lady, I’ve grown quite curious about your talents. You seem to be favoured by Apollo, by the way your voice sounds and your body moves. Care for a dance? I would love to hear more about you,” he said, with a voice too smooth to be sincere.

He was young, not ugly, but too smug for his own good. His gestures were trained, practised, made only for performance. I was taken aback by his smile, not one that would shake my world, but one that would make some maidens fall for it. However, I was already far too deep to refuse him and too infatuated with a prince to fall for his flattery.

“Of course…” an answer which lingered way too long between us.

I took his hand and let him lead the way. The musicians started playing again, some song from a faraway land, one I had heard only when someone was visiting us. Our palms pressed together and we joined the dance as the rest of the people. I thought these would be all the steps we did, the ones practised for every noble blood, made with dignity and a proper distance. But at the next beat, his hand found my waist, placed way too low, and then he moved, slowly, deliberately. Some just watched, others took whoever they had near and dragged them to a dance. But I couldn’t ignore how his grip was getting tighter, how he let his pride mistake permission with desire.

“So… Tell me. Where are you from? I’ve seen enough people in my life to see the difference between the natives and guests. Your dance is not something I saw last time when I visited Ithaca.”

I was caught by surprise. But he seemed like a man who studied too much someone’s appearance and movement.

“I am from an isle in the east. I was brought here as a gift for the king after the war. I was taught to dance for them,” a lie, a big lie. If he were to ask a maid how I ended up here, they would tell him that I was brought here by the sea, that I ended up finding a home through strangers. I was no gift, but someone who needed a new start. And now, this was the payment for the shelter I was given.

It seemed my answer intrigued him even more, and because I mentioned being just a gift for the king he became bolder, like I was only an object he could play with. I had no noble blood, just a lyre and a silk that wrapped my body.

I can’t remember the last thing he said to me after that. My eyes were no longer on him, my thoughts had left the conversation the second he started spitting nonsense about the night and this dance. I was just following his steps, I was doing whatever he wanted, while I peered over his shoulder at the shadowed figure behind the column. That stance. The piercing glance at me, like I were the one who did something wrong, when he was the one who left. I furrowed when I was sure he could see me. He was sipping from another kylix brought by a young boy, talking with a man, probably another envoy.

I took a glimpse at his lips, now red from the wine, at his tightened jaw, before I turned my head towards the diplomat who kept me in his arms, the one whose hand went up my back, way too far, enough for him to remind me that I was here to entertain him, not to dream about a boy. I was stiff; I couldn’t keep myself together, and I wanted to back away the second his breath touched my neck.

My body was tense, the hand that I had on the man’s shoulder tried to keep him away from me, but the feeling of impeding doom was making me stress more than I should, until…

“Apologies,” a voice, soft spoken, one that I knew too well. “But it seems the lady has forgotten her promise.”

I blinked. The diplomat blinked. Only the prince knew what he was talking about in that moment.

“Ithacan custom,” such a smooth response, such a lie. “No important festivity ends without a dance with a royal member and her. Family tradition. Father said we should cherish the gifts brought by our friends. An omen of peace, I believe.”

If I weren’t in such a position, my mouth would be hanging open in surprise. What a liar. But gods, how much I wanted to kiss that mouth of his.

The one who had me for half of the dance finally let go—not without a grumble for himself and a muttered, “Of course. Forgive my mistake.” A bow before the prince, and he slipped away, leaving me with this, this son of a… of a sweet woman.

I sighed and took his hand in mine. You want to play dirty? Fine.

“Please, enlighten me, prince of Ithaca, what custom your family has I didn’t know about? And what gift should you cherish?” My voice was not soft and sweet like before, but ready to throw daggers at him the second he tried to tell me another lie.

He showed me one of his smiles, the one that swept me off my feet in a second. His hand reached my waist, slowly, done that way to make me crave more.

“Don’t think I didn’t see it," he whispered, voice thick with wine and something I couldn’t describe yet. “That you wanted me to come save you.”

His eyes flicked to my mouth, just briefly. I hated that it made my knees weak.

The dance started, with him guiding me, with him still smiling at me and looking like he hadn’t just left moments ago. I was pretty sure I could taste the wine on his lips if I leaned close enough.

“You left.” I stopped, my breath catching. “In the middle of it. You watched and walked away.”

His fingers paused, his eyes narrowed, but his legs still moved to the rhythm of the music. The warmth of his palm stilled on my skin, but his touch felt unsure. He didn’t know if he should pull me closer or walk away with a lie lingering in the air.

The silence between us said more than any words could. Perhaps it was the alcohol that changed what he intended to do at first. He guided me through those people who still danced, but I had other plans. I was a gift ready to be cherished by the prince, right there, in front of those people. His smile could shatter my whole world, but my body was about to shatter his.

I stopped, right there, in the middle of everything and the face he made when he saw the dirty look I gave him was more than enough for me to realise that this idea would work on him.

“I will take your gesture as a response to my performance.” My voice was even, while I tried to put aside every doubt I had, every thought that tried to warn me that this was a bad idea. “Then, my prince, let me perform again. I hope you will like it this time.”

My hand reached his, the one that still rested on my back, and made him set me free. I was petty, but more than that, I would always accept the critique the guests had for me. So his leaving meant that my performance bored him. The answer to my problem was to make it more interesting.

His eyes were following every movement I made. My heart started acting crazier than I would have wanted. I followed its rhythm, not the one set by the people around us, but by me, by him. The silk that kept the skin on my shoulders hidden slipped this time, and only for him. I surrounded him, I avoided every reaching hand, every breath he drew out for me.

Every step I took was deliberate, far enough for him not to reach me, but close enough for my perfume to linger longer. I turned near him once, then I vanished between the people beside us. I could see from the corner of my eye how his chest rose, how his hand twitched, how his brows knitted together, and how his nose scrunched. I could swear he was about to let out a desperate whine.

He found me again, in the sea of people, people who, one by one, started to give us more space. It seemed that my stubbornness was a good performance for them. The prince stood, and I got closer, my fingers grazed his as I passed, just a memory of warmth. Then I twirled out of his reach again, but this time he caught the himation that fell off my shoulders. This is all he could get from me this night.

I saw his gaze; he was begging me to listen to him. A smile appeared on my lips, my hand reached for him, my fingertips touched his jaw softly, and the prince leaned into my touch. However, I didn’t want him to enjoy too much of it; I wanted to vanish in the chaos when he needed me more, so he could understand me, but I wasn’t prepared for his neediness. He required just that brief moment to grasp my wrist, to make me stay there. I could feel his breath on my skin right before his lips met the palm of my hand.

“[name]…” he murmured, voice low and frayed as every sound he made cost him something. I didn’t answer him, my head turned, refusing to look at him, knowing that his eyes with that boyish desire of his would make me fold for him.

My body started making distance between us, but he didn’t let me. His other hand found my waist again and held me in place, keeping me in front of him. He kept me so close that I could feel his heartbeat. I still looked the other way, I still thought that I could resist him.

But he didn’t need words; he didn’t need to turn my head towards him. No. The prince—my prince—pressed a single kiss under my jaw, in front of everyone. This boy. This boy was trying to kill me slowly, and not with blades, but with his softness—with love.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t like your performance,” he whispered. A truth I didn’t let him explain to me. “But because they called for me. I was so bewitched by you that they had to drag me out so I would listen to them.”

My mind was so lost in his words, in his voice, but I could still feel how my cheeks started to burn. My limbs started to soften, my whole body moulded into his. I had no reason to try and fight him, not when he could win every argument. A sigh escaped my lips while Telemachus left another kiss on my jaw before facing me. This time, I looked right into his eyes, into those that pleaded with me not to torment him anymore.

Both of us were flushed, one from the confession and the other from embarrassment. My ploy worked a little too well; it worked against me. I clenched my fist. Telemachus, on the other hand, showed me a smile when he saw me soften before him.

“I hate you when you do this.” It was no whisper, it was a declaration of defeat. “You always say things like this, and I always fall for it.”

The prince blinked, then he let out a breathy laugh. And that one laugh made me smile. I leaned more towards him. No more dancing, no more guests, just him. His forehead touched mine, and everyone could see, not just the diplomat, that this was for sure not an Ithacan custom. That I was no gift sent from another king. I was a soul who fell for this prince.

“Maybe next time, you don’t let me burn in the middle of the hall.” His voice had some amusement in it, but I knew he meant it in a more serious way than he would’ve wanted.

“Next time, you don’t let me dance with strangers while you have an Ithacan custom to excuse your desires.” This was a whisper, just for him.

My words made the prince create some space between us so he could look at me. The way he looked at me—gods. It was killing me. I was drowning in his eyes, in the unspoken apology for me, in the shameless yearning he showed in front of everyone. The prince took his hands off me so he could arrange the silk, now covering my shoulders again. By the way his hands stopped on my shoulders, I thought he would leave again. Instead of confirming my fears, his palms cupped my face, and he leaned way too close to be appropriate. I was still just a dancer, while he was the crowned prince.

“What are you doing…? They are still looking…” My nose touched his, my fingers caught his chiton, but not to pull him towards me. I was afraid of doing such a thing. I was afraid of showing him how much I wanted him to do what he was already doing.

“I know.” A murmur, before his thumb caressed my bottom lip, softly, like he tried to learn the shape of it without doing more than this. “You don’t know how much I want to kiss you right now.”

My body tensed, my cheeks burned, and I couldn’t get away from him. There were still people dancing around us, but there were men who watched us from afar. Not only men, but maids and the queen.

How could I explain this?

“Maybe you should wait until they leave.” The words didn’t match my actions. I was leaning towards him as well, and before I could realise, the only space between us was his thumb. His breath was warm against my lips, and it made me more curious about the way he would kiss me now.

My eyes closed, waiting for that kiss he couldn't hold in. But it never came. It never happened. And I hated it. My heart thumped in my chest, along with the applause from the suitors, from the guests, like everything that happened between us was a very intricate performance. We stood there, in the middle of the hall, with our chests rising from the adrenaline, from the exhaustion.

The prince started making a bigger gap between our bodies, and I didn’t think it would hurt me this way, to not feel his heartbeat under my palms. His hands left my face, but instead, the right slipped on my waist.

“Make a bow and follow me.” A whisper, right to my ear, before he turned his face to the crowd, to his mother, who watched us the whole time.

I did what he told me. A reverence, so did he, like he wasn’t the prince. A performance. That was everything. Something to entertain them.

The way he still kept his hand on my back while he walked made my stomach twist. The prince was flaunting me, not as a gift, but a treasure. I was following him, silently. The bravery I had when I pulled that stunt with him earlier had vanished the second he tried to kiss me. I didn’t know what he planned or where he wanted me to go. But besides his “betrayal”, I trusted him more than anyone here. With every step I took, the sound of the bells from my anklet filled the hall, accompanied by the whispers of the guests or laughs over cups of wine.

The suitors made way for us, but the glances some of them showed us made me think about their mocking for the next day. I knew them, Telemachus did as well, yet he did all this. He walked with me, until we disappeared behind the columns of the palace, letting the queen alone in that hall.

"You are mad, prince. Did you see those glances?" Everything slipped the second we found ourselves in the darkness, far away from the eyes. But their tongues? They would always help others remember this moment.

"No." Way too serious. Way too fast. "I saw only yours." And his hand left my back, even though his touch lingered on my skin, just like before.

A sigh, and I turned my head to look at the hall. At the people who still enjoyed themselves. My palms rested on the cold marble of the column, while my eyes followed the people who one by one started leaving the hall or giving into the pleasures some maids offered them. The queen was already tired, but she stayed, for the sake of the elders. And I—I stole the prince, her last hope in that chaos.

"Why do you care so much about what they think?" His tone sounded bitter. I was debating if I should face him again. I was fearing the glance he would give me, even though I knew he would always look at me lovingly.

I hesitated at first. My eyes were still analysing the hall, and my head refused to turn for quite some time. But when it did—not slowly, but frantically—my lips met his without a warning. He knew me. He knew what his question would do to my mind. And Telemachus waited. Waited for me to turn like this, desperate to answer him. He waited to kiss me.

I was lost in his touch long before he finally let his arms wrap around me. From one that stayed on my lower back, to one that hitched up, to my nape, keeping the silk from falling from my shoulders. And his lips said what he couldn't for the whole night. The prince was the dream I couldn't escape. He drew me closer to him, until his knee found the space between my tights, until there was nothing between us.

My body felt like it was made for him. Maybe my mind cursed me for letting him be this reckless, for letting him kiss me here, but my lips said otherwise. He needed just to squeeze gently my flesh and my lips parted. Nothing would have prepared me for the way he started tasting me. His tongue was tentative, his lips were soft and the sounds he tried to muffle made me melt in his arms.

He stole a gasp from me, but I stole his whole being. I could feel his heartbeat, right next to mine, where our chests were pressed together. My hands ended up in his hair, making a mess of it. I forgot entirely about the crown he had, only when I felt the metal under my fingers did I stopped my fingers from wandering through his curls.

Right before he pulled away, he made sure to make me remember him for the rest of the night by pressing maybe a little bit too hard on my lips, until a sound I was so ashamed of left me and met him. The prince, even when he backed away, didn't take his hands off my body. He tried catching his breath, just like I did. Chests rising again and again while we inhaled deeply, forgetting for a moment that we were still behind a column, not fully hidden from the eyes of others.

"I don't care about what they think," I finally responded to his question. Another breath, and my head resting on his shoulder ."I just don't want them to mock you again."

His breath stopped for a second. He held it, like my words choked him, but when he finally let himself relax in my arms, his lips touched my temple. Telemachus' embrace got tighter before he spoke.

"That's my problem to worry about." He sounded tired, but not pained. Every word was dragged for far too long. "And mock me about what? That I got a dance with you?" Now his tone was amused, and when I looked at him, he had such a prideful smile on his face.

I saw him, I saw how wrecked he was—not the way I expected. He looked dazed and still drunk, but this time not on wine. The lip balm from my lips was now on him. It was my time to caress his lip, not to tease him, but to wipe the excess of red which coloured him.

"No. You are a prince, Telemachus. And I…" Something inside me didn't let me finish the sentence. I didn't know if it was because I was lying to him about my past or because I felt ashamed of how others portrayed me.

"And you are my princess. Does anything else really matter?" The way he said it made my heart skip a beat. His voice was sweet like honey, and I was ready to listen to it the whole night, but his thinking pained me.

His palm covered my hand and he kept it on his lips, and before I knew it, he started kissing my fingertips. With every kiss, the red on his lips stained my palm, my hand, my wrist, until on his face remained just a small trace of it, in the corner of the mouth, where I pressed my lips clumsier than I hoped. Despite his loving gestures, despite his infatuated glance at me, I couldn't think of a beautiful outcome for him with those suitors around.

My eyes couldn't leave him, not when we stood in the dim light of a torch, not when he couldn't make some space between our bodies, and definitely not when he kissed my jaw in the same place as he did minutes ago. This time, I paid more attention to the scent of his perfume combined with the wine.

"Telemachus… It's not—" Not even a second after I spoke his name, his teeth decided to nibble at my skin, and I stopped talking. I pressed my lips together, keeping for myself any other thought, word, or sound I had.

"I don't care, [name]. I will dress you in purple, I will adorn you with gold, and I will love you in front of every human, god and creature that exists in this world.” Not a single breath between those words. He didn’t speak like he was afraid of someone hearing him declaring his love, his devotion for me. There was no whisper, just a boy still embracing me like I was the only thing that kept him from breaking apart. Little did he know that I was the one cracking with every word said on my skin.

The place where he let his teeth sink in was now spoiled with a tender touch, with his soft breath. I couldn’t say anything else to make the prince understand the position he was in, and I started to think that there was no point in trying anyways. The himation I had on the shoulders was long gone on the floor, slipping through his arms. Not like he cared enough about it. One last kiss on my neck before Telemachus decided to look at me again.

"I love you. And no envoy, suitor or whoever is in that hall can change my mind. So tell me again. What does it matter that I am a prince?" Despite being a question, his voice didn't sound confused, but more irritated, and by the way his eyes stared right into my soul, I started thinking it might be because I had tried to stop him from being too affectionate with me.

The frown on his face reminded me of a kid being upset because he couldn't have what he wanted. A small smile appeared on my face, and I didn't let him question me any further. I cupped his face, and I kissed the corner of his mouth. I felt his hands move on my back, and before I knew it, he stole another kiss from me.

"I love you too." It was quieter than I had wanted, but he heard it. And his response was a sigh. He sounded defeated. "But people expect you to have someone else on your side. If you remember correctly, I am a gift. And you look way too in love for them to think you want just some fun with me." I hated the way I had to portray our relationship, for the sake of keeping the rumours and mockery away from him. He had to shelter his pride, his dignity, from those men.

It seemed my words only made him more mad than before, like I had just insulted him. I hoped my declaration of love would soften him and would make him understand how we need to play our part, at least for now.

The chaos from the hall seemed to dim. This prince should be there helping his mother out, talking with merchants and with whoever wanted to have connections with Ithaca. But he? He stood with me, he left all his duties so he could be with me, so he could kiss me in the darkness—and I was feeling guilty for having him. Telemachus saw it. The pit in my stomach started to deepen with every finger dragged on my spine.

"Tell me to leave then." Short, serious, angry. That was the best way of describing his voice. "Tell me you want me to let go."

"What?" I blinked. My palms went from his face to his shoulders, like his words made my world shatter, like I needed something to keep me on my feet.

"You heard me." He didn't weaver. His eyes were no longer big, dazed, but narrow, filled with something between desire and rage.

"But… How could—"

"Then why are you saying all this? I have told you already. I don't care what they say. I am the prince of this land, and I can decide for myself who I love. If I want, I can make you a princess by tomorrow. I can defend my name and my family's legacy. So don't tell me again to do what others want from me, not when it comes to you." A small pause and a sigh. His head was now resting on my shoulder, while his hands squeezed me in his arms in a way that made my knees weak. "You are the only exception I would make, the only rule I would break. I am already listening to every mouth in that hall, to every teacher I have and to every expectation strangers have for the son of Odysseus. You are my only escape. Don't cast me away just because some people are saying nonsense. Just forget about them. Forget about everyone besides me. I will make new rules. I will change everything to have you, and I will cut their heads for thinking you are just a gift. You are mine—a dancer, a princess or anything you want to be. It doesn't matter for me, so it shouldn't matter for you either." Words after words. They spilled, like the prince couldn't live if he didn't say them. I could feel on my skin how his cheeks started burning. Maybe that wine made him braver, made him more reckless and well… more needy than before.

My breath caught. I stared at nothing while listening to him. But my body responded to his declaration before my mind did. My arms wrapped around him, my face hid in his shoulder, and my mouth found the side of his neck. It was my time to pamper him with kisses. I wanted to offer him all the love he deserved. He felt me trying to use the same technique as him. Only a kiss that lingered too long on his collarbone, and I heard his laugh.

"You know… After that declaration, your laugh is reassuring. Please, don't behead anyone. I love you more when you don't have some murderous desires, even though they are for my sake." My voice was muffled by him, my lips still pressed on his skin. I didn't dare to look up. "I am yours, Telemachus. I will be what you need me to be—a princess, a dancer or anything else. I want to be the one who kisses your worries away, the one to whom you come when the burdens are too heavy to be carried alone. I will be here for every day and night, for as long as you'll have me." I could swear I sounded like I was choking on the words. My declaration was more like a whisper I would have said behind closed doors, in bed sheets, not in a hallway, behind a column.

My prince took his hands off me and looked up at me. The anger he had on his features before disappeared. On his face was plastered a smile or more of a cheeky grin, one he would show me after I failed to make him get up from the bed. His hands cupped my face again, and he pressed his lips on mine. Not the same heated kiss like before, but one more innocent, softer and sweeter. The one he wanted to give me in the hall.

"I need you to be [name]. Not one version of her, but every single one of them. This prince is already yours. Not just the prince, but the boy you scolded as well, the stubborn lover and his smile, his whole being is yours. So kiss me better if you don't want me to behead people." He laughed over my lips.

His laugh was contagious.

Telemachus was beaming, and I couldn't keep a serious face anymore. I laughed with him as well. This is all he needed to wrap his arms around me again, not to embrace me like before, but to lift me off the ground. Mine went instinctively around his neck, to secure me, to reassure me that he would not drop me, even though I would have trusted him with my life.

Before I could even say anything, he started twirling around with me. For that moment, for those two minutes or how much it was, I wanted to forget that people were waiting for us.

My laughs could be heard only by him, and only I could see him smile in the way he did in that moment. It felt like a dream, like we could finally enjoy some peace despite the chaos that was happening behind us. The torches' light just made him even more beautiful. It got caught in the gold of his crown, of his jewels.

Right before he put me down on the ground, he stole another kiss.

"Wait for me. I need to help my mother, but I promise this time I will come to you." Another reassuring smile, another kiss placed on my forehead. "Or perhaps you will come to me. My door is always open for you."

Chapter 1

It's been 16 years since the king of Ithaca and his crew left for war. A young boy walked down the halls, doing his best to avoid the suitors who've been lingering around the palace for 5 years now. Hearing their laughter, and crewed comments about his mother. How they made him sick, no matter how hard he tried to kick all of them out of the palace, they would all scoff and laugh, not taking the young prince seriously. Being mocked and shamed, it's no surprise at how many servants have to intervene to stop a fight breaking out between a grown man and a 15 year old boy.

Luckily for him, his mother, whenever he gets the chance to visit her, she'd always teach him how to have self-control, how to be calm and avoid any altercation between those suitors and himself.

Today was no different, after visiting his mother, queen Penelope, she had one simple task for her son.

“Telemachus, even a prince must endure patience and keep it as a virtue– it's what strengths you and guides you through many trials in life” Penelope would say as she would brush a strand of his curls to his ear, even though it would come back to haunt his face.

“I know mother… but those… pigs swarm the palace like the plague!” Telemachus huffs as Penelope chuckles lightly.

“How about this, you go out, let your mind wander off somewhere else, pay no mind to those brutes… let your mind wander some place far…” Penelope says as she cups his cheeks and kisses her son's forehead. Making Telemachus sigh reluctantly but chuckle lightly. “Who knows… maybe you might find someone who is special…” Penelope lets out a soft teasing chuckle as Telemachus chuckles a long. “But mother, you are special to me” Telemachus says as he looks up at his mother, her tired eyes… it was far too difficult to tell her no…

“But if you insist, mother… will you be fine on your own?” He asked looking up at his mother, his blue eyes staring into her own blue eyes as she smiled lightly. “Yes, pay no mind to me, I will still be here… weaving the shroud” Penelope says as her smile weakens. Telemachus continued to stare into his mother's eyes, seeing the sadness, and the longing for his father's return. Telemachus then gave his mother a hug, catching her off guard, but she returned the hug. “Alright… I love you mother” Telemachus says as he gives her one last tight hug making Penelope chuckle. “I love you too my son” Penelope smiles softly letting her son go. Telemachus stood up from her bed and left her chambers.

Leading to the present day. It was cold out, and dark, the night filled the sky as the moon lit the palace with its soft light glow, the suitors were partying like animals without a care in the world in Telemachus eyes. ‘How dare they…’ Telemachus thought to himself as he kicked a pebble on his way. The garden was dark, the only light that was given was the moon, like Athena's sister was giving its light for him to see… or maybe it was for the hunters for tonight. Argos walked beside Telemachus as he nudges his head on Telemachus's hand. “The nerve… sitting around my fathers palace like some kind of pig!” Telemachus scowls as he turns around to face the Palace, seeing the yellow light shine from there… from where he was standing, he could see Penelope's chambers, the lights were off, assuming she was trying to rest… or pray…

Telemachus fist clench, his fist turning white as his eyes narrows, he turns around as he continues to walk. “They…” before he could finish his sentence, his mothers words spoke quietly through his mind “let your mind wander far”. Telemachus froze, he took a deep breath. “Right…” he continued to walk, making his way to the forest. The garden was filled with a variety of flowers like roses, lillys, daisy's, and many more. Some reflected the light of the moon gracefully as it shines down. Standing between the end of the stone path in the garden to the forest, where it was slightly dark, not too dark, but enough to make him hesitate. He looked back to the palace, as his eyes filled with worry and sadness for his mother.

“Argos… go… make sure you keep those pigs stay under control… and far from my mothers chambers” Telemachus orders, Argos barks. At first, the dog didn't leave, but as Telemachus pointed back to the palace, Argos barked one more time, like he was hesitant to leave Telemachus alone. At last, Argos retreated, making Telemachus feel a little relaxed knowing his mother will have some sort of protection.

Walking into the forest, Telemachus wondered if it was even a good idea to continue to walk through the forest in the middle of the night. Though his mothers words ‘let your mind wander someplace else’.

The forest was dark, but the only light source that helped the young man see was the moon. His eyes lingered on the moon for a moment, as he heard the leaves rustle following the calm breeze smelling the scent of forest. Soon he saw an owl fly over his head, his eyes widening. ‘Woah’ he thought to himself, as the owl hooted, Telemachus couldn't help but move. As he began to follow it, his body moved on his own.

He ran through the bushes as where the owl was going, as if the owl was leading the young prince to some place, his gaze left the owl as he saw a big apple tree, as a deer was under it eating an apple that fell from the tree, he slowly stopped his run as his gaze was mesmerizing the creature. ‘What a particular fella’ Telemachus thought as he stopped dead in his tracks as he stared at the deer. The deer ate the apple with bliss, unaware on what was happening and certainly unaware that Telemachus was near.

Slowly, Telemachus began to walk up to the deer. The deer’s head slowly lifted up as Telemachus stepped on a twig. It snapped in half, making the deer’s head look around. It saw Telemachus and it quickly ran away. Telemachus watched as the fawn ran away, soon the owl from before flew towards Telemachus, getting close to his face making Telemachus fall back. Soon an Arrow flies by his face as it hits a tree. The prince fell on the ground as the Owl flew away.

“Ow! Woah!” Telemachus gasps as he sees the arrow on the tree beside him where it almost hit his head. “What in the world just happened?” He asked as his eyes darted to the dark part of the forest, he couldn’t see anything, the glow from the moon did not shine through that part of the forest. “Hello? Is anyone out there” Telemachus called out as he stood up from the ground, then looked back at the arrow, pulling it off the tree. Soon, he heard rustling in the trees. His eyes darted to the tree tops looking for any signs of life.

Soon, something… or someone fell from the tree top landing on the floor on her back. “Ow!” A feminine voice yelped. The person before Telemachus wore a clock, with a quiver beside her with a gently carved bow designed to look like a tree with a moon carved into it.

“Woah! Are you alright?” Telemachus asked as his tone was woven into a worry one. He knelt down beside the person, he couldn’t quite see the face of the person who fell. “I’m fine” The person says as they sit up rubbing her back. Before Telemachus could say a word, the person looked over to Telemachus, finally being able to see who she was. Her eyes were the color that could sing a precious song to his soul as he looked into them, bits of her hair made of silk with a few accessories on them. Her skin is fair as they match the rosyness of her cheeks. He was lost in admiration, he couldn’t help but feel his heart beat. However, that changed quickly when she spoke…

“YOU! thanks to you, I MISSED” The lady huffs as her glare grows sharper, her tone harsh like a cat hissing for territory. Telemachus was snapped back to reality raising his brow as his eyes widened a bit. “Excuse me? How was it that I was supposed to know you were out hunting in the middle of the night?” Telemachus asked in a defensive tone “Let alone, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here!”Telemachus continued, “On the contrary, you almost killed me as well!” Telemachus added as he pointed the arrow he had in his hand to the girl.

The girl made a tsk sound rolling her eyes “well, next time, don't get in the way, and you do realize there is such a thing called night hunters” she spat back snatching the arrow from his hand, as she turned away from Telemachus and grabbed her bows and quiver, she looked inside and saw many arrows were broken in half. She cursed under her breath. Telemachus just stared at the lady, she was pretty, but her attitude towards him was bitter and cold. The young prince sighed. “Why on earth are you out here in the middle of the night? You know it's dangerous to wander alone, especially for a young lady like yourself” Telemachus began to speak as the young woman closed her quiver giving the young boy a glare that could kill if they were to be able to do so. “As a young lady, I find it awfully rude you assume I can’t handle myself!” The lady says as her tone grows in defense pointing the arrow to his throat. “I did not say that!” Telemachus says as he pushes the point of the arrow away from his throat.

“Well you implied it! Has your mother never taught you manners?” The young girl asked. “I could ask you the same thing” Telemachus says, his tone growing in annoyance. ‘What is her deal? I only just met her and she is being awfully rude,’ Telemachus thought to himself as he stood up from the floor. He watched as the young lady began to put the only remaining arrow in her quiver, putting it over her shoulder, and she did the same with the bow.

Telemachus' eyes widened a bit as she took the hood of her cloak off her head, she looked up to the moon, shining its light on them both. The light of the moon reflected through her eyes, leaving the world to wonder…who is she? The girl looked to the side seeing the way Telemachus looked at her. She made a tsk sound. “What?” She snapped. ‘Despite the looks… her personality doesn’t reflect that great…’ Telemachus thought to himself. “Nothing…” Telemachus muttered looking away from the girl. “Not that I care, but what are you doing out here?” The girl asked as she looked down at her bow, stretching it out as if to see if it still worked. “I was just out on a midnight stroll…” Telemachus replied. “Just to get my mind off of things…” Telemachus said as he looked down at the ground.

The memories of the suitors lingering around the halls of his home, made him curl his hands into a fist. Soon, a loud groan came from the lady, he looked up and saw how her shoulders were slouched and how she rolled her eyes. Safe to say, he was taken aback. “Please, if you’re gonna speak about your problems to a stranger, then I suggest not and going on your merry way, I have much more important things to do than listen to a boy whine about his fortunate life” the girl bluntly says as she stands up straight, turning her back towards him.

“Oh? And what is so important that you don’t even bother to tell me your name?” Telemachus asked as he crossed his arms, raising a brow. The young lady stopped as she slightly turned her head. “Why does my name concern you?” she asked. “I just wanna put a name to the face” Telemachus responds, his tone shifting from annoyance to a gentler one. The girl stayed quiet for a few moments, not speaking, as if she was debating if she should. “Or, if you wanna stay a mystery-”

“____” she spoke as she turned away. “____…” Telemachus spoke in a gentle tone. “Not that it matters, no chance we’ll ever meet again, good day…or night” she spoke as she turned away and began to walk away. Her name lingered in his head, how can someone with a beautiful name have such a nasty attitude?

***

As she removed her cloak, she made her way to a nearby shak made from grass, leaves, and branches. A hut she lived in, living by a nearby small pond, she tossed her cloak to the side outside the shak. She crawled in her hut as she laid her head on a bed made up of old cloth and grass with dead leaves. Soon, a deer came walking towards the hut. A beautiful white fawn, with blue eyes reflecting the moon lite sky. Soon, a bright glow came from the deer as they turned into a tall woman who wore a peplos with a chiton over it as her hair was a Burnette color and her eyes green like the grass she stood on as she wore star-like accessories. Her hair was done in a braid as she wore a crown made of leaves.

“Artemis!” The girl smiled warmly as she stared at the women. The goddess of the moon, a huntress in the night. She sat at the entrance of the hut as if to say she would protect the girl as she slept, giving her a warm gentle smile. “Were you able to find anything?” Artemis asked. The girl sighed as she shook her head looking down at her lap. “I haven't… well i did but this stupid boy got in my way!” She huffs crossing her arm as she laid on her back staring at the leaves, grass, and branches on the hut. It looked like the water from the past rain had damaged it, making her click her tongue. “Oh? And this isn't an excuse for your failure?” Artemis asked curiously, no shame in her tone, just curious. “Well… no, I'm being honest! I was as quiet as a hummingbird, slow and steady like a wolf hunting for its prey! But out of nowhere the boy stepped on a twig, scaring away the creature!” She began to ramble on. “Men…Boys… Males… they are all so clueless… idiotic to say the least! All of them!” She spat. Artemis lightly chuckles, the girl looked over to the chuckling goddess raising a brow. “Artemis?...”

“My apologies, ____, it's just, when you're hungry, you tend to go on and on, rambling to say the least” Artemis says, looking at the girl who pouted a bit. “Well… i wouldn't have been in such a bad mood if it weren't for that boy…” the girl mumbled under her breath. “Rest, you've had a long night…” Artemis says. “Are you at least gonna provide something for me to eat?” The girl asked as she turned her head towards Artemis. Artemis shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I cannot always pamper you, you need to learn how to survive on your own…” Artemis sighs. “Then what am i-”

Before she could finish her sentence, within a blink of an eye, Artemis vanished into thin air, leaving a trail of small sparkles that can be mistaken as mini stars. The girl quickly sat up, she tried to grab onto the small particles, however every time she tried to grab them, they'd disappear. The girl frowned, as she sat there, hearing the small rustles from the bushes from small critters, and the light breeze that flowed by. As the water ran through its streams. The night danced with the moonlight, however, soon the clouds came in and hid the light that the moon gave. She brought her knees up to her chest as she buried her head into hit, lightly banging her head onto her knees. ‘Think… Think… there must be a solution…’ the girl whispers to herself… Soon her face looked up from her knees, she stared directly into the night, no light to be found, but a few yellow lights coming from a town.

‘...maybe… just maybe…’

.*★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★*.

That had not stopped you before.You stood in the doorway of Telemachus’s chambers with your hand half-raised, your fingers brushing the edge of the heavy wool cloak draped over the back of his chair. 

The room was empty, the low lamps already lit against the dark, and outside the palace walls Ithaca had settled into its evening hush. Somewhere far below, the sea moved restlessly against the rocks. Somewhere in the corridor, a guard’s sandals whispered over stone before fading into silence again.

And there you were, staring at a cloak like it was the most dangerous thing in the world.

Perhaps it was.

Not because it was royal. Not because it was expensive. Not even because it belonged to the King of Ithaca now, though that still felt strange to think, even after months of hearing the title spoken around you as if it had always fit him.

No, the danger was simpler than that.

The danger was that it smelled like him.

Smoke from the hearth. Salt from the sea. The faint cedar note of the oil he kept in his chamber. A little leather from the straps of his sword belt. And something softer beneath it all, something unmistakably Telemachus, something that clung to the fabric in a way that made your chest ache if you breathed it in too deeply.

You had noticed it once by accident.

Then twice.

Then too many times to pretend you had not begun seeking it out.

This evening, you had not meant to come here. You had only been passing by on your way back from the upper gardens when a servant told you the king was still in council and had left his cloak behind in his chambers. You had offered to return it for him without thinking. That was where the trouble had started.

Because the moment the cloak had been in your hands, warm from the body it had rested against all day, you had made a mistake.

You had brought it to your face.

Just once.

Just enough to breathe in.

And then, before common sense could intervene, before dignity could arrive and physically drag you away by the ear, you had looked around the room, seen no one, and wrapped it around your shoulders.

There.

That was all.

A moment. A harmless thing.

Except now you were standing there with Telemachus’s cloak around you, the hem pooling at your feet because it was too long and too large and entirely his, and you had begun to feel as though you had been caught doing something scandalous.

Which, in a way, you had.

You heard footsteps in the corridor before you saw him.

They were measured, unhurried, but you knew them anyway. You knew the difference between his steps and everyone else’s. You knew the slight hesitation at the chamber threshold before he entered, as if he was always thinking one thought ahead of the room he was walking into. You knew the sound of his hand on the door, the soft scrape of wood opening, and the quiet exhale he made when he finally stepped inside and found you there.

He stopped.

You stopped.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Telemachus stood with one hand still on the door, his dark hair a little wind-tossed from the terrace, his expression one of polite exhaustion that vanished the second he took in the sight before him.

The cloak.

You.

Silence.

Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

You could have died right there and been less mortified.

“Y/N,” he said at last, his voice low with disbelief and amusement both. “Is that mine?”

You stared at him with the dignity of a person who had very obviously stolen a king’s cloak and had no good explanation for it.

“No,” you said, and immediately wanted to disappear into the floor.

His brows lifted. “No?”

You cleared your throat. “It is… a similar cloak.”

The smile that threatened at the corners of his mouth sharpened. “A similar cloak that I left on my chair.”

You looked down at the wool around you and made the disastrous decision to try honesty instead of surviving on denial.

“I was cold.”

He glanced toward the brazier, which was burning. Then toward the thick drapes hanging over the window. Then back at you.

“In my chambers,” he said.

“Yes.”

“With the fire lit.”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a beat, and then, with obvious effort, he asked, “And the blankets?”

You folded your arms beneath the cloak, which only made it more obvious that you were wrapped in something that belonged to him. “I didn’t want the blankets.”

Now his smile was fully awake.

You looked away at once.

That only made it worse, because you heard the soft sound of him stepping farther into the room, heard the door close behind him, and then heard the quiet, careful tone he used when he was trying very hard not to laugh at you.

“Do you often steal from your king?”

You shot him a look so scandalized he actually paused.

“I do not steal from you.”

“No?”

“No.”

He took a few more steps forward, and now he was near enough that you could feel warmth radiating off him. Near enough that the scent clinging to the cloak seemed to deepen, as though the fabric recognized its owner. Near enough that his eyes,dark, attentive, entirely too amused,made it difficult to keep track of your own thoughts.

He tilted his head.

“You are wearing my cloak.”

You lifted your chin. “You left it here.”

“And you put it on.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The room felt very quiet all of a sudden.

You could have said because it was cold.

You could have said because you liked how it looked.

You could have said because you were in a terrible mood and wanted to be dramatic.

Instead, you said nothing.

Because the truth was sitting too close to your throat.

Because the truth was that the cloak smelled like him, and sometimes you missed him so sharply it felt physical, even when he was only on the other side of a set of doors.

Because the palace had become too large the first time you realized he would one day wear the crown in earnest and the world would begin asking for pieces of him all the time,council, petitioners, envoys, his people, his responsibilities,and you had begun to understand that there were moments when wanting him near you was not a whim but a kind of gravity.

Because when he was gone, the cloak made the room feel less empty.

Because the scent of it made your chest hurt in a way you had not yet learned to describe.

Telemachus’s smile faded a little as he studied your face.

The teasing in his expression softened.

“Y/N,” he said, more gently now, “what is it?”

You made the mistake of looking up at him then.

There was something in his face that undid you every time,something open and patient and quietly tender, as if he never wanted to corner you into saying more than you meant. He had learned how to hold power without ever letting it become sharp in his hands.

You had seen him do it with his advisers, with servants, with elders who believed his youth made him easy to dismiss. He was too kind for the throne and too stubborn to surrender either the kindness or the throne.

That was part of why you loved him.

That was part of why the room had suddenly become too small.

“Nothing,” you lied.

He gave you a look.

You huffed. “I am cold.”

He lifted one brow. “Still?”

“Yes.”

“In my chambers.”

“Yes.”

“You truly do have excellent timing.”

“I am beginning to hate you.”

The smile returned, slower this time.

“No, you are not.”

You opened your mouth to deny that as well, but he had already reached the side of the chair, one hand resting on the back of it, eyes flicking over the cloak as though he was only now fully appreciating what you had done.

You had to look away again.

It was one thing to steal his cloak.

It was another thing entirely to be standing in his chamber with it around your body while he looked at you like he knew exactly why you had done it.

And, in some shameful part of you, he probably did.

“You are wearing it properly,” he said after a moment.

You frowned. “Was there a risk of improper cloak-wearing?”

“Possibly.” His mouth twitched. “It is rather large.”

“It fits me well enough.”

His gaze lingered on you. “It seems to.”

You could not tell whether he meant the cloak or something else. That uncertainty made your pulse trip.

You forced your expression into something stern. “Are you going to take it back?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Do you want me to?”

The question landed softly, but it still struck somewhere inside you and stayed there.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

It would have been easier if he had simply reached for the cloak and claimed it. Easier if he had laughed and called you ridiculous and demanded its return. Easier if he had not been standing there with that calm, careful look that made it seem as though he was giving you room to choose.

The thing was, you did not want to choose.

Not really.

You wanted him to let you keep it for one more hour. Maybe two. Maybe long enough to sit alone with the scent of him and pretend the missing shape beside you was not missing at all. You wanted the simple comfort of it, the warmth of the wool and the impossible tenderness of something he had worn against himself all day.

But you also knew him.

And he knew you.

So you said, very slowly, “I was not aware there was a choice.”

His eyes warmed.

“There is always a choice.”

That nearly made you smile.

You looked at the floor because looking at him was getting dangerous. “Then no. I do not want you to take it back.”

The words hung between you.

Telemachus’s expression changed in a way so subtle it might have escaped anyone else. But you caught it,the softening around his mouth, the quiet stillness that followed, as if he had been struck by the honesty of you and had no immediate defense against it.

“Good,” he said.

You blinked. “Good?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that good?”

He pushed off the chair and came closer.

Not quickly.

Never quickly with him, not when he could help it. He had always moved with the kind of patience that made other people think they were being granted something rare, even when all he had done was step into a room.

He stopped a little too near for your breathing to remain sensible.

“Because,” he said quietly, “I would rather you keep it than be cold.”

That was not the answer you expected.

It was worse.

It was much worse, because it was simple and true and impossible to argue with.

You swallowed.

He was close enough now that you could see the faint shadow under his eyes, the evidence of long council hours and too little rest. The crown had not made him harder. It had made him more careful with the softness he already possessed, as if he understood that Ithaca needed his steadiness but that you,sitting in a borrowed cloak, one heartbeat away from being undone,needed his gentleness.

“You should have sent for tea,” he said.

“I did not want tea.”

“Then what did you want?”

Your throat tightened.

The obvious answer was him, but saying it would have set the entire room on fire.

So you lifted one shoulder. “The cloak.”

He smiled faintly. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you are getting.”

He regarded you for a long moment, and then, to your utter surprise, he reached out,not for the cloak, but for the edge of its collar near your throat. His fingers caught the wool lightly, not touching your skin, only the fabric. It was an almost absent gesture, yet it made your entire body go still.

“You smell like the sea now,” he murmured.

You froze.

He must have noticed the way your breath changed, because he looked up at you then, something very gentle settling in his face.

“The cloak,” he added, as if that explained everything.

You swallowed hard and tried to keep your voice level. “And you do not?”

“Not according to you.”

That startled a laugh out of you despite yourself.

He had the nerve to look pleased with that.

You shot him a weak glare. "You are far too confident for a man who spent half the afternoon arguing with three members of the royal council about the kingdom's grain stores."

“They were wrong.”

“You called them ‘dramatic descendants of goats.’”

“They were being dramatic.”

“Telemachus.”

He smiled, utterly unrepentant. “They were.”

The laugh that escaped you then came easier, and for a moment the room seemed to loosen around it. Telemachus watched you with that quiet affection you had grown used to, the kind that made you feel seen in ways you had not been before the crown, before the daily demands of his life had begun to press in from every side.

When your laughter faded, neither of you moved.

The silence that followed was different from the first.

Heavier.

More personal.

He was still holding the edge of the cloak between two fingers. You were still wearing it. The fire crackled softly. Night pressed against the windows. Somewhere beyond the chamber, the palace breathed on.

Then Telemachus said, almost casually, “You have been doing this for a while.”

You frowned. “Doing what?”

His eyes flicked to the cloak.

You had the feeling you were being allowed an escape route and had no intention of taking it.

Still, you tried. “Wearing your clothing without permission?”

“That too.”

Your face heated.

He was far too observant.

He looked vaguely amused by your embarrassment, but not cruelly so. Never cruelly. He had learned enough from the men around him, enough from the old wounds of the house he was born into, to know the difference between teasing and tenderness. He never crossed the line. That was one of the many reasons it was so difficult to survive him.

“You wear my cloak,” he said, “whenever I leave it unattended.”

“I have done no such thing.”

“You are doing it now.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, and then muttered, “It is a very good cloak.”

His expression shifted. “It is.”

“Soft.”

“Mm.”

“Warm.”

“Yes.”

“And it smells like you.”

That made him still.

You regretted saying it the second it left your mouth, but it was too late now. You had stepped over the line and could only keep walking.

Telemachus did not laugh.

He did not tease you.

He only looked at you, his expression unreadable for one long beat, and then very quietly said, “So that is why.”

The words were so soft you barely heard them.

Your pulse kicked.

You tried to look offended by his tone and failed immediately because you were, in fact, very offended by his ability to sound that calm while your whole body felt suddenly exposed. “Was that not already obvious?”

His gaze held yours.

“No,” he said, “not until now.”

The quietness of the room seemed to deepen around that answer.

You looked down, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I did not mean to say it.”

“No?” he asked.

You shook your head.

He let a beat pass before speaking again. “Then why did you?”

That was such a very him question. Not accusatory. Not demanding. Just honest enough to be dangerous.

You gave in to the truth in the only way you could manage.

“Because I missed you,” you said.

The words were so small they nearly vanished on the way out.

Still, they changed everything.

Telemachus’s expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. He had not expected that answer. You could tell by the slight pause in his breathing, the way his thumb stilled against the collar of the cloak, the way his eyes grew quieter as they stayed on you.

You should have stopped there.

Instead, because the moment was already ruined by sincerity, you said, “When you are busy, the palace feels different.”

His gaze did not leave your face. “Different how?”

“Larger.” You swallowed. “Colder. Too quiet.”

His voice lowered. “And the cloak helps.”

You nodded once.

Something in his expression shifted again,this time into a tenderness so clear it almost made you look away from sheer embarrassment. He was looking at you as if what you had just confessed was not foolish or childish but deeply dear. As if he understood the shape of loneliness well enough to respect it.

Then he asked, very softly, “Would you have told me?”

You frowned slightly. “Told you what?”

“That you missed me.”

The question hit somewhere close to the center of you.

You tried to answer lightly, but it came out honest anyway. “Maybe eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated, and there was a faint smile in the corners of his mouth. “Not tonight?”

You considered lying again.

It would have been easier.

But he was looking at you with such steady patience that the lie died before it formed.

“Tonight,” you said, “I thought about stealing your cloak and pretending it was enough.”

Telemachus let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind that came with a smile he was trying not to show too openly. “And was it?”

“No.”

He was silent.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat now.

“No,” you repeated more quietly. “It wasn’t.”

The air between you changed at that, subtle and immediate. His hand fell away from the cloak, and for a moment you feared you had said too much, that the confession had gone too far and he would step back and let the moment collapse under its own weight.

Instead, Telemachus reached for you.

Not abruptly.

Not as if he expected anything of you.

He simply lifted one hand and settled it at your waist over the heavy fabric, warm and steady and careful. It was the kind of touch that asked permission even after it had already been given. The kind that made your knees go soft because it was so completely unlike demand and so completely unlike indifference.

You looked up at him.

His face was close now.

Close enough that the line of his mouth was no longer a distant thing. Close enough that his eyes looked darker in the lamplight. Close enough that you could see the exhaustion beneath the tenderness, the burden he carried every day and the strange peace that seemed to settle only when he was with you.

“You can tell me these things,” he said quietly. “You know that, yes?”

Your throat felt tight.

You nodded.

He searched your face as if he needed to make certain that was enough. Then his thumb shifted once at your side, an almost imperceptible motion through the cloak.

“Do not keep yourself cold on my account,” he murmured.

You laughed, though it came out shaky. “I was not doing it on your account.”

His brow rose. “No?”

You met his gaze and felt your own courage buckling under the simple fact of him standing there, so warm and so attentive and so impossible to hide from.

“I was doing it because I wanted to be closer to you,” you admitted.

The room went utterly still.

He did not speak.

Neither did you.

The silence held for a breath, then another.

His hand at your waist tightened by the smallest degree, as though he had to physically stop himself from moving too quickly.

“Y/N,” he said, and there was something in the way he said your name that made it sound like both a question and an answer.

You swallowed. “What?”

He looked at you for a long moment, then gave the faintest shake of his head, as if he had run out of words and found it strangely unimportant for once.

Instead, he tugged gently at the cloak.

You stared at him, startled.

He smiled a little. “You may keep it tonight.”

Your heart gave a strange, stumbling leap.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You tried not to sound too hopeful and failed spectacularly. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

You looked down at the garment draped around you, then back up at him. “What about tomorrow?”

His expression shifted into something almost unreadably soft.

“We will see.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious now. “That sounds like a trap.”

“It is not.”

“You are planning to reclaim it.”

He gave you the most innocent look he possibly could and still remain the most dangerous man in Ithaca. “Perhaps.”

That earned him a horrified gasp. “Telemachus.”

He laughed then, low and warm, and the sound settled over you like a balm. The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter finally eased enough for both of you to breathe again. His hand remained at your waist, his thumb brushing once, absent-minded and affectionate, through the wool.

You stood there with his cloak around your shoulders and his hand on your waist and realized that the reason the room felt so safe was not because the cloak smelled like him.

It was because he did.

Not the scent. Not the fabric. Him.

His quiet. His patience. His warmth.

His ridiculous ability to find your embarrassment charming instead of inconvenient.

His habit of looking at you as if you were worth listening to.

His way of making the whole palace feel less like stone and more like home.

You could have stayed like that forever.

Or at least until he ruined it by speaking again.

“You know,” he said, his voice gentler now, “if you wanted to keep me, you need only ask.”

You blinked at him.

He was smiling. Not smugly. Not teasingly. Just softly, like he was sharing a truth he knew you would carry carefully once you accepted it.

You frowned. “Keep you?”

His gaze did not waver.

“Near you,” he clarified.

The words slipped into the air and settled there, sweet and dangerous.

You felt your face warm all over again. “You are impossible.”

His smile widened just a fraction. “And yet you still stole my cloak.”

“I will steal more than your cloak if you keep speaking like that.”

His brows lifted, amused. “Is that a promise?”

You stared at him for one long second before your own smile betrayed you.

Maybe the answer was yes.

Maybe the answer had been yes for some time.

Telemachus seemed to understand that from your expression alone, because something softened in his eyes, something private and full of affection. He leaned down then, just enough to press a quiet kiss to your forehead, and the gesture was so simple and so intimate that your breath caught on instinct.

“Sleep in it,” he murmured. “If you want to.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

He shrugged a little, almost shy for once. “I will not mind.”

The room felt too warm suddenly.

You swallowed and managed, “You are too kind to me.”

His expression gentled. “No. Only to you.”

That nearly undid you.

He straightened before you could find words, reached for the lamp on the side table, and dimmed it a little so the room fell into a softer amber glow. Then he moved toward the door, pausing just before opening it.

You turned toward him. “Where are you going?”

He looked back with the easy patience of a man who had already made his decision.

“To finish the evening’s reports.”

You stared. “Now?”

He nodded.

“You are leaving me here,” you said, pointing weakly at the cloak as though it was proof of betrayal.

His mouth curved. “I am leaving you there in my cloak.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I think it is.”

You opened your mouth to object and then stopped when he added, very quietly, “And I will come back.”

That changed the shape of the room again.

You watched him, suddenly aware of how carefully he offered certainty when he could. Not grand promises. Just the truth, spoken plainly.

He would come back.

He always did.

Your voice softened without permission. “All right.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod, as if pleased by your agreement. “Good night, Y/N.”

You looked down at the cloak around you, then back up at him.

“Good night, my king.”

The smile he gave you then was entirely different from the amused one from before. This one was quiet, intimate, and full of something that made your chest feel unbearably full.

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood alone in his chamber for a long minute, one hand lingering at the collar of the cloak where he had touched it, listening to the faint receding sound of his footsteps in the corridor.

The room felt colder immediately.

You looked down at yourself and realized you were still smiling.

Ridiculous.

You crossed to his chair and sat in it as if the furniture itself could preserve the shape of him. The cloak settled around you, heavy and warm. You tucked your legs beneath it and breathed in once more, that familiar scent filling your lungs, and this time it did not make your chest ache quite so sharply.

It made you think of the way he had said you could tell him things.

It made you think of his hand at your waist.

It made you think of the promise hidden in his “I will come back,” as if he had been speaking about the cloak, the room, and something much larger all at once.

Maybe you had stolen his cloak.

Maybe that had been true at the beginning.

But by the time the lamp burned low and the palace settled into night and the only sound in the chamber was the sea beyond the windows, you were no longer certain you had taken anything at all.

Maybe he had given it to you.

Maybe he had given you the warmth, the comfort, the patience, the quiet.

Maybe he had given you a piece of himself because he already knew you would keep it carefully.

And maybe that was why, when Telemachus returned much later and found you asleep in his chair with his cloak wrapped around you and one hand curled near your face like a child refusing to let go of a favorite blanket, he stopped in the doorway and smiled to himself before crossing the room as softly as he could.

You woke only enough to feel him lift a blanket over you and murmur your name in that low, tender voice you loved so much.

He did not take the cloak back.

He only bent to kiss your temple, so gently you might have dreamed it, and whispered, “You may keep it.”

Then, after a pause so small it felt like a secret, he added, “As long as you keep coming back to me too.”

And in the quiet dark of his chamber, wrapped in his cloak and the warmth of his promise, you did not need to say yes.