#telemico

The grief that shattered you in the torchlit corridor did not break you. Instead, when the tears finally dried, leaving salty tracks on your skin like riverbeds after a drought, something new and hard settled in their place. It was resolve, cold and clear as winter ice. You had spent years pouring your warmth, your hope, your very essence into a vessel that would not hold it, and you were left empty. No more.

The decision was not made in anger, but in a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It was a matter of survival. The next morning, you rose and began the deliberate, painful process of building a wall around your heart. When you saw Telemachus across the courtyard, his brow furrowed with the familiar weight of his burdens, the old impulse to rush to his side, to offer a kind word or a cup of water, rose in your throat like a phantom ache. You swallowed it down, turning on your heel and focusing on the stone flags beneath your feet, one step at a time, until the urge subsided. You learned to make your face a placid mask, your voice a neutral current, and your eyes—your eyes never truly met his again. You were a ghost in his halls, impeccable in your duties, but utterly devoid of the spirit he had never truly noticed until it was gone.

That spirit, the innate warmth and care that was so much a part of you, needed a place to rest. It found a quiet harbor in Arion. He was the junior assistant to the palace scribe, a young man from a lesser family that had lost its lands and fortunes two generations prior. He possessed a quiet intelligence and a gentle demeanor, but in the boisterous, political viper's nest of the palace, his quietness made him invisible. You understood that kind of invisibility. He was perpetually overworked, his tunic often bearing the smudge of spilled ink, his dark hair falling into eyes that held a permanent, thoughtful sadness.

Your friendship began with a bruised apple. It was an offering made on a whim, a simple act of redirecting a kindness that no longer had a home. But Arion's reaction was unlike any you had ever received. His face, when he took the apple, was a study in stunned gratitude.

The next day, he sought you out. He found you tending to the potted herbs near the kitchens, and he held out a small, smooth piece of papyrus. "It is not much," he said, his voice soft and hesitant. "But my master discards the ends of the scrolls. I thought... I thought you might like it. For lists, or... or for drawing, if you are so inclined."

You took the small, precious gift, your fingers brushing his. For the first time in a long time, you felt a warmth that was not your own, but one that was being offered to you. "Thank you, Arion," you said, and a small, genuine smile touched your lips without you even willing it to. "No one has ever given me a gift like this before."

A bond formed, quiet and steady. It was a friendship woven from small, shared moments. You would save him a heel of bread; he would read you a line of poetry from a scroll he was copying. You would help him re-roll a particularly cumbersome map; he would tell you stories of the old gods he was researching. You found solace in his calm presence, and he seemed to find light in your gentle attention. In a world of loud, demanding men, his quiet respect was a balm. Your relationship wasn't one of fiery passion or aching romance; it was something perhaps more profound—a mutual recognition of each other's worth, a quiet haven of kindness in a harsh world.

Telemachus, meanwhile, was drowning. The great sea of his anxieties had not lessened, but the small, personal buoy he'd never realized he had was gone. He'd finish a grueling session with his sword master, muscles screaming, throat parched, and would instinctively scan the courtyard for your familiar form. But you were never there. The cool waterskin no longer appeared as if by magic at his elbow. The silence in his study was no longer just quiet; it was empty. He felt your absence as a draft in a warm room, a persistent chill he couldn't locate.

He began to watch you, trying to understand the shift. He saw you work, your efficiency more pronounced now that it was unsoftened by any personal warmth. He saw the cool, dismissive nod you gave him, the same you gave any other servant. It pricked at his pride, then, more alarmingly, at something deeper. He felt... ignored. And he was stunned to realize how much it bothered him.

The vague sense of loss sharpened into a blade of pure jealousy the first time he saw you with Arion. They were sharing a bench in the shade of an olive tree, eating a simple meal of bread and cheese. You said something, and Arion let out a soft, breathy laugh. In response, you smiled at him—a gentle, luminous smile that crinkled the corners of your eyes. It was a smile of pure, unguarded contentment. A smile he had never, not once, earned for himself. He felt a hot, possessive anger rise in his chest, so potent it startled him. Why were you smiling like that for a lowly scribe's assistant?

The sightings became a form of exquisite torture. A week later, he saw you both in the tapestry room. Arion was helping you mend a tear in a heavy drape, your heads bent close together, your fingers working in tandem. As you finished, you noticed an ink smudge on Arion's cheek. With a familiar ease that bespoke countless similar moments, you reached up and gently wiped it away with your thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture, so simple and so profoundly domestic, sent a jolt through Telemachus. It was a touch without artifice or agenda, a touch born of genuine affection. He had commanded you for years, but he had never known that tenderness.

The final, crushing blow came during a cool evening. He was seeking solitude on a secluded balcony, his mind churning with plans to deal with Antinous, the cruelest of the suitors. Below, in the small, walled garden reserved for the queen, he saw two figures. It was you and Arion, walking slowly along the path. You were speaking, your hands gesturing as you told a story, your face animated in the moonlight. Arion listened with an attentiveness that was almost reverent. Telemachus couldn't hear your words, but he didn't need to. He was witnessing you give the most precious part of yourself—your thoughts, your spirit, your unguarded presence—to someone else. He remembered all the times he had cut you off, dismissed your words, or simply turned away. He had treated your voice like background noise, and here was someone else treating it like music.

Just then, Lyra appeared at his side, holding a woolen cloak. "My lord, you will catch a chill," she said, her voice full of sincere concern. He barely heard her. His eyes were locked on the scene below. You glanced up then, not at him, but in the general direction of the palace, and saw him standing there with Lyra draping the cloak over his shoulders. He saw your expression falter for only a second before settling back into a calm neutrality. He watched you turn back to Arion, say something soft, and continue your walk, leaving Telemachus standing on the balcony, feeling more alone than ever. He knew what you must have thought, and the bitter irony was that Lyra's kindness felt like ashes compared to the warmth he now understood he had lost from you.

He could not bear it another day. He sought you out, finding you as you were leaving the main hall. He stepped into your path, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

"Y/N," he said, his voice strained.

You stopped, your arms empty, but you held them as if guarding your chest. "My lord," you said, your voice a placid stream flowing over cold stones. Your eyes were on his chin, not his face.

"I have been a fool," he began, the words rushing out of him, raw and unpracticed. "A blind, arrogant fool. The kindness you showed me... the care... I took it for granted. I treated it as my due, not the gift that it was. I see that now. I see it when I see you with... him."

You were silent for a long moment, simply absorbing his words. He saw a flicker of the old pain in your eyes, a deep, ancient sorrow. But it was distant, like a storm long past.

"And what is it you want, my lord?" you asked, your question devoid of accusation. It was a simple, honest inquiry.

"I want...," he faltered, the enormity of his request finally dawning on him. "I miss you, Y/N. I miss the person you were."

Your gaze finally lifted to meet his, and for the first time in months, you let him see. But what he saw was not the adoring, hopeful servant he remembered. He saw a woman, calm and whole, whose peace was no longer tied to his notice.

"My lord," you said, and your voice was softer now, tinged not with coldness, but with a sad wisdom. "The person you miss... I had to let her go. She would not have survived. Her heart was not meant for a world that saw her kindness as a convenience." You took a small, steadying breath. "The warmth you are looking for is not something I can give you anymore. I have learned to build my own fire, and to share it with those who value its light."

You offered him a small, final nod, one that held not dismissal, but a strange kind of pity. "I wish you well in your search, Telemachus."

You used his name, without his title, for the first and for what you hope will be the last time. Then you walked away, your steps unhurried, leaving him standing alone in the grand, empty hall. He did not call after you. The finality in your voice was absolute. He was left with nothing but the crushing, monumental weight of his own regret. He had been given a treasure, and in his blindness, he had let it slip through his fingers, only to watch, helpless, as another man recognized its worth and gently picked it up. The pain of it was a lesson, sharp and brutal, and he knew with a certainty that would haunt him for the rest of his days that this was the beginning of his wisdom.

In the wake of your final, quiet conversation, a strange peace settled between you and Telemachus. The tension did not vanish, but it transformed from a brittle, painful thing into a long, somber silence, filled with unspoken understanding. Telemachus, for his part, accepted the boundary you had drawn with a maturity that surprised you. He ceased his attempts to breach your walls, and instead, took to watching you from a distance.

From his vantage point, he began to truly see you for the first time. He watched your friendship with Arion, and though a bitter pang of regret twisted in his gut with every shared smile he witnessed, he forced himself to look past his own pain. He saw the easy camaraderie, the mutual respect, the way you both seemed to draw strength from each other's quiet presence. He saw Arion listen to you with rapt attention and saw you comfort Arion with a gentle hand on his arm. Telemachus began to admire the resilience you had found, the peace you had carved out for yourself without him. The admiration was a painful, humbling lesson, and he poured that bitter education into his duties, facing the suitors with a new, steelier resolve born of profound personal regret.

You, in turn, could not help but notice the change in him. The frantic, boyish energy was gone, replaced by a deep, pensive gravity. You saw him treat the other servants with a consideration that had never been there before, asking their names, thanking them for their service. He no longer carried himself with the thoughtless privilege of a prince, but with the weary weight of a man learning the cost of his own actions. One evening, you saw him staring into the fire, his expression so full of lonely remorse that a forgotten warmth stirred in your chest—not the old, aching devotion, but a new, more complicated empathy. The ice around your heart had not vanished, but it was beginning to show cracks.

Your friendship with Arion, meanwhile, deepened into a sanctuary. One afternoon, while you were helping him sort a stack of sun-bleached papyrus scrolls, the sound of a lyre, accompanied by a clear, confident voice, drifted in from the courtyard. It was Ctesippus, one of the more flamboyant suitors, known more for his poetry and preening than his outright brutality. Arion froze, his hands stilling over a scroll, his gaze lost in the distance. A soft, mournful sigh escaped his lips.

"His voice is as clear as the streams on Mount Neriton," Arion murmured, almost to himself.

You looked from the suitor back to your friend's wistful face, and understanding bloomed. "Arion," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Your heart is far away."

He looked at you, his gentle eyes clouded with a hopeless affection. "Is it so obvious?" he whispered, a sad smile touching his lips. "He is beautiful, is he not? Like a verse from Homer brought to life. And I am... a scribe's boy with ink on his fingers. His world is so far from mine, Y/N." He confessed his quiet, impossible crush, a secret he had held close in the lonely chambers of his heart.

You squeezed his arm, your own past heartaches giving you the perfect words of comfort. "Your heart is good and true, Arion. That is worth more than all the lyres in Ithaca. I am glad you trust me with its keeping." In that moment, your bond was cemented not as lovers, but as something arguably deeper: two souls weathering the same storm, offering each other the simple, profound gift of being understood.

Weeks later, Penelope tasked you and Telemachus with a discreet and urgent project. A shipment of rare Phoenician cloth, part of her dowry she wished to protect from the suitors' greedy eyes, needed to be moved from a lower storeroom to a hidden chamber behind her own suite. It was a task that required both strength and subtlety, forcing the two of you into close collaboration.

The first hour was a study in awkward silence. You worked with a detached efficiency, while Telemachus seemed afraid to even breathe too loudly in your presence. But the sheer physicality of the work slowly eroded the formality. As he passed you a heavy, cedar-lined box, his hand brushed yours, and a jolt of startled awareness passed between you. He pulled his hand back as if burned, murmuring a quick apology.

"It is heavy," you said simply, your voice even. "I will take that side."

Slowly, a new rhythm emerged. He began to defer to you. "Do you think this chest will fit through the west passage, Y/N? You know the architecture better than I." He no longer gave orders; he asked for your counsel. He treated you not as a servant, but as a trusted partner. As you worked, a shared memory surfaced—a time in childhood when you had both hidden in this very same secret passage during a game.

A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. "I remember you knew this hiding spot even then. You never told anyone where I was."

"It was a good hiding spot," you replied, and a genuine, answering smile bloomed on your face before you could stop it. It was a small moment, a fleeting truce, but it felt as significant as a sunrise after a long night. The air between you lightened, warmed by the ember of a shared past.

The breaking point for Telemachus came a few days later. He saw you in the garden with Arion. Your friend was clearly distraught, his shoulders slumped in defeat—Ctesippus had likely mocked him or treated him with casual cruelty. You were speaking to him in low, soothing tones, your expression one of fierce, protective loyalty. As you spoke, you reached out and cupped his cheek, tilting his face towards yours, a gesture of profound comfort and solidarity.

From Telemachus's vantage point, it was a devastating tableau. It looked like a lover comforting their heartbroken partner. He saw in that single touch a depth of intimacy he was now certain he could never hope to achieve. He believed, in that moment, that he had lost you completely and irrevocably. The pain was sharp, but it clarified his purpose. He could not keep pining for what was not his. For your sake, and for his own sanity, he had to let you go. Properly.

He found you that evening by the olive tree in the main courtyard, the place that had been the backdrop for so much of your shared history. He approached you not with the desperation of before, but with a somber, settled resolve.

You saw him coming and your heart gave a nervous flutter, but you stood your ground.

"Telemachus," you greeted him quietly.

He stopped a respectful distance away. "I will not keep you," he said, his voice low and steady. "I only... I needed to say something. I have spent these past weeks learning a difficult lesson, one you tried to teach me long ago. I see now what true companionship looks like. The respect. The kindness."

He swallowed, his gaze earnest and filled with a deep, painful sincerity. "I see the happiness you have found with Arion. He is a good and gentle man. He sees you, Y/N, in a way I was too blind to. You deserve that." He took a breath, the words costing him more than you could know. "My chance to be that man has passed. And I accept that. I only wished to say that I hope you will accept my sincerest wish for your future together. May it be long and happy."

You stared at him. The silence stretched, filled only by the chirping of crickets. His speech was so noble, so full of heartfelt, tragic renunciation that it would have been beautiful, were it not so utterly, completely, ridiculously wrong. A strangled sound escaped your throat, a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

"My future?" you repeated, your voice incredulous. "With Arion?"

He looked confused by your reaction. "Yes? I have seen... you are very close."

You looked at his handsome, earnest, completely bewildered face, and the dam of your composure finally broke. You laughed. It wasn't a small chuckle, but a full, rolling laugh of pure, unadulterated disbelief. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it was no use.

"Telemachus," you finally managed, wiping a tear of mirth from your eye. "Arion is my dearest friend in this world. My brother. And the last person whose heart I would have any claim on." Seeing his utter confusion, you took pity on him. "His affections, my lord, lie with a certain suitor known for his skill with a lyre and his unfortunate choice in company."

The wave of emotions that crashed over Telemachus's face was a sight to behold. Shock. Disbelief. Stunned, dawning comprehension. And then, a wild, electrifying surge of hope so powerful it made him dizzy. All this time, he had been mourning a romance that had never existed.

"So you... you are not...?" he stammered, his princely composure gone.

"No," you said softly, your laughter subsiding into a warm, gentle smile. "We are not."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, with all the walls between you shattered by the absurdity of it all. He saw the warmth in your eyes, the smile on your lips, and he saw his second chance, shimmering and improbable and more precious than any kingdom.

"Then, Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion, stepping closer until he could have reached out and touched you. "If your heart is not taken, and your future is not written..." He paused, his gaze locking with yours. "Would you allow me the honor of trying to earn it? Not as a prince who was a fool, but as a man who would spend a lifetime proving he has learned his lesson. Allow me to court you. Properly. With walks in the garden, and conversations that I will never again cut short. With the respect you have always deserved."

You looked at the man before you—humbled, sincere, and stripped of all his old arrogance. You saw the regret that had carved new lines of character into his face and the hope that now made his eyes shine. The last of the ice melted away, not in a flood, but in a gentle, sun-warmed thaw.