#telemonster

The air in the palace halls often hummed with the murmur of courtly life, the clatter of servants, and sometimes, the resonant strumming of a lyre. For Telemachus, son of Odysseus, it was the familiar soundtrack to his days, a constant backdrop to the duties and uncertainties that shadowed his youth. Lately, however, a new melody had woven itself into this familiar tune, one composed of admiration and rendered in words or strokes of breathtaking artistry.

You, a poet or artist who had found a place within the Ithacan court, possessed a unique gift: the ability to capture the essence of things, to translate the mundane into the magnificent. And you seemed to find Telemachus a particularly compelling subject.

"Prince Telemachus," you might say, your voice alight with genuine appreciation as he stood framed by a sun-drenched window, "the way the light catches the bronze of your cuirass... it's like molten gold, a warrior forged in the heart of a star."

Or perhaps, if your art was the spoken word, you'd share a newly crafted verse:

*"Like the sturdy oak against the tempest's roar,*

*So stands Telemachus, strength to the very core.*

*His gaze, the distant sea on a cloudless day,*

*Holding depths untold in its steady sway."*

Telemachus, earnest and somewhat reserved, had initially been taken aback by these pronouncements. He was accustomed to respect, to deference due to his lineage, but this... this was different. It wasn't about his title or his future kingship; it was about him. His bearing, his gaze, the very way he stood.

He'd grown to expect it, though. It had become a pleasant, if slightly baffling, constant in his days. He reasoned that it was simply your way, the lens through which you viewed the world. Artists and poets, he mused, often saw things others missed, finding beauty and inspiration in the most unexpected places. Your compliments, though frequent and effusive, seemed to stem from a genuine appreciation, a professional admiration for a worthy subject. He accepted them with a polite nod and a quiet "Thank you," never quite knowing how else to respond.

One bustling afternoon, as you sat sketching in the outer courtyard, your charcoal dancing across the parchment with swift, sure strokes, you were engaged in conversation with one of the palace attendants, Elara. Telemachus happened to be passing by, his mind preoccupied with the latest rumors from the harbor, when a snippet of your exchange snagged his attention.

"...the way his brow furrows when he's deep in thought," you were saying, your voice softer now, almost wistful, "it speaks of such responsibility, such a weight carried with quiet dignity. And his smile, Elara, when it truly breaks through... it's like the sun after a long storm."

Elara chuckled, a knowing glint in her eye. "You certainly have a way with words, Y/N. You make the young prince sound like a god carved in marble."

You laughed, a light, airy sound. "Oh, he's no cold marble. There's a fire in him, a quiet strength that I try to capture in my work."

Then, Elara's tone shifted, becoming teasing. "Or perhaps it's not just his 'work' you're trying to capture, Y/N?" She paused, and then, with a sudden, mischievous grin, blurted out, "Wait... do you have a crush on Prince Telemachus?"

Time seemed to stutter. Telemachus, who had been about to continue on his way, froze behind a nearby pillar, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He held his breath, every nerve ending on high alert.

He saw your reaction without being seen. Your easy laughter died in your throat. Your posture, usually so relaxed and confident, stiffened. A blush, starting faintly at your neck, crept up your cheeks, painting them a delightful shade of crimson. You stammered, your usual eloquence deserting you.

"I- I... well- he...- he is... a very... uh...- a very... respectable prince," you managed, your gaze fixed on the unfinished sketch in your lap. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the parchment. The "cool guy vibes" Telemachus had subconsciously associated with your artistic confidence had completely evaporated, replaced by a palpable fluster.

Elara, ever the observant one, raised a knowing eyebrow, a silent "aha!" hanging in the air between you.

Telemachus felt a strange mix of emotions churning within him. Surprise, certainly. A flicker of something akin to... pride? And beneath it all, a burgeoning curiosity. He had always seen your admiration as purely professional, a detached appreciation for a subject worthy of your artistic eye. The possibility that it might be something more... it was a revelation.

He retreated silently, his mind racing. He replayed your compliments in his head, the way your eyes lingered on him when you spoke, the subtle nuances he had previously overlooked. Had he been so caught up in his own concerns, the weight of his father's absence and the suitors' insolence, that he had completely missed this?

The next few days were... different. Telemachus found himself more aware of your presence in the palace. He noticed the way you would subtly shift your gaze when he entered a room, the slight hesitation in your voice when you addressed him. He also found himself paying closer attention to your work, seeing not just the skill in your craft, but the emotion, the feeling that seemed to infuse it when he was the subject.

One evening, he found you alone in the palace gardens, the setting sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. You were sketching in a small notebook, the soft glow illuminating your focused expression. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to intrude, but a sudden impulse propelled him forward.

"The moon is beautiful tonight," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual.

You startled, your head snapping up. Your cheeks flushed again, though this time, the color seemed softer, tinged with surprise rather than embarrassment. "Oh, Prince Telemachus. I- I didn't see you there."

He stepped closer, his gaze drawn to the open page of your notebook. It was a sketch of the gardens at twilight, the familiar flora rendered with a delicate beauty.

"Your work is... remarkable," he said, the words feeling inadequate yet genuine.

You looked down at the notebook, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "Thank you, my lord."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the chirping of crickets. Telemachus found himself wanting to say more, to understand the way you saw him, the way you translated him into art and poetry.

"You... you often speak of my appearance, my... bearing," he began, feeling a little awkward. "I confess, I had thought it was merely the eye of an artist finding a subject."

You finally met his gaze, your eyes holding a depth that surprised him. "It is that, my lord. But... it is also more. You possess a strength, a quiet determination, that I find... inspiring. You carry the weight of your responsibilities with such grace, even in the face of such adversity." Your voice was soft, earnest. "And yes," you added, your gaze flickered downwards for a fleeting moment before returning to his, a hint of that earlier blush returning, "you are also... aesthetically pleasing."

A small smile touched Telemachus's lips. He found himself strangely disarmed by your honesty. "I- I appreciate your candor, Y/N."

Another silence fell, this one charged with a different kind of energy. Telemachus felt a pull, an unfamiliar curiosity drawing him closer. He had always been focused on duty, on the practicalities of his situation. But in your gaze, in your art, he saw a reflection of himself he hadn't fully recognized, a depth and a strength that went beyond his title.

"Your art... it makes me see things differently," he admitted, his voice quiet. "The palace, the people... even myself."

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with a warmth that made his chest feel strangely tight. "That is the power of art, my lord. To reveal the beauty that is already there."

He took a step closer, the scent of the evening blossoms mingling with the faint fragrance of charcoal that clung to your clothes. "Perhaps... perhaps you could show me more."

The air crackled with unspoken possibilities. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, mirroring the blush that now bloomed freely on your cheeks. In the quiet of the twilight garden, a new kind of melody began to unfold, one woven with the threads of admiration, vulnerability, and the unexpected stirring of something more profound.