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uglydisgustingandfilthyforsure · 2 months ago

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im gooning so hard YOU TAGGED ME YOU DIRTY DOG YOU AUGHHHHH

Troubles of heart

P1 P2 P3 Sum up : You wait for him, for weeks. And he comes back, but with him arrives bloodshed, and maybe finally peace. The King is back after a final fight. Now both you and the princfe need to figure out why your chests are fuzzy. A difficult choice, duty or love ?

The sea was restless again.

You stood on the balcony overlooking the horizon, the salt air tugging at your hair, the wind cool against your face. The waves crashed against the shore like they were angry — or maybe it was just you. You didn’t know why you kept coming here.

Every day.

Every night.

Watching the water like Telemachus might rise from it, spear in hand, smiling that crooked, boyish smile you hated to admit you missed. It had been too long. No word from him, no news from the ships. You told yourself he was fine — he had to be — but the ache in your chest didn’t listen to reason.

You blinked hard and turned away from the sea. There was work to be done. You’d spent the last moons at Penelope’s side, helping where you could. The suitors grew more restless by the day, and the queen only became quieter, more composed. Like stone. You admired her strength, even if it worried you.

But you weren’t strong enough today.

You failed her.

The memory burned hot in your chest — the sneaky servant who’d seen Penelope undoing her weaving by candlelight, the whisper that spread through the halls like rot. The suitors descended on her like vultures, demanding recompense for her trickery.

Penelope didn’t falter. She declared a challenge. Twelve axes. A bow only Odysseus could string. A feat only he could win.

You wanted to believe no man could complete it — but fear curled in your stomach all the same.

The queen asked you to find Argos before the announcement. The old hound hadn’t been seen all morning, and Penelope seemed distant when she asked for him. Her voice was soft, like it hurt to say his name. So you went.

The streets of Ithaca bustled with life despite the tension hanging in the air. Merchants called out their wares, children ran barefoot through the dust, and women gathered water from the well. It was familiar — too familiar — like the island didn’t realize it was standing on the edge of a knife.

You searched the usual places: the market stalls, the fisherman’s docks, near the temple. No sign of Argos. But near the edge of town, you spotted a figure slumped against the wall of a small alleyway.

A beggar.

His clothes were torn and filthy, his hair tangled, his face hidden beneath dirt and a mated beard. His head hung low, as though the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees.

Your heart squeezed.

You didn’t think. You reached into your cloak, searching for something — anything — to give. A few dried figs. A piece of bread. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

You stepped closer, your boots crunching softly against the dirt. The beggar stirred, lifting his head just enough for you to see his eyes. They were sharp. Too sharp for a man so broken. The color of a storm rolling in from the sea.

You froze for half a breath, a flicker of familiarity tugging at the edges of your mind — but it was gone before you could catch it. His face was too sunken, his beard too thick. His eyes were dull and tired, not like—

No. He’s a stranger.

You knelt beside him, gentle. “Here.”

His gaze flickered to the food in your hand, but he didn’t reach for it. You hesitated, then slowly took his hand. His palm was rough, calloused, the skin scarred and weathered. Like the some blood had dried on it and got through his skin. You pressed the food into it, closing his fingers around it.

His hand tightened, almost reflexively, and you felt the strength hidden beneath the weariness.

“Thank you,” his voice rasped, barely more than a whisper.

You smiled despite yourself. “Get something warm in your stomach. The queen is making an announcement soon — best not to get caught up in the crowd.”

His eyes lingered on you for a heartbeat too long. There was something in his gaze — something quiet, something that made you feel like he saw straight through you.

“Which way to the castle?” he asked, his voice rough and low.

You pointed up the road. “Follow the path. You’ll see the guards. They’ll let you in if you’re quick.” He nodded slowly, starting to rise. His leg trembled beneath him, and he winced.

Your gaze fell lower, and you caught sight of his thigh — a scar, jagged and pale against his tanned skin, peeking from the tear in his robe. You stared at it a second too long, something tugging at the back of your mind.

It felt familiar. But you didn’t know why.

You shook the thought away, standing to help him up. His hand gripped yours tightly as he steadied himself. “Be careful,” you murmured. “The suitors won’t take kindly to beggars near the queen.” The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a rictus, but close.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice was quieter now, steadier. You watched him go, his gait slow and uneven, his back hunched as though the weight of years pressed down on him. There was something about his posture that pulled at your chest — something distant and familiar, like a memory you couldn’t reach.

But you couldn’t place it. And you didn’t have time to linger on it. You had to find Argos. So you turned away from the beggar, heart strangely heavy, and disappeared into the streets.

You didn’t look back.

If you had, you might have seen the beggar stop for a moment — just long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes lingered on you, and for a second, his face softened. Then he turned and limped toward the castle. And the sea kept roaring in the distance.

You found Argos beneath an old olive tree near the edge of the garden.

At first, you thought he was sleeping — his body curled peacefully in the sun, his fur ruffled by the breeze. His eyes were closed, his ears relaxed. He looked happy. Content. Like he’d finally stopped waiting. But you knew the truth the moment you saw him. He was gone.

Your throat tightened. He must’ve held on for so long, waiting for his master to come home. Maybe he had seen him — or thought he did — and finally allowed himself to rest.

You knelt beside him, your hand resting gently against his coarse, graying fur. His body was still warm. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice barely more than breath.

You stayed there for a moment longer, your hand smoothing over his side. Telemachus would be heartbroken. This dog wasn’t just a companion — he was a piece of his father. A reminder of the man he admired but barely knew.

The thought of telling him made your chest ache.

Slowly, carefully, you gathered Argos in your arms. He was heavier than you expected, his body limp and warm against you. You cradled him close, the way you might hold a sleeping child.

You couldn’t leave him there — not alone in the dirt. So you carried him back to the castle, your steps slow and deliberate. You laid him in his usual spot by the front hall, where the sun peeked through the high windows and warmed the stone. He looked peaceful, like he might wake up at any moment.

You’d bury him after the queen’s speech. For now, you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb her with the news.

The walk to Penelope’s chambers felt heavier than it should have. The palace halls were quieter than usual, filled with an unnatural tension that made the air thick and hard to breathe. Your boots echoed softly against the cold stone.

You passed by a tapestry — one you knew well — of Odysseus and Penelope on their wedding day.

They looked so young. So happy. His arm was draped around her shoulders, her head tilted toward him with that serene, clever smile only she could wear. They looked untouchable, as though nothing could break them or the kingdom they built together.

But now the palace was barely a shadow of what it had been.

The walls, once draped in bright banners and polished bronze, were faded and worn. The stone floors, once bustling with nobles and laughter, were scuffed and empty. Guards stood stiffly at the corners, watching the halls like enemies might spring from the shadows.

It felt more like a battlefield than a home.

Your chest tightened. This wasn’t Ithaca — not the one you remembered. Not the one Odysseus fought for.

And gods help you, Telemachus deserved better than this.

You stopped walking, your eyes drifting to an empty stretch of wall beside the wedding tapestry. One day, there would be a portrait there — of Telemachus. Crowned, strong, a man worthy of his father’s legacy. A king.

You could see it in your mind’s eye: his dark hair falling over his brow, his shoulders broad, his eyes sharp and steady like Penelope’s. He would rule with strength and kindness, rebuild Ithaca from the ashes. You knew it as surely as you knew your own name.

But a king needed a queen.

Your stomach twisted. Maybe that was why he’d left on his diplomatic mission. Maybe he wasn’t just seeking alliances or news of Odysseus — maybe he was looking for a bride. Someone noble. Someone beautiful. Someone who could stand at his side and bear his children.

You tried to picture her.

A foreign princess, perhaps, with delicate hands and a voice like music. Or maybe a warrior queen, fierce and untouchable. Someone wise and gentle, someone to balance his fire and fury. A woman who would love him, who would hold his hand when the weight of the crown became too much.

The image burned you from the inside out.

You didn’t know why. The thought of someone else standing beside him, touching him, loving him — it made your chest feel tight and your throat dry. You swallowed hard and tore your gaze away from the empty wall.

It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern.

But the fire in your chest didn’t go out. It smoldered, low and angry, as you made your way to the queen’s chambers. You didn’t stop to think about why. You didn’t dare.

You knocked softly.

“Enter,” came the queen’s voice — steady, but low, like she had been sitting in silence for too long. You pushed the heavy door open, and for a moment, you hesitated on the threshold.

You had heard stories about this room — the queen’s private chambers — but only the royal family was allowed within. Stepping inside felt wrong, like intruding on a sacred place.

But the room wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t cold or intimidating. It was warm, peaceful even. Sunlight spilled through a tall window, casting long beams across the smooth stone floor. The walls were lined with intricate carvings, scenes of Ithaca’s history etched into the wood. The scent of lavender hung faintly in the air.

In the center of the room stood a grand bed, its headboard carved from the trunk of an ancient olive tree — the very tree Odysseus himself had built their home around. It was sturdy and unyielding, a monument to their love. And in the corner, near the window, you saw it. The queen’s loom.

The fabric was half-woven, the threads glimmering softly in the sunlight. You could almost picture her there, working through the night, unweaving her progress with shaking hands while the rest of the palace slept.

You swallowed hard. This room wasn’t just beautiful — it was heavy with history. It felt like the last untouched corner of a dying kingdom.

Your eyes wandered until they landed on her. Penelope stood by her mirror, adjusting her crown. She caught your reflection before you could look away.

You flushed, heat blooming in your cheeks at the realization she had seen you gawking like a child seeing a temple for the first time. You dropped into a quick, deep bow, mortified.

“I’m sorry, my queen,” you stammered. “I shouldn’t have—” She raised a hand, silencing you without a word. “It’s alright,” she said softly, her voice holding no trace of scolding.

But the shame still burned in you. You bowed again, lower this time. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.” Her eyes softened as she stepped toward you. Before you could protest, her hand settled gently on your shoulder, straightening you from your bow. Her palm was warm — steady.

“You’re allowed in here,” she said quietly. “You’ve earned that right. You’re… family now.”

Family.

The word hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t just a kindness — it felt like a declaration. Like a promise. You swallowed hard, unable to find words.

Penelope studied you for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. There was something in her eyes — something deep, like she was holding back more than she was saying.

Worry. Fear. Maybe even hope. But she didn’t speak of it. Instead, she turned away and walked to the far wall, where the old bow rested.

Odysseus’s bow.

The weapon that no other man in Ithaca could string. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her fingers trailed over the polished wood, tracing the curves like she was memorizing the feel of it. Like she was touching a piece of him.

Her thumb ran along a faded scratch near the handle — a scar from years of use. You wondered if she remembered the moment he made it. If she could still picture him holding it, strong and laughing, with the whole kingdom at his feet.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath. Then she turned to you, her voice low and steady. “It’s time.” You nodded quickly, bowing once more before stepping to the door and pulling it open. Her personal guards were waiting outside. You moved to join them — but Penelope stopped you with a glance.

“Stay,” she said softly. “I want you by the door. No one else.” Your chest tightened. You nodded. You weren’t just a guard anymore. You were her shield.

The hall felt suffocating as you escorted her to the great room.

The suitors were already gathered, their voices low and murmuring. The air was thick with tension, the kind that coils in the belly of a storm. You took your place at the door, heart pounding as the queen walked forward — alone.

She stood behind the twelve axes, her head high, her crown glinting in the torchlight. For a heartbeat, the room went still. And then she spoke. Her voice rang clear and steady, silencing the murmurs like a blade cutting through smoke.

"You have waited long enough," she began. "My husband, King Odysseus, has been gone for twenty years. I have waited for him. I have remained faithful, as a queen and as a wife."

Her gaze swept the room, unwavering. "But I am not blind to your suffering — or mine. Ithaca withers under this weight. And so I offer you a chance." Her hand brushed the bow.

"This is the bow of Odysseus. Whoever can string it, and shoot an arrow through the twelve axes, shall have my hand in marriage. He will become king of Ithaca."

The room erupted into whispers, but she didn’t flinch. You watched her in awe, heart twisting. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t falter. She was more than a queen — she was a warrior in her own right, fighting not with blades, but with words, patience, and faith. For a moment, you saw Telemachus in her.

The same stubborn courage. The same quiet strength. The same willingness to bleed for the people they loved. You swallowed hard, realizing something else, too. You didn’t want anyone else on that throne beside him. Not a foreign princess. Not a noblewoman from a distant land.

You wanted him to come back. To come back to you.

And gods help you — you didn’t know if you could ever say it aloud.

The halls were too quiet.

You stood outside Penelope’s chambers, the weight of your sword resting comfortably against your hip. The queen had returned to her room, silent and composed after presenting the challenge. You hadn’t spoken — she hadn’t needed you to. Sorrow clung to her like a second cloak. So you watched over her door, still and unwavering. Your mind drifted, unwillingly, back to Telemachus.

These halls had been his playground once. You could still see him in your memory — his steps quick, his voice sharp with that biting wit he always carried, even as a boy. The suitors had called him *Little Wolf,* and though they meant it to mock him, you found yourself holding the name fondly. He was a wolf — clever, stubborn, unrelenting. You smiled to yourself. You liked that name more than you cared to admit.

Your eyes wandered to the sky.

Days ago, a storm had rolled over Ithaca — fierce, unrelenting, like something from the old stories. Thunder had crashed over the palace like a war drum, lightning splitting the sky in jagged, angry streaks. It felt like the island itself was waking up after a long, bitter sleep.

For ten years, the winds had been against you all. But now… maybe now, they were shifting. Perhaps it was finally time. Time for the tides to turn, for your life to change — for him to come home. You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping your sword until the screams shattered the air.

They weren’t the usual rowdy jeers of the suitors. These were raw. Panicked. Full of pain. Your blood turned to ice.

You glanced around quickly, catching the eyes of the other guards stationed down the hall. They looked as pale and shaken as you felt. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t some drunken brawl. This was something else. Something worse. The screams doubled. More voices. More terror.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you barked the only order that mattered: “Protect the queen! No one gets through this door!” They obeyed without hesitation, forming a shield around Penelope’s room.

But you couldn’t stay.

You didn’t even think — your body moved before your mind could catch up. You ran, the sound of your boots echoing down the corridor, sword drawn. The halls blurred past you.

When you reached the main hall, you ducked behind a column, breathing hard as you tried to piece together what was happening. Bodies littered the floor — servants, guards, suitors alike. Blood smeared the stone, dark and glistening in the torchlight. Your stomach twisted violently. And then you saw him.

Antinous.

His body was slumped behind the row of axes, an arrow buried deep in his throat. His head was tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes wide and lifeless. The smug, cruel smile he always wore was gone.

Someone had strung the bow. Your breath hitched.

Who?

Your answer came in the form of a voice — Eurymachus, the snake, trembling and pleading for mercy. But not to the queen. Not to the guards.

To him.

You couldn’t see the figure clearly. He moved too quickly, his form half-hidden in the shadows. His cloak was torn and bloodstained, his face obscured by dirt and crimson smears. But his posture... Something about him was familiar.

Eurymachus tried to smartly bargain for his existence, looking around towards the darkness around him, as he lifted his hands in surrender. “Old king forgive us instead—” Old king.

Your heart stopped. No. It couldn’t be.

Could it? Before Eurymachus could finish his plea, an arrow whistled through the air and buried itself in his throat. His words died in a wet, gurgling choke as he crumpled to the ground. The figure stepped forward, emerging just enough for the firelight to catch his face. Bloodied. Fierce. Eyes like burning steel. And you heard the voice, low and dark, like a distant storm rolling over the sea: “No.”

Your chest tightened so painfully you couldn’t breathe.

He was here. He was back.

Odysseus.

The king had come home. And the halls of Ithaca would run red before the night was done.

Your blade moved faster than your thoughts. The moment Eurymachus fell, the fragile illusion of peace shattered completely. Chaos erupted, screams and steel ringing in your ears.

You didn’t hesitate. Not anymore. Your sword cut through the air, finding flesh as though it had a will of its own. The first man you met barely had time to turn before your blade buried itself in his side, cutting through his tunic and ribs. He gasped wetly, eyes wide with surprise — as if shocked that someone like you could kill him.

You didn’t stay to watch him fall. You moved to the next.

Years of training, of fighting in the shadows for the queen’s safety — for Telemachus — guided your hands. Every insult, every unwanted touch from the suitors, every sneer at the people you loved fueled your strikes.

One lunged at you with a dagger. You parried hard, the clang of metal jarring your arms. He was bigger, stronger, but you were faster. You ducked under his swing, slicing low. His legs buckled, and you didn’t stop, driving your blade upward into his throat. Blood sprayed hot against your cheek.

They’d humiliated your queen. Terrorized the people. Stripped your home of its dignity, piece by piece. No more. You weren’t fighting for yourself — you were fighting for them. For Ithaca.

Bodies fell behind you as you carved a path toward the armory. The palace halls were thick with the smell of iron and smoke, but you didn’t stop. Your muscles burned, sweat stung your eyes, but you pushed on.

Blood splattered across your cheek, warm and thick. Your breath came fast, your grip tightening on your weapon as you turned down the corridor, following the path toward the weapons room. If there were any still alive, they’d be gathering there, trying to arm themselves. You had to stop them.

But when you reached the door, it was already open. Your blood ran cold. The king wouldn’t make such a mistake. He had fought in the greatest war of your time—he would never leave a room like this unguarded.

You pressed yourself against the stone wall, breath shallow, trying to listen. Voices. Two, maybe three. You gritted your teeth and stepped forward, ready to strike—

But a brutal force seized you from behind.

A thick arm wrapped around your throat, wrenching you back. Your sword clattered to the ground as your attacker yanked you into a headlock, squeezing the air from your lungs. You thrashed against him, fingers scrambling for purchase, but he was too strong.

A dark chuckle rumbled in your ear. "Got you now," he sneered, his grip tightening. "Pretty little thing, aren’t you? Maybe I should keep you—”

Rage and panic surged through you as you clawed at his arm, your lungs burning. The other suitor laughed cruelly. "Finish her off and let's move. No time to play."

You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of your vision going dark. Your strength faltered. Then— You heard the other man’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and panicked.

“Wait— behind you—!”

A sharp gasp. A wet, sickening sound. The arms around your throat convulsed—then slackened. The suitor holding you barely had time to turn. The spear pierced through his chest with a sickening crunch, so close to you that the shaft brushed your arm. His grip loosened as he made a wet, gurgling sound — and then he collapsed, dragging you down with him.

You coughed violently, sucking in ragged breaths as you scrambled away from the corpse. And then you saw him. Standing there, posture poised for another kill, was a man you had feared you might never see again.

Telemachus. But not the boy you had once known. This was a warrior.

His hair was longer, dark strands curling damply against his forehead. His tunic, once fine, was torn and bloodstained. But it was his eyes that struck you the most—sharper, colder. Wiser. They glowed with something feral, something honed by time and hardship.

And gods, you had never seen anything more beautiful. Behind him, unseen by mortal eyes, Athena stood. The goddess said nothing, only watching, her expression unreadable. But she was there. She had always been there, guiding him. Telemachus didn’t look at you. His focus was entirely on the suitors still standing before him.

The air was thick with blood, sweat, and smoke.

You pressed your hand to your throat, trying to stand — but your legs trembled violently beneath you, like a newborn foal. You staggered, slipping against the blood-slick floor of the palace hall. Somewhere in the chaos ahead, the prince you once swore to protect stood alone, framed by the flickering torchlight and towering shadows of the columns.

His voice cut through the clamor like a blade, sharp and commanding. "Throw down those weapons,” he ordered, raising his sword, “and I ensure you'll be spared.” You saw some of the suitors hesitate — their arrogance faltering beneath the weight of his words.

Then, one of them scoffed, Melanthius, wiping blood from his chin. “After seeing what the king will do to us?” he sneered. “We wouldn't dare.”

“I don't want to hurt you—” Telemachus insisted, his eyes scanning them with something close to pity. “But trust me, I've come prepared.”

The laughter that followed was dark, cruel. “Ha! Your very presence has doomed the king, young prince. We don't fight fair.” You forced yourself up, legs shaking beneath you. Every breath felt like fire in your lungs. “Telemachus,” you croaked, voice barely above a whisper, too weak for the chaos to carry it. Then Melanthius — shouted:

“Brothers! We got company, and he's made a grave mistake!” he bellowed gleefully, hoisting a sword high. “Left the weapons room unlocked, and now they’re ours to take!” Your blood turned cold. You turned, eyes widening. Men were spilling from the armory like a flood. They came armed, desperate, and enraged. They surged forward.

“Brothers! Come and arm yourselves! There’s a chance for us to win!” one screamed. “We can still defeat the king—if we all attack the prince!” You saw Telemachus' jaw tighten, his eyes flash with a light you had only glimpsed once before — when you saw him drop from the sky like a fallen star into moonlit water. But this wasn’t awe or uncertainty now. This was the rage of a storm.

You pushed forward — you had to fight — for him, for your queen, for your home. But the moment you moved to draw your sword, a blunt force caught your side — one of the suitors, striking with the hilt of a stolen axe. You flew back, crashing against the marble column. Your head smacked hard against the stone. The world tilted, your ears rang, and you dropped to your knees with a low groan, your vision spinning. Everything went muffled, like your head was underwater.

You blinked blearily, trying to focus. You could see Telemachus in the distance, surrounded — a ring of blades trying to close in around him. But he didn’t back down.

He moved like lightning. Parrying, dodging, slashing back. A predator in his own den. You wanted to shout. To scream. To move. But your limbs betrayed you. Blood dripped into your eye. You coughed and tried to push off the ground again. Your hand slipped. Don’t fall now. Don’t fail him. Please, gods, not now…

You clenched your jaw, the image of Telemachus flashing through your fading vision — the boy you once hated, now a man you couldn’t look away from. The man fighting for everything.

“Please…” you whispered again, chest tightening. You knew : this wasn’t the end. This was only the beginning. He would not fall tonight. But you might.

And so you fought unconsciousness with every beat of your heart — to witness what came next. To stay in the world that had him in it. The blood trickled down the side of your face, warm and thick. It clung to your temple like it had a claim on your soul, stealing pieces of you with each heartbeat.

Your limbs were leaden. Your sword lay just feet away, but may as well have been across the sea. Your head throbbed with each breath, and the marble floor was cold against your cheek. The copper tang of blood hung in the air like a stormcloud. Your vision narrowed to a tunnel of flickering torchlight and chaos. You tried to rise again, but your body betrayed you.

Your mouth moved, but no sound escaped. All you could do was watch. Telemachus stood in the center of the blood-soaked hall, surrounded by enemies. He fought like a flame refusing to die, wild and alive — blade flashing, footwork precise, dodging every attempt to seize him. The boy you once teased, mocked, refused to believe in — now bore the heart of a warrior.

But even the strongest flame can be smothered. “Where is he? Where is he?!” someone shouted in panic from the crowd of suitors. “Capture him! He's our greatest chance!”

They surged forward in a wave. Telemachus slashed one down, elbowed another, but they were too many. “Get off me—get off me!” he snarled, swinging wildly.

“Fight 'til the prince can barely stand!”

You screamed in your soul, but your lips were silent. Your heart was breaking in real time. One of them struck his knee — he staggered. Another grabbed his shoulder — then his wrist.

“Hold him down! Hold him down!”

“Make the king obey our command!”

Your stomach twisted in dread. They weren’t trying to kill him — not yet. No, they wanted a hostage. A bargaining chip. A punishment. You dug your fingers into the stone beneath you, nails scraping uselessly.

Move. Please, MOVE.

“Hold him down! HOLD HIM DOWN!”

“‘Cause if he won’t—” one hissed, dragging a dagger from his belt, “I’ll break the kid’s hands.”

And then— “Got him!” Melanthius bellowed. He’d seized Telemachus by the back of his hair, yanked his head back and forced him to his knees. The prince struggled, but his limbs trembled from the weight of the fight. Blood ran down his cheek, sweat beading at his brow. You couldn’t breathe. For a moment, time froze. Your heart stopped, suspended between beats. You were certain — certain — that this was the end. The vision of him on his knees, helpless, alone…

No. Not alone. You were here. And if you had to drag your soul back from the edge of death to fight again — you would. Your fingers closed around the cold marble floor. Your body was screaming, your lungs burned — but your heart roared louder.

Because Telemachus was still fighting. Still alive. And you had sworn — to the queen, to yourself — that you would protect him. Even if it meant rising from the edge of death to do it. Even if it meant breaking apart to reach him.

A flash — blinding, white as lightning cracking across the heavens — split the room in two. The sound that followed was not thunder, but a wheeze, choked and wet. Melanthius froze. A blade, impossibly fast, impossibly brutal, had buried itself straight through his chest. His mouth opened in disbelief, but all that came was a gurgling sputter of blood and air.

“M-Mer…” he tried, choking on the word as the blade twisted.

Telemachus, pinned beneath the weight of another, could only stare — not at Melanthius, but at what stood behind him.

A dark figure, backlit by torches and the dying glow of a once-grand hall. The man’s posture was like stone — unmoved by the carnage around him, shoulders squared with the weight of decades. His beard was unkempt, hair streaked with gray, eyes lost in shadow.

But his presence… It filled the room like a storm. “Mercy?!” a dark voice cried. Melanthius’s eyes widened as he realized. He tried to crawl, tried to plead— But the figure stepped forward.

“My mercy has long since drowned.” His voice was like a blade, honed with sorrow and rage. “It died to bring me home.”

You couldn’t see clearly anymore. Your body was on the verge of collapse, every heartbeat a fading echo in your ears. But the voice reached you. Stirred something in your chest. “And as long as you're around—” slash “My family's fate is left unknown.” The figure yanked his sword free from Melanthius. The man collapsed, his life leaving him in a final twitch.

“You plotted to kill my son.” Another suitor lunged, but the man turned — so fast it was as if time bent around him — and cut him down. “You planned to rape my wife.” You heard screams. Steel against flesh. A clang of shields dropped in fear. One by one, the suitors fell, not in battle — but in punishment. “All of you are going to die.”

Your eyes locked, briefly, on Telemachus. He stared, slack-jawed and breathless, as if the weight of the world had suddenly lifted — or crashed back down with the truth. The truth in the blood.

“You've filled my heart with hate.” Odysseus cut down another. And another. He was not graceful — he was precise, efficient, unstoppable. Rage flowed from him like a tide. His blade an extension of his grief. “All of you who have done me wrong—” The last tried to run. He didn’t make it to the doorway. “This will be your fate.”

The silence after was deeper than any you’d ever heard. Not even the torches dared crackle. Only the sound of ragged breathing — Telemachus’s, maybe your own — filled the void left by death. Your body was trembling. Cold. The fire in your chest slowly dimming. You wanted to call his name — Telemachus. You wanted to reach him. Say something, anything.

But the last thing you saw was the prince dropping his blade, staring at the carnage with wide, shaken eyes. And the ghostly silhouette of a father drenched in blood, standing at the heart of the ruin he’d wrought. Then the world darkened. You slipped into unconsciousness.

The war was over. But everything else…

Was just beginning.

It was light that woke you. A gentle, golden thread of sunlight stretched through the slit of the window and painted itself across your face. You blinked slowly against it, your lashes sticky with sleep. The warmth on your skin felt almost foreign, like you'd never known it before. For a moment, you lay still — dazed, disoriented. The scent of herbs hung in the air, and the room was too quiet to be familiar.

Then, something shifted inside you. A heaviness. An ache behind your eyes and a hum beneath your skin, like the whisper of an old wound. The peace of waking cracked, and images surged forward like a tide crashing on the rocks.

Blood. Screams. Steel. A flash of white. A prince overwhelmed. A king returned in shadow. And Telemachus. His eyes, desperate and burning. His voice calling out commands. Then silence, followed by the world tipping sideways.

You gasped. Your whole body lurched upward in bed, only for pain to rip through your skull like lightning. You cried out and clutched your head as a scream tore unbidden from your throat.

Within seconds, the door burst open. Servants rushed in, faces stricken with shock and wide-eyed disbelief. One dropped the basin she was holding. Another stood frozen in the doorway, hands trembling. “Goddess preserve her—she’s awake!” one whispered, as if afraid the moment would vanish if spoken too loud. “Get the healer,” another breathed. “Now!”

Hands, gentle but shaking, pressed you back to the bed. Warm cloths were dabbed against your temples. Someone brought water to your lips. You blinked in confusion as they circled you, and slowly the panic turned to questions. “Why…” Your voice was cracked, foreign even to your ears. “Why are you looking at me like that?” One of the older servants — a woman with deep lines on her face and silver threaded through her braids — knelt at your side. She touched your hand with a kind reverence.

“You’ve been asleep, child. For nearly two weeks. We feared you would never wake.” You blinked. “Two…?”, “The king has returned,” she continued, eyes shining with awe. “The kingdom is his again. The suitors are all gone. Peace has come to Ithaca.”

Peace. You felt the word pass through you, like an echo in a hollow chamber. Peace — bought in blood and fire. You remembered the moment Odysseus had stepped into the hall, not a man, but vengeance incarnate. And beside him… Telemachus. Fighting like a lion. Like a little wolf. You closed your eyes. The memory was too sharp.

The healer entered soon after, ushering everyone else out with swift hands and a sharp voice. He checked your pulse, your eyes, your breathing. He scolded you lightly when you tried to sit up again. “You’re lucky you didn’t die,” he muttered, wrapping fresh cloth around your head. “You lost so much blood it’s a miracle you didn’t drown in it.”

“Why…” you rasped, clutching the edge of the blanket, “why haven’t I seen anyone? The queen? The prince?”, “They’ve been waiting,” he said gently. “Prince Telemachus has come every day. The queen too. Even the king, though… he keeps to himself mostly. You’ve been unconscious for so long, none of us knew if…” He trailed off. You filled in the rest.

“I need time,” you said quietly. “Please. Don’t tell them yet that I’ve woken. Just… for today. Let me be.” He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Of course.” The servants returned under his instructions — quieter now, their awe replaced by care. They helped you bathe. They cleaned your wounds. They fed you slowly, as if afraid your body would reject the food. You thanked them quietly, your voice still rasping like wind through stone.

As the sun climbed higher, the healer returned once more to check your strength. You sat upright now, head pounding like a war drum. You hesitated, then asked softly, “Did the king… return alone?” He glanced at you, brows lowering with care. “He came back alone,” he said gently. “No men. No ships. Just a beggar with the eyes of a war god. None of the crew survived. No one but him.” Your breath caught. For a moment you didn’t understand why. Then, it hit like a spear. Your father.

You had always imagined—always hoped—that one day he’d step off a ship, maybe beside Odysseus. That he’d smile and call your name, say you’d grown into a warrior he could be proud of. But now… he never would.

You felt the tears before you realized they were falling. They didn’t burn, they just were. Slow, quiet things that dropped onto your lap as the truth settled like lead in your chest.

He was gone. The king had returned, but your father had not. The war had taken him. Like so many others. And now the world would have to go on — with peace, yes, but not without grief.

You leaned back against the pillows, eyes stinging, heart hollow. But somewhere in that hollow space… something stirred. Not just pain. Something else. A name.

Telemachus.

And though your head throbbed and your body ached, you knew, eventually… You would have to see him. And maybe then, the light of this new world might begin to make sense.

The room was quiet now. Only the soft rustle of wind outside your window stirred the silence, brushing against the curtains like the wings of a ghost. The healer lingered briefly after checking your bandages once more. He seemed hesitant to leave. His eyes, kind but searching, flicked toward the doorway. “Do you want me to inform anyone?” he asked, voice low and deferent. “The prince… the queen…?” You shook your head, gently but firmly.

“No. Not yet. I just… I need time,” you said. “To gather myself before I gather anyone else.” He nodded, understanding heavy in his features. With a final bow, he left, and the chamber was yours again. You turned to the window and stood for the first time, slowly and with effort. Your legs trembled like a fawn learning how to run. But you made it. You leaned both hands on the sill and gazed outward.

From the East wing, far from the royal wing, you could see the ocean sprawling endlessly toward the horizon. The sky bled orange and crimson as the sun began its descent. Somewhere beneath it, Telemachus had once vanished. And now… now he was home. Unlike your father.

The pain resurfaced, a quiet burning beneath your breastbone. You let it be. Let it breathe. This was your truth now.

The door creaked open again some time later. The head servant entered with two others, quiet as shadows. They announced, with a kind of ceremonial rhythm, that there would be a banquet that evening. A feast to honor the fallen, the survivors, the kingdom restored. “To celebrate those who bled for Ithaca’s future,” the older woman said, smoothing down your bedspread as if trying to smooth away grief.

You only nodded. It was all you could do. But inside, your thoughts tangled. The banquet would mean seeing him — Telemachus. Even if only from a distance. Your heart thundered, split between two cruel truths. You had saved him many times. And you had lost everything.

He had gotten his father back — against all odds — and you never would. That made you ashamed. That envy. That tiny, bitter shard that shouldn’t be there, not when he’d nearly died, not when he had suffered and fought like you had.

But it was there. And beneath it, a dozen questions to Odysseus himself. What had happened? Who had they lost? What did your father say before the end?

But he was your king. Not a man to question. Not a ghost-whisperer. So instead of answers, all you could do was be present, be smart, be proud. And most of all, show the respect your station demanded.

You called the servants to dress you. They brought out the royal guard captain’s formal attire — deep bronze leather, adorned with gold-stitched laurels and a crimson sash draped across your shoulder. When they were finished, they stepped back to let you see yourself in the mirror.

You looked… different. Taller somehow. Not in height — in presence. Your gaze found the pale line stretching at the corner of your forehead. A new scar, clean and thin. It hadn't been there before. A mark from the battle — your proof that you stood your ground for Ithaca and for the family that ruled it.

For your father. You straightened your shoulders, drawing in a long breath. He may not have seen you like this — but you saw yourself. And you would carry that for the both of you. With nothing more than a nod to the servants, you stepped out into the hallways. And something had changed.

Where once the palace had felt hollow, silent — filled only with ghosts and power-hungry intruders — now it buzzed with life. The laughter of servants, the scent of roasted meat, the hum of music rising from the great gardens. You followed it. Each step along the stone corridor echoed with memories. You passed tapestries you’d once protected. Statues you’d stood beside in silent vigil. Halls where Telemachus used to sprint, young and furious, chased by half a dozen tutors.

Now he walked these same halls as a prince — the people’s pride. You reached the great doors, now open wide to the blooming evening light. The gardens had been transformed.

Torches flickered golden across the hedges. Tables were spread with wildflowers and fruits. Lanterns floated in the shallow pools, their lights dancing across the water’s surface. The smell of honeyed bread and spiced lamb filled the air. Children ran between flowerbeds, laughing and spinning with wreaths on their heads. Mothers and fathers — tired but joyful — held each other close, drinking wine and singing. And in the center of it all, Ithaca celebrated. You didn’t step in. Not yet.

You stood behind the carved marble pillar, half-shadowed, unnoticed by many. But you watched. And for the first time in years, you saw it — the soul of the kingdom had returned. Hope was no longer a desperate whisper. It was laughter, light, and music on the breeze. You let it warm you. Slowly. Like thawing after a long winter. Maybe you weren’t ready to speak. Not yet. But you were here.

You didn’t notice your friend, a fellow royal guard, until his hand caught your wrist. The same hand that once shared sword drills, secret jokes, and near-death missions with you now gripped you with something gentler — relief.

“There you are,” he breathed, a grin blooming on his sun-warmed face. “By the gods, I thought you were gone.” You blinked, a little dazed still from the light and sound. His smile wavered, falling into something quieter. “I heard… about your father. I’m sorry. He fought bravely. They all did.” You nodded, accepting the condolences. The words didn’t hurt like before — they felt distant now, like pebbles dropped into deep water. You had cried your tears in silence, enough to make rivers, and now you were just a quiet vessel of something bigger than pain. “I’m glad you made it,” you said, and you meant it. “Even if late.”

“Late enough to miss you playing hero and nearly dying, apparently,” he muttered. “Typical.” He didn’t press more. Just gave you a brief squeeze on the shoulder and led you through the gardens, toward the Great Hall — where the heart of the celebration pulsed. The moment you stepped into the hall, it was like being swallowed by a tidal wave of golden light and music.

It was breathtaking. Banners of deep blue and bronze hung high above the walls, embroidered with the sigils of Ithaca. Long tables overflowed with food — roasted quail, honeyed dates, bowls of fresh olives and bread. Laughter rose from every corner, and the air shimmered with the warmth of torches and lanterns, as if even fire itself wanted to celebrate peace. The crowd gathered like a tide, shifting, parting — and then cheering. At the front of the dais, three figures stood tall.

Odysseus.

Penelope.

And Telemachus.

The king had aged in both the skin and the soul — that much you could see even from a distance. His eyes were heavy with things he’d never say aloud. Yet he stood like a warrior carved in stone — his throne beneath him, and beside him, the bow that had sung death only nights before, now resting in a place of reverence. Penelope, regal and calm, offered a serene smile to her people. She was still the heart of Ithaca, even with her king returned. And there — at his side — stood Telemachus.

Your breath caught before you realized it. He had changed. Not just in stature, though he seemed taller, broader, sharpened by training and weight. But in presence. The boy who had once charged down palace halls was now a man who carried kingdoms in his spine. The light hit his jaw just so. His hair was messier, darker at the roots, and there were shadows beneath his eyes — not of sleeplessness, but of battles lived. His expression was calm, but something stormed behind it.

He didn’t smile. Not like the others. Not yet. Your chest hurt. Hard, all at once — not like grief, not like injury.

Warmth.

Fierce, unbearable warmth. Like everything in the world had pooled in your stomach, and then scattered like wildfire through your limbs.

Was this what they meant by butterflies?

No. No, this wasn’t butterflies. This was an entire storm of them. Lightning disguised as emotion. And the terrifying thing was… you knew the name of this feeling.

Love.

You were in love. Gods, you loved him. And as soon as the realization struck, it came with a second wave — cold, cruel. He was a prince.

And now, with his father returned, with the line of succession clear, Odysseus would be looking for alliances — marriage. A queen. A mother to future heirs.

You? You were a captain of the guard. You had scars, not titles. A sword at your waist, not silk around your arms. No match for a princess.

Your eyes dropped to the marble floor for just a moment, your vision blurring with the shape of that imagined future. You pictured her — whoever she’d be. Beautiful, foreign, draped in flowing gowns and diplomatic power. Beside him at every banquet. Bearing his children. Holding his hand. It hurts. In ways you didn’t know how to name.

But then you looked back up.

And his eyes were already on you. He was scanning the crowd, restless — and when he found you, it was as though the world stilled. His breath caught. His shoulders stiffened. He didn’t blink. You didn’t either. There were dozens — hundreds — of people in the hall, and yet it felt like there were only two of you. Like time folded itself around your gaze, cradling it like a secret.

He didn’t smile. But you saw it — in the twitch of his jaw, in the way his throat moved as he swallowed — something powerful and trembling, just barely kept at bay. His foot shifted like he might move. Might run to you.

But duty held him still. His father was speaking, raising a goblet. The crowd was cheering again. He glanced at his mother, just once. Penelope followed his line of sight. And then she saw you. There was a moment — just a heartbeat — and then she inclined her head. A graceful, deliberate nod. Not just of recognition. Of understanding.

A silent message passed between the two women who had stood behind the throne in different ways. You bowed your head back. The crowd surged again, and the spell broke — but not completely. Telemachus remained still, watching you through the sea of people, until he was forced to turn away by ceremony. But even when he did, you could still feel it — the echo of his gaze, pressed to your skin like a brand. And for the first time since you woke up… You hoped.

TELEMACHUS’ POV

For the first time in his life, Telemachus felt what peace might look like. Not imagined peace — not the hollow kind he'd tried to pretend existed all these years while men spit wine across the halls of his father’s kingdom. No. This was real. His father stood before him, proud and alive. His mother was glowing — a smile that he hadn’t seen since boyhood slowly returning to her lips.

But his heart… his heart was loud. Too loud. It beat wildly in his chest as he watched his parents. Watched the way their hands brushed without thinking, the way their eyes held more language than any tongue. Love, he realized. That was what it looked like. Love like a tether across years and seas and blood and grief.

And gods, he wanted it. Not in the abstract — not in the childish “someday” sense he used to feel. Now. Now.

His eyes scanned the crowd without thinking, not sure what he was looking for. Only that something in his blood, in his very bones, was searching. A need he couldn’t name. A pull in his chest. And then —

You.

Standing at the very back of the crowd. Still, silent, unreadable — but undeniably there. You always had a stillness like steel, but he could see the way your hands were folded tight in front of you. The slight flush in your cheeks. The way you looked at him like he was a myth that had stepped back into reality. And when your eyes met his — it hit him like a blow to the ribs.

No, not even that. It was worse. Like a god had reached into his chest and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe. His fingers twitched at his sides. His shoulders locked into place. Every part of him wanted to move. To go to you. To speak. To kneel if it meant he could hear your voice again.

What was this?

It was stronger than any spell. Stronger than Athena’s grip when she used to toss him in training and tell him to “stand like a king.” This? This made him feel like a boy again. A boy wanting to run barefoot down marble halls to chase someone who had already walked into his heart before he’d realized they’d ever knocked. And then… shame. Crushing, bitter shame.

She’s too good for you.

You weren’t the one who saved Ithaca — your father was. You hadn’t crossed seas, hadn’t killed monsters. You weren’t a legend.

You were just… a prince. A boy who watched. Who tried.

And she — she was fury made flesh. A warrior. Loyal to your mother when no one else dared to be. Bleeding for the kingdom before you even picked up a sword. She deserved someone better. But then — he felt it. The small, sharp press against his ribs. He reached instinctively and touched the inside of his tunic.

The pin.

Simple. Unadorned. A quiet promise that you believed in him. His fingers gripped it. And in the corner of his vision — movement. His mother, Penelope, gently nudged his father. Odysseus looked confused, then followed her gaze — toward you.

And in an instant, the old king smiled. Not the polite, practiced grin of royalty. Something genuine. Something full of knowing. He saw it. They both did. Because they had seen that same look before — in each other. In soldiers who had survived war and still looked across campfires at the ones they loved. In their friends. In themselves. Before Telemachus could react, his father lifted a hand — and the room fell silent.

Dead, echoing silence. Then, Odysseus’ voice rose, rich and commanding: “Let us all give praise — to the one who stood when many fled. Who bled for Ithaca not once, but a hundred times. Who shielded the queen, and stood between this kingdom and death. Come forward, soldier. Captain.”

The crowd parted for you like the sea. Gasps. Murmurs. Reverence. You froze for a second, off guard. Telemachus could see it — the way your weight shifted, like you might step back. But you didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You squared your shoulders, stepped forward — not with pride, but with honor. And dignity. And quiet strength.

When you reached the foot of the dais, you bowed to your knees — and Telemachus could barely keep from falling to his own. His father turned to the crowd again: “This soldier asked for nothing. Not fame, nor gold. And yet, they stood. And because of them — Ithaca still stands.” The cheers were thunderous. But Telemachus didn’t hear any of it.

Because you looked up — just for a second — and your eyes met his again.And in that moment, in that gaze… He saw the woman he loved. And he knew — if he didn’t fight for you now, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Your POV

You had faced death. You had faced men who would have stripped your kingdom to the bone. You had killed and bled and survived with little more than your breath and a blade. But this? This was something else entirely.

You stood still beneath the weight of the king's words — your name carried through a thousand voices, echoing in celebration, in reverence. It didn’t feel real. Not when you’d once been a ghost in your own home, always in the background, training in the shadows, not built for the spotlight. But here you were, standing tall before the crowd, Ithaca cheering your name. And all you could do was nod. Respectfully. Gratefully. But silently. Because you hadn’t done this for praise. You had done this for your queen. For your people. For him. For your father. And when the hall emptied and the crowd faded, a servant appeared at your side and spoke softly:

“The royal family would see you. In the trophy hall.” You hesitated just long enough to feel the tremble in your bones — and then you followed. The hall was warm, gold-flecked firelight casting long shadows across polished stone. The walls gleamed with the marks of war — shields, swords, the great bow standing proud like a god’s spine. You knocked once. The door creaked open. They waited for you. Odysseus. Penelope. And Telemachus.

You bowed, spine straight despite the throb in your head. “Your Majesties.” But what you didn’t expect — what you couldn’t have expected — was Odysseus to embrace you. His arms wrapped around you with a strength that somehow said both “king” and “father,” and for a brief, agonizing second, your throat closed.

“You saved them,” he said. His voice was low, sincere. “My wife. My son. My people. And your father… he would be proud. Gods, you are him, in so many ways.” You pulled back, blinking fast. “I didn’t do it for praise,” you answered quietly. “I did it for the ones I love. That is… something I believe you understand.” Penelope smiled softly. “More than you know.”

But Telemachus… He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He just stared at you like you were something ancient — something carved into time, not meant to be touched. His eyes didn’t waver, didn’t blink. And gods, it unnerved you more than any blade had.

You shifted slightly, tried not to fidget, tried to breathe without drawing attention to the way your heart was punching through your chest. It was too much.

You politely excused yourself with a gentle bow and turned to leave. You tried to return to your chambers. Tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Two weeks of forced rest had made your body restless, tense, too full of thoughts and ghosts and looks that burned like fire through your ribs. So you walked. Aimlessly at first, then purposefully — as if your soul were leading your feet, not your mind. And somehow, you found yourself at the shore. Where it had all begun.

The waves were calm tonight, moonlight casting silver over the dark ripples. The very place where Telemachus had fallen, years ago, still held its shape in the sand. You knelt. Touched the water. Let your reflection waver in the tide like the memory of someone else — someone braver, stronger, or maybe just someone more certain. You thought of your father. His voice. His laughter. His final embrace.

A tear slipped down your cheek, unbidden. You didn’t stop it. “I hope I made you proud,” you whispered. “Even if you didn’t get to see it.” Then, slowly… inevitably… you thought of him.

Telemachus. That maddening, beautiful, infuriating prince who had grown into a man before your eyes. The way he looked at you tonight… like you were the only real thing in the room. You glanced into the water again, and this time—your cheeks were flushed. Burning.

You gasped quietly and covered your face with your hand. “Gods,” you muttered. “I’m doomed.” Because love wasn’t in the plan. Because a prince didn’t belong with a soldier. Because this feeling, this ache, this want…

Was dangerous. And you didn’t know how to fight it.

Telemachus’ POV

He stood there, breath shallow in his throat, rooted to the floor long after the echo of your footsteps had vanished behind the heavy door. The warmth you left in the room hadn’t left with you. It stayed. Like a ghost of something unspoken — something heavy in the chest, something bright behind the ribs, something real. He couldn’t move.

Not even when his father cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to snap him from his haze. “She’s a nice girl,” Odysseus remarked casually, but there was weight in his tone — more than approval, maybe even warning. “Fierce. Loyal.” Telemachus flinched. “Wh—?”

His voice cracked before he could form a sentence, and his mother gave a sigh. A gentle, long-suffering sigh that only mothers make when their sons are too blind to see what’s burning plainly in front of them. “Yes, she is nice,” Penelope said, crossing her arms with a raised brow. “She’s known you since you were a child, Telemachus. Don’t pretend you don’t remember how you used to follow her around the palace like a little puppy. Trying to bother her so she could give you even a look.”

“I did not—”

“And yet she always gave you the first bite of her sweets,” she continued, unfazed. “Always took your side when you blamed Argos for stealing the pastries. Do you know how long she’s defended you without a word?”

“Mother—please—”

“Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice the way she gave you her pin before you left. You kept checking for it every time you touched your chest, like you were afraid you’d lose your lungs instead.” Telemachus buried his face in his hands with a groan. “Gods, can we not—”

“She trained beside the guards just to protect us. You think that kind of loyalty grows on trees?” Penelope added with a sharp nod. “You’re lucky, my son.” Odysseus only chuckled low in his throat, clapping a large hand on his son’s back, voice soft but firm. “I’ve seen many things. And I know what that look you had in your eyes mean. So if I were you...”

He knew his father was right and he just needed to see you. Telemachus turned to his mother, in hopes that she would save him from the embarrassment. Penelope was listening intently and she cleared her throat. "Young prince, don't you have...nightly duties to attend ? Perhaps check if your soldiers are doing well in their night patrol." She gave his son a pointed look.

That was all it took. Telemachus bolted. He didn’t thank them. Didn’t hesitate. He just ran — his sandals skidding slightly on the polished floor as he pushed open the doors and burst into the night air.

His parents chuckled. "Do you think he'll do well on his mission?" Odysseus whispered and his queen noded. "She’s brave. Fierce. But even the fiercest hearts can feel alone. And with the look in their eyes, they don't need any push.”

His pulse was loud in his ears. The halls were blurry shapes as he sprinted past them, chest aching for a reason that had nothing to do with breathlessness. He checked the training grounds first. Empty. Dark. No footprints in the dust. The garden next. Silent. Then he stopped.

He closed his eyes, placing a hand over his chest — not where his heart was, but where the pin once lay. The one you gave him. The one he clutched before every ambush. The one that reminded him of home. Of you. You wouldn’t be somewhere loud. Not now. You were always drawn to the silence when the storm passed. His feet knew the rest. They carried him down the stairs, past the eastern towers, and through the marble corridors until the cold salt wind struck his face. The sound of waves in the distance. The sea. The place where it began.

Where he first truly saw you.

And then — in the moonlight, at the edge of the water — he saw the silhouette. Small. Still. Alone.

You.

And just like that, he wasn’t the prince anymore. He wasn’t the warrior or the heir or the king’s son. He was just Telemachus. Running to you like the tide had always meant to carry him home.

Your POV

The sea whispered beside you like a lullaby laced in sorrow. You stood at its edge, arms crossed, not from cold, but from the ache rising in your chest — the ache you hadn’t dared name. Until now. Then… footsteps. You turned sharply.

Your stance shifted instantly, defensive — one foot back, hands ready even though they held no blade. You’d fought with less. You could fight again, if you had to. But then the figure raised his hands slowly, peace written into every motion.

“Don’t worry,” a familiar voice said, soft, breathless. “It’s just me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Your shoulders tightened. Not from threat — no, never from him — but from something far more dangerous: vulnerability. You hated the way your heart leapt at the sound of his voice. You hated how warm your chest became at his stuttered words, at the way his voice cracked like he was more afraid of your silence than any sword.

You tried to harden your face. To stay composed. Untouched. “…What are you doing here, Telemachus?” you asked, voice firm. “You should be sleeping. You have duties now. You're a prince. You're—”

“Stop.” The word cut through the night, not sharp, but pleading. Quiet. Gentle. He took a hesitant step forward. “I just needed to talk to you,” he said. “To see you. To see that you were all right.” Your breath caught. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t you he wanted — not the person — it was his captain. His mother’s protector. His kingdom’s shield.

But then you looked at his face. Really looked. The worry wasn’t rehearsed, wasn’t princely. It wasn’t made of duty. It was made of him.

And it was for you.

He stepped forward, hands still visible like he might scare you off if he moved too fast. “Are you all right?”

You nodded quickly, dropping your gaze. “Of course I am. I’m built for this, Telemachus. I’m built to defend you and your family, my prince.”

He flinched at that. Not from the words, but from the title. “No. I don’t mean for duty,” he said. “I heard about your father. And I’m sorry. Do you… do you want to talk about it?” You blinked.

Of all the things you expected — that wasn’t it.

You had once hated this boy. Hated the privilege. The pride. The golden name that kept him too soft, too shielded. But now, in the moonlight, you didn’t see the boy. You saw the man he had become.

And the man was… kind. “He was a good man,” you said, your voice low, wind-blown. “He died far from me. I’ll never see him again.”

“I’m sorry.” You nodded. “But I think… I think he’d want me to live. To move on. Maybe even to live as something more than a soldier. Maybe… as a woman.”

Telemachus swallowed. He turned to the sea, watching its silver sheen ripple like it held all the answers he was afraid to speak aloud. You both stood in silence for a long breath. A shared breath. Then you whispered, “My prince… I think you need to go to bed.”

But he turned back. And he took your hand. He took your hand.

You froze.

“No,” he said. “I must talk to you. I must… I have some things to say. Things I— I’ve tried, but my heart won’t speak.” You felt your world tilt. His fingers were warm and trembling.

“What are you talking about, Telemachus?” you whispered, eyes narrowing slightly. “Did… did you drink wine?” His ears turned scarlet instantly. “What? No! You know I don’t drink.” You stared at him.

He took a deep breath.

Then the words poured out of him like a prayer, like a confession he had carried across miles of sea and war-torn silence. “My heart burns for you. My soul craves you. My mind is on a field with you — and I don’t know why. I can’t fight it. I need you. I need only your presence in my heart, and my mind, and everywhere. I only want your touch — whether it’s violent, or soft. I want to hear your voice echo in my ears until it’s the only thing that exists. Please.”

You stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught halfway in your lungs like it was too afraid to move. What was he saying? No — this wasn’t right. He was a prince. You were a soldier. This was forbidden. It had always been.

But the way he looked at you… Gods, the way he looked at you — like you were the first and last star in his sky — you just wanted to fall into him. Cave in. Let him be the ruin of your pride, your walls, your carefully constructed duty.

You tried.

“Telemachus…” your voice cracked. “No. You can’t. Please. You—” He stepped closer, desperation softening into something achingly earnest. “I’m not talking about duty,” he said, voice low and trembling. “Not about titles or thrones or anything else. I want you — the person. The warrior. The woman who stared down fate and spit in its eye. Even if all you give me is friendship, I’ll take it. But I swear… if I came back from that war, it wasn’t just for my family. It was for you. I lo-”

You stepped forward instinctively — then stopped him with your hand, pressed gently to his mouth. “Don’t say it,” you pleaded, your voice almost breaking. “Please, Telemachus… my dear Telemachus… don’t say those words. I beg you. I won’t be able to—” You couldn’t finish. You didn’t need to.

Because you knew. If he said those three words, just once, your world would collapse and rebuild itself around him. And you were so afraid — afraid of what you'd give up, afraid of what he might lose… afraid it was all too real. But then he reached into his pocket. Your eyes widened.

The pin— your pin — the one you gave him before he left for the mission. Worn, yes, but kept so well, tucked close to his heart like a holy relic. Your breath caught in your chest as he held it out, like a peace offering, like a lifeline.

“I kept it every day,” he whispered, leaning close enough that only the sea could hear. “Looked at it in every moment I thought I wouldn’t make it. Every moment I thought I wasn’t enough. Because I knew… someone was waiting on the other side of the sea. Like my mother waited for my father. And this pin — this pin reminded me that no matter where I go… I will always come back to you.”

He pressed it into your palm, folding your fingers around it gently as you tried to protest — but he shook his head, silencing you with a glance full of fire and ache and devotion. “No. Even if you don’t want to hear it, let me say it.” Your eyes locked.

And then, softly — reverently — he said it: “I love you. I always have. I will always love you.” You opened your mouth, but he placed a finger against your lips. “Don’t say anything. I don’t need anything from you. Just your presence. I don’t care about titles. About princesses. I am the prince. I am the kingdom. And no one — no one— could represent it better than you. Please… let me give you my love. Let me give you everything I am.”

Your throat clogged with emotion. Your hand clenched tightly around the pin. Your heart was thunder in your ribs — no, not thunder. It was Aphrodite’s storm.

This was it. This was love. Not soft. Not easy. But true. Real. You looked up at him, barely breathing.

“Are you sure?” you asked, voice like wind.

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” That was it. You broke.

With a soft cry — almost a laugh — you gripped his chiton, pulled him down, and kissed him. Fiercely. Desperately. Like he was the last breath before drowning. Your soul poured into it, your fingers trembling in his hair, the pin still pressed between your palms like an oath.

He kissed you back just as clumsily, just as hungrily. You didn’t let go.

Not until a sudden, giant wave smacked into you both — foam crashing around your ankles, sea spray soaking your tunics — like Poseidon himself had risen up to say “Enough.”

You gasped, shivering, and then you both burst into laughter. And as he pulled you into his arms, dripping wet and shaking with joy, you realized… You had never felt colder in your life. But you had also never felt warmer.

tags for who might be interested (can be removed if you want) : @strangergraphics @saradika @littlebitinluvwu @yuanays @dorkyfangirl24 @telemachusletmehit @meridasblog

dividers : (i don't remember the first), @omi-resources

#telemachus of ithaca #telemachus x you #telemachus x yn #freaky #telemachus #epic the musical

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