#Telemachus of Ithaca | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

winxanity-ii · 1 day ago

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: BORROWED BREATH DIVINE WHISPERS: Borrowed Breath | divine whispers: borrowed breath⌟

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Across the sea, in the belly of a creaking ship, Telemachus lay still on a narrow cot, staring at the wooden planks above his head as they swayed gently with the movement of the waves.

The cabin smelled of salt, old parchment, and oil—stale but not unpleasant. His arms were folded beneath his head, fingers locked tight like he could hold himself together that way. The light that filtered in from the small porthole above cast shifting shadows across his face, but even those couldn't soften the heaviness in his eyes.

Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath them. He hadn't slept properly in days.

Maybe weeks.

The boy who'd once carried hope like a banner now wore it like a noose.

His mouth—usually set in a thoughtful line—had curled into a nearly permanent frown, the corners tugged down with exhaustion. His hair was mussed from running restless fingers through it, and his chiton was wrinkled, still half-laced from when he'd tugged it off his shoulder hours ago and forgotten to fix it.

He hadn't moved in a while. Not since they passed the last harbor, anyway. Not since some random sailor came to check on him that morning, bringing dry bread and a strained smile, only to leave without forcing conversation.

His thoughts had drifted somewhere far behind the ship—back to Ithaca, back to the moment he'd first realized you were truly gone. The way panic had settled into his bones, slow and quiet, like rot. The way hope refused to die even when reason told him it should.

Twelve weeks.

He knew the number by heart now. Had marked it in the wax tablet stowed in his bag, though he didn't need reminding.

He had waited. Gods, he had waited so long. Had paced the palace halls like a trapped animal. Begged his parents, scoured sailor logs, storm routes—anything that could offer a trace of you. Anything.

And still... nothing.

The ship rocked gently, and Telemachus blinked up at the ceiling as if only now remembering where he was.

A deep ache settled in his chest, quiet and familiar now. Not panic anymore.

Just hurt.

He didn't speak it aloud, but the questions lingered.

Where are you? Did you fall? Were you taken? Did you leave me?

A part of him still prayed to the gods, even when it felt foolish. Even when it made his stomach twist to think of them. Bring her back. Let her be safe. Let her be anywhere but dead.

And yet—somehow—that same whisper inside him warned that if you were alive... you were suffering.

He felt it in his bones.

He had dreamed of you a few nights ago. Not in vivid detail, just the feeling of your presence brushing up against his chest like the wind.

He had woken with a start, hand curled into the sheets like he'd been trying to catch something. His pulse had raced, eyes darting around the dark cabin—but you weren't there.

Of course you weren't there.

The floor creaked. The ship groaned. But the ache in his chest stayed steady.

He reached up slowly, brushing a hand over his face, his fingers catching at the bridge of his nose. A gesture of exhaustion. Or defeat.

Then, quietly—almost too quiet to be heard—he exhaled your name.

Not a plea. Not a prayer.

Just a name.

Soft. Like a scar that still bled when touched.

His fingers dropped to his chest, pressing lightly over his ribs. Right where he swore he could still feel the phantom echo of your voice.

He didn't know it yet.

But at that very moment—across the sea, beyond reach—you had just whispered his name too.

And gods... if the world had been just a little kinder, maybe he would've heard it.

But for now, he lay there, still as driftwood, staring into the dark curve of the ceiling.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Hurting.

And then—A knock.

Three quick raps against the cabin door. Sharp. Too cheerful for his mood.

Telemachus blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere far away. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a breath before sitting up.

His legs swung off the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing the wooden floor. The boards were cool under his soles, the familiar creak of the ship greeting him like an old ache.

Another knock followed. Less patient this time.

"I'm coming," he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. Reaching for the latch, he pulled the door open with a soft groan of the hinges.

Standing there was Callias.

The boy looked entirely unbothered by Telemachus' mood, which wasn't unusual. He was balancing two small wooden cups filled with ale in one hand, and tucked under his arm was a bundle of neatly folded cloth—likely extra linens or borrowed laundry. His curls were wind-tossed from the sea air, cheeks a little flushed from climbing the narrow stairways between decks.

Before Telemachus could say anything, Callias blew right past him into the room, mumbling loudly as he shuffled inside.

"By the gods, I hate sailing," he groaned, plopping the bundle onto the chair by the small table. "Honestly, how is it that every story we've ever heard about ancient Greek brilliance involves impossible architecture, automaton birds, and golden water fountains—but not a single soul figured out how to make boats that don't feel like they're trying to throw me into the sea every five seconds?"

Telemachus blinked at him, watching as Callias shook his head dramatically and shoved one of the ales into his hand without asking.

Callias kept going, gesturing wildly with his free hand. "I mean, really. We've got gods hurling lightning bolts and nymphs who can turn men into swine—don't tell me they couldn't come up with, I don't know, flying ships?"

He paced across the tiny cabin now, waving his arm like he was drawing blueprints in the air. "Wings! Sails that flap like bird feathers! Or—or floating ships that glide above the water! You know, so when the sea gets all choppy like this—" he rocked his hips, mimicking the sway of the ship, "—we're not all tumbling around like loose grapes in a basket!"

Telemachus said nothing at first, standing in the middle of the cabin holding his cup, just... watching him. His lips twitched—only slightly—but it was the closest thing to a smile he'd made all day.

"Flying ships," Telemachus repeated flatly, voice dry.

"Yes!" Callias threw his hands up. "Don't look at me like I'm insane; you know it makes sense. I mean, the gods can fly, can't they? I swear Hermes zipped by us earlier when I was throwing up over the railing. Where's our wings, huh? Or floating... uh... sky barges? Yeah. Sky barges."

Telemachus let out a quiet exhale that might've almost been a laugh, though it was mostly through his nose. "...Sky barges."

Callias pointed at him with mock seriousness. "Don't mock me. You know I'm right. We should be halfway to Lyraethos by now, not crawling across Poseidon's bathtub like a bunch of fishermen."

Finally, Telemachus shook his head, the smallest hint of amusement breaking through the hollow weight sitting in his chest. "If the gods hear you say this, they'll probably turn you into a flying goat out of spite."

"Honestly?" Callias muttered, sinking into the chair with a dramatic sigh, "at this point, I'd take it. At least a goat doesn't have to sleep in a tiny wooden box that smells like old fish."

Telemachus let out a real laugh this time—soft but honest, curling low in his chest. The kind that hadn't come easy in weeks. He shook his head, finally turning away from the open door as he muttered, "Then maybe I'll have you tethered to the mast next time. Let you graze on seaweed as we drift."

Callias threw him a mock glare from the chair but couldn't fight the grin tugging at his lips. "Charming. Gods forbid I ever travel with a prince who offers comfort."

Telemachus only exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before stepping back to the door. With a soft thud, he closed it.

The cabin creaked softly as he made his way back to his bed, lowering himself onto the edge with a tired groan. His hands rested on his thighs for a moment before lifting the small wooden cup to his lips.

The ale was sharp at first sip, rougher than what he would've been served at home, but familiar enough to pull some of the edge off the tension behind his ribs.

Meanwhile, Callias was busy unfolding the bundle he had brought in, rolling the fabric open with an unnecessary flourish across the cramped little desk between them. "Your dinner, my lord," he muttered under his breath, voice light but playfully dramatic.

Inside the cloth was a small spread of whatever dry food the kitchens had: thick cuts of salted jerky, coarse brown bread with hard edges, small wheels of goat cheese, and a handful of olives that glistened darkly under the lamplight.

Callias reached down, plucking one of the olives off the cloth, popping it into his mouth with an exaggerated snap of his teeth. He chewed with a pleased little hum before sliding the rest of the bundle toward Telemachus on the bed.

"Bon appétit," he mumbled around the pit, raising his cup as if they were seated at some grand feast instead of trapped together in a rocking wooden box in the middle of the open sea.

Telemachus snorted again, lowering his cup to glance over the food. The bread was dry enough to scratch the roof of his mouth and the cheese had that faint sour tang of having sat out too long, but even still—it was something.

His gaze lingered on it all for a beat longer than it should have.

Because as meager as the meal was—it reminded him of you.

You'd always hum under your breath while preparing simple spreads like this at the palace. That quiet little song you carried when your hands were busy, when you thought no one was listening. His chest tightened before he could stop it.

The ache returned. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just steady.

He reached for a piece of the bread anyway, tearing it slowly between his fingers. "At least it's not honeyed figs again," he said softly, voice dry, forcing a weak attempt at lightness.

Callias raised his cup. "You're welcome."

Telemachus hummed in vague approval but fell quiet again as he chewed. The ship creaked around them. The waves thumped softly against the wooden hull. And beneath all of it—beneath Callias' effort to keep things light—there was still that hum behind his ribs.

That steady, hollow pull.

Where are you?

The question pulled at him like a slow current beneath his chest

Always there.

Always circling.

He knew if he let it, it would drag him under again—into that dark space of worry where your face blurred behind his eyelids and his stomach turned with useless what-ifs. His jaw tensed as he shook the thought loose—at least for now.

Not again. Not right now.

He cleared his throat softly, breaking the quiet before it could settle too thick between them. "Remind me again," he said, voice low but steady. "Why did you even want to come on this voyage?"

Callias glanced up mid-chew, one brow lifting, before snorting into his cup. "Gods, how many times are you going to ask me that?"

Telemachus blinked once, expression flat. "I've only asked you once."

Callias grinned, popping another olive into his mouth as he sang lightly around it, "Exactly."

Telemachus let out a slow exhale, his lips twitching faintly, half-annoyed, half-amused.

Callias leaned back into the worn wooden chair, stretching his legs out with a quiet groan. "Honestly?" he said finally, voice a bit more genuine now. "Because anything's better than sitting still. Gods, I'm not built for waiting. Ithaca's got nothing but dusty old halls and stuffy dinners. If I stayed any longer, I'd start talking to the marble columns just to keep myself entertained."

Telemachus let out a quiet hum of agreement, his thumb tracing along the rim of his cup as he listened.

"But since you're a prince and all," Callias continued, voice lightening with a grin, "I figured I might as well follow you. At least this way, I get to make sure your pretty self doesn't fall overboard."

Telemachus finally huffed a breath—an almost laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at the rough bread in his hand. "Charming."

Callias gave a pleased little hum around his sip of ale, already kicking his boots up on the bench at the foot of the bed like he owned the place. "Careful," he said, licking olive oil from his thumb, "if I keep charming you like this, people are gonna start talking. Ithaca's prince and a Brontean servant? Scandalous."

Telemachus scoffed, but there was no heat behind it. "Not interested."

Callias didn't flinch. "Obviously." He popped another olive into his mouth and spoke around it, voice sing-song. "Your heart belongs to our golden girl."

Telemachus froze—just a moment. He didn't say anything. Just brought the cup to his lips and took another slow sip. The ale was now warmer than he'd like. Still, it gave him an excuse not to answer.

Callias didn't press. Just grinned lazily and leaned back, waving a hand through the air. "Don't worry, prince. I'm not looking to steal you away." Then he tilted his head, brow raising, tone mock-casual. "Besides, I'm hardly picky; an equal opportunist if you will. Man, woman—If someone's pretty, they're pretty. Doesn't matter what's under their tunic."

Telemachus raised an eyebrow. "That's... blunt."

Callias beamed. "No use lying about it. Beauty's beauty. Personality's personality. And if you've got both?" He gave a low whistle. "Dangerous. I mean love's a very... flexible thing, don't you think? Why limit yourself? The Gods didn't bless us with eyes just to stare at pottery."

"And yet somehow you remain single."

Callias placed a hand to his chest with mock indignation. "My standards are just... extremely high."

Telemachus chuckled, despite himself. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you," Callias said brightly, lifting his cup in a small toast. "I try."

A silence settled for a beat. Not heavy—just quiet. The kind that came after a small laugh, after something honest enough to let the room breathe again.

Telemachus glanced toward the closed cabin door, then back to the spread between them. The food was simple, but real. The kind of thing that reminded him of home, even if the boat swayed gently beneath them and the sky outside smelled like salt and distance.

He set his cup down on the small chest beside the bed and leaned back against the headboard, letting his head tip until it knocked lightly against the wood behind him. "Thanks," he muttered. Not loud. Not forced. Just real.

Callias blinked. "For what?"

"For... this." He waved vaguely—at the food, the company, the not-sinking-into-his-own-head part of it all.

Callias shrugged, then softened. "Well, I figured if I didn't show up with snacks, you'd sit in here brooding until your bones turned into map pins."

Telemachus gave him a sidelong look. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It does if you think about it hard enough."

Telemachus shook his head faintly, gaze drifting toward the tiny porthole as the sea rocked beneath them again. The humor softened into quiet.

Callias watched him a beat longer, then, in a rare moment of gentleness, said, "...Still thinking of her?"

Telemachus' throat bobbed, his gaze distant now. "Always."

The ship creaked softly around them.

Callias didn't press. "We'll find her, Telemachus. We will." Then he leaned back again, stretching until his spine popped. "I'll take first watch," he muttered, already sounding like he was planning to fall asleep sitting upright. "You just keep dreaming about your girl."

Telemachus didn't reply.

He just stared out the port again.

And whispered to himself, softer this time—like it might carry better in the quiet:

"Where are you?"

.☆. .✩. .☆.

He didn't even remember when he'd gotten up.

One moment, Callias had finally gone still—his head tipped back against the cabin wall, mouth parted slightly, already half-snoring despite claiming he'd take first watch.

Telemachus had barely blinked before the steady rise and fall of the servant's chest marked the start of his sleep. He hadn't meant to move, not really. But sitting still made his chest feel tight.

And so, without much thought, he rose.

He told himself he was just stretching his legs. Walking a bit. Just until he cleared his head. But somehow his feet kept moving, tracing quiet paths along the deck. The boards creaked under his sandals, the sea gently rocking beneath him.

He didn't even realize when day faded into night.

By the time he stopped, the sky had already turned into a dark canvas of stars—dozens, maybe hundreds, scattered like distant torches flickering just beyond reach. The kind of stars that made men feel very small.

And on nights like this, Telemachus did.

The air smelled of salt, cool against his face. The wind tugged gently at his hair, ruffling the loose strands across his forehead. He leaned his forearms against the railing, gazing out toward the endless black spread of water.

The moon hung low, fat and silver, its reflection breaking and mending as the waves lapped softly against the side of the ship. The stars, too, shimmered faintly on the surface—tiny rippling lights dancing with every swell.

For a while, Telemachus didn't move. Didn't speak.

He just stood there, breathing slow, staring out at the wide, empty sea.

The soft groan of the wood beneath him pulled his eyes downward. The waves shifted and rolled against the hull like breathing things, glittering faintly beneath the moonlight. The reflection of the stars wavered, broken over and over again as the water swayed. Just like his thoughts—never still for long.

A faint breeze brushed against his face, cool and damp. Somewhere behind him, one of the deck ropes creaked. A gull cried faintly in the distance. But otherwise, the ship was quiet.

Most of the crew had long since turned in for the night, but Telemachus stayed where he was, his mind was far from this deck, far from Callias snoring lightly somewhere below.

It had wandered somewhere much earlier—a week ago—to his parents' study. The night the waiting finally began to scrape raw.

He hadn't meant to pace again that night. But he did. His feet dragged a slow, tight path across the polished stone, shoulders hunched, jaw set.

Every few minutes he'd glance at the doorway, as though the act of standing there might pull you into existence. As though you might simply walk back through it and relieve him of the gnawing weight that never seemed to ease.

Odysseus finally called his name. Firm. Measured.

"Telemachus."

He stopped pacing. His chest rose with a sharp breath as he turned to face his father, but his expression stayed pinched. Tired. The weight beneath his eyes had grown more permanent these past months, faint shadows that no amount of rest seemed able to ease.

His lips pressed together before he finally exhaled. The sound wasn't sharp. It wasn't even angry. Just... worn. Haggard.

"I know you're tired of hearing it, both of you," Telemachus said softly, voice low and hoarse, "but it's been almost three months." His hands spread slightly, helplessly. "Three months. And we still have nothing."

Penelope shifted slightly on the chair near the hearth, her fingers twisting at the fabric in her lap, but she said nothing. She didn't interrupt.

Telemachus let his arms fall back to his sides, voice tightening. "I-I've tried to be patient. Truly, I have. I've tried to trust what Athena said. To trust that she's safe." His voice shook, betraying the calm he was trying to keep. "But gods—how much longer must we wait? How much longer am I supposed to stand here... and do nothing?"

He swallowed thickly, jaw clenching to keep the storm contained. His fingers twitched like he needed to grip something—your hand, your sleeve, anything. But the only thing he could reach was air.

"I... I'm losing her, Father. And I can't... I can't even chase her."

And gods, wasn't that the worst of it? Because every day you were gone, the palace grew heavier. You weren't here.

"You don't understand," he finally breathed, voice low and uneven. His words poured out before he could catch them. "You two get to sit here and hold onto hope because you're stronger than me. You're used to this. You've waited years before. Decades. I—I haven't. I don't know how to do this."

He rubbed at his brow with his palm, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. "The longer she's gone, the worse it's gotten. Everyone's trying so hard not to look at me directly, but I can hear them whispering." His voice turned bitter, thinner, nearly trembling. "I see the way the servants glance away when I walk by. I hear the rumors they think I don't hear."

He started pacing again, hands gesturing now, voice getting sharper, louder. "They're saying she's been taken. That the gods finally claimed her for good. That she was never meant to stay here—never meant to be mortal for long. They say—" he choked slightly, breathing harder, "—they say maybe she was never ours to keep."

The words cracked in his throat. He could feel his mother flinch slightly at that. He hated that he was saying it, but he couldn't stop.

"And others," Telemachus spat, dragging his hand harshly through his hair, "the ones who like to whisper in darker corners—they say she's abandoned Ithaca entirely. That she's gone off to some distant city—some divine court—because she was always too good for this island anyway. That she left because she never really... really..." His voice faltered hard, the thought souring in his mouth before he could even finish it.

Because if he said it—if he finished that sentence—it would cut too deep.

Because part of him... a small, ugly part he hated, wondered if maybe they were right.

Maybe you did leave.

Maybe you'd grown tired of waiting for him to say everything he never dared say while you were still here.

Maybe you'd grown tired of him standing beside you and never moving closer. Tired of being someone's unspoken almost.

The thought twisted hot behind his eyes. Shame crawled up his throat like bile.

He stopped pacing, standing stiff in the middle of the room. His shoulders trembled faintly as his breath hitched, but he shook his head sharply—like he could physically throw the thought out.

"No," Telemachus muttered, voice hoarse now, quieter. "No. That's not—" He exhaled hard, cutting himself off before he unraveled fully.

Another breath. Shaky. Tight.

He finally forced himself to lift his head, meeting his father's steady gaze.

"I have to see her."

His voice steadied as he said it. There was no hesitation in that. No fear. Just a single, blunt truth.

"I have to find her. Because I can't stand here and listen to one more person tell me to wait. I can't sit in these halls while her name turns into a rumor."

His jaw clenched, fingers curling again at his sides. "Because I know she didn't leave. She wouldn't leave us. Not like that."

He swallowed hard, chest tightening again.

"She wouldn't leave me."

The weight of that truth hung between them.

And even though neither Odysseus nor Penelope spoke, Telemachus saw it in their eyes.

They knew he wasn't asking for permission anymore.

He was already gone.

And for a while—too long—it stayed that way. Silent. Heavy.

With Telemachus standing there, breathing unevenly, shoulders drawn tight beneath his tunic. Watched like his grief would ease with time, that the words would burn out of him. But the fire inside him kept climbing.

It always did.

Then Odysseus spoke. His voice low. Careful.

"In a week..." His words hovered, like they weren't sure they belonged. "You'll leave for Lyraethos."

The air snapped like a string pulled too tight.

Penelope sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to her chest as she gasped. "No—" Her voice cracked fast, already trembling. "No, Odysseus—please—don't say that."

Telemachus stiffened, his head jerking toward her. But she wasn't looking at him—her wide eyes were on his father, panic quickly spilling into anger. "We just got ____ back once. For a heartbeat. And then she was gone again. And now you want to send him away? To chase after her like—like some wandering shadow?"

She shook her head, words breaking apart faster now as her voice raised. "We lost her. You cannot—Odysseus, I will not lose my son too!"

Telemachus swallowed thickly, throat burning as he watched his mother's fear unravel in front of him. Because he understood it. Gods, he did. But it only made the ache sharper.

Odysseus didn't snap back. He didn't argue. His head dipped slightly, his eyes closing for a long moment as he breathed in slow through his nose.

Like every word she threw had already lived inside him for years.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Frayed. As though the sharp edges had worn down long ago.

"I know," Odysseus whispered. "Gods, Penelope... I know."

His voice shook on the last word.

Telemachus froze at that. His father's voice didn't usually shake.

"I've asked myself, every day, what else I could've done." Odysseus lifted his head finally, locking eyes with Penelope, though his voice still sounded miles away. "If I had been stronger. If I had fought harder. If I had found some trick, some cleverness—one more lie to steal time back from the gods." His jaw flexed. "But after it all... I still wasn't fast enough."

His eyes flickered to Telemachus, and for a moment, the years between them felt thin. "I wasn't fast enough to come home when my son was a child." His voice dipped lower. "I missed twenty years, Penelope."

Penelope;s lips parted, but no sound came. Her hands trembled slightly against her chest.

Odysseus' breath shuddered. "I blinked, and he grew up while I was out there, fighting for a home I couldn't reach." His throat worked around something thick, like the words cut going down. "And now—" his gaze shifted back to Telemachus, softer now, "he stands here, already a man. A king waiting for a crown. And we..." his voice broke for a moment, "we keep treating him like the boy we're scared to lose again."

Telemachus held his breath.

"You think I want to let him leave?" Odysseus continued, quieter now, voice splintering beneath the weight. "You think I want to send him across open water, toward a fate we can't predict?" His eyes glistened faintly in the firelight. "Gods, I'd chain him to this room if it meant I never had to hear his name offered up to the winds again."

Penelope's breath hitched, tears building in her throat.

"But..." Odysseus whispered, voice breaking fully now, "that's not what fathers do. That's not what kings do. And that's not what he needs."

Telemachus blinked fast, swallowing the sudden lump rising in his throat. He couldn't breathe around it. Couldn't speak. His father's words landed too sharp, cutting through the walls he'd been clinging to for months.

Odysseus stepped forward slowly, his hand coming to rest heavy on Telemachus' shoulder. Steady. Solid. But not pulling him back this time.

"You've grown, my son," he said softly. "You've carried more than you ever should have." His thumb pressed once against Telemachus' shoulder as if grounding both of them. "And you love her." His voice was faint, but steady. "You love her the way I once loved your mother—reckless enough to brave the sea for a chance at her name."

Telemachus' throat seized again.

"But the time for waiting is over," Odysseus finished. "If she can't find her way back to you, then you will find your way to her."

The silence after that was thick. Heavy. But it was no longer sharp.

It was settled.

Penelope wiped at her cheeks roughly, breath catching sharp behind her teeth. She didn't argue again. She couldn't. Her face crumpled faintly but she nodded—once. Small. Barely more than a twitch. But it was enough.

Because she understood.

It wasn't surrender, not really. Just... the ache of a mother who knew that holding him still was no longer love—it was fear. And she'd done that long enough.

Telemachus held her gaze for a moment longer, his chest pulling tight all over again. Then she reached forward and brushed her palm against his cheek, thumb smoothing gently beneath his eye, like she was trying to memorize the shape of him before she had to let go. Just like she always did. Like she used to do when he was a boy about to step outside alone for the first time.

Her son. Her only child.

"My heart," she whispered, barely audible, as her fingers shook against his face. "Bring her home."

Telemachus couldn't even answer. His throat was too tight. He just nodded once, fiercely, leaning into her touch before she finally dropped her hand.

From there, the days slipped forward quickly. By the following morning, Odysseus had ordered the ship readied. Quietly. No grand announcements. No parades of warriors marching down through the streets. Only a handful of trusted men chosen, the crew kept small and swift. Ithaca's best sailors.

And Callias, of course.

Telemachus hadn't even asked him. The boy had heard the whispers before the command was ever fully spoken. And by the time the list of names reached his ears, Callias had already cornered him in the courtyard with that wild, crooked grin like it was never even a question.

He couldn't argue with that. Not really. And deep down, part of him was grateful. Having Callias there meant at least one familiar voice to drown out the gnawing thoughts clawing at his ribs.

By sunset, word had spread across the palace.

A quiet sort of hush fell over Ithaca that evening. No one said it directly, but everyone knew why the ship was being prepared. Why their prince—again—would vanish out to sea after months of waiting.

And though no one dared call it a celebration, a feast was still held the night before departure. Custom demanded it. Blessings for safe passage. For fair winds. For gods to show mercy, if such a thing could still be asked for.

The courtyard filled with soft torchlight as servants moved through the evening, setting platters of fruits and honeyed bread along the long tables.

Laughter rang out—lighter than it should have been, but it filled the air anyway, as if everyone was trying too hard to act normal. Trying too hard to pretend this wasn't yet another chapter of Ithaca offering its sons to the sea.

Telemachus sat beneath the canopy near the head of the table, dressed in his royal tunic—freshly pressed, gold trimming sharp under the flame-light.

He barely touched the food on his plate. His hands rested stiffly against the carved wooden arms of his chair, knuckles white where they gripped the edges.

He heard the voices around him—Kieran teasing Lysandra over some bet, Asta laughing a little too loud when a servant nearly tripped carrying a fresh amphora—but none of it landed. None of it felt real.

It felt... distant.

Like he was already halfway gone.

A hollow ache settled behind his ribs as he stared blankly toward the flickering firelight. Because even as the wine was poured, even as others laughed and toasted for his journey—he didn't want to go.

Gods, he didn't want to go.

He wanted to be home. He wanted you home. He wanted none of this to be happening.

But waiting hadn't worked. Hoping hadn't worked. And now the only thing left was to move forward. Even if his legs trembled beneath the weight of it.

Penelope had kept glancing at him all night, her gaze soft but glassy, like she was memorizing every detail of her son's face for fear the sea might claim him too. Odysseus kept quieter than usual—drinking slower, eyes shadowed with some old, familiar guilt he never quite shook.

And through it all, Telemachus just sat there, letting the noise wash over him. Letting everyone around him pretend they were celebrating, when really, it felt like mourning.

Because the truth sat heavy in his chest, silent as stone.

You weren't here. And every empty seat only reminded him of it.

Telemachus barely heard the slow thump-thump of footsteps behind him at first. The soft, uneven rhythm blended into the waves until it drew closer—too close to ignore. A voice broke the quiet, rough but not unkind.

"Evenin', lad."

The prince blinked, pulling himself out of the spiral in his head. He turned his head toward the voice, finding an older man making his way toward him.

The man moved with a slow, awkward gait—his right leg replaced by a worn wooden prosthetic that clicked softly with every other step. He leaned heavily on a carved cane, the sea spray having weathered both wood and man over many years.

The old sailor gave a short, toothy grin as he approached. His beard was speckled white with age, though his eyes still gleamed with sharpness. He shifted the thick cloak on his shoulders, the breeze tugging at its edges.

"Beggin' your pardon, Prince Telemachus," the man greeted with a small bow of his head. "Didn't mean to interrupt your thinking. Just makin' my rounds before I turn in. Can't sleep proper on a calm sea." His voice rasped like stone on stone, but there was a humor under it.

Telemachus offered a faint smile, nodding politely. "You're not interrupting."

The sailor chuckled softly, adjusting the strap across his chest as he shifted his weight on the cane. "Name's Myron, if you haven't been told yet. Captain Myron." He gestured out toward the dark waves. "It's been... gods, years since I last sailed these waters to Lyraethos. Never thought I'd be returning here at my age, not with one good leg." He snorted at his own words.

Telemachus' brow furrowed slightly. The name tugged at something in the back of his mind. Myron.

The man caught the hesitation. "Aye," Myron said, reading the look on his face. "This might seem a bit forward of me, but you remind me a lot of someone I knew." his gaze softened a little, "Brought a little girl to Ithaca many years back, I did. All alone on the docks. She couldn't have been older than five or six."

Telemachus stiffened faintly. His chest pulled tight as the pieces clicked together, and for the first time, he saw the part of your story you'd never told.

Myron.

The man who found you. The one who offered you passage across the sea after your parents died. The one who carried you to Ithaca and placed you in the Queen's care.

"She had nothing," Myron went on, voice quieter now. "Rags for clothes. Face thin as reeds, but gods... her eyes. Bright. Fierce little thing, she was. Wouldn't beg, wouldn't cry. Just stood there on that dock lookin' like she dared the world to push her." He chuckled. "Couldn't leave her there. Something about her wouldn't let me."

Telemachus swallowed. His hands clenched tighter on the railing. His throat worked once before his voice came out—low, steady. "She never told me much about that time."

Myron blinked, brows lifting slightly. "You knew her then? The girl I brought?"

Telemachus nodded, his voice catching faintly. "I—I didn't meet her until she was already here. After she was taken into the palace she became my mother's personal handmaiden." He exhaled, words quieter now. "She was raised in Ithaca after that. She... grew up with us."

For a moment, Myron studied him, the faintest hint of surprise lingering behind his weathered expression. But then his face softened into something like pride. "Well, I'll be," he murmured. "She's come far, hasn't she? From a lonely dock to the halls of royalty. Strong little thing."

Telemachus stared down at his knuckles gripping the railing. "I thought..." He shook his head faintly. "I always assumed she was brought to Ithaca with family. That she'd been born there, raised there..." His throat tightened. "But I never knew she came here alone. I never realized how little I truly knew."

Myron hummed low under his breath, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Just letting the truth hang in the salty air between them.

"I reckon you wouldn't. She's not the type to carry pity like a cloak. Tough one, that girl." His eyes drifted out to the sea for a moment, his voice turning thoughtful. "Strange, isn't it? How life twists like that. A chance meeting years ago... and now I'm standing here, escortin' the prince himself across these same waters."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head like the fates were too ironic for their own good.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting back out across the waves. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. After a few moments, Myron spoke again, voice softer this time.

"If you don't mind me askin', Prince... what brought you out here? Seems a strange time for Ithaca to send another trade ship. Hardly been but a few months since the last run." His brow raised, eyes glinting curiously. "What's got a king sendin' his son out again so soon?"

The question hit deeper than Myron likely intended. Telemachus' jaw tensed.

He could have lied. Could've mumbled something about supplies, or diplomacy, or trade agreements.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stared out at the sea as the words slipped loose, bitter and honest. "I'm looking for her... the girl you brought all those years ago."

Myron's face softened with quiet understanding. "Ah."

The sea breeze brushed Telemachus hair back, but it didn't cool the heat rising behind his ribs. His chest felt tight, the weight of months spent waiting gnawing at him even now.

"My father would've kept me waiting forever," Telemachus said after a pause. "My mother too. But I couldn't sit there any longer." His voice dipped. "I already let too much time pass."

Myron nodded slowly, his old eyes kind. "Aye. Waiting's its own kind of storm."

Telemachus exhaled, almost a bitter laugh. "That's one way to put it."

For a moment, the two stood in quiet, side by side, the sea stretching wide and dark beneath them. Myron eventually patted his cane gently against the deck.

"Well then," the old sailor said with a small, tired smile, "we'll find her, Prince. I may be old, but I never let someone get lost on my ship."

Telemachus gave a faint nod. He wanted to believe it. Gods, he needed to.

Myron tipped his head one last time. "I'll leave you to your thinking. I suspect there's still a few more stars left to chase tonight." With that, the captain hobbled off, his soft footsteps disappearing into the wood and wind behind him.

Telemachus stayed at the railing, the echo of the captain's words swirling in his head. He felt hollow again—like every conversation, no matter how kind, only peeled the skin back further.

He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tight, stomach twisting in that awful way it always did when his mind circled back to you. To everything left unsaid.

He didn't have long to stew in it.

Soft footsteps padded unevenly across the deck behind him—a shuffling sort of walk, much lighter than the captain's heavy limp. A faint, muffled yawn followed, paired with the soft rustle of loose clothes.

Callias.

The Brontean boy appeared beside him with the grace of someone half-asleep, rubbing the heel of his palm over one eye as he ambled closer.

His tunic was wrinkled, his curls sticking up in wild directions like he'd just rolled out of his cot. His sandals slapped faintly against the deck as he dragged his feet the last few steps to the railing.

"Gods," Callias mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. "If I don't feel dry ground soon, I'm throwing myself overboard." He yawned wide, shoulders rising as he stretched, still half-lidded. "I think my legs have forgotten what standing still feels like."

Telemachus blinked, a faint breath of amusement breaking through his chest. He glanced at the boy beside him. "You realize you're on a ship, right? Water in every direction."

Callias gave him a bleary look. "Trust me, prince, I'm very aware." His head lolled forward slightly as he propped his elbows on the railing, peering out at the same dark sea. "Been out here so long I'm starting to forget what dirt smells like." Another yawn cracked through him, and he rubbed at his eyes again. "I was hoping if I wandered around enough, I'd forget how bad the hammocks are."

Telemachus exhaled, gaze softening. "It's only been a day of traveling. Plus, you could've stayed asleep."

"I could have." Callias waved a hand lazily. "But then I woke up—my bad for falling asleep in your cabin, by the way—and realized you were gone." He glanced sideways at him, brows raising faintly. "So, figured I'd find you brooding out here. How long have you been standing here anyway?"

Telemachus didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, watching the gentle rise and fall of the waves against the pale shine of starlight. It felt easier to watch the sea than answer.

Callias nudged him gently with an elbow. "Don't pretend you just stepped out here."

A soft sigh left Telemachus' nose. "Not long."

Callias scoffed, not buying it. "Right. And I'm a born sailor." He tilted his head up, glancing at the stars. "Feels like we've crossed half the gods' domains by now."

Telemachus hummed under his breath, but his eyes remained distant. The quiet between them stretched again, but this time, it wasn't heavy.

Callias leaned forward against the railing, voice dropping a little softer now. "Thinking about her?" His question echoed the same one from earlier. He didn't even need to say your name. He never did.

Telemachus exhaled again. It wasn't bitter. Just tired. "Always."

Callias didn't push. He never really did when it came to this. Instead, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and shifted to lean closer beside him.

"Guess we make a pair then," Callias mumbled lightly, offering a small lopsided grin. "Me, losing sleep over the cursed sway of this boat. You, losing sleep over her." He glanced over. "At least you've got a better reason."

Telemachus finally let out a soft, quiet laugh. Small. But real.

Callias grinned wider at that, then tilted his head, letting the breeze catch his curls as the waves whispered beneath them.

"You know..." Callias continued after a moment, voice light but not mocking, ""...if I were you, I'd be doing the same thing. Losing my mind. Clawing at every plan I could think of. You're just better at hiding it."

Telemachus didn't answer, but his fingers flexed faintly on the railing, knuckles pale under the moonlight.

Callias nudged him again, this time lighter. "We'll find her."

Telemachus shut his eyes briefly at that. The words were simple, meant to be comforting. But gods—they ached. His hands gripped the railing a little tighter, knuckles pale beneath the moonlight.

"But what if... what if we don't?" he said finally. His voice was low, almost too quiet to hear over the hush of waves. "What if we never find her?"

Callias blinked, brows tugging as he looked over at him, but Telemachus wasn't done.

"What if..." He swallowed, his throat dry. His gaze dropped to the dark water, watching the stars ripple like broken glass. "What if she's happy? Wherever she is now. What if she chooses to stay? What if she finds something—or someone—better?"

Callias stared at him for a long beat. Then—snorted.

"Are you sure the two of you aren't soulmates?" he said dryly, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "You both love saying the most dramatic things imaginable."

But Telemachus didn't smile. He didn't even flinch.

"I'm serious, Callias."

The humor slipped from Callias' face as he studied him—really studied him. The dark circles under Telemachus' eyes, his jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff. He looked like someone barely holding the pieces together.

Telemachus kept talking—like something had finally cracked open and was spilling out.

"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head, voice strained. "You don't know what it's like, Callias. The gods—Apollo—he can offer her everything. Olympus. Forever. A place she never asked for, but can still given to her. And me?" His voice wavered, barely holding steady. "What do I have to offer her? A little island? A name built on my father's blood? I haven't done anything. Nothing worthy. Nothing to keep her here."

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if willing himself to breathe through the storm building inside his chest. "Even when she was with me... even when she smiled at me... I could feel it. Like there was always something waiting to take her away. And I just stood there—every time—like a child watching the sea carry something off. And this time? I... I couldn't stop it."

Callias opened his mouth, but Telemachus kept spiraling.

"I know about it, you know," he bit out, the words bitter on his tongue. "How everyone whispers about me when they think I'm not listening. How I'm soft. How I'm my mother's son. That I sit in the safety of a palace while real men carve songs into history. My father has his epics. The war. The gods. His name echoes across every kingdom. And me?"

He scoffed, shaking his head.

"I couldn't even stop the one person I love from being taken."

Silence hung thick between them. The waves rolled gently below, the stars glittering cold and distant above. Telemachus let out a sharp breath, gripping the railing like it was the only thing holding him upright. His voice dropped lower, raw.

"I keep telling myself she'll come back. That she'll choose me. But what if... what if she doesn't?"

Callias watched him quietly for a moment longer. The usual glint of humor had completely drained from his face, leaving something sharper—tense, coiled like a wire pulled too tight. His jaw ticked. His fingers twitched at his sides.

And then—he spoke.

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

The words hit Telemachus harder than he expected. His head jerked slightly, brows knitting. "What—?"

But Callias didn't give him room to respond. He was already moving, already heated, voice rising as he stepped closer, stabbing a finger toward Telemachus' chest like he was trying to knock sense into him with every syllable.

"How many times does it need to be spelled out for you? Huh? How many times does someone have to say it before you get it through your thick, storm-drenched head?" His voice wasn't playful now. Not in the slightest. It was sharp, cold. Real.

Telemachus blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift, but Callias kept going, breathing harder.

"She loves you!" he snapped. "Gods, she loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it—everyone sees it but you. Yet here you are, standing here, picking yourself apart like you're some barely-worthy boy playing pretend in your father's shadow."

He threw his arms out wide toward the sea. "So what? So what if you're a mortal? So what if you're a prince and he's a god? What the Hades has that got to do with anything?"

Telemachus opened his mouth, fumbling. "I—"

"No," Callias cut him off sharply. "No. You keep making this about what you're not. About what you think you lack." His eyes narrowed, voice dropping lower, dead serious now. "Let me ask you something, Telemachus—and I want you to answer me honestly."

He stepped in closer again, his voice colder but steady. "Has Apollo ever comforted ____ when she couldn't sleep? Has he seen her break? Has he held her hand when she thought she couldn't breathe because the weight was too heavy?"

Telemachus' mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"Has Apollo fought tirelessly to keep ____ safe? Has he stood next to her when she lost her nerve? When she doubted herself?"

"...No," Telemachus whispered.

"Exactly." Callias snapped his fingers, jaw clenched. "But you have." His voice trembled slightly now, not from fear—but from how hard he was trying to make Telemachus hear it. "You've been there. You've been there at her worst, at her best, at her breaking. You've held her through things the gods wouldn't even bother watching."

He paused, breathing hard, eyes sharp as flint.

"You don't need to be Apollo. You never needed to be anyone but you. That's who ____ loves. Not your title. Not your father's name. Not Olympus. You."

Telemachus stood frozen under the weight of it, the words pressing into him harder than the wind or the sea. His throat bobbed, but he couldn’t speak. Because part of him wanted to fight it—to argue, to pull back into the old doubt that had protected him for months.

But another part... another part wanted to believe it. Gods, he wanted to believe it.

The Bronte servant let out a long breath, stepping back slightly as some of the heat bled from his voice. He rubbed his face once, like the weight of it all was exhausting him too. The anger was dimming now—not gone, but simmering beneath something softer. Wearier.

"Look,"Callias said finally, voice quieter, but no less firm. "I apologize for speaking so informally, but you've got to stop doing this."

Telemachus blinked at him. "Doing what?"

"This." Callias gestured vaguely between them. "Seeing everyone—me, Apollo, anyone—as some kind of threat. As if we're all just waiting for you to fail so we can swoop in and take your place. Like you've already lost before you even started." His lips tightened. "You keep convincing yourself you're one mistake away from being forgotten. From being replaced."

Telemachus' chest tightened. He opened his mouth, but Callias cut him off before the self-defense could even rise.

"That's not strength, Telemachus. That's fear. And if you keep letting it rule you, it'll drive you straight into the thing you're most afraid of." He pointed toward the sea, toward the endless black horizon. "You think standing here, doing nothing, second-guessing yourself into knots... you think that helps? That makes you worthy? All it does is push her away. Makes her doubt herself. And one day, someone might come along who doesn’t hesitate. Who doesn't waste time thinking whether they deserve her or not—they'll just take the chance you keep throwing away."

Telemachus' throat bobbed, the words slamming harder than any sharp anger could have.

"Gods, she's been gone this long," Callias continued, voice lower, slower now. "And sure, I'm worried too. But you know her. She'd never vanish without good reason. That's why we're sailing right now, isn't it? To find her. Because she's worth fighting for." He shook his head, his voice getting rougher again. "And yet you keep letting rumors and whispers crawl into your head—like any of them know her better than you do."

Telemachus looked away, his jaw tightening. The shame was heavy. Ugly. It sank low into his ribs.

But Callias wasn't done. His voice dropped into something sharper, something that hit deeper—personal.

"Do you know how hard it is watching you act like you don't deserve to be chosen?"

The words punched the breath out of Telemachus' chest.

Callias stepped closer, voice even lower now, like the truth tasted bitter on his tongue. "If you keep hiding like your heart doesn't matter... don't be shocked when someone else claims her first."

Telemachus' face pulled tight, breath stuttering, as if the words had cracked something raw wide open inside him. His fingers curled around the edge of the railing, gripping the wood until his knuckles whitened.

Because that—that was the fear he never said aloud.

And Callias knew it.

That was what made it hit harder. Because there was no malice in his words. No judgment. Just truth. The kind of truth only someone close enough could see, and care enough to say aloud.

For a long moment, Telemachus said nothing. His throat was tight, chest heavy. The ache sat there under his ribs like a stone.

Finally, his shoulders slumped, his grip loosening on the railing as a sigh pulled from his chest. Quiet. Defeated. Honest.

"...You're right," he admitted, voice thin. "Gods help me, Callias, you're right."

His words barely made it above the hush of the waves. But saying them aloud let some of the pressure leak from his chest.

"I am scared," Telemachus went on, his voice a little stronger now, even as it wavered. "Not just of losing her. But of what it means if I don't. If she chooses to come back—chooses me—and I still... don't know how to be enough for her." He shook his head slowly, bitterly. "I keep thinking I'll be better if I just wait a little longer. Be more worthy somehow. Like time will make me ready."

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "But all I'm really doing is prolonging it. Prolonging everything. And she... she deserves more than someone who keeps standing still."

He finally turned, looking at Callias—really looking at him. The tension in his face softened, not fully, but enough. His lips twitched into the faintest, tired smile.

"Thank you," Telemachus said, voice rough but earnest. "For being honest. Even when I'm too thick-headed to hear it the first hundred times."

Callias snorted, waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand. "Eh. Someone has to knock sense into you, my prince. So long as you don't have me whipped for speaking crassly to royalty, we're fine."

That pulled an actual laugh out of Telemachus. Small, breathy, but real. The tension in his chest eased just enough to feel lighter.

"I can't fault you," he chuckled, leaning against the railing. "Not when I've been acting like a complete idiot."

Callias grinned, his usual spark of humor slipping back into place. "'Acting' might be generous. But I'll take it."

Telemachus shook his head, his grin twitching wider. "You're not so bad, you know," he said, voice lighter now. "Annoying, sure. Absolutely irritating most of the time. But... not bad."

Callias placed a hand over his chest with mock offense. "Annoying? Gods, you wound me." Then he flashed a crooked smile. "I'm not just 'not bad.' I'm delightful. Charming. An absolute gift."

Telemachus scoffed, rolling his eyes. "A gift, huh?"

"Of course," Callias shot back with a wink. "I'm practically carrying this journey with my wit alone."

But before Telemachus could even throw a retort—

A sharp, booming crack split across the sky above them.

Both men flinched as a jagged fork of lightning streaked across the horizon, lighting up the rolling sea like glass. The echoing rumble of thunder followed immediately, deep and heavy, vibrating through the deck beneath their feet.

Telemachus' head snapped upward, his breath catching. The once-clear stars vanished behind a fast-rolling blanket of clouds now bleeding into the night sky.

"That..." Callias said slowly, voice tight with sudden tension, "...isn't good. Is it?"

"No," Telemachus murmured, eyes narrowing at the growing black smear crawling toward them from the distant edge of the darkening sky. His heart quickened. "That's not good at all."

The wind shifted. Faster. Colder.

The calm had broken.

And whatever lay ahead—it was coming fast.

Telemachus didn't waste a breath. "Go," he snapped, turning sharply to Callias, voice cutting through the rising wind. "Wake the captain. And if any of the men haven't stirred by now, wake them too."

Callias didn't argue. His humor vanished, replaced by something taut and sharp behind his eyes. "On it," he said quickly, already moving across the deck at a jog, his sandals slapping against the dampening wood.

Telemachus was left alone with the sea.

He stood at the railing, his jaw tight, watching the sky shift—rapid and violent.

The air had changed. The wind wasn't steady anymore. It twisted, tugging at his clothes like impatient fingers, coming in erratic bursts that made the ropes groan overhead. Clouds boiled in the distance��rolling over each other in thick waves of black and violet, eating the stars alive. The night had been clear moments ago. Serene.

Not anymore.

His face hardened, gaze narrowing.

He'd been on the sea enough times now to know the way storms built. He'd learned the patterns—the signs. The way warm air tangled with cool drafts; the way the pressure shifted long before the first crack of thunder.

His first journeys—searching for his father—had taught him that well. He’d crossed open waters under clouded moons, seen storms rise from nothing, faced winds that howled like creatures starved for blood.

But this?

This wasn't normal.

The speed, the suddenness—the sharp bite of the air—it all felt wrong. Unnatural.

Divine.

His stomach twisted at the thought. The gods had meddled enough in their lives. More than enough. And yet—standing here, with the sky swallowing itself and the sea rising beneath him—it was impossible to believe this was anything but another hand pulling at the strings.

The ship pitched gently as the first large wave rolled beneath the hull, the creaking groan of wood humming through his boots.

The water was growing restless. Choppy. Fast.

Telemachus clenched his jaw tighter.

He turned, about to make his way below deck to ensure others were roused—but then the ship lurched harder, sudden enough to pull him sideways against the railing. His palm smacked the soaked wood as another sharp wave slapped the side of the vessel, sending white spray up into the air.

The ocean was rising now. Not slow. Not gradual.

The waves swelled unnaturally high—stacking and folding into themselves like unseen hands were stirring the deep.

A flash of lightning ripped through the clouds above, blinding white, and for a single instant, the whole horizon glowed—waves towering, clouds boiling like ink spilled across the heavens.

Telemachus' heart kicked hard in his chest.

He knew storms. He respected them.

But this?

This felt like a warning.

Like someone was watching.

Telemachus' knuckles curled tighter against the railing, his eyes scanning the swaying horizon like he could catch the gaze pressing down on him. The air was growing heavier by the second—thick and wet, carrying the coppery scent of rain before it even fell.

Then—voices.

Heavy bootfalls pounded against the deck as Callias appeared again, this time with Captain Myron hobbling behind him, quick despite the cane tucked beneath his arm. The old captain moved with a lurching rhythm, his missing leg forcing him to compensate, but his sharp eyes were wide, darting over the darkening sky.

As if on cue, the first drops finally broke loose from the swollen clouds above—sharp, heavy beads of rain pelting down across the ship’s planks like scattered pebbles.

"All hands! Secure the lines—brace the mast!" a sailor shouted nearby, his voice rising over the wind.

Other crewmen scrambled across the deck, their sandals thudding heavily against the slick wood as ropes whipped and sails groaned overhead. The sound of fraying canvas mixed with sharp curses as men worked to tighten knots, tie down flapping edges, and secure every loose piece that threatened to tear free.

"Get that top sail down!" another voice barked. "If the wind shifts, we'll lose the mast!"

Telemachus barely flinched as a spray of seafoam misted across his face.

The captain reached his side, breathing hard, squinting up at the bloated sky as thunder rumbled again, this time closer—deeper.

"How long's this been brewin', boy?" Myron barked through the rising wind, voice clipped and sharp.

Telemachus shook his head quickly. "Just started," he called back. "The sky was clear not even ten minutes ago."

Myron cursed under his breath, looking around as Callias hovered nearby, silent but tense. The captain's hand gripped the rail, steadying himself against the sway of the ship. His good leg planted firm while his wooden prosthetic tapped rhythmically against the slick boards.

"Damn strange," Myron muttered. "Too strange."

He lifted his eyes to the heavens, watching as another thick bolt of lightning cracked through the swirling clouds above. The rain was falling harder now—sheets of cold slicing sideways as the wind picked up in sharp, jerking gusts.

"We did the blessings," Myron continued louder, voice growing tight with frustration as he turned back toward Telemachus. "All of 'em. You saw it yourself, Prince. Offerings to Poseidon. Libations. Sacrifices. We've done every cursed ceremony the gods asked for before setting out." His face tightened. "And yet we get this."

Another boom of thunder shook the air, and the ship rocked harder, forcing both men to brace themselves.

"I've been doing this near fourty years," Myron growled, lowering his voice now as if speaking directly to Telemachus' ear. "I've crossed these waters long before you were born, lad. Storms like this—they don't form natural anymore. Not for Ithaca's flag."

Telemachus blinked at him, feeling that same cold pit open deeper in his gut. "What do you mean?"

But Myron didn't answer right away. He simply stared ahead for a moment, his expression set—haunted.

"Storms've gotten... sharper," he finally said, voice low. "Meaner. Almost like they wait for us. Especially the ones who fly the king's colors."

Telemachus jerked his head towards Myron, shouting through the wind and rain that now lashed across his face. "Does my father know?!" His voice strained against the storm's roar. "How often has this been happening?!"

Myron grimaced, lifting one arm to shield his face as another heavy gust sent ropes whipping sideways like angry serpents. "More often than any of us like to admit!" he called back, voice tight. "The last shipment to Lyraethos barely made it through—storm hit 'em hard near the Delian coastline. Same place you're headed now."

The words punched through Telemachus like cold iron.

Delian coastline.

His chest tightened. His mind snapped back—weeks ago—Athena's calm, unreadable voice still echoing inside his skull.

"There was a storm. The ship hit hard weather near the Delian coastline. There was damage. But she is safe now."

His breath caught painfully as the wind howled louder, the sea itself roaring beneath the hull like a beast awakened. His pulse hammered. Because whatever force had reached for you then—was reaching for him now.

But before he could open his mouth—before he could voice the realization climbing in his throat—a sudden scream cut through the rain.

"LOOK OUT!" one of the sailors bellowed.

Telemachus whipped his head toward the bow, and his stomach dropped.

There—rising from the horizon—was the wave.

No. Not a wave.

A wall.

A towering mountain of black water clawed its way up from the ocean's depths, rising higher and higher like the sea itself was rearing back to strike. The lanterns flickered in its shadow, the ship groaning beneath their feet as the crew froze, eyes wide, unable to tear their gaze away.

The roaring was deafening now. The crest of the wave churned and folded over itself, foam hissing down like teeth grinding against stone. And for the briefest, most terrifying moment—Telemachus saw it.

A shape. A trick of the water.

The wave's peak curled like fingers. Five thick ridges forming a vague outline—like a hand. A massive, clawed hand reaching down, ready to crush them beneath its palm.

"GODS!" Callias gasped beside him.

The sailors scrambled, ropes snapping free from their pulleys as the mast groaned violently overhead. The rain became a sheet—solid, blinding—coating Telemachus' skin as he braced himself, fingers gripping the slick railing so hard they ached.

Then, the monstrous hand of water slammed down onto the ship.

The impact was thunderous.

The entire vessel bucked violently—tilting hard to one side. Men screamed, feet sliding out from under them as the deck turned into a slick, groaning slope. Barrels crashed into one another. Loose crates burst open, sending supplies flying into the air like scattered dice.

Telemachus staggered, barely catching himself before the rail slipped from his grasp. His shoulder slammed against the mast, pain slicing down his arm, but he held on. The force of the wave shoved the vessel sideways, its frame groaning under the strain.

He could barely hear Myron shouting behind him—orders, curses, prayers. Sailors clung to rigging, to each other, to anything that wasn’t already swept overboard.

And still, the rain came harder.

Still, the wind howled louder.

Still, that heavy presence in the air pressed against Telemachus like something unseen looming just beyond the mist.

Watching.

Waiting.

Testing.

The word lodged itself in Telemachus' mind like a hook. He didn't have time to dwell on it.

He pushed himself upright, boots slipping against the rain-slick wood as the ship lurched beneath him again. His breath came fast, the air sharp and full of salt. The roar of the waves was deafening now, drowning out the desperate shouts of the crew.

Then a hand seized him—rough, firm.

It was Myron.

The old captain gripped Telemachus by the arm with a strength that surprised him for a man who hobbled. His soaked hair clung to his weathered face, eyes wild beneath the rain, but his voice cut through the wind sharp and clear.

"GET TO SAFETY, Prince!" Myron barked, shaking him once. "You're the most precious damn thing on this ship—if we lose you, Ithaca's got more to grieve than just a sunken hull!"

Telemachus tried to shake his head, to protest, but Myron's grip only tightened.

"Don't argue!" Myron snarled. "Go!"

He shoved Telemachus toward the starboard side, where a small cluster of sailors were struggling around the side rigging. Telemachus staggered as another wave slammed into the bow, sending a spray of freezing seawater straight into his face. The rain blinded him, falling in heavy sheets, drenching his clothes, chilling his bones.

He stumbled toward them.

Through the blur of water and chaos, he could just barely make out the shape of the small vessel they were preparing—a small escape boat, lashed to the side with ropes barely holding steady against the rocking. It groaned with every tilt of the ship, swaying dangerously, threatening to snap loose.

Two sailors were already inside the little craft, struggling to steady its weight as others wrestled with the ropes to lower it into the raging sea.

"PRINCE TELEMACHUS!" one of the sailors screamed over the storm, his voice hoarse but desperate. "We've got two navigators aboard—we can row! We can head for Ithaca's coast!"

The man was pale, soaked, his knuckles bone-white as he fought to keep the rope from whipping out of his grasp. The others around him were no better—faces drawn, eyes darting anxiously to the towering waves rolling toward them again.

Telemachus reached the edge, grabbing the rail just as another gust of wind threatened to knock him flat. He peered down into the escape boat below. It wasn't much. Small, wooden, barely large enough to fit five men without capsizing. It rocked with every movement, threatening to spill its passengers with the next wrong tilt.

The two sailors inside shouted up, their hands braced against the sides, trying to balance as the larger ship groaned dangerously under another tilt.

"GET IN!" they called up again. "Hurry, before it snaps loose—!"

The ropes strained. One gave a sharp crack! above him as a knot slipped, causing the boat to lurch lower suddenly.

Telemachus' throat tightened. His stomach churned. Everything in him wanted to stay—to help stabilize the ship, to stand beside Myron, beside Callias. But even now, he knew what this was.

The heir.

The prince.

He was too valuable to lose.

Another flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the massive black waves still cresting behind them.

He forced himself forward, gripping the ropes tight, teeth clenched, as another shout rose behind him.

"HURRY, PRINCE!"

His boots found the edge of the ship as he prepared to lower himself into the smaller vessel, his heart hammering in his chest.

He looked back briefly—back at the deck, where Myron and Callias were still scrambling through the rain-drenched chaos.

And all he could think was:

Don't you dare let this take them.

Then he braced himself, swinging one leg over the side—and dropped into the rocking boat below.

The smaller vessel dipped hard under his weight, the sailors grunting as they shifted to keep balance. The sea slapped against its sides, the waves already swelling and churning with every passing second.

"Cut it loose!" one of the sailors bellowed to the others above.

They obeyed.

The last rope snapped, and the small vessel dropped into the open sea with a heavy splash, the wooden frame rocking violently as it met the churning water. The sailors inside shouted, scrambling to steady their weight, but even their efforts couldn't fully fight the waves.

Telemachus barely had time to brace himself when he heard it—

"TELEMACHUS!"

Callias.

His voice cracked sharp across the storm, cutting through the wind and rain like a desperate thread. Telemachus jerked his head up, squinting through the downpour. There—above him—he saw Callias standing near the edge of the main ship's deck, hands cupped around his mouth as he tried to shout over the howl of the wind.

"TELEMACHUS! LOOK OUT—!"

Before Telemachus could fully catch the words, it happened.

A roar—not thunder, not wind—but the guttural groan of the sea itself, rising like a beast uncoiling from the depths.

The next wave slammed into them—huge, cold, merciless.

Telemachus didn't even have time to curse. The boat beneath him lurched violently, tilting sideways before flipping completely. The water swallowed him whole, dragging him under as though the ocean itself had grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him into its chest.

Everything vanished into black.

The cold hit him first. Like knives, stabbing every inch of his skin. The pressure came next—squeezing his chest, crushing his ears. The current spun him hard, disorienting him, pulling at his limbs like some monstrous hand twisting his body in every direction.

Up became down. Left became right.

His arms flailed out instinctively, searching for anything—rope, wood, a sailor’s hand—but there was nothing. Only dark swirling water, pulling him deeper.

Breathe.

He couldn't. His lungs were burning, screaming. The ache in his chest grew sharper by the second.

A flash of light burst somewhere above him—lightning splitting the sky—and for a split second, through the violent spin, he caught a glimpse of the surface. Of jagged black waves crashing together, like mountains made of water, their peaks glowing faintly under the storm’s electric rage.

And then he surfaced.

Just barely.

His head broke through for a sharp, desperate gasp. His mouth opened wide, drinking in a gulp of air—and salt. His eyes burned from the rain and spray as he blinked wildly, coughing between breaths.

The storm was worse now—so much worse.

Waves like dark walls slammed into each other, groaning and snarling. The sky had gone an angry shade of purple-black, clouds swirling in tight coils above as lightning cracked down in wild, crooked veins. The wind screamed, howling through his ears, almost like voices whispering beneath it.

Another crash of water slammed into him before he could call out again.

And the sea swallowed him once more.

Down.

Spinning.

His legs kicked wildly, feet scraping against nothing but freezing emptiness. The world blurred as the current dragged him sideways, then downward again.

The cold was beginning to seep inside him now—past skin, past muscle, creeping into bone.

His mind screamed: UP! UP! FIND UP!

But he couldn't tell where it was.

The weight of the storm above pressed harder, folding him deeper into the darkness like a hand closing its fingers around him.

His chest tightened sharply. Lungs spasming.

His hands clawed at the water—searching, pleading—for anything.

And for a terrifying heartbeat, Telemachus thought: Is this it?

Was this how it ended? Pulled beneath the same waves his father once defied? Crushed before he even reached you?

The sea dragged him in deeper.

But even through the panic—even as his vision started to spark at the edges—his mind clung to one image. One thought, singular and blinding:

You.

He hadn't found you yet.

And gods help him, he would not drown before he did.

With what little strength remained, Telemachus kicked.

Fighting. Clawing. Straining.

The burn in his chest was like fire licking the inside of his ribs, but he forced his limbs to move—arms cutting through the water, legs pushing against the crushing pull beneath him. His mind screamed UP, UP, UP until��

His head broke the surface again.

Air slammed into his lungs in a ragged gasp, half-breath, half-sob. His eyes flew open wide, blinking hard against the stinging rain that lashed across his face. The wind shrieked in his ears, making it hard to hear anything but the roar of waves smashing into each other like giants locked in battle.

"____!!"

Your name tore from his throat.

He shouted it into the storm—loud, wild, frantic—as though saying it alone might anchor him. Might pull you toward him, wherever you were.

"____!" He gasped again, voice hoarse, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the sea's rage. "WHERE ARE YOU?!"

The storm answered with another vicious wave slamming into his side, dragging him under for another violent heartbeat before he managed to break free again, coughing hard.

"PLEASE!" he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of salt and fear. His hands thrashed in the water as though reaching for something unseen. "GODS—SOMEBODY—SOMETHING—BRING HER BACK TO ME!"

Lightning cracked across the sky like the gods were laughing.

A blinding streak split the horizon, illuminating the nightmare landscape around him. The waves towered impossibly tall now, curling like dark fingers ready to close into a fist. Rain lashed in sideways sheets. The wind screamed loud and cruel.

The sea was alive.

And it was not done with him.

The water surged, rising higher as if answering his cries with mockery. Another wave—massive, taller than any before—arched above him like a looming wall of black glass. And as the lightning flashed again, Telemachus saw it—just for a moment. The crest of the wave curved like the shape of a hand.

A hand. Reaching.

It curled toward him.

His breath hitched.

No, not yet. Not like this.

"NO!" he shouted against the roar. "I HAVEN'T FOUND HER YET!"

But the sea didn't care.

The towering hand of water crashed down.

And everything went black.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

"____!"

.☆. .✩. .☆.

Far away—though not far enough for the gods—Hermes hovered lazily above a quiet clearing, floating midair as only he could, arms crossed, sandal wings flickering in the breeze like bored little flags.

Below him stood a nervous dryad, hands folded in front of her chest, eyes darting between him and the thick parchment she clutched like it might bite.

"Just sign here, sweetheart." Hermes gestured with a quill that spun effortlessly between his fingers. "Simple delivery. Quick receipt. You've received one—count it—one extremely tedious sunburst from Lord Helios himself. All I need is your scribble."

The dryad bit her lip, her wooden fingers twitching slightly. "I—I am not allowed to sign for the glade's elders, sir Hermes..."

Hermes sighed. "Oh, come on. You know how long it takes to get a meeting with dryad elders? You all run on tree-time. That's decades. I'm already doing overtime playing errand boy for your over-glowing landlord."

He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Tell you what—I won't tell him you signed if you won't."

The dryad only blinked, clearly still too terrified.

Hermes groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Fine. You know what? Next time I'm forging your signature and charging overtime. This job is beneath me."

And just as he flicked the quill away with a puff of golden smoke—

He heard it.

A voice.

No—a scream. Far-off. Faint.

But loud enough to pierce the clouds like a blade.

"____!!"

The name tore through the sky like an echo forced through the fabric of the world.

Another cry followed—raw, desperate, full of something that twisted deep in Hermes' gut. Not divine. Not like prayer.

It was mortal.

It was his voice.

Telemachus.

The messenger god's wings stiffened midair for a split second.

For a moment, everything in the clearing stilled. Even the dryad froze, sensing the sharp pull of something bigger than herself. The trees around her creaked faintly. The air changed.

Hermes' lips parted. He didn't move.

Then—another crash, far louder than any mortal storm, rattled through the horizon. Thunder cracked so sharp it made even him flinch.

His brows lifted, mouth twisting into something halfway between alarm and grim amusement.

"Well," he exhaled, clicking his tongue. "Guess I'll be skipping that signature after all."

Without waiting another beat, Hermes vanished—wings slicing upward in a blur of golden light.

The storm's scent hit him long before he saw it.

Salt. Lightning. Fear.

When he finally crested the clouds, the scene spread wide beneath him—an angry, boiling mess of black water writhing like a wounded beast. Waves smashed into each other with vicious teeth, and jagged streaks of lightning carved the sky into violent ribbons.

In the center of it all, what remained of the ship was barely clinging to the surface—a broken carcass tossed about like driftwood. Splintered masts. Shattered planks. Men screaming as they clawed for floating debris.

Bodies churned in the water, some moving, some not.

Hermes hovered above it, face suddenly tight, jaw stiffening.

"Gods," he muttered. "You never do anything half-measured, do you, Poseidon?"

He narrowed his eyes, scanning rapidly.

Another distant voice—someone still alive—shouted hoarsely from a half-swamped rowboat not far off. Others clung to overturned barrels or flailing ropes. The wind howled, rain slicing sideways across his vision like knives.

And then—

There.

Near the far crest of one of the higher waves, a flash of familiar brown curls broke briefly above the water's surface, only to be swallowed whole again by the next rising swell.

Telemachus.

A name had pulled Hermes here. Not Telemachus' name—yours. Echoing like a desperate prayer inside a godless storm.

And now?

He simply watched.

Below him, Telemachus struggled—again—fighting against waves far larger than any mortal should have to face. Saltwater filled his mouth as he gasped and kicked, barely breaking the surface before being dragged under once more by Poseidon's greedy currents.

Hermes' head tilted slightly. His face remained impassive.

The boy had good instincts, he'd give him that. Even when half-drowned and flailing, there was a determination to the prince’s movements. Not completely hopeless. The bloodline of Odysseus did have its moments.

But then again, Odysseus' blood never impressed him.

You were the reason he was here.

Hermes exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing loosely at his sides. Lightning illuminated the curve of his mouth in a tight, unreadable smile.

Telemachus was not his responsibility, not really. Bloodline or not, the boy had never prayed to him. Never made offerings. Never whispered for his guidance at some lonely altar.

And yet.

Hermes rolled his eyes skyward as the waves rose again, taller this time, curling with deliberate malice. Poseidon's hand, ever theatrical.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Hermes muttered under his breath, voice lost beneath the wind. "Always the same heavy-handed drama."

His gaze flicked downward again. Telemachus vanished beneath the waves for a second time, swallowed whole by the darkness.

A beat passed.

Then—he sighed. "For gods' sake."

Because while he didn't care for the boy's fate, you cared. You loved him. And Hermes knew better than most what you looked like when you were afraid. What you looked like when you whispered Telemachus' name beneath your breath, soft and unguarded. The way your fingers curled whenever you spoke about him, even when you tried to hide it.

Hermes couldn't stand that part. The way your voice always cracked on the boy's name.

"Consider this a favor I will absolutely lord over you later," he muttered to himself.

With a flick of his wrist, the air rippled. His fingers snapped once, sharp and deliberate, the sound slicing clean through the howling winds.

It wasn't much. Not enough to challenge Poseidon directly—Hermes knew better than to start that war.

But luck? Luck could slip through even godly storms.

A whispered favor. A nudge in the threads. A chance precisely when it was most needed. The smallest tilt of fate, just enough to turn the impossible survivable.

And instantly—the ocean shifted.

The furious current that had wrapped around Telemachus' legs loosened, the pull lessening just enough for the prince to kick upward again. His head broke the surface one final time with a strangled gasp, sputtering seawater, eyes wild as he fought to stay afloat. Another wave rose—taller, angrier—but before it could crash, it wavered unnaturally, stuttering mid-crest.

Hermes narrowed his eyes, feeling it.

Poseidon pushed back.

The sea god's power rolled under the surface like something alive, trying to reclaim its prey. The water coiled unnaturally beneath Telemachus, like fingers tightening. Testing.

For a moment, the two forces pressed—ocean against air, weight against speed.

Hermes' fingers twitched again.

With a second snap, the clouds above shifted—slightly but enough. The winds twisted unnaturally sharp, slicing against the towering waves. The current buckled. The pressure snapped free. Water crashed in harmless spray to either side.

Poseidon relented.

Or rather—sulked.

The storm began to falter—slowly at first. The sky pulsed, then dimmed, as rain softened to something lighter. The roaring winds dulled to a heavy, constant hiss instead of a scream.

Hermes exhaled long through his nose. "You're slipping, Uncle," he said softly, barely a whisper now. "Or you're playing patient."

He stayed where he was for a moment longer, watching as Telemachus bobbed in the calmer waves, coughing and heaving in the dark water, struggling to keep himself upright. The prince's strength was draining fast—his limbs jerking with exhaustion, breaths sharp and uneven.

Then, from the distance—a voice.

"TELEMACHUS—!!" It cracked through the heavy air.

Hermes turned his head, eyes narrowing briefly as another figure paddled toward the prince—a boy clinging to a slab of broken wood, legs kicking weakly beneath him.

Callias.

His strokes were sloppy but determined, face pale and soaked, teeth clenched in visible fear—but gods, the brat had survived. Somehow.

"You mortal really are stubborn little roaches," Hermes muttered dryly, watching as Callias finally closed the distance, throwing himself halfway across the floating plank toward Telemachus.

The Brontean servant reached out, panting hard. "Hold—hold on!" Callias gasped, grabbing Telemachus' tunic as both of them pressed their weight against the shattered wood. "You're—You're not dying out here, you hear me?! I already risked my ass following you this far!"

Telemachus could barely answer. His teeth chattered. "I—I'm trying—!"

Hermes hovered above, arms folding lazily across his chest, watching the scene unfold below him with something between mild amusement and resigned annoyance.

He could leave now.

The storm was breaking. The mortals weren’t dead. His part was technically done.

But still—he lingered.

The waves below were no longer wild, but they weren't safe either. Bodies still bobbed like broken toys across the dark water. The shattered skeleton of the ship floated in jagged pieces, creaking mournfully beneath the moonlight. Smoke curled faintly where the wreckage still burned atop floating timbers. Voices still screamed somewhere distant, though fewer now.

And somewhere, beneath all that—

Poseidon watched too.

Hermes could feel him—before he even appeared.

The weight beneath the water shifted. Thick. Heavy. The kind of pressure that pressed against the lungs even from the sky, like a vast hand reaching from leagues beneath the sea floor, fingers curling slowly. Ancient. Patient. Furious.

And sure enough—he rose.

The waters beneath the floating wreckage trembled first, swirling into a tight, unnatural spiral. Foam frothed up like bile bubbling to the surface. Then, from the heart of it, the god emerged—Poseidon himself.

He didn't materialize gently. No soft glow. No quiet ripple.

The ocean heaved upward as if vomiting him out—his towering form rising from the churning dark like some ancient leviathan uncoiling after centuries of sleep. His eyes gleamed like distant lanterns, trident clutched tightly in one hand. Storm clouds still crackled in his wake, curling like smoky fingers around his shoulders.

Saltwater dripped from every inch of his scaled, glimmering form—his torso bare, his lower half still trailing into swirling coils of mist and seawater. He loomed above the shattered remains of the ship, hovering high above where Telemachus and Callias clung to their fragile piece of driftwood like insects beneath his gaze.

And gods—the disgust that crossed Poseidon's face when his eyes landed on the Ithacan prince—

That was enough to turn the very waves sour.

"Of course," the sea god sneered, his voice low but rolling like distant thunder across the black waves. "The cockroach still survives."

Hermes, still hovering some distance above, only sighed in exaggerated boredom. "Ah, Uncle. Lovely of you to join me." His tone was all honeyed lightness—playful on the surface, sharp beneath. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd sulk below the waves all night or finally make your grand entrance."

Poseidon's lip curled, eyes narrowing upward toward him. "You have nerve, courier."

Hermes grinned wider, head tilting as he hovered lightly in place. "I try."

But Poseidon wasn't in the mood for games tonight.

"You had no authority to interfere." His voice dropped, colder now, a dark undercurrent threading beneath it. "This storm was mine. My domain. My judgment." The trident gleamed as his grip tightened. "You are meddling in waters that do not concern you."

Hermes gave a dramatic little shrug. "I meddle in everything, Uncle. It's literally my job description." His voice grew more pointed, smile flattening. "Especially when certain gods forget where their boundaries end."

Poseidon's lip twitched, his jaw flexing with slow, seething rage. "Boundaries?" He let out a low, humorless laugh, the air crackling as the water churned behind him. "You're one to speak of boundaries, boy. You slip between them like a rat through cracks in temple walls. You dance at every threshold, sneak through every locked door, whisper into every ear that doesn't belong to you."

The god's voice dropped further, turning venomous. "And Olympus has grown far too comfortable letting you get away with it."

Hermes' smile sharpened like a knife. "Perhaps Olympus simply likes me better."

Poseidon's trident flared with a sharp pulse of blue-green light, casting harsh reflections over the dark water below. "You think your clever tongue will shield you forever?" His voice roared now, a rolling growl of distant waves crashing against invisible cliffs. "Keep meddling, nephew, and you will find yourself dragged under—the way all things eventually are."

Hermes' boots hovered a little closer to the waves, but he didn't flinch.

"Admit it, Uncle. You're not angry with me. You're angry because you've been sloppy." His tone was light, but the words cut deep. "You tried to swallow Odysseus whole and choked. And now you think throwing storms at children will make up for it."

Poseidon's brows twitched, teeth baring. His voice rippled low and dangerous. "This has nothing to do with him. This is balance. This is justice long overdue for Ithaca."

Hermes scoffed, eyes narrowing. "No," he said, voice quieter now. "This is spite. Yours."

He gestured lazily toward the two mortals below, still barely afloat, gasping for breath.

"Telemachus has done nothing to warrant your wrath. Nothing, except bear the name of a man you never forgave." Hermes' voice lost its playful lilt for a brief, dangerous moment. "And ____? She's done even less."

Poseidon's expression twitched again. The sea continue to shift uneasily beneath him, waves coiling as if responding to his unspoken anger.

"You're weak," Hermes continued smoothly, voice softer but sharper. "That's why you reach for them. Because mortals are easier prey. Because they can't fight back the way we do."

There was a long, heavy pause.

The ocean groaned beneath them. The remaining storm clouds above seemed to hesitate—as if even the sky feared what might follow.

Then Poseidon spoke again—lower now. Measured. Threatening.

"You forget yourself, Messenger," he rumbled. "You think clever words shield you from consequence. But you are not untouchable."

A pause. His voice sank even lower. "You interfere again—and I will make it hurt."

Hermes' face twitched, but his eyes never lost their glint. Then his voice cut through the tension like a well-placed dagger. Light. Snide. Dangerous.

"You know..." Hermes drawled, tapping a single finger thoughtfully against his chin, "...I haven't told Apollo yet."

Poseidon's eye twitched. The slow curl of his lip gave him away—a tight sneer beneath that rigid jaw.

Hermes kept going, voice practically syrup now. "About you. About your little... breath of life, let's call it. The one you so generously gave to his precious muse.” His smile sharpened, glinting like a blade. "You know how possessive he gets. You've seen it firsthand. One whisper in his ear, and well..." Hermes let the words dangle in the air. "It would be a shame, wouldn't it? Watching him light Olympus on fire because of one stolen kiss?"

Poseidon's trident dug deeper into the sea, the waves hissing like a kettle nearing boil. "Mind yourself," he growled low, the words scraping like gravel beneath the surface.

Hermes only tilted his head, completely unbothered. "I am minding myself, Uncle. That's precisely why you're still standing here, instead of explaining yourself to a furious sun god."

The air between them buzzed like a live wire. For a heartbeat, the sea god looked poised to strike—to rise fully from the water and lash out. But even Poseidon, wrathful as he was, wasn't a fool. Not tonight. Not with how many threads now tangled between Olympus, Apollo, and you.

And absolutely not with Hermes grinning right in his face like a wolf who'd already smelled the blood.

Finally, after a long, bristling silence, Poseidon exhaled through clenched teeth. The sound was low, guttural, as if the act of restraint itself physically pained him.

"Fine," Poseidon spat bitterly. "Keep your tongue, Messenger... For now."

He let his gaze drift back down to the drifting mortals, voice dropping into something sharper. Colder.

"But believe it or not, son of Odysseus," Poseidon called down, his voice like thunder cracking through the dying winds, "luck does run out."

Telemachus—soaked, trembling—stared up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving. His arms were still wrapped around the small chunk of broken mast where Callias clung beside him, barely conscious. His face was pale, exhausted, lips parted as though even now he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing—what towering forces stood above him in the storm.

The gods.

Watching.

Speaking.

Deciding.

Callias, still gripping what little wood kept them afloat, dared a quick glance upward too—his own face twisted somewhere between awe and pure terror. The boy's teeth chattered, shoulders stiffening under the weight of being seen by beings so far beyond mortal reach.

It was like staring into the stories they'd grown up fearing. But this was no tale. This was real.

The words burned like saltwater in Telemachus' ears.

"Luck runs out."

Poseidon's words hung above them like a curse written into the very waves.

And then—with one final flash of lightning across the clouds—Poseidon vanished.

The swirling funnel of mist and rain collapsed into itself as his form dissolved beneath the waves once more. The ocean groaned once, as though exhaling his anger into the depths, then slowly began to still—leaving only dark, rolling swells behind him.

Poseidon was gone. For now.

Hermes hovered for a beat longer, the winds swirling gently beneath his sandals, watching the faint shapes of the two mortals still bobbing like lost corks in the water. The storm's residue hissed in the distance, but the worst had passed.

With a soft flutter of his wings, he lowered himself, gliding down like a breeze caught on a dying current until he hovered just above them.

Telemachus, still gripping the wreckage with whitened knuckles, coughed sharply as his head tipped back toward the god. His skin was pale, lips trembling, chest heaving with exhaustion. Callias lay beside him, barely holding on, his arms looped tightly around what little plank remained beneath them.

Hermes tilted his head, floating lazily as if they were simply chatting on a dock rather than stranded in open sea.

"Well," Hermes said lightly, voice carrying over the slosh of water. "You guys good?"

Callias was the first to respond��though his voice came out thin and scratchy. "Uh..." He wheezed, blinking up at the god through dripping curls. "Yeah. Just... you know. Floating around."

Hermes snorted. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into something close to amusement, though his eyes still flicked sharply across the water. "Floating," he repeated. "I can see that."

He hummed under his breath, then raised a single finger—lazy, almost bored—as if flicking away a bothersome fly.

A warm wind stirred around him. The air buzzed faintly with a golden shimmer as specks of light gathered beneath the pair like a net being woven from starlight. Gold dust whirled in tight little spirals, twisting and snapping together like threads being tied.

Slowly, piece by piece, the dust hardened—forming creaking planks beneath their bodies, slats of pale wood groaning against the waves until a small, rickety raft was fully formed beneath them.

It wasn't pretty. Gods rarely bothered with pretty. But it was solid.

Telemachus blinked down at it, hands shifting carefully against the rough new surface. The sudden, blessed weight of something stable beneath him sent a sharp relief crashing through his chest.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump rising in his throat. His voice came raw but full of gratitude.

"Thank you," Telemachus rasped, still panting. "Gods—I... I don't know if I would've made it."

Hermes only hummed again, floating backward lazily through the air, as if resting on an invisible cloud. He folded his arms behind his head, wings giving a soft flick with each drift.

"Oh yeah," he said lightly, voice laced with dry humor, "you wouldn't've."

Telemachus blinked at his bluntness.

Hermes tilted his head again, tapping one foot thoughtfully against nothing. "Any later," he went on, jerking his chin toward the swirling wreckage nearby, "and I'd have been escorting you to the Underworld instead." His toes flicked casually toward a nearby corpse bobbing facedown, the sailor's limbs slack, mouth open in the waves.

Callias made a soft gagging noise at the sight but stayed silent.

Telemachus followed Hermes' gesture, stomach twisting as he forced his eyes back down. His throat clenched. The reality of how close they had come was heavier than the water still soaking his skin.

Hermes watched the emotion flicker over the prince’s face, catching every tiny shift.

"Timing," Hermes added with a shrug. "It's an art."

The wind curled again, catching the ends of Hermes' cloak like playful fingers. For all the chaos that had just unfolded, the messenger god looked entirely relaxed now—as if he hadn't just stood between two gods trading threats over mortal flesh.

But then—he shifted.

Hermes straightened from his lazy recline, wings drawing inward with a faint hum. The playful lilt vanished from his face. His jaw tightened. The glint in his eye dulled into something flat, unreadable—like polished coin flipped smooth by too many hands.

And for the first time since he'd appeared, he looked directly at Telemachus.

Not the mortal prince struggling to catch his breath. Not the desperate boy clawing at fate. Just... Telemachus.

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, neither the sea nor the stars moved.

Hermes' voice came quiet, but hard-edged. "Don't mistake this for kindness."

Telemachus lips parted like he meant to speak—but nothing came.

The god continued, tone even, almost tired. "I didn't save you because I care. I didn't step in because of who you are." His head tilted just slightly, shadows creeping across his sharp face. "You're Odysseus' son. That earns you plenty of headaches... but very little favor. Descendant or not."

Callias swallowed thickly, eyes darting between them, but wisely said nothing.

Hermes' gaze never wavered. "The only reason you're still breathing, little prince—" he paused, voice dropping, "—is because she cares."

The words landed heavier than the waves ever did.

"You live because of her," Hermes finished simply.

His words carried no threat. No warmth. Just fact.

And with that, the moment broke.

Hermes sighed, stepped back, and dipped his hat forward in a lazy half-salute. "Now," he exhaled, casual once more, "enjoy your floating~"

With one light tap of his sandal against the corner of the wooden raft, a quiet spark of gold rippled beneath them. The makeshift vessel groaned and sputtered, as if catching wind where there was none, and then began to drift—slowly, but steadily—into the dark distance.

Telemachus clutched at the wood instinctively, Callias flopping weakly beside him as the waves nudged them forward.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither dared.

Hermes watched them for a beat longer, expression unreadable. The faintest wind circled his ankles.

And then—with one flick of his wings—he lifted into the sky, weightless again. The sea grew smaller beneath him. The raft shrank into a pinprick swallowed by black waters. And the stars above, too bright, watched silently as the messenger vanished into the night, his cloak snapping sharply behind him.

Because at the end of it all—

This wasn't about Telemachus.

It was never about Telemachus.

It was about you.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.64 ┃ 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠; i had time to post so yay! happy y'all been liking recent updates, but for this one, y'all when i say i am so sorry 😭😭 y'all gotta suffer/read through 15k words 😔💔 i swear i tried trimming it/keeping it short, but then i remebered a lotta shit had to be covered lolololo oh well ❤️alsooooo i have another telemachus fic dropping soon and ngl i had fun! it's a bit on the light-hearted/romantic-comedy so i hope y'all like it (speaking of, i'll be mass updating the remainder of 'knot in time' soon lowkey forgot about that until i got a comment i'm so sorry 😭😭😭)

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