#clever queen of Ithaca

[spacedace]

In the Odyssey the axes were arranged so that she would be sitting behind them, so that if any of the suitors truly had managed to string Odysseus' bow and make the shot, the arrow would strike her in the heart.

And there is so much in that, already, but there is so much more in all the greater context of Penelope and Odysseus' marriage.

Even before Odysseus came to Sparta with all the many suitors looking to win Helen's hand, he was clever enough to know that a King with no bride price to offer from a tiny, almost insignificant island like Ithaca would stand no cha ce of winning Helen's hand. He had never intended to we'd Helen. He had been there to make connections, and to win the hand of another beautiful Spartan princess.

He forged a deal with Helen's father to help him see Helen safely married without fear of those not chosen shedding blood, in exchange for just the opportunity to try and win Penelope's hand. And with his swift speed or swift mind, he did so.

They were not a love match then. Just two practical people, who understood the way the world they lived in worked. It was duty that had Penelope alight into Odysseus' chariot, to be drawn away to his ship and across the water to what would be her new home.

When her father, heartsick that he might never again see his beloved daughter again, chased after them and stopped them outside the city gates, began his begging, I think that was when she fell in love with her husband. Her father, one of the most powerful men in the Greek world, begged them to stay, offering this strange, trickster she had been married to all that any man could ever dream. Wealth, connection, the promise to make Odysseus his heir and with such an oath see the King of Ithaca instead one day become Co-King of the much greater Sparta.

Did she think that this had been part of her husband's plan, I wonder? Odysseus, grandson of an infamous shape-shifting thief, great grandson of the trickster thief-god Hermes. More than clever enough that he must have known all her father would give up to keep her close. Did she think it all a ploy to get what he truly wanted?

But no. No, cunning Odysseus, clever Odysseus, loyal Odysseus, he wanted none of those things. His father had only him as son, Ithaca without him would be left abandoned. He was a trickster, but he was steadfast in his devotions. He would not be swayed from his duties to his kingdom.

But he hadn’t made that choice for her, either. Even though he could, even though as her husband it was his right to carry her away with him across the sea. He did not take that choice, but turned and gave it to her instead.

He would return to Ithaca, but he would not force her to come with him. He would not steak her from the place her heart lie. If she wanted to stay in Sparta, with her father, he would return her to her father's home, would bear her no grief or ill will, only the consideration of her choice.

How could she not love him then? How could she not love his clever mind and loyal heart and the respect he gave her that no other man living or dead - her father included - would ever had even considered granting her even a portion of?

She left with Odysseus that day. She made her choice. And these men that roamed the halls of her palace like jackals and snakes, would not take that from her.

She would sit behind the axes.

[oddyseye]

Can we get something straight here about Penelope and this whole “Spartan” thing?

Sure, we all know Penelope was from Sparta (well, technically), and we’ve all seen enough 300-inspired pop culture nonsense to think that every Spartan woman must be some spear-wielding, leather-clad, muscle-bound badass. So let’s clear that up once and for all: Penelope was absolutely not that type of Spartan. In fact, that vision of Spartan women is more of a modern fantasy than an actual reflection of Spartan society, and Penelope herself would probably laugh in your face if you tried to pin her down to that archetype.

First off, let’s talk about what it actually meant to be Spartan. Yes, Spartan women had a reputation for being strong, but we need to understand that strength wasn’t defined by throwing a spear or taking down enemies with a shield. Spartan women were celebrated for their physical health and were tasked with producing strong offspring to build the next generation of warriors. They were also responsible for the running of the household when their husbands were off fighting in wars, which meant managing estates, controlling property, and overseeing the everyday operations of Spartan life. So, while Spartan women were not helpless, they weren’t exactly wandering around with weapons, challenging every person who crossed them, either. Penelope’s version of Spartan strength was a little more intellectual, shall we say. For twenty years, while Odysseus was “getting lost” (as one does), Penelope faced down a horde of suitors who were camped out in her house, constantly pressuring her to choose a new husband. Did she pull out a spear and kill them all? No. That’s not what spartan women did. Did she start a war? Absolutely not. Instead, she employed the ultimate weapon: patience. She weaved and un-wove a shroud for years as a stalling tactic, keeping the suitors at bay. Sure, there’s no sword involved, but let’s be real: that takes more cunning than any weapon ever could. Spartan women are not known for fighting, but for surviving.

Penelope’s Spartan roots may have given her the ability to endure, to manage her household, and to outsmart the suitors who had overrun Ithaca, but we’re missing the point if we think that means she was out there battling it out like a heroine from some action flick. Her version of strength was mental, not physical. Instead of wielding a spear, Penelope wielded her intellect, her wit, and her ability to play the long game. If you’re expecting Penelope to start slaying suitors left and right, or charging into battle with a sword in hand, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.

Pop culture would love to turn Penelope into a spear-wielding warrior queen, but the actual historical context is far more subtle and far more impressive. She was Spartan in the most meaningful sense of the word: resilient, strategic, and damn clever. Penelope did not need muscles at all. She had the power of endurance — something a spear can’t give you.

[bookwyrm-art-stuff]

Odypen at a party:

Odysseus: Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Odysseus and this is my wife, Penelope, the queen of Ithaca. She's really smart, really brave, really clever and really strong, she held down the kingdom for twenty years without me and we have a wonderful son named Telemachus-

Penelope, cutting him off: Sorry, what my husband meant to say is that I'm Penelope and he's Odysseus, king of Ithaca. He's the favorite of Athena, came up with the plan that won the trojan war, and he defeated the cyclops Polyphemus, the witch Circe, Scylla, and many other monsters in his travels. Pleasure to be meeting you, what's your name?

Odysseus, mumbling: I should have thought of putting your name first

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Odysseus all places he would fuck when 🙏🙏/silly

A/n: Me vibrating with excitement because I have been waiting for this.

Odysseus’ Favorite Places He and His Wife Have Had Sex

(Because Even the Cunning King of Ithaca Has Weaknesses… and His Wife Is the Greatest of Them All.)

From the moment Odysseus took you as his wife, you knew patience would be required. He was a man of sharp wit, endless charm, and the kind of arrogance that came naturally to someone favored by the gods.

But beneath all of that?

He was devoted. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

To Ithaca. To his people.

And most of all—to you.

And gods help him, he could never keep his hands off you.

1. Your Wedding Night – The First Time He Claimed You As His Own

Odysseus had never believed in fate.

He had always believed in cleverness, in shaping his own destiny, in finding the path no one else could see.

But then he met you.

And suddenly, fate didn’t seem so ridiculous after all.

On the night of your wedding, after the celebration had faded, after the guests had drunk themselves into contented sleep, he had taken your hand and led you to his chambers.

And for the first time—Odysseus, the man who always had a plan, had no idea what he was doing.

Not when it came to you.

Because you were different.

You were his.

And as he undressed you—slowly, reverently, as if he were unwrapping the most sacred of treasures—he realized he had never wanted anything more in his life.

The first time he made love to you, it was slow. Deep. A vow in the form of touch.

Your fingers had tangled in his hair, your breaths had mingled between kisses, and the moment you gasped his name—he was gone.

Gone for you. Gone forever.

And in that moment, he knew—

No matter what war, what storm, what trial the gods threw at him… he would always find his way back to you.

2. The Olive Grove – Where He Learned to Worship You With More Than Words

Odysseus was not a simple man.

But his love for you?

That was simple.

It was in the way he reached for you without thinking. The way he let his fingers drift along your skin, even in the presence of others. The way he always returned to your arms after a long day, as if the weight of ruling Ithaca meant nothing once he was touching you.

And sometimes, his love for you turned into something he could not control.

Like the evening he found you walking alone in the olive groves, your hands skimming the silver-green leaves, your dress flowing around you like some kind of divine vision.

You had turned to him with a teasing smile, eyes full of mischief.

“Are you following me, my love?”

Odysseus had not even bothered to deny it.

You had expected a witty remark. A playful response.

Instead, he had kissed you.

Hard.

You had barely had a moment to gasp before he pressed you against the trunk of an ancient olive tree, his lips tracing the line of your throat, his hands pushing aside the soft fabric of your gown.

“We shouldn’t,” you had whispered breathlessly, but your arms had already wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

Odysseus had laughed against your skin.

“You knew what would happen the moment you smiled at me like that.”

And then he had worshiped you, right there, beneath the trees that had stood for centuries.

The gods had surely been watching.

And Odysseus hadn’t cared, because feeling you come undone by a few thrusts was everything.

3. The Palace Balcony – When He Needed to Prove You Were Still His

Odysseus was not a jealous man.

But he was possessive.

You were his. His wife. His queen. His breath and his heart and his home.

So when a visiting noble looked at you too long, let his compliments drip too sweetly into conversation—

Odysseus had remained calm.

Outwardly.

But later that night, as he pulled you onto the stone balcony that overlooked the sea, his hands gripping your waist with something close to desperation, you had known.

He needed to remind you.

Remind himself.

That you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you.

His kisses had been rougher that night, his hands pulling at your clothes with less patience than usual.

And when he took you—pushed against the balcony railing, the night wind cool against your fevered skin, his name gasped between your parted lips.

He made sure you felt him everywhere.

Made sure you knew that no man could ever touch you the way he did.

The sea had stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs.

But all he had cared about was you.

4. The Battlefield Tent – The Night Before War Took Him Away

War had always been Odysseus’ curse.

He had never wanted it. Never craved it the way Ares did.

But it had come for him anyway.

And the night before he sailed to Troy, before ten years of war would steal him away from you, he had needed you.

Needed to remember the way you felt beneath him, the way your body fit against his, the way you whispered his name like it was both a prayer and a command.

So that night, in the privacy of his tent, with only the flickering oil lamps casting shadows against the canvas—

Odysseus had made love to you like a dying man reaching for his final taste of paradise.

And when it was over, when your fingers traced the muscles of his back, when your lips pressed against his shoulder in silent understanding, he had promised—

“I will return to you.”

Because no war, no gods, no storm could keep him from you.

And he had kept that promise.

Even if it had taken him twenty years to do it.

And his favorite Places you two have had sex after his return home.

(Because After Twenty Years, the King of Ithaca Had A Lot of Time to Make Up For.)

Odysseus had dreamed of this.

For twenty long years.

Through war, through storms, through gods and monsters—he had clung to the memory of you.

But memories had never been enough.

Not when he had spent nights reaching for you, only to find empty air.

Not when he had whispered your name into the wind, hoping the gods would carry it back to you.

But now?

Now, he was home.

And he was never letting you go again.

1. The Marriage Bed – Where He Needed You First

He had built this bed.

With his own hands. With his own sweat. A piece of himself woven into every fiber of it.

And for twenty years, it had remained untouched.

Just as you had.

So it was only fitting that the first place he took you again was the same place he had last held you.

That night, it was slow.

It was gentle.

Not because he did not burn for you, but because he needed to savor it.

Needed to map your body with his hands, his lips, his breath, relearning every curve, every sound, every way you responded to him.

Needed to feel you, flesh and warmth and devotion, to remind himself that this was real.

That he was real.

That he had made it back to you.

You had gasped his name between kisses. Had tangled your fingers into his hair, pulled him closer, as if afraid he would vanish again.

He had whispered promises against your skin—ones that had no need for words.

And when you had come undone beneath him, when your breath had hitched and your body had trembled

He had followed, his hands gripping your waist, his forehead pressing against yours as if grounding himself in the very thing he had fought for.

You.

Always you.

He may have been covered in blood but that did not matter to you because your husband was home.

2. The Throne Room – Where He Took You as His Queen

The suitors were dead.

Their blood had been washed away. Their bodies dragged from the palace.

And yet—Odysseus still felt their presence.

Still felt their lingering trespass in his home, in the halls that had belonged to him and him alone.

Most of all, they had dared to exist near you.

And that?

That, he could not abide.

So as you stood in the throne room that evening, watching the last traces of war fade from your home, he came to you.

“You are mine,” he murmured against your ear, voice dark, rough, full of something deep and primal.

You shivered beneath his touch, but you did not stop him.

Because you understood.

Odysseus had reclaimed his throne. Now, he needed to reclaim you.

There, against the very seat of his power—he pressed you against the throne and took you as his queen.

It was not gentle.

It was not patient.

It was desperate, possessive, a silent declaration that you belonged to no one else.

That no man—mortal or god—could ever take you from him.

Your nails raked down his back. Your lips bruised against his.

And when he finally collapsed against you, breath ragged, his arms trembling around you—

He knew.

He had conquered many things.

But you would always be his greatest victory.

3. The Shoreline – Where He Marked You Beneath the Stars

The sea had tried to keep him from you.

For ten years, Poseidon had raged, had thrown him to the mercy of the tides, had cursed him with loss after loss.

So Odysseus found it only fitting that he take you beneath the very stars that had guided him home.

You had been walking along the shoreline, barefoot, your dress flowing around you in the wind, looking like something out of a dream.

Odysseus had been watching.

Always watching.

He had waited long enough.

He had come up behind you, his hands sliding along your waist, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

And when you had leaned into him, sighing softly—

That was it.

He had guided you down onto the soft sand, his body covering yours, his mouth sealing away whatever protest you might have given.

And there, beneath the endless sky, with the waves lapping at the shore—

He made love to you.

Your back against the earth, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, keeping you steady as he drove into you.

The rhythm of the ocean matching the rhythm of his thrusts—

The sea could have raged. The gods could have watched.

Slow at first, teasing, making you beg—

And then faster, rougher, until all you could do was cry out his name.

And when it was over, when your bodies were spent, tangled together in the warm sand—

Odysseus didn’t care.

Because for the first time in twenty years, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

With you

He had kissed your forehead, chuckling softly, murmuring, “I should bring you here more often.”

And he had..

4. The Olive Grove – Where He Worshiped You Again

Odysseus had taken you here before.

Years ago, before war and fate had stolen him away, he had pressed you against these very trees, whispered filthy promises against your skin, laughed as he undid you beneath the cover of green leaves.

It was only fair that he do it again.

Only this time—it was different.

Because now, there was no guarantee of tomorrow.

Now, he knew what it was to lose you.

So when he took you there again, it was reverent.

It was not rushed.

It was Odysseus, pressing worship into your skin, hands memorizing every inch of you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

He had groaned your name against your throat, had kissed you until your knees buckled, had held you up as he sank into you, slow and deep and unyielding.

And when you had whispered his name, breathless, undone.

He had answered with a vow.

“I will never leave you again.”

5:The Throne Room (again) Because He Likes to Remind You That He Is King

Odysseus is a man of power, a man of command.

And some nights, he enjoys reminding you exactly who he is.

The first time had been unplanned.

You had been sitting on his throne, draped in his cloak, waiting for him.

When he walked in, his gaze darkened instantly.

“You look far too comfortable there,” he had murmured, stepping closer, his voice rich with heat and something dangerous.

And before you could tease him back, before you could move.

He was on you.

His hands were gripping your thighs, pulling you forward, making you gasp.

His mouth was hot against your neck, against your collarbone, against the swell of your breasts—

And then, he was inside you, pressing you down into the throne, moving deep and unrelenting.

His lips brushed your ear, whispering, ��You may sit upon my throne, but I will always rule you.”

And the moment you moaned at his words, tightening around him, trembling beneath him—

He had growled in approval, claiming you again and again.

Afterward, when you were panting against his chest, your body boneless, your lips swollen, tremors still hitting you.

He had leaned back, smirking. “Perhaps I should let you sit on my throne more often."

6. The Bedchamber – Where He Loved You As a Husband, Not a King

Odysseus was a king.

A warrior. A tactician. A man who had fought against fate and won.

But here, in your arms, he was none of those things.

He was just a man.

Just yours.

This was the last place.

The one that mattered most.

Because here, it was not about reclaiming or proving or marking.

It was just about loving.

And gods, he loved you.

So when he pulled you into his arms that night, pressing you into the softest of linens, tangling himself with you beneath the warm glow of the fire—

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t devour.

Didn’t conquer.

He just loved you.

For every night he had missed.

For every kiss he had been denied.

For every whispered promise he had wanted to give but couldn’t.

And when he finally collapsed beside you, arms still wrapped around you, your heartbeat steady against his chest.

For the first time in twenty years, Odysseus felt at peace.

Because he was finally, finally home.

[celestine-witch]

Your ideas are beautiful and you should share them. I support this wholeheartedly

Someone tell me why I can imagine a full on stage production of epic in my head like perfectly, down to blocking and sets 😭 I have no way of making this real, not that I would until it's completely released anyway but it's consuming me

[taiyouhimerich]

Odysseus first encounter with his future wife🩷

cr by: taiyouhime

tw: just pretty fluff, and only my hcs of this young sweet tooth nightmare (bcz hes so sweet i cant)

YoungKing!Odysseus who has really hard time after he inherited his throne while being very young and obviously so inexperienced in terms of ruling Ithaca even though his father prepared him for this and Athena was still helping him a lot with some of her advice.

YoungKing!Odysseus who keeps being told by all of the councillor that he has to find a proper girl to marry and the future queen of his to rule, and he’s really nervous about it because he’s told every young king in Greece are wooing Helen of Sparta so he’s now full spread ahead to Tyndareus’ kingdom.

YoungKing!Odysseus who has spent several hours at the most boooooring dinner surrounded by all the kings from all over Greece, and he turns out to be the youngest of them all! Like he’s only seventeen and everyone else are at their early twenties at least! And even though he proves himself as mature enough to participate, as great hunter and as cunning dealer, they still call him small and keep dangling his age in front of him!

YoungKing!Odysseus who stomps over the paths through the garden of Tyndareus’ palace into its depths, fuming about another discussion where his, his great and clever words are followed by complementing his intelligence and then goes some “not so bad for youngster” kind of stuff. King of Sparta is not even looking at him while the discussion is about what should be the way of choosing who gets Helen’s hand in marriage, isn’t he worth enough of at least being spoken to only because of his age? He’s the king, he’s a good athlete, he’s intelligent, he’s mature, he’s not worse than any of the other kings, he’s—!

The soft laughter in a distance interrupts his thoughts.

YoungKing!Odysseus who follows the source of this sound just from… curiosity maybe or wanting to leave this nasty feeling behind. He gets to the edge of the garden, reaching a beautiful olive grove. And he sees her, a girl, a very beautiful girl, with her hair done prettily that have wind playing with her locks, surrounded by a group of maids, considering their simple dresses. And then she looks around and meets his eyes and—

Okay. Maybe he’s not mature. Like not at all, because he can tell his face is blushing and his knees are trembling and he feels so little right now because she waves at him with this pretty smile and his heart is beating harder then after training Athena gives him and, and—

He can’t remember what was in between this and him standing in his room at palace of Sparta. YoungKing!Odysseus feels so stupid and weak while he keeps banging his head against his door because heaven strike him he just ran away! He just saw the prettiest girl in his life smiling at him and it was enough to make him flee like a coward!

He used to make fun of Eurylochus’ feelings for his sister, finding it absolutely silly how a strong, hard, bulky warrior can fall in love with a princess at one sight, but now, now YoungKing!Odysseus is sorry for all those words and wants to take all of them back because otherwise he is now blushing like a maiden caught bathing just over some kind of pretty girl who just hardly looked at him once as well….

YoungKing!Odysseus, who gets to embarrass himself even more when she and her father Icarius are attending the next dinner with other kings almost accidentally, and she recognises him and she waves at him again and he can swear she’s giggling and he just wants to run away again and—

But then she leans to Tyndareus to kiss his cheek and says goodbye to her dear uncle, and this is how it hits YoungKing!Odysseus. That she’s a princess and she’s suitable for the councillors of Ithaca to accept her as their future queen and most of all.

He now knows he wants to marry only her.

i gonna make several parts of this im still giggling hehehhee

[girltriestowritestuff]

Royal Arrangements, Chapter 1

Telemachus x Reader

“She’s not here for romance. He’s not ready for a crown. But fate has other plans.” When your mother announces your engagement to Telemachus—yes, that Telemachus, son of Odysseus—you expect politics, not apologies. But the prince turns out to be more awkward than arrogant, more kind than kingly. And you? Well, you're not exactly the swooning type.

an-thank you to @thatoneguythatwatchesgayporn for this idea! Hope you like it.

You could immediately tell something was going on when your mother asked to speak with you. Privately.

You’d had “talks” before, usually about responsibilities or etiquette or who you were accidentally offending at court this time. But this one felt different—heavier somehow. You felt it in her voice, in the way she wouldn’t quite meet your eyes when she asked.

Still, you followed her down the corridor. What else could you do?

You walked into her room, where she was already seated neatly on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap like she had to physically restrain herself from fussing with her skirts. She looked like she was rehearsing something. You didn’t sit down yet.

"There's been some news from Ithaca," she said, her voice gentle, almost too gentle.

That was the first red flag.

You narrowed your eyes a little. “Should I be alarmed or surprised?”

“That depends,” she said, pausing like she wasn’t sure how much to say. “How do you feel about marriage?”

You blinked. “That’s… a leap.”

But she didn’t answer.

You crossed your arms, a defense more than a gesture. “Is it being forced on me because someone actually wants me, or is this a politics thing?”

She gave you a familiar look—part fond, part tired, part amused despite herself. “Don’t be clever.”

“Too late.”

She sighed, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. “My love, I know you don’t want to marry—”

“To whom,” you interrupted, “and it’s fine, Mom.”

It wasn’t fine. You were not “fine.” But you’d learned long ago that saying so didn’t change much. And she looked like she didn’t want to do this either.

Your mother hesitated, the way she did when she was about to say something that might shatter whatever peace you had left. She looked at you with something like guilt in her eyes.

“To Telemachus,” she said at last. “Son of Odysseus.”

You blinked. “As in Ithaca Telemachus?”

She nodded.

You let out a breath through your nose and ran a hand down your face. “Of all the names you could’ve said, that one’s… bold.”

“He needs legitimacy,” she explained softly. “The suitors are circling like vultures. Penelope can’t hold them off much longer. He needs to be king.”

“And I’m supposed to make him one?” you asked, dryly.

“You would make a fine queen,” she replied.

You stayed quiet, chewing on that. Being queen wasn’t the problem. Being a pawn was.

Still, you sat down beside her, letting your weight sink into the mattress. You were nearly twenty, but in that moment, you felt closer to ten—tired, uncertain, needing a mother more than anything else.

“I’m not saying he’s a bad choice,” you said carefully. “I’m saying… I never had a choice.”

Your mother wrapped her arms around you. It wasn’t one of those tight, desperate hugs, but a steady, warm one. Like she was trying to hold everything together just by holding you.

“I know this isn’t the life you imagined,” she said into your hair.

You gave her a small, sad smile. “I stopped imagining a long time ago.”

She squeezed you gently. “I’ve spoken with Penelope,” she said. “She says he’s… kind. Thoughtful. Not rude like you might think.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So, what, he probably reads poetry and apologizes too much?”

Your mother chuckled—real and soft, like it snuck out before she could stop it. “Would that be so bad?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I’ve played these games before. I know how kind eyes can lie.”

She nodded, her expression serious now. “He’s not a game.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I believe in him. And more importantly… Penelope believes in him. That means something.”

You leaned into her shoulder. It was oddly comforting to know that Penelope, a woman known for her patience and wisdom, was vouching for this boy.

Boy. That’s what he was to you. Just a name, a story, a set of expectations dressed in royal robes.

You’d grown up on stories about Odysseus—clever Odysseus, cunning Odysseus, the man who tricked gods and toppled cities. What kind of son would that man raise?

What kind of boy accepts a crown with strings attached?

What kind of prince agrees to marry a stranger?

And what kind of man would he turn out to be?

You didn’t say yes. Not yet. But you didn’t say no either. That was something.

“I don’t want to be the answer to someone else’s problems,” you said, quietly.

“You’re not,” your mother said. “But you might be part of a solution.”

“That's a lot of weight to put on someone who didn’t get to choose.”

“I know,” she said again. “But sometimes, the only power we have is how we carry what’s given to us.”

You sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But it didn’t make it easier.

Still, part of you—the part that had grown cautious but not yet completely bitter—was curious.

Curious about a boy raised in a broken kingdom. A boy trying to become a king in the shadow of legends. A boy who might be just as trapped as you.

Maybe he was more than a name.

Maybe you were more than a tool.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of your story, but a strange, unexpected beginning.

[primrosechronicles]

"For the Queen: Prologue"

Credits to @diviniyae and @graphic-cest for the dividers

A Epic the Musical Telemachus x Sorcerer!Reader

Summary: After multiple restless nights plagued by the laughter of his mother’s unwelcome suitors, Prince Telemachus finds himself lost in the depths of the enchanted forest... Warnings: Mild Violence, the suitors Word Count: 1477

Next

He walked along the rocky path, the moon illuminating his way as the sound of crinkling leaves reached his ears. He stopped with a sigh and slumped against a tree.

He needed a break from those… suitors, their boisterous laughter overflowing throughout the castle. No matter how many sheep he counted or pillows he piled atop his head, he could still hear their chortling. 

Suddenly, he heard the howls of wolves, followed by the sound of their approaching footsteps. He sprinted as fast as he could, not knowing that he was driving himself deeper into the woods. Glancing over his shoulder to see if the wolves were still behind him, he failed to see where he was going, his foot struck something, and with a crash, he knocked over a jar of water.

"Hey! My water!" a voice shouted.

Telemachus turned to see a broken bowl, the water spilling onto the dirt. From the doorway, an annoyed sorcerer popped their head out, eyes narrowing at the mess.

"My apologies, I did not watch where I was going." he blurted, scrambling to piece the bowl back together.

The mage watched him, amused by how this clumsy man was. "Don’t bother," they said. "I’ve been meaning to replace that bowl anyway."

Crossing their arms, they gave him a curious look. "Why are you here, anyway? This part of the woods isn’t safe.".

He sighed, the very thought of them made him wanna vomit “I was taking a walk… the intruders… inside my house were too loud, I couldn't sleep.”

You open the door to your house and invite him to  “Come Inside, Prince Telemachus.”

“How.. Do you know my name…?” the prince says while parting the beaded Curtains.

You point outside the window “It's because the surrounding trees within 2 kilometers of my house have a spell cast on them.”

You guide him towards one of your work tables, on it a black piece of paper, then snap your fingers, then suddenly a paper with a symbol materializes before his eyes. “This sigil is a hybrid between a protection and illusion spell, it helps my house stay hidden from unwanted visitors.”

“Unwanted visitors? But how was I able to enter?” Asks the prince.

You sigh as you think back to the past souls who came to you for aid. “Before I moved into the forests near Ithaca, I was in another area, my spells and magic became known to the town and I was sought after for favors… “ you wince. “Most of them for very bad reasons.”

You turn to the prince “The reason why you got in is because you either have good intentions or… you simply got lost, one of the two, the spell makes the forest twist itself to keep bad people out and lost.”

“That's quite clever, does the forest possess a mind of its own?”  

You think about it for a second “No, it's linked to me in a way that I…I can’t seem to describe…..”  

After some time in conversation, you look out the window and you see the sky is in hues of deep violet and gold. “Night is approaching.” you offer your hand to the prince “allow me to accompany you back to the city, Prince.”

The Prince looks at your hand, then softly moves it back into your chest. “Do tell me, precisely, why it is necessary for me to hold onto your hand. Can't you simply walk in front of me and I follow close behind?” 

“It isn't as simple as that..” 

As the prince strides toward the forest, a root suddenly sprouts from the ground, catching his foot and sending him tumbling forward.  

He quickly pushes himself up, brushing the dirt from his clothes before turning to face the forest, his expression somewhere between surprised and kind of.. offended. “Is it a magical rule? Will I be trapped here if I refuse?”  

“No!” You huff. “It’s just… the forest doesn’t really trust people on their own. If you go in without me, it might—”  

“Ohhh,” he interrupts, smirking. “So you want  to hold my hand.”  

You sputter. “Also No! I—”  

He chuckles. “You must know that I merely jest with you.” Then, before you can argue, he reaches out and takes your hand, fingers warm against yours. He gives it a light squeeze. “There, lead the way sorcerer.”

You walk forward, pulling the Prince along as you do. The Forest's carefully threaded spell unravels just a bit as the fauna and rocks shift to clear a path for the both of you.

The suitors have gotten bolder, more loud in their threats, It scared him. Telemachus sits at the foot of the entrance to his mothers room. Telemachus sits, gripping a sword in one hand and a shield on the other.

Their actions have made him paranoid that the suitors might break into his mother’s room while she is… vulnerable. While the Queen’s chambers are heavily guarded, and he does not doubt the abilities of those Guards… he cannot shake the chilling feeling of unease.

The Queen pushes the door to her chambers but it gets caught against.. Something solid.. And it’s preventing her from not letting the doors completely open.

She peeks her head around the door and sees her son sleeping on the floor with a sword and shield on his person.

The Queen, Penelope, kneels down beside her son and gently shakes him awake. The prince stirs and his eyes open lazily. “Mother..?”

She chuckles at the sight of her son's bed head… or rather in this case a ‘floor-head’

“Yes, it's me Telemachus.. but why are you sleeping on the ground?” Her hand gently caresses  Telemachus' soft cheek. “And your eyelids.. They are quite swollen, did you cry last night?”

He tensed up “Mother… To tell you the truth, I fear for your safety; The thought of the suitors causing you harm.. Cheats me of my rest.” 

“My son, I appreciate you being concerned for my safety.. But what more can you do? When your father left he entrusted multiple guards with the duty of protecting both you and me."

Telemachus looks away, doubt fills his soul, unconvinced by his mother’s words.

The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks fills his ears as he gazes up at the ceiling, his Mother’s words occupying his head.

He knows that his mother is correct in assuming she is safe, even the guards that protected him ensured that he was secure; But he can’t help but dwell on it.

His mind drifts to you, and soon, an idea began to take shape.

Telemachus walks through the forest with his wish in mind. The forest may be dense but the path feels strangely effortless, as it's like the forest…knows his purpose and welcomes his presence. 

He is filled with amazement as he sees the forest’s spell in action. He sees the trees reposition its roots, the rocks glide aside, and vines slither away to clear a path for him. As the final trees part, his breath catches in his throat; at the sight of you.

Under the shade of a large tree, you sit there sipping your drink. You set your cup down and gesture to the seat before you and as if expecting his presence today; a second cup waits for him. 

He takes the seat in front of you, taking a slow sip at his drink. A odd, but not uncomfortable tension fills the air.

“You mustn't place the security of your mother in the hands of my magic.” 

His head snaps up, his eyebrows furrowing “Why not? Your house is protected by this..” He wildly gestures around him “..protection spell!”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn't trust me, this protective barrier has many flaws; please ask for another sorcerer to do it.” Looking away from him, you drink your beverage.

“Sorcerers are difficult to find, let alone hire!” Suddenly he stood up and seizes your hand, effectively knocking your cup out of your hand shattering it into pieces. He kneels before you begging “Please… protect my mother… grace her with your protection… I will do anything.”

You sigh “...Get up Prince, you have no business kneeling for someone like me.” He gets on his feet, his pleading eyes locking with yours.

“Very well, I shall do whatever I can to make a protection spell for your mother.”

“Thank you! Thank you… my mother means so much to me I cannot thank you enough–”

“Under one condition.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, silencing him with your gaze. “Anything regarding the spell, be it materials, herbs, or otherwise; you will provide them.”

Without warning, he pulls your hand and pulls you into a hug; his face buried in the crook of your neck, his tears staining your clothes. “I will do anything you ask.”

A/N: this took me WEEKS to finish how the fuck am I supposed to update consistently help.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: BLOODY BLOODLINE DIVINE WHISPERS: Bloody Bloodline | divine whispers: bloody bloodline⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The sun was still high in the sky as Andreia reclined upon the chaise lounge on her private balcony, teacup balanced daintily between two fingers.

The air held that strange duality only Ithaca could offer this time of year—late season warmth that clung to the daylight hours like a fading lover, while the creeping chill of oncoming night whispered along the edges.

The breeze wasn't biting just yet, but it carried a quiet warning. Still, Andreia remained seated comfortably, her long seafoam robe draped artfully across her legs, the fabric as silky as her expression.

Her balcony faced the palace courtyard, a clever architectural decision that had proved increasingly useful. From her vantage point, she could observe most of the kingdom's daily rhythm without ever setting foot among it.

She took another slow sip of her rosehip tea, eyes lazily scanning the world below.

The servants moved like ants, small and forgettable—scurrying from wing to wing, some bent beneath baskets of fruit, others sloshing water from buckets they barely seemed strong enough to carry.

Her gaze drifted briefly to the training grounds, where several soldiers were sparring, their grunts and the clash of wooden weapons faint against the lull of midafternoon winds.

But it wasn't the servants or the soldiers she focused on when she sat out there.

It was you.

From her elevated perch above the courtyard, Andreia had found the perfect vantage point—not just to enjoy the Ithacan sun, but to watch. To observe. To study.

Lately, she had made a deliberate habit of keeping to herself more often. At least on the surface.

She had taken the queen's polite suggestion of rest to heart, cloaking her moments of silence as grace and reflection. A grieving sister. A dutiful guest. A princess with composure. She wore the role well.

But underneath it all, she was planning. Waiting.

Calculating her next move.

Whenever you flitted about the courtyard below, flanked by servants or brushing shoulders with noblemen, Andreia watched. The way your hair caught the light, the way your skirts moved when you turned too quickly, the way those around you seemed to lighten in your presence.

It irritated her. No—it intrigued her. Which was worse.

There was something about you that demanded attention. Not overtly. Not with arrogance or entitlement.

But with that dangerous, glowing ease.

It made people look. It made people follow.

And Andreia could not have that.

Right now, around her, the air was thick with fragrance—lavender oil and jasmine, mingling in the warm breeze that hadn't yet realized the season had turned.

Though it was nearing the colder months, Ithaca's days still clung to their golden heat, as though stubbornly refusing to give in. Only at night did the truth of the season whisper in your bones. But now, in the soft cradle of the afternoon sun, Andreia lounged like a cat before a hearth.

She sat reclined on a cushioned chaise beneath a silk-draped canopy, her feet extended and resting atop a velvet ottoman. A young man—dark-haired and silent—was crouched at the edge of the lounge, working slow circles into her arches and heels, the tips of his fingers pressing expertly into the delicate curves of her foot.

Two female attendants stood to either side, holding tall banana leaves fashioned into fans. With synchronized grace, they waved them in alternating rhythms, keeping the breeze steady. The rustle of leaves was soft, like whispers in a chapel.

And then there was Dorea.

Seated at Andreia's right on a carved stool, the older handmaiden held her mistress' free hand lightly between her palms. Her fingers massaged slow circles into Andreia's wrist as she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone of news from back home.

"...and I swear on my mother's hair, Lady Myrrhine said that for her birthday, your parents gifted her a new dress that has a gold trim and moonstone inlays—and she didn't even want it." Dorea clicked her tongue against her teeth with exaggerated pity. "Seems like they're still treating her like a walking shrine. It's honestly pathetic."

Andreia didn't laugh—she smirked.

A slow, venomous thing.

"That insufferable little brat," she muttered, bringing the rim of her teacup to her lips. "Lucky her family has ties in the capital or I'd have had her drowned in the bath by now."

The way she said it was so casual, so offhanded, that none of the servants even flinched. If anything, Dorea gave a soft, cooing chuckle, her fingers smoothing up Andreia's forearm like one would a spooked cat.

"She's nothing, my lady. A swollen ego stuffed in a pretty dress," Dorea soothed. "And you're here now. Far from Bronte's nonsense. Far from her."

The others murmured agreement, nodding like silent birds, their expressions serene but sharpened by years of complicity.

Andreia leaned deeper into her cushions, her forest-green eyes scanning the courtyard again—this time more lazily, the dangerous gleam in them now veiled by a practiced calm. "Yes... thank the gods the little thing didn't beg to follow me here like some loyal pet. She always was more obsessed with the attention than the legacy."

She plucked a grape from the bowl beside her, pressing it between her lips with slow relish.

"Ithaca is cleaner without her noise. And more importantly"—she paused to sip her tea—"it gives me all the space I need to do what I've been meaning to for years."

Dorea's hand stilled just briefly against hers. "Which is, my lady?"

Andreia smiled.

But it was not sweet. Not warm. Not coy.

It was cold, and quiet, and certain.

"To take my rightful place," she said, sipping her tea again as though they were discussing curtain colors. "And if anyone stands in my way..."

Her eyes flicked down to the courtyard, to that damned cypress tree you always seem to sit underneath, her nails tapping against the porcelain cup before she setting it gently aside.

"...they'll learn the cost of crossing someone raised to survive Bronte."

Andreia's lips had just curled around the rim of her teacup again when one of the girls holding a palm fan—Tylissa, the taller one—shifted uneasily and tilted her head toward the courtyard.

"My lady," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even but still hesitating, "I believe... the royal family is approaching."

Andreia hummed in vague acknowledgment, not bothering to glance up from her cup.

Tylissa added carefully, "The Divine Liaison is with them."

That made Andreia pause.

Her eyes—sharp and glinting like wet stone—lifted slowly, flicking toward the courtyard's distant path. Her pupils narrowed like a cat's.

There you were.

She didn't blink.

Penelope was gliding gracefully beside her husband, as always, posture straight but easy. Odysseus walked beside her, one arm casually draped behind her back. And flanking the queen—of course—was you.

Not trailing behind.

Not clinging meekly to the edges.

No.

You walked just a step behind Telemachus, who kept glancing over his shoulder to speak to you every few paces, his voice light, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

But it was you she focused on.

You wore your clothes differently than when she'd first arrived. They clung better now. Held shape. Your posture had changed, too—shoulders straighter, chin raised just a bit higher, like someone who'd finally realized the weight of all the eyes watching them... and started enjoying it.

And then there was the beast.

Lady.

Trotting like some smug little hound right between you and Queen Penelope—her sleek dark fur catching the light like obsidian, her white bow bobbing with each regal step. The damn thing even looked proud of herself.

Andreia set her teacup down with a clink.

"Look at her," she muttered, lips curling just enough to bare her teeth. "Strutting around like she belongs beside a queen. With that beast wedged between them like she's earned its loyalty instead of stumbling into it like a blind fool."

Her servants didn't respond. Not aloud. But Dorea's grip on her hand paused for half a breath.

Andreia didn't notice.

Her gaze never left the path.

You were laughing now—at something Penelope said, maybe. Even from this distance, Andreia could tell you weren't faking it. It wasn't polite or performative. It was light. Giddy.

It was natural.

And it burned.

Andreia reclined further into the cushioned chair, one hand reaching down lazily to stroke the head of the servant still kneeling at her feet. Her voice dropped, like a slow knife sliding from its sheath.

"She may have their smiles now," she murmured, almost more to herself than anyone else, "but smiles are easy things. Cheap."

Andreia didn't take her eyes off the courtyard. Not even when her tea cooled or the breeze picked up, tugging gently at the sheer veil tied to her braid. Her gaze was fixed, razor-sharp as it trailed the path you walked—closer to the king now, your steps quickening to match his.

Telemachus, naturally, fell right into pace beside you. As always.

And though you couldn't see him from where she sat, Andreia could still feel the way his attention lingered on you—softer than it ever was with her. So gentle it made her stomach twist.

The prince of Ithaca—the son of Odysseus, the heir of legends—looked at you like you'd hung the stars he spent his nights stargazing under. Even from the balcony, even with the space between them, Andreia could recognize that kind of gaze. She'd seen it before.

But never for her.

Her grip on the glass of watered wine tightened, fingers whitening against the stem until the vessel gave a small, warning creak. Her eyes narrowed.

"First," she muttered bitterly, "I destroy that... scrap of a lyre. And then—somehow—she go from a weepy little thing to being blessed."

She said the word like it soured on her tongue.

You'd left that courtyard in tears—she remembered it well. Watched from the shadows as you'd knelt beside the broken thing like it was a body. Watched how your fingers trembled. Watched how you hadn't even looked back at her.

And then, days later—

"Oh, now," she hissed softly, her voice laced with venom, "now she's a divine liaison."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "A servant made into a symbol of divine favor. How quaint."

She knew how Ithaca used to be. The old rules. She'd studied the politics before ever stepping foot in the palace. She knew that once upon a time—even just a few years ago—it would've been unthinkable to have a servant at a prince's side. Unseemly. Unfit. Undignified.

But now?

Now you were being escorted with them. Eating beside them. Whispering to the queen like a confidant. Walking alongside Telemachus as if you belonged there.

You weren't just being smiled at or indulged or given scraps of favor. No.

You were blessed.

Andreia's jaw tensed.

Two divine relics—two. Not one, not a whisper of favor, but the type of offerings that carved myths. That wrote them.

The Askálion was already proof enough. Its presence beside you, that silent, ever-watchful beast, was loud in the quietest of ways.

Andreia didn't need to ask where it had come from. No hunter in Ithaca could've caught it. No breeder could have tamed it. She knew the stories—had studied them, remembered them whispered in Bronte during firelit nights like warnings cloaked in wonder.

But it was the lyre that had sealed it for her.

She'd known the moment she heard it. Not when she saw it, no—that would've been too easy. Its newness, its craftsmanship, its divine sheen—all of that could've been explained away. But when you first played it during the festival, when the notes poured from your fingertips like sunlight spun into sound, Andreia had nearly dropped her goblet.

Because she'd heard it before.

In Bronte's oldest myths—ones not sung at court but kept by the temple scribes and old-world bards—there was mention of Aurelián, the lyre of Apollo's choosing.

Not of his making. No, even the gods, it said, didn't forge Aurelián. It was found, not made—plucked from the wreckage of a star that fell into the sea during the first age of man. Its frame was carved from celestial driftwood, its strings spun from golden light and bound with the breath of the Muses that could make Titans weep.

And now it was in your arms.

It wasn't coincidence. It can't be.

Andreia's  gaze followed your figure, every movement grating against her composure like a poorly strung harp.

"A beast of protection.., an instrument blessed by sunlight... and now divine title to tie it all together."

Her nails tapped rhythmically against her teacup, the sound sharper than necessary.

"As if she's caught the eye of the sun god himself."

The way she spat Apollo's name—sun god—was not with reverence, but something else. Something more bitter. More dangerous.

Her gaze flicked back toward you.

You were laughing again.

The prince was looking at you.

The queen was smiling at you.

And far above, the sky was mercilessly blue.

The other girl fanning her—a girl named Cyra—shifted where she stood, hesitating before speaking. "She doesn't stand a chance, my lady," she said gently, her voice soft and meant to soothe. "You're royalty. A true-born princess of Bronte. She's nothing but a handmaiden who got lucky—"

"Don't," Andreia snapped, her voice like flint striking stone. Cyra flinched, her fanning hand pausing mid-air.

Andreia sat forward in her chair, the movement fluid, deliberate, like a blade unsheathed.

"Don't compare that servant's luck to my bloodline," she spat, venom thick beneath her words. "And don't dare speak to me about titles as if they mean anything." Her eyes flashed as she stood abruptly, the cup in her hand trembling slightly in a stoking rage.

"She's lucky?" Andreia laughed, hollow and biting. "Tell me, where did luck get my brother? Andros—thirdborn, male, the beloved, spoiled, son of Bronte. He had one job. One. Woo the grieving queen, secure her hand, take her place, and the throne follows. But what does he do instead?" Her lip curled, nostrils flaring. "He squanders it. Fumbles the plan. Spends half the time simpering and the rest chasing skirts. All so I could come clean up the mess."

The handmaidens remained silent, knowing better than to speak again.

Andreia's free hand clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the fabric of her gown. "It was supposed to be simple. Penelope becomes queen-consort of Bronte, I secure a path to Telemachus, and the line is sealed. She's out of the way. I become Ithaca's queen by proxy. And instead?" Her voice dropped into a growl. "I'm still dancing on the edges. Still waiting."

The next words slipped from her like poison:

"I'm so far down the line of inheritance, I don't even make the list. After Andros had died in that stupid ambush, my parents didn't mourn—they replace him with one of my other brothers. And me? I was never considered. Not once. Not even a footnote in the line of succession."

She turned sharply, her gaze sweeping the balcony railing as if she could see the bloodlines etched into the stone.

"And now my 'destiny,'" she sneered, voice dripping with disdain, "is to be matched to some middle-aged, balding noble from a border province so my parents can tie another useless alliance. A woman with beauty and wit should command rooms. Should have her pick of kings." Her voice broke just slightly—too soft for anyone but the wind to catch. "But I'll be wasted."

Andreia's nails bit into the delicate rim of her cup, the porcelain groaning beneath the strain. Her eyes tracked the group below as you rounded the bend, Lady trotting obediently at your heel. The queen's hand hovered close to your back, a gesture of quiet intimacy, while Telemachus leaned ever so slightly toward you, his shoulder brushing yours like it had done it a thousand times before.

Andreia's jaw clenched. She didn't blink.

The brightness of the midday sun reflected off your hair, gilding you like something celestial. A low murmur of laughter drifted up as you disappeared beyond the hedges, the sound mingling with birdsong and breeze.

It made her stomach twist.

Her fingers trembled around the teacup, tightening, crushing the stem of the handle like a vice.

"No," she hissed, voice too quiet for the others to hear. "No, I refuse."

Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with something colder. Hungrier.

"I have too much to offer to be forgotten. I was raised to shape kingdoms. Not be handed off to irrelevant barons with brittle spines and aging sons. Not to smile beside some moldy borderland duke until I wither into dust."

She turned her gaze to the horizon beyond the courtyard, where the palace walls ended and the open sea began—glittering like a blade under the sun.

"Let her bask," Andreia muttered, each word edged with venom. "Let her enjoy their smiles. Their attention. Their favor."

Then, quieter—like a promise: "I'll take more than smiles when I strike."

With a sharp crack, the porcelain finally gave. Her teacup split in her hand, shards falling in quiet, deadly pieces onto her lap and the stone floor. A droplet of blood welled at the tip of her thumb, bright against her pale skin, but she didn't flinch.

She simply smiled—thin and cold.

"Even fools know never to sail through Scylla twice," she said softly, the old Bronte saying tasting like ash on her tongue. "Gods be damned if I let her become my Charybdis."

And with that, she swept the blood from her thumb, letting it smear like war paint across her lips.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 35 ┃ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 ; the long awaited pov you all have been waiting for; hope you enjoy a peek into our fav pyscho's mind ❤️

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[rskket]

agape

agape (αγάπη) — an ancient greek word for “love”, spec. selfless, unconditional love that transcends circumstance

odydio drabble, bittersweet ending, edited

word count: 1594

Contempt. Rage. Hatred. He laid these sentiments against his comrade, comparing them, trying to conclude which fit most perfectly. Not one of them lined up, did not connect, and failed to decipher the puzzle. The birth of such a child would generate mystification, a mystery that would shield the truth of its creator, never to be revealed through regular means: a clever veil tied taut with wire. 

 Repulsion. Heartache. Perhaps envy. Did a word exist to describe this labyrinthine man? A feeling or ambience? It was a fruitless endeavour. He would not live to hear of a solution. He doubted the man himself would, either. 

Fervour. Adoration. Lust. Hate and love are so close; the line between them is narrow and penetrable. It is impossible to distinguish one from the other. It is a struggle many relationships face: Aphrodite’s very being destroys marriages and births new ones, displacing joy and sorrow as blithely as her son aims it. Complicated emotions, best equipped for this man, yet it does not feel correct. None of it does. 

“Is there something you wish to say?” His words break through. The flimsy facade shatters as easily as pottery under the impact of his words. Before him sits a man who wears everything on his sleeve: complacent and selfless and cruel. The mystery in question falls apart at this sight, and Diomedes wonders why he would ever doubt his nature—as a naïve one would. 

He scoffs, swipes an undisturbed goblet of wine. The liquid splashes against the table and stains the smooth wood blood-red. The man gazes at him with an inviting quirk of the lips, urging a reply in that alluring manner Diomedes despises. It pulls him in, makes him curious for more, has a stronger effect than any siren song. He is helpless. 

“What makes you think that?” he retorts airily. He has to avert his eyes from the stone walls and tapestries, taking in their intricate form and craft. He knows the king’s own hands built this palace; it is clear in the scrupulous detail and care in each brick, placed lovingly by a ruler’s rough hands. The tapestries are the work of delicate handmaidens and serfs, perhaps even the queen’s elegant touch. It is a palace befitting generations upon generations of kings. Diomedes admires, not envies. 

Odysseus shifts and adjusts his position. He places his face directly into Diomedes’ line of sight, and he leans in closer, in contempt of his previous attempt at escape. The latter pretends not to see him. 

“My dear friend,” Odysseus hummed, and Diomedes knew Odysseus had caught him. The snare is so cleverly placed that he cannot help but stumble upon it. It keeps him wrapped around the king of Ithaca’s fingers, like a witch’s curse. “I know you best; that look on your face is irregular.” 

The accusation embarrasses him. “I’ve no clue what you mean.” 

Knowing victory, Odysseus resigns. He backs away from the other, granting him but a moment’s worth of illusioned mercy. The smug look on his face never fades—it’s the look of a man who exploits his companions for sport, a man to be feared, a man who will know you better than you will ever know yourself. Diomedes’ emotions are his expertise: he knows where to strike and when, and he can strum his own tune out of another’s strings. Yet Diomedes wonders if his cunning was ever that profound, or if he just wills it so out of egotism. 

“You’ve been staring at me,” Odysseus observes. “You think I don’t notice it, but I do.” 

“I know you notice.” 

This amuses him. “You act like I don’t. You never acknowledge it, you simply turn away and act ignorant.” Diomedes feels a pang of irritation in his heart, right alongside the crippling ache that persists throughout. There is a cruel delicacy in how these two emotions can coexist so discordantly, but when it comes to this man, why would one expect anything less?

“What am I to do,” he says, “when I know you will torment me relentlessly?” 

He laughs—a cold, malignant sound. Diomedes fails to find the humour in any of this. His heart is being squeezed tightly, his iron grip unyielding; the sharpest sparks of flame empowering his fingers, scorching him, disintegrating any semblance of depth he might contain. And yet he sits so calmly, unbothered, seemingly oblivious to the agony he causes solely by existing. 

“Relentlessly?” Odysseus echoes. “No; I fear I don’t have that in me.” He exhibits innocence as if it’s natural to him, but Diomedes knows him far too well. He notes how the man fails to cast doubt on the word ‘torment.’

He scoffs. A substantial amount of concentrated effort is required to keep him from stabbing a meat knife into Odysseus’ heart, to allow him to feel the pain Diomedes suffers tirelessly in his presence. Instead, he stabs the knife into the boar laid neatly on his plate, slicing with excessive force. He has little desire to eat any more, but it’s the best escape he has from Odysseus’ penetrating stare. 

“Though,” Odysseus begins with that accusative and perceptive lilt in his voice, “I doubt you mind as much as you seem to.”

Diomedes coughs, a chunk of meat caught in his throat. He reaches for a goblet of wine, but trifling Odysseus snatches the cup before he can. He must relish in this suffering—the suffering he caused. The Argive king shoots him a glare through a sheen of tears. 

“Am I right?” He pushes the goblet even farther from his reach. Torment was a well-chosen word for the game he plays, a constricting and sadistic sport. “Your reaction tells me I’m right.” 

���Odysseus.” It comes out as a rasp. 

“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me that you like the torment—my torment. Say it.”

“I hate it,” Diomedes coughs. His own spit is struggling to push the food down, screaming for assistance. He slightly hopes he dies. “I hate you.”

The goblet of wine is brought to his lips by a calloused hand. He more than allows the intrusion. The cup is tilted a little, aggravating and impossibly far, permitting only a small stream of wine to soothe his throat. He could snatch the goblet out of Odysseus’ impossibly nimble hands, but something prevents him from doing so. There is something so enticing about the act; how Odysseus’ smile greets him over the cup, a hand placed carefully at his jaw to aid the precision of his hold. He slowly forgets about the increasing threat of death by choking as the smooth red liquid finally forces the meat from his throat. Their proximity, once seemed unreachable, barely contained. Diomedes cannot breathe, no longer because of the boar; but now because of the arbitrary weight being forced on him. It feels greater than Atlas’ endeavour. Crushing, violent, intensifying. Odysseus draws away. A stream of coloured liquid tumbles out of Diomedes’ mouth at the corner. He hardly notices, or cares, his gaze firmly fixed on the man in front of him. Odysseus’ smile grows, one of humour. With a tender swipe, he cleared the mess from the king’s mouth. The wine coating his thumb is brought to his own lips, as he glibly finishes it off himself. 

A word comes to mind, suddenly. As if everything is clearer, and Pallas Athene herself induces the revelation in him. At a loss, he says: 

“Is this what they call agape?”

Odysseus is taken in a delicious confusion. “What?”

“This feeling.” The man in front of him, not divine, entices him as such. “I am overcome with it. I have not named it, but-” 

“You need not name it.”

Diomedes stops. The revelation that was so close just a moment ago falls from his grip and shatters on the floor, into a million pieces, never to be recovered. He watches as Odysseus grows cold. An illusion, one he so naively fell for. A fool, he is.

“I don’t believe in it.” His smile has faded. Now he appears annoyed, maybe remorseful. Diomedes cannot fathom the switch, will not accept it. 

“You don’t believe in love?”

“Not yours.”

It hurts. The ache returns, stronger and more intense. For a moment, he hoped it would cease. He hoped he would grow comfortable with the feeling so that it no longer bothered him. But evidently, that was foolish. Foolish, he is, and will forever be; as long as he is caught in this web. Impossible. Unattainable. Hopeless. 

Odysseus no longer regards him, does not acknowledge his pain, not even to tease. He knows he has won, and he regrets the victory. Not for his friend’s sake, but for his own, Diomedes knows. A shiver broke their game. 

“It’s growing late,” Odysseus notes. He rises from his seat and snaps the chiton at his shoulder. He’s distancing, placing space between them. But it will not repair what damage has already been done. “Have a maid fix a room for you.” 

He leaves. The elusive Odysseus, a fleeting wonder. Diomedes always hungers for more. It is not enough, the masochistic role he takes. Contrarily, it’s sickening and exhausting and miserable, but it is not enough. It will never be enough, he fears.

Through all this pain emerges a new melody—one he heard sung all his life, but not one he knew: agape. Unconditional, devotional, divine. Agape.

[brainrotcharacters]

"Friends again" is so romantic to me idk

Mind the lyrics referring to Penelope in I Can't Help But Wonder: "There's a girl I've got to see"

It could be that I'm just a sucker for friends to lovers trope. And I am. I haven't even completed Polin. But Odysseus and Penelope first met as a boy and a girl. Odysseus was expected to join the line of suitors for Helen but decided to dupe them all by beelining for Penelope.

Friends, in a world where they're prince and princess of their respective nations and held to particular standards and noble callousness. Friends who married, friends who fell in love, friends who ruled a kingdom of their own, and then the Trojan War haunted their horizon and Penelope must have felt "My best friend is about to leave me". Inversely, Odysseus's heart was breaking too, thinking "I'm about to leave my best friend".

Totally because I'm not listening to Would You Fall In Love With Me Again, but Odysseus and Penelope are both intellectual, cerebral people, yeah? They thrive in battle of wits, of tactics and strategies. Friendship, as an equally strong foundation to a relationship as the olive tree is to their marital bed, can't happen without communication. Which, in turn, can't happen without intellectual conversation. They already have a bond before Odysseus inevitably left for war.

One part in the movie that bothered me (/p) was the way every other character addressed Penelope as "queen". The suitors, especially. It's a title that blinds them. That Penelope allows to blind them, that they can have Ithaca, but they won't have the honor that she and Odysseus integrated upon it. One cannot be without the other, same with them two. Ergo, the suitors wouldn't have much of Ithaca in any way that mattered.

Odysseus, and arguably the only correct depiction of Odysseus, speaks "queen" with its due respect, reverence, and humility. Yes, there's a bias, they're husband and wife, and? A part of Odysseus being clever is recognizing that Penelope is the crown now, if not Penelope and Telemachus.

Friends. Despite the time and space apart, they're friends. Friends again, now that he's home. Now that they're together again.

[alyscat]

Homecoming

For my creative writing course, we had to write a letter from the main character of our current project. It was supposed to be directed to the author saying why we should write their story. This is my letter from Penelope!

————

I was fifteen when I first met my husband, Odysseus, the King of Ithaca. My cousin Helen had hundreds of potential suitors vying for her hand in marriage, and I was there to support her. The men were crude and unimpressive. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, they only wanted her for one thing. Who would not want that?

Odysseus. That’s who. This is how our story began, with his clever mind twisting the field for his advantage. Ithaca was a small kingdom, he knew that he had no hope of winning Helen, nor did he want to. He had been there out of expectations alone. She was a vapid creature, and he needed someone who could match his wit. That someone was me. By proposing a vow that would swear each of the suitors to fight in defense of whoever Helen’s future husband would be, Odysseus proved himself and won my hand. Within a year, we were wed. Love is not something that many women are fortunate enough to gain. With royal blood in my veins, it was expected that I would marry for political gain and nothing more. If I was lucky, with time, my husband and I would grow to respect one another. My marriage with Odysseus was different, as the gods saw fit to bless me with a love that was true.

We matched each other’s wit and cunning. Our courtship, if one could call it that, was spent with challenges and attempts to surpass each other’s accomplishments. On our wedding day, he showed me the new palace he had built for us. Carved by his own hands, the heart of the palace was a wedding bed formed from the olive tree where we had our first meeting; he told me it was a sign of our undying love for each other. That was the moment I knew I must be favored by Hera, Aphrodite, and Eros, for I had been blessed beyond belief.

However, this is not why I am here today. My wits must be used to persuade you why a woman’s tale should be told. You wish to portray my beloved husband as a creature of darkness, a monster forged by blood, hatred, betrayal and isolation. I am here as his defense. The gods favored us with blessings, fortune, a healthy baby boy, so that we lowered our guard. They then shed their wrath upon us. My husband was tormented. Athena turned her back on him, his crew lost their faith, and immortal deities stole what was meant to be mine. When he returned, he only wanted to keep Telemachus and me safe. Instead, they brought back the ghosts of his past and demanded he continue to fight for his peace.

The monster is not my husband. It is the people who have wronged him and left him to suffer alone. The suitors deserved to perish for their lack of faith, their audacity, and their selfish behavior with our land. If he assumed anyone who showed violence was a threat, who could blame him? He was at war, a man of sorrow. History forgets what happened after he returned home. I will never forget. For all intents and purposes, Odysseus is my husband, and I shall stay by his side until the day I die. That is the story you will write. One of unwavering devotion. One of a man whom the gods pushed past his breaking point, and a woman who loved his shattered pieces.

You will not use my story as a way to demonize a man of such sorrow, for he has suffered more than enough.

Eις το επανιδείν (until we meet again,)

-Penelope of Sparta, daughter of Icarius, wife of Odysseus, Queen of Ithaca.

———————

Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or removed: @dorcaloveskotlc @apolloinaplaguemask @hatima-cries-epicly

A collage I made for Penelope. The images are not mine!

[sunshinemoon3341]

I JUST LISTENED TO THE ENTIRE ITHACA SAGA SO SPOILERS AHEAD

The Challenge:

We start off with a Penelope song! And I swear she eats this up!!! She only has 2 songs but she goes crazy with the vocals!!! Her voice is genuinely like lotus, I am just absolutely entranced and just cannot stop listening for even a moment!!!

Penelope saying “husbands old bow” while the suitors say “old husbands bow” is subtle but so meaningful and shows how differently they think of Odysseus!

The “Waiting” callback from the underworld!

————————————————————————-

Hold Them Down:

I’d listened to sneak peaks and snippets from like a year ago but hearing the actual version!!!! Antonious’s voice in this song is insane!

Don’t you dare hurt my baby Telemachus!!

What is their problem with his bones!!! “You’ll have run out of bones to break when you and I are through”(Little Wolf) and “Hold him down while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones”(Hold Them Down)

The way they talk about Penelope gives me worse shivers than the beginning of Thunder Bringer. But it’s also very telling of what the suitors actually think of Penelope!! They don’t care about her as a person. They just want the crown, and the power.

Bye bye Antonious!!

Overall great villain song. One of, if not, the best I’ve ever heard. I feel conflicted about liking this song because the lyrics are so dark but the song itself is sooooo good!!!

————————————————————————

Odysseus:

Right off the bat, I love the name. The only names in song titles are monsters(Polyphemus, Scylla, Charybdis) so the title being “Odysseus” indicates that he has become some sort of “monster” and that’s a really cool form of symbolism to show it!(you can also hear the monsters names in the background throughout the song)

DO NOT talk about his family like that!

I like the “Where is he?”(Legendary) reverberation. It’s a nice touch!

He stole their weapons!!! This is some Athena level stuff!!

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” no notes! That line is one of the most perfect lines to ever grace Spotify!

It’s interesting that the suitors asked for mercy. They know as well as Odysseus does that if he didn’t show up who knows what they would have done!! It’s more of an attempted trick than it is an actual apology.

The way the suitor suggests “open arms” and Odysseus doesn’t even let him finish!!

Odysseus shows his cleverness and why he deserves the title “Warrior of the Mind” in this song.(though he is clever in many other songs).

DONT YOU DARE TOUCH TELEMACHUS!!!!!

Again with the bones!!! “I’ll break the kids hands”. Just leave the kids poor bones alone!!!

That voice after Odysseuss says “mercy”!!

This song was brutal, perfect and I get why Athena told Ares the Odysseus “wanna gonna make everybody b|eed”

————————————————————————

I Can’t Help But Wonder:

Heartbreaking!! So cute!!

They both just want to be good enough for each other!! They missed each other soooo much!!

I’ve never cried during any movie, play, book, anything and got almost got me

ATHENA!!!!

The Queen has returned!!!

All the “Warrior of the Mind” callbacks!!

She���s sorry for what’s she did to him! She feels like she turned him into this. This is the the closest thing Athena’s ever gotten to an apology.

He forgives her(or close enough)!! He’s not gonna dwell on all the things he could have done differently, he just wants to see his wife!!

————————————————————————

Would You Fall In Love With Me Again:

Again Penelope ATE THAT UP! I still cannot get over her voice!!

She acknowledges that he’s a bit different but to her he’s still the love of her life!!!

THE WEDDING BED!! Odysseus seems hurt when she asks him to move it. She proved that he’s still the same man!!

The “Waiting” callback again

So cute, so romantic, so beautiful!

————————————————————————

Perfect ending. After everything he sacrificed he was able to get back to the people he did it all for.

10/10 no comments, no suggestions, absolutely nothing!

I’m so excited to see what everyone does next!! I hope Epic grows bigger than I could ever imagine!

I still think the play should have ended with “And that’s my Journessy”

Tysm for reading my little rant

[luminouslumity]

Last time summarizing The Odyssey song-by-song!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

THE CHALLENGE: For the past several years, Queen Penelope of Ithaca has kept the unwanted suitors at bay by weaving and then undoing a burial shroud meant for her father-in-law, Laërtes, and by the time we meet them, they've already been made aware of the trick. Shortly after Odysseus' return and having had a dream of an eagle killing a gaggle of geese, Penelope has the suitors compete for her hand via an archery contest; specifically, whoever can string Odysseus' bow through a dozen axe heads wins.

HOLD THEM DOWN: The suitors are still scheming to kill Telemakhos even after he returns home from Sparta, but they end up reconsidering it at the urging of another suitor named AMPHÍNOMOS (Ἀμφίνομος).

ODYSSEUS: Immediately after completing the challenge, Odysseus shoots an arrow into Antínoös' neck and reveals his identity in the process before killing Eurúmakhos. Telemakhos kills Amphínomos after the latter tries attacking Odysseus, and even Athena joins in the fight. Soon, all of the suitors as well as their accomplices are dead, including the goatherd MELÁNTHIOS (Μελάνθιος) and his sister MELANTHṒ (Μελανθώ).

I CAN'T HELP BUT WONDER: Odysseus and Telemakhos actually reunite prior to the slaughtering of the suitors, but before that, upon his return to Ithaca, he initially doesn't recognize his home due to Athena disguising it. Then he comes across his patron, who has taken the form of a young man. Eventually:

At his words, Athena smiled into his eyes. She took his hand, and changed her body to a woman’s: beautiful, tall, and skilled in all the arts. Her words were light as feathers.

“To outwit you in all your tricks, a person or a god would need to be an expert at deceit. You clever rascal! So duplicitous, so talented at lying! You love fiction and tricks so deeply, you refuse to stop even in your own land. Yes, both of us are smart. No man can plan and talk like you, and I am known among the gods for insight and craftiness. You failed to recognize me: I am Athena, child of Zeus. I always stand near you and take care of you, in all your hardships. I made sure that you were welcomed by the Phaeacians. I have come here now to weave a plan with you and hide the treasure which, thanks to me, they gave you to take home. I will reveal the challenges you face at home. This is your fate, and you must bear it bravely, not telling any man or woman that you have finished wandering and come back. Suffer in silence, bear their brutal treatment.”

Afterwards, Odysseus—now disguised as a beggar—takes shelter in the hut of the family swineherd, EUMAIOS (Εὔμαιος), and it's there father and son finally reunite; it takes a bit for Odysseus to reveal himself, but when he finally does:

“Stranger, you look so different from before. Your clothes, your skin—I think that you must be some god who has descended from the sky. Be kind to us, and we will sacrifice, and give you golden treasures. Pity us!”

Long-suffering Odysseus replied, “I am no god. Why would you think such things? I am your father, that same man you mourn. It is because of me these brutal men are hurting you so badly.”

Then he kissed his son and cried, tears pouring down his cheeks; he had been holding back till then. The boy did not yet trust it really was his father, and said, “No, you are not Odysseus, my father; some god must have cast a spell, to cause me further pain. No mortal man could manage such a thing by his own wits, becoming old and young again—unless some god appeared and did it all with ease. You certainly were old just now, and wearing those dirty rags. Now you look like a god.”

Artful Odysseus said sharply, “No, Telemachus, you should not be surprised to see your father. It is me; no other is on his way. I am Odysseus. I suffered terribly, and I was lost, but after twenty years, I have come home. As for the way I look—Athena did it. The goddess can transform me as she likes; sometimes a homeless beggar, then she makes me look like a young man, wearing princely clothes. For heavenly gods it is not difficult to make a mortal beautiful or ugly.”

With that, he sat back down. Telemachus hurled his arms round his father, and he wept. They both felt deep desire for lamentation, and wailed with cries as shrill as birds, like eagles or vultures, when the hunters have deprived them of fledglings who have not yet learned to fly. That was how bitterly they wept.

Interestingly, Homer notes of Eumaios and Telemakhos:

Amazed, the swineherd jumped up, letting fall the cups in which he had been mixing wine; it spilled. He ran towards his master, kissed his face and shining eyes and both his hands, and wept. Just as a father, when he sees his own dear son, his only son, his dear most precious boy, returned from foreign lands after ten years of grieving for his loss, welcomes him; so the swineherd wrapped his arms around godlike Telemachus and kissed him, as if he were returning from the dead.

With tears still in his eyes he said, “Sweet light! You have come back, Telemachus. I thought that I would never see you anymore, after you sailed to Pylos. My dear child, come in, let me enjoy the sight of you now you are back. Come in! You do not often come to the countryside to see us herders; you stay in town to watch that evil horde of suitors.”

Speaking of reunions, Odysseus also very briefly does so with his faithful dog ARGOS (Ἄργος), albeit from a distance, as showing any outward affection would give away his identity. Still, the dog passes on peacefully, knowing his master is home at last.

After he arrives at the palace, very few treat him kindly, with Antínoös and later Eurúmakhos hurling footstools at him at separate times, as well as another suitor named KTESIPPUS (Κτήσιππος) throwing him an ox hoof. The only exception when it comes to the suitors is Amphínomos, who actually considers leaving after being warned, but Athena makes him stay.

Still disguised, Odysseus briefly talks to Penelope, who confides in him of her suffering and even offers to give him a bed, but the king declines. He does however ask to have his feet washed, and that's when he reunites with his old nurse EURUKLEIA (Εὐρύκλεια), who is quick to recognize him due to the scratch on his foot, the very same one he'd received as a child from a boar while hunting with his grandfather Autolykos. Another, PHILOÍTIOS (Φιλοίτιος), also agrees to help in taking back Odysseus' home alongside Eumaios, each even getting the chance in killing a few suitors with the king and prince.

WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN: After the slaughter, Eurukleia informs Penelope of Odysseus' return, but the clever queen sets up one final test:

Penelope said shrewdly, “You extraordinary man! I am not acting proud, or underplaying this big event; yet I am not surprised at how you look. You looked like this the day your long oars sailed away from Ithaca. Now, Eurycleia, make the bed for him outside the room he built himself. Pull out the bedstead, and spread quilts and blankets on it.”

She spoke to test him, and Odysseus was furious, and told his loyal wife, “Woman! Your words have cut my heart! Who moved my bed? It would be difficult for even a master craftsman—though a god could do it with ease. No man, however young and strong, could pry it out. There is a trick to how this bed was made. I made it, no one else. Inside the court there grew an olive tree with delicate long leaves, full-grown and green, as sturdy as a pillar, and I built the room around it. I packed stones together, and fixed a roof and fitted doors. At last I trimmed the olive tree and used my bronze to cut the branches off from root to tip and planed it down and skillfully transformed the trunk into a bedpost. With a drill, I bored right through it. This was my first bedpost, and then I made the other three, inlaid with gold and silver and with ivory. I stretched ox-leather straps across, dyed purple. Now I have told the secret trick, the token. But woman, wife, I do not know if someone— a man—has cut the olive trunk and moved my bed, or if it is still safe.”

At that, her heart and body suddenly relaxed. She recognized the tokens he had shown her. She burst out crying and ran straight towards him and threw her arms around him, kissed his face, and said, “Do not be angry at me now, Odysseus! In every other way you are a very understanding man. The gods have made us suffer: they refused to let us stay together and enjoy our youth until we reached the edge of age together. Please forgive me, do not keep bearing a grudge because when I first saw you, I would not welcome you immediately. I felt a constant dread that some bad man would fool me with his lies. There are so many dishonest, clever men. That foreigner would never have got Helen into bed, if she had known the Greeks would march to war and bring her home again. It was a goddess who made her do it, putting in her heart the passion that first caused my grief as well. Now you have told the story of our bed, the secret that no other mortal knows, except yourself and me, and just one slave, Actoris, whom my father gave to me when I came here, who used to guard our room. You made my stubborn heart believe in you.”

With husband and wife reunited at long last, Odysseus tells Penelope his tale, including Teiresías' prophecy.

Afterwards, Hermes leads the suitors to the Underworld, where Agamemnon expresses his jealousy over Odysseus having had such a loyal wife. Back in the mortal realm, Odysseus finally reunites with his father, but it's brief, as word has gotten out of what had happened to the suitors and now their own fathers crave vengeance. EUPEÍTHĒS (Εὐπείθης), Antínoös' father, is among the dead, and it's mentioned that all of the rebels would have met the same fate as the suitors were it not for Athena's interference. And so ends the epic on these final words:

“Odysseus, you are adaptable; you always find solutions. Stop this war, or Zeus will be enraged at you.”

He was glad to obey her. Then Athena made the warring sides swear solemn oaths of peace for future times—still in her guise as Mentor.

[pebble-pictures]

WIP

That's a Homeric AU, alright! This is what living in my brain looks like. Would you believe I haven't actually listened to Epic yet? Idk why I'm putting I off. Maybe I'm terrified of disappointment.

Anyway! AU notes beneath the cut!

"Rage — Fable, sing the rage of Pthia’s daughter Ruby,

murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,

hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,

great fighters’ souls, but made their shards carrion,

feasts for the dogs and birds,

and the will of the heavens was moving toward its end.

Begin, Fable, when the two first broke and clashed,

Diamond lord of men and brilliant Ruby. . . ."

-Rose plays a similar role to Odysseus! The morally grey trickster monarch who just wants to be with her spouse and son in the end. Seen as a coward and a bad friend, but the intentions were good. A brilliant strategist and completely hubristic idiot simultaneously. I give her the Pink Diamond palette whenever she isn't disguised. The Rose palette goes to Nobody!

-Pearl as the Athena-parallel goddess of wisdom, arts, and warfare. The pearls will be the patron gods of their respective Diamond monarchs, but Pearl is the closest to her monarch. She follows her everywhere until something big separates them due to a choice Rose makes, thus aiding Rose's son instead in growing up and his mission to learn more about a heroic mother he never knew.

-Lapis of Sparta and Troy, the demigod prisoner whose face sailed a thousand ships. Kidnapped from her home and loved ones, then blamed for the fallout.

-The rage of Ruby, heir to the throne of Pthia, greatest of the Greeks, and her gentle yet coldly terrifying equestrian companion Sapphire, exiled princess of Omas. Technically the same stone irl, but there's a great status disparity. Their ranks in this AU are swapped, though, to better fit the backstory of our Myrmidon boys!

-Padparadscha, disgraced Trojan princess, whose predictions are always ignored and ridiculed. Until it's too late.

-Jasper of Troy. Captor of Lapis Lazuli. Favorite of the detached Pink Pearl, goddess of beauty and lust. A pawn who thinks she's in control. Always inferior to her eldest sister.

-Hessonite of Troy. Favorite of the vain Yellow Pearl. Goddess of prophecy, archery, medicine, music, plague, the sun, and being an annoying little overachiever. Hess commands Troy's armies. Eldest of the royal children. She was canonically the governor of the Earth colony, so she technically counts for my efforts to make all the Trojans pink court gems under Queen White Diamond. Yelp is the only exception, cause I wasn't making Aubergine or Lonely into Apollo. It fit her too well.

-Steven goes on a journey to learn about and live up to a heroic parent he's never met. Prince of Ithaca. Spends his early life constantly having to fight adults who want to kill him, and having to defend his home and single parent from said adults.

-Greg. "I've never had that many exes show up at once since—" has hundreds fighting for a hand that's technically already taken. Known for his artistic pursuits, like Penelope for her weaving. A lot more clever than he first appears. A damn good dad.

- Amethyst is undecided. Maybe an Ajax? A goofier Diomedes? Absolutely up for suggestions.

-Garnet as the tall, blunt, crazy strong child of Ruby who joins the war in her early years. Neoptolemus/Pyrrhus, who I'm now realizing isn't as universal as the others, so I'm saying it explicitly.

-Aquamarine as the (justifiably) murderous sister of Helen/Lapis, Clytemnestra! Eyeball as the lover who helps her kill her spouse! Freckles and Curls as their brothers, the twins Castor and Pollux! I'm cooking.

And the Lapis twins ESPECIALLY work for the Gemini! One was callous and spiteful, one was kind and followed his brother. However, because a lot of people in those times/place thought you could have multiple fathers per set of twins (or per baby if you ask some of Alexander's contemporaries about him), one twin was a fully immortal demigod. Not full-blooded Spartan royalty. Freckles isn't a pure Lapis, she has pyrite flecks!

And the Gemini later both became water gods! Idk who will fill Orestes' slot. Probably Blue Zircon, since Orestes was the impetus of the founding of the Athenian legal system.

-Yellow Diamond, Queen of Men. Favorite of Blue Pearl, goddess of the seas, storms, earthquakes, and horses. Angry and selfish, hated but feared by her gems. Later murdered by her family. Only using Lapis' kidnapping as an excuse for war and plunder.

-Blue Diamond, queen of Sparta. Also favored by Bloop. Desperate to take Lapis back from Troy. Constantly grieving her rapidly dropping family, but still terrifying.

-White Diamond, queen of Troy. Starts detached, cold, and neglectful. Loses everything, becoming a humbled and grieving old mother and grandmother.

-Gimme ideas for Peridot! Was gonna make her Meneleus, but it'd be weird making her Blue's sister.

-Bismuth = Hephaestus

- Rose Buds = The Fates

- Aubergine = Artemis? Hera? Idk, man, I just REALLY wanna include the Hera/Artemis fistfight.

-Lonely Pearl = Hermes

-Pyrope = Hera, probably, actually. It fits her Vibe. Or Zeus. Or Demantoid as Zeus?

-Navy = Ares. Full stop.

[annarobszombies]

Something I wrote for university about Penelope waiting for Odysseus

@vega-theythem @defenestratehumanity

“Word came today, of Troy.” 

Penelope halts in her movements, head turning just enough to show she was fully listening to the girl at her side. 

“The city has been sacked, and the men are returning. Our King is on his way home.”

The queen lets out a long breath, chest a contradicting mix of tight and loose at the same time. Odysseus would be home within days, surely, and then he would be at her side again. Telemachus would finally have his father to show him how to live and breathe like the man the boy so desperately already wants to be. And yet, this news of his return left an ominous taste to the air, drying her tongue. 

“We must begin preparations for my husband,” She says in a low voice. “We shall be ready for when he lands on our shores.” 

The palace is a rush of movement. Grapes are plucked and made into wine, fresh bread baked, and meat readied for feasting. A great storm blows over the ocean, one that leaves the air tasting salty and metallic. Godlike, and spiteful. Days passed, becoming weeks, then months, then a year, and beyond. People whispered, palace slaves shared silent glances, and Telemachus waited daily by the doors for his absent father while other boys and men started to drift into the halls, the people of Ithaca murmuring about the sure death of their king.

“He will come today,” Telemachus speaks aloud, a mere thirteen years old. 

Penelope doesn’t respond to his pitiful hopefulness. While she, too, hopes for his return, fear stirs in her heart. That storm, the day Odysseus was sure to return, left an irremovable bad taste in her throat. The Gods had been angry that day. Posideon had been angry that day. For what reason, she surely could not know, but it was more than likely the old God had taken Odysseus, her husband, king, and dearest friend, and spirited him away, perhaps even to the Underworld. 

But Telemachus was too young, still, to understand, though one day he will. 

“You should attend your lessons, boy,” She tells him. He huffs and pouts, stomping his feet as he leaves her to her work.

The thread of the shroud rubs her fingertips nearly raw, as she rakes her hands through, destroying most of the work she had done on it just the day before. She had to leave some progress, so that no one got too suspicious, but this would not fool the men and boys taking up more and more space in her home much longer. It was a miracle it had worked for this long as it was, but soon enough, someone would catch on that she had no intention of finishing this project, not any time soon. 

She just had to hold on until Telemachus was old enough, then she would have him marry, and take his father’s place on the throne, where he belonged. She would not rob him of his birthright before he even had the chance to make a grab for it. She would protect him, no matter the cost, until he was ready. That was her duty, not just as queen, but his mother. 

Tears burn her eyes, but not from the stinging pain in her sore hands. Her heart aches. She hates to think these things, to have to make such underhanded plots. Odysseus was the tricky one, he was the one who could both talk his way into, and out of, all kinds of trouble. All with a wicked grin, no doubt inherited from his godly great grandfather. 

Penelope was clever, sure, but she wasn’t fit for tricks and lies, and there were plenty that knew that. 

“I can help with that, wife of my blood.”

The voice startles her, her hands pulling away from the shroud so quickly she hits herself hard in the chest. She stands and turns, searching for the man who had just spoken, who had entered her private rooms unbidden.

He flits about her space curiously, feet lifted from the ground as if he’d never once even touched grass or stone with his heels. He looks over her bed, built by Odysseus to be a part of the olive tree that grew beautifully there. She watches him dance through the air, taking in every bit of her personal space as he could before deigning to give her his proper attention. 

He drops himself onto her bed, pulling his petasos from his head and letting it hang on one of the low branches of the tree before raking a hand lazily through his curled dark hair. And for a moment, a real, firm moment, Penelope was sure she was looking at her husband, and it’s now that she sees just where he inherited his beauty. 

The God Hermes smiles at her, waiting patiently for her to be able to breathe. 

She gasps, lungs burning, falling to her knees in awe of him. He snickers at her, grinning Odysseus’ grin and watching her with swirling golden eyes, flecks of red and green making his irises sparkle even more. Looking at him is almost painful, his resemblance to her husband making her feel ill, and she wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if his image is a mere projection in order to move her heart, and listen to what he has to say.

“I can help,” He repeats, his voice strange, accented with every voice, every language, his words feeling oddly out of Time, as if he’d pulled his vocabulary from the men who had come before, and would come after. “If you want.” 

“H-help?” She asks, silently cursing how her voice trembles in the wake of this seemingly benevolent God. 

“Mm. Ody’s mine, through and through, so it’s right that I keep you all taken care of, yeah? You ‘n the little guy.” 

The tears that had been threatening her lashes finally start to fall, soaking her cheeks in a matter of seconds. The Gods had not given up on them, they weren’t being abandoned just yet. 

“Please,” She sobs. “Please tell me what to do.”

Hermes grins, eyes sharp and mischievous.

“You’ll have to be strong,” He says, standing tall, dark hair glittering with the same gold as his wild eyes. “Stronger than you ever have been before.”

-

“Mother!” Telemachus’ voice rattles her, though she doesn’t dare to show it. The boy looks and sounds more and more like his father every day, so much so that sometimes she can’t bear to even look at him. 

“I’m here,” She says from her spot resting on her bed, though she knows he’s already storming closer, his footfalls loud enough to shake the walls. 

“Are you sending notes to the suitors downstairs?” He asks, voice shaky with anger and pain. 

“They’re guests, my love. We must show them good hospitality,” She says softly, already bracing for his anger. 

“They’re trying to take you away! They’re eating us out of house, home, and wealth! And you’re encouraging it!” 

“Telemachus, please!” She lurches to her feet, moving to stand in front of him and take his soft, scarless face between her hands. “When you’re grown, you’ll understand better.”

He scoffs at her. At eighteen, he’s well grown enough, at least in his eyes. But without a father figure of any kind without Odysseus, he doesn’t truly know what he believes he does. Penelope sighs, eyes red and swollen from hours of crying, though if anyone looked closer, they’d see that she looked more calm than distressed, face too smooth for how many tears she’s shed. 

“My son, my precious prince, your father is most likely dead and those men down there know this. You must know this by now. You should start looking for a wife. You know your father and I were married by your age-”

Her son’s face goes red with rage and embarrassment, and he snaps at her to shut up, before shoving her away, turning on his heels, and nearly running out of the room. His words and tone wound her in a way that she’s not sure she’ll ever truly recover from, but she swallows her pain like she hopes one day he will swallow his. She forces herself to think of good memories, on days long past but never forgotten.

Odysseus had always been beautiful, just like the son they made.

They had been fifteen when he first approached her, all those years ago. He’d had the same strong nose and firm brow as Telemachus. His skin had been kissed by sunlight, and he blushed redder than any fruit or flower when he tripped over his own feet in front of her. 

In her mind, he was always glowing. He had the favor of Athena, and carried in him the blood of Hermes. The Gods loved him, and everyone knew it. 

And he loved her. 

He had bright eyes and a wide grin, and he always challenged her to word puzzles. He liked that she was so clever, that she could not only keep up with him, but in some cases even beat him. They spent their early days attached at the hip. Wherever she went, he followed, pattering after her like a duckling, quacking his questions and ideas. 

He’d gotten on his knees and begged her father to let him marry her. He’d given gifts, made grand gestures, and swore an oath to never even glance at anyone else. He needn't do any of it, as her father had loved him from the moment he saw how Odysseus looked at her, so it had been an easy decision. 

They married the same day, her good husband too excited to wait for propriety. It had been a secret, a quiet wedding with just them, and the Gods. They’d had a “real” wedding not long after, but they both considered that first night their true anniversary.

“Oh Aphrodite,” Penelope whispers into the wind. “Let my son find happiness in love, one day. He deserves at least that much for all his hardships.”

-

Penelope couldn’t bear to think of Eurycleia as truly traitorous, but even still. She had let her son, her soft-hearted boy board a ship and sail into the sea without any consideration for how such news could affect her. The woman had looked after Telemachus for such a long time, and was well trusted in the palace, and yet she had betrayed her mistress, the woman who had allowed her to hold and love Telemachus as a second mother. 

She had betrayed her, then told her not to cry lest she spoil her beauty. As if that was truly worth anything when there was now an even higher chance for her to lose everything she’s spent all these past years fighting to cling to. The woman should consider herself lucky if she ends up merely sold somewhere else, rather than beheaded should Telemachus not return.

The Gods had given her good dreams that night, wishing for Penelope to find peace and calm, yet she woke to find her heart was still filled with stormy anger and wretched pain. Her husband was already lost at sea, what was she to do if sweet Telemachus also didn’t return? Did he even realize what kind of situation he had put his mother in? 

If Telemachus dies, she no longer has any kind of protection from the men haunting the hallways, waiting for their chance to snatch her. If he’d only listened, if he’d cared to think, to look past himself for just a breath…

The sound of a bowstring snapping makes her jump, a gasp mixing with a yelp as she freezes her panicked pacing and whirls around, fearfully searching for the mysterious assailant. Who she finds is beautifully familiar and unknown all at once, feet unburdened by the ground.

“Great Hermes,” She wheezes, finding it a miracle in itself that she can even bring herself to speak to him after he’d startled her so thoroughly. “Telemachus is now also gone to the seas. He vanished days ago”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, completely unbothered. He plucks the great bow he’d been toying with off the wall and weighs it in his hands, his feet folding into a criss cross under him, his feathered sandals flittering to keep him afloat. His uncaring tone makes her chest fill with ache and pain, more wretched tears dripping from her eyes without permission.

“Ah, no, don’t do that,” He makes an audible tsk sound, turning and wagging his finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “I worked hard to keep you from ruining your face by giving you false tears, don’t screw it all up now by crying for real.”

His words dry her tears, as if he’d cast some kind of spell over her. Her breaths come calmer, and her shoulders lose some of their stiffness. His voice is warm and thick like honey, soothing her burning heart. He stretches his legs back out and moves closer, somehow growing even taller. He looms over her, though his face remains friendly. He bends at the waist, lowering himself to look her in the eye, shining, godly golden irises mixed with green and red, meeting her more human brown.

“Both my husband and son have left, vanished into the horizon and I don’t know if either will return,” She says softly, hypnotized by his gaze.

“Tele is with Athena, he’s fine.” There is so little care in his words, as if what he says is mere fact that Penelope should have already known. 

“And what of Odysseus, who has been gone for so long now? Have the other Gods truly abandoned him for fresher flesh?”

“Things aren’t that simple, pretty Penelope. Odysseus has a price he must pay before he can return. Damages he must remedy, fathers he must seek forgiveness from. Nothing I can do ‘bout it.”

His words make her dizzy, his language both familiar and strange. In and out of Time.

“So he is alive?” She asks. She can’t stop herself from grabbing her godly visitor by the shoulders, nails digging into surprisingly soft skin. He smiles at her, entirely unbothered by her actions, but he doesn’t answer her question.

“Please, good Hermes, I am begging you. Bring him home. I cannot handle all this alone, anymore. I need him. Telemachus needs him.” She says, voice warbling as tears once again threaten her lashes. Hermes tilts his head slightly, looking horribly, beautifully like Odysseus. He finally lets his feet plant themselves on the cool stone floor. She stares up in awe as he stands so tall the tops of his hair brush the ceiling of her rooms. His face curls, twisting in a mischievous expression.

“Let’s play a game.” He says, grinning like a cat staring down at his prey.

“A…a game?”

“Mmmhmm. I can’t just go giving you all the answers, that wouldn’t be much fun. If you want to know what I do, you gotta win.”

Penelope gapes up at him, eyes wide and unsure. Just what exactly did he mean by game? Surely it wasn’t going to be anything simple, and she doubted she’d get a real answer either way. But even still, if he was offering, she had no choice but to accept. 

“Very well, I will play,” She says, hoping to put on a brave face. 

“Atta girl, very nice!” Hermes is clearly pleased. “The rules are simple, solve all of my riddles, then I’ll spill the beans. Sound good?” 

She can’t help the way her lips turn upward, perhaps a bit over confidently. Odysseus loved riddles, loved playing word games with her. She could do this, she had to. 

“Alright, I’m ready.”

The God hums, eyes glittering with amusement and wickedness all at once. 

“Tell me, what can you miss only when you’re away?” He asks. Odysseus had told her this one before, surely Hermes must know that?

“Home.”

“Good, good. Now…what pushes men to strive for the top spot?” 

He’s jesting, he had to be.

“A…competition?” 

Hermes beams at her, nodding a bit too enthusiastically, before his face takes on that wicked look once again. He leans forward, lowering his voice so far that Penelope also has to lean in to hear his final question.

“A cunning king with a wandering heart, who braves the seas, a hero apart. Who am I?” 

It takes her but a moment, a small gasp escaping her at the revelation. She looks up at him, at Odysseus’ face, borrowed by Hermes for a painfully short moment-gone again when she dares to blink. She starts to answer, but the beautiful God straightens his spine, holding up a hand to silence her. He knew she knew, and no longer wished to hear what she had to say. Instead, with a wave of his hand, the great unused bow flies to meet him. 

As perfectly carved wood meets godly flesh, an unexpected bout of lightning shatters the silence.

Pressing the bow into her hands, his lips part to speak, but another unnatural rumble and cracking from the sky drowns out whatever he means to say. Rain starts dropping outside the windows, and the God of Travel, Thieves, and Trickery pats Penelope on the head like a father would his daughter, and is gone in a flash of angry lightning. She stares blankly at the space he once occupied, lips slightly parted as her mind comprehends what little bit of his words she understood.

“You have everything you need.”

Without its string, the bow couldn’t be drawn or fired, but even then, it had been gifted by Eurytus, the grandson of Apollo. No man living other than her husband should be able to handle the incredible draw strength. Her fingers tighten around the bow, her hand and mind steady as she comes to a decision. 

“Ares, grant me the courage to do what I must,” She whispers aloud.

“My lady,” The voice in her doorway makes her jump. “Will you join the men in their feasting downstairs tonight?”

“I shall,” She says. “But before I do, I need someone to gather some things for me.” 

“Of course, tell me what you need and I shall have it fetched for you.” 

“String. I need bowstring, and axes. Twelve of them should do.” 

“What will you do with it all?” 

“It’s time we rid ourselves of those who have long overstayed their welcome. I have decided to propose a contest. A test of strength and wills, that only a true king may complete.”