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𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

╰ [UPDATES WILL BE ON TBA]

❀°••• ┄──┄ •••°❀

━ ❝I envy those ignorant to the way Gods toy with us.❞

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

⌜𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬!𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐂 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐅𝐢𝐜⌟

P.S. *This is a FanFic (Fan-made fiction book). The original characters shown in this book is an entire work of fiction unless stated otherwise.*

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃: March 01, 2022
𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃: November 02, 2024
𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃: TBD

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━━━━ ⭒─⭑━━━━

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 00
Chapter 00 | Blurb⌟

━━━━ ⭒─⭑━━━━

Before you could finish your question, you found yourself abruptly yanked forward. The world tilted, and with a startled gasp, you realized you were no longer standing at the edge of his bed but sprawled across it, pinned beneath him.

❝What—Telemachus!❞ you sputtered, trying to piece together what had just occurred, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. The words died in your throat when your gaze locked onto his.

His face was mere inches from yours, and the sight made your breath catch. His skin was flushed, a deep crimson spreading from his cheeks down his neck, while his lips parted slightly as though he were trying to catch his breath. But it was his eyes that froze you—their usual warm brown was now darkened, lidded with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

❝____,❞ he murmured, his voice low and uneven. It wasn't the soft, composed tone you were used to. This was deeper, rougher, and it sent your pulse racing in ways you didn't fully understand.

❝T-Telemachus,❞ you stammered, your hands still pressed against him, though your strength felt like it had evaporated. ❝What... what are you doing? You're—❞ Your voice faltered as his gaze flicked down, lingering on your face in a way that made your cheeks burn.

He didn't answer right away, his breath brushing against your skin as he leaned in slightly, his weight keeping you firmly in place as he kneeled. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming, and for a brief, dizzying moment, the air between you felt charged, crackling with something unspoken.

You gently pushed against his chest. ❝I-I think you should move, Telemachus.❞ Your words were shaky, your mind scrambling for some semblance of composure as the intensity of the moment engulfed you.

But before you could say more, one of Telemachus' hands darted out, capturing both of yours and pressing them firmly against his chest. The erratic thrum of his heartbeat reverberated beneath your palms, fast and unsteady, matching the breathless tension filling the room.

❝Do you feel it?❞ he murmured, his voice low and almost pleading, tinged with an unfamiliar vulnerability. His eyes bore into yours, half-lidded and heavy with emotion. ❝It's because of you—only you.❞

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his voice. The world seemed to shrink around you, leaving only Telemachus, his warmth, and the rapid pulse beneath your fingertips; you were powerless to look away.

≿━━༺❀༻━━≾

The favor of the gods can be a gift—or a curse.

 From the moment Apollo intervened in your fate, you became more than just another mortal—an object of divine fascination. Your life has been molded by forces greater than you—guided, nudged, and sometimes shoved toward a destiny you never asked for. 

Powerful men seek to lay claim to your heart—they see you as something to be won, protected, loved. But their desires come with their own shadows...

Betrayal, rebellion, love, and fate entwine in your veins, leaving you caught in the crossfire of men who will do anything to keep you.

And as the gods gamble and mortals scheme, one truth remains clear: those favored by gods are rarely spared their trials.

So tell me, favored one, how far will you go to save yourself?

≿━━༺❀༻━━≾

⌜𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬!𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐂 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐅𝐢𝐜⌟

∞

╭─↬ ❗𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆❗ ↫─╮
There will be mentions/descriptive scenes of the following:

╭ ⁞ ❏. Strong Language / Swearing
┊ ⁞ ❏. Stalker-Like & Obsessive Behavior
┊ ⁞ ❏. Toxic / Emotionally Manipulative Relationships
┊ ⁞ ❏. Graphic Gore / Physical Violence
┊ ⁞ ❏. Psychological Trauma / Panic / Dissociation
┊ ⁞ ❏. Death of Minor and Major Characters
┊ ⁞ ❏. Themes of Power Imbalance (Mortals vs Gods)
┊ ⁞ ❏. Unreliable Narration / Gaslighting Undertones
┊ ⁞ ❏. Apathetic / Antisocial / Possessive Behavior
┊ ⁞ ❏. Hinted Religious or Divine Possession
┊ ⁞ ❏. Flashbacks to Emotional Neglect / Grief

💬 I think that covers most of it for now—especially since this isn't a fluff-heavy story and leans into divine favor as both a blessing and a curse....

Lol, I don't know if I got them all, so if you see anything I didn't list, come back and comment right here so I can add them to the list later ➡

Also, before you start, if you're new here, welcome! But if you're a returning reader/came from my other books, hi winxies🥹❤️ Enjoy (•͈˽•͈)

𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐬𝐭, 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Though this may be a various!EPIC fic, MC will most likely be with 1 person; may the best love interest win 😈

Chapter Text

❀°••• ┄─────╮

Copyright © 2024 by
⌜𝐗𝐚𝐧𝐢⌝

╰─────┄ •••°❀

Hey there, winxies! Just a quick but important note before you dive in.

This novel is my original work—the storyline, writing, and overall structure are mine. That means I do not give permission for 𝑨𝑵𝒀𝑶𝑵𝑬 to copy, repost, or claim any part of it as their own. If you try, just know you'll be:

➢ 𝗠𝘂𝘁𝗲
➢ 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱
➢ 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱

Simple as that. Let's keep it respectful.

🪶✨ And speaking of being respectful, let's be clear...

Once again, this story is my original work. While it pulls from public domain mythology (Greek myths) and even hints of echoes of ETM, the specific storyline, characters, worldbuilding, dialogue, structure, divine systems, lore, events, and invented concepts such as Divine Liaison, Askalion, and others are entirely my own creations. This is not a retelling or adaptation of any pre-existing media property—it's my personal mythology, built from scratch.

I'm honored when people say my work inspires them—but inspiration is not duplication.

If this book sparks your own creativity, I love that. Truly. But please don't copy my unique scenes, dialogue, pacing, or systems and pass them off as yours elsewhere. I’ve seen what happens to other writers when lines get blurred—and I'm establishing this boundary up front so we avoid any issues later.

Respect the work. Respect the labor. Respect the line between admiration and theft. ✨

If you ever see someone borrowing too closely from Godly Things, feel free to let me know.

Thank you for understanding. Now—let's enter the security gates.

~

𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

Now, onto something just as important: how we engage in the comments.

1. Do not romanticize trauma. This story may explore heavy themes, but that doesn't mean they should be taken lightly. If you can't engage with these topics respectfully, this might not be the space for you.

2. Do 𝑵𝑶𝑻 trauma-dump in the comments. I understand that stories can be personal and triggering, but it's unfair to expect other readers (or me) to process heavy, deeply personal experiences in a casual reading space. If you share details about serious trauma, your comment will be deleted, and you may be muted. Remember, this is a public site and others engage on it too; be mindful of others' mental state as well as your own.

3. Respect cultural boundaries. For the love of Gods above, do 𝑵𝑶𝑻 refer to me as Author-nim, Author-chan, etc. unless you're actually from the culture or seriously learning the language. I'm not Korean or Japanese, and using those titles outside their intended context can come off as fetishizing. Just call me Xani, and we're good, lovelies.

4. Character descriptions & inclusivity. And finally, and most importantly, as you read, please don't be shocked if (keyword: 'if' so it may or may not even happen) there is use of broad/random signifiers such as "brown", "twists", "curls", etc. when describing features/hairstyles and types for characters in the book; it won't be the main focus, nor constantly used throughout the story, just sprinkled here and there to add a bit more realism (in my opinion) and no way meant to alienate anyone.

The aim and goal of my writing is to create immersive stories that include POC characters—ranging from side characters, love interests, etc. I want to create something that includes everyone, especially those who often feel left out (*cough* POC-readers*cough*). If this is something that upsets you, well, then leave 💀. I promise, there are thousands of other reader-inserts that provide the Y/N and their friends with 'pale skin' and 'pink blushing cheeks' descriptions to satisfy your cravings to read books that cater to you 🫶🏾.

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓 [Dec. 01, 2024]: A Final Note (Because Yes, I Over-Explain & I Know It 💀)

 P.S.: Oh, and sorry if I come across as blunt or bitchy (trust me, I've been getting notes—and even emails 💀—about it lately). I promise I'm not like this in real life! It's just that I prefer to ensure all bases are covered when I write disclaimers, and sometimes that tone can come off differently in text than intended.

For a bit of context, I'm neurodivergent (autistic), which means I tend to prioritize clear communication and structure—sometimes to the point of being overly thorough. I don't use that as an excuse, but it does explain why I approach things the way I do.

And to be honest, my 'overly extra' or 'bitter' tone (yes, I've been told it's bitter and to just shut up and write because it's just fanfiction) isn't about trying to be combative or overly serious. It comes from a mix of past experiences where things spiraled out of control—people trauma-dumping in the comments, disregarding boundaries, or outright misinterpreting what I was trying to communicate.

Those moments taught me a lot, but they also left me overstimulated and anxious because I had to step in, whether that meant deleting comments, ignoring things entirely, or, in the worst cases, directly addressing someone and essentially scolding them (which, trust me, is not my idea of fun). Just thinking about those situations makes me uneasy, so that's why I tend to over-explain and sound a little "extra"—it's my way of protecting my peace.

I get that not everyone takes fanfiction this seriously, and that's okay. But for me, my writing is something I pour a lot of care and effort into—fanfic or not—so I feel it's worth being clear and firm upfront.

Being upfront also helps me avoid situations that can become unnecessarily stressful, so if that rubs people the wrong way, I genuinely apologize—but at the same time, I have to prioritize what keeps this space manageable and enjoyable for me and my readers.

Once again, I genuinely apologize; it's not my intention to come off harsh or unwelcoming, nor is it my intention to run any of you away.

I hope that clears things up a bit! I'm genuinely grateful for those who take the time to read, engage, and share their thoughts (even if we don't always see eye to eye). 💕

Thanks again for being here, and I hope you enjoy the story! 🫶🏾

⊱ ─༻❁༺─ ⊰

P.S. *This is a FanFic (Fan made). The original characters shown in this book are an entire work of fiction unless stated otherwise.*

[I really enjoy sharing the things I create with others on this platform, but if any of my writings are stolen, I'll be forced to take them down indefinitely! Enjoy 😀]

Chapter Text

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 

You were never supposed to matter. A servant girl tucked beneath Penelope's watchful eye, shadowed by the palace and haunted by the gods. But something stirred—divine and forbidden. And when favor becomes fixation, the line between blessed and cursed begins to blur.

This was supposed to be a quiet life. You were supposed to be a nobody.

But the gods were watching. And so was he.

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

❝May the gods be kind to you, child. For their favor is not always a blessing.❞

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

↳  ❝And if there's a reason I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died. I'm willing to wait for it.❞

— Wait For It, Leslie Odom Jr. [HAMILTON: An American Musical]

⌜❝In spite of all my fears, I can see it all so clear.❞  ↲

— Crystals, Of Monsters and Men

↳  ❝Is it easier to stay? Is it easier to go? I don't wanna know, oh.❞

— Easier, 5 Seconds of Summer

⌜❝Baby, let me be your man, So I can love you (I can love you).❞  ↲

— Let Me, Zayn

↳  ❝The good grace of this godlight. It's to have it in your hands. It's the one thing I wanted all my life. It's all mine.❞

— Godlight, Noah Kahan

⌜❝You make me feel like I'm drunk on stars and we're dancing out into space.❞  ↲

— Celeste, Ed Sheeran

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Eileithyia rushed through the marble halls of Olympus, her breath coming in short, labored pants. A silver torch flickered in her grasp, the flames matching the intensity of her frantic heartbeats.

She was a striking figure—her dark hair tied beneath a kerchief, the embroidered peplos of pinkish-red flowed behind her like a stream. The wreath adorning her head shifted as she ran, her lips muttering prayers to herself—each word an urgent, unyielding reminder.

No, no, no... I'm going to be late, she thought, a fearful frown etched on her face.

Eileithyia had a purpose today—a life hung in the balance, and she was supposed to be there. As the goddess of childbirth, her presence was crucial.

The birth couldn't conclude without her.

She had seen centuries of births, had delivered souls into the harsh yet beautiful realm of humanity, and she had never been late.

Not once. Yet, this evening had not gone as planned.

Ate—the goddess of mischief, ruin, and destruction—had decided otherwise.

She had taken it upon herself to set a thousand small obstacles in Eileithyia's path—misplaced tools, disruptions among the mortals, inexplicable detours. A labyrinth of mischief that made her late—far later than she'd ever imagined possible.

Annoyances. Delays. Each a thread that tangled itself around Eileithyia's feet, keeping her from where she needed to be. The weight of her tardiness bore down on her chest, a gnawing fear taking root within her.

By the time she arrived on Earth, it was far too late.

She arrived to a quaint carriage, situated alone under a starlit sky. Its windows glowed softly in the night, and inside, she could hear the low murmurs of those gathered.

The humble room she entered was dark, the shadows deep, illuminated only by the glow of her torch. And at the center of it all sat a woman, her skin a warm sepia, her dark hair pulled away from her tear-streaked face.

"Nooo!" The woman sobbed, her face buried into a bundle of cloth that she cradled to her chest.

Eileithyia's heart sank as she ventured silently along the walls of the room, She observed the scene before her, her chest aching.

Eileithyia moved along the walls of the room, unseen and unheard, her presence cloaked from mortal eyes. Her heart broke for what she saw: the woman was crying, her face twisted in a sorrow that needed no words to explain. Beside her sat a young man, his blond locks disheveled, his hands trembling as he gently held his wife.

"Aleka, my love...," he whispered, his voice a soft rasp that shattered the silence. He held her, and she clung to him as if she could drown her sorrow in his embrace.

"I-I can't... it hurts, Kairo," she whimpered, tears streaming freely, her body still trembling with pain, her lower body coated in blood.

The room was shrouded in somber silence, broken only by Aleka's soft cries and the muffled movements of the midwives as they cleaned up the remnants of the birth that had gone so terribly wrong.

The atmosphere weighed heavily with sorrow, grief, and the undeniable finality of death.

Eileithyia walked closer to the grieving parents, her heart aching with each step.

She peered down, her heart fracturing further at the sight of the stillborn child. The infant lay so small and delicate in her mother's arms, her tiny features illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

She was perfect—round cheeks, a delicate button nose, tiny lips formed in an innocent pout, like a rosebud just beginning to bloom.

A beautiful soul, taken far too soon, Eileithyia thought, her fingers reaching to trace the baby's soft cheek, committing every detail to memory.

With a soft hum, Eileithyia leaned over, her torch casting a glow that seemed to wrap around the infant like a final embrace; her fingers brushed Aleka's arm in a silent farewell before she lifted the child from her mother's grasp, cradling her in her arms.

Stepping back from the grieving parents, Eileithyia kept her gaze lowered, her steps quiet and deliberate. She knew her path—she would descend into the Underworld, where the souls of the dead found rest.

It wasn't fair, but it was life.

As she walked away, the parents' anguished cries softened, fading into the distance. The baby's body felt heavier in her arms as she began the descent, the air thickening around her with the scent of earth and ancient mist.

Before she could cross the threshold into the underworld, a servant burst into the room.

"Wait!"

Eileithyia paused, glancing over her shoulder to see a servant running towards the grieving parents; he was out of breath, his eyes wild with urgency, his voice stammering as he spoke.

In his hands, he held a small, glowing flower—its petals shimmering with an ethereal light, as though capturing the very essence of dawn within its delicate form.

"A-a prophecy," he gasped, as the midwives turned to face him, "from Delphi. This is a sacred flower, blessed by Apollo himself. It is said to have grown in Apollo's sacred groves, glowing with a golden light, and its essence has the power to bring a soul back from the edge of death. But it must be used swiftly—before the child is taken beyond the threshold of the Underworld!"

The servant's head turned, almost supernaturally, his gaze distant but unwavering. It was as though his eyes pierced the veil between mortal and divine, locking onto Eileithyia.

For a heartbeat, Eileithyia paused, her steps faltering as she felt the weight of his stare. It was almost as if he could see her—an ethereal figure, a goddess holding a child who had yet to fully cross into death.

She glanced down at the small bundle, her heart torn between sorrow and an instinctive sense of duty, before looking back up, determination setting into her expression; she would wait.

The father, Kairo, looked at the servant with suspicion, his face hardening. His voice was edged with both desperation and anger as he asked, "What is the cost? A life saved by the gods always comes with a price, doesn't it?"

The servant hesitated, his gaze flickering, clearly struggling with the burden of the answer. The tension in the room was palpable as the father repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Tell me, what's the price? Or are you just here to give us false hope?"

Swallowing nervously, the servant finally spoke, his voice trembling. "The oracle says that the child will carry the weight of Apollo's favor—a debt that may come due at any time, with no guarantees of what the gods might ask."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the air almost too thick to breathe.

Aleka's gaze met Kairo's, her eyes filled with tears, wide with both fear and desperate hope. She looked at her husband, searching his face for guidance.

Kairo stared back at her, the love for his wife evident in the way his hardened features softened ever so slightly.

Kairo finally lowered his gaze, looking down at their stillborn daughter. She looked so peaceful, her tiny form held in her mother's embrace.

His throat tightened, the pain of the decision weighing on him, but he knew there was no choice—only a chance to give their daughter the life she deserved.

He nodded, his eyes filled with determination and love as he whispered, "Do it."

Aleka let out a shaky breath, her trembling voice joining his. "Yes... do it. Whatever the cost, we will bear it."

The midwives moved with urgency, retrieving all the materials needed for an impromptu salve. The flower's petals glowed with a gentle golden light, and its aroma filled the room with warmth and magic.

The servant cradled it reverently, before crushing it in his hands, the glowing powder falling into a small dish.

With practiced hands, the midwives mixed it into a poultice, and applied it gently to the baby's lips, her chest, and her tiny forehead.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The room was silent, the air thick with anticipation, Aleka and Kairo holding their breaths.

Eileithyia paused, her hands trembling, her eyes never leaving the babe in her arms.

And then—a miracle.

The baby in Eileithyia's arms squirmed, her eyes opening wide. The goddess stared down, her heart swelling with relief and wonder.

A small, smoky puff enveloped the baby, and before Eileithyia could react, the infant vanished from her arms.

Over the veil separating mortal and divine, a sharp, piercing cry filled the once-silent room. Aleka gasped, her head snapping up as the bundle in her arms moved, the baby's eyes open, her cries loud and full of life.

Through her sobs, Aleka cried out her daughter's name, "____" her voice trembling with joy as she held her daughter close. Kairo, too, let out a shaky breath, his eyes wide with disbelief, his hands moving to wrap around both his wife and child.

The baby was alive, saved by the flower—a favor of Apollo himself, bestowed only upon those whose fate had caught his eye.

Eileithyia watched quietly from the shadows, her heart heavy and hopeful at once.

She knew what this meant. This child was touched by the gods.

And the gods... the gods did not simply forget those who had been touched by their favor.

As the infant settled into her mother's embrace, Eileithyia whispered to herself, her voice a soft promise that disappeared into the night.

"May the gods be kind to you, child. For their favor is not always a blessing."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The sun shone brightly, a golden orb in a cloudless sky, casting warmth over the bustling marketplace.

The air was filled with the hum of activity—the laughter of children running around, their small feet kicking up dust as they giggled, weaving in and out between makeshift stalls.

Shopkeepers called out their wares, their voices blending into a melodic cacophony.

Stands made from old wood and vibrant fabrics offered fruits, spices, and handmade crafts, creating a colorful, bustling scene that felt almost like a miniature city.

Aleka moved through the crowd, her face beaming with a bright, content smile. A woven basket rested in the crook of her arm, filled with a few goods already purchased.

Her clothes were simple yet well-made, comfortable, and hand-knitted from good material—dyed in soft, earthy colors. Her long hair was pulled into a low bun, stray wisps framing her radiant face.

But what had the beautiful woman smiling most was the wide-eyed, joyful toddler clutching her hand.

"____," Aleka called gently, her voice filled with warmth as she turned to look at her child. The both of you stopped in front of a fruit stand, and she knelt down to your level, her hands reaching up to cup your soft, chubby cheeks. "What would you like, my sweet one?"

You turned your gaze from the bustling crowd to your mother, your eyes brightening as you grinned. You pointed to your favorite fruit—sweet figs, their dark skin glistening in the sunlight—your voice ringing out with excitement. "Figs!"

Aleka giggled at your enthusiasm, nodding. "Alright, my little dove," she said with a smile, rising to her feet to do the transaction with the older woman selling the fruits.

As your mother began to barter, you found your attention drifting away, your ears catching a soft, gentle sound—a melody drifting through the market.

There was something about it that pulled at you, a feeling you couldn't quite explain.

Your small hand slipped free from your mother's as you slowly wandered away, drawn by the enchanting tune.

The music led you further into the marketplace until you came upon a small crowd seated in a semi-circle around a young man who was playing an instrument—a lyre.

Your little form managed to squeeze its way to the front, giving you a close-up view of the musician.

The young man was slender, with a boyish face, his features gentle and kind. His hair was short, dark, and neatly kept, with a laurel wreath resting upon his head. His skin was tanned, sun-kissed from days spent outdoors, and his eyes were a light brown, glinting almost golden in the sunlight.

He strummed the lyre with deft fingers, his voice smooth and melodic, weaving an ode to Apollo.

"Apollo of the golden lyre, bringer of light and muse's fire, may your radiance never fade, and guide us through each night and shade..."

You listened, enraptured, your young heart swelling with an inexplicable warmth. The words were beautiful, filled with devotion and reverence, and something in the music seemed to speak directly to your soul, filling you with awe.

The melody wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, and you found yourself swaying gently to the tune, unable to look away from the lyre or the boy who played it.

As the last note of his song faded into the air, the small crowd erupted into applause, the people around you clapping enthusiastically as the young man gave a polite bow, a soft smile on his face.

He began to pack up his lyre, but as his eyes swept over the crowd, they landed on you, lingering for a moment.

A hint of confusion flickered across his features before his lips curved into a wider smile. He walked over to where you stood, bending at the waist so that he was at your level.

The young man hummed thoughtfully, his eyes studying you with curiosity. "You know," he said softly, "you must be favored, little one." His voice was kind, and there was something almost knowing in his gaze. He reached up, plucking the laurel wreath from his head before gently placing it on yours, the leaves brushing against your hair. "May Apollo's blessings follow you always," he whispered with a gentle smile.

Suddenly, a voice called your name, tinged with urgency and relief. "____!"

You looked over to see your mother standing a few feet away, a small bag of fruit in her hand.

Her eyes were wide with concern, but as soon as they landed on you, her shoulders relaxed. She hurried over, her eyes shifting to the young man, who had straightened up and was now watching her with a polite expression.

"Is this your little one?" the musician asked, his smile never fading.

Aleka nodded, her lips curving into a warm smile as you skipped over to her, wrapping your arms around her thigh and looking up at her with a bright grin. "Yes, she is," Aleka replied, her voice soft with affection.

The young man bowed slightly. "She is a special one. May Apollo continue to bless her," he said, his words carrying a weight that made Aleka freeze for a moment.

It was as if he knew something more—something he shouldn't know; but she quickly forced a smile, nodding in thanks. "Thank you, truly," she replied.

With that, the young man turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, his lyre slung over his shoulder. Aleka watched him go for a moment before looking down at you, her eyes softening at the sight of the laurel wreath perched on your head.

"Come, my little dove," she said, her voice gentle as she took your hand once more, and the two of you began making your way back home.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink as you and your mother walked along the familiar path.

You chattered happily about the marketplace, the laurel wreath still sitting snugly atop your head.

Neither of you noticed how, as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, the wreath shimmered softly, the leaves turning a delicate shade of gold—glowing faintly, as if touched by a divine hand.

☆

☆

Apollo's favor came in small, gentle ways at first—a gift that always seemed sweeter than it was meant to be and far more complicated.

Your favorite flowers always bloomed a little longer in the fields near your home, even when they should have withered with the changing seasons. The fig trees that bore your favorite fruit remained lush and plentiful, giving you their bounty when others turned barren.

Even from a young age, it was clear that you were different—a prodigy.

Your mother would often take you to the bustling marketplace, letting you listen to the musicians who played their instruments with skill and passion.

You would watch, enraptured, until one day you finally plucked up the courage to pick up a lyre and sing yourself.

From that day forward, music came naturally to you; your fingers danced over the strings of the lyre without thought, and your voice flowed with melodies that had the power to still hearts and even bring tears to the eyes of Hades himself.

People whispered that you were a reincarnation of Orpheus himself, because when you played, your melodies held the power to stir even the coldest hearts, to make flowers bloom, and to soothe wild beasts.

But favor with the gods was a double-edged sword—fate had its own plans for those touched by divinity, and those plans could be cruel, even for someone like you.

The curse that had lingered over your family for generations had finally come. A curse that began with Aphrodite herself, who had been slighted by one of your distant ancestors—a beautiful, radiant figure who had fallen deeply in love but failed to pay homage to the goddess of love, thinking that true love alone was enough.

Aphrodite had other ideas. She was vindictive in her beauty, jealous in her divinity. She cursed your ancestor and all their descendants: every family that dared to find happiness would inevitably face heartbreak.

The tragedy that was meant to strike your parents—losing their beloved child—had been prevented by Apollo. But fate could not be denied so easily.

An illness swept through your household—a sickness that drained strength, dimmed eyes, and stole warmth.

Yet, you remained untouched.

You had always kept your golden laurel leaf close; its soft glow and delicate form seemingly held some protective power. You would sit by their bedside, clutching the laurel, hoping its light could extend beyond you and touch them too.

But no matter how tightly you held it, you couldn't change their fate

So while your parents fell ill, you remained strong; the sickness passed over you as though repelled by the leaf's light.

And despite all their efforts, your parents were not as fortunate; they succumbed, leaving you alone in the world—an orphan with no one left to turn to.

☆

☆

You wandered the countryside, your stomach empty, your feet aching, your heart heavy.

It had been months since your parents passed, and everything seemed to crumble after that. The clothes you wore were now nothing but rags—tattered, worn, and barely able to protect you from the elements.

Your once soft, comfortable dresses were replaced by frayed garments, hanging loosely off your thinning frame, stained with dirt and the remnants of long, restless travels.

Your feet were bare, the soles cracked and bruised, covered in cuts from the rough terrain.

The wind bit at your exposed skin, and the cold crept into your bones, unrelenting.

The melody that had once been in your heart felt distant, replaced by the hollow sound of emptiness.

The gods' favor seemed to have abandoned you.

You were alone, cold, and hungry—until you heard it.

A sudden melody drifted through the air, soft and haunting, a tune that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was the kind of song that made the heart yearn, tugged at the spirit, and it carried a warmth that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

You followed the melody, your feet moving as if drawn by invisible threads, leading you away from the barren landscape.

As you stepped closer, the music grew louder, guiding you over hills and past clusters of trees until the sight of a village appeared just over the horizon, bustling with life and movement.

It was Apollo's first favor since your family had died—a small sign, a chance to keep moving forward; the warmth in the melody was unmistakable—like a whisper from Apollo himself, urging you onwards.

The music pointed the way forward, leading you to a small village just over the horizon.

The people there were bustling around, merchants calling out their wares, food sizzling over open fires, the scent of spices and salt carried in the air; it reminded you of the marketplace back at home.

Among the bustling crowd, you caught snippets of conversation—a ship soon to depart for the island, Ithaca, carrying traders and travelers, a passage to a new beginning.

After overhearing this, you followed the murmurs, your feet sore and stomach rumbling; your eyes were wide as you spotted the ship at the docks, its sails billowing in the breeze.

You weaved through the crowds until you came across a group of men readying the ship—shouting orders, hauling crates, their voices loud over the creaking of the docked boat.

You slowly moved forward, attempting to slip between the stacked boxes, hoping to get closer unnoticed.

"Aye, little lad! Where do you think you're going?" The voice called out, deep and gruff. You froze, looking up to meet the gaze of a towering man, his brow furrowed as he stared down at you. You swallowed, your throat dry, stepping out from behind the crates with trembling hands.

"I-I was just... looking for something..." you stuttered, your voice trailing off, uncertain and nervous; you were pitiful, covered in dirt, your hair tangled, and your rags hanging loosely off your gaunt frame. Your face was streaked with grime, and your eyes—though bright—were hollow with hunger and exhaustion.

The man eyed you suspiciously, his brows knitting tighter. "Where are your parents, kid?" he asked, his voice now slightly gentler but still gruff.

You looked away, your gaze dropping to the ground as a sadness washed over your features. "They... they're dead," you whispered, your voice barely audible, the pain still fresh even after all these months.

The man was silent for a moment, his eyes softening. He glanced around, then back down at you. "Do you have a place to go?" he asked, his tone now a mix of concern and disbelief. "You look a little young to be wandering on your own."

You pressed your lips into a thin line, refusing to cry. Instead, you stared back at him, determination shining through the exhaustion etched on your face.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, kid," he began, "my ship is heading out towards Ithaca for some trading. I heard Queen Penelope's looking for some hands. She needs workers in her halls, people to help out. It ain't much, but it's something."

Your heart leapt at the chance, and you quickly nodded. "I'm a fast learner, sir. I can do anything, whatever you need. I promise I won't be any trouble." Your voice was earnest, filled with a desperate hope.

The man huffed again, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as if fighting off a smile. "Alright, alright, we'll see about that. Get on, then, but don't be causing any trouble."

Relief flooded you, and you nodded quickly, stepping forward towards the ship, ready to prove yourself—ready for whatever awaited you in Ithaca.

As you stood near the ship's railing, looking out into the endless distance of the sea, the waves shimmered under the sunlight, and the salty breeze whipped through your tangled hair.

You gripped the railing with your bruised and dirt-covered hands, the wood rough under your fingers.

Your heart skipped a beat. You had nothing left here, no family, no home, no future. But Ithaca—it offered a chance, however small, at a new life.

And perhaps, in the halls of Penelope, you might find purpose again—a reason to keep going, a hope to cling to amidst the uncertainty of the open ocean.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The halls of the palace were empty this early in the morning, silent except for the faint echoes of your footsteps. The stone floors were cool beneath your sandals as you moved gracefully, carrying a tray carefully balanced with food and drink for the queen.

The scents of breakfast wafted upwards—a fresh loaf of bread, drizzled with honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds, alongside a bowl of ripe figs and a small serving of olives. A jug of goat's milk rested next to the plate, the cool liquid sloshing slightly as you walked.

You had walked these halls so many times that you barely needed to think about where you were going, your feet knowing the way on their own, your movements steady and confident. Yet, you couldn't help but reflect on how different this all felt from when you first arrived

Back then, you had been a frightened, scrawny child, uncertain if you would even find a place here.

Now, after years of training and being in Penelope's service, you had grown into someone with purpose, someone the queen trusted and relied upon

You passed by tapestries depicting scenes of Ithaca's heroes, the vibrant colors muted in the early morning light.

You often found yourself drawn to these tapestries, seeing in them reflections of the great stories Penelope would tell you. They reminded you of the legacy you were now a part of, a history that you had once thought too grand for someone like you

As you reached a large set of double doors, you paused for a moment before gently knocking. The sound echoed softly down the empty hallway, and you waited until you heard the gentle voice from within:

"Come in."

You pushed the heavy door open, entering the room with a bowed head.

Penelope sat at the windowsill, dressed in her mourning clothes—a deep, rich purple robe, embroidered delicately along the edges. Her dark hair was partially covered by a veil, the fabric thin enough to let light pass through, giving her a ghostly, almost ethereal appearance.

She looked out across the sea, her gaze distant, the waves shimmering under the morning sun. When she heard you enter, she turned, her lips curling into a soft, tired smile. Even as she smiled, the weight of her sorrow remained, etched into her features—a weariness that never seemed to leave her.

"Ah, ____," she said, her voice gentle, yet carrying the weight of her lingering sorrow.

You curtsied, lowering your head respectfully. "Good morning, Queen Penelope. I've come to help you break your fast."

She nodded, her smile not fading, though the sadness lingered in her eyes, a weight that never seemed to truly lift. You walked forward, approaching her carefully, the tray balanced delicately in your hands.

As you set the tray down on the small table beside her, you couldn't help but take in her tired features—the lines that worry and waiting had carved into her face, the weariness that seemed to cling to her even now.

Your time in Ithaca had been a story of struggle and small victories.

After arriving by boat those years ago, you had found yourself amidst many others—orphans and the poor—standing outside the towering halls of Ithaca, each of you hoping for work.

You remembered how you were overlooked at first, Ithaca's head servant dismissing you and a few others with barely a glance; he had been the one in charge of hiring new servants, particularly while Odysseus was gone and Penelope was wrapped so deeply in mourning that she rarely involved herself in the day-to-day matters.

His face was stern, his patience thin, as he waved you off, deeming you too young and weak to be of any use.

You had felt a deep pang of disappointment, a sense that perhaps you truly were not enough. It was a familiar feeling, one that had often accompanied you since you lost your family.

But fate had other plans.

Just as you were about to turn away, Penelope herself had appeared, her figure somber and regal as she passed by. Her eyes caught yours, and something in your pitiful state must have struck her heart.

She paused, her dark eyes lingering on you before she stepped closer, her hand reaching out to gently caress your face. Her touch was soft, her expression filled with a mix of melancholy and tenderness.

In that moment, it felt as though a small ember of hope had sparked within you—a feeling that perhaps you were worth more than the hardships you had faced.

"You look as sweet as a dove," she had murmured, her voice laced with a deep sadness. "Such bright eyes for someone so young."

It was in that moment that she made her decision. She called you forward, and despite the objections of the head servant, she decided to take you under her care.

You were to be trained under other servants until you were old enough, learning the ways of the palace, how to serve properly, how to carry yourself with grace and dignity.

Over time, you became one of her personal maidens, trusted with tasks that others were not, your bond with her deepening as the years passed.

You came to understand her sorrow and her strength, admiring the quiet resilience she carried each day.

Penelope had given you a chance when no one else would, and you felt a deep loyalty towards her—a loyalty born from both gratitude and genuine admiration for the woman she was

Now, as you stood beside her, offering her breakfast, you could see the years that had passed reflected in both of you—her, still mourning but holding on, and you, no longer that lost child from the docks but someone with a purpose, with a role in the grand halls of Ithaca.

There was a sense of pride in how far you had come, a feeling that perhaps you were slowly repaying the faith Penelope had placed in you all those years ago. The weight of that trust and your determination to be worthy of it were always present, driving you to do your best every day.

Penelope glanced at the tray before her, her tired smile softening further. "Thank you, ____," she said, her voice quiet. "You have always been a light in these halls."

You bowed your head again, a warmth spreading through your chest at her words. "It is an honor, my queen," you replied, your voice steady, though you could not help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

As Penelope began to nibble on the bread and sip the goat's milk, she looked at you thoughtfully. "____," she said, her tone gentle but weary, "what news do we have of the suitors?"

Your face faltered for a brief moment, the exhaustion of dealing with the suitors creeping into your expression, but you quickly smoothed it out, replacing it with a cheerful smile. "Prince Telemachus is handling them well, my queen," you said brightly, though in your heart, you felt the cracks beginning to show. The suitors were restless, and each passing day seemed to test the young prince's patience more and more; you could sense that the tension was growing, and it was only a matter of time before something would need to give. "He's been taking them on hunts and finding ways to keep them occupied. He does his best to ensure they remain... entertained."

Penelope sighed, her eyes lowering to her lap. Her fingers traced the edge of the table idly, the tiredness once again visible in her features. "How long can I keep them at bay?" she whispered, almost to herself. "It's been twenty years now... how much longer must I hold them off?"

The sorrow in her voice was palpable, and for a moment, the silence in the room seemed to deepen, broken only by the distant sounds of the waves outside.

Knowing your place, you tried to offer her comfort, your voice gentle but resolute. "My queen, remember what your husband promised you?" you began softly, stepping closer. "You told me once, in confidence, that he swore he'd sooner fall into the River Styx than betray his vow to you. King Odysseus will find his way back to you, no matter the trials he faces."

Penelope looked up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She gave you a watery smile, her shoulders lifting slightly as she sighed once more, her posture relaxing just a bit. "Thank you, ____," she whispered. "Sometimes... I need reminding."

As she finished her meal, Penelope glanced at you again, her expression softer. ____, would you perhaps sing for us tonight at dinner? The halls could use some joy, and your voice has always been a comfort to us all."

You smiled warmly, bowing your head. "Anything for you, my queen," you replied, your voice filled with warmth and sincerity.

☆

☆

The palace kitchens were bustling with commotion. The air was filled with the smells of herbs, freshly baked bread, and simmering stews as people moved back and forth, their arms full with ingredients, plates, and cooking tools.

Voices overlapped, cooks shouting out commands, and scullery maids scrambling to keep up with the rapid pace. The clinking of pots and pans rang out like a steady rhythm, the heartbeat of the palace.

You moved gracefully through the chaos, the tray held carefully in your hands until you found an empty space on the counter to place it down. You glanced up just in time to hear a voice raised in frustration.

"Gods above! Another request for roast peacock and olives, as if we're swimming in olive oil and gold!" The man in question was the head cook, a greying, scowling figure by the name of Argon, his face twisted in annoyance as he ranted to a younger kitchen boy. His voice was deep, roughened from years of shouting over the din of the kitchen. His hands were covered in flour, his apron stained with the work of the day.

The moment his eyes landed on you, however, his fierce expression softened considerably, and the scowl fell from his lips. "Ah, ____," he called, cutting himself off mid-rant, his eyes crinkling kindly. "How are you, girl? Did the queen enjoy her breakfast?"

You gave him a polite bow, smiling as you replied, "She did, Master Argon, thank you. Though she did ask if it would be possible to have a lighter broth for her dinner later on. She's not feeling up to anything too rich today."

Argon's face softened further, a gentle smile replacing the frustration. "Of course, of course. Anything for the queen," he murmured. But his face soon fell back into a scowl, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "If only those no-good suitors were anything like the queen. They want to eat like kings every single night! Extravagance, waste... they're draining the storage dry with their demands." He let out a gruff sigh, slamming a rolling pin onto a pile of dough with a bit more force than necessary.

You hummed in understanding, your brow furrowing slightly. "Perhaps I can speak with Prince Telemachus," you offered, your voice gentle. "Maybe he can convince them to bring in more from their hunts. They should replace what they take if they want to keep demanding so much."

Argon looked at you, his eyes warming as he paused his work. "You're too kind, ____. Always thinking of everyone else. A real beauty, inside and out." He reached out and patted your arm gently before turning back to his dough, the scowl still lingering but tempered by your promise. "Go on now, and watch out for yourself. Those halls are filled with troublemakers."

You nodded, offering him one last smile before turning to leave the busy kitchen. As you walked down the quieter hall, the hustle and bustle fading behind you, you were suddenly yanked around a corner, your heart leaping in surprise. You found yourself face-to-face with a familiar grin.

"Cleo!" you gasped, a laugh escaping you as you steadied yourself. Cleo was a striking girl—pale skin, long blonde hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, and bright green eyes that always seemed to be filled with mischief. She was beautiful, with delicate features and a playful smile that could charm just about anyone.

Cleo giggled, her eyes sparkling. "Sorry, sorry! I just had to catch you before you disappeared again," she said, her voice light and teasing. "Are you free later? A few of us girls are planning to head over to where the young suitors will be gathering after dinner. We thought we'd do a little... mingling." She waggled her eyebrows at you suggestively, her grin widening.

You furrowed your brows, shaking your head. "I can't. Queen Penelope has asked me to sing tonight at dinner."

Cleo groaned dramatically, then giggled once more. "No worries, we'll just have to use your beautiful voice to get serenaded by those dashing suitors," she teased, nudging you lightly.

You scoffed, a smile tugging at your lips, though you couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. "You know better than to be fooling around with those suitors, Cleo," you said, your tone more serious. "They aren't interested in anything more than fleeting entertainment. You could get hurt."

Cleo just rolled her eyes, her expression shifting to one of nonchalance. "Oh, ____, you worry too much. They're rich, and we're just servants. I'm just having fun while it lasts. It's harmless." She waved her hand dismissively, her green eyes twinkling with defiance. "Not all of us have a handsome prince practically hanging on our arm."

You blinked, feeling your cheeks grow warm at her words. "Cleo, it's not like that," you stammered, waving her off, but she just laughed, giving you a knowing look before skipping away down the hall, her laughter echoing behind her.

You watched her go, your face still flushed, before you shook your head, letting out a sigh. You had to get back to your duties, and today that meant ensuring you completed Penelope's request.

As a personal handmaiden, your duties varied greatly, often requiring you to attend to the queen's comfort, whether it was keeping her space tidy, arranging her garments, or fetching whatever she needed; but today, all the queen asked of you was to bring music back to the halls.

You headed towards a small shed built on the edge of the palace grounds, a place dedicated solely for your instruments.

Not too long after you had settled into the palace, Penelope had discovered your talent for singing. She had been utterly moved, telling you that your voice was the first thing that had stirred her heart since her husband left for war.

Wanting to nurture your gift, she had this little structure built to hold the growing pile of instruments she would acquire for you.

Whenever Penelope came across a unique or exotic instrument—whether it be at a market, a gift from a visiting dignitary, or a trinket discovered in the palace storerooms—she would have it sent to you.

You always seemed to master whatever instrument she placed in your hands, your fingers learning the strings, keys, or beats with an ease that brought joy to her otherwise weary heart.

The inside of the shed was filled with an assortment of Greek instruments—lyres of varying sizes, an aulos, a kithara, and a pandura. But there were also instruments that were much more exotic: a Chinese guzheng with its shimmering strings, a small djembe drum with intricate carvings, brought by a trader from distant African lands, and even an erhu with its hauntingly beautiful tone.

Penelope loved seeing you interact with these exotic gifts, marveling at how easily you brought each one to life with music.

You stepped into the shed, the familiar smell of polished wood and aged parchment wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

You selected your favorite lyre, the one Penelope had given you first, and turned back towards the private courtyard—a space often used for rehearsing or practicing away from the prying eyes of the palace.

The courtyard was quiet, filled with blooming flowers and shaded by tall olive trees, providing you with the tranquility you needed.

You began practicing the song the queen had requested, your voice rising softly amidst the rustling leaves and the gentle breeze."I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free..."

The song was one of love and loss, a haunting melody of tragedy and reunion. It was a ballad you created for her; a tale of lovers separated by fate, only to find each other again through trials and tears.

As you sang, you did not notice how the sun seemed to shine down on you a little brighter, as if the heavens themselves were listening.

The small flowers around you swayed gently, their blossoms leaning towards you as though you were their light.

The air seemed to hum in harmony, a warmth spreading through the courtyard, and the leaves of the olive trees rustled softly, almost in applause.

There was a beauty in the moment that felt almost divine, as if the earth and sky were united by the sound of your voice, each note resonating with the hope and pain carried in the song.

And as the last note rung out and you struck the final chord on the lyre, you felt a warmth roll over you, like the embrace of sunlight on a cold day.

A low voice sighed from nearby, whispering, "Gods, I don't think I could ever tire of hearing you sing..."

Startled, you opened your eyes, your gaze shifting towards the voice.

Leaning casually against the trunk of a tall cypress tree stood a young man, his presence subtly commanding the tranquil courtyard. His hair, dark and curly, fell in messy waves around his face, some strands clinging stubbornly to his forehead and cheekbones.

He was dressed in the fine garments of royalty—a rich, deep blue himation draped over a white tunic, the fabric of which was adorned with golden embroidery along its edges.

His skin held a warm, sun-kissed hue, with faint traces of stubble gracing his jawline and upper lip, giving him a rugged, almost wild look. His build was lean but solid, showing a life that spoke of training and discipline.

Though youthful, there was a quiet intensity in his sharp features, a hint of something deeper beneath his calm, collected exterior. He seemed almost a part of the earth itself, grounded, unwavering, and watching.

You breathed out softly, "Prince Telemachus."

The young man's smile widened at the sound of your voice, his eyes lighting up with a mix of admiration and warmth as he began making his way over to you, his footsteps quiet against the stone pathway.

Telemachus reached you and, without a hint of hesitation, plopped himself down on the grass beside you.

Internally, you wanted to fret about him getting his fine clothes dirty, but you knew better by now—Telemachus had always been one to ignore such trivial concerns, brushing them off with that same carefree grin.

He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a boyish delight. "I swear, I could listen to you sing that a hundred times over. Especially the part where you..." He cleared his throat, attempting to mimic a line, though his voice wobbled in a way that was both charming and utterly off-key. "...Wᵉeᵖ fᵒr ʸoᵘ, mʸ lᵒsᵗ lᵒvᵉ..."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound spilling out as you shook your head, nudging his leg gently. "Not quite, my prince. Perhaps leave the singing to those of us who aren't heirs to Ithaca," you teased, setting the lyre aside. He chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Before he leaned back, though, he hesitated. "Wait a second..." he murmured, and his fingers reached out, brushing away a stray lock of hair that had fallen over your cheek.

Your breath caught as he leaned in closer, his hand lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

His eyes met yours, the warmth in them somehow soft yet piercing. His lips curled into a smile, his gaze holding yours as he hummed in approval. "...There."

The space between you seemed to vanish, and your pulse quickened, your heart racing over this simple, fleeting touch.

You swallowed, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you looked back at him, your thoughts whirling. Surely he could hear the drumming of your heart?

But then he pulled away, completely relaxed, as though he hadn't just sent you into a whirlwind of overthinking.

Telemachus stretched back, lying flat on the grass with a contented sigh, his arms tucked behind his head as a makeshift pillow. His eyes drifted closed, his face bathed in the golden light of the sun.

His expression was carefree, as though he hadn't a worry in the world, and you watched the way the sunlight traced the lines of his jaw, highlighting the boyish softness that lingered in his face.

His curls shone like burnished bronze, his skin glowing with the warmth of someone untouched by the weight he carried.

You couldn't help but think how effortlessly at ease he seemed, oblivious to the way he'd set your heart into overdrive.

Suddenly, he popped open an eye, startling you out of your thoughts. You quickly looked down, fiddling with the strings of your lyre, pretending to adjust them.

Telemachus sat up, his gaze fixed on you, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Mother told me you'll be singing tonight," he said, his voice soft.

You nodded, your eyes still cast downward. "Yes, my prince, that is correct."

Telemachus hummed, absently toying with a blade of grass between his fingers. "Will you be playing her favorite song?" he asked, his tone curious.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Of course, my prince," you replied. His mother's favorite song was one you knew by heart, each note infused with the hope she carried through the years of waiting.

Telemachus' eyes softened, his smile turning sad. He looked up at you, his gaze earnest. "I'm glad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I fear it's the only thing that's been keeping her 'here'."

You both knew what he meant. The weight of the years was heavy on her, and there were moments it seemed her spirit had almost drifted away.

There was a silence between you, the kind that held shared understanding, until suddenly, Telemachus' lips curled into a smirk. His features glowed with a mischievous charm, his gaze twinkling as he leaned closer.

You couldn't help but notice the light scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose, almost hidden beneath the shade of his dark curls.

"Tell me, ____," he said, his voice teasing as he looked up at you from under his long lashes, "will you ever write a song for me?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your heart raced, warmth rushing to your cheeks.

Little did the prince know, you had written hundreds of songs about him—about the love you harbored for him but were too afraid to speak of. You turned away slightly, trying to calm yourself before stuttering out, "O-of course, my prince. All you need to do is ask."

Telemachus chuckled, the sound soft and almost affectionate. "It's okay," he said, shaking his head, still toying with the blade of grass. "I'd rather you write one for me without asking, for me to be your muse. Otherwise, it wouldn't be any better than me paying for a song, would it?"

Before either of you could say anything more, loud voices cut through the tranquility of the courtyard.

You looked up, startled, to see a group of suitors ambling down the courtyard, their voices echoing off the palace walls. They were dressed in hunting gear—thick tunics, leather belts, and their bows slung across their backs.

The men spoke loudly, laughing amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.

Telemachus let out a groan, throwing his head back, cursing softly under his breath as he stood up, brushing the grass off his garments.

The group of suitors moved closer, one of them impatiently calling out, "Little Wolf! We're waiting for you; hurry up! We want to hunt a bit before we head back for dinner."

Another laughed, elbowing his friend as he added, "Maybe we can charm some 'desserts' out of a servant or two while we're at it." The rest of them laughed in agreement.

Telemachus cast a glance down at you, his eyes softening for a moment as if checking to see if you were alright. But after noticing that you seemed unbothered by their crassness, he frowned, turning back to the suitors. "It's uncouth for you all to lust after another household's servants," he said, his voice stern.

One of the suitors laughed him off, shaking his head. "A servant is a servant, no matter the location, Telemachus," he replied dismissively.

It was then that one of the suitors, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scruffy beard, took notice of you sitting on the ground behind Telemachus. His eyes narrowed, and a sleazy smile spread across his face. "Well, hello there," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance as he began to move toward you.

Before he could take another step, Telemachus moved swiftly, positioning himself between the suitor and you.

The easygoing smile that had once graced his lips was replaced by a cold, serious expression. His eyes darkened as he stared down the suitor, who paused before letting out a derisive laugh. "Ah, I see. This one's taken by the prince, is she?" he sneered.

Telemachus didn't rise to the bait, his voice steady and uninterested. "We're wasting daylight. If you want to hunt, let's get going," he said, sidestepping the taunts.

With a few more muttered comments, the group of suitors eventually turned away, moving on with their plans.

As they walked off, Telemachus stood still, waiting until they were at a good distance before turning back to you. He offered his hand to help you up, and with one graceful motion, he pulled you to your feet with ease, his strength evident as he lifted you almost effortlessly.

You steadied yourself, murmuring a soft thank you. But just as Telemachus was about to walk away, you found yourself reaching out, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Prince Telemachus," you called softly.

He turned, his face softening as he looked down at you, his full attention on you now.

You had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his gaze, your fingers slipping from his wrist only for his hand to turn, grasping yours gently in return. The warmth of his palm against yours steadied you.

You swallowed nervously, pushing through your frazzled thoughts. "Would it be possible... to get the suitors to cut back on their extravagance? Or perhaps encourage them to bring in more from their hunts? The kitchen storage is running low. The demands are getting quite... difficult to manage," you said, your voice almost a whisper.

Telemachus met your gaze, the intensity in his eyes fading into something gentler as he offered you a small smile, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. "Of course, ____," he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "I'll take care of it." 

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The light of the late afternoon sun streamed in through the small window of your room, illuminating the modest space with a soft golden glow. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, drifting in and out of the sunlight, as if time had stilled within these four walls.

The space was modest—small enough that, if you spread your arms, your fingers would nearly brush either wall. The bed was a simple cot pushed against the corner, layered with a thin blanket and a single pillow.

There wasn't much else: a rickety chair, the small dresser, and a wooden box under the bed where you kept your belongings.

It was far from luxurious, but it was yours.

You had a room to yourself, and that was more than most servants could ever dream of.

Servants usually stayed in the common quarters, sharing their space with others—no privacy, no quiet moments, so having your own room—albeit a tiny one—felt like a luxury, a place where you could gather your thoughts in peace, surrounded by familiar, if simple, comforts.

In this space, the worries of the palace faded, leaving only the gentle hum of your own heartbeat and the soft echo of music that seemed to linger even in silence.

Here, you could lay down the weight of duty, if only for a little while.

And for that, you were thankful.

You hummed softly to yourself as you prepared for the evening's performance.

Your chiton was simple—white, loose, and flowing, cinched at the waist with a thin cord. The cloth was light, airy, and allowed you to move comfortably—perfect for an evening of singing.

There was nothing grand about it, yet the purity of the white fabric gave you a sense of grace and calm.

Settling onto the stool, you picked up your lyre, letting it rest gently in your lap.

As your fingers moved deftly along each string, coaxing it back into tune, you began to oil them, the scent of olive oil filling the small room.

Suddenly, a warmth bloomed at your fingertips—a faint, tingling sensation. It was a sensation you couldn't quite place—a hum that seemed to pulse through the strings, the kind that felt almost... alive.

As you worked, the hum deepened, like a heartbeat echoing through the wood.

For a fleeting moment, the air in the room had grown thick, a hush settling over everything as if the world outside had faded, leaving only you and this ancient instrument.

Your fingertips continued to tingle, and you swear you felt a pulse beneath them, steady and calm, mirroring the beat of your own heart.

And for a fleeting moment, the sound grew in warmth, the strings shimmering faintly as they caught the light filtering through the window.

A shiver ran through you, and you stilled, watching the faint glimmer along the strings with wide eyes.

The resonance felt almost like a whisper of something familiar, a presence that had lingered since childhood—one that filled you with warmth and promise.

It felt like a quiet companionship—a steady hand guiding you forward, filling you with an inexplicable sense of safety and purpose.

A soft knock on your bedroom door pulled you from your thoughts, making you jump slightly; the room returned to its quiet normalcy in an instant. 

The glow had faded, the hum of the strings softened to silence, as if the lyre had settled back into itself, leaving you to wonder if you'd only imagined it.

Setting the lyre gently on the table, you rose from the stool, smoothing down your chiton.

"Come in," you called, your voice steady despite the lingering confusion in your mind.

You couldn't help but glance back at the lyre for a brief moment, wondering at the strange warmth you'd felt, before turning your attention to the door.

The wooden door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

As the light spilled across his face, your heart skipped a beat; it was Telemachus. "My prince, you're back so soon..." you started, but your words trailed off as you noticed the strange, almost dazed expression on his face.

He stood there, framed by the light of the hallway, his expression unsteady, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He looked different—his usually composed demeanor replaced by an almost haunted look. His clothes were rumpled, his hunting cloak hanging loosely around his shoulders, as if he'd forgotten to fasten it properly.

Dust clung to his boots, and his hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching ever so slightly.

Worry tugged at your chest, and you took a hesitant step forward, your fingers hovering just above his arm. "Telemachus... Are you alright?"

At the sound of your voice, his gaze sharpened, focusing on you as though you'd just pulled him back from some distant place.

He let out a shaky breath, and you could see his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, as if he were catching up with the reality before him.

For a moment, he looked at you with eyes wide, unblinking—caught between disbelief and relief. His lips parted, and then closed again, unable to form the words.

"My father..." he whispered finally, his voice so low you could barely hear it. 

Your heart stilled, your breath catching in your throat. Your mind raced, filling with the countless possibilities that lay behind those two words.

Telemachus' face twisted, as if he were caught between two worlds—one of sorrow and one of hope—and for a fleeting moment, you feared the worst.

Though you had never met King Odysseus, the stories Queen Penelope had shared of him and the drawings depicting his glory made you feel as though you knew him.

Tears stung your eyes before you could stop them, "T-Telemachus... I'm so sorry—"

But before the weight of grief could settle, Telemachus surprised you.

Instead of breaking down in tears, he reached out, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that sent a jolt through you.

His fingers trembled against your cheeks, his palms warm and steady, but what struck you most were his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. A wild, uncontainable joy danced within them, making them look brighter, alive with an intensity that took your breath away.

Then, a smile—a raw, unfiltered grin—broke across his face, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, making the expression even more radiant and true.

"No," he breathed, his voice trembling with an awe that sent shivers down your spine. "He's alive, ____... my father... he's here." The words fell from his lips like a revelation, his voice rough, as if he hardly believed it himself.

Your mind raced, trying to process what he'd just said. You searched his face, looking for any sign of jest, but all you saw was truth—pure, shining, undeniable truth.

You rapidly blinked away your tears as a wide, disbelieving smile spread across your face. "How...? How do you know? Where is he?" The words tumbled out, your voice breaking with emotion.

Telemachus laughed softly, the sound wavering with a touch of disbelief, his eyes misting with the same overwhelming happiness you felt. "I'll explain everything, I swear, ____. But there's no time—we need to act now, and I need your help."

Without another word, he released you, slipping his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around you in one swift movement.

The fabric was thick and heavy, carrying the earthy scent of pine and the faint, lingering trace of the day's sun, mixed with the warm, familiar scent of him—a hint of cedar and a faint musk, the unmistakable scent you'd come to associate with his presence.

It fell around you like a shield, warm and protective, and he gently tugged it closer around your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your arms.

"Come with me," he urged, his voice a soft command, filled with a mix of urgency and something else—a quiet, unspoken trust.

The look he gave you was steady, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that moment, you understood: Whatever lay ahead, he wanted you by his side.

He bustled you out of the room, keeping you close as he led you through the dim corridors, his steps swift but cautious, his hand hovering just above your back.

The two of you always stayed to the shadows, avoiding the eyes of others.

You could feel his fingers brush against you whenever you faltered, grounding you, guiding you through the dark.

Every so often, you glanced over, catching the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes darted to every corner, his shoulders tense beneath the weight of everything he now knew.

Your heart pounded, questions swirling in your mind, but you kept your silence, understanding that patience was key.

At last, the two of you slipped through a side door, stepping into the cool evening air; the castle seemed to grow quieter as you moved further away from the central halls. 

The sound of livestock and the earthy scent of hay thickened as you approached the swineherd's hut—Eumaeus' humble dwelling.

The ground beneath your feet turned to packed dirt, the rich smell of hay and animals mixing into the air.

The hut was far from the castle, a place that seemed almost forgotten, where the night's darkness wrapped around you both like a cloak.

You tugged gently on Telemachus's arm, and he paused, leaning down to catch your whispered words. "Telemachus, dinner will start soon..." you murmured, your voice laced with concern.

He gave you a reassuring nod, a small smile touching his lips. "Don't worry," he whispered back. He turned towards the door, giving a peculiar knock—three sharp raps followed by two softer ones.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Telemachus ushered you inside, his hand resting briefly on your back as he guided you into the dim space.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

The interior was humble, the flickering orange glow of a small hearth barely illuminating the walls. The smell of livestock—hay and the musky scent of pigs—lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke.

You looked around, taking in the rough-hewn furniture, the clay pots along one wall, and the woven blankets thrown across a worn bench. It was a simple space, but there was warmth here, a sense of comfort that spoke of long years of loyalty and care.

Your gaze shifted, and you stopped when your eyes landed on two figures standing a bit further back.

You blinked, recognizing one of them as Eumaeus. You gave the swineherd a sweet smile in greeting before your eyes strayed to the unknown man, standing behind Eumaeus, his form shadowed and hunched.

Eumaeus responded with a fond smile before walking over to Telemachus, giving him a knowing grin, his tone teasing. "So, you're off to get help, and of course, it's her you bring," he said, chuckling as he patted Telemachus on the shoulder.

Telemachus shrugged, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned Eumaeus's smile with a shy grin. Eumaeus added, "Well, you did say you'd go get the best option around, didn't you?" with a teasing lilt, making Telemachus' ears redden slightly.

But your eyes stayed fixed on the other figure.

He looked old, his clothing tattered and dirty, the lines on his face etched deep by years of hardship.

He held himself like a beggar, but there was something else in his eyes—a glint, a sharpness beneath the surface.

As you stared at him, you saw the flicker of something familiar—an underlying wit and mischief that tugged at the corners of your mind.

Telemachus stepped next to you, his voice gentle. "____, this is—"

Before he could finish, you stepped forward, bowing deeply before the man. "King Odysseus," you said, your voice steady, a hint of reverence beneath it. "It's a true honor to be in your presence. Queen Penelope has spoken of you often. To finally meet you is a joy I cannot express."

As you rose, a soft smile graced your lips—warm, sincere, with a hint of knowing.

Telemachus turned to you, his brows furrowed in amazement. "But... how did you...?" he asked, incredulous. "He looks nothing like my father—he's disguised!"

You gave a soft laugh, casting a gentle look from Telemachus to Odysseus. "True," you said, your eyes twinkling with mirth, "but no disguise can hide the soul. You both share the same mischievous eyes, the same spark that no cloak or dirt could ever conceal." You turned your gaze back to the man, and a wide grin spread across his face.

Odysseus chuckled, the sound deep and approving, his eyes crinkling as he watched you with newfound respect. "Bright girl," he murmured, his voice rich with admiration, before turning to his son. "You picked well, Telemachus," he added, his tone carrying a hidden meaning that made the prince flush, though a smile spread across his lips.

The lines on Odysseus' face softened as he gazed at his son—a glimmer of pride, a silent acknowledgment of the bond between them, as if he saw something of himself in Telemachus reflected back.

Odysseus' face then shifted, the warmth in his gaze dimming as his face hardened. Lines carved by years of war and hardship deepened, casting shadows over his stern features. He straightened, rising to his full height, and for a moment, it felt as though he filled the entire room.

The faint firelight flickered against his face, casting him in sharp relief, illuminating the fierce, hawk-like gaze that held each of you captive.

His presence was undeniable, almost overwhelming—a commanding energy that seemed to radiate from him, rippling through the room like a gathering storm.

Despite the humble rags draped over his shoulders, there was nothing of the beggar about him now; he stood like a king, his bearing more regal than the finest robes could ever convey.

He got straight to business, reexplaining what he had told Telemachus—his troubles, his arduous journey back, and the suitors that plagued Ithaca.

As he spoke, his voice was low but unyielding, every word imbued with a simmering fury that was barely restrained, like embers waiting to ignite.

He spoke of the suitors' disrespect, his jaw clenched as he described their mockery of his home and family. His fists tightened, and you could see the faint tremor in his hands—a testament to the deep, barely contained wrath within him.

It was a silent promise, an unspoken warning that whatever mercy he might have once shown had been long spent.

"These men—these pretenders—desecrate my halls, mock my family. They think themselves safe, sheltered by my absence..." he said, his voice rising before he stilled, inhaling deeply; the air seemed to grow colder as he clenched his fists, the tendons flexing beneath his weathered skin. "But they will learn," he continued, his tone edged with steel, "that no man defies Odysseus and walks away unscathed."

Eumaeus and Telemachus exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting to mirror the intensity that radiated from Odysseus.

You could see the tension in Telemachus' posture, a mix of pride and anticipation flickering in his gaze as he watched his father, fully understanding the force about to be unleashed.

It was as if, in this moment, Odysseus' years of suffering had crystallized into a single, unbreakable resolve, his very presence a testament to his unyielding will.

Then his gaze shifted, softening as it settled on you, Eumaeus, and Telemachus—a quiet resolve in his eyes that held both respect and a trace of weariness. "But with you—the few servants and handmaidens who have not betrayed Ithaca... we might have a chance," he continued, his voice steady, softened with a gratitude that flickered beneath the tension etched in his features.

You blinked, momentarily bewildered, the word hanging in your mind.  "Betrayed?"

Odysseus's eyes snapped toward his son. Telemachus stilled, his shoulders tensing before he sighed and turned to you. "The others... the handmaidens... they weren't just fooling around with the suitors. They were trading secrets, leaking information, undermining us."

A chill settled over you as the weight of his words sank in.

Suddenly, the betrayal felt closer, sharper.

Faces you'd trusted flashed through your mind, but none stood out more painfully than Cleo's—the friend you thought had been as loyal as you were.

The realization struck you like a blow—the loss of her loyalty an ache you hadn't anticipated. 

Her smiling face flashed before your eyes. You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories. "Cleo... what have you done..." you murmured mournfully, your voice breaking.

Odysseus' gaze softened for a moment, understanding glimmering in his eyes, but his voice remained steady, resolute. "Greed, lust, ambition—they cloud judgment and poison loyalty," he said. "Such betrayal will be answered. But right now, we must focus on what lies ahead: reclaiming our home."

Nodding, you steeled yourself, your shoulders squaring with determination. Odysseus gave a curt nod, pleased, and continued, outlining the plan and what would happen next.

☆

☆

Telemachus swiftly led you back to your room, his hand still holding yours firmly, the warmth of his grasp grounding you through the turmoil of emotions.

Outside your door, he looked both ways cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows before turning back to you.

"Just stick to the plan, everything will be fine," he whispered, his voice soft, almost a plea, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze; he still hadn't let go as if reluctant to release you.

You breathed out slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Okay," you whispered back, staring up at him.

The hood of the cloak swallowed your features, almost entirely hiding your face. It was only then that you remembered you were still wearing it.

You glanced down at the heavy fabric and whispered, "Your cloak..."

You began to move, reaching to take it off, but Telemachus quickly stopped you, his hands gently hovering over your own. "No need," he smiled, his eyes kind, lingering on you for a moment longer before he hurried off, the echo of his footsteps fading into the dim hallway.

With a soft sigh, you pushed open the door, stepping back into the small solace of your room.

You moved towards the window, staring out at the night sky. The stars were beginning to twinkle, scattered like tiny diamonds across a velvet expanse.

The cool evening air drifted through the cracks, and you breathed it in, letting it calm your nerves.

You knew dinner was just around the bend, and you quickly moved to finish getting ready.

Shedding Telemachus' cloak, you folded it neatly and set it on the bed. You reached for your lyre, giving the strings one last careful tuning, listening for the perfect resonance.

Then you knelt before the bed, pulling out a small clay box.

Inside was the golden laurel leaf—a gift from years ago. It glistened in the dim light, shimmering just as it had back then, a symbol of your devotion.

You carefully set the wreath upon your head, feeling the weight settle in place, completing the look. Just as you adjusted it, there was a knock at your door.

Startled, you quickly pushed the box back under the bed, smoothing out your clothes before moving to open the door.

It was Cleo, her familiar smile greeting you as she peered in. "Dinner is almost ready," she said, her tone cheerful, "and your area is set up for you to begin playing."

You gave her a small nod, the corners of your lips lifting. "Give me a moment," you replied, turning to fetch your lyre.

As the two of you walked towards the dining hall, you fought to keep your face calm, your lips from trembling, your eyes from welling up with tears.

Every step felt like a battle—the kind that raged silently inside, tearing at your heart and leaving you gasping for strength.

There was so much you wanted to say—to scream at her, to demand answers. The betrayal twisted deep in your chest, tearing at your resolve.

Cleo was your first friend after becoming Queen Penelope's handmaiden.

You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories.

To find out that she had betrayed Ithaca—it was worse than you could ever imagine. The memories flooded you as you walked, each one twisting the knife deeper.

You clenched your jaw, forcing a neutral smile, fighting the growing storm inside you.

The hallway seemed endless, the echoes of your footsteps a steady reminder of the façade you had to maintain, even when it felt like you were shattering inside.

Soon, the dining halls came into view, the dim lighting growing brighter as the torches along the walls flickered. The air filled with the low murmur of muffled conversations, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

As you approached the doors, your steps slowed.

Cleo let out an excited gasp, clutching your arm. "Look," she whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. She nodded towards the cracked door.

Through the narrow gap, you could see the lavish feast already underway.

The grand table was laden with extravagant food—platters piled high with roasted meats, bowls brimming with ripe fruits, flagons of wine that shimmered in the torchlight. Honey-drizzled bread, golden and steaming, lay in abundance, filling the air with a warm, rich scent.

At the table sat the suitors, loud and boisterous, their voices raised in merriment, laughter echoing off the high ceilings as they drank and talked without restraint.

Cleo pointed to the center of the table, her gaze brightening as it landed on a striking figure. "That's Antinous," she said, her voice hushed but filled with admiration. "Son of Eupeithes. Isn't he handsome?" She sighed dreamily. "He's from a powerful house. He could have anything he wants."

Antinous' blond hair gleamed under the torchlight, his piercing blue eyes commanding attention even amidst the chaos. His rugged handsomeness was undeniable, but there was an arrogance about him—a smugness that twisted his expression as he spoke, gesturing grandly to those around him.

You gave a disinterested hum, your eyes trailing from the group of men to the far end of the table.

There, alone amidst the noise, sat Penelope. Her head was bowed, her gaze downcast, her posture tired.

She looked as if the weight of all the years had finally settled on her shoulders, her only company, a simple bowl of broth set before her.

You leaned towards Cleo, your voice barely a whisper. "I think I'll go ahead and start playing."

Cleo turned to you, her brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure? You usually warm up?"

You shook your head, a small, strained smile tugging at your lips. "I'm fine," you said softly.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door fully and walked inside.

The atmosphere shifted as the door creaked, the suitors' raucous voices faltering, several heads turning your way.

Penelope looked up, her eyes meeting yours, and for a brief moment, a smile of relief crossed her face, her shoulders seeming to lose some of their tension.

You made your way towards the cushioned seat set a few feet before the table, your lyre clutched close to your chest.

As you moved, your eyes discreetly scanned the room, searching for Telemachus.

But despite your hope, he was nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh, you began playing the Queen's favorite song.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way.

Till shadows fade and dawn returns, I'll wait where echoes stray."

As the soft melody filled the room, moonbeams from a nearby window bathed down on you, the soft silver light reflecting off your white garments, making them shimmer ethereally.

During the day, you soaked in the sun's favor, the golden beams warming your skin, and now at night, it seemed the moon offered you the same devotion, casting a glow that seemed almost unfair.

You swayed gently as you played, your eyes closed, your fingers expertly plucking the lyre's strings with a grace that spoke of years of practice and devotion.

Penelope sat with her eyes closed, her hands clutched to her chest, a single tear escaping down her cheek.

Even the suitors, loud and arrogant just moments before, had fallen silent, captivated by your voice and the haunting melody.

As you strummed the last note, the final echoes of your song fading into the stillness, a silence hung over the hall.

It remained until Antinous broke it, clapping loudly. "Bravo!" he called, his voice echoing, and the rest of the suitors immediately joined in, their applause filling the room.

From across the hall, Antinous stared at you, his gaze lingering, his eyes piercing through the distance. It made you shift uncomfortably, the intensity of his attention unsettling.

He flashed you a smile, the kind meant to charm, and spoke in a loud, confident voice. "Your voice is extraordinary. I wish we had such talented singers back home."

You forced a polite smile, your head dipping slightly in thanks.

Not a moment later, the double doors pushed open, and in walked Telemachus, followed closely by a man cloaked in rags—Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar.

The room fell into hushed murmurs, the air thick with confusion and curiosity.

Antinous was the first to react, rising from his seat, his gaze narrowing on the two figures as he crossed his arms arrogantly over his chest.

"Telemachus," he began, his voice dripping with a mix of mockery and irritation, "who is this you've brought to our feast? Another beggar to entertain us?" He gestured dismissively towards Odysseus, his lips twisting into a sneer. "I thought the castle had already enough mouths to feed, or perhaps you're running out of servants and need the charity of beggars now?"

The other suitors erupted into laughter, their cruel voices echoing off the stone walls, jeering at the sight of Odysseus. Some called out taunts, others shook their heads in disdain, whispering amongst themselves about the audacity of Telemachus to bring such a figure before them.

Telemachus stood tall, though his jaw tightened at their ridicule. He opened his mouth to speak, but Penelope beat him to it.

She rose from her seat, her gaze cutting sharply towards Antinous, her voice carrying a strength that commanded silence. "Enough," she said, her tone polite but leaving no room for argument. "He is our guest, and as such, he deserves respect."

She looked to Odysseus, her expression softening, though there was no recognition in her eyes. "Please, stay for dinner and enjoy a beautiful show. You are welcome here, traveler." Her words were measured, her smile gentle but tinged with weariness.

Odysseus' gaze lingered on Penelope, his eyes softening at the sight of her, a longing flickering across his face that he quickly masked with a humble bow of his head. "You honor me, my lady," he replied, his voice rough with a practiced humility. "I shall accept your hospitality gratefully."

Penelope nodded, her eyes shifting to Telemachus, offering him a small, reassuring smile before sitting back down, her fingers once more wrapping around her untouched bowl of broth.

Odysseus moved to the side, his eyes watching the suitors with a careful gaze, observing the men who had taken over his hall, violated the sanctity of his home, and pushed his family to the brink.

The tension was palpable, a quiet storm brewing under his composed exterior, his resolve only solidified by the disdain thrown his way.

Antinous called out suddenly, his voice dripping with derision. "Servant girl! Play us another tune, something a bit jollier!" His command was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the hall.

For the first time in a long while, you saw the Queen's face marred by anger. A scowl darkened Penelope's features, her eyes narrowing as she snapped, "Don't you dare order her around." Her voice carried a chilling edge, a fierce protectiveness that hushed the room instantly. "She will play what I deem fit." Her gaze locked with Antinous', daring him to challenge her authority.

The room tilted into a tense silence.

Telemachus sat by her side, his face betraying a small flicker of sadness. He watched his mother, seeing the strain in her eyes—the fight she had been holding for far too long.

The suitors, who had grown accustomed to Penelope's patient endurance, were visibly taken aback by her outburst. For years she had kept her emotions under a tight lock, never allowing a crack in her composure.

Your voice broke the silence, soft and gentle. "My Queen... would you like for me to play your song again?"

Penelope turned to you, her expression softening, a warmth returning to her eyes. "Yes, dear, please..." she whispered, her lips curving into a grateful smile.

Once again, your voice filled the dining hall, the haunting melody echoing from the lyre's strings.

As you sang, Odysseus' eyes were fixed on you, his expression one of awe. The sound of your voice stirred something deep within him, the notes wrapping around his heart, cracking the walls he had built.

He felt his chest tighten, realizing with a pang of bittersweet sorrow that the song was an ode to him, a reflection of Penelope's undying love.

It made his longing to set things right grow more urgent, more determined.

As the final note lingered in the air, fading into the hushed silence of the room, Penelope waved you over, her hand lifting gently. To your surprise, she said, "You may take a short break, dear."

You froze for a moment in shock, your eyes darting up to meet Telemachus'. He gave you an encouraging nod, a supportive smile on his lips.

Slowly, your own lips twitched up into a smile, and you bowed your head in thanks. "Thank you, my Queen," you murmured, preparing to step back and head towards where the other servants ate.

But before you could move, Penelope's hand gently grasped your arm, her touch soft yet insistent. "Stay," she said, "eat here tonight."

You stilled, your heart fluttering in both nervousness and an unexpected warmth. Your eyes flickered towards Telemachus again, and his smile only widened, nodding once more in encouragement.

You smiled back, bowing your head slightly before agreeing, "As you wish, my Queen."

Before you could find a seat, Telemachus was already on his feet. He moved swiftly, fetching a chair and placing it beside Penelope, ensuring you had a place at her side.

You whispered your thanks as he pushed the chair forward for you, a sense of gratitude swelling in your chest as you took your seat, the warmth of their kindness enveloping you amidst the otherwise hostile room.

After a few minutes of peaceful eating, Antinous burst into the conversation, his voice rough as he drank deeply from a large goblet of wine. "Telemachus," he called out, irritation clear in his tone, "are you going to tell us who's this beggar you've brought among us?" He sat arrogantly at the head of the long table—Odysseus' rightful seat—before standing slowly, each step deliberate as he strolled down the length of the table towards them.

Odysseus bowed his head slightly, speaking up in a humble tone. "I am Aethon, from Crete," he said, his voice steady despite the eyes on him. "I am merely traveling through, looking for a place to rest and fill my belly for the night."

Antinous stopped in front of him, a scoff escaping his lips as he looked Odysseus up and down, his eyes filled with disdain. "A beggar indeed," he sneered. "Look at you—filthy, ragged. Ithaca should be above sheltering such wretches." He shook his head, his voice laced with contempt.

You clenched your jaw, suppressing the scowl that threatened to mar your face, feeling the bubbling anger rise. Not only was he speaking to your King—whether he knew it or not—but his actions went against xenia, the sacred rule of hospitality.

It churned your stomach, the blatant disrespect cutting deeply.

Odysseus, however, did not waver. He met Antinous' gaze evenly, a small smile playing at his lips. "It is true," he replied, his tone calm, almost serene. "I may be in rags, and my journey long, but those who forget the value of hospitality, who dishonor their guests—well, they may one day find themselves in need, and then what kindness will be shown to them?"

Antinous' face flushed, the suitors around him shifting awkwardly at the rebuke. The room tensed further, the silence thickening as the arrogance on Antinous' face twisted in irritation.

The pressure had been building for weeks.

Penelope's steadfast refusal to choose among the suitors, Telemachus' bold return, and now the appearance of yet another beggar—these affronts piled on top of each other, pushing Antinous further than ever.

It wasn't just Odysseus' words, but the culmination of the disrespect he felt as Penelope continued to defy them.

Instead of apologizing, instead of righting his wrong, Antinous' hand moved swiftly, striking Odysseus across the face.

A collective gasp echoed in the room.

You flinched, your hand flying to your mouth, horror widening your eyes.

Penelope's face blanched, her hands tightening around her bowl as she tried to mask her shock.

Telemachus looked ready to leap from his seat; his body tensed like a coiled spring, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes flashed with anger, the strain of holding himself back clear in every line of his posture.

The fire in Odysseus' chest, tempered for years, flickered, and he smiled inwardly, knowing that soon it would blaze.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Odysseus let his gaze drift across the grand hall, every muscle in his body taut beneath the ragged cloak that disguised him.

His eyes narrowed as he took in each suitor, noting the way they disrespected his home, their laughter cutting through the sanctity of his hall.

These were men who had grown fat and careless on his hospitality, who dared to feast on the resources of his land while vying for the hand of his beloved Penelope; unaware that their gluttony and arrogance would soon face reckoning.

Odysseus watched the suitors, one by one. There was Antinous, smug and sneering, the clear leader in brazenness and disrespect. He sat near the center, barking orders to the servants, his voice grating, his laughter cruel.

Not far from him, Eurymachus leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming over the maids who moved about the hall, his grin spreading wider every time one of them blushed under his gaze.

But it was the brawny, red-haired suitor, Andros, who drew Odysseus' attention most tonight.

Andros was on his feet, striding towards Penelope, a confident swagger in his step that made Odysseus' fingers curl tightly under the table. Andros' scarred face, a testament to his battles, bore an expression of arrogance as he approached the queen.

"My lady," Andros began, his voice dripping with insincere charm, "you are as radiant as ever tonight. Truly, this palace, these halls—everything feels grander in your presence." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his words before continuing.

"And of course, you have an array of fine young suitors here, all vying for your hand, each eager to prove himself worthy." He began slowly, the sweetness in his voice almost syrupy as he praised the beauty of the hall, the dignity of Penelope, and the devotion of the gathered men.

Then, the smile on his lips grew strained, and his tone hardened, the false charm giving way to impatience. "But, my queen, surely it is time to stop playing these games? Do you not think, after all this time, that Ithaca deserves a new king? That the kingdom, your people, deserve stability?" He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, but still loud enough for those nearby to hear.

"These delays... they serve no one. Least of all you."

Odysseus felt his anger rise, but he forced himself to keep his composure, swallowing the rage that threatened to boil over. Instead, his gaze shifted down the long table, allowing him a moment to rein in his emotions.

His eyes landed on Telemachus, who sat further down, trapped between two suitors. Telemachus was doing his best to remain civil, nodding curtly at whatever nonsense one of them, Leodes, was muttering.

The young prince's jaw was clenched, his shoulders squared, but Odysseus could see the weariness in his eyes. He could see the strain in his son's expression, the way his jaw tightened when they clapped him on the back or spoke of his mother's need to choose.

Telemachus' hands were clenched under the table, and Odysseus knew that the boy was holding himself back, trying to remain calm in the face of their mockery.

He was tired of this charade—tired of having to entertain these men who disrespected everything his family stood for.

Odysseus' gaze moved again, coming to rest on you, seated on your cushion at the far end of the hall.

You were playing soft tunes on your lyre, your eyes lowered to avoid the wandering gazes of the suitors.

It hadn't escaped Odysseus' attention how often they had approached you tonight, using the guise of speaking with Telemachus as an excuse to stand too close, to linger too long.

The way their eyes lingered on you made Odysseus' blood run cold with fury, but you had handled it with quiet grace, always managing to sidestep their advances, your focus never wavering from your music.

He watched as you adjusted your position, your fingers gracefully plucking at the strings, the gentle melody you played seeming almost out of place amidst the crude laughter and loud conversation.

It was your retreat—your way of coping with the unwelcome attention.

Odysseus clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still, but his gaze never left Penelope.

He knew every nuance of her expression, every flicker in her eyes. She had always been able to mask her feelings when necessary, but Odysseus could tell what lay beneath that serene exterior.

Penelope smiled at Andros—a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. It was the same composed expression Odysseus had seen countless times, the one she wore when she needed to hide her exhaustion, her irritation, her true thoughts.

To the suitors, it was the smile of a queen; to Odysseus, it was a testament to her resilience.

And despite her age beginning to show, Penelope was still a beauty. Her dark hair, partially veiled, framed her face gracefully, and her eyes—those sharp, clever eyes—were as full of life as ever, though Odysseus could see the weariness she tried to hide.

The years of waiting, the pressure from the suitors, the uncertainty of Odysseus' fate—everything had taken its toll.

Yet, she remained dignified, her posture straight, her expression composed.

He watched as she tilted her head slightly, her smile widening as she looked up at Andros, her voice her voice smooth when she spoke. "I understand your concerns, Andros. Truly, I do. But you must understand... a decision like this cannot be rushed. It is a matter of not just my heart, but of the people of Ithaca. They must have faith in their ruler, whoever he may be."

There was a flicker in her eyes as she paused to adjust the folds of her gown, her gaze never leaving Andros'. Odysseus recognized it—the subtle shift of someone preparing for a move, a small, almost imperceptible signal.

She was not done yet.

"Besides," she added, her voice carrying just a hint of playful reproach, "there is still work to be done. My weaving is not yet complete, and it would be improper to leave it unfinished, don't you agree?"

Odysseus' heart swelled with admiration as she elegantly deflected Andros in a way that left no room to argue without appearing impatient and self-serving.

She had always been a master of this—a weaver not only of thread but of words, her diplomacy a match for his own cunning on the battlefield.

Andros' face twisted in frustration, but he forced a smile, nodding stiffly. "Of course, my lady. As you wish," he said, though his tone made it clear he was far from pleased; he grumbled something under his breath, turning on his heel and retreating to the other end of the hall, his pride clearly wounded.

Odysseus couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Clever Penelope.

She must have been weaving and unweaving that shroud she'd promised upon his return, using it as a tactic to delay choosing a husband.

It was a brilliant move, one that had kept these men at bay, if only barely.

Odysseus cleared his throat, drawing Penelope's attention for just a moment. He nodded subtly, his eyes filled with admiration. "A true queen knows how to manage her duties wisely," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Penelope glanced at him, her eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments. She smiled—a genuine, soft smile that held a glimmer of gratitude. "Thank you, good sir."

She was too clever not to sense something beneath his words.

Before any more could be said, the head servant stepped forward, clapping his hands to gain the attention of the room. "Honored guests," he called, his voice loud enough to carry over the noise, "we have a special treat for you tonight. A storyteller has arrived to regale us with tales of old. Please, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the story."

Odysseus shifted his gaze from Penelope to the gathered suitors, watching their interest shift with the promise of entertainment. The momentary tension diffused, but the underlying stakes remained, clear and unspoken between him and Penelope.

He settled back, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. The time for reckoning would come, but for now, Penelope had bought them a few more precious hours.

And for that, he was endlessly grateful.

Penelope then rose gracefully from her seat, her movements fluid despite the heaviness of her role. She addressed the suitors, her voice warm yet distant. "Please, enjoy yourselves," she said, her gaze sweeping over the gathered men. "I shall take my leave now. May the story bring you joy and reflection."

She turned then, her eyes finding you. "Come, dear," she called softly, beckoning you to follow.

You rose from your cushion, gathering your lyre, and moved towards her.

Telemachus appeared at your side, his expression gentle as he offered to take the instrument from you. "I'll put it in your room," he said, his voice low.

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile.

As Penelope left the hall, you followed closely behind, Telemachus walking beside you. The suitors began to settle down, their laughter quieting as they prepared to listen to the storyteller.

A few torches were extinguished, casting the room in a dimmer, more intimate light, the flickering flames creating shadows that danced along the walls.

The storyteller, an older man with a voice like honeyed wine, began his tale—a story of Perseus and his quest to slay the Gorgon Medusa. His voice wove through the room, captivating the suitors, their attention fixed on him as he painted vivid pictures with his words.

"In the days when gods still walked among mortals, there was a hero named Perseus," he began, his voice deep and rhythmic. "Born of Zeus, he was destined for greatness. The king, jealous of his mother's beauty, sought to rid himself of Perseus by sending him on an impossible quest—to bring back the head of the dreaded Gorgon, Medusa..."

A bit into the story, you slipped quietly back into the hall, your steps light and careful as you approached Odysseus. You knelt beside him, your voice barely a whisper as you leaned in. "The queen requests your presence for a private conversation," you murmured, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

Odysseus nodded, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing Penelope away from the prying eyes of the suitors.

As he began to rise, he paused for a moment, his gaze locking onto yours. There was something in his eyes—a depth of understanding, a quiet gratitude. He gave you a subtle nod, and though no words passed between you, you understood the meaning behind his expression.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough from emotion, but his eyes softened—a fleeting but genuine acknowledgment of your loyalty, of the way you had quietly supported his family in their most trying times.

You nodded back, your heart pounding from the weight of this unexpected acknowledgment. With a small, reassuring smile, you gestured for him to follow, and he rose, moving carefully to avoid drawing too much attention.

As the disguised king followed you out of the hall, a sense of hope stirred within him.

The time for reckoning was drawing near, and he would be ready.

☆

☆

Shutting the door behind you, you leaned against it, letting out a slow breath, your mind still racing from everything that had just transpired. The hall was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through a narrow window, casting pale streaks across the stone floor.

You barely had time to collect yourself when Telemachus appeared from around the corner. His eyes lit up at the sight of you, his expression softening with relief.

You stepped forward, whispering a bit excitedly, "Your mother is currently speaking with 'Aethon.'" You made air quotes as you said the name, a knowing look in your eyes.

Telemachus's face broke into a boyish grin, his eyes shining with happiness and hope. Without thinking, he reached forward, grasping both of your hands in his. "She's with him? Truly? I've longed for this day," he said, his voice filled with raw emotion. "I've prayed to the gods for this—prayed that he would return to us."

The excitement that had been coursing through you settled, and for a moment, you both stood there, realizing just how close you were.

Telemachus cleared his throat, his face flushing slightly as he took a step back, though he didn't release your hands, letting them hang between you.

You cleared your own throat, your face heating up as you tried to fight through the embarrassment. You forced yourself to look at him, even though every instinct urged you to look away. "What... what do you think will happen next?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Telemachus' brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together as he seemed to consider your question. He hummed thoughtfully before speaking, "I'm not sure," he admitted, his voice softening. "Father will be king once more, so I suppose that leaves me to prepare—learning the ropes to one day take his place." He shrugged, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips.

Before either of you could say more, you heard Penelope's faint voice calling for you. "____."

You quickly turned, your heart skipping a beat as you realized you were needed. With a final glance at Telemachus, you hurried towards the room where the queen awaited.

As you stepped inside, you found Penelope seated across from Odysseus—'Aethon'—the two of them bathed in the soft glow of the flickering torches. There was a gentleness to the scene, an almost untensed, elated expression on the queen's face as she looked at the man before her.

Penelope's gaze shifted to you, her smile warm as she spoke. "Would you please fetch some water? I believe Aethon could use a bath," she said, her tone kind but carrying an air of authority.

You bowed your head respectfully. "Of course, my queen," you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was still fluttering from the earlier conversation.

Before you could turn to leave, Telemachus suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression slightly awkward as he scratched the back of his neck. "Mother, if I may," he began, his voice a bit rushed. "Could Nurse Eurycleia tend to Aethon instead? I'll be dealing with the suitors soon, and I could use—well, I could use her help."

Penelope blinked, her brow arching in mild confusion at her son's apperance. There was a hint of humor in her eyes as she slowly nodded. "Of course, Telemachus," she said, her lips twitching up into a small smile. She turned back to you, her gaze softening. "Please fetch Eurycleia, dear."

You nodded, quickly excusing yourself to complete the task.

Telemachus was right by your side as the both of you made your way back to the dining halls. He stopped a passing servant, relaying the queen's orders for Eurycleia, ensuring she knew where she was needed before continuing with you.

When you both arrived, the scene had shifted; the storyteller had departed, and the dining hall had taken on a different air.

Torches were being relit, their flames flickering back to life, casting long shadows across the grand room.

The table was in disarray, the remnants of the feast scattered across the surface. Bowls that had once held fresh fruits were now empty, their contents devoured, and goblets lay tipped on their sides, spilling the last traces of wine.

Servants moved quickly to clean up, their hands deftly collecting the mess, while the suitors lounged heavily in their seats, many of them still indulging in wine, their laughter and voices echoing through the room.

Antinous' drunken voice suddenly rang out, slurred but commanding. "Telemachus!" he called, his words dragging slightly.

He pushed away another suitor roughly as he stood, his steps unsteady. His clothes were crumpled, the once fine fabric now stained, and his blue eyes hazy as he downed another gulp of wine. A few drops trailed down his chin, unheeded.

He moved closer, his breath heavy with the sour scent of drink. Raising his goblet again, he swallowed another mouthful, his lips curling into a sneer. "Your mother," he began, his voice harsh, "she should choose. Tonight. Enough of these games."

Telemachus tried to placate him, his tone gentle. "Antinous, now isn't the time. She's—"

But Antinous cut him off, his snarl deepening. "Twenty years!" he spat, his voice thick with frustration. "We've waited twenty years. Many of us grew up hearing tales of the widowed queen of Ithaca. We've seen hundreds of suitors come and go, all left empty-handed. And now? We have nothing but that damned shroud she always weaving." His face flushed a deeper shade of red, the anger twisting his features until his once handsome face seemed almost ugly.

He took another unsteady step closer, his eyes locking onto Telemachus' with a fierce intensity. "She must choose, boy. We won't wait any longer. The patience of everyone here has run thin. It's time she makes her decision, and it's time for Ithaca to have a new king."

Before Telemachus could even attempt to calm him once again, the other suitors drunkenly joined in, their voices melding into a cacophony of garbled shouts, all demanding that Penelope choose.

"Enough of this waiting!"

"She must make her choice now!"

"We've had enough of her tricks!"

The noise grew overwhelming, the suitors crowding closer, their faces flushed with drink and impatience.

Your heart began to race, the chaotic shouts and the looming bodies making it difficult to breathe. You felt the walls of the dining hall pressing in, the weight of the drunken mob becoming unbearable. The suitors' demands echoed in your ears, their voices blending into a thunderous roar that drowned out all reason.

Suddenly, you felt Telemachus step in front of you, his body shielding yours from the advancing crowd. His arm moved behind him, his hand finding yours and holding it firmly.

You clung to him, pressed against his side, the solidness of his presence the only thing keeping you grounded amidst the chaos.

Telemachus could feel the sweat on his palms, the nervous tremble in his grip as his fingers curled tighter around yours; he glanced back at you for just a moment, catching the fear in your eyes, and he felt something inside him snap—a determination, a need to protect you, stronger than his own anxiety.

Telemachus shouted above the noise, his voice carrying a note of desperation. "Please, just calm down!" but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The suitors were too far gone, too consumed by their own frustration and the haze of wine.

His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, nails biting into his palm as he struggled to keep his composure. He knew he couldn't show any weakness.

Not here, not now.

"Enough!"

The shout cut through the noise like a blade, the authority in the voice silencing the room instantly. The suitors froze, their heads snapping toward the source of the command.

At the entrance of the hall stood Queen Penelope, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression one of fierce determination. A few steps behind her stood Odysseus, still disguised as the beggar Aethon, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene.

Penelope's gaze swept across the suitors, her eyes cold and unforgiving. She held herself with a dignity that seemed to grow more luminous in the flickering torchlight, her presence commanding the attention of every man in the room.

"These demands are unbecoming," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "You forget yourselves and the courtesy owed to this house." She paused, her eyes locking onto Antinous, who had the sense to bow his head, though his jaw remained clenched.

Penelope continued, her tone softening slightly, though it lost none of its strength. "I see that you will not be satisfied until I make my decision. Very well. Tomorrow, as soon as Helios crosses the sky, I shall hold a contest. The man who can string Odysseus' great bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe heads shall have my hand in marriage."

She let the silence hang for a moment, her eyes scanning the room before continuing, her voice now laced with authority. "It is only right that the one strong enough to succeed in this great feat, one that only my husband could accomplish, should be deemed worthy to take his place. Consider this the final test—to determine who, among you, is truly deserving of Ithaca's throne."

A murmur ran through the suitors, their frustration giving way to excitement at the prospect of a resolution.

Antinous, along with several others, nodded in agreement, finally placated by her words.

Slowly, the suitors began to disperse, their drunken grumbling fading as they made their way out of the hall, satisfied for the time being. The tension in the room began to ease, the oppressive weight lifting as the crowd thinned.

Penelope let out a long, quiet sigh, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. She looked weary, the weight of the years and the evening's events heavy on her shoulders. But then she straightened, her head lifting once more, her eyes clear as they found you.

"Come, ____" she said, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm ready for bed."

As Penelope moved closer to Telemachus, she paused, her expression softening. She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek in a tender gesture. "Goodnight, my son," she whispered, her voice filled with warmth and love.

Telemachus leaned into her touch for a brief moment, his eyes closing as he nodded. "Goodnight, Mother," he replied softly.

Penelope then turned her gaze to Odysseus, her expression guarded but polite. She gave him a nod, her voice carrying a hint of formality. "May you rest well, Aethon."

Odysseus bowed his head slightly, his eyes holding hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Thank you, my lady."

With that, Penelope turned on her heel, her steps graceful as she made her way out of the hall.

Telemachus gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer. You gave him a small, reassuring smile, bowing your head slightly.

"Goodnight, Prince Telemachus," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, his lips curving into a soft smile. "Goodnight, ____" he replied.

With a final glance at both the prince and the disguised king, you turned and hurried after Penelope, your footsteps quiet against the stone floor.

The hall behind you grew silent, the echoes of the evening's events lingering in the air.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The contest would begin, and with it, the fate of Ithaca would be decided.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall. 

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred—only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The echoes of screams and steel still seemed to bounce off the walls of your mind, yet here, in the dimness of your small room, there was nothing but silence.

Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands, fingers slightly trembling, stained with sweat, dust, and the faint impression of lyre strings.

You didn't move when the knock sounded—gentle but deliberate. A pause, then another knock, more insistent.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment before forcing yourself to rise, your legs heavy, as though the floor might swallow you whole.

The effort it took to cross the room felt monumental, each step echoing the weight of everything that had transpired.

You paused, your hand hovering over the door handle for a moment longer than necessary, your mind briefly drifting back to the sight of the great hall—blood pooling across the marble, the scent of death thick and metallic, bodies strewn in the grotesque aftermath.

The image was there for only a second before you pushed it away, burying it somewhere deep, somewhere you wouldn't have to face right now.

When you finally opened the door, Telemachus stood there, his silhouette almost blending into the dim hallway behind him.

He was covered in dried blood, dark streaks marring his skin and tunic. His face was a mask of exhaustion, shadows deepening under his eyes, yet his gaze was still sharp, still searching, as though even now he was ready to act.

His hair was disheveled, the curls sticking to his forehead, and the tightness around his mouth spoke of the strain he was under, the burden of what he had done.

You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, the question slipping out in a whisper, softer than you intended. "Is it done?"

For a moment, his gaze flickered, the exhaustion in his eyes softening to something else—something like regret or maybe understanding. He sighed, the sound heavy, like it came from the deepest part of him. "It's done," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips before you could stop it, your shoulders loosening slightly as the tension began to ebb away.

Though you understood this was the way things had to go, that this was the consequence of the suitors' actions, you couldn't help but feel the fragility of it all—how fleeting human life truly was.

One moment these men had been laughing, feasting, vying for a throne they did not deserve, and the next... nothing.

The silence of the great hall, the emptiness of death—it was stark, final.

You blinked, focusing back on Telemachus, and the memory of his actions flashed in your mind—the way, as soon as the massacre had ended, he had found you.

The hall had still been filled with death, the scent of blood thick in the air, yet he had been at your side, his hands gentle as he guided you away.

You remembered the way his voice had dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear as he urged you to close your eyes. "Don't look," he had said, his tone soft, a stark contrast to the lethal determination he had shown only moments before.

He had shielded you, turned your head away from the sight of the fallen, ushering you from that room of death with a tenderness that felt almost out of place, but deeply needed.

The memory lingered, his presence a stark contrast to the carnage left behind. His hand had been warm, steady, a lifeline amidst the chaos.

The blood on his skin had smeared onto yours, a reminder of what had happened, but in that moment, all you could feel was his warmth, his reassurance.

He had spoken to you softly, his breath brushing against your temple as he murmured that it was over, that you were safe now.

Safe.

It was such a fragile word, yet in that moment, with Telemachus by your side, you almost believed it.

"____," Telemachus said softly, your name pulling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his, and you saw the concern etched into his features, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he watched you.

"I wanted to let you know what's happened since... since you left the hall," he began, his voice still carrying that edge of exhaustion, but also something warmer, a gentleness reserved just for you. "Father's first priority was to cleanse the palace. Both spiritually and physically." His eyes darkened slightly, his gaze drifting for a moment, as if recalling the grim work. "He commanded that the hall be purified, that the bodies of the suitors be cleared. He wanted everything cleansed—the stench, the memory. He demanded that it be done immediately."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, and you could see the weight of his next words in the way he hesitated. "He ordered the disloyal maidservants to do it. The ones who... entertained the suitors. It was their punishment." He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "They carried out the task, clearing the bodies, scrubbing the blood. It was... not easy to watch."

You nodded slowly, your heart sinking. A part of you felt for them, for the horror of what they had been forced to witness and do.

Yet, you understood. Their betrayal had run deep, and the punishment, harsh as it was, felt just.

Balance had to be restored, even if it came at a heavy cost.

Telemachus must have seen the conflict in your eyes because he offered you a tired smile, a small attempt to lighten the mood. "But... not everything has been grim," he said, his voice softening, a spark of warmth returning to his gaze. "Father reunited with Mother."

Your breath caught, your eyes widening as a soft gasp escaped your lips. "Truly?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes shining with sudden hope. "The queen knows?"

Telemachus nodded, his smile growing. "Yes. She knows. It took some convincing, of course." He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Mother was cautious, uncertain. After all that she endured—the lies, the suitors' deceptions—she needed proof. She tested him." He paused, his eyes meeting yours, his expression softening further. "She asked Eurycleia to move their bed out of the room. The bed that Father built himself. The one that can't be moved because one of its posts is a living olive tree."

You watched him, your heart swelling as warmth began to spread through your chest, pushing away the lingering shadows.

Telemachus continued, his voice filled with quiet pride. "Father's reaction was... passionate. He was indignant, even, that anyone would think the bed could be moved. That reaction was all the proof Mother needed. She knew then that it was truly him."

A smile tugged at your lips, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The thought of your queen, finally at peace, her long years of waiting rewarded—it filled you with something close to joy.

After everything, after all the heartache and fear, she had her husband back.

Ithaca had its king, and Penelope had her Odysseus.

"I'm so glad," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with emotion. "She deserves this. They both do."

Telemachus nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "We all deserve a little peace," he said quietly, and for a moment, the weight of everything seemed to lift, the heaviness replaced by something gentler, something hopeful.

But then, his expression turned grave, and he looked away from you for a second, his eyes darkening as if he were gathering his thoughts. Telemachus drew in a slow breath before speaking, his voice lower, almost hesitant. "There's... another thing I wanted—needed to tell you," he began, his gaze flickering back to meet yours, the seriousness in his eyes unmistakable.

You felt your stomach tighten, the sense of foreboding settling like a stone in your chest.

"Father decided that cleaning the hall and purging the memory of the suitors wasn't enough," he continued, each word heavy, deliberate. "Those who were disloyal to our family had to face something harsher—a punishment fitting their betrayal."

You nodded slowly, understanding what he meant, your heart sinking further.

Your thoughts immediately went to Cleo—how she had seemed so certain of her choices, so defiant. You wondered how she would take it, if she had even expected this outcome.

Telemachus cleared his throat, his jaw clenching as he looked at you, his eyes searching for something—maybe understanding, maybe forgiveness. "At first, Father simply wanted them banned, expelled from Ithaca. He thought that was enough," he said, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I... I insisted that it wasn't." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor, a flash of shame crossing his features. "Their betrayal was unforgivable. I felt that they needed to be held accountable in a way that truly reflected the gravity of what they had done. I... pushed for a harsher punishment."

He paused, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his face tightening with determination. "Father gave me the green light to decide. He let me take over."

You blinked, your heart suddenly racing in your chest, a cold dread washing over you.

Cleo.

Her face flashed through your mind—her smile, her laughter, the way she had nudged you with that teasing grin, the way she had spoken about living freely, without care for consequences.

Your voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper. "What... what happened to them? To Cleo?"

Telemachus' expression hardened, his gaze steady but filled with an emotion you couldn't quite name—regret, perhaps, or maybe a sense of duty fulfilled. "I ordered the disloyal women to be led outside the palace," he said, his voice devoid of any softness now. "They were executed by hanging—it was meant to reinforce the message that their betrayal had cost them their place in Ithaca." He paused, his eyes flickering away from yours, as though ashamed to meet your gaze.

Your legs suddenly felt weak, the strength draining from them as the full weight of his words hit you. You reached out, your hand grasping the doorframe for support, your knuckles turning white as you leaned into it.

Cleo... was dead?

The world seemed to blur for a moment, the edges of your vision darkening as you tried to steady your breathing. You swallowed hard, your mind reeling, unable to fully process the reality of it.

She was gone. Just like that. A life snuffed out, her laughter silenced... forever.

You closed your eyes, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as you tried to ground yourself, to find some sense of stability amidst the turmoil in your chest. The room felt as though it was closing in, the air too thick, too heavy.

Telemachus' voice broke through the haze, softer now, almost pleading. "I know it was harsh. I know. But I couldn't let it go unpunished. Not after everything." He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours again, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and conviction. "I had to do what I believed was right for Ithaca. For my family."

You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to speak, your throat tight with emotion. You understood, on some level, why he had done it. But that understanding didn't make the pain any less real, any less sharp.

"I'm sorry, ____" Telemachus whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm so sorry." he reached out, his hand gently brushing against your arm, but then he pulled away, as if unsure of whether he should offer comfort or remain distant.

You took a shaky breath, swallowing down the hurt that rose within you. It was painful, the realization that someone who had once laughed by your side, who had shared moments of friendship, was gone.

But still, you forced yourself to take a step toward the prince, your legs feeling heavy as though each movement took all of your strength.

A wobbly smile pulled at your lips as you looked up at him, tears swimming in your eyes, blurring your vision just a little.

Your hand shot out, quick and instinctive, wrapping around his before he could pull away entirely.

The warmth of his skin grounded you, your fingers trembling as they closed around his.

"It's... it's okay," you croaked out, the words shaky but sincere. You paused, clearing your throat, trying to steady your voice. "I understand why you did what you had to do. There is no excuse for the betrayal they committed... not after everything Queen Penelope endured, all the kindness she still showed even in her darkest times."

You watched as Telemachus' face slowly began to untighten, the tension in his features easing.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight he carried seeming to lessen, even if just for a moment. He fully grasped your hand now, his fingers interlocking with yours, and he stared at you, his eyes filled with both sorrow and gratitude.

You continued, your voice softening, trailing off with a sigh. "The only thing I am truly sad about... is Cleo. Her decisions, the way she chose to live—it wasn't supposed to end like this." You closed your eyes for a brief moment, shaking your head slowly, trying to push away the image of her face.

When you opened your eyes again, you squared your shoulders, squeezing Telemachus' hand a bit tighter. "But I understand, my prince. I do." You forced yourself to smile again, hoping that it might bring him some comfort, even if it couldn't heal the wounds entirely. "We move forward from here, as we must."

Telemachus' gaze softened, and he nodded, his eyes glistening with a mixture of emotions. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you. I... I needed to hear that." His eyes searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were alright, whether you could handle what came next.

You swallowed, offering him a small nod, though the words you wanted to say felt caught in your throat, tangled with all the emotions you didn't know how to express.

He nodded back, a hint of a weary smile tugging at his lips. "We have much to do," he said, his voice a little stronger now, a little more like the Telemachus you knew—the one who had always looked forward, even when the weight of the world tried to hold him down.

And you knew he was right.

The massacre was over, but the real work was just beginning.

☆

☆

Side by side, you walked through the palace corridors, the silence between you both as heavy as the air that hung in the aftermath of all that had happened. The long hallway to the throne room seemed endless, each step echoing faintly against the cold stone floors.

The few servants who passed by moved with downcast eyes and hushed footsteps, their presence almost ghostly. You counted only one or two every other minute, each one looking tired and burdened by the knowledge of the events that had taken place.

Your eyes flickered to Telemachus, a worried frown pulling at your brows; you couldn't help but voice the fear gnawing at your chest as you stared up at him. "Were we truly betrayed by so many?"

Telemachus let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly, the weariness evident in the lines of his face. "Yes," he admitted, his tone thick with exhaustion. "There were more than we imagined... We'll have to find new servants, people we can trust, but until then... we'll manage."

Your lips pressed together, your brow furrowing even further at his words. You could see the strain etched across his features, the weight of what lay ahead already pressing down on him.

Without thinking, you blurted out, "Maybe we can start by training some of the sheep to carry trays—at least they're loyal."

Telemachus blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face before he realized you were joking. A surprised laugh escaped him, sudden and unguarded, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head. "That's horrible," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth lifted into a reluctant smile.

You giggled, a small sense of triumph bubbling up within you at the sight of his smile. There was a pep in your step now, pride welling up inside you for managing to lighten his burden, if only for a second. "Horrible, maybe," you said playfully, "but it made you laugh, didn't it?"

Telemachus shook his head again, the smile lingering on his lips as he glanced at you, the weariness in his eyes softening just a bit.

The two of you continued on, the throne room drawing nearer with each step.

As you rounded the corner, the grand doors to the throne room came into view. Telemachus paused, reaching out to push one of the heavy doors open, his other arm extending just slightly for you to slip through first.

You met his eyes, offering him a soft smile as you whispered, "Thank you." You slipped under his arm, stepping into the room, with Telemachus following close behind.

The moment you entered, both of you froze at the scene before you.

In the center of the throne room, instead of the two royal seats occupied by separate figures, there was a single, intimate silhouette—Odysseus and Penelope, wrapped in each other's arms, oblivious to the grandeur surrounding them.

They stood at the heart of the space, a quiet monument to love and endurance.

Penelope's arms rested around Odysseus' shoulders, her hands gently tracing the back of his neck, as if grounding herself, ensuring he was real.

She looked down at him with a softness in her gaze that betrayed years of longing, a gaze only two people who had known both separation and deep love could share.

Her dark hair cascaded down her back, catching hints of the sun's warmth, and her face, usually guarded and composed, was now tender, her lips parted in a silent reverence.

Odysseus, in turn, gazed up at her with an expression that was almost childlike in its vulnerability.

The lines of hardship and the sharpness of war softened in his face as he looked at his wife, his hand lifting to trace the curve of her cheek with a gentle reverence. His thumb brushed just below her eye, a touch so light it seemed almost as if he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard.

There was a tenderness in his eyes, a deep, unwavering devotion that spoke of both gratitude and relief—relief that, against all odds, he had returned to her, that this moment, once only a distant hope, was finally real.

As he traced her face, his hand slid up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the warmth of his palm. She tilted her head down, pressing her forehead to his, her lips curling in a gentle, almost shy smile, one that held years of love, longing, and relief

They didn't need words. The silence between them was rich and full, a communion that transcended speech, filled only by the gentle cadence of their breathing and the slow, rhythmic beat of their hearts.

Their love, once tested by time, loss, and separation, had returned to bloom, stronger and more resilient than ever.

The throne room itself seemed to share in their reunion.

The sunlight bathed the scene in a warm, golden hue, illuminating the lovers as if blessing them.

The once cold stone of the palace was now softened by the light, casting an ethereal glow that made everything feel otherworldly, almost enchanted.

The columns, the high vaulted ceiling, even the shadows themselves seemed to embrace the moment, framing the couple in a warm, protective cocoon.

You and Telemachus found yourselves hesitating at the threshold, not wanting to break the spell that enveloped them.

Telemachus' hand lingered on the door, his gaze fixed on his parents. His expression was a mixture of awe and deep, unspoken emotion.

His mother and father, finally reunited, had become more than parents or rulers in this moment—they were a testament to everything he had fought for, a symbol of everything that made this kingdom worth saving.

For a moment, the two of you simply watched, the light and peace of the room seeping into your souls.

The throne room was empty, yes, but it was fuller than it had ever been—filled with the presence of those who had returned, with the love that had endured, and with the hope of a new beginning.

The peace in the room seemed timeless, untouched by the world's sorrows, as though the gods themselves had blessed this moment, wrapping the long-awaited lovers in a warmth that was both eternal and fragile, like a dream finally brought to life.

Odysseus, sensing his son's presence, turned his head slightly, a soft smile forming on his lips as he said, "Hello, Telemachus. Hello to you as well. ____."

But even as he acknowledged his son and you, he didn't release Penelope. He held her closer, as though anchoring himself in her warmth, her solidity, as if reassuring himself that she was no figment of his imagination.

His other hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her just a fraction closer, and Penelope straightened to face you and Telemachus, her arm still wrapped around her love. Her gaze was tender, her eyes shimmering with both joy and a vulnerability rarely seen.

Penelope's lips curved into a smile, and she reached out with her free hand, her voice soft and filled with affection. "My son," she said.

Telemachus took a step forward, his movements almost hesitant, his steps jittery as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

When he finally reached his parents, both Odysseus and Penelope wrapped him up in their arms, pulling him close, holding him securely between them.

You watched, feeling your heart swell with warmth. Your eyes shimmered, tears blurring your vision as you placed your hands over your chest, as if to hold in the feeling of love and relief that threatened to overflow.

For a moment, it was as if Telemachus was a child again—sheltered between the two people who meant everything to him, the tensions of the past few days melting away as this family was finally reunited.

The sight brought a small smile to your face, and you could almost feel the weight of all the fears and worries lifting. The image before you was something sacred—something that spoke to hope, to love that could endure the worst of trials.

Penelope turned her head, her eyes catching yours as her smile widened. She waved at you gently, her voice inviting, "Come here, dear."

You blinked, a bit taken aback, your brows rising as you stuttered, "M-Me?"

A soft chuckle escaped both Penelope and Odysseus. Odysseus nodded, his gaze warm. "Of course. Penelope has told me all about you," he said, his voice full of appreciation. "You played a vital role in keeping our kingdom alive. You have our deepest gratitude."

Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you nodded, feeling a rush of warmth and something akin to disbelief. Softly, you began to walk up the steps toward the royal family, your steps shaky, your heart racing.

When you reached them, Telemachus looked at you with that warm, familiar smile that never failed to calm your nerves. He gently reached out, grabbing your hand.

You let out a small yelp of surprise as he pulled you forward, drawing you into the embrace.

Suddenly, you were wrapped in warmth—surrounded by Penelope, Odysseus, and Telemachus.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, the love and warmth pressing in on you from all sides.

You could feel Penelope's arm resting gently against your back, Odysseus' sturdy presence beside you, and Telemachus' hand squeezing yours.

Your heart raced in your chest, and you could feel tears stinging your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of happiness.

For a moment, everything felt perfect—like all the pain, the uncertainty, the fear, had been worth it just to be here, embraced by the people who had fought so hard for this peace.

Your chest tightened, filled with hope, warmth, and love.

It was a family reunited, and though you were not born into it, in this moment, you felt as though you belonged.

For once, there was no distance between you and those you stood beside—you were part of something larger, something enduring, and it filled your heart with a sense of quiet joy.

Slowly, the embrace broke.

Penelope and Odysseus still held each other, their arms wound tightly as though unwilling to let go even for a second, while you found yourself standing beside Telemachus, his presence comforting by your side.

Odysseus then turned, his gaze sweeping the room, pausing for a moment on each face—Penelope's steadfast gaze, Telemachus' thoughtful expression, and even your own, as if pulling strength from those who had stood beside him.

He drew in a breath, the tension in the air palpable. "My dear family, and you, who have been loyal to us through everything," he began, his voice rich with emotion, "our journey has been long and arduous, filled with trials I would not wish on anyone. Ithaca has suffered in my absence. Our people have faced uncertainty, hardship, and loss."

You saw Penelope's expression darken, her brow furrowing as those memories returned—the suitors, the constant manipulation, the feeling of being cornered.

Telemachus, too, looked down for a moment, his eyes clouding with thoughts of the years without his father, the struggles, the moments when hope had seemed lost.

"But," Odysseus continued, his voice rising above the weight of the past, "we are here now. We have survived, and we will rebuild." He looked to Penelope, his gaze softening. "Together, we will heal these wounds. I will not let Ithaca remain broken, not when it has so much potential for prosperity."

There was a conviction in his voice, the kind that left no room for doubt. The people deserved a leader who not only defended them from threats but also ensured their prosperity.

And he wanted to give them that.

You could hear the weight of his words, each one resonating with a sense of duty. He was not merely concerned with power; Odysseus was a protector, a man who saw his kingdom not as territory, but as people who needed him.

He then turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening, the fire in his eyes shifting to something more paternal, more tender. "Telemachus," he addressed, "As the rightful heir to Ithaca, you have much to learn. The road won't be easy, but together we can restore Ithaca to what it should be," he added, his voice laced with both challenge and hope. "Are you ready for what lay ahead?"

You watched as Telemachus listened, his face serious, his eyes reflecting the weight of his father's expectations. There was no hesitation, no hint of the boy who had once doubted himself.

Instead, you saw a young man who had faced darkness, who had seen the price of weakness and betrayal, and who had emerged with a stronger will.

Telemachus seemed to stand a little taller before his father, his posture straightening, his eyes meeting Odysseus' with newfound strength and understanding. "I understand, Father. I am ready," he replied, his voice steady, a glimmer of something resolved in his eyes. "I have waited for this my whole life—to learn, to be worthy of this kingdom, and of you."

You could see the resolve in his eyes, the promise he silently made to both his father and himself.

The trials of the past days had forged him into someone who understood the cost of leadership—the sacrifices that must be made, the difficult choices that lay ahead, and the burden of carrying the hopes of others on his shoulders.

Odysseus smiled, a warmth crossing his features that was rare in the years of battle. He stepped forward, his free hand reaching out to rest on his son's shoulder. "Telemachus, you have already proven yourself worthy. What remains is for us to build this future, side by side. It will be hard—harder still than what we have faced—but I believe in you. I believe in us."

You watched as Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, as if to absorb the strength of Odysseus' words, her lips curving into a faint smile. She reached her hand out to her son, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Telemachus, Ithaca is as much yours as it is ours," she said, her voice filled with both love and a gentle seriousness. "This is your future too."

Telemachus nodded, his chest rising as he took in a deep breath. Then he turned, looking down at you standing beside him. His eyes were kind but tinged with uncertainty, and you could see the vulnerability beneath that mask of resolve. "We have all had to make sacrifices," he said softly, his words directed towards you. "And you—you've been with us, helped us more than you know."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, your heart pounding at the sincerity in his voice.

The royal family—Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus—were not just rulers, not just legends. They were a family bound by love, by their trials, and by the quiet promise of better days ahead.

You gave Telemachus a small nod, your eyes meeting his. "I am honored to serve," you managed, though your voice was barely a whisper.

Penelope's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her hand tightening around her husband's arm. "We have waited so long for this day," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And now that you are here, I know we can do it—together."

Then, Odysseus' eyes softened as he turned to his wife, his smile growing warmer. "Now, Penelope, prepare a feast—a gathering not for celebration, but for remembrance and hope. It is time to honor those who have been lost, those who fought for Ithaca, and to mark the beginning of a new era."

Penelope smiled, a soft, knowing expression crossing her face. "Of course, my love," she said, her voice gentle, filled with both relief and affection. She glanced towards Telemachus, who in turn looked towards you, his eyes lighting up with an idea.

"Perhaps you could play for us," Telemachus suggested, his gaze resting on you, a hint of encouragement in his expression. His mother immediately nodded, her eyes sparkling in agreement. "Yes, please do. It would bring such warmth to the gathering," Penelope added, her voice sincere.

You felt Odysseus' eyes cut to you, his gaze evaluating for a brief moment before softening. "I have encountered many in my travels," he began, his voice carrying the weight of experience, “but I do not think I have ever heard one play or sing a tune as sweetly as you." His compliment was genuine, his eyes holding yours as though to impress upon you the depth of his words.

Heat rose to your face, and you bowed your head slightly, a warm smile spreading across your lips. "Thank you, my king," you replied, your voice filled with pride. "I would be honored to play."

With that, the conversation shifted towards preparations, the room slowly filling with a sense of purpose.

You found yourself standing beside Telemachus once more, his hand briefly brushing against yours as you both turned to follow his parents. A small smile played on your lips as you looked towards the future—one that, for the first time in a long while, felt hopeful and bright.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The courtyard was serene as you sat, a soft breeze whispering through the olive trees, their branches swaying gently above.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and you found yourself absentmindedly playing the aulos, the dual pipes releasing a lilting melody that carried no particular tune—just notes flowing out of habit.

Your fingers moved automatically, pressing down on the holes with familiarity, though your thoughts were distant, elsewhere.

After a while, the tune drifted to a stop, leaving nothing but the rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze.

You sighed, setting the instrument aside, the hollow reeds settling on the grass beside you.

Slowly, you slouched forward, feeling the tiredness settle in your bones, and then leaned backwards until you were flat onto the soft grass, staring up at the cloudless sky above.

Closing your eyes as you exhaled deeply, trying to enjoy the calmness, but it felt impossible.

There was a lingering tension in the air—an unease that wouldn't leave your chest.

You lay there, staring up at the sky as your thoughts twisted and turned, weighed down by an uneasy sense of dread that no amount of sunshine could dispel.

It was overwhelming—how a moment of peace could feel so fragile, so precarious. Like a thin layer of ice over deep water, one wrong step and everything could shatter.

The warmth, the promise of rest, the brief hope—all of it felt so easily snatched away.

The night of the feast had felt like a dream—a moment where everything was finally right again.

It was filled with laughter and joy, music and dance. The food had been plentiful, the wine had flowed freely, and the smiles on everyone's faces had been genuine.

You could almost still hear the joyful cheers and clinking of cups, the echo of Penelope's gentle laughter, Telemachus' proud grin, and the way Odysseus' eyes glistened as he looked around the room—at everything he'd fought so hard to reclaim.

But the memory was tainted now, overshadowed by what had come next.

You remembered the feast—it had begun beautifully, like a scene straight out of one of your stories.

After the preparations were completed, the palace's great hall was filled with warmth and celebration.

It was not a large gathering—the losses and betrayals were still fresh—but those who were there made up for it with their energy.

Servants, soldiers, and the family sat together, sharing laughter and cheer.

The hall was alive with movement—dancing, smiling faces, and a lightheartedness that Ithaca hadn't known in years.

You'd even joined the musicians, playing your sistrum along with a few other musically inclined servants; the metal rattle emitted a soft, rhythmic jingle—a instrument that required no real effort so that you could lose yourself in the melody.

The sound of clapping, the stamping of feet, and the happy, vibrant music had filled every corner of the room. People spun and danced in circles, moving to the rhythm you all created.

Together, your music swirled around the dancers, the tambourine-like rattles and melodic hums weaving through the revelry.

The flames of the torches flickered in the evening air, casting golden light that made the whole room seem to glow.

It felt endless—pure joy, pure release after so many dark times.

You could still remember the moment Odysseus stood, raising his cup high, his voice strong and filled with hope as he spoke. "May Ithaca prosper in peace," he had declared, his gaze sweeping across the room, his eyes filled with determination, warmth, and promise.

And just as his words settled in the air, the doors to the dining hall had burst open.

A sudden, harsh noise in the midst of the festivities. The music stopped abruptly, and heads turned.

The messenger had stumbled in—a young man—panting, his face flushed and slick with sweat, his clothes dusty from the road. He had looked utterly spent, as though he had run the entire way to the palace without stopping.

His eyes were wide with urgency, and he clutched a bulging satchel at his side, as if it contained something too important to leave behind.

Odysseus' expression shifted in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man struggle to catch his breath. The king's jaw tightened, and he slowly set his cup down, his eyes fixed on the newcomer as silence blanketed the hall.

The crowd, once cheerful and carefree, now stood in an anxious stillness.

The messenger's steps were unsteady as he made his way toward the head table, each movement deliberate, as though he fought against exhaustion with every step.

Upon reaching the dais, he bowed deeply, his eyes lowered, his hand shaking slightly as he held out a rolled parchment.

Odysseus gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable as he signaled to a nearby soldier to retrieve it.

The soldier stepped forward, accepting the parchment with a solemn expression before handing it to the king.

As Odysseus unfurled the scroll, his eyes narrowed as they swept over the words written there.

His gaze darkened, and the tension in the room seemed to thicken, the cheerful atmosphere turning sour in an instant as everyone waited.

The messenger, still catching his breath, spoke up, his voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. "My king..." he began, his tone urgent, but loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. "...there are several... angry families of the suitors. They are furious, demanding retribution for their fallen kin. They intend to seek revenge." He swallowed hard, his face pale, the fear evident in his eyes.

As he spoke, he opened his bulging satchel, fumbling slightly as he pulled out another scroll—then another, the weight of them causing several to slip from his grasp and clatter onto the floor, parchment rolling across the polished stone.

It seemed that he had carried news from several households.

Odysseus' face was like stone, his eyes cold and calculating as he listened. He said nothing for a long moment, his gaze shifting to the fallen scrolls before he returned his attention to the parchment in his hands.

He then set the parchment down, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered, the warmth and openness from earlier now replaced with caution and calculation.

He stood silently for a long moment, his face hard as stone, before he spoke, his voice calm but commanding. "The feast is over," he declared, each word carrying weight, leaving no room for argument.

That night, the celebration was over before it had truly begun. People left quietly, their faces lined with worry.

The joyful cheer that had filled the hall just hours before was gone, replaced with the cold reality of what lay ahead.

Once again, Ithaca stood on the brink of chaos.

The thought of it gnawed at you as you lay in the grass, the sun warming your skin.

What would happen now? How would King Odysseus handle the families seeking vengeance? Would there be more bloodshed? The questions swirled endlessly, each one tugging at your mind until you could hardly stand it.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of blooming flowers filling your senses—a mix of thyme and lavender that usually soothed you but felt strangely fleeting today.

You opened your eyes slowly, squinting against the brightness, and lifted a hand to shield yourself from the blinding sun.

For a moment, you just stared at the patches of blue sky visible between your fingers, feeling the sunlight filter through, casting shadows across your face.

The courtyard was quiet, but it felt heavy, as if the air carried unspoken words, unvoiced fears.

You finally pushed yourself up, your fingers brushing against the grass, and settled into a sitting position. The sun above was unrelenting, making the world feel almost too vivid, too sharp.

Your thoughts then drifted to Telemachus.

You recalled how he had came to you early that morning, just as the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold.

He had approached your room quietly, his knocks barely audible over the gentle tweeting of morning birds. His face was still lined with exhaustion, the weight of everything that had happened etched in the set of his brow and the tightness around his mouth.

His eyes, however, were kind as they met yours, and he had given you a small, tired smile.

Telemachus whispered to you in the early dawn light, his voice low and deliberate, sharing the reality of his father's restless night. He told you about his father—how Odysseus had been up all night, his mind sharp, aware of the potential danger looming on the horizon.

The possibility of retaliation from the families of the suitors was not lost on him, and he had set to work immediately, spending hours fortifying his position, preparing Ithaca for what might come.

The prince spoke of his father's resolve, his refusal to be caught unprepared, as well as the necessity of visiting his grandfather, Laertes, for guidance in the days to come.

Telemachus' presence had been brief, just a few moments shared between you before he and his father, and a few loyal servants had departed, setting off to see Laertes—to find answers, to find a way to protect Ithaca once more.

In those minutes, you had sensed not only his fatigue but also the determination that emanated from him—a drive to face whatever trials might come.

And now, here you were, sitting in the courtyard, the memory of his voice still echoing in your mind.

You sighed, the weight of it all settling heavily on your shoulders as you stared ahead, the sun warming your skin, the scent of the flowers mingling with the distant sound of birdsong.

There was a new confrontation on the horizon, one not borne of war or conquest, but of vengeance.

Ithaca was teetering, the promise of peace slipping further away—just as it had felt within reach.

The sudden crunch of leaves and the sound of hurried footsteps broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. You looked up quickly, your gaze locking onto the figure sprinting towards you. It was Telemachus.

"Telemachus?" you murmured under your breath, unsure if your eyes were deceiving you.

He wasn't supposed to be back so soon.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart picking up pace as his form grew closer. The prince's face was flushed, his breathing labored as he rushed across the courtyard.

You barely had time to react before he reached you, his hands finding your shoulders just as you started to curtsy.

"Prince Telemachus—" you began, but he cut you off, his grip tightening on your shoulders. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"The suitors' families," he said between gasps, "they... they are no longer seeking revenge."

You blinked, staring at him in confusion, the words not fully registering. "What?" you managed, your voice barely a whisper, as if you hadn't heard him correctly.

Telemachus nodded, his expression softening as he steadied himself. He could see the disbelief etched across your features, and he exhaled slowly, his voice calming as he explained.

As the prince began to recount everything, his voice wove a story so vivid that it felt as though you were right there beside him, witnessing every moment. You listened intently, the courtyard around you fading into the background as his words painted a picture that seemed almost surreal.

The prince told you how he and his father had arrived at his grandfather Laertes' farm, the land stretched out wide with fields that glistened in the early morning sun.

It had been peaceful, the breeze carrying the scent of fresh earth and ripened olives. But as soon as they had stepped into the clearing, Telemachus had noticed something amiss.

"The moment we arrived at my grandfather's farm," Telemachus began, his voice still slightly breathless, "we saw them—a mob of the suitors' families, armed and marching towards us. Their faces were filled with rage, their voices shouting for vengeance. They wanted blood, retribution for what happened to their sons and kin."

Telemachus paused, watching your reaction, and you couldn't help the sharp gasp that escaped your lips, your eyes widening in alarm.

The image of an angry mob storming the farm flashed through your mind, and you could almost hear their angry shouts, see the glint of their weapons in the sunlight.

"And you wouldn't guess who was leading them," he added, his tone bitter with a tinge of disbelief.

"Who?" you asked, your curiosity overpowering your unease. You leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his arm.

"Eupeithes," Telemachus said, his tone carrying a bitterness that mirrored the situation. "Antinous' father. The same Antinous who led the suitors and was the last to fall."

Your gasp was louder this time, your hand flying to cover your mouth. The memory of Antinous was still fresh in your mind—his arrogance, his ambition, and his final moments.

The thought of his father leading the charge against Ithaca seemed almost poetic, yet tragic; you could almost picture Eupeithes' twisted face, anger and grief etched into his every expression.

Telemachus shook his head, trying to fight away the almost incredulous smile that tugged at his lips. "It was surreal, seeing him there, at the head of the group."

The prince's eyes then darkened, his voice growing steadier. "It looked like they were ready for another fight. A confrontation that could've thrown Ithaca back into chaos. My father, my grandfather, I, and those loyal to us were preparing for the worst, ready to defend what was ours." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

You swallowed hard, the tension palpable. The picture he painted made your heart pound, your pulse quickening as if you were there yourself, standing at Laertes' side.

You could see the anger in those men's eyes, the rage that boiled over, the cries for vengeance that echoed through the clearing.

It was the promise of more bloodshed, more chaos.

But then, Telemachus' voice shifted, a sense of awe creeping into his tone. "And then, just as it seemed they would clash... Athena intervened." His eyes meet yours, glinting with something almost like reverence.

You reached out, grasping his arm tightly, your eyes widening. "Are you serious? Athena?" you breathed, your voice trembling slightly.

Telemachus nodded. "Yes. First, she came in the form of Mentor, but that wasn't enough to stop them. The suitors' families were still thirsty for revenge, still determined to take back something they felt they had lost." He paused, his eyes turning distant, as if reliving the scene. "It was as if they were blind to reason."

"And then?" you urged, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. You were practically vibrating, your curiosity consuming you. It was rare enough to hear of gods walking amongst mortals, let alone seeing it firsthand.

Telemachus drew in a deep breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Just when it looked like all hope was lost, before any fighting could begin, Zeus himself sent a thunderbolt—a sign, a warning." He looked at you, his eyes bright. "A divine sign—a command from the gods themselves that the fighting had to stop. that enough was enough, that there should be no more violence. It encouraged Athena to reveal herself."

Your jaw dropped slightly, and you shook your head in disbelief. "Two gods?" you murmured, your voice filled with awe. "How incredibly lucky... for Athena to intervene, and for Zeus to send a sign. It's... it's beyond words," you whispered, feeling a shiver run down your spine.

Telemachus smiled, his face softening. "It truly was. It was something out of legend—Athena stepping forth, no longer hidden in disguise, commanding both sides to cease, her presence both beautiful and terrifying. She spoke with such authority; she demanded that peace be restored, and it was impossible not to heed her words."

He paused, watching your reaction as your eyes sparkled with wonder, your hand still grasping his arm.

"Laertes, emboldened by Athena's intervention, was the one to end it," Telemachus continued, his voice growing softer, tinged with something more solemn. "He killed Eupeithes. It was quick, a final act of vengeance for all that had been done to our family."

You blinked, the gravity of the moment hitting you. The father of Antinous was gone, and with him, the leadership of those seeking revenge.

Telemachus nodded, as if he could see the questions forming in your eyes. "Athena didn't let the violence escalate. She stopped it, just in time. She spoke to everyone, reminding them of the destruction that would come if they continued this senseless feud. She insisted that it end there, that no more blood be spilled."

He looked down, his expression softening, the weight of everything finally seeming to lift from his shoulders. "And it worked. The families saw the will of the gods. They laid down their arms. They accepted peace, knowing they could not fight against the gods themselves."

He paused again, taking in a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of exhaustion and hope. "Athena erased the hatred from their hearts—the desire for vengeance, the anger that had festered for so long. She promised that the past would be forgiven and that we would all work together to rebuild Ithaca."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could feel your heart pounding, the weight of his words settling in, the realization of what had just transpired.

Athena had not only brokered a truce, she had ensured that the hatred would not linger, that peace could truly be restored.

It was as if a miracle had been gifted to Ithaca—a second chance, a chance to heal.

You looked up at Telemachus, a small, hopeful smile breaking across your face. "Thank the gods," you whispered, your heart finally beginning to calm, the weight on your chest lightening ever so slightly.

Telemachus smiled back, his hand brushing against yours gently, his touch warm and reassuring. "Yes," he said softly, his voice steady. "Thank the gods."

The peaceful moment between you and Telemachus was abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps crunching over the gravel path. You both turned just in time to see a young servant girl rushing towards you, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Prince Telemachus! Miss ___!" she called out, her voice breathless but urgent.

You and Telemachus exchanged a wary glance, the serenity of the courtyard shattering like fragile glass. The prince's expression instantly grew tense as he shifted his attention to the girl approaching.

The servant girl skidded to a stop in front of you, her hands resting on her knees as she tried to steady her breathing. "Ships, my lord..." she managed to say between gasps, her eyes wide with fear. "Ships are arriving at the docks."

Telemachus frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. You found yourself instinctively stepping closer to him, your heart pounding as you tried to read the meaning behind the servant's frantic message.

"Ships?" Telemachus repeated, his voice low, guarded. He glanced at you, and you could see the same unease reflected in his eyes.

You swallowed, your gaze darting back to the servant. "Are they friendly? Do we know who they are?"

The servant shook her head quickly, her eyes wide with uncertainty. "No, Miss ____. I only know they bear unfamiliar colors—green and yellow—and they approach quickly. The guards are trying to discern their intentions."

Telemachus' gaze hardened, a silent determination forming as he nodded. "Thank you, Althaia. You did well to inform us."

The girl dipped into a quick, awkward curtsy before she quickly turned and rushed back toward the palace.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned back to you.

For a moment, there was silence—just the wind rustling the leaves overhead, the tension hanging between you like a storm about to break.

You looked at him, your heart twisting in your chest. You could see the weight of the moment in his eyes, the same thoughts running through your own mind.

After everything they had just endured, after the gods themselves had intervened, could more trouble be looming on the horizon?

Reaching out, the prince took your hand in his, his grip firm, reassuring. "We should go," he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the strain beneath his calm exterior.

And with that, the two of you turned and made your way towards the palace, the promise of peace feeling more fragile than ever, slipping further from your grasp with each hurried step.

☆

☆

The flurry of movements after the servant girl's message had led to this moment, every step since then deliberate, hurried, with an underlying sense of urgency.

Telemachus had led you through the palace corridors, stopping by your room to quickly grab your lyre, the instrument a comforting weight against your side. His expression was tense but purposeful, and you followed without hesitation.

The two of you had moved through halls filled with servants whispering nervously, the tension palpable, until you finally reached the great doors to the throne room.

Telemachus stood in his honored position, close to Odysseus' side, while the king sat in his grand chair, regal and composed, the weight of his kingdom resting on his shoulders. Beside him, Penelope sat, her eyes fixed on the doors, her expression poised but visibly anxious.

A few guards stood scattered around the room, their eyes trained on the entrance, their postures rigid. Several servants, including Althaia, stood farther back, their heads bowed, waiting quietly for whatever news would come.

The flags hanging along the walls fluttered slightly, moved by the breeze sneaking through the open windows, the sun casting beams of light across the stone floor.

It might have been a beautiful day, but the fear that clung to the air turned it cold.

Odysseus had already briefed his son on the situation—the green and yellow banners of the ships' flags belonged to Bronte, a neighboring island kingdom.

The family crest, Odysseus explained, belonged to Andros' kin—the arrogant red-haired suitor who had been among those vying for Penelope's hand. Andros was the third son, far down in the line of succession for his own kingdom, seeking to elevate his status by claiming Ithaca as his own through marriage.

The news was such a surprise to you; who knew that brute was a prince?

Odysseus' jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "It seems they come seeking answers, perhaps retribution, for what has befallen their kin," he said, his gaze shifting between Telemachus and the few gathered officials and guards. "We must tread carefully. The last thing we need is another conflict before peace has even had a chance to settle." He gestured towards a nearby guard. "Fetch the envoy from the ships. They are to be escorted here for a public discussion. Let them see that Ithaca stands united, that we have nothing to hide."

The guard bowed deeply before turning on his heel, marching briskly out of the throne room to carry out the king's orders. The echo of his footsteps faded into the tense silence that followed, the air thick with anticipation.

Now, here in the present, the great hall was silent, the tension palpable, the kind that came right before a storm.

You knelt beside the steps of the throne, your eyes fixed on the polished marble floor, the lyre resting against your knees, a comforting weight against your side.

You could hear the quiet rustle of the guards shifting their stances, the occasional creak of leather as they adjusted their grips on their spears.

Telemachus stood tall beside his father, his eyes forward, his expression unreadable. You could see the way his hands were clasped behind his back, fingers flexing slightly—a small sign of the tension he carried.

Odysseus sat still, his gaze fixed on the doorway, waiting.

Penelope's eyes, however, were on her son, the worry she felt clear in the way her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The moments stretched on, the anticipation growing heavier with each passing second.

The servants along the sides of the room exchanged nervous glances, their postures stiff, uncertain of what was to come.

The sunlight streaming in through the high windows seemed almost too bright, the golden rays a stark contrast to the somber mood that had settled over the throne room.

Your fingers brushed against the strings of your lyre absentmindedly, the soft hum of the notes barely audible. It was a comfort, a reminder of something familiar amidst the uncertainty.

You kept your eyes lowered, focused on the instrument in your hands, but your ears were attuned to every sound—the shuffle of footsteps, the creak of the throne as Odysseus shifted, the faint murmur of voices just outside the grand doors.

Your thoughts wandered as you waited, the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your mind.

Perhaps this kingdom—Bronte—was foolish enough to believe they could defy a goddess' will, or maybe they hadn't heard in time that the call for vengeance had already been stilled by divine decree.

How long could news travel across kingdoms? It wasn't hard to imagine that word of Athena's intervention might not have reached them, leaving them ignorant and reckless in their grief.

Or perhaps, they simply didn't care.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, the grand doors creaked open, the echo reverberating across the high ceiling of the hall.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, all eyes turning towards the entrance.

Your eyes flickered towards the grand doors as they creaked open, revealing the guard that had been sent to meet the visitors. Behind him, you could see the figures approaching, their outlines dark against the bright light streaming in from outside.

The guard stepped inside first, his expression serious as he turned to face Odysseus, bowing deeply. "My king," he began, his voice clear, carrying across the silent hall, "The visitors have arrived." He turned slightly, gesturing for the figures behind him to step forward.

A herald then stepped inside, his voice ringing clearly as he announced, "Princess Andreia, envoy of the Kingdom of Bronte, daughter of King Aeron."

Your breath caught at the name. Andreia. There was no mistaking the connection. She must have been related to Andros—sister, perhaps.

And then, she entered.

The sight of her took you by surprise.

Andreia was a striking figure, her beauty undeniable, but it was a beauty edged with something softer, something almost tragic in the way her eyes swept across the throne room.

Her hair, as red as her late brother's, spilled over her shoulders in waves, but where Andros' presence had been rough and full of brashness, hers held an elegance that was both captivating and disarming.

She wore a flowing gown of green and yellow, the colors of her house, the fabric catching the sunlight in a shimmering cascade that made her seem almost otherworldly. The dress was adorned with gold embroidery that traced along the bodice and sleeves, each stitch intricate and precise.

Her pale skin seemed to glow beneath the golden light filtering through the windows, and her eyes—green, like the deepest parts of a forest—were filled with something that you couldn't quite place. Sadness? Determination? Perhaps both.

Andreia moved with a grace that seemed practiced, her steps deliberate as she approached the dais.

Behind her trailed a small group of servants, each dressed in the same green and yellow livery, their expressions carefully neutral. They moved in unison, their heads bowed, carrying baskets and satchels that clinked faintly with each step.

You watched as she drew closer, her gaze briefly flicking over you where you knelt, before turning towards the throne.

There was something hauntingly familiar about her—the color of her hair, the sharpness of her features, the way her chin tilted upward with a sense of pride that echoed her brother's—but the hardness that Andros had worn like armor was missing.

Instead, there was a gentleness that made her seem almost out of place amidst the tension of the throne room.

Andreia came to a halt before the thrones, and slowly, she sank into a deep bow, her eyes lowering in deference. "King Odysseus. Queen Penelope," she said, her voice smooth, almost musical, but carrying an edge of something unspoken. "I come on behalf of my family, the royal House of Brontes, to speak for our fallen kin."

For a moment, there was silence.

You could feel the weight of her words settling over the room, the tension thickening as Odysseus leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young woman before him.

Penelope's gaze softened as she looked upon Andreia, her fingers no longer tracing the armrest but now resting still, her eyes taking in the sight of the woman with a mixture of empathy and caution.

Odysseus spoke, his voice measured, the authority of a king evident in every word. "Lady Andreia, you are welcome in Ithaca," he said, though his tone held no warmth. "You must understand that the suitors—your brother included—took liberties that demanded consequences. They disrespected my home, my family, and my kingdom. Yet, here you are, bearing their colors. What is it that you seek?"

Andreia lifted her head, her gaze meeting Odysseus'. There was a fire there, restrained but present, as she drew in a breath. "I seek understanding, my lord," she replied, her voice steady, though there was a tremble beneath the surface, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure. "I seek to know why my brother's life was ended without a chance to answer for himself, why his ambitions were met not with words but with death."

The tension in the room grew, the silence that followed her words almost deafening. You kept your eyes on Andreia, your fingers tightening slightly around the lyre, the strings pressing into your skin.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the scepter, but it was Telemachus who stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much. "Lady Andreia, the actions taken were in response to the dishonor your brother and others brought upon Ithaca. Their intentions were clear—seeking to take advantage of my father's absence, to claim what was never theirs to claim."

Andreia's eyes flicked to Telemachus, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she seemed to falter, her gaze lowering. You could see the pain etched in her expression, the way her fingers clenched around the folds of her dress.

"I do not deny that my little brother was ambitious," she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. "But he was still my brother. And I... I am here to ensure that his memory is not one of disgrace." She lifted her head again, her eyes meeting Telemachus', and then shifting to Odysseus. "I come not to seek retribution but to seek closure, to understand the choices that led to his end, and to ask that his body be returned to our family, that he may be laid to rest with our ancestors."

A hush fell over the throne room, the weight of her plea hanging in the air.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the emotions in the room almost tangible—the grief, the anger, the longing for peace. You glanced at Odysseus, who leaned back in his throne, his eyes never leaving Andreia, expression unreadable.

For a long moment, he was silent, the throne room holding its breath, waiting for his judgment.

The tension was thick, each second dragging on, the silence almost unbearable.

You watched as Penelope glanced at her husband, her lips parting slightly, as if she wished to speak, to offer some kindness to the young woman before them. But she held her silence, respecting her husband's authority in the matter.

Odysseus finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, his voice echoing through the hall. "You shall have your brother's body, Lady Andreia," he said, his tone still guarded but carrying a note of finality. "But understand this—what was done was not done lightly. Your brother's choices led him here, and Ithaca responded as it had to, to protect itself, to protect its queen." His gaze bore into hers, a challenge, a warning. "There will be no retribution, no further claims upon this land."

Andreia bowed her head deeply, her shoulders sagging slightly in what might have been relief or perhaps exhaustion. "Thank you, King Odysseus," she said quietly, her voice barely audible.

You watched her, the sight of her bowed figure filling you with a sense of sadness.

In her, you could see echoes of Andros—the ambition, the pride—but also something gentler, something that perhaps had been lost in him along the way. She was here not for power or revenge but for something simpler, something more human.

Odysseus turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening slightly. "Telemachus, escort Lady Andreia and her retinue to a place where they may rest and prepare. Ensure they are comfortable, and that they have all they need."

Telemachus stepped forward immediately, bowing his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, Father." He turned towards Andreia, his expression polite, though his eyes held a hint of curiosity. "Lady Andreia, if you would follow me," he said, his voice steady.

Andreia straightened, nodding once before gesturing for her servants to follow. Telemachus led them out of the throne room, a guard falling into step behind them, ensuring that the visiting party was properly escorted.

The room seemed to collectively exhale when the grand doors finally closed behind Lady Andreia and her entourage. The echo of their departure faded into the distance, and a different kind of silence filled the throne room—a silence tinged with relief rather than tension.

The guards visibly relaxed, shoulders loosening as they resumed their positions, their once rigid stances softening. They exchanged quick glances, the unspoken communication between them conveying a shared sense of cautious optimism.

A few of the servants resumed their tasks, their steps light as they moved to tidy up the room or to attend to matters elsewhere, their nervous energy now dissipating.

It wasn't long until the throne room was nearly empty, just a few trusted guards stationed near the exits, the king and queen, and you.

Penelope turned towards her husband, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, the lines of worry on her face softening. "You handled that beautifully, my love," she said, her voice tender, full of genuine admiration. "Many others in your position would have shown nothing but hostility, yet you offered her understanding." She leaned a bit closer, her gaze warm as she watched Odysseus. "It shows a strength that is rare, a wisdom that goes beyond vengeance."

Odysseus looked at her, his stern expression softening in response to her praise. He did not speak immediately, but his eyes held hers, his gaze filled with something unspoken, something tender. He gave a small nod, his lips curling just slightly in what could almost be called a smile.

Though his words were few, his attention to his wife spoke volumes—his gaze unwavering, listening to every word as though her voice alone anchored him.

"And that young princess," Penelope continued, her voice brightening, her eyes sparkling. "To travel all this way on her own... there is a strength in her that I admire. It takes courage to face what she has, to step into a kingdom that might view her as an enemy."

Odysseus hummed thoughtfully, as he nodded. His hand moved to rest over hers on the armrest of her throne, a simple gesture that conveyed more than words could in the quiet that settled between them.

Penelope's smile grew, her gaze distant for a moment, before she turned back to Odysseus, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Perhaps," she began, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into her voice, "Lady Andreia should join us for dinner tonight." She rose from her seat gracefully, her movements fluid as she stepped forward, her eyes alight with purpose. "It would be a gesture of peace, a way to make her feel welcomed."

She looked over to you, her smile widening as she beckoned you forward. "Come, dear. There is much to do—let us head to the kitchens. We must prepare the menu and find out what our guests might enjoy." Her voice was filled with a warmth that seemed to dispel the lingering tension in the room, her excitement contagious.

You blinked, startled for a moment, before quickly standing, clutching your lyre tightly as you moved towards her. You nodded, offering her a small smile as she reached for your arm, her grip gentle but insistent.

As Penelope led you out of the throne room, her demeanor was almost buoyant, her steps light, as if she had already dismissed the worries of the day.

Her presence, her warmth, brought a sense of normalcy, a reminder that even amidst uncertainty, there were still traditions to uphold, still hospitality to offer.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The feast was in full swing, the grand hall once again filled with laughter and life. The air was warm and heady, charged with the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, mingling with the sweet aroma of honeyed fruits.

It was a jolly atmosphere—joyful, vibrant, alive.

You found yourself among the musicians once again, your hands moving rhythmically over a small djembe drum, the deep, resonant beat echoing through your body.

With every strike of your hands on the drum's taut skin, you could feel your heart matching its tempo, drumming in sync with the pulse of the music. The rhythm was infectious; your whole body seemed to pulse along, your face flushed from the heat and energy of the room.

There was something about being a part of this collective sound, this melding of melody and percussion, that made the moment feel almost sacred, as if all the troubles of the world had temporarily vanished in the warmth of the hall.

You watched as the others played their instruments—lyres, flutes, and tambourines—all weaving together in a tapestry of sound that filled every corner of the room. Your fingers ached from the constant motion, but the smiles on the faces of those around you were more than enough to keep you going.

The music built up to a joyous crescendo, and as the final notes echoed, the song came to an end, leaving you breathless and grinning.

You took the opportunity to step away, your skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Making your way towards the long table at the side, you grabbed a goblet of water, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat.

You paused, leaning back against one of the stone pillars, your gaze wandering across the grand hall as you took a long sip.

The sight before you was beautiful—almost like something out of a dream. Penelope and Odysseus sat close together at the head table, the queen's eyes warm as they rested on her husband.

Every so often, Odysseus leaned over, his lips moving close to Penelope's ear, whispering something that made her smile. She swatted playfully at his chest, her laughter ringing out—a sound full of genuine happiness that made your own heart swell.

It was a simple, tender moment, yet it spoke of the love and resilience they shared, even after everything they had endured.

As you finished your drink, you heard the musicians striking up another tune. The lively notes filled the room, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched several servants—both from Ithaca and Bronte—begin to laugh and cheer, pairing up to dance.

There was something beautiful about the sight, the way the house colors blended together, Ithaca's blue and gold intermingling with Bronte's green and yellow. The servants moved with an easy grace, their feet tapping in time with the beat, skirts and tunics twirling in flashes of color.

The laughter, the cheer, the music—it all seemed to weave together, filling the room with a sense of unity.

Just as you were about to move and head back to the musicians, you spotted Telemachus making his way over. His eyes met yours, and an easy grin spread across his face, one that you couldn't help but mirror.

You smoothed down your clothes absentmindedly, flattening your hair as a flutter of excitement bubbled up inside you. Your heart beat just a little faster, a mix of anticipation and nervousness making you fidget.

Telemachus had always made it his mission to catch a dance with you if time permitted, and tonight seemed to be no different. You couldn't help the giddy feeling that welled up inside as he drew closer, the warmth of his smile making everything else fade into the background.

But just as he was about to reach you, a flash of green and yellow entered your field of vision.

Lady Andreia intercepted Telemachus, her bright grin unmistakable as she placed a hand on his arm, her fingers curling gently but confidently around his sleeve.

Without waiting for his response, she tugged him toward the center of the room, where the others were already dancing.

Telemachus hesitated for a brief moment, his eyes flickering back to meet yours, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but there was a twinge of something in your chest, an unfamiliar emotion that you couldn't quite place.

You watched as the princess pulled Telemachus into the line of dancers, their movements quickly falling in sync with the lively beat of the music. The prince spun her effortlessly, his laughter mingling with hers as they joined in the swirling dance.

Your gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, that odd twinge deepening in your chest as you took in the sight—the two of them moving together, their colors blending amidst the blues, golds, greens, and yellows that filled the hall.

It was a beautiful scene, and yet, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

With a soft sigh, you turned away, forcing a smile as you made your way back toward the musicians. The music was still playing, the notes joyous and bright, but for the first time tonight, it felt as if you were on the outside looking in.

☆

☆

All throughout the evening, Lady Andreia had remained close to Telemachus, her laughter echoing above the music, her presence unwavering. She danced with him, her smile radiant as they spun together, her fingers brushing his arm in fleeting touches that seemed both innocent and intentional.

They moved as if they had known each other forever, and it left little room for anyone else to join in.

You tried to stay focused, to keep the beat steady with the musicians, your hands drumming over the small djembe until your palms ached. The rhythm was your anchor, something that kept your thoughts from drifting too far into that uncomfortable twinge that seemed to grow each time you caught a glimpse of Telemachus and Andreia together.

He tried, a few times, to break away—to come find you and drag you into the dance—but each time, Andreia was there, her bright smile and laughter cutting in before he even reached you.

Eventually, you decided it was easier to stay put, to let the music carry you through the evening and to ignore Telemachus' fruitless attempts to catch your attention.

It was better this way, or at least, that was what you told yourself.

You poured all your energy into the music, the notes carrying you forward even when your heart wasn't quite in it; your fingers grew sore, your body ached, but you refused to let the fatigue—or the strange, unfamiliar feeling gnawing at you—show.

The music was your refuge, the only thing that made sense in the swirl of emotions you couldn't quite name.

By the time the last of the guests had gone, the hall was quiet, save for the clatter of dishes and the soft murmurs of the servants as they tidied up.

You worked alongside them, your movements automatic—stacking plates, wiping down tables, sweeping away the remains of the night's revelry.

As you worked, you couldn't help but steal glances toward the center of the room, where Telemachus and Andreia had danced. The memory of them spinning together, her hand resting on his shoulder, his smile bright and carefree, made your heart twist painfully.

There was a heaviness in your chest that you tried to ignore, shaking your head as if that would somehow rid you of the thoughts that kept creeping in.

Once the work was done, you walked with the others out of the now empty hall, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor.

You exchanged quiet goodbyes, your voice almost lost in the stillness of the night, and then you turned, splitting off from the group as you made your way towards your room.

The night was calm, the air cool against your skin as you stepped into the outside.

The sky above was clear, the moonlight showering down, bathing the courtyard in a silvery glow. The chirping of insects filled the quiet, a gentle hum that seemed to wrap around you, a reminder that even in the stillness, life continued.

The path to your room was familiar, and you moved slowly, your eyes tracing the patterns of moonlight on the ground, your thoughts drifting.

The ache in your chest hadn't lessened, but out here, beneath the open sky, it felt a little easier to bear.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the noise and warmth of the hall, to the laughter and music that had filled the air not long ago.

And yet, even in the quiet, your mind thought about Telemachus, about the way his eyes had searched for yours, the way Lady Andreia had pulled him away.

You shook your head again, as if to clear it, and quickened your pace.

It was late, and you were tired. Tomorrow would be another day, and perhaps, with the morning light, things would feel different.

So instead of focusing on such churning thoughts, you focus on the sound of your footsteps, the feel of the ground beneath your sandals, the glow of the moonlight guiding you forward.

The night was quiet, and for now, that was enough.

You were nearly halfway to your room when you heard your name called, the sound breaking through the stillness of the night. The voice was familiar—soft, yet insistent—and it made you stop in your tracks, your heart giving a small, unexpected leap.

Turning around, your eyes widened slightly as you saw Telemachus jogging towards you, his figure illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon. He was a sight, his hair a little tousled, cheeks flushed from the exertion, and something about the way he moved—hurried, purposeful—sent a warmth spreading through your chest.

"____," he called again, his breath a little heavy by the time he reached you, but his eyes were bright, a soft smile spreading across his face. He looked down at you, his gaze gentle, and for a moment, the weight that had settled in your chest seemed to lift, just a little.

"May I escort you the rest of the way?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of warmth, his eyes searching yours as if hoping for an invitation.

Before you could respond, his hand reached out, taking the djembe drum that hung by your side, lifting it from your shoulder with a careful touch.

You blinked, and then smiled, nodding. "Of course," you said, your voice softer than you intended, but it seemed enough for him. Telemachus returned your smile, his own soft and genuine, and with that, the two of you began to walk.

The silence that fell between you was comfortable, the kind that needed no words; you could feel the warmth of the prince beside you, his arm brushing against yours every so often as you walked. The djembe hung at his side, and his fingers tapped against it absently, keeping a gentle rhythm as you moved.

You found yourself glancing at him from the corner of your eye, the moonlight highlighting the curve of his jaw, the softness of his expression, and something inside you softened too.

He looked ahead, his gaze focused on the path, his features calm and relaxed, and there was something about the way he walked—steady, unhurried—that made you feel at ease.

It was as if, for just this moment, all the confusion and the uncertainty from earlier had faded away, leaving behind only this—just the two of you, walking side by side beneath the moonlight.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you looked ahead, letting the quiet wrap around you like a comforting blanket.

The night seemed to hold its breath; the only sounds were the soft crunch of your footsteps against the path and the distant chirping of crickets. You could hear the rustle of the olive branches above, swaying gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the ground as the moonlight filtered through the leaves.

The air was cool, crisp against your skin, yet the warmth of Telemachus beside you seemed to make the chill almost pleasant, balancing it out in a way that made you feel content.

Telemachus cleared his throat softly, the sound breaking through the quiet but not disturbing it—more like adding another layer to the stillness of the night. He looked down at you, his eyes soft, the corners of his lips turning upwards. "Did you enjoy the feast?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, as though he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to break the peaceful silence.

You turned your head towards him, meeting his gaze, and a bright smile spread across your face. "I did, my prince," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of excitement as you recalled the vibrant festivities. "It was wonderful—the music, the dancing, the laughter. It felt like, for just a moment, everything was right again. Everyone seemed... happy."

Telemachus nodded, his expression softening, the lines of tension easing from his face. "It was," he agreed, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Bronte was surprisingly pleasant. The people were warmer than I expected. It was nice, having them here."

At the mention of the neighboring kingdom, you felt your smile falter just a little, your heart giving an odd, uncomfortable twist.

You nodded, forcing the smile to stay on your lips, pressing on despite the unease that flickered within you. "Yes, it was," you agreed, your voice quieter now, a touch of something unspoken lacing your words.

You looked ahead, focusing on the path, on the way the stones seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, trying to push away the feeling that tugged at your chest.

You could feel Telemachus glancing at you, his gaze lingering, as though he could sense the shift in your mood, but he said nothing, choosing instead to remain in the comfortable silence, letting the moment stretch between you.

And for that, you were grateful. Grateful for his presence, for the warmth that seemed to radiate from him, for the way he walked beside you without question or pressure, just there, solid and steady.

After a few more moments, Telemachus gave a soft chuckle, his voice lightening the mood. "I think I made a fool of myself on the dance floor," he admitted, shaking his head, a sheepish grin forming on his face. "I haven't danced like that in a long time."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound escaping you before you could stop it. You glanced up at him, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "You weren't that bad," you teased gently, your smile widening. "In fact, I'd say you were quite impressive—though maybe not as graceful as Lady Andreia."

Telemachus groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone holding a hint of self-deprecation. "She certainly made me look better than I am." He paused, glancing at you with a sly smile. "Though, I do think I would've rather danced with you instead."

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading across your cheeks. You looked away, hiding the smile that tugged at your lips, feeling a flutter of something light and hopeful bloom in your chest. "Perhaps next time, my prince," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Telemachus hummed in agreement, and you felt his arm brush against yours, a gentle touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

The two of you continued walking, the soft crunch of your footsteps filling the silence as the path narrowed; the ground gradually shifted beneath you, the soft crunch of gravel transitioning into the smooth tiles of the palace floor as you entered a different part of the building.

Telemachus walked you all the way to your door, neither of you saying much—the quiet had settled between you like a comforting blanket, one neither of you wished to disturb.

When you reached your door, you paused, turning to face him, your eyes meeting his. The moonlight bathed his features in a gentle glow, softening the lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you filled with something unspoken, something tender and fragile.

Telemachus gave you a soft smile, his gaze never leaving yours. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm in a gentle, almost hesitant touch, as if testing the waters. "Goodnight, ____" he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with warmth.

You swallowed, your heart pounding, and offered him a small, genuine smile in return. "Goodnight, my prince." Your voice was equally soft, the words carrying more than just a farewell—something unspoken that hung between you, lingering in the air.

For a moment, it felt as though he might lean closer, as if the two of you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn't quite name. But then he pulled back, his smile still in place, and nodded once before turning to walk away, his footsteps fading into the night.

You watched him go, your heart still pounding, warmth blooming in your chest.

When he finally disappeared from view, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, leaning back against your door. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you rested your head against the wood, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Your heart was racing, your cheeks warm, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in the feeling—the hope, the warmth, the quiet thrill that seemed to spread through you.

It was like a secret, something just for you to hold onto, a memory to carry with you.

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed yourself away from the door, opening it quietly and stepping inside.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the moon filtering through the small window. You moved slowly, setting your drum down in the corner, your fingers lingering on the wood for a moment.

You shrugged off your shoes, your fingers deftly undoing the laces before placing them neatly to the side. Your eyes scanned the dim room, and you quietly moved to take off the rest of your attire, folding each piece carefully and setting it on a chair.

You splashed your face with water from the basin, the coolness making you shiver slightly, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of your flushed cheeks.

Finally, you slipped into your nightclothes, letting out a content sigh as you settled into your bed; you were knocked out the moment your head hit the pillow.

The dream was unlike anything you had ever experienced—a strange yet beautiful vision that seemed to blur the lines between fantasy and reality.

You were sitting in a seemingly never-ending field of flowers, the sun shining down warmly, bathing everything in a golden glow. The flowers danced around you, vibrant colors stretching as far as your eyes could see.

You wore a flowing white dress, its fabric catching the breeze, and your feet were bare, the earth beneath you soft and comforting.

You were humming softly to yourself, the tune light and carefree, your hands busy weaving a flower crown to match the one already resting atop your head. There was a sense of tranquility, of freedom, that seemed to fill you entirely, making your heart swell with joy.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across you, interrupting the sunlight, and you looked up, a smile already forming on your lips. Though the figure was shrouded in shadow, somehow, you knew them—an innate familiarity that made you feel safe, comforted.

The man bent down, his presence filling the space around you with warmth. His hand reached out to cup the bottom of your face gently, and his touch was like sunlight itself—soft, warm, and deeply comforting. You found yourself closing your eyes, leaning into it, savoring the tenderness. His thumb brushed against your cheek, a touch so soft it almost tickled, and you could feel your heart fluttering in your chest.

The man leaned closer, his warmth enveloping you as his lips brushed against your ear; you shivered as he whispered your name—a low, soft voice that sent a thrill down your spine.

"____, my love."

The words were filled with so much warmth, so much affection that it made your heart swell almost painfully. His presence was comforting, his closeness like a soothing balm to your soul.

You could feel the heat of his breath, the way his hand cradled your face like you were something precious, irreplaceable. The warmth of his touch seeped into your very being, making you wish for the moment to stretch on forever.

You leaned into him further, your heart pounding with something that felt so pure, so unguarded, and as his fingers brushed against your jawline, you could almost feel the promise in that simple touch—a promise of love, of devotion, of something far beyond what words could convey.

And just as you began to turn your face towards his, your eyes still closed, your lips parting slightly—

When your eyes opened, the dream was gone, replaced by the soft light of dawn breaking past the horizon, filling your room with its gentle glow.

You blinked, disoriented for a moment, the warmth of the dream still lingering in your chest, the sensation of his touch still vivid.

With a sigh, you rubbed your face, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream as you slowly pushed yourself up, the chill of the morning air brushing against your skin.

You could still feel the echoes of that strange, beautiful vision as you stood, stretching, and began to prepare yourself for the day ahead.

☆

☆

Throughout the morning, you couldn't help but notice that Lady Andreia was still on Ithaca.

You had seen her once or twice after she had gathered her brother's body, and you had assumed she would leave promptly after, but she and her entourage had continued to stay. She was particularly present around the royal family, her presence lingering like a shadow.

Most noticeably, she often stayed close to Queen Penelope.

At first, you assumed it was simply a formality—a gesture of goodwill to stay and converse with the queen after everything that had happened. But as the hours passed, you saw Andreia with Penelope often, their heads bowed together, sharing whispers and laughter.

There was an ease between them that seemed to grow, as though they were beginning to find comfort in each other's company.

It was nearing lunchtime when you were bringing a tray of fruit and freshly baked bread to Penelope. You made your way through the corridors, the tray balanced carefully in your hands.

The closer you got to the queen's chambers, the more you could hear the soft murmur of voices.

When you entered, you found Penelope and Andreia seated by the window, sunlight streaming in, casting a warm glow over them. They were chatting animatedly, their smiles bright, their conversation filled with an ease that made you pause.

Penelope looked up as you entered, her expression softening. "Oh, ____, I'm sorry," she said, a gentle apology in her voice. "I forgot to tell you that Lady Andreia would be joining me for lunch today."

You nodded, offering her a small smile. "No trouble at all, my queen. I can bring more," you said politely, already making a mental note to fetch another tray.

But Lady Andreia shook her head, her red hair catching the sunlight as she smiled warmly at you. "Please, there's no need. I feel like I'm intruding as it is," she said, her tone light, though there was a sincerity beneath her words.

Penelope waved her off, her smile growing. "Nonsense. You are a guest here, and it is our duty to make you feel welcome."

You busied yourself setting down the tray, your hands moving with practiced ease as you arranged the dishes, making sure everything was in place. You tried to keep your mind focused on your task, but you couldn't help overhearing their conversation.

"I must say," Andreia spoke, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness, "Ithaca is truly beautiful. The landscapes, the people—there is a warmth here that I have never known elsewhere."

Penelope smiled at her, tilting her head slightly. "It is home," she replied, her voice filled with a quiet pride.

Andreia sighed softly, her gaze drifting out the window. "Bronte is beautiful too, in its own way," she continued, her voice thoughtful. "But it's different. The mountains are tall and covered in mist, and the forests are dense, almost impenetrable. Our people are strong, but they lack the openness I see here. Everything in Bronte is..." She paused, searching for the right word, "harsher, I suppose. Our winters are long, and the sea is often angry, but there is beauty in its wildness."

You couldn't help but glance at her as she spoke, her eyes far away, lost in her memories. There was a sadness there—a longing for something. It made you pause, your hands hovering for a moment as you listened.

Penelope reached over, placing a gentle hand on Lady Andreia's. "Every place has its own beauty," she said softly. "And I am glad that, at least for now, you can find some warmth here with us."

Andreia looked at Penelope, her eyes softening as she smiled. "Thank you," she said quietly, her voice filled with sincerity.

Then, after a small pause, she added, her tone shifting slightly, almost wistful, "The people here respect you deeply, my queen. It must be a great comfort to have such loyalty from those around you. And King Odysseus... his presence must also be a great source of strength for you. His reputation alone speaks volumes."

Penelope returned her smile, her expression warm but also slightly curious. "It is a blessing," she agreed, her eyes meeting Andreia's with genuine fondness. "One that I do not take for granted. Odysseus and I have been through much together, and his return has brought a balance I did not realize I needed."

You watched the exchange, Andreia's eyes lingering on Penelope with something like longing—perhaps admiration, perhaps something else, a yearning you couldn't quite understand.

She smiled again, though there was a weight to her words. "The tales of his cunning and strength—seeing him here, in person, makes one understand how such legends are born." The way her words hung in the air, filled with both warmth and something more complex, made you uneasy.

You finished your task, stepping back and offering a polite bow before making yourself scarce.

You couldn't quite place the feeling that lingered in your chest as you walked away—a mixture of curiosity and something else, something you couldn't quite name.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Telemachus wiped the sweat from his brow as he stepped back from the training ring, his muscles aching from the relentless sparring session he had just endured.

Despite his father's age, Odysseus still fought with the strength of a warrior in his prime.

Each blow carried the power of years spent on battlefields and journeys across the sea. Every strike, every counter, every feint—all of it left Telemachus reminded that the man before him was still a force to be reckoned with.

His father may have grayed, but there was nothing frail about his frame, nothing slow in his movement. He felt proud, yet also deeply sore, his body protesting as he made his way towards the courtyard.

The bright sunlight greeted him as he stepped into the courtyard, the warmth soaking into his skin, making his sore muscles relax slightly. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness, blinking against the sharp contrast after the dimness of the training ring.

The air was fresh, filled with the scent of blooming flowers carried by a gentle breeze. The courtyard was quiet, and for the first time in a long while, Telemachus found himself able to simply enjoy the moment.

There were no suitors darkening his home, no cloud of sorrow hanging over Ithaca.

The palace, which once echoed with tension, was now filled with peace, and Telemachus found himself savoring it. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders loosening as he stood there, taking it all in—the sound of birds singing, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the feel of sunlight warming his face.

After a while, though, a thought crept into his mind, nudging at him until he could no longer ignore it. He had completed all his duties for the day, and now he found himself with unexpected free time. But what to do with it?

He stood there for a moment, considering, his eyes drifting over the courtyard, searching for something to occupy himself with.

And then, almost instinctively, he thought of you.

A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it, and he felt warmth spread through him, a gentle heat that had nothing to do with the sun above.

He could almost picture where you'd be—your usual spot around this time of day—and without even realizing it, he began walking in that direction. His steps were light, a sense of excitement bubbling up inside him as he moved through the palace grounds.

The sun shone down, bathing everything in golden light, and the air smelled of grass and distant salt from the sea.

Telemachus' heart quickened in his chest, his thoughts filled with images of you—your laughter, the way your eyes seemed to catch the light when you smiled, the calm determination that you carried even in the hardest moments.

You were gentle, but there was a strength in you that had always amazed him.

You were beautiful, inside and out. And your voice—gods, your voice. It could soothe even his worst fears, each word like a melody that stayed with him long after you'd spoken.

Telemachus sighed softly, a lovesick smile spreading across his face as he continued to walk, his thoughts wrapped up at the thought of seeing you.

Most nights, he found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts twisting and turning, always finding their way back to you.

He didn't know when it had started—this feeling that seemed to take over his every waking moment, but he knew it now—he wanted to be yours, and you, his.

He hoped to share something that went beyond mere friendship or affection.

He hoped to give you the kind of love he'd heard stories of, the kind of love his parents shared—deep and unwavering, a love that could withstand anything.

But more than anything else, he hoped that you felt the same.

Soon, the familiar cypress tree came into view, and just as he predicted, you were settled a few feet away, your lyre in your hands.

His eyes immediately zeroed in on you—the way your figure was framed by the soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, your head slightly bowed as you plucked the strings of your instrument.

It made his heart swell just watching you, the simple peace of the moment making him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Telemachus didn't even notice his footsteps speeding up, his stride becoming almost a bounce as he made his way toward you. He was eager, almost too eager, his heart fluttering in his chest at the prospect of hearing your voice, seeing your smile directed at him.

But just as he was about halfway to you, a firm hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder, halting his progress. Telemachus stilled immediately, instinctively whipping around, his grip harsh as he grabbed onto the wrist of whoever had stopped him, his face hardening into a cold mask.

But then, he saw who it was.

"Lady Andreia?" He blinked, surprised, his eyes moving over her form. She was wearing a dress in a shade that looked somewhere between turquoise and sea-green, the fabric flowing around her in soft waves. He cleared his throat, his expression softening as he quickly dropped her wrist, giving her a small nod. "My apologies, Lady Andreia. You startled me."

The princess only giggled in response, waving him off as though his reaction hadn't fazed her in the slightest. "Oh, no, it's my fault. I didn't mean to startle you, Prince Telemachus," she said, her voice light, almost teasing.

Telemachus shifted awkwardly, glancing behind him to where you still sat by the cypress tree, oblivious to his presence. He could feel a pang of frustration at the interruption, but he quickly turned his attention back to Andreia, doing his best to remain courteous. "Is there something I can assist you with, Lady Andreia?" he asked, trying to keep his tone polite.

Andreia's eyes seemed to brighten at his question, and she clasped her hands together, her smile widening. "Actually, yes, there is," she said, and before Telemachus could react, she had reached out, grabbing his wrist. "Come, let's chat!"

She tugged at him, her grip surprisingly firm as she began to pull him away, her laughter ringing out in the quiet courtyard.

Telemachus let out a small yelp of surprise, stumbling slightly as he was dragged along. He almost protested, almost telling her that he had somewhere else he needed to be—someone else he wanted to be with.

But then, he remembered his mother's words. Be kind to her, Telemachus. She's a guest in our home, and she has lost much.

So, he bit his tongue, forcing himself to swallow down his frustration as he allowed himself to be led away.

Still, he couldn't help but glance back over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on you, sitting peacefully beneath the cypress tree, unaware of how close he'd been.

His heart sank slightly, a feeling of longing settling deep in his chest. All he wanted was to be near you, to hear your voice, to share even just a small part of his day with you.

But for now, it seemed, he would have to wait.

☆

☆

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of laughter echoing in your ears. You blinked quickly, bringing your focus to the source of the sound.

Your gaze lifted just in time to see Telemachus being pulled away by Lady Andreia, her hand gripping his wrist as she laughed. Your eyes tracked them, watching as the prince's figure grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the distance between you and the lively courtyard ahead.

When he looked back, you quickly looked down, and after a few seconds, you glanced back up, only to see them disappear from your sight altogether around the bend.

You let out a sigh, looking back down at your lyre, your fingers tracing the familiar strings.

It wasn't the first time you'd watched Andreia intercept him like this. It had happened more than once since her arrival, her presence always lingering close to the prince, her laughter ringing out a little too often for your liking.

You hated how easy it seemed for her, how naturally she took up space in his day.

It made you feel small in comparison, like an afterthought, a shadow on the periphery of his world.

You told yourself it was ridiculous, that you had no claim to him, no right to feel this gnawing ache in your chest. But the feeling remained, stubborn and sharp.

The song that had been on the tip of your tongue faded away, your fingers now motionless against the strings. The mood to play had left, leaving behind an odd sense of emptiness.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the unease settling in your chest. There was no sense in dwelling on it.

Telemachus had his duties, his responsibilities, and you had yours. He was a prince, and you were—well, just you.

You forced a small smile, letting your fingers pluck a few lazy notes, but it was half-hearted, even to your own ears.

"Are you the official musician?"

The sudden voice startled you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, the lyre clutched tightly to your chest as your eyes widened in surprise.

You looked up quickly, your gaze landing on a figure squatting just a foot away from you. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion—how had he gotten so close without you noticing?

He wore Bronte's colors—green and yellow. His skin was olive-toned, warm under the sunlight, and his dark brown hair fell just past his shoulders. His eyes, equally dark, studied you with a kind of quiet curiosity that made you shift where you sat.

Realizing you hadn't answered his question, you cleared your throat, trying to steady your voice. "U-um, no," you stammered, your fingers fidgeting against the lyre strings. "I'm actually Queen Penelope's personal handmaiden." The words trailed off awkwardly, and you glanced down, picking at a blade of grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

The young man hummed in response, and, without any hesitation, he plopped himself down directly in front of you, crossing his legs. You blinked at him, startled once again by his forwardness. His eyes were still on you, staring down at you as if he were trying to figure you out, his gaze curious, almost intense.

"I saw you play at the feast last night," he said after a moment, his voice carrying an ease that made you slightly envious. "You were incredible. Honestly, I couldn't look away."

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, no, it wasn't just me," you said quickly, glancing down at the lyre. "I played among others. It was nothing special."

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Doesn't matter," he said, his tone light but sincere. "You were great, regardless."

Before you could think of a reply, he extended his hand out to you, his gaze unwavering. "Callias, at your service. I've come along with Princess Andreia from Bronte."

You blinked, staring for a second at his extended hand, your mind taking a moment to catch up.

A handshake? Here? Between servants?

Your eyes darted to his face, searching for any hint of mockery, but he just kept smiling, waiting patiently as if there was nothing unusual about his gesture.

Hesitantly, you wiped your hands on your dress before tentatively placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, and he shook your hand with an ease that almost made your face heat up.

It was so casual, almost as if you knew each other for years, and the boldness of it threw you off-balance.

"I'm ____," you said softly, feeling the words stumble out of you.

He smiled again, broader this time, as if your awkwardness amused him. "____" he repeated, as if testing your name on his tongue.

You nodded, your hand still tingling from the unexpected contact. The handshake had felt strangely intimate—too bold, too modern for servants, especially in Ithaca.

You weren't quite sure how to react, so you just smiled politely, hoping the flush on your cheeks would die down soon.

"Well, um, welcome, Callias. I hope you find things to your liking here."

Callias gave you a nod, his smile turning almost conspiratorial, as if you shared some private joke. "I think I will," he said lightly, before casually leaning back on his hands, his gaze drifting up to the clear blue sky above.

You shifted slightly where you sat, unsure of what to say or do next. The unease from earlier had yet to fully disappear, replaced now by an odd mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Callias seemed comfortable—far more comfortable than you felt—and you couldn't help but wonder why he was here, sitting with you, instead of mingling with the other guests or tending to his duties.

"So, the Queen Penelope's personal handmaiden," he mused after a moment, his eyes flicking back down to you, his gaze soft but inquisitive. "That must be... interesting. Busy, I imagine."

You nodded, your fingers still fiddling with the strings of your lyre. "It is," you admitted. "The Queen is kind, though. She makes it worthwhile."

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to piece something together. "And playing music—is that something you do often?"

You gave a small shrug, your gaze shifting to the lyre resting in your lap. "Whenever I have the time. It's more of a hobby than anything else."

"A hobby," he repeated, his tone light, almost teasing. "Well, it's a good one. You're talented—clearly."

You felt your cheeks flush again, and you ducked your head, letting out a soft laugh. "Thank you," you said quietly, unsure of what else to say.

Callias watched you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering before he finally looked away, his eyes once again drifting to the sky. "I think Ithaca's lucky to have someone like you," he said, his voice almost too soft to hear. "Someone who brings music and warmth to a place that's been through so much."

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, and for a moment, you weren't quite sure how to respond. "Thank you," you said again, the words barely a whisper, your heart giving a small, unexpected flutter.

Callias' eyes then trailed down to the lyre sitting comfortably in your lap. His eyes brightened, a spark of excitement lighting them up as he leaned forward slightly. "What else can you play?" he asked.

You shifted a bit, unused to talking so openly with someone new—especially someone from another kingdom. After a moment, you answered, "Uh, well... I can play the sistrum, the aulos, and a few others." You trailed off awkwardly, your fingers absently toying with the strings of your lyre, the delicate notes barely audible.

The male let out an excited gasp before rummaging through his tunic. He pulled out a small instrument, a panpipe, holding it up with a cheeky grin on his face. "Can you play this?"

Curiously, you reached forward, and he placed it into your hands. You turned it over in your fingers, examining the little wooden instrument, its simple form somehow feeling significant.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you studied it. You had seen panpipes before—they were common—but for some reason, you hadn't thought to learn it. Almost as if the idea had simply slipped your mind.

You looked back up at Callias, humming softly as you held it back out to him. "I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever played this."

Callias just grinned, the teasing glint in his eyes growing even brighter. Without warning, he leaned forward, his larger, calloused hand covering yours, gently closing your fingers back around the pipes. "Wanna learn?" he asked, his voice a bit lower, almost conspiratorial. "I could teach you."

You blinked, taken aback by his closeness, the warmth of his hand on yours making your heart stutter. Your mouth opened and closed, no words forming as you tried to process his boldness.

Callias' grin grew even wider before he pouted playfully, his head tilting to the side as if pleading with you. "C'mon, ____. It's a fair trade—you teach me the lyre, I teach you the pipes. Deal?"

You stared at him, your eyes widening slightly at his audacity. But there was something disarming in the way he spoke—something almost childlike in his enthusiasm—that made it hard to say no.

Slowly, you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Alright, deal," you said softly.

The brunet beamed, his entire face lighting up with excitement. "Great! We'll start now then!"

Your eyes widened in surprise. "N-Now?" you stammered, glancing around the courtyard. It wasn't exactly crowded, but the thought of practicing a new instrument, here, in the open, made you nervous.

Callias chuckled, his gaze softening as he watched your apprehension. "Don't worry," he said, his voice gentle. "It's just me. No pressure." He leaned back, giving you some space as he gestured toward the pipes still in your hand. "Give it a try," he urged, his smile encouraging.

You took a deep breath, glancing down at the Panpipes, your fingers brushing over the smooth wood. Slowly, you brought it to your lips, hesitating for a moment before blowing softly, a gentle note escaping the pipes.

Callias clapped his hands together, his eyes shining. "See? You're already a natural!"

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you, shaking your head at his enthusiasm. "I doubt that," you said, but there was a warmth in your chest now, the unease from earlier finally beginning to fade away.

"Here, lemme show you a simple song," Callias said, grabbing the pipes from your hand. He positioned them against his lips and began playing a soft, lilting melody. The notes flowed smoothly, the sound filling the air with a gentle charm.

You watched, entranced, as he played, his mouth moving deftly over the pipes.

After a few moments, he paused, looking at you with a grin. "See? Just follow along with the rhythm—nothing too fancy. It's simple enough. Here." He handed the pipes back to you, his smile encouraging.

You hesitated, feeling a bit of nervousness returning, but there was something so genuinely encouraging about Callias that made it hard to refuse. You took the pipes and held them to your lips, trying to mimic the way he had played.

The notes that came out were shaky, uneven, and you winced at the sound.

It felt... off. Not quite right.

You tried again, huffing slightly when the sound didn't come out as smoothly as it had for Callias.

With a pout, you pulled the pipes away from your lips, glaring down at the instrument. "Here," you muttered, holding it back out to him. "I can't seem to get it right."

Callias just laughed, his eyes twinkling as he took the pipes from you. "Aw, don't be too hard on yourself," he said teasingly. "Looks like there's finally an instrument you can't master."

You gave him a playful scowl, rolling your eyes. "Very funny," you mumbled, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement.

Callias placed the pipes back into his tunic, patting them gently as if they were some treasured item. He leaned back further on his hands, his eyes closing as he let the sunlight warm his face. "It's okay, though. We can practice more another time," he said casually, as if he were already planning on spending more time with you.

You chuckled, raising an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really? How can you be so sure there'll be a next time?" you teased, your voice light.

Callias grinned without missing a beat, his eyes still closed. He gave a lazy shrug, the corners of his lips quirking up. "I don't know... just a gut feeling," he hummed, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

☆

☆

The two young royals walked slowly through the palace gardens, their feet crunching over the pebbled pathway.

The sun was bright, its golden rays filtering through the leaves of olive and laurel trees, the air filled with the scent of thyme and blooming myrtle. The gentle hum of bees and the occasional chirp of birds added a pleasant background, giving the illusion of perfect serenity.

Telemachus cleared his throat, trying to shift the awkwardness away. He turned to Andreia, offering her a small, polite smile. "So, Lady Andreia, what is it you'd like to talk about?"

Andreia sighed softly, her gaze drifting as they passed by a bush of narcissus flowers. She paused, reaching out to gently touch the soft petals, her fingers lingering there.

Telemachus couldn't help but think back to when you'd called them daffodils—what a silly name, he'd thought then, but now the thought made him smile.

"I must say," Andreia began, her voice almost wistful, "Ithaca is even more beautiful than I'd imagined. The people here are so kind, and everything is so... peaceful." She turned to look at Telemachus, her lips curving into a bright grin. "Despite the unfortunate reason for my visit, I find myself grateful for the chance to experience your homeland."

Telemachus blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Andreia had already begun walking again, her gaze fixed forward. As she moved, she glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes twinkling with a teasing light.

"I hear the prince of Ithaca is known for his hospitality," she said, her tone playfully challenging. "Does that extend to entertaining lonely guests as well?"

Telemachus found himself chuckling, the sound escaping him before he could even register it. It was strange—he hadn't expected to laugh, not in this moment, and definitely not with Andreia.

With a soft sigh, he followed after her, shaking his head slightly as he tried to push away the lingering thoughts of you beneath the cypress tree.

As they continued walking through the garden, Andreia engaged Telemachus in conversation, her voice warm and charismatic. She asked about the palace grounds, about his duties as the prince, and even about the people of Ithaca.

Her interest seemed genuine, her laughter light and easy as she responded to his answers.

Telemachus answered her questions politely, describing the routines he carried out to support his father and the responsibilities he had to the people of Ithaca. Andreia listened intently, her eyes never wavering from his face, and she nodded along, occasionally humming thoughtfully in response.

"I must say, my prince, for someone to be the son of a legend, you must be plenty prepared if trouble to arise, no?" Her eyes flickered back to Telemachus, her expression smoothing into one of respect. "The way he reclaimed his throne with such strength, such... resolve. It's rare to see a man so certain of his purpose, so willing to do whatever it takes for those he loves. It's admirable."

Telemachus blinked, watching her as she spoke.He cleared his throat, unsure how to respond. "My father has always been... determined," he said cautiously, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her face.

Andreia turned back to him, her expression brightening once more, her smile easy and warm. "Indeed. And that determination is something that runs in the family, I'm sure." She reached out, lightly brushing her fingers against his arm in a gesture that seemed casual yet deliberate. "After all, Ithaca is in capable hands with you, isn't it?"

Telemachus forced another smile, nodding. "Thank you, Lady Andreia. I... appreciate your confidence."

She gave him a final, lingering look, her lips curving into a smile that held just a hint of mystery. "Confidence is easy when one knows what to look for, my prince."

After a while, the conversation took a more serious turn.

Andreia turned to face him fully, her steps slowing as they neared another flowerbed. "Prince Telemachus," she said, her voice softer now, "I know that there has been tension between Ithaca and Bronte in the past. It's unfortunate that we meet under such grim circumstances, but I cannot help but think that perhaps this is an opportunity."

Telemachus' brow furrowed slightly, and he tilted his head. "What do you mean, Lady Andreia?"

She smiled, her eyes glimmering with something that seemed both hopeful and calculating. "Well, your mother, Queen Penelope, spoke of the importance of peace between our kingdoms. She spoke so warmly of a future where Ithaca and Bronte could coexist without distrust or resentment. And I agree with her." Andreia stepped closer, her gaze never wavering from Telemachus' eyes. "Peace can be achieved, and strengthened, through alliances." She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing, her tone almost coy. "Perhaps even through marriage."

Telemachus blinked, taken aback by the suggestion. For a moment, he was unsure if he had heard her correctly. "Marriage?" he echoed, his voice filled with disbelief.

Andreia giggled, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, don't look so surprised, my prince. It's only a thought, after all." She leaned in slightly, her smile widening as she added, "A very practical thought, wouldn't you say? A formal alliance would ensure that our kingdoms remain on good terms."

Telemachus could feel the weight of her words settling on his shoulders. It was as if, in that single moment, everything had changed between them.

Lady Andreia was no longer just a guest in their home—no longer just a mourning sister seeking refuge. She had become a player on the board of politics, and suddenly, he too felt like a piece being maneuvered.

His role as her host, her supporter in a time of grief, had shifted—now, he was the prize, the potential bridge between two kingdoms.

The realization left him uneasy, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He forced a smile, though it felt a bit strained. "It is... certainly something to consider," he said, his voice careful, diplomatic.

Andreia's eyes sparkled, as if pleased by his response. "That's all I ask," she said, her tone light once more. She turned and continued walking, her fingers brushing against the leaves of a nearby shrub as they moved along the path. "I only wish for what is best for both our homes, Prince Telemachus." She glanced back at him with a teasing grin. "Besides, who wouldn't want to secure peace in such a charming place as Ithaca?"

Telemachus found himself chuckling again, though this time the laughter felt more like a reflex than genuine amusement; Andreia's suggestion had taken him off guard.

He hesitated, looking at her with a hint of curiosity. "Why are you so certain of this, Lady Andreia? We've only just met, after all," he said, his voice tinged with both hesitance and genuine curiosity.

Andreia paused, a playful hum escaping her lips as she tilted her head thoughtfully. She stepped closer to the flowerbed, her eyes catching sight of a cluster of blooms.

Without another word, she reached toward a bushel of vibrant flowers and plucked a stem delicately.

It was aconite, with its hooded, deep blue petals—though Telemachus couldn't recall its name. He watched as she approached him, the faint scent of the flower wafting through the warm air.

Andreia moved in close, her red tresses tumbling over her shoulder as she stood on her toes. Her perfume, light and sweet, mingled with the fragrance of the garden. She reached up, tucking the stem of the aconite behind Telemachus' ear, her fingers brushing against his skin.

The touch was gentle, almost intimate, and Telemachus found himself momentarily frozen.

A soft smile rested on her lips as she gazed into his eyes, her head tilting to the side in an endearing manner. "You could say... just a gut feeling," she murmured, her voice playful yet soft. And with that, she twirled away, her laughter echoing lightly as she continued along the garden path. "Now, I wonder if the anemones are in bloom," she mused aloud, as if her previous words hadn't left a strange tension in the air.

Telemachus watched her go, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest—confusion and perhaps a touch of unease. He reached up, touching the flower she had tucked behind his ear.

The gesture, the closeness, her words... they all left him with more questions than answers.

The prince wasn't sure what to do next—he knew he would have to tell his parents about this conversation, and the thought made him uneasy.

For now, though, he simply kept his thoughts to himself before following the young royal, unsure of what direction this unexpected turn would lead.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Telemachus sat before his father in his parents' study.

It was a shared space where both Penelope and Odysseus spent their time overseeing the kingdom's affairs. The desk in front of him stretched almost the entire length of the room, with two chairs set behind it for both rulers.

Shelves filled with scrolls and books lined the walls, and in one corner sat Penelope's completed woven shroud, a testament to her patience and skill.

A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a gentle comfort against the stone walls.

Telemachus shifted in his chair, his leg bouncing restlessly. His eyes darted around the room, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across the aged parchment and the tapestry hanging above the mantle.

He tried to focus on the details of the room, but the uncertainty he felt twisted his thoughts into knots.

Across from him, Odysseus sat behind the large desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he read over a parchment, his gaze serious and unwavering. A servant stood by his side, carefully refilling his goblet with wine before silently leaving the room, leaving father and son alone.

As the door clicked shut, Odysseus finally looked up, his sharp eyes studying his son's posture. He set the parchment aside, his attention now entirely on Telemachus. "What seems to be troubling you, my son?"

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting again in his seat. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers brushing against the fabric of his tunic. "Father, I... I need to speak with you. It's about..." He paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to find the right words. "It's about Lady Andreia of Bronte."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, giving his son a patient nod. "Go on."

Telemachus took a deep breath, the air feeling heavy in his chest. "She spoke to me today," he began, his voice low and hesitant. "She mentioned... a proposition. A marriage alliance between Ithaca and Bronte." He could hardly believe the words as he spoke them, and he could feel his face heating up as he forced them out.

The study fell into silence, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound in the otherwise still room. Odysseus blinked, his brows knitting together as he processed his son's words. "A marriage alliance?" he repeated, his voice uncertain, almost as if he needed confirmation.

Telemachus nodded quickly, his eyes wide and earnest. "Yes, Father. She said it could help secure peace and strengthen the bond between our kingdoms..." His voice trailed off, unsure of how else to explain the strange conversation he'd had in the garden.

Odysseus leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze turning thoughtful.

Just as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably, the door to the study burst open, and Penelope entered, her laughter echoing as she stepped inside. She was holding a parchment, her eyes alight with amusement. "Ody... you won't believe what Diomedes wrote back—" Her words faltered as she took in the scene before her, her eyes darting between her husband and her son, one of whom looked uncertain and the other tense.

The door closed heavily behind her, the echo of it filling the space as Penelope blinked, her expression shifting to one of confusion. "...Is it not a good time?" she asked, her voice softer, the excitement from moments before fading.

Odysseus looked at her, a tired but loving smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, his gaze softening as he met his wife's eyes. "No, my love," he said gently, "you're right on time. In fact, I was about to ask someone to fetch you."

Penelope's brow furrowed slightly as she stepped further into the room, her eyes immediately shifting to Telemachus. The worry was clear in her expression as she moved toward her son, her steps quickening. "Telemachus, are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asked, her hands reaching for his face, brushing his cheek gently as she scanned his features for any sign of distress.

Telemachus squirmed a bit under her concern, trying to twist away from her hands, though a part of him found comfort in her presence. "Mother, I'm fine," he muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to avoid her gaze. "Truly, there's no need to worry."

Odysseus chuckled from his place behind the desk, the sound low and warm. "No, Pen, our son isn't injured," he said, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "But there is something else—perhaps even worse."

"Something worse?" Penelope's eyes widened, her hand flying to her chest as she shot a quick prayer to Zeus. "What is it, Odysseus? What has happened?"

Odysseus glanced at Telemachus, giving him an encouraging nod. The young man cleared his throat, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. "Mother, it's about Lady Andreia... She has proposed a... well, a marriage... between herself... and me."

Penelope blinked, her face going still for a moment before her lips parted, and she let out a soft, "Oh." She blinked again, repeating, "Oh." The tension that had gathered in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as she exhaled deeply, her eyes softening. "So, that's it," she murmured, almost to herself. Her gaze turned back to Odysseus, and with a huff, she moved over to him, swatting his arm lightly. "You need to stop scaring me like that. Honestly, I thought it was something far worse."

Odysseus chuckled again, rubbing his arm where she'd swatted him, though his smile only grew. "Apologies, my dear," he said, his eyes twinkling with affection. "But I suppose marriage proposals can be rather terrifying, depending on the circumstances."

Penelope clicked her tongue, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Terrifying indeed," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement. "I remember how frightful I was of a certain cunning warrior—someone who had a reputation that preceded him, and not always for the better." She gave him a teasing look, her eyes glinting as she leaned back, her fingers brushing a stray lock of his hair.

Odysseus let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Ah, yes, a reputation I worked very hard to earn, might I add," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yet, I seem to remember a certain young woman who was rather intrigued by that very reputation." He reached up, gently catching her hand and holding it, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

Penelope raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening even as she feigned exasperation. "Intrigued, perhaps," she conceded, her smile widening. "But I certainly wasn't without my doubts. You were a rogue, Odysseus—a charming one, no doubt, but still a rogue." She laughed, the sound light and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Odysseus pulled her hand closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "And yet here we are," he murmured, his voice low, filled with warmth. "The rogue and the queen, together still." He looked up at her, his gaze holding hers, the love between them palpable.

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

Telemachus cleared his throat awkwardly, his voice cutting through the tender moment. But just before he spoke, a mix of emotions tightened his chest—embarrassment from intruding on their shared warmth and impatience that his problem seemed to linger, heavy and unresolved, while his parents could still find joy in each other.

It was almost as if his burden didn't belong in the same space as their lightness. 

"Mother, Father, what am I supposed to do? What do I say? I can't possibly be in her presence knowing what she wants..." He trailed off, his eyes wide and a hint of desperation in his tone. He seemed almost to ramble, his thoughts spilling out faster than he could process them. "I can't get married, not to her. I thought she'd leave once her brother... I mean, I just... how can I fix this?"

Penelope's expression softened, but her gaze grew stern. "Telemachus," she began, her tone gentle but firm. "I understand you're troubled, but you can't just outright deny her. Not only would it be unwise, but also rather rude, given everything that she's been through."

She stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on her son's shoulder. "My son, she's lost her brother, and now she's seeking some form of stability—something she can hold on to—the only way we as young ladies have always been taught." Her voice softened, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes, as if recalling her own youth, and the pressures she had once faced.

Odysseus nodded, his eyes meeting his son's with an intensity that made Telemachus swallow. "Your mother's right. If you refuse her outright, it would be seen as an insult to Bronte. It could make things worse between our kingdoms, and we cannot afford that right now after just getting things stable," he said, his voice calm and steady. "There are ways to navigate this—you could try to get her to reconsider the proposal. Perhaps suggest a different way for our kingdoms to form alliances, one that does not require a marriage." He paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. "Like military support or even a cultural exchange proposal."

Telemachus' brow furrowed, and Odysseus continued, leaning forward slightly. "Military alliance is significant, Telemachus. If we were to go that route, it would strengthen our borders and ensure that both Ithaca and Bronte can stand against any threats together whenever the issue arises. And for cultural exchanges, well... those foster true friendship, pride, and understanding between our people. When alliances are built on shared strength and celebrated through culture, they last much longer. They become something more than just an agreement on parchment. They become a bond."

Telemachus listened, nodding slowly as he absorbed his father's words. He felt the weight of the situation pressing on his shoulders, and though he still didn't know exactly what he would say to Lady Andreia, he knew his parents were right. He would have to tread carefully.

Odysseus leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Or," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "you could always try to get her to break it off herself. Perhaps show her that life here on Ithaca is not as ideal as she thinks." He shrugged, his smile widening. "Self-sabotage can be a useful tool, if wielded properly."

Telemachus' eyes widened slightly, and he let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Father, I'm not sure that would be the most honorable approach," he said, shaking his head.

Penelope clicked her tongue, though her lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "No, Odysseus," she said, giving her husband a pointed look. "We should at least try to handle this with some grace. No need to encourage cunning behavior."

Odysseus shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "Grace, of course," he conceded, though his grin remained. "But a little cleverness never hurts." He reached for his wife's hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, the mirth fading slightly. "But beware, Telemachus," he continued, his tone lowering, almost as if speaking to himself. "Alliances are often tested, especially those forged in uneasy times. Stability today does not guarantee peace tomorrow."

Penelope glanced at him, her eyes reflecting a silent understanding of the unspoken dangers that lingered. The air between them grew heavy with an unspoken awareness—the knowledge of how precarious peace could truly be.

Telemachus sighed, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders. He still wasn't entirely sure how he would handle Lady Andreia, but with his parents' support, he felt a bit more grounded. He gave a small nod. "Thank you, mother, father. I'll think on it," he said quietly, his voice more resolute.

Penelope smiled warmly at her son, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Whatever you decide, we trust you, my dear," she whispered, her hand lingering on his cheek for a moment before she stepped back.

Telemachus nodded, taking a deep breath. He wasn't sure what direction things would take, but for now, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The morning sun filtered gently through the open windows, casting a golden glow across Queen Penelope's chambers. The light was soft, barely warm, and it turned the curtains into gauzy veils, making them sway gently with the breeze that carried the scent of the herbs growing outside.

You were pouring a delicate herbal infusion, the scent of rosemary and mint rising into the air, into a silver cup etched with Athena's myth. The intricate designs on the cup shimmered in the morning light, depicting the goddess in battle, her spear raised high.

The steam curled up in gentle wisps, twisting and dissipating into the soft morning light. You carefully controlled the stream, tilting the clay vessel slowly to ensure not a single drop spilled. 

Penelope's voice filled the room, smooth and wistful, as she spoke of simpler days—her youth, the laughter of her childhood—spent exploring the olive groves, of secret hiding spots near the cliffs, and of the scent of the sea that lingered in her hair long after she returned home. Her gaze drifted toward the open window, her eyes losing focus as if she could see those groves once more, stretching endlessly before her.

Her fingers absently traced the rim of her cup, following the contours as she spoke, her lips curving into a small, almost bittersweet smile. There was a soft sigh, barely audible, as if she were reluctant to return to the present.

You listened attentively, nodding occasionally as you steadied the clay vessel holding the water; your gaze flickered between the steaming infusion and the queen, taking in her every word. Each story she told felt like a thread weaving a vivid tapestry of her past, and you could almost see it—young Penelope, her laughter ringing through the hills of Sparta, her eyes bright and free of worry.

There was a soft sigh, barely audible, as if she were reluctant to return to the present. Her voice, usually commanding and full of responsibility, now held a gentleness—a vulnerability that she rarely showed.

But the quiet intimacy of the moment was interrupted by a sudden, firm knock at the chamber door. Penelope paused mid-sentence, her brows arching slightly as her gaze shifted towards the door.

You gave her a reassuring smile before setting the cloth down beside the shallow clay vessel holding the hot herbal water; you smoothed out the creases in your dress, the fabric rustling softly as you moved towards the door.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before you pulled it open.

The door creaked slightly, and your eyes immediately met Telemachus'. His face was scrunched in a frown, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought. But the moment his eyes landed on you, his expression softened. A smile began to tug at his lips, and you could feel one growing on yours in return.

You stared up at him, taking in the way his features changed—the tension leaving his face, his eyes softening with recognition.

But then, something shifted.

His eyes widened just a smidge, and a look of panic flashed across his features, his smile faltering. You could see the muscles in his jaw clench for a moment, his eyes darting towards the interior of the room before quickly flicking back to you.

A bead of sweat seemed to form at his temple, and his eyes—once so filled with warmth—now carried a sense of urgency, almost as if he had been caught somewhere he shouldn't have been.

You blinked, your own smile freezing as you tried to understand the sudden change. Confusion clouded your thoughts, and you opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Penelope's voice called from behind you, breaking the growing silence. "Who is it, ____?"

You turned, holding the door wider as you spoke, "It's Prince Telemachus, my—" Your words faltered, the sentence trailing off as you turned your head back towards the door, only to find the empty space before you. "—queen?"

The hallway beyond was empty.

You blinked, your eyes scanning the space, almost expecting to see Telemachus hiding just beyond the doorframe. But there was nothing, only the quiet echo of Penelope's chambers and the distant chirping of morning birds.

The silence suddenly felt thick, the warmth of his presence fading like a dream slipping away upon waking. Had he even been there at all? The thought flickered through your mind, absurd yet unsettling, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a trick of your imagination.

Your face scrunched up, a puzzled frown tugging at your lips.

You turned back to Penelope, brows knitting together in bewilderment. "Um, I'm unsure where he'd gone," you said, your voice hesitant. "I could have sworn he was just here..."

You felt the confusion settle deeper, as if the moment you had just experienced had slipped like water through your fingers.

Penelope's curious gaze settled on you, her eyes narrowing just a bit as she studied your expression. "Telemachus was here?" she repeated, her voice calm, though curiosity laced her tone.

You nodded, feeling a bit silly now. "He was. Just for a moment, but..." You hesitated, glancing once more at the open door, half-expecting him to reappear as quickly as he'd vanished. "I truly don't know where he went."

You turned back around to shut the door, but before you could, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway once more. You paused, the door still ajar, and turned just in time to see a young servant skidding to a stop, panting slightly.

"Wait, please," they called, their voice soft but urgent.

You blinked, taking in their appearance—a young person,  their features so delicate it was hard to tell if they were a young man or woman. Their tawny-honey hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, stray strands framing their face; large, earnest hazel eyes met yours, catching a bit of the morning light.

They wore a male servant's uniform that hung loosely on their slender frame, and they were around your height, perhaps a bit taller. But despite the clothing, there was an androgynous beauty to them—something almost ethereal in their features.

"Prince Telemachus..." the servant panted, trying to catch their breath. You raised an eyebrow, a questioning look in your eyes as you waited for them to continue. The servant hesitated, tucking a stray lock of hair behind their ear, their gaze briefly dropping to the floor. "He told me to tell you..." They paused, pressing a hand to their chest before finally managing, "To tell his mother... he'll be back to... join her for lunch."

You stood there, almost speechless for a moment, a wave of confusion washing over you. "Oh..." was all you managed for a moment, glancing down the hallway again.

"Alright, thank you," you finally managed, the words coming out slower than usual, still unsure what to make of it. You gave the servant a small smile as they straightened up, their breathing slowly returning to normal.

They gave you a polite bow, shifting slightly from foot to foot as if uncertain, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, leaving you standing there, the door still ajar.

You slowly closed the door, the latch clicking quietly into place. As you turned back around, Penelope had already lifted her cup to her lips. You caught a glimpse of her expression—her eyes glinting with something unreadable, her lips twitching as if hiding a smile.

She shook her head slightly, her voice so soft you almost missed it, lips curving into an almost secretive smile. "Silly boy," she muttered, almost to herself, a sigh escaping as if it was a habit—a mother's familiar exasperation mixed with affection.

You made your way back across the room, still feeling a hint of confusion. Penelope set her cup down as you approached, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "There's no need to relay the message, dear," she said, her eyes glinting with humor. "I heard everything."

You blinked, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. "Oh... of course, my queen," you murmured, a bit flustered.

Penelope shook her head again, her eyes softening as she looked up at you. "He's always been impulsive, but his heart's in the right place," she said, her tone filled with both fondness and a hint of exasperation.

You weren't too sure why she told you this, but you accepted it with a nod.

Turning back to your little station, you busied yourself with tidying up—setting the sugar bowl neatly back onto the tray you had carried there, arranging in a more orderly cluster.

You carefully lifted the clay vessel next, making sure there were no spills, and set it back onto the tray as well. The familiar task brought you a sense of calm, grounding you amidst the lingering confusion.

As you worked, Penelope's voice called to you, soft yet clear, "Well, since my son has taken charge of my lunch plans, I suppose you'll be alright if I free you of your duties until then." She paused, her gaze flicking towards the window, her lips curving into a small smile. "Telemachus and I will likely have lunch in the reading alcove—it's a beautiful day, the sun should bless us with good light."

You bowed your head respectfully, a warm smile touching your lips. "Of course, my queen. I'll be sure to bring extra wine as well as the prince's favorite honey cakes," you replied, a hint of affection in your voice as you thought of Telemachus' fondness for the treat.

Penelope nodded, her eyes twinkling slightly. "Thank you, dear. That would be lovely."

You straightened up, gathering the tray and making your way towards the door. As you reached it, you glanced back, catching sight of Penelope gazing out the window, her expression soft and almost wistful. She held her cup delicately, the rim just brushing her lips as she took a small sip, her eyes distant.

There was something peaceful about her in that moment—something deeply content as she watched.

With a deep breath, you made your way out the room.

☆

☆

"You're strumming it like you're trying to scare a cat away!"

"How is it my fault that you're a horrible teacher!?"

The courtyard was calm today, bathed in golden sunlight that filtered through the leaves of olive and cypress trees. The air was filled with the scent of fresh earth, blooming flowers, and the distant hint of salt from the sea.

You and Callias were settled comfortably on the soft grass, your shoulders almost touching as you leaned in to watch his attempts at the lyre. He was holding your lyre, though not quite as gracefully as you might have liked, the strings stilling under his fingers as he tried to follow your instructions.

"Alright, alright, let me try again!" Callias insisted, determination written across his face despite his obvious lack of talent.

You watched as he squinted down at the lyre, lifting it much higher than necessary until it was perched awkwardly against his chest. His tongue peeked out slightly from between his lips as he concentrated, fingers awkwardly plucking at the strings with an exaggerated precision.

A few dull, entirely off-tune notes rang out, and you couldn't help but cringe just a little, trying to hold back your laughter.

He strummed a few more times before sighing in defeat, sucking his teeth as he plopped the lyre into your lap without warning. "Obviously, it's broken," he declared, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his chin as though offended.

You raised an eyebrow, the corners of your lips twitching with amusement. Callias peeked one eye open, gauging your reaction before quickly turning his head again, pretending to remain aloof.

The sight of his exaggerated haughtiness, paired with the sheer audacity of his complaint, was too much. You couldn't hold it in any longer—the laughter bubbled up, light and infectious, spilling from your lips.

Hugging the lyre to your chest, you shook your head. "Oh, broken, is it?" you managed between laughs. "You mean to tell me the strings are to blame for your... unique musical talents?"

Callias scoffed, turning his head just enough for you to catch his smirk. "I don't appreciate your tone, fair lady," he replied, pretending to be deeply hurt.

You rolled your eyes, your laughter finally subsiding into softer giggles. Despite only knowing him for a short time, Callias made it feel as if you'd known each other forever. 

The way he sulked—childlike and endearing—made it hard for you to take him seriously, and though his musical skills left much to be desired, there was a lightness to these moments—something carefree and genuine.

You nudged him playfully with your elbow, a teasing grin spreading across your face. "Maybe it's not broken, Callias. Maybe it's just you," you teased, your fingers already plucking at the strings with ease, producing a short and sweet melody that seemed to fill the air effortlessly.

Callias' lips pulled into a pout, his eyes narrowing at your casual display of skill. He watched you for a beat, his expression somewhere between admiration and mock annoyance. "Show-off," he muttered, though his tone held no real bitterness.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and a grin of his own returned. He reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out his panpipes, and wiggled them in front of your face. "Well, at least I can play these," he declared, his voice taking on a challenging note. "Now it's your turn to struggle."

You couldn't help but sigh dramatically, your shoulders slumping slightly in mock defeat. "Oh, not those again," you groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips nonetheless.

Callias waggled his eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying himself. "Come on, now. Fair's fair, isn't it?" He gave the pipes a shake, the small wooden tubes clicking together. "Let's see if you've magically gotten any better since this morning."

Your mind drifted back to earlier. After being relieved by the queen, you'd made your way to your usual spot in the courtyard, only to be intercepted by Callias not too long after. Without so much as a greeting, he'd started talking about practicing instruments, and before you knew it, he had you attempting to play his panpipes again.

Despite your natural affinity for most instruments, the pipes had given you trouble from the start. Something about the coordination of breath and fingers just didn't come easily, and after a few embarrassing squeaks and out-of-tune notes, you'd given up—flustered and frustrated.

Callias had laughed it off, of course, insisting that it was all part of the learning process, before demanding a turn with your lyre. And now, here the two of you were, neither particularly successful, but both unwilling to admit defeat.

With a sigh, you set the lyre down beside you and reached for the panpipes. "Fine, fine," you said, trying to suppress the smile threatening to break free. "But if I pass out from lack of air, it'll be on your conscience."

Callias smirked, leaning back on his hands as he watched you bring the pipes to your lips. "Oh, I doubt that," he teased. "Besides, you're too stubborn to give up that easily."

You took a deep breath, eyes narrowing in determination. The pipes were cool beneath your fingers, and as you blew into them, you tried to mimic the same smooth melody Callias had played earlier.

The sound that came out was... not quite right. It wasn't the high-pitched squeak from before, but it was still far from pleasant.

Callias bit his lip, clearly trying not to laugh, and you shot him a glare. "You're a terrible teacher," you shot back, lowering the pipes with a huff.

He grinned, shrugging with an expression that very clearly said, You win some, you lose some. He reached over, giving your shoulder a reassuring pat. "Don't worry, you'll get there eventually. And until then, I'll just be here... being better at it than you."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile found its way to your lips.

Playfully, you scowled and shook your fist at him, your eyes narrowing in mock annoyance. "Oh, you're insufferable! You sound like an old crone—'Practice makes perfect, my dear!' Bah!"

Callias' eyes went wide for a split second before he burst into a fit of laughter, his head tipping back as he shrieked with delight. "Oh gods, listen to yourself!" he gasped, barely able to speak through his laughter. "Me!? You're the one that sounds ancient! Like some wise old grandmother trying to give life advice!"

You huffed, though the smile pulling at your lips betrayed your attempt at indignation. "Well, maybe the old crones know a thing or two," you shot back, but even as you spoke, your own laughter threatened to bubble up again.

Callias continued to laugh, clutching his side, and you couldn't help but join in, the courtyard once again filled with the lightness of your shared joy.

"There you are, Callias..."

The sharp voice broke through your laughter, shattering the carefree moment like a clay pot against stone.

You and Callias both froze mid-laugh, your heads snapping over to the source of the voice. A few feet away stood Lady Andreia, making her way toward the two of you with a determined stride.

Your eyes were drawn to Andreia's dress first. At first glance, it looked to be blue, but as she drew closer, the true color became more apparent—a seafoam green, soft and elegant, the fabric rippling like water with each of her steps. She moved with a certain regality, her chin held high, her expression carefully poised.

A servant trailed behind her, holding a skiadeion—a small, elegant parasol that matched Andreia's attire, shading her from the morning sun.

Callias cleared his throat, his previous laughter abruptly stifled, though his lips still twitched with the remnants of a grin. He gave you a quick, sideways glance, his eyes wide with mock alarm, as though silently asking if you could shield him from whatever was coming.

Quickly, the two of you scrambled to your feet. Callias was up first, briskly dusting off his pants before extending his hand to you. His grip was steady as he helped you up gently. You dusted off your skirts as Andreia came to a stop in front of you both, her gaze flickering between you and Callias.

The air felt different, heavier.

You could sense Andreia's dismissive demeanor as her eyes glanced over you briefly before moving right back to Callias, almost as if you were not worth lingering on.

It wasn't exactly hostile, but you couldn't ignore the way she seemed to see through you. It struck you how different she acted when a member of the royal family was present—almost like you weren't even there.

Callias, sensing the tension, glanced at you and gave you an apologetic look. "Sorry about this," he murmured, and you shook your head, brushing it off with a small smile. "No worries," you replied lightly, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness. "Remember, I have to bring the queen and prince lunch... speaking of which, I believe it's almost time."

You gave a shallow curtsy to Andreia, your eyes lowering out of respect. "My lady, if you'll excuse me," you said politely, clutching your dress tightly.

Andreia's eyes snapped toward you, and for a brief second, it was as if she'd just realized you were standing there. "Oh... and you are...?"

You swallowed, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly as you tried not to stutter. "I am, ____... I am the queen's personal handmaiden, my lady." Internally, embarrassment clawed at you.

You'd thought that surely she knew you by now, with all the time spent in the palace. But you quickly brushed it aside. She was a royal, after all, and you were merely a servant—it wasn't her place to know who you were.

It felt like whatever interest she may have had fizzled away, like a candle snuffed out. Without so much as acknowledging your introduction, her gaze shifted back to Callias, her attention solely on him now.

The conversation moved forward, and you were no longer a part of it.

Andreia spoke to Callias in a tone that was neither harsh nor gentle. It lacked the warmth you were used to hearing when the Ithacan royals addressed their servants—something was missing, like the courtesy extended to those who worked tirelessly behind the scenes.

Callias, in response, kept his face neutral, his expression giving nothing away. It was like he'd donned a mask, one practiced and well-worn, as though he was used to this kind of interaction.

Peeking slightly over Andreia's shoulder, you caught Callias' eye. For just a heartbeat, his blank face broke as he tilted his head ever so slightly, a silent signal that said go, get out of here while you can. He managed a small, reassuring smile, one meant just for you.

You nodded gratefully and took a careful step back before turning on your heel, eager to slip away unnoticed. Your departure was quick, your feet nearly gliding across the stone path as you put distance between yourself and the royal and two servants.

As you left, Andreia's voice grew louder, commanding in a way that demanded attention. Whatever she needed from Callias was not your concern anymore.

You pushed the encounter from your mind, focusing instead on your next task—the lunch preparations for the queen and prince awaited, and you couldn't afford to be distracted; plus, there was no use lingering on things you couldn't change.

☆

☆

It wasn't until sometime later, after you had served lunch to your two royals, that you realized you had forgotten your lyre.

A small pang of panic rippled through your chest, your mind racing. But then you remembered where you had last had it—in the courtyard, with Callias.

If this had been before you'd spent time with him, you might have been worried out of your mind, imagining all the possible ways your instrument could've ended up damaged or worse. But you knew Callias now.

Despite his teasing nature, you had come to see how careful and considerate he was, especially with his own instrument. He treated the panpipes with reverence, always handling them as if they were made of glass.

You could trust him to grant your lyre the same respect.

You sighed, relieved, deciding to simply ask him about it when you next saw him. However, as you were leaving Queen Penelope's quarters, your arms full with a basket of dirty bedsheets, someone startled you. A soft voice called out, and you turned, blinking in surprise. "Excuse me, miss?"

It was a servant—a Bronte servant, to be precise.

"Yes?" You gave a polite smile, shifting everything to one arm.

"Callias asked me to tell you that he has your lyre with him near the sheepfold."

For a moment, you were stunned, blinking at the servant before managing a response. "Oh," you mumbled, "Thank you."

The servant gave a polite nod before turning and leaving, her footsteps echoing lightly in the hallway. As she disappeared around the corner, you let out a soft scoff, shaking your head with a smile. "He would make me cross the entire palace just to get it," you muttered under your breath, amused.

Balancing the heavy basket back in both arms, you shifted its weight slightly, a humor-tinged thought crossing your mind as you began walking—since the king's return, Penelope had spent more time in his chambers rather than her own.

It seemed as though she used her quarters as a sort of resting spot, a break room whenever Odysseus was too busy to be with her. She hadn't moved back to her old rooms permanently, though.

It made sense, you supposed, after twenty years apart; staying close must have been comforting for them both.

You smiled at the thought, admiring their closeness.

With that small smile still lingering on your lips, you continued on your way, making a mental note to find Callias as soon as you dropped this off. You glanced out the window, noting the sun halfway in the sky.

You still had time before dinner.

.☆.
          .✩.
                   .☆.

A soft breeze brushed against your face as you stepped into the open corridors of the palace. You walked across the polished stone floors, each step echoing lightly in the halls.

The air was crisp, carrying with it a slight chill that nipped at your exposed skin—a reminder that the sun was now hidden partially behind clouds, leaving the palace grounds caught in that in-between of warmth and coolness.

You blew into your free hand, warming it with your breath, your fingers feeling a little stiff from the cold.

The sky above shifted from blue to a muted gray as the clouds filtered across, their shadows passing over the palace like fleeting memories. It wasn't an unpleasant cold, but enough to make you miss the earlier sunlight.

As you moved closer to the sheepfold, the difference between the animal areas became noticeable.

Unlike the pungent, earthy scent that clung to Eumaeus's pigsty, the air near the sheepfold was significantly lighter—a faint musk mixed with the grassy, soft bleating of sheep in the distance.

It was almost peaceful compared to the boisterous sounds of the pigs.

The layout was familiar. A small fenced-in area held the sheep in place, and beyond that, a shed a few feet away housed their feed and tools—simple, practical, but well-kept.

A soft melody reached your ears, just barely discernible over the rustling of the wind. Your pace quickened, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. It was unmistakably the sound of your lyre—though played with hesitance, and the notes weren't quite right.

Rounding the bend of the sheepfold, you caught sight of a makeshift setup—a crate, weathered and worn, placed in front of the shed. Someone sat upon it, back straight and poise evident even from afar. A small, fenced-in area behind them kept the sheep safely enclosed, and the shed nearby cast a long shadow across the ground.

"Ah-ha! I knew you knew how to play! Better pay up for wasting my time..." your voice trailed off, your teasing tone faltering mid-sentence.

It wasn't Callias.

Lady Andreia turned her head, her eyes locking onto yours as you came to a sudden stop.

The clouds overhead thickened, their dark shapes sliding slowly across the sky, casting elongated shadows on the palace grounds. The breeze picked up, a little sharper now, carrying a weight that clung to your skin.

She was sitting delicately on the edge of the crate, her back straight, as if even the old box disgusted her. Her fingers stilled over the strings of your lyre, and she regarded you with an arched brow, clearly unamused by your sudden appearance.

The playful smile you'd worn vanished, replaced by an expression of surprise and confusion. Andreia—of all people—had your lyre. You tried to school your features, but it was difficult to hide the uncertainty bubbling within you.

The soft melody she had been playing died off, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air. Andreia remained seated, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, the lyre still resting atop her lap, her fingers tracing its edges with a lazy kind of carelessness.

Tearing your eyes away from your lyre, you immediately dropped into a curtsey, apologizing, "I'm so sorry, Lady Andreia, I-I thought Callias—"

She cut you off abruptly, standing with a swift motion, her gaze never leaving your face as she approached. "No need to explain," she said, her voice cool, dismissive. "I know."

The air grew heavier, the faint scent of moisture carried on the breeze. Somewhere far off, you thought you saw the sky flicker, but the light faded before you could be sure.

You blinked, rising slowly, your eyes flicking back up to meet hers as confusion etched itself onto your features. "P-pardon?" The word slipped out before you could stop it—an instinct, questioning her words.

Andreia said nothing for a moment, just letting out a nonchalant hum as her eyes assessed you, taking in every detail as she began circling you, moving gracefully, her gaze never faltering.

There was something in the way she walked—like a cat slowly stalking prey—that made you tense, your stomach twisting into a small knot.

The clouds above grew darker still, deepening to a stormy gray, casting an eerie dimness over the courtyard. The breeze had turned into a steady wind, and you noticed the way it stirred the hem of Andreia's dress.

Then, she stopped in front of you, her head tilting to the side; her eyes bore into yours, lips curling into a slight smirk. "You're pretty," she said bluntly, the words dropping like a stone between you.

The bluntness of her statement made you stiffen, taken aback by the unexpected comment. You blinked before forcing yourself to reply. "Um, t-thank you, Lady—"

But before you could even finish, Andreia cut you off again, stepping closer, her eyes narrowing as her lips twisted into something between a smirk and a smile. It was as if she spoke not to you, but rather at you—as if you were an accessory to her musings. "Tell me," she continued, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, "did my brother find you pretty as well?"

Faint flashes of light appeared far on the horizon, subtle and quick, casting brief flickers across the landscape.

The question caught you off guard, and you fumbled for a response, your heart jumping to your throat. "N-no, my lady," you stammered, dropping your gaze to the ground, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "I—He— He was here as a suitor for the queen—only for the queen."

Andreia hummed again, her eyes never leaving your face, studying the way you faltered; the smirk on her lips growing slightly as she stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. You could feel the weight of her gaze, and it made you want to shrink away.

You dropped your gaze further. "I—The queen... and Prince Telemachus," you mumbled quickly, grasping for anything to divert the conversation. "Dinner will be starting soon, and the royal family will surely need me. Excuse me."

Far away, the flashes became more frequent, illuminating the edges of the clouds in fleeting bursts. The air was thick now, clinging to your skin, heavy with the promise of rain.

You thought about reaching for your lyre, but decided against it. The last thing you wanted was to escalate whatever strange game Andreia was playing. Instead, you turned on your heel, attempting to step back and leave.

But Andreia was quicker. Her fingers wrapped around your arm, stopping you in place. Her nails dug in lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make her point clear. "Hold on," she said, her voice now edged with a sharper, commanding tone, laced with a bit of mockery. "No need to be rude to your guest..."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn't dare look up, keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you nodded slightly. "Of course, my lady... my apologies."

Andreia held your arm for a moment longer, her nails digging in a tad bit deeper, just enough that you had to withhold a wince, resisting the instinct to yank your arm away, before she finally let go.

When you finally looked up, Andreia was smiling at you, but it never reached her eyes—there was something hollow, calculated in her expression.

The atmosphere between you both was heavy, tense, and you felt the urge to leave bubbling up again. The coldness of her gaze seemed to seep into your very bones, and you had to stop yourself from recoiling.

Andreia just tilted her head, her eyes trailing down before she focused on the lyre in her hands. Her fingers traced along its edges lazily, her gaze turning almost absent, as if you had faded from her attention altogether.

She hummed softly, her tone light but with a mocking undercurrent. "You know, Callias was very eager to be the one to deliver this back to you... your lyre, that is, once he realized you left it," she mused, her voice almost casual.

Andreia lifted the lyre by one of its strings, letting it dangle precariously, the wooden frame swaying in her grip.

Your hand twitched involuntarily, a surge of worry running through you.

It hung on her finger like it was ready to snap at any moment, and she seemed to know exactly how it looked—her eyes darting to you out of the corner of her gaze, watching for a reaction.

"What an ugly thing," she finally said, her tone blunt, as if the comment held no weight. Your eyes remained on the lyre, your heart tightening at the sight of it hanging so carelessly.

You swallowed thickly, trying to keep your expression neutral.

You cleared your throat, mustering the courage to speak. "Lady Andreia," you began, your voice wavering slightly. Andreia's eyes snapped sharply to yours, her gaze narrowing, daring you to continue. "If I may—it's a gift from Queen Penelope, herself," you managed to say, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

At this, Andreia's expression twitched, her lips tightening for a brief moment before she let out a scoff. "A gift from the queen? What in the name of Hades would compel her to give you something like this?" she asked, her voice dripping with incredulity, her fingers still tracing the edge of the lyre.

The air between you seemed to grow colder, the tension twisting tighter, and all you could do was stand there, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping back to the lyre. It was weathered and aged—clearly old. Though you cared for it diligently, the wood had dried out over the years, becoming brittle. Hairline cracks had formed around the joints, particularly where the crossbar connected to the arms—areas of frequent stress.

It was actually a lyre the queen had herself from her youth, a ratty old thing that you cherished deeply.

Over the years, Penelope and even Telemachus had often asked if you wanted a new one. The prince had even reassured you that he could have the best lyre ever crafted, the most expensive one available, if only you asked.

But you always refused.

This lyre held more than just music—it carried memories, moments shared with the queen, times of solace, and comfort. It was more than an instrument; it was a piece of your past that you weren't ready to part with.

Your once respectful demeanor began to evaporate, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. You could feel your lips pulling into a frown, your face heating up in anger.

Your patience was wearing thin—you were getting sick of this royal, her coldness, her careless words.

"It doesn't matter why," you said harshly, your voice firmer now. "The queen gave it to me, and I am thankful for it. She did so much for all of us during her time of grief for King Odysseus—and this 'ugly thing' helped her, helped many of us, get through that." You could feel your heart pounding as you spoke, your words coming out more boldly than you had intended.

It wasn't until the silence settled between you, the weight of your words hanging in the air, that you realized what you'd done. You gasped, eyes widening as your hands flew to your mouth.

Andreia narrowed her eyes at you, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, you thought she might lash out, but then her face smoothed out entirely. The warmth—what little of it there ever was—returned to her features, her lips curving into a smile that was almost pleasant.

"F-forgive me, Lady Andreia... I-I didn't mean to speak out of turn... I—"

She raised a hand to her mouth, hiding a giggle, as if you'd just said the funniest thing in the world, cutting your apology off completely. "Oh, how amusing," she said, her eyes glinting with something you couldn't quite place. She took a step forward, her gaze holding yours. "It's funny," she continued, her voice almost sing-song, "how you still call me 'Lady Andreia' instead of what I am—a princess."

You blinked, taken aback, confused by the sudden shift. You had expected her to address your outburst, your audacity. You had expected her to be furious, to lash out.

Instead, she was smiling—talking about a title.

Honestly, you didn't call her 'princess' because she wasn't your princess. Plus, King Odysseus had shown his hand the very day the Bronte entourage arrived, addressing her as 'Lady Andreia,' despite her official title.

It was clear he wanted everyone in Ithaca to treat her as a guest, not as someone to be held above—or even on equal footing—as the royal family here.

Clearing your throat, you looked away, chickening out for a few seconds before finally gathering the courage to look her in the eyes once more, only to falter at the sight of her eyes—dark and stormy, yet the same smile remained on her face. "Um, oh, forgive me, I didn't mean to offend—"

She cut you off, letting out a laugh that sounded forced and hollow. "Of course not," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I wouldn't expect a servant to understand proper decorum. You're all just so... simple-minded, aren't you?" Her words were sharp, tinged with something cruel, yet there was truth to her observation—something bitter that stung.

You stayed silent, your teeth pressing into the inside of your cheek, hoping that this would be enough, that maybe she would stop and let you go. That she'd finally leave.

But Andreia wasn't done.

"You see, that's the issue with servants these days," she said, her voice dropping lower as she began to rant, her eyes drifting away from yours. "You're allowed too much joy, too much freedom. It makes you forget your place." Her gaze flicked back to the lyre, and without warning, she harshly plucked at the strings, her fingers pulling at them almost violently, as if to prove some twisted point.

The discordant twang made you wince inwardly, though you dared not let it show on your face.

She tilted her head, her fingers tracing along the lyre's frame. "Don't you agree, ____?" she asked, her voice back sickeningly sweet, her eyes cold as ice, her question hanging in the air like a challenge.

You blinked, not only because you were confused about where she was going with this but also because you weren't aware she even knew your name, especially considering how she'd brushed you off with barely a glance.

You cleared your throat again, buying a few precious seconds as you struggled to find the right words. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. "Um, I apologize—I'm unsure what you mean..." you began, trying to deflect her question.

But she wasn't having it.

"That servants shouldn't be pestered from their duties, distracted..." she continued, her voice sharp. Her stare was unwavering, and it was unnerving enough that you felt your gaze drift away from hers involuntarily once more, your shoulders stiffening.

You shifted your weight, the cold wind brushing against your back as you stood there under her scrutiny. Finally, you nodded, your voice coming out barely louder than a whisper. "Yes, I agree, Lady Andreia."

Andreia's shoulders visibly relaxed at that, her smile shifting into something that almost looked genuine. She tilted her head, her eyes softening, though the coldness behind them never truly faded. "I'm happy we gained this understanding, ____."

You nodded, hoping that the ordeal was over, that she might dismiss you. "Um, if that is all, then I should—"

You were cut off by the sight of her raising both her arms high, and just as quickly, she brought her knee up sharply, smashing the lyre against it.

The sound of splintering wood filled the space between you, a harsh, unforgiving crack.

The moment the lyre splintered, a flash of lightning lit up the courtyard, followed by the deep, guttural boom of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground beneath your feet.

The lyre's fragile body splintered across her knee—not entirely in half, but enough to create a large, jagged crack down the middle. One of the arms broke almost completely, dangling loosely by a few remaining fibers, while a couple of strings snapped entirely, coiling up limply.

She dropped the pieces into the mud below, where they landed with a dull, heart-wrenching thud.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart leaping to your mouth as you watched her let go, the shattered remains of your cherished instrument falling to the ground—lifeless, splintered, utterly ruined.

Andreia dusted her hands off, her expression never faltering as she picked up the hem of her dress delicately to avoid the mud. "I hope to see you at dinner tonight. Perhaps you could try the panpipes and do a duet with Callias, hmm? I do enjoy a spirited song, especially one that could liven up the room. After all, I'm sure everyone could use a bit of cheer."

She looked at you, her smile once again light, almost pleasant. Then, her gaze flicked upward, lingering on the darkening sky as another rumble of thunder rolled through, deep and resonant.

Andreia's lips curled into a faint smirk, her voice light and airy as she said, "Do get inside before it rains, ____. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

Her tone was so disarmingly casual that, for a moment, it almost masked the weight of everything she'd just done.

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, frozen, staring down at the shattered remnants of your lyre.

The tightness in your chest felt unbearable, and you could feel your eyes sting.

You dared not cry, not here, not now. But the loss of it—the history, the memories—stabbed through you painfully.

The smile she'd left you with was hauntingly sweet, the remnants of cruelty staining the air long after she'd departed.

Your vision blurred; numbness began to settle in, creeping over you like a suffocating fog. You barely registered the fact that your knees buckled, and you staggered down onto the ground, harshly falling into the mud, feeling the dirt and water seep into your clothes.

The rain had then begun to fall in earnest, droplets soft at first, but growing heavier with each passing moment.

Your hands hovered just above the remains of the lyre, trembling, almost too scared to touch it, as if the wood might splinter further just from your touch. Tears brimmed in your eyes, and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear them, but it was no use.

Your breathing grew ragged, and your nose felt hot, your face flushed with the intensity of it all. Your ears were ringing, and you could barely hear the whispered, desperate mantra that escaped your lips, over and over again: "No, no, no, no, no..."

The rain continued to pour, masking your tears, until you could no longer tell where the rain ended, and your sorrow began. It drenched your hair, soaked through your clothes, and chilled you to the bone.

But before you could completely fall apart, you forced yourself to pull it together. You swallowed hard, blinking against the rain, and wiped your face with the damp sleeve of your dress.

You had to keep moving. You couldn't stay here. You wouldn't allow yourself to break, not yet.

Hurriedly, you bundled up your dress, cradling the broken lyre as gently as you could. You held it close to your chest, protecting it from the rain as best as possible. Your steps were shaky, unsteady, as you pushed yourself to stand.

You told yourself it would be okay—you could fix this. You had your touch-up kit. You could fix it. You repeated it to yourself over and over, a fragile hope that kept you moving forward.

You made your way back to your chambers, the world around you feeling strangely surreal, almost like a dream. Everything passed in a blur—the raindrops falling around you, the distant voices of servants in the hallways.

It all felt muted, as if you were moving through water, disconnected from it all.

Somewhere along the way, you were stopped by Eurycleia. The older woman had seen you, drenched and muddied, carrying something in your arms, and her eyes widened with concern. She reached out, her fingers brushing against your shoulder as she frowned deeply. "Child, by Poseidon's waves... You're soaked through!"

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight, and quickly shook your head, trying to muster some semblance of composure. "I... I don't feel well, Eurycleia," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You could see the worry etched across her features, and you quickly continued, "I don't think I can attend dinner tonight."

And honestly, it wasn't too far off from the truth. You were in no way in shape to attend dinner, let alone be in charge of taking care of the queen's needs tonight.

How could you, when every breath felt like it might shatter you all over again?

Eurycleia's brow furrowed, her gaze staring at your face; she clicked her tongue in disapproval, her voice softening as she cooed at you, "Oh, dear child, you shouldn't have been out in this weather..."

You nodded numbly, her words fading into the background as your focus remained on the weight of the lyre in your arms. It was the only thing grounding you to reality.

Eurycleia gently turned you, her hands firm yet kind as she began ushering you towards your quarters. "Go now, you must rest. I'll let the queen know you're unwell, and I'll handle everything for tonight. You need to get warm, before you catch your death out here. I'll have a light broth sent up to your room, something to help you recover."

You offered her a small, weak smile, murmuring, "Thank you, Eurycleia."

The older woman only shook her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and affection. "No need for thanks, child. Just take care of yourself."

Everything else blurred together after that. The world felt distant, as if you were seeing everything through a foggy glass.

You could barely remember how you had gotten here, how you had managed to strip off your drenched clothes and wrap yourself in something dry.

It was all a haze—a strange, disjointed sequence of moments that didn't quite feel real.

And then, the next thing you knew, you were kneeling before your bed, the broken lyre splayed out across the blanket. Splintered, damaged, a shell of what it once was.

Your fingers traced along the fractured wood, the jagged edges where it had cracked beneath Andreia's grip. The strings lay limp, some still attached while others hung uselessly, curling in on themselves.

The sight of it sent another pang through your chest, and you had to swallow hard to push back the tears that threatened to resurface.

You had promised yourself you could fix this. It was more than just a lyre—it was a part of you, a part of your memories with the queen, a part of everything you cherished.

And you weren't ready to let that go.

With trembling hands, you reached for your touch-up kit, your mind focused solely on the task ahead.

You would fix it... You had to...

There was no other option.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The next few days trickled by like smoke, slow and lingering, with a heaviness that clung to your skin.

As promised, Eurycleia alerted Queen Penelope of your state, prompting the queen to personally encourage you to rest, to take the time you needed. And so you confined yourself to your room, grateful for the solitude.

You knew, eventually, you would have to leave this room, that you couldn't stay hidden away forever—but for now, the quiet, the separation from the palace, it all felt like a welcome escape.

You couldn't bear the thought of seeing Andreia, of being anywhere near her without feeling the raw ache threatening to break you all over again.

It had been three days since the incident, and you were still trying.

Every day, the hours blurred together in your attempts to mend the lyre, as if somehow putting its broken pieces back together might also mend the fractures within you.

The delicate wood, worn and fragile, lay spread across your bed.

You had tried to fit the jagged pieces back together, to wrap the broken arm, to glue and bind—but no matter what you did, the damage was done.

You knew, deep down, it was beyond repair, that no amount of delicate handling or tender care could truly restore it to what it once was. But that knowledge didn't stop you.

You couldn't bring yourself to stop.

Even if the strings could never make the same sound again, even if the wood splintered at the slightest pressure, you kept trying.

And just like on the very first night, you found yourself kneeling before your bed, your fingers trembling as you attempted to notch one of the strings back in place.

The lyre sat there, pitifully wrapped with coarse string to keep the fragile wood held together, its once elegant form marred by splints and knots.

You tried to align the notch, leaning closer, your brow furrowing as you concentrated, your lips slightly parted in determination. But as soon as you tried to tighten the string, it slipped, snapping back off with a harsh twang, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet of the room.

You sighed in frustration, the breath leaving your chest in a heavy rush as you slumped backward, sitting back on your haunches. You rubbed your face with both hands, the exhaustion weighing on you, making your muscles feel heavy, your fingers aching from the hours of effort.

Slowly, you let your hands fall away, your gaze drifting toward the window. The light of dusk filtered into your room, painting the walls in hues of orange and pink, a soft glow that seemed almost at odds with the frustration bubbling inside you.

Beyond the window, the sun was dipping below the horizon, just a sliver of red-orange remaining, its fading light bathing everything in a tender glow. The sky above was a canvas of deepening blue, dotted with the first twinkling stars, their light faint against the dimming sky.

It was beautiful, peaceful—everything you weren't feeling.

For a moment, you let your gaze linger, allowing the colors to wash over you, a brief distraction from the weight pressing against your chest.

The lyre lay in pieces beside you, and for the first time since you began, you let yourself admit that it might never be whole again. And yet, you couldn't quite bring yourself to give up.

Not yet.

Not when there was still the faintest chance, however impossible, that it could be mended.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering above the broken lyre before you pushed yourself up to stand. You expected it to be a servant, delivering your broth for the night, but as you opened the door, the sight before you caught you off guard.

It wasn't a servant—it was the prince.

He stood there, holding a tray with your dinner, his body half-turned as though he'd been muttering to himself before you opened the door. You caught a faint, almost whispered, "You got this, Telemachus..." as he looked up, his eyes meeting yours. He blinked, startled, and for a moment, his expression seemed to waver, his confidence faltering.

"Uh, ____, there's something important..." he began, but his sentence trailed off as his eyes took you in, his gaze flickering over you. You could see the way his expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes giving way to concern.

He knew immediately that something was wrong.

Without thinking, he stepped forward, his foot crossing the threshold as he reached out, his hand almost instinctively moving towards you, the tray balancing effortlessly in the other. "What happened?" he asked, his voice gentle, full of worry.

Panic shot through you as your mind flashed to the lyre, still sitting in the middle of your bed, the broken pieces spread out for anyone to see.

You moved quickly, blocking the doorway, stepping forward almost too hastily—your body colliding with his, your hands pressing lightly against his chest.

Telemachus blinked, taken aback, but he stepped back with a surprising grace, his balance never wavering, the tray still held steady in his hand. He tilted his head, his brow furrowed as he searched your face, stepping closer again as if drawn by your discomfort.

The concern etched on his face deepened, his eyes narrowing as he took in your expression. "What's wrong?" he repeated, his voice softer now, giving you space as though he thought your earlier actions stemmed from discomfort or fear.

His gaze lingered on your face, his eyes searching deeply, almost pleading, as if he could draw the truth from you without words. He took another small step closer, his body leaning forward slightly, the furrow in his brow now mixed with a hint of frustration—as though he wanted to reach out, to pull the truth from you, but knew he couldn't push too hard.

His other hand lifted a fraction before falling back to his side, his fingers curling slightly, betraying his urge to comfort you, to make the situation right. You felt the intensity of his stare, the warmth of his concern reaching for you, and it made your throat tighten, a sudden swell of emotion making it hard to breathe.

You opened your mouth, wanting desperately to tell him, to let it all spill out—about Andreia, about the lyre, about the pain that had been gnawing at you for days. But the words caught in your throat, refusing to come.

"I..." You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the ground as your thoughts began to spiral.

How could you explain it all to him? How could you tell him that Andreia had taken something so precious to you and shattered it, that she had done so with a smile?

The fear gripped you—the fear of being seen as nothing more than a servant overstepping, of Andreia's word being believed over yours. The fear of the consequences, of what might happen if you dared to speak out against someone of her status.

Your place was to serve, to stay silent, to endure, but a small voice in the back of your mind whispered otherwise, urging you to reach out, to let him see your pain—but you silenced it, shoving it down, knowing it wasn't your place.

You reminded yourself of that, even as your heart ached to tell him the truth.

You bit your tongue, swallowing the words that threatened to break free, forcing a smile that felt fragile on your lips. You forced yourself to fall back to the default story that had served you well enough so far.

You took a steadying breath, meeting Telemachus' eyes with a look you hoped was convincing. "Oh, it's nothing serious, really," you said, your voice adopting a false lightness that made you cringe internally. "I was just caught in the rain a few days ago, and I've been feeling under the weather since then."

You could see his eyes searching your face, the concern not quite gone, but starting to ease. You forced yourself to continue, injecting a bit of preppy cheerfulness into your words. "But I'm starting to feel better now," you assured him, nodding slightly, "I should be back on schedule in a day or two."

Telemachus watched you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as though he could see right through the lies. He didn't move, his gaze steady, and you wondered if he might push, if he might ask again. And if he did, you feared you would have given in.

But instead, his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and a small smile began to tug at his lips. His eyes softened; he seemed relieved. "That's good," he murmured, his voice low, almost a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you're on the mend," he added, the corners of his mouth lifting into a lopsided smile that made your chest tighten.

He cleared his throat, glancing down at the tray before holding it out to you gently, the smile turning almost bashful. "Here, I brought you something to eat. You should have it before it gets cold, and make sure you get lots of rest, alright?"

As you reached out to take the tray, you noticed his hand twitch slightly, his fingers seeming to hesitate—as if he were about to lift his hand further, to touch yours, to give some sort of comforting gesture. But instead, he let it fall, curling his hand loosely by his side, dropping his gaze for just a moment.

You took the tray from him, the warmth of it seeping through your palms. You offered him a smile that felt more genuine this time, touched by his kindness. "Thank you, my prince."

Telemachus gave you a soft smile in return, bowing his head slightly. "Goodnight, then," he said, his voice gentle. "May Selene bless your dreams tonight and bring you rest."

Your lips quirked up, a true smile breaking through the tension that had been sitting heavy in your chest. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, you let yourself feel the warmth of his presence. "Goodnight, my prince," you said softly, your voice almost a whisper.

Telemachus lingered for just a moment longer, his gaze holding yours before he finally turned, stepping away from the doorway. You watched as he walked down the hallway, his figure gradually retreating, his footsteps soft against the stone.

You didn't close the door until he turned the corner, disappearing from sight, and even then, you lingered there a moment longer, staring at the empty hallway, the warmth of his presence still lingering in the air around you.

Finally, you closed the door, the latch clicking softly into place.

You pressed your forehead against the door, closing your eyes as a shaky breath left your lips.

The silence of the room pressed in on you, and you found yourself replaying the scene, the worry in Telemachus' eyes, the gentle way he spoke. Your heart ached with the weight of what you hadn't said.

You clenched your fists, the tray pressing harshly into your palms, the corners digging in painfully. You wanted to tell him so badly, but fear had held you back—fear of what might happen, of how things might change if you spoke the truth.

You let out another breath, this one more frustrated, almost a growl, as you felt the conflicting emotions rise inside of you—regret and relief warring within your chest.

You knew you had done the right thing, protecting yourself, protecting the fragile peace you still had. But that small voice in the back of your mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, Telemachus would have listened, would have believed you.

And the thought of what might have happened if you had taken that chance gnawed at you, leaving you feeling hollow.

Stepping back from the door, you turned and walked over to the windowsill, setting the tray down carefully before flopping back on your bed. You curled into yourself, tucking your knees close to your chest, wrapping your arms around the broken lyre that lay beside you.

It was a sad sight, the lyre—its once smooth frame now cracked and splintered, held together only by a makeshift wrapping of string, the wood barely aligned. The glow it once had was gone, replaced by a dullness that seemed to reflect your own feelings.

You traced your fingers over the broken wood, feeling the rough edges, the fragility of it. It hurt to look at it, to see it in such a state, but you couldn't bring yourself to set it aside.

The room was quiet, the silence heavy, and your thoughts began to spiral again, your chest tightening as the emotions began to swell once more—grief, anger, helplessness.

Everything felt like too much, the weight of it all pressing down on you, suffocating.

Your breath hitched, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep it together, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall.

The air around you seemed to change suddenly, a strange current brushing against your skin. The room grew warmer, the soft glow of dusk shifting for just an instant as though something flickered across the light. It was as if an invisible presence had slipped into the room, and for a heartbeat, you felt as though someone was watching you.

A faint rustling, almost like feathers brushing against each other, seemed to echo around you. It was subtle—so faint you might have imagined it—but just as you felt yourself beginning to fall apart, a low, mischievous voice cut through the silence, startling you. "Ah, what's this? Such a sight, shedding tears over something so trivial. You mortals do get so attached, don't you?"

With a shocked gasp, your head shot up, your arm instinctively moving to cover your lyre as if to shield it from whoever had spoken.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

The figure hovered just a few inches off the ground, the soft flutter of winged sandals breaking the heavy silence around you. The small, delicate wings on his heels flapped lazily, keeping him effortlessly aloft. His feet were bare beneath the sandals, the golden straps glinting faintly in the fading light.

Your eyes trailed upward, taking in his flowing white chiton, which draped over his lean frame like a cascade of clouds. A golden belt cinched the garment at his waist, its polished surface gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. A deep red cloak hung off one shoulder, fluttering gently as though caught in an unseen breeze, the fabric brushing against the faint golden bracers on his forearms.

The closer you looked, the more your stomach twisted with awe and unease. This wasn't an ordinary man.

The laurel crown tucked into his curly brown hair, combined with the wings jutting from his cap, were unmistakable signs of something more. His hair was wild but alluring, framing a face too perfect to be mortal, yet too mischievous to be entirely serene.

Then, his golden eyes met yours. They gleamed with a playful intensity, sharp and knowing, like he had read every secret you'd ever had. His head tilted to the side, a grin curling at the edges of his lips—boyish, daring, and unsettling all at once. His presence felt impossible, magnetic.

You could feel the weight of his gaze even as he floated there, light as a feather but far more imposing. For a moment, you couldn't decide whether to speak, bow, or run.

The figure smirked as his feet dropped to the floor with a soft thud, the wings on his sandals fluttering briefly before coming to a stop. "What's the matter?" He chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement. "What, cat got your tongue? Or, should I say, a God?" His grin widened as if he enjoyed his own joke.

It took a moment for your brain to catch up with what he had said, the words slowly sinking in. God...

You blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening. You knew it was impossible—no one could have entered that quickly without your knowledge, and yet, here he was, appearing out of nowhere as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

God... The word echoed in your mind again, this time, your eyes widening in sudden realization.

You hastily scrambled to sit up, your heart pounding in your chest as you threw yourself into a bow, nearly fumbling over the edge of the bed. "I-I'm sorry, my lord," you stuttered, your voice barely above a whisper, every ounce of your training urging you to show respect. "I didn't realize… I was in the pres—"

The figure let out a sigh, clearly amused, as though the entire situation amused him beyond measure. "Oh, no need for all that," he said, waving his hand dismissively. He stepped closer, the hem of his cloak brushing the floor as he approached, the glint in his eyes never wavering; he paused, tilting his head as he studied you, a flicker of something softer passing through his gaze. "Besides," he added, the corners of his lips curling into that same impish grin, "I'm hardly the kind of god who demands reverence."

You swallowed, your throat dry as you tried to straighten up, your eyes flickering between his face and the ground, unsure if you were allowed to fully meet his gaze.

He sighed, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance. "Really, I swear, mortals and their customs... Stand up, won't you? I'd rather not have a conversation with someone cowering."

You awkwardly rose from your curtsy, your knees wobbling struggled to regain balance. Your mind raced, desperately trying to pinpoint exactly which god stood before you. There were so many—hundreds, maybe thousands—of gods, deities, and minor spirits, each with their own temperament and quirks—some more forgiving than others.

It could literally be anyone; gods often enjoyed meddling with mortals after all, and that thought both unnerved and overwhelmed you.

For a moment, anxiety twisted in your gut as the overwhelming possibilities crowded your thoughts—a tangled mess of every tale you had ever heard, desperately trying to match the face in front of you to the legends you knew.

The god's lips twitched, as though he could see every question flashing across your mind. He raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue in amusement. "Ah, you're wondering just who has the pleasure of gracing your humble abode, aren't you? Suppose I should get on with it, shouldn't I?" He swept his crimson cloak behind him with a dramatic flourish, giving you an exaggerated bow. His curls shifted with the motion, some falling across his forehead, glinting in the dim light.

He tilted his head up to look at you, still bent in the deep, exaggerated bow, that same grin playing at his lips. "I am The Messenger of the Gods, Guide to the Underworld, Protector of Travelers, Master of Thieves, Bearer of Tidings both good and ill and all things clever..." for a heartbeat, then straightened, flashing you a smirk that was equal parts charming and teasing, "but you can just call me Hermes."

Hermes.

Your breath caught in your chest, the gravity of his presence hitting you all at once—a jolt of realization that left you reeling.

The god who had been sung of and praised for generations; the tales, the legends—here he was, standing before you—the very god whose name you had heard whispered in the prayers of travelers and sailors.

You remembered your earliest memory of his name, going back to your very first journey to Ithaca; how the shipmen had held a ceremony on the first night of the voyage, offering gifts to both Poseidon and Hermes, praying for safe travels and swift winds.

Laughter, dancing, and prayers filled that night, with people pouring wine into the sea and chanting blessings in his honor.

And not just then—so often in your daily duties in the palace, whenever servants passed along a message, you and the others would often utter, "In Hermes' name, may my words reach their mark," a small prayer to ensure the task went well. It had become a part of your daily life—small phrases, casual praises, a habit you barely noticed.

And now, he was here.

A real god, standing in front of you.

You could feel a strange excitement bubbling inside you.

It wasn't because you favored him as a god—no, this wasn't about favoritism. It was because you were here, standing in the presence of a literal god, whose tales had been sung for eons, long before your own birth.

The awe was undeniable, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't stop yourself from dipping into another curtsy, this one deeper, your head bowing lower, intending to show him the respect his presence deserved.

But before you could fully lower yourself, you felt warmth—long, slender fingers winding gently around your shoulders, stopping you. His touch was light but firm, and you froze, your eyes slowly lifting in shock.

Hermes chuckled softly, his laughter a low, rolling sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. "Ah, ah, ah, none of that," he said, amusement dripping from his tone. "I already told you, didn't I? No need for all the bowing and scraping."

You felt your heart flutter, a strange mixture of anxiety and something else—something lighter—as you stared up into his face.

He was inhumanly beautiful. His features seemed sculpted, like the marble statues you'd seen in temples—only warm, alive. His golden eyes seemed to glow faintly, an aura shimmering around him that made everything about him seem slightly unreal. His smile was simultaneously inviting and intimidating, an expression that held all the secrets of the world.

Your breath caught in your throat as you met his gaze—eyes that seemed to see right through you, to every secret, every fear.

There was a glimmer of kindness there, but also something sharper, a reminder that he was not mortal, not bound by the rules of your world.

His hands lingered on your shoulders for a moment longer before he let them fall, stepping back just slightly, giving you space. You could still feel the heat of his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had rested.

Hermes tilted his head, his smirk widening, his eyes glinting with that ever-present mischief. "Better now?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, his playful smirk returning to his lips. "Good." He paused for a moment, his golden eyes sparkling with amusement. "Careful, mortal. If you keep this up, my ego will grow as big as Zeus' head—or worse, his appetite for flattery."

As if on cue, a faint crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, soft but unmistakable. Hermes paused mid-laugh, glancing upward with a mock-serious expression. "Oh, come on, Father, take a joke!" he called toward the sky, waving his hand dismissively before chuckling to himself. "You'd think the King of the Gods could handle a little truth." He turned back to you, his grin as sharp as ever. "Now where were we? Ah, yes—me, being as humble as ever."

With a flourish of his red cloak, Hermes swept it dramatically through the air once more. For a moment, the fabric seemed to shimmer, catching the light like a liquid spill of gold. Then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, a satchel materialized from the folds, as though it had always been there.

The bag rested against his hip, its leather smooth and supple, embossed with faint, intricate designs that seemed to shift under your gaze.

"Ah," he said with a satisfied grin, patting the satchel like an old friend. "Never underestimate the utility of a good accessory—or the style points."

He flipped open the satchel and began digging through it, his face a picture of exaggerated concentration. "Now, let's see… nope, not that… ah, definitely not this—why is this even in here?" he muttered, his voice partially muffled as he dug deeper. At one point, he managed to get an entire arm and half of his head into the satchel, his voice echoing slightly from within. "Where did I put that thing? Aha!"

He pulled himself upright, his expression triumphant as he withdrew a wrapped large parcel, tied neatly with twine. "There we go," he said, holding it up with a flourish, his grin widening.

Then, without warning, he tossed it at you. "Catch!"

You barely had time to react, your arms shooting out instinctively as the parcel hurtled toward you. Your fingers closed around the object just in time, but you fumbled with the weight, almost dropping it before managing to secure it to your chest.

The sudden shock of its heft made your knees buckle slightly, but you steadied yourself, blinking in surprise.

You looked up at Hermes, breathless, and caught the amused glint in his eyes. He gave you an encouraging nod, motioning for you to go ahead and open it.

Slowly, your hands trembling slightly, you began to peel back the parcel paper, each crinkle of the wrapping amplifying the tension in the air. The paper fell away, and your breath caught as your eyes fell upon the object it had concealed.

It was a lyre—the most beautiful lyre you had ever seen.

It was larger than your old one, imposing yet elegant, with curves that seemed almost alive. The frame gleamed with a faint shimmer, as though carved from the purest gold not found in mortal mines but forged in the heart of a dying star.

Intricate etchings danced across its surface, lines and swirls that shifted subtly as the light touched them, telling ancient, unknowable stories of gods and heroes.

The strings, impossibly fine, appeared to be spun from threads of celestial light—shimmering faintly, as if the very essence of starlight was captured and woven into music. They hummed softly, resonating with a soundless melody, as if the lyre itself were alive, waiting to be played.

The base and arms were reinforced with a dark, otherworldly material—smooth and cool to the touch, gleaming faintly with a bluish-black sheen, reminiscent of polished obsidian or perhaps something even rarer, like the bones of a fallen titan.

It felt unbreakable, eternal.

Tiny gemstones were embedded at key points, glowing faintly as though holding fragments of captured dawns and dusks. Their colors shifted subtly—sometimes sapphire, sometimes ruby, sometimes emerald—depending on the angle of your gaze.

You gasped, the weight of its craftsmanship and presence almost overwhelming. It wasn't just an instrument—it was divine. The faint shimmer surrounding it felt like the lingering breath of a god, as if this lyre was meant not for mortal hands but for the hands of the immortals themselves.

For a moment, you hesitated to even touch it, as though you might somehow sully its perfection.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze back to Hermes, bewildered and awestruck. He met your look with a raised eyebrow, then let out a short, amused snort. "Don't look at me, I'm just the messenger," he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "Who... who gave this to me?"

Hermes swished his cape, making the satchel disappear once more as if it had never existed. He shrugged again, this time more lazily, as though he were brushing off an insignificant question. "Honestly, I can't remember. You know how it is—lots of deliveries, lots of gods, mortals, nymphs, and what-have-you." He paused, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Besides, I was supposed to deliver it a few days ago, but... well, it kind of slipped my mind. You mortals aren't the only ones who get a little distracted." He winked, the playful mischief never leaving his eyes.

Your gaze dropped back down to the lyre, your fingers brushing reverently over the strings, the gentle hum vibrating through your fingertips. The gift was beyond anything you could have imagined.

A sense of awe, gratitude, and disbelief swirled within you, leaving you speechless.

And Hermes just watched, that smirk softening slightly, a hint of something almost gentle touching his expression as he studied your reaction. "Go on," he said after a beat, his voice a little quieter, the teasing edge still there but tempered. "Give it a try. After all, it's not every day a mortal receives such a divine gift. Might as well make the most of it."

You stared down at the lyre, watching it gleam in the dim light, the golden frame catching the faintest hints of the God's flickering glow. Though the lyre was undeniably beautiful, you couldn't ignore the weight that still tugged at your heart.

With a heavy sigh, you smiled faintly, shaking your head as you cradled the divine instrument close to you before taking a seat on the edge of your bed.

Your old, broken lyre beside you, its splintered wood and frayed strings looking even more pitiful next to the divine beauty you now held.

Your fingers reached out to brush the familiar broken wood; the splints and coarse strings held together like a patchwork of memories.

You sighed, saddness seeping into your voice in a way you couldn't quite mask

"Thank you," you admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper. "But... no matter how beautiful it is, I don't think it will fix the hurt from my broken lyre." Your eyes flicked towards the battered instrument beside you.

Hermes stepped closer, glancing down at the broken lyre on the bed. He reached down, his fingers brushing over one of the snapped strings before flicking it with a casual disinterest, letting it twang pathetically. He snorted, a mischievous grin crossing his lips. "This old thing? You're better off using it as kindling." His voice dropped, muttering something else in an ancient, lilting tongue—a phrase older than time itself. Though you couldn't understand the words they carried a biting tone, akin to saying, ‘may as well throw it into Tartarus for all the good it does.’

You didn't answer him right away. Instead, you set the golden lyre beside you and gently gathered the broken one into your lap, your fingers tracing over the rough patches and splintered edges.

A bittersweet smile crept over your features as you cradled it with a tenderness that felt almost out of place for such a broken object. Your eyes softened, fingertips tracing its worn frame as your thoughts began to drift.

It wasn't just an instrument to you. This lyre was your first real gift since tragedy had entwined itself with your life—something given to you not out of duty or obligation, but out of care.

The queen herself had gifted it to you, and that alone made it irreplaceable.

The memory was vivid: Penelope's gentle smile as she presented it, the warmth in her eyes, the feeling that, for once, you were seen, appreciated.

It wasn't just the lyre itself, but everything it had come to represent. It had been your solace on long, lonely nights and your anchor during uncertain times, giving you purpose when you needed it most.

It brought back memories of your youth—the music your parents had played, the songs that had filled your home, the love that had been so freely given. You could almost hear it now, their laughter mingling with the notes of the lyre, the warmth of their presence wrapping around you like a blanket on a cold night.

The lyre had been a small piece of that past—a reminder of everything you had lost, yet also everything you had cherished. Every note felt like a thread, weaving together fragments of a time you desperately wished you could hold onto.

Your voice was soft, almost lost in the room as you spoke. "It wasn't just an instrument. It was... the first thing that was mine since I came here. The queen gave it to me, and it brought back memories I thought I'd never feel again, even if just for a moment." Your voice trembled, the emotions too thick to mask, as you continued, forgetting entirely that you had an audience.

"Memories of the warmth... omusic, of laughter, of love, of a time when things were simpler." Your hand drifted up to press lightly against your chest, where an ache had begun to form. "I know it's broken and it wasn't much, but it's still mine. And it's still beautiful... in its own way."

For a moment, there was silence. You had forgotten Hermes was there, your mind wrapped up in your memories, your fingers still tracing the lines of the broken wood.

When you finally looked up, blinking as if waking from a dream, you remembered yourself—remembered where you were, and who you were speaking to. Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you as you ducked your head, your gaze dropping to the floor.

"I-I'm… I'm sorry, my lord," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to…" You trailed off, not knowing how to finish. You didn't want to see the god's face, didn't want to see whatever expression might be there—pity, amusement, or worse, indifference.

But as you looked down, Hermes' reaction had already shifted.

His golden eyes had widened slightly, a spark of something unguarded there. His teasing smirk had softened into something else entirely, and for a moment, a blush crossed his face—faint, but unmistakable.

He was in awe, perhaps, not just of the love and depth with which you spoke of the lyre, but of the way you cherished his creation, of the reverence and emotion you held for something he had dismissed so easily.

He cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence between you, and when he spoke, his voice had lost some of its earlier edge, the teasing lilt tempered by something gentler. "You mortals," he said, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on you as though seeing you in a different light. "Always so attached to things, always so full of... feeling." He looked away then, his eyes shifting to the window, as though giving you a moment to collect yourself.

You took a shaky breath, your arms tightening around the broken lyre, trying to steady your heartbeat. You could still feel the warmth of Hermes' gaze on you, even if he had looked away, and it made something inside you flutter—something you didn't quite know how to name.

"Well," Hermes said after a moment, his voice light again, though there was a softness to it now that hadn't been there before. "If anyone can find a way to make the most of a broken thing, it's you, I suppose." He looked back at you then, his golden eyes meeting yours, and there was something almost tender in his gaze. "But don't forget, ____," he added, nodding toward the divine lyre he'd brought, "sometimes the gods do know what they're doing. Give it a chance."

You nodded, your throat tight, the words caught as you looked at the two lyres—one broken, one divine.

You cleared your throat, saying you would and when you looked up, Hermes was gone.

Now left with just the silence of the room, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, somehow, both could have a place in your heart.

One was the echo of everything you had been through—every struggle, every cherished moment, and every painful lesson that had shaped you. It wasn't just broken; it was human, it was flawed, and it was you.

The other, with its impossible beauty and the faint glow of starlight, felt almost like a promise of something new—an invitation from the gods to step into something greater, something untarnished by human suffering. It was perfect, and perhaps that was why it felt frightening, like a reminder of everything you weren't—of what you feared you might never be.

You glanced between them, feeling the weight of both possibilities pressing down on you.

Was it possible to embrace both? To honor the past while daring to accept the unknown, even if it terrified you? Maybe, somehow, there was a way to let them coexist.

You weren't sure yet how, but for the first time since that dreadful day, you allowed yourself to believe it could be possible.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Hermes left Ithaca with an unusual weight resting in the back of his mind, his sandals lifting him effortlessly from the palace grounds and carrying him up, up into the ether, past the clouds that shimmered with the dusk's final blush.

The night had only just begun to lull the world below, but Olympus was always alive—eternally vibrant, eternally gilded.

Hermes sighed, tugging at the edge of his red cloak, his gaze flicking toward the horizon, where the golden halls of Olympus glowed like a promise. His sandals' wings fluttered lazily as he landed without a sound on its marble steps.

It wasn't long before he found Apollo reclining as though the universe revolved solely around him.

Hermes had a knack for timing—always arriving right when it would make the most impact, and this night was no exception.

Apollo was reclining on a golden chaise, a nymph at either side feeding him grapes while a third played a soft tune on a reed pipe. His eyes were half-lidded, his dark curls glistening with a faint golden sheen, falling artfully over his forehead, and the lyre he had conjured floated above him, strings moving on their own as if he were still playing it.

The god of music looked every bit the picture of satisfaction—utterly self-assured, basking in his own splendor.

Hermes couldn't resist.

"Oh, brother dearest," Hermes called, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes as he strolled forward, his staff clinking softly against the marble. "I see you're surrounded by your usual entourage. Good to know you haven't let your ego grow too much in my absence."

Apollo's eyes snapped open, annoyance flickering across his features for just an instant before it melted into a smirk.

"Hermes," he drawled, waving off the nymphs as he sat up. "What brings you to Olympus this fine evening? Shouldn't you be off delivering things?"

Hermes let a slow grin spread across his lips, letting the silence stretch for a beat before speaking. "Oh, nothing of much consequence. Just thought you'd like to know..." He paused, watching as Apollo head lolled in bored, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "I finally delivered that little gift of yours. You know, the one for your favorite mortal."

The effect was instantaneous.

The lyre dropped, Apollo's eyes widening with excitement, and he pushed himself off the chaise, his curls bouncing slightly. The nymphs backed away as Apollo's full attention focused on Hermes, his face a mixture of delight and urgency.

"Really?" Apollo almost beamed, his eyes alight with a golden fire. "Tell me, brother, what was her reaction? Did she love it? What did she say?"

Hermes' brow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching as though amused by the sudden fervor. He shrugged nonchalantly, turning his staff between his fingers. "Oh, you know," he said, voice lazily drawling. "Mortal tears, the usual overwhelmed gratitude—I'd say you did pretty well."

Apollo's grin widened, his eyes sparkling. "Ha! Of course, I did. I chose it, didn't I?" He crossed his arms, his chest swelling with pride. "No doubt it moved her to tears. I knew it was the perfect way to lift her spirits after that vile princess shattered her precious lyre."

Hermes' smile froze, just slightly, as he tilted his head, feigning indifference. "Oh? So you knew about that?" He tried to sound casual, though there was a sharpness hidden beneath his words.

Apollo's features twisted, his expression darkening, his golden brows furrowing as a scowl marred his perfect face. "Knew about it?" he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "I saw it. I felt it. The moment that girl dared to touch what was mine—I wanted to come down there and smite her where she stood, to wipe her from existence for daring to make her cry."

He ran a hand through his golden curls, exhaling sharply. "But alas," he added with a bitter edge to his voice, "Ares has his hand over Bronte, and we've an agreement not to meddle in each other's territories unless mortally provoked."

There was a pause, a flicker of something raw in Apollo's eyes before he continued, softer now. "She doesn't deserve that pain—she's too... fragile for it." His words lingered, his voice dipped with a strange tenderness. "Do you know, Hermes, how rare it is for a mortal to move me? They sing of us, praise us, offer sacrifices at our altars, but it's hollow. Empty gestures driven by fear or tradition."

His gaze shifted, a faint, almost reverent glow lighting his features. "But ____? She feels every note, every string, as if it were a part of her soul. She gives her music freely, without pretense or expectation. It's not just beautiful—it's pure. Untainted by ambition or arrogance." He leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes blazing. "How could I not protect that? How could I not claim that for myself?"

Hermes hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze was sharper now, watching the way Apollo's fists clenched at his sides, how his eyes gleamed not just with irritation, but with a glint of something else—something possessive. He leaned casually on his staff, the air around him relaxed, though his mind was racing.

"Yes, yes, of course. I remember the pact, yadda, yadda," Hermes said, waving a hand dismissively, as if trying to defuse Apollo's seething anger. "It's just... well, you know me. I took my sweet time getting there, and I thought perhaps..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing in a calculating manner, seeking a hint of truth behind Apollo's bluster.

Apollo's gaze snapped back to Hermes, his expression softening once more, the rage dissipating like a storm that had never really formed. "She's fine, right? ____?" he asked, the softness almost boyish, a strange contrast to his earlier fury. "Tell me she's happy now."

Hermes blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. Interesting, he thought. He let a small chuckle escape, reaching out to pat Apollo's shoulder. "Oh, she's happy enough, dear brother. You've made quite the impression, as always."

Apollo's eyes gleamed again, his smile returning as he nodded, clearly satisfied with himself. "Of course I did. She is my favorite mortal, after all." He said it with such casual conviction, the statement almost lost in the grandeur of his words.

Apollo's gaze grew distant for a moment, as if lost in thought. "Imagine the joy she must feel now, holding such a divine creation," he murmured, his voice softening. "The strings that echo the music of the heavens, the craftsmanship beyond any mortal's imagination... Surely, she must be overwhelmed with delight." He spoke as if he could already see it all, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and longing, like the scene played out vividly in his mind.

If only you knew, Hermes internally scoffed, his smile fixed and unreadable.

His mind flickered back to the quiet room in Ithaca, the way your fingers had clung to the old, splintered lyre as if it were more precious than ambrosia. He could still hear your voice, trembling with raw emotion, speaking of its memories and warmth.

Your mortal sentimentality baffled and intrigued him all at once—a creation so divine cast aside, eclipsed by something far humbler, yet infinitely more cherished.

With a sigh that barely reached his lips, Hermes made up his mind. He wasn't going to get anything more out of Apollo. No revelations, no genuine answers—just endless rambling about his muse, his divine creations, and, of course, himself.

So, with a lazy flick of his wrist, Hermes' feet lifted from the ground, and he pushed off, a breeze carrying him away from Apollo's favored grove.

Apollo, for his part, didn't even notice Hermes' departure, too busy preening as he spoke of his sweet mortal—a fact that caused Hermes to roll his eyes.

No sense talking to someone more interested in his own reflection, he thought as he ascended past the clouds.

But instead of returning to his duties, Hermes decided there was something else he needed to do—someone else he needed to see. He wasn't quite done with his curiosity about the mortal girl Apollo had taken such an interest in.

He hadn't missed how even the smallest mention of her seemed to light up the god's entire demeanor. And if Apollo was this obsessed, then Hermes figured there had to be something more to it.

It didn't take him long to reach Athena's chambers, her owl-faced guards recognizing him and allowing him through without question.

He pushed through the heavy wooden doors, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the goddess herself, bent over a scroll, her attention locked onto whatever she was studying.

"Athena, my dear," Hermes called, his voice carrying across the room as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You look as radiant as ever, deep in your thoughts, I see."

Athena turned, her silver-gray eyes narrowing slightly, though her lips quirked into something almost like a smile. "Hermes," she said, her tone tinged with the familiar mix of mild exasperation and fondness. "What brings you here? Surely you have duties to tend to—deliveries to make?"

"Oh, don't remind me," Hermes groaned dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest as though wounded. He took a few playful strides toward her, leaning casually against a nearby pillar. "But I have to say, something much more interesting has caught my attention lately. I'm here to ask about someone—A mortal, to be precise." He raised an eyebrow, waggling his brows in that unmistakable mischievous way.

Athena's brow arched, her eyes sharpening, though a flicker of curiosity flashed in her gaze.  "A mortal?" Her voice was laced with dry amusement. "And why would you be interested in a mortal, Hermes? Should I be worried?"

"Not at all, dear sister. No mischief this time..." Hermes tilted his head slightly, pausing for effect. "...well, at least nothing that involves me." He crossed his arms over his chest, fingers tapping rhythmically against his bicep, watching her closely for any sign of a reaction. "It's about our dear brother, Apollo, actually."

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes flashing with curiosity. "Apollo?"

Hermes nodded, his expression growing almost conspiratorial. "Indeed. It seems our radiant brother has been somewhat preoccupied lately—obsessed even. He finally got me to deliver one of his divine lyres down to a little mortal he's been watching." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "A mortal from Ithaca, if that rings a bell."

Athena's eyes widened slightly, and Hermes didn't miss the flicker of recognition that passed across her face. "Ithaca, you say?" she mused, her gaze drifting momentarily.

Then something clicked in her expression, and her lips parted slightly in understanding. "Ah, yes... Odysseus and Telemachus," she said, the names laced with a faint nostalgia, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. "They've spoken of a servant before—Telemachus, particularly. I do recall him mentioning someone once or twice in our past conversations... "

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "A sort of musician. I suppose that's the one Apollo's so taken with?" She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she seemed to recall something else. "I also believe I gave them an enchanted music sheet... I think. I'll have to retrieve it back at some point."

Hermes grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "The very same." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if trying to shoo away the absurdity of it all. "Can you imagine, our mighty Apollo, all aflutter over a mortal girl? He's been rambling on and on about her as if she's the next muse born unto the earth. Though, admittedly, he did make quite the scene when her lyre broke—if I'm not mistaken, he was moments away from descending and turning her little enemy into something very unpleasant." He glanced sideways at Athena, gauging her reaction.

Athena gave a small shake of her head, her eyes half-lidded in a mixture of amusement and something more guarded. "Apollo and his passions," she murmured. "They burn bright, but often far too hot. I suppose it's fortunate, then, that he didn't act on that impulse," She sighed, her expression growing more reflective. "Though I imagine his obsession won't fade anytime soon. Such things rarely do when it comes to Apollo."

Her gaze sharpened then, fixing on Hermes with a weight that silenced the humor in his smirk. "And you, brother? What business do you have meddling in Apollo's affairs? You aren't planning on interfering with another god's favored mortal, are you? You remember what happened last time."

Hermes lifted his hands in mock surrender, his smile widening into a playful grin. "Dear sister, you wound me! I am nothing if not a law-abiding god." He placed a hand over his chest, his face the picture of feigned innocence. "I would never think of getting involved in something as serious as that—I simply wanted to understand what has Apollo so enchanted. I mean, really, me, meddling? When have I ever been known to get myself tangled in anyone else's messes?"

Athena's gaze didn't waver, her silver-gray eyes cutting into him like a blade. She let the silence linger, her expression unreadable as if weighing every word. "You may convince yourself of your innocence, Hermes," she said finally, her voice calm but edged with steel. "But curiosity is a dangerous thing—even for a god. Apollo is not known for his restraint when it comes to those he holds dear, and you would do well to tread carefully."

"Just know, I'll be watching both of you, just as I watch over those who bear my favor." Her lips quirked into something faintly resembling a smile, though her eyes gleamed with warning. "And remember, the rules of Olympus apply to everyone... even you."

She turned back to her work, her fingers lightly brushing over the edge of her scroll. "Even the gods cannot see every thread of the Fates. So if you decide to get involved, be sure you're ready for the consequences, Hermes. Gods do not take kindly to interference, especially when their favorites are concerned."

Hermes looked at her for a moment longer, his usual grin softening into something more deliberate. "You worry too much, Athena. It's just a harmless bit of curiosity," he said lightly, though there was a glimmer in his eyes that spoke of more than mere curiosity. "Besides, trouble and I have been well-acquainted for millennia, and I've always made it through in one piece."

"Of course, you have, but the line between chaos and calamity is thinner than you think."

Hermes chuckled, pushing himself off from the pillar. "True, but thin lines make for the best balancing acts, wouldn't you say?" He turned on his heel, making his way back to the door before turning back to give an exaggerated bow. "Still, I suppose I should thank you for indulging me, dear sister." With that Hermes made his exit.

"Curiosity," Athena murmured under her breath as the trickter god lefft, her tone both knowing and resigned. "The beginning of far too many stories."

As soon as Hermes made it out of her chambers, his winged sandals lifted him off the marble floor of the temple. The wind caught under his feet, propelling him forward, out into the vast expanse of sky.

Hermes smiled to himself, his curiosity far from satisfied, but his mind already shifting gears. He had learned enough for now—at least enough to know there was something worth keeping an eye on.

The mortal from Ithaca—Apollo's favorite—you were certainly more than you seemed. And whatever Apollo had planned for you, Hermes was sure it would be entertaining enough to keep his attention—for now.

Athena's warning echoed faintly in his mind, but he shrugged it off with a smirk. He wasn't sure if it was going to lead to trouble, but then again, trouble was what made his life interesting.

With a grin and a flash of his winged sandals, Hermes took off across the sky, the shimmering landscape of Olympus disappearing beneath him as he sped away, laughter echoing in the wind. "Besides... when have I ever backed down from a little chaos?" he muttered to himself, the corners of his lips curling in anticipation.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You adjusted the light bundle of freshly laundered linens in your arms, the soft fabric pressing against your chin as you made your way through the palace corridors.

It felt good to be moving again, your steps light yet purposeful, as if shaking off the heaviness of the past few days.

The morning light spilled in from high arched windows, warming the stone floors beneath your sandals and casting gentle shadows along the walls.

You had returned to your duties just as you promised Telemachus, resuming the routines that had once brought a sense of normalcy to your days. Queen Penelope had been pleased to see you, her smile warm yet tempered with a motherly concern. She had insisted that you take it slow, barring you from returning to her chambers so soon. "You need time to fully gain your strength back," she had said, her voice firm yet gentle.

While part of you missed the comfort of her presence, another part was grateful for the care and concern you were shown, even if you weren't truly ill. They didn't know the truth, but their kindness had eased the ache you hadn't realized had lingered in your chest.

The corridor turned sharply ahead, and as you rounded the corner, you collided with someone. Your bundle tumbled from your arms, and you staggered slightly, your hands instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.

A clatter followed as the person opposite you dropped their load—a basket of clothes spilling onto the floor.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry—!" you began, but the words caught in your throat as you looked up.

It was Callias. His tousled hair was damp with sweat, the dark strands clinging to his forehead, and his face looked drawn, shadows lingering under his eyes as if he hadn't slept well in days. He was dressed in his usual servant's attire, but the fabric was creased, and there was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek.

Despite his tired appearance, his expression shifted the moment he realized it was you. His eyes widened, and a grin broke across his face, chasing away the exhaustion in an instant.

"____!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and relief. The basket at his feet was forgotten as he stepped forward, engulfing you in a hug before you could react.

The breath was momentarily squeezed out of you as his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close. "You're okay," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I was so worried—no one told me what happened! And then I heard you were unwell, and... gods, I'm just glad you're alright."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as you gently pushed against his chest, creating a small space between you. "Callias," you said warmly, "of course I'm fine. You didn't think I'd let a little rain do me in, did you?"

Callias pulled back slightly, a pout forming on his lips as he crossed his arms. "Don't give me that, young lady," he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. "Where have you been? And don't you dare use that dumb lie about being sick." His gaze swept over you, his brows knitting together in mock suspicion. "You don't even have a lingering sniffle or cough."

You hesitated, your gaze drifting to the side as you debated whether to tell him the truth. The weight of the last few days pressed against your chest, but something about Callias' earnest expression made you feel like you could confide in him.

Finally, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... something big... something epic."

His eyes lit up with intrigue, a grin spreading across his face before he stilled; the faint sound of footsteps echoed from around the bend, accompanied by hushed voices. Callias' head snapped up, and he looked around wildly, his body tensing as though expecting trouble, his expression suddenly cautious.

The footsteps grew louder, and moments later, a group of servants dressed in Bronte's colors appeared, their arms laden with folded linens and supplies. They passed by without so much as a glance in your direction, their faces a picture of indifference, but the way Callias' shoulders remained taut told a different story.

He bent down quickly, gathering the scattered clothes from his basket. As he straightened, he leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "Meet me later, under the cypress tree. Your spot."

Before you could respond, he added, "There's something I need to tell you too." His eyes flicked toward the corner where the other servants had disappeared, and then back to you, his gaze steady but urgent.

With that, he hoisted the basket back into his arms, giving you a small, reassuring smile before hurrying off down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance.

You stood there for a moment, your heart beating a little faster as you replayed his words. The cypress tree. Your spot. Whatever he wanted to say felt important.

And as you bent to retrieve your own bundle of laundry, you couldn't shake the feeling that the day was far from over.

☆

☆

The air under the cypress tree was warm and dappled with late-afternoon light filtering through the branches.

Callias leaned against the tree's rough bark, his panpipes resting lightly in his lap. His fingers traced the edges of the instrument, occasionally pressing a note that lingered softly in the air.

His eyes flicked between the winding paths leading into the courtyard, searching eagerly for your figure, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours.

Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of servants, the occasional chirp of a bird. Yet, all of it faded into the background as his anticipation grew.

He adjusted his position, his back straightening, and his fingers drumming against the panpipes, unable to shake the nervous energy bubbling within him.

Then a sharp, unmistakable voice shattered the delicate stillness.

"Callias."

He froze, the warmth draining from his face as his name cut through the air with a cold edge.

Slowly, he turned toward the voice, his muscles taut. Standing there, poised and commanding as ever, was Princess Andreia. Her presence dominated the space, her pale, calculating gaze sweeping over him like a hawk assessing its prey.

Callias' heart lurched as he quickly stood, the panpipes slipping from his lap and landing in the dirt with a soft thud. He bent into a low bow, his voice carefully steady. "Princess Andreia," he greeted, his words formal, though he could feel the knot tightening in his stomach.

Her lips curved into a faint, icy smile, though it held no warmth. She stepped closer, the sound of her sandals sharp against the cobblestones. "You seem preoccupied," she remarked coolly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Are you perhaps waiting for someone?"

Callias cleared his throat, his mind racing for a suitable answer. "No, Your Highness," he replied, his voice calm but edged with unease. "I was merely taking a short break."

Andreia's gaze sharpened, her footsteps drawing her closer. "Taking a break? How interesting." She tsked softly, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Tell me, Callias, since when did servants under my father's rule grow so bold as to rest whenever they pleased?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand, her voice growing colder. "Do not even bother insulting my intelligence with more excuses. You've been getting beside yourself lately."

Callias felt his breath hitch as she stepped closer still, her presence oppressive. Her words lashed out like a whip. "Do you think you're above the rules? Above your duties? Back home, such insolence would have earned you a punishment severe enough to make you think twice. Have you forgotten the lessons taught to you? The lessons I taught you?" Her tone was laced with disdain, her eyes piercing as they bore into his.

The knot in Callias's stomach twisted painfully. Unbidden, phantom pains stirred in his lower back, the ghost of old scars prickling against his skin. His breaths came quicker, his mind flashing back to memories of punishments long past—the searing pain, the weight of expectations that had crushed him under their heel.

He swallowed hard, his head dipping lower, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

"N-No, Your Highness," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I haven't forgotten."

Before his words could settle, Andreia's hand snapped upward, her fingers gripping his chin with surprising strength. She tilted his face down, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

Callias' heart pounded as he fought the urge to flinch. Her touch was cold, her nails biting into his skin with enough pressure to remind him of his place.

She leaned closer, her green eyes gleaming with a frosty intensity, as if she were appraising a nuisance rather than a person. "This palace is not our home," she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as a blade. "But that doesn't mean the rules I have in place for you here are any less strict. Do you understand?"

Callias nodded as best he could under her grip, his throat dry and his voice failing him.

Andreia's eyes narrowed further, the faintest curl of a smirk tugging at her lips. "I wonder..." she mused, her voice dropping to a low, cryptic tone, "has someone been filling your head with delusions of importance? Perhaps a little musician with too much free time?"

Callias froze, his blood running cold, panic flashing through him. Every instinct screamed at him to deny her accusation, to deflect, but he knew better. Denying too forcefully would only confirm her suspicions.

Andreia studied him for a moment longer before releasing his chin with a sharp motion; the sudden absence of her touch almost jarring. She straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from her gown as though the interaction had dirtied her.

"Consider this your only warning. A servant with divided loyalties is a liability I cannot afford. Don't forget, Callias—loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal, however..." she trailed off coldly, her gaze cutting through him one last time. "Do not test me again."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode away, her steps measured and unyielding.

Callias remained frozen, his body stiff and his hands trembling at his sides; his hand instinctively moved to brush down the back of his tunic, where the scars lay hidden beneath the fabric—a cruel reminder of her unspoken power over him. His fingers lingered there, the ghost of old wounds prickling against his skin.

His mind began to spiral, unbidden memories rising to the surface.

He could almost hear the sharp snap of a whip cracking through the air, followed by the searing pain that had lanced across his back. It had been something so small—he had tripped in the grand hall of Bronte while carrying a tray of goblets for one of the royal stewards. A single goblet had tipped over, its wine spilling in a dark stain across the marble floor, and Andreia had been furious.

The punishment was swift, merciless. She had ordered him to be lashed in the courtyard as a lesson to the other servants. "Clumsiness," she had said coolly, "is a sign of carelessness, and carelessness has no place in the palace of Bronte."

He had bitten down on the inside of his cheek so hard he'd drawn blood, swallowing the cries that threatened to escape with every lash. But the humiliation had stung more than the whip itself—being exposed, stripped of dignity, while the other servants watched, their eyes averted out of fear they might meet the same fate.

Ithaca had been different. Here, there were no public punishments, no cold demands to perfection. He could breathe without fearing his next mistake would cost him more than bruised pride.

The palace still had its rules and its order, but there was a warmth, a humanity, that Bronte had always lacked. Queen Penelope's quiet compassion, the way Prince Telemachus would greet the servants by name—it all made Callias feel... human, in a way he had almost forgotten he could be.

Yet Andreia's presence threatened to shatter that fragile sense of belonging. The way she wielded power, even here, felt like a shadow of Bronte encroaching on Ithaca's light.

Callias shook his head, trying to banish the memories, but they clung to him like a second skin. The ache in his back, long healed but never forgotten, was a stark reminder of what it meant to fall out of favor with someone like her.

He bent down to retrieve his panpipes, his fingers brushing over the dirt-streaked wood as he tried to steady his breathing. He cast a wary glance around the courtyard, his earlier eagerness to see you now replaced with a gnawing unease.

And then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, your voice called out to him. "Callias?"

He froze, his heart leaping in his chest for an entirely different reason.

When he turned, his eyes landed on you, and for a moment, the tension in his body melted away. The warmth in your expression, the lightness in your step—everything about you was a balm to the icy fear Andreia had left behind.

Callias straightened, brushing off his tunic as he offered you a smile, though it wavered slightly.

The stark contrast between Andreia's coldness and your kindness hit him like a tidal wave. Where she had made him feel small and insignificant, you made him feel seen, valued.

"____, you're here," he said, his voice softening as relief flooded through him. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."

"Of course I'm here. We agreed to meet here, or was I mistaken and imagined our entire interaction earlier?" You laughed lightly, stepping closer to him, your hands twitching as though you were about to reach out in greeting. But Callias subtly shifted back, careful to keep the space between you.

His heart raced as he did so, the fresh sting of Andreia's reminder still too vivid in his mind.

He masked his movements with a quick smile, hoping you wouldn't notice his hesitance. Your own smile remained undeterred as you tilted your head, your tone teasing. "When did you arrive? Have I kept you waiting long?"

Callias felt his chest tighten for a moment, a brief flicker of warmth battling with the icy grip of Andreia's words. Internally, he reassured himself—She doesn't know, she can't know. "Not long," he lied smoothly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I just got here myself."

You gave a small, contented sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing as you looked around the familiar courtyard. Without another word, you plopped down onto the grass, the softness of it cushioning you as you let out a sigh of relaxation.

The momentary calmness of your favorite spot wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, chasing away the lingering heaviness of the day.

You leaned back on your hands, tilting your face up to the sky, and after a beat, you peeked one eye open to glance up at Callias. A playful smile graced your lips. "Well? Don't just stand there like a statue. Sit," you said, patting the spot on the grass beside you.

Callias hesitated, his fingers tightening around the panpipes in his hands. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the spot you'd patted, then back to your expectant smile.

His fake smile began to falter but shifted into something genuine as he pushed the memories to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the way you looked at him like he was someone who mattered.

With a steadying breath, he plopped down beside you, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly in your presence.

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the cypress tree's branches swaying gently above, casting playful shadows on the grass, providing a soothing backdrop to the moment.

Callias sat close but not too close, the space between you a subtle reminder of his guarded demeanor.

You didn't notice, too focused on gathering your thoughts.

Callias' fingers still toyed with the panpipes, the faint movements a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. He caught your glance flickering toward them, and his grip relaxed, letting them rest on his lap.

You tilted your head slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, your fingers idly tracing the grass beside you.  "There's something I need to tell you," you began, your voice quiet but steady as though you were weighing your words. "I... I've been thinking about how to even start this, but I guess I should just say it."

"What is it?"

You took a deep breath, your eyes dropping to the ground as you tried to find the right place to begin. "It's about... Lady Andreia," you said, your voice soft but clear, and you didn't miss the way his posture stiffened at the mention of her name.

"You know how she... well, she doesn't exactly like servants," you started, glancing briefly at him before looking back at your hands. "I—" You paused, hesitating.

The memory of what had happened was still vivid, and you weren't sure how much to say. But Callias deserved to know—at least, part of it.

"Some time after I left you in the courtyard, I realized I left my lyre behind," you began, your voice faltering slightly, "it wasn't long until a Bronte servant approached me and told me you'd asked for me to meet you at the sheepfold to return it. So, I thought nothing of it and went to find you after I was finished with my duties."

Your voice trailed off, and for a moment, you stared at the grass beneath you as if the words you needed might be hidden there. Callias' brow furrowed, and his grip on the panpipes tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"When I arrived," you continued, your voice quieter now, "it wasn't you I found. It was Lady Andreia." The memory of her cold smile and calculating gaze resurfaced. You cleared your throat softly and pressed on. "She was sitting there, holding my lyre."

Callias' expression darkened at this, his jaw tightening. His hands balled into fists in his lap, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

"I tried to stay calm, to be respectful. I... thought maybe she'd let me take it and leave. But instead, she started mocking me—mocking the lyre." Your throat tightened, and you paused, glancing away as you struggled to find the words. "She called it ugly... worthless. And then..." Your voice faltered again, and you had to take a steadying breath before continuing.

"She broke it," you said finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "She... she smashed it over her knee, like it was nothing." The weight of the confession settled between you, and you could feel your chest tightening as the emotions threatened to resurface. "Afterward, she just walked away, like it didn't matter. Like it was just some... insignificant thing."

Callias cursed under his breath, his fist clenching tightly in the grass beside him. "That... that witch," he muttered, his voice low and full of frustration. "I... I should have known something was wrong. After you left, she dismissed me almost immediately, but I didn't think..." He trailed off, his gaze distant as he pieced together the events in his mind. "I didn't even know you'd left it behind. If I had knew..." He broke off again, his voice filled with self-recrimination.

"Even if you knew," you said firmly, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him, "what could you have done? If she ordered you to hand it over, you would have had no choice. You're a servant of Bronte, Callias. You had no say in the matter." Your gaze softened as you met his eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall, offering him a small, shaky smile.

Callias' jaw clenched, and he looked away, his fists still tight. "But if I—"

"No," you interrupted, your voice soft but steady. "Callias, this isn't your fault. It was her. Lady. No—" You paused, the distaste lingering before you forced her name out. "Andreia's just a bully with power. She would have found some other way to hurt me, no matter what."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling heavily between you.

Callias' shoulders remained tense, his gaze fixed on the ground, but slowly, his fists began to unclench. He exhaled deeply, his frustration still evident but tempered by your words.

Then, his' brow quirked up, lips twitching almost into an amused grin. He snorted lightly, the tension in his face easing ever so slightly. "Andreia, huh? No 'Lady Andreia'? Look at you, breaking the rules. Who knew you were such a rebel?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the small smile that broke through your earlier seriousness. "Oh, please. If calling her by her name makes me a rebel, I'll wear the title proudly."

The banter lifted some of the heaviness in the air, and for a brief moment, it felt like the two of you could breathe again.

But then, your gaze softened, your smile fading into something more contemplative. You leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper, as though sharing a secret only he could hear. "Besides... thanks to her actions, as cruel as they were, the Fates seemed to show me a little kindness in return."

Callias tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion at your cryptic words. "Kindness? What do you mean?" he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes brightening as the memory of the divine lyre flashed in your mind. But you didn't elaborate—not yet. Instead, you swung your satchel around, careful and deliberate, as though holding something precious beyond measure.

Reaching inside, your fingers brushed against the cool, smooth surface of the lyre. You pulled it out gently, the golden frame catching the late afternoon sunlight, which shimmered across its surface in dazzling patterns.

The intricate etchings seemed alive in the light, telling stories of gods and heroes as the strings, spun from what appeared to be starlight itself, glowed faintly, resonating with an otherworldly hum. The moment the lyre was fully exposed to the air, the faint scent of something sweet and unplaceable—a mix of wildflowers and ozone—seemed to linger between you.

Callias' mouth dropped open as he stared, his eyes widening in disbelief. "By the gods..." He leaned forward instinctively, his voice almost a whisper. "How... how did you get that?"

His hands hovered near the lyre, hesitant and almost reverent, as though touching it might prove it wasn't real. You grinned, the corners of your lips lifting as you plopped the lyre into his hands, your trust in him evident in the motion.

Callias hesitated, his hands hovering as though afraid to touch something so exquisite, but as the weight of the lyre settled into his palms, his breath caught. A faint warmth emanated from the golden frame, gentle but unmistakable, like the first rays of sunlight after a cold dawn.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, his fingers lightly brushing over the glowing strings, careful not to pluck them. As his fingers brushed against the glowing strings, and he felt an almost imperceptible vibration run through him, resonating deep in his chest.

It was as if the lyre accepted his presence, greeting him with a soft hum that lingered on the edges of his hearing, impossible to fully ignore.

Callias froze, his eyes widening further as he glanced at you. "Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip on the lyre tightened slightly, his awe growing with every second.

You tilted your head, the faintest trace of a knowing smile playing on your lips. "Feel what?"

"It's... alive," he said, his voice trembling slightly, the words faltering as if he doubted his own senses. "It's like it's breathing. It's warm... and it hums, almost like it's trying to speak."

You leaned back slightly, your expression softening with amusement as a proud smile spread across your face. "I know," you said, your voice giddy, unable to hide the excitement bubbling within you.

Reaching out, your fingers brushed against the lyre, and the reaction was instantaneous—its hum deepened, a faint glow rippling along the strings as though it recognized you, leaping to life at your touch.

Callias' eyes darted from the lyre to you, his brow furrowing as a flicker of worry crossed his features. He hesitated for a moment, then blurted, "Wait—how exactly did you get this?" His voice carried a note of apprehension now, as though the awe was giving way to concern. "You didn't... you didn't make some sort of deal, did you?"

Your hand paused mid-air, the playful smile softening into something more reassuring as you met his gaze. "A deal?" you repeated, laughing lightly to dispel the tension. "No, Callias, I didn't sell my soul or anything dramatic like that. It was a gift..." Your fingers rested lightly on the lyre's golden frame, its warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "from Hermes."

Callias' head snapped up, his eyes darting from the lyre back to you. He let out a low whistle, his eyebrows shooting upward in surprise. "Hermes?" he repeated, almost disbelieving. "You mean...The Hermes? Messenger God?"

You nodded, your smile growing as you recalled the god's sudden and striking appearance. "In the flesh," you confirmed. "He gave it to me freely. A gift."

Callias didn't look entirely convinced, his grip on the lyre tightening slightly. "Freely," he echoed, skepticism lacing his tone. "The gods don't just give mortals things like this for no reason. There's always a cost, even if it's not one you see right away." His voice dropped lower, more cautious. "Are you sure there's nothing else to it? No strings attached—well, besides these ones?"

You let out a soft snort at his attempt at humor, shaking your head. "Hermes might be many things, but this... this felt genuine. I think he wanted me to have it—no bargains, no tricks." The faint hum of the lyre seemed to agree, the glow of its strings softening to a gentle shimmer.

Callias studied you for a moment longer, his expression caught between awe and unease. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile. "If you say so," he murmured, though his tone still carried a hint of uncertainty. "But I'm keeping an eye on this thing—and on you. Just in case."

You couldn;t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest at his concern. "Thank you, Callias," you said sincerely, your voice soft. "It means a lot to know you're looking out for me—even if it's just in case I've accidentally invited divine chaos into my life."

His faint smile grew into a mischievous grin, his tone taking on a teasing edge. "Oh, please. You don't need a lyre to bring chaos into your life—you're already pretty talented at that on your own."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head at his cheeky remark. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Callias chuckled, his grin widening. "Like a moth to a flame," he quipped, his voice light but fond. He glanced back down at the glowing lyre in his hands, the humor in his expression softening as a flicker of wonder returned. "Still," he added, his tone shifting, "I've got to hand it to you. If anyone could charm the gods themselves, it's you."

His words caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks heat ever so slightly. You brushed the moment aside with a playful scoff. "Let's not give me too much credit. The gods probably just like a good underdog story."

Callias shook his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath. "Truly, you must have a pendulum of luck swinging wildly in your favor." His expression turned grim for a fleeting moment, as though the weight of something else tugged at his thoughts.

Clearing his throat, he gently handed the lyre back to you, his touch lingering for just a moment before he pulled his hands away. "But enough about that. I haven't even told you my news yet," he said, his tone shifting, though a shadow of his earlier unease remained in his eyes.

You nodded, carefully placing the lyre back into your satchel, its weight settling comfortably on your shoulder. "Alright," you said, curiosity piqued. "What's your news?"

Callias glanced around, his gaze sweeping the courtyard as though ensuring no one else was within earshot. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in slightly, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip," he began, his words measured. "Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your brows knit together in confusion. "What would she..." you started, but the sentence trailed off as your thoughts spiraled, unbidden.

Images of Andreia and Telemachus together flashed in your mind, their interactions suddenly taking on a sharper, more calculated edge.  "Oh..." you murmured, the realization settling like a stone in your chest, heavy and unwelcome.

A wave of discomfort rippled through you as your thoughts spiraled further. Their proximity during the banquet, the way Andreia's laughter lingered just a little longer when Telemachus was around—it all seemed to point to something more deliberate.

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of understanding pressing down as if the very air around you had thickened.

Though you were a servant, you weren't naive to the grand scheme of royal affairs; you understood how alliances like these were often forged.

Telemachus, as the prince, was undoubtedly a prime candidate for marriage, and while his father's disappearance had delayed such matters, it hadn't erased the possibility entirely.

You could no longer dismiss those fleeting moments as mere coincidence or your own overthinking.

The thought left you feeling unsettled, your shoulders dropping slightly as the pieces began to align. "Oh..." you repeated, softer this time, the word carrying a note of resignation.

Callias, sensing the shift in your mood, straightened, looking at you more seriously. "Listen, ____" he said, his voice gentler now, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. The prince... he wouldn't—" He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. "He wouldn't just go along with something like that. Not unless it's what he truly wanted."

His words lingered, and for a moment, you weren't even sure why he was trying to reassure you.

And even though you tried to deny it, a small, flickering part of you wanted to believe him, to believe that Telemachus—his warm smiles, his quiet moments of kindness—couldn't be capable of viewing you as nothing more than a servant to be discarded for the sake of an alliance.

But just as quickly as the thought surfaced, you buried it, pushing it down beneath the weight of your resignation, tucked away with the rest of your uncertainties.

It was easier to accept the ignorance, to leave those possibilities unexplored.

Clearing your throat, you gave him a faint smile, choosing to redirect the conversation. "Anyway," you began, your tone lighter now, "what else have I missed these past few days?"

Callias groaned dramatically, throwing his head back with an exaggerated moan. "You mean, what didn't you miss? Everything has been so dull!" he lamented, his voice laced with mock despair. "Dinners felt so empty—even with the musicians playing, they ended much quicker than usual. Honestly, it's been like the life was sucked out of the palace."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more reflective. "And the royal family? Well, I wouldn't say I'm close to them—I mean, who is, really? But..." He trailed off, his gaze distant, as though recalling the flashes of moments he had witnessed.

"I saw Queen Penelope in the kitchens a few times," he continued, his voice softening. "She was talking with the chef, making sure your broths were just right. She even sent one back because it wasn't warm enough."

You blinked, a rush of warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of the queen's quiet attentiveness. Callias went on, his tone taking on a storytelling rhythm.

"And after you fell 'ill,' King Odysseus ordered the construction of an overhead walkway.  You know, the one that connects the palace to the sheepfold and pigeon coops, and stuff?  It's supposed to protect the servants from the storms. They say he got the idea from the Phoenicians, or maybe one of those great cities he saw on his travels."

He smiled faintly, but his expression grew somber as he continued. "And then there's Prince Telemachus..." Callias' voice dropped slightly, as if hesitant to bring up the prince. "He's been... different. Sullen, I guess, unless he's around his parents. But even then, he's quieter than usual."

Your heart clenched, and you leaned in slightly, unable to stop yourself from asking, "What do you mean?"

Callias hesitated before answering. "I've also seen him in the library, flipping through scrolls and old texts. He's been talking with the palace physicians a lot too. And Bronte's physicians—he brought them in, you know. They were discussing remedies, illnesses, treatments... trying to figure out what could help. And the prince, well, he was asking questions—lots of them." His gaze turned to you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "About you."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn't find your voice. A rush of emotions surged within you—disbelief, gratitude, and something else you couldn't quite name. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the ground as you tried to process his words.

"He was... asking about me?"

Callias nodded. "Yeah. Looking for answers, I guess. He seemed... worried."

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you couldn't think of anything to say. The image of Telemachus—quiet and focused, sifting through scrolls and speaking with healers for your sake—made your chest tighten with an emotion you weren't ready to name.

You exhaled slowly, a shaky breath that seemed to carry away some of the tension in your shoulders. "I... I didn't know," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Callias gave you a small, reassuring smile, his earlier teasing replaced with a quiet understanding. "Well," he said gently, "now you do."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The days that followed were restless, though you tried to hide it beneath the mask of routine.

Each moment you could spare, your eyes trailed toward Andreia and Prince Telemachus. Whether it was during dinners where the royal families mingled or as you passed by the courtyards in your duties, you found yourself drawn to their interactions.

Andreia's demeanor toward Telemachus was as obvious as sunlight. She was coy, her voice lilting with playful notes as she leaned toward him just enough to invade his space without overstepping.

She'd twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her fingers, her head tilting at the slightest inclination of his voice, as though every word he spoke was a revelation.

Her laughter was sweet, too sweet—a bubbly, ringing sound that set your teeth on edge, especially when compared to the cold detachment she'd shown you that day in the sheepfold.

It was jarring, to see her so kind and open with him, far removed from the icy, calculating figure you had encountered. She radiated warmth, her emerald eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence that you couldn't unsee now that you knew better.

She was a different person entirely—charming, demure, and confident in a way that left little doubt of her intentions. Her fingers would linger on Telemachus' arm just a moment too long, her smile a fraction too wide.

It was as if she were weaving a net around him, one thread at a time.

Telemachus, for his part, seemed polite and cordial, though there were moments when his boyish charm peeked through.

At dinner, he'd lean in closer when she spoke, his face attentive, his easy smile encouraging her to continue.

You couldn't help but notice how his eyes occasionally flickered to her face, perhaps taking in the faint blush that colored her cheeks. But then, there were times he seemed to grow restless, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as if he were only half listening.

It stung, though you tried not to let it show, especially during those evenings when you'd catch snippets of their laughter echoing through the halls. Your hands would tighten on the linen you were folding, or your steps would quicken as you passed by the feasting hall.

Still, you reminded yourself that this was his role—a prince courting a princess, ensuring alliances. Yet, even with that reminder, Callias' words lingered in your mind, a whisper of reassurance battling against the tightening in your chest.

The days grew shorter as autumn began to edge into winter, the chill creeping into the mornings and biting at your skin despite the midday sun. The air carried a sharper edge, and the light waned faster, casting the palace in long shadows that came too early in the day.

It was on one such brisk afternoon that you found yourself leaving the seamstress' quarters, a small scroll in hand detailing the queen's updated winter measurements. The cold nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you moved through the quieter corridors of the palace.

You were on your way to the queen's chambers for lunch, the scroll meant to be presented alongside her midday tea. The thought of her warm smile and the calm wisdom she carried in even the simplest exchanges brought a small measure of comfort as your steps echoed softly against the stone floors.

"____!" The sound of your name, called with warmth and familiarity, startled you, and your heart leapt in your chest.

You turned sharply, your fingers tightening around the scroll as your eyes landed on Telemachus. He was walking briskly toward you, his steps purposeful yet light, and you couldn't help but notice how his smile grew wider as he caught your gaze.

His eyes brightened, the fatigue that had seemed to cling to him in recent days momentarily lifting, and there was a slight spring in his step, as though seeing you had filled him with a sudden energy.

"____," he called again, his voice carrying easily over the quiet. "I was hoping to run into you."

"Telemachus," you breathed under your breath, his name slipping from your lips without thought as he approached, stopping in your tracks.

Your heart beat faster than you wanted to admit, your heart fluttering in your chest, each beat heavy and echoing in your ears. You tightened your grip on the scroll in your hands, suddenly hyperaware of how cold your fingers felt against the smooth parchment.

As he stopped before you, his smile softened, and his gaze swept over you with quiet intensity. His eyes lingered briefly, studying you as though searching for something. "How are you?" he asked, his voice low and warm, a thread of concern woven through his tone. "Are you feeling well?"

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught off guard by the way he looked at you—his brows slightly furrowed, his head tilted just enough to show genuine interest.

The wind teased at the loose strands of his hair, and the soft sunlight caught in his eyes, making the warm brown hue seem almost golden.

"I-I'm fine," you managed to say, though your voice sounded too light, too forced, even to your own ears. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other before offering a small bow of respect, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Thank you for asking, my prince."

His lips twitched, as though suppressing a deeper smile, and he gave a slight shake of his head, waving a hand dismissively at the formality. "There's no need for that," he said, his tone light.

The words seemed to relax the air between you, and his shoulders loosened as he studied you again. This time, his gaze held no urgency, only a quiet satisfaction as he took in the healthy flush of your cheeks, the steadiness of your stance. "Good." The tension around his eyes eased as his smile softened further.

"You look much better," he murmured, almost to himself, before clearing his throat. "I mean, not that you looked unwell before, but... you know." He trailed off, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You felt a warmth rise to your own cheeks, and you nodded quickly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you for asking, my prince."

He studied you for a moment longer, as though committing the sight of you to memory, before his expression shifted slightly. The softness in his gaze gave way to a more thoughtful look, and he hesitated before speaking again. He shifted his stance, his hands brushing lightly against his tunic as though gathering his thoughts.

"Uhh, I noticed," he began, his voice slower now, deliberate, "at the feast the other night, and... well, even before that." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. "You haven't been playing your lyre. You usually don't go a night without it."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, freezing you in place. Your breath caught sharply, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed. The scroll in your hands felt suddenly heavy, your fingers trembling as your grip tightened.

"I mean," he continued, seemingly unaware of your sudden tension, "you still play beautifully—every instrument you touch, really—but I couldn't help but notice. Your lyre... it always seemed to be your favorite. And now..." He trailed off, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "I just wondered if everything was alright."

You forced yourself to swallow, trying to steady the rising panic clawing at your chest as your mind scrambled for a response.

No one else had noticed—not the queen, not the other servants, not even the musicians you occasionally played with.

You had thought your quiet substitution of instruments had gone unnoticed, a small, insignificant change in the grand scheme of things.

But Telemachus had noticed.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and it only made the lump in your throat grow heavier. How could you explain it? How could you tell him about Andreia, about what had happened?

Only Callias and Andreia herself knew the truth, and you had worked so hard to keep it that way.

The thought of revealing it to him—to anyone—made your stomach twist with unease.

"I..." You hesitated, your voice faltering as you tried to steady your breathing. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and shook your head lightly. "I've been trying something new," you blurted out, the words rushed and awkward. "Different instruments, I mean. I thought it might be... refreshing." You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

For a moment, Telemachus said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You braced yourself, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. But then, to your immense relief, he nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"That makes sense," he said finally, though his voice carried a note of skepticism. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before his lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "You've always been talented. Whatever you play, I'm sure it's worth hearing."

His words sent a strange mix of relief and guilt washing over you, the warmth of his praise clashing with the unease that still churned in your chest.

You nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you," though the words felt hollow in your throat.

"And, ____, if there's ever anything you need... anything at all—you know you can come to me. Right?"

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you nodded quickly, your throat tight with emotion. "Of course, my prince. Thank you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken, before his smile returned, softer now. "Good," he said simply, his tone warm. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Telemachus' smile lingered, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter, warmer, as though the weight of the conversation had been lifted. But deep down, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the truth was closer to surfacing than you were ready for.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet corridor, the world around you fading into the background.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely breaking the quiet between you. Telemachus' head tilted, his brow lifting slightly as his attention sharpened. For a heartbeat, you hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, before the words tumbled out.

"Have you, um—" You faltered, your voice catching for just a moment. "Have you seen any new constellations recently? Or... perhaps something interesting in the stars lately? You know, with the season changing."

Telemachus blinked in surprise at first before his expression shifted immediately, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement that made your chest tighten. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, the words spilling out like he'd been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. His smile grew, softer but no less genuine, as his fingers brushed absently over the hem of his tunic.

"The skies have been stunning this autumn," he began, his tone growing warm with excitement. "Just a few nights ago, I was out watching the heavens, and I caught sight of Lyra—the Harp—hanging low near the horizon. It's faint this time of year, but clear if you know where to look." He paused, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "It... made me think of you."

Your breath hitched, and his cheeks flushed, the faint pink spreading across his nose as he seemed to realize what he'd said. "I—I mean," he stammered, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before flicking back to yours, "it's just—you play the lyre so beautifully, and, well, Lyra always reminds me of music and..." He trailed off, his voice softening, his gaze dropping for a moment as though he needed a second to steady himself.

He cleared his throat, his hands now clasping in front of him, and when he looked back up at you, there was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. "Since my father returned, he's been teaching me tricks about the stars—navigating by them, learning their patterns—things he picked up on his travels." A faint, bashful smile tugged at his lips. "He says I've got a good eye for it."

You couldn't help but smile, the image of Telemachus and Odysseus stargazing together filling your mind. "That sounds wonderful,"

Telemachus' gaze flickered away again, the faint blush deepening on his cheeks as he nodded. "It is. It's... peaceful, being out there under the open sky. Sometimes, it feels like you can hear the stories the stars are trying to tell."

He hesitated, his weight shifting slightly, his hands brushing against his sides as though searching for something to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer, almost unsure. "So, uh, tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," he said, his eyes glancing up at you briefly before darting away again. "It's—it's something to see, really. It lights up the sky like a beacon."

He cleared his throat again, his fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I... was thinking—" He stopped, biting his lip as his gaze darted back to you. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and he stuttered slightly as he continued, "If—if you'd like, you could... join me? To see it, I mean. It's, uh, better with someone else. I think you'd... enjoy it."

Your heart leapt, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The way he looked at you—shy, hopeful, as though his entire world hinged on your answer—made it impossible to refuse.

Your lips parted, the word "I—" barely forming before a voice interrupted the moment.

"Telemachus~" the voice cooed, smooth, and saccharine, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath hitched, the faint warmth that had begun to bloom between you and the prince cooling instantly. Both of you turned toward the source of the interruption, and there she was—Andreia.

Her auburn hair gleamed like polished copper, catching the soft light spilling through the corridor windows, and her practiced smile curved effortlessly across her lips.

She strode toward the two of you with an ease that bordered on regal, her eyes flashing briefly over you before locking onto Telemachus.

"Here you are," she said, her tone light and lilting, as though she'd spent hours searching for him. The way her words flowed, so casual yet so perfectly placed, made your stomach churn.

Andreia's hand brushed lightly against Telemachus' arm, her touch lingering just enough to feel possessive. Her fingers rested there, delicate yet firm, like she had every right to stake her claim. "I was wondering where you'd gone," she added with a soft laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

Telemachus stiffened at first, his shoulders squaring in surprise, the flush still on his cheeks as his gaze darted between you and Andreia. "Oh, uh... Lady Andreia," he greeted, his tone polite but lacking the warmth he'd just shown you.

His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying his awkwardness as his eyes flitted back toward you, only to snap back to Andreia under the weight of her commanding presence.

Andreia's smile widened, a flash of teeth, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about our lunch plans," she teased, her tone playful but carrying an undercurrent of reprimand. "You promised to show me the olive grove today."

The words hung in the air, heavy despite her light delivery. Your grip on the edge of your shawl tightened, your knuckles brushing against the scroll you still held.

Telemachus shifted his weight, his unease evident in the way his eyes flitted briefly to yours before snapping back to Andreia. "Right," he said slowly, his voice faltering as though caught off guard. "The olive grove."

Andreia's hand slid down from his arm but stayed close, her posture angled toward him with practiced grace. "Shall we go?" she asked, her emerald eyes locked on his face, her expression one of expectation.

Your chest tightened at the sight, and for a fleeting moment, you thought Telemachus might turn back to you. His lips parted slightly, his gaze turning to linger on you just long enough for something to flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an apology he couldn't voice.

Andreia's attention, however, was unrelenting. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment as she followed his gaze, her expression cooling when her eyes landed on you. "Oh..." she drawled, her head tilting slightly, the tone of her voice dripping with feigned surprise. "You're ____, yes?"

You straightened instinctively, willing your voice to remain steady. "Y-Yes, Lady An—"

Andreia didn't let you finish. She turned back to Telemachus, her gaze softening as though you weren't even there. "Oh," she said lightly, her voice airy, "am I interrupting something, Telemachus?" The question was directed at Telemachus, her tone sweet but pointed, her wide eyes locked on his face.

Telemachus' face remained carefully neutral, his features set in a mask of calm that he had learned to wear during courtly interactions. But beneath the surface, his mind churned.

He was acutely aware of how close Andreia stood now, the scent of her floral perfume faint but distinct in the chill air. The warmth he had felt only moments ago, while speaking with you, had all but drained away.

His eyes darted toward you again, lingering for a fraction longer than was prudent. You stood stiffly, the scroll in your hands held tightly against your chest, your gaze lowered.

There was something almost imperceptible in your posture—disappointment, perhaps? Hurt? The thought made his stomach twist, though he quickly shoved it aside.

He couldn't afford to focus on that, not now.

"No—no, you're not interrupting," he stammered, his tone caught between reassurance and discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and gestured vaguely toward you. "We were just finishing up."

Andreia's smile returned, brighter than ever, the edges curling with satisfaction as though she had won a quiet battle. She stepped closer to Telemachus; her fingers grazed the edge of his tunic, an almost imperceptible gesture that felt calculated, meant to be seen but subtle enough to be dismissed as casual. "Good," she said with a soft laugh, her emerald eyes glinting as they met his. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from anything... important." Her words hung in the air, carrying a subtle challenge that wasn't lost to you.

Telemachus swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly as he resisted the urge to glance at you again.

He knew how this moment looked, how it felt, and it gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But he also knew his duty, the expectations that came with his station.

Andreia wasn't just a princess—she was a potential alliance, a symbol of unity between Ithaca and her own kingdom. To dismiss her or show favoritism toward someone else, no matter how innocent the context, would be unwise.

"Of course not," he replied, his tone even, though his chest felt heavy. He offered a small, polite nod, one that he hoped would convey the right amount of respect and deference. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her smile softening as though his words had pleased her. She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair back from her face, the motion deliberate yet graceful. "You're always so considerate, Machus," she said, her voice light and teasing; her gaze flickered briefly to you again, as though gauging your reaction, before returning to him.

Telemachus felt his pulse quicken, his discomfort growing. He hated how easily Andreia commanded the conversation, how her presence seemed to overshadow everything else in the moment.

But he hated more that he couldn't bring himself to break away, to say what he truly wanted. His role as prince demanded restraint, diplomacy, and sacrifice.

And so, he buried the flicker of guilt that had sparked when he'd seen the look in your eyes.

You shuffled your feet, the use of the nickname "Machus" feeling like an invisible weight pressing against your chest, the easy familiarity of it jarring in its intimacy.

How comfortable she was using it—and worse, how Telemachus neither stopped her nor corrected her—made the moment heavier, more painful than you cared to admit.

You knew better than to take it personally; you knew the realities of his station and the delicate politics at play, but that knowledge didn't dull the ache.

Your throat tightened, and you softly cleared it, drawing their attention briefly. You dipped into a polite curtsy, your voice steady though quieter than usual. "If you'll excuse me, my prince, my lady," you said, keeping your gaze lowered as you took a step back. "I'll...I'll take my leave now."

Telemachus' eyes flicked toward you, his lips parting as if he might say something, but the words never came.

Andreia giggled softly, leaning closer to him as though you had already gone, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Oh, Machus," she said, blinking up at him with a coy smile. "I almost forgot—one of Bronte's navigators mentioned that Venus will be at her brightest tomorrow night. Isn't that perfect? We should watch it together."

Her tone was light and airy, but there was an undercurrent of possession in her words that wasn't lost on you as you turned to leave. The sound of her laughter, soft and musical, lingered behind you as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn't glance back, though your heart clenched at the thought of what you might see if you did.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor, your steps deliberate yet distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind you broke the rhythm of your retreat. Before you could react, a warm hand wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your escape.

"Wait," Telemachus' voice came, low but rushed, tinged with urgency. You turned halfway, your heart skipping at the sight of him. His face was flushed, his breath slightly uneven as though he'd chased after you without thinking.

"What are you—?" you began, but he shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Please," he said, his tone softer now, imploring. His gaze darted briefly over his shoulder, and you caught sight of Andreia still standing in the corridor.

She was a distance away, her posture poised, though her expression was unreadable. She waited, her presence a looming reminder that you didn't belong in the same orbit as her.

Telemachus turned back to you, his brow furrowed, his words coming in a rush as if trying to explain something too complex for the time he had. "I know how this must look—how she must seem—but you have to understand, this isn't—I-I didn't mean for you to think... I just—" He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated with himself as he glanced back toward Andreia again, and he looked back at you. "This isn't what it looks like."

Your chest tightened, and you pulled your wrist gently out of his grasp, stepping back to create some distance. "You don't have to explain anything," you said softly, your voice measured, though you felt anything but calm. "I understand."

His eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. "You... do?" he asked, his tone unsure, as though he didn't believe you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if afraid Andreia would hear. "I just mean... Andreia is a princess and she's here because... because of alliances. It's all political, so I have to entertain her. I—" He stumbled over his words, his frustration evident. "It doesn't mean anything."

The words were like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through your mind in ways you couldn't fully grasp. It doesn't mean anything. Then why did it feel like it meant everything?

You tilted your head, searching his face for clarity, but all you saw was a young man caught between two worlds—one of duty and one of desire. His expression softened as his eyes met yours again, his voice gentler now. "I just... I want you to understand, that this isn't real," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to do this—for Ithaca, for my father. For everyone. But it's temporary." His explanation was clumsy, the words jumbled as though he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I just... I didn't want you to think that this, that she..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some sign that you believed him. "You see that... don't you?"

You wanted to, desperately. But the words felt hollow, his explanation thin. Temporary or not, Andreia was a princess, and you were... you. Someone who could be excused without a second thought, whose place in this palace was dictated by servitude, not status.

Besides, part of you couldn't ignore the lingering ache in your chest. His words didn't erase the sight of Andreia's easy closeness or the way he hadn't corrected her use of the nickname.

You forced yourself to nod, the movement stiff and mechanical. "I see," you murmured, though your heart felt like it was splintering with each syllable.

Relief washed over his features, his grip on your wrist finally loosening. "Good," he said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted. "I just didn't want you to think—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't want to lose your trust."

You nodded again, a small, tight smile finding its way to your lips. "Of course, my prince," you said, the formality slipping out before you could stop it. "I understand."

The formality of your words made him flinch slightly, but before he could say anything else, you curtsied quickly and turned to leave.

This time, he didn't stop you.

As you walked away, your heart felt heavier than before, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. You couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just crossed some invisible line, that something between you had shifted in a way that couldn't be undone.

Meanwhile, Telemachus remained where you'd left him, a heavy sigh escaping him, watching your retreating figure with a conflicted expression. He rubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts spinning in disarray.

He'd thought you understood—hadn't you just said so? He didn't know why the moment still felt so unfinished, why his chest felt tight with an unease he couldn't shake.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he glanced back toward Andreia, who was waiting for him with a curious tilt of her head.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to push it aside.

You understood, he told himself. You knew his actions were only temporary, a necessary pretense, and that was enough.

Or so he thought.

.☆.
        .✩.
                .☆.

You barely made it a few steps down the corridor before the tears began to blur your vision. They welled up hot and fast, threatening to spill over no matter how tightly you bit your lip to keep the sobs at bay.

You kept your head down, focusing on the stone floor beneath your feet as you tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat refused to ease. Each step felt heavier than the last, and no matter how much you told yourself to stay calm, the pressure inside you grew with every passing second.

By the time you rounded the corner, the tears had started to fall, hot and unbidden, streaking down your cheeks. You swiped at them angrily, as though erasing them would somehow make the ache in your chest go away.

Another sob tried to claw its way out, but you bit it back harder, a metallic taste filling your mouth as you forced yourself to stay quiet.

You're so foolish, you thought bitterly, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. You don't have any claim over him. He's a prince, and you're... Your chest heaved as you drew in a shaky breath, your steps faltering as the realization settled deeper into your mind. You're a servant. You have no right to feel this way.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn't ignore the way your heart clung to the moments you shared with him—the stolen smiles, the quiet conversations, the way his eyes seemed to soften whenever they met yours.

Were they just illusions? Things you'd foolishly read too much into?

Just as you turned another corner, lost in your thoughts, you collided with something—or someone. The force knocked the breath out of you, and you stumbled back slightly, the scroll slipping from your hands as you let out a startled gasp.

"I'm sorry!" you blurted out, your voice trembling as you hastily bent to retrieve the scroll. Your fingers fumbled clumsily as you wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that still streaked your cheeks. "I-I wasn't looking where I was going, I—"

A low, warm chuckle cut through your hurried apology, freezing you in place. The sound was rich and teasing, carrying a lilt of amusement that made your heart skip a beat.

"Why," the voice drawled, smooth and playful, "do I always seem to catch you at the worst moments?"

Your breath caught, and you slowly looked up, blinking away the last of your tears. The figure before you came into focus, and your eyes widened in recognition.

Hermes stood before you, his divine presence striking against the mundane backdrop of the palace corridor.

His tousled curls caught the dim light, the faint shimmer of his form almost too vibrant for the simple stone walls surrounding him. His scarlet cloak draped effortlessly over one shoulder, and the faint flutter of the wings on his sandals sent a soft breeze brushing against your skin.

He looked every bit the god he was, radiant and untouchable, yet somehow entirely at ease.

You stared, momentarily frozen by the contrast of his divine radiance in this otherwise quiet corner of Ithaca's halls. His head tilted slightly, a grin tugging at his lips as he observed your stunned silence.

Then, raising a hand, he lightly tapped a finger against your forehead, the motion playful yet deliberate. "Anyone home?" he asked, the amusement in his voice pulling you out of your daze.

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you realized you'd been gaping. "H-Hermes, I—I'm sorry," you stammered, taking a step back, gripping the scroll tightly against your chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, clearly not," he said with a grin, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. "Though I must admit, bumping into you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."

You frowned slightly, glancing down at the floor. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't paying attention."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with a look that was equal parts curious and amused. "Apologies, apologies," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You mortals are always so quick to blame yourselves. Tell me, little musician, what's got you so distracted this time? Or should I guess?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren't sure what to say—how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside you without sounding utterly ridiculous.

A part of you wanted to open up, to let him know everything, but another part held you back, unsure of how much a god could—or would—understand.

Hermes, however, seemed content to wait, his gaze steady, his golden eyes filled with a quiet patience that felt strangely comforting. Still, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought him down to Ithaca this time, and why, of all places, he'd found you here in such a state.

"I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your grip on the scroll tightened, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice barely steady. Clearing your throat, you glanced at Hermes, forcing a small, uncertain smile. "What brings you down here? Are you here to deliver another message?" you asked, your voice wavering between curiosity and hesitation.

Hermes waved a dismissive hand, his expression light and amused. "Nah, no messages this time," he said, leaning casually against the wall. "I was bored. Thought I'd drop in on my grandson-in-law, Laertes. You know, see how the old man's doing. Deliever a message for my granddaughter Anticleia and all that."

For a moment, your mind froze, his words not fully registering. "Your... grandson?" you repeated, blinking up at him in confusion.

Hermes chuckled, bending slightly to meet your gaze, his head tilting in mock curiosity. "What's the matter? Didn't you know Odysseus is a descendant of mine?" His teasing tone and the glint in his golden eyes sent a ripple of warmth to your cheeks.

The faintest memory stirred in the back of your mind—Penelope mentioning the royal lineage, the gods woven into their family tree—but you hadn't thought much of it at the time. The knowledge had slipped away, buried beneath the weight of your daily tasks.

"I... think I heard that before," you admitted softly, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall the details. "But I guess I didn't really connect the dots."

"Figures," Hermes said with a laugh, straightening up and gesturing grandly to himself. "It's why Odysseus is so clever, you know. Gets it from me. Same with Telemachus, to some degree—though he's still figuring it out." He shot you a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're lucky, by the way. Not everyone gets such a close-up view of divine legacy in action."

Your mind finally caught up, a single word from earlier sticking out in your thoughts. "Anticleia," you murmured, hesitant yet certain. "Isn't she...?" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. "Dead? In the Underworld?" he finished for you, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Good ear, little musician." He tapped the side of his head playfully. "I do sometimes stop by to deliver messages for her. She's one of my favorites, you know. Sweet woman. Always appreciated my visits." A fond smile softened his face for a moment before he glanced back at you.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you interested in going?"

The question caught you off guard, and your breath hitched. "G-Go to the Underworld?" you stammered, blinking at him in confusion. The idea sounded absurd—terrifying, even.

Hermes let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing lightly through the corridor. "Not permanently, little one. I meant for a visit! Think of it as a 'bring a mortal to work' day." He winked, the boyish charm in his expression making the suggestion sound almost enticing. "I'm due to deliver a message to Anticleia from Laertes anyway. You could come along—get a glimpse of something most mortals only dream about."

You hesitated, the weight of the offer settling over you. The thought of traveling to the Underworld was daunting, to say the least, but a part of you was intrigued.

If you declined, you'd only be left alone with your swirling thoughts of Telemachus and Andreia, so perhaps this unexpected detour was just the distraction you needed.

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded slowly. "Alright," you said, your voice soft but resolute. "I'll go."

Hermes' grin widened, his excitement almost contagious. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, little musician, and you'll have quite the story to tell." He extended his hand toward you, his long fingers steady and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at his hand. It was unlike yours—smooth, unblemished, and seemingly untouched by the trials of the mortal world.

When your hand finally met his, you were struck by the warmth of his palm and the lightness of his touch. His fingers closed gently around yours, cradling your calloused hand with an unexpected tenderness, as though you were something fragile.

The contrast was stark, your roughened skin a reminder of the countless hours spent working and playing music, his touch soft and divine.

"There we go," Hermes said, his tone playful yet reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." His golden eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath them—a quiet promise of safety. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, his warmth enveloping you as he bent his head down, his breath brushing against your ear. The soft rush of air sent a shiver cascading down your spine, your skin prickling in response.

"The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying an intimate thrill that made your heart race. His breath was warm, each word laced with an excitement you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.

Just as you thought you might ask a question, he pulled back slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. "You're going to love this," he said with a happy chuckle, his tone shifting to one of boyish enthusiasm.

Before you could respond, Hermes stepped backward, tugging you with him. The shadows seemed to ripple and twist as he moved, pulling you effortlessly into their depths.

And then, you were gone.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You felt weightless yet grounded, like being suspended in a void where gravity had no say. The air, or lack thereof, pressed against your skin, cool and dense, as though it wanted to seep into your pores.

Your body felt untethered, disoriented, as if the world had folded itself inside out.

Everything was dark—so dark that you couldn't even see the outline of your own hand. There was no sound, no wind, no sensation of movement—only the overwhelming stillness that pressed in from every direction.

A low chuckle brushed past your ear, the sound warm and teasing. "It's safe to open your eyes, little musician..."

The voice jolted you, and for a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you wanted to see what lay beyond this suffocating darkness. Slowly, you creaked your eyes open, half expecting the void to remain.

At first, there was nothing but inky blackness, but gradually, faint shapes began to emerge. The outlines of towering, jagged stone arches loomed overhead, their surfaces shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow.

The ground beneath your feet was cold and rough, uneven with patches of smooth obsidian-like rock that reflected dim light.

You inhaled sharply. The air tasted heavy, like iron and ash, and it clung to your throat, making it harder to breathe. A strange stillness blanketed the area, the kind that made every sound feel intrusive.

Hermes' voice broke the silence again, light and conversational as though he were simply giving a tour. "Welcome to the gate of the Underworld," he said, gesturing broadly with his arm. "Lovely, isn't it? Hades certainly has a flair for drama."

You turned to face him, your movements sluggish as if the air itself were resisting. He stood just a few steps ahead, his crimson cloak flowing unnaturally, untouched by any wind. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, his expression a mix of amusement and intrigue.

"Where...?" you began, your voice cracking as you took in your surroundings.

Hermes grinned, clearly enjoying your reaction. "We're right on the threshold between worlds. See that?" He turned you gently by the shoulders, pointing behind you.

You followed his gesture, your breath catching in your throat. A narrow tunnel stretched far into the distance, its rough, dark walls illuminated by a faint golden light at its end. The glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat, steady and warm.

"That," Hermes said, his tone dropping into something almost reverent, "is the mortal realm. A cozy little exit for souls who've earned their place back among the living... or for visitors like us to remember where we came from."

Your gaze lingered on the light, the warmth of it stirring an ache deep in your chest. It felt distant, unreachable, and yet part of you longed to step toward it, to bask in its glow.

"But," Hermes continued, stepping in front of you and blocking your view, "we're not here to dwell on that, are we?" He gestured toward the opposite direction, where the tunnel opened into an expansive void. "There's much more to see."

As your eyes adjusted to the dimness, you noticed movement in the distance. A vast river stretched out before you, its surface dark and sluggish, like molten ink. Thick mist curled over the water, obscuring parts of it from view.

And then... you saw him.

A hunched figure stood atop a small, rickety ferry in the middle of the river. His silhouette was skeletal, his robe tattered and blending with the shadows. Even from a distance, you could see how still he was, his hooded head tilted in your direction.

It felt like he was staring at you.

A chill ran down your spine, and you took an involuntary step closer to Hermes. The ferryman's presence was oppressive, his stillness more unnerving than any movement could have been.

"Who... who is that?" you whispered, unable to tear your gaze away.

Hermes followed your line of sight, his golden eyes narrowing briefly before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Ah, Charon?" he said, his tone casual, as if speaking of an old acquaintance. "The ferryman of the dead. Bit of a grump, but reliable as they come. He's not much for conversation, but he gets the job done."

Your gaze lingered on the figure, still as stone, his shadowy form blending with the swirling mists over the river. The hollowed hood of his robe made it impossible to see his face, but you swore you felt his attention settle on you, sharp and unyielding. It felt like the chill of winter air slicing through your skin.

You shivered, clutching your arms instinctively. "Do we... have to use the boat?"

Hermes turned to you, his grin widening mischievously as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What? And miss the chance to see Charon in all his gloomy glory?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Just kidding. Of course not. We have a VIP pass, remember?"

Your brows furrowed. "VIP pass? What's tha—"

Before you could finish, Hermes swooped down and picked you up, his arms curling securely under your legs and back. "Hold on tight, little musician!" he warned, his golden eyes sparkling with glee.

"Wait, what are you—AHH!" Your protest turned into a screech as Hermes kicked off the ground, the wings on his sandals beating furiously as you shot into the air.

Your screams echoed through the void as wind whipped past you, cold and sharp against your skin, while Hermes' laughter rang out like a bell.

You clung to him tighter, your heart pounding as you soared higher, the world beneath you shrinking into a dark, endless abyss. The river stretched below like a yawning chasm, its surface rippling with faint, ghostly lights.

The air was thick and cool, carrying faint echoes—mournful whispers that sent shivers racing down your spine.

You forced your gaze downward, the landscape shifting beneath you, dark and mythical. Jagged rocks jutted out like broken teeth, and faint, flickering spectral lights danced in the shadows, their movements slow and deliberate, like they were watching.

In the distance, you caught glimpses of strange, dreamlike objects—fragments of clocks, shattered mirrors, and what looked like broken chairs floating just above the river's surface. They swayed gently, as if tethered to invisible strings, their presence a haunting reminder of the lives left behind.

Hermes dipped lower, hovering just above the river. The mist curled around his feet and yours, tendrils of it reaching upward as if trying to pull you in. Shadows moved beneath the surface, amorphous and massive, their outlines distorted yet undeniably real.

"W-What... what's in the water?" you stammered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rushing wind.

"Regrets," Hermes replied simply, his tone uncharacteristically sober. "Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

You stared down at the dark waters, your breath hitching as one of the shadows slithered closer to the surface before disappearing again.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Hermes teased, though his voice held a faint edge.

"Not the word I'd use," you muttered, clutching him tighter.

With a laugh, Hermes straightened his course, carrying you past the mist and the river until solid ground reappeared beneath you. He landed lightly, setting you down as though the flight had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll.

You stumbled, your legs shaky, and glared at him. "Warn me next time!" you hissed, the words escaping without thought.

"But where's the fun in that?" Hermes shot back, his grin wide and unapologetic. "Now, come along. The tour's just begun."

You hesitated, glancing back toward the river, its surface still rippling with faint light and shadow. The figure of Charon remained in the distance, unmoving, as though waiting for his next passenger.

Hermes gestured ahead, his crimson cloak sweeping dramatically. "Welcome to the Underworld," he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair. "Allow me to show you the highlights."

You followed him warily, your senses on high alert as the landscape unfolded around you. The darkness seemed to ebb and flow, shifting like a living thing, revealing glimpses of otherworldly sights that made your breath catch in your throat.

To your left, faint golden light shimmered through the murky air, illuminating a distant expanse of rolling fields.

They stretched endlessly, dotted with trees whose leaves sparkled as if dusted with starlight. Figures wandered through the fields, their movements slow and deliberate, their forms bathed in the gentle glow of the light.

Hermes stopped, gesturing grandly toward the scene. "Behold," he said, his tone lighter but tinged with something softer, "Elysium. The final reward for the virtuous, the brave, the wise. Heroes and poets, philosophers and dreamers... they all find their peace here."

You squinted, trying to make out the figures in the distance. Their faces were too far away to discern, but something about their serene movements tugged at your heart. The fields themselves seemed alive, the golden grass swaying as though in time with an unheard melody.

"It's beautiful."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically calm. "It is," he said simply, his voice quieter.

You stared a moment longer, drawn to the sense of peace that radiated from the fields. But before you could ask more, Hermes suddenly grabbed your wrist. "C'mon. Let's check it out. I mean, when are you going to get a chance like this again?"

You hesitated, your wide eyes flitting toward the fields. "I-I don't think I—"

"No time for hesitation, little musician," Hermes interrupted, tugging you forward. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief as he added in a teasing tone, "Besides, you're with me. I've got pull."

You stumbled slightly as he led you closer, your heart pounding as the golden light grew brighter, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The air in Elysium felt different—lighter, sweeter.

Each breath you took was tinged with a faint floral scent, and the gentle rustling of the grass seemed to hum with a quiet, melodic rhythm.

As you walked, your gaze was drawn to the figures in the distance. They moved gracefully, their forms glowing faintly under the golden light. Some sat beneath the sparkling trees, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, while others walked hand in hand, their expressions peaceful and content.

Your steps faltered as you caught sight of a small gathering near one of the larger trees. Among them was a figure that stood out—a tall man with a proud posture, his golden hair catching the light like a flame. His armor gleamed as though freshly polished, and the faintest smile played on his lips as he spoke with the others.

Your breath hitched, your voice trembling as you whispered, "Is... is that Achilles?"

Hermes chuckled softly, following your gaze. "The one and only," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Not a bad spot for a legendary hero to spend eternity, huh?"

You couldn't tear your eyes away, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. The realization that you were standing in the same realm as figures who had lived and died in stories you'd only ever heard whispered around fires left you speechless.

"I can't believe it," you murmured, more to yourself than to Hermes.

"Believe it," he said, giving your wrist a gentle squeeze before tugging you forward again. "But don't stare too long. The last thing I need is for you to get starstruck and embarrass me in front of the legends."

A small laugh escaped you despite the overwhelming awe still coursing through your veins. "I thought gods didn't get embarrassed."

"Only when mortals make it impossible not to," he quipped, his smirk returning as he guided you further along the edge of the fields.

The golden light of Elysium began to fade behind you, replaced by the harsher tones of the Underworld's other regions. The smooth, glowing stones beneath your feet gave way to uneven, jagged terrain, and the air grew warmer, heavier, and thick with a faint, acrid smell that stung your nose.

Ahead, a deep chasm split the ground, its jagged edges glowing with an orange-red light that pulsed like the slow, rhythmic beat of a heart. From its depths came faint, echoing screams—high-pitched and mournful, carried on a hot, unnatural wind.

You stopped in your tracks, your stomach twisting at the sight. "What... what is that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hermes glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he stepped closer, his arm curling around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly into the air.

"Hold tight," he murmured, his tone softer now.

You clung to him instinctively as he hovered near the edge of the chasm. The heat rising from below was stifling, and the glow of the firelight cast eerie shadows on his face.

"That," Hermes said, his voice low, "is Tartarus. A place for the worst of the worst—traitors, tyrants, those who defied the gods. And, of course, the Titans." His golden eyes flicked down toward the chasm, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Think of it as the parallel to Elysium... but not the good kind."

You shuddered, staring into the depths. The screams grew louder, mingling with the crackle of unseen flames and the faint sound of chains rattling. Shadowy figures writhed far below, their forms indistinct but their agony palpable.

Hermes' expression softened, and he lowered you gently back to the ground, his arm lingering for a moment as though to steady you. "Not a place you'd want to visit," he added lightly, his smirk returning.

You turned to look at him, your voice hesitant. "Do you... go down there often?"

His gaze lingered on the chasm for a moment longer before he shrugged. "When I have to"" he said, his tone casual but with a weight beneath it. "Sometimes I'm the one escorting souls who've earned their place there. Other times..." He trailed off, his smirk faltering. "Let's just say... it's not my favorite part of the job."

You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting back to the chasm. "It's horrible," you murmured.

Hermes nodded as he began flying away, his expression solemn. "It is. But it's necessary."

As the chasm faded into the distance, the air around you seemed to shift again, growing lighter and cooler. Hermes' tone brightened, his playful grin returning as he gestured toward the winding paths ahead.

"Of course, my duties aren't all doom and gloom," he said, his voice taking on a mischievous lilt. "I'm not just a glorified escort, you know. I deliver messages between the gods and Hades, mediate the occasional argument among the dead, and keep this whole place running smoothly."

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Did you just say, 'argument among the dead' as in arguing souls?"

Hermes chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, you'd be surprised. Some people don't let go of grudges, even in death. Sometimes it's a stolen goat. Other times, it's an epic feud spanning generations. Keeps things interesting down here."

You couldn't help but smile faintly, his lightheartedness cutting through the heaviness of the journey.

"Then there are the gods," he continued, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Hades can be a bit... particular, but he's nothing compared to some of the others. You should hear Demeter's complaints about Persephone being here half the year."

He chuckled to himself, his voice carrying through the still air like the faintest echo. "Honestly, if I had a drachma for every time she's accused Hades of keeping her daughter longer than he should... " He glanced over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well, let's just say I'd be richer than Apollo."

You smiled faintly, though your mind was still trying to process the enormity of everything around you. The shifting landscapes of the Underworld had left you in awe and unease, the weight of the souls and their endless journeys pressing down like an unseen force.

Hermes slowed his pace, his golden eyes scanning the horizon as the terrain began to shift again. The jagged rocks and harsh glow of Tartarus faded into the background, replaced by a muted grey expanse. The ground grew softer, coated in a fine layer of ash-like dust that swirled faintly with each step.

The air grew heavier, cool and damp; the faint sound of whispers brushing against your ears, though you couldn't make out any words.

"This," Hermes said, his voice softer now, "is the Asphodel Fields."

Your breath hitched as the scene unfolded before you. An endless plain stretched as far as your eyes could see,  its surface a monotone sea of grey and silver. Low-lying mists clung to the ground, weaving through the field like restless spirits.

The souls of the dead wandered aimlessly, their forms translucent and faintly glowing. They drifted through the haze, their movements slow and mechanical, like they were caught in a dream they could neither leave nor wake from.

Their faces were devoid of expressions, betraying no emotion—neither joy nor sorrow—only a blank, unending neutrality, their steps light as though they floated just above the ground.

"These are the ones who led ordinary lives," Hermes explained, his tone carrying a rare note of reverence. "Neither wicked enough for Tartarus nor virtuous enough for Elysium. They exist here in... well, let's call it neutral peace."

You stared, the weight of the sight pressing against your chest. The souls didn't seem to notice you or Hermes. They floated past like shadows, silent and disconnected, their figures blurring slightly as they moved through the thick, misty air; each lost in their own timeless wandering.

"It's seems kind of..." You searched for the right word, your voice trailing off as you watched a soul pause mid-step before resuming its slow journey. "Lonely."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically somber. "It can be. But not everyone here sees it that way." He gestured toward a small cluster of souls in the distance, their movements slower, more deliberate.

Through the mist, you caught faint glimpses of them. They stood closer together than the others, their translucent forms almost touching. One figure reached out, its hand brushing against the faint outline of another. Though no words were spoken, their presence beside one another seemed less aimless, almost comforting.

"Some find solace in the stillness. For others... well, they just fade."

Your stomach churned at his words. "Fade?"

Hermes glanced at you, his lips twitching into a faint, sad smile. "When they forget themselves. Memories blur, identities unravel. Without purpose or remembrance, what's left to keep them tethered?"

A shiver ran down your spine as your eyes were drawn to a nearby soul drifting past within arm's reach. It was a woman, her movements slow and deliberate. Her face was faint, almost featureless, and her translucent form shimmered weakly, as though she were barely holding onto her shape.

She paused for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if sensing your presence. A faint chill brushed against your skin, and you swore you heard the barest hint of a sigh before she continued on her way.

"Does she..." Your voice faltered as you glanced at Hermes. "Does she know we're here?"

"Maybe," he said with a shrug, though his gaze lingered on the soul. "Or maybe she's just remembering something that feels like us. Hard to tell in this place."

As you walked, Hermes occasionally gestured to things in the distance—an ancient tree with gnarled, leafless branches standing alone in the field, its roots half-buried in the ashen ground; a crumbled, forgotten structure with faint carvings etched into its stone, eroded by time.

"That used to be something important," Hermes mused as he pointed to the ruins. "A shrine, maybe. Hard to say now. Even here, traditions fade."

You nodded silently, your eyes tracing the outlines of the structure. The carvings were barely legible, but they seemed to tell a story—fragments of lives long gone.

At one point, Hermes stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on a small patch of flowers growing near the base of a mound. The flowers were pale and delicate, their petals faintly luminescent, as if they glowed from within.

"Ghost blooms," Hermes said, crouching down to pluck one gently. He held it up, the petals trembling slightly in his grasp. "They only grow where a soul's memory was strong enough to leave something behind."

You reached out hesitantly, brushing your fingers against the flower. It was cool to the touch, its glow dimming slightly under your skin. "It's beautiful," you whispered.

Hermes nodded, standing and letting the flower drift to the ground. "A reminder," he said, his voice softer now. After a moment, he stepped forward, his cloak sweeping across the dusty ground as he strolled ahead.

You followed him hesitantly, your steps slow and uncertain. The field stretched on endlessly, the grey expanse blending seamlessly with the horizon. The air felt heavier here, the silence oppressive, broken only by the faint whispers of the wandering souls.

Hermes came to a stop in the middle of the field, his golden eyes softening as he turned to you. "This is where I leave you for a bit," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You frowned, glancing around the empty expanse. "What do you mean?"

His lips curled into a faint smile, and he gestured gently ahead. "Walk," he said simply, his tone holding a strange mixture of encouragement and mystery.

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you looked at him questioningly. But his smile remained steady, and after a moment, you took a slow step forward.

The ground beneath your feet crunched softly, the ash-like dust stirring with every step. The air felt cooler now, the faint whispers growing quieter, almost expectant.

And then, you saw them.

Two figures emerged from the mist, their forms faint and glowing like the other souls. But as they drew closer, their features sharpened, becoming more defined, more familiar. Your breath caught in your throat, and you froze, your heart hammering in your chest.

The man stepped forward first, his broad shoulders and gentle smile exactly as you remembered. His blond hair, slightly disheveled, caught the faint glow of the mist, framing his strong yet kind face. His brown eyes, warm and full of love, locked onto yours, shimmering with a mixture of disbelief and joy.

Beside him, the woman followed, her movements graceful and full of purpose. Her dark hair was swept back in a familiar, simple style, the faintest glow catching the curve of her cheekbones. Her sepia skin radiated a warmth that felt like home, and her eyes—wide, filled with tears—were fixed on you as though you were the most precious thing in existence.

A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Mother?... Father?"

Your mother gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears streamed freely down her face. "My sweet dove," she choked out, her voice trembling.

She rushed forward, her arms wrapping tightly around you, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. Her touch, warm and firm, enveloped you like a shield against the weight of everything you'd endured.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered, her hands cupping your face as she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her thumbs brushed against your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn't realized were falling.

Your father joined her, his strong arms pulling you into his chest. He buried his face into your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to the crown of your head. "My little one," he murmured, his voice breaking with every word. "You've grown so much. Look at you... so strong, so brave."

You clung to both of them, your fingers digging into their clothes, as though letting go might make them disappear. The sensation of their presence—the warmth, the familiarity—was overwhelming, and you couldn't stop the tears that fell freely now.

"How..." Your voice trembled, barely a whisper as you tried to make sense of the impossible. "How are you here? How is this real?"

They pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face, their hands never leaving your arms as if they too were afraid you might vanish.

Your mother's lips quivered as she gazed at you, her tears falling even as she smiled. "We've missed you so much," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Every single day, we've thought of you, prayed for you."

Your father nodded, his own tears glistening as he cupped the back of your head. "We've watched over you, little one. And now... now, we can finally hold you again."

The weight of their words hit you like a tidal wave, and memories you had tried to bury came flooding back. The way they had laughed with you, taught you, held you in the moments when the world felt too big. And then, the sickness. The quiet moments by their bedside, the laurel wreath clutched tightly in your hands as you prayed for a miracle.

"B-But..." you stammered, your voice cracking as flashes of those final days pierced through the haze of joy. "You were... you were gone. I held the laurel, but I couldn't... I couldn't save you."

Your mother's expression softened, and she pulled you into another embrace, her arms wrapping around you tightly. "Shh, love," she murmured, her hand stroking your hair as she held you close. "It wasn't your fault. We were ready to let go, knowing you'd be safe."

Your father's hand rested gently on your back, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of your swirling emotions. "We were never afraid for you," he said softly, his words laden with both sorrow and relief. "Not even at the end. We knew... we knew Apollo would protect you."

The mention of Apollo made you pull back slightly, your brows knitting together in confusion. "Apollo would protect me?" you repeated, your voice laced with uncertainty. "I don't understand. Why would Apollo protect me?"

Your parents exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting into something softer, almost hesitant.

Your mother spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Love... don't you remember?"

You shook your head, the motion slow and uncertain. "Remember what?"

Her eyes searched yours, her lips parting as she whispered, "You're favored by Apollo."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The words hung heavy in the air, sinking deep into your chest and rooting you to the spot. You stared at her, unblinking, as if the weight of her revelation had turned you to stone. It was as though the world had slowed around you, the faint whispers of the Asphodel Fields fading into nothingness.

Your mother's voice repeated in your mind, intertwining with your racing thoughts. Favored by Apollo. The phrase echoed like a distant melody, stirring memories you'd long tucked away.

The laurel wreath came to the forefront of your mind—its golden leaves, the faint glow that had always seemed comforting, warm, yet... otherworldly. How it had always felt like more than just a wreath, something alive with an inexplicable power.

Flickers of memories surfaced, sharper now: moments where you felt protected, inexplicably safe, as if unseen hands had guided you or a watchful presence had intervened.

The thought that it could have been Apollo's doing, that a god—a god—had chosen you for reasons beyond your understanding—left your heart pounding. Questions swirled uncontrollably in your mind. Why me? When? How could I have missed something so profound?

"I... I don't understand." Your voice cracked under the weight of your confusion. Your hands twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching as you searched for something to anchor yourself.

Before you could say more, a low, teasing voice interrupted, slicing through your spiraling thoughts like a blade. "Time's up, little musician~"

You jumped, letting out a startled gasp as your heart leapt into your throat. Spinning around, you found Hermes standing there, leaning casually on his staff, his golden eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and impatience. His sudden appearance felt jarring, as if he'd materialized out of the very air itself.

"Gods!" you exclaimed, stumbling back a step. Your hand flew to your chest as if to still your frantic heartbeat. "Do you always have to pop out of nowhere?"

Hermes smirked, tilting his head as though appraising your reaction. "It's part of my charm," he said lightly, twirling his staff as he took a step closer. "But no time for chit-chat. We've got places to be."

His words reminded you of your parents, and you whipped back around, your breath hitching. "Mother, Father, what did you—"

Your sentence hung unfinished as Hermes reached out, his hands gripping your shoulders with a firm yet gentle pressure. "Ah-ah, no time for that," he said, his voice sing-song. With a small nudge, he began steering you away from the figures of your parents. "We still have much to do."

"No—wait!" you protested, trying to turn back toward them. Your heart ached as their voices called after you, each word weaving love and urgency into the air.

"Remember, my sweet dove," your mother's voice trembled, tears streaking her glowing face. "We love you. We always have. Always will."

"Never forget it," your father added, his warm eyes glistening with unshed tears. "No matter where you go or what you face, you are not alone."

The weight of their words settled heavily over you, and despite Hermes' guiding hands, your gaze lingered on them as long as possible. Their figures began to blur in the mist, their outlines faint and ghostly as you were pulled further away.

"I love you," you choked out, your voice trembling. "I'll never forget. I promise."

But they were already gone, their glowing forms swallowed by the haze. You couldn't stop the wave of helplessness that washed over you, the questions in your mind growing heavier. What did they mean? Why did Apollo favor me? What am I supposed to do with this?

You glanced over your shoulder, your parents' words replaying in your mind, but the mist of the Asphodel Fields only stared back. Their forms, once so vivid and warm, now felt like a dream slowly slipping away. The chill of the Underworld seeped deeper into your skin, but it was the ache in your chest that weighed heaviest.

All you could do was follow Hermes, his tuneful humming weaving through the oppressive silence like a thread of light. He swung his staff lazily with each step, as though the two of you were simply taking a casual stroll through a garden rather than traversing the realm of the dead.

☆

☆

You walked in silence, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you with every step. The two of you had just left Anticleia—Odysseus' mother—and delivered Laertes' message. The encounter had been brief, her ghostly form flickering with both pride and sorrow as she spoke of the family she had left behind.

Though Hermes handled the interaction with his usual blend of charm and efficiency, her words still lingered in your mind, mingling with your parents' farewell and the revelation that Apollo had favored you.

Why me? The question gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, no closer to an answer than when you'd first heard your mother's trembling voice. Your parents' love had been palpable, their words soothing, but the enormity of the truth they'd shared only added to the storm swirling inside you.

Favored by Apollo. The phrase felt heavy, foreign, and impossible to hold onto for long without your mind spiraling. What did it mean? Was it a blessing? A burden? A chance to prove yourself, or a responsibility you never asked for?

Hermes hummed a jaunty tune under his breath, the sound oddly comforting yet entirely out of sync with the turmoil within you. He swung his staff with an almost childlike rhythm, as if to punctuate the melody. The sight of his easy demeanor only made the contrast sharper—while you wrestled with a thousand questions, he carried himself as though this was just another ordinary day.

You barely registered the shift in his hum, the way he cleared his throat before turning his head toward you. "So," he said, his voice cutting through your fog of thoughts, "what do you think of the Underworld so far? A little gloomy for your taste, or are you just dying to move in?"

His golden eyes glinted with amusement as he slowed his pace to walk closer beside you. The grin tugging at his lips was playful, but there was a curious undertone in his gaze, as if he were studying your reaction.

You blinked, startled out of your reverie. "Oh... um..." you stammered, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. Your mind still raced, but you tried to pull together an answer that didn't sound as hollow as you felt. "It's... beautiful. In its own way. And overwhelming."

Hermes tilted his head, his grin widening as he leaned slightly closer. "Overwhelming, huh? Guess that's fair. It's not every day you see where souls end up, or meet your parents, for that matter."

His words struck like a subtle jolt, and you felt your chest tighten. He said it so casually, as though revisiting your parents was no more significant than delivering a message.

The reminder of them—how you had to leave before you were ready, how they had seemed so full of life even in death—made your forced smile falter.

Hermes studied your expression, his grin softening just slightly. He straightened, swinging his staff again, though the motion seemed more thoughtful now. "Don't let it get to you too much," he said, his voice lighter. "The dead can be a bit... sticky. That whole lingering on-what-could-have-been thing? Not worth your time, little musician. You've got living to do."

You nodded faintly, his words washing over you without truly sinking in. Your mind was still too full of questions to process his advice, your focus dipping back into the swirling haze of what you'd seen and felt.

Suddenly, Hermes stopped mid-step. His staff lowered slightly, and his head tilted to the side as if he were listening to a sound you couldn't hear. His golden eyes flickered, narrowing slightly in the distance.

It was as though he were having a conversation without speaking, his brow furrowing briefly before he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. His tone was sharp with irritation, but the way he swung his staff upward again was casual, practiced. "Can't even get five minutes of free time..."

He turned to you with an exaggerated shrug, though his grin was back in full force. "Looks like duty calls. Stay put near the Asphodel Fields, alright? Don't wander off. I'll be right back."

"Wait—where are you—" you began, but the words barely left your lips before Hermes was gone. His form blurred into a streak of red and gold, the faint flutter of his winged sandals vanishing into the horizon, leaving behind a ripple in the stillness.

You stood there, motionless, the emptiness of the Asphodel Fields stretching endlessly around you. The air was cool and heavy, carrying the faintest whispers that curled and twisted like smoke around your ears. The mists clung low to the ground, swirling around your ankles as if trying to root you in place.

Alone now, you glanced around. Each direction looked the same—grey, muted, and unchanging. The pale light overhead cast no shadows, making it impossible to tell where you had come from or where you were meant to go.

A faint unease crept up your spine, prickling at the nape of your neck. The world here felt alive, not with movement, but with the oppressive weight of countless souls wandering endlessly.

You stood for a moment longer, trying to calm the restlessness building in your chest. Hermes' instructions echoed in your mind—don't wander off—but your feet itched to move.

The pull to see your parents again, to hear their voices and seek answers to the questions they'd left you with, grew stronger with each passing second.

I have to go back, you thought. I can't leave it like this.

Drawing in a shaky breath, you started walking. The mist curled thicker as you moved, swallowing the edges of your vision until the world seemed like nothing more than an endless expanse of silvery grey.

Each step felt hesitant, your sandals crunching softly against the ashen ground. The faint whispers of the field accompanied you, voices just out of reach, unintelligible but filled with the weight of things left unsaid.

You glanced around as you walked, trying to retrace your steps, but everything looked the same. The sparse, gnarled trees scattered across the plain were all twisted in similar shapes, their leafless branches clawing at the empty sky. The scattered clusters of translucent souls drifted in aimless patterns, their forms blurring as they moved, offering no guide or familiarity.

You pushed forward, your heart sinking further with each step as you realized just how futile the attempt felt.

How do you find someone in a place that doesn't seem to change? The thought weighed on you, and for a moment, you considered turning back. But just as you were on the verge of giving up, a faint sound reached your ears—a soft melody carried on the still air.

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms..."

It was low and quiet, a voice singing with a tenderness that felt out of place in the somber stillness of the Fields. The sound tugged at your curiosity, and you found yourself following it, your steps quickening as the voice grew clearer.

"Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart..."

The song was gentle, almost like a lullaby, each note laced with an ache that resonated deep within you.

Through the mist, a shape began to take form. You approached cautiously, your breath catching as the figure under a withered tree came into view. A man sat there, his back turned to you, singing softly to a bundle cradled in his arms. The voice carried a mixture of longing and peace, weaving through the still air with a warmth that felt almost tangible.

As you drew closer, your eyes fell to the satchel pooled at his feet, its worn leather telling tales of countless journeys. Beside it, a spear rested upright against the tree, its tip dulled but still holding a sense of readiness.

The sight filled you with an odd mix of emotions—a longing you couldn't quite place, paired with the quiet comfort of witnessing something so tender.

Lost in the moment, your foot caught on a jagged rock hidden beneath the mist. You stumbled slightly, the sound of your misstep breaking the tranquility. The man's singing stopped abruptly, his head shooting up, and he turned to meet your gaze.

He stood out instantly against the grey monotony of the Fields. His darker skin, deep and warm-toned, contrasted sharply with the muted background, giving him an almost radiant presence. His short, dark curls were restrained by a simple golden headband that hinted at valor, though his approachable demeanor softened any air of intimidation.

A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, adding a quiet sophistication to his look. The lenses reflected the faint light of the Fields, catching the soft glow around him. His face, framed by a full beard, was alight with a friendly smile, his brown eyes glinting with a depth of wisdom and kindness behind the glass.

They were the eyes of someone who had seen much of the world—its beauty, its pain—and carried both with grace.

He adjusted the bundle in his arms, his movements careful and deliberate, before his gaze returned to you. "I didn't mean to startle you," you stuttered, your voice wavering as you quickly stepped back. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt..."

The man's smile widened slightly, though a hint of sorrow lingered in his expression. "It's alright," he said softly, his tone warm and steady. "You must be new here."

He shifted the cloth gently, the swaddle rustling faintly as he held it closer. "I'm Polites," he added, his voice carrying the same soothing quality as his song. "And who might you be?"

Your brows furrowed for a moment, the name Polites tugging at the edge of your memory. Polites... where have I heard that before? you thought, your mind grasping at faint recollections of stories told in passing.

Before you could piece it together, a small movement caught your eye. The swaddle in Polites' arms shifted, the faint rustle breaking through the stillness. A soft coo followed, the delicate sound rippling through the heavy air like a pebble dropped into still water.

It was a baby.

Polites gave a gentle hum, glancing down at the bundle with a tender expression. "I'm sorry, Astyanax," he murmured, his deep voice warm with affection. "It seems we have company."

The name startled you, breaking your train of thought and pulling you back to the moment. You blinked, realizing you'd been staring, your hands twitching awkwardly as you fidgeted with the fabric of your clothes.

The weight of the baby's name lingered in the air—Astyanax, a name steeped in tragedy, one that bore the weight of a life cut far too short.

Polites glanced up, his smile as kind and steady as before. "Come, sit. We don't bite," he said, gesturing with a nod to the ground beside him.

You hesitated briefly, but the warmth in his tone and the serene air he carried were impossible to refuse. Slowly, you made your way over, the barren ground crunching faintly beneath your sandals as you knelt down. The mist curled lazily around you, blurring the edges of the world as you settled beside him.

Your gaze fell to the swaddle in Polites' arms, the baby within drawing your full attention.

His soft, warm olive-toned skin seemed to glow faintly, untouched by the pallor of the Fields. Dark brown waves framed his cherubic face, curling gently against the edges of the cloth.

But it was his eyes that struck you most—large hazel orbs that gleamed with curiosity and a quiet strength, as if he understood more than his tender age could ever allow.

For a moment, you and the baby simply stared at one another. The world around you faded into a soft haze, the whispers of the Fields growing distant as you held his gaze. Your chest tightened, a dull ache spreading as your mind began to spiral.

This baby... he never even got a chance. The thought gripped you, heavy and unrelenting. He'll never grow, never laugh in the sunlight, never feel the wind in his hair. All the small joys of life stolen before they even began.

Astyanax shifted slightly, breaking the silence with a soft coo. His small mouth curled upward, revealing a gummy smile that melted the heaviness pressing against your chest. The innocence in his expression, the pure joy radiating from such a simple gesture, broke through your sorrow like the first rays of dawn piercing through a storm.

A small, sad smile tugged at your lips in return, bittersweet and fragile. "Hello there," you murmured softly, your voice trembling as the words escaped. Your gaze lingered on the baby, a quiet wonder mingling with the ache still thrumming in your chest.

Polites watched the exchange, his own expression softening. "He has that effect, doesn't he?" he said, his tone low and wistful. His fingers brushed gently against the Astyanax's curls, the movement as natural as the rise and fall of his breathing. "Even here, in a place like this, he reminds me there's still beauty. Still hope."

Clearing your throat softly, you glanced up at Polites, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your tunic. The words felt heavy in your mouth, hesitant, as though they might shatter the fragile peace of the moment. You tried to piece them together in your mind, searching for the right way to ask.

Finally, with a deep breath, you gained the courage to speak. "You said your name is Polites?" Your voice was quiet, unsure. "As in... King Odysseus' navigator? His... confidant?"

Polites' head tilted slightly, his brows drawing together in faint surprise. His fingers stilled against the baby's curls as he studied you, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and recognition. "Confidant?" he repeated, his tone tinged with mild disbelief, though not unkind. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his gaze softened. "Odysseus saw me as a close friend—maybe even a brother at times. Confidant, though?" He chuckled lightly, his voice carrying a warmth that softened the words. "I don't know if I'd call myself that."

You nodded firmly, the seriousness in your expression making his smile waver slightly. "He did," you said, your voice steadier now. "King Odysseus spoke of you often. He would recount his journeys and voyages, and every tale paid homage to the many great men he lost along the way—especially the one man he said he could always turn to for an honest opinion. Someone he trusted without worrying about disrespect or rebellion. He spoke your name with admiration, Polites."

The faint flicker of surprise returned to Polites' face, his lips parting slightly as though caught off guard. He blinked once, his gaze dipping briefly to the ground before meeting yours again. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, his hand still resting protectively on the swaddled baby.

"Odysseus said that, huh?" Polites murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. His brown eyes gleamed faintly, touched with something you couldn't quite place—pride, sorrow, and maybe a hint of disbelief. "That sounds like him, alright. Always knew how to spin a story, that one."

There was a wistfulness in his tone, a quiet fondness that carried an undertone of grief. "We had... our share of disagreements," he admitted, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon, where the mist of the Asphodel Fields seemed to stretch endlessly. "But at the end of the day, Odysseus had a way of reminding you why you stood by his side. Why you followed him into the unknown, again and again."

He shifted slightly, adjusting the baby in his arms as his expression softened further. "I'd like to think I did right by him," Polites said quietly, his words more to himself than to you. "Even if I wasn't there to see him make it home."

For a moment, silence settled between you, Polites' gaze lingering on the horizon, his thoughts seemingly far away. Astyanax stirred slightly in his arms, and he gave a soft hum, patting the bundle gently to soothe it.

Finally, his deep brown eyes turned back to you, curiosity flickering in their depths. "But enough about me," he said with a faint smile, his voice drawing you back into the present. "Who might you be?"

You hesitated, heat rising to your face as you fidgeted slightly. The question felt heavier than it should have, your mind instinctively comparing your humble station to the grand tales of bravery and loss Polites had lived through. "I'm... ____," you said softly, glancing down at your hands before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "The queen's personal handmaiden."

There was a flicker of something in Polites' expression—understanding, perhaps? Whatever it was, it wasn't judgment. His smile widened slightly, a gentle warmth radiating from him. "Personal handmaiden to Queen Penelope, huh? That's no small thing," he said, his tone kind and genuine. "You must have a great deal of her trust."

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, the sincerity in his words catching you off guard. "I... I suppose so," you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite your lingering embarrassment. "But it's nothing compared to what you've done. You traveled the world with King Odysseus, faced gods and monsters..."

Polites chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Years' worth of tales," he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and wistfulness. "More than I could tell in a single sitting. And not all of them are the kind you'd want to hear in polite company." His gaze softened as he shifted the Astyanax again, his movements slow and deliberate. "But there's beauty in the chaos too. Moments of peace and laughter, even in the darkest times."

You leaned forward slightly, your curiosity pulling you closer. "What kinds of moments?"

Polites' smile deepened, his eyes glinting with the light of memory. "Fleeting ones," he said. "Watching the sunrise on the deck of a ship, knowing we'd survived another day. Sharing a meal with the crew, even if it was barely enough to fill us. Odysseus laughing so hard at one of Eurylochus' terrible jokes that he nearly fell overboard. And the stars..." His voice trailed off briefly, his gaze distant. "Always the stars. They reminded us of home, even when it felt like it was slipping further away."

His words hung in the air, rich with emotion, and you felt something shift inside you. The philosophy he'd hinted at earlier—embracing the world's beauty despite its pain—suddenly clicked in your mind. You inhaled sharply, your breath catching as the meaning sank in.

Polites noticed your reaction, his head tilting slightly. "What is it?" he asked, his tone gentle.

"It's..." You hesitated, trying to put the swirling thoughts into words. "It's such a beautiful outlook on life," you said softly, your voice trembling. "To... to see the good, even when everything feels like it's falling apart. After everything you went through—being away from your families, the war, the loss... death." Your voice caught on the last word, your chest tightening.

His words struck deep, resonating in a way you hadn't expected.

You thought of the queen—her quiet strength as she guided Ithaca through years of uncertainty, never once faltering in her resolve.

You thought of Telemachus—his sharp wit and quiet intensity, the confusing feelings you held for him that you couldn't quite untangle.

And Callias—your budding friendship with him, his steady presence like an anchor in the shifting tides of your journey.

Finally, you thought of the lyre Hermes had given you, its golden strings shimmering with a promise of something greater, though you still weren't sure what that promise meant. It lingered in your thoughts, a quiet, golden thread connecting all the rest.

Your gaze dropped absently to your lap, your fingers curling unconsciously into the fabric of your dress. The material bunched beneath your touch, a tactile reminder of the tension knotting in your chest. The haze of your thoughts blurred everything around you as your mind drifted further.

Images of your parents surfaced, unbidden but welcome. You could see their faces clearly—the love glowing in their eyes, their voices soft yet so full of conviction as they urged you never to forget how much they cared. The ache of parting gnawed at you again, your chest tightening as though the weight of their absence was pressing down on you. The memory blurred in your mind, overlapping with the weight of Polites' words, their echoes weaving through the haze.

You felt yourself slipping, your mind spiraling into the endless questions and uncertainties that had followed you since you left them behind. What did they mean by Apollo's favor? Why you? What were you supposed to do with the answers you didn't yet have?

Before you could fall any deeper, a gentle hand rested on your head, grounding you. Polites' touch was light but steady, his fingers ruffling your hair slightly in a way that felt both comforting and familiar. "Hey," he murmured softly, his voice like a tether pulling you back to the present.

You blinked up at him, startled out of your thoughts as he reached down, tilting your chin up with two fingers. His smile was warm, his dark eyes crinkling with a mixture of understanding and kindness. "Don't lose yourself in the 'what-ifs,'" he said gently. "I used to get lost in thoughts too heavy to carry, dwelling on what I couldn't change, all the moments I couldn't fix...."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich as his hand fell back to his side. "But it never helped, not really. It just made the pain heavier. So I started seeing things differently." His gaze softened, his voice growing quieter but no less steady. "I'll tell you what I told Odysseus... something I had to remind myself of first: this life is amazing when you greet it with open arms. You can't carry it all, not at once. But you can carry the good with the bad. Hold onto the moments that remind you why it's worth it."

His words carried a quiet certainty, the kind that could only come from experience. You felt the truth of them settle over you like a blanket, warm and grounding.

For a moment, the tightness in your chest loosened, replaced by a faint flicker of something lighter. Hope, perhaps, or at least the possibility of it.

A warbled chuckle escaped your lips, soft and shaky, as you swiped at the corner of your eye with the back of your hand. "Open arms, huh?" you murmured, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. "I think... I think that's something I needed to hear."

Polites' smile widened, his eyes gleaming with quiet pride. "Good," he said simply, his voice carrying no judgment, only reassurance.

The two of you then sat in peaceful silence, the stillness of the Asphodel Fields wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. Astyanax cooed softly in his arms, the sound carrying a warmth that seemed to echo the quiet understanding you'd found in Polites' words.

Your gaze wandered upward, drawn to the faint, hazy light that filtered through the mist above. The endless grey of the Fields no longer felt so suffocating, and as you sat there, the ache in your chest eased just a little.

For the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to breathe deeply, the weight on your shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

Your fingers idly traced the ground beside you, brushing against a small pebble. Without thinking, you picked it up, turning it over in your hand as the silence stretched between you and Polites.

Your gaze drifted to him, catching his side profile as he stared softly up at the hazy sky. His expression was serene, his lips curved into a faint smile that carried a quiet sense of peace. The faint light filtering through the mist seemed to settle on him, giving his figure an almost ethereal glow.

There was something unshakable about him—calm, steady, and grounded, as if he carried the wisdom of lifetimes in his kind eyes.

You found yourself captivated by the sight, unable to look away. A warmth began to stir in your chest, spreading slowly through your body and down to your fingers, tingling with a sensation you hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.

It was inspiration—pure and undeniable, like a spark reigniting after being smothered for so long.

Polites' words lingered in your heart, weaving through your thoughts and sparking a flood of emotions you hadn't allowed yourself to feel. Without realizing it, your lips parted, and a soft hum escaped, tentative and uncertain at first.

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms..."

The sound startled you, but the warmth in your chest urged you on. You let the tune build naturally, your voice carrying a mix of melancholy and hope. 

"Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart..."

The melody felt raw, an unfiltered expression of the turmoil inside you. It was fragile yet persistent, winding its way into the still air of the Asphodel Fields like a thread of light.

Polites turned toward you, his eyes brightening as his smile widened. Without a word, his deep, rich voice joined yours, harmonizing effortlessly.

"I see in your face, there is so much guilt inside your heart. So why not replace it and light up the world, here's how to start..."

His tone was steady and warm, grounding your melody and elevating it all at once. Together, your voices blended in a simple, unpolished duet that echoed softly through the empty landscape; the words rising naturally between the two of you.

The baby in Polites' arms stirred, letting out a soft coo as though soothed by the music. Polites glanced down at the bundle, his smile softening as he gently rocked the swaddle in time with the melody.

"Greet the world with open arms. Greet the world with open arms..."

As the final notes faded into the mist, silence returned, but it was no longer oppressive. It felt lighter, filled with a quiet sense of fulfillment.

Polites chuckled softly, his voice tinged with emotion as he looked back at you. "You have a gift, ____," he said warmly. "A voice like yours could soften even the hardest of hearts."

You smiled faintly, your gaze dropping for a moment as your fingers brushed against the pebble still in your hand. "I... didn't realize how much I missed singing," you admitted, your voice quiet, almost as if you were afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the moment.

Polites nodded knowingly, his expression serene. "Sometimes, we forget what brings us joy," he said softly. "But it's always there, waiting for us to find it again."

You held onto his words, letting them settle in your heart. The warmth lingered, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace, and for the first time in a long while, you felt... lighter.

The peace of the moment was interrupted by the sudden sound of clapping. You turned sharply, startled, to see Hermes standing just a few steps away, his staff tucked under one arm as he applauded dramatically. "Well, aren't you the busy one?" he drawled, a playful grin lighting up his face. "Making friends, singing duets... I leave you alone for one moment, and suddenly, it's a musical."

Polites chuckled beside you, unbothered by Hermes' theatrics. "I suppose we made good use of the time," he said, his tone warm but teasing as he looked between you and the god.

You shot Hermes a half-hearted glare, your lips twitching into a reluctant smile despite yourself. "Finished with your task, I assume?"

Hermes nodded, twirling his staff like it was a baton. "Indeed, all wrapped up with a bow," he said cheerfully, though his grin faded slightly as his golden eyes flickered over the horizon. "But we can't linger. I caught Cerberus sniffing around earlier, and trust me, that doesn't lead to anything good."

Your eyes widened slightly at the mention of the three-headed guardian, and you quickly pushed yourself up off the ground. The thought of crossing paths with the Underworld's fiercest protector wasn't exactly appealing.

Polites rose too, the baby in his arms letting out a soft coo as if protesting the movement. He adjusted the swaddle, rocking the bundle gently as he turned to you. "Looks like this is where we part ways," he said, his voice tinged with a quiet understanding.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart suddenly heavier at the thought of leaving. "Thank you," you said softly, your gaze meeting his. "For... everything."

Polites smiled, warm and knowing, as he nodded toward you. "And thank you," he replied. "For reminding me that even here, there's still music worth hearing."

Astyanax stirred again, drawing both your gazes. Polites chuckled, shifting the bundle slightly as the little one's tiny hand peeked out from the swaddle. "And don't worry about us," Polites added, his tone lighter now. "We're exactly where we need to be."

You exchanged a fond smile before stepping back, allowing Hermes to nudge you gently forward. Polites raised a hand in farewell, Astyanax's coo echoing softly as though it were part of the farewell itself. "Take care," Polites called after you, his voice steady and sure. "And don't forget what I told you."

"I won't," you promised, your voice carrying the same steadiness, though your chest tightened with emotion. You glanced back one last time as Polites turned toward the withered tree, his presence a grounding force in the shifting mist.

As Hermes led you away, his stride quick and purposeful, you glanced around the Fields, your thoughts a mix of lingering warmth and quiet sorrow. The mists curled low around your ankles, their whispering voices barely audible now, as if the Fields themselves were reluctant to let you leave.

It was then that your gaze caught something—a figure wandering aimlessly in the distance, half-shrouded in the haze. Your breath hitched, and your steps faltered.

Cleo.

Even through the haze, you recognized her. The slope of her shoulders, the familiar set of her stride, the way her head tilted ever so slightly as though lost in thought—it was all unmistakable.

Her form, pale and translucent, drifted with the air of someone caught between memory and nothingness. She seemed so much smaller now, as if the weight of the Fields had drained the vitality she once carried so proudly.

She looked so different from the vibrant girl you remembered, but still, it was her.

Your chest tightened as a flood of memories surged through your mind of the girl she had been. You could still hear her laugh, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the corridors of the palace when the two of you were younger. You remembered her steady presence during long nights of work, the way her eyes lit up with mischief when she whispered secrets into your ear. 

Cleo had always seemed to know the right thing to say to make you feel seen, understood; she'd been your confidant, your friend—the one person who had felt like home in a world apart from everyone else.

But then came the darker memories, cutting through the haze of nostalgia. The betrayal.

You remembered the look in her eyes that day, the hurt mingled with guilt as she chose the side that wasn't yours. Her words had been hollow, an apology wrapped in justification that only deepened the wound. And when you'd tried to get her to reconsider, to stay by your side, she'd turned away.

She hadn't looked back.

The mixture of emotions swirling inside you now was almost unbearable. Anger, sadness, pity—they tangled together, leaving you unsure of what you felt. How were you supposed to react now, seeing her here in the Fields, reduced to a wandering shade? Was this where betrayal led? Or was she simply another victim of a cruel fate, just like so many others?

You stood frozen, your heart caught in the throes of indecision. But as you watched her move through the mist, a faint glimmer of the Cleo you once knew stirred in your chest, tugging at the edges of your heart.

For a moment, Cleo paused in her aimless wandering, her figure half-turning as though sensing your gaze. The mist distorted her features, but you could swear there was still a faint shadow of the warmth she once carried, hidden somewhere in the hollow outlines of her face.

Did she know you were there? Could she feel the weight of your eyes on her? Or was she too far gone, trapped in the fog of the Fields, where memories blurred and identities unraveled?

Hermes' footsteps continued ahead of you, his humming drifting faintly through the air. But you couldn't move. Your feet felt rooted to the ground as you stared at her, unsure of what to do, what to feel.

After what felt like an eternity, you swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in your throat. Not now, you thought, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. This isn't the time. But the sight of her lingered, tugging at you like a frayed thread that refused to let go.

I'll come back, you vowed silently, your heart heavy with resolve. I'll return for her.

Slowly, you turned to follow Hermes, the sound of his humming growing louder as you forced yourself to move. The image of Cleo began to fade into the mist behind you, but her presence remained etched in your mind, sharp and unrelenting.

Ahead, Hermes glanced back over his shoulder, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed your slowed pace. "Something catch your eye, little musician?" he asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.

You forced a small smile, shaking your head. "Just... thinking."

Hermes raised a brow but said nothing more, his expression flickering with fleeting amusement as he turned back and continued onward. You followed, your steps slow and deliberate, the vow you'd made settling firmly in your chest like an anchor against the swirling tide of your emotions.

Whatever had happened between you and Cleo, whatever pain still lingered, you couldn't leave it like this. Not forever.

The weight of that thought followed you as Hermes led you through the shifting mists of the Asphodel Fields. His humming faded as he stopped in front of a patch of shimmering air. He motioned for you to step closer, his hand light on your back as he guided you.

You hesitated, casting one last glance at the hauntingly grey expanse behind you, then drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

The sensation hit you like a wave.

The world twisted, folding in on itself as though reality was nothing more than a thin sheet being crumpled. The cool air of the Underworld was replaced with an oppressive, disorienting warmth.

Your stomach flipped, your vision blurred, and for a moment, it felt as if you were spinning, weightless, and tethered all at once.

Then, with a sudden snap, it was over.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You stumbled as the familiar stone corridor of Ithaca's palace came into focus, the sharp, golden light streaming through the high windows blinding after the muted greys of the Fields. The air here felt thick, humid compared to the cold emptiness you'd left behind. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the ground solid but foreign, and you swayed unsteadily.

A low chuckle echoed beside you. "Whoa, there, little musician," Hermes teased, one hand shooting out to steady your shoulder while the other gripped his staff. His fingers were warm, firm enough to stop you from tipping over. "You're back on solid ground now. Don't go planting your face in the floor just yet."

You blinked up at him, your heart still racing as you tried to gather your bearings. His golden eyes sparkled with amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a knowing smirk. "I'd say that was a smooth landing, all things considered."

You let out a shaky breath, taking a step back from his grasp. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice hoarse from the whirlwind of emotions still churning inside you. Your hands fidgeted at your sides as you glanced anywhere but his face, feeling awkwardly vulnerable under his teasing gaze.

Hermes' chuckle softened, and his expression grew unexpectedly fond. He leaned down slightly, his hand brushing lightly over your hair. His touch was fleeting, more like smoothing down the edges of a stray thought than offering comfort. "Anytime, little musician," he said softly, his voice carrying the same warmth you'd felt during your journey.

Your breath hitched at the sincerity in his tone, and when you dared to glance up at him, you caught the faintest trace of something more—something unspoken—beneath his smirk. But before you could dwell on it, he straightened, rolling his shoulders with an exaggerated flourish.

"Well," Hermes said, his grin returning full force as he adjusted his cloak. "Duty calls." With a small jump, the wings on his sandals began to flutter, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. "Don't get into too much trouble without me, alright?"

And with a playful wink, he disappeared in a blur of red and gold, the faint hum of his laughter lingering in the corridor long after he was gone.

You stood there, frozen in place, your eyes locked on the spot where he had been. It was as though the space still held a faint echo of his presence, the air warmer and lighter than it should have been.

Your heart raced in your chest, pounding with a mixture of awe, exhaustion, and disbelief. You felt like you'd just stepped out of a vivid dream, one so real that it left a lingering weight in your chest and a strange ache in your limbs.

The Underworld, your parents, Polites, Cleo—all of it swirled in your mind like an endless tide, each thought vying for attention. You couldn't sort through them; you couldn't decide which feeling to hold onto. Every time you tried to grasp one, another would take its place—grief, hope, confusion, guilt. It was all too much.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching as though they needed something to hold onto, something solid to prove that you were really back.

The faint tang of herbs from the kitchens mingled with the earthy smell of the wooden beams high above. It should have been comforting—familiar—but instead, it only emphasized how disconnected you felt.

You were here, in Ithaca, where everything was tangible and alive, but part of you still lingered in that otherworldly place, surrounded by mist and ghosts.

Your gaze dropped to the ground, where the scroll you had been carrying lay forgotten at your feet. The sight of it jolted you out of your daze; its simple, familiar presence grounding you in the reality of where you were.

Bending down, you picked it up, the parchment cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. You brushed away a faint smudge of dust that had clung to it, your hands trembling slightly as you stood upright again.

For a moment, you just stared at the scroll, your grip tightening as your mind began to whirl.

You'd been gone—surely for hours. What would you tell the queen? How would you explain your absence? The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Queen Penelope wasn't harsh, but she valued order, and you had a responsibility to her.

Panic prickled at the edges of your thoughts as you started walking, your steps brisk and purposeful.

The corridor stretched ahead of you, the warm glow of sunlight spilling in through the high windows contrasting sharply with the dim, ethereal light of the Underworld you'd just left. You couldn't help but quicken your pace; the scroll pressed tightly to your chest as your mind raced.

Yet, as you moved, something tugged at your attention. The sun. Its golden rays painted the stone walls in soft hues, long shadows cast from the columns lining the hall. You frowned, slowing slightly as the realization struck you.

The sun was still high in the sky.

Your steps faltered, and you turned your head, glancing out one of the windows. Outside, the courtyard basked in the afternoon light, the gentle hum of activity filtering faintly through the glass. Servants moved about their tasks, unhurried, their chatter and laughter carrying an air of normalcy that felt almost surreal to you.

It wasn't night. Not even close.

Your chest tightened as you tried to reconcile the realization. You'd been gone for what felt like hours, traversing the Underworld, speaking to your parents, Polites, and... Cleo. And yet, here, no time seemed to have passed.

It was as if you'd stepped through some hidden fold in reality, returning to a world that hadn't even noticed you'd left.

Before you knew it, you were standing outside the queen's chambers, the heavy wooden door looming before you. Your hands moved instinctively, smoothing down your shawl and adjusting the scroll. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing thoughts as you lifted a hand and knocked gently.

"Come in," Penelope's voice called, calm and poised, as always.

You hesitated, your heart thudding against your ribs. Then, with a deep breath and your head bowed, you pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Queen Penelope," you began quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, "I am so sorry for my delay. I—"

Your apology faltered as you straightened and looked up. The queen sat at her low table, a delicate cup of tea in hand, the steam curling faintly into the midday light filtering through the windows. She looked utterly serene, as though she hadn't noticed your absence at all.

Your lips parted slightly in shock, the realization sinking in with a dizzying clarity. Time really hadn't passed—not in any way that made sense.

The weight of everything you had experienced felt strangely misplaced now, like trying to fit a story from another life into the one you had returned to.

"Is something wrong, ____?" Penelope's calm voice broke through your thoughts, drawing your attention. Her dark eyes rested on you with a quiet curiosity, her brow arching slightly. "Did you have any issues getting the measurements?"

You blinked, your grip on the scroll tightening as you quickly shook your head. "N-No, my queen. None at all," you said, stepping forward to place the scroll gently on the edge of her table. You hesitated, a faint, nervous smile tugging at your lips. "In fact, everything went... smoother than expected. You could say it was a bit of a journey."

Penelope tilted her head, her lips curving into a polite but slightly puzzled smile. "A journey?" she repeated lightly, her tone suggesting she didn't quite understand.

You cleared your throat, your cheeks warming. "Yes. Let's just say I've never had a task quite like this one before." The words carried an almost private humor that you knew she wouldn't grasp, but it was enough to help steady you.

The queen regarded you for a moment, her expression thoughtful but not pressing. "I see," she said simply, her tone shifting back to her usual composed authority. "Thank you for bringing this to me, ____. I don't believe I have anything else for you to do, for now. You may go."

You bowed deeply, relief washing over you as you stepped back toward the door. Yet, as you exited the chamber and let the door click shut behind you, the weight of what had happened lingered.

No time had passed here, but for you, the moments spent in the Underworld felt like a lifetime. And as you walked down the corridor, the scroll now out of your hands, you couldn't help but wonder how much longer you could carry the weight of it alone.

☆

☆

Later, you found yourself in your room, the faint golden strings of the divine lyre resting gently on your lap.

The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the walls in hues of deep orange and soft crimson. Light spilled through the narrow window, its warmth brushing against your skin as though trying to coax you out of the thoughts that weighed so heavily on your mind.

Your fingers brushed tentatively over the lyre's strings, the faint hum of its otherworldly resonance filling the room. The notes came to life under your touch, weaving together into a quiet, tender melody.

Without thinking, you began to hum softly, your voice joining the instrument as if drawn to it. The words of the song flowed naturally, familiar and comforting, wrapping around you like a shield against the storm in your chest.

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms..."

Your voice wavered slightly, the lyrics stirring something deep inside you. The memories of Polites' words echoed in your mind, his gentle wisdom urging you to hold onto the beauty in the chaos, to carry the good with the bad.

You closed your eyes, letting the song guide you as the lyre's strings shimmered in the dying light. The sun dipped lower, its fiery glow spilling across the floor in long shadows. The sky outside shifted from gold to soft pinks and violets, the colors blending seamlessly into the edges of night.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the quiet interrupted only by the melody of your voice and the faint strum of the lyre.

Since leaving the queen's chambers, the day had passed in an oddly fragmented way. You had returned to your duties, determined to slip back into the routines that once felt so grounding. But the strange dissonance of time—or the lack of it—hung over you like a shadow.

You had tried to find Callias, thinking his bright humor might lighten your mood, but he had been busy hauling bundles of cloth and supplies across the palace. His quick smile when he spotted you had been brief, his focus immediately pulled back to his chores.

Telemachus, too, had been occupied. The clash of swords and the sharp commands of his trainers echoed faintly from the courtyard as you passed by. You'd glimpsed him once, his form a blur of motion as he practiced, his expression distant and determined.

There had been no opportunity to speak with him, even if you'd mustered the courage to try.

Even the queen and king had been out of reach. News had spread that they'd decided to spend the evening together in the bustling town square—a rare night of indulgence after weeks of royal duties.

The palace felt emptier without their quiet presence, as if their absence left a tangible void in the halls.

With no one to turn to, you had fallen into your own rhythm, tackling small tasks and avoiding the larger questions swirling in your mind. Yet, every time you paused, the memory of the Underworld crept back in.

Your parents'  voices, the sight of Polites cradling Astyanax, Cleo's lost expression—they lingered, pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn't shake.

Now, as you sat by the window, the light of the setting sun framed you, casting your figure in gold and shadow. The song swelled in the quiet, your fingers finding the notes effortlessly. The lyre seemed alive in your hands, its glow faintly mirroring the fiery hues of the sky.

You finished the verse, the last note lingering in the air like a whispered promise. For a moment, the room felt still, the kind of stillness that wasn't empty but full—full of everything you couldn't yet name, everything you carried from the Underworld and beyond.

With a soft sigh, you set the lyre down beside you, your fingers lingering on its frame. The warmth of the sun faded as twilight began to settle, and the shadows stretched longer across the room.

You gazed out at the horizon, the stars beginning to dot the deepening sky. Their faint light shimmered above the darkened sea, a gentle reminder of how vast and unyielding the world beyond Ithaca could be. The cool evening breeze drifted through the window, brushing against your skin and carrying with it the faint, briny scent of the ocean.

Your mind drifted once again to Cleo, and a quiet sigh escaped your lips.

Without thinking, your hand moved to the lyre resting beside you, your fingers brushing against its gleaming golden frame. The strings hummed faintly at your touch, their resonance soft and calming, but it did little to quiet the ache in your chest.

Even though you understood her betrayal—knew the choice she made had led her to the misty emptiness of the Asphodel Fields—you couldn't stop the memories from surfacing. Cleo wasn't just a servant who had fallen to greed or ambition. She had been more than that, so much more.

Your best friend. Dare you say, the closest thing you had ever had to a sister.

Your fingers stilled on the lyre, the weight of the past pressing heavily on your chest. No matter how much you tried to rationalize it, no matter how much you told yourself that Cleo's choices had sealed her fate, you couldn't fully let go of the girl she had been.

The one who had laughed with you, comforted you, and stood beside you when it felt like the world had forgotten your place in it.

A quiet thought crept into your mind, soft but insistent: She wasn't just my friend. She was family.

The memory came unbidden, pulling you back to your first week in Ithaca.

You were young then, barely more than a child, adjusting to the servants' quarters and the constant demands of training under the older maids.

🇫‌🇱‌🇦‌🇸‌🇭‌🇧‌🇦‌🇨‌🇰‌:

It was late one night, the quarters dim and quiet, with only the soft sounds of breathing from the other servants who had long since fallen asleep.

But you couldn't sleep.

The weight of the day lingered in your chest—your first time being scolded for not polishing the silver to perfection, the sideways glances from older girls who whispered behind their hands, and the endless, overwhelming sense that you didn't belong.

It sat like a stone, making your breaths feel heavier as you lay on the top bunk of the makeshift cot, crammed into the narrow servant's quarters.

The room was stifling despite the night air, filled with the soft snores and murmurs of the other children packed into the tight space. Each bunk was squeezed so close together that you could almost feel the warmth of the child in the bed below you.

The faint scent of straw, old wood, and the lingering remnants of the day's sweat hung in the air, making it impossible to feel entirely at ease.

You fidgeted with the frayed edge of the thin blanket draped over you, your fingers tugging at loose threads as restless thoughts swirled in your mind. The night felt endless, the quiet too loud as it amplified the uncertainty that clawed at your chest.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore.

Slowly, you sat up, careful not to let the bed creak beneath your movements. The rough beams of the ceiling loomed just inches above your head, a constant reminder of how cramped the room truly was.

You paused, holding your breath, and glanced around at the other sleeping figures. A soft snuffle came from a nearby bunk, but no one stirred.

You waited a moment longer, ensuring the room remained still. Then, with a quiet exhale, you swung your legs over the side of the bunk, your bare feet brushing against the cool edge of the wooden frame. Gripping the edge tightly, you carefully slid down, your toes landing silently on the stone floor below.

The chill of the stone sent a shiver up your spine, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the rhythm of your heart thudding in your ears. Barefoot, you padded across the cramped room, weaving carefully through the narrow aisles between bunks. The soft rise and fall of breaths surrounded you, a reminder of just how closely everyone was packed together.

Reaching the door, you hesitated, your hand hovering over the rough wooden handle. You cast one last glance back at the room, the pale moonlight filtering through the tiny window illuminating the huddled figures.

Satisfied that no one had woken, you gently pushed the door open, wincing at the soft creak that seemed impossibly loud in the silence.

Your heart pounded as you slipped through the narrow gap, the cool air of the corridor beyond brushing against your skin. For a moment, you stood there, barefoot on the cold stone, your fingers still gripping the edge of the door as it eased shut behind you.

The stillness of the hall stretched out before you, vast and unfamiliar compared to the suffocating closeness of the servants' quarters. Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, the faint echo of your bare feet the only sound accompanying you.

The corridor outside was dimly lit by a few flickering torches. You kept close to the wall, your small figure blending into the shadows as you navigated the familiar turns.

You'd spent the first days memorizing the layout of the palace, and now that knowledge served you well as you avoided the patrols of guards who wandered the halls.

Finally, you reached a reclusive part of the palace—a place where the other servants often took their breaks during the day. The small alcove overlooked the sea, its single window set into the stone walls high above the cliffs that surrounded Ithaca. By night, it was deserted, bathed only in the silvery glow of the moon.

You climbed onto the windowsill, your legs dangling slightly as you leaned against the frame. The cool night air brushed against your skin, carrying with it the salty tang of the ocean and the faint rustle of the waves far below.

The moonlight shimmered on the water, casting a pale glow that rippled and danced with the movement of the sea.

For a long moment, you simply stared out at the vast expanse, letting the quiet soothe the restless ache in your chest. Your mind wandered to your first days here—the grueling training, the stern corrections from the head maid, the occasional kindness of Queen Penelope's gentle gaze when she passed by.

You were being prepared, they had said, to serve as one of her personal handmaidens when you were older. It was an honor, you'd been told, to be chosen. But the weight of expectation felt crushing, and you weren't sure if you could ever measure up.

A soft "psst" broke through the stillness.

Your heart jumped, the sound startling you enough to nearly lose your balance. You snapped your head toward the source, your breath catching in your throat. In the shadows of the alcove, a small figure moved closer, her steps light and quick.

"Don't worry," she whispered, her voice hushed but teasing. "I'm not a guard."

The girl stepped into the faint glow of moonlight, and you got your first proper look at her. She was petite, her frame small, with delicate features framed by a cascade of pale blonde hair. Her green eyes sparkled mischievously, and her lips curved into a playful grin as she watched your startled expression.

"Didn't mean to scare you," she said, giggling softly. "But you should've seen your face."

Still wary, you shifted slightly, curling your legs in and pressing your back closer to the window frame. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.

The girl tilted her head, studying you for a moment before stepping closer and hopping up onto the windowsill beside you with surprising ease. "Cleo," she said simply, swinging her legs as if she belonged there."And you're... the new one, right?"

Her proximity made you tense, and the awkward silence that followed felt heavy despite the faint hum of the waves below. You could feel her gaze on you, sharp and curious, as if she were trying to unravel some mystery you didn't even know you carried.

Braving a glance, you peeked at her from the corner of your eye, only to find her staring at you directly.

Her head was tilted slightly, her expression thoughtful, her green eyes narrowed as though deep in consideration. The intensity of her gaze made you fidget uncomfortably.

"Got a name, or do you just go by 'new one'?" she asked, her grin widening when she caught you staring.

"____," you replied quickly, feeling heat rise to your face. You looked away, hoping to escape her scrutiny, but she leaned closer, her curiosity unabated.

"Well, ____," Cleo said, settling back against the frame, "what are you doing up here? Sneaking out run away, or do you always climb out of bed in the middle of the night for no reason?"

You blinked at her, unsure how to answer. "I—" You hesitated, your voice faltering. "How did you even know I was out here?"

Her grin turned smug. "I sleep in the bunk below yours. You kept tossing and turning. Eventually, I gave up on trying to sleep and followed you." She waved a hand dismissively before you could respond. "No worries, though. It wasn't like I had anything better to do."

Embarrassment flared in your chest, and you stammered an apology. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," Cleo interrupted, laughing lightly. "At least you we'ren't snoring like Theon in the bunk over."

You cleared your throat, still feeling a bit awkward, and glanced back out the window. "I... just couldn't sleep," you admitted softly, your gaze fixed on the moonlit waves. "I guess... I miss home."

Cleo didn't respond right away, and for a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves far below. When you continued, your voice was quieter, almost hesitant. "I came here by myself. I thought... I thought it would be easier to adjust, but it's harder than I expected. I don't even know where to start."

The silence stretched again, but it wasn't uncomfortable this time. Cleo swung her legs lazily, her gaze thoughtful as she considered your words.

"It's alright," she said finally, her voice soft but steady. "No one really knows where to go when they first get here. You just... figure it out one day at a time."

You turned to look at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Her green eyes met yours, and she smiled—a real smile, warm and reassuring. "I'll tell you what," she said, leaning back against the window frame. "I'll show you the ropes. Teach you how things work around here."

Your brows furrowed. "Why would you do that?"

"Why not?" Cleo shrugged, her smile turning playful again. "Someone showed me when I was new, so I figure it's my turn. Besides," she added with a wink, "you seem like you could use a friend."

The word struck something deep in you, and for a moment, you didn't know how to respond. She was offering something you hadn't realized you needed—a connection, a lifeline in a place that still felt so unfamiliar.

"I guess... I could use a friend," you said finally, your lips curving into a tentative smile.

"Great!" Cleo said, clapping her hands lightly. The quiet returned, but this time, it felt companionable. The weight in your chest eased slightly as you leaned back against the frame, letting the cool breeze wash over you.

"Thank you," you said softly, and Cleo's smile grew warmer.

"Don't mention it," she replied, nudging your shoulder lightly. "We're going to make a great team, you and me."

In that moment, with the waves crashing below and the moonlight reflecting on the water, you believed her.

The memory felt distant now, like a dream you couldn't quite reach. It hovered at the edges of your mind, softened by time but never fully faded. And yet, there were moments—flashes—where you could almost feel her presence again.

The way she would nudge your shoulder when you were too serious, a grin tugging at her lips as she teased you out of your brooding thoughts. Or the quiet way she listened, her mischievous energy melting into something softer when the weight of your duties became too much to bear.

You could still hear her voice, low and earnest, as she'd sit beside you during those rare moments of free time, listening to you play your lyre. "You'll make the gods themselves jealous one day, and I'll be able to say I knew you when you were just a humble palace girl."

You had laughed then, the sound bright and unguarded, because Cleo had always had a way of making the world feel lighter, less daunting. Her confidence in you had felt like a shield, something you could carry with you when your own faltered. She had been your anchor, your guide—and in some ways, your reflection.

But now... now, she was something else entirely.

Your mind ventured to the shadowy figure you'd seen in the Asphodel Fields, the ghostly remnant of the girl who had once been your closest friend. The weight of it pressed heavily on your chest, a deep, aching sadness that no words could soothe.

You could still see her, drifting aimlessly through the mist, her form pale and translucent. The Cleo you had known had been full of life, her laughter bright enough to fill even the dimmest corners of the palace.

Now, that vitality was gone, replaced by a hollow presence that seemed to barely cling to itself. She had looked so small, so fragile, as though the Fields had stripped away not just her form but the very essence of who she had been.

How had it come to this? you wondered, your fingers tightening around the frame of your lyre. How had Cleo fallen so far, from the girl who once held the world in her hands to a wandering shade, lost to memory and time?

The answer whispered in the back of your mind, cruel and unrelenting: She chose it.

Cleo's defiance, her willingness to toy with the suitors, to take what she wanted without thinking of the cost—it had all seemed harmless at first. But the choices she had made, the alliances she had forged, had led her down a path she couldn't return from.

She had betrayed Ithaca, betrayed the queen, betrayed you. And for what? A moment of power? A fleeting sense of freedom?

You wanted to hate her for it. You wanted to hold onto the anger, the betrayal, because it was easier than mourning the loss of someone who had once been your family. But no matter how much you tried, the memories of who she had been refused to let go.

You couldn't forget the girl who had taken you under her wing, who had laughed with you under the stars, who had believed in you when you couldn't believe in yourself.

She wasn't just a ghost to you. She was a wound that hadn't healed, a question that had no answer.

And though it doesn't help, you let yourself imagine that Cleo was there beside you, nudging your shoulder and grinning that mischievous grin. You could almost hear her voice, teasing yet full of that oddly perceptive warmth she carried so effortlessly.

"Sitting here brooding isn't going to solve anything," she would have said, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she leaned closer. "Honestly, ____, you think too much. Let me handle it."

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as the thought of her flickered in your mind. She'd know what to do with this whole Andreia situation.

Cleo had always been bold, unafraid to speak her mind or take action, even when it was risky—or reckless. And while that recklessness had cost her everything, part of you still longed for her confidence, her certainty, her way of making even the most tangled problems seem manageable.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't notice the faint glow that began to emanate from the lyre resting against your legs. The warm golden hue of its strings was now streaked with darker shades—soft ribbons of shadow weaving between the light, twisting and shifting like something alive.

The soft hum of the lyre grew louder, pulling you back to the present. Startled, your eyes widened as you looked down, the glow intensifying, the play of light and shadow casting strange patterns across the walls of your room.

Your breath hitched, a mixture of awe and unease washing over you. The resonance of the strings vibrated through your fingertips, not from your touch but seemingly from some unseen force within the instrument itself.

It was as if the lyre was responding to something—something beyond your understanding.

The air around you grew cooler, the same chill you'd felt when in the Underworld brushing against your skin. It wasn't harsh or sudden but faint, like the memory of a breeze from a far-off place.

The sensation lingered for a moment, then receded, leaving you shivering despite the stillness of the room.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as you lifted the lyre from your lap, holding it carefully in your hands. Its frame felt warmer than usual, almost pulsing with energy, and you found yourself staring at it as if it might explain itself.

Before you could stop yourself, your lips moved, the words escaping in a hushed whisper. "The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes."

Hermes' voice echoed faintly in your mind as you repeated the phrase he had whispered to you in the corridor before whisking you away to the Underworld. The weight of the words settled heavily in the quiet, and when you looked up, your breath caught in your throat.

In the corner of your room, where the shadows gathered thickest, something stirred. A dark wisp of shadow curled upward, shifting and twisting as though alive. Its movements were slow, deliberate, and though it was barely more than a faint distortion in the air, it felt... familiar.

You stood slowly, clutching the lyre close to your chest, your heart racing as you took a tentative step forward. The air in the room seemed to hum with an unseen tension, the shadows deepening as you approached.

The realization crept over you with every hesitant step, the truth both thrilling and terrifying. This must be a portal. A gateway to the Underworld, just like Hermes had said.

You glanced down at the glowing lyre in your hands, its strange light flickering like a heartbeat, and the pieces began to fall into place.

The instrument was divine—gifted to you by Hermes, connected to the gods. Perhaps it had acted as a key, unlocking the unseen threshold that now pulsed in the corner of your room.

Your fingers tightened around the lyre's frame, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. You hadn't intended to summon this—hadn't even known it was possible. But now, standing on the edge of the unknown, you couldn't ignore the pull of what lay beyond.

The misty expanse of the Asphodel Fields, the whispers of souls caught between worlds, and the promise you had made to Cleo all came rushing back.

Whatever this was, it wasn't an accident. The gateway had appeared for a reason, and the choice to step through—or turn away—was yours to make.

Your grip on the lyre tightened, its glow steady and warm against your palms. Without giving yourself time to overthink or back out, you took a deep breath and stepped into the shadows.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The sunlight glinted sharply off the polished blades of swords as Telemachus lunged forward, the force of his strike meeting resistance with a resounding clang.

His opponent, a burly soldier nearly twice his size, grunted as he barely parried the blow, sweat dripping down his temple as he staggered back a step.

Telemachus pressed his advantage. His footwork was nimble, each step calculated as he maneuvered around his sparring partner.

His strikes were quick and precise, the edge of his training sword catching the soldier's wrist just enough to disarm him. The sword clattered to the ground, and Telemachus' blade was at his opponent's throat before the man could recover.

"Yield!" the soldier barked, panting heavily. His voice carried more respect than irritation, his lips twitching into a grin despite the loss.

Telemachus stepped back immediately, lowering his sword as he extended a hand to his partner. His breathing was steady, his posture relaxed as though the exertion had barely affected him. "Good match," he said, his tone even, though a hint of pride flickered in his eyes.

The soldier clasped his hand, letting Telemachus help him to his feet. He laughed breathlessly, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "Good? That was brutal. You've got a knack for making a man feel old, my prince."

Telemachus chuckled softly, his grip firm but friendly. "I'd say it's time you found younger opponents," he replied, a teasing edge to his words as he gestured toward the training grounds.

The soldier rolled his shoulders, muttering something about needing a stiff drink before wandering off.

Telemachus watched him go before letting out a quiet sigh. His muscles ached pleasantly from the workout, but the tension in his shoulders refused to ease completely.

He stretched his arms over his head, the motion smooth and deliberate as he rolled his neck to loosen the stiffness. The training grounds buzzed with activity around him—soldiers sparring, the clang of steel against steel, and the barked orders of their instructors blending into a familiar symphony.

He stretched his arms over his head, the motion slow and deliberate as he felt the pull in his muscles, a satisfying ache spreading through his shoulders and back. His neck rolled to one side, then the other, each movement coaxing out a faint crack that echoed faintly in his ears.

The soreness in his arms and legs was a familiar companion—the kind of exhaustion that came with a well-fought spar, leaving his body heavy yet energized.

Sweat dripped steadily down his temple, trailing along his jaw before dropping onto the dirt below. He reached up to swipe his forearm across his forehead, the coarse fabric of his tunic absorbing the moisture. His palm brushed over the back of his neck, finding it damp and slick as the heat of the midday sun clung stubbornly to him.

The training grounds buzzed with life around him—a chaotic symphony of metal on metal and barked commands. Soldiers clashed with wooden and steel swords, their grunts of effort punctuating the sharp clang of blades.

The familiar cadence of boots hitting the ground in synchronized drills and the faint murmurs of those resting nearby painted a vivid tapestry of discipline and camaraderie.

Telemachus took a deep breath, the mingling scents of sweat, leather, and freshly turned dirt filling his lungs.

His gaze swept over the field, watching as one sparring pair exchanged rapid blows. The younger soldier stumbled under the weight of his partner's feint, his expression a mixture of frustration and determination.

Telemachus felt a faint tug of nostalgia, remembering his own early days of training, when every step forward felt like a battle hard-won.

Adjusting the towel draped over his shoulder, he turned toward the path leading back to his quarters. His boots crunched against the gravel with each step, the heat of the sun warm against his back as the din of the training grounds faded into the background.

His body protested with each movement—his calves tight, his shoulders heavy—but the soreness wasn't unpleasant. It was a reminder of his effort, of his dedication to bettering himself.

As he walked, his mind began to wander, the steady rhythm of his footsteps creating space for thoughts to creep in.

His thoughts trailed toward the evening before, unbidden and unwanted. He clenched his jaw slightly, the memory unfolding vividly in his mind.

The conversation about the stars had been breathtaking, and for a moment, he'd felt that quiet connection—like the vastness of the universe had been shared between two souls.

But then Andreia had appeared.

Telemachus' shoulders tightened instinctively, the sore muscles protesting as his hands curled into fists at his sides. He could still hear her voice, sweet and lilting, as she called him "Machus" with a familiarity that didn't feel earned.

He could see her smile, practiced and poised, as she slipped into the space that hadn't been hers to claim.

It wasn't her fault, not entirely. Andreia was doing what was expected of her—what any princess might do in her position—making connections, securing alliances. He knew that. But her presence, her effortless ability to turn the moment into something different, felt like an intrusion.

Not because of her, exactly, but because of what it had disrupted.

His steps slowed as he neared the courtyard that led to the palace. The stone walls cast long shadows across the ground, offering a brief respite from the sun. He exhaled sharply, his hand reaching up to run through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

It wasn't just about Andreia, though her persistence made it harder to ignore. It was about you—the way your presence lingered in his thoughts like an unspoken question, the quiet moments you'd shared that felt like secrets carved out of time.

He could still see the way your gaze had softened when you asked about the stars, the genuine curiosity in your voice. And he could still feel the weight of your absence when Andreia had swept in, turning the conversation into something else entirely.

He reached the door to his quarters, pausing with his hand on the cool metal handle. His chest felt tight, the conflicting emotions swirling like a storm just beneath the surface.

He didn't know how to untangle them—his duty, his desire, the growing awareness that the lines between them were blurring in ways he hadn't expected.

With a sigh, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was cooler here, a welcome relief against his overheated skin.

He set the towel down on a nearby stool, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he let the silence of the room envelop him. It was easier to think here, away from the clamor of the training grounds and the weight of expectations.

Even in the quiet of his room, your image lingered like a shadow refusing to fade. It was maddening how vividly you filled his mind—the warmth of your voice, the curve of your smile, the way your presence seemed to seep into every space around him, making it impossible to forget.

He sat still for a moment longer, his body relaxed yet his mind tense, as though grappling with an invisible force that refused to loosen its hold.

And then, the air shifted.

It was subtle at first—a faint change in temperature, the kind that sent a whisper of coolness crawling over his skin. But it deepened, growing colder, until a distinct chill wrapped around him, sharp and sudden.

Goosebumps prickled along his arms, the fine hairs standing on end. He blinked, his senses sharpening as an unfamiliar tension settled over the room.

The usual sounds of the outside world fell into silence, the distant chirping of birds outside his window vanishing as if swallowed by the quiet. Even the faint rustle of the breeze against the shutters stilled, leaving only a deafening void.

Telemachus tensed, his muscles coiling like a spring. His heartbeat thudded steadily in his chest, a stark contrast to the unnatural stillness surrounding him.

Instinct took over. His hand darted to his blade resting on the table beside him, the familiar weight of the hilt grounding him as his eyes scanned the room.

Every nerve in his body was alight, his breathing slow and measured as he prepared for... something.

He didn't know what, but his instincts screamed for readiness.

And then, it came—the voice.

"Son of Odysseus," a low, measured voice said, each word deliberate and echoing with an ancient wisdom. It was neither loud nor soft but carried an undeniable weight, as though the very air around him bent to its presence.

Telemachus spun around, his grip tightening on his blade as he searched for the source. His movements were precise, honed by years of training, but his heart still hammered against his ribs. His gaze darted across the room, sharp and probing, until it landed on a figure that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Athena.

She stood near the window, her presence commanding yet calm, as if she'd always been there.

The goddess leaned casually on her spear, the long, elegant weapon doubling as a cane. It was a strange sight—a symbol of war and strength being used as support—but the way she held it gave no room for mockery.

Her bronze armor glimmered faintly, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light, as though alive. A light blue chiton flowed beneath the armor, draping elegantly around her form and giving her a presence that was both regal and unyielding.

Her auburn hair was intricately braided, framing a face that was equal parts beauty and intensity. But it was her eyes—stormy grey, piercing and unrelenting—that held him frozen.

They seemed to see through him, to the very core of who he was.

"You're improving," Athena said, her voice calm yet laced with an edge of approval. She straightened, tapping the butt of her spear lightly against the floor. "Your reaction time is better than I expected."

Telemachus released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his grip on the hilt of his blade loosening ever so slightly. "Athena," he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of awe. He bowed his head briefly, a show of respect mingled with lingering disbelief. "To what do I owe this... visit?"

The faintest smirk curved her lips, though her eyes remained as sharp as ever. "Must I always have a reason to appear?" she asked, her tone teasing but carrying an undertone of something more profound. "Perhaps I simply wished to see how my protégé fares."

Her words brought a flicker of both pride and wariness to Telemachus' expression. He straightened, his shoulders squaring as he met her gaze. "I do my best to uphold the lessons you've taught me," he replied, his voice steady. "If I've made progress, it's because of your guidance."

Athena's smirk softened into something closer to a smile, though her demeanor remained calculated. "Spoken like a true son of Odysseus," she said, her voice low and steady. The tap of her spear against the floor echoed faintly with each deliberate step she took toward him.

When she stopped just a few feet away, the room seemed smaller, heavier, as though her essence had taken up more than its physical share.

Telemachus swallowed, straightening his posture, though he kept his gaze steady. The goddess tilted her head slightly, her piercing eyes sweeping over him, reading him as if the intricacies of his thoughts were etched across his face.

Then, she spoke again, her voice threaded with an almost imperceptible amusement.

"Tell me, Telemachus," she began, her tone calm but expectant, "do you still have it? The enchanted music sheet I entrusted to your father, meant for you and those loyal to you, to reclaim Ithaca from the suitors?"

For a moment, his expression faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "The... music sheet?" he repeated, the words slow and uncertain, as though they were foreign to his tongue. But almost as soon as he spoke, a glimmer of recognition ignited in his eyes. "Ah... yes, I remember."

Without another word, Telemachus turned sharply, his footsteps quick yet precise as he moved toward the small wooden chest that sat on the bedside table. His hands hesitated briefly as he reached for the lid, the memories of the enchanted parchment resurfacing with startling clarity.

The last time he had touched it was after the suitors had been dealt with, when Athena had appeared to him in a dream, urging him to retrieve the parchment from where you had kept it safely hidden.

The dream had been vivid, almost unnervingly so. Her voice had guided him, firm and unwavering, instructing him to take back the music sheet—a relic of divine intervention that had served its purpose. He had woken with the weight of the command heavy on his chest, and though it had taken days to reach you, he remembered the way you had handed it over without hesitation, your expression marked by a quiet understanding.

Telemachus opened the chest, his movements deliberate, and pulled out the folded piece of parchment. Even now, it radiated an inexplicable energy, a subtle hum in his fingertips that sent a faint shiver down his spine. The notes etched into the surface seemed to shift under the faint light, otherworldly and intricate, as though imbued with the divine care of Athena herself.

He straightened, the parchment held carefully in his hand, and turned back to the goddess. Each step he took toward her felt weighted, the air between them charged with a peculiar gravity. When he finally stood before her, he extended the music sheet with both hands, his gaze flickering briefly to her unreadable expression.

Athena's grey eyes gleamed as she reached out, her fingers curling around the parchment with a gentleness that contrasted the sharp authority of her movements.

For a brief moment, she held it aloft, her gaze sweeping over its surface as if confirming its authenticity. Then, without warning, her grip tightened, and the parchment erupted into a burst of flame.

The fire was not ordinary; it burned bright and golden, casting an ethereal glow that filled the room. The heat was immediate but not scalding, radiating a warmth that felt more like a divine presence than a physical sensation. The enchanted parchment disintegrated rapidly, its ashes scattering like fleeting motes of light that dissolved into nothingness.

Telemachus watched in stunned silence, his breath catching as the last remnants of the music sheet vanished. There was a finality to the act, a symbolic severance of its purpose now fulfilled. He glanced up at Athena, who lowered her hand slowly, her expression resolute.

"It is done," she said, her voice as calm and commanding as ever. "Its power was no longer needed. The song has played its part in your story."

Telemachus nodded, though the weight of the moment lingered. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind. "For trusting us with it."

Athena's gaze softened slightly, and for a fleeting moment, she seemed almost proud. "You have proven yourselves worthy of that trust," she replied, her tone measured. "But do not mistake this for the end, son of Odysseus. The fates are not yet done with you." Her words lingered, heavy with a foreboding that sent a chill through him, despite the lingering warmth of the fire.

Telemachus furrowed his brow, the cryptic nature of her words gnawing at him. He shifted on his feet, his gaze searching hers for something clearer, something tangible. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with a flicker of unease. "What more could the fates possibly want from me?"

For a moment, Athena said nothing, her eyes studying him intently, as though weighing whether to reveal the truth or keep it buried beneath layers of divine secrecy. The silence stretched, each second an eternity, until finally, she spoke.

"The threads of your destiny are woven into a tapestry far more complex than you can imagine," she said, her voice low and deliberate. "The music you carried—it was but a single note in a symphony yet to come. Its role is done, but yours... yours is only beginning."

Her words landed heavily, each one pressing down on him like the weight of the world. Telemachus shook his head, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "You speak in riddles, my lady," he said, his voice laced with a rare edge. "How am I supposed to act when I don't even understand what's being asked of me?"

Athena's eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time, her calm demeanor seemed to shift. Her grip on her spear tightened, the faintest glint of irritation flashing in her gaze. "Do not presume to question the gods so freely, son of Odysseus," she said, her tone cool but not unkind. "But I see you seek clarity. Very well. I will give you this much."

She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming yet strangely comforting, like the weight of a shield in battle. "The music was a thread," she continued, her voice softening. "Its purpose fulfilled. But you—Telemachus—you are to be the hand that steadies the loom. To guard, to guide, and, if necessary, to sacrifice. You are tied to one whose voice will shift the tides of fate. One whose presence will ripple through the lives of mortals and gods alike."

Telemachus frowned, his chest tightening as her words settled over him like a stormcloud. "Who?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "Who am I meant to guard? To guide?"

Athena's gaze lingered on him, her expression unreadable. "You will see, but for now, know this: you are bound to one whose destiny intertwines with yours," she said cryptically. "You are bound to them by more than fate, Telemachus. By favor. By lineage. You, like another, have drawn the eye of Apollo himself."

Her words struck him like a physical blow, his breath hitching as the weight of the revelation settled in his chest. His thoughts reeled, tumbling over themselves in a desperate attempt to make sense of it all. Apollo? Why? Why would a god of prophecy, music, and light take interest in him—or in someone tied to him? The question burned in his mind, heavy and unanswered.

"Why?" he asked, his voice trembling despite himself. "Why would Apollo favor me?"

Athena's faint smile returned, enigmatic and knowing. "Not you," she said, her tone carrying a note of something deeper. "But one you are destined to. One whose voice will change the course of many lives—including your own."

The air around her seemed to shimmer faintly, the glow of her form intensifying as her presence began to waver. "Prepare yourself, Telemachus, son of Odysseus," she said, her voice lingering even as her image began to fade into the ether. "The road ahead will test you in ways you cannot yet imagine. Strengthen your resolve, for the fates have set their sights upon you and Apollo's favored one."

And with that, she was gone, leaving only the faintest trace of her divine presence lingering in the air.

Telemachus stood there, rooted to the spot, her words echoing in his mind like a drumbeat, steady and unrelenting. The room felt colder now, emptier, the weight of her message pressing down on him like an unseen force.

He took a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling unevenly as Athena's words replayed in his mind, looping endlessly like a song that refused to end. Her voice—calm, deliberate, and heavy with meaning—had carved its way into his thoughts, leaving a trail of questions in its wake.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his nails pressing faint crescents into his palms as he tried to grasp the enormity of what she had said.

"To guard, to guide, to sacrifice..." he murmured under his breath, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. Who was she talking about? Had he already met this person, unknowingly tied his fate to theirs? Or were they still a shadow on the horizon, someone he would encounter on a journey not yet traveled? The thought made his stomach churn, a mix of anticipation and dread swirling within him.

He let his eyes drift to the faint glow of the embers in the hearth, their light flickering against the walls in soft, uneven patterns. The room felt quieter now, almost stifling, as if Athena had drawn all the energy from it when she left. He could still feel the weight of her presence, lingering in the air like a fading scent, reminding him of the gravity of her words.

Apollo. The name alone sent a shiver down his spine. A god of many facets—light, prophecy, music, and healing. And yet, what did Apollo have to do with him?

Telemachus rubbed a hand over his face, frustration mounting as he tried to make sense of it all. Was this person she spoke of connected to Apollo's favor? Was it their voice that would change lives, or was it something more? The possibilities felt endless, each one heavier than the last.

His mind wandered to the people he already knew, searching for some clue, some sign he might have overlooked. Was it one of his trusted companions, someone who had stood by his side during Ithaca's darkest days? Or was it someone he had only crossed paths with briefly, their role in his life yet to be revealed?

He thought of you—your voice, your presence—and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if it could be you. But then, doubts crept in, muddying his thoughts. Athena's cryptic nature left too much unsaid, too much to speculate.

He shook his head, trying to clear the haze that had settled over his mind. His father's teachings came back to him then, steady and grounding. "When the path ahead is unclear, focus on the steps before you," Odysseus had once told him, his voice calm but firm. "The answers will come in time, but only if you're willing to face the unknown with open eyes and steady resolve."

Telemachus exhaled slowly, letting the words anchor him. Whatever Athena's prophecy meant, whatever trials awaited him, he couldn't allow himself to falter. His father's legacy was one of strength, resilience, and cunning—traits he had worked tirelessly to embody.

If this was his path, then he would walk it, no matter how uncertain or daunting it seemed.

Still, the questions lingered, clinging to the edges of his thoughts like shadows that refused to fade. He turned from the hearth, pacing the length of the room in an attempt to quiet his restless mind.

The soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet was a welcome distraction, a small, grounding sound in the midst of the storm raging within him.

Would this person change his life for the better, or would their arrival bring challenges he couldn't yet foresee? The weight of Athena's words settled over him again, but this time, it felt less suffocating.

The spark of determination within him had grown, faint but steady, a reminder of the strength he carried in his blood.

Telemachus paused, his gaze settling on the door as if it held the answers he sought. Whoever this person was, wherever they were, he would meet them when the time was right.

Until then, he would do as his father had taught him—face the unknown with courage, strength, and the unyielding resolve of a son of Ithaca.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The world twisted and folded around you, a disorienting rush of cold air and weightlessness pulling at your senses. Falling and floating all at once, your body felt unmoored, your thoughts scrambled and scattered.

You shut your eyes tightly, clutching the lyre like a lifeline as the sensation overwhelmed you.

When the ground finally met your feet, it wasn't with a thud but a soft, disjointed sway, as if the space itself were still settling. You stumbled, legs weak and unsteady, as your surroundings began to sharpen into focus.

The air was heavy, dense with the faint metallic tang of iron and the distant echo of something shifting—stone, water, or maybe both. As you blinked to clear your vision, jagged stone arches emerged from the darkness above, their surfaces shimmering faintly as if carved from obsidian.

A chill crept up your spine, and you instinctively hugged the lyre closer, its warmth grounding you.

Behind you, the faint glow of the mortal world shimmered through a small tunnel of golden light. The sight made your chest tighten. It was both comforting and distant, a fragile reminder of what you had left behind—and what you might not return to if things went wrong.

"Okay, ____," you murmured, your voice trembling as you tried to steady your nerves. "You're here. That's the first step."

The words sounded hollow in the vastness around you, but saying them aloud gave you something to hold onto. Taking a shaky breath, you forced your legs to move, each step unsteady as you followed the narrow path ahead.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven, cold. Polished stone patches gave way to jagged edges that forced your steps to be cautious. Silence pressed against your ears, broken only by the occasional whisper of air or the faint hum of resonance that emanated from the lyre.

You focused on your movements—the sensation of your steps, the weight of the lyre—anything to keep your thoughts steady.

The path curved downward, opening gradually to reveal the river. The familiar, sluggish expanse of dark water shimmered faintly under ethereal light. Mist curled along its surface, twisting and rising like ghostly fingers, adding to the unsettling stillness of the scene.

You stopped, breath catching as the memory of Hermes' words resurfaced. "Regrets. Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

The slow-moving shadows beneath the river's surface rippled, as though sensing your presence. One slithered closer before vanishing again, and you instinctively stepped back, your pulse quickening.

Ahead, the rickety pier came into view, its weathered structure jutting into the murky water. Your chest tightened at the sight—this was where you had seen Charon before. The silent ferryman had unnerved you last time, and now, without Hermes' playful banter to guide or distract you, the weight of the Underworld felt heavier.

Each step toward the pier was deliberate, the lyre's faint hum your only comfort against the oppressive silence pressing in from all sides. Mist swirled as you approached, rippling like it anticipated your arrival.

Whatever lay ahead, you reminded yourself, you had chosen this. The reasons might not yet be clear, but turning back wasn't an option.

Then, almost as if he had sensed your thoughts, a figure emerged from the fog.

The sound of water lapping against a wooden hull drew your gaze, and your breath hitched as a boat glided forward. A lantern at its prow swung gently, casting an eerie green glow that danced across the river's surface. Shadows pulsed in rhythm with the light, deepening the atmosphere of unease.

Your stomach dropped as the ferryman came into view. His cloaked figure was imposing, wrapped in tattered black layers that fluttered as if caught in a wind that you couldn't feel. His very presence seemed to chill the air, drawing it tighter around you.

The lantern's glow illuminated his gaunt, skeletal hands—more bone than flesh—as they gripped a weathered oar. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the faint glow of ghostly green eyes burned through the shadows, locking onto you with an unrelenting gaze.

You froze, your limbs stiff as stone, as the boat drew closer. The boat itself looked ancient, its wood warped and cracked, yet it glided effortlessly across the water. When it stopped in front of you, the lantern swung again, its creaking hinge breaking the oppressive silence.

One of Charon's four skeletal hands extended toward you, slow and deliberate. His voice, deep and gravelly, reverberated through the mist like the groan of collapsing stone. "...Fare..."

The single word vibrated through your very bones, sending a shiver down your spine. You stared at his outstretched hand, breath caught in your throat. Every detail of him felt surreal—the void beneath his hat, the eerie fluidity of his movements, the way his presence seemed to drain the light from the air.

The silence stretched unnervingly, and for a moment, it felt as though the Underworld itself had paused to watch.

You snapped out of your stupor, your hands fumbling for the small pouch tied to your side. Used for paying the palace seamstress, it now held the only thing standing between you and the ferryman's silent judgment. The coins inside clinked softly as you pulled the pouch free.

Your fingers trembled as you untied it, the motion painfully slow under the weight of his piercing gaze. Those pale, glowing eyes seemed to bore into you, unyielding and inescapable. With a shaky breath, you reached inside and withdrew a single coin, holding it up for him to see.

For what felt like an eternity, the ferryman remained motionless. The sharp angles of his shadowed frame loomed against the faint green glow of the lantern. His sunken face, half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat, seemed carved from the very darkness around him. The eerie glow of his eyes cut through the mist, pinning you in place as though daring you to falter.

Finally, his bony fingers moved, reaching for the coin with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed unnaturally in the still air, sharp and grating, making you flinch.

A shiver raced down your spine as he plucked the coin from your trembling hand, his touch impossibly cold, as if he carried the chill of the river itself.

Without a word, he turned, his tattered cloak billowing slightly as he moved, fluid as smoke and just as intangible. The lantern's faint glow swung with him, casting warped reflections across the rippling waters.

One skeletal hand rested on the oar as he glanced back at you, his hollow gaze unwavering. His other hand rose, gesturing toward the boat with an unmistakable command: Come.

You glanced over your shoulder, toward the fading tunnel of golden light that marked the mortal realm. Doubt clawed at your chest, but the ferryman's expectant presence left no room for hesitation.

Swallowing hard, you squared your shoulders. You had made your choice. Whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back now.

Taking a tentative step forward, you placed a trembling foot onto the boat. It creaked under your weight, the sound reverberating through the stillness like a warning. The aged wood was damp beneath your sandals, the faint scent of decay mingling with the mist.

You lowered yourself onto one of the worn benches, your hands gripping the edge tightly, as though it might anchor you against the unsteady currents of fear swirling within.

Charon took his place at the stern, his skeletal fingers wrapping around the oar with a practiced ease. The lantern swung again, its ghostly green light casting fleeting shadows across the water—shadows that seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own.

With a single, measured push of the oar, the boat began to glide forward.

The river's dark waters parted silently, the mist curling and thickening as the boat slipped further from the shore. Behind you, the faint glimmer of the mortal world was swallowed by shadows, leaving only the rhythmic splash of the oar and the lantern's eerie glow.

You sat rigidly on the bench, your heart pounding in your chest. The silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional sound of the oar cutting through the water. The ferryman stood at the helm, his cloaked form a dark sentinel, his movements precise and unhurried, as though he had made this journey countless times.

The further you traveled, the more the mist seemed to close in around you, muffling even your own breathing. The air was thick with anticipation, the shadows pressing closer with every moment.

A cold realization settled over you as you clutched the bench tighter. You could only follow the ferryman's lead now, trusting that the shadows would reveal what you sought—when they were ready.

☆

☆

Time stretched and blurred as the ferry glided through the unending mists. The soft splash of the oar against the dark water became a hypnotic rhythm, lulling you into a heavy stillness.

You didn't dare speak, nor did the Charon seem inclined to break the silence. The faint green glow of his lantern was your only guide, its ethereal light carving fleeting patterns into the murky depths. Though your grip on the bench had loosened, your fingers still twitched occasionally, betraying the restless churn of your thoughts.

When the boat finally slowed, the change startled you. You nearly jolted upright, your muscles stiff from sitting so long in tense silence. The ferry's hull scraped lightly against an unseen shore, the jarring sound echoing sharply through the oppressive quiet.

You turned to Charon, who stood motionless at the stern, his gaze fixed on the horizon—or perhaps something beyond mortal sight. Slowly, he raised a bony hand, gesturing for you to disembark.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven and ancient, the chill of the stone seeping through your sandals. It felt firm but unwelcoming, a stark reminder that this was not a place meant for the living.

You hesitated, glancing back at Charon, but he had already turned away. His lantern swayed gently as he prepared for another journey, its light casting warped shadows over the dark water. Without a word or farewell, the ferry slipped back into the mist, its silhouette fading until it was gone, leaving you utterly alone.

Your breath puffed softly in the chill air, the faint mist curling around you like restless tendrils. You scanned the unfamiliar terrain, trying to orient yourself, but everything felt vast and disorienting, the darkness stretching infinitely in every direction.

Fragments of memory stirred—recollections of the path Hermes had taken during your chaotic journey here before. His quick pace, light-hearted commentary, and seemingly effortless navigation of this otherworldly realm had once been your anchor. Now, you clung desperately to those fragments, hoping they would guide you again.

Taking a deep breath, you started forward, each step cautious and deliberate. The air felt heavier with each movement, thick and harsh, as though the realm itself resisted your presence.

You retraced what landmarks you could remember: jagged rock formations that rose like skeletal hands from the ground, faintly glowing pools of water scattered across the barren landscape, and ghostly trees whose pale branches hummed with an unnatural energy.

You passed a cluster of those trees now, their twisted forms reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. The faint hum they emitted seemed to brush against the edges of your consciousness, sending an involuntary shiver through you.

Fixing your gaze forward, you resisted the urge to look back over your shoulder, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against your senses like the realm itself was watching.

It wasn't long before the path began to shift as you moved. The jagged rocks smoothed out, the glowing pools became sparser, and the oppressive silence gave way to faint whispers carried on the still air.

Ahead, a pale light began to glow, muted and distant, like dawn struggling through heavy clouds. Relief and unease mingled in your chest as recognition dawned.

The Asphodel Fields stretched out before you, an endless expanse of muted silver and grey. The mist clinging to the ground thickened here, swirling around your ankles as you took hesitant steps forward.

The ghostly forms of souls drifted aimlessly through the field, their movements slow and unhurried. Some gathered in small clusters, their translucent figures flickering like dying embers, while others wandered alone, their forms barely distinguishable from the mist.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you gazed over the field, its muted whispers and flickering souls a stark reminder of your isolation that came with being alive in a place meant for the dead.

The weight of your task pressed heavily on your shoulders. You scanned the misty expanse, your heartbeat loud in your ears. Somewhere out there, among the countless wandering souls, Cleo was waiting.

The thought rooted you in place and spurred you forward all at once, the tangle of emotions tightening in your chest.

Inhaling deeply, you steadied your nerves. "Alright," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the faint hum of the field. "Let's find her."

With that, you began to move, your steps careful but purposeful as you delved deeper into the endless grey expanse.

.☆.
      .✩.
            .☆.

Each step through the Asphodel Fields felt heavier than the last, your resolve thinning with every stretch of indistinguishable terrain. The pale mist swirled lazily around your feet, its persistent presence adding to the disorienting monotony of your surroundings. Ghostly figures drifted silently, their movements aimless in the muted glow of the Fields.

But no matter how closely you looked, none of them were her.

Your thoughts drifted as you walked, memories you'd tried to bury rising unbidden. At one point, your pace faltered, and you hesitated, glancing around the endless mist. A flicker of a thought whispered in your mind—what if, instead of Cleo, I went to look for my parents? The idea caught you off guard, tightening your chest with its fragile promise of seeing them again.

You shook the thought away forcefully, the weight of your task grounding you. You couldn't afford to get distracted. Not now. Cleo was the reason you were here. Your parents would remain locked in memory, waiting for another time—if such a time ever came.

You pressed on, your feet aching with every step. The silence around you was broken only by the faint whispers of the souls that drifted nearby, their movements occasionally drawing your attention. Yet, every flicker of hope dissolved into disappointment.

Doubt began to creep into your mind, clawing at the edges of your determination. What if you couldn't find her? What if she was lost among the countless wandering souls, unreachable in this endless expanse?

What if—

"____."

Your heart stilled, then surged as your body went rigid. You turned sharply, your eyes scanning the misty expanse behind you. For a moment, there was nothing but the familiar swirl of fog, its muted glow barely illuminating the surroundings. Then, like a figure stepping out of a half-remembered dream, you saw her.

Cleo.

She stood across from you, her form pale and translucent but unmistakably hers. Mist curled around her ankles, and the dim light of the Fields clung to her like a fragile halo. Her blonde hair, now dull and lifeless, still fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Her green eyes, once alight with mischief, now held a haunting stillness that made your breath catch.

Neither of you moved. The distance between you felt insurmountable, though it couldn't have been more than a few paces. You didn't know what to say, what to feel. Emotions swirled in a chaotic storm—anger, sadness, relief—leaving you rooted in place.

Finally, you took a hesitant step forward, your voice shaky. "Cleo... is it really you?"

Her lips parted slightly, her green eyes meeting yours and for a fleeting moment, she looked just as she had in life—your friend, your confidant, the one who had laughed with you under the moonlight and shared whispered secrets.

You thought she might smile, or speak, or even reach for you like she had so many times before in life. But then, her expression crumpled, and she collapsed to the ashen ground, her knees buckling as if the weight of this place had finally crushed her.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice raw and broken. Her trembling hands reached toward you, her spectral form shaking with desperation. "Please, ____, get me out of here. I don't belong here."

The plea cut through you like a blade. You stared at her, frozen, your breath catching in your throat. "Cleo... I-I don't understand," you whispered. "What do you mean? How can I—?"

Her head snapped up, her expression twisting into something sharp, angry. "You don't understand?" she spat, her voice rising with venom. "Of course, you don't. You've never understood. You don't know what it's like to be trapped, to be forgotten, to wander endlessly in this... this nothingness!"

Her sudden anger made you step back, the force of her words leaving you stunned. "Cleo, I—" you tried, but she cut you off, lashing out with venomous intensity.

"You don't deserve the life you have," she hissed, her translucent form flickering with fury. "You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are? How unfair it is that you stand here, alive and whole, while I'm stuck in this wretched place?"

Her words struck like a whip, each one leaving you reeling. "Cleo, that's not my fault—" you began, but she surged forward, her form closing the distance in an instant.

"It was supposed to be you, down here," she snarled, her face inches from yours now. Her voice cracked with the weight of her anger and grief. "It's supposed to be you reduced to nothing! But instead, gods themselves bend over backwards to change your fate."

The accusation left you breathless, your mind reeling as her words twisted the air around you. The endless grey of the Fields pressed in closer, amplifying the suffocating weight of her fury. Your lips parted, but no sound escaped, your throat dry and tight.

You wanted to deny her claims, to say something, anything, that could bridge the ever-widening chasm between you. But before the moment could spiral further, a figure emerged from the mist behind you.

"Enough," a familiar voice commanded, firm but quiet.

You turned to see Polites stepping forward, his weathered face set in a grim expression. His piercing gaze flicked between you and Cleo as he approached, the tension in the air palpable. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

"You need to go," he said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated, glancing back at Cleo. Her form flickered, her green eyes burning with a mixture of anger and anguish. She didn't speak again, her hands curling into fists at her sides as Polites guided you away.

Each step away from her felt heavier, her words echoing in your mind. The mist swirled and shifted around you, a silent witness to the turmoil churning in your chest.

"Polites," you finally murmured, your voice shaky as you glanced up at him. "What did she mean? What did Cleo mean when she said... it was supposed to be me down here?"

Polites' steps faltered slightly, his jaw tightening as a flicker of guilt crossed his features. He didn't meet your eyes. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Maybe... you should ask Hermes," he said after a long pause.

Your heart sank at his evasive answer, but you didn't press further.

The silence between you was heavy as Polites left you standing at the edge of the Fields. His retreating footsteps faded into the mist, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the weight of the unspoken truths hanging in the air.

You ran a trembling hand down your face, exhaling shakily as you tried to make sense of it all. Twice now, you'd heard of this supposed favor from a god—first from your parents, and now from Cleo.

What were you missing? What had they seen or known that you didn't? The question gnawed at you, a seed of doubt taking root deep in your chest.

Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself, "Alright. One thing at a time." Maybe it was best to return home, to think in familiar surroundings. You needed space to figure out your next move.

Just as you turned to leave, a deep, guttural growl rumbled through the mist. You froze, every muscle in your body locking at the sound.

Slowly, you turned, your breath hitching as a massive shape emerged from the haze.

It was huge—easily towering over you—and as it stepped closer, the details sharpened, each more horrifying than the last.

Three massive heads loomed above, their glowing eyes burning like embers. Coarse black fur covered its hulking form, and its massive paws left deep impressions in the ashen ground with each step. Saliva dripped from its snarling jaws, and the hot, foul stench of its breath made you want to gag.

Your lips parted in disbelief. There was no mistaking it.

"Cerberus," you whispered, the name trembling on your lips as you stood frozen in place, the monstrous guardian of the Underworld looming before you.

All three heads turned toward you in unison, their fiery eyes locking onto you with unnerving precision. Low, guttural growls rumbled through the air, vibrating in your chest.

Panic seized you, your thoughts spiraling. What am I doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? You stumbled back, the lyre slipping slightly in your sweaty hands. I should have waited for Hermes to come back. I should have asked more questions. I never should have come down here alone.

Cerberus took a deliberate step forward, the crunch of its paw against the ground snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. You sucked in a shaky breath. Think. ____! Think! you urged yourself, but your mind was a chaotic mess, your fear making it impossible to focus.

Then, a flicker of a story crept into the back of your mind—something you'd read long ago. Orpheus. Your breath caught as the memory took hold, fragments of the myth piecing themselves together. Orpheus had journeyed to the Underworld to retrieve his beloved Eurydice. And how had he passed Cerberus? He'd used music. His lyre.

Your gaze flicked down to the instrument in your hands. It wasn't much, and you certainly weren't Orpheus, but it was all you had.

If the myth held any truth, it might work. And if not... well, the alternative stared you down with six glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth that could tear you apart in an instant.

You licked your dry lips, fingers fumbling clumsily over the strings. The lyre felt heavy in your hands, almost alien, despite the countless hours you'd spent practicing. Swallowing hard, you steadied your breath as best as you could and strummed a soft, trembling chord.

The growls faltered, quieting slightly.

Encouraged, you adjusted your grip and strummed again, the sound ringing out through the silence. This time, you began to hum, the melody unfurling unbidden, as though it had been waiting for this moment.

"Rest now, guardian of the gate,

Droop your weary heads, abate.

The night is calm, the shadows deep,

And the calm shall bring you plenty sleep..."

Your voice wavered at first, the words faltering as fear gripped you. But as the melody unfolded, you found a rhythm. The lilting tune floated through the air, gentle and soothing. The fiery glow in Cerberus' eyes dimmed slightly, its heads tilting as though listening.

"You'll dream of rivers, dark and still,

Of gentle winds on shadowed hill.

Allow the world fade far away,

And greet the dawn another day..."

The great beast's posture relaxed. Its massive heads lowered, ears flicking forward as the melody wound through the air. You played on, your fingers gliding over the strings with newfound confidence, your voice steadying with each note.

The lullaby wrapped around Cerberus like a soft blanket. Its breathing slowed and the tension in its massive frame eased as the melody worked its magic.

The last note hung in the air, fading into the stillness of the Underworld, and for a moment, everything was utterly silent.

Then, the guardian let out a low, plaintive whine. It shifted its massive weight, shimmying forward on its colossal paws, sending a ripple through the ground beneath you.

You froze, gripping your lyre tightly as Cerberus closed the distance. One of its heads crept closer, its glowing eyes half-lidded, tongue lolling like an oversized, lazy hound. The sight was so absurd that it sent an involuntary laugh bubbling up from your chest.

The sound seemed to embolden the creature, its middle head nudging forward. The damp, cold nose bumped into your torso with a force that nearly sent you sprawling backward. You stumbled, catching yourself with one hand as the other clutched the lyre tightly.

"Alright, there, there," you murmured, half to yourself, half to beast. "You're just... a dog, aren't you?"

At your words, all three heads perked up, tongues lolling and tails wagging in unison. The sight of the Underworld's fearsome guardian behaving like an overexcited puppy was almost too much to process.

Hesitantly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against the soft fur on its maw. The enormous body lowered to the ground, all three heads leaning in, their eyes closing in bliss as you scratched gently. Each head let out a contented rumble, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you.

"Of course. The Underworld's greatest guardian... is just a giant dog."

Cerberus' middle head licked your arm in response, the force of it knocking you back. You couldn't help but laugh this time, the tension in your chest loosening as you regained your balance and kept scratching its face.

For a brief moment, everything felt oddly normal—peaceful, even.

But then, without warning—"Cerberus!"

The voice boomed through the Underworld, deep and commanding, shaking the very air around you like thunder. Cerberus' contented rumbling stopped abruptly. All three heads perked up, ears swiveling toward the sound.

Before you could process what was happening, the beast moved. The middle head dipped low, jaws opening wide enough to engulf you.

A startled yelp escaped you as the ground disappeared beneath your feet, the sensation of wet fur and sharp teeth surrounding you—but not hurting you. It wasn't trying to harm you; it was protecting you.

The next thing you knew, the guardian surged forward, its massive paws pounding against the ashen ground. The shadows of the Underworld blurred around you as Cerberus carried you deeper into the unknown.

You clung to the lyre, your thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and disbelief. The Underworld raced past in a whirlwind of darkness, and all you could do was hold on.

.☆.
      .✩.
            .☆.

The mist of the Underworld blurred past as Cerberus carried you, his paws thundering against the ashen ground. The rhythm echoed in your chest, leaving you feeling small and fragile in comparison to the sheer power of the beast. Shadows and faint glimmers of light pulsed around you, the surreal expanse of the realm disorienting in its vastness.

Finally, the pounding slowed, then stopped altogether.

Cerberus lowered his middle head with surprising care, depositing you onto a cold, smooth surface. You stumbled as you landed, your palms bracing against the polished marble beneath you. You blinked, disoriented, before lifting your head to take in your surroundings.

The room was otherworldly, its ceilings stretching into darkness.

Pale grey light filtered in from unseen sources, illuminating a floor of black marble so polished it seemed to drink in the faint glow. Massive pillars lined the space, their surfaces carved with intricate, haunting designs—twisting vines, sorrowful faces, and scenes of life and death immortalized in stone.

At the far end of the room, a grand dais loomed. Two thrones stood upon it, each a study in stark contrast.

The first was dark and foreboding, carved from black obsidian that seemed to absorb the faint light rather than reflect it. The seat itself was simple yet commanding, its edges sharp and unyielding, exuding an air of finality that sent a chill down your spine. Seated upon it was Hades, the ruler of this realm.

His pale skin appeared almost translucent, stark against the jet-black hair that framed his sharp features. His dark eyes, fathomless and piercing, bore into you with an intensity that left you rooted to the spot. Though weariness hung about him like a heavy cloak, it did nothing to diminish the quiet strength that radiated from him.

Beside him, on a throne of shimmering alabaster, sat Persephone. Where Hades exuded darkness, she seemed to glow with a soft, ethereal light.

Golden waves framed her face, and her gown shimmered in hues of green and gold, like a garden in bloom. But her face, though youthful and radiant, was devoid of the brightness you might have expected from such a being. Her expression was distant, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room, as though she was physically present but emotionally elsewhere.

The air grew colder as a low, gravelly voice echoed through the room, snapping your attention back to the dais.

"Why do you travel to the Underworld, mortal?" the voice rumbled, the sound filling the space like distant thunder. "You do not belong here."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you realized the voice came from Hades himself. The weight of his words pressed down on you, your heart pounding as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you bare. The meaning of his stare left no room for doubt—he demanded answers.

Persephone, meanwhile, remained silent, her delicate hands resting on the arms of her throne, her gaze flickering to you only briefly before she returned to her faraway thoughts.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive as you glanced between the two thrones. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to say something, anything, to justify your presence.

Finally, Hades' gaze shifted to Cerberus, who stood at your side. "Why did you bring her here?" His tone sharpened, cold and commanding. "Have you forgotten your purpose, beast? Incapable of doing your job?"

Cerberus let out a low whine, his three heads dipping low in unison, ears flattening against their skulls. His massive frame seemed to shrink under his master's displeasure, his paws scraping at the marble floor in a gesture that looked almost contrite.

The sight stirred something in you—a pang of guilt for the creature that had, in its own way, tried to protect you.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward and bowed deeply. "M-My lord," you began, your voice trembling but steady. "Please don't blame him. He acted only to protect your realm. I am the one at fault." You glanced briefly at Cerberus, whose heads perked up slightly at your words. "I—I mean no harm, I swear it. I only... I only found myself lost."

As you spoke, you clutched your lyre tightly against your chest, the smooth metal cool beneath your trembling fingers. Unbeknownst to you, a faint glow began to seep from the instrument, its soft light catching Hades' attention. His dark eyes narrowed as they flickered to the lyre, though he said nothing.

Persephone's voice cut through the tension like a blade, soft yet piercing. "What is it you hold in your hands?" Her gaze, sharp and curious, locked onto the instrument cradled against you.

You blinked, her question catching you off guard. "I... it's a lyre," you stammered. "A gift I was given." Your words faltered, and then, as though compelled by some invisible force, you added, "From the god Hermes."

The room fell into a charged silence, the weight of your words pressing down like a tangible force. Hades' expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he exchanged a glance with Persephone. She tilted her head slightly, her golden hair catching the dim light as her gaze returned to you.

"Play me a song," she said simply, her voice carrying a quiet insistence.

Your heart leapt into your throat. "I—I beg your pardon?" you stuttered, uncertain you had heard her correctly.

"Play," she repeated, her tone softer now, almost wistful. "If Hermes gave it to you, then surely you must be worth hearing. It has been... so long since I heard music."

You glanced at Hades, hoping for some reprieve, but his gaze remained steady, unreadable as though daring you to deny his queen's request. Refusal was not an option. Swallowing hard, you bowed your head. "As you wish."

Your trembling fingers brushed the strings of the lyre as you positioned it carefully. Your mind raced as you searched for the right song, something that might please the queen but also calm the heavy tension that hung in the room. And then, almost instinctively, your thoughts turned to Penelope. The song you had often played for her came to mind, its melody soft and bittersweet—a reflection of longing and resilience.

You began to strum the strings gently, the first notes echoing softly through the vast throne room. The melody filled the cold, empty space, weaving its way through the shadows and carving out a moment of warmth amidst the gloom.

As the melody grew, so did your confidence. You began to sing, your voice trembling at first but finding strength as you continued.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way. "

Persephone's expression shifted as she listened, her gaze growing softer, her hands clutching the arms of her throne. Even Hades seemed to relax, the sharp lines of his face easing ever so slightly.

When the final note faded into silence, you let out a shaky breath, lowering the lyre as your hands trembled.

A soft sniffle broke the stillness. You turned toward Persephone, whose delicate hand rose to wipe at her eyes. She blinked rapidly, as though trying to hold back tears, but it was no use. "Your voice," she murmured, her tone trembling. "It reminds me of Orpheus. He sang with the same yearning, the same pain. It's... haunting." Her words hung in the air, heavy with emotion.

Your lips parted, unsure of how to respond to such a vulnerable admission. The Queen of the Underworld, so poised and otherworldly, now sat before you with tears in her eyes, stirred by your song. A lump formed in your throat, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak. What could you possibly say to that?

Hades cleared his throat, his deep voice slicing through the moment, though it lacked its earlier edge. "Why are you here?" he asked again, this time softer, more curious than accusatory. The shift in his tone caught you off guard, and you hesitated, clutching your lyre a little tighter.

You thought about giving the same answer as before—that you didn't know, that you were lost. But something about the way he looked at you, expectant yet patient, made you pause.

Finally, you sighed and bowed your head. "I'm chasing something," you admitted. "Answers. Closure. I don't fully know what I'm looking for, but I can't leave it unresolved." You lifted your gaze to meet his. "I don't know how I got here, not entirely. But this is my second time in the Underworld."

Hades' brow arched. "Second time?"

You nodded. "Hermes brought me once before," you said quietly.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped Hades as he shook his head. "That meddlesome trickster."

Persephone glanced at him, her brows furrowing slightly, but she said nothing. Hades turned his attention back to you, his gaze lingering on the glowing lyre still cradled in your arms. He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his next words carefully.

Finally, he straightened in his throne, his voice firm but not unkind. "Cerberus will escort you to the gates," he said, gesturing toward the massive beast that still lingered near the edge of the room. "You do not belong here, and it would be unwise for you to linger any longer."

Relief washed over you, and you bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord," you said earnestly. Cerberus let out a low rumble, his middle head nudging you gently as though urging you forward.

As you followed Cerberus out of the throne room, Persephone's voice lingered in the air behind you, soft but unmistakable.

"That lyre... doesn't it look familiar? Doesn't Apollo have one just like it?"

The doors closed with a resounding echo, leaving her words to settle heavily in your mind.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The chill of marble underfoot had vanished, replaced by the wooden warmth of your room in Ithaca's palace. The transition felt abrupt, as though you had been plucked from one reality and unceremoniously dropped into another.

The air here was thick and humid, alive in a way that contrasted sharply with the suffocating stillness of the Underworld. Your breaths were uneven, shallow, as you struggled to shake off the weight of where you'd just been.

In your hands, the lyre rested heavily, its once-brilliant strings now muted under the soft light spilling from the window. The golden glow that had radiated with such intensity in the Underworld had dimmed, leaving the instrument looking almost ordinary—almost.

You weren't sure when you had sat down, but now you perched on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the lyre. Your fingers traced the intricate carvings on its frame as though the answers to your questions might be etched there.

The words spoken to you swirled in your mind.

It looks familiar... doesn't Apollo have one just like it?

The thought sent a shiver crawling up your spine, and not entirely from the cold.

Apollo. His name felt heavier now, a presence that loomed just beyond your understanding. If the lyre was connected to him—if it belonged to him—what did that mean for you? Why had Hermes handed it to you so casually, as if it were a mere trinket?

The questions swirled endlessly, overlapping until you couldn't untangle them anymore. It was as though your mind had become an echo chamber, the voices of Cleo, Persephone, and Hades all clamoring for space.

With a frustrated sigh, you set the lyre aside, leaning forward to cradle your head in your hands. The heels of your palms pressed hard against your temples as if you could physically push the thoughts to quiet.

The room felt too small, the walls pressing in around you despite the familiar comforts. Even the faint scent of lavender from the bundle on your desk couldn't soothe you. Your gaze drifted toward the window, drawn by the faint golden glow of the setting sun.

For the second time today, you noticed how time seemed to defy logic. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the courtyard below. The same scene you'd glimpsed before your journey, untouched, as though no time at all had passed.

The dissonance between your experiences and the world's stillness tightened something in your chest.

You had been gone—traversing the Underworld, facing Cleo, singing before gods—and yet Ithaca carried on, blissfully unaware.

"I need air," you murmured, barely audible. The decision was sudden but felt necessary. If you stayed much longer, the weight of it all might pull you under.

You rose to your feet, cradling the lyre against your chest like an anchor. Your steps were purposeful as you slipped out of your room, the cool stone beneath your sandals grounding you as you made your way through the palace halls.

.☆.
     .✩.
          .☆.

When you reached the courtyard, the breeze met you like an old friend, cool and gentle against your skin. You inhaled deeply, letting the air fill your lungs as your steps slowed. The sprawling space opened before you, framed by the shadows of cypress trees swaying softly in the wind.

For a moment, you stopped, letting yourself feel the small comfort of the ordinary—the world carrying on oblivious to the heavy truths now nestled in your chest. The air felt lighter here, and allowed yourself to simply breathe, your eyes drifting to the horizon where the sea met the sky.

With a tired smile, you began walking again, finger toying with the lyre's strings, releasing muted notes as you thought about what to play to ease both your heart and mind.

But the stillness didn't last.

"___!" A voice, urgent and breathless, broke the quiet. You turned sharply, your shawl slipping slightly from your shoulders.

Telemachus was jogging, his steps hurried and uneven, as though he'd been searching frantically for you.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. "Prince Telemachus?" you began, your voice laced with surprise.

He stopped just short of you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling intensity. "Are you..." He hesitated, chest heaving as he caught his breath. "Are you blessed—no, favored by Apollo?"

The question hit you like a thunderclap. "Apollo?" you repeated, your voice uncertain. "Why in Hades would I be—?"

Your words faltered as your hands instinctively tightened around the lyre, its faint hum vibrated against your palm. As if it had been waiting for this moment, your mind dredged up flashes of everything you had seen and heard.

Your parents' voices came first, their parting words weaving through your thoughts like an inescapable thread.

"We were never afraid for you. Not even at the end. We knew... we knew Apollo would protect you."

""Love... don't you remember? You're favored by Apollo."

Your breath caught as the weight of their revelation pressed down anew, intertwining with the sting of Cleo's venomous accusations.

"You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are? How unfair it is that you stand here, alive and whole, while I'm stuck in this wretched place?"

The bitterness in her voice, the sight of her fractured form, flickered in your mind like a specter. And then Persephone's voice cut through, calm yet piercing:

"That lyre. It looks familiar, doesn't it? Doesn't Apollo have one just like it?"

The echoes crashed together in your mind, overlapping until you couldn't separate them anymore. The lyre. The Underworld. Apollo. Your chest tightened, your heart pounding as you swayed slightly, one hand reaching for the nearest tree to steady yourself.

You looked up at Telemachus, your hands trembling as the realization began to take hold. "I..." You hesitated, your voice cracking. "...suppose I am?"

The admission hung between you, fragile yet undeniable.

Telemachus' gaze never wavered. If anything, his expression shifted to something resolute, as though he'd come to this conclusion long before you had. "Come with me," he said abruptly, his his tone low but firm—more command than request.

Before you could protest, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist with a steady yet gentle grip. The warmth of his touch startled you, but it was the determination in his movements that left you speechless. He pulled you forward, his steps swift and purposeful, and you found yourself following without question, your sandals scuffing softly against the stone paths as he led you away from the courtyard.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

The familiar path felt strange under the dimming light, the evening shadows stretching long across the palace grounds. You recognized where he was leading—the small shed near the edge of the courtyard, its weathered wooden frame sturdy against the elements.

Telemachus pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly. The scent of aged wood and faintly lingering resin greeted you as you crossed the threshold, your eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The instruments lined the walls and shelves just as you had left them—lutes, flutes, harps, and more, each meticulously cared for and waiting patiently for your hands.

He released your wrist and turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "Look at them," he said, gesturing to the instruments with a slight tilt of his head. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "Try holding them to see if you feel it."

You blinked at him, confused. "Feel what?"

Instead of answering, he stepped back, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes didn't leave you, the weight of his gaze urging you to turn toward the instruments.

Reluctantly, you did, stepping further into the room. Your fingers hovered over the collection, hesitating before brushing against the smooth curve of a lute's neck. The wood was cool beneath your touch, familiar yet somehow different.

You trailed your hand along the edge of a trumpet, the cold metal sending a faint shiver up your arm, and then across the taut strings of a harp, each one humming faintly in the stillness.

Before you can linger too long, Telemachus moved toward one of the shelves, picking up an old ocarina and holding it out to you. "Play this."

Hesitant, you took the instrument. Its clay surface felt familiar in your hands. You brought it to your lips and played a tentative melody. The notes flowed effortlessly, as though they had always been a part of you.

When you lowered the ocarina, Telemachus was watching you with a mixture of awe and something heavier—something closer to fear. "See?" he said, his voice low. "It's not normal. You can't tell me it doesn't feel like something greater is at work."

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your gaze dropped to the lyre still cradled in your hands. Its golden frame glowed faintly in the dim light, the hum of its strings persistent, like an extension of your heartbeat.

"It... never clicked before," you murmured, almost to yourself. "How easily I mastered them. How... natural it felt."

Telemachus nodded, his voice steady. "Think about it. How many people can pick up an instrument and make it sing the way you do? It's not just talent, ___—it's something more. Something... divine."

The words settled heavily in your chest. You thought back to the hours you'd spent playing—the way melodies had poured through you like water, effortless and unending.

It had felt like magic then, though you'd chalked it up to passion and dedication.

But now... now, you weren't so sure.

Telemachus stepped closer, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression unreadable. "It's not just music, though. What else are you good at? Think, ____. Has there ever been something you've done that felt... different?"

You frowned, frustration creeping into your tone. "I don't know," you admitted, voice taut. "I never thought of myself as anything special."

He arched a brow, his expression almost challenging. "You're saying you've never noticed anything? No moments when something came to you instinctively? When people praised you for doing something that felt ordinary to you?"

Your mind raced, fragments of memories flashing before you in rapid succession. The times you'd mastered a new instrument the day you received it. The way melodies had always seemed to flow through you, unbidden and effortless

"I... maybe," you admitted hesitantly, the weight of your own words surprising you. "But I don't know if that really means anything."

Telemachus' gaze softened, though his voice remained firm. "It means everything, ____. Think about the gods. They don't just hand out favor for no reason. If Apollo's chosen you... there's a reason behind it."

His words struck something deep within you, and you gaze dropped to the lyre in your hands. Its glow had dimmed, but the faint hum remained, steady and reassuring, as if it were waiting for you to understand.

"But... why me?" you whispered, the question trembling from your lips. It wasn't directed at him—not entirely. It was a question for the lyre, for Apollo, for the cosmos itself. "I'm nobody. Just... just a servant. Why would Apollo—or any god—choose... me?"

Telemachus' lips pressed into a thin line, his expression shadowed briefly by thought. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost gentle, yet it carried a weight that settled heavily in your chest. "Maybe it's not about who you were. Maybe it's about who you're meant to become."

The words hung between you, heavy and unyielding.

When you looked up at him, there was no trace of mockery or disbelief in his gaze. Only a steady conviction that felt as though it could shoulder the weight of your doubts. His faith, quiet and unwavering, was almost enough to make you believe it too.

A flicker of something familiar stirred in your chest—a hesitant, fragile confidence you hadn't felt since the beginning of this conversation. Your gaze dropped once more to the lyre in your hands. Its golden strings caught the dim light of the shed, the hum persistent, like a quiet reminder of its presence.

Your fingers brushed lightly over the strings, the warmth of the instrument grounding you as you gathered your thoughts. "Telemachus," you began hesitantly, your voice softer now, almost fragile, "what does it mean to be favored? Has this happened before? Has anyone else ever been..." You hesitated, searching for the right word. "Noticed?"

Telemachus leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest, his expression growing thoughtful.

Telemachus' expression shifted, his brows knitting together as he leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest. "There are stories," he said, his tone measured. "None of them are clear, though—just fragments of things passed down over generations. People who claimed they were chosen by the gods, who carried their favor in one way or another."

Your heart quickened. "What... happened to them?"

Telemachus exhaled deeply, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. "Most of the stories... don't end well," he admitted, his voice low but steady. "Those who were favored often found themselves caught in things far beyond their control—wars, curses, quests they couldn't refuse. The gods' favor can be both a blessing and a chain, binding them to a path they can't escape."

A chill ran down your spine, your fingers tightening instinctively around the lyre. "So... it's not a good thing?" you murmured, the weight of his revelation settling heavily in your chest.

"It's not that simple," Telemachus replied, his tone gentler now. "The gods don't think the way we do. Their reasons, their goals—they're not always meant for us to understand. Favor can bring greatness, but it also brings responsibility. And if you're not ready for it..." He trailed off, his gaze flickering briefly to the lyre before returning to yours. "It can destroy you."

His words pressed against you like an invisible force, leaving you breathless. You had sought answers, clarity—but all you felt now was the suffocating weight of how fragile your life seemed in the shadow of something so vast.

"I-I don't want my life to spiral out of control." The vulnerability in your tone was startling, even to you. "I've worked so hard just to find... stability. A place where I belong. And now... it feels like everything is slipping through my fingers."

Telemachus' expression softened, the intensity in his gaze giving way to something profoundly human. He stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding. "Hey," he said quietly, his voice a soothing whisper. He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours with a tenderness that sent a shiver through you.

His hand closed gently around yours, his thumb grazing the back of it in a slow, deliberate motion. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, calming the tremor in your fingers. When you looked up, his steady, unwavering gaze met yours, its sincerity anchoring you in place.

"Then we'll figure it out," he said firmly, his voice filled with quiet reassurance. "You're not alone in this, ___. Whatever this favor means, we'll face it together."

The simplicity of his words wrapped around you like a shield, their weight sinking deeper than you could have anticipated. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to respond. "Together?" you echoed.

"Together," Telemachus confirmed, his thumb still brushing softly over the back of your hand. His expression left no room for doubt. "You don't have to do this alone. I'll be here. No matter what."

For a moment, the storm inside you stilled. The lyre's hum softened, its warmth settling into your chest like a quiet reassurance of its own.

You weren't sure what the future held, but with Telemachus standing beside you, the shadows didn't feel quite so overwhelming.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words fragile but earnest.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, his grip on your hand steady and sure. "Always."

The weight of his presence anchored you in a way that quieted the turmoil inside. For a fleeting moment, the world felt still, but it slipped away too quickly as he gently released your hand.

"You'll be alright, ____. Take the night to rest and think. You've been through so much already." His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned, his silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the shed's small window. "And remember—you're not alone in this."

With that, he left, the faint creak of the door marking his departure.

You remained where you were, standing in the middle of the shed surrounded by instruments, the air heavy with the echoes of Telemachus' words and the weight of your revelation. The lyre in your hands hummed faintly as if mirroring the storm of emotions churning within you.

You didn't leave immediately. Your fingers brushed absently against the lyre's strings, the familiar vibration grounding you as your mind raced. Questions without answers and truths you couldn't ignore swirled together, creating a relentless storm.

The realization settling over you felt overwhelming yet oddly familiar, like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of being misplaced.

It was only later, when the sky had fully darkened and the palace grounds were quieting down, that you finally stepped outside. The cool night air greeted you, brushing against your skin and carrying with it the faint scent of cypress and sea salt.

Your steps felt aimless, yet they carried you instinctively toward the courtyard—toward the one place that had always felt like yours.

Now, here you were, leaning against the familiar cypress tree. Its ancient trunk was sturdy at your back, the rough bark grounding you as you cradled the lyre in your lap. The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, silver glow softening the shadows across the stone pathways and swaying grass.

The gentle hum of the lyre filled the quiet air, blending with the rustle of leaves and the faint chirping of crickets. Your fingers moved automatically, plucking the strings with a familiarity that felt second nature. The melody was soft, carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts.

You weren't even sure what you were playing—only that it felt right, a reflection of the emotions swirling inside you.

As the melody unfolded, your thoughts drifted. The revelation in the shed had been startling, but now, with the night around you, a question lingered: Had it truly been a surprise? Or had some part of you always known?

You thought back to all the moments that had led you here, memories surfacing: the ease with which music had always come to you, the way instruments seemed to respond to your touch as though alive.

You had resisted the idea for so long, telling yourself it was normal, that anyone could do what you did with enough practice. But deep down, had you known? Had you pushed the truth away, afraid of what it might mean?

The thought tightened your chest, and your fingers faltered briefly on the lyre's strings. The melody wavered, then resumed, quieter now, almost hesitant. The moonlight shimmered faintly against the lyre's golden frame, its soft glow like a silent reassurance.

You sighed, the sound heavy in the stillness. Your fingers stilled as you slowly lowered the lyre to the grass. Its hum faded, leaving only the quiet night, amplified by the weight pressing on your chest.

Leaning back against the cypress tree no longer felt grounding, so you stretched out on the cool grass, the rough bark forgotten as your gaze lifted to the stars.

The sky above was vast, the stars scattered like fragments of shattered glass against a sea of ink. Their light seemed so faint, so distant, yet impossibly eternal.

Tears gathered in your eyes, misting your vision and blurring the constellations above. You blinked furiously, angry at yourself for feeling so small, so weak.

It wasn't fair.

In this world of kingdoms and gods, you were just... you. A mortal among immortals, a fragile thread caught in a tapestry too vast to comprehend. Why had Apollo chosen you? What made you worthy of the burden of divine favor? The questions swirled relentlessly, threatening to drown you in their weight, and the tears threatened to spill over again.

You clenched your fists, the cool blades of grass pressing against your palms. You weren't weak. You weren't. But under the expanse of the sky, the truth felt harder to believe.

"Such sadness doesn't suit my little muse."

The voice broke through your thoughts like a melody, sudden and startling. Your eyes shot open, and you bolted upright, glancing around the courtyard. The rustling leaves and swaying shadows of the cypress tree were unchanged—but you weren't alone.

"Here, little one."

The voice was melodic, gentle, yet it carried an undeniable weight. It felt like both a caress and a command, its presence filling the space effortlessly. You turned your head, breath catching in your throat as you followed the sound.

Standing above you was a figure unlike any you had ever seen.

He was tall—taller than any mortal man—and the moonlight framed his silhouette against the deep purples of the night sky. His golden hair shimmered as though spun from sunlight, catching the silver light with every slight movement.

Amber eyes glowed faintly, warm and piercing as they met yours, amusement and fondness shining in their depths. It felt as if he could see straight through you, as though nothing in your soul could be hidden from his gaze.

He wore a chiton of ivory fabric edged with gold embroidery, each detail catching the light as if alive. A crown of laurel leaves rested on his head, glittering faintly like starlight. His presence was overwhelming, radiant yet effortless, as though he belonged to the world but stood apart from it.

The god—because surely this was a god—stepped forward, his bare feet touching the earth softly, almost reverently, as if even the ground was blessed by his presence.

You tried to move, to speak, but your voice caught in your throat, and your limbs refused to obey. Every part of you was frozen, caught between awe and disbelief.

And yet, deep in your chest, a strange sense of familiarity bloomed.

You didn't know how, but you knew who this god was.

The name slipped from your lips like a prayer, barely audible. "A-Apollo?"

The god's amber eyes sparkled with quiet amusement, his smile deepening as he stopped just a step away and the sheer beauty of it made your heart stutter. It was warm and inviting, yet it carried a power that left you breathless.

And then everything was still.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You stared blankly up at him, your breath caught in your throat. It felt as though time itself had stopped, the world around you falling away until there was nothing but the god standing before you.

Your eyes refused to blink, terrified that if you did, he might disappear—that this might all be some cruel trick of the mind, a fleeting dream ready to dissolve into the shadows of the courtyard.

Apollo chuckled softly, the sound light and warm, like the chiming of bells in a gentle breeze. His lips curved into a boyish smile, the kind that carried an effortless charm, and yet there was something unshakably ancient in his gaze—a depth that made your chest tighten.

"Are you going to keep staring at me like that?" His golden eyes sparkled with amusement, their light so vivid it felt as though the stars themselves had been captured within them.

You wanted to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat. All you could do was stare, your heart pounding as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely soothing. The faint glow that surrounded him brightened as he moved, as if the very air bowed to his radiance.

Even though it was night, he seemed to carry the essence of daylight with him, his golden aura casting faint, warm light over the cool blues of the evening.

Then, to your utter disbelief, he crouched before you. Even in this lowered position, his form towered over you, his broad shoulders and long limbs giving him an almost giant-like presence, much like Hermes.

But where Hermes' energy was sharp and quick, Apollo's was steady and calm, like the sun at its zenith. His crown of laurel leaves gleamed faintly, their delicate edges catching the moonlight, and the soft rose of his cheeks seemed to glow against his pale, flawless skin.

"Much better. I'd hate to think I frightened you, little muse."

The words sent a shiver through you, the term of endearment catching you off guard. You felt your lips part, a small, breathless sound escaping, but you still couldn't find your voice.

Apollo smiled again at your silence, tilting his head slightly as he studied you. His hair, golden and shimmering as it fell in soft waves around his face, and you couldn't help but notice how the faintest movement seemed to catch the light as though the strands themselves were alive. His expression was warm, unhurried, and his presence—though immense—carried no malice. Only kindness. Only care.

"I've always watched over you, you know," he said, his voice impossibly soft, as though he were sharing a secret meant only for you.

Your heart stuttered at his words, the weight of them pressing against your chest. "W-Watched over me?" you managed finally, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your gaze flickered uncertainly, confusion clouding your features. "Why?"

"Because," he said simply, reaching out slowly. His hand—large but gentle—hovered near your face, as though he were giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, he brushed his fingertips lightly against your cheek, the touch sending a jolt of warmth through your skin. His smile deepened as he continued, "You've always been my little muse."

The term repeated, softer this time, and it felt like it settled somewhere deep within you. Your breath caught again, your mind racing to process the sheer weight of what he was saying. Apollo—the god of music, poetry, and light—has been watching over me? The thought felt too big, too surreal to grasp, and yet there he was, looking at you with a fondness that made it impossible to doubt.

"But... why me?" You swallowed hard, your voice trembling slightly as you struggled to find the right words. "I'm just... no one."

Apollo tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing slightly in a mix of confusion and concern. "No one?" he echoed. "What could you possibly mean by that, my little muse?"

Your chest tightened under the weight of his gaze, the warmth in his tone both comforting and overwhelming. You dropped your eyes to the lyre in your lap, tracing its intricate design as if the act might steady your racing thoughts.

"It's just..." You hesitated, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "I'm no one special. I'm just a handmaiden. A servant. I've made mistakes. I've... failed people." The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, and your voice cracked as you added, "How could I possibly carry what you're asking of me?"

Apollo's expression shifted, a flicker of something—sadness, perhaps—crossing his features before he leaned closer. His presence felt even more radiant now, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill creeping into your chest.

"You speak of failures as if they define you, but they do not. Your light shines not in spite of your mistakes but because you rise after them. Because you endure."

His words struck something deep within you, but the doubts lingered. "But what if I can't? What if I'm not enough?" Your head fell, staring at the ground, unable to meet his eyes.

Apollo reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin as he guided your gaze back to his. His golden eyes burned with a quiet intensity, their light impossibly steady.

"You are more than enough," he said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You always have been. The world sees a handmaiden, perhaps, but I see the muse who can shape it with her voice, her music, her heart. You are a melody the world cannot do without, a light that reaches even where shadows try to reign."

The sincerity in his voice struck you like a chord perfectly played, resonating through your very being. Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren't born of fear or anger. They were something else entirely—an overwhelming mix of gratitude, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope.

Apollo tilted his head, his amber eyes holding yours as though he were waiting for you to believe him. The warmth in his expression softened slightly, replaced by a faint furrow in his brow as though a thought had just occurred to him. "Do you not recall my blessings?"

Your brow furrowed as his words settled over you, their meaning slipping just out of reach.

Earlier, you and Telemachus had already gone over what seemed the most obvious gift—the effortless way music had always flowed through you, the way instruments seemed to sing under your touch. It had been undeniable, yet even then, the rest had felt fragmented and unclear.

"I..." you began, your voice faltering as you searched for an answer. "I don't know. I thought it was just... music. That was the only thing that made sense."

Apollo blinked, his golden eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, but in something deeper, something searching. It was as though you had spoken a riddle he had not expected. He said nothing for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you. His fingers, still resting under your chin, remained unmoving, but there was a new weight in his gaze.

A frown ghosted over the sun god's lips, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something strange beneath his golden radiance—hesitation, uncertainty. Not at you, but at the notion itself. As if the idea that you didn't know had never once crossed his mind.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, contemplative. "There were... more?"

Apollo's eyes widened slightly, his surprise evident. "Of course, my little muse," he said, his tone gentle yet tinged with something deeper. "I have constantly blessed you..."

He trailed off. His sentence, smooth and effortless as all things about him, suddenly cut itself short as though a realization had struck him mid-thought. His golden glow, steady and warm, sharpened slightly at the edges.

For a moment, his perfect face scrunched into an expression that was almost unrecognizable—distaste, perhaps even anger. His brows knit together, his jaw tightening in a way that made his glow seem fiercer, harsher. Not at you, no—it was something else, something beneath the surface.

You shrank back slightly, unsure of what had sparked the shift, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. His features smoothed, his golden light softening, as though he had caught himself slipping into something he hadn't meant to show.

The smile that returned to his lips was gentle, reassuring, but there was something lingering behind it, something unreadable. A question he did not voice.

"Do not worry," he said softly, his voice like the first notes of a lullaby. "Whatever confusion lingers will fade in time."

Before you could respond, he lowered himself gracefully to the grass beside you. The sheer radiance of his presence felt overwhelming, but there was something disarming about the way he settled himself at your side, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.

His warmth was immediate, an almost tangible heat that seeped into the air around him and chased away the coolness of the night. It wasn't oppressive—it was comforting, like the gentle rays of morning sunlight breaking through a chill.

You could feel it in the way the grass seemed to brighten under his weight, in the faint shimmer of light that clung to him even in stillness.

Apollo turned his gaze to you, his smile softening further as he rested an arm loosely on his raised knee. "You don't need to carry all these questions alone. I have been with you from the very beginning, and I will not leave you now."

His closeness felt surreal, his golden presence so overwhelming yet strangely calming. You glanced down at the lyre resting in the grass between you, its faint hum now blending with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. The connection between you, the lyre, and the god beside you felt undeniable, a thread woven too tightly to ignore.

Finally found the courage to speak. "So... why now? If you've been watching me all this time... why come to me now?"

Apollo's eyes softened, and he tilted his head again. "Because the time is right. Because you are ready to see what has always been there."

Your gaze flickered to his face again, drawn to the quiet intensity in his expression. His beauty was undeniable, otherworldly, yet it was his presence—the warmth, the light, the unwavering care—that left you breathless.

"You are my muse," he said again, his voice impossibly soft, as though the words themselves were a gift. "And there is no one else like you."

The declaration settled over you like a blanket, and for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of belief stir in your chest. The doubts that had clawed at you earlier seemed smaller now, quieter, as though his very presence had the power to keep them at bay.

You didn't have all the answers—not yet. But with Apollo sitting beside you, his warmth and light chasing away the shadows, you felt something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in what seemed like forever.

Hope.

The feeling settled in your chest like the faint warmth of a rising sun, fragile yet undeniable. A peaceful silence grew between you and Apollo, his golden presence filling the space like a steady flame. The hum of the lyre at your feet had faded, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to simply exist in the quiet, the weight of his words still echoing in your mind. But the questions lingered. The uncertainty. The need to understand.

Clearing your throat softly, you turned your head toward him. Apollo's attention snapped to you instantly with such focus that it made your breath catch. His expression softened, his brow lifting slightly, and the faint smile that tugged at his lips was filled with quiet encouragement.

"Yes, little muse?"

The kindness in his tone gave you just enough courage to speak. You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze as you stammered, "I... I was just wondering... about the gifts you mentioned. What are they? I mean, beyond... the music?"

Apollo's smile widened, and his entire demeanor seemed to brighten, as if your question had brought him genuine joy. "Ah, my gifts. Of course. It is only natural that my muse would reflect my greatness." His words held no arrogance—only an easy confidence that felt oddly reassuring rather than overwhelming.

 "First, there is music." He gestured lightly to the lyre resting between you. "You have mastered every instrument you have touched, haven't you? And not just those that exist now—no. You will master those yet to come, for music flows through you like the rivers of my domain. You make it sing, and in doing so, you honor me."

You blinked, stunned by the sheer weight of his declaration before thinking back to every melody you had ever played, every instrument you had held. It had felt natural, yes, but you had never considered what it truly meant.

"And your voice," Apollo continued, his gaze unwavering. "It rivals even the most revered singers in history. Orpheus himself would weep to hear you."

Your eyes widened at the comparison, lips parting in disbelief. "O-Orpheus?"

"Indeed, though even his songs could not stir the gods as yours will."

The words felt almost impossible to grasp, but Apollo spoke them with such quiet certainty that you couldn't bring yourself to doubt him as he continued.

"And then, there is your connection to healing. To life itself." He paused, his gaze growing thoughtful as he studied you. "You have an affinity for medicine, for soothing what is broken and helping it mend."

"Medicine?" you asked hesitantly, confusion flickering across your face. "I don't... I've never made a salve or prepared a remedy before in my life."

Apollo's expression turning almost fond. "Medicine is not always about plants and salves, my little muse," he said quietly. "Sometimes, simply being there—offering your light, your warmth, your presence—is enough to heal what cannot be mended by mortal hands."

The words settled over you like a blanket, their meaning sinking in slowly. You thought of the times Queen Penelope had sought you out in moments of distress, her gaze softening as she listened to your words or your music. You thought of the animals that flocked to you, their trust immediate and unshakable.

You had never considered these moments as anything more than coincidences, but now...

"You mean...  You mean that's... part of it too?"

Apollo nodded, the gentle warmth in his expression never wavering. "Of course. You are a reflection of me, my muse. Music, healing, light... all of it flows through you. It always has."

You looked down at your hands, his words feeling like the final pieces of a puzzle sliding into place, revealing a picture that had always been there, waiting for you to see it, and for the first time, you began to understand.

"I... never realized."

"Now you do," Apollo simply said as he leaned back slightly, his tone steady and kind. "And that is enough for now."

The breeze stirred around you, carrying with it the faint scent of cypress and the sea. The warmth of Apollo's presence beside you felt like a quiet balm, his radiance soft but unyielding.

But as the moment settled, a flicker of memory intruded, unbidden and sharp against the calm. Your mind flashed to the courtyard, to Callias' grin and his panpipes in your hands. The frustration of that day—the way the notes refused to come smoothly no matter how you tried—pricked at you, a faint irritation amidst the revelation of your supposed mastery of music.

You turned to Apollo, curiosity pushing past your hesitation. His golden gaze shifted to you immediately again as though your every movement deserved his full focus; it startled you how easily he gave you his attention.

"May... May I ask you something?"

"Anything."

You hesitated, fingers brushing absently against the grass as you searched for the words. "If... if I'm truly blessed with the mastery of all instruments, then... why can't I play the panpipes?"

For a moment, Apollo stilled, his head tilting slightly as though considering your question. Then he sniffed, an almost imperceptible sound, his lips curving into a wry smile. "Ah, the panpipes," he murmured, his tone carrying a trace of something between amusement and disdain. "A curious little instrument, isn't it?"

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

Apollo let out a soft sigh as he turned toward the sky. "It is not the instrument itself,ut the one who inspired it—a satyr named Pan."

"Pan?"

"Yes," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "Long ago, Pan dared to challenge me—a god—to a contest of music. He played his pipes, and I played my lyre."

The shift was subtle, but you caught it—the brightness in his golden eyes dimming slightly, the warmth of his aura pulling inward as though some unseen shadow had passed over it. His voice, usually fluid and golden, carried an undercurrent of restrained irritation, a sharpness buried beneath the surface like a blade hidden in silk.

"Midas, foolish as he was, judged Pan the victor." The words were light, almost indifferent, but there was something clipped in the way he said Midas. His lips pressed together for the briefest moment, and you swore you saw the faintest flicker of something sharp in his gaze—resentment, or perhaps something darker.

"Needless to say, it... soured my view of the panpipes."

The air between you grew still.

You blinked, startled by the revelation. "So... I can't play them because of that?"

Apollo waved a hand dismissively, his tone lightening, but there was something too fluid about the motion, too carefully measured. "Perhaps," he said, a glint of humor returning to his eyes. "Or perhaps my little muse simply doesn't need such a crude instrument. Your talents shine far brighter with the lyre."

His words made your cheeks warm, and you found yourself unable to hold his gaze for long. But before you could respond, Apollo leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes shimmering with interest. "Now, enough about that," he said, his voice softening back into that effortless charm, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Sing for me, little muse. I've heard your songs from afar, but I would hear them here, now, with you before me."

The way he spoke made it impossible to refuse, his tone a gentle command wrapped in warmth. Slowly, you nodded, your fingers brushing the lyre as you adjusted it in your lap. It felt only right to sing for him—a hymn to the god who now sat before you, radiant and impossibly real.

You strummed a soft chord, the notes weaving through the night air like a whispered promise. The melody was simple, one you had known since childhood, though it carried a weight you'd never fully understood until now.

"Hail to thee, Apollo, bright and fair,
Lord of light, whose presence fills the air.
Golden archer, healer kind and true,
Grant thy blessing, guide us ever through..."

Your voice trembled at first, but as the hymn unfolded, it steadied, gaining strength with each word. The notes carried a quiet reverence, your fingers moving instinctively across the lyre's strings as though the music was drawn from the very air around you.

Apollo closed his eyes, his expression softening as he leaned back slightly, his golden aura flickering faintly in time with your melody. He began to hum quietly, his voice low and resonant, a perfect harmony that sent shivers down your spine. His head tilted gently to the side, his movements unhurried, like a flower swaying in the breeze.

You couldn't help but watch him as you sang, his face bathed in the soft glow of his own light. His hair, curly and golden, brushed his cheeks with every slow sway. The faint curve of his lips, the way his brow remained smooth and untroubled—it was breathtaking.

The sight of him—so at peace, so immersed in your music—made your heart ache in a way you couldn't quite name.

When the final notes of the hymn lingered in the air, fading like the last rays of sunlight, Apollo opened his eyes, the golden depths shimmering like molten sunlight as they met yours. "Bravo." His hands came together in a soft, measured clap, his expression bright with approval. "To hear such devotion from my muse—it is more than I could ever ask for."

Your face warmed at his praise, and you ducked your head slightly, unsure how to respond. But Apollo leaned forward then, his hands reaching out to cup yours where they rested on the lyre. His touch was impossibly warm, his fingers firm yet gentle as they surrounded yours.

The closeness made your breath catch. His gaze held yours, unwavering and so intense that it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you. His eyes glimmered, their light flickering faintly, and you were suddenly acutely aware of every detail—how his thumb brushed the back of your hand, the faint glow of his skin, the way his long lashes hovered just shy of grazing his cheekbones.

"Another."

You swallowed hard, nodding as words failed you. Your fingers, still cradled in his, strummed the lyre again, the soft notes spilling forth like water over smooth stones. This time, the melody came more naturally, your voice lifting once more in song.

Apollo leaned back slightly, his head tilting as he closed his eyes again, the golden glow of his aura brightening as he swayed gently to the rhythm.

For the remainder of the night, the courtyard belonged to the two of you. The stars above seemed to dim in deference to Apollo's light, and your music wove a bond between mortal and divine—each note a thread in a tapestry that only the heavens could witness.

☆
✩
☆

On the other side of the palace, Telemachus stood on his balcony, overlooking the endless sea that surrounded Ithaca. The moon hung high above, its silver light spilling across the waves, making them shimmer like scattered jewels.

The faint sound of the town drifted up from the cliffs below—laughter from taverns, the distant hum of conversation, the occasional bark of a dog. It was all softened by the distance, a quiet symphony of life carrying on as the prince lingered in his own thoughts.

Telemachus rested his forearms on the cool marble railing, his eyes scanning the horizon where the sea met the sky. The night air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint aroma of flowers from the palace gardens below. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as the weight of the day pressed against him.

Since leaving the shed, his thoughts had been consumed by you—by everything you had revealed and seemingly confirmed. He had gone straight to his mother to personally inform her that you wouldn't be attending her that evening, that he had given you the night to rest.

Penelope had been startled by the news, her delicate brows arching in surprise. "You gave her the night off?" she'd asked, her tone laced with a humorus disbelief. "You, Telemachus, who so often remind me of duty and decorum?"

Her words held truth, but he'd nodded nonetheless. "She's been carrying more than we realized," he had said simply, his tone firm enough to leave no room for argument. To his surprise, Penelope had accepted it, though not without casting him a curious glance as she returned to her work.

From there, Telemachus had retreated to his chambers, intending to let the matter rest. But peace had evaded him. He had instead paced the length of his room, his mind churning with thoughts that refused to quiet.

The memory of his conversation with Athena weighed heavily on him, her cryptic words playing over and over in his mind.

"Apollo's favored one."

At the time, he had been baffled. He'd tried to piece together her meaning, running through every possibility. Was she speaking of someone in the town? A warrior, perhaps? He had even considered Pisistratus, his best friend, though the thought felt absurd almost as soon as it came to him.

No matter how hard he tried, every theory felt like grasping at straws—until later, when the answer began to take shape.

He'd seen you then, your form silhouetted against the fading light as you moved through the courtyard, your lyre in hand, its golden frame glowing faintly in the twilight.

Something about the sight had stopped him in his tracks.

The plants around you seemed to lean ever so slightly toward your presence, their leaves catching the last rays of sunlight as though drawn to you. Even the stray animals scurried near in a peculiar calm. The servants who passed you smiled, their expressions softening as though they couldn't help themselves.

And then—his gaze had caught on the lyre. He'd never seen it before. In the dying light, its frame gleamed with an almost unnatural brilliance, the gold too rich, too luminous to belong to something made by mortal hands. It seemed to pulse with its own radiance, as though the strings themselves thrummed with something beyond human understanding. The way you cradled it, fingers brushing reverently over the strings, made something in his chest tighten with unease.

It was as if the world itself bent subtly around you, drawn to your light in ways Telemachus hadn't fully noticed until now.

And then, like a whisper over his shoulder, he'd felt her again. Athena. Her presence was unmistakable, though she didn't speak aloud. Instead, her words seemed to echo in his mind.

"Apollo's favored one."

The realization had struck him like a bolt of lightning, both thrilling and terrifying all at once. And the lyre—it had to be his. Apollo's. That was the only explanation.

Yet, even as he approached you and confirmed what he already suspected, the truth hadn't brought him peace.

If anything, it had shaken him further.

It didn't make sense. It didn't fit neatly into the world Telemachus had known all his life. And yet, it was undeniable.

Now, on the balcony, the rhythmic crashing of waves against the cliffs below pulled Telemachus back to the present. The sound was steady, relentless, as if the sea itself demanded his attention.

You were Apollo's favored one. The truth of it hung in the air like a heavy cloud, impossible to ignore. But what did it mean—for you? For him? For Ithaca?

The thought made his chest tighten, a faint unease curling in his stomach. Telemachus didn't want to admit it, not even to himself, but there was a small, nagging part of him that felt afraid. Not of you, but of what being favored by Apollo might bring.

Apollo was a god of duality: life and death, healing and plague, music and vengeance. The same god who could soothe a battlefield with the beauty of his lyre could also strike down mortals with arrows of pestilence. His favor was never straightforward, never simple.

What if Apollo's light burned brighter than you could bear? What if Apollo's favor come with challenges that Telemachus couldn't protect you from?

The thought made his chest tighten again, a quiet frustration building within him. He didn't want to feel this way—this mixture of unease and doubt—but he couldn't shake it. The unknown loomed too large, and the stakes felt too high.

But even as his thoughts churned, a memory surfaced—of seeing you earlier that evening. There was the look in your eyes when he had spoken to you in the shed—uncertain yet determined, overwhelmed yet grounded.

"You're stronger than you think," he murmured, almost as if saying the words aloud would make them true for himself as well.

Telemachus let out a deep sigh, his breath catching slightly as he rubbed a hand down his face. His head fell into his hands, fingers threading through his dark hair as his mind whirred uncontrollably. "Am I... a hypocrite?"

It wasn't lost on him that he, too, was shaped by divine intervention.

Athena had been a constant presence in his life, guiding him, protecting him, just as she had supported his father through his trials. Telemachus had accepted her favor without question, had trusted her wisdom and her will.

So why did Apollo's favor make him uneasy?

The answer came quietly, dangerously: it wasn't just about Apollo's favor—it was what it might mean to the god himself.

Gods, especially male gods, were known for their whims, their desires, their penchant for pursuing whatever or whomever they wanted without thought. History was riddled with their conquests.

How often had it ended in ruin? How often had those mortals been discarded, their lives irreparably changed because a god had decided they were worth noticing?

The idea churned his stomach, his jaw tightening as his mind wandered further down the path he didn't want to take.

What if Apollo's favor wasn't just about your gifts, your talent, your light? What if the god wanted something more? Something... deeper?

His fists clenched against the stone railing, his knuckles white as the sharp taste of bitterness crept into his thoughts. A crude, sneering voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he hated but couldn't ignore.

Yeah, Telemachus, scared she might actually go with him—might fall for him?

The thought struck him harder than he cared to admit his breath catching in his throat. His grip on the railing slackened, his shoulders stiffening as the whisper echoed louder in his mind.

Would you—could you—be drawn to Apollo's light? Was that it? Was that what truly scared him?

Yes. A part of him was afraid.

Afraid that you might find yourself drawn to Apollo, taken by his light, his attention, his divinity. How could anyone—mortal or otherwise—resist such a presence?

And who was he to compete? He, a mere prince, burdened by the shadow of his father's legacy and the expectations of a kingdom. What could he offer you compared to Apollo—the embodiment of music, healing, and light itself? His mortality, his humanity, his unspoken feelings—they all seemed small, insignificant against Apollo's divine radiance.

Flashes of your soft smile came to his mind unbidden, the way your laughter had filled the courtyard, light and genuine. His chest ached at the memory, a sharp pang he couldn't ignore.

And yet, his own hesitations loomed over him like a shadow. How could he fear Apollo's intentions when he had barely been able to articulate his own?

He exhaled sharply, leaning heavily against the railing as the cool night air brushed his face, carrying with it the faint scent of the sea, but it did nothing to quell the storm inside him.

This wasn't about the gods—about Apollo. Not entirely. This was about you. And if he let his insecurities cloud his judgment, if he let his jealousy fester, he would only be failing you—and himself.

He didn't know what to do, what to say, or even what to feel but all he knew was that the thought of losing you left him more shaken than he was willing to admit.

"I'll protect you," he murmured, his voice firm despite the uncertainty in his chest. "From Apollo, from the gods, from anything."

The resolve steadied him. Whatever trials Apollo's favor brought, Telemachus would stand by you, no matter what. For you. For Ithaca. For himself.

As the waves crashed below and the moonlight shimmered on the sea, he felt his unease quiet slightly, tempered by the decision he could control.

Whatever the gods intended, he would be ready.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Olympus was in an uproar.

Clouds churned angrily overhead, their silvery edges tinged with the golden glow of the sun as it struggled to pierce through. The usually serene, cloud-strewn halls that echoed with godly laughter and the soft whispers of nymphs now thrummed with irritation and frustration. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to still even the most curious of immortals.

At the center of it all stood two deities.

Apollo, radiant god of the sun, music, and prophecy, was the picture of uncharacteristic fury. His golden eyes blazed, and his hair, usually impeccable, was disheveled, as though raked through in frustration. The laurel crown adorning his head had slipped slightly, its delicate leaves tilted askew. Even his embroidered chiton, a testament to his domains, hung unevenly, brushing awkwardly against his sandals. His aura flickered erratically, like a flame caught in a storm.

Across from him lounged Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, her demeanor calm amidst the brewing tempest. She reclined lazily on her golden chaise, she plucking idly at a cluster of freshly picked grapes, her flowing robes of rose and ivory cascading like morning mist.

Yet her serenity was deceptive, for her expression carried an edge—her pale blue eyes regarded him with thinly veiled disdain, as though his anger seem like little more than a passing breeze.

"You had no right!" Apollo's voice thundered, raw with emotion. His fists clenched as his aura pulsed unevenly. "Everything she has suffered—it's your doing!"

Aphrodite leaned back further, her bare foot dangling lazily over the edge as she popped a grape into her mouth. "Oh, please, Apollo," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. With a wave of her fingers, as though swatting away a pesky fly, she added, "Must we go through this charade again?"

"It's not a charade. You've meddled—"

"Meddled?" Aphrodite interrupted sharply, sitting up slightly as her tone hardened. "If by 'meddled,' you mean holding your precious little muse accountable for the sins of her lineage, then yes, Apollo. I have meddled." She flicked her golden hair over her shoulder with an elegant motion, its strands catching the light like molten silk. "But you make it sound so villainous."

"It is villainous!" Apollo snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at her. His golden eyes flared, the usual warm glow hardening into something sharp and unrelenting. "The so-called 'sins of her lineage' were committed eons ago! Aren't you just being unreasonable?"

The lazy amusement in Aphrodite's gaze evaporated in an instant at the mention of your ancestor, her serene facade shattering. A wave of anger surged through her as the delicate grape she'd been holding burst between her fingers, crimson juice dripping onto her robes like spilled blood.

With a sharp motion, she tossed the entire cluster aside, the fruit scattering across the floor with dull thuds. She rose to her full height, her movements fluid yet brimming with purpose, like a storm gathering strength.

"Unreasonable?" she hissed, her voice rising to match Apollo's. The sound echoed through the marble halls, silencing the murmurs of lesser gods and nymphs who dared to linger nearby. "Unreasonable? Do you have any idea what her ancestors did?"

Apollo held her glare, his jaw tightening. He had seen her temper before—her fury infamous amongst the gods—but this was personal. Her nostrils flared, and her flushed cheeks only highlighted the fury twisting her otherwise flawless features.

"They dared," she spat, her words venomous, "to mock me—the goddess of love, beauty, and passion. They believed their so-called 'true love' was enough to defy the very domains I govern! They didn't even acknowledge me, Apollo. Not a single offering, not a single hymn of gratitude. Nothing."

"They thought their love was pure, untainted, eternal, above me," she continued, her lip curling with disdain. "As if love exists without beauty. Without desire. Without me. They wouldn't have known love at all if not for the gifts I bestow, yet they refused to pay homage."

Apollo frowned. "And so you cursed them? All of their descendants? For one slight?"

"Yes!" Aphrodite's voice flared, sharp and unwavering. "And I'll do it a thousand times more because they needed to understand! Love is mine, Apollo. Every stolen glance, every whispered confession, every aching heartbreak—it is all within my domain. Without me, there is nothing but loneliness and longing. How dare they assume they could take that for themselves without paying the price?"

She inhaled sharply, her anger rolling off her in waves. "So, I did what was fair. I cursed them and their bloodline. For every family that dared to find happiness, heartbreak would follow. Whether through betrayal, unrequited love, death, or tragedy—it was a lesson they couldn't ignore. No one defies the goddess of love without consequence."

Apollo's expression twisted, flickering across his face. "And you call that justice? Punishing innocents for generations because one mortal failed to worship you?"

Aphrodite scoffed, a sound as sharp as a thorn. "Shove off, Apollo. Spare me your self-righteousness. We both know the only reason you care is because your 'little muse' is involved."

Her words struck their target, and Apollo's golden eyes narrowed dangerously. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. It was true. It was because of you.

Aphrodite didn't wait for a response. Folding her arms across her chest, she began tapping her gleaming nails rhythmically against her skin. "Generational grudges are simply... part of divine life, Apollo. Surely you, of all gods, understand that."

Apollo sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as though the action could stem his rising frustration. Her indifference, her casual dismissal of his words, grated against his pride. His golden aura dimmed momentarily before flaring again. "For the goddess of love, you certainly hold onto grudges longer than anyone else here," he muttered.

Aphrodite's head snapped toward him, pale blue eyes narrowing dangerously. "What was that?"

Apollo shrugged, his tone laced with mock innocence. "Nothing. Just an observation," he said, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his intent.

Her gaze darkened, and a dangerous smirk curled at her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she plucked another grape from the cluster beside her and popped it into her mouth, chewing with maddening grace. Every movement was calculated, a silent reminder that no matter how incensed he became, she would remain unbothered.

"Besides," she said sweetly, though venom lingered just beneath the surface, "my little grudge isn't nearly as cruel as yours."

Apollo's expression shifted instantly, his frustration twisting into something sharper. "What are you talking about?"

Aphrodite's smirk widened as she leaned back, thoughtfully. "Oh, don't act surprised," she said, her tone deceptively casual, savoring the tension that filled the room. "Don't you think your interference hasn't made her suffer in its own way?"

His aura flickered dangerously, and his posture stiffened. "What are you implying?" The tension in his tone carried a challenge, daring her to continue.

Aphrodite's gaze gleamed with predatory intent. "One of your little gifts," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "isn't really a gift if it takes away autonomy... is it?"

Apollo felt his chest tighten, his pride bristling at the insinuation. "How... do you know about that?" His composure frayed as he squared his shoulders, divine fury radiating from him.

"Oh, Apollo," the goddess sang whimsically, her head tilting as she studied him with an air of triumph. "Secrets never stay secrets for long on Olympus."

She rose gracefully, her golden robes cascading around her like liquid light as she stepped toward him. Her presence was overwhelming, her beauty sharp and unyielding, like a blade sheathed in silk. Stopping just short of him, she fixed him with a penetrating gaze, amusement and malice dancing in her eyes.

"Tell me," she murmured, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "How does it feel knowing that every time your little muse plays music—especially your precious, favorite little instrument—her most troubling memories, her deepest fears, are buried without her knowledge?"

The hall grew suffocatingly still, the air heavy with the static hum of Apollo's barely contained fury. His golden eyes flared, the warmth that usually radiated from him replaced by a blinding light that pulsed with his anger.

"You don't understand anything, Aphrodite," he said sharply, his words cutting through the silence like thunder. The marble halls seemed to vibrate faintly with the force of his voice, the static in the air growing louder. "My favor has brought her strength. Hope."

The golden glow around him intensified, sharper and more piercing, as if the sun itself had descended into the hall. His hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles faintly aglow with divine energy.

"She's a small, innocent soul," he continued, his voice laced with defiance. "She's not equipped to handle the kind of torment you so casually throw her way. My gift—my favor—is a shield, a safety net for when the weight of it all becomes too much."

The buzzing static thickened, almost oppressive, as his anger intertwined with his pride. But the words weren't entirely for Aphrodite—they were for himself, a defense against the unsettling truth she had unearthed. The possibility that she was right tightened his chest.

Was his gift truly a blessing? Or had it stripped away more than it gave? He shoved the thought aside with practiced resolve. No. It was a blessing. A gift. It had to be.

"She doesn't need to remember every hurt, every fear, every doubt," he said, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. "She's mortal, Aphrodite. Do you even comprehend what that means? To feel everything so acutely, to bear so much with such a fragile heart?"

"Oh, I understand perfectly," Aphrodite replied, her voice saccharine with mock sweetness. "What I don't understand is why you care so much. It's almost endearing, Apollo, how you've convinced yourself this is all for her."

Her words stung, though Apollo refused to let it show. His aura pulsed brighter, as if to shield himself from the truth she was so eager to expose. "It is for her," he insisted, his tone hardening.

Aphrodite stepped closer, her golden robes trailing behind her like liquid light, her presence overwhelming and unyielding. "Oh, darling, we both know that isn't entirely true," she cooed, her voice laced with condescension. "Your little muse... she's not just a mortal you've chosen to protect, is she? She's yours, Apollo. Your light, your inspiration, your creation."

Leaning in slightly, her voice dropped to a near whisper. "And that's the real reason you gave her that 'safety net,' isn't it? Not for her sake, but for yours. Because you can't bear the thought of her breaking under the weight of it all. Because if she does, what happens to your precious muse? What happens to you?"

Apollo's glow faltered briefly, the doubt creeping in like an unwelcome shadow. But his pride surged, burning away the flicker of uncertainty. His light blazed brighter, his voice cutting through her insinuations. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Aphrodite stepped back gracefully, her movements fluid and deliberate. With a swanlike elegance, she lowered herself onto her chaise, raising a perfectly arched brow as her lips curved into a sly smile. "Don't I?"

Reclining slightly, she tapped her chin thoughtfully, her eyes glinting with mischief. "A little birdy told me something fascinating," she continued coyly. "Your muse doesn't even remember your favor, Apollo. Isn't that a shame? Tsk, tsk." Her feigned sympathy dripped with condescension, and she chuckled softly as though savoring the moment.

Apollo opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his mouth abruptly, his jaw tightening as he looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Because she was right.

His gift—the essence of his favor—didn't work if the pain it erased wasn't truly yours, but his. It wasn't just the mortal worries, the small fears, or the mundane struggles it buried. It was the moments that touched on him if tied to them—his interference, his presence, his domain.

And that realization stung.

Aphrodite's laughter bubbled up again, light and mocking, as she tilted her head, studying him with a predatory gleam. "Every time your muse loses herself in the music you so generously gifted her, her pain disappears. And with it, the very knowledge of it—of you," she said with a quiet giggle. "How convenient."

Apollo's aura pulsed violently as he stepped closer, his golden eyes narrowing into molten fire. "Watch your tongue, Aphrodite," he warned, his voice low and threatening.

But Aphrodite only tilted her head further, her confidence unwavering. "Oh, sweet, dear, loving Apollo," she cooed mockingly, her tone syrupy with condescension. "Are you upset because I've pointed out the cracks in your perfect little gift? Or is it because you know, deep down, that what I'm saying is true?"

The hall crackled with tension, the air between them heavy with divine energy. It felt as though Olympus itself held its breath, waiting for one of them to break. Apollo's fists clenched once more, his knuckles white, as his light flared brighter with every passing second.

And yet, Aphrodite remained unbothered. Her lips curved into a satisfied smile as she leaned back further into her chaise, plucking at an imaginary speck of dust on her robes as though the confrontation was a mere trifle.

"Face it, Apollo," she said coolly. "We're not so different, you and I. You meddle just as much as I do—you're simply better at pretending your interference is a blessing. And whether that genius or idiotic... I suppose I'll leave that up for you to decide."

With a languid snap of her fingers, a nymph appeared, bowing low as she knelt before the goddess with a polished silver bowl of peeled grapes. Aphrodite reached down, plucking one delicately between her gleaming nails, biting into it with exaggerated leisure. She turned her attention back to Apollo, her gaze sharp with intent.

"If you care so much about your little muse, perhaps you should consider whether all your 'gifts' are truly gifts at all."

Apollo said nothing, his chest rising and falling with the effort it took to reign in his anger. His frustration was visible in the dimming of his light, as though his emotions had been swallowed by the weight of his ego, his pride refusing to allow any outward acknowledgment of her words.

And yet they echoed in his mind, slipping into cracks he didn't want to acknowledge but couldn't ignore.

Releasing a sharp sigh, Apollo finally looked up, his golden eyes snapping to hers. "Look, Aphrodite," he began, his tone tight but controlled. "It's not my fault you were insulted by something so small. But punishing an entire line of descendants for centuries? Cursing them for something they had no part in? Do you even realize what it's like to watch someone so... innocent suffer for a grudge that isn't theirs to bear?"

Aphrodite's expression shifted, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. Her lips tightened, her fingers flexing against the arm of her chaise. Crossing her arms, she let her gaze drift, as though suddenly uninterested in his words. "I'm not the only god who's acted on a whim, Apollo," she said quietly, her voice carrying a defensive edge. "And what would you have me do now? Lift the curse just because you feel pity for a mortal?"

Apollo's gaze remained steady, his golden aura flickering faintly. "Maybe it's time you did," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "Hasn't she paid enough for whatever perceived slight you imagined all those years ago?"

Aphrodite's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers twitching at her sides as though she were tempted to retort. But no words came. Instead, her shoulders sagged slightly, and her gaze softened, drifting to the distant horizon where the golden sun kissed the edge of Olympus.

"It wasn't imagined," she murmured, more to herself than to Apollo. "They did insult me. But..."

She sighed, a sound heavy with years of resentment. When she looked back at Apollo, the fire in her pale blue eyes were now tempered by something else. "Perhaps, you're right. It's time I let it go," she admitted reluctantly, her voice quieter now. "Perhaps..."

Apollo's posture shifted, his golden aura brightening slightly with cautious hope. He stepped closer, his earlier anger giving way to something steadier, gentler. "Please, Aphrodite. I care for her. Let her be free of this. Let her have a chance."

Aphrodite studied him in silence, her gaze tracing his features—the earnestness in his golden eyes, the way his lips pressed tightly together, as though holding back something deeper. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken meaning.

Finally, she sighed, long and theatrical. "Fine, fine," she said, her voice dripping with exaggerated annoyance. But even as she spoke, a faint trace of something genuine softened her tone, fleeting but present.

Relief flickered in Apollo's eyes, and his golden aura steadied, its warmth filling the room once more. His shoulders began to relax, but the moment was short-lived.

Aphrodite's expression shifted suddenly, the faint gentleness evaporating, replaced by something sharper, colder. Her lips curled back into a wicked smile, and her gaze gleamed with calculated malice.

"Under one condition."

Apollo's relief vanished instantly, his posture stiffening. "What condition?"

Aphrodite's smile widened, her head tilting slightly as she raised a hand, her fingers toying with the edge of her robes, her movements languid and deliberate. Then, with a casual shrug that bordered on flippant, "Get rid of your little memory gift."

Apollo froze. His golden eyes widened briefly before narrowing into slits. "What?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

Aphrodite's shoulders lifted in another delicate shrug, her tone light, almost mocking. "It's simple, brother. You get rid of your little safety net for your muse—no more memory erasing, no more burying her pain—and I'll lift my curse."

The weight of her words filled the space between them, heavy and suffocating. Apollo's golden light pulsing erratically as he processed her demand. "You can't be serious," he said finally, his voice laced with venom. "That's not a fair trade."

Aphrodite giggled, the sound light and musical, but with a sharp edge that set his jaw tighter. "Oh, I think it's perfectly fair. You want her free of my curse? Fine. But let's see how she fares without your little crutch to hold her up."

Apollo's light flared violently, jagged shadows cast across the marble walls as his anger surged. "You're asking me to strip her of the one thing that helps her cope with everything you've put her through. That's cruel, even for you."

Aphrodite tilted her head, her smirk unwavering. "Oh, Apollo, you and I both know your little gift isn't as selfless as you pretend. You didn't create it for her—you created it for yourself. To keep her tethered to you, to your domain, so she'll never forget the comfort only you can provide."

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze predatory and piercing. "Dress it up however you like, but at the end of the day, your gift takes her autonomy. It buries her pain—her pain, Apollo, not yours—and you've convinced yourself it's for her benefit."

Leaning back, she plucked another grape delicately from the bowl at her side, her nails glinting like polished pearls. "So, what will it be?" she asked, her voice honeyed but mocking. "Your precious little muse, free of my curse? Or will you cling to your perfect little gift and let her bear the weight of both our meddling?"

Apollo's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as he stared at her. He let out a slow, measured breath, his gaze falling momentarily to the floor. In his mind, the scales tipped back and forth, weighing the cost of her offer.

When he looked back up, Aphrodite's eyes gleamed with a knowing light, her confidence palpable. He realized this was a one-time offer. She wouldn't make it again.

Releasing another sharp sigh, Apollo straightened his shoulders, his golden eyes meeting hers with quiet intensity. "Deal."

Aphrodite's smirk melted into a sweet, saccharine smile, her demeanor softening as she pushed herself upright. "Good choice, brother." Her hand rose gracefully, a soft glow emanating from her form. Her robes shimmered faintly, her divine light filling the space between them. With a deliberate motion, she lowered her hand, the glow dissipating like a receding wave.

"There. All done," she said simply.

Apollo blinked, his golden aura steadying as warmth spread across his face. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his expression softened into a tired but genuine smile. A glimmer of hope danced in his eyes as he inclined his head toward her. "Thank you. Thank you... sister."

Aphrodite rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a half-smile laced with exasperation. "No need to thank me, Apollo. Just make sure your little muse knows how much I've sacrificed here... if she knows what's good for her."

"She will," he said firmly. "Trust me."

Aphrodite sniffed, reaching for her discarded grapes. She plucked one and tossed it into her mouth, her demeanor already shifting back to its usual nonchalance. "Now, leave me be," she said with a languid wave of her hand. "Go... dote on your mortal or whatever it is you do. And remember, Apollo, no more of your sappy requests."

Apollo chuckled softly, shaking his head as he turned toward the archway. "I wouldn't dream of it." His golden form glistened in the light as he strode away, his footsteps steady.

Behind him, Aphrodite watched him go, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she popped another grape into her mouth. "I swear," she muttered, her voice almost lost in the gentle breeze sweeping through the hall, "gods and their muses."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You woke with a gasp.

Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like you had been drowning. Your body jolted upright before your mind caught up, heart hammering so hard it echoed in your ears.

Something was wrong.

Your skin was damp, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your brow despite the cool air seeping in from the open window. Your breathing was uneven, shuddering. When you reached up to wipe your face, your fingers came away wet.

Tears.

You blinked rapidly, swiping them away with the heel of your hand, confusion tightening your throat. You weren't crying—at least, you didn't think you were. But the evidence was there, clinging to your lashes, trailing down your cheeks.

Why?

No nightmare lingered. No fragmented memory. No reason for this hollow weight pressing against yoribs—s, heavy and unshakable.

You swallowed hard, forcing it down. It had to be exhaustion.

Last night—Apollo—the endless music, the warmth of his presence, the way his voice wrapped around you like sunlight. Maybe it had drained you more than you realized.

That had to be it.

Letting out a slow breath, you swung your legs over the bed, pressing your feet to the cool floor to ground yourself. The lingering haze clung to your mind as you stretched, muscles heavier than usual—but not unpleasantly so.

Moving toward the water basin in the corner, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished bronze mirror.

You looked... different.

Not in any obvious way. But something about the morning light—it kissed your skin, lingered a little too long, like it knew you. Like it belonged to you.

You shook the thought away.

Instead, you focused on the familiar routine of washing up, letting the cold water shock your system awake. As you dressed, an unconscious hum slipped from your lips.

A hymn.

To Apollo.

Your fingers stilled on the fabric of your tunic, the sound of your own voice catching you off guard. You hadn't meant to hum it. Hadn't even thought about it. Yet it had come so naturally.

A warmth settled in your chest—gentle, knowing.

You ignored it, shaking the feeling off as you adjusted your clothes and made your way to the door. Whatever last night had meant, it was over. It was morning, and you had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, you pulled open the door—

Only to nearly walk straight into Callias.

The two of you froze, eyes locking in mutual surprise.

Callias stood mid-motion, one hand raised as if about to knock, the other balancing a small wooden tray. A simple meal rested on top—freshly cut fruit, a bit of cheese, some olives. The kind of food you might have grabbed between chores or on the way to the queen's chambers.

You blinked. He blinked back.

A beat of silence stretched between you before Callias let out a quiet chuckle, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips.

"Well, hello, sleepyhead," he teased, tilting his head slightly. "What made you so tired?"

The question caught you off guard. Your mind scrambled for an answer—one that made sense because how could you possibly explain it? That you'd spent the night with Apollo himself, playing for him, singing for him, lost in melodies that dimmed the stars?

So instead, you settled for something vague.

"You wouldn't believe me," you muttered, shaking your head.

Callias raised an eyebrow, smirk deepening. "Wouldn't I?" he challenged, leaning against the doorframe, eyes glinting with lazy amusement. "You were asleep almost all day."

Your breath caught.

"...What?"

Callias laughed, clearly amused by your reaction. "Yeah, it's almost noon," he said casually, shifting the tray so he could gesture toward the hallway.

The words hit like a stone sinking in water, dragging down into something deep and unsteady.

Noon?

You had gone to sleep just before dawn—only a few hours ago. At least, that's what you thought. You remembered the sky still dark when you finally lay down, Apollo's presence still lingering as you drifted off.

And now... it was noon?

You must have frozen completely because Callias chuckled again, though this time, curiosity edged into his amusement.

"Yeah, you were out," he continued. "But no worries. Prince Telemachus told the king and queen at breakfast that you'd be taking the morning off, so no one's disturbed you."

Telemachus?

Your thoughts whirled, struggling to keep up. You hadn't asked for the morning off. But... he had done it for you? Had gone out of his way to make sure no one expected anything from you after last night?

Something warm and strange settled in your chest, but it was quickly buried beneath the lingering shock.

"Are you okay?" Callias asked, his teasing tone dipping into something softer.

You forced a nod, though your thoughts still spun. "Yeah... just—didn't realize how tired I was."

Not a lie. Not entirely.

Callias studied you for a beat, sharp eyes scanning like he was debating whether to pry. But then, just as quickly, his usual carefree grin returned as he held out the tray. "Well, here, eat something. You probably need it after hibernating."

You took the tray with a small nod of thanks, though your mind was still sluggish, trying to catch up. So much had happened—Apollo, Cleo, your parents, everything—and yet, in reality, it had all been just one day.

The realization made your head spin.

Your body still carried the exhaustion of the Underworld, the weight of divine revelation pressing into your bones. Time had been strange since you entered the Underworld, slipping through your fingers like sand. But even then, you had never slept for so long.

"Anyway, I actually came to tell you about Venus tonight." Callias' grin widened, eyes gleaming with excitement.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. "Venus?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his enthusiasm infectious. "It'll be at its brightest tonight. The whole town is talking about it. Perfectly clear skies, the kind of thing you have to see."
Your fingers tightened slightly around the tray as something twisted deep in your chest—not unpleasant, but unexpected.

Venus.

A memory surfaced unbidden, breaking through the fog.

"Tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," Telemachus had said, voice quieter than usual. "It lights up the sky like a beacon. I... was thinking—if you'd like, you could... join me?"

The way he had looked at you then—hopeful, hesitant—made your heart clench.

But before you could answer, Andreia had appeared.

Her presence had shattered the moment, her voice dripping with familiarity as she touched Telemachus' arm, claiming his attention like it was hers to take. He had turned to her, torn between duty and whatever had just passed between you.

And just like that, the offer had been swept away.

You had almost forgotten. Or maybe you had forced yourself to.

Callias' voice pulled you back to the present before you could spiral too deep.

"I was thinking we could go together," he said, his eagerness cutting through the weight pressing in your chest. "It's supposed to be stunning, and I don't want to go alone."

You hesitated, emotions warring inside you.

A part of you—a small, ugly part—wanted to refuse. To lock yourself away in your room and ignore the ache curling inside your chest. To pretend none of this mattered.

But another part of you—the part that refused to let Andreia's callousness dictate your choices—wanted to go.

What did it matter if Telemachus was watching Venus with Andreia?

What did it really matter?

You looked up at Callias, his expectant expression so open, so easy. Unlike Telemachus, who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Callias was light. No burdens, no expectations. Just here, grinning at you like nothing was complicated at all.

And maybe, for tonight, you needed that.

You took a breath, shoving the ache of Telemachus and Andreia down. Letting it settle beneath the surface.

"Alright," you said, forcing a small smile. "I'll go."

Callias' grin widened, his whole face lighting up. "Perfect! I'll meet you in the square after sunset."

You nodded, watching as he stepped back with an easy wave before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The tray in your hands felt heavier than before.

Exhaling slowly, you closed the door behind you and turned back into your room.

For the first time in what felt like days, you had plans. Not with Telemachus. Not with duty pressing against your back.

But with someone who simply wanted to enjoy the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you needed.

☆

☆

As the day stretched on, you noticed something felt off.

It wasn't something you could name—not fully.

It started the moment you woke, lingering at the edges of your mind like the remnants of a dream you couldn't quite grasp. The air felt heavier, the familiar scents of the palace—sea salt, aged stone, fresh linens—were sharper, more defined, as if you were experiencing them for the first time.

At first, you brushed it off—exhaustion, the weight of yesterday, your mind still catching up to the reality that had shifted beneath your feet.

But as the hours passed, the feeling didn't fade.

If anything, it grew stronger.

Every sound, every color, every sensation felt amplified, as if you had been seeing the world through a veil this entire time, and now, without warning, it had been ripped away.

Something had changed.

You had changed.

But you couldn't explain how.

And you weren't sure if you were ready to.

The sky had darkened by the time you made your way down to the courtyard, the last streaks of twilight fading into the deep indigo of night. Stars pricked through the heavens like scattered embers, and in the east, Venus shone the brightest—a beacon against the endless dark.

You exhaled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders.

Tonight was simple. Meet Callias. Watch Venus. Let the night be just a night.

This was fine. You were fine.

You weren't thinking about the way Apollo had looked at you like you were his to cherish, weren't thinking about the way Telemachus had asked you to see Venus with him, only for Andreia to steal that moment away.

No. You weren't thinking about any of that.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, you had Callias.

And yet, as you approached the courtyard, your steps slowed.

Something stirred in the distance.

Not Callias—not yet.

Beyond the stone archway, at the entrance to the palace grounds, a small caravan was being prepared.

Horses shifted under the weight of their bridles, their breath visible in the cool night air. Royal attendants moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting saddles, tightening straps, securing supplies. Lanterns flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls.

You didn't have to wonder who it was for.

Then, you saw them.

Telemachus and Andreia stood just beyond the main path, illuminated by the soft golden glow of the torches.

Your breath hitched—just for a moment.

She stood close to Telemachus. Too close.

Her fingers barely grazed his arm, but the touch lingered. She was speaking, head tilted just so, lips curved in an easy, confident smile. The way she looked at him—like she knew she was the center of his attention, like she expected it—made your stomach churn.

But it was Telemachus' expression that truly caught you.

He wasn't smiling.

His posture was stiff, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He nodded as she spoke, but his gaze flickered—to the ground, to the attendants, to the caravan. Anywhere but her.

Anywhere but here.

It was the same look he wore when he was enduring something he didn't want but knew he couldn't refuse.

You should have looked away.

You should have kept walking, let the night unfold as it was meant to—without letting yourself drown in the weight of something you couldn't change.

But you didn't.

Something about them—the almost-blue of her dress, the tension in his shoulders, the way the torches illuminated them like a portrait painted in gold—held you there.

This was what could have been yours.

But it wasn't.

Not anymore.

A cool breeze brushed past, making you pull your shawl tighter, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself feel it.

The ache.

The loss.

The quiet, unbearable knowing that whatever had existed between you and Telemachus—that unspoken, fragile thing—was now on the verge of shambles.

And then—

"___!"

The voice snapped you out of your thoughts, light and familiar.

You turned, blinking quickly as Callias strode into view, his usual easy grin in place. He looked effortlessly put together, as always—his brown curls tousled from the wind, a thin gold chain catching the torchlight at his throat.

Behind you, the caravan began to move—horses led forward, wheels creaking against the stone path as the procession disappeared into the night.

Telemachus and Andreia turned as well, their figures half-illuminated in the shifting glow.

And for just a second—a single, fleeting second—Telemachus' gaze found yours.

Your breath caught.

Something flickered across his face—something unreadable, something buried too deep to name.

But then, just as quickly, he looked away, shifting his attention back to Andreia as she spoke.

And that was that.

Callias came to a stop beside you, watching the caravan fade into the dark before turning back to you with an amused tilt of his head.

"You were staring," he noted, teasing but light. "Do I even need to ask why?"

You swallowed, forcing a small, dismissive smile. "Not at all."

He studied you for a moment, his usual playfulness tempered by something quieter, more knowing. But whatever he wanted to say, he held back. Instead, he threw an arm over your shoulders, tugging you lightly toward the garden terraces.

"Good thing I'm here to rescue you from your thoughts," he said cheerfully. "Come on, we have stars to see. And I, for one, refuse to let you mope under a sky this clear."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, and fell into step beside him.

The night stretched before you, open and endless, the sky above glittering with stars.

.☆.
      .✩.
           .☆.

By the time you and Callias reached the stargazing spot, both of you were panting slightly, the climb steeper than expected. The winding paths of Ithaca weren't anything new to you, but under the cover of night—with the occasional loose stone threatening to send you tumbling—it felt far more treacherous than it should have.

Callias let out a dramatic huff beside you, swiping his curls away from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You know," he started, breath coming in short bursts, "for an island, Ithaca sure has an ungodly amount of hills."

You let out a breathless laugh. "One would think being surrounded by the sea would make it flatter," you teased, shaking your head.

"Exactly!" Callias threw his hands up. "Mountains? Fine. Valleys? Sure. But this?" He gestured vaguely at the incline you'd just conquered, his frustration exaggerated enough to make you laugh again.

The cool night air brushed against your skin, and as you finally lifted your gaze, the sight before you made the ache in your legs seem like a small price to pay.

The stargazing area had been arranged with far more preparation than you'd expected. Ithaca, despite its deep-rooted love for land and sky, didn't typically host large stargazing gatherings. Most preferred quiet moments, watching from their own homes, sharing the night with close friends or family.

But this—this was different.

The clearing had been carefully prepared, no doubt orchestrated by Andreia herself. Blankets covered the grass while small wooden trays sat between each seating arrangement, filled with fresh figs, olives, and honeyed almonds.

Lanterns lined the outskirts, casting a warm, flickering glow—just enough to move around without overpowering the brilliance of the stars.

Already, a handful of servants from both Bronte and Ithaca had settled in, chatting in hushed voices, adjusting their seats. Others lingered by the edges, watching as the last of the caravan settled into place.

It was beautiful, you had to admit, even if it left a strange weight in your chest.

Your gaze instinctively drifted skyward, drawn by habit and expectation. But instead of the vast, glittering expanse of stars you had imagined, drifting clouds veiled the heavens. The familiar constellations flickered faintly behind them, their shapes blurred and broken, swallowed and revealed in slow-moving patterns.

It wasn't unusual for clouds to pass through, but it felt almost... untimely. As though the heavens had drawn a curtain over something you were meant to see.

Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting as you scanned the sky, searching—searching for the one light you had been waiting for.

Venus should have been visible by now.

Yet, for a long, stretching moment, it was nowhere to be found.

A pang of disappointment nudged at your ribs, though you weren't sure why. It was just a planet, just another celestial body tracing its path through the heavens. And yet...

"Don't tell we crawled up this hill for a cloudy sky," Callias groaned beside you, following your gaze with a half-hearted glare at the heavens. He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. "If Venus is hiding after all that effort, I'm taking it as a personal betrayal."

You let out a small, breathy laugh, though your fingers unconsciously tightened at your sides.

"Just wait," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It'll show."

Callias barely gave you a moment before grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward a group already seated near the edge of the gathering. "C'mon," he grinned, excitement buzzing in his tone. "There are a few people I want you to meet."

You let him lead you, weaving through clusters of people, careful not to step too close to the edge of the hill.

Your nerves kicked in when you realized where he was taking you—to a Brontean group, already settled comfortably in a small circle.

Three figures—two women and one man—looked up as Callias approached, their faces illuminated by the soft lantern glow.

The first woman, a foreign-looking girl with deep brown skin framed by a golden-wrapped headscarf, was the first to notice you. Her dark eyes flickered with curiosity, lips twitching in amusement as she nudged the girl beside her.

The second woman—lighter in complexion, black curls tumbling over her shoulders, an air of quiet confidence around her—lifted her gaze from a bowl of figs, sharp blue eyes assessing you quickly.

The man, broad-shouldered with a trimmed beard and golden rings adorning his fingers, smirked as Callias approached.

"If it isn't Ithaca's favorite socialite," he teased, shifting slightly to make room.

Callias rolled his eyes but grinned, tugging you closer. "Everyone, this is ____, the newest addition to my very selective circle of friends."

The woman with the golden scarf hummed, tilting her head. "So this is the one Callias won't shut up about," she mused. "Well, aren't you a pretty lamb ready for slaughter?"

You blinked, caught off guard, while Callias groaned dramatically, shooting her an unimpressed look.

"Asta, that's not how we greet people."

The woman—Asta—shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I think it is."

The dark-haired woman smirked, leaning forward. "You have been talking about her a lot, Cal," she admitted, popping a fig into her mouth.

Callias nudged her foot. "I do have other things to talk about, you know."

"Sure," the man chuckled. "Like wine. And how much you hate horses."

Callias narrowed his eyes. "You're all terrible. Scooch over, we're sitting."

With a dramatic sigh, Asta made room, and Callias pulled you down beside him, flashing you a quick wink before turning back to the group.

The dark-haired woman studied you for a moment before offering a smooth smile. "I'm Lysandra," she introduced herself. "Lady Andreia's personal attendant."

Your breath hitched slightly, but you nodded, keeping your expression neutral.

Lysandra seemed to catch your hesitation because she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Don't worry," she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze. "I'm not here to test your loyalty or anything. Honestly, I'm just here for the stars and good company."

You offered a small smile, though your stomach still twisted uncomfortably.

Beside her, the man stretched, letting out a small sigh as he adjusted the rings on his fingers.

"And I'm Kieran," he said. "Bronte's Treasury Overseer and resident merchant-troublemaker. Whatever you need, I can find it—for a price, of course." His grin was easygoing, but his eyes were sharp, something calculated beneath the charm.

"And I," Asta cut in, her accent unfamiliar, "am just Asta. No fancy titles, no noble houses. Just a wandering soul who somehow ended up in Bronte."

You nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer presence of them all.

Callias, sensing your nerves, nudged you lightly.

"Relax," he whispered. "They don't bite." He paused, side-eyeing Asta, who merely raised an eyebrow. "Most of them don't."

That pulled a small, reluctant laugh from you, easing some of the tension in your chest.

Kieran, always one to seize an opportunity, leaned back on his hands with a grin. "So, Callias," he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him. "What exactly have you been up to? It feels like we haven't seen you in ages."

Callias scoffed, waving him off. "You literally saw me earlier today. At lunch. And at dinner."

Asta snorted, shaking her head. "You mean we saw you grab a bite before immediately disappearing."

Lysandra smirked, adding in smoothly. "And even when you do stay, you can't stop talking about your new bestie." She glanced at you teasingly, amusement glimmering in her green eyes. "It's honestly kind of cute."

You blinked, caught between mild shock and embarrassment. Callias? Talking about you?

Callias groaned loudly, tossing his head back in dramatic exasperation. "Oh, for the love of the gods—" He shot Lysandra a playfully betrayed look. "You're all just mad I finally found someone who appreciates my charm."

Asta smirked. "Or someone who hasn't yet figured out how exhausting you are."

Laughter rippled through the group, warm and easy, and despite the lingering tension in your chest, you couldn't help but smile.

Callias placed a hand over his heart, dramatically wounded. "If this is how you're gonna treat me, then I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," Kieran said, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't dare leave your bestie behind."

Callias grumbled something under his breath, but his grin gave him away. He leaned back onto his elbows, shaking his head in mock defeat.

Asta, still watching you with sharp curiosity, tilted her head. "So, ____," she said, smoothly bringing you into the conversation. "What's it like working under Ithaca's rule?"

Kieran perked up beside her, nudging Lysandra with his elbow. "Yeah! How's the pay? I might switch over."

Lysandra swatted his arm without looking. "You wouldn't last a week in Ithaca."

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. "It's... not bad," you admitted, adjusting the fabric of your tunic as you as you considered your answer. "The royal family is warmer than most would expect."

Asta arched a brow, intrigued. "Warmer, huh?"

You nodded. "It wasn't always like this," you said, your voice softening in thought. "Before King Odysseus returned, things were... tense. The palace felt like it was holding its breath. The queen was strong, but the suitors brought uncertainty. It was hard to feel secure."

Your fingers traced absent patterns into your sleeve. "But ever since the king came home, things have been different. There's a new kind of peace in Ithaca. He's fair but firm. He sees people, not just titles."

Kieran hummed, considering. "Not bad," he mused. "Maybe I should switch over."

Lysandra groaned and flicked an olive at him. He barely dodged it. "Oh, shut up."

Then, she turned her gaze toward you, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "So, ____, what's he really like?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Who?"

"The great King Odysseus, of course," she clarified. "Word of his return spread all the way to Bronte. Everyone was talking about it—the king who defeated death itself to come home."

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's a big reason why we're here, actually. Along with the whole Prince Andros situation, of course."

At the mention of Andros, a shadow flickered across Kieran's face before he scoffed.

"The 'Andros situation'—what a polite fucking way to put it," he muttered, voice edged with sarcasm. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. "More like the clean-up of a fool. Serves him right."

Asta shot him a warning look. "Careful," she said, voice even but pointed. "Someone might overhear and snitch to the princess."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. We're not in Bronte, Asta. What's she gonna do? Have me executed in Ithaca?"

Asta arched a brow, adjusting her seat. "No. But the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Kieran's smirk faded into a scowl. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah. What a fast one, the princess is," he muttered, irritation laced through his voice.

Then, his sharp gaze flicked to you.

"Speaking of which," he said, tilting his head. "What have you heard on your end?"

You blinked. "Pardon?"

Kieran leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "C'mon. We're not gonna snitch. I just mean, what rumors have you heard? About Princess Andreia? About your prince?" he urged, tilting his head toward the clearing, subtly motioning with his hand.

Your chest tightened at the phrasing—your prince—before following his gesture, your gaze landing on the opposite side of the clearing, where the best seats for stargazing had been arranged.

Andreia sat in a broad wooden chair—one brought just for her—an ornate cushion beneath her to keep her comfortable on the rocky ground. She was speaking to Telemachus, lips curved into an easy, knowing smile. Her hands moved lightly as she spoke, graceful, practiced, but her expression betrayed little true emotion.

Telemachus, however, wasn't looking at her.

His face remained calm, polite. But his eyes were already fixed skyward, waiting for the clouds to part and reveal Venus. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, his mind clearly elsewhere.

You weren't sure why you kept watching him. Maybe it was the way his expression barely changed, the way his body sat there—composed, proper—while his hands betrayed his thoughts. The rhythmic tapping against his knee, the quiet inhale through his nose every few moments, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed despite Andreia's presence.

As if a memory had been scraped to the surface, Callias' words returned with startling clarity.

"One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip... Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your stomach tightened.

How long had it been since he told you that? A week? A day? Less? Everything that had happened—the Underworld, Apollo, your own unraveling—had swallowed your focus so completely that you had forgotten.

Just how much had she accomplished in that time?

Had she already planted her roots deeper into Ithaca's court? Had she secured her place by his side while you were tangled in your own problems, failing to notice?

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your tunic.

What has she gained while I wasn't paying attention?

The thought made your skin crawl.

Not because of duty. Not because of political maneuvering—those had always existed, always shaped the lives of the powerful.

No, what unsettled you was Andreia herself.

"...the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Asta's words echoed fresh in your mind, sharp and foreboding.

And the truth was, she was right.

Andreia wasn't just here to bask in Ithaca's hospitality. She wasn't lingering at Telemachus' side out of passing interest.

She was moving.

Every smile, every carefully placed word, every touch Telemachus never stopped—she was shifting the board, playing the game.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your gaze lingered on her.

The dress she wore tonight was a lighter seafoam blue, not green—a color closer to Ithaca's than Bronte's. A subtle change, but deliberate. A symbol of someone adjusting, assimilating. She was embedding herself within Ithaca's court, reshaping her image to make it easier for others to see her as belonging here.

Beside its prince.

Your eyes flicked back to him.

His hands had gone still, resting idly against his knee. His face was polite, but distant.

Waiting for the clouds to move.

Not looking at her.

Your grip loosened slightly.

For all of Andreia's efforts, for all of her presence—

Telemachus was not looking at her.

He was looking up.

And for just a moment, you let yourself believe—maybe Asta was wrong.

Maybe, no matter how much Andreia tried to weave herself into his world, she would never truly have him.

You opened your mouth, ready to answer Kieran—to say something, maybe that you weren't sure, that you hadn't heard anything worth repeating.

But before you could get a word out—

A half-eaten fig flew across the blanket and smacked Kieran in the shoulder.

"Gods, do you lot even know how to ask a normal question?" Callias huffed, stretching out lazily as if he hadn't just launched fruit at someone. "What ever happened to 'Hey, ____! What'' your favorite color?' Or 'Wow, that's a nice shawl, where'd you get it?' You know—questions that don't make people think they're about to be interrogated."

Kieran let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder as if the fig had done any real damage. "Callias, you are insufferable."

"Selfish," Lysandra agreed, shaking her head in mock disappointment.

"So selfish," Asta echoed, plucking the remains of the fig from where it had rolled onto the blanket and tossing it at Callias in retaliation. He dodged effortlessly, flashing them a smug grin.

"You're all just mad that I have social skills," Callias shot back, wagging a finger at them.

"You mean the skills of an annoying little brother," Lysandra muttered.

Kieran rolled his eyes and turned back to you. "This is the first Ithacan servant we've actually had a chance to talk to since being here—ever—and he want us to waste time with trivial nonsense?" He shot Callias a pointed look before glancing back at you. "I, for one, think we should make good use of the opportunity."

That... surprised you.

"You've... never spoken to any of the other servants?" you asked, hesitantly. "Is it... forbidden?"

The moment the words left your lips, the energy around the group shifted. A brief, noticeable silence settled, the once-playful air turning heavier, more serious.

Asta was the first to break it. "Not explicitly," she admitted, rolling a small olive between her fingers. "But it's an unwritten rule for Brontes not to be too communicative with outsiders."

Lysandra nodded, leaning back on her hands. "It's about presenting an image—one of strength, unity. The less our servants talk, the more disciplined and devoted our homeland appears to others. It's..." She hesitated, then settled on, "A way to maintain control, I suppose."

Kieran, however, scoffed loudly, completely unimpressed. "It's bullshit is what it is. The whole thing's designed to make us miserable. Keeps us longing for home, thinking about how much better we had it before leaving." His jaw tensed slightly, and for the first time since meeting him, there was no teasing in his voice—just frustration.

Asta arched a brow, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "You've been awfully bold lately, Kieran." She propped her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. "What happened to the perfect, quiet little merchant's son from Bronte?"

Kieran shot her an unimpressed glare. "He got a taste of freedom—of Ithaca—and now he's got a spine," he retorted dryly. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression brightened.

"Oh! Tadros is passing out wine!"

He practically jolted upright, pointing toward the far end of the clearing before turning to Lysandra and tugging her arm. "Come on! Let's go before all the good stuff's gone!"

Lysandra rolled her eyes, though a faint smile played at her lips. "Fine, you child," she muttered, already getting to her feet.

Asta followed suit, stretching her arms above her head. "I'll help carry enough back for everyone," she said before shooting a smirk at Kieran. "Not that you'd be any help with that."

"You wound me," Kieran gasped, clutching his chest dramatically before grinning and leading the way toward the group of Bronte servants gathered around the wine.

As they walked off, you exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering. The laughter and chatter faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the night and the distant murmur of the gathering around the wine.

You turned toward Callias, curiosity—and unease—pressing against your chest too strongly to ignore.

"Is it really true?" you asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of you. "That Bronte's servants aren't allowed to speak to Ithacans?"

Callias glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it's true," he admitted. "At least, that's how it's supposed to be."

Leaning back on his hands, he tilted his head toward the sky, his face thoughtful. "But I've never been one to stick to all the rules—especially not when the princess herself is out here making 'alliances.'" His lips curled into a knowing smirk, but there was something else behind it. Something tired.

His words made your stomach twist. You hesitated before asking carefully, "Have you... gotten into trouble because of... me?"

The smirk faltered—just for a second. It was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it before he forced an easy grin back into place.

He shrugged, brushing invisible dust from his tunic as if the question meant nothing. "Of course not," he said lightly. "Like Kieran said, what could she do to us here? This isn't Bronte."

For some reason, you didn't believe him.

But instead of pressing the issue, you simply nodded in quiet acceptance. Maybe it was better not to know.

A flicker of movement caught your attention from the corner of your eye. A Bronte servant approached, their steps quick but measured, head slightly bowed as they reached Callias.

"The princess has requested your presence," they said in a hushed voice. "She wants you near her... and to play the panpipes."

A brief, loaded silence followed.

Callias didn't move at first, absorbing the words. Then, without hesitation, he gave a short nod. "Of course," he said, voice neutral. The servant inclined their head and disappeared back into the gathering like a shadow.

Once they were gone, Callias let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Well. That's that," he muttered, exhaling sharply before turning back to you. "Sorry, ____."

"You don't have to apologize, Callias," you assured him, offering a small smile. "She would've noticed you were here sooner or later anyway."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, instead of dwelling on it, he grinned—though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're right," he said. "Still—kind of a shame. I was having fun."

You chuckled softly. "Me too."

Callias stood, stretching his arms above his head before rolling out his shoulders. "Tell you what," he said, glancing down at you with a playful tilt of his head. "Tomorrow, let's hang out. No princess, no obligations—just a normal, rule-breaking Bronte servant and his new bestie."

The casual way he said it made you smile. "Alright," you agreed, nudging his foot with yours. "Tomorrow, then."

His grin widened before he took a step back. "Great. I'll come find you."

With that, he turned, heading toward the main gathering—toward Andreia, who was waiting.

You watched him go, the easy energy he always carried feeling just a little heavier tonight. As he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a small breath, shaking off the weight of it all.

Tomorrow.

That was something to look forward to.

But tonight wasn't over just yet.

Before you could dwell too much on Callias' departure, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you back to the present.

Kieran, Lysandra, and Asta returned, carrying a few clay cups of wine between them. Kieran was the first to plop down beside you, exhaling like he'd just completed some impossible task. Lysandra and Asta followed, setting down a small flask with the remaining wine.

Asta's sharp eyes swept over the circle, immediately picking up on the absence.

"Where's Callias?" she asked, brow furrowing.

You hesitated, then sighed. "Princess Andreia sent for him."

That was all it took for the mood to drop.

Asta's mouth tightened into a thin line. Kieran scoffed, shaking his head as he handed you a cup of wine, and Lysandra sighed heavily, settling in beside Asta.

Kieran took a swig from his cup, grumbling, "Figures. The four of us finally get some time together, and she takes him. As always." He rubbed a hand down his face, exasperated.

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's no different than back home," she said, swirling her wine before taking a small sip. She turned to Lysandra. "Does she ever talk about why she loves picking on Callias so much?"

Lysandra frowned, clearly considering the question before shaking her head. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Since we've come to Ithaca, I haven't been as close to her. It's not like before."

Kieran clicked his tongue. "Bet she caught on," he muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Or another servant ratted them out. You know how Bronte royals are when they travel. They love pitting their servants against each other."

His words struck something in you, but before you could dwell on it, his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened slightly, the usual sharpness easing.

"Hey," he said, nudging your arm with his elbow. "I just wanna say—if we made you uncomfortable earlier, I'm sorry. We can be... a bit much."

You blinked, then quickly shook your head. "No, it's alright. I wasn't uncomfortable," you reassured, offering a small smile. "It was nice... getting to talk to others."

Lysandra tilted her head, watching you for a moment before speaking.

"I know you were mostly here for Callias," she said gently. "And you might not be comfortable around the rest of us just yet—but we did enjoy getting to know you." She paused, then smiled. "Hopefully, we'll get to do it again."

Something about the sincerity in her voice made your chest warm slightly. You nodded, gratitude settling in your bones. "I'd like that," you admitted.

After that, you excused yourself, stretching as you stood. The others bid you a casual farewell, already shifting their conversation elsewhere.

You wandered a short distance away, their chatter fading into the background as you searched for a quieter spot. Then, finally, you found it.

A ledge.

It wasn't far from where they sat, but it felt separate enough to offer some peace. The land sloped downward slightly before opening to a ledge overlooking the sea. You made your way toward it, the faint salt of the ocean thick in the cool night air.

Settling down, you placed your cup beside you, the clay cool against the stone.

Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the water an endless abyss of dark blue and silver, illuminated only by the moonlight breaking through scattered clouds. The distant roar of the sea filled the silence, steady and unrelenting, constant and unfazed by mortal worries.

Above, the sky stretched wide, stars blinking in and out as the clouds drifted lazily. Orion and Perseus had already emerged, their familiar figures standing boldly in the heavens.

But Venus—

Venus was still hidden.

You sighed softly, watching as the clouds shifted, waiting.

The wind carried the scent of salt and damp earth, the waves below crashing rhythmically against the cliffs. Above, the thinning clouds slowly unveiled the vast cosmos, stars flickering into view one by one. The night stretched endless—vast—as if you were floating somewhere between the sky and the sea, caught in a strange, quiet stillness.

You traced the familiar constellations absently, mind drifting, thoughts slipping into a hazy blur—until a voice cut through the quiet.

"Now, now. Sitting all alone, looking all broody? You're gonna make me think you're lonely."

You barely smothered the startled yelp that nearly escaped, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Heart hammering, you turned sharply to your left, only to find—

Hermes.

The god lounged beside you as if he'd been there the whole time, one knee propped up, chin resting lazily against his palm. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled into a lopsided grin that spelled nothing but trouble.

"Gods," you whispered breathlessly, pressing a hand to your chest in a feeble attempt to slow your racing heart.

Hermes chuckled, straightening slightly. "Startled you?"

You shot him a look, still trying to calm your nerves. "Just a little," you muttered, exhaling through your nose.

"Good." He winked, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'd hate to think I'm losing my touch."

You shook your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. But before you could respond, Hermes tilted his head, his grin turning sly.

"Speaking of trouble..." he drawled, voice dipping into something playfully accusatory. "Aren't you a little troublemaker? What happened to 'Don't get into trouble without me'? I leave you alone for one afternoon, and you almost get me singed by Hades."

You winced at the reminder, guilt pooling in your stomach. "Ah..." You scratched at your cheek, looking away. "Sorry about that. I—I really didn't mean to—"

Hermes let out a bark of laughter, waving off your apology with an easy flick of his wrist. "No worries. Lucky for you, Persephone made sure you wouldn't get any punishments. Even Hades liked you a little—but don't expect him to admit it."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Hades?"

"Mhm." Hermes leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. "I gotta say, I'm impressed. How did you do it? I was all set to be the one escorting your soul when your time came, and yet, here you are. Breathing. Living." He made a dramatic gesture with his hands. "Existing."

You cleared your throat, turning your gaze back out to sea as you scratched your chin, recalling the moment. "I, uh... just repeated the phrase you whispered to me. The one about the threshold."

Hermes blinked. Once. Twice.

"That's it?"

You nodded.

He stared for another beat before leaning back with an amused hum, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Huh."

Silence stretched between you, the waves below filling the space with their rhythmic crash. You weren't sure if Hermes was still mulling over your words or simply enjoying the way you squirmed under his unreadable gaze.

Then, his lips curled into a smirk, golden eyes glinting with mischief.

"Besides that, a little birdie told me you've learned of your favor to my insufferable big brother." He gave a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his curls as if the thought physically pained him. "Congratulations, little musician. You're officially tied to one of the most dramatic gods on Olympus. And that's saying something."

You couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you murmured, though something about his words stirred an uncomfortable thought in the back of your mind.

Favor of a god.

Cleo's voice slithered through your memories like a whisper in the dark.

"You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are?"

Your stomach twisted. The cold breeze suddenly felt sharper against your skin. You fidgeted, clearing your throat to steady your voice.

"Hermes," you started hesitantly, shifting to fully face him. "Could you... help me with something?"

His brows lifted slightly, amusement softening into curiosity. "Of course. I am very helpful, you know."

You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt heavy in your throat, but after everything—Cleo, the Underworld, Telemachus—you needed an answer. Even if you weren't sure you'd like it.

Taking a slow breath, you forced the words out.

"Was I... supposed to die?"

Hermes froze.

It was brief—a flicker, a second of unnatural stillness—but you caught it. His smirk faltered, his body tensed ever so slightly before he quickly masked it with a scoff.

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" he asked, tilting his head with an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. "I—I don't know," you admitted, gripping the fabric of your clothes. "It's just... things have been strange lately. And Cleo—" You swallowed hard. "She said it. That it was supposed to be me down there. And when I asked Polites, he just told me to ask you."

But you weren't done. The thoughts had already started unraveling, spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

"And then Telemachus—he said favors never end well. That they come with consequences. And what if this is mine? What if—" Your breath hitched, words tumbling out too fast, chest tightening with something raw and unspoken. "What if I was supposed to die, and Apollo changed it? What if I was never meant to be here at all?"

Your voice cracked, and you clenched your jaw, willing yourself to calm down. But the fear had already crept in, clawing up your spine, coiling in your stomach. It had been lurking in the background all day, shadowing every thought, every breath. And now, as you finally voiced it, the weight of it nearly crushed you.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the cold air too thin, too sharp. You curled in slightly, gripping your arms to ground yourself as a quiet tremble ran through your limbs.

Then, warm fingers pressed gently against the top of your head.

A strange sensation rushed over you—soft, golden warmth eased the tightness in your chest, smoothing over the edges of your nerves. Your shoulders relaxed before you could stop them, the tension draining from your body like water slipping through your fingers.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Hermes huffed, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he ruffled your hair like you were a child fretting over nothing. "There we go," he murmured. "No need for all that panic, little musician."

You exhaled shakily, realizing just how fast your heart had been racing. The warmth from his touch settled deep in your chest, lingering like sunlight after a storm.

Hermes watched you for a moment, then clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a smirk. "Look at you. All teary-eyed." He leaned in, swiping away a stray tear with his thumb before you'd even noticed it was there.

The touch was quick, fleeting—but it sent a shiver through you nonetheless.

"Unfortunately," he continued, tone lighter now, "that particular question is a little outside my jurisdiction."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my dear little mortal," he said, tapping your nose playfully, "whether or not you were meant to die is Apollo's business, not mine."

Your heart sank. "So you don't know?"

"Oh, I probably do," he teased, grinning when you huffed. "But that's a family secret, you see. Divine intervention and all that."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a finger, cutting you off.

"What I can promise you, though," he said, voice dipping into something softer, more certain, "is that you don't have to worry about dying anytime soon."

Your breath caught at the quiet sincerity in his words.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before his smirk returned, gentler this time. "I won't allow it."

His voice was light, teasing as always, but something in the way he said it—the certainty, the quiet weight—made your chest tighten.

A promise.

A reassurance.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

The warmth of Hermes' words settled deep in your chest, lingering like the last traces of sunlight on your skin. It was strange—comforting, even—how easily he could dispel your fears with a smirk and a well-placed touch. You hadn't realized just how much you needed to hear it, how much you had been carrying, until now. Your fingers flexed slightly against your lap, testing the weight of your own relief.

Hermes, for his part, looked entirely at ease. His golden eyes glinted with satisfaction as he rocked back slightly, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. His usual mischievous grin played at his lips—but then, something shifted.

His gaze flickered past your shoulder, his smirk softening into something more knowing—resigned, almost.

"Well," he exhaled through his nose, "looks like our little heart-to-heart is about to be cut short."

You frowned. "What do you—"

"You'll see," he interrupted, smile turning lopsided, teasing. "I'll be seeing you soon, little musician."

There was something in his tone—something weighty beneath the ease—but before you could question it, a sharp crack split through the quiet.

A twig snapping.

Your breath caught. The sound was close—too close. The night air thickened, charged with something unseen, your pulse skipping as your senses sharpened.

A shadow shifted just beyond the tree line, stepping hesitantly into the torch-lit clearing.

Telemachus.

Your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He stood just at the edge of the light, framed by the silver glow of the stars, his posture stiff—almost uncertain. His dark eyes found yours instantly, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across his face.

"____," he said softly, clearing his throat before glancing away, as if collecting himself. Then, quieter, more hesitant—"Can we talk?"

Instinctively, you turned slightly, expecting Hermes' presence beside you, a snide remark or knowing grin at your expense.

But when you looked, the space where he had been was empty.

The only thing that remained was the whisper of the wind, as if he had never been there at all.

Your mind reeled, struggling to catch up. Hermes was gone. Telemachus was here. And now—he was asking to talk.

You swallowed hard, pushing down the tangle of emotions threatening to resurface.

"Of course," you murmured, voice steadier than you felt.

Because despite the uncertainty, the exhaustion, the unresolved weight between you—one thing was clear.

Whatever Telemachus had to say, you were ready to hear it.

He moved quietly, lowering himself beside you on the ledge. The air between you settled into something fragile yet familiar—not tense, but not entirely at ease either.

Neither of you spoke.

For a long moment, you just sat there, listening to the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The wind carried the scent of salt and cypress, weaving through the silence like a presence of its own.

He exhaled slowly, barely audible over the night's quiet hum. His fingers flexed against his knees, gripping the fabric of his tunic like it was the only thing anchoring him. At first, his posture was rigid, but as the silence stretched, his shoulders slumped slightly—like something within him had finally given in.

You turned toward him just as he lowered his head, eyes cast downward, expression caught somewhere between thoughtfulness and quiet remorse. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but he hesitated.

And then, finally, he looked at you.

His brown eyes met yours, raw and unguarded, holding an intensity that sent your heart skittering, bracing yourself for whatever was to come, and then—

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was immense. "For everything."

His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing into his skin. "I've been acting like a fool. I see it now," he admitted, his tone edged with frustration—though not at you. "The way I've treated you, the way I've kept things from you... I don't know why I thought that was fair. As if you could read my mind, as if you could just... understand the weight of everything I've been trying to juggle without me even telling you."

He let out a breath, shaking his head. "That's not fair to you. It never was."

You said nothing, letting him speak, letting him unravel what had clearly been building inside him.

His hand dragged over his face before dropping limply to his lap. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed. "Lady Andreia. She... " He hesitated, then forced himself to say it. "She proposed a marriage alliance the first time we spoke alone."

A sharp pang shot through your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing on the way his face twisted, on the flicker of barely contained disgust in his eyes.

"I didn't see it coming," he continued, voice tight. "Not at all. I thought—" He scoffed at himself. "I thought she was just trying to recover after losing her brother. I never imagined she'd have her sights set on me, on Ithaca. Gods, I was blind to it. Completely blindsided."

His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into every word. "And then I went to my parents. I told them everything." He let out a humorless laugh. "They weren't surprised. Not really. My father, being who he is, took it in stride. He spoke of alternatives—military alliances, cultural exchanges—but I could see it in his eyes." He exhaled sharply. "He was testing me. Seeing if I would choose duty over myself."

His voice dropped, quieter now. "And my mother... she reminded me that Andreia isn't just a princess. She's a girl who lost her brother, trying to secure a future for herself the only way she's ever been taught." His gaze flickered toward the sky, though he didn't really seem to see it. "And I hated it. Hated that it made sense. Hated that I could understand why she was doing this. Hated that I didn't know how to escape it without making things worse."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unmoving.

And then, in a voice quieter than before, Telemachus whispered, "I should have told you the moment it happened."

Your breath caught.

His hands trembled slightly as he flexed his fingers, his expression twisting into something deeply regretful. "I should have come to you," he admitted, his voice cracking at the edges. "I should have let you know instead of making you piece things together on your own. Instead of making you feel like I was shutting you out."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and when he spoke again. "I didn't want you to—"

He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.

Didn't want you to what? Worry? Hurt? See how much it was affecting him?

Whatever it was, he didn't say it.

Instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "But by doing that, I made it worse," he admitted. "I made you worry anyway. I made you doubt things I should have been clear about from the start. And now..." He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Now I've only made a mess of things. Because I was too much of a fool to realize how much keeping this from you would hurt you."

He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching briefly in frustration before dropping to his lap again. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted, voice raw. "But I don't want there to be distance between us. Not anymore."

His gaze found yours again, and this time, there was something desperate in it. Something pleading.

"I just... I need you to know that, no matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want..." He swallowed hard, breath unsteady. "It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

His voice barely made it above a whisper, but the weight of his words crashed into you like a wave.

There was no uncertainty in his gaze—only truth, raw and unspoken, laid bare beneath the moonlight.

As you stared into his eyes, a part of you—the one that had spent so long second-guessing, doubting, questioning—shouted in triumph. See? it whispered, See? You were foolish to doubt him. Shame followed close behind, a quiet, creeping thing. Had you truly been so blind to his feelings all this time?

But despite that relief, one thing stood out, repeating over and over in your mind like a mantra, sticking to you like a burr you couldn't shake:

"No matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want... It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

Telemachus trusts you. He cares about you.

Does that... does that mean he—?

Your breath hitched, stomach tightening with a rush of something overwhelming, something far too big to process all at once. It was one thing to feel the connection between you, to share these quiet, stolen moments, but to hear him say it, to know that he put you above all else, was another thing entirely.

Your heart pounded, so loud you thought he might hear it. You swallowed, gaze flickering away for a moment, as if breaking eye contact might steady you. But it didn't.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted your gaze back to his, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped from your lips, soft and uncertain. "You... care about me?"

Telemachus stilled.

For just a fraction of a second, his entire body locked up, eyes widening slightly before he coughed, looking away. His grip on his knees tightened, and you saw it—the moment of panic, the scramble for an excuse, the way his lips parted like he might try to laugh it off, to dismiss the weight of his words.

But instead of denial, instead of some hurried deflection, he exhaled slowly. His shoulders loosened, a tired, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.

And then, before you could react, he reached over and took your hand in his.

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. His fingers brushed against your skin, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing patterns along the back of your hand. His hold was firm but gentle, as if grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

"Of course, ____," he murmured, quiet but certain. "Why wouldn't I care for the one I love?"

Your breath faltered.

Your entire body locked up, as though the words had physically struck you.

The one I love.

The rush of emotions that overtook you was near unbearable. Happiness, fear, disbelief—all of it at once, making your head spin. Your fingers trembled in his hold, and you barely managed to whisper his name. "Telemachus..."

But the prince wasn't finished.

He shook his head, his grip tightening slightly, his other hand covering yours like he was trying to reassure you, trying to make sure you understood. Then, carefully, he shifted, angling himself toward you fully, his expression raw with something so painfully tender it made your heart ache.

"____, you have to understand," he said, voice softer now, carrying the weight of years, of things left unspoken. "This isn't something new, something I just realized. It's been there—gods, it's always been there. I just..." He let out a breath, lips pressing together before continuing.

"I think I first knew when we were children," he admitted, voice tinged with nostalgia. "The first time I heard you singing to my mother, soothing her when nothing else could. You had this way of making the world feel... lighter. Safer." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Even then, I think I was falling for you. Slowly. Every day. In ways I didn't even recognize until it was too late."

You felt your throat tighten, emotion clawing its way up, making it difficult to breathe.

"I always thought I had time," he confessed, his fingers curling slightly against your skin. "Time to gather the courage, to find the right moment. But then everything started shifting—my father's return, Bronte, the favor. And suddenly, I realized how quickly things could be taken away." His eyes flickered with something pained, something desperate. "I realized I couldn't wait anymore."

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek—warm, reverent. Your breath hitched, your skin tingling where he touched. When you met his gaze again, it was filled with something so deep, so consuming, it nearly swallowed you whole.

"But I understand," he murmured, softer now, as if afraid to break the moment. "I understand that this isn't simple. That I can't just throw caution to the wind and expect you to do the same." His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, featherlight. "I know that for me, it's easy to say I don't care about titles or expectations. But for you... it's different."

Your heart clenched. He understood. He truly understood.

"I would be a fool to ignore that," he continued. "A fool to act as though this isn't complicated, as though it doesn't put an unfair burden on you." His voice dropped lower, the vulnerability in his tone making your chest ache. "But I don't care what the world says. I don't care what Andreia wants, or what my parents expect, or what the gods themselves decide."

He swallowed, eyes dark and unwavering.

"I'm saying this because I need you to know. Not because I expect an answer, not because I want to rush you into something you're not ready for." His lips curled into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "I just need you to know that from this moment on, I will be vying for your love."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You don't have to take my heart," he whispered, "but it's yours regardless."

Your chest was so tight it hurt, your emotions swirling so wildly you could barely keep yourself together.

Telemachus gave you a small, almost pleading smile. "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "Not now. Not yet. I just... " His thumb brushed against your cheek once more, reverent, tender. "I just want to spend this moment with you. If you'll let me."

Your vision blurred slightly, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb, wiping it away as gently as if he were handling something fragile.

A soft, trembling smile curled at your lips. "Okay," you whispered.

And so, you sat there, your hands still clasped in his, his warmth anchoring you as the world stilled around you.

And as if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this moment, the clouds above shifted, parting just enough to reveal a brilliant glow.

Venus peeked out from the darkness, luminous and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over you both.

Chapter Text

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐍

You asked for answers. You begged for purpose. And the gods answered. But now you are the centerpiece of something ancient and unkind. Every favor becomes a tether. Every prophecy, a blade.

To be chosen is to be claimed—an option you were never given to deny. You are the daughter of death and disaster, gifted to the world as an omen of change.

And somewhere along the way, your life stops being yours.

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

❝This is your Divine Liaison. Chosen not by crown, not by birthright, but by the gods themselves. Today, she speaks with them... for us.❞

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

↳ ❝I don't need anything from anyone. It's just not my year, but I'm all good out here.❞

— American Teenage, Ethel Cain

⌜❝See me the same way that I see you. I'm your muse❞ ↲

— Never The Muse, Madilyn Mei

↳ ❝Look into your eyes I am so into you. And the sky's the limit, I'm helpless❞

— Helpless, Phillipa Soo [HAMILTON: An American Musical]

⌜❝I still wanna be anywhere he is. If he is the sun, guess I'm Icarus.❞ ↲

— apollo, Faith Zapata

↳ ❝You've changed. Yeah, you know that you've changed. Don't recognise, when I look into your eyes, they red as hell (red as hell).❞

— Mirror Talk, Griff

⌜❝May the gods strike me down if I forsake you.❞ ↲

— Brutus, The Buttress

✦⭑✧⭒ ⛧ ⭒✧⭑✦

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The next day, you found yourself walking down to the palace halls, yawning softly. You were dressed for an outing, draped in a comfortable shawl and a light cloak to ward off the morning chill. Instead of your usual satchel, you carried a basket with blankets stuffed inside, prepared for a day outside the palace walls.

Earlier that morning, while delivering breakfast to Queen Penelope, she had paused and turned to you with a task. She asked if you could head into town to retrieve something special for King Odysseus after you finished your chores.

She explained that she had his old bow tightened and had two metal arrows created to go with it, entrusting you with the errand since Eurycleia, the old nurse, was busy and not available at the moment.

You had nodded, understanding the importance of the task, and agreed to handle it with the care she expected.

Now, you were currently standing at the gates, waiting for the guards to open them when you heard your name called. Turning, you saw Callias jogging over, coming to a stop panting slightly before standing upright, a playful pout forming on his lips.

"Did someone forget that the two of us were supposed to hang out after finishing our morning duties?" he asked, his tone light but carrying a hint of mock accusation.

You sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt as you'd hoped to have finished this task before Callias came looking for you. "I'm sorry," you apologized, shifting the basket on your arm to a more comfortable position. "Queen Penelope asked me to head into town to pick up something special for King Odysseus."

Callias' form relaxed slightly at the mention of Penelope. "The Queen?" he sniffed, his expression softening. "I suppose that's an important errand."

He then sighed, throwing his head back with a theatrical groan as he kicked a stray pebble along the ground, muttering about how he guessed he could go bother Kieran and the others instead.

On a whim, driven by a mix of wanting his company and not wanting to head into town alone, you offered, "You could... come with me if you'd like."

His face brightened instantly, the previous disappointment vanishing as if it had never been. "Really? I mean, if you're sure I wouldn't be intruding..."

"It's just picking up a bow and some arrows," you reassured him with a smile. "I'd enjoy the company."

With a grin now splitting his face, Callias quickly adjusted his stance, his previous sulk forgotten. "Well, when you put it like that, how could I refuse an adventure with Ithaca's finest handmaiden?"

The guards at the gate gave you both a nod as they pulled the heavy doors open, allowing the cool morning air tinged with the scent of the sea to brush against your face. Together, you stepped through the gates, the promise of the bustling town ahead filling you with a renewed sense of purpose.

With Callias by your side, the day seemed a bit brighter, the task less daunting.

.☆.
    .✩.
        .☆.

Inside the blacksmith's shop, you stood alone, draped only in your shawl. The earlier walk with Callias had been brisk, and amidst his playful whining about the cold, you had wrapped your cloak around him, insisting he take it despite his objections. His promise to meet up after grabbing a few things in town left you by yourself to collect the queen's order.

The shop was a cavern of rough work, all heat and iron, filled with the smells of sweat and burnt metal—a place of coarse hands and blunt words. It was a stark contrast to your own presence, like a lone flower stubbornly blooming in a swamp.

The shop setup was straightforward, with a wooden desk and a worker in front overseeing the transactions, behind which a large archway led to the bustling workshop. Through the arch, you could see several blacksmiths at work, sparks flying occasionally as they hammered and shaped metal. The ambient noise of clanging and the roar of fires created a backdrop to the rhythmic hammering, a symphony of industry and craft.

Approaching the counter, a young receptionist with soot smudging his face looked up from his ledger, giving you a tentative smile. His hair flopped over one eye, and he leaned casually against the desk, making him seem less formidable in this rough environment.

"What can I get for you today?" he asked, his voice friendly but carrying the din of the background work.

Feeling slightly awkward, you cleared your throat, adjusting the shawl over your shoulders. "My name's, ____, and I'm here to pick up an order for Queen Penelope," you started, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "She had an old bow tightened and metal arrows made to accompany it."

As the blacksmith behind the desk called to a colleague to retrieve the items, your eyes wandered to the back room, where the true work of the forge was conducted.

The sight of glowing metal and the sound of relentless hammering were oddly mesmerizing, a stark reminder of the hard labor that went into crafting even the smallest tools that made daily life smoother in the palace.

While you waited, a cloaked figure leaned lazily against a workbench, an observer to the symphony of sparks. Their presence was unassuming at first, a mere shadow among the flickering flames.

But then, a voice cut through the din—a rich, smooth tone that purred more than it spoke, sliding between the clangs with an ease that felt both practiced and natural. "You're quite the delicate little thing to be in a place like this."

The words, tinged with amusement and something indefinable, drew your attention. With an easy, unhurried motion, the stranger pushed back her hood, revealing herself. A woman. Beautiful, but in a way that felt ripe, indulgent—like something too much yet just enough. Her thick curls were tangled with wild vines, framing a face that held deep violet eyes hooded with amusement.

You stood still, feeling a flutter twist in your stomach. She was gorgeous, her presence commanding yet oddly inviting, drawing your eyes and holding them captive. Her gaze met yours, and the corner of her lips tilted in a knowing smile, as if she could read the flurry of thoughts racing through your mind.

The woman then stretched comically, her movements exaggerated as if she was in a playful performance. She sauntered over to the shop's desk, leaning heavily on it with a casual grace. Her voice drawled out as she called to the man behind the counter, "And when will my order be ready?"

The shop attendant glanced up, his expression a mix of amusement and resignation. "The gorgets should be done by the end of the day, ma'am," he replied, his tone professional yet tinged with familiarity.

The woman groaned, a theatrical sound that filled the small space. "Bummer," she exclaimed, but her annoyance seemed more playful than genuine. Her head then turned, her gaze landing back on you. Her lips pulled back into a smirk, and she walked towards you, her movements fluid and almost predatory.

She circled you slowly, her presence thick and lazy but sharp—like honey that dragged slow but clung persistently. The air around her was saturated with the scent of wine and overripe grapes, an intoxicating aroma that seemed to stick to everything it touched.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" she purred, her voice low and smooth, sliding between words with a practiced ease that was both compelling and slightly unnerving.

You cleared your throat, feeling your face heat up. Your hands grew clammy as you averted your eyes briefly before regaining your composure. "I'm here on business for the queen," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, a mix of amusement and a hint of respect coloring her expression. "Royals, huh?" she hummed, her voice rich with curiosity. Leaning forward, her deep violet eyes gleaming with mischief, she asked, "Ever seen them at their parties, feasts? Got any stories about them making fools of themselves all drunk and merry?"

Before you could respond, the blacksmith at the counter called out, signaling that your order was ready. You were about to thank her for the chat and move on, but the moment was abruptly cut short by a man's rough voice calling from the doorway, "Thyessa."

The woman—Thyessa—sighed, a look of exaggerated weariness crossing her face as she stretched her arms lazily. "Mm, already?" she murmured, her tone tinged with reluctance. Turning back to you, her smirk deepened, her voice a warm, velvety purr, "Well, guess I'll leave you to it, little flower. You just looked too pretty to ignore."

With that, she walked away, her steps slow and deliberate. Over her shoulder, she gave a casual wave, adding with a teasing sparkle in her eye, "Try not to wilt without me."

As she disappeared, leaving only the lingering weight of her presence and the ghost of her scent behind, the blacksmith cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the counter with a repeated call of your name. You jolted slightly, shaken by the encounter but relieved to focus on the task at hand.

The interaction with Thyessa left you a bit disoriented, her presence like a whirlwind that had momentarily swept through your calm routine. The weight of the bow and arrows in your arms grounded you, a tangible reminder of why you were here.

Paying the blacksmith, you tried to steady your nerves. As you handed over the coins, the clinking sound seemed overly loud in the now quiet shop.

Suddenly, Callias burst into the shop, munching on something with wide eyes, clearly excited. "You won't believe the sexy woman I just saw walking out of here!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with awe and a bit of mischief.

You couldn't help but laugh at the sight of him wearing your cloak, which stopped just above his knees, compared to how it hung much lower on you. It looked almost comical on his taller frame, but he wore it with an exaggerated pride that only Callias could manage.

He walked over, giving a low whistle as he eyed one of the sharp arrows you'd just acquired. "So, how are you planning to get all of this out of here?" he asked, his tone playful yet genuinely curious.

You smiled, already handing him one of the large blankets to wrap around the bow. "With your help, of course," you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Callias playfully narrowed his eyes at you, taking another bite of his apple. "I knew you were using me," he muttered, but he went ahead and carefully wrapped the bow, showing more care than his words suggested.

Together, you managed to secure the bow and arrows, Callias joking about being your personal pack mule as he adjusted the load in his arms.

Stepping out of the blacksmith's shop, you felt the evening breeze cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the forge's stifling heat. Callias chattered beside you, his spirits high, and you found yourself drawn into his infectious enthusiasm, the weight of the bow and arrows now just another part of your shared adventure.

☆

☆

After delivering the meticulously wrapped parcel to Queen Penelope, who had received it with her usual gracious nod, you and Callias made your way towards your chamber to retrieve your divine lyre for the evening's potential use. The hallways of the palace echoed with the quiet hum of daily life, the soft clatter of servant's feet and the distant murmur of courtiers blending into a familiar tapestry of sounds.

Just as you were about to turn down the corridor that led to your quarters, you caught sight of Telemachus approaching. He was wearing a bright and infectious grin that matched the mood of the day, his eyes sparkling with an energy you hadn't seen in him for some time. Your own cheeks warmed slightly, the memories of his near-confession the day before coloring your perception of his cheerful demeanor.

Telemachus' gaze lingered on Callias briefly, an indecipherable flicker of emotion passing over his features before his face smoothed into a polite smile. "Callias," he greeted warmly, then his excitement seemed to double as he turned towards you.

"I almost forgot to mention—Peisistratus is arriving into town today with the other exports from the kingdoms we trade with," Telemachus announced, the name sparking a light in his eyes. "I'd love to take you into town. He would be thrilled to see you, I'm sure."

Peisistratus—a name you recognized well; the youngest son of King Nestor of Pylos. You had seen him sparingly throughout the years, his visits to Ithaca always marked by the sort of fanfare that accompanied someone of his status. You had met him once or twice before, his charismatic presence leaving a lasting impression each time.

Internally, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again, especially under such pleasant circumstances. The memory of your last brief meeting, his easy charm and laughter, came back to you vividly, painting your anticipation with bright strokes.

You hesitated, mouth half-open to accept Telemachus' invitation, when you suddenly remembered your plans with Callias. A tinge of regret shadowed your expression as you softly let Telemachus know about your prior commitment. "I'm actually supposed to hang out with Callias today," you explained, the reluctance clear in your voice.

Telemachus' face fell slightly, his disappointment palpable. Just as you were about to reassure him, Callias, ever the peacemaker, chimed in cheerily, "It's alright, really. I don't mind at all." But you shook your head, adamant, "No, we agreed to hang out today. It's hard to find time with our schedules."

The prince watched, a bemused spectator to your gentle argument with Callias, until you proposed a solution, turning back to Telemachus with a hopeful look. "How about this? Can Callias come along?"

Telemachus blinked, taken aback for a moment, as if the idea of including Callias hadn't crossed his mind. After a brief pause, where it seemed he might refuse, he finally relented with a stressed but genuine smile. "Sure... the more the merrier," he said, though his tone carried a hint of resignation.

Pleased with the compromise, you beamed, "Great!" Then, remembering the basket you were still carrying, you added, "Just let me drop this off in my room, and I'll be ready to go."

Leaving Telemachus and Callias momentarily, you hurried down the hall as you prepared to set out for what promised to be an interesting day.

.☆.
    .✩.
        .☆.

When the three of you arrived in town, the port was alive with the hustle and bustle typical of a busy trading day. Ships of various sizes bobbed at the docks, their sails fluttering in the breeze, while merchants shouted over each other, trying to attract customers to their stands piled high with exotic goods and local crafts.

The air was thick with the scents of salt from the sea and spices being unloaded from the latest arrivals.

As you paused, taking it all in, a wave of nostalgia hit you.

For a moment, the marketplace twisted, distorting like a view through rippled glass, and you were a child again, clutching your mother's hand. You turned at the sound of your name, half-expecting to see her there, her warm smile and bright eyes looking down at you. But when you blinked, the illusion shattered—instead, it was Telemachus, concern etching his features.

"Are you alright?" he asked, studying your face closely.

You gave a small chuckle, pushing away the momentary daze. "Yeah, I am," you assured him, pointing ahead where a familiar figure stood atop some barrels, animatedly speaking to a group of men. "Look, there's Peisistratus!"

Telemachus' face lit up with a wide smile. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out the man's name, waving eagerly to catch his attention. "Peisistratus!"

As Peisistratus' eyes scanned the crowd, his gaze finally settled on you and Telemachus, his face breaking into a broad, delighted grin. With a joyous roar that drew the attention of several nearby traders, he leaped down from his perch atop the barrels and strode energetically toward you both.

The two friends met halfway, crashing into a hearty embrace that involved vigorous back-patting and laughter, clearly overjoyed at their reunion.

You and Callias approached more slowly, giving the friends a moment to catch up without intruding too much. Yet, as Peisistratus looked over Telemachus' shoulder, his eyes landed on you, and his smirk grew wider. He excused himself from Telemachus and walked over, stopping a few feet away to give Callias a respectful nod of greeting before turning his full attention to you.

Tall and a bit more muscular than Telemachus, Peisistratus' presence was imposing yet friendly. His dark blonde hair, interwoven with strands of gold that caught the sunlight, framed a face marked by a summer's tan and a sharp, playful smile. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned down slightly and took your hand, raising it to his lips for a gallant kiss on the back. "My, my, if it isn't the radiant jewel of Ithaca," he exclaimed, his voice rich and melodious. "How have you been, my dear?"

Before you could respond, Telemachus cut in with a warning tone, "Easy there, Peisistratus."

Unperturbed, Peisistratus chuckled, shooting Telemachus a mischievous look. "Oh, don't mind him," he said, his gaze flicking back to you with an impish twinkle. "Tell me, has our noble prince finally mustered the courage to court you properly, or is he still playing the part of the ever-dutiful, unclaiming royal?"

Telemachus' face flushed a deep red, and he reached out to give Peisistratus a light shove, eliciting a hearty laugh from his friend. "Careful, or I'll start telling stories you'd rather forget," Telemachus retorted, though the embarrassment was evident in his voice.

Peisistratus' laughter rang out, clear and joyful, as he turned back to you with an apologetic yet still playful grin. "Truly, though," he continued, "it's always a pleasure to see you shining so brightly, ____. Ithaca's sun seems dimmer compared to your glow."

He then shifted his attention to Callias, his gaze giving the man a once-over, lingering a moment on his clothing. With a sly smile, he remarked, "And what brings a servant of Bronte all the way to Ithaca? If I recall correctly, your royals are a bit... possessive, no?"

Callias scoffed, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in amusement. "That's not even the half of it," he replied, shaking his head slightly.

Peisistratus laughed heartily again, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Well, you'll have to catch me up on it later, yeah?" he proposed, the lightness in his tone belying the depth of his interest.

Turning back to Telemachus, his demeanor shifted from playful to earnest as he leaned closer to the prince. "There's a matter I must discuss," he began, his voice lowering slightly. "One of the men on the ship is seriously injured. We're not sure he'll make it back to our kingdom without help. Could Ithaca spare a physician?" His brow furrowed with concern, highlighting the gravity of the situation.

Telemachus' response was immediate, his voice filled with ready assurance as he started, "Of course, we can arrange—" but his words trailed off as a sudden realization struck him. His gaze snapped to you, a spark of inspiration clear in his expression. "Actually... ____ could help."

You balked at the suggestion, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over you. "I-I'm not sure that's a good idea," you countered, your voice tinged with hesitation. Your hands fidgeted at your sides, betraying your nervousness. "I'm not exactly trained in medicine... I mean, I've never done anything like that before."

Telemachus stepped closer, his presence reassuring. He gently grasped your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "You might not realize it, but you have a natural talent for healing," he insisted, his tone earnest. "Remember all those times you helped patch me up after sparring? Somehow, I always seemed to recover faster when you were the one tending to the wounds."

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you averted your eyes. The memory of those intimate moments—being so close to him, tending to his bruises and cuts—flashed through your mind, making your heart flutter despite the seriousness of the situation.

Then, Apollo's words echoed in your mind, strengthening your resolve, "You have an affinity for medicine, for soothing what is broken and helping it mend... simply being there—offering your light, your warmth, your presence—is enough to heal what cannot be mended by mortal hands."

With a reluctant sigh, you finally nodded, though still not fully convinced. "Alright, I'll do it," you murmured, then added with a half-teasing, half-serious tone, "But you'd better have a real physician on standby in case your theory about my 'healing abilities' isn't as solid as you think."

Telemachus chuckled, the sound rich with warmth. "Deal," he agreed, his smile reassuring. "Thank you, ____. You're doing a great thing." The warmth in his voice and the certainty of Apollo's blessing combined to chase away the last of your doubts.

You didn't miss the appreciative gleam in Peisistratus' eyes either as he nodded in agreement, obviously relieved by your willingness to help. The serious ambiance briefly lifted, allowing a moment of camaraderie among you all.

Callias, who had been following the conversation with a slightly confused look, finally spoke up. "Umm, what are you two talking about?" His tone carried a mix of curiosity and slight exasperation, as if he'd been left out of an important secret.

Realizing that you hadn't explained the situation to Callias, your lips pressed into a tight line before releasing a resigned sigh. You turned towards him, your shoulders dropping slightly as you decided to reveal your unique connection with Apollo. "Well, it turns out I have a... certain favor from Apollo. It's supposed to help with healing... among other things."

Instead of reacting with shock or disbelief, Callias simply blinked, shrugged, and said, "Oh." You stared at him, bewildered by his nonchalant acceptance.

"That's it? You believe me just like that?" you asked, your tone a mixture of surprise and a slight challenge.

Callias scoffed lightly, his eyes twinkling with humor. "____, you've got a divine lyre from Hermes. I think you being Apollo's favorite is pretty much to be expected by this point."

Telemachus, who had been quietly observing the exchange, suddenly interjected, confusion lacing his words. "Hermes? Lyre?" His brow furrowed, clearly puzzled by the new pieces of information that seemed to have slipped past him.

You waved off his confusion with a quick gesture, not wanting to delve into another lengthy explanation right then. Turning back to Peisistratus, you said, "Let's go. Take me to him."

Peisistratus nodded, clearly eager to get moving. With a swift motion, he gestured for you to follow him, leading the way with purposeful strides towards the docks where the injured man awaited your uncertain but necessary aid.

Telemachus and Callias fell into step behind you, the former still looking a bit perplexed but trusting, the latter entirely at ease with the unfolding events.

As you followed Peisistratus through the cramped corridors of the ship, the tang of seawater mixed with the acrid scent of illness and medicine.

The make-shift infirmary was a small room, barely larger than a storage closet.

Upon entering, you immediately noticed the young cabin boy lying on the cot. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling unevenly, sweat beading his forehead. The bandage wrapped around his leg was stained and slightly unraveled, hinting at the severity of the wound beneath.

Peisistratus spoke up, his tone suddenly lacking its usual joviality. "How's he holding up?" he asked, nodding toward the boy.

The sailor, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper beard, looked up from his task. His expression was grim as he replied, "Not well. Goes in and out of consciousness, high fever, and sweats a lot. We've done what we can but..."

His gaze then shifted to you, confusion clear in his eyes. "And you are? The nurse?"

Before you could answer, Peisistratus intervened. "This is ____. She's here to help."

As Peisistratus confirmed your role there, Telemachus smoothly took charge of the situation. "She'll need a rundown of what's been done and what needs to happen next," he instructed the older sailor, who gave a respectful nod in response to the prince's directive.

The sailor, his face lined with years of sea and sun, looked initially skeptical as he beckoned you closer to the makeshift infirmary setup. You stepped forward, feeling the eyes of other sailors at the door, their curiosity piqued by the unusual sight of a young woman taking on such a task.

The space was cramped but functional, with a single window that let in just enough light to illuminate the small cot and the table beside it, where various salves and bandages were laid out. A pungent smell of seaweed-based salve filled the air, a concoction that the sailors used in emergencies, its green paste stark against the weathered wood.

The young cabin boy on the cot was pale, his brow glistening with sweat as he drifted in and out of consciousness. His breathing was labored, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and strained. The infected cut, a jagged tear on his leg, looked angry and red, oozing signs of infection.

The old sailor explained, his voice gruff but not unkind, "Cut himself on a line. Thought it was just a scratch, but it got worse. We've been trying to keep it clean with what we've got here," he gestured to a bowl of mashed seaweed paste.

With a nod, you approached the table, your hands steady as you began mixing the paste anew, enhancing it with some of the clean bandages to create a more absorbent, medicinal dressing. The room was silent save for the occasional creak of the ship and the soft murmur of the sailors outside.

As you worked, focusing intently on cleaning and dressing the wound, you found yourself slipping into a rhythm. With each swipe of the cloth, your movements became more confident, more assured.

You were vaguely aware of Telemachus conversing quietly with the sailor, pulling him back slightly to give you space, his presence reassuring but unobtrusive.

As you applied the paste and secured the bandage, your focus was so intense that the rest of the room seemed to fall away. You barely noticed Telemachus' quiet discussions or the slight shuffle of the other sailors at the doorway. Your fingers moved with a precision you hadn't known you possessed, tracing patterns instinctively, almost as if guided by some unseen force.

Suddenly, as you murmured an indistinguishable phrase under your breath—a chant or prayer you didn't consciously recall learning—the air around you seemed to thicken. The change was almost palpable, the atmosphere charged with a strange energy.

The boy on the cot gasped, his body reacting instantly. His legs twitched, his face contorting in discomfort, and he let out a sharp yelp. "It's burning!" he cried out, his voice laced with sudden panic.

You pushed his leg gently but firmly back down, maintaining the pressure as your hands continued their work, still caught in a trance-like state. Your focus didn't waver, even as cries of concern erupted around you.

The old sailor, along with a few others who had crowded around the door, started shouting, alarmed by the boy's reaction. They made motions to intervene, their faces marked with worry and confusion.

However, Peisistratus, Telemachus, and Callias quickly moved to block them, forming a human barrier between you and the sailors. Peisistratus cast a worried glance over his shoulder but remained steadfast, his posture showing a trust in your actions despite the apparent chaos.

Telemachus' voice, low and calm, reassured the onlookers without pulling your attention away from your task. "Give her space," he urged them, his tone firm yet soothing. "She knows what she's doing."

Callias, though clearly anxious, nodded along, adding his assurance to the murmuring crowd. "Just wait," he said, his voice a blend of hope and confidence.

Eventually, the boy fell silent, and you let out a sharp gasp, exiting the trance. Breathing shallowly, you backed away from the bed, disoriented.  Telemachus was the first to come to you, his voice cutting through your haze, "Are you alright?" His hand was on your arm, steadying you as you took a deep, shaky breath.

Callias hurried over, looking equally worried, waving his hands frantically at the other sailors. "One of you muscleheads bring a damn chair!" he called out, then turned back to you with a concerned frown. "You need to sit down for a moment, yeah?"

Just then, the old sailor who had been attending the boy rushed back to the bedside. His attention was fixed on the young boy, who began to stir, his eyes blinking open weakly. The room fell into a tense silence as Peisistratus slowly peeled away the bandage, revealing the wound beneath.

There was a collective gasp from everyone on that side of the room, and their heads snapped around to look at you. It was only then, as you looked up, wondering why everything had gone silent, that you noticed their stares.

You took a step back, your voice trembling with growing anxiety as you asked, "What happened? Why is everyone staring?" The room was unnervingly quiet, every eye locked on you, their expressions a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and something else you couldn't quite place. It made your skin prickle, your heart thudding erratically in your chest.

A familiar hand found your shoulder, its warmth steadying you just enough to turn. Telemachus was there, his grip firm but gentle, his expression somewhere between awe and worry. But what struck you most was where his gaze was fixed—not on your face, but on something above your head.

"What is it?" you asked, your words faltering as his lips parted, though no sound came out. His hand dropped from your shoulder as his attention remained riveted on the space just above you.

Unable to bear the suspense, you followed his gaze, tilting your head slightly upward. The breath hitched in your throat.

Above you, faint but undeniable, a shimmering sigil seemed to hang in the air. It pulsed softly, glowing like the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. The symbol itself was indistinct, shifting in form like ripples on water, yet it radiated a golden light that bathed the room in an ethereal glow. The sunlight streaming through the window behind you only amplified the effect, cascading over you in a heavenly beam that made the glow more vivid, more otherworldly.

The silence was broken by a low, breathless exclamation from Callias. "Zeus' blazing balls!" he murmured, his usual lighthearted tone replaced with raw disbelief.

You blinked, disoriented, as the rest of the room began to move. The sailors and Peisistratus instinctively stepped back, parting like waves as though giving you space—or maybe distance. Their wide-eyed stares spoke volumes, their astonishment palpable in the air between you.

It was only then that you noticed their movement revealed the boy on the cot, now fully visible. Your heart pounded as you forced yourself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The glow around you persisted, but your focus zeroed in on the boy, on what everyone else seemed to be fixated on.

You reached the side of the cot, your breath shallow, your pulse hammering in your ears. The old sailor knelt beside the boy, his weathered hands trembling as he carefully peeled away the remaining bandage from the wound. What lay beneath made you gasp.

Smooth skin, unmarred and whole, stretched where the infection and gash had once been. Not even a scar remained. It was as if the injury had never existed.

"Gods," someone whispered, the word reverent and heavy in the stillness.

"It's gone," another voice said, louder this time, the disbelief clear.

Your knees felt weak as you stared, your mind struggling to catch up with what your eyes were telling you. The boy's chest rose and fell in even, steady breaths, his fevered flush now replaced by a soft, healthy hue. He stirred faintly, mumbling something under his breath, but his pain was gone.

You glanced around the room, searching for answers in the faces of those present, but all you found were awestruck expressions and more questions than you had yourself.

Telemachus' voice broke through the haze, soft but steady. "____," he said, his tone filled with both reassurance and wonder. "That... was you."

Before you could process his words, the old sailor, still by the boy's bedside, drew everyone's attention. His gaze was fixed on the shimmering sigil floating above your head as he straightened, his hand trembling slightly as he pointed toward you.

"This... This hasn't happened since Delphi. The oracle..." He trailed off, the weight of his words filling the room like a tangible presence.

The moment he finished speaking, the sigil above your head began to dissolve. It shimmered faintly, scattering like golden dust that drifted down and disappeared as it touched your skin. You felt an odd warmth, almost like a soft embrace, as the energy dissipated into the air around you.

The weight of their stares, the enormity of what had just occurred—it was too much.

Telemachus must have seen the panic in your eyes because his hand was suddenly on your shoulder again, grounding you. "____," he said softly, his voice steady. "You've done enough. Let Callias take you back to the palace. You need to rest."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat. Callias stepped forward, his usual lighthearted demeanor tempered with concern. "He's right," he said, his tone surprisingly firm. "Come on. Let's get you something to eat. You look like you're about to keel over."

Reluctantly, you nodded, the weight of the moment still pressing heavily on your chest. Callias gently took your arm, guiding you away from the cot. As he led you toward the ship's exit, you could feel the eyes of everyone in the room following your every step, the air heavy with unspoken questions.

The last thing you saw before leaving was Telemachus, still standing by the boy, his expression a mixture of pride and quiet determination as he faced the sailors.

Callias' hand was a steady presence on your arm as he walked beside you. "We'll get you sorted," he said quietly, his usual teasing tone absent. "Don't worry about anything else right now."

You didn't respond, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you.

As you walked away from the ship, the commotion and intense emotions slowly faded into the background, replaced by a quieter tension that hung between you and Callias. He seemed to sense your need for distraction, his usual banter giving way to a silence that felt both heavy and comforting.

"Hey," Callias suddenly broke the silence, a hint of his usual mischief creeping back into his tone. "Think you could heal a cut on my finger I got earlier?" He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers with a poorly masked grin.

You glanced at his hand, then up at his expectant face, and despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Shaking your head slightly, you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, letting out a faint chuckle. "It's not as simple as just touching you and going 'heal'," you replied, playing along. You reached out and mockingly grabbed his hand, waving your other hand over it with exaggerated mystical flair.

For a moment, you both stared at his hand, the playfulness of the act hanging in the air. Then, to your mutual surprise, the small cut on his finger seemed to fade right before your eyes.

Both of you paused, your eyes widening as you looked from his now smooth skin back up to each other's faces.

"Did you—" Callias started, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe.

"I—I didn't think that would actually work," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, a nervous laugh escaping you as the reality of your new abilities began to sink in a little more deeply.

The levity of the joke gave way to a deeper, more profound awareness of the power you might truly possess.

☆

☆

Later that night in the courtyard, the chill of the evening seeped into your bones as you strummed your divine lyre, trying to recapture the comfort it usually brought.

Throughout the afternoon, you and Callias had playfully tested your newfound healing ability—repairing small scratches and soothing minor aches: a scrape Callias had from brushing too roughly against a stone wall, a small burn on your finger bringing dinner.

Each attempt involved a touch, a whisper, a concentration that felt deeper than thought, and each time, the skin under your fingers knit together seamlessly, leaving behind no trace of injury. The success left you both exhilarated and a bit bewildered. Callias, in particular, seemed to find it a mix of fantastic and terrifying.

But the moment Callias jokingly suggested leaping from the palace's highest wall to see if you could mend a broken bone, you had firmly put an end to the testing. His laughter echoed in your memory, light but laced with an edge of genuine curiosity about the limits of your powers.

Now, as you sat alone under the vast, star-strewn sky, the notes from your lyre didn't flow as they usually did. The strings vibrated under your fingers, producing the correct sounds, yet they felt hollow, disconnected from the magic that usually danced in their harmonies. Sighing, you set the lyre down next to you on the cool stone, the instrument emitting a soft, mournful twang as it settled against the courtyard's floor.

Leaning back on your hands, you tilted your face towards the heavens, a breeze sweeping across the courtyard, carrying the crisp promise of winter. The cool air tugged at your shawl, pulling it tighter around your shoulders.

Despite the cold, you remained outside, gazing upwards, lost in thought. The day's revelations—the glowing sigil, the undeniable proof of your divine favor, the way people had stared—had weighed heavily on you, a blend of wonder and worry that was hard to untangle.

But as you gazed up at the stars, your mind drifted to Telemachus, causing a different kind of flutter in your heart.

Strumming the lyre, a familiar warmth pooled into your fingertips, the notes resonating under the starry canvas. Instinctively, you began to sing softly, your voice barely above a whisper, crafting lines about Telemachus—about how what you once feared was unrequited love might not be so unreturned after all.

"In the quiet night, under the watchful stars,
Whisper his name, a wish spoken to the sky,
Could the heart's silent yearning be heard afar?
In the soft glow of Venus, might love reply?"

Each note wove through the cool night, a silent confession to the stars, a hope whispered to the cosmos that perhaps, just perhaps, your heart's desires were not as distant as the stars you spoke to.

As the last notes of your song drifted into the cool night air, you released a heavy sigh, feeling a mix of relief and lingering nerves. Just then, a voice as smooth and sharp as a blade sliced through the quiet. "So you're the 'muse' that has caught my brother's eye?"

Startled, you sit up straight.

From around the shadow of a towering cypress tree stepped a figure—tall, imposing, her presence commanding the space as if she owned it. Her skin glowed under the moonlight, a deep, rich bronze, and her eyes, a piercing and vibrant shade of gold, fixed on you like a predator eying its prey.

Sleek black hair fell in waves down her shoulders, with strands subtly braided with silver threads that glinted in the dim light. Her attire was a mix of elegance and practicality, a dark, flowing robe that did nothing to hinder her graceful, assured movements.

With a few deliberate steps, she circled you, her gaze never wavering, her body language exuding a mix of curiosity and barely restrained power. Finally, she stopped in front of you, giving a small, almost mocking bow of her head. "I am Artemis," she stated bluntly, her voice holding a trace of challenge. "Tell me, what intentions do you harbor towards my brother?"

Caught off guard, you scrambled to find words that might soothe the goddess' evident suspicion. "I... I respect him deeply," you began, your voice quivering under the intensity of her stare. "Apollo has shown me nothing but kindness. I admire him, truly, but my feelings... they are of respect and gratitude, nothing that would dishonor him or the divine."

Artemis circled you slowly, her movements deliberate, like a huntress stalking her prey. "Respect and gratitude," she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Yet those are words easily spoken. What of actions? Apollo might be swayed by mortal affections, but do not think such affections hold weight without true reverence."

Your heart pounded as you attempted to defend your stance, aware that every word would be scrutinized. "I-I'm learning, Artemis. Every day, with every encounter. I want to honor him properly, to show my reverence not just in words but in deeds. If I have faltered, it is not from a lack of will."

Her gold eyes locked onto yours, searching, probing for any hint of deceit. "And will you commit to learning our ways? To truly understanding what it means to honor a god?" she asked, her gaze unyielding.

With a nod, you replied, your voice steadier as resolve strengthened your words. "Yes, I will. I promise to learn and to honor him as is fitting. Not just Apollo, but all the gods."

Finally, staring at you, Artemis chuffed softly, her head tilting as her lips pulled up into a half-smirk. The skepticism in her eyes seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of amusement, perhaps even a trace of respect. "He could have chosen far worse," she admitted, her voice carrying a rare warmth. "It seems my brother sees more in you than I first believed."

With a graceful nod, she stepped back, the moon casting her long shadow across the grass. "Prove yourself worthy of his favor... and perhaps mine as well," she added, her tone now carrying a challenge that seemed more playful than daunting.

Then, in a display befitting a goddess of the hunt, Artemis transformed. Her form shimmered, and where the mighty huntress had stood, a majestic silver stag now took her place. The stag glanced back at you once, its eyes glowing with the same intense gold as Artemis', before it turned and leapt gracefully into the trees, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.

Left alone in the quiet of the night, you were left to ponder her words and the surreal encounter, the image of the silver stag etched into your memory, a reminder of the divine world that had briefly intersected with your own.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The following day, news had spread throughout Ithaca like wildfire. Word of your divine favor and the miraculous healing of the young cabin boy had ignited a spark of awe and curiosity among the townsfolk.

As you went about your morning chores, you couldn't help but notice the change in how people looked at you. Their faces, usually so familiar and open, now held a mixture of reverence and mystery. Whispered conversations would pause as you passed, and some would even make the sign of a blessing in your direction, their eyes wide with respect.

When you delivered Queen Penelope's breakfast, her reaction was even more enthusiastic than the whispers in the corridors.

Her face lit up with a mixture of pride and excitement as soon as you entered her chambers. "Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as you set down her tray. "Everyone's been talking about what happened at the docks! This is such wonderful news!" Her eyes sparkled with delight, and she reached out to grasp your hands, squeezing them warmly. "Would you like a celebration? It's not every day we have someone marked by Apollo himself under our roof!"

You were taken aback by her energy and the speed at which she spoke, her words tumbling out in a joyful rush. "I always knew there was something special about you, right from the start. It's only fitting you'd be Apollo's chosen. Such grace, such talent!" She continued to praise your virtues, recounting anecdotes of your time in the palace that she believed had hinted at your divine favor.

Her rapid chatting was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. A servant, slightly out of breath from haste, peeked inside. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but King Odysseus requests ____'s presence immediately."

Penelope waved the servant away with a gentle hand. "Of course, send her in once we're done here," she said, turning back to you with a conspiratorial smile. "You see? Even the King recognizes your newfound importance. Go on, don't keep him waiting. We'll plan your celebration later!"

Nodding, you excused yourself with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation churning in your stomach. As you made your way to King Odysseus's quarters, the weight of your new reality felt both exhilarating and daunting.

Each step seemed to echo louder in the halls, as if even the palace itself was aware of the change within you. When you finally reached the heavy oak door of the king's quarters, you paused, taking a deep breath before your knuckles rapped softly against the wood. The sound seemed to resonate too loudly in the quiet corridor.

"Come in," a voice called from inside, its timbre resonant and commanding yet inviting.

Pushing the door open, you stepped into a room that starkly contrasted Penelope's elegant and warmly decorated chamber. Odysseus quarters were austere and solemn, reflecting his years of hardship and battle.

The walls were lined with maps and weapons, and a large, heavy desk dominated the room, scattered with scrolls and plans. The only decoration that seemed out of place in the otherwise martial room was a beautifully carved chess set positioned on a small table near the window, where natural light spilled across the board, highlighting the intricately detailed pieces of dark and light wood.

Your gaze fell on the man himself.

Odysseus sat by the window, much like his wife often did, yet whereas her presence seemed to soften the sunlight, his seemed to sharpen it. His eyes, perceptive and piercing, watched you as you entered, assessing your every move as though deducing your thoughts.

He gestured to the seat opposite him at the chess table. "Come, sit," he invited, his voice holding an edge of warmth. "Would you care to play a game? It helps me think."

You hesitated, aware of the metaphorical weight such a game might carry, especially played against a man famed for his strategic brilliance. But refusing would be discourteous. Nodding, you moved to the indicated chair and sat down, your hands slightly trembling as you reached out to arrange your pieces.

Odysseus observed your movements, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Chess is a good reflection of life, don't you think? A constant battle of wits, strategy, and foresight."

You nodded, unsure of how to respond, your fingers hesitantly moving a pawn forward. As the game began, Odysseus's demeanor remained focused yet open, encouraging even. "Congratulations on receiving Apollo's favor," he began, his tone blending seriousness with a hint of curiosity. "It's a rare gift, one that carries both honor and burden."

You paused, fingers resting on a bishop you were considering moving. The straightforwardness of his approach took you by surprise, especially given your status as a servant. It wasn't common for a king to discuss matters of divine favor so openly with someone in your position. "Thank you, sir," you responded, carefully moving the bishop. "It's... overwhelming, to say the least."

Odysseus chuckled softly, nodding in agreement as he captured one of your pawns. "I can imagine. Dealing with the gods is no small matter. They play their own games, ones that span lifetimes and often have rules only they fully understand."

You considered his words, moving your knight to a safer position on the board. "How does one prepare for such a thing? For interacting with gods?" you asked, genuinely seeking his counsel.

"Ah," Odysseus leaned back slightly, studying the chessboard with a tactician's eye. "You must always remember that the gods are not like us. They think and act on a scale we can hardly comprehend. Be respectful, but not servile. Be thoughtful, but not open. Show them that you are grateful for their attention, but not dependent on it."

The advice struck a chord with you. Respectful but not servile—like walking a tightrope of diplomacy and self-preservation. "And what if they ask for something difficult? Something that could change who I am?" you questioned, your hand hovering over the queen.

"Then you must weigh the cost," Odysseus replied, moving his queen to a more aggressive position. "Every favor from a god is a transaction. Think carefully about what you're willing to give, and what you're willing to lose. Sometimes, the wisest move is to refuse, or to negotiate."

Negotiate with a god. The idea seemed daunting, almost absurd, but coming from Odysseus—a man who had dealt with gods and their caprices—it held a certain weight. You moved your queen, taking one of his knights. "Have you... ever refused a god, sir?"

Odysseus smiled wryly, capturing your rook with his queen. "I have. It's not something I'd recommend doing lightly, but yes. Sometimes, standing your ground is necessary. Just be sure the hill you choose to die on is worth the battle."

The metaphor resonated with you, especially given the stakes you were beginning to understand came with divine favor. "I'll keep that in mind," you said, feeling the gravity of his advice settle over you.

Odysseus studied you for a moment, then offered a nod of approval. "Good," he said, his voice carrying a mix of warmth and formality that put you at ease. It was a side of him you had rarely seen, the wise king who had navigated wars and the whims of gods, now offering guidance in a game that felt more consequential than any chess match.

The conversation had brought you a kind of peace and allowed you to see firsthand the wisdom Telemachus and Polites had often spoken of—words that did no justice to the experience of hearing it directly from Odysseus himself. His advice made you feel secure, seen, and surprisingly understood, even in the complexity of your current situation.

In a moment of unexpected confidence, driven by the newfound trust and the comfort of his wisdom, you found yourself speaking before fully thinking it through. "There's something else I should mention," you began, your voice steadier than you felt.

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, a gesture inviting you to continue.

"I've... also received a divine lyre from Apollo," you said, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in your throat. "It was delivered to me by Hermes." The admission felt monumental as soon as the words left your mouth, revealing a connection to another deity that you hadn't fully acknowledged aloud until now.

Odysseus blinked, a moment of surprise crossing his features before settling into an understanding nod. "Oh," he said simply, processing your revelation about Hermes. You confirmed his presence in your life, explaining how the god had occasionally guided you, much like Apollo had shown his favor.

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips as if amused by the complexities of divine interactions with mortals. "It seems the gods find you as interesting as we do," he remarked, his tone light but turning serious again. "You must be quite special to attract the attention of not just one, but two gods."

The words 'quite special' echoed in your mind, mingling with a mix of pride and apprehension. It was one thing to be favored by Apollo, quite another to realize that Hermes, too, saw something in you worth engaging with.

"Dealing with one god can be challenging enough," Odysseus continued, his voice tinged with a humor that suggested personal experience. "Two is a rare and complicated path. You'll need to be cautious, but also bold. Remember, the gods are not infallible. They have their whims and their personalities. Treat them as you would any powerful, capricious monarch."

The advice sunk in deeply, framing your divine encounters in a new light—one that required not just reverence but also a strategic respect. "I will remember that, sir," you replied, your response filled with a genuine gratitude for his guidance.

Odysseus nodded once more, approvingly. "You are welcome here anytime, ____. It's clear you have a role to play in the days to come. And remember, if ever you need counsel, my door is open."

You felt a rush of gratitude for his support, bolstered by his acknowledgment of your role during his absence—how you had been a pillar for Penelope and a support to Telemachus. "Thank you, your majesty. That means more than I can say."

As the chess game continued, it appeared Odysseus was leading, his strategy unfolding with experienced precision. However, as the end drew near, a twist in your tactics caught him off guard. With a gentle checkmate, you claimed a surprising victory.

Rising from your seat with a respectful bow, you thanked him for the game and the conversation. "It's been enlightening, King Odysseus."

He dismissed you with a warm smile, his eyes reflecting a mix of respect and curiosity. "Go on, then. We'll speak again soon, I'm sure."

As you exited the room, the weight of his words and the unexpected outcome of the game left you contemplating the depth of strategy, both in chess and in dealing with the divine—a lesson you knew would serve you well in the days to come.

☆

☆

The rest of the day passed in a blur, the morning's clarity dissolving into the steady rhythm of palace life. You navigated through your duties with a mind still echoing with Odysseus's advice, his words a constant undercurrent to your thoughts.

Evening found you quietly relieved when the dinner bell rang, signaling an end to the day's obligations. The meal was a lively affair, filled with the usual chatter and clinking of cutlery, but you found yourself only half-listening, your gaze often drifting to the flickering flames of the candles that lit the dining hall.

After dinner, you excused yourself early, claiming fatigue—a not entirely false pretext. Your chambers welcomed you with their familiar, comforting solitude. You changed into your nightgown, a simple garment that felt blissfully soft against your skin after the day's garb.

Settling into bed, you reached for the candle by your bedside, the flame casting a warm glow across the room. Just as your fingers grazed the candlestick to snuff out the light, a soft chuckle stopped you dead in your tracks.

Startled, you smothered a yelp, hastily turning towards the sound. Your heart raced as your eyes landed on the figure now standing by your window—a figure both imposing and impossibly familiar.

"Apollo," you breathed out, a mix of awe and reproach in your tone as you clutched the sheets to your chest. The god of music and healing gave you an apologetic smile, his presence filling the room with a warmth that seemed to dance in the air.

"I hope I didn't frighten you too much," Apollo said, his voice a soothing balm despite the surprise of his sudden appearance. "I couldn't help but come visit. I wanted to see how you were managing."

You blinked, the initial shock slowly giving way to a surreal realization that the god himself was truly standing before you. "It's... quite a surprise," you managed to say, your voice steadier than you felt. "But I'm... well, thank you."

Apollo moved closer, the moonlight spilling through the window casting his divine features in a soft, ethereal light. As he approached, you couldn't help but notice the way the light seemed to dance around him, not just illuminating his form but enhancing it, making him appear as if he was part of the very essence of the moon itself.

Clearing your throat, you decided to tell him about your recent encounter with Artemis, his sister. His expression shifted slightly, a brief flicker of embarrassment crossing his divine features as you recounted the experience. "She was... intense," you said, choosing your words carefully.

Apollo let out a soft chuckle, running a hand through his hair—an oddly human gesture. "Yes, that sounds like Artemis," he admitted, his voice tinged with a brotherly exasperation that made him seem more approachable, more relatable. "I apologize if she was too forward. She can be quite protective... and direct."

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. "It's alright. It was actually kind of sweet, in a way," you said, your voice soft. "It's clear she cares a lot about you. The bond between siblings is something very pure, isn't it?"

Apollo's gaze softened as he looked at you, a warmth spreading through his eyes that made your heart flutter slightly. "It is," he agreed, his voice gentle. "And it's a bond that can teach us a lot about loyalty, about unconditional support."

He paused, his eyes lingering on you as if seeing you in a new light. "You have a way of seeing the good in things, ____. It's one of the reasons I... Well, it's why I find myself drawn here, to you."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds the gentle night breeze whispering through the open window and the distant call of a night bird. It was a stillness that felt almost tangible, as if the night itself had paused, acknowledging the significance of the divine presence in your simple room.

Apollo's gaze remained fixed on you, intense yet gentle, and after a moment, he perked up, a new curiosity coloring his tone. "Did you enjoy the sigil the other day?" he asked, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of genuine interest.

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. The sigil—that unexpected manifestation of golden light that had seemed to acknowledge and amplify your healing abilities. "Yes, I... it was unexpected," you admitted, your voice a mix of wonder and slight confusion. "What was it, exactly?"

Apollo's lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he shifted, settling himself on the edge of your bed with a grace that only a god could manage. The mattress barely dipped under his weight, his presence as light as it was profound. "I thought you might appreciate a little... confirmation," he explained, his voice soft, as if sharing a secret. "A sign of my support. It's been dark for you for so long, hasn't it?"

You nodded, the truth of his words striking a chord within you. The recent times had indeed felt shadowed by uncertainties and trials that often seemed too much to bear alone. "I did appreciate it," you confessed, smiling faintly at the memory of the inexplainable feeling you felt during your healing of the cabin boy. "Thank you, Apollo. I didn't expect it, but it helped. More than you know."

Apollo's gaze softened further, and he reached out, his hand briefly touching your own. The contact was brief but filled with a warmth that seemed to radiate directly from his divine essence. "I'm glad," he murmured. "And you should know, there's more I can show you, do for you. You've only just begun to explore what's possible with my favor."

The promise in his words was heady, thrilling yet daunting. You were about to respond when Apollo continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned closer. "I'm here not just to guide or to watch. I want to be part of your journey, to help illuminate the paths you choose."

The sincerity in his expression, the depth of his commitment to your well-being—it all resonated deeply within you, stirring a mix of emotions. Gratitude, certainly, for his divine support, but also a new sense of responsibility that came with his favor. It was a daunting prospect, the weight of divine expectations, but also an exhilarating one.

"You've brought light to my path already," you told him, your voice steady despite the quickening of your heart. "I... I hope I can make you proud."

Apollo's smile was radiant, almost blinding in its brilliance. "You already have," he assured you, and then, with a playful wink, he added, "And I expect great things from you, my chosen."

His tone was light, but then, his smile faded into a more serious expression as he leaned closer, his voice lowering to a murmur that barely disturbed the quiet of your room. "But you must be careful," he cautioned, his gaze intensifying as he searched your eyes. "Not all who watch you wish to see you thrive."

He paused, letting the silence hang for a moment to ensure you grasped the gravity of his warning. "There is a particular goddess whose interest you have piqued," he continued, his voice a soft yet firm whisper. "She is drawn to stories like yours, to the plays of power and affection. Her ways are capricious, and she delights in weaving passion and jealousy as one might weave threads in a tapestry."

His eyes held yours, intense and searching, "Be wary of any boon that seems to echo the desires of the heart. I cannot always be here to deflect her whims."

Your heart tightened at his implication.

The reference was clear without naming names—Aphrodite, the goddess of love, known for her domain of love of all kinds. Apollo's mention of heart's desires brought an unspoken warning about Telemachus too, hinting that what felt like genuine affection might also be a thread in a larger game, woven by divine hands.

Your stomach turned at the thought—No. You're not doing this... not now.

Getting your mind back on track, you cleared your throat. "I understand," you responded, your voice steady despite the turmoil that his words stirred within you. "Thank you, Apollo, for your guidance and for looking out for me."

Apollo's gaze softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing your cheek in a tender gesture that seemed to promise protection. "Guard your heart, little muse," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "And remember, not all that glitters in the moonlight is gold, not all who wander are lost, but all who meddle are not friends." His face was so close you could count the flecks of gold in his eyes, his presence enveloping you in a protective cocoon.

Your heart quickened, and subconsciously, you found yourself leaning in, drawn by the magnetic pull of his nearness. His eyes held yours, steady and unwavering, a silent promise lingering in his gaze. "Goodnight, little muse."

Then, like a whisper on the wind, he was gone. The sudden absence of his warmth left a cold spot in the room, but the lingering touch on your cheek felt like a balm, a reminder of his visit and his vow of protection.

As you sat there, the silence of the night wrapping around you once more, you felt a mix of exhilaration and apprehension. Apollo's visit had brought both comfort and a warning, and as you lay down to sleep, his words echoed in your mind, a lullaby laced with a cautionary tale.

The night closed in, soft and dark, and you drifted off, the memory of Apollo's touch a gentle echo in the quiet of your dreams.

Chapter Text

━ ⭑─⭒━ 

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the wooden walls of the study.

Maps lay spread before Odysseus like a battle waiting to be fought, inked lines and fraying parchment curling at the corners from years of handling. He sat hunched at his desk, one hand resting on a goblet of wine that had long since gone lukewarm, the other holding down a scroll as his eyes flicked over strategy reports from the western coast.

Across the room, Penelope sat by the hearth, quill in hand. Her writing was smooth and elegant, like the sweep of her wrist was practiced even when her mind was a world away. She was drafting a letter—he didn't ask to whom. Probably a cousin on the mainland or one of the allied queens who still wrote in spirals of gossip and veiled concern.

The only sound was the gentle drag of her quill and the occasional sigh from Odysseus as he reread the same line for the third time without absorbing it.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that came only when a queen and king had learned to share space without needing to speak.

Then—three sharp knocks. Quick. Nervous.

Penelope's quill stilled. Odysseus lifted his head, gaze narrowing.

"Enter," he called, voice low but firm.

The door creaked open, and in shuffled a young servant—barely more than a boy, really—hair mussed and eyes wide like he'd sprinted the entire length of the palace. He bowed, words spilling out before he caught his breath. "M-My lord, my lady—pardon the interruption, but I—I thought you should know."

Penelope sat upright. Odysseus arched a brow. "Well? Speak."

The servant swallowed hard. "People. At the gates. Dozens—maybe more by now. They're saying the girl—the one who healed the boy on the ship—word's spread. They think she's blessed. Touched by the gods. Some have traveled from neighboring isles already—hoping to be healed."

He blinked, clearly rattled, and added, "Should I alert the guards? Or... or send for the priestesses?"

Odysseus exchanged a glance with Penelope, his jaw tightening. He waved a hand. "No. That'll be all. Go back to your post. And... breathe."

The boy stumbled out with a bow, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence returned—heavier this time.

Penelope was the first to speak, voice soft but tinged with wonder. "Gods... it was just yesterday she helped that boy. Word travels fast."

Odysseus didn't look up from the scroll still unfurled before him. His fingers pressed into the parchment like he could will it to say something else. Anything else.

"I heard," he murmured.

Penelope didn't miss the tension in his jaw or the way his hand lingered too long on the page. She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the crackling hearth, and let her voice fill the silence he refused to break.

"They're calling her a healer now."

He said nothing.

"And a prophet. A siren. A daughter of Apollo." Her brow arched, the corners of her mouth curving into something between amusement and disbelief. "Gods, someone said she was Artemis in disguise just yesterday. And now this?"

"She's not Artemis," Odysseus said quietly, still not looking at her. His eyes remained fixed on the scroll, though the words there had long since lost meaning.

Penelope rose, slow and fluid. "No?" she said softly, a teasing lilt slipping into her voice as she walked over to him with  the kind of grace that made him feel seventeen again. She bent slightly, brushing a kiss just above his ear. "And here I thought you'd tell me she was the Muse of Ithaca next."

Odysseus grunted, shifting in his seat, but the tips of his ears—traitorous as ever—flushed red.

Penelope chuckled, the sound warm and fond, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were light, barely pressing down, but their presence settled him in a way nothing else could. She glanced at the maps scattered before him, then back to his face.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, voice gentler now.

Odysseus exhaled slowly. "Earlier today... I spoke to her...____."

Penelope said nothing, only waited.

"She asked me what it meant to carry a god's favor," he said after a moment, eyes still on the fire now. "Said she wasn't sure if she was ready. If she'd ever be. I gave her advice, but..." His lips pressed into a tight line. "She's still young. Still unsure."

Penelope hummed, stepping closer. "She's loyal," she said. "She's kind. And clever in a way that doesn't need to be spoken aloud."

He nodded once. "Dangerous combination."

"She reminds me of someone," she mused, her fingers trailing across his shoulder before resting beneath her chin. "Someone I used to know, before the years turned us both into shadows of our sharper selves."

He glanced at her then, eyes shadowed but soft. "That so?"

She turned to meet his gaze. "I was once a girl in these halls too, Ody." A small, secret smile ghosted across her lips. "Weren't you the man who taught me how to wield a dagger hidden in a spindle?"

"I was the fool who gave it to you," he said with a dry chuckle.

"And I was the fool who didn't use it on you when you returned from war, reeking of smoke and half a dozen curses."

They shared a look—wry, exhausted, and full of something older than pain. Something that survived it.

Something that endured.

Odysseus shifted slightly in his chair, the weight of memory pressing into his spine like old armor. He turned the scroll over, finally letting it go, and ran a rough hand through his graying curls.

"I've decided," he said at last, voice low.

Penelope tilted her head.

"There'll be a feast tomorrow," he continued. "A formal one. Public."

Her brow lifted. "What for?"

"I'm giving her a title."

That earned a blink, then a slow smile. "Oh?"

"I'm going to call her the Divine Liaison."

Penelope let out a soft hum, something between surprised and amused. "A liaison?"

"To the gods," he clarified, as if that explained everything. "She sings. She speaks. She listens."

"She also braids linen," Penelope murmured, crossing the room to refill her wine, "and shuffles quietly through the halls when she thinks no one's looking."

"She's not no one," he said, almost too quickly.

"No," Penelope agreed, glancing over her shoulder with a flicker of mischief. "But you're not doing this for her. Not entirely."

He didn't respond. Just stared at the crackling fire.

Penelope returned to stand beside him. "You're doing this for him."

Odysseus didn't deny it.

Her smile widened, voice warming into something teasing. "What, no snarky quip about strategy and optics?"

He exhaled through his nose, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "It'll put the right kind of eyes on her. Keeps her close, but not too close. Grants her place, not power."

"And Telemachus?"

He paused. His thumb traced a line along the rim of his goblet. "It gives him a reason to protect her."

Penelope's laugh was soft—surprised and fond, like the sound of wind through linen. "As if he needed one."

"I'd rather he had a title to point to than a heart to confess," Odysseus muttered, the admission slipping out like a stray arrow.

Penelope's smile faded into something quieter. Her gaze lingered on him, eyes kind. "You think this is love, then?"

Odysseus looked down at his hands. Calloused fingers, faded scars. Hands that had built ships, drawn blood, buried friends. Hands that had once held her, trembling and young.

"I think..." He swallowed. "He looks at her the way I used to look at you. When I didn't think you'd notice."

That silenced her.

Not from surprise, but from memory.

She stood straight, eyes misty with something too old to name. "I did notice," she said after a beat, voice a hush against the crackle of fire. "I just wasn't ready to believe it."

Odysseus nodded, quiet for a moment. Then. "He follows her with his whole chest, Pen. Tries not to—tries to act like he doesn't—but gods, it's written all over him. Like he's always waiting for her voice in the hall, like he counts her footsteps before they reach him."

Penelope let out a breath, touched one hand to her heart.

"He watches her like he's trying to memorize something he knows he doesn't deserve."

She smiled softly. "Then he's your son, alright."

Odysseus huffed a laugh. "And she... she doesn't even see it. Or maybe she does, and she's just scared. Either way, she's in it too deep to leave without bleeding."

Silence stretched again, long and tender.

Penelope's voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "So this title—it's not just for show."

He looked at her.

"No," he said. "It's a tether. A shield. A warning."

"To whom?" she asked gently.

His jaw flexed. "To anyone who'd think to take her from him."

And for a moment, the only sound was the hush of the sea through the window... and the way their breaths seemed to fall in time. The fire crackled low behind them, casting long shadows across the stone, but neither moved to tend it.

Then Penelope whispered, her voice so soft he nearly missed it. "We tried for years, you know."

His head turned sharply.

She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze had drifted somewhere distant—far beyond the parchment, the hearth, the years worn into the lines of her face. Her quill sat idle on the desk, ink bleeding slowly into the paper's edge.

"Before Telemachus," she continued, barely louder than the tide. "We tried, and the gods were quiet. I was beginning to think they didn't listen to women who prayed softly."

"Penelope—" he started, but she kept going, the words fragile and real and unshakable.

"But then... he came...Telemachus... Small and loud and full of everything I didn't know I'd needed." Her voice caught slightly. "And you were gone."

Odysseus reached for her hand. Found it. Held it.

His thumb brushed along the curve of her knuckles, memorizing them all over again.

"I never got to be his father while he was small," he said, his voice rough. "I came home to a boy with your eyes and none of my memories. A stranger, who I loved like he'd always been mine."

Penelope turned to look at him now. There was no judgment in her eyes. Just grief softened by time.

"I can't undo that," he added, a bitter edge creeping in. "But I can give him this. A chance. A way to—"

"Love without losing," she finished, her eyes searching his.

He nodded. "Exactly."

They sat like that for a long time. No more strategy. No more prophecy. Just two parents on either side of a life they tried their best to build.

The fire had nearly gone out when Penelope broke the silence, voice low and wry.

"You're terrible at pretending you don't care."

Odysseus huffed. "And you're worse at pretending you don't hope."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his knuckles, her eyes never leaving his. "Maybe. But this hope feels... right."

He nodded once. Didn't speak.

Because if he had, it would've been something soft. Something too bare to say aloud.

Something like: Me too

Penelope laughed softly at the silence that followed, not mocking, but something warmer. Something full of understanding. "You know," she said, eyes crinkling with affection, "I think I love her more each day."

That made him glance up.

"She's brave," Penelope went on, voice quiet but sure. "Even when she's angry. Even when she's hurting."

Odysseus smiled faintly. The corners of his mouth twitched upward like he couldn't quite help it, like something small in his chest was loosening.

"She reminds me of you, you know," Penelope added, reaching over to brush a speck of dust from his shoulder. "Not when you're scheming. When you're... trying. When you're trying to be good."

"Gods help us," he muttered. "Two of me."

Penelope smacked his shoulder, light but pointed. He chuckled, and she did too. The kind of laugh that curled at the edges of a long day. Familiar. Worn in like sea-soft leather.

And then—quieter now—she said, "I think she's the closest thing we've had to a daughter."

Odysseus stilled.

His smile faded, not in rejection, but in reverence. Like the weight of those words deserved room to breathe.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind outside rattled the olive branches against the shutters, a whisper of the island beyond. The fire in the hearth hissed softly, like even it had gone still to listen.

"I know," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Measured. "That's what scares me."

Penelope's expression shifted. Softer now. She stepped toward him, cupping his face in both hands, gentle and sure.

"She's not a god," she whispered. "But she's ours. And if the gods want her—well, they'll have to go through both of us first."

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

"...Then let them come."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

When you woke the next morning, the world had already burst into a flurry of activity, the palace buzzing with preparations for an event that, until recently, would have seemed unimaginable: a feast in your honor.

As you made your way through the corridors, the scent of fresh paint and the sound of hammers echoed off the stone walls. Servants scurried past with arms laden with decorations and linens finer than any you'd seen used at the palace.

The transformation was underway, turning the already grand halls into something out of a royal birthday celebration.

Penelope, overseeing the arrangements with a meticulous eye, caught sight of you. She waved you over, her face alight with the kind of excitement usually reserved for grand state occasions. "There you are!" she exclaimed as you approached. "Everything must be perfect for tonight. This is no ordinary feast; it's a celebration of divine favor—a rare and wondrous occasion!"

You tried to interject, to express how a simple dinner would more than suffice, but Penelope was having none of it. "Nonsense," she chided gently, her voice firm but kind. "This will be a feast to remember, complete with performances, a multitude of courses, and the finest wine. It's only fitting for someone who has been touched by Apollo himself!"

The grandeur of it all made your head spin.

You'd thought, perhaps naively, that such attention might breed resentment or envy among the other servants. Yet, as the day unfolded, you found the opposite to be true. Their excitement was palpable, their congratulations genuine.

It seemed your blessing had become a source of pride for the entire household, a curious turn of events that warmed your heart even as it baffled you.

You spent the day caught between trying to help with the preparations and being shooed away by well-meaning staff insisting you should be relaxing or preparing yourself for the evening.

Eventually, you retreated to the one place you knew you could find some peace: your shed. It was a cozy, quiet space filled with the scent of wood and oil, where the outside world's expectations couldn't reach you.

As you stepped inside, your gaze immediately fell on a new addition to the room—a small, shrine-like shelf installed near the window. It housed your old, broken lyre, now encased behind a pane of glass. This was more than just a display; it was a reminder of your beginnings, of melodies played and memories made.

Telemachus had ordered and installed it as a gift, saying it symbolized the beauty in imperfection and the music that still lived in broken things. It was a thoughtful gesture, one that had touched you deeply, yet it also served as a bittersweet reminder of the distance growing between you and him.

Lately, you found yourself thinking of Telemachus often, his image coming unbidden to your mind as you oiled and tuned your instruments. Apollo's warning about other gods and their potentially disruptive interest had stayed with you, echoing in the back of your mind like a persistent whisper.

You couldn't help but feel wary, the god's words making you cautious about your interactions, especially with the prince.

There had been moments, fleeting and charged, where you could have sworn Telemachus was trying to reach out, but each time, you found yourself pulling back, dodging these encounters with polite excuses or a sudden need to be elsewhere.

It wasn't that you wanted to avoid him; rather, you were trying to protect something fragile, something that felt as though it could be shattered by the slightest misstep—a fear that perhaps Apollo's concerns were not unfounded.

You sighed and set down the cloth you were using to polish a flute, your fingers lingering on the instrument as you lost yourself in thought. The solitude of the shed allowed you to think clearly, and yet, the quiet also made the memories and worries louder, more insistent.

You wondered about the cost of divine favor, about how much of your life would be steered by unseen forces and whispered warnings. As you pondered, lost in the maze of your own thoughts, the soft knock at the shed door pulled you abruptly back to reality.

Turning, you saw Asta stepping into the shed, a small basket in her hands. Her presence was always a bit startling, the sharpness of her gaze and the boldness of her demeanor setting her apart from the other servants. Today, however, there was a softer edge to her usual briskness.

"I brought you lunch," she announced, holding up the basket which gave off the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and herbs. "Callias is tied up with preparations for tonight and sent me with this." She paused, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she added, "He figured you might forget to eat, given... everything."

Instead of making a quick exit, which you half-expected, Asta settled down on a nearby crate, setting the basket between you. She began unpacking it—there were slices of bread, some cheese, a few apples, and a small flask of cider.

It was simple fare, but the thoughtfulness behind it warmed you more than the food itself could.

"You're not leaving?" you asked, a bit surprised by her decision to stay.

Asta shrugged, her eyes meeting yours with an uncharacteristic softness. "Thought you might want some company," she said casually, though you caught a hint of careful consideration in her voice. "Besides, I'm curious about all these divine shenanigans you're involved in."

You couldn't help but chuckle at her phrasing, the tension easing slightly from your shoulders. Asta's straightforwardness, her refusal to tiptoe around subjects like everyone else had been doing lately, was refreshing.

"Divine shenanigans," you echoed, accepting the plate she offered. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

Asta watched you as you started on your meal, her keen eyes missing nothing. "You know," she began, her tone casual but her gaze sharp, "most people would be thrilled to be in your shoes. Divine favor, Apollo's blessing, healing powers—it's the stuff of legends."

You nodded, swallowing a bite of cheese. "I know it sounds amazing, and it is, but it's also... a lot." You sighed, setting down your food and meeting her gaze. "It's not just about the powers or the blessings. It's the expectations, the responsibility. Everyone looking at you like you're supposed to know what to do all the time."

Asta nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Pressure," she said simply. "You're under a lot of it, aren't you?"