a little detail i’ve added to my personal designs of artemis and apollo and i think is cool but don’t think will make a big appearance is that their eyes reflect each other
like Apollo has darker, bronzed skin and fair hair. this is evident of the sun, his hair is golden like it and he is tan like he’s been out in it, but his eyes are very dark, which is a reflection of the night sky (Artemis’ domain)
Artemis has silver hair to match the moon and her skin is pale like moonlight, but her eyes reflect the sky during the day. if it was rainy or cloudy then they’re gray, but if the day was clear then her eyes are sky blue (Apollo’s domain)
i just think it’s a cool detail to show their connection to each other and i really like it :)
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."
⌜Godly Things | Chapter 04
Chapter 04 | homecoming⌟
╰ ⌞🇨🇭🇦🇵🇹🇪🇷 🇮🇳🇩🇪🇽⌝
❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘
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.
A/N: ahhh, i'm so happy you guys are enjoying the story so far; i know i tend to be slow with the plot/pacing at the start with most (lol all, i'm a fucking liar), but i promise when the ball starts rolling, it'll be fast. all i can say for now is enjoy these peaceful moments while they're here...😭
⌜READ ME FIRST: This story deals with divine favor—and all the chaos that comes with it. Please be aware of the heavy themes and psychological intensity ahead. Full warnings listed at the bottom.⌟
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Knowledge of EPIC: The Musical isn't technically needed; this can be read with just common knowledge of Greek mythology and The Odyssey..
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?
..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....
╭─↬ ❗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 babies 🥹❤️ 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 😈
