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Dec 30, 2025

i. This Isn't My Idea

pairing: Telemachus x Reader

content: The Swan Princess (1994) inspired, arranged marriage, childhood "enemies" to lovers, misogynistic ideas, probably inaccurate, stupid reasons for hating each other but they're kids

summary: Ever since you were a small child, you knew that your marriage to Telemachus was inevitable. The problem: you didn't like him. As the years pass, you make decisions in an attempt to make yourself undesirable to him in hopes that he breaks the union off himself.

word count: 7.7k

The Swan and the Altar masterlist

epic the musical masterlist

Your marriage to Prince Telemachus of Ithaca had been arranged since before you were born. Even right after your birth, all the talk surrounding you always circled back to how you were promised to the clever Odysseus’ son. Although his father had since been fighting in Troy, along with yours, any saddened conversation of them was brightened when your union was brought up. In one of your earliest memories, you recall being told of the prince’s charming demeanor and cheeky wisdom for someone as young as him. When the time came to officially meet the Ithacan prince, however, you were disappointed.

Prince Telemachus was your senior by just a few months, but based on the way your mother had spoken to you about him, you were under the impression that he was a much older man. Turns out his charming demeanor and cheeky wisdom were actually in reference to his father. If the father was a man so great, people said, then surely the son would be, too.

To say you were unimpressed with the skinny five-year-old before you was an understatement. You shouldn’t have been, considering he was only a child, but you had been expecting more. An arrogant and spoiled rotten royal might have been better, but the Ithacan prince was . . . shy. Not many boys, let alone princes, were. Shyness wasn’t an admirable trait.

“Telemachus,” Queen Penelope beckoned. One of her hands rested on her son’s shoulder, urging him forward with a gentle push. The prince stumbled toward you like a fawn. “Go on. We talked about how to greet her.”

You couldn’t help the way your face scrunched when the prince bowed, ungracefully, and reached for your hand. Your mother nudged you—a silent command to fix your expression. The creases in your brow and nose smoothed, though your lips remained tightly pursed together to keep your discontent from slipping.

It took visible effort for the prince to lift your hand to his lips and brush a kiss against your knuckles. They were chapped, the edges of his dry skin ghosting along your hand uncomfortably. Your fingers twitched in a fruitless attempt to pull away, but that would have been rude.

When the prince dropped your hand, you were quick to pull it back to your side and spare a sidelong glance at your mother.

There, you wordlessly said. Are you happy?

You knew you had to stay for the summer, but you hoped that your obvious discontent would persuade your mother to leave early and, maybe, never return.

“Darling,” she urged you instead, placing her hands on your shoulders to turn your body back to Ithaca’s royalty. “You’re forgetting something.”

Telemachus was already facing you again. He fidgeted with his hands by his sides before stiffly bowing. “I’m pleased you could come, princess.”

Your stomach lurched. You hoped that you'd get ill and be forced to spend the summer away from the awkward prince.

Reluctantly, you dipped into a curtsy. “I’m pleased to be here.”

The two of you shared a strained smile. It was then, looking up at your mothers for their approval to leave, that you both decided this was not an ideal match. You could see that even as a seven-year-old that had no idea of the things to come, though the true source of your shared discontent came from knowing you’d no doubt be forced to charm the other.

—

“Y/n!”

You stiffened at your mother’s sharp call. Immediately, the wooden pole in your hands clattered to the ground and you glanced away from Telemachus bashfully. It was the first time the two of you had truly started to get along. Your laughter echoed through the courtyard still as you looked for your mother.

“Yes?” Your voice was meek—that of someone that had been caught.

She sighed. “You shouldn’t be playing around with sticks, darling. It’s not ladylike.”

“Oh, Cleo, give her a break. She and Telemachus are only having fun,” Penelope said. “Besides, this is the first time they’ve really gotten along all summer.”

“Please, Pen. She is to be queen one day and if it is not of your kingdom then it is of mine. She should act as such.” Your mother pushed her hair behind her shoulder and straightened. “Besides, her father would be appalled at her behavior.”

Penelope sighed, and she gave you a soft and gentle smile. I tried, her eyes said. Your lip curled in your best attempt to return her smile, but it was still strained. You lifted the wooden shaft from the ground and, reluctantly, handed it to Telemachus. You missed his dejected look as he watched you return to your mother’s side, where you usually were.

Your mother sighed, reaching to push and slick your hair back into place. “Boys don’t like girls that are rough,” she whispered in your ear. “How are you to charm the prince by acting like that?”

“Truly, Telemachus won’t mind—“

“Maybe not now, but he will when he’s older. It’s good for my daughter to learn manners while she’s young.” Your mother patted your shoulders, letting your newly fixed hair drop from her hands. “There. Good as new.”

Obediently, you sat beside your mother and watched Telemachus swing around a wooden pole in the courtyard. By himself, he had grown bored. His movements had slowed and he didn’t look nearly as excited now compared to when he was going against you.

“Y/n.” Penelope’s voice pulled you out of that longing to play with him—to join him in whatever unladylike fun he was having simply because it was more than sitting still. The queen was already standing when you met her gaze. “Come. I’d like to show you something.”

You looked to your mother for approval. When she nodded, you were quick to bounce up from your seat and join Penelope as she walked across the courtyard, back into the palace. You followed her through the halls, the warm sun falling on your skin from the windows.

It was the first real look you got of your surroundings. Most of the time, your mother was parading you around in an attempt to get you to play Queen of Ithaca, so you were more focused on having the proper posture and walking straight than you were about what the palace looked like.

It was grand—like many palaces were. Strong pillars held it up and the stone walls were intricately carved with designs you couldn’t quite make out. It was a place built from love. Your mother had told you that Odysseus had built it with Penelope at the forefront of his mind. A place made for the love of his life.

Penelope led you to her room. In the center stood a grand olive tree in which a bed had been carved into. It was neatly made, the frame carved smooth and polished with an incandescent shine. You wondered, for a moment, what it felt like to lay in it.

“Here,” Penelope called to you. She had already sat in a stool and was leaning forward to pull another shorter one close to her. “Come sit with me.”

You joined her at the loom. It was finely crafted, the corners and once sharp edges softened and worn down with time and use. A faint smile touched the queen’s lips when you sat beside her, and she let her hand ghost the edge of the tapestry hanging on the loom’s strings.

“This will be me and my husband,” she told you, her voice filled with sincerity and longing. Her fingertips brushed the bottom, where you could see the image of sandals and legs coming together. “A portrait of when we first met. This here will be the olive tree.” Her fingers glided to the left, where brown yarn was beginning to take the form of gnarled roots. “He carved our wedding bed out of it. It’s quite comfortable.”

You had never seen anything more pure than the smile on Penelope’s lips and the creases by her eyes. She looked in love—nostalgic, even, though you weren’t quite sure what that word meant yet. She told you about how Odysseus made their wedding bed the center of his palace, which he had designed according to her whim.

“When my father first brought me to Ithaca, it was to strengthen the relationship with Odysseus’ father.” As she spoke, Penelope picked up the shuttle and wove it through the loom, expertly changing colors when she needed. “Nothing came of it. In fact, I wasn’t fond of him during my stay here. I thought he was annoying and ill-mannered. He didn’t bow to me or kiss my hand, and he was too adventurous for his own good. Odysseus did many foolish things when he was young.

“He must have prayed to Aphrodite,” she continued, “because the next time I saw him, I was captivated. He came to Sparta as a suitor for my cousin, Helen. My father made us—me, Helen, and my sister—wear white hoods so all of Helen’s suitors were unaware of her true beauty. Odysseus approached me in the courtyard thinking I was Helen. I assumed he would try to woo me with that assumption, but then he started speaking about a bright-eyed girl that he believed could challenge his wit.”

You watched as Penelope’s deft fingers moved through the strings with ease, turning the dial and resetting the round like it was second nature. Every now and then, she would hold out a skein of yarn to you, motioning for you to feel its softness without stopping her story.

“I didn’t speak, only listened. Helen was quiet with many of her suitors anyway, so I doubted Odysseus would notice my silence. I wished to know if Odysseus was true, or if I was just another prize for him to smartly win. There was a point where, instead of speaking like he was addressing someone far off, he spoke directly to me. He smiled at me and only laughed when I hummed in confusion of his silence.

“‘I know that is you, Penelope of Sparta,’ he said to me.” Penelope smiled widely. “‘You are clever to have fooled me for a moment, but I’m afraid I would recognize who you are by feeling alone.’

“He proposed to me right then, saying he hadn’t even come to Sparta to win Helen’s hand. Said that he would take me back to Ithaca and throw the grandest wedding in my honor. I said he needed to impress my father first, so they made a deal. If Odysseus could make the stubborn Helen choose a husband, then he could have his pick of any Spartan woman for a wife.”

Penelope glanced at you, if only to ensure that her story wasn’t boring. Her smile shifted into something more loving at the starstruck look on your face.

“Would you like to try?” She held the shuttle out when you eagerly nodded, and slowly led your hands through the strings in the same way hers had moved.

“So Helen picked someone?” you asked after a moment, prompting Penelope to continue.

She nodded. “It was not difficult. She had already taken to Menelaus and had planned to announce her decision soon. Odysseus chose the right time to strike his deal—any later and my father would have rejected him.”

“He picked you after?”

“With a wide smile. Iphthime, my sister, ended up being the choice of Eumelus, another of Helen’s suitors. That is not my story to tell, though, and if you ever meet Iphthime then you must ask her about it.”

Penelope smiled at you again. Slowly, her hands drifted away from yours until you were weaving the shuttle through the loom on your own. Your actions weren’t as seamless or clean as the queen’s, but you were having fun.

“Odysseus likes to tell everyone that we were smitten at first glance.” A chuckle fell from her lips. “Odysseus, however, is very deceitful. No one should ever believe what he says.”

Her tone was light—joking in a way that implied Odysseus only lied about the little, harmless things. Joking in a way that implied the King of Ithaca twisted his words in just the right way to get people to do what he wanted. But, it seemed that it was a quality Penelope admired.

Penelope went silent, watching you weave. Your hands moved slowly and carefully, ensuring that you didn’t mess up the tapestry Penelope had already spent so much time on. You didn’t want her to have to go back and redo your part.

“When he returns from Troy,” she continued, letting herself relax slightly where she sat, “I will gift this to him, and he will hang it in the dining hall.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that is where it’s meant to go.”

“What if he wants to hang it somewhere else?”

Penelope’s smile turned sly. You didn’t pick up the connotation when she said, “I will convince him otherwise.”

You stayed there for a bit. Penelope continued to tell you about Odysseus and you continued to move the shuttle back and forth. The queen only offered her assistance when you seemed to get stuck.

“Do you like this?” she asked after you had gotten the hang of swiftly moving your hands. You nodded. “I will have a loom sent to Lempyra for your birthday, then. And when you are here, you can use mine whenever you please.”

She stroked your hair as you worked, taking care to not ruin the way your mother had done it up. The two of you must have sat by the loom for hours in a calming silence, only speaking every few minutes.

It wasn’t until your mother came knocking that you let the shuttle drop back into Penelope’s hands. Your mother came in at Penelope’s beckon, fussing about how the boy who had joined Telemachus in roughhousing had suddenly disappeared.

Your mother sighed after her rant. “No matter. My dear, are you having fun.”

“Yes. Penelope has taught me how to weave and will send me a loom,” you said, holding your hand out to the unfinished tapestry.

Your mother smiled fondly. When Penelope explained what was to be depicted, her smile widened. “So she told you about how she and Odysseus met?” You nodded. “See, my dear, you do not need to like Telemachus now. In time, you will be captivated by him just as Penelope was by his father.”

“Cleo.” Penelope’s voice held a warning. Your mother, it seemed, could steer the topic of any conversation so it focused on yours and Telemachus’ arrangement.

“I’m only saying! She can’t be so off put by your son when they’re both so young. Odysseus and yourself are a splendid example of that.” Your mother placed her hands on your shoulders, massaging the muscles. “Now come, daughter. Dinner is soon.”

With reluctance, you stood from the stool beside Penelope and let your mother guide you out of the room. As your mother said a brief note to the Ithacan queen, you spared a glance back at the tapestry.

The rows you had done weren’t as perfect as Penelope’s. Your work was looser, less sturdy and more likely to be fingered apart if anyone messed with it. Just before you left, though, you noticed that Penelope did not start unthreading what you had done. No, instead, she picked up the shuttle and continued where you had left off, securing your unsteady rows in place.

—

You were scrambling—tossing clothing into bags and accessories into pouches all while trying to run oil through your hair so it didn’t look so dead until you could properly wash it. You were on the verge of crying, the tears already threatening to spill. You had fallen ill for the past week, unable to get out of your bed. You still did not feel your best, but your parents were insisting that you leave for Ithaca before supper at the latest.

“My daughter, hurry! It is rude to keep Penelope and Telemachus waiting,” your mother called from the other side of the door. It only made you more panicked. Already you could hear the scuffs of hooves against the pavement outside, ready to haul a load of luggage to the ship.

“Mother, I’m not ready!” you cried, rushing to open the door. Maybe, you hoped, your mother would see your distress and offer help. “And do we truly have to go? You know how seasick I get and I’m already ill.”

“My child, of course we have to go. We do every year.” Your mother offered help, but not in the way of packing your things like you’d hoped. Instead, she reached for your ivory comb and forced you to sit in front of her. “You and your betrothed must maintain a relationship. Have you been writing letters to each other like I asked?”

You ignored her question, letting her pull and tug your hair any which way without complaint instead. “Then can we delay, at least? I haven’t packed or-or washed my hair and I feel terrible! Just last night I could hardly keep the broth Andreas made down.”

“They are expecting us soon, my darling.”

Just then, your father bellowed your mother’s name. You sighed, knowing now that there was no chance of delaying the trip at least a day. Your father always took your mother’s side. It seemed the longer he was home from Troy, the worse it got.

“Daughter, where are your things? You are the only one we’re waiting for.”

Your mother sighed behind you, brushing at a knot in your hair. You winced with every harsh tug. “She hasn’t packed, dear.”

“And why not?” Your father turned to you. “You’ve had all morning.”

You gaped. Blinked. You had barely been able to sit up in your bed last night and he expected you to be packed for an entire summer?

You almost said something. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but your father began talking first. “Never mind. I will call up servants to do that for you. Finish her hair and make her presentable for a departure, Cleo.”

Your mother hummed behind you and your father was out the door before you could get a word in. You groaned in frustration, letting your hand hit the stone beneath you.

“Y/n,” your mother scolded. Her hands untangling your hair were beginning to hurt now, her impatience with you coming through the harsh motions. After a moment, she said, “I will help you pack, but we must hurry. Your father is waiting by the cart.”

She tapped your shoulder, steering you to your feet. Slowly, the two of you gathered a wardrobe for your summer in Ithaca, filling bags and crates until your family made their way to the docks in the horse-drawn wagon. Soon, the servants joined you.

The send off was grand, as usual. Your father appointed an advisor to care to Lempyra until he returned, whether that be in four months time or sooner, before boarding the ship. Immediately, you found a quiet bedchamber to continue resting in, hoping that maybe this year there would be more willingness to change the arrangement.

—

The smooth stone skipped across the calm waters of the ocean five times. Telemachus smiled faintly, proud of himself. The smile fell when he lowered his arm, another rock skipping ten times. It went twice as far as his in half the time.

Telemachus glared at his friend. “Show-off.”

Peisistratus laughed, reaching for another stone from the shore. He tossed it to Telemachus. “Tell me more about the Princess of Lempyra.”

The Ithacan prince heaved a dramatic sigh. He threw the rock into the water in frustration, without care of whether or not it skipped along the surface.

“She is the most infuriating girl I’ve ever met.” Telemachus watched Peisistratus’ stone skip along smoothly. “She’s constantly complaining about something or another and she does not stop talking. And she thinks I’m the worst person to have walked this planet when I have done nothing!”

This time, Peisistratus’ laugh was loud and boisterous. “She dislikes you? Gods, she must have her head on backwards. What did you do to the poor girl?”

“Absolutely nothing! Every summer when she comes she avoids me like a plague. She refuses to interact with me unless her mother forces her, and even then she keeps her words short.” Telemachus turned, letting himself fall into the sand with his scrawny legs stretched out in front of him. “Of course, I know it’s likely because she doesn’t want to marry me in the future. But I have no desire to do so either yet I’m not being rude to her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say this conversation about her is friendly,” Peisistratus pointed out.

“Yes, but she doesn’t need to know that,” Telemachus countered. He let out a heavy exhale, letting himself fall back into the soft sands of Ithaca’s shoreline. The breeze cooled his warm skin and Peisistratus laughed.

“I’ll have to meet her, then. To see if she’s really as troublesome as you say.” The boy shot Telemachus a grin, winding his arm back to throw yet another stone.

“She is.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Telemachus thought he heard someone calling his name, and when he turned his head he found that his mother was standing close to the road. She dismounted the chariot, carefully descending the slow rise of the hill so she didn’t slip.

“Come, my son,” Penelope beckoned. “The Lempyran royal family is nearly here and I’d like it if you greeted them.”

Telemachus groaned, to which Penelope rolled her eyes. Her son had become quite dramatic, and she could only hope it was a phase that would pass.

“Can’t I wait until they arrive at the palace?” Telemachus asked, hoping he’d get just a few more moments without your pestering. Clumsily, he lied, “Peisistratus still needs help settling in.”

“Odd. I seem to recall you and him spending all morning doing so.” She smiled slyly, bending over to block the sun from Telemachus’ eyes. She called his name again.

“I know!” Reluctantly, Telemachus pushed himself to his feet, dusting himself of sand. “Is it necessary for me to kiss her hand, though? They’re always so clammy.”

“It’s proper, my son. Besides, it’s a kind thing to do. I’m sure Peisistratus will have no problem kissing her hand as well.” Ithaca’s queen shot the visiting prince a smile, though there was something vaguely threatening in her gaze that made Peisistratus nod along.

“I’m sure she’s not terrible,” Peisistratus added, a weak attempt at soothing Telemachus. His friend glared, blue eyes turning icy.

“Traitor,” he mumbled, shoving Peisistratus as soon as his mother turned. Peisistratus laughed, balancing himself before going to tackle Telemachus.

“Boys.” Penelope’s stern tone snapped them back, reminding them both of the princely image they had to maintain. More now that they were in a public area. They both stood straighter, following the queen back to the chariot.

It was nearly an hour long wait until the familiar Lempyran ship finally docked. It was a good thing, too—Telemachus had been growing restless. If he had waited any longer, he might have jumped into the ocean just to do something.

The possibility of being swept away by the harsh waves might have been a bonus, but really, he hadn’t even thought of that with how bored he was.

When you followed behind your mother to where he stood with his own, he was not shocked that you looked sick to your stomach. He knew you got seasick easily, but once you were back on land you always got over it quickly. No, what did surprise him was the ashy shade to your skin and the circles beneath your eyes.

Telemachus bowed by habit. “Thank you for coming, princess,” he says. Peisistratus followed suit. When Telemachus reached for your hand, you were quick to pull it away.

You didn’t smile at either prince when they straightened, only bent your knees in a curtsy and kept your hands stiffly by your side. Telemachus’ brows furrowed at your strange behavior.

Cleo seemed irritated. Even if Telemachus hadn’t noticed the displeased turn of her lip, her strained tone gave that away. “Forgive my daughter. She has not been feeling well.”

“Oh, is she alright?” Penelope cooed, stepping forward and feeling your forehead. She clicks her tongue at the heat radiating from your skin, kneeling so she was more level with your face.

“Yes, she is fine. I’m afraid she tried making herself sick in hopes of postponing the trip.” Cleo rolled her eyes, but Telemachus could see the heaviness of your gaze. No doubt you really were sick, but you’d never say a word against your mother. At least, not in front of him you wouldn’t.

“Girls at this age are quite dramatic,” a deeper voice chimed in. Telemachus craned his neck, focusing on the man that sidled beside Cleo. The man placed a hand on the Lemyran queen’s shoulder, and Telemachus saw her lips curl up at the touch. “Don’t you remember your cousin, Cleo?”

“Oh, yes. Always feigning illness just so someone would fawn over her.” Cleo chuckled, patting your hair down. “But you have not a thing to worry about, my dear. There are plenty of people here that will pay attention to you.”

“Maybe we’d better get her to the palace quickly,” Penelope suggested and stood back up. She kept a hand on your shoulder, a gesture she used to guide you along.

“Truly, Penelope, she’s faking it. There is no need to hurry.”

“Yes, but I’d love to show your the tapestry I’ve been working on.” Penelope smiled down at you, a clever glint in her eye that made your lips curl ever so slightly.

Cleo sighed. Beside her, the man chuckled. “You have always been sensitive, Penelope.”

“Better sensitive than apathetic, Silas.” Telemachus’ eyes widened. He should have pieced together that the man was Lempyra’s king based on the crown of laurel wrapped around his head, but Telemachus had never been so observant.

But this was your father, who had been fighting in Troy for the last ten years. If that was the case, then surely Odysseus would return soon.

“No matter,” Penelope continued, gently pushing you along to the chariot. “Let us all return. The cooks have already begun making dinner, and I’d hate to see their efforts wasted.”

While Cleo thanked Penelope, Silas let out a boisterous laugh. “What a shame it would be! If that’s the case, come, my wife and daughter. Let us follow Penelope to the palace.” He turned to where Telemachus and Peisistratus stood, shining a dazzling smile. “You two, as well. I should like to know the man that will marry my daughter and become my son.”

Peisistratus returned the king’s large grin with a loud one of his own, mouthing some joke or another that made King Silas chuckle. Telemachus let a tense, forced smile cross his lips, just so your father didn’t think he was an uptight prick. When he walked away, Peisistratus nudged Telemachus.

“She does not seem so terrible,” he whispered to Telemachus. The two began to take lazy steps—fast enough to keep up with everyone else, but slow enough that they could stay behind and whisper without worry that anyone would overhear.

“That is what I thought when we first met.” Telemachus pursed his lips, eyeing the way you walked with his mother. You seemed more willing to talk, more animated than you had been. Maybe you truly were faking sickness. “As time passes, she will get worse.”

“She may just be upset at other things,” Peisistratus suggested. “Her mother seems very . . .”

“I’m not fond of her mother either,” Telemachus commented. “She’s pretentious and doesn’t have much care for others. I don’t know why my mother is friends with her.”

Peisistratus shrugged, lifting his arm to hit Telemachus’ shoulder and urge him forward. “Only time will tell. Maybe with age they will both mellow out. Besides, her father seems nice. I’m sure it would be an honor to be King Silas’ son.”

Peisistratus smiled at Telemachus, a suggestive undertone to it that made the Ithacan prince roll his eyes. He didn’t say anything in return, and it wasn’t long until Peisistratus was spurring him to move faster so they didn’t fall too far behind.

—

After dinner—a fine meal of smoked lamb and rich cheese and herbs, something cooked every year on the day of your arrival—Telemachus found himself wandering the halls. He had no particular destination in mind, since Peisistratus had already retreated to his room. He had given Telemachus a flimsy excuse, but he was sure that the true reason had to do with the pretty maid Peisistratus had taken to.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t any of Telemachus’ business what his friend did in his free time. If Peisistratus wanted to dally around with girls, then who was Telemachus to judge?

He walked without a plan, figuring that he’d either find a place to entertain himself or grow tired and return to his own room. Whichever came first.

He passed one of the many studies, nearly positive that he had accidentally circled back. He was sure he had done that, only now there was a light shimmering in the room. Telemachus tuned into the voices, recognizing one as his mother’s.

“Silas, where is my husband?” she asked with a hushed tone. Telemachus’ brow furrowed, and he pressed himself against the doorframe to listen properly. Telemachus could almost see her, probably lounging on a chaise in a way designed to seem casual.

“I do not know,” Silas replied. Telemachus was not yet familiar with the Lempyran king’s mannerisms, so he found it difficult to envision what he was doing. “Your ships left the day before ours. You’re sure he has not returned?”

“I would know if Odysseus was back.” Penelope had never spat words or reacted to anything so strongly. Any time she spoke to others, she kept her tone even and her expressions poised, but Telemachus could hear the venom slowly seeping into her voice. “None of our ships have returned, so where is he?”

“There is no way for me to know. Perhaps if you pray and leave an offering to–”

“He’s not still fighting, is he? He’s always had a rather stubborn head on his shoulders.”

“But you know he wouldn’t engage unless he can’t find another solution,” Silas countered. “Penelope, you have my word that Odysseus was in no danger when he left Troy.”

Silence enveloped the room, so thick that it seemed to be seeping out the door. Telemachus could feel it wrapping around his own being, almost suffocating.

“How long, do you think, until I see him again?”

“I am unsure. If he has not returned by now, then . . .” Silas trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish for Telemachus to read the implication.

If he has not returned by now, then Odysseus was likely dead. Telemachus didn’t know what to do with that.

Penelope refused. “He is more clever than that.”

Silas sighed. “Believe what you would like, but it is only a six day trip to Troy from here.”

Telemachus started walking away before the king of Lempyra could finish his thought. If that assumption was true, then Telemachus didn’t want to spend too long dwelling on it. He had never known his father, yet knowing that he might be dead left a gap in his chest. A void that he didn’t even know had been filled.

He wanted to fill it somehow. A talk, perhaps? But who could he talk to? His mother likely wouldn’t tell him about the conversation, or anything at all that related to it. Peisistratus was busy. He was not particularly close to any of the servants but Eurycleia, but she had already turned in for the night. He still did not know King Silas. Queen Cleo was cold, and likely wouldn’t sympathize with Telemachus if she couldn’t do that with her own daughter.

Wait. Maybe her daughter would have more empathy . . .

—

The last person you expected—wanted—to open your bedroom door to was Telemachus. You didn’t hide that fact either, scrunching your face when you finally registered it was him.

“What do you want?” you spat, possibly more harshly than you intended. If you hadn’t known better, you would have said the prince flinched at your tone.

You were in your nightclothes, clearly about to turn in for the day despite the still early hour. Telemachus gave you a once over before meeting your gaze again.

“I . . . wanted to talk.”

Telemachus’ timidity had always irritated you. There was no reason in particular, save for the fact that he was a prince. He was supposed to be brave with his speech. If he couldn’t even do that then how was he to rule a kingdom? Or a simpler task like keeping you happy as his wife?

Still, something about this timid tone was different. Still soft, yes, but in a different way. Almost like he was talking to a doe he didn’t want to scare off. It made your shoulders lose their stiffness and the crease between your brows smooth.

“About what?” Your tone didn’t quite match his, but there’s no bite to it. You opened the door slightly wider, a subtle invitation for him to come in.

Telemachus shifted, but made no move to step forward. “Troy.” He paused. A long one where he twisted his fingers against each other and gathered his thoughts. “When . . . When did your father return?”

You bit your cheek in thought. Your father had been home for months, comfortably seated back on his throne like he had been born there. “Before winter,” you replied. Something in the prince’s eyes dimmed, and you softly sighed. You stepped to the side, letting the door fall wider. “Come in.”

He stepped in, but it was after a long moment of deliberation. He was stiff in your room, taking in the way your things were already half-unpacked and strewn across the room. He’d never been in this room while you were here, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like when you actually set it up.

“He came back in the winter?” Telemachus asked, looking back at you in an attempt to lighten the tension.

There was no doubt in your mind that he was asking because of Odysseus. You hadn’t seen him so far, so you just assumed he hadn’t come back. You nodded. “It was long after the war had finished, though. Maybe yours is still in Troy taking care of business.”

Telemachus hummed, gaze shifting to a far off place behind you. “Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything else. The silence enveloped the two of you, curling around the room like a snake wove around a body.

You cleared your throat. It pulled Telemachus out of whatever far off place he’d been at, and he met your stare again.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just . . . I think my mom misses him.”

That was definitely true. Penelope was always talking to you about Odysseus and the man he was. She was enamoured with her husband, and you couldn’t imagine the deep pit of grief she was in after not seeing him for a decade.

She had finished the tapestry of their first meeting long ago. Since she had tied the final threads together, it had been rolled up beside her loom. When she took you to her bedroom earlier, you had seen her stare at it longingly.

“She does,” you replied absentmindedly. “She’s making another tapestry for him. A portrait.”

Telemachus nodded. “I know.”

Once again, the silence curled into the corners of your room. It grew into a large, immovable mass so suffocating you genuinely felt the need to claw at your throat.

This was weird. You’d decided that the second you saw Telemachus’ face at your door. It had only been made weirder because you didn’t think he liked you enough to trust you with a vulnerable moment like this. Not to mention you were still feeling sick. You wanted to cozy yourself under the soft blankets of the bed.

You didn’t mean to sound dismissive when you asked Telemachus to leave so you could, truly. But that’s how the words left your mouth. You watched his shoulders drop just a centimeter and knew in that second that there would never be a moment like this between the two of you again.

—

“This isn’t fair!” you shouted, pounding your fist against the closed door. The young princes laughed behind it, making you huff. “Telemachus, if you don’t let me in I’m telling Penelope!”

Normally, that would have worked. It it were any other summer, then Telemachus would have been frightened to bend himself out of the expectations his mother held him to. With Peisistratus, though, he was growing more confident in himself. You were watching in real time as Telemachus conformed more and more to what he wanted for himself than what Penelope wanted.

“We’ll let you in when you know how to pick armour,” Peisistratus responded, his tone condescending.

“Come on! Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean–”

“Cleo won’t let you come with us anyway,” Telemachus added. His voice was muffled through the door, but the cadence of it still managed to aggravate you to no end.

“Yeah. Telemachus and I are going out to spar. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt, princess.”

You hated the way he he said your title. Like it was something you used to your advantage. You had been raised to be proud of it, and you refused to let someone like Peisistratus to mock you for it. In frustration, you kicked the door. “Ugh, you two are—”

“Y/n.” You were quick to snap your limbs back to your side. Your mother’s scolding tone sent a shiver up your spine. If Telemachus was afraid of his mother, then you were terrified of yours. “What in the world are you doing?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but somehow Peisistratus’ muffled voice overpowered yours. “She’s being annoying and keeps pestering us!” he shouted. The back of your neck heated, and you suddenly wished you were an unimportant ant so you didn’t have to be on the receiving end of your mother’s glare.

“What have I told you about leaving men alone when they are dealing with their own things?” You would hardly call Telemachus and Peisistratus men, but you weren’t going to say that. No, that would only make your mother more upset with you. “What are you trying to do?”

“You and Penelope told me to spend time with them,” you defended yourself. Which was true. Earlier that morning, at the breakfast table, the Ithacan queen had voiced her wish for the three children to spend a day together. Your mother was quick to agree, and even your father commented on how it would only improve foreign relations. “I’m trying but they aren’t—”

“If they have more important matters to attend, then you must leave them, Y/n.” You couldn’t be sure, but you thought you heard one of the boys giggling behind the door. “What are they wanting to do that interests you so much anyway?”

You pursed your lips. It wasn’t that you wanted to spar with them, but it would be nice if they didn’t treat you so delicately. You could spar just as good as either of them—maybe even better. But the automatic disapproval you knew your mother would present made you reluctant to say anything.

“We’re trying to spar,” Peisistratus said, cracking the door open. His copper hair gleamed through the sliver. “Telemachus and I need to train. We’ve skipped the last few sessions.”

You could almost see the quick thoughts running through your mother’s head. Why would I expect anything different? Any time my daughter gets in trouble it’s because she’s trying to be a boy. Gods, why couldn’t I have been blessed with a dainty, obedient little—

“Come with me,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder much like Penelope often did. The way she led you away was less gentle than her friend. “Boys, I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Peisistratus thanked Cleo. You couldn’t help but notice that Telemachus had gone quiet when your mother was outside the door, but now that the two of you were walking away you could hear him mumbling with the Prince of Pylos.

You walked beside your mother without complaint, waiting for the chastising talk she was no doubt preparing in her head. The anticipation wrapped around you like a noose, and you lied in wait for the executioner to drop the stable platform beneath your feet.

Cleo pulled you into the room she now shared with her husband. Who knew where your father was, but maybe it was better that he wasn’t around now.

“My darling, I have told you over and over.” That’s how she always started her speech. She guilted you for how many times she had to give it, first. And then she’d go on about what was expected of a young lady like you (which changed nearly every time to better suit what she was getting onto you for). You tended to tune her out after that. She started to get repetitive and it never failed to bore you.

This time, she was only able to get to the Telemachus won’t like a boyish girl part of her speech before she was interrupted. Your father stepped into the room, his footsteps heavier than you were used to. He was removing his chlamys, furrowing his brows and setting it at the foot of the bed when he saw you and your mother. “Wife. Daughter. Is something the matter?”

“This girl refuses to listen,” your mother said instantly. Exasperated, she sat beside you on the bed and began stroking your hair like she hadn’t been yelling at you just moments before. “I’ve told her time and time again that there are just some activities she shouldn’t want to participate in—”

“And what are those?” your father asked, sitting in one of the chairs positioned to the side of the room. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“Anything that’s unladylike. Sparring, archery, petteia—“

“What is wrong with her learning to play petteia? The game will sharpen her wit.”

Your mother sharply inhaled, closing her eyes for a moment before responding. “Silas, I am trying to get our daughter a husband. Preferably Telemachus, but if not him then another charming prince. They do not like—“

“Ah, but Telemachus is the goal, is he not?” Your father smiled cheekily. “I’m sure a prince of Ithaca would enjoy wit and cleverness in a wife. Just look at Odysseus and Penelope.”

Cleo pursed her lips. “The children have made it quite clear that they are not like them,” she mumbled through gritted teeth.

Silas shrugged, standing from his chair and stepping closer to your mother. “Of course not, but Athena is still Telemachus’ patron.”

Your father let the statement linger in the air, flowing like a string through your mother’s head. After a long moment, she sighed. “Fine. I, however, will not be the one to teach her how to play petteia.”

“Perfectly fine. She can learn from the best player there is.” He flashed you a smile, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “And while we’re at it, we should let her try her hand at archery and sparring, as well. Who knows, perhaps there’s a perfect marksman hiding beneath that prissy exterior.”

Your mother had been very reluctant to agree, but your father’s smooth words convinced her. Cleo left you and Silas to your own devices, and it wasn’t long until you were seated across your father in front of a checkered board.

He taught you to play petteia. He showed you how to recognize the moves of other players and how to get yourself out of any bad play. You got the hang of it rather quickly, being able to capture three of his pieces at once by the end of the day.

From then on, he entertained nearly every single one of your whims. You were taught how to ride a horse—none of that proper tossing your legs to the side and trotting along, no, it was actual horse riding. He put a spear in your hands and showed you how to throw quick and powerful jabs, and with a sword he taught you how to wield your strength, even without muscle. You couldn’t quite get the hang of that.

When he placed a bow in the palm of your hands, though, it was like the wood conformed to the shape of your hands. You found it easy to notch an arrow and pull the string back and strike your target, hitting a bullseye all except the first time you tried.

Even back in Lempyra, your father continued to carefully hone your skills. “One day,” he told you, “you will be queen. Although Telemachus will be by your side, you may very well find yourself in a similar situation as Penelope. It is important that you know how to protect your people.”

You didn't wish to marry Telemachus still, but your father’s words made it easier to stomach. If you were to marry the Prince of Ithaca, there was always a chance that he might disappear. Your marriage to the prince was inevitable, but the thought that he could one day vanish made it bearable.

You did not flaunt your skills. For the first time in your life, you had something that felt like your own. You refused to be ridiculed by Peisistratus and Telemachus just because you weren’t afraid of a bow or blade. That, and your mother wasn’t fond of your newfound skills. She was happier when you kept it hidden, not a word of it passing from your lips.You were fine with that. As long as you could continue doing those things, then you would accept any smothering words that came your way.

hope you guys enjoyed! this is an idea that's been brewing and tumbling around in my brain forever because I recently rediscovered the movie so I just wrote it. fair warning I don't know that there's a single thing accurate to Greek mythology, uhm....

have a good day!! and happy holidays everyone!!

next part>>

divider/reblog credit: @uzmacchiato, @cafekitsune

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#epic the musical #telemachus x reader

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