The name's Xani, and welcome to my blog where i push out all the delusional scenarios/stories—both sfw and nsfw—my maladaptive daydreams like to stir up...
i'm not really sure how this goes, but if you guys have an idea you'd like to see written, send it, and hopefully my delusions will work in overdrive to complete them...
um, what else? i guess all i can say is hold on because i tend to bounce from fandom to fandom due to my attention/dopamine span-some range from a few days-weeks, others months, but right now i'm hooked on epic the musical ❤️.
also, don't hold back! though i may be new to this posting stuff, but i'm a nerd who loves a challenge, so gimmie your worst 🫡
and if i do a good enough job on something and have more spunk in the gunk, i'll do my best to do a continuation on whatever...
also, don't be afraid to reblog/like either! it let's me know i'm doing a good job (not that i like being praised or anything hahahah, unless 👀)
i guess that's all. bye!
other useless info:
╰┈➤ ✨ 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 ✨
𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞/𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 | 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐩-𝐭 | AuDHD / neurodivergent | pan demi-heteroromantic | 04 / 18+ | 𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼g𝗶𝘀𝘁 | support me on ko-fi (i accept commissions/requests)
other accounts: archive of our own / wattpad / quotev
check out my sister's page for more writing's like this; she does a multitude of fandoms just like I do, so it you like my writing style/fics, you'll adore her's ❤️😩: 🇰-🇳🇦🇾🇪🇪
FANDOMS I WRITE FOR **
[Updated: October 28, 2025]╮sorry, i try to keep it up to always date but ya know, things kinda slip; will most likely fix when i have free time
Recent Fic:
𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ~ Install 72 | 🇨🇭🇦🇵🇹🇪🇷 🇮🇳🇩🇪🇽 | Fem!Reader x Various / Post-Epic!AU
Top 6 Recent One-shots:
Father, Forgive Me 🔞 | father charlie / grotesquerie!au
Divine Corruption 🔞 | father charlie / non-grotesquerie!au
Scarlet Chains, Golden Riddles | kurapika / hunterxhunter!au
First 🔞 | telemachus / brothel!au
Second 🔞 | telemachus / brothel!au
**Please note that this blog is intended for audiences aged 18 years and above, minors DNI. Here, you'll find a mix of both safe-for-work (SFW), not safe-for-work (NSFW), and dark content.
And just a friendly reminder, if you prefer not to see certain types of content or are under 18, it's best not to proceed further. While I cannot fully control who accesses my work, if you so happen to be a minor who ignores this warning, and honestly, can't shame 'cuz I did the same when I was younger💀 I encourage you to read at your own discretion.
PLEASE READ BELOW BEFORE REQUESTING:
NOTE: I do NOT have a set writing-schedule! This is just a space for me to dump my self-insert writings, but feel free to ask questions/leave comments, they make my day 😊❤️❤️.... (though if you want something specifically done/requested faster, you can support me on my ko-fi.)
Also, I will NOT be responding to malicious Anonymous/Anon asks or posts; if you do, you will receive 1 reminder of this before getting ignored. It's nothing personal—I just prefer to respond to someone whose intentions are to criticism/expect me to change to their desires. If you have genuine questions, thoughts, or feedback, please reach out so we can have a real conversation, as well as get your questions fully answered and see more about what my mind is coming up with!
Hey, just wanted to put it out there, I’m poc—specifically black American—so a few times my lingo/way I see the world I live will be portrayed in a few works. Everything won’t be sexy time or just dreamless chaos, I like to worldbuild and get into the uncomfortable situations/topics, so if that’s not for you, or you can’t handle me sometimes creating male-inserts/non-binary or an array of characters with unique personalities/sexual orientations, then my works are DEFINITELY not for you. Also, please understand that anything I write is solely for my enjoyment—if anything, you guys are just tagging along witnessing my delusions come to life in real-time; if you don’t like what I create, scram and make your own…like I did 😁
P.S. The quickest and swiftest way to get blocked is by telling me what I need to do in my writing(s)... like, be for real 😐
Also, and I can't possibly stress this enough, please refrain from stealing/plagiarizing ANY of my works! I am passionate about sharing my creations on this platform, but I must emphasize that I am the sole legal owner and author of any of my works posted. Any unauthorized use or plagiarism of my work will result in immediate takedown and legal action taken. Respect for copyright is essential to maintain the integrity of my original storyline and the characters within, and if not, I have zero-problems with taking them down indefinitely! Enjoy~😊
A/N: soooooo before y'all start just wanted to let y'all know this is like 12k words lolololo forgive me y'all i gota bit carried away! enjoy ❤️
Weeks slipped by, maybe more. The island didn't keep count, and after a while, neither did you.
Mornings started to blur together in a soft, strange way. You woke to birds yelling from the canopy and the smell of smoke from the firepit, to Peisistratus complaining dramatically about his back or his empty stomach, to Callias groaning like every sunrise was a personal insult.
Sometimes you woke to the sound of Telemachus' low voice outside the hut, talking quietly with Calypso, or just humming to himself as he checked the nets.
Callias' fever finally broke one damp, gray morning. Sweat stopped shining on his brow and settled instead into a faint sheen. The sharp edge in his breathing eased, and in its place came his favorite weapon—sarcasm. He went from barely lifting his head to rolling his eyes at you whenever you fussed, swatting your hand away when you tried to check his temperature, complaining that the salve smelled like "a forest got angry on my face."
"Look at you," you told him once, smearing the last of the minty paste along his jaw. "Back to scolding the world. You must be feeling better."
"I'll feel truly healed," he rasped, "when I'm not eating seaweed five times a week."
Peisistratus built himself a life here the way he built everything—out of jokes. He stacked driftwood into proper seats, claimed one log as "his throne," and dragged it around the clearing whenever the sun shifted. He turned chores into games: who could carry the most wood, who could climb the rocks fastest, who could make Telemachus crack a smile when the prince was trying very hard not to.
He also made himself a shield without saying that's what he was doing. When you got too lost in your head, he bumped your shoulder, tossed you a fruit, or challenged you to a race down to the waterline. When the island felt too quiet, he was loud on purpose.
Telemachus also found rhythm in the cove.
He started mapping the currents with the same focus he'd once used memorizing Ithaca's coastline. With Calypso's help, he learned where the water pulled hardest, where the waves curled back on themselves, where bits of ship and rope liked to wash in. He scratched little notes into smoothed bits of driftwood with a burnt stick, hauling them back to the hut to line up on the floor.
"See?" he said one afternoon, crouched beside you, fingertip tracing lines he'd carved. "Here, the current pushes anything that breaks off the reef straight into the cove. If we anchor there—" he tapped one edge, "—we might catch more than just scraps."
You watched his hand move, the slow patience in him. The way he treated the sea like a puzzle he could solve if he just looked at it long enough. And later, when his fingers wrapped around your wrist or brushed your cheek, it hit you that he studied you the same way—always careful, always trying to understand where you were drifting so he didn't lose you.
Nights were the closest thing to peace.
You sat around the fire with a bowl in your hands—fish again, or stew if Calypso's traps had been kind that day—while Callias spun exaggerated stories about his time in Bronte's court, or Peisistratus tried to teach you some noisy Pylian song that never seemed to end. Telemachus laughed more now. Not often, not loudly, but enough that when it happened you felt it like a little victory in your ribs.
Sometimes, when everyone else had dozed off or wandered toward their bedding, you stayed behind on the damp sand at the edge of the cove. You let the waves lap at your ankles and tilted your face up to the stars.
"I'm fine," you told the sea. "I'm safe. I'm happy. I promise."
You said it enough times that the words almost sounded true.
Almost.
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
The day it all pressed in again, the sky was already bleeding into evening.
You and Calypso walked side by side along the rocky curve where the jungle met the shore, your feet slipping a little on the wet stones. The tide was low, leaving dark patches of seaweed clinging to the rocks like long, slick hair. The wind smelled like salt and something green.
Calypso hummed as she moved, no words, just notes that rose and fell like the tide. Every so often she bent at the waist, her locs spilling forward as she reached down to tear a strip of seaweed free, shaking it once before dropping it into the woven basket hooked over her elbow.
You did the same, fingers numbing a little from the cold water that splashed up when you pried the weed loose. The sky over the water was turning gold at the edges, streaked with pink and soft purple as the sun leaned toward the line of the sea.
You'd been quiet, you knew it. You heard the silence piling up between her humming and your own thoughts.
It wasn't the same kind of quiet as before, when grief and fear wrapped around your lungs. This was different. Heavier in a new way. Because now, when you looked at Calypso, you saw her a little differently.
Not just as the lonely girl of a cursed island, not just a nymph who smiled and served food and tucked blankets around Callias when he shivered.
A goddess.
Atlas' blood.
Power woven into her in ways you were only just starting to notice if you looked closely enough—the way the vines listened when they touched her arms, the way the tide sometimes shifted as soon as her bare feet hit the sand.
You'd been turning it over all day, like a stone in your palm you couldn't put down.
Calypso's song trailed off mid-note.
"You're quiet today," she said, voice cutting through the hush of the waves. "Quieter than usual, I mean."
You glanced up. Her head was tilted toward you, eyes dark and soft in the fading light. The last of the sun painted her skin warm and gold at the edges.
"Have you been alright?" she asked. "You've barely said a word since morning."
You felt the question land right where you'd been pretending nothing sat.
The truth bubbled up first: I'm seeing you differently. You're not just trapped here like us. You're a goddess, and I don't know what that means for any of us. For me.
But the words stuck behind your teeth.
You bit down on the inside of your cheek instead, turning back toward the rock in front of you. "Nothing's wrong," you said, forcing your mouth into something that felt like a smile. "Just thinking."
Calypso's brows knitted a little. "Thinking about what?"
You huffed a small laugh. "About how Callias is gonna complain about seaweed again tonight," you lied. "He'll act like we're feeding him rope."
The joke came out lighter than you felt, but you made yourself roll your eyes for effect.
Calypso blinked—then giggled, the sound like shells clinking together. "He always complains," she said, amusement curling her lips. "But he eats every bite."
"Exactly," you said, smiling a little more real this time. "He lives to suffer."
She laughed again as she stepped over a tide pool, skirts hitched up so they didn't get soaked. The two of you kept moving along the rocks as the sun sank lower, the sky darkening at the edges.
You told yourself she believed you. You told yourself you believed you, too, but the lie barely settled before Calypso straightened.
"I think we've gathered enough," she said, lifting her basket with both hands and shifting it comfortably against her hip.
You blinked down at your own basket—full, heavy with the seaweed you'd scraped from the rocks—and nodded. "Yeah. Looks like it."
You hoisted it up as you followed her along the narrow stretch of shore. You expected her to angle left—toward the freshwater creek where she always rinsed the day's haul—but instead, she kept walking straight, deeper toward the path that led home.
"We're not washing these tonight?"
Calypso shook her head. "We'll do it in the morning," she said. "With the boys. It will give them something useful to do."
You snorted softly under your breath. "Callias is gonna complain."
"And Peisistratus will laugh at him," she added with a grin. "And Telemachus will pretend he's above all of it."
You hummed, pushing aside a low branch. "That actually sounds about right."
The two of you walked a little longer, the light dimming fast as the sun dropped behind the far cliffs. Shadows stretched long across the sand, the tide creeping in with soft, foamy sighs. Fireflies blinked in and out between the trees, their faint yellow glow catching in Calypso's hair whenever she passed too close.
Her humming started again, and for a moment the only sounds were her voice and the steady thrum of waves eating at the shore.
But then—another sound drifted toward you.
Laughter.
Calypso paused mid-step. Her head tilted. You slowed too, your basket dipping slightly as your attention snapped forward.
There—voices. Multiple. Familiar. Loud enough that whoever it was clearly wasn't worried about being heard.
You and Calypso shared a look, a silent question in your eyes.
You pushed forward first, your free hand brushing aside the thick curtain of ivy hanging around the entrance to the clearing. And as you stepped through them, you froze.
Because sitting near the firepit, legs stretched out like he owned the place, hands carving wide gestures in the air as he spoke—
Was Hermes.
Hermes.
In the camp like he had simply flown down for tea.
Peisistratus sat beside him, laughing while he slapped his knee every few seconds like he'd heard the funniest thing ever. Callias, still pale but clearly improving, leaned forward on his elbows, wide-eyed and grin bright.
Hermes flicked his wrist dramatically mid-sentence. "—and then I told him, 'If you didn't want to become my little bartender, perhaps don't make a deal with the god of thieves,' and oh, you should've seen his face—"
Peisistratus wheezed while Callias slapped the ground, and Hermes grinned like the sun itself had given him permission to misbehave.
But your gaze snapped to the one person who wasn't laughing.
Telemachus.
He sat a little apart from the group, near the shadows by the tree line. Not quite turned away, but absolutely not joining in. His jaw worked tight, clenching and unclenching. His foot tapped once—sharp, irritated—against the dirt.
His eyes kept drifting toward Hermes, quick and wary, like he was watching a storm cloud forming right beside him.
Then, whenever Hermes looked his way, Telemachus snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost comical—shoulders stiff, a soft huff puffing out of him like he was trying very, very hard not to show how on edge he felt.
And you stood there at the edge of the clearing, basket still hooked against your hip, staring at the scene in front of you.
No fucking way.
Your stomach flipped.
Of course Hermes showed up. Of course he was telling stories. Of course Telemachus looked like he might either bolt or start pacing like a guard dog.
Because why wouldn't the god of thieves just drop into your campsite at dusk?
You barely finished the thought when Telemachus' head snapped up—like he felt you before he saw you.
His whole face changed.
The tight jaw eased first. Then the tension in his shoulders sank. Then—slowly, like he couldn't stop it—his mouth softened into a small, relieved smile. He pushed up to his feet, brushing his hands on his tunic as if he wanted to look composed, but the way his ears pinked gave him away.
"____," he said, your name leaving his mouth like an exhale he'd been holding onto all day.
You opened your mouth to answer—
—but you didn't get the chance.
Because Hermes suddenly appeared at your side. Close enough that the air stirred against your cheek as he popped into existence, sandals hovering an inch off the ground. His nose nearly grazed your temple, his grin bright and wicked as ever.
"Well, well, well," he purred, voice warm and smug. "Look who washed up pretty."
You flinched, and the basket slipped right out of your hands, seaweed slapping the dirt with a wet splat as you stumbled back a step.
"ZEUS' BLAZING BALLS!"
Hermes blinked, then laughed like he wanted to hear the echo of your shock again.
Peisistratus immediately fell backward off his log, wheezing; Callias coughed before outright dying laughing, curling into himself as his shoulders shook.
Telemachus ran a hand over his face—but he was smiling. That small, quiet, helpless smile he got when you surprised him.
"That's Callias' fault," he said, shaking his head as he walked toward you. "He's been around her too long."
Callias lifted a hand like he was accepting an award. "Proud of you, love!" he rasped hoarsely.
You covered your heating face with both hands. "I didn't—he just—he was right there—"
Hermes only grinned wider, leaning in with a conspiratorial sparkle in his eyes. "I'll appear wherever you need me, little musician."
"Please don't do that."
But Hermes just wiggled his brows like he absolutely planned to do it again.
Behind you, the ivy rustled—and you felt the shift before you turned.
Calypso stepped into the clearing.
But not the soft, dreamy Calypso who hummed lullabies while crushing herbs. This Calypso's entire posture changed in a heartbeat.
Her smile died instantly. Her eyes narrowed like something sharp lived behind them. Her jaw tightened as the grip on her basket whitened her knuckles.
And then, in a voice sweet enough to cut glass, she hissed, "What are you doing here?"
The air tightened around the words.
Even Hermes straightened.
Peisistratus stopped laughing, Callias froze mid-grin, and Telemachus took a small, instinctive step closer to you.
And Calypso—bare feet silent, posture drawn tall—stared at Hermes like the ocean itself had crawled up her spine and whispered fury into her bones. And for the first time since stepping onto the island, you felt something cold and ancient coil under your ribs.
Hermes clicked his tongue, casual as ever. "Tsk, tsk. You really can't help yourself, can you, Calypso? Always one to repeat fate." He said, tilting his head at her like she was a scolded child.
Calypso's eyes darkened, the vines near her ankles coiling tighter, as if reacting to her pulse.
She didn't answer.
Hermes shrugged carelessly—like her fury was just a breeze ruffling his curls.
"Relax, island queen," he said, waving one hand lazily. "I'm not here for that." He gestured vaguely to her—her past, her curse, her isolation. "I don't care about your unresolved issues with Olympus."
Hermes dug into the satchel at his hip.
"I'm here on official business." His tone shifted—still playful, but beneath it something sharp, something that said listen.
Calypso's jaw clenched. "Official," she repeated quietly. "From who?"
Hermes flashed a dazzling smile as he pulled out a rolled parchment bound in dark ribbon. "You know the drill."
Before she could take it, he flicked his wrist, and the parchment spun upward into the air, unraveling mid-flight.
Gold sparks burst from the curling edges, swirling through the clearing like fireflies. Smoke rolled off the glowing letters as they burned themselves into existence, lining the air with thin, bright strokes.
Every strand of your hair lifted at once. The boys tensed.
Hermes nodded upward. "Straight from the big man upstairs."
The messenger god crossed his arms as he looked at Calypso, grin still warm, but eyes flickering with something older. "By order of Zeus," he announced, "you are to release the mortals currently residing on your island. All four."
A rumble rolled faintly overhead. Thunder—quiet but unmistakable—echoed across the island.
Your breath hitched.
All four.
Relief slammed into you so sharply your knees nearly wobbled. Callias let out a low, exhausted mutter. "Finally," he breathed, flopping backward onto the grass. Peisistratus grinned so hard it nearly tore his face in half. "We're leaving! Woo-hoo!" he shouted, punching the air.
But Telemachus—Telemachus turned to you.
Not the parchment.
Not Hermes.
Not Calypso.
You.
His eyes warmed instantly, a smile tugging at his lips, the kind that meant more than words.
He stepped closer, just enough that your shoulders brushed."We're going home," he whispered like he hardly believed it. "We're really going home."
His fingers brushed yours—hesitant, hopeful—and your heart answered without asking permission.
But the warmth barely had time to settle before Calypso's voice cut through the clearing.
"No."
It was soft at first, barely a breath, but then—
"No." Her voice cracked sharper, louder. "NO—no, no, no—not again."
Everyone froze.
Calypso stepped forward, the vines around her ankles tightening like they were bracing her to the earth. The sea breeze caught her hair, but her eyes—
Her eyes were wild.
"You can't just—" she breathed, chest rising too fast. "You can't take him away. Not so soon. Not again."
Hermes exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, already massaging his temple. "Calypso—"
But she wasn't listening. Her voice jumped—tumbling, cracking between a sob and a laugh that didn't sound like it belonged in a human throat.
"I finally—finally—had something that wasn't loneliness," she said. "Something that didn't hate me for my father. Something that didn't make me feel like I was rotting in this place."
Her hands shook as she pressed a palm to her chest.
"And now they're taking it away. Of course they are. Of course they are."
Telemachus shifted instinctively closer to you, the side of his arm brushing yours—protective even when he didn't speak.
Calypso's smile snapped wide, broken and bitter.
"I haven't suffered enough, right?" she laughed, almost wheezing. "Hundreds of years on this cursed rock—just waiting. Counting the days by storms and gull cries. Watching ships come, watching them leave—never allowed, never chosen."
Her gaze tore upward, straight into the sky.
"Haven't I paid enough for Atlas' sins? Or will they drag me through another century, another millennium, until my bones turn to coral?"
Hermes floated a little higher, uneasy now. "Calypso—pull back—"
But she was unraveling too fast.
"I am never allowed to touch happiness. Every time it brushes my fingers—every time someone looks at me like I'm more than a curse—Olympus rips it away."
She pressed her fists against her temples, shoulders trembling.
"I tried. I tried to be gentle. I tried to make this place a home. I tried not to hope."
Then her voice rose again, fractured.
"And now... now you want to take Odysseus from me again!"
The word whipped out of her like a dagger.
Odysseus.
She didn't say Telemachus' name like you thought she would. She said "Odysseus," and the moment it left her mouth, every sound in the clearing died.
The breeze stopped. The fire popped once, then dimmed. Even Hermes went still.
And you—
You felt the earth tilt because suddenly her heartbreak wasn't about you, or the boys, or even this island.
It was older. It was deeper. And it had nothing to do with the son of Odysseus standing behind you.
But Calypso kept staring at the sky as if she hadn't just torn open the past in front of everyone, breathing like the world was collapsing under her bare feet.
The silence stretched. Tight. Painful.
You were the one who broke it.
"...Calypso?"
Her head snapped toward you fast; her eyes—wide, wet, frantic—locked onto yours.
"You said Odysseus..." you whispered.
She blinked confused, not understanding—or refusing to.
"What?" she breathed. "No, I—no, I didn't—"
Her laugh cracked halfway through as she wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her skin.
"I must've—must've had a slip of the tongue," she said with a shaky smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I meant Telemachus."
You shook your head slowly. "No... you said Odysseus."
Her throat bobbed.
"As in King Odysseus of Ithaca..." You stepped forward a little. "...Prince Telemachus' father."
Calypso flinched, but she didn't look at you; her eyes drifted to Telemachus. Standing beside you like a frozen statue, brows drawn tight at the edges.
Her lips parted as sadness broke on her face.
A deep, terrible sadness.
You took another small breath.
"I know your story. Not the one the sailors whisper. Nor the one bards only half-believe. But what really happened here on this island between you and King Odysseus."
Her breath hitched—sharp, ragged.
"You loved him," you said quietly. "You healed him. Fed him. Kept him alive for seven years."
Calypso's chin trembled, wiping at her face again even though the tears kept slipping, but you just kept speaking.
"But even then... even after everything... he wanted to go home. Back to her."
A sound cracked out of Calypso, halfway between a sob and a gasp.
"He always did," she whispered, voice tiny.
You drew in a breath and stepped away from Telemachus. You felt him move behind you—instinctively reaching, almost grabbing your wrist—then stopping himself, letting you go.
Hermes shifted as he prepared to interfere if needed, watching with a tight, unreadable expression.
You approached slowly until you stood right in front of her.
"Calypso," you said softly, "I know what that feels like." You swallowed, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. "Loving someone who could never love you back... I know what that does to a person."
Images flickered up without permission.
Andreia's hand brushing Telemachus' arm, her laughing too sweetly, leaning too close.
You sitting on the edge of your bed back in Ithaca, stomach sinking, telling yourself she was better—prettier, softer, noble-born. How perfect they were together.
You forced those old thoughts down, burying them where they belonged.
"But... loving someone who doesn't love you back doesn't make you broken. It doesn't make you a curse. And it doesn't mean you're meant to be alone forever."
Calypso's jaw trembled, like the words hit somewhere she'd been trying very hard not to feel.
"You've been punished for something that wasn't yours," you went on, voice even softer now. "Atlas rebelled. Not you. But you paid the price. You loved Odysseus, and he still left you. He chose her—"
You stop. The words hang there, unfinished.
Penelope. You almost said her name. You almost held up Odysseus' wife like a mirror, like proof that Calypso wasn't enough.
Calypso's breath caught—because she heard it anyway. The ghost of that name sits between you now, ugly and unspoken.
You swallow. Reroute.
"—and now you think this—Telemachus—is just history repeating itself."
You took another step, close enough now that you could see the way her eyes glimmered—anger, grief, hope, fear, all tangled like seaweed in a storm tide.
"You're not a villain, Calypso... You're just a woman no one came back for."
Tears clung to the goddess' lashes before dropping into the dirt below. She stared at you like you'd walked right into the oldest room of her heart and lit a torch.
Like you'd peeled back every wall she'd spent centuries building.
And for a moment—one fragile, aching moment—the cursed daughter of Atlas looked so heartbreakingly human, as if the truth hurt more than the punishment ever did.
Calypso's breath shuddered in and out like she couldn't decide whether to collapse or bite.
For a second, the vines at her ankles loosened—just a fraction—like even the island held still to see what she would do.
Then her eyes slid past you to Telemachus.
And something in her face... settled.
Not calm. Not peace.
Decision.
"You speak like you understand," she said softly, voice raw at the edges. "Like you can name my grief and make it behave."
Your throat tightened. "I'm not trying to—"
"Yes, you are." Her smile trembled. "You're trying to fix it. Mortals always think pain is a thing you can mend if you say the right words."
Behind you, Telemachus shifted. You felt him close the distance without realizing he'd moved—felt the heat of him at your back like a shield.
Calypso noticed.
Her gaze dropped to where his hand hovered near your wrist—hovered, but didn't touch. Like he was trying to be good. Like he was trying not to claim you in front of a goddess who understood claiming too well.
Her lashes fluttered once.
"Look at you," she whispered, almost fond. "Always standing where you think you can hold everything together."
"Calypso," Hermes said, tone careful now. "Don't."
She didn't even look at him.
Instead, she stepped closer—slow, barefoot, silent. The firelight caught the wet tracks on her cheeks, and for a heartbeat she looked young. Just a woman. Just lonely.
Then she lifted her hand and reached—not for Telemachus.
For you.
You didn't move fast enough. Her fingers brushed your cheek, cool as river-stone, and the whole clearing shifted—like the island leaned in.
Your skin prickled. The hairs on your arms rose.
Telemachus' hand snapped around your wrist in the same instant, finally touching, finally holding.
"Calypso..." he said, voice low and dangerous in a way you'd only ever heard once or twice before. Not angry, but fear sharpened into steel.
Calypso stared at his hand on you like it was a language she hadn't heard in years.
Then she laughed once again—small, broken, almost amused.
"There it is," she murmured. "Same vow. Same grip. Same face."
Telemachus' jaw tightened. "I'm not him."
Calypso's eyes flicked up, bright and wet and cruel all at once. "No," she said softly. "You're worse."
The words hit the clearing like a slap.
Because Odysseus had begged to leave.
But Telemachus—
Telemachus would burn the world to stay.
Calypso's thumb slid along your cheek one last time before she pulled her hand back, tucking it to her chest like she was savoring the feeling.
"You want to go home," she said, voice gentler now, almost sweet again. "All of you."
Hermes lifted a brow. "That's generally how 'release them' works."
Calypso ignored him.
She looked at you, and her smile turned tender in a way that made your stomach drop.
Not sweet-tender. Not safe.
It was the kind of tenderness that came right before someone decided you were theirs to keep—like she could wrap the word care around your throat and call it mercy.
Your stomach tightened. Your hand hovered uselessly at your side, fingers flexing like they wanted to grab your own wrist and pull you back before you got too close to the edge of her.
Then her head turned—slow, deliberate—and her eyes landed on Hermes.
The tenderness vanished.
Calypso's jaw worked once. Twice. Like she was chewing down words that had been rotting in her for centuries.
Then she looked straight up toward the sky, toward Olympus, toward every invisible seat of judgment that had ever watched her life like entertainment.
And she spoke to Hermes like you weren't even there anymore.
"Tell them... Tell them I refuse."
Hermes sighed like he'd already heard the story a hundred times. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Calypso—"
"No." Her head snapped toward him, and the look in her eyes made your skin prickle. "No, don't Calypso me. You fly down here with your scrolls and your sparkles and your official business like this is a simple errand." Her laugh cut out rough. "As if I'm not the one who bleeds every time you deliver it."
Hermes' mouth twitched, the start of a grin that didn't really form. "It's not personal."
Calypso's eyes widened, offended like he'd spat in her face. "Not personal?" she repeated, louder. "My punishment is not personal?"
Thunder rumbled faintly overhead—not Zeus' full voice, just that quiet warning that reminded you who owned the sky.
Calypso didn't flinch and lifted her chin like she was daring it.
"How long?" she demanded, voice cracking at the edges. "Tell me that, messenger. How long am I meant to stay?" She swept her hand over the island like she was showing him a cage. "How many storms? How many ships? How many mortals do I have to watch leave before I've paid enough?"
Hermes' shoulders rose in a slow, tired breath. He looked at the decree still glowing above the fire like it gave him a headache.
"Calypso," he said again, and this time there was a warning under it. "Don't do this."
She stepped forward, bare feet silent, anger making her taller.
"Do what?" she snapped. "Ask for my happy ending?" Her voice shook on the word happy like it was something she barely remembered how to say. "Ask when I get to go?"
Your throat went tight because she wasn't begging the way mortals begged. She was demanding the way gods demanded—like the question itself should split the world open and give her an answer.
Hermes rubbed at his forehead like he was bored of her pain. Like he was trying not to look at it too closely.
"I don't decide that," he said, tone flat. "You know that."
Calypso's laugh came again—sharp and ugly. "Then who does?" she shot back. "Zeus?" She tipped her head, eyes bright with fury. "The council?" Her voice rose, echoing off the trees. "Which one of them is going to look me in the eye and tell me I've suffered enough?"
Her chest heaved. Her locs shifted with the movement, damp ends brushing her shoulders like seaweed.
"Or is it like you said," she went on, voice trembling, "that it 'balances itself'?" She spat the phrase back at him like poison. "Is that what you're going to tell me again? That time will fix it? That loneliness is just—just part of the deal?"
Hermes' expression tightened. The lazy look on his face slipped for half a second, irritation flashing through.
"You're spiraling," he said.
Calypso's eyes flashed. "And you're lying," she snapped right back. "Because you've done this before. You've stood on my shore before with your little scroll and your little sigh." Her voice cracked as she pushed the words out. "You freed Odysseus. You sent him home. And you left me here to rot."
The name hung in the clearing like smoke.
Telemachus went rigid beside you. You felt it in the way his fingers tightened around your wrist like he was fighting the urge to step forward and put himself between you and her, between his name and his father's shadow.
Hermes exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing just a bit. "Yes," he said, clipped. "And look—here I am again. Because the decision was made. Not by me."
Calypso's eyes glistened. She blinked hard like she hated that tears existed in her face at all.
"So that's it," she whispered. "You take. And take. And take."
Her voice rose again, louder, shaking the air. "When do I get chosen? When do I get to leave? When do I get to be more than a punishment?" She flung one hand toward the sky like she could grab Olympus by the throat. "I have done my time!"
The vines at her feet jerked, tightening, crawling up the rocks like the island itself was reacting to her anger. The fire flickered, the flames stretching and shrinking like they couldn't decide whether to fight or hide.
Peisistratus shifted on his log.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye—him sitting up straighter, laughter gone, face suddenly strange. Like something in Calypso's words had crawled into him and turned his thoughts sharp.
Calypso kept going, voice rising, climbing, ready to break into a scream.
And then—
"Why don't you choose me?"
The words landed like stones in still water.
Calypso's mouth fell open. Hermes' brows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hair. Callias choked on nothing.
Even the vines seemed to pause.
Telemachus went rigid beside you. "Peisistratus—"
"No." Peisistratus held up one hand without looking away from Calypso. "I'm talking." His voice had that joking edge it always had—except it wasn't really a joke this time. It landed wrong. It landed hard.
He lifted his chin, looking straight at Calypso like he'd decided to be stupid on purpose.
"Besides, you keep saying nobody chooses you," he said, and his mouth twisted like he didn't know whether to laugh or spit. "So why don't you just... choose someone else?"
Calypso stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "What... did you say?"
"You heard me." Peisistratus took a step forward, palms spread like he was presenting an idea at dinner instead of throwing himself into a god's mouth. "Like—hello?" he said, gesturing to himself with both hands. "I'm right here."
Telemachus' head snapped toward Peisistratus so fast it was almost violent—eyes wide, like what the fuck are you doing.
You stared, your brain lagging behind your ears.
Peisistratus kept going anyway, because of course he did.
"Choose me," he said again, half-laughing, half-challenging. "Why do you want him?" He jerked his chin toward Telemachus without looking at him. "Why do you want Odysseus all over again? If you want someone to stay, pick somebody who actually can."
For one beat, nobody moved before every head had snapped toward him—different kinds of shock flashing across different faces. Callias looked horrified, like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream; Telemachus looked genuinely stunned all at once; Hermes stared like Peisistratus had just walked onto a stage he didn't know was there; Calypso's expression went blank—too blank—like her face had been wiped clean.
And you—
You just stood there staring at Peisistratus like you'd never seen him before because that wasn't the Peisistratus you knew.
Not the sun-lazy boy who turned hunger into jokes and fear into songs. Not the one who made the island feel lighter just by being loud.
This was... something else.
He spoke like it was nothing—like the air wasn't tight, like a goddess wasn't standing there with her grief still dripping from her mouth. He brushed sand from his palms, rolled his shoulders once, and gave a little shrug that said well, someone had to say it.
He walked across the clearing, stopping right beside you—close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his—and tossed his hands behind his head like he was watching a play he already knew the ending to.
Calypso stared at him, blank-faced and dangerous.
Peisistratus smiled anyway, bright and easy, like he was offering her fruit.
"Look," he started, voice steady, "I'm just saying. If they want a deal, I can be the deal."
Peisistratus kept talking, eyes still on Calypso.
"Trade me. Straight up." He tipped his chin toward Telemachus like he was pointing out a tool, not a person. "Send the prince home. Send Callias home. Send her home." He flicked a glance at you—quick, almost careful—then back to Calypso. "And you don't have to be lonely."
Your stomach dropped.
Telemachus let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Peisistratus—"
"Don't," Peisistratus said, finally glancing at him, and there was warning in it. Not anger—just that quiet tone that meant let me finish.
Hermes hovered there, arms crossed, looking like he'd like to vanish again just to avoid being part of this.
Calypso's mouth parted slightly, like she didn't know whether to laugh or bite.
And before the pause could even breathe—
Callias moved.
He hobbled up with a dramatic limp that would've fooled anyone who didn't know him. Pale still, but his eyes were bright—sharp as knives. He scoffed as he walked, like the whole thing was ridiculous.
"Why would she do that?" Callias said, loud enough for everyone. He laughed once—short, mean, on purpose. "Calypso, love, be serious. Trade him?"
He slid in beside Peisistratus like he belonged there, and then—like he was claiming a spot—he leaned against Peisistratus' shoulder, heavy and lazy, as if he were waving him off. Like Peisistratus was a little too excited and Callias was here to "help."
Your brows knit without you meaning to.
Callias' hand flicked, dismissive. "He's a prince of Pylos. Important. Loved. Useful." He tilted his head toward Peisistratus, like he was presenting him as evidence. "People will notice he's gone. People will come looking. People will cause problems."
Peisistratus didn't move, but you felt his shoulders tense under Callias' weight.
Callias kept going, voice smooth, offhand—like he was chatting at a feast instead of building an argument in front of a goddess.
"Whereas me?" He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-hurt. "I'm not a prince. I'm not a legacy. I'm not anyone's big, precious heir." He smiled, small and sly. "I'm just... Callias."
Your chest tightened.
You lifted your voice—soft, instinctive. "Callias... what are you—"
"Shh," Callias cut in immediately, not even looking at you; not mean, but like he couldn't let you interrupt the rhythm.
His eyes stayed on Calypso as he straightened slightly, letting the charm slide over his words like honey.
"Think about it," he said, tone warmer now. "If Olympus wants four mortals off this island, they'll be satisfied if only the important ones leave. Telemachus? Gone." He flicked his gaze toward Telemachus just long enough to make it sting, then back to Calypso. "The others? Sent away."
He took a small step forward—still limping a little, still acting fragile, but his voice was steady as stone.
"And you," he said gently, "you don't go back to silence."
Telemachus' hand tightened around your wrist again, like he was grounding himself.
Peisistratus glanced at Callias with something like disbelief, then let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head like of course you would.
Callias smiled at Calypso like he was trying to make her feel seen then he lifted his brows, and his tone turned almost playful—almost teasing.
"What does he have," Callias asked, nodding toward Telemachus, "that I don't?"
You felt heat crawl up your neck; your mouth opened again—half panic, half anger—
But Callias kept talking, like he could feel you about to stop him and decided to speed up.
"I can do something he can't," Callias said softly.
His gaze flicked—just once—toward you and then back to Calypso.
"I can love you. Because his heart clearly already belongs to someone else."
The clearing went even colder.
Like the words pulled the air straight out of everyone's lungs.
Telemachus' thumb twitched against your wrist.
Peisistratus' smile faltered for the first time—just a hair—like even he hadn't expected Callias to say that out loud.
But Callias' eyes stayed on Calypso, steady as a dare.
"And if you want someone who won't spend seven years dreaming of a wife across the sea," he added, voice low, "then don't choose the boy who will leave you the second the door cracks open."
His mouth curled—soft, almost kind.
"Choose someone who can actually stay."
And the worst part was the way he said it like he meant it.
You didn't know why your stomach dropped so hard at that.
Maybe because it sounded too neat. Too final. Like he'd already accepted a version of the ending you hadn't even let yourself picture yet.
Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. "Don't be ridiculous, Callias," you blurted, voice sharper than you meant. "We're all leaving."
Callias didn't flinch, he just turned his head slightly as if he'd expected you to say that exact line.
"Be realistic, ____."
That softness—gentle—made it worse. Like he was trying not to scare you while still pushing the knife in.
You started to shake your head, but he kept going, eyes flicking to Calypso for one quick second before coming back to you.
"She's still a goddess," he said, quiet but firm. "Cursed or not. Punished or not. If she decides she wants something... she can take it."
Your throat tightened.
"And yes, Olympus might punish her," he added, voice low. "But that doesn't stop her from doing damage first. It won't stop her from killing any of us if she snaps. You think Zeus' decree is going to matter to her when she's breaking apart in front of us?"
Callias shifted his gaze toward Telemachus and Peisistratus and let out a short, humorless breath.
"He's the prince," he said, chin tipping toward Telemachus. "Peisistratus is one as well." His mouth twitched like the word tasted bitter. "You really think the world won't burn if either of them goes missing?"
He let the question hang, then looked back at you—eyes steady, smile thin.
"But me?" He gave a short, hollow laugh. "What's Bronte gonna do—send a mourning letter?"
You opened your mouth—ready to fight him, ready to drag him back into reality—
—but the look in his eyes stopped you.
Because for a second, the sarcasm wasn't there.
Just something flat and tired and hurt in a way that didn't need poetry to explain it.
"The life waiting for me back there?" he said, quieter now. "It's not a life. Not really." He swallowed, jaw tightening once like he hated himself for saying it out loud. "I'm a servant to a crown I didn't choose. I serve a kingdom that has never once acknowledged my worth. The only thing waiting for me is the same stuck position. Same leash. Same princess who thinks cruelty is a hobby."
He gave a small shrug, like he was talking about weather.
"At least here?" he said, glancing at the jungle and the sea like he could already see his future between the trees. "Here I can have peace. Or something close to it." His smile turned faint—real, for a split second. "Here, I don't have to be useful to be allowed to breathe."
Your chest clenched.
"Callias—" you started, voice cracking on his name.
He shook his head once, barely.
"I'm not doing this for her," he said, nodding toward Calypso without even looking her way. "I'm doing it for me."
He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his smile softened into something that didn't feel like a joke at all.
"I want to matter somewhere," he said. "And maybe here... I finally can."
Your throat burned.
You tried anyway, you couldn't not try.
"You could come back to Ithaca," you said, voice shaking. "I—We'd make room—we'd—"
Callias' eyes didn't harden, but they sharpened a little, like he needed you to understand the full shape of what you were offering.
"And what happens when others like me try to follow? How long before Ithaca becomes a refuge for every castoff trying to breathe?"
You stared at him, stunned.
He stepped a little closer, enough that you could feel the heat of him and could see the tiny tremor in his fingers that he was pretending wasn't there.
"I'd rather stay here. Start over where no one knows me. Where I don't have to serve or bow or play pretend."
Telemachus' breath hitched, almost silent.
Peisistratus' arms dropped from behind his head. He wasn't smiling now. He watched Callias like he didn't know whether to grab him or protect him or just... understand him.
Callias turned his head toward Calypso at last, and the whole clearing seemed to hold its breath with him.
"If you want me," he said plainly, "I'll stay." His voice didn't shake when he added, "Not because I'm cursed... But because I choose to."
Calypso's expression flickered—anger still there, grief still there—but something else slipped through for the first time. Confusion. Hope. Fear.
Her gaze drifted past Callias, past Peisistratus, to Telemachus.
And the way she looked at him made your stomach twist again, because even now—even now—some part of her still reached for that shape. That story. That pattern.
But Telemachus wasn't looking at her, he was looking at you.
Like he was bracing for you to disappear.
Like he was quietly begging you not to leave him alone in this moment.
Calypso's lips parted, and her throat bobbed. She hesitated—caught between ghosts and the living.
Then, slowly, like it hurt her to do it, she reached out.
Not toward Telemachus.
Toward Callias.
Her fingers hovered for half a heartbeat—uncertain—before they finally closed around his hand.
Callias didn't hesitate; he took her hand like it was a decision he'd already made, but his eyes... his eyes didn't look relieved.
They looked like someone finally laying down a heavy thing he'd been carrying too long.
With wet eyes and a shaking mouth, Calypso held Callias' hand so tightly it was as if she feared the island would take him back out of spite—she couldn't decide if this was mercy or another kind of cruelty.
The fire popped.
The waves kept whispering.
And somewhere above the canopy, the sky stayed empty—quiet as if Olympus was listening to see what choice you'd let stand.
Hermes was the first one to get tired of it. He exhaled hard—loud on purpose—like you were all children standing around a spilled cup.
"Alright. We need to move. Now. If you want to make it home with a little push."
You blinked, still stuck somewhere between relief and nausea; Telemachus' eyes flicked up at Hermes like he didn't trust a word that came out of that mouth.
Peisistratus finally found his voice. "Move where?" he asked, sounding like he didn't want to believe it until he could touch it. "So, we're just—leaving?"
Hermes clicked his tongue. "Yes," he said, like the answer was obvious. "Leaving. The thing mortals do when they're not trapped on cursed islands."
Then he reached into his satchel.
The motion made everyone tense. Even Calypso's jaw tightened again, like she expected another parchment, another trick, another insult dressed up as a smile.
But Hermes pulled out something small—just a little bag, dark cloth tied tight at the neck. It looked too plain to matter, which somehow made it feel worse. Like the real power didn't need to show off.
He tossed it toward Peisistratus.
Peisistratus fumbled it—nearly dropped it—caught it at the last second and stared down like it might bite. "What is this?" he asked, eyes wide.
"A wind bag," Hermes said casually. The messenger god pointed at the bag with a lazy flick of two fingers. "Don't open it here," he warned. "Unless you want this whole camp to get launched into the sea like a bad joke."
Peisistratus froze. "Noted."
Hermes nodded, pleased, then kept talking—like he was explaining a shopping list.
"It's not as strong as the one I caught for Odysseus years ago. That one was... special. This one's just decent."
Just decent. Like he wasn't holding weather in a pouch.
"But it'll cut your trip down," Hermes continued. "A few hours instead of days. Assuming you don't do something stupid. Which—" he glanced at Peisistratus, "—I'm saying with love."
Peisistratus lifted the bag like it was sacred. "I won't even breathe wrong," he promised.
Callias made a soft sound—half laugh, half disbelief—without looking away from the shoreline. Calypso stayed silent, eyes glossy and distant, like she was listening to a song only she could hear.
Hermes dug back into his satchel again.
"And before anyone asks—yes," he said, voice sharper, "I conjured you a boat. I'm not sending you out there with a prayer and a plank."
He waved his hand vaguely toward the beach, like the boat should've already been obvious.
"It's medium-sized," he added, as if reviewing it. "Sturdy. Enough room for the three of you and a few supplies. Food, water, some basic things that should last until you reach Ithaca. Try not to waste it. Or do. You mortals love suffering."
Hermes lifted off the ground a little, sandals fluttering. He dusted his hands together like he'd finished his part.
"I'll go back to Olympus. Let them know the decree's been completed."
His eyes slid, quick and bright, toward Callias.
"With a minor tweak," he added, and his mouth tugged like he found himself hilarious.
Calypso's face hardened again, but Hermes only shrugged, completely unbothered.
"Still," he said, tone light, "as the Bronte servant said—if the more important figures are headed home, no issue should arise."
Your stomach turned at the way he said it. More important. Like Callias was a loose thread Olympus wouldn't miss.
Telemachus' posture went stiff, anger flashing hot and fast across his face—but Hermes didn't give him time to speak.
He tipped two fingers in a lazy salute, grin bright again.
"Good luck." And just like that, the air shimmered; and with a quick flash of gold and wind, Hermes was gone.
The clearing fell silent again, but it wasn't the same silence as before. This one had a direction, an ending.
This time, it was Callias who broke it.
He squeezed Calypso's hand once—small, grounding—then looked at you, eyes steady.
"It's time," he said softly.
Your throat tightened, but you nodded even though it felt like your head belonged to someone else.
Telemachus finally let go of your wrist—slowly, like it hurt—and moved first, like a man forcing his legs to obey.
Peisistratus moved too, clutching the wind bag like it was the last piece of fate he'd ever be trusted with.
Calypso didn't speak, she just turned and started walking, leading the way through the trees with Callias beside her.
You followed.
The path felt different now. Smaller. Too short. The jungle brushed your shoulders like it was trying to keep you. The sound of the ocean grew louder with every step until it swallowed everything else.
And then you broke through the last line of trees, and the beach opened up.
There really was a boat.
Medium-sized like Hermes said, pulled up onto the sand like it had always been waiting. The wood looked new in the moonlight, the rope coiled neat, a small stack of supplies tucked inside: bags of food, jugs of water, a folded cloth, a few tools you didn't recognize but Telemachus immediately did.
Peisistratus let out a shaky laugh. "Oh my gods, finally," he breathed, and hurried forward.
Telemachus moved with him—already lifting the supply bags, placing them inside, checking the edges of the boat the way Odysseus must've taught him. He looked like he was trying to stay busy so he wouldn't feel anything.
You trailed behind, your feet dragging through the sand, heavy, like the island had poured lead into your ankles.
And when you turned, you saw them.
Calypso and Callias stood where the forest met the beach—right at that break between shadow and open sky.
The jungle framed them like a doorway.
Calypso's hair moved in the sea breeze, eyes still wet. Callias stood beside her like he belonged there already, shoulders squared, expression calm.
You didn't know why you stopped.
Your feet just... planted. Right there in the sand, halfway between the boat and the tree line, something in you refusing to keep walking until you understood what you were leaving behind.
The surf rolled in and out with that soft, steady hush. The moonlight stretched across the water in a long silver path, too pretty for how ugly your throat felt. Behind you, you heard Peisistratus shifting supplies, heard Telemachus' quiet movements—rope, wood, water jugs.
But you couldn't look at them.
You looked at Calypso and Callias, and they watched you back.
Your brain wouldn't stop.
Callias staying? That can't be right.
Your chest tightened hard, fast.
I can get him off the island. I can. I can make it happen.
The thought came reckless, desperate.
Maybe if I ask Apollo—
Because Apollo had promised you the universe. Apollo had burned half the sky for less. If you called him—if you begged—if you promised him anything—
You could fix this.
You could make it so nobody had to stay behind.
Your fingers curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you stood there and tried not to shake.
And then your thoughts snapped clean in half, because Callias moved.
He broke away from Calypso without a word and started walking toward you.
Hobbling. Limping. Each step looked like it cost him pride, but he didn't slow down. He didn't look away.
He stopped right in front of you.
Close enough that you could see the faint sheen of salt on his skin. Close enough that you could see his lashes clumped slightly, like he'd wiped his eyes at some point and pretended it didn't happen.
You both just stared.
No jokes. No sarcasm. No Callias-voice to soften the moment.
Just him, standing there like a choice made flesh.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The words got stuck behind the tight knot in your throat.
Callias stared at you for a long second longer—then let out a broken little laugh that turned into a sigh. His smile showed up after, but it wobbled at the edges, like it didn't know how to sit on his face anymore.
"Gods," he breathed, shaking his head once. "Look at you."
Your eyes burned. You blinked hard, like you could blink the feeling away.
He swallowed, his voice going softer than you were used to hearing from him.
"You were the best thing that ever happened to me," he said.
Your chest caved in.
"No," you tried—because your body wanted to argue, wanted to fight him, wanted to drag him by the wrist and shove him into the boat whether he liked it or not. "Callias, don't—don't say that like—"
He cut you off with a small shake of his head. Not harsh. Just certain.
"I mean it," he said, like it was the simplest truth he'd ever told. "I've had... a lot of things happen to me. None of them felt like mine." His mouth twitched, bitter for a second. "But you?"
His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it.
"You saw me," he whispered. "Not as a tool. Not as someone's servant. Not as... whatever Bronte decided I was supposed to be." His laugh came out quiet and rough. "You made me feel like I mattered."
Your throat pinched so hard it hurt; you shook your head, frantic. "You matter anyway."
He smiled at that—small, sad, fond. Like you saying it didn't change the world, but it still mattered because it was you.
Then he lifted his hands.
Slow. Careful.
Like he didn't want to scare you off with how gentle he was being.
His palms framed your face, warm thumbs resting at your jaw. You froze under it, breath catching, because Callias touched people like he was usually trying to prove he didn't care—and this wasn't that. This was... honest.
His eyes softened.
Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
It was light. Quick. Like a blessing. Like goodbye.
And before you could react, he pulled you into him.
His arms wrapped around you, tighter than you expected, his body shaking once as if he'd been holding this in the whole time. You clutched him back instantly—arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric at his back like you could anchor him to you with nothing but will.
"I'll miss you," he whispered, voice breaking on the words.
It went straight through you.
"I'll... I'll miss you too," you said, and it came out strained, wet at the edges. You hugged him tighter, fighting the burn in your eyes because if you started crying you didn't know if you'd stop. You hated yourself for it—hated the selfish part of you that still wanted to drag him into that boat.
Because you knew.
You knew that when you left, you'd never see him again.
You buried your face into his shoulder for a second, breathing him in like you could store him away somewhere safe inside you. Salt, smoke, herbs. Callias.
He stayed holding you for one more heartbeat—then forced himself to pull back.
His hands slid down to yours, fingers lacing with yours as he stepped backward. He didn't let go.
He walked back toward Calypso like that—moving backward, still holding your hands, still looking at you like he was trying to make the moment last longer without saying it out loud.
Your arms stretched between you until they couldn't anymore.
Your fingers slipped, and then you were standing there with your hands empty.
Callias turned back to Calypso's side and stopped beside her again, shoulders squaring like he was putting the mask back on. Calypso didn't touch him this time, but her presence leaned toward his like the island itself knew to keep them close.
Once again, you watched them, and they watched you.
The wind picked up, teasing your hair across your cheek. The waves kept talking. The boat creaked softly behind you, impatient.
You forced your feet to move, turning away—slow, like it hurt—and started toward Telemachus.
He was near the boat now, hands on a rope, but his eyes stayed locked on you, worried and tight like he was scared you'd fall apart before you reached him.
You took two steps, and then Callias called your name.
"____!"
Your whole body flinched at it.
You turned fast.
Callias stood a little forward from Calypso now, just enough to be seen. His mouth opened like the words fought him too. His eyes were shining—watery, stubborn, trying so hard not to spill over.
He swallowed, and then he said it, voice quiet but clear, like he needed you to carry it with you.
"I... I'm not sorry for loving you," he admitted, breath shaking once. "Thank you for loving me."
His smile came after—small and real and wrecked around the edges.
Your chest cracked.
The words he'd said kept looping anyway—like your mind refused to let them go, like it needed to replay them until they finally meant what they were supposed to mean.
I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.
I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.
I'm not sorry for loving you... Thank you for loving me.
They repeated. Again. Again.
And your eyes widened slowly, like something in you finally woke up, and your breath hitched, because now—now—you understood.
Not in that vague, "oh, he cares about me" way you'd tucked him into. Not in the safe little box labeled friend that you'd been grateful for, because gods, you'd needed him to be safe.
You understood in the ugly, too-late way.
All those glances that lasted one second too long.
The way his jokes always had teeth, but never pointed at you unless you asked for it.
The way he'd roll his eyes when you got soft, like it annoyed him—yet he'd still be there, still hovering close, still handing you the better piece of fish without saying why.
The way he always stood a step behind you... but never away.
Like he was giving you space to breathe, but refusing to let the world touch you without going through him first.
He hadn't been just your friend.
He'd been waiting.
Waiting in the quiet places. Waiting behind sarcasm. Waiting behind that "I don't care" mask that fooled everyone except the people who stayed close long enough to see the cracks.
Waiting for a space in your heart that would never open fast enough.
And you—you—
You hadn't seen it.
Not really.
Maybe you'd felt it sometimes, like a warmth at your back, like a hand hovering near your shoulder without touching. But you'd turned away from it every time it got too real, because you couldn't afford another complicated thing. Not with gods watching. Not with Telemachus in your orbit like gravity. Not with survival taking up all the room where feelings were supposed to go.
So you'd smiled. You'd laughed. You'd leaned on him.
And you'd never looked at what that did to him.
Until now.
Your throat tightened until swallowing hurt. Your hands trembled at your sides like they didn't know what to do with themselves. You wanted to say something—anything big enough to make it right, something that could reach across the sand and fix the timing, rewind the story, give him a softer ending than this.
But all that came out was your breath. Wet. Thin. Useless.
Callias held your gaze for one last heartbeat—eyes shining, mouth still fighting for that steady little smile.
Then he nodded once, like he'd made peace with what you couldn't change.
And with that, he and Calypso turned back into the forest. Callias walked with that limp still pulling at him, but his head stayed high. Calypso moved beside him, bare feet silent in the sand, her hair catching the wind like seaweed in water.
And together, they disappeared into the tree line.
Green swallowed them up.
The vines closed.
And it felt like the island itself had decided: that's it.
A soft creak behind you made you flinch.
The boat.
You forced your feet to move, even though every step felt wrong. You climbed into the boat like your body was doing it for you. Peisistratus was already there, sitting too still for once, his usual grin gone like he'd left it on the beach.
Telemachus steadied the side as you stepped in, his hand hovering at your back—not quite touching, like he didn't know if you wanted comfort or space.
The boat pushed off.
Water took you without asking.
The shore slid backward. The line of sand grew thinner. The jungle rose behind it—dark, thick, endless—until it all started to look like one solid wall of green.
You stood at the back of the boat, staring.
Staring like if you watched hard enough, the trees might open again and Callias might be there, waving like this was just another joke, like he'd change his mind at the last second and sprint down the beach—
But nothing moved.
Only the wind.
Only the waves.
Only the island shrinking.
Fog started to gather low over the water, creeping in like a slow exhale. It crawled across the surface in pale sheets, wrapping around the edges of the island until the shoreline blurred, then the trees blurred, then the whole shape of it started to fade like a memory you were trying not to lose.
Your chest tightened all over again.
Your lips parted, and the words fell out before you could stop them—small, broken, honest.
"Bye, Callias."
The fog swallowed the last piece of land.
Just like that, it was gone.
And you stood there with salt on your face and emptiness in your hands, knowing you'd never see him again.
The fog didn't just take the island. It took him. All those weeks of jokes, of standing behind you, of waiting—gone into grey. And you couldn't even see where.
Your hands were still open. Like they were waiting for him to take them again.
He wouldn't.
A shift beside you—quiet.
Telemachus had come up behind you without you noticing. His eyes were fixed on the fog too, not because he expected to see anything, but because he understood what you were losing. His jaw clenched once, then eased.
He didn't speak. He didn't try to fix it. He just stayed close—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours—like he was silently promising he'd hold you up if the grief finally knocked your legs out.
And the boat kept moving.
Toward Ithaca.
Toward home.
Toward a life that suddenly felt heavier, because part of you had been left behind on an island that didn't let people return.
☆
☆
The hours after that blurred into something hollow.
You didn't cry—not right away. It was like your body couldn't decide what emotion to pick, so it chose none. Numb was easier. Numb was quiet. Numb meant you could keep standing without folding in half.
The island was long gone, swallowed by fog and distance, but you still faced the direction it had been. Like if you stared hard enough, you might catch the outline again—dark green against the stars. Like you might see a limping figure step out of the trees. Like the world might change its mind and give you one more second.
It didn't.
The boat drifted with the tide, rocking slow and lazy, the sea turning into a wide, black mirror under the night sky. Earlier, Telemachus and Peisistratus had argued softly about the wind bag—about using it now, about not wasting it, about saving it for the morning when the light came and they could see where they were going.
In the end, Telemachus had made the call.
"We use it at dawn," he'd said, voice steady even when his eyes weren't. "Let the current carry us for now. We'll need the push when we can steer with it."
Peisistratus had grumbled something about "princes and their planning," but he'd agreed. They'd tied the bag down, tucked safe near the supplies Hermes had left—dried fish wrapped in cloth, water skins, a small knife, a coil of rope, a spare oar.
Now the boat just... floated.
Peisistratus was asleep off to the side, sprawled like he'd been dropped there by the gods themselves. His mouth was open, his head tipped back against the plank, and he snored with the kind of confidence only Peisistratus could manage—like even the sea couldn't judge him.
You sat near the edge, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, staring at the dark water.
You couldn't stop looking at it.
It felt wrong to look anywhere else.
Like if you turned your head, that would be the moment it became real.
A soft shuffle came from behind you—wood creaking, cloth brushing.
You didn't move at first. You didn't even blink.
Then Telemachus' shadow fell across you, and he lowered himself down beside you, careful and quiet. He didn't crowd you. Just settled close enough that you could feel his warmth when the wind shifted.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The sea made small sounds against the boat—gentle taps and soft sloshes, like it was trying not to interrupt.
Telemachus stared out at the horizon that didn't exist at night. His hands rested on his knees. His fingers kept flexing like he didn't know what to do with them when they weren't holding a weapon or a rope or you.
Then, soft—so soft you almost missed it—
"____. I need to say something," he said quietly. "And I need you to let me finish before you argue."
Your throat tightened immediately, but you didn't answer yet; instead, you nodded.
He took a breath. Let it out. His hands gripped the rail like he was steadying himself.
"I'm sorry."
The words landed wrong. You opened your mouth—to argue, to stop him—but he shook his head once, firmly.
"You said you'd let me finish."
You closed your mouth.
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, not just for tonight. Not just for... all of this." His jaw worked once, like he had to force the words out. "I'm sorry for every time I backed away from you."
Your head turned a fraction. Not fully. Just enough to show you were listening.
He stared at his hands like they were the problem. "Andreia," he said, and his mouth twisted around her name like it tasted bitter. "My court. My parents. Even when I wanted to—" He cut himself off, breath catching. "Every time someone else entered the room, I... I detached."
He frowned harder, eyes flicking once toward you, then away again like he didn't deserve to look you in the face while saying it.
"I don't know how to explain it," he admitted, quieter now. "It's not because I'm ashamed of you. Gods, no." His voice sharpened like the idea offended him. "Never that."
The next words came slower, like he was building them carefully.
"It's because I'm not used to being seen... being loved."
That landed in you, soft and heavy at the same time.
Telemachus' shoulders lifted with a breath, then fell. "When it's just us, it feels... safe." His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice warmed, like he was talking to himself more than you. "Private. Like something holy. Like if I speak too loud about it, the gods will notice and take it away."
He let out a small, humorless laugh. "So when people show up, I try to look like I have control. Like nothing touches me. Like I'm only a prince and never—" he hesitated, swallowed hard, "—never a boy who's terrified of losing the only person who makes him feel like he's enough."
Your chest pinched.
He rubbed his thumb against his palm, still not looking at you. "And you deserved better than that. You deserved me standing beside you every time. You deserved me claiming you when it mattered."
His voice went softer, almost shaking. "You crossed oceans for me."
That made your eyes sting immediately—hot, sharp.
"You gave up Olympus," he continued, and now he finally looked at you, and there was something raw in his face. "You gave up being around gods who... who cherished you from the moment they knew you. Gods who didn't hesitate. Didn't waste your time. Didn't make you feel like you had to earn a place."
His throat bobbed.
"And after everything, you still found me." He blinked hard, fast, like he was fighting something in his eyes. "You're standing beside me right now like you didn't just bleed for it."
You swallowed, trying to speak, but your voice caught.
Telemachus' breath shook, and when he spoke again, it came out like a confession.
"I think—" He paused, a small, startled sound leaving him, like he'd just realized something too big to hold. "I think I knew it before. Somewhere deep down. Everytime you sang and looked at me like I was your whole world."
He let out a quiet, broken laugh. "I knew."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, flustered—like the feeling was too big and he didn't know where to put it.
"But I didn't understand it. Not fully. Not the way I do now."
His voice cracked on the next part, and he looked away for half a second like he was embarrassed by how much he meant it.
"You're not just... someone I love. You're the center of my story. And it's hitting me all at once."
His lips pressed together, fighting for control.
"You matter," he said, voice cracking. "You matter so much it terrifies me. Because I've spent my whole life watching people leave. Watching my father leave. Watching my mother wait. Watching—" He laughed, helpless. "Watching myself stand frozen while the world moved."
He turned toward you fully, leaning in like gravity was pulling him.
"But you're still here."
His voice broke completely on the last word.
"You're still here, ____. And I don't know how to tell you what that means. I don't have the words. I just—" His hands lifted—hesitated—then one of them found yours, slow and careful, like he was asking permission with every inch.
"Stay with me," he said, and the words came out so earnest it almost hurt. "Let me be yours."
Your breath caught.
His fingers tightened around yours, and yes—his hand shook a little.
"I'll spend the rest of my days making up for my mistakes, making up for every moment I froze. For every time I didn't reach for you fast enough. For every heartbeat I wasted not saying this," he said, voice low and steady now, like he'd decided something. "If you let me."
Your eyes burned. You blinked hard, but it didn't help.
"Telemachus..." you started, and your voice wobbled.
He flinched at the title like it struck him."Don't," he murmured.
You blinked. "Don't what?"
"Don't call me Prince Telemachus," he said, softer, almost shy. "Not right now."
That pulled a small, startled sound out of you. You tilted your head. "It's not the first time I've said your name," you whispered, trying to tease him through the ache. "What's wrong with it now?"
Telemachus' nose crinkled—cute, quick, like he hated that you'd noticed. "It just—it feels formal. Distant. Like I'm someone you serve instead of someone you—" He stopped, ears going red.
"Someone I what?" you teased, because you needed something light after all that weight.
He mumbled something.
"What?"
He mumbled again, louder this time. "Someone you kiss apparently."
You laughed—real, bright, surprised out of you. "Telemachus."
His whole face softened at the sound of his name in your mouth.
Just his name. No title. No prince.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"Telemachus."
His nose crinkled again, and you wanted to bite it.
"One more thing," he said quietly.
"What?"
He hesitated, then added, even quieter, "I want... I want what my parents have. A name for each other that no one else uses. Words that belong only to them. I—" He stopped, swallowing. "I want that. With you."
You tilted your head. "A nickname?"
He nodded, ears still pink.
You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin. "Hmm. Let me think. Telemachus... Tele... Machus..."
His nose crinkled again—but this time, something flickered in his eyes. A shadow.
"Machus," he repeated quietly.
You stopped.
Machus the Meek.
Andreia's voice echoed in your memory: "Machus the Meek... No bite. No command. The kind of man who prefers reciting lessons at his mother's feet rather than holding court."
You wanted to punch her all over again.
"No," you said firmly. "Not that."
He looked at you, surprised.
"That's her word," you said. "She made it ugly. She made it small." You reached up, cupping his face. "But you're not small, Telemachus. You're not meek. You're the person who stood between me and a goddess tonight. You're the person who learned the currents so we could all go home."
His eyes went bright again.
"So I'm taking it back," you said. "I'm making it ours."
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
You smiled. "Machi."
He stared at you.
"My fighter," you said softly. "That's what it means to me. Not meek. Not small. Mine."
His breath caught.
"Machi," he whispered, testing it.
And then his face did something you'd never seen—like the word had reached inside him and touched something that had been hurting for a long, long time.
"____," he said, voice rough.
"Yeah?"
Telemachus' hands lifted to your face, warm palms cupping your cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed to say it until it became something solid. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to earn my courage."
You shook your head, voice trembling. "You didn't—"
"I did," he interrupted, gentle but firm. "And I won't do it again."
And then, Telemachus leaned in and kissed you.
Soft at first—careful, like he was scared you'd vanish if he did it wrong. Then deeper, just for a second, like he couldn't help it. Like all the fear and relief and want finally had somewhere to go.
His hands still trembled a little against your jaw.
When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed touching, and something settled between you—something that felt like finally.
You laughed a little—quiet and wet.
Telemachus exhaled, the sound shaky. "Please," he whispered once again, like it was a prayer. "Stay."
You smiled through tears and kissed him again—short, sweet, sure.
"I'm here, Machi," you whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."
And as the boat drifted under the wide open sky, with the wind bag tied down and dawn still hours away, you held onto him like the sea couldn't steal this part too—like if you kept your hands on what was real, the gods would finally get bored and let you live.
A/N: ok... yeah... hi 😭if you haven't seen my last announcement/psa, yes your girl has returned from her little slumber 😭 life been life-ing and i been trying to pace myself and not burn out or start hating writing (bc that's when it gets dangerous fr). but i'm here, i'm editing, and i'm posting again so we UP!! NOW ABOUT THIS CHAPTER........ 😭 first of all, Calypso had me SICK. like i knew i wanted her pain to show but writing her spiral?? writing her saying Odysseus?? i was sitting here like "oh we're really doing this huh" 💀 but the stuff i've been seeing about Calypso/how other people write her, she's my bby as well and I can't go hurting my bbys frfr. second—don't beat me up too bad about Callias... i'm begging 😭 y'all i was deadass crying writing that goodbye it tore me tf up BAD. like i wanted Callias and mc together so BAD i had to stare at my screen like "i'm the author why am i suffering i can change ts???" 💀💀 i NEED to make a callias oneshot or something bc my HEART. AND FINALLY—YESSSSSS Y'ALLLLLLLLLLLL 😭😭😭 THEY KISSED. MY BABIES FINALLY KISSED. not even gonna lie it wasn't giving fireworks-and-confetti bc let's be fr mc and telemachus been circling each other for a minute like two confused planets 😭 so this was more like "FINALLY y'all caught up with yourselves" LMAOOO i was lowkey was ready to shake them both!!! anyway i hope y'all been okay and taking care of yourselves fr. shit has been getting ugly out here and i know everybody got their own battles. thank you for still being here, for commenting, for being sweet and patient even when i disappear like a cryptid 😭🫶🏾also yes—i've got more chapters coming. i'm just editing/fixing stuff so it's not a mess. my perfectionism be trying to fight me but i'm learning to just WRITE and not torture myself trying to make every sentence the best sentence ever written in human history 😭 okok i love y'all BAD. see you next chapter 🖤
also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️
from simp_0207
[CALYPSO DESIGN]
MY BABY CALYPSOOO MY GODDESSS I HAVE A FIC FOR YOU I PROMISE LOVE 😭😭😭
[HERMES DESIGN PRT.2]
my man fr, he look like he's annoying in a good way 😭😭 love me a little jokester
[MC DOODLE SHADED]
i swear your art always make me feel like i can be an artist and then i try drawing and its chicken scrap!! olololo lemme know when you start your comics/webtoons cuz IM SAT
[APHRODITE DESIGN]
prettiest goddess in all the myths, my venus goddess 😭😭❤️
from DragonWhiskers12
[DOODLES]
LOLOLOL not your apollo design revolting---he said upgrade me plz 😭
[EROS DESIGN]
hehehe this just got me inspired to finish up a new chapter for my new eros fic lolol
from chari
[MC DESIGN]
ooohhh my bby~ she looks so sweet and innocent---PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS?!
Y’all, I just logged back into my writing accounts, and the way my stomach DROPPED seeing all these messages/notifications like “twin we miss you” and people checking on me 😭😭 Y"ALL EVEN WENT TO MY A03 💔💔!!?!?
I’m not even finna fake it—last time I was on active was last year, (I think around thanksgiving break not sure), and I was talking all types of shit like “updates soon” but then life started life-ing BAD. Like frfr your girl fell into one of them annual depressive moods and I been feeling like SHIT. Plus so much other stuff going on in real life (yes even the Epstein files mess and just… everything iykyk) and I kinda spiraled and disappeared.
And I feel so guilty because I know I’m allowed to take time for myself, but at the same time a part of me always remembers that my stories are somebody’s little paradise. Like a break, an escape, something to look forward to when their life is heavy too. And the fact y’all been so patient and sweet?? I genuinely don’t deserve it 😭💔
Like deadass, I missed y’all more than I realized. Reading/writing has always been my little escape too, and I finally remembered I can come back to it instead of just drowning and going silent.
So I’m not gonna make big promises like “I’ll never disappear again” because I don’t wanna lie to y’all, but I can promise I’m not abandoning my books. Godly Things is still my BABY. Telemachus is still my BABY. All of it is still mine and still yours.
Also—good news: I’m off Monday (02/16), no work, and I did my homework early so I can sit my ass down and upload if it’s the last thing I do 😭💀
Thank y'all for missing me, for being kind, and not being weird or demanding even when my ass bascially abandoned y'all. I love y’all fr, manifesting to become a billionare to bless all my babys with weekly rotisserie allowence 🫶🏾💗 okok lemme go to sleep so I can get up frfr and not get caught up scrolling😭😭❤️
The sun hung lazily over Camp Half-Blood casting a golden hue on the wooded area.
Percy Jackson, now somewhat accustomed to the camp's ebb and flow, still found himself feeling out of place.
Though the events of his first quest had solidified his place in the world of Gods and monsters, the reality of being a Demigod was still sinking in.
He strolled through the camp watching the campers in their daily routines; the clang of swords from the training fields, distant chatter from the dining pavilion.
But amidst it all something caught his attention—a bright and bubbly figure bouncing around the Ares cabin kids without a care in the world.
Percy blinked as his gaze trailed your movements. You was a complete contrast to the scowling battle-hardened Ares kids.
Not to mention you didn't look like a typical child of Ares. Hell you didn't seem to belong there at all.
"Who is that?" Percy muttered partially to himself.
Annabeth, who had been walking the camp with him, followed his gaze.
A smirk curled her lips. "Oh that's ____. She's from the Eris cabin."
"Eris? As in...the Goddess of strife?" His brows furrowed in confusion.
"Yep," Annabeth confirmed with a chuckle. "Goddess of discord and chaos."
He stared at you laughing with one of the Ares kids, passing them a bottle of water as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
It was hard to accept the idea of you being related to a Goddess of chaos when you seemed so gentle. "She doesn't really look it...like at all."
"You really think so? Awe thank you!"
Percy and Annabeth jumped, startled to find you standing just a few steps away with a sweet smile plastered on your face.
How you got that close without them noticing was beyond them.
You were practically beaming—a stark contrast to the usual gloom that seemed to hang around the children of Eris.
"I get that a lot ya know," you continued, rocking back on your heels as if completely unaware of the scare you caused. "If I'm honest it's probably cause of my dad. Sweetest man you could ever meet...wouldn't even guess he was a serial killer."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
The two share a quick wide-eyed glance of disbelief, clearly unsure whether to laugh or be terrified.
Before they could react you dart forward and grab Percy's hand with both of yours, shaking it enthusiastically.
"Percy Jackson!" you chirp, shaking his hand so vigorously that it left him wobbling on his feet. "Can't believe I'm finally meeting you in the flesh. The son of Poseidon! Wow. I've heard so much about you."
Percy found himself lost in the whirlwind that was you. Your energy was so sunny in comparison with the words that had just left your mouth seconds ago.
"Uh...y-yeah," he stammered trying to collect himself. "That's me."
You didn't let go of his hand right away, instead holding it just long enough to make the situation a little awkward.
"So! You really fought the God of War Ares huh? That must've been something. Although..." You leaned in a little with a head tilt as if you were sizing him up. "I was expecting more. I mean for someone who fought Ares, you look like you could barely take on a mortal bully."
Percy was caught off guard. "W-What?"
"You know with all the talk around camp I was expecting it to be a little more...epic. Then again you did the best you could. I mean, if I were facing a God I'd probably want to take the easy way out too. No shame in keeping it simple."
He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. What was he supposed to say to that?
Annabeth stifled a laugh, clearly amused at his baffled expression before looking to you.
"You're really good at that aren't you?" Her tone was light with an edge of knowing.
You give a half-shrug.
"At what? Being honest? Someone's gotta keep him humble Wise Girl. Though," your gaze slid to Annabeth with a mischievous glint, "Of all people you should know all about fight with Ares right? Oh wait—never mind. You weren't there. Shame really. Could've used the help."
Annabeth's lips twitched into a tight smirk.
"Yeah well someone had to stay behind and do the thinking." Her words were sharp and calm as if this exchange was nothing new to her. "I figured you'd be better at that considering your parentage."
Your eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Touché," you give a dramatic little bow clearly unfazed by Annabeth's quick jab.
Meanwhile Percy was still trying to wrap his head around what was happening. "Wait...what do you mean I couldn't take on a mortal bully?"
You turned back to him with a bright smile as if you hadn't just insulted him. "Oh no offense of course! It's just with all those big stories about you I was expecting someone a little more...I don't know, formidable? Then again tales exaggerate things. Kind of like when you hear all about a store's big sale, but when you get there it's just old clearance stuff that no one wanted anyway."
Percy blinked. "What?"
You pat his arm as if to console him. "It's fine really. Happens all the time. I'm sure you're...adequate."
The Jackson boy once again didn't know how to respond. Was he supposed to be offended?
It wasn't like you were directly mocking him—more like you were making him doubt himself in the weirdest way possible.
Before he could say anything, your gaze suddenly drifted over Percy's shoulder and your eyes lit up.
"Oh!" Bouncing on your heels as you focused on whatever had caught your attention you turn to the pair with a smile. "Looks like I'm needed! Well it was fun meeting you Son of Poseidon."
You give Percy a teasing salute and then turn to Annabeth with a wink. "And you and I definitely need to have another round of wits Wise Girl."
With a little wave you skip off leaving them in the dust.
For a long moment Percy and Annabeth stood there, both staring after you.
"I don't get it," Percy muttered, finally breaking the silence. "What's her deal?"
"She's from the Eris cabin," Annabeth explained with a shrug as though that summed everything up. "Being chaotic is kind of her thing."
Percy blinked. "Chaotic? She's weird. Her dad's a serial killer Annabeth."
She sheepishly rub the back of her neck. "Yeah I wasn't expecting that either. But trust me she's not dangerous. Not to us at least. She just likes stirring things up."
"Yeah but..." Percy shook his head, watching you with a deepening frown. "I don't trust her. She's too..."
"Too what?" She asks with a smirk. "Too nice?"
Percy shot her a look. "She just told me I was like a disappointing clearance sale!"
Annabeth chuckled. "Yeah that's pretty standard for her to keep people on their toes. You get used to it."
Percy frowned. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."
As they spoke Percy's gaze caught sight of you now across the camp.
You were laughing with a group of Aphrodite and Artemis kids, flitting between them like you belonged everywhere.
It was weird. The way you moved so easily between groups always smiling and lighthearted—yet there was something unnerving about it.
Like you were playing some game that no one else knew about.
"Look," Percy said nodding toward you. "There she goes again."
Annabeth followed his line of sight just in time to see you lean in close to one of the Aphrodite kids, whispering something with an exaggerated gasp.
The Aphrodite kid's eyes widened and she looked at you for confirmation with shock coloring her face.
Seeing your nod, she becomes visibly shaken till the point a few of her half-siblings swarmed her trying to console her.
While they were distracted you effortlessly slid over to a nearby Artemis camper and whisper something in her ear.
The Artemis girl's face hardened instantly. Eyes darkened with fury, without hesitation she marches over to the Aphrodite camper.
Tension between them crackled as they exchanged words.
The Aphrodite camper snapped something sharp at the Artemis camper who fired back with equal heat.
Within moments the two girls were yelling and nearby campers began to picking sides.
It wasn't just about the two of them anymore—campers from both cabins were dragged into the fray.
Shoves were exchanged and even the onlookers who had initially tried to mediate were swept up in the full-blown fight.
You slipped away completely unnoticed, leaving the chaos to spread behind you as counselors rushed in to contain the fight you had so subtly instigated.
Annabeth's mouth fell open. "Did...did she just—?"
Percy nodded with an darkening expression. "I told you."
Annabeth shook her head in disbelief. "She really does live up to her mother's name doesn't she?"
Percy sighed, his gaze following you as you joined back with the Ares kids as if nothing had happened.
"Yeah," he muttered. "And I'm pretty sure she's way more dangerous than she lets on."
*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*
Percy couldn't shake the unsettling feeling you left in your wake.
You weren't like anyone he'd ever met at Camp Half-Blood—and that was saying something.
All day he kept noticing you; flitting between groups of campers, always smiling, always helping.
But for the Ares cabin? You didn't just help—you managed everything for them like a personal servant.
You'd bounce from one camper to the next, making sure everyone had what they needed.
A strap needed tightening on someone's armor? You were there.
Someone's sword needed fixing? Off to Hephaestus Cabin to get it repaired.
You even carried a pile of weapons over your shoulder like it was nothing, making sure every spear and sword was in pristine condition.
It was strange the way you handled things.
To everyone else you looked like a wimp. A pushover trailing after the Ares kids like a loyal dog.
Some campers even joked about it, wondering why someone as bubbly and soft as you would waste your time with them.
You didn't have the brutal intimidating energy the Ares kids were known for.
And yet despite your soft appearance and sunny attitude, they seemed to tolerate on you.
As lunchtime approached Percy found himself alone.
Annabeth was busy welcoming a new camper, leaving him to make his way to the pavilion by himself.
Plate balanced in hand, he scans the rows of tables where campers sat in their respective groups—most sticking to their own cabins.
Though the tables around buzzed with laughter and conversation, but Percy still felt like an outsider, even after everything he'd done.
He hadn't fully found his place, not yet really.
Tearing his gaze away with a sigh the Son of Poseidon makes his way to the central hearth to make an offering.
With a portion of his meal selected Percy gets ready to offer it to his dad when—
"Hey Jackson!"
Percy nearly jumped out of his skin. You had appeared beside him, tray in hand with a grin like you'd just won the lottery.
"Uh...hey." he managed caught off guard.
You leaned forward, watching him with wide eyes as he prepared to toss the food into the hearth. "Whatcha doing?"
The Demigod glances down at the hearth then back at you. "Just uh, just giving an offering to my dad."
"Oh cool! It's sweet you do that," you replied with a grin, humming thoughtfully as you looked at the flames. "Guess I should do that too."
Percy's brows raised in curiosity as he watched you step up to the fire.
He assumed you'd pick something off your plate—maybe a small portion to toss in as an offering like everyone else did—but instead you did something that made his heart skip a beat:
You reached directly into the flames.
"Whoa wait—what are you—?!" Percy sputtered eyes widening in disbelief.
Instead of pulling your hand away with a scream of agony, you calmly pluck a half-cooked piece of [food] from the fire.
Percy's mouth dropped open in a mixture of shock and confusion plastered on his face.
"What?" You blink at him before following his gaze to the still-flaming food in your hand. "Oh there wasn't any more of my mom's favorite left at the bar. I figured I'd just grab something quick before it burned all the way through ya know?"
Percy stared at you like you were from another planet. "Your mom's favorite food?"
"Yep," you confirm with a grin. "She's a picky eater sometimes. Then again I guess Eris isn't the easiest Goddess to please."
Shrugging as though this was common knowledge, you turn the food in your hand to inspect it further. "I usually only give blessings for her. Oh and Ares too—only if he hasn't ticked me off though."
Percy's brain tried to catch up with the words you'd just said. His mouth moved, but no words came out for a second. "Wait so...you're only making offerings to Eris and Ares?"
You make a small prayer for your mom before throwing the food back into the hearth and turn to the blonde boy.
"Uh-huh! The others don't really care much for me. I mean can you blame them? No one likes messing with my mom, and by extension me. She causes too much trouble even for them." You flashed him a playful grin. "Plus, I think I'm her favorite."
He shook his head unable to wrap his mind around how nonchalant you were about everything.
"You're...impossible," Percy mumbled, his tone equal parts baffled and impressed.
"You're not the first person to say that," you teased with a wink and nudge him lightly. "Anyway, looks like you're all alone today. Mind if I join you?"
Before he could respond you were already dragging him to one of the emptier tables.
Percy was still trying to figure you out. You weren't dangerous—at least not in the way he'd expect a child of Eris to be.
But you were unsettling in your own way; friendly yet... strange, an almost too carefree energy about you.
"So," you lean forward with a bright-eyed grin, "What's your story? I mean I know the basics—son of Poseidon, fought the God of War, saved the day and all—but how's a guy like you end up doing all that?"
Percy gave you a sideways look. "You already know all that stuff. You seem to know everything that goes on around camp."
"True," you admit with a pout. "But I wanna hear it from you. Stories are way more fun that way."
He hesitated, still unsure if you were genuinely curious or just setting him up for another round of subtle digs.
But surprisingly the more you pressed, the more you managed to pull bits and pieces of his story from him.
He talked a little about his mom and how much she meant to him—though he skipped over the worst parts.
"Wow only child in both worlds huh? That's a bummer. I was an only child out in the mortal world too, but Camp Half-Blood gave me a bunch of moody gloomy brothers and sisters." You waved vaguely in the direction of the Eris table, where your half-siblings sat.
Percy followed your gaze, eyes narrowing as he observed the difference between you and the others from your cabin.
They were all starkly different from you—dark, brooding, exuding an aura of chaos just by being around.
Like storm clouds or a brewing hurricane while you were the sunshine in the middle of it all.
It didn't make sense.
"You don't really fit in with them though," Percy said, gesturing to your siblings. "You're...not like them."
You tilt your head with a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "You'd be surprised. It's easier to blend in with chaos when you wear a smile. Keeps people guessing."
Satisfied with the answer Percy suddenly shifts in his seat.
His gaze dart around, unsure of how to bring up the topic that had been bugging him ever since your first meeting.
Finally he cleared his throat. "Uh...speaking of family. You mentioned your dad before. That he was...y'know..."
"A serial killer?" you finished for him, smile unfaltering.
Percy flinched at how easily the words rolled off your tongue, like it was just another quirky fact about your life.
"Yeah that."
"Oh my dad's the greatest!" you exclaimed, leaning back with a nostalgic sigh. "The sweetest man you'd ever meet—total golden retriever energy, always in pastels and soft colors. He's truly the last person you'd expect to have over two hundred bodies to his name."
Percy nearly choked on his drink. "Two hundred?!"
"The official documented count. They estimate there's more. He never really kept tabs so who knows," you add with a shrug.
The pre-teen was silent, his mind reeling as he tried to process what you'd just said. "And you...seem okay with that?"
"Why wouldn't I be? He was a good guy! I mean he only went after people who deserved it—kinda like Jigsaw. Strong moral compass and everything."
He purse his lips. "That's...that's not really the same thing."
"Eh. But hey, at least he stopped killing when I was born. Wanted to focus on raising me. He did start back when I turned six though." You smiled fondly as if reminiscing about happy childhood memories. "We even went on father-daughter hunting trips together. Great bonding time."
Percy's jaw dropped. "H-Hunting trips?"
"Yup! He'd teach me all about tracking, stealth, how to dispose of bodies. Said I had a natural gift for it."
He tried not to grimace at the thought of six-year-old you going on murder trips with a serial killer, a disturbingly vivid picture appearing in his mind.
"That's messed up," he blurted out unable to stop himself.
You giggled, waving it off like it was no big deal. "He got caught when I was nine. That's when I ended up in foster care."
The casual way you spoke about your past made Percy's skin crawl but he was too curious to stop listening. "Foster care?"
You poked at your food absentmindedly as you spoke. "It wasn't the best. Different homes, different people. It was toxic really: thrown bottles, yelling voices, a bruise here and there..."
Percy stiffened, the similarities between your childhood and his life with Gabe hitting a little too close to home.
Though it crashes at the sight of your dreamy expression, "...it was so chaotic. So beautiful."
"You're serious?" his voice was barely above a whisper, unsure if you were joking or genuine.
"Oh completely," you reply without missing a beat. "Chaos is unpredictable, uncontrollable. There's just something so freeing about it."
He swallowed hard feeling the gulf between how you both saw the world. What you called beautiful, he called trauma.
Not knowing how to respond to that he gives a stiff nod. "So um. W-what happened after that?"
You snapped out of your reverie and perk up again. "Oh right! So when I was around eleven I found out I was a Demigod. Arrived here and figured out who my mom was—Eris, goddess of strife and chaos, all that jazz."
A sense of relief filled him, feeling the conversation veer back to something he could at least wrap his head around. "And your dad?"
Your eyes brightened as if he'd asked the perfect question. "Well of course I started visiting him in prison once I figured out how to shadow travel."
"Wait," Percy blinked in surprise. "You visited him? Like you actually met him?"
"Yup," you said cheerfully. "I'd pop in during the night. To everyone else it just looked like he was talking to a dark corner. But I was there right beside him. Kept him company until..." Your voice trailed off but your smile didn't falter. "Well until he got the lethal injection when I turned twelve last year."
Percy stared at you, his mouth dry. "You were there?!"
"Duh. Who else was gonna be there for him? That's my dad after all...stayed with him until the very end."
A fond look appears on your face. "He even said his last words to me. Go out there and keep shaking things up sweetheart. The world's better with a little disorder..."
"Wow..." Was all Percy managed to say. He leans back in his seat as his mind reeled from everything you'd just told him. "I...uh...I'm sorry for your loss?"
You giggled, waving your hand dismissively. "Oh don't be. It's all good. He lived a full life you know? And I got to see it all."
Before either of you could continue the conversation a familiar voice cuts through the air. "____!"
Clarisse stormed over, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she approached.
"Where have you been?!" She barked. Her scowl deepened when she saw Percy sitting across from you. "And what the Hades are you doing sitting with him?"
You simply smiled at her as if you hadn't noticed her foul mood at all.
"Just keeping Percy company," you chirped. "He looked lonely."
Clarisse huffed, her gaze sliding back to Percy with an unimpressed sneer. "Lonely huh? Poor little Seaweed Brain."
Percy bristled at the insult. He couldn't understand why you hang out with them, why they relied on you.
The question had been gnawing at him since he first noticed your strange connection with the Ares kids.
And now, with Clarisse glaring at him, he couldn't hold it in anymore.
"What's the deal with you and those Ares kids anyway? They treat you like—like you're their servant or something."
Clarisse's sneer twisted into something darker, her voice dropping low as she leaned over the table toward Percy.
"You don't know anything," she growled. "Just her mother is to our father, she's everything to us. Without her we wouldn't be able to fight the way we do. Spill blood the way we do. She makes us stronger."
The intensity in her voice caught Percy off guard.
There was a fierceness to her words, but there was also something deeper—something like reverence. Maybe even admiration.
The Ares cabin respected you, needed you in a way that went beyond simple reliance. It unsettled him.
He looked at you perplexed but you only smiled at him as if you'd heard this all before.
Sensing the tension building you gently place a hand on Clarisse's arm, your touch instantly diffusing her aggression.
"Relax Clarisse," you say with a grin. "Percy's not so bad. He's just curious."
Clarisse grumbled under her breath, clearly still annoyed but less intense now.
"Fine. Just don't take too long. You know where to find us." She glared at Percy one last time before turning on her heel and stomping away, though not before giving the Demigod one last warning glare.
You turn back to Percy with a playful glint in your eyes. "Looks like I saved just you from an ass-whooping. You owe me one."
Percy couldn't help but chuckle with a shake of his head.
"You sure are a wild one," his words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Wild....?" The word roll off your tongue. Your smirk darkened ever so slightly as if those words triggered something in you.
Percy's brows furrowed unsure what you meant, but before he could ask, you raise your hand.
Dark inky smoke began to twist and curl from your palm, snaking around your fingers like living shadows.
The air seemed to thicken with energy and Percy could only watch transfixed as the smoke condensed into a solid shape—a golden apple.
It seemed to shimmer with a strange otherworldly light, pulse softly as though it had a heartbeat of its own.
Percy's breath hitched. There was something mesmerizing about it but also deeply unsettling.
He knew enough about myths to recognize what this was: The Apple of Discord.
"Wha—" Percy began, but the words died on his lips as you twirled your hand with an elegant flick of your wrist and the apple morphed.
In its place appeared a sleek new phone and a vape pen, both gleaming as though they had just been pulled out of a store display.
Percy barely had time to process what was happening before you casually tossed the objects a short distance from the table and stood up.
"Hey look!" you called out loud enough to catch the attention of the surrounding campers. "The newest [phone model] and a [flavored] vape from the mortal world!"
Heads snapped in your direction, eyes widening as campers spotted the coveted objects lying on the ground.
In an instant the entire dining pavilion erupted into chaos.
Campers lunged for the phone and vape, shoving and pushing each other out of the way desperate to claim the prize.
Voices rose, chairs screeched across the floor, and fists flew as they scramble for the items intensified.
Percy could only sit there watching in stunned disbelief as the scene unfolded around him.
Campers who had been peacefully eating moments before were now engaged in full-on brawls all over a phone and a vape.
It was like a bomb had gone off and you had lit the fuse.
From across the way, Clarisse and the Ares kids along with your half-siblings, watched the chaos unfold with bored amusement.
They barely paid attention as they continued eating, as if this kind of spectacle was a routine occurrence. It probably was.
You calmly sit back down in your seat with a soft giddy sigh as if you had just finished a particularly satisfying task.
You didn't even glance at the chaos you'd caused, your focus entirely on your food as you took a slow bite.
"Wild you say...?"
A pale-faced Percy turned to look at you. The sheer ease in which you'd thrown the entire pavilion into disorder left him speechless.
Finally, you turn back to him, still smiling that sweet carefree smile. "...you have no idea~"
i just pinged read godly things and might i say it’s my new hyper fixation cus it just SCRATCHES the itch percy jackson books left me. and you’re writing all of it for us for FREE
STOPPP this just made my whole day 😭💗 “new hyperfixation” is the highest compliment omg. I’m so glad Godly Things hit that PJO sweet spot—thank you for reading and screaming about it!!! 🫶🏾 I’m literally getting back into it during winter break so your timing is… dangerous (to my ego) 💀💗y’all really keep me going fr, wiord-vomit and all😭😭😭🥲❤️
Hello author!!! We havenʻt heard from you in a fat minute so I wanted to know how things are going with you!
-💙
Hi lovely~ I’ve been hanging in there—just got swallowed by school and life for a second. But I’m back and catching up on messages + polishing drafts. I appreciate you sm for checking in 🫶🏾
Do you have any thoughts of when a new chapter of First (Telemachus) will be likely made if possible ?? :)
This, of course, is not me trying to pressure and push you into making another chapter as soon as possible—just a simple question ! :D
I'd also just like to add that I wish you the best of luck , I know the situation of what's happening in America and I rlly hope ur okay (don't get the AO3 curse 😓),
Stay safe, ml !! 🫶💗💗
i'm late with my reply, sry lovely! but thank you for being so kind about 'First's updates 🥺🫶🏾 I don’t have a locked-in date yet (I’m trying not to promise what I can’t guarantee), but it is still on my list and winter break is my catch-up window. Also thank you for the safety wishes—same to you, fr 💗(and pls the AO3 curse is REAL and i refuse to fall victim to it😭)
I’M HEREEEE 😭 I’ve been gone for a minute but winter break finally gave me air to breathe. I’m editing/formatting stuff, so I’m back in the streets!! Thank you for checking on me lovely 🫶🏾
ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader
warnings: non-explicit ( class tension / palace politics / protective!Telemachus goes FERAL )
word count: 7.8k (my lil apology/comeback~)
a/n: *sigh* i'm so happy to finally get the chance share all my little writings with y'all again 😭😭 it was torture just writing, writing, writing, without getting the chance to sit down and edit,, but YES I HAD TIME!!! everythings calming a bit before the holiday season pick up, once again so thankful for y'all for being patient!! I've been making so many one-shots etc, so imma try to just post them after going through them etc. as my little gift to y'all. I know y'all been waiting for 'godly things' but i been lacking in writing it cuz i gotta be careful to not create any plotholes/wanna make all the stuff coming up hit lolol❤️ also WHY did I put so much symbolism on the veil. like halfway through I was like "okay stop mentioning it" and then immediately mentioned it again 😭😭😭 y'all better PRETEND it was intentional literary depth or I'm gonna cry pls
Time didn't move the way it should after that night—after the way Telemachus' arms wrapped around you, tucking you in like he was shelter and shield.
Days slipped into each other like spilled ink, staining the edges of your memory in warm, hazy colors you couldn't separate. Was it three nights? Ten? A month? Sometimes it felt like more. Sometimes it felt like less.
But you remembered him. Gods, you remembered him.
Telemachus came whenever he could—always quiet, always during the softest hours.
Sometimes just after midnight. Sometimes right before dawn when the sky was still bruised and blue. Sometimes when the brothel was asleep and the hallways felt like a dream you both wandered through.
Those visits were... everything.
No heat. No pressure. No claiming. Just him.
Just his arms slipping around you from behind as you folded sheets. Just his voice—low, rough from training—telling you stupid stories about goats predicting weather, or how he tripped in front of an ambassador, or how Odysseus had beat him at a board game again.
Sometimes he brought bread. Sometimes he just crawled into bed with you, curling his body around yours like it was natural, like he'd always slept there. Sometimes he kissed you until your head spun.
Sometimes he just held you. Nothing else.
Those dawn-hours felt like clarity—like the storm outside the walls paused, letting you breathe in a world that wasn't yours, but could be. Should be.
And each time, when he whispered "Goodnight, love..." even though it was morning, you felt something dangerous blooming in your chest.
But today was different.
Today he came in the morning—bright, golden, far-too-public morning.
You were in the back rooms, arms full of soiled bedsheets, warm from bodies and the heat of lanterns still burning low. The brothel wasn't busy—rain had let up, sailors had left early, and the air smelled like old wood and fresh water.
You were humming under your breath, sleeves rolled past your elbows as you pushed open a door with your hip—your mind still soft with the memory of him pressing a kiss to your shoulder hours earlier.
You didn't expect to see anyone.
Least of all him.
Telemachus stood in the doorway, sunlight spilling behind him, turning his curls gold. He wasn't dressed for secrecy. No cloak. No hood. Just him—prince of Ithaca—standing in the hallway of a brothel like it wasn't the most reckless thing he'd ever done.
Your breath caught, surprise turning into something bright and warm in your chest.
"Tele—" Before his name could fully leave your lips, your face lit instinctively, almost painfully. "M-My Prince. I-I'll be done in just a moment," you rushed out, accidentally dropping a sheet as you scrambled to gather it. "I didn't know you were coming—just let me wash these and I'll—"
"____."
His voice cut through your ramble.
You froze.
Not because he sounded angry. No. This was worse.
He sounded... nervous.
Truly nervous.
You looked up, and he was staring at you like he didn't know how to hold the words in his mouth. His fingers twitched once at his side—then he reached out abruptly, catching your wrist before you could bend down for another fallen sheet.
His grip wasn't tight, but it was urgent. Like the kind of touch you give someone right before something breaks.
"We need to talk," he said softly.
Your lips parted. Your stomach dropped.
He looked pale. Not sick—just... shaken. Like something had happened. Something he didn't know how to tell you yet.
You swallowed, nodding once, though your pulse hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt.
"O—Okay," you whispered, setting the sheets aside with trembling fingers. "Just... just tell me."
Telemachus didn't answer.
Not yet.
He only threaded his fingers through yours carefully—like you might run if he held too tight—and led you away from the yellow lamplight, away from the hall, away from the morning warmth.
Into something colder.
Into something waiting.
And from the way his hand trembled around yours, you knew—
Whatever he was about to say was going to change everything.
☆
☆
The carriage jolted over a stone in the road, making you jump. The wooden seat creaked under your weight. The wheels clattered loud against the packed earth, and every bump seemed to rattle straight up your spine.
Your foot bounced on instinct—nerves you couldn't control. Your hands wouldn't stay still either, fingers twisting the hem of your chiton, picking at invisible threads, clenched, unclenched, clenched again.
A shawl—no, a veil—had been draped over your head; a soft Ithacan blue, thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide your face. The edges brushed your cheeks when the wind shifted. Everything around you was tinted in that dim ocean color, turning the world muted and blurry.
You felt like you were underwater.
You couldn't see much beyond the blue cloth—just shifting light and shadow, the shapes of passing houses, people turning their heads as the carriage rolled by. Ithaca was awake. Loud. Alive. And you were moving through it like a ghost sneaking across daylight.
Your heart wouldn't slow down.
You didn't know if you were supposed to breathe slow or fast.
You didn't know if you were supposed to cry yet.
Your pulse thudded in your ears like footsteps chasing you.
Then—
Warmth.
A large hand slid over yours—firm, steady, solid enough to pin your fidgeting fingers in place. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, slow circles meant to calm you, but it only made your throat tighten more.
Telemachus' voice broke through the rattling of wheels, low and warm and careful.
"Hey," he murmured. "It's okay. Don't... don't worry. We're almost there."
You swallowed hard. Your mouth felt dry as clay. Slowly—like your bones were made of wet sand—you lifted your head toward him.
Through the blue haze, he was just a soft, blurred shape.
Just dark curls and broad shoulders and gentle hands. He couldn't see your face beneath the fabric—not fully.
Maybe that was a blessing.
You stared up at him anyway, letting your eyes linger on the outline of his jaw, the strain around his mouth, the way his other hand rested on his knee like he was fighting the urge to reach for you again.
Your lips wobbled before you could stop them.
You tried to smile. It came out weak and shaky—a small twitch of your mouth under the cloth, more hope than confidence.
"Okay..." you whispered, though your voice cracked halfway through, soft and breathless. "Okay."
The word lingered in the rattling carriage, but it wasn't really meant for the present.
Because your mind—your chest—was already slipping backward.
Back to the moment everything shifted.
It had been minutes ago. Or an hour. Or yesterday. Time didn't behave around him.
Telemachus had led you away from the back hall of the brothel—past the linen baskets, past the worn carpets that always smelled like incense and spilled wine. Past the door to your tiny room. Past everything familiar.
He didn't stop until he reached the far corner of the courtyard, where the morning light hit the cracked stone floor in a way that made the air look soft.
You blinked up at him, confused, breath still uneven from how fast he'd pulled you along.
"Telemachus...?" you tried.
He didn't answer at first, just exhaled—a deep, shaky breath like he was bracing himself—and ran a hand through his curls.
Then he lifted his eyes to you.
"____," he said quietly.
Your heart stuttered. He only used your name like that when something real was coming.
"It's time," he said.
You frowned. "Time for... what?"
He hesitated—only a moment—but it was enough to make your stomach twist. And then he said it:
"For you to leave the brothel."
You stared at him, then laughed a small, shocked puff of air that burst out before you could stop it.
"Telemachus—what? Don't joke like that." Your hands flew up in a helpless gesture. "You don't have to do this. Really. I told you before, I'm fine here. I can save up, I can—"
"____."
He said your name again—but this time, something in his tone made the rest of your words die in your throat.
Soft. Firm. Unshakable.
You looked up, and he was giving you that look.
The one he gave you in the dark hours of dawn, when he held your face and whispered promises you were too scared to believe.
The look that said: I mean every word.
Slowly, he stepped closer—closing the small distance between you, his hand rising to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin gently, like he was afraid you'd flinch.
He leaned in just enough that his breath warmed your lips.
"I told you," he murmured, voice trembling with a mix of fear and certainty, "I want you with me."
Your chest tightened.
He didn't stop.
"I don't care what it takes. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care how long I have to fight for you. I want you safe. I want you out of here." His forehead touched yours, soft, steady. "I want you beside me."
Your lips parted, but nothing came out except a faint, shaky breath.
He swallowed hard, searching your face through the morning light.
"I need you to trust me," he whispered—barely audible, raw with emotion. "Please."
Your eyes burned, fingers trembling.
You whispered his name and he stepped even closer, hand sliding to the back of your neck like he needed to keep you there, needed to anchor you.
"Trust me," he said again, voice breaking. "Let me take you home."
Home.
The word alone knocked something loose in your chest.
Silence stretched between you—long, heavy, warm. Your heart felt like a fist inside your ribs.
Finally, finally, your breath steadied. You pressed your forehead fully to his, and you whispered it.
"Okay."
It was small, barely a sound at all.
But it was enough.
The moment you said it, his hands trembled—just slightly—as he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like he was scared you'd vanish if he let go.
You didn't know if you hugged him back or if he hugged you first. You only knew that you felt his heart pounding against yours.
Everything after that happened too fast to hold onto.
You moved through the brothel you'd lived in for years, a place you thought you'd die in someday, and now you were passing through it like a shadow.
You remembered the other girls staring—whispering behind their hands, some with surprise, some with envy, some with pity you couldn't stomach.
Then Anemone appeared.
Her usual soft, teasing smile was there, but it didn't reach her eyes this time. She cupped your cheeks, brushing your hair back like an older sister trying not to cry. She clicked her tongue, forcing a joking tone:
"Oh, little dove... look at you. Look at what you're doing to us."
But her voice shook.
She helped you dress—pulling a clean chiton over your head, smoothing the fabric down your sides, fingers lingering just a fraction too long. She tied a sash around your waist, patting it gently, murmuring half-sweet, half-sad things under her breath.
"You'll be safe there. He'll take care of you, I know he will," she whispered. "You deserve better than this place. You always did."
But her hands trembled as she fixed the folds.
The Madam appeared in the doorway once, arms crossed, eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. She didn't come in, didn't help dress you, didn't speak.
She just looked at you—long, steady—and dipped her head once.
A blessing, or a goodbye. You couldn't tell which.
Then she waved you over, muttering something about payment, agreements, paperwork, the prince's seal—words that slid right past you because you couldn't feel anything except Telemachus' hand still holding yours.
After that, the shawl was pulled gently over your head by Anemone.
Her fingers brushed your cheek one last time through the veil.
"Don't forget us," she whispered.
Your throat burned too much to answer.
And then you were outside.
Telemachus helped you into the carriage, his hand steady at your back like he was helping you onto a throne instead of into a rattling wooden box.
The door shut. The wheels turned. The brothel vanished.
And now—
Now you were here, swaying inside a carriage with a veil shading the world blue and your heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out the hooves on the road.
Telemachus' thumb brushed over your knuckles again, trying to comfort you.
But the air outside had changed—thickening, tightening—in a way that made your stomach twist.
The palace was waiting.
And even without seeing it yet, you could already feel them.
The whispers. The stares. The judgment.
You could feel the wolves sharpening their teeth.
☆
☆
The rest of the ride blurred again.
The road grew smoother under the wheels, the clatter softening into a steady rumble as the carriage climbed the long path toward the palace. You could hear faint echoes—voices in the distance, guards calling to each other, the heavy groan of the main gate opening.
Your stomach sank.
Then the carriage slowed.
Telemachus breathed in once, steadying himself, then turned toward you.
"Before we go inside," he murmured, keeping his voice low so only you could hear, "I want you to know what to expect."
You nodded, even though your hands were already trembling.
He continued, thumb brushing your knuckles slowly:
"I didn't want to overwhelm you. So I only told a handful of servants. Just the ones I trust." He paused, swallowing. "My parents... they're expecting us. We're going straight to their study. No wandering the halls yet. No questions from the staff."
You nodded again. "Okay."
Telemachus let out a soft huff of breath—half-laugh, half-worry.
"Gods... I hope I didn't break you," he joked gently, lifting the veil just enough to slip his hand under it so he could cup your cheek directly. Warm, calloused, careful. "All you've said for the last hour is 'okay.'"
That pulled a tiny laugh out of you. You reached up, covering his hand with yours, leaning into his palm.
"It's all I can manage right now." Your voice soft and half-apologetic. "Everything's just... happening so fast."
His smile softened immediately, eyes warm and tender as he swept his thumb across your cheek.
"I know," he whispered. "But you're doing perfectly."
Your chest tightened. You opened your mouth to answer—
A firm knock thudded against the carriage door.
Both of you froze.
A low voice spoke from outside, respectful but muffled through the wood.
"We're ready for you, my prince."
Telemachus inhaled, shoulders squaring.
His hand lingered on your cheek for a heartbeat longer before he let it fall.
"Thank you," he called back, the confidence sliding into his voice like armor. "We'll step out now."
He gave you a small nod—steady, warm, reassuring.
You nodded back, even though your heart was thudding painfully hard against your ribs.
Then the carriage door swung open.
Sunlight flooded in. Cold air rushed inside. And the world outside—the palace steps, the guards, the stone walls you'd only ever seen from a distance—waited for you like a held breath.
Telemachus stepped down first, offering his hand back into the carriage. And slowly, one foot trembling before the other, you reached for him.
His fingers wrapped around yours—warm, steady, grounding—before helping you down from the carriage. Your sandals touched the stone, still cool from the morning shade, and the moment you straightened—
The sun hit. Bright, sharp, blinding even through the veil.
You flinched, instinctive, blinking fast as the light bled blue across the thin cloth draped over your face. Everything glowed in soft shapes and shifting shadows. You couldn't see details—but you could feel them.
You heard the whispers first.
Soft. Quick. Biting.
"Is that her?""Prince Telemachus brought a girl—did you see the veil—?""Does anyone know where she comes from?"
You felt the stares next. Hot. Heavy. Like hands pressing against your skin, testing, judging, trying to peel back the veil with nothing but their eyes.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Telemachus noticed instantly.
He stepped closer—so close his arm brushed yours. His body angled toward you as if he could shield you with his own shadow. Without a word, his hand found yours again and grasped tighter than before.
"Come," he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear it.
He guided you up the marble steps, his pace firm but not rushed. The guards straightened as he approached, armor shifting with small clinks. Two of them pushed the heavy palace doors open, and cool air rushed out, brushing your skin.
Some servants stood gathered inside the entry hall—too curious for their own good. You could feel their eyes on you like needles.
"Back to your duties," a stern voice snapped from somewhere behind them.
The servants scattered immediately, footsteps echoing down different corridors, the air filled with muttered apologies and the rustle of linen uniforms.
Telemachus didn't slow.
He kept your hand in his, pulling you gently but firmly through the entrance and deeper into the palace. The moment you crossed the threshold, everything felt bigger—colder—heavier.
The floors gleamed like mirrors. The ceilings arched so high your breath caught. Gold caught the sunlight everywhere, blinding in quiet flashes.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
You swallowed hard, trying to look without staring, trying to breathe without sounding scared. Every step echoed louder than the last.
Telemachus glanced back at you—just for a heartbeat—and softened.
The two of you moved through a wide hall, past painted columns and polished amphorae, the faint scent of olive oil lamps mixing with cool stone. He didn't drag you. He didn't rush. But he did lead—confident, sure of the path, sure of your place beside him.
Every so often he paused—listening for footsteps, waiting out passing servants—then gently guided you into quieter corridors.
Once, he tugged you into a narrow side hall you wouldn't have noticed on your own. The marble walls here were plain, the air cooler.
"This way," he murmured. "Fewer eyes."
Your heart squeezed. He knew the palace so well—its corners, its shortcuts, which halls were watched and which ones were dead quiet.
He was protecting you without making a show of it.
You trailed behind him, close enough that your veil brushed his shoulder when he stopped short in front of a small archway. He peeked around the corner first, scanning the area before motioning you forward.
"Almost there," he whispered.
The winding paths made your head spin. Every turn felt like a secret, every hidden door a reminder of how foreign this world was. You kept squeezing his hand by accident—fear, nerves, maybe both—and every time, he squeezed back.
At last, the halls narrowed into one long corridor lined with tall wooden doors and deep blue tapestry banners—the color matching your veil.
Telemachus stopped.
He turned to you fully now, both hands coming up to gently cup your cheeks through the soft cloth. His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm.
"This is the last turn," he murmured. "My parents' study is just ahead."
Your stomach flipped so hard you almost swayed.
He stroked your jaw once with his thumb.
"I'm right here. I'll be with you the whole time."
Then he took your hand again, stepping toward the last stretch of hallway as the air grew thick—not with heat, but with expectation.
The corridor grew darker as you walked, lit only by small oil lamps set high in the walls. Their flames flickered softly, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Your sandals made faint tapping sounds—too loud in your own ears, too delicate against the vast quiet of the palace.
At the far end stood a door. A tall, heavy one. Dark wood. Solid. Intimidating.
The kind of door only important people walked through.
Telemachus slowed as you approached it. His fingers tightened around yours once—reassurance, or maybe he needed it too—before he let go to raise his hand.
He knocked.
Not just any knock. A specific pattern. Three soft knocks... pause... then two.
You swallowed, your breath catching.
From inside, a low, steady voice answered.
"Enter."
Telemachus inhaled sharply—not scared, but steadying himself. His shoulders rose with the breath, and for a moment, you saw something raw flicker across his features.
Then, in the same heartbeat, that softness vanished.
His face settled. Straightened. Went blank in a way you'd never seen before.
Prince-mode.
He pushed the door open.
But he didn't bring you in.
He stepped inside alone, slipping from your grasp, leaving you in the hallway with the door half-open and your heart pounding so loud you felt it in your teeth.
You stood there—waiting. Trying not to shake.Trying not to think.
And then you heard him.
"Mother. Father."
His tone—gods. It wasn't the Telemachus you knew.
It was deeper. Formal. Careful.
Like he was picking each word out of a fire.
You couldn't hear their replies clearly—just quiet murmurs, low voices that made your stomach twist with nerves. You heard chairs shifting, footsteps, the faint scrape of parchment on wood.
You pressed your fingers together, trying to breathe slow.
Trying not to imagine their faces.
Trying not to imagine what they thought of you.
Then—
Telemachus' voice again.
"Come in, ____."
Before you could think—before you could pull back, panic, psych yourself out—you stepped forward.
Your feet carried you. Your breath wasn't steady, but you moved anyway.
You walked inside.
The room was larger than you expected. Warm lamplight. Tall shelves of scrolls. A wide table with maps pinned down by bronze weights.
You didn't look up.
You kept your gaze on the floor, the cloth over your face turning the room into a soft blue haze. The marble beneath you was cool, almost slippery, and your steps felt too loud in the quiet.
You stopped when you reached him.
Telemachus stood tall beside you—close. Closer than necessary.
Your arm brushed his. Your shoulder nearly grazing his bicep.
You hadn't meant to stand so near; your body just did it—instinctively—seeking comfort, familiarity, safety.
And Telemachus shifted just slightly, as if to shield you from whoever sat before you.
His stance widened. His hand hovered near yours. His posture leaned subtly your way.
He didn't touch you.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
But his presence wrapped around you all the same.
A silent message.
Mine. I'm here. Don't touch her.
You felt the weight of two powerful gazes settle on you.
You kept your eyes down, breath locked in your chest.
And the king and queen of Ithaca finally saw you.
Penelope spoke first.
A small scoff cut through the quiet—sharp enough to make your stomach twist. She set aside her weaving tools on the low table beside her, the sound of wooden shuttles clicking together louder than it should've been.
Her gaze swept over you, then dropped to the way Telemachus stood too close. Too protective.
"How you're standing," she said, voice cool, "tells me far more than whatever explanation you think you've prepared."
Telemachus stiffened.
His shoulders jerked back a little—not fully, but enough for you to feel embarrassment ripple off him. His jaw tightened. His stance shifted like he wanted to step closer to you... and also like he didn't want to give his mother more reason to comment.
Penelope didn't wait for him to answer. She reached out, plucked the lone scroll from Odysseus' hand as if taking it was her right—and it was—and unfurled it with a practiced flick.
Telemachus' eyes flicked away, cheeks flushing with something between frustration and shame.
You swallowed hard.
Odysseus finally spoke.
"I see your mother is not wrong," he said mildly, though the words held teeth if you listened closely. He didn't look away from the two of you. Not once. "Your posture reveals more than your tongue ever will."
It wasn't a compliment.
Or an accusation.
Just a fact. A cold, observing fact.
Penelope hardly seemed to notice her husband's voice as she skimmed the parchment she'd taken, her brow rising just slightly—just enough to make your breath catch under the veil.
Odysseus sat back in his chair, unbothered by her taking it, arms resting against the carved wooden arms like he'd been waiting for this moment long before you ever came into their world.
He spoke again, calmer. "Sit. Both of you. There will be refreshments shortly."
As if on cue, a servant in the back slipped out the door, quiet as a shadow, no doubt sent for the items the moment Telemachus first arrived.
Telemachus nodded once.
Wordless.
He stepped forward, moving toward the pair of chairs set before his parents' table. Without even thinking, he pulled one out—slow, careful—and held it steady for you.
You blinked, then sat.
The wooden seat was cold beneath you, the cushion thin, your back stiff as you kept your gaze lowered to the marble floor. Your hands folded tightly in your lap, fingers trembling just enough to notice.
Telemachus sat beside you.
Not close enough to touch you openly. Not far enough to distance himself.
Just close enough that you could feel him. Like a silent promise you could lean toward if the world got too loud.
Your eyes stayed firmly downcast.
But you could feel their eyes—Penelope's sharp, Odysseus' unreadable—take in every detail of you.
The veil. Your posture. The tremble in your breath.
And the boy who sat beside you, tense as a bowstring pulled too tight.
The judgment had already begun.
Penelope didn't wait. She didn't even look at Telemachus.
Her focus locked onto you like an arrow finding its mark.
"Name," she said.
You jerked slightly, sitting up straighter. "I—I'm ____."
"Age?"
"Twenty, almost twenty-one."
Penelope hummed. Not approval. Not disapproval. Just... calculation.
"And to whom do you offer prayer?" Her tone was sharp. Too sharp. "Which god or goddess do you keep patronage with?"
Your chest squeezed. You shifted in your seat, fingers twisting in your lap.
"Athena... mostly," you whispered. "But sometimes... sometimes Demeter. I—I don't know if I count as a follower, I just—pray."
Penelope's lips pursed.
Odysseus didn't blink.
Before another question could fall like a blade, a servant slipped between the four of you—silent, efficient—setting small platters on the low table.
Honey-cakes, sliced figs, warm bread.
You flinched when the platter was set in front of you, the ceramic clinking too loud in the quiet.
Penelope barely spared the food a glance, she leaned forward instead, hands folding neatly over her knee.
"Tell me," she said. "Are you trained? Do you read? Do you know how to keep accounts? Have you served in a noble house? Do you have family here? Why were you in—"
"Mother—" Telemachus finally burst, sitting up so fast his chair creaked.
But he didn't get another word out.
Odysseus didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He turned his gaze on his son—slow, heavy, ancient—and Telemachus froze mid-breath.
The king wasn't glaring.
He wasn't furious. He wasn't even warning.
He was simply... watching.
Assessing.
Waiting to see whether the boy beside you was truly a man yet.
Telemachus' jaw flexed, throat bobbing. You saw his fingers curl tight against his knee.
And then—
He stopped.
He clenched his jaw and sank back into his chair with a controlled inhale, his posture stiffening until he looked carved from the same stone as the pillars outside.
Penelope's eyebrow arched—just slightly—but she didn't comment.
She resumed as if the interruption had never happened.
Her questions came sharper now, faster, threading dangerously close to the parts of your life you tried not to think about. Her voice was calm, but it sliced clean through the air.
"Where do you work, ___?"
Your breath hitched.
Before you could find the words, the servant stepped forward again, setting small ceramic cups before the four of you. She moved gracefully, professionally—reaching for the pot of steeped tea beside the cakes, pouring for the king and queen first.
Penelope didn't wait for you to answer.
"And how," she continued, "did you and my son meet?"
Through the veil, you could barely see Telemachus' hands balling into fists over his knees. He turned his head just enough to glance at you—silent, worried, begging you not to feel cornered.
You looked back at him for a heartbeat.
Just a heartbeat.
That was all it took.
Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting in his chair, eyes flicking toward the servant currently pouring his tea.
"Mother," he began carefully, "I already explained—"
"Yes," Penelope cut in coldly, not even turning her head. "You did. And I am inclined to believe you... left out details."
Telemachus froze.
She continued, her tone sharp as a loom's shuttle snapping in half:
"I would like to hear it from her."
Then—your name.
"___."
She said it like she was testing how it felt in her mouth.
You swallowed hard, fingers clenching in the fabric of your dress.
You answered. Small. Timid.
"I... I worked at the—at a brothel, my queen. In the lower markets. I did laundry. And—" Your voice cracked. "—I met your son because he came in one night and requested a girl. I—I was chosen for him."
The room stilled.
Not just quiet. Not just tense.
Stilled.
Like the air itself froze in place, thick and unmoving, pressing against your lungs.
The servant pouring your tea had been silent until then—her movements smooth, precise, respectful.
But at your words—
The pot in her hand jerked, her eyes snapping to you.
Wide. Sharp. Full of something you knew instantly.
Judgment.
Disgust.
Fear.
Contempt.
Everything at once.
She recovered fast—but not well.
She set your cup down with more force than necessary. The ceramic clicked hard against the wood.
Too loud. Too sudden.
Then, under her breath—barely audible, but the tension made it echo—
"Filthy," she muttered.
The veil suddenly felt too heavy, the air underneath it hot and stale as your cheeks burned.
The servant finished pouring the tea with stiff wrists and a burning face before stepping back, eyes averted now as if she couldn't stand to look at you again.
Telemachus' entire body went rigid beside you.
You didn't dare look up.
Your fingers tightened in your lap, your breath trembling, and before you could stop yourself—before you could think, before you could swallow the instinct—
"I'm... I'm sorry," you whispered.
The words slipped out like a bruise reopening.
Like muscle memory.
Because you'd said them before.
Too many times.
To strangers in the market. To wives who didn't like seeing you near their husbands. To vendors who stepped back the moment they realized where you worked. To guards who told you to walk faster, look lower, speak less.
You'd learned to apologize just for existing.
You'd done it on the streets. You'd done it at the brothel.
Eventually the Madam kept you inside—"You're too soft for that world," she'd hissed, pushing the coin pouch out of your hands. "People smell it on you."
And now—
Now you'd done it in front of the king and queen of Ithaca.
And the servant who insulted you.
Telemachus moved before the apology even finished leaving your lips. His chair slammed back against the marble as he shot to his feet, the force so sudden you flinched.
"What did you just say?" he barked.
The servant froze.
Telemachus wasn't just angry—
He was livid.
A heat rolled off him you hadn't seen before, something sharp and ancient, a flicker of a warrior, of Odysseus' bloodline boiling under his skin.
"I-I said, I-I meant—" the servant began, voice small, trembling.
"No," he snapped, voice booming so loud it echoed. "Repeat it. Repeat what you called her."
He took a step forward.
She stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet. The jug wobbled in her grip, sloshing tea across her fingers. Her eyes went wide with fear, darting between him and the queen and the king and you—
But Telemachus didn't look away.
"Say it again," he snarled. "I want to hear it from your mouth."
Your heart slammed painfully. You'd never heard him like this. Never seen him erupt so violently, so instantly.
You tried to hold your posture still, even as your stomach churned and your mind spun and shame curled tight in your chest, but you were reeling.
Telemachus took another step.
His jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. His hands were fists at his sides, trembling with the effort not to do something he'd regret.
"Telemachus." Penelope's tone was warning, sharp as a snapped thread.
He didn't hear her, or he didn't care.
"You forget your place." His voice was dangerously low, a stark contrast to the thunderous anger on his face. "The next time your tongue dares to form her name, I will have it cut out." He growled at the servant. "You will not touch her, you will not look at her like that, and you sure as Hades will not call her—"
"Enough."
Odysseus' voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Final.
Telemachus stopped mid-breath.
Stopped mid-step.
Stopped mid-threat.
His whole body locked, shoulders heaving, anger still boiling under his skin like hot oil. You could see how close he'd been—one more breath, one more insult, one more moment—and he would've said something he couldn't take back.
The servant stood frozen.
Eyes wide.
Face pale.
Tea dripping from her shaking fingers onto the floor.
If Telemachus hadn't stopped, she might have dropped the jug completely.
Odysseus leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, gaze fixed only on his son.
Penelope folded her hands again, calm as ever, though the air hummed with tension.
You sat perfectly still—heart pounding, veil trembling with each inhale, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ached.
Penelope's gaze slid from you to the servant—sharp, cool, final.
"You may go," she said.
The servant jerked, bowing so fast she nearly dropped the jug again. Tears had gathered in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. She whispered a string of prayers under her breath as she backed away, thanking the queen, thanking the king, stumbling a little as she fled.
She never once looked in your direction.
The door shut behind her, an echo that lingered far too long.
Penelope turned to you, her voice was softer than before, though it didn't lose its edge.
"Never apologize for their disrespect," she said. "Lift your chin, child."
The words hit harder than you expected.
A lesson.
A command.
A warning.
You swallowed, trying to straighten your back even as adrenaline still shook through your limbs.
Then she looked at her son.
"Sit down and enjoy the cakes," she said. "They're your favorite."
Behind her, Odysseus sighed—long, tired, like he'd lived through a thousand of these tense, too-loud family moments. He lifted his cup, the wine catching the lamplight as he took a slow sip.
Telemachus didn't move, he still stood there, jaw set, hands tight at his sides, glaring at the spot where the servant had been as if she were still standing there.
Telemachus' head snapped toward him, eyes hot, a silent glare that held more hurt than anger. His breath came sharper now, controlled but shallow, like he was swallowing every retort he wanted to throw.
"Then tell me," he bit out, voice raw, "how to keep her safe."
The room stilled again.
Penelope didn't blink. Odysseus didn't shift.
Neither offered him an answer.
Because there wasn't one easy enough for this room.
Telemachus' jaw flexed hard.
Then—without warning—he turned on his heel.
He reached for you, his hand finding yours with force softened only in the last moment. His fingers slid around yours, warm and firm, tugging you up to your feet before you could fully react.
"We're finished here," he said, his tone flat, almost mocking. "I'm not feeling well."
Penelope's eyebrow twitched.
Odysseus watched him with a thoughtful tilt of his head.
Telemachus didn't care.
"And I don't trust anyone else to escort her," he added sharply. "So we'll see ourselves out."
He didn't wait for a response.
He didn't bow.
He didn't apologize.
But you did.
It was a reflex, a desperate, jerky dip of your head as he pulled you toward the door, the words tumbling out in a rushed, breathless whisper—
"Forgive us—thank you—good day—"
The apology was a ghost on your lips, automatic and utterly pointless, swallowed by the sound of your own frantic heartbeat.
Your steps hurried to keep up with Telemachus, heart hammering as the study fell away behind you.
The door slammed shut, echoing up the marble halls.
And just like that—
You were out.
And heading gods-knew-where—
With a prince whose anger still vibrated through your bones.
.☆.
.✩.
.☆.
Telemachus moved fast, his strides long and sharp, each footfall hitting the marble with purpose, with fury.
He muttered curses under his breath as he walked—low, vicious words you'd never heard from him before.
"Filthy—she called you—""Unbelievable—""In front of my mother—""No one talks to you like that—"
He didn't care who heard.
Servants froze as the two of you passed. Some gasped softly, startled by his pace; ohers stepped back so quickly they nearly tripped over each other, bowing hastily.
But every single one of them stared at you.
Wide-eyed.
Confused.
Judging.
You felt each stare on your back like tiny needles, tracking you down the hall as if your veil didn't hide you at all.
The palace seemed endless. Hall after hall, corridor after corridor—and still Telemachus didn't slow.
Your breath quickened trying to keep up.
Each of his steps took two—three—of yours.
Your sandals scuffed against the floor as you half-jogged behind him, veil fluttering, hand squeezed too tightly in his.
It was too much.
Finally—
You yanked.
Hard.
Telemachus stopped mid-stride, thrown off balance as you tugged him out of his storm of anger and momentum.
"Telemachus—!" you huffed, breathless. "Slow down! I—I can't walk that fast. Every step you take is three of mine!"
You didn't mean for it to come out as a scold, but it did.
And it worked.
His whole body froze.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His anger cracked—splintering into something softer, something more ashamed. His shoulders deflated, chest rising and falling as he exhaled shakily.
"Gods," he whispered. "I—I'm sorry."
His voice sounded small for the first time since you'd entered the palace.
He looked around quickly, searching—then gently guided you toward a small alcove just off the hall. A little nook carved into the wall with a wide stone windowsill overlooking the inner courtyard and Ithaca's gardens.
Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the marble in warm gold. Outside, olive trees swayed gently in the breeze. The faint sound of workers in the courtyard drifted through—rakes scraping dirt, distant chatter, birds calling from the treetops.
Telemachus ushered you to the windowsill, hands soft now, almost trembling.
"Sit," he murmured.
You leaned against the edge, the cool stone pressing into the back of your thighs, veil brushing against the sun-warmed light leaking in.
Telemachus stood in front of you, breath still uneven, eyes flicking from your veil to your hands to your face under the cloth.
He swallowed hard.
"I didn't mean to drag you like that," he said quietly. "I just—" His jaw clenched again, but this time it wasn't anger.
It was fear. Embarrassment. A heartbreak you could see around the edges.
"I couldn't... think."
He ran a hand through his hair, curls falling messily over his forehead.
"You apologized to someone who disrespected you," he said, voice low, still shaking, "and something in me just—snapped."
You watched him.
Watched the way he tried to breathe through it.
Watched the way his hands kept flexing, as if trying to hold onto control again.
Watched the way he stared at you like he was terrified he'd hurt you too—without meaning to.
You reached out, and rested your hand gently over his.
His breath caught.
And finally—
He calmed.
You saw the exact moment it happened—the tension drained from his shoulders, his jaw loosened, his breath finally slowed.
You said his name softly. "Telemachus..."
He lifted his head at the sound of it, eyes still storm-dark, but softer now. You reached for him—slow, careful—and your fingers brushed his cheek.
He froze, then leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe.
You gently turned his face fully toward you, cradling him between your palms. His curls tickled your wrists. His skin felt warm beneath your hands.
"Hey," you whispered, thumbs caressing his cheekbones. "Don't get upset. I'm okay. Really."
His eyes searched yours beneath the veil, guilt pooling in them thick and heavy.
You sighed softly.
"I froze because..." You hesitated, breath catching. "Because apologizing is... kind of second nature for me."
You felt him stiffen.
His face scrunched—pain first, then anger, then deeper hurt. His mouth tightened, brows pulling together like the thought alone made him furious.
"But she made you—" he started, voice cracking with restrained rage.
You laughed quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral again. You traced a faint line down his jaw just to soothe him.
"There you go," you teased gently, smile trembling but real, "getting upset over me again."
His cheeks flushed, frustration simmering but redirected, softened by your tone.
"But she was right," you whispered. "Your mother. I shouldn't apologize for their disrespect. Not anymore."
Your voice trembled, but it stayed honest.
"And where I worked... it doesn't define me. Even if I had been on rotation. Even if I had been one of the girls." You swallowed. "It's just a place. A circumstance. Not... me."
Telemachus inhaled sharply—like the words hit him in the chest.
He lifted a hand—slowly, almost reverently—and reached for your veil.
"May I?" he murmured.
You nodded.
He pushed the veil back gently, folding it behind your shoulder until your face was bare to the sunlight. The world snapped into focus, colors suddenly too bright after so long behind blue cloth. His fingers brushed your temple, then your cheek, tracing the outline of your jaw tenderly.
His touch was warm. Steady. A different kind of promise than before.
"Still, you shouldn't have to go through that," he whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek as if wiping away words others had thrown at you for years.
"No one should speak to you that way. No one should make you feel small."
His voice shook. "Least of all someone in your own home."
Home.
Once again, that word hung between you.
And once again, he didn't take it back, didn't correct himself.
He just kept touching your face like it was the first safe place he'd ever learned to rest his hands.
And something in you melted.
Your cheeks warmed. Your chest tightened—but in a good way. A soft glow rolled through you, filling places you hadn't even realized were hollow until he'd stepped into your life.
A small smile crept across your lips.
You leaned in, unable to help it, your arms sliding around his waist. His breath caught, and then—
You hugged him tight. Your cheek brushed the rough linen of his tunic as you murmured his name softly, "Telemachus..."
He let out a quiet sound—half-exhale, half-laugh—and wrapped both arms around you. His hands settled low on your waist, palms wide and steady, pulling you against him like he'd been waiting his entire life to be held like this.
And before you could think—before you could stop yourself—
You peppered his face in kisses.
Quick ones, soft ones, little ones along his jaw and cheek, your lips brushing wherever you could reach. You giggled into his skin as you did it, unable to hold back the joy bubbling under your ribs.
Telemachus' laugh was muffled against your head. It vibrated through you.
He held you closer, arms tightening, his broad chest shaking with quiet, disbelieving happiness as he tried to return every kiss you gave him—your face, your cheeks, your nose, your temple—both of you giggling like you'd forgotten anyone else existed.
For a moment, it was just warmth. Just the two of you. Just safety.
Then—
He pulled back.
Not far, just enough to see you.
He looked at you like he was memorizing you—eyes moving over your cheeks, your lips, the curve of your jaw, your expression soft and bright from laughing.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He leaned down.
You met him halfway.
Your hand came up to his cheek as his lips pressed to yours—a soft, slow kiss that curled heat into your belly and steadied your heartbeat at the same time. His palm slid up your back, holding you steady, like he didn't want you to drift even an inch away.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far.
He pressed a row of gentle kisses from the corner of your mouth to your cheek, up to your temple, then rested his lips on your forehead—soft, lingering, reverent.
He stayed like that, his breath warm against your skin, before whispering:
"They're afraid," he murmured. "Afraid of what I'll do for you."
You swallowed.
He lifted his head, his thumb brushing your cheek again, gentler now, more certain.
"But I don't care," he said softly, voice steady. "Not about their fear. Not about their judgment. Not about any of it."
His eyes locked onto yours.
"I'm not letting you be alone in this."
You didn't answer.
You didn't have to.
Because the way he held you—arms around your waist, forehead touching yours, fingers brushing tiny circles against your skin—said the rest of the chapter for you.
And in that quiet alcove, in the golden Ithacan sunlight, wrapped in his warmth...
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
On Olympus, Athena worked in her study where night kept its own order.
The room was cool and still, all stone and quiet corners. Shelves bowed with rolled maps and marked scrolls. A brass water clock ticked—soft drips that sounded like steps down a long hall.
Off to her right, a great owl—black as oil with gold banding across the eyes—slept on a high perch. Its chest rose and fell slow, claws curved around the bar like hooked crescents.
Athena's lamp burned low. She bent over a wide piece of parchment, ink catching on quick, neat strokes as her quill scratched on. She dipped it again. The candle by her hand guttered, then went out with a thin sigh, smoke curling up in a small black ribbon.
Athena exhaled, too. Not annoyance. A reset.
She touched the wick, and it caught again—light blooming from a small, steady spark along the tip of her finger. Shadow pulled back to its corners.
A low chuckle came from the far side of the room. Not the owl. The other creature that liked to land where he pleased.
Athena did not look up at once. She sanded the line she had written, shook the quill once, then set it in the bronze rest. Only then did she lift her gaze.
Hermes floated a hand's breadth off the floor, sandals still fluttering with left-over speed. He had drifted to the perch and was poking a finger into the great owl's breast feathers like a child teasing a sleeping hearth cat.
The owl's eyes slid open in one smooth move. Gold rings narrowed. It pecked his knuckle—sharp, fast.
"Ow," Hermes said, laughing anyway. He pulled back, wiggled his fingers, then—of course—reached in to poke the fluff again.
The owl struck again, quicker. He hissed through his teeth and grinned wider, delighted.
"What can I do for you, Hermes?" Athena said, voice cool as a bowl of water.
He drifted away from the bird at once, palms up as if he were innocent. "Nothing." He rocked on his heels in the air, eyes sparkling. Then that sparkle turned smug. "Except—" He tipped his chin. "Just wanted to know if you've been getting ocean mail lately. I've gotten a little note of my own. The breeze told me this morning."
Athena didn't answer him at first; her eyes staying on the parchment as she rolled it into a neat coil. She tied it with a strip of dark ribbon, her mouth a thin line of thought. Then she stood, the chair legs scraping soft against the stone.
Without so much as a glance toward Hermes, she crossed to the perch. The great black-and-gold owl roused at once, feathers shivering, gold eyes snapping open. "Quickly," she murmured, looping the ribbon to its leg with a small, practiced knot. The bird gave one low, steady hoot as if to promise obedience, then spread its wings. A sweep of cool air rolled through the chamber as it launched from the window, feathers catching the lamplight before vanishing into the dark.
Hermes drifted a little higher, watching it go with a lazy smile. "Impressive delivery service, dear sister."
Athena didn't look at him. She turned back, the ends of her cloak brushing the floor, and walked toward the wall of shelves that swallowed half the room. Scrolls and ledgers crowded every inch. She ran her fingers along their spines, pulled one free at random, and let it unroll slightly in her hands—more out of habit than curiosity.
"If you came for news, I already heard it sung."
That made Hermes blink, curiosity sharpening under the grin. "Sung?"
Athena's gaze slid sideways, just a brief flicker of silver light in the lamplight. "The boy prayed. Off-key, but loud enough. The sea carried it up." She tucked the scroll under her arm, turning back toward her desk. "You should know better than to bring me secondhand songs, messenger."
Hermes' grin widened at that. "Ah. So you did get the ocean mail."
He came to float beside her, close enough that the tips of his winged sandals stirred the air around her desk. Then, with a small hum, he dropped down to stand properly next to her. The movement made his taller frame all the more apparent—he cast a thin shadow over her workspace, the light catching across his shoulders while she stayed steady and still beneath it.
For all his shine, Athena looked smaller only in stature; she was made of the kind of stillness that could outlast storms.
Hermes leaned one elbow on the edge of her desk, tone lilting with mock sympathy. "Well, that's wonderful news," he said. "Means I don't have to retell the tragic woe of the mortal pair tangled up in godly nonsense." His smile sharpened as he added, "Two of Olympus' favorites in trouble. Apollo's little muse and your boy, Telemachus."
Athena's eyes didn't leave the scroll in her hands. "Favored mortals?" she said, voice dry. "You mean the girl Apollo burned half the sky for until she was resurrected?"
Hermes gave a lazy shrug. "And the boy you pinned your hopes on. They're together—Calypso's island. You've felt it, haven't you?"
For a heartbeat, the candlelight flickered against the calm line of her face. Then she nodded once. "I have," she said. Her gaze lifted, cool and measured. "So what brings you here, Hermes?"
He scoffed, half amused, half serious. "You're really going to make me spell it out for you?" he said, tone dropping lower. "What's the use of being the goddess of wisdom if you can't grasp a simple concept?"
Athena's head turned slightly, eyes cutting toward him from the corner. "Careful, Hermes."
He only smirked, unbothered.
She turned back to her scroll, reaching for her quill once more. "Forgive me if I refuse to play along with your foolishness," she said coolly. Then, without looking up, she added, "Besides—since when does the messenger stay to watch what he delivers?"
The jab landed. Hermes' grin faltered just long enough to show that she'd hit her mark. He straightened, smoothing his tone into mock offense. "Maybe I just like to see how the story ends," he said lightly.
Athena finally looked up, one brow arching. "Then you've forgotten your place," she said, her voice soft but final.
The candle between them sputtered, throwing both their shadows long across the marble.
Hermes deflected with a crooked smile, the kind he used whenever the air turned too heavy. "Don't look at me like that," he said, spreading his hands in mock surrender. "I'm only here because this one's bigger than your usual mortal messes. It isn't just mortals trapped this time—it's what they represent. Your favored son, his father's debt, and Apollo's muse in one knot." He hesitated, humor thinning to something quieter. "Even Zeus should pay attention."
Athena's quill stilled mid-turn, but her expression didn't waver. "Zeus pays attention when thunder's involved," she said. "Otherwise, he lets the clouds sort themselves."
Hermes tilted his head, trying to read her. "So you do know what's happening."
"Of course I know," she said. Her tone stayed calm, but her eyes caught the light—sharp as struck flint. "I warned you both what would happen if you two kept playing too close to the board. I told Apollo that if he blurred the lines between worship and want, it would cost him more than pride. And I told you," she added, flicking her gaze toward him, "to stay out of it entirely. You didn't listen when I said curiosity starts wars, Hermes. Now you've delivered one."
Hermes raised a brow, pretending offense but not denying it. "Me? I was just—"
"Helping?" she cut in. "You call it that. I call it interference."
He exhaled through his nose, grin sliding back into place though his shoulders stayed tense. "You make it sound like I pushed them into the sea myself."
"You might as well have." She stepped around the desk, the soft whisper of her robes the only sound for a moment. "This is Apollo's right, his mess to correct. He wanted the mortal revived; he must live with what that revival bends. I told him love has gravity. Now he feels the pull."
Hermes' jaw tightened. For once, he didn't have a clever word waiting. She wasn't wrong, and that silence between them admitted it for him.
He remembered her warnings—the quiet ones given long before things spiraled. Her voice from that day still echoed in his head: you're getting too close to your stories, Hermes. Mortals aren't games; they're sparks. And gods who reach too far burn.
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the marble floor. "So you'll just let them rot to win the argument?"
Athena's eyes snapped up. "Don't twist my words," she said. "What I wanted—what I still want—is for the two of you to start behaving like gods, not children throwing light and love like dice across a board you barely understand."
Her tone cut clean through the room, cold enough to still the air. "You meddle. He burns. And every time a mortal heart cracks under your experiments, I'm the one who rebuilds the world around the pieces." She turned toward him fully now, the lamplight drawing a hard line across her face. "The sea trembles, the sun fractures, and I'm left counting consequences."
Hermes looked down again, the smirk gone. He kicked at nothing, tracing a scuff into the marble with the toe of his sandal. The silence that followed was long enough for the candle to gutter, flame thinning to a nervous flicker.
When she spoke again, her voice had softened—less sharp, but heavy with exhaustion. "Go fetch our sun-brother," she said quietly. "If he can stand beside me and call them worth saving, maybe Zeus will listen."
Hermes didn't move right away. His wings twitched faintly, like a man ready to leave but unwilling to. "You really think he'll come when I call?"
Athena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He always comes when he thinks he's being challenged, especially by you."
That earned the faintest smile from him, though it didn't reach his eyes. He lingered a heartbeat longer, then gave a small nod. "Alright," he said. "But if he starts another fight, it's on you."
Athena didn't answer. She'd already turned away, eyes on the faint glow beyond the window where her owl had vanished earlier.
Hermes watched her for one last moment, then he was gone in a blink of an eye, disappearing entirely.
The study fell silent again. The candle steadied, and Athena stood there alone, the reflection of the flame caught in her eyes—steady, patient, waiting for the next move.
☆
☆
When the next move came, it was thunder.
The throne room of Olympus stretched wide and blinding, a court carved from stormlight and stone. The air buzzed with static; even the marble seemed alive underfoot.
Every god who mattered—or thought they did—had gathered in the stands that circled the great dais. Rows of gleaming thrones and cushioned seats rose like the tiers of an amphitheater, gods and minor deities leaning forward to watch. Murmurs rippled through them: the sound of judgment, of bets quietly placed.
Every glance a weapon, every whisper another move on the board. Nereids clustered together in a shimmer of blue and pearl. Muses perched like bright birds along the railing, restless for gossip. Ares' armor clanked with every twitch. Artemis sat silent in the shadows, moonlight ghosting over her arrows. Even Hades lingered in a darker corner, half a shadow himself.
At the center, the Father of Gods waited on his throne—Zeus, wrapped in storm and authority. Lightning crawled lazy fingers along the arms of his seat, and his gaze burned down through the space between them all, sharp enough to make the air crackle.
Before him stood two gods that could not have been more different. Athena, cool and composed, silver light gathering around her like a blade kept sheathed. Apollo, gold-bright and restless, his glow pulsing just short of arrogance. Together, they made the space between them look like a wound—order and impulse.
Athena stared straight ahead at her father, shoulders square, chin level. There was no fear in her stance, only precision. Apollo, beside her, shifted his weight, one hand tightening on his own wrist. His jaw worked, his mouth drawn tight with frustration that kept bleeding through his calm.
The murmurs grew until Zeus lifted one finger, and the sound broke cleanly in half.
Hermes fluttered in through the high archway, wings a blur, landing lightly between the columns. His sandals clicked once on marble as he strode forward, holding a scroll bound in black ribbon. He moved like someone used to interrupting storms.
"Message from the goddess of wisdom," he said easily, though his grin had dulled at the edges. He tipped his hat to Zeus, then turned it briefly toward Athena and Apollo both—a silent good luck dressed as a tease.
He handed Zeus the scroll, the ribbon glinting faintly with Athena's seal. The Father broke it open with one thumb, eyes scanning the script that flickered with divine ink.
Hermes straightened, adjusted the brim of his hat, and took a small step back. "All yours, Father," he said. Then, with one last glance—half amusement, half worry—he disappeared into the stands.
The hall exhaled.
Athena kept her eyes on Zeus. Apollo didn't. He looked up at the stands, at the gods who watched like they were already picking sides, and felt the weight of it—the spectacle, the old hunger for chaos, the familiar hum that always came before someone lost.
Zeus read the scroll without hurry, his eyes flicking across the words like he already knew what they said. Then, with a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh, he crumpled it in one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. The parchment hit the marble with a soft slap.
"Another mortal," Zeus said, his voice carrying through the vast chamber. "Another plea. Another storm." His tone was bored, but the kind of bored that cut deep—a blade dulled from use but still sharp when pressed.
The silence that followed carried its own charge. Every god on the stands leaned forward, just a little.
Then Zeus turned his head toward Apollo. Lightning flickered faintly under his skin when he smiled. "And you, Sunborn," he said, "what stake have you in this one? She is not your worshiper."
Apollo met his father's gaze, unflinching, though his throat felt dry. "She was once," he said. "That is reason enough."
The answer hung between them.
For a long moment, Zeus only stared, unreadable. His expression was that of a man deciding whether to punish or to laugh—and then he did laugh, loud and thunder-deep. The sound filled every corner of the hall, rolling up into the rafters until even the smallest gods winced.
He leaned back on his throne, his laughter breaking into a grin that showed too many teeth. It wasn't mirth. It was amusement that fed itself—the joy of watching the stage fill with actors who didn't realize the script was older than all of them.
He waved a hand toward the hall, voice booming with theatrical ease. "Do you hear it?" he called out to no one and everyone. "Another of my children dragged to pity by mortals! Another heart cracked open because a fragile creature blinked at them the right way. It never ends."
The gathered gods chuckled uneasily. The smaller ones—winds, rivers, muses—glanced at one another like this was part of the entertainment.
Apollo felt the heat crawl up his neck but forced his shoulders back. He could feel Athena's stillness beside him—cold, unbothered, like marble. Her calm made his defiance feel brighter, angrier.
"Tell me, my son," Zeus said, smiling without warmth. "When you burn for them, do you ever stop to ask how much they owe you in return? Or do you just keep burning until there's nothing left but ash and another prayer for mercy?"
Apollo didn't answer. He didn't have to. The hall had already chosen its entertainment, and he was standing in the middle of it.
Zeus' smile thinned into a smirk as his gaze drifted from the son of light to the daughter of wisdom. "And you," he began, his tone turning smooth, sharp at the edges. "It hasn't been long since you stood on this very floor, pleading for your mortal, Odysseus of Ithaca, to be freed from the same island."
A low ripple passed through the gathered gods, a mix of curiosity and remembered amusement. Athena didn't move, but the air around her tightened.
Zeus' eyes brightened. "Don't you remember how you pulled it off?" he said, voice carrying easily through the hall. "How you went from god to god, weaving that clever little net of persuasion? Apollo, Hephaestus, Aphrodite, Ares... even Hera." His eyes gleamed. "Even me."
He lifted his cup in mock salute. "Convincing each one to play their part in Odysseus' release. A fine performance, truly. I almost enjoyed the show."
A few of the gods chuckled under their breath. Hermes, wherever he lingered in the back, had the good sense not to.
Zeus' tone shifted again, lower, crueler. "And now look," he said, turning his gaze back to Apollo. "One of the very gods you had to sway then stands beside you, begging for the same mercy." He let the words hang, savoring them like a victory already won. "Funny how the winds change, isn't it?"
Apollo's jaw tightened. He looked away for only a breath—just enough to catch the shimmer of the stands, the eyes waiting for him to flinch—then forced himself to meet Zeus' gaze again. His light sharpened, bright and hard around him, gold burning through the edges of the marble at his feet.
He didn't speak. He didn't bow. He only stood there, chin high, letting his silence answer the ridicule.
Zeus chuckled, pleased with the restraint. "Good," he said. "You're learning."
But the air still hummed, sharp with tension. Because everyone in that hall knew what came next: gods didn't beg twice without consequence—and Zeus didn't enjoy being reminded that his children had learned to play his games just as well as he had.
Athena waited until her father's laughter faded. When the last echo died, she stepped forward. Calm, as ever. "Are you willing to hear us out, Father," she asked evenly, "or has your judgment already been cast?"
Zeus raised a brow, that lazy, thunder-born smirk tugging at his mouth. He leaned back into his throne. "The floor is yours, daughter," he said. "But this time, it won't be just a few gods you'll have to charm."
He lifted his hand and gestured toward the amphitheater above.
The stands stirred—rows upon rows of divine faces turning their gaze down on her. Lesser and major gods, sea nymphs with hair like foam, minor winds in pale blue armor, even a few forgotten heroes who had clawed their way into immortality. All of them leaned forward as if the hearing were a festival. The air shimmered faintly with their collective power, the hum of divinity restless and waiting for spectacle.
"This time," Zeus continued, "you'll have to convince them."
For the first time, Athena's composure wavered—only slightly. Her brows drew together, the smallest crack in the mask. "Them?"
"Yes," Zeus said, voice heavy with amusement. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Your peers. The council has grown fond of Calypso's story. Some even pity her." He rolled the words on his tongue like they tasted sweet. "At the end of the day, she is a goddess—one who has obeyed her punishment faithfully. Why should we keep tearing open her wounds just to please mortal desires?"
A ripple moved through the crowd—murmurs, half-whispered agreements—the air thickened.
Lightning flared briefly behind his eyes. "It seems to me," he said, his tone turning sharp, "that you've grown too comfortable letting mortals shape the hand of fate. First Odysseus, now his son. What next, hm? Another war averted because your chosen mortal sits too close to danger?"
He chuckled, thunder rolling through the hall like mock applause. "Shall I stop Ares from sharpening his spear next time a favored city angers him—just to keep your pet line of heroes alive?"
The laughter of the gods followed, echoing in cold bursts from the stands. Even Apollo felt the sound grind against his ribs.
Zeus sat back again, satisfied. "Tell me, Athena. At what point do mortals stop being your students and start being your masters?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the air felt bruised by it. Apollo could feel the question dig at her, the way every god in the chamber waited for her to answer—half expecting defiance, half hungry for it.
But Athena didn't flinch. She only exhaled. "Very well," she said, voice clear enough to cut through the hum of thunder. "If it's a trial you want, then we'll have one."
Her sandals clicked softly as she stepped forward, chin high. Every eye in the hall followed her, the echo of her steps rolling through the marble until even the winds stilled to listen. The calm in her voice didn't hide the edge beneath it—it sharpened it.
Zeus' smile faltered, just slightly. The arrogance in his eyes narrowed into something cooler, assessing. He leaned back on his throne, the storm around him dimming to a low growl.
"A trial," he repeated, the word rumbling like distant thunder. Then, slower: "Well?" His grin returned, thinner this time. "Convince us all."
The air cracked once—quiet lightning behind the clouds—and Apollo felt it like a pulse under his ribs. The stage was set, the storm had its audience, and the board was theirs again.
Only this time, Apollo thought, as Athena raised her eyes toward the court, the game wasn't just about gods anymore.
Athena moved like she had done this before—because she had. And when she spoke, her tone was steady, the kind that commanded attention without asking for it.
"My father speaks true," she began, letting the first ripple of surprise move through the chamber. "Mortals do not deserve our constant interference. They are fragile, flawed—quick to praise us when it serves them, quick to curse us when it does not." She turned slightly, silver-gray eyes gliding across the crowd. "And yet, they are also our reflection. Every victory they win in our name, every ruin they rebuild, feeds the faith that built this mountain."
The room stirred. Even Zeus' smirk faded into consideration.
"I do not deny my hand in their stories," she continued, voice cool but growing stronger. "Yes, I have stepped into their path more than once. I have guided heroes and tempered wars. But not to make them masters of gods." She paused—long enough for the weight of the words to sink in. "To remind us why Olympus still matters."
She turned then, facing the gathered ranks like a commander surveying her army. "You call it favoritism," she said, echoing her father's earlier taunt, "but perhaps it is something else—an investment. For every mortal who rises, who carries our names, who builds temples or sings our deeds, we remain more than stories. We remain needed."
The minor gods leaned forward, uncertain, intrigued. Athena saw it—small deities of rivers and dawns, winds and hearths—those who had been forgotten by cities and shrines. "The mortals are fickle," she said, softer now, almost kind. "But they remember who remembers them. It is not worship alone that sustains Olympus—it is relevance. It is motion. The tides turn. And one day, even a forgotten god may find their name on mortal tongues again. Because a shrine raised by a nameless fisherman, lasts longer than any rumor of our indifference."
A low murmur rippled through the stands. Apollo caught the faintest curl of pride at the edge of her tone; she was building her argument like a wall, brick by brick.
Athena turned back toward Zeus then, bowing her head just slightly. "Father, you say mortals shape fate as though that is danger. I say it is proof that we have taught them well. Their choices mirror ours—their wars, their love, their defiance. If that makes them dangerous, then perhaps they have simply learned from their makers."
The crowd shifted again; even Poseidon's brow furrowed in reluctant thought. Dionysus hummed, almost approving. Aphrodite crossed her arms, but did not interrupt.
"And as for Calypso," Athena said, her voice cooling once more, "let us not forget whose blood she carries. The daughter of Atlas does not deserve rest, and the decree that bound her once still binds her now. Every act of mercy toward her is another crack in the chains that hold her line. If we allow her peace, we invite defiance again."
She placed a hand over her chest. "This is not mercy for mortals. It is justice among gods. Freeing Telemachus from her island ensures that the rebel's bloodline never forgets its place. It honors your order, Father. And it keeps Olympus in balance."
A long silence followed. The chamber seemed to breathe with the gods themselves.
Then, slowly, the murmuring began—first soft, then building. Minor deities nodded. Some of the major ones exchanged thoughtful glances. Hephaestus gave a low grunt of approval. Hermes chuckled under his breath. Hera's arms loosened at her sides, but she said nothing.
Even Zeus leaned back, eyes gleaming, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth—not quite pride, not quite defeat.
And beside Athena, Apollo could feel it—the balance tipping, the board shifting again. She had played it perfectly.
Then Zeus moved.
He rose slowly, the sound of his throne scraping like distant thunder. One hand came together with the other in a slow, deliberate clap. Thunder rolled under the rhythm, each strike of his palms echoing through the marble and shaking the golden chains of the chandeliers above.
"Impressive," he said, laughter curling in his chest. "You've won the hearts of gods for your little heir of Ithaca. Clever words. Clever cause."
He stopped clapping and let the silence stretch. A grin pulled at his mouth—too wide, too knowing. "But tell me, daughter—who spoke for her?"
The words dropped like a stone into still water; every god in the amphitheater stilled, every whisper strangled mid-breath.
Zeus' eyes gleamed, catching the light from Apollo's aura. "You argue for the boy—Odysseus' blood, Poseidon's irritation, my own favorite mortal pastime: that cursed line's endless drama." He tilted his head, the grin deepening. "But the girl? The Muse who defied my son, who danced between gods and men until she broke the rhythm? You ask me to free her too?"
The silence turned heavier.
Every gaze in the hall shifted toward Apollo.
He didn't move. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white against gold. The light around him flickered, too bright for a blink, then steadied. Athena's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away from her father.
Zeus wasn't finished. He leaned forward on the throne, thunder flashing faintly at his shoulders. "Convince me," he said, voice lower now, heavier. "Convince me why she deserves to leave that island when it was her steps that led them there. Why I should let a mortal who bends gods to her liking walk free again."
His words were open and cruel, ringing off the marble like a hammer against metal.
Apollo felt it hit him first—the heat under his ribs, the sting behind his teeth. Zeus' words weren't meant only for Athena; they were a knife meant to turn inward. The hall might have seen a test of mortal mercy, but Apollo heard something else entirely.
The Muse who defied my son.
He'd thought those words himself. Felt them every time he looked down at that island, at her laughter, at the way she'd turned from him when he offered eternity. He'd built her pedestal out of sunlight and watched her step down from it without looking back.
Now his father said it out loud. Said it like it was proof of his failure.
He stood perfectly still, but inside everything twisted—the pride, the shame, the wanting. He could feel Athena's presence beside him, could hear the crowd start to murmur again.
But all Apollo could think, as Zeus smiled like thunder breaking, was how every god in that room would soon know what he already did: that the girl had undone him, and he still hadn't decided whether that made her blessed—or damned.
"So?" Zeus asked the room. "Will no one fight for the favored Muse of Apollo? Or shall she stay stranded with the Calypso?"
The words struck like a challenge thrown into the dirt. No one answered. The hall held its breath. Even Hermes, who could never resist a jab, stayed still.
Zeus' grin deepened, eyes flicking between Athena and Apollo. "Ah, but wait," he said, pretending to think, the sound of his voice mocking its own patience. "If we free the boy but not the girl, what happens then? Won't it be a waste?"
He gestured broadly. "Tell me, daughter—won't your brave little heir of Ithaca just risk his life all over again? Won't he sail back into another storm for her?"
The question landed heavy in the room.
Zeus wasn't done. "And when he does—when his ship cracks, when the sea swallows him whole—will you crawl back to this floor again, begging me to spare him a second time? Tell me, Athena. Will you drag yourself before me to plead his case while the same girl sits on the same cursed shore?"
The words rolled through the chamber like thunder.
Athena froze. Not because the challenge frightened her, but because her father hadn't lied. She knew Telemachus—the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the quiet resolve that mirrored his father's. He would. He would walk through Tartarus itself to find you again.
Her throat tightened. She looked at Zeus, at the storm behind his smile, then turned—slowly—toward Apollo.
Their eyes met. Hers said what her mouth didn't: This isn't my fight anymore.
Then she bowed her head once, deliberate, and stepped back.
The marble echoed softly under her sandals.
Apollo's chest went tight. Around them, the gods whispered, waiting.
Zeus' grin thinned until it was nothing but the shape of teeth in shadow. "Tell me, my radiant son," he said, his voice echoing through the marble. "What do you gain from this plea? The girl already chose the mortal—the one my daughter here is so desperate to protect."
Apollo's gaze flicked sideways, just for a moment, toward Athena. She met his eyes, unflinching, her expression carved from stone. There was no malice there—only clarity.
It had always been clear. She would argue for Telemachus, for Odysseus' bloodline, for reason and legacy. But for the girl—for you—Athena would not reach again.
Because favor had limits. Even wisdom drew lines.
He turned back to Zeus. The gods above leaned closer, wings rustling, robes whispering. The silence pressed heavy, waiting to see if he would speak or let the storm pass over him.
Apollo's throat worked once, and then his voice came—quiet but steady. "Wasn't what Athena said true?" he began. "That mortals reflect us? That their choices keep our names alive?"
He lifted his chin, the light around him burning warmer, gold bleeding across the marble like dawn creeping over stone. "Then what does it matter who she chose? Mortal or divine, she chose. She acted, she defied, she lived—and that alone keeps her in our image."
The room shifted. A few murmurs broke the hush.
Apollo's eyes hardened, the glow behind them fierce. "And if that is true, Father," he went on, "then freeing her doesn't diminish us. It honors what we made. You ask what I gain?" His hand curled at his side. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But you gain too. The world remembers the gods who show mercy, not the ones who crush what they can't control."
The light flared, washing the steps of Zeus' throne in gold. "So tell me, Father, isn't that worth something back?"
The thunder above their heads trembled. No one moved. Even Zeus' laughter, when it came, was slower—more thoughtful than cruel.
Zeus hummed low, rubbing his chin with the back of one hand. "Of course, my son," he said, voice dripping with amusement. "A fine speech. Almost convincing." His tone shifted, lazy but cutting. "But that mercy you speak of—that only applies to mortals who praise and honor their gods. Tell me, does your little muse still care to be yours?"
The words cracked through the silence like a whip.
Murmurs rippled through the amphitheater. A few gods chuckled under their breath, others whispering as though the question itself was too sharp to answer.
Zeus leaned forward, the stormlight behind him flaring. "Let's not forget, you threw feasts for her. You brought her to our home. And yet..." He gestured with his cup, wine glinting red in the lightning. "The mortal life is what she chose."
He smiled, cruel in its calm. "So once again I ask, Apollo—are you asking for her freedom... or for your pride back?"
Apollo's jaw clenched. "Pride?" he repeated, the word twisting out of him like a growl. "You think pride has anything to do with this?"
Zeus laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I think it has everything to do with it."
The light around Apollo pulsed brighter, his shoulders rising, gold curling hot at the corners of his vision. "You don't understand—" he started, but Zeus cut him off with a crack of thunder that rattled the high glass of the hall.
"No," Zeus said, voice booming now. "You don't understand." He fully sat up, the air bending under the weight of his power. "You dress your obsession in the shape of justice and call it divine purpose. You want her free because she stopped looking at you. You want her back because she dared to live without your light."
Each word landed like stone dropped in deep water.
Apollo's fingers twitched at his side, nails biting into his palms. "That's not true," he hissed.
"Isn't it?" Zeus' tone softened—not kind, but knowing. "You say it's about mercy, yet every word you speak drips with want. You ask for her freedom, but what you mean is return her to me."
Apollo's glow flickered—gold turned white-hot. His mask cracked, just slightly, just enough for the room to see it. "You think you know what I want," he said, voice low, shaking. "But you only ever see reflection, not light. You don't—"
Zeus smiled thinly. "Then prove me wrong."
Something in Apollo snapped. The words tore from him before he could stop them—loud enough to make even the marble tremble.
"She is mine!"
The sound rang through the chamber like a weapon thrown. Every god froze. Even the thunder stilled.
The echo rolled up the dome and came back down again—his voice, his claim, his ruin laid bare for all to hear. The sound clinging to the air long after it should have faded.
Apollo's chest heaved once. The gold that had burned so bright around him flickered, dimming to a dull, uneven glow. The weight of what he'd said sat heavy in his lungs—too late to take back, too loud to deny.
For the first time in an age, he looked small before his father's throne.
The silence that followed wasn't merciful. It was knowing. Every god in the amphitheater felt the shape of it—spite disguised as righteousness, devotion tangled with ego. Even the lesser deities, the whispering winds and minor muses, could taste the truth in it: this wasn't about justice. It was about possession.
Athena knew it too. She didn't move, didn't glance his way. But her hand flexed once at her side, hidden by her robe.
She could see what Zeus saw—Apollo unraveling the logic she'd built, thread by thread, with his own need. His voice had turned the plea personal, and personal always lost. Still, her face stayed still. Composure was the last weapon left.
Zeus leaned back in his throne, and let out a slow hum of satisfaction. The faintest smile curved his mouth. This was exactly what he wanted: proof that neither of his children were selfless. That wisdom and light, for all their polish, still bent toward pride.
Finally, he spoke. "And there you have it."
The words echoed like a gavel.
He rose, spreading his arms to the amphitheater, his voice carrying with that old effortless power—the kind of power that didn't need thunder to shake the air. "My children plead not for balance, nor justice, nor the will of fate," he declared. "They plead for their reflections. For their favorites. For their mortals."
He turned slowly, sweeping the gathered ranks—nymphs perched on marble ledges, river gods, demigods, the old and the forgotten, all watching with rapt, uneasy faces. "So, tell me, council of Olympus—what do you say? Shall we once again bend the law for mortal desire? Shall we grant freedom to those who toy with divine favor and call it love?"
The murmur rose like wind through trees, the chamber alive with voices. Some eager, some hesitant. A thousand opinions, none yet brave enough to rise above the rest.
Zeus' gaze dropped back to his children.
Apollo stood rigid, jaw clenched, light trembling faintly at his shoulders as if fighting to hold shape. Beside him, Athena stayed poised—silver, silent, eyes fixed forward, her mind already calculating paths through whatever came next.
Zeus tilted his head, lightning flickering faintly in his eyes. "And how, my two children," he asked, voice almost gentle now, "will you respond?"
The words hung in the air—half challenge, half promise—before thunder cracked through the high dome again, cutting the hall in light and shadow.
The gods waited.
And neither of his children moved.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 71 ┃ 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬; lolol ngl i almost didn't include this cuz i felt that it was a lil indulgent lolol, like i said before i get carried away with writing sometimes and end up wasting time writing stuff that doesn't really need to be written/for the the plot, but ahhh i can't help myself lolol so yes sorrry for this long ass chapter but i just went 'what the hell' i left y'all hanging for so long----so i introduce, my reindition of 'god games' lolo PARTTT 2!!
aaa hope you're doing okay, xani! everytime i see the news about america, i feel on edge, and i don't even live there :c. pls stay safe!! 🩷🩷
omg thank you so much lovely 😭😭 we're currently on day 26 (or 27 not sure) of being on government lockdown, so i'm cruising as best as i can lolol. and with all the shit happening with ICE and so many damn constitutions being broken right before our eyes i'm just praying to the gods above things either mellow or we pull a move from the french and start actually getting shit done.... but no worries, i'm staying as safe as i can and trying to keep my mind off of it with writing and school ❤️❤️
Is there gonna be any more of the Telemachus series thing?
yessss (sry for replying, just drunk a redbull so im living dangerous rn and ignoring sleep lolol) but YESSSS i'm frothing at the mouth wtf i can have these two do next?!?! like so many options, voyeurism?? threesomes ft. peisistratus?? dom!reader + sub!tele?? AHHHHHHHHH i'm writing part 3 rn just stuck on whether or not imma keep up the act of having smut/18+ in each chapter (not full on smut but like maybe a handjob here or two don't know) but yesss i'm LIT
⌜Godly Things | Chapter 71
Chapter 71 | patterns, not bloodlines⌟
╰ ⌞🇨🇭🇦🇵🇹🇪🇷 🇮🇳🇩🇪🇽⌝
❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘
You sat where the sea met the sand—right in that thin line where each small wave spilled forward, bubbled around your shins, and sank back with a soft hiss.
Sunlight scattered on the ripples in bright coins. A crab the size of your palm paused near your knee, decided you were not a threat, and kept trundling sideways with its prize of broken shell.
You let your fingers rake the soaked edge of the shore, scooping wet sand and letting it drip back in a slow, lazy rope. "...so... yeah. We're all fine. I promise."
The words felt silly, but you said them anyway. Calypso had told you the sea talked. If it listened, it could be told the right things and sent back home to Penelope and Odysseus.
"We're eating," you added, tipping your chin toward the horizon like it had eyes. "Callias is being a menace and also taking his medicine. Peisistratus is... Peisistratus." Your mouth twitched. "Telemachus is safe. He's—" your throat pinched on the last word, "—he's alright. I'm alright. Tell them not to worry."
Another small wave slid in and curled around your calves, warmer this time, as if the sea nodded.
You breathed in salt, breathed out slow. You had stolen these minutes—slipped away when no one was looking, walked the narrow path until the green opened and the world turned to water and sky.
There, it was simple: sit in the shallow wash, talk like a fool, leave steadier than you came.
A cover story helped. Calypso liked seaweed near the pots, liked the way it thickened broth and softened meat. So you brought a basket. Work first, prayer second—it didn't matter as long as you came back with something draped over your arm.
"Also," you added, because it tickled your ribs until you said it out loud, "if the waves see Hermes, tell him I said... thanks." You scrunched your nose at the water. "He'll act unbearable about it, but still."
A gull laughed overhead. Foam chased your toes and fell apart.
You stood, brushing sand from the backs of your legs. The basket at your side already sagged with a glossy tangle of kelp and narrow green ribbons that smelled like rain on iron. You shook the last drip from your fingers, set your feet in the firmer sand above the wash, and hitched the basket to your hip.
"Okay," you told the horizon, because ending on nothing felt wrong, "I'm going back. If you're really listening... let them know." A beat. "Please."
You turned, crossing the strip of crushed shells. The first steps felt heavier, like the water was reluctant to let you go. Past the high-tide line the sand turned grainy and hot, then gave way to the damp dark soil that marked the path into the trees. Shade took your shoulders. The sounds of the shore—hiss, hush, gull—slid behind you, replaced by leaf drip and the hush of insects.
You walked.
The canopy stitched itself tight above your head, beads of light falling through in sharp, coin-sized drops. A lizard darted across the path. Far off, something plucked two clean notes like a stringed instrument trying to find its tune.
You shifted the basket to your other hip and kept moving, eyes tracing the familiar marks you and the boys had made on the path: a scuff in the mud that looked like a half-moon (Peisistratus' heel), a snapped twig at shoulder height (Telemachus clearing the way), a shallow boot print pressed at an angle (yours, hurrying).
Your mind kept drifting back to the fire ring, where the others were surely waiting for you. The way Telemachus slid the better pieces from his bowl into yours without making a scene. The way Callias pretends he doesn't like being fussed over while willingly offering his wrists. The way Peisistratus leans into sunlight like a cat, calling traps a success before they'd even checked them.
Home, your heart suggested. Not a place, not quite. A set of small things that added up right.
You paused when the path dipped. The air cooled against your damp skin. Here the jungle thickened and folded, and without meaning to you walked softer. Calypso could appear out of green like a fish from a shadow. She was kind. She was strange. She watched. You could feel it sometimes—like being seen by the island itself.
"Just picking seaweed," you practiced under your breath in case she asked. "For tonight's stew." You lifted the basket to show your own invisible judge. Ribbons of weed dripped brine and a few small snails back onto the path. Proof.
Leaves whispered ahead. You froze—listened—then heard only the lazy slide of a lizard belly over bark. You loosened your shoulders. Silly.
You took a few more steps down the narrow path, still half-smiling at yourself, when the air shifted—warmer, scented like salt and something sweet. A soft splash of sound came from ahead, and before you could guess what it was, Calypso stepped out from between two palms.
Her hair was dripping wet, the faint scent of crushed shells and sea-flowers rolling off her skin; it was the kind of smell that made you think of tides and sleep at the same time.
She blinked at you, then at the basket hooked on your hip. "Collecting?" she asked, voice easy, melodic.
"Seaweed," you said, holding up the basket as proof. "For the stew."
Her smile curved. "Of course. The tide's gifts should always be rinsed. There's a freshwater pond close by—come, I'll help."
Before you could protest, she'd already turned, her bare feet whispering against the path. You fell in step beside her, matching your pace to hers. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and the faint hum of insects.
Calypso talked as she walked—small, simple things that filled the quiet. She pointed out a vine she used to twist into thread, explained how she wove her skirts from dried reeds, how she rubbed her hair with crushed blossoms to keep it soft.
"I lock them up before the wind catches it," she said, running her fingers through the damp locs hanging over her chest. "The sea tangles everything if you let it."
You smiled faintly, glancing down at your own messy hair. "I usually just tie it back and pray for mercy."
She laughed, light and quick. "Mortals and their prayers. Try the blossoms next time."
In return, you offered your own small tricks—how you'd learned to dry salt fish on Ithaca's rocks, how Telemachus once taught you to mend a net using only your fingers and patience. She listened closely, as though each word was worth keeping.
By the time you realized how far you'd walked, the trees had opened to a clearing edged in silver light. The pond lay before you again, glassy and still, except where the thin waterfall kissed its surface. Mist clung to the rocks. The same place. The same soft rush of water.
You swallowed, heartbeat quickening as a smile grew on your lips. The memory came back all at once—Telemachus' wide-eyed shock, his stammered apology, Peisistratus' laugh somewhere behind him. Gods. You could still feel the way heat had rushed up your neck.
If you didn't laugh, you'd melt from how your heart still flipped whenever Telemachus looked at you like you were something sacred.
Calypso glanced over, curious. "Something funny?" she asked, stepping ahead.
You met her eyes, still smiling, and shook your head. "Just... remembering," you said softly, and let the water swallow your reflection for a moment, watching as Calypso crouched by the edge to dip a handful of the seaweed into the pond.
"Here," she said. "The salt will fade faster if you keep it moving."
You knelt beside her, the hem of your skirt brushing the water. Cool ripples lapped at your thighs as you began rinsing the greens, fingers sinking into the smooth, slippery strands. Droplets sparkled as they slid from your hands back into the pond.
You focused on the rhythm of your hands instead, dunking and lifting, wringing and letting go. The ripples stretched out and broke your face into pieces—mouth, eyes, hair—gone the second the next wave hit.
For a while, Calypso was quiet beside you, humming something under her breath. It wasn't a song you knew; it sounded older than language, more like the ocean breathing through a throat. The water lapped your arms, cool and steady. Then her voice drifted out again, softer now.
"You've fared well," she said. "All of you. You've lasted longer than most."
You blinked, glancing up from the basket. "Longer?"
"Mhm." She smiled faintly, eyes on the glint of the pond. "Since your arrival, it's been..." She paused, searching for the word, brows furrowing slightly. "What do mortals call it? A month? Yes, about that."
You froze. "A month?" The word jumped out sharper than you meant.
Her eyes flicked toward you, surprised.
You swallowed hard. "A... month," you repeated, slower this time, like saying it twice might make it sound less impossible. You'd only just arrived—three nights, maybe four. The days hadn't even felt separate yet. And yet somehow they'd been stolen from you again.
First Olympus, now this. Time slipping through your hands like water, rewriting itself while you weren't looking. The thought made your stomach twist. How many more moments had you lost without knowing? How much of your life belonged to gods and islands instead of you?
Calypso tilted her head. "Is that strange?"
You almost said no. You almost nodded and kept your head down, like the older version of you would have—quiet, careful, polite. But your mouth moved faster than your body could stop it. "It feels like days," you said. "A handful. Maybe a week. Not a month."
Calypso blinked again, her calm faltering for the first time since you'd met her. The smallest crease formed between her brows. "Time..." she started, then faltered. Her eyes darted toward the waterfall, anywhere but you. "The island can—distort things. It hums at a different rhythm than the world beyond. Sometimes faster. Sometimes slower. It's difficult to tell."
You stared at her. "Difficult to tell?" you echoed, half under your breath.
She gave a quick, awkward little laugh, brushing her palms on her thighs. "I wouldn't worry. It always balances itself. Always."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes this time. The air between you thickened, heavy with something unsaid.
You wanted to ask—what did she mean by "most"? How many had stayed? How long was "longer than most"? But before you could find the words, she stood up too quickly, the hem of her skirt dripping against the rocks.
"Well," she said briskly, tucking a wet curl behind her ear. "You seem to have this handled. I'll leave you to it. Best to let the seaweed soak a while longer anyway. I'll be back with some linen to tie it in bundles."
And just like that, she was gone—walking back the way you'd come, her bracelets clinking faintly as she vanished into the green.
You stared after her, water still running off your hands, the pond rippling where her reflection had been. The sunlight caught your basket, flashing off the wet strands inside, and you suddenly couldn't tell if the shadows had shifted because the day had moved on—or because time itself had.
Before you knew it, you were finishing up the last of the seaweed. The repetition calmed you: dip, swish, wring, repeat. You didn't even notice you were humming until a voice purred right beside your ear—soft, teasing, familiar.
"Well, look at you," it drawled. "You wear nature well, you know. The leaves suit you—though, personally, I'd leave even less to the imagination."
You yelped, nearly tipping the basket into the pond. The water sloshed, your pulse spiked, and you whipped around.
Eros hovered there, golden curls shining like they'd caught the sun itself, wings fluttering lazily behind him. He looked far too pleased with himself, lounging midair as though he'd been watching you for hours.
"You—" you hissed, straightening up, your heart still racing. "How long have you been there?"
He shrugged, spinning upside down just to irritate you. "Long enough to appreciate the view. You've really adapted, haven't you? Barefoot, skin kissed by salt. Not bad, little mortal. Not bad at all."
You groaned, tugging the edge of your leafy wrap lower on your thigh, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Oh, plenty," he said easily, landing in the shallows beside you with a soft splash, bare feet barely rippling the surface. "But none of them are half as entertaining as you. Look at you—'Apollo's Muse,' sitting here in wet skirts, pretending you don't enjoy being looked at."
You scowled, tugging the hem down again until it nearly touched your knees. "You're impossible."
"Flattering," he said with a grin. "Really, though—if I'd known you'd take so naturally to island life, I would've dropped by sooner. You've got this whole sea-nymph thing going for you now. Very alluring. Very—"
"Eros." You cut him off, your patience already wearing thin. "What do you want?"
He blinked innocently, pressing a hand to his chest. "Me? Want? Must there always be a reason? Maybe I missed you."
You shot him a flat look. "Try again."
Eros sighed dramatically, as though you'd just denied him a grand romance. "Mortals," he lamented. "No sense for mystery anymore." He tilted his head, studying your face. "And after everything I've done for you—risking divine boredom to stir up a little excitement in your nonexistent love-life—this is how you thank me? By sulking in tide pools?"
You clenched your jaw, gripping the basket tighter to keep from throwing it at him. "You call that 'help'? Because I call slipping love potions into people's drinks chaos."
Eros laughed, his grin returning—wicked, knowing, bright as sunlight over the sea. "Chaos and love go hand in hand, sweetheart. You should know that by now."
You exhaled through your nose, eyes narrowing. "Look, Eros. If you came here just to tease me—"
He stepped closer, water sliding off his ankles in delicate ripples. "Then what? You'll scold me? Threaten me with that fierce little glare?" His smile turned softer—still teasing, but edged with something that almost felt like fondness. "You really do look good in the wild by the way."
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin warmed under his gaze. "I'll take that as my cue to leave."
Eros huffed. "Gods, you're no fun anymore," he muttered, wings fluttering as he drifted lazily above the water. "All stiff shoulders and polite smiles. What happened to the girl who used to bite back?"
You shot him a look over your shoulder. "She died."
"I see. Will my love be enough to bring her back?" he teased, though his grin didn't quite reach his eyes this time. He hovered there for a beat longer, his gaze flicking toward the trees, then back to you. "Alright," he said at last, the humor fading from his tone. "You win. I'll behave—for once."
You didn't trust the sudden calm in his voice. "That'll be the day."
Eros ignored you, straightening midair. The air around him shifted—lighter, sharper, like the air before a storm. "Aphrodite wanted me to check in," he said slowly. "She's been watching, same as the rest. You've been... interesting lately."
Your stomach sank a little. "That's never good."
He smirked faintly. "Depends who's saying it." Then, his tone lowered. "Tell me something, sweetheart—don't you think it's strange?"
You blinked. "What is?"
"That little nymph of yours. Calypso. The way she looks at your prince. The way she favors him—the extra food, the softer tone. Doesn't that bother you?"
You frowned, unsure how to answer. "She's just... nice. I think."
Eros laughed, short and humorless. "Nice," he repeated, as if testing the word. "That's cute. You really haven't figured it out yet, have you?"
You crossed your arms, irritation sparking. "If you're trying to make me jealous, it won't work."
"Oh, please." His eyes gleamed, sharp and bright. "Jealousy would be an improvement. At least that means you're learning something."
"Learning what?" you snapped.
Eros drifted closer, so near you could see the little halo of light that always followed him. "The difference between love and possession. Between wanting and protecting. You mortals think they're the same thing, but they're not. You keep letting people take what's yours, then call it mercy."
You felt your jaw tighten. "You don't know what you're talking about."
He raised a brow. "Don't I? You let that Bronte brat—what's her name, Andreia?—walk all over you. Let her whisper his name like it belonged to her, and you stood there. Quiet. For his sake. And yet she was planning to replace your queen while you were busy being merciful."
Your breath hitched. "How do you—"
Eros scoffed. "Please. I'm Eros. What did you think I do all day, shoot arrows and gossip about wine? I know every heartbeat that's ever raced for someone it shouldn't."
You glared at him. "If you already know everything, then stop dancing around it and say what you came to say."
That finally wiped the smirk from his face. For a moment, he looked older—still beautiful, but heavier somehow. "Fine," he said quietly. "Since you're so eager for truth."
He crouched down so you were eye-to-eye, water rippling around his feet. "That nymph you're so quick to trust isn't just some pretty face washing sheets. She's not harmless. She's not new."
Your hands stilled over the basket. "What do you mean?"
Eros sighed, rubbing a thumb under his chin. "Tell me, did Odysseus ever tell you what happened to him on his way home from the war? All those years lost at sea?"
You shook your head slowly. "No... he never talked about it."
"Of course he doesn't." Eros rolled his eyes. "Kings and their secrets. They love to lock them up, and then they wonder why I'm constantly cleaning up the mess. Makes my job harder."
You frowned. "What does King Odysseus have to do with Calypso?"
He gave you a long, knowing look. "Everything."
Eros straightened, wings twitching faintly. "Calypso isn't just a nymph. She's a goddess. Daughter of Atlas—the one who holds up the sky." His gaze flicked to your hands, still frozen over the basket. "And she's cursed. Bound to this island forever. Punishment for defiance, her father's rebellion, wrong alliances—depends which bard you ask."
"Cursed how?"
"To be alone." He looked toward the pond, voice low. "Every mortal who washes up here stays only for a while. Long enough to feel needed. Long enough for her to believe this time will be different. But it never is. The story always ends the same."
A chill crept down your spine. "With her alone."
Eros' lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Not anymore. As you can see, she hasn't been lonely lately." His gaze flicked toward you, then to the direction of the camp, where you knew Telemachus and the others waited. "And that is the problem."
Your mind wouldn't stop spinning. You stared at Eros, heartbeat thudding so loud it drowned the sound of the water.
"How long has she been alone?"
A beat. "Since your king," he said simply.
You blinked, not breathing.
Eros studied you for a moment, weighing whether to answer, his voice a quiet blade. "Your king washed up here once—years ago. The sea dragged him to this very shore, half-dead. Calypso found him, a proud man full of salt and stubbornness. And she—she was starving for company. So she nursed him like she's nursing you all now. Fed him, held him, loved him—if you want to call it that. And when he tried to leave, she reminded him that she was eternity, and home was only mortal."
His eyes flicked toward camp. "Sound familiar?"
The world narrowed.
You heard Odysseus' voice from some other lifetime—gods play their own games, ones that span lifetimes and often have rules only they fully understand. You remembered him telling you once over a chessboard, his half-smile as he moved his queen and muttered, sometimes, standing your ground is necessary; just be sure the hill you choose to die on is worth the battle.
"She kept him here for seven years," Eros continued. "It took Zeus himself to pry the island open. Hermes delivered the message."
He smiled without warmth. "Like he'll do again."
Your throat closed. "Telemachus," you whispered—because the truth had nowhere else to go.
"Yes," Eros said.
You shook your head, horror building in your chest. "She—she wouldn't—he's not his father—"
"Maybe not," Eros said, cutting you off. "But sometimes curses don't need bloodlines. They just need patterns." He gave you a look that was half pity, half warning. "And she's repeating one."
A pattern is just a door with better hinges, you thought, and Calypso had the key.
Before you could answer, a sound drifted through the trees—soft at first, then clear. A voice. Calypso's voice. Singing. The melody wound through the air like silk thread, low and lilting, every note brushing against your nerves.
Eros tilted his head, smirking faintly. "That's my cue. Hear it? That lilt in her voice—the scent of a snare."
"Wait—" you started, but he was already leaning in.
"Don't look so sad, little mortal," he murmured, brushing a quick kiss against your cheek. His lips were cool, smelling faintly of rose and sea air. "You'll figure out what to do. You always do. Besides... some problems are solved by owls, not suns."
He winked, and before you could swat at him, the air shimmered pink and gold. He vanished in a puff of light, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter.
You blinked hard, heart hammering, then turned just as Calypso's figure broke through the trees. Her curls were drier now, still damp at the ends, her skirt swaying around her bare legs. She smiled brightly, as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
"There you are," she chirped, cheerful as ever. "The others will be wondering where you've gone. Come—let's get back."
You managed a shaky nod, wiping your cheek with your wrist before she could notice anything strange. "Right. Just—finished rinsing."
Her eyes flicked to the basket, then back to you. She smiled wider. "Good. You've done well."
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "Thanks."
And as she turned and led the way back up the path, you followed, your steps a little slower, the rhythm of her song still curling in your ears.
She's a goddess, your mind whispered. A cursed one.
The trees closed in, sunlight dripping through the leaves, and you tried not to think about the way the island seemed to breathe with her every step.
☆
☆
That night, the jungle quieted early. The fire burned low, just a soft ring of amber in the dark, and the air smelled of salt and ash. Callias slept on his side, one arm thrown over his blanket. Peisistratus snored softly a few feet away, his back pressed to the wall of the hut. Calypso was, gods know where.
Outside, the tide whispered against the shore, slow and steady, as if the whole island was dreaming.
You couldn't sleep.
A month kept ticking behind your eyelids every time you blinked. And every time you closed your eyes, Eros' voice came back—she hasn't been lonely lately... that's the problem.
You stared up at the ceiling, the woven palm leaves faintly glowing with the last flicker of firelight. Beside you, Telemachus stirred, his shoulder brushing yours as he shifted closer in his sleep. His hair fell into his face, soft curls catching the glow.
You watched him for a while—his steady breathing, the faint rise and fall of his chest. He looked younger like this, peaceful in a way you rarely saw anymore. The sight of it twisted something in you.
Finally, you whispered, "Telemachus."
He hummed low, barely awake. "Mm?"
You hesitated, then said softly, "Have you ever prayed to Athena? Since we got here, I mean."
That seemed to wake him a little more. He turned his head, blinking at you through the dim light. "Athena?" he repeated, voice rough from sleep. "No... I haven't. Why?"
You stared down at your hands, fingers tangled in the edge of the blanket. The question you wanted to ask pressed against your tongue—What if Calypso isn't who she says she is? What if she's the reason we're still here? But the words wouldn't come. They sat heavy in your throat, thick with fear you didn't want to name.
Because if Eros was right, then Calypso wasn't just a kind nymph tending a lonely island. She was a goddess. A cursed one. And gods didn't share well.
Especially not when they wanted something—or someone.
Your eyes flicked back to Telemachus, his face still soft with sleep, his brow creasing faintly as if sensing your unease. He reached for your hand, half-conscious, and the warmth of his fingers grounded you just enough to find your voice.
"I just..." you began slowly, "I think we should. Pray, I mean. Maybe she could help us."
He frowned, still drowsy. "Athena?"
"Yeah. If Hermes didn't answer the song, maybe she will. She favors your family, right? Maybe she'll listen. Maybe she can get us off this island."
It was quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet where you could hear the slow drag of the waves outside and the faint pop of the dying fire.
Then Telemachus sighed—a long, low breath that sounded too heavy for someone half-asleep. He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Whatever traces of drowsiness he'd had melted away, replaced by that taut look you'd seen before—brows pinched, jaw tight, thoughts running faster than his voice could catch up.
"I've thought about it," he said after a beat, staring down at the blanket pooled around his lap. "Praying to her. To Athena."
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, watching the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
"But... I don't know if I should." His tone faltered, small and rough. "Not after how I acted. After everything."
"What do you mean?" you asked gently.
He dragged his hand through his curls, the motion restless. "I doubted her," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Disrespected her, even. When she came to us that last time, without warning—telling us that you were alive, that your ship had only... delayed." His breath hitched a little, his eyes distant now. "She disappeared before I could even ask where you were or how to find you."
You frowned softly, but he kept talking—his words slow at first, then tumbling like something he'd been carrying too long.
"I-I didn't know what to think. I thought she'd left me to wonder while she already knew. And for days, I couldn't stop thinking—if she was lying, if she'd already known you were gone—"
His voice broke off. "So I cursed her," he muttered, shame coloring his tone. "In my head, I cursed her for leaving me. For giving hope and then ripping it away." His thumb kept worrying the edge of the blanket like he could unspool the memory from its weave.
You hesitated, then gently placed your hand on his arm. "You didn't know," you said softly. "You were grieving. Scared."
He shook his head, eyes still lowered. "No. I was wrong. I see that now. She could've stayed silent, but she didn't; she risked everything just to get that message through." He swallowed, voice low and rough. "The gods... they don't do that unless it matters. And I spat her name like a curse anyway."
You didn't know what to do. You just sat there for a moment, watching him, your heart aching in a way that words couldn't reach. Seeing him like this—his hands trembling slightly, his shoulders drawn tight as if he was holding the whole world together with nothing but stubbornness—it made something in you hurt.
"Telemachus," you whispered softly.
He didn't look up right away, only blinked hard, jaw working like he was trying to keep everything from spilling out. You shifted closer, your knee brushing his, and reached up to touch his face. Your fingers brushed the line of his jaw, the rough warmth of his skin grounding you both.
He froze at the contact—then let out a shaky breath, leaning ever so slightly into your touch. His eyes closed for a heartbeat, like he'd been waiting for someone to tell him he didn't have to hold it all by himself.
"You're mortal," you said quietly, thumb tracing a small line just beneath his cheekbone. "You make mistakes. We all do. But what matters is what you do after. You can't change what you said or felt, but you can still make it right."
He opened his eyes then, looking at you with a kind of raw uncertainty that cut deeper than any wound.
You gave him a small, steady smile. "Maybe this is your chance to tell her you're sorry. To ask again. Not for forgiveness—for help. The gods don't ignore those who try."
Telemachus blinked slowly, your words sinking in. For a long time, he didn't speak, just studied you like he was trying to decide if he deserved the comfort you were offering. Finally, he whispered, "You really think she'd listen? After everything?"
You didn't hesitate. "Yes," you said, voice firm but gentle. "She always listened before. Maybe she's just waiting for you to try again."
He exhaled, the smallest, unsteady laugh escaping him. "You make it sound easy."
You smiled faintly, brushing a curl from his forehead. "It's not. But it's worth trying."
He nodded, quiet, still unsure—but a little less lost than before. And then his hand found yours, resting lightly over his heart.. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, slower now, like the weight of everything he'd said was finally easing off his chest.
You tilted your head, watching him for a moment before saying softly, "See? You can do this."
He looked at you, brow furrowed. "Do what?"
"Pray," you said simply, lips twitching into a small smile. "Not the stiff, formal kind. Just... talk. Sing. Whatever comes out. Gods listen more when words come from the heart."
Telemachus blinked, caught off guard by your tone. "Sing?" he repeated, a little incredulous.
You grinned, sitting up straighter. "Why not? Songs reach the gods faster than plain words. You said it yourself—they love offerings, right? So make one. It doesn't have to be perfect," you teased. "Come on."
You clapped your hands together once, twice—setting a slow rhythm. The sound echoed gently in the hut. "There," you said. "Something simple. Just follow me."
Telemachus groaned but the corner of his mouth lifted. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." You bumped his shoulder with yours. "Say whatever you feel. Ask for her guidance. You don't even have to sound good—though for your sake, maybe try."
That earned a laugh from him—quiet but real. "You're going to regret this," he muttered.
"Probably," you said, still clapping the soft tempo.
He sighed, rubbing his palms over his knees, then—hesitantly—opened his mouth. His voice was rough at first, low and unsure. "Athena... wise one... grant me your sight again," he began, faltering a little. His next words stumbled over each other, his tone cracking on a few notes, but you didn't stop smiling.
"Good," you encouraged softly. "Keep going."
He chuckled mid-verse, face flushing. "I sound like a dying goat."
You giggled, pressing your hand over your mouth. "A very pious goat. Keep going."
So he did—mumbling a few more lines, the kind that weren't exactly poetry but felt true. You hummed along, filling in little bits between his words until the awkwardness melted away, and for a moment it almost sounded like a real hymn—simple, earnest, imperfect, and beautiful.
You remembered Eros' words about wanting and protecting and decided this, right here—helping him reach instead of hold—was the difference.
And when the last word faded, you both sat in the hush that followed, the air warm between you.
Telemachus rubbed at his face, groaning softly. "If Athena didn't hear that, the gods were being merciful."
You laughed, bumping his knee with yours. "She heard. Trust me. She probably loved it."
He peeked at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. "Thank you. For... whatever that was."
You waved him off. "Don't thank me. You did all the work."
"Still," he murmured, his voice softer now, "I needed that."
You yawned then, sudden and wide, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up. Telemachus chuckled quietly. "Tired?"
"Mhm," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.
"Good," he said, tugging lightly at your wrist until you toppled sideways against him. "Then rest."
You let out a muffled laugh as he shifted, pulling you down with him until you were both lying on your sides. Your head found his chest, and his arm curled protectively around you.
"Better?" he asked, voice low against your hair.
"Much," you whispered, eyes already fluttering shut.
And just before sleep took you, you heard him murmur, barely above a breath, "If she's listening... then I hope she knows I'm not letting you go again."
The promise should have felt safe. Instead, it sounded like the sea drawing breath.
A/N: okay first, i would like to give a small apology because the way i've dropped off the face of all my socials after dropping that 'will delete later' a/n is wiiilllddd 😭 like dropped that on sept.29 and it's currently oct.26?? but yeah real life has been beating my ass so i havent had time to do shit but write when i could---in case anyone wondered/kept up with my sporadic 'check-ins' the USA government had in fact shut doiwn like my professor predicited---going on day 27 if not mistaken--so yeah that and more shit pilling up faster than i can keep up with (them taking away SNAP benefits, the uptick of ICE agent agressions etc.) so yeah sorry if things are a bit slow atp with me editing/uploading! great news though, i've completed the next 3 chapters (72-74) and just have to edit/fix stuff so i shouldnt take too much longer with those--if lucky can upload ch.72 either Sunday or Tuesday! but yeah sorry for rambling hahah but hyeah thank you all for waiting... AND I JUST FOUND OUT I GOT LIKE 2K FOLLOWERS (on wattpad) WHAT!?!? stop y'all really out here making me feel like i'm a real author lololl hope i can keep y'all interested, i know i write slow, but i promise, future works won't be as long as this lolol
also fanart will be up next update cuz i gotta go find them all that i've been sent! sorry for lacking my babes! email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️
📢 quick psa cuz y’all probably think I fell off due to being gone for like 4 weeks
but nah, I’m still here. life just been baaad. like if you don’t live in america lemme just say—this place is a circus. I’m in memphis, national guard been outside like it’s normal, and now my professor just hit us with “oh btw the government might shut down october 1st.” like girl??? cool timing since my 21st birthday is a week later 🙃 happy birthday to me I guess.
also sidenote, being Black in this country already means you wake up tired before you even do anything, so yeah—writing while dodging all that is a feat. hope y’all been taking care of yourselves too cuz the world is not soft right now.
but anyway. I haven’t forgotten about my books!! so the things i'm currently tackling while tryna stay afloat:
1.) godly things → finishing up now, should have ch.71 posted soon (!!!)
2.) i took know no evil down (still up on my tumblr and ao3 tho) → currently editing so I can finally close out book 1 and move into book 2.
3.) alsooooo, a lil secret: I might even keep godly things going for a book 4 or some kind of special just cuz I’m not ready to let these characters go yet 👀
so yeah. I’m alive, still writing, just dealing with the chaos. thanks for waiting on me <3
Second was so good!! I don't even know how to feel bcz one second I'm laughing at three awkward conversations and the next I'm crying bcz of her sad backstory?!?!? I'm actually so sad that Second is the final part 😭i would have loved to see reader at the palace or being introduced to Ody and Penelope 🥲
But as always, I love your work and I sometimes wish i could somehow magically gain amnesia and read all of your books for the first time!! 🫶
Oh also!! The new chapter of Godly things was so GOOD!!!! I loved the interaction between MC and Tele so much 😭😭😭it's crazy to think we came from 'hands touched each other and now we're both flustered' to MC teasing the living heck out of our precious Telemachus 😭😭
I feel like I'm rambling now and should stop 😭😭😭
Anyways!!! Please take of yourself and push yourself too hard! Take breaks if you need to too! ❤
Omg first off I am so sorry for the late reply 😭😭 life + writing + brain fog got me, and I’m only now crawling back to my inbox like hi, yes, I do in fact exist lol. But I wanted to say THANK YOU for this message because it seriously made my whole week rereading it.
I’m so glad you loved Second! It was originally meant to just be a little two-parter (hence the title thing), but enough people messaged me saying they wanted to see more of this couple that I caved 😭. So yes—there will be a Part 3 (and maybe more). I’ve already got pieces of it in my drafts and it’s part of my writing routine now, so I pick at it every other day or whenever I get time. I won’t lie, it might take a little while since I’m balancing it with other projects, but I promise it’s happening. And I don’t mind the wait if y’all don’t 🫶 Like… the palace stuff? Ody and Penelope’s reactions? Telemachus having a nervous breakdown in real time?? 👀 Yeah, I’m writing toward all that now.
And your comment about laughing one second and then crying the next—that’s exactly the balance I was aiming for, so it means a lot that it landed that way 😭. Thank you for sticking with the shift from “two anxious babies touching hands” in First to the teasing/bantering duo in Godly Things now. Honestly looking back, it is crazy how far they’ve come. My little man Tele really out here growing up in real time 😭🫶
Also, your line about wishing for amnesia so you could reread everything for the first time?? Actually the highest compliment ever. Like—put that on my gravestone pls.
But seriously, thank you again for the love (and for the reminder to drink water and take breaks, which I did need 🥲). You’re wonderful, and I’m sending you so much love back 💜
