Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A mission to kill someone’s son, a foe who won’t run, unlike anyone you have faced before.

It’s just an infant; it’s just a boy. What sort of imminent threat does he pose that I cannot avoid?

This is the son of Troy’s very own Prince Hector. Know that he will grow from a boy to an avenger, one fueled with rage as you’re consumed by age.

If you don’t end him now, you’ll have no one left to save.

I could raise him as my own—He will burn your house and throne

Or send him far away from home—He’ll find you wherever you go

Make sure his past is never known—The gods will make him know

I’m begging please. Don’t make me do this. Please don’t make me do this.

The blood on your hands is something you won’t lose. All you can choose is whose.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax

The young prince breathes his last few breaths of air on his homeland. He digs his toes into the sand, letting the brackish ocean water lap against his bare feet, while a small crew loads supplies onto their ship under the cover of night, preparing to set sail for Ithaca. Before they leave, Nax tosses a few coins into the surf and whispers a prayer to Poseidon, asking for safe passage across his seas. Though, if he were being honest, he doesn’t believe the gods care much one way or the other. But he promised his mother, Andromache, and a promise is a promise.

Andromache stands on the beach, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, watching her son. Her long blonde hair blows in the breeze, wild and free—loosed from its usual braid.

Today is the day she has both been waiting for and dreading for 18 years.

This is what she raised Nax for, always reminding him that one day he would leave these shores to avenge his father and his people. She raised her son to honor the child that died in his stead. She primed him to hate the Greeks enough that he would one day kill Odysseus of Ithaca.

Blood for blood. A life for a life.

The child who was supposed to die takes the life of the man who tried to kill him.

Though the sunlight peeking above the horizon urges their departure, Nax races up the shore to embrace his mother one last time, breathing in the smell of her perfume for those nights when he’s so homesick it hurts. Andromache sobs softly, stroking Nax’s hair like she used to when he was a small child, before she started pulling away in an effort to steel herself for this day.

“Please don’t cry Mother. I will be alright and I will do what you raised me to do. I promise.” She touches her son’s face, wiping away tears he didn’t realize he had shed.

“I trust in that my love. May the gods deliver you to your destiny safely. May you come home to me one day,” her voice breaks but she continues, “your father would be so proud of you Astyanax.” Andromache bows her head and Nax in turn, before returning to his ship, knowing quite well this may be the last time he sees his mother.

In all likelihood, Nax will never step foot on this coast again.

They set sail and the prince watches the city of Troy disappear as they drift further out, until the only thing visible is miles and miles of open waters. The sea like a black void under the low light of the moon. Nax craves solid ground to sink his feet into—uncomfortable aboard a ship. Crewmates dart about the deck, pulling on ropes and steering. If anything were to happen to them, the Gods know the young prince would be at a loss.

When one’s existence is a secret, there is no good time to learn how to sail.

Astyanax of Troy was supposed to have died that night, tossed from the wall at the hands of Ithaca’s king. But the babe who fell to his death was not Astyanax. His mother had swapped Nax and a servant’s child before the siege of the Greeks. So, to all but a few the prince was just a servant boy, raised cleaning the palace that he should have inherited, Andromache watching from a distance, only addressing Nax after nightfall in the privacy of her quarters.

It was lonely, but he understood. If Troy’s enemies discovered that the prince was in fact alive, they would come back to finish what they started. They would fear his retribution, as they should. They would know that he would grow into an avenger, that he would wield a sword in the name of his father, that to leave him alive would mean that Troy was not actually vanquished but merely temporarily subdued.

That’s why they murdered an infant, in the hopes that he would never become a man.

Yet here he is.

Alive and breathing, heart beating, mind sharp, ready to fulfill his purpose.

“Prince Astyanax.” The captain addresses Nax with his title, despite repeatedly being told not to.

“Nax. Remember. Just Nax.” The prince corrects him. He shuffles anxiously but complies.

“Nax, Sir. You should get some sleep.”

“I sleep in the day time.” Nax says bluntly and turns away, thinking the captain will depart, but instead he hovers.

“It’s only that, everyone on this ship knows your true identity Sir. There’s nothing to hide from.”

The realization washes over him. There is nothing and no one to hide from. No one to pretend in front of. For the first time in his life, he’s just a prince surrounded by servants.

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel right, but he supposes it’s his new normal now.

“Very well. I’ll go below deck.” The captain nods, satisfied with Nax’s concession. Curious eyes trail after him as he stands up and walks to the barracks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The ship rocks as Nax tosses and turns fitfully in his hammock, not nearly tired enough for sleep. His mind spins, going over scenarios and routes. How many weeks until they reach Ithaca? Will it be weeks, or will it be months? Maybe even years. What if he reaches Odysseus’ Island and the king is already dead? What will he do then? You can’t kill a dead man.

Nax growls in frustration, earning him irritated groans from the sleeping men around him. Sleep continues to evade him, so he gives up, swinging himself out of the hammock and landing gently below. Boards creak beneath his footsteps as Nax creeps up to the top deck. The rhythmic crash of waves against the ship’s side are soothing, cooing to him softly like the voice of Andromache humming a lullaby. He sits with his back to the ocean and listens to the song of the sea.

Eventually, he drifts off.

He awakes to a sharp pain in his shoulders and the sound of shouts—the captain barking orders to the crew. The glare of the sun burns Nax’s eyes as he blinks them, trying to adjust to the harsh light. Blurrily surveying his surroundings, he notices the ship is not moving. The sails are empty, and there are no winds to fill them.

He mutters a curse under his breath. Even he knows this is a bad sign. So much for his offering to Poseidon, he should have prayed to Zeus or Aeolus.

He should have prayed for wind.

“Prince Astyanax.” The captain looks in his direction, seemingly surprised to see the prince.

“Nax.” His insistence is met with a dismissive wave and an indifferent scoff. He thought that as the prince, they’d have to listen to him. Alas, Nax never learned how to wield his title or his position of power.

He doesn’t know how to be a leader; he knows the best way to plunge a blade into a man’s heart.

Different skillsets.

“Start rowing men, full speed ahead, until we can find winds to fill these sails.”

The men scurry around Nax, barely acknowledging his presence. No one asks for his help or directs orders his way. He wants to jump in and…do something. All his years of servitude have made him restless and hardworking. Standing aside while others toil is not something Nax is used to. It makes him feel useless—and alone—more alone than he’s ever felt in his life.

And he has felt very alone in this life.

Shrinking away from the crew, the prince retreats below deck to the now empty barracks. His heart slams against his breastplate, threatening to burst free and fly away. Nax feels dizzy, nauseous, and short of breath, gasping for air while the loneliness squeezes tighter in his chest. Sobs crack through his hyperventilating and he sinks to his knees.

All he can think is I want to go home.

Nax lets himself cry for a few minutes longer and then he collects himself, scrubbing tears away angrily. This is not how a prince behaves. This is not how a warrior behaves.

This is not what he was raised to be.

Triumphant cheers cascade below deck. They must have found an airstream. Good. Nax thinks he’ll leave them to their own devices though. He’s not interested in standing on the sidelines or being in the way.

His purpose is not on this ship; it’s waiting for him on the shores of an island miles from here.

Once he gets to Ithaca, he’s sure he won’t feel this way anymore.

There, Nax will know what to do. He just has to make it there, then all the training and preparing and instinct will take the lead.

There and then, King Odysseus of Ithaca will die by Astyanax of Troy’s hand.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

After a few weeks at sea, Nax has gotten fairly accustomed to life on a ship. He doesn’t even mind much anymore that the captain refers to him with his title, though he’s been trying to get the stubborn old man to call him Prince Nax instead of Astyanax.

It’s slow going.

The crew still steer clear of him, watching him warily like he’s some oddity.

The dead prince come back to life. A walking, breathing ghost.

Their unease is understandable, however resentful of it Nax feels. He’s always been a secret, but never a spectacle. Nax can’t say he’ll ever get used to the eyes that follow his every move. They’re close to Ithaca now though, so he won’t need to deal with it much longer.

His body vibrates with energy, battle frenzy increasing as they draw nearer to the island and nearer to his destiny—like the red string of fate pulling Nax ever closer. Fervor hums in his veins; 20 years in the making, his whole life dedicated to this, and it’s finally here.

Being in the middle of the ocean instead of on Ithaca’s shore still makes Nax anxious, pacing the deck with nowhere to go.

He distracts himself with training. The same strike sequences he’s practiced since he was a boy flow through his muscles like water, his body anticipating moves before his brain.

No thinking; just action.

Hours pass. Days too. Nax eats. He trains. He falls asleep on the top deck under the stars, rocked gently by the sea, listening to the shushing of the waves. He wakes up and does it again. The monotony bleeds from one day into the other.

Today the prince bribed one of the crew members, Demitrius, to spar with him. Fighting against a real person for a change will help keep him from getting rusty, as one’s prone to during weeks at sea. Demitrius is not the most skilled swordsman, but Nax doesn’t need him to be. He simply needs him to act in ways he himself cannot predict. Mental flexibility doesn’t come easy to Nax and if he’s going to face the infamous Odysseus, he’ll need to be sharper, smarter, to be prepared for anything.

Demitrius swings his blade clumsily and Nax hooks their hilts together, twisting the sword out of his grasp. The sound of metal clattering against the ship’s deck draws attention from others. Some men gather to watch them spar. It’s a welcome change to their usual avoidance, and it’s an opportunity for Nax to show off a bit.

With a sly grin, he offers his sword to his unarmed opponent.

“To level the playing field.” Nax teases. Daring and confident.

Demitrius’ eyes narrow in irritation and he raises the blade. Nax stands unarmed, waiting and watching, fingers twitching in anticipation. Demitrius lunges, but his approach lacks in form and Nax dodges easily, ever light on his feet. Even without a sword, the young prince deftly evades each strike. Demitrius’ frustration builds and he growls, slicing the air with his blade aimlessly.

Finding an opening in his erratic movements, Nax snaps a hand forward, grasping Demitrius’ arm and twisting it behind his back. The sword falls from his grip. Disarmed for a second time, he furiously yanks away and storms off, his crewmates laughing at him as he goes.

Grabbing both swords from the deck, Nax holds one out to the crowd.

“Any takers?”

One of the younger crew members, Peritus, steps forward eagerly. He blows a strand of long hair away from his blue eyes. His body is still skinny and lean, just a year or so past childhood, but his skin is tan and freckled from years at sea and his hands have the rough callouses of an experienced sailor. The captain had mentioned to Nax that the young man was very skilled—one of his best. A warm smile stretches across his face as he reaches for the sword’s hilt.

Just as he grips it raindrops splash on the wooden planks of the deck.

In a matter of moments, dark storm clouds gather overhead. The sky rumbles followed by a clap of thunder and then sheets of water fall onto the ship. Rainwater streams down Nax’s face and the wind rips through his drenched hair, whipping his golden-brown locks into tangles. Cold air snaps against his skin and stings in his eyes.

The men disperse, clambering to secure things and hold the sails steady. Three men push the tiller, trying to keep them upright, but someone slips and hits them, sending the ship jolting sideways. Nax stumbles, feeling the panic rise in his throat.

He can’t do anything.

He needs to do something.

He needs to do something, but he can’t do anything! 

“Prince Astyanax! Get below deck! NOW!” The captain’s frantic voice shouts at the young prince, shocking him out of his thoughts. “Go! Go now!” His feet respond before his mouth can form words, running toward the hatch. Waves break against the hull of the ship, spraying Nax with a fine salt mist, blinding him. Instinctually, he rubs the water out of his eyes.

“Nax! Look out!” Peritus’ voice calls out to the prince. His head turns in the direction of the sound, eyes locking on the shape of the mainsail careening toward him.

Time slows to a halt.

The seconds that pass feel more like hours, and the only thing Nax can hear is his heart beat whooshing in his ears. There’s nothing he’s able do but watch in agonizingly slow motion as the boom crashes into his chest, sending him tumbling backwards into the churning ocean below.

Hungry waves swallow Nax, the sea opening its jaws wide and gulping him down. His limbs thrash desperately, trying to break the surface for a breath, kicking and clawing against the vicious tides. He lifts his face out of the waves, choking up salt water, but the moment he breaks free is the moment he’s pulled back under. Frothy surf fills his nose, his mouth, his lungs.

Wave after wave after wave pummeling him, until his chest aches and burns from not breathing. Nax reaches for what he thinks is the surface, but to no avail.

He’s sinking faster now.

Andromache’s voice echoes in his head, screaming Fight! Fight Astyanax! You need to fight.

He wants to fight—to swim, to breath, but he’s surrounded by dark waters on all sides, being dragged down below by the rip current. Poseidon’s ocean is stronger than him—this unyielding ruthless sea tossing him around like a doll.

Panic floods his body. He’s going to drown; he’s going to die here.

Nax can’t see a way out of this.

His vision blurs, his pulse slowing. He can’t hold his breath any longer, exhaling what little air he had left. Nax inhales briny water, swallowing it too. It’s everywhere, all consuming, pouring down his throat, filling his stomach and his lungs. It's in his eyes and in his nose.

All Nax can feel is searing pain until the pain is replaced with a numb cold, ice running through his veins. Nax feels nothing—absolutely nothing and then…

Everything goes black.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Nax coughs and splutters, choking up seawater. Air rushes into his lungs painfully. It’s almost worse than drowning. Almost. He’s alive…at least he thinks he’s alive. Death wouldn’t hurt this much, would it?

And everything hurts. His head throbs and his chest aches. It feels like his insides were crushed. Nax opens his eyes slowly, wincing at the sun’s rays. White light washes out his surroundings—ethereal and otherworldly.

Maybe he is dead after all.

He blinks his salt crusted eyes, the image around him clearing some. A figure appears above him with warm olive skin and wavy raven black hair. Bright hazel eyes peer into his, searching for a sign of consciousness.

This is the most beautiful man Nax has ever seen.

“Hey! Are you awake? Are you okay? Well—obviously not, considering the state you're in, but you’re alive, right?” A worried voice spills out of full lips.

Oh Gods, his voice is even more beautiful than his face. Nax is more sure than ever that he's dead, because this person can’t be real. He’s too perfect.

Raw vocal cords scrape against each other as Nax tries to speak, croaking out, “I’m not sure. It feels like I died.”

The stranger’s handsome face lights up and he laughs a clear, bright laugh, almost sparkling.

“Talking definitely means you’re alive.”

Nax speaks again, his voice strained and painful. “Do you have water?” His thirst is unbearable, demanding to be quenched.

“Oh, yeah, of course.” The man rustles through his satchel, pulling out a flask. His hand cradles Nax’s head, lifting him up to drink, and tenderly tips the vessel against Nax’s lips. Cool fresh water spills down his throat, revitalizing him; he drinks eagerly, water dribbling down his chin. A twinge of guilt hits him, feeling like he’s wasting this kind stranger’s water.

“Thank you.” Nax tries to sit up but falters—wooziness swimming in his head. His rescuer reaches for him, attentively supporting his weakened body in his arms. His dark brows furrow with concern.

“Are you sure you should be sitting up? Maybe I should get help...” He looks around the beach for other people passing by, but the two men are completely alone.

“Don’t leave,” Nax pleads, unsure of how he washed ashore or where his crew is. All he knows is that they aren’t here with him—wherever here is—and this man is. He doesn’t want to be alone. Hazel eyes look at him full of kindness and sympathy.

“Alright. I’m here.” The man’s voice coos softly, stroking Nax’s matted hair. Slender fingers in his hair comfort him, massaging his scalp gently.

“Mhmm, that feels nice.” Nax mutters, fighting the urge to fall asleep. It's no easy feat: sore and exhausted as he is. The man chuckles softly under his breath, shaking his head.

“Finding a ship wrecked sailor was not what I expected today.” His raven hair sweeps forward as he leans over Nax. “Are you a sailor? Or are you a siren?” The man’s playful tone teases Nax, hands still laced in his hair.

“Neither sailor or siren. And you, are you a god or a mortal?” Nax says hoarsely, still half-convinced this man cannot be human—that he’s washed ashore on some monster’s island and this is a trap to lure him into a sense of safety. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind death at the hands of someone so attractive—better than drowning at sea.

The stranger graces him with that clear laughter again.

“I’m mortal, as far as I’m aware. My name is Telemachus. What should I call you?” Telemachus grins down at Nax. His eyes turn up, rimmed with inky black lashes. Nax’s heart jumps in his chest at Telemachus’ brilliant smile.

“Nax, my name is Nax.” He curses the shaking in his voice, hoping Telemachus doesn’t notice.

“Nice to meet you Nax.” Telemachus glances around again, but no one has appeared on the shore to help. He clicks his tongue before looking back at Nax. “Let’s get you on your feet, shall we?”

Nax’s body tenses at the thought of trying to stand. Every muscle and bone in him resist moving. He can’t stay here though. He needs to find out where he is, and how far here is from Ithaca, as much as he may want to abandon his mission now. Telemachus wraps an arm around Nax’s waist, strong but gentle as he pulls him up from the ground.

Nax gasps sharply. Pain radiates through him and he leans his body weight heavily on Telemachus.

The two make their way slowly up the sand. Nax groans and pants from the effort of walking. He’s nauseous, faint, and unsteady, swaying on his feet. Telemachus grips Nax closer to him.

“We should take a break. You need to rest.” He states, worry lacing his tone. Nax shakes his head in protest—stubbornly determined to keep going. Telemachus frowns but continues along the winding path.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eventually they come to a tall, intimidating palace towering above them. Stone bricks laid with strategic care built up into an impressive fortress. Flowering wisteria vine weaves its way across the walls; the breeze carries their scent to Nax. Gardens surround the palace, filled with fruit and olive trees. What is this place? Where did Telemachus bring him? Who is he really?

Telemachus helps Nax up the steps leading to the main hall, not letting him go for a second. They enter the extravagant room with large vaulted ceilings and sunlight streaming in through the many narrow windows. Awe strikes Nax—as well as unease—unease and awe are a strange combination.

“Hello!” Telemachus calls out to the empty room. His call goes unanswered. “Can I get some assistance, please?” Telemachus snaps, letting out an irritated huff. He glances at the steep staircase, but dismisses it quickly.

Nax needs to sit down. He can feel his legs failing him and his vision blur.

A couple of maids rush into the room, responding to Telemachus’ irritated shouts. Their eyes widen in shock, seeing his battered and sand-caked companion.

“Prince Telemachus! Who is this?”

Prince?

Telemachus is a prince? The prince of what?

Again, Nax wonders where he is, and whose arms are holding him up.

“A friend. An injured friend. Help me get him to a bed.” Telemachus commands, sharper than Nax has heard him speak. There's a protective edge in his tone. The servants bow and hurry over to aid their prince. Hands fluttering around Nax support him on either side, and lead him to the stairs. Footsteps echo from behind, and Telemachus looks toward the sound.

“Telemachus. Where have you been?” A woman's delicate voice chides him playfully. The same musical quality as Telemachus'—like the clinking of wind chimes. The silky sound reverberates off the walls.

“Sorry Mother. I found someone washed ashore. I would’ve been home sooner, but I couldn’t leave him there.”

Nax looks at his rescuer, heart swelling with gratitude. Princes are used to being served, but this one is kind and generous, and he saved Nax when he wasn't obligated to. If Nax makes it out of this alive, he’ll be forever in Telemachus’ debt.

“We didn’t hear of any shipwreck.” A deep voice mumbles softly, carrying an undertone of suspicion. Nax’s chest clenches. Either his men went down in the middle of the ocean or they have no idea where he is. Any hopes he had of being found vanish and a heavy loneliness sets in.

He’s truly on his own now.

“Odysseus my love, I don’t think that’s important right now.” The feminine voice calmly nudges. But Nax can’t hear anything after the name Odysseus. His throat constricts, and his muscles tense.

The name echoes in his head, pulsing like a heartbeat. Odysseus. Odysseus. Odysseus.

Odysseus of Ithaca.

His hand reaches instinctually to his hip, where his sword usually rests. But the blade is still aboard his ship. He’s weaponless and frail, unable to stand on his own two feet without help.

Nax turns toward Odysseus, locking eyes with the man.

The man he was raised to hate. The man that dropped a child from a wall. The man that hid in the belly of a wooden horse to raid his city, helped kill his father. His sworn nemesis. His destiny. What a twist of fate that he washed ashore on the very island he was traveling to in the first place, delivered straight to door of the king himself.

Telemachus’ hand is still wound around his waist, and a horrible realization dawns on him…this beautiful kind man is the prince of Ithaca. If Telemachus is the prince and Odysseus is the king…then he was rescued by the son of the man he’s spent a lifetime training to kill.

His vision swims. The last thing he sees is a shadowy image of Odysseus reaching a hand toward him; the frantic voice of Telemachus calling his name echoes in the distance before Nax collapses.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Nax jolts awake, adrenaline pumping into his system, like a wild animal waking up in a cage. His heart races and his eyes flick back and forth, scanning his surroundings. He’s in an ornately decorated room with a large canopy bed and piles of pillows. Nax kicks the covers aside and attempts to stand, but the head rush that follows pushes him back onto the bed.

He takes slow deep breaths, willing his heart rate to come down. His thoughts wrestle with each other. One part of him insists that he find a blade and complete his mission, that fate delivered him to Ithaca, to the king’s door, and he can’t run from his fate. The other part of him resists, reminding him of Telemachus’ kindness, his own vow to be in his debt, the way it felt while he looked in his eyes.

Is this really how he plans to repay him for saving his life? By killing his father?

How would that be justice?

It seems too cruel. Nax knows the pain of never having a father, only knowing him through tales and stories. The whispers of his people honoring the death of their prince and his heir. It’s the kind of pain that follows anywhere one goes. It’s the kind of pain Nax can’t imagine inflicting on another.

This is so much more complicated than it was supposed to be. Nax has gone from being sure of one singular thing, to being unsure about absolutely everything.

A knock at the door startles him. He calls out warily.

“Hello?”

The door swings open widely. Telemachus strides into the room, wearing formal clothing, in such contrast to the casual attire he wore at the beach. He looks more princely than before, commanding the room with his presence. Nax gulps nervously, a flush rushing into his face.

How irritating.

Why must he have these feelings for this man?

Why must his destiny be thwarted by a pretty face and blinding smile?

Speaking of which, Telemachus flashes Nax a grin. His hazel eyes crinkle from his wide smile and he emanates warmth. It washes over Nax like sunshine, melting his apprehension away.

“You look better.” Telemachus states cheerfully. “Some color has come back to your cheeks.” Nax reaches for his face, acutely aware that this blush is not related to his constitution. “You’ll still need rest of course, but I’m glad to see you awake and alert today. You gave me quite the scare earlier. Thought I’d lost you.” The dark-haired prince chuckles. “You must be hungry. I’ll send some attendants to dress you and bring you to the dining hall.”

“I don’t need to be dressed. If you could just bring me some clean clothes, I’ll change myself.” Nax declines Telemachus’ offer, uncomfortable with being served and waited on. Not to mention the idea of getting undressed in front of strangers fills him with dread. Telemachus opens his mouth to argue, but seems to think better of it. He gives Nax a small smile and nods.

“As you wish.” Telemachus winks before exiting the room. A very flustered Nax flops back on the giant feather mattress. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and releases a frustrated growl. After years of knowing what he was raised for, he has no idea what to do or where to go—paralyzed by doubt—feeling like he’s being torn in half, pulled in two separate directions.

A flicker of some unfamiliar feeling grows in his chest. Be it friendship or something else, his relationship to Telemachus is all his own, not a duty handed to him at birth nor a fate dealt to him by the gods. He holds it tightly to his heart, protective of this fragile little thing.

Maybe there’s no such thing as fate or destiny. Maybe life is simply choices being made by human beings. Could he deny his purpose? Choose a different path? Go against his mother and the will of the gods for a man who may not even feel the same as him?

Bitter laughter escapes his lips.

Choice…what an unexpected turn of events. That is an even more terrifying reality than an inescapable destiny.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Another knock on the door draws Nax’s attention away from his spiraling thoughts and existential crisis. He sits up quickly.

“Come in.” Nax says, voice slightly shaking. A young maid pokes her head into the room.

“Prince Telemachus sent me to bring you some fresh clothes.” She says in a small timid voice, avoiding his gaze.

“Thank you,” Nax stands up and walks over the door, holding a hand out for the garments. The maid hesitates to hand them over, eyes darting around and shifting on her feet.

“Are you positive you wouldn’t like me to assist you. It’s not proper to dress yourself…as a guest of the prince.”

Nax scoffs in irritation. A lifetime of waiting on others and now he has to convince people to let him care for himself.

“Well proper or not, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” He gestures impatiently at the clothes. The maid relents and gives him the bundle of fine silk tunic and cotton trousers. Nax runs a hand across the fabric, appreciating the hand stitching and gold thread embroidery. Though he may be a prince, he’s never worn such expensive clothing. Nax bows his head to the confused maid before shutting the door and securing the latch behind him.

He slowly strips off layers of dirty clothing, his joints aching with every move, but he continues until his skin is bare. Assessing himself in the mirror, he’s confronted with the extent of his injuries. His soft pale skin is covered in bruises and cuts. A large contusion spreads across his chest where the boom struck him.

Nax traces the injury with his fingers, recalling the moment of impact.

He still can’t believe he’s alive. He’s still not entirely sure that he is.

Nax washes himself from the small basin by the bed, wiping the sand and salt off with a towel before donning his new clothes. They fit like a glove, as if they were hand tailored for him—soft flowy silk a refreshing change to his previous outfit.

Once dressed, Nax stares at his reflection, the face of a stranger staring back at him, foreign and unsettling.

Transformed into someone he doesn’t recognize—someone resembling a prince.

His old clothes sit in a pile on the floor. Remnants of the young man who sailed away from Troy. Nax glances at the discarded items. The dried salt-water having made the garments stiff and rough like sandpaper. He should dispose of them.

No amount of washing will salvage them anyway.

His stomach grumbles loudly, demanding sustenance after days of not eating. Obeying his body’s angered growls, Nax ventures out of his room into the palace, in search of the dining hall.

Maids eye Nax, pretending to do other tasks while they observe him. It doesn’t bother him. He is a stranger after all. These looks are unlike the ones of his crew—more curious less wary. He smiles gently but hurries away from the tittering girls that blush when he looks at them.

Nax has never much been interested in girls.

To be fair, he wasn’t allowed to consort with the young ladies as a servant boy, and they never glanced his way. Still, he never felt that way for them, nor did he feel that way for the servant girls. The lady’s maids he grew up with were like his sisters, never anything more.

Certainly not like how he feels about Telemachus.

His stomach flips at the thought of the handsome man waiting for him…but he’s pretty certain he’s lost. This palace is a labyrinth of winding corridors and endless rows of doors turning him around and around. Nax probably should have asked for directions, but he’s stubborn to a fault.

A voice addresses him from behind, gravelly and low.

“Having trouble finding your way around?”

Nax stops breathing, his every muscle tensing in some vain preparation for a conflict. He spins around on his heel, met with the king standing casually in front of him. A playful smirk pulls at the corner of Odysseus’ lips; a youthful twinkle in his eyes despite the wrinkles lining them.

Those eyes, so much like Telemachus.’ Darker but just as kind. Nax desperately tries to conjure the rage and hatred he has felt for this person his entire life. But he can’t seem to find it, tempted to soften, tempted to trust. Nax still keeps his distance, but he meets Odysseus’ gaze and nods.

“Yes, I was supposed to join the prince in the dining hall…but I’m lost.” He fidgets with the edge of his silk tunic and looks at the ground, feeling like an impostor. The king chuckles.

“Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting. I’ll show you.” Odysseus gestures for Nax to follow. He hesitates for a moment, but trails after the king.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The two walk in silence, only the sounds of their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Nax peeks at Odysseus, nervously looking away when the older man catches him. This is not what Nax expected from the king of Ithaca.

He imagined a gluttonous tyrant; one who gorged himself on the spoils of war and reveled in the story of the time he killed a helpless child. He imagined him fat, happy, and wealthy.

This Odysseus is dignified and reserved. The kindness in his eyes is joined by a heavy sadness—grief etched into the lines of his face. This is the face of a man who has suffered, who has known loss and pain. Nax wonders what befell the conqueror of Troy after he departed those shores, but he’s not brave enough to ask.

Odysseus halts in front of the dining hall and Nax nearly walks into him.

“Here we are,” he smiles at Nax, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him into the room. Telemachus jumps up out of his chair, a goofy grin spreading across his face at the sight of Nax.

The Queen hides a laugh behind thin delicate fingers. Bright blue eyes glinting with humor. She is exceptionally beautiful, as beautiful as Andromache. Her inky black hair is streaked with silver, piled atop her head in an intricate braid, tendrils falling around her shoulders. Odysseus walks over to her and leans down to kiss her forehead tenderly. “Penelope, my love, you are even more beautiful than you were when we awoke this morning.”

She pushes her husband in mock annoyance, “Surely not, I have another wrinkle.”

“Where?” Odysseus holds her face in his hands and pretends to search for them, “I cannot find any wrinkles.” Penelope giggles like a young girl and rolls her eyes. Odysseus snickers and takes a seat beside his wife, holding her hand.

Telemachus rushes to Nax’s side, pulling him toward the long table covered with a spread of more food than Nax has ever seen. Fruits and eggs and breads and meats; platters overflowing. The prince pulls out a seat for Nax and sits next to him. Nax hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels.

“I knew you were stubborn, but I didn’t know how stubborn. Lucky father found you wandering the halls.” Telemachus teases, putting a custard tart on a plate and pushing it toward Nax. His mouth waters and the hunger he’s felt since waking intensifies.

“I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone,” Nax shrugs, “guess I ended up doing so anyway.”

Telemachus laughs that bright laugh that makes Nax’s knees weak and he distracts himself by shoving the tart in his mouth. It may be the best thing he’s ever eaten, flaky pastry and sweet creamy custard melting on his tongue. Telemachus puts more food on his plate, a little of everything.

“If you’re feeling up to it, I thought I’d show you the gardens today.” His hazel eyes wait for Nax’s answer expectantly. He nods, mouth still full. Telemachus seems pleased and goes back to piling things onto Nax’s plate.

“Telemachus, I don’t think your friend can eat all of that.” Odysseus jokes with his son and his wife smacks his arm softly.

“Leave him be. As if you haven’t gifted me more gowns than I could possibly wear.”

“Very well. I’m outnumbered.” Odysseus throws his hands up in surrender, enamored with his queen. He catches Nax’s gaze and gives him a knowing wink, familiar with him as he would be a friend or comrade. The king continues to surprise Nax. “So, young sailor, from where do you hail?” Odysseus asks, leaning back in his seat.

Nax’s throat tightens, nearly choking on his breakfast. He swallows and scrambles to find a lie, knowing he can’t tell them that he’s the prince of Troy.

“Um, I’m actually not a sailor. I was just a servant accompanying my master on a ship from…Mycenae. We were transporting goods when we got caught in the storm and I went overboard. The next thing I remember is Prince Telemachus rescuing me.”

That part at least was true.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll send some scouts to look for any survivors, but of course you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish, as our guest.”

Generous as his son. Nax can see where Telemachus got his good nature from.

“Thank you, King Odysseus.” He says, bowing his head. Now this he’s used to: playing the part of a servant, bowing when he should be bowed to.

“None of that.” Odysseus waves his hand, “just Odysseus will suffice.”

Nax slips further and further from his mission, enveloped in the warmth of Telemachus and his parents. Fine food and kindness more intoxicating than the strongest wine.

He’s beginning to forget who he was raised to be. He's beginning to doubt if that's who he ever really was.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Telemachus and Nax stroll through the garden, walking closely enough that their hands brush against each other every so often. Each time it sends shivers across Nax’s skin. He resists the urge to lean further in to Telemachus’ touch.

“You look very handsome in that tunic. It was one of my favorites, but it suits you better.” Telemachus’ compliment catches Nax off guard.

He’s wearing Telemachus’ clothes? Butterflies flutter in his stomach at the thought of his tunic once sitting against the prince’s bare body. He can’t help but imagine his golden tan skin and lean muscles. Nax wills away the burning in his face and turns to Telemachus, lips stretching into a grateful smile.

“Thank you, for the clothes, and well…everything. I’m forever in your debt.”

Telemachus stops walking suddenly, grabbing Nax by the shoulders. Nax tries to avoid his intense gaze, but those hazel eyes are mesmerizing.

“You don’t owe me anything. I—I didn’t help you so that you would feel indebted to me. I did it because it was the right thing to do. Anything else, anything more I want to be because…because you want to…only if you want to.” A flush hums under his olive skin and he looks away. Raven hair shadowing his face before he lets go of Nax’s shoulders.

They continue their tour, Telemachus telling Nax the names of the flowers and the trees on the palace grounds; a paradise rivaling even that of Elysium. Nax can barely focus on the plants and their names, consumed with the way Telemachus looked at him, the fire that burned in his eyes, begging Nax to search for the meaning behind his words.

Is it possible that he feels the same as Nax? Could that be what he meant?

How would Nax even begin to clarify?

Will he ever stop feeling these nerves in Telemachus’ presence?

No. Probably not.

Telemachus pulls Nax toward a flowering tree—magnolia. He plucks one of the large white blossoms and presents it to Nax.

“These are my mother’s favorite. She used to come here and talk to Father. Even after two decades she never gave up on him. Their love is the kind I strive for.” He leans in toward Nax, and his heart races in response. Telemachus reaches up and tucks the flower behind Nax’s ear, letting his hand linger for a moment.

Nax reflects on his statement.

He knows that the war lasted for ten years, but why did the king not return home for twenty?

Again, he wonders what Odysseus suffered; what pain he carries.

“Why was your father gone so long? If I may ask—I mean. I understand if you don’t want to discuss it with me…” Nax backpedals, immediately regretting his intrusion.

Telemachus glances down, speaking slowly and softly.

“First, he was off fighting in the trojan war for ten years. Then he spent ten more years trying to get back to us, facing more enemies and monsters than I can count. I’ve never met anyone stronger or more determined…except perhaps my mother. They are alike in that regard.” Telemachus sighs heavily. “I didn’t meet my father until I was already a man. Sometimes I wish we had more time together, but I’m grateful for what we have now.”

He smiles and his eyes are tinged with sadness, mirroring those of his father’s—still not as sad as Odysseus’ were.

Nax smiles back. Though he knows better, he wants to share a piece of himself with Telemachus, some truth in exchange for his vulnerability.

“My father died when I was a baby. I never met him. Often, I would dream of him, but I couldn’t picture his face. So, I would see my own, just aged and weathered. I’ve wondered so many times what he was like, what he would think of me if he were here. All this to say, I know what it’s like to grow up without one’s father, to miss someone you never knew, to mourn for time lost.”

Telemachus’ eyes well with emotion. He pulls Nax into a hug, squeezing him against his body.

“I’m so sorry Nax.”

Nax feels tears prick behind his eyes, tears he thought he’d long since shed. He chokes down a sob and nestles his face in Telemachus’ shoulder. Telemachus strokes his hair, like Andromache did when she said goodbye.

That moment feels like a lifetime ago now.

Telemachus pulls away, gently wiping tears from Nax’s cheeks.

“Come with me. I want to show you something.” He whispers, taking Nax by the hand and leading him back toward the palace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The two young men approach the palace stables, the sounds of whinnies coming from inside. Telemachus drags Nax into the stable, leading him to a large white horse. The horse neighs and shakes its mane, sunlight sparkling off its clean pearly coat. Nax snorts.

“You brought me to see a horse? Believe it or not, but I have seen one before.” He teases, earning him an incredulous eye-roll from Telemachus.

“This is my horse, Konstantinos, but not what I want to show you. We just need him to get to where we’re going.”

“Konstantinos? He’s loyal, is he?” Nax cocks his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Telemachus grins proudly with his hands on his hips.

“The most loyal. He’s my trusty steed, since I was a boy. I’ll get his saddle on and then we’ll ready another horse for you.” He turns to the white stallion, stroking its neck and mane.

“Oh, uh, I actually—I can’t ride. I never learned how.” Nax shuffles awkwardly, scratching his head while an embarrassed flush rushes to his cheeks. Telemachus turns back to him, a playful glimmer in his hazel eyes.

“Well, we’re going to have to remedy that, but for now you can ride with me.”

Nervous laughter bubbles up in Nax’s throat; he tries to compose himself, but the idea of being so close to Telemachus makes his heart race and his stomach twist itself in a knot. He wipes his sweaty palms against his pants and takes a deep shuddery breath. Telemachus tightens the saddle and trots Konstantinos out of the stables by his leads.

Nax follows hesitantly.

Telemachus mounts the horse, swinging himself into the saddle in one graceful fluid motion. Nax’s face burns as the handsome prince looks down at him and extends a hand out. Backlight by the sun, it gives the appearance of him glowing.

He is the most beautiful thing Nax has ever seen.

Nax takes Telemachus hand, his own shaking as he does. Telemachus’ strong grip is reassuring as he pulls Nax up into the saddle behind him.

“Hold on tight,” Telemachus says, wrapping Nax’s arms around his waist.

With Nax’s legs straddling Telemachus’ and his chest firmly pressed against Telemachus’ back he worries that the prince will be able to feel his heart slamming through his skin, fluttering with the speed of hummingbird wings. Telemachus clicks his tongue and Konstantinos takes off in a gallop, hooves kicking up dirt. Nax squeezes his arms tighter around Telemachus, suddenly more concerned with staying on the horse’s back than his closeness to the other man.

They race toward the cliffs of Ithaca, wind rushing through their hair and chapping their cheeks. Telemachus hollers, body coursing with adrenaline and Nax grins at the sound—appreciating the prince’s joy and his lighthearted nature.

Konstantinos whinnies and surges forward, muscles rippling beneath the beast’s coat. He’s clearly enjoying this. Nax, not as much. The ground rushing past beneath him makes him dizzy, similarly to the feeling of being on the ocean for the first time. The only thing grounding him is the warmth of Telemachus’ body.

Telemachus tugs on Konstantinos’ reigns, and the horse slows to a trot, flicking his tail in annoyance at his rider. Nax looks up and takes in their location. The ocean stretches out beyond the cliffs and birds dive below the horizon. The sun begins its descent, dyeing the sky a pale-yellow hue. It reminds him of home—the same sun setting over the same ocean.

It’s comforting to know that the sun will set every evening, and always rise again in the morning.

The prince dismounts as gracefully as he does everything else. He grips Nax’s waist as he helps him down. Nax tries to ignore his quickening pulse, but it’s getting more difficult by the minute.

“More impressive than a horse?” Telemachus asks slyly.

“Certainly.” Nax whispers, not sure if he’s more awe-struck by the sights or Telemachus himself.

They sit in the tall grass waving in the breeze and watch the sun sink lower on the horizon—the clouds painted in rich oranges and pinks, washing everything in its light. What a sight to behold.

Telemachus leans back on his hands and Nax admires sneakily.

“I used to come here to watch the sunset. There was something comforting about the consistency of it, as though I could imagine my father on a distant shore or the deck of a ship, watching the same sunset over the same ocean.” He muses, at ease in Nax’s presence.

“Thank you for bringing me here. Of all the islands I could have washed up on, I’m grateful it was yours.”

Their fingers reach toward each other, pinkies touching.

The two stay there for a while in silence, as the sea swallows the last of the sun’s rays.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Alright.” Telemachus stands, brushing the dirt off his hands on his pants, before reaching for Nax. “You are going to learn how to ride.”

“Now?” Nax says, surprised.

“Right here, right now, on Konstantinos. He’s the perfect horse to learn on—gentle and calm. It’ll be easy; you’ll see.”

“If you say so.” Nax takes Telemachus’ hand, pulling himself up, and they walk over to the white horse grazing on the grass. He sighs softly and stomps the ground as Nax scratches behind his ear.

“So, put your foot in the stirrup, pull yourself up and then swing your leg over his back.” Telemachus instructs Nax patiently. Once in the saddle Nax remembers how little he likes being this far off the ground. He swallows and focuses on Telemachus’ steady voice. “Hold the leads with a relaxed grip, and give them a little flick.” Nax does as he’s told and Konstantinos starts walking slowly. Nax lets out an excited laugh.

“I’m doing it! You were right, it’s not that hard.” He says, grinning widely. Telemachus returns his smile, and Nax could swear he noticed a flushed tone to his olive skin.

“Gently pull left or right to direct him and if you want to go faster, squeeze your legs together.” With that cue the horse breaks into a trot, pleased with the faster pace. Nax squeezes again, fear replaced with a desire for speed. Konstantinos shakes his head and pushes himself forward into a canter.

Nax leans forward and clicks his tongue like Telemachus did. He can barely hear Telemachus shouting at him to slow down. He doesn’t want to slow down.

A shimmering in the tree line catches Nax’s eye. He peers into the woods and sees light bending around…something…or someone. He doesn’t notice Konstantinos’ ears pressed to his head, or the trembling in his legs. Nax pulls the reins and looks more carefully. The glimmer darts away and the horse rears up, throwing Nax from his back.

He lands with a heavy thud, sucking in air sharply. His already aching body protests the impact.

“Nax!” Telemachus calls out from behind, “Stay there! I’m coming!” He wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

Nax rolls onto his side, hissing through his teeth and gripping his chest. A blur of blue fabric and dark hair appears beside him, pulling him into his lap. “Damnit Nax, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you while you’re still injured. Are you alright? Is anything broken?” The prince runs his hands across Nax’s arms and legs, scanning him for injuries. Nax wheezes and coughs.

“I—I’m okay, just sore. It was my fault. I went too fast and then something spooked Konstantinos.” Nax looks up at Telemachus’ hazel eyes, worry and guilt painted on his face.

“He’s not usually so easily spooked. I’m really sorry.” He shakes his head, raven hair falling in front of his face.

“Stop apologizing, please. I’m fine, truly, I am. Anyway, before falling off, I was enjoying myself. So much so, I forgot my lack of skill.” Nax chuckles, groaning from the pain. Telemachus wraps his arms around him and pulls him to his feet, but he falters and the prince swings him into his arms. The action embarrasses Nax. What is he—a damsel in distress? Nax huffs. “You needn’t carry me. I simply lost my footing.” Telemachus tsks, stubbornly decided.

“Surely not, and let you get further injured?”

Nax rolls his eyes, but he ceases his objection. Telemachus whistles at his horse who prances over as if nothing were wrong. Telemachus scolds Konstantinos—earning him an indifferent snort from the white stallion. The prince lifts Nax onto the horses back before clambering up himself. Nax winds his arms around Telemachus’ waist without hesitation.

They slowly make their way back to the palace; Telemachus checking that Nax is alright every few minutes. If it weren’t so endearing, it might annoy him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After returning to the palace, Telemachus escorts Nax back to his room. Nax has never felt simultaneously so exhausted and so invigorated. The sun has long since set, and the black night creeps in through the windows, casting everything in shadows. The footsteps of the two men echo off the empty corridors, and it matches pace with the rhythm of their heartbeats.

Telemachus stops abruptly in front of the guest quarters. He lingers, not wanting to leave Nax, but knowing he must. He taps his foot awkwardly before giving Nax a stiff bow—his attempt at formality. Telemachus resists the urge to embrace Nax, to run a hand across his cheek, to kiss his hand the way he was supposed to in order to woo young ladies.

“Well…I should let you get your rest…” His voice trails off and he gazes into Nax’s eyes, distracted by the young man’s beauty, this man that dropped out of the sky, almost as if the gods delivered him to Telemachus’ arms. “Goodnight Nax…”

Nax looks at Telemachus, admiring the pinkish hue in his face, his full lips and long dark eyelashes. Every thought he’s had about this man collide—his gratitude, his attraction, his desire to be close to him. Maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through his body or the fact that he’s almost died several times since leaving Troy, but he can’t let this moment pass. With whatever courage he can muster, Nax steps closer to Telemachus.

“Close your eyes.” He whispers. Telemachus narrows his eyes in confusion.

“Why?”

“Just do it…please.” Nax insists and the prince complies, letting his eyes flutter closed. Heart pounding and short of breath, Nax pushes forward, pressing his lips gently against Telemachus’ lips, as soft as they looked. He relishes the muffled gasp of surprise from the other man, taking it as encouragement and deepening their kiss.

Telemachus groans and runs his hands through Nax’s golden brown curls, pulling him closer, giving in to the urges he’s had since he first found him washed ashore, feeling more for this man than the dozens of women who had tried to pursue him before.

They break away, out of breath and flushed.

Nax pants lightly, “that was…”

“Incredible.” Telemachus finishes his statement. Nax grins.

“Exactly.”

Telemachus brushes a stray curl away from Nax’s face, before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Nax repeats Telemachus’ phrase from earlier. Has it really only been a day? It feels more like years. “Goodnight your highness.” Nax enjoys the flustered expression on the prince’s face, who dips his head and retreats into the shadows.

Nax stumbles into his room, legs shaking. He grips his chest, as if he needs to hold his heart down lest it burst.

He lets out a shuddery laugh and traces his lips with his thumb, still able to feel Telemachus’ kiss like a phantom touch. Nax walks over to the bed and collapses against the plush mattress, disbelieving giggles breaking free. He lays there for a while, replaying the day over and over in his mind.

He’s never felt this way before, never wanted something for himself and himself only.

He’s never had someone want him back.  

Though Nax feels far from sleep, exhaustion wins over and he slips into unconsciousness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

The shy mousy maid brings Nax a new tunic—emerald like the flecks of green in Telemachus’ eyes. This tunic is a heavier weight fabric, ornately embroidered and paired with gold clasps. More formal attire is called for since he’ll be attending dinner with the king and queen…and the prince of course. The young maid hovers, clearly uncomfortable letting Nax dress himself. She keeps fidgeting with her hands, restless.

“You can sit if you’re going to stay, but I’m not in need of assistance.” Nax states bluntly. He still feels a sense of camaraderie with the servants, after all he was one for most of his life. She glances longingly at the bed.

“Maybe…alright, just for a second, until you’re dressed, then I’ll escort you to the dining hall.”

Nax scoffs.

“I don’t need an escort.” He snaps. She tries to disguise her laughter, used to hiding her amusement from those she serves. But this young man is less formal with her than most. She feels comfortable teasing him as she would a brother.

“That’s not what I heard. Is it not true that King Odysseus found you wandering the halls?”

Nax’s face burns with embarrassment.

“It is not untrue but I know my way better now.” He grumbles softly. The maid giggles, a playful glint in her brown eyes. Once dressed, Nax goes to leave but she stops him, adjusting his belt and shoulder clasps.

“There. Now we can go.” She leads Nax out of his room, where he catches other servants staring and whispering. The young maid leans toward him. “They think you are very handsome. Especially the younger ladies.” Nax gulps, swallowing guilt that he doesn’t have any interest in their compliments—that he only has eyes for one person…and he is not a young lady. “Worry not; we’ve seen the way Prince Telemachus is with you. They are merely admiring.”

Her words settle like a pit in his stomach. Have they been so obvious? Does everyone know?

Back home, this was something that no one spoke of, certainly not so casually. It was a shame that was hidden or at the very least kept private. Maybe the Greeks are more open. That, or he hasn’t been careful enough. He worries briefly that Telemachus will face scrutiny or rejection from his father and mother.

Wouldn’t that just be perfect? If after everything he still ends up ruining Telemachus’ life.

The maid continues on unbothered. Maybe his concerns are unfounded. Nax tries to shake off his unease, letting butterflies fill the pit in his stomach. Each step carries him closer to his dark-haired prince. He recalls their kiss, letting the taste linger on his tongue.

Though, they won’t be alone for a while yet. He’ll need to control himself in front of Odysseus and Penelope. As difficult a feat as any he’s faced before.

Nax’s escort stops before the dining hall’s doors. She curtsies before turning to leave.

“Wait…” Nax says. She turns back. “What should I call you?” He asks.

She pauses, taken aback by his question. It’s not one she gets often.

“Sophia. My name is Sophia.” She finally replies.

“Thank you, Sophia.” Nax bows slightly, which makes the young maid even more confused. She lets out a nervous laugh.

“You are quite odd Nax. But you’re welcome. Enjoy your meal.” Sophia smiles and shakes her head at Nax’s unusual behavior before scurrying away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax takes a deep breath before pushing open the doors to the dining hall and stepping across the threshold. He’s met with a low-lit room—candles flickering on the grand table. If Nax thought breakfast was extravagant, then this is practically a feast.

Odysseus and Penelope sit closely together despite the size of the table. The king holds the queen’s hand, playing with her fingers. They are almost always touching; drawn together like they are two halves of the same whole. Glancing up at Nax’s arrival, Penelope smiles warmly. She stands and her husband follows.

Nax bows lowly, before looking around the room, eyes scanning for Telemachus.

“Please come sit.” The queen encourages, her soft voice lilting like a song. Nax hesitantly steps toward the table, still waiting for Telemachus to appear. “He’ll be here momentarily. You can sit while you wait, can you not?” She teases, a devious sparkle in her eyes.

Usually, Nax sees the similarities between Telemachus and his father, but he clearly got his humor from his mother.

Admitting defeat, Nax goes to sit at the table. But then a hand brushes his back.

He spins around to look at Telemachus, who’s wearing a rich burgundy tunic with a bright red belt. Nax has a suspicion that his cheeks are a similar color to the fabric.

The dark-haired prince smirks victoriously at the look on Nax’s face.

“Hello,” he greets him in a low purr. Telemachus leans down to whisper in Nax’s ear. “You slept well, I hope?”

Nax rolls his eyes and responds. “Yes, thank you. Prince Telemachus.” He spins back toward the king and queen. “Shall we sit?”

“We shall.” Telemachus grins, bounding ahead to pull out a seat for Nax.

They take their seats at the end of the table next to the king and queen; the group of four all crowded together with the rest of the seats empty. Not that Nax spent much time in banquet halls, but he always imagined something less…intimate?

Servants swirl around them, serving their first course. Odysseus thanks each of them individually. He looks them in the eye and treats them as people. It’s different from the dismissive and entitled behavior Nax received as a servant, never being treated as human, merely furniture, an object. As always, the king’s behavior makes Nax question everything he knows.

Why would someone born into privilege take it upon himself to lead with kindness?

“How are you feeling today Nax?” Odysseus’ low voice addresses him. “We heard that you took a fall. Telemachus has been quite remorseful, fretting over it all day.” The prince’s face reddens and he turns to Nax.

“I was worried…that you wouldn’t recover as quickly is all.”

“No need to worry. I’m only bruised—my ego is more injured than anything.” Nax’s comment elicits laughter around the table. There’s an ease here on Ithaca that in unfamiliar to him.

He certainly doesn’t hate it.

“You seem very resilient, Nax. It’s an admirable quality. The only time I’ve ever fallen off a horse, poor Odysseus had to carry me around for a month.” Penelope muses, glancing lovingly at her husband.

“I insisted. Nothing hurt more than seeing my wife in pain.” Odysseus winces as if the memory alone sent a shock of pain through him. He kisses her hand.

Nax sneaks a peek at Telemachus, remembering the feeling of his strong arms sweeping him off his feet. Telemachus catches his gaze, shooting him a triumphant look. Compared to his father’s, his actions were rather conservative.

Telemachus’ foot brushes against Nax, nearly making him jump out of his seat. He glares, nodding at the prince’s parents in an attempt to urge him to be more careful, but Telemachus merely looks away nonchalantly while caressing Nax’s leg under the table.

“The quail is very succulent tonight. Here try mine.” Telemachus offers a bite to Nax, who again looks at the prince with stunned apprehension. Has he gone mad? The king and queen are sitting right there! They’re sure to know something is going on.

What would possess him to be so bold?

“Is it not the same as mine?” Nax quips, “I’m not so helpless that I must be fed.”

Telemachus pushes the fork toward him again.

“Don’t be so stubborn.” His hazel eyes dance with mischief and humor. For a moment the world falls away, leaving just the two of them. Try as he might, Nax can’t resist gazing at the man before him like a lovestruck fool.

Odysseus and Penelope exchange a knowing look. They too have been young and in love. A silent conversation passes between the two of them—a series of eyebrow raises and smirks. Eventually Penelope clears her throat.

“I apologize, but I suddenly feel lightheaded. Odysseus darling, help me to bed?” He stands immediately and offers his hand.

“Anything for my queen.” She rolls her eyes but takes his hand and lets him pull her up. “Good evening boys, enjoy the rest of your meal.” Odysseus says, a flickering smirk implying his and his wife’s meddling.

When they depart, Nax spins around to Telemachus, hissing under his breath.

“Are you trying to get caught? What would they think if…if they knew?” The shame Nax has felt most of his life seeps out of his words. Telemachus looks at him with pity, before grabbing his chin and pulling him against his mouth.

This is a softer kiss, gentle and tender, filled with longing. Nax gives in to the feeling, soft skin grazing against his. He can taste the quail that the other man tried to feed to him, savory and sweet on his tongue, along with the whisper of alcohol on his breath. Before they can go further, Nax pulls away, looking around the room. The fear of being witnessed grips him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Telemachus whispers breathily.

“We shouldn’t do that where we can be seen. A servant could be watching.”

Telemachus brushes his knuckles against Nax’s cheek, but doesn’t try to kiss him again.

“You worry too much. No one would dare say anything to me. I am the prince after all…anyway even things unspoken are still understood. You are safe here…with me.”

So Nax had been right. The maids and servants were aware there was something between them; they just accepted it without questioning. In all his years of hiding his identity and his attractions, the idea of being safe feels foreign to Nax, yet it does seem to be true.

He’s just not sure what that means.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After dinner Telemachus insists on walking Nax back to his room. He slings an arm over his shoulder—a jovial and friendly gesture, something young men often do with one another.

“Is this more comfortable?” He asks, seeking Nax’s approval. Nax nods.

“Much. Like we’re old friends.”

Telemachus wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Fine. As long as you know you are not merely a friend.”

As they round the corner, they hear the sound of laughter echoing in the main hall. Penelope’s giggles are carried through the corridors, lifted up by Odysseus’ joyful singing voice, which breaks slightly from his laughter. Telemachus pulls Nax behind a column, spying on his parents.

They dance around barefoot, sandals abandoned in the corner. Holding each other in their arms, they twirl about the main hall—completely in their own world.

Nax has never seen two people so deeply and devotedly in love.

“I will fall in love with you over and over again…”

Penelope's light voice joins in.

“No matter how where or when, no matter how long it’s been…”

Nax is so enchanted with them that he doesn’t notice Telemachus creeping to the stairs until Penelope and Odysseus stop dancing and kiss passionately. Nax quickly looks away, feeling like an intruder in their private moment. Telemachus shakes his head in amusement and beckons for Nax to follow, which he does so as swiftly and quietly as possible.

They sneak up the stairs and back to Nax’s quarters. He pushes Telemachus inside, locking the door behind them, and pulls him into a kiss, feeling freer to do so in the privacy of his room. He restrains himself from dragging him to the bed and having his way with him; Nax lets kissing be enough…for now.

When they break away, Telemachus’ wavy raven locks are delightfully disheveled. He runs a hand through his hair before holding it out toward Nax.

“May I have this dance?”

Nax scoffs, but can’t help smiling.

“There isn’t any music…”

Telemachus shrugs. “Need there be?” Nax fidgets nervously.

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Then let me lead.” The prince dares him with an unwavering gaze and steady hand. Nax relents, placing his hand in Telemachus’ palm. He pulls Nax closer, wrapping a hand around his back and pulling him gently into a swaying dance. Nax feels clumsy and strange dancing without a song’s rhythm to follow, but he also enjoys the feeling of floating around the room, bodies pressed against each other.

Nax thinks that he would do anything for this man: fall off another horse, dance without music, kiss him in front of all of Ithaca.

He would follow this man off a cliff if he thought it would please him.

He’d gladly drown again for the promise of meeting him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Weeks pass. Each day spent on Ithaca with Telemachus carries Nax further and further from his old self, replaced with a new sense of ease and peace.

Sometimes it feels like a dream from which he never wants to wake.

As he regains his strength, the familiar ache for training creeps back in. He wants to stretch his muscles, feel the burn of exertion in his limbs. He wants to sweat from activity rather than exhaustion and injury.

Nax propositions Telemachus during one of their walks.

“Would you want to spar with me? I’ve grown unpracticed, but it would be good to hold a blade again. I’d wager you will beat me easily in my weakened state.” Nax teases, dangling victory in front of his companion like a carrot on a stick. “What do you say?”

“If you feel up to it, then of course. We can use the training arena. Hardly anyone comes there…so we’ll have some privacy.” Telemachus response speaks to some ulterior motive but Nax is simply excited to have someone to spar with again. The familiar hum of energy before sword fighting fills his lungs, thrumming in his veins. His hands buzz with readiness.

“Perfect!” He beams. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” Telemachus responds in surprise. Nax nods eagerly.

“No time like the present. Show me the way.” The prince complies, leading Nax toward the training grounds. Servants glance at them as they pass; some smile and wave at Nax and he does the same. Telemachus looks at the young man inquisitively. He presumes that as a former servant Nax feels connected to them, though he does find his casual nature and open-heart odd—charming—but odd. He’s unlike anyone Telemachus has met, innocent despite all he’s suffered.

He wants nothing more than to protect that aspect of him—to protect him from hardship.

He’d give him the world if he asked.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As they enter the training arena, Nax’s eyes go wide with amazement, a half grin stretching across his face. The walls are decked with every type of weapon one could dream of, some he doesn’t even have a name for. Marble columns line the space, but he can still see the sky above—bluer than a robin’s egg.

“Had I known this would impress you so, I would have brought you sooner.” Telemachus’ voice teases adoringly.

Nax spins around to face him, shooting him a broad smile. “It’s no more impressive than anything else you’ve shown me, but it has been too long since I practiced my skills.”

Though what he’ll use his skills for moving forward, he hasn’t any idea. He just knows that he misses it; he wants to feel like himself again, not so helpless, not so feeble. Nax spots the wall of swords and moves toward them unconsciously. His hand reaches for a bronze hilted xiphos blade, its perfectly polished surface reflecting his face back to him.

Though only months had passed since his departure from Troy, he barely recognizes himself. His hair longer and wilder. His cheeks less chubby and the shadow of a blonde beard framing his mouth. He looks older, more mature, weathered even.

If anyone from before saw him now, would they recognize him? Would his crew? Or would he be able to pass them without a second glance?

Maybe then he could let go of his old name and title and just be a stranger in a foreign land.

No one need know who he was before he came here, or why he came here.

Not if he doesn’t tell them.

He grips the sword and pulls it down from the wall. The weight in his hand makes him feel solid—grounding him. Telemachus picks up a longer blade, more fitting for his stature, and takes his place across from Nax. The prince shakes his hair out of his eyes and raises his sword.

“Fair warning, I’ve been trained by the finest. Don’t be too defeated if I best you.” He teases with an arrogance befitting the son of Odysseus. Nax snorts. Even without practice, he knows his abilities.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Nax cracks his neck before lunging. Telemachus jumps backward, barely evading Nax’s strike. His eyes widen in shock. He’s not afraid but he certainly didn’t expect Nax to be so nimble. Telemachus shakes off his surprise and counterstrikes. Nax blocks him easily, using the momentum to push the taller man back. He stumbles, sliding his foot back to brace himself. Nax’s lithe form darts around him, and Telemachus’ eyes struggle to follow his zigzagging pattern. Telemachus has to admit, he’s impressed.

They move in a harmonious push and pull, like a well-choreographed dance, the sounds of iron clanking and grunts bouncing off the walls around them.

Telemachus begins to feel fatigued, not accustomed to sparring with an opponent of this caliber. His cockiness from before has completely faded. Nax breathes heavily but shows no sign of slowing. He locks their hilts together, hooking his foot around the back of Telemachus’ knee, and in one swift movement pulls him to the ground. The prince looks up at Nax, stunned by his loss. It has been a while since he’d been bested by someone, not since he was a younger man dealing with the brutes and ruffians that tried to ‘court’ his mother.

Nax grins triumphantly, pleased with the look on Telemachus’ face and the strength coursing though him. His body presses firmly against Telemachus’ and their chests rise and fall in unison.

“Do they teach all servants to fight where you come from?” Telemachus asks, panting softly.

Nax chuckles. “Only the lucky ones.”

“Next, we compete in archery. I dare you to beat me in that.”  

“I’m a swordsman not an archer.”

“Precisely.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Neither of them makes any move to get up, still laying with their bodies pushed closely together. Nax recalls Telemachus’ previous mention of privacy; this must be what he had in mind.

He leans toward the man beneath him.

“It truly is very…private…here.” He whispers.

Telemachus reaches a hand up to brush a curl away from Nax’s sweat-sticky forehead. Fingers grazing Nax’s skin send shivers across his body.

“Your constitution has improved. I’m glad, even if you did trick me.”

“Trick you? Never.” Nax says, putting on an innocent tone.

A mischievous look flashes in Telemachus eyes.

“Well then…I needn’t feel guilty for doing this.” He grabs Nax’s waist and flips them over so that he lays on top of Nax rather than the other way around. The younger man looks up at him with a deliciously shocked and betrayed look on his flushed face—a gasp falling from his mouth.

Nax looks up at Telemachus, dumbstruck. His heart races, and he tries to disguise his desire with indignance, pouting. Telemachus gazes down at him, hazel eyes swimming with yearning. His face lowers gradually until his lips are mere centimeters from Nax’s. Nax bridges the gap, connecting his lips with the man above him.

Slow tender kisses turn ravenous—hunger pushing them to consume without even breathing—raw lips and burning lungs no deterrent. There is only the taste of each other, the feel of the other’s body against their own.

Nax let’s himself drown in it, ignorant of the world around him.

The only thing he can focus on is Telemachus and his hands. The hands that cup his face, that graze against his thighs and the lean muscles of his arms. Nax moans softly against Telemachus’ mouth as they break apart for a much-needed breath.

Someone clears their throat behind them and Telemachus’ head snaps up. He practically flings himself off of Nax, scrambling to his feet. Nax’s stomach twists as he tilts his head back and is met with a mortified but amused Odysseus standing above him. The king’s eyes widen with shock and an awkward look paints his normally composed features. Nax follows Telemachus’ lead and jumps to his feet, bowing before the king. Humiliation winds its way through his guts and an internal voice berates him for being so reckless.

Telemachus stutters as he addresses his father, “s-sorry we were sparring but then we got, um, distracted…were you looking for me?”

Odysseus shakes his head, “no actually I was looking for Nax here. I was wondering if you would join me on a hunt, give us a chance to get to know each other better…but I can see you are rather occupied.” He waves his hands anxiously, avoiding eye contact with his son and his…friend. Nax looks at Telemachus, searching for rescue, but he merely shrugs.

“I—uh—I would be honored to join you on your hunt, though I’m not well versed in hunting, King Odysseus.” Nax agrees reluctantly. He sheepishly evades looking directly at Odysseus.

“Just Odysseus, remember. I’ll give you a moment. Meet me outside when you’re ready.” The older man chuckles under his breath and shakes his head as he strolls away, leaving Nax and Telemachus standing in the awkward tension.

“I’m sorry, I got carried away. I know you are…modest.” Telemachus says carefully. Nax shakes his head—frustrated.

“Are you not worried, that he’ll be angry or reject you? I didn’t want them to know.” He crosses his arms defensively, fighting the tears of guilt stinging in his eyes. Telemachus lifts his chin.

“They know. I’ve been warding off young ladies for years. If it angered them, I’d have heard about it by now. Try not to worry yourself to death. My father is a good man; he has never said anything to me that would suggest his discontent.” Telemachus straightens out Nax’s tunic and brushes the red clay dirt off. “Go. It’ll be alright.”

All he can manage is a short nod before turning on his heel and going to meet the king—the man he came here to kill—a man with whom he hasn’t been alone since he first showed him to the dining hall.

What could possibly go wrong?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Odysseus and Nax awkwardly walk through the woods of Ithaca, surrounded by silence—excepting for the chirps of birds and low rustle of wind in the leaves.

A small voice in Nax’s head insists that the king is leading him into the woods to expose that he knows who he is and to finish what he started 18 years ago. Old instincts kick in and Nax’s body prepares for a fight. However, it’s a fight his heart is no longer invested in. He grips a hunting knife in one hand and a bow in another. The knife he knows how to use; the bow not at all.

He tries to slow his racing heart, telling himself there is no fight to be had here. Telemachus said his father is a good man, and he trusts Telemachus…

He’s just not sure he trusts himself.

Odysseus crouches and inspects a set of tracks in the dirt.

“Deer tracks. Fresh. How do you feel about venison Nax?” The king asks, flashing that youthful grin of his.

“I enjoy it. Though I’m truly not that picky.” Nax answers timidly.

“Ah! A man after my own heart. Penelope used to joke that I’d eat anything presented to me.” Odysseus chuckles heartily, speaking fondly of his wife as he always does. He beckons for Nax to join him as he follows the trail of footprints left by the deer. The king treads carefully so as to not alert the wildlife to their presence.

The two men approach a clearing, met with a majestic stag. It grazes peacefully on the grass, completely unaware of the fate awaiting it. Nax swallows anxiously, while Odysseus kneels behind a bush. He pulls Nax down beside him.

“Have you ever shot a bow and arrow?” Odysseus whispers to the younger man, who shakes his head. “Well then, let me teach you. Hold the bow with your left hand, arm’s length from your body.” Nax does as he’s told. Odysseus pull an arrow from his quiver and hands it to Nax. “Now notch the arrow…right here,” he taps on the bow. “Good, now draw the string back, holding the arrow steady. When you’re ready, let it go.” Nax pulls the arrow back, the feathered end brushing against his cheek.

He focuses on the beast before him, exhaling slowly, and looses the arrow.

It flits across the clearing and sinks into the neck of the deer. The animal lets out a strangled cry before collapsing. Odysseus slaps Nax on the back excitedly. “Well done, Nax! Very well done!”   

Nax smiles weakly but nausea twists in his stomach.

Odysseus stands and creeps slowly toward the wounded stag, Nax following close behind.

Gargled shallow breathing comes from the deer; its futile attempt to cling to life. Its eyes roll around wildly, exposing the whites of them, shaking with a primal fear. For all his training and preparing, Nax has never been this close to a dying creature. It makes him ill.

“You still have your hunting knife, right?” The king asks.

“I do.” Nax un-sheaths the knife, gripping it in his clammy palm.

“We have to cut its throat, otherwise it’ll suffer longer than is humane.” Odysseus seems to notice the queasy look on Nax’s face, because he frowns and offers to do it himself, “I know it’s a bit overwhelming. I can do it if you need.”

“No. I can do it.” Something in Nax wants to prove himself. He doesn’t want the king to see him as weak or incompetent. He kneels on the ground next to the stag, placing the blade against its throat and slices. Blood pours from the wound, coating Nax’s hands, and the deer releases one last shuddery sigh. The slick red liquid turns Nax’s stomach.

He hates it. He hates it so much.

He’s never killed something before, never thought about how it would truly feel, always driven by other’s expectations and other’s desire for vengeance.

Why can he not just be? All those years; all that loneliness. What was the point? Why him?

For who’s benefit?

Nax tries to take slow deep breaths, but all he can smell is the metallic iron of the deer’s blood soaking into the ground—that earthen gory smell. A distant worried voice repeats his name.

“Nax? Nax? Are you alright?”

He pushes himself away from the king and the deer’s carcass, stumbling to the edge of the clearing and retches. His stomach clenches tightly as he loses today’s breakfast and possibly yesterday’s dinner. Suddenly a hand rubs his back, and the king’s voice shushes softly, soothing him. Odysseus reminds him so much of Telemachus that for a moment he lets himself pretend it’s actually him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax sits with his head between his knees next to Odysseus. Embarrassment burns in him and he can’t look at the king without feeling shame. The older man waits patiently, playing with blades of grass. Eventually he speaks.

“Perhaps that was too much all at once. You’ve been through a lot in these past few months. I should have been more mindful. Please accept my apology.”

Nax peeks at him.

“You needn’t apologize. I’m the one who was too weak to handle killing a deer.” He says, burying his head in his hands and sighing heavily.

Odysseus sees the weight that this young man carries; the exhaustion that etches his features is far beyond his years. An old soul; a kindred spirit. He leans over.

“Can I tell you a secret? I got sick as well my first time hunting. It gets easier.”

Nax doesn’t want to hear that killing gets easier. He doesn’t need it to get easier. He doesn’t want to kill ever again—and he certainly doesn’t want to kill a person. The idea of that sticky slick fluid pouring from a human being is even worse than the deer.

“Thank you…for understanding.” Nax manages a smile and pulls himself up from the ground. Odysseus follows. He dusts himself off and walks over to the carcass. He wraps it in a piece of fabric and pulls out rope to tie around the animal. When he’s finished, he hands a rope end to Nax and together they begin to drag the spoils of the hunt in the direction of the palace.

As they walk, Nax stares straight ahead. Odysseus glances at him a few times before he breaks the silence.

“I have to admit, this hunting trip was not just for food. I wanted to offer you passage back home to Mycenae, if you wished—” Right! Nax’s lie. He nearly forgot. Nax wonders if the king is trying to send him away because of what he saw, masking his discontent with kindness. Would he make him leave? How would he survive that?  He would be just as alone, just as stranded, and he would have to leave Telemachus. “—though clearly my son has taken a liking to you and you to him. Still…I needed to extend the offer…so you knew that you weren’t a prisoner here. I know that feeling all too well.”

That heavy sadness fills Odysseus dark eyes, an unreadable storm of emotion.

“I appreciate the thought Sir, but I would like to stay if that’s alright…” Nax says carefully—trying not to seem too eager to stay. It would be suspicious of him to not want to go “home” wouldn’t it?

“Of course. Like I said, you are welcome here. I just would feel remiss if I didn’t offer.”

Nax ponders whether or not he should ask what the king meant when he said he knew what it was like to be a prisoner. Telemachus had said he had faced many trials, but he didn’t mention imprisonment. Eventually his curiosity wins.

“Can I ask, what did you mean, when you said that you know what it feels like to be a prisoner?”

Odysseus looks a little shaken.

“Oh, uh, I—I did many things to get home, and I angered a god…or two.” He smirks, despite the pain in his eyes. “As punishment, I was stranded on an island far from home for 7 excruciatingly long years. The only company I had was a goddess who was also a prisoner there. Her name was Calypso. She was most definitely not the greatest evil I faced but she was obsessive and immature, and when I refused her advances…she could be cruel and controlling. She believed that one day I would love her, but the only thing that kept me alive was the desire to see my wife and son again..."

The king pauses, seemingly lost in thought. "I wanted to make sure that you knew that you weren’t beholden to me...or Telemachus…though I am very glad he found someone so kind and good natured. He lights up when he speaks of you.”

Guilt floods through Nax. This is the man he came here to kill—who he was raised to kill—a father, a husband, someone who had suffered much yet remained so unbelievably generous.

If he hadn’t met Telemachus first, would he have gone through with it?

Most likely.

But he did meet Telemachus first, and as he gets to know Odysseus, he realizes just how little he views him as an enemy.

He hated a myth, a ghost, a story, not a man—not this man.

He won’t be killing anybody. He’s done with fate and destiny and vengeance. The gods be damned. As far as anybody need know, he drowned in that ocean. As far as he’s concerned, he left the person he was raised to be in the surf.

The decision is liberating, a weight lifting off his shoulders.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, and for your acceptance…where I come from, it is not generally allowed for men to enjoy the company of other men. I have never let myself before Telemachus. Your son is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I’m very grateful I found him…or rather that he found me on that beach and took pity on me. He saved my life. He’s a great deal like yourself, you know.”

“He reminds me more of his mother, especially that tongue of his, sharp as a blade.”

The two men laugh heartily.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

With his newfound resolution, Nax is much more cheerful, hopeful even. The guilt that had been eating at him every day from his arrival has all but dissipated, replaced with an eagerness to embrace his new life on Ithaca fully. He rises with the sun, bounding down the stairs and outside to the gardens.

The sweet smell of dew greets him, carried by a gentle breeze. Nax breathes deeply, taking it all in, appreciating the beauty of this place. He feels content. While strolling through the gardens, he sees Sophia and a few other servants gathering olives. They fill their aprons and when the fabric gets too heavy, they pour the olives into a basket. It’s monotonous work, tedious too, but Nax desires that kind of work—easy, peaceful work.

Nax waves a hand above his head and calls out to the servant girl. “Sophia!” She looks up toward the sound, smirking and shaking her head at the young man. But still, she waves him over. “Good morning.” He greets the young women with a nod and a smile.

“Good morning, Nax. You are quite chipper today.” She teases, earning giggles from her companions. They blush when they catch Nax’s eyes.

“It’s a beautiful day, is it not? Why wouldn’t I be in good spirits?”

“I am not complaining. It’s nice to see you so joyful. Surely it has nothing to do with a certain prince…” Sophia winks at him, making him squirm under her gaze. He tsks in annoyance and rolls his eyes. He’s beginning to regret befriending her.

“Can I help? I don’t have an apron but I have two perfectly capable hands.” Nax pivots the conversation away from his love life. One of the servant-girls gasps, her pale skin turning pink.

“I—I’m sorry. I was just surprised. Guests of the royal family don’t usually pick fruit.”

Nax smiles gently at her...Rhea he thinks her name is. She reddens even more—a flush closer resembling her auburn hair.

“I may be a guest of the prince, but I am well accustomed to labor. Please let me assist.”

“Why not? We could use the help.” The other girl grins, her hair blonder than Nax’s but just as curly. He’s fairly certain she’s called Iris. Sophia shrugs in answer and turns back to the task at hand. Nax begins to pick olives, enjoying the satisfying pop as he pulls them from the branches and the smell of the leaves as he rustles them.

The girls chatter and gossip, and Nax smiles as he listens to them.

This is a good day, a new beginning.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eventually Telemachus goes searching for Nax, only to find him working in the garden. The prince snorts exasperatedly and shakes his head at his strange companion—full of surprises this one. Telemachus whistles sharply from the terrace and Nax’s head snaps up. He beams when his gaze meets Telemachus’ and he says his goodbyes to the girls before racing up to the palace.

Nax throws himself into Telemachus’ arms, much more forward than he usually is. Telemachus clears his throat nervously.

“Hi.” He whispers.

“Hi.” Nax replies breathlessly, both from running and from the look on Telemachus’ face.

“You are in a good mood. I presume that means your hunting trip with my father went well?”

“Yes, we got to know each other far better.”

“I told you; he’s a good man.” Telemachus pulls Nax closer, but resists the urge to kiss him in front of the servant girls. “Are you coming to breakfast?”

“Of course.” Nax takes Telemachus’ hand, much to his surprise and walks with him to the dining hall. Telemachus doesn’t dare say anything, lest he scare Nax away…and he much prefers having him close. What could his father have said to bring about this confidence?

Whatever it was, he can’t complain.

Nax doesn’t pull away when they enter the dining hall, even when Penelope grins like a mad woman, or when Odysseus smirks at them knowingly.

He’s done hiding—at least this part of himself that is.

He lets Telemachus pull out a chair for him without complaint, and when the prince takes a seat beside him Nax leans over and kisses him on the cheek in thanks. Telemachus turns a bright red, unable to conjure his usual wit. He laughs, stammering unintelligibly. This is a side of Nax he’s not familiar with—usually Nax is the one getting flustered by Telemachus.

Nax laughs gleefully at the look on his prince’s face—enjoying this new power greatly.

He should’ve cast off his worries sooner.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That night Telemachus escorts Nax upstairs, but instead of bringing him to the guest quarters, he drags Nax to his own room. Nax has never seen the inside of Telemachus’ quarters, and he doesn’t get much of a chance before the other man’s lips are moving against his own. Nax growls and cups Telemachus’ face possessively. The prince pants softly.

“You—you are different today.”

Nax grins devilishly.

“Does it displease you? Should I be less forward? More submissive?” He whispers against Telemachus’ skin, planting kisses on his exposed throat.

“Absolutely not. I quite like this side of you.” Telemachus responds enthusiastically.

They move toward the bed, breaking apart only to catch their breath before colliding again—pulled back to the other like a magnet or gravity, some attraction beyond their control.

Nax’s golden curls contrast against Telemachus black locks, reminiscent of day and night or the sun and the moon. Opposites that balance each other. Like two halves of the same soul cleaved in half ages ago that are just now coming back together.

Nax barely notices the silken sheets against his skin, preoccupied with the velvety touch of Telemachus bare skin against his. Kissing turns into something more raw, more passionate, and intimate. Bodies, tongues, and flesh blending together, as close as possible, inseparable. Nax kisses every inch of Telemachus’ skin—noting areas of particular sensitivity.

For this he’d give up any destiny, any virtue, all his morals. He’s never belonged somewhere like he belongs in this man’s arms.

The night wears on and the two men lay together in the prince’s bed, sticky and clammy and content—a tangle of limbs. Telemachus buries his face in Nax’s hair, and hums some Ithacan lullaby. Nax sighs and traces the other man’s arms—memorizing each and every freckle and scar. He says a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god let him have this.

As Telemachus’ humming trails off, Nax looks around the bedroom—illuminated only by flickering candlelight. He notices the unkempt nature of Telemachus’ belongings, books and papers scattered on his desk, and a plum pit that he started whittling but abandoned. Every candle has burned so far that the wax has spilled out everywhere.

Nax likes it here. It’s warm and peaceful.  

He glances at Telemachus, who’s rhythmic breathing suggests he’s fallen asleep.

“Are you asleep?” Telemachus snores gently but doesn’t answer. Nax presses his ear against the other man’s chest and listens to the rise and fall. Once he’s sure the prince is truly asleep, he whispers softly under his breath.

“I have a confession to make…I have fallen in love with you—madly, deeply, irrevocably—in love with you. From the moment I opened my eyes on that beach, I have been consumed with thoughts of you, and I shall stay by your side as long as you let me.”

Nax carefully detangles himself from the sleeping prince—holding his breath so to not rouse him—dresses and then sneaks out of the room as quietly as possible.

The empty corridor echoes the soft patter of his footsteps, but thankfully he doesn’t see or hear another soul. Nax doesn’t mind anymore that people know about him and Telemachus, but the servants talk too much as it is. Best not give them something even juicier to gossip about. He’d never hear the end of it from Sophia if he were caught stumbling out of the prince’s quarters in the same clothes as the day before.

When he enters his room, Nax feels the hairs on his arms raise—sending warning signals.

His heart races and there’s the distinct feeling that he’s being watched.

A voice in his mind screams out run, but he stays his ground. His eyes scan the room nervously and as they glide across the window, he catches a familiar shimmering, like the air itself is trembling, moonlight bending like waves.

It’s the same thing he saw in the tree line when he was horseback riding—the same thing that spooked Konstantinos. Though he feels cold with dread, he speaks with an even and forceful voice, hoping whatever he encounters cannot smell his fear.

“Show yourself. I know you’re watching me.”

The glimmering aura grows larger and warps as a being steps out of the void. “A-Athena!” Nax stutters, throat tightening at the sight of the goddess. He takes an instinctual step back.

Her battle armor glints under the low light, and glowing eyes peer out at him through her helmet. She strides toward Nax, like a panther sauntering towards its prey, and leans down.

“You, young prince, are supposed to be dead. Care to explain why you are not?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

No. No, no, no, no.

Nax can’t breathe, ice water running in his veins at the goddess’s words.

This can’t be happening. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s been found out by an almighty immortal—one that is he remembers correctly was a patron of the Greeks in the war. If she knows who he is…

He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Athena stalks closer to him, her shimmering aura wrapping around them. She speaks coldly.

“Perhaps you did not understand. I shall repeat myself. Why are you, Astyanax of Troy, standing here in front of me alive and well, when you were supposed to be killed as an infant?”

For some reason honesty feels like the only course of action.

“My mother switched me with a servant’s child before the Greeks made it to the tower. I was spared and raised to seek revenge on King Odysseus. I was on route to this isle, when my ship got caught in a storm. I fell overboard and washed ashore, where I was found by Telemachus. I've been here ever since.”

Rage and protectiveness flashes in the goddess’s eyes. She looms over Nax threateningly, but changes demeanor just as swiftly.

“If the world knew you were alive, it would throw everything into chaos. The warring would never cease. Gods and men alike would riot. The blood spilled would be immeasurable. Do you realize that? That your survival is an existential threat to humanity?”

Nax was thinking it was more like a curse, but existential threat is also accurate.

“What is it you want from me?” Nax snaps, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He’s sure the goddess is not just here to reveal her knowledge. No, there must be something else she’s after.

Athena sighs, a heavy burdened sigh.

“Since Odysseus has returned home, I have devoted myself to creating peace. To create a better world for him, for his son. Odysseus is an old protégé and Telemachus is a friend, two of the few mortals I have any interest in. I would never intentionally hurt them…which is why I have a proposal—a way out of the tangled web of lies you’ve weaved. I can return you to Troy, or somewhere else entirely, and erase any memory of you from the people here. It would be as if you never existed, no pain, no more lying, no reason for anyone else to learn who you are… So, what is your answer?”

Erase him? Like he never existed? No! That would mean…Telemachus would have no memory of him…of them or their time together. Their first kiss, the sunset at the cliffs, the beach…would all just disappear. Nax would have to know that the love of his life was out there with no knowledge of him. How could he bear that? His heart squeezes painfully.

“I—I can’t. I can’t leave…I love him.” His voice is small and weak. Nax looks down to hide the tears brimming in his eyes, swallowing down the panic rising in his throat. Even if he doesn’t take her offer, he’ll always know she is there watching him—that any moment she could expose him. He imagines the look of betrayal on Telemachus’ face—the disappointment from the king. It twists his stomach.

Nax wishes so badly he could go back to this morning when he was blissfully unaware and naively hopeful.

“Very well. I will honor your wishes, but I must warn you, this lie can only end in bloodshed.”

Athena sweeps toward the window, before pausing and turning back to Nax. “I want you to know, it gave me no pleasure—watching an infant fall to his death, but my champion’s success was my only priority. At the time such ruthlessness seemed appropriate.”

“Wait. I don’t understand. You watched Odysseus throw the babe from the tower? So, you were there during the war. And what do mean? Champion?”

“The gods all had their favorites, be them Trojan or Greek. Mine was Odysseus. I trained him, advised him, aided him in battle, taught him the power of cunning. A warrior of the mind, my greatest student. You shouldn’t feel badly about your kingdom’s loss. After all, I am not one to lose a bet.”

A bet? A bet?

That’s what his people’s lives and deaths were? A game? A wager? Is this what mortals were worth to the gods—just tools, means to an end, entertainment. All the violence, the women who had been raped, the children killed. All just collateral damage—to win a bet?   

“Why? Why bet on human life? What are we to you? Ju-just playthings to manipulate and toy with as you please?!” Nax can feel his voice rising, the rage rippling through his tone, but he can’t seem to stop himself. The goddess’s eyes narrow—sharp as an arrow’s point. “You view mortals as game pieces for your twisted amusement, but that is my father you speak of, my people, my country. How inconvenient for you that I didn’t fall to my death, huh? Then everything would be as it should.” Nax spits the words like venom.

“Watch your tongue little mortal. You know not what you say.” Athena’s voice strikes the air like a whip—short controlled slashes. Her anger is palpable, but Nax is just as angry, and his temper has finally boiled over.

“Maybe you should watch yours!”

Nax stops talking abruptly. The goddess stands before him trembling with rage. Time ceases to move, suspended in space. He desperately tries to move any part of his body, but his every muscle feels like lead. He can’t even swallow, can’t even blink. It’s a horrific feeling. Athena’s magic creeps into him like a hand in a puppet. She demonstrates her power by making him kneel, his body collapsing against his will.

“Careful, boy. Do not test me. I have lived for millennia. I am as merciless as I am wise. I could kill you as easily as squashing a fly. I could snap your bones like twigs in my grasp.” Her gaze softens, though she maintains her hold on Nax. “…but out of respect to my friends, I will spare you. However, I highly doubt fate will. Remember Astyanax, secrets never stay secrets for long.”

Athena disappears as she came; that shimmering aura of hers vanishing in thin air.

Finally able to move, Nax folds in on himself, wracked with angry sobs. He chokes on the pain, gasping for breath. His insides still feel sick, like they’ve been rearranged. Sobs turn to hyperventilating as the adrenaline fades and the anxiety sets in.

Someone knows. Someone knows.

Someone knows who he is. Someone knows why he came here. How can he keep pretending like this when someone knows? How long will Athena keep this information from Odysseus and Telemachus, her apparently very good friends?

He’s going to lose him—Telemachus—the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and he’s going to lose him, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Almost as terrible a realization is that Odysseus is going to hate him, Penelope as well. Maybe they should—the gods know he hates himself presently. Nax bites down a scream, not wanting to wake anyone, but the pressure pushing against his chest still needs release.

Nax slams his fist into the marble tile, hissing from the stinging impact. The pain radiates through his hand, but it also feels good.

It makes him feel real. It grounds him.

Tears stream down his face while he punches the floor, over, and over, and over again.

Until the skin of his knuckles breaks open and blood pours from the wounds, smearing all over the white stone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Nax bandages his hand with strips of fabric he asked Sophia for. It took him forever to find the kitchen and once he did, she ordered him back upstairs to wait.

When she saw the blood on the floor her eyes went wide in horror, but Nax quickly shut the door in her face after a curt thank you. He’ll come up with some excuse later—maybe he broke a dish and cut himself, and he was embarrassed about it…yes and that would explain his poor behavior.

He does feel badly for snapping at his friend.

The split skin stings as he wraps his hands. He then uses the leftover scraps to clean the tile, wiping up the blood stain. Nax tosses the spent fabric in the fire, watching the edges catch light and shrivel into blackened ash and embers.

If only he could clean up the rest of this mess as easily.

Nax can’t imagine trying to sleep, so he slips out of his room and downstairs, venturing out into the garden. Picking olives with the girls that morning feels so far away now.

Moonlight washes over his surroundings, painting his skin with a pale glow. He walks toward the magnolia tree, craving the peace and comfort that the tree seems to provide. He still has the flower Telemachus tucked behind his ear—a souvenir to prove that it actually happened. At the time, he was only concerned with whether or not the other man had feelings for him.

How naïve.

As Nax approaches the tree, he sees the distinctive outline of a person in the shadows. His heart jumps into his throat; he was hoping to be alone. Nax turns to leave but the voice of the king calls out to him.

“Nax? Whatever are you doing up at this hour?” Odysseus’ tone is light, but with an undertone of concern. Nax sheepishly walks over to him, eyes downcast. He can’t shake the feeling of shame—for a multitude of things. Nax bows his head and tries to muster some version of a smile. Odysseus gestures for him to join him on the ground. His eyes are lined with dark circles, heaviness set in the creases of his face. Clearly the king is also plagued with insomnia.

“Sleep feels like an impossible feat at the moment.” Nax says, earning him an understanding nod from the older man. He wonders what battle is going on in Odysseus’ mind.

“I’m familiar with that experience.” Odysseus observes the young man, taking note of the anguished expression Nax is poorly attempting to mask. His eyes glance at the boy’s bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand? Are you alright?”

Nax remembers his injury and hurries to brush off Odysseus’ concern.

“Oh—I’m fine. I broke a plate and cut myself cleaning it up. It doesn’t hurt much.” Nax lies.

Rather, it hurts a great deal, but he likes the pain; the dull ache and stinging is much preferable to the pit in his stomach and the pressure in his chest. He flexes his hand and inhales sharply at the rush of pain. “What are you doing out here? If I may ask.”

“Contemplating. I have trouble sleeping since…well since I left for war honestly. There is nothing I’d rather do than sleep next to my wife, but my thoughts spiral into memories and nightmares. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.” Odysseus’ voice trails off and he rubs his face, sighing heavily.

“Give a bad memory enough time and it will become a nightmare.” Nax muses, thinking about the dreams of his faceless father, how the cries of his mother bled into his unconscious mind.

“How philosophical of you Nax.” Odysseus smirks, making the young man chuckle reluctantly.

“Apologies. I can be a tad morose. Pay me no mind.”

“You are too quick to dismiss yourself. I find you refreshingly insightful and honest.”

The word twists sharply in Nax’s side.

Honest; the one thing he is not and has never been.

What would the king say about him if he knew the truth? Most likely nothing so complementary.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I’ve been meaning to tell you—my scouts spotted a ship off the western coast. We’re unsure of who it belongs to, but we’re still investigating. It’s possible that it’s yours.”

Nax’s muscles tense, breath hitching in his throat. A part of him is hopeful that his men are alive, though if they survived, they’ll be looking for him. And if they’re alive, then there are far too many people out there that know who he is. Anxiety builds, swimming in his chest. He prays that this is not his ship, that they never find him, but Athena’s words echo in his head.

Secrets never stay secrets for long. Nax is beginning to realize that.

“I appreciate your assistance, but I doubt they are missing me, and anyway they probably presume I drowned. Even I thought I was surely dead when I went overboard.”

Maybe everyone would be better off if he had drowned in those waves.

“Impossible.” Odysseus says. “Every man is important, especially aboard a ship. We all have a role to play and that role is crucial, no matter how small.”

Nax snorts softly. “I was certainly not crucial. More like invisible.”

“Did you know that I captained a fleet of 600 men?” The king asks pointedly, head tilted while he waits for Nax’s response.

“I did not.”

Odysseus nods. “I knew each of their names. Their wives, brothers, favorite horse. I knew what they fought for and despite my best efforts I watched each and every one of them die. No loss was easy. No one was invisible.”

“How did they die? Was it the war?” Nax inquires, curious about the king’s trials.

“Ironically, no, all my men survived ten years of war only to be killed by a cyclops, drowned by an angry god, or eaten by a sea creature as a sacrifice, which of course was my doing. 600 men, and only I survived.” Odysseus’ grief is tangible—hanging heavy in the air. He fought so hard to get his people home and in the end all he has left are ghosts. Nax wonders if the child that died in his place is among those haunting the king.

“Do you have any regrets?” Nax asks in a low voice, thinking about his own regrets—primarily being born into such a pointless feud. There is nothing uniquely evil about this man, or anyone he’s met here on Ithaca. There is nothing uniquely righteous about him or his people either. He thinks maybe it’s all just chance or misfortune—a poor draw.

The fates pulling strings and cutting chords.

“I have many.” Odysseus replies with a somber resonance, but he doesn’t elaborate.

The two fall into silence, sitting beneath the magnolia tree.

The dawn light starts to just barely stretch above the tree line and Odysseus excuses himself, heading back to slip between the covers beside Penelope as if he had been there all along.

Nax eventually goes back to his room as well, feeling depleted and hopeless.

But he is finally tired enough for sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The days wear on while Nax is plagued with guilt and anxiety. It chews in his stomach, worsening every time he says he’s fine, every time he smiles and nods as his inner voice hurls insults at him, calling him a liar and a fraud, and that he doesn’t deserve any happiness.

He barely eats. He barely sleeps. He avoids the king like his life depends on it and brushes off the prince’s concern with platitudes of being under the weather.

To be fair, he has never felt more ill.

Nax paces his room, wracking his mind for some solution, a way to dig himself out of this hole.

Maybe he could come clean and just admit that he was wrong. Though he can’t imagine Telemachus ever looking at him the same way, that is if the king doesn’t kill him before the prince has a chance to hate him. He snarls at the empty air.

Damn it all to Hades. He’s doomed.

A knock at the door pulls him out of his thoughts. Nax doesn’t want to face whoever is on the other side, but he needs to appear composed. He calls out through the door, hoping his voice is clear and calm despite feeling the opposite.

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly and the queen pokes her head in the door. Her soft ringlets falling around her shoulders. She steps into the room, closing the door softly behind her. An awkward silence befalls the two before Penelope speaks.

“I’m sorry to intrude, since you’re not feeling well, but I wanted to bring you this.”

Penelope presents a sheathed sword. The gold filigree alone is priceless, not to mention the embedded jewels. This must be an heirloom of some kind. Why would Penelope give it to him? Nax’s shock paints his face.

“Wha—your highness, I don’t understand?” He looks at the queen in confusion. She moves closer to him, holding the sword out further.

“My son mentioned that you are quite the swordsman. This belonged to my father. It’s a spartan sword so the blade is shorter than you may be used to. Still, I thought someone should get some use out of it. Someone who would appreciate the artistry. Frankly, Telemachus has always been more of an archer, taking after my husband. Please take it.”

She pushes the sword toward Nax. He grips it reluctantly, but shakes his head.  

“This is far too much. I couldn’t possibly accept this. I am not worthy of such a thing.” Nax stutters, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Sometimes he wishes they weren’t so kind to him—that they were cruel. Then perhaps this would not hurt as much.

“Nonsense.” Penelope pouts, a stubborn fire burning in her blue eyes. She is as rigid as she is generous. Fierce and strong. No wonder she was able to lead for 20 years without the king by her side. She is a natural commander. “One should not look a gift horse in the mouth.” The queen says sternly, hands on her hips.

She has no clue the irony in her statement. Gift horses and Trojans have a sordid history after all.

“Of course. Thank you for your generosity, Queen Penelope.” Nax dips his head in respect.

Penelope claps her hands, a pleased smile lighting up her face. She, like Odysseus, has a youthful presence despite her age. She hovers, bouncing lightly on her feet before seemingly deciding to stay. Penelope gracefully walks over to the bed—practically floating. She sits, patting the spot beside her.

“Please humor me.”

Nax walks over to the bed and sits next to the queen, still confused, but he knows better than to deny her at this point.

“Do you wish to know something…about me?” Nax asks carefully, unsure of Penelope’s intentions.

“Are you happy here Nax? On Ithaca, with us? With Telemachus.”

Nax blushes. Though a storm rages in his mind, the answer to her question is simple.

“Yes. I’ve never been happier.”

His chest aches with the weight of his secrets. They threaten the happiness of everyone on this isle—if Athena is truthful then they threaten everyone in the world.

“I must admit something.” Penelope says, wringing her hands. “I have known that Telemachus fancies men since he was a boy. He used to gaze admiringly at the statues of heroes and he would follow the older boys around with this adoring little grin. Later I noticed his lack of interest in the young woman that fawned over him. Then I worried that the men who pursued the crown might learn of his attractions and do something terrible. I suppose what I mean to say is…I’m grateful that he has found you. I could not have chosen a better soul for my most precious son.”

Penelope smiles, taking Nax’s hand. “You remind me of my husband you know. As steadfast, clever, and kind. Nearly as stubborn. Good qualities in a man.”

Nax’s heart clenches. Tears prick behind his eyes. He’s overcome with guilt, for lying to these people, for taking advantage of their kindness and ensnaring himself in their lives. Everything blurs as the tears he’s tried to hold back begin to fall.

“Oh Nax,” Penelope gasps, wrapping him in a warm hug that only makes him feel worse.

“I’m sorry. This is—this is undignified. You needn’t comfort me.” Nax sniffles, trying to pull himself together.

“No apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Penelope coos and rubs the young man’s back. “While you are here, I will be like a mother to you, alright? You can come to me with anything, hm?” Nax nods silently, not able to speak for fear that he will devolve into a blubbering mess. Penelope pulls back and wipes the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. “I’ll let you get some rest. Goodnight Nax.”

The queen exits the room as gracefully as she entered, her chiton skirts sweeping around her ankles as she leaves. Nax groans and buries his face in his hands. Now he has either thrown up or cried in front of every member of this family. How becoming.

What if everyone would have been better off if he had taken Athena’s deal? Maybe he still could.

He could call on her, lay his honor at her feet like an offering and beg her to forgive his transgression. She seemed genuinely concerned for the future, perhaps enough so to give him a second chance. He could go back home and pretend that Odysseus had already died, so there was no one to take revenge on. Then he could take comfort knowing he had protected them and live out the rest of his days in Troy.

As if he never existed.

Then everything would be as it should.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

In the past Nax never felt more confident or stronger than when holding a sword.

The same cannot be said any longer.

This blade feels like a symbol of death, of violence. A beautiful thing given to him as a beautiful gesture, but that which can only draw blood.

A blade is made to cut after all.

He feels the weight of it, a hand running over the golden loops on the leather sheath. Nax unsheathes the sword, holding his breath as he does. The bronze surface glints at him, smooth and sharp, rippling in the firelight. Nax jumps at the sound of footsteps approaching his room. He lets the sword slide back into place and instinctually slips it under the bed. Nax stands up and waits. The door swings open without a knock proceeding it and Telemachus appears, closing and latching the door behind him.

“Telemachus! Wha—what are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you…” Nax stutters. His heart races at the sight of his prince, both from anxiety and from yearning. He wants nothing more than to drown his sorrows in Telemachus’ hazel eyes—just lay in bed forever playing with his raven hair and tracing freckles on his skin.

In the warmth of his presence, Nax could almost pretend that everything’s alright.

Telemachus strides past Nax, flopping down lazily on the bed. He stretches out his legs and crosses his arms behind his head, shooting Nax a cocky little smirk.

“I’m sleeping in here tonight. That way, you’ll not be able to sneak out like you did last time.”

Nax laughs nervously, waving off the complaint.

“The servants love to talk. I just didn’t want to give them more to discuss.”

“Ah, so is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” Telemachus says in a joking tone, smiling weakly, but he looks at Nax with an expression that seems to be half light-hearted half genuinely worried. Nax scrambles to deny his question.

“I haven’t—”

“You have.” Telemachus cuts him off. “Since you snuck out you have been…distant, withdrawn, downcast. I know you said you’re not feeling well but it seems like there’s something else bothering you. Did—did I do something wrong?” Telemachus asks, his smile falling. The flash of pain on his face makes Nax’s heart lurch.

“No! No. You did nothing wrong. Please believe that.” Nax exclaims, stepping closer to the bed.

“Then what? What aren’t you telling me?” Telemachus pushes back and Nax tries to speak but he’s so tired of lying, of coming up with lies to cover for his lies. It’s exhausting.

“I—nothing. Nothing. I promise.” Nax looks directly into Telemachus’ eyes, and though he hates himself for it, he lies to the man he loves. “I am just under the weather. Maybe…maybe I’ve exerted myself too much these past few weeks. I—I was embarrassed because I don’t want to appear weak in front of you.”

Telemachus’ expression softens. He chuckles shakily in relief, running a hand through his wavy locks.

“I’m sorry. I suppose I was being paranoid.” Telemachus opens his arms and gestures for Nax to join him. “Come here.” Nax can’t resist anymore, nearly running into the other man’s embrace.

Words fail him, they aren’t true anyway, so instead he pushes Telemachus back against the pillows and kisses the prince in an attempt to convey all he cannot say.

That he’s sorry.

That he loves him.

It’s a desperate kiss—a raw and intense kiss. Darker than usual.

There’s a depth to it that neither Nax nor Telemachus need say out loud. This is their shared language. Nax devours each little moan and gasp from the other man, an insatiable hunger gnawing on his stomach. Something in him says that he needs to be as close to Telemachus as possible before it all goes away—like this might be the last time.

If Athena agrees to erase him, then it would be the last time.

In that case, he has to make the most of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax holds Telemachus tightly in his arms, fearful to let go lest this be the last time they are alone together. He squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the sound of Telemachus breathing, feeling the rise and fall of it.

If they never leave this bubble, can the world outside still hurt them?

Nax knows the answer, so he just tries to enjoy the moment. He wraps his arms tighter around Telemachus, burying his face in the other man’s hair. Telemachus sighs, nuzzling against Nax’s neck.

“Are you awake?” The prince asks.

“Yes.” Nax whispers quietly, not wanting to break the serenity.

“Good, because there is something I must tell you…” He pauses, lifting himself off Nax’s body so that he can look at him, raven hair hanging in front of his face. Nax swallows nervously. “I love you.” Nax’s heart jumps at the words. Telemachus loves him back. “I love you so much it’s absurd, and I intend to love you forever. Even though life and fate and love are frankly terrifying, you make me braver. You make everything brighter, warmer, lighter. Like my own personal sun.”

A red flush burns in the prince’s cheeks and his eyes are shadowed by dark eyelashes. He glances away, but Nax pulls his face back toward him and speaks a confession of his own. The only truthful thing he can say.

“I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you. I would gladly do anything for you: fall on any sword or lay on a sacrificial alter. My love is devotedly yours—”

Telemachus' lips crash against Nax’s, muffling his words.

“Do you believe I was incredibly nervous to tell you that?”

Nax scoffs softly, “you? Nervous? Impossible.”

“On the contrary. You have always made me nervous.” Telemachus lays back down, winding his arms around Nax’s waist.

Nax falls into a fitful sleep, breathing short and pitched. His unconscious mind is a dark place, and his anxieties manifest themselves as nightmares.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In his dream, he walks along the shore of Troy. There is no moon in the sky, no people on the beach. It’s pitch black, so dark he can’t even see the sand beneath his feet. As he walks, he can just barely make out the hint of a person ahead.

His footsteps quicken, breaking into a run toward the figure on the beach.

A woman with blonde hair weeps, shawl pulled tightly around her frail body.

Nax reaches for the woman, making her turn and face him. Andromache looks back at him—eyes and cheeks hollow, almost skeletal. Nax shivers under her gaze, recoiling.

She speaks in a low wailing whine. “Astyanax. Why—why have you forsaken me? Forsaken your duty? You were supposed to avenge us, not abandon all I taught you for the affections of some man. Disgraceful. Why? Why Nax?” Andromache sobs, curling in on herself.

Nax tries to take a step back, only to notice his feet sunken into the sand up to his ankles. He struggles, but it only makes him sink deeper, dragging him down below the shore. Nax looks at his mother, begging her to see him, to help him.

He’s up to his chest in the sand now. An apathetic Andromache watches him sink. He pushes against the sand, desperately trying to drag himself out. With the sand up to his neck, Nax takes a deep breath before he disappears beneath the surface.

Grains of sand give way to ocean water—the waters he should have drown in—sinking further and further into the darkness. Falling, falling, until his back hits the ground sharply. Nax wheezes from the impact, dragging himself up to standing.

He finds himself in the clearing where he killed the deer, and when he turns around, he’s met with Odysseus wearing the same glassy apathetic expression as Andromache. The king tosses Penelope’s sword to him, and he catches it midair. Subconsciously Nax unsheathes the blade, holding it in front of himself.

“Well. Go on then.” Odysseus taunts, a sickening grin stretching across on his face.

“No. I don’t want to. I already decided.” Nax cries at the haunting shell of Odysseus before him.

“Who said it was your decision to make?” A voice echoes. That sharp whip-like voice of Athena. She stands on the sidelines, arms crossed indifferently. “I already told you little mortal; this can only end in bloodshed. It is simply a matter of time.”

Nax’s arm moves upward against his will, as if possessed with a mind of its own, point of his blade aimed at the king’s chest. He battles with his limbs to no avail, left arm trying to push down the right, nails clawing at his forearm. Nax tries to dig his heels in the dirt, but he moves ever closer to Odysseus, manipulated like a puppet by forces greater than himself, maybe fate, or a curse, or the gods themselves.

“No! Stop. PLEASE.” Nax begs someone or something to intervene, but instead the blade pierces the skin of the king, red blood seeping through his tunic and spreading across his chest. He looks at Nax with shock and betrayal, grasping at the wound. Nax regains control of his limbs, catching Odysseus as he falls. The older man’s face shifts, morphing into that of Telemachus, whose hazel eyes widen with fear and pain. Telemachus touches the wound in the center of his chest, drawing ragged labored breath.

“Oh, gods no! Telemachus! No! No! NO. This can’t be happening! Just stay with me!” Nax shouts frantically, pressing his hands against the wound to try and stop the bleeding. Salty tears sting his cheeks as he hyperventilates. “This can’t be happening. I’m not here. This isn’t real.” He repeats the words. “This isn’t real.”

A drop of liquid splashes against his nose. Nax looks up and sees walls of glass surrounding them. Athena stands on the other side.

“What is this! What’s happening?” Nax demands explanation from the goddess.

“It’s an hourglass. A measure of time. It seems that yours is up.”

Another droplet hits his hand followed by more, before a stream of blood pours down on them. The viscous liquid sloshes around Nax and the prince, filling the walls of the hourglass. It blinds Nax, sticky in his eyelashes. That iron scent fills his nostrils and there’s nowhere to run, no escape. Nax’s hands shuffle beneath the blood, searching for the sword. His fingers touch the metal and he pulls it up, slamming the hilt against the glass.

It doesn’t break, not even a crack. He does it again. Nothing.

A throaty roar releases itself from Nax’s chest as he hits the glass over and over in desperation.

But the blood keeps rising until it swallows him and Telemachus both.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“No!” Nax’s cries are still on his lips as he jolts awake, sitting up in bed. His heart races, and his sweat has drenched the sheets. He breathes heavily, looking over at Telemachus to make sure that it was merely a dream, that he’s safe and unharmed. Nax sighs in relief at the sight of the prince’s sleeping form, reaching over to brush his hair back. His thumb grazes Telemachus’ temple.

An image of Nax’s hands pressing on the prince’s wound flashes in his mind, and he pulls away.

Perhaps the dream was a warning, an omen of what’s to come if he stays here. He’d rather die a thousand deaths than have Telemachus’ blood on his hands.    

Therefore, he has no choice but to leave.

Nax places a gentle kiss on Telemachus’ forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment.

“I’m sorry but I have to go…Goodbye.” He whispers under his breath before slipping out of bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping prince.

He takes only what he needs, an extra tunic, a flask of water, and the queen’s sword which he’ll ask Athena to return to her. Nax darts silently through the halls and out to the gardens.

There’s a fountain in the middle of the courtyard with a statue of the goddess. It seems as good a place as any to contact her. He gazes at his reflection in the pool of water and tosses a coin in. The coin splashes in the water gently, sending small waves dancing across the surface.

“Athena? I—uh, I don’t know how to do this but…if you’re there, if you’re listening, please show yourself…” He waits for the telltale shimmery aura to appear. But nothing does. “I’m sorry! Alright? You were right and I was wrong. I was arrogant, rash, and disrespectful, and I deserve your reproach…but all I want to do is protect Telemachus, Odysseus and Penelope too. Please! If you care about them, then do what you said—erase me—like I never existed and send me somewhere, anywhere, I care not. Give me another chance…”

Nax’s voice trails off as he realizes the goddess is not coming. There are no second chances to be had here. He’s alone—his reflection glaring back at him, full of disdain and dejection. He swipes the water angrily, blurring his reflection beyond recognition.

There is no going back, no disappearing cleanly.

There is only the pit in his stomach and the weight of the truth bearing down on his shoulders.

He can’t keep doing this. The lies are going to be the end of him.

If Athena won’t come to him then he’ll go to Odysseus, confess his true identity and accept whatever fate has in store for him. With any luck, the king will be merciful and kill him quickly.

Preferably before Telemachus knows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Every echo of his footsteps bouncing off the stone walls of the palace makes Nax wince.

He walks through winding halls, remembering how lost he became when he first arrived here.

Fascinating how quickly a place can feel like home.

And how quickly one can lose said home.

Nax knows the king suffers from insomnia, so he supposes Odysseus won’t be in his quarters but rather his office or war room of some sort. He keeps his eyes peeled for candlelight creeping out from beneath a door.

Eventually he finds just that.

Pausing before the room, Nax inhales sharply, as if he’s preparing to be struck.

Once he crosses this threshold there is no going back.

He will once again be Astyanax of Troy, for better or worse.

Nax pushes open the door, met with a startled Odysseus on the other side. The king’s head snaps up and his brow furrows in confusion.

“Nax? What are you doing here?” Odysseus asks Nax, a firmness in his voice. He’s surprised by the young man’s sudden interruption. It makes him feel uneasy, and by extension—guarded. Nax steps into the room and closes the door. He latches it too, which only makes Odysseus more uneasy.

Old habits kick in and he scans the room for some weaponry, noting the sword in Nax’s hand. His mind gets pulled back to his bloody return to Ithaca…but he has no interest in killing this young man, not unless he leaves him no choice.

How many fights does he need to survive to live in peace?

Nax looks directly at him. He wears a heavy serious expression, a darkness in his features that the king had not seen before.

“I…I must admit something.” The younger man begins to pace. “You once told me that you appreciate my honesty, but I have not been honest with you. The truth is that I’m not who you think I am.” Despite the blood rushing in his ears and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Nax manages to keep his voice even.

Odysseus tenses. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Nax takes a deep breath.

“When you fought in the Trojan war, you dropped a child from a wall. Right?”

“How do you know that?” Odysseus’ eyes flash with anger or dread—perhaps a mixture of both.

He has often thought of the infant from that night—the worst thing he ever did—the top of a very long list of regrets. And after everything he’d suffered, it was still this which haunted him most.

“It’s legendary—the king of Ithaca, who snuck into the city in the belly of a wooden horse, ended the royal bloodline with one fatal blow. You believed that the babe was the son of Prince Hector…however he was just a commoner child. The true son of Hector lived.”

Odysseus’ blood runs cold. Time slows to a halt and his mind spins, trying to understand how this is possible and how this young man would know so much about this. Would he not have been a child himself? It feels like a game, meant to taunt him into something—a fight maybe.

“By all means, please do go on.” He says sarcastically, trying to mask how shaken he is.

“Hector’s son was named Scamandrius. But the people didn’t call him that. They called the child Astyanax. It means lord of the city...”

Nax pauses, hesitating. He nervously shifts his footing. “That child was me. I am the son of Hector; Astyanax of Troy. My mother put a servant’s child in my crib before you breached the palace. She raised me in secret, taught me to hate you, to one day come here and challenge you in a fight to the death, to be the avenger of my homeland. That was my sole purpose in life.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The color drains from Odysseus face—his skin white as a ghost. A whispered “what?” lost on his lips as his throat tightens. His eyes are wide with horror, looking at the face of the child who has haunted his nightmares, a face he has always wondered what would look like if he had not had to cut his life so short.

And yet here he stands in front of him now—alive and grown. From a boy to an avenger, just as the gods forewarned.

How could this be?

He can barely breathe, feeling every trauma he’s been through wash over him.

The things he’s seen, the deaths he’s cosigned, the screams—always the screams.

So much bloodshed and all in the name of returning to his wife and son. Odysseus has to believe it was worth it.

These past years have been greater than Elysium; a paradise rivaled by none. He would trade the world a thousand times again for an hour with his family.

And he’s become so fond of Nax; he’s felt like there is a kinship between them. The idea of killing him fills Odysseus with dread. He decides to try to reason with him instead, speaking slowly and calmly, as if Nax is a wild animal he’s attempting to subdue.

“So…are you here to kill me then?”

In a dramatic gesture, Nax tosses the sword at the king’s feet. It clatters against the ground. Odysseus looks down at it in utter bewilderment.

He has no clue what is happening now.

Even less so as the young man kneels before him and bows his head.

“No…” Nax grimaces. “I am here to come clean and accept the punishment for my lies. To let you kill me if you must…because—because I decided to forgive you a long time ago, and you’ve suffered enough for a thousand lifetimes. Because I never expected you to be so kind or generous, nor did I expect to fall in love with your son…”

His voice shakes, “but I did. I did fall in love with him. I love him so much and I can’t hate the man that made him who he is—no more than I can hate the man I’ve come to know. One who is good and honorable, a loving father and husband, a just king—a better man than I. Do whatever you think I deserve. I would rather fall on my own sword than bring harm to anyone in this palace.”

Nax fights back tears, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. He waits for Odysseus’ verdict with bated breath, anticipating the cool metal of the blade against his skin, the sharp pain as it slices through him.

Odysseus’ demeanor softens. Defensiveness gives way to compassion, eyes filling with tears looking at this boy. This boy whose life had been collateral damage of a war he had no part in. A tool. A means to an end. This young man who seems so sure that his life has no value. This kind young man who would sacrifice himself for Telemachus.

This boy loves his son.

What more could he ask for, than for someone who loves his son as much as he loves Penelope?

The king sinks to his knees and grabs Nax, pulling him into a tight hug. At first Nax tenses at the unexpected embrace, before his body realizes that he’s not in any danger. He chokes back sobs and collapses in the other man’s arms—all the fear and adrenaline rushing out of him.

Odysseus comforts Nax. “My boy. You are more honorable than you think. You should have come to me. I would have understood.”

He pulls back, looking at Nax with eyes that have seen far too much violence. Tears stream down his face as he speaks. “I begged the gods to let me spare the infant from that night. Argued that he was no threat. How could I possibly hurt an innocent babe? But they insisted and I did not yet know how to defy a god. I have regretted it ever since—been haunted by it every day of my life. If I could go back, I would do things differently.”

“How…how can you forgive me so easily?” Nax shakes his head, voice quivering. He was so sure the king would hate him. And what about Athena’s warning? It couldn’t possibly have been this simple…just telling the truth.

Odysseus looks at Nax with sympathy—still shocked by the young man’s lack of self-esteem.

“Because none of this is your fault.” He sighs with the weight of all his years. “Despite the fates’ best efforts, you lived, and then you chose to do better than those that came before you. You chose to lead with open arms. Is that not a miracle?” Odysseus helps Nax up to his feet and grabs the sword from the ground.

He holds it out to Nax. “My wife gave you this didn’t she?”

Nax scoffs and makes no move to take the blade.

“Yes. Ironic, isn’t it? I don’t know why she thought I was worthy.”

“Penelope is a good judge of character, eerily so. If she wanted you to have this, then you should keep it. You don’t have to earn your existence anymore. You belong here, son.”

Nax reaches a hand out, accepting the sword tentatively.

“I have to tell Telemachus…don’t I?” He says, looking to the king.

Odysseus shrugs, “I can’t answer that. It’s up to you, but I can tell you that if you trust him, then you have to believe he’ll understand.”  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There’s a sudden commotion out in the hall—voices and the sounds of hurried footsteps.

Someone bangs on the locked door of the king’s study.

“King Odysseus! Are you in here?” They bang on the door again as Odysseus rushes to unlatch it. Once unlocked, a scout barges into the room, slightly out of breath and clearly shaken. “Apologies Sir. But this cannot wait.”

“What is it?” The king asks. The scout glances at Nax, unsure if he should share what he knows in front of the young man. “Tell me.”

“A ship was spotted docking on the beach.”

“What about that is so urgent?” Odysseus snaps, frustrated with the scout’s hesitance.

“It’s uh—it seems to be…a trojan ship.” Nax’s head snaps up, heart sinking. His thoughts of whether or not he need confess to Telemachus come crashing down—he’ll find out one way or another now.

His ship. His crew. They’re here.

They’ll be looking for him, or for revenge if they think he died.

Odysseus looks at Nax to confirm that this is his ship. Nax nods gravely. The scout looks back and forth between the two, unable to interpret their silent conversation.

“Where is the prince?” Nax asks suddenly, stepping toward the scout who steps back nervously.

“We don’t know. He’s not in his room.”

Nax’s mind turns. He wouldn’t be in his room, because he fell asleep in Nax’s, but with all the shouting, would he have woken up? And when he found Nax missing, would he go searching for him?

“Nax? What’s going on?” Odysseus asks, now worried for his son.

“Athena said that this lie would end in bloodshed. When you didn’t kill me, I thought…I thought it was over but—” Nax stutters, recalling the goddess’s words. She didn’t say it as though it may come to pass, but as a matter of fact.

A truth as real as any other.

“Athena?” Odysseus exclaims in shock. “You spoke with Athena? When? What did she say?”

Nax is no longer listening, consumed with the need to find Telemachus, to ensure his safety and confess before someone has the chance to do it for him. He races out the room, followed by Odysseus’ confused calls. “Nax! Nax! Wait—where are you going?!”

His feet pound against the stone floor, as fast as his heart pounds in his chest.

He runs as fast as he can, hoping beyond hope that Telemachus is sound asleep where he left him. Nax halts abruptly, throwing open the door to the guest room.

“Telemachus…”

An empty bed greets him—covers shoved aside—abandoned by the prince. Nax calls out again in futile desperation, “Telemachus!” But there is no answer.

Oh gods. Where has he gone?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Telemachus

The prince stirs late in the night, having fallen asleep in his companion’s room.

He lazily stretches a hand out for Nax, hoping to pull him into his arms, but he grasps nothing but empty sheets. Groggily, he opens his eyes and looks around the room, but the young man he fell asleep with is nowhere in sight.

Telemachus’ heart sinks with disappointment; he had been so sure Nax wouldn’t sneak out this time.

He wonders if his declaration had overwhelmed the other man. If he had driven him away with all his talk of forever.

No. Nax loves him too, does he not? He said as much. He wouldn’t have left without reason.

Perhaps he had a nightmare and didn’t want to wake Telemachus? Yes, that sounds much more like something Nax would do. He is simply getting some air or he went to the kitchen for water.

The thought helps to ease the prince’s disquiet mind.

Somewhat.

Telemachus swings his legs out of bed, flinching slightly at the feel of the marble against his bare feet. His hands shuffle in the dark for his tunic, clasping the material clumsily, before he stands and walks over to the door, opening it as silently as he can.

He shivers from the cool night air, wanting nothing more than to be back in bed, warm from his lover’s body heat, face buried in Nax’s soft curls.

Try as he might not to, he has a bad feeling about this—dread settling in his gut.

Something feels…off. It reminds him of the night his father returned. That chill deep in his bones as his ship docked. The lack of people on the beaches—eerie stillness. Electricity sizzles in the air before battle. He knows that now.

It smells like this.

“Nax?” Telemachus whispers into the darkness, but no one answers. He treads cautiously, footsteps echoing softly in the corridor.

As he approaches the kitchen, candlelight flickers in the doorway and he feels relieved, rushing forward. But upon entering, there is only a young maid sitting at the long table drinking a cup of tea. Her hair hangs loosely and she has a shawl draped over her shoulders, obviously not expecting company. She stands up with a startled look on her face.

“Prince Telemachus? Do you need something?” The young woman offers with a curtsy.

Disappointment creeps back in, twisting in Telemachus’ stomach. His worry grows.

“No. I'm fine. Thank you.” He shakes his head dejectedly and turns to leave.

“Sir…I—um—were you looking for Nax?” The young woman’s timid voice asks hesitantly.

He whips back around.

“That is an inappropriate question.” Telemachus snaps, feeling exposed and insecure. Maybe Nax was correct; the servants do talk too much. The girl winces, bowing her head.

“Apologies, Your Highness. I overstepped.”

Telemachus feels a sharp stab of guilt. It’s not her fault that he’s feeling this way—nor does he care much that she is familiar with he and Nax’s relationship. He lets out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that makes him look very much like the king.

“No, I’m sorry. I—I was looking for Nax. Have you seen him?”

The young woman shakes her head no, but her tightly pursed lips suggest that she is holding something back. Her eyes avoid the prince’s.

“What are you not saying?” Telemachus steps forward, tone even and commanding. The maid shuffles uncomfortably, but she meets Telemachus’ gaze.

“Did you see that Nax injured his hand?” She inquires, fire burning in her eyes.

“Yes. He cut himself on a broken plate. What of it?” Telemachus’ brow furrows.

What is she trying to imply?

“Hmm. When I brought him cloth for his wound, his knuckles were bloodied and there was blood streaked on the floor. Doesn't sound like a cut to me. Does it sound like a cut to you, Your Highness?” Her voice is respectful but direct. “He wouldn’t speak to me about it…but…maybe he would with you.” She adds with a heavy sadness in her words.

Telemachus’ eyes go wide with shock and concern. Anxiety builds in his chest.

Had—had Nax hurt himself on purpose? Why would he do that, and why wouldn’t he trust Telemachus enough to tell him what’s going on? This is…none of this makes any sense. His mind spins. The feeling of impending doom eating away at him worsens.

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

She shrugs, “the gardens perhaps. I’m not sure.”

Telemachus nods and turns to leave, pausing briefly. He looks back at the young woman, heart swelling with gratitude for her fierce protectiveness. It’s a relief to know that someone is looking out for the man he loves.

“Thank you…for being a friend to him.”

“Nax is a good person, maybe one of the best I’ve known. It is an honor to be his friend.” She replies, dipping her head in respect to the prince before he leaves.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hurried footsteps echo off the walls as Telemachus walks toward the gardens, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. He swallows panic, taking slow measured breaths, but he finds himself spiraling into thoughts about Nax’s behavior the past week or so, the dramatic shift from the euphoria of the night they spent together to the distinct sense that he was hiding something.

And now he knows that he was hiding something, covering up the nature of his injury.

Telemachus worries that there is much about this young man that he does not know. Perhaps he had just been so blinded by his love for Nax that he failed to see the change in his constitution. Or he simply wanted to believe that they were alright, because the idea of losing Nax is agony.

He wishes so badly that Nax felt comfortable coming to him with his woes and fears—that he trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

Does he not know that he would do anything for him?

That he would protect him against any threat?

Telemachus would hold him in all his pain, if he would only give him the chance.

The gardens are empty. Not a soul in sight. Isn’t that just his luck? Telemachus fights against the voice in his head telling him that Nax is gone, that he left him and he’ll never see him again. Worse yet, he fears that he’s gone and gotten himself hurt.

Nax seems to have a talent for that.

Telemachus walks through the grounds, checking the magnolia tree and the olive grove to no avail. Defeated, he heads to Athena’s statue, craving her wisdom and guidance. Surely, she’d know what to do or she’d tell him he was being senseless and to cast his doubts aside. He gazes at the marble replica of the goddess, addressing the statue with a warm tone.

“Long time, no see, huh old friend?” He sighs heavily, sitting on the fountain border. “You may notice I’m plagued with anxiety. See, the man I love is…well…it’s complicated. I’m worried about him and I don’t know what to do or how to help him.” The prince chuckles bitterly. “I can’t even find him…I wish you were here Athena. Even if just to mock me out of my fears. It has truly been too long—”

Telemachus’ voice trails off as his gaze falls to the water, his reflection gazing back at him…but there’s something else, something metallic glinting beneath the water’s surface.

He reaches into the pool, disturbing the glassy surface, and grips what feels like a coin. His slender fingers pull the gold coin from the fountain. Telemachus turns it over in his hand, studying it, trying to figure out what it would be doing here.

It seems to be an offering of some kind. From whom, he hasn't any idea.

How very strange.

Telemachus

He glances back at the pool, summoned by Athena’s voice in his head. Her reflection shimmers in the fountain and she speaks again, words echoing in his mind.

Use caution little wolf. An enemy approaches on the beaches.

Telemachus’ heart races. So then he was right to be concerned.

There is a fight is on the horizon.

His stomach clenches, remembering Nax’s absence. Of all times for him to disappear, it had to be when danger is close by. Nax wouldn’t have gone to the beach…would he?

The thought alone is enough to make Telemachus feel uneasy. He rises to his feet.

“Thank you, friend.” Telemachus whispers out loud, nodding in respect to the goddess. Her image nods as well before fading—leaving him face to face with himself once again.

His hazel eyes blaze with determination.

He needs to find Nax—before something terrible happens.

Telemachus just hopes that he hasn’t wandered into the enemy’s grasp already.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The prince holds a bow with an arrow already notched—string pulled back tautly.

He crouches in the bushes lining the beach, hidden in their dark shadows, undetectable, invisible.

A ship has docked; a foreigner ship.

Men move on the shore. Not a large group…but enough, enough to be concerned about, though not too many for Telemachus to take on in a fight if he needs. He plans on picking them off one by one if he can help it, training his eyes on the leader of the group—an older man around his father’s age.

The others listen to him. They follow his lead.

If Telemachus kills him first, he’s hoping the rest won’t know what to do.

It’s his only advantage at the moment. But he doesn’t shoot just yet. He observes—lying in wait—Athena’s teachings taking control of his reflexes. Hard. Cold. Logical. No emotion. No fear.

He is the predator and they are his prey. The predator waits and listens. Like a wolf letting the rabbit stray a little too close before its jaws close around the animal’s throat, breaking through tissue, tendons snapping in between its teeth.

Telemachus watches the group gather. Huddled in a circle discussing something in hushed voices. They brandish an assortment of weapons.

Carried on the breeze, he can make out a name.

Whispered by a younger man who clutches a sword that he clearly doesn’t know how to use, but he grips it like he’s afraid to let it go.

“Nax.”

The others nod solemnly.

Telemachus’ heart jumps into his throat. His breathing quickens. Protectiveness flares in his chest at the mention of his Nax. Why would they know his name? What do they want with him?

Whatever it is, he’ll never let them close enough to get it.

His mind is pulled again to where Nax has gone and whether or not he's safe. Telemachus can’t stand the thought of something happening to him, and these people knowing his name doesn’t make him any less anxious.

Another name is spoken.

“Odysseus.”

The prince’s eyes widen, blood running cold in his veins. Now Telemachus is more certain than ever that he needs to dispose of these strangers on Ithaca’s shores. Anyone who dares threaten his family would do well to watch their backs.

Telemachus creeps closer, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see better in the low light. He raises the bow, steady handed as he aims it at the chest of the leader. The prince takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Archery centers him. He’s done this so many times that it’s second nature by now.

A man? A target? What’s the difference?

Is it not just something to sink your arrow into; something at which to aim.

He feels in control for the first time in a while.

He may not know where Nax is or what troubles him so; he may never know his father as deeply as he wishes; he might forever wonder what would have happened that night if Odysseus hadn’t returned when he did.

And over those things he has no control.

But he can decide where to send this arrow.

He prepares to let go of the string, pulled back to his ear. Telemachus fails to notice the figure approaching him from behind until a hand covers his mouth. “Mmnph—” Telemachus’ protests are muffled by the stranger’s fingers. Their arm grabs him around his waist tightly.

The bow clatters to the ground as his arms are pinned down against his sides. He struggles in his abductors grasp, trying to break free, but whoever has captured him is strong and unrelenting.

Panic floods his senses. And yet, there’s something about the hands holding him down that feel…oddly familiar?

They drag him away from the shore toward the path back to the palace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Nax

Nax backs out of the empty bedroom, stumbling toward the stairs.

His legs move faster than his thoughts, running before he knows where he’s going. He just knows he needs to find Telemachus before Telemachus meets his crew—before his worlds collide disastrously. Nausea grips him and it takes all his effort to push it down, to keep going through the fear and anxiety.

This is not the time to be weak.

He tells himself not to panic as if that will do him any good.

It does not; he panics regardless.

If something happens to the man he loves because he didn’t swallow his pride and accept Athena’s offer the first time around, he will never be able to forgive himself.

This love is a vulnerability like none other—the ultimate something to lose.

He fears it will be the end of him.

Nax heads toward the main entrance, passing guards and servants as he goes. There is no sleeping for anyone tonight. In the crowd, he spots Sophia’s long brown hair. He rushes up to her, grabbing her shoulder. She turns to face him. “Sophia! Have you seen Tele—I mean the prince? Do you know where he is? Please tell me you’ve seen him.” Nax questions the young woman frantically, voicing cracking from his desperation.

“I have. His Highness went outside, to the gardens I believe. He was looking for you Nax.” She glances around but Nax is already leaving. “Wait. Have you any idea of what’s going on? It’s all very ominous but the guards aren’t telling us a thing.”

Nax stops, looking at his friend—her brown eyes wide and eyebrows knit closely together from the stress. Her exhaustion is evident.

He needs to warn her, so she can keep herself safe.

“Listen to me very carefully. There may be a battle forthcoming. Do not go outside. No matter what, stay here. Just stay here. Everything will be fine. I promise.” Nax pulls her into a short hug before breaking away and running outside.

The cool night air greets him, whispering his anxieties on the breeze—a cruel taunting echo.

He’s gone.

            He’s hurt or he’s dead.

He will never forgive you.

                      It’s. All. Your. Fault.

“Telemachus! Where are you?!” Nax calls out into the dark—answered only by the leaves rustling. He tries again, as if he can will his raven-haired prince out of the shadows—grinning and unharmed—as if he could manifest him into his arms. “Telemachus!” Nothing. He lets out a defeated growl at the dark sky, gripping his hair in his fists.

Something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye.

It’s the coin he attempted to contact Athena with, but it’s sitting on the fountain’s border, pulled from the water and placed there by someone.

By Telemachus. Of course.

He had been here, sat here, and discovered the coin in the water.

But he’s no longer here and that doesn’t leave many places for him to be. Fear clenches in Nax’s stomach as he tears off toward the beach. Heart slamming in his chest as he sprints with all the strength he can muster. One thought repeating in his head.

Please don’t be at the beach. Please don’t be at the beach. Please don’t be at the beach.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax runs down the same path that Telemachus practically had to carry him up after their first meeting. His legs burn slightly but not enough to slow him down.

He has regained much of his strength, thankfully so; he has a feeling he’ll be needing it.

Nax can hear the crash of waves against the shore, and in the distance his ship’s mast cuts across the night—looming like some terrible omen. Memories of the storm flash through his head, his chest throbbing with the recollection of being hit with the boom. If drowning had been his fate, then all this had been a second lease on life, an un-promised tomorrow.

After all, as Athena so delicately reminded him, he’s supposed to be dead. It is merely by mistake that he stands here breathing.

Perhaps Fate has come knocking to balance the scales.

He can accept that—as long as Telemachus and his family are safe—he’ll accept any consequence.

His eyes scan the shoreline for a sign of Telemachus, but the prince’s black hair makes him nearly impossible to spot in the dark shadows. Nax does spot him though, or rather he spots moonlight glinting off the tip of an arrow, and knowing that Telemachus is a skilled archer he moves toward the dark figure. Surely that must be him.

Nax creeps closer to the bushes Telemachus hides in. He holds his breath for fear that his men will hear even the smallest noise before he has a chance to get to Telemachus. Luckily, the prince is focused on his target, completely absorbed, he pulls his bow string back in preparation to fire.

If he looses that arrow, there’s no getting out of this without a fight.

Nax dives forward, clapping a hand across Telemachus’ mouth so that he doesn’t cry out and alert their unwelcome guests of their location. The other man protests against Nax’s hand, the bow falling from his grasp. For a moment Nax’s heart stops beating, worried that the bow crashing on the ground had been as loud as it felt.

But no one seems to notice.

Telemachus struggles in his grip as Nax pins his arms to his sides. He hates doing this—sick with guilt—apologizing profusely in his mind. He just needs to get Telemachus to safety and then he’ll explain.

He’ll explain everything.

Nax pulls Telemachus up toward the path, trying to get as far from the shore as possible. The sounds of Telemachus’ panicked grunts tear Nax’s heart out. Though they’re not nearly far enough away, he can’t take it anymore. He whispers hoarsely in Telemachus’ ear.

“Shhhh. Shh. Telemachus. You’re okay. It’s me. It’s only me.”

Nax can feel Telemachus’ muscles relax in his arms, almost melting. Relief floods the prince’s body, despite the fact that he still doesn’t understand what’s happening or why Nax wouldn’t just tell him he was there.

Telemachus may not know what exactly, but he knows that something is very, very wrong.

Nax removes his hand from Telemachus’ mouth, more confident that he will be quiet now. Telemachus spins around, immediately grabbing Nax’s face and kissing him, before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

“Have you any clue how worried I’ve been about you? I’ve been looking for you all night.” Telemachus scolds him in a low whisper, refusing to let him go.

Though Nax wants to tell him everything, spill his guts and his darkest secrets out in front of Telemachus and let him judge him rightly, he needs to get them closer to safety before doing so.

“I’m sorry for sneaking out…I went to see your father. There were things we needed to discuss.”

“My father?” Telemachus asks, confused. “What did you speak to my father about? Why sneak out to do so? I don’t understand.” His voice creeps up in volume and Nax panics.

“Shhh. Please, Telemachus, I will explain but we need to get away from here, and quietly.”

A realization comes over Telemachus.

“You know whose ship is docked. Don’t you?” Telemachus states, hoping for Nax to assuage his fears. But the other man makes no move to deny it, face contorting in an anguished expression. The relief from before fades, replaced with that uncanny sense that Telemachus does not truly know this man.

How can one love a person they do not know?

Nax’s gaze flicks toward the beach. This is not how he wanted to do this, so unpracticed and out in the open like this. He can’t simply say those are his men—from his expedition to kill Telemachus’ father—as if it were the most cavalier statement in the world.

And there’s always the chance Telemachus will hate him enough to try to kill him. He’d prefer that happen in private.

Nax attempts a version of honesty.

“I do. Which is why I am being earnest when I tell you we need to go. Now.”

Telemachus wants to just give in, to trust Nax despite everything telling him not to. He reasons with himself that he needn’t know everything about Nax. Every man has his secrets. He knows the parts of him that matter, right? The scent of his skin, the face he makes when annoyed, his confidence when holding a blade…

He had been far too confident holding a blade.

Telemachus had noticed it at the time—what servant is that skilled in combat?

Had he been such a lovestruck fool he failed to see that Nax was not who he claimed to be?

“Who are you? Truly. Do. Not. Lie to me.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So, this is what the end of the world feels like.

This sickening crumbling feeling hitting Nax in waves. His ears ringing as if he had been struck. Nax tries to swallow, but his body is no longer his. He is outside of himself, watching the walls of his city fall; he is watching himself falling from the tower; he is waiting to hit the ground—to be destroyed beyond recognition.

He has forgotten about the threat on the shore.

He can only focus on the look painted across Telemachus’ face—this terrified and furious look.

Something possesses his tongue, speaking for him, truth spilling forth like a flood.

“Fine. I lied. I am not a servant from Mycenae—though I did not lie about living as one, that was true—nor was I accompanying my master on that ship…My name is Astyanax…Prince Astyanax of Troy. I was raised to come to this island, to seek revenge on your father, because he was supposed to have killed me. The world believed he killed me. I was enroute here when the storm hit. And that ship on the shore belongs to me, and the men on the shore are my crew, which is why I am begging you to trust me one last time and go back to the palace before you get hurt!”

Telemachus scoffs angrily, backing away from Nax.

“Trust you? Trust you? You must be mad. Why would I trust you after all the lies you’ve told? I don’t even know who you are anymore. Perhaps I never did. Astyanax.”

His voice rises, nearing shouting, sharp and biting. He lashes out with it. Telemachus’ pain ripples through his tone. He looks at Nax as if he were a stranger; he might as well be.

“I know. I know! I should not have lied. Don’t you believe I know that? And I will never be able to express how much I regret it, but I did not lie about loving you, or any of the things I shared with you—only my identity. I swear it. Please believe me Telemachus.”

Nax steps toward Telemachus, hand outstretched, but Telemachus jerks away—hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion and defensiveness, like a wounded animal. He practically gnashes his teeth. Nax drops his hand, feeling as though he had been stabbed in the heart, resisting the urge to cry out in genuine pain.

It’s a feeling worse than death.

Telemachus can’t bear the look on Nax’s face, immediately struck with guilt for causing him such pain. Although he is still extremely angry and hurt, and he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, he can’t deny that he is also still very much in love with Nax—Astyanax—whoever he is—he is his—and this doesn’t change that.

It changes much, but not that. Never that.

Telemachus' gaze softens as Nax’s hardens; eyes dark and voice cold as he speaks. “You may hate me. If you wish never to see me again, I shall go far away,” Nax chuckles bitterly, “you’re welcome to kill me if my death would please you.” He moves closer to Telemachus, grabbing his tunic. “But for the love of the gods! Would you please GO INSIDE!”

Nax’s raspy shouts are heard by the men on the shore.

A clamor of voices and metal clanging heads their way.

The two look at each other—then at the path—then back to each other.

“Run!” They both say in unison before tearing off toward the palace. Their pursuers at their heel.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

One of the sailors uncovers the prince’s abandoned bow in the bushes. He pulls it from the shadows along with the arrow that Telemachus was going to shoot.

As he does so, the sounds of angry voices float down to him. The argument gets louder until he can make out some words, and hears mention of the prince of Troy, which he cannot ignore in good conscience. He rushes back to the rest of the crew on the shore, and holds the bow up, panting a little as he says,

“I found this…in the bushes by the shore. Someone may have seen us…and I swear to the gods I heard one of them call the other Astyanax. I think the prince may be alive.”

A loud voice shouts “Go inside!”

“Told you I heard someone.” The young man states, still grasping the bow and arrow.

“What if they’re holding him hostage?” The youngest of them speaks up, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes with a frustrated huff. He clutches the prince’s sword, and has since that day Nax went overboard. It was his voice that called out to Nax when the sail crashed into him.

Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he had been a few seconds faster—if he had warned him in time.

Would things be different?

“Then we should go now! Attack before they get to the palace.” A rash voice shouts before its owner races off toward the path leading to the palace.

“Demitrius! Wait!!” His crew members call after him but he’s not turning around. They take off in pursuit of their comrade. The young man with the bow whines about all the running, but he reluctantly follows close behind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax and Telemachus run as fast as humanly possible up the path. Even though they are out of breath and their muscles burn, they push forward. Nax stays a few paces behind Telemachus, wanting to position himself between Telemachus and the threat.

They’re almost there, just a little further and they’ll be at the palace, where the guards can protect Telemachus. Just a little further. They can make it if they keep at this speed.

Nax glances behind and sees his crew chasing them, Demitrius leading the pack.

Perfect, so very perfect.

If only he could explain, maybe they would listen to him. Though, they never were very good at listening to him. Much less following his orders.

The captain wouldn’t even call him what he wished to be called.

Telemachus gets further ahead of Nax while he’s distracted. He looks back toward the prince, and in that moment an arrow sinks into Nax’s calf, sending him to the ground. Pain shoots through his leg and he can feel a warm trickle of blood snaking down his ankle. A strangled yell looses itself from his throat as he collapses.

Telemachus’ head snaps toward the sound; protective despite all that’s happened.

“Nax!” The prince doubles back, rushing to Nax’s side. He sees the arrow embedded in the young man’s calf and feels dizzy at the sight of red blood marring Nax’s soft peach skin.

He’s hurt because of Telemachus, because instead of getting help he ran off to play hero—still chasing glory all these year later. Telemachus berates himself internally, but on the outside, he’s calm and even-toned. “How bad is it? Can you stand?”

Nax grits his teeth and nods. Though his face is pale and clammy, his eyes burn with the same stubborn determination as the day he and Telemachus met. Telemachus puts an arm around Nax, supporting his weight. Nax takes a labored step and hisses sharply through his teeth as he puts pressure on his injured leg, but he clenches his jaw and pushes forward—managing a hobbled limping run.

It’s not fast enough.

The two men both look behind them. They are still closer to the palace than their pursuers are to them, but the gap between them is closing quickly—far too quickly for comfort.

Telemachus groans in frustration.

“You should not have stopped me from killing the old man. It would have given us time.”

“Apologies for trying to get you away from danger.” Nax snaps back, immediately regretting it. Of course, Telemachus is angry. He has every right to be angry…and scared.

He’s scared; Nax can see that clearly, and he hates that he caused that fear.

Nax brought danger to these shores just like he was destined to.

“It is your fault we’re out here.” Telemachus snarls. “If you had just stayed in bed as you were supposed to, we would be fine! But no, you have to go and tell my father your true identity in the middle of the night.”

“I thought he would kill me.” Nax states lowly. Telemachus looks at the man in horror, feeling a mixture of fury and concern. “Then I would not have had to face you.” Nax adds with a bitter laugh. He looks at Telemachus. “You should go on without me. Just leave me to deal with them. Go to the palace and don’t look back. Please.”

“No.” Telemachus says.

“Tele—”

“No! I am not leaving you behind.”

“Why not!” Nax growls in panicked frustration.

“Because.” Telemachus responds. Nax groans from the pain, but he braces himself on his bad leg and pushes Telemachus off of him. The prince looks at him with shock that turns to fierce decidedness. It’s a look Nax knows well by now. “I am not leaving you.”

“I don’t care about me! Only you. Why don’t you understand that?!” Nax cries desperately.

“Because I care about you! I care Nax—even if you have a death wish. And anyway, I’m still mad at you and I’ll not let you die before we can have a proper argument.” Telemachus smirks slightly at the end of his statement and Nax can’t help laughing in turn.

The prince’s face turns serious again as he looks past Nax.

They have company.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Damn it.” Telemachus curses under his breath. He moves to shield Nax, unsheathing a small blade he had strapped to his belt. Nax, of course, pushes in front of the prince, unwilling to let the other man protect him. It doesn’t much matter though, because Nax’s crew encircles them, forcing Nax and Telemachus back-to-back.

Nax evaluates the men. They aren’t skilled in combat, this much he knows, but they do outnumber him and the prince 5 to 1. Was Telemachus truly so arrogant to think he could take on 10 men himself? For all the things Nax loves about this man, his impulsivity is not his favorite.

None of them immediately recognize Nax, though he does look very different than the baby-faced prince they set sail with. His golden-brown curls have grown out and frame his face, sharpening his features. Wide brown eyes gave way to more deep-set ones and his blonde stubble makes him look older—wilder. They eye him with suspicion.

No, they don’t recognize him. That is, until he addresses them by name.

“Demitrius, what are you planning to do with that? We already know I can beat you without a weapon.” The arrogant snark is so different to the quiet and withdrawn prince they had come to know.

But it is his voice. Some of the crew take a step back, faces pale.

One of them steps forward, his blue eyes shaking with shock. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come out.

“Who is this? Is he holding you against your will?” Peritus finally asks.

“My name is Prince Telemachus of Ithaca and you are not welcome here.” The raven-haired man states, voice strong and commanding, like a true leader—his mother and father both echoing in his tone.

“I stay willingly.” Nax interrupts, taking a step toward the young man. He remembers his warm smile, hand outstretched eagerly, his voice trying to warn Nax. He was friendly; he was good. Maybe Nax can reason with him. “I’m not in any danger, but you are if you stay here.”

“Safe to assume the king has been spared, is it not?” The captain speaks up, “or this one likely wouldn’t be so keen to protect you.” His voice drips with condescension and disgust.

“It is my choice to make. You forget yourself. I am your prince! You answer to me, and I order you off of this island! All of you!” Nax tries to tap in to some inherent ability to command. Some of his men seem to respond, lowering their heads slightly.

But the captain is not so willing to bow to a child he has no respect for, even less so now that he knows what he is.

“The prince I served is dead. All I see before me now is a traitor. One who sold out his duty and honor for a man.” He sneers at the last word, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Nax looks at the captain, locking eyes with the older man. He sees the traditions he clings to—the old trojan ways.

They just happen to be traditions that Nax has no interest in upholding.

“Yes. Yes, I did, and I would do it a thousand times over. I would rather be loved by this man than be seen as honorable in the eyes of someone like you. Honestly, if the king of gods himself forbade it—I would defy him.” Nax smirks as he says it, dead serious and proud of it.

Telemachus looks over his shoulder at Nax, feeling all the anger left in him dissolve, replaced with overwhelming love—unconditional love. He realizes that there is nothing about Nax that would change how he feels. He just needs them to get out of this situation alive. Telemachus considers calling on Athena—but he lets Nax try to reason with his men first.

Only some of Nax’s crew carry weapons. Weapons he knows they don’t know how to use.

These are sailors not soldiers.

Troy doesn’t have any soldiers anymore.

“Please listen to me. I know you don’t want to hurt anybody—or get hurt yourselves. There needn’t be any conflict, truly. If you simply turn around and leave these shores, no one has to know any different. Go back home; tell my mother I am dead and go on with your lives. Nobody needs to die.” Nax pleads.

He can see the young men considering it; they look nervously between each other.

This isn’t what they signed up for. They were crew-mates on a ship. Who even cares if the king of Ithaca lives? Troy is still a conquered city—their people still broken. Maybe they should just go live whatever lives they can carve out for themselves.

Peritus looks at the prince’s pleading gaze, then down at the sword in his hand before looking back at Nax. He must admit—he doesn’t want to die, nor does he want Nax to die.

Nax sees that look on his face and nods once to affirm that it’s alright to walk away.

Peritus nods back and holds the sword out, handing it over to Nax. As Nax reaches for the blade, the metal shimmers and in it he sees the reflection of Demitrius raising his sword—clumsily preparing to lunge toward Telemachus.

Telemachus, whose head is still turned toward Nax—listening to his impassioned speech.

Telemachus, who is completely unaware of the blade about to swing at him.

The person whose safety matters most to Nax in the world. Violent memories of his dream play in Nax’s mind: Telemachus’ wide fearful eyes looking at him as blood spread across his chest.

Nax will not let that happen—under any circumstances, by whatever means necessary.

In a moment that feels like a lifetime—Nax hooks his arm around Telemachus’ waist and pushes him out the way, swapping places with him in one fluid motion. The prince falls to the ground.

It is too late for Demitrius to halt his blade—momentum and lack of skill working in tandem—and a horrified look settles on his face as he plunges the sword into Nax’s side.

“No! NO!! NAX!!!” Telemachus cries out in anguish as he watches the blade sink in.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Pained noises slip from Nax’s clenched jaw—strangled whimpering groans and shallow labored breathing. This hurts like nothing he’s felt before.

Incomparably painful.

Despite the pain, Nax wears an expression of disappointment and pity as he looks at the man who stabbed him. He’s not so much shocked as he is saddened by the other man’s actions.

Demetrius stares back at Nax with a dazed look—appalled by what he has done—hand still holding the hilt of the sword. He seems to realize this and steps back in revulsion, withdrawing the blade as he does.

Nax gasps sharply as the blade is removed from his abdomen, falling to his knees with a grunt.

He’s barely able to breathe, sucking in short stabbing gulps of air.

His head swims and he can literally feel the blood pulsing out of his fresh wound. He presses a hand against the bleeding with a grimace, and looks up at the other man, whose own eyes are so wide—the whites of them exposed like the eyes of the deer Nax killed.

This primal fear.

Nax has no fear even with the severity of his injury; rather, a strange calm settles over him.

A look of sympathy flickers in Nax’s eyes and it churns Demitrius’ stomach.

He glances down at the sword in his hand—blood dripping from the sharp tip. Red droplets rolling down the slick metal surface. Demitrius can’t believe this is happening. He had been acting on impulse and adrenaline, but he never could have imagined that he would accidentally kill the prince of Troy.

What he has done cannot be undone.

Demitrius backs away from Nax, his clenched hand unfurling. He drops the sword on the ground and the crash echoes in the deafening silence. The young man turns heel and runs. He flees as if he can outrun what he’s done—but it will forever chase him.

An image burned on the inside of his eyes: the prince holding his wound while looking at him—that haunting flash of forgiveness or empathy on his face.

The rest of them look on in horrified quiet, but they too retreat one by one, until the only man left is Peritus who seems frozen to the spot in paralyzing shock. He looks at Telemachus—whose hazel eyes burn with a rage so deep it chills him to the bones. He flinches under the prince’s gaze and shrinks back, reluctantly following the path of the others to the beach.

Telemachus rushes to Nax, hands fluttering frantically—he’s not quite sure what to do, but he knows he must do something.

“You’re alright.” He coos unconvincingly. “It will be alright, we just need to get to the palace and the royal healer will know what to do. You’ll survive this. I promise. Come on. Let’s get you up.” He wraps a hand around the other man’s waist—just as he did when they first met—and pulls him up from the ground. Nax lets out a guttural growl as Telemachus does so—nearly passing out from the pain.

Nax finally glances down at his white tunic, no longer so white.

There’s blood. So much blood. His blood.

He removes his palm from its place against the wound, and his hand comes away painted red, like he had crushed red currants in his fist. Nax doesn’t know exactly how much blood a human body holds, but he can’t imagine it’s enough that one can lose this much and survive it.

His vision swims, but he steels himself for the painful walk to the palace.

For Telemachus—because he doesn’t believe he’ll make it.

Nax pants as they walk. Every step pulls the edges of the wound. It takes everything in him to stay conscious, to stay upright.

Telemachus rambles nervously—talk of herbs and remedies and Odysseus also surviving such an injury when his men staged a mutiny. He seems to be saying it to convince himself more than anything.

Honestly, Nax is grateful for the distraction.

He very much wants to tell Telemachus how sorry he is for lying to him—that he would have told him that very first day if he could go back. But he cannot speak. He can barely keep from outwardly weeping. They make their way up the path slowly, and the palace walls come into view.

Like a beacon of hope.

Nax allows himself a moment of delusion to entertain the idea that he might make it.

“We’re almost there. See, I told you, everything will be fine.” Telemachus exclaims in relief.

Nax can’t help but appreciate his stubborn optimism. If only it were enough.

They walk further and with each step Nax’s vision gets blurrier. He feels so tired; he just wants to lay down and rest, just for a moment.

As they approach the palace steps, Nax’s legs finally fail him. He’s too weak to continue on, and he begins to sink in Telemachus’ arms—heavy like a stone. His hand still presses against his wound, but with less pressure.

“No. No, no, no, no. Absolutely not!” Telemachus cradles Nax as he falls, sinking to the ground with him and holding him in his lap. A panicked voice spills out of him. “Hold on. Just hold on. You stay with me. Do you understand?! You may not die! I forbid it! Hear me when I say, I forbid it! I forgive you. I don’t care that you lied. I don’t care who you were, you’re you and I love you. I love you Nax! I can’t lose you—I cannot lose you! Do not leave me. Please!” He chokes on a sob as the last words leave his mouth.

Nax reaches up and runs his one clean hand through those raven waves he loves so much.

A smile drifts across his lips as he notices that the pain isn’t that bad anymore.

He feels warm even.

“Hey…hey you. It’s…it’s okay. I’m going…to be okay. I…loved you…too.”

“No! Don’t speak that way. Love! You love me too—present tense.” Telemachus cries.

Nax pulls Telemachus into what he believes will be their last kiss, tasting the salty tears coating the prince’s lips. He breaks away, just barely, and whispers against Telemachus’ mouth with labored breath, “I…have…never truly had…someone…worth dying for…but then…I met you. Trust me. It…will be…okay…I love you…present tense…” Nax’s voice falls off.

He lets his head rest against Telemachus’ chest and chuckles breathlessly—humored by the irony of Athena’s words: that this lie would end in bloodshed. He wonders if she foresaw this. When the king didn’t take his life, he had been so concerned that something would happen to Telemachus because of him.

But in the end, it was still his blood shed.

How very theatrical.

He supposes that makes sense, considering he was always meant to be dead. He hopes that his death will appease the gods. Perhaps it will set everything right—restore balance. Maybe his death is the key.

Nax is simply grateful for the time he got to spend on this island, for the people he met here. Grateful for the kindness of strangers, the open arms of new friends, the forgiveness he’s received.

All these years he has lived for others. For his mother’s vengeance. For the ghost of his father. For a people who didn’t even know he existed. He spent decades being quiet and soft spoken, staying hidden in the shadows and behind the mask of servitude. He took people’s mistreatment and reminded himself that his life wasn’t his own.

He was never a prince; he was a weapon.

His destiny was handed to him along with a blade. His life was a sacrifice for his city.

The little prince that was supposed to have died years ago.

But now, he has purpose, real purpose. Love. Someone to love; someone to lose.

Someone to protect with his life.

It suddenly occurs to him that perhaps this was his true destiny: to love and be loved in return.

That this was his fate all along. This is the tether which pulled him to this island—the red string of fate tied around the pinky of the prince of Ithaca drawing him here. Maybe this love was the thing he spent a lifetime waiting for—not revenge or violence—but this beautiful man grinning down at him after drowning.

A gift from the gods.  

Telemachus’ voice cuts through his peaceful drifting mind.

“No, no, Nax, don’t close your eyes. Somebody—anybody—help me! Help me! Please! Wake up Nax. Wake up!!” Telemachus’ anguished yells tug at Nax’s heart.

He doesn’t want him to hurt. He would stay alive for him if he could.

Nax’s eyes flutter open and closed weakly—the world closing in like a vignette every time he blinks. He hears footsteps and people appear above him. The last thing he sees is the king and queen looking down at him, wearing worried expressions, before he slips away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Odysseus and Penelope exchange a look—conveyed in it a question neither of them can answer.

Will Telemachus survive this?

Their son looks at them with pleading desperation in his eyes. He can’t accept that Nax is gone. He will not accept that—not until every healer he can find comes here and fails to save him. He’ll beg the gods to spare Nax if he has to. He’ll pay any price.

Odysseus kneels beside his son—his son who had faced many things without his father, but nothing like this.

“What can I do? What do you need me to do?” He asks softly.

“Help me get him inside and call the healer. Please.” Telemachus responds evenly, relieved that he has someone to lean on.

“I’ll get the healer and bring him to Nax’s room.” Penelope says, moving toward the palace.

“My room.” Telemachus corrects. “I want him in my room.”

His mother nods, her blue eyes shivering with sadness and fear for her child, and then she departs, chiton skirts gathered in her hands as she races inside.

Odysseus helps Telemachus pick Nax up, carrying his limp body into the palace. His blood drips on the floor, leaving a trail of red all the way up the stairs. Telemachus leans Nax on the pillow and presses his head against the young man’s chest, listening for his shallow breathing.

He breathes—just barely—but he breathes. It gives the prince hope.

Telemachus brushes Nax’s golden curls back from his face, fretting because he doesn’t know what else to do. The king keeps his grief to himself. He doesn’t have the same hopeful belief as his son. To him, Nax looks like every dead and dying man he’s seen before.

Pale and still like a marble statue.

He can hardly look at the boy, but he stays by his son’s side despite his own feelings.

The door swings open and Penelope enters the room with the royal healer—a frazzled elderly man whose eyes widen at the sight of the man bleeding on the prince’s bed. He hurries over to them, pulling out a satchel with bandages and herbal ointments.

He waves Telemachus away and gets to work. He cleans the wound with alcohol which elicits a pained moan from the half-dead man. He sutures the wound closed, coating it with some herbal paste, and then wraps his abdomen tightly with a bandage.

After the old man is finished, he addresses the prince.

“That is all that can be done.”

“Will he live?” Telemachus asks forcefully.

“I cannot say. The bleeding should have stopped and he still breathes, which is a good sign. Now it is up to his spirit. We will simply have to wait and see.”

Odysseus thanks the healer before dismissing him.

“Son, you should get some rest. You’ve done all you can for now.” The king urges Telemachus, but the younger man ignores him, returning to Nax’s bedside.

He sits vigil there. Day and night. Adjusting pillows and fussing with Nax’s hair.

He spoon-feeds him water and forgets to eat himself. Penelope takes to bringing her son food, because he’s less likely to refuse it from her. She helps Telemachus change Nax’s bandages and forces him to change his own clothes.

Sophia and the other maids visit often, cleaning up and keeping Telemachus company, filling the room with gossip and chatter. He doesn’t speak much, except to Nax of course.

He speaks to Nax, watching for any sign of consciousness.

Though everyone is worried the prince may be going mad, they understand; they don’t push.

They are patient with him.

They too wait; they too hope.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nax wakes, sure that he must be dead now.

There are only so many times he can escape that particular fate.

Nax can feel a warm breeze rustling through his hair. He takes a deep breath and the world smells of wisteria and olive trees.

It smells of Ithaca—that distinctively sweet scent.

He blinks his eyes, squinting at the bright light streaming in from a window. As he looks around, he recognizes Telemachus’ belongings. He lays in Telemachus’ bed. His raven-haired prince asleep with his head in Nax’s lap. He looks tired, dark circles lining his eyes, normally polished appearance disheveled. Nax reaches a hand up and runs his fingers through Telemachus’ hair.

“I don’t know how I made it to Elysium, though maybe Athena took pity on me for saving you, but I don’t know where else I could be.” Nax muses in a raspy whisper. Telemachus stirs, sleepily looking at Nax, who looks back at him…because he’s awake!

“Nax? You’re awake! Oh, thank the gods! Wait…you—you spoke. What did you say?” Telemachus’ overwhelmed but joyful voice babbles.

Nax chuckles softly, “I said, this must be paradise, if I am truly dead. What else would paradise look like?”

Telemachus scoffs in exasperation and relief.

“You are not dead. You’ve been asleep for nearly 2 weeks. I wasn’t sure—I wasn’t sure you would make it. Your injury was pretty severe, but you’re okay. You’re alive.”

Nax looks at the man in front of him, not fully believing that he’s alive, but he trusts Telemachus’ word over reality any day.

He leans back against the pillow with a grin.

“Very well. If you say so, then it must be true.”

Telemachus laughs, a shaky, slightly manic laugh—delirious with relief.

“It must be.”

If this is real, if he’s alive, then he’s a secret once again. No one need know that the prince of Troy lived.

Let the name and title die, while Nax lives.

“Do my crew know you saved me?” He asks.

“No. They left and didn’t return.” Telemachus replies, a little confused.

“So, they think me dead. Good. That’s good.” Nax says, nodding as if he were figuring something out. “Then only you, your father, and I, know my true identity.”

“My father told my mother actually.”

“Of course he did. I would have told her anyway…eventually.” Nax looks away sheepishly.

Telemachus pulls his face back toward him.

“I haven’t seen your eyes in so long. Just let me look a little longer.”

As Telemachus leans forward to kiss Nax, a knock on the door interrupts them.

Penelope walks in with a tray of food for Telemachus. She gasps and drops the tray in shock when she sees Nax awake. Penelope disappears back into the hall, shouting Odysseus’ name, before coming back into the room. She sits next to Telemachus and squeezes Nax’s hand, gently, not wanting to hurt the injured boy. Blue eyes sparkling with tears.

The king shows up, anticipating something horrible, and is instead met with his son and wife fawning over a conscious Nax. Tears well in Odysseus’ eyes, but he scrubs them away quickly, joining his family.

“Welcome back, son.”

“Thank you, Odysseus.” Nax dips his head in respect to the other man, able to meet his gaze without shame. There are no more secrets between them, nothing left to hide.

He settles back against the pillows, worn out but content, surrounded by warmth, surrounded by people he loves.

He must admit, he could get used to this.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

Nax and Telemachus race each other on horseback to their spot on the cliffs.

The sun has begun to sink in the sky and the sound of celebration echoes in the background. They’ve just left their wedding banquet—still wearing their white chiton with gold embroidery and the wedding garlands on their heads, handmade by their loved ones—a little drunk off the wine and very warm from dancing.

The cool breeze is a welcome reprieve from the hall packed with bodies.

Telemachus’ white steed contrasts with Nax’s black one, a midnight black filly with a white diamond on her chest he named Astraea. She is fast and light, full of energy and outpacing Konstantinos with ease. The white horse surges forward, shaking his head with competitive irritation. Even Telemachus feels competitive. Nax’s ability on horseback has much improved.

He clicks his tongue and they gain on their riding companions. Nax looks back with a cocky grin. A quick flick of the reins and Astraea takes off in a blur, hooves kicking up dirt. Her rider lets out a triumphant whoop as he gets to the cliffs first.

“Alright, alright, gloat all you want.” Telemachus says, rolling his eyes, only pouting a little bit.

No part of him is truly disappointed. This is all he’s ever wanted.

He looks adoringly at the other man, all wild blonde curls, and warm brown eyes—freckles splashed across his cheeks from the summer sun. Telemachus has never seen a more beautiful sight.

No sunset could possibly compare.  

“I will gloat if I want to. I’ve gotten quite good at this.” Nax retorts with playful haughtiness, patting Astraea’s neck affectionately.

“Arrogance suits you, you know?” Telemachus flirts brazenly. “You’re handsome when you’re victorious.”

“Handsome? Really?” Nax asks, feeling rather warm.

“Hm yes, very much so.” The prince’s voice purrs with a possessive undertone. He keeps private the things that cross his mind…at least for the time being.

The two men dismount, letting their horses graze on the nearby grass. The black filly snorts playfully and smacks Konstantinos with her tail. He huffs in annoyance but lets her stay close, nuzzling her head with his own.

As the sun sinks further in the sky, the waning light washes the clouds in pinks, purples, and oranges and the dancing colors inspire Telemachus.

He holds a hand out in invitation.

“Dance with me?”

Nax bursts into laughter, shaking his head in amusement.

“Haven’t you had enough dancing? We’ve been dancing for hours.” Nax teases.

“I’ll never have enough dances with you.” The prince replies sincerely, though he looks down to hide his blush.

“Alright husband of mine. As you wish.” Nax complies, taking Telemachus’ hand and pulling him into his arms. They sway round and round in circles, giggling from the motion, fingers interlocked. Neither of them leads the other. They simply move together, flowing through their steps effortlessly—in perfect balance.

Eventually they grow tired, sitting down on the ground. Nax pants lightly and flops back on the grass, looking up at the stars that now hang from the sky. Telemachus joins him, laying down beside the other man. The night stretches out above them—vast and borderless, millions of stars winking at them. Nax turns to look at his husband—husband—he loves that he can say that now.

It doesn’t quite feel real.

In the few days after waking up, Nax needed convincing that he was in fact alive. He still struggles to believe it sometimes, but Telemachus is always there to reassure him. By now, his wound has scarred over, a raised jagged red line, but it doesn’t hurt much anymore. He traces it and shivers. How easily this should have killed him.

Telemachus seems to feel Nax’s gaze and turns his head to face him, hazel eyes burning with passion. It doesn’t take a genius to know what he thinks of.

“I can read your thoughts you know? They’re filthy.” Nax jokes.

“You have no idea how filthy my thoughts can be.” Telemachus says quietly, leaning closer to Nax’s face. Nax blushes fiercely, flustered by the raven-haired man even now.

“Well then. I will keep that in mind.” He says with an eye-roll.

Telemachus chuckles, turning his gaze back to the sky.

“Do you ever think about how hilariously ironic our union is?” Telemachus asks with a humorous tone. “Star-crossed lovers. Princes from opposite sides of a war. A Trojan and a Greek. Who could have imagined that we’d end up together, huh?”

Nax scoffs under his breath.

“It truly would have been so much easier if the gods had foreseen this from the beginning. Perhaps then I would not have gotten stabbed.” He huffs in irritation—unimpressed with the gods and their annoying prophecies.

Though had the gods not meddled in the first place, he may never have made it here.

Perhaps in another life he would just be a prince marrying some young lady out of obligation to a city that wouldn’t let him be who he actually is.

“If knowing Athena has taught me anything, it’s that the gods are as flawed as us mortals. We are all at the mercy of fate and circumstance.” Telemachus says, absentmindedly playing with the leaves of Nax’s garland.

“I suppose that’s true, and I can forgive them their flaws. After all—they let me have you.”

Nax rolls over, leaning above Telemachus, garland askew on his curls. Telemachus snickers at Nax’s ruffled appearance. He may be disheveled but he’s handsome as always. “Are you laughing at me?” The blonde man asks, head cocked to the side.

“Never.” Telemachus insists, though the mischievous look in his eye suggests otherwise. He reaches up and adjusts Nax’s garland. “There. Much better.”

Nax rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss Telemachus, lips pressed together softly, but with an eagerness behind it—a hunger unfettered by secrets and looming threats. They take their sweet time exploring; little love bites and teasing touches.

Nax pulls back suddenly, looking down at his prince—admiring the flushed hue of his olive skin, the redness of his lips from Nax’s gentle bites, his breathtaking beauty.

He has never felt more possessive.

“I just remembered. Tonight is our wedding night.” His statement drips with innuendo.

“Indeed. It is.” Telemachus whispers hoarsely. 

They resume kissing beneath the stars—unable to think of a place they would rather be.

~ ~ ~ The End ~ ~ ~