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Apollo’s chariot was hardly past the horizon, and yet Odysseus could not find his beloved son anywhere. He stubbornly tamped down the nerves which grew within him as the time passed with still no sight of his boy. The suitors were dead: there was no-one left in his kingdom who would dare raise a hand against his family. Still, he would prefer to know where Telemachus was.

At last, he sought out his wife in the feasting hall and asked her if she knew their son’s whereabouts. Penelope smiled at him, and he felt the unrest in his heart ease, as it always did.

“Peace, husband mine. He left early this morning, heading into town. From his expression, I would say he was heading to the Lady Melitta’s house,” she said, reaching out to take his hand and draw him down to sit at her side. He pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“The Lady Melitta’s? Does our son wish to commission some pottery?” Odysseus asked her, thinking it a bit odd. Telemachus was no stranger to the arts, but he had never before gone out of his way to commission a piece; even if it was from Ithaca’s finest potter.

Penelope’s smile turned amused, almost sly, and she said, “I believe his eagerness had more to do with the Lady’s son, than her work.”

“Ah,” Odysseus said, a knowing smile growing to match his wife’s. Telemachus had tried to be subtle when he asked after the youth, but the King had been under Athena’s tutelage for longer than his son. Regardless, he had answered Telemachus easily. “And how is young Xystos?”

Odysseus had been surprised - after meeting the boy again upon his return - to find a gentle, introspective young man; so different to the father which had died by his own hand. He had expected Xystos to be angry over his father’s death; or perhaps aggrieved, but the boy had apologized. Had wept when Odysseus told him that he was not to blame for his father’s shameful acts.

The King had relayed all of this to his son; and the determined look which stole across Telemachus’ face was shocking only because it was so familiar. He had seen it on his own face in the mirror, when first he decided to court Penelope.

The Queen laughed lightly, the sound like a clear bell. “He is well, from what I can assume. He will not come to the palace, so Telemachus goes to see him more days than not. It is unusual for him to leave so early, though.”

Odysseus considered her words, humming in thought. Something in his expression must have betrayed his troubled feelings, for his wife gently squeezed his hand.

“What is it, my love?” she asked, dark eyes curious but accepting. He sighed.

“Will he not come to the palace…because of me? Because it is where I killed his father? I know he holds little regard for the man, but all the same…” He trailed off, and sighed again. The monster he had become to find his way home was molded of necessity, but he did not wish to be that in the eyes of his subjects. He was no longer the kind and gentle man that he was before the war, but he still tried to be a good King. His people may be right to fear him, but he did not want to rule through fear. It was too close to the way Zeus and…and He commanded mortals and gods alike.

Penelope - still holding his hand - placed her other on his arm. Her gaze was sad, but understanding. She smiled when he met her eye.

“I do not believe it is fear which stays him, husband. Xystos has always been a nervous child; too humble - perhaps - for his own good. He may believe he is not worthy to enter our home, not when his father had a hand in bringing it nearly to ruin,” she mused.

Odysseus heard the truth in her words, shaking his head with a rueful sigh. “I would kill that man again, if only for the burden he placed on his son’s heart. A boy so young should not be concerned with such things.”

“If it were not for Guest Right, so too would I,” Penelope said, fire in her flint-dark eyes. Though they had but one of their own, she was fond and protective of children. So too was she a Spartan, something the suitors seemed to have forgotten when faced with her gentle beauty. If it would not have angered the Gods, Odysseus was certain he would have found far less intruders in their home, upon his return.

He smiled at her strength, and bent to kiss her softly. Truly, she was the most perfect woman in all the world.

Penelope smiled into the kiss. When they parted, she hummed quietly. “Perhaps there is something we can do? To show the boy that he is welcome here? I wish to thank him, as well, for the happiness he so clearly brings our son.”

Odysseus rested their heads together and thought. A direct approach would not work, Xystos was far too skittish. Inviting him outright would only put him on edge, which was to be avoided. He seemed more at ease around his mother, so perhaps if he invited them both…

An idea struck him and he straightened, plans already beginning to take shape in his mind. His wife looked at him with expectant, sparkling eyes.

“Tell me, my love,” he began casually, “much of the palatial art has been destroyed over the years, yes?”

“Yes, husband,” Penelope answered just as casually, though her smile took on a knowing cast, “Quite the shame, too. Our home feels so bare without it.”

“My thoughts exactly. So, what do you think of this…”

Xystos returned to his mother’s house late into the evening, the Sun God’s chariot having already dipped below the horizon and casting the sky in a deep burgundy. The color reminded him idly of the King’s eyes. He entered quietly - in case his mother had already retired - but found her straightening up the workshop in preparation for the next day. When she heard his soft call of greeting, she quickly scrubbed her hands clean in a basin of water and moved towards him.

“Welcome home, my son,” she said. Her smile was slightly weary, but no less true for it. Xystos smiled back.

“Hello, mother. Do you require any help?” he asked; noticing how tired she seemed, but Melitta shook her head.

“No, I am almost finished. Come, sit and tell me of your day; it will help the time pass,” she said, returning to the great slabs of wet clay she had been preparing. Xystos did as he was told, sitting on a three-legged stool in the corner of the shop.

“We walked along the shore today; and he told me of his travels to other kingdoms, in search of his father,” he said. His mother hummed with interest and shot him a lopsided grin.

“And how does our dear Prince fare, today?” she asked, tone amused. Xystos felt a blush rise to his cheeks but maintained his composure.

“He is well. There were times he was quiet, lost in his memories, but…” He thought of the way Telemachus’ words had trailed off on occasion, the Prince’s eyes on the watery horizon. Xystos would ask him a question, then; about his travels or his family, and Telemachus would come back to him, a tender smile on his lips. “I did not mind it.”

Melitta’s smile softened. “It is good that he has you by his side.”

Xystos scoffed at that, shaking his head even as a smile quirked his lips. “Good that he is by mine, you mean. I still do not understand why it is my company he seeks, but I cannot say I am not glad of it.”

“Oh, my son,” his mother sighed. Her eyes seemed sad - all of a sudden - and he felt guilt twist in his gut, for all that he knew his words were truthful. She rinsed her hands and came over to lay them on his cheeks, cradling his face gently. “He seeks you out because you are good, and gentle, and kind; when so few men in this world are. The Prince knows that better than most.”

Xystos did not like to think about that. He did not like thinking of the long years Telemachus spent in the palace, beset on all sides by traitorous, violent, disgusting men; Xystos’ own father among them. He did not enjoy thinking about the helplessness, the anger his Prince must have felt: watching his home and family be so disrespected while being unable to defend them. Those thoughts made him sad, made him angry in a way he almost never was. Xystos had never held a weapon in his life, but those thoughts made him want to pick up a sword and put it through the suitors’ hearts himself, beginning with his father.

Even if the Gods cursed him for patricide. Even though he would likely die without killing a single one of them, untrained as he was. Even though the King had already avenged himself and his family. Xystos thought of his Prince - his heart, his love - suffering for all those years and felt rage like he never had before.

The Lady Melitta - still holding her son’s face in her hands - saw the anger in his eyes and smiled. It was tired, and sad, but held unspeakable amounts of love.

“He seeks you out because you are different from them, Xystos. Tell me: if he were not a Prince, nor a warrior, would you still love him as you do now?”

“Of course I would!” he exclaimed, unthinking. Then - realizing what he had just admitted to his mother - his eyes went wide, face flushing. Still, he could not, would not take the words back. They were the truth. He would love Telemachus even if he were a beggar’s son, even if he - like Xystos himself - had never picked up a weapon in his life. He would love him for his brilliant smile, his lovely voice, his sharp mind and stubborn determination. He would love him for the sheer warmth Xystos felt, just standing at his side. Just looking upon his face.

Melitta patted his cheek, then pulled away. “ That is why, my son. Your love for him is true, and the Prince is no fool. He knows how rare that is.”

Xystos stared at his mother, still wide-eyed. “You are not…upset?”

She shook her head, one hand reaching out again to stroke his hair. “No, my darling boy. I am proud: of the man you have become, of the son you have always been, of the love you hold so deeply. I shall never be upset with you, not for this.”

The tears ran down his cheeks before he was even aware of them. She gathered him into her arms, holding onto him fiercely, and let her own tears fall.

When he retired to his room - eyes swollen and with the memory of his mother’s arms around his shoulders - he shut the door softly and sighed. He had not meant to weep, but he had been filled with so much gladness that he could not stop himself. It was not as if he had expected his mother to disapprove, but her words had soothed a long-held worry in his heart.

Allowing himself a relieved smile, he moved further into the room; and froze.

There, on his windowsill, perched a massive owl. Its feathers were tawny and golden, and its intelligent eyes watched him with singular focus.

“Hello, friend,” Xystos said, keeping his voice low so as not to frighten it. The owl was a beautiful creature, its plumage sleek and well-tended. He had never seen a bird so large, not even the sea-hawks of the island came close to its size. He made his way - slowly, carefully - towards the window. The owl did not so much as twitch.

“You are very fine,” he told it seriously. “And I have never seen a bird of your size, nor color. I am honored, friend, that it is my window you have come to this night.”

He was within arms reach of the owl now, though he made no move to touch it. It cocked its head at him, meeting his eye. Perhaps he should be unnerved by its silent regard; but strangely enough, he was not. Animals had always been easier for him to contend with than people.

“Are you weary? Is that why you have come to rest here?” he asked softly. The Sun had not been down for very long, but perhaps this owl was an early hunter. The owl - of course - did not answer him, but then it would have been terribly odd if it did. “Well, far be it from me to disturb your rest, then.”

Xystos turned from the window and set about getting ready for sleep. Just as he was about to climb into bed, he glanced at the window and was surprised to see the owl still there. It had not moved, and continued to watch him with large, dark eyes ringed in blue. He laid down in his bed and stared back at the massive creature.

“You know, it is said that your Lady is Athena, friend,” he said. “If that is true, could you pass along a message for me?”

The owl tipped its head once more, as if it were listening. Xystos smiled. “I would offer her my thanks, for befriending someone who is dear to me. His life has…not been easy, and the friendship of an esteemed goddess has surely brought him no small amount of comfort.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “I would thank her, for being by his side when I could not. And I would ask - though it is not my place - that she remain by his side. If anyone in all the world is worthy of a goddess’ regard, it is him.”

The owl met his gaze for long moments, then crooned - softly but no less beautiful for it - and spread its wings. It filled the entirety of Xystos’ window, casting the room in shadow; and took off with a silent beat of those massive wings. Breathless at the sight, he stared at his empty windowsill for a long, long while. When at last he fell asleep, it was with a smile on his lips.

The knock at their door came just before Midday, and Xystos could not help the grin which rose to his face as he hurried to answer it. Surely enough, he was met with the smiling face of his Prince, and bowed in greeting.

“Hello, Telemachus,” he said, ignoring the way his face flushed as the Prince’s name crossed his lips. It was becoming easier to call the Prince by name the more time they spent together, but he still could not help his body’s flustered reaction.

“Hello, Xystos! May I come in? I bear exciting news,” Telemachus said, beaming.

Xystos felt his eyebrows lift. Most days, Telemachus simply took him by the arm and led him from the house, a shouted greeting to Xystos’ mother on his lips. Intrigued, he stepped back from the doorway to allow his Prince entry.

Xystos’ mother looked up from the set of cups she was shaping and smiled, despite her obvious surprise.

“My Prince,” she said, and made to stand; but and extended hand from Telemachus halted her.

“Do not rise on my account, Lady Melitta. Your work is far more important than bowing to me,” he told her. She looked at him skeptically but did not move to rise again.

“What news do you bring, my Prince?” Xystos asked. Telemachus shot him a look at the use of his title, but did not correct him. It was one thing for his mother to know that he loved the Prince, but he was not quite ready to call him by name within her hearing. The look in Telemachus’ eye said that - although he was not exactly pleased - he understood. Xystos reached out to quickly squeeze his hand in gratitude, and the Prince brightened immediately.

“Xystos, Lady Melitta,” he began, the formal note in his voice catching both their attentions. “My parents and I spoke last night, regarding the state of the palace; or rather, its art.You see, much of our art pieces were destroyed by the suitors’ occupation, to my parents’ great sorrow. They wish to commission new works to replace those we lost, and asked if I had any recommendations.”

Xystos shared a look with his mother, finding his wide-eyed shock mirrored on her face. “My Prince, you cannot mean-”

“Most of the destroyed or damaged pieces were pottery and frescoes, so of course I put your names up for the task,” Telemachus said with a grin, ignoring their shock completely. “If you are amenable, of course. This is a request, not an order; my father was quite insistent on that point. But I truly could think of no-one better to aid us in this. You shall be paid for your time and materials, of course, should you choose to take the job.”

Xystos stared at him, utterly speechless. After a moment, his mother seemed to find her own voice, and said, “My Prince, we are honored by your regard, but surely there are others-”

Telemachus cut her off with a shake of his head. “There are none. You are the finest potter in Ithaca, Lady Melitta; and Xystos’ paintings hold such emotion that no other could compare, regardless of technical skill. My parents agree with me in this.”

Melitta glanced to her son, who was still more-or-less rooted to the floor. She sighed and - smiling a bit helplessly - asked, “When do we begin?”

“Mother-” Xystos began to protest. Not because he doubted her skill, but because he doubted his own. Painting murals for his neighbors was one thing, but for the King and Queen? In the palace? The very idea made his hands shake with nerves.

“Xystos,” his Prince said softly, turning to face him. Telemachus took his trembling hands in his own. His dark eyes were gentle and imploring. “My love, I truly do believe that you are the best for this task. If you refuse, I shall not be upset with you, but I hope you will not refuse. My parents feel the same. It is your work we wish to have in our home, yours and no other. If you refuse, we can find someone else, but it shall be a pale comparison.”

His eyes were so warm, full of such unfettered trust and belief. Xystos had always been weak to those eyes, long before they ever met his own. That had not changed and likely never would. At long last, he sighed, swaying forward to rest his head on the Prince’s shoulder. His mother was still here, was likely watching them, but it did not seem to matter so much in that moment.

“Very well,” he said softly. Lifting his head, Xystos looked into the lovely face he adored more than anything and smiled softly. “If my Prince, my King, and my Queen ask it of me, who am I to deny them?”

“You could, you know. We would think no less of you,” Telemachus reminded, voice equally soft. Xystos believed him.

“I know. I…I would like to aid your family, however I am able. If that is with my brush, then that is what I shall do,” he said. Telemachus was not the only one who had felt helpless during those long, terrible years. But Xystos was no warrior, he had not the strength to protect his Queen and Prince in any way that mattered. Then the King had returned and eliminated the threat to his family, and Xystos wished to thank him - as he wished to thank the goddess Athena - for doing what he himself could not. He could do this for them. He could help.

Telemachus beamed at him. Xystos wanted to kiss him, but he caught sight of his mother’s knowing smile over the Prince’s shoulder and stepped back instead, face aflame.

“W-when do we begin?” he stuttered, echoing Melitta’s earlier question. His Prince allowed him the distance, dropping his hands and returning to his side.

“Preferably, as soon as you are able. My parents wish to meet, first; to discuss their own visions for the works and get your input. This is of high priority for them, so as to restore our home to its rightful glory. They shall make time to meet with you whenever you are ready,” Telemachus said.

Xystos’ mother stood at once. “Let us go now, then. I should not like to keep them waiting.”

Then she crumpled the cups she had spent all morning on back into a large lump of clay. At Xystos’ gaping, incredulous stare, she smirked. “What? I shall need the clay, for a project this large; and I intend to use it on much finer things that cookware.”

Telemachus threw his head back and laughed.

“Lady Melitta, I believe you and my mother shall get along famously,” he said, and led them from the house.

Xystos’ hands were shaking as they entered the palace, and it was only his mother’s arm tucked into his elbow that kept him from turning around and bolting. He had been there only once before, during the three-day celebration of the King’s return the previous year. It was more-or-less how he remembered it, which was - admittedly - not well, nervous as he was at the time.

The halls were large and imposing, though the evenly spaced braziers set between the columns did much in casting a warm, comforting air. Many chipped and stained frescoes adorned the stone walls, and he examined them as a means to distract himself. There were a few that were beyond repair, but most could likely be restored under a careful hand. 

His hand, he reminded himself, and his nerves returned in full force. Was he truly up to the task? The frescoes were damaged, but he could still see how beautiful they had once been. Could his own work measure up? He startled slightly as a hand came down on his shoulder, and turned his head to find Telemachus smiling at him in reassurance.

“Peace, Xystos. It will be alright,” his Prince said, squeezing his shoulder before letting his hand fall. Xystos mourned the contact, but nodded stiffly. They reached a large double door guarded by two men on either side, the guards bowing to Telemachus as they approached. The Prince regarded them with a nod, smiling kindly.

“I have in my company the Lady Melitta and her son, Xystos. If you would announce us?” he asked. The guards stood crisply at attention before the two closest to the doors swung them open in tandem. They were announced, and Telemachus strode through the doorway with his head held high; and though Xystos felt that his heart was moments from beating right out of his chest, there was nothing they could do but follow. Only his mother’s vice grip on his arm betrayed her own nerves.

The room they entered was not what he had been expecting. There was no dais, no thrones: merely a long table with two chairs set side-by-side at the far end. It was empty save a few guards positioned discreetly between the columns, and two individuals who stood to greet them as they moved further into the room.

‘Father, Mother,” Telemachus greeted, bowing formally before straightening with a grin. “It is my delight to formally introduce our guests, who have kindly agreed to aid us in restoring our home.”

Xystos and his mother let go of each other to bow deeply. Melitta said, voice only slightly breathless, “Your Majesties, we are greatly honored by your trust and consideration.”

“It is we who are honored, Lady Melitta. I have no doubt that our palace shall be the envy of all of Greece, once your work is complete,” the King said. “Please, you may rise.”

They did so, and Xystos found himself face-to-face with the Royal family of Ithaca. He swallowed thickly. King Odysseus stood proudly, with only the scars that littered his body and the weathered lines of his face to suggest all that he had been through. His face was not kind, exactly, but his burgundy eyes were warm. Queen Penelope was beautiful, and even the faint age-lines on her face served only to emphasize her regal air. She smiled gently when she met Xystos’ eyes, the exact same smile as her son.

Telemachus was always beautiful, the most beautiful thing Xystos had ever seen; but standing next to his parents he looked every measure the Prince he was. Confident, assured, head held high and shoulders relaxed. His dark eyes held only reassurance and love when they met Xystos’ own, and he felt himself relax fractionally.

His prince believed in him. And Telemachus had never lied to him; so when he said the King and Queen believed in him as well, Xystos had no choice but to take that for truth. He could do this.

“A-as my mother said,” he managed to say, chastising himself for the tremor in his voice, “your Majesties honor us greatly. We shall do all in our power to live up to your esteem.”

The Queen’s smile widened. “Of that, we have no doubt. Now come, sit; and we shall discuss the work to be done.”

Her and the King resumed their seats. Telemachus sat to his father’s right, gesturing for Xystos to sit next to him. The Queen did the same for his mother, guiding her to the chair on Penelope’s left, across from the Prince. They sat, Xystos’ heart still beating wildly in his chest. Telemachus reached out under the table to squeeze his hand.

Right, his Prince was with him. As long as Telemachus was at his side, Xystos could be brave.

They were given guest rooms in the palace, much to Telemachus’ obvious delight and Xystos’ panic. The rooms were large, larger even than their house, and had clearly been prepared for their arrival. He had shared a wide-eyed glance with his mother as Telemachus led them into the suite, but it was not as if they could refuse. Such a thing would be an insult to their hosts.

‘I can have any materials you require brought up from your house,” the Prince said as they took in their new quarters. Melitta shook her head.

“Oh no, my Prince; please do not trouble yourself. We are quite used to transporting our supplies ourselves, and some require a delicate hand. We can do it,’ she said - smiling kindly - though her expression was still tinged with awe.

“It is no trouble at all, but if you are certain…” Telemachus replied, looking dubious, but he returned her smile all the same. “Then I shall defer to the Royal Artisans’ expertise.”

Xystos’ face flushed. They had tried to refuse the titles - as politely as possible, of course - but the Queen had been adamant. Giving them an official position in the household was a protective measure, she explained. With the suitors gone, the Crown did not have many enemies; but they had held their power for so long by being smart, and careful. If Xystos or Melitta were insulted or - Gods forbid - attacked, their titles would ensure swift retribution. Like the lavish rooms, they certainly could not refuse after hearing such reasoning.

It caused a warm feeling to blossom in his chest, knowing that the Royal family wanted to keep them safe while they worked. Of course, it was the duty of a ruler to ensure the safety of all their subjects; but this felt somehow different. More involved.

“Your Highness,” came a voice from the open doorway. Xystos turned to see a stately man in a dark tunic who bowed deeply once he caught the Prince’s attention. For some reason, Telemachus frowned at the man’s appearance before his face smoothed out into a polite smile.

“Ah, Isokrates. May I introduce our newly appointed Royal Artisans: the Lady Melitta and her son, Xystos. My Lady, Xystos, this is one of my father’s administrators, Isokrates,” he said. There was a strange coolness to his tone that Xystos had not heard for a long time, not since the King’s return. He shot his Prince a confused glance, but Telemachus was not looking at him. Instead, his flinty eyes were trained on the administrator, oddly vigilant. He was still smiling, but it felt off somehow.

The man - Isokrates - straightened from his bow and dipped his head respectfully towards them. “It is of course an honor to meet such esteemed artisans. I shall look forward to seeing your work,” he said gravely, then swung his attention back to Telemachus. “Your Highness, it is nearly time for your appointment with the Agricultural Council.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Isokrates, you may carry on,” the Prince said. Isokrates bowed to him once more and moved off down the hall. When his footsteps could no longer be heard, Telemachus let out a heavy sigh. His smile, when he turned back to them, was brimming with its usual warmth.

“Apologies, my friends,” he said, and he truly did sound regretful, “I had hoped to aid you in settling into our home, but alas…”

“You have duties, my Prince. We understand, and thank you for all you have done for us already,” Melitta told him with a smile. He nodded to her in gratitude.

“I shall send one of my family’s personal aides to show you around the palace in my stead,” he told them. Then, instead of leaving the room, he stepped into Xystos’ space and took his hand. Quietly, so Melitta could not hear, he said, “I will come to see you this evening, my love; and I shall spend every moment apart missing you terribly.”

Xystos blushed furiously at the saccharine words, but did not pull away. He squeezed his Prince’s hand and gathered his courage to say, “As I shall miss you, Telemachus.”

His Prince beamed, and Xystos could tell that - had they been alone - Telemachus would have kissed him. As it were, the Prince reached up to squeeze his shoulder gently, then stepped away.

“Lady Melitta, Xystos,” he said in farewell, “I hope you can come to live comfortably in our home. I shall see you later.”

Then he was gone. Xystos turned his gaze from the door to his mother, and spluttered at the pleased, knowing smile she was giving him. “W-what?”

“Nothing, my son. I am merely happy for you,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Right,” he replied dubiously, and cleared his throat. “Now, shall we have a look around before the aide comes to retrieve us?”

She allowed him the deflection with a quiet laugh, and they set about exploring their new quarters.

The palace was huge, but thankfully not as sprawling or labyrinthine as Xystos had been expecting. Large sections of it were dedicated to open-air pavillions and gardens, or else temples and training grounds. The temple of Athena - set close to the Royal apartments - caught his eye immediately.

Her statue was expertly carved, standing tall and proud, and her face seemed to hold a myriad of emotions for all that it was made of stone. Pride and fierceness, yes; but also wisdom and - surprisingly - compassion. Gazing up at the likeness of Pallas Athena, Xystos felt a strange peace fall over him. She was a fearsome goddess, a master of war, but she was also a friend to the man who held his heart. The Gods could be vengeful, prideful, even cruel at times; but Telemachus was a good judge of character. If he had befriended her, the Lady of War must be a good person.

He immediately felt foolish for the thought. How naive of him, to make judgements on the character of a goddess. Even so - as his gaze fell on the ruined fresco behind her statue - he felt a burst of inspiration take hold. He kept it fixed in his mind as the aide led them through the rest of the palace, trying to pay attention even as his mind’s eye faced inward.

When they were through, he called a hasty explanation to his mother and rushed down the steps of the palace. Walking quickly back to their house, he tore into his bedroom with single-minded focus. It was only when he had his brush and paints in hand that he thought to take in his surroundings, and froze.

Large, dark eyes ringed in blue blinked at him from the window. In the daylight, the huge owl almost resembled a firebrand, sunlight glinting off its golden feathers. Xystos gaped at it, equal parts awed and incredibly confused.

“W-what are you doing here during the day, friend?” he asked, as it was the most pressing question. No answer came, of course, so he was left to wonder. “Are you hurt?”

The owl ruffled its feathers, as if offended by the question. Shoulders relaxing as his sudden alarm waned, Xystos smiled at the creature. “Apologies, I meant no offense. Honestly, friend, it is fortuitous that you have come to visit me again.”

He crossed the room slowly to retrieve a slab of stone from the stack in the corner, then returned once more to his workspace. The owl did not move, and Xystos lifted his brush to show the bird.

“My mother and I have been given a great honor: we are to restore the artwork in the palace of King Odysseus. While being shown the grounds, I came across the temple to your Lady, Athena,” he said, and dipped his brush to prime the slab. The owl tilted its head at him. 

“As I said the last time you were here, you are a very fine creature. I thought it would not displease your Lady, to paint your likeness in her temple. But I had feared my memory would not do you justice, friend. It is indeed most lucky that you have chosen today to visit.” He finished his explanation, then pondered over his own words.

Was it mere luck? Or had the goddess somehow sensed his thoughts within her temple, and sent the owl to him? Surely, that meant she approved. He smiled at the thought.

“Would you stay for awhile, friend? I should like to paint you, so my hands and mind will remember how,” he said, glancing between the owl and his slab as he dipped his brush once more. The owl coo’d and - inexplicably - hopped through the window. It perched on a nearby table and spread its wings out behind it, but did not take flight. It froze like that, blinking at him.

Xystos stared. The owl stared back. Astounded, Xystos let out a breathless laugh. Backlit by the window, the bird seemed to haloed in gold. Its massive wings caught and held the light, almost shimmering.

“A very regal pose, my friend. Thank you,” he said, brush already in motion. As his gaze flickered back to the creature, he mused, “My, but you are beautiful, friend. Only my beloved Telemachus could hope to be so fine.”

The owl trilled again softly, as if in agreement. Xystos smiled, and forewent speaking further in favor of his work.

He only noticed that he had lost track of time when he glanced up to find the light in the room had changed. The owl was still there, had not so much as twitched, and Xystos marvelled at its strength and poise. It could not be easy for it to hold its wings aloft for so long. Feeling a bit sorry for it, he at last set down his brush.

Rolling out his own stiff shoulders, he smiled at the bird. “Thank you, friend. You have been a great help. It is an honor to paint so proud a creature as yourself.”

Perhaps sensing the meaning in his words, the owl folded its wings once more, the ruffle of its feathers the only indication of soreness. He opened his mouth to say more, but was started by a knock at the front door of the house. Looking back to the owl, he stood. “Excuse me, my friend.”

He went to answer the door, confused as to who could be knocking. When he swung it open, he thought, Ah, of course.

“Telemachus,” he greeted with a smile. His Prince pouted at him, one hand on his hip.

“Did you forget about our meeting, my heart? I went looking for you in the palace, but your mother said you have been here for hours. Are the rooms not to your liking?”

Xystos shook his head frantically, hands reaching out to grasp Telemachus’ own. “It is not that; and I did not forget, I swear it. My supplies are here, and while I was painting I lost track of the time. Apologies, my Prince.”

Telemachus squeezed his hands and hummed playfully, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Well, I suppose I can forgive you if I get to see the painting that so captivated your attention.”

Knowing that he would not get out of it - and not caring to - he sighed and pulled his Prince into the house.

“Alright, but I have a guest, so move carefully,” he said. Telemachus looked curious at that, but did not ask. His gaze only became more perplexed when Xystos led him into his empty bedroom. “Ah, it left.”

“Your guest?” Telemachus asked then, and Xystos hummed an affirmative. “But…we did not see anyone on our way in. Did they leave through the window? How strange!”

Xystos chuckled. “It would be stranger if it had used the door. Here, come see.”

He led Telemachus by the hand over to his workspace, and pointed at the painted slab. He knew the moment his Prince’s gaze landed on the painting, for Telemachus gasped softly.

“Your guest…”

Xystos nodded. “Was this owl. If visited first last night and sat in the window, watching me. Today, I saw Pallas Athena’s temple in the palace and was struck with inspiration. I thought the Lady of War would not mind if I painted such a fine example of her symbol there. This one does not quite do it justice, I have never seen a more beautiful bird. When I rushed home for my paints, the owl was here again.”

Telemachus stared at the painting for long moments, then looked up to stare at him. The Prince’s mouth opened and closed in an aborted attempt to speak. When he could not seem to find the words he broke - inexplicably - into helpless laughter.

Xystos’ brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“Oh, my dear Xystos, you-” Telemachus laughed again. “Yes, I believe Athena will very much like for this particular owl to be painted in her temple.”

“So why are you laughing?” Xystos asked, utterly confused.

“It-” Telemachus paused. Shook his head. “No, it is better that I do not tell you. You shall find out soon enough, I think. But oh, you are marvelous, you know that?”

Xystos was still terribly lost, but his Prince chose that moment to lean in and kiss him with passion. He melted into it, as he always did, lifting a hand to press against Telemachus’ jaw. He would never tire of kissing this man. It still thrilled him to the core that he could, that he was allowed to have his Prince like this. That he was allowed to have him at all. He still did not understand what it was that drew Telemachus to him, for all his mother had tried to explain. Xystos knew only that he wished never to leave his Prince’s side.

And he knew that - miraculously - Telemachus felt the same. Xystos felt it in the way his Prince’s lips were smiling as they moved against his own; in the soft pressure as Telemachus wrapped an arm around his waist to press them even closer. He heard it in the was his Prince said his name, when they at last pulled back.

“Xystos.” Like he was some beautiful, wonderful thing Telemachus had found and wanted to keep.

“Telemachus,” he replied, more than happy to be kept.

They settled in with a determined efficiency, dedicating the first few days to gather what they needed from their house. Then, they set about determining what their first projects would be. His mother had a number of ideas, but Xystos was having trouble settling on one. He thought for a while about starting with one of the restorations, as it would be less time-consuming than an original piece; but the idea still intimidated him. What if he ruined them, and the works of Ithaca’s old artisans were lost because of him?

No, it would be safer to begin with his own piece. Besides, the slab painting of the owl seemed to stare at him whenever he walked past. It seemed right, somehow, to begin the restoration of King Odysseus’ palace with the goddess who had blessed both him and his son. Perhaps it would bring Lady Athena’s favor to their palace, as well.

It was with that in mind that he found himself looking for the King, four days into their appointment. He had checked the throne room, training grounds, and the gardens; but Odysseus was nowhere to be found. The stone slab was beginning to grow heavy in his arms when he crossed paths with the Queen. Immediately, he bowed.

“Hello, my Queen,” he said. Her answering smile felt like the sun was shining within the palace walls.

“Hello, Xystos. Where are you headed?” she asked brightly. He could do nothing but return her smile, though his own was a bit sheepish.

“As it happens: I am looking for the King, Your Majesty. I have an idea about where to begin the fresco restorations, but I would like his input before I proceed,” he told her. “Unfortunately, I have been looking for the better part of the morning, and I cannot find him.”

“Ah, I see,” Queen Penelope said, her smile turning into something more pensive, more subdued. “You will find him in the temple to Hermes, today. It is a day of remembrance, for my husband.”

“Oh, my apologies! I was not aware-”

“Few people are. Peace, Xystos, I take no offense. In fact, I believe it would be good for him to get his mind out of the past, for a time,” she told him. His eyes widened, and he stammered.

“I- I would not want to intrude-”

“You are no intruder, child. Go now, go speak with him. He will be glad of your company.” Xystos sincerely doubted it, but his Queen had just told him to do something. He bowed to her.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

She smiled at him encouragingly and continued down the hall. Xystos took a deep breath and started off towards Hermes’ temple, trying not to feel like he was going to his own execution.

The temple was quiet, and his steps echoed off the stone floor as he entered. He did not immediately see the King, and so he focused his attention instead on the statue depicting the Messenger god. Hermes’ face was impish and jovial, wings sprouting on either side of his head and from his sandals. There was something familiar about his face, but Xystos could not place it.

“He is an ancestor of mine, you know,” came a voice that rang like a bell in the quiet, and Xystos startled violently. He managed to keep his grip on the stone slab, but just barely. Whipping his head towards the voice, his gaze alighted on King Odysseus, sat on a bench against one of the columns.

“My King,” he greeted, and bowed. Over the racing of his own heart, he processed the King’s words and stood with an intrigued crease to his brow. “I was not aware that you are of Lord Hermes’ blood.”

Odysseus nodded in acknowledgement. When he spoke again, Xystos noted the way his voice rasped slightly with disuse. “I am. My mother’s father was a son of Hermes. I do not know if that is why, but he has aided me in the past.”

Hesitantly, Xystos moved just a bit closer to his King. “W-what is he like?”

Odysseus snorted, the sound weary but not without humor. “Eccentric. Dramatic. But…friendly, I suppose, when he wishes to be. I owe him much.”

Xystos hummed but did not pry. Only the Queen and the Prince knew what Odysseus had gone through on his long journey home, and perhaps not even they knew the full extent. Twenty years was a long time, after all. Xystos thought that if anyone deserved their privacy, it was the far-wandering King of Ithaca. So he did not ask, and instead remarked, “Then I shall offer my thanks to the Lord Hermes, for aiding in my King’s return.”

The King looked at him shrewdly, as if just now realizing who he was speaking with. Xystos fought not to fidget under his gaze. “Did you require something, Xystos?”

“I…y-yes, my King, but it is not urgent. If you are otherwise occupied-”

Odysseus spread his hands to indicate the empty temple, as if to say, Do I look occupied? Xystos did not know how to respond, and so he was silent. After a beat, the King took pity on him.

“What is it? You may come sit, if you wish,” he said, not unkindly. Xystos could not very well refuse, not without offering insult. He closed the distance between them and sat next to his King on the bench.

Running his nervous hands over the back of the slab, he said, “I have an idea for my first project; but I wanted to discuss it with Your Majesty, first.”

Odysseus prompted him with a low hum, and he forged on. “I had though to first restore the fresco in the temple to Pallas Athena; if that is acceptable.”

The King tilted his head to look at him side-long, burgundy eyes unreadable. “Why that one?”

“W-well, she is your family’s patron goddess. I thought it might show the strength of your line, to have it restored. And perhaps she would bestow a blessing on the palace itself, if her temple were the first to be completed,” he explained. It also just felt right, in a way he could not explain, and so he did not try to. Odysseus hummed again, and finally seemed to notice the slab in his hands.

“What do you have there?” he asked. He did not sound angry, merely curious; and Xystos tilted the slab so his King could see the painting. Just as his son had, Odysseus sucked in a sharp, quiet breath.

“I-it is known that owls are the goddess Athena’s symbol. The one in this painting has visited me twice, and it was such a fine animal that I was struck with inspiration,” he told the King quietly. Odysseus’ eyes were suddenly locked on his face, searching.

“You have seen this owl?” the King asked, voice strangely urgent. Xystos hurried to reply.

“Y-yes, my King. Twice now, it has come to my window at my mother’s house.”

“Tell me about it.”

When the King asked, you answered. “W-well, it had golden and tawny feathers. And blue eyes, as you can see. My depiction here does not do justice to its size, however. A larger bird I have never seen. Nor one so intelligent. I…I like animals, Your Majesty, so when it showed up, I spoke to it. It behaved almost as though it understood me. Your Majesty can see here, how its wings are spread?”

Odysseus nodded, and he continued, “It…it posed for me as I painted. Just like that, for many hours. I have never known any animal to behave in such a way.”

The King looked at him for a long moment, then muttered, “No, no I suppose not.”

“I know it is a rather unbelievable tale, my King-”

“Oh, I believe you, Xystos. I have encountered such an owl, as well,” Odysseus reassured him.

“You…you have?”

The King smiled at him, a bit wry, but it made his handsome face look younger. Xystos was struck in that moment with how much Telemachus truly resembled his father. They had the same regal brow, same jaw, the same thick curls. It relaxed him somewhat, to see the features of his beloved in the proud King’s face.

“I have,” Odysseus said, “many years ago. I think Athena would be pleased, if you were to paint this owl in her temple.”

“Thank you, my King. His Highness the Prince said much the same. It heartens me to know that her chosen warriors think so,” he said, returning the King’s smile.

“Do you hold to any of the Gods, Xystos?” Odysseus’ tone was causal, curious; but the question still caught him off guard. He hummed, gathering his thoughts. The King waited in patient silence.

“Well, I suppose as an artisan I hold to Lord Apollo; but he is known to favor musicians, and I am not so shameless as to claim my work would catch his eye. As a child, I favored Lady Hestia; because, well…”

The King made a soft noise of encouragement. Xystos’ face flamed and he managed, “Because she made me think of my mother.”

Odysseus chuckled good-naturedly. “Yes, I can see the resemblance. Go on.”

“As I grew older, and things got…worse,” He swallowed thickly. Xystos did not know how much the King had been told about the state of his kingdom during his long absence. He would hate to bring up anything painful, especially on a day that was already emotionally draining to his King. Thus, he kept his words as vague as possible. From the minute tightening around Odysseus’ eyes, he was not very successful. Still, he forged on.

“I prayed to any god I thought might listen. Any god who I thought might help the Queen, and the Prince.” At that, he shook his head and chuckled at his childhood foolishness. “Of course, what do the Gods care for the prayers of someone like me?”

“You did not pray for yourself?” the King asked him, tone incredibly soft. Xystos blinked at him, and shook his head again.

“I had no need. I was no-one of import, while the Queen and Prince were beset on all sides,” he paused for a moment before admitting, almost a whisper, “I prayed for you, my King.”

Odysseus turned to look at him fully, eyes widened in surprise.

“For me?”

Xystos nodded, unable to meet the King’s eye. “Every day, I would pray to the Gods for your safe return. Ithaca needed her rightful King, that much was evident. And…and I thought that perhaps I would be able to see Telemachus truly smile again, were you to return.”

The King was silent for a moment, then spoke with a voice so soft Xystos felt like weeping. “And were you?”

Xystos looked at him then, unable to keep the confusion from his face. “My King?”

“Were you able to see my son smile again, when I returned?” There were ghosts in Odysseus’ eyes when they met his own. Xystos did not flinch away, for he knew something of ghosts himself. The traitorous father, the worthy son he could never hope to be.

He smiled at his King, and his voice was thick with emotion as he replied, “Every day since.”

Odysseus sighed heavily, shoulders un-tensing. “You love him.”

It was not a question. Xystos’ eyes widened in panic; and he made to put some distance between them, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I am not angry, Xystos. It is a good thing. My son deserves to have someone love him as you do,” Odysseus told him, eyes weary but warm.

“He deserves better than me,” Xystos replied without thought, because it was the truth. Telemachus deserved the best, and Xystos was far from it. But the King only smiled.

“And yet it is you that he chose. And yet it is you, who is the reason for my son’s happiness of late,” Odysseus said. “It is the nature of love to feel that we are not enough, so we strive to do better. I often feel the same about my Penelope.”

Xystos could not help the shocked, incredulous look he shot the King at those words. King Odysseus and Queen Penelope were a Fated match, everyone knew that. And even if they had not been; surely their love was evident in the way the Queen had waited faithfully for twenty long years, and the King had gone through all manner of hardships to return to her side. Theirs was a story that would be sung for a thousand years, of that Xystos had no doubt. How could the King possibly feel that he was not worthy of his wife?

Seeing his abject confusion, Odysseus released his shoulder and clasped his hands in his lap. The King sighed - the sound heavy in the quiet - and stared down at his scarred hands. 

“I have already told you that I committed many a shameful act on my journey home,” he said quietly. Xystos nodded. The King must have caught the action from the corner of his eye, because he continued, “Those acts… changed me. Made me into something that was more monster than man. At times, I feared…even if I were to make it home, would my own wife recognize me? I had changed so much, could I even still call myself her husband?”

Odysseus went silent after that, as if he could not bring himself to say more. Xystos processed what he had been told.

At last, he managed to say, “I- I do not think you are a monster, my King.”

The King of Ithaca looked at him, eyes full of contention. Xystos knew he was likely digging his own grave, but found that now he had started, he could not stop. “You are a fearsome warrior, and ruthless when you need to be. I know that well. But a true monster would not walk amongst his people as you do, listening to our woes and doing what you can to help. A true monster would not hold such a powerful, profound love for his family: that he would commit whatever act was necessary to return to them and keep them safe. You are a good King, a good husband, and a good father. Perhaps you are not a good man - that is for none other than the Fates to judge - but you are not a monster, King Odysseus.”

The King stared at him, shock written plainly across his face. Still, there was denial in his eyes. Xystos did not know why it was so important to him that the King realize this, but he found he had more to say. Unable to meet Odysseus’ eye as he spoke, he looked instead at the painting in his lap. He found that the sight of the regal owl gave him strength.

“I know something of monsters,” he admitted quietly. Reaching up to tug at the ends of his hair, he continued, “I- I hated my father. I despised all of the Queen’s suitors, but him most of all. He cared nothing for my mother, who loved him and whose heart he broke when he left us. He cared nothing for me, his only son. He cared nothing for the Queen, beyond what power he could gain by claiming her hand. I was glad when you killed him, killed all of them.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “I only wish that I had been strong enough to do it myself.”

Xystos only opened his eyes when a warm weight settled on his shoulder. The King’s eyes - when they met his own - were a storm of sadness, anger, and concern. Xystos was mortified to find that his own eyes were damp, but he did not look away.

“For years, I wanted my own father dead, my King. If I were able, I would have done it myself. Does that not make me a monster?”

He did not know what he expected the King’s reaction to be. Shouting, perhaps, or else steely dismissal. Even gentle chiding, more denial. What he never could have expected was to be pulled gently against Odysseus’ chest, the King’s strong arms wrapped solidly around his shoulders. Xystos’ eyes widened in shock, and his tears spilled over.

“You are no monster, Xystos. You wanted him dead to protect your Queen. Your Prince, the man you love. To avenge your mother, and yourself. It was a noble wish, and one I wish I could have granted much sooner. You should not have been left alone to suffer, to torture yourself like this,” Odysseus said. Xystos could feel the King’s chest rumble as he spoke, and his own breath hitched at the words.

“I…I-” His voice came out choked, and he could not continue. The King hushed him gently, and lifted one hand to smooth over his hair.

“Shh, it is alright now. They are dead, all of them; and you are alone no longer. Nor shall you ever be again, this I swear to you.”

Xystos’ trembling hands lost their grip on the painting in his lap. Slowly - ever so slowly - he wrapped his arms around the King and clung to the back of his tunic. Utterly overwhelmed, the first sob escaped his lips, and Odysseus gently guided his head to rest against the King’s shoulder.

The King of Ithaca, hero of the Trojan War, held Xystos in his arms as the youth finally, finally let himself fall apart.

He went to Athena’s temple early the next morning, just after he had broken his fast. His paints and brushes were tucked into a cloth bag at his hip, padding between so the clay jars did not clink together and break. He had spent the rest of the previous afternoon creating a few more slab paintings of the owl; and now felt confident enough in his depiction that he was ready to begin the fresco.

As he made his way to the temple, his thoughts drifted to the previous morning and his face flushed bright crimson. After he had come out of his hysterics enough to realize that he was crying into the shoulder of the King, he had been mortified. An apology stuttered its way out of his throat, but Odysseus had merely patted his shoulder and smiled.

“Tears are nothing to be ashamed of,” the King had said. “You have given me comfort, coming here to speak with me. It is only right that I offer comfort in return.”

Xystos had not known what to say to that, so he had simply said, “Thank you.”

They said their goodbyes, after that; but the interaction would not leave Xystos’ mind. How could he have possibly comforted the King, simply by speaking with him? It made no sense. Then again, the King was said to be one of the most intelligent men in all the world. Xystos could never hope to understand the inner workings of his mind, and so he did not try to. He could only be grateful for - and confused by - the King’s gentle words and physical comfort.

The temple was quiet and cool. The Sun was not yet high enough to burn away the chill of night, set into the stone. Xystos gazed up at the goddess’ statue, then bowed carefully. The early morning light coming in between the columns made Pallas Athena’s severe features appear softer, somehow.

“Lady Athena,” he said in hushed tones, “I am Xystos of Ithaca. I have been afforded the great honor of painting a fresco in your temple. I honor you in turn, and hope that my work is sufficient.”

Straightening from his bow, he stepped carefully around the statue and stood before the destroyed fresco on the back wall. He could not make out the scene it had once portrayed. Xystos set down his bag and took out a small palette knife. Before he set about chipping the layers of paint away from stone, he said, “Old master, I honor you; and lament that your work has been so desecrated. I shall endeavor to create something worthy of taking its place.”

He began his task with careful, singular focus. So absorbed was he in his work that he did not notice the great, golden owl perched on the shoulder of the statue behind him; nor the way it watched his movements with a considering tilt of its head.

It was well past midday when he at last finished chipping away the cracked remnants of paint from the wall. The process was painstaking: he had to carefully remove each piece without scoring the stone behind it; but when he was through, he smiled up at the blank canvas before him. He did not know which of the Royal family had thought to provide him a ladder for the task, but he was grateful.

His stomach rumbled, and Xystos grimaced. He had wanted to prime the wall before he took a break, but the removal had taken longer than expected. Tucking the palette knife away in his bag, he made to stand when he heard the sound of a throat being cleared behind him.

Xystos startled, whipping his head towards the source of the noise. Next to Pallas Athena’s statue stood a short man in a dark tunic. He inclined his head when their eyes met.

“Apologies, Royal Artisan. I did not intend to frighten you,” the man said. His voice was soft, polite; but something about it put Xystos on edge. Ignoring his own strange reaction, Xystos smiled politely in turn.

“N-no apology necessary, Isokrates,” he said, recognizing the administrator he had been briefly introduced to a couple days prior. “I offer mind instead, I did not hear your approach.”

Isokrates did not return his smile - exactly - more so that his mouth pressed into a line that might charitably be called a smile. “You were absorbed in your work, my Lord. There is - as you say - no need for apology.”

Xystos felt suddenly uncomfortable. “Please, call me Xystos. I am Lord of nothing, merely a painter.”

The administrator tilted his head with an expression that was unreadable by virtue of being completely blank. “A painter who has garnered the attention of their Majesties, and his Highness. One who has been given a place in their household. That is no small feat.”

A blush crept onto Xystos’ cheeks. He searched for a reply and at last said, “I only hope to be worthy of it.”

Isokrates hummed, the sound non-committal.

“Worthy or not, it is the position you have been given,” he said. Xystos noticed that his eyes were a piercing, icy blue. Isokrates stepped forward casually, his body now blocking Xystos’ line of sight to the door. “I admit that I am curious, Lord Xystos: how did that come to be?”

Xystos stared at him. There was an uncomfortable feeling crawling up the back of his neck, but he pushed it away. Finding his voice, he said, “W-well, my mother - the Lady Melitta - is the finest potter in Ithaca. It seems too that his Highness the Prince came across my work in the city, and took a liking to it.”

“Ah yes, his Highness, of course. We of Ithaca truly are blessed, to have such a kind and… youthful Prince,” Isokrates said, moving closer still. He halted a respectful distance away, and his mouth quirked into a smile that set Xystos’ teeth on edge.

“We…are,” he replied hesitantly, remembering the cold distaste in his Prince’s eyes when he had looked at the administrator. Telemachus was never cold towards anyone, not since the invaders of his home had been slain. Abruptly, Xystos wished to be anywhere else but alone with this man. “Did you have business in the temple, Isokrates? My apologies if I disturbed-”

“Mere curiosity, Lord Xystos, nothing more. I wished only to see the Royal Artisan that has so captivated his Highness’ attention.” The man’s face took on a slightly mocking cast, so subtle that Xystos thought he might be imagining it. Even so, the words turned his veins to ice.

“I- I would not say that-”

“I would,” Isokrates cut him off, ice-bright eyes looking suddenly feverish. The man took a step forward, and the ice in Xystos’ body froze him to the spot; even as his mind screamed at him to run-

“What are you doing?”

The tone of those words was so low - so menacing - that Xystos could not immediately recognize the owner. His gaze snapped from the man before him to the source of that voice; and the unfettered relief that flowed through him felt like a balm on his soul.

“My Prince,” he gasped. Telemachus’ eyes flickered towards him for a moment, softening; before they fixed back on Isokrates, flinty and calculating.

“What,” he repeated, “are you doing, Isokrates?”

Xystos had barely a second to catch the way the man’s eyes went from feverish intent to careful detachment, before he turned to Telemachus and bowed.

“Your Highness. I merely wished to see one of our esteemed Royal Artisans at work,” he said. His voice was soft - as it had been the entire time - and yet it made Xystos’ skin crawl. Telemachus’ gaze once again flickered to his face, though the Prince seemed unwilling to take his eyes off the administrator for even a second. Xystos did not know what his Prince found in his expression, but whatever it was caused Telemachus to fix Isokrates with a stare that could slice bone.

“And so you have,” the Prince said. “Now, leave us.”

Isokrates bowed once more, his expression hidden from Xystos’ sight.

“Yes, your Highness. Lord Xystos,” he said, looking back at Xystos to incline his head. His eyes were chips of ice, and Xystos shivered even as he bid the man farewell.

Telemachus swept into his space the moment Isokrates was out the door. The Prince placed his hands on either side of Xystos’ face, eyes searching. “Did he hurt you?”

“N-no,” Xystos managed. “Telemachus, what-”

His Prince crushed him into a hug, desperate and grasping. Telemachus’ breath shuttered on an inhale, and Xystos was shocked to feel moisture on his shoulder. He lifted a hand to stroke his Prince’s curls, much like the King had done to Xystos himself just yesterday. “I-it’s alright. I am here, my love. I am not hurt, he- he did not hurt me.”

Telemachus pulled back, red-rimmed eyes burning. They searched Xystos’ face, as if for injury or untruth; and Xystos felt his heart break a little in his chest.

“Do not-” Telemachus said, then cleared his throat, “ Never be alone with him. He-”

Telemachus gasped around a sob, and Xystos felt a familiar rage burn through him. Whatever that man had done, it had clearly hurt his Prince. His heart; who was supposed to be free from men who would hurt him. Xystos continued to stroke Telemachus’ hair, whispering soft reassurances. Yet in the private corners of his mind, he started to plan.

A low-simmering anxiety burned through Xystos’ gut as he approached the Queen’s solar, but he did not let it impede him. Compared to the burning anger he felt, his nerves were nothing. Telemachus had refused to leave his side all of yesterday afternoon, even sleeping curled around Xystos until he was called away to his early-morning duties. Xystos would be lying if he said he had not enjoyed the feeling of his Prince’s body pressed against his in sleep; but he felt only rage at the fact that such a beautiful thing was tainted with fear.

He allowed that anger to bolster him as he knocked on Queen Penelope’s door. A guard answered - then bowed - and said, “My Queen, Lord Xystos to see you.”

“Come in,” came the Queen’s lovely voice; and Xystos smiled without thought as he stepped through the door. Queen Penelope sat at a low table, a cushion placed between her folded legs and the floor. Xystos bowed to her when they sighted each other.

“Xystos,” The Queen said his name warmly, and when he straightened there was a smile on her face. “What can I do for you?”

He dreaded the words he need say, the disruption to her peace he must give. Even so, the people of Ithaca had never forgotten that their Queen was a Spartan. She was strong, she could handle this. He cleared his throat and sat across from her, legs folded underneath him.

“My Queen,” he began; and something in his demeanor must have given him away, for her expression quickly sobered. “I- I do not know a delicate way to say this-”

“Then do not be delicate,” she said, eyes sharp but still - always - kind. Xystos took a deep breath.

“I believe your son is in danger,” he told her, and grieved the way her eyes - the same eyes Telemachus had inherited - went cold. Even so, it heartened him. Ithaca was a kingdom ruled by not one warrior, but two.

“And you have cause to believe this, because…” Penelope asked, but her tone was not dismissive. It was focused, and flint-sharp; and so Xystos told her. He told her of Isokrates’ words, of the awful creeping sensation Xystos had felt - being around the man. He told her of the way Telemachus had reacted; and was unable to keep the anger from his voice as he told her of her son’s abject fear.

Throughout all of it, Queen Penelope listened silently, never once taking her eyes off his face. When at last he was done, she gazed at the table for a long moment.

“I am sorry, my Queen,” was all he could think to say.

Penelope’s eyes snapped back to his face, and her hard expression softened. Then, she asked, “Why?”

Xystos could not help it, he stared at her. Her dark eyes were so like her son’s that he felt compelled to answer honestly. “If I had not…if I was not-”

“If you were not,” the Queen cut him off gently, “then my son would not have such cause for joy, as he has of late.”

All Xystos could think of was his Prince, breaking apart in his arms. “He…he was so afraid, my Queen. I have never known his Highness to be afraid of anything.”

“Oh, Xystos,” she said, the tone so like his own mother that his emotions caught in his throat. Queen Penelope reached across the table and placed her hand atop his. “Everyone is afraid of something, even my son.”

“But Isokrates is no warrior. What threat could he pose to the Prince?” he asked, but he knew the answer even as he spoke the words. After all, not every one of Penelope’s suitors had been a warrior, and yet had posed a great threat indeed. The Queen smiled sadly at him, as though privy to his thoughts.

“I think perhaps Telemachus was more frightened by the threat he might pose to you, Xystos. One does not need to wield a sword to cut deep,” she told him. Xystos nodded. He knew that all too well, had carried his father’s parting words as a wound for too long not to.

“Perhaps the Queen will bear me a son that is worth a damn.”

He pushed the memory away and looked into the Queen’s dark eyes. “What do I do, your Majesty? I cannot protect anyone: not my Prince, not myself. No matter how dearly I might wish to.”

Xystos half expected to see derision in her eyes, despite her kind nature; but she only smiled and shook her head. “That is my duty, not yours. And perhaps you cannot protect him, but you can do something far more important.”

“What is that?” he asked, a desperate note creeping into his voice. He longed to do something - anything - to help his Prince.

“You can love him.” Xystos stared at the Queen in shock. She smiled at him and patted his hand. “Love is strength; it is healing. Love is a power that allows us to accomplish things we thought were impossible.”

Things like - Xystos thought - waiting twenty long years for someone to return, never once giving into the many voices that insisted you were foolish to hope. Believing with all your heart, and having that belief proven true. Like winning the heart of a man you had once thought it impossible to even speak to. Like befriending a goddess known for warfare.

He nodded, returning her smile. Only for a moment, before it slid off his face. “But what shall I do if Isokrates approaches me again? Until I am finished working in the temple, I will be easy for him to find; and it is often empty. Telemachus warned me not to be alone with him.”

Queen Penelope hummed. “Then you shall not be. We will assign you a guard, and one for your mother as well. Two men each, I think, on a rotating watch. That should put all of us at ease.”

It seemed a lot of trouble to go to on his account, but Xystos could not say that he was not relieved by the idea. “If you think it best, your Majesty.”

“I do,” she said firmly, but still with warmth. “This is your home for the time being, and you shall be safe within it.”

Xystos thought again of the long years when Penelope and Telemachus were very much not safe within the palace walls. His hand clenched into a fist on the table.

“What of the Prince, your Majesty? I do not know why he is so frightened of the man, but I confess to not wanting Isokrates anywhere near him. I-” he cut himself off, worried about overstepping. Penelope squeezed his hand.

“What is it, Xystos? You may speak freely,” she said, gaze kind but intent. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage.

“I fear that Isokrates has already done him harm; or at the least said something to him, to cause him such fear. That cannot be allowed to happen again, your Majesty. You and Telemachus are meant to be safe now, from vile men such as that.”

He could not keep the venom from his voice as he spoke the last. The Queen looked at him in surprised, before her face softened.

“Dear child,” she said gently, “it is the burden of rule, to be unsafe. Whether from the whims of Gods and monsters, or those of men. My son and I know that, as does my husband. Do not take our burden as your own.”

“But…but that is not fair,” Xystos said quietly, plaintive. “You are good rulers; you keep your people safe, and happy. Why must you sacrifice your own peace to do so? Why must there be people who would seek to harm you, for no other reason than cruel desire?”

“Such is the way of things,” the Queen said, smiling at him with empathy. “It speaks to the goodness of your heart, that you ask such questions. As for the answers, only the Gods could tell, and perhaps not even they. It is a sacrifice we make willingly, though it is preferable that we do not need to.”

Xystos wanted to argue, but what would be the point? The Queen certainly knew what she was speaking of: she had lived it. Even so, the unfairness of it frustrated him.

“As for Isokrates,” Penelope spoke again, drawing him out of his thoughts. “It is no large task to assign his duties to a different administrator, as far as my son is concerned. If he approaches Telemachus outside of his duties, the palace guards will know to be watchful.”

Xystos nodded tentatively. That seemed to be the best that could be done, seeing as Isokrates had yet to actually do anything nefarious. Even if Xystos would prefer the man be sent far, far away so he could never bother Telemachus again.

“Thank you, my Queen,” he said, but Penelope only smiled and shook her head.

“Thank you, Xystos, for bringing it to my attention. It settles my heart to know that my son has someone so devoted by his side,” she said.

He returned her smile. “It is nothing that he does not deserve.”

His new guards were a kind-faced man called Philon, and his soft-spoken counterpart Nikanor. Xystos got along well with both of them: Philon was curious about his work, and his questions helped with the more monotonous tasks of painting. Nikanor was content to simply share the space as Xystos worked, and his presence was a comfort.

Nearly a week into his work in the temple, Philon called to him where Xystos was perched on the kindly provided ladder. “My Lord, his Highness to see you.”

“Ah! Thank you, Philon. I am coming,” he called back, carefully lifting his brush and descending the ladder. His feet had barely touched the ground before strong arms were wrapped around his waist from behind. Telemachus rested his forehead on Xystos’ shoulder and groaned.

“I have not seen you in an eternity, beloved,” the Prince said, evidently not caring about Philon’s presence behind them. Xystos blushed even as he melted into the hold.

“You saw me yesterday,” he pointed out, shaking his head at Telemachus’ theatrics.

“And every moment since has been far too long,” his Prince replied, tightening his hold. He said no more, and they simply stood for a moment in each other’s space. After a while, Xystos twisted in Telemachus’ arms, careful not to dislodge them as he faced his Prince.

“Did something happen?” he asked, worried by Telemachus’ uncharacteristic silence. The Prince huffed, but his gaze slid sideways instead of looking Xystos in the eye.

“What, I cannot come to see you simply because I wish it?” he said, but his light tone was an affected one.

“Of course you can.” The Prince would still not look at him. “Telemachus,” Xystos said, lifting a hand to gently tilt his lover’s face back towards his own. “What happened, my love?”

That seemed to do it; and Telemachus’ expression softened, then went tight. “It is nothing, really. I am being foolish.”

Xystos hummed. “I do not think so. Try again.”

The Prince sighed, leaning forward to rest their heads together. “Meeting with the administrators. There were…insinuations made that your position in the household is based on less than merit.”

“Isokrates?” Xystos asked, though he already knew the answer. Telemachus hummed in confirmation, and he raised a hand to stroke the Prince’s hair. “Let him say what he will. His words hold no weight to me, my dear.”

“But they do with the other administrators,” Telemachus said, leaning back into the touch to meet Xystos’ eye. “I do not want his petty barbs to make trouble for you, or your mother.”

“What trouble could they make? Though it pains me, I rank above him. And your parents are far too intelligent to put stock in such things,” Xystos pointed out. Baffling though it was, the King and Queen liked him. They listened to him, and comforted him. Besides, the Queen was already aware of Isokrates’ unsettling behavior: little he said would mean anything to her.

“Do not underestimate the power of rumor, my love. They could make you time here very difficult: cause others to scorn you, to sneer when you enter a room, to mock you when you speak and scold you when you are silent,” Telemachus said, a far away look in his eye. Xystos cupped his cheek.

“Is that what he did to you?” he asked his Prince softly. Telemachus blinked - coming back to himself - and grimaced.

“I could handle it,” he said. Xystos felt his heart break for him. The suitors had been bad enough, but with a worm like Isokrates in their ear, they would know all the better where to twist the knife.

“That does not mean you should have to,” Xystos said, a familiar rage licking the back of his throat. When - by the Gods, when - would his Prince finally be free of such monsters? Killing an administrator was probably ill-advised, but Gods did he want to. Could likely manage it, too; were he armed and Isokrates were not. Even his palette knife would do.

“What are you thinking about?” Telemachus asked him, one hand tightening on his hip. “Your eyes look fearsome, beloved.”

“I am thinking,” Xystos said, uncaring that the words left him in a low growl, “that your father missed one.”

The Prince stared at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. A lovely pink stained his cheeks.

“I- I have never seen you angry,” he said softly, almost marvelling. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Xystos’ gaze caught on the movement, the resulting shine on the Prince’s mouth. “I must confess: it looks maddeningly good on you.”

Xystos huffed a laugh even as a blush rose to his own face. “You would think so, warrior Prince that you are.”

Telemachus’ eyes flickered down to his lips; and Xystos craned his neck to see that Philon had stepped into the hall, his back to the doorway. Observant and considerate. Truly, the man was good at his job.

Xystos leaned forward to capture the Prince’s lips with his own. Telemachus made a lovely sound, one hand leaving Xystos’ hip to press against his jaw. Wrapped up in each other as they were; they did not notice the man in the courtyard, watching them between the columns. They did not see the way his hands clenched at his side, nor the way his ice-blue eyes burned with a feverish, possessive rage.

It was late when Xysto finally set down his brush, eyes too dry to continue painting. The Sun god’s chariot was long past the horizon, and braziers had been lit for him to paint by. He had sent Philon to bed an hour prior, with the reassurance that anyone he might need protecting from was already abed.

Xystos hummed softly to himself as he packed away his paints and brushes, pleased with the progress he had made. The shape of the owl was finished, with only the detailing left to do. With any luck, he would finish by the end of the coming week. Slight movement near the door caught the corner of his eye, and he sighed as he hefted his bag onto his shoulder. “Philon, I told you I-”

But it was not Philon. In the shadow of the doorway stood a short man in a dark tunic. When he stepped into the firelight, his blue eyes seemed to flash.

“Isokrates,” Xystos said, taking a step back. His heart beat in double time, and he felt it in his throat. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Isokrates said nothing as he moved closer. When he was but a few paces from Xystos, he stopped and inclined his head.

“I belong here,” he said softly, “you do not.”

“P-pardon me?” Xystos asked, inching further backwards, until his back hit the wall.

“No, I do not think I will,” Isokrates said, moving closer still. Xystos felt trapped, cornered; and cursed himself for sending Philon away. “You come here - a mere peasant - and think to lay claim to what rightfully belongs to another. What is more, you have the gall to ask for my pardon. But I shall not give it.”

Xystos stared at him, not daring to glance away even to search for an escape. “W-what are you talking about?”

“The Prince,” Isokrates hissed, eyes fever-bright, “was meant to be my prize. My reward for service to the new Crown. Never mind that that fool Antinous went and got himself killed, I did my part. And then you come here and think to steal my prize from me? I will not allow it.”

He’s insane, Xystos realized with slow-dawning horror. Utterly mad. Even so, he could not contain the rage which clawed at his chest as the madman spoke.

“He is not a prize, not a thing to be won or stolen. He is his own man. He is your Prince! Do you even hear the vile madness which crosses your lips?” he spat, drawing himself up to full height and glaring down at the man.

“What would you know of it, boy? You are nothing. You mean nothing, especially to him. Did you think you were anything more than a dalliance to him? Did you think he loved you?” Isokrates laughed, high and chilling. “You are nothing but an irritation to be removed. And once I have, I shall be free to claim him as what he is. Mine.”

Something flashed in his hand. A knife, Xystos realized with bone-chilling dread. Still, the fire of his rage would not be so easily cooled. “You are insane, and a fool. What do you imagine killing me will accomplish? Telemachus would sooner kill you himself, then allow you to so much as touch him.”

Isokrates smiled, the expression twisted and cruel. Lowly, he asked, “Who said he needs to allow it?”

Xystos stared at him in horror. He meant to- He wanted- No. That could not be allowed to happen. Never. And it would not. “King Odysseus would slaughter you, like the beast you are. Queen Penelope would bring you back from Hades herself, just to end your life by her own hand. You cannot seriously think that there is any version of this plan where you get what you want.”

“You need not trouble yourself with that, boy. After all, you shall be dead by then!” Isokrates cried, and lunged with the knife. 

Xystos caught the blade in his hand, gasping as it sliced into him. Instinct told him to let go, to flinch away from the pain, but he held fast. Blood dripped onto the stone floor. Isokrates beared down on the knife, inching it towards his chest.

Oh, my Telemachus, Xystos thought with sorrowful resignation, I am sorry. I could not spare you even this pain.

A piercing screech split the night, and Xystos caught a flash of gold from his periphery. Isokrates cried out in pain as razor-sharp talons pierced his wrist and forearm. The massive owl bit viciously into the man’s shoulder, and he lost his grip on the knife. Xystos opened his bloody fist with a hiss, and the blade clattered to the floor. He kicked it - hard - sending it skittering to the other side of the temple.

Then he looked back to the scene before him, injured hand clutched to his chest. The owl released its grip on Isokrates’ arm, only to sink its talons into his chest. The man howled in pain; and the owl screeched again as it beat its wings, pushing him away from Xystos. Isokrates’ hands clutched at the bird, trying to push it off of him, but it would not be moved. Further and further back it pushed him, until he tripped over his own feet and toppled to the floor. The owl released him, and then-

And then there was no owl. In its place stood an impossibly tall woman, her helmet plumed in gold and her spear at Isokrates’ throat. Xystos stared in shocked disbelief, eyes flickering back and forth between the statue in the center of the room and the woman - no, the goddess - before him.

“You dare,” she said to Isokrates, planting a foot hard on his chest, “to spill the blood of my chosen’s beloved, in my temple?”

Isokrates wheezed, clutching at her ankle and struggling against the weight. His eyes were wide and frightened, like a rabbit caught in a snare. “F-forgive me, goddess; I did not-”

“And now you dare to attempt to lie to me?” Athena said, voice as sharp as her spear.

“N-no! I- M-mercy, please, goddess!” Isokrates cried, beginning to tremble.

“It is not my mercy you should be asking for,” she told him, and looked towards Xystos.

The second their eyes met, he dropped to his knees, head bowed. “My Lady Athena.”

There was a pause, punctuated only by Isokrates’ labored breaths. At last, her strong voice said, “You have always called me ‘friend,’ before.” 

His head snapped up. Then, seeing a frown on her face, he quickly averted his eyes once more. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he managed, “M-my apologies, Lady Athena. I did not know it was you.”

Another brief pause, and then: “Are we not friends, then?” 

It was more of a demand then a question, but there was a note of uncertainty in her voice. Surprised, Xystos looked back up at her, finding her brow creased. Slowly, a warm feeling bloomed in his chest, overtaking his surprise. 

He smiled up at the goddess. “If you wish to be, I would be honored to be your friend.”

Athena nodded sharply; but a small, pleased smile quirked her lips. “Rise, then. Friends of mine need not grovel.”

Xystos rose on trembling legs, the adrenaline leaving his body unsteady. Still clutching his bloody hand, he hesitantly moved towards her. When he reached her side, she looked from him to Isokrates, expression distasteful. “What shall we do with this worm?”

“You are asking me?” he wondered, surprised once again.

“It is you he tried to murder. He asked me for mercy, but it is yours to give, should you wish,” Athena told him, no judgement in her tone. Xystos stared down at Isokrates, who had stopped struggling and met his gaze with wild eyes.

“P-please, Lord Xystos! Forgive me, it was a temporary madness! Mercy, please, I beg of you!” the man cried. Xystos thought about what Isokrates had revealed, when he thought he was speaking to a dead man. How he had plotted with the suitors to steal King Odysseus’ throne. How he viewed Telemachus as a prize, an object to be won. What he had intended to do to Telemachus, after Xystos’ death. Xystos felt his own expression grow cold, and opened his mouth to deliver the sentence.

“Xystos!” The cry of his name was so frantic - so devastated - that all other thoughts flew from his mind. His head snapped up and his gaze landed on Telemachus, half-clothed with his spear in hand. When the Prince caught sight of him, he dropped his spear without a second thought, and they rushed towards each other.

Telemachus caught him and crushed him to his chest, hands grasping at him frantically. “ Xystos; oh, my Xystos, my love. I was so afraid! When Athena sent for me, saying that you were in danger, I thought- I thought-”

“Shh, it is alright, my heart. Do not be afraid. I am right here, I am not going to leave you,” Xystos soothed, tears gathering in his eyes to spill down his cheeks. He trembled in Telemachus’ hold. There was movement from the doorway, and he looked past his Prince’s shoulder to see the King and Queen rush into the temple. King Odysseus had a sword in his hand, eyes flashing crimson rather than their usual burgundy. When they centered on Xystos and Telemachus, the King let out a long sigh of relief. He too dropped his weapon, and moved forward to wrap them both up in his arms.

“Not today,” he muttered, placing kisses against their hair in turn. “Thank Athena, not today.”

“You are welcome,” Athena said. Odysseus and Telemachus whipped their heads around to stare at her, as if just now noticing her presence. Queen Penelope knelt gracefully, far more composed than Xystos had been.

“Lady Athena,” she said, bowing her head.

“Hello, Penelope. I have heard much about you,” the goddess said, tone faintly amused. “You may rise.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I have heard much about you, as well. It is an honor to meet you, at last,” the Queen said, and stood. She smiled at Athena, who nodded.

“Likewise.”

“You saved him?” Telemachus asked, still wrapped around Xystos and his father. “Thank you, Athena.”

“As I said, young wolf, you are welcome.” She sniffed. “He is my friend.”

King Odysseus chuckled. “Yes, I had heard about that. You posed for him?”

“It was for my temple,” Athena said. A pause, then, “He is very polite.”

The King let out a true laugh, and kissed Xystos’ hair again. “Yes, he is.”

It was a long while before Xystos extracted himself from the Royal embrace he had found himself in; and he knew the moment Telemachus and King Odysseus caught sight of his wounded hand, for they summoned twin expressions of murderous intent. The Prince once again took up his spear, but the King forewent his weapon entirely and stalked over to where Athena still had Isokrates pinned.

“What,” Odysseus growled, tone promising retribution, “exactly happened here?”

There was a time when that note in the King’s voice would have sent Xystos cowering, his hair standing on end. Now - with the memory of the King’s arms around him, his lips against the crown of his head - it made him feel safe. None could harm him in Odysseus’ presence. Athena stepped away, and Odysseus’ foot replaced hers on the man’s chest. Telemachus’ spear levelled at Isokrates’ throat.

“M-mercy, your Majesty! Please,” Isokrates whimpered, but the resulting storm in Odysseus’ eyes silenced him.

“I was not asking you,” he said. When he looked to Xystos, his crimson eyes softened. “Xystos, what did he do to you?”

“He is insane, your Majesty,” Xystos said, and began recounting the whole ordeal. He glanced over to the Queen as he spoke, finding cold anger on Penelope’s lovely face, her husband’s sword in hand. When he had said all Isokrates had revealed to him, he shook his head in disgust. “I told him he was mad, that his plan would never work. That he would sooner die a painful death than ever lay a hand on Telemachus. That is when he attacked me.”

“Your hand?” Telemachus asked, concern heavy in his gaze.

“He was aiming for my throat, I think. I caught the knife. Not the most intelligent thing I have ever done, but…” he shrugged. What else could he have done, untrained in combat as he was?

“But it kept you alive,” Queen Penelope said gravely, coming over to him. She set the sword down with one last venomous look at Isokrates, and reached out with gentle hands. “May I see?”

Xystos pulled his hand away from his chest, hissing as he unfolded his fingers and the sticky, half-dried blood pulled at the wound. Penelope took his injured hand carefully in her own, uncaring of the blood which smeared across her skin.

“Can you move all your fingers?” she asked, examining the wound. He did so, wincing in pain. The Queen soothed him gently. “I know, dear, I know. It is alright.”

To her husband and son, she said, “The wound is deep, but it did not sever anything vital. He will make a full recovery.”

“That is more Athena’s doing than my own. If she had not come to my aid when she did…” Xystos trailed off, turning to look at the goddess, only to find her back in her owl form. He smiled at her. “You have excellent timing, my friend.”

She dipped her head towards him, cooing softly.

“This beast is fortunate that she does. If he had harmed you further…” Or killed you, the Prince seemed unable to say. He glared down at Isokrates, the tip of his spear inching closer to the man’s throat.

“What should be done with him, Xystos? It is you he attacked,” the King asked. Just like Athena, there was no judgement in his gaze when he looked to Xystos. This decision was his alone.

“Death,” he replied immediately. This vile man could not be allowed to live, not with the possessive madness which lurked in his heart. Not for what he had intended to do. “But not here. Too much blood has been spilled here tonight; and he is far from a worthy sacrifice to you, friend.”

He nodded to Athena, who inclined her head and blinked in a manner that read as distinctly…pleased. King Odysseus hummed. “A public trial, then. It will put the kingdom and the other administrators at ease, to know of his crimes before we send his soul to Hades.”

Isokrates’ tear-streaked face twisted into something ugly; and he turned his head to spit at Xystos’ feet. “Curse you, boy! Remember: you are nothing! Your life is nothing, and you shall die as-”

Telemachus snarled, raising his spear above his head to bring the shaft down hard against the man’s temple. Isokrates slumped, unconscious. King Odysseus lifted his foot, looking down at the administrator as if he were a particularly distasteful kind of vermin. Then he turned away from the man and placed a hand on Xystos’ shoulder. When the King met his eye, the crimson had faded from them, replaced with warm burgundy that gazed upon him with gentleness.

“Do not heed his words, child. It is the nature of scum like him to tell such lies, to attempt to make you doubt yourself. Do not. You shall do great things in this life, I am certain of it,” Odysseus said to him. His hand and eyes were warm, and Xystos felt his own grow misty. He had never known the caring, gentle touch of a father; but he imagined it might feel something like this. At the end of his words, the King’s eyes darted to Telemachus with a knowing expression that Xystos could not parse - wounded and emotional as he was. Whatever he saw on his son’s face caused Odysseus to nod sharply and pull his hand away with a final squeeze to Xystos’ shoulder. “My son, could you take Xystos and fetch the guard? Your mother and I shall keep watch over this filth.”

He glared down at the unconscious Isokrates. Telemachus returned his father’s nod; tucking his spear into a disengaged position before moving to gently take Xystos’ uninjured hand. They bowed to the King, and halted before Queen Penelope on their way out, bowing to her as well. When they straightened, she placed one hand on each of their faces.

“Thank you, dear Xystos, for your defense of my son,” she said to him. Xystos did not think he had done much in the way of defending, beyond telling the madman in no uncertain terms that he was - indeed - mad. Even so, he thanked her for the words. Then, remembering something, his brow furrowed.

“Your Majesty, please do not blame Philon for my injury. He has performed his duties well, and was only absent because I foolishly sent him away,” he entreated. Queen Penelope smiled at him kindly.

“Fret not, Xystos. No punishment will come to him. You are a good Lord to him, to think to see him spared of it.” Xystos shook his head. He was barely a Lord; he had simply not wanted to see his kind-hearted and curious guard punished, when the fault lied solely with Xystos himself. Penelope saw his denial, and patted his cheek gently. “Do you remember what I told you? About sacrifice?”

Telemachus made a curious noise at his side, but Xystos looked at her with surprise, and nodded. She smiled. “Twice this night, you have made such a sacrifice. For my son, and for your guard. You take the blame to spare him of it. Do you now understand better, that which we spoke of?”

Xystos blinked. He had thought - when the Queen spoke of the burden of rule - that such a thing was unfair. That expecting someone to give up their safety, even to protect their subjects, was too cruel a thing to ask. But now… No-one had asked him to argue against Isokrates’ madness, nor to profess Philon’s blamelessness. They were simply the right choices to make, regardless of whether or not they brought trouble onto himself. He nodded, meeting the Queen’s eye.

“Yes, my Queen. I think I do understand it, now,” he said. “I thank you for the lesson.”

She dropped her hands to his and Telemachus’ shoulders and squeezed gently, then pulled away. “To offer knowledge to those who will follow in our steps is another duty, one I perform gladly. Go now, my dear boys. And Xystos: know that we shall support you, whatever you decide to do with this life.”

He grinned, eyes damp, and thanked her again. The Queen’s words tugged at something in the back of his mind, as if they held a double meaning; but - like Odysseus’ earlier expression -  he was too tired to try and parse it. He bowed to the King and Queen once more, and allowed Telemachus to lead him down the hall.

After fetching the guards; they ended up in Telemachus’ chambers, so as not to wake Xystos’ mother. She would worry over him just as much in the morning, and she deserved a few more hours of peace before then. They sat on the Prince’s bed as Telemachus carefully cleaned and bandaged his hand. His Prince was silent; having not spoken a word since they left the temple, except to tell the guards what had transpired. When Xystos’ wound was fully dressed, he raised his uninjured hand to stroke his thumb across Telemachus’ cheekbone.

“Talk to me, my love. What are you thinking about?” he implored, though he had some idea already. His Prince was only ever silent for so long when he was fighting to keep his emotions in check. Telemachus leaned into the touch, squeezing his eyes shut with a pained expression.

“I almost lost you tonight,” he whispered. When he opened his eyes, they glittered with tears. “If Athena had not come when she did…”

“But she did. I am alive, Telemachus. I am right here with you,” Xystos said softly, using his thumb to brush the tears away when they fell. “You did not lose me.”

“But I could have! You…you could have died tonight, and I was not there! If Athena had not called for me - for my father - we would have slumbered in our beds, none the wiser as you were attacked by that monster! What sort of man am I, that I cannot even-” Xystos leaned forward and kissed him, desperate to stop the words spilling from his Prince’s mouth. He kissed Telemachus with single-minded intent, attempting to communicate the depth of his love through the action alone. Telemachus startled, then sobbed against Xystos’ lips. His hands came up to cup Xystos’ face; returning the kiss fervently, a desperation to his movements that made Xystos’ heart ache. He sank into the kiss, allowing his Prince to capture his mouth again and again; as many times as Telemachus wanted. As many times as he needed, to believe that Xystos was here, that he would not fade away under his Prince’s hands.

When they parted, Xystos rested their foreheads together and looked into Telemachus’ eyes. Quietly, he said, “What kind of man are you? A loving man. A kind and gentle man, who is also strong, and cunning. Wise, and fearsome when you must be. You are the best man in all the world, in my eyes. In all my life, there has never been another. My heart was yours from the moment of my birth, our lives tied together by the Fates themselves. I shall not stand to hear anyone speak ill of the man which holds my heart, even you yourself.”

Telemachus stared at him, disbelief warring with something else. Something that made his eyes shine with more than tears. Something like wonder. “You truly believe that? You believe I- You believe we are Fated?”

“I do.”

The Prince kissed him again, slow and tender, and Xystos reveled in it. There were times when he doubted himself, but he could never doubt this. This love was a power stronger than swords, stronger than armies. A power that allowed him to accomplish impossible things. Things like arguing with a warrior King for said King’s humanity. Like unknowingly befriending a goddess. Like standing his ground against a crazed, dangerous man with nothing more than righteous anger and faith to defend himself. All those impossible things which might have remained forever out of his reach; had Telemachus not noticed the timid potter’s son - unable to keep his gaze from straying to the Prince over and over, but so too unable to approach - all those months ago.

Telemachus pulled back, and muttered something against his lips. Xystos startled, and stared, thoughts grinding to a halt. He must have misheard, he must have- “W-what did you say?”

“Marry me,” his Prince repeated, breathless but clear. His expression was utterly serious. “There is no other, not a single soul in all the world I would rather have at my side. I almost lost you tonight. I will not see you lost to me because some Royal scion from another kingdom thinks to claim my hand. I would give it to you, and no other.”

Xystos blinked, thrown and disbelieving. There were impossible things, and then there was whatever this was. A dream, perhaps; but he had thought so before, and been proven wrong. No, this was no illusion. His mind would not be able to conjure such a thing. “B-but I am no Prince. I have no idea how to rule a kingdom! A-and what about heirs? Your line-”

“Heirs need not be related by blood. As for ruling, I can teach you. My parents, too. After you finish the restorations, we can begin lessons, if you wish,” Telemachus said. Xystos realized then, that this was no whim - no snap decision made in the heat of the moment. He recalled the King’s knowing look, the Queen’s words of sharing knowledge, of understanding sacrifice. They had known, he realized with slow-dawning clarity. Telemachus had spoken to his parents about his intent to offer his hand to Xystos, and the King and Queen approved. His mind reeled. Uncertainty crept into Telemachus’ eyes, and he went on, “Unless…you do not wish to marry? I would understand, if that were the case. I would not love you any less.”

“I-if we were to marry, when you become King…”

“So too would you be. My equal, in all things,” his Prince said earnestly. Xystos gripped his hand tightly, and thought. He felt as though he stood on the edge of a great precipice, a momentous choice before him. Xystos, a King? It was unthinkable, but he had no choice but to think about it. King Odysseus and Queen Penelope would not pass into Hades for many long years, yet. In the time between, they could teach him, prepare him for the burden of rule.

Was he willing to make the sacrifice that Penelope had spoken of: his safety, his peace, for the good of the kingdom? For the safety of Ithaca, and all her people? He thought of Philon, and Nikanor. Of his mother, and his neighbors in the city; and he realized that the answer - though it awed him - was yes. He loved his kingdom, had burned with rage as it fell further and further to ruin during King Odysseus’ absence. Still, just because he was willing to make that sacrifice, did not mean he had to make it easily.

“You shall have to train me with some sort of weapon,” he said at last. Tonight’s events had made him acutely aware of his inability to defend himself. For a painter, that was acceptable; but not for a Prince. Not for a King.

“Well, yes; I had intended to do that any-” His words seemed to catch up to Telemachus, and the Prince’s eyes went wide. They were so full of hope that he seemed to shine with it, radiant. Breathlessly, he asked, “Is that a ‘yes?’”

Xystos smiled at him, squeezed his hand. He drew a deep breath, and flung himself from the precipice. “Yes, Telemachus. I would love to marry you.”

His Prince laughed with sheer delight, the force of his answering kiss sending them both sprawling onto the bed. Xystos gasped into his mouth, and clung to him tightly. Behind his closed eyelids, Xystos could see the future. Sprawling out before him in an endless tide: full of joys and sorrows, hardships and bright, glittering moments of triumph. And through it all, he was exactly where he was now. In Telemachus’ arms, standing side by side for the rest of their days.

Xystos could see the future, and in it - above all else - there was love.

-

(Quick Edit: For anyone who is curious as to what Xystos looks like, I've drawn him for you!)