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Telemachus was six years old when he first declared he would marry you.
You had laughed in response, brushing dirt from your tunic after wrestling in the palace courtyard. The olive trees swayed lazily in the summer breeze, the scent of the sea caught in the air. The palace was your second home, your father being a trusted companion of Odysseus, and so you and Telemachus had been inseparable since infancy.
“Telemachus, you can’t marry me,” you had giggled, shoving his shoulder. “I’m a boy.”
The young prince had crossed his arms, pouting. “So?”
“So?” you echoed incredulously, face scrunching in the way only a child’s could. “Boys can’t marry boys!”
Solemnly, Telemachus had shaken his head. “That’s stupid. If I love you, then I should marry you.”
You had no argument for that, but still, you rolled your eyes and declared, “I’m never marrying you, prince or not.”
And yet, Telemachus had only smiled. “I’ll make you want to,” he vowed, full of a child's unwavering certainty.
Telemachus was eight and did not forget his promise.
He snuck into the kitchen to steal honey cakes because you had cried earlier that day after scraping your knee. When the cook caught him, he simply stood tall and declared, “I will be king one day! I must take care of my husband!”
The cook had laughed. You had not.
“Stop saying that!” you groaned when he presented you with the cakes. “I told you already, boys don’t marry boys.”
Telemachus only tilted his head, confused. “Says who?”
“Everyone!”
He sat beside you, thoughtful. “But Father said a true king makes his own choices.”
You sighed in exasperation, but as you nibbled on the honey cake, your scowl softened. Telemachus beamed, knowing that, for now, he had won.
Telemachus was ten when he learned jealousy had a name.
That name was Petros.
Petros was the son of a visiting noble, a boy with a bright smile and an easy laugh. He was loud, bold, and quick-witted—the kind of boy who made people gravitate toward him without effort.
And you were no exception.
The moment Petros arrived, you had been fascinated. You challenged him in footraces, sparred with him in mock duels, and laughed at his stories of adventures outside of Ithaca.
Telemachus hated it.
He watched, scowling, as Petros grabbed your arm, tugging you closer to whisper some secret joke. You grinned, pushing him playfully, your laughter ringing through the palace courtyard like music.
Telemachus clenched his fists. That was his place.
Later that evening, he found you sitting by the olive tree where you two always talked. Without thinking, he plopped down beside you, his knee knocking against yours.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, noticing his deep frown.
“…I don’t like Petros,” Telemachus muttered, voice petulant.
You blinked, surprised. “Why not? He’s nice.”
He turned his head away, ears burning. “He’s annoying.”
You snorted. “You’re just mad because he beat you in the race.”
“I let him win.”
You laughed again, and the sound made his stomach twist. Then, unexpectedly, you reached over and ruffled his hair.
“You’re still my best friend, you know.”
Telemachus stilled, eyes wide.
Slowly, his scowl faded, replaced by something softer, something warm. He didn’t say anything, but he did lean against you slightly, his shoulder pressing into yours.
He would never admit it, but those words—you’re still my best friend—eased the tightness in his chest.
Telemachus smiled at you. “Marry me—”
You groaned.
Petros left a week later. Telemachus never thought about him again.
Telemachus was twelve when he fell ill.
You had never seen him so weak before—cheeks flushed, sweat beading on his brow, limbs heavy with fever. His usual stubbornness had melted into something pitiful and small.
One moment, Telemachus had been fine, complaining about the suitors swarming his mother. The next, he was burning up, shivering despite the thick blankets wrapped around him.
You refused to leave his side, dampening cloths to cool his fever, forcing him to drink water, brushing his hair from his damp forehead.
Somewhere in his fevered state, he grabbed your wrist, his grip weak but insistent.
“Stay,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
You sighed. “I am staying, you idiot.”
He let out a little whine, tugging your wrist closer, pressing his burning lips against your skin.
“Please marry me,” he mumbled against your wrist, voice thick with fevered desperation. “Have me. Let me be your husband…”
Your breath caught.
“Telemachus—”
“I’ll treat you right,” he continued, his grip tightening, his fevered mind unaware of the way your face burned. “I’ll give you everything, everything, just… just stay with me.”
Your chest ached.
You sighed, shifting closer. “I’m not going anywhere, you big baby.”
Telemachus groaned, burying his face in your palm now, sighing as if your touch alone soothed him. “M’gonna marry you… I swear it… love you so much…”
“I’m not your future husband,” you said weakly, your voice betraying you.
Telemachus only hummed. His grip on your wrist loosened, a soft smile tugging at his lips as sleep finally claimed him.
You stared at him, your face hot.
He wouldn’t remember this in the morning. He wouldn’t remember any of it.
And yet, you swallowed hard and whispered, “idiot prince.”
Because, fevered or not—he still meant every word.
And as you sat beside him, watching over him through the night, you tried not to think about the warmth of his lips lingering against your skin.
When he was fourteen, he made another vow.
“You’re going to be a great warrior,” he huffed, lying on the ground after another sparring match gone wrong.
You laughed, offering him a hand up. “And you need to stop being so reckless.”
He grabbed your hand, grinning. “When I marry you, I’ll need to be strong enough to protect you.”
You groaned loudly, dropping his hand. “Telemachus!”
“What?”
“You can’t keep saying that!”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a prince, and you’ll have to marry a noblewoman! A woman!”
Telemachus frowned, dusting off his tunic. “No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No,” he said again, more determined. “I will marry you.”
You could only stare, because Telemachus had never wavered in this. It had been years, and yet he still held onto this ridiculous childhood notion.
“I’ll be king,” he said firmly, as if that explained everything. “And kings get to make the rules."
At sixteen, he was still just as stubborn.
The suitors were always buzzing, and Ithaca was always plagued with talks of marriage. Though Odysseus was gone, Penelope held strong, weaving her endless shroud, refusing to take another husband.
And still, Telemachus refused to let go of you.
“You must stop saying such foolish things,” you grumbled one evening, the two of you sitting by the cliffs, watching the waves.
“What foolish things?"
“That you will marry me.”
Telemachus turned to face you fully. He had grown taller, stronger, his shoulders broadening with the weight of manhood. Yet his expression was still the same—full of quiet certainty, full of you.
“It isn’t foolish,” he said simply.
You huffed. “It is.”
“Do you not love me?”
You faltered, because—by the gods, you did. You had always loved him. But it wasn’t that simple.
“It doesn’t matter,” you mumbled, staring at the sea. “We’re men.”
Telemachus scoffed. “And?”
“And men don’t marry men!” you cried, turning to him, frustrated. “The people—your mother—”
“My mother already knows,” he interrupted, his voice steady.
You blinked. “What?”
Telemachus smiled, taking your hand in his. “She knows I love you. She’s always known.”
Your chest tightened. “And she doesn’t care?”
“She says a king must be strong enough to choose his own path,” he murmured. “And my path has only ever led to you.”
For the first time, you had no rebuttal.
You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “You really mean it?”
Telemachus squeezed your hand. “I always have.”
A lump formed in your throat. The world felt too big, and yet in his hands, you felt safe.
“…Then I suppose,” you whispered, “I’ll have to start preparing to be the king’s husband.”
Telemachus grinned, pulling you into his arms. “I’ve waited my whole life to hear you say that.”
And as he kissed you beneath the setting sun, you knew you had been his just as much as he had always been yours.