Chapter Text
They are whispers in Ithaca.
Of ships filled with make-pretend kings, Of wolves who hides beneath skin of men. They say they are sailing towards the palace, trying to fill the void the old king left beside his queen, Penelope.
Telemachus hears them. He hears everything in the echoes that haunt the palace he calls home. For the first fifteen years of his life, he wondered where his father had gone, and whether he resembled him at all. He doubted it; the maids, with their endless comparisons, always spoke of the beauty he had inherited from his mother. Not that he minded, Penelope, his mother was, without question, breathtaking. Still, the question gnawed at him: was he worthy of being named the son of Odysseus, the great hero, the fearless man of endless cunning? Would he be proud of him when.. If he ever came back? Or would he be disappointed? Only the gods knew.
If he had known how badly his life would descend into hell once the ship docked, perhaps he would have prayed harder to the gods. It was already a lonely kind of misery, growing up without a father, living in the long shadow of a man who was more a legend than a memory. Every pillars in the palace seemed to whisper Odysseus’ name, every glance from the servants carried the unspoken question. Would he ever return? Telemachus lived not just in his father’s absence, but in his ghost, trapped in the expectations he left behind. His mother, too, wore her sorrow like a veil, endlessly repeating to herself, to anyone who would listen, that he would come back, that it was only a matter of time. Soon, she said. Soon, soon, soon, until the word lost all meaning. But when the ship finally docked, it wasn’t salvation that arrived. It was the beginning of something far worse.
That day, one hundred and eight men paraded before him in an endless, nauseating procession. Sons of princes, nobles, and lords of Ithaca, the very same men who had once given Odysseus their ships, their loyalty, and their hopes when he set sail for war fifteen years ago. Now, their bastard sons dared to stand in the halls his father had ruled, demanding that his mother consider them for marriage. They veiled their ambition in courtly smiles and honeyed words, but Telemachus saw the truth: they were vultures, each hoping to crown themselves king over the ruins of a house they had once served. And that made him sick.
How dare they storm into his home and demand a new king? All based on the assumption that his father was dead? It was an outrage. A betrayal of decency itself. Worse still, they showed no reverence for the palace, no respect for the queen, not even for the gods who had once protected their ancestors. After their pompous introductions, they made no move to leave. Instead, they infested the palace like vermin, lingering day after day, waiting for his mother to choose one of them. They gorged themselves on the royal stores, feasting like starved animals night after night, draining the cellars of wine, shouting obscenities in sacred halls, and turning the home of kings into a den of filth and mockery. They laughed at him, pushed him aside like a servant, and spat upon the name of his father, the king. The very man whose walls they now defiled as if he and all he had built were nothing.
The worst of them all? Antinous. Arrogant beyond measure, with an ego inflated to the size of a hundred men. No, a thousand. He was a young man, perhaps nearing twenty if Telemachus had to guess, though he hardly cared to know. He would have sooner faced the three-headed hounds of Tartarus itself than waste a single thought on him. From the moment Antinous set foot in the palace, he had made it his personal hobby to torment Telemachus. Mocking him with every breath, shoving him in the corridors like he weighted absolutely nothing, striking him when no one of importance was looking.
How exhausting these last five years had been on Telemachus. At times, he thought he might collapse under the weight of it and yet, he dared not imagine how much heavier it must have been for his mother. Day after day, she endured the endless harassment of a hundred suitors, their greedy gazes stripping her bare, their words and cruel laughter swirling around her like a suffocating mist. Every whisper, every insult, every mocking chuckle must have lodged itself deep in her mind, gnawing at her spirit. And still, she endured, as regal and unyielding as the first day they stepped into the palace. Though Telemachus feared he could see the cracks forming behind the shadows under her eyes.
The night his personal hell truly began was at first no different from any other. The torches flickered and danced along the stone walls. The air was thick with the clatter of plates, the endless pouring of wine, and the drunken laughter of men who had long since forgotten the meaning of decency. They feasted like beasts at a carcass, their voices rising in crude songs, oblivious or perhaps indifferent to the sanctity of the place they defiled.
Antinous lounged comfortably among the suitors, a goblet of wine dangling lazily from his fingers, a smug smile playing on his lips as he exchanged hollow pleasantries with the others. His voice, slick with false amusement, cut through the noise as he pointed toward Telemachus.
“You look tense,” he remarked, loud enough for the whole hall to hear.
Telemachus, who had long since grown used to their mockery, lifted his gaze to meet Antinous’ with a cold stare.
“How observant you are.” he replied, his voice disdainful. “Tell me, do you perform tricks too?”
The hall erupted in laughter, the other suitors jeering and elbowing each other at the prince’s retort. Antinous merely smirked, the expression deepening with malice.
“Only when the audience is deserving,” Antinous replied with a gleam of amusement, casting a slow, mocking glance around the hall as if expecting applause.
Telemachus felt his jaw clench, every muscle in his face tense as Antinous turned his gaze back to him waiting, almost daring him to snap.
“Tell me little wolf” Antinous growled, his voice dripping with mockery “still waiting for your father to come and save you?”
Telemachus’ fingers curled tightly around his fork, the metal digging into his palm as he fought to anchor himself, to keep the fury boiling inside from spilling over.
“I do not need saving,” he ground out, each word forced between gritted teeth.
Antinous only tilted his head, that insufferable smirk never leaving his face.
“Pity.” he mused, his voice low and cruel. “You do take after your mother with all those pretty ornaments you wear and her soft face. Shame you inherited none of her grace, only that sharp tongue of yours.” Telemachus met his gaze with a twitch of irritation, crossing his arms over his chest.
“And you? You have neither grace… nor even a soft face to make up for that asshole attitude you have going on.”
A few scattered laughs rippled through the hall. Telemachus kept his arms crossed, his body rigid, every muscle screaming for him to act, to fight, to do something but he forced himself to stay still. Antinous watched him with thinly veiled amusement, as if testing just how far he could push before the prince snapped. Around them, the feast dragged on, the clinking of goblets and muttered jokes filling the heavy air. It was a game to them, and Telemachus knew it a game he was growing dangerously close to losing.
After a few minutes Antinous leaned toward Eurymachus, the two of them whispering, their laughter sharp and cruel Then, with a mocking flourish, Antinous rose to his feet, raising his goblet high in a theatrical toast directed at the prince.
“To kings with empty thrones,” he declared, voice dripping with scorn. “To wives with empty beds… and to boys who only pretend to be men.”
The words struck Telemachus like thunder, the blood rushing to his head. Rage blinded him. Before he could think, he hurled his own bronze goblet across the table. It sailed through the heavy air and struck Antinous straight in the face, the clash of metal against flesh silencing the hall in a heartbeat. Wine streamed down his face, mingling with the thin trail of blood trickling from his nose. Yet even with the crimson staining his skin and tunic, he didn’t lose a shred of his smug composure. Slowly he wiped his face with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with something close to amusement as he turned his gaze back to Telemachus.
Antinous laughed lifting his goblet again in a mocking salute, unbothered by the blood still trickling down his face.
“At last you’re starting to show some teeth little wolf.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying Telemachus like a lion watching a wounded prey.
“This is going to be fun.”
Without another glance, he downed the rest of his wine and sat back agin, leaving the hall with unspoken tension and Telemachus standing alone, the weight of everyone’s eyes burning into him.
Telemachus’ breath hitched, his chest tight as the reality of what he had just done settled over him. Across the table, Penelope rose slightly from her seat, her expression filled with disapproval.
“Telemachus,” she spoke firmly, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. “This is a sacred place, you know this. Apologize. Now.”
Hospitality, the sacred law of the gods. He knew it well. And yet, in a fit of rage, he had thrown it all aside without a second thought. He wanted to scream, to tear the whole hall down stone by stone, but instead he forced his jaw to unclench, swallowed the bitter taste of pride, and turned his glare back to Antinous.
“I apologize,” he said stiffly, the words like acid burning his throat raw. “I broke the laws of hospitality.”Antinous, still dripping wine and blood, smiled slowly enjoying his moment of glory.
“And what exactly are you sorry for?”
Telemachus didn’t hesitate. His voice rang out, sharp and clear
“For not throwing the plate too.”
War has just begun.