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Chapter Text

Telemachus sat awkwardly in a small room of the palace, legs crossed on the cold, shiny tiles. The walls around him were adorned with golden murals of gods and war heroes and animals, though a little too bright for the boy’s taste. Warm lights shone in spotlights on a statue in the center of the room of a certain goddess, one carved with strength and beauty in mind: Athena. Yet, regardless of the prince’s proximity to the statue as he prayed, he wasn't convinced that she heard a single word of his.

The boy sighed, shaking his head until his unkempt hair fell right in front of his eyes. He reached his hand up to push one strand away, just enough for the statue to be in clear view again. For a split second too, Telemachus could've sworn that the statue’s eyes moved to focus on him, but he had no proof as the eyes were now facing fully forward. Besides, why would a goddess refuse to hear a prayer but still look at the one giving his time to speak?

The prince spoke, his voice shaky and uncertain. His tone quickly gave away that he was on the verge of tears and failing to keep himself composed. His bones shivered inside his skin as he asked, “Why can't you bring him back? What’s stopping you?”

The only response was one from his own body, his heartbeat echoing off of the walls and making his ears ring. No sign from Athena; there was no word or thought placed into his mind or even a gut feeling as to her answer. Telemachus only felt more terrible and disgusted at the fact that his pleading was failing.

“Is he dead?” Telemachus cried. “Is that why you can't say anything?” His body fell forward as he began to sob, catching his face with his arms beneath him, hands balled into fists, and he lay flat like a balasana. Every day he would ask, and every day he had less hope that fate was on his side. The prince wasn't even questioning if his father was alive at this point— it didn't matter anymore. He just wanted to know why not a single divine entity would send even the smallest sign that he was heard, that his concerns and thoughts were accounted for.

Tears fell directly from his eyes to the ground in the same place they always had. No one dared to question why one tile was more deteriorated than the rest, but Telemachus knew exactly why.

This tile was proof of the long-lasting suspicion the boy had of the so-called gods he was taught to pray to. To him, they were just stories made to explain the world. But there were no gods, not one, and if there were then they were terrible by nature. Telemachus had this suspicion for the past five years and he was nearly at his breaking point now. His smallest requests would go unanswered and he was given absolutely nothing to thank them for.

Mostly, however, this was the representation of the goddess of war, the one who should have been protecting his father at all costs. If he doesn't return, then that means Athena had failed him and his household, but gods were supposed to know what was best. What could possibly be a better outcome than a depressed mother and a boy who had grown up not knowing anything about life?

Telemachus would always see his mother praying and not understand, though she always said the prayers helped calm her of her worries. The queen gave so many sacrifices to what her son only saw as measly statues, a waste of gold. Similar were the stories of how his father was so devoted to the gods and always received what he needed to fight.

Had the reigning king of Ithaca done something to anger the gods? Had he provoked them to the point of leaving his family without guidance in difficult times, or cursed them in other ways? Did the benefits of prayer only remain when the man of the household was alive?

Telemachus wiped his eyes, sitting back up on his shaking knees. His hair stuck out from the sides of his head as unwanted spikes and his hands were colder than they had ever been. He looked at the statue, a symbol of absolutely nothing to him, and wished that it would look right back at him. Even if it did give that sign, however, Telemachus didn't think that he would believe it.

Suddenly, a rash idea entered the prince's mind. Not a single person was going to do anything productive about the situation, leaving only the one person who cared enough to take initiative.

“I'm done keeping his fate in your hands,” Telemachus decided. Lifting himself up from the ground, clumsily coming to his feet, he combed through his hair with his hands and gave a slightly sardonic laugh.

He glared at the statue, a plan already formulating in his mind. His navy blue cloak stuck to his skin from the sweat and tears. This was a terrifying decision for such a young boy, but being sixteen would not terrify him.

Yes, this was what he wanted. This wasn't the battle for his mother to sob over or for the gods to ignore.

“I'm going to find him myself.”

— — — —

It was just another average afternoon, the mediocre weather lending to the feeling. Some things in his life, Telemachus still cared about, like walking his family's dog. A gravelly path wrapped around the palace where the sun struck clearly, only shadowed by the occasional flowered tree. When he would take strolls with Argos, Telemachus observed the regular townspeople from a distance.

What he would give some days to have these ordinary duties. Sure, he was lucky to have everything laid out for him, never worrying about food or a job while being certain he had a clear lane to the throne. But the joy he felt at the idea of spending time with others besides his own maids or guards, just working in fields or trade shops, was immeasurable.

However, his mother feared his inclination to talk to strangers and be out of her reach. It was as though the queen feared losing another member of her family, though Telemachus knew a simple walk around the island wouldn't bring harm to him or anybody. Besides, they were only strangers to him; everybody knew the royal family and nobody would dare act less-than-friendly towards the boy that would one day rule over them.

To put it plainly, being stuck in his room all day sucked. He was lonely. The only times he had a chance to talk to others was when his mother ran her rare errands that a maid couldn't perform for her. During those, she would always make sure Telemachus was right by her side and didn't look anywhere else than forward.

Telemachus continued walking Argos on the path, taking in the new springtime sights. Persephone was returning to Demeter, not that either god would listen to his pleas for even a sign that they were real. More importantly, Telemachus planned on asking his mother his greatest request during the summer: a plea to let him spend more time outside. He would be fine, and he knew this, but the queen was very strict on his safety. He could promise to always bring a weapon, but he had to do something with his life. He was almost an adult, for the gods sake.

Suddenly, Argos started barking, and the boy looked upward to see someone unfamiliar on his path. The dog ran to be behind Telemachus, who switched the leash to his nondominant hand to have a stronger hold. Just in case.

The strange man looked right at him and the dog, and didn't move an inch. He took up too much space with his stance to walk around, and Telemachus was forced to completely halt.

The man had slight curls in his hair and an intimidating stare. His clothes didn't look like the style of the local tailor, being brighter and with different types of stitches and hems than Telemachus would normally see in townspeople. He also had a weird type of confidence and permanent smirk that would put anyone at unease. Telemachus wondered if this man even felt jitters looking at himself in the mirror.

The man still didn't say anything, just stared intently at the boy and dog.

“Can I help you?” Telemachus hesitantly asked.

The man just laughed, his gaze moving right to the prince's eyes. “Who are you, so close to the queen's palace? Don't you have schooling to attend?” He placed a hand on his waist. His feeble attempt at intimidating the younger man was certainly working even more, as his voice was gruff and his tone seemed serious.

“My education is none of your business,” Telemachus said. Yes, he had a private tutor, but he wasn't just about to tell this man he was the prince. He didn't need fake respect from someone whom he hoped to never see again. “Who are you?”

“If you must know,” the man said, taking a step towards the boy, who reflexively backed up and nearly tripped on Argos, “I am an admirer of the queen.”

The dog squirmed a little bit, like he was scared just by the words being said. Telemachus reached behind himself to pat Argos on the head.

“You can't really believe the old king is alive, can you?” The stranger continued. “And I know the perfect man to take his place.”

Telemachus instinctively reached for his pocket, where he occasionally carried a small knife. However, there was nothing there, and the stranger took another step towards him. Was this a fight, a confrontation, or was he misinterpreting what was meant to be a friendly conversation?

“Do you know who I am?” the prince asked, shaking. Goosebumps raised on his arms, and he could've sworn that wind started pushing on him just for dramatic effect.

“I don't need to,” the man laughed. His tone was a bit less serious now, but Telemachus didn't care. There was someone trying to compete for his mother's affection, and that wouldn't happen on his watch. Still, before he could respond, the stranger turned and began walking down the hill that led up to the palace.

Telemachus found himself stunned, unable to react or follow him. So, he just glanced at Argos behind him, switching the leash back to his other hand. What an odd encounter. He hoped to never see this man again in his life; he was surely just joking about trying to win his mother's hand. Nobody could make her be any less loyal.

“Let's go home,” Telemachus said softly.

Argos barked in agreement.

— — — —

Telemachus often liked to watch the boats come and go from the dock on the shore. He would stare through the window in his bedroom, amazed at the different sizes and shapes of these ships, and seeing the little silhouettes of the people who drove them. Today, however, was a ship that towered over the rest— one he hadn't seen before.

Was that what the strange man rode in on? Telemachus asked himself. However, a large ship meant many people had traveled to Ithaca. He didn’t even want to think about how many more men might have the same ambition as the first guy. Could he stand even more intimidation?

His mother would never accept the hand of any suitor that came her way. She spent all her time thinking of one man, and that would never change. The king was a warrior of the mind, an explorer and a great fighter that could outmatch any one of these other men, and Penelope loved that about him. Even if her husband was proven deceased, Telemachus didn’t believe there was a way her heart could be torn away from his grave. However, she always told the boy that she knew Odysseus was alive. She knew he was coming home, even if the journey took a million years.

Telemachus wished he could feel the same thing in his heart, a certainty that his father was alive. All he had was a painting of him that his mother always held dear, and a few artifacts. And, of course, the entire palace was built by the man. His legacy would always be great, but that didn’t mean he was immortal.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his bedroom door. It was faint and careful, a sign of who was on the other side— his mother. Why would she need to speak to him this early in the day, especially with no celebrations planned?

“Yes?” Telemachus responded to the knock, turning his focus away from the window and to the door. Argos had just woken up from a nap and also looked at the source of the sound.

“Please, get ready and come outside,” the queen informed. Before Telemachus could ask what for, he heard her footsteps begin and slowly fade away as the distance between the two grew greater again.

The boy quickly changed into a formal outfit from his sleepwear, then combed his hair and stared into the mirror on his nightstand. Someone he wasn’t quite sure of stared back. He had a gut feeling that something not quite good or convenient was the cause for this sudden errand, and the man in the mirror smiled with his lack of knowledge. They were the same man.

When Telemachus opened his door, his ears were hit with the sound of faint chatter, though many different voices. What was happening? A feast of some sort? Though, it was the morning, making this occurrence very unusual.

Moving towards the dining hall only made the sounds louder and more resonant. Telemachus approached the entrance, and hid behind a column to view the scope of the crowd. There wasn’t one man, nor ten, but several dozen— all were eating and talking like partygoers. They were probably drunk, as well.

His mother stood impatiently at the front of the room near a podium, surrounded by guards. She looked distraught and tired.

Telemachus knew what this was; he had seen it time and time again, though usually on smaller scales.

The palace was forced into offering hospitality for a bunch of wild men. Nobody was happy. And, if these were all men who were trying to court his mother, he didn’t want to know. Just the very thought made him want to cry, or at least run away.

Telemachus took a closer look at who surrounded the tables, and noticed all of them were wearing foreign outfits and hairstyles and had mannerisms one should know to never use in the castle. He even saw the man he met earlier at one of the tables, seemingly leading a conversation. Was that the same clothes from yesterday? Telemachus asked himself. Not that his mother would mind, but a poor man didn’t have any better or worse of a chance at the crown than a rich one, and no pity would be given.

When his curiosity got the best of him, though, his feet began dragging him down the center of the hall towards his mother. As much as he tried to stop, wanting to hide away and never see these people again, his momentum continued. The queen looked very intently at him, with a mix of expressions saying “you’re late” and “what the hell are you doing?”

Telemachus, on the other hand, couldn’t focus to save his life. Heads all around him turned in his direction, and the room slowly fell silent. An awkward boy was walking with the best posture he could give, which wasn’t too good, in a room he clearly didn’t belong in. When he was finally at his mother’s side after a long, treacherous walk of a few seconds, the lady cleared her throat. All eyes shifted from the boy to the woman. Thank the gods, if they actually cared.

“Men, from all around the region,” Penelope spoke monotonously and with clear purpose. Still, it was obvious that she hated the company as much as Telemachus, or possibly even more. “As you know, I am the queen of Ithaca.” She paused, glancing towards the boy. “And this is my son.”

Great. She brought the focus to him again, even if just for a split-second. The embarrassment was going to literally murder him. He was so grateful when his mother turned the subject away from him and onto the other important manners.

“I know you all have arrived on our island in the past few days, and we have graciously offered you hospitality.

“Furthermore, I know each and every one of your motives is to court me.” Oh, so she knew. Telemachus wasn’t sure why he thought his mother might not have known. They probably all showed up with flowers and gifts and unwanted advances.

“To court me under the assumption that my husband is—”

Only Telemachus really noticed her hesitancy before she spoke again. As long as the man had been gone, and could have been dead, it was still a painfully sore subject for both.

“ —Deceased. However, I know he is alive, and I would like to establish that I am very loyal to him, and am not currently looking to remarry.”

The dining hall erupted with loud sounds, laugher, yelling, slamming drinks onto counters, and pushing. These men were unbearable. How long would they have to offer this hospitality for?

“Still, the city and I are inclined to continue this offer of philoxenia to you all, for as long as you choose to remain here. I implore you all to enjoy your stay, and to show respect to my household and to each other.”

Telemachus didn’t need to be a scholar to understand that, most of all, she wanted them to respect him. He appreciated this offer, although he knew that he could take care of himself just fine if he needed to.

His mother turned to him and dismissed him with just a simple look. He could hear her voice in his head already telling him to be weary and stay as far away as possible from everyone, while the grown-ups took care of the situation. But maybe he wanted to be one of those grown-ups too. What a stupid dream.

Taking an alternate route to walk to his bedroom that didn’t involve pacing right in the middle of the banquet, Telemachus escaped to where he was safe. Some of the eyes in the room were still fixated on him until the moment he was out of sight. His gut told him that this was definitely not the end of the suitors, and that there would be more trouble. Hopefully, his mother would rectify it— she surely would if he showed any discomfort.

Still, if his father was here, the suitors would all cower in fear and leave them both alone. That is, from what he knew of the man.

— — — —

Telemachus ended up again in the small room with the statue, just that evening. The palace had been loud all day, and even a secluded room such as this left his ears bleeding with constant shouting.

He was tired. No, he was exhausted. Not only were the suitors disrespectful, but they were constant reminders of the fact that his father would be gone for a long time, if not forever. He wasn’t sure why he was with the statue of the goddess Athena when his bedroom would be slightly quieter. Maybe he still hoped someone could hear him.

“Will you strike me down if I don’t believe you’re real?” He inquired, staring right at the golden eyes in front of him. No lightning hit the top of his head in a sudden, nor did he immediately fall ill, so nobody was listening once again.

Sitting down from his fatigue, he continued. “I still stand by what I said earlier,” he monologued, tracing his finger in between the tiles on the ground. “And with all these men assuming my dad is dead, I thoroughly intend to prove them wrong.”

The how of his plan to find his father was still a shaky idea, especially without the help of a god on his side like all the warriors from various stories had. Truly, he was setting himself up for such a perilous task that would ultimately lead to failure, but if he didn’t think about that outcome, then he would not fail. Telemachus was ready for anything. Anything at all.

He composed himself, bringing his attention to his hand on the ground. Telemachus slowly stood up before noticing another shadow join his own on the ground. Someone was behind him; someone knew what he was planning.

A shadow too tall to be that of his mother, and he knew no maid or guard would bother him in such a sacred place. That only left one type of person with access to the castle.

Telemachus turned around slowly to see a stranger behind him.

Chapter Text

Telemachus didn’t recognize the man behind him. He wasn’t a guard nor any friend of his; the man looked older and slightly taller than the prince, his hair was dry, and there was a large scar over his eye. Was this one of the many faces from earlier, one of the ones that had sneered and laughed at him? He wasn’t quite sure.

“You shouldn’t be over here,” Telemachus warned. Suitors shouldn’t be trying to make their way through anywhere in the palace except the few areas graciously offered to them by his mother.

The man stared intimidatingly at the prince’s face as if he was trying to figure out why he was being talked to. Telemachus stood his ground, prepared for anything— mostly to flee, if he had to. Or to yell really loudly.

“And why shouldn’t I be here? Am I not offered hospitality, like the queen said?”

So he was playing this game. Telemachus didn’t want to think about where the boundaries of hospitality stood, but there was a small chance this man would be able to use common sense. So, he retorted, “Am I not deserving of privacy? Especially from a stranger? Now, leave.” He waved his hand towards the door.

The man only chortled, extending his hand to offer a handshake. Telemachus quickly retracted his own hand back to his side.

“I’m not a stranger if you know my name. I’m Antinous.”

The prince sighed. “Just go away and mingle with the other guys trying to get with my mom. There’s no point in you being here.”

Antinous shook his head. He stepped to his side, diverting Telemachus’ attention. The boy was only more fed up when he realized he was not going to be left alone.

“I heard what you were saying earlier,” the suitor murmured. Of course he was eavesdropping and being a prick. “And I think I could help you leave Ithaca—”

Antinous cleared his throat.

“ —And help you find your father.”

Telemachus was taken aback by this proposal. There was no way he seriously wanted to aid him, right? He stepped back nervously, awaiting a catch or some absurd price he would have to pay.

“And how will you accomplish that?”

“It’s easy,” Antinous said, walking around Telemachus like some sort of weird interrogation. “I give you the ship we came in on. I get a dozen men to go with you.”

“Why would they want to do that?” Telemachus asked while he tried not to feel dizzy watching Antinous walk. “Aren’t they busy trying to court the queen?”

“Because,” he said. “They’ll do whatever I say. Some of these guys might act like they have authority, but since we came here, I’ve been the one swaying the decisions of the crowds.”

“And I thought you believed that Odysseus is dead. My search doesn’t benefit you or anyone else whatsoever. So what reason do you have to assist me?”

Antinous stopped walking, and he chuckled. “That doesn’t matter, little wolf.”

“I think it does,” Telemachus said. “How do I know you don’t have an ulterior motive to your words?”

Antinous glanced at him with that same intimidating look from earlier. Talking to an older man, one who has no reason to like you, and who could probably kill you in an instant, obviously makes the entire situation unnerving. Telemachus shifted his focus to his feet on the ground.

“If you turn down this offer, I am certain you have no other way to see him. You won’t even have a chance. So, it’s up to you if you’ll trust me or not.”

Telemachus paused for a moment before nodding in defeat. He’d admit only to himself that he wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be, and he really had no other plan as to how he would carry this out. “You’re right. I’ll need all the help I can get.” Looking back up at the suitor’s face, he sneered, “Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Antinous smiled a little bit sardonically. “We can discuss this in more detail later.”

The prince saw no harm in the deal that had just been made, and he was rather excited for what was to come. His worries about the man’s other motives were overshadowed by the fact that an older guy believed in him. Did that automatically make him cooler? Telemachus wasn’t sure.

Antinous walked out of the room without another word, his footsteps echoing with the room’s acoustics. Telemachus hadn’t noticed but the man carried no visible weapon, instantly relieving any anxiety about how he might want to harm somebody. What was the reason the suitor came here in the first place? Telemachus asked himself. Not to kill anyone.

Then he looked over at the statue. Athena, neither seeing nor hearing any of this. Athena, not assisting him even though he could have desperately needed help in this situation. But Telemachus didn’t need a mythical being to hold his hand; he was sixteen. He was basically a grown-up, now talking to grown-ups and planning his future outside the hands of his mother.

— — — —

Telemachus continued devising his plan until he had 3 critical steps he knew he had to follow: Finding a way to sneak out, getting someone to cover for him, and figuring out how to say goodbye to his mother. She would surely turn down the plan if she knew, and she would be even more distraught by her son’s sudden disappearance; but it had to be done; thus, the final part would definitely prove to be most difficult.

For four days out of the week, Telemachus met secretly with a few of the suitors, including the two he had already had conversations with. They would talk in hidden areas of the palace that none of the other suitors knew of, nor where any guard or maid would be regularly looking. The group divided tasks among themselves, giving each other roles in the schemes that would play out. One would arm the ship with weapons and stock food, Antinous would be the one to distract everyone while the prince left, and Telemachus had the huge responsibility of leading the crew as their captain. If he already didn’t feel important, he did now; it wasn’t very often that he felt trusted, or powerful. And a small part of him wanted to overindulge in this control he had over his life, but he couldn’t draw attention to himself without spoiling the plan.

On the fifth day of the plan, the actual preparations began. Telemachus snuck out at dusk with a dark hood over his head, during the moment when guards were switching shifts and outposts. He then ran quickly over to the docks, but not so quickly that his footsteps alerted anybody.

When he made it there, Antinous was already waiting by the boat with a smirk on his face.

“You’re very dedicated to this, you know?” Antinous began. “I almost didn’t expect you to come down here. Thought you’d bail.”

Telemachus chuckled, appreciative of the compliment. “Thank you,” he said, more genuinely than the last time. He was dedicated to his plan, and to be recognized for it felt good. If a little bit of determination was all it took to get the suitors to not hate him, then he had confidence that everything would end up alright.

“How were you able to sneak out here?” The suitor asked. “I would assume that you’d be locked in your room.”

“They wouldn’t do that ,” Telemachus grinned. “The only time I’m stuck there is when they think there’s danger, or something. Regardless, I got out here from the most southeastern door— the one by the fountain. You’ve seen it, right?”

Antinous nodded, though he looked tired and rather bored. Telemachus shrugged it off as the time was late.

“The guards that switch their day and night shifts, they always do it at the wrong times. I’m surprised they never figured it out by the fact that they don’t even see each other leaving.” He blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the looming darkness, also adjusting his posture to stand taller. “There’s a fifteen minute window when that entrance is not protected. I mean, if anyone else was to sneak in that way, I’d make sure that gets taken care of— don’t think to take advantage of this.”

Antinous seemed impressed with the prince’s attention to detail. Telemachus prided himself in knowing every nook and cranny of the palace, things his parents didn’t even recognize. It made him feel smart.

“And how are you planning to get back inside?” The older man queried.

Telemachus paused for a second, before laughing. “Good question,” he said. “I mean, last time I snuck out, I used the excuse that Argos had run into the gardens. But now, everyone is keeping a closer eye on him. So I’m really not sure,” he shrugged.

Okay, maybe Telemachus wasn’t that smart. He should have addressed this flaw in his plan as soon as possible, in the first four days, but he had his hands full mostly with the final part of the plan. He could use the Argos excuse again, probably.

Well, probably not. But that didn’t matter.

“I’ll find a way back in,” he said instead. “I have no choice but to, y’know? I’ve already left. Maybe the adrenaline will kick in and help me out.”

Antinous huffed and then switched his focus towards the palace, from which a group of men were slowly approaching the docks. There were maybe a dozen of them, and Telemachus didn’t know any by name, but each was a familiar face from the crowd of suitors. All of the men looked tired and, if Telemachus didn’t know any better, he’d think they were annoyed to come out here on a rather cold night. But they wanted to help him, he knew, so there was no issue.

“These are the guys accompanying you on your travels,” Antinous said, motioning his arm towards them.

Each man gave a very subtle greeting, some nodding their heads towards Antinous or murmuring “Hello.” For some reason, Telemachus didn’t feel like any of the greetings were for him.

Still, he grinned when he faced the group. “It’s a pleasure working with you all,” he began, attempting to speak loud enough to gain their attention without bringing in other unwanted attention. He knew he could be too loud at times, but this was his first impression of the crew that he could be sailing with for days, or weeks. “In only two nights, we will depart south of here. There is no telling how long this perilous journey will take, but I’m certain we’ll see my father return home.”

The expressions of the men in the crowd shifted to something that Telemachus couldn’t quite recognize. They weren’t quite determined or celebratory, but they weren’t trying to kill him either, so all was well. The prince didn’t know why he kept worrying about these men killing him. They wouldn’t; they couldn’t without getting forever expelled off of the island, or executed.

Telemachus leaned his arm on the dock piling, and continued speaking. “Antinous and Eurymachus will be covering for you all to leave without any guard taking notice, as the latter man did today. Make sure you don’t cause any suspicion in the next few days, lest it comes back to me. Then we’re all screwed over.” He had to watch himself not to laugh at his own remark.

“Yes sir,” one suitor answered. “Of course, little boy,” said another, in a futile attempt to be demeaning. That was what riled up the group, and they all began spewing insults and mocking the prince. Still, Telemachus didn’t let himself get discouraged. He had to be strong, physically and mentally for this journey, and if someone was dumb enough to think his mother would marry them, then Telemachus didn’t care for their opinion.

Antinous showed a little bit of annoyance at the others, but didn’t say a word. Then he turned to Telemachus, giving a half-smile. “Well, kid, I guess I’ll see you later. Don’t die out there,” he chuckled satirically.

Telemachus only grinned.

Man, how cool was it to have a bunch of cool fighters on your side, ready to follow your command and go on a journey? Telemachus couldn’t wait.

— — — —

Telemachus got back home and into his bedroom without alerting a soul, only through a series of very difficult maneuvers that very well could have killed him. Climbing a shaky tree outside while it was windy was not the best idea, and neither was clutching onto a windowsill that was way too far away for comfort. But, he wasn’t hurt, which was all that mattered. He was silent and quick, and no guard noticed him. If somebody did notice, they didn’t care enough.

So, he knew where to sneak out. He knew how to sneak back in on that night if any critical part of the plan failed. He knew which suitors would be where at every hour, and which ones would certainly cover for him.

The only difficult part, now, was breaking the news.

The queen would surely be devastated to hear that her son had left to gods knew where, and Telemachus only imagined she would drown in her own tears if the boy didn’t return promptly. He could only think of how much she would sulk and mourn the loss of two members of her family.

But, Telemachus couldn’t directly say something to her, either. She would adamantly refuse, holding him close and still whispering mantras that Odysseus would return home on his own. Then she would lock him in his bedroom, only letting him leave when he was within her sight. The freedom that he had forever longed for would only be taken away more, for the sake of prioritizing physical safety over closure.

Defying such a strong and passionate woman would be impossible.

But, this journey had to occur either way. No prayer would bring back the king. So, Telemachus thought that possibly another person could deliver the difficult news. One with the skills, charisma, and opportunity to talk to his mother without getting executed for allowing it to happen, or not letting Telemachus go through with his plan whatsoever.

A guard would only hear the news and be more alert for the prince’s whereabouts, watching every single crevice of the palace with precision. Anything out of the ordinary would be thoroughly investigated, and the boy wouldn’t be surprised if any of the suitors ended up paying a cost.

A maid would only break down in the same way his mother would. She would beg Telemachus not to leave, probably holding onto his arms and dragging him over to his mother. That would end even worse.

Telemachus, having rarely acquainted with anyone in the city despite being known by every single person, had no friends who would be willing to assist him.

And of course, his mother would be terrified to have the news delivered by a suitor himself. She would probably assume, worst-case scenario, that it was a trap for her son. Then she would break the obligation of xenia and have every suitor executed.

So, ultimately, the news couldn’t be delivered by mouth. There was not a single way it would end well.

The solution? A note.

The day that Telemachus had deliberately chosen to make his departure, his mother would be hosting a plentiful banquet. It was the equinox, and it wouldn’t only be the suitors invading her home; visitors from the entire island and possibly other city-states would be arriving.

This distraction would lend Telemachus enough time to leave a note in his mother’s bedroom. He knew her well— she would only check the space by her mirror in the morning, so it was the perfect way to delay her knowledge of the situation. Then, that night, Telemachus could make his escape, make his way down to the boat, and wait for midnight when the others would accompany him.

He had already secretly loaded the ship with rations, spears, extra oars, sailcloths, and other necessities so that there would be no hassle on the night he left. He would just have to bring himself and his courage.

Thus, Telemachus drafted a note. He spent hours mulling over what to say, knowing he would break his mother’s heart regardless. He could write one word or five hundred, and she would still be sorrowful. Still, if he could avoid completely shattering her heart, he would.

Mom, he began writing. Or should he have gone more formal? Mother? Queen of Ithaca? My dearest, darlingest—

Nope. “Mom” was fine. This wasn’t going to change anything.

When you see this note, I will already be sailing far from home. I know you will be angry with me. I don’t expect you not to be.

The thing is, the prince began, before quickly crossing out the three words. No, he wasn’t going to sound like he was begging or making excuses, even if he really was deep down. He was a strong leader of a crew, and he needed his braveness to be reflected in this letter.

I have prayed for any sign that father was alive and returning home. I have tried to speak to every god and goddess I could name, and I have given my all to each of them. But every word I said, every sacrifice of mine has only been met with silence.

So, I’ve taken it upon myself to find father, with my own crew and guidance.

I know this sounds devastating, to hear your son announcing his departure while you still mourn the loss of

He crossed that last part out, with all the ink he could muster from the quill. This wasn’t the time to think about Odysseus being truly dead.

Do not fret. My crew is composed of enthusiastic men who I will make sure return back alive. They were some of your suitors, but they seem to now hope for father’s return instead of claiming the crown. I truly think if these men had a change of heart like this, all the rest could as well.

I do not anticipate any obstacles to get in our way. Especially not those of a supernatural nature— I doubt that a god who can’t even hear his own adherent would care to interfere with his voyage.

I will return swiftly, and hopefully not empty-handed.

So he was really doing this, huh? This was the final step in the start of his journey. It was the end of the beginning. But writing the note helped the prince express his feelings more than he would have liked to admit. He wished he could have spoken to his mother in person, but this was the only way Odysseus would ever make it home. He was sure of it.

He might have shed a tear, or many, while putting ink on the parchment. He hoped that the water dried quickly.

I love you,

Telemachus.

Chapter Text

The horizon became lighter every passing minute with Helios peeking his chariot above the sea, and Telemachus watched as the shore became blurrier and desaturated by the fog. The boat sailed quickly as half a dozen oarsmen rowed as quickly as they could. The only sounds were those of the water splashing and the occasional bird that flew above the masts. It was such a strange feeling to Telemachus, captaining a ship and going on a journey of his own . Not only that, but he felt more respected than he had been in his own palace.

His mother would never trust him to lead a ship like this. She never even liked watching him canoe on the rivers that passed through the city, even when he was right by her side. Telemachus wondered if his mother was scared of letting another family member get lost. But she wasn’t here right now. And furthermore, the boy knew he would return with his father. There was no need for worries.

When the sun continued to rise in his peripheral, Telemachus felt himself relaxing. The night was very suspenseful but felt quick, even though it ultimately took hours to get everything going smoothly. The difficult part was over now, and there was not a single storm in sight over the sea. He might return home quicker than he initially thought.

“Captain!” A deep voice suddenly called to him, breaking the tranquility of silence. Telemachus turned his head around and saw one of the older suitors approaching him with an apprehensive expression. It was Amphinomus, his second-in-command… if he had to choose someone to fulfill that role.

“Yes, my friend?” Telemachus asked eagerly, always glad to talk to someone who wasn’t trying to scare him or kill him. He hadn’t previously been on good terms with those who invaded his palace, but for those on his crew, Telemachus found it best to try and be more familial with them, rather than acting as disgruntled coworkers.

Amphinomus cleared his throat. “The rowers have asked permission for a break, as there aren’t very many of us, and we’re a fair distance from Ithaca now. I know you said you would inform us when to stop, but—”

“There is no wind caught in the sails,” Telemachus said, turning his attention to the masts. “I reasoned that we would stop once we are guaranteed further movement away from the island. And if anything happens, I don’t want us to be at risk of being stationary.”

“But—” Amphinomus began, trying to explain whatever afflicted his mind. Telemachus wasn’t having any of it. He was the captain, and they were bound to listen to his authority, even if they didn’t want it. Wasn’t that how things worked?

“No,” the prince said, shaking his head and returning his gaze to the shining water. No ‘break’ was going to get them closer to their goal.

“Soon my mother will awaken,” he continued, “and she will send countless fleets in search of us.” He didn’t mention his worries that his mother might want to travel herself, but he hoped she wouldn’t put herself in that danger. “We must keep sailing, or they will catch up. I’ve explained this before.”

Telemachus waved his hand dismissively, stopping the suitor from saying whatever else he had on his mind. He didn’t mean any ill will towards the crew; rather, he wanted what was best for them, but they didn’t understand how desperately he needed this journey. He needed to leave the stress of home for just a little bit, and he needed to find his father.

“Alright,” Amphinomus said, defeated. He didn’t argue further, instead returning to the cabins.

Telemachus kept his eyes on the deep blue, so alluring and interesting. Small fish hopped along the surface of the water before diving back down, the splashes like music to his ears.

He never felt so alive. But he also felt different. Had the prince really given an order and had been obeyed? That wasn’t something he was ever used to. Even his own servants would often do what they thought was best for him, rather than what he asked— though, they were sometimes very right. But now, now he was feeling like a real captain, a real leader, like his fa—

No, he wasn’t his father. He was himself, stronger than ever. How much more could he say, and people would listen? His mother never took what he said without chiming in about how it was wrong, or dangerous. The gods never once heard his pleas, so what he said must have not mattered to them. The townspeople, when he had rarely spoken to them, only treated him like the child of his mother and never someone with real authority. This, however, was so much different. Men who hated him, or should hate him, still obeyed what he said.

He would ride this high for ages.

He would also ride this ship for as long as it took, giving commands and being acknowledged as much as necessary. And there was no issue with rowing for longer. These men always flexed their strength in the palace, so they placed this burden upon themselves.

Telemachus decided to take his own break instead, daydreaming of finding the man he only saw in paintings and tapestries and described through stories.

— — — —

The wind began pushing the sails in the desired direction after another hour or two. Still, they were moving slowly, but the pleas to take a break continued and Telemachus eventually folded.

At the moment, several men were talking to each other on the deck about who-knows-what, not that Telemachus cared, but he hadn’t been included in as many conversations as he would’ve liked. When he found himself closer to the conversation by some odd coincidence— definitely not to eavesdrop— their voices lowered. So what if the suitors were being secretive? This wasn’t the first time that had happened.

Telemachus was tired, worn out from thinking and sailing and altogether having responsibilities, so he motioned to another suitor in the same courteous way he would gesture a maid to him. “Could you grab me a drink from the barrel in the hold?” He simply asked, as politely as he knew how to do. Surely, even though he wasn’t expecting to be seen as royalty on this trip, he still needed to manage his authority. A single question couldn’t hurt at all.

Until the man glared with the most offended look the prince had ever seen. Did he say something wrong?

“Do I look like a servant to you, boy?”

Oh. He couldn’t possibly think— Telemachus didn’t mean— He wasn’t sure what to think at that remark. Of course he didn’t think the man was a servant. He wasn’t blind.

“Wh- what? No!” Telemachus tried to clarify, “No, you don’t, I was just asking— I would never say that!”

The suitor started to turn around, definitely not to get the drink.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” the prince explained. However, his words only seemed to go over the man’s head and he only seemed more pissed off.

The suitor scoffed. “Sure you didn’t.” He stopped in his tracks and made direct eye contact, almost like he was trying to burn the boy’s soul with beams coming from his eyes. “Get your own damn drink, punk,” he spat.

Telemachus was already fed up before, and only felt heat rise in his body as he raised his voice, stepping closer to the man. “You are not to speak to me like that! I don’t know if you recall, but I am still the prince of Ithaca, and I can revoke our hospitality towards you if you disrespect me further.”

The man said absolutely nothing, just looking at Telemachus like one would look at another person’s child having a tantrum at the farmer’s market. Telemachus was going to prove he did have the authority he spoke about, and in due time, none of these men would think of him as a mere child.

The suitor then laughed and walked away merrily, not absorbing a single bit of information that Telemachus gave him. The latter man looked around the deck to see if anyone else noticed the blatant disrespect of this man, but either the others didn’t see anything, or they just didn’t have enough interest to speak on it.

Eventually, he opted to get his drink himself, though he was repulsed by the dirty barrels and the warped wood of the floors underneath his feet, probably from leakage of water or wine. It was disgusting, unlike anything he’s had to traverse in the palace. How could a single person feel safe when the walls looked like they were going to give out?

Sure, he was basically a grown-up now, and grown-ups all had to deal with disrespect and places they didn’t want to be in. He would be having adventures and trying new things, but if he had to constantly deal with what had gone down today, he would rather go insane. Besides, Telemachus was the reason all of them were sailing, and he was in charge, and that gave him all the reason to give commands.

Grabbing an old cup, he poured the unfiltered water into it, and he took a short-lived sip before choking and spitting the contents on the ground. “There’s fucking dust in this water,” he mumbled. “How could a single person be fine with this? Has nobody else thought to hydrate today, so they were just going to leave this for the next unfortunate soul?”

Then, taking a step back, the prince’s foot got caught in something sticky. “Ew,” he thought out loud, turning over his sandal to see what was infecting his wardrobe. Some sort of jam or slime that hasn’t been cleaned in ages was now stuck to him, and it only made him increasingly vexed. Rubbing his sandal against the floorboards did little to get it off. His new footwear had just been gifted to him a few months earlier by his mother, and now they were ruined?

“Does nobody clean down here?” Telemachus shouted, to no avail, no sign that he was heard. “How do they live like this?” he whispered, taking another sip of the most unbearable water known to mankind. He didn’t ask anybody in particular to clean, though if he ever went on another adventure, he would make sure that role was assigned. Besides, it should have been common sense to make sure the ship was presentable before letting a prince walk on it.

Even the fields of the farms he would watch from his bedroom window were cleaner than this, with all the dirt and dust stowed everywhere. Diabolical.

It took all his strength to not walk back out and give every suitor a piece of his mind. He heavily considered it, wanting to yell at everyone for not understanding the travesty of the situation. Maybe he would just talk to someone later— probably Amphinomus. He was surely more understanding than the rest of the heathens on the crew.

“Do I look like a servant to you, boy?”

Or maybe he should just rest. The other men seemed to be doing the same, but without a reason.

— — — —

Day turned into night as the wind calmed, creating a more tranquil scene over the water that Telemachus couldn’t help but be drawn to. Clouds covered enough of the sky to have drizzled a bit of water before ceasing, but they didn’t cover too much of the sky so that the stars and moon were still very visible. The suitors were also all relaxed as if they weren’t neglecting their duties; not a single man seemed to think about what was ahead of them in the dangerous seas.

Telemachus was still hiding anger that he was the only one taking anything seriously. All the suitors did when they weren’t rowing or eating was getting drunk and nearly falling into the water. Actually, some of them drank while rowing too. But they all had a long way to travel before reaching wherever his father was. They were actually a long way from Troy and every single island in the area. Ithaca wasn’t even visible anymore, though whether it was the distance or the clouds creating that effect, Telemachus wasn’t sure.

Still, he pretended not to care. If he was any more mad he would fling himself into the water, so he went to one of the cabins instead. Inside he saw several suitors huddled in a circle, not even noticing the arrival of the prince.

Closer inspection showed him that these suitors were tearing apart bags of supplies and squandering rations without regard for anyone else. Those monsters.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Telemachus spoke up, only then catching the gaze of a few of the men. He knew all of them had heard him, so why weren’t they paying attention?

One of the suitors laughed, and only took another bite of the beef that had been packed for the journey.

There were four of them in total; four disgusting, gluttonous beasts that wouldn’t care if anyone else starved. They were all ignoring him, disrespecting his authority, and disrespecting everyone else on the ship just for their own greed.

And they must have thought the prince wouldn’t say any more, but he had his wits about him.

“If you won’t answer me,” he huffed, drawing out a small dagger he always kept near him, “I will force you to. Have you no care in the world for anyone else?”

Telemachus panted, his voice shaky. “I’m not afraid of any of you,” he continued, though his tone said otherwise.

One of the suitors glanced over and smirked, then waved his hand to tell the other suitors to drop the food. Once their hands were empty, the group approached the prince with clear looks of malice.

“Did you really think we wanted to go on this journey to find your father? ” One growled.

“What do you mean? You wanted to help me out, no?” Telemachus gasped quicker for air, stepping back in time as the others stepped forward.

The same man drew nearer and cornered him, snickering. “You stupid prince,” he huffed, reaching and pulling the dagger out of the boy’s hand without another word. He threw it to the ground.

Telemachus was too weak to even hold onto the one thing that could save him. Was this how his journey ended? Would he be brought back to Ithaca as a corpse?

“We were going to wait until later,” the suitor said. “Later, we were just going to push you in the water. But I want a little more fun, and you’re too entitled to listen to for another day. None of us care about the likes of you.” The other three nodded their heads in agreement.

A dozen men. Telemachus had to survive the unwarranted wrath of a dozen men. He could do this. Breathe.

In an instant, all the men surrounded him, and his back was pressed firmly against the wall. His spine ached terribly on the hard wood, and a piece of his chiton got stuck on a nail, ripping a piece of the hem.

The only way he could think to escape was to be granted some magical ability by a god, but he’s made it clear that he would never rely on a single one of them. He used to ask Athena for help, begging her to teach him to train or to get out of little squabbles. His father’s patron never appeared. She wouldn’t now either, because Telemachus wouldn’t let her.

This was his own fight. He wasn’t going to back down, mostly because he couldn’t, but a part of him had his sights set just on his father and the sea.

One suitor bent down to pick up the dagger, and his low stance gave Telemachus just enough room to jump over him. Well, onto his back, the soles of his feet digging into the man’s spine while the other suitors tried to grab him, but it was “over him” enough. Hands kept reaching at him, and Telemachus only thanked himself for his quick reflexes.

There was only one other weapon in this room, and it was a sword presumably used to slice open the bags of corn. He grabbed the much bigger sword and gripped onto it like his life depended on it.

The only other weapon in this room was the dagger, which the sword obviously outclassed. Unless the suitors planned on killing him with their bare hands and a few measly cuts, they were going to lose. Telemachus didn’t know where his sudden confidence stemmed from, as he normally wouldn’t hurt a fly, but maybe this was the fight or flight he had always read about in his hero stories.

Telemachus smirked. “You turn on me and don’t expect me to fight back?”

The suitors only darkened their expressions and continued advancing towards him, so Telemachus swept the broadsword around half of the room, his eyes closed and unsure if his efforts would give him a victory or only leave him more defenseless. To his surprise, however, he heard a loud slice and a man with blood spouting from his wrist. His hand was writhing on the floor. The cut was clean and the sight was repulsive at best.

The blood only spilled more quickly onto the ground, but Telemachus set his sights on the next man— the one holding the dagger. He immediately jabbed the small weapon at Telemachus, slightly grazing the chiton he wore. He would really need to fix his outfit whenever he got home. In reflex, however, he swung the sword randomly once again, this time not striking a soul. Another man was behind him and ready to pounce, to hold the prince to the floor, and the boy didn’t notice until it was too late.

He tumbled down, scraping his elbows on the uneven floorboards, and then felt more hands pin his arms and legs in place. He felt utterly helpless, his sword now barely out of reach, and life was making attempts to flash before his eyes, but Telemachus wouldn’t let it.

Luckily, his mind conjured up another trick when he saw what the suitors were attempting next. Dagger man tried to place his hand over Telemachus’ mouth to stop him from talking or breathing. When the hand was right above his mouth, he bit the suitor's knuckles and tried to tear the skin off with just his teeth.

“Fuck!” The man yelled, moving back startled. Telemachus then swiped his leg behind Dagger man’s knee to make him tumble down.

With the others distracted just enough, Telemachus yanked his arm out of one of the hands of another man who hovered over him, and was barely able to reach the sword’s handle. He quickly grasped it with one hand and steadied himself, and without hesitating, he slashed Dagger man’s waist with as much force as he could muster.

“Agh!” The man yelled way too loudly for comfort, clutching both of his arms around his bleeding stomach. Telemachus worried that the noise would alert other suitors who would also want to fight, so he had to finish this quickly. The suitor fell to his knees with blood spurting out from beneath his tunic, and he coughed out more heaps of blood from his throat, before losing consciousness and falling to his side in a fetal position.

There was no time to be disgusted at his own actions. Two men down, two more in this room to defeat, and eight on top of the ship. He had to keep going, keep his focus, keep his reflexes and thoughts quicker than they had ever been before. He had to win his fight.

Telemachus cleared the area with a sweep of his broadsword as he saw one of the suitors eyeing the dagger, but he was able to roll down and claim the weapon as his own. He was more comfortable with the dagger, but he couldn’t yield the larger sword to the others, rather choosing to dual wield what he could.

The same suitor tried to grab his arm but missed, and Telemachus maneuvered the dagger to slice right in the vital vein of his wrist. The suitor then tried to kick the prince to the ground, but Telemachus’ feet stuck to the floor and he slashed the suitor’s collarbone.

The final man was running up the stairs and onto the deck, and his heavy breathing indicated that he was terrified. Luckily, Telemachus wasn’t, and the boy slashed both of the suitor’s ankles. When he fell, Telemachus gripped his dagger tightly and rammed it into his sternum. The annoying breathing stopped.

See? Telemachus thought to himself. I don’t need a god on my side. This is my fight, and I’m winning. My actions are all my own. If he was feeling extra, he might have said that he felt as strong as his father, or even more. No god would want to help him now anyway, but if he could escape these men unscathed, he knew that the rest of the fight would be a breeze when the others were caught off guard.

One difference between the fights, however, would be that he saw every man on board with a weapon of his own that seemed to fit his demeanor. All of them looked right at the prince as his silhouette appeared. In a fit of rage and an attempt to give himself more capacity to fight, Telemachus quickly chucked the broadsword into the sea and took a stronger stance, deciding to rely solely on his trusty dagger.

One man tried to jump Telemachus from behind, but the prince felt his presence in an almost unnatural sense, and was able to spin around quickly and stab him right in the gut. With the man slightly kabobbed on the dagger and quickly losing blood to the point of fainting, Telemachus pushed him into the ocean. As his dagger detached from the man’s body, it slid up, creating an incision going through half of the man’s torso— so if he could swim, he still would die. What a sight.

A shrill sound alerted the boy to turn back around, watching seven more men only approaching. In the group was the one man that Telemachus had thought he could trust, possibly even after the opposition of the rest. Amphinomus seemed to know exactly what Telemachus was thinking, and didn’t hesitate to say, “I’m sorry.”

Whether his words were genuine or not, Telemachus couldn’t believe the betrayal that had occurred against him in just a matter of days. “It can’t possibly be all of you. Please, I want to spare you,” he said, mostly with his gaze on his second-in-command.

Then, the onslaught began. All seven men, equipped with their weapons, charged right at Telemachus in an attempt to get him to back up. The closer he was to the edge of the ship, the more efficiently they could push him into the water. However, they probably didn’t know that Telemachus was just as aware of this plan, and so he ran to the side instead.

A guy with great speed leapt at the prince, his own sword barely reaching Telemachus’ foot as the boy jumped onto the forecastle. From above, he swept his dagger at the suitor’s head and slit his forehead. The man lost focus and tumbled backwards before falling and placing his hand to the injury, remaining nearly motionless afterwards.

Six more.

One unfortunate suitor was standing nearby but also far too close to the ledge. Telemachus clashed his dagger with the man’s own switchblade, and they both pushed at each other, though he overpowered the prince slightly, causing the boy to bend his knees and tilt backwards. Yet, before the suitor could think of his next move, Telemachus had retaliated and stabbed him in the knee and used all of his might to push his torso overboard.

Five more.

Two men tried to run at him from different angles, and for a moment it seemed as though they were going to win with their numbers advantage, but Telemachus thought fast and rolled on the ground, causing the suitors to collide with one another like something straight out of a comical story. They were shaken but quickly stood their guard, not realizing that the prince wasn’t just a sword-fighter. He had also been learning the basics of archery, and one of those skills was aiming. He knew he only had one chance to make the dagger go where he wanted, and when it flew into the throat of one of the suitors, he knew that luck was on his side.

Four more.

When the other man tried to grab the weapon from his comrade’s neck, Telemachus was able to disarm him of his original weapon, and use the blade to send his face right into the ground. He collected his own dagger again, trying to not think about how many men’s blood had stained it.

Three more.

A punch to the gut and immaculate dodging allowed Telemachus to draw blood from his abdomen, and then the side of his head..

Two more.

They both jumped at Telemachus, but his strategy for this fight was simple: he sneakily hid his dagger underneath his chlamys so that they wouldn’t second-guess grabbing his shoulders. Then, he pushed his shoulder up so that the dagger sliced through not only the fabric but the muscles and bones of one of the suitor’s hands. The man struggled and fell backwards, panic quickly spreading on his face. He had already seemed to give up, accepting his fate that he would slowly bleed out, but Telemachus sped up the process for him with a few more wounds.

One more.

With only a few slashes on his arms, torn clothes, and determination, Telemachus exhaled heavily as he stared at Amphinomus, his final opponent.

The suitor didn’t say anything; he had temporarily stopped trying to fight, possibly in favor of conversation. Telemachus didn’t know how to feel about this when the man opened his mouth.

“Look—”

“I don’t get it,” Telemachus interrupted. “I really don’t understand.”

Amphinomus looked exhausted but not remorseful in the slightest. “What god did you have helping you fight?” He sneered.

“None,” The prince answered plainly. “I don’t need a god on my side. I just need you gone .”

The sea was so quiet at the moment.

“I’m going to return to Ithaca, and the queen will be mine,” Amphinomus began. “You got rid of some of my competition, so I can’t complain too much.” He shrugged, and gripped his sword tightly.

“You’re a fool if you think she’ll remarry. Not in a million years.”

“I give her three,” the older man grinned. “At best. Maybe when you’re gone, she’ll try to move on quicker.”

No, she won’t, Telemachus reassured himself. Especially not with someone who is trying to kill her son.

“If you really don’t have a god on your side, I say we fight fair. And if you do, I’d say you’re blaspheming, and I would hope they wouldn’t want to help you now regardless.”

Without further hesitation, Telemachus took a running stance and launched forward to try and get the first hit on him. Amphinomus did the same, and their blades collided with a loud cling. Telemachus tried to aim low and Amphinomus deflected it skillfully.

Telemachus felt his own confidence wearing off, and he frantically looked for openings to attack. His reflexes from earlier were failing him— was he losing too much blood? What was happening to him?

The suitor struck a plethora of hits on the prince afterwards, pushing the duo to a showdown on the bow of the ship. One wrong hit could send anyone flying into the water.

“Aw, what happened?” The suitor chortled, still fiercely slashing his sword in a meticulous fashion. “You suddenly don’t have your strength anymore?”

“Shut up!” Telemachus swung his dagger with even more ferocity, but it wasn’t enough.

One final clink of the swords had enough force behind it to send both men stumbling to the ledges. Amphinomus sneered at Telemachus as his entire body flew downwards, and as much as the latter tried to keep his balance, he ultimately fell off as well.

The dagger hit the water first, and then the prince, who gasped once the situation had fully occurred to him. He made an impact with the water but underestimated how deep he would end up falling. The air in his lungs wasn’t sustainable for the long distance.

The water on his open wounds stung terribly, and the pain made the prince only less likely to be able to swim up, though he tried to endure it anyway.

Only a few moments passed that felt like hours, and Telemachus realized that this was the last of him. He would never reach his father. His mother would be right about all the times she told him the world was dangerous. He should have never left.

He was weak.

Zero more.

Lungs begged for air. The surface was so, so far away. He could reach it, he could tread water, the boat hadn’t moved too far away. But the surface was too far. His eyes burnt— he was never one to like having his eyes open underwater. Everything hurt. He would die. His father. His mother. His dog. His livelihood.

Pressure built up around him as he realized there was no way he would ever be able to breathe again. He wasted his last breath on what, a stupid gasp?

But he had to make it. He had to win, to prove that he could go on a journey without dying.

Look what twenty years led up to.

Wounds hurt more than when they were first inflicted. The water was worse than the garbage he had to drink earlier.

He heard screams. He heard music. Then, he heard white noise.

Telemachus had to breathe . He had to open his lungs, he had to do something. His body was begging him for something to save him.

He stopped trying to swim upwards.

Telemachus resigned, opening his mouth, and inhaling.

Everything went black.