Chapter Text
Telemachus has had the meaning of 'gratefulness' repeatedly echoed into his head for as long as he can remember. His mother spent the first fifteen years of his life desperately rerouting whiny complaints about his father leaving and the influx of strangers that continued to batter the halls into appreciation for his life and his wealth. Halfway through his teen years, Telemachus experienced his first nasty run in with Antinous. From his first black eye and onwards, he learned to be grateful for the little things. His prayers included gratitude for not being the main target of the suitors' anger, and that his mother was wise enough to keep the myriads of furious men away from the throne.
His twentieth year was when Telemachus learned of all he truly had to be grateful for. His father, seething and bloodied and shaking, dropped every ounce of pure rage when he set his eyes upon him. Odysseus smiled with tears welled up in his eyes. His calloused hands cradled Telemachus' cheeks as he cried and insisted that, although he had only known the boy a few months prior to his departure, Telemachus was always the brightest part of his life and memories. Telemachus bawled into his shoulder as though he was nothing more than that same helpless infant. Later that night, when he sat between his mother and father, he drifted off to sleep, finally having a whole, complete family around him.
In the three years that followed, Telemachus has tried to carry the same principles with him as he grew up with. He's grateful for the meals he's served, food so fresh that the heat melts through the bottom of the plate, warming his waiting hands beneath. Telemachus thanks every tutor, guard, and servant he interacts with to ensure they know how much their abilities are valued. He greets both his parents with a hug each morning and prays for their health and happiness at the cusp of each evening.
Since his childhood, though, Telemachus has had a tendency to keep his most shameful and darkest thoughts to himself. Although they are nothing like the ones who hunted his mother, Telemachus does not make it known that he is entirely unappreciative of the suitors he has of his own.
Word travels fast, Telemachus learns, and not long after he comes of age do the princesses start coming. It is entirely civil at first: a single proposition from Eretria for their eldest daughter’s hand in marriage. They have a kind meeting in the palace halls and, although she is nice enough to make Telemachus smile, he simply cannot force himself to look at her with any more warmth than a distant friend. After the first, the invitations continue, slowly building in number as the years pass.
He never feels the sparks that his father swears he will one day find. Meeting with each woman becomes nothing more than a chore he detests.
Tonight, he walks side by side with Amalthea, Princess of Chalcis, daughter of King Hypatius. She is beautiful in ways that every woman could only dream of, hopes that amount to neglected prayers to Lady Aphrodite. Her long hair glows with the sheen of silk, flowing as though it is one with the air around them. Her skin is radiant and glowing even without endless rays of sun bouncing off the apples of her cheeks. Amalthea is graceful in every movement. Her voice is as smooth and rich as aged wine.
And, yet, it is her everlasting beauty that grows a pit in the depths of Telemachus' stomach.
Both their fathers had encouraged them to spend some time together after dinner. Telemachus had whisked them into the woods, where the moonlight shone softly through the blanket of leaves; he always followed the exact path his father used to take his mother along when they were younger. He imagines it would be romantic, had he been able to feel any sort of compassion to Amalthea. He feels just as empty as always, though, like a hollow-out form of a man that manages to stumble around a kingdom feigning emotions. Yet has he been able to fall for one of the many women that comes to his doorstep, but often has his eyes lingered on the body of male servants and soldiers, wishing for just a moment that they were the ones asking for his hand in marriage.
He is nothing if not a man of the people, though, and Telemachus knows how much bridging a gap between their kingdoms could help the Ithacans prosper. As they get to the peak of the path, just a few feet into a clearing dawned with tall grass and expanses of wildflowers, Telemachus clears his throat, turning to stare the princess directly in the eyes. "I have enjoyed our evening together," he tells her. His statement is not fabricated, as he does truly enjoy her company, but the implications of his words are intentionally misleading. "I do not think the idea our fathers have for the two of us is too unreasonable."
"You are not required to lie to me, Telemachus," Amalthea quickly interrupts. She holds her hand out between them, a metaphorical wall built right before his mouth. Telemachus shuts his lips with a snap. Amalthea tilts her head, gazing upon the prince with a bittersweet smile on her face. She reaches forward, taking his hands into hers. "I am not ignorant. I can see that you do not admire me. You do not desire my hand in marriage," she insists.
A million feelings swarm within his stomach in an instant. He's relieved, on one hand, to not have to once again explain to a beautiful, intelligent, and kind woman how he will not be accepting a proposal for her love. It is always nauseating, the way he must scramble for nonsensical excuses that will hold just strong enough to cover his secret. Telemachus feels dread, too, picking at the inside of his throat at the thought of returning to his father with yet another rejection. He is wholly unsure how many times he can dismiss a valid suitor before Odysseus begins to ask intense questions that Telemachus is too afraid to answer.
"I apologize, truly," Telemachus whispers, his voice gravely. He looks down to his hands; they are cold and clammy, despite the gentle warmth from Amalthea's fingers as she runs her thumb back and forth across his knuckles. "It is indeed nothing against you, Amalthea. You… You are beautiful. Your knowledge is utterly incredible. The man who will marry you will be one of the luckiest," he rushes. "But it will not be me."
Amalthea hums. She barely moves, but her eyes cast over Telemachus' face, even as he keeps his own gaze averted. "I am still hoping it will be," she admits. Confused, Telemachus lifts his head. His eyebrows tug together. Through the gentle cast of light above them, he can barely make out the bubbling tears threatening to break over her waterline. His back straightens out in alarm, but she speaks before he can ask, squeezing his hands. "I adore you, Telemachus, with the same care I have towards my friends, or the way one would admire a proper prince. You are a gentle soul. But... I have a love of my own back home. My Philemon– he is everything, but he is poor. My father– our kingdom– I would never be allowed to marry him."
Telemachus nods, even if he cannot see where the princess’s thoughts are leading. Amalthea sniffles, meeting his eyes as tears run down her cheeks. "I have been denying as many suitors as you have. I was not going to pick one, with the intention to deny each lover until my hand was forced, but our situation is, in whole, perfect. Telemachus," she pauses, smiling through a wet chuckle, "we understand each other. We do not need to love each other if not for public appearances. Our union will bring aid and benefits to both of our nations, while the both of us can continue to nurture relationships we are truly passionate about," Amalthea explains.
Of all the offers he has received, Telemachus has never felt such intense temptation towards acceptance. It is more than an ideal situation. The immediacy of an alliance of this level of importance between Ithaca and Chalcis would bring strong international relations and trade opportunities they do not currently receive from the isolation of the west seas. It will offer expansions and resources they have yet to dream of. And, if Amalthea truly understands the level of urgency Telemachus needs her as a synthetic wife, then it will be a truly perfect match for the both of them.
"I agree with the points you've made," he starts, gently nodding in tune with his words. Amalthea blinks, knowing there is more to follow. "Philemon could easily come to work within the walls of the palace, as soon as the marriage is finalized. It will keep you two in close proximity and allow your relationship to continue without the barriers of walls or sneaking out to his home."
Amalthea's grin is so bright that it practically reflects the moonlight back into the sky. Ripping her hands away, she leans forward, throwing her arms around the prince's neck. "Thank you," she whispers, breath falling against his shoulder. "You simply cannot fathom what this means to me. I have loved him as long as I've lived," she insists. Pulling away, Amalthea keeps her hands set atop Telemachus' shoulders. "There is something else you would like to say?"
Telemachus nods. He takes a deep breath in, allowing the air to fill every inch of his lungs. "I only warrant this explanation so that you know the man you are going to wed, even if it is of no romantic semblance," he says. Amalthea stares into his eyes patiently, not pressuring him, simply providing him the space to speak. Shakily, he tells her, "I do not love women, but I love men, in the same way you love Philemon. I would never be able to publicly wed one in the way I can you. If we are to marry, and I find someone I love, it would… it would be another man. That is the person I am."
"Oh, Telemachus," Amalthea breathes. She shakes her head, her hands gliding to the nape of his neck. The pressure pulls his face back up to hers. "The purpose of our relationship is to serve as a cover for the ones we cannot have. It does not bother me who your love belongs to." She smiles, brushing the ends of his hair. "I can only pray that Lady Aphrodite blesses you with as deep and genuine of a love that I have, with a man just as handsome and kind."
Tears prick at his eyes unwillingly. It is a bitter feeling that forces him to slip his eyes close to stop himself from bearing his emotions onto her shoulders. Telemachus sniffles and nods as much as he can manage between her two palms. Amalthea guides his head down until it reaches her lips, where she presses them against his forehead. A swift glide of her thumb follows to wipe away the stain left behind. “You are perfect, Prince of Ithaca.”
Her words carry with him all the way back into the palace. An hour after her family has retired to their sleeping quarters, Telemachus paces outside of his parents' door. He quickly offered to take care of announcing their decision to his father to avoid Amalthea bearing the weight of announcement; seemingly, it is a painful subject for her, even after his assurance that she will not lose Philemon. It is in this moment, though, when his knuckles hover just inches above the door's surface, that Telemachus decides that he needs to tell his mother the truth.
Penelope's voice is high and sweet as she calls for the door to open. She is sitting against the edge of her bed, gently pulling her hair down from the updo it was tied into. She grins as she sets her eyes upon her son, pulling her fingers out from where they were raking through each strand. "Telemachus, love," Penelope greets, rising from her seat. Telemachus lets the door fall shut behind him. He cannot help but smile when his mother hugs him, the affection overpowering the nerves coursing through his body. Since he was no taller than her knees, he always felt safe within her hold. "Come, sit," she beckons, pulling him down towards the bed. "How are you feeling?"
Telemachus takes a single breath in before blurting, "I would like to marry Amalthea."
Her surprise is palpable. Penelope blinks in a shell-shocked manner, unable to fight her brows flying high upon her head. She freezes, almost, before gently shaking her head, washing away the intense spark of questions written in her features. "You would?" she settles on. Telemachus answers with a nod. It must not be convincing, though, as Penelope watches him warily, her expression unchanging. She does not even break a smile at the idea of her only son finding a wife. "I only ask for reassurance because you have not shown any interest in her previously, even after you two returned from your evening stroll."
Sighing, Telemachus shrugs against the pressure of her hand atop his shoulder. "It would be great for both of our people," he starts. If he begins with the potential for the country, it may not burn as violently when he admits the true motivation behind his decision. The betrayal will be less burdensome upon her. "The mutual aid would benefit us greatly. New trade routes could open, and we would have more allies in the east."
His mother frowns, lips curling down in sadness and regret. She pauses as her eyes cast over his face, though she doesn't find any answers in his solemn features. Penelope pulls her hand away, tucking both nervously atop her lap. “Your father and I do not want you to marry for diplomatic purposes, Telemachus," she insists. Tight lines crackle across her forehead as she watches him. "I sincerely hope we never gave you that impression."
Telemachus is silent. He drops his eyes down to his own bare knees as though they will give him an opportunity to escape the conversation. Penelope sighs slowly. She reaches forward and pulls his hands into hers. It is not an embrace, but the contact is just as warm and grounding. "You know how I met your father. You are aware of how much we care for each other. He built our entire home around the exact place we met, right here," she reminds, glancing over her shoulder at the base of the tree. Penelope tilts her head. "We want you to find the exact same love that we have, Tel," she says.
He drops his head until it hangs limply from the base of his neck. "That is not possible," he insists quietly, a rush whisper torn ruggedly from his mouth. His mother has always been a woman of patience– it is a necessary quality when your husband disappears for two entire decades– so she sits quietly, existing only as a comforting hold beside him. Telemachus slips his eyes shut. "I can not... Mother, I do not feel an affection towards women," he admits.
Penelope's hold goes still. He is entirely unable to reverse his words, as nothing he can do to turn back the consequence of a single admission. Telemachus pulls his hands back to himself, quickly rising from the bed. He walks a few feet away, approaching the window on the far wall. The kingdom looks so peaceful at night, beneath the quiet lull of gentle winds and sparse crickets. "I told this to Amalthea. We have an agreement. It will be easiest if I follow through with a marriage to her."
"You will be unhappy," Penelope says suddenly from behind him. Her voice is low, scared, almost, as though this is a scenario that she has truly never thought to be possible previously.
A torn, broken chuckle forces its way from his throat. It's not fair for him to laugh. His mother is only now realizing how deplorable the consequences of a royal position can be for her boy in ways she has never imagined before, and she does not need to be faced with his annoyance. It is not directed towards her, though. Telemachus finds that to be painfully obvious; it is a consequence he hass dealt with since the moment he set his eyes upon a boy he met at seven. Only then did he understand the spews of adoration his mother had given about his father.
"I will be unhappy no matter which hand I take as Queen," Telemachus argues, his eyes unmoving from the dark night sky. He wonders if, somewhere, Aphrodite is cursing him for daring to ruin the sanctity of union, but only hopes she sees straight past his actions to his intentions and pities the boy who will never get to have a public love. "At least, this way, I can- I can tell Father I have a wife, as opposed to trying to tell him- to tell him-"
"Tell me what?" a deeper voice bellows. Telemachus whips away from the window, eyes setting upon Odysseus as he walks into the room, casting his eyes back and forth between his wife and son. Telemachus stands like a startled deer, eyes wide and pinpointed, trying to decide whether to remain still and unmoving or to throw himself to the ground outside the palace. His mouth falls open, but no words follow. Lips dry, Telemachus stares at his father, watching as confusion takes over his face.
Penelope clears her throat, quickly rising to her feet. She walks towards her husband, pushing the door to their room closed as she pulls him towards the bed. "Telemachus asked to marry Amalthea," she starts.
Telemachus cringes, the words sounding like metal scratching against his eardrums. Despite his dread, Odysseus' face lights up in an excited smile. "That is wonderful!" he breathes, his eyes caught on Penelope's face. "You two must have enjoyed each other's company this evening." Odysseus looks towards his son, then, who hums, but looks far less enthusiastic than the King does. His father is a smart man, and it shows. He glances at Telemachus, noticing the tension in his features, the downcast expression in his eyes, the way his hands tremble as they hang by his side.
His smile melts into a deep frown. Penelope nods at Odysseus' glance, confirming his suspicions. He slips away from her grasp and slowly makes his way across the room, padding his feet quietly across the stone floor as though he's approaching a prey animal and any sudden noise or quick movement will spook him away. "What is wrong, son?"
The prince doesn't answer. His bottom lip wobbles uncontrollably; quickly, Telemachus snaps his head back towards the window, hiding a sniffle behind his hand. Behind him, Penelope makes a pained noise, as though the situation is physically harming her. He imagines his mother shaking her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "He does not want to marry her," she adds.
Odysseus pauses his slow, calculated steps at the new waves of coursing through his brain. He stands just a few feet away from his boy, staring at his back as though the position of his body will somehow give him the answers he's looking for. "Then, why would you ask, Tel?"
Telemachus gulps, but it fails to wash away the mountain-sized lump in his throat. "I have to," he croaks, sounding less like a confident, soon-to-be king and more like a little boy hiding from the aftermath of his first real nightmare.
"Son," Odysseus says, sounding nearly hurt by the admission. He reaches forward, finally closing the gap between them and landing a hefty hand upon Telemachus' shoulder. The prince flinches, but Odysseus does not pull away, even as his son keeps his eyes averted and his face sheltered. "Your mother and I would never force a marriage upon you. Never," Odysseus reminds, squeezing his hand. "You are not required to make this decision yet, not if you do not want to. I will go tell King Hypatius thank you, but you are not interested, and-"
"I do not want a wife," Telemachus blurts, unable to stop the words from falling from his mouth. He turns around, finally meeting the face of his father, who stares at him as though he has grown enough heads to qualify as a Hydra. Odysseus slowly tilts his head in curiosity. Shakily, Telemachus adds, "Ever. I do not have love for women, not in the way you do. I... I have only ever known love for men, Father, in the way you love Mother."
Odysseus continues to stare at him, silent and unwritten, with no tell of any reaction he may have towards the revelation. It is utterly terrifying. If not for the hand on his shoulder, Telemachus may have already launched himself through the window behind him. He shakes away the grasp and weaves around his father's frozen figure, walking to the farthest corner of the room, an act to create as much distance between himself and his parents as physically possible, no matter how concerned his mother looks. "I will have to marry a woman eventually; the council would never stand for a lone king, nor would they allow the union between me and another man. They would riot over the lack of continuation of the royal bloodline," Telemachus explains.
He brushes his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back before it falls down upon his hip. He sighs, staring at the grooves between the stone blocks. "Amalthea has a lover already, a poor boy in her kingdom. She cannot be with him officially. I promised her that, if we were to wed, Philemon could become a high-level servant within the palace, and they could continue their relationship together," he continues.
"What?" Penelope asks from behind him. She does not sound ashamed or disgusted, only surprised at how well-devised this plan is.
Telemachus shrugs again. "Neither of us desire the other romantically, but we will do what we must for our nations. That is why I must marry her," he insists, shaking his head as pressure rises again inside his throat. His eyes grow warmer with each passing second. "She understands me, and I understand her. This is the best opportunity I will get."
After a few painful seconds of silence, Odysseus finally moves, melting from the frozen statue he had become. He turns around, walking towards Telemachus with the same worn frown dug into his face. Telemachus braces for impact, prepares for yells and slaps and calls of disgrace, but all that comes is his father's strong arms wrapped around him tightly. He presses Telemachus against his chest as though he is still a baby and, coincidentally, the most precious thing he has ever seen. When he pulls away, Odysseus's own eyes are watering. His hands cradle either side of his son's face, thumb wiping away the single tear barreling down his cheek. "I want you to be happy," he whispers, voice quiet in a way he has never heard before. “I need that. I need you to be happy, son.”
Telemachus nods, pretending as though the sentence does not gut him completely. "I know," he returns. His own fingers, thin and nimble, come up and wrap around his father's wrists, gripping them as though he and his empathy will disappear if he lets it. Swallowing, Telemachus continues, "But I will never be able to get what I truly want. Please," he pauses, sniffling, "let me have this."
Odysseus sighs. It is not the answer he wanted, clearly, but the one he seeks is one that will never come, not as long as Telemachus carries the burden of a royal family upon his shoulders. He presses his lips to the center of Telemachus' forehead before pulling away, the absence of his hands leaving hollow pits in Telemachus' heart. "Okay," he laments, taking a step towards the door. "I will talk to King Hypatius, then. Telemachus, I…" Whatever words Odysseus is searching for fall flat from his tongue. His father takes one last look at him before disappearing behind the closed door and into the hallway.
Penelope does not waste another second before marching across the room. She yanks Telemachus into his arms. The strong insistence of comfort, verification that no matter what he thinks and who he cares for, his parents will not throw him aside. Despite all his differences, he is still their son, still the boy they swore to protect and cherish for as long as they live, and nothing he can say will change that.
His shaking hands grip tightly into his mother's himation, fabric swirling around his fingers as he open-mouth sobs against her shoulder. His grip is sturdy, but it is not enough to hold his weight. They sink to the floor. Telemachus feels like a little boy again as his mother brushes her hand through his hair, shushing his cries softly. "I am so sorry," she whispers, muttering into the crown of his head. "You do not deserve to shoulder such burdens."
Telemachus wrings his eyes shut as he cries, mourning the life he will never get to have.
Morning comes quicker than Telemachus would have preferred. He rubs at his eyes when he wakes, sore and dry from all the tears he had spent the night before. The skin of his cheeks feels stiff, and it crackles as his jaw falls open with a yawn.
His rest was a steady, dreamless night spent in the solitude of his own mind. Telemachus has always appreciated how sleep can provide the greatest distraction of all. Its unbridled ability to create an entirely clean slate of thoughts and fears is why he has relied so heavily on his bedroom throughout his childhood. When things became too heavy, his mother engulfed within the blanket of her premature grief and himself sporting bruises spawned from the ‘teasing’ hands of the suitor, Telemachus buried himself beneath layers of cover and allowed his eyes to shut as long as he desired.
The luxury of entering an endless cycle of falling in and out of sleep is not provided to Telemachus now, though, as there are great responsibilities that fall on a man once he has designated himself to a woman.
He dresses slowly, carefully pulling fabric around his body, tying each knot with cold, shaking hands. Telemachus ignores it, because to neglect the storm building in his gut and the nausea that tugs at the base of his throat allows the prince to feign normalcy. He squeezes his eyes closed, takes the biggest breath of air he can manage, and blows it out as he opens his eyes, staring at the mirror before him. His normally bright eyes are rimmed with a red perimeter and weighed down by the bruise-like bags hanging underneath. Telemachus brushes nimble fingers through his hair, tucking the flicking curls behind his ears, and places the laurel atop his head.
This is what the Gods must feel like when they disguise themselves as mortals and live amongst the land. The act of fulfilling a persona that you are not, to pretend to exist within a realm you do not truly belong, comes so naturally to Telemachus that he should have mastered the art years ago. Yet, he stands before his door, rolling his shoulders back as though the soul of a coward will be replaced with bravery, as though he will make his father proud just by tilting his head to the clouds.
Telemachus’ feet carry himself to the main hall before his senses can determine where he is. The palace is eerily quiet, aside from the echoing footsteps of servants and guards beginning to report to their respective posts. His eyes flicker to the stone walls. Between the carved trim lining the tops and bottoms and the tapestry mounted across the surface, there are small, nearly immeasurable cracks between the grooves.
He would blame his father, if he was any worse of a son. Odysseus had ended two of one-hundred and eight lives in this palace. One of the arrows shot from his bow had gone completely through the thickness of a man’s skull, with only barbs left sticking out of his skin. The pointed tip had struck the wall, then, and spidering cracks had splintered out from the crater. It took the strength of two guards to pull the arrow free from where it was embedded in the stone. Penelope had simply moved the closest tapestry two inches to the right as a solution.
Now, all that was left to show of the end of two lives is small hairline fractures in the wall. Telemachus only feels an ounce of remorse. If there is any corruption in being grateful for the death of inherently wicked men, it is an immorality that Telemachus would gladly embrace. The simple thought of what would become of his mother in the event that the men had succeeded in taking his life, bursting through the palace, and breaking down her door was enough to allow nausea to bloom within his body.
The prince jumps as a loud, booming voice utters, “Telemachus.” He sucks in a breath as he yanks his hand from the wall, his fingertips returning coated in a thin layer of pollen and dust; he supposes that now that summer is rapidly approaching, more dirt carries itself through the open window than ever before. Telemachus swings around until he meets his father’s curious gaze. If it is at all tainted by the weight of disappointment, Telemachus does not stare for long enough to identify its presence.
“Sorry, Father,” Telemachus whispers. He brings his hands back, wiping them down the front of his chiton on instinct, only for his father’s sharp inhale to remind him that such an action goes against all royal nature. He settles for dusting his hands off on each other, clapping away whatever dirt remains. Telemachus stands back up, fixing his hair. “I got distracted. It will not happen again.”
Odysseus shakes his head. “It is alright, Tel. There is no need to panic. I only… I want to ensure this happens right,” he admits. Odysseus reaches forward, taking smaller hands into his own. Telemachus’ look so young compared to his father’s, scarred and wrinkled, that it nearly distracts him from the fact that he’s still taller than the King. Odysseus brushes his palms off before squeezing his fingers around his son’s. “If you truly want to do this, then the traditions we must abide by are strong. We will do this like royalty,” he explains.
Telemachus nods. There is still a pit in his stomach that grows with every aching minute, guilt collecting in a pool at each reminder of the mess he has dragged his loving parents into, what he has forced them to lie about, and the disappointment he has brought upon them. His eyes cast down towards the floor, in hopes that his father will not see past his quiet demeanor.
“Your mother is with Aria and Amalthea,” Odysseus starts, once the air has gotten too thick and dry. He turns towards the open balcony, eyes casting over the bright city. “She believes it to be a good idea to create a bond there, too, and I would be a fool to doubt her judgement.”
The hum Telemachus returns is so gentle that he is unsure Odysseus heard him, but Telemachus does not bother saying anything in response. It is not a silence born of disagreement– of course he trusts Penelope; his mother has yet to be wrong in over two decades– but the last time he saw Odysseus, he was fighting a confession that he was too ashamed to make. His father is still doubtful of his choices, and Telemachus cannot blame him. He is honestly not entirelysure why Odysseus is yet to forbid him.
Beside him, Odysseus sighs. He glances over his shoulder twice, casting down both ends of the hallway, before humming. His hand reaches Telemachus’ upper back. Slowly, he walks him towards the corner of the room until they are staring at the entire entryway, tucked away against the back wall. “I know you want to do this, son,” Odysseus starts, voice hushed, “and I cannot blame you. But, I need you to be just as aware as I.”
Telemachus looks up silently. His father’s face is worried, tainted with the same miniature furrow of his right brow that pops out even when he tries to dim his concern. Slowly, he nods.
Odysseus first reflects his nod, then bluntly admits, “I do not trust Hypatius. I… I do not know what he thinks, or what he desires, but there is something about his behavior that is wrong, even for a King with an ego as grand as his.” He looks at Telemachus with a frown. “I cannot say his daughter knows of whatever he is planning, but you– I need you to be careful, Telemachus.”
“Amalthea has no ulterior motives, Father,” he insists. Telemachus reaches forward, hands wrapping around Odysseus’ forearm. “She is good. She wouldn’t ask of me what she did if she was not being truthful. She would have played the part for her father, just as he wants,” he rambles.
His father’s face softens, his concern growing into sadness, almost as though he is only now realizing his boy might be more gullible than he. “Telemachus…” Odysseus tries, laying his hand atop his boy’s.
Shaking his head, Telemachus plows through whatever explanation he was going to get. “Believe me, Father, I know something is misleading with that man, but I do not think it is as serious as you make it out to be. Hypatius may be strange, but he seems to be more of an egoistical idiot than a villain. I am truly less scared of him than I was of many of the suitors.”
The mention of the ill-fated men who attempted to overrun the palace has Odysseus’ jaw clenching, but Telemachus manages a weak smile in an attempt at civility. He stands up straighter, squeezing his father’s arm. “This marriage is about me and Amalthea, not Hypatius. It’s about our nations.”
Just as he finishes, a quiet clicking sounds from down the hallway. Telemachus takes the initiative to stand up straight and rigid, giving one last adjustment to his laurel before smiling. Hypatius comes from his room with a grin so fake it nearly hurts Telemachus’ eyes. Nonetheless, he tips his head down. “Good morning, sir,” he greets.
“Same to you, boy. Odysseus,” he adds, with a small nod as a gesture of acknowledgement. Odysseus returns it, with an added beat in between, almost as though he is testing Hypatius’ observation skills. The man says nothing, just continues to walk until he meets the two men in the middle of the room. “I appreciate your proposal to my Amalthea, Telemachus. She had yet to declare a man to be good enough for her hand, but somehow, you have managed to topple her standards. That must speak something of your character, no?”
Flushed, Telemachus ducks his head. His hand comes up, nervously pawing at the back of his neck. “I can only hope, sir,” he mumbles. “I am lucky to be promised to see her again.”
After a quiet chuckle, Hypatius clasps his hands together, rolling back his shoulders to stand taller. It is a futile gesture; he towers over Odysseus without really trying, as his father was never known to be a tall man. But what he lacks in height, he makes up for in presence. Even as Hypatius straightens out his spine, it is useless in attempting to appear stronger than Odysseus. Telemachus cannot help the smug smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly swipes it away before the King of Chalcis can see.
“I hold a tournament at each solstice” he starts, his eyes settling on Odysseus. Telemachus stands idly by, but he cannot help the feeling that the respect wisping off Hypatius is faux. “It is none other than the biggest event in the region. My agora is packed daily; fighters come from various nations just for the opportunity to compete.” As Hypatius continues, his words come off as some sort-of off-handed brag that neither Telemachu or his father really care about, judging by the amused look on his father’s face.
Odysseus raises an eyebrow as he shifts his weight, hands coming to rest criss-crossed along his chest. “A wrestling tournament, is this? Boxing? Pankration?” he asks.
Hypatius clenches his jaw, almost offended that Odysseus hadn’t known of his endeavors just by an initial mention. He drops his hands behind his back, but the move to hide his balling fists is fruitless, as Telemachus can see his movement from where he stands. Nonetheless, King Hypatius clears his throat. “A swordfighting tournament, sir. Wrestling is for the weak. It is not a real fight until blood is drawn; where boxing and pankration both fall short is the loser being maimed. That is the single best part,” he insists.
Telemachus feels the sneer hiding behind his father’s gaze, because it matches directly to the one concealing within his own expression. His father, after all these years, does not take voluntary violence lightly. After watching Odysseus clear a hall of more than one-hundred men, followed by decades of tales surrounding monsters and death, the aura of battle and quests had quickly diminished into dust and ash. No longer was Telemachus a man who thought of bloodshed and victory as the only way to gain respect.
Hypatius, though, had seemed off since the beginning, and it finally feels like Telemachus can understand why. Odysseus clears his throat. His fingers tighten around his biceps, digging small craters into his skin. “Swordfighting,” he repeats lowly. “It is almost juvenile, no?”
“No,” the other man insists. It’s a line of defense, clear in the way his words scratch from extra grit behind his words. “Your approval is not what makes things great, King of Ithaca. Your lack of awareness of my event does not erase its impact on this very region.”
The air between them is thick, locked tightly in a way that feels like a cage. Telemachus can see the way his father’s jaw clicks together. Odysseus’ elbow twitches backwards, an automatic reaction to react to sheath. Instantly, Telemachus steps forward, cutting through the tension like a sword. “Fighting can be an art of sorts, can it not?” he blurts, looking back and forth between the two kings. “There’s a technique to battle, even if it is hidden between bloodshed and injury.”
Hypatius grins, then, just on one side. The corner of his mouth twitches up as if to tell Odysseus ‘I told you so,’ like Telemachus would ever truly side against his father like this for anything other than show. Still, he steps back, nodding. “That is right, boy,” he says, which makes Telemachus want to roll his eyes and run away. Nonetheless, he stays. “I would like you and your family to join me,” Hypatius invites, first glancing at Odysseus, then to Telemachus. “I get rather lonely upon the royal deck. My wife and daughter– bless their delicate hearts– cannot handle such a display of aggression. But, I hear Penelope is from Sparta, so she must understand.”
If Odysseus was not upset before, Telemachus knows he is now. Any invocation of Penelope’s name from a mouth he does not respect causes his blood to boil. He stands like a statute, solid and unmoving, like he is completely unable to remove the angry tension from his bones.
Hypatius gives him one last glance at the King before sighing. He crosses the few feet that separate him and the prince while shaking his head. “Forgive me, boy. I seem to have overstepped in a way your father knows is unacceptable,” Hypatius says, placing a hand on his shoulder. It feels soft in the way a king’s hand should not. Odysseus' hands are rough and calloused from years of fighting, and they support the weight of every battle he has graced. Even the various other kings Telemachus has met, though less troublesome than his own father, bear similar stories; a man does not become King through sitting idly by. But, Hypatius’ hands are smooth, as though his soul does not know what it is like to suffer.
Nonetheless, his hand begins to guide Telemachus towards the balcony. He glances back at his father who narrows his eyes. His hand reaches down, unfolding from his chest and wrapping around the handle of his xiphos. Telemachus shakes his head, then tucks his head back towards Hypatius. The prince takes small steps that double the amount the King takes, but it is intentional. He is careful, just as Athena had taught him to be. When they reach the railing, Hypatius sighs. He keeps his hand square on Telemachus’ farthest shoulder and spreads the other, wiping it across the thin blue sky. “This is your father’s kingdom, is it not?”
“Of course, it is,” Telemachus answers quickly. His eyes cast like skipping stones, jumping from building to tree to bird. Clearings open up around small herds of cattle. The air is breezy and free and the world shines around him, yet he has never felt so incredibly stiff and trapped. “He loves his home.”
Hypatius hums. “Of course. Though, not as much as he does you, Telemachus,” the King insists. Something in the way his name rolls off the man’s tongue makes a line of gooseflesh trace up his spine, but Telemachus remains still. “You are far too young to remember, but I know of a time where us Kings gathered to defeat the Trojans. I was young and naive, and because of that, I had spent nearly no time with the greatest minds to lead the troops, like Odysseus.”
Sighing, the King pats his hand on Telemachus’ shoulder before slipping away to wrap his hands around the railing. Telemachus stands still, staring at his hunched back. “The Kings, smart and brave as they were, invoked titles to enhance their greatness, to drive fear into the hearts of the Trojans. Whether that was by the name of their late fathers or their nations, it is an act even I was guilty of,” he explains. His head plops down towards his hands. “Any man of good conscience would only introduce himself by what could make him more noble and strong.”
Telemachus nods, forgetting that Hypatius cannot see him. Even then, he cannot conjure up any words to indicate acknowledgement of the story. He has heard tales of the war from his father, stories that are far more important than what title each King would declare themselves as before a crowd.
Standing up, Hypatius turns his head to the side, barely glancing over his shoulder. “Do you want to know what your father called himself each time, without fail?”
Snorting, Telemachus guesses, “Son of Laertes?” He remembers how small his father looked in the arms of his grandfather. It was like watching a grown man shrink down into the body of a little kid. Odysseus cried inside of Laertes’ arms when they reunited; it was not like he did when he reached Penelope, all mournful wails and animalistic cries. With his father, tears silently fell from his eyes as though he could no longer control his sorrow, which is how Telemachus knows he respects and loves Laertes so incredibly much.
Hypatius gently shakes his head, though. A quiet click of his tongue echoes through the air, dissipating quickly within the wind. Telemachus shrugs, but just as last time, the King does not see it. He takes a quiet breath in through his nose. “King of Ithaca, I suppose?” Telemachus guesses next, because Odysseus fights for his people. He is proud of his nation and everything it has done to sustain itself in his absence.
Again, Hypatius shakes his head. He turns around and smiles, though it drips of something sinister. “I never once, in ten years of war, heard your father introduce himself as anything other than ‘Father of Telemachus,” he admits. The prince’s mouth gently parts as his eyebrows furrow together. Hypatius shakes a pointing finger towards him. “He did not know you, and you had not been more than a babe when he joined us, but you were his pride and joy. Any man around him knew within a minute that you were his world.”
Telemachus’ mouth dries, breeze flowing gently through his open lips. Logically, he knows Odysseus loves him, because he would not have spent ten years facing the toughest trials the Gods could bestow if there was nothing of value waiting at home. But to hear that he proudly declared it to hundreds of men through an era of war is a level of dedication he was not ready to hear.
He spent his childhood sitting on the balcony off his room, eyes cast across the sea in search of a man he never knew. Telemachus had no confirmation if Odysseus would come home and remember him, nevermind if he would accept this scrawny, senseless boy as his own spawn. Now, the worries have only reignited, because there is only so long Odysseus can pretend he is okay with his son living a lie, sulking in a loveless marriage for eternity. He will turn, one day, and banish Telemachus from the castle, and Telemachus will swiftly accept.
What would he say to an Odysseus of the past, establishing Telemachus as his pride and joy? How could he explain the embarrassment he has made of his legacy?
Hypatius pats Telemachus’ shoulder, then, drawing him back out from his mind and into his body. The prince drops his lip from his bitten mouth. “You must lose the worry, boy. A father like yours would not disregard his son, unless he were given a reason to, and I do believe that is a fate neither of us desire,” Hypatius mutters quietly. “Do you understand?”
There is a moment when Telemachus meets his eyes that he sees it, written somewhere beneath the color and shine. He knows something, in some way, of who Telemachus really is, of what he really is. Sweat tickles at the nape of his neck. Amalthea seems so genuine that it is nearly impossible to see the relation between her and her father; his eyes are that of a vulture, hungry and calculated, while Amalthea’s are that of a dove, peaceful and free. Whatever Hypatius knows is a danger that Telemachus is too scared to unlock.
He surrenders with a gentle nod, a gesture so slight that Telemachus himself barely recognizes that he managed to move. Hypatius sees it, though, because his smile grows slightly tighter. The King squeezes his shoulder. “Good boy,” he whispers, leaning down towards Telemachus’ ear. “My daughter deserves nothing short of the best, and a boy of your stature cannot bear to bring any further disappointment to your father as you already have.”
Hypatius disappears back into the palace on fleeting footsteps. Amongst the muttered goodbyes he can hear passed between the two Kings, Telemachus’ heart beats so violently that it echoes inside his ears, the sound paired with a pulsing feeling against his eardrums. He is unsure what it is that Hypatius knows– whether he has uncovered his and Amalthea’s entire plan, or he has just caught onto the fact that Telemachus cannot manage to make eyes at his daughter, despite her grand looks– but it makes him uneasy, nonetheless.
The prince knows he is not impressive in reference to appearance. Although he is indeed taller than his father, entirely a result of the genes of his mother, he has always been much thinner than his patriarch.
Telemachus takes one last deep breath, watching as the sun continues to rise up towards its peak in the sky. He shakes the nerves from his hands before turning around and returning to the hall. Odysseus and Penelope are already halfway down the stairs, chatting to a smiling Hypatius and Aria. Beside them, Amalthea turns her head to the top of the stairs. At the sight of Telemachus, she smiles wide enough to tug at her eyes, and waves as though she is genuinely happy to see him.
He can barely manage a wave in return, but his shaking hand emulates enough of a response for her to turn around happily and follow her parents out. Telemachus wastes no time; he rushes through the castle as fast as he can manage and locks himself inside his room. Only when he is curled up against the side of his bed, hands protecting his head that rests upon his knees, does Telemachus feel his breathing restart. Even then, it does not erase the tightness in his chest, nor the fear in his heart.