Chapter Text
The first thing Telemachus noticed at dorpon that evening was her silence.
Though in truth, it was an odd observation. Silence had long since stopped being a stranger during their meals, if anything, it had become an accomplice over the years, a lingering companion that joined their table more often than not. But there was a difference, in the silence that clouded them then. It did not feel right, did not feel familiar, rather, it set something restless stirring within him, one that itched to know what exactly it was that made the air feel as if it had grown stagnant, the crackling fire too loud, his own breaths too grating to be simply ignored.
Finally, Telemachus found the will to lift his eyes from his plate and glance at his Mother.
The second thing he noticed was her stillness.
When he was a child, he would often find her in the study, staring at tablets and scrolls with a furrow in her brow and a world's worth of thoughts running through her head. She was prone to her silences and stillness, to her quiet deliberations that could leave her staring at a single scroll for hours on end. Though this time, there was something different about her; this was not one of those instances where she was conjuring some plan in her head, or some great scheme that would have everything play out just as she wished it too
No, she did not even seem to be thinking at all, really, simply staring at her own untouched plate, looking as if she was worlds way from him, from their dining chambers, from Ithaca.
He did not see her take a bite since she had entered. The realization made him frown.
"Mother?" He called softly.
(It suddenly occured to him, then, that it was the softest he had spoken to her in weeks. But no, that harky mattered, really. They do rarely spoke anyway. There as hardly anything to hold in comparison).
Mother did not answer.
Telemachus waited. The silence persisted.
It was a strange thing, to have a Mother who was both so sharp yet so absent-minded at times. Quick as her wit and tongue were, it was not uncommon that she would trap herself too hard within her own head, losing all sense to the world.
Even so, her silences, despite them having been a part of his life since he was born, had always unnerved him.
"Mother?" Telemachus called again, louder this time.
She did not even twitch.
"Mother," He tried once more, hearing his own voice echo off of the walls.
This time, she finched, ever so slightly, her eyes snapped towards his, blue as his grandmother's rivers, but as intense as storm on sea, looking, almost, like the way a doe might look beneath a hunter's trap —
As swiftly as if came, the storm softened, though the weariness remained.
She shifted, making a conscious effort to straighten in her seat, drawing his attention to the unsteady, trembling line of her shoulders. Then, casually, as if she were not practically oceans away mere moments ago, she reached for her own kylix, though the tremors in her hand were only exacerbated when she grasped the stem. "What is it, Telemachus?"
"Is something the matter?" He asked, keeping his voice purposely firm. It was the same tone he had seen her use all his life, with insistent elders and irritated nobles and his own childhood stubborness, the kind of stubbornness that would have her remark that he was more like his father than in visage alone. As the years passed however, Telemachus had long since come to the conclusion that it was not in fact inherited from his father, but from her. He doubted he could find any other women as strong-willed as she.
"Nothing is the matter," Penelope replied simply, predictably. It was an obvious lie. Telemachus felt almost insulted that she would truly believe him foolish enough not to realize.
"Your hands are trembling," he pointed out, frustrated, not quite able to reign in his temper. She was so incredibly stubborn that he believed the only reason he even stood a chance at combating her stubbornness was because he was her son.
"I am fine, Telemachus, you are worrying too much —"
"You cannot accuse me of worrying too much when we always know how this will unfold, Mother! What have you done now —?" It had only been a gesture, an unconscious one, though his arm jerked against the kylix, knocking it down to the floor, the sound of the ceramic reaching the floor ringing sharply through the room.
He saw her flinch at that, wincing as she pressed a hand to her temple.
Telemachus softened, unravelling the fist that had suddenly formed at his side, standing as he pushed his chair back, walking over to her side of the table. He reached his hand towards her forehead, feeling the unnatural warmth of her skin, cold as she usually was already. Telemachus frowned again, worry starting to pool in his gut. “Mother, you are feverish.”
She took in a slow breath, an action that looked as if it required far too much effort than it should have, as if the very act of breathing wearied her. Still, despite her apparent struggle to even breathe, their remained that stubbornness in her eyes. “It is only slight, I will be fine come morning.”
Telemachus pulled away, though his other hand came to rest at her shoulder, coaxing her to stand. “Come, I will help you to your bedchambers and ask Eurycleia to call for the physician.”
His mother let out an audible, irritated sigh. “It is not needed, I told you it will pass —”
“It will only pass faster if you are treated properly, now come,” he shot back, needing to take only one glance to her to recognize the telltale signs of her resistance, of that unwavering determination in her eyes. Though it was not as steadfast as it usually was; her weariness had seen to that. However cunning, however wily, there was little anyone could truly do when the body had seen it fit to betray them.
And for one who was already so sickly, she finally, finally, saw it fit to resign, standing without resistance, letting him lead her out of the room. Perhaps that in itself was another cause for concern — because she was truly sick, if she was conceding so easily. If she was even sightly healthier Telemachus knew she would have started a fuss — but he knew he had to pick his battles tonight.
The journey to her bedchambers was a silent one.
Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the floors, leaving only their shadows to accompany them, save for the occasional servant who bowed as they passed by. Telemachus did not pay them any mind, keeping his eyes ahead, Mother's wrist grasped in his hands. Perhaps there were kinder ways to hold, though it was her wrist he had grasped first and he could not find it in himself to soften, quiet and unresisting as she was now.
Besides, that was not his priority.
His first priority was to get her to her bedchambers.
The second was to call for the physician.
Her skin still felt warm, beneath his hands. He had her settle in her bed before asking Eurycleia to call for the physician.
The man arrived as swiftly as he always did, that familiar glint in his eyes, the same eyes that had looked over Telemachus’ own scrapped knees and bruises borne from days of playing out in the fields as a child, the same eyes that had assured him again and again, through bouts of illness after illness, that his Mother would eventually pull through, even during the worst of those days where it felt as if she might not.
The physician had even been working in the palace for more years than Telemachus was old, he had reason to trust him. He was one of the scarce number of people whom Telemachus could trust anymore — outside of some, most of them being his Mother’s own loyal handmaidens, he had found that not all of their servants could be trusted anymore. Not ever since the suitors had come with promises of thrones and kingship upon their tongues, acting as if Telemachus' house was already theirs to take.
And as sickly as his Mother was, Telemachus was so incredibly glad that the Physician was one of those whom he could still rely on.
“You are far too warm, my Queen,” The physician murmured, pressing his hand to Penelope's forehead. His other hand was pressed against her wrist, just above her pulse, counting. Though in truth, Telemachus could not help but find that unnecessary — mere brush of her skin could make it apparent how feverish she was, though he held his tongue. He was no medic, he had no such blessings from Apollo. And his heated temper… needed to calm.
Still, there was an undeniable effect that seeing her ill had on him.
There was always an undeniable effect that seeing her ill always had on him.
Mother was often sickly.
Telemachus had never truly been able to go back to his childhood, to look back upon those days to find a time where he could point and say: there, this is where it began, this is where her health started to deteriorate, this is when I started spending days upon days by her bedside, praying fervently in the desperate hopes that a fever or flu or infection may not steal her away as warships did my father, for the simple reason that there had ever truly been one. Throughout his infancy and his childhood and this very day, he had simply known his mother to be fragile, unable to go through a single season without falling ill at least once.
In one of his earliest memories, he had only been a baby, perhaps two or three years old, perhaps four at the latest? He did not know much, but although time had disfigured his memories as time disfigures all things, he could remember that evening clearly, could remember the way he had cried, shrill and loud and sharp enough to tear at his own throat.
His head had been cuddled against Eurycleia’s chest, searching for any comfort for the gaping ache — the ache that he had felt so vividly despite the memory being from his earliest years — of being separated from her, of being separated from his own mother. However many days had their been where Eurycleia had felt more familiar than she, there was part of Telemachus that had always grown frenzied whenever the distance between them grew too far or too long, whenever the arms that held him, familiar and warm as they were, were not hers.
At some point his poor nurse, having put up with his shrieking for what must have been hours now, driven by either pity or a simple desire to stop him from wailing any longer, had taken him to the door of his mother’s bedchambers at last. It was only then that his cries had subsided to whimpers, sniffling as he recognized the familiar halls, as he heard Eurycleia whisper that he must be quiet if he truly wished to see her.
Finally, when it was less likely that he would burst into tears again, she allowed him inside.
And there his mother had been, unmoving upon her bed, eyes shut in sleep. But even in his young mind, he could make out (and even remember despite so many years having passed) how restless her slumber was, how she was so clearly unwell. Even so that did little to quell his longing, small pudgy hands reaching out towards her, her name upon his lips, only for Eurycleia to pull him back from her side, pressing an apologetic kiss upon his forehead as his whimpering rose again, threatening another wave of wailing.
“I am sorry, shh, I am sorry, sweet prince, but she well be well soon. You must wait, alright? Your Mother does that well, waiting, perhaps you could endure to wait a few more days, hm?”
He could scarcely remember much, after that. The memory felt like a rarity, so vivid when most were not, like a single, perfect petal from an otherwise withered flower. There was little Telemachus could remember from his earliest years, and this memory was the clearest of them.
But as he grew older, he learned easily that the constant sickness was hardly a folly of her own body, rather, her desperate, ridiculous devotion.
Devotion to Odysseus.
He had asked her, once why it was that she refused to eat, to sleep, as if that would amount to anything, as if her ill-health may call to her husband home, as if her constantly nearly killing herself with her own foolishness again and again would implore Odysseus to return faster, sooner, as if she held a noose around her neck that slowly, slowly tightened in silent threat every passing year.
She, in response, had simply said that he did not understand.
The interaction had come following an infection where he had spent days watching her vomit until there was only bile left for her to retch. He had been frustrated with her for weeks afterwards.
But he had found himself wondering over the years, as he did with most things, that surely, surely there was a time where it was not always like this — A time where Penelope actually smiled, actually laughed, a time where she did not so fervently tear at her own health all for some twisted sense of devotion, like a ritual that continually demanded blood after blood and only ever amounted to nothing.
But Telemachus had also come to learn that if such a time truly existed, it was likely before he was even born.
During those first few years after the war’s end, his mother, still at her most hopeful, had invited her eldest of brothers — well, she considered him her eldest, seeing as she was not as close to nor did she grow up with the two brothers that were nearest to them in Acarnania — Uncle Thoas, for a visit.
It was not the first visit he had taken, as he had come mere weeks after arriving in Sparta, so eager to see the sister who he adored and who adored him in turn. But she had been so unwell still, reeling from hearing about the deaths of her other siblings and her husband’s own wayward circumstances. It had not been the best nor happiest of visits.
Upon this second one, this happier one, Telemachus had gone with his uncle to the beach. He had beeneleven at the time, a child still, and excited to meet one of the unces when his mother had always spoken so fondly about. They had spent hours laughing by the water.
At some point, Telemachus had attempted to sneak past his Uncle, though before he could do so, Uncle Thoas had grasped at his waist, holding him still as Telemachus shrieked in delight, unable to keep from giggling.
“You truly are just like your Mother,” Uncle had laughed, releasing him back into the water almost as if he were an unnaturally large fish. “Free as the wind and perhaps even faster. You have her mischief.”
Telemachus, who was both delighted at being called similiar to her (and not Odysseus) for once and curious to hear about this side of his Mother, this side who he had so scarcely truly seen, had perked up, eyes wide with curiosity“Really?”
“Yes,” Uncle had smiled, though it was a wistful smile, the kind of smile Telemachus had seen his own mother wear many a time already, the kind of smile that hinted at memories long past, memories that would forever remain just that, forever beyond one’s reach. “She used to be so bright, that one, bright enough to rival even the rays of Lord Helios.”
"Tell me more," Telemachus said, almost demanding. He had heard such things from his Grandparents already, though hearing it again had reopened his hunger, his hunger to know more, to know what his Mother used to be like, before everything.
Whenever Telemachus thought of that day now, he could not help but feel the difference between that woman, no, that girl, that his uncle had spoken of felt so, so different from the woman — from the mother that he had grown up with. The mother who was quiet, the mother who could spend hours merely staring at walls, the mother who neglected herself so often that her falling ill had practically become as natural as the shifting seasons.
Whenever he was a child and missed his father, Telemachus would feel that it was odd, him missing someone whom he did not even know.
When he had grown older, he would feel the same way, missing the mother whom grief and war had so cruelly stolen away from him when he was only a mere infant. Missing the version of his Mother that he could have had.
But it was odd to think of it, odd to look at someone whom he had spent all his life with and missing her.
The physician straightened, drawing Telemachus out of his thoughts. The worry in his eyes made a knot form within Telemachus' stomach. “A fever,” the Physician explained, “though it is mild, I worry it might worsen in the morning. I will have some herbs brought up, and you will need to drink plenty of water,” he said pointedly, meeting Penelope's eyes. He too had grown accustomed to her habits by now too.
Despite it, Mother nodded. "I will see to it."
Silently, Telemachus raised a brow, though again, he did not say a word, even if he very much did doubt that. She had a penchant for often forgetting to do things, and that was likely one of the reasons she was even in such a state in the first place.
Still, the physician brought the herbs, Telemachus had her take them, and he snapped at her until she finally agreed to head to bed.
For once, she slept easily, her eyes falling shut mere seconds after she laid her head, her breathing evening. Telemachus lingered by her bedchambers, simply watching, sitting by the edge of her bed and counting every inhale for some unknown purpose that even he still had yet to discover.
Then when she stirred, the cycle broke and he let out a sigh, forcing himself to stand.
He could not help but notice how much younger his mother looked in her sleep, like a well-worn butterfly returning to the safety of its cocoon, all the evidence of her grief and weariness washed away, even if just for the night.
With another sigh, Telemachus turned to the windows, to the moon up above, and reminded himself that he needed to go.
Lady Athena told him to wake at dawn, as they had planned, to make his way down to the port and ready the ships and get ready to set sail and go find his wayward father.
And he will, of course he will — he could not deny her, not after how much she had helped him already, but tomorrow he will wake earlier than he needed too and he will have sacrifices arranged to Asclepius and he will make Eurycleia swear her silence a second time because he knew that if Mother woke up and found him gone it will only further distress her and he could not afford that, not tonight. Not over the following days, while he was gone.
Despite it, he could not help but stop at linger by the threshold, sparing her one last glance, guilt rising within him for this deception, for his deception.
But it was for his father, it was for her — it was for the best.
And so he had Eurynome and Actoris watch over her and went to his own bedchambers for a night of uneasy sleep.
He woke at just as lady Eos came upon the sky the next morning.
There were things he needed to pack, clothes and other such things, things he should have picked last night, though the idea had slipped past his mind in all his worry. Even so, he pushed that task aside for the moment, instead making his way out of his bedchambers. He would need to find Eurycleia, and ask for offerings for Mother's health to be arranged before he left.
The area of the house consisting of her bedchambers and his own were in a completely separate area, faraway from most of the other rooms in the palace, be it the megaron or even the guest chambers, which was something that Telemachus had learned to grow eternally thankful for over the years, now that those vile pigs sauntering about in the palace.
(The only other rooms that neared their own was the nursery, the one discarded after he had out grown it, and other bedchambers — empty bedchambers, the kind that looked as if they were simply waiting to be filled. He had never understood their existence as a child. When he had grown older and had learned that his Mother had always wanted for many children, other children, the sight of them had started becoming unpleasant. Another part of the palace tainted by grief, tainted by longing for a husband whom the gods refused to return).
But because of that, whilst making his way out of the hall in his quest to find Eurycleia — Telemachus had passed by his mother's door and heard the disturbance within.
"Shh, my Queen, just let it out if you must, it is alright —"
"High, far too high, the physician should be summoned again —"
"What is happening —?" Telemachus asked, entering without bothering to knock, finding his mother hunched over the side of the bed, coughing and choking and vomiting, her face flushed, the maids sorrounding her in a flurry of worry and panic.
"Let me stay for one more day," Telemachus said, feeling as breathless as if he had just run through the whole island, although he had done nothing but reman in his Mother's bedchambers, having ensured that she had been cleaned and the physician had been called again and that she did not start with another bout of vomiting before he had made his way to the balcony and beg for the Goddess to hear him. "Until she is not so ill at least. Please. I will embark as soon as I am able, but for now —"
"Calm yourself, Telemachus," Lady Athena said, calm as ever, her glowing gray eyes holding a gentle hint of syympathy as she looked down at him. They truly did look as bright as the people whispered — perhaps if he were less preoccupied, he could have found time to marvel at this appearance, at the realization that this was the first time she had ever truly come before him, shedding her usual disguises or tricks — but he had no time to marvel like some star-struck boy now, especially now.
She reached her arm out, gently setting a hand upon his shoulder. "You will have as you wish, stay for a little more. I will deal with the crew and the waiting ships."
For the first time that morning, Telemachus felt something in his shoulders untighten. Even if only a small bit. "Thank you, my lady."
“And as for your mother,” Lady Athena continued, glancing towards the bed, at the small figure cuddled beneath it's blankets, shivering from chills, eyes shut in restless sleep, “have your offerings made to Asclepius, and Apollo. There is not much else you can do, other than wait it out.”
Telemachus nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Alright. Thank you.”
She paused for another moment, having almost made a move to leave before turning back to him. “Penelope will live. I assure you of that.”
In one blink of an eye, she was an owl. In another, she was gone.
What remained, however, was the everlasting worry that clung to his chest, like ivy to marble, suffocating, enclosing, its vines grasping tightly, painfully.
Over the following hours, Lady Athena’s words rung within his head again, almost like a reminder. A reassurance.
Penelope will live.
And yet, it hardly did anything to reassure him.
And it was foolish, he knew — who was he to doubt the words of a goddess, an Olympian one at that?
Still, glancing at his Mother's face, at the pallor of her skin, at the flush in her cheeks, at the way she shivered beneath the covers, he could not deny the dread that continued to plague him.
It was for that reason that Telemachus spent most of the morning by her bedside, watching her toss and turn upon the bed, her hands twisting the sheets, chills wracking at her body no matter the amount of of blankets Telemachus piled over her.
And yet, despite the shivering, her skin felt far too warm beneath his hands.
An interruption arrived by noon.
One of the heralds had come to call, speaking of a dispute between two noblemen that had arisen in the city. Mild, he called it, though apparently even such a mild dispute was so urgent that the lords whom it inconvenienced needed counsel immediately, and seeing as his Mother was indisposed, that left only Telemachus.
Well, there was Mentor, Wise Mentor, whom Odysseus himself had put in charge of Ithaca when he had sailed away. But Mentor had become less involved with matters sorrounding the kingdom when Penelope had taken over with her iron heart and immovable will. Even so, Telemachus could ask him for assistance, but…
"His house, he calls it," he had heard the suitors mock, once, while he had been passing by. "Yet the only thing he does is to go about on his merry way with that hound of his, handing off his duties to women and that old fool."
…There was no need to call Mentor over such a minor thing, one that Telemachus should be able to easily resolve himself. How is he to be King of he cannot answer to such a simple matter? How would he ever prove he was ready?
And his Mother had the other women, had her handmaid's who loved her deeply and who would care for her well, especially when the matter would likely only take a few short hours.
And so he left, leaving her with Actoris and Autonoë.
Thankfully, it was easy to settle. So easy, in fact, that Telemachus felt almost disgruntled that this was what they called him away from his Mother's beside for, a mere argument between grown men that could have easily been solved if only they had not been so unbearably prideful. Though Telemachus, ever the long-sufferer, held his tongue and did his duty.
It was a blessing, perhaps, that he had been watching his Mother navigate through unreasonable men all of his life; it was certainly helpful to know how to put such skills to use.
On his way back to the palace, however, he was unpleasantly reminded that even such skills would not always work with every man, beastly creatures as they were.
He himself had gone down to the city to meet with the men, rather than have the fuss of inviting them all the way to the megaron. With how the herald had informed him of their growing tempers, Telemachus doubted they would have even had the patience to see through the formalities anyway. It was a relief for him at least, it would save him the unnecessary proceedings and the unnecessary time spent away from his ailing mother.
That meant however, that upon his return to the palace, he had to pass through the courtyard.
And there they were, crowding the yard as they crowded all parts of the palace throwing discuses, drinking wine, looking far too content lounging about in the house of the same man whose place they desired to steal.
The sight made Telemachus' lip curl.
The audacity they had, demanding his mother's hand, causing ruin to his father's house. It made his blood run hot, hotter than even the lava of Lord Hapheastus' forge — though as he always did, Telemachus only curled his fists and said nothing.
It was what he always did, and gods, he hated it —
But there was no benefit to breaking Xenia, especially not now, when he was so close to departing and his house would be left vulnerable. He could not risk that.
What he needed to do was return to his Mother's chambers and make sure she was well.
It should have been an easy task.
But of course, with this wretched luck of his, even slipping past unnoticed was impossible.
Antinous' voice rang out sharply through the sea of chatter, like a heavy wave coming to pull him down beneath the tides.
"Prince Telemachus!"
The chatter faltered, what felt like a thousand pairs of eyes falling upon him.
Telemachus cursed under his breath.
Just walk, he reminded himself, keeping his eyes purposely ahead, refusing to redirect his feet, just keep walking, ignore them, ignore them —
And yet —
"We must ask, Dear Prince," Antinous called, his voice somehow, somehow still reaching Telemachus through the crowd, "Where is your Wise Mother? We have not seen her at all today."
Telemachus froze.
He drew in a sharp, sudden breath, his heart suddenly beating too fast, too loud —
They could not know.
They could not know at all, Gods, they could not know that she was ill, that she was barely conscious, that she was weak and vulnerable and only mere halls way, they could not —
Telemachus turned, and found that al those eyes were still upon him, looking as if they were a hungry pack of wolves staring down at a lamb.
They could not know.
Telemachus swallowed, forcing his voice to come steady, to make it sound as if his chet was not pounding. "She is simply busy, managing the house of King Odysseus. She is the Queen of Ithaca after all, each of you should know this well enough by now."
His voice had not shook. That caused the faintest flicker of relief through his chest.
Even so, Antinous raised a brow. "Busy, you say?" He drawled, offering a smile, the kind of smile that made Telemachus wish that he could simply walk up to that face and punch it until it bled and broke beneath his knuckles. "Is that what you are calling it now, seeing as that accursed shroud of hers has been revealed? Is your Cunning Mother truly busy, or is this another one of her schemes? To lock herself behind those study doors while she plots what next piece of trickery she is to play on us?"
Telemachus could not help himself this time.
"My Blameless Mother would have no need to construct these petty games if only all of you would simply leave this house — Odysseus' house, My house — and left her by to go search for other women to take as brides." Telemachus shot back, eyes glaring at Antinous.
Then, another voice. Another horribly grating voice that always tried far too hard at being sweet.
"Ah, our Sweet Prince, you devotion to your mother is admirable," Eurymachus said, having left his own seat to walk over. Telemachus hand twitched, wishing to reach for the dagger by his belt, held off only by the sheer force of his own will. "However you must understand, it is the Queen who keeps us within these walls. It has been ten years, after all. Ithaca needs a king, and with your mother's radiance, One could hardly blame us men for our desire, however admirable your mother's loyalty might also be."
Antinous laughed, a laugh that sounded more skin to a dog's bark than anything. "Admirable is far too generous. Loyalty to a dead man is mere foolishness. And this has gone on for far too long already. It has been a whole decade, believing the late King Odysseus still breaths is utter madness."
"My Mother is not mad," Telemachus snapped, feeling his own nails digging into his palms —
"No, you are right, perhaps not," Antinous resigned, shrugging with an arrogant nonchalance that made it so hard for Telemachus to resist from punching the smug bastards face, "That Mother of yours is indeed far too wise to have gone mad. Perhaps it is not loyalty at all, one might say she might have ulterior motives."
His eyes flashed, almost goading. "Though it does not matter whatever it is. Let it be madness or trickery. It hardly matters. After all you must understand that us men are not as patient as your Steadfast Mother…"
Telemachus saw red.
"…One could hardly blame us if we simply gave into our primal urges."
He felt as if all air had been knocked out of his lungs.
How dare he.
How dare he, how dare he, how dare —
Telemachus could hardly remember a thing after that.
All he could remember was the ringing in his ears, the heat boiling his blood, the laughter, the laughter gods that wretched laughter that faded in the back of his mind as he ran through the halls, a past the blur of color sorrounding him, past curious guards and startled maids until he reached her bedchambers and threw the doors open —
"Prince Telemachus!" Autonoë started, raising from her chair beside the bed where —
Safe, Telemachus realized.
She lay safe, drowning within the sheets, eyes shut in her sleep.
Safe.
She was safe.
Peaceful, even. Or at least she looked more peaceful, compared to the last few hours, it was a miracle that she too did not startle awake when he slammed the door.
She was safe and they had not touched her, gods, they had not touched her —
"Prince Telemachus," Autonoë called again, moving closer, this time. "Is something the matter, my Prince? What is it —"
Telemachus' eyes snapped towards her.
Autonoë.
She had been his mother's nurse, all those years ago in Sparta, back when Penelope was only a babe, of course she would be safe with Autonoë —
Who else was there? Who else was left?
Left to trust?
Euryceleia, Eurynome, Actoris, Hippodamia — the eldest of the women, none of the younger maids, certainly not the ones who lingered in the halls while the suitors were dining, batting their eyes and smiling too sweetly —
No, none of them could be trusted.
But at least, Eurycleia and the rest —
Not, they were not enough. They were not enough, if something truly were to happen, if those pigs decided to go rogue, why could mere women do against them?
The guards —
No.
No Telemachus could not trust the guards. They were just like the maids, fraternizing with the suitors too easily, their loyalty having long since wandered towards men with nothing but mere empty promises in offering.
He could not trust the guards.
But he could trust —
Eumaeus. The swineherds.
But they were all in the countryside, and the question remained, what could mere swineherds do against more than a hundred men —?
There was no one.
Gods there was no one for him to trust, no one for him to rely on.
"My Prince," Autonoë said, alarmed, "you are bleeding—"
Telemachus lifted his hand, glanced at his palm, and realized there was blood.
He spent the night in his mother's bedchambers.
Smoke curled against the moonlight, the sweet smell of incense wafting through the air. Telemachus stood there, watching feeling the scent infiltrate his nose, trying to drown out the dread that was prickling at him, and prayed to Athena.
Forgive me, forgive me, Promachos — I cannot leave. I simply cannot.
Afterwards, he laid upon the bed, opposite to his mother, watching the moonlight spill through the windows, a dagger by his bedside, listening to her unsteady breaths, feeling the warmth of her smaller hand clasped in his own.
"They will not hurt you," he vowed, "not as long as I am here."