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Antinous is impossible, in everything he does. Or, at least, presents himself as an impossible achievement. It gets on every single one of Telemachus’ nerves. Perhaps that confidence is part of the reason he’d fallen so head over heels for the man. He’s always acting so… perfect. Telemachus sighs, pulling the row he’s just finished down to the rest of the fabric with his beater. He steps on a few treadles, dropping some shafts he’d had raised, and lifting more that were lowered. He readjusts his shuttles, moving to the next one.
“I hate how he looks through me, like I’m not there,” he mumbles, starting on the next row. As he weaves, he lets his mind wander. It’s repetitive work he has memorized, anyway. He doesn’t need to pay too much attention to it. Antinous, toasting to something he didn’t hear and didn’t want to hear. Telemachus, watching from the much smaller table he sits at with his mother. At some point, he’d gone from wishing Antinous would stop smiling like that, to hoping he’d smile at Telemachus like that.
He’s not sure where he fell in love, honestly. The years with the suitors blend together too much. About a year ago, he’d realized his feelings. He’d planned for a month, then started on a himation for Antinous. It’s close to being finished, with the anniversary of him starting it looming nearer and nearer every day. He’s trying to finish it by that day, but he’s not completely certain it will happen without a few sleepless nights. His mother can always tell when he’s been up all night weaving, though. She doesn’t like it, but technically it’s not harming anything, so she can’t fuss at him about it.
She’s asked what he’s working on a multitude of times. It’s his biggest project yet, and she knows it’s incredibly important to him. He’s told her it’s a very detailed himation, but that’s all she knows. She doesn’t know who it’s for. She doesn’t know it’s a declaration of love. She doesn’t know her son has been using it to count down to when he tells fucking Antinous about his feelings for him. He doesn’t expect him to care about him back. In fact, he’s almost certain the man is going to punch him. But he’s made peace with that.
Telemachus still wants to make it for Antinous. He still wants to give it to him, too. He’s not figured out if he’s going to write a letter and hand them both to Antinous in passing, or if he’s going to vocally express his feelings. He’s thought about the most likely way each would go. If he gives Antinous a letter, he can almost certainly expect the man to come hunt him down once he’s read it. Telemachus isn’t sure how much he likes the option of waiting nervously for the beating, but he has less of a chance at stumbling over his words if he writes a letter. Contrarily, if he confesses his feelings for Antinous in front of the man, he doesn’t have to wait nervously. He could prepare something to say and practice, practice, practice. But there’s still the very real chance of stumbling over his words like an infant toddles.
He sighs heavily, tugging the beater over his work to press that row into place. He turns the weave, pausing for just a moment to utter his next sentiment. “I love how soft his hair always looks.” He continues like that, switching between saying things he hates about Antinous, and things he loves about him between each row. Other than his occasional confession, the only sound in the room is the clinking of the shafts when he switches them.
He’d gotten into a physical fight with Antinous earlier that day, and met Athena. If it isn’t past midnight yet. What time is it, anyway? He glances at the clepsydra in the room, confirming it is, indeed, past midnight. It is, in fact, about a quarter of an hour past three in the morning. He knows he should stop. He knows he should rest his injured body. But he’s so close. If he can make it through this night, then to about midnight, then another all-nighter, he might actually have a chance at finishing the himation before the year of work on it has rung its bell. Five more days, at most, if he can do it.
Around five, he starts singing quietly to himself to keep his attention sharp. He’s not quite tired, but the repetitive motion gets boring after so many hours of doing it. He sings lullabies he barely remembers from childhood. He sings some of his favorite hymns. He sings about monsters and the men that take them on, saving the day. He sings about the Gods and Goddesses. Toward sunrise, he starts making up his own lyrics and rhythms.
The moment the sky outside is golden, Telemachus places down his shuttle. He does a quick prayer over the incomplete himation, then pushes the door to the room open silently. He closes it just as quietly, then returns to his room to change his chiton. After freshening up a bit, he hurries to the dining hall for breakfast. Just as he sits in his chair, the doors burst open. A loud group of men enters the dining hall, and Telemachus can’t help but roll his eyes. He knows this group; first awake, first training, first to the dining hall, first, first, first. But Antinous happens to be a part of that group of men. There’s maybe ten of them, but they fill the hall with so much noise, it sounds like thirty.
He watches their leader out of the corner of his eye as his plate is set in front of him. He smiles a little to himself; first there, first plate. It’s one of the few things he can beat Antinous at. As he has that thought, the man flexes one of his biceps for the other men to see. Telemachus flushes, bowing his head and grabbing up his drink, which he fake coughs into. His cough, however, seems to grab the attention of the leader. “Kill me now,” he whispers under his breath.
Antinous comes sauntering over, three of the men–the quieter ones, thankfully–trailing after him. “Telemachus.” He says the name with such amusement, it makes a shiver run up Telemachus’ spine. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sick?” He chuckles, deep and low, and the younger man makes a mental note of two more things to weave into the himation. I love his laugh. I hate what it can do to me. He lifts his chin, feigning an air of confidence.
“What would you like, Antinous, Son of Eupeithes? Besides my mother’s hand.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, his curls shifting to cover a portion of his face. He catches Antinous’ eye follow the movement of the hair. That means they’re more than likely roughly the same amount of aware of each other. At least Antinous is as obsessed with him as Telemachus is him, though he’s certain it’s for very different reasons. The man before him frowns ever so slightly. Good, he got to him, even if just barely.
“Pardon me for caring if our dearest Son of Odyseus is coming down with something.” Telemachus rolls his eyes. He has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling. Having Antinous this close, even if he is there to antagonize him, is nice. The man is suddenly in his space, filling his nostrils with his scent. The three men behind him come closer, but they don’t dare do anything without the signal of their leader. Not to Telemachus, anyway. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Boy.” Antinous’ eyes narrow at him. He holds the man’s gaze, letting his smile show. It’s definitely for a different reason than Antinous thinks, but it angers the man more nonetheless.
Antinous presses his dorsal forearm into Telemachus’ neck, pinning him to the chair he’s in. It cuts off a bit of his airflow as well. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten yesterday?” The smaller man grips Antinous’ arm tightly, attempting to shove him away. It’s no use, though, and he stops pushing soon enough. He both loves and hates the wicked grin that spreads across Antinous’ face. “Good boy,” he comments, pulling away from Telemachus, who inhales deeply. Amusement sparks in his eyes. “Well, Son of Odyseus? Are you getting sick?”
“I do not believe so.” He tilts his chin up, attempting to appear more like royalty than usual. “However, I may be a bit tired. Please, leave me.” He dismisses Antinous and the three men with a wave of his hand. He drops his attention back to his plate to signal the end of the conversation. Out of his peripheral, he watches Antinous fill with rage. Before he retaliates, the doors to the dining hall open again, another large group of men joining them. The angry man snaps his mouth shut and struts over to the new men, leaving Telemachus to his meal. He picks at his least favorite foods until his mother arrives, a few minutes after the last of her suitors. She is served immediately, and she smiles softly at her son.
“Telemachus.” She leans into his space, smile turning mischievous. “You look tired.” She rests for a beat, then, “How far off do you believe you are from completing it?” She sits up properly, taking in her son’s appearance. He looks like he’s been weaving all night. His thumb and middle fingertips are an angry red, visible signs of the shuttle in his hand for hours. His posture is also slightly more slumped than usual, a sign of an all-nighter. Only she knows her son so well to recognize those signs, though. Well, besides perhaps a few of the maids. But none of the men. That’s what’s important. As long as he isn’t getting hurt by them because he’s visibly tired, it’s okay for him to work through the night. She knows what it’s like to desire creating something unique for someone important to her; to personalize something.
“No more than a week!” He chirps excitedly. “But I hope to get it done before then.” He glances toward the table Antinous is sitting at. What is he going to say to the man? He can’t just say “I love you, here’s a gift I put my heart and soul into for a year.” Hopefully it’ll be something that makes Antinous consider not lighting the himation on fire. Though, he’s preparing himself for that very real possibility. His mother shifts in her seat, closing them into their own private bubble.
“I have something I need you to do for me in a week. I need you to go on a diplomatic mission for me. It should only take three days. One day of travel, one day there, and one day back. You will leave just before sunrise and arrive after it is dark both days of travel.” Telemachus nods slowly, already mentally mapping out his schedule to get done with the himation before leaving. He has to make it to midnight tonight at least. Then another all-nighter. From there, he should be able to work on it until about three in the morning. He confirms to his mother he’ll go on the mission, and they talk over the plans while leisurely eating.
~~~~
A week passes quickly, Telemachus filling it with weaving as often as he can. The night before he is due to leave, he dismisses himself early from dinner. His mother gives him a knowing look after he asks, then nods curtly. “Wake me when it is finished?” He pauses in standing, taking a moment to nod shyly at her. Then he’s rushing from the dining hall to run to his weaving room. He barely slows down to throw the door open, but he takes his time closing it. He doesn’t need any of the suitors finding out he weaves (yet), especially this close to the himation’s completion. Antinous can make fun of him later for it. And any other men he tells, if they believe him. Or if he even tells. It might be too much for him to explain how he came upon the knowledge.
He turns to his loom, taking in the amount of fabric around the cloth beam. He’s so close. But he only has a few hours to finish, if he wants to complete it before leaving. And on the day he’d realized his feelings. He walks over to the loom, footsteps mingling with the quiet music still filling the palace. Usually, the music has stopped by the time he steps into this room. He likes the way it soothes him as he steps up to his opponent. He lifts the shuttle, taking in a deep breath to prepare for the night ahead.
He quickly finds his rhythm, having started weaving over a thousand times before. He can only tell the passage of time by the sun setting, forcing him to take a temporary break to light up the room. After that, he can tell by the halls slowly falling silent. Not too long after, he finds himself finishing by twining rows and weaving in the ends. He gathers the fabric in his arms, hauling it to a tub in the corner meant for wet blocking. He gathers the water needed for it, the combined volume of the himation and the water causing the tub to nearly overflow. He presses the fabric down, making sure it soaks up as much of the hot water as it can. It burns him a little, but it’s something he’s used to. He kind of likes the pain, if he’s being honest with himself. It can be otherworldly to weave for so long, and the sting of the water at the end is a good reminder he’s finishing up something he made with his own hands.
He lifts the fabric out of the tub, thoroughly soaking himself and the floor. It doesn’t matter to him, though, since he’s finishing up the last little bit before getting to show his mother. He squeezes as much water out of it as he can, taking an hour to do it. It takes him another half hour to pin the fabric into place on a frame, stretching it gently into its blocking formation. When he has that leaning against the wall, he steps back with his hands on his hips to examine the himation. It depicts a night sky in incredible detail, some color changes so close together, only one weft stitch is visible. The entire thing is based on a painting he did. He’d decided to paint the view he’d been looking at the moment he’d realized his feelings for Antinous, and turn it into a himation.
He knows there’s a million other things he could have made to profess his love, but this is what felt right. A quiet, peaceful night sky, the horizon blending so well into the sea, the only reason he’d known it was the ocean was because of a singular star, positioned close to where the sea and sky meet, reflecting in the gently moving water. He runs his fingers over that horizon line on the himation, following the ever so slightly different shade unevenly across the fabric. It’s beautiful. No, it’s breathtaking. Telemachus knows this is one of his best works, despite years of weaving ahead of him. He takes a deep breath, preparing to finally tell his mother just who it’s for.
He pads out of the room quietly, walking the dark halls to his mother’s room through memory and weak moonlight. He bows his head at the two guards standing watch over her door, then knocks on the wood. It takes a moment, but there’s movement beyond. Shuffling, clothing moving, more shuffling. Then, the door opens, and Penelope smiles at her son lovingly. It’s wonderful to see him growing into a fine young man. It’s been amusing to see him watch Antinous with adoration in his eyes.
Yes, she knows her son is in love with one of the worst men he could possibly fall for. But she also knows she shouldn’t meddle. No warning would change his mind, and no lecture would stop the hurt. She should focus on being there for him when that hurt happens, not denying it will. That does nothing beneficial for anyone. “Is it finished?” She asks excitedly. She chuckles when she sees her son flush lightly.
“It is drying. You must come see!” Telemachus takes his mother’s hand, quickly leading her to his weaving room, though she knows the way by heart. He takes a deep breath before throwing the door open, stepping aside to let her in first. He’s already seen it. He hears her gasp.
“Telemachus, it’s…” She trails off, searching for the word. “Amazing,” she whispers, walking over to the drying fabric. She carefully places a finger on one of the stars, following along a constellation gently. Telemachus watches her carefully, nerves causing a lump in his throat. He swallows around it.
“Mom. This is the view I had when I realized I love him. A year ago today.” She nods, eyes still focused on the himation. She wishes it weren’t going to someone so horrible. He doesn’t deserve something like this. Not something this important. He doesn’t deserve her son’s dedication, either. But he’d received a year of it already, without being aware of a single second of it. The world is bitter sometimes. She’d known that when she’d had a child, but she hadn’t expected any of this back then. She removes her touch, stepping back to view the entire thing at once again. It almost seems alive. He’s captured the movement of the waves so perfectly. The way the stars glow and twinkle. She wonders if there’s something in the fiber itself to achieve that look. Something that glistens, perhaps.
“This is more lovely than I could have ever dreamed of, Telemachus. Whoever it’s for, they don’t deserve it. No one deserves this but a God or Goddess. Not even then.” Telemachus feels his stomach twist into a large knot. He can’t speak, no matter how hard he tries. He feels tears slowly building up in his eyes. He throws himself at his mother, wrapping her in a hug so tight, he’s not sure she can breathe. By the time he pulls away, he’s openly crying. He wipes at his tears, shaking his head.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know he doesn’t deserve it. But this is the only way I know to accurately portray how I feel about him.” He releases his mother, wrapping his arms around himself instead. Penelope gives him a sad smile, stepping closer to wipe at his tears. She kisses his forehead soundly.
“I know it is Antinous. I trust you have prepared yourself for a less than ideal reaction. No matter how he answers you, I will be there to listen to you. I’ll listen to anything you need to talk about. I’ll hold you if you cry. I will console you until you forget why you were ever hurting to begin with.” She watches his eyes fill with tears again, but she knows these are different. They’re happy tears. She can tell by the happiness in his eyes. He throws himself at her again, and she wraps her arms around him. She presses her nose under his chin, wishing he were small again so she could envelope him fully. “I can’t stop you from getting hurt, but I can be there to pick you back up. I promise to always be there.” He sniffles, holding her closer. After a few minutes, she clears her throat. Telemachus pulls back, tear streaks on his cheeks. “It is almost departure time,” she comments. She watches the realization dawn on him, eyes widening.
“Let me take you back to your room, then I’ll get ready.” She rolls her eyes playfully at him, but lets him take her back. “I love you, Mom,” he mutters as she closes the door. It causes her to smile to the darkness of her empty room.
Telemachus rushes to clean his face and gather his packed bags. One for everything he’d need eventually on the trip, and a much smaller one he’d keep on himself to have readily available. He’d finally settled on writing a letter and placing it on top of the folded himation, so Antinous will probably read it first. He hears a few men talking quietly down the hall when he steps out of his room. They’re probably heading to the ship now, then. He hurries to his weaving room so he can lock it, even though it’s the opposite direction of the beach. He takes one last glance at the himation, confirming it is still in there, before closing and locking up the door. He then rushes toward the beach.
“Telemachus!” A kindly man he’d seen in the kitchens often waves at him from the mast of the ship. “You nearly missed your own ship!” He laughs, making his way back to the deck. Telemachus boards the ship hastily, approaching him so they can have a quieter conversation.
“I had something important I needed to do,” he replies, subtly stretching his fingers. “I’ve been up all night, so do forgive me if I retire for a few hours upon launch.” He laughs, clapping Telemachus on the back. He returns to his ship duties, and Telemachus decides to find a place to settle down for a nap. He manages to find a quiet place, tucked away in a corner away from the oarsmen. He lays his head on his travel pack, closing his eyes for some much-needed rest.
When he wakes a few hours later, there’s a crook in his neck, and his spine stings. He carefully stretches out his limbs, wincing as things pop back into place. He has to roll his left wrist and right ankle to encourage them to loosen up. He stands slowly, hissing in pain as the last pops happen. He’s not used to sleeping in such a cramped, awkward position. But he feels more alert now, so the short rest did what he intended for it to do. He decides to search for a quieter spot, so he can write in peace.
As the day goes on, Telemachus steadily writes out list after list after list, trying to figure out what he should include in his letter to Antinous. He’s decided he shouldn’t include many of the things he loves about Antinous, otherwise he’s setting himself up to be made fun of. More so than he already is. He wants to tell him about the alternating statements of love and hate that went into each row, but he’s not quite sure how to include that in the letter. He adds it to his current list anyway, marking it with a star. Maybe he’ll be less likely to mark it out if he stars it. He sighs heavily, slumping backwards against the wooden barrel he’d chosen to hide behind. “This is harder than I imagined,” he mumbles to himself.
After a long moment, he sits back up to write more. A lot of it is what he’s already written and marked out, written and marked out. He makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. Okay, obviously this isn’t working. He decides to approach it a different way, starting anew and only writing what he hasn’t marked out on the other lists. He pauses for just a moment at the starred one, thinking of omitting it, then writes it down anyway. It’s important Antinous knows just how much went into the weaving of the himation, even if he destroys it. Telemachus has one chance to get this right.
Once the organized list is written, he puts away his writing things. He stretches his limbs carefully for the second time that day, not wanting to be stiff later. Or, Gods be forgiving, while on his mission. Athena, give him strength. Make him capable of thinking properly while there. He doesn’t want to–shouldn’t want to–make a fool of himself while representing his home. While representing his mother. He stands then, shaking off the tormenting thoughts. He’ll be alright. He is Penelope’s son. He can fight off thoughts of Antinous for a day. No matter how anxious he is about the letter and the himation.
~~~~
Telemachus, for his credit, doesn’t touch or think about the list until he’s departing the island he’d been tasked to go to by his mother. The moment the boat launches, he’s back by his barrel. He sets his list beside him for reference, takes a deep breath, and places the tip of his reed pen to the parchment. He lets himself write without worrying about how Antinous might react.
Antinious,
I am writing this to inform you why I have gifted you such an elegant piece. I hope you read this before unfolding your gift. I put it on top so you would be more likely to, but I know how you can be. Its fate is in your hands. I can only hope you will at least keep it in tact.
I have known I am in love with you for a year now. It took me nearly as long to weave this himation for you. I painted the scene I was looking at the moment I realized my feelings for you, and thought it would be fitting to weave it into something you can be prideful of. Every row has a different sentiment woven into it, alternating from one thing I adore about you to one thing I hate about you. There’s one more thing I love about you woven into it than the things I hate about you.
However, almost every single stitch has my love for you in it. I would never have been able to create such a thing without the majority of the work going into it being love. I’ll admit, there are a few stitches I made in disdain. You can be so infuriating sometimes. But before a row was finished, I was creating out of love again.
I know the likelihood of you loving me back is less than impossible, but it doesn’t feel right in my heart to keep you in the dark about my feelings. I give you full permission to poke at me about my love, and the fact I weave as a hobby. I also really like music. My last evening weaving this for you was accompanied by music, funnily enough. It felt right and nice.
I think I have rambled long enough. If I write too much, you may not read this.
-Telemachus
He looks over the letter a hundred times, stomach flipping and flopping. The churning sea beneath him doesn’t help with the queasiness. When it gets too dark for him to see the words, he folds the letter gently and stashes it in his travel bag. They should be docking soon. He paces in a small area out of the way, nervous energy refusing to let him be still. He makes a mental map of his course of action; jump off the ship as soon as possible, hurry to his weaving room as he pulls the key out of his pera, remove the himation from its blocking frame, fold it neatly, and find Antinous.
Exactly one line has them secured before Telemachus is jumping from the ship to the soft sand below. He lands in a crouch, then rushes toward the palace. His nausea doesn’t agree with the quick movements, but he wants to do this as soon as possible. Which means taking the closest entrance into the palace he can find, despite it being a servants’ entrance. He slinks through the halls quietly, key held ready in his hand. The moment the door to his weaving room is unlocked, he slips inside. He sighs in relief when he sees the himation is still there, dry now. He walks toward it, and voices from outside come to his ears. They’re close to the door. “We’re empty handed, up against an archer. Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness.”
“We know these halls, the odds can be tilted.” Telemachus’ steps falter, then stop. He knows those voices; they belong to some of his mother’s suitors he never bothered to learn the name of. An archer? Is it possible? Could they be talking about his father? He knows his mother has planned an archery challenge that’s practically impossible, but she’s only supposed to use it as a last resort. Had they grown angrier while he was gone? He suddenly feels the now-familiar tingle of time slowing, and looks around for Athena.
“It is him, then,” he whispers to himself. Athena nods knowingly.
“It is. Hurry, unlock the weapons room. I’ll meet you there.” She needs to give Odyseus an indication that this is his son, and what better way than to have him confront the men? She stops her Quick Thought, disappearing from Telemachus’ view. He takes a quick, longing look at the himation, then bolts to gather a key to unlock the weapons room. On his way there, he catches a familiar form crumpled to the ground out of the corner of his eye. On his way back through, he confirms it is, indeed, Antinous. His stomach practically curdles, and what feels like ten knots form in his throat. He continues past, helping his father still his main goal. He’ll give himself time to mourn later. Right now, what matters is Odyseus.
As she said, Athena is waiting for him by the weapons room door. “Whoa!” She has this really cool looking spear in one hand. She holds it out to him when he gets the door unlocked.
“Here. Hide in the shadows. They’ll be by soon; confront them.” She fades away again, but he knows she’s nearby, watching. He does as she says, watching. Amphinomus comes by a minute later, trying the door. When it opens, he shakes his heaad in disbelief.
“Damn, he’s more cunning than I assumed. While we were busy plotting, he hid our weapons inside this room.” He says as a few more men come up.
“I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked.” One of them suspects. Oh no, is it going to fail?
“So what? Now that we have armed ourselves, let’s make the bastard rot.” Anger surges through him. They’re insulting his father! He jumps out of the shadows, spear at the ready.
“Behind you!” One of them catches sight of him, warning Amphinomus.
“Throw down those weapons! And I’ll ensure you’ll be spared.” A few shakes their heads.
“After seeing what the king will do to us, we wouldn’t dare.” Telemachus holds the spear tighter, aiming it toward the bulk of the men.
“I don’t want to hurt you. But trust me, I’ve come prepared.” One of them smirks.
“Ha! Your very presence has doomed the king, young prince. We don’t fight fair.” They advance toward him, but he stands his ground.
“Stop!” The man nearest him turns his head, yelling out the door.
“Brothers, we have company, and he’s made a grave mistake! Left the weapons room unlocked, and now they’re ours to take! Brothers, come and arm yourselves! There’s a chance for us to win! We can still defeat the king if we all attack the prince!” They surge toward him, and he swings his spear around, keeping them back for at least a few moments. Very quickly, there’s too many surrounding him for him to fight. “Capture him, he’s our greatest chance!”
“Get off me! Get off me!” He thrashes around wildly as the men grab him, tearing his spear from his hands.
“Fight ‘till the prince can barely stand!” Telemachus kicks, which causes a man trying to wrangle him to stomp on his foot. Tears fill his eyes from the pain.
“Hold him down! Hold him down!” The men chant together, finally able to subdue Telemachus. The one that called for the rest of the men steps in front of him. He grabs both his wrists in a rough grip with one hand that he can’t escape.
“‘Make the king obey our commands! Cause if he won’t, I’ll break the kid’s hands!” He hears something clatter to the ground, and upon looking up, sees what must be his father standing there, unarmed. “Got him!” The man holding his wrists releases him, stepping toward Odyseus, who immediately has a dagger at his throat. “Mer-merc-”
“Mercy? Mercy? My mercy has long since drowned! It died to bring me home! And as long as you’re around, my family’s fate is left unknown! You plotted to kill my son! You planned to rape my wife! All of you are going to die!” He slashes the man’s throat, then quickly stabs a few others on his way to his bow. They all fall to the ground in a crumple, much like Antinous outside. “You filled my heart with hate. All of you who’ve done me wrong, this will be your fate!” He holds up Amphinomus’ head, causing Telemachus to flinch. The few hands still on him disappear, then they’re running out the door, his father chasing them. He falls to the floor as well, much like the dead men around him. He lets out a bitter laugh that mixes with a sob, and the tears start flowing.
“Telemachus,” the voice is soft and gentle. He tilts his head up, wiping at his eyes frantically.
“A-Athena.” Another sob escapes him. The Goddess’ expression softens as she kneels next to him.
“You did good. He knows your appearance now, and you’re mostly uninjured.” Telemachus takes in a deep breath that turns into a shaky sob. “Well, externally.” She frowns, shifting to sit next to him. She quietly reaches for his pera, tugging out his letter to Antinous. “He was the first to die. He choked on his own blood. There are more painful ways he could have died.” Telemachus sniffles, pulling his knees up to his chest to hug them close.
“Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, staring at nothing. He can feel Athena’s gaze on him, but he’s too numb to care.
“...Will you show it to me?” He closes his eyes, more tears slipping out. He nods, forcing himself to stand on wobbly legs. The walk to his weaving room is something familiar that he doesn’t have to think about. He unlocks it, pushing the door aside for Athena. He follows after her, making sure to close the door behind them. The last thing he needs is blood on his hard work, even if the man it was intended for is gone. Athena examines the himation, first from further away, then up close. “Words cannot express how wonderful this is,” she comments.
“You’re incredibly talented, Telemachus. Don’t forget that. And try not to lose sight of what makes you happy. This,” she points at the fabric, still framed for blocking. “Is something even a God would struggle to make. Hold pride in that.” He barely hears her through his grief. But she’s right. He should be thinking about the return of his father. He’s so happy he’s alive, and home. He should focus on that. He knows that, but the himation weighs heavily on his heart. Athena leans his spear against the wall near him. “You’ve earned this.” She places the letter on his loom, then simply walks out of the room. Probably to watch over Odyseus, if he had to guess.
Telemachus weeps openly when she’s gone. He lets himself fall back to the floor, leaning his head against the frame holding the himation. He cries and sobs and struggles to breathe, until he can’t hear any more screaming from the palace halls. At that point, he takes what feels like a million deep breaths, standing to go see his father.
~~~~
When the palace is silent and his parents have gone to bed, Telemachus throws back the blankets they’d tucked him into. He pads through the now-clean halls, easily finding his weaving room despite the darkness. The himation is still in the frame, glistening in the moonlight. It feels like it’s mocking him, but that’s ridiculous. He finally removes it from the frame, carefully folding it into a small rectangle. The tears come back, and he rushes back to his room. He crawls into bed, hugging the fabric close. He cries into it, bitter he didn’t even get the chance to give it to Antinous. He’d likely already been dead by the time Telemachus’ feet landed on the sand of the beach. Maybe moments after. His body starts shaking again, hyperventilation coming on.
He’ll never get to see that idiot’s smile again. Or hear him laugh. Or listen to him toast for another stupid thing. He’ll never get to know how he would have reacted to receiving the himation. He’ll never get even the slightest possibility of seeing him in it. He won’t hear the man jab at him for having a “women’s craft” as a hobby. None of it. He makes a fist in the fabric, trying to ground himself by paying attention to how soft it is. He’d picked only the best for the man he loves. But all of it was for nothing, it seems. He’ll never know about Telemachus’ feelings. And the son of Odyseus will never know if he’d had a chance with the man.
That’s probably what hurts most. Not knowing anything. If only he’d been home a little sooner, or his father had struck a little later. But fate hadn’t played out that way. He stares unseeingly at the letter, on the low table next to his bed. He runs over the millions of things he wishes he would have been able to tell Antinous, burying his face in the himation, near a cluster of stars. He doesn’t want to face tomorrow. He doesn’t want to face a life without the loveable idiot. But he has to. His mother will help him, of course, but it’s still going to hurt for a long time. He may never recover. But that’s okay. As long as his love stays true, and doesn’t stop him.
He forces himself to relax, but refuses to release the gift. He has much to talk about with his parents–his father, in particular–come first light. He should rest. Mourning isn’t something that runs away. Nor is it something he can chase away. Still though, he’s hopeful Penelope and Odyseus can help. He nuzzles the fabric again, thinking of Antinous as he drifts off to sleep, himation catching his final tears of the night.