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maxdurden · 2 years ago

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Braved by your Heart's Resolve

so i wrote what was supposed to be a one shot but is very clearly just the first chapter of a telemachus/peisistratus fanfic

i was inspired by this post by @majesnia. i don't know what happened but i was suddenly struck down by a telestratus hyperfixation and when i woke up from my fugue state this was on my laptop

read it on ao3 here!

Story: Braved by your Heart's Resolve

Characters: Telemachus of Ithaca, Peisistratus of Pylos, Athena, Polycaste of Pylos, Nestor of Pylos, Thrasymedes of Pylos

Pairing: Telemachus/Peisistratus

The sea pushed gently at Pylos’ shores, lazy and content and tinged a wine-dark red under the sun’s light. Small streams of blood ran along the sandbanks, only to be lapped up by the waves where they met. The shores were crowded with thousands of bodies, men and women bustling from place to place, or dancing, or praying. The roar of the crowd, the lowing of anxious bulls and the death cries of their peers, drowned out the usual sounds of the ocean which filled the coastal city.

Fires dotted the beach for those who had brought sacrifices to burn them, only preparing their own dinners after they had proved their piety. In the most crowded parts of the shoreline bodies jostled against one another, not more than a breath away from the next man. It was a sweaty, bloody, and euphoric event. The night before, seers and priests had foreseen that the festivities would be a successful and peaceful affair. Now, wine and blood stained the feet of the Pylians and Poseidon was pleased.

From where he sat, Peisistratus was well removed from the crowded realities of the festivities below. Fine blankets had been carefully laid over the sandbanks where his family was now seated, their banquet already awaiting them when they had arrived. King Nestor had given his libation and prayers first. He had stood atop the tallest sandbank and, only then, the shore had fallen into a comfortable silence as his booming voice rang out over the heads of his subjects. Faces had turned to him like plants did to the sun, their warrior king: an Argonaut first and then an Achaean hero at Troy, the great charioteer. Even the crashing waves on the beach had become hushed at his words.

“Hear me, Poseidon, tamer of horses and savior of ships,” Even in his old age, Nestor stood tall. There was no hunch to his back which so often overcame men of his age, nor any waver in his voice. His gray beard did not make him look old so much as it made him look wise. It was the kind of old age that so many young men envied even long before their joints started to grow stiff. “Bring our prayers to pass, be kindly in heart. Swell our spacious sails and protect those who travel the barren sea. Bring honor and glory with prosperous gales to Pylos.”

Thrasymedes, the eldest of his sons, spoke then. He was afforded some of the attention that his father had been, but the excitement of the festivities pulled many people away. He had the same prominent nose which graced the features of his fathers and brothers, large and bent not unlike the beak of an eagle when examined from the side. Despite his princely features, he had not the same commanding presence as his father. He, too, had fought in the Trojan war and many Pylians were proud to call him their prince. One day, he would be king. For this reason alone, many stayed to hear his prayer, eyes lifted to him in quiet reverence.

By the seventh and last prayer, all eyes had turned away. Peisistratus spoke his words to the sea god alone, knowing that the only eyes watching him were his family’s and, even still, some of them were restless to move on. Thasymedes’ son, only just reaching his tenth year, snaked a hand toward a plate piled high with cheeses only to have his arm slapped away by his mother.

Peisistratus prayed for good fortune, and for the safety of their merchants on the barren sea as his father had before him. Quietly, between only himself and Poseidon, he prayed for some kind of excitement. He prayed that he might be given a chance to sail on the barren sea himself, before his father paid the dowry of some noble bride for him. They were childish things to pray for, but Peisistratus hoped he might be forgiven for them all the same. He didn’t dare utter the words aloud.

When he lapsed into silence, his family took it as permission to begin eating. Gold and jewels which adorned the pale-armed wives of his brothers flashed in the sunlight as everyone reached for their wine, the meat, and the figs.

“These festivities were more fun when we were younger.” Polycaste leaned over to Peisistratus. She was his sister, and the closest in age of any of his siblings. They were both born only a few years before Helen of Sparta had been spirited away to Troy. The festivities which they remembered most fondly had been held in the absence of their father, and without the eldest of their brothers as well.

During those years, they had prayed that Poseidon would return their kin to them quickly once the war was over. Even now, the memories were fuzzy and distant. Peisistratus remembered the grasping hands of nurses, trying to rein him in during the long feast, and the distant look in his mother’s eyes as she gazed out to sea. He remembered breaking away from the watchful eyes of adults with Polycaste and splashing in the bloodstained sea.

“We always stained our clothes.” He remembered, shaking his head, but a smile tugged at his lips at the memory. Blood, even diluted as it was by the sea, still painted their chitons a dull and ugly brown once they dried.

“We always kept each other entertained.” Polycaste corrected him. She had the same dark hair as the rest of their siblings, framing her face in delicate curls. The finely woven shawl which hung loosely around her shoulders, dyed a rich blue, was a clear sign that she was of noble birth. Even the cool breeze from the sea could not chase off the summer heat, and no shawl was necessary to keep warm. But, all the women who sat with them now wore one, being princesses or the wives of princes.

Peisistratus hummed in agreement. “It was better than hearing for the thousandth time about Poseidon showing his strength at Ilium.” He whispered. If his father or brother overheard, they were sure to be furious.

Polycaste just laughed.

The sun made its slow arc along the sky. Festivals were a time of reverie for those allowed to enjoy them, but for the royal family they were just another banquet. For the common people, who spent the day dancing in ecstasy and eating the meat which had been slaughtered, it must have been a joyous occasion. For Peisistratus, it wasn’t unlike the banquets which his family held with grating regularity.

He daydreamed for most of it. Tomorrow he would be expected to return to his duties as captain to their languishing legions of soldiers—An entire restless generation, raised on stories of their fathers fighting at Troy. Perhaps if he had earned the position at their head he may have looked forward to his work, but it had been handed to him as had so many other things. Instead, his mind wandered to some life wholly imagined. It was hardly his own fault that he had been raised on stories of Argonauts and heroes like King Theseus and Perseus, for whom one of his brothers was named. None of them, aside from Thrasymedes, had been so lucky to have even a taste of adventure like the heroes of their stories.

The afternoon sun had been beating down on them relentlessly by the time a breathless herald kneeled in front of the fine blankets on which Peisistratus’ family sat.

“Eighty-one sleek black bulls, my king.” He reported the count of all which had been sacrificed. It was an impressive sum, to be sure. Four more than the year previous, and six more than the year before that. The number had only risen in the decade since Nestor’s return. Pylos itself, and Messenia beyond, poured forth its excess in thanks for his homecoming.

“Thank you.” Nestor gave a gracious bow of his head. “Now, don’t disrespect our dark-haired lord by scorning his festivities for work.”

The words were said like a reprimand, but there was a smile in the tone of his voice. The herald, still a young man with no hair on his chest, dared one glance at his king. His smile was bright like the sun and he nodded wordlessly before turning back to the festivities. Peisistratus watched as his feet kicked sand up behind them and he disappeared into the crowd beyond the sandbanks.

“Who is that?” Polycaste’s hand rested gently on Peisistratus’ shoulder, jolting him back to the present moment. He turned his head to look at her, and then followed her dark eyes to the figure which had stirred her curiosity.

A young man, no older than Peisistratus, was making his way up the beach. His reddish-brown hair was wild with sea wind, the look of a sailor coming home from a long journey. It was not a color of hair common in Pylos. His face was serious like that of a man on a mission, but fine and handsome in the way of princes. He was no one Peisistratus had ever seen before.

By his side was an older man, though there was something strange about his posture. He spoke in the young man’s ear, gray eyes burning with an intensity that unnerved Peisistratus, even from this distance.

“I do not know.” He admitted, curiosity burning in his chest. Without another word, he leaned forward to pour another golden cup of wine and stood. At the very least, it would be a travesty should his family not properly greet this newcomer.

The sand was hot under his feet as he approached the pair. The older man, having finished his scolding, turned his attention to Peisistratus. He felt his heart leap into his throat under his fiery gaze.

Behind him, his family had caught sight of the newcomers as well. They waved, fine fabrics fluttering in the wind with the motion. Peisistratus took hold of the strangers’ hands, pulling them toward where the fine throws had been laid out for his family. The young man’s hand was warm and soft, lighter in complexion than even Peisistratus’ own. The hand of a prince, he thought.

“Welcome, strangers.” As much as he may have wanted to address the younger man, Peisistratus spoke only to the older of the two. It would have been dishonorable to treat him dismissively. “Have you yet offered your prayers to Poseidon? That is for whom this festivity is being held.” He explained, offering the golden cup to the older man as they sat on the fleecy throw. “Once you’ve said your prayer and offered your libation, share this hearty wine with your companion so he can do the same.”

Placing the cup of spiced wine in the hands of the old man, Peisistratus felt some kind of jolt go through him. It was not unpleasant, like the feeling when some metal object unexpectedly zapped his fingers when he reached out, but was warm. The feeling was overwhelming, though, and something about the toothy grin of the older man made Peisistratus feel like the earth might swallow him up.

When the moment passed without calamity, and the old man began to say his prayers, Peisistratus turned his attention to the younger man. He startled, being met with two dark, brown eyes fixed on his. There was an intensity in the younger man, too, but it was more human. There was a weight to his stare, and it reminded Peisistratus of the first time he had seen his father after returning from Anatolia. It was the first memory of Nestor which Peisistratus had. His dark eyes and the weight that came with them. He had been young still, then, but in one glance his father had measured up the entire life he had lived in his absence. Great men had stares like that, he had concluded.

In his prayer, the old man gave the name of his travel companion: Telemachus. He prayed for safe passage home, and a swift resolution to some mission. As the old man poured his libation and passed along the wine, Peisistratus suddenly felt light headed. Poseidon had heard his prayer, silent as it may have been.

Telemachus repeated the prayer. Even when his words were echoes of another, they were captivating. His voice was clear and confident. A gift for speech like that was not given to common men. Peisistratus busied himself with preparing prime cuts for their guests. It was customary that they should be fed first. Curiosity chafed at him, but questions had to be saved. Even when it came time for asking them, it would not be left up to Peisistratus to speak. It was clear that guests such as these needed to be addressed by Nestor himself.

Mouths filled with food meant a lull in the conversation. Polycaste leaned around Peisistratus to get a better look at the handsome stranger. He knew his sister well, and the way she gathered courage to glance at him for only a moment didn’t escape his notice. He was kingly and handsome, sure to be a fine marriage match regardless of his lineage, and far more interesting than the throngs of Pylian nobility which had vied for Polycaste’s hand in marriage since before she could fully grasp the concept. Peisistratus could not begrudge her fascination.

And yet, whenever he looked over toward the stranger, his eyes were still fixed on him. Each time, Peisistratus hurriedly redirected his gaze, either to the ground or his food. It felt as though he was being scrutinized. Suddenly, his every movement felt arduous as he fretted over the right way to act. The newcomer should have been focused on Nestor, the other great man in their retinue, or perhaps even Thrasymedes. If the prince’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts similar to Polycaste’s, surely he should have been looking at her. It baffled Peisistratus that he should be the focus of any attention.

“Now that we’ve all enjoyed a hearty meal, my only interest is in our guests.” King Nestor spoke. Peisistratus watched his father smile graciously, a look which fit well on his worn face. The set of his wrinkles gave the impression that he had smiled often in his life. Even now, he was far from the dour old king one might expect. “What brings you to Pylos’ shores? Have you set off to trade your wares with our own merchants? Or perhaps you are pirates, here to risk your lives stealing our gold?”

Peisistratus could have told his father that he was wrong. He wondered if Nestor was playing some game with his guests, already aware that they were more than common houseguests. It did not seem like his father to be caught unaware.

For the first time, when Peisistratus glanced in the strangers’ direction, the younger of the two was not looking at him. Now, his steady gaze was fixed on the king of Pylos. “Nestor, son of Neleus,” His words were poised and well chosen. It was a sign of respect, to show he knew who his host was. Winged-words, Peisistratus had heard them called. Words chosen for men by gods who walked with them. His eyes slowly trailed over to the man sitting beside Telemachus, intense gray eyes burning in Nestor’s direction, now. “I am Telemachus of Ithaca, son of King Odysseus.”

At this, a hush rippled out from the fine blankets where they sat. Around them, the festivities were still. Odysseus’ fame was widespread. Many a night Nestor had regaled their banquets with stories of his clever brother in arms, raider of cities—The man who had devised the Trojan Horse, pride of the Achaean people.

“I’m seeking the truth about him. I wish to know his fate, wretched as it may have been. Many heroes were lost at Troy, but their stories are well-worn, now. We know of their resting places and how they came to meet their fate. The same is not true for my father. I only wish to know what you know about what became of him after the war.”

The world held its breath while he spoke. Polycaste rested her hand on Peisistratus’ while they heard his plea. One glance told Peisistratus all he needed to know about his sister’s feelings. Her eyebrows were pushed together in gentle concern, her wide eyes transfixed on the prince of Ithaca. She was enamored with him already. It was hard not to feel the same.

“Telemachus!” Nestor bellowed, face alight. He almost looked youthful in his excitement. “Now, there is a name I know well. Your father used it to identify himself among our ranks. Never was he Odysseus, son of Laertes, only Odysseus, father of Telemachus. And what a man you have become! Back then you were only a child.”

Peisistratus braced himself, for he knew what would come next. “You call back such memories…”

Nestor was not a bad storyteller. Peisistratus often wished that he had grown up with his father, being told of his time aboard the Argo or the story of his fight with Ereuthalion. But, being a young man now, and having heard the stories a million times, they began to lose their luster. Peisistratus settled down for what he was sure to be a long-winded answer to Telemachus’ relatively simple request.

No one knew of the fate of Odysseus. That was all that Peisistratus had ever heard on the matter.

Instead of saying as much, Nestor began with tales of the war at Ilium. He told of his friendship with Odysseus, about which Peisistratus had heard time and time again. Briefly, as Nestor commented on the Myrmidon’s return to Phthia, Peisistratus felt the weight of Telemachus’ gaze return to him. Determined to ignore it, he set his eyes on the ornate cup of wine in front of him. The gold was beaten thin, the scene of a bull hunt embossed on the outside by some expert craftsman. His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of Polycaste bumping against him, giggling quietly to herself.

“He’s looking this way.” She whispered.

Beside her, their older brother, Aretus, shot them a sour look. Interrupting their father had always been akin to blasphemy, to him. Peisistratus glanced quickly in the prince’s direction, only to meet his eyes again. This time it was not him who averted his gaze, but Telemachus. He returned his focus to Nestor as if nothing had happened. Peisistratus took a moment to study him; the fine, straight line of his aristocratic nose, the way his hair looked more red in the sun than it did in the shade, his fan of thick eyelashes.

He tore his eyes away in time to hear his father say, “And you, my friend, you’ve grown to be tall and handsome yourself. Someday the gods will give you reason enough to be sung about, as well.”

The smile Telemachus shared at this praise was sheepish, almost shy. It was a crack in his facade. For a moment, he was not a shining prince, blessed by the gods, but just a boy, barely a man. Suddenly he was far more like Peisistratus. His age was easier to see, then, too. His inexperience and uncertainty peeking through for only a moment. He commended Nestor on his stories and then said, “If only the gods would visit me with such bravery. I would have happily taken revenge on the lawless suitors which crowd my hall at home. But the gods have different plans. For now, I must bear it.”

“I recall hearing about such a thing.” Nestor said. Peisistratus remembered hearing about it, as well. Politics and gossip often bled together in their halls. The stories of Queen Penelope and the ravenous suitors hoping to marry her were discussed by the nobles of the palace and whispered about by serving girls. Some tittered at the thought of so much attention, but most blanched at the thought of the impossible situation in which the Queen of Ithaca was trapped. “Do you allow your home to be abused?” It was not an accusatory question, but it may have come off as one. “If only the battle loving daughter of Zeus chose to love you like she did your father. Never have I seen an immortal show mortals such affection as Pallas openly showed him. If she stood by you, I am certain the suitors would flee your high-roofed halls.”

“Never, your majesty.” Telemachus’ response was quick, and came with a force with which he had not yet spoken. Peisistratus blinked in surprise. “I fear that will never come to pass. I am not my father.”

Humility was not something valued by their people, Peisistratus knew. Telemachus only said the words because he believed them, but to believe them seemed preposterous. Some ugly feeling settled in the Pylian prince’s chest. If he had the aid of the gods like Telemachus so clearly did, he never would have spurned it. If he had been sent on some mission by Pallas Athena herself he would have honored her for the rest of his days.

The gods walked with some men. Nestor spoke about how much love Athena lavished on Odysseus, but he had been the favorite of several deathless ones in his time. Heroes, those men were called, and Peisistratus had known Telemachus as one from the moment he saw him. And here he had the gall to act as if he were common. Some sour thing clawed at Peisistratus’ throat. Telemachus was the only son of a great king, clearly loved by the gods, and off on his own adventure. He had no knowledge of what it meant to be common. To be the youngest of six princes with no hopes for inheriting a kingdom or forging a legacy. He had no way to know what it felt like to see the face of an older brother he barely remembered cast in bronze and to wish to be him, to be remembered. No, Telemachus was not common. It was an insult for him to pretend to be.

“Telemachus!” The older man seemed to agree. He chastised the prince, those gray eyes fiery with disapproval. “You sound like a fool, doubting the gods and their plans.” He warned gravely. “I would rather wander for ten long years on the sea and come home to my loving wife and son than be murdered as King Agamemnon was.”

“Mentor,” Telemachus said, finally giving the old man a name. “Let’s not speak of my father’s return.” There was a pain in his voice, strained and tired, which suggested they had discussed it before. “What of Menelaus, King Nestor? Where was he when his brother was in such distress?”

More stories were to come. Nestor was happy to provide them. Once he had started to speak, telling the tale of King Menelaus’ long journey home from Troy, Telemachus’ eyes slid back towards Peisistratus. It was only then, when those deep brown eyes met his and Telemachus’ brow furrowed with concern, that Peisistratus realized he had been glaring. Hastily, he turned away.

As Nestor spoke, the sun sank lower in the sky. By the time he was finishing his tale, darkness had settled over them. Fires burned distantly, keeping the shore well-lit. “You should go, by ship or by land, to Lacedaemon. You can question King Menelaus yourself, press him for the whole truth. If you go by land my sons are at your service, as well as a chariot and a full team.” He promised.

“We must be on our way.” It was Mentor who spoke, not the young prince. Peisistratus could still feel his eyes on him. “You’ve told us such good stories, your majesty. But we had better think of sleep, returning to our sleek ships now that night has fallen.”

“I won’t have it!” Nestor was quick to reply. He looked aghast at the idea of sending the guests back to their ships for what would certainly be a restless night’s sleep. “You shouldn’t have to resort to sleeping on your ship while my house is so near. I won’t allow the son of my good friend Odysseus to bed down on a ship, not while I’m alive or my sons are left at home.”

“You’re right.” Mentor smiled, the same too-bright smile he had worn when Peisistratus had offered him wine. “Telemachus should oblige you.” He decided for the prince. “Let him follow you to your halls and sleep there. I’ll return to our ship and maintain order. The crew is full of young men, prone to folly. If he so pleases, Telemachus can go by chariot to the halls of King Menelaus, one of your sons can guide him along the way.”

There was the flutter of wings then and by some miracle an eagle took flight from behind the old man. Sitting where they did atop the throws, each of Nestor’s sons and their wives stared with wide eyes. Peisistratus suddenly felt the same lightheadedness he had earlier when he had spoken to the old man. A goddess, walking among them. Silent awe overtook them and, once again, Peisistratus fixed Telemachus with an incredulous stare. He had not only the favor of a god, but one who accompanied him.

“Dear boy, you have nothing to fear!” Nestor cried out in excitement. Peisistratus wondered if this was the first time he had seen the deathless daughter of Zeus since Troy. “It is clear that the gods favor you.” Quickly, he raised his head toward the heavens, where the eagle had disappeared, and said a quick prayer.

Peisistratus stared at the dark night sky where he’d last caught sight of the eagle’s wings. To himself, again, he said a small prayer: Glorious goddess, should his father choose a son to accompany Telemachus, let it be him.

#i'll probably put this on ao3 eventually but not tonight lol #telestratus #peisistratus #peisistratus of pylos #telemachus #i just so of‚‚‚ rip off the odyssey at times in this chapter #in my defense‚ i also looked up homeric hymns to get a better idea of how to write prayers?#nestor of pylos #homer #the odyssey #fanfic #man idk what to tag this as #but i hope it finds its audience ig #braved by your heart's resolve #bbyhr

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