#telemachus deserved better!

[katerinaaqu]

Epic Telemachus: Gonna sit here being a damsel in distress Disney princess in the stereotypical way, sing happy bubbly songs and have my ass handed to me at a fistfight even with Athena's help and be mostly watching in terror that monster chopping the heads of the men I hated off

Odyssey Telemachus: Depressed af hoping to escape the situation that almost have me cut my veins in here, with the help of Athena I travel to find information on my father and call upon the city council. Avoid an ambush thanks to Theoklymenos and come back to my mother and then help my father actively chop the heads off those damn suitors using the fighting skills I obviously have, hang 12 traitor slaves and help mutilating another one and standing by my father's side.

[oddyseye]

Imagine you’re Telemachus.

Go ahead, picture it. You’re a kid growing up on an island where your dad is literally a living legend, but he’s been MIA your entire life. Twenty years of being “the son of Odysseus’’ and having no idea what that even means. Your mother constantly compares you to a guy you’ve never met, the suitors trash your house, eat your food, and openly plan your mom’s wedding like you’re not even there. Your own people think you’re too green, too weak, too not your father to do anything about it. One day, Athena shows up in disguise (because gods love a good mask) and tells you to stop moping around and go find news of your father. So, you set sail with no real plan, no real power, and a whole lot of unresolved resentment. You brave the seas, deal with cryptic kings, and what do you find? Nothing concrete, just more stories about how amazing Odysseus is. And then, just when you’re starting to think you’ve wasted your time, he shows up. But he turns out to be a killing machine, and you’re in the middle of the bloodbath, trying to keep up while the suitors are out for your head. At one point, they literally use you as bait to corner the king. Your father.

The first words you hear him say? Not to you, but to his enemies: “My mercy has long since drowned. It died to bring me home.’’ Imagine, how does that sit with you? You’ve spent your whole life dreaming of this reunion, hoping for a lovely father, a protector, maybe even a friend. Instead, you get this: a stranger soaked in blood, declaring that mercy — the thing you’ve clung to, the thing your mother embodies — has no place in his world.

But then he turns to you.

And suddenly, everything shifts. He looks at you, really looks at you, and says, “Oh my boy, the sweetest joy I’ve known.’’ The walls he’s built, the hardness he’s worn like armor, crack just enough for you to see the man underneath. For the first time, he’s not Odysseus the warrior, or Odysseus, the son of Laertes. He’s your father. He is Odysseus, father of dear Telemachus.

It doesn’t erase the pain, the years of absence, or the violence you just witnessed. But for that moment, it doesn’t matter. Because for the first time in your life, the man who’s been a myth, a memory, and a mystery, is standing in front of you — and he’s calling you his joy.

[xixovart]

can you draw Penelope and Telemachus?

used to sloanslone's designs bc i have yet to come up with my own THEY ARE SO AKJWNAKBDNQ

[naminimimmifonn]

Fight little... WOLVES?

I present to u my first Telemachus and Ismene (Eurylochus daughter) designs!

More taking abt them below ↴

I made Ismene a long time ago but never had the time to give her an actual design. You can see how her clothing is similar to Perimedes' making reference to the fact that both of them are Eurylochus' children

After Eurylochus sailed to Troy Ctimene discovered that she was pregnant, and kept her husband updated trough letters, so even if Eurylochus knew abt his daughter, it wasnt a lot.

Since she was young, Ismene felt really interesting in learning how to fight, but couldn't learn bc she was a girl. However, Penelope & Ctimene, afraid of her security decided that she would train with her aunt.

When she grow up, she met Ares and he became his patron god and mentor, giving her the chance to fight against the suitors when they first arrived, with made them banned her from Ithaca.

When her mother remarried, she started telling Ismene abt how her real father would return and kill his step father, and that they will live happily. Ismene didnt have a good relation with her step father due to the fact that she remind him of Eurylochus.

Babygirl also returned to Ithaca to fought the suitors and kick their asses (like in the drawing)

She's also married with Megapenthes (Menelaus' son) in the future 🤍 so dw guys she will be happy

[neomyholygrail]

A TALE TO TELL.

The salt spray stung Neoptolemos's face as his ship, the Scyros, grounded on the rocky shore of Ithaca.  The island, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon sun, seemed a world away from the blood-soaked fields of Troy, a world he had left behind yet could never truly escape.  He had tracked Odysseus here, a ghost haunting the edges of his own restless existence.  Odysseus, the man who’d dragged him, barely a boy, into the brutal maelstrom of the Trojan War, now a king basking in the sun of his long-awaited homecoming.  The reunion, he knew, would be anything but cordial.

Neoptolemos, Prince of Scyros, son of the legendary Achilles, was a man forged in the crucible of war.  His youth had been stolen, replaced by a relentless cycle of violence and bloodshed.  He carried the weight of his father's legacy, a burden both glorious and damning.  Achilles’s name echoed through the ages, a legend whispered in awe and fear, but Neoptolemos felt only the crushing weight of expectation, the impossible task of living up to a shadow that stretched across centuries.  He had sought glory on the battlefields, but found only emptiness, a void that no amount of conquest could fill.  He had come to Ithaca seeking something else, something to fill that gnawing emptiness within him, a quest that had led him across the wine-dark sea, to this sun-drenched island.

He disembarked, his movements precise and economical, the gait of a seasoned warrior.  His armor, though tarnished and worn, still spoke of battles fought and won, a testament to his prowess, yet also a chilling reminder of the cost.  He moved with a quiet intensity, his eyes scanning the landscape, alert to any sign of danger, a habit ingrained from years spent on the razor's edge of survival.  He was a man accustomed to violence, yet he carried within him a deep-seated loneliness, a yearning for connection that war had only intensified.

He found Odysseus in the courtyard of the palace, surrounded by his loyal men.  The king, his face etched with the lines of hardship and years spent at sea, was a stark contrast to the idealized hero of the tales Neoptolemos had heard as a boy.  There was a weariness in his eyes, a hint of the burden of kingship, but also a steely resolve that spoke of a man who had faced death and emerged victorious.

The air thickened with tension as Neoptolemos approached.  Odysseus, his gaze cold and assessing, was the first to speak.  "Neoptolemos," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, "the son of Achilles.  A fitting heir to his father's savagery.  I see the same bloodlust in you, the same disregard for life, the same ruthless efficiency in the shedding of blood."

Neoptolemos’s lips curled into a grim smile, a fleeting expression that betrayed nothing of the turmoil within.  "Irony, Odysseus," he replied, his voice low and resonant, "You, the architect of my bloody initiation, lecturing me on brutality.  You were the one who thrust me into the heart of war, a child playing with weapons far too large for his hands.  You saw in me a tool, a weapon to be wielded against Troy, and you used me without a second thought."

Their words clashed like steel on steel, a bitter exchange of accusations and insults.  Odysseus railed against Neoptolemos’s ruthlessness, his callous disregard for human life, recounting specific instances of Neoptolemos’s actions in Troy, highlighting their brutality and lack of mercy. He spoke of the innocent lives lost, the families torn apart, the suffering inflicted, all under the banner of victory.  He painted a picture of a young man consumed by a thirst for blood, a man who reveled in violence, a man who had inherited the worst aspects of his father's nature.

Neoptolemos countered with the cold logic of a warrior forged in the fires of relentless conflict, a logic that excused his actions as necessary evils in a brutal world. He spoke of the horrors he had witnessed, the relentless siege, the constant threat of death, the moral ambiguities of war.  He argued that his actions, however brutal, were driven by the necessity of survival, by the need to protect himself and his fellow soldiers, by the unwavering duty to his king and his cause.  He spoke of the relentless pressure to live up to his father's legacy, to prove himself worthy of the name Achilles, a pressure that had driven him to extremes. He argued that Odysseus, with his cunning and strategic brilliance, had been the architect of many of the war's cruelties, and that he, Neoptolemos, was merely a pawn in a much larger game.

The tension in the air crackled, thick enough to cut with a sword.  The courtyard, once bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, now seemed shrouded in a chilling darkness, a reflection of the bitter animosity between the two men.  Odysseus's men stood rigid, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.  Neoptolemos, his hand never straying far from his own weapon, remained unyielding, his gaze locked on Odysseus, a silent challenge in his eyes.

Then Penelope emerged from the palace, her presence a calming balm against the storm of their hatred.  She was a vision of grace and composure, her beauty undiminished by the years of waiting and uncertainty.  Her voice, calm and measured, cut through the tension.  "My husband," she said, her eyes meeting Odysseus’s, "this is Neoptolemos, Prince of Scyros.  He has traveled far, and he seeks rest and hospitality. We will offer him both, as is our duty, as is the custom of our land."

Odysseus, ever bound by the strength of his wife’s will, grudgingly nodded.  He could not, in front of his people and his wife, refuse hospitality to a prince.  The storm subsided, leaving behind a fragile truce, a thin veneer of civility masking the simmering resentment that still lingered between the two warriors.

Neoptolemos, though outwardly accepting Penelope's offer, felt no relief.  He had come to Ithaca not for Odysseus, but for something else, something to fill the gnawing emptiness within him.  He had traveled across the sea, seeking solace, seeking respite from the ghosts of his past, but he found himself in a new kind of conflict, a new kind of battle.

Days turned into weeks.  Neoptolemos, despite the simmering tension with Odysseus, found himself drawn to Telemachus, Odysseus’s son.  The young man, perpetually shrouded in a veil of cynicism, possessed a sharp wit and a sarcastic charm that Neoptolemos found strangely captivating.  He observed Telemachus from afar, noting the way the sunlight caught in his dark hair, the subtle curve of his lips when he spoke, the way his eyes, though often shadowed by pessimism, held a spark of intelligence and defiance.  He watched him interact with others, his words often laced with irony and dark humor, a defense mechanism against the harsh realities of the world.

One evening, as Telemachus leaned against a column in the palace courtyard, idly tossing pebbles into a nearby fountain, Neoptolemos approached.  Telemachus, ever the pessimist, greeted him with a wry smile. "Well, Prince of Scyros, still searching for something to fill the void?  Don't bother looking here.  Ithaca offers only disappointment and disillusionment, a bitter brew of dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams.  A fitting end to a hero's journey, wouldn't you say?"

Neoptolemos, unmoved by the sarcasm, simply stated, "You're amusing, Telemachus."

"Amusing?  Or merely a distraction from the inevitable despair?" Telemachus countered, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and cynicism.  "Perhaps I'm a welcome change from the endless bloodshed that seems to follow you like a shadow, a grim reminder of the brutal world you inhabit.  A stark contrast to the idyllic paradise you clearly expected to find here."

Neoptolemos, his gaze unwavering, replied, "You misunderstand.  I find your cynicism… refreshing.  It's a stark contrast to the hollow platitudes and empty promises I've encountered elsewhere.  Your honesty, however bleak, is preferable to the false hope that others offer."

"Prince of Scyros," he began, his voice low, "You fought alongside my father in Troy, did you not?  I've heard tales, of course, heroic ballads sung by bards, but they always seem to gloss over the details, the grit and grime of war.  Tell me, what was it truly like?"

Neoptolemos turned, his gaze meeting Telemachus's.  There was a weariness in his eyes, a hint of the burden he carried, but also a flicker of something else, a hint of curiosity, perhaps even a touch of vulnerability.  He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "There are no heroic ballads to be sung of my time in Troy, Telemachus.  Only grim realities, brutal truths that bards prefer to ignore.  My stories are not of glorious victories, but of grim necessities, of choices made in the shadow of death."

Telemachus leaned against a nearby column, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. "Necessity?  Or something else?"

Neoptolemos chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Necessity, tempered by the weight of my father's legacy.  I was thrust into that war as a boy, barely a man, expected to fill the shoes of a god.  To live up to the legend of Achilles, a legend that overshadowed everything I did, everything I was."

"And did you?" Telemachus asked, his voice soft.

Neoptolemos shook his head. "I tried.  I fought with a ferocity that terrified even myself.  I killed, not for glory, but for survival, for the sake of my own life and the lives of those around me.  I was a weapon, a tool, wielded by others, my own will subsumed by the relentless tide of war."

"But there were moments," Telemachus persisted, "moments of courage, of defiance, of heroism, even in the midst of brutality."

Neoptolemos considered this, his gaze drifting back to the sea. "There were moments, yes.  Moments where I defied orders, where I acted against my own self-preservation, driven by a sense of justice, however twisted.  But even those moments were tainted, shadowed by the violence that surrounded them.  They were acts of rebellion, not heroism.  Acts born of desperation, not of noble purpose."

"Tell me about them," Telemachus urged.  "Tell me about the choices you made, the battles you fought, the men you killed.  Spare me no detail."

Neoptolemus, his eyes twin obsidian pits reflecting a stormy sea of nightmares, began his recounting. The flickering torchlight cast long, skeletal shadows across his face, highlighting the etched canyons of his suffering. "The war, a charnel house where the gods played dice with human lives, a grotesque puppet show staged on a battlefield soaked in the crimson tide of spilled blood. I saw men, once brothers in arms, tear each other apart, their bonds snapping like rotten reeds under a tyrant's boot."

A fleeting shadow, like a raven's wing eclipsing the sun, crossed his features. "Honor? Glory?  Those were luxuries afforded to the dead, epitaphs etched on tombstones, not the brutal reality of trench warfare.  The stench of death clung to everything, a miasma of decay that choked the very air we breathed. Oblivion was a constant companion, a shadow dancing at the edge of every heartbeat."

"What about your heroic side?" Telemachus pressed, his voice a mere tremor in the cavernous chamber.

Neoptolemus scoffed, a bitter laugh rattling in his chest like the bones of the fallen. "Heroic?  I survived. That's all.  There was no courage, only the frantic, desperate scrabble for survival, the primal instinct to cling to life with the tenacity of a drowning man clutching at a straw. I was a rat in a maze, a pawn in a game played by gods who delighted in our suffering."

Telemachus stared, his brow furrowed in a mask of concern. "You seem… rather despondent. Are you always like this?" The question, though direct, held a flicker of genuine empathy.

Neoptolemus met his gaze, his stoicism a carefully constructed fortress against the relentless onslaught of sorrow. "Despondent? No.  Merely… disillusioned. We are all sculpted by the fires of experience, and mine have forged a landscape of desolation within me. I've seen too much death, too much cruelty, to cling to the pathetic illusions of hope."

"Well, then, if you have no heroic moments, why not tell me about the times you felt like a villain? I love a good story." Telemachus's smile, though playful, held a darker undercurrent, a glint of shared cynicism in the shadowed room. Neoptolemus had never expected the Prince of Ithaca to possess such a surprisingly brutal charm.

A ghost of a smile, cruel and self-mocking, played on Neoptolemus's lips. "Villainous, you say?  Excellent. I've certainly dabbled in moral ambiguity. But be warned, these are not tales for the faint of heart; they are stained with the blood of regret, etched in the acid of remorse."

"You underestimate me, Son of Achilles." Telemachus's voice rang with the cold confidence of steel.

Neoptolemus's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Ah, so you crave the darkness, the brutal underbelly of war's monstrous maw?  Excellent. Prepare to be disgusted."

"Tell me your tales of your less heroic moments in the Trojan War, Neoptolemus." Telemachus’s words hung heavy in the air, a challenge and an invitation. But all Neoptolemus could see was the horrifying memory—Astyanax, a tiny life cast into the abyss.

A shadow, thick and suffocating as a shroud, fell over Neoptolemus's features as the memories of Troy's fall crashed down upon him. His voice, a low growl, barely audible above the crackling fire. "The fall of Troy… a monument to human folly, reduced to ashes and rubble by the insatiable hunger of war. And in the midst of that chaos, I was complicit in an act that continues to haunt my waking hours and my nightmares."

"Tell me. Spare me no detail, Neo." Telemachus's voice was a low, insistent hum.

Neoptolemus's lips twisted into a sardonic grin, a grim mask concealing the turmoil within. "Very well. I shall be as brutally honest as the gods themselves. During the sacking of Troy, the city was a charnel house, the streets rivers of blood, the air thick with the screams of the dying. And in the midst of that inferno, there was a child…"

Neoptolemus's expression hardened, his features etched with the weight of his memories. "A child whose parents lay lifeless, their bodies broken monuments to the war's brutality.  There was no one to claim him, no one to offer him solace. And so, I was faced with a choice that continues to haunt me."

"Forced by the gods themselves?" Telemachus's voice was hushed, filled with a growing sense of dread.

Neoptolemus nodded grimly, his gaze distant and haunted. "It felt that way. The gods were everywhere, their presence a suffocating weight. And who was I to question their will, even as my soul recoiled in horror at the thought of what I had to do?"

"What did you do, Neo?" Telemachus's voice was a barely audible breath.

Neoptolemus grimaced, the memory tearing at him like a jagged shard of glass. "I did what I was forced to do. I took the child," His voice low, unable to articulate the unspeakable act.

Telemachus's eyebrows shot up, his curiosity a burning ember. "What happened next? What became of the child?"

Neoptolemus's gaze fell, his expression shrouded in darkness. "It's not a story with a happy ending, I'm afraid. The child was a prince, the son of Hector of Troy. His name was Astyanax."

Telemachus's eyes widened, a mixture of shock and dawning understanding. "Hector's son, I see. And what became of him?"

Neoptolemus's eyes were twin wells of sorrow, reflecting the horrors he had witnessed. "The Greeks feared the possibility of Hector's lineage continuin— of a future Trojan hero rising to avenge their fallen city. And so, they decided to make an example of the chil"

"So… did you kill him?" Telemachus's voice was a whisper, barely audible.

Neoptolemus's gaze hardened, his voice a cold, brutal statement. "I threw him from the walls of Troy."

Telemachus's mouth formed an 'O' of horrified disbelief.  The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackling fire.

Neoptolemus's face was a mask of unremorseful yet, his eyes reflecting the weight of years of guilt and regret. "It was a moment of weakness, I admit. I tried to justify it, to tell myself it was for the greater good—that it was necessary to secure victory for the Greeks. But deep down, I know I was merely a tool, a blade wielded by vengeful gods, a puppet dancing to the cruel tune of fate. A pawn sacrificed on the altar of victory." He paused, his voice raw with emotion. "And the worst part?  I still feel the phantom weight of that child in my arms, the chilling echo of his scream ringing in my ears, a constant reminder of the monster I was forced to become."

"But you had to do it," Telemachus said softly, his voice laced with a hesitant understanding. "Or your life would have been in danger. You had a reason…"

Neoptolemus's expression hardened, his voice laced with self-recrimination. "Reason, or justification? I convinced myself it was necessary… that it had to be done to prevent another generation of Trojans from rising up against the Greeks. But in truth, it was a desperate act driven by fear and rage, not reason. A desperate attempt to cling to a semblance of control in a world consumed by chaos." He looked away, unable to meet Telemachus's gaze. "And the irony?  The act that was supposed to secure our victory haunts me more than any Trojan blade ever could."

"You might be too hard on yourself," Telemachus said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.  It was a tentative smile, born of a growing understanding of the darkness that lurked within Neoptolemus.

Neoptolemus's eyebrows furrowed, the carefully constructed mask of stoicism beginning to crack. "Perhaps I am. The weight of that memory has stayed with me, a constant, gnawing ache, a reminder of the darkness that dwells within us all.  And yet. I can't help but wonder if I could have done something differently, if I could have found another way.  But there was no other way, was there?"  His voice trailed off, lost in the labyrinth of his own tormented thoughts.

"Then the gods would have tormented you as they tormented my father," Telemachus stated, his voice low and thoughtful.  He understood the weight of divine wrath, the inescapable consequences of defying fate.

Neoptolemus nodded grimly, his voice heavy with the weight of his experience. "Perhaps. The gods are capricious and cruel, their favor a fickle thing, best not sought. I've seen enough of their wrath to know they demand absolute obedience and brook no defiance.  They are masters of manipulation, weaving our destinies into a tapestry of suffering and despair."

"I like you, Neo." Telemachus's sudden declaration hung in the air, unexpected and strangely poignant.  It was a statement born not of blind admiration, but of a grudging respect for the man's brutal honesty and the depth of his suffering.

Neoptolemus's gaze softened, surprised by the unexpected compliment. "You like me? Despite my dark deeds and troubled soul?" The sentiment was unexpected, given his reputation, the whispers that followed him like shadows.

Telemachus chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh yes. Despite your brooding demeanor and tales of bloodshed, I find your company… surprisingly refreshing. It's not often I encounter someone so brutally honest and unguarded.  Someone who doesn't shy away from the darkness within themselves."

"Your father wouldn't be pleased to hear that," Neoptolemus commented, a hint of amusement in his voice.  He knew Odysseus's opinion of him, the venomous words that had been exchanged.

Telemachus chuckled. "Ah, you've noticed my dear Papa's dislike of you? He never hides his feelings, does he? But rest assured, I have a mind of my own. I'm not easily swayed by his prejudices.  Besides," he added with a sly grin, "a little rebellion never hurt anyone."

Neoptolemus smirked. "Careful, Prince of Ithaca. Your father doesn't take kindly to those who fraternize with me. He considers me a bad influence—a dangerous man."

"A bit of danger wouldn't hurt, would it?" Telemachus responded, a hint of challenge in his voice.  He was testing the boundaries, pushing against the constraints of his father's expectations.

Neoptolemus's smirk widened. "A bit of danger? You're more adventuresome than I thought. Just remember, if your father catches us speaking together, he'll have my head on a platter."

"Worry not, I'd reserve your head." Telemachus chuckled, his words laced with a playful confidence that masked a deeper, more unsettling undercurrent.

Neoptolemus, despite his cynical exterior, found himself oddly drawn to the young prince's sharp wit and rebellious spirit; a mirror, perhaps, to his own suppressed emotions. Telemachus, in turn, found himself captivated by Neoptolemus's brutal honesty, a stark contrast to the polished facades of the other nobles he knew.

Neoptolemus's laughter, a rare and unexpected sound, echoed in the quiet chamber.  It was a sound that held a hint of something else – a vulnerability barely concealed beneath the sardonic edge.  "How kind of you," he said, his voice still laced with that cynical amusement.  "I shall sleep easier knowing my head is safe in your hands." The statement, while playful, held a deeper meaning, an acknowledgment of the unspoken power dynamic between them.  Telemachus, the son of Odysseus, held a certain sway, a potential influence that even the formidable Neoptolemus couldn't entirely ignore.

Telemachus's surprise was palpable.  "You laugh," he observed, his voice a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity.  He had expected a more stoic response, a continuation of the warrior's usual detached demeanor.  This unexpected display of levity revealed a different side of Neoptolemus, a side that intrigued him.

Neoptolemus raised an eyebrow, a hint of self-awareness in his tone.  "Yes, I do," he replied, his voice calm and measured. "Is that so hard to believe?  Perhaps my reputation precedes me, painting me as some unfeeling automaton."  He paused, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a hint of vulnerability peeking through the carefully constructed mask of cynicism.

"Too hard," Telemachus admitted, his voice thoughtful.  "Perhaps you're way… too stoic."  He was observing, analyzing, attempting to understand the complexities of the man before him.

Neoptolemus chuckled softly, a sardonic edge to his tone.  "Ah, so I've been branded as stoic. I suppose it's an apt description.  Being surrounded by fools and brutes has a way of dulling one's emotional responses.  Or perhaps," he added with a wry smile, "it's simply a more effective defense mechanism than tears."

Telemachus's playful exasperation was evident. "Gee, you're too poetic. Enough of that." He was both charmed and irritated by Neoptolemus's unexpected eloquence, a stark contrast to the warrior's usually blunt and cynical demeanor.

Neoptolemus chuckled, his tone mock-serious.  "Ah, my apologies, Prince of Ithaca. Shall I refrain from using such florid language in your presence? I wouldn't want to overwhelm your delicate sensibilities."  The sarcasm was evident, but there was a playful challenge in his words, a subtle invitation to continue their intellectual sparring.

Telemachus raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge accepted.  The unspoken contest of wits continued, a silent battle of intellect and wit that both men seemed to relish.

Neoptolemus smirked, enjoying the banter.  "Is that an invitation to use even more elaborate language? If so, I'd be happy to oblige. I have a rather extensive vocabulary, you know.  Years spent amongst the learned and the… less learned… have broadened my horizons, shall we say?"

Telemachus's sarcasm was sharp and precise.  "I do appreciate your art in poetry," he quipped, his voice dripping with irony.  He was clearly enjoying the exchange, the intellectual sparring match that had developed between them.

Neoptolemus chuckled, his tone playful.  "Ah, so you're a connoisseur of the arts? I'm flattered. And here I was, under the impression your head was filled with nothing but empty air and bravado."  He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusement.  "Though," he added with a sly smile, "perhaps that bravado is merely a carefully constructed façade, much like my own stoicism."

Telemachus's retort was swift and direct. "Hah. You're also rude, too."  He wasn't offended; rather, he found Neoptolemus's blunt honesty refreshing, a welcome change from the courtly hypocrisy he was accustomed to.

Neoptolemus smirked. "You're just now realizing that? I thought my blunt honesty would have given that away. But don't worry, it's part of my charm.  A rather abrasive charm, perhaps, but charm nonetheless."

Telemachus's pessimistic jest was laced with a hint of admiration.  "It doesn't seem to work on me. How sad."

Neoptolemus chuckled, amused by the young prince's resilience to his charm.  "Ah, but my charm isn't designed to work on pessimistic princes. It's more effective on soft-hearted damsels and naive fools."  He paused, his gaze locking with Telemachus's.  "Though," he added with a sly grin, "perhaps you're not as naive as you appear."

"So, you think I'm not a naive fool?" Telemachus challenged, his curiosity piqued.

Neoptolemus's smirk widened.  "Oh no, my dear Prince. You're far from a fool; naivete is not a trait I'd associate with you.  But don't fret, I believe there are a few other labels I could assign you."  He paused, drawing out the suspense.

"Like?" Telemachus prompted, his interest clearly engaged.

Neoptolemus's smirk grew.  "Like, perhaps, a bit of a smart-mouthed brat. A young upstart with a penchant for trouble-making. And let's not forget," he added, his gaze lingering on Telemachus, "a rather annoyingly attractive thorn in my side, too."

The air crackled with unspoken tension as Neoptolemus’s teasing words hung in the air. Telemachus, despite his initial wide-eyed surprise, couldn't help but roll his eyes.  The unexpected compliment, veiled as it was in sarcasm, had a strange effect.  It was a far cry from the sneering insults he'd expected, and the unexpected vulnerability in Neoptolemus's tone was disarming.

"Very funny," Telemachus retorted, though a hint of a smile played on his lips. He was used to his father's cutting remarks, but Neoptolemus's brand of cynicism was different, somehow more… engaging.

Neoptolemus, ever the master of observation, raised an eyebrow.  "Oh, you think I'm being funny? I assure you, I'm completely serious. You have a knack for getting under my skin, Prince of Ithaca.  It's a rather… unsettling talent."  He paused, his gaze lingering on Telemachus, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his eyes.

"Am I now?" Telemachus challenged, a playful edge to his voice.  He was enjoying this unexpected dance of wits, this subtle sparring match that felt both dangerous and exhilarating.

Neoptolemus's smirk grew into a half-smile, a rare and revealing expression. "Oh yes, you are. You challenge me with your wit and sharp tongue. But don't worry, I find your impertinence quite entertaining." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Telemachus, a subtle appraisal that was both assessing and admiring. "And let's not forget that rather annoyingly attractive factor."  The words were delivered with a casualness that belied the underlying intensity.

The direct compliment, delivered with such unexpected bluntness, left Telemachus momentarily speechless.  "So you think I'm attractive?" he finally managed, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks.

Neoptolemus's gaze lingered on Telemachus for a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken attraction before he responded with a smirk.  "I suppose even a blind man could see that you're pleasing to the eye.  Though, perhaps 'pleasing' is too weak a word.  'Intriguing' might be more accurate."

"And here you go again, with your poetic knack," Telemachus said, a playful exasperation in his voice.  He was both amused and slightly flustered by Neoptolemus's unexpected compliments.

Neoptolemus chuckled, amused. "It's not my fault if my words happen to come out as poetry. Perhaps you just bring out the poet in me, Prince of Ithaca. Or, more likely, I just enjoy teasing you with my eloquence." He paused, a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

"It doesn't fit you, really," Telemachus observed, thoughtfully. "I thought… you'd be more…" he paused, searching for the right word, "brazen… not the type to say sarcastic, poetic words."  He was trying to reconcile the image of the ruthless 

Neoptolemus tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Ah, so you had a preconception of how I should behave? I suppose I should be flattered that you've thought about me at all.  Though, I suspect your preconceptions were largely shaped by your father's rather… biased accounts."

"And you think highly of yourself, too," Telemachus countered, a hint of playful accusation in his voice.

Neoptolemus chuckled softly, his smirk growing more pronounced.  "Perhaps a bit. But can you blame me? After all, I am the son of Achilles and the scourge of Troy. It's hard not to have a certain level of self-confidence when you've achieved such great deeds… or at least, when you've survived them."  He paused, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone.  "Though, perhaps 'self-confidence' is too strong a word.  'Self-preservation' might be more accurate."

"How nice," Telemachus remarked sarcastically, a smile playing on his lips.

Neoptolemus chuckled. "Ah, I see your father's influence is stronger than I thought. Sarcasm seems to be a trait you've both inherited." He paused, his gaze locking with Telemachus's. 

"What's that? Am I amusing you, Prince of Ithaca? I do hope I'm not offending your delicate sensibilities with my clever remarks."  He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Though, I confess, I rather enjoy annoying you."

"Gods, you're annoying me, too. Now," Telemachus admitted, a smile finally breaking through his playful exasperation.

Neoptolemus chuckled, his smirk widening.  "Annoying, am I? Good. That's precisely the reaction I was aiming for. Consider it a gift from me to you. A parting gift, if you will."  He rose, signaling the end of their conversation.

Telemachus sighed, a mixture of amusement and reluctance in his voice. "You're insufferable."

Despite Odysseus's warnings, the time spent with Neoptolemus had been far from insufferable for Telemachus.  It had been… unexpected, intriguing, and even, dare he admit it, enjoyable.  The cynical warrior had revealed a surprising depth, a vulnerability that had captivated him.  As Neoptolemus turned to leave, a silent understanding passed between them – a bond forged not in shared ideals, but in a mutual appreciation for the darkness that resided within them both.

As Neoptolemus prepared his ship for departure, Telemachus approached him, his demeanor more subdued. The playful banter had faded, replaced by a quiet solemnity.

"So, this is where we part ways," Telemachus said, a hint of reluctance in his tone.  He felt a strange pang of regret, an unexpected sadness at the prospect of Neoptolemus's departure.

"You're leaving, yes?" Telemachus's voice was low, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

Neoptolemus nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. "I am. I have places to go, people to meet. The world awaits, and it's not kind to those who linger.  It's a cruel mistress, and I've learned to dance to her tune, however brutal."

Telemachus chuckled softly. "Ah yes, your insatiable wanderlust. I suppose I should be glad you're not staying longer to aggravate me even further."  There was a hint of something else in his voice, a subtle note of sadness.

"Well, we meet again?" Telemachus asked, a flicker of hope in his voice.

Neoptolemus shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. "Perhaps. The world is a vast place, but strange coincidences do happen. Who's to say we might not cross paths again? Fate has a curious way of twisting people's destinies together.  Especially when those destinies are intertwined with darkness."

He stared at Neoptolemus. Even though Neoptolemus had only stayed two months, Telemachus couldn't help but feel something he shouldn't.  A silent farewell hung between them, heavy with unspoken emotions.

Neoptolemus noticed Telemachus's gaze and quirked an eyebrow. "What? You're looking at me strangely. Is there something on my face?"

"No, nothing."

Neoptolemus chuckled softly. "Ah, come now, don't be coy. Out with it. You've been staring at me like a lovesick maiden all morning."

"You are exceptionally kind. Not as how Father would tell tales about you—madman, insane, a monster."

Neoptolemus chuckled darkly, his gaze turning distant, a shadow passing over his features. "Ah, yes. Your father's colorful descriptions of me. I suppose I can't blame him for seeing me as a monster. It's easier to demonize someone than to understand their motivations."

"I like you," he paused, "your company."  The words were simple, yet they carried a weight that resonated between them.

Neoptolemus raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "You like my company, do you? Careful, Prince of Ithaca. You might start to sound like you'll miss me when I'm gone."

"Might as well be." The words hung in the air, a quiet admission of something deeper.

Neoptolemus tensed, his smirk fading, his expression becoming guarded. "You think to fall in love with me, is that it? I'm afraid you're chasing after phantoms, Prince of Ithaca. Love is for fools and dreamers, not for warriors like us."

"I'm no fool, Neoptolemus." Telemachus's voice was firm, his gaze unwavering.

Neoptolemus studied Telemachus's face, his gaze intense, searching. "No, you're not. You're a son of Odysseus, and your mind is sharp as a blade. But your heart, prince? That's a different matter. It's a dangerous thing, letting one's emotions guide them. Love makes one weak, vulnerable."

"Perhaps that's why you dare not try and reach out to it"

Neoptolemus scoffed, a harsh sound that cut through the quiet tension between them. "Reach out? And for what? To let my heart be shattered upon the rocks of unrequited love? I've seen too much heartbreak and despair to willingly step into that abyss.  My heart is a fortress, Prince, and its walls are built of sorrow and steel."

"So typical of you," Telemachus murmured, a hint of both admiration and disappointment coloring his tone.  He looked out at the sea, the waves mirroring the turmoil within him.

Neoptolemus's gaze lingered on Telemachus, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps regret, perhaps something akin to understanding—crossing his features. He didn't speak, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken emotions.

As Neoptolemus boarded his ship, the creak of wood a mournful counterpoint to the lapping waves, Telemachus watched him go. The distance between them widened, not just the physical gulf of the sea, but a chasm of unspoken feelings.

"Safe sails, Neo," Telemachus said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying the weight of a farewell he wasn't sure he wanted to say. "May the god of tides bless you."

Neoptolemus paused, his hand resting on the railing of the ship, his gaze fixed on Telemachus.  A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a fleeting expression that held both bitterness and a strange sort of tenderness. "Thank you, prince," he replied, his voice a low murmur carried away by the wind. "May your days be free of trouble… for you have certainly caused me enough."

He turned then, his gaze sweeping across the harbor, across the familiar landscape of Ithaca, before settling on the vast expanse of the sea.  The ship's sails filled with the wind, carrying him away from the shores of Ithaca, away from Telemachus, away from the unsettling emotions that had stirred within him.  The sea, vast and unpredictable, mirrored the turbulent landscape of his own soul.

As the ship pulled away, leaving Telemachus a solitary figure on the shore, Neoptolemus felt a strange mixture of relief and a profound sense of loss. The relief was a shield against the vulnerability he had so carefully guarded for years, the loss a quiet ache that echoed the rhythm of the waves. He had escaped the emotional entanglement, but at what cost?

He turned his back on Ithaca, on Telemachus, on the possibility of something more.  The sea stretched before him, a path into the unknown, a journey away from the complexities of human connection, a flight from the very thing that had begun to crack the fortress walls of his heart.  Yet, even as he sailed away, a small, persistent ember of longing flickered within him, a testament to the unexpected bond that had formed, a bond that the vast ocean could not entirely erase.  The sea, his escape, also held the potential for a future reunion, a future he couldn't quite bring himself to imagine, yet couldn't entirely dismiss.  The journey ahead was uncertain, as uncertain as the tides themselves, but one thing was clear:  the encounter with Telemachus had irrevocably altered the course of his life, leaving an indelible mark on the landscape of his soul.

— FIRST OF ALL. i hate this fic, second of all it doesnt look like its neoptolemus at all. GODS. Why is he so hard to write.

— worry not tho, i will be revamping this maybe in the future if i had mastered his character, so i might be.. avoiding to write him now erm hehe..(this fic is by the way heavily inspired of that one scene of imeda's fic, sense. check her fanfic out,it is sooooo good!)

— please do not plaigarize, i am literally everywhere :33 🦚

[myblacknightworld]

Reading the Oresteia, being just on page 9 and talking about Iphigenia's sacrifice, and Agamemnon's making me cry. He was so sad 😭😭😭

[thefage]

I love the Epic The Musical soundtrack so much for so many different reasons. First, it feels really cyclical, the stories were originally told in poetic verse in the form of hymns, then written down, and now they're once again being told in poetic verse in the form of songs, and I think that's beautiful. Humans can't stop telling stories and making poetry and singing songs, and the musical honors the spirit of the original medium of telling the story really well but pots a modern twist on it. I also love the range of emotions the songs stir up. Each one inspires me to create or learn in a different way. Some songs make me want to ice skate, some make me want to learn more about various weaponry, some make me want to play the cello, and some make we want to draw. The only exception to this being Legendary, which, for the first half, makes me want to skate, but then there's the jarring transition to the second half, which just makes me feel like I've been body-checked by a bunch of hockey players, and then it's supposed to be followed by Little Wolf, which is a song that just generally makes me want to climb the walls and do stuff.

[geneticdriftwood]

telemachus be nice to your mom challenge

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Can we have a continuation of the fatherhood oneshot with Odysseus 😇 maybe Telemachus mildly complaining/embarrassed that his dad immediately got his mom pregnant but at the same time the new member of the family seems to really brighten up the palace more? i just think it's cute and im a sucker of Odysseus (and also Penelope 🫶)

A/n: YES! ( i have been hoping someone would ask me too!) I too love them both (im gonna have to write something for Penelope too cause she deserves it)

Part two too this fic

But yay! More Dad! Odysseus!

Oc used- Leander being the reader's brother.

Telemachus sighed deeply, arms crossed as he leaned against one of the palace’s stone pillars, watching the scene before him with a mixture of fondness and pure exasperation.

The palace had always been lively, but lately?

It had become utter chaos.

Because once again—his father had gotten you, his dear mother pregnant.

And gods help him—why did no one else find this concerning?!

“I don’t understand,” Telemachus muttered to Leander his uncle,who stood beside him, looking equally amused and unimpressed.

“The man comes home after twenty years, and the first thing he does is immediately get my mother pregnant.”

Leander your brother snorted.

“And then, before the twins can even walk properly—” Telemachus continued, waving his hands toward his heavily pregnant mother, who was currently laughing at something Odysseus whispered into your ear—

“—he does it AGAIN.”

Leander grinned, shaking his head. “I mean, what did you expect? Have you met your father?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Despite his complaints, Telemachus couldn’t deny that the palace had changed.

There was something warmer now, something brighter.

For so long, you had been waiting, longing, praying for his father’s return.

For so long, the halls had been quiet, empty, aching for something missing.

For years he had to deal with the suitor's harassing you, had to stomach the vile things they've said

But now?

Now, there was laughter again.

Now, there were children’s giggles echoing through the corridors.

Now, there was his father—actually home...safe.

And, despite his eternal suffering over his parents’ inability to keep their hands off each other—

Telemachus liked it.

Even if it meant more siblings to babysit.

And even if it meant that his Uncle Leander would never stop teasing him about it.

Telemachus watched as his father gently placed a kiss on your forehead, his hand resting over your belly.

He groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“I’m going to have so many siblings.”

Leander patted his shoulder.

“Better you than me.”

Telemachus let out a long, dramatic sigh.

And yet—even as he complained, he was smiling.

Because deep down, he always wanted to be a big brother.

[qinnyanimation]

Can you do Telemachus x Peisistratus. Our boy Telemachus also deserves some romance with his taller and buff bf like his father.

I have heard the tale, very intrigued. May I invite Telemachus/Peisistus enjoyers to share their experiences in the comments pls? The more the better😈

[xixovart]

even before the wisdom saga and the love in paradise moment, i always thought that odysseus claiming he’d die for penelope and/or telemachus was kind of. yk. far off? not that he wouldn’t die for them, because he would, that just doesn’t mean much coming from him.

idk if i make sense, but what i mean is the threat of dying isn’t so heavy on odysseus as it is on everyone else. he doesn’t edge away from death. especially after thunder bringer, odysseus would welcome death with open arms (i didn’t realize tyat until i typed it i am so, so sorry. not gonna erase it though. it enhances my point.) it’s not something he fears, it’s something he longs for. he wants to let go. he wants to close his eyes and be done with all this. with the suffering and heartache. so saying he’d die for penelope and telemachus is hardly the sentiment it would be for most people.

now, saying he’d live, that’s another topic.

[vyunok-obyknovenniy]

(From Fagles' translation) Book 17 Stranger at the Gates <...> Now, as they talked on, a dog that lay there lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears … It was Argos, long-enduring Odysseus’ dog he trained as a puppy once, but little joy he got since all too soon he shipped to sacred Troy. In the old days young hunters loved to set him coursing after the wild goats and deer and hares. But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway, on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting out before the gates till Odysseus’ serving-men could cart it off to manure the king’s estates. Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect, here lay the hound, old Argos. But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped, though he had no strength to drag himself an inch toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus, diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way: “Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this, lying here on a dung-hill … what handsome lines! But I can’t say for sure if he had the running speed to match his looks or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table, show-dogs masters pamper for their points.”

You told the stranger, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, “Here—it’s all too true—here’s the dog of a man who died in foreign parts. But if he had now the form and flair he had in his glory days— as Odysseus left him, sailing off to Troy— you’d be amazed to see such speed, such strength. No quarry he chased in the deepest, darkest woods could ever slip this hound. A champion tracker too! Ah, but he’s run out of luck now, poor fellow … his master’s dead and gone, so far from home, and the heartless women tend him not at all. Slaves, with their lords no longer there to crack the whip, lose all zest to perform their duties well. Zeus, the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue the day the yoke clamps down around his neck.” With that he entered the well-constructed palace, strode through the halls and joined the proud suitors. But the dark shadow of death closed down on Argos’ eyes the instant he saw Odysseus, twenty years away. <...>

one last job

[little-miss-of-the-sky]

Telemachus x blessed by Hestia reader

Chapter one : a warmth like home

His first memories of her were vague, nothing more than a drop in the ocean of his memory. However, she had found her way into his head and never left. 

Telemachus was only a child when he first saw her, on that dry winter's day. He was still too young to see the true nature of the men who invaded the palace of Ithaca. To see the damage Demeter's grief was causing. Yet the young prince often heard the maids speak of her, in whispers and gossip. "Child of the hearth", "gift of the gods", "guardian of the fire". So many words used to describe a little girl, seeming rather to evoke something divine. 

The courtiers were like a poison that gradually spread to every corner of Ithaca. The children's laughter had fallen silent, replaced by loud mockery. The corridors, once lit by the soft glow of the sun, were now dirty and desolate. Odysseus seemed to have taken the soul of his island with him when he left for Troy. 

Antinous had had far too much to drink tonight, and the encouragement of his companions only made him madder. Telemachus, sitting at his mother's feet, felt his anger increase with every obscenity he shouted. He, a little boy, could respect his mother, the graceful Penelope of Sparta. So why did men claiming to be courting her turn up every night and harass her like this?

The clamor of the men grew louder with each passing second, like the howling of a wolf pack before a hunt. The maids left discreetly, their heads lowered, and Telemachus felt the courage of his young heart flicker like a flame in the wind. Suddenly, a menacing silhouette detached itself from the group of men. The glow of the torches reflected off his dark skin, and his red tunic evoked the blood he so loved to spill in countless fights. He approached Penelope slowly, each step testing her, preparing to seize her. But the Queen remained dignified, silently weaving on, now carrying the King's honor on her shoulders. 

It wasn't the first time Antinous was trying to force her, unfortunately, far from it. 

Antinous stopped in front of Penelope, letting out a mocking laugh before sighing:

"Let's see, Queen of Ithaca. The King's been gone for 5 years already and you're still thinking about him? So let me...... discover what old Odysseus loved so much".

In an impulse of indignation, Telemachus stood up, his little face taut with anger. This man was leading those who were destroying his life, his home, his father's dignity, and he dared to speak of his mother like a common whore?

"Shut up! My mom deserves better than you! "

The words, fiery with passion, had escaped the young prince's mouth before he could think any further. Under normal circumstances, when Antinous was sober, he would have mocked Telemachus' words, would have launched the other courtiers into countless taunts. But alcohol destroyed his thoughts, fueled the fire in his soul. 

Antinous grabbed a handful of Telemachus' hair, his eyes wide and his mouth forming a menacing sneer. Penelope had stopped her work, frozen at the sight of her son being manhandled in this way, the way her child was threatened. She should have intervened, had to intervene, but that would only make the situation more difficult. 

Telemachus let out a small yelp of pain, a veil of tears covering his eyes as he tried to remove Antinous' fingers from his soft black locks. Antinous simply tightened his grip with a sneer and exclaimed:

"My companions! Who thinks the little prince deserves to learn a lesson the hard way? "

But before anyone could reply, a soft voice was heard: 

"Stop right there Antinous....."

Telemachus turned his head with difficulty towards the origin of the sound. And his heart raced when he saw her, with a mixture of fear and curiosity. A child, hidden by a long crimson cloak, was playing with an old stray cat by the fire . The fabric of her cape was covered with flames embroidered in gold thread, and her worn leather sandals had orange straps. But it was when she revealed her face that the Prince's heart stopped. Her eyes were the color of flames, two orbs blending yellow, orange and red in perfect harmony. 

Some courtiers, annoyed by her intervention, moved towards her, joined by Melanthius and Antinous. The two chatted for a brief moment before Melanthius rushed towards the little girl, raising his hand to slap her across the face. 

She didn't seem bothered at all, preferring to clean the ashes that had accumulated on the cat's paws before declaring, "You, who have so abused Xenia, Melanthius, slapping an envoy of the gods will not appease Lord Zeus's resentment towards you." These simple words were enough to unsettle the courtiers, who all calmed down and returned to their usual huddle. Even Antinous returned to his seat, giving him a nasty look as he passed by her.

When night fell and Telemachus was ready to sleep, snuggled against his mother's chest, a question crossed his mind.

In a tiny voice, he whispered, "Mom? Why was Antinous afraid of the girl? And who is she?" A long silence passed before Penelope answered in a weary voice, her fingers tracing the branches of the olive tree that served as her bed.

With a deep sigh, she declared, "It's....a Girl blessed by Hestia Hestia. We found her asleep amidst the ashes, a few days after your father left. She's your age, and honestly, that child is a true angel. Antinous is afraid of her because she plays at scaring him, but what you saw of her isn't her true personality, far from it..."

Telemachus let out a soft sigh of admiration, his sleepy mind wandering into a world of ideas about this girl blessed by Hestia. With a mischievous smile, he looked at his mother and exclaimed, "She must be as strong as Achilles!"

Penelope let out a laugh as he ruffled her hair and replied, "It is true that she possesses more humility and patience than that great warrior..."

This answer satisfying him, Telemachus snuggled up to his mother again, and before closing his eyes, muttered, "Tomorrow, I will go see her to ask her to play... and tell herthat her eyes are beautiful..."

[illeaadante]

Penelope: [looks at all of the dead suitors all over her house]

Odysseus: [looks at Penelope]

Penelope: so, I know that you've just gotten back from 10 years of war and 10 years of I'm not even sure I want to know what

Odysseus: you don't

Penelope: right. And this is kinda old news, but did you hear about Clytemnestra?

Odysseus: I haven't heard anything about her

Penelope: She killed Agamemnon

Odysseus: really? Good for her. Good for her, I knew she could do better.

Penelope: yeah, she was smote basically right after, but she Did kill him.

Odysseus: that sounds about right. Hope the gods gave her at least a little while to bask though, if anyone deserved it, it was her.

Penelope: that's what I thought. I mean, I know this is kinda small news comparatively but--

Odysseus: no, no. This is good. I missed this. Just us, talking.

Penelope: I missed this too. Hundreds of men in my house, and the only decent conversation I could get was with my own son.

Odysseus: .... y'know, I only killed a little over 100 just now...

Penelope: if some of our guests happened to fall off a balcony or two and into the sea, really it was their fault for standing so close to the edge of such old balconies.

Odysseus: we *haven't* replaced those balconies in a while. It's a shame, but there's nothing you could have done.

Penelope and Odysseus: [smile at each other]

Telemachus: [gagging in the corner because, ew, his parents are so in love and he's gonna need to move out for a *year* while they get 'reacquainted']

[moonlitenvyillust]

Hey TeleNeo fans, want some pain? No? Too bad here you go

Tags: men crying (why would that be a warning tbh), angst (or at least a try out of writing angst), love letters but the sender is dead, major character death, Telemachus is mentioned but is the sender, EURYCLEA MY QUEEN, Neo cries <3, don't you love making character's suffer, ancient Greek gays, TELENEO CLUB HAS FOUR/FIVE MEMBERS ISTG-, deprived of content. So I'll write it!, me being a tired bitch, based on: "to my dear Historia" With too many alterations.

•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙|-π-|⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

And so the letter ends.

The second he heard of the great Odysseus's return, he felt a pang of relief for Telemachus. His beloved finally got the one thing he had dreamed of for his entire life. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous... He never got such reunion with his own father. The great Achilles had died and that was why he was drafted to war.

He immediately set sail to Ithaca as he heard the news. He finished his little quest and immediately jumped onto a ship. His little mind could not comprehend how much he missed the island, but more over, how much he missed his Telemachus

Walking down from the ship to the docs, he was just about to go to the palace when-

"Excuse me, Lord Neoptolemus?"

That voice... Neo remembered her, that's Telemachus's nurse maid, Euryclea.

"It's so hard to try and find you, here, a favor from the prince"

She handed him a letter, albeit an not so old not so new looking one. Atleast a few weeks old. A stain is seen on the edge... Coffee? No, that's the colour of Telemachus's meds when it dries on white.

And the letter wrote...

"To my dear, Phyrrus

As I write this, my health is severely declining. I wished to give this letter to you directly–hell, maybe even say the words I wish to say. But my voice has been lost through my last fight with a suitor. He hit me hard enough, I think I broke my vocal chords. However I of course had asked Euryclea for her word, to give this to you during your next visit. I know for a fact you are a busy man, multiple quests given to you at a time. Henceforth I didn't send this letter, I didn't want to worry you and give you an unsafe return.

That said, I want to be selfish. Just for once. I swear it. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. But even before the suitors plagues my life, I had been dying. In a literal sense.

My body is weaker than an average man and it's not only because of the fact I am untrained, but it's because of severe health disorders... Yes I have been training under Athena, but that doesn't mean my chronic pain just Dissapears. It gets worse, actually. But I can deal with it. Usually

I have realized that my time is no longer than at least a few weeks when this letter is wrote. The headaches had been more frequent, I fall over with leg pains more often, and it just overall shows a sign that my name is in the "to reap" Soul list of Thanatos.

I love you, more than how I would love a friend. But not able to be as a lover, for you deserve someone better. Someone stronger. Someone... Your height of glory. But I shall let myself be selfish for my last few days. I love you.

I ask for my body to only be burnt when you made an appearance. I know it's so much to ask. But words spread fast and you run faster.

So, if I die before you return... Consider this as my goodbye."

It had been a while since the last time Phyrrus cried

But just this once

He let himself weep

•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙|-π-|⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

I had a vague idea for this after watching a "to my dear Historia" Edit, so have this. Share my pain.

@ list because I know who would like this stuff @cutob @no1teleneoshipper @lenamiyabi @lemonade-tree7 here you go. We are deprived of content tbh. Have angst, almost forgot @kindred-spirit-93

[imperatrice21]

I love both the Greeks and Trojans so much, but the Trojans’ fate is just so tragic. I want to see them get their revenge. As much as I adore the idea of Odysseus and Penelope raising Astyanax as their own—Telemachus as a big brother, the whole found-family dynamic—I think it would be way more interesting if Astyanax grew up, learned the truth about his heritage, and chose to avenge Troy.

I need a fanfic where he meets Andromache (because my girl deserves better), frees her, and she eventually tells him the truth—who he really is, who his father was. Astyanax is shocked and wants to understand more about his heritage. Together, they set out to rescue her sisters and their children from captivity. During their journey, she tells him stories of Hector, over that time Astyanax feels confused and his opinion of Odysseus is souring.

Imagine him meeting Helenus and Aeneas, becoming besties with Ascanius before eventually returning to Ithaca for an epic, heartbreaking showdown. He attacks and confronts Odysseus—the man who loved him as a father and tries to sway him—but by this point, he's too far gone. The prophcy comes true and he either dethrones or kills him. Then, he and Ascanius go on to wreak havoc across the rest of Greece.