winxanity-ii

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: CLAIM AND COUNTERCLAIM DIVINE WHISPERS: Claim and Counterclaim | divine whispers: claim and counterclaim⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The wind hadn't even settled behind you before Hermes was already elsewhere.

Not just physically—though, yes, his sandals had carried him far beyond the balcony's reach and through the folds of the sky—but in mind, too. In curiosity. In that familiar ache he never let anyone see.

The glimmer of Ithaca's waves faded beneath him, replaced now by the golden, glistening marble of Olympus. Soft clouds drifted lazily beneath his feet as he stepped lightly into Apollo's private hall, barely making a sound.

Music met him before anything else.

A soft, melodic strumming of an oud. A rich, wordless hum accompanying it—low, smooth, and lined with longing. The kind that curled under your ribs and stayed there, uninvited. Hermes lingered in the doorway, one brow slowly raising as he took in the scene.

There was his brother. Golden as ever.

Apollo was reclining on a lounge chaise, half-draped in sunlight spilling through the arched, open window above him. The eternal rays lit his skin like a statue come to life, the gold of his curls glinting as if kissed by fire.

His white tunic had fallen slightly off one shoulder, the fine fabric loose and crumpled in that effortlessly staged way only gods could achieve. His fingers moved with practiced ease over the oud's strings, coaxing out a melody soaked in something unspoken.

Melancholy? Regret?

No. Hermes narrowed his eyes.

Longing.

Gods, but Apollo could be theatrical.

He stayed quiet, watching for a few beats longer, not quite ready to announce himself. There was a stillness in the room he didn't want to break just yet—an unguardedness that was rare for his sun-bright brother. He looked... softer in this light. Not golden and divine, not sharp with ego or singing of victories.

Just Apollo.

Hermes tilted his head.

Funny, really. So many mortals saw Apollo and thought him the epitome of perfection: sunlit and warm, beautiful and noble. But Hermes knew better.

He had grown up with that gleaming exterior, seen the cracks in the gilded armor. Apollo was many things—brilliant, yes, powerful beyond measure—but also fickle. Impulsive. Possessive in ways he'd never admit.

Dangerous, in all the ways people forgot light could be.

And right now?

He looked like a boy nursing a crush.

Hermes couldn't help the scoff that slipped past his lips. "Pathetic," he muttered, though not loud enough to be heard—not yet.

The smirk that tugged at his mouth came easily, like muscle memory, practiced and effortless. A shield and a knife, both. He gave the music one more beat to linger—one last note to drift off into the quiet—before his wings beat once, twice, and he pushed off from the ground.

He soared through the archway, slow and exaggerated, floating on his back with his hands laced behind his head.

"Apolloooooo," Hermes drawled loudly, voice echoing through the chamber, disrupting the still air with his usual, overbright lilt. "Singing again? Gods, you've really got it bad."

Apollo didn't look up.

But his fingers lagged a bit.

Hermes grinned wider, flipping midair to hover above his brother, upside-down like a smug little starling.

"So," he said, lazily circling. "Who's the muse today, hmm? Let me guess—another seer doomed to madness? That nymph who tried to drown you in spring wine? Wait—was it that shepherd boy with the voice like a dying goat? No, no, no—" He gasped, as if struck with realization. "Don't tell me you're still writing sonnets about Hyacinthus. Again."

That did it.

The oud's song died instantly, the last note ringing like a held breath.

Apollo slowly lifted his head, golden hair catching the light like a halo he hadn't earned. His fingers stilled against the strings, jaw tightening just slightly. He didn't smile.

"Leave," he said flatly. "Before I turn you into a smear on the floor."

Hermes giggled.

He spun once midair, then drifted down in slow, lazy spirals, landing gracefully with a soft thud of his winged sandals against the marble.

"No hello? No how've you been?" he teased. "Come on, brother. It's been days since I last saw your face."

Apollo's glare darkened. "What do you want?"

Hermes waved a hand. "Just stopping by. Delivering. Messaging. Visiting."

His smirk sharpened.

"...Ithaca."

Apollo's gaze flicked up fast—too fast.

Hermes watched the way his brother's posture shifted, just slightly. Not quite stiffening, not yet—but the kind of reaction Hermes had learned to read eons ago.

The god of prophecy didn't like surprises.

"And what," Apollo said carefully, each syllable sharp as polished bronze, "would business in Ithaca require from you? Delivering letters to your descendants?" He tilted his head slightly. "Or are you breeding more?"

Hermes laughed, full of unbothered delight. "Tempting! But no. Not this trip." He strolled forward now, light and aimless, as if he hadn't come here for anything important at all. He passed a pillar carved with sunbursts and laurel leaves, tapping it idly with his knuckles.

"I was just... near the palace," Hermes said airily. "You know how it is. One errand leads to another." He shot a glance over his shoulder, voice dropping just a little. "One face leads to another."

Apollo said nothing.

But his eyes followed.

Hermes came to a stop beside the chaise, reaching down to pluck one of the strings on the oud. It hummed under his fingers, sharp and dissonant.

"Oh," he said suddenly, as if just remembering. "Speaking of faces—gifts, actually—guess what I saw while I was there?"

Apollo didn't answer, but Hermes didn't need him to.

He leaned forward, his voice light and false-curious.

"There was this little piece," he mused. "A choker. Gold, marble inlays. Laurel pendant." He tilted his head. "Sound familiar?"

He didn't wait for Apollo to answer.

"Oh, silly me," Hermes added with mock innocence, tapping his chin as if trying to remember something very difficult. "It was on someone... what's the title now? The mortals gave her something recently... Oh! Right. Ithaca's Divine Liaison."

Apollo's smirk returned before the sentence even finished forming; he leaned back into the light like it bowed to him, like it belonged to him, that familiar pride settling on his face like a crown. His fingers curled around the oud's neck, not playing it anymore, just holding it—like a memory, like a comfort.

"It looked gorgeous on her, didn't it?" he asked, voice warm with pride. "A centerpiece. Something soft and radiant." His eyes gleamed. "Like her."

Hermes raised a brow. "Mmm," he hummed. "Or a leash."

Apollo's smile didn't falter.

But the air around them shifted—just slightly.

Hermes' teasing smile stayed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes now. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sharp pull that looked almost like amusement—if you didn't know better.

He did.

It was forced. Hollow. Covering something else.

His fingers drummed lightly against his hip as he stepped away from the window. Just a small shift in posture. A casual movement. But even he felt it—his own muscles coiling tighter than usual.

And then his voice—still sweet, still light—cut the quiet with something colder just beneath the surface.

"So..." he said, tilting his head, "you just gave her the pendant, then? As a gift?"

Apollo once again kept quiet.

Hermes kept his eyes fixed on him. Still smiling. But his voice dropped just slightly, enough to scrape against something bitter in his chest.

"Or is that little laurel more than decoration?" he asked, feigning curiosity. "Do you know what it does, Apollo? Or maybe you do know. Maybe you made sure."

Apollo's hands had stilled. The oud quiet in his lap. But he hadn't looked up yet.

Hermes stepped closer, boots soft against the cloud-marble floor.

"Funny thing, really," Hermes said with a quiet scoff. "I touched it earlier. Just for a second. Could feel your essence clinging to it like sweat. Divine imprint, binding, warmth in the gold that doesn't come from the forge. And I thought, huh. That's strange."

He leaned in, just slightly, voice low. Dry.

"I didn't realize you were putting a claim on her."

Apollo's fingers twitched around the neck of the oud—just once—but it was enough.

Hermes felt it.

That invisible ripple of tension. The sun heating a little too much against his skin. The air humming faintly. The pressure building like a storm waiting to break.

Apollo's grip on the oud tightened. Not as a musician. Not as a lover of melody.

Like a man holding a blade.

"What are you implying, brother?" Apollo asked, quiet and dangerous, not looking up yet. A warning.

But still, Hermes didn't back down. His smile vanished like it was never there.

"Don't play coy," he snapped, louder now. "You know what I mean. I know what divine favor feels like. And that choker? That wasn't a gift. It was a tether."

Apollo's head turned. Slowly. His eyes locked on Hermes.

Hermes took another step, laughing bitterly as he threw a hand up, gesturing as if to a chalkboard no one could see.

"And now I'm wondering," he said. "All the rest of your gifts—every single flower, every relic, every 'pretty little token' she thinks is harmless—do they all carry pieces of you too?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

He hissed it like a joke that tasted wrong in his mouth. "No wonder she reeks of you."

That was when the silence snapped.

The light shifted.

The sun that had been soft in Apollo's hall turned sharper—gold becoming white, glow turning to glare. The shadows near Apollo's chaise deepened unnaturally, curling long across the floor like claws reaching for the edges of Hermes' boots.

Apollo stood slowly, his oud set down with care he didn't mean.

His expression wasn't amused anymore.

No smirk. No song.

Just shadow behind gold.

He stared down at Hermes, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—but there was something behind them now. Something gleaming too bright to look at directly.

And then... he laughed.

A short, bitter thing.

"Oh," Apollo said, voice colder than it had any right to be, "that's what this is."

He stepped closer, his smile returning—but it was a different kind of smile now. One that didn't reach his eyes. One made of teeth, not warmth.

"You're jealous."

Hermes didn't flinch, but lip ticked once.

Apollo tilted his head, curls shifting like golden vines over his brow, is grin sharpened into something crueler. Something knowing. "Don't tell me, little brother," he purred. "That you've set your eyes on my muse?"

Hermes' jaw clenched.

A small movement. Barely there. But it betrayed the storm beginning to churn beneath the smirk he still wore like armor. A crack in the performance.

Because he knew what Apollo was doing.

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, gold eyes gleaming with something sharp as his brother's words echoed back at him.

"My muse."

What a possessive little title, dressed up in poetry. He should've expected it.

Apollo always did have a knack for taking things that weren't his and branding them with sunfire.

The sun god lounged back, all golden indifference and slow, poisonous amusement, his fingers lazily brushing across the strings of the oud still resting in his lap. A low chord hummed in the air like a held breath.

Apollo's smirk widened, eyes never leaving his brother's face. "It's already bad enough her attention's been divided lately," he said casually, voice smooth like silk stretched over broken glass. "Flitting around like some lovesick swallow. That little prince she's been hovering over? What is it? Telemachus?" He clicked his tongue, mock-pity threading through every syllable. "A mortal with more weight in his scowl than in his legacy. Hardly worthy of her... affection. But now you?"

His laugh was low, darkly amused, but Hermes didn't move.

"You, little brother? Trying your hand at romance?" Apollo continued, like he hadn't just twisted the knife, "you want to try your luck with her too?"

The air thickened. The golden light from the windows seemed to pulse—too warm, too close.

He didn't give Hermes room to speak.

"I should've known. It's always the ones who go unnoticed who get the hungriest, isn't it?" Apollo tsked, shaking his head like a disappointed father. "Poor thing. Must be exhausting—carrying everyone's stories, and never starring in one."

"I mean, you always did flutter too close to things that weren't meant for you. Letters, souls, hearts..." Apollo he mused, eyes narrowing with a cruel kind of clarity. "It's too bad too. You were always... entertaining," Apollo went on, lifting one hand to admire the light as it danced across his palm, his tone flippant and cutting. "Useful, too. Quick with words, quicker with your feet. But never quite the one they chose, were you?"

Hermes' fingers flexed against his staff; he said nothing, but his silence wasn't empty. It crackled.

Apollo's gaze flicked down, his smirk sharpening. "You watch the way she glows in a room, the way she laughs when no one else is brave enough to. And you think maybe, this time, someone might look at you like that. Like you're the center of their story."

Hermes' chest rose, slowly.

Apollo tilted his head, faux thoughtful. "But... she already has me."

There it was again—possessive and proud, like a crown fitted too tightly on a sunlit head.

The air pressed hotter against his skin, not from Olympus' glow, but from Apollo's radiance sharpening—like the sun threatening to burn even his divine flesh.

That old pang surged in his chest, the one he thought he’d buried centuries ago. The one that whispered he’d always be the footnote, never the tale. A god of arrivals and departures—never the destination.

And Apollo, golden bastard that he was, had the gall to hum afterward. A slow, self-satisfied sound.

"I mean," Apollo purred, "she is beautiful. Can't blame you, really. That mouth... those eyes. The kind of beauty you'd immortalize in a statue—or start a war over, I suppose."

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It hung in the air like a blade.

Hermes blinked once. Slowly.

And then he smiled.

Too wide.

Too bright.

His body straightened, floating slightly off the ground as if weightless again. That cocky tilt returned to his brow, his sandals catching a glimmer of light as he hovered just slightly above the marble.

"Oh, no argument here," Hermes said lightly, smoothing a hand through his curls. "She's the kind of girl who could rival Helen herself—only difference is, she wouldn't start a war."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "She'd end one. With a smile."

Apollo's brows pinched, but it was Hermes turn, and he didn't allow him the chance to even attempt speak.

"Softest arms I've ever held," Hermes added, gaze distant now—almost wistful. "Do you know she cries quietly? Doesn't want anyone to hear. But she let me. She leaned into me. Let me stay." He chuckled, eyes flashing gold. "That kind of trust? Can't be bought. Or gifted."

Hermes let the words linger for a beat. His gaze drifted to the space where sunlight spilled across the marble, and for just a moment, the usual mischief in his eyes dimmed.

"I've delivered a thousand love letters, heard a thousand prayers. But none ever sounded like her voice when she said my name."

He drifted forward, lazy, languid in his movements—like a shadow of smoke curling too close to fire.

"Her stare could turn a god to stone if she wanted to," Hermes continued, tilting his head. "But it didn't. Not when she looked at me. She looked at me like I was something worth holding onto."

Apollo's expression was unreadable now. Taut. Quiet. Dangerous.

Hermes smirked. "Now, I'm sure you've given her gifts. Gods know you love your grand gestures. But affection?" He raised a brow. "That's earned."

He shrugged casually. "You can't force what she wants. And if what she wants... isn't you?" Hermes' voice dipped into something colder—quieter. "Well. That's not a flaw in her. It's just your curse."

He turned in a slow circle, rising higher.

"May the best god win, brother," he sang sweetly.

And with that, Hermes spun on his heel mid-air, red cloak flaring behind him like a flare of dusk-colored fire.

But as he soared toward the open archway—his back to the sun god—his smile faded.

His face, caught in the shadow of his own departure, darkened.

Because he'd seen it.

That flicker.

That edge of something terrible and old building in Apollo's eyes.

And for the first time since this game began, Hermes wasn't entirely sure he'd stay ahead.

Not if Apollo stopped playing.

And started hunting.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 36 ┃ 𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐬; y'all are so amazing 🥹🥹 so many comments reminding me to take care of myself/get some rest 😭😭😭the way y'all know my habits/tendency to dive-into stuff, i swear it's like y'all knew i was running on fumes 🤣 anyways, i know i've been posting lots of 'divine whispers' but i hope they help give more insight for the characters etc. ❤️ enjoy (also, since i don't usually post fanart in the 'divine whispers' i'll have them in the next chappie (YALLL THEY LOOK SO GOOD,)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

me crying at 4am listening to EPIC: The Musical like:

wait. in "monster" odysseus says he'll become the monster to get home. like:

"then I'll become the monster / like none they've ever known." "ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves."

but then in "legendary" telegirl is out here begging:

"somebody tell me, come and give me a sign—if I fight those monsters, is it you I'll find?"

like do you REALIZE the tragedy here??? he’s dreaming of monsters so he can find his father but the gag is— his father IS becoming the monster.

he doesn't even know he might have to face the very thing he’s praying to find. it's giving tragic poetic irony it's giving legacy trauma pipeline it's giving "my father went to war and came back a stranger"

no bc telegirl's out here asking for sirens and cyclops and meanwhile odysseus is literally like "i'll throw an infant off a wall if it means i get back to him."

i need a moment. this musical is ruining me in real-time.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 36 Chapter 36 | oats and olive pits⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The journey down had been peaceful—surprisingly so.

The royal carriage had been comfortably full, yet not stifling.

You sat across from Penelope and Odysseus, the former gently chiding the latter for dozing off halfway through the ride, while Telemachus lounged beside you. Lady curled neatly at your feet with her head resting across your boots; the beast had only yawned once when a bump in the road shook the carriage—then promptly went back to sleep, tail flicking lazily against your ankle.

The conversation had been light. Odysseus pointed out which merchants would try to swindle newcomers; Penelope shared a funny story about Telemachus' first time in the square as a child—how he once tried to duel a pigeon—smiling gently as she straightened the edge of your shawl. You'd even laughed freely when Telemachus buried his face in his hand in embarrassment, groaning that she was never allowed to tell that story again.

The warmth in the air wasn't just from the sun.

And every so often, when your eyes had drifted to him—you'd find that his had already been on you.

When the carriage rolled to a gentle stop at the edge of the square, you could already hear the lively murmur of townspeople gathering.

Though Ithaca's market day was winding down, the buzz of voices, colorful stretch of woven awnings, and faint scent of roasted nuts and olives still lingered thick in the square.

The door was opened with a crisp flourish by the coachman, sunlight spilling in across the ornate floorboards. Odysseus stepped out first, boots landing firm and assured on the cobbled stones. With the smooth familiarity of a king used to ceremony, he turned, extending a steady hand for his queen.

"Careful now," he murmured, a private note in his voice as Penelope gracefully accepted his help, her cloak catching in the breeze like a banner, smiling as her sandals touched down beside him.

Telemachus followed, and without hesitation, he turned to you, his palm upturned in a silent offer. You placed your hand in his, letting him guide you out. His fingers curled slightly around yours, and before letting go, he gave your hand a soft, grounding squeeze.

Encouragement. Reassurance.

You weren't doing this alone.

You smiled at him, just a little—enough to make his lips twitch in answer before Lady leapt down behind you, tail wagging softly, her sleek black fur glinting in the sun.

Before you could properly take in the vibrant bustle of the square, a familiar voice rang out.

"Your Majesties!"

Peisistratus was already moving through the thinning crowd, his broad frame cutting through the throng with ease. He offered a bow toward the royal couple, then straightened with a grin.

"My lords. My lady," he greeted warmly. Then, his eyes flicked to you—gentle, respectful. "And Divine Liaison."

You offered a polite nod, trying to ignore the flicker of nerves in your chest at the formality—it still hadn't settled on your ears.

Peisistratus stood tall, dressed in soft leathers and a short sapphire cloak. His hair was tousled by wind, but his expression was polished with soldierly ease; he looked every bit the confident warrior and trusted friend he'd always been.

You saw the flicker of a grin tug at his mouth when he glanced at Telemachus, though the grin quickly vanished beneath protocol.

"My father sends his regards," he added. "He apologizes for not greeting you himself—he's back at home assisting with political issues with neighboring kingdoms."

"No apologies needed," Odysseus said easily, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "You've grown into a fine man, Peisistratus."

There was affection in the words—a father's old fondness for his son's oldest friend.

Peisistratus bowed his head once more, but his eyes flicked quickly—curiously—between you and Telemachus. You weren't sure, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch again. Amused.

Odysseus cleared his throat with a knowing glint in his eye. "I'll give you two a moment to catch up." He offered his arm to Penelope, who took it with grace.

"We'll wait for you in the square," Penelope called back over her shoulder with a sly smile, her golden bracelets catching the sun. "Don't take too long."

You and Telemachus watched as they strolled deeper into the crowd, Lady trotting dutifully after the queen like a shadow in silk.

Odysseus and Penelope had barely stepped out of view before they were gently swallowed up by the wave of townspeople—shoulders clasped, warm greetings exchanged. Penelope's laugh rang out as someone handed her a garland of olive branches, and Odysseus, ever the tactician, smoothly transitioned into small talk with the village elders already settled in their usual bench near the well. A few children even cautiously went near Lady before shrieking in delight when she nosed thier hands.

And then it was just the three of you.

You, the prince beside you, and Peisistratus with that faint, unreadable smile.

The cheerful sounds around you drifted, and Peisistratus took a slow breath, his eyes scanning toward the direction the royal couple disappeared. "That's going to be the last time I see them this season," he said, his tone unusually subdued. "We're scheduled to set out by dawn."

Telemachus' brow knit slightly, but he didn't press. Instead, he let his friend continue.

Peisistratus let out a soft huff of a laugh, though there was little joy in it. "The crew's eager to get back to Pylos. Father needs the ship back, and well—" He waved vaguely. "Duty waits."

Smile tight, Peisistratus ended it with a shrug. "Suppose the tides don't wait for anyone—not even the sons of kings."

Something about his lackluster tone tugged at you, and before you could help yourself, you offered, "Well... there's always next season. The stars don't hide forever."

Peisistratus blinked, then smirked. "Hopeful, are we?"

You shrugged, offering a light laugh. "You always seem to find your way back here. Ithaca has that charm."

He placed a hand over his chest, feigning dramatic offense. "Not Ithaca, surely. It must be its residents." Then his eyes gleamed as they flicked to you. "Specifically the clever, beautiful, and heartbreakingly kind ones with a voice like honey. Who could possibly resist?"

Your hand flew to your mouth, hiding a grin that bloomed almost too wide. Gods, he made it so hard not to smile—his charm wasn't the flashy kind, but it was magnetic all the same. It curled around you like honey in the sun.

Telemachus' gaze slid sideways toward his friend, his smile thinning just a touch as he raised a brow. "Flatter Ithaca all you want," he said dryly, nudging Peisistratus in the shoulder. "But if you plan to sit around waxing poetic all day, go find a seat. Before I start charging you for air."

Peisistratus cackled, clapping Telemachus' back hard in return. "Was that jealousy, Prince? Be careful, or it might ruin your handsome face," he teased before bowing—an exaggerated, theatrical thing aimed in your direction—then wandered off, likely in search of food or more trouble.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, but the corner of his mouth still twitched upward. Without a word, he turned toward you and extended his arm, a quiet invitation.

You took it.

His hand curled lightly over yours, warm and solid, grounding.

"Come on," he murmured, "before Peisistratus somehow finds a way to convince the baker to name a tart after himself."

You snorted softly, letting him lead you.

The square was livelier now—children running with ribbons tied to their wrists, vendors calling out deals, flowers braided into garlands being flung over shoulders like blessings. And in the center, tall and moss-kissed, the town's fountain stood like a relic from an older time. Water trickled gently from its wide basin, the soft splashing almost drowned out by the chatter of the crowd.

You hadn't realized it until you were stepping up beside Telemachus, but the ledge of the fountain—smooth stone, wide and just high enough to demand balance—was where your stage had been set.

Of course. A raised surface. In front of everyone.

Your stomach dipped as you climbed up, the hem of your dress brushing your ankles. For a brief second, you allowed yourself to glance behind you—beyond the crowd, the wide glimmer of water sparkled under the sun, the nearby bay stretching toward the horizon.

Great, you thought, blinking slowly. If I humiliate myself, I'll have somewhere to dramatically fall into. How poetic. Or pathetic. Both.

You swallowed thickly and turned forward again.

Telemachus gave your hand one last gentle squeeze before stepping down beside the fountain's edge. He didn't go far—just far enough to give you space. You felt the absence of his hand instantly.

Then, just as the quiet hum of the crowd began to fade, a familiar voice whispered from somewhere in your hair.

"Worst case?" Hermes murmured, his tone playful but oddly soothing. "You trip, stutter, forget your own name, and they call you 'Divine Disaster' forever."

You made a face.

"...best case," he added more gently, "you make them love you."

You didn't respond—your lips too tight, your nerves too frayed—but your fingers curled into your palms, a silent thank you anyway.

You looked out across the crowd. Odysseus met your gaze, standing near the front with Penelope, her hands gently folded in front of her. He gave you the smallest nod, then stepped forward.

The king's voice, when he spoke, rose with ease and assurance—polished from years of war councils and court politics.

"People of Ithaca," he called, and the murmurs of the square died down like someone had drawn a curtain. "Today, I bring before you not a soldier, not a noble, but a voice. A voice that has, in a short time, reached not only the ears of Ithaca... but the heavens."

You froze. Odysseus turned his head slightly toward you, his voice softening.

"This is your Divine Liaison. Chosen not by crown, not by birthright, but by the gods themselves. Today, she speaks with them... for us."

A rustle spread across the crowd. Odysseus turned back to rejoin Penelope, one arm slipping easily around her waist as he settled beside her.

And suddenly, you were alone.

The wind tickled your ankles. Your hair shifted.

All eyes were on you.

The spotlight had arrived.

And so had Hermes.

You barely had time to gather a breath before the familiar flutter of wings rustled against your ear, followed by his signature whisper, low and gleeful.

"Alright, little muse. Say this: 'I greet you, sons and daughters of fishmongers and demigods. For the blessed olives of Ithaca feed not only the belly—but the soul.'

You blinked. Froze. Tilted your head just enough to hiss, "What?"

"Go on," he urged in a teasing tone. "Say it with conviction. Or die of embarrassment. Either or."

You scowled. "Absolutely not."

"Too late, little dove~"

Your mouth moved on its own.

You physically grimaced as the ridiculous words left your lips:

"I thank the gods and the goats for this sun-kissed day..."

"May Achilless bless your arrows and Adonis your love lives..."

"And may Hades always keep both sides of your pillow cool..."

For a half-second, you were sure this was it. This was your downfall. You would be disowned, banished from Ithaca, and maybe Apollo himself would descend from the skies and revoke his favor just out of secondhand embarrassment.

You clenched your fists at your sides, internally already packing your things.

They're going to laugh, you thought. They're going to stare. You'd be lucky if Odysseus didn't throw a sandal at you.

Instead...

Silence.

Then—

A chuckle.

Then a few nods.

One old woman in the front row brought her hand to her chest with a teary sniff.

You blinked rapidly.

What?

The people were eating it up.

You could feel Hermes' tiny bird-form balancing on your shoulder now, his warmth tucked just behind your ear. "Told you," he whispered smugly. "Just trust me."

Your knees still wanted to give out. You weren't sure your legs were attached anymore. Were you levitating?

"Alright," Hermes hummed, "next: 'Just as the tides bow to Poseidon, so too must we bow to kindness. Except I won't bow to Poseidon. He knows what he did.'"

You paused mid-breath. "Hermes—"

"You will say it. You're already standing here. What are you gonna do? Leave?"

You glared forward at nothing in particular. But you said it.

You said all of it.

And by some miracle—some divine prank of the gods—it worked.

You didn't know how, but as they left your mouth, the crowd reacted not with confusion but reverence. Smiles bloomed. Heads nodded. You swore you saw one man place a hand on his heart, his lips moving in time with your final lines. A woman at the back dabbed at her eyes with her apron.

No way.

No way this was working.

Out of pure instinct, you turned your head slightly, trying to spot the royal family.

Odysseus stood tall, his hand on Penelope's shoulder. Both looked straight at you, eyes bright with pride. Penelope smiled softly. Telemachus was already clapping, before the rest of the crowd even started.

Hermes nuzzled closer, voice low. "Now, finish with: 'We are stars born from olive pits and sea salt. Let Ithaca's song never be silenced.' And throw in something mildly inappropriate. The mortals love it."

"What?"

"Like... insult a god. Pick Dionysus. Or maybe Zeus. He's overdue."

"Are you trying to get me smited?"

"I mean if you don't, I will~"

You wanted to groan, but your mouth was already moving.

"...And may Dionysus finally learn moderation. In all things. Except festivals."

There was a beat of silence—

Then cheers exploded across the square.

"Divine Liaison!" someone called.

Then another. "Divine Liaison!"

The chant rippled like a wave. "Divine Liaison! Divine Liaison!"

You blinked. Froze again. Staring dumbly out at a sea of smiling faces, half in awe and half in shock.

You'd expected awkward silence at best. A fruit thrown at your head at worst.

Instead, they were chanting your name like you were a hero.

"Good pick," Hermes snickered, "You were about to call Hera's sacred cow a three-nippled fraud that smells like smoked olives."

You stepped down from the fountain ledge, barely remembering to lift your skirts so you didn't trip. Telemachus moved to meet you halfway, but you weren't focused on him. Not yet.

You whispered sideways into your shoulder, "Did that seriously work?"

Hermes snorted in your ear. "Absolutely not. But I put a charm on your voice. They heard the most inspiring, tearjerking, soul-healing speech to ever grace this kingdom."

You stared at nothing.

He giggled. "One woman thinks you quoted her dead husband. A baker is giving you free bread for life. And I think that old man in the back just offered to name his cow after you."

You sighed. "Of course you did."

And then kept walking.

The sound of your name still echoed faintly behind you, but it was nothing compared to the warmth waiting in front of you.

The moment you reached the royal family, Penelope didn't even try to hide her joy—her hands flew to her mouth, eyes shining. "Oh, ____," she beamed, stepping forward and clutching your hands in hers. "You were magnificent. The way you spoke—the people adore you already!"

You blinked, still trying to process everything. "I—really?"

"You really didn't hear them chanting?" Telemachus added, stunned. His grin stretched wide across his face. "I thought you'd faint halfway through. Or at least... throw up behind the fountain."

Your brows lifted in offense. "What?"

He laughed. "I meant because of your fear of public speaking," he said quickly. "You know—the whole stammering, duck-and-run thing you do whenever more than three people look at you?"

"Oh?" Penelope gasped, her gaze whipping to her son. "You told me she'd worked on that!"

Telemachus held up both hands defensively. "I did! Or... I thought she had."

Odysseus, who had remained quiet until now, cleared his throat. "I mean, technically, she has now."

Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't prepare her?"

"I did," Odysseus said with an unapologetic shrug. "When I told her what she'd be doing today."

Penelope gasped again and gave her husband's arm a light swat. "Odysseus!"

He chuckled, unbothered, rubbing his arm dramatically. "What? She didn't faint."

"She could've!"

"But she didn't," he said, flashing you a sly smile.

Penelope huffed—but the smile tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her pride. "Come," she sighed, slipping her arm into Telemachus'. "I want a pastry before the good ones are all picked through."

Telemachus grinned and nodded, giving you a soft wink before guiding his mother toward the dessert tables, the two of them already giggling over something.

You watched them walk away.

Then turned, feeling Odysseus' gaze on you.

He was quiet for a few beats, arms behind his back, his posture deceptively casual.

And then—"Do you think I was being cruel?" he asked, voice low, thoughtful. "Sending you out there unprepared?"

Your first instinct was to say yes. Your mouth even parted, but you caught yourself. Instead, you let your gaze drift toward the cobblestone beneath your sandals, forcing yourself to take in his question seriously—fully.

"I thought..." You took a breath, swallowing your pride. "I thought you were testing me."

"I was." His reply came instantly. No hesitation. "But not to see if you'd fail."

He looked away briefly, watching the townspeople still buzzing with life and praise, then back at you.

"Just to see if you'd rise."

You stared at him.

Odysseus continued, voice even. "You want to walk alongside us now. Gods or no gods, favor or not—being divine liaison means more than handling the blessings." He nodded toward the square. "It means handling everything. Especially when the moment comes without warning. Especially when the gods are silent."

Your breath caught.

He hadn't just thrown you into chaos for fun.

He'd seen the signs—heard the things Penelope and Telemachus had shared—and decided it was time to see for himself.

"How else," he said gently, "would we know you could stand under the weight of it?"

You didn't respond right away. Instead, you looked back at the square—at the crowd now easing into celebration, at the townspeople who were still smiling and waving at you.

Your heart was still racing.

But now, it was for a different reason.

Not fear.

Readiness.

You nodded slowly, murmuring under your breath, "...Thank you."

Odysseus just nodded once in return, gaze proud and approving, holding out his arm for you.

"Come," he said, turning. "Let's get you something sweet. You've earned it."

☆

☆

The rest of the day passed in a soft, golden blur.

You stayed close to the royal family as they made their way through the town square, Odysseus and Penelope receiving warm greetings from the townspeople, Telemachus smiling politely by your side—his hand brushing yours every now and again. Lady padded faithfully at your heel, earning gasps, shrieks, and wide-eyed stares wherever she trotted, her massive head tilted in curiosity as children reached to touch her fur. (One brave girl did, and to your horror, Lady licked her entire face. The girl laughed. The parents did not.)

You sampled honeyed pastries shaped like dolphins, watched jugglers toss flaming batons, and even cheered on Telemachus and Peisistratus during an impromptu sparring display in the center of the square. When the crowd had finally begun to thin, and the sun dipped low enough to wash everything in amber light, you returned to the palace.

Dinner had been a lively, celebratory affair. The table overflowed with roast lamb, citrus-drenched olives, and baked breads stuffed with herbs. At some point, music erupted from one corner of the hall—pipes, drums, even lyres (not divine ones, just regular ones)—and the dancing had begun.

You joined in for a while. You laughed when Penelope insisted on twirling you through a folk step. You clapped when Kieran made a show of sweeping one of the palace cooks into a spin, Peisistratus in a corner doing some half-Pylian, half-disaster of a jig. You even humored Callias when he dramatically fell to his knees and demanded you teach him "the divine steps of Apollo himself."

But eventually, it all began to blur again.

The warmth, the chatter, the lights—all spinning into something hazy and soft at the edges.

And so, when no one was looking, you slipped away.

The balcony was quiet, removed from the festivities, and just high enough to make you feel like you were somewhere between the heavens and the sea. A cool breeze brushed your face, playing gently with the hem of your dress as you stepped out.

The ocean stretched before you like a dark mirror. Each wave shimmered faintly under the rising moon, rushing and receding with an ancient rhythm you could never quite match.

You leaned forward slightly, your hands on the marble railing. Just... watching.

Letting yourself breathe.

And for the first time that day—maybe even the first time since everything had begun—you were alone.

Truly, quietly, blissfully alone.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The ghost of the townspeople's cheers still echoed faintly in your ears. You could almost feel the weight of the crownless title sitting on your shoulders—the divine liaison. A name that still felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone more sure. Someone more chosen.

But then... you'd done it.

Albeit with some questionable help.

You let out a quiet laugh, breath fogging the air slightly. "Maybe Hermes was just bored," you murmured, lips quirking. "But still..."

The crowd hadn't booed. Odysseus hadn't looked disappointed. Penelope had kissed your cheek. Telemachus had... well, looked at you like you'd pulled the sun itself down to walk beside him.

You didn't fail.

No one laughed.

No one doubted.

Maybe... maybe the gods hadn't picked wrong.

Maybe they'd picked someone who wouldn't give up.

You straightened a little, your reflection in the glass doors catching just the faintest shimmer of confidence. Not pride. Not yet.

But something like it.

Something close.

You'd take the win.

A soft flutter of feathers broke the stillness.

You blinked and turned just in time to see a familiar blur of golden-brown wings swoop onto the stone railing beside you. Hermes—still in his ridiculous, tiny swallow form—landed with practiced ease, his miniature winged cap just barely staying perched atop his feathered head.

He hopped once, twice, before settling directly onto your outstretched hand, talons careful not to prick your skin. "Well," he chirped, voice smug even in its magically compressed tone, "color me shocked. You didn't trip. Cry. Or faint. I almost feel robbed of the chaos."

You couldn't help but laugh, eyes crinkling as you brought your other hand up to gently stroke his back. "Thank you," you said, quiet but full of feeling. "I wouldn't have gotten through it without you."

Hermes didn't say anything for a moment, but you felt it. The way his tiny chest puffed out slightly. A preen of pride.

Maybe a bit too much pride for a bird the size of a teacup.

"You were alright, you know," he finally said, trying to sound casual. "A bit stiff. But passable."

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. "Wow, such high praise."

Before he could answer with another quip, the door behind you creaked open.

You turned, heart giving a small leap when you saw Telemachus’s head poke through the cracked frame. His dark hair was a little tousled from the dancing, his cheeks still faintly pink from the warmth of the hall. He smiled when he spotted you. "There you are. My mother's searching the whole palace for you."

You tilted your head. “Really?”

"She wants to show you the new batch of pastries they brought out," he said, voice light with amusement. "She's convinced they taste better in winter."

You laughed. "I'll be there shortly."

When the young prince entered the palace once more, you glanced back down at the bird still perched on your fingers. "Guess that's my cue."

Hermes nodded—then, in the most ridiculous motion possible, tilted the small hat atop his feathered head with dramatic flair. "Next time," he murmured, with a wink, "remind me to make you say something about Ares bathing habits. That'd kill."

You laughed—really laughed—just as he launched off your hand with a flutter, disappearing into the night sky with a streak of gold and a glimmer of mischief.

And for the first time, the victory didn't feel borrowed.

It felt earned. Yours.

You took one last look at the sea before stepping back inside.

A/N: lolol not me using this as an excuse to write insults about ares, lolol sry hes hot but he gives off the energy he stinks/dont wash between his asscheeks cuz its unmanly 😭😭😔 lemme stop binge watch superstore, i fear the humor has made me a lil✨crass✨

i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️

from Francsy/Franie (@idkanyonealrron tumblr)

Francsy 😭😭 I'm actually obsessed with how simple yet powerfully divine this is—like??? The spotlight, the arrows at her feet, the notes swirling behind her...it feels like this quiet, reverent moment where even chaos itself pauses to listen. You captured the weight of her role in just one frame. She doesn't just play the lyre—she commands the room. Ugh. I love this so much. Thank you again, truly 🫂💛

from chipsiscurious (same username on tumblr)

chip... be so serious 😭 I don't think I'll ever get over your drawing style. Like?? This literally looks like it belongs in a Renaissance exhibit tucked behind velvet ropes and softly lit by golden chandeliers. Eros looks ethereal—elegant but dangerous in that quiet, unnerving way that makes you stare too long. You absolutely nailed the adult form vibe... the kind of face that has ruined empires.

from fvckcare (same username on tumblr)

NOOO BECAUSE THIS IS STUNNING??? 😩 The way their skin tones contrast and compliment each other—chef's kiss, like it's giving classic oil painting vibes with a modern romantic touch. The soft purples, muted reds, and those blushy highlights just work together like they were destined to be on the same palette 😭💜And don't even talk about it being a "messy color sketch"—I legit feel like I'm intruding on something intimate here 😳 Like I caught a forbidden lovers' moment through the bushes and now I'm silently backing away with a hand over my mouth. The mood??? The light??? THE VIBES??? All immaculate.

📝 A lil note from me: Like y'all... I know I may seem overdramatic or way too excited every time I get fanart, but I honestly can't help it 😭 This has always been a dream of mine—to have something I wrote inspire art. Like, fanart. Of my characters. That alone feels insane to me. So yeah, I'm gonna scream, cry, throw hearts everywhere 💘 even if it's just a stick figure named Ned, I will find a reason to love it and treasure it forever 😩❤️ THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO'S EVER DRAWN EVEN A SINGLE LINE INSPIRED BY MY STUFF. I LOVE U (me saving everything down to a t cuzx i love it and y'all)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

“Do you ship...” Buddy I will ship almost anything if I think about it too long. I love love and situations

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: BLOODY BLOODLINE DIVINE WHISPERS: Bloody Bloodline | divine whispers: bloody bloodline⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The sun was still high in the sky as Andreia reclined upon the chaise lounge on her private balcony, teacup balanced daintily between two fingers.

The air held that strange duality only Ithaca could offer this time of year—late season warmth that clung to the daylight hours like a fading lover, while the creeping chill of oncoming night whispered along the edges.

The breeze wasn't biting just yet, but it carried a quiet warning. Still, Andreia remained seated comfortably, her long seafoam robe draped artfully across her legs, the fabric as silky as her expression.

Her balcony faced the palace courtyard, a clever architectural decision that had proved increasingly useful. From her vantage point, she could observe most of the kingdom's daily rhythm without ever setting foot among it.

She took another slow sip of her rosehip tea, eyes lazily scanning the world below.

The servants moved like ants, small and forgettable—scurrying from wing to wing, some bent beneath baskets of fruit, others sloshing water from buckets they barely seemed strong enough to carry.

Her gaze drifted briefly to the training grounds, where several soldiers were sparring, their grunts and the clash of wooden weapons faint against the lull of midafternoon winds.

But it wasn't the servants or the soldiers she focused on when she sat out there.

It was you.

From her elevated perch above the courtyard, Andreia had found the perfect vantage point—not just to enjoy the Ithacan sun, but to watch. To observe. To study.

Lately, she had made a deliberate habit of keeping to herself more often. At least on the surface.

She had taken the queen's polite suggestion of rest to heart, cloaking her moments of silence as grace and reflection. A grieving sister. A dutiful guest. A princess with composure. She wore the role well.

But underneath it all, she was planning. Waiting.

Calculating her next move.

Whenever you flitted about the courtyard below, flanked by servants or brushing shoulders with noblemen, Andreia watched. The way your hair caught the light, the way your skirts moved when you turned too quickly, the way those around you seemed to lighten in your presence.

It irritated her. No—it intrigued her. Which was worse.

There was something about you that demanded attention. Not overtly. Not with arrogance or entitlement.

But with that dangerous, glowing ease.

It made people look. It made people follow.

And Andreia could not have that.

Right now, around her, the air was thick with fragrance—lavender oil and jasmine, mingling in the warm breeze that hadn't yet realized the season had turned.

Though it was nearing the colder months, Ithaca's days still clung to their golden heat, as though stubbornly refusing to give in. Only at night did the truth of the season whisper in your bones. But now, in the soft cradle of the afternoon sun, Andreia lounged like a cat before a hearth.

She sat reclined on a cushioned chaise beneath a silk-draped canopy, her feet extended and resting atop a velvet ottoman. A young man—dark-haired and silent—was crouched at the edge of the lounge, working slow circles into her arches and heels, the tips of his fingers pressing expertly into the delicate curves of her foot.

Two female attendants stood to either side, holding tall banana leaves fashioned into fans. With synchronized grace, they waved them in alternating rhythms, keeping the breeze steady. The rustle of leaves was soft, like whispers in a chapel.

And then there was Dorea.

Seated at Andreia's right on a carved stool, the older handmaiden held her mistress' free hand lightly between her palms. Her fingers massaged slow circles into Andreia's wrist as she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone of news from back home.

"...and I swear on my mother's hair, Lady Myrrhine said that for her birthday, your parents gifted her a new dress that has a gold trim and moonstone inlays—and she didn't even want it." Dorea clicked her tongue against her teeth with exaggerated pity. "Seems like they're still treating her like a walking shrine. It's honestly pathetic."

Andreia didn't laugh—she smirked.

A slow, venomous thing.

"That insufferable little brat," she muttered, bringing the rim of her teacup to her lips. "Lucky her family has ties in the capital or I'd have had her drowned in the bath by now."

The way she said it was so casual, so offhanded, that none of the servants even flinched. If anything, Dorea gave a soft, cooing chuckle, her fingers smoothing up Andreia's forearm like one would a spooked cat.

"She's nothing, my lady. A swollen ego stuffed in a pretty dress," Dorea soothed. "And you're here now. Far from Bronte's nonsense. Far from her."

The others murmured agreement, nodding like silent birds, their expressions serene but sharpened by years of complicity.

Andreia leaned deeper into her cushions, her forest-green eyes scanning the courtyard again—this time more lazily, the dangerous gleam in them now veiled by a practiced calm. "Yes... thank the gods the little thing didn't beg to follow me here like some loyal pet. She always was more obsessed with the attention than the legacy."

She plucked a grape from the bowl beside her, pressing it between her lips with slow relish.

"Ithaca is cleaner without her noise. And more importantly"—she paused to sip her tea—"it gives me all the space I need to do what I've been meaning to for years."

Dorea's hand stilled just briefly against hers. "Which is, my lady?"

Andreia smiled.

But it was not sweet. Not warm. Not coy.

It was cold, and quiet, and certain.

"To take my rightful place," she said, sipping her tea again as though they were discussing curtain colors. "And if anyone stands in my way..."

Her eyes flicked down to the courtyard, to that damned cypress tree you always seem to sit underneath, her nails tapping against the porcelain cup before she setting it gently aside.

"...they'll learn the cost of crossing someone raised to survive Bronte."

Andreia's lips had just curled around the rim of her teacup again when one of the girls holding a palm fan—Tylissa, the taller one—shifted uneasily and tilted her head toward the courtyard.

"My lady," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even but still hesitating, "I believe... the royal family is approaching."

Andreia hummed in vague acknowledgment, not bothering to glance up from her cup.

Tylissa added carefully, "The Divine Liaison is with them."

That made Andreia pause.

Her eyes—sharp and glinting like wet stone—lifted slowly, flicking toward the courtyard's distant path. Her pupils narrowed like a cat's.

There you were.

She didn't blink.

Penelope was gliding gracefully beside her husband, as always, posture straight but easy. Odysseus walked beside her, one arm casually draped behind her back. And flanking the queen—of course—was you.

Not trailing behind.

Not clinging meekly to the edges.

No.

You walked just a step behind Telemachus, who kept glancing over his shoulder to speak to you every few paces, his voice light, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

But it was you she focused on.

You wore your clothes differently than when she'd first arrived. They clung better now. Held shape. Your posture had changed, too—shoulders straighter, chin raised just a bit higher, like someone who'd finally realized the weight of all the eyes watching them... and started enjoying it.

And then there was the beast.

Lady.

Trotting like some smug little hound right between you and Queen Penelope—her sleek dark fur catching the light like obsidian, her white bow bobbing with each regal step. The damn thing even looked proud of herself.

Andreia set her teacup down with a clink.

"Look at her," she muttered, lips curling just enough to bare her teeth. "Strutting around like she belongs beside a queen. With that beast wedged between them like she's earned its loyalty instead of stumbling into it like a blind fool."

Her servants didn't respond. Not aloud. But Dorea's grip on her hand paused for half a breath.

Andreia didn't notice.

Her gaze never left the path.

You were laughing now—at something Penelope said, maybe. Even from this distance, Andreia could tell you weren't faking it. It wasn't polite or performative. It was light. Giddy.

It was natural.

And it burned.

Andreia reclined further into the cushioned chair, one hand reaching down lazily to stroke the head of the servant still kneeling at her feet. Her voice dropped, like a slow knife sliding from its sheath.

"She may have their smiles now," she murmured, almost more to herself than anyone else, "but smiles are easy things. Cheap."

Andreia didn't take her eyes off the courtyard. Not even when her tea cooled or the breeze picked up, tugging gently at the sheer veil tied to her braid. Her gaze was fixed, razor-sharp as it trailed the path you walked—closer to the king now, your steps quickening to match his.

Telemachus, naturally, fell right into pace beside you. As always.

And though you couldn't see him from where she sat, Andreia could still feel the way his attention lingered on you—softer than it ever was with her. So gentle it made her stomach twist.

The prince of Ithaca—the son of Odysseus, the heir of legends—looked at you like you'd hung the stars he spent his nights stargazing under. Even from the balcony, even with the space between them, Andreia could recognize that kind of gaze. She'd seen it before.

But never for her.

Her grip on the glass of watered wine tightened, fingers whitening against the stem until the vessel gave a small, warning creak. Her eyes narrowed.

"First," she muttered bitterly, "I destroy that... scrap of a lyre. And then—somehow—she go from a weepy little thing to being blessed."

She said the word like it soured on her tongue.

You'd left that courtyard in tears—she remembered it well. Watched from the shadows as you'd knelt beside the broken thing like it was a body. Watched how your fingers trembled. Watched how you hadn't even looked back at her.

And then, days later—

"Oh, now," she hissed softly, her voice laced with venom, "now she's a divine liaison."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "A servant made into a symbol of divine favor. How quaint."

She knew how Ithaca used to be. The old rules. She'd studied the politics before ever stepping foot in the palace. She knew that once upon a time—even just a few years ago—it would've been unthinkable to have a servant at a prince's side. Unseemly. Unfit. Undignified.

But now?

Now you were being escorted with them. Eating beside them. Whispering to the queen like a confidant. Walking alongside Telemachus as if you belonged there.

You weren't just being smiled at or indulged or given scraps of favor. No.

You were blessed.

Andreia's jaw tensed.

Two divine relics—two. Not one, not a whisper of favor, but the type of offerings that carved myths. That wrote them.

The Askálion was already proof enough. Its presence beside you, that silent, ever-watchful beast, was loud in the quietest of ways.

Andreia didn't need to ask where it had come from. No hunter in Ithaca could've caught it. No breeder could have tamed it. She knew the stories—had studied them, remembered them whispered in Bronte during firelit nights like warnings cloaked in wonder.

But it was the lyre that had sealed it for her.

She'd known the moment she heard it. Not when she saw it, no—that would've been too easy. Its newness, its craftsmanship, its divine sheen—all of that could've been explained away. But when you first played it during the festival, when the notes poured from your fingertips like sunlight spun into sound, Andreia had nearly dropped her goblet.

Because she'd heard it before.

In Bronte's oldest myths—ones not sung at court but kept by the temple scribes and old-world bards—there was mention of Aurelián, the lyre of Apollo's choosing.

Not of his making. No, even the gods, it said, didn't forge Aurelián. It was found, not made—plucked from the wreckage of a star that fell into the sea during the first age of man. Its frame was carved from celestial driftwood, its strings spun from golden light and bound with the breath of the Muses that could make Titans weep.

And now it was in your arms.

It wasn't coincidence. It can't be.

Andreia's  gaze followed your figure, every movement grating against her composure like a poorly strung harp.

"A beast of protection.., an instrument blessed by sunlight... and now divine title to tie it all together."

Her nails tapped rhythmically against her teacup, the sound sharper than necessary.

"As if she's caught the eye of the sun god himself."

The way she spat Apollo's name—sun god—was not with reverence, but something else. Something more bitter. More dangerous.

Her gaze flicked back toward you.

You were laughing again.

The prince was looking at you.

The queen was smiling at you.

And far above, the sky was mercilessly blue.

The other girl fanning her—a girl named Cyra—shifted where she stood, hesitating before speaking. "She doesn't stand a chance, my lady," she said gently, her voice soft and meant to soothe. "You're royalty. A true-born princess of Bronte. She's nothing but a handmaiden who got lucky—"

"Don't," Andreia snapped, her voice like flint striking stone. Cyra flinched, her fanning hand pausing mid-air.

Andreia sat forward in her chair, the movement fluid, deliberate, like a blade unsheathed.

"Don't compare that servant's luck to my bloodline," she spat, venom thick beneath her words. "And don't dare speak to me about titles as if they mean anything." Her eyes flashed as she stood abruptly, the cup in her hand trembling slightly in a stoking rage.

"She's lucky?" Andreia laughed, hollow and biting. "Tell me, where did luck get my brother? Andros—firstborn, male, the beloved heir of Bronte. He had one job. One. Woo the grieving queen, secure her hand, take her place, and the throne follows. But what does he do instead?" Her lip curled, nostrils flaring. "He squanders it. Fumbles the plan. Spends half the time simpering and the rest chasing skirts. All so I could come clean up the mess."

The handmaidens remained silent, knowing better than to speak again.

Andreia's free hand clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the fabric of her gown. "It was supposed to be simple. Penelope becomes queen-consort of Bronte, I secure a path to Telemachus, and the line is sealed. She's out of the way. I become Ithaca's queen by proxy. And instead?" Her voice dropped into a growl. "I'm still dancing on the edges. Still waiting."

The next words slipped from her like poison:

"I'm so far down the line of inheritance, I don't even make the list. After Andros had died in that stupid ambush, my parents didn't mourn—they replace him with one of my other brothers. And me? I was never considered. Not once. Not even a footnote in the line of succession."

She turned sharply, her gaze sweeping the balcony railing as if she could see the bloodlines etched into the stone.

"And now my 'destiny,'" she sneered, voice dripping with disdain, "is to be matched to some middle-aged, balding noble from a border province so my parents can tie another useless alliance. A woman with beauty and wit should command rooms. Should have her pick of kings." Her voice broke just slightly—too soft for anyone but the wind to catch. "But I'll be wasted."

Andreia's nails bit into the delicate rim of her cup, the porcelain groaning beneath the strain. Her eyes tracked the group below as you rounded the bend, Lady trotting obediently at your heel. The queen's hand hovered close to your back, a gesture of quiet intimacy, while Telemachus leaned ever so slightly toward you, his shoulder brushing yours like it had done it a thousand times before.

Andreia's jaw clenched. She didn't blink.

The brightness of the midday sun reflected off your hair, gilding you like something celestial. A low murmur of laughter drifted up as you disappeared beyond the hedges, the sound mingling with birdsong and breeze.

It made her stomach twist.

Her fingers trembled around the teacup, tightening, crushing the stem of the handle like a vice.

"No," she hissed, voice too quiet for the others to hear. "No, I refuse."

Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with something colder. Hungrier.

"I have too much to offer to be forgotten. I was raised to shape kingdoms. Not be handed off to irrelevant barons with brittle spines and aging sons. Not to smile beside some moldy borderland duke until I wither into dust."

She turned her gaze to the horizon beyond the courtyard, where the palace walls ended and the open sea began—glittering like a blade under the sun.

"Let her bask," Andreia muttered, each word edged with venom. "Let her enjoy their smiles. Their attention. Their favor."

Then, quieter—like a promise: "I'll take more than smiles when I strike."

With a sharp crack, the porcelain finally gave. Her teacup split in her hand, shards falling in quiet, deadly pieces onto her lap and the stone floor. A droplet of blood welled at the tip of her thumb, bright against her pale skin, but she didn't flinch.

She simply smiled—thin and cold.

"Even fools know never to sail through Scylla twice," she said softly, the old Bronte saying tasting like ash on her tongue. "Gods be damned if I let her become my Charybdis."

And with that, she swept the blood from her thumb, letting it smear like war paint across her lips.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 35 ┃ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 ; the long awaited pov you all have been waiting for; hope you enjoy a peek into our fav pyscho's mind ❤️

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 35 Chapter 35 | the trickster, the prince, and the divine liaison⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

It had been a week since that night, since you'd last had the whirlwind of encounters.

Lady had quickly settled into court life, though "settled" was a generous way of putting it. She was a constant presence at your side, trotting after you through the palace halls, her sharp golden eyes sending servants scattering with fearful squeaks.

The few who had mustered enough courage to remain in her presence had eventually come to realize she was more bark than bite—mostly.

Still, she remained wholly indifferent to their reactions, uncaring of the way she sent workers, nobles, and even the occasional soldier stumbling out of her way. She only listened to you, ears flicking toward the sound of your voice, tail flicking whenever you scolded her.

When she wasn't with you, she was with Penelope.

It had come as a surprise to most—the mighty Askálion curling up at the queen's feet, accepting her attention with the same quiet reverence that Lady had first given you. And, as expected, Penelope had taken the role of doting caretaker with ease, lavishing Lady with gifts, hand-embroidered bows, and the finest cuts of meat from the royal kitchen.

More than once, you had returned to your chambers only to find Lady sprawled on a lavish new cushion, a silken bow fastened to her thick fur, utterly pampered and proud of herself.

But the most unexpected change over the last week?

Telemachus.

It had started subtly, almost imperceptibly. The way he always seemed to find you after his tasks, how he sought you out after his time spent with his father or training in the courtyard. It wasn't unlike when you were children, when he would come to you after long days, eager to drag you off for an adventure, to listen to you play music, or to simply sit with you in the quiet.

But this was different.

He didn't just seek you out—he lingered.

The weight of his presence had become something you expected, something you had started to anticipate. Whether it was catching your gaze across the hall during court, sitting beside you at meals, or walking with you through the palace grounds, he was always there.

It was almost as if he had made a quiet, determined effort to be part of your days, to weave himself into your routine like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You weren't sure what to make of it.

And, truthfully, you didn't have much time to dwell on it.

Because today—today, Hermes had come to cash in his debt.

Right now, you were heading back to your room to drop off yet another one of Apollo's gifts.

Telemachus had been busy with something—his father, perhaps, or more of his endless responsibilities. Callias, Asta, and the others had been occupied elsewhere, most likely with Andreia, much to your indifference. And Lady, unsurprisingly, had remained with the queen, thoroughly enjoying the royal treatment Penelope lavished upon her.

So, you were alone, your fingers brushing against the latest offering from the Sun God resting in your palm.

A choker.

You hadn't been sure what to make of it at first, caught between awe and unease as you examined the delicate piece.

Thin bands of gold formed the base, cool and impossibly smooth beneath your fingertips, but it was the embellishments that had given you pause—dewdrop-like marbles, shimmering as if they were made from liquified moonlight, arranged in perfect intervals along the chain. And at the very center, dangling just above where your throat would be, was a golden pendant, sculpted into the shape of a laurel wreath.

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

It was... a bit much.

And yet, it was undeniably beautiful.

With a sigh, you continued down the corridor, your thoughts half-consumed by the ever-expanding shelf Apollo had gifted you—not that you had asked for it. The endless space meant his gifts would never stop, that they would keep arriving in their unnatural, divine abundance.

You weren't sure how to feel about that.

Just as you turned the last corner leading to your chambers, you abruptly stopped, feet halting mid-step as you caught sight of something that made you pause in disbelief.

There, at the edge of a wide, open windowsill, perched like a bird lazily basking in the afternoon sun, was Hermes.

The god was curled up with practiced ease, one leg bent, the other swinging idly over the side, his winged sandals tapping against the stone in a nameless tempo. His staff rested across his lap, its golden frame scraping ever so gently against the window, adding a soft, rhythmic undertone to the tune he was humming—a tune you were almost certain he was making up on the spot.

The sunlight streaming through the glass bathed him in warm hues of gold and amber, casting an almost ethereal glow across his tousled curls—it made him look untouchable. Like something carved from the very essence of light itself.

He looked perfectly at ease, completely at home in a space that was decidedly not his, exuding that effortless charm that made it impossible to tell whether he had been waiting for you or if he had simply wandered in on a whim.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching him.

Then, as if sensing your presence, Hermes flicked back his winged cap, tilting his head toward you with an almost lazy grace. A teasing grin pulled at his lips, mischief sparking in his golden eyes as if he had been waiting for you all along.

"Ah, there you are," he drawled, stretching out one long leg as if he had all the time in the world. "A pleasure seeing you here, little musician. You wouldn't happen to be here to whisk me away on some grand adventure, would you?"

"Hermes?!" you hissed, quickly closing the distance between you with hurried steps. Your eyes darted around in search of anyone who might be lurking in the halls, heart thudding with relief when you found no one. You turned back to him, arms crossing as you fixed him with an exasperated glare.

"Why in Hades are you just out here?" You gestured vaguely to the very open, very exposed windowsill. "In broad daylight, no less?"

Hermes merely shrugged, looking thoroughly unbothered as he sat up, pulling his staff close, leaning against it with a dramatic sigh.

"You wound me," he lamented, lips curving into a pout. "I thought you'd be a little more excited to see me, considering the occasion."

You narrowed your eyes. "What occasion?"

His pout deepened as if he were genuinely offended. Then, he perked up, resting his chin against the top of his staff as he gave you an expectant look.

"Our day together, of course!" he chirped, his wings fluttering slightly behind him. "You didn't forget, did you?"

Your mind raced back to that night—last week, when you had hastily agreed to spending the day with Hermes just to get him to leave without making more of a scene.

Damn. You'd forgotten.

Blinking, you pulled yourself back to the present, already finding Hermes staring up at you, his chin propped lazily against his staff, golden eyes filled with amusement. His smirk stretched wider, knowing, smug.

He groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Come on, don't tell me you forgot about little old me?" He leaned forward, eyes narrowing with a playful glint. "I know you've been busy—what with being chased by princes and gods alike." His smirk turned downright wolfish as he lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers featherlight as they trailed briefly against your skin. His voice dropped into something smooth, teasing. "But I was hoping I made just a tiny bit of an impression."

Your face burned. Immediately, you stepped back, swatting his hand away with a glare. "You—!"

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Hermes chuckled, raising his hands in surrender, though the smugness in his expression remained. "I'm only kidding—well, mostly." He winked. "But I'm flattered I can still get that cute little flustered look out of you."

Your glare deepened, your ears feeling hot as you crossed your arms. "You are absolutely insufferable."

"And yet," he hummed, tapping his chin in faux contemplation, "you still tolerate me. I'd say that makes you even more interesting." He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. "Now, what do you say,little musician? Ready for our grand day out?"

You sighed, shaking your head in exasperation. "Alright, alright, just—give me a moment to put something away first."

Turning, you began making your way to your room, the golden choker still held loosely in your grip. But just as your fingers brushed against the door handle, Hermes' voice halted you.

"Hold on..."

There was something different in his tone this time. Less teasing, more thoughtful. You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowing when you caught sight of the flicker of recognition in his gaze. His usual playfulness dimmed just slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto the piece of jewelry in your hand.

His head tilted as he muttered something under his breath, words too soft for you to catch, before his lips quirked—not into a smirk, but something closer to a knowing, almost nostalgic curiosity. "Huh. Haven't seen this one in ages..."

Your fingers instinctively curled around the choker, suddenly feeling oddly self-conscious under his scrutiny. "What?"

Hermes' eyes flickered up to meet yours, studying you intently in a way that sent a strange shiver up your spine. "Now, where did you get this, little musician?"

You didn't know why, but something about the question—about the way he asked it—made your stomach flip uneasily. Awkwardly, you let out a small, nervous laugh. "Oh, uh—Apollo gifted it to me not too long ago," you admitted, trying to sound nonchalant. "It was... one of his many gifts."

Silence stretched between you.

For a few seconds, Hermes said nothing, his gaze flicking back to the choker with something unreadable in his expression. But then, just as quickly as it had dimmed, his playful light returned. He let out a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands in the air.

"Unbelievable," he huffed. "Apollo openly claims you, Telemachus gives you a favor—" He tapped his chin, humming as though deep in thought. "Hmmm... what can I do?"

You blinked. "What?"

"If they're marking their territory, I should be able to do the same," Hermes said, grinning as he snapped his fingers. "Oh! I know! I'll give you a little divine companion—a gift, a blessed animal! A perfect symbol of our bond! How about a cute little-wittle bunny?"

Your mouth moved faster than your mind. "Absolutely not."

Hermes froze mid-gesture, blinking at you in surprise. "Huh?"

You cleared your throat, quickly shaking your head. "No. No animals." Your mind immediately conjured an image of Lady—the way she would undoubtedly react, the chaos that would ensue. 

Hermes blinked, momentarily taken aback by your firm response before a slow grin spread across his lips. His wings fluttered slightly, and he tilted his head, golden curls shifting as he regarded you with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Now, now," he hummed, tapping his chin, "what's wrong with a little divine companion? A soft, little creature to dote on you—always at your side, basking in your presence." He smirked. "Seems fitting, doesn't it?"

You gave him a flat look. "Hermes."

His smirk deepened, clearly enjoying himself. "Alright, alright," he relented, waving a hand lazily. "No animals, then. But..."

The air shifted.

You didn't even have time to register the change before Hermes' voice dipped lower, smoother, his usual playfulness taking on a different edge—one that sent a ripple of heat down your spine.

"Perhaps," he murmured, stepping forward, "you'd like another kind of gift, then?"

You barely had time to react before he was suddenly too close, his presence surrounding you like the whisper of a storm. His golden eyes lidded as he regarded you, his expression unreadable yet dripping with something dangerous, something teasing.

Your breath hitched as you instinctively took a step back.

Hermes matched it.

Every nerve in your body was suddenly alight, caught off guard by the shift in his demeanor. His hand lifted, fingers reaching out—not rushed, not forceful, but deliberate—as they traced the curve of your jaw with featherlight precision.

"You don't want a pet, that's fine," he murmured, voice laced with amusement, with something else. "Then tell me, little musician, what do you want?"

The way he said it—slow, velvety, with that damnably knowing smirk curling at the corners of his lips—made your mind go blank.

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

"Ah," Hermes grinned, tilting his head as his thumb brushed over the apple of your cheek. "Nothing to say?" His voice dipped even lower, a purr against the shell of your ear. "Or just too many things you'd rather not say aloud?"

Heat flooded your face, and with a sharp inhale, you yanked your head away, putting space between you and the god before your thoughts could spiral any further into the dangerous depths he was so effortlessly leading you toward.

"___." Suddenly, a voice calling your name cut through the charged air like a blade, halting the moment in an instant.

Both you and Hermes snapped your heads toward the sound, only to see Asta standing at the end of the corridor, her arms crossed, brows raised, and an expression torn somewhere between exasperation and unimpressed observation.

Her gaze flicked between you and Hermes—between the very obvious way you had been wrapped up in his space, his hand still half-lifted, your face still flushed. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and then, with a slow, deliberate tilt of her head, she tsked.

"Uhh... am I interrupting anything?"

You shrieked, practically stumbling away from Hermes as if burned. "A-Asta!" Your voice came out too high, too fast. You awkwardly laughed, clearing your throat as you smoothed your hands over your dress like that would somehow erase what she had just witnessed. "I—uh—what can I do for you?"

Asta, still very much unimpressed, looked back and forth between you and Hermes again, before sighing. "The king has requested your presence in his study."

The words took a second to sink in. Your mind was still racing, still trying to process both Hermes' antics and Asta's unexpected arrival, but at her words, a different kind of apprehension settled in.

The king? What could he possibly want with you?

Then—realization struck. Oh.

Earlier that week, Telemachus had told you his parents would soon begin assigning you actual duties as Ithaca's divine liaison. It had been a passing comment, one that had made you anxious then, but with everything happening since, you had almost forgotten. Almost.

So this was it. The first of many summons.

You exhaled, steadying yourself, pushing aside the lingering heat on your skin from Hermes' touch. "Right. Thank you, Asta."

With a shrug, Asta turned on her heel, already making her way back down the hall, but not before muttering over her shoulder, "Try not to get too distracted on the way."

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temple as Hermes laughed behind you.

As Asta's figure retreated down the hall, confusion twisted in your chest. You turned back toward Hermes, brows furrowing.

"She didn't even react," you muttered, half to yourself. "She just... accepted it."

Hermes just grinned as if you were particularly slow to catch on. "Of course, little musician," he drawled, tilting his head lazily. "Because as of now, everyone else but you sees me as Telemachus."

You froze mid-thought, mouth parting slightly in realization. Your gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing. "What?"

Hermes stretched his arms above his head, rolling his shoulders with a pleased hum. "What, did you think I just waltzed around a mortal palace looking like this? Please." He scoffed, twirling his caduceus absentmindedly. "I have a reputation to uphold." Then, with a smirk, he shot you a sidelong glance. "Though, I could waltz around looking like this. It would be fun to see their reactions—"

"Hermes," you cut him off, holding up a hand. "If everyone sees you as Telemachus, then... what if Telemachus sees you?"

The grin flickering across his face faltered for just a fraction of a second.

"Oh." He blinked, expression momentarily blank. Then he tilted his head, as if considering the possibility for the first time. "Huh. Didn't think of that."

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Of course, you didn't."

Mumbling to yourself, you turned on your heel, making your way to your room to put away the choker still clutched in your hand. The thought of your upcoming meeting with the king sat heavy in your mind, and you absently muttered, "Gods, what does he even want with me..."

Behind you, Hermes' amused voice rang out. "A pity, really, that our time will be interrupted," he lamented, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. "I might just have to join you."

You froze mid-step, shoulders tensing. Slowly, you looked over your shoulder. "Why?" you asked, suspicion lacing your voice. "Don't you have things to do? I shouldn't take long, and we can hang out then."

Hermes laughed, the sound as carefree as ever, before he pushed off the windowsill, striding toward you with an easy confidence. "Of course, I do. I always have things " he said breezily, reaching out to boop you on the nose, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But I never said our day together had to be uninterrupted, now did I?"

You groaned loudly as you headed inside, already accepting your fate. "Fine. But please try not to cause a scene?"

He chuckled following after you. "Only 'cause you asked so sweetly~"

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You arrived at the study, the choker tucked safely away in your room before Hermes could make any more comments about it. Just as you reached for the handle, you shot the god beside you a glare, whispering, "You could have just waited in my room."

Hermes clicked his tongue, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher. "Now, where's the fun in that, little musician?" He leaned down slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Besides, I want to be near you." His voice dropped into something softer, something deliberately teasing, and before you could bite back a retort, the door swung open.

You barely had time to school your expression as you came face to face with Telemachus.

The prince was already smiling, his dark eyes warm, a quiet fondness lingering in them. "There you are," he greeted, his voice steady.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. You had expected the king—not him.

Before you could respond, your name was called in a melodic voice, the sound stretching your name with playful familiarity. "Hello, ____~"

Penelope.

Peeking over Telemachus' shoulder, you spotted her sitting beside her husband, both positioned behind the grand desk in the study. The queen's eyes twinkled with her usual warmth, but it was clear she was in high spirits . Meanwhile, Odysseus merely observed, an unreadable smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

You turned slightly, instinctively seeking out Hermes—but before you could locate him, a firm grip settled on your waist, halting you mid-motion.

You barely contained your startled yelp as Hermes leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Relax, little musician, he whispered smoothly. "I'm invisible to everyone but you."

Before you could even register the weight of that statement, you felt the lightest nudge against your back—a single push from his finger.

And suddenly, you were stumbling forward.

A short, ungraceful yelp escaped your lips before Telemachus reacted instantly, his hand reaching out to steady you. His grip was firm, his palm warm against your arm as he guided you upright. His brows knit together in concern. "Are you alright?"

You forced an awkward laugh, the heat creeping up your face. "I'm fine!" You waved off the moment, quickly smoothing your dress before flashing a weak smile. "I just... tripped."

You barely resisted the urge to shoot a glare over your shoulder.

If Hermes was actually visible, you were sure he'd be grinning like a cat with a mouthful of stolen fish.

Odysseus motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

Telemachus wasted no time stepping forward to pull out a chair for you, his movements smooth, practiced. The gesture caught you slightly off guard, and though you mumbled a quiet thank you, the warmth that crept up your neck was unavoidable.

As you settled in, Telemachus, instead of taking a seat beside his parents, strode toward a chair pressed against the far wall, dragging it closer until it was directly beside yours. Then, without hesitation, he sat, his arm draping loosely over the back of the chair, his knee just barely brushing against yours.

From across the room, Penelope lifted a hand to her lips, barely concealing a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with something amused as she leaned toward her husband.

Odysseus cleared his throat, drawing your attention away from the silent exchange between the royal couple. His expression was as unreadable as ever, though there was a glint of something sharp behind his eyes—something calculating, assessing.

"I apologize for summoning you on such short notice," he began, voice as steady and commanding as ever. "But I trust my son already relayed what this would be about?"

You nodded quickly, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think. "Yes, Telema—"

Your brain stopped.

Your eyes widened.

You clamped your mouth shut so fast you nearly bit your tongue.

Internally, you screeched.

Did I—? Did I just call the prince by his actual name? In front of the king and queen?

To your side, Telemachus let out a cough, though it did little to mask the laugh that nearly escaped him. Penelope, biting her lip, looked down, her shoulders trembling slightly as if suppressing a giggle.

Odysseus merely raised a brow, his lips twitching ever so slightly at the edges, as though debating whether or not to comment on it.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

Scrambling, you quickly resumed speaking, your voice coming out far too high-pitched. "—chus did tell me, yes! Earlier this week. I'm... I'm ready for whatever duties you have in mind."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, Hermes muttered in your ear, "Gods above, that was painful."

You resisted the urge to strangle him.

Odysseus nodded, his lips curling ever so slightly into something that could almost be called a smile—brief, fleeting, but there. "I'm glad to hear it," he said simply. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the small warmth faded, replaced by the sharp, commanding presence of Ithaca’s king. "Let's get straight to business."

The shift in his demeanor was immediate. His back straightened further, his gaze pinning you with an authority that left no room for hesitation. "Your role as Divine Liaison is not just a title," he began, his voice measured, deliberate. "It is a position that places you between the will of the gods and the needs of Ithaca. That means, when necessary, you will act as a bridge between both—whether that be through interpreting omens, managing blessings and offerings, or ensuring that divine favor is neither abused nor overlooked."

You nodded, trying to keep your expression serious, but it was getting increasingly difficult to focus.

Because Hermes—Hermes, in all his trickster glory—had taken to wandering around the study, making a dramatic spectacle of himself.

He strolled along the shelves, dragging a finger over the books as if inspecting them for dust, letting out a mockingly impressed "Ooooh~", before picking up a small bronze trinket and tilting his head as though contemplating its worth.

Then, as Odysseus continued speaking, Hermes gasped, clutching his chest in mock astonishment as he reached for a decorative dagger resting on a stand. "A weapon!" he whispered dramatically. "In a king's study? Scandalous!"

You clenched your jaw, shifting slightly in your seat, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with Odysseus while Hermes leaned against the king's desk, chin resting on his hand as he studied the king like he was some exotic creature.

It took every ounce of your willpower not to turn and hiss at him to stop.

"And, of course," Odysseus continued, oblivious to Hermes' antics, "with such a position, it is only natural that you will be expected to represent Ithaca outside of the palace as well."

Your mind snapped back into place.

Wait.

You blinked, sitting straighter. "E-Excuse me?"

Penelope chuckled, and Telemachus outright grinned, shaking his head.

You muttered an apology, feeling the weight of all their gazes on you. Odysseus waved a hand dismissively, his voice even as he repeated himself, ensuring you caught every word.

"Today, you will be accompanying us into town," he said again, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The festival did well in reinforcing Ithaca's faith in the gods, but faith alone does not make a kingdom strong. Your presence among the people—your voice—will solidify your position." His sharp gaze locked onto yours. "You will give your first speech."

You barely contained your reaction, your fingers twitching against the fabric of your chiton. A speech? Already? You had barely been in this position, and now they wanted you to stand before the entire city and—what? Inspire them? Gods, what were you even supposed to say?

"You will not be hidden away in the palace like some delicate flower," Odysseus continued, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "If you are to be Ithaca's bridge to the gods, then you must also be Ithaca's bridge to its people."

You swallowed thickly, pressing your hands to your lap to keep them from fidgeting.

Out of the corner of your eye, Telemachus leaned forward slightly, his dark brows knitting together. "Are you alright?" he asked, voice low, as if sensing the way you had momentarily stiffened.

You forced a small, awkward smile. "O-Of course," you said, a touch too quickly. "I—I'm excited. Really." You cleared your throat, pushing back the nerves bubbling up inside you. "I should... just fetch a thicker shawl before we go. The evening breeze might be a bit much."

Penelope's eyes softened knowingly, but Odysseus simply gave a small nod. "Very well. Be quick about it."

You stood, giving a small, stiff curtsy before turning on your heel and practically fleeing from the study.

The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to your chest. A speech. In front of all of Ithaca. You had barely processed the weight of your new title, and now you were expected to publicly step into it.

You could already feel Hermes smirking somewhere behind you.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," his voice purred near your ear.

You didn't even have the energy to glare at him.

Instead, you groaned into your hands, dragging them down your face in sheer despair. Your legs carried you to your room on instinct, each step feeling heavier with the weight of what was about to happen.

The moment you stepped inside, the panic set in fully. You whirled around, pacing as you clutched your head. "I'm horrible at speaking to large crowds!" you blurted out, eyes wide with dread. "This is a disaster—I'm going to embarrass myself in front of all of Ithaca, and then they'll all think the gods chose wrong, and then—"

A snicker interrupted your spiraling. "But you perform so beautifully in front of crowds," Hermes drawled, leaning lazily against the edge of your desk, looking far too entertained by your distress. "Surely, you can manage a few words without tripping over yourself."

"It's not the same!" you huffed, throwing your hands up. "When I play, I don't have to think about what I'm saying! I don't have to convince people of anything! I just—just do it!" You turned sharply, gripping the edges of your desk as you exhaled through your nose. "If I had known ahead of time, I would have written something down. At least then, I could—"

"Ah, so that's the problem," Hermes mused, tapping his chin. "Poor little musician wasn't given time to prepare." His smirk softened into something almost... amusedly thoughtful. "Lucky for you, I'm preparation incarnate."

You frowned, brow furrowing. "What does that mean—"

Before you could finish, Hermes' form shimmered in a blur of golden light, his figure shrinking down until, in the blink of an eye, a small bird—a swallow—flitted in the air before you.

Your mouth fell open. "What in the—"

The tiny bird let out a high-pitched tsk, its beady golden eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, don't look so surprised," Hermes chirped—literally. "What, did you think I'd be any less charming just because I have feathers?"

You blinked rapidly, too stunned to reply, and then—"Wait. Why do you still have your satchel and hat?"

Perched now on your desk, the swallow adjusted the tiny winged cap atop its head, fluffing its feathers with an indignant little shake. "I am a professional," he said primly, puffing out his chest. "What kind of god would I be if I didn't adhere to proper uniform?"

You stared, absolutely speechless.

"Now," Hermes went on, fluttering up to land lightly on your shoulder, his weight barely noticeable. "Since we don't have time to carve a speech in stone, we’ll cheat a little."

"Cheat?" you repeated, still struggling to process the fact that the god of trickery was now a tiny bird.

"You'll pull your hair back with a scarf," he instructed, nudging his little beak toward the loose strands framing your face. "I'll tuck myself in, and when it’s time, I'll whisper a script into your ear, and you'll repeat it. Simple."

You blinked at him. "You want to hide in my hair."

"It's either that or you walk out there and improvise," Hermes trilled, fluttering his wings innocently. "And from what I'm gathering... you're not an improviser."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't wrong.

"Fine," you muttered, already reaching for a scarf to tie back your hair. "But if you make me say anything ridiculous, I will find a way to make you regret it."

"Oh," Hermes hummed, his feathery form tilting just slightly in amusement. "I wouldn't dream of it, little musician."

Still feeling unsure but knowing you had no choice, you adjusted the scarf in your hair, making sure Hermes was properly hidden before turning toward the door. Before you could take another deep breath to steady yourself, a knock echoed through the room.

Your stomach flipped. No turning back now.

With a final tug at your scarf, you straightened your posture and pulled the door open. Telemachus was waiting for you just outside, his hands clasped behind his back in that casual yet composed stance of his. His dark eyes softened as they met yours, a small, warm smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"My mother wanted to pick Lady up from her room," he told you, tilting his head slightly. "They should be waiting for us in the courtyard."

Before you could respond, a tiny, smug voice whispered in your ear, "Oh, how sweet. The prince coming to collect his precious cargo." Hermes' barely concealed snicker tickled against your skin.

Telemachus' brows furrowed, his gaze flickering around the hall. "Did you hear that?"

Your breath hitched, but you forced a laugh, waving him off as casually as you could. "Hear what?"

His frown deepened slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I could've sworn I heard a bird chirping..."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from snorting, all too aware of the tiny god nestled in your hair. Before Telemachus could dwell on it any longer, you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his without thinking.

He jolted slightly, his entire body tensing at the contact. You felt the way his fingers instinctively curled around yours, the warmth of his palm radiating against your skin. His breath hitched, and you flicked your gaze up to see his face turning a slow, creeping shade of red.

"Oh," was all he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips twitched. "You alright?"

Telemachus swallowed thickly, his gaze darting down to your joined hands before flicking back to your face. "Yes. Fine." He cleared his throat. "Completely fine."

Hermes, still hidden in your hair, hummed knowingly. You ignored him.

Instead, you simply squeezed Telemachus' hand, enjoying the way his fingers flexed in response, the way his ears remained dusted with pink as he slowly but surely steadied himself.

With that, the two of you turned, heading toward the courtyard to meet his parents—his hand still held tightly in yours.

A/N: hello lovelies, hope you enjoyed this chappie; so happy you guys enjoyed the last chapter, was so estatic to see you guys opinion of our fav pinning boi; anywho i'll let you guys go and head in for the night. cant wait to wake up and start back working on the next part✨

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: MORTAL AND THE MUSE DIVINE WHISPERS: Mortal and the Muse | divine whispers: mortal and the muse⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Telemachus walked along Ithaca's courtyard, the night air cool against his skin.

Dinner had long since ended. He had lingered at the table for a while, half-listening to his father's musings and Callias' dramatic recounting of the hunt, but his mind had been elsewhere.

You had never returned. He had expected you to—had even glanced toward the doors a few times, waiting, expecting to see you slip back in with some excuse about needing air, or checking on Lady.

But you never came.

So instead of brooding in the hall, he had excused himself, deciding that a walk might clear his head.

It didn't.

Telemachus exhaled, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he strode across the courtyard's stone path, boots scuffing against the well-worn ground. The distant waves lapped against the cliffs below, a soothing, steady sound—but it did little to quiet the thoughts racing through his mind.

This had become a pattern, hadn't it? You, slipping further from his reach, drawn into the orbit of gods who seemed determined to claim pieces of you for themselves. And him, left trailing behind, stuck somewhere between the role of prince and something... less. Something unworthy of standing beside you.

The gods—Apollo especially—had made their interest in you clear. It was enough to stoke something ugly in his chest. As if you were theirs. As if they were entitled to you.

The thought twisted in his stomach, a sickening coil of frustration and something dangerously close to jealousy.

But what could he do?

He was just a man. A mortal. And they were—

Something flickered in his peripheral vision.

Telemachus halted mid-step, his breath catching.

A light.

It had been quick, just a flash, but it was enough to draw his attention. He turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he scanned the courtyard's edge, where the stone pathways gave way to open grass.

And then he saw it.

For the briefest moment, just beyond the turn of the corridor—golden light, radiant and shimmering, fading into nothing.

Telemachus moved toward the fading glow, his steps cautious, measured.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath slow and steady despite the racing in his chest. The courtyard was still, save for the whisper of the sea beyond the cliffs and the occasional rustle of the olive trees swaying in the cool night air.

Then, as he rounded the corner, he saw you.

Standing alone in the open courtyard, your figure bathed in soft moonlight, you looked almost ethereal. Your head was tilted back, eyes lifted toward the vast sprawl of stars above. The gentle breeze tugged at your hair, making it dance against your shoulders.

For a moment, the tension in Telemachus' chest loosened. His lips curved slightly, a quiet, instinctual smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You're beautiful like this.

Unburdened. Untouched by the weight of expectation, of gods and men alike. Just standing there, lost in the sky.

He took a step forward, ready to call your name, ready to join you.

Then—he stopped.

A breath hitched in his throat as the light returned.

Not the flicker from before—no. This was brighter, purer, like a thread of sunlight woven into the night itself. It swirled into existence just a few feet from you, coalescing into a shape, a form.

Telemachus' stomach turned cold.

Apollo.

The god descended from the shimmering cloud of light, his feet touching the ground with the weightlessness of something divine. The grass beneath him brightened instantly, kissed by his presence. He was radiant, golden, too perfect in the way all gods were. Even in the dim glow of the courtyard, he shone like a living ember, untouched by mortal imperfections.

And he was walking toward you.

Telemachus took a sharp step back, instinct driving him to press against the cool stone of the corridor. He didn't think—he simply moved, tucking himself behind the very corner he had come from, his heart pounding in his ears.

He swallowed hard, breath shallow as he peered from his hiding place.

Why was Apollo here?

Had you summoned him?

Telemachus remained hidden, watching the two of you from the shadowed corridor. He told himself he would leave soon, that he wasn't here to pry. But his feet remained planted, his body rigid as his eyes flickered between you and the god standing before you.

Apollo was speaking—low and smooth, his voice an intimate thread between the two of you. Telemachus couldn't hear the words, but he saw the way you tilted your head up to meet the god's gaze, the way Apollo looked at you as if he had all the time in the world to admire you.

He watched as you stood before the god, bathed in the soft glow of divine light. You looked—gods, you looked like you belonged there. Like something out of a prophecy, a tale sung by poets and immortalized in legend.

And then, for just a fleeting moment, a bitter thought slithered into Telemachus' mind.

You look good together.

The realization struck him like a slap.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled into a fist. The golden god before you was effortless in his affections, in the way he reached for you, in the way his presence wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

Telemachus scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the thought. It doesn't matter, he told himself. She's just speaking to him. That's all.

But his own logic did little to dull the twisting feeling in his chest.

Guilt crept in, needling at the edges of his mind. This isn't right, he thought. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be watching this.

And so, with a final exhale, he made the decision to leave. He turned on his heel, ready to walk away, ready to stop thinking—

Then, movement caught his eye.

Apollo lifted his hand, his golden fingers reaching for your face.

Telemachus stilled.

He blinked, his mind halting all thoughts as he watched the god's palm cup your cheek, watched the way you didn't pull away.

His breath caught, a sharp inhale through his nose.

What in Hades...

A sharp, ugly emotion twisted in Telemachus' chest, burning like hot iron. He barely registered his own clenched fists, nails biting into his palms as he stood frozen, hidden just out of sight.

He shouldn't be watching this. He knew that. And yet, his feet refused to move, as if some cruel force had anchored him there, forcing him to witness every second of it. His breath was shallow, his heartbeat a restless thrum in his ears, drowning out the distant sound of waves crashing against Ithaca's shores.

Apollo stood before you, radiant and perfect, golden in a way no mortal could ever hope to be. And you—gods, you were looking up at him with something warm in your eyes, something that made Telemachus' stomach churn unpleasantly.

He didn't know what he expected when he followed the light, but it hadn't been this—hadn't been you alone with Apollo, hadn't been the god tilting your chin up, leaning closer, fingers cradling your face like something sacred.

The air left his lungs in a sharp exhale, his vision narrowing as his entire body stiffened. No. No, I can't watch this.

He turned sharply on his heel, forcing himself to look away, to move, to leave. But it took everything in him. His chest ached with something he refused to name, something hot and bitter that clawed at his ribs like an ugly beast demanding to be set free.

It was jealousy. Of course it was.

But it wasn't just that.

It was inadequacy, creeping in like a tide he couldn't hold back. It was the voice whispering in the back of his mind, telling him he would never measure up, that Apollo was a god and Telemachus was just... mortal. Just a man. A prince of a small kingdom, heir to a legend he could never live up to.

His father was known as Odysseus the cunning, Odysseus the great. And what was he? What could he be, when the gods themselves seemed to favor you more than anything he could ever offer?

Would he always be in Apollo's shadow?

The thought sent a fresh wave of frustration surging through him, and before he could stop himself, he dragged a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the roots, trying to steady the storm raging inside him.

What does this mean? His mind was spiraling, thoughts overlapping too fast for him to untangle them. Did you choose Apollo? Were you ever mine to begin with? Was I fooling myself?

Flashes of you ran through his mind—your laughter when he teased you, the way your hand had lingered in his, the stolen glances, the shared moments that had felt like more. But was it just his own wishful thinking?

What if he had already lost you?

The idea was unbearable. He felt sick.

He knew he wouldn't be able to face you. Not tonight. Not with that image burned into his mind. Not knowing that if he saw you now, he might see something in your expression—confirmation of the worst.

Cowardice, his mind whispered, but he ignored it.

Instead, he found himself moving toward the one person who might be able to steady him, to give him something—anything—to hold onto in this chaos.

His mother.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

He didn't even realize where he was until he heard the soft murmur of his mother's voice through the door.

Telemachus blinked, barely registering how his feet had carried him through the dimly lit halls of the palace, through the winding corridors he knew by heart. He had been moving on instinct, his mind clouded, his chest tight. But now, standing outside her chambers, his breath uneven, he hesitated.

He had intended to come here. And yet, now that he was here, he couldn't bring himself to go in.

Steeling himself, he lifted his hand and knocked.

There was a brief pause, then his mother's gentle voice, warm and familiar. "Come in."

Telemachus pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room was illuminated by a few oil lamps, their soft golden glow casting gentle shadows against the walls. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest hint of parchment and pressed flowers.

At first, his gaze landed on Penelope, seated on her cushioned bench, her delicate fingers idly tracing the fabric of an unfinished embroidery piece. But it wasn't the thread in her hands that had held her attention—it was Lady, curled beside her on the bed.

The Askálion had made herself comfortable, her dark fur blending into the deep hues of the royal linens. Her large paws were tucked beneath her as she rested her head against Penelope’s thigh, eyes half-lidded, utterly at ease.

"You know," his mother murmured fondly, gently scratching behind one of Lady's ears, "I truly think she's taken a liking to me. I've been telling her about all the new dresses I had made for ____, and how I'll make sure her bows match accordingly." She chuckled, her voice lilting with amusement. "After all, we can't have her looking anything less than elegant."

Lady let out a small, pleased huff, seemingly in agreement, and Penelope continued, "Perhaps a deep blue this time, with gold trimming—"

She stopped abruptly.

Her gaze had lifted from Lady and found her son, and in an instant, Telemachus saw the shift in her expression.

For a moment, she had assumed he was here to collect Lady for you, to return the beast to her rightful place at your side before the night ended. But then, she saw his face.

A mother's intuition was sharper than any blade.

Her soft amusement faded, her brows drawing together as she straightened slightly, voice lowering into something quieter, something knowing. "What's wrong?"

Telemachus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to step further into the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the last bit of restraint he had been holding onto.

Without a word, he moved toward her, settling onto the ground beside her seat. The weight of his exhaustion, the weight of everything, bore down on him all at once.

And then, without thinking, he let his head rest against her lap.

Penelope's breath hitched, but she said nothing—only lifted a hand, her fingers threading gently through his curls, the way she used to when he was younger, when the world was simpler.

Her touch was warm, steady, grounding.

She didn't ask again right away.

She waited.

Waited until his breathing evened, until the tension in his shoulders loosened ever so slightly beneath the soothing rhythm of her fingers.

And then, when the silence had settled just enough, she whispered, "Talk to me, my son."

Telemachus swallowed, his jaw tightening.

Where did he even begin?

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Penelope continued running her fingers through his hair, waiting patiently, allowing him the space to find the words he needed.

And then, finally, he exhaled, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"I saw her...____."

His mother didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, only hummed softly—a gentle prompt, an encouragement to continue.

Telemachus swallowed, his throat tight. "I saw her... with Apollo."

He felt his mother stiffen slightly, but she remained quiet, her fingers never pausing their gentle motions against his hair.

The words came slowly at first, hesitant, but once they started, they didn't stop.

"They were in the courtyard," he murmured, staring unseeingly at the floor. "She... she was just standing there, looking at the stars, and then he—" His jaw clenched. "He appeared. Like the gods always do. Effortless. Radiant. And then..." His voice trailed, and he let out a humorless chuckle, one that lacked any real amusement. "He touched her face. He leaned in. And I—"

Telemachus shut his eyes, forcing his breathing to steady. His hands curled into fists against his lap.

"I left," he admitted quietly. "Because I knew if I stayed any longer, if I saw them—" His voice caught, and he shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the memory. "I wouldn't have been able to bear it."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, but still, Penelope did not speak.

And perhaps it was the weight of that silence, or perhaps it was the hand in his hair grounding him, but suddenly, the words came pouring out of him, unfiltered, raw, like an open wound spilling over.

"It's not just him," he muttered. "It's not just Apollo. It's all of them. The gods. The ones that keep pulling her into their orbit like she belongs to them." His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, his voice growing more fervent, frustration bleeding into every word. "They favor her. They notice her. And I—"

He let out a sharp breath, his grip tightening. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to compete with that?"

There it was.

The fear he hadn't dared voice, the one that had been gnawing at the back of his mind for so long, finally spoken into existence.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. "She's mortal. Just like me. And yet, they give her gifts, they send her omens, they visit her in the dead of night like she's one of them." He scoffed, bitterness lacing his tone. "She's been given a title, a role, a place among them. And I..." His voice faltered. "What am I?"

He exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"I am my father's son," he murmured, his voice quieter now, laced with something that sounded dangerously close to defeat. "I am a prince, a warrior, a leader of men. And yet, when I look at her, when I see her standing in the light of the gods, I feel like... like I am nothing."

The confession rang through the room, settling into the quiet like a ghost.

He hadn't meant to say it.

Hadn't meant to reveal the deep-seated fear that had taken root in his chest, the one that had been festering long before tonight.

But now, there was no taking it back.

His breath was uneven, his heart hammering against his ribs.

And when he finally lifted his gaze, Penelope was watching him.

Her expression was unreadable—no pity, no chastisement, just quiet understanding.

The silence stretched on.

And then, softly, finally, she spoke.

Penelope sighed, shaking her head softly, fingers still threading through his dark curls. "Oh, my son," she murmured, voice tinged with fond exasperation. "The two of you—skirting around each other like this—it's maddening to watch."

Telemachus tensed slightly, but she shushed him before he could speak, pressing a gentle hand to his cheek. "You've been like this for years, Tele. Ever since I first introduced her to you, do you remember?"

His brow furrowed. Of course, he remembered. He was only a boy when you had been brought into the palace, uncertain and wary, your small hands clenched at your sides as you stood beside the queen of Ithaca.

And he—he had watched you that day, had noticed the way your fingers curled nervously around the hem of your tunic, the way you had kept your gaze lowered in quiet deference.

He had decided then, in a child's simple yet absolute way, that he would look after you. That he would make sure you never felt left out, never felt unwanted in a home that was meant to be yours, too.

Penelope continued, a small smile tugging at her lips as she traced her thumb absently over his cheekbone. "You may not remember it as clearly as I do, but I saw it even then. You made it your personal goal to ensure she felt protected, to keep her safe from the suitors when they still darkened our halls. You were always watching over her, making sure she wasn't pushed aside, wasn't overlooked."

Telemachus swallowed hard.

And even now, even with gods themselves turning their eyes upon you, he still found himself wanting to do the same.

"She lights up the room, my son," Penelope continued, her voice softer now, almost wistful. "Have you not noticed? The way people's eyes follow her, the way she carries herself? She doesn't just exist in a space, Tele. She fills it. And when you're near her... so do you."

He stiffened, but his mother only smiled, tilting his face up slightly so their eyes met. "It's so obvious," she murmured, her expression warm, knowing. "You don't even see it, do you?"

He hesitated. "See what?"

Penelope chuckled, shaking her head as though he had just proven her point. "The way you look at her. The way she looks at you."

Telemachus felt his breath hitch slightly, but before he could find the words to refute her claim, Penelope continued. "You can't expect her to wait forever," she said gently, her thumb still idly tracing against his cheek. "Not when others—divine or otherwise—are beginning to notice what you seem determined to ignore."

His stomach twisted.

She was right. Of course, she was right.

He had spent so much time trying to be careful, to be patient, to convince himself that there would always be time. But now, with Apollo's presence looming over him like an unspoken threat, with every moment of hesitation feeling like a wasted opportunity—

He swallowed.

"If you truly want to win her heart," Penelope murmured, "then, my son, you will have to step up your game."

Telemachus exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a brief moment before leaning into his mother's touch. Because deep down, he knew—she was right.

And if he didn't act soon, he might just lose you forever.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, a weight he could no longer ignore. For so long, he had told himself there was time. Time to sort through his feelings, time to understand what it meant to care for someone the way he did you, time to figure out how to balance duty, expectation, and the growing ache in his heart.

But time had never truly been his ally, had it?

Not when the gods themselves had turned their eyes toward you.

Not when Apollo—radiant, divine, flawless—had already made his presence known.

Telemachus' fingers curled slightly against his lap, his gaze flickering toward Lady, who still lay contently beside his mother. The Askálion watched him with sharp, intelligent eyes, her massive paws stretched lazily in front of her.

A quiet sigh left him as he studied the beast, the creature that had chosen you just as you had chosen her.

Gods, had he ever truly chosen anything for himself?

Hadn't he spent his whole life trying to fit into a mold? Trying to prove himself as the son of Odysseus, trying to live up to a name so much larger than himself? And now, here he was again—standing on the precipice of something he wanted, something that made his heart race, and yet...

He was afraid.

Afraid of losing you. Afraid of not being enough. Afraid of standing next to Apollo and looking like nothing more than a boy pretending to be a man.

But then, hadn't you always seen him? Not as the son of a hero, not as the prince of Ithaca, but simply as himself?

Hadn't you always given him that?

A slow, determined breath left him, his chest rising and falling with newfound clarity.

No more hesitation. No more waiting for the right moment.

This was his moment.

He wouldn't waste it.

Lady let out a slow, lazy huff, blinking up at him with what almost seemed like approval. Telemachus smiled, his voice dropping into something more resolute.

"I won't waste my shot," he murmured.

Because if the gods were watching, then so be it.

He would make sure that when the time came, when the choice was yours to make—he would be standing there, unwavering, ready to fight for the one thing he truly wanted.

You.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 34 ┃ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭  ; i just had to finally make it clear our boi tele isnt just waiting in the backround  and decided to add a few more scenes of penelope being mother cuz she dersves the hype.

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 34 Chapter 34 | divinity and the beast⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You walked beside Telemachus, your steps careful, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced down at the large lump of fabric moving beside you. "Lady, act right," you murmured, shifting the bundle slightly with your hand as you tried to keep her from straying too far. "We're almost there."

The Askálion let out a small grunt from beneath the sheet, clearly unimpressed with your request. Her paws shuffled against the stone floor, and before you could react, her large frame tangled itself in the oversized cloth, causing her to trip with a muffled thump.

You sighed, closing your eyes briefly. "Gods help me..."

Telemachus bit back a chuckle, his shoulders shaking slightly as he helped steady the covered beast. "I told you this wouldn't be subtle," he muttered under his breath.

"You told me?" you hissed, adjusting the sheet before Lady could trip again. "You're the one who decided to drape a whole damn tapestry over her!"

"It was the first thing I grabbed off my bed!" Telemachus defended with a small shrug, though amusement still lingered in his voice.

Lady gave a low, frustrated growl, shaking herself like a dog trying to rid itself of water, making the fabric billow slightly before settling back down over her form.

You pressed your lips together, exhaling sharply through your nose as you whispered, "Just—try to keep still, please."

Telemachus, ever the optimist, smirked slightly as he adjusted his grip on the fabric. "At least she's cooperating more than the hunting party did."

You scoffed at his easy-going attitude. When Telemachus first suggested sneaking her in under the cover of fabric, you had stared at him for a full five seconds, waiting for him to say something to indicate he was joking.

He wasn't.

"You want me to what?" you had your arms crossed as you glanced between him and the very large, very conspicuous creature at your side.

"Cover her with a sheet," he had repeated plainly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

You blinked at him. "That is the worst idea I've ever heard."

"Do you have a better one?"

Yes. It was called not smuggling an oversized mythical beast through the palace.

Still, with the servants walking the halls, you knew leaving her out in the open wasn't an option. And when Telemachus had gone on to explain that both his parents were already waiting in the throne hall, you realized there was no turning back.

"They'rewhat?"

"I caught them just as they were finishing daily court," he had said, adjusting the bracer on his forearm. "It was the best time. They weren't in the middle of anything, and I didn't want them to hear about Lady secondhand."

You had pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to ward off the growing headache. "And I'm guessing the court nobles are still in the hall?"

Telemachus winced slightly, the smallest hint of guilt flashing across his features. "Unfortunately, yes."

Of course they were. Because if there was one thing you loved more than sneaking around with a giant beast under a blanket, it was doing it in front of Ithaca's most influential and self-important nobles.

Still, as much as you wanted to abandon this plan and let Telemachus deal with the fallout alone, you knew there was no avoiding it. So, with an exhausted sigh, you had muttered a resigned, "Fine."

Which is how you ended up here—dragging a poorly disguised Askálion through the palace while Telemachus barely contained his laughter.

As you both neared the large double doors leading to the throne hall, Lady gave another clumsy step, the cloth dragging slightly beneath her paws. This time, the sheer weight of it caused her to stumble forward, letting out another yelp as her front legs briefly got tangled.

"Did you really have to grab such a big sheet?" you grumbled, reaching down to adjust it yet again.

Telemachus barely held back his laughter. "Would you have preferred I measured her first?" he quipped, grinning as he watched you struggle.

"I'd prefer if we didn't look like we're smuggling a whole bear through the palace!" you shot back.

Before he could respond, you both arrived at the grand doors to the throne hall. The guards standing watch kept their expressions neutral, eyes fixed straight ahead as they pushed the doors open for Telemachus without question.

From inside, you could already hear the voice of the royal announcer ring out, echoing across the vast chamber.

"Presenting Prince Telemachus and the Divine Liaison."

You felt your stomach dip slightly at the formality of it all.

Telemachus turned to you just before stepping in, lowering his voice. "Wait here for just a second—I need to prepare them first," he murmured.

You blinked, eyes narrowing. "Prepare them for what, exactly?"

His smirk widened as he stepped forward. "You'll see."

You exhaled softly as the doors shut behind Telemachus, sealing you and Lady in the corridor. The weight of the moment settled on your shoulders, and without thinking, you reached out, running a hand over the top of the sheet-covered Askálion's head. The fabric was warm from her body heat, and you could feel the way she shifted slightly beneath it, still agitated.

"Just a little longer," you murmured, more to yourself than to her.

The seconds stretched unbearably, your nerves twisting with each passing moment. Then, finally, the heavy doors groaned as they parted once more. Telemachus stepped back through, his eyes meeting yours as he extended his hand.

You swallowed, wiping your palm against your dress before reaching forward to grasp his. His fingers were warm and steady as they curled around yours. With your other hand, you tugged gently at Lady's sheet, whispering, "Come on, Lady."

She hesitated for only a moment before trudging forward, the large sheet dragging slightly over the polished marble floor as she followed at your side.

The moment you stepped inside, the weight of the court's collective gaze descended upon you.

The grand throne hall was just as imposing as ever, with towering marble columns stretching toward the high-vaulted ceiling, their golden inlays gleaming under the sunlight streaming in from the open archways. The Ithacan banners swayed gently with the breeze, their deep blues and whites stark against the polished stone.

At the head of the room, seated upon their thrones, were Penelope and Odysseus.

Penelope, as always, was a vision of quiet regality, her deep blue chiton draped gracefully over one shoulder, her golden armbands catching the light as she sat forward, eyes bright with curiosity. Odysseus, on the other hand, looked as composed as ever, though his sharp gaze flickered between you and the oddly-shaped sheeted mass moving beside you.

Among the gathered nobles and advisors, you quickly noticed Andreia was absent—something that you childishly enjoyed far more than you should have.

A quiet murmur swept through the hall, the whisper of curiosity as eyes darted between you, Telemachus, and the large, covered figure at your side.

You forced yourself to keep walking, each step deliberate as you, Lady, and Telemachus made your way up to the royal dais.

Odysseus leaned slightly forward on his throne, his piercing gaze appraising the scene before him. "My son has informed us that you have something important to share with us," he said, voice steady but carrying its usual weight of command. His eyes flickered to the cumbersome sheet. "Judging by the presentation... I assume it is something worth seeing."

You barely had time to gather yourself before Telemachus leaned toward you, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "It's time."

You inhaled sharply, nodding once before turning to face the king and queen fully.

With a final steadying breath, you reached for the edge of the sheet.

You gripped the edge of the sheet tightly, inhaling one last breath before pulling it away in a single, fluid motion.

The reaction was instantaneous.

A chorus of startled gasps and shrieks rippled through the throne hall. One noble let out a strangled cry, stumbling back into another as his hands shot up as if warding off an attack. A different voice—sharp with panic—barked out, "Guards! Guards, now!" The heavy clatter of boots followed, a handful of sentries instinctively stepping forward, hands reaching for the hilts of their swords.

But your focus remained fixed on the king and queen.

Penelope's reaction was swift—a sharp gasp escaping her lips as her hand shot out, fingers gripping Odysseus' forearm. Her dark brows knit together, mouth parting as if she were about to speak but finding no words. There was no fear in her gaze, only stunned intrigue.

Odysseus, however, was eerily still. His sharp, stormy eyes locked onto Lady, unreadable as ever, his expression carefully composed. His fingers curled against the polished wood of his throne, his only tell of thoughtfulness.

"That—" A nobleman from one of the lesser Ithacan houses suddenly cut through the noise, pointing a trembling finger at Lady. "That is an Askálion!" His voice wavered between shock and accusation. "A beast of legend! Dangerous and unnatural—why have you brought it here?!"

Before you could speak, another noble—a woman clad in dark violet, her expression pinched with barely concealed contempt—let out a scoff, turning slightly toward the man beside her, though her words were deliberately loud enough to be heard by all.

"How fitting." Her lips curled into a smirk as she inspected her nails. "First, a mortal granted divine favor, now bringing creatures of myth into our halls... One has to wonder, what exactly is she hoping to accomplish?"

A murmur swept through the court, a low hum of whispers and grumbles, spreading like wildfire across the gathered nobles and advisors. Their expressions ranged from wariness to outright suspicion.

Your stomach twisted, but you stood firm, resisting the urge to glance at Telemachus. Instead, you lifted your chin, hands carefully resting at your sides, trying to still the nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin.

A gentle nudge against your hand pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. Lady.

Her cold nose pressed insistently against your fingers, a silent reminder of her presence, of her trust in you. You let your fingers drift over the thick fur atop her head, scratching gently as her ears flicked forward. A small, barely-there smile tugged at your lips, grounding you in the moment.

"Your Majesty," a sharp voice cut through the growing murmurs, addressing Odysseus with the weighted authority of a seasoned noble. "You cannot possibly allow this... this beast to grace Ithaca's halls."

The speaker stepped forward from the cluster of higher-ranking noblemen—a broad-shouldered man with graying temples and a face weathered by years of battle. Lord Menoetius, an old commander, one whose family had long prided itself on Ithaca's hunting traditions. His deep-set eyes, dark with distaste, flicked over Lady like one might inspect a rotting carcass.

"This creature's very kind is the reason Ithaca has lost so many fine huntsmen," he continued, gesturing with a heavy hand. "We go in groups now, our best forced to fight together to fend off the dangers in our own lands. And now you mean to leave it under the care of—" his gaze flicked toward you, unimpressed, "—a child?"

You stiffened, your fingers curling against Lady's fur, but Menoetius wasn't finished.

"It would do better for all if the beast were slain before it has the chance to wreak havoc within these very walls." He turned toward Odysseus, expression severe. "It is not safe, Your Majesty. It does not belong here."

Lady's ears flattened, her muscles tensing as she lowered her head ever so slightly. A deep, rumbling growl built in her chest, quiet but unmistakable. The sound sent a ripple of unease through the court, a few nobles taking an instinctive step back.

"Lady," you murmured, your hand sliding to scratch behind her ears againg. Instantly, the growl ceased, her posture straightening once more, her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, you exhaled and turned your gaze on Menoetius, meeting his scowl with measured calm.

"You misunderstand, my lord," you said evenly. "This is not a beast that needs to be put down. If she was, she would have already slain half this hall the moment she entered the palace."

A hush fell over the court, your words settling over them like a thick fog.

The silence that followed your words was thick, suffocating. The nobles and higher lords shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances, but none dared to be the first to speak. Even the guards, hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, stood at attention, eyes flicking warily between you and the creature at your side.

Lady remained still, though her presence alone seemed to take up the space of an entire army.

You took a slow breath, keeping your voice steady. "You call her a beast, but let me remind you—true beasts do not wait. They do not sit calmly in a court filled with wary, sword-bearing men who already wish them dead. They do not restrain themselves when insulted, threatened." You let your gaze sweep across the hall, settling once more on Lord Menoetius, whose jaw had begun to tighten. "And yet, here she sits."

Lady's golden eyes glowed eerily under the torchlight, her gaze locked onto the nobleman with unnerving intensity. She didn't bare her teeth, nor did she growl. She didn't need to. The weight of her stare alone was enough to make the man visibly tense, his fingers twitching against the hilt of his blade.

"If she was the danger you claim her to be," you continued, voice unwavering, "if she was truly the mindless predator you fear, she would have already ripped through these halls, leaving nothing but ruin in her wake." Your lips pressed into a thin line. "And yet... she has done nothing. Not because she cannot, but because she chooses not to."

Lady, as if sensing the weight of the moment, slowly shifted. Her posture straightened, muscles coiling with controlled precision as she lifted her chin. She turned her head ever so slightly, her piercing eyes unblinking as they bore into Menoetius with an intelligence far beyond that of a simple beast.

The noble's throat bobbed, his fingers twitching once more before he turned his head away.

The victory was small, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Still, the air remained thick with unspoken challenges, tension coiling between the pillars of the grand hall like an unseen specter. You could feel the uncertainty radiating from the gathered court—nobles, warriors, advisors—all torn between the instincts that told them to fear and the logic that forced them to reconsider.

The Askálion wasn't what they had believed her to be.

But whether that made her any less dangerous was another matter entirely.

The court erupted into hushed whispers, the weight of Odysseus' presence keeping them from devolving into outright chaos. But just as the murmurs began to rise, Telemachus stepped forward, his voice sharp and brimming with barely contained frustration.

"If this animal is as mythical and dangerous as you claim," he started, his tone biting, "then why, exactly, did it appear before her? Why has it shown no signs of aggression? No threat to anyone—except those who insult it or threaten it?" His gaze flickered toward Menoetius, daring him to challenge him further. "Why does it remain by her side so willingly? Why is it so docile in her presence?"

He took another step forward, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his words slicing through the air with unshakable certainty. "You want to call it a beast—fine. But isn't it clear that it's here for a reason? That this is no ordinary creature? What kind of fool turns away a sign from the gods?" He let the words settle, his expression twisting into something edged with mockery as he tilted his head. "Unless you're willing to take that risk? To spit in the face of the gods above and test their patience?"

The room fell into another tense silence, only broken by the flickering of torches and the distant clang of armor from the guards standing at attention. Menoetius' mouth pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.

Before anyone else could attempt to argue further, Odysseus shifted in his seat, his posture as relaxed as ever, but his voice carried the weight of finality. "Enough."

All eyes snapped toward the king as he finally spoke, his gaze moving slowly from Telemachus to you before landing on Lady, who sat still and quiet at your side.

"I have made my decision," he said, his tone unreadable. "She will keep the Askálion."

A sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the court, but no one dared to speak against him.

Your shoulders sagged in relief, only to tense once more as Odysseus' smirk curled into something dangerous—calculated.

"But," he added smoothly, "it will be Telemachus who takes full responsibility for it."

Your head snapped toward the prince just as his own face froze in stunned disbelief. "What?"

Odysseus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest of his throne, his smirk widening ever so slightly. "You make such a grand and logical argument, my son—so confident, so sure of yourself. Surely, if you believe the creature to be so divine, so gifted by the gods, you wouldn't object to ensuring its behavior falls under your watch?"

Telemachus opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again, clearly grappling for words. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as his jaw tightened. "Father, that's not—"

"The Divine Liaison," Odysseus interrupted smoothly, "cannot be held at fault for whatever the gods choose to blow her way." He lifted a brow, his amusement barely concealed beneath the sharp glint of calculation in his eyes. "It only makes sense that someone should shoulder the burden, should it prove to be one. And since you were so eager to defend its place here..."

Telemachus inhaled deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring as he realized he'd walked directly into his father's trap.

You weren't sure whether to be horrified or amused.

Before either of you could speak, Odysseus shifted once more, his smirk dimming just slightly as his voice took on a more authoritative edge. "Now," he said, "clear the hall. Everyone except for my son and the Divine Liaison."

The murmurs returned instantly, thick with reluctance and curiosity, but no one dared to linger once the king's gaze swept over them. One by one, nobles and advisors bowed before making their way out of the throne room, though not without casting wary glances in your direction.

Even as they departed, you could still feel their eyes, their cautious stares lingering, as if they expected you to reveal some divine secret at any moment.

The heavy doors groaned as they shut behind the last court member, the sound echoing in the now-empty hall.

Silence settled between the three of you, heavy and unyielding.

Lady let out a quiet huff, stretching lazily beside you, completely unbothered.

Telemachus, however, turned to his father with an expression caught between exasperation and incredulity. "Really?"

Odysseus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head with that ever-present smirk of his. "You argue so well, son," he mused, clearly enjoying Telemachus' frustration. "A true heir of Ithaca. It would be a shame not to let you test the weight of your own words."

Telemachus exhaled sharply through his nose, his hands landing on his hips as he shot you a quick, incredulous look, as if to say, Can you believe this? You could. In fact, you should've seen it coming.

As Odysseus' amusement lingered, Penelope merely sighed and shook her head fondly at her husband before gracefully stepping forward, gliding down the steps from the throne with effortless elegance.

It was a small, unconscious thing, but as she moved, Odysseus' arm instinctively reached out, brushing against the small of her back before dropping again. It was a subtle moment, one they likely didn't even realize they shared, but it spoke volumes.

You swallowed thickly, shifting your weight slightly as both the king and queen stood before you and Lady, their expressions varying in intensity.

Odysseus' gaze was sharp yet measured, caution warring with intrigue in the way his dark eyes swept over Lady. His posture remained composed, his battle-honed instincts refusing to relax just yet. He had spent his life deciphering risks and rewards, and right now, you could tell he was weighing which one Lady would become.

Penelope, however—Penelope was enamored.

Her sea-blue eyes were wide with a mix of awe and quiet trepidation as she took in the Askálion, her hands delicately clasped in front of her as though she wasn't sure if she should reach out or keep her distance. And then, softly, she asked, "What did you name her?"

You hesitated for half a heartbeat before answering, "Lady."

The queen's reaction was immediate. Her face lit up with pure delight, the previous hesitance melting away in an instant. "Oh, how perfect," she cooed, her voice soft with adoration. "A fitting name for such a noble creature."

She took half a step forward, eyes shining with curiosity, but Odysseus instinctively reached out to stop her, his hand lightly wrapping around her wrist. She paused, looking at him with a knowing expression before gently pulling free. He didn't stop her. Instead, he merely let out a low sigh and watched as she moved closer, his fingers twitching slightly at his side in a silent warning.

Your heart began hammering wildly in your chest.

You had no idea how Lady would react. You'd seen her bound happily toward you, you'd felt the way she nudged against you for comfort, the way she growled at Telemachus but ultimately tolerated him. But this... this was new.

Your mind scrambled with prayer, sending desperate pleas to every god who might be listening, begging for Lady to behave.

And, miraculously, she did.

Lady tilted her head, ears twitching, before letting out a small huff. Then, with almost deliberate care, she lifted one of her massive paws and placed it lightly against Penelope's leg.

The queen melted.

Before anyone could react, she dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out in gentle awe as she ran her fingers over Lady's fur. "Oh, just look at you," she breathed, scratching the top of Lady's head with practiced ease, as if she had done it a thousand times before. "You're even softer than you look."

A deep silence filled the hall.

You slowly turned your head, taking in the sight of Odysseus, whose usually sharp, unreadable expression had cracked just enough to reveal his absolute disbelief.

Telemachus, standing stiffly beside you, had his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows raised in something akin to muted horror, as if he were watching the impossible unfold before his very eyes.

You weren't sure who was more shocked—them, or you.

Lady, the same creature who had nearly knocked you over, who had growled at Telemachus, who had threatened to bite off the hand of any who approached too fast—was now lying obediently at Penelope's feet, eyes half-lidded with contentment.

Your brain struggled to process it.

"Well," Odysseus finally muttered, rubbing a hand down his face, "this is... unexpected."

Telemachus just blinked. "That makes two of us."

Penelope let out another delighted hum, brushing her fingers gently over Lady's dark fur. "She's beautiful," she murmured, turning her head to look at Odysseus with wide, curious eyes. "Have you ever seen one in this color before?"

Odysseus, who had finally stepped closer, now stood beside his wife, his keen gaze sweeping over Lady's sleek frame with the practiced eye of a man who had spent his life observing the unpredictable. "No," he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not like this. The ones I've encountered in the wild were always smaller, their coats resembling those of ordinary foxes—rust-red or golden-brown, meant for blending in. This"—his eyes flickered with intrigue—"is a first."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe she's a new kind?" he suggested, his head tilting slightly as he examined Lady with fresh curiosity. "Or a rare one, at least. If they're meant to blend in, then a black-pelted Askálion would stand out more than anything else."

You glanced down at Lady, who had once again lifted a paw and placed it lightly on Penelope's knee, her large eyes blinking expectantly. The queen's laughter was warm as she patted the beast's head once more, shaking her head fondly.

"She's young," Penelope mused suddenly, a note of certainty in her voice.

You blinked, startled by her confidence. "How... how do you know that?" you stammered.

She turned her smile on you, bright and knowing. "Her teeth," she explained lightly, gently tilting Lady's muzzle to the side with her fingers. "They're still a bit immature—not quite as sharp or developed as an adult's would be. That, and her paws are still slightly too big for her body. She'll grow into them soon enough."

You stared at Lady in surprise, suddenly seeing the small details Penelope had pointed out—the slight awkwardness of her proportions, the way her frame, though powerful, still held a trace of something not yet fully formed. "So she's... just a pup?" you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.

Telemachus nodded in agreement, crossing his arms. "It makes sense," he said. "Mature Askálions are supposed to grow nearly the size of a small horse. If she's already this big now, then she's not even close to being fully grown."

Your stomach twisted at the thought. A small horse? Lady was already large enough to sit comfortably at your hip when she stood on all fours—if she was going to grow more... Gods. You glanced down at her again, and she simply lolled her tongue out, her tail swishing lazily against the marble floor, completely unbothered by the revelation that she wasn't done getting bigger.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your temple."Wonderful," you muttered, half to yourself, half to the gods that had clearly taken a personal interest in making your life more interesting.

Penelope hummed, tilting her head as she studied Lady with admiration. "Well, I have no doubt that when she's older, she'll be even more stunning," she mused, her eyes twinkling with warmth. "There's a quiet grace about her already."

As if suddenly remembering something, she reached for the silk tie fastened around her chiton—a delicate strip of white fabric embroidered with faint golden thread. With nimble fingers, she untied it and knelt once more before Lady, her movements gentle and assured.

Lady's ears perked up as Penelope carefully tied the silk around her neck into a neat bow, the contrast of the bright white against the dark fur making her look regal, almost ethereal. The embroidered gold caught the light just right, giving the illusion that the fabric shimmered ever so slightly with each breath Lady took.

"There," Penelope said with a satisfied smile, adjusting the bow slightly before sitting back. "Now she looks proper."

To everyone's surprise, Lady seemed to like it. She gave a pleased huff, lifting her head slightly as if showing it off, her tail swishing in slow, measured movements. You blinked, watching her curiously as she even went so far as to nuzzle Penelope's hand in what could only be interpreted as gratitude.

Penelope's expression melted into pure delight, her fingers instinctively returning to scratch behind Lady's ears. "Oh, Odysseus," she called to her husband without taking her eyes off the Askálion, her voice full of warmth. "I think I rather like her."

Odysseus, who had been observing quietly with sharp, calculating eyes, let out a low chuckle. "You're lucky she took to you," he murmured, arms still crossed as he watched the exchange unfold. "Or else we'd be having a much different discussion right now."

Telemachus snorted, stepping up beside you, amusement playing in his features. "At this rate," he quipped, shooting you a sideways glance, "she'll probably ask for one of her own before long."

You let out a quiet laugh, watching as Penelope cooed at Lady like she was a rare treasure instead of the fearsome beast half the court had nearly fainted over minutes ago.

"You know," you murmured, glancing at Telemachus with a small, tired smile, "I wouldn't even be surprised."

☆

☆

As the day wore on, Penelope made good on her excitement, insisting that Lady be properly introduced to the palace. The queen, much to your mild horror and Telemachus' amused resignation, paraded the Askálion through the royal halls with an air of determined purpose.

The once-feared beast, to your even greater surprise, reveled in the attention, soaking up every coo and whispered marvel from the servants and courtiers as though she were born to be pampered.

Bows were commissioned—several, in fact. The finest fabrics were procured for bedding, with Penelope already debating aloud what color would best suit Lady's regal nature. A deep burgundy, perhaps, or a rich navy lined with golden embroidery? You weren't sure how she managed to plan decor for a wild beast, but the queen seemed to have made up her mind.

By the time dinner arrived, Lady had been fed cuts of fine elk straight from Penelope's hand, the queen murmuring to her as though she were a prized hound instead of a creature that had made the nobles cry earlier that day.

You had managed to slip away in the midst of the meal, unnoticed by most—except for Telemachus, who gave you a look but said nothing, likely assuming you needed a reprieve from the royal fuss over your companion.

Now, heart pounding in your chest, you reached your chambers, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You pressed your back against the wood, steadying your breath as the weight of what you were about to do settled deep in your bones.

It had been but a few hours since the Underworld had clawed at the edges of your reality. Since Cleo's words had twisted in your dreams, since Apollo's favor had begun to make itself known. But tonight... tonight you would stop waiting for the gods to come to you.

Tonight, you would go to them.

You moved quickly, your hands working on instinct as you knelt beside your bed, reaching beneath it to pull out the small clay box you kept hidden there. Lifting the lid, you carefully pushed aside your laurel wreath and the flower crown, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of the small bag tucked beneath them. You exhaled slowly as you undid the string, fishing out a single drachma.

It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its edges worn from use. Swallowing, you rolled it between your fingers, muttering under your breath. I hope this works.

Standing, you wiped your slightly clammy hands on your dress, steadying yourself. Then, with a decisive flick of your wrist, you tossed the coin into the air, watching it spin—silver catching what little candlelight flickered in the room—before it landed softly on the stone floor with a faint clink.

The moment it settled, you clapped your hands once and spoke his name.

"Swift-footed Messenger, Patron of the Lost, Guide of Souls, Hermes, I call upon you!"

The words left your lips three times, the air around you humming faintly with something unseen. You waited, heart thrumming, fingers curling against your skirts as silence stretched like pulled thread. The next few moments trickled by like molasses, the weight of anticipation pressing against your ribs.

And then—warm breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, smooth and teasing.

"If I had known you were summoning me this late, little musician, I would've dressed for the occasion."

A startled yelp burst from your lips as you spun on your heel, nearly stumbling over yourself as your wide eyes locked onto the figure now floating effortlessly in your room.

Hermes lounged mid-air as if gravity were merely a suggestion, his arms tucked behind his head, winged sandals idly fluttering to keep him suspended. His staff rested against his shoulder, lazily twirling between two fingers as a smirk played at his lips.

You clutched your chest, scowling. "Gods—do you always have to pop in like that?!"

His smirk widened. "I am the god of sudden appearances." He flipped upright with a graceful roll, touching down onto the floor lightly. "Though, if you'd prefer, I could knock next time—perhaps bring you flowers? Maybe some fruit?"

You crossed your arms, playfully glaring. "I'd prefer if you didn't sneak up on me like a haunted breeze."

Hermes chuckled, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Oh, but it's so much fun watching you flinch." He waggled his brows before tilting his head, golden eyes gleaming with something sharper. "Now... you don't call on me often, Divine Liaison. What can I do for you?"

His tone, while still playful, carried the faintest edge of something more—curiosity, intrigue, perhaps even caution.

You straightened, your pulse still slightly erratic from the scare but your purpose unwavering. "I... I need you to send a message. To Apollo."

For a moment, Hermes was silent. His golden eyes flickered with something unreadable before, suddenly, a snort escaped him. Then a chuckle. Then, full-on laughter.

"That's it?" he said between breaths, shaking his head in amusement. "Gods, here I thought you were about to ask me to whisk you away for our happily ever after or something equally scandalous!" He wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, then leaned forward slightly, smirking. "A message? To Apollo? That's all?"

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Yes, Hermes. That's all. And if you're quite done laughing at me—"

"Oh, I'll never be done laughing at you, little musician," he interrupted, his grin widening. "But tell me—why do you need me to play messenger when the sun-bright fool is likely already watching you?" He waggled his eyebrows. "He's got his eye on you, you know. Always lingering, always looming. No need for a courier when your admirer is probably listening to every word you say." He tapped his ear with a knowing smirk.

You felt your face warm, and you scowled. "Just deliver it."

Hermes laughed again, shaking his head in faux exasperation. "Fine, fine! But only because you're so cute when you ask nicely." He exaggerated a sigh and then, with an overly dramatic flourish, reached into his satchel, digging around for a moment before pulling out a quill and a roll of parchment. He held them out with an expectant look. "Well? Go on. Dictate away, Divine Liaison."

Rolling your eyes, you took a breath before speaking. "Tell him to meet me in the courtyard," you said, voice steady. "I want to discuss my gifts once more... and a few other things."

Hermes' quill scratched against the parchment at lightning speed, his head nodding in mock seriousness as he scribbled. "Meet me in the courtyard. Big, divine business. Extremely important. Got it."

You gave him a flat look. "That's not what I said."

Hermes only grinned, adding a few more flourishes before theatrically rolling up the parchment. But instead of leaving the way you expected, he simply brought it to his lips and blew softly.

A shimmer of golden light bloomed from the parchment, and in an instant, it dissolved—scattering into glittering particles that swirled before shooting off into the air like a streak of falling sunlight.

Hermes dusted off his hands with a satisfied smirk. "There, all done." He clapped his hands together, looking far too pleased with himself.

You blinked. "That's it?"

He chuckled, tilting his head. "Well, yeah. It's just a message, little musician. I don't exactly have to cross the heavens and hand-deliver it in some grand procession—though, if you wanted me to, I could make a spectacle of it." He waggled his eyebrows, grinning. "Olympus loves a bit of drama."

You sighed, shaking your head with a soft huff of laughter. "No, that's fine. I was just expecting... more."

Hermes' smirk widened. "Although," he mused, leaning down slightly—too close, his breath warm against your ear—"if you wanted to send a kiss along with the message, I'm afraid I'd have to deliver that in person." His voice dropped into a playful whisper, full of teasing mischief. "Courier's rules."

Your face burned, and you jerked back instinctively, swatting at his arm. "Hermes!"

He reeled back, clutching his chest as if you'd wounded him. "Ah, ungrateful! The cruelty of mortals! Here I am, once a mighty god, now reduced to a mere errand boy for a cutie who doesn't even pay me!" He shook his head, heaving a dramatic sigh. "Woe is me!"

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms. "You don't need payment. You're a god."

"That's beside the point," he quipped, lifting a finger as if making a grand declaration. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted, and he perked up, a glint of something sly and knowing in his golden eyes. "Actually, I just thought of the perfect payment!"

You raised an eyebrow. "I don't like that look."

He only grinned wider. "Spend the day with me." His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something warm beneath the teasing lilt. "No interruptions, no running off to Apollo, no princely brooding in the background. Just you and me."

You hesitated, lips parting to protest—but the way he was looking at you, expectant yet amused, like he knew you were going to cave, made you sigh in defeat. "Fine."

"That's my girl," Hermes hummed, all too pleased, ruffling your hair before you could dodge him. He straightened, wings twitching slightly before he tossed you a playful wink. "It's a date."

Before you could sputter out a response, he disappeared in a swirl of golden light and laughter, leaving behind only the lingering scent of cedar and the faintest rustling of air where he had stood.

You groaned, pressing your hands against your warm cheeks. "What have I done?" .☆. .✩. .☆.

The night air carried a gentle chill, whispering against your skin as you stood in the quiet courtyard, the palace walls casting long shadows beneath the starlit sky.

Overhead, the heavens stretched vast and endless, a dark expanse speckled with glimmering constellations, their silver light shimmering like scattered jewels. The torches lining the garden pathways flickered faintly, their warm glow barely reaching the edges of the open space, leaving the farthest corners cloaked in darkness.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, inhaling deeply, letting the crisp air fill your lungs. Your thoughts drifted—unfocused, restless—as your gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon.

The anticipation thrummed beneath your skin, an unshakable weight pressing against your ribs.

You weren't even sure how much time had passed since Hermes had delivered your message, but still, you waited.

And then—you heard it.

Your name, spoken like a melody, reverent and warm.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling against your arms as you turned toward the sound.

Apollo.

He descended with a grace that was wholly inhuman, his movements fluid as if the air itself bowed to his presence.

The golden radiance of his form softened in the moonlight, but there was no mistaking the quiet brilliance that clung to him—the way the night itself seemed to hush in his wake.

As his feet touched the earth, the grass beneath him brightened, kissed by the lingering remnants of his divinity.

Your mind raced, struggling to grasp where to even begin.

The overwhelming nature of his recent gifts? The unsettling feeling that came with his constant presence lingering just beyond your reach? Lady, Cleo, the dreams—there was too much, too many unanswered questions pressing at the edge of your thoughts.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first. You hesitated, fingers twitching slightly at your sides before you finally settled on the easiest thing to address.

"The gifts," you started cautiously, choosing your words with care, "I wanted to talk about the gifts."

Apollo's golden eyes brightened instantly, his entire being seeming to shimmer with satisfaction. "Ah!" he exclaimed, grasping your hands in his, his warmth engulfing you. "You mean the breathtaking, unparalleled, divinely inspired masterpieces I've so lovingly bestowed upon you?" He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "Yes, yes, I knew you'd want to talk about them! Truly, they must be amazi—"

"Not... exactly," you blurted out before he could finish, feeling your face heat as you cleared your throat.

Apollo's glowing smile froze, his expression eerily still. The warmth of his grasp remained, but something about it felt suddenly rigid, like a beautifully painted mask just starting to crack. His golden lashes flickered as he let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head slightly.

"What?" he asked, voice still carrying that same melodic charm, but something in his tone felt... off.

You immediately rushed to pacify him, words tumbling out in a frantic blur. "I adore them, really! They're—gorgeous, truly! It's just that—" You fumbled, grasping for a reason that wouldn't offend him. "I don't—I don't have anywhere to put them! They're so beautiful, and I'd hate to just... leave them stacked or tucked away."

Apollo's posture relaxed, the forced quality of his smile easing into something more genuine as he exhaled through his nose. His hands, still holding yours, loosened just slightly before one lifted to smooth over your hair, his fingers ghosting gently along your temple as he hummed.

"Of course," he murmured, his voice saccharine with indulgence, as if you'd merely told him the sky was blue. "Why would I think otherwise?"

His thumb brushed your cheek before he playfully pinched it, cooing, "My little muse, you worry too much!"

Then, with a simple snap of his fingers, the air around you shimmered briefly with golden light.

"Consider it done," he said smoothly. "When you return, a divine, ever-expanding shelf will be waiting in your room to hold each and every one of my gifts. It will never run out of space, never clutter, and—" He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "It will only open for you."

You blinked, a little dumbfounded. "That's... convenient."

"Everything I do is convenient," Apollo said smugly, stepping back slightly but still watching you with that pleased, knowing gleam. "See? No need to fret."

Internally, you were screaming.

At yourself, at your lack of resolve, at the way you had completely buckled under pressure.

Coward, you hissed inside your own mind. Spine of a jellyfish, the willpower of a wilted flower.

All the things you had meant to say, all the questions still burning at the back of your throat—about Lady, about Cleo, about why in all the gods' names Apollo was doing this—all of it had evaporated  the moment his golden eyes had flickered with the briefest hint of disappointment. You had folded faster than a gambler with a bad hand.

And now, instead of pushing for answers, you were standing there, forcing a smile, thanking him as if he hadn't just talked circles around you and wrapped you up in his whims like a finely spun web.

Apollo sighed, though there was no real frustration behind it—only something akin to regret. "Unfortunately," he murmured, adjusting the folds of his tunic, "I can't stay long."

You blinked. Wait—what?

He glanced off toward the sky, the soft glimmer of the stars reflecting in his golden irises. "Whenever I leave Olympus unattended longer than I should, things tend to get a bit... messy. My father doesn't care for what goes on up there, and while I find my siblings endlessly amusing, I'd rather not return to find Hermes turned the sacred stables into a racing track again." A fond smirk curled his lips, but his gaze flickered back to you with something softer—more reluctant. "But I will visit soon."

Your breath hitched slightly as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until there was only warmth and the faint scent of sun-drenched fields and laurel leaves.

"I always do," Apollo murmured, reaching out to brush his knuckles along your jaw before his fingers gently curled under your chin, tilting your head up.

Your heart stuttered, your knees threatening to buckle as the world around you felt... lighter. Safer. The cool night air wrapped around you, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that radiated from him, sinking into your skin, curling deep in your chest.

You felt lightheaded, as if you were being pulled into something vast and golden, like stepping onto a sunlit path that had always been waiting for you.

His thumb smoothed along the edge of your jaw, and before you could say a single word, before you could even think—

A soft, lingering kiss pressed against your forehead.

The warmth of it seeped through you, curling deep into your bones, setting your heart alight with something gentle and all-consuming.

You barely noticed the way his form began to shimmer, golden light curling around his figure like the first rays of dawn. And then—

He was gone.

But the warmth remained.

The feeling of his touch still ghosted against your skin, the press of his lips imprinted like a brand, and for a moment, it was as if he was still holding you, still standing there, watching with that unreadable gleam in his eyes.

You exhaled sharply, finally pulling yourself back to reality.

Lifting a hand, you rubbed the heel of your palm against your forehead, groaning under your breath.

"I didn't even get a chance to ask about Lady."

A/N: okay, okay—before y'all say anything, i know i've been a little redundant with the whole cleo thing. i swear it's not just me repeating myself for the hell of it—it actually has a purpose that'll come full circle soon 👀. just trust me, i got this. also, i have to admit... i've been absolutely obsessed with reading lately. like, fully drowning in greek myths, retellings, and just so much lore that i keep falling into research rabbit holes. the drama?? the chaos?? the pettiness of the gods??? it's so good, and i keep finding little details that make me wanna rewrite entire sections just to sneak them in. (seriously, if you haven't gone down a mythology deep dive, i highly recommend it—it's unhinged in the best way.) anyway, i'll stop rambling before i turn this into a full-on lecture about obscure myths. hope y'all enjoyed the update, and i'll see you next chapter! 💕✨

i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️

from Frannie

Frannie!! First of all, this is officially the first Callias fanart, and I am absolutely obsessed—like, look at him!! 😭 The way you've captured his and MC's dynamic is everything; I adore their relationship so much, and seeing it come to life like this?? A dream come true.

And don't even get me started on the Telemachus/Eros piece—the absolute drama, the smugness, the chaos?? It's perfection. I can hear Telemachus grinding his teeth from here, and MC just looking done while Eros is thriving is sending me. Thank you so much for these; you have no idea how happy this made me! 🥹 Also, fake whisper—I hope "Frannie" is okay 👀 since you sent this through Gmail, I didn't wanna reveal your real name, but if you have a preferred alias, let me know! Either way, you're now a legend in my eyes. 😤💕

from wishesonstars39781

Wishesonstars, you snapped with this one!! 😭 The whole composition is so immersive, and the way you've captured Eros just casually scheming in the background?? Chef’' kiss—so perfectly in character. But listen, I don't know why, but my absolute favorite part has to be MC's hair. The shading is so smooth, so soft—like, why does it look so silky?? I swear, I can almost feel the texture through the screen. ACK! Thank you so much for this masterpiece!! You captured the moment so well, and I’m forever grateful for your talent blessing my eyeballs. 😭💖

from nemesis (i saw the tag in the pic and assumed this was your name, feel free to correct me ❤️)

Nemesis, you have NO IDEA how much I gasped seeing this!! 😭😭 ANDREIA FANART?!?!? For her?? The menace herself?? I know she might not be the most beloved (for obvious reasons), but she has such a soft spot in my heart because of how downright menacing she is. Like, villains who aren't just loud but calculating?? Who are so self-assured and ruthless in their ambitions?? UGH. Love it.

And the Hanahaki reference??? PERFECTION. The way the flowers are just consuming her, overtaking her body, the deep blues standing in contrast to her hair?? It's so haunting, so tragic—I AM EATING THIS UP. 😩 I might just have to dabble in this AU and make a short story because this—THIS has sent my brain SPIRALING. Nemesis, I owe you my life. 🙇🏽‍♀️💙

WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?! 😭😭 I legit had to do a double take when I saw this because HELLO?! The lines?? The shading?? The attitude in Telemachus' face and the pure, smug menace radiating from Eros?!??

AND THE FLEX OF DRAWING THIS ON NOTEBOOK PAPER??? Like, you're telling me this wasn't done on a fancy sketchbook, just casually on lined paper like some kind of divine doodle?? I CAN’T.

Chipsiscurious, you've officially humbled me. It's clear I have a duty to complete—if I selfishly wanna keep getting fanart like this, I HAVE to step up with the updates. 😩😩😩 (And I will. Ohhh, I will.)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondie jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbe

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 33 Chapter 33 | of shadows and fangs⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The sound of waves lapping against the shore filled your ears, the gentle hush of the tide a soothing presence as you walked along Ithaca's coastline.

The moon hung high above, casting silver light over the sand, making it shimmer like crushed pearls beneath your feet. The salt air kissed your skin, the scent of the sea rich and familiar, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was peaceful.

You crouched, fingers reaching toward the damp sand as a small shell caught your eye—smooth and iridescent, reflecting the moonlight in swirls of blue and violet. But as soon as your fingers brushed against it, a shift in the air made you pause.

A creeping cold curled around your ankles.

Your breath hitched as you slowly straightened, your heart beginning to hammer in your chest. The once-pristine beach was vanishing, the shoreline swallowed by thick, rolling mist. It slithered forward in tendrils, swirling around your legs like something alive.

You turned sharply, expecting to see the cliffs of Ithaca, the familiar outline of home in the distance.

But there was nothing.

The sand beneath your feet darkened, the grains turning ashen, and the soft hum of the ocean was replaced by something else entirely—a distant, distorted murmur. Whispers.

The mist thickened.

The night sky flickered.

And in a blink, the world was gone.

When you opened your eyes again, you were no longer on the shore.

You knew where you were immediately.

The Underworld.

The air felt heavier, the scent of saltwater replaced by something faintly metallic—iron and dust. The atmosphere was thick, oppressive, as though the very air was weighted with something unseen. The pale glow of the Asphodel Fields stretched endlessly before you, an expanse of mist and drifting souls moving with aimless steps.

A chill crawled up your spine, but you didn't move right away, your breath still catching in your throat as your mind scrambled to process how you got here.

You turned in place, the landscape an eerie reflection of what you remembered from your last visit. It had been so long since you had stood in this realm, so long since you'd walked among the restless dead. You had hoped, foolishly, that you'd never have to return.

And yet, here you were.

For a moment, you hesitated, confused. Had you been brought here physically? No, this wasn't like last time. You felt... lighter, untethered in a way that made you certain this was a dream. Or at the very least, something close to one.

The gods, you thought with an exhale, rubbing your temple. Of course. This wouldn't be the first time Olympus had twisted my dreams into something more.

But why now?

Your gaze swept across the misty expanse before you, searching for something—anything—that would explain why you were here.

You let out a sharp groan, frustration bubbling in your chest as you kicked at the now darkened sands beneath your feet. The once-clear ocean that had stretched so invitingly before you was gone—twisted into something foreign, something wrong. The water, once shimmering with moonlight's silver touch, had blackened, dark as ink, rolling forward in sluggish waves that bled into the grainy shore before retreating just as slowly. Each pull of the tide left behind something unnatural—wisps of shadow curling at the edges, dissipating like smoke before being swallowed back into the abyss.

You swallowed hard, a heavy sense of foreboding sinking into your gut. This wasn't just a dream. It was something else entirely.

Muttering a curse, you turned, deciding to walk—somewhere, anywhere—to make sense of what was happening. But the moment you pivoted, your body locked in place, a strangled yelp slipping from your throat.

A figure stood just a few feet away, silent, unmoving.

Your breath caught, heart hammering violently against your ribs as your vision adjusted to the eerie glow of the Asphodel Fields.

Cleo.

The mist curled around her ankles, licking at the edges of her tattered white dress, its hem blackened and dirtied, the fabric clinging to her form as if damp.

And her face—gods, her face.

Pale. Hollow. Blank.

Her blonde locks, once golden and full of life, now hung limp, darkened as if soaked through, strands clinging to her cheeks, plastered against her forehead. Her green eyes, always so sharp, so alive, were vacant. Empty.

But they were locked onto you.

A slow, creeping sensation coiled through your gut, wrapping around your ribs like a vice as you stood frozen in place, staring into Cleo's hollow eyes. It was an unbearable, suffocating sort of stillness, as if the very air between you had thickened, pressing against your lungs and making each breath feel labored. Your hands curled into trembling fists at your sides, but not just out of fear.

It was something else.

A different kind of unease slithered through you, dredging up memories you had long since tried to bury.

"It's supposed to be you reduced to nothing! But instead, gods themselves bend over backwards to change your fate."

The words from your last encounter with her had burned themselves into your mind, branding you with their venom. You could still hear the raw anger in her voice, see the twisted rage in her face. You weren't sure if those words had been truly hers—the girl you had once known—or if they were merely the desperate cries of something bitter and lost, twisted into a warped reflection of who she used to be.

But now, as she stood there, her face unreadable, those doubts crawled over you like a sickness.

And then, she spoke.

Softly. Gently. The way she had so many times before.

"____," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. There was something almost wistful in her expression, something achingly familiar. And then, a soft smile. A sad, knowing smile. "I always knew you'd make the gods jealous one day."

Your breath hitched.

The words—ones she had spoken so long ago in the living world—rang in your ears, wrapped in something that felt almost like warmth. Almost. But the tremor in your hands remained, the warning bells in your head still screaming at you not to let your guard down.

Slowly, she stepped forward.

It was unhurried, her bare feet gliding over the mist-drenched ground like she was part of the Underworld itself, woven into its fabric. She moved with a grace that was almost hypnotic, and yet, the closer she came, the heavier the air around you felt—like it was thickening, pressing in on your chest, making it harder to move.

Your lips parted, but every thought you had seemed to unravel into nothing. Everything you had wanted to say, all the questions, all the buried feelings—it all slipped away, leaving you with only a single, trembling whisper.

"...Cleo."

The moment her name left your lips, her smile changed.

The warmth, the softness—it curdled.

Her lips twisted, pulling tight, her teeth barely flashing beneath the strained expression. Her green eyes darkened, her features sharpening with something bitter, something crawling with resentment.

A cold dread slithered down your spine as her gaze burned into you. When she spoke again, her voice was low, trembling—not with sorrow, but with something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"Do you even realize," she whispered, her tone poisoned with something ugly, "how easy it all comes to you?"

Your stomach lurched.

Her head tilted further, her expression darkening. "How every damn thing you touch becomes yours? How you stumble into luck without even trying?" Her voice was gaining momentum now, a quiet fury boiling beneath her words. "I tried for years, ____." Her lips curled, her fingers twitching as if barely restraining something. "Years. I tried to take, to reach for something better, and do you know what I got for it?"

A shiver crawled up your arms, but you couldn't move, couldn't tear your eyes from her as she took another step forward.

"Nothing," she spat, the word sharp, cutting. "And yet, you—you just exist, and the gods themselves fall at your feet."

Your throat tightened. "Cleo, that's not—"

She laughed. A sharp, hollow thing. "What? Not true?" she mocked, voice dripping with venom. "Not fair?"

Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling into fists, her nails digging into her skin. Her breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she almost looked in pain, as if even she wasn't sure how much of this was fury and how much of it was grief. But then her eyes snapped back to you, cold and seething.

"Even here, in death, I can't escape you."

The words made your stomach drop.

Her voice was shaking now, her whole form trembling, but she pressed forward, her steps uneven, unsteady—like the weight of everything she carried was pulling her down.

"Even in death, the souls here whisper your name. They moan for your voice, your presence." Her expression twisted, a sharp, brittle grin forming on her lips. "Even here, you haunt me."

Your breath came short, uneven, the weight of her words pressing into your chest like a blade.

Cleo's green eyes bore into you, wild and sharp, her breath ragged. "It's always you," she hissed, her voice breaking. "It always has been."

And as you stared into her eyes, you finally accepted... this wasn't Cleo.

Not the Cleo you'd known.

Not the girl who had once laughed beside you, her voice a secret melody under Ithaca's torchlight, who had looped her arm through yours and whispered of mischief and dreams, who had promised, with all the reckless certainty of youth, that you would always have each other.

No.

That girl was long gone.

What stood before you was something hollowed-out, a twisted shadow of the warmth she once carried.

And yet—you couldn't move.

You couldn't step back, couldn't raise your hands to shield yourself, couldn't even force yourself to speak.

Because, deep down, a small voice in the back of your mind whispered a terrifying thought.

Maybe she's right.

Maybe she had been trying all her life. Maybe she had fought tooth and nail, had reached and clawed and bled for things that had never once reached back for her. And maybe you had merely existed and been handed everything.

Maybe the gods truly had bent the world to make room for you.

Your breath came shallow, your heart hammering, your pulse a violent rhythm against the silence pressing around you. You saw the glint in her eyes shift, something sharp flickering beneath the anguish, something cruel curling at the edges of her mouth.

And then, before you could react, her hands snapped up.

Ice-cold fingers wrapped around your throat.

Your body seized, a strangled gasp slipping past your lips as she leaned in, her breath frigid against your ear.

"You've always been so lucky, haven't you?" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "Tell me, divine liaison... how much luck do you think you have left?"

Then... darkness.

The world ripped away, and you shot up with a sharp, gasping breath, your chest heaving, your skin damp with sweat.

"____!"

A firm grip on your shoulder.

Your mind reeled, still caught between two worlds, but your body flinched before you could process it, instinct screaming at you to move.

"Hey—hey, it's me."

Telemachus.

You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your vision, but the edges of the dream clung to you like thick fog, thick and heavy, curling around your thoughts like unseen fingers. Your breath came fast and uneven, your pulse a frantic rhythm hammering against your ribs.

Your body trembled as you turned your head toward Telemachus, his face sharpening in focus. He was crouched beside you, close enough that his warmth cut through the chill still clinging to your skin. His brows were drawn tight, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Hey," his voice was low, steady, a tether to pull you back. His hand was firm on your shoulder, grounding you, his grip hesitant but present. "Are you alright?"

"I—" You cut yourself off, blinking hard, forcing yourself to focus on him.

Telemachus frowned, his grip tightening just slightly before loosening again, as if he didn't want to startle you further. His eyes searched your face, his jaw clenching like he was trying to decide if he should push for an answer.

"You were gasping," he said after a beat, his voice gentler now, the tension in his shoulders never quite fading. "Like you couldn't breathe."

You let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down your face, still shaking off the lingering weight of sleep.

It felt too real.

The scent of damp ash, the way the mist curled through the air, the sickly familiar voice wrapping around you like ivy. It's supposed to be you. It's always been you.

Your throat tightened, still feeling the ghost of Cleo's grip around your throat.

Morning light filtered through the canopy above, dappling the forest floor with soft patches of gold. The warmth of it should have been comforting, grounding—but your skin still felt cold, as if the shadows of the Underworld hadn't quite let go of you. The scent of damp earth and charred meat from last night's fire still lingered, mixing with the distant trickle of the river and the rustling leaves shifting with the breeze.

Reality.

Slowly, everything finally began to slot back into place. The hunt. The camp. The Asphodel Field. Cleo—

Before you could even think—before you could even open your mouth—a sharp yip pierced the air.

Then suddenly—oof!

Something barreled into you, knocking you straight onto your back with a breathless gasp. The weight wasn't crushing, but it was solid, warm, and unmistakably furry. The moment your back hit the ground, a rough tongue began enthusiastically swiping across your chin, your cheek—anywhere it could reach.

The Askálion.

The massive fox-like creature squirmed happily over you, its silky black fur damp with morning dew, its paws pressing into your chest as it let out another delighted yip before nosing against your jaw.

You let out a startled laugh, half breathless from the impact, half in sheer disbelief. "Alright, alright—I get it!" You reached up, gently pushing its head away, though the creature only huffed, wagging its thick, fiery-orange tail behind it.

Oh. Right.

This.

Your head thudded back against the ground as you exhaled heavily, your body still catching up with the whirlwind of waking up and being tackled. The reality of your situation—the reality of this thing—settled back into your mind.

The Askálion was still here. Still yours.

The past evening replayed itself in your head:

After you and Telemachus returned to camp, jugs of water in tow, the beast had trotted right behind the two of you, completely unbothered by the small army of men and weapons that awaited in the clearing.

The reaction had been...predictable.

A great deal of the hunting party screamed.

A few scrambled to grab their spears.

One of the Bronteans actually tried climbing a tree.

And all the while, the Askálion had merely tilted its head, ears flicking as though mildly interested in their fear but otherwise entirely unbothered.

It had only stayed beside you.

Always near you, always within arm's reach, its large dark eyes flicking toward Telemachus every now and then—as if keeping tabs on the prince—but otherwise remaining close to your side.

Eventually, with Telemachus' help (and more convincing than you cared to admit), the hunting party had finally settled. Begrudgingly. Warily.

And now?

Now, it seemed as though the Askálion had fully decided that you were its person.

Great.

A hand suddenly appeared before you, and you blinked up to find Telemachus standing over you, shaking his head, clearly amused.

"You alright?"

You huffed, reaching up to take his hand. "No thanks to you," you muttered. "You could've warned me."

"I could have," he agreed as he effortlessly pulled you to your feet, his hand warm around yours. "But that was much more fun to watch."

You shot him a glare, but he only smirked before moving behind you. You stilled slightly as you felt his hands sweep over your back, dusting off the dirt and bits of leaves from your dress with easy, practiced motions.

"You were the last one still sleeping," Telemachus added, his voice almost teasing. "Thought you were supposed to be a light sleeper."

You groaned. "Apparently not after that dream."

At that, Telemachus hesitated. But before he could ask, a voice cut through the morning air.

"Hurry it up, lovebirds!"

You turned just in time to see Callias grinning at the two of you from where the rest of the hunting party was already gathering their supplies. Some were checking weapons, others rolling up their makeshift bedding, and a few were already starting to move.

You blinked.

Oh.

You hadn't even noticed, but despite sleeping on the hard forest floor like the rest of them, Telemachus, Callias, and the others had pooled their cloaks together last night—just for you. They had bundled them into a pseudo-bed, despite your protests that you could sleep like everyone else.

You hadn't even realized you'd actually slept that well.

Maybe... too well.

And now the entire camp was up and moving, while you were still standing here, shaking off the last remnants of Cleo's voice.

Telemachus hummed, stepping past you to grab the remaining gear. "We should get going before Callias starts talking more."

You nodded slowly, taking a steadying breath as the Askálion circled your legs before plopping itself at your side.

Right.

Time to move.

You sighed, already accepting your fate—and the fact that this creature wasn't leaving anytime soon.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

By the time the hunting party returned to the palace, the midday sun had settled high in the sky, casting warm golden light over the stone walls of Ithaca's stronghold. The moment you crossed through the main gates, a familiar figure stood waiting, her posture poised yet unmistakably rigid with impatience.

Penelope.

The second her eyes landed on you, she let out a sharp breath, one hand braced against her hip while the other held her ever-present fan.

"There you are," she huffed, her tone teetering somewhere between exasperation and relief. "Off you go without a word, and now you waltz back covered in the dust of the wilds?" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head before fixing you with a pointed look. "You know, dear, I had planned to spend time with you before you vanished into the woods."

You winced. "My queen, I—"

"Oh, don't worry," she cut in, waving her fan dismissively. "You'll make it up to me. First, we'll take a stroll in the gardens. Then, lunch will be—"

Before she could go on, Telemachus smoothly stepped in, placing a careful hand on his mother's shoulder. "She's barely had a moment to breathe, Mother. At least let her freshen up before you interrogate her."

Penelope narrowed her eyes at her son, clearly unconvinced but eventually sighing. "Fine. Fine. Fine. But don't take too long, dear," she said, directing the words back at you before allowing Telemachus to guide her away, distracting her with idle conversation about the hunt.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. That was... close.

From behind you, Callias leaned in with a smirk, Kieran at his side. "We'll cover you. Get your friend inside."

With their help, you managed to slip away unnoticed, hurrying through the palace halls with the Askálion trotting close behind. The beast was shockingly silent for its size, its padded paws making almost no sound against the marble floors.

By the time you reached your chambers, you wasted no time slipping inside, pushing the heavy door shut with a quiet click before exhaling deeply.

The Askálion let out a soft whuff and promptly flopped onto your rug, thoroughly unimpressed by all the sneaking around.

You shook your head, moving to fetch water to clean the dust and dirt from both yourself and your new companion.

.☆.    .✩.       .☆.

Kneeling beside your bed, a damp breeze ghosted over your shoulders, a worn dress in hand as you carefully dried the Askálion's thick fur.

Your own hair, still damp from your bath, clung to the back of your neck. You had taken the time to wash off the dust and sweat from your day in the wild, scrubbing away the remnants of the hunt beneath the warm water of your makeshift bath—a large cauldron set in the corner of your room, filled earlier by a few unsuspecting servants. Fortunately, no one had questioned why you needed so much water.

The Askálion, however, had been more difficult. It had taken quite a bit of coaxing (and not a small amount of spilled water) to convince the beast to tolerate being cleaned. But now, lying sprawled on your rug , with its large head resting on its paws, it seemed far more comfortable, letting you work in peace.

As you absentmindedly ran the drying cloth over its legs, you lifted one of its back paws—only to pause, blinking.

"Oh," you muttered.

Your eyes flicked over the large beast sprawled across your rug, then back to what you were seeing—what you hadn't seen before.

"You're a girl?" you murmured, blinking at it—well, her—in surprise.

The Askálion huffed out a slow breath, rolling onto her side as if this fact should have been obvious.

You stared for a second longer before shaking your head with a small, incredulous chuckle. "Huh. I guess I just assumed—" You gestured vaguely, feeling a bit ridiculous. "Creatures like you, the ones in old stories, the ones with power... they're always described as he, aren't they?"

The Askálion stretched lazily, utterly unbothered by your realization.

You huffed, giving her front leg an absent scratch, half amused, half thoughtful. "You could've corrected me, you know," you murmured, resuming your work. "Well, that makes this easier. Now I just have to figure out what to call you. Something fitting."

As you worked, you absentmindedly started listing off names. "Hmmm. Maybe something grand. Like a goddess. What about... Hemera?"

The Askálion blinked once before letting out a loud sneeze.

You wrinkled your nose. "Okay. No on Hemera."

"Selene?"

Another sneeze.

You huffed. "Uh... Gaia?"

A low, unimpressed whuff.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the amused smile pulling at your lips. "Alright, fine. You're picky."

The beast let out a slow blink, then nuzzled into your leg, completely unbothered by your exasperation.

"Asteria?" you offered, running the cloth over her front paws.

A snort.

You groaned dramatically, rubbing your temples. "At this rate, I might as well call you Dirt with how many times you've ended up covered in it."

The Askálion flicked her tail in what might've been amusement,

Still smiling to yourself, you moved on to drying her last paw, humming softly as you wrung out the fabric. "How about... Lady?"

You lifted your gaze to meet hers, half-expecting another dismissal, but instead the Askálion was perked up, her head tilted.

You grinned, sitting up straighter. "You're always by my side, so proper despite being called a 'beast'," you mused. "It suits you, doesn't it?"

As if in response, Lady gently placed one of her large paws against your leg, her tongue lolling as she let out a soft, approving chuff.

You let out a small laugh. "Lady it is."

Just as the words left your lips, a sharp knock at the door sent a jolt through you.

Lady's ears perked up instantly, her body tensing as her gaze locked onto the door, a low, warning rumble vibrating deep in her throat.

Your eyes widened in panic, and you fumbled to cover her snout with both hands, pressing your fingers against the velvety fur of her muzzle. "Shh, shh, Lady," you whispered urgently, feeling the vibration of her growl beneath your palms. The last thing you needed was for someone to hear a beast lying in wait inside your room.

Lady's golden eyes flicked up to yours, assessing, before she let out a quiet huff and—thankfully—settled back down, though the tension in her body remained.

Exhaling in relief, you quickly dusted yourself off and rushed to the door, pressing yourself against it as you cracked it open just enough to peek through. The hallway lanterns cast a warm glow against polished stone, illuminating the broad frame of the man standing before you.

Telemachus.

Freshly bathed, his dark curls were still damp, and the scent of soap and crisp linen clung to him. He'd changed into a fresh tunic, the fabric loose and comfortably draped over his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. In one arm, he carried a bundle of cloth, its contents unknown, and in his free hand, he rested his knuckles lightly against the doorframe as he peered down at you.

The moment he took in the way you were practically wedged in the doorway—your body still hidden behind the frame, only your head poking out—his brows lifted slightly before amusement settled over his features.

Telemachus blinked once, then slowly shook his head, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Without missing a beat, he bent slightly to your height, making a dramatic show of looking both ways down the hall before leaning in close.

"You're so discreet," he stage-whispered, his voice dripping with teasing, as if you were the worst spy to ever walk the halls of Ithaca.

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, your lips twitched upward. "I'd be more open if I didn't have my hands full," you muttered, letting out a soft snort. "Lady is proving to be a bit of a handful in the short time I've had her."

Telemachus' smirk grew, the corner of his mouth twitching as he straightened. "Lady?" he repeated, amusement thick in his tone. "Her?"

You opened your mouth to respond, already preparing for the inevitable teasing, but before you could get a single word out, you felt a sudden tug at the bottom of your skirt. Startled, you turned your head back inside just in time to see Lady settle back down on her haunches, golden eyes staring at you with an unmistakable look of reproach. She huffed—a dramatic, drawn-out exhale that made her fluffy chest rise and fall.

You sighed, whispering a quick, "Sorry, I'll be quick," before stepping out of the doorway and squeezing through the narrow gap. You barely had time to slip past before shutting the door firmly behind you.

The moment the latch clicked into place, you heard a low whine from the other side, followed by the soft thump-thump of paws against wood. Then came a series of pitiful yelps, insistent but not frantic, as Lady clearly voiced her displeasure. You groaned quietly, closing your eyes for a second before shaking your head.

"Gods help me," you muttered under your breath, finally turning to face Telemachus. He had stepped back, giving you space, but his gaze lingered on the door, his expression unreadable.

For a brief moment, his face was distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere—studying the closed door with a quiet, faraway look. But the moment he caught your eyes, the guarded edge smoothed out, replaced by something far more familiar.

His lips quirked into a teasing smile. "Seems like your hands have been very full."

You let out a soft huff, shaking your head with a small smile. "As if the gods haven't kept me busy enough," you muttered, rolling your eyes playfully.

Telemachus chuckled, shifting the bundle in his arms. "They do have a habit of making your life interesting."

You sighed, running a hand through your slightly damp hair before leaning back against the door. "I figured out she was a girl when I was drying her off," you admitted, glancing briefly toward the closed door where Lady had fallen eerily silent. "And I named her... Lady."

At that, Telemachus blinked, his lips twitching in amusement again. "Lady?"

You shrugged, tilting your chin up slightly as if bracing for more teasing. "She follows me everywhere, she's ridiculously proper despite being a so-called beast, and she's stubborn when she wants to be. The name suits her."

As if on cue, a faint, grumbling sound came from behind the door, a scratch of claws lightly dragging against the wood. You stifled a chuckle, subconsciously shifting your weight toward the door, listening as Lady let out an exaggerated huff before scratching once more—this time softer, almost as if to remind you that she was still waiting.

Telemachus watched you, his gaze softening. He didn't say anything right away, just studied you for a moment, the small, quiet smile on his face almost unreadable. It made something flicker in your chest—warm, familiar, and unspoken.

Shaking the thought away, you straightened and cleared your throat. "Are you here to watch over her while I go to the queen?" you asked, suddenly remembering why you had shut yourself away in your room in the first place. "Because I was supposed to see her right away, but then there was sneaking her in, and she was covered in mud, and then she tried shaking water all over my room like a wild thing, so I had to—"

Telemachus gently cut you off, scratching his chin as if carefully choosing his next words. "Not exactly," he murmured.

Your brows furrowed. "Not exactly?"

He let out a small breath before shifting the bundle in his arms, adjusting his stance. "Well the Askál...I mean Lady—" he corrected himself with a small smirk, "—in the very short time you've had her, has made it quite clear that she wants to stay near you." His tone was light, but there was an underlying amusement there. "And, uh... she doesn't seem to do too well with being separated from you."

You blinked, caught off guard by that. "What do you mean—?"

Telemachus gave you a pointed look before unraveling the bundle in his hands. A clean, white sheet unfolded between you, and you stared at it blankly before flicking your gaze back to him.

"What... is this?"

He exhaled through his nose, almost sheepishly, before looking back at you with a small, hesitant smile. "I may have... told my parents that you were followed by a mythical animal."

Your heart nearly stopped. "You what?"

Your mind immediately flashed back to the hunting party's reactions—the way half of them had nearly fled when Lady first trotted into camp behind you and Telemachus, the way it had taken a solid hour to convince them that she wasn't a threat, that she wasn't about to tear into them like some beast from the depths of Tartarus.

A fresh wave of panic crept up your spine. "Telemachus!" you hissed, gripping his arm like you could physically shake the words back into his mouth. "Why would you tell them that?"

He laughed softly, clearly expecting your reaction. "Relax," he said, prying your hand off him with ease. "I didn't tell them exactly what she is. And those from the hunting party swore not to say a word about it, so nothing's going to come back to bite you."

You let out a long breath, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly—but not completely.

Still... gods.

You rubbed a hand down your face before shaking your head. "So what now, then?" you asked warily, eyes flicking back to the white sheet he still held.

Telemachus hesitated. Then, with a slow, almost too easy smile—one that instantly put you on edge—he said, "Uh, also, my mother wants to see her. She... might be a little excited."

You stared at him, waiting for the punchline. But when he continued to just look at you—patient, almost amused—you felt something cold trickle down your spine.

Your expression deadpanned. "What?"

A/N: first off, i am so sorry for ghosting y'all for a bit—i swear i wasn't abandoning the fic! life has been slamming me left and right with school/work, and on top of that, i've been going through a bit of a mini-episode. i kept writing and deleting, second-guessing everything, and honestly, just feeling anxious and out of it. but today, i told myself, enough—i needed to break out of this rut and post something. so if this chapter feels a little lackluster, i apologize, but i'm hyping myself up that i got this! seeing all the support has been genuinely making me so excited to write the rest, so i'm clinging onto this motivation while it lasts!!

that being said, i do have one more thing to address—i'll be putting KNE (Know No Evil) on hold for now. i'm just not in an MHA mood, and i don't want to force myself to write something i know i won't be happy with. if i push through when i'm not feeling it, i'll just end up forgetting plot points or making something i regret later. so rather than half-assing it, i'm gonna let it sit until inspiration strikes again. hope y'all understand!! also!! fanart update—i've been getting so much, and y'all are seriously amazing. i need to gather everything from all the places i've been receiving them, but i'll upload them soon!! if you wanna send more, you can always send them to my tumblr or email (wattywriter04@gmail.com). seeing all the art has actually been getting me back into my old hobby—coloring lol, so thanks for that!!

okay okay, i'm off to edit the next chapter—love y'all, see you soon ❤️❤️💕

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | a mortal's perception⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The days passed.

Each night, you found yourself returning.

It was not deliberate at first. Or so you told yourself.

You arrived out of curiosity, nothing more—a desire to observe, to understand why Telemachus continued to defy his fate. Yet each time you stepped into his subconscious, you stayed longer than you should have.

It was a dangerous habit.

Not because of what you were doing—what you were doing was beyond consequence—but because of what you began to feel.

It started subtly.

A pause too long when he spoke. A flicker of something nameless when he laughed. A sensation in your chest when he looked at you—like you were being perceived in a way you never had been before.

And worst of all—you began to see the world through his eyes.

Through the eyes of a mortal.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Tonight, you sat in a field of flowers. A dream of his own making, untouched by your influence.

The petals swayed gently in the breeze, the scent of earth and bloom thick in the air. The sky stretched wide and endless above you, painted in twilight hues that did not belong to any real place.

Telemachus was speaking.

"My mother used to tell me stories about the Fates," he said, idly plucking at the grass beside him.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he hummed, "she told me that you were three. Three sisters, bound together, one young, one middle-aged, one old."

You froze.

Then, slowly, you scowled. "Old?"

Telemachus grinned at your tone, his amusement poorly hidden. "Old."

"Of course mortals would imagine it like that," you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "It's always the same. The young one spins the thread, the middle one measures it, and the old one cuts it. As if we are nothing but symbols. As if we age."

Telemachus chuckled. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

You folded your arms. "Does it?"

"Of course." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "Creation, life, and death. Three aspects of existence. The cycle of time. It's only natural for mortals to see you that way."

"Mortals see many things incorrectly."

"Then tell me how it really is."

You paused.

It was a simple request, yet the answer wasn't something you'd ever put into words.

"We do not have forms," you said at last. "Not truly. We are as we are perceived. We are as mortals believe us to be."

Telemachus brows furrowed, his gaze turning inward, as if turning over something heavy in his mind.

Then, softly, he asked—

"Then how come you're not old?"

You blinked.

The words hit you strangely—like something important that you had somehow overlooked.

Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet.

You materialized a pond nearby, a reflective surface rippling into existence at the edge of the field.

Stepping forward, you gazed into the water.

And then—

"Oh."

You hadn't seen this form in... ages.

You hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't questioned it.

Yet here you stood, staring at a reflection you almost didn't recognize.

Not the faceless void of inevitability.

Not the shadowed silhouette of something distant and unknowable.

But you.

A figure that was neither ancient nor unshaped, neither an old crone nor a shifting wisp of existence.

A form shaped not by time, but by perception.

By his perception.

You stared at your reflection, feeling something unfamiliar coil in your chest.

You pulled away from the water, turning sharply to face Telemachus.

"Why?"

The question left your lips before you could think to hold it back.

Telemachus, still seated amidst the flowers, tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet curiosity.

"Why would you see me like this?" you pressed, gesturing vaguely toward your reflection. "You grew up hearing the same stories as all mortals. If you were raised to believe the Fates were three—if you were told I should be old—why am I not?"

Telemachus didn't answer right away.

He looked at you for a long moment, gaze slow and considering. Then, with a thoughtful hum, he shifted his weight, stretching his legs out before him as he leaned back on his hands.

"Maybe," he mused, "it's because I saw you."

"You... saw me."

"Yes." His lips quirked, though there was no humor in it. "That night, when I nearly drowned. When I thought I had died. That was the form I saw."

He paused, gaze flickering upward toward the sky, as if tracing the memory in his mind.

"Maybe," he said at last, "because it wasn't my time, I saw your true form."

You considered that.

It was an acceptable answer. A logical one.

You hummed softly. "I suppose that makes sense."

Telemachus smiled slightly. "I'm glad you approve."

His teasing tone should have been irritating, but you let it pass without comment.

Instead, you settled back down into the grass, your gaze drifting across the field—the way the wind danced across the petals, the way the light caught in Telemachus' hair.

For a moment, you sat in silence.

Then, you asked your own question.

"I showed you your true fate," you said quietly. "I saw the way you died. And yet, when you thought it was happening... you were at peace."

Telemachus stilled.

His expression didn't shift immediately, but you saw it—

The way his breath slowed.

The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against the grass.

The way his gaze drifted, not to you, but to something far away, something long buried.

He said nothing at first.

Then, finally—

"When I was young," he began, voice lower now, softer, "when the suitors were at their worst, I would sleep in my mother's chambers."

He didn't look at you as he spoke.

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his voice steady, but there was something beneath it—something raw, something old, something carefully placed in the farthest corners of his mind.

"She would hold me against her chest," he continued, "and remind me of my father."

A breath.

"She would tell me stories of his cunning, his victories, his journey home. She would whisper to me that he would return, that he would set things right. That I just had to wait."

His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed.

"I believed her. Because I was a child, and children believe their mothers."

The wind shifted through the flowers.

"But he didn't come home."

There was no anger in the words.

No bitterness.

Just quiet resignation.

"Not for years," he said. "And in those years, I was not strong enough. Not clever enough. Not enough."

His hand pressed against his knee, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his tunic.

"I couldn't chase the suitors away. I couldn't protect her. I could do nothing except wait."

He exhaled, slow and tired.

"So I suppose that's why."

Finally, finally, he looked at you.

His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a weight you couldn't name.

A weight you'd never felt.

His lips twitched—not in a smile, not in amusement, but in something else. Something... sad.

"Because when I thought I was dying," he said quietly, "it finally meant that waiting was over."

You said nothing.

Because for the first time in your existence—

You didn't know what to say.

You lingered for only a moment.

Slowly, you regained your bearings, straightening your posture, gathering your thoughts.

Then, you stood.

"I will see you tomorrow night."

The words left your lips before you could question them. Before you could decide otherwise.

Telemachus simply watched as you turned, your cloak sweeping behind you, the edges of his dream already dissolving into mist.

You felt his gaze on your back, steady and unmoving.

But you didn't turn back.

The last thing you saw before stepping away was the flicker of flowers swaying in the dream's fading wind.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

You returned home, but your mind didn't. You thought of the mortal boy.

Of the way his voice had shifted when he spoke of his mother.

Of the quiet way he had accepted his own death—not as a tragedy, not as a fear, but as something inevitable. Something welcome.

You'd existed for as long as time itself. You'd seen the passing of kings and beggars alike. You'd watched great empires crumble, had listened to the dying wails of men whose names were lost to history.

But never had you heard that.

Never had you heard a mortal accept death not because he had no choice—but because he no longer wished to wait for life to give him one.

Your thoughts trailed off.

A strange, restless sensation coiled beneath your skin.

Before you could fully name it, your hand reached up, fingers pressing against your chest—against the hollow space where a heart should beat.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but silence.

"Sister?"

The voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and immediate.

You exhaled, dropping your hand, schooling your expression into something neutral before turning to face the approaching figure.

☆

☆

High above the mortal world, Olympus stood bathed in golden light, its marble halls untouched by time, its sky ever stretched in hues of endless blue.

On the grand balcony of his palace, Zeus lounged with his usual arrogance, a cup of ambrosia in one hand, the other draped lazily around the shoulders of a nymph who had been hanging onto his every word.

Or rather, she had been.

Until the air grew cold.

The shift was immediate. The soft hum of conversation faded, the golden warmth of the chamber seemed to dim, and an unnatural chill curled at the edges of the room.

Then—

"You waste your time, brother."

A deep, measured voice.

The nymph gasped, eyes wide, already shrinking back as a figure emerged from the shadows of the marble pillars.

Hades.

Lord of the Underworld.

His presence alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through the air. He did not belong in Olympus, nor did he visit unless absolutely necessary. He was the shadow that stood at the end of all things, the weight of eternity itself, and his very existence clashed against the golden, drunken revelry of the upper realms.

The nymph barely had time to mutter an excuse before she fled, disappearing into the palace halls without so much as a glance back.

Zeus scowled, rolling his eyes as he watched her leave. "You could have warned me before making yourself known."

"And ruin the moment?" Hades drawled, stepping forward, his black cloak trailing behind him. His presence was stark against the golden light of Olympus—where Zeus shone, Hades absorbed; where Zeus burned bright, Hades swallowed everything whole.

Zeus exhaled, clearly impatient. "What do you want?"

Hades did not immediately answer.

Instead, with a slow, practiced ease, he stepped toward the balcony's edge, staring out at the sky. For a moment, he was silent, as if considering his words.

Then—

"A soul is missing."

Zeus' expression shifted.

Gone was the laziness, the irritation.

Now, his gaze sharpened, his posture straightening ever so slightly. "Missing?" he repeated, voice low.

Hades nodded once. "It should have passed through the line of judgment days ago. Instead, it is nowhere to be found."

Zeus set his cup down. "Who?"

Hades turned, meeting his brother's gaze.

His next words were quiet, but they carried a weight that settled heavily between them.

"Telemachus of Ithaca."

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 32 Chapter 32 | of gods and beasts⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

As you followed Telemachus through the dense woodland, you couldn't help but glance back every so often, checking behind you, half-expecting the fox to be silently padding along in the shadows.

But each time, the path behind you was empty.

Not even a rustle. Not even a flicker of movement.

It was as if the creature had never been there at all.

"You're looking for it, aren't you?" Telemachus' voice carried over his shoulder, amusement laced in every syllable.

You whipped your head forward, quickly composing yourself. "No. Of course not. Why would I?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're imagining things."

"Right," he hummed, stepping over a fallen branch with ease. "So you're not worried that you just bonded with a creature that should've eaten you?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "It didn't eat me," you muttered, stepping around a moss-covered rock.

"Not yet," he quipped, shooting you a sideways smirk.

You groaned, picking up your pace to get ahead of him.

Eventually, the two of you broke free from the thicker part of the woods, and the first thing you noticed was the sky.

The sun had begun its descent, stretching gold and pink hues across the horizon, staining the treetops in a soft, amber glow. The light filtered through the leaves, casting long, shifting shadows along the earth as the air cooled, carrying the crisp scent of water and damp earth.

The path sloped downward, golden light spilling over the ground in warm, shifting rays. Somewhere ahead, the soft murmur of flowing water filled the air, growing clearer with each step.

The watering spot was beautiful.

A long, slow-moving river cut through the land, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon light.

A few minutes down from where you stood, the river trickled into a smaller pond, tucked into a secluded alcove where large rock formations jutted from the earth, creating a natural barrier.

A thin waterfall cascaded over one of the cliffs, feeding the pool below, the sound of rushing water mixing with the rustling of leaves.

The entire area was enclosed by towering trees, their sprawling roots twisting over the rocks and dipping into the water's edge. The light filtering through the canopy cast shifting patterns over the river's surface, giving the space a serene, almost untouched feel.

You sighed softly, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as you took it all in.

Telemachus dropped his hand from the knife at his belt, stepping forward to inspect the riverbank. "This'll work," he murmured, nodding to himself.

Then, turning back to you, he motioned toward the pond. "Stay here. I'm going to leave some markers for the others so they can find this place when they eventually get here."

You raised a brow. "What, afraid I'll wander off and befriend another man-eating creature?"

He smirked but didn't deny it.

"Just—stay put," he said before turning and making his way up the riverbank, disappearing into the trees once more.

And this time, you didn't look back.

Taking a few more minutes to look around, you made your way toward the edge of the river, the smooth stones cool beneath your steps. The soft trickle of water filled the quiet, mingling with the rustling leaves overhead. Crouching near the riverbank, you leaned forward, peering into the glassy surface.

Your reflection stared back at you—yet it felt strangely unfamiliar.

Despite everything—the lack of rest, the stress that had coiled itself around your chest over the past few days—you didn't look tired. No dark circles beneath your eyes, no dullness to your skin. If anything, you looked... refreshed, glowing even, as if untouched by exhaustion.

Your skin was smooth, your eyes bright, and there was something unnervingly pristine about your reflection, like a polished statue carved with divine precision.

Your fingers twitched, hesitating before lightly grazing your own cheek. Weird.

"You know, staring at yourself for too long might make you fall in love," a voice hummed right beside your ear, teasing and impossibly close.

You jolted violently, nearly losing your footing as your head snapped toward the source. Your mind immediately went to Hermes—who else would sneak up on you like that? "Herme—" The name barely left your lips before your breath hitched, realization striking you mid-word.

It wasn't Hermes.

The boy floating before you let out an exaggerated sigh, flipping midair to rest on his stomach, chin propped in his hands. "Hermes?" he repeated, lips curling in amusement. "My, my, my. I suppose I could take that as a compliment, but really, how many men—both god and mortal—do you have on your list, muse?"

His golden curls bounced as he shook his head, lips pulling into a sly, knowing grin. "First Princeling Telemachus, now Hermes—what a heartbreaker you are." His grin widened, something sharp glinting behind his teeth. "I wonder, do you even keep track of the names anymore, or do you just collect admirers as you go?"

You sputtered, completely thrown off guard. "What—"

He sighed dramatically, flipping onto his back, arms spread wide as if he were lounging atop an invisible cloud. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you don't recognize me." His voice dripped with mock offense. "That stings, truly. What a shame, what a heartbreak—I was looking forward to our meeting, you know."

Your mind raced, taking in the small figure before you—the golden curls, the lazy smirk, the way he floated weightlessly as if gravity were beneath him. Then, there were the wings. Small, delicate things, fluttering lazily behind him like an afterthought. A quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, the faint shimmer of something otherworldly woven into his very presence.

Your stomach dropped.

"Eros," you whispered.

The god of love grinned. "Ding, ding, ding! Looks like you are more than just a pretty face." He twirled midair, coming to a stop just above the riverbank, gazing down at you with far too much amusement. "Though, between us, I was really hoping I'd be higher up on your list of divine visitors."

Your lips parted, still struggling to process what was happening. "Why are you—"

"Oh, no, no, no," he interrupted, wagging a finger at you. "Let's not start with that boring question." His golden eyes gleamed, full of mischief. "I'd much rather talk about you."

You blinked, your thoughts stuttering over themselves. Me?

The way he said it, the way his golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable—mischief, curiosity, something else—made your stomach twist.

Quickly gathering yourself, you straightened, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you took a step back. "What do you want with me?" you asked, voice firm despite the strange tangle of emotions tightening in your chest.

Eros let out a soft hum, twirling midair before flipping upside down, his curls bouncing as he floated in lazy circles around you. "Can't a deity be curious?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement. "You are quite the talk of Olympus lately."

You scowled, crossing your arms. "That's not an answer."

With a dramatic sigh, Eros righted himself, dropping down onto the riverbank with effortless grace. Now standing before you, he tilted his head, examining you in a way that made you want to shift under his gaze—like you were a particularly interesting puzzle he was trying to solve.

Then, to your surprise, his usual teasing smirk faded into something softer. "Alright, alright. I suppose I should start with an apology."

That threw you off. Your brow furrowed. "An apology?"

Eros exhaled, placing his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "For indirectly being the cause of your prince's rather passionate behavior weeks ago."

Your breath hitched.

Telemachus. That night.

The heat of his touch, the way his hands had held you so firmly yet so reverently. The rasp of his voice when he'd spoken your name, his confessions, the way he'd looked at you like you were something sacred—something he couldn't let go of.

And then Aphrodite's words echoed in your mind, the memory hitting you like a wave crashing against the shore.

"And, of course, my son Eros sometimes takes things a little too far, but that's love for you."

Your throat felt tight as you forced yourself to remain composed, to ignore the way your pulse betrayed you. You inhaled through your nose, exhaled slowly. "You mean..." Your voice came out measured, restrained—because if you let your emotions get the best of you now, you weren't sure you'd stop. "...the love potion."

Eros winced, rubbing the back of his neck like a scolded child. "I mean… yeah. That." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Though, to be fair, I wasn't the one who decided to meddle. That was all her." His lips curled—not quite a smirk, but not exactly a frown either. "But..." He rocked on his heels, tilting his head. "I won't pretend I didn't enjoy the outcome."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms over your chest. "Oh, well, that's just wonderful," you deadpanned, raising a brow. "I'm so glad my personal life has been a source of entertainment for the gods."

Eros pouted. An actual pout, his golden curls bouncing as he dramatically clasped his hands over his chest like you'd just mortally wounded him. "Come on," he whined, "don't be mad. I meant well."

Your expression remained unimpressed.

Sensing he wasn't winning you over, he sighed, rubbing his temples before launching into what you could only assume was meant to be a heartfelt explanation. "Look, princeling over there is a wreck. I mean really—have you heard his prayers? There's never-ending!" He rolled his eyes, floating backward lazily. "It's all oh, gods, what do I do, and oh, please, let her see me and if she looks at me like that one more time, I might combust where I stand! It's honestly pathetic."

Your lips parted, blinking in surprise. "He still... prays about me?"

Eros gasped, grinning as he pointed at you. "Ha! I knew that'd get your attention."

You scowled.

But the words stuck.

"Have you heard his prayers? They're never-ending."

The fact that Telemachus was still sending prayers about you to the gods was shocking enough. But knowing it wasn’t just passing thoughts or idle dreams—that he had sent his words beyond himself, had let his wants slip into the hands of the divine—and that Eros had listened…

Your fingers twitched.

"Listen, love," he continued, floating closer. "I wasn't trying to make things difficult for you two. I just thought, you know, maybe he needed a push. And maybe you did too. I mean, come on—you were both skirting around each other, it was exhausting just watching it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Eros considered you for a moment before shrugging. "Because I like you," he said simply. "And you intrigue me. I don't really do apologies, but..." He met your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his golden eyes. "I suppose you deserve one."

You weren't sure what unsettled you more—the fact that Eros was apologizing at all, or the way he was looking at you now, the teasing edge of his usual demeanor dulled into something almost sincere.

You pursed your lips, trying—really trying—to hold onto your irritation, but something about the way Eros said it, the way he seemed so earnest in his own, frustrating, mischievous way... It made it difficult to hold onto your anger.

Eros, ever perceptive, caught the way your shoulders loosened slightly, the way your expression softened just enough to give him an opening.

His golden eyes brightened, and in the next second, he bounced toward you, wrapping his small arms around your own in an eager hug. His curls tickled your skin as he grinned up at you, his expression completely unapologetic. "So, we're good now, yeah?" He batted his lashes, flashing an innocent smile that you knew was anything but.

You sighed. "That's not how apologies work."

Eros only grinned wider. "But you forgive me, don't you?"

You glanced up at the sky as if seeking divine patience. "I—"

His eyes sparkled, squeezing your arm lightly. "Come onnnn, you like me, don't you?"

You groaned, head falling back. "Why are you like this?"

Eros laughed, and you weren't sure if it was at your expense or out of pure delight. Probably both.

Just as you were about to pry Eros off of you, a voice cut through the clearing. "They shouldn't take long. The markers were obvious enough—"

Both you and Eros snapped your heads toward the source, freezing as you found Telemachus standing at the edge of the trees. His words faltered mid-sentence, his expression hardening the moment his eyes landed on the cherubic deity still clinging to your arm. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as his sharp gaze darkened.

"Eros."

The name was spat like a curse, and in response, Eros only tilted his head, batting his lashes as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Telemachus took a step forward, his shoulders squared, his entire frame tensed with restrained irritation. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, edged with barely-contained anger. "Haven't you caused enough trouble already?"

Eros gasped dramatically—though you didn't miss the mischievous glint in his golden eyes.

Instead of answering, the little god darted behind you, clutching your arm like a frightened child, burying his face into your sleeve with an exaggerated whimper. "Oh no, he's so scary," he whined, gripping onto you even tighter. "Save me! Protect me, divine one! Your princeling is going to tear me apart, and I—" He sniffled, rubbing at his eyes with a pout. "I'm so sorry! I have learned the error of my ways! My heart weeps with regret!"

Telemachus' nostrils flared. "Get off of her."

Eros clung tighter, his lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout. "But she likes me, don't you, dearest?" He turned his wide, golden eyes up at you, feigning heartbreak. "Tell him! Tell him we've made amends and he has no reason to be such a grump!"

You opened your mouth, trying to find the right words before Telemachus actually exploded, but the prince had already taken another step forward, his glare sharpening.

Eros, sensing he was losing, peeked out from behind you and hummed, tilting his head. "You know, princeling," he mused, tapping his chin with a finger. "You're even more tense than last time. I really did a number on you, huh?" His smirk widened. "Or maybe it's just her—"

Before he could finish that thought, Telemachus' patience officially snapped.

He lunged forward.

With a delighted shriek, Eros ducked further behind you, using you as a shield as Telemachus lunged. You barely had time to react before instinct took over, your hands shooting out to press against Telemachus' chest, stopping him mid-motion. His muscles were coiled tight beneath your palms, tense with restrained frustration, his breath coming fast.

"Telemachus!" you scolded, your voice firm despite the ridiculousness of the situation. "Stop it!"

Eros peeked from behind your shoulder, his golden curls bouncing as he snickered. "Yes, princeling, do calm down. It's very unbecoming for a future king to lose his temper like this." His fingers dug into your sleeve in mock fear. "Honestly, you'd think I actually ruined his life instead of just giving it a little push in the right direction—"

"A little push?" Telemachus barked, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. He sucked his teeth, rolling his shoulders as if physically restraining himself from grabbing the god. "You're lucky you look like a child, or else—”

Eros cut him off with a loud, exaggerated snort. "Child?" He scoffed, the word tasting like offense on his tongue. "Oh, dear princeling, I am no child."

Before you could blink, the air around Eros shimmered—a pinkish hue wrapping around him like silk before stretching, shifting, expanding.

His small frame elongated, limbs lengthening with an effortless grace, his cherubic softness melting into something far more refined. His golden curls remained, though they now framed a sharper, more angular face, one with high cheekbones and a jawline that could put even the most beautiful of mortals to shame.

His boyish mischief evolved into something undeniably more alluring—his smirk teasing but dipped in a confidence that was far more dangerous than before.

Gone was the childlike god. In his place stood a man draped in effortless charm and divine beauty.

His toga had adjusted with his form, sitting in a way that was far too perfect to be accidental—one shoulder bare, revealing the cut of his muscles beneath smooth, sun-kissed skin. His golden bracers gleamed against the flickering light, and his wings—once small and delicate—were now grand and regal, their pearlescent feathers shimmering faintly as he stretched them lazily.

Eros rolled his shoulders as though shaking off the last remnants of his smaller form, flexing his fingers as he glanced between you and Telemachus. "See?" he purred, tilting his head. "The other form is far more practical. Easier to get things done when you look like something no one would outright hit."

Silence hung between you and Telemachus as the reality of what just happened settled in.

You swallowed hard, your fingers still resting against Telemachus' chest. He hadn't moved, his jaw set tight as he stared at Eros with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable.

You weren't faring much better.

The impish boy who had once clung to your arm in false fear was now a man who looked as though he belonged carved into marble and worshipped at the feet of altars. His golden eyes burned with knowing mischief as he watched your reaction, and you hated the way your stomach twisted at the sight.

It was still Eros. That much was clear. The glint of trouble was ever-present, woven into the curve of his lips, the taunting gleam in his gaze. And yet, the shift was... jarring.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his fists still clenched at his sides. "Is this supposed to impress me?" he muttered, unimpressed.

Eros laughed, his voice richer now, carrying more weight. "Oh, princeling," he said smoothly, stepping closer. "You impress so easily. But no, this isn't for you—this is for her."

Then, with deliberate ease, he turned his gaze onto you, his golden eyes latching onto yours with something that made your pulse stutter.

"Tell me, divine one," he mused, his voice a lazy drawl. "Do you like this form better?"

You nearly choked on air.

Lips twitching in amusement, Eros leaned in closer, his golden eyes half-lidded with mischief. He tilted his head, voice dropping to a purr. "Oh, come now, muse. Don't be shy."

Before you could react, his fingers lifted—light, teasing—as he tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His touch was featherlight, deceptively soft, yet it held a quiet command, his thumb barely grazing your jaw. "I asked you a question," he mused, lids lowering further, his smirk curling. "Do you like what you see?"

Your breath hitched, heat creeping up your neck, but before you could so much as form a response—before you could decide whether to swat him away or stammer out some semblance of an answer—you were yanked backward.

A startled gasp left your lips as you stumbled, colliding with something solid and warm. Hands steadied you—broad, familiar hands—gripping your arms as your face met the firm expanse of a chest. Telemachus.

The prince moved you behind him, shielding you from the god’s reach. His body was tense, radiating barely contained ire, and when he spoke, his voice was low, edged with something dangerous. "Watch yourself, Eros."

Eros merely blinked at the sudden aggression before snorting, utterly unbothered. "And what if I don't?" he challenged, tilting his head in mock innocence. His wings fluttered once, lazily. "What exactly will you do about it, princeling?"

The space between them crackled with tension, an invisible pull that felt like the start of a storm, but before you could intervene—before you could even begin to think of a way to de-escalate—Eros suddenly faltered.

His smirk wavered for a fraction of a second.

Then, just as quickly, it was back, sharper than before, though this time his golden gaze flicked past Telemachus, as if sensing something beyond what mortal eyes could perceive. "Well," he exhaled, tipping his head to the side. "A pity. Seems my fun is being cut short."

You frowned, confused, but before you could ask what he meant, Eros grinned wide, as if to make a point of it, his voice singsong as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "Alas, duty calls. But don't worry, little muse—I'll be back soon." His gaze flickered to Telemachus, and his smirk deepened, teasing. "Maybe."

Telemachus scoffed, but before he could snap out a reply, Eros merely laughed. And with that, his body shimmered—light blooming around him in soft golden dust, his laughter echoing in the air as his form dissolved into nothingness.

The forest was silent again, save for the distant rush of the river.

Gone.

But even as he disappeared, the warmth of his presence lingered, the ghost of his touch still pressed against your chin, the weight of his words swirling in your mind.

"Tell me, divine one, do you like this form better?"

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if to physically dispel the thought. Ridiculous. Yet, your skin still prickled from where Eros had been, as if the god's very essence had left behind an imprint.

The silence between you and Telemachus stretched, filled only by the rustling of leaves and the distant rush of the river. The prince hadn’t moved much, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his lips pursed in something dangerously close to a pout.

You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly before murmuring, "I... I'm sorry."

That got his attention. His head snapped toward you, brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You swallowed, pressing your hands together. "About, um... about what happened. With the potion. With everything." You hesitated, your fingers curling slightly. "Technically... I was the reason it happened."

Telemachus' expression darkened slightly, but instead of looking at you, he exhaled through his nose and rubbed at his jaw. Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, "It's not your fault."

"But—"

"It's not your fault, ____," he repeated, more firmly this time, glancing at you with something softer beneath his frustration. "You didn't ask for any of this. You didn't make the gods stick their noses into your life."

He sucked his teeth, arms tightening over his chest. "Besides, it's not like Eros is the only one making a mess of things," he grumbled, voice low and bitter. "Apollo keeps throwing gifts at you, Hermes keeps showing up, and even C—"

He cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

You blinked, watching him carefully. His shoulders were tense, his fingers twitching slightly against his biceps. The tips of his ears had gone pink, and despite his attempt to seem unaffected, you could see the slight downturn of his mouth.

Your lips twitched.

Without fully thinking, you tilted your head and asked, voice light, "Telemachus... Forgive me for assuming, but are you perhaps... jealous?"

The reaction was instant.

Telemachus stiffened, his head jerking toward you as if you had just accused him of treason. "What? No! Why—why would you say that?"

You bit back a laugh, watching as his face rapidly flushed, his hands uncrossing just so he could gesture vaguely at the air, looking utterly and completely caught.

"You are jealous," you teased, voice turning almost sing-song, delighted by the rare sight of a flustered Telemachus.

He sputtered, jaw working as though trying to form a rebuttal but failing miserably. Instead, he turned abruptly, pretending to cough into his fist, his shoulders now unnaturally stiff.

"I just—" He coughed again, still not facing you. "I just think they—the gods—should mind their own business, that's all."

You hummed, stepping closer, your smile growing. "Mmm. Sure. Has nothing to do with Eros holding my chin, or Apollo's gifts, or Hermes—"

"Enough." He groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Enough."

You giggled, feeling an unfamiliar lightness in your chest. Telemachus scowled at you, but the redness on his face betrayed him entirely.

Telemachus let out a sharp huff, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the embarrassment clinging to him.

You watched, barely suppressing another laugh as he muttered something under his breath—words you couldn't quite catch but sounded suspiciously like not jealousy and reasonable. His hand raked through his curls in frustration, tugging at them slightly before he exhaled deeply, as if to steady himself.

"I'm going ahead," he finally grumbled, still avoiding your gaze. "Getting a fire started before the others arrive." And without another word, he turned on his heel, stalking away with stiff shoulders and hurried steps.

His voice was flat, forcibly neutral, but the way he turned—just a little too fast, his ears still tinged with color—told you everything. 

You bit your lip, rocking back on your heels, watching him disappear between the trees. The warmth of amusement still lingered in your chest, but beneath it was something softer. Something... fond.

The mighty Prince of Ithaca, flustered beyond belief.

It was a sight you weren't sure you'd ever get used to.

☆

☆

The firelight flickered in the distance, a warm glow against the encroaching darkness of the forest. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky painted in deep indigos and violets, the first few stars beginning to peek through. The air had cooled, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the distant aroma of roasting meat from the camp.

You crouched near the water's edge, the soft gurgling of the river filling the quiet as you worked. The pond reflected the night sky like a fractured mirror, rippling softly each time you dipped a jug beneath the surface. The water was cool against your fingers, sending small shivers up your arms, but you welcomed it.

It was a distraction—a quiet task away from the sharp knives and the guttural sounds of fresh kills being prepared.

Not too long ago, the hunting party had returned, trailing in with triumphant grins, a few carrying their successful catches slung over their shoulders. Some had managed to track down a few more animals along the way—hares, fowl, even a decent-sized boar that had taken a group effort to bring down.

Telemachus and the others had immediately set to work, their practiced hands moving with efficiency as they prepared the night's feast. You had been quick to volunteer for water duty, taking any excuse to be away from the process of skinning and gutting.

It wasn't something you found disturbing exactly—you'd lived in Ithaca long enough to be used to such things—but if you could avoid watching it, you would.

Humming softly under your breath, you set aside the jug you had just filled and reached for another. The repetitive motion was soothing, keeping your mind pleasantly blank as you focused on the task. You counted the jugs lined up beside you—three full, two more to go. You were nearly done.

The gentle rhythm of the water, the distant crackling of the fire, and the occasional murmur of voices from the camp settled around you, peaceful in its own way. It was easy to lose yourself in the quiet work, the rest of the world slipping into the background for just a little while longer.

Just as you finished filling the fourth jug and reached for the last one, a strange movement in the water caught your eye. The gentle ripples along the pond's surface were shifting—spreading outward as though something unseen had disturbed them.

You stilled, your fingers tightening slightly around the jug as you scanned the darkened waters, trying to make sense of what you were seeing.

Then, just beyond the shimmer of reflected starlight, a pair of familiar dark, onyx-like eyes locked onto yours.

Your breath hitched.

The Askálion.

Shock jolted through you, and in your attempt to push back from the water's edge, your foot slipped against the slick river stones. You let out a sharp yelp as your balance gave way, arms flailing as you tumbled forward into the shallows.

Cold water soaked through your clothes instantly, and you barely managed to catch yourself with your hands, stopping just short of fully submerging. The front of your garments clung uncomfortably to your skin, the sudden chill sending a shiver up your spine.

Before you could even scramble upright, a blur of dark fur and glowing ember-like ears leaped toward you. A startled gasp turned into a breathless laugh as the fox-like creature landed right on top of you, paws pressing into your chest, its weight knocking you fully onto your back with a soft splash.

The Askálion let out a series of excited yips, tail wagging in long, sweeping motions as it circled you, the cool night air carrying the sound of its clear delight. You barely had a moment to register its playfulness before it nuzzled against your neck, making you squirm as laughter spilled from your lips, the sensation oddly ticklish.

Despite the warning Telemachus had given you earlier about its nature, it was hard—impossible—to associate the creature currently rolling against you with the ruthless predator he'd described. It was warm, its fur softer than you expected, and the way it nudged insistently at your hands reminded you of an overeager pup desperate for affection.

"You—you're not supposed to be this friendly," you managed between giggles, halfheartedly trying to push the Askálion off. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

The creature merely let out a chuffing sound, unconcerned with your protests as it pressed its head under your chin, seemingly claiming you as its own.

And, gods help you, you let it.

Hearing the telltale crunch of approaching footsteps, you stiffened.

Your heart lurched into your throat, and without thinking, you quickly gathered the Askálion into your arms, cradling it against your chest. It let out a small, surprised yip but didn't struggle—just stared up at you with those gleaming onyx eyes, its damp fur pressing cool against your already-soaked clothes.

Panicked, you turned your back to the treeline, making sure whoever was coming wouldn’t immediately see the creature in your arms. "Shhh," you whispered urgently, running your fingers over the Askálion’s sleek fur in a desperate attempt to quiet it. The fox-thing merely panted up at you, its tail flicking lazily in what you could only describe as amusement.

The footsteps drew closer, and then—

"What's taking you so long?"

Telemachus.

You sucked in a breath, whipping your head up to see him standing just at the riverbank, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. He wasn't impatient, but he was clearly puzzled, scanning you as you sat half-submerged in the shallows.

You swallowed thickly, trying to compose yourself. "The fox—" you hissed, voice just above a whisper. "It followed us."

Telemachus frowned, clearly not believing you. "What? No, it didn't."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes. Of course, he wouldn't take your word for it. Fine. He wanted proof? You'd give him proof.

Gritting your teeth, you shifted slightly—just enough to tilt your body so he could see over your shoulder.

The Askálion's ears perked up, recognizing him instantly. Then, to your horror, it let out another delighted yip.

Telemachus froze.

His gaze flickered from you to the fox, then back to you again.

The Askálion, utterly unbothered, wriggled in your grasp before reaching up to paw at your hand, clearly demanding more scratches.

For a long, drawn-out second, neither you nor Telemachus spoke. The prince's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring slightly as he stared.

Then, he sighed—long and slow, pressing his fingers to his temple. "Of course it did." He took a slow step closer, squinting down at the drenched creature curled contently in your arms. His jaw ticked as he exhaled, then, glancing up at you, he asked, "Where did it even come from?"

You swallowed, shaking your head. "I don't know. I was just filling the last jug when I saw the ripples, and then—" You glanced down at the Askálion, which blinked up at you before nuzzling into your chest, its tail flicking idly over your lap. "It was just... there."

Telemachus hummed, his expression unreadable as he crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He kept a slight distance, eyes locked on the fox as though it might lunge at any second.

"They don't usually leave their dens," he murmured, tilting his head. "Not unless they're hunting or migrating to new territory."

Your eyes widened slightly. "So you think it'll... go back?" you asked, the words leaving you before you could think them through.

The Askálion’s ears twitched.

Telemachus caught the way you tightened your grip around the creature, how your fingers subtly curled into its thick fur. He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face before resting his elbow on his knee.

"That's what it should do," he admitted. Then, leveling you with a look, he added, "But something tells me this one doesn't care much for what's 'supposed' to happen."

Before you could respond, the distant crunch of footsteps over leaves sent a jolt through your spine. Voices—familiar and loud—filtered through the trees.

Callias and Kieran.

Your eyes snapped to Telemachus at the same time his locked onto yours, a shared moment of wide-eyed panic passing between you.

"Come here," you hissed, beckoning him urgently.

Telemachus barely had time to react before Callias' voice rang out through the clearing. "Oi! How much longer are you two planning on taking? We're starving over here!"

Kieran grunted in agreement. "You should've been done ages ago. What's taking so—"

Both voices cut off abruptly.

From behind you, you could feel their gazes settle on the scene.

The pond was bathed in the soft glow of the rising moon, its silver reflection shimmering against the water's surface. Telemachus stood directly in front of you, waist-deep in the river, his figure outlined by the cool luminescence. From an outsider's perspective, it must have looked intimate—almost painfully so.

A prince and his Divine Liaison, standing chest to chest in the rippling water, faces close enough to share a breath.

Except, of course, for the small, dark-furred creature wedged comfortably between the two of you.

The Askálion sat smugly, tail curled around its body, looking completely unbothered as it rested its head against your collarbone.

A thick silence stretched between all of you.

Then—

"Ohhh," Callias practically purred, dragging out the sound as if savoring it.

Kieran barely had time to blink before Callias shoved him backward, hissing under his breath, "We are absolutely interrupting something."

Kieran, not one to miss out on an opportunity for chaos, still managed to call over his shoulder, "Sorry for the interruption, lovebirds!"

The two of them barely dodged the splash of water that Telemachus sent their way, their laughter trailing off as they disappeared back into the trees.

Silence settled once more, save for the soft lapping of the water against your legs. You exhaled shakily, glancing at Telemachus. He still looked vaguely exasperated, his hand resting on his hip as he shook his head.

After a few more moments, you hesitated, then whispered, "Are they gone?"

Telemachus sighed, rubbing his temple. "Unfortunately, yes."

You let out a breath of relief, shifting the large animal in your arms. Your hold was starting to falter, the weight of the Askálion beginning to strain your muscles. Its thick fur, now damp, made it heavier than you anticipated, and you struggled to readjust your grip.

Seeing your struggle, Telemachus took a small step forward, reaching out instinctively. "Here, let me hel—"

A low, warning growl rumbled against your chest.

You both froze.

The Askálion's ears flattened slightly, sharp eyes locking onto Telemachus. Though its body remained relaxed in your hold, its tail twitched, and its lips curled ever so slightly, baring sharp teeth in a silent warning.

Telemachus slowly straightened, his eyes narrowing. The growl ceased immediately. The creature's ears perked up once more, its expression shifting into something far too smug for a wild animal. Its tongue lolled lazily out of its mouth, as if it hadn't just threatened a prince of Ithaca.

You swallowed thickly, looking from Telemachus to the fox and back again.

Telemachus arched a brow at you, then let out a dry chuckle. "Looks like you've got a new pet."

You let out a groan, tipping your head back dramatically before sighing in reluctant acceptance. "Great. Just great." Looking down at the fox nestled against your chest, you muttered, "I'm convinced Apollo has something to do with this." It made too much sense—the god had been relentless lately with his gifts, and now, an unnaturally docile, potentially mythical creature had decided to follow you around.

Of course, it had to be divine intervention.

Shaking your head, you finally stepped out of the water, wincing slightly as your damp clothes clung to your skin. The cool night air bit at your arms, but you ignored it, more focused on lowering the fox gently onto the ground.

As soon as its paws hit the earth, the Askálion gave an exaggerated shake, sending water droplets flying everywhere. You lifted your hands to shield yourself, barely suppressing a laugh as it gave one last dramatic shake, fluffing out its thick black fur. Then, with a pleased huff, it trotted up beside you and sat at your feet, its tail curling neatly around its paws.

Telemachus, who had just wrung some of the water from his own tunic, flicked a glance at the creature before leveling you with an unimpressed look. "Oh yeah, wholly normal behavior."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Don't look at me like that. I didn't ask for this."

The fox let out a soft yip, tilting its head at you before pushing its nose against your leg. You sighed again, bringing a hand down to scratch between its ears. "Looks like I don't have a choice now, anyway."

Telemachus ran a hand through his damp curls, shaking his head with a small, knowing smirk. "You really don't."

You groaned, rubbing the bridge of your nose as the weight of your predicament settled fully onto your shoulders. "How in Hades' name am I supposed to hide it at the palace?" You gestured vaguely at the fox, which merely blinked up at you, utterly unbothered. "I mean, even if I tried leaving it behind, it'd probably just follow me there."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully, stepping over to the jugs you had filled earlier. With an ease that had you both impressed and mildly annoyed, he hoisted four of them at once, carrying them as though they weighed nothing at all. "Well, you are the Divine Liaison now," he mused, glancing at you with a teasing lilt to his voice. "I'm sure my parents won't mind too much."

You spluttered, staring at him wide-eyed. "Weren't you the one going on about how dangerous it is?" You gestured at the fox, which was now happily trotting in circles around your feet, as if mocking your plight.

Telemachus only shrugged, an infuriatingly relaxed smile tugging at his lips. "As long as it does no harm to you, then it doesn't matter." He adjusted his grip on the jugs before nodding toward the direction of the camp. "Come on, grab the last one. We should head back before Callias and Kieran assume we drowned."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to remind him how ridiculous this entire situation was, but then you stopped. What was the point? The fox had already chosen you, and if divine intervention was at play, you doubted you had much of a say in the matter.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, you ran a hand down your face before looking down at the creature sitting so proudly at your feet. "Fine," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else as you went to grab the last jug. "Guess I have a new shadow."

The Askálion yipped in delight, and as Telemachus chuckled beside you, you begrudgingly followed him back toward camp—your newest, unexpected companion padding faithfully at your side.

A/N: listen, i swear i want them to bang—i mean, kiss—just as much as everyone else, but alas, everything is already written in stone, and i'm just editing and posting. 😭 this is my first attempt at slow burn, and i don't wanna throw away my discipline by indulging in fan service too soon like i usually do with my fics/one-shots. hope y'all understand. also!! since i'm new to the whole fanart thing, if anyone wants to send some my way, you can email me at wattywriter04@gmail.com (??!?!?! i can't believe i can actually say that now lmao). oh—and before i go, i heard y'all's pleas and couldn't help myself—so yeah, the fox is staying. 😌 i'm a sucker for canines, can you blame me?? my favorite pokémon is literally vulpix. i even have a fox!reader fic somewhere, so really, this was inevitable. 🦊😂 see you all next update! 💕

also, i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe

from @Xyxxeviya works (@alucardswifeyy on tumblr)

AHHH IDKY BUT THIS HAS TO BE MY FAV 😩❤️ ⬇️

here's fvckcare (idk but i feel like i shouldnt be looking 😭 like ahhh, yall not me being shy over a drawing)

EKKK ANd I GOT ANOTHER FANART SUBMISSION from iconic-idiot-con----(this is exactly how i imagined the fox! cute but with a lethal rbf, my spirit animal fr)

YESS YESSSS YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I swear fanart just does something to me as a writer, it's like i'm seeing the way my words being brought to life just---ACCKKK my heart ❤️😩😩😩😩 the way imma (selfishly) need this for the rest of my life, i cant go back 😔❤️

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive

[winxanity-ii]

It feels like this every time I write a fic

[winxanity-ii]

me with anything---from greek to revolution times 😩

writing historical fic set in real places is so scary. what if someone who knows more about Philadelphia's timeline to move from gas to electric streetlamps reads my fanfiction and laughs at me

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming | threaded fates: between waking and dreaming⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The last thing he saw before waking was your cloaked figure fading into the shifting trees, dissolving like mist at dawn. But even as you disappeared, your presence lingered, as if the dream had been carved into something deeper than mere sleep.

And then—

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

A dull, steady thudding filled the room, accompanied by a faint voice beyond the wooden doors.

"Prince Telemachus?"

The knock came again, polite but persistent, and Telemachus exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. The warmth of sleep still clung to his skin, the last traces of the dream curling at the edges of his thoughts like dissipating fog.

For a fleeting moment, he tried to hold onto it—the stillness, the strange, weightless peace that had wrapped around him like a second skin. He tried to picture you—your shrouded figure that had spoken of his death as if it were no more than a misplaced step, who had stood before him, watching with an unreadable gaze.

But the memory blurred.

The details unraveled, slipping away like water through his fingers.

Telemachus let out a tired sigh. He knew it was no use.

Pushing himself upright, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the haze of sleep. The knocking continued, more insistent now.

"Enter."

The heavy doors eased open, and a handful of servants filed in, moving with quiet efficiency. Some carried fresh linens, others brought water for washing. One knelt to help set out his tunic for the day, while another murmured about the meal waiting in the hall.

Telemachus allowed it all to happen around him, standing still as they moved, as they prepared him for the morning ahead.

His body felt weighed down by something nameless, something that had nothing to do with war or duty.

And yet, as always, he carried it without complaint.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

A short while later, Telemachus made his way toward the dining hall.

The scent of fresh bread and olives filled the air, mingling with the salt that drifted in from the open windows. Sunlight spilled through the archways, catching on the polished stone floors, casting long shadows along the walls.

He stepped inside, his expression unreadable, composed despite the faint tiredness still clinging to his features.

His father was already there.

Odysseus sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as ever. He was speaking with a servant, though his sharp eyes flicked up the moment Telemachus entered.

Penelope, seated beside him, brightened at the sight of her son.

"Ah, there you are!" she said, her voice warm, eager.

She rose slightly, as if she meant to reach for him, but instead motioned him forward.

"Come, sit. You must eat."

Telemachus hesitated for only a second before moving to take his seat.

The moment he settled, Penelope wasted no time in filling the space with words, speaking of the morning's affairs—the state of the household, news from the city, preparations for an upcoming festival.

Her voice a welcome warmth against the cool morning air; reminding him of childhood, of simpler mornings when he had no burdens to bear beyond learning his letters and running through the halls with dust on his feet.

"The fishermen have been restless," she continued, slicing a piece of fruit and setting it onto his plate as if he were still a boy. "They say the tides are shifting, that the waves have grown more unpredictable—some claim it's the gods stirring the waters again, restless with unseen quarrels."

She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Superstition, most likely. You know how they are—always searching for omens where there are none."

Telemachus made a quiet noise of acknowledgment but said nothing, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.

"Your father disagrees, of course," Penelope added, glancing toward Odysseus with an expectant look, as if waiting for him to correct her. "He says the sea never moves without reason."

But even as she spoke, Telemachus found his mind drifting once more. His thoughts wandered back to the dream—the presence that had stood before him cloaked in something more than mere shadow. He could still hear their voice, cool and steady, speaking of his death as though it were a certainty carved into the stars.

"So, if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

"I'm... not sure."

The admission had unsettled him.

Fate, uncertain?

It was almost comforting.

"Telemachus?"

His mother's voice was softer this time, breaking through the fog of his thoughts.

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his mind, and turned to find her watching him, her brow creased with quiet concern.

"Are you alright?"

For a brief moment, he considered brushing the question aside. But the worry in her voice, the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, made him offer a small, tired smile.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Just still a bit sore."

Penelope's lips pressed into a thin line. "Sore? And you haven't been keeping up with the physician?" She exhaled sharply, turning over her shoulder. "I'll have one of the servants fetch him—"

"Mother," Telemachus interrupted, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

She turned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm fine." He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Truly."

Penelope studied him for a moment longer before sighing, though her expression softened. "At least promise me you'll rest when you can."

"I will." It was easier to agree than to argue.

Satisfied for now, she let the subject drop, shifting her attention back to her meal.

Telemachus turned his gaze to his father.

Odysseus had remained silent through the exchange, watching rather than speaking. His expression was unreadable, as it often was, but there was something in his gaze—something measuring, something thoughtful.

Telemachus took a breath.

"Father," he started, carefully choosing his words. "Can I ask you something?"

Odysseus didn't answer right away. He held his son's gaze, considering him, before finally nodding, turning back to his meal. "Go on."

There was a pause, brief but heavy.

Telemachus' fingers continued to idly trace the rim of the goblet before him. He kept his posture steady, the same way he'd been taught since childhood—shoulders squared, expression measured, never betraying more than he intended to.

Yet, beneath the surface, his thoughts churned, coiling tight like a rope wound too many times.

Across the table, Odysseus ate in silence, his movements slow, deliberate. His father had always been a man who chose his words carefully, who listened more than he spoke, who measured the weight of a moment before deciding how to tip the scales.

Telemachus studied him for a moment before finally speaking.

"If you were given a choice," he started, voice steady despite the hesitation curling at the edges of his words, "a choice between accepting what has been laid before you... or questioning it, testing it—what would you do?"

Once again, Odysseus didn't answer right away.

Instead, he set his cup down and turned his gaze fully upon his son. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—something sharp, something... calculating.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant hum of the household, the occasional clatter of dishes from the servants tending to their tasks.

Then, Odysseus exhaled, leaning back slightly.

"That depends."

Telemachus lifted a brow, waiting.

"Some things are meant to be questioned," Odysseus continued, his voice low, thoughtful. "Some things must be challenged, bent, even broken if they do not serve you."

He paused, his gaze still steady, still searching.

"But not all things."

Telemachus frowned slightly. "And how do you tell the difference?"

Odysseus tilted his head just so, considering him, weighing something unseen. Then, after another pause—long enough to make Telemachus wonder if he would answer at all—he spoke again.

"Experience."

A simple word. A frustrating word.

Telemachus pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of his father's gaze as it settled upon him. He should have expected nothing less. Odysseus never gave answers freely—only hints, pieces, fragments that a man had to stitch together himself.

And yet... something about the way he looked at him now made Telemachus wonder if he'd already been caught in the middle of such a lesson without realizing it.

Odysseus let the words sit between them before speaking again, this time quieter. "Why do you ask?"

Telemachus hesitated.

For the briefest moment, he considered telling him the truth.

Of the dream.

Of the presence that had stood before him, draped in shifting shadows, speaking of things no mortal should hear.

Of the way his name had rolled from your lips—not as a passing thought, not as a thread to be cut, but as something... watched.

He almost spoke.

Almost.

But instead, he exhaled softly, forcing a small, tired smile.

"No reason," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I was just curious."

He reached for his bread, breaking off a piece between his fingers.

"Thank you, Father."

Odysseus said nothing at first, but Telemachus could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second longer before shifting away.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Telemachus finally began to eat.

☆

☆

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

There was always something to do—always another duty, another lesson, another expectation waiting to be met. As his father's heir, the days of his boyhood were long gone, replaced by the steady weight of responsibility that settled upon his shoulders with each passing season.

Meetings were held, one after another.

He sat beside his father in the great hall, listening as advisors spoke of trade routes, of disputes among neighboring lords, of rations and harvests, of ships in need of repairs. Every decision, every agreement or refusal, every discussion about Ithaca's future was something that would soon fall upon him.

He was being prepared. Groomed for rule.

At midday, he trained with the soldiers, drilling with them in the courtyard. Though he had fought in battle, had killed men with his own hands, his father was adamant—"You must never let your blade dull."

So he moved through the drills, his body following the familiar rhythm of combat, sweat trickling down his spine as the sun bore down on him.

Then more meetings. More lessons. More discussions on the kingdom's defenses, on alliances, on the ever-present question of what came next.

By the time the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold, exhaustion weighed heavy on his limbs.

And yet—

Despite the long hours, despite the endless duties, despite the weight of a crown he had yet to bear—

He found himself perking up.

There was a lightness in his steps, a quiet energy in his movements that hadn't been there earlier.

Because when night fell, you'd be back.

You hadn't said it. You hadn't promised anything.

And yet, something in him knew.

You would return.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Dinner came and went.

His mother spoke to him throughout the meal, his father listened in silence, and Telemachus answered when needed, nodding in the right places, speaking when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn't impatience, not exactly, but something close to it. Something restless.

And so, the moment the meal was done, he excused himself, leaving the warmth of the hall behind.

His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way to his chambers, slipping past servants and torches flickering against the stone walls. He undressed quickly, tugging the tunic over his head, running a damp cloth over his face before settling beneath the covers.

Sleep did't take him right away.

But when it did—

He was there again.

The cypress tree. The endless stretch of grass. The dreamscape he had claimed as his own.

But this time, he didn't lounge beneath the branches, arms folded behind his head in easy rest.

This time, he stood.

Searching.

He turned his head, scanning the shifting space around him, waiting—expecting. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if anticipation itself had settled into his bones.

He waited.

And waited.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

And then, slowly, doubt began to creep in.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple before dropping back onto the grass with a quiet thump.

He scoffed at himself, shaking his head.

"Gods... I must look patethic," he muttered aloud, an amused huff leaving his lips.

"She's a deity. A mythical force. Of course she won't have no time for a mortal—" he let out another short laugh, "—Stupid Telemachus, stupid."

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

To sit here like some eager boy awaiting a story before bed? To anticipate something—someone—who had no obligation to return?

Letting out another sigh, he rubbed at his face, his expression briefly tense as he forced himself to accept it.

Maybe you weren't coming after all.

"Were you waiting long, son of Odysseus?"

The voice—your voice—slipped into existence like a thread weaving itself into the fabric of the dream, smooth yet carrying the faintest edge of something... perplexed.

Telemachus' breath hitched.

The tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding—the quiet tightness in his shoulders, the coiled stiffness in his spine—unraveled all at once.

Because you were here.

And gods, he felt it.

Your presence wrapped around him, something unseen yet unmistakable, shifting the very air of the dream, as if the space itself recognized you and bent to accommodate your existence. It was different from before—this time, he knew what he was looking for.

He wasn't caught off guard. He wasn't questioning whether or not you were really before him.

His head snapped toward the sound before he even had time to think, and his body was moving before reason could catch up, pushing himself upright with a sharp inhale.

He knew you would come.

A half-smile pulled at his lips, something wry and easy as he gave a small shrug.

"Can you blame me?" he mused, voice lighter now. "A powerful entity graces me with their presence—should I not be eager?"

His gaze flickered over you, taking in your form once more.

You were the same as before—your cloak draped over you like something untouched by the laws of the world, the hood still drawn, obscuring much of your face.

And yet, despite your near-ethereal presence, there was something almost... awkward in the way you stood there, as though you hadn't quite anticipated this.

A muted scoff floated between the air.

"Flattery won't get you far with me." Your tone was dry, unimpressed. "Maybe with Zeus."

Telemachus huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but said nothing more.

As you stepped forward, your attention drifted—not immediately to him, but to the world around you.

The cypress tree stood tall, its branches swaying despite the absence of wind. The grass beneath your feet remained soft, bending only slightly beneath your presence.

Your gaze swept across the familiar dreamscape before finally landing back on him.

"This is the same dream you've had for the past few nights," you noted, tilting your head slightly; your voice held no accusation, only curiosity. "Why?"

Telemachus looked around, his gaze drifting over the familiar scenery—the towering cypress, the soft grass beneath his feet, the golden warmth spilling through the branches. "Because it's peaceful," he said simply.

His voice carried a quiet certainty, as if that alone explained everything. And perhaps, to him, it did.

But then, after a beat, his brows furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering across his features. His gaze returned to you, thoughtful.

"Is it possible for me to do what you did the other day?"

Your head tilted slightly beneath the hood.

"What?"

"Change it." He waved a hand vaguely. "Like how you shifted the dream before. The forest. The... other things."

You considered him for a moment, the weight of your stare settling over him, unreadable. Then you spoke, your tone steady, measured. "Do you mean your dreams?"

Telemachus shifted, feeling something curl low in his stomach at the way you said it—so blunt, so matter-of-fact. He frowned slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looked away. "It does sound obvious when you say it like that," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

A quiet huff of air left you, something that wasn't quite a laugh but close enough.

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He turned his gaze toward the distance, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to quiet concentration.

A moment passed.

And then—

The air around you rippled.

Like a stone dropped into a still pond, the dream shuddered, distorting, shifting, bending. The cypress tree, the soft grass, the golden light—all of it melted away.

In its place—

A boat.

A small, wooden vessel, floating effortlessly on the surface of a vast, endless ocean.

The water was impossibly still, stretching infinitely in every direction, untouched by waves or wind. Above, the sky was a deep, endless black, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch.

And below—

The same stars.

The ocean reflected the sky perfectly, mirroring the constellations with such clarity that it was impossible to tell where the world ended and where it began. It was as if the boat was floating in the middle of space itself, drifting weightlessly between the heavens.

A hush settled over the dream.

You finally turned, your gaze settling on him.

"What made you create this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, something thoughtful beneath it.

Telemachusglanced down at the water, watching the way the stars shimmered in its depths before sighing softly, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips as he looked away. His fingers traced absent patterns against the worn wood of the boat, a quiet motion, thoughtful.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, scattered like dust across the heavens, flickering against the deep, inky black.

"Towards the end of my voyage to find my father," he began, voice quiet but steady, "I remember wanting to get away from the men."

His lips quirked slightly, a dry amusement threading through his tone.

"They were cheerful—too cheerful. Well, for me they were. They drank and laughed and spoke of adventures ahead, of the places we'd see, of the glory we'd find. But I..."

His fingers curled slightly against the wood.

"I wanted a moment of quiet. Peace." There's that word again.

He let out a soft breath, shoulders shifting as if remembering the weight of that night.

"So I took one of the side stowaway boats," he continued, "untied it just enough to drift a little ways off, though I left it tethered to the ship so I wouldn't stray too far."

His eyes lingered on the stars, their mirrored reflections shimmering beneath him in the endless water.

"I don't know how long I sat there," he admitted. "Just... listening. The water, the wind, the ship creaking in the distance. It was the first time I really understood how vast the sea was."

He exhaled softly, his voice growing lighter, almost distant.

"When I was younger, my mother used to tell me that if I ever missed my father—if I ever wanted to speak to him but couldn't—I should look up at the sky."

A pause.

"She said he was out there, beneath the same stars. That no matter where he was, no matter how far, he was looking at the same sky as me."

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his features.

"I used to believe it."

He tilted his head slightly, watching the constellations above, as if searching for something.

"That night, on the water, I found myself doing the same thing. Looking up. Wondering if he was somewhere out there, beneath the same stars, thinking of me too."

His voice softened, his gaze lingering on the vast sky.

"I suppose I still wonder about that sometimes."

You turned your gaze away from him, letting out a low, thoughtful hum. The quiet stretched between you, the boat drifting weightlessly in the mirrored expanse of the ocean, suspended between stars above and below.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice steady but carrying something almost contemplative. "It is beautiful," you admitted, your words simple yet carrying weight.

Not just the dream—the way the world had folded itself at his will—but the thought behind it. The way he sought quiet, the way he still looked to the stars like they could give him answers.

At your words, Telemachus shifted, his eyes pulling away from the constellations to settle on you.

For a moment, he simply watched.

There was something different in his gaze now—something softer. His sharp, measured features relaxed just slightly, his shoulders unwinding as his lips quirked up into a small, easy smile.

"Thank you," he said after a beat, his voice quieter than before, like he meant it in more ways than just one.

You didn't meet his gaze for long.

Instead, you let the moment pass, turning away as you rose to your feet, stepping onto the edge of the boat with an effortless ease. Or perhaps not stepping at all.

The boat didn't rock beneath your weight. The water didn't shift at your movement. It was as if you existed outside of it, your form moving as though the laws of this place bent around you rather than the other way around.

"I will be going now," you announced, your voice neither cold nor warm, simply a fact.

Telemachus didn't move, didn't stop you—only continued to sit, head tilted up, watching as you stood above him, your cloak as dark as the sky, your presence just as vast.

Still, something in the way he lingered made it clear—he didn't want you to leave.

You turned to go, the edges of your form beginning to fade, dissolving into the dream. The moment stretched just a second too long, and that was all it took.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

The words left him suddenly, hastily—like he hadn't meant to say them aloud.

For the first time since your arrival, you hesitated.

Your form flickered, stilling just slightly, as if the question had pulled at something unspoken. And then, after a breath—

"Yes."

The answer settled between you, solid, final.

And with that, you were gone.

A/N: sorry y'all, i know i said 10 chapters, but i couldn't not write something in telemachu's pov 😩

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 04 Chapter 04 | dialogues with destiny⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

It was the next day.

After a full cycle of overseeing and severing threads, of watching lives flicker out like candle flames, you left to visit the young prince once more.

Like the past two times, his dream was unchanged.

The cypress tree. The warm light filtering through the leaves. The quiet stillness that he draped around himself like a cloak.

But this time, you didn't simply watch.

This time, you didn't just alter the dream unseen.

This time, you did something.

You told yourself it was nothing more than idle curiosity. A moment of indulgence, nothing more. A small experiment, the same way one might dip their fingers into the surface of a lake just to watch the ripples spread.

It was detached.

It was nothing.

And yet, as you lifted your hand and shifted the dream around him, you felt something close to anticipation.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dimmed.

The world bent—

And in its place, a dense forest unfolded.

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

He didn't move at first. He simply scanned the scene, taking in the new surroundings—the thickened trees, the silver shadows stretching long across the forest floor beneath a cold moon.

Then, his jaw tightened.

He was wary.

Not panicked. Not afraid.

Cautious.

That you found interesting.

He is unsettled by this—by the unknown, by the shift in his subconscious.

But when he had faced his own death—when he had bled out onto the palace floor, when the captain had left him gasping, staring out at a burning city—he had been passive.

Accepting.

Yet now, faced with nothing more than a shift in the air, his instincts stirred.

Fascinating.

You didn't allow yourself to linger on it.

You had come for a reason.

The trees whispered as you stepped forward.

You didn't appear all at once. That would have been too direct. Too abrupt.

Instead, you let the air ripple first, the dream bending beneath the weight of something it didn't understand. A shiver of power rolled through the forest, the leaves trembling, the shadows stretching unnaturally long across the ground.

Telemachus straightened.

His muscles didn't tense for battle, but there was a shift in his posture—something keen, something aware.

Good.

A soft breeze moved through the trees, and you stepped into the clearing.

You didn't announce yourself immediately.

The cloak draped over your form, its fabric darker than the space between the stars, untouched by light. It didn't move as fabric should, did not cling or billow, but instead seemed to shift in ways that defied understanding, a piece of something not entirely real draped across your shoulders.

The hood was pulled forward, shadowing the upper half of your face. You didn't bother with grandeur, nor with any particular presence of menace or warmth. You simply were.

And in the space between you, the silence waited to be filled.

Telemachus didn't speak first.

The only surprise he allowed himself was a subtle shift in his jaw.

Interesting.

You broke the quiet with a single word.

"Evening, Telemachus, son of Odysseus."

Telemachus didn't react immediately.

He simply stared, his expression unreadable, his mind turning over thoughts you couldn't yet grasp.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Am I dead?"

You frowned.

The question was absurd. Pointless.

But something about the way he said it—the certainty in his voice, the ease with which he asked it—unnerved you.

You tilted your head slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp yet distant, as if you had simply confirmed something he had suspected for a long time.

"If you're here," he said, "then that must mean I'm dead, yes?"

A flicker of irritation curled within you.

"You assume too much, mortal," you said, the words edged sharper than you intended. "Now tell me—what do you mean?"

He watched you carefully, weighing something in his mind before he spoke again.

"It's impossible to know who you are exactly."

His words were quiet, measured.

"The Fates are many, but only one ends the line. And if you are that one... then I shouldn't be here, should I?"

You said nothing.

His logic was sound.

If you were truly here for him, he wouldn't be standing before you, not even in a dream.

He shouldn't be able to speak to you.

Telemachus held your gaze for a long moment before something shifted.

A breath.

A huff of laughter—not mocking, but something close to understanding.

His posture eased. The tension in his shoulders unwound, the sharpness of his jaw softening just enough to make him seem human again, rather than the warrior you had followed through battle.

He apologized—apologized—before explaining himself.

"I nearly died once."

You didn't react, but something in the air shifted, a weight settling between you.

"It was during my first attempt to find my father," he continued, voice steady but touched with something quieter—something long since buried. "I decided to go alone on a small ship. Everything was going fine until not a week in, a storm took it. The waves swallowed me and before I knew it, I was drowning."

His fingers twitched, as if the memory was something he could still feel.

"In that moment, when I thought I had died... I saw her."

His eyes met yours.

"I saw you."

The world went still.

"You removed the attendant that had come for me. I saw it—a figure waiting in the water, reaching for me, and you—" he paused, exhaling slowly as he remembered, "you stopped it. You barely spared me a glance before disappearing. But I saw you."

The forest shifted, the dream thinning at the edges.

"That's why I dream of peace," Telemachus murmured, tilting his head slightly, voice quieter now, almost distant. "That's what I felt when I nearly died. And it always reminds me of you."

You blinked.

Taken aback.

For a moment, you almost disregarded it entirely.

Impossible.

This was nothing more than a mortal spinning meaning into something beyond his comprehension.

And yet—

Something scratched at the edges of your mind.

A memory.

A day you'd long since forgotten, brushed aside as nothing more than routine.

You hadn't cared to remember it before.

But now, standing before the prince, the scene rose unbidden.

The loom had frayed.

A premature cutting—one that should not have been.

Your sister had sent you, impatient and irritated, ordering you to fix it quickly.

The ocean.

The storm.

A body floating amid the wreckage of a broken ship.

A soul, already half-detached from its thread, lingering at the precipice.

An attendant reaching for him—one of the lesser ones, those who collected the dead and carried them to their end.

You had stopped them.

Swiftly. Cleanly. Without thought.

A glance at the figure in the water—just a single flicker of acknowledgment—before you had moved on, correcting the weave, restoring the balance, leaving without a second thought.

You had not thought of it again.

Until now.

Until him.

You stared at Telemachus.

"Yes," you said at last, your voice carefully even. "I seem to recall that."

The admission lingered between you for a moment, a thread of truth woven into the fabric of this dream.

But you didn't let it hold weight.

There was no reason to linger on the past when you'd come for the present.

"That is not why I'm here," you continued. "You were supposed to die a week ago."

You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

But Telemachus didn't flinch.

Didn't pale, didn't startle, didn't so much as tense at your words.

His expression remained unreadable, the calm of his features giving away nothing.

And then—

"I see."

That was all he said.

"I see."

You blinked.

You'd promised yourself you would remain impartial, wouldn't let this frustrate you.

But something tightened in your chest, something sharp and unfamiliar.

"That's it?" you demanded, your voice edged with something you didn't care to name. "You learn you were meant to die, and all you have to say is 'I see'? Has mortality truly lost all sense of self-preservation? Have mortals become so uncaring?"

Telemachus snorted.

The sound was so unexpected, so entirely human, that you were caught off guard by it.

"Apologies," he said, though he did not sound particularly sorry. "It's just—" He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as though something about your words genuinely amused him. "I'm not uncaring. I'm just practical."

You frowned. "Practical?"

"Yes."

He looked at you then, something steady and certain in his gaze.

"My death was meant to happen, wasn't it? Written in the stars, as they say?"

"Yes," you confirmed.

Telemachus nodded, unsurprised. "Then if it was meant to happen, what good would it do for me to fight it?"

You took that in, rolling his words over in your mind, trying to fit them into what you understood of mortals.

They were creatures of resistance. Of want. Even in the face of death, they clung. They wailed, they raged, they fought for every last breath.

But not him.

He accepted.

He didn't cling to his life because he'd already made peace with it ending.

A strange thing, for a mortal to be so willing.

"You are... wise for your age," you said at last.

Telemachus gave a small, knowing smile. "Thank you."

For a moment, silence lingered between you.

He took the time to glance around the dream, taking in the shifting woods, the way the shadows stretched and flickered in ways they should not.

Then, at last, he turned back to you.

"So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

The question was inevitable.

You found yourself at a loss for words.

The answer should've been simple.

And yet—

"I'm... not sure."

The words left you before you could think of another response.

And they were the truth.

The admission lingered in the air, weightless yet suffocating. It wasn't often that you were without an answer, and yet here you were—standing before a mortal, admitting to something you did not understand.

Telemachus watched you closely, searching your face for something, though you didn't know what. He didn't press you for an answer, didn't mock your uncertainty.

Instead, he hummed, as if considering something.

"Well, that's unexpected."

"Unexpected?" you repeated.

"That you, of all beings, don't know why I lived." He gave you a small, lopsided smile. "It's almost comforting, in a way. Even fate isn't infallible."

You frowned. "You misunderstand."

"Do I?"

You didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, you shifted the conversation.

"You seem remarkably unshaken by this revelation."

"Would it make a difference if I were?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Most mortals would not take this so lightly."

"I'm not most mortals."

A simple statement, but one that carried weight.

Telemachus settled back slightly, looking at you with an unreadable expression. He studied you with the same scrutiny you had studied him.

"You know," he mused, "for a being who deals in death, you seem very interested in those who still live."

"It is my duty to understand the lives I end."

"Then let me ask you something." He tilted his head, voice thoughtful. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret?"

"Yes." He shifted his weight slightly. "Do you ever wonder about the people whose threads you cut? Do you ever think about what might have been if you hadn't?"

"No."

The answer was immediate, instinctive.

Yet, even as you said it, you felt the weight of Telemachus' thread around your fingers—phantom and persistent, lingering even though you were no longer holding it.

Telemachus watched you, as if considering whether or not to believe you.

"I see," he said finally, though his voice suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, there was an ease in it, an understanding that neither of you felt the need to fill with empty words.

He shifted, stretching out his legs, his gaze drifting toward the trees above you.

"It's strange," he said after a while.

"What is?"

"Speaking with you."

"Because I am not mortal?"

"Because you are fate. Well, part of it." He gave you a glance, something wry in his expression. "Men have prayed to the gods for answers since the beginning of time, yet here I am, speaking to one who claims not to have them."

"I never claimed to have all of them."

"No, I suppose not."

A beat.

Then, he asked, "What was it like?"

"What?"

"Knowing how everything ends?"

You exhaled slowly. "Predictable."

Telemachus huffed a soft laugh. "And here I thought fate would be grander than that."

"Mortals think many things are grander than they truly are."

"I imagine so."

His fingers twitched absentmindedly against the fabric of his tunic, his thoughts drifting somewhere far away.

"Would you rather not know?" he asked.

"What?"

"How things end. Would you rather be... surprised?"

"No."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully but did not press the matter.

He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Do you fear anything?"

You looked at him. "Fear?"

"Yes. Surely even fate is capable of it?"

"No."

Another immediate response. Another truth.

Or perhaps... not.

Telemachus watched you carefully, his expression thoughtful.

"You're not what I expected," he finally admitted.

"And what did you expect?"

"Something colder. Something less curious."

"I'm not curious."

He gave you a knowing look. "If you say so."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But before he could speak again, something shifted.

A distant pull, a whisper at the edges of your existence, calling you back.

Lachesis.

Clotho.

Your sisters were summoning you.

Your time here was over.

You turned back to Telemachus, who watched you with calm awareness, as if he already knew what was happening. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

He nodded slightly, as if he had expected this.

"Will I see you again?"

You hesitated.

The answer should have been no.

But you didn't say it.

Instead, you stepped back, allowing the dream to dissolve around you.

The last thing you saw before you faded was Telemachus, still sitting beneath the trees, watching you leave as though he was already waiting for your return.

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 03 Chapter 03 | wavering shears⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

It had been a week since you should've cut his thread.

A week since you let Telemachus slip past his fate.

You had more than enough time to rectify it.

There'd been countless moments where you could've simply reached forward, pressed the shears to the strand, and severed him from existence. You had every opportunity.

And yet—you hadn't.

It would've been easy to tell yourself you had simply been busy.

The world had no shortage of the dying.

Threads snapped, frayed, and unraveled in great numbers every day. There were always battles. Always kings gasping their last breath. Always nameless men falling beneath uncaring skies.

Yes. You could've said you had been preoccupied.

But even you knew that wasn't the truth.

Because once again—

You found yourself in his dreams.

Just as before, Telemachus leaned against the cypress tree, his eyes closed, his breathing even.

Stillness.

Peace.

The dream hadn't changed from last time.

You wondered if he willed it into existence each night, or if this was simply where his mind drifted when left unguarded—this singular moment of quiet, this illusion of untouched serenity.

Daring, you decided to disrupt it.

A selfish little act.

But you'd allowed yourself too many indulgences already.

One more wouldn't matter.

You reached forward.

And the world trembled at your touch.

A whisper. A shift. A ripple.

His body tensed.

The dream bent beneath your will, time stretching back, the threads of his subconscious untangling like loose strands from a spool.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dissipated.

And the past emerged.

It played out exactly as before.

The halls of the overrun palace stretched before him, dark and filled with distant echoes. Shadows slithered along the walls, the scent of fire and blood thick in the air, clinging to his skin like something alive.

Telemachus moved carefully, blade drawn, his steps silent as he wove through the corridors. His heart was steady, his grip firm.

He'd trained for this. He'd fought for this. He'd killed for this.

He entered the chamber, eyes scanning the overturned furniture, the splintered wood, the remnants of what once stood before war came to claim it.

But this time—this time, there was no last-minute dodge.

No instinct pulling him from the path of death.

No twist, no counter, no shield raised in time.

No—this time, fate followed through as it was meant to.

The captain's blade plunged deep into his back.

His body jerked forward, his fingers flexing, grasping at empty air. A sharp, gasping exhale ripped from his throat. His knees hit the stone with a hollow thud.

His grip weakened. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly beside him.

Blood spilled freely. Warm. Endless. Soaking into his tunic, pooling at his knees, sinking into the cracks of the floor like ink into parchment.

Above him, the captain loomed, silent, his expression unreadable.

Telemachus wanted to move, to push himself up, to fight, but his body betrayed him; his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Then, the captain laughed. A harsh, rasping cackle that echoed off the ruined walls, thick with mockery.

"Ah, little wolf," he sneered, nudging Telemachus' fallen sword with the toe of his boot. "Maybe you should have trained a little longer. Maybe then you'd have lasted more than a heartbeat."

Telemachus tried to summon the fire that had carried him through every battle before—but his limbs were leaden, his vision blurring at the edges. The fight was gone from him, drained along with the warmth leaving his body.

The captain crouched, his smirk curling cruelly. "All that blood, all that war—and still, you're nothing but a boy playing at being a man. Shame."

He then stood, wiping his blade clean with slow, deliberate strokes, as if Telemachus' life was nothing more than a stain to be discarded.

Then, without another glance, he turned and stepped back into the shadows, his work complete, his blade slick with the blood of a prince who was never meant to survive.

Telemachus didn't cry out.

He didn't panic.

His fingers pressed lightly against the wound at his chest, feeling the warmth of his own life draining from him. He didn't try to crawl forward. Didn't scramble to rise.

Instead, he simply exhaled.

And then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he shifted his weight and propped himself against the nearest wall.

The city burned beyond the open window.

The flames reflected in his tired eyes, flickering gold and orange against the brown depths. His breathing slowed, his shoulders slackened.

He watched the fire consume what remained of the kingdom he had helped conquer.

Accepting.

Untroubled.

Not a man who fought his fate.

A man who met it.

You tilted your head.

Interesting.

So this was what would have happened had he not moved. Had he not stepped outside the weave of fate.

This was what you were meant to see.

And yet—

Why did it feel so hollow?

You didn't like it.

This quiet, this stillness, this acceptance.

You'd expected resistance, had expected some lingering trace of defiance, something that would make sense of why he had slipped past your shears.

But no.

He'd welcomed your death with all the serenity of a man laying down to sleep.

The sight left a distaste in your mouth, an irritation you couldn't place.

With a swipe of your hand, you undid it.

The flames faded, the blood retracted, and the quiet hall was once again replaced by the cypress tree and the warmth of a dream untouched by fate.

Telemachus leaned against its bark, his expression calm, unaware of the shift in his subconscious. The world was still, undisturbed.

You left without looking back.

The moment you returned home, they were upon you.

The first voice you heard was Lachesis.

"Where have you been?" Her tone was clipped, the voice of someone who had already counted your absence and found it lacking.

Before you could answer, Clotho giggled, her youthful voice carrying easily. "Watching Prince Telemachus again, I bet."

You didn't respond, you didn't need to—Lachesis' frown deepened, her sharp gaze narrowing as she stepped closer. "Wasn't Telemachus supposed to be cut a week ago?"

You brushed past them, making a sound in your throat that could have been agreement or dismissal. "Yes, but something happened."

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth.

It was something in between, a vague enough statement that they would either let it go or pull it apart.

They followed.

Of course they did.

Lachesis pressed further. "And why haven't you fixed it?"

"Yes," Clotho agreed, voice far too bratty for someone who only ever handled the beginning of a thread. "You're always on us about staying on top of our work, about how balance must be maintained, yet here you are, letting some mortal—"

You sighed, the sound heavy enough to make them pause.

You didn't know if your frustration came from their badgering or from the truth buried in their words.

You should've fixed it. You should've severed his thread the moment it slipped from your shears.

But you hadn't.

And still, you hadn't.

"I'll fix it soon." You brushed past them before they could question you further.

You walked until all else faded.

This place—our place—was not meant for mortal minds to comprehend. They had tried, of course, twisting myths and half-truths into crude approximations of reality. They believed in three women weaving at a great loom, their fingers plucking at the fates of men, deciding who would live and who would die.

But they were wrong.

The loom didn't need you. It would spin with or without your hands.

It was the source.

The great, unending weave from which all things were bound.

Every single thread—every single thing that had ever existed—was here. From the smallest blade of grass to the vast, endless expanse of the cosmos. From the lowest beggar to the highest god.

It didn't differentiate.

Even deities, despite what they liked to believe, were not immune to the loom's reach.

Their threads were longer, yes. More complex, stretching far beyond the lifespan of a mortal. But they were here, woven alongside everything else, their fates just as susceptible to the pull and twist of time.

You stepped forward, the sheer magnitude of the loom stretching into infinity.

And yet—you knew precisely where to go.

Your fingers trailed along the countless threads, feeling the pulse of lives intertwined, the way they tangled and broke apart, the way some hummed with purpose while others barely trembled.

Then, you reached his.

You knew it by sight now.

By feel.

By the way it had wound itself between your fingers for days, always lingering at the edge of your thoughts.

Telemachus.

His thread should not have been here.

It should have been severed, should have fallen away from the weave, sinking into the void where all things ended.

And yet—

You held it between your fingers, twisting it slowly, feeling the life pulsing through its fragile length.

You thought of the young prince.

Of his story.

Of the way his life had unfolded, each moment shaped by things greater than himself—by war, by gods, by the weight of a name he hadn't chosen.

Why would he accept his fate so readily?

Why, after all this time, after finally carving himself into something more than just the son of Odysseus, would he let it all end with nothing more than a quiet sigh?

The thought frustrated you more than it should have.

You'd seen mortals claw at their lives with desperation. You'd seen kings wail and beg at your feet for just a little more time. You'd seen warriors rage, refuse, fight.

But not him.

He'd simply let go.

The thread in your grasp trembled. Your fingers tightened.

But then—

You inhaled. Slowly.

And you remembered.

You were Fate.

You were what gods feared, what even immortals did not question. Your knowledge was absolute. Your presence was inevitable. What use was frustration when the outcome was yours to decide?

The truth settled over you, heavy and undeniable.

You didn't have to be frustrated.

You didn't have to wonder.

You decided how this ended.

If you wished for answers, you would take them.

If you wished for this interest to end, you would end it.

The choice was yours.

The thought soothed the quiet irritation curling beneath your skin. Your fingers loosened, releasing the thread back into the weave.

Tomorrow, you would visit the young prince.

You would speak to him.

And then, you would put an end to this foolish interest once and for all.

You would fix what should've never been broken.

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 31 Chapter 31 | the hunter's snare⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌��‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The festival had come and gone, but its aftermath lingered like the fading echoes of a song. What should have been a return to normalcy was anything but.

After Telemachus' open declaration—after he had placed the victor's crown upon your head for all to see—Apollo's signs began to grow.

At first, it was subtle, almost easy to dismiss as mere coincidence. Small things.

A missing item suddenly appearing in your path.

A tune you had forgotten returning to your mind as though whispered on the wind.

A lost earring—a piece you hadn't even noticed had fallen—laid neatly upon your windowsill by morning, gleaming in the first light of dawn.

You could almost ignore those. Almost.

But then, the gifts became more... deliberate. Too deliberate.

One day, you had merely thought—just thought—about how you missed your favorite snack, how you wished for something sweet to chase away the salt of your meal. Barely an hour later, a kitchen servant came bustling toward you, a plate in her hands.

"This was just left on the counter," she had said, offering it to you with a puzzled look as if confused by her actions. "No one claimed it. Thought you might've... wanted it?"

It was exactly what you had been craving.

Then came the trinkets.

At first, it was feathers, delicate white and gold, tucked into your path as if the wind had scattered them there with purpose.

Then, a small pendant—a polished sunstone carved with the faintest etching of a lyre—dropped into your hands from a passing bird's beak. The swallow had circled your head once before flying off, its wings flashing gold in the sunlight.

And with it, a message had lingered in the air, as if whispered directly into your mind.

"A bright gift for a bright muse."

Your breath had hitched.

It just didn't stop.

Birds came more frequently, each bearing something small—rings, bracelets, delicate pins shaped like laurel leaves. Every single one gleamed gold. Every single one was divine.

It wasn't just trinkets, either.

More than once, you had found yourself outside, only to notice the way the animals reacted. Swallows, doves, even hawks—they hovered, they circled, some perching just within reach as if awaiting a command. Deer had wandered closer when you passed through the gardens, their dark eyes unblinking, bodies completely still as they watched you.

It was undeniable.

Apollo was making himself known.

And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the feeling growing in your chest—that something was coming. That this was not just favor.

It was claim.

Of what, you weren't sure—or at least, you hoped you weren't sure. But it was getting harder to deny.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

Not after Telemachus' declaration. Not after the festival, after the ode you had sung in honor of Olympus, after you had allowed your name to be spoken in the same breath as his.

You tried to convince yourself that it was absurd, that you were being full of yourself to think that a god—Apollo—was responding to something as human as a prince's favor.

What arrogance, what foolishness, to assume the gods played games over mortal affection.

You weren't that important.

And yet...

With each passing day, you began to feel it. The weight of divine attention. Something unseen pressing against you, hovering, waiting.

And Apollo's gifts? They bordered on intrusive.

At first, it was easy enough to rationalize—perhaps even be amused by. A golden hairpin one day, a warm meal exactly when you needed it the next.

But then... then it became constant.

The birds never left you alone, their wings always flashing gold. The gifts became more extravagant, more insistent—bracelets, pendants, a lyre string crafted of pure sunlight (which you hadn't dared to touch).

And no matter how much you told yourself it was well-intentioned, no matter how much you wanted to believe that this was simply favor—simple admiration for your voice— the small voice in the back of your mind whispered otherwise.

It didn't feel like favor.

It felt like possession.

And now, you were holding another piece of it in your hands.

You had just returned from your chambers, having carefully placed yet another divine gift among the growing collection. This time, it was a pair of dewy earrings, crafted from the petals of a mythical flower that bloomed only under Apollo's gaze.

They were delicate—softer than silk, yet impossibly resilient. A shimmering golden thread connected each petal, glinting like sunlight caught in morning dew.

At first, you had thought to leave them untouched, to simply pretend you hadn't seen them. But lately...

Lately, when you didn't accept them right away, the deliveries became more extravagant.

A simple brooch became a jeweled circlet. A bottle of scented oil turned into a full amphora of sacred myrrh from Delphi. And now, flowers woven into something meant to be worn against your skin.

You had caved. You took the earrings. And you hated that you felt relieved when nothing bigger followed.

Letting out a slow breath, you stepped out into the open air, hoping the movement would clear your thoughts. That's when you noticed it—the slow shuffle of figures moving toward the edge of the palace grounds.

Your eyes narrowed.

They weren't just servants or wandering guests. No, they moved with purpose.

Most were clad in hunting leathers, bows slung across their backs, quivers filled with fresh arrows. Ithacans and Bronteneans alike, a rare sight of camaraderie as they made their way toward the woods.

Your curiosity got the better of you.

You hurried forward, weaving through the edges of the gathering until you reached the rear. And that's when you caught sight of him.

Telemachus.

He was standing a little ahead, deep in conversation with Callias, the shorter man gesturing animatedly, likely teasing him about something. Telemachus only huffed in response, shaking his head with a small, amused smirk—a rare expression these days.

A strange feeling curled in your stomach.

For just a moment, you forgot about the earrings in your room, about Apollo's endless signs, about the way divine favor wrapped around you like chains spun from gold.

Instead, you watched the prince.

And then, refusing to let yourself sink into hesitation, you acted.

Impulsively.

Lifting your hand, you waved—nothing dramatic, just enough to catch his attention.

It worked. Too well.

Telemachus turned almost instantly, his sharp eyes finding yours before you could second-guess yourself. But before you could even process the way his expression shifted—pleasantly surprised, then amused—a sudden jolt ran up your arm.

You flinched.

Frowning, your gaze darted down, confusion rippling through you as you instinctively rubbed your wrist.

Your bracelet.

You hadn't thought about it in days, but now, it seemed to hum against your skin—a subtle, almost imperceptible pull.

It was one of the first gifts you had received.

One you hadn't been able to resist keeping.

It was delicate yet sturdy, a thin golden chain adorned with a mesmerizing mixture of different stones. Each gem shimmered in a way that seemed unnatural—sometimes blue, sometimes green, flecks of fiery red sparking across their surface.

You'd assumed it was just an Ithacan craft, something rare but not... otherworldly.

But now, as it throbbed faintly against your pulse, you weren't so sure.

You traced the stones absently, wondering if you were imagining it, before Telemachus' voice cut through your thoughts.

"You're staring awfully hard at your wrist," he said, amusement evident in his tone. "Something wrong?"

Your fingers stilled.

You quickly dropped your hand, forcing a sheepish smile. "No," you said, too fast. "Just thinking."

His gaze flickered to your bracelet, but mercifully, he didn't push.

But that didn't mean he wasn't thinking about it.

You'd noticed.

Telemachus had been watching.

Not in an obvious way—not like Callias and the others, who made no effort to hide their curiosity about the divine gifts appearing at your feet like an offering on an altar.

Callias had been the first to joke about it, nudging you with a smug grin whenever a falcon dropped a trinket at your feet or a flower bloomed seemingly out of nowhere in your path. Asta followed suit, telling you in her usual dry tone that you'd better start demanding grander offerings while you had the gods' attention. Lysandra 'ooing' and telling you that she'll happily take whatever you didn't want.

Even Kieran, ever the skeptic, had muttered once under his breath about Apollo's audacity.

But Telemachus?

He never said a word about it.

He simply looked.

You'd caught him more than once, staring at the latest token left in your wake, his jaw tightening just slightly before he tore his gaze away. Never a comment, never a question—just an unspoken awareness.

It made something uneasy settle in your chest.

Clearing your throat, you pushed the thought aside. "Where's everyone going?"

Telemachus blinked, as if just remembering why he had come over in the first place. "The festival took a bigger hit on the food stores than expected," he explained, gesturing toward the group of Ithacans and Bronteans gathered ahead. "Some of Bronte's men offered to join the hunting party to help restock."

You nodded slowly, taking in the small cluster of figures dressed for the hunt—bows slung over shoulders, spears clutched in strong grips. Their leathers were well-worn, their faces focused.

It felt... familiar.

It had been a while since you'd seen hunters preparing for a real expedition. Ithaca thrived on its fishermen and traders, but the forests were vast, and hunting was an essential skill.

The thought struck you before you could stop it.

You didn't have plans for the evening.

And more importantly—

"I want to join," you said.

Telemachus hesitated, his lips parting as if to object immediately.

But before he could, Callias appeared at your side, grinning ear to ear.

"Oh~ I like that idea," he said, draping an arm over your shoulder with a dramatic sigh. "The Divine Liaison gracing us lowly hunters with her presence. Who knows? Maybe your glowing aura will lure the prey straight to us."

You rolled your eyes, shoving him off playfully, but Telemachus didn't laugh.

His brows were still slightly furrowed, his weight shifting like he was undecided.

You raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "It's not exactly... a performance," he said carefully, as if weighing his words. "We'll be out in the woods for hours—sometime days. It's not a casual walk through the gardens."

You tilted your head. "What? You don't think I can keep up?"

His expression twitched.

Before he could find a diplomatic way to answer, Callias let out a loud laugh, slapping the prince on the back. "Oh, come on, let her come. A little adventure never hurt anyone—" he paused, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness, "—well, maybe a few people, but I feel good about this one."

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, still looking at you.

And you looked right back, silent but steady.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he gave a single nod. "Fine."

A victorious grin split Callias' face. "That's the spirit, prince. Now, let's go make ourselves useful."

As the group began to move, you found yourself falling into step beside Telemachus.

And for the first time in days, you felt like you'd made a decision that wasn't already written in the stars.

☆

☆

The first few hours in the woods were filled with laughter, sharp whispers, and the occasional snap of a twig beneath hurried steps. The forest was alive in a way that Ithaca rarely felt—the usual quiet hum of the land disrupted by the unfamiliar presence of Brontean hunters.

Callias, ever the chatty nuisance, couldn't stop comparing everything to his homeland.

"I'm telling you, the forests in Bronte are denser than this," he said, stepping over a moss-covered root with ease. "Darker, too. You'd hardly see two feet ahead of you some nights." He whistled under his breath. "And the animals—they're larger. Meaner. Not like these cute little things." He gestured vaguely to the small rabbits and quails some of the hunters had already caught, hanging from their belts.

One of the Ithacan men scoffed, inspecting the string of fowl tied to his belt. "Cute, huh?" He let out a low chuckle. "You ever seen a boar up close, boy? One of those beasts will gut a man before he can even scream."

Callias grinned. "Oh, I've seen one. Even fought one."

Kieran snorted beside him, nudging his ribs. "I believe what he means to say is that he ran for his life while the rest of us fought it."

Telemachus chuckled, shaking his head. "Sounds about right."

The group continued forward, their movements careful but efficient. Some men split off into smaller clusters, circling the area to track fresh prey while others stayed together, sweeping the terrain for larger game.

You stayed near the middle, watching, learning.

It was strange—how different hunting in a group felt. You were used to watching from the sidelines, used to staying behind while others carried the weight of necessity. But here, in the midst of it, there was an odd sense of belonging.

The conversations, the shared silences, the way the hunters moved as one—it felt... easy.

Until it wasn't.

It started slowly, almost imperceptible at first.

A change in the wind. A shift in the air.

One moment, you were trailing behind Telemachus, keeping pace as the group moved deeper into the woods.

The next—you weren't.

You weren't sure when you'd stepped off the path, when your feet had carried you just a little too far from the others.

One second, they were ahead of you.

And the next—they were gone.

The voices, the quiet laughter, the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot—

All of it vanished.

You stopped walking.

Your breath caught in your throat as you turned sharply, expecting to see someone behind you—anyone.

But there was nothing.

Just trees.

Just silence.

Just you.

You called out, first hesitantly, then louder, voice cracking slightly as the quiet of the forest swallowed your words.

"Telemachus?"

Nothing.

"Callias? Kieran?"

Only the rustling of leaves. The distant creak of branches.

Your pulse quickened. You weren't unfamiliar with solitude—but this was''t solitude. This was something else entirely.

This was being lost.

With a slow, steady breath, you forced your legs to move.

At first, you tried to retrace your steps, scanning the ground for any signs of your passage—disturbed earth, a snapped twig, anything to ground you. But the more you walked, the more everything blurred together. Each tree looked too similar, each root and rock blending into the last, the path ahead eerily identical to the one behind.

It's just a trick of the trees. You weren't lost. You couldn't be.

Your steps picked up slightly.

You walked.

And walked.

And walked.

And then—

A stump.

Your eyes flicked to it absently as you passed, barely sparing it a glance. It was large, the top worn smooth with age, deep grooves in its surface like old scars. The thought crossed your mind that you had passed one like it before.

You frowned slightly but didn't stop.

Another stretch of walking. Another few turns.

You stepped over a fallen branch, stripped of bark, lined with moss.

The thought tugged at your mind, but you kept going.

Minutes passed.

Another clearing.

Until—

Another stump.

Your brows furrowed as you slowed, mouth opening slightly, a small breath slipping out. Did I turn myself around? You hesitated, then shook your head. No. Keep going.

You pushed forward, quickening your pace.

After a while, your frustration began simmering beneath your breath.

You stepped over fallen branch, shaking your head. "Of course," you mumbled, voice dry. "Gods appear all the time, yet when I actually need—"

Snap.

You froze.

The sound wasn't yours.

Slowly, your gaze flickered to the left, eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. Silence followed, thick and expectant, pressing down on your lungs.

And then—movement.

From behind a tree, a figure emerged.

Not a man.

A beast.

You stumbled back, pulse hammering as your gaze locked onto the creature before you.

It was a fox—but not like any you'd ever seen before.

It was large, nearly the size of a hound, its frame sleek and powerful. Its fur was black as ink, the color swallowing the light, yet its ears and tail burned like fire—a deep, striking red-orange, flickering like embers against its dark coat.

Its eyes—gods, its eyes—were the color of pure charcoal, gleaming with something that felt almost... aware.

And it was staring right at you.

The world around you narrowed—the rustling leaves, the distant chirping of birds, even the cool breeze against your skin faded into nothing as you locked eyes with the creature before you.

You froze, your body caught in that fragile space between fight and flight. Your breath hitched, your muscles coiling with tension, but you didn't move.

Stay calm. Don't startle it.

A single sharp movement, a single wrong breath, and what then? The fox was large, predatory in stature, and something in those eyes made it clear this wasn't just any beast.

You swallowed, pulse pounding against your ribs, but you smothered the panic. Letting it take hold would do you no good. If you didn't move, if you didn't pose a threat, surely it would lose interest and leave.

But it didn't.

Instead, the fox moved closer.

Its silent steps barely stirred the leaves beneath its paws as it crept forward, its head lowering, gaze never straying from you. Its tail flicked once, a slow, deliberate movement, the red-orange tufts at the end glowing like smoldering embers in the fading light.

Your breath shortened, tension curling tight in your stomach.

It was too close now. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faintest ripple of muscle beneath its sleek, obsidian coat, close enough that you swore you could feel the warmth radiating from its body.

The creature sniffed the air, its dark nose twitching. Then, it lowered its head further, stepping into your space.

What do I do? What do I do? The thought flashed through your mind, lightning-quick, frantic. If I startle it, would it attack? Would it—

It took another step.

Your heart stammered painfully against your ribs as you slowly, carefully, extended your hand.

The fox bowed its head, pressing its nose just inches from your outstretched fingers.

Your fingers trembled.

A breath passed.

Then another.

And then—warmth.

The fox's damp nose brushed against your skin; its breath, soft and measured, fanned across your palm, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it felt like the world had stopped turning.

And still, those dark eyes watched you.

Carefully—hesitantly—you shifted your fingers ever so slightly, testing.

The fox didn't recoil, didn't flinch. Its dark, luxurious fur gleamed beneath the dappled light breaking through the trees, its strange, onyx eyes still locked onto yours.

Steady. You swallowed, feeling braver now, and gently—so gently—you reached forward and let your fingertips ghost over the top of its head.

Warmth. Silken fur.

The fox allowed it.

Your chest eased, the weight of held breath finally exhaling from your lungs. A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped you, part amusement, part disbelief. You shook your head at yourself, feeling foolish for how tense you'd been. "Gods," you murmured, half-laughing, running your fingers lightly through the soft black fur. "I was acting like you were some terrible beast."

The fox blinked up at you, unreadable but knowing, and for a brief, strange moment, you almost felt as if it understood you.

But before you could dwell on it further, a sudden snap of a branch echoed through the clearing.

Your breath hitched, your head snapping toward the sound.

Emerging from the underbrush—tense, eyes sharp, and movements careful—was Telemachus.

He stepped forward slowly, the dimming light catching on the sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead. His form was rigid, muscles coiled with the instinct of a hunter, and your gaze flickered to his hand—hovering near the knife strapped at his belt.

"Wait," you called quickly, voice soft but firm. "It's okay. It hasn't harmed me—it means no harm."

Telemachus' gaze flickered to the fox, then back to you, taking in the way it leaned against your touch, its head lightly pressing into your palm.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his steps were still measured as he came closer;  a wry smile tugged at his lips, his head shaking slightly in half-exasperation, half-amusement. He exhaled sharply, murmuring under his breath, "Thank the gods."

His words sent a flutter through your chest.

And yet—your fingers remained tangled in the fox's fur, the strange creature pressing closer.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, shifting his weight onto his back foot, his eyes flicking between you and the fox with growing scrutiny.

Your brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

The fox—still nestled against your palm—tilted its head, its black eyes flickering toward Telemachus before nudging your hand demandingly, as if urging you to continue. Instinctively, your fingers resumed their gentle behind its ear, brushing through the thick, velvety fur.

Telemachus watched the interaction carefully, his jaw tightening as he exhaled slowly through his nose. "That animal is dangerous," he said, voice lower now, edged with something serious.

You snorted. "What?" you teased, turning your gaze back to the fox. "Is it going to eat me alive?"

Your voice had softened into something cooing, your hand scratching just beneath its jaw, and to your delight, the fox's hind leg began tapping lightly against the ground in clear enjoyment—like a pleased pup soaking in attention.

For a brief second, you forgot about Telemachus entirely, smiling as you leaned in slightly, murmuring playfully, "Ohhh, look at you. So scary, aren't you? A big, fearsome hunter just waiting to gobble me up—"

"Precisely."

Telemachus' voice cut through the moment like a blade.

You froze.

Your fingers stopped mid-scratch, your breath catching.

The fox let out a small, dissatisfied whine, pushing its head insistently into your palm, but you barely noticed—your mind was too busy catching up.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turned your head back to Telemachus, whose expression remained firm, unreadable—but his stance never eased. If anything, he looked tenser than before, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in something between thought and quiet suspicion.

"Have you noticed anything strange?" he asked, voice quieter now, like he was gauging something—waiting.

You blinked. "Strange?"

Telemachus' fingers twitched, his gaze momentarily dragging toward the trees before returning to you. "Since you got lost," he clarified. "Has anything felt... off?"

You hesitated, shifting your weight slightly. The question made you think—really think—about the past hour.

"Not really," you murmured at first, but the words felt wrong the second they left your lips. A small frown tugged at your brows as you tried to recall—tried to piece together why, exactly, you had felt so uneasy wandering through the woods alone.

Your mind retraced your steps.

The trees. The uneven ground. The way the air had felt thick, heavy, pressing in a way that made the silence stretch just a little too long.

Then, the stumps.

You frowned.

"I mean..." You shifted, rubbing your fingers absently against the fabric of your skirt. "I kept passing a few stumps that looked similar. I thought it was just me—just the forest, playing tricks. I figured I was walking in circles."

Telemachus' gaze sharpened.

His silence pressed against you, thick and expectant, as if waiting for you to realize something you hadn't yet put into words.

Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting together. "But I wasn't... was I?"

He inhaled slowly, eyes dark, unreadable.

"You weren't just lost," he murmured, an edge of wariness that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. "You were being led."

"Led?" you repeated, hesitant, the word tasting wrong on your tongue.

Telemachus nostrils flared as his eyes swept the darkening woods around you. "That's how they hunt," he said, voice low, measured. He nodded toward the fox, though he never took his eyes off you. "They don't chase. They don't lunge or tear through the underbrush. They guide. They trick."

A prickle skated down your spine.

"Who?" you asked, throat tightening.

"The Askálion."

The name itself felt old, weighted with something that did not belong in the mortal realm.

"It's a beast of Ithaca," he continued, his tone clipped, factual, but his shoulders had stiffened, his grip now fully wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. "Hunters whisper about them, but we never speak their name in the open. Even the most seasoned men don't travel alone in the forests after dark."

You swallowed thickly, glancing down at the small, unassuming fox in your lap. The warm weight of it, the gentle flick of its tail against your skin, felt at complete odds with the dread coiling in your gut.

"You said you kept walking past the same stump," Telemachus pressed. "You never thought to turn back?"

"I did," you admitted, suddenly unsure. "At least, I thought I did. The trees all looked the same, so I figured I was just... confused."

His expression darkened.

"You weren't confused." His voice was taut. "You were being drawn in. The Askálion leads you deeper, warping your path so you think you're lost when in truth, you're exactly where it wants you to be."

A sick, twisting feeling clawed its way up your chest.

"And when that happens?" you asked, dreading the answer.

Telemachus exhaled, slow and steady, his features hard. "They wait. They wait until you've exhausted yourself, until you've gone in circles so many times that the moment you realize something is wrong—" his voice dipped, grim, "it's already too late."

The fox pressed tighter against you, its warmth nearly pleasant. Nearly.

"How... do you know all this?" you asked, a faint, wavering edge to your voice.

Telemachus' lips pressed into a thin line. "Because I've seen what's left."

Something cold crawled down your spine.

"Hunters have found bodies before," he went on, his tone even but weighted. "Not many, but enough to know the signs." His gaze flicked to the fox in your lap, then back to you. "The Askálion doesn't kill like a wolf or a lion. It doesn't maul. It doesn't rip. It... plays."

You stared at him, at the way the muscles in his jaw shifted, at the way his grip never left his blade.

"They don't just find the bodies," he murmured, voice quieter now. "They find pieces. Scattered across the ground like broken offerings. Strips of flesh caught on branches, the bones gnawed clean. Whatever it doesn't eat, it leaves behind."

Your stomach twisted violently.

You couldn't stop yourself. You looked down at the fox.

It gazed up at you with those same wide, patient eyes. Innocent. Trusting.

And yet—

A vision slammed into your mind unbidden—blood-streaked earth, limbs bent at unnatural angles, a mouth frozen in an eternal scream. A figure who had once been a person now reduced to nothing more than scraps for the soil, their existence erased with nothing but claw marks in the dirt and gnawed bones in the trees.

A complete and utter ruin.

"It should've eaten you by now."

The words barely registered at first.

When they did, they struck like ice poured straight down your back.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale, mind suddenly racing back over every step you had taken in the last hour, retracing the eerie, endless loop of trees and stumps and more trees—until you had stopped.

Until you had met the fox.

Swallowing thickly, you sent an internal prayer to Apollo, barely registering the movement of your own fingers clutching the fabric of your skirt. Protection, favor, fate—whatever it is, whatever you've given me—please, just let it hold.

But the fox 

Forcing a wobbling smile, you turned back to the fox, who had settled against your leg, blinking up at you with those same eerily intelligent eyes.

It didn't move, didn't shift, didn't tense, didn't so much as twitch an ear. It only watched.

Slowly, carefully, you forced yourself to lift your hand, pressing one final, bland pat on the creature's head. "Well, that's... unsettling," you murmured, voice weaker than you wanted it to be.

Before you could gather your wits, a sharp, distant sound carried through the trees—the telltale calls of hunting hounds, the rustling of underbrush as the hunting party moved closer.

Your stomach dropped.

Your thoughts immediately jumped to the fox's unusual coat—too dark, too striking, too unnatural to go unnoticed. A hunter's prize.

The fox's ears twitched at the sound, but it didn't move, merely pressing itself closer to you.

"Go," you whispered, patting its head with slightly more force, urging it to leave. But it didn't move. Instead, it nudged your knee, its cool nose brushing against your skin as if it didn't understand the danger.

Panic flared in your chest.

"Go!" you hissed more urgently, glancing over your shoulder at the distant sound of barking. Why wasn't it leaving?

You heard Telemachus sigh.

"I'll take care of it," he muttered, already turning on his heel. "Stay here."

"Wait, where are you—?"

But he was already jogging away, shaking his head, his tone laced with disbelief.

"Only you," he muttered under his breath. "Only you would get lost in the woods and come across a legend only to end up scratching it behind the ears."

You watched as he disappeared into the woods, weaving between the trees with an easy grace, his strides long and purposeful.

You turned back to the fox, your heart thudding anxiously.

"Please," you whispered, trying again, gently nudging it with your knee. "Just leave. Before they see you."

But the fox only tilted its head, eyes glowing faintly in the dimming light. Then, to your growing horror, it pawed at your leg, making a low, insistent chuffing noise.

Your eye twitched. "You've got to be joking."

The fox merely pressed closer.

You groaned under your breath, running a hand down your face.

About ten minutes later, you heard familiar footsteps approaching.

You spun around just as Telemachus broke through the trees, panting slightly.

"They won't be anywhere near here for a while," he assured you, breathing a little heavier than usual. "Sent them on the long route to the watering hole—figured it was safer for everyone involved."

You exhaled in relief. "So they won't find it?"

"No," he confirmed, stepping closer, but his lips twitched slightly. "Though I'd say that's more for their safety than its."

You opened your mouth to respond—only for the fox to paw at your leg again.

Teeth gritted, you slowly looked down at it, your patience hanging by a thread.

Telemachus, seeing this, snorted.

"Looks like it likes you," he observed dryly, a small, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You glared at him. "Oh, hush."

He only chuckled before jerking his head toward the path. "Come on, I know a shortcut."

With one last wary glance at the fox, you sighed and followed him into the trees.

A/N: i swear i love adding easter eggs for future books, it's my fav pastime fr; but enough about that....WTF FKVDKNIJA i literally just had to recover from having 2 books reach 100k views on here but now i got 1k followers!?!?!??!  ahh my spirit and soul is literally ascending rn 😩😭😭😭 ahh this just makes me so hyped for all the things i got ready; and just understand if one fic doesnt really meet your expectation/go like you want, i promise i have another right up your ally im working on (i wasnt planning on spilling the beans so soon but i have a more fast-paced romance/fanservicy book coming out in epic!au; this book started out like it but i got so into storytelling i just took all my straight up crack-fic level fanservice and shifted it to a new project, all i ask i plz be patient... also, just wanted to add... THIS BOOK IS GETTTING FANART AKSJDS y'all i've gotten so  amazing many pics/drawings i can scream (i'll attached a few of them with credits if i can)---like im such a nerd but i get so excited at the thought/knowing my works insipired someone to draw 😭😭😭 (inner-failed-artist is dying rn) i swear y'all make me wanna learn how to draw, but then i try and just end up with stick figures/interpertive like drawings, so imma just stick to writing books 💀😅

here's some of  @Xyxxeviya works (@alucardswifeyy on tumblr) (i absolutely love the softeness portrayed in telemachus---like plz when technology advances to turn 2d into 3d imma have to use this as reference 😭❤️)

and how mc look to him/admiring mc

here's fvckcare design for the mc (the hair, the lyre, the dress---i need a moment...)

LIKE CAN YOU BLAME TELEMACHUS---HELL ANYONE FOR REACTING WHEN MC IS A LITERAL GODDESS!?!?!

if this is what i'm getting from this fic alone, i can't wait to see what imma get for the next ones 😭😭😭 (*me running to go dedicate a folder in all google accounts to save them*)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive