winxanity-ii

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: THE SMILE BEFORE THE STRIKE DIVINE WHISPERS: The Smile Before The Strike | divine whispers: the smile before the strike⌟

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Telemachus didn't realize he was smiling until the cool air of the corridor hit his face.

He exhaled, long and slow, his back resting briefly against the wall outside your room. A shaky breath followed.

His heart was still fluttering—uneven and distracted—and his ears were tinged with warmth. It was almost funny, how rattled he was, how giddy. He looked dazed, not from battle or bloodshed, but from the way your voice had softened when you spoke, the way your fingers had curled at your sides as you flustered yourself into silence.

You'd been the one who'd started it—teasing, flirtatious, sharper than he'd expected—but the second he gave it back, just a little, you were done for. He couldn't help but laugh under his breath, the sound low and light.

Gods, you're ridiculous. Sweet, though. Sweet in a way that crept under his skin and nestled there, snug and stubborn.

And he hoped it never stopped.

He peeled himself away from the wall, running a hand through his hair as he walked toward his chambers, still caught in that quiet haze. He was already imagining what might happen next—if you'd look at him the same way during dinner, if you'd fluster again, if—

"Prince Telemachus!"

The voice snapped the moment like glass.

He turned, startled, and found a servant rushing toward him, panting, his tunic half-untucked and face flushed from exertion.

"Your father and mother—they've summoned you. Both of them. They're in the study."

The soft hum inside him shifted immediately.

He nodded once, sharply. "Understood."

There was no need for further questions, but still—both of them, at this hour? Something was off.

As he followed the servant through the twisting halls, his earlier lightness began to fade, piece by piece.

That sweet, dizzy warmth that had wrapped around him like a second skin began to peel back, replaced by the slow click of instinct setting in. The weight of his station, his name, his blood—it all resurfaced with every step.

The soft promise of earlier—the brush of your voice, the weight of his name on your mouth—lingered still, like perfume on his collar.

But as the door to the royal study drew near, so too did reality, cold and waiting.

Telemachus paused just outside it, his fingers grazing the carved edge of the doorframe. The warmth from before—your soft giggles, the heat of your breath against his mouth, the quiet tremble of your shoulders when he leaned too close—hadn't left his chest yet. It still lingered in his bones, stubborn and golden, like sun caught behind the ribs.

He didn't want to let it go.

But the moment the heavy doors creaked open, the shift was immediate.

The air in the study felt different—tight. Tense. Not angry, not heavy with punishment... just still. Expectant.

The lamps had been dimmed save for the one on Penelope's side of the desk, casting a long glow over her embroidery and the stack of unopened letters beside her.

Odysseus stood by the hearth, arms folded, eyes trained on the fire—but his shoulders were too stiff for it to be casual.

Penelope sat upright, her back straight and her hands resting neatly in her lap. Her gaze followed him the moment he entered.

Telemachus swallowed thickly.

He stepped forward without being asked, pulling out the same chair he always used for formal discussions. The scrape of it across the stone felt louder than it should've. He eased down into the seat, eyes flicking between them.

Whatever this was, it wasn't casual.

"You called for me?" he asked, voice steady. Almost.

Odysseus turned first. His tone was calm, but it had that slow edge to it—the one that usually meant he was building toward something. "Have you learned anything from her lately?"

Telemachus blinked. "From...?"

"____," Odysseus clarified, glancing now toward his wife.

Telemachus sat up straighter. "No? I mean, not really. Why would you assume I did?"

"Because," Penelope cut in smoothly, one brow arched, "as if you have the restraint not to see her."

Her voice was teasing, light in a way that only mothers could pull off while still being deeply exasperated. The tension cracked, just slightly, enough for the air to breathe again.

"I—what? I haven't—That's not—I was in my room," Telemachus stammered, heat climbing up the back of his neck. Then, realizing how weak the defense sounded, he slumped slightly. "...Alright. I saw her. Once. Briefly."

Penelope hummed knowingly, reaching for the embroidery hoop beside her. She didn't even lift her gaze. "Mm. Briefly."

Odysseus didn't smile, but the tightness in his brow relaxed, just a little.

Telemachus sighed and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Why? What's this about?"

The question hung there—genuine, confused. Whatever haze had wrapped itself around him moments before was slipping away fast. The way they were both looking at him now... it wasn't teasing anymore.

Something had shifted again.

And he could feel it.

Penelope's hands stilled on the thread. Odysseus turned fully toward him, expression shadowed by the firelight.

But it wasn't Odysseus who spoke.

It was Penelope.

"She told me what happened," she said softly—though her voice was anything but gentle. "About that day. About the alley. About how she was alone."

Telemachus stiffened.

His mother didn't raise her eyes immediately. She simply reached forward and picked up the small bowl of thread at her side—then set it back down again. Slowly. Carefully. Like she needed something to do with her hands to keep from shaking.

"Lady Andreia left her," she said. "Left her alone. Sent her back for a brooch. In the middle of a street she didn't recognize. In a district she hadn't walked in since childhood."

Now she looked up.

And her eyes were cold.

Not hurt.

Not scared.

Cold.

"I should've known," Penelope whispered. "I should've known something was wrong the moment that girl walked in here with a split lip and a story too clean. A little cut and some crocodile tears. And all this time, we were the ones comforting her. Opening our halls. Letting her mourn in peace."

Her voice sharpened, each word cutting through the air like broken glass.

"She wore my linens. Sat at my table. Took your hand, Telemachus, and paraded through our streets as if she belonged here—while the girl this kingdom chose bled alone in the dirt."

Odysseus moved then.

He didn't speak—only crossed the room and gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

Penelope froze for a moment... then closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. She tilted slightly into his touch, just enough for the tension in her shoulders to soften. Her voice, when it returned, was quieter. Apologetic.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to lose my temper."

But Telemachus was already standing.

"No," he said, his voice a low hiss. "Don't apologize."

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling.

"I knew she had something to do with it," he snapped, pacing once across the room like the motion might burn off the fury curling tight in his gut. "I knew something was off—she's always smiling when she shouldn't be, always watching her like she's prey. And now—"

"Telemachus," Odysseus said calmly. "Listen to me."

"No!" he growled, spinning toward them. "If she hadn't left—if she hadn't wandered off or pretended to forget that brooch—then ____ wouldn't have been alone! She wouldn't have—"

His voice cracked. Just slightly.

Odysseus held his ground, voice steady. "I understand how you feel. I do. But going in headfirst won't fix this."

"Then what will?" Telemachus snapped, his eyes burning. "Tell me, father. Because I've been patient. I've been diplomatic. I've watched that girl slink around this palace like it's hers, all while acting like she didn't send the person I love straight into a knife."

His voice dropped to a whisper. Raw. Ragged.

"____ died."

The silence that followed was thick. Hot. Charged.

Penelope's eyes glistened in the firelight, her fingers twisting tightly around the edge of her shawl. She stared at the flames for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice low but steady.

"It's getting... concerning," she said. "The way Andreia looks at her. It's not just ambition anymore. It's... envy."

Telemachus' jaw tightened.

"Then she shouldn't be here," he said coldly. "She's overstayed her welcome."

Penelope looked up.

Telemachus didn't falter.

"They've already collected Andros. Had his body blessed and sent back home with a whole Brontean escort. She's done what she came here to do." He crossed his arms, his voice growing sharp with each word. "So let her go. Let her lie to her parents if she wants—I don't care. She can spin whatever story she wants about her stay. But I want her gone."

The room went quiet.

Even the fire in the hearth seemed to still.

Across from him, Odysseus stood tall, his shoulders squared, face unreadable in the flickering light. His expression smoothed into something calm, but far too serious.

"You're upset right now," the king said plainly. "And rightly so. But go clear your head. When you're ready to talk about actual strategies—ones that won't cause a political wildfire—you come back here."

Telemachus opened his mouth to argue, but Odysseus raised a hand.

"You want her gone? Good. So do I. But if we do it the wrong way, we make enemies. And that means you don't get to protect the girl you love." His voice lowered. "Think like a king, not a boy in love. Don't give her more weapons, my son. Not until you have enough armor."

A pause.

"And as for her guard..." His gaze darkened just slightly. "Clearly, someone lied. And it led to our Liaison being left alone in a vulnerable alley. You can have him questioned—thoroughly. If he broke protocol... deliver the punishment."

Telemachus didn't speak.

His face twitched once, something bitter moving across it, before he rolled his eyes with a scoff.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice low and clipped.

He turned sharply on his heel, the folds of his tunic brushing past the edge of a chair as he left the study. The door swung closed behind him, not quite a slam—but not gentle either.

The silence returned.

Penelope stared at the closed door for a moment longer, lips pressed into a thin line.

"...He's right, Ody..." she whispered. "Andreia can't stay here much longer. It's not safe. Not for ____."

Odysseus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I know," he said. "But one of us has to stay level-headed."

He looked toward the fire again.

"And I suppose that means me."

☆

☆

Time had slipped.

The torches lining the lower halls burned low now, their flames sputtering against the cool stone as if exhausted from watching.

Telemachus stepped out of the dungeon with a slow, deliberate breath, his bloodied knuckles wrapped in a spare strip of linen—one offered wordlessly by the trembling servant trailing behind him.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

The silence said enough.

His body still buzzed faintly with the aftermath of fury—residual sparks twitching in his fingers, buried in the curve of his spine—but the storm had passed. Mostly. What remained wasn't rage. It was a low, simmering weight, pulsing somewhere behind his ribs.

It wasn't satisfying.

Not really.

But it had quieted something in him.

His boots echoed across the stone with each step, the rhythm steady, practiced. Not like before—when he stormed through the palace like something wild. Now he walked like a prince again. Composed. Contained.

Almost.

He lifted his hand briefly, examining the cloth wrapped tightly around his fingers. Beneath it, his knuckles throbbed. He'd split the skin again. Maybe worse. He hadn't checked. Not when each swing felt like proof that someone—anyone—was finally being held responsible.

The guard hadn't cried out. Not much, anyway.

But he had confessed.

Eventually.

"You knew she was alone," Telemachus had hissed between blows, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. "You knew she left. You were her protection."

The guard, beaten, gasping, bruises already blooming purple across his cheek, had finally cracked. Shaky words had spilled from his lips in pieces, coughed up between swollen breaths.

He had known.

You were told to fetch the brooch Andreia left behind.

And the moment you were out of sight—the moment you rounded that corner—Andreia had turned to him and waved him off.

"Let's not wait," she'd said. "She'll catch up."

A direct order.

And so, the guard left.

Abandoned his post. Left you alone.

That detail—that part—had been the breaking point.

Because in Telemachus' eyes, that wasn't just a mistake.

It was complicity.

"You could've stopped her," Telemachus growled after the third punch. "You could've refused. You were the sword at her back. And instead, you chose comfort. You chose obedience."

The guard didn't argue. Didn't try.

He just wept—quiet and broken.

And Telemachus had walked away after that.

Not satisfied.

But... less empty.

Now, as he emerged into the main corridor, the shadows peeled away from him in slow, reluctant folds.

The servant at his back swallowed nervously, still keeping his distance. He didn't dare speak. Not with the way the prince's shoulders moved—rigid but calm. The kind of calm that meant danger hadn't vanished... only settled.

Telemachus paused briefly at a basin near one of the side corridors. He dipped his hands into the cool water, wincing slightly as the sting hit the torn flesh. Blood clouded the bowl quickly, curling in lazy spirals beneath the surface.

He watched it disappear, the red fading into pale pink.

Gone.

Like it had never been there at all.

"She could've died," he whispered to himself. Not for the first time.

His jaw clenched.

"She did die."

And the gods brought her back.

But that didn't erase what had been taken. It didn't uncarve the scar on your lip. Didn't undo the silence in your eyes. Didn't change the fact that you'd bled, alone and afraid, in an alley where no one came.

Because someone didn't stay.

Because someone lied.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, blinking water from his lashes. His reflection stared back at him from the rippling bowl—eyes sunken, cheekbone bruised from the dungeon's edge, lips tight.

"She deserved better," he said quietly.

He didn't mean the guard.

He meant all of it.

And he meant to make sure it didn't happen again.

With one last pass of his bloodstained hand across his mouth, Telemachus turned away from the basin.

He had more than bruises to answer for.

He had decisions to make.

And the Bronte princess?

She wasn't going to like them.

Telemachus rounded the corner with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who'd spent the last hour cracking bone and swallowing fury like seawater. His hands stung with every twitch, and his shoulder ached from where he'd braced against the dungeon wall. But he didn't stop.

Not until a voice—small, hesitant—sputtered behind him.

"P-Prince Telemachus?"

He paused mid-step. His shoulders tensed, brow twitching just slightly as he turned halfway. "Speak up."

The servant who had followed him—barely more than a boy, all wiry limbs and wide-set shoulders—straightened like a startled deer.

He looked like he'd been working since before dawn, his tunic wrinkled, collar damp with sweat. His skin was a deep umber-brown, sun-warmed and smooth, and his honey-brown eyes flicked up nervously beneath the thick lashes that shadowed them.

Telemachus blinked in recognition. "You're Nurse Eurycleia's new help, aren't you?"

The boy flinched, then nodded quickly, clearly both flattered and terrified to be known. "Yes, Your Highness. M-My name's Theron."

"Theron," Telemachus repeated, rolling the name over his tongue. He nodded, jaw relaxing slightly. "Alright. Go on."

Theron swallowed hard, then cleared his throat again, squaring his shoulders. "I—I only meant to say... forgive the interruption, my prince, I didn't mean to intrude during your visit to the cells, I know you were very busy, but I was sent by the physicians to—"

"Theron," Telemachus interrupted gently. His tone was patient, amused now, the sharpness in him softening. "Just speak. I don't bite."

The boy flushed and nodded quickly. "They—they just wanted to update you on her condition. The Divine Liaison. They said she's doing... very well, actually." He fiddled with the edge of his tunic. "The wounds have scarred nicely. And they think—with a few more weeks of proper bedrest and careful pacing—she should be... she should be back to full strength."

Telemachus stopped walking altogether.

For a second, the weight in his chest eased. Just a little.

A quiet breath slipped from his nose, and one corner of his mouth twitched into something fond. "She's not going to like that."

Theron blinked. "Sir?"

"The bedrest," Telemachus said, lips curving further into a smile now. "She's already itching to run across the gardens again. The gods help anyone who tries to keep her inside that room past next week."

Theron chuckled under his breath, his posture easing. "I did see her throw a pillow at one of the Bronte servants last time he reminded her not to lift anything."

Telemachus barked a laugh at that, the sound low and rough but real. The tension in the hallway cracked a bit, warmth seeping in like late morning sun.

They walked a few more paces in companionable quiet before Theron glanced sideways.

"You should be careful too, you know," he said, his tone shy but sincere. "You reopened your wounds last week, didn't you? Your hand looks worse."

Telemachus raised a brow. "Spying on me, are you?"

Theron flushed. "N-No! I mean—Eurycleia scolded me for not bringing enough bandages to the training yard, so I noticed you... wincing. Just a little."

The prince smirked, his lip quirking higher. "Caught."

"Seriously, Ypur Highness," Theron said, brow furrowed. "Who's going to teach me to fight when I become a soldier if you keep breaking yourself on the guards and the dungeon walls?"

Telemachus' smile lingered. "You think I'd trust you to fight like me?"

Theron gave a small, sheepish shrug. "I'm fast."

"Hm, we'll see." Telemachus said, rubbing his wrapped hand with a faint wince. "Alright. No more re-breaking anything. This was the last time."

"You promise?"

Telemachus looked at him, then held up his wounded hand with a crooked grin. "On this poor, abused thing."

Theron snorted despite himself.

The halls ahead stretched empty and calm, torchlight pooling across the floor in long ribbons of orange-gold. And for the first time in hours, Telemachus let himself relax just enough to feel it.

The quiet relief of good news.

You were healing.

And soon—you'd be well enough to sing again, walk again, argue with him again.

And when that day came?

He'd be there.

Right beside you.

The warmth of that thought was still curling in his chest when his steps faltered.

Just up ahead—half-drenched in the silver gleam of moonlight and the flicker of a nearby torch—walked Andreia.

The Bronte princess moved slowly, deliberately, her slippered feet gliding across the marble as if the entire corridor were hers. She wore a pale nightgown, sheer at the sleeves, belted loosely in the middle with a silken sash.

Her handmaidens flanked her, speaking in hushed tones, their words fading in and out like the tide. They moved like a procession—quiet, careful, eerie in the way shadows draped over them with every step.

The moonlight filtered through the tall palace windows, dappling Andreia's auburn hair with pale shimmer. It caught the sharp line of her jaw, glinted against the fine chain around her neck. With every sway of her hips, her gown shimmered like water—too delicate, too clean.

Too untouched by consequence.

And it made Telemachus' blood boil.

His jaw clenched. His knuckles, still sore from the dungeon, ached as his fists curled tight again. Every part of him screamed to act—to raise his voice, to step forward, to spit the truth into her face.

She left you.

She lied.

She's the reason you bled.

But he didn't.

He remembered his father's warning.

"Don't give her more weapons, my son. Not until you have enough armor."

So he stood there, breathing slow through his nose, letting the rage crawl back down where it belonged.

Telemachus let his eyes drop to the side—Theron, who had paused just behind him, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Go get some rest," the prince said quietly. His voice came low and tired, but steady. "You've done enough today."

Theron blinked. "But—"

Telemachus glanced down, a thread of warmth threading through the heat in his chest. "Thank you, Theron. Truly."

The boy looked like he didn't quite know what to do with the praise. But he nodded, then stepped back into the shadows of the corridor, his sandals whispering over the stone as he retreated.

A moment later, Telemachus heard him murmur it—soft, but genuine.

"Goodnight, my prince."

Telemachus didn't answer.

His eyes had already fixed back on Andreia's figure—just as she turned the far corner, laughter floating faint and airy behind her. The echo of it slid down the hallway like perfume—sweet, artificial, and far too strong.

He took a breath.

Then he followed.

Not because he wanted to speak.

But because it was time she knew:

He was done playing games.

And he wasn't afraid to let her see the cost of what she'd done.

Telemachus followed at a distance.

Far enough to avoid suspicion. Close enough to strike.

His footsteps echoed softly over the marble floor, measured and calm, but his jaw stayed clenched the entire way. He watched her closely—how her handmaids fluttering around her like docile birds. One adjusted the back of her gown. Another whispered something at her side, and Andreia laughed—a soft, breathy thing that made Telemachus' stomach twist.

They reached the end of the hall, just as she was about to turn the corner leading into the Brontean wing.

That's when he called her name.

"Lady Andreia."

His voice was low. Pleasant. Polished.

And it made his skin crawl.

Andreia halted mid-step. Her handmaidens turned first, blinking wide-eyed before whispering to one another in thinly veiled delight.

"O-Oh—he addressed her," one tittered behind a palm. "Men never seek someone out this late unless—"

Andreia turned, graceful and slow, like she'd been waiting for this moment all evening. The torchlight curved around her face, casting her expression in warm gold and long shadow. Her eyes sparkled faintly beneath thick lashes.

"My prince," she greeted, soft and sweet. "What can I do for you... at such an hour?"

Telemachus came to a stop a few feet from her.

Close, but not too close.

He smiled—gods, he smiled—and it nearly broke something inside him to do it. His lips curved smoothly, charming and composed, the way he'd been taught since boyhood. But inside, his stomach churned. His throat burned with the words he couldn't say. Not yet.

Not here.

His gaze flicked to the handmaidens—still lingering, still watching—and then back to her.

Telemachus kept smiling.

Smooth. Polished. Like the prince he was bred to be.

"I was just on my way to my chambers," he said, voice light, easy. "But I heard your voice, and... well, I figured it might be good to come by. Offer a quick update."

Andreia blinked. "An update?"

"Mhm." He nodded, clasping his hands neatly behind his back. "On the investigation."

That one word made the air shift.

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her lashes lowering. "Investigation?" she echoed, her tone careful—pleasant, even—but something in her posture stiffened.

Telemachus raised his brows innocently. "You haven't heard?" he asked. "None of your servants have mentioned it? About the guard who was with you that day?"

She said nothing. Not at first.

So Telemachus pressed on.

"The one who accompanied you and ____. During the—" He hesitated just long enough for it to sting. "—incident with Melanion."

Andreia's lips parted, but still she didn't speak.

He watched her closely.

Patient.

Enjoying the moment she realized he wasn't there to make polite conversation.

Telemachus took a slow step forward, his smile never wavering. "He came forward," he continued softly. "Admitted the three of you were not attacked together. Said you and he were not present when it happened. That you'd ordered him to follow you elsewhere."

Silence.

Andreia's handmaidens shifted awkwardly. One bit her lip. The other looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

But the princess...

She stilled.

Just for a breath.

Long enough for him to see it—panic, quick and sharp—before she pulled herself together like silk being smoothed flat beneath a palm.

"Oh," she said lightly, brows lifting. "I suppose I'd... forgotten about that."

Telemachus said nothing. Just stared.

Andreia smiled.

Delicate. Innocent.

"Forgive me," she went on, lifting her hand as if to brush the conversation aside. "It was such a whirlwind of a day. After the brooch was left behind, I assumed ____ would be alright—she said so herself. I only asked my guard to escort me back because I had a prior engagement with your mother, and I didn't wish to be late."

Her voice softened just the right amount. "I never thought—never imagined—she would be harmed. Gods, if I had known..."

She trailed off, her lashes fluttering as she cast her gaze to the floor. A picture of regret.

Then—quietly—she looked back up, her tone sweet with just a touch of wounded pride. "It wasn't my intention to leave her unguarded."

Telemachus said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Because her mask had slipped—if only for a second—and he'd seen what lived behind it.

Still, Andreia stepped forward slightly, her hands folding delicately in front of her. "I understand if you're upset. But I do hope you know I meant no harm."

Telemachus studied her.

And smiled again.

Wider this time.

Too wide.

"Of course, my lady," he murmured.

And something cold curled beneath the words.

Telemachus' jaw tightened.

Not enough to show. Just enough to feel.

He could hear the faint grind of his teeth behind the calm expression he wore—one that no longer felt like a mask but like a blade. Because gods, how had he not seen it sooner? How had he let himself believe the smile, the soft voice, the apologies?

He should've known better.

He did know better... now.

Still, he didn't let the tension reach his voice.

"Regardless," he said smoothly, "I thought it only right you be informed of your guard's current condition."

Andreia blinked. "Condition?"

He nodded once. "Yes. After hearing his full report and weighing the extent of his failure... I deemed it necessary he face punishment."

Andreia's lips parted slightly, her brows lifting just a little too high. "Punishment?" she echoed. There was something behind the word now—thinly veiled disbelief.

He smiled. "A soldier who abandons his post—no matter the excuse—is no use to me. To this palace."

Her gaze sharpened, the illusion of sweetness beginning to fray. "Abandons?" she repeated, a touch louder now. "Forgive me, but I instructed him to come with me. He was obeying a direct order."

"A direct order from a visiting noble," Telemachus said, voice still calm, "does not supersede the safety of someone in his charge. Especially not one bearing divine favor."

Andreia's mouth twitched. "So you've decided to brutalize my guard? Over what? Miscommunication?"

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. "Over negligence," he said. "And cowardice."

Her eyes flashed. "You overstep."

He stepped forward.

Just one pace.

But it was enough that her handmaids stiffened behind her, their eyes wide and uncertain as the prince of Ithaca closed the distance—not as a suitor, not as an ally, but as something colder. Sharper.

"No... You overestimated your place," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "And now learning what that costs."

Andreia opened her mouth—but the words died on her tongue.

Telemachus let the silence stretch between them like a wire.

And then he smiled again.

Not warm. Not even cruel.

Just final.

"Fortunately," he said, stepping back with the grace of someone who had already won, "everything's been handled."

He turned from her then, and walked back down the corridor—leisurely, confidently, as if the entire exchange had taken no more effort than brushing lint from his sleeve.

Just before he rounded the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder. Not enough to meet her eyes—just enough to remind her he could.

"Rest well," he said softly. "Lady Andreia."

And then he vanished into the dark, the torchlight catching only the faint glint of his teeth as he smiled once more.

A predator who no longer had to chase.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.43 ┃ 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭;  lolo i had to update this part it's criminal not to! kay about to go sleep (*read stay up and binge derry girls*)

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[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 43 Chapter 43 | if it counts, prove it⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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A week passed.

And in that week, you learned that bedrest was its own kind of punishment.

At first, there had been pain. Dull, deep aches that throbbed under the surface of every breath. Your side burned if you twisted too far, and your limbs trembled like they hadn't been used in years. But that passed quickly—at least, you thought it did. The healers insisted otherwise.

"Rest," they said, pressing gentle hands to your shoulders when you tried to sit up. "The gods gave you a second chance. Don't waste it by tearing yourself open again."

So you stayed.

Stayed and stared at the ceiling. Watched dust motes swirl in the light. Counted the cracks in the corner stone.

The walls became smaller with each passing day. The soft sheets, once a comfort, turned suffocating. The light from the window too warm. Too golden.

You weren't sure when the sun started annoying you, but it did.

Lady, bless her, was your one steady companion. She rarely left your side, curling along your hip or nudging your palm when your eyes turned too distant.

Sometimes, you whispered secrets into her fur when the silence got too loud. Rubbed her ears when the heaviness threatened to crawl back in. She'd tilt her head, tail flicking gently, like she understood every word, and it made you feel less alone.

The others visited when they could.

Callias, with gossip he'd recently picked up from the guards. Kieran, with a few sweets he'd swiped from the kitchen. Asta, full of gruff concern hidden beneath dry remarks, with a new book in hand for the two of you to read. Lysandra, soft-voiced and careful, like she was still afraid you might vanish again if she blinked too long.

Even the king and queen, dropping by to spend just enough time to have tea.

Telemachus hadn't come.

But you didn't ask.

You didn't want to know what might be keeping him.

You told yourself you were fine.

You were alive. That should've been enough.

Except... you were bored out of your mind.

Every heartbeat felt like a countdown. Every hour became a reminder that life continued out there—without you.

So when the healers finally cleared you to get up and stretch your legs, you didn't even wait for a full explanation. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the stiffness in your knees, and muttered, "I've been fine since day three."

A snort came from the door.

Callias stood there with a grin stretched across his face, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he'd been waiting for this very moment.

"Gods, you're predictable," he said. "Told them you'd try and bolt the second you could stand."

"I'm not bolting," you said, standing carefully. "I'm walking."

"Mmhm." He stepped into the room, followed by Asta and Lysandra. "Welp, let's get a move on."

And before you could protest, all three of them were surrounding you. Callias took your arm like it was a dance escort. Asta steadied your back with one hand, while Lysandra trailed ahead with Lady bounding at her heels.

The walk wasn't far. Just down one hall. A turn.

Two more guards standing at attention.

And then—another hall.

"...What is this?" you asked, suspicion prickling your skin.

"You'll see," Lysandra said, her tone light, though there was a small sparkle in her eye.

Another turn.

Your steps slowed.

It was brighter here. Warmer.

Polished floors. Richer tapestries. Fresher flowers in the wall sconces.

This was the royal wing.

You paused just before the threshold, staring at the ornate door. It wasn't massive or gilded, but it was... nice.

Soft blue paint. Carved trim. A fresh bouquet of lilies sitting in a vase near the entry.

"This isn't—" You turned, confused. "My room's on the west side."

Callias grinned like a cat in the sun. "Was."

Asta folded her arms, clearly enjoying this. "Turns out royal favors mean something."

"Especially when you almost die because of the kingdom," Lysandra added, smile warm.

You stood there dumbly. "So I'm... here now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We wanted to see your face," Callias said honestly.

"I—I mean, I don't need to be here—"

"You're right around the corner from the prince's room," Asta added, just to be cruel.

"Asta!"

"What? She was gonna find out eventually."

Callias snorted. "Probably by tonight, especially with the way he's been hovering."

You felt the flush bloom all the way down your neck, hands twitching at your sides. Your breath caught somewhere between flustered and stunned.

But beneath the heat in your face, there was something else.

Something small and warm and real.

Happiness.

Because this—this meant something.

You mattered.

Here.

To them.

To him.

Your hand brushed the edge of the door.

And stepped inside.

The light hit you like a wave.

You blinked. Blinked again.

The room was—gods. It was bright. The kind of brightness that didn't just fill a space, but warmed it.

The entire far wall was windows—tall and open, trimmed in pale marble, letting in ribbons of sunlight that made the floor glow. Soft blue curtains were pulled wide to the sides, and beyond them—

The sea.

It stretched out like a dream. Deep and endless, sparkling gold where the sun kissed the waves. You could see the curve of the bay from here, the cliffs trailing down into soft sand and darker rocks.

A gentle breeze lifted through the open panes and swept over your skin like silk, cool and fresh and laced with salt.

There was a balcony—wide, stone-railed, and arched just enough to step onto and lean. A small table sat tucked beside it, already holding a shallow bowl of fruit and a glass pitcher of chilled water.

Your mouth parted.

Because the further you stepped in—

This room could've fit six of your old ones. At least.

The ceilings were high and painted in pale golds and creams—like dawn, you thought. The floor beneath your feet was polished stone, a mosaic of olive leaves and sunbursts tucked around the edges in a quiet halo.

The walls had been whitewashed but not left bare; soft frescoes framed the far corners, each one small and precise.

A lyre.

A sunbeam touching a scroll.

Laurel wreaths, scattered in delicate gold paint.

Apollo's marks. Yours.

Near the arched corner by the bath basin—where steam drifted slowly up from warm water that had clearly been drawn in anticipation—was a smaller motif. An owl. Tiny. Carved into the trim of the bathing table, just above the marble basin spout.

You stepped further in, your feet catching slightly on the edge of a thick woven rug in sea-glass blue and cream. It was soft. Softer than anything you'd ever stepped on barefoot.

And the bed.

Gods.

It was enormous.

A canopied frame rose in pale wood, hung with thin gauze-like curtains drawn back with golden ties. The sheets were blue—light, soft, ocean-colored. The pillows stacked neatly in pairs, a robe folded at the foot of the bed, the embroidery on the hem sparkling faintly in the sun.

Your old room had been practical. Cozy.

This felt like a shrine.

The vanity by the far wall held polished combs. There were fresh lilies in a bowl by the mirror. The scent in the air was lavender, honey, and sea air, all mixing into something faintly divine.

A proper bathing room was set behind a carved wooden door near the corner, where a copper tub sat half-sunk into a tiled platform. The edges were smooth and patterned with olive branches. Heated stones kept the water warm. There were towels folded beside it, and a basket filled with soaps, oils, and little glass vials you didn't even know the names for.

It was the kind of room people wrote about.

You were still standing in the doorway, trying to process all of it when Callias finally broke the silence with a low, reverent:

"Godsdamn."

You jumped slightly, blinking as the others stepped in behind you. Callias stared with wide eyes and an appreciative grin, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. "I knew they'd move you up," he said, voice filled with that same low awe, "but this? This is insane. Are you secretly engaged to royalty? Did I miss a scroll?"

Asta laughed behind him, pushing his shoulder. "Shut up. Look at her face."

Your face. Right.

Your hands twitched at your sides again, suddenly very aware of them. You glanced toward the bed again. Then the window. Then down at the sunlight streaming across your bare feet.

You couldn't stop the small sound that left your throat—half breath, half laugh. "I—I don't belong here."

Lysandra stepped in quietly behind you, Lady slipping in at her heels. The dog immediately circled the rug before plopping down in a warm patch of sun, as if she absolutely belonged here.

"Yes, you do," Lysandra said softly.

You turned to her, uncertain.

She smiled. "This room was chosen for you."

Callias rolled onto the bed dramatically, arms flung wide like he was claiming the entire mattress. "And it's the second closest to the prince's," he reminded with a wicked grin.

"Such a tragedy he's not here to witness this exact expression on your face," Asta muttered, smirking.

Your heart skipped a beat. Hard. Again.

But it was... exhilarating. The kind that made warmth creep up your throat and bloom behind your eyes. You stepped toward the balcony on instinct, needing to breathe, needing something to ground you—and when your hands found the smooth stone rail and you looked out again at that sea—

It hit you.

This was yours.

Not just the view.

Not just the room.

But this.

This life. This place in the palace. This quiet honor no one shouted about but still meant something.

The breeze curled through your fingers, warm and steady, and for the first time in a long time, your lungs felt full.

"I... I think I need to sit down," you whispered, breathless.

Callias popped up immediately, all mock-chivalry. "Milady, might I recommend the fainting chaise in the sunbeam near the fruit tray?"

You didn't hit him.

But only because you were too overwhelmed to move.

Luckily, Lysandra did it for you.

Without missing a beat, she reached over and smacked Callias on the shoulder—hard enough to make him grunt and nearly topple off the bed.

"Stop flopping like a fish," she muttered, voice mild but firm.

Callias clutched his chest dramatically. "Ow. Treason. Violence. I'm a guest."

"You're a pest," Asta cut in flatly, stepping between them like she was used to this exact routine. "And if you get blood or dust on her new sheets, I will toss you off the balcony."

"See? Violence again." Callias grinned, unfazed. "You two are obsessed with me."

"You're about two seconds from being removed from the room," Lysandra warned.

He opened his mouth to respond—probably with something that would've gotten him tackled—but Asta lifted a hand.

"Nope. Shush."

"Rude."

"Shhh."

They kept going like that, the bickering spilling into full-on background noise. Callias defending his honor. Lysandra rolling her eyes. Asta attempting some form of peacekeeping but failing spectacularly.

Lady, for her part, just stared up at them from her spot near the rug.

She let out a long, slow huff.

The canine equivalent of gods, get it together.

Then she turned, tail swishing lazily, and trotted across the room—her claws clicking softly on the polished floor—before leaping gracefully onto the bed like she'd already claimed it.

She curled into the pillows like royalty, sighed contentedly, and promptly ignored everyone.

You shook your head, a soft laugh slipping out despite yourself. The three of them were still arguing half-heartedly behind you, trading jabs and threats that didn't carry real heat.

And yet... somehow, it felt grounding.

Normal.

You turned back to the balcony.

Back to the sea.

The breeze brushed past your cheeks again, soft and salt-touched. The light danced along the water, glittering in every direction, and somewhere far off, you could hear gulls calling—faint, but clear.

You curled your fingers gently around the balcony rail.

Let the warmth of the stone sink into your palms.

And for the first time since returning from the brink of death...

Since the blood in the alley...

Since the darkness curled beneath your ribs and whispered that you weren't meant to survive...

You felt like maybe—just maybe—

You were allowed to take up space.

Not as the Divine Liaison.

Not as someone chosen or pitied or pitied again.

But just... as you.

Alive. Here.

In this room that smelled like sunlight and lavender.

With friends who bickered like siblings. An Askálion who picked pillows over people. A view you hadn't known how badly you needed until now.

And right around the corner... him.

Your heart didn't race when you thought it—it pulsed. Soft and steady. Something sure.

You closed your eyes.

And for a few long seconds, you let yourself feel full.

Like you belonged.

☆

☆

You stayed on the balcony longer than you meant to, fingers trailing along the smooth stone, eyes half-closed against the breeze.

The laughter from the others had faded inside—Callias had finally been dragged out (probably by force), and Asta had left with a parting warning about eating lunch or else.

Lysandra had lingered a little longer, adjusting the folds of your robe and smoothing the bed covers with that same gentle care she always showed when she thought no one was watching. When she finally left too, it was with a quiet "Rest well," and a smile you felt in your ribs.

And then you were alone.

Not lonely. Just... alone. With Lady curled in the center of your bed like a queen, paws tucked under her chin, eyes following you without lifting her head.

The hours passed slowly.

A few sunbeams shifted along the floor.

The smell of fresh bread wafted faintly in from a lower courtyard window, and soft lute music floated up from somewhere nearby.

You spent the time sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pillow tucked under your arms, trying to teach Lady a new trick.

"Okay," you murmured, holding out two fingers. "Two fingers means give me your paw."

Lady stared at your hand.

You held your breath.

She blinked, then yawned.

"Okay. Rude," you muttered, snorting. "One more time. Two fingers—paw. Two. Paw."

You pointed at her paw, then your hand.

She licked your thumb.

You fell back against the pillows with a groan. "Useless."

She barked once and wagged her tail like she'd won something anyway.

You were mid-repeat attempt—two fingers up, Lady's paw half-lifted—when the knock came.

A soft rap. Not urgent. Gentle.

You looked up, caught off guard.

Then came a voice. Not loud, not familiar, but polite and trained.

"Excuse me, Divine Liasion," a servant called from the other side. "There's someone here to see you."

You blinked.

Right. Servants. People announcing visitors now. That was still... new. Weird.

You scrambled up from the bed, brushing a few creases from your tunic as you padded toward the door barefoot. Lady hopped down after you, stretching once before trotting after.

"Who is it?" you called gently, your fingers reaching for the latch.

There was a small pause.

Then. "Lady Andreia."

You froze, just shy of the handle.

Your breath caught—not all the way, not painfully, but... noticeably.

You hadn't seen her since before the alley. Since before the brooch. Since everything.

And now she was here. At your door.

Your hand hovered.

Lady sat at your feet, her ears twitching, gaze flicking from the door to you and back again like she was waiting for your next move.

So were you.

You swallowed once, eyes darting around your new room—at the soft blue sheets, the open windows, the lingering scent of lemon balm and honeywater—and tried to quiet the sudden flutter in your chest.

She was here, and you had no idea why.

You stared at the door like it might blink first.

Your pulse ticked somewhere in your throat—not hard, but enough to notice. Enough to feel.

Then, quietly, you inhaled through your nose.

A slow breath.

Then stepped back.

"Let her in," you said, voice even. Barely.

You watched as the latch turned.

The door creaked open just enough for the servant to slip inside, skirts rustling as she dipped into a curtsy. She didn't speak again—just moved smoothly aside, holding the door open with a polished hand, her head bowed low in practiced etiquette.

And then—

Andreia entered.

Alone.

No guards. No attendants. No scent of rosewater perfume trailing behind silk-trimmed maids. Just her.

Her footsteps were soft against the polished stone—barely more than a whisper. She didn't wear her usual ornate cloak or heavy collar pins this time. Just a pale green dress, loose at the sleeves, tied gently at the waist with a ribbon that matched the thread at the hem. Simple. But still expensive.

Still royal.

Her hair wasn't pinned like usual either.

It fell in a thick braid down her back, red and shining. A few pieces had slipped loose near her temples, curling slightly from the salt in the air. You weren't sure if that had been on purpose.

She stepped in without a word at first, her posture straight but not stiff. You noticed how her hands stayed tucked in front of her, fingers interlaced loosely, like she wasn't sure what to do with them.

The sight of her—standing here, framed by the soft light of your room—made something bitter slide across your tongue. It tasted like cold metal. Like too-long silence.

But you smiled anyway.

The kind of smile that pulled against your cheeks, tight and too polite.

And then—your eyes caught on something else. Just beneath the flush of her lower lip, slightly off-center, there was a faint, healing cut.

You didn't know why, but it stuck with you.

You then dipped into a curtsy, low and proper, the motion slower than usual—your side still sore from moving too quickly.

"My lady," you said, careful. "How may I assist you?"

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, her eyes wandered.

She took in the space quietly—her gaze passing over the balcony, the soft linens, the little vase of lilies someone had refreshed just this morning. Her expression stayed flat. Blank. But not bored. Just... unreadable.

Then her eyes fell on Lady.

The beast who blinked up at her with a single twitch of her tail. Not bothered. Not impressed. Not moving.

Andreia's gaze lingered there a beat longer than everything else.

Just a beat.

Then she turned back to you, and smiled.

Soft.

Small.

The kind of smile that didn't reach all the way to her eyes—but tried.

"I hope I'm not intruding," she said, voice gentle. "I heard you were doing well."

You nodded once, not quite trusting your voice yet.

Andreia's smile held. Just barely.

She took another step forward—and the door shut behind her.

The soft click of her sandals against the floor felt too loud, echoing off the delicate walls of your new chambers. Her braid shifted slightly as she moved, the tail of it brushing against her shoulder in a way that was almost performative—effortless, graceful, like every movement had been practiced in a mirror a thousand times.

She stopped just short of the center of the room, her eyes drifting toward the arched window where the sunlight still spilled across the floor. Then, she looked to you. And smiled.

Suddenly, it felt like the room was holding its breath.

"It's good," she began softly, her voice a gentle hum, "that the palace feels light again. Warm. Merry." She turned slowly, her gaze passing over the tapestries, the bowl of figs on your table. "It's been so... dark. Since your... well—" she trailed off, her eyes sliding away, lips pursed as though the sentence had caught on something just behind her teeth.

You stood still near the door, the warmth that had settled in your chest earlier now ebbed away, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

Dark?

She meant your death. That strange, poetic pause? That vague, dainty tiptoe around the subject?

You knew what she was referring to.

But what really made your skin prickle wasn't the implication. It was the way she said it.

As if she were talking about the weather.

As if it hadn't been a blade to your ribs, your blood spilled across the alley stones, the gods torn from their thrones in grief.

Your knuckles pressed harder against the chair.

Because how dare she act like there wasn't history between you?

She had shattered your lyre. Not figuratively—physically.

Smashed it against her knee and left its pieces in the mud. She had humiliated you with false sweetness and cruel smiles. And now she wanted to stand here and smile like nothing had happened?

Your patience, already thin, frayed at the edges.

You felt the heat begin to rise in your chest—not anger exactly, but something adjacent. A mix of discomfort, disbelief, and that awful, familiar twist of having to smile through things that should've never happened in the first place.

You didn't want her here.

You didn't want her anywhere near your space.

And before you could catch yourself—before you could soften your tone or school your expression—you heard yourself ask it.

"Was that all you came to talk about, my lady?"

Your voice came out cooler than you'd intended. Still polite. But undeniably cold. Stiff.

Andreia blinked.

The soft gleam in her eyes faltered just slightly—just long enough to catch it. Like someone had tapped a mirror, and the perfect image of her cracked.

"I only mean," you added quickly, lifting your chin as you forced a half-smile onto your face, "I'd hate to linger on such dark things. After all, you said yourself—there's been enough gloom in these halls."

You kept your hands clasped gently before you, your back straight, your tone even. But your eyes didn't waver.

And neither did the heaviness hanging between you.

Andreia tilted her head—just a fraction. Her expression hadn't quite hardened, but something behind her eyes had gone... quieter.

And you could feel it.

The temperature shifting.

The mask slipping.

Just a little.

 Andreia's smile to twitched as she gave a soft huff through her nose—part amusement, part something else you didn't want to name—and glanced away, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve like the topic had grown too unflattering to hold her interest for long.

"Mmm," she murmured, eyes sweeping lazily over your room again. "Well. At least they've handled the... situation. The one who hurt you." She tilted her chin slightly. "So terribly upsetting."

You blinked.

Your posture shifted, the words catching on your spine like a splinter.

"...What?" you asked, your voice quieter now. You weren't even sure you'd meant to speak.

Andreia turned back to you then, expression smooth as silk, like this was nothing more than polite gossip at tea.

"Oh," she said, blinking prettily as if she hadn't realized you wouldn't know. "Haven't you heard?"

She took a slow, measured step toward the center of the room, her hands folded neatly before her. "It was one of the suitors' kin. Antinous', I believe? Melanion from Dulichium. Not a soldier, just... bitter. Thought he could balance some scale, avenge some lost family honor." She shrugged. "A sad little thing."

Her tone made it sound like she was talking about a broken vase. A child who'd knocked over a tray of fruit.

"Unfortunate timing, of course," she added, idly flicking at a thread on her sleeve. "You happened to be alone. At night. Wandering. That part was unfortunate. Poorly timed."

Your throat went dry.

But she wasn't done.

"He's dead now," she said, like it was nothing. "I heard from one of the serving girls that they found him in the dungeons. Or what was left of him, I suppose." She smiled faintly. "Mangled, barely recognizable. How... thorough of them."

You stared at her.

Your heart didn't race. Your breath didn't stutter.

You just felt... nothing.

No cold. No shock. Not even relief.

Just a dull, steady beat behind your ribs. Something heavy. Solid.

"Good riddance," you muttered, the words sliding out like stones.

Andreia's brow lifted.

You didn't care.

You tilted your head slightly, tone even as you added, "Hopefully, the rest of my troubles follow him."

Lady, who'd been quiet up to this point, shifted.

A low growl rippled from her throat—soft, but unmistakable. —like thunder just before a storm. Her ears were flat, teeth just barely bared, hackles raised from tail to shoulders as she held her ground between you and Andreia.

Andreia froze for just a second. Her eyes flicked toward the Askálion, something faint flashing across her expression. Surprise? Discomfort?

You didn't move to stop Lady.

You didn't say a word.

You just watched.

Andreia caught the threat. Her eyes narrowed.

Not enough to break her poise—but enough to show she wasn't used to being challenged. Especially not by you—someone's whose status is lower than hers.

Her smile stiffened. The polite tilt of her mouth pulled a little too tight, her lashes lowering ever so slightly in disdain. She didn't move, but her posture shifted. Just enough that you noticed.

And you wondered—if Lady hadn't growled, would she have stepped closer?

Before either of you could say anything—before the heat in the room could grow sharp enough to cut through—

A soft, airy voice rang from the hall.

"Oh, dear, forgive me for not knocking! I just had to bring you over my extra weaving materials—"

The door cracked open with a gentle creak, and Penelope stepped inside, humming the tail end of a familiar lullaby under her breath.

She looked radiant, like always, draped in a warm bronze shawl, her hair pinned up with olive branch combs, a basket balanced in her arms. It was overstuffed—filled with wool and cotton.

But the moment she fully stepped into the room, her steps slowed.

The song died on her lips.

Her eyes flicked between you and Andreia—and then to Lady, still stiff and growling low beside your feet. The air, still heavy with something unsaid. Something sharp.

Penelope's smile faltered just slightly, her brow knitting. She blinked, adjusting the basket arms in her hands. "Am I... interrupting something?" she asked gently, her voice lined with a note of soft concern.

The moment cracked.

Andreia's smile returned with polished ease, sliding into place like it had never left. "Oh, not at all," she said, her tone bright and effortless. "We were just finishing up."

She turned back to you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a dainty flick of her fingers. "I was just leaving," she added, her eyes gleaming—sharp and saccharine.

Then, without waiting for permission or response, she stepped forward, brushing lightly past Lady—who didn't budge an inch—and toward the door.

She paused beside Penelope only long enough to dip into a small, graceful curtsy. "Your Majesty."

Penelope nodded once, slowly, still watching her carefully.

And then Andreia swept out of the room, her gown whispering along the floor, her perfume trailing after her like smoke.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

And still—you hadn't moved.

You just stood there, the air heavy in your lungs, heart thudding in that slow, stretched-out way it always did after a storm. Lady lowered her head, hackles still raised, but her growl faded into a low breath, her tail thumping once against your calf before she slunk closer, leaning her weight against your leg.

Penelope glanced toward the door Andreia had just left through, her brows pinched with something between confusion and concern.

Then she turned to you fully.

"Sweetheart?" she asked softly. "What's wrong?"

You didn't answer. Not right away.

You were still staring at the door. Still trying to settle the twist in your chest.

But then—without really meaning to—you blinked and asked, voice quieter than you intended, "What happened to her lip?"

Penelope tilted her head. "Hm?"

"Lady Andreia," you clarified, turning your gaze to her finally. "Her mouth—there was a scab on the corner. An old wound."

Penelope blinked. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to you. Her expression shifted ever so slightly, the lines around her mouth tightening.

"...Didn't you all get attacked in town?"

You snorted.

It wasn't a full laugh—just sharp air through your nose, bitter at the edges. You looked down briefly, shaking your head. "As far as I know, we didn't get attacked," you muttered. "Because her and her guard were gone. Vanished. One second they were there, the next—" You gestured vaguely. "Poof. Gone."

There was a pause.

Penelope didn't say anything for a moment. "I see," she said simply.

Her face darkened—just faintly. Like a curtain being drawn half-shut. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, her gaze turning thoughtful. But then, just as quickly, the shift disappeared. Smoothed over with practiced ease.

Then she perked up—clearly choosing to change the subject. Her hands moved to the small basket she had brought, her expression brightening like sunshine breaking through overcast.

"Well! I brought this up hoping you might want a bit of distraction," she said, lifting the cloth that covered the contents. "I've been sorting through my old sewing kits—and I thought we could go over the basics again together. It's been so long since we had the time, and now that you're closer—"

Her eyes gleamed with genuine excitement. "You're right around the corner, after all!"

She pulled out a small bundle of neatly folded linens, each one soft and faded at the corners with age. "We can start simple. I even found that practice sash you used to struggle with—the one that always bunched at the hem?" Her voice lifted in amusement.

You blinked at her.

Then—slowly—you let yourself exhale, some of the tension in your shoulders easing at the warmth in her tone.

It wasn't that you forgot what Andreia had said.

You hadn't.

Not even close.

But for now... it helped to have something else to focus on.

Something soft. Something familiar.

You stepped forward and reached for the first scrap of fabric.

It was soft. Faded peach with pale stitching along the edges—uneven, shaky little loops from a time when your hands didn't know how to guide a needle.

You recognized it instantly. The very first sash Penelope had ever taught you to hem. Back when you'd still stuttered over the difference between a running stitch and a backstitch.

You ran your fingers over it, surprised at how the memory struck like a song note you hadn't heard in years.

Penelope smiled when she saw the recognition on your face. "Thought you might remember it," she said gently, pulling out a tiny brass thimble and a fresh spool of thread.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

The rest of the day passed like that.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't grand. But it was warm.

The two of you sat cross-legged on the rug by the window, the golden afternoon light casting soft shadows on your knees as she guided your hands once more.

The queen's voice was gentle as she corrected your grip, teased you when your fingers fumbled, praised you when you found a rhythm.

Even when your wrist cramped and the thread tangled, the frustration didn't stick. It melted beneath the quiet hums of Penelope's voice and the steady rhythm of her needle weaving in and out of linen.

Eventually, the light dimmed, casting the room in shades of rose and lavender. A servant was sent for a small meal, and dinner was brought to your chambers on silver trays: roasted lamb and soft cheeses, fruits sliced into perfect curls, honey-sweet bread still warm from the kitchens.

Penelope insisted on eating it cross-legged on the floor, just like you'd done when you were younger—when the servants weren't looking and propriety could take a moment to breathe.

You stayed like that until long after the plates had gone cold, the two of you sipping warm tea while Lady lay curled at the foot of your bed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Just as the last traces of day faded to twilight, a servant appeared at the doorway, his voice low as he informed Penelope that Odysseus was asking for her company. It wasn't with urgency but rather a gentle summoning as night settled in, the king desiring the pleasant warmth of his wife's presence.

Penelope's response was a soft chuckle, her eyes lighting up in a way that reminded you of a young girl smitten in love. She rose gracefully, her movements fluid like the fading light. "He does like to have me by his side as the day ends," she said, voice threaded with affection.

Before she left, she leaned over and pressed a motherly kiss to your forehead, her touch as light as the linen you'd been stitching. "Sleep well, my dear," she whispered, the smile still playing on her lips. Then, with a gentle hand, she scratched Lady behind the ears, eliciting a contented sigh from the slumbering beast.

With a final glance filled with warmth and a whispered promise to return tomorrow, Penelope moved toward the door, her silhouette framed for a moment against the dim glow from the hallway. The door closed softly behind her, leaving a whisper of her floral scent lingering in the air.

After the queen's departure, the room felt significantly quieter, the soft rustle of her dress and the comforting cadence of her voice now absent.

You found yourself meandering over to the large chaise near the window, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips as you settled down.

Outside, the sky transitioned from the painted hues of sunset to the deep, velvet blue of twilight. One by one, stars began to pierce the darkening canopy, flickering into existence like distant lighthouses guiding weary sailors home.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, mingling with the slow dance of the heavens.

And then... they drifted to Andreia.

It wasn't intentional. But that quiet had a way of pulling buried things to the surface.

You thought back to Penelope's hesitation—the puzzled furrow of her brow when you asked what had happened that day. How her answers, while tender, felt rehearsed. Like she'd been told a version of events and forced to believe it. From her words alone, you pieced it together: Andreia must have lied. Claimed that you all were attacked. Ambushed.

You snorted, low and bitter, the sound barely audible over the whisper of the waves beyond the window. Your eyes stayed fixed on the sea—dark, endless, unforgiving.

Of course, you knew why she would fabricate such a tale—because the truth was far uglier than any polished lie. She lied to conceal her own cowardice, to hide the fact she left you behind. How spineless.

And when she'd returned without you, what choice did she have but to rewrite the ending any way she deemed fit?

Your hand curled over your abdomen, ghosting the place where pain once bloomed. The gods may have stitched your soul back together, but that didn't mean you were whole.

Because coming back from death wasn't some poetic rebirth. There were no angel choirs. No golden glow. Just silence. And a coldness that clung to your skin no matter how warm the tea was, no matter how softly Penelope smiled.

Some part of you was still in that alley.

Still bleeding.

Still waiting to be found.

And maybe... still alone.

But before that thought could root too deep, a soft knock came at the door.

It wasn't the kind a servant would give—sharp and practical.

No, this was softer. Hesitant.

But it cut clean through the silence all the same.

You blinked, turning toward the door..

The room was dark, lit only by the fire's flicker and a single oil lamp. Lady didn't stir—too deep in sleep, her tail twitching faintly.

Another knock followed.

And then, a familiar voice—barely audible through the wood. "...It's me..."

Telemachus.

Your whole body jolted.

A rush of warmth burst through your chest so sudden it made you dizzy. You all but scrambled from the edge of the chalise, nearly tripping over your discarded sash as you padded barefoot toward the door. Your heart raced, pounding so loud you swore he'd hear it before you even opened the latch.

You stopped just before the door.

Took a breath.

Another.

You pressed a hand flat against your chest—feeling the way it fluttered like a bird—and forced your fingers to still.

Then, finally, with hands trembling just a little... you opened the door.

And there he was.

Lit by the soft flicker of the torches in the hallway and the spill of moonlight slanting through the tall window behind him, Telemachus looked like something caught between a dream and memory.

The flamelight painted his shoulders in gold, soft shadows curling under his jaw, while the silver glow from the moon glinted along his hair, just enough to pick out the lighter strands curled behind his ear.

His tunic was loose—casual for once. Not formal wear. Not armor. Just soft, deep blue linen, the collar slightly rumpled like he'd run a hand through it on the way here. His cloak hung half-off one shoulder, and his hair was damp in that way that said he'd just bathed and hadn't bothered to comb it fully. And his eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

He was smiling, but not in the easy, confident way you'd seen before. No. This was small. Tucked at the corners of his mouth like he didn't want to seem too eager.

He cleared his throat gently. "Hey," he said.

Just that.

One word, soft and a little rough—like he was afraid if he spoke louder, the moment might scatter.

Your breath caught. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first.

So instead, you nodded—small, sheepish—and stepped quietly into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you so it wouldn't wake Lady, who remained curled at the foot of your bed, blissfully unaware.

Your bare feet pressed against the cool tile of the corridor, and you folded your arms lightly in front of you, your night tunic brushing just past your knees. The torchlight danced along the edges of your silhouette as you turned to face him.

"I thought it was too late for visitors," you said gently, not teasing, just a quiet observation.

Telemachus' gaze softened. "Yeah," he said. "It is." He glanced away briefly, then looked back, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers twitching. "I couldn't sleep." A pause. "Kept thinking about you."

Your stomach did something dangerous.

And all at once, the hall felt smaller. Quieter. As if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, facing each other in the flickering warmth of torchlight and the pale hush of moonshine. The silence wasn't tense—not exactly—but it held weight, stretched thin like the space between breath and heartbeat.

Then Telemachus' voice broke through, soft and careful. "Have you been well?" he asked, like the question had been sitting on his tongue for days. His brows tugged together faintly, eyes scanning your face as if searching for the truth behind the answer.

You hummed low, slow, tilting your head just a bit. "Sure."

But it came out too light, too breezy. And you saw it in his face—how he knew that wasn't the full truth.

You let the silence stretch again, and for a heartbeat, you almost let it go. Almost let that small ache in your chest stay buried, ignored, passed off as nothing.

But you didn't.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and something sly slid into your voice as you tipped your head the other way.

"I was visited by everyone, you know," you said softly, a trace of a smile ghosting your lips. "The king, the queen. Kieran, Lysandra, Callias. Even Asta. Twice."

Telemachus'expression fluttered—just the faintest twitch, like a thread had been tugged inside him. His mouth parted like he was going to respond, but you didn't let him.

You stepped forward, just a little.

Close enough to see the way the shadows curled beneath his lashes. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him now, all wrapped in quiet, soft breath and starlit quiet.

You pouted, just the slightest pull of your lips. "Did you not want to see me?"

His face turned scarlet almost instantly.

Like something lit beneath his skin.

Telemachus' lips dropped open, his breath catching as if he'd forgotten how to speak. He blinked at you, stunned, like your question had knocked the air out of his lungs—and for a moment, he just stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide.

Then he stumbled forward a step, voice bursting out in a frantic rush. "Of course not—no! I mean—of course I wanted to—gods—"

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face and turning slightly to the side, clearly trying to gather himself. His fingers curled against his belt like he didn't know what else to do with them. "I just..." he mumbled, voice suddenly quieter, "I couldn't get the courage. After... after kissing you."

You blinked.

"That's it?" you asked, incredulous—and then the laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. It was light and warm and teasing. "Oh, Telemachus..."

He flinched a little at your laugh—not wounded, just bashful—but didn't interrupt.

"It was hardly a kiss," you said, tilting your head with a coy smile. "You only kissed the corner of my mouth."

His face scrunched instantly, mouth parting like he wanted to defend himself. "It still counts," he muttered stubbornly, glaring at the floor.

"Mm," you hummed, stepping a little closer, the torchlight behind you making your silhouette flicker on the wall beside his. "I'm sure it does."

Then your voice dropped, playful, wickedly soft. "Though... I might've forgotten. Maybe you should remind me?"

That did it.

Telemachus' entire body tensed. His ears turned bright red, eyes darting up to meet yours before darting away just as fast. He shook his head like he couldn't believe you, like he didn't trust himself to answer.

"You've gotten bold," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaky but filled with something warmer—something softer, too.

You just smiled.

Because he didn't say no.

You tilted your head, smiling just a little too sweetly. "Is that bad?"

Telemachus gave a quiet scoff, looking away—though his cheeks were still burning. "It's not bad," he muttered, voice a touch too tight to be casual. "Just... new."

"Mhm," you hummed, stepping closer. "You seem awfully red for something that's not bad."

His eyes flicked back to yours, narrowed just enough to be annoyed, but the faint tremble in his breath betrayed him. He tried to fold his arms, only to realize his hands were still fidgeting at his sides. He stopped, stiffened. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" you asked innocently, swaying just a little closer—barely a step, barely a breath.

Internally, your nerves fluttered like wings, but gods, the thrill of it... You didn't realize how much you liked seeing him like this—flustered and blushing, the usually collected prince unraveling like a spool of thread every time you teased.

Telemachus backed up instinctively, his shoulder blades bumping against the wall opposite your door. The torches cast a soft halo around him, shadows dancing over the lines of his face—over the curve of his throat, the tight set of his jaw.

You followed him slowly, your steps light, deliberate.

And then you were there.

So close, your breath ghosted over his cheek.

So close, you could see the way his pupils had blown wide in the low light, nearly swallowing the hazel ring of his irises.

His hands hovered at his sides like he wasn't sure if he should touch you or stay completely still. Your fingers brushed the wall beside his hip as you leaned in just enough, your lips only a breath away from his.

You could feel the heat radiating off him.

Could see how hard he was trying to keep his gaze locked on yours, not your lips. He was losing that battle.

"I'm just trying to remember," you whispered, voice soft—slow—your mouth nearly brushing his as you spoke. "Was it something like this?"

He swallowed thickly.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

And neither did you.

Not until his hand moved.

Not until his fingers lifted—slowly, deliberately—to brush a knuckle just beneath your jaw.

The touch was featherlight, like he wasn't sure you were real. But when you didn't flinch, did''t move, he leaned in closer. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb tracing lightly—so lightly—across the curve of your scar.

Your breath hitched.

Your eyes widened just slightly.

And instead of stammering like you expected him to—blushing, fumbling—Telemachus lowered his voice, let it roll like smoke across your skin.

"Is this what you wanted?" he murmured, his thumb still trailing the line of your lip. "To see if the boy who kissed you would do it again? Or were you hoping he'd beg for it this time?"

Your heart practically dropped into your stomach.

What?

You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Your throat went dry. Heat rushed to your cheeks—not a flirty flutter this time, but real, raw, caught-off-guard embarrassment.

You stepped back on instinct.

Just a single step. Barely a full stride.

But he followed.

Didn't even hesitate.

His expression had shifted into something smug—something quiet and sharp. Like he'd waited for the right moment to bite, and now that he had, he was enjoying it.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice dipped in soft amusement. "Didn't expect me to flirt back?"

You opened your mouth to answer. Closed it. Then opened it again.

But no sound came out.

Because you were pressed against the door—your back flat to the wood, your chest rising too fast, too tight—and Telemachus stood mere inches away.

Your eyes were wide. Too wide. Your lips parted, but all you could do was breathe.

And think. Think too much.

Because your heart was racing—pounding so fast it made your hands tremble at your sides. Your thoughts scrambled in your skull like birds startled into flight.

He was too close.

Not much. Just enough. Enough for your bodies to nearly touch. Enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way it rolled off his chest in waves. The way his presence folded around you like a cloak.

Telemachus chuckled low under his breath—and gods—

You felt it.

The sound curled through your ribs like smoke, heavy and warm and dangerous. It wrapped around your spine, settled in the pit of your stomach like a spark waiting to catch flame. Your knees nearly buckled.

He leaned in, slow.

And when he spoke—his voice was low, too low, like a secret he meant for you to keep. His mouth hovered so close that your noses nearly brushed, and the ghost of his lips dragged along yours as he whispered. "What happened?"

That was all. Just that.

But the sound of it—gods, the feel of it—made your breath stutter in your throat. His lips brushed yours again as he said it, barely touching, just enough to feel like a promise.

Or a warning.

And you didn't move.

Not because you couldn't.

But because you didn't want to.

Not when he was looking at you like that—like he saw through every wall you'd ever built. Like he liked what he saw.

Telemachus tilted his head, feigning a pout. "Still not answering me?" he whispered, voice teasing, like silk caught on skin. "You seemed so bold a moment ago..."

And then his hand—gods—his hand slipped upward.

Fingers warm as they cupped your cheek, trailing along the edge of your jaw with a touch that was maddeningly careful. Then down—slowly, achingly—over the column of your throat, until his palm rested lightly at the base of your neck.

Not gripping. Just there. A gentle weight that stole the air from your lungs.

His thumb brushed beneath your ear, soft. Tender. Dangerous. His smirk deepened.

You still hadn't answered. Not with words. Just wide eyes and a breath stuck behind your ribs.

And he knew it.

The corner of his mouth curled, smug. "That's what I thought," he murmured.

You sucked in a sharp gasp—and that broke it.

Your fingers scrambled behind you, fumbling until they found the cool brass of your door handle. You gripped it like a lifeline.

"I—I should go—goodnight," you blurted in one breath, nearly squeaking.

Then you shoved the door open.

Too fast.

You stumbled backward with a tiny yelp, landing flat on your back across the edge of your rug. From the floor, you saw his face again—startled, concerned, guilty.

"Wait—are you okay—?"

But you popped up like you were spring-loaded, flailing slightly as you scrambled upright, face burning. "I'm fine—fine! Goodnight!"

And slammed the door shut.

You leaned against it immediately, chest heaving, your hands trembling as they pressed to the wood.

Through it, you heard his low laugh—soft and breathless. "...Goodnight, then."

His footsteps padded away, slowly. You waited until they faded.

Then sagged fully against the door with a choked, whispered gasp.

"Gods."

Your hands clutched at your face as you slid to the floor, grinning like a fool.

Your heart was still racing.

And you hoped it never stopped.

A/N: kay, i'm back from break! (ngl came back sooner cuz i been binging 'WARRIOR', and also missed updating) first off—thank you all so much for being so understanding. 💕 i really do appreciate everyone who took the time to clarify, apologize, or even just say they got where i was coming from (even though, like i said before, you didn't have to). my last message wasn't directed at everyone—it was more so aimed at a few folks whose comments gave off a lil' too much passive-aggression (which i made sure to delete cuz who tf???) and only left up those cuz once again, opionions are opinions. like, i love me some discussion. y'all know i live for good commentary and unpacking character moments. but when it comes from a place of telling me i'm doing too much/being cruel/writing violence, when the story's been telling you from jump that this world is not soft-core fluff, it kinda just... rubs me the wrong way. not every part of this story is gonna be palatable. and that's the point. (lol not me sounding like a parrot at this point) but again—i still genuinely appreciate all your thoughts. truly. 🖤 and i promise, not every piece i write will be this heavy or emotionally intense. but in this story, after spending so long crafting who these characters are—how the mc sees them, how we as readers see them—i just couldn't bring myself to skip over their vengeance with a quick summary or brush-past scene. that would've felt like cheating the entire emotional build. so yeah! i'm back. recharged. still loving these chaotic gods and messy mortals with my whole heart. now let's get into it 😌 alsooo, what did y'all think of the newest update?? 👀 i've been a little excited lowkey testing out how mc's trauma is starting to shape her—like how it's subtly shifting her persona. i tried to make it a slow burn, showing that change without hitting y'all over the head with it. we've seen her kinda sheltered, soft, almost halo-level perfect for a while now... and yeah, i couldn't help myself. had to sprinkle in a lil' edge. a lil' darkness. a lil' flirting. 😌 kay byeeee~ 😭🖤 ps. WAIT Y"ALL WHY ARE THERE COMMENTS THINKING ANDRIEA IS DEAD??? OMGGMMG maybe thats on me for wording it poorly, shes not dead  i just meant ppl were wishing for her death to happen 😭😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ but before you all continue, i have an announcemtn, after a few lines dashes beneath my regualr fanart submission, i have been sent some nsfw stuff that i'm estatic to share (so plz if you don't want to see it, thats fine, jus scroll along while the rest of us go wild for some drawn tits/pecs 😩❤️) (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii)

from iconic-idiot-con

OHHHHHHHH MY GODDDD???? I swear I get nothing but gems from you... Not only did you give me a Hades with sad poet hair and those blue eyes like he's been silently grieving for centuries—but then you hit me with Persephone LOOKING LIKE SUNSHINE?? Soft, warm, glowing-from-the-inside-out divine wife energy??? I'm losing it. I'm actually LOSING it. 😭✨ The laurel tucked in Hades' hair??? The crown detail in hers??? This is peak duality. You understood the assignment AND THEN SOME. This is the Godly Things power couple if I've ever seen one—him brooding in the corner with a wine goblet, her lighting up the whole throne room and handing out fruit like a menace. I am OBSESSED. Like genuinely I wanna frame this and hang it above the Underworld's fireplace. THANK YOUUU 💀🌸💘

NOOOOOOO BECAUSE I'M ACTUALLY WEEPING. WEEPING. 😭🔥The lighting??? The DRAMA??? Hermes standing there, golden and furious, spitting those lines with his whole chest??? "SHE IS TO ME WHAT PERSEPHONE IS TO YOU!"—are you trying to kill me??? Because congratulations. I'm dead. Buried. Deceased. Hades turning away all stone-faced while Persephone is like 😳??? The range of emotions?? You gave me storyboard-level intensity in one image and I'm eating it up like a full course meal. The fact that Hermes looks both absolutely heartbroken and ready to start a war?? The way you captured his righteous fury?? This is cinema. This is peak divine pettiness meets romantic desperation and I LOVE IT HERE. 💔💘 You are not just drawing fanart—you are delivering scenes that deserve orchestral backing. Please never stop. PLEASE. ❤️❤️😩

from Kath_Realm21

Ohhh my hearttt 😭💖 The tears. The expression. The weight in her eyes—you captured that silent strength so beautifully. MC's not just surviving—she's enduring. And the way her cloak drapes like it's been through battle and grief and still somehow holds its shape?? QUEEN BEHAVIOR. And that little message beside her?? "She is a queen, and so are you author"—you did not have to make me cry like this before noon!!! 😭😭 The way this sketch feels both soft and powerful, like a quiet moment after the storm, like MC's finally standing tall after being dragged through Tartarus and back... I just... thank you. Thank you so much. This means the world. 👑🖤🕊️

OH MY GODDDD THIS IS—THIS IS TOO MUCH 😭💘First of all—the standoff sketch?? The profile view??? That's not a drawing, that's a duel of souls. The way MC's still got that soft frown, and Telemachus is looking at her like she's his whole damn world... I can HEAR the silence between them. It's so loud. AND THEN THE SECOND ONE—THE WAY THEY'RE LEANING IN??? The hand on the waist, the noses almost touching, the tension practically leaking off the page like fog??? LIKE KISSSSSS!!!! "They're basically Ody & Penelope 2.0"—NO because YOU UNDERSTOOD THE ASSIGNMENT. That's actually canon now, thank you. I'm citing you. These are so tender and emotional and UGH just perfectly them. Thank you so much—this honestly made my entire day 🥹🔥🖤

from BUNI

SCREEEAAAMINGGGG. This. This is ART. This is a VISUAL SYMPHONY. You drew the entire cast and somehow managed to give each one their exact vibe like you've been living in my Google Docs 😭🖤 Hermes with that smug lil "I know I’m hot and I will steal your heart (and wallet)" grin?? CHECK. Apollo looking like a tragic theater major who writes poetry on silk?? CHECK. MC in the middle, glowing like the emotional backbone she is??? GODDESS. Andreia's jawline alone could cut a man—and probably has. CLEO?? Cleo's tired, judgmental, morally gray stare??? Flawless. And Telemachus??? My sweet, sad boy looking like he just finished crying over you and then turned around to chop someone in half in your honor??? Canon. This whole piece is SOOOO well-done I feel like you've assembled the cast of a high-budget TV adaptation of Godly Things and I'm just sitting in the front row sobbing. Thank you for sharing this, Buni—your talent is unreal, and I'm so honored to see the world through your hands 💘👑🎭

from wishesonstars39781

OH YOU DID NOT—YOU GAVE HER A HALO??? 😭💀This is so unseriously Andreia-coded I can't stop laughing. She looks like she just said, "I only want peace and love 🥺" right after shattering someone's emotional support lyre and framing it as their fault. The curls?? The softness?? The fake princess grace??? YOU GET HER. She looks like she’s about to say, "Who, me?" right after orchestrating an entire manipulation arc behind the scenes. This is that Brontë Brat™ energy in full Renaissance portrait mode. I'm OBSESSED. You captured her so beautifully I'm side-eyeing her through my screen. Thank you for this. I will cherish her smug little Mona Lisa smile forever 😌🖼️✨

I AM... SCREAMING INTO THE VOID. 😭💘 YOU DIDN'T JUST DRAW TELEMACHUS. YOU STUDIED HIM. You unlocked his soul like a character sheet and gave us all his phases—soft, lovesick, deadly, awkward, war-torn, owl dad, garden boy, "will you accept my favor?" poetic fool energy. He is fully documented. And that one with the laurel crown and bashful eyes??? I’m biting my fist like a regency maiden. Lemme take a step back for I fall in love w/ him... i gotta be fair to the other love interest but this is making it so hard 😭😭 ACKKKK--THE ONE WITH THE SPEAR DIVIDING "LITTLE WOLF" AND "WARRIOR" TELE????? That's not a sketch. That's cinema. Also: TELEMACHUS AND THE DOG?? HELLO?? That's it. That's the series. Cancel the rest. He wins. Thank you for loving him so much. You captured every flavor of his heartbreak and growth. These pages feel like a shrine and I am a willing worshiper. 💘🗡️🐺

from gab137507

Oh. Oh this one hurts. 🥀🩸 "You help everyone, but who helps you?"—like WHY would you stab me in the soul like that?? The broken symmetry on her face, the cracked lines, the bleeding ink, the quiet devastation in her eyes?? It's haunting. It's beautifully haunting. This captures that exact post-Ch.38 numbness, like when the adrenaline fades and all that's left is you... and the pieces. Not just physically broken, but emotionally worn down, drained, like MC's finally realizing no one is coming to save her. That kind of sadness? You nailed it. This is more than fanart—it's like a visual echo of every moment she held herself together for someone else. Thank you for drawing this and for reminding me why her journey hits so damn hard. I'm gonna be thinking about this one for a long time. 🖤💔

OH THIS??? THIS IS DIVINE. 🔥👑 The poise. The power. The absolute command in her stance—like she just walked out of Olympus and said, "I'm not asking, I'm declaring." Even in sketch form she radiates presence—untouchable, unknowable, but undeniably hers. And the blank, focused expression?? As if she's already seen the future and knows exactly who'll bow next. A goddess not by blood, but by force of will. This is the MC who rises from trauma not just whole—but holy. Thank you for drawing her like this. I feel blessed. 💥🔥🖤

from anon0219

Oh my gods... this gave me chills. The darkness swallowing the space, the faint torchlight bleeding into the stone, and those red stains—just visible enough to haunt you. You didn't even show a body, and yet it's somehow more devastating. The silence, the emptiness, the memory that lingers. It's like the walls remember. Like this is exactly what I was picturing in my mind while writing! And the fact that you took inspiration from Socrates' prison?? That makes this hit even harder. The weight of history, death, and reflection—all of it is captured here. I'm genuinely moved. Thank you for trusting me with this and for saying what you said at the end. It really means more than you know. I promise I'm still writing—and I'll carry this with me as I do.🕯️

from Acheron

not really fanart but the meme was funny lolol

now on to the nsfw... I REFUSE NOTHING BUT PRAISE FOR THESE 😤😤 tr

from iconic-idiot-con

OH.😳🔥You didn't just draw Telemachus down tremendously—you rendered his entire dreamscape like we cracked open his skull and found the holy grail of feral boy fantasy. "Let me get a taste of you"??? "Such a good boy"??? MA'AM. THE WAY I CHOKED. The line delivery. The body language. The dream panel at the bottom where he's LITERALLY JUST SUFFERING IN BED?? Staring into the abyss with a face like 😩 while mentally being dragged across Olympus by MC's thighs—I'm—😭 You captured so much thirst, yearning, and chaotic sleep-deprived masculinity in one sheet I think Telemachus himself would spontaneously combust if he saw it. Which. Honestly. Canon behavior.

OH MY GODDDD HERMES TOO??? 😭 This is so him. Dreaming like he's in a tsundere anime, all cool and unbothered in one panel and then immediately blushing in the next like "wait... oh no she's hot." The way you drew MC saying "Stop being mean and kiss me already" with actual romcom protagonist energy??? AND THAT LIL HERMES IN THE NIGHTCAP??? I'M WHEEZING. He looks like he just woke up in a sweat clutching his sheets whispering, "she told me to kiss her" while staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers. Sir, please. Control your subconscious. You're making it way too obvious. 💀 I cannot believe you're out here animating everyone's horny midnight visions like a divine therapist with a sketchpad. THANK YOU FOR THIS. I'm putting it right next to Telemachus' delusions and calling it the Pantheon's Official Dream Journal™ 😭💘✨

OH MY GOD. NO BECAUSE—THE "PREPARE MY LADY'S SEAT" LINE??? I'm actually howling. This man put on a SKINCARE HEADBAND just to get ready to EAT. 😭💀 The sheer whiplash from the flirty smugness to that last panel??? "broke his neck"???? "STFU!! just heal yourself!!"?!?!?! I've never seen divine foreplay turn into divine post-meal combat so fast. This is PEAK Godly Things energy. The accuracy. The range. The chaos. You get them in ways I didn't even know I wrote them. This whole comic is giving "oral fixation meets Olympian drama," and I want it engraved on my tombstone. The little pillow toss??? The smug look??? I am OBSESSED. 🙏🔥🩷 Thank you again for feeding me. This is art. This is sacred. This is WAR.

Like iconic-idiot-con i don't think you understand how much i love these 😩😩 thank you so much for trusting to send these! ❤️❤️❤️🥀i love me some c*ck/boobs as the next single person with delusional daydreams (#physicallyvirginmentallyslut)

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[winxanity-ii]

𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Sorry, not an update, but I'll try to keep this short...

I just wanted to take a second to speak directly and honestly with y'all after posting that last chapter (CHAPTER 42.5: WRATH WEARS MANY FACES). I've been seeing a few responses that, while valid in feeling, have also reminded me why I normally don't look at comments after publishing something heavy.

Let me be clear: I know this chapter was a lot. It was violent. It was cruel. It was painful. That was intentional.

This isn't fluff. This isn't comfort every chapter. This is a mythos-based story, rooted in ancient violence, power imbalance, and divine wrath.

I'm not here writing gore for fun or romanticizing harm—but I am writing a story where gods and mortals alike are capable of monstrous things, especially when they feel justified.

Chapter 42.5 was especially meant to remind you who Apollo, Hermes, and Telemachus really are—how close they sit to the divine cruelty of Olympus. I love them, yes. They're soft to MC, yes. But they are not soft to the world and those they deem unimportant/useless. That contrast is what makes their tenderness meaningful.

And I've hidden Hermes' darker side behind jokes long enough. Some of y'all forgot he's a god, and a trickster, and someone with centuries of blood under his belt. There's nothing squeaky clean about him.

If the chapter bothered you—I understand. It's not meant to sit easy. And for those of you who felt empathy for Melanion, or said this felt too much... I respect your reactions. Seriously. You're allowed to feel conflicted. That's what good storytelling should do.

But what isn't okay is the passive-aggressive commentary about my choices as a writer. I've been transparent from the beginning: this fic isn't some wholesome, "MC gets babied 24/7" kind of tale. It's a dark, myth-heavy journey with stakes and consequences. You don't get a kiss in Chapter 2 here. You had to wait because the world I'm building doesn't hand out softness that easily.

And I can't help but find it a bit hypocritical how some folks cheer for Andreia to die, but pity the man who murdered MC in cold blood. Y'all got mad at her for emotional cruelty, but want grace for someone who left them bleeding in an alley? We must not have grown up reading the same myths lol.

I'm not saying you can't critique or feel strongly. You're welcome to disagree. To feel things deeply. That's human. But don't twist the space/story I've created into something it was never meant to be. This isn't an Epic Musical fluff AU (hence the note of not needing to actually know about it). This is Olympus. This is blood-soaked marble. This is war, consequence, and love wrapped in power dynamics. I've made that plenty clear with me writing out the suitors carnage in chapter 6 instead of summarizing it.

And I say this with love but also honesty: if my content, tone, or direction rubs you the wrong way, it's okay to step away. Truly. I'll never beg anyone to read something outside their comfort zone.

Also—and this might be petty but I'm adding it here anyway—I'm even more annoyed because I had to spoil a big MC-related moment to my own sister. 😭

We promised to treat each other as authors, only editing each other's chapters once we’d both read them fully. That was the deal. But she noticed I was acting off and pushed me about it—kept asking what was wrong and finally told me to just rant before it ate me alive. So I did.

And man, I'm a damn blabbermouth because once I started venting, it all spilled out. Do you know how hard it was keeping a main plot twist from her? Only to have to reveal it because sister issues come first?? 😭💀

But yeah, back to being serious, this is my second serious fic, one where I'm trying to do something I can look back on and be like 'Xani, you ate that up fr.' And if that means I have to block people who threaten the joy or safety of my creative space?

Then so be it—rejection sensitivity or not.

That being said, I'm taking a real break from updating. I know I said I was taking a break after the last chapter, but the truth is, I was just trying to pace myself and stay ahead without losing momentum...but now I mean it—for real. I think I need an actual one to cool off and not spiral.

And yeah... maybe this rant feels a little intense or childish to some of y'all, but I needed to say it or I was just gonna end up doing something impulsive that I'd end up regretting later.

To those of you who do get it, who read carefully and trust the process—thank you. Deeply.

I'll see y'all soon 🖤

—Xani

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[winxanity-ii]

I mean if you really think about it being a writer isn't all that different from being an evil fantasy overlord. We both spend years scheming and plotting until at last our plans come to fruition (taking over the kingdom, publishing the novel, etc) and we laugh delightedly at the wailing throughout the lands.

[winxanity-ii]

Me, reading my fic drafts: Damn this is pretty good, when's the author gonna finish it?

[winxanity-ii]

“ships should at least make sense.” no. ships can make sense, sure. but they’re just fictional characters we play with for fun. they’re fantasies, not a fucking thesis paper. so no, they don’t always have to make sense. they just have to make you happy (or horny).

let people enjoy (fictional) things however they want to enjoy.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: WRATH WEARS MANY FACES DIVINE WHISPERS: Wrath Wears Many Faces | divine whispers: wrath wears many faces⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

EDIT: This chapter features violence, plz don't read if it makes you uncomfortable. (Remeber, 'DIVINE WHISPERS' are extra scenes I removed due to it messing up the flow of the book/pacing, reading them aren't vital/needed to undertsand the upcoming chapters)...

Penelope gently pulled the door shut behind her, her hand trembling just slightly on the handle. The click of the latch echoed softly down the hallway, and when it was done—when the last line between you and the rest of the world had been drawn—she exhaled.

A long, quiet sigh.

It left her in one shaky breath, her shoulders sagging with it. Not in defeat—but in release.

In that strange, weightless space where grief and joy blended so close, they felt like the same thing.

Telemachus didn't speak. Not yet.

He stood beside his father, his back still half-turned to the door, eyes lingering on the wood like it might swing open again just to prove it all over.

That you were still there. That you were really alive.

Penelope turned slowly to face them. Her expression was unreadable for a moment—caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. But then... her eyes softened.

Misty. Glowing. Her lips curled into the smallest smile, trembling at the corners.

"She's back." Her voice cracked as she said it, and her hand rose to press against her chest like she needed to feel her own heartbeat just to believe it.

"She's home," Penelope said again, this time louder. A little firmer. "The gods gave her back to us."

Telemachus looked up at that, his chest still aching with everything he hadn't said.

The echo of your voice still rang in his ears, soft and raspy. The warmth of your fingers curled around his wrist... the press of your forehead against his chest...

He smiled, faint but full. Tired, yes. But brighter than he'd been in hours.

Odysseus said nothing at first. Just looked at the door again.

His arms crossed loosely over his chest, and his expression shifted—not stern or calculating like usual, but... softer. Slower.

The barest hint of a smile tugged at his face, quiet and rare. The kind of smile he only ever wore in the presence of his wife. Or his son.

"She's stronger than I thought," he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself. "Stronger than all of us."

The words hung there a moment, suspended in the quiet like a truth that had only just been spoken aloud.

Telemachus felt something twist in his chest—pride, yes, but also something heavier. The kind of weight that came with knowing just how close they'd all come to losing you.

But then, with a breath through his nose, Odysseus' expression shifted. That rare softness vanished behind something older. Sharper. His jaw tensed as he cleared his throat quietly, the sound low and deliberate. And then, reaching out, he took Penelope's hand in his own.

"We'll be back," he told her gently. "Your son and I have... business to attend to."

Penelope's brows furrowed instantly, her mouth parting, breath catching like she was already halfway to a protest. "Odysseus, I thought we'd spend time with—"

But he gave her hand a quiet squeeze. Just once. Firm and steady.

Her words cut off.

Her eyes searched his face, her mouth pressed into a thin line. It took her all of a second to read him. To understand.

Whatever softness had been on her features disappeared as quickly as it came.

She nodded.

Her spine straightened.

Her hand returned the squeeze, fingers curling tighter around his.

"Then go," she said, voice low and suddenly cold. "Do what needs to be done."

Telemachus watched the exchange with a quiet kind of awe. No questions had been asked. None were needed.

He didn't say a word as they stepped past Penelope and into the hall.

The torchlight cast long shadows behind them—father and son, walking side by side, something grim and unspoken pulling at both their steps.

The silence between them wasn't awkward. It never was, not really. But as of now, it was heavy. Thicker than usual. The kind of silence that wrapped around your throat and sat just behind your teeth, waiting to be broken by something neither of them wanted to say first.

Telemachus flexed his fingers at his sides, then curled them into fists. Uncurled. Curled again. The motion was small, barely noticeable, but it carried all the anxious energy his face refused to betray.

Beside him, Odysseus strode forward with that familiar war-worn grace, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable.

But Telemachus had learned, over time, to see the signs. The slight furrow between his father's brows. The tension in his jaw.

They mirrored his own.

They were both thinking about the same thing: what needs to be done.

The corridor turned ahead, bending toward the armory wing—and as they rounded it, both men stopped short.

Athena was already there.

She stood in the center of the hallway, statuesque in the golden torchlight, as if she'd been waiting. Or perhaps she'd simply appeared—her presence didn't require footsteps.

Her armor gleamed like polished silver, her tall spear stood upright beside her, unmoving, and her storm-gray eyes were calm but piercing—always watching, always assessing.

It took less than a breath for both men to drop to one knee.

"Lady Athena," Odysseus spoke first, head bowed low. "Daughter of wisdom, our guiding shield."

"Your presence is an honor," Telemachus added beside him, his voice lower, steadier than he felt. "We are yours to command."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of a nearby torch.

Then—just barely—her lips twitched.

Not a smile. But a small shift. The kind that spoke of pride worn quietly. Her chin lifted, gaze sweeping over the two men before her—the King and the Heir.

"Rise," she said, her voice like the ringing of steel through silence. "Sons of Ithaca."

It was not a command. It was an acknowledgment.

Telemachus straightened first, his shoulders square, his eyes lifting to meet Athena's gaze—steady, reverent. Beside him, Odysseus rose more slowly, a warrior's posture softened with age and memory, but still unbowed.

Athena didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"I've come to deliver news," she said, her voice clipped but calm. "It is not often I speak on behalf of the Underworld, but Hades has sent word. He has granted your Divine Liaison a second chance."

Her words struck the air like the sharp ring of a blade being drawn.

Telemachus' breath hitched—just barely—and he felt his father's form shift slightly beside him.

Neither of them spoke, but something subtle released in their posture. A loosening of a thread neither had admitted was pulled tight.

Athena continued, her expression unreadable. "This is not a borrowed moment. Not a temporary resurrection to ease grief. The Fates have allowed it. Her life, as it stands now, is hers to keep."

For a moment, the hallway was still.

A slow exhale left Odysseus—almost soundless, almost invisible, but Telemachus heard it. Felt it. The same way he felt the quiet ache in his own chest begin to ease.

That shadow of fear he hadn't dared voice—not even to himself—that this was all a flicker, a cruel illusion.

That you were back only to say goodbye.

He hadn't even realized he believed that. Not truly. But now that Athena had spoken it aloud, the weight of that doubt lifted—slowly, stubbornly, but surely.

Telemachus swallowed, his jaw tensing. His gaze dropped briefly to the floor, the flickering torchlight casting his shadow long and thin beside his father's. He closed his eyes for a breath, as if letting the truth settle inside him fully.

Not temporary.

Not a dream.

You were really back.

And this time... it would last.

The truth echoed in his mind like a drumbeat—soft, steady, undeniable. But it hadn't fully settled before Athena's stance shifted.

Her posture remained regal, her chin high, but her weight seemed to press more firmly into the marble beneath her. Not with weariness—no, never that—but with purpose.

Her storm-gray eyes swept across the two men, sharp as flint, commanding. Her aura was different now: no longer just the deliverer of news, but the strategist, the war-mind behind every storm won with wits.

"You grieve," she said plainly, though not unkindly. "Of course you do. Your emotions are high. Your blood is still warm from the weight of what nearly was lost. That is only natural."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, but in precision. "But remember who you are."

Telemachus felt the words strike low, beneath the ribs.

"You are warriors," Athena continued, voice clipped and cutting. "Not just of blade, but of thought. You carry my favor, not for strength alone, but for discipline. For restraint. For clarity."

She took a step forward, the clink of her spear against the ground crisp in the stillness.

"You do not let your feelings rule you—you rule them. You do not drown beneath the tide. You shape the waters. That is the difference between men and kings. Between survivors... and strategists."

Telemachus flinched—not visibly, but inwardly. His gaze fell—not from defiance, but from something more bitter. Shame, perhaps. Because she was right.

He had felt too much lately. Let it churn and swell in his chest like a storm with no captain. It had helped him, yes—but it had also unmoored him.

He didn't look up.

Beside him, Odysseus stood still, his expression unreadable, but Telemachus could feel it—that same flicker of quiet guilt. The way a seasoned general might flinch at a misstep only he noticed.

But even with Athena's words—wise and righteous—they didn't lessen the weight in Telemachus' chest.

They didn't drain the swell of warmth, fear, grief, and hope twisting there like tangled rope.

And Athena... she saw it. She always did.

Her expression shifted once more—just slightly. Her gaze gleamed, catching in the torchlight like a blade unsheathed. There was something steely in her tone when she spoke again, but it was laced with something older.

Something closer to... indulgence.

"But," she said, and the word landed like a warning.

Or perhaps, a gift.

"But... even warriors of the mind are still men."

Her eyes flicked between them—father and son—and her voice lowered, more deliberate.

"And even men must sometimes show proof of what they've fought to protect. To feel, for a moment, the weight of what they nearly lost. Even strategy demands reminders of what's at stake."

A pause.

"Just once."

The torchlight danced across her bronze armor, catching the edge of her spear as she tilted it slightly. Her expression remained composed, but the edges had softened—only a little. Enough.

Telemachus' jaw tightened, his chest aching. He dared to look at her now, eyes burning with everything he could not name.

And Athena didn't scold him.

She simply watched. And, perhaps for this moment, she allowed him the mercy of feeling.

Beside him, Odysseus stirred first.

The older man's head tilted, just slightly, eyes casting a glance toward his son. It wasn't a long look. Barely even a second. But it said everything.

It was the look of a man who had fought wars for less, who had seen divine favor come and go—but now had it in hand again, and this time... it was personal.

Telemachus met his father's eyes, the corner of his lip twitching upward—not in joy, but something close to hunger.

Permission had been granted.

They had the greenlight.

And a bloodthirsty thrill zipped down Telemachus' spine like lightning—warm and electric. His fingers flexed at his sides, aching to close around a sword hilt, to act, to finish something.

Athena gave no further instructions. She didn't need to.

She only lifted her chin, high and proud, as if she'd known this moment would arrive all along. And then she moved—her steps slow, smooth, as she walked forward between them.

Her polished bronze armor brushed lightly against both their shoulders as she passed, the cool kiss of metal leaving a whisper of power in its wake.

And then—just as she reached the space between torchlight and shadow—Athena vanished.

A soft ripple shimmered through the air where she'd stood. No flash. No thunder. Just a sudden stillness, like the air had exhaled.

And in that breath, something washed over both men.

A flicker of divine power shimmered across their skin like dust catching the light. Brief, but potent.

Telemachus' eyes widened slightly as a strange heat pulsed in his chest—and for the briefest moment, his irises flashed with silver, bright and unnatural, like stars reflected in deep water.

Odysseus felt it too. His jaw clenched, a grunt of breath escaping him as he straightened, taller now. Stronger.

It passed in an instant—but neither of them were quite the same.

Telemachus rolled his shoulders back, muscles coiled tight with energy. "Let's go," he said, voice low, alive.

Odysseus didn't speak. He only nodded, and the two men turned in unison, heading deeper into the palace.

They walked in silence, the way only those with a shared mission could.

The corridors turned narrower, darker, the torchlight flickering in restless waves as they descended down winding halls. Marble gave way to stone. Rugs disappeared. Doors thinned out.

This part of the palace was not meant for comfort.

The air grew cooler the deeper they went, heavy with quiet and dust.

Eventually, they reached it.

A long, narrow hallway—cut deep into the earth, its ceiling lower than the others.

At the very end stood a single door, wide and iron-bound, guarded by two soldiers in crimson sashes. Their spears crossed in front of the entrance, eyes unreadable beneath bronze-plated helmets.

But the moment they saw who approached, the guards did not question. No words were needed.

They dropped into a bow—deep and silent—then rose and stepped back in sync, drawing open the heavy door with a groaning clatter of stone and metal.

And just like that, the way was open.

The torchlight spilled into the chamber beyond, casting a long, golden stripe across the stone floor. Cold air leaked out from within—damp, stale, and sharp with the iron tang of blood.

Telemachus stepped in first.

The room swallowed sound at first, like it was waiting to breathe again. And then—just beneath the low creak of the door settling behind them—he heard it.

Thud.

A wet, dull impact.

Then another.

Thmp.

Like flesh striking flesh. Like knuckles against meat.

And another—sharper this time, more force behind it. Followed by a ragged, choked noise that might've been breath. Might've been a whimper.

Telemachus didn't flinch. He only let his eyes narrow as he walked forward.

The hallway bent, curving to the right—a natural blind spot carved into the stone. He rounded it silently, his boots quiet against the ground. And when he came into view of the chamber beyond, his jaw tightened.

There—against the far wall—hung the man who had done it.

The man who'd killed you.

His arms were shackled above him, wrists raw and red where the chains bit in. His body sagged under its own weight, blood dripping from his nose and mouth in slow, sluggish trails.

His tunic was torn down the middle, soaked through and clinging to bruised skin. One of his eyes was already swelling shut.

He wasn't screaming. He wasn't begging.

He was just breathing.

Barely.

And in front of him—fists clenched, faces shadowed in the torchlight—stood Callias and Kieran.

Callias was hunched slightly, his shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths from the sheer number of punches thrown. His brows were furrowed, his mouth a flat, grim line.

He didn't look angry—not the kind that shouted or spit. He looked blank. Cold. As though the anger had passed through him like a firestorm and left only frost behind.

Kieran, taller and leaner, stood beside him with the same stillness. His jaw twitched every few seconds, the only sign of movement in a face otherwise carved from stone.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, blood dotting his forearms—not his own. His right hand was wrapped tightly, probably to brace an injury. He must've kept going anyway.

Telemachus didn't speak. Didn't interrupt.

Because the moment he laid eyes on that man—his vision dimmed at the edges.

His heartbeat slowed.

And something deeper—older—stirred in his chest.

It was Kieran who noticed them first.

His bloodied hand froze mid-swing, eyes flicking toward the shadowed entrance. He straightened a little, and with a sharp jerk of his elbow, he nudged Callias—right as the other boy landed a brutal uppercut that snapped the prisoner's head back against the stone.

Callias huffed, chest heaving, before glancing over his shoulder. The sight of the two royals—stoic and still beneath the flickering torchlight—made him pause.

He let out a breath, slow and rough, then stepped back from the bleeding man chained to the wall. His knuckles were raw—half his skin split open, bruised beneath the dried and fresh layers of blood.

Some of it was his. Most of it wasn't.

Kieran exhaled quietly beside him, finally allowing his shoulders to relax. He rolled his neck once, a faint pop echoing in the quiet.

"Guess the fun's over," Callias muttered, voice hoarse but dry with a crooked smirk. His breath came in short pants, his curls stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He turned slightly, not to check on the royals—but just enough to let them see the flicker of wildness still burning in his eyes.

Then, with a scoff, he wiped his bloodied knuckles across the thief's shredded tunic, dragging smears of red through the torn fabric like an artist signing his name.

Kieran's eyes didn't leave the man as he finally stepped back. But then, without ceremony, he offered Telemachus and Odysseus a curt nod of acknowledgment.

"Prince. King," he said, voice low but composed.

Callias echoed the gesture. "Thanks for the warm-up," he added with a sardonic lift of his brow. "We'll leave the rest to you."

And with that, they turned—faces already starting to shift from carved stone to something looser. Easier.

Callias rubbed the back of his neck, his steps casual now. The air around them began to settle, the airless tension in the room loosening at the edges.

"Gods," Callias muttered to Kieran as they walked, their voices fading into the corridor, "if I can't feel my fingers by lunch, you're carrying my tray."

Kieran gave a low grunt of amusement. "Fine. I'll even feed you, like a true war maiden."

Callias let out a bark of laughter that echoed off the stone. "What a gentleman~ I'm looking forward to that promise after I drop off her soup later..."

Their footsteps grew quieter with each passing second, until the heavy door creaked shut behind them.

Leaving the silence behind. And the blood.

The heavy door groaned shut behind them, its echo crawling up the stone walls like a second heartbeat. The dungeon felt heavier now, like the shadows clung to the corners with teeth.

Just the three of them.

Telemachus exhaled slow through his nose. Then, wordless, he moved to the side of the room where a splintered wooden chair rested in the corner—likely dragged in for moments just like this.

He took it by the back, flipped it around, and dropped into it backwards. His arms draped across the top rail, chin resting just above his forearm.

He didn't speak at first.

He just looked at him.

The man.

Slumped forward, wrists still bound high by chains, head tilted lazily to the side. One eye nearly swollen shut, the other squinting open just enough to track the prince's movement. Blood caked the front of his tunic, smeared from more than one person. His breath was shallow. Wet.

Odysseus stood beside his son, tall and unmoving, a silhouette cast in judgment. His silence said enough—for now.

Telemachus' gaze didn't waver. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady.

"Melanion."

The thief let out a thick groan. His head lolled slightly, chin lifting just a fraction as his one good eye found Telemachus'.

There was no spark in it—no defiance left, not after what Callias and Kieran had done—but there was still something there. Still that ratty, sour gleam that said he didn't regret enough.

Telemachus' jaw tensed. He rolled his shoulders once, slowly. Let the silence stretch just enough for the air to press harder.

"I always wondered," he murmured, his voice soft—almost like conversation, like he was reminiscing. "If one day, we'd have to deal with this. With them. The families of the suitors."

His hands curled slightly against the back of the chair. "Even after the gods gave us their blessing... even after Athena herself stood with us. I wondered if that would be enough to keep their ghosts buried."

A beat.

"It seems it wasn't."

He rose then, slow and quiet. The legs of the chair scraped faintly against the stone floor. Melanion didn't flinch—but his eye tracked him.

Telemachus stepped forward. His boots made soft, deliberate thuds. One after the other.

Then, without warning, he grabbed Melanion by the jaw. Roughly.

Fingers dug into cheek and temple, forcing the thief's face upward, twisting it toward him.

Telemachus leaned in, just close enough that his breath hit the man's blood-crusted skin.

His voice dropped to a growl.

"Do you even know what you've done?"

The words cut through the room like a blade—not yelled, but carved, sharp and low.

And somehow, that was what gave the bastard a spark.

Melanion's lips twisted into something wet and broken, gums pink from where his teeth had torn them. Then, with a grunt of effort and spite, he twisted his neck just enough—and spat.

A thick glob of blood and spit landed across Telemachus' cheekbone, just beneath his eye.

The prince didn't move.

Not yet.

Melanion gave a sick, rattling laugh. "Don't tell me..." he rasped, voice hoarse and flaking like rust, "you're all torn up over that little servant I took out in the alleyway."

He dragged the words out deliberately, slowly. The glee in his voice wasn't bright—it was filthy. Sludgy. Smug like old wine turned bitter in the sun.

"Was she special to you, boy?" he slurred, his one eye narrowing as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Didn't seem like much. Just another thing dressed up in silk and titles like a pig at a festival. Divine Liaison," he snorted, laughing through cracked lips. "As if that meant anything out there."

Telemachus' hands didn't move. But the grip on the man's face tightened.

Melanion kept going.

"She walked right into it, you know," he said, like confessing a joke to an old friend. "All dolled up in that fancy sash, those little pins and perfume and ribbons. Gods practically gift-wrapped her for me. There she was, glowing like Apollo himself kissed her forehead—what a perfect day."

His head lolled back slightly, lips peeling into a jagged grin. "Fate handed me retribution in soft skin and scared eyes. For Antinous. For the other suitors. You lot thought slaughtering our kin in that hall would go unanswered? Thought justice wouldn't find its way back to your doorstep?"

The chains groaned softly as he shifted, letting his body hang heavier in the restraints. "You're all cowards," he breathed, dark and low. "You let that murderer crawl back onto the throne like nothing happened. Let him drink and feast and fuck while the rest of us buried our dead."

His eye flicked back to Telemachus then—sharp, wild. "So don't pretend you care now. Don't act like it mattered. She screamed," he added, a terrible grin splitting across his bloodied face. "That's the only part I remember right. She screamed and bled, and I took everything she wore like it was owed."

Telemachus didn't blink.

Didn't flinch.

But the blood on his face started to dry.

And in his chest, something went silent.

But not still.

Because instead of the sharp snap of a fist, or the low growl of fury that should've followed—Telemachus laughed.

It started low. A breathless, quiet chuckle that curled out from behind his teeth like smoke from a dying fire. But then it kept going—growing, warped at the edges.

It rose in little fits, like something unraveling, peeling apart, unhinged. His shoulders shook, but not from amusement.

And all the while, his eyes didn't change.

Still flat. Still cold. Still... empty.

That smile spread wider—too wide. His lips stretched just a bit too far, the way a mask does when the actor underneath forgets they're performing.

The sound wasn't joy. It wasn't even mockery. It was the kind of laugh a man makes right before the knife goes in—not because he's lost his mind, but because he's found something darker in it.

Melanion froze.

He hadn't expected that.

Something in that sound—something behind that look—made his skin crawl. His earlier smugness began to slip, the drunken pride in his voice shrinking to something tighter. Smaller. His bravado cracked, just slightly, just enough for the chill to set in.

And Telemachus tilted his head.

A slow, lazy motion—like he was studying a specimen in a jar.

"You know..." he began, voice soft, conversational. His fingers flexed once at his sides before stilling again. "...for some reason, I'm just filled with so much wrath. So much anger." A beat passed. "I can barely think. My hands shake. My stomach churns. I feel it crawling up my throat, begging to be let out."

He smiled again, sharper now.

"But my mind?" he whispered. "Crystal clear."

Melanion swallowed.

Telemachus stepped in, slow and deliberate, voice never rising. "Isn't that funny? You'd think I'd be mindless by now. That I'd just tear into you like a beast. But no. The gods..." He paused. Then leaned in slightly, so close Melanion could see the faintest twitch beneath his eye. "The gods must want me to enjoy this."

Another pause. And then—

"You should thank them for that."

He straightened, letting the weight of the moment settle like a blade on the neck.

"Because a quick death?" Telemachus said, voice dipped in venom. "That would've been mercy."

And mercy, tonight, was not in fashion.

☆

☆

But Olympus had never been known for its mercy either.

Apollo sat slouched on his gilded throne, one elbow propped lazily on the sunstone armrest, cheek resting heavily against his knuckles.

His robes—once immaculate, pressed with radiant golden folds—hung a little messier than usual, creased where they shouldn't be.

His hair was undone at the ends, the usual sun-swept curls dimmed to a duller hue. Light still clung to him, of course—it always did—but it flickered now. Lazier. Less alive.

He hadn't spoken since arriving.

Not when the other gods gathered. Not when the meeting began. Not when Zeus gave him that look across the space between their thrones.

He simply stared straight ahead. Silent. Sinking.

The marble chamber was alive with noise. Quarreling voices and raised complaints, the clink of amphora being set too loudly on stone, the occasional flash of divine energy when tempers snapped too close to the surface.

Another day in paradise.

Another council of immortals pretending order mattered more than pride.

But Apollo?

He couldn't bring himself to care.

Not when the news of your death still stained his memories like rust.

Not when he'd been grounded like a child for grieving too hard. Too loudly. Too destructively.

A god of wrath was still a god, wasn't he?

His thumb dragged over the curve of his lower lip absentmindedly. The gold ring there buzzed against his skin, humming with latent magic. The color matched the color of his eyes. You'd told him so one time. He hadn't taken it off since.

He didn't plan to.

A voice pierced the commotion.

"...explain why we are wasting time with a trial?" Hera's voice rose, cutting through the layered noise like a knife through honeyed figs. She was already mid-sentence, her regal tone laced with cold disdain. "He's a mortal who harmed the favored of an Olympian. There should be no debate. Rid him and lets move on."

That pulled him from the fog—just slightly.

Apollo blinked, slowly lifting his head. His gaze dragged toward the center of the court where Hera sat, her crown gleaming with starlight, expression cool and sharp.

Before he could speak—before he even felt the words forming—Aphrodite giggled.

"Oh, goddess queen," she cooed, her tone light and airy like a harp string plucked too hard. Her lips curled in lazy amusement as she twirled a strand of golden hair between two fingers. "You must know by now... Apollo's darling has been the talk of Olympus lately."

She tilted her head, eyes twinkling, and her gaze flicked briefly to Apollo—just long enough for the corners of her mouth to twitch higher.

"The mortal girl who sings. The one with the scar now. Everyone's been whispering. The Fates have threads wrapped tight around her. And the mortal who hurt her?" She shrugged, unbothered. "Even if he's judged below, some of us don't think that's enough. Not after what she suffered. Not when he daredmark a favorite."

Apollo's jaw tensed. That old, burning heat itched again in his veins. His fingers curled around the armrest, gold creaking faintly under the pressure.

"I should be the one to handle it."

The words cut clean through the room, silencing even the more excitable gods. His voice was low but firm, almost eerily steady given the heat behind his eyes. He sat forward now, posture no longer slouched but coiled—ready, brimming with barely-contained fire.

He looked out at the council like a storm surveying the shore.

"She was mine," he said, his voice sharper now, the edge of it wrapped in divine fury. "My chosen. My blessed. And the mortal who dared lay hands on her... who dared scar her... should face punishment from the one who held her fate in his hands from the beginning."

"And dragged her into it," Hermes muttered from the other side of the hall.

Apollo's head snapped toward him, golden gaze narrowed. But Hermes wasn't cowed. The messenger god lounged with his staff across his lap, ankles crossed, brows lifted in challenge.

"I'm the one who brought her back," Hermes said, tone deceptively light. "If anyone has the right to decide what's fair for the thief, it's the god who carried her soul through the veil and back again."

Apollo's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't have needed to save her if he hadn't touched her at all."

Hermes rolled his eyes. "Yes, well. You also wouldn't have gifted a mortal a lyre made of sunlight, but here we are."

Before either could press further, another voice rumbled into the fray.

"I don't care who punishes him," Ares said, arms folded across his broad chest, lounging in his stone chair like a wolf in the shade. "Just let me be there when it happens. Blood's blood. Doesn't matter if it's spilled in Olympus or on dirt. I just want to see it pour."

He smirked—grinning with teeth that weren't meant to be pretty.

"Oh," Aphrodite sighed dramatically, "of course you do."

"Silence."

The command cracked through the chamber with a force that nearly shook the foundations. A loud crack of thunder echoed across the marble as Zeus raised his hand, lightning curling around his knuckles like a sleeping beast stirred.

His eyes swept over the room.

"If the gods cannot agree... then I will decide."

No one moved.

No one dared.

Not even Apollo, who sat stiffly in his throne now, fists clenched tight enough to turn knuckles bone-white under immortal skin.

His glare remained fixed on the center of the court, but he said nothing.

Because they all knew what it meant when Zeus made a decree.

It was law. Unshakeable. Unbendable. A thunderbolt of decision that cleaved through all debate.

No god, no matter how radiant or righteous, could challenge it without consequence.

Zeus remained still for a moment, high upon his throne, the storm in his eyes flickering like distant lightning behind clouded skies.

His expression was unreadable—neither angry nor amused, just... ancient. Worn. As though the weight of centuries pressed behind every syllable that waited in his chest.

"She," he began slowly, "is a mortal."

His voice echoed through the marble halls like a prophecy being written midair.

"And yet... in the span of a few years, she has managed to carve herself into the hearts of immortals. Apollo. Hermes. Athena. Even Artemis watches from afar, more silent than usual. Ares grins at her scars like they're proof of worth."

He paused.

"I do not understand her," Zeus admitted, voice quieter now—but not weak. Just thoughtful. "How she weaves herself into the threads of gods. Into our halls. Our conversations. Our choices."

A long breath passed from him, heavy with the weight of something unspoken.

"But regardless... she is not ours to keep. Not truly. Not forever."

A ripple passed through the court. Apollo sat unmoving, his jaw tight. Athena's eyes narrowed, unreadable. Hermes merely tilted his head, ever-watchful. Even Ares seemed momentarily less wolfish.

"So let it be known," Zeus continued, voice rising once more to fill every crack of Olympus, "that the punishment for the mortal who harmed the Divine Liaison will not be delivered by Olympus alone."

He raised a hand, lightning crackling softly between his fingers.

"Those gods who seek retribution—Apollo, Hermes, Athena, Ares—may influence the mortal realm. You may tip the scales where justice teeters. Let your favor guide mortal hands, but you will notintervene directly. Not until they have done what must be done."

The words rang final.

"You may watch. You may wait. But the first blood spilled will be from the hands of men. The punishment must begin with the ones who bled for her."

There was a beat of silence.

And then—

"I accept," Athena said first, her voice like a drawn blade—controlled, quiet, but deadly.

Hermes gave a lazy shrug, but his smile had sharp edges. "Wouldn't miss it."

Ares barked a laugh, deep and wicked. "About damn time."

Apollo said nothing at first.

But then he stood.

Slowly.

The golden light around him flared—not hot, not blinding, but deep. Old. Like the first sunrise after a long, black winter. His eyes—amber and bright—locked with his father's.

"I will not rest until it's done," Apollo said, and his voice was a promise. Not of mercy. But of wrath.

Zeus nodded once.

"Then the trial is complete," he declared, lowering his hand.

The lightning faded.

And the gods who loved you most rose—silent, burning, hungry—to follow the storm down to earth.

Their descent was not heralded with trumpets nor divine light—no crack of thunder, no flare of stars. Just silence. A sudden stillness in the air of a place already thick with rage and blood.

In a single blink, the shadows in the corners of the dungeon grew longer, darker—shimmering faintly with something just beyond mortal sight.

They came in the space between breaths. In the hush between screams and strikes.

Apollo stood first—his form limned with gold and fire, though none of it touched the walls. His face was unreadable, cold. But his eyes glowed, brighter than the torches in the dungeon hall.

Athena stood next, silent and statuesque. Her helm glinted with dull steel, her hand wrapped around her invisible spear. Even unseen, her presence bent the air like the draw of a bowstring.

Ares arrived like a weight dropped from a great height. No grand entrance, just there. Massive, unyielding, arms crossed, mouth curled in a cruel sneer.

Hermes hovered above them all, casually leaned back as if he'd been watching the entire time with one leg crossed over the other, a lazy tilt to his stance—but his golden eyes never blinked, never strayed from the center of the room.

And at the center?

Melanion.

The man who had slit the side of your face open and watched you bleed alone in the dirt.

He was still chained, barely upright, blood pooling beneath him like wine spilled in a cellar. The chair Telemachus once sat in lay discarded a few feet away—overturned, leg cracked.

Melanion's body hung from the shackles on his wrists, limp but not unconscious. Not yet. The bruises across his torso were darker now, splotches of sick purple and red mixing across cracked ribs. His face was swollen, lip split in three places, one eye forced shut by swelling.

He wheezed through the pain—but still spat when Telemachus struck him again.

The prince's fist crashed into his stomach with enough force to make the chains rattle. Melanion jerked forward, gasping, bile rising to his throat.

Ares scoffed from the shadows of Olympus just beyond the veil.

"That's it?" he grunted, brow twitching. "That's all the boy's got in him? I've seen soft-palmed scribes hit harder in the agoras."

Hermes, surprisingly, gave a small hum, brows raised. "Honestly, I expected worse," he admitted, floating lazily downward, one hand on his chin. "Callias and Kieran left him breathing. Curious restraint, given the circumstances."

"Cowards," Ares muttered. "She bled."

Apollo didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

His glare—unblinking, razor-sharp—never left Melanion's face. His golden hands, loosely clenched at his sides, flexed like they were straining against invisible chains of their own.

There was fury in every line of his body, but it was cold. Controlled. The kind that waited until the moment after the last breath, just to draw it out.

The thief groaned again—low, wet, broken—and Telemachus reached for him once more.

Apollo leaned forward, golden eyes glowing hotter.

He wanted to rip the man from the wall and carve each word of her pain into his bones.

He wanted him to know what it meant to strike something loved by the divine.

And he hated—truly hated—that he couldn't.

That for all his power, for all his fire and light, Zeus had wrapped his hands in rule and bound them to the sidelines.

It was a mockery. A leash.

And Apollo had never been good with leashes.

"Useless decree," he muttered under his breath. "Useless words, useless delay—I could've ended him by now."

Especially not ones forged in rules and compromise, dressed up as diplomacy. His jaw ticked. His grip on nothing tightened until even the air around his fingers shimmered.

But then—

"I wouldn't insult those boys just yet," Athena said coolly, her voice slicing through the dark like the edge of her spear. She hadn't moved from her position, hadn't even blinked since they arrived, but there was an unmistakable shift in her tone now—one that made even Hermes glance over.

"They are not wasting time," she continued. "They are being... intentional. Every hit, every delay, every breath they allow that man to take is not mercy. It's precision. They're not just beating him, Ares. They're breaking him."

Her gaze slid sideways to the war god, who rolled his shoulders like a lion stretching its claws.

"Hmph," Ares grunted, unimpressed. "If they were mine, he'd already be screaming for death by now. There's no poetry in dragging it out like this. A cracked skull speaks louder than a bruised ego."

"That's the difference between you and them," Athena snapped, her storm-gray eyes narrowing. "You see battle. They see justice. Measured. Thoughtful. I trained them better than to let anger do the thinking for them."

A beat.

Then, her lips pressed into a thin line, and she added—perhaps sharper than she meant to:

"...I even charmed them."

That stilled the room.

Even the whispers of the torchlight seemed to freeze.

Apollo's gaze finally broke from Melanion and cut toward her.

"You what?" Hermes asked, brows arching.

Athena didn't look at him. Her expression remained forward-facing, impassive—but her jaw clenched ever so slightly.

"I wove a charm into their blood before they descended," she said, calm but low. "To keep their fury contained. To hold back the kind of rage that eats from the inside out."

Her words fell like stones into water.

And the only sound afterward... was the wet smack of a fist meeting flesh, and the dull grunt of a man trying not to scream.

Ares grinned.

Not the kind of grin that meant amusement. Not even the kind he gave before drawing his blade.

It was wolfish—sharp and wide and feral. A dangerous glint sparked in his molten-gold eyes as he tilted his head just slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching with something primal.

Bloodlust.

It hung off him like steam rising from sunbaked armor.

Athena's head turned immediately.

"No," she said—stern and cold. Her voice cracked through the air like steel pulled from its sheath. "Don't."

Ares only laughed under his breath, like a boy caught stealing sweets, his eyes never leaving the scene below.

"You heard Father," Athena said again, stepping forward now, her tone cutting. "He forbade intervention."

Ares scoffed, rolling his shoulders like the warning bored him. He didn't stop walking—just casually strolled across the shadowy edge of the space, drifting closer to where Odysseus loomed near Melanion's battered frame.

The king remained unaware of the war god's invisible presence—focused, tight-jawed, fists balled at his side.

"Dear sister," Ares said, drawling it out as though the words were honey on his tongue. "Were you not at the same trial as I?"

Athena's stare narrowed.

He finally stopped walking, hovering just behind Odysseus. The sight of the older man, jaw clenched and neck corded in restraint, made Ares' grin grow wider.

"Zeus didn't say we couldn't influence," Ares said lazily, flexing his fingers in the air as though weighing a spear. "He gave us leave to do so. His words, not mine."

He turned just slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder at the goddess of wisdom.

"Or is it only you who gets to touch your little protégés?" he asked. "Tell me, Athena... is divine interference only noble when it wears bronze and logic?"

The air tightened, coiling with unsaid things.

Athena's expression darkened, lips pressed into a line so sharp it might've cut stone. Her spear tapped once—quietly—but the noise echoed like thunder through the silence between them.

And then... Ares moved.

He didn't speak. Didn't smirk. Just raised a single hand, and with a flick of his fingers—two—the charm snapped.

It shattered like glass.

No sound. No glow. Just gone.

And the change... was immediate.

Telemachus' next punch wasn't controlled.

It slammed into Melanion's jaw with a sickening crack, the prince's breath sharp and animalistic as his shoulders hunched and his teeth bared like a feral thing.

His fists didn't pause—one after another, the strikes kept coming, fueled not by duty or justice now, but rage. Pure, red-hot, unfiltered wrath.

Odysseus mirrored the shift.

The King of Ithaca, once a pillar of control even in his fury, let out a low, guttural snarl as his boot connected with Melanion's ribs.

It was brutal. Repetitive.

There was no tactic to it now. No precision. Just fury long buried, unleashed like a tide that no mind—no goddess—could suppress.

And faintly, across their skin, a shimmer of red began to spread. Subtle at first, like war paint caught in flame-light, but growing. Thicker. Darker. It clung to their auras like steam rising from bloodied stone.

The very air throbbed with something—old, primal. As if war itself had kissed them.

Ares' grin was all teeth.

"There it is," he growled, eyes gleaming gold as he stepped forward, watching with a hunger barely restrained. "The wrath of men. Not symbols. Not sons. Just men." His voice was hoarse with satisfaction. "I gave them a gift."

Behind him, Athena stood still, her expression unreadable—but her hand tightened once around her spear.

And then she vanished.

No final word. No farewell. Just gone—like breath sucked from the lungs.

She wouldn't stay for this.

Wouldn't watch blood for blood's sake. Uncalculated vengeance. Unclean.

When she disappeared, Ares scoffed, not bothering to hide his smirk. "Tch. Goddess of war, my ass," he muttered, watching a fresh splatter of blood hit the stone floor. "You'd think after all these centuries, she'd understand—strategy and savagery aren't enemies."

A tooth clatter near the war god's foot.

"They're just two sides of the same sword."

         .☆.     .✩. .☆.

[EDIT: Final warning, lovely reader... if you're like the godess Athena, I implore you leave as well... things does not get better from here ❤️]

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

Time passed—but it was impossible to tell how much.

Minutes. Hours. It blurred.

The shadows in the dungeon had grown deeper, though no torch had gone out.

Melanion was barely conscious now—his head hanging low, face swollen and bloodied beyond recognition.

Bones had cracked. Flesh had split. But the two royals didn't slow.

Their movements had lost all sense of rhythm or form. What began as vengeance had unraveled into something messier. Their rage was no longer something they carried. It carried them.

Telemachus' knuckles were raw, the skin flayed open and shining red. Odysseus' footfalls were heavy, unrelenting, echoing as he paced between strikes like a hound unwilling to sit.

The red shimmer clinging to them—Ares' mark—still pulsed faintly around their bodies, as if flame and fury had seeped beneath the skin.

And that fury hadn't faded.

It hadn't budged.

Not even a flicker of remorse touched their eyes. Only the weight of everything that had been stolen. The fear. The memory of you, gone.

Ares had been the first to go, of course. Predictably.

Sometime after he grew bored of spectating and caught the scent of conflict brewing far off across the Aegean, the war god had simply clapped his hands once, grinned wide, and declared, "Another storm's calling. I'll let these boys finish their song."

Then he vanished in a flash of ash and iron, his laughter echoing down the stone corridor.

Apollo had stayed long enough to watch the wrath swell, to see it turn feral.

But at some point, even he had stepped back.

Not because he pitied the mortal in chains—no, not even close—but because he knew this would not be the end of their wrath. Even when the body went still... the pain would not.

Eventually, he let out a low breath. Without a word, he turned and disappeared into golden dust, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of sun-warmed laurel.

Hermes lingered just a bit longer.

He hadn't said much the entire time. Just watched.

Silent, unreadable. But his eyes—usually full of laughter or teasing glint—had been dull, shadowed with something heavier.

"I thought they'd be done by now," he murmured to himself at one point. "I thought maybe they'd cry. Gods, even a scream would've been better than this."

But the two mortals said nothing. Just kept going.

Hermes eventually sighed. His sandals shifted. "Ares' enchantment won't wear off for a bit," he muttered, stretching his arms behind his head, tone flat. "They'll keep burning until their wrath burns through."

And with that, he vanished too—flickering out like a thought unspoken.

And so, eventually, it was just the two of them left.

No gods watching.

No shadows shifting.

Just the sound of heavy breathing. The drip of blood. The faint rasp of chains scraping stone.

And the fire still blazing behind two sets of mortal eyes.

Melanion let out a sound that wasn't quite a groan. More a wet gurgle, a broken wheeze struggling past a mouth full of shattered teeth and blood.

His head lolled weakly to the side, the only movement he could seem to manage. His swollen face twitched as he tried to look up, tried to focus, tried to exist in the ruins of his own body.

He was unrecognizable now.

Flesh hung open where knuckles had cracked bone. His tunic had long since been torn, stained dark with blood and other things.

Bruises bloomed in sickening hues across his skin, spreading like rot.

One shoulder was clearly dislocated, the other twisted at an angle no human arm should bend. His legs barely moved.

He was broken, mangled. Left dangling by his wrists, barely tethered to life.

There were teeth on the floor. Bone shards in puddles of red. A piece of lip. A chunk of cheek.

They had left him on the brink. No—past it. Past what anyone could call justice. And still, somehow, Melanion breathed.

Telemachus finally took a step back.

His chest heaved with each breath, his shoulders rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore.

He wiped his face with the back of his arm—though it did little.

Blood spattered across his jaw, his brow, even down his throat, dark and drying in flecks.

It wasn't just the man's blood, either. His own knuckles were raw and open, slick with a mix of both.

Odysseus stood a few feet away, posture tight and unmoving, his expression unreadable. But the blood had soaked through his sleeves, and his fists were still clenched.

The silence buzzed.

Melanion's body shuddered once, spasming on its chains.

And Telemachus stepped forward again.

His eyes didn't look angry anymore. Just... calm. Dead calm. The kind of quiet that came after too much noise—too much rage to sustain. A hollow lull of clarity that still whispered: one more.

His hand reached for the hilt of a blade.

But before he could move—before the finishing blow could fall—

A step echoed through the chamber.

And everything went still.

The air shifted.

From the far end of the dungeon, where the shadows loomed deepest, a light gleamed off bronze and pale blue.

Athena.

She stepped into view, her spear in one hand, her presence cutting through the blood-slick air like a cold wind.

The goddess didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. Her storm-gray eyes swept the room, pausing on Melanion's ruined form... then on the two men who had nearly killed him.

Her expression was unreadable. But her jaw tightened. Just slightly.

"Enough," she said finally, her voice low, yet it carried like a command carved into stone.

Telemachus froze, the blade still unsheathed in his palm.

"You've proven your strength," she continued, eyes flicking between father and son. "Now prove your restraint."

Her gaze held on Telemachus the longest. She didn't look disappointed. But she didn't look proud either.

There was something else—something more ancient in her eyes. A test passed, but not without cost.

"Take a break. Clean yourselves up. Rest," Athena said, her tone sharpening.

Then softer, almost begrudging: "You've earned it."

Telemachus looked like he wanted to speak. His lips parted, breath sharp in his throat, something half-formed—whether an objection, a question, or just the need to do something—curled at the edge of his voice.

But Athena cut him off with just a glance. Not cruel, but decisive.

"He will still be here," she said calmly, her gaze flicking to the near-corpse chained to the wall. "Even after you've washed. Even after you've checked on her. Even after you've eaten and remembered the names of your own gods again."

Her tone was cool but not heartless. Just final.

"Go."

It was Odysseus who moved first, placing a quiet but firm hand on his son's back.

Telemachus hesitated a second longer, jaw tight, eyes still burning as they lingered on the bloody wreck of Melanion. But then—he nodded once, curt and heavy, and turned.

Their footsteps echoed faintly as they left. The door creaked closed behind them with a low groan, sealing the room in its thick, quiet air.

Athena remained.

Alone now with the butcher.

She stepped forward slowly, her sandals brushing lightly over the crimson-smeared stone. She didn't look disgusted. Or fearful. Or even bothered by the stink of blood.

If anything, her expression remained... studious.

She crouched slightly, eyeing the pitiful heap Melanion had become. "Tell me," she said softly, as though he were capable of coherent reply, "what made you think there would be no consequences?"

No answer.

Just a wet rattle in the back of his throat.

Her brows furrowed slightly, and her gaze swept the floor—only to pause when it caught the glisten of something fleshy near the edge of the shadows. A pink, ragged lump.

It took her a second.

Then she exhaled quietly through her nose.

"...Ah."

The tongue.

She tilted her head, a flicker of detached disappointment settling over her features. "So. You can't scream. You can't beg. You can't explain."

Her tone wasn't mocking. Only... noting the facts.

She straightened slowly, eyes narrowing.

"I cannot heal what no longer belongs to the body," she murmured. "But I can... lessen the consequences."

Athena raised her hand. Her fingers shimmered faintly, the light trailing from them like ink bleeding through water.

She pressed them gently against Melanion's forehead.

And just like that, the tension in his body slackened. His breath evened slightly, no longer panicked. His face, though broken, fell slack in a dazed calm.

She hadn't fixed him. But she'd taken the pain from him. Or at least dulled it enough to pull him back into consciousness.

"I want you lucid," she whispered, voice low and close now. "Because when the time comes again... I want you to understand exactly what they are about to do to you."

Then she stood once more, her silhouette tall and calm amid the carnage.

And the silence settled in again—thick and waiting.

It didn't take long.

Melanion's head twitched—his eyes fluttering open with a wet, sluggish blink. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down his neck, crusted thick around his mouth, nose, hairline. But when his gaze found the towering figure before him—Athena, unmoving and inscrutable—something in him snapped.

A broken sob ripped from his chest.

And then he wept.

Not with dignity. Not with silence. But loud, gurgled, pitiful cries that choked on themselves as they fought through a ruined mouth.

The absence of his tongue turned his attempts at words into grotesque, garbled slop—moist, thick noises that could have been names or apologies or empty begging.

None of it made sense. But all of it bled desperation.

His body jolted weakly in the chains, ribs creaking with the force of his panic.

Athena remained still.

Unmoved.

Her eyes held him—calm, clear, detached.

"Fear not, mortal," she said smoothly. "I will not cause you harm."

Her voice was devoid of cruelty. It was cool water to his fire—but it did not douse his panic. If anything, the clarity of it only deepened his hysteria.

And then—

With no sound, no warning—two shapes began to materialize behind her.

One of golden radiance, the other shimmered like the edge of a blade drawn in moonlight.

Apollo appeared first, glowing faintly, his eyes shadowed and dark, jaw tight enough to crack. The second—Hermes—seemed more casual by contrast, arms folded and gaze flicking lazily around the blood-spattered chamber, but even he carried a tension beneath his skin.

Athena didn't turn. She simply arched a brow.

"What happened to Ares?" she asked dryly.

Hermes shrugged, his sandals not quite touching the ground. "War called," he said, voice light. "A proper one, this time. Blood, fire, glory. He said entertainment like that shouldn't be kept waiting."

Athena rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, "Of course he did." With a sweep of her spear, she stepped to the side—making way for the two gods behind her, the divine air around them pressing in like the shifting tide.

Hermes moved first, his stride easy, near-lazy, though the sharpness in his eyes said otherwise. He glanced sideways at Apollo, lips twitching. "Suppose we can get along for a day," he said dryly, "Just for this."

Apollo's jaw flexed as he passed Athena. "This will be the only thing we agree on today," he replied, voice cool. He didn't look at Hermes, didn't need to. His golden eyes remained fixed on the broken mortal in front of them—what little was left of him. "But yes... today, you and I are of one mind."

He hummed low in his throat—almost a note, almost music, but there was no sweetness to it.

"Mortals these days," he mused, as if to the room, "so careless."

His gaze darkened, lowering toward the bloodied heap that had once had the nerve to mock a prince in his own palace.

"So small," he murmured, voice now tight with disdain, "and yet so loud."

Then his voice dropped—soft, but lined with cold steel. "You said the gods practically gift-wrapped her for you."

Hermes' brow twitched, expression going still. Even Athena—off to the side now, watching with arms crossed—let her gaze flicker toward Apollo at the repetition.

Apollo leaned forward slightly, the air rippling around him with heat that had nothing to do with fire. "Tell me," he said, voice dangerously low, "is that what you believe? That because we do not walk beside you mortals in every moment... because we do not blaze through your streets, winged and crowned... that we are gone? That we no longer see?"

Melanion didn't answer.

Couldn't.

He only shook—barely, weakly—his chained wrists trembling where they hung.

Apollo stared at him, cold and still.

"Your silence is wiser than your words," he said, gold light flickering like a halo behind his head. "A shame you didn't find it earlier."

Hermes let out a low, amused chuckle, cocking his head toward the mangled man chained to the wall.

"Nothing to say now, huh?" he asked, voice airy and sharp all at once. He stepped in closer, his sandals still not quite touching the floor—hovering just an inch above, like the god of travelers couldn't be bothered with something as mundane as gravity. His golden eyes glittered with mischief, but there was no warmth in them.

He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with Melanion's bloodied face.

"Do you remember what she told you?" Hermes asked softly, mockingly, like a friend recalling a funny joke. "She said—what was it again? Oh, right..." He tapped his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness, then grinned. "'If you dare lay a hand on me, you'll answer to more than the gods.'"

Silence.

Melanion trembled, a pitiful shiver wracking his torn-up frame. His mouth moved around nothing, no tongue to form words—only breathy gasps, and the gurgle of old blood in his throat.

Hermes tilted his head, smile still plastered in place. "You should've listened to her."

And it was in that moment—maybe for the first time since the gods arrived—that it truly sank in.

They were here for him.

Not just watching.

Not just listening.

They had come to collect.

His one good eye—swollen and bloodshot—stared at them. At Apollo's burning silhouette, at Hermes' weightless form, and finally, desperately, toward Athena.

He saw her standing there, regal and unwavering, and a sick panic overtook him. The kind that crawled up your spine like a thousand biting insects.

His body seized in terror, chains rattling weakly against the stone.

And then—

The wet sound of piss hitting the floor.

Melanion began to weep.

He couldn't speak, not truly—but his garbled cries, bloody and wet, were unmistakable. He tried to beg. To plead. To throw himself on some invisible mercy. His gaze locked on Athena like she might be the only one capable of granting it.

She held his gaze for a long moment.

Then bowed her head.

"I told you, mortal," she said evenly, her tone sharp as a blade's edge. "I shall not cause you harm."

She paused.

"But that does not mean harm will not come to you."

And with that, her form shimmered and then she was gone. Disappearing into the air like moonlight pulled into the wind.

The air in the dungeon grew heavier. Still.

And the gods who remained... no longer looked patient.

Apollo's scowl deepened as he looked upon the sniveling wreck of a man at his feet.

Melanion was nothing but a patchwork of bruises and blood, his face swollen past recognition, skin split and raw in too many places to count. His eye—what was left of it—rolled uselessly in its socket, his body sagging in the chains like meat left too long on a hook.

Apollo clicked his tongue, head tilting in visible disgust.

"Pathetic," he muttered. "He's already this mangled? They didn't even save any fun for us." He swept a golden gaze over the sobbing man, lip curled. "What a waste."

Hermes chuckled beside him and stepped forward casually, lifting his foot and slamming it—not too hard, just enough—against one of Melanion's exposed wounds.

There was a wet sound. A strangled scream. The man's chains clattered as his body spasmed against the hit.

Hermes didn't even blink. "Shame, really," he mused. "I was hoping for a bit more... spirit." His hand hovered over Melanion's cheek, blood still trickling from the split skin. "Guess we'll have to coax it out."

Apollo's scowl smoothed into something worse.

A smile.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," he said lightly. "I'm the god of healing, remember?"

Before Melanion could even flinch, Apollo raised one hand, fingers loose and relaxed. Then—snap—just the barest flick of his index and middle finger.

Golden light burst through the air like a flare.

It struck Melanion square in the chest, and immediately his body arched in the chains.

Every bruised, broken part of him snapped back into place with sickening cracks and pops.

The cuts sealed. Bone reknit. His tongue—long since lost—regrew before their eyes, flesh knitting into shape like a cruel reversal of mercy.

He was whole again.

Every inch of him.

Every nerve.

Every part that could hurt now would.

Hermes let out a long, low whistle. "Neat trick," he said, admiring Apollo's handiwork. "So we've got what... hours? Until the royals come back?"

"Longer if they eat slow," Apollo replied sweetly, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.

Hermes stepped back, stretching his fingers as if warming up. "Plenty of time, then."

He looked at Melanion, who had gone stiff—eyes wide, whole, filled with something beyond terror.

"You know..." Hermes said, almost conversational, "we can do whatever we want to you. Anything. And then just fix you up again. Start over. Break a bone? Heal it. Take an eye? Grow it back. Set you on fire?" He leaned in, smirking. "Snuff you out. Light you up again."

He patted Melanion's cheek—almost tender. "And the best part?"

Melanion whimpered.

Hermes smiled wider. "We've got all night before the prince and the king return to finish what they started."

Apollo chuckled low in his throat, stepping forward until the torchlight caught his eyes in a glint of gold. He didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Because the moment he raised his hand again, and that warm, shimmering light flickered through his fingertips—

Melanion knew this was only the beginning.

And then... darkness closed in.

And the screaming began.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: as a token of my gratitudes for yalls encouragement of my sis's book, here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.42 ┃ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠; y'all didn't think i was gon let the thief get away with what he did... did y'all??? anywho, this chapter starts after the servantr comes in and says a vague as message to odysseus/telemachus. ngl i had a blast writing this, so much fun getting into the mindsets of my characters etc. lol, also, beware, this will be like 10k+ words, so.... buckle up lolo, (also, i may take a few days just to finish tweaking the next few chapters before i post etc, so if i just dip for like a week, thats why... see you all 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 idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

While trying to sleep one night I saw you dropped a new chapter (39) and while nearing the end my brain was a like: Zeus: Oh I’m so sorry for your muse passing away, she gets 5 big booms (I meant to send this earlier but forgot. Sorry if I’m a little incoherent my sleep schedule has been doing a full on acrobatics but at that one extreme French circus that tours around routine 😭) have a nice day/night :3

hahah yesss! i had fun with the timing ngl 💀💀💀 Zeus really gave MC a 5-volcano salute like she was a war general. Like Apollo was out here screaming, crying, throwing solar flares, and Zeus just went "ahem. thunder boom. that'll do."😭 Also the way you described your sleep schedule?? "Extreme French circus that tours around"—same. but plz make sure to get plenty of rest as well 😩❤️ thank you sm for reading!! I'm so honored you let my lil murder chapter be the thing you read while half-asleep (lol not that sounding/looking horrible). Sweet dreams and thunderous funerals to you always. 🫶⚡💐

[winxanity-ii]

Hêhhhehehheheh, i have write a little fan-fanfic 😀( wut do u call a fanfic of a fanfic😔?) like what if Y/n cant not run away from death🥳?

English is not my first langue but hope u enjoy it👽

Years pass and the olive pit we once planted has grown into a mighty and unwavering tree. The wind that day blows through the sky, so fast and strong as if it is carrying emergency news. It does. As the iron smell of blood swept through the tomb beneath that very olive tree.

A war has begun.

A war in your name.

A war you could have ended with a smile.

Bathed in blood i limbly carried myself towards you, eyes hazed like morning mist, mind empty like the tomb itself. What would you do if you see me like this, I wonder. Would you scold me like when we were children with the sun kissing our skin? Would you gently pull me into your soft embrace and heal me, indulge me like we were in our spring? A chuckle escaped through my blood filled mouth, ironic really, it just me now passed that spring; like autumn I no longer bear the dazzling light, no longer bear the warmth, all that remains is the cracking of the orange leaves.

Was that the sounds of my soul or my tearing bones?

My mind drifts to the time when you used to heal me. The image of your locks falls gracefully, hugging your frame; your eyes so deep bore into mine; the way heat creeps up your cheeks when you roam your hands across my body; and oh your lips, your soft soft lips. To have a kiss of those would make Zesus jealous of me.

A sharp pang of pain brought me back from my daydreams. Now stood in front of me, you in all your beauty and glory, yet cold like marble stones under the waterfall. Me in nothing but ruin, blood of friends and enemies, as the King of Ithaca. I want to collapse in your arms, to rest my head in your laps, let your hand run through my hair. But how can I dirty you with blood? After all these years, I still can not gather my courage to confess my love to you, even with your statue. I am no king. Not even man.

I sat down in front of your statue, slowly falling limb. Would today i see you, in my dreams or in my death.

WAIT. HOLD ON. I just read that lil fanfic you sent me and I'm actually reeling??? Like??? That wasn't just a fanfic of Godly Things, that was a whole ghostwritten epilogue and I think I'm spiraling. 😭😭

(PLZ READ BELOW LINE TO SEE MY FULL DOWNSPIRAL OF THIS PIECE OF LITERATURE!)

Before I even start, Honestly? Imma call this an 'echo fic'. It does amazing expanding rather than rewriing—the kind of poetic homage that slips perfectly into canon-adjacent grief... just *chefs kiss* 🫴🏾

Now the writing??? Gorgeous. Even with the language barrier, you nailed the emotional pacing and lyrical vibe—like it was grief poured into poetry. And second of all... WHO was this supposed to be?? Because I genuinely couldn't tell—and I mean that in the best way.

It could've been Telemachus, dragging his blood-soaked body back to the reader's grave, ashamed and silent, still haunted by the one person he couldn't save.

It could've been Hermes, pretending he's fine as he delivers souls but still whispering to MC's statue.

Or even Apollo, refusing to accept that MC died despite his favor.

The way it was written—hazy, timeless, aching—it could be any of them, which makes it even more haunting. Like a universal grief spoken in many voices. 💔

Also the line about autumn??? The olive tree?? The "Would today I see you, in my dreams or in my death"??? No because that's something I'd print out and staple to the summary/blurb if I was a crueler person. 😭

Anyway. I loved it. Thank you for writing something that made my bones ache a little. You are now officially part of the Godly Things extended universe, no take backs. 💀💕

[winxanity-ii]

Bro, the newest chapter of Godly Things has me so sad, cause Hermes finally feels the inkling of love and being himself, not just a messenger, and he will in all likelihood not end up with reader. Do you intend on writing multiple endings? My poor boi Hermes

you just punched me in the softest part of my chest and walked away 😭 bc YES. hermes is finally feeling something real—something his own—and he's still convinced he doesn't get to keep anything. not love, not a life outside orders, not her. i like the idea of having him hide it behind teasing and theatrics, but the boy is clearly lonely.

i won't say too much (bc spoiler paths be spiraling rn lol) but just know: 💔 some boys may not get the ending, 🪶 but every boy will get their truth. and sometimes that's worse 😇

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 42 Chapter 42 | even the dead wept for the living⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You woke with a gasp—sharp and sudden.

The ceiling above you was unfamiliar and blinding in the early light. You stared at it for a long moment, breath ragged, limbs stiff and unmoving, your mind struggling to remember how to be alive again.

Then, slowly, shakily, you pushed yourself upright.

Your palms pressed into the bedding beneath you—cool sheets, slightly rough—and your body moved as if made of stone, aching in ways you couldn't explain. The air felt too thin, your lungs refusing to fill completely. You looked around in a daze, heart pounding.

The room was... quiet. Still.

But everything in you was not.

Your hand shot up to your head as a sharp, stabbing pain bloomed behind your eyes, like something was being pried open. You clutched the side of your skull, wincing as your breath hitched—and then the panic hit. Hard.

Your chest swelled with a crushing tightness as flashes tore through your mind—frantic, splintering images.

A gleam of metal.

A cry in your throat.

That knife. The way it swung down, fast, too fast to stop—

That burning, white-hot pain that cut through your ribs and made everything else fade.

You remembered collapsing. The taste of blood.

And then...

The mists.

Hermes' arms, warm and trembling with something unspoken. The quiet glow of the ghost blooms. The soft coo of a spirit child. Polites' voice, like a song. Your mother's hands on your face. Your father's lips pressed to your forehead.

A sob clawed its way up your throat.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your lungs seizing like they weren't sure they knew how to breathe in this world anymore.

Because... you were dead.

You had died.

You had actually died.

And not in the metaphorical sense. Not fainted. Not "barely holding on." Not some dramatic brush with death.

No, your heart had stopped. You had crossed that threshold. Stepped into the mists. Seen the Fields. Held your parents. Sang to the dead.

And now... you were here.

Alive again.

But the weight of that truth—what it meant, what it cost—hit you all at once, and your heart couldn't keep up.

Your body trembled, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you curled in on yourself, clutching your arms tight. You didn't know whether to cry or scream or just stay very, very still.

Because this wasn't a dream.

You had been in the Underworld.

And you had come back.

Eventually, the panic in your chest began to dull. The burn behind your eyes cooled, your breaths evening out into something that almost resembled calm. Almost.

Your fingers curled around the fabric of the blanket, grounding you. You stared at it. It was dark—black, with thin silver stitching—and your hands shook as you finally looked down at yourself.

You were dressed in funeral attire.

A long black tunic clung to your frame, clean but wrinkled, like it had been thrown on with shaking hands. A silver sash was tied loose at your waist, the fabric faintly perfumed. You could still smell the incense—lavender, maybe myrrh—lingering around you, clinging to your skin like a memory.

And all around the room, dozens of candles flickered low on their wicks. Some had burned down to near stubs, wax puddling on the floor. Others had gone out completely.

Their light had been meant to guide your soul through the afterlife.

You swallowed, thick and dry.

Shakily, you pushed yourself up, legs stiff from disuse—no, from death. You dragged yourself across the room toward the bronze mirror in the corner.

Its surface was warped and old, not meant for beauty, but reflection. And gods, it gave you one.

Your reflection blinked back at you—wide-eyed and erratic, like you'd seen something you couldn't name. Which you had.

Your hair was tousled and flat, clinging to your temples. Your skin looked like candle wax, like something still unfinished.

But it was your eyes that haunted you—they looked... tired. Not the kind of tired from lack of sleep. The kind that came from knowing something now. Something too big to ever un-know.

And then you saw it.

Your face.

There—just beneath your left cheekbone, arcing down in a jagged curve toward your chin—a gash. Healed, but only barely. The edges were still raised, angry and uneven, like the wound was still catching its breath.

The scar was shallow, but unmistakable. Ugly, imperfect, visible. It split your face like a crack in porcelain. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to mark. Deep enough to remind.

Your breath hitched. Your stomach turned.

Your hand lifted slowly—fingers trembling—and hovered just above the mark. You didn't touch it. You couldn't.

You gripped the edge of the mirror frame with a white-knuckled hand, forcing your gaze downward—hoping, maybe, that the rest of you had fared better.

But the tunic collar was slightly loose, and when you pulled it aside with trembling fingers, you saw them.

The other scars.

Slashed clean across your ribs, wrapping faintly toward your side. Too dark, too real. Still raw in places, like your skin hadn't decided whether to keep you yet.

And yet again, before you could stop it, the memory hit you sideways—

The flash of rusted metal.

The sting of air breaking open skin.

The man's voice, mockingly soft."There goes that pretty title smile."

Even now, your skin remembered how it burned.

Even now, you could still feel the blood in your mouth.

Hot. Metallic. Yours.

You looked like someone else.

No—not someone else.

You looked like someone who had survived something she wasn't meant to.

And the gods—if they were listening—had done nothing to stop it.

That made your hands shake.

A  sick, heavy feeling pulled at your stomach, and the world tilted slightly with the motion. You gripped the frame harder, eyes burning.

Someone had dressed you in black.

Someone had lit candles for you. Painted protection sigils. Said goodbye.

And still—

Somehow—

For the first time since waking, you weren't sure if that was a blessing... or something crueler.

But before the tears could fall, a distant noise caught your attention.

Faint shouting.

You stiffened, holding your breath. It wasn't panicked shouting—just hurried. Urgent. The kind people used when giving instructions, when organizing something.

You crossed the room on weak legs, heart thudding strangely, and pulled aside the sheer cloth hanging over the window.

Outside, in the distance, was a funeral pyre.

Large, built high with oiled logs and dried flowers wound through the edges. You could see it clearly through the morning fog. The base was painted with markings of protection—red sigils etched in chalk, meant to bless the body for a peaceful journey.

Your body.

Or what was meant to be.

People were scattered throughout the courtyard, their forms muted and quiet. Some stood in clusters, hunched and weeping softly. Others paced stiffly, giving orders to servants or setting things into place. A few placed coins in shallow bowls by the pyre's edge, eyes downcast.

There was grief in the air. Thick. Still fresh.

They all thought you were dead.

And, for a time... they weren't wrong.

You were still staring out the window, watching your own funeral unfold, when the creak of the door behind you made your breath hitch.

You turned quickly and caught sight of movement just beyond the threshold.

Telemachus' voice filtered in, low and strained, a tired scold riding the edge of his words. It cracked a little in the middle, like it didn't know whether to sound stern or just... done. "...Lady, stop pushing, I told you—I need to finish arranging the wreaths before—"

He stopped.

His form stilled in the doorway, framed by the flickering candlelight behind you. And for a long, suspended second, he just stared.

The shadows softened around him, but even then, you could see it—his sunken eyes, the faint hollows beneath them. His ceremonial sash hung uneven across his shoulder, like he'd thrown it on without thought. His tunic was wrinkled, dust on the hem from where he must've knelt—probably beside your pyre. Probably mourning.

And his face—gods, his face—was carved with something deeper than just grief.

It was guilt. Pain. The kind that made someone older than they were.

"____?" he whispered it, hoarse. Like he didn't trust it. Like he thought the sound alone might wake him from a cruel dream.

You blinked at him, slow and gentle, then gave him a tired smile. It felt like your face could barely hold it—but you gave it anyway.

"Hey..." you croaked softly. "...missed me?"

There was a pause. A silence thick enough to drown in.

And then—

Telemachus gave a weak, choked laugh. His hand lifted to cover his mouth, eyes glistening as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

But his body moved before his mind could catch up.

He surged forward.

And before you could react, his arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you into him like he could fold you into his own skin—like if he just held tight enough, it would stop being impossible.

The breath rushed out of your lungs with a soft "oof," but you didn't protest. You melted into him, arms instinctively rising to wrap around his back.

He shook.

Not a lot. Just barely.

But it was enough to feel it.

His arms trembled as they held you, his grip almost desperate. You could hear the raggedness of his breath near your ear—shaky, uneven. Then, softer than before, you heard him murmur something into your hair.

A whisper only meant for you.

"Thank the gods... thank the gods..."

The words broke apart in his throat, barely hanging together. "I prayed," he rasped. "I prayed to all of them, over and over... I didn't care which one listened—I just... I just wanted you back."

You felt something warm against your neck.

Tears.

His tears.

Your chest tightened.

You blinked, your vision going watery again as your squeezed him closer. Your face pressed against his chest, tucked into the space beneath his collarbone where his heart beat wildly—frantic and alive and real.

You didn't speak. You just stayed there, letting his scent ground you, the weight of him anchoring you to the fact that this wasn't the Underworld anymore. This was here. This was now.

A second later, the sound of soft shuffling and paws tapping echoed from outside the door.

"Lady, not so rough—my dress is silk, not a hunting net," came Penelope's gentle scold, sounding as weary as it was fond.

"Off, beast," came the grumble of Odysseus a beat after. "I'll tan your hide into a new saddle if you bowl me over again—Lady! Gods, she's got more muscle than our cavalry."

You felt Telemachus stiffen as both voices grew closer, footsteps nearing.

Then they stopped. Right at the doorway.

Silence.

Penelope's breath caught audibly, and then her voice—shaky, unsure—cracked the quiet. "...____?"

You peeked over Telemachus' shoulder just in time to see her hand fly to her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming.

Telemachus stepped aside—reluctantly, like it physically hurt him to let you go—but his hands stayed on your arms, steadying you.

But the first person to move... wasn't Penelope.

It was Odysseus.

His steps were firm but slow, like he didn't trust what he was seeing until he stood right in front of you.

And then—he didn't hesitate.

His arms wrapped around you in a heavy, protective hug, pulling you into the warmth of his broad chest. His grip was strong, encompassing. His cloak smelled faintly of salt and sun.

You heard his breath catch—shuddering, harsh—and then slowly release, as if he'd been holding it for days.

"...You're home," he whispered hoarsely.

And in that moment, it didn't matter that he wasn't your father.

Because the way he held you felt just like one... like yours did.

Moments later, you felt another set of arms wrap around you—smaller, softer, but just as tight. Penelope pressed in beside you and Odysseus, her hands smoothing over your hair, down your shoulders, like she had to touch every part of you to believe it was real.

You stood there, in the center of their embrace, enveloped in warmth and salt-slicked breath and soft trembling hands. For a moment, none of you said a word. You didn't have to.

When they finally pulled back, it was Penelope who broke the silence, her voice a hoarse whisper edged with disbelief.

"Are the gods being cruel?" she asked, brows furrowed. "Are they... playing some trick on us?"

Before you could answer, Telemachus gave a watery laugh beside you, his hand rising to swipe at his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "No, mother. They brought her back to us."

His voice was so certain. So full of quiet awe.

Then his hand reached out, gentle and reverent, to brush against the side of your face. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, featherlight, as though even now he was afraid you'd vanish like mist under his fingers.

You leaned into it instinctively, your own hand rising to curl around his wrist, anchoring him. Your fingers trembled slightly, but you held on.

Then—

Clack, clack, clack—huff!

Lady came trotting into the room, her tongue lolling out, tail wagging so hard it smacked against the doorway. You braced yourself for the impact of her usual leap and shower of sloppy kisses—but it didn't come.

Instead, she stopped in front of you, sniffed once, then gently but insistently nudged your thigh with her snout. Again and again. Not in greeting.

In command.

You blinked, surprised, as she nudged you back toward the bed.

Penelope let out a breathy laugh behind you, one hand pressed to her chest. "Even the beast knows," she said with a fond shake of her head. "Come now. Back to bed with you. You were dead not even a full day ago."

She gently guided you back, her hands fluttering all over—adjusting the pillows, fluffing the sheets, pulling the blanket back like she was preparing a royal nest. "You need food," she muttered, half to herself, "and water. Gods, I hope your throat doesn't burn. Maybe soup—Telemachus, go get her some soup. And lemon water, the good kind."

You opened your mouth to protest—maybe even tease—but the moment you sank onto the bed again, you realized how heavy your limbs felt. How everything in you still buzzed with the aftershocks of something too big to name.

Lady jumped up beside you, curling protectively at your feet.

And just like that, you let Penelope fuss. Because it was the kind of fussing that said: You're here. You're safe. You're ours.

And for the first time since you woke up... you started to believe it.

As the queen fussed—tucking the blanket around your shoulders, brushing loose strands of hair behind your ear, mumbling about nutrients and broth and whether or not she'll have servants come change the linens—you glanced up instinctively... only to find Telemachus watching you.

Not just looking.

Watching.

His gaze was quiet, intense, unreadable.

It wasn't the first time he'd stared at you like that—like he was trying to memorize your face, like if he blinked too long, you'd disappear again. But this time, something tightened in your chest.

Because he was staring at you now.

And now... you were different.

You shifted slightly, sinking further into the covers. You could feel the faint pull of the healing scab beneath your lip, the ugly slice that trailed down from your cheekbone like a cruel slash of ink across parchment—still healing, raw in some places, angry in others. Ugly. Obvious.

You'd seen it clearly in the bronze mirror.

And surely, he saw it too.

Subconsciously, your hand rose on its own, fingers brushing over the scar gently. Your touch hesitated there for a moment—hovering—before you looked away, your gaze falling to the blankets.

You didn't want to see his expression. You didn't want to see pity.

Or worse.

As if sensing the weight in the air, Telemachus' voice came soft, quiet. "Do they... bother you?"

Your eyes darted up to him, startled. For a moment, you wanted to lie—to shake your head and play strong. To say no, to pretend it didn't ache in the back of your mind like a dull throb.

But instead, your throat worked around a different truth. A smaller one.

"...Yeah," you whispered. "A little."

The room went quiet. You felt the air shift.

Penelope paused in her fretting, her hands frozen mid-adjustment of the blanket, her expression suddenly fragile. When you dared glance at her, she was already looking to Odysseus and Telemachus, her face stricken.

Like she couldn't bear that you felt that way.

Like she didn't know how to fix it.

Odysseus was the one who broke the quiet. His voice was low when he spoke. "Scars," he said gently, "are proof that you survived. That whatever tried to take you didn't win."

Telemachus nodded slowly, stepping closer. "Father's right."

Without asking, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed beside you. His hand reached out, slow and careful, as if testing to see if you'd pull away. When you didn't—couldn't—his fingers ghosted along the curve of your cheek, tracing the scar that dipped through your lip.

You almost flinched.

But his touch was soft. Barely there. Reverent.

"I look at it..." He stopped, brow furrowed. The words caught in his throat like something too honest to say aloud. He swallowed. "I look at it, and all I think is... she came back to me. She survived. That's what I see."

His thumb lingered for a second longer before he lowered his hand. "You're still beautiful," he murmured, more certain this time. "Scar or not. You always will be."

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly.

And something inside you—something old and bruised and shy—finally exhaled.

A second later, there was a knock at the door.

It startled you just slightly—enough to jolt you from the warm quiet stretching between you and Telemachus. Odysseus called out a low "Enter," and a young servant stepped into the room, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered as he gave a quick bow.

"Apologies," the boy murmured, voice soft but urgent. "One of the nets... it's caught on the southern watchtower again. We think it might've dragged something into the wall's edge—it's pulling the post."

Odysseus sighed through his nose, the tension creeping subtly back into his shoulders. "Understood."

He turned to Telemachus then, saying nothing, only lifting a brow.

The unspoken message passed between them as clearly as words. Telemachus' jaw ticked—just a faint movement—and his eyes flicked down to you. Whatever warmth had softened them before didn't vanish; it just sharpened. Became something steadier.

Protective.

Resolute.

His expression was all gentle as he leaned in again, his hand still resting on your cheek. "I'll be back soon," he said softly. "Just... get some rest, alright?"

Before you could reply, his hand tilted your face ever so slightly toward him—gentle, barely even pressure—and then his lips brushed the corner of your mouth.

Not your forehead.

Not your cheekbone.

But that small, sacred place where a smile begins.

It was light. Lingering. Careful. But it stole the air from your lungs like a whisper you weren't ready for.

Your heart stuttered—then thudded so loudly you were sure he could hear it. The whole world went quiet, like it was holding its breath too.

Penelope gasped quietly from behind him, one hand rising to her heart. "Oh, Odysseus," she whispered with a teary smile, nudging her husband. "He kissed her. He actually kissed her."

Odysseus chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck with a look that clearly said: Finally.

 When Telemachus pulled back, his gaze never left yours. One of his fingers rose to trace your scar once more—just a soft brush of his thumb beneath your lip, "You're safe now," he said quietly. "And you're home."

Then he rose, his fingers giving yours one last squeeze before letting go. He followed his father toward the door, Penelope lingering just a second longer.

"We'll give you a bit of peace," she said, her eyes warm as she patted your arm before reaching down to give Lady a quick scratch behind the ears. "I'll see to it your bedding's changed and food brought in. Maybe something sweet, hm?"

You nodded faintly, still overwhelmed. Still processing.

And then they were gone.

The room fell quiet again.

But it wasn't empty. Not really. Because the warmth of them lingered. And for the first time... you let yourself believe you weren't alone.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Sometime later, another knock came at your door. Softer this time. No urgency. Just a gentle rap of knuckles that carried with it a kind of familiarity.

Before you could even say "Come in," the door creaked open and in stepped Callias—his hair messier than usual, a dark smudge of ash still clinging to his jaw.

He carried a tray, carefully balanced, with steam rising from a bowl of seasoned rice and meat, flatbread folded beside it, and a small cup of thick broth. A pitcher of water clinked against a goblet at the edge.

"You're up," he muttered, voice low but steady, as he nudged the door shut behind him with his boot and made his way toward you. "Praise the gods. You scared the absolute shit outta me, you know that?"

You blinked, the corner of your mouth twitching up at the sight of him. "Technically," you croaked, voice still raspy, "I scared everyone. So really, I was just being efficient."

Callias let out a sharp huff through his nose—half amusement, half exasperation—as he set the tray down carefully at your bedside table. "Yeah, well, next time you wanna be efficient, maybe don't die in the process?"

He reached out a hand to help ease you up against the cushions, steadying your back with one palm and rearranging the pillows behind you with the other. Despite the grumbling, his touch was gentle—almost cautious.

You caught a glimpse of his knuckles as he moved, the bruises blooming across them like dark violets. You didn't comment, though the sight made something uneasy stir in your gut. Callias didn't offer an explanation—and you figured he wouldn't.

Still, you gave a weak little grin as he tucked the tray closer to your lap. "Sorry for the emotional trauma. But at least the lighting was dramatic, right?"

Callias snorted. "Shut up."

But his voice was fond. And when he looked at you, he didn't seem mad at all.

"Couldn't stay angry even if I wanted to," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck as he sat at the edge of the bed. "Gods... I really thought we lost you."

You didn't say anything for a beat. Just reached for his hand—scarred and bruised—and gave it the softest squeeze you could manage.

"I'm still here," you whispered.

And Callias just nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

You picked at your food for a bit after that, eating slowly. Your appetite hadn't exactly returned, but the warmth of the broth helped settle the uneasy pit in your stomach.

Callias stayed close, lounging half on the bed and half off of it like some lazy cat that had claimed the space as his own.

Every now and then, he dangled a piece of string from a fraying cloth napkin to try and bait Lady, who sat nearby, alert and protective. She only twitched her ear at first, then gave in and lazily pawed at it, making Callias smirk like a child.

The silence between you wasn't awkward—it was soft. Familiar. Easy. The kind that only came after surviving something together, even if no words were said about it.

Eventually, after you managed to finish about half your plate, Callias let out a long sigh and leaned back with his hands behind him. He stared toward the wall, his face unreadable at first. But then his brows drew just a little tighter.

"Gods," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You really scared the shit out of us."

You glanced at him mid-sip of water, brow pinching. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," he said softly. "I know."

He paused, his voice thinning into something quieter.

"But still..." He let out a breath, then shook his head with a humorless huff. "One near-death experience is more than enough for a lifetime, alright? Let's not make it a habit."

His voice wasn't accusing. It wasn't angry. Just... tired. Sad, maybe. And that alone made your stomach twist.

Your lips pressed together, the rim of the goblet resting against your bottom lip as you looked down. "I... I'm sorry."

You risked a look at him and caught something flickering in his expression—a shadow of worry he usually kept buried beneath snark and sarcasm.

"No. Don't apologize. I just—" he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the already-messy strands. "It sucks. Feeling useless. I don't like it."

There was a beat of quiet before he added, almost too softly to hear, "I care, you know."

Your chest tightened, and for a moment you didn't know what to say.

But Callias, true to form, caught himself and waved the heaviness away with a half-hearted grin. "Gods, that was gross. Sappy, even. Forget I said any of that."

You huffed a little, your lips twitching, and Callias stood with an exaggerated stretch, joints cracking.

"Well, I guess I'll go pretend to be busy before Asta hunts me down again and makes me sort laundry. You'd think being traumatized gives you a pass, but nooope."

You laughed under your breath as he moved toward the door.

He paused in the frame, looked back just once. "Eat the rest if you can. Sleep if you can't. I'll be back later."

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving you in the golden quiet of the room.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Time passed gently after that—slow and quiet, like the air after a storm. The sun had climbed higher, warming the walls and casting long, lazy beams of light across the room.

It was midday now, or close to it. You could tell by how the golden light stretched across the floors, how the warmth clung to your skin, wrapping you in a sleepy kind of haze.

After finishing what little of your food you could manage, a servant had come in not long after. They moved quietly, carefully gathering the tray and checking on you without pushing conversation.

Lady had trotted to the door with her usual dignity and was gently led away to stretch her legs and—hopefully—relieve herself somewhere that wasn't your floor.

Now, it was just you again. Alone.

You sat tucked against the plush pillows, your legs draped lazily to the side, one hand resting on your lap while the other idly picked at the blanket over you. You were counting the unraveled threads without thinking—tugging a bit at the fray near the edge. One, two, three...

"You always look so peaceful when you're dead."

The voice was teasing, laced with something smug and warm all at once.

Your head snapped up.

Hermes was sitting on the windowsill like he belonged there—one leg drawn up, the other hanging lazily over the edge. The gauzy cloth that once covered the window had been drawn back, and behind him, the midday light poured in in thick, golden-orange rays. It backlit him like something out of a myth.

The sun turned the strands of his curls to burnished copper, made his winged sandals glint faintly, and framed him in this soft, holy light that didn't match the crooked smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked like mischief incarnate—and also oddly tired, like he'd just come back from a long trip. Which, you supposed, he had.

"You're not funny," you said, your voice still hoarse but managing to land somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

"I am," he insisted, resting his chin on his knee, "You're just mad you didn't think of it first. 'Back from the dead and still too pretty to haunt anyone properly.'" He clucked his tongue. "That's gold. I should've saved that one for the next funeral. Five obols, easy."

You rolled your eyes, but there was a tiny curl of a smile forming at the edge of your mouth. He saw it, of course.

He grinned like a cat who got into the cream, then floated over without a word, settling himself with an exaggerated sigh across the lower half of your bed. Or, more accurately, just above it—he hovered a few inches above the blanket, lounging on his side like it was the plushest chaise on Olympus.

His head rested in one hand, curls flopping lazily over his brow as he stared up at you, golden eyes twinkling with mischief. "Careful," he said, voice low and conspiratorial. "That almost looked like a smile~"

You tried to scoff, but it came out more like a snort. That made his grin grow wider.

Then he tsked, dramatically waving his hand in the air. "Alright, alright," he sighed. "I'll be good. For now. No teasing. I'm here on official business."

You raised a brow. "Official?"

"Mhm. Courier god. Messenger of Olympus. Wings and all." He gestured loosely to his sandals. "I come bearing updates. Though technically I had to get the scoop secondhand. I was a little busy dragging your soul through the afterlife, thanks to you."

That earned a weak chuckle from you, and he grinned again before continuing.

"So," he started, fingers tapping against his cheek, "according to Athena—who told me in a tone so dry it could turn a grape to dust—Apollo is currently grounded."

You blinked. "...Grounded?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p' like it was candy. "Sun boy had a tantrum of divine proportions. Blinded some oracles, singed a few forests, threw a storm-sized fit. Zeus had to step in before the whole Ionian coast went up in flames. Now he's not allowed to set foot on Earth for a while. Olympus time-out."

You blinked again, stunned. "Because of me?"

Hermes' playful tone dimmed a little a this. His eyes softened, his grin shrinking into something smaller, gentler.

"You gave them quite the scare, you know." His voice was quieter now. "Even the ones that pretend they don't care. Apollo lost it. Artemis threatened to cease hunt. Heck, Athena nearly sent an owl after me when I took too long getting back."

A slow exhale left your lips as you dropped your gaze to your hands. "I scared myself," you admitted. The words were meant to be light, a joke. But your voice caught at the edges.

It wasn't funny.

Hermes gave a soft hum. "Yeah, well," he murmured, "you're here now. So rest. You're safe. That part's real."

You didn't answer right away. You didn't need to. The quiet was enough.

Hermes stayed there—hovering, lounging, watching you with that half-lidded gaze that was somehow both bored and protective. He shifted onto his stomach, arms crossed beneath his chin, curls tumbling slightly over his brow as he rested his cheek on them.

He didn't say much else, just floated there like starlight incarnate, occasionally kicking one foot absently in the air like he was resisting the urge to poke something.

Every so often, he traced lazy shapes into the space between you—squiggles, stars, maybe even your name once, though it vanished before you could be sure.

And when your breathing finally began to slow—when the tension eased from your fingers and your lashes started to flutter heavier—his expression softened completely then, something almost unreadable shadowing his eyes.

He floated just a little closer. Close enough to see the faint scars stitched across your cheek, the one that dipped through the corner of your lip.

His gaze lingered there.

Then—wordlessly, tenderly—his hand lifted, and his fingers reached out.

Not to tease. Not to smudge something off your face. Just... to see it.

The tip of his finger traced the edge of the scar, featherlight. His thumb brushed once beneath your lip—more a hover than a touch—and then tucked a loose piece of hair gently behind your ear.

He looked at you like you were some ancient constellation he'd finally mapped. Something that wasn't supposed to still exist... but did.

Then, almost too softly to hear—

"As I promised." 

It barely stirred the air. Not even a whisper. Just a breath threaded with relief, and maybe something he'd never say out loud.

He stayed there for a moment longer, just watching you.

Then—with a gust of wind no louder than a sigh, wings rustling like silk—he vanished.

And all that remained was the warmth he'd left behind, and the faint shimmer in the space where his fingers had been.

A/N: ahh, i enjoyed this ngl, tried to keep it close to the characterizations but ultiamtely had to throw in a lil razzle dazzle 😩 also, quick lil update from the twin-verse: kiki (K_nayee) wanted me to pass on a message to y'all—she is absolutely floored by all the traction warrior has been getting. like, genuinely shook. she's been telling me how even her other works are getting more love now too, and i'm just here like... 😭😭 all i said was "pls encourage her" and y'all delivered like legends. i seriously owe you guys. you went above and beyond. i was just trying to get her to drop the next arc—and now she's actively writing and working on it as we speak and i'm foaming at the mouth with anticipation. the notes. the scenes. the tension. i've seen things. and listen... i finally understand what it's like to be in y'all's shoes. i've never really waited on updates before—like, not in that clock-watching, checking the tags hourly, rereading for clues kinda way. but now? now i get it. now i know pain. i know thirst. i want her to rest and take her time, of course, but also... ma'am... i am feening. violently. anyway. thank you again for being amazing and showing up for her fic with so much love and chaos. i'm obsessed with all of you and you have my gratitude ❤️❤️❤️

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ and when i say i've been FLOORED by the recent submitions, just know i mean it. you guys are really blowing my mind 😩❤️❤️

from iconic-idiot-con (i converted it to a gif so i can share this masterpiece ❤️)

WAIT. A WHOLE ANIMATION?? 😱 I'm literally rolling in my bed right now. The way you brought Hermes and MC to life is everything! The energy, the vibes—absolutely meant to be. You've just made my day (and possibly my whole week). I can't stop watching this! THANK YOU SO MUCH for this masterpiece! 😭💖✨ But hold on, let's talk about that specific moment you brought to life, when Hermes sees the laurel choker on MC. The way you captured his reaction—like, I could feel that shock, that realization! I've always imagined that scene so vividly, but seeing it animated, with all the emotion and the little details you added... it just hit differently. I'm living for it! Can't stop replaying it—I'm in awe! 😍✨And if/when you do finish it, plz send it 😩❤️

from anon0219 (this was sent from tumblr)

OH MY GOD 😱 The raw emotion on MC's face, the fear, the desperation... it hits SO hard. I can't even explain how much this made my heart race, especially considering everything MC's been through. The way you brought Chapter 38 to life is unreal. I'm literally speechless. You have such a talent for capturing those heart-wrenching moments, and this one is no exception. THANK YOU for this! It's going straight to my heart—and my brain, because I'll be thinking about it for days. 💔💖

from Kath_Realm21

This is amazing! 😭 You've really captured Telemachus and MC perfectly—so much expression in just a glance between them. I'm in love with how you've conveyed the emotions in their eyes, it feels like they're about to share something important, like a quiet understanding between them is just chef's kiss! This is absolutely stunning, and I can feel the tension and connection between them. Thank you so much for bringing this scene to life! 💖✨

from Kethalyna72

I AM SCREAMINGGGG—this is SO Andreia it's unreal 😭💅 the expressions?? the passive-aggressive drama in every glance?? PERFECTION. And don't even get me started on how you NAILED her wardrobe—the blue gown with the sapphire brooch is so her "I'm a guest but also better than you" formal mode. Then there's that deep lilac with the navy gem—pure "gods I hate him" Telemachus energy, that fake laugh practically audible 💀. And the best part?? That slow shift from Brontes colors into Ithacas...It's the way the colors tell the story for me. This is a woman who has plotted entire revenge fantasies while brushing her hair. Thank you for bringing her to life so vividly. I'm gonna stare at this for days and still catch new details every time. Absolutely obsessed 💚👑

from DragonWhiskers12

These are so precious I'm actually crying 😭✨ The raw emotion, the long dramatic necks, the Telemachus puppy, the EYE CREATURE?? You already know this is going straight to the divine fanart hall of fame. The first drawing legit feels like MC just got done watching Andreia monologue and went, "I thought you were bby, Andreia..." like a telenovela but divine. AND LADY??? The little foxy beast??? My heart. She's in her “post-trauma curled up on a mossy bed” era and I support her. The fact that she gets her own drawing just chilling and then one labeled with MC labeled 'L + RATIO’D'—I’m done 😭 These sketches are everything—funny, emotional, weirdly accurate in a 'gods might've sent this in a dream' way. Thank you SO MUCH, you have single-handedly expanded the Godly Things cinematic universe. I will never recover. 🥲💘

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]

first time writing fanfiction of a character : uughh i hope this is all canon accurate... it cant be canon innacurate at all or the enitire fandom will throw rocks at me...

10057th time writing the character: heres them working at a mcdonalds

[winxanity-ii]

No no you don't understand! I want to watch this show/movie, read this book, listen to this podcast, etc.! But I must be in the right mindset and the exact head space to begin, or I just can't!

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 41 Chapter 41 | born of laurel and curse⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Hermes stepped forward before you could say anything else—expression unreadable, eyes glinting with something hard to place. Not quite relief. Not quite sorrow.

He reached for you without hesitation, like this part had already been decided.

Like he couldn't bear to stay here any longer.

His arms circled beneath your knees and around your back, gentle but firm, the way you might hold something precious that had only just stopped breaking. You didn't resist.

The moment he lifted you, the magic shifted.

You felt it stir beneath your skin—a flicker, a pull, a quiet breath in the bones of the earth.

And then—wind.

It ripped past your cheeks in sudden gusts, cold and fierce, rushing upward like the world itself had tilted beneath you. Your hair fluttered wildly against his shoulder, tangling in the collar of your tunic as your legs curled instinctively closer to his chest.

The air howled in your ears, a thousand whispers caught in a single breath, too fast to hear and too strange to understand.

Your eyes cracked open just enough to see.

The Underworld blurred past in flashes.

Ash-grey pillars.

Twisting stone bridges.

Gardens wilted and bloomed all at once.

And shadows—so many shadows—some still, some watching, some turning away the second they met your gaze.

Colors flared at the edge of your vision: copper gold and sickly green, flashes of bone-white paths and flickering riverlight from the Styx.

You caught glimpses of spirits drifting in the distance—some reaching out, some shrinking back, all blurred by the speed.

And Hermes didn't stop.

His hold tightened as you climbed higher, past the gates, past the Asphodel Fields, past the river's edge that shimmered like an old bruise in the dark.

But just before the veil split—before the light of the living world could break through and claim you again—

You shifted in his arms. "Wait."

He stopped mid-step. Mid-flight. The magic hiccupped around you like a breath held too long.

Hermes turned his head slightly, brows furrowing as if he wasn't sure he'd heard you right. "What?"

You lifted your hand—soft against his shoulder, not pushing, just anchoring yourself.

"...Can we go back?"

The wind stilled.

Not completely. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make the silence feel heavier.

He stared at you. Not moving. Not blinking. Like the question had rearranged something inside him.

"Back?" he echoed, flatly. "You mean to the Underworld?"

You nodded once. Slowly. "Just for a moment. I... I want to see my parents again." Your voice cracked a little at the end.

Hermes didn't respond at first.

His jaw twitched like he wanted to argue, like the instinct to move forward was stronger than anything else. But he didn't speak. Just stared ahead, gaze flicking to the veil above you—then down again, past your shoulder, back toward the Underworld where the shadows still lingered like ghosts of a memory you weren't ready to lose.

Finally, after a long beat, he sighed.

It wasn't theatrical. It wasn't annoyed.

It was... tired.

Like someone giving in. Like someone who always gave in when it came to you.

"Fine," he muttered, under his breath, "Hades shouldn't mind if you linger a little longer. Not like he's ever been good at goodbye either."

And with that—Hermes turned.

The wind twisted backward.

And the shadows welcomed you once more.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how much time passed—maybe a minute, maybe several—but eventually, the cool air shifted. Hermes had said nothing when you stepped through the veil. He simply caught your arm to steady you, like he had done before, then guided you quietly through the gray.

The Underworld didn't jolt you this time. Maybe it should have. But your soul felt heavier now, more settled.

You didn't ask where you were going. You didn't need to.

Hermes led you to the edge of a low, vast hill—jagged and windswept, coated in a veil of mist that hugged the stone like breath on glass. Below it, the fog dipped into a sprawling field... familiar in its shape, but not in color.

The fields looked darker now, deeper in hue. And less clouded. You could actually see shapes moving in the distance—shadows stretched like brushstrokes across a canvas.

He stopped, glancing down the incline. "This is as far as I go," he said. "For now."

You blinked. "You're not coming?"

He gave a small smile—one of those unreadable ones that told you it wasn't really up for debate. "I have to stir up a bit of noise elsewhere. Just enough to keep it on the low that you're still here."

"It shouldn't be an issue since I'm already here, right?"

"Not exactly. Souls aren't too welcome here unless it's their time. And if it's found that you're still here, they'd come for you first and me second." He brushed something off his shoulder—dust or stardust, you couldn't tell. "So I gotta make some trouble. Just enough to buy time. I'll be done before the hour turns. You'll know when I'm back."

Your stomach churned. "How will I know?"

He tapped your forehead gently. "You'll feel it."

Then, just like that, he was gone—his form dissolving into wind and shimmer, swept away before you could call out again.

So, as you had done once before, you turned and walked into the fog.

But it didn't feel the same.

Your footsteps didn't echo this time. There was no pounding fear in your chest, no dread dragging at your ankles. It was quieter now—not in sound, but in weight. The mist wasn't as thick. You could actually see where you were going.

Your head turned slowly as you walked, your eyes tracing outlines that were impossible to see last time: faint ruins in the distance, pillars swallowed by ivy, archways carved from black stone. The field had shape now. Definition. And it wasn't just a field anymore.

It looked almost like a courtyard—or a garden left to decay.

Brittle hedges formed low walls in crooked rows. Marble statues, worn down to featureless forms, watched from raised platforms. The air smelled of ash and dry earth, but also of something faintly floral. Faintly alive.

You walked without thinking, feet crunching against gravel, mist licking at your shins. Each step felt easier. Lighter. As if your soul knew the path even if your mind didn't.

Then—music.

Your ears perked up at the soft sound, a hum more than a song, low and careful and deeply familiar. You knew that voice.

Your pace quickened before your mind caught up. You pushed past a leaning column, stepped around a cracked basin that once held water, and the sound grew clearer. A melody now. Words curling at the edges. A lullaby. Or maybe a memory.

Then, through the branches of a long-dead tree, a figure appeared.

Just like before.

Beneath the withered limbs sat a man, his back turned to you, bent forward ever so slightly. His head tilted to one side as he sang to the bundle he cradled in his arms. The same slow rhythm. The same hush in his voice. Like the world would break if he sang any louder.

Polites.

You skidded to a halt just behind him, your breath hitching in your throat. "Polites." 

The lullaby cut short.

He turned slowly, startled at first. Astyanax shifted in his arms as Polites adjusted the blanket protectively, his brows lifting as his gaze landed on you. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Just stared.

Then the recognition hit.

His face lit up, blooming into a wide, warm smile. "Well, I'll be," he murmured, a soft chuckle in his voice. "Look at you, back again already?"

You let out a shaky laugh, breathless from the walk. "Guess I just couldn't stay away."

He stood carefully, rising to his full height, the baby bundled against his chest. He stepped toward you, his expression soft with welcome, fondness settling behind his eyes. But then—his smile faded. Just a little.

His gaze drifted downward. Then back up. A flicker of something passed across his features—his brows knit together, the corners of his mouth pulling into something more thoughtful. His hand shifted on Astyanax's back, fingers stalling mid-motion.

"You..." he began slowly. "Wait. Are you...?"

His voice trailed off. You didn't need him to finish the question. The look on his face said enough.

You glanced down at yourself instinctively.

Your fingers still moved. Your feet still pressed against the ground. But you weren't solid—not exactly. There was a faint shimmer clinging to your edges, like moonlight trying to hold shape. You were fading in some places, more outline than figure. Not fully here. Not fully gone.

Like him.

"I'm not dead," you said quickly, lifting your gaze again. "I promise. I mean... I was. For a bit."

His expression tightened.

"But—Hermes. He made a deal. With Hades," you added. "I'm just here for a short time. I'm going back."

That seemed to unstick something in him. Polites let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension easing from his stance.

"Gods," he muttered, shifting Astyanax to one arm as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. "You scared me. I thought—" He shook his head, a half-laugh breaking through. "You're too young to be down here for good."

You shrugged, your voice light despite the lump in your throat. "Tell that to the streets of Ithaca."

Polites gave you a look—half exasperated, half fond. "You and that mouth," he muttered, though there was no heat behind it.

Astyanax let out a small coo, his fingers stretching against the edge of his blanket. Polites bounced him gently, his gaze returning to you. "So... what brings you back, then? Risking divine tantrums just to say hello?"

You gave him a small smile. "Something like that."

And for a moment, the heavy quiet returned. But it was a warmer quiet this time. A knowing one.

He smiled again, softer now. "Well. I'm glad you did."

You returned the smile, though it wobbled a bit. The words you wanted to say pressed at your throat—more than just greetings or thank-yous or even memories. This wasn't just a visit. It was unfinished business, still pulling at the edge of your chest like a loose thread you hadn't meant to leave behind.

You hesitated a moment, then shifted your weight, glancing past him toward the mist-covered distance. "Polites... can I ask you something?"

His brow lifted slightly, patient. "Go ahead."

"I... I was wondering if you could take me to see my parents again. Just for a little while."

He blinked, a little surprised—then his face softened into something steady and sure, like it was the easiest request in the world. "Of course," he said without pause. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

A breath you hadn't known you were holding slipped from your lungs.

And with that, the two of you began walking, his steps sure against the ashen earth, yours a little slower, still feeling out the shape of your form in this space.

The air was less fogged than before—thinner, somehow. The trees more defined. The sky a dark slate above, like a never-ending dusk. It looked more like a garden now. Or maybe a courtyard that had long since forgotten it was ever meant for living things.

The silence between you wasn't awkward—it was companionable. But after a few steps, Polites glanced over at you, shifting the bundle in his arms slightly.

"You wanna hold him?" he asked, nodding toward the baby.

Your eyes widened a little. "I—me?"

Astyanax answered before you could. His small hand peeked from the blanket, reaching toward you with a soft, open-palmed stretch. He made a tiny noise—something between a sigh and a whimper—and his gaze locked onto yours with such simple, trusting want that it made your chest ache.

Your fingers twitched. "I don't know if I should. He's..."

But Polites was already moving, stepping closer, cradling the child toward you with gentle encouragement. "It's alright. He likes you."

You didn't argue further.

You reached out and carefully took him into your arms.

And gods—he felt real.

He wasn't warm exactly, but he wasn't cold either. His weight settled naturally against you, small and firm and soft all at once. His little fingers curled instinctively into the fabric near your collar. He blinked up at you, those wide hazel eyes gleaming softly in the half-light.

A ghost, yes—but not empty. Not forgotten.

You held him tighter than you meant to.

"Hi there," you whispered, your voice cracking just a bit. "You remember me?"

Astyanax just yawned, burrowing into the crook of your elbow like he did.

You walked in silence for a while after that, the only sound the hush of mist shifting around your ankles and the soft rustling of fabric as the baby wriggled gently in your arms. You stared down at him, marveling at the weight of someone so small. So still.

Then, quietly, you asked, "Why isn't he... with his father, Hector?"

The question hung between you like a windless chime.

Polites didn't answer right away.

When you finally looked up, his face had shifted. There was something shadowed in it—grief, maybe, or guilt, or something heavier. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes unfocused as he looked ahead.

"Honestly," he said at last, "I don't know. I've wondered the same thing."

You said nothing, watching him.

He adjusted the satchel on his hip and let out a breath. "I think... I think this is my punishment."

You blinked. "Punishment?"

"For surviving," he murmured. "For being part of it."

You kept still, your arms curling protectively around Astyanax.

Polites didn't meet your eyes. "He was a baby," he said, voice tight. "Just a baby. Killed for what he might grow into. For what his father represented. And I didn't hold the sword, no. But I helped the Greeks reach Troy. I scouted paths. Warned of traps. Passed messages."

A pause.

"And when we got in... we didn't stop to ask who deserved to die."

The silence wrapped around your throat like ivy.

You'd grown up with tales of valor. Of the Greeks as heroes. Of Odysseus' cunning. Of the fall of Troy as destiny fulfilled. You'd never really questioned what it looked like from the other side.

Not until now.

Not until you held the child they never got to keep.

You looked down at Astyanax again—his peaceful little face, his gentle breathing, the way he trusted the world in your arms.

You'd never thought of it like that.

Not really.

But now... you weren't so sure who the villains were.

And the Asphodel Fields stretched endlessly ahead, silent and watching.

The mist curled gently around your legs with each step, soft as breath. The wind barely moved here, but when it did, it stirred the grass like whispers—low and half-forgotten, like dreams someone tried to remember after waking.

You glanced down at Astyanax in your arms again, brushing your thumb softly over the edge of his cheek.

He stirred slightly but didn't wake.

Beside you, Polites walked with quiet ease, the silence around him familiar—worn into his bones like a well-traveled path. But something about the moment started to feel too heavy, too sharp-edged with guilt and old regrets, so you cleared your throat softly, searching for something lighter to hold on to.

"Hey," you asked, almost hesitantly, "can I ask something... not exactly cheerful, but maybe less sad?"

Polites huffed a breath through his nose—somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Sure," he said. "You've earned a few questions, I think."

You shifted Astyanax slightly in your arms, careful of his swaddle. "I've been wondering... how did you get here? I mean—past judgment. Most soldiers... especially the ones who weren't buried... they get stuck on the banks, don't they? Wandering."

Polites went quiet for a beat, long enough that you almost regretted asking. But then he gave a slow nod, eyes still fixed on the distance ahead.

"You're not wrong," he said. "Most of us didn't make it very far."

Your brows furrowed. "You mean... from the war?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Later. The Cyclops—Polyphemus. After the lotus eaters lead us to the cave, he managed to kill a few of us. To retaliate, Odysseus blinded him..." He trailed off for a second. "Luckily the rest got out."

You listened, holding your breath without meaning to.

"When I woke up down here," he continued, "it was just me and a handful of others. Confused. Half-formed. Like echoes stuck between two cliffs. The River Styx was close—you could hear it—but no ferryman would come near us."

"Because you weren't buried," you said softly.

Polites nodded. "Exactly. No graves, no rites. No passage. Just that endless stretch of bank. And later..." He exhaled. "Poseidon caught up with the fleet. Sank it. Five hundred men, pulled into the sea."

You swallowed.

"And when they died," he said, his voice quieter now, "they ended up there too. Same bank. Same stretch. All of them confused. Angry. Some still thought they were drowning."

Your fingers tightened a little on the baby.

You imagined it—those wide, haunted eyes. The weight of all that lost hope, pooling in the dark like driftwood.

"So... how did you leave?" you asked softly. "How did you make it past?"

Polites was quiet for a long time.

And then he smiled faintly. "Hermes," he said. "And Athena."

You blinked. "Wait—Athena?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "I don't know the whole of it. But one day, Hermes came walking down the riverbank like he'd just wandered in on accident. He found me. Looked me up and down. Said, 'You're Polites, right?' I said yeah, and he just nodded and told me to follow him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Polites repeated. "Said it was 'by Athena's request.' That she wanted to make sure I didn't rot there like the rest of them."

You frowned slightly. "Why you?"

"I've asked myself that," he admitted. "A hundred times. I wasn't a king. I wasn't even a commander. Just a soldier who tried to do the right thing more often than not. But maybe... maybe she saw something. Or maybe Odysseus said something to her, after everything. I don't know."

You were quiet for a while, your thoughts swirling like the mist.

Polites kept walking beside you, his gaze steady.

"I don't get to live in the Isles of the Blessed," he said eventually. "That's not for people like me. But I get peace. I get the Fields. And... I get him." He nodded toward the bundle in your arms. "So maybe that's enough."

You looked down again at Astyanax, the baby still asleep, still nestled safely against your chest.

Maybe that was enough.

Or maybe peace could look like different things for different souls.

And maybe, just maybe, the gods sometimes made quiet exceptions.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how long the two of you walked after that—minutes, maybe more. The silence had settled back between you and Polites like an old cloak: not heavy, but not quite light either. You didn't mind it.

After everything, it felt... earned.

Then the mist shifted ahead.

At first, it looked like nothing—just another bend in the never-ending fields. But as you stepped closer, you noticed the terrain dipping slightly, forming a shallow alcove tucked beneath the arms of two withered trees. Their trunks leaned into one another like old friends, branches interlocking above a patch of soft grey moss.

And there—huddled together at the base—were two figures.

Your breath caught.

You would've recognized them anywhere.

Your mother sat nestled beside your father, her body tucked against his like a secret. One of his arms wrapped securely around her shoulders, while her head rested beneath his chin, her hands gently folded over his. They looked carved from light and memory, still glowing faintly against the dusk.

Safe. Whole. Together.

You froze.

Polites paused beside you, and when he turned, his gaze was already soft. Wordlessly, he reached out with both arms, silently offering to take Astyanax.

You looked down at the baby.

He was still curled in your hold, eyes closed, but the second you began to shift him, his little nose twitched, and he let out a faint, questioning coo.

Your heart clenched.

You gave Polites a small nod, careful as you passed the bundle into his arms.

"Shh, little one," Polites whispered, rocking him gently as the swaddle shifted. "Go back to sleep."

Astyanax let out a sleepy hum, a flutter of movement beneath the cloth. His fingers curled reflexively, catching the edge of Polites' tunic. And just like that, he stilled again, soothed by the familiar rhythm of arms that knew how to hold him.

Then—

Your mother stirred.

Her head lifted from your father's shoulder, her brows furrowing as if sensing something just beyond her reach. Slowly, she turned.

And when her eyes landed on you—

They bloomed.

Lit up like a sky before sunrise. Her hand flew to her mouth, her lips parting in disbelief. Her body trembled with the effort of rising, but she stood all the same, voice cracking like glass under heat.

"My dove...?"

Your father's gaze followed hers. His face, worn by sorrow just a moment ago, lit up like a man catching sight of the sun after a long winter. "Sweetheart?" he breathed.

You choked on a sob.

Polites smiled faintly. "I think this is where I leave you," he murmured, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't break the moment. "This part... belongs to you."

You turned toward him, trying to find the words—but your throat was tight, your hands trembling.

He just nodded, his expression soft with understanding.

"Don't worry," he added, adjusting the swaddle gently as Astyanax squirmed once more. "We'll be just fine."

And before you could speak, before you could thank him again or ask when you'd see him next—

He turned.

Disappeared into the mist.

And you were left standing there, heart racing, feet frozen—

—as your parents reached for you like they had never stopped waiting.

They didn't hesitate. There was no pause, no disbelief long enough to weigh the moment down—just open arms and trembling hands and a surge of emotion that collapsed the space between you.

Your mother reached you first. She pulled you close with a strength you'd forgotten she had, her arms tightening around your shoulders like she was afraid you might disappear if she let go. Her cheek pressed against your hair, and you felt her shoulders shaking as she whispered your name over and over again, the sound thick with joy and something that almost sounded like relief.

"My baby," she wept, clutching the back of your tunic, holding you tighter. "My sweet girl, how—how are you here? Are you real?"

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, pressing a firm kiss to the crown of your head. His voice rumbled low and warm against your back. "You came back to us," he said, voice cracking. "Gods, you came back."

You let yourself sink into their hold for a moment—just a moment. Because for once, you weren't fighting to be strong. You didn't have to. You were just... theirs.

But then, your mother pulled back.

And when she did, her smile faltered.

Her hands moved up to cup your face, but paused halfway through, her brows drawing low with confusion. Her fingers hovered near your jaw, her eyes scanning your form like something was off.

And it was.

You saw it in her face—like Polites before her. That dawning awareness.

Your body was faint. Not fully, but enough to see the flicker in her eyes. The way her hands passed through your shoulder just slightly before adjusting.

"You're..." Her voice wavered. "You're here."

Your father stepped beside her, his eyes narrowing in concern. He reached for your wrist and felt only the faintest resistance beneath his touch. His brow creased deeply. "What happened to you?"

You smiled weakly, lifting a hand to cover theirs, even if the gesture didn't feel as solid as it once had. "I'm okay," you said quickly, softly. "I promise. I'm not... dead."

Your mother's gaze jumped to yours. "But—"

"Not really," you added gently. "I mean, I was. Briefly. But Hermes—he made a deal with Hades. He brought me back. Or... almost."

Your father looked like he was holding his breath. "Then why are you still here?" he asked carefully. "Why haven't you crossed over fully?"

"I asked him to give me a little time," you explained. "Just a little longer. I needed to see you both again."

Your mother turned her head, glancing behind you as if expecting someone to leap from the mist and pull you away. "Are you sure it's safe?" she asked, worry sharpening the edge of her voice. "You shouldn't play with boundaries like this. Death is not something to bend."

You nodded gently, your hands still cradling theirs. "He's keeping watch," you reassured her. "Hermes said he'd make a distraction, just enough time for me to come see you again. He's always been good at slipping between lines."

They exchanged a glance—quick, full of unspoken words like all long-married couples have—and then looked back to you, still holding you close.

You hesitated.

Then took a breath.

"Honestly... I came because... because I needed to know more," you admitted. "About what happened. About my birth. There's so much I still don't understand."

Their hands tightened just slightly in yours.

The mist around the alcove swirled softly, the silence pressing in.

Your mother's eyes dimmed just a bit, and your father let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady.

And together, they nodded.

"Alright," she said, brushing your cheek with her thumb. "Then we'll tell you... everything."

You leaned in slightly, your hand still resting over hers. Her touch was soft—even through the thin veil of your semi-ghostly form—and something about the way her thumb lingered just below your eye felt like home. Like comfort you hadn't known you'd needed.

She pulled in a breath, like she was bracing herself, then gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. "You were... stubborn," she said, her eyes glinting with something warm and worn. "Even before you were born."

Your father huffed gently, his smile curling tiredly at the edges. "Thirty-six hours," he said, glancing down at the ground as if the memory still winded him. "Your mother was in labor for thirty-six hours straight."

You blinked. "What—?"

"She wouldn't come out," your mother said, shaking her head as a bit of hair slipped from behind her ear. "You. You wouldn't come out. The midwives had no idea what to do. We'd tried everything. The healers were panicked. We were losing strength... Losing hope."

Your father rubbed his jaw, his voice quieter now. "We thought... we thought we'd lose you both."

Your breath caught. "But... you didn't."

"No," your mother whispered, eyes drifting past you—toward the still grey horizon. "Because we prayed. All of us. We called on our god."

There was a beat.

And then she looked back at you.

"Apollo."

You straightened instinctively, your brows knitting in surprise. "Apollo?" you echoed, almost disbelieving. "But I—why would he—?"

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression calm but serious. "Your father and I were both born on Lyraethos. It's a small island—not famous, not powerful. But known. Known for its music. Its devotion."

You felt your heart skip. "Lyraethos... I've heard of it. Barely. I thought it was just... a myth."

"Most do," your father said softly. "But it's real. Quiet, but real. And those who come from there... we've always believed that Apollo's favor lingers in the hills, the stones. The instruments passed down in families. The songs that come to us in dreams."

Your mother's eyes shone. "We grew up learning to play lyres before we could walk properly. We sang before we could write. And when you came—when it felt like we might lose you—we didn't cry out to Athena. Or Artemis. We prayed to him. To the god of music. To the one we'd always believed watched over us."

You tried to speak, but your voice didn't come right away. Your lips parted, then closed again, your stomach twisting in knots you couldn't quite name. 

It wasn't quite dread, wasn't quite grief.

Just a hollow, spinning feeling that made it hard to breathe for a second.

Because now... now you didn't know what to feel.

You had answers—real ones. Tangible pieces of truth that should've satisfied you. But instead, they only opened more doors. More shadows with names you didn't know how to say aloud.

And suddenly...

Suddenly, Apollo's gaze in your dreams, the way it burned gold and ancient and aching—

The way his name always came so easily to your tongue, even when your mind was cloudy—

The pull in your chest, the quiet tremor that always came when he was near, whether in vision or song—

None of it felt like coincidence anymore.

Your father must've seen the shift in your eyes, because he gently reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a steady warmth that tugged you back to the present.

He looked tired—but not weak. Just weathered, like someone who'd seen the storm pass and was willing to walk through it again, if only to guide someone else through.

"I suppose... I should've told you sooner," he murmured, his voice low but certain. "On my side of the family... we were warned. About Aphrodite's curse."

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. He wasn't looking at you directly—just past you, like he was watching a memory play out in the mist.

"We thought we were being careful," he said softly, almost to himself. "We built her a small altar behind the house. Kept it clean, left offerings every first sunrise. Your mother sang hymns. We thought maybe—just maybe—that kind of devotion would soften her."

Your mother gave a bitter little laugh, wiping beneath her eye. "But it didn't. Nothing did."

He nodded. "When the messenger boy came—when he handed us that flower... I thought it meant something. I thought maybe the curse had passed us by. That Apollo had finally decided to help one of his people. Someone who believed in him."

He looked at you again then, and there was such sorrow behind his smile. Not regret—just the sad sort of clarity that came with hindsight.

"But we were foolish," he admitted. "To think the curse wouldn't find a way. That it wouldn't just... wait until we were unguarded."

You felt your throat tighten, the air sharp as you inhaled.

Your mother shifted closer, placing a hand against your cheek. Her eyes were soft but strong. "But we don't regret it," she whispered. "Not a single bit."

You blinked, startled. "Even though—?"

She shook her head before you could finish. "Even though we're here."

"I'd rather it be us than you," your father said. "Every time."

"You were our miracle," your mother added, her thumb brushing your cheekbone like she was memorizing you all over again. "Our greatest gift. Whatever the gods meant by it... we'd still choose you."

Their words settled in your chest like a quiet song—one of mourning, yes, but also fierce, blinding love. The kind that didn't ask to be understood. Only felt.

And for a moment, the ache eased.

Just a little.

Just enough.

A second later, you felt it—first, the soft flutter of feathers behind you, like a bird settling after a long flight. Then, a warm hand found your waist, steady and familiar. The gentle pressure was grounding, a subtle pull back to reality.

"Time's up," Hermes murmured low near your ear, his voice quieter than before. No teasing edge this time, just something soft and knowing. "We gotta go."

You turned, blinking up at him. His golden eyes were solemn, his expression unusually gentle beneath the lazy curve of his brow. His hands twitched, pulsing with restrained urgency. Still, he wasn't rushing you.

You nodded slowly, the weight of goodbye crashing over your shoulders all at once. Your throat burned. You turned back to your parents—still holding each other, still waiting. "I... I have to go."

Your mother reached for you instantly, pulling you into her arms as if she could imprint her love into your very bones. You crashed into her, burying your face into her shoulder, fingers curling tightly into the folds of her dress. "I love you. I love you both."

"We know," she breathed against your hair, voice cracking. "You've always loved with everything you had."

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, his taller frame folding over yours like a shield. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then another. And another. Over and over. Like he couldn't stop. Like he wanted to mark the memory of you with every single one.

"My little one," he whispered. "Be safe. Be strong. Be happy."

You nodded against his chest, your tears hot and quiet. "I'll try."

Your mother's hand framed your cheek as she leaned back, her smile tremulous but shining. "That's all we ever wanted."

With one last, deep breath, you pulled yourself away—slowly, painfully. Hermes stepped in without a word, his arms slipping beneath your legs and around your back in one fluid motion.

He lifted you effortlessly, bridal style, like before. His cloak flared behind him, brushing the ground in a silent sweep.

You clung to his shoulder as he began to rise, but your gaze stayed locked on your parents.

They stood together, arms wrapped around each other, watching you with tearful smiles. Your mother waved softly. Your father nodded once, firmly—like a promise passed between souls.

And you didn't look away.

Not even as the wind picked up. Not even as the mists curled around Hermes' sandals. Not even as the Underworld began to fall away beneath you.

You watched them—until they were nothing more than shapes in the fog, until your heart couldn't hold the ache any longer.

And then... you let Hermes carry you home.

A/N: it's storming pretty bad in my area (tennessee) so i decided to update while my fav weather is flooding the streets 🤣🤣😩❤️also ngl i was tearing up a bit writing the reunion with mc's parents out 😩😭 also, if anyones wondering (i know theyre not) i based the underwolrd off of 'krapopolis' underworld (why the descriprtions talk of galaxies etc.), i found it cool of the shows interpertation of it and thought, why the hell not hahah. so on to the fic 'WARRIOR'.......ok so imma hold off on screaming about WARRIOR in full detail—cuz a lot of y'all said NO SPOILERS and honestly?? fair. super fair. BUTTTTTT just know I am currently vibrating out of my skin and ascending spiritually bc of how GOOD that fic is 😭😭 LIKE Y'ALL. the way it's structured?? it could lowkey be two books fr— ➤ PART 1: Trojan War arc?? Penelope leading like an actual general?? Running tactics, dodging divine wrath, looking hot and haunted??? ➤ Book 2 (TBA and currently eating me alive in its absence): [REDACTED] but just know I will be screaming. AND THE WORLD. BUILDING. Bro. If you EVER wondered what actually happened during those 10 years of war?? The ones Homer just kinda skimmed over like "and then they fought for a decade 💅"? This book fills in the blanks in a way that's smart, emotional, bloody, and ✨fanservice-y✨ in the best way. Like—cough—Achilles??? sir??? why are you written like a terrifying war god and also hot enough to ruin my entire bloodline 😭 And don’t even get me STARTED on Polites getting actual action and emotional depth?? My man finally said I will not be background no more and I respect it. (I've been so obssessed, it's even influenced a bit of my own writings; so if you noticed some... similarities in my fic with hers... maybe reference or two as a way of telling her to hurry up... no you didn't 🧍‍♀️.) Anyway, that's all I can give without combusting and spoiling literally everything. Just know that I am waiting for the next update like a Victorian widow at the shore. Every breeze makes me think it’' finally coming. Every delay breaks me a little more. 😭

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

from DragonWhiskers12

Repetitive??? Plz don't apologize!! You can send 50+ doodles over and over again and I'd still love them! This is a series, and I am fully subscribed 😭👏This is absolute divine chaos in the best way. The "THIS IS AN ARMED ROBOT" next to an eyeball holding a gun?? (like is he really trying to rob Hades??? be fr 😭) Birdmes yelling "NO!! POOKIE" like he just witnessed a crime scene?? I am HOWLING. Please never apologize for this again. It's giving "gods losing their minds in a group chat while the mortal world crumbles." You've basically turned Olympus into an  sitcom and I want ten seasons.

from chipsiscurious (same username on tumblr)

OMG NO BECAUSE THIS?? THIS IS PEAK ENERGY. Like... I don't think anyone understands just how perfectly you captured MC's entire vibe after coming back from the dead  😭💀 no spoilers but yeah, death did change MC, so who knows?? You might actually be on that type of timing 😩😩

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]

"Write for yourself"

Brother, I literally have more than 2 million words sitting in my drafts folder instead of posted on AO3.

I write for myself. I post for community interaction.

[winxanity-ii]

YOU!! YES, YOU!! GO WRITE THAT FANFIC YOU THINK NOBODY BUT YOU WILL READ!!

[winxanity-ii]

CONTINUATION OF CH.40

I ran out of space, so here's all the fanart i got recently ❤️❤️😩😩😩😩

from Rizzlord (@v4mpn11on tumblr)

AHHHHH this piece still has me floored every time I look at it 😭✨ the details??? The shading??? Her EYES??? You captured something so powerful and grounded in her expression—I can see the weariness and strength all at once. And don't even get me started on the hair and those intricate floral clasps on her shoulders?? Like HELLO??? You really snapped with the texture there 😩

I legit saved this straight to my computer the moment I got it. Thank you sm again! She looks like she walked straight out of a manga panel and I'm obsessed 😭❤️

from gab137507

AHHHH-----the symbolism is so perfect 😭😭😭 The way you drew MC's expression—so hollow and calm, almost resigned—it's haunting in the best way. I love how each hand has a story to tell without even needing words. I already went a lil coo-coo in your commnt section of how much i loved/thought each one represented so i'm not gonna bore everyone with it here (may repaste in the comments) but yeah, I just—ugh, it''s so stimulating seeing the strings of all these interactions MC has to navigate drawn to life like this. You nailed the entire pressure of her role in a single, quiet image. Thank you so much again❤️‍🔥

from Acheron

ACHERON???? Be serious. Be so serious. This is actual cinema. The way the light frames him—no, devours him—like a halo and a wildfire all at once??? The motion, the tilt of his head, the drama in that silhouette... it's unhinged in the most divine, tragic way. I'm staring at this like it's an actual animated movie still 😭🔥This is Apollo's tantrum. This is grief-split-open-and-turned-solar. You nailed the energy of Ch.39 without showing anything explicitly, and that's what makes it hit even harder. Like how am I supposed to emotionally recover from this?? 😭❤️‍🔥 Thank you endlessly for this masterpiece.

from DragonWhiskers12

DO NOT EVER APOLOGIZE FOR HOW YOU EXECUTE YOUR ART—like ever. It's the intent, the design, the final result that hits—and this??? This hit me like a meteor from Olympus. I'm OBSESSED with your interpretation of Apollo 😭 the eerie elegance, the chaotic divinity, the multiple eyes??? That's godhood. That's prophecy. That's ✨trauma✨. I'm so in love with this vision I'm be using in another fic i have coming up😭😭🙏🏾 thank you for sharing this with me, truly.

PLEASE. Don't even apologize for the camera quality or anything about this—do you know how golden this page is??? The way I had to squint and then suddenly BURST OUT LAUGHING??? The "No more sun until I get my wife back" Apollo design coming back with extra eyeballs and those reaction doodles of the Olympians??? ICONIC 😭 Like no because the vibe of this whole thing?? Raw sketch energy, chaotic divine commentary, a masterpiece journal page of doom... I'm saving this to my personal shrine of chaos. It feels like something I'd find tucked in the library of Delphi on a scroll titled "Signs That the Sun God is Spiraling" 😭💀

from iconic-idiot-con

OH MY GODDDD I GASPED—THE WAY YOU CAPTURED HERMES' SMUG LITTLE CHARM??? The wink?? The pose?? The delivery??? 😭😭 This entire scene looks like it was yanked straight out of a visual novel and I would pay real currency to read it. Also the way you illustrated MC with such softness in that panel?? Ugh. You get her. You get them. And I am currently sobbing over the fact that this exists in my lil arts folder 🥹💌🪽 Thank you SO much.

STOP—YOU'RE TELLING ME I GET A WHOLE CHARACTER LINEUP??? A WHOLE CAST SHEET??? This is like opening the bonus content at the end of a deluxe edition graphic novel and just sinking into the lore. First off—Hermes??? ICONIC. The exact chaotic-neutral energy. His smirk?? Unmatched. Apollo is serving radiant golden retriever in the best possible way, and I love how you made him look just slightly off-kilter, like there's something behind that smile (which is so him). Also HELEN?? She's giving effortlessly smug and I know she knows it. Odysseus' sadness is in his shoulders. That's storytelling. His "sad, wet, pathetic puppet man" energy literally LEAPS off the page. Penelope looks tired but gorgeous, which is exactly what I envisioned. Telemachus looks like he just got done internally monologuing about duty and also how pretty the MC is. I'm obsessed. And finally, MC?? Soft, grounded, radiant. Just there. And still effortlessly magnetic. I'm sobbing. Truly—thank you for this. It's beyond perfect. Your brain has 100% divine blessing status now.

SHUT UP—Hermes Bird with the lil satchel and cloak?! I'm LOSING it. And MC?? The blank expression? The visible cuts and wraps? That side-eye like she just survived divine nonsense and still has errands to run? Peak characterization. She looks like she's just recovered from a gods-given concussion and is about to commit arson in retaliation. I don't care if it's "unfinished," it's got more energy and story in it than most completed pieces. Post the rest whenever you want—I'm eating this up sketchy or not and WILL be giving the same enthusiasm once done cuz YESSS!