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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 11 Chapter 11 | splintered reverie ⌟

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The morning sun filtered gently through the open windows, casting a golden glow across Queen Penelope's chambers. The light was soft, barely warm, and it turned the curtains into gauzy veils, making them sway gently with the breeze that carried the scent of the herbs growing outside.

You were pouring a delicate herbal infusion, the scent of rosemary and mint rising into the air, into a silver cup etched with Athena's myth. The intricate designs on the cup shimmered in the morning light, depicting the goddess in battle, her spear raised high.

The steam curled up in gentle wisps, twisting and dissipating into the soft morning light. You carefully controlled the stream, tilting the clay vessel slowly to ensure not a single drop spilled.

Penelope's voice filled the room, smooth and wistful, as she spoke of simpler days—her youth, the laughter of her childhood—spent exploring the olive groves, of secret hiding spots near the cliffs, and of the scent of the sea that lingered in her hair long after she returned home.

Her gaze drifted toward the open window, her eyes losing focus as if she could see those groves once more, stretching endlessly before her.

Her fingers absently traced the rim of her cup, following the contours as she spoke, her lips curving into a small, almost bittersweet smile. There was a soft sigh, barely audible, as if she were reluctant to return to the present.

You listened attentively, nodding occasionally as you steadied the clay vessel holding the water; your gaze flickered between the steaming infusion and the queen, taking in her every word.

Each story she told felt like a thread weaving a vivid tapestry of her past, and you could almost see it—young Penelope, her laughter ringing through the hills of Sparta, her eyes bright and free of worry.

There was a soft sigh, barely audible, as if she were reluctant to return to the present. Her voice, usually commanding and full of responsibility, now held a gentleness—a vulnerability that she rarely showed.

But the quiet intimacy of the moment was interrupted by a sudden, firm knock at the chamber door. Penelope paused mid-sentence, her brows arching slightly as her gaze shifted towards the door.

You gave her a reassuring smile before setting the cloth down beside the shallow clay vessel holding the hot herbal water; you smoothed out the creases in your dress, the fabric rustling softly as you moved towards the door.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before you pulled it open.

The door creaked slightly, and your eyes immediately met Telemachus'. His face was scrunched in a frown, his brow furrowed as if deep in thought. But the moment his eyes landed on you, his expression softened. A smile began to tug at his lips, and you could feel one growing on yours in return.

You stared up at him, taking in the way his features changed—the tension leaving his face, his eyes softening with recognition.

But then, something shifted.

His eyes widened just a smidge, and a look of panic flashed across his features, his smile faltering. You could see the muscles in his jaw clench for a moment, his eyes darting towards the interior of the room before quickly flicking back to you.

A bead of sweat seemed to form at his temple, and his eyes—once so filled with warmth—now carried a sense of urgency, almost as if he had been caught somewhere he shouldn't have been.

You blinked, your own smile freezing as you tried to understand the sudden change. Confusion clouded your thoughts, and you opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out.

Penelope's voice called from behind you, breaking the growing silence. "Who is it, ____?"

You turned, holding the door wider as you spoke, "It's Prince Telemachus, my—" Your words faltered, the sentence trailing off as you turned your head back towards the door, only to find the empty space before you. "—queen?"

The hallway beyond was empty.

You blinked, your eyes scanning the space, almost expecting to see Telemachus hiding just beyond the doorframe. But there was nothing, only the quiet echo of Penelope's chambers and the distant chirping of morning birds.

The silence suddenly felt thick, the warmth of his presence fading like a dream slipping away upon waking. Had he even been there at all? The thought flickered through your mind, absurd yet unsettling, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a trick of your imagination.

Your face scrunched up, a puzzled frown tugging at your lips.

You turned back to Penelope, brows knitting together in bewilderment. "Um, I'm unsure where he'd gone," you said, your voice hesitant. "I could have sworn he was just here..."

You felt the confusion settle deeper, as if the moment you had just experienced had slipped like water through your fingers.

Penelope's curious gaze settled on you, her eyes narrowing just a bit as she studied your expression. "Telemachus was here?" she repeated, her voice calm, though curiosity laced her tone.

You nodded, feeling a bit silly now. "He was. Just for a moment, but..." You hesitated, glancing once more at the open door, half-expecting him to reappear as quickly as he'd vanished. "I truly don't know where he went."

You turned back around to shut the door, but before you could, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway once more. You paused, the door still ajar, and turned just in time to see a young servant skidding to a stop, panting slightly.

"Wait, please," they called, their voice soft but urgent.

You blinked, taking in their appearance—a young person, their features so delicate it was hard to tell if they were a young man or woman. Their tawny-honey hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, stray strands framing their face; large, earnest hazel eyes met yours, catching a bit of the morning light.

They wore a male servant's uniform that hung loosely on their slender frame, and they were around your height, perhaps a bit taller. But despite the clothing, there was an androgynous beauty to them—something almost ethereal in their features.

"Prince Telemachus..." the servant panted, trying to catch their breath. You raised an eyebrow, a questioning look in your eyes as you waited for them to continue. The servant hesitated, tucking a stray lock of hair behind their ear, their gaze briefly dropping to the floor. "He told me to tell you..." They paused, pressing a hand to their chest before finally managing, "To tell his mother... he'll be back to... join her for lunch."

You stood there, almost speechless for a moment, a wave of confusion washing over you. "Oh..." was all you managed for a moment, glancing down the hallway again.

"Alright, thank you," you finally managed, the words coming out slower than usual, still unsure what to make of it. You gave the servant a small smile as they straightened up, their breathing slowly returning to normal.

They gave you a polite bow, shifting slightly from foot to foot as if uncertain, before turning and disappearing down the hallway, leaving you standing there, the door still ajar.

You slowly closed the door, the latch clicking quietly into place. As you turned back around, Penelope had already lifted her cup to her lips. You caught a glimpse of her expression—her eyes glinting with something unreadable, her lips twitching as if hiding a smile.

She shook her head slightly, her voice so soft you almost missed it, lips curving into an almost secretive smile. "Silly boy," she muttered, almost to herself, a sigh escaping as if it was a habit—a mother's familiar exasperation mixed with affection.

You made your way back across the room, still feeling a hint of confusion. Penelope set her cup down as you approached, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "There's no need to relay the message, dear," she said, her eyes glinting with humor. "I heard everything."

You blinked, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. "Oh... of course, my queen," you murmured, a bit flustered.

Penelope shook her head again, her eyes softening as she looked up at you. "He's always been impulsive, but his heart's in the right place," she said, her tone filled with both fondness and a hint of exasperation.

You weren't too sure why she told you this, but you accepted it with a nod.

Turning back to your little station, you busied yourself with tidying up—setting the sugar bowl neatly back onto the tray you had carried there, arranging in a more orderly cluster.

You carefully lifted the clay vessel next, making sure there were no spills, and set it back onto the tray as well. The familiar task brought you a sense of calm, grounding you amidst the lingering confusion.

As you worked, Penelope's voice called to you, soft yet clear, "Well, since my son has taken charge of my lunch plans, I suppose you'll be alright if I free you of your duties until then." She paused, her gaze flicking towards the window, her lips curving into a small smile. "Telemachus and I will likely have lunch in the reading alcove—it's a beautiful day, the sun should bless us with good light."

You bowed your head respectfully, a warm smile touching your lips. "Of course, my queen. I'll be sure to bring extra wine as well as the prince's favorite honey cakes," you replied, a hint of affection in your voice as you thought of Telemachus' fondness for the treat.

Penelope nodded, her eyes twinkling slightly. "Thank you, dear. That would be lovely."

You straightened up, gathering the tray and making your way towards the door. As you reached it, you glanced back, catching sight of Penelope gazing out the window, her expression soft and almost wistful. She held her cup delicately, the rim just brushing her lips as she took a small sip, her eyes distant.

There was something peaceful about her in that moment—something deeply content as she watched.

With a deep breath, you made your way out the room.

☆

"You're strumming it like you're trying to scare a cat away!"

"How is it my fault that you're a horrible teacher!?"

The courtyard was calm today, bathed in golden sunlight that filtered through the leaves of olive and cypress trees. The air was filled with the scent of fresh earth, blooming flowers, and the distant hint of salt from the sea.

You and Callias were settled comfortably on the soft grass, your shoulders almost touching as you leaned in to watch his attempts at the lyre. He was holding your lyre, though not quite as gracefully as you might have liked, the strings stilling under his fingers as he tried to follow your instructions.

"Alright, alright, let me try again!" Callias insisted, determination written across his face despite his obvious lack of talent.

You watched as he squinted down at the lyre, lifting it much higher than necessary until it was perched awkwardly against his chest. His tongue peeked out slightly from between his lips as he concentrated, fingers awkwardly plucking at the strings with an exaggerated precision.

A few dull, entirely off-tune notes rang out, and you couldn't help but cringe just a little, trying to hold back your laughter.

He strummed a few more times before sighing in defeat, sucking his teeth as he plopped the lyre into your lap without warning. "Obviously, it's broken," he declared, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his chin as though offended.

You raised an eyebrow, the corners of your lips twitching with amusement. Callias peeked one eye open, gauging your reaction before quickly turning his head again, pretending to remain aloof.

The sight of his exaggerated haughtiness, paired with the sheer audacity of his complaint, was too much. You couldn't hold it in any longer—the laughter bubbled up, light and infectious, spilling from your lips.

Hugging the lyre to your chest, you shook your head. "Oh, broken, is it?" you managed between laughs. "You mean to tell me the strings are to blame for your... unique musical talents?"

Callias scoffed, turning his head just enough for you to catch his smirk. "I don't appreciate your tone, fair lady," he replied, pretending to be deeply hurt.

You rolled your eyes, your laughter finally subsiding into softer giggles. Despite only knowing him for a short time, Callias made it feel as if you'd known each other forever.

The way he sulked—childlike and endearing—made it hard for you to take him seriously, and though his musical skills left much to be desired, there was a lightness to these moments—something carefree and genuine.

You nudged him playfully with your elbow, a teasing grin spreading across your face. "Maybe it's not broken, Callias. Maybe it's just you," you teased, your fingers already plucking at the strings with ease, producing a short and sweet melody that seemed to fill the air effortlessly.

Callias' lips pulled into a pout, his eyes narrowing at your casual display of skill. He watched you for a beat, his expression somewhere between admiration and mock annoyance. "Show-off," he muttered, though his tone held no real bitterness.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and a grin of his own returned. He reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out his panpipes, and wiggled them in front of your face. "Well, at least I can play these," he declared, his voice taking on a challenging note. "Now it's your turn to struggle."

You couldn't help but sigh dramatically, your shoulders slumping slightly in mock defeat. "Oh, not those again," you groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips nonetheless.

Callias waggled his eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying himself. "Come on, now. Fair's fair, isn't it?" He gave the pipes a shake, the small wooden tubes clicking together. "Let's see if you've magically gotten any better since this morning."

Your mind drifted back to earlier. After being relieved by the queen, you'd made your way to your usual spot in the courtyard, only to be intercepted by Callias not too long after. Without so much as a greeting, he'd started talking about practicing instruments, and before you knew it, he had you attempting to play his panpipes again.

Despite your natural affinity for most instruments, the pipes had given you trouble from the start. Something about the coordination of breath and fingers just didn't come easily, and after a few embarrassing squeaks and out-of-tune notes, you'd given up—flustered and frustrated.

Callias had laughed it off, of course, insisting that it was all part of the learning process, before demanding a turn with your lyre. And now, here the two of you were, neither particularly successful, but both unwilling to admit defeat.

With a sigh, you set the lyre down beside you and reached for the panpipes. "Fine, fine," you said, trying to suppress the smile threatening to break free. "But if I pass out from lack of air, it'll be on your conscience."

Callias smirked, leaning back on his hands as he watched you bring the pipes to your lips. "Oh, I doubt that," he teased. "Besides, you're too stubborn to give up that easily."

You took a deep breath, eyes narrowing in determination. The pipes were cool beneath your fingers, and as you blew into them, you tried to mimic the same smooth melody Callias had played earlier.

The sound that came out was... not quite right. It wasn't the high-pitched squeak from before, but it was still far from pleasant.

Callias bit his lip, clearly trying not to laugh, and you shot him a glare. "You're a terrible teacher," you shot back, lowering the pipes with a huff.

He grinned, shrugging with an expression that very clearly said, You win some, you lose some. He reached over, giving your shoulder a reassuring pat. "Don't worry, you'll get there eventually. And until then, I'll just be here... being better at it than you."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile found its way to your lips.

Playfully, you scowled and shook your fist at him, your eyes narrowing in mock annoyance. "Oh, you're insufferable! You sound like an old crone—'Practice makes perfect, my dear!' Bah!"

Callias' eyes went wide for a split second before he burst into a fit of laughter, his head tipping back as he shrieked with delight. "Oh gods, listen to yourself!" he gasped, barely able to speak through his laughter. "Me!? You're the one that sounds ancient! Like some wise old grandmother trying to give life advice!"

You huffed, though the smile pulling at your lips betrayed your attempt at indignation. "Well, maybe the old crones know a thing or two," you shot back, but even as you spoke, your own laughter threatened to bubble up again.

Callias continued to laugh, clutching his side, and you couldn't help but join in, the courtyard once again filled with the lightness of your shared joy.

"There you are, Callias..."

The sharp voice broke through your laughter, shattering the carefree moment like a clay pot against stone.

You and Callias both froze mid-laugh, your heads snapping over to the source of the voice. A few feet away stood Lady Andreia, making her way toward the two of you with a determined stride.

Your eyes were drawn to Andreia's dress first. At first glance, it looked to be blue, but as she drew closer, the true color became more apparent—a seafoam green, soft and elegant, the fabric rippling like water with each of her steps. She moved with a certain regality, her chin held high, her expression carefully poised.

A servant trailed behind her, holding a skiadeion—a small, elegant parasol that matched Andreia's attire, shading her from the morning sun.

Callias cleared his throat, his previous laughter abruptly stifled, though his lips still twitched with the remnants of a grin. He gave you a quick, sideways glance, his eyes wide with mock alarm, as though silently asking if you could shield him from whatever was coming.

Quickly, the two of you scrambled to your feet. Callias was up first, then he extended his hand to you, helping you up gently. You dusted off your skirts as Andreia came to a stop in front of you both, her gaze flickering between you and Callias.

The air felt different, heavier.

You could sense Andreia's dismissive demeanor as her eyes glanced over you briefly before moving right back to Callias, almost as if you were not worth lingering on.

It wasn't exactly hostile, but you couldn't ignore the way she seemed to see through you. It struck you how different she acted when a member of the royal family was present—almost like you weren't even there.

Callias, sensing the tension, glanced at you and gave you an apologetic look. "Sorry about this," he murmured, and you shook your head, brushing it off with a small smile. "No worries," you replied lightly, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness. "Remember, I have to bring the queen and prince lunch... speaking of which, I believe it's almost time."

You gave a shallow curtsy to Andreia, your eyes lowering out of respect. "My lady, if you'll excuse me," you said politely, clutching your dress tightly.

Andreia's eyes snapped toward you, and for a brief second, it was as if she'd just realized you were standing there. "Oh... and you are...?"

You swallowed, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly as you tried not to stutter. "I am, ____... I am the queen's personal handmaiden, my lady." Internally, embarrassment clawed at you.

You'd thought that surely she knew you by now, with all the time spent in the palace. But you quickly brushed it aside. She was a royal, after all, and you were merely a servant—it wasn't her place to know who you were.

It felt like whatever interest she may have had fizzled away, like a candle snuffed out. Without so much as acknowledging your introduction, her gaze shifted back to Callias, her attention solely on him now.

The conversation moved forward, and you were no longer a part of it.

Andreia spoke to Callias in a tone that was neither harsh nor gentle. It lacked the warmth you were used to hearing when the Ithacan royals addressed their servants—something was missing, like the courtesy extended to those who worked tirelessly behind the scenes.

Callias, in response, kept his face neutral, his expression giving nothing away. It was like he'd donned a mask, one practiced and well-worn, as though he was used to this kind of interaction.

Peeking slightly over Andreia's shoulder, you caught Callias' eye. For just a heartbeat, his blank face broke as he tilted his head ever so slightly, a silent signal that said go, get out of here while you can. He managed a small, reassuring smile, one meant just for you.

You nodded gratefully and took a careful step back before turning on your heel, eager to slip away unnoticed. Your departure was quick, your feet nearly gliding across the stone path as you put distance between yourself and the royal and two servants.

As you left, Andreia's voice grew louder, commanding in a way that demanded attention. Whatever she needed from Callias was not your concern anymore.

You pushed the encounter from your mind, focusing instead on your next task—the lunch preparations for the queen and prince awaited, and you couldn't afford to be distracted; plus, there was no use lingering on things you couldn't change.

☆ ✩ ☆

It wasn't until sometime later, after you had served lunch to your two royals, that you realized you had forgotten your lyre.

A small pang of panic rippled through your chest, your mind racing. But then you remembered where you had last had it—in the courtyard, with Callias.

If this had been before you'd spent time with him, you might have been worried out of your mind, imagining all the possible ways your instrument could've ended up damaged or worse. But you knew Callias now.

Despite his teasing nature, you had come to see how careful and considerate he was, especially with his own instrument. He treated the panpipes with reverence, always handling them as if they were made of glass.

You could trust him to grant your lyre the same respect.

You sighed, relieved, deciding to simply ask him about it when you next saw him. However, as you were leaving Queen Penelope's quarters, your arms full with a basket of dirty bedsheets, someone startled you. A soft voice called out, and you turned, blinking in surprise. "Excuse me, miss?"

It was a servant—a Bronte servant, to be precise.

"Yes?" You gave a polite smile, shifting everything to one arm.

"Callias asked me to tell you that he has your lyre with him near the sheepfold."

For a moment, you were stunned, blinking at the servant before managing a response. "Oh," you mumbled, "Thank you."

The servant gave a polite nod before turning and leaving, her footsteps echoing lightly in the hallway. As she disappeared around the corner, you let out a soft scoff, shaking your head with a smile. "He would make me cross the entire palace just to get it," you muttered under your breath, amused.

Balancing the heavy basket back in both arms, you shifted its weight slightly, a humor-tinged thought crossing your mind as you began walking—since the king's return, Penelope had spent more time in his chambers rather than her own.

It seemed as though she used her quarters as a sort of resting spot, a break room whenever Odysseus was too busy to be with her. She hadn't moved back to her old rooms permanently, though.

It made sense, you supposed, after twenty years apart; staying close must have been comforting for them both.

You smiled at the thought, admiring their closeness.

With that small smile still lingering on your lips, you continued on your way, making a mental note to find Callias as soon as you dropped this off. You glanced out the window, noting the sun halfway in the sky.

You still had time before dinner.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

A soft breeze brushed against your face as you stepped into the open corridors of the palace. You walked across the polished stone floors, each step echoing lightly in the halls.

The air was crisp, carrying with it a slight chill that nipped at your exposed skin—a reminder that the sun was now hidden partially behind clouds, leaving the palace grounds caught in that in-between of warmth and coolness.

You blew into your free hand, warming it with your breath, your fingers feeling a little stiff from the cold.

The sky above shifted from blue to a muted gray as the clouds filtered across, their shadows passing over the palace like fleeting memories. It wasn't an unpleasant cold, but enough to make you miss the earlier sunlight.

As you moved closer to the sheepfold, the difference between the animal areas became noticeable.

Unlike the pungent, earthy scent that clung to Eumaeus's pigsty, the air near the sheepfold was significantly lighter—a faint musk mixed with the grassy, soft bleating of sheep in the distance.

It was almost peaceful compared to the boisterous sounds of the pigs.

The layout was familiar. A small fenced-in area held the sheep in place, and beyond that, a shed a few feet away housed their feed and tools—simple, practical, but well-kept.

A soft melody reached your ears, just barely discernible over the rustling of the wind. Your pace quickened, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. It was unmistakably the sound of your lyre—though played with hesitance, and the notes weren't quite right.

Rounding the bend of the sheepfold, you caught sight of a makeshift setup—a crate, weathered and worn, placed in front of the shed. Someone sat upon it, back straight and poise evident even from afar. A small, fenced-in area behind them kept the sheep safely enclosed, and the shed nearby cast a long shadow across the ground.

"Ah-ha! I knew you knew how to play! Better pay up for wasting my time..." your voice trailed off, your teasing tone faltering mid-sentence.

It wasn't Callias.

Lady Andreia turned her head, her eyes locking onto yours as you came to a sudden stop.

The clouds overhead thickened, their dark shapes sliding slowly across the sky, casting elongated shadows on the palace grounds. The breeze picked up, a little sharper now, carrying a weight that clung to your skin.

She was sitting delicately on the edge of the crate, her back straight, as if even the old box disgusted her. Her fingers stilled over the strings of your lyre, and she regarded you with an arched brow, clearly unamused by your sudden appearance.

The playful smile you'd worn vanished, replaced by an expression of surprise and confusion. Andreia—of all people—had your lyre. You tried to school your features, but it was difficult to hide the uncertainty bubbling within you.

The soft melody she had been playing died off, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air. Andreia remained seated, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, the lyre still resting atop her lap, her fingers tracing its edges with a lazy kind of carelessness.

Tearing your eyes away from your lyre, you immediately dropped into a curtsey, apologizing, "I'm so sorry, Lady Andreia, I-I thought Callias—"

She cut you off abruptly, standing with a swift motion, her gaze never leaving your face as she approached. "No need to explain," she said, her voice cool, dismissive. "I know."

The air grew heavier, the faint scent of moisture carried on the breeze. Somewhere far off, you thought you saw the sky flicker, but the light faded before you could be sure.

You blinked, rising slowly, your eyes flicking back up to meet hers as confusion etched itself onto your features. "P-pardon?" The word slipped out before you could stop it—an instinct, questioning her words.

Andreia said nothing for a moment, just letting out a nonchalant hum as her eyes assessed you, taking in every detail as she began circling you, moving gracefully, her gaze never faltering.

There was something in the way she walked—like a cat slowly stalking prey—that made you tense, your stomach twisting into a small knot.

The clouds above grew darker still, deepening to a stormy gray, casting an eerie dimness over the courtyard. The breeze had turned into a steady wind, and you noticed the way it stirred the hem of Andreia's dress.

Then, she stopped in front of you, her head tilting to the side; her eyes bore into yours, lips curling into a slight smirk. "You're pretty," she said bluntly, the words dropping like a stone between you.

The bluntness of her statement made you stiffen, taken aback by the unexpected comment. You blinked before forcing yourself to reply. "Um, t-thank you, Lady—"

But before you could even finish, Andreia cut you off again, stepping closer, her eyes narrowing as her lips twisted into something between a smirk and a smile. It was as if she spoke not to you, but rather at you—as if you were an accessory to her musings. "Tell me," she continued, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, "did my brother find you pretty as well?"

Faint flashes of light appeared far on the horizon, subtle and quick, casting brief flickers across the landscape.

The question caught you off guard, and you fumbled for a response, your heart jumping to your throat. "N-no, my lady," you stammered, dropping your gaze to the ground, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "I—He— He was here as a suitor for the queen—only for the queen."

Andreia hummed again, her eyes never leaving your face, studying the way you faltered; the smirk on her lips growing slightly as she stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. You could feel the weight of her gaze, and it made you want to shrink away.

You dropped your gaze further. "I—The queen... and Prince Telemachus," you mumbled quickly, grasping for anything to divert the conversation. "Dinner will be starting soon, and the royal family will surely need me. Excuse me."

Far away, the flashes became more frequent, illuminating the edges of the clouds in fleeting bursts. The air was thick now, clinging to your skin, heavy with the promise of rain.

You thought about reaching for your lyre, but decided against it. The last thing you wanted was to escalate whatever strange game Andreia was playing. Instead, you turned on your heel, attempting to step back and leave.

But Andreia was quicker. Her fingers wrapped around your arm, stopping you in place. Her nails dug in lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make her point clear. "Hold on," she said, her voice now edged with a sharper, commanding tone, laced with a bit of mockery. "No need to be rude to your guest..."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn't dare look up, keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you nodded slightly. "Of course, my lady... my apologies."

Andreia held your arm for a moment longer, her nails digging in a tad bit deeper, just enough that you had to withhold a wince, resisting the instinct to yank your arm away, before she finally let go.

When you finally looked up, Andreia was smiling at you, but it never reached her eyes—there was something hollow, calculated in her expression.

The atmosphere between you both was heavy, tense, and you felt the urge to leave bubbling up again. The coldness of her gaze seemed to seep into your very bones, and you had to stop yourself from recoiling.

Andreia just tilted her head, her eyes trailing down before she focused on the lyre in her hands. Her fingers traced along its edges lazily, her gaze turning almost absent, as if you had faded from her attention altogether.

She hummed softly, her tone light but with a mocking undercurrent. "You know, Callias was very eager to be the one to deliver this back to you... your lyre, that is, once he realized you left it," she mused, her voice almost casual.

Andreia lifted the lyre by one of its strings, letting it dangle precariously, the wooden frame swaying in her grip.

Your hand twitched involuntarily, a surge of worry running through you.

It hung on her finger like it was ready to snap at any moment, and she seemed to know exactly how it looked—her eyes darting to you out of the corner of her gaze, watching for a reaction.

"What an ugly thing," she finally said, her tone blunt, as if the comment held no weight. Your eyes remained on the lyre, your heart tightening at the sight of it hanging so carelessly.

You swallowed thickly, trying to keep your expression neutral.

You cleared your throat, mustering the courage to speak. "Lady Andreia," you began, your voice wavering slightly. Andreia's eyes snapped sharply to yours, her gaze narrowing, daring you to continue. "If I may—it's a gift from Queen Penelope, herself," you managed to say, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

At this, Andreia's expression twitched, her lips tightening for a brief moment before she let out a scoff. "A gift from the queen? What in the name of Hades would compel her to give you something like this?" she asked, her voice dripping with incredulity, her fingers still tracing the edge of the lyre.

The air between you seemed to grow colder, the tension twisting tighter, and all you could do was stand there, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping back to the lyre. It was weathered and aged—clearly old. Though you cared for it diligently, the wood had dried out over the years, becoming brittle. Hairline cracks had formed around the joints, particularly where the crossbar connected to the arms—areas of frequent stress.

It was actually a lyre the queen had herself from her youth, a ratty old thing that you cherished deeply.

Over the years, Penelope and even Telemachus had often asked if you wanted a new one. The prince had even reassured you that he could have the best lyre ever crafted, the most expensive one available, if only you asked.

But you always refused.

This lyre held more than just music—it carried memories, moments shared with the queen, times of solace, and comfort. It was more than an instrument; it was a piece of your past that you weren't ready to part with.

Your once respectful demeanor began to evaporate, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. You could feel your lips pulling into a frown, your face heating up in anger.

Your patience was wearing thin—you were getting sick of this royal, her coldness, her careless words.

"It doesn't matter why," you said harshly, your voice firmer now. "The queen gave it to me, and I am thankful for it. She did so much for all of us during her time of grief for King Odysseus—and this 'ugly thing' helped her, helped many of us, get through that." You could feel your heart pounding as you spoke, your words coming out more boldly than you had intended.

It wasn't until the silence settled between you, the weight of your words hanging in the air, that you realized what you'd done. You gasped, eyes widening as your hands flew to your mouth.

Andreia narrowed her eyes at you, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, you thought she might lash out, but then her face smoothed out entirely. The warmth—what little of it there ever was—returned to her features, her lips curving into a smile that was almost pleasant.

"F-forgive me, Lady Andreia... I-I didn't mean to speak out of turn... I—"

She raised a hand to her mouth, hiding a giggle, as if you'd just said the funniest thing in the world, cutting your apology off completely. "Oh, how amusing," she said, her eyes glinting with something you couldn't quite place. She took a step forward, her gaze holding yours. "It's funny," she continued, her voice almost sing-song, "how you still call me 'Lady Andreia' instead of what I am—a princess."

You blinked, taken aback, confused by the sudden shift. You had expected her to address your outburst, your audacity. You had expected her to be furious, to lash out.

Instead, she was smiling—talking about a title.

Honestly, you didn't call her 'princess' because she wasn't your princess. Plus, King Odysseus had shown his hand the very day the Bronte entourage arrived, addressing her as 'Lady Andreia,' despite her official title.

It was clear he wanted everyone in Ithaca to treat her as a guest, not as someone to be held above—or even on equal footing—as the royal family here.

Clearing your throat, you looked away, chickening out for a few seconds before finally gathering the courage to look her in the eyes once more, only to falter at the sight of her eyes—dark and stormy, yet the same smile remained on her face. "Um, oh, forgive me, I didn't mean to offend—"

She cut you off, letting out a laugh that sounded forced and hollow. "Of course not," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I wouldn't expect a servant to understand proper decorum. You're all just so... simple-minded, aren't you?" Her words were sharp, tinged with something cruel, yet there was truth to her observation—something bitter that stung.

You stayed silent, your teeth pressing into the inside of your cheek, hoping that this would be enough, that maybe she would stop and let you go. That she'd finally leave.

But Andreia wasn't done.

"You see, that's the issue with servants these days," she said, her voice dropping lower as she began to rant, her eyes drifting away from yours. "You're allowed too much joy, too much freedom. It makes you forget your place." Her gaze flicked back to the lyre, and without warning, she harshly plucked at the strings, her fingers pulling at them almost violently, as if to prove some twisted point.

The discordant twang made you wince inwardly, though you dared not let it show on your face.

She tilted her head, her fingers tracing along the lyre's frame. "Don't you agree, ____?" she asked, her voice back sickeningly sweet, her eyes cold as ice, her question hanging in the air like a challenge.

You blinked, not only because you were confused about where she was going with this but also because you weren't aware she even knew your name, especially considering how she'd brushed you off with barely a glance.

You cleared your throat again, buying a few precious seconds as you struggled to find the right words. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. "Um, I apologize—I'm unsure what you mean..." you began, trying to deflect her question.

But she wasn't having it.

"That servants shouldn't be pestered from their duties, distracted..." she continued, her voice sharp. Her stare was unwavering, and it was unnerving enough that you felt your gaze drift away from hers involuntarily once more, your shoulders stiffening.

You shifted your weight, the cold wind brushing against your back as you stood there under her scrutiny. Finally, you nodded, your voice coming out barely louder than a whisper. "Yes, I agree, Lady Andreia."

Andreia's shoulders visibly relaxed at that, her smile shifting into something that almost looked genuine. She tilted her head, her eyes softening, though the coldness behind them never truly faded. "I'm happy we gained this understanding, ____."

You nodded, hoping that the ordeal was over, that she might dismiss you. "Um, if that is all, then I should—"

You were cut off by the sight of her raising both her arms high, and just as quickly, she brought her knee up sharply, smashing the lyre against it.

The sound of splintering wood filled the space between you, a harsh, unforgiving crack.

The moment the lyre splintered, a flash of lightning lit up the courtyard, followed by the deep, guttural boom of thunder that seemed to shake the very ground beneath your feet.

The lyre's fragile body splintered across her knee—not entirely in half, but enough to create a large, jagged crack down the middle. One of the arms broke almost completely, dangling loosely by a few remaining fibers, while a couple of strings snapped entirely, coiling up limply.

She dropped the pieces into the mud below, where they landed with a dull, heart-wrenching thud.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart leaping to your mouth as you watched her let go, the shattered remains of your cherished instrument falling to the ground—lifeless, splintered, utterly ruined.

Andreia dusted her hands off, her expression never faltering as she picked up the hem of her dress delicately to avoid the mud. "I hope to see you at dinner tonight. Perhaps you could try the panpipes and do a duet with Callias, hmm? I do enjoy a spirited song, especially one that could liven up the room. After all, I'm sure everyone could use a bit of cheer."

She looked at you, her smile once again light, almost pleasant. Then, her gaze flicked upward, lingering on the darkening sky as another rumble of thunder rolled through, deep and resonant.

Andreia's lips curled into a faint smirk, her voice light and airy as she said, "Do get inside before it rains, ____. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

Her tone was so disarmingly casual that, for a moment, it almost masked the weight of everything she'd just done.

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, frozen, staring down at the shattered remnants of your lyre.

The tightness in your chest felt unbearable, and you could feel your eyes sting.

You dared not cry, not here, not now. But the loss of it—the history, the memories—stabbed through you painfully.

The smile she'd left you with was hauntingly sweet, the remnants of cruelty staining the air long after she'd departed.

Your vision blurred; numbness began to settle in, creeping over you like a suffocating fog. You barely registered the fact that your knees buckled, and you staggered down onto the ground, harshly falling into the mud, feeling the dirt and water seep into your clothes.

The rain had then begun to fall in earnest, droplets soft at first, but growing heavier with each passing moment.

Your hands hovered just above the remains of the lyre, trembling, almost too scared to touch it, as if the wood might splinter further just from your touch. Tears brimmed in your eyes, and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear them, but it was no use.

Your breathing grew ragged, and your nose felt hot, your face flushed with the intensity of it all. Your ears were ringing, and you could barely hear the whispered, desperate mantra that escaped your lips, over and over again: "No, no, no, no, no..."

The rain continued to pour, masking your tears, until you could no longer tell where the rain ended, and your sorrow began. It drenched your hair, soaked through your clothes, and chilled you to the bone.

But before you could completely fall apart, you forced yourself to pull it together. You swallowed hard, blinking against the rain, and wiped your face with the damp sleeve of your dress.

You had to keep moving. You couldn't stay here. You wouldn't allow yourself to break, not yet.

Hurriedly, you bundled up your dress, cradling the broken lyre as gently as you could. You held it close to your chest, protecting it from the rain as best as possible. Your steps were shaky, unsteady, as you pushed yourself to stand.

You told yourself it would be okay—you could fix this. You had your touch-up kit. You could fix it. You repeated it to yourself over and over, a fragile hope that kept you moving forward.

You made your way back to your chambers, the world around you feeling strangely surreal, almost like a dream. Everything passed in a blur—the raindrops falling around you, the distant voices of servants in the hallways.

It all felt muted, as if you were moving through water, disconnected from it all.

Somewhere along the way, you were stopped by Eurycleia. The older woman had seen you, drenched and muddied, carrying something in your arms, and her eyes widened with concern. She reached out, her fingers brushing against your shoulder as she frowned deeply. "Child, by Poseidon's waves... You're soaked through!"

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight, and quickly shook your head, trying to muster some semblance of composure. "I... I don't feel well, Eurycleia," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You could see the worry etched across her features, and you quickly continued, "I don't think I can attend dinner tonight."

And honestly, it wasn't too far off from the truth. You were in no way in shape to attend dinner, let alone be in charge of taking care of the queen's needs tonight.

How could you, when every breath felt like it might shatter you all over again?

Eurycleia's brow furrowed, her gaze staring at your face; she clicked her tongue in disapproval, her voice softening as she cooed at you, "Oh, dear child, you shouldn't have been out in this weather..."

You nodded numbly, her words fading into the background as your focus remained on the weight of the lyre in your arms. It was the only thing grounding you to reality.

Eurycleia gently turned you, her hands firm yet kind as she began ushering you towards your quarters. "Go now, you must rest. I'll let the queen know you're unwell, and I'll handle everything for tonight. You need to get warm, before you catch your death out here. I'll have a light broth sent up to your room, something to help you recover."

You offered her a small, weak smile, murmuring, "Thank you, Eurycleia."

The older woman only shook her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and affection. "No need for thanks, child. Just take care of yourself."

Everything else blurred together after that. The world felt distant, as if you were seeing everything through a foggy glass.

You could barely remember how you had gotten here, how you had managed to strip off your drenched clothes and wrap yourself in something dry.

It was all a haze—a strange, disjointed sequence of moments that didn't quite feel real.

And then, the next thing you knew, you were kneeling before your bed, the broken lyre splayed out across the blanket. Splintered, damaged, a shell of what it once was.

Your fingers traced along the fractured wood, the jagged edges where it had cracked beneath Andreia's grip. The strings lay limp, some still attached while others hung uselessly, curling in on themselves.

The sight of it sent another pang through your chest, and you had to swallow hard to push back the tears that threatened to resurface.

You had promised yourself you could fix this. It was more than just a lyre—it was a part of you, a part of your memories with the queen, a part of everything you cherished.

And you weren't ready to let that go.

With trembling hands, you reached for your touch-up kit, your mind focused solely on the task ahead.

You would fix it... You had to...

There was no other option.

A/N: I swear i'm going somewhere with this plot, sry if andreia seems kinda ooc/weird but i promise i tried doing my best leading up to this without sacrificing anymore chapters on her 😩😭; just know the plot twist is pippin 😮‍💨; also trying my hand posting my non-binary/androgynous character(s)/attempts so if you see me struggling, no you didn't (which is actually hilarious cuz i'm actually androgynous asf in real life so why am i making things so difficult???🤣)

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winxanity-ii · 4 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: Parental Advisors DIVINE WHISPERS: Parental Advisors | divine whispers: parental advisors⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽

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Telemachus sat before his father in his parents' study.

It was a shared space where both Penelope and Odysseus spent their time overseeing the kingdom's affairs. The desk in front of him stretched almost the entire length of the room, with two chairs set behind it for both rulers.

Shelves filled with scrolls and books lined the walls, and in one corner sat Penelope's completed woven shroud, a testament to her patience and skill.

A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a gentle comfort against the stone walls.

Telemachus shifted in his chair, his leg bouncing restlessly. His eyes darted around the room, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across the aged parchment and the tapestry hanging above the mantle.

He tried to focus on the details of the room, but the uncertainty he felt twisted his thoughts into knots.

Across from him, Odysseus sat behind the large desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he read over a parchment, his gaze serious and unwavering. A servant stood by his side, carefully refilling his goblet with wine before silently leaving the room, leaving father and son alone.

As the door clicked shut, Odysseus finally looked up, his sharp eyes studying his son's posture. He set the parchment aside, his attention now entirely on Telemachus. "What seems to be troubling you, my son?"

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting again in his seat. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers brushing against the fabric of his tunic. "Father, I... I need to speak with you. It's about..." He paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to find the right words. "It's about Lady Andreia of Bronte."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, giving his son a patient nod. "Go on."

Telemachus took a deep breath, the air feeling heavy in his chest. "She spoke to me today," he began, his voice low and hesitant. "She mentioned... a proposition. A marriage alliance between Ithaca and Bronte." He could hardly believe the words as he spoke them, and he could feel his face heating up as he forced them out.

The study fell into silence, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound in the otherwise still room. Odysseus blinked, his brows knitting together as he processed his son's words. "A marriage alliance?" he repeated, his voice uncertain, almost as if he needed confirmation.

Telemachus nodded quickly, his eyes wide and earnest. "Yes, Father. She said it could help secure peace and strengthen the bond between our kingdoms..." His voice trailed off, unsure of how else to explain the strange conversation he'd had in the garden.

Odysseus leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze turning thoughtful.

Just as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably, the door to the study burst open, and Penelope entered, her laughter echoing as she stepped inside. She was holding a parchment, her eyes alight with amusement. "Ody... you won't believe what Diomedes wrote back—" Her words faltered as she took in the scene before her, her eyes darting between her husband and her son, one of whom looked uncertain and the other tense.

The door closed heavily behind her, the echo of it filling the space as Penelope blinked, her expression shifting to one of confusion. "...Is it not a good time?" she asked, her voice softer, the excitement from moments before fading.

Odysseus looked at her, a tired but loving smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, his gaze softening as he met his wife's eyes. "No, my love," he said gently, "you're right on time. In fact, I was about to ask someone to fetch you."

Penelope's brow furrowed slightly as she stepped further into the room, her eyes immediately shifting to Telemachus. The worry was clear in her expression as she moved toward her son, her steps quickening. "Telemachus, are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asked, her hands reaching for his face, brushing his cheek gently as she scanned his features for any sign of distress.

Telemachus squirmed a bit under her concern, trying to twist away from her hands, though a part of him found comfort in her presence. "Mother, I'm fine," he muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to avoid her gaze. "Truly, there's no need to worry."

Odysseus chuckled from his place behind the desk, the sound low and warm. "No, Pen, our son isn't injured," he said, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "But there is something else—perhaps even worse."

"Something worse?" Penelope's eyes widened, her hand flying to her chest as she shot a quick prayer to Zeus. "What is it, Odysseus? What has happened?"

Odysseus glanced at Telemachus, giving him an encouraging nod. The young man cleared his throat, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. "Mother, it's about Lady Andreia... She has proposed a... well, a marriage... between herself... and me."

Penelope blinked, her face going still for a moment before her lips parted, and she let out a soft, "Oh." She blinked again, repeating, "Oh." The tension that had gathered in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as she exhaled deeply, her eyes softening. "So, that's it," she murmured, almost to herself. Her gaze turned back to Odysseus, and with a huff, she moved over to him, swatting his arm lightly. "You need to stop scaring me like that. Honestly, I thought it was something far worse."

Odysseus chuckled again, rubbing his arm where she'd swatted him, though his smile only grew. "Apologies, my dear," he said, his eyes twinkling with affection. "But I suppose marriage proposals can be rather terrifying, depending on the circumstances."

Penelope clicked her tongue, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Terrifying indeed," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement. "I remember how frightful I was of a certain cunning warrior—someone who had a reputation that preceded him, and not always for the better." She gave him a teasing look, her eyes glinting as she leaned back, her fingers brushing a stray lock of his hair.

Odysseus let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Ah, yes, a reputation I worked very hard to earn, might I add," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yet, I seem to remember a certain young woman who was rather intrigued by that very reputation." He reached up, gently catching her hand and holding it, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

Penelope raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening even as she feigned exasperation. "Intrigued, perhaps," she conceded, her smile widening. "But I certainly wasn't without my doubts. You were a rogue, Odysseus—a charming one, no doubt, but still a rogue." She laughed, the sound light and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Odysseus pulled her hand closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "And yet here we are," he murmured, his voice low, filled with warmth. "The rogue and the queen, together still." He looked up at her, his gaze holding hers, the love between them palpable.

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

Telemachus cleared his throat awkwardly, his voice cutting through the tender moment. But just before he spoke, a mix of emotions tightened his chest—embarrassment from intruding on their shared warmth and impatience that his problem seemed to linger, heavy and unresolved, while his parents could still find joy in each other.

It was almost as if his burden didn't belong in the same space as their lightness.

"Mother, Father, what am I supposed to do? What do I say? I can't possibly be in her presence knowing what she wants..." He trailed off, his eyes wide and a hint of desperation in his tone. He seemed almost to ramble, his thoughts spilling out faster than he could process them. "I can't get married, not to her. I thought she'd leave once her brother... I mean, I just... how can I fix this?"

Penelope's expression softened, but her gaze grew stern. "Telemachus," she began, her tone gentle but firm. "I understand you're troubled, but you can't just outright deny her. Not only would it be unwise, but also rather rude, given everything that she's been through."

She stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on her son's shoulder. "My son, she's lost her brother, and now she's seeking some form of stability—something she can hold on to—the only way we as young ladies have always been taught." Her voice softened, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes, as if recalling her own youth, and the pressures she had once faced.

Odysseus nodded, his eyes meeting his son's with an intensity that made Telemachus swallow. "Your mother's right. If you refuse her outright, it would be seen as an insult to Bronte. It could make things worse between our kingdoms, and we cannot afford that right now after just getting things stable," he said, his voice calm and steady. "There are ways to navigate this—you could try to get her to reconsider the proposal. Perhaps suggest a different way for our kingdoms to form alliances, one that does not require a marriage." He paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. "Like military support or even a cultural exchange proposal."

Telemachus' brow furrowed, and Odysseus continued, leaning forward slightly. "Military alliance is significant, Telemachus. If we were to go that route, it would strengthen our borders and ensure that both Ithaca and Bronte can stand against any threats together whenever the issue arises. And for cultural exchanges, well... those foster true friendship, pride, and understanding between our people. When alliances are built on shared strength and celebrated through culture, they last much longer. They become something more than just an agreement on parchment. They become a bond."

Telemachus listened, nodding slowly as he absorbed his father's words. He felt the weight of the situation pressing on his shoulders, and though he still didn't know exactly what he would say to Lady Andreia, he knew his parents were right. He would have to tread carefully.

Odysseus leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Or," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "you could always try to get her to break it off herself. Perhaps show her that life here on Ithaca is not as ideal as she thinks." He shrugged, his smile widening. "Self-sabotage can be a useful tool, if wielded properly."

Telemachus' eyes widened slightly, and he let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Father, I'm not sure that would be the most honorable approach," he said, shaking his head.

Penelope clicked her tongue, though her lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "No, Odysseus," she said, giving her husband a pointed look. "We should at least try to handle this with some grace. No need to encourage cunning behavior."

Odysseus shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "Grace, of course," he conceded, though his grin remained. "But a little cleverness never hurts." He reached for his wife's hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, the mirth fading slightly. "But beware, Telemachus," he continued, his tone lowering, almost as if speaking to himself. "Alliances are often tested, especially those forged in uneasy times. Stability today does not guarantee peace tomorrow."

Penelope glanced at him, her eyes reflecting a silent understanding of the unspoken dangers that lingered. The air between them grew heavy with an unspoken awareness—the knowledge of how precarious peace could truly be.

Telemachus sighed, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders. He still wasn't entirely sure how he would handle Lady Andreia, but with his parents' support, he felt a bit more grounded. He gave a small nod. "Thank you, mother, father. I'll think on it," he said quietly, his voice more resolute.

Penelope smiled warmly at her son, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Whatever you decide, we trust you, my dear," she whispered, her hand lingering on his cheek for a moment before she stepped back.

Telemachus nodded, taking a deep breath. He wasn't sure what direction things would take, but for now, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

A/N: Hey, winxies! Just wanted to give a heads-up to this little in-book 'one-shot' series called '𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒' since I edit a shitload of my books/chapters to make them more digestible/understandable (my daydreams shift dramatically from perspective to perspective like a film) a lot of scenes are put to the side because I don't want to mess up the pacing/overwhelm you all. But since I've been told you guys enjoy my writing---even the seemingly unnecessary bits---I'll be posting them 😩❤️❤️ i guess it can be seen as sort of filler/bridge scenes to get a look into things outside of MC perspective

Feel free to ask for clarity, I know I my writing tends to be erratic; I might not answer right away, but I'll definitely get to it...

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winxanity-ii · 4 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 10 Chapter 10 | proposed union⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Telemachus wiped the sweat from his brow as he stepped back from the training ring, his muscles aching from the relentless sparring session he had just endured.

Despite his father's age, Odysseus still fought with the strength of a warrior in his prime.

Each blow carried the power of years spent on battlefields and journeys across the sea. Every strike, every counter, every feint—all of it left Telemachus reminded that the man before him was still a force to be reckoned with.

His father may have grayed, but there was nothing frail about his frame, nothing slow in his movement. He felt proud, yet also deeply sore, his body protesting as he made his way towards the courtyard.

The bright sunlight greeted him as he stepped into the courtyard, the warmth soaking into his skin, making his sore muscles relax slightly. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness, blinking against the sharp contrast after the dimness of the training ring.

The air was fresh, filled with the scent of blooming flowers carried by a gentle breeze. The courtyard was quiet, and for the first time in a long while, Telemachus found himself able to simply enjoy the moment.

There were no suitors darkening his home, no cloud of sorrow hanging over Ithaca.

The palace, which once echoed with tension, was now filled with peace, and Telemachus found himself savoring it. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders loosening as he stood there, taking it all in—the sound of birds singing, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the feel of sunlight warming his face.

After a while, though, a thought crept into his mind, nudging at him until he could no longer ignore it. He had completed all his duties for the day, and now he found himself with unexpected free time. But what to do with it?

He stood there for a moment, considering, his eyes drifting over the courtyard, searching for something to occupy himself with.

And then, almost instinctively, he thought of you.

A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it, and he felt warmth spread through him, a gentle heat that had nothing to do with the sun above.

He could almost picture where you'd be—your usual spot around this time of day—and without even realizing it, he began walking in that direction. His steps were light, a sense of excitement bubbling up inside him as he moved through the palace grounds.

The sun shone down, bathing everything in golden light, and the air smelled of grass and distant salt from the sea.

Telemachus' heart quickened in his chest, his thoughts filled with images of you—your laughter, the way your eyes seemed to catch the light when you smiled, the calm determination that you carried even in the hardest moments.

You were gentle, but there was a strength in you that had always amazed him.

You were beautiful, inside and out. And your voice—gods, your voice. It could soothe even his worst fears, each word like a melody that stayed with him long after you'd spoken.

Telemachus sighed softly, a lovesick smile spreading across his face as he continued to walk, his thoughts wrapped up at the thought of seeing you.

Most nights, he found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts twisting and turning, always finding their way back to you.

He didn't know when it had started—this feeling that seemed to take over his every waking moment, but he knew it now—he wanted to be yours, and you, his.

He hoped to share something that went beyond mere friendship or affection.

He hoped to give you the kind of love he'd heard stories of, the kind of love his parents shared—deep and unwavering, a love that could withstand anything.

But more than anything else, he hoped that you felt the same.

Soon, the familiar cypress tree came into view, and just as he predicted, you were settled a few feet away, your lyre in your hands.

His eyes immediately zeroed in on you—the way your figure was framed by the soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, your head slightly bowed as you plucked the strings of your instrument.

It made his heart swell just watching you, the simple peace of the moment making him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Telemachus didn't even notice his footsteps speeding up, his stride becoming almost a bounce as he made his way toward you. He was eager, almost too eager, his heart fluttering in his chest at the prospect of hearing your voice, seeing your smile directed at him.

But just as he was about halfway to you, a firm hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder, halting his progress. Telemachus stilled immediately, instinctively whipping around, his grip harsh as he grabbed onto the wrist of whoever had stopped him, his face hardening into a cold mask.

But then, he saw who it was.

"Lady Andreia?" He blinked, surprised, his eyes moving over her form. She was wearing a dress in a shade that looked somewhere between turquoise and sea-green, the fabric flowing around her in soft waves. He cleared his throat, his expression softening as he quickly dropped her wrist, giving her a small nod. "My apologies, Lady Andreia. You startled me."

The princess only giggled in response, waving him off as though his reaction hadn't fazed her in the slightest. "Oh, no, it's my fault. I didn't mean to startle you, Prince Telemachus," she said, her voice light, almost teasing.

Telemachus shifted awkwardly, glancing behind him to where you still sat by the cypress tree, oblivious to his presence. He could feel a pang of frustration at the interruption, but he quickly turned his attention back to Andreia, doing his best to remain courteous. "Is there something I can assist you with, Lady Andreia?" he asked, trying to keep his tone polite.

Andreia's eyes seemed to brighten at his question, and she clasped her hands together, her smile widening. "Actually, yes, there is," she said, and before Telemachus could react, she had reached out, grabbing his wrist. "Come, let's chat!"

She tugged at him, her grip surprisingly firm as she began to pull him away, her laughter ringing out in the quiet courtyard.

Telemachus let out a small yelp of surprise, stumbling slightly as he was dragged along. He almost protested, almost telling her that he had somewhere else he needed to be—someone else he wanted to be with.

But then, he remembered his mother's words. Be kind to her, Telemachus. She's a guest in our home, and she has lost much.

So, he bit his tongue, forcing himself to swallow down his frustration as he allowed himself to be led away.

Still, he couldn't help but glance back over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on you, sitting peacefully beneath the cypress tree, unaware of how close he'd been.

His heart sank slightly, a feeling of longing settling deep in his chest. All he wanted was to be near you, to hear your voice, to share even just a small part of his day with you.

But for now, it seemed, he would have to wait.

☆

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of laughter echoing in your ears. You blinked quickly, bringing your focus to the source of the sound.

Your gaze lifted just in time to see Telemachus being pulled away by Lady Andreia, her hand gripping his wrist as she laughed. Your eyes tracked them, watching as the prince's figure grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the distance between you and the lively courtyard ahead.

When he looked back, you quickly looked down, and after a few seconds, you glanced back up, only to see them disappear from your sight altogether around the bend.

You let out a sigh, looking back down at your lyre, your fingers tracing the familiar strings.

It wasn't the first time you'd watched Andreia intercept him like this. It had happened more than once since her arrival, her presence always lingering close to the prince, her laughter ringing out a little too often for your liking.

You hated how easy it seemed for her, how naturally she took up space in his day.

It made you feel small in comparison, like an afterthought, a shadow on the periphery of his world.

You told yourself it was ridiculous, that you had no claim to him, no right to feel this gnawing ache in your chest. But the feeling remained, stubborn and sharp.

The song that had been on the tip of your tongue faded away, your fingers now motionless against the strings. The mood to play had left, leaving behind an odd sense of emptiness.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the unease settling in your chest. There was no sense in dwelling on it.

Telemachus had his duties, his responsibilities, and you had yours. He was a prince, and you were—well, just you.

You forced a small smile, letting your fingers pluck a few lazy notes, but it was half-hearted, even to your own ears.

"Are you the official musician?"

The sudden voice startled you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, the lyre clutched tightly to your chest as your eyes widened in surprise.

You looked up quickly, your gaze landing on a figure squatting just a foot away from you. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion—how had he gotten so close without you noticing?

He wore Bronte's colors—green and yellow. His skin was olive-toned, warm under the sunlight, and his dark brown hair fell just past his shoulders. His eyes, equally dark, studied you with a kind of quiet curiosity that made you shift where you sat.

Realizing you hadn't answered his question, you cleared your throat, trying to steady your voice. "U-um, no," you stammered, your fingers fidgeting against the lyre strings. "I'm actually Queen Penelope's personal handmaiden." The words trailed off awkwardly, and you glanced down, picking at a blade of grass as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

The young man hummed in response, and, without any hesitation, he plopped himself down directly in front of you, crossing his legs. You blinked at him, startled once again by his forwardness. His eyes were still on you, staring down at you as if he were trying to figure you out, his gaze curious, almost intense.

"I saw you play at the feast last night," he said after a moment, his voice carrying an ease that made you slightly envious. "You were incredible. Honestly, I couldn't look away."

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, no, it wasn't just me," you said quickly, glancing down at the lyre. "I played among others. It was nothing special."

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Doesn't matter," he said, his tone light but sincere. "You were great, regardless."

Before you could think of a reply, he extended his hand out to you, his gaze unwavering. "Callias, at your service. I've come along with Princess Andreia from Bronte."

You blinked, staring for a second at his extended hand, your mind taking a moment to catch up.

A handshake? Here? Between servants?

Your eyes darted to his face, searching for any hint of mockery, but he just kept smiling, waiting patiently as if there was nothing unusual about his gesture.

Hesitantly, you wiped your hands on your dress before tentatively placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, and he shook your hand with an ease that almost made your face heat up.

It was so casual, almost as if you knew each other for years, and the boldness of it threw you off-balance.

"I'm ____," you said softly, feeling the words stumble out of you.

He smiled again, broader this time, as if your awkwardness amused him. "____" he repeated, as if testing your name on his tongue.

You nodded, your hand still tingling from the unexpected contact. The handshake had felt strangely intimate—too bold, too modern for servants, especially in Ithaca.

You weren't quite sure how to react, so you just smiled politely, hoping the flush on your cheeks would die down soon.

"Well, um, welcome, Callias. I hope you find things to your liking here."

Callias gave you a nod, his smile turning almost conspiratorial, as if you shared some private joke. "I think I will," he said lightly, before casually leaning back on his hands, his gaze drifting up to the clear blue sky above.

You shifted slightly where you sat, unsure of what to say or do next. The unease from earlier had yet to fully disappear, replaced now by an odd mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Callias seemed comfortable—far more comfortable than you felt—and you couldn't help but wonder why he was here, sitting with you, instead of mingling with the other guests or tending to his duties.

"So, the Queen Penelope's personal handmaiden," he mused after a moment, his eyes flicking back down to you, his gaze soft but inquisitive. "That must be... interesting. Busy, I imagine."

You nodded, your fingers still fiddling with the strings of your lyre. "It is," you admitted. "The Queen is kind, though. She makes it worthwhile."

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to piece something together. "And playing music—is that something you do often?"

You gave a small shrug, your gaze shifting to the lyre resting in your lap. "Whenever I have the time. It's more of a hobby than anything else."

"A hobby," he repeated, his tone light, almost teasing. "Well, it's a good one. You're talented—clearly."

You felt your cheeks flush again, and you ducked your head, letting out a soft laugh. "Thank you," you said quietly, unsure of what else to say.

Callias watched you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering before he finally looked away, his eyes once again drifting to the sky. "I think Ithaca's lucky to have someone like you," he said, his voice almost too soft to hear. "Someone who brings music and warmth to a place that's been through so much."

You glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, and for a moment, you weren't quite sure how to respond. "Thank you," you said again, the words barely a whisper, your heart giving a small, unexpected flutter.

Callias' eyes then trailed down to the lyre sitting comfortably in your lap. His eyes brightened, a spark of excitement lighting them up as he leaned forward slightly. "What else can you play?" he asked.

You shifted a bit, unused to talking so openly with someone new—especially someone from another kingdom. After a moment, you answered, "Uh, well... I can play the sistrum, the aulos, and a few others." You trailed off awkwardly, your fingers absently toying with the strings of your lyre, the delicate notes barely audible.

The male let out an excited gasp before rummaging through his tunic. He pulled out a small instrument, a panpipe, holding it up with a cheeky grin on his face. "Can you play this?"

Curiously, you reached forward, and he placed it into your hands. You turned it over in your fingers, examining the little wooden instrument, its simple form somehow feeling significant.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you studied it. You had seen panpipes before—they were common—but for some reason, you hadn't thought to learn it. Almost as if the idea had simply slipped your mind.

You looked back up at Callias, humming softly as you held it back out to him. "I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever played this."

Callias just grinned, the teasing glint in his eyes growing even brighter. Without warning, he leaned forward, his larger, calloused hand covering yours, gently closing your fingers back around the pipes. "Wanna learn?" he asked, his voice a bit lower, almost conspiratorial. "I could teach you."

You blinked, taken aback by his closeness, the warmth of his hand on yours making your heart stutter. Your mouth opened and closed, no words forming as you tried to process his boldness.

Callias' grin grew even wider before he pouted playfully, his head tilting to the side as if pleading with you. "C'mon, ____. It's a fair trade—you teach me the lyre, I teach you the pipes. Deal?"

You stared at him, your eyes widening slightly at his audacity. But there was something disarming in the way he spoke—something almost childlike in his enthusiasm—that made it hard to say no.

Slowly, you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Alright, deal," you said softly.

The brunet beamed, his entire face lighting up with excitement. "Great! We'll start now then!"

Your eyes widened in surprise. "N-Now?" you stammered, glancing around the courtyard. It wasn't exactly crowded, but the thought of practicing a new instrument, here, in the open, made you nervous.

Callias chuckled, his gaze softening as he watched your apprehension. "Don't worry," he said, his voice gentle. "It's just me. No pressure." He leaned back, giving you some space as he gestured toward the pipes still in your hand. "Give it a try," he urged, his smile encouraging.

You took a deep breath, glancing down at the Panpipes, your fingers brushing over the smooth wood. Slowly, you brought it to your lips, hesitating for a moment before blowing softly, a gentle note escaping the pipes.

Callias clapped his hands together, his eyes shining. "See? You're already a natural!"

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you, shaking your head at his enthusiasm. "I doubt that," you said, but there was a warmth in your chest now, the unease from earlier finally beginning to fade away.

"Here, lemme show you a simple song," Callias said, grabbing the pipes from your hand. He positioned them against his lips and began playing a soft, lilting melody. The notes flowed smoothly, the sound filling the air with a gentle charm.

You watched, entranced, as he played, his mouth moving deftly over the pipes.

After a few moments, he paused, looking at you with a grin. "See? Just follow along with the rhythm—nothing too fancy. It's simple enough. Here." He handed the pipes back to you, his smile encouraging.

You hesitated, feeling a bit of nervousness returning, but there was something so genuinely encouraging about Callias that made it hard to refuse. You took the pipes and held them to your lips, trying to mimic the way he had played.

The notes that came out were shaky, uneven, and you winced at the sound.

It felt... off. Not quite right.

You tried again, huffing slightly when the sound didn't come out as smoothly as it had for Callias.

With a pout, you pulled the pipes away from your lips, glaring down at the instrument. "Here," you muttered, holding it back out to him. "I can't seem to get it right."

Callias just laughed, his eyes twinkling as he took the pipes from you. "Aw, don't be too hard on yourself," he said teasingly. "Looks like there's finally an instrument you can't master."

You gave him a playful scowl, rolling your eyes. "Very funny," you mumbled, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement.

Callias placed the pipes back into his tunic, patting them gently as if they were some treasured item. He leaned back further on his hands, his eyes closing as he let the sunlight warm his face. "It's okay, though. We can practice more another time," he said casually, as if he were already planning on spending more time with you.

You chuckled, raising an eyebrow at him. "Oh, really? How can you be so sure there'll be a next time?" you teased, your voice light.

Callias grinned without missing a beat, his eyes still closed. He gave a lazy shrug, the corners of his lips quirking up. "I don't know... just a gut feeling," he hummed, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

☆

The two young royals walked slowly through the palace gardens, their feet crunching over the pebbled pathway.

The sun was bright, its golden rays filtering through the leaves of olive and laurel trees, the air filled with the scent of thyme and blooming myrtle. The gentle hum of bees and the occasional chirp of birds added a pleasant background, giving the illusion of perfect serenity.

Telemachus cleared his throat, trying to shift the awkwardness away. He turned to Andreia, offering her a small, polite smile. "So, Lady Andreia, what is it you'd like to talk about?"

Andreia sighed softly, her gaze drifting as they passed by a bush of narcissus flowers. She paused, reaching out to gently touch the soft petals, her fingers lingering there.

Telemachus couldn't help but think back to when you'd called them daffodils—what a silly name, he'd thought then, but now the thought made him smile.

"I must say," Andreia began, her voice almost wistful, "Ithaca is even more beautiful than I'd imagined. The people here are so kind, and everything is so... peaceful." She turned to look at Telemachus, her lips curving into a bright grin. "Despite the unfortunate reason for my visit, I find myself grateful for the chance to experience your homeland."

Telemachus blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Andreia had already begun walking again, her gaze fixed forward. As she moved, she glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes twinkling with a teasing light.

"I hear the prince of Ithaca is known for his hospitality," she said, her tone playfully challenging. "Does that extend to entertaining lonely guests as well?"

Telemachus found himself chuckling, the sound escaping him before he could even register it. It was strange—he hadn't expected to laugh, not in this moment, and definitely not with Andreia.

With a soft sigh, he followed after her, shaking his head slightly as he tried to push away the lingering thoughts of you beneath the cypress tree.

As they continued walking through the garden, Andreia engaged Telemachus in conversation, her voice warm and charismatic. She asked about the palace grounds, about his duties as the prince, and even about the people of Ithaca.

Her interest seemed genuine, her laughter light and easy as she responded to his answers.

Telemachus answered her questions politely, describing the routines he carried out to support his father and the responsibilities he had to the people of Ithaca. Andreia listened intently, her eyes never wavering from his face, and she nodded along, occasionally humming thoughtfully in response.

"I must say, my prince, for someone to be the son of a legend, you must be plenty prepared if trouble to arise, no?" Her eyes flickered back to Telemachus, her expression smoothing into one of respect. "The way he reclaimed his throne with such strength, such... resolve. It's rare to see a man so certain of his purpose, so willing to do whatever it takes for those he loves. It's admirable."

Telemachus blinked, watching her as she spoke.He cleared his throat, unsure how to respond. "My father has always been... determined," he said cautiously, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her face.

Andreia turned back to him, her expression brightening once more, her smile easy and warm. "Indeed. And that determination is something that runs in the family, I'm sure." She reached out, lightly brushing her fingers against his arm in a gesture that seemed casual yet deliberate. "After all, Ithaca is in capable hands with you, isn't it?"

Telemachus forced another smile, nodding. "Thank you, Lady Andreia. I... appreciate your confidence."

She gave him a final, lingering look, her lips curving into a smile that held just a hint of mystery. "Confidence is easy when one knows what to look for, my prince."

After a while, the conversation took a more serious turn.

Andreia turned to face him fully, her steps slowing as they neared another flowerbed. "Prince Telemachus," she said, her voice softer now, "I know that there has been tension between Ithaca and Bronte in the past. It's unfortunate that we meet under such grim circumstances, but I cannot help but think that perhaps this is an opportunity."

Telemachus' brow furrowed slightly, and he tilted his head. "What do you mean, Lady Andreia?"

She smiled, her eyes glimmering with something that seemed both hopeful and calculating. "Well, your mother, Queen Penelope, spoke of the importance of peace between our kingdoms. She spoke so warmly of a future where Ithaca and Bronte could coexist without distrust or resentment. And I agree with her." Andreia stepped closer, her gaze never wavering from Telemachus' eyes. "Peace can be achieved, and strengthened, through alliances." She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing, her tone almost coy. "Perhaps even through marriage."

Telemachus blinked, taken aback by the suggestion. For a moment, he was unsure if he had heard her correctly. "Marriage?" he echoed, his voice filled with disbelief.

Andreia giggled, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, don't look so surprised, my prince. It's only a thought, after all." She leaned in slightly, her smile widening as she added, "A very practical thought, wouldn't you say? A formal alliance would ensure that our kingdoms remain on good terms."

Telemachus could feel the weight of her words settling on his shoulders. It was as if, in that single moment, everything had changed between them.

Lady Andreia was no longer just a guest in their home—no longer just a mourning sister seeking refuge. She had become a player on the board of politics, and suddenly, he too felt like a piece being maneuvered.

His role as her host, her supporter in a time of grief, had shifted—now, he was the prize, the potential bridge between two kingdoms.

The realization left him uneasy, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He forced a smile, though it felt a bit strained. "It is... certainly something to consider," he said, his voice careful, diplomatic.

Andreia's eyes sparkled, as if pleased by his response. "That's all I ask," she said, her tone light once more. She turned and continued walking, her fingers brushing against the leaves of a nearby shrub as they moved along the path. "I only wish for what is best for both our homes, Prince Telemachus." She glanced back at him with a teasing grin. "Besides, who wouldn't want to secure peace in such a charming place as Ithaca?"

Telemachus found himself chuckling again, though this time the laughter felt more like a reflex than genuine amusement; Andreia's suggestion had taken him off guard.

He hesitated, looking at her with a hint of curiosity. "Why are you so certain of this, Lady Andreia? We've only just met, after all," he said, his voice tinged with both hesitance and genuine curiosity.

Andreia paused, a playful hum escaping her lips as she tilted her head thoughtfully. She stepped closer to the flowerbed, her eyes catching sight of a cluster of blooms.

Without another word, she reached toward a bushel of vibrant flowers and plucked a stem delicately.

It was aconite, with its hooded, deep blue petals—though Telemachus couldn't recall its name. He watched as she approached him, the faint scent of the flower wafting through the warm air.

Andreia moved in close, her red tresses tumbling over her shoulder as she stood on her toes. Her perfume, light and sweet, mingled with the fragrance of the garden. She reached up, tucking the stem of the aconite behind Telemachus' ear, her fingers brushing against his skin.

The touch was gentle, almost intimate, and Telemachus found himself momentarily frozen.

A soft smile rested on her lips as she gazed into his eyes, her head tilting to the side in an endearing manner. "You could say... just a gut feeling," she murmured, her voice playful yet soft. And with that, she twirled away, her laughter echoing lightly as she continued along the garden path. "Now, I wonder if the anemones are in bloom," she mused aloud, as if her previous words hadn't left a strange tension in the air.

Telemachus watched her go, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest—confusion and perhaps a touch of unease. He reached up, touching the flower she had tucked behind his ear.

The gesture, the closeness, her words... they all left him with more questions than answers.

The prince wasn't sure what to do next—he knew he would have to tell his parents about this conversation, and the thought made him uneasy.

For now, though, he simply kept his thoughts to himself before following the young royal, unsure of what direction this unexpected turn would lead.

A/N: ahhh, i had so much fun with the lil hints thrown in here blahhhh, y'all i literally researched so many meaning and stuff cuz im a nerd and wanted to see if i can try my hand at suspense/tension building, anywho ignore my rambling, hope you enjoy the new OC Callias... [A/N: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐂 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 "𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬" 𝐈 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦~]

callias:

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winxanity-ii · 6 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 09 Chapter 09 | fractured harmony⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The feast was in full swing, the grand hall once again filled with laughter and life. The air was warm and heady, charged with the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, mingling with the sweet aroma of honeyed fruits.

It was a jolly atmosphere—joyful, vibrant, alive.

You found yourself among the musicians once again, your hands moving rhythmically over a small djembe drum, the deep, resonant beat echoing through your body.

With every strike of your hands on the drum's taut skin, you could feel your heart matching its tempo, drumming in sync with the pulse of the music. The rhythm was infectious; your whole body seemed to pulse along, your face flushed from the heat and energy of the room.

There was something about being a part of this collective sound, this melding of melody and percussion, that made the moment feel almost sacred, as if all the troubles of the world had temporarily vanished in the warmth of the hall.

You watched as the others played their instruments—lyres, flutes, and tambourines—all weaving together in a tapestry of sound that filled every corner of the room. Your fingers ached from the constant motion, but the smiles on the faces of those around you were more than enough to keep you going.

The music built up to a joyous crescendo, and as the final notes echoed, the song came to an end, leaving you breathless and grinning.

You took the opportunity to step away, your skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Making your way towards the long table at the side, you grabbed a goblet of water, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat.

You paused, leaning back against one of the stone pillars, your gaze wandering across the grand hall as you took a long sip.

The sight before you was beautiful—almost like something out of a dream. Penelope and Odysseus sat close together at the head table, the queen's eyes warm as they rested on her husband.

Every so often, Odysseus leaned over, his lips moving close to Penelope's ear, whispering something that made her smile. She swatted playfully at his chest, her laughter ringing out—a sound full of genuine happiness that made your own heart swell.

It was a simple, tender moment, yet it spoke of the love and resilience they shared, even after everything they had endured.

As you finished your drink, you heard the musicians striking up another tune. The lively notes filled the room, and you couldn't help but smile as you watched several servants—both from Ithaca and Bronte—begin to laugh and cheer, pairing up to dance.

There was something beautiful about the sight, the way the house colors blended together, Ithaca's blue and gold intermingling with Bronte's green and yellow. The servants moved with an easy grace, their feet tapping in time with the beat, skirts and tunics twirling in flashes of color.

The laughter, the cheer, the music—it all seemed to weave together, filling the room with a sense of unity.

Just as you were about to move and head back to the musicians, you spotted Telemachus making his way over. His eyes met yours, and an easy grin spread across his face, one that you couldn't help but mirror.

You smoothed down your clothes absentmindedly, flattening your hair as a flutter of excitement bubbled up inside you. Your heart beat just a little faster, a mix of anticipation and nervousness making you fidget.

Telemachus had always made it his mission to catch a dance with you if time permitted, and tonight seemed to be no different. You couldn't help the giddy feeling that welled up inside as he drew closer, the warmth of his smile making everything else fade into the background.

But just as he was about to reach you, a flash of green and yellow entered your field of vision.

Lady Andreia intercepted Telemachus, her bright grin unmistakable as she placed a hand on his arm, her fingers curling gently but confidently around his sleeve.

Without waiting for his response, she tugged him toward the center of the room, where the others were already dancing.

Telemachus hesitated for a brief moment, his eyes flickering back to meet yours, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but there was a twinge of something in your chest, an unfamiliar emotion that you couldn't quite place.

You watched as the princess pulled Telemachus into the line of dancers, their movements quickly falling in sync with the lively beat of the music. The prince spun her effortlessly, his laughter mingling with hers as they joined in the swirling dance.

Your gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, that odd twinge deepening in your chest as you took in the sight—the two of them moving together, their colors blending amidst the blues, golds, greens, and yellows that filled the hall.

It was a beautiful scene, and yet, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

With a soft sigh, you turned away, forcing a smile as you made your way back toward the musicians. The music was still playing, the notes joyous and bright, but for the first time tonight, it felt as if you were on the outside looking in.

☆

All throughout the evening, Lady Andreia had remained close to Telemachus, her laughter echoing above the music, her presence unwavering. She danced with him, her smile radiant as they spun together, her fingers brushing his arm in fleeting touches that seemed both innocent and intentional.

They moved as if they had known each other forever, and it left little room for anyone else to join in.

You tried to stay focused, to keep the beat steady with the musicians, your hands drumming over the small djembe until your palms ached. The rhythm was your anchor, something that kept your thoughts from drifting too far into that uncomfortable twinge that seemed to grow each time you caught a glimpse of Telemachus and Andreia together.

He tried, a few times, to break away—to come find you and drag you into the dance—but each time, Andreia was there, her bright smile and laughter cutting in before he even reached you.

Eventually, you decided it was easier to stay put, to let the music carry you through the evening and to ignore Telemachus' fruitless attempts to catch your attention.

It was better this way, or at least, that was what you told yourself.

You poured all your energy into the music, the notes carrying you forward even when your heart wasn't quite in it; your fingers grew sore, your body ached, but you refused to let the fatigue—or the strange, unfamiliar feeling gnawing at you—show.

The music was your refuge, the only thing that made sense in the swirl of emotions you couldn't quite name.

By the time the last of the guests had gone, the hall was quiet, save for the clatter of dishes and the soft murmurs of the servants as they tidied up.

You worked alongside them, your movements automatic—stacking plates, wiping down tables, sweeping away the remains of the night's revelry.

As you worked, you couldn't help but steal glances toward the center of the room, where Telemachus and Andreia had danced. The memory of them spinning together, her hand resting on his shoulder, his smile bright and carefree, made your heart twist painfully.

There was a heaviness in your chest that you tried to ignore, shaking your head as if that would somehow rid you of the thoughts that kept creeping in.

Once the work was done, you walked with the others out of the now empty hall, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor.

You exchanged quiet goodbyes, your voice almost lost in the stillness of the night, and then you turned, splitting off from the group as you made your way towards your room.

The night was calm, the air cool against your skin as you stepped into the outside.

The sky above was clear, the moonlight showering down, bathing the courtyard in a silvery glow. The chirping of insects filled the quiet, a gentle hum that seemed to wrap around you, a reminder that even in the stillness, life continued.

The path to your room was familiar, and you moved slowly, your eyes tracing the patterns of moonlight on the ground, your thoughts drifting.

The ache in your chest hadn't lessened, but out here, beneath the open sky, it felt a little easier to bear.

It was quiet. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the noise and warmth of the hall, to the laughter and music that had filled the air not long ago.

And yet, even in the quiet, your mind thought about Telemachus, about the way his eyes had searched for yours, the way Lady Andreia had pulled him away.

You shook your head again, as if to clear it, and quickened your pace.

It was late, and you were tired. Tomorrow would be another day, and perhaps, with the morning light, things would feel different.

So instead of focusing on such churning thoughts, you focus on the sound of your footsteps, the feel of the ground beneath your sandals, the glow of the moonlight guiding you forward.

The night was quiet, and for now, that was enough.

You were nearly halfway to your room when you heard your name called, the sound breaking through the stillness of the night. The voice was familiar—soft, yet insistent—and it made you stop in your tracks, your heart giving a small, unexpected leap.

Turning around, your eyes widened slightly as you saw Telemachus jogging towards you, his figure illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon. He was a sight, his hair a little tousled, cheeks flushed from the exertion, and something about the way he moved—hurried, purposeful—sent a warmth spreading through your chest.

"____," he called again, his breath a little heavy by the time he reached you, but his eyes were bright, a soft smile spreading across his face. He looked down at you, his gaze gentle, and for a moment, the weight that had settled in your chest seemed to lift, just a little.

"May I escort you the rest of the way?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of warmth, his eyes searching yours as if hoping for an invitation.

Before you could respond, his hand reached out, taking the djembe drum that hung by your side, lifting it from your shoulder with a careful touch.

You blinked, and then smiled, nodding. "Of course," you said, your voice softer than you intended, but it seemed enough for him. Telemachus returned your smile, his own soft and genuine, and with that, the two of you began to walk.

The silence that fell between you was comfortable, the kind that needed no words; you could feel the warmth of the prince beside you, his arm brushing against yours every so often as you walked. The djembe hung at his side, and his fingers tapped against it absently, keeping a gentle rhythm as you moved.

You found yourself glancing at him from the corner of your eye, the moonlight highlighting the curve of his jaw, the softness of his expression, and something inside you softened too.

He looked ahead, his gaze focused on the path, his features calm and relaxed, and there was something about the way he walked—steady, unhurried—that made you feel at ease.

It was as if, for just this moment, all the confusion and the uncertainty from earlier had faded away, leaving behind only this—just the two of you, walking side by side beneath the moonlight.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you looked ahead, letting the quiet wrap around you like a comforting blanket.

The night seemed to hold its breath; the only sounds were the soft crunch of your footsteps against the path and the distant chirping of crickets. You could hear the rustle of the olive branches above, swaying gently in the breeze, casting dancing shadows on the ground as the moonlight filtered through the leaves.

The air was cool, crisp against your skin, yet the warmth of Telemachus beside you seemed to make the chill almost pleasant, balancing it out in a way that made you feel content.

Telemachus cleared his throat softly, the sound breaking through the quiet but not disturbing it—more like adding another layer to the stillness of the night. He looked down at you, his eyes soft, the corners of his lips turning upwards. "Did you enjoy the feast?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, as though he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to break the peaceful silence.

You turned your head towards him, meeting his gaze, and a bright smile spread across your face. "I did, my prince," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of excitement as you recalled the vibrant festivities. "It was wonderful—the music, the dancing, the laughter. It felt like, for just a moment, everything was right again. Everyone seemed... happy."

Telemachus nodded, his expression softening, the lines of tension easing from his face. "It was," he agreed, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Bronte was surprisingly pleasant. The people were warmer than I expected. It was nice, having them here."

At the mention of the neighboring kingdom, you felt your smile falter just a little, your heart giving an odd, uncomfortable twist.

You nodded, forcing the smile to stay on your lips, pressing on despite the unease that flickered within you. "Yes, it was," you agreed, your voice quieter now, a touch of something unspoken lacing your words.

You looked ahead, focusing on the path, on the way the stones seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, trying to push away the feeling that tugged at your chest.

You could feel Telemachus glancing at you, his gaze lingering, as though he could sense the shift in your mood, but he said nothing, choosing instead to remain in the comfortable silence, letting the moment stretch between you.

And for that, you were grateful. Grateful for his presence, for the warmth that seemed to radiate from him, for the way he walked beside you without question or pressure, just there, solid and steady.

After a few more moments, Telemachus gave a soft chuckle, his voice lightening the mood. "I think I made a fool of myself on the dance floor," he admitted, shaking his head, a sheepish grin forming on his face. "I haven't danced like that in a long time."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound escaping you before you could stop it. You glanced up at him, your eyes twinkling with amusement. "You weren't that bad," you teased gently, your smile widening. "In fact, I'd say you were quite impressive—though maybe not as graceful as Lady Andreia."

Telemachus groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone holding a hint of self-deprecation. "She certainly made me look better than I am." He paused, glancing at you with a sly smile. "Though, I do think I would've rather danced with you instead."

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading across your cheeks. You looked away, hiding the smile that tugged at your lips, feeling a flutter of something light and hopeful bloom in your chest. "Perhaps next time, my prince," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

Telemachus hummed in agreement, and you felt his arm brush against yours, a gentle touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

The two of you continued walking, the soft crunch of your footsteps filling the silence as the path narrowed; the ground gradually shifted beneath you, the soft crunch of gravel transitioning into the smooth tiles of the palace floor as you entered a different part of the building.

Telemachus walked you all the way to your door, neither of you saying much—the quiet had settled between you like a comforting blanket, one neither of you wished to disturb.

When you reached your door, you paused, turning to face him, your eyes meeting his. The moonlight bathed his features in a gentle glow, softening the lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you filled with something unspoken, something tender and fragile.

Telemachus gave you a soft smile, his gaze never leaving yours. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm in a gentle, almost hesitant touch, as if testing the waters. "Goodnight, ____" he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with warmth.

You swallowed, your heart pounding, and offered him a small, genuine smile in return. "Goodnight, my prince." Your voice was equally soft, the words carrying more than just a farewell—something unspoken that hung between you, lingering in the air.

For a moment, it felt as though he might lean closer, as if the two of you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn't quite name. But then he pulled back, his smile still in place, and nodded once before turning to walk away, his footsteps fading into the night.

You watched him go, your heart still pounding, warmth blooming in your chest. When he finally disappeared from view, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, leaning back against your door. Your eyes fluttered closed, and you rested your head against the wood, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Your heart was racing, your cheeks warm, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in the feeling—the hope, the warmth, the quiet thrill that seemed to spread through you.

It was like a secret, something just for you to hold onto, a memory to carry with you.

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed yourself away from the door, opening it quietly and stepping inside.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the moon filtering through the small window. You moved slowly, setting your drum down in the corner, your fingers lingering on the wood for a moment.

You shrugged off your shoes, your fingers deftly undoing the laces before placing them neatly to the side. Your eyes scanned the dim room, and you quietly moved to take off the rest of your attire, folding each piece carefully and setting it on a chair.

You splashed your face with water from the basin, the coolness making you shiver slightly, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of your flushed cheeks.

Finally, you slipped into your nightclothes, letting out a content sigh as you settled into your bed; you were knocked out the moment your head hit the pillow.

The dream was unlike anything you had ever experienced—a strange yet beautiful vision that seemed to blur the lines between fantasy and reality.

You were sitting in a seemingly never-ending field of flowers, the sun shining down warmly, bathing everything in a golden glow. The flowers danced around you, vibrant colors stretching as far as your eyes could see.

You wore a flowing white dress, its fabric catching the breeze, and your feet were bare, the earth beneath you soft and comforting.

You were humming softly to yourself, the tune light and carefree, your hands busy weaving a flower crown to match the one already resting atop your head. There was a sense of tranquility, of freedom, that seemed to fill you entirely, making your heart swell with joy.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across you, interrupting the sunlight, and you looked up, a smile already forming on your lips. Though the figure was shrouded in shadow, somehow, you knew them—an innate familiarity that made you feel safe, comforted.

The man bent down, his presence filling the space around you with warmth. His hand reached out to cup the bottom of your face gently, and his touch was like sunlight itself—soft, warm, and deeply comforting. You found yourself closing your eyes, leaning into it, savoring the tenderness. His thumb brushed against your cheek, a touch so soft it almost tickled, and you could feel your heart fluttering in your chest.

The man leaned closer, his warmth enveloping you as his lips brushed against your ear; you shivered as he whispered your name—a low, soft voice that sent a thrill down your spine.

" ____, my love."

The words were filled with so much warmth, so much affection that it made your heart swell almost painfully. His presence was comforting, his closeness like a soothing balm to your soul.

You could feel the heat of his breath, the way his hand cradled your face like you were something precious, irreplaceable. The warmth of his touch seeped into your very being, making you wish for the moment to stretch on forever.

You leaned into him further, your heart pounding with something that felt so pure, so unguarded, and as his fingers brushed against your jawline, you could almost feel the promise in that simple touch—a promise of love, of devotion, of something far beyond what words could convey.

And just as you began to turn your face towards his, your eyes still closed, your lips parting slightly—

When your eyes opened, the dream was gone, replaced by the soft light of dawn breaking past the horizon, filling your room with its gentle glow.

You blinked, disoriented for a moment, the warmth of the dream still lingering in your chest, the sensation of his touch still vivid.

With a sigh, you rubbed your face, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream as you slowly pushed yourself up, the chill of the morning air brushing against your skin.

You could still feel the echoes of that strange, beautiful vision as you stood, stretching, and began to prepare yourself for the day ahead.

☆

Throughout the morning, you couldn't help but notice that Lady Andreia was still on Ithaca.

You had seen her once or twice after she had gathered her brother's body, and you had assumed she would leave promptly after, but she and her entourage had continued to stay. She was particularly present around the royal family, her presence lingering like a shadow.

Most noticeably, she often stayed close to Queen Penelope.

At first, you assumed it was simply a formality—a gesture of goodwill to stay and converse with the queen after everything that had happened. But as the hours passed, you saw Andreia with Penelope often, their heads bowed together, sharing whispers and laughter.

There was an ease between them that seemed to grow, as though they were beginning to find comfort in each other's company.

It was nearing lunchtime when you were bringing a tray of fruit and freshly baked bread to Penelope. You made your way through the corridors, the tray balanced carefully in your hands.

The closer you got to the queen's chambers, the more you could hear the soft murmur of voices.

When you entered, you found Penelope and Andreia seated by the window, sunlight streaming in, casting a warm glow over them. They were chatting animatedly, their smiles bright, their conversation filled with an ease that made you pause.

Penelope looked up as you entered, her expression softening. "Oh, ____, I'm sorry," she said, a gentle apology in her voice. "I forgot to tell you that Lady Andreia would be joining me for lunch today."

You nodded, offering her a small smile. "No trouble at all, my queen. I can bring more," you said politely, already making a mental note to fetch another tray.

But Lady Andreia shook her head, her red hair catching the sunlight as she smiled warmly at you. "Please, there's no need. I feel like I'm intruding as it is," she said, her tone light, though there was a sincerity beneath her words.

Penelope waved her off, her smile growing. "Nonsense. You are a guest here, and it is our duty to make you feel welcome."

You busied yourself setting down the tray, your hands moving with practiced ease as you arranged the dishes, making sure everything was in place. You tried to keep your mind focused on your task, but you couldn't help overhearing their conversation.

"I must say," Andreia spoke, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness, "Ithaca is truly beautiful. The landscapes, the people—there is a warmth here that I have never known elsewhere."

Penelope smiled at her, tilting her head slightly. "It is home," she replied, her voice filled with a quiet pride.

Andreia sighed softly, her gaze drifting out the window. "Bronte is beautiful too, in its own way," she continued, her voice thoughtful. "But it's different. The mountains are tall and covered in mist, and the forests are dense, almost impenetrable. Our people are strong, but they lack the openness I see here. Everything in Bronte is..." She paused, searching for the right word, "harsher, I suppose. Our winters are long, and the sea is often angry, but there is beauty in its wildness."

You couldn't help but glance at her as she spoke, her eyes far away, lost in her memories. There was a sadness there—a longing for something. It made you pause, your hands hovering for a moment as you listened.

Penelope reached over, placing a gentle hand on Lady Andreia's. "Every place has its own beauty," she said softly. "And I am glad that, at least for now, you can find some warmth here with us."

Andreia looked at Penelope, her eyes softening as she smiled. "Thank you," she said quietly, her voice filled with sincerity.

Then, after a small pause, she added, her tone shifting slightly, almost wistful, "The people here respect you deeply, my queen. It must be a great comfort to have such loyalty from those around you. And King Odysseus... his presence must also be a great source of strength for you. His reputation alone speaks volumes."

Penelope returned her smile, her expression warm but also slightly curious. "It is a blessing," she agreed, her eyes meeting Andreia's with genuine fondness. "One that I do not take for granted. Odysseus and I have been through much together, and his return has brought a balance I did not realize I needed."

You watched the exchange, Andreia's eyes lingering on Penelope with something like longing—perhaps admiration, perhaps something else, a yearning you couldn't quite understand.

She smiled again, though there was a weight to her words. "The tales of his cunning and strength—seeing him here, in person, makes one understand how such legends are born." The way her words hung in the air, filled with both warmth and something more complex, made you uneasy.

You finished your task, stepping back and offering a polite bow before making yourself scarce.

You couldn't quite place the feeling that lingered in your chest as you walked away—a mixture of curiosity and something else, something you couldn't quite name.

A/N: ugggghh, the way i wanna jump right into meeting hermes, lololol but alas plot gosta be made, but the brightside is at least the buildup will be magnificent; double ugggghhhhh cuz tell me why i'm literally writing this so-called group paper for one of my classes by myself?? we in college, these people too grown not to know how to write a fucking paragraph, but lemme stop before i start ranting 😩😭 so i do apologize if update are really really reaaallllyyy weird because i'm working + schooling 💔

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winxanity-ii · 6 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 08 Chapter 08 | unexpected arrival⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The courtyard was serene as you sat, a soft breeze whispering through the olive trees, their branches swaying gently above.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and you found yourself absentmindedly playing the aulos, the dual pipes releasing a lilting melody that carried no particular tune—just notes flowing out of habit.

Your fingers moved automatically, pressing down on the holes with familiarity, though your thoughts were distant, elsewhere.

After a while, the tune drifted to a stop, leaving nothing but the rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze.

You sighed, setting the instrument aside, the hollow reeds settling on the grass beside you.

Slowly, you slouched forward, feeling the tiredness settle in your bones, and then leaned backwards until you were flat onto the soft grass, staring up at the cloudless sky above.

Closing your eyes as you exhaled deeply, trying to enjoy the calmness, but it felt impossible.

There was a lingering tension in the air—an unease that wouldn't leave your chest.

You lay there, staring up at the sky as your thoughts twisted and turned, weighed down by an uneasy sense of dread that no amount of sunshine could dispel.

It was overwhelming—how a moment of peace could feel so fragile, so precarious. Like a thin layer of ice over deep water, one wrong step and everything could shatter.

The warmth, the promise of rest, the brief hope—all of it felt so easily snatched away.

The night of the feast had felt like a dream—a moment where everything was finally right again.

It was filled with laughter and joy, music and dance. The food had been plentiful, the wine had flowed freely, and the smiles on everyone's faces had been genuine.

You could almost still hear the joyful cheers and clinking of cups, the echo of Penelope's gentle laughter, Telemachus' proud grin, and the way Odysseus' eyes glistened as he looked around the room—at everything he'd fought so hard to reclaim.

But the memory was tainted now, overshadowed by what had come next.

You remembered the feast—it had begun beautifully, like a scene straight out of one of your stories.

After the preparations were completed, the palace's great hall was filled with warmth and celebration.

It was not a large gathering—the losses and betrayals were still fresh—but those who were there made up for it with their energy.

Servants, soldiers, and the family sat together, sharing laughter and cheer.

The hall was alive with movement—dancing, smiling faces, and a lightheartedness that Ithaca hadn't known in years.

You'd even joined the musicians, playing your sistrum along with a few other musically inclined servants; the metal rattle emitted a soft, rhythmic jingle—a instrument that required no real effort so that you could lose yourself in the melody.

The sound of clapping, the stamping of feet, and the happy, vibrant music had filled every corner of the room. People spun and danced in circles, moving to the rhythm you all created.

Together, your music swirled around the dancers, the tambourine-like rattles and melodic hums weaving through the revelry.

The flames of the torches flickered in the evening air, casting golden light that made the whole room seem to glow.

It felt endless—pure joy, pure release after so many dark times.

You could still remember the moment Odysseus stood, raising his cup high, his voice strong and filled with hope as he spoke. "May Ithaca prosper in peace," he had declared, his gaze sweeping across the room, his eyes filled with determination, warmth, and promise.

And just as his words settled in the air, the doors to the dining hall had burst open.

A sudden, harsh noise in the midst of the festivities. The music stopped abruptly, and heads turned.

The messenger had stumbled in—a young man—panting, his face flushed and slick with sweat, his clothes dusty from the road. He had looked utterly spent, as though he had run the entire way to the palace without stopping.

His eyes were wide with urgency, and he clutched a bulging satchel at his side, as if it contained something too important to leave behind.

Odysseus' expression shifted in an instant, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man struggle to catch his breath. The king's jaw tightened, and he slowly set his cup down, his eyes fixed on the newcomer as silence blanketed the hall.

The crowd, once cheerful and carefree, now stood in an anxious stillness.

The messenger's steps were unsteady as he made his way toward the head table, each movement deliberate, as though he fought against exhaustion with every step.

Upon reaching the dais, he bowed deeply, his eyes lowered, his hand shaking slightly as he held out a rolled parchment.

Odysseus gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable as he signaled to a nearby soldier to retrieve it.

The soldier stepped forward, accepting the parchment with a solemn expression before handing it to the king.

As Odysseus unfurled the scroll, his eyes narrowed as they swept over the words written there.

His gaze darkened, and the tension in the room seemed to thicken, the cheerful atmosphere turning sour in an instant as everyone waited.

The messenger, still catching his breath, spoke up, his voice cracking slightly from exhaustion. "My king..." he began, his tone urgent, but loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. "...there are several... angry families of the suitors. They are furious, demanding retribution for their fallen kin. They intend to seek revenge." He swallowed hard, his face pale, the fear evident in his eyes.

As he spoke, he opened his bulging satchel, fumbling slightly as he pulled out another scroll—then another, the weight of them causing several to slip from his grasp and clatter onto the floor, parchment rolling across the polished stone.

It seemed that he had carried news from several households.

Odysseus' face was like stone, his eyes cold and calculating as he listened. He said nothing for a long moment, his gaze shifting to the fallen scrolls before he returned his attention to the parchment in his hands.

He then set the parchment down, his gaze sweeping over the people gathered, the warmth and openness from earlier now replaced with caution and calculation.

He stood silently for a long moment, his face hard as stone, before he spoke, his voice calm but commanding. "The feast is over," he declared, each word carrying weight, leaving no room for argument.

That night, the celebration was over before it had truly begun. People left quietly, their faces lined with worry.

The joyful cheer that had filled the hall just hours before was gone, replaced with the cold reality of what lay ahead.

Once again, Ithaca stood on the brink of chaos.

The thought of it gnawed at you as you lay in the grass, the sun warming your skin.

What would happen now? How would King Odysseus handle the families seeking vengeance? Would there be more bloodshed? The questions swirled endlessly, each one tugging at your mind until you could hardly stand it.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of blooming flowers filling your senses—a mix of thyme and lavender that usually soothed you but felt strangely fleeting today.

You opened your eyes slowly, squinting against the brightness, and lifted a hand to shield yourself from the blinding sun.

For a moment, you just stared at the patches of blue sky visible between your fingers, feeling the sunlight filter through, casting shadows across your face.

The courtyard was quiet, but it felt heavy, as if the air carried unspoken words, unvoiced fears.

You finally pushed yourself up, your fingers brushing against the grass, and settled into a sitting position. The sun above was unrelenting, making the world feel almost too vivid, too sharp.

Your thoughts then drifted to Telemachus.

You recalled how he had came to you early that morning, just as the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold.

He had approached your room quietly, his knocks barely audible over the gentle tweeting of morning birds. His face was still lined with exhaustion, the weight of everything that had happened etched in the set of his brow and the tightness around his mouth.

His eyes, however, were kind as they met yours, and he had given you a small, tired smile.

Telemachus whispered to you in the early dawn light, his voice low and deliberate, sharing the reality of his father's restless night. He told you about his father—how Odysseus had been up all night, his mind sharp, aware of the potential danger looming on the horizon.

The possibility of retaliation from the families of the suitors was not lost on him, and he had set to work immediately, spending hours fortifying his position, preparing Ithaca for what might come.

The prince spoke of his father's resolve, his refusal to be caught unprepared, as well as the necessity of visiting his grandfather, Laertes, for guidance in the days to come.

Telemachus' presence had been brief, just a few moments shared between you before he and his father, and a few loyal servants had departed, setting off to see Laertes—to find answers, to find a way to protect Ithaca once more.

In those minutes, you had sensed not only his fatigue but also the determination that emanated from him—a drive to face whatever trials might come.

And now, here you were, sitting in the courtyard, the memory of his voice still echoing in your mind.

You sighed, the weight of it all settling heavily on your shoulders as you stared ahead, the sun warming your skin, the scent of the flowers mingling with the distant sound of birdsong.

There was a new confrontation on the horizon, one not borne of war or conquest, but of vengeance.

Ithaca was teetering, the promise of peace slipping further away—just as it had felt within reach.

The sudden crunch of leaves and the sound of hurried footsteps broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. You looked up quickly, your gaze locking onto the figure sprinting towards you. It was Telemachus.

"Telemachus?" you murmured under your breath, unsure if your eyes were deceiving you.

He wasn't supposed to be back so soon.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart picking up pace as his form grew closer. The prince's face was flushed, his breathing labored as he rushed across the courtyard.

You barely had time to react before he reached you, his hands finding your shoulders just as you started to curtsy.

"Prince Telemachus—" you began, but he cut you off, his grip tightening on your shoulders. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"The suitors' families," he said between gasps, "they... they are no longer seeking revenge."

You blinked, staring at him in confusion, the words not fully registering. "What?" you managed, your voice barely a whisper, as if you hadn't heard him correctly.

Telemachus nodded, his expression softening as he steadied himself. He could see the disbelief etched across your features, and he exhaled slowly, his voice calming as he explained.

As the prince began to recount everything, his voice wove a story so vivid that it felt as though you were right there beside him, witnessing every moment. You listened intently, the courtyard around you fading into the background as his words painted a picture that seemed almost surreal.

The prince told you how he and his father had arrived at his grandfather Laertes' farm, the land stretched out wide with fields that glistened in the early morning sun.

It had been peaceful, the breeze carrying the scent of fresh earth and ripened olives. But as soon as they had stepped into the clearing, Telemachus had noticed something amiss.

"The moment we arrived at my grandfather's farm," Telemachus began, his voice still slightly breathless, "we saw them—a mob of the suitors' families, armed and marching towards us. Their faces were filled with rage, their voices shouting for vengeance. They wanted blood, retribution for what happened to their sons and kin."

Telemachus paused, watching your reaction, and you couldn't help the sharp gasp that escaped your lips, your eyes widening in alarm.

The image of an angry mob storming the farm flashed through your mind, and you could almost hear their angry shouts, see the glint of their weapons in the sunlight.

"And you wouldn't guess who was leading them," he added, his tone bitter with a tinge of disbelief.

"Who?" you asked, your curiosity overpowering your unease. You leaned in closer, your fingers brushing against his arm.

"Eupeithes," Telemachus said, his tone carrying a bitterness that mirrored the situation. "Antinous' father. The same Antinous who led the suitors and was the last to fall."

Your gasp was louder this time, your hand flying to cover your mouth. The memory of Antinous was still fresh in your mind—his arrogance, his ambition, and his final moments.

The thought of his father leading the charge against Ithaca seemed almost poetic, yet tragic; you could almost picture Eupeithes' twisted face, anger and grief etched into his every expression.

Telemachus shook his head, trying to fight away the almost incredulous smile that tugged at his lips. "It was surreal, seeing him there, at the head of the group."

The prince's eyes then darkened, his voice growing steadier. "It looked like they were ready for another fight. A confrontation that could've thrown Ithaca back into chaos. My father, my grandfather, I, and those loyal to us were preparing for the worst, ready to defend what was ours." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

You swallowed hard, the tension palpable. The picture he painted made your heart pound, your pulse quickening as if you were there yourself, standing at Laertes' side.

You could see the anger in those men's eyes, the rage that boiled over, the cries for vengeance that echoed through the clearing.

It was the promise of more bloodshed, more chaos.

But then, Telemachus' voice shifted, a sense of awe creeping into his tone. "And then, just as it seemed they would clash... Athena intervened." His eyes meet yours, glinting with something almost like reverence.

You reached out, grasping his arm tightly, your eyes widening. "Are you serious? Athena?" you breathed, your voice trembling slightly.

Telemachus nodded. "Yes. First, she came in the form of Mentor, but that wasn't enough to stop them. The suitors' families were still thirsty for revenge, still determined to take back something they felt they had lost." He paused, his eyes turning distant, as if reliving the scene. "It was as if they were blind to reason."

"And then?" you urged, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. You were practically vibrating, your curiosity consuming you. It was rare enough to hear of gods walking amongst mortals, let alone seeing it firsthand.

Telemachus drew in a deep breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Just when it looked like all hope was lost, before any fighting could begin, Zeus himself sent a thunderbolt—a sign, a warning." He looked at you, his eyes bright. "A divine sign—a command from the gods themselves that the fighting had to stop. that enough was enough, that there should be no more violence. It encouraged Athena to reveal herself."

Your jaw dropped slightly, and you shook your head in disbelief. "Two gods?" you murmured, your voice filled with awe. "How incredibly lucky... for Athena to intervene, and for Zeus to send a sign. It's... it's beyond words," you whispered, feeling a shiver run down your spine.

Telemachus smiled, his face softening. "It truly was. It was something out of legend—Athena stepping forth, no longer hidden in disguise, commanding both sides to cease, her presence both beautiful and terrifying. She spoke with such authority; she demanded that peace be restored, and it was impossible not to heed her words."

He paused, watching your reaction as your eyes sparkled with wonder, your hand still grasping his arm.

"Laertes, emboldened by Athena's intervention, was the one to end it," Telemachus continued, his voice growing softer, tinged with something more solemn. "He killed Eupeithes. It was quick, a final act of vengeance for all that had been done to our family."

You blinked, the gravity of the moment hitting you. The father of Antinous was gone, and with him, the leadership of those seeking revenge.

Telemachus nodded, as if he could see the questions forming in your eyes. "Athena didn't let the violence escalate. She stopped it, just in time. She spoke to everyone, reminding them of the destruction that would come if they continued this senseless feud. She insisted that it end there, that no more blood be spilled."

He looked down, his expression softening, the weight of everything finally seeming to lift from his shoulders. "And it worked. The families saw the will of the gods. They laid down their arms. They accepted peace, knowing they could not fight against the gods themselves."

He paused again, taking in a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of exhaustion and hope. "Athena erased the hatred from their hearts—the desire for vengeance, the anger that had festered for so long. She promised that the past would be forgiven and that we would all work together to rebuild Ithaca."

For a moment, the courtyard was silent, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could feel your heart pounding, the weight of his words settling in, the realization of what had just transpired.

Athena had not only brokered a truce, she had ensured that the hatred would not linger, that peace could truly be restored.

It was as if a miracle had been gifted to Ithaca—a second chance, a chance to heal.

You looked up at Telemachus, a small, hopeful smile breaking across your face. "Thank the gods," you whispered, your heart finally beginning to calm, the weight on your chest lightening ever so slightly.

Telemachus smiled back, his hand brushing against yours gently, his touch warm and reassuring. "Yes," he said softly, his voice steady. "Thank the gods."

The peaceful moment between you and Telemachus was abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps crunching over the gravel path. You both turned just in time to see a young servant girl rushing towards you, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

"Prince Telemachus! Miss ___!" she called out, her voice breathless but urgent.

You and Telemachus exchanged a wary glance, the serenity of the courtyard shattering like fragile glass. The prince's expression instantly grew tense as he shifted his attention to the girl approaching.

The servant girl skidded to a stop in front of you, her hands resting on her knees as she tried to steady her breathing. "Ships, my lord..." she managed to say between gasps, her eyes wide with fear. "Ships are arriving at the docks."

Telemachus frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. You found yourself instinctively stepping closer to him, your heart pounding as you tried to read the meaning behind the servant's frantic message.

"Ships?" Telemachus repeated, his voice low, guarded. He glanced at you, and you could see the same unease reflected in his eyes.

You swallowed, your gaze darting back to the servant. "Are they friendly? Do we know who they are?"

The servant shook her head quickly, her eyes wide with uncertainty. "No, Miss ____. I only know they bear unfamiliar colors—green and yellow—and they approach quickly. The guards are trying to discern their intentions."

Telemachus' gaze hardened, a silent determination forming as he nodded. "Thank you, Althaia. You did well to inform us."

The girl dipped into a quick, awkward curtsy before she quickly turned and rushed back toward the palace.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned back to you.

For a moment, there was silence—just the wind rustling the leaves overhead, the tension hanging between you like a storm about to break.

You looked at him, your heart twisting in your chest. You could see the weight of the moment in his eyes, the same thoughts running through your own mind.

After everything they had just endured, after the gods themselves had intervened, could more trouble be looming on the horizon?

Reaching out, the prince took your hand in his, his grip firm, reassuring. "We should go," he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the strain beneath his calm exterior.

And with that, the two of you turned and made your way towards the palace, the promise of peace feeling more fragile than ever, slipping further from your grasp with each hurried step.

☆

The flurry of movements after the servant girl's message had led to this moment, every step since then deliberate, hurried, with an underlying sense of urgency.

Telemachus had led you through the palace corridors, stopping by your room to quickly grab your lyre, the instrument a comforting weight against your side. His expression was tense but purposeful, and you followed without hesitation.

The two of you had moved through halls filled with servants whispering nervously, the tension palpable, until you finally reached the great doors to the throne room.

Telemachus stood in his honored position, close to Odysseus' side, while the king sat in his grand chair, regal and composed, the weight of his kingdom resting on his shoulders. Beside him, Penelope sat, her eyes fixed on the doors, her expression poised but visibly anxious.

A few guards stood scattered around the room, their eyes trained on the entrance, their postures rigid. Several servants, including Althaia, stood farther back, their heads bowed, waiting quietly for whatever news would come.

The flags hanging along the walls fluttered slightly, moved by the breeze sneaking through the open windows, the sun casting beams of light across the stone floor.

It might have been a beautiful day, but the fear that clung to the air turned it cold.

Odysseus had already briefed his son on the situation—the green and yellow banners of the ships' flags belonged to Bronte, a neighboring island kingdom.

The family crest, Odysseus explained, belonged to Andros' kin—the arrogant red-haired suitor who had been among those vying for Penelope's hand. Andros was the third son, far down in the line of succession for his own kingdom, seeking to elevate his status by claiming Ithaca as his own through marriage.

The news was such a surprise to you; who knew that brute was a prince?

Odysseus' jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "It seems they come seeking answers, perhaps retribution, for what has befallen their kin," he said, his gaze shifting between Telemachus and the few gathered officials and guards. "We must tread carefully. The last thing we need is another conflict before peace has even had a chance to settle." He gestured towards a nearby guard. "Fetch the envoy from the ships. They are to be escorted here for a public discussion. Let them see that Ithaca stands united, that we have nothing to hide."

The guard bowed deeply before turning on his heel, marching briskly out of the throne room to carry out the king's orders. The echo of his footsteps faded into the tense silence that followed, the air thick with anticipation.

Now, here in the present, the great hall was silent, the tension palpable, the kind that came right before a storm.

You knelt beside the steps of the throne, your eyes fixed on the polished marble floor, the lyre resting against your knees, a comforting weight against your side.

You could hear the quiet rustle of the guards shifting their stances, the occasional creak of leather as they adjusted their grips on their spears.

Telemachus stood tall beside his father, his eyes forward, his expression unreadable. You could see the way his hands were clasped behind his back, fingers flexing slightly—a small sign of the tension he carried.

Odysseus sat still, his gaze fixed on the doorway, waiting.

Penelope's eyes, however, were on her son, the worry she felt clear in the way her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The moments stretched on, the anticipation growing heavier with each passing second.

The servants along the sides of the room exchanged nervous glances, their postures stiff, uncertain of what was to come.

The sunlight streaming in through the high windows seemed almost too bright, the golden rays a stark contrast to the somber mood that had settled over the throne room.

Your fingers brushed against the strings of your lyre absentmindedly, the soft hum of the notes barely audible. It was a comfort, a reminder of something familiar amidst the uncertainty.

You kept your eyes lowered, focused on the instrument in your hands, but your ears were attuned to every sound—the shuffle of footsteps, the creak of the throne as Odysseus shifted, the faint murmur of voices just outside the grand doors.

Your thoughts wandered as you waited, the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your mind.

Perhaps this kingdom—Bronte—was foolish enough to believe they could defy a goddess' will, or maybe they hadn't heard in time that the call for vengeance had already been stilled by divine decree.

How long could news travel across kingdoms? It wasn't hard to imagine that word of Athena's intervention might not have reached them, leaving them ignorant and reckless in their grief.

Or perhaps, they simply didn't care.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, the grand doors creaked open, the echo reverberating across the high ceiling of the hall.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, all eyes turning towards the entrance.

Your eyes flickered towards the grand doors as they creaked open, revealing the guard that had been sent to meet the visitors. Behind him, you could see the figures approaching, their outlines dark against the bright light streaming in from outside.

The guard stepped inside first, his expression serious as he turned to face Odysseus, bowing deeply. "My king," he began, his voice clear, carrying across the silent hall, "The visitors have arrived." He turned slightly, gesturing for the figures behind him to step forward.

A herald then stepped inside, his voice ringing clearly as he announced, "Princess Andreia, envoy of the Kingdom of Bronte, daughter of King Aeron."

Your breath caught at the name. Andreia. There was no mistaking the connection. She must have been related to Andros—sister, perhaps.

And then, she entered.

The sight of her took you by surprise.

Andreia was a striking figure, her beauty undeniable, but it was a beauty edged with something softer, something almost tragic in the way her eyes swept across the throne room.

Her hair, as red as her late brother's, spilled over her shoulders in waves, but where Andros' presence had been rough and full of brashness, hers held an elegance that was both captivating and disarming.

She wore a flowing gown of green and yellow, the colors of her house, the fabric catching the sunlight in a shimmering cascade that made her seem almost otherworldly. The dress was adorned with gold embroidery that traced along the bodice and sleeves, each stitch intricate and precise.

Her pale skin seemed to glow beneath the golden light filtering through the windows, and her eyes—green, like the deepest parts of a forest—were filled with something that you couldn't quite place. Sadness? Determination? Perhaps both.

Andreia moved with a grace that seemed practiced, her steps deliberate as she approached the dais.

Behind her trailed a small group of servants, each dressed in the same green and yellow livery, their expressions carefully neutral. They moved in unison, their heads bowed, carrying baskets and satchels that clinked faintly with each step.

You watched as she drew closer, her gaze briefly flicking over you where you knelt, before turning towards the throne.

There was something hauntingly familiar about her—the color of her hair, the sharpness of her features, the way her chin tilted upward with a sense of pride that echoed her brother's—but the hardness that Andros had worn like armor was missing.

Instead, there was a gentleness that made her seem almost out of place amidst the tension of the throne room.

Andreia came to a halt before the thrones, and slowly, she sank into a deep bow, her eyes lowering in deference. "King Odysseus. Queen Penelope," she said, her voice smooth, almost musical, but carrying an edge of something unspoken. "I come on behalf of my family, the royal House of Brontes, to speak for our fallen kin."

For a moment, there was silence.

You could feel the weight of her words settling over the room, the tension thickening as Odysseus leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young woman before him.

Penelope's gaze softened as she looked upon Andreia, her fingers no longer tracing the armrest but now resting still, her eyes taking in the sight of the woman with a mixture of empathy and caution.

Odysseus spoke, his voice measured, the authority of a king evident in every word. "Lady Andreia, you are welcome in Ithaca," he said, though his tone held no warmth. "You must understand that the suitors—your brother included—took liberties that demanded consequences. They disrespected my home, my family, and my kingdom. Yet, here you are, bearing their colors. What is it that you seek?"

Andreia lifted her head, her gaze meeting Odysseus'. There was a fire there, restrained but present, as she drew in a breath. "I seek understanding, my lord," she replied, her voice steady, though there was a tremble beneath the surface, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure. "I seek to know why my brother's life was ended without a chance to answer for himself, why his ambitions were met not with words but with death."

The tension in the room grew, the silence that followed her words almost deafening. You kept your eyes on Andreia, your fingers tightening slightly around the lyre, the strings pressing into your skin.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the scepter, but it was Telemachus who stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much. "Lady Andreia, the actions taken were in response to the dishonor your brother and others brought upon Ithaca. Their intentions were clear—seeking to take advantage of my father's absence, to claim what was never theirs to claim."

Andreia's eyes flicked to Telemachus, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she seemed to falter, her gaze lowering. You could see the pain etched in her expression, the way her fingers clenched around the folds of her dress.

"I do not deny that my little brother was ambitious," she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. "But he was still my brother. And I... I am here to ensure that his memory is not one of disgrace." She lifted her head again, her eyes meeting Telemachus', and then shifting to Odysseus. "I come not to seek retribution but to seek closure, to understand the choices that led to his end, and to ask that his body be returned to our family, that he may be laid to rest with our ancestors."

A hush fell over the throne room, the weight of her plea hanging in the air.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the emotions in the room almost tangible—the grief, the anger, the longing for peace. You glanced at Odysseus, who leaned back in his throne, his eyes never leaving Andreia, expression unreadable.

For a long moment, he was silent, the throne room holding its breath, waiting for his judgment.

The tension was thick, each second dragging on, the silence almost unbearable.

You watched as Penelope glanced at her husband, her lips parting slightly, as if she wished to speak, to offer some kindness to the young woman before them. But she held her silence, respecting her husband's authority in the matter.

Odysseus finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, his voice echoing through the hall. "You shall have your brother's body, Lady Andreia," he said, his tone still guarded but carrying a note of finality. "But understand this—what was done was not done lightly. Your brother's choices led him here, and Ithaca responded as it had to, to protect itself, to protect its queen." His gaze bore into hers, a challenge, a warning. "There will be no retribution, no further claims upon this land."

Andreia bowed her head deeply, her shoulders sagging slightly in what might have been relief or perhaps exhaustion. "Thank you, King Odysseus," she said quietly, her voice barely audible.

You watched her, the sight of her bowed figure filling you with a sense of sadness.

In her, you could see echoes of Andros—the ambition, the pride—but also something gentler, something that perhaps had been lost in him along the way. She was here not for power or revenge but for something simpler, something more human.

Odysseus turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening slightly. "Telemachus, escort Lady Andreia and her retinue to a place where they may rest and prepare. Ensure they are comfortable, and that they have all they need."

Telemachus stepped forward immediately, bowing his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, Father." He turned towards Andreia, his expression polite, though his eyes held a hint of curiosity. "Lady Andreia, if you would follow me," he said, his voice steady.

Andreia straightened, nodding once before gesturing for her servants to follow. Telemachus led them out of the throne room, a guard falling into step behind them, ensuring that the visiting party was properly escorted.

The room seemed to collectively exhale when the grand doors finally closed behind Lady Andreia and her entourage. The echo of their departure faded into the distance, and a different kind of silence filled the throne room—a silence tinged with relief rather than tension.

The guards visibly relaxed, shoulders loosening as they resumed their positions, their once rigid stances softening. They exchanged quick glances, the unspoken communication between them conveying a shared sense of cautious optimism.

A few of the servants resumed their tasks, their steps light as they moved to tidy up the room or to attend to matters elsewhere, their nervous energy now dissipating.

It wasn't long until the throne room was nearly empty, just a few trusted guards stationed near the exits, the king and queen, and you.

Penelope turned towards her husband, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, the lines of worry on her face softening. "You handled that beautifully, my love," she said, her voice tender, full of genuine admiration. "Many others in your position would have shown nothing but hostility, yet you offered her understanding." She leaned a bit closer, her gaze warm as she watched Odysseus. "It shows a strength that is rare, a wisdom that goes beyond vengeance."

Odysseus looked at her, his stern expression softening in response to her praise. He did not speak immediately, but his eyes held hers, his gaze filled with something unspoken, something tender. He gave a small nod, his lips curling just slightly in what could almost be called a smile.

Though his words were few, his attention to his wife spoke volumes—his gaze unwavering, listening to every word as though her voice alone anchored him.

"And that young princess," Penelope continued, her voice brightening, her eyes sparkling. "To travel all this way on her own... there is a strength in her that I admire. It takes courage to face what she has, to step into a kingdom that might view her as an enemy."

Odysseus hummed thoughtfully, as he nodded. His hand moved to rest over hers on the armrest of her throne, a simple gesture that conveyed more than words could in the quiet that settled between them.

Penelope's smile grew, her gaze distant for a moment, before she turned back to Odysseus, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Perhaps," she began, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into her voice, "Lady Andreia should join us for dinner tonight." She rose from her seat gracefully, her movements fluid as she stepped forward, her eyes alight with purpose. "It would be a gesture of peace, a way to make her feel welcomed."

She looked over to you, her smile widening as she beckoned you forward. "Come, dear. There is much to do—let us head to the kitchens. We must prepare the menu and find out what our guests might enjoy." Her voice was filled with a warmth that seemed to dispel the lingering tension in the room, her excitement contagious.

You blinked, startled for a moment, before quickly standing, clutching your lyre tightly as you moved towards her. You nodded, offering her a small smile as she reached for your arm, her grip gentle but insistent.

As Penelope led you out of the throne room, her demeanor was almost buoyant, her steps light, as if she had already dismissed the worries of the day.

Her presence, her warmth, brought a sense of normalcy, a reminder that even amidst uncertainty, there were still traditions to uphold, still hospitality to offer.

A/N: sorry for the lack of updates, the semester's coming to an end so im kinda swamped with exams, papers, etc. as well as trying not to fall into a hibernative-depression due to me having to start back working to fix this damn tooth 😡😡; also i took a lot of you guys advice and decided that apollo will be met last, hehe

[A/N: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐂 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 "𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐚" 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭; 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐝 😭😭. 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫~]

andreia:

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winxanity-ii · 11 days ago

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lolololo i can see this fr

canon sukuna sees a pussy with no bush and asks u if u have some sort of disease

#jjk #sukuna #lolol #fr tho

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winxanity-ii · 11 days ago

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could i request hermes headcanons with a male lover?

of course! sorry if not the best, just the concept of hermes taking one of apollos followers 😩

THAT BOY IS MINE

ship: hermes x male!apollo devotee!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 861 a/n: my first male reader request hehhehe; i lowkey wanna make a full one-shot..

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Trickster god Hermes, who first noticed you during one of Apollo's grand performances, as you stood in the crowd, bright laughter escaping your lips.

He didn't think much of it until he saw how you looked at Apollo—admiration clear in your eyes—and suddenly, the idea of getting your attention and challenging your admiration for Apollo was too irresistible for him to pass up.

Trickster god Hermes, who slips beside you during festivals, the kind of presence that catches you off guard.

He'd grin, that troublemaker smile of his, leaning in to whisper something sly about Apollo's radiance. "You think he's the only god worthy of your gaze?" he'd murmur, his eyes glinting with mischief as your cheeks warmed under his gaze.

Trickster god Hermes, who made sure you couldn't ignore him.

At first, it was harmless jokes, a teasing smile from across the temple grounds, or a comment as he materialized at your side, seemingly out of nowhere. But soon, he was there more often, lingering in your shadow. He loved the way you stiffened when he appeared, as if he had found a crack in your composure—and he intended to widen it.

Trickster god Hermes, who brushed his fingers against yours when you were organizing offerings in Apollo's temple, just to see the way you startled, your eyes meeting his in confusion.

He grinned, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "How devoted you are makes me envious, little muse. Would you give the same amount of devotion to me?" His words held a challenge, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more than jest in his eyes.

Trickster god Hermes, who knew how to make life an adventure, began slipping into your routines with ease.

He whisked you away from your duties, convincing you to join him on escapades across hills, through rivers, and into places you were not supposed to go. He showed you joy beyond Apollo’s measured perfection—the kind found in laughter that left you breathless, in the thrill of racing the wind, in moments stolen away just for yourselves. He made the divine feel real, imperfect, and you couldn't help but love that.

Trickster god Hermes, who was unpredictable, daring, and somehow made you feel seen.

He didn't look at you as merely another worshipper. He looked at you as someone he wanted. It unsettled you, the way he lingered too close, the intensity of his gaze following you as if you were the only one that mattered in a room full of people.

Trickster god Hermes, who found you alone in a grove, your shoulders slumped in loneliness as Apollo was too busy for you.

Instead of his usual antics, Hermes simply sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He didn't say anything—he was just there—and for once, his presence wasn’t meant to charm or impress; it was just... real. It was the first time you saw something other than playful mischief in his eyes—it was care, and it unraveled something inside you.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched you with a longing that was hard to ignore.

He'd catch you glancing at Apollo from a distance, and his jaw would tense, that smile dropping for a heartbeat before it returned, sharper. He'd then make his presence known—his fingers skimming your waist, or his lips brushing your ear as he whispered something that made your pulse quicken. You were never just a follower to him, and he needed you to understand that.

Trickster god Hermes, who, for all his confidence, had waited for you to come to him.

He bided his time and made sure you knew he was always there. He listened when you spoke, his gaze never leaving your face, as though everything you said was the most important thing in the world. It wasn't Apollo's grandness, but it was real—and you found yourself seeking out Hermes more and more, your heart pulling toward the trickster who seemed to understand you in ways others didn't.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched with a soft smile the day you gave in.

When you leaned in to kiss him, he wrapped his arms around you as you kissed him, his lips curving against yours, the playful grin giving way to something deeper. Hermes held you close, as if you were the greatest treasure he had ever stolen, and he had no intention of letting go.

Trickster god Hermes, who made no secret of your connection afterward.

He'd drape himself over you in the presence of Apollo, his arm snug around your waist, whispering something teasingly possessive just loud enough for the sun god to hear with a knowing grin, as if to say, "He's mine now." There was no malice in it, only pride—pride that he had managed to steal your heart and that you had given it willingly.

Trickster god Hermes, who stole your heart in the most unexpected way, not by charm alone but through his laughter, his warmth, and his genuine affection.

He saw you not as someone worshipping from the shadows but as someone deserving of the spotlight, deserving of a love that was wild and unrestrained, just like the wind.

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winxanity-ii · 11 days ago

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HERMES "THE TRICKSTER"

╰❝𝓘 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝔂 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓪 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓮𝓬𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓪𝓿𝓮.❞

🇰‌🇪‌🇾‌: 🔞 = smut | 🔥 = heated/spicy | ✿ = fluff | 🕷 = angst | ✰ = personal fav

FICS

ONE-SHOTS

HEADCANONS

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 | ✰ | Hermes x Male!Apollo Devotee!Reader / EPIC!AU

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winxanity-ii · 15 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 07 Chapter 07 | renewal⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The echoes of screams and steel still seemed to bounce off the walls of your mind, yet here, in the dimness of your small room, there was nothing but silence.

Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands, fingers slightly trembling, stained with sweat, dust, and the faint impression of lyre strings.

You didn't move when the knock sounded—gentle but deliberate. A pause, then another knock, more insistent.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment before forcing yourself to rise, your legs heavy, as though the floor might swallow you whole.

The effort it took to cross the room felt monumental, each step echoing the weight of everything that had transpired.

You paused, your hand hovering over the door handle for a moment longer than necessary, your mind briefly drifting back to the sight of the great hall—blood pooling across the marble, the scent of death thick and metallic, bodies strewn in the grotesque aftermath.

The image was there for only a second before you pushed it away, burying it somewhere deep, somewhere you wouldn't have to face right now.

When you finally opened the door, Telemachus stood there, his silhouette almost blending into the dim hallway behind him.

He was covered in dried blood, dark streaks marring his skin and tunic. His face was a mask of exhaustion, shadows deepening under his eyes, yet his gaze was still sharp, still searching, as though even now he was ready to act.

His hair was disheveled, the curls sticking to his forehead, and the tightness around his mouth spoke of the strain he was under, the burden of what he had done.

You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, the question slipping out in a whisper, softer than you intended. "Is it done?"

For a moment, his gaze flickered, the exhaustion in his eyes softening to something else—something like regret or maybe understanding. He sighed, the sound heavy, like it came from the deepest part of him. "It's done," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips before you could stop it, your shoulders loosening slightly as the tension began to ebb away.

Though you understood this was the way things had to go, that this was the consequence of the suitors' actions, you couldn't help but feel the fragility of it all—how fleeting human life truly was.

One moment these men had been laughing, feasting, vying for a throne they did not deserve, and the next... nothing.

The silence of the great hall, the emptiness of death—it was stark, final.

You blinked, focusing back on Telemachus, and the memory of his actions flashed in your mind—the way, as soon as the massacre had ended, he had found you.

The hall had still been filled with death, the scent of blood thick in the air, yet he had been at your side, his hands gentle as he guided you away.

You remembered the way his voice had dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear as he urged you to close your eyes. "Don't look," he had said, his tone soft, a stark contrast to the lethal determination he had shown only moments before.

He had shielded you, turned your head away from the sight of the fallen, ushering you from that room of death with a tenderness that felt almost out of place, but deeply needed.

The memory lingered, his presence a stark contrast to the carnage left behind. His hand had been warm, steady, a lifeline amidst the chaos.

The blood on his skin had smeared onto yours, a reminder of what had happened, but in that moment, all you could feel was his warmth, his reassurance.

He had spoken to you softly, his breath brushing against your temple as he murmured that it was over, that you were safe now.

Safe.

It was such a fragile word, yet in that moment, with Telemachus by your side, you almost believed it.

"____," Telemachus said softly, your name pulling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his, and you saw the concern etched into his features, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he watched you.

"I wanted to let you know what's happened since... since you left the hall," he began, his voice still carrying that edge of exhaustion, but also something warmer, a gentleness reserved just for you. "Father's first priority was to cleanse the palace. Both spiritually and physically." His eyes darkened slightly, his gaze drifting for a moment, as if recalling the grim work. "He commanded that the hall be purified, that the bodies of the suitors be cleared. He wanted everything cleansed—the stench, the memory. He demanded that it be done immediately."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, and you could see the weight of his next words in the way he hesitated. "He ordered the disloyal maidservants to do it. The ones who... entertained the suitors. It was their punishment." He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "They carried out the task, clearing the bodies, scrubbing the blood. It was... not easy to watch."

You nodded slowly, your heart sinking. A part of you felt for them, for the horror of what they had been forced to witness and do.

Yet, you understood. Their betrayal had run deep, and the punishment, harsh as it was, felt just.

Balance had to be restored, even if it came at a heavy cost.

Telemachus must have seen the conflict in your eyes because he offered you a tired smile, a small attempt to lighten the mood. "But... not everything has been grim," he said, his voice softening, a spark of warmth returning to his gaze. "Father reunited with Mother."

Your breath caught, your eyes widening as a soft gasp escaped your lips. "Truly?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes shining with sudden hope. "The queen knows?"

Telemachus nodded, his smile growing. "Yes. She knows. It took some convincing, of course." He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Mother was cautious, uncertain. After all that she endured—the lies, the suitors' deceptions—she needed proof. She tested him." He paused, his eyes meeting yours, his expression softening further. "She asked Eurycleia to move their bed out of the room. The bed that Father built himself. The one that can't be moved because one of its posts is a living olive tree."

You watched him, your heart swelling as warmth began to spread through your chest, pushing away the lingering shadows.

Telemachus continued, his voice filled with quiet pride. "Father's reaction was... passionate. He was indignant, even, that anyone would think the bed could be moved. That reaction was all the proof Mother needed. She knew then that it was truly him."

A smile tugged at your lips, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The thought of your queen, finally at peace, her long years of waiting rewarded—it filled you with something close to joy.

After everything, after all the heartache and fear, she had her husband back.

Ithaca had its king, and Penelope had her Odysseus.

"I'm so glad," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with emotion. "She deserves this. They both do."

Telemachus nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "We all deserve a little peace," he said quietly, and for a moment, the weight of everything seemed to lift, the heaviness replaced by something gentler, something hopeful.

But then, his expression turned grave, and he looked away from you for a second, his eyes darkening as if he were gathering his thoughts. Telemachus drew in a slow breath before speaking, his voice lower, almost hesitant. "There's... another thing I wanted—needed to tell you," he began, his gaze flickering back to meet yours, the seriousness in his eyes unmistakable.

You felt your stomach tighten, the sense of foreboding settling like a stone in your chest.

"Father decided that cleaning the hall and purging the memory of the suitors wasn't enough," he continued, each word heavy, deliberate. "Those who were disloyal to our family had to face something harsher—a punishment fitting their betrayal."

You nodded slowly, understanding what he meant, your heart sinking further.

Your thoughts immediately went to Cleo—how she had seemed so certain of her choices, so defiant. You wondered how she would take it, if she had even expected this outcome.

Telemachus cleared his throat, his jaw clenching as he looked at you, his eyes searching for something—maybe understanding, maybe forgiveness. "At first, Father simply wanted them banned, expelled from Ithaca. He thought that was enough," he said, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I... I insisted that it wasn't." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor, a flash of shame crossing his features. "Their betrayal was unforgivable. I felt that they needed to be held accountable in a way that truly reflected the gravity of what they had done. I... pushed for a harsher punishment."

He paused, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his face tightening with determination. "Father gave me the green light to decide. He let me take over."

You blinked, your heart suddenly racing in your chest, a cold dread washing over you.

Cleo.

Her face flashed through your mind—her smile, her laughter, the way she had nudged you with that teasing grin, the way she had spoken about living freely, without care for consequences.

Your voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper. "What... what happened to them? To Cleo?"

Telemachus' expression hardened, his gaze steady but filled with an emotion you couldn't quite name—regret, perhaps, or maybe a sense of duty fulfilled. "I ordered the disloyal women to be led outside the palace," he said, his voice devoid of any softness now. "They were executed by hanging—it was meant to reinforce the message that their betrayal had cost them their place in Ithaca." He paused, his eyes flickering away from yours, as though ashamed to meet your gaze.

Your legs suddenly felt weak, the strength draining from them as the full weight of his words hit you. You reached out, your hand grasping the doorframe for support, your knuckles turning white as you leaned into it.

Cleo... was dead?

The world seemed to blur for a moment, the edges of your vision darkening as you tried to steady your breathing. You swallowed hard, your mind reeling, unable to fully process the reality of it.

She was gone. Just like that. A life snuffed out, her laughter silenced... forever.

You closed your eyes, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as you tried to ground yourself, to find some sense of stability amidst the turmoil in your chest. The room felt as though it was closing in, the air too thick, too heavy.

Telemachus' voice broke through the haze, softer now, almost pleading. "I know it was harsh. I know. But I couldn't let it go unpunished. Not after everything." He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours again, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and conviction. "I had to do what I believed was right for Ithaca. For my family."

You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to speak, your throat tight with emotion. You understood, on some level, why he had done it. But that understanding didn't make the pain any less real, any less sharp.

"I'm sorry, ____" Telemachus whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm so sorry." he reached out, his hand gently brushing against your arm, but then he pulled away, as if unsure of whether he should offer comfort or remain distant.

You took a shaky breath, swallowing down the hurt that rose within you. It was painful, the realization that someone who had once laughed by your side, who had shared moments of friendship, was gone.

But still, you forced yourself to take a step toward the prince, your legs feeling heavy as though each movement took all of your strength.

A wobbly smile pulled at your lips as you looked up at him, tears swimming in your eyes, blurring your vision just a little.

Your hand shot out, quick and instinctive, wrapping around his before he could pull away entirely.

The warmth of his skin grounded you, your fingers trembling as they closed around his.

"It's... it's okay," you croaked out, the words shaky but sincere. You paused, clearing your throat, trying to steady your voice. "I understand why you did what you had to do. There is no excuse for the betrayal they committed... not after everything Queen Penelope endured, all the kindness she still showed even in her darkest times."

You watched as Telemachus' face slowly began to untighten, the tension in his features easing.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight he carried seeming to lessen, even if just for a moment. He fully grasped your hand now, his fingers interlocking with yours, and he stared at you, his eyes filled with both sorrow and gratitude.

You continued, your voice softening, trailing off with a sigh. "The only thing I am truly sad about... is Cleo. Her decisions, the way she chose to live—it wasn't supposed to end like this." You closed your eyes for a brief moment, shaking your head slowly, trying to push away the image of her face.

When you opened your eyes again, you squared your shoulders, squeezing Telemachus' hand a bit tighter. "But I understand, my prince. I do." You forced yourself to smile again, hoping that it might bring him some comfort, even if it couldn't heal the wounds entirely. "We move forward from here, as we must."

Telemachus' gaze softened, and he nodded, his eyes glistening with a mixture of emotions. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you. I... I needed to hear that." His eyes searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were alright, whether you could handle what came next.

You swallowed, offering him a small nod, though the words you wanted to say felt caught in your throat, tangled with all the emotions you didn't know how to express.

He nodded back, a hint of a weary smile tugging at his lips. "We have much to do," he said, his voice a little stronger now, a little more like the Telemachus you knew—the one who had always looked forward, even when the weight of the world tried to hold him down.

And you knew he was right.

The massacre was over, but the real work was just beginning.

☆

Side by side, you walked through the palace corridors, the silence between you both as heavy as the air that hung in the aftermath of all that had happened. The long hallway to the throne room seemed endless, each step echoing faintly against the cold stone floors.

The few servants who passed by moved with downcast eyes and hushed footsteps, their presence almost ghostly. You counted only one or two every other minute, each one looking tired and burdened by the knowledge of the events that had taken place.

Your eyes flickered to Telemachus, a worried frown pulling at your brows; you couldn't help but voice the fear gnawing at your chest as you stared up at him. "Were we truly betrayed by so many?"

Telemachus let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly, the weariness evident in the lines of his face. "Yes," he admitted, his tone thick with exhaustion. "There were more than we imagined... We'll have to find new servants, people we can trust, but until then... we'll manage."

Your lips pressed together, your brow furrowing even further at his words. You could see the strain etched across his features, the weight of what lay ahead already pressing down on him.

Without thinking, you blurted out, "Maybe we can start by training some of the sheep to carry trays—at least they're loyal."

Telemachus blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face before he realized you were joking. A surprised laugh escaped him, sudden and unguarded, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head. "That's horrible," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth lifted into a reluctant smile.

You giggled, a small sense of triumph bubbling up within you at the sight of his smile. There was a pep in your step now, pride welling up inside you for managing to lighten his burden, if only for a second. "Horrible, maybe," you said playfully, "but it made you laugh, didn't it?"

Telemachus shook his head again, the smile lingering on his lips as he glanced at you, the weariness in his eyes softening just a bit.

The two of you continued on, the throne room drawing nearer with each step.

As you rounded the corner, the grand doors to the throne room came into view. Telemachus paused, reaching out to push one of the heavy doors open, his other arm extending just slightly for you to slip through first.

You met his eyes, offering him a soft smile as you whispered, "Thank you." You slipped under his arm, stepping into the room, with Telemachus following close behind.

The moment you entered, both of you froze at the scene before you.

In the center of the throne room, instead of the two royal seats occupied by separate figures, there was a single, intimate silhouette—Odysseus and Penelope, wrapped in each other's arms, oblivious to the grandeur surrounding them.

They stood at the heart of the space, a quiet monument to love and endurance.

Penelope's arms rested around Odysseus' shoulders, her hands gently tracing the back of his neck, as if grounding herself, ensuring he was real.

She looked down at him with a softness in her gaze that betrayed years of longing, a gaze only two people who had known both separation and deep love could share.

Her dark hair cascaded down her back, catching hints of the sun's warmth, and her face, usually guarded and composed, was now tender, her lips parted in a silent reverence.

Odysseus, in turn, gazed up at her with an expression that was almost childlike in its vulnerability.

The lines of hardship and the sharpness of war softened in his face as he looked at his wife, his hand lifting to trace the curve of her cheek with a gentle reverence. His thumb brushed just below her eye, a touch so light it seemed almost as if he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard.

There was a tenderness in his eyes, a deep, unwavering devotion that spoke of both gratitude and relief—relief that, against all odds, he had returned to her, that this moment, once only a distant hope, was finally real.

As he traced her face, his hand slid up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the warmth of his palm. She tilted her head down, pressing her forehead to his, her lips curling in a gentle, almost shy smile, one that held years of love, longing, and relief

They didn't need words. The silence between them was rich and full, a communion that transcended speech, filled only by the gentle cadence of their breathing and the slow, rhythmic beat of their hearts.

Their love, once tested by time, loss, and separation, had returned to bloom, stronger and more resilient than ever.

The throne room itself seemed to share in their reunion.

The sunlight bathed the scene in a warm, golden hue, illuminating the lovers as if blessing them.

The once cold stone of the palace was now softened by the light, casting an ethereal glow that made everything feel otherworldly, almost enchanted.

The columns, the high vaulted ceiling, even the shadows themselves seemed to embrace the moment, framing the couple in a warm, protective cocoon.

You and Telemachus found yourselves hesitating at the threshold, not wanting to break the spell that enveloped them.

Telemachus' hand lingered on the door, his gaze fixed on his parents. His expression was a mixture of awe and deep, unspoken emotion.

His mother and father, finally reunited, had become more than parents or rulers in this moment—they were a testament to everything he had fought for, a symbol of everything that made this kingdom worth saving.

For a moment, the two of you simply watched, the light and peace of the room seeping into your souls.

The throne room was empty, yes, but it was fuller than it had ever been—filled with the presence of those who had returned, with the love that had endured, and with the hope of a new beginning.

The peace in the room seemed timeless, untouched by the world's sorrows, as though the gods themselves had blessed this moment, wrapping the long-awaited lovers in a warmth that was both eternal and fragile, like a dream finally brought to life.

Odysseus, sensing his son's presence, turned his head slightly, a soft smile forming on his lips as he said, "Hello, Telemachus. Hello to you as well. ____."

But even as he acknowledged his son and you, he didn't release Penelope. He held her closer, as though anchoring himself in her warmth, her solidity, as if reassuring himself that she was no figment of his imagination.

His other hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her just a fraction closer, and Penelope straightened to face you and Telemachus, her arm still wrapped around her love. Her gaze was tender, her eyes shimmering with both joy and a vulnerability rarely seen.

Penelope's lips curved into a smile, and she reached out with her free hand, her voice soft and filled with affection. "My son," she said.

Telemachus took a step forward, his movements almost hesitant, his steps jittery as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

When he finally reached his parents, both Odysseus and Penelope wrapped him up in their arms, pulling him close, holding him securely between them.

You watched, feeling your heart swell with warmth. Your eyes shimmered, tears blurring your vision as you placed your hands over your chest, as if to hold in the feeling of love and relief that threatened to overflow.

For a moment, it was as if Telemachus was a child again—sheltered between the two people who meant everything to him, the tensions of the past few days melting away as this family was finally reunited.

The sight brought a small smile to your face, and you could almost feel the weight of all the fears and worries lifting. The image before you was something sacred—something that spoke to hope, to love that could endure the worst of trials.

Penelope turned her head, her eyes catching yours as her smile widened. She waved at you gently, her voice inviting, "Come here, dear."

You blinked, a bit taken aback, your brows rising as you stuttered, "M-Me?"

A soft chuckle escaped both Penelope and Odysseus. Odysseus nodded, his gaze warm. "Of course. Penelope has told me all about you," he said, his voice full of appreciation. "You played a vital role in keeping our kingdom alive. You have our deepest gratitude."

Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you nodded, feeling a rush of warmth and something akin to disbelief. Softly, you began to walk up the steps toward the royal family, your steps shaky, your heart racing.

When you reached them, Telemachus looked at you with that warm, familiar smile that never failed to calm your nerves. He gently reached out, grabbing your hand.

You let out a small yelp of surprise as he pulled you forward, drawing you into the embrace.

Suddenly, you were wrapped in warmth—surrounded by Penelope, Odysseus, and Telemachus.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, the love and warmth pressing in on you from all sides.

You could feel Penelope's arm resting gently against your back, Odysseus' sturdy presence beside you, and Telemachus' hand squeezing yours.

Your heart raced in your chest, and you could feel tears stinging your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of happiness.

For a moment, everything felt perfect—like all the pain, the uncertainty, the fear, had been worth it just to be here, embraced by the people who had fought so hard for this peace.

Your chest tightened, filled with hope, warmth, and love.

It was a family reunited, and though you were not born into it, in this moment, you felt as though you belonged.

For once, there was no distance between you and those you stood beside—you were part of something larger, something enduring, and it filled your heart with a sense of quiet joy.

Slowly, the embrace broke.

Penelope and Odysseus still held each other, their arms wound tightly as though unwilling to let go even for a second, while you found yourself standing beside Telemachus, his presence comforting by your side.

Odysseus then turned, his gaze sweeping the room, pausing for a moment on each face—Penelope's steadfast gaze, Telemachus' thoughtful expression, and even your own, as if pulling strength from those who had stood beside him.

He drew in a breath, the tension in the air palpable. "My dear family, and you, who have been loyal to us through everything," he began, his voice rich with emotion, "our journey has been long and arduous, filled with trials I would not wish on anyone. Ithaca has suffered in my absence. Our people have faced uncertainty, hardship, and loss."

You saw Penelope's expression darken, her brow furrowing as those memories returned—the suitors, the constant manipulation, the feeling of being cornered.

Telemachus, too, looked down for a moment, his eyes clouding with thoughts of the years without his father, the struggles, the moments when hope had seemed lost.

"But," Odysseus continued, his voice rising above the weight of the past, "we are here now. We have survived, and we will rebuild." He looked to Penelope, his gaze softening. "Together, we will heal these wounds. I will not let Ithaca remain broken, not when it has so much potential for prosperity."

There was a conviction in his voice, the kind that left no room for doubt. The people deserved a leader who not only defended them from threats but also ensured their prosperity.

And he wanted to give them that.

You could hear the weight of his words, each one resonating with a sense of duty. He was not merely concerned with power; Odysseus was a protector, a man who saw his kingdom not as territory, but as people who needed him.

He then turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening, the fire in his eyes shifting to something more paternal, more tender. "Telemachus," he addressed, "As the rightful heir to Ithaca, you have much to learn. The road won't be easy, but together we can restore Ithaca to what it should be," he added, his voice laced with both challenge and hope. "Are you ready for what lay ahead?"

You watched as Telemachus listened, his face serious, his eyes reflecting the weight of his father's expectations. There was no hesitation, no hint of the boy who had once doubted himself.

Instead, you saw a young man who had faced darkness, who had seen the price of weakness and betrayal, and who had emerged with a stronger will.

Telemachus seemed to stand a little taller before his father, his posture straightening, his eyes meeting Odysseus' with newfound strength and understanding. "I understand, Father. I am ready," he replied, his voice steady, a glimmer of something resolved in his eyes. "I have waited for this my whole life—to learn, to be worthy of this kingdom, and of you."

You could see the resolve in his eyes, the promise he silently made to both his father and himself.

The trials of the past days had forged him into someone who understood the cost of leadership—the sacrifices that must be made, the difficult choices that lay ahead, and the burden of carrying the hopes of others on his shoulders.

Odysseus smiled, a warmth crossing his features that was rare in the years of battle. He stepped forward, his free hand reaching out to rest on his son's shoulder. "Telemachus, you have already proven yourself worthy. What remains is for us to build this future, side by side. It will be hard—harder still than what we have faced—but I believe in you. I believe in us."

You watched as Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, as if to absorb the strength of Odysseus' words, her lips curving into a faint smile. She reached her hand out to her son, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Telemachus, Ithaca is as much yours as it is ours," she said, her voice filled with both love and a gentle seriousness. "This is your future too."

Telemachus nodded, his chest rising as he took in a deep breath. Then he turned, looking down at you standing beside him. His eyes were kind but tinged with uncertainty, and you could see the vulnerability beneath that mask of resolve. "We have all had to make sacrifices," he said softly, his words directed towards you. "And you—you've been with us, helped us more than you know."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, your heart pounding at the sincerity in his voice.

The royal family—Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus—were not just rulers, not just legends. They were a family bound by love, by their trials, and by the quiet promise of better days ahead.

You gave Telemachus a small nod, your eyes meeting his. "I am honored to serve," you managed, though your voice was barely a whisper.

Penelope's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her hand tightening around her husband's arm. "We have waited so long for this day," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And now that you are here, I know we can do it—together."

Then, Odysseus' eyes softened as he turned to his wife, his smile growing warmer. "Now, Penelope, prepare a feast—a gathering not for celebration, but for remembrance and hope. It is time to honor those who have been lost, those who fought for Ithaca, and to mark the beginning of a new era."

Penelope smiled, a soft, knowing expression crossing her face. "Of course, my love," she said, her voice gentle, filled with both relief and affection. She glanced towards Telemachus, who in turn looked towards you, his eyes lighting up with an idea.

"Perhaps you could play for us," Telemachus suggested, his gaze resting on you, a hint of encouragement in his expression. His mother immediately nodded, her eyes sparkling in agreement. "Yes, please do. It would bring such warmth to the gathering," Penelope added, her voice sincere.

You felt Odysseus' eyes cut to you, his gaze evaluating for a brief moment before softening. "I have encountered many in my travels," he began, his voice carrying the weight of experience, “but I do not think I have ever heard one play or sing a tune as sweetly as you." His compliment was genuine, his eyes holding yours as though to impress upon you the depth of his words.

Heat rose to your face, and you bowed your head slightly, a warm smile spreading across your lips. "Thank you, my king," you replied, your voice filled with pride. "I would be honored to play."

With that, the conversation shifted towards preparations, the room slowly filling with a sense of purpose.

You found yourself standing beside Telemachus once more, his hand briefly brushing against yours as you both turned to follow his parents. A small smile played on your lips as you looked towards the future—one that, for the first time in a long while, felt hopeful and bright.

A/N: alright, first arc done/building up the romance between telemachus, now onto two our nextn contestants. hm, should it be apollo or hermes? or should i leave apollo last to meet???; also, how do you guys like my newest fic, 'godly things?' i'm trying my hand at tackling a more softer mc, so i hope i make her empathetic/not too apathetic like makima from the kne one lololo.

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winxanity-ii · 15 days ago

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⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 34 Chapter 34 | muted aftershock⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The dawn broke quietly, painting the school grounds in a gentle light, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the thoughts swirling in your mind as you walked towards the exam room, the weight of yesterday's chaos still echoing in your steps, unseen but undoubtedly felt.

You winced slightly, your shoulder aching as you adjusted your backpack, the soreness from the other night still lingering.

It was a subtle reminder of everything that had happened, and every movement seemed to bring that soreness back to the forefront of your mind.

Your mother had utterly panicked when you got home—her face had gone pale the moment she saw the bruises and cuts. She almost hadn't let you come to school today, insisting that you needed rest, or at least a visit to the doctor.

You had managed to convince her otherwise, but it had taken a lot of effort, and even more reassurances that you were okay. She'd finally relented, though her worried glances followed you right out the door this morning.

To avoid any unnecessary drama, you left home a little earlier than usual, purposely timing it so you wouldn't have to walk with Bakugo.

You were already dreading the blonde's reaction to you getting hurt once again—he wasn't exactly known for his gentle concern, and you had no energy left to deal with his fury or worry right now.

As you reached the classroom and stepped inside, you couldn't help but feel the eyes of your classmates on you.

You supposed the expression on your face, coupled with the stiffness in your movements, was enough to keep them from outright approaching you to ask about your newest bruises or the noticeable exhaustion on your face.

Still, you could see their glances—constantly flickering in your direction, curious, concerned, but ultimately keeping their distance.

You made your way to your seat, dropping your bag beside your desk as you sat down, the soreness in your back making you grimace just a little.

You could feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but thick enough that you could almost hear them. But thankfully, nobody said anything.

Maybe they figured it wasn't the right time, or maybe they were just too focused on the exams ahead.

The classroom door opened with a soft creak, and Kan-sensei stepped in, his expression stern but not unkind as he faced the class.

His eyes swept over everyone, pausing for just a moment on you before he spoke. "Alright, everyone, I hope you all studied because today is the day. The exams are starting, and I want to see everyone giving their best effort." His voice was calm, but there was a hint of expectation behind his words.

"Clear your desks, everyone. Just keep a pencil and an eraser in front of you," he instructed, watching as everyone moved to comply.

There was a shuffle of papers and the sound of bags being unzipped as your classmates hurried to empty their desks, the quiet tension in the room growing heavier with each passing second.

Once everyone was ready, Kan-sensei began to pass out the thick exam booklets, one by one, placing them on each desk with a measured movement.

The booklet landed on your desk with a soft thud, and you stared down at it, your fingers brushing over the cover.

It looked daunting—thick, heavy, and filled with questions that would require all of your focus.

Kan-sensei returned to the front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He gave a nod, his gaze steady. "You may begin," he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room.

The sound of pages turning filled the space almost immediately, a soft rustle that seemed to amplify the silence.

You took a deep breath, your pencil poised above the paper, and let your eyes drift to the first question.

Whatever chaos yesterday had brought, it was time to set it aside, at least for now.

There was only one thing you needed to focus on at this moment—the exam in front of you.

☆

Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, washing over you in soft warmth, accentuating the gentle sway of dust motes that danced lazily in the air.

You stretched out, your arms extending above your head, feeling the pull in your muscles. A yawn escaped, unbidden, and you let your body relax into the medical cot, your eyes drifting closed for a moment.

It wasn't long ago that you had finished the written portion of the exam—something that had been almost laughably easy despite the nerves everyone else seemed to be having.

The thick booklet hadn't been intimidating at all; instead, it had felt more like a chore you needed to get through.

After finishing, you had asked Kan-sensei for permission to visit Recovery Girl. He had agreed, probably assuming you were just exhausted from the pressure.

The truth, though, was far more practical—you needed her to patch up the last of your cuts and bruises—anything to avoid the inevitable fussing and coddling that would surely come from your mother if you went home without getting some of these bruises healed.

Recovery Girl had done her thing, leaning over to plant a smooch on your forehead, her healing quirk rushing through you and working its usual magic.

You barely registered when she shuffled out of the room, leaving you alone, muttering something about "All Might," the warmth from her quirk lulling you into a comfortable haze, your eyes growing heavier with each second.

As you settled into the cot, the soothing warmth from Recovery Girl's quirk blanketing your aches, your mind began to drift. The quiet hum of the infirmary, the scent of antiseptic—everything should have felt calm.

But beneath your closed eyelids, the memory of last night's chaos lingered, dark and sharp.

In your mind's eye, a flash of blue—fierce and cold—streaked through the dark alley. The flames twisted, casting eerie shadows that made everything feel smaller, tighter.

The villain's terrified screams, the hiss of skin blistering, and the heavy scent of scorched leather and burnt flesh flooded your senses, pulling you back.

The memory of Dabi, leaning in close, the flickering blue dancing over his face with a detached smirk. "See? Easy," he had muttered, as if reducing a life to ash meant nothing at all.

Your eyes snapped open, and for a moment, you struggled to pull yourself back into the present. But then, the sound of hurried footsteps and a door slamming open broke the stillness, jerking you fully back to reality.

"Oi, old hag! Dumbass fried his brains out again—"

Bakugo's voice filled the room, loud and abrasive, but his words trailed off as his eyes landed on you instead of Recovery Girl.

He was dressed in his hero gear, half-dragging a dazed-looking Kaminari behind him by the collar of his shirt, regular scowl marring his face. The expression on Bakugo's face shifted slightly—surprise, then a mix of irritation and something else that you couldn't quite place.

For a moment, his red eyes locked onto yours, narrowing as he took in your position sprawled across the cot.

You could practically feel the judgment radiating off of him, his gaze flicking to the small remnants of bandages Recovery Girl hadn't completely removed. His lips twisted into an even deeper frown, his eyes locking with yours, and for a moment there was silence, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Kaminari, meanwhile, was barely conscious, his eyes half-lidded and his head lolling to the side. "Heeeyyy," Kaminari slurred, barely coherent, giving a lazy wave when his gaze finally found you, a goofy grin tugging at his lips.

Bakugo rolled his eyes, letting out an irritated huff before turning his attention back to you. "Why the hell didn't you call me after you got attacked?" he barked, his tone sharp with irritation. But in the brief pause before his words landed, his gaze flickered—an almost imperceptible shift, like he wasn't sure whether to be angry or hurt.

His hand clenched and unclenched by his side, as though something inside him was itching to reach out, to fix whatever mess you'd gotten yourself into, despite the frustration etched across his face.

Kaminari, meanwhile, blinked slowly, his eyes barely focusing on anything as he leaned heavily against Bakugo. "Hey... Bakugo..." he mumbled, his voice slurred. "Did we... pass the exam yet?"

Bakugo scoffed, adjusting his grip on Kaminari's arm, his scowl deepening. "Can it, idiot. You're just lucky you didn't fry your damn head off." He looked back at you, his eyes narrowing even further.

Your face remained blank, eyes meeting Bakugo's with nothing more than mild disinterest.

You could see the irritation brewing beneath his scowl, his grip on Kaminari tightening. He clenched his jaw, letting out a growl as he stalked closer, his combat boots clunking against the tiled floor.

"Probably why your ass avoided me this morning, huh?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

You took in Bakugo's hero gear—his bulky gauntlets gleamed in the sunlight, his orange and black suit fitting snugly, highlighting the defined lines of his physique; the large X-shaped harness across his chest seemed to emphasize every movement, drawing your attention to the tension in his shoulders.

His mask framed those sharp crimson eyes that were currently glaring at you with that all-too-familiar intensity. His unruly blonde hair caught the sunlight streaming in, almost glowing against the dark contrast of his outfit.

The way he was looking at you—eyes narrowed, lips set in a hard line—was almost enough to make you laugh.

Almost.

You just continued to stare up at him, your gaze unwavering; it was like you were daring him to continue, and you watched as his eye twitched, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"What!?" he finally barked, the sudden outburst causing Kaminari to jolt in his grip. "You're just gonna stare at my ass, or are you gonna tell me what happened?!" His voice echoed in the small room, the frustration evident in the sharpness of his tone.

Kaminari winced slightly, blinking sluggishly as he looked between the two of you.

You sighed, trying to suppress the groan that threatened to escape before slowly pushing yourself up, sitting on the edge of the cot. The sunlight, now at your back, warmed you through your uniform, but it did little to ease the tension in the room.

Tiredly, you met his eyes, your expression flat and asked, "How did you even find out?"

The blonde clicked his tongue, his usual scowl returning, his eyes narrowing further as if he couldn't believe you were asking such a dumb question. "Shitty-Hair told me everything," he grumbled, his voice dripping with annoyance. He looked like he was about to add something else, but then he cut himself off, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he shot Kaminari a glare when the blond let out a groggy chuckle.

"After the written portion, Aizawa-sensei let us have a damn spar day," Bakugo continued, his voice rising slightly in irritation. "Dunce-face over here decided to overdo it—" He shook Kaminari slightly, who only groaned in response, "—so I had to drag his fried ass over to Recovery Girl. And now I see this bullshit."

He said it like an accusation, his tone brimming with frustration. The hero mask around his eyes made his scowl look even fiercer, the shadows darkening his already harsh features.

You could tell just by the way his eyes were fixed on you that he was expecting an explanation, an answer that would make sense of everything he'd heard.

You sighed again, feeling the exhaustion from earlier settling back into your bones, the warmth of the sun doing nothing to ease the stiffness in your limbs. "It was nothing," you muttered, shrugging slightly. "Kirishima and I just ran into some idiot. He robbed us, left, end of story."

Bakugo's eyes narrowed even further, and you could see the disbelief there, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Just an idiot, huh?" he repeated, his tone flat, clearly not buying your attempt to downplay what had happened.

Kaminari blinked up at you, his head tilting slightly. "Wait... you got into a robbed?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and surprise. "When was this? Man... I miss everything cool."

Bakugo let out a snarl, clearly at the end of his patience. "Shut up, Dunce-face," he snapped, his glare shifting back to you. "And you," he pointed at you, his finger jabbing the air, "quit brushing this off like it's nothing. You think I don't know when you're hiding shit?"

You met his glare evenly, the silence stretching between you, heavy and tense.

He was right—you had avoided him this morning on purpose, knowing how he'd react if he saw you with fresh bruises, knowing he'd demand answers.

But you didn't feel like explaining everything, not to him, so instead, you just gave him a small, tired smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "I'm fine," you said, your tone softer now, almost resigned. "Really. I've got it handled."

He clicked his tongue again, his jaw clenching as he looked away, clearly unsatisfied with your answer. But instead of pushing further, he just let out a frustrated huff, his shoulders dropping slightly. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" he muttered, his voice barely audible, almost like he was talking to himself.

You just hummed in response, your eyes drifting to the window, watching as the sunlight continued to filter in, the warmth washing over you, soothing the lingering ache in your muscles.

The tension in the room seemed to ease, just a little, as the silence settled in again, and you allowed yourself to relax, even if only for a moment.

"Whatever," Bakugo finally grumbled, adjusting his grip on Kaminari, who was starting to slump even further, his eyes almost completely closed. "Just... don't be stupid," he added, his voice a bit softer, almost begrudging.

As he turned towards the door, Bakugo scowled down at the blonde, jerking his head in the direction of the cot. "Sit your dumb ass down until the old hag gets back, got it?"

Kaminari blinked up at Bakugo, still dazed but managing a lazy salute. "Aye aye, Captain..." he mumbled, stumbling towards the nearest chair and plopping down without much grace.

With that, Bakugo turned back towards the door, pausing for a second to glance back at you, his eyes narrowing slightly before he grumbled something under his breath and finally left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

You let out a slow breath, the weight of everything settling in your chest as you closed your eyes; you laid back down on the cot, allowing your body to sink into the mattress.

The sunlight streaming through the window washed over your face, casting a comforting glow across your closed eyelids. You could feel the tension in your muscles begin to ebb, the exhaustion from the past few days pulling you further into the warmth, inviting you to rest.

The world felt soft around the edges, the sunlight making everything feel calm for a moment—almost peaceful.

Suddenly, you felt a shadow cast over you, blocking the warmth from the sunlight. Your eyebrows furrowed, your peaceful haze disturbed by the change in light.

Slowly, your eyes cracked open, and you were met by two dazed, slanted golden eyes staring down at you, blinking slowly—one eyelid dropping a few seconds after the other, like the owner's brain had forgotten how to sync them up.

It was Kaminari, his expression vacant, a dopey grin stretching across his face as he swayed slightly in place.

"Angel~" he cooed, voice slurred and barely above a whisper; you could practically feel his breath on your face as his head dipped closer.

Your lips pulled down into a scowl, and with a sharp click of your tongue, you pushed his head away firmly before sitting back up on the edge of the cot.

Kaminari stumbled backwarda bit, his arms waving around to catch his balance. He blinked, his golden eyes unfocused as he straightened up, wobbling on his feet, but he shot you another dopey grin, holding two thumbs up in an enthusiastic gesture. "I'm okay!" he announced, his voice full of misplaced confidence.

You just rolled your eyes, not particularly interested in humoring whatever antics Kaminari had in mind.

There was a lot you had learned about him since first meeting him during the entrance exam.

Kaminari was that type—the kind of person who had an unnervingly easygoing attitude about everything, but beneath all of his charms and jokes, you couldn't help but notice that small perverted streak lurking in there.

The Sports Festival had proven as much, with him teaming up with that grape-haired pervert, Mineta, the two forming some sort of slimy alliance of immaturity.

It made you think about Denji—how uncannily similar they both were in their habits.

That same bumbling, eager energy, that unflinching loyalty, but also that same perverseness that drove them to situations where they had no business being. And just like with Denji, there was that undeniable earnestness in Kaminari that made you begrudgingly tolerate him—at least when he wasn't being a complete moron.

You shook your head, pushing the thoughts away. "Just sit down, Kaminari-kun. And keep quiet while you're at it," you said, watching as he blinked, seemingly processing your words before nodding.

Instead of heading for the chair, Kaminari plopped himself right next to you on the cot, the sudden dip in the mattress making you shift slightly.

The warmth radiating from his body seeped through his hero suit, and you couldn't help but notice the scent of burnt ozone mixed with a hint of cologne—something surprisingly light, almost citrusy.

The fabric of his hero suit brushed against your arm, textured and warm, an unintentional reminder of how close he had made himself. His head lolled to the side, his dazed eyes blinking slowly as he hummed contentedly, clearly out of it but in high spirits regardless.

You opened your mouth to bark at him to move, but stopped yourself at the last minute, releasing a tired sigh instead.

Kaminari perked up at this, his eyes landing on you, and his dopey grin widened. "Heeey, you're not mad at me, right?" he babbled, his voice taking on that lazy, almost childlike tone.

Then, he began to talk, the words tumbling out with no real coherence—something about Bakugo yelling at him, how warm it was, and how he wanted to nap, and—honestly, it was hard to tell where one thought ended and the next began.

You could only close your eyes and release another tired sigh, hoping Recovery Girl would return soon.

☆

Recovery Girl had come back earlier, seen Kaminari still in a dazed state, and after a small smooch to help heal him, had instructed you to watch over him until one of his classmates arrived to take him to their next class.

Instead of resting, however, Kaminari had insisted on staying awake, even doopier than before, his words becoming more nonsensical as the minutes ticked by due to the exhaustion of Recovery Girl's quirk.

It was nearing the end of the lunch period when Kaminari's group—better known as the Bakusquad—came to pick him up.

The door opened with a light creak, and Mina walked in first, a bundle of clothes held in her arms. She was still in her school uniform, her cheerful voice calling out. "Denki! C'mon, we're here to take you back before you miss all the fries!"

Kirishima and Sero followed her in, both animatedly talking, while Bakugo trailed behind them, his scowl fixed firmly on the ground, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"C'mon, chargebolt! Get a move on!" Mina grinned, pausing mid-sentence as her eyes landed on the scene in front of her.

Kaminari was leaning heavily against you, his head resting on your shoulder, his eyes closed as he swayed slightly, one hand lightly tangled in your hair while the other draped around your waist. He seemed completely unaware of their arrival, too out of it to notice anything beyond the warmth beside him.

You kept your gaze fixed downward, your eyes dark and empty, staring at the ground while Kaminari clung to you. The noise of their chatter felt distant, almost like background static—meaningless, just something to fill the silence.

At the sound of their entrance, you eyes snapped up.

The rest of the Bakusquad stared, their expressions ranging from surprise to amusement. Mina let out a small giggle, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Well, well, what do we have here?" she teased, her voice light, but there was no missing the way her smile widened.

Kirishima gave an awkward cough, rubbing the back of his neck with an equally awkward grin. "Uh, hey, Akuma. Hope Denki's not giving you too much trouble." His eyes flickered to the blonde, who still seemed blissfully unaware of anything beyond his own little world.

Sero leaned against the doorframe, his gaze flicking between you and Kaminari, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Looks like he's gotten comfy," he added, his voice filled with laughter.

Bakugo, however, didn't find any of this amusing. His scowl deepened, his eyes narrowing at the sight before him. He clicked his tongue, irritation radiating off of him as he finally looked up, his gaze zeroing in on Kaminari.

"Oi, dumbass, get your ass up!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to make Kaminari blink in surprise, his head jerking up from your shoulder.

Kaminari blinked blearily, his eyes trying to focus on the source of the voice, and after a moment, his face lit up. "Heeeyy!" he slurred, his grin as dopey as ever.

Bakugo's eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his shoulders tense. His gaze cut to you for the briefest second, a flicker of something almost... territorial, before he returned his glare to Kaminari.

"Move it," he growled, tone low and just a little dangerous, pulling Kaminari up by the back of his collar, ignoring the blonde's yelp of protest. "Don't you have your own damn shoulder to drool on?" He scowled, his voice full of irritation, grip firm as he practically shoved him towards the rest of the group. "And why the hell aren't you better yet, dumbass? Where's the hag?"

You sighed, lips pressed into a thin line as you jumped down from the cot, smoothing out any wrinkles in your skirt. "Recovery Girl already stopped by, but instead of resting, Kaminari-kun decided to stay up and keep me company," you answered for him, your tone flat, doing little to mask your weariness.

Kaminari, now hanging off Kirishima, waved his arm energetically despite his exhausted state, his head lolling slightly as he leaned onto Kirishima for support. "She smells good too!" he slurred, his eyes unfocused as he smiled lazily. "Like... real pretty."

The room went still. A tense beat passed, thick enough to feel.

Bakugo's red eyes narrowed, a slow burn flickering behind them as he processed Kaminari's words; his jaw tightened, the scowl on his face deepening into something darker, sharper.

And then he sharply turned his head toward Kaminari. "What the hell did you just say, idiot?" His voice was low, a quiet simmer that made the other members of the Bakusquad exchange wary glances.

Mina, ever the peacemaker, quickly stepped in before the tension could snap. "Oh, come on, Bakugo," she said, her voice teasing but gentle, throwing a wink in your direction. "Don't go all guard dog on us now; we're just here for Denki." She nudged Kaminari's shoulder, casting a mock-scolding look his way. "Kaminari, you know how possessive Bakugo is over Akuma-san—don't provoke him!"

A deep, irritated grumble rumbled from Bakugo as he shot Mina a glare, but he didn't deny it.

The girl then stepped forward with a casual bounce, interrupting Bakugo's irritation with a swift motion as she deposited the bundle of clothes directly into his arms. "Anyway, these are for you, Bakugo! You look like you could use something to hold onto," she teased, her smile stretching even wider.

Bakugo blinked, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected load now in his hands. His scowl faltered, just for a fraction of a second as he glanced down at the clothes.

Mina took the opportunity to bounce over to your side, her bright demeanor quickly lighting up the space. "Hey, are you okay? You never texted me during internships! And, like, I was worried because you know how chaotic things can get! Plus, I heard something about what happened last night, and—"

Her sentences were barely separated by breaths, each one blending into the next in a whirlwind of concern and chatter. She seemed genuinely worried, her golden eyes wide as she leaned in closer, her arms flailing animatedly while she spoke. It was a lot to take in at once, and her energy almost made you feel light-headed.

Kirishima, noticing the slight tension in your eyes, reached over to gently pull Mina back a bit. "Whoa, whoa, Mina, calm down," he laughed, his grin sheepish. He then looked over at you, his expression softening. "Akuma-san, I know you've probably been asked this hundreds of times already, but are you sure you're alright after last night?" His voice was low and tinged with genuine concern as he searched your face.

You gave him a brief nod, your voice almost flat. "Yes. I'm fine, Kirishima-kun." There wasn't much else to add, and you certainly weren't in the mood for a retelling; still, it must have been enough because you watched the relief flicker across his face as he gave you a gentle smile, his posture easing up just a bit.

It wasn't long before Bakugo shuffled over to you, his eyes narrowing into slits, his scowl returning as he muttered under his breath, "Don't know why the hell you didn't call me..." His voice was a low, irritated grumble, more accusatory than concerned, but you didn't have the energy to entertain his irritation.

Before you could say anything, Sero jumped in, his tone light and playful. "I swear, at this rate, we're gonna have to start a 'Rescue Akuma Fund' for all the trouble she finds herself in," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin.

His comment seemed to diffuse some of the tension, and even Mina let out a giggle at the suggestion, playfully bumping her shoulder against yours. "We should make T-shirts and everything!" she added, her voice a bright contrast to the heavier atmosphere that had been lingering moments before.

As the small group chattered around you—Kirishima and Sero sharing a laugh, Mina attempting to draw Bakugo out of his scowl with her relentless teasing—you let your gaze drift over each of them.

You took in Kirishima's earnest smile, Mina's vibrant energy, Sero's playful jabs, and even Bakugo's constant grumbling.

They all surrounded Kaminari, whose head was now resting on Kirishima's shoulder, his eyes still glazed but his smile genuine as he waved at you lazily, clearly having no idea about the tension he'd caused earlier.

And as your eyes moved from each of their faces, taking in the ease of the conversation and the lightness that seemed to bounce between them, you could feel your face fall, your heart sinking with the realization you couldn't ignore.

You would never quite get back to those solitudinal days.

No matter how much you wanted it, no matter how much you craved that silence and separation... it was no longer in the cards, not anymore.

☆

The final bell of the day rang, signaling the end of classes, and slowly the classroom began to empty out.

Chairs scraped against the floor, students gathered their bags, and chatter filled the room, but you stayed where you were, letting the rush of people fade away until the room was nearly empty.

You were the last to leave.

You had to practically threaten Bakugo to leave without you, the blonde sending you a flurry of profanity-ridden complaints in your messages before conceding.

You just needed some time—even just a few minutes—to take a breath without someone breathing down your neck or demanding your attention.

As you made your way through the mostly deserted hallways, your footsteps echoed softly against the linoleum, the school building now much quieter than it had been all day.

You let out a sigh, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing as you basked in the fleeting silence.

That was until you heard the low murmur of voices as you rounded a corner, pausing as the familiar tone of Midoriya's voice caught your attention.

You peered around the corner, interest piquing slightly as you caught sight of Midoriya standing there, speaking with none other than All Might himself.

Their conversation seemed serious, All Might's large hand resting heavily on Midoriya's shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically stern. Midoriya's head was bowed slightly, his voice barely above a whisper as he muttered something in response, the words too low for you to catch. "...I can't do it, All Might?"

You stood there for a moment, debating whether to turn back the way you came and avoid the awkwardness altogether. But before you could make a decision, All Might's eyes flicked upward, locking onto yours.

His stern expression immediately softened, his eyes widening in surprise before a wide smile stretched across his face. He lifted his hand from Midoriya's shoulder, giving you a welcoming wave. "Ah! Akuma-san! I was just talking about you with young Midoriya here," he said, his voice booming in the quiet hallway.

Midoriya's head snapped up, his eyes wide as his face immediately flushed a deep shade of red. "W-We weren't—I mean, it wasn't—I just—" He stammered, his words tripping over themselves as he fumbled for an explanation, his freckles standing out starkly against his reddening cheeks.

All Might let out a hearty laugh, clapping Midoriya on the back, nearly causing the boy to stumble forward. "No need to be shy, young Midoriya!" he said, his grin never faltering. He then turned his attention back to you, his blue eyes kind. "I've heard a lot about you—from the other teachers and from young Midoriya here. It's good to finally put a face to the name."

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden attention. "Uh, thank you, All Might-sensei," you replied, your voice coming out a little more awkwardly than you'd intended.

All Might's smile softened, and he gave you a nod of encouragement. "Just remember, Akuma-san, to take things one step at a time. You have a lot of potential—don't let setbacks hold you back." He paused, as if considering his next words, before adding, "And always remember that you've got people around who are willing to help. Even if you don't think you need it."

Your chest tightened at that.

Help.

The word seemed to ring in your mind longer than it should have, dredging up memories you’d buried—times you'd been let down, forced to handle things on your own, because people just couldn't understand.

Sure, you thought, brushing off the feeling with a hint of resentment. You knew better than to rely on others for anything. Besides, hadn't you made it this far without help?

But the way All Might looked at you—something about the steady encouragement in his eyes—made the words stick like a burr, an irritating reminder of things you’d spent so long ignoring. You shrugged it off with a polite nod, hoping he couldn't see the internal recoil.

With that, he gave you a thumbs-up, his smile widening as he ruffled your hair in a gesture that was almost fatherly. "You've got this!" he said, his voice filled with a confidence that made something in your chest twist—a strange mix of warmth and discomfort.

He turned back to Midoriya, giving the boy a nod. "I'll leave you two to it. Good luck with the upcoming practical!" With one last booming laugh, he strode down the hallway, his footsteps echoing until they faded entirely.

Silence settled between you and Midoriya, the hallway suddenly feeling much larger and emptier without All Might's presence. You turned to look at Midoriya, only to find him already staring at you, his eyes wide and his face still tinged pink.

The second your gaze met his, he jolted, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His hand shot up to scratch the back of his head, ruffling his messy green curls, while his other hand fidgeted with the edge of his backpack strap, as though it held the words he was desperately searching for. "Uh, um, ____, I—I didn't mean—I mean, All Might just—" he stammered, his hands flailing slightly as his cheeks flushed an even deeper red.

You raised an eyebrow, your expression blank as you watched him. "Izuku," you said, cutting off his rambling, "it's fine." Your voice was calm, and you could see the immediate relief that washed over his features, his shoulders relaxing.

"R-Right," he said, nodding quickly, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second before darting away again, the blush on his cheeks deepening. "Well, um... good luck tomorrow, ____," he finally managed, his voice soft, almost shy.

You nodded in return, offering him a small, polite smile. "You too, Izuku." And with that, you turned on your heel, making your way down the hallway without looking back.

As you approached the exit of the school, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a new message from Bakugo.

𝐏𝐎𝐌-𝐏𝐎𝐌 𝐏𝐔𝐏 Come over. We're sparring tonight. Practical's tomorrow.

You stared at the message, your teeth pressing into your bottom lip.

The familiar sense of irritation bubbled up—the way Bakugo always seemed to demand things without asking. But as you stood there, staring at the screen, the annoyance seemed to wither away, replaced by something else—something softer, almost resigned.

You weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

With a sigh, you typed out a quick response—"Fine."—before slipping your phone back into your pocket and stepping out into the cool evening air.

A/N: y'all my fucking crown popped off while i was mid-chew on bussing down some gummy worms 😭😭 i'm panicking so bad even though i know it'll be okay but fuuuuccckkkk, i can't see the dentist until i get this lil raggedy ass money for it, so no snacking till then 😔 also, y'all why tf crowns are so damn expensive??? 1k for a piece of metal?? omm i'll go outside and bite down on a tire iron cuz damn 😭anwho after 33 chapters, reader is finally giving in to bakugo's ways, what ever does this mean, lolol; kinda imagine like a parents tired of teling their kids to sit they ass down so the kids is just running around butt naked causing havoc 🤣🤣

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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | carnage⌟

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The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred—only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

A/N: ooof! 8.0k words, lordy... but i must admit, it's getting easier for me to write/picture fight scenes instead of just summarizing them in a sentence lololo; anywho as you guys can tell by the spammed updates, i really love greek mythology lolo; who's your favorite god/goddess? mine would have to be Aphrodite; for her to be the most beautiful to ever exist, she really does get envious whenever someone even breathes the word 'pretty' in another person direction 😩---i stan a messy queen

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winxanity-ii · 17 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | tension⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Odysseus let his gaze drift across the grand hall, every muscle in his body taut beneath the ragged cloak that disguised him.

His eyes narrowed as he took in each suitor, noting the way they disrespected his home, their laughter cutting through the sanctity of his hall.

These were men who had grown fat and careless on his hospitality, who dared to feast on the resources of his land while vying for the hand of his beloved Penelope; unaware that their gluttony and arrogance would soon face reckoning.

Odysseus watched the suitors, one by one. There was Antinous, smug and sneering, the clear leader in brazenness and disrespect. He sat near the center, barking orders to the servants, his voice grating, his laughter cruel.

Not far from him, Eurymachus leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming over the maids who moved about the hall, his grin spreading wider every time one of them blushed under his gaze.

But it was the brawny, red-haired suitor, Andros, who drew Odysseus' attention most tonight.

Andros was on his feet, striding towards Penelope, a confident swagger in his step that made Odysseus' fingers curl tightly under the table. Andros' scarred face, a testament to his battles, bore an expression of arrogance as he approached the queen.

"My lady," Andros began, his voice dripping with insincere charm, "you are as radiant as ever tonight. Truly, this palace, these halls—everything feels grander in your presence." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his words before continuing.

"And of course, you have an array of fine young suitors here, all vying for your hand, each eager to prove himself worthy." He began slowly, the sweetness in his voice almost syrupy as he praised the beauty of the hall, the dignity of Penelope, and the devotion of the gathered men.

Then, the smile on his lips grew strained, and his tone hardened, the false charm giving way to impatience. "But, my queen, surely it is time to stop playing these games? Do you not think, after all this time, that Ithaca deserves a new king? That the kingdom, your people, deserve stability?" He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, but still loud enough for those nearby to hear.

"These delays... they serve no one. Least of all you."

Odysseus felt his anger rise, but he forced himself to keep his composure, swallowing the rage that threatened to boil over. Instead, his gaze shifted down the long table, allowing him a moment to rein in his emotions.

His eyes landed on Telemachus, who sat further down, trapped between two suitors. Telemachus was doing his best to remain civil, nodding curtly at whatever nonsense one of them, Leodes, was muttering.

The young prince's jaw was clenched, his shoulders squared, but Odysseus could see the weariness in his eyes. He could see the strain in his son's expression, the way his jaw tightened when they clapped him on the back or spoke of his mother's need to choose.

Telemachus' hands were clenched under the table, and Odysseus knew that the boy was holding himself back, trying to remain calm in the face of their mockery.

He was tired of this charade—tired of having to entertain these men who disrespected everything his family stood for.

Odysseus' gaze moved again, coming to rest on you, seated on your cushion at the far end of the hall.

You were playing soft tunes on your lyre, your eyes lowered to avoid the wandering gazes of the suitors.

It hadn't escaped Odysseus' attention how often they had approached you tonight, using the guise of speaking with Telemachus as an excuse to stand too close, to linger too long.

The way their eyes lingered on you made Odysseus' blood run cold with fury, but you had handled it with quiet grace, always managing to sidestep their advances, your focus never wavering from your music.

He watched as you adjusted your position, your fingers gracefully plucking at the strings, the gentle melody you played seeming almost out of place amidst the crude laughter and loud conversation.

It was your retreat—your way of coping with the unwelcome attention.

Odysseus clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still, but his gaze never left Penelope.

He knew every nuance of her expression, every flicker in her eyes. She had always been able to mask her feelings when necessary, but Odysseus could tell what lay beneath that serene exterior.

Penelope smiled at Andros—a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. It was the same composed expression Odysseus had seen countless times, the one she wore when she needed to hide her exhaustion, her irritation, her true thoughts.

To the suitors, it was the smile of a queen; to Odysseus, it was a testament to her resilience.

And despite her age beginning to show, Penelope was still a beauty. Her dark hair, partially veiled, framed her face gracefully, and her eyes—those sharp, clever eyes—were as full of life as ever, though Odysseus could see the weariness she tried to hide.

The years of waiting, the pressure from the suitors, the uncertainty of Odysseus' fate—everything had taken its toll.

Yet, she remained dignified, her posture straight, her expression composed.

He watched as she tilted her head slightly, her smile widening as she looked up at Andros, her voice her voice smooth when she spoke. "I understand your concerns, Andros. Truly, I do. But you must understand... a decision like this cannot be rushed. It is a matter of not just my heart, but of the people of Ithaca. They must have faith in their ruler, whoever he may be."

There was a flicker in her eyes as she paused to adjust the folds of her gown, her gaze never leaving Andros'. Odysseus recognized it—the subtle shift of someone preparing for a move, a small, almost imperceptible signal.

She was not done yet.

"Besides," she added, her voice carrying just a hint of playful reproach, "there is still work to be done. My weaving is not yet complete, and it would be improper to leave it unfinished, don't you agree?"

Odysseus' heart swelled with admiration as she elegantly deflected Andros in a way that left no room to argue without appearing impatient and self-serving.

She had always been a master of this—a weaver not only of thread but of words, her diplomacy a match for his own cunning on the battlefield.

Andros' face twisted in frustration, but he forced a smile, nodding stiffly. "Of course, my lady. As you wish," he said, though his tone made it clear he was far from pleased; he grumbled something under his breath, turning on his heel and retreating to the other end of the hall, his pride clearly wounded.

Odysseus couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Clever Penelope.

She must have been weaving and unweaving that shroud she'd promised upon his return, using it as a tactic to delay choosing a husband.

It was a brilliant move, one that had kept these men at bay, if only barely.

Odysseus cleared his throat, drawing Penelope's attention for just a moment. He nodded subtly, his eyes filled with admiration. "A true queen knows how to manage her duties wisely," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Penelope glanced at him, her eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments. She smiled—a genuine, soft smile that held a glimmer of gratitude. "Thank you, good sir."

She was too clever not to sense something beneath his words.

Before any more could be said, the head servant stepped forward, clapping his hands to gain the attention of the room. "Honored guests," he called, his voice loud enough to carry over the noise, "we have a special treat for you tonight. A storyteller has arrived to regale us with tales of old. Please, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the story."

Odysseus shifted his gaze from Penelope to the gathered suitors, watching their interest shift with the promise of entertainment. The momentary tension diffused, but the underlying stakes remained, clear and unspoken between him and Penelope.

He settled back, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. The time for reckoning would come, but for now, Penelope had bought them a few more precious hours.

And for that, he was endlessly grateful.

Penelope then rose gracefully from her seat, her movements fluid despite the heaviness of her role. She addressed the suitors, her voice warm yet distant. "Please, enjoy yourselves," she said, her gaze sweeping over the gathered men. "I shall take my leave now. May the story bring you joy and reflection."

She turned then, her eyes finding you. "Come, dear," she called softly, beckoning you to follow.

You rose from your cushion, gathering your lyre, and moved towards her.

Telemachus appeared at your side, his expression gentle as he offered to take the instrument from you. "I'll put it in your room," he said, his voice low.

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile.

As Penelope left the hall, you followed closely behind, Telemachus walking beside you. The suitors began to settle down, their laughter quieting as they prepared to listen to the storyteller.

A few torches were extinguished, casting the room in a dimmer, more intimate light, the flickering flames creating shadows that danced along the walls.

The storyteller, an older man with a voice like honeyed wine, began his tale—a story of Perseus and his quest to slay the Gorgon Medusa. His voice wove through the room, captivating the suitors, their attention fixed on him as he painted vivid pictures with his words.

"In the days when gods still walked among mortals, there was a hero named Perseus," he began, his voice deep and rhythmic. "Born of Zeus, he was destined for greatness. The king, jealous of his mother's beauty, sought to rid himself of Perseus by sending him on an impossible quest—to bring back the head of the dreaded Gorgon, Medusa..."

A bit into the story, you slipped quietly back into the hall, your steps light and careful as you approached Odysseus. You knelt beside him, your voice barely a whisper as you leaned in. "The queen requests your presence for a private conversation," you murmured, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

Odysseus nodded, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing Penelope away from the prying eyes of the suitors.

As he began to rise, he paused for a moment, his gaze locking onto yours. There was something in his eyes—a depth of understanding, a quiet gratitude. He gave you a subtle nod, and though no words passed between you, you understood the meaning behind his expression.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough from emotion, but his eyes softened—a fleeting but genuine acknowledgment of your loyalty, of the way you had quietly supported his family in their most trying times.

You nodded back, your heart pounding from the weight of this unexpected acknowledgment. With a small, reassuring smile, you gestured for him to follow, and he rose, moving carefully to avoid drawing too much attention.

As the disguised king followed you out of the hall, a sense of hope stirred within him.

The time for reckoning was drawing near, and he would be ready.

☆

Shutting the door behind you, you leaned against it, letting out a slow breath, your mind still racing from everything that had just transpired. The hall was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through a narrow window, casting pale streaks across the stone floor.

You barely had time to collect yourself when Telemachus appeared from around the corner. His eyes lit up at the sight of you, his expression softening with relief.

You stepped forward, whispering a bit excitedly, "Your mother is currently speaking with 'Aethon.'" You made air quotes as you said the name, a knowing look in your eyes.

Telemachus's face broke into a boyish grin, his eyes shining with happiness and hope. Without thinking, he reached forward, grasping both of your hands in his. "She's with him? Truly? I've longed for this day," he said, his voice filled with raw emotion. "I've prayed to the gods for this—prayed that he would return to us."

The excitement that had been coursing through you settled, and for a moment, you both stood there, realizing just how close you were.

Telemachus cleared his throat, his face flushing slightly as he took a step back, though he didn't release your hands, letting them hang between you.

You cleared your own throat, your face heating up as you tried to fight through the embarrassment. You forced yourself to look at him, even though every instinct urged you to look away. "What... what do you think will happen next?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Telemachus' brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together as he seemed to consider your question. He hummed thoughtfully before speaking, "I'm not sure," he admitted, his voice softening. "Father will be king once more, so I suppose that leaves me to prepare—learning the ropes to one day take his place." He shrugged, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips.

Before either of you could say more, you heard Penelope's faint voice calling for you. "____."

You quickly turned, your heart skipping a beat as you realized you were needed. With a final glance at Telemachus, you hurried towards the room where the queen awaited.

As you stepped inside, you found Penelope seated across from Odysseus—'Aethon'—the two of them bathed in the soft glow of the flickering torches. There was a gentleness to the scene, an almost untensed, elated expression on the queen's face as she looked at the man before her.

Penelope's gaze shifted to you, her smile warm as she spoke. "Would you please fetch some water? I believe Aethon could use a bath," she said, her tone kind but carrying an air of authority.

You bowed your head respectfully. "Of course, my queen," you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was still fluttering from the earlier conversation.

Before you could turn to leave, Telemachus suddenly appeared in the doorway, his expression slightly awkward as he scratched the back of his neck. "Mother, if I may," he began, his voice a bit rushed. "Could Nurse Eurycleia tend to Aethon instead? I'll be dealing with the suitors soon, and I could use—well, I could use her help."

Penelope blinked, her brow arching in mild confusion at her son's apperance. There was a hint of humor in her eyes as she slowly nodded. "Of course, Telemachus," she said, her lips twitching up into a small smile. She turned back to you, her gaze softening. "Please fetch Eurycleia, dear."

You nodded, quickly excusing yourself to complete the task.

Telemachus was right by your side as the both of you made your way back to the dining halls. He stopped a passing servant, relaying the queen's orders for Eurycleia, ensuring she knew where she was needed before continuing with you.

When you both arrived, the scene had shifted; the storyteller had departed, and the dining hall had taken on a different air.

Torches were being relit, their flames flickering back to life, casting long shadows across the grand room.

The table was in disarray, the remnants of the feast scattered across the surface. Bowls that had once held fresh fruits were now empty, their contents devoured, and goblets lay tipped on their sides, spilling the last traces of wine.

Servants moved quickly to clean up, their hands deftly collecting the mess, while the suitors lounged heavily in their seats, many of them still indulging in wine, their laughter and voices echoing through the room.

Antinous' drunken voice suddenly rang out, slurred but commanding. "Telemachus!" he called, his words dragging slightly.

He pushed away another suitor roughly as he stood, his steps unsteady. His clothes were crumpled, the once fine fabric now stained, and his blue eyes hazy as he downed another gulp of wine. A few drops trailed down his chin, unheeded.

He moved closer, his breath heavy with the sour scent of drink. Raising his goblet again, he swallowed another mouthful, his lips curling into a sneer. "Your mother," he began, his voice harsh, "she should choose. Tonight. Enough of these games."

Telemachus tried to placate him, his tone gentle. "Antinous, now isn't the time. She's—"

But Antinous cut him off, his snarl deepening. "Twenty years!" he spat, his voice thick with frustration. "We've waited twenty years. Many of us grew up hearing tales of the widowed queen of Ithaca. We've seen hundreds of suitors come and go, all left empty-handed. And now? We have nothing but that damned shroud she always weaving." His face flushed a deeper shade of red, the anger twisting his features until his once handsome face seemed almost ugly.

He took another unsteady step closer, his eyes locking onto Telemachus' with a fierce intensity. "She must choose, boy. We won't wait any longer. The patience of everyone here has run thin. It's time she makes her decision, and it's time for Ithaca to have a new king."

Before Telemachus could even attempt to calm him once again, the other suitors drunkenly joined in, their voices melding into a cacophony of garbled shouts, all demanding that Penelope choose.

"Enough of this waiting!"

"She must make her choice now!"

"We've had enough of her tricks!"

The noise grew overwhelming, the suitors crowding closer, their faces flushed with drink and impatience.

Your heart began to race, the chaotic shouts and the looming bodies making it difficult to breathe. You felt the walls of the dining hall pressing in, the weight of the drunken mob becoming unbearable. The suitors' demands echoed in your ears, their voices blending into a thunderous roar that drowned out all reason.

Suddenly, you felt Telemachus step in front of you, his body shielding yours from the advancing crowd. His arm moved behind him, his hand finding yours and holding it firmly.

You clung to him, pressed against his side, the solidness of his presence the only thing keeping you grounded amidst the chaos.

Telemachus could feel the sweat on his palms, the nervous tremble in his grip as his fingers curled tighter around yours; he glanced back at you for just a moment, catching the fear in your eyes, and he felt something inside him snap—a determination, a need to protect you, stronger than his own anxiety.

Telemachus shouted above the noise, his voice carrying a note of desperation. "Please, just calm down!" but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The suitors were too far gone, too consumed by their own frustration and the haze of wine.

His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, nails biting into his palm as he struggled to keep his composure. He knew he couldn't show any weakness.

Not here, not now.

"Enough!"

The shout cut through the noise like a blade, the authority in the voice silencing the room instantly. The suitors froze, their heads snapping toward the source of the command.

At the entrance of the hall stood Queen Penelope, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression one of fierce determination. A few steps behind her stood Odysseus, still disguised as the beggar Aethon, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene.

Penelope's gaze swept across the suitors, her eyes cold and unforgiving. She held herself with a dignity that seemed to grow more luminous in the flickering torchlight, her presence commanding the attention of every man in the room.

"These demands are unbecoming," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "You forget yourselves and the courtesy owed to this house." She paused, her eyes locking onto Antinous, who had the sense to bow his head, though his jaw remained clenched.

Penelope continued, her tone softening slightly, though it lost none of its strength. "I see that you will not be satisfied until I make my decision. Very well. Tomorrow, as soon as Helios crosses the sky, I shall hold a contest. The man who can string Odysseus' great bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe heads shall have my hand in marriage."

She let the silence hang for a moment, her eyes scanning the room before continuing, her voice now laced with authority. "It is only right that the one strong enough to succeed in this great feat, one that only my husband could accomplish, should be deemed worthy to take his place. Consider this the final test—to determine who, among you, is truly deserving of Ithaca's throne."

A murmur ran through the suitors, their frustration giving way to excitement at the prospect of a resolution.

Antinous, along with several others, nodded in agreement, finally placated by her words.

Slowly, the suitors began to disperse, their drunken grumbling fading as they made their way out of the hall, satisfied for the time being. The tension in the room began to ease, the oppressive weight lifting as the crowd thinned.

Penelope let out a long, quiet sigh, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. She looked weary, the weight of the years and the evening's events heavy on her shoulders. But then she straightened, her head lifting once more, her eyes clear as they found you.

"Come, ____" she said, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm ready for bed."

As Penelope moved closer to Telemachus, she paused, her expression softening. She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek in a tender gesture. "Goodnight, my son," she whispered, her voice filled with warmth and love.

Telemachus leaned into her touch for a brief moment, his eyes closing as he nodded. "Goodnight, Mother," he replied softly.

Penelope then turned her gaze to Odysseus, her expression guarded but polite. She gave him a nod, her voice carrying a hint of formality. "May you rest well, Aethon."

Odysseus bowed his head slightly, his eyes holding hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Thank you, my lady."

With that, Penelope turned on her heel, her steps graceful as she made her way out of the hall.

Telemachus gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer. You gave him a small, reassuring smile, bowing your head slightly.

"Goodnight, Prince Telemachus," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, his lips curving into a soft smile. "Goodnight, ____" he replied.

With a final glance at both the prince and the disguised king, you turned and hurried after Penelope, your footsteps quiet against the stone floor.

The hall behind you grew silent, the echoes of the evening's events lingering in the air.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The contest would begin, and with it, the fate of Ithaca would be decided.

A/N: if y'all can't tell i'm shamlessly plugging in my wish of finding a boyfriend through telemachus 😩😔. also, sorry for the spammed updates, lolol i'm excited to start getting into the juicy stuff; also, to answer a question or two, no worries the gods are popping up, i'm just playing it close to gods being as a bit more removed from everyday mortal affairs, sometimes communicating through dreams, omens, or indirect interventions, rather than physically "walking among mortals" as they did in earlier myths like Perseus' or Hercules, so that's why you don't see Apollo walking down the courtyard, loll. (but i understand if this pacing is too slow 😭)

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winxanity-ii · 18 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 04 Chapter 04 | homecoming⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The light of the late afternoon sun streamed in through the small window of your room, illuminating the modest space with a soft golden glow. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, drifting in and out of the sunlight, as if time had stilled within these four walls.

The space was modest—small enough that, if you spread your arms, your fingers would nearly brush either wall. The bed was a simple cot pushed against the corner, layered with a thin blanket and a single pillow.

There wasn't much else: a rickety chair, the small dresser, and a wooden box under the bed where you kept your belongings.

It was far from luxurious, but it was yours.

You had a room to yourself, and that was more than most servants could ever dream of.

Servants usually stayed in the common quarters, sharing their space with others—no privacy, no quiet moments, so having your own room—albeit a tiny one—felt like a luxury, a place where you could gather your thoughts in peace, surrounded by familiar, if simple, comforts.

In this space, the worries of the palace faded, leaving only the gentle hum of your own heartbeat and the soft echo of music that seemed to linger even in silence.

Here, you could lay down the weight of duty, if only for a little while.

And for that, you were thankful.

You hummed softly to yourself as you prepared for the evening's performance.

Your chiton was simple—white, loose, and flowing, cinched at the waist with a thin cord. The cloth was light, airy, and allowed you to move comfortably—perfect for an evening of singing.

There was nothing grand about it, yet the purity of the white fabric gave you a sense of grace and calm.

Settling onto the stool, you picked up your lyre, letting it rest gently in your lap.

As your fingers moved deftly along each string, coaxing it back into tune, you began to oil them, the scent of olive oil filling the small room.

Suddenly, a warmth bloomed at your fingertips—a faint, tingling sensation. It was a sensation you couldn't quite place—a hum that seemed to pulse through the strings, the kind that felt almost... alive.

As you worked, the hum deepened, like a heartbeat echoing through the wood.

For a fleeting moment, the air in the room had grown thick, a hush settling over everything as if the world outside had faded, leaving only you and this ancient instrument.

Your fingertips continued to tingle, and you swear you felt a pulse beneath them, steady and calm, mirroring the beat of your own heart.

And for a fleeting moment, the sound grew in warmth, the strings shimmering faintly as they caught the light filtering through the window.

A shiver ran through you, and you stilled, watching the faint glimmer along the strings with wide eyes.

The resonance felt almost like a whisper of something familiar, a presence that had lingered since childhood—one that filled you with warmth and promise.

It felt like a quiet companionship—a steady hand guiding you forward, filling you with an inexplicable sense of safety and purpose.

A soft knock on your bedroom door pulled you from your thoughts, making you jump slightly; the room returned to its quiet normalcy in an instant.

The glow had faded, the hum of the strings softened to silence, as if the lyre had settled back into itself, leaving you to wonder if you'd only imagined it.

Setting the lyre gently on the table, you rose from the stool, smoothing down your chiton.

"Come in," you called, your voice steady despite the lingering confusion in your mind.

You couldn't help but glance back at the lyre for a brief moment, wondering at the strange warmth you'd felt, before turning your attention to the door.

The wooden door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

As the light spilled across his face, your heart skipped a beat; it was Telemachus. "My prince, you're back so soon..." you started, but your words trailed off as you noticed the strange, almost dazed expression on his face.

He stood there, framed by the light of the hallway, his expression unsteady, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He looked different—his usually composed demeanor replaced by an almost haunted look. His clothes were rumpled, his hunting cloak hanging loosely around his shoulders, as if he'd forgotten to fasten it properly.

Dust clung to his boots, and his hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching ever so slightly.

Worry tugged at your chest, and you took a hesitant step forward, your fingers hovering just above his arm. "Telemachus... Are you alright?"

At the sound of your voice, his gaze sharpened, focusing on you as though you'd just pulled him back from some distant place.

He let out a shaky breath, and you could see his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, as if he were catching up with the reality before him.

For a moment, he looked at you with eyes wide, unblinking—caught between disbelief and relief. His lips parted, and then closed again, unable to form the words.

"My father..." he whispered finally, his voice so low you could barely hear it.

Your heart stilled, your breath catching in your throat. Your mind raced, filling with the countless possibilities that lay behind those two words.

Telemachus' face twisted, as if he were caught between two worlds—one of sorrow and one of hope—and for a fleeting moment, you feared the worst.

Though you had never met King Odysseus, the stories Queen Penelope had shared of him and the drawings depicting his glory made you feel as though you knew him.

Tears stung your eyes before you could stop them, "T-Telemachus... I'm so sorry—"

But before the weight of grief could settle, Telemachus surprised you.

Instead of breaking down in tears, he reached out, his hands cupping your face with a tenderness that sent a jolt through you.

His fingers trembled against your cheeks, his palms warm and steady, but what struck you most were his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. A wild, uncontainable joy danced within them, making them look brighter, alive with an intensity that took your breath away.

Then, a smile—a raw, unfiltered grin—broke across his face, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, making the expression even more radiant and true.

"No," he breathed, his voice trembling with an awe that sent shivers down your spine. "He's alive, ____... my father... he's here." The words fell from his lips like a revelation, his voice rough, as if he hardly believed it himself.

Your mind raced, trying to process what he'd just said. You searched his face, looking for any sign of jest, but all you saw was truth—pure, shining, undeniable truth.

You rapidly blinked away your tears as a wide, disbelieving smile spread across your face. "How...? How do you know? Where is he?" The words tumbled out, your voice breaking with emotion.

Telemachus laughed softly, the sound wavering with a touch of disbelief, his eyes misting with the same overwhelming happiness you felt. "I'll explain everything, I swear, ____. But there's no time—we need to act now, and I need your help."

Without another word, he released you, slipping his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around you in one swift movement.

The fabric was thick and heavy, carrying the earthy scent of pine and the faint, lingering trace of the day's sun, mixed with the warm, familiar scent of him—a hint of cedar and a faint musk, the unmistakable scent you'd come to associate with his presence.

It fell around you like a shield, warm and protective, and he gently tugged it closer around your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your arms.

"Come with me," he urged, his voice a soft command, filled with a mix of urgency and something else—a quiet, unspoken trust.

The look he gave you was steady, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that moment, you understood: Whatever lay ahead, he wanted you by his side.

He bustled you out of the room, keeping you close as he led you through the dim corridors, his steps swift but cautious, his hand hovering just above your back.

The two of you always stayed to the shadows, avoiding the eyes of others.

You could feel his fingers brush against you whenever you faltered, grounding you, guiding you through the dark.

Every so often, you glanced over, catching the tight line of his jaw, the way his eyes darted to every corner, his shoulders tense beneath the weight of everything he now knew.

Your heart pounded, questions swirling in your mind, but you kept your silence, understanding that patience was key.

At last, the two of you slipped through a side door, stepping into the cool evening air; the castle seemed to grow quieter as you moved further away from the central halls.

The sound of livestock and the earthy scent of hay thickened as you approached the swineherd's hut—Eumaeus' humble dwelling.

The ground beneath your feet turned to packed dirt, the rich smell of hay and animals mixing into the air.

The hut was far from the castle, a place that seemed almost forgotten, where the night's darkness wrapped around you both like a cloak.

You tugged gently on Telemachus's arm, and he paused, leaning down to catch your whispered words. "Telemachus, dinner will start soon..." you murmured, your voice laced with concern.

He gave you a reassuring nod, a small smile touching his lips. "Don't worry," he whispered back. He turned towards the door, giving a peculiar knock—three sharp raps followed by two softer ones.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Telemachus ushered you inside, his hand resting briefly on your back as he guided you into the dim space.

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

The interior was humble, the flickering orange glow of a small hearth barely illuminating the walls. The smell of livestock—hay and the musky scent of pigs—lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke.

You looked around, taking in the rough-hewn furniture, the clay pots along one wall, and the woven blankets thrown across a worn bench. It was a simple space, but there was warmth here, a sense of comfort that spoke of long years of loyalty and care.

Your gaze shifted, and you stopped when your eyes landed on two figures standing a bit further back.

You blinked, recognizing one of them as Eumaeus. You gave the swineherd a sweet smile in greeting before your eyes strayed to the unknown man, standing behind Eumaeus, his form shadowed and hunched.

Eumaeus responded with a fond smile before walking over to Telemachus, giving him a knowing grin, his tone teasing. "So, you're off to get help, and of course, it's her you bring," he said, chuckling as he patted Telemachus on the shoulder.

Telemachus shrugged, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he returned Eumaeus's smile with a shy grin. Eumaeus added, "Well, you did say you'd go get the best option around, didn't you?" with a teasing lilt, making Telemachus' ears redden slightly.

But your eyes stayed fixed on the other figure.

He looked old, his clothing tattered and dirty, the lines on his face etched deep by years of hardship.

He held himself like a beggar, but there was something else in his eyes—a glint, a sharpness beneath the surface.

As you stared at him, you saw the flicker of something familiar—an underlying wit and mischief that tugged at the corners of your mind.

Telemachus stepped next to you, his voice gentle. "____, this is—"

Before he could finish, you stepped forward, bowing deeply before the man. "King Odysseus," you said, your voice steady, a hint of reverence beneath it. "It's a true honor to be in your presence. Queen Penelope has spoken of you often. To finally meet you is a joy I cannot express."

As you rose, a soft smile graced your lips—warm, sincere, with a hint of knowing.

Telemachus turned to you, his brows furrowed in amazement. "But... how did you...?" he asked, incredulous. "He looks nothing like my father—he's disguised!"

You gave a soft laugh, casting a gentle look from Telemachus to Odysseus. "True," you said, your eyes twinkling with mirth, "but no disguise can hide the soul. You both share the same mischievous eyes, the same spark that no cloak or dirt could ever conceal." You turned your gaze back to the man, and a wide grin spread across his face.

Odysseus chuckled, the sound deep and approving, his eyes crinkling as he watched you with newfound respect. "Bright girl," he murmured, his voice rich with admiration, before turning to his son. "You picked well, Telemachus," he added, his tone carrying a hidden meaning that made the prince flush, though a smile spread across his lips.

The lines on Odysseus' face softened as he gazed at his son—a glimmer of pride, a silent acknowledgment of the bond between them, as if he saw something of himself in Telemachus reflected back.

Odysseus' face then shifted, the warmth in his gaze dimming as his face hardened. Lines carved by years of war and hardship deepened, casting shadows over his stern features. He straightened, rising to his full height, and for a moment, it felt as though he filled the entire room.

The faint firelight flickered against his face, casting him in sharp relief, illuminating the fierce, hawk-like gaze that held each of you captive.

His presence was undeniable, almost overwhelming—a commanding energy that seemed to radiate from him, rippling through the room like a gathering storm.

Despite the humble rags draped over his shoulders, there was nothing of the beggar about him now; he stood like a king, his bearing more regal than the finest robes could ever convey.

He got straight to business, reexplaining what he had told Telemachus—his troubles, his arduous journey back, and the suitors that plagued Ithaca.

As he spoke, his voice was low but unyielding, every word imbued with a simmering fury that was barely restrained, like embers waiting to ignite.

He spoke of the suitors' disrespect, his jaw clenched as he described their mockery of his home and family. His fists tightened, and you could see the faint tremor in his hands—a testament to the deep, barely contained wrath within him.

It was a silent promise, an unspoken warning that whatever mercy he might have once shown had been long spent.

"These men—these pretenders—desecrate my halls, mock my family. They think themselves safe, sheltered by my absence..." he said, his voice rising before he stilled, inhaling deeply; the air seemed to grow colder as he clenched his fists, the tendons flexing beneath his weathered skin. "But they will learn," he continued, his tone edged with steel, "that no man defies Odysseus and walks away unscathed."

Eumaeus and Telemachus exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting to mirror the intensity that radiated from Odysseus.

You could see the tension in Telemachus' posture, a mix of pride and anticipation flickering in his gaze as he watched his father, fully understanding the force about to be unleashed.

It was as if, in this moment, Odysseus' years of suffering had crystallized into a single, unbreakable resolve, his very presence a testament to his unyielding will.

Then his gaze shifted, softening as it settled on you, Eumaeus, and Telemachus—a quiet resolve in his eyes that held both respect and a trace of weariness. "But with you—the few servants and handmaidens who have not betrayed Ithaca... we might have a chance," he continued, his voice steady, softened with a gratitude that flickered beneath the tension etched in his features.

You blinked, momentarily bewildered, the word hanging in your mind. "Betrayed?"

Odysseus's eyes snapped toward his son. Telemachus stilled, his shoulders tensing before he sighed and turned to you. "The others... the handmaidens... they weren't just fooling around with the suitors. They were trading secrets, leaking information, undermining us."

A chill settled over you as the weight of his words sank in.

Suddenly, the betrayal felt closer, sharper.

Faces you'd trusted flashed through your mind, but none stood out more painfully than Cleo's—the friend you thought had been as loyal as you were.

The realization struck you like a blow—the loss of her loyalty an ache you hadn't anticipated.

Her smiling face flashed before your eyes. You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories. "Cleo... what have you done..." you murmured mournfully, your voice breaking.

Odysseus' gaze softened for a moment, understanding glimmering in his eyes, but his voice remained steady, resolute. "Greed, lust, ambition—they cloud judgment and poison loyalty," he said. "Such betrayal will be answered. But right now, we must focus on what lies ahead: reclaiming our home."

Nodding, you steeled yourself, your shoulders squaring with determination. Odysseus gave a curt nod, pleased, and continued, outlining the plan and what would happen next.

☆

Telemachus swiftly led you back to your room, his hand still holding yours firmly, the warmth of his grasp grounding you through the turmoil of emotions.

Outside your door, he looked both ways cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows before turning back to you.

"Just stick to the plan, everything will be fine," he whispered, his voice soft, almost a plea, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze; he still hadn't let go as if reluctant to release you.

You breathed out slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Okay," you whispered back, staring up at him.

The hood of the cloak swallowed your features, almost entirely hiding your face. It was only then that you remembered you were still wearing it.

You glanced down at the heavy fabric and whispered, "Your cloak..."

You began to move, reaching to take it off, but Telemachus quickly stopped you, his hands gently hovering over your own. "No need," he smiled, his eyes kind, lingering on you for a moment longer before he hurried off, the echo of his footsteps fading into the dim hallway.

With a soft sigh, you pushed open the door, stepping back into the small solace of your room.

You moved towards the window, staring out at the night sky. The stars were beginning to twinkle, scattered like tiny diamonds across a velvet expanse.

The cool evening air drifted through the cracks, and you breathed it in, letting it calm your nerves.

You knew dinner was just around the bend, and you quickly moved to finish getting ready.

Shedding Telemachus' cloak, you folded it neatly and set it on the bed. You reached for your lyre, giving the strings one last careful tuning, listening for the perfect resonance.

Then you knelt before the bed, pulling out a small clay box.

Inside was the golden laurel leaf—a gift from years ago. It glistened in the dim light, shimmering just as it had back then, a symbol of your devotion.

You carefully set the wreath upon your head, feeling the weight settle in place, completing the look. Just as you adjusted it, there was a knock at your door.

Startled, you quickly pushed the box back under the bed, smoothing out your clothes before moving to open the door.

It was Cleo, her familiar smile greeting you as she peered in. "Dinner is almost ready," she said, her tone cheerful, "and your area is set up for you to begin playing."

You gave her a small nod, the corners of your lips lifting. "Give me a moment," you replied, turning to fetch your lyre.

As the two of you walked towards the dining hall, you fought to keep your face calm, your lips from trembling, your eyes from welling up with tears.

Every step felt like a battle—the kind that raged silently inside, tearing at your heart and leaving you gasping for strength.

There was so much you wanted to say—to scream at her, to demand answers. The betrayal twisted deep in your chest, tearing at your resolve.

Cleo was your first friend after becoming Queen Penelope's handmaiden.

You remembered her taking you under her wing, showing you the ropes, sharing quiet moments of laughter in the kitchens, late nights spent talking until your eyes grew heavy.

She was the one who had comforted you through your fears, celebrated your small victories.

To find out that she had betrayed Ithaca—it was worse than you could ever imagine. The memories flooded you as you walked, each one twisting the knife deeper.

You clenched your jaw, forcing a neutral smile, fighting the growing storm inside you.

The hallway seemed endless, the echoes of your footsteps a steady reminder of the façade you had to maintain, even when it felt like you were shattering inside.

Soon, the dining halls came into view, the dim lighting growing brighter as the torches along the walls flickered. The air filled with the low murmur of muffled conversations, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

As you approached the doors, your steps slowed.

Cleo let out an excited gasp, clutching your arm. "Look," she whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. She nodded towards the cracked door.

Through the narrow gap, you could see the lavish feast already underway.

The grand table was laden with extravagant food—platters piled high with roasted meats, bowls brimming with ripe fruits, flagons of wine that shimmered in the torchlight. Honey-drizzled bread, golden and steaming, lay in abundance, filling the air with a warm, rich scent.

At the table sat the suitors, loud and boisterous, their voices raised in merriment, laughter echoing off the high ceilings as they drank and talked without restraint.

Cleo pointed to the center of the table, her gaze brightening as it landed on a striking figure. "That's Antinous," she said, her voice hushed but filled with admiration. "Son of Eupeithes. Isn't he handsome?" She sighed dreamily. "He's from a powerful house. He could have anything he wants."

Antinous' blond hair gleamed under the torchlight, his piercing blue eyes commanding attention even amidst the chaos. His rugged handsomeness was undeniable, but there was an arrogance about him—a smugness that twisted his expression as he spoke, gesturing grandly to those around him.

You gave a disinterested hum, your eyes trailing from the group of men to the far end of the table.

There, alone amidst the noise, sat Penelope. Her head was bowed, her gaze downcast, her posture tired.

She looked as if the weight of all the years had finally settled on her shoulders, her only company, a simple bowl of broth set before her.

You leaned towards Cleo, your voice barely a whisper. "I think I'll go ahead and start playing."

Cleo turned to you, her brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure? You usually warm up?"

You shook your head, a small, strained smile tugging at your lips. "I'm fine," you said softly.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door fully and walked inside.

The atmosphere shifted as the door creaked, the suitors' raucous voices faltering, several heads turning your way.

Penelope looked up, her eyes meeting yours, and for a brief moment, a smile of relief crossed her face, her shoulders seeming to lose some of their tension.

You made your way towards the cushioned seat set a few feet before the table, your lyre clutched close to your chest.

As you moved, your eyes discreetly scanned the room, searching for Telemachus.

But despite your hope, he was nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh, you began playing the Queen's favorite song.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way.

Till shadows fade and dawn returns, I'll wait where echoes stray."

As the soft melody filled the room, moonbeams from a nearby window bathed down on you, the soft silver light reflecting off your white garments, making them shimmer ethereally.

During the day, you soaked in the sun's favor, the golden beams warming your skin, and now at night, it seemed the moon offered you the same devotion, casting a glow that seemed almost unfair.

You swayed gently as you played, your eyes closed, your fingers expertly plucking the lyre's strings with a grace that spoke of years of practice and devotion.

Penelope sat with her eyes closed, her hands clutched to her chest, a single tear escaping down her cheek.

Even the suitors, loud and arrogant just moments before, had fallen silent, captivated by your voice and the haunting melody.

As you strummed the last note, the final echoes of your song fading into the stillness, a silence hung over the hall.

It remained until Antinous broke it, clapping loudly. "Bravo!" he called, his voice echoing, and the rest of the suitors immediately joined in, their applause filling the room.

From across the hall, Antinous stared at you, his gaze lingering, his eyes piercing through the distance. It made you shift uncomfortably, the intensity of his attention unsettling.

He flashed you a smile, the kind meant to charm, and spoke in a loud, confident voice. "Your voice is extraordinary. I wish we had such talented singers back home."

You forced a polite smile, your head dipping slightly in thanks.

Not a moment later, the double doors pushed open, and in walked Telemachus, followed closely by a man cloaked in rags—Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar.

The room fell into hushed murmurs, the air thick with confusion and curiosity.

Antinous was the first to react, rising from his seat, his gaze narrowing on the two figures as he crossed his arms arrogantly over his chest.

"Telemachus," he began, his voice dripping with a mix of mockery and irritation, "who is this you've brought to our feast? Another beggar to entertain us?" He gestured dismissively towards Odysseus, his lips twisting into a sneer. "I thought the castle had already enough mouths to feed, or perhaps you're running out of servants and need the charity of beggars now?"

The other suitors erupted into laughter, their cruel voices echoing off the stone walls, jeering at the sight of Odysseus. Some called out taunts, others shook their heads in disdain, whispering amongst themselves about the audacity of Telemachus to bring such a figure before them.

Telemachus stood tall, though his jaw tightened at their ridicule. He opened his mouth to speak, but Penelope beat him to it.

She rose from her seat, her gaze cutting sharply towards Antinous, her voice carrying a strength that commanded silence. "Enough," she said, her tone polite but leaving no room for argument. "He is our guest, and as such, he deserves respect."

She looked to Odysseus, her expression softening, though there was no recognition in her eyes. "Please, stay for dinner and enjoy a beautiful show. You are welcome here, traveler." Her words were measured, her smile gentle but tinged with weariness.

Odysseus' gaze lingered on Penelope, his eyes softening at the sight of her, a longing flickering across his face that he quickly masked with a humble bow of his head. "You honor me, my lady," he replied, his voice rough with a practiced humility. "I shall accept your hospitality gratefully."

Penelope nodded, her eyes shifting to Telemachus, offering him a small, reassuring smile before sitting back down, her fingers once more wrapping around her untouched bowl of broth.

Odysseus moved to the side, his eyes watching the suitors with a careful gaze, observing the men who had taken over his hall, violated the sanctity of his home, and pushed his family to the brink.

The tension was palpable, a quiet storm brewing under his composed exterior, his resolve only solidified by the disdain thrown his way.

Antinous called out suddenly, his voice dripping with derision. "Servant girl! Play us another tune, something a bit jollier!" His command was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the hall.

For the first time in a long while, you saw the Queen's face marred by anger. A scowl darkened Penelope's features, her eyes narrowing as she snapped, "Don't you dare order her around." Her voice carried a chilling edge, a fierce protectiveness that hushed the room instantly. "She will play what I deem fit." Her gaze locked with Antinous', daring him to challenge her authority.

The room tilted into a tense silence.

Telemachus sat by her side, his face betraying a small flicker of sadness. He watched his mother, seeing the strain in her eyes—the fight she had been holding for far too long.

The suitors, who had grown accustomed to Penelope's patient endurance, were visibly taken aback by her outburst. For years she had kept her emotions under a tight lock, never allowing a crack in her composure.

Your voice broke the silence, soft and gentle. "My Queen... would you like for me to play your song again?"

Penelope turned to you, her expression softening, a warmth returning to her eyes. "Yes, dear, please..." she whispered, her lips curving into a grateful smile.

Once again, your voice filled the dining hall, the haunting melody echoing from the lyre's strings.

As you sang, Odysseus' eyes were fixed on you, his expression one of awe. The sound of your voice stirred something deep within him, the notes wrapping around his heart, cracking the walls he had built.

He felt his chest tighten, realizing with a pang of bittersweet sorrow that the song was an ode to him, a reflection of Penelope's undying love.

It made his longing to set things right grow more urgent, more determined.

As the final note lingered in the air, fading into the hushed silence of the room, Penelope waved you over, her hand lifting gently. To your surprise, she said, "You may take a short break, dear."

You froze for a moment in shock, your eyes darting up to meet Telemachus'. He gave you an encouraging nod, a supportive smile on his lips.

Slowly, your own lips twitched up into a smile, and you bowed your head in thanks. "Thank you, my Queen," you murmured, preparing to step back and head towards where the other servants ate.

But before you could move, Penelope's hand gently grasped your arm, her touch soft yet insistent. "Stay," she said, "eat here tonight."

You stilled, your heart fluttering in both nervousness and an unexpected warmth. Your eyes flickered towards Telemachus again, and his smile only widened, nodding once more in encouragement.

You smiled back, bowing your head slightly before agreeing, "As you wish, my Queen."

Before you could find a seat, Telemachus was already on his feet. He moved swiftly, fetching a chair and placing it beside Penelope, ensuring you had a place at her side.

You whispered your thanks as he pushed the chair forward for you, a sense of gratitude swelling in your chest as you took your seat, the warmth of their kindness enveloping you amidst the otherwise hostile room.

After a few minutes of peaceful eating, Antinous burst into the conversation, his voice rough as he drank deeply from a large goblet of wine. "Telemachus," he called out, irritation clear in his tone, "are you going to tell us who's this beggar you've brought among us?" He sat arrogantly at the head of the long table—Odysseus' rightful seat—before standing slowly, each step deliberate as he strolled down the length of the table towards them.

Odysseus bowed his head slightly, speaking up in a humble tone. "I am Aethon, from Crete," he said, his voice steady despite the eyes on him. "I am merely traveling through, looking for a place to rest and fill my belly for the night."

Antinous stopped in front of him, a scoff escaping his lips as he looked Odysseus up and down, his eyes filled with disdain. "A beggar indeed," he sneered. "Look at you—filthy, ragged. Ithaca should be above sheltering such wretches." He shook his head, his voice laced with contempt.

You clenched your jaw, suppressing the scowl that threatened to mar your face, feeling the bubbling anger rise. Not only was he speaking to your King—whether he knew it or not—but his actions went against xenia, the sacred rule of hospitality.

It churned your stomach, the blatant disrespect cutting deeply.

Odysseus, however, did not waver. He met Antinous' gaze evenly, a small smile playing at his lips. "It is true," he replied, his tone calm, almost serene. "I may be in rags, and my journey long, but those who forget the value of hospitality, who dishonor their guests—well, they may one day find themselves in need, and then what kindness will be shown to them?"

Antinous' face flushed, the suitors around him shifting awkwardly at the rebuke. The room tensed further, the silence thickening as the arrogance on Antinous' face twisted in irritation.

The pressure had been building for weeks.

Penelope's steadfast refusal to choose among the suitors, Telemachus' bold return, and now the appearance of yet another beggar—these affronts piled on top of each other, pushing Antinous further than ever.

It wasn't just Odysseus' words, but the culmination of the disrespect he felt as Penelope continued to defy them.

Instead of apologizing, instead of righting his wrong, Antinous' hand moved swiftly, striking Odysseus across the face.

A collective gasp echoed in the room.

You flinched, your hand flying to your mouth, horror widening your eyes.

Penelope's face blanched, her hands tightening around her bowl as she tried to mask her shock.

Telemachus looked ready to leap from his seat; his body tensed like a coiled spring, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes flashed with anger, the strain of holding himself back clear in every line of his posture.

The fire in Odysseus' chest, tempered for years, flickered, and he smiled inwardly, knowing that soon it would blaze.

A/N: ahhh, i'm so happy you guys are enjoying the story so far; i know i tend to be slow with the plot/pacing at the start with most (lol all, i'm a fucking liar), but i promise when the ball starts rolling, it'll be fast. all i can say for now is enjoy these peaceful moments while they're here...😭

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winxanity-ii · 18 days ago

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I find myself getting inspired by the weirdest things; why did I just get motivation for a chapter after seeing my cat carry a sock across the room????

#xani-speaks #WTF #let me go write this fic #random #i swear it be the simpilest stuff lolol #when i wanna write i never can #but here i go writing out of nowhere

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winxanity-ii · 19 days ago

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FOXED IN [1/2]

ship: fem!fennec fox!reader x various!beastar warnings: non-explicit ( maybe cursing/profanity; sorry y'all I gotta loose mouth) word count: 1.7k a/n: heheh, I got back into beastars so idk might dabble with this more in a full fic way, we'll see I got so many running in my head 🤣😩

★·.·´🇧‌🇪‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇦‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The summer sun was hot as it shone down, beating relentlessly on the over-crowded public pool.

You sucked your teeth in annoyance, shifting on the edge of the pool where you'd been perched for what felt like an eternity.

Kids ran wild, yelling and splashing without a care, their tiny feet pounding on the slick concrete, almost slipping every time they turned a corner too sharply.

You couldn't help but flinch each time one of them ran too close, kicking up water that sprayed in your direction.

The constant nudging and the unending splashes were starting to grate on your patience.

You felt droplets of water continuously flicked onto your legs, each one colder than the last, and it took everything in you to not growl under your breath.

You were here because you'd bitten your tongue earlier and agreed to babysit your niece and nephews while your sister went grocery shopping. Free of charge, might you add.

It wasn't even that she asked nicely—it was more like you felt the weight of her tired eyes and the desperation in her voice, and before you knew it, you found yourself nodding and watching her rush out the door.

The one thing that made it bearable was the promise of her buying your little snack list as payment, but the longer you sat there, the more those snacks seemed not worth it.

The sound of another big splash brought you back to the present, a wave of water washing up over your legs, some of it splattering onto your shorts.

You sucked your teeth again, this time louder, and decided you'd had enough.

"Yup, I'm about to dip," you muttered to yourself, pushing off the pool's edge.

You weaved your way toward the crowded pool chairs, squeezing through the narrow paths between towels and bags until you made it to your family's little space.

Your aunt was watching from under an oversized sun hat, and one of your nieces sat beside her, eyes glued to your phone screen as some YouTube video blared.

"Hey, sweetheart, can you hand Tee-Tee her phone real quick?" you called out, trying to keep your voice as gentle as possible despite your growing irritation.

The little girl looked up, blinking at you, and then obediently handed the phone over.

You smiled at her, genuinely happy she listened.

She was one of the good ones, you thought sourly, the kind of kid that didn't make you want to rip your hair out. If it had been any of the others, they probably would've thrown the phone into the pool in a fit of rage.

With the phone in hand, you quickly shot off a message to your sister:

𝐋𝐈𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐒 Sorry, too many kids around, my ass is starting to itch. Deuces.

You didn't even bother waiting to see if she'd read it. Whatever she had to say, it could wait until you were far, far away from the chlorine and chaos.

Pocketing your phone, you told your aunt and niece bye, promising you'd see them tomorrow for family dinner.

Your aunt waved you off absentmindedly, ogling at some shiftless, buff lifeguard on duty through her binoculars; from where she got them, you had no fucking clue.

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your stuff, and began making your way out.

A moment later, you were nudged by a running kid, and you nearly fell into the pool but caught yourself just in time.

You called after the child, "Slow the hell down, you fucking crotch goblin!" huffing before turning back to leave, only to slip on someone's wet croc and fall backward into the pool.

The cold water hit you like a slap. For a second, everything was a blur of chlorine and light refracting through the surface.

But what should have been a normal kick and push back up to the surface was delayed, not only by the overcrowded surface but by your waterlogged bag tugging you down, dragging you deeper.

You opened your eyes underwater, the sharp sting of chlorine burning them instantly. Panic set in as you struggled to pull off your bag, your arms flailing in the heavy water.

Your lungs burned, screaming for air, and you kicked harder, almost breaking the surface, almost tasting the chlorine-soaked air.

But the chaos above—the kicking legs, the waves—pushed you back down, the pressure growing in your chest.

The muffled shouts and splashes from above seemed distant, distorted by the water, like you were in some other dimension entirely.

The pressure on your chest grew, the heavy weight of your bag pulling you deeper, and you kicked harder, desperate to reach the surface.

But no matter how hard you fought, the surface seemed just out of reach—so close, yet the world above felt like it was slipping away.

The chlorine-soaked water filled your senses, sharp and chemically, burning the back of your throat as panic set in. You thrashed, trying to tear off your bag, your arms sluggish and heavy.

And just when your vision began to blur with darkness, something changed.

The water's cold grip vanished.

Your lungs didn't burn. The pressure in your chest evaporated.

You blinked...

... and opened your eyes.

The light came back.

The sound, taste, smell, and touch—it all came back.

The sound hit you first—not muffled and distorted anymore, but sharp and loud. The blare of honking horns, the distant buzz of conversations, the whoosh of a passing bus.

Your eyes adjusted to a new scene, sunlight flickering through tall buildings instead of the pool's glistening surface.

You were on the curb, your body pressed against warm pavement that was a far cry from the frigid pool water.

The smell of chlorine had been replaced with something foreign—a mix of gasoline, hot asphalt, and street food.

Your damp skin clung uncomfortably to the fabric of your clothes, but it wasn't the soggy, heavy sensation of being underwater.

It was just... hot. Sweaty. Real.

You blinked again, trying to take everything in—the movement, the noise, the overwhelming presence of this place.

A yellow cab zipped by, honking loudly at a pedestrian. Your head jerked back, face scrunching up in confusion.

A cab?

The air here was different too—thick with city smells, far from the sharp, sterile bite of chlorine.

The ground beneath you wasn't cool and slick like the pool's edge; it was rough, heated by the sun, and every nerve in your body screamed that something was wrong.

Your eyes scanned the scene around you. The towering buildings, the bustling people, the blur of colors as everyone moved with purpose.

Okay... this is definitely not the pool.

A strange sinking feeling began settling in your stomach.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you like that, didn't see you there, haha!" a voice cut through your thoughts.

You looked up, your eyes focusing on the person in front of you—a blond boy, maybe in his late teens. He had warm, honey-brown eyes that seemed to glint playfully in the sunlight, and honestly, he was kind of cute.

The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled made him look approachable, even charming.

But what made you falter were the two fluffy ears on top of his head—golden Labrador ears.

He was dressed in casual clothing and spoke with a friendly smile, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

You stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what you were seeing.

At first, your instinct was to put as much distance between you and the strange hybrid Labrador in front of you as quickly as possible. But you hesitated, not wanting to make a scene.

Your mind raced, trying to calculate if you could get away without drawing attention—maybe find the nearest phone booth and dial up the US' Area 51 unit or something.

Instead, you gave—what you hoped—was a sweet smile, saying, "No worries, I'm fine." All those years laboring away as a server had finally paid off in moments like this.

It seemed to work because the Labrador's tail began wagging happily from side to side, his whole demeanor brightening. "Oh man, I'm so glad you're okay! You really took quite the tumble there," he said with a nervous chuckle. "Here, let me help you up," he added, reaching out a hand.

Before you could even decline, the dog-boy easily picked you up, cradling you in one arm like you weighed nothing.

Wait...

Horror struck you as you realized just how small you were compared to the hybrid-man.

You were nearly three times smaller than him. His arm felt like a steel beam against your back, and his strength was undeniable, his tail wagging all the while.

The man's golden Labrador ears fell slightly, his tail going still as he noticed your horrified expression at being picked up.

He hastily apologized, setting you down as gently as possible, his face flushed. "Oh geez, I'm really sorry about that. It's just—second nature, you know? My roommate's a fennec fox, and he's always needing a hand," he rambled, clearly nervous.

His words were abruptly cut off when you heard someone call out, "____!"

Your ears twitched, and your head swiveled towards the sound. The voice was a bit deep, carrying a warmth.

Before you knew it, a small tan figure dashed over and crashed into you in a tight hug. The impact almost knocked the breath out of you, but the boy's jolly laughter softened the surprise.

"I missed you so much, cuz! I can't believe you finally transferred to Cherryton!" he exclaimed, excitement radiating off of him.

When he pulled back, you took in the sight of a cute, tan boy. He had dark, curly hair, and his crooked teeth were visible as he smiled broadly. On top of his head were two large light brown ears, twitching slightly.

You blinked, staring at him, unsure how to react.

Then, your gaze drifted over his shoulder, taking in the numerous human-animal hybrids walking around as if everything was normal.

Slowly, your eyes lowered to your own figure, and you finally noticed—felt—a small, rhythmic thump against the back of your upper thighs.

Turning your head slightly, you saw a small black tail.

What the fuck...

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