winxanity-ii

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | a mortal's perception⌟

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The days passed.

Each night, you found yourself returning.

It was not deliberate at first. Or so you told yourself.

You arrived out of curiosity, nothing more—a desire to observe, to understand why Telemachus continued to defy his fate. Yet each time you stepped into his subconscious, you stayed longer than you should have.

It was a dangerous habit.

Not because of what you were doing—what you were doing was beyond consequence—but because of what you began to feel.

It started subtly.

A pause too long when he spoke. A flicker of something nameless when he laughed. A sensation in your chest when he looked at you—like you were being perceived in a way you never had been before.

And worst of all—you began to see the world through his eyes.

Through the eyes of a mortal.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Tonight, you sat in a field of flowers. A dream of his own making, untouched by your influence.

The petals swayed gently in the breeze, the scent of earth and bloom thick in the air. The sky stretched wide and endless above you, painted in twilight hues that did not belong to any real place.

Telemachus was speaking.

"My mother used to tell me stories about the Fates," he said, idly plucking at the grass beside him.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he hummed, "she told me that you were three. Three sisters, bound together, one young, one middle-aged, one old."

You froze.

Then, slowly, you scowled. "Old?"

Telemachus grinned at your tone, his amusement poorly hidden. "Old."

"Of course mortals would imagine it like that," you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "It's always the same. The young one spins the thread, the middle one measures it, and the old one cuts it. As if we are nothing but symbols. As if we age."

Telemachus chuckled. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

You folded your arms. "Does it?"

"Of course." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "Creation, life, and death. Three aspects of existence. The cycle of time. It's only natural for mortals to see you that way."

"Mortals see many things incorrectly."

"Then tell me how it really is."

You paused.

It was a simple request, yet the answer wasn't something you'd ever put into words.

"We do not have forms," you said at last. "Not truly. We are as we are perceived. We are as mortals believe us to be."

Telemachus brows furrowed, his gaze turning inward, as if turning over something heavy in his mind.

Then, softly, he asked—

"Then how come you're not old?"

You blinked.

The words hit you strangely—like something important that you had somehow overlooked.

Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet.

You materialized a pond nearby, a reflective surface rippling into existence at the edge of the field.

Stepping forward, you gazed into the water.

And then—

"Oh."

You hadn't seen this form in... ages.

You hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't questioned it.

Yet here you stood, staring at a reflection you almost didn't recognize.

Not the faceless void of inevitability.

Not the shadowed silhouette of something distant and unknowable.

But you.

A figure that was neither ancient nor unshaped, neither an old crone nor a shifting wisp of existence.

A form shaped not by time, but by perception.

By his perception.

You stared at your reflection, feeling something unfamiliar coil in your chest.

You pulled away from the water, turning sharply to face Telemachus.

"Why?"

The question left your lips before you could think to hold it back.

Telemachus, still seated amidst the flowers, tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet curiosity.

"Why would you see me like this?" you pressed, gesturing vaguely toward your reflection. "You grew up hearing the same stories as all mortals. If you were raised to believe the Fates were three—if you were told I should be old—why am I not?"

Telemachus didn't answer right away.

He looked at you for a long moment, gaze slow and considering. Then, with a thoughtful hum, he shifted his weight, stretching his legs out before him as he leaned back on his hands.

"Maybe," he mused, "it's because I saw you."

"You... saw me."

"Yes." His lips quirked, though there was no humor in it. "That night, when I nearly drowned. When I thought I had died. That was the form I saw."

He paused, gaze flickering upward toward the sky, as if tracing the memory in his mind.

"Maybe," he said at last, "because it wasn't my time, I saw your true form."

You considered that.

It was an acceptable answer. A logical one.

You hummed softly. "I suppose that makes sense."

Telemachus smiled slightly. "I'm glad you approve."

His teasing tone should have been irritating, but you let it pass without comment.

Instead, you settled back down into the grass, your gaze drifting across the field—the way the wind danced across the petals, the way the light caught in Telemachus' hair.

For a moment, you sat in silence.

Then, you asked your own question.

"I showed you your true fate," you said quietly. "I saw the way you died. And yet, when you thought it was happening... you were at peace."

Telemachus stilled.

His expression didn't shift immediately, but you saw it—

The way his breath slowed.

The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against the grass.

The way his gaze drifted, not to you, but to something far away, something long buried.

He said nothing at first.

Then, finally—

"When I was young," he began, voice lower now, softer, "when the suitors were at their worst, I would sleep in my mother's chambers."

He didn't look at you as he spoke.

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his voice steady, but there was something beneath it—something raw, something old, something carefully placed in the farthest corners of his mind.

"She would hold me against her chest," he continued, "and remind me of my father."

A breath.

"She would tell me stories of his cunning, his victories, his journey home. She would whisper to me that he would return, that he would set things right. That I just had to wait."

His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed.

"I believed her. Because I was a child, and children believe their mothers."

The wind shifted through the flowers.

"But he didn't come home."

There was no anger in the words.

No bitterness.

Just quiet resignation.

"Not for years," he said. "And in those years, I was not strong enough. Not clever enough. Not enough."

His hand pressed against his knee, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his tunic.

"I couldn't chase the suitors away. I couldn't protect her. I could do nothing except wait."

He exhaled, slow and tired.

"So I suppose that's why."

Finally, finally, he looked at you.

His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a weight you couldn't name.

A weight you'd never felt.

His lips twitched—not in a smile, not in amusement, but in something else. Something... sad.

"Because when I thought I was dying," he said quietly, "it finally meant that waiting was over."

You said nothing.

Because for the first time in your existence—

You didn't know what to say.

You lingered for only a moment.

Slowly, you regained your bearings, straightening your posture, gathering your thoughts.

Then, you stood.

"I will see you tomorrow night."

The words left your lips before you could question them. Before you could decide otherwise.

Telemachus simply watched as you turned, your cloak sweeping behind you, the edges of his dream already dissolving into mist.

You felt his gaze on your back, steady and unmoving.

But you didn't turn back.

The last thing you saw before stepping away was the flicker of flowers swaying in the dream's fading wind.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

You returned home, but your mind didn't. You thought of the mortal boy.

Of the way his voice had shifted when he spoke of his mother.

Of the quiet way he had accepted his own death—not as a tragedy, not as a fear, but as something inevitable. Something welcome.

You'd existed for as long as time itself. You'd seen the passing of kings and beggars alike. You'd watched great empires crumble, had listened to the dying wails of men whose names were lost to history.

But never had you heard that.

Never had you heard a mortal accept death not because he had no choice—but because he no longer wished to wait for life to give him one.

Your thoughts trailed off.

A strange, restless sensation coiled beneath your skin.

Before you could fully name it, your hand reached up, fingers pressing against your chest—against the hollow space where a heart should beat.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but silence.

"Sister?"

The voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and immediate.

You exhaled, dropping your hand, schooling your expression into something neutral before turning to face the approaching figure.

☆

☆

High above the mortal world, Olympus stood bathed in golden light, its marble halls untouched by time, its sky ever stretched in hues of endless blue.

On the grand balcony of his palace, Zeus lounged with his usual arrogance, a cup of ambrosia in one hand, the other draped lazily around the shoulders of a nymph who had been hanging onto his every word.

Or rather, she had been.

Until the air grew cold.

The shift was immediate. The soft hum of conversation faded, the golden warmth of the chamber seemed to dim, and an unnatural chill curled at the edges of the room.

Then—

"You waste your time, brother."

A deep, measured voice.

The nymph gasped, eyes wide, already shrinking back as a figure emerged from the shadows of the marble pillars.

Hades.

Lord of the Underworld.

His presence alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through the air. He did not belong in Olympus, nor did he visit unless absolutely necessary. He was the shadow that stood at the end of all things, the weight of eternity itself, and his very existence clashed against the golden, drunken revelry of the upper realms.

The nymph barely had time to mutter an excuse before she fled, disappearing into the palace halls without so much as a glance back.

Zeus scowled, rolling his eyes as he watched her leave. "You could have warned me before making yourself known."

"And ruin the moment?" Hades drawled, stepping forward, his black cloak trailing behind him. His presence was stark against the golden light of Olympus—where Zeus shone, Hades absorbed; where Zeus burned bright, Hades swallowed everything whole.

Zeus exhaled, clearly impatient. "What do you want?"

Hades did not immediately answer.

Instead, with a slow, practiced ease, he stepped toward the balcony's edge, staring out at the sky. For a moment, he was silent, as if considering his words.

Then—

"A soul is missing."

Zeus' expression shifted.

Gone was the laziness, the irritation.

Now, his gaze sharpened, his posture straightening ever so slightly. "Missing?" he repeated, voice low.

Hades nodded once. "It should have passed through the line of judgment days ago. Instead, it is nowhere to be found."

Zeus set his cup down. "Who?"

Hades turned, meeting his brother's gaze.

His next words were quiet, but they carried a weight that settled heavily between them.

"Telemachus of Ithaca."

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 32 Chapter 32 | of gods and beasts⌟

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As you followed Telemachus through the dense woodland, you couldn't help but glance back every so often, checking behind you, half-expecting the fox to be silently padding along in the shadows.

But each time, the path behind you was empty.

Not even a rustle. Not even a flicker of movement.

It was as if the creature had never been there at all.

"You're looking for it, aren't you?" Telemachus' voice carried over his shoulder, amusement laced in every syllable.

You whipped your head forward, quickly composing yourself. "No. Of course not. Why would I?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're imagining things."

"Right," he hummed, stepping over a fallen branch with ease. "So you're not worried that you just bonded with a creature that should've eaten you?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "It didn't eat me," you muttered, stepping around a moss-covered rock.

"Not yet," he quipped, shooting you a sideways smirk.

You groaned, picking up your pace to get ahead of him.

Eventually, the two of you broke free from the thicker part of the woods, and the first thing you noticed was the sky.

The sun had begun its descent, stretching gold and pink hues across the horizon, staining the treetops in a soft, amber glow. The light filtered through the leaves, casting long, shifting shadows along the earth as the air cooled, carrying the crisp scent of water and damp earth.

The path sloped downward, golden light spilling over the ground in warm, shifting rays. Somewhere ahead, the soft murmur of flowing water filled the air, growing clearer with each step.

The watering spot was beautiful.

A long, slow-moving river cut through the land, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon light.

A few minutes down from where you stood, the river trickled into a smaller pond, tucked into a secluded alcove where large rock formations jutted from the earth, creating a natural barrier.

A thin waterfall cascaded over one of the cliffs, feeding the pool below, the sound of rushing water mixing with the rustling of leaves.

The entire area was enclosed by towering trees, their sprawling roots twisting over the rocks and dipping into the water's edge. The light filtering through the canopy cast shifting patterns over the river's surface, giving the space a serene, almost untouched feel.

You sighed softly, feeling the tension ease from your shoulders as you took it all in.

Telemachus dropped his hand from the knife at his belt, stepping forward to inspect the riverbank. "This'll work," he murmured, nodding to himself.

Then, turning back to you, he motioned toward the pond. "Stay here. I'm going to leave some markers for the others so they can find this place when they eventually get here."

You raised a brow. "What, afraid I'll wander off and befriend another man-eating creature?"

He smirked but didn't deny it.

"Just—stay put," he said before turning and making his way up the riverbank, disappearing into the trees once more.

And this time, you didn't look back.

Taking a few more minutes to look around, you made your way toward the edge of the river, the smooth stones cool beneath your steps. The soft trickle of water filled the quiet, mingling with the rustling leaves overhead. Crouching near the riverbank, you leaned forward, peering into the glassy surface.

Your reflection stared back at you—yet it felt strangely unfamiliar.

Despite everything—the lack of rest, the stress that had coiled itself around your chest over the past few days—you didn't look tired. No dark circles beneath your eyes, no dullness to your skin. If anything, you looked... refreshed, glowing even, as if untouched by exhaustion.

Your skin was smooth, your eyes bright, and there was something unnervingly pristine about your reflection, like a polished statue carved with divine precision.

Your fingers twitched, hesitating before lightly grazing your own cheek. Weird.

"You know, staring at yourself for too long might make you fall in love," a voice hummed right beside your ear, teasing and impossibly close.

You jolted violently, nearly losing your footing as your head snapped toward the source. Your mind immediately went to Hermes—who else would sneak up on you like that? "Herme���" The name barely left your lips before your breath hitched, realization striking you mid-word.

It wasn't Hermes.

The boy floating before you let out an exaggerated sigh, flipping midair to rest on his stomach, chin propped in his hands. "Hermes?" he repeated, lips curling in amusement. "My, my, my. I suppose I could take that as a compliment, but really, how many men—both god and mortal—do you have on your list, muse?"

His golden curls bounced as he shook his head, lips pulling into a sly, knowing grin. "First Princeling Telemachus, now Hermes—what a heartbreaker you are." His grin widened, something sharp glinting behind his teeth. "I wonder, do you even keep track of the names anymore, or do you just collect admirers as you go?"

You sputtered, completely thrown off guard. "What—"

He sighed dramatically, flipping onto his back, arms spread wide as if he were lounging atop an invisible cloud. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you don't recognize me." His voice dripped with mock offense. "That stings, truly. What a shame, what a heartbreak—I was looking forward to our meeting, you know."

Your mind raced, taking in the small figure before you—the golden curls, the lazy smirk, the way he floated weightlessly as if gravity were beneath him. Then, there were the wings. Small, delicate things, fluttering lazily behind him like an afterthought. A quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, the faint shimmer of something otherworldly woven into his very presence.

Your stomach dropped.

"Eros," you whispered.

The god of love grinned. "Ding, ding, ding! Looks like you are more than just a pretty face." He twirled midair, coming to a stop just above the riverbank, gazing down at you with far too much amusement. "Though, between us, I was really hoping I'd be higher up on your list of divine visitors."

Your lips parted, still struggling to process what was happening. "Why are you—"

"Oh, no, no, no," he interrupted, wagging a finger at you. "Let's not start with that boring question." His golden eyes gleamed, full of mischief. "I'd much rather talk about you."

You blinked, your thoughts stuttering over themselves. Me?

The way he said it, the way his golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable—mischief, curiosity, something else—made your stomach twist.

Quickly gathering yourself, you straightened, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you took a step back. "What do you want with me?" you asked, voice firm despite the strange tangle of emotions tightening in your chest.

Eros let out a soft hum, twirling midair before flipping upside down, his curls bouncing as he floated in lazy circles around you. "Can't a deity be curious?" he mused, his voice thick with amusement. "You are quite the talk of Olympus lately."

You scowled, crossing your arms. "That's not an answer."

With a dramatic sigh, Eros righted himself, dropping down onto the riverbank with effortless grace. Now standing before you, he tilted his head, examining you in a way that made you want to shift under his gaze—like you were a particularly interesting puzzle he was trying to solve.

Then, to your surprise, his usual teasing smirk faded into something softer. "Alright, alright. I suppose I should start with an apology."

That threw you off. Your brow furrowed. "An apology?"

Eros exhaled, placing his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "For indirectly being the cause of your prince's rather passionate behavior weeks ago."

Your breath hitched.

Telemachus. That night.

The heat of his touch, the way his hands had held you so firmly yet so reverently. The rasp of his voice when he'd spoken your name, his confessions, the way he'd looked at you like you were something sacred—something he couldn't let go of.

And then Aphrodite's words echoed in your mind, the memory hitting you like a wave crashing against the shore.

"And, of course, my son Eros sometimes takes things a little too far, but that's love for you."

Your throat felt tight as you forced yourself to remain composed, to ignore the way your pulse betrayed you. You inhaled through your nose, exhaled slowly. "You mean..." Your voice came out measured, restrained—because if you let your emotions get the best of you now, you weren't sure you'd stop. "...the love potion."

Eros winced, rubbing the back of his neck like a scolded child. "I mean… yeah. That." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Though, to be fair, I wasn't the one who decided to meddle. That was all her." His lips curled—not quite a smirk, but not exactly a frown either. "But..." He rocked on his heels, tilting his head. "I won't pretend I didn't enjoy the outcome."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms over your chest. "Oh, well, that's just wonderful," you deadpanned, raising a brow. "I'm so glad my personal life has been a source of entertainment for the gods."

Eros pouted. An actual pout, his golden curls bouncing as he dramatically clasped his hands over his chest like you'd just mortally wounded him. "Come on," he whined, "don't be mad. I meant well."

Your expression remained unimpressed.

Sensing he wasn't winning you over, he sighed, rubbing his temples before launching into what you could only assume was meant to be a heartfelt explanation. "Look, princeling over there is a wreck. I mean really—have you heard his prayers? There's never-ending!" He rolled his eyes, floating backward lazily. "It's all oh, gods, what do I do, and oh, please, let her see me and if she looks at me like that one more time, I might combust where I stand! It's honestly pathetic."

Your lips parted, blinking in surprise. "He still... prays about me?"

Eros gasped, grinning as he pointed at you. "Ha! I knew that'd get your attention."

You scowled.

But the words stuck.

"Have you heard his prayers? They're never-ending."

The fact that Telemachus was still sending prayers about you to the gods was shocking enough. But knowing it wasn’t just passing thoughts or idle dreams—that he had sent his words beyond himself, had let his wants slip into the hands of the divine—and that Eros had listened…

Your fingers twitched.

"Listen, love," he continued, floating closer. "I wasn't trying to make things difficult for you two. I just thought, you know, maybe he needed a push. And maybe you did too. I mean, come on—you were both skirting around each other, it was exhausting just watching it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Eros considered you for a moment before shrugging. "Because I like you," he said simply. "And you intrigue me. I don't really do apologies, but..." He met your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his golden eyes. "I suppose you deserve one."

You weren't sure what unsettled you more—the fact that Eros was apologizing at all, or the way he was looking at you now, the teasing edge of his usual demeanor dulled into something almost sincere.

You pursed your lips, trying—really trying—to hold onto your irritation, but something about the way Eros said it, the way he seemed so earnest in his own, frustrating, mischievous way... It made it difficult to hold onto your anger.

Eros, ever perceptive, caught the way your shoulders loosened slightly, the way your expression softened just enough to give him an opening.

His golden eyes brightened, and in the next second, he bounced toward you, wrapping his small arms around your own in an eager hug. His curls tickled your skin as he grinned up at you, his expression completely unapologetic. "So, we're good now, yeah?" He batted his lashes, flashing an innocent smile that you knew was anything but.

You sighed. "That's not how apologies work."

Eros only grinned wider. "But you forgive me, don't you?"

You glanced up at the sky as if seeking divine patience. "I—"

His eyes sparkled, squeezing your arm lightly. "Come onnnn, you like me, don't you?"

You groaned, head falling back. "Why are you like this?"

Eros laughed, and you weren't sure if it was at your expense or out of pure delight. Probably both.

Just as you were about to pry Eros off of you, a voice cut through the clearing. "They shouldn't take long. The markers were obvious enough—"

Both you and Eros snapped your heads toward the source, freezing as you found Telemachus standing at the edge of the trees. His words faltered mid-sentence, his expression hardening the moment his eyes landed on the cherubic deity still clinging to your arm. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as his sharp gaze darkened.

"Eros."

The name was spat like a curse, and in response, Eros only tilted his head, batting his lashes as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Telemachus took a step forward, his shoulders squared, his entire frame tensed with restrained irritation. "What are you doing here?" His voice was low, edged with barely-contained anger. "Haven't you caused enough trouble already?"

Eros gasped dramatically—though you didn't miss the mischievous glint in his golden eyes.

Instead of answering, the little god darted behind you, clutching your arm like a frightened child, burying his face into your sleeve with an exaggerated whimper. "Oh no, he's so scary," he whined, gripping onto you even tighter. "Save me! Protect me, divine one! Your princeling is going to tear me apart, and I—" He sniffled, rubbing at his eyes with a pout. "I'm so sorry! I have learned the error of my ways! My heart weeps with regret!"

Telemachus' nostrils flared. "Get off of her."

Eros clung tighter, his lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout. "But she likes me, don't you, dearest?" He turned his wide, golden eyes up at you, feigning heartbreak. "Tell him! Tell him we've made amends and he has no reason to be such a grump!"

You opened your mouth, trying to find the right words before Telemachus actually exploded, but the prince had already taken another step forward, his glare sharpening.

Eros, sensing he was losing, peeked out from behind you and hummed, tilting his head. "You know, princeling," he mused, tapping his chin with a finger. "You're even more tense than last time. I really did a number on you, huh?" His smirk widened. "Or maybe it's just her—"

Before he could finish that thought, Telemachus' patience officially snapped.

He lunged forward.

With a delighted shriek, Eros ducked further behind you, using you as a shield as Telemachus lunged. You barely had time to react before instinct took over, your hands shooting out to press against Telemachus' chest, stopping him mid-motion. His muscles were coiled tight beneath your palms, tense with restrained frustration, his breath coming fast.

"Telemachus!" you scolded, your voice firm despite the ridiculousness of the situation. "Stop it!"

Eros peeked from behind your shoulder, his golden curls bouncing as he snickered. "Yes, princeling, do calm down. It's very unbecoming for a future king to lose his temper like this." His fingers dug into your sleeve in mock fear. "Honestly, you'd think I actually ruined his life instead of just giving it a little push in the right direction—"

"A little push?" Telemachus barked, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. He sucked his teeth, rolling his shoulders as if physically restraining himself from grabbing the god. "You're lucky you look like a child, or else—”

Eros cut him off with a loud, exaggerated snort. "Child?" He scoffed, the word tasting like offense on his tongue. "Oh, dear princeling, I am no child."

Before you could blink, the air around Eros shimmered—a pinkish hue wrapping around him like silk before stretching, shifting, expanding.

His small frame elongated, limbs lengthening with an effortless grace, his cherubic softness melting into something far more refined. His golden curls remained, though they now framed a sharper, more angular face, one with high cheekbones and a jawline that could put even the most beautiful of mortals to shame.

His boyish mischief evolved into something undeniably more alluring—his smirk teasing but dipped in a confidence that was far more dangerous than before.

Gone was the childlike god. In his place stood a man draped in effortless charm and divine beauty.

His toga had adjusted with his form, sitting in a way that was far too perfect to be accidental—one shoulder bare, revealing the cut of his muscles beneath smooth, sun-kissed skin. His golden bracers gleamed against the flickering light, and his wings—once small and delicate—were now grand and regal, their pearlescent feathers shimmering faintly as he stretched them lazily.

Eros rolled his shoulders as though shaking off the last remnants of his smaller form, flexing his fingers as he glanced between you and Telemachus. "See?" he purred, tilting his head. "The other form is far more practical. Easier to get things done when you look like something no one would outright hit."

Silence hung between you and Telemachus as the reality of what just happened settled in.

You swallowed hard, your fingers still resting against Telemachus' chest. He hadn't moved, his jaw set tight as he stared at Eros with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable.

You weren't faring much better.

The impish boy who had once clung to your arm in false fear was now a man who looked as though he belonged carved into marble and worshipped at the feet of altars. His golden eyes burned with knowing mischief as he watched your reaction, and you hated the way your stomach twisted at the sight.

It was still Eros. That much was clear. The glint of trouble was ever-present, woven into the curve of his lips, the taunting gleam in his gaze. And yet, the shift was... jarring.

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his fists still clenched at his sides. "Is this supposed to impress me?" he muttered, unimpressed.

Eros laughed, his voice richer now, carrying more weight. "Oh, princeling," he said smoothly, stepping closer. "You impress so easily. But no, this isn't for you—this is for her."

Then, with deliberate ease, he turned his gaze onto you, his golden eyes latching onto yours with something that made your pulse stutter.

"Tell me, divine one," he mused, his voice a lazy drawl. "Do you like this form better?"

You nearly choked on air.

Lips twitching in amusement, Eros leaned in closer, his golden eyes half-lidded with mischief. He tilted his head, voice dropping to a purr. "Oh, come now, muse. Don't be shy."

Before you could react, his fingers lifted—light, teasing—as he tilted your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His touch was featherlight, deceptively soft, yet it held a quiet command, his thumb barely grazing your jaw. "I asked you a question," he mused, lids lowering further, his smirk curling. "Do you like what you see?"

Your breath hitched, heat creeping up your neck, but before you could so much as form a response—before you could decide whether to swat him away or stammer out some semblance of an answer—you were yanked backward.

A startled gasp left your lips as you stumbled, colliding with something solid and warm. Hands steadied you—broad, familiar hands—gripping your arms as your face met the firm expanse of a chest. Telemachus.

The prince moved you behind him, shielding you from the god’s reach. His body was tense, radiating barely contained ire, and when he spoke, his voice was low, edged with something dangerous. "Watch yourself, Eros."

Eros merely blinked at the sudden aggression before snorting, utterly unbothered. "And what if I don't?" he challenged, tilting his head in mock innocence. His wings fluttered once, lazily. "What exactly will you do about it, princeling?"

The space between them crackled with tension, an invisible pull that felt like the start of a storm, but before you could intervene—before you could even begin to think of a way to de-escalate—Eros suddenly faltered.

His smirk wavered for a fraction of a second.

Then, just as quickly, it was back, sharper than before, though this time his golden gaze flicked past Telemachus, as if sensing something beyond what mortal eyes could perceive. "Well," he exhaled, tipping his head to the side. "A pity. Seems my fun is being cut short."

You frowned, confused, but before you could ask what he meant, Eros grinned wide, as if to make a point of it, his voice singsong as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "Alas, duty calls. But don't worry, little muse—I'll be back soon." His gaze flickered to Telemachus, and his smirk deepened, teasing. "Maybe."

Telemachus scoffed, but before he could snap out a reply, Eros merely laughed. And with that, his body shimmered—light blooming around him in soft golden dust, his laughter echoing in the air as his form dissolved into nothingness.

The forest was silent again, save for the distant rush of the river.

Gone.

But even as he disappeared, the warmth of his presence lingered, the ghost of his touch still pressed against your chin, the weight of his words swirling in your mind.

"Tell me, divine one, do you like this form better?"

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if to physically dispel the thought. Ridiculous. Yet, your skin still prickled from where Eros had been, as if the god's very essence had left behind an imprint.

The silence between you and Telemachus stretched, filled only by the rustling of leaves and the distant rush of the river. The prince hadn’t moved much, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his lips pursed in something dangerously close to a pout.

You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly before murmuring, "I... I'm sorry."

That got his attention. His head snapped toward you, brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You swallowed, pressing your hands together. "About, um... about what happened. With the potion. With everything." You hesitated, your fingers curling slightly. "Technically... I was the reason it happened."

Telemachus' expression darkened slightly, but instead of looking at you, he exhaled through his nose and rubbed at his jaw. Then, with a shake of his head, he muttered, "It's not your fault."

"But—"

"It's not your fault, ____," he repeated, more firmly this time, glancing at you with something softer beneath his frustration. "You didn't ask for any of this. You didn't make the gods stick their noses into your life."

He sucked his teeth, arms tightening over his chest. "Besides, it's not like Eros is the only one making a mess of things," he grumbled, voice low and bitter. "Apollo keeps throwing gifts at you, Hermes keeps showing up, and even C—"

He cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

You blinked, watching him carefully. His shoulders were tense, his fingers twitching slightly against his biceps. The tips of his ears had gone pink, and despite his attempt to seem unaffected, you could see the slight downturn of his mouth.

Your lips twitched.

Without fully thinking, you tilted your head and asked, voice light, "Telemachus... Forgive me for assuming, but are you perhaps... jealous?"

The reaction was instant.

Telemachus stiffened, his head jerking toward you as if you had just accused him of treason. "What? No! Why—why would you say that?"

You bit back a laugh, watching as his face rapidly flushed, his hands uncrossing just so he could gesture vaguely at the air, looking utterly and completely caught.

"You are jealous," you teased, voice turning almost sing-song, delighted by the rare sight of a flustered Telemachus.

He sputtered, jaw working as though trying to form a rebuttal but failing miserably. Instead, he turned abruptly, pretending to cough into his fist, his shoulders now unnaturally stiff.

"I just—" He coughed again, still not facing you. "I just think they—the gods—should mind their own business, that's all."

You hummed, stepping closer, your smile growing. "Mmm. Sure. Has nothing to do with Eros holding my chin, or Apollo's gifts, or Hermes—"

"Enough." He groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Enough."

You giggled, feeling an unfamiliar lightness in your chest. Telemachus scowled at you, but the redness on his face betrayed him entirely.

Telemachus let out a sharp huff, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the embarrassment clinging to him.

You watched, barely suppressing another laugh as he muttered something under his breath—words you couldn't quite catch but sounded suspiciously like not jealousy and reasonable. His hand raked through his curls in frustration, tugging at them slightly before he exhaled deeply, as if to steady himself.

"I'm going ahead," he finally grumbled, still avoiding your gaze. "Getting a fire started before the others arrive." And without another word, he turned on his heel, stalking away with stiff shoulders and hurried steps.

His voice was flat, forcibly neutral, but the way he turned—just a little too fast, his ears still tinged with color—told you everything. 

You bit your lip, rocking back on your heels, watching him disappear between the trees. The warmth of amusement still lingered in your chest, but beneath it was something softer. Something... fond.

The mighty Prince of Ithaca, flustered beyond belief.

It was a sight you weren't sure you'd ever get used to.

☆

☆

The firelight flickered in the distance, a warm glow against the encroaching darkness of the forest. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky painted in deep indigos and violets, the first few stars beginning to peek through. The air had cooled, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the distant aroma of roasting meat from the camp.

You crouched near the water's edge, the soft gurgling of the river filling the quiet as you worked. The pond reflected the night sky like a fractured mirror, rippling softly each time you dipped a jug beneath the surface. The water was cool against your fingers, sending small shivers up your arms, but you welcomed it.

It was a distraction—a quiet task away from the sharp knives and the guttural sounds of fresh kills being prepared.

Not too long ago, the hunting party had returned, trailing in with triumphant grins, a few carrying their successful catches slung over their shoulders. Some had managed to track down a few more animals along the way—hares, fowl, even a decent-sized boar that had taken a group effort to bring down.

Telemachus and the others had immediately set to work, their practiced hands moving with efficiency as they prepared the night's feast. You had been quick to volunteer for water duty, taking any excuse to be away from the process of skinning and gutting.

It wasn't something you found disturbing exactly—you'd lived in Ithaca long enough to be used to such things—but if you could avoid watching it, you would.

Humming softly under your breath, you set aside the jug you had just filled and reached for another. The repetitive motion was soothing, keeping your mind pleasantly blank as you focused on the task. You counted the jugs lined up beside you—three full, two more to go. You were nearly done.

The gentle rhythm of the water, the distant crackling of the fire, and the occasional murmur of voices from the camp settled around you, peaceful in its own way. It was easy to lose yourself in the quiet work, the rest of the world slipping into the background for just a little while longer.

Just as you finished filling the fourth jug and reached for the last one, a strange movement in the water caught your eye. The gentle ripples along the pond's surface were shifting—spreading outward as though something unseen had disturbed them.

You stilled, your fingers tightening slightly around the jug as you scanned the darkened waters, trying to make sense of what you were seeing.

Then, just beyond the shimmer of reflected starlight, a pair of familiar dark, onyx-like eyes locked onto yours.

Your breath hitched.

The Askálion.

Shock jolted through you, and in your attempt to push back from the water's edge, your foot slipped against the slick river stones. You let out a sharp yelp as your balance gave way, arms flailing as you tumbled forward into the shallows.

Cold water soaked through your clothes instantly, and you barely managed to catch yourself with your hands, stopping just short of fully submerging. The front of your garments clung uncomfortably to your skin, the sudden chill sending a shiver up your spine.

Before you could even scramble upright, a blur of dark fur and glowing ember-like ears leaped toward you. A startled gasp turned into a breathless laugh as the fox-like creature landed right on top of you, paws pressing into your chest, its weight knocking you fully onto your back with a soft splash.

The Askálion let out a series of excited yips, tail wagging in long, sweeping motions as it circled you, the cool night air carrying the sound of its clear delight. You barely had a moment to register its playfulness before it nuzzled against your neck, making you squirm as laughter spilled from your lips, the sensation oddly ticklish.

Despite the warning Telemachus had given you earlier about its nature, it was hard—impossible—to associate the creature currently rolling against you with the ruthless predator he'd described. It was warm, its fur softer than you expected, and the way it nudged insistently at your hands reminded you of an overeager pup desperate for affection.

"You—you're not supposed to be this friendly," you managed between giggles, halfheartedly trying to push the Askálion off. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

The creature merely let out a chuffing sound, unconcerned with your protests as it pressed its head under your chin, seemingly claiming you as its own.

And, gods help you, you let it.

Hearing the telltale crunch of approaching footsteps, you stiffened.

Your heart lurched into your throat, and without thinking, you quickly gathered the Askálion into your arms, cradling it against your chest. It let out a small, surprised yip but didn't struggle—just stared up at you with those gleaming onyx eyes, its damp fur pressing cool against your already-soaked clothes.

Panicked, you turned your back to the treeline, making sure whoever was coming wouldn’t immediately see the creature in your arms. "Shhh," you whispered urgently, running your fingers over the Askálion’s sleek fur in a desperate attempt to quiet it. The fox-thing merely panted up at you, its tail flicking lazily in what you could only describe as amusement.

The footsteps drew closer, and then—

"What's taking you so long?"

Telemachus.

You sucked in a breath, whipping your head up to see him standing just at the riverbank, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. He wasn't impatient, but he was clearly puzzled, scanning you as you sat half-submerged in the shallows.

You swallowed thickly, trying to compose yourself. "The fox—" you hissed, voice just above a whisper. "It followed us."

Telemachus frowned, clearly not believing you. "What? No, it didn't."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes. Of course, he wouldn't take your word for it. Fine. He wanted proof? You'd give him proof.

Gritting your teeth, you shifted slightly—just enough to tilt your body so he could see over your shoulder.

The Askálion's ears perked up, recognizing him instantly. Then, to your horror, it let out another delighted yip.

Telemachus froze.

His gaze flickered from you to the fox, then back to you again.

The Askálion, utterly unbothered, wriggled in your grasp before reaching up to paw at your hand, clearly demanding more scratches.

For a long, drawn-out second, neither you nor Telemachus spoke. The prince's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring slightly as he stared.

Then, he sighed—long and slow, pressing his fingers to his temple. "Of course it did." He took a slow step closer, squinting down at the drenched creature curled contently in your arms. His jaw ticked as he exhaled, then, glancing up at you, he asked, "Where did it even come from?"

You swallowed, shaking your head. "I don't know. I was just filling the last jug when I saw the ripples, and then—" You glanced down at the Askálion, which blinked up at you before nuzzling into your chest, its tail flicking idly over your lap. "It was just... there."

Telemachus hummed, his expression unreadable as he crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He kept a slight distance, eyes locked on the fox as though it might lunge at any second.

"They don't usually leave their dens," he murmured, tilting his head. "Not unless they're hunting or migrating to new territory."

Your eyes widened slightly. "So you think it'll... go back?" you asked, the words leaving you before you could think them through.

The Askálion’s ears twitched.

Telemachus caught the way you tightened your grip around the creature, how your fingers subtly curled into its thick fur. He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face before resting his elbow on his knee.

"That's what it should do," he admitted. Then, leveling you with a look, he added, "But something tells me this one doesn't care much for what's 'supposed' to happen."

Before you could respond, the distant crunch of footsteps over leaves sent a jolt through your spine. Voices—familiar and loud—filtered through the trees.

Callias and Kieran.

Your eyes snapped to Telemachus at the same time his locked onto yours, a shared moment of wide-eyed panic passing between you.

"Come here," you hissed, beckoning him urgently.

Telemachus barely had time to react before Callias' voice rang out through the clearing. "Oi! How much longer are you two planning on taking? We're starving over here!"

Kieran grunted in agreement. "You should've been done ages ago. What's taking so—"

Both voices cut off abruptly.

From behind you, you could feel their gazes settle on the scene.

The pond was bathed in the soft glow of the rising moon, its silver reflection shimmering against the water's surface. Telemachus stood directly in front of you, waist-deep in the river, his figure outlined by the cool luminescence. From an outsider's perspective, it must have looked intimate—almost painfully so.

A prince and his Divine Liaison, standing chest to chest in the rippling water, faces close enough to share a breath.

Except, of course, for the small, dark-furred creature wedged comfortably between the two of you.

The Askálion sat smugly, tail curled around its body, looking completely unbothered as it rested its head against your collarbone.

A thick silence stretched between all of you.

Then—

"Ohhh," Callias practically purred, dragging out the sound as if savoring it.

Kieran barely had time to blink before Callias shoved him backward, hissing under his breath, "We are absolutely interrupting something."

Kieran, not one to miss out on an opportunity for chaos, still managed to call over his shoulder, "Sorry for the interruption, lovebirds!"

The two of them barely dodged the splash of water that Telemachus sent their way, their laughter trailing off as they disappeared back into the trees.

Silence settled once more, save for the soft lapping of the water against your legs. You exhaled shakily, glancing at Telemachus. He still looked vaguely exasperated, his hand resting on his hip as he shook his head.

After a few more moments, you hesitated, then whispered, "Are they gone?"

Telemachus sighed, rubbing his temple. "Unfortunately, yes."

You let out a breath of relief, shifting the large animal in your arms. Your hold was starting to falter, the weight of the Askálion beginning to strain your muscles. Its thick fur, now damp, made it heavier than you anticipated, and you struggled to readjust your grip.

Seeing your struggle, Telemachus took a small step forward, reaching out instinctively. "Here, let me hel—"

A low, warning growl rumbled against your chest.

You both froze.

The Askálion's ears flattened slightly, sharp eyes locking onto Telemachus. Though its body remained relaxed in your hold, its tail twitched, and its lips curled ever so slightly, baring sharp teeth in a silent warning.

Telemachus slowly straightened, his eyes narrowing. The growl ceased immediately. The creature's ears perked up once more, its expression shifting into something far too smug for a wild animal. Its tongue lolled lazily out of its mouth, as if it hadn't just threatened a prince of Ithaca.

You swallowed thickly, looking from Telemachus to the fox and back again.

Telemachus arched a brow at you, then let out a dry chuckle. "Looks like you've got a new pet."

You let out a groan, tipping your head back dramatically before sighing in reluctant acceptance. "Great. Just great." Looking down at the fox nestled against your chest, you muttered, "I'm convinced Apollo has something to do with this." It made too much sense—the god had been relentless lately with his gifts, and now, an unnaturally docile, potentially mythical creature had decided to follow you around.

Of course, it had to be divine intervention.

Shaking your head, you finally stepped out of the water, wincing slightly as your damp clothes clung to your skin. The cool night air bit at your arms, but you ignored it, more focused on lowering the fox gently onto the ground.

As soon as its paws hit the earth, the Askálion gave an exaggerated shake, sending water droplets flying everywhere. You lifted your hands to shield yourself, barely suppressing a laugh as it gave one last dramatic shake, fluffing out its thick black fur. Then, with a pleased huff, it trotted up beside you and sat at your feet, its tail curling neatly around its paws.

Telemachus, who had just wrung some of the water from his own tunic, flicked a glance at the creature before leveling you with an unimpressed look. "Oh yeah, wholly normal behavior."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Don't look at me like that. I didn't ask for this."

The fox let out a soft yip, tilting its head at you before pushing its nose against your leg. You sighed again, bringing a hand down to scratch between its ears. "Looks like I don't have a choice now, anyway."

Telemachus ran a hand through his damp curls, shaking his head with a small, knowing smirk. "You really don't."

You groaned, rubbing the bridge of your nose as the weight of your predicament settled fully onto your shoulders. "How in Hades' name am I supposed to hide it at the palace?" You gestured vaguely at the fox, which merely blinked up at you, utterly unbothered. "I mean, even if I tried leaving it behind, it'd probably just follow me there."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully, stepping over to the jugs you had filled earlier. With an ease that had you both impressed and mildly annoyed, he hoisted four of them at once, carrying them as though they weighed nothing at all. "Well, you are the Divine Liaison now," he mused, glancing at you with a teasing lilt to his voice. "I'm sure my parents won't mind too much."

You spluttered, staring at him wide-eyed. "Weren't you the one going on about how dangerous it is?" You gestured at the fox, which was now happily trotting in circles around your feet, as if mocking your plight.

Telemachus only shrugged, an infuriatingly relaxed smile tugging at his lips. "As long as it does no harm to you, then it doesn't matter." He adjusted his grip on the jugs before nodding toward the direction of the camp. "Come on, grab the last one. We should head back before Callias and Kieran assume we drowned."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to remind him how ridiculous this entire situation was, but then you stopped. What was the point? The fox had already chosen you, and if divine intervention was at play, you doubted you had much of a say in the matter.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, you ran a hand down your face before looking down at the creature sitting so proudly at your feet. "Fine," you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else as you went to grab the last jug. "Guess I have a new shadow."

The Askálion yipped in delight, and as Telemachus chuckled beside you, you begrudgingly followed him back toward camp—your newest, unexpected companion padding faithfully at your side.

A/N: listen, i swear i want them to bang—i mean, kiss—just as much as everyone else, but alas, everything is already written in stone, and i'm just editing and posting. 😭 this is my first attempt at slow burn, and i don't wanna throw away my discipline by indulging in fan service too soon like i usually do with my fics/one-shots. hope y'all understand. also!! since i'm new to the whole fanart thing, if anyone wants to send some my way, you can email me at wattywriter04@gmail.com (??!?!?! i can't believe i can actually say that now lmao). oh—and before i go, i heard y'all's pleas and couldn't help myself—so yeah, the fox is staying. 😌 i'm a sucker for canines, can you blame me?? my favorite pokémon is literally vulpix. i even have a fox!reader fic somewhere, so really, this was inevitable. 🦊😂 see you all next update! 💕

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

from @Xyxxeviya works (@alucardswifeyy on tumblr)

AHHH IDKY BUT THIS HAS TO BE MY FAV 😩❤️ ⬇️

here's fvckcare (idk but i feel like i shouldnt be looking 😭 like ahhh, yall not me being shy over a drawing)

EKKK ANd I GOT ANOTHER FANART SUBMISSION from iconic-idiot-con----(this is exactly how i imagined the fox! cute but with a lethal rbf, my spirit animal fr)

YESS YESSSS YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I swear fanart just does something to me as a writer, it's like i'm seeing the way my words being brought to life just---ACCKKK my heart ❤️😩😩😩😩 the way imma (selfishly) need this for the rest of my life, i cant go back 😔❤️

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

[winxanity-ii]

It feels like this every time I write a fic

[winxanity-ii]

me with anything---from greek to revolution times 😩

writing historical fic set in real places is so scary. what if someone who knows more about Philadelphia's timeline to move from gas to electric streetlamps reads my fanfiction and laughs at me

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming | threaded fates: between waking and dreaming⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The last thing he saw before waking was your cloaked figure fading into the shifting trees, dissolving like mist at dawn. But even as you disappeared, your presence lingered, as if the dream had been carved into something deeper than mere sleep.

And then—

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

A dull, steady thudding filled the room, accompanied by a faint voice beyond the wooden doors.

"Prince Telemachus?"

The knock came again, polite but persistent, and Telemachus exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. The warmth of sleep still clung to his skin, the last traces of the dream curling at the edges of his thoughts like dissipating fog.

For a fleeting moment, he tried to hold onto it—the stillness, the strange, weightless peace that had wrapped around him like a second skin. He tried to picture you—your shrouded figure that had spoken of his death as if it were no more than a misplaced step, who had stood before him, watching with an unreadable gaze.

But the memory blurred.

The details unraveled, slipping away like water through his fingers.

Telemachus let out a tired sigh. He knew it was no use.

Pushing himself upright, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the haze of sleep. The knocking continued, more insistent now.

"Enter."

The heavy doors eased open, and a handful of servants filed in, moving with quiet efficiency. Some carried fresh linens, others brought water for washing. One knelt to help set out his tunic for the day, while another murmured about the meal waiting in the hall.

Telemachus allowed it all to happen around him, standing still as they moved, as they prepared him for the morning ahead.

His body felt weighed down by something nameless, something that had nothing to do with war or duty.

And yet, as always, he carried it without complaint.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

A short while later, Telemachus made his way toward the dining hall.

The scent of fresh bread and olives filled the air, mingling with the salt that drifted in from the open windows. Sunlight spilled through the archways, catching on the polished stone floors, casting long shadows along the walls.

He stepped inside, his expression unreadable, composed despite the faint tiredness still clinging to his features.

His father was already there.

Odysseus sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as ever. He was speaking with a servant, though his sharp eyes flicked up the moment Telemachus entered.

Penelope, seated beside him, brightened at the sight of her son.

"Ah, there you are!" she said, her voice warm, eager.

She rose slightly, as if she meant to reach for him, but instead motioned him forward.

"Come, sit. You must eat."

Telemachus hesitated for only a second before moving to take his seat.

The moment he settled, Penelope wasted no time in filling the space with words, speaking of the morning's affairs—the state of the household, news from the city, preparations for an upcoming festival.

Her voice a welcome warmth against the cool morning air; reminding him of childhood, of simpler mornings when he had no burdens to bear beyond learning his letters and running through the halls with dust on his feet.

"The fishermen have been restless," she continued, slicing a piece of fruit and setting it onto his plate as if he were still a boy. "They say the tides are shifting, that the waves have grown more unpredictable—some claim it's the gods stirring the waters again, restless with unseen quarrels."

She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Superstition, most likely. You know how they are—always searching for omens where there are none."

Telemachus made a quiet noise of acknowledgment but said nothing, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.

"Your father disagrees, of course," Penelope added, glancing toward Odysseus with an expectant look, as if waiting for him to correct her. "He says the sea never moves without reason."

But even as she spoke, Telemachus found his mind drifting once more. His thoughts wandered back to the dream—the presence that had stood before him cloaked in something more than mere shadow. He could still hear their voice, cool and steady, speaking of his death as though it were a certainty carved into the stars.

"So, if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

"I'm... not sure."

The admission had unsettled him.

Fate, uncertain?

It was almost comforting.

"Telemachus?"

His mother's voice was softer this time, breaking through the fog of his thoughts.

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his mind, and turned to find her watching him, her brow creased with quiet concern.

"Are you alright?"

For a brief moment, he considered brushing the question aside. But the worry in her voice, the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, made him offer a small, tired smile.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Just still a bit sore."

Penelope's lips pressed into a thin line. "Sore? And you haven't been keeping up with the physician?" She exhaled sharply, turning over her shoulder. "I'll have one of the servants fetch him—"

"Mother," Telemachus interrupted, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

She turned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm fine." He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Truly."

Penelope studied him for a moment longer before sighing, though her expression softened. "At least promise me you'll rest when you can."

"I will." It was easier to agree than to argue.

Satisfied for now, she let the subject drop, shifting her attention back to her meal.

Telemachus turned his gaze to his father.

Odysseus had remained silent through the exchange, watching rather than speaking. His expression was unreadable, as it often was, but there was something in his gaze—something measuring, something thoughtful.

Telemachus took a breath.

"Father," he started, carefully choosing his words. "Can I ask you something?"

Odysseus didn't answer right away. He held his son's gaze, considering him, before finally nodding, turning back to his meal. "Go on."

There was a pause, brief but heavy.

Telemachus' fingers continued to idly trace the rim of the goblet before him. He kept his posture steady, the same way he'd been taught since childhood—shoulders squared, expression measured, never betraying more than he intended to.

Yet, beneath the surface, his thoughts churned, coiling tight like a rope wound too many times.

Across the table, Odysseus ate in silence, his movements slow, deliberate. His father had always been a man who chose his words carefully, who listened more than he spoke, who measured the weight of a moment before deciding how to tip the scales.

Telemachus studied him for a moment before finally speaking.

"If you were given a choice," he started, voice steady despite the hesitation curling at the edges of his words, "a choice between accepting what has been laid before you... or questioning it, testing it—what would you do?"

Once again, Odysseus didn't answer right away.

Instead, he set his cup down and turned his gaze fully upon his son. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—something sharp, something... calculating.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant hum of the household, the occasional clatter of dishes from the servants tending to their tasks.

Then, Odysseus exhaled, leaning back slightly.

"That depends."

Telemachus lifted a brow, waiting.

"Some things are meant to be questioned," Odysseus continued, his voice low, thoughtful. "Some things must be challenged, bent, even broken if they do not serve you."

He paused, his gaze still steady, still searching.

"But not all things."

Telemachus frowned slightly. "And how do you tell the difference?"

Odysseus tilted his head just so, considering him, weighing something unseen. Then, after another pause—long enough to make Telemachus wonder if he would answer at all—he spoke again.

"Experience."

A simple word. A frustrating word.

Telemachus pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of his father's gaze as it settled upon him. He should have expected nothing less. Odysseus never gave answers freely—only hints, pieces, fragments that a man had to stitch together himself.

And yet... something about the way he looked at him now made Telemachus wonder if he'd already been caught in the middle of such a lesson without realizing it.

Odysseus let the words sit between them before speaking again, this time quieter. "Why do you ask?"

Telemachus hesitated.

For the briefest moment, he considered telling him the truth.

Of the dream.

Of the presence that had stood before him, draped in shifting shadows, speaking of things no mortal should hear.

Of the way his name had rolled from your lips—not as a passing thought, not as a thread to be cut, but as something... watched.

He almost spoke.

Almost.

But instead, he exhaled softly, forcing a small, tired smile.

"No reason," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I was just curious."

He reached for his bread, breaking off a piece between his fingers.

"Thank you, Father."

Odysseus said nothing at first, but Telemachus could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second longer before shifting away.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Telemachus finally began to eat.

☆

☆

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

There was always something to do—always another duty, another lesson, another expectation waiting to be met. As his father's heir, the days of his boyhood were long gone, replaced by the steady weight of responsibility that settled upon his shoulders with each passing season.

Meetings were held, one after another.

He sat beside his father in the great hall, listening as advisors spoke of trade routes, of disputes among neighboring lords, of rations and harvests, of ships in need of repairs. Every decision, every agreement or refusal, every discussion about Ithaca's future was something that would soon fall upon him.

He was being prepared. Groomed for rule.

At midday, he trained with the soldiers, drilling with them in the courtyard. Though he had fought in battle, had killed men with his own hands, his father was adamant—"You must never let your blade dull."

So he moved through the drills, his body following the familiar rhythm of combat, sweat trickling down his spine as the sun bore down on him.

Then more meetings. More lessons. More discussions on the kingdom's defenses, on alliances, on the ever-present question of what came next.

By the time the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold, exhaustion weighed heavy on his limbs.

And yet—

Despite the long hours, despite the endless duties, despite the weight of a crown he had yet to bear—

He found himself perking up.

There was a lightness in his steps, a quiet energy in his movements that hadn't been there earlier.

Because when night fell, you'd be back.

You hadn't said it. You hadn't promised anything.

And yet, something in him knew.

You would return.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Dinner came and went.

His mother spoke to him throughout the meal, his father listened in silence, and Telemachus answered when needed, nodding in the right places, speaking when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn't impatience, not exactly, but something close to it. Something restless.

And so, the moment the meal was done, he excused himself, leaving the warmth of the hall behind.

His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way to his chambers, slipping past servants and torches flickering against the stone walls. He undressed quickly, tugging the tunic over his head, running a damp cloth over his face before settling beneath the covers.

Sleep did't take him right away.

But when it did—

He was there again.

The cypress tree. The endless stretch of grass. The dreamscape he had claimed as his own.

But this time, he didn't lounge beneath the branches, arms folded behind his head in easy rest.

This time, he stood.

Searching.

He turned his head, scanning the shifting space around him, waiting—expecting. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if anticipation itself had settled into his bones.

He waited.

And waited.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

And then, slowly, doubt began to creep in.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple before dropping back onto the grass with a quiet thump.

He scoffed at himself, shaking his head.

"Gods... I must look patethic," he muttered aloud, an amused huff leaving his lips.

"She's a deity. A mythical force. Of course she won't have no time for a mortal—" he let out another short laugh, "—Stupid Telemachus, stupid."

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

To sit here like some eager boy awaiting a story before bed? To anticipate something—someone—who had no obligation to return?

Letting out another sigh, he rubbed at his face, his expression briefly tense as he forced himself to accept it.

Maybe you weren't coming after all.

"Were you waiting long, son of Odysseus?"

The voice—your voice—slipped into existence like a thread weaving itself into the fabric of the dream, smooth yet carrying the faintest edge of something... perplexed.

Telemachus' breath hitched.

The tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding—the quiet tightness in his shoulders, the coiled stiffness in his spine—unraveled all at once.

Because you were here.

And gods, he felt it.

Your presence wrapped around him, something unseen yet unmistakable, shifting the very air of the dream, as if the space itself recognized you and bent to accommodate your existence. It was different from before—this time, he knew what he was looking for.

He wasn't caught off guard. He wasn't questioning whether or not you were really before him.

His head snapped toward the sound before he even had time to think, and his body was moving before reason could catch up, pushing himself upright with a sharp inhale.

He knew you would come.

A half-smile pulled at his lips, something wry and easy as he gave a small shrug.

"Can you blame me?" he mused, voice lighter now. "A powerful entity graces me with their presence—should I not be eager?"

His gaze flickered over you, taking in your form once more.

You were the same as before—your cloak draped over you like something untouched by the laws of the world, the hood still drawn, obscuring much of your face.

And yet, despite your near-ethereal presence, there was something almost... awkward in the way you stood there, as though you hadn't quite anticipated this.

A muted scoff floated between the air.

"Flattery won't get you far with me." Your tone was dry, unimpressed. "Maybe with Zeus."

Telemachus huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but said nothing more.

As you stepped forward, your attention drifted—not immediately to him, but to the world around you.

The cypress tree stood tall, its branches swaying despite the absence of wind. The grass beneath your feet remained soft, bending only slightly beneath your presence.

Your gaze swept across the familiar dreamscape before finally landing back on him.

"This is the same dream you've had for the past few nights," you noted, tilting your head slightly; your voice held no accusation, only curiosity. "Why?"

Telemachus looked around, his gaze drifting over the familiar scenery—the towering cypress, the soft grass beneath his feet, the golden warmth spilling through the branches. "Because it's peaceful," he said simply.

His voice carried a quiet certainty, as if that alone explained everything. And perhaps, to him, it did.

But then, after a beat, his brows furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering across his features. His gaze returned to you, thoughtful.

"Is it possible for me to do what you did the other day?"

Your head tilted slightly beneath the hood.

"What?"

"Change it." He waved a hand vaguely. "Like how you shifted the dream before. The forest. The... other things."

You considered him for a moment, the weight of your stare settling over him, unreadable. Then you spoke, your tone steady, measured. "Do you mean your dreams?"

Telemachus shifted, feeling something curl low in his stomach at the way you said it—so blunt, so matter-of-fact. He frowned slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looked away. "It does sound obvious when you say it like that," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

A quiet huff of air left you, something that wasn't quite a laugh but close enough.

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He turned his gaze toward the distance, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to quiet concentration.

A moment passed.

And then—

The air around you rippled.

Like a stone dropped into a still pond, the dream shuddered, distorting, shifting, bending. The cypress tree, the soft grass, the golden light—all of it melted away.

In its place—

A boat.

A small, wooden vessel, floating effortlessly on the surface of a vast, endless ocean.

The water was impossibly still, stretching infinitely in every direction, untouched by waves or wind. Above, the sky was a deep, endless black, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch.

And below—

The same stars.

The ocean reflected the sky perfectly, mirroring the constellations with such clarity that it was impossible to tell where the world ended and where it began. It was as if the boat was floating in the middle of space itself, drifting weightlessly between the heavens.

A hush settled over the dream.

You finally turned, your gaze settling on him.

"What made you create this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, something thoughtful beneath it.

Telemachusglanced down at the water, watching the way the stars shimmered in its depths before sighing softly, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips as he looked away. His fingers traced absent patterns against the worn wood of the boat, a quiet motion, thoughtful.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, scattered like dust across the heavens, flickering against the deep, inky black.

"Towards the end of my voyage to find my father," he began, voice quiet but steady, "I remember wanting to get away from the men."

His lips quirked slightly, a dry amusement threading through his tone.

"They were cheerful—too cheerful. Well, for me they were. They drank and laughed and spoke of adventures ahead, of the places we'd see, of the glory we'd find. But I..."

His fingers curled slightly against the wood.

"I wanted a moment of quiet. Peace." There's that word again.

He let out a soft breath, shoulders shifting as if remembering the weight of that night.

"So I took one of the side stowaway boats," he continued, "untied it just enough to drift a little ways off, though I left it tethered to the ship so I wouldn't stray too far."

His eyes lingered on the stars, their mirrored reflections shimmering beneath him in the endless water.

"I don't know how long I sat there," he admitted. "Just... listening. The water, the wind, the ship creaking in the distance. It was the first time I really understood how vast the sea was."

He exhaled softly, his voice growing lighter, almost distant.

"When I was younger, my mother used to tell me that if I ever missed my father—if I ever wanted to speak to him but couldn't—I should look up at the sky."

A pause.

"She said he was out there, beneath the same stars. That no matter where he was, no matter how far, he was looking at the same sky as me."

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his features.

"I used to believe it."

He tilted his head slightly, watching the constellations above, as if searching for something.

"That night, on the water, I found myself doing the same thing. Looking up. Wondering if he was somewhere out there, beneath the same stars, thinking of me too."

His voice softened, his gaze lingering on the vast sky.

"I suppose I still wonder about that sometimes."

You turned your gaze away from him, letting out a low, thoughtful hum. The quiet stretched between you, the boat drifting weightlessly in the mirrored expanse of the ocean, suspended between stars above and below.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice steady but carrying something almost contemplative. "It is beautiful," you admitted, your words simple yet carrying weight.

Not just the dream—the way the world had folded itself at his will—but the thought behind it. The way he sought quiet, the way he still looked to the stars like they could give him answers.

At your words, Telemachus shifted, his eyes pulling away from the constellations to settle on you.

For a moment, he simply watched.

There was something different in his gaze now—something softer. His sharp, measured features relaxed just slightly, his shoulders unwinding as his lips quirked up into a small, easy smile.

"Thank you," he said after a beat, his voice quieter than before, like he meant it in more ways than just one.

You didn't meet his gaze for long.

Instead, you let the moment pass, turning away as you rose to your feet, stepping onto the edge of the boat with an effortless ease. Or perhaps not stepping at all.

The boat didn't rock beneath your weight. The water didn't shift at your movement. It was as if you existed outside of it, your form moving as though the laws of this place bent around you rather than the other way around.

"I will be going now," you announced, your voice neither cold nor warm, simply a fact.

Telemachus didn't move, didn't stop you—only continued to sit, head tilted up, watching as you stood above him, your cloak as dark as the sky, your presence just as vast.

Still, something in the way he lingered made it clear—he didn't want you to leave.

You turned to go, the edges of your form beginning to fade, dissolving into the dream. The moment stretched just a second too long, and that was all it took.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

The words left him suddenly, hastily—like he hadn't meant to say them aloud.

For the first time since your arrival, you hesitated.

Your form flickered, stilling just slightly, as if the question had pulled at something unspoken. And then, after a breath—

"Yes."

The answer settled between you, solid, final.

And with that, you were gone.

A/N: sorry y'all, i know i said 10 chapters, but i couldn't not write something in telemachu's pov 😩

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 04 Chapter 04 | dialogues with destiny⌟

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It was the next day.

After a full cycle of overseeing and severing threads, of watching lives flicker out like candle flames, you left to visit the young prince once more.

Like the past two times, his dream was unchanged.

The cypress tree. The warm light filtering through the leaves. The quiet stillness that he draped around himself like a cloak.

But this time, you didn't simply watch.

This time, you didn't just alter the dream unseen.

This time, you did something.

You told yourself it was nothing more than idle curiosity. A moment of indulgence, nothing more. A small experiment, the same way one might dip their fingers into the surface of a lake just to watch the ripples spread.

It was detached.

It was nothing.

And yet, as you lifted your hand and shifted the dream around him, you felt something close to anticipation.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dimmed.

The world bent—

And in its place, a dense forest unfolded.

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

He didn't move at first. He simply scanned the scene, taking in the new surroundings—the thickened trees, the silver shadows stretching long across the forest floor beneath a cold moon.

Then, his jaw tightened.

He was wary.

Not panicked. Not afraid.

Cautious.

That you found interesting.

He is unsettled by this—by the unknown, by the shift in his subconscious.

But when he had faced his own death—when he had bled out onto the palace floor, when the captain had left him gasping, staring out at a burning city—he had been passive.

Accepting.

Yet now, faced with nothing more than a shift in the air, his instincts stirred.

Fascinating.

You didn't allow yourself to linger on it.

You had come for a reason.

The trees whispered as you stepped forward.

You didn't appear all at once. That would have been too direct. Too abrupt.

Instead, you let the air ripple first, the dream bending beneath the weight of something it didn't understand. A shiver of power rolled through the forest, the leaves trembling, the shadows stretching unnaturally long across the ground.

Telemachus straightened.

His muscles didn't tense for battle, but there was a shift in his posture—something keen, something aware.

Good.

A soft breeze moved through the trees, and you stepped into the clearing.

You didn't announce yourself immediately.

The cloak draped over your form, its fabric darker than the space between the stars, untouched by light. It didn't move as fabric should, did not cling or billow, but instead seemed to shift in ways that defied understanding, a piece of something not entirely real draped across your shoulders.

The hood was pulled forward, shadowing the upper half of your face. You didn't bother with grandeur, nor with any particular presence of menace or warmth. You simply were.

And in the space between you, the silence waited to be filled.

Telemachus didn't speak first.

The only surprise he allowed himself was a subtle shift in his jaw.

Interesting.

You broke the quiet with a single word.

"Evening, Telemachus, son of Odysseus."

Telemachus didn't react immediately.

He simply stared, his expression unreadable, his mind turning over thoughts you couldn't yet grasp.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Am I dead?"

You frowned.

The question was absurd. Pointless.

But something about the way he said it—the certainty in his voice, the ease with which he asked it—unnerved you.

You tilted your head slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp yet distant, as if you had simply confirmed something he had suspected for a long time.

"If you're here," he said, "then that must mean I'm dead, yes?"

A flicker of irritation curled within you.

"You assume too much, mortal," you said, the words edged sharper than you intended. "Now tell me—what do you mean?"

He watched you carefully, weighing something in his mind before he spoke again.

"It's impossible to know who you are exactly."

His words were quiet, measured.

"The Fates are many, but only one ends the line. And if you are that one... then I shouldn't be here, should I?"

You said nothing.

His logic was sound.

If you were truly here for him, he wouldn't be standing before you, not even in a dream.

He shouldn't be able to speak to you.

Telemachus held your gaze for a long moment before something shifted.

A breath.

A huff of laughter—not mocking, but something close to understanding.

His posture eased. The tension in his shoulders unwound, the sharpness of his jaw softening just enough to make him seem human again, rather than the warrior you had followed through battle.

He apologized—apologized—before explaining himself.

"I nearly died once."

You didn't react, but something in the air shifted, a weight settling between you.

"It was during my first attempt to find my father," he continued, voice steady but touched with something quieter—something long since buried. "I decided to go alone on a small ship. Everything was going fine until not a week in, a storm took it. The waves swallowed me and before I knew it, I was drowning."

His fingers twitched, as if the memory was something he could still feel.

"In that moment, when I thought I had died... I saw her."

His eyes met yours.

"I saw you."

The world went still.

"You removed the attendant that had come for me. I saw it—a figure waiting in the water, reaching for me, and you—" he paused, exhaling slowly as he remembered, "you stopped it. You barely spared me a glance before disappearing. But I saw you."

The forest shifted, the dream thinning at the edges.

"That's why I dream of peace," Telemachus murmured, tilting his head slightly, voice quieter now, almost distant. "That's what I felt when I nearly died. And it always reminds me of you."

You blinked.

Taken aback.

For a moment, you almost disregarded it entirely.

Impossible.

This was nothing more than a mortal spinning meaning into something beyond his comprehension.

And yet—

Something scratched at the edges of your mind.

A memory.

A day you'd long since forgotten, brushed aside as nothing more than routine.

You hadn't cared to remember it before.

But now, standing before the prince, the scene rose unbidden.

The loom had frayed.

A premature cutting—one that should not have been.

Your sister had sent you, impatient and irritated, ordering you to fix it quickly.

The ocean.

The storm.

A body floating amid the wreckage of a broken ship.

A soul, already half-detached from its thread, lingering at the precipice.

An attendant reaching for him—one of the lesser ones, those who collected the dead and carried them to their end.

You had stopped them.

Swiftly. Cleanly. Without thought.

A glance at the figure in the water—just a single flicker of acknowledgment—before you had moved on, correcting the weave, restoring the balance, leaving without a second thought.

You had not thought of it again.

Until now.

Until him.

You stared at Telemachus.

"Yes," you said at last, your voice carefully even. "I seem to recall that."

The admission lingered between you for a moment, a thread of truth woven into the fabric of this dream.

But you didn't let it hold weight.

There was no reason to linger on the past when you'd come for the present.

"That is not why I'm here," you continued. "You were supposed to die a week ago."

You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

But Telemachus didn't flinch.

Didn't pale, didn't startle, didn't so much as tense at your words.

His expression remained unreadable, the calm of his features giving away nothing.

And then—

"I see."

That was all he said.

"I see."

You blinked.

You'd promised yourself you would remain impartial, wouldn't let this frustrate you.

But something tightened in your chest, something sharp and unfamiliar.

"That's it?" you demanded, your voice edged with something you didn't care to name. "You learn you were meant to die, and all you have to say is 'I see'? Has mortality truly lost all sense of self-preservation? Have mortals become so uncaring?"

Telemachus snorted.

The sound was so unexpected, so entirely human, that you were caught off guard by it.

"Apologies," he said, though he did not sound particularly sorry. "It's just—" He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as though something about your words genuinely amused him. "I'm not uncaring. I'm just practical."

You frowned. "Practical?"

"Yes."

He looked at you then, something steady and certain in his gaze.

"My death was meant to happen, wasn't it? Written in the stars, as they say?"

"Yes," you confirmed.

Telemachus nodded, unsurprised. "Then if it was meant to happen, what good would it do for me to fight it?"

You took that in, rolling his words over in your mind, trying to fit them into what you understood of mortals.

They were creatures of resistance. Of want. Even in the face of death, they clung. They wailed, they raged, they fought for every last breath.

But not him.

He accepted.

He didn't cling to his life because he'd already made peace with it ending.

A strange thing, for a mortal to be so willing.

"You are... wise for your age," you said at last.

Telemachus gave a small, knowing smile. "Thank you."

For a moment, silence lingered between you.

He took the time to glance around the dream, taking in the shifting woods, the way the shadows stretched and flickered in ways they should not.

Then, at last, he turned back to you.

"So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

The question was inevitable.

You found yourself at a loss for words.

The answer should've been simple.

And yet—

"I'm... not sure."

The words left you before you could think of another response.

And they were the truth.

The admission lingered in the air, weightless yet suffocating. It wasn't often that you were without an answer, and yet here you were—standing before a mortal, admitting to something you did not understand.

Telemachus watched you closely, searching your face for something, though you didn't know what. He didn't press you for an answer, didn't mock your uncertainty.

Instead, he hummed, as if considering something.

"Well, that's unexpected."

"Unexpected?" you repeated.

"That you, of all beings, don't know why I lived." He gave you a small, lopsided smile. "It's almost comforting, in a way. Even fate isn't infallible."

You frowned. "You misunderstand."

"Do I?"

You didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, you shifted the conversation.

"You seem remarkably unshaken by this revelation."

"Would it make a difference if I were?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Most mortals would not take this so lightly."

"I'm not most mortals."

A simple statement, but one that carried weight.

Telemachus settled back slightly, looking at you with an unreadable expression. He studied you with the same scrutiny you had studied him.

"You know," he mused, "for a being who deals in death, you seem very interested in those who still live."

"It is my duty to understand the lives I end."

"Then let me ask you something." He tilted his head, voice thoughtful. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret?"

"Yes." He shifted his weight slightly. "Do you ever wonder about the people whose threads you cut? Do you ever think about what might have been if you hadn't?"

"No."

The answer was immediate, instinctive.

Yet, even as you said it, you felt the weight of Telemachus' thread around your fingers—phantom and persistent, lingering even though you were no longer holding it.

Telemachus watched you, as if considering whether or not to believe you.

"I see," he said finally, though his voice suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, there was an ease in it, an understanding that neither of you felt the need to fill with empty words.

He shifted, stretching out his legs, his gaze drifting toward the trees above you.

"It's strange," he said after a while.

"What is?"

"Speaking with you."

"Because I am not mortal?"

"Because you are fate. Well, part of it." He gave you a glance, something wry in his expression. "Men have prayed to the gods for answers since the beginning of time, yet here I am, speaking to one who claims not to have them."

"I never claimed to have all of them."

"No, I suppose not."

A beat.

Then, he asked, "What was it like?"

"What?"

"Knowing how everything ends?"

You exhaled slowly. "Predictable."

Telemachus huffed a soft laugh. "And here I thought fate would be grander than that."

"Mortals think many things are grander than they truly are."

"I imagine so."

His fingers twitched absentmindedly against the fabric of his tunic, his thoughts drifting somewhere far away.

"Would you rather not know?" he asked.

"What?"

"How things end. Would you rather be... surprised?"

"No."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully but did not press the matter.

He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Do you fear anything?"

You looked at him. "Fear?"

"Yes. Surely even fate is capable of it?"

"No."

Another immediate response. Another truth.

Or perhaps... not.

Telemachus watched you carefully, his expression thoughtful.

"You're not what I expected," he finally admitted.

"And what did you expect?"

"Something colder. Something less curious."

"I'm not curious."

He gave you a knowing look. "If you say so."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But before he could speak again, something shifted.

A distant pull, a whisper at the edges of your existence, calling you back.

Lachesis.

Clotho.

Your sisters were summoning you.

Your time here was over.

You turned back to Telemachus, who watched you with calm awareness, as if he already knew what was happening. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

He nodded slightly, as if he had expected this.

"Will I see you again?"

You hesitated.

The answer should have been no.

But you didn't say it.

Instead, you stepped back, allowing the dream to dissolve around you.

The last thing you saw before you faded was Telemachus, still sitting beneath the trees, watching you leave as though he was already waiting for your return.

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 03 Chapter 03 | wavering shears⌟

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It had been a week since you should've cut his thread.

A week since you let Telemachus slip past his fate.

You had more than enough time to rectify it.

There'd been countless moments where you could've simply reached forward, pressed the shears to the strand, and severed him from existence. You had every opportunity.

And yet—you hadn't.

It would've been easy to tell yourself you had simply been busy.

The world had no shortage of the dying.

Threads snapped, frayed, and unraveled in great numbers every day. There were always battles. Always kings gasping their last breath. Always nameless men falling beneath uncaring skies.

Yes. You could've said you had been preoccupied.

But even you knew that wasn't the truth.

Because once again—

You found yourself in his dreams.

Just as before, Telemachus leaned against the cypress tree, his eyes closed, his breathing even.

Stillness.

Peace.

The dream hadn't changed from last time.

You wondered if he willed it into existence each night, or if this was simply where his mind drifted when left unguarded—this singular moment of quiet, this illusion of untouched serenity.

Daring, you decided to disrupt it.

A selfish little act.

But you'd allowed yourself too many indulgences already.

One more wouldn't matter.

You reached forward.

And the world trembled at your touch.

A whisper. A shift. A ripple.

His body tensed.

The dream bent beneath your will, time stretching back, the threads of his subconscious untangling like loose strands from a spool.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dissipated.

And the past emerged.

It played out exactly as before.

The halls of the overrun palace stretched before him, dark and filled with distant echoes. Shadows slithered along the walls, the scent of fire and blood thick in the air, clinging to his skin like something alive.

Telemachus moved carefully, blade drawn, his steps silent as he wove through the corridors. His heart was steady, his grip firm.

He'd trained for this. He'd fought for this. He'd killed for this.

He entered the chamber, eyes scanning the overturned furniture, the splintered wood, the remnants of what once stood before war came to claim it.

But this time—this time, there was no last-minute dodge.

No instinct pulling him from the path of death.

No twist, no counter, no shield raised in time.

No—this time, fate followed through as it was meant to.

The captain's blade plunged deep into his back.

His body jerked forward, his fingers flexing, grasping at empty air. A sharp, gasping exhale ripped from his throat. His knees hit the stone with a hollow thud.

His grip weakened. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly beside him.

Blood spilled freely. Warm. Endless. Soaking into his tunic, pooling at his knees, sinking into the cracks of the floor like ink into parchment.

Above him, the captain loomed, silent, his expression unreadable.

Telemachus wanted to move, to push himself up, to fight, but his body betrayed him; his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Then, the captain laughed. A harsh, rasping cackle that echoed off the ruined walls, thick with mockery.

"Ah, little wolf," he sneered, nudging Telemachus' fallen sword with the toe of his boot. "Maybe you should have trained a little longer. Maybe then you'd have lasted more than a heartbeat."

Telemachus tried to summon the fire that had carried him through every battle before—but his limbs were leaden, his vision blurring at the edges. The fight was gone from him, drained along with the warmth leaving his body.

The captain crouched, his smirk curling cruelly. "All that blood, all that war—and still, you're nothing but a boy playing at being a man. Shame."

He then stood, wiping his blade clean with slow, deliberate strokes, as if Telemachus' life was nothing more than a stain to be discarded.

Then, without another glance, he turned and stepped back into the shadows, his work complete, his blade slick with the blood of a prince who was never meant to survive.

Telemachus didn't cry out.

He didn't panic.

His fingers pressed lightly against the wound at his chest, feeling the warmth of his own life draining from him. He didn't try to crawl forward. Didn't scramble to rise.

Instead, he simply exhaled.

And then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he shifted his weight and propped himself against the nearest wall.

The city burned beyond the open window.

The flames reflected in his tired eyes, flickering gold and orange against the brown depths. His breathing slowed, his shoulders slackened.

He watched the fire consume what remained of the kingdom he had helped conquer.

Accepting.

Untroubled.

Not a man who fought his fate.

A man who met it.

You tilted your head.

Interesting.

So this was what would have happened had he not moved. Had he not stepped outside the weave of fate.

This was what you were meant to see.

And yet—

Why did it feel so hollow?

You didn't like it.

This quiet, this stillness, this acceptance.

You'd expected resistance, had expected some lingering trace of defiance, something that would make sense of why he had slipped past your shears.

But no.

He'd welcomed your death with all the serenity of a man laying down to sleep.

The sight left a distaste in your mouth, an irritation you couldn't place.

With a swipe of your hand, you undid it.

The flames faded, the blood retracted, and the quiet hall was once again replaced by the cypress tree and the warmth of a dream untouched by fate.

Telemachus leaned against its bark, his expression calm, unaware of the shift in his subconscious. The world was still, undisturbed.

You left without looking back.

The moment you returned home, they were upon you.

The first voice you heard was Lachesis.

"Where have you been?" Her tone was clipped, the voice of someone who had already counted your absence and found it lacking.

Before you could answer, Clotho giggled, her youthful voice carrying easily. "Watching Prince Telemachus again, I bet."

You didn't respond, you didn't need to—Lachesis' frown deepened, her sharp gaze narrowing as she stepped closer. "Wasn't Telemachus supposed to be cut a week ago?"

You brushed past them, making a sound in your throat that could have been agreement or dismissal. "Yes, but something happened."

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth.

It was something in between, a vague enough statement that they would either let it go or pull it apart.

They followed.

Of course they did.

Lachesis pressed further. "And why haven't you fixed it?"

"Yes," Clotho agreed, voice far too bratty for someone who only ever handled the beginning of a thread. "You're always on us about staying on top of our work, about how balance must be maintained, yet here you are, letting some mortal—"

You sighed, the sound heavy enough to make them pause.

You didn't know if your frustration came from their badgering or from the truth buried in their words.

You should've fixed it. You should've severed his thread the moment it slipped from your shears.

But you hadn't.

And still, you hadn't.

"I'll fix it soon." You brushed past them before they could question you further.

You walked until all else faded.

This place—our place—was not meant for mortal minds to comprehend. They had tried, of course, twisting myths and half-truths into crude approximations of reality. They believed in three women weaving at a great loom, their fingers plucking at the fates of men, deciding who would live and who would die.

But they were wrong.

The loom didn't need you. It would spin with or without your hands.

It was the source.

The great, unending weave from which all things were bound.

Every single thread—every single thing that had ever existed—was here. From the smallest blade of grass to the vast, endless expanse of the cosmos. From the lowest beggar to the highest god.

It didn't differentiate.

Even deities, despite what they liked to believe, were not immune to the loom's reach.

Their threads were longer, yes. More complex, stretching far beyond the lifespan of a mortal. But they were here, woven alongside everything else, their fates just as susceptible to the pull and twist of time.

You stepped forward, the sheer magnitude of the loom stretching into infinity.

And yet—you knew precisely where to go.

Your fingers trailed along the countless threads, feeling the pulse of lives intertwined, the way they tangled and broke apart, the way some hummed with purpose while others barely trembled.

Then, you reached his.

You knew it by sight now.

By feel.

By the way it had wound itself between your fingers for days, always lingering at the edge of your thoughts.

Telemachus.

His thread should not have been here.

It should have been severed, should have fallen away from the weave, sinking into the void where all things ended.

And yet—

You held it between your fingers, twisting it slowly, feeling the life pulsing through its fragile length.

You thought of the young prince.

Of his story.

Of the way his life had unfolded, each moment shaped by things greater than himself—by war, by gods, by the weight of a name he hadn't chosen.

Why would he accept his fate so readily?

Why, after all this time, after finally carving himself into something more than just the son of Odysseus, would he let it all end with nothing more than a quiet sigh?

The thought frustrated you more than it should have.

You'd seen mortals claw at their lives with desperation. You'd seen kings wail and beg at your feet for just a little more time. You'd seen warriors rage, refuse, fight.

But not him.

He'd simply let go.

The thread in your grasp trembled. Your fingers tightened.

But then—

You inhaled. Slowly.

And you remembered.

You were Fate.

You were what gods feared, what even immortals did not question. Your knowledge was absolute. Your presence was inevitable. What use was frustration when the outcome was yours to decide?

The truth settled over you, heavy and undeniable.

You didn't have to be frustrated.

You didn't have to wonder.

You decided how this ended.

If you wished for answers, you would take them.

If you wished for this interest to end, you would end it.

The choice was yours.

The thought soothed the quiet irritation curling beneath your skin. Your fingers loosened, releasing the thread back into the weave.

Tomorrow, you would visit the young prince.

You would speak to him.

And then, you would put an end to this foolish interest once and for all.

You would fix what should've never been broken.

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 31 Chapter 31 | the hunter's snare⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The festival had come and gone, but its aftermath lingered like the fading echoes of a song. What should have been a return to normalcy was anything but.

After Telemachus' open declaration—after he had placed the victor's crown upon your head for all to see—Apollo's signs began to grow.

At first, it was subtle, almost easy to dismiss as mere coincidence. Small things.

A missing item suddenly appearing in your path.

A tune you had forgotten returning to your mind as though whispered on the wind.

A lost earring—a piece you hadn't even noticed had fallen—laid neatly upon your windowsill by morning, gleaming in the first light of dawn.

You could almost ignore those. Almost.

But then, the gifts became more... deliberate. Too deliberate.

One day, you had merely thought—just thought—about how you missed your favorite snack, how you wished for something sweet to chase away the salt of your meal. Barely an hour later, a kitchen servant came bustling toward you, a plate in her hands.

"This was just left on the counter," she had said, offering it to you with a puzzled look as if confused by her actions. "No one claimed it. Thought you might've... wanted it?"

It was exactly what you had been craving.

Then came the trinkets.

At first, it was feathers, delicate white and gold, tucked into your path as if the wind had scattered them there with purpose.

Then, a small pendant—a polished sunstone carved with the faintest etching of a lyre—dropped into your hands from a passing bird's beak. The swallow had circled your head once before flying off, its wings flashing gold in the sunlight.

And with it, a message had lingered in the air, as if whispered directly into your mind.

"A bright gift for a bright muse."

Your breath had hitched.

It just didn't stop.

Birds came more frequently, each bearing something small—rings, bracelets, delicate pins shaped like laurel leaves. Every single one gleamed gold. Every single one was divine.

It wasn't just trinkets, either.

More than once, you had found yourself outside, only to notice the way the animals reacted. Swallows, doves, even hawks—they hovered, they circled, some perching just within reach as if awaiting a command. Deer had wandered closer when you passed through the gardens, their dark eyes unblinking, bodies completely still as they watched you.

It was undeniable.

Apollo was making himself known.

And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the feeling growing in your chest—that something was coming. That this was not just favor.

It was claim.

Of what, you weren't sure—or at least, you hoped you weren't sure. But it was getting harder to deny.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

Not after Telemachus' declaration. Not after the festival, after the ode you had sung in honor of Olympus, after you had allowed your name to be spoken in the same breath as his.

You tried to convince yourself that it was absurd, that you were being full of yourself to think that a god—Apollo—was responding to something as human as a prince's favor.

What arrogance, what foolishness, to assume the gods played games over mortal affection.

You weren't that important.

And yet...

With each passing day, you began to feel it. The weight of divine attention. Something unseen pressing against you, hovering, waiting.

And Apollo's gifts? They bordered on intrusive.

At first, it was easy enough to rationalize—perhaps even be amused by. A golden hairpin one day, a warm meal exactly when you needed it the next.

But then... then it became constant.

The birds never left you alone, their wings always flashing gold. The gifts became more extravagant, more insistent—bracelets, pendants, a lyre string crafted of pure sunlight (which you hadn't dared to touch).

And no matter how much you told yourself it was well-intentioned, no matter how much you wanted to believe that this was simply favor—simple admiration for your voice— the small voice in the back of your mind whispered otherwise.

It didn't feel like favor.

It felt like possession.

And now, you were holding another piece of it in your hands.

You had just returned from your chambers, having carefully placed yet another divine gift among the growing collection. This time, it was a pair of dewy earrings, crafted from the petals of a mythical flower that bloomed only under Apollo's gaze.

They were delicate—softer than silk, yet impossibly resilient. A shimmering golden thread connected each petal, glinting like sunlight caught in morning dew.

At first, you had thought to leave them untouched, to simply pretend you hadn't seen them. But lately...

Lately, when you didn't accept them right away, the deliveries became more extravagant.

A simple brooch became a jeweled circlet. A bottle of scented oil turned into a full amphora of sacred myrrh from Delphi. And now, flowers woven into something meant to be worn against your skin.

You had caved. You took the earrings. And you hated that you felt relieved when nothing bigger followed.

Letting out a slow breath, you stepped out into the open air, hoping the movement would clear your thoughts. That's when you noticed it—the slow shuffle of figures moving toward the edge of the palace grounds.

Your eyes narrowed.

They weren't just servants or wandering guests. No, they moved with purpose.

Most were clad in hunting leathers, bows slung across their backs, quivers filled with fresh arrows. Ithacans and Bronteneans alike, a rare sight of camaraderie as they made their way toward the woods.

Your curiosity got the better of you.

You hurried forward, weaving through the edges of the gathering until you reached the rear. And that's when you caught sight of him.

Telemachus.

He was standing a little ahead, deep in conversation with Callias, the shorter man gesturing animatedly, likely teasing him about something. Telemachus only huffed in response, shaking his head with a small, amused smirk—a rare expression these days.

A strange feeling curled in your stomach.

For just a moment, you forgot about the earrings in your room, about Apollo's endless signs, about the way divine favor wrapped around you like chains spun from gold.

Instead, you watched the prince.

And then, refusing to let yourself sink into hesitation, you acted.

Impulsively.

Lifting your hand, you waved—nothing dramatic, just enough to catch his attention.

It worked. Too well.

Telemachus turned almost instantly, his sharp eyes finding yours before you could second-guess yourself. But before you could even process the way his expression shifted—pleasantly surprised, then amused—a sudden jolt ran up your arm.

You flinched.

Frowning, your gaze darted down, confusion rippling through you as you instinctively rubbed your wrist.

Your bracelet.

You hadn't thought about it in days, but now, it seemed to hum against your skin—a subtle, almost imperceptible pull.

It was one of the first gifts you had received.

One you hadn't been able to resist keeping.

It was delicate yet sturdy, a thin golden chain adorned with a mesmerizing mixture of different stones. Each gem shimmered in a way that seemed unnatural—sometimes blue, sometimes green, flecks of fiery red sparking across their surface.

You'd assumed it was just an Ithacan craft, something rare but not... otherworldly.

But now, as it throbbed faintly against your pulse, you weren't so sure.

You traced the stones absently, wondering if you were imagining it, before Telemachus' voice cut through your thoughts.

"You're staring awfully hard at your wrist," he said, amusement evident in his tone. "Something wrong?"

Your fingers stilled.

You quickly dropped your hand, forcing a sheepish smile. "No," you said, too fast. "Just thinking."

His gaze flickered to your bracelet, but mercifully, he didn't push.

But that didn't mean he wasn't thinking about it.

You'd noticed.

Telemachus had been watching.

Not in an obvious way—not like Callias and the others, who made no effort to hide their curiosity about the divine gifts appearing at your feet like an offering on an altar.

Callias had been the first to joke about it, nudging you with a smug grin whenever a falcon dropped a trinket at your feet or a flower bloomed seemingly out of nowhere in your path. Asta followed suit, telling you in her usual dry tone that you'd better start demanding grander offerings while you had the gods' attention. Lysandra 'ooing' and telling you that she'll happily take whatever you didn't want.

Even Kieran, ever the skeptic, had muttered once under his breath about Apollo's audacity.

But Telemachus?

He never said a word about it.

He simply looked.

You'd caught him more than once, staring at the latest token left in your wake, his jaw tightening just slightly before he tore his gaze away. Never a comment, never a question—just an unspoken awareness.

It made something uneasy settle in your chest.

Clearing your throat, you pushed the thought aside. "Where's everyone going?"

Telemachus blinked, as if just remembering why he had come over in the first place. "The festival took a bigger hit on the food stores than expected," he explained, gesturing toward the group of Ithacans and Bronteans gathered ahead. "Some of Bronte's men offered to join the hunting party to help restock."

You nodded slowly, taking in the small cluster of figures dressed for the hunt—bows slung over shoulders, spears clutched in strong grips. Their leathers were well-worn, their faces focused.

It felt... familiar.

It had been a while since you'd seen hunters preparing for a real expedition. Ithaca thrived on its fishermen and traders, but the forests were vast, and hunting was an essential skill.

The thought struck you before you could stop it.

You didn't have plans for the evening.

And more importantly—

"I want to join," you said.

Telemachus hesitated, his lips parting as if to object immediately.

But before he could, Callias appeared at your side, grinning ear to ear.

"Oh~ I like that idea," he said, draping an arm over your shoulder with a dramatic sigh. "The Divine Liaison gracing us lowly hunters with her presence. Who knows? Maybe your glowing aura will lure the prey straight to us."

You rolled your eyes, shoving him off playfully, but Telemachus didn't laugh.

His brows were still slightly furrowed, his weight shifting like he was undecided.

You raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "It's not exactly... a performance," he said carefully, as if weighing his words. "We'll be out in the woods for hours—sometime days. It's not a casual walk through the gardens."

You tilted your head. "What? You don't think I can keep up?"

His expression twitched.

Before he could find a diplomatic way to answer, Callias let out a loud laugh, slapping the prince on the back. "Oh, come on, let her come. A little adventure never hurt anyone—" he paused, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness, "—well, maybe a few people, but I feel good about this one."

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, still looking at you.

And you looked right back, silent but steady.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he gave a single nod. "Fine."

A victorious grin split Callias' face. "That's the spirit, prince. Now, let's go make ourselves useful."

As the group began to move, you found yourself falling into step beside Telemachus.

And for the first time in days, you felt like you'd made a decision that wasn't already written in the stars.

☆

☆

The first few hours in the woods were filled with laughter, sharp whispers, and the occasional snap of a twig beneath hurried steps. The forest was alive in a way that Ithaca rarely felt—the usual quiet hum of the land disrupted by the unfamiliar presence of Brontean hunters.

Callias, ever the chatty nuisance, couldn't stop comparing everything to his homeland.

"I'm telling you, the forests in Bronte are denser than this," he said, stepping over a moss-covered root with ease. "Darker, too. You'd hardly see two feet ahead of you some nights." He whistled under his breath. "And the animals—they're larger. Meaner. Not like these cute little things." He gestured vaguely to the small rabbits and quails some of the hunters had already caught, hanging from their belts.

One of the Ithacan men scoffed, inspecting the string of fowl tied to his belt. "Cute, huh?" He let out a low chuckle. "You ever seen a boar up close, boy? One of those beasts will gut a man before he can even scream."

Callias grinned. "Oh, I've seen one. Even fought one."

Kieran snorted beside him, nudging his ribs. "I believe what he means to say is that he ran for his life while the rest of us fought it."

Telemachus chuckled, shaking his head. "Sounds about right."

The group continued forward, their movements careful but efficient. Some men split off into smaller clusters, circling the area to track fresh prey while others stayed together, sweeping the terrain for larger game.

You stayed near the middle, watching, learning.

It was strange—how different hunting in a group felt. You were used to watching from the sidelines, used to staying behind while others carried the weight of necessity. But here, in the midst of it, there was an odd sense of belonging.

The conversations, the shared silences, the way the hunters moved as one—it felt... easy.

Until it wasn't.

It started slowly, almost imperceptible at first.

A change in the wind. A shift in the air.

One moment, you were trailing behind Telemachus, keeping pace as the group moved deeper into the woods.

The next—you weren't.

You weren't sure when you'd stepped off the path, when your feet had carried you just a little too far from the others.

One second, they were ahead of you.

And the next—they were gone.

The voices, the quiet laughter, the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot—

All of it vanished.

You stopped walking.

Your breath caught in your throat as you turned sharply, expecting to see someone behind you—anyone.

But there was nothing.

Just trees.

Just silence.

Just you.

You called out, first hesitantly, then louder, voice cracking slightly as the quiet of the forest swallowed your words.

"Telemachus?"

Nothing.

"Callias? Kieran?"

Only the rustling of leaves. The distant creak of branches.

Your pulse quickened. You weren't unfamiliar with solitude—but this was''t solitude. This was something else entirely.

This was being lost.

With a slow, steady breath, you forced your legs to move.

At first, you tried to retrace your steps, scanning the ground for any signs of your passage—disturbed earth, a snapped twig, anything to ground you. But the more you walked, the more everything blurred together. Each tree looked too similar, each root and rock blending into the last, the path ahead eerily identical to the one behind.

It's just a trick of the trees. You weren't lost. You couldn't be.

Your steps picked up slightly.

You walked.

And walked.

And walked.

And then—

A stump.

Your eyes flicked to it absently as you passed, barely sparing it a glance. It was large, the top worn smooth with age, deep grooves in its surface like old scars. The thought crossed your mind that you had passed one like it before.

You frowned slightly but didn't stop.

Another stretch of walking. Another few turns.

You stepped over a fallen branch, stripped of bark, lined with moss.

The thought tugged at your mind, but you kept going.

Minutes passed.

Another clearing.

Until—

Another stump.

Your brows furrowed as you slowed, mouth opening slightly, a small breath slipping out. Did I turn myself around? You hesitated, then shook your head. No. Keep going.

You pushed forward, quickening your pace.

After a while, your frustration began simmering beneath your breath.

You stepped over fallen branch, shaking your head. "Of course," you mumbled, voice dry. "Gods appear all the time, yet when I actually need—"

Snap.

You froze.

The sound wasn't yours.

Slowly, your gaze flickered to the left, eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. Silence followed, thick and expectant, pressing down on your lungs.

And then—movement.

From behind a tree, a figure emerged.

Not a man.

A beast.

You stumbled back, pulse hammering as your gaze locked onto the creature before you.

It was a fox—but not like any you'd ever seen before.

It was large, nearly the size of a hound, its frame sleek and powerful. Its fur was black as ink, the color swallowing the light, yet its ears and tail burned like fire—a deep, striking red-orange, flickering like embers against its dark coat.

Its eyes—gods, its eyes—were the color of pure charcoal, gleaming with something that felt almost... aware.

And it was staring right at you.

The world around you narrowed—the rustling leaves, the distant chirping of birds, even the cool breeze against your skin faded into nothing as you locked eyes with the creature before you.

You froze, your body caught in that fragile space between fight and flight. Your breath hitched, your muscles coiling with tension, but you didn't move.

Stay calm. Don't startle it.

A single sharp movement, a single wrong breath, and what then? The fox was large, predatory in stature, and something in those eyes made it clear this wasn't just any beast.

You swallowed, pulse pounding against your ribs, but you smothered the panic. Letting it take hold would do you no good. If you didn't move, if you didn't pose a threat, surely it would lose interest and leave.

But it didn't.

Instead, the fox moved closer.

Its silent steps barely stirred the leaves beneath its paws as it crept forward, its head lowering, gaze never straying from you. Its tail flicked once, a slow, deliberate movement, the red-orange tufts at the end glowing like smoldering embers in the fading light.

Your breath shortened, tension curling tight in your stomach.

It was too close now. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faintest ripple of muscle beneath its sleek, obsidian coat, close enough that you swore you could feel the warmth radiating from its body.

The creature sniffed the air, its dark nose twitching. Then, it lowered its head further, stepping into your space.

What do I do? What do I do? The thought flashed through your mind, lightning-quick, frantic. If I startle it, would it attack? Would it—

It took another step.

Your heart stammered painfully against your ribs as you slowly, carefully, extended your hand.

The fox bowed its head, pressing its nose just inches from your outstretched fingers.

Your fingers trembled.

A breath passed.

Then another.

And then—warmth.

The fox's damp nose brushed against your skin; its breath, soft and measured, fanned across your palm, and for a brief, dizzying moment, it felt like the world had stopped turning.

And still, those dark eyes watched you.

Carefully—hesitantly—you shifted your fingers ever so slightly, testing.

The fox didn't recoil, didn't flinch. Its dark, luxurious fur gleamed beneath the dappled light breaking through the trees, its strange, onyx eyes still locked onto yours.

Steady. You swallowed, feeling braver now, and gently—so gently—you reached forward and let your fingertips ghost over the top of its head.

Warmth. Silken fur.

The fox allowed it.

Your chest eased, the weight of held breath finally exhaling from your lungs. A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped you, part amusement, part disbelief. You shook your head at yourself, feeling foolish for how tense you'd been. "Gods," you murmured, half-laughing, running your fingers lightly through the soft black fur. "I was acting like you were some terrible beast."

The fox blinked up at you, unreadable but knowing, and for a brief, strange moment, you almost felt as if it understood you.

But before you could dwell on it further, a sudden snap of a branch echoed through the clearing.

Your breath hitched, your head snapping toward the sound.

Emerging from the underbrush—tense, eyes sharp, and movements careful—was Telemachus.

He stepped forward slowly, the dimming light catching on the sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead. His form was rigid, muscles coiled with the instinct of a hunter, and your gaze flickered to his hand—hovering near the knife strapped at his belt.

"Wait," you called quickly, voice soft but firm. "It's okay. It hasn't harmed me—it means no harm."

Telemachus' gaze flickered to the fox, then back to you, taking in the way it leaned against your touch, its head lightly pressing into your palm.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his steps were still measured as he came closer;  a wry smile tugged at his lips, his head shaking slightly in half-exasperation, half-amusement. He exhaled sharply, murmuring under his breath, "Thank the gods."

His words sent a flutter through your chest.

And yet—your fingers remained tangled in the fox's fur, the strange creature pressing closer.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, shifting his weight onto his back foot, his eyes flicking between you and the fox with growing scrutiny.

Your brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

The fox—still nestled against your palm—tilted its head, its black eyes flickering toward Telemachus before nudging your hand demandingly, as if urging you to continue. Instinctively, your fingers resumed their gentle behind its ear, brushing through the thick, velvety fur.

Telemachus watched the interaction carefully, his jaw tightening as he exhaled slowly through his nose. "That animal is dangerous," he said, voice lower now, edged with something serious.

You snorted. "What?" you teased, turning your gaze back to the fox. "Is it going to eat me alive?"

Your voice had softened into something cooing, your hand scratching just beneath its jaw, and to your delight, the fox's hind leg began tapping lightly against the ground in clear enjoyment—like a pleased pup soaking in attention.

For a brief second, you forgot about Telemachus entirely, smiling as you leaned in slightly, murmuring playfully, "Ohhh, look at you. So scary, aren't you? A big, fearsome hunter just waiting to gobble me up—"

"Precisely."

Telemachus' voice cut through the moment like a blade.

You froze.

Your fingers stopped mid-scratch, your breath catching.

The fox let out a small, dissatisfied whine, pushing its head insistently into your palm, but you barely noticed—your mind was too busy catching up.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turned your head back to Telemachus, whose expression remained firm, unreadable—but his stance never eased. If anything, he looked tenser than before, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in something between thought and quiet suspicion.

"Have you noticed anything strange?" he asked, voice quieter now, like he was gauging something—waiting.

You blinked. "Strange?"

Telemachus' fingers twitched, his gaze momentarily dragging toward the trees before returning to you. "Since you got lost," he clarified. "Has anything felt... off?"

You hesitated, shifting your weight slightly. The question made you think—really think—about the past hour.

"Not really," you murmured at first, but the words felt wrong the second they left your lips. A small frown tugged at your brows as you tried to recall—tried to piece together why, exactly, you had felt so uneasy wandering through the woods alone.

Your mind retraced your steps.

The trees. The uneven ground. The way the air had felt thick, heavy, pressing in a way that made the silence stretch just a little too long.

Then, the stumps.

You frowned.

"I mean..." You shifted, rubbing your fingers absently against the fabric of your skirt. "I kept passing a few stumps that looked similar. I thought it was just me—just the forest, playing tricks. I figured I was walking in circles."

Telemachus' gaze sharpened.

His silence pressed against you, thick and expectant, as if waiting for you to realize something you hadn't yet put into words.

Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting together. "But I wasn't... was I?"

He inhaled slowly, eyes dark, unreadable.

"You weren't just lost," he murmured, an edge of wariness that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. "You were being led."

"Led?" you repeated, hesitant, the word tasting wrong on your tongue.

Telemachus nostrils flared as his eyes swept the darkening woods around you. "That's how they hunt," he said, voice low, measured. He nodded toward the fox, though he never took his eyes off you. "They don't chase. They don't lunge or tear through the underbrush. They guide. They trick."

A prickle skated down your spine.

"Who?" you asked, throat tightening.

"The Askálion."

The name itself felt old, weighted with something that did not belong in the mortal realm.

"It's a beast of Ithaca," he continued, his tone clipped, factual, but his shoulders had stiffened, his grip now fully wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. "Hunters whisper about them, but we never speak their name in the open. Even the most seasoned men don't travel alone in the forests after dark."

You swallowed thickly, glancing down at the small, unassuming fox in your lap. The warm weight of it, the gentle flick of its tail against your skin, felt at complete odds with the dread coiling in your gut.

"You said you kept walking past the same stump," Telemachus pressed. "You never thought to turn back?"

"I did," you admitted, suddenly unsure. "At least, I thought I did. The trees all looked the same, so I figured I was just... confused."

His expression darkened.

"You weren't confused." His voice was taut. "You were being drawn in. The Askálion leads you deeper, warping your path so you think you're lost when in truth, you're exactly where it wants you to be."

A sick, twisting feeling clawed its way up your chest.

"And when that happens?" you asked, dreading the answer.

Telemachus exhaled, slow and steady, his features hard. "They wait. They wait until you've exhausted yourself, until you've gone in circles so many times that the moment you realize something is wrong—" his voice dipped, grim, "it's already too late."

The fox pressed tighter against you, its warmth nearly pleasant. Nearly.

"How... do you know all this?" you asked, a faint, wavering edge to your voice.

Telemachus' lips pressed into a thin line. "Because I've seen what's left."

Something cold crawled down your spine.

"Hunters have found bodies before," he went on, his tone even but weighted. "Not many, but enough to know the signs." His gaze flicked to the fox in your lap, then back to you. "The Askálion doesn't kill like a wolf or a lion. It doesn't maul. It doesn't rip. It... plays."

You stared at him, at the way the muscles in his jaw shifted, at the way his grip never left his blade.

"They don't just find the bodies," he murmured, voice quieter now. "They find pieces. Scattered across the ground like broken offerings. Strips of flesh caught on branches, the bones gnawed clean. Whatever it doesn't eat, it leaves behind."

Your stomach twisted violently.

You couldn't stop yourself. You looked down at the fox.

It gazed up at you with those same wide, patient eyes. Innocent. Trusting.

And yet—

A vision slammed into your mind unbidden—blood-streaked earth, limbs bent at unnatural angles, a mouth frozen in an eternal scream. A figure who had once been a person now reduced to nothing more than scraps for the soil, their existence erased with nothing but claw marks in the dirt and gnawed bones in the trees.

A complete and utter ruin.

"It should've eaten you by now."

The words barely registered at first.

When they did, they struck like ice poured straight down your back.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale, mind suddenly racing back over every step you had taken in the last hour, retracing the eerie, endless loop of trees and stumps and more trees—until you had stopped.

Until you had met the fox.

Swallowing thickly, you sent an internal prayer to Apollo, barely registering the movement of your own fingers clutching the fabric of your skirt. Protection, favor, fate—whatever it is, whatever you've given me—please, just let it hold.

But the fox 

Forcing a wobbling smile, you turned back to the fox, who had settled against your leg, blinking up at you with those same eerily intelligent eyes.

It didn't move, didn't shift, didn't tense, didn't so much as twitch an ear. It only watched.

Slowly, carefully, you forced yourself to lift your hand, pressing one final, bland pat on the creature's head. "Well, that's... unsettling," you murmured, voice weaker than you wanted it to be.

Before you could gather your wits, a sharp, distant sound carried through the trees—the telltale calls of hunting hounds, the rustling of underbrush as the hunting party moved closer.

Your stomach dropped.

Your thoughts immediately jumped to the fox's unusual coat—too dark, too striking, too unnatural to go unnoticed. A hunter's prize.

The fox's ears twitched at the sound, but it didn't move, merely pressing itself closer to you.

"Go," you whispered, patting its head with slightly more force, urging it to leave. But it didn't move. Instead, it nudged your knee, its cool nose brushing against your skin as if it didn't understand the danger.

Panic flared in your chest.

"Go!" you hissed more urgently, glancing over your shoulder at the distant sound of barking. Why wasn't it leaving?

You heard Telemachus sigh.

"I'll take care of it," he muttered, already turning on his heel. "Stay here."

"Wait, where are you—?"

But he was already jogging away, shaking his head, his tone laced with disbelief.

"Only you," he muttered under his breath. "Only you would get lost in the woods and come across a legend only to end up scratching it behind the ears."

You watched as he disappeared into the woods, weaving between the trees with an easy grace, his strides long and purposeful.

You turned back to the fox, your heart thudding anxiously.

"Please," you whispered, trying again, gently nudging it with your knee. "Just leave. Before they see you."

But the fox only tilted its head, eyes glowing faintly in the dimming light. Then, to your growing horror, it pawed at your leg, making a low, insistent chuffing noise.

Your eye twitched. "You've got to be joking."

The fox merely pressed closer.

You groaned under your breath, running a hand down your face.

About ten minutes later, you heard familiar footsteps approaching.

You spun around just as Telemachus broke through the trees, panting slightly.

"They won't be anywhere near here for a while," he assured you, breathing a little heavier than usual. "Sent them on the long route to the watering hole—figured it was safer for everyone involved."

You exhaled in relief. "So they won't find it?"

"No," he confirmed, stepping closer, but his lips twitched slightly. "Though I'd say that's more for their safety than its."

You opened your mouth to respond—only for the fox to paw at your leg again.

Teeth gritted, you slowly looked down at it, your patience hanging by a thread.

Telemachus, seeing this, snorted.

"Looks like it likes you," he observed dryly, a small, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You glared at him. "Oh, hush."

He only chuckled before jerking his head toward the path. "Come on, I know a shortcut."

With one last wary glance at the fox, you sighed and followed him into the trees.

A/N: i swear i love adding easter eggs for future books, it's my fav pastime fr; but enough about that....WTF FKVDKNIJA i literally just had to recover from having 2 books reach 100k views on here but now i got 1k followers!?!?!??!  ahh my spirit and soul is literally ascending rn 😩😭😭😭 ahh this just makes me so hyped for all the things i got ready; and just understand if one fic doesnt really meet your expectation/go like you want, i promise i have another right up your ally im working on (i wasnt planning on spilling the beans so soon but i have a more fast-paced romance/fanservicy book coming out in epic!au; this book started out like it but i got so into storytelling i just took all my straight up crack-fic level fanservice and shifted it to a new project, all i ask i plz be patient... also, just wanted to add... THIS BOOK IS GETTTING FANART AKSJDS y'all i've gotten so  amazing many pics/drawings i can scream (i'll attached a few of them with credits if i can)---like im such a nerd but i get so excited at the thought/knowing my works insipired someone to draw 😭😭😭 (inner-failed-artist is dying rn) i swear y'all make me wanna learn how to draw, but then i try and just end up with stick figures/interpertive like drawings, so imma just stick to writing books 💀😅

here's some of  @Xyxxeviya works (@alucardswifeyy on tumblr) (i absolutely love the softeness portrayed in telemachus---like plz when technology advances to turn 2d into 3d imma have to use this as reference 😭❤️)

and how mc look to him/admiring mc

here's fvckcare design for the mc (the hair, the lyre, the dress---i need a moment...)

LIKE CAN YOU BLAME TELEMACHUS---HELL ANYONE FOR REACTING WHEN MC IS A LITERAL GODDESS!?!?!

if this is what i'm getting from this fic alone, i can't wait to see what imma get for the next ones 😭😭😭 (*me running to go dedicate a folder in all google accounts to save them*)

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

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 02 Chapter 02 | weary conqueror⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The battle was won. The war, for now, had ended.

Telemachus rode at the front of the Ithacan forces, his face marked by dust and dried blood, his expression unreadable. The men behind him shouted their triumph, yet their cheers were subdued by exhaustion.

They had seen too much, lost too many. The price of war lingered in their bones, even as the thought of home soothed their aches.

You followed unseen.

Occasionally, you'd drift away; your shears needed elsewhere to snip the threads of those whose time has come. Yet, inevitably, your path brought you back to him, the young prince whose fate you're deeply intrigued by.

You watched as their ships cut through the waves, observing Telemachus.

Despite the surrounding celebration, he remained aloof, separated from his men by the invisible wall of his thoughts and responsibilities. He stood on the deck, his gaze fixed on the horizon, seemingly untouched by the revelry around him.

His isolation was palpable, a solitary figure burdened by the weight of expectation and the ghosts of those he had lost.

Soon, Ithaca's cliffs loomed in the distance; the wind carried the scent of salt and olive trees, a far cry from the stench of battlefields past.

The ship glided into the port, and the soldiers disembarked.

On the docks, the people of Ithaca gathered, their faces a mix of hope and sorrow. Families pressed close, eyes scanning the returning soldiers, searching for familiar faces among the weary ranks.

Some found what they sought.

Joyous reunions unfold before you—tears and laughter mingling in equal measure, relief flooding through those who had feared the worst. Others, however, find only emptiness. Their search ends in the cold realization that some will never return to home's embrace.

And there, among them, stood Penelope.

Her hands were clasped tightly before her, her blue peplos catching in the wind.

She stepped forward—quicker, then running.

Telemachus barely has time to step off the gangplank before she was upon him, cupping his face as though to prove he was real. "My son."

Telemachus didn't speak at first. His fingers twitched at his sides before slowly coming to rest against her arms. He leaned into her touch, if only for a moment.

"Mother," he murmured at last.

Penelope's expression wavered, and then she was fussing over him, brushing strands of hair from his forehead, checking the fresh bruises and cuts marring his skin.

Odysseus watched from a distance.

The years had settled into him, the sharpness of his youth worn into something quieter, more tempered. He did not run to his son as Penelope did, but there was something in his stance—something in the way his gaze lingered on Telemachus—that spoke of pride.

When Telemachus finally turned to him, Odysseus stepped forward, clasping his son's forearm in a warrior's greeting.

"You've done well," Odysseus said simply.

Telemachus met his father's gaze. There is a moment—an understanding that passes between them, unspoken but felt.

And then, Penelope was speaking again.

"There will be a feast," she declared, her voice bubbling with the joy of his return. "You and the others—you must eat, you must rest." She barely gave Telemachus time to protest before she was shooing him away, gesturing for the servants to take him, to see that he was bathed, that he was prepared for the night's celebrations.

Telemachus allowed it.

But he didn't seem eager.

You watched as they led him away.

And later, when the halls grew rowdy and the moon hung high, you made a choice.

☆

☆

You sought him through dreams.

It was late at night when the world was hushed and shadows stretched long and deep, hours after the welcome-back feast had dwindled into quiet conversations and lingering goodbyes.

The palace was silent, save for the soft murmurs of the night breeze.

Telemachus was fast asleep, his body relaxed and unguarded in the deep embrace of exhaustion.

You emerged from the shadows to his sleeping form, pausing for a moment to watch him. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow across his features, softening the hard lines of his warrior's face.

Here, in the quiet of his chambers, he looked different—youthful, at peace, a stark contrast to the cold-faced warrior who had taken a life so simply all those days ago.

You leaned over, and with a gentle brush of your fingers against his temple, a shimmer of connection formed. His consciousness yielded, inviting you into the labyrinth of his dreams.

It wasn't difficult. The mortal mind is pliable in sleep, softened at the edges, drifting between memory and imagination.

You slipped between those cracks with ease, settling into the unguarded spaces where his thoughts lay.

You told yourself you did this to understand.

Was it luck? Coincidence? A warrior's instinct sharpened beyond reason? Or was there something else? Some force—some unknown, unseen thing—that had intervened?

You must know.

You must know so it doesn't happen again.

And so, his dreams opened before you.

And you stepped inside..

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You expected carnality.

That's what you've always seen.

Mortal dreams, when not touched by the gods, are selfish things—filled with hunger, with longing, with that ceaseless reaching for what they cannot have.

They dream of flesh, of power, of lost loved ones. They dream of desires so deep they drown in them.

But... Telemachus didn't.

You found him beneath the shade of a cypress tree.

The sun was high, warmth spilling through the branches in soft golden waves. He leaning against the rough bark, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. The grass bent with the wind, whispering in hushes that you didn't strain to hear.

He didn't stir.

It was a dream of peace.

A dream of stillness.

How rare.

You watched for a time, waiting for the dream to shift, for some deeper hunger to surface, but it didn't. If anything, he seemed to sink further into it, as if this moment—this brief pause in an otherwise chaotic existence—was something he wished to preserve.

But you hadn't come here for this.

You stepped forward, deeper.

The world bent.

The cypress and the warmth dissolved into mist, curling around your limbs as you pressed further into the hazy corridors of his mind. The deeper you went, the thinner the veil between memory and dream became.

And then—

A boy.

He was young—no more than five or six summers old. His frame was thin, wiry, his hair tousled from salt and sun. He stood in the courtyard of the palace, surrounded by men—older, stronger, towering above him.

They called him little wolf.

Though, not in kindness.

They laughed, their voices thick with wine, jesting about the boy's mother, about her "faithfulness" during Odysseus' absence. Their words were cruel, each one a barb meant to wound.

"Careful, pup," one of them chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair in a way that made his small hands clench into fists. "You bite too hard, we'll have to wonder who really taught you."

"Maybe you're more a stray than a prince. Who knows who you've really got running in your blood, eh? Maybe that's why you're so quick to snarl."

The boy didn't lash out.

He stood there, shoulders stiff, his jaw locked tight as he took the taunts. His nails dug into his palms.

He didn't look at them.

He didn't cry.

He waited until they were gone.

Only then did he exhale.

Only then did he move, retreating to the shadows of the halls, his small frame vanishing into the vastness of the palace as if he could disappear from the harsh world they'd thrust upon him.

The memory shifted.

A boy of thirteen.

You found him alone—his body leaner, his limbs stretched awkwardly as he grew into himself. He trained in the yard beneath the watchful gaze of no one.

No tutor. No father.

No man to guide his hand, to correct his stance, to sharpen his edge.

So he drilled himself.

Again. And again. And again.

The sun was low, casting long shadows that merged with his own. Yet he didn't stop.

He moved through the drills over and over, a wooden sword clutched in his aching hands, sweat dripping down his back, matting his hair to his forehead. His feet shifted across the packed dirt.

Each movement is deliberate. Repeated. A thousand times over.

His strikes were clumsy. His footing, uncertain.

But he didn't stop.

He pressed forward, his lips pressed thin, his brows furrowed in fierce concentration.

Every time he faltered—every time the blade dipped too low, every time his step was misplaced, every time he felt the sting of his own weakness—he gritted his teeth and began again.

It wasn't a skill he trained for.

It was readiness.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the day his father returned.

Waiting for the day he no longer had to prove he belonged here.

Waiting for the moment he'd no longer be seen as a child, but as something more.

You stepped closer.

Close enough to see the blisters forming on his hands.

Close enough to feel the sheer want burning in his bones.

His frustration mounted with each misstep. The wooden sword becoming an unwieldy extension of his tiring arms.

Finally, his endurance frayed, snapped by the weight of his exertions and the burden of expectations.

With a cry of exasperation, the sword clattered to the ground.

His energy spent, he collapsed beside it, his breaths heaving.

Dragging his knees to his chest, Telemachus tilted his head back, his eyes tracing the reddening sky as the sun dipped below the horizon.

In the silence, his voice cracked—not with pain, nor anger, but with something deeper. "Father... where are you?"

The quiet that followed was deafening.

A silence that spoke louder than any answer ever could.

And then—

The memory shifted again.

And now—he was older.

Not quite the man you saw on the battlefield, but close.

You knew this moment before it unfolded.

The threads of this event were woven long ago, stretched taut over the loom of fate, the echoes of many shears snipping with each thread you severed.

The suitors.

The great hall was awash in blood. It dripped from the marble columns, pooled beneath overturned tables, stained the once-pristine floors of his home.

Telemachus moved through the carnage with the precision of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life.

His movements were methodical, a dance of death perfected through years of silent preparation.

He fought beside his father now.

Odysseus—returned at last.

Reclaimed, reborn, bringing vengeance upon those who defiled his home.

Telemachus mirrored him, step for step, his blade an extension of his will.

Each suitor's life ended with a clean stroke.

Each final breath was swallowed by the great silence of the slaughter.

A man might've wept in such a moment.

Might've crumbled beneath the weight of it all.

But Telemachus didn't.

His expression was a mask of stone, unreadable even as the dying cursed his name.

He cut them down with the same ruthless efficiency as Odysseus.

It wasn't vengeance.

Not rage.

It was something colder.

Something... inevitable.

And you wondered—

How many mortals live their lives so deeply entrenched in both the mythical and the harrowing?

How many face gods and ghosts, war and loss, and emerge still standing, unbroken?

Enough.

You stepped away.

The memories unraveled, mist curling back into the void.

You withdrew from his mind.

You left the sleeping prince behind, returning once more to your duties, and after a few more snips, you returned home... if you can even call it that.

To call it a place would be a mistake. It wasn't a place, and yet it wasn't nothing.

It existed beyond existence, where time didn't pass, where the concept of form and function was a mere afterthought.

Here, the great spool of fate turned without ceasing, an endless thread twisting and stretching into eternity.

It was delicate, vast, incomprehensible.

To mortal minds, it was believed that the Fates worked tirelessly, aided by a hundred attendants—souls chosen to weave and sever the destinies of men.

They were wrong.

It wasn't hands that guided the threads. It wasn't effort that kept fate in motion. It simply was.

An eternal spinning. A balance.

A thing that should not be interrupted.

And yet—

When the halls are dark and your sisters weave their quiet rhythms, you find yourself thinking of him still... mortal who had slipped past his fate.

The son of Odysseus.

Telemachus.

You told yourself this wouldn't happen again. That you'd learned what you needed to. That his life was merely another thread in the grand design, nothing more.

And yet, you found yourself intrigued.

One step outside the weave, and what does a man become?

You think you'll watch him a little longer.

A/N: just wanted to post the first 2 chappies before i hit the hay; so what do you guys think?? it has promise???

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 01 Chapter 01 | severed bonds⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Knowledge of EPIC: The Musical isn't technically needed; this can be read with just common knowledge of Greek mythology.

The first man died before he even realized it.

One moment, he was raising his shield, lips parted in a war cry; the next, a spear ripped through his throat, and the sound gurgled into nothing. He crumpled, twitching, hands clawing at the wooden shaft as though he might pull the death out of him. He wouldn't.

The next man fared no better—his skull split clean through, bone and brain matter spilling onto the trampled earth. The battlefield became a writhing mass of bodies, metal, and the thick, wet scent of opened flesh.

You watched from above.

It was always the same, this great wretched dance of war. Men cried out for their gods, for their mothers, for names that would never answer back. Their blood ran thick into the dirt, soaking it deep until the ground itself seemed to drink greedily, as though the earth was as starved for death as the men who fought upon it.

You didn't care for their screams.

You weren't there for them.

Their threads were severed by lesser hands—you and your sisters' attendants, those who wove and tangled and cut in a steady rhythm. But this war, this bloodletting, held a name too grand to be left to another's shears.

Telemachus.

Son of Odysseus.

Heir of Ithaca.

A man whose name was heavy with the weight of gods and stories, whose fate should not be handled by an unworthy blade.

That's why you were here.

You watched him now, below, moving through the chaos like something carved from the same lineage as war itself. He wasn't his father, but the blood sang true—his sword arm swift, his shield catching blows with precision rather than desperation. He didn't hesitate when he killed. That, more than anything, told you he had long since shed whatever softness he once had.

A shame. You think you would've liked to watch that happen.

But that wasn't your purpose.

You were there to cut.

And you would do it yourself.

So you followed after him.

The battlefield parted around you like mist, but you didn't move through air—you moved through carnage.

Bodies lay where they had fallen, some still twitching, others already forgotten. You stepped over the broken remains of a soldier, his face caved in where a blunt force struck true. Another beside him had been cleaved from shoulder to sternum, his insides spilling in steaming ribbons across the mud.

Blood flew in wide arcs, cast off from swinging blades and collapsing throats, but it didn't touch you.

It never did.

Telemachus didn't see you, but you watched as he moved with the ease of one who no longer hesitated. His sword dragged slightly at his side, its weight softened only by the blood still dripping from the edge. His shield was strapped firmly to his forearm, scuffed and dented but unbroken. He fought as if the war was a foregone conclusion. As if he were already stepping over ghosts.

A voice called out from behind him.

"Captain!"

A soldier—one of Ithaca's own—approached, panting, his face streaked with sweat and filth. His helmet sat askew, knocked loose in the fray, but he did not stop to adjust it. He clasped his spear against his side, fingers tight around the shaft as he bowed his head slightly.

"We've taken the palace, sir," the soldier reported between breathless gasps. "We drove them back through the southern gates. Their leader—he's fled inside. We believe he's taken to the throne room."

Telemachus didn't waste words. He nodded once, already turning toward the shadowed structure in the distance. The palace stood like a gutted carcass, its walls charred, its banners torn. The screams had dulled, but they still echoed within—faint, like dying embers.

He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward.

And you followed.

.☆.    .✩.       .☆.

Inside, the air was thick with the weight of crumbling stone and lingering death. The corridors stretched long and dark, the flickering remains of dying torches casting weak light against the bloodied walls.

Telemachus moved like a wolf in familiar terrain—silent, shoulders drawn tight, his fingers adjusting their grip against his sword's hilt.

A body slumped against the far wall, a jagged wound staining his tunic. His hand still clutched at it, frozen in place even in death. The hall stretched further, its silence more damning than the battlefield outside.

Telemachus didn't trust the emptiness.

Neither did you.

The room he entered was vast but bare. Once, it might have been a meeting chamber—columns stretched toward the ceiling, cracked but unbroken, while the long wooden table had been overturned, its contents scattered. Chairs lay in ruins, splintered by force, and the scent of spilled wine mingled with the copper sting of blood.

Telemachus stepped forward, slow. His eyes scanned the space, wary of shadows. His grip tightened.

It was time.

You readied your shears.

Telemachus didn't know you stood at his shoulder, watching.

He didn't hear the steady beat of fate ticking toward its inevitable end. He was oblivious to the delicate silver thread stretched before you, glimmering in the dim light. It swayed, pulsing faintly with life. With his life.

You pressed the blades around it, ready to cut.

But then—

A flicker of movement.

The air shifted behind him.

A blade was raised high—silent, swift, aiming for the back of his neck. A single strike, meant to end him before he could even turn.

Not just any blade, but the captain's—the very man Telemachus was hunting for.

You began to close the shears—

Telemachus moved.

He twisted, dropping low in an instant as the blade swung through empty air.

The captain, thrown off balance, staggered back, but his eyes burned with recognition and scorn. "You are but a shadow of your father, boy!" he hissed as he regained his footing.

Telemachus' response was a cold, dangerous smile. "A shadow, maybe. But even shadows have their strength."

They clashed again, metal shrieking against metal. The captain was fast, his movements trained and precise, but Telemachus met him blow for blow, relentless in his advance. His shield caught the captain's sword with a resounding clash, and in the next heartbeat, he drove his knee into the captain's ribs. The air whooshed out of the man's lungs in a strangled gasp.

The captain's dagger clattered to the floor.

"You fight with the desperation of a cornered animal," Telemachus taunted, his voice low and steady as he advanced.

With a grunt, the captain scrambled back, reaching for his fallen weapon, but Telemachus was quicker. His boot pressed down hard against the captain's wrist, pinning him to the ground. "And you talk too much," Telemachus retorted, kicking the dagger away.

The captain's free hand clawed toward the empty air where his dagger had fallen, his fingers grasping futilely. But it was too late. Telemachus shifted his weight, pressing his knee down onto the captain's chest, pinning him against the cold stone, cutting off any final act of defiance.

With his fate sealed, the captain's eyes burned with a mix of fury and resignation. He spat at Telemachus, his voice laced with venom, "You may kill me, but you'll never command the respect he had. You'll never be half the man Odysseus was! You're nothing but a pale imitation!"

Telemachus' response was a grim nod. "Perhaps. But today... I just need to be the man who ends you."

Then, with one final, shallow breath drawn by the captain, Telemachus raised his sword and drove the steel clean through his throat.

The captain jerked once, a sharp, convulsive twitch as his life began to ebb away. Then, stillness.

Blood pooled beneath his lifeless form, a dark, spreading stain seeping into the cracks of the stone floor, mingling with the dust of conquest and decay.

Telemachus didn't move, not immediately. He lingered, watching the light fade from the captain's eyes, his sword still buried in the flesh as the pallor of death settled over the man's features. His once fierce countenance was now slack, the harsh lines of anger smoothed into eternal silence.

Telemachus finally withdrew his sword with a measured, almost reverent motion. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed hollowly in the chamber. He stood over the fallen captain, his expression unreadable—a victor shadowed by the weight of his necessary deeds.

He had won.

And yet—you are intrigued.

How?

He shouldn't have seen it. Shouldn't have moved in time.

The sequence of fate is meticulous, a weaving of moments so delicate that no mortal should be able to step outside of it. And yet, Telemachus had. His thread had trembled in your grasp, the cut you had begun to make slipping from your fingers.

But instead of rectifying the mistake, as you always do, you let him go.

Just this once.

You will watch. You will see where this leads.

A/N: n/a

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 00 Chapter 00 |  Blurb⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Knowledge of EPIC: The Musical isn't technically needed; this can be read with just common knowledge of Greek mythology.

❝Stay.❞

It was a whisper, barely spoken, but it hit like a blade to the ribs.

Your breath shuddered.

His eyes glistened, unshed tears pooling at the edges, his emotions raw and unmasked.

❝Stay by my side,❞ he breathed, his voice cracking. ❝For the rest of time.❞

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

You shouldn't hesitate.

You'd spent your existence moving forward without question, without pause; always knowing what must be done.

But here, in the silence of the Loom, with his hands pressed to your skin, with his plea hanging between you like an offering, you realized—

You'd never had a choice before.

Fate wasn't something you chose.

It was something that is.

Yet here was Telemachus, asking you, the one who wields the shears, the one who had ended lives without question, to defy everything you are—

To choose him.

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

To cut a thread is simple.

To leave one uncut is chaos.

But for the first time in eternity, you don't care.

You were born to sever lives, to keep fate in motion. Never to hesitate. Never to choose.

Until him.

Telemachus, son of Odysseus—warrior, prince, and the man whose thread should have been cut weeks ago.

A single hesitation. A single choice.

But here's the truth no one ever considered:

Even the Fates were woven from something; and maybe—just maybe—they, too, can unravel.

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

╭─↬ ❗𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆❗ ↫─╮ There will be mentions/descriptive scenes of the following:

╭ ⁞ ❏. Death ┊

🔺 Reader Discretion Advised.

Lol, I don't know if I got them all, so if you see anything I didn't list, come back and comment right here so I can add them to the list later ➡

Also, before you start, if you're new here, welcome! But if you're a returning reader/came from my other books, hi babies 🥹❤️ Enjoy (•͈˽•͈)

A/N: SCREECHING, SOBBING, THROWING MYSELF INTO THE SEA—WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?

Y'ALL. TWO. BOOKS. OVER. 100K. VIEWS. ON WATTPAD. WTF. WTF. WTF.

THIS IS NOT REAL LIFE.

Wattpad was literally the first platform I ever read and wrote on—like, baby me was out here devouring fanfics and original works at 2AM on a cracked phone screen, practically vibrating from excitement every time I found a good fic.

And now?? NOW I HAVE TWO BOOKS THAT PASSED 100K READS???? ON THE VERY PLATFORM THAT MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH STORYTELLING?!?!?

Y'all are too much. TOO. MUCH. (And by too much, I mean I love you all deeply and will fight Zeus himself for you.)

So, as a tiny thank-you for all the love and chaos, I present to you: "A Knot in Time"—a 10-chapter short story I finished weeks ago featuring Telemachus and a Fate-who-should-not-love-but-does-anyway.

It's slow-burn, introspective, and built on steady, lingering tension, because I wanted to write romance the way I personally understand it. Sooo if you're the type who likes instant love, jumping straight into things, and getting to the spice ASAP... yeah, this fic ain't it, bestie (but no worries, I have projects in the drafts more up that lane). 💀💀

But if you're here for a Greek-myth style tragedy-turned-love story about a man who should have died and the woman who was meant to end him... buckle in.

Hope y'all enjoy. And thank you, again, for making my inner bookworm FREAK THE HELL OUT. 🖤

Also, I'm working on a new update for both 'Know No Evil' and 'Godly Things' and oh! Y'all are in for a ride 😮‍💨

[winxanity-ii]

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

╰ ⌞🇹‌🇪‌🇱‌🇪‌🇲‌🇦‌🇨‌🇭‌🇺‌🇸‌ 🇫‌🇮‌🇨‌🇸‌⌝

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ━━ ❝Fates don't love… do they?❞

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you, a Fate, make the one mistake you were never meant to: 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦.

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

. ⇘ ⇙ .

《 𝔸𝕠𝟛 𝕧𝕖𝕣. | 𝕎𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕡𝕒𝕕 𝕧𝕖𝕣. | ℚ𝕦𝕠𝕥𝕖𝕧 𝕧𝕖𝕣. 》

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

Parts: 00 ┃ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐁 - 338 wc

01 ┃ 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 - 1.5k wc

02 ┃ 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫 - 2.1k wc

03 ┃ 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 - 1.7k wc

04 ┃ 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲 - 2.3k wc

4.5 ┃ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒: 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 3.7k wc

05 ┃ 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 1.9k wc

❏ Note: this fic will be a mixture of EPIC: The musical and the many variations of Greek mythological Gods to better fit the narrative, so basically, knowledge of EPIC: The Musical isn't technically needed; this book can be read with just common knowledge of Greek mythology.

⌜𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐅𝐢𝐜⌟

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾　ᴇᴘɪᴄ!ᴀᴜ　☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

➢ 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚 ➢ 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ➢ 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 ➢ 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫/𝐌𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡(𝐬)

[winxanity-ii]

TELEMACHUS

╰❝𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓶𝓮, 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓷; 𝓘𝓯 𝓘 𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼, 𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭?❞

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

FICS

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 | ✰ | Fem!Atropos!Reader / EPIC!AU ↴

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you, a Fate, make the one mistake you were never meant to: 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦.

ONE-SHOTS

HEADCANONS

[winxanity-ii]

My design for yn but I still going to send more fan art ( keep feeding me more Telemachus please 🙇🏻) this looks kidda rush

OH. OH. YOU JUST DROPPED THIS MASTERPIECE IN HERE LIKE IT'S CASUAL????

HELLO???

I'M LOSING MY MIND THIS IS GORGEOUS!!!

And PLEASE, do NOT apologize—THIS IS AMAZING!! 😭💖

Seriously, the fact that you even took the time to design MC?? I'm in AWE. I wish I had even a LICK of this talent. It's like I'm literally seeing a version of MC come to life before my eyes, and I'm losing my mind over it!! The soft yet knowing expression, the flow of the hair, the vibes??? Just chef's kiss perfection!!

And MORE fan art??? YOU SPOIL ME. Telemachus content?? SAY LESS. I will feed you. I will overfeed you. I will make sure you are absolutely SATIATED with Telemachus moments until you physically have to tap out. 😤✨

[winxanity-ii]

Is it okay to send here a fan art in your book "god things"?

Oh my god—YES. Yes, absolutely, I would love that!! 😭💖 But like, casually yes, of course. Not freaking out or anything. Totally normal amount of excitement. Just a simple, dignified "yes" with only mild internal screaming.

(But seriously, YES. I would be so honored!!) 😭💖

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 30 Chapter 30 | bloodstained amusement⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The remainder of the night passed in a blur of lights, laughter, and the lingering warmth of celebration.

The festival had seamlessly transitioned into the grand feast, where long tables stretched across the open-air courtyard, heavy with platters of roasted meats, steaming vegetables, fragrant loaves of bread, and golden honeyed pastries that made your mouth water. Wine flowed freely, filling goblets to the brim, and the sound of music and clinking cups blended into the hum of conversation.

Before the feast had officially begun, Penelope had caught you off guard—snatched was the more accurate term—and pulled you away before you could protest. Within moments, you found yourself ushered into one of the grand chambers, surrounded by a flurry of attendants at the queen's command.

"Absolutely not!" she had huffed, waving a dismissive hand when you weakly tried to insist that you were fine as you were. "Tonight, you are not a servant, nor are you an entertainer. You are Ithaca's Divine Liaison, and you will look the part."

And with that, you were stuffed into a breathtaking gown—a stunning fusion of both Ithaca and Bronte's colors, woven in deep ocean blues, forest greens, and streaks of rich gold. Delicate embroidery lined the sleeves and bodice, tiny patterns resembling olive branches and laurels intertwined with Brontean crests.

To complete the look, Penelope personally placed the flower crown from the tournament atop your head, adjusting it with a proud smile. "There," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Now, one final thing."

You barely had time to blink before she gently took your lyre from your hands.

"Ah—wait, but—"

She tsked, shaking her head. "No playing tonight. I forbid it."

"Queen Penelope—"

"Ah-ah." She waggled a playful finger before handing the lyre to Eurycleia to put back in your room. "Tonight, you're going to enjoy yourself. No performances, no duties—just eat, drink, and be merry." Then, with a mischievous wink, she looped her arm through yours and led you straight to the heart of the feast.

And now, hours later, you sat comfortably at one of the large tables near the food, deep in conversation with Lysandra and Asta. The two Brontean women had been regaling you with stories of their homeland—particularly about a certain individual who, much to your surprise, Andreia hated with a passion.

"Wait, wait, wait," you gasped, eyes wide. "She couldn't touch her? And yet, her status was below Andreia's?" You leaned in, utterly intrigued.

Lysandra nodded, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Mhm. Despite the princess' rank, her family has ties with many royal elites and even a goddess; that's something even she can't challenge."

Asta grinned, swirling the wine in her cup. "Drives her insane. You should see the way she clenches her jaw whenever they're in the same room."

You couldn't help but let out a low whistle. "Gods, I almost feel bad for her."

Asta snorted. "Don't. She's got enough power as it is."

Lysandra leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, watching her lose her cool? Hilarious."

The three of you dissolved into laughter, the rich energy of the feast wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The air smelled of spiced meats and fresh herbs, the flickering lanterns casting a golden glow over the merriment.

Laughter echoed throughout the courtyard, goblets clinked together in celebratory toasts, and the steady hum of conversation filled the space, a chorus of voices from both Ithacans and Bronteans alike.

Then, a voice rang through the courtyard.

"Lords and ladies, honored guests—"

The announcer's voice carried effortlessly over the crowd, cutting through the celebratory din. "The time has come for the final dance of the evening, a tradition that marks the close of our first Cultural Exchange Festival."

A ripple of excitement passed through the courtyard. Conversations hushed into eager murmurs, eyes glancing across tables, searching.

You barely had a moment to process the shift in atmosphere before you felt the weight of dozens—if not hundreds—of gazes settling on you.

Your pulse quickened.

From the corners of your vision, you could see nobles whispering behind their hands, servants exchanging wide-eyed looks, and a few of the younger Ithacan girls practically bouncing in their seats, giddy anticipation lighting up their faces.

The final dance.

Your heart thudded, the implications sinking in.

Instinctively, your eyes darted across the courtyard. Telemachus.

He was already moving.

The prince weaved through the gathered crowd with measured steps, his pace unhurried, yet deliberate. The candlelight reflected off his golden skin, his features cast in a mixture of warmth and shadow. He had changed into something more formal for the feast—an Ithacan blue chiton, fastened at the shoulder with a polished bronze brooch, a golden sash tied at his waist.

Even after the brutal tournament, the exhaustion that should have weighed on him was nowhere to be found; instead, he walked with a steady, quiet confidence that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your nerves should have been wild. But maybe it was the wine in your stomach, or the lingering warmth from the feast, but your usual anxiety was oddly... muted. A soft thrumming, not overwhelming—just a steady awareness of the moment unfolding before you.

The space around you seemed to shrink, everything fading into a distant blur except for the prince drawing closer.

Then, he was in front of you.

The courtyard fell into silence. A hush so absolute you could hear the gentle crackling of the torches.

Telemachus held out a hand, his movements slow, deliberate. Then, he bowed slightly, the gesture formal but not stiff. When he spoke, his voice was soft—meant only for you.

"May I have this dance?"

For a moment, you just stared.

The weight of the night—the tournament, the favor, the significance of this moment—pressed against your chest. There was something unreadable in his eyes, something both certain and hesitant at once.

A sharp nudge to your side made you jolt.

"Go," Asta whispered harshly, barely moving her lips.

Snapping out of your daze, you scrambled to your feet, almost knocking your goblet over in your haste. You barely noticed Lysandra muffling a laugh beside Asta, your entire focus zeroed in on the prince before you.

Your fingers trembled as you reached forward.

Then, warmth.

Telemachus' palm was rough with calluses, but his grip was steady—firm, but gentle—as he closed his fingers around yours.

The hush broke.

Gasps. Soft, delighted whispers. A few hushed giggles from across the tables, no doubt from the same group of girls who had been watching you two all evening.

But you didn't look at them.

You only looked at him.

Somewhere, around you, there was movement—people shifting, adjusting in their seats, the murmur of voices carrying in the warm evening air. You knew there were eyes on you, dozens upon dozens, watching as the prince of Ithaca led you forward, but you couldn't feel any of it.

Not the cool night breeze against your skin.

Not the stone beneath your feet as he guided you effortlessly toward the center of the courtyard.

Not the weight of the festival or the knowledge that this dance—this moment—was steeped in more meaning than you had time to process.

Your entire focus had narrowed to the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the steady presence of him beside you, leading without hesitation.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

"I'm—" You let out a nervous, breathless laugh, glancing down for a moment. "I'm not really familiar with these kinds of dances. Just... fair warning in case I step on you."

Telemachus huffed, amusement flickering across his face.

"No worries," he murmured, voice low and sure. "I got you."

And then, before your stomach could settle from the way those words sent a shiver down your spine, he moved.

His hand found your waist.

The touch was careful, yet firm—an anchoring weight that pulled you closer, just enough that the space between you all but vanished. Close enough that the tips of your noses barely grazed. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

Your stomach flipped.

A soft intake of breath passed your lips, but before you could dwell on the sensation, the music began.

Telemachus stepped first, a guiding motion—his hand in yours shifting, leading, encouraging. His other hand remained at your waist, warm and steady, grounding you as he moved with a patience you hadn't expected.

He didn't care about matching the tempo.

He didn't care about showing off, or about precision, or about how the dance might look to those watching.

All he cared about was making sure you could follow.

And sure enough, the musicians caught on.

The rhythm softened, adjusting, slowing, the strings and lyres bending to match the careful, unhurried steps of the two of you.

Soon enough, others began to join.

At first, it was only a few couples—hesitant, watching the way you and Telemachus moved, as if seeking permission. Then, slowly, more and more pairs stepped onto the makeshift dance floor, drawn in by the softened rhythm, by the way the music curved around the two of you like a whispered invitation.

A circle of movement formed around you both, the other dancers weaving through the space with practiced ease, swirling in graceful arcs. And yet, despite being surrounded, it still felt as though you and Telemachus were the center of it all.

The world narrowed, framed only by the flickering glow of lanterns above, by the warm press of his hand in yours.

Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat.

"You look very..." He hesitated, fingers briefly tightening against your waist. His voice was quieter when he finally found the words. "Beautiful."

The compliment was simple, but something about the way he said it—the quiet sincerity of it, the weight it carried—made warmth flood your chest. You cleared your throat, trying not to stumble over your next words.

"T-Thank you," you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. "The queen thought it was best I... start looking the part."

You gestured vaguely to your dress, the way the fabric flowed around you, the colors carefully chosen to reflect your new station. It was elegant, regal even, a clear shift from the simple attire you were used to. It still felt strange, wearing something that demanded attention.

Telemachus tilted his head slightly, as if considering that. Then, with a small, crooked smile, he said, "It suits you."

Your stomach flipped.

Awkwardly, and before you could stop yourself, you tacked on, "You look very handsome, as well."

The moment the words left your lips, you felt heat creep up your own neck.

Telemachus blinked. Then, to your surprise, a slow, pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His grip on your waist adjusted slightly, his posture straightening just a bit, as though your words had physically lifted him.

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears.

Not wanting to combust on the spot, you scrambled to fill the silence. "I never knew a kingdom could be so different from Ithaca," you said, voice a little too quick, too eager to shift the focus from whatever this was. "Bronte... it's unlike anything I expected."

Telemachus exhaled, as if relieved by the topic shift. He nodded, the movement making his curls shift under the lantern light. "It is different. In ways both good and bad." His tone was thoughtful. "Their strength is something to admire, but their ambition... it's sharp."

You hummed, remembering the tournament, the sheer ferocity of Sthenelos. Even the festival, for all its grandeur, had underlying tensions beneath the surface.

Telemachus sighed, his hand subtly tightening on yours before loosening again. "Hopefully, this will placate things for a while. Or at the very least..." He hesitated, then muttered, almost to himself, "...get marriage off of Lady Andreia's mind."

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. That.

For a moment, you had forgotten about the political undercurrents of all this—the lingering expectation that the princess of Bronte was still vying for his hand.

Telemachus seemed oblivious to your internal turmoil, continuing with a quiet grumble. "I've been listening to my mother—haven't outright denied her—but I've been trying to make it obvious that I'm not interested." He let out a frustrated breath. "And yet, she still lingers."

You considered his words carefully, trying to pick the right response. Then, tentatively, you suggested, "Maybe you should just... tell her."

His gaze flickered to yours, brows furrowing slightly.

"I mean," you continued, choosing your words with care, "not outright rejecting her in a way that could insult her or Bronte—but being clear about your feelings." You hesitated. "Maybe even frame it as something that benefits both kingdoms. Like the festival. It's already proven there are other ways to strengthen the bond between Ithaca and Bronte without marriage."

Telemachus was quiet for a moment, mulling over your words. Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed. His lips curved into something softer, more grateful. "That... might actually work."

He squeezed your hand briefly, then let out a small chuckle. "Thank you, ____."

You barely had time to react to the warmth spreading through your chest before the music began to fade, signaling the end of the dance. Around you, partners bowed and curtsied, stepping apart in smooth, practiced motions.

Telemachus dropped into a graceful bow before you.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you curtsied in return, mirroring the elegant ritual.

But as you rose, something shifted.

At first, it was barely noticeable—a subtle drag in the air, like the hush of a held breath.

The laughter that had once filled the space so effortlessly now felt distant, stretching unnaturally at the edges.

Your breath caught as you glanced around.

The dancers slowed—not in a natural way, but like something unseen was pressing down on them, dragging their movements into sluggish, unnatural hesitations. 

The lanterns flickered, their glow dimming in uneven pulses, shadows creeping longer, stretching unnaturally across the stone.

Then, your gaze snapped to Telemachus.

His bow was incomplete, his head just beginning to lift, his curls shifting as though caught in a breeze that no longer moved; his movements no different from the others—caught in the same slowing effect, oblivious.

His eyes didn't dart around, didn't widen in realization. He didn't see it.

He didn't feel it.

Something was wrong.

You began walking, your gaze darted around, searching for an explanation; you were careful not to touch anyone, fear that you'd end up like them.

But before panic could fully take root, a figure moved—unaffected by the strange sluggishness gripping the room. They wove effortlessly between the suspended dancers, stepping lightly over the elongated shadows. Your eyes locked onto the figure as they approached, the dim torchlight glinting off polished bronze.

A woman.

No, not just a woman.

Her presence was undeniable, both regal and composed, yet carrying the weight of something beyond mortal comprehension. The steady clink of her sandals against the marble floor resonated like the beat of a war drum, controlled yet filled with purpose. Her armor gleamed in the dim light, not ostentatious but practical, its polished surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift like living inscriptions. A long, pale blue chiton draped beneath it, flowing with an elegance that softened the otherwise martial presence she exuded.

And then, her eyes.

Storm-gray, sharp as the edge of a whetted blade, unwavering as they locked onto yours. They were old, impossibly so, filled with a wisdom that stretched beyond the reaches of time. And yet, they did not bear the aloofness of an indifferent deity. There was something in her gaze—something keen, measured. Evaluating.

A pulse of understanding settled in your chest, pressing down like the weight of a shield. You had never seen her before, not like this. Not in any vision, nor in any temple offering. But you knew.

Athena.

The Goddess of Wisdom and War moved toward you with the poise of a queen stepping into her court, her very presence shifting the air around her. There was no need for grand gestures, no need for ethereal glows or divine proclamations. She simply was, and that was enough to command every ounce of attention.

Time itself bowed in her presence.

As she closed the remaining distance between you, you felt your breath stutter in your chest. Not out of fear, but because this was real. The festival, the feast, the grand hall filled with nobles and warriors alike—it all seemed secondary now. Distant.

She was here.

And she had come for you.

As Athena stopped just before you, the weight of her scrutiny settled over you, and for a fleeting moment, you felt as though you were standing at the precipice of something far greater than yourself.

She regarded you thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. And then, finally, she spoke.

"You have caught the attention of many. Both in Olympus and in the mortal realm."

Her words sent a ripple down your spine, a feeling akin to the moment before a storm breaks—heavy. You swallowed hard, but she continued before you could find your voice.

"Apollo saw to it that your ode to the Olympians was displayed before all in Olympus," she revealed, tilting her head ever so slightly as if gauging your reaction. "With the help of Iris, the song echoed through the halls of the gods."

Your breath caught.

Apollo had... what?

The very idea sent a sharp wave of heat through your chest, your mind scrambling to picture it—your voice, your offering, carried beyond the mortal world, presented before the very beings you had honored. The thought was dizzying. Overwhelming.

And yet, Athena merely observed you, the edges of her expression betraying nothing.

"How are you taking all of this?" she asked then, her tone shifting slightly, a curious lilt threading through the words. "The favor of Apollo... the affections of a prince."

It took nearly all your willpower not to break into a stuttering mess because this was the second god to confirm Telemachus’ feelings for you. First Aphrodite, and now Athena herself.

Your heart lurched in your chest, thoughts racing. It was one thing to suspect, to wonder in quiet moments if Telemachus truly cared for you in that way, but it was another entirely to hear a goddess speak of it with certainty—as if it were already written into the fabric of fate itself.

You cleared your throat, willing your voice to remain steady despite the whirlwind of emotions tightening in your chest. "I... I'm taking it day by day," you admitted. "I know that rushing into something just because it makes me feel happy, or good, or wanted—" You stopped, inhaling sharply before continuing, "—it could cause more trouble than it's worth. I’m just trying to be careful. To be... wise."

There was a long silence, save for the faint, slowed echo of distant laughter and music twisting through the air like a ghostly melody. Athena studied you with something unreadable, as if weighing your words against her own knowledge of the world.

Then, she nodded once, approvingly. "Smart girl."

The praise was simple, but hearing it from her—the goddess of wisdom herself—made something warm settle in your chest, steadying your nerves just a little.

But then, her expression shifted. Her gaze turned sharp, her words weaving through the slow-motion ambiance around you, slicing through the moment like a well-honed blade.

"The threads of fate are pulling tighter around you. Have you felt the weight of their weave?"

You stiffened.

A shiver ran down your spine, unbidden. The slow-moving world around you suddenly felt heavier, as if something unseen was pressing in, coiling around you like an unseen force.

Before you could respond, a loud voice rumbled across the space, shattering the stillness like a war drum.

"Oh, c'mon, Athena—" The voice, deep and rasping like smoldering embers, carried a mocking edge, curling around each word with slow, deliberate amusement. "Boring the poor thing to death before I even get the chance to have a little fun?"

Your head whipped around just in time to see a hulking, hooded figure seated at one of the long banquet tables. He had been moving just as slowly as the rest of the world before—his arm halfway raised, a massive goblet of wine frozen inches from his lips—but now, as he gulped down the rest of his drink in one long, steady drag, time around him caught up in an instant.

The goblet slammed onto the table with a deep, reverberating thud, rattling the nearby plates and cutlery. The figure pushed up from his seat, and immediately, your stomach dropped.

Because he just kept unfurling.

Rising.

Larger.

Taller.

By the time he straightened to his full height, his massive shoulders stretched as if to shake off the sluggishness of mortal time. You caught a glimpse of heavy, scarred forearms wrapped in golden cuffs before the figure reached up, grasped the edge of his cloak, and tossed it back.

The hood fell away, revealing a mane of deep crimson hair, untamed and wild, cascading in thick waves down his broad back. His face—sharp, cut like a blade—was all brutal handsomeness, his jaw lined with the ghost of a beard, his skin kissed by battle and sunlight alike.

And then, he turned to you.

His molten-gold eyes locked onto yours, and a slow, wolfish grin curled at the edge of his mouth, flashing a set of teeth just a little too sharp. It was the kind of grin a predator wore when it knew the prey had nowhere to run.

You barely swallowed back a yelp.

He tilted his head, watching you with a dangerous sort of interest before exhaling sharply through his nose. "Well, aren't you just a pretty little thing?" His voice dropped into something lower, rougher—his amusement practically dripping from each word. "Apollo always did have an eye for beauty."

Your breath hitched at the insinuation, but before you could even form a response, Athena let out a long, measured sigh.

"Hello, Ares." Her tone was flat, unimpressed.

She tapped her spear lightly against the floor, watching him with the air of someone dealing with an unruly animal. "I thought you'd be busy throwing yourself into whatever war is currently suiting your fancy."

Ares barked a laugh, the sound rough, unrestrained. "Oh, you wound me, sister. I take one evening—one—away from the battlefield, and suddenly I'm not allowed a bit of entertainment?"

Athena rolled her eyes, adjusting the grip on her spear. "Somehow, I doubt your definition of 'entertainment' aligns with anything civilized."

"Depends on who you ask." Ares' grin widened, his gaze flickering back to you with that same sharp, predatory amusement. "Besides," he continued, his voice dripping with mock innocence, "how could I possibly pass up the sight of such a grand union between two mighty kingdoms?" He spread his arms out lazily, as if to encompass the entire frozen feast. "Ithaca and Bronte—so much history between you two." His golden eyes glinted with something darker. "Wonderful, bloody wars throughout the years. What a shame to see all that... passion go to waste."

As he spoke, the ground trembled ever so slightly beneath your feet, like the very earth itself bristled at his presence. It wasn't enough to make you stumble, but it was there—subtle, insistent, a whisper of power just beneath the surface. You fought to keep your composure as he moved closer, his every step measured yet effortless, a beast at ease in a den full of sheep.

The closer he got, the heavier the air became. Then, suddenly, Ares slouched forward slightly, bringing himself level with you, his towering frame somehow even more intimidating now that he chose to close the space between you. His gaze raked over you with the casual appraisal of a warrior sizing up a new weapon.

A large, calloused hand reached forward without hesitation, fingers flicking one of the petals woven into your crown. A single soft plnk echoed as he released it, the flower bouncing lightly back into place. His grin deepened at the sight, something rough yet almost teasing curling at the edges of his mouth.

"I heard your little ode to Olympus. Apollo's pride could be seen from the skies. Practically preening like a songbird over his favored little muse." His gaze darkened, more piercing now, scrutinizing. "But I wonder..."

Before you could blink, his smirk sharpened, and he leaned in just a fraction closer—close enough that you could see a prominent battle scar slashing across the bridge of his nose, stark against his ruggedly handsome features. The faint scent of iron and smoke clung to him like a second cloak.

"What would it take for a song to be written for me?"

The words were low, almost coaxing, dragging over your skin like the edge of a dulled blade. His large hand reached out again, this time cradling your chin—rough, yet strangely intimate. His thumb grazed the corner of your mouth in an absentminded stroke, his dark-lidded eyes locked onto yours with a fierce intensity; expectant, waiting.

Your throat went dry.

Ares was not a gentle god. His touch was not soft, nor reverent, nor pleading. It was possession before permission, like he was simply curious what it might feel like to hold you in his hands.

The intimacy of it made something in your chest lurch—not quite fear, but something deeper, something more primal, an ancient instinct that whispered of predators and prey. You willed your pulse to steady, to not betray the way your body seemed to understand something your mind refused to name.

His grin stretched lopsided, one canine tooth more pronounced than the others, giving him the look of something half-wild, barely tamed. "A kingdom fallen in bloodshed? A battlefield piled high with the glory of the slain?" His grin was all teeth, unsettling yet charismatic.

"Or perhaps," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "it would take something a little more personal?" His eyes glinted with a wild, untamed light. "A city toppled and named in your honor, bathed in the blood of your enemies? Does the thought thrill you, little conqueror?"

Your stomach clenched so hard it nearly hurt.

Not in revulsion. Not in fear.

In something that scared you more.

You barely managed to stammer something—anything—to find a polite way out of this situation, your mind scrambling for an escape. But before you could form a coherent thought, a sharp, clipped voice cut through the space like a blade.

"I don't think Aphrodite would be too pleased with your interest." Athena stood firm, her storm-gray eyes unwavering as she regarded her brother with cool detachment.

Ares' teeth bared in an exaggerated, sarcastic grin as he let out a slow breath through his nose. "Ah, Dite won't care too much," he mused, waving a lazy hand. "She's already got her hands full with enough lovesick fools." But despite the ease in his tone, you noticed it—the barely perceptible shift in his face as he let you go, the way he suddenly seemed less in your space.

Not much, but enough.

And you—your pulse still hammering against your ribs—weren't sure if you should be relieved or even more on edge. The space between the two gods felt heavy—like a taut rope straining between them, frayed and ready to snap.

Desperate to break the rising tension, you stammered, "Why—why is everything still like this?" You cast another wary glance around, your voice wavering slightly as you took in the frozen revelry. "Is— are one of you controlling time?"

Ares let out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back. "Hades, no,"

You turned to Athena, who regarded you with mild amusement, the barest quirk of her lips betraying her enjoyment of your curiosity. "Not time," she corrected smoothly, shifting her weight onto her spear, "but perception."

Your brows furrowed. "Perception?"

Athena inclined her head. "I have slowed their minds, not time itself." She gestured around the festival with a small tilt of her chin. "Their thoughts, their reactions, their movements—they all process the world in slow motion. But you," her piercing gaze found yours again, "are untouched, thus unaffected."

A ripple of awe ran through you. You turned, watching as the world dragged itself along in eerie suspension, dancers caught mid-spin like figures in a dream, the hum of music drawn out into something hollow and otherworldly.

"That's..." You swallowed. "That's incredible."

Ares let out a sharp exhale, arms crossing over his broad chest. "If I had that trick, do you know how many wars I could fight in a day?" His golden eyes gleamed, and you could practically see the chaos brewing in his mind, already playing out what he could do with such an ability.

Athena, unimpressed, arched a brow. "Yes, well, I suppose you'd enjoy that." Her tone was dry, clipped. "But unfortunately for you, it does not belong to your domain."

Ares shrugged, unbothered. "Wouldn't want it anyway. Takes the fun out of it.” His lips stretched into a wolfish grin, something dark sparking in his molten gaze. "Half the thrill is in seeing it happen real time—the fear, the shock—watching a man know he's going to die, and still being too slow to stop it." His fingers flexed at his sides, as if recalling the feeling of a spear piercing through armor.

A shiver crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay still, to hold your ground. Your heartbeat pulsed loudly in your ears, yet you refused to let him see the way his words made your stomach twist.

Athena exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "And that is why it does not belong to you."

Ares let out a scoff, rolling his broad shoulders as if shaking off her words like dust from a battlefield. "And yet, my champion was the one standing tall until the very end," he mused, his voice a rough purr, thick with the satisfaction of battle. His molten-gold eyes gleamed as he turned back to Athena, a smirk playing at his lips. "Sthenelos fought like a true warrior—unyielding, powerful. He took the boy's best and kept coming."

Athena's expression remained unreadable, but there was a sharpness to her gaze, a subtle shift that hinted at the silent war between them. "Brute strength alone does not make a victor, Ares," she countered smoothly. "Sthenelos relied on power, but Telemachus adapted. He thought, he adjusted, he survived. That is what makes a warrior." Her voice remained calm, but there was an undeniable steel beneath it.

Ares clicked his tongue, his expression darkening. "Surviving isn't winning, owl," he shot back, stepping forward, his sheer presence causing the air between them to thrum with tension. "Surviving is scraping by. It's enduring, not conquering. Tell me—did your precious boy dominate that fight, or did he claw his way to victory by the skin of his teeth?"

Athena's grip on her spear tightened fractionally, her lips pressing into a thin line. "A true warrior knows when to strike and when to endure. A true warrior knows that persistence is often the key to victory. Telemachus may not have had the raw might of your champion, but he had something far greater—ingenuity." Her voice carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, unwavering and absolute. "And if you cannot see the worth in that, then you are still the fool you have always been."

Ares' smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was an unspoken challenge in the way he tilted his head, the flicker of amusement not enough to hide the barely-contained storm brewing behind his gaze. "You always did like the clever ones," he murmured, voice dripping with something that felt almost like mockery. "Shame cleverness alone doesn't win wars."

Athena raised a brow. "Tell that to Odysseus."

The tension crackled like a storm about to break, and for a moment, you swore you felt the air shift, as if the very world braced itself for their clashing wills. You stood frozen between them, a mere mortal in the wake of two gods locked in an eternal contest of strategy versus might.

Ares held her gaze for a beat too long.

Then, he scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight. "Tch. Strategy's just the fancy word for fighting without the guts to do it yourself," he muttered, the words meant to sting—meant to convince himself more than anyone else.

His expression flickered—just for a breath, just for a second—but then the wolfish smirk returned, and whatever lay beneath was locked away once more.

"Doesn't matter," he said, voice almost too casual as he turned away. "We both know who they pray to when the real battle begins."

But he didn't leave immediately.

Instead, he let the words settle, let them sink in, his back still turned. His presence still pressed against the space he'd occupied, as if war itself refused to be dismissed so easily.

Then, with a slow exhale—one that sounded almost like a laugh but carried no real amusement—he finally strode off, each step measured, deliberate. The weight of him didn’t fade so much as it reluctantly withdrew, like a predator retreating—not out of surrender, but out of patience.

The thud of his boots echoed long after he was gone.

And the laughter he left behind—low, sharp—coiled through the air like the last crackle of a dying ember, refusing to fully extinguish.

Athena exhaled through her nose, watching him go with an air of mild exasperation before shaking her head. "Brute," she muttered, barely above a whisper, before turning her sharp gaze back to you.

Her expression softened—if only slightly. "Be mindful of your choices," she said, her voice lower now, more deliberate. There are forces at play greater than you realize, and attention from the gods is not always a gift." She studied you for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to say more, before she finally took a step back.

But this time, instead of immediately speaking, she extended a hand—not in invitation, but in quiet command.

You barely had a moment to react before a force, subtle yet undeniable, guided you. It wasn't a shove, nor a tug, but something gentler—like the shifting of the tide pulling you toward shore. Without realizing it, you were moving, your feet carrying you back toward where you'd been standing just before Telemachus had asked for your hand in the dance.

The world around you remained unchanged, the slowed-down movement of the revelers still unfolding as though wrapped in thickened air. Yet, with each step, you felt the moment slipping from the grasp of the divine, like sand trickling between your fingers.

Athena's presence was still at your side, silent, until you reached the very spot you had left. It was only then that she finally spoke.

"Consider what it means to be favored..." she said, her voice low, deliberate. "And beware, for such favor is often double-edged."

Her storm-gray eyes locked onto yours, the weight of her words settling in your chest like an anchor. The warning hung heavy in the air, far more than mere words—it felt like a thread being woven into your fate, a thread you had no choice but to carry.

She studied you a moment longer, and you had the distinct feeling that she was waiting. Waiting to see if you would ask, if you would push for more. But whether it was out of caution, reverence, or simply the sheer inability to form a coherent thought under her gaze, you said nothing.

And so, with a final look, she took a step back.

And just like that, the spell lifted.

The world around you slowly returned to its previous rhythm, as if the moment had been nothing but a fevered dream.

The music resumed its gentle cadence, the final notes of the melody rippling through the courtyard as the musicians, looking subtly shaken, finished their performance. Dancers continued their steps, though there was a slight hesitation in their movements, as if their bodies were catching up to lost time. The guests blinked, murmuring among themselves, their voices hushed with a confusion none of them could quite place.

You turned sharply, expecting to still see Athena standing before you, but she was gone.

Yet, despite her absence, the air remained thick, charged with an electric tension, as though the space she had occupied was still weighted by something divine.

You almost believed that you had been the only one to experience the strange encounter. That somehow, the gods had folded time just for you, allowing their words to pass unnoticed by the mortal realm.

But the looks on people's faces told you otherwise.

All around, guests exchanged bewildered glances, eyes darting across the space as if trying to pin down what had just transpired. Some rubbed their arms, others subtly adjusted their postures, as though shaking off an unseen force.

And then, there were those who subconsciously—perhaps even unknowingly—let their gazes drift toward you.

A prickle ran down your spine.

It was subtle—just fleeting glances, uncertainty flickering behind their eyes before they turned away—but it was enough to make your stomach knot. Whatever had happened, whatever the gods had done, their presence had left an undeniable imprint on the air, warping the atmosphere in a way that even the oblivious could feel. And now, you were the center of it.

A hand suddenly brushed against your arm. "Are you alright?"

You startled at the voice, your heart stammering in your chest. Telemachus stood beside you now, brows furrowed, concern laced in his voice. He was studying you carefully, his keen eyes flicking over your face, searching for signs of distress.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to nod. "I'm... fine."

Your voice was steady enough, but even you weren't convinced by it.

Telemachus didn't look fully reassured, but after a beat, he exhaled and nodded, offering you his arm. "Come on," he said, his voice gentler now. "Let's go eat. My mother is expecting us."

You hesitated, your thoughts still spinning, but after a moment, you let him guide you away from the dance floor, through the maze of tables and lantern-lit pathways.

The feast continued in full swing, but as you walked, you couldn’t stop the way your mind churned, replaying Athena’s words over and over in your head.

"Consider what it means to be favored... And beware, for such favor is often double-edged."

You clenched your jaw slightly, barely registering the sounds of laughter and the clinking of goblets around you. Her words were a warning, clear as day. But of what? The future? The gods? Yourself?

And then, there was Ares.

You shivered just thinking about him.

Unlike Athena, whose presence, while overwhelming, still carried a certain measured grace, Ares had been something entirely different.

He had been a storm barely leashed, a beast waiting for an excuse to bare its fangs. He was war incarnate, everything ruthless and primal, brimming with a power so untamed you could still feel it crawling beneath your skin.

And he had looked at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.

You hated to imagine what it would be like to stand on the receiving end of his ire—his full, unfiltered wrath.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to shake off the thought as you arrived at the royal table, greeted by Penelope's warm smile. She gestured for you to sit, immediately launching into cheerful conversation, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on your shoulders.

But even as you ate, your mind refused to quiet.

Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, you knew that something had shifted tonight.

And whatever it was, you had no choice but to face it.

A/N: lolo don't mind me, i'm just indluging in ares (whose inspired by my sis's (k-nayee) interpertation in her book 'warrior'; something about redheads just do it for me  q(≧▽≦q)

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[winxanity-ii]

a quick psa to anyone recently getting into greek mythology and is a victim of tumblr and/or tiktok misconceptions:

-there is no shame in being introduced to mytholgy from something like percy jackson, epic the musical or anything like that, but keep in mind that actual myths are going to be VERY different from modern retellings

-the myth of medusa you probably know (her being a victim of poseidon and being cursed by athena) isn't 100% accurate to GREEK mythology (look up ovid)

-there is no version of persephone's abduction in which persephone willingly stays with hades, that's a tumblr invention (look up homeric hymn to demeter)

-as much as i would like it, no, cerberus' name does not mean "spot" (probably a misunderstanding from this wikipedia article)

-zeus isn't the only god who does terrible things to women, your fav male god probably has done the same

-on that note, your fav greek hero has probably done some heinous shit as well

-gods are more complicated than simply being "god of [insert thing]", many titles overlap between gods and some may even change depending on where they were worshipped

-also, apollo and artemis being the gods of the sun and the moon isn't 100% accurate, their main aspects as deities originally were music and the hunt

-titans and gods aren't two wholly different concepts, titan is just the word used to decribe the generation of gods before the olympians

-hector isn't the villain some people make him out to be

-hephaestus WAS married to aphrodite. they divorced. yes, divorce was a thing in ancient greece. hephaestus' wife is aglaia

-ancient greek society didn't have the same concepts of sexuality that we have now, it's incorrect to describe virgin goddesses like artemis and athena as lesbians, BUT it's also not wholly accurate to describe them as aromantic/asexual, it's more complex than that

-you can never fully understand certain myths if you don't understand the societal context in which they were told

-myths have lots and lots of retellings, there isn't one singular "canon", but we can try to distinguish between older and newer versions and bewteen greek and roman versions

-most of what you know about sparta is probably incorrect

-reading/waching retellings is not a substitute to reading the original myths, read the iliad! read the odyssey! i know they may seem intimidating, but they're much more entertaining than you may think

greek mythology is so complex and interesting, don't go into it with preconcieved notions! try to be open to learn!