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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 09 Chapter 09 | a thread rewoven ⌟

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Telemachus blinked, looking down at his hand, where the thread was still clutched between his fingers.

The glow of the Loom flickered across his skin, illuminating the strand he held—one that should not have been returned, should not have been placed back into the weave. And yet... it had.

The three of you froze.

Lachesis' breath caught. Clotho's usual brightness dimmed, her mouth parting as if on the verge of a realization she hadn't yet voiced. And you... you felt it.

A shift. A disturbance.

A new step had been added to the cycle.

Something changed. Something irreversible.

The Loom had always been set in its design—souls were born, threads were cut, and fate moved forward unyielding. But now, the pattern had been altered. A new motion had been introduced.

Telemachus existed within it.

And he was still here.

For the first time in eons, something unplanned had taken root in the fabric of fate.

The three of you stood in silence, the weight of it pressing against you like an unspoken truth. Telemachus, still unaware of the full depth of what had occurred, looked up.

"What...?" he started, his voice edged with uncertainty.

Lachesis exhaled. "It seems you have become something new."

Telemachus lifted his gaze fully now, his expression unreadable as he sought yours.

You stared at him, your fingers loose at your sides, the enormity of what had happened settling into your chest. The Loom still spun, steady once more, and yet... something fundamental had changed within its design.

"What do you mean?" Telemachus asked, his voice cautious.

"Before this," you murmured, "souls, after being cut and sent to the Underworld, would cease to exist after their sentence."

Clotho grinned, her previous hesitation slipping into something resembling giddy excitement. "But now, thanks to you, they won't."

Telemachus straightened slightly, the words sinking in.

"You have become the movement of the cycle," Lachesis stated, her voice calm but certain. "What allows those cut threads to be reinstated into the Loom."

"You," you said, your voice quieter, steadier, "are the reason souls will now be allowed to be reborn."

Telemachus exhaled.

Slowly, the weight of it all settled into his bones.

A mortal no longer.

A part of the Fates.

The reason for something new.

He met your gaze with a quiet, knowing smile. "Well, I suppose I should thank you, then."

Lachesis sighed, exasperated, before reaching over and firmly grabbing Clotho by the collar, sensing the two of you needed privacy.

"Come on, we're leaving."

"But wait, wait—" Clotho whined, kicking her feet as she was dragged backward. "I still have questions! He was a prince! I want to know what mortals do at feasts! Do they really get as drunk as they say? What''s sex actually like? I've always wondered why they—"

"Out."

Lachesis shoved her through the chamber doors, slamming them behind her with a finality that made it clear they wouldn't be returning anytime soon.

Silence settled.

Telemachus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "She's... energetic."

"That's a word for it," you murmured.

He looked around the chamber then, his gaze sweeping over the Loom, the endless weave of fate stretching infinitely beyond him.

Then, softly—

"So... you didn't cut my thread."

It wasn't a question.

He knew you didn't.

You nodded. "I didn't."

Telemachus let out a short laugh—one of disbelief, one filled with something both knowing and unbelieving all at once.

"I gathered from your words that I was supposed to die," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Yet I always wondered—when would you do it? When would it finally happen?"

You tilted your head. "You thought about it?"

"Of course." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You don't exactly forget something like that. It's not every day you're told your life was meant to end."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, softly, you asked—

"How did your parents take it? Your death."

Telemachus' smile dimmed.

It wasn't a painful expression—not quite—but there was something heavy in the way his gaze flickered downward, something distant in the way his fingers tightened against his palm.

"It was written off as me simply dying in my sleep," he answered. "Funny, really. Days before, my mother had been pressuring me to see a physician."

You blinked. "Why?"

His smile grew smaller, more self-aware.

"I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. I suppose she noticed."

You stilled.

Your thoughts halted.

You had never considered it before—had never thought to look beyond the moments spent in his dreams, beyond the image of him you'd come to know.

Yet now, his words struck something deep within you.

"You were... unwell."

"Yes."

"Because of...?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering.

"Perhaps because of many things," he murmured. "The war. The waiting. The knowledge that the peace I longed for would only ever come in death."

Telemachus watched your face carefully, and something in his expression softened.

"I'm... glad," he said quietly, "that you never visited me outside of my dreams."

You lifted your gaze. "Why?"

"Because I don't think you would've been able to stomach the sight of what I looked like then versus now."

You said nothing.

The words settle like stone in your chest.

You gripped your arms without thinking, your fingers curling against your skin as something heavy—something wrong—twisted in your core.

Guilt.

It sank into you, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice.

Because now you understood.

Now, your mind finally allowed you to see.

This is why you and your sisters never let strings remain past their time.

This is why they must be cut.

Because the body—the vessel that encapsulates the soul—is not meant to endure when its thread is destined to be cut. It may resist for a time, but fate corrects its course, and in the end, the body will seek to unravel what should not remain.

And when it does—

It decays.

It grows weak.

It clings to life despite its fate, despite its function, despite the pain that festers within it.

And if you hadn't cut his string—

If you'd allowed him to slip past fate—

He would've become a soul stuck in a dying body.

A body that wouldn't stop suffering, that would never heal, that would never truly live nor die.

A liminal existence.

An endless, excruciating halfway point.

You inhaled, feeling the weight of that truth.

Feeling the way it settled into you—unchanging, absolute.

Telemachus didn't press you.

He simply watched as you processed it.

And for the first time since this all began—

You were truly, fully aware of what you'd done.

The weight in your chest was suffocating.

You couldn't look at him.

You couldn't face him.

"I..." Your voice was hoarse, unsteady. You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, forcing the words out. "I'm... sorry."

You turned away, shame curling in your stomach, your fingers clenching at your sides.

But before you could retreat—

He stopped you.

A hand—warm, solid, real—caught yours, gently but firmly.

You both froze.

It was the first time you'd ever touched.

For all the nights spent in his dreams, for all the conversations shared in the spaces between fate and reality—this was the first.

Telemachus swallowed, his grip light but unwavering. Then, with careful movements, he turned you toward him.

His fingers lingered against yours, hesitant now, as if he was only just realizing that you could touch.

"Don't be sorry," he murmured.

His voice was softer than you'd ever heard it, hoarse at the edges, laced with something you couldn't name.

"If you had cut it then," he continued, "I would never have truly enjoyed the last of my supposed days."

His thumb brushed absently along the back of your hand, and you felt it. Truly felt it.

The weight of his skin against yours.

The warmth of his touch, so human, so mortal, so alive.

He hesitated.

Then, as if spurred by the same unshakable force that had driven him on the battlefield, by the same instinct that had defied fate itself—

He cupped your face.

Your breath stuttered.

Your eyes widened.

His palms were warm, rough at the edges but gentle, cradling your jaw with a care that disarmed you.

You didn't know what to do.

Your body tensed, instinct screaming at you to push him away—because you weren't used to this.

Not used to any touch besides that of your sisters, brief and fleeting, born only of necessity.

But at the same time—

You didn't want him to let go.

His thumbs brushed along the curve of your cheek, his touch light, reverent, as though afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling with something unspoken, something heavy.

Telemachus swallowed, his throat bobbing.

"I didn't feel alive for so long," he breathed, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. "Not since the day I nearly died. Not really."

His thumbs traced along your skin, slow and searching.

"But the moment you came to me in my dreams—" He exhaled sharply, his forehead nearly pressing to yours, his breath warm against your lips. "For the first time in a long time, I felt peace."

His eyes met yours, his gaze piercing, unwavering.

"And I didn't have to close my eyes to find it."

Telemachus didn't let go.

His hands trembled slightly, but they didn't pull away. His breath was warm, uneven, as though the weight of his own words had stolen the air from his lungs.

Then—

"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.

His lips parted, as if to say more, as if to beg—

But you didn't let him.

The words left you before you could stop them, trembling but true.

"Yes."

Telemachus choked on a breath.

His shoulders shook, something breaking in him, something unspooling after so many years of waiting, of yearning, of silence.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed, his grip tightening for just a moment before—

A kiss.

Soft.

Feather-light.

A single, fleeting press of his lips to your forehead.

It was not a mortal's kiss—not one of passion, nor hunger, nor desperation.

It was reverence.

Devotion so pure it nearly destroyed you.

His fingers brushed through your hair, lingering at the nape of your neck, holding you like something sacred. Like something his.

"...You're shaking," he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

You were.

You hadn't realized it until he spoke.

He exhaled a soft, breathy laugh, his lips still hovering against your skin. "Gods. You've held the fates of men in your hands, and yet this is what leaves you undone?"

You clenched your hands at your sides. "Shut up."

He grinned against your forehead.

Then—another kiss. This time to your temple. A lingering, slow press of his lips, as if savoring the weight of you, the realness of you.

His hands curled, pulling you just slightly closer. Not enough to force, not enough to demand—just enough to offer.

To give you the choice.

And, for the first time in eternity—

You chose.

You closed your eyes.

And for once, you didn't think about what comes next.

You simply existed.

In this moment.

With him.

A/N: n/a

#xani-writes: knot in time #x reader #epic the musical fanfic #jorge rivera herrans #the ocean saga #epic the musical x reader #greek mythology #greek gods #the odyssey #telemachus of ithaca #telemachus x reader #telemachus x fate #telemachus x fem reader #reader insert #slow burn #telemachus

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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 08 Chapter 08 | price of hesitation⌟

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The doors to the chamber burst open before any of you could react.

The force of it sent a sharp wind tearing through the space, rattling the threads, though they remained stiff, unmoving.

Zeus stormed in first, his presence crackling through the air like a live wire. His eyes burned with fury, his jaw clenched, his steps so heavy they seemed to shake the very ground.

Hades followed behind him, his approach far less explosive—but his silence was worse.

His face remained impassive, but you saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his dark eyes, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides.

His anger was contained—controlled in a way that was more unsettling than Zeus' open fury.

"What's going on?" Zeus boomed, his voice echoing across the chamber.

Before you could respond, Hades spoke, his voice calm but laced with something colder than usual.

"A strange wave just washed over everything," he said, his tone unreadable. As he spoke, he turned his gaze toward the Loom, his expression darkening as he took it in.

The stillness.

The eerie, unnatural stillness.

His lips parted slightly, his head tilting. "Is that what's wrong?"

Clotho was still on the floor, supported by Lachesis, but she managed to nod, her usual playfulness nowhere to be found. "Yes."

Zeus didn't care for any further explanation.

"Then fix it," he commanded, stepping forward, his form still crackling with restrained energy. "Now."

For a moment, you and your sisters exchanged a glance.

Then, suddenly perking up, Clotho bounced to her feet—though there was something frantic in the movement, something desperate—and quickly approached Zeus with an air of enthusiasm that was too forced.

"Ah, but wait—look at this!" she exclaimed, tugging Zeus toward a cluster of mortal threads. "One of your many demigod children—look how this one is growing! Quite the strong one, aren't they?"

She gestured toward a golden strand, a thread that twisted slightly brighter than the ones beside it. It belonged to one of Zeus' mortal offspring—one born of a union he likely forgot, one who had already begun to shape their own legend.

Zeus hesitated.

His ego won out—as she knew it would—and he allowed himself to be pulled toward the thread, his attention shifting, momentarily distracted.

Hades, however, didn't.

He stood where he was, his gaze never leaving the Loom.

Then—

"Is it supposed to be this still?" he hummed.

"No," Lachesis breathed out, her voice was quieter now, but firm. "The Loom is never supposed to stop moving."

Hades hummed again, but this time, his head lifted.

His gaze drifted upward, toward the higher threads—toward the threads of the gods themselves.

He watched them, motionless, stretching far into the unseen.

And then, without taking his eyes away, he pointed.

"And those?"

Lachesis hesitated.

"Those are the gods' threads," she admitted, her voice quieter than before.

Hades was silent.

He remained still for a long moment, simply staring.

Then—

"We aren't exempt either, huh?"

No one spoke.

The words hung there.

The meaning settled in an instant.

Then—Hades froze.

His body went rigid, his head snapping back down, his attention now fully locked onto you.

His eyes darkened.

His tone was no longer mild when he spoke.

"Chaos is spreading in the mortal realm."

It took less than a second for Zeus to storm back over, Clotho barely keeping up beside him.

"Hades—did you get the message from Hermes?"

Lachesis straightened, her impatience slipping through. "What news?"

Hades didn't look at her. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes dark, his posture stiff as he delivered the words that changed everything.

"Mortals aren't dying."

Silence.

A breath.

Hades' gaze flickered upward, as if listening to something only he could hear, his voice quieter now, but weighted with something heavy.

"Some souls," he continued, "are even resurrecting."

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Then—a shift.

Something trembled beyond the chamber walls, something vast and unraveling, stretching across the mortal world like a fault line splitting open. The Loom's stillness was only the surface—the warning before the tide.

But the tide had come.

In the lands below, chaos reigned.

The forgotten dead pulled themselves from their graves, their souls no longer bound to their end. Once-mourned heroes now walked the earth again, their names dusted off from history's pages, stepping forward into a world that had long since moved on without them. Legends reborn, but their stories incomplete.

Ghosts, meant to have passed beyond the veil, lingered instead, lost and untethered. Some hovered at the edges of battlefields, confused, searching for a war long over. Others returned to homes that no longer stood, their voices whispering through empty ruins, calling for families that no longer existed.

And worse still—

The unborn stirred.

Fates that had yet to be woven, lives that had not yet begun, manifested too soon. Infants cried from empty cradles, their bodies not yet made, their souls pulled forth without purpose, without time, without sequence.

The past, the present, the future—all of it bled together, strings twisting in ways that defied every law of fate.

Zeus growled, "Fix it. Fix it now."

His presence crackled through the space like a gathering storm, electricity skimming over his skin. His voice was sharp, biting, demanding order from a world unraveling beneath his very feet.

"Hades gave you your deal—a damn good one—yet here we are," he seethed, "the entire mortal world unraveling because you couldn't do your job."

He paced slightly, his movements jerky with restrained fury. "The dead are walking, the sick are recovering without cause, kings meant to fall in battle are standing up again—what the fuck is happening?!"

Clotho swallowed.

Then, weakly, she answered. "We... we know what happened."

Zeus bellowed, his voice shaking the chamber. "Then say it, girl! What happened?"

Clotho flicked a quick glance toward you—toward Lachesis—her usual ease utterly absent. Her throat bobbed as she hesitated, then, slowly, she exhaled.

"Atropos... cut the prince's thread. And then she... tied it to the end of ours."

Zeus faltered.

It was brief, but it was there.

His body stilled, his rage momentarily suspended as if it took him a moment to comprehend. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing slightly, his mind working through the impossible weight of what she just revealed.

Then—realization.

Something darkened in his expression. His fury returned, sharpened, laced with something else now—something edged with understanding.

Zeus' gaze snapped to you.

You didn't move.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice low, seething. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence crackling, pressing down, thick as a storm on the verge of breaking.

Again, that tone.

That seething, entitled demand.

You were sick of it.

You scoffed, your arms crossing, your patience slipping further with every word.

"I don't answer to you, Olympian."

Zeus' nostrils flared, his hands clenching at his sides as his energy crackled brighter. "You—Why did you do it?"

And finally—

You broke.

Your voice cut through the chamber, your words spilling out before you could stop them.

"Because did you ever stop to think about what it means to be a Fate?"

Zeus paused.

The silence was stifling.

Hades watched, unmoving. Your sisters remained still.

But you didn't stop.

"You—gods, titans, deities alike—you get everything. You're worshipped, you're loved. You experience joy, pleasure, companionship, desire. You're remembered in stories, sung about, written in the stars. You hold power, and yet you take as you wish—you live."

You took a slow, shaking breath.

"My sisters and I? We exist to ensure that you may continue to exist. That mortals may continue to live and die. That the cycle remains. But what of us?"

You gestured to your sisters.

"We don't love. We don't touch. We don't exist outside of what we were made for. We're not worshiped. We're not remembered."

Your fingers tightened at your sides.

"Even you, Zeus, the most self-serving of all gods, are allowed both. You're given purpose and indulgence. But we? We are fixed. Bound. Changed forever in our duty, unable to stray, unable to reach for more."

Zeus' glare didn't waver, but he didn't interrupt.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

"Maybe, just this once—just this once—I wanted to be selfish. To choose something. To not let Telemachus be taken away, only to be forgotten in time."

Silence.

You didn't look at your sisters.

You didn't look at Zeus or Hades.

You simply breathed.

Then—

"You tied his thread to yours."

Clotho's voice was small, but sure.

You glanced at her.

She hesitated, then tilted her head, thinking aloud. "So... doesn't that make a new step in fate?"

Lachesis straightened slightly. "It changes fate, certainly," she murmured, eyes flickering with thought.

"But," Clotho pressed, looking at you, "if his thread is bound to yours... that means it didn't end."

Hades exhaled slowly, a sound that was almost amused.

"Interesting," he mused.

Zeus, impatient as always, growled, "Enough riddles. Can this be fixed or not?"

Hades hummed, then slowly lifted a hand.

Dark energy swirled around his fingertips before expanding outward—

And then, in a shimmer of twisting shadow—

Telemachus appeared.

His form was solid but slightly hazed at the edges, his essence caught in the in-between of the mortal and divine.

He drew in a sharp, startled breath, his chest rising and falling as if air had just been returned to him. His hands hovered over his own body, fingers pressing against his chest, his arms, his throat—searching, feeling. His breath came unsteady at first, his body tense with confusion, his muscles shifting as if expecting pain that never arrived.

Then, his gaze snapped upward, scanning the space around him, his brows furrowing—until his eyes found you.

You felt the exact moment he relaxed.

His stance eased, his shoulders losing their stiffness, as if you were something familiar—something known.

Clotho clapped her hands together. "Good, he's intact!"

Telemachus blinked at her, then at Zeus and Hades, then finally back at you. His confusion deepened, his voice slightly hoarse when he finally spoke. "What's happening?"

"We're fixing it," Clotho answered breezily, already waving toward the Loom. "And you're going to help."

Telemachus' frown remained. "How?"

Clotho grinned. "By restarting it."

His frown only deepened. "Restarting what?"

"The Loom."

Telemachus followed her gaze—only for his expression to shift.

He didn't know what it was.

But he felt it.

Something in his stance changed, something settling into place in a way that should not be natural. His fingers flexed slightly, as though drawn toward the Loom without understanding why.

You watched, your own fingers twitching.

Telemachus hesitated before speaking, his voice lower now, as though wary of asking the question aloud. "...Why... am I here?"

There it was.

You inhaled softly. "Because... when I cut your thread, I wove it into the end of ours."

His eyes flickered, his throat bobbing as if weighing what to say. He looked like he wanted to ask more—to question, to demand an explanation, to understand why, why, why—

But Zeus was already stepping forward, his patience fraying like an unraveling thread.

"We don't have time for this," Zeus snapped, his energy crackling against the chamber walls, his irritation tangible. "Get on with it."

Telemachus' lips parted slightly, like he wanted to push back—but instead, he swallowed his questions, locking them behind his teeth. He exhaled, his shoulders squaring, his expression unreadable once more.

You nodded at him.

He hesitated only a moment longer—then, finally, he stepped forward.

"Take a cut thread," Lachesis instructed, gesturing toward the loose strands. "And place it back into the Loom."

Telemachus hesitated again.

He looked at you.

You nodded once more.

His throat bobbed—then, with steady fingers, he reached for a single severed thread.

The moment his fingers touched it—

The Loom shuddered.

Then—

It moved.

The threads shifted, the great construct of fate beginning to turn, the fabric of reality slipping back into motion.

The entire chamber hummed, energy surging outward, strong, stable—

Then—

Another shockwave.

This time, not violent, not chaotic—

But final.

The impact dispersed through the chamber, slamming through the very fabric of existence, forcing Zeus and Hades out. The two gods vanished in flashes of golden light and shadow.

The doors sealed shut.

The force settled.

And then, at last—

The Loom spun.

A/N: n/a

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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 07 Chapter 07 | unraveled fate⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Not a moment later, all of you gasped—your breath hitched, your vision flashed white-hot as a static hum pulsed behind your eyes.

"Zeus is here."

You all murmured it in sync, the words spilling from your lips like a prophecy already woven.

You didn't hesitate. You three left the Loom's chamber, stepping out into the vast space beyond.

The vibrations hit first.

A thrumming force against your ribs, a low hum in the bones of your skull. The closer you got, the stronger it grew—until the vibrations turned to tremors, shaking the floor beneath you, rattling the very foundation of this place.

Then—

A crack of thunder.

You rounded the last bend, and before you stood Zeus, his presence stretching outward, dominating the space as only a king of gods could.

Lightning still danced along his arms, crackling between his fingertips, illuminating the air with a sharp, electric glow. The space around him was charred—blackened streaks marring the once-pristine expanse, a few of your attendants shrinking back as the static still lingered in the air, their faces lowered in reverence or fear.

He thundered over them, his voice echoing through the chamber, demanding where you all are.

You understood his anger.

But you didn't appreciate his audacity.

Cold fury rushed through you, sharp and biting.

This was your domain. Your place. The Loom was beyond even the gods. Even him.

Before Lachesis or Clotho could speak, you stepped forward, your voice slicing through the crackling air.

"What are you doing here?"

Zeus' gaze snapped to you.

You stood tall, unflinching, your sisters mirroring your stance on either side.

His boldness simmered just slightly at your challenge, though his frown remained.

"A soul is missing," he stated, voice low with restrained irritation.

Lachesis echoed, "Missing?"

"Yes—" Zeus began, but before he could finish, another voice cut through the air.

"What my brother means," a smooth, measured tone rose from the shadows, "is that after a bit of searching, I found that a soul suspiciously vanished on the very day it was meant to be harvested."

Hades.

He stepped from the darkness at the edges of the space, his presence swallowing the remnants of Zeus' electricity.

Where Zeus was fire and thunder, Hades was ice and shadow, calm but no less imposing.

His gaze landed on you.

You didn't look away.

You didn't lower your head.

Instead, with your chin high and voice steady, you came clean.

"Yes," you said plainly. "There's a soul that has yet to be cut."

Zeus bristled, but you continued before he could interrupt.

"But understand this—" you emphasized, your voice firm. "It was not by my own doing. He avoided his fate himself—my only choice was in not rectifying it."

There was a beat of silence.

Zeus and Hades stood before you, their expressions vastly different.

Zeus' frustration was still palpable, rolling off him like the remnants of a storm.

But Hades—Hades watched you with something else.

Something almost... interested.

Zeus was the first to speak.

"Fix it."

His voice was sharp, impatient. He leveled a hard stare at you.

"This is not a game, Atropos. The Loom could began fraying. If you have wavered for too long, then you will waver longer. Cut the thread and restore balance."

His words pressed heavy into the space—until once again, he was cut off.

"Now, now, brother," Hades hummed, tilting his head. "No need to rush things."

Zeus exhaled sharply, clearly done with interruptions, but Hades paid him no mind.

Instead, he turned his full attention to you.

"I see that you are interested in the soul you withheld from me."

It wasn't a question, it was an observation.

A truth spoken aloud.

You said nothing.

Hades took a step closer.

"So I will offer you a deal."

Zeus made a sound of protest, but Hades continued, unfazed.

"Let the warrior die naturally," he proposed, "and I will allow him to remain yours in the Underworld."

You stiffened.

Zeus' eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"It is simple," Hades said smoothly. "When he dies—when—he will not go through the usual process of judgment. He will not be cast into the fields of punishment or be weighed for paradise. He will not be thrown into the waters of Lethe to erase what he was."

His gaze sharpened slightly, but his tone remained neutral.

"Instead, he will remain yours. Unprocessed. He will stay in my domain until his time to cease comes, untouched by the usual fate of men."

You inhaled slowly.

Cut his thread and restore balance—

Or defy the very essence of what you were.

You hesitated.

You hesitated when you knew you shouldn't.

The Loom was fraying. Your sisters were right. You should have ended this now.

But—

Flashes of memory rose behind your eyes.

Telemachus, looking at you with that quiet, thoughtful gaze. "I nearly died once... and I saw you."

The way he spoke of death not with fear, but with peace. "That's why I dream of peace. That's what I felt when I nearly died. And it always reminds me of you."

Your lips pressed together.

You knew what you should do.

And yet—

You released a slow breath.

Your decision solidified within you.

Your hands unclenched.

And at last, you nodded.

"Very well."

With that, you turned on your heel, y sisters were close behind you, their footsteps steady, their presence pressing at your back as you made your way back to the chamber.

You could already feel the weight of your shears as they materialized in your hand, heavy, expectant.

They knew what must be done. You knew what must be done.

As you stepped into the chamber, your gaze fell upon his thread—the one that had been the source of these past unusual days, the one that had remained unsevered despite all logic, all laws.

And yet—

Your steps slowed.

You neared it carefully, deliberately, your fingers twitching slightly as you reached out.

Slowly, you grasped the thread between your fingers.

You thought of him.

You thought of the first time you saw him on the battlefield, the way he carved through men with the inevitability of a warrior who had no need to prove himself.

You thought of how, even when you poised your shears over his life, he had moved.

How he'd avoided his fate.

You thought of how you should've corrected it immediately—but you didn't.

You thought of the nights spent in his dreams, of his voice in the fields of flowers, of the way he would tilt his head in thought before asking you a question that would linger in your mind far longer than you cared to admit.

You thought of the weight in his voice when he spoke of his mother, of the child who waited for a father who didn't come.

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

You exhaled, gripping his thread tighter.

You'd never hesitated before.

Not once.

Not in all your existence.

You were born not from gods, nor from mortals, but from necessity.

Time had existed before you did, but it had no shape, no structure. Events unfolded in chaos, endings and beginnings tangled together without form.

The Loom was created to bring order to it.

And you were created to tend to it.

You'd always existed outside the cycle. You'd always been separate.

But Telemachus' words had planted a thought in your mind—one you had tried to ignore.

Even you, once, came from something.

You took a slow breath and reached into the center of the Loom.

The sensation was immediate.

It was everything and nothing at once.

It was light and void, vastness and closeness, warmth and emptiness. The pulse of existence itself hummed through your fingers, a single string wound through the heart of all things.

The three of you—the Fates—were bound to it.

And yet, in a moment of split decision—of weakness, of defiance, of something you cannot name—

You did something no Fate had ever done.

And now... you were pulling on it.

The Loom shuddered.

Your sisters gasped behind you.

"What are you doing?"

Lachesis' voice was sharp, closer now, panic creeping into the edges of it.

Clotho let out a sharp breath, stepping forward. "Stop! Do you realize what—"

You ignored them.

Your fingers found the end of the thread—your end—the strand that had existed since the beginning of all things.

You felt its pulse, its connection to the Loom itself.

And then, carefully, deliberately—

You took Telemachus' snipped thread.

And wove his thread into your own.

The consequences were immediate. The moment the knot was made, the force erupted.

A violent pulse of energy detonated from the Loom, throwing all three of you backward.

You gasped as your body hurtled through the chamber, your limbs weightless, your mind ringing from the sheer force of it.

Somewhere, you heard your sisters' cries, the echoes of their forms striking against the unseen barriers of the chamber.

The Loom shivered.

Everything shivered.

The threads, all of them—every single one—shuddered violently, stretching taut before snapping still.

Silence.

Not the silence of peace.

The silence of something holding its breath.

The Loom—the endless, pulsing construct that had never once stopped—froze.

For the first time since time itself began—

Fate didn't move.

A/N: n/a

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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Knot in Time | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | a prince's question, a fate's doubt⌟

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Laughter echoed around you, bright and loud, mixing with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the unmistakable tang of sweat. The room was alive, filled with the sounds of music, the clatter of plates, the merry shouting of men who had long since lost count of their drinks.

Telemachus and you sat apart from the celebration, watching it unfold.

His father was at the center of it all—Odysseus, the man whose name had been carried across seas and sung in halls far beyond Ithaca's borders. He was seated at the grand table, his weathered hands curled around his wife's, a servant leaning in to refill his cup as he laughed heartily at some jest.

Penelope—his Penelope—smiled.

A true, unguarded smile, one that softened the lines of waiting, the years of silent suffering. She looked at him the way a woman looked at something once lost but miraculously found again.

Her eyes were bright, her laughter clear.

She was happy.

Telemachus exhaled beside you, setting down his cup with a quiet clink.

"This may have been the happiest she's been since my father left," he murmured.

You glanced at him, but his gaze remained locked on the scene before him.

"I've never seen her quite like this," he continued, voice thoughtful. "Not with her eyes so bright, her smile so wide."

His fingers tapped against the rim of his goblet.

Then, softer—

"I wonder how things would have been if he never returned."

His voice didn't waver, but there was something hollow in the words.

"Would this feast still have happened?" he mused, staring at his mother's laughter, at his father's steady presence beside her. "Would we still be celebrating, only with some suitor sitting in his place?"

The thought lingered for only a moment before Telemachus seemed to shake it away.

He exhaled, straightening, forcing an ease back into his posture.

Then, with forced cheer, he turned to you.

"What about you?" he asked, tipping his head slightly. "Have you ever been to a feast?"

You blinked.

"No."

Telemachus raised a brow. "Never?"

"Only when there is a life to cut."

There was a pause.

Telemachus awkwardly blinked, shifting in his seat.

You didn't particularly enjoy the look on his face—the stiffness of it, the clear attempt to recover from what he deemed a grim answer—so you added, lightly—

"Even then, this seems... nice."

His expression eased at that.

A small, but real smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose it does."

For a while, you simply sat, watching the festivities unfold.

Then—

"So," Telemachus started, tilting his head, "how exactly did you and your sisters come to be?"

You arched a brow.

He chuckled. "Come now, I have the chance to speak with a Fate. I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity to ask."

Then, softer—

"Of course, if you'd rather not, that's no liberty of mine."

You scoffed. "I won't if I don't."

Telemachus grinned, amused.

But after a moment, you considered.

And then you began.

"We were not born as mortals are," you told him, "nor were we forged like the gods."

Telemachus listened intently, the light of the torches casting gold into his gaze.

"We were made at the beginning of all things, not as beings, but as function. The threads of fate existed before we did, but they were tangled, directionless. So, we were shaped—not from flesh, nor from divine ichor, but from time itself, from inevitability, from the fabric of endings and beginnings. We did not step into existence. We simply... were."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully.

"It suits you," he said.

"Does it?"

"You don't seem like something that could be born."

You tilted your head, considering that.

Perhaps he was right.

"What of your sisters?" he asked. "How are they?"

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "Contrary to belief, the strictest of us is not me but my younger sister, Lachesis."

Telemachus looked genuinely surprised. "Truly?"

"Truly." You smirked slightly. "And the youngest, Clotho, is just as mortals imagine her—giggling, whimsical, free-spirited."

Telemachus leaned back, shaking his head with amusement. "And yet, you are seen as the harshest?"

"It is easy to mistake certainty for severity," you said simply. "I do not worry over fate. I know what will come, what will be done, so I do not waste time fretting over it."

"And Lachesis?"

"She sets things in motion." You shook your head slightly. "She hates when things don't go as planned. It unsettles her when threads tangle or stretch beyond their design. She finds it frustrating when outcomes shift unexpectedly."

"And Clotho?"

You huffed. "Worse than me, in some ways. She is carefree. Too carefree. When you exist at the beginning of all things, there is no reason to concern yourself with how they end."

Telemachus listened, thoughtful.

Then, after a moment, he hummed.

You glanced at him. "What was that for?"

He shrugged, smiling slightly. "You all sound surprisingly... mortal."

You scoffed, but he continued—

"It's just amusing, is all. People speak of the Fates as if they are distant, emotionless forces. But listening to you, it almost sounds like—" He tilted his head, considering his words. "Like you have frustrations. Preferences. Personalities."

You stared at him.

And then, before you could stop it, you hummed; unable to stop the slight quirk of your lips, amusement flickering through you despite yourself at his words.

"I suppose you're right."

Telemachus shifted at that.

His posture straightened just slightly, as if your agreement surprised him, as if he had expected you to brush it off or contradict him. But you didn't. Because he was right.

You allowed your gaze to drift back toward the feast.

The revelry continued as it had all night—men laughing, servants weaving between tables, wine sloshing over the rims of golden cups. You took in the shifting expressions, the bright, flushed faces, the way hands clasped shoulders in camaraderie, the way Penelope's soft laughter lingered in the air like the sweetest of melodies.

Then—

Your gaze caught on him.

A younger Telemachus, moving through the dance with a lightness you had yet to see in him.

His face was flushed, not with wine, but with something warmer—happiness, exhilaration. His steps were firm but unhurried as he spun a girl around the floor, her hair flowing behind her, her laughter clear.

There was no weight in his gaze. No exhaustion in his shoulders.

Just... joy.

You tilted your head slightly, watching this moment, preserved in memory.

And then, before you realized it, a thought formed.

Who was she?

The question surprised you.

It wasn't the kind you usually had. It wasn't the kind that was necessary.

But you found that you were wondering all the same.

You turned to Telemachus, speaking before you could think better of it.

"Even then," you mused, "there will always be things my sisters and I will never fully experience—no matter how mortal we may seem."

Telemachus glanced at you, brows furrowing slightly.

"And what is that?"

You said nothing at first, merely nodding toward his younger self.

He followed your gaze.

It didn't take him long to realize what you meant—or at least, what he thought you meant.

His expression shifted, his face scrunching in thought, his fingers tapping against his cup in idle rhythm.

Then, after a moment, he exhaled, his voice lower now.

"Fates don't love... do they?"

The words weren't spoken with cruelty.

There was no malice in them.

But there was weight.

And truth.

You hummed in agreement. "No. Love is a thread we use to move lives along, but we ourselves do not entangle with it."

"Why?"

You paused, considering.

It wasn't a question you'd ever had to answer before.

But Telemachus watched you with an expectant gaze, waiting, and so you attempted to explain it in a way he would understand.

"Perhaps because we have never had reason to."

He arched a brow. "That's not an answer."

You hummed. "No. But it is true."

You thought for a moment, then said—

"It's not just that we do not love, Telemachus. It's that we can't—or rather, we shouldn't."

"Shouldn't?" he echoed.

"Think of it logically." You turned toward him. "Every soul is placed meticulously. Everything is balanced. Every meeting, every bond, every loss—it is all woven into the grand design. To uproot a soul from its course for our own novelty would be selfish, would it not?"

He listened, thoughtful.

"To pull a thread from the weave is no small thing," you continued. "The moment you remove one, the entire pattern shifts. To love a mortal would mean taking them from what was meant for them. From the cycle they were born into."

Telemachus watched you closely, absorbing your words.

Then—silence.

You assumed, at first, that he was simply processing it. That your words had given him something phenomenal to consider.

But instead, he spoke again.

And what he said—

"What about the attendants?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The attendants," he repeated, voice patient. "The ones who guide the dead. They were once souls, yes?"

You nodded. "Correct. But they were taken from the cycle. Their fate was to be uprooted."

"Right." Telemachus leaned forward slightly. "So if fate allows them to be removed from the cycle, why is it impossible for you?"

You opened your mouth—

And then closed it.

You stared at him at a loss.

Because in all your existence, you'd never questioned it.

The attendants were souls, yes. But they had been plucked from their mortal ends, turned into something new, something that would exist outside of life and death. They were chosen.

But chosen by who?

By fate itself?

By you?

Or—

You exhaled, your fingers twitching slightly.

Telemachus saw your reaction.

He saw your hesitation.

And his eyes sharpened with understanding.

"Interesting," he murmured.

You didn't respond.

Because for the second time in your existence—

You had no answer.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You returned home, but your mind didn't.

Telemachus' words lingered, threading themselves through your thoughts, catching in places they shouldn't.

You told yourself you'd returned from your duties. That you'd come from overseeing the next cycle, to check the upcoming snippings, to ensure all remained as it should.

But you knew the truth.

You exhaled slowly, preparing to let your thoughts unwind themselves further—

"Finally decided to return?"

The voice was sharp, unimpressed.

You closed your eyes, sighing.

"Lachesis," you said, "I apologize for being late. I was out checking the threads—"

"Save it."

You blinked, turning to look at her.

Lachesis stood before you, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed in a way that suggested she had already decided your explanation was useless.

"I know where you've been."

Before you could respond, another voice—

"We both do."

Clotho bounced over—but something was off.

She didn't skip, didn't hum, didn't wear the same lazy, carefree expression she so often did.

For the first time in... you didn't know how long, she looked frustrated.

You straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

"You've been with the young prince," Clotho said. "The prince who should have been dead over two weeks ago."

The words settled heavily between you.

Your eyes widened slightly, and you opened your mouth to respond—to defend yourself, though you were not sure what you would say—

"Don't," Lachesis snapped.

You stiffened.

"It doesn't matter why you've taken so long," she said sharply. "What matters is that you can't keep lolling around."

A twinge of guilt stirred beneath your skin, but you pushed it aside, crossing your arms as you spat back—

"What's so different about this time? I've taken my time cutting threads before—"

"Because of us," Clotho interjected. "Not because of you."

Her voice was more serious than you'd ever heard it.

You hesitated.

"That is different," Lachesis said firmly.

"How?" you demanded.

Lachesis didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly before she met your gaze with something unreadable. "Follow me."

You followed them both through the great expanse of the Loom, moving past the countless threads stretching infinitely in all directions.

But as you approached the heart of it—the place where all things converged—you felt it before you saw it.

Something was wrong.

And then—

"No."

The loom was unraveling.

It wasn't an immediate disaster. Not yet.

But it was beginning.

Small knots tangled along the weave, imperfections that shouldn't have been there. Ripples spread across the fabric of fate, disrupting patterns, distorting the paths of other threads that passed too closely.

And the cause of it—

The source—

Your breath stilled.

Telemachus' thread was darkening.

Where once it had been a delicate golden weave, now it was fraying, strands unwinding slowly, creeping outward, infecting others.

It wasn't a break, not a cut—

It was a slow corruption.

The longer it remained unsevered, the more the loom bent and distorted around it.

You stepped closer, staring, taking in the way the disruption spread.

It wasn't fast.

But you knew what you were seeing.

You knew what it meant.

A presence shifted beside you.

"If a thread is not cut—" Clotho murmured.

You closed your eyes.

And you finished.

"Chaos will spread."

A/N: sorry for dropping off the face of the earth for this fic 😭😭 someone commented/reminded me so i'll be updating all of them/the rest ❤️😩

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winxanity-ii · 21 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 68 Chapter 68 | driftwood hearts⌟

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You didn't even realize you were moving until your feet left the ground.

One moment you were frozen—lungs tight, rain slanting down around you like the world was holding its breath—and the next, you were running. Tripping. Barreling forward through the wet grass and tangled undergrowth, heart hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.

You crashed into him.

Your arms wrapped around him with a force you didn't know you had, nearly knocking the breath from both your chests. He staggered back half a step but didn't fall—didn't pull away.

Instead, his arms came up around you, slow and shaking, like he wasn't sure if he was dreaming. Like he didn't trust that you were really there, either.

But he held you.

Tightly. Desperately. Like a man clinging to a rope at the edge of a storm.

Your forehead pressed against his collarbone, nose brushing the damp skin at his throat, and all you could hear was his heartbeat—ragged and stuttering beneath your ear.

It was unsteady. Too fast. A wild, broken rhythm that matched your own, thudding through the space between you like a promise you didn't dare speak yet.

You didn't breathe. Not for a long time.

Your hands curled against the back of his tunic, bunching the wet fabric into your fists. You stayed there like that, clinging to him as if the moment might vanish if you so much as blinked.

Your mind spun—whirling with everything, with nothing, with the sound of your name on Hermes' lips, with the memory of Apollo's last kiss on your skin, with the compass still faintly glowing somewhere in the rain-soaked dark.

And then, finally—you pulled back.

Just enough to look at him.

The water kept falling, soaking his hair, sliding down his lashes, dripping off the curve of his chin. His cheeks were pink from wind and rain, his lips slightly parted like he wanted to speak but couldn't.

Your hands lifted before you even thought to do it. They reached up, trembling as your fingers brushed the sides of his face. His jaw was rough with a few days' stubble. His cheekbone bore a fresh bruise, dark and angry. You cupped him gently, your thumbs brushing the cold curve of his cheeks, rain pooling in the dips of your palms.

You stared into his eyes.

And gods—they were brown.

That soft, warm brown that saw you once in a crowded hall and never stopped watching after that. The same eyes that had gone wide when you stood at the front of the court. That had narrowed with quiet hurt when you disappeared. That had glimmered with something unspoken when you promised to come back.

But now... now they looked different.

They were wet with rain. But maybe not just rain.

Because you weren't sure anymore.

Your breath hitched as your hands trembled harder, pressing gently into his cheeks. Your voice cracked when you spoke.

"...Telemachus?" you said again, softer this time. Like his name alone might tear you apart. "Is it really you?"

Because gods help you, if this was another illusion... if this was some cruel trick sent by Olympus, another dream, another test, another mirage pulled from your ribs and placed in front of you just to see if you'd break—

You didn't know if you could survive it.

Not again.

Not him.

Telemachus let out a soft, watery laugh—thin and wet around the edges like he couldn't decide whether to cry or breathe. The sound trembled through the storm like it didn't quite belong in this world.

"It's me," he whispered, lips barely moving.

His hands reached up slowly, gently, and covered yours where they still cupped his face. His palms were cold but solid. Real. One of his thumbs brushed across your wrist, and he closed his eyes for a moment—just held your hands against his skin like he never wanted to let go.

And when he opened them again, there was something in his eyes that cracked straight down the center of your chest.

"It's me," he said again, hoarse and almost drowned out by the wind. "It's really me."

Your lips trembled into a smile—shaky and overwhelmed, but a smile all the same. You laughed, a broken little sound, and your hands kept moving. Brushing over his cheekbones. Pushing damp hair out of his eyes. Skimming down the curve of his jaw.

He didn't stop you. Didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting your fingers trace his face like he was something sacred. Something returned.

And then—before you could stop it—words tumbled out of your mouth. Quiet. Thoughtless. Raw.

"I... I thought I'd have to love you in memory."

Telemachus froze.

His lips parted, breath catching in his throat like you'd just rewritten the sea beneath his feet. Like you'd hung new stars in his sky without warning. His eyes went wide, flickering between your face and your mouth, stunned into silence.

And for a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something—anything—but then he blinked, pulling in a sharp breath, and shook his head as if forcing himself back to the ground.

His gaze changed.

The softness didn't vanish, but something older rose beneath it. Something steadier. Protective. Fierce.

He looked at you like a man making sure his foundation hadn't cracked.

"Are you well?" he asked suddenly, quick and firm. "Did you eat today? Have you been traveling long? Are you feverish?"

His hands dropped from your cheeks as he began scanning you from head to toe, eyes narrowing as they caught on the mud at your knees, the damp curve of your shoulders, the slight tremble in your hands.

He leaned in slightly, trying to get a better look, fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you into his arms again—but also check your temperature and maybe wrap you in a hundred cloaks.

You opened your mouth to answer—but then something thunked beside your foot.

Telemachus' words cut off mid-sentence.

You both looked down.

The soaked bag of supplies sat at your feet, slumped against the dirt, a half-loosened tie of rope still dangling from its top.

You and Telemachus both followed the direction it had flown from, your heads turning slowly in tandem. There—just past the dripping tree line, barely lit by the faint glow of the compass still pulsing behind you—stood Peisistratus.

He grinned.

Water dripped down his face in thick streaks, but it didn't stop him from throwing both arms wide with theatrical flair. His soaked cloak clung to his body like a wet curtain, and he tilted his chin up with an expression of exaggerated joy.

"Well?" he called over the rain, voice ringing out with mock offense. "Aren't I worthy of a dramatic reunion too?"

You blinked, stunned.

Peisistratus took a few squelching steps forward and placed a hand over his chest like a spurned lover in some overacted play. "No tears? No running leap into my arms?" He jabbed a finger toward Telemachus, grinning crookedly. "I missed you too, prince. Though, I gotta say—" he gestured to the awkward stillness between you and Telemachus, "—your taste in reunions is a little lackluster. I mean, if you're not professing your love with the sloppiest, wettest kiss imaginable, then what are you??"

Telemachus stared at him.

Blankly. No smile. No nod. Just a long, unimpressed blink through the rain.

Then, without a word, he turned back to you.

"Come on, ____," he said softly, reaching out for your hand. "I'll take you somewhere dry."

Before you could even respond, he stooped down, grabbing the soaked bag of supplies in one hand like it weighed nothing. He straightened again with a grunt, not even sparing a full glance at Peisistratus—only tossing a short, very unimpressed glare over his shoulder. Narrowed eyes. No expression.

Peisistratus let out a loud gasp, his jaw dropping dramatically as he threw his arms higher.

"Ah! You wound me!" he cried after you both, spinning in place like a rain-soaked stage actor mid-tragedy. "I wait days for your soggy little face and this is the thanks I get?!"

You reached out and grabbed Telemachus' hand—still cold and damp, but steady. Warm at the center.

His fingers tightened gently around yours as he began guiding you back toward the tree line, the bag of supplies swinging at his side.

Behind you, Peisistratus' exaggerated wailing continued.

"Oh, so this is how it is! You find the lost prince and suddenly I'm old news! Left for the bugs and wild pigs—alone—to die in the jungle, in the rain! Gods! Cruelty!"

You tried not to laugh. You really, really did.

But it slipped out anyway.

Just a small, breathless huff.

And somehow, in this storm, that laughter felt like the first warmth of the sun again.

Soon, Telemachus led the three of you deeper into the tangled green. The trees thickened, their roots twisting above the soil like ancient bones. The canopy overhead knit tighter together, catching more and more of the rain. And slowly—miraculously—the downpour lessened.

Bit by bit, the hammering softened to a steady tap. Then to a patter. Then to nothing at all but droplets slipping from leaves in lazy, rhythmless falls.

You didn't notice how drenched you were until the cold started to settle in your sleeves and collar, your sandals squishing beneath every step. Still, you walked. You didn't care. You would've walked through fire if it meant staying at Telemachus' side.

"Hey, ____," Peisistratus called from behind, a smug lilt already blooming in his voice. "Look!"

You turned, just enough to catch his wide grin as he pointed up to the sky, where moonlight peeked back through cracks in the leaves.

"Told you he wouldn't stay mad that long."

You scoffed, giving him a flat look. "Don't count on being that lucky again."

"Count on what?" Telemachus asked, slowing slightly ahead of you, brow knitting. "Who are we talking about?"

You and Peisistratus exchanged a glance. You narrowed your eyes at him. He tilted his head innocently at you.

And then—at the exact same moment—you both spoke.

"He offended a god." "She offended a god."

You spun toward him with a look of betrayal. "Me?! How in Hades was it my fault?!"

Peisistratus gasped, hand to chest. "I was defending your honor!" he said, completely unbothered. "Against divine overreach! Like any good mortal should!"

"I'm sorry—how is telling a god to shove anything up their rear honor-bound?!"

"It was poetic critique! And besides," he added with a sniff, "if it rained, that means I was heard. Which, frankly, I take as proof my words carried weight."

Telemachus blinked between you both like he'd just walked into a scene that'd started three acts ago. "I'm... confused."

You sighed, waving him off as he reached up and held a thick vine-covered branch out of your way. You ducked under it, brushing wet curls from your face.

"I'll explain later," you muttered. "Short version? Peisistratus offended Apollo and almost got smited. Ended up with a warning storm instead."

"Storm slash baptism," Peisistratus added. "Depending on how you look at it."

Telemachus just stared, lips parting slightly—like he was about to say something—but then slowly closed his mouth again.

"...Right," he said finally. "Okay."

He turned back around, picking up the pace again, his footsteps quieter now against the softened earth. But as he walked, you heard it—barely louder than the hush of the leaves around you, but still there. A quiet mutter, mostly to himself. "So that's where that bright light came from earlier..."

You blinked. He hadn't said it to anyone in particular, but the words still stuck with you, sitting heavy in your chest. Something about the way he said it—like he'd been wondering about it ever since the sky flashed like a second sun, wondering if it had anything to do with you. Or the gods. Or both.

"It didn't stop raining," Telemachus added a beat later, answering Peisistratus without looking back. "It just... doesn't fall here. The further you go into the jungle, the denser it gets. The rain doesn't drip through much. Just runs off."

As if to prove his point, your foot landed in a shallow groove carved through the dirt—a tiny river of runoff trickling down the path, pooling near the roots of the massive trees around you.

The ground beneath you was still soaked, soft with mud, but the rain itself barely made it past the thick canopy above. Everything glistened wet, but not freshly touched.

The three of you moved a few paces more until the path narrowed again, the undergrowth pressing tighter. You came to a stop at what looked like a wall of green—thick, tangled ivy and vine hanging down from tree branches above, forming a curtain over what looked like a faintly lit path beyond.

The light behind it was strange—dim but golden, flickering faintly like it was bouncing off water. But you couldn't see the source.

Peisistratus squinted, craning his neck to glance upward.

"...How high does this go?" he murmured, trying to spot the tree tops through the low-hanging mist and swaying fronds above. "Gods. Can't even see the stars anymore."

He leaned back on his heels slightly, brow furrowing. "This is like... like a jungle inside a jungle. Like it just keeps swallowing itself."

You looked up too, and it did feel that way. The canopy seemed to fold in on itself the deeper you went—thick limbs tangled together like fingers clasped tight over a secret.

Peisistratus hummed thoughtfully. "How'd it even get like this?"

At first, Telemachus didn't answer. He stood quiet for a long moment, one hand resting on a hanging vine, eyes lowered to the muddy trail beneath his feet. His brows were knit, jaw tight.

Then he looked up again.

And his face had shifted—serious now. Not angry. Just... tight. Guarded.

He reached out, slowly pulling the curtain of vines aside. The pale gold light beyond flickered again, catching the curve of his jaw and the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

"Divine intervention," he muttered.

Just those two words. Soft. Heavy.

And suddenly... the jungle didn't feel like just jungle anymore.

It felt quieter here. Not in the usual, natural way, but expectant. Like even the trees were holding their breath. You didn't realize how still you were standing until Peisistratus shifted beside you, brushing a hand through his damp curls.

"Honestly," he murmured, voice low, almost like he was afraid to break something sacred, "the way you said it so serious... I don't even have the guts to crack a joke right now."

You glanced at him—just a flick of your gaze—but he offered a small, sheepish smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His usual jokes sat unsaid on the edge of his tongue, caught behind the tension still lingering in the air.

Then—finally—Telemachus snorted.

It was soft. Barely more than breath. But it was there.

He shook his head, shoulders loosening a little as he muttered, "You're ridiculous, Peisistratus." The faintest grin curled at his lips as he turned toward the ivy curtain again. And just like that, some of the tightness in the air broke.

You felt it.

He reached back, hand extended toward you again without looking. His fingers wiggled gently, a silent gesture. Without hesitation, you stepped forward and placed your hand in his once more.

Warm.

Familiar.

He guided you forward, pulling the vines aside as the soft, glowing light washed across your face.

Behind you, Peisistratus let out a loud, triumphant cackle, the sound bouncing off the trees.

"There it is," he called, grinning wide. "Was wondering when I'd see that smile again. Thought I might have to tell a real joke."

You huffed a laugh under your breath, but didn't answer. You couldn't. Not when you stepped through the veil of ivy and saw what waited on the other side.

The jungle opened into a small clearing—circular and wide, ringed by tall palms and overgrown ferns, like something carved out and protected long ago. A narrow dirt path ran between tangled roots and clusters of glowing mushrooms, leading into a small camp.

Three huts stood near the edge of the clearing, each one made of dark wood and curved palm leaves, their rooftops draped in hanging shells, braided seaweed, and strung coral beads that clinked softly in the breeze.

The largest hut was round, a bit taller than the rest, with pale flowers growing along its sides like someone had planted them intentionally. The other two were smaller, cozy-looking—simple and mismatched but lived-in, softened by colorful fabrics pinned over their entrances to keep the rain out.

The bonfire at the center of the clearing crackled gently, its orange glow spilling out over the clearing, smoke curling in lazy tendrils toward the stars above.

It was beautiful.

But that wasn't what made your breath catch in your throat.

Because sprawled beside the fire, laying back on his elbows and chewing something lazily in his cheek, was—

Your breath hitched.

You didn't even realize you let go of Telemachus' hand, your feet carrying you forward before your mind could catch up, your voice tumbling out in a breathless gasp—

"Callias?"

His head snapped up so fast you heard the faint pop of his neck. Whatever he'd been chewing tumbled right out of his mouth, landing in the dirt beside him with a soft, wet plop. His eyes went wide—then brighter, like someone had lit a lamp behind them. His lips curled up into the biggest, sun-split grin you'd seen in weeks.

"____?"

His voice was pure warmth. All disbelief and boyish joy, like he'd never expected to see you again—like your name was the first sweet thing he'd tasted since landing on this gods-cursed island.

You didn't think.

You ran.

Your feet pounded across the clearing, your breath catching in your throat as the firelight stretched across your vision. You didn't slow. You barely blinked.

You dropped to your knees so hard it jarred up your bones, pebbles biting into your skin—but you didn't care. You surged forward, arms wrapping tight around him, pressing your face to his shoulder as your whole chest gave out in a single, cracking breath.

"Thank the gods—"

Callias let out a startled laugh, muffled by your hair. "Oof—!"

You didn't even let him finish before you were rambling, voice high and breathless. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You're warm—do you have a fever? Is your arm broken? What happened to your eye—wait, what is that on your face, is that moss—?!"

"Ow—ow, gods, okay—" Callias wheezed with a weak chuckle, patting your back awkwardly. "Ease up, woman. You're trying to fix me, not finish the job, right?"

You immediately leaned back, blinking hard, hands hovering in the air like you were afraid to touch him again. "What? What's wrong?"

Callias grimaced. "Nothing, just... think I pulled something earlier when I stretched grabbing something to snack on. And you tackled me like a wild dog."

Your mouth fell open. "I didn't tackle you—!"

He just grinned, as if that settled the matter, and reached lazily for the half-eaten fruit beside him like the last thirty seconds hadn't just torn a hole in the universe.

But before you could launch into another flurry of worry, footsteps crunched behind you.

Telemachus stepped into view beside Peisistratus, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw already set—and already mid-sentence. "That's not what happened."

Callias froze, the fruit halfway to his mouth.

Telemachus didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His gaze pinned Callias in place like a dagger.

"You didn't strain a muscle reaching for food," he said flatly, still looking at you. "He got hurt during the storm. A bad hit to the ribs when we were tossed into the rocks. And he's been fighting a fever for the past few days."

"What? No, no—" Callias spluttered, quickly waving a hand like that could erase the words from the air. "It's not that bad. I'm just a little sore. Bit of a scratch, really—"

"He hasn't eaten a full meal since we've been here," Telemachus cut in again, eyes still on you. "He keeps brushing it off, but it hasn't broken. I've had to check his pulse at least twice a night to make sure he didn't pass during the night."

And then, without waiting, he reached over and tugged the hem of Callias' shirt up—ignoring the boy's squawk of protest.

Your breath caught.

The wound was worse than you expected. Way worse.

A long, ugly gash curved beneath his ribcage, a muddy purple and angry red that told you it'd been deep—jagged at the edges like something had slammed into him hard. Scabs clung to parts of it, some still damp. The skin was slightly swollen near the center, the color darkening in a way that made your stomach twist.

You gasped without meaning to, your eyes going wide, already welling with tears.

Peisistratus let out a low whistle behind you, wincing. "Oof. Yeah. That's not 'just a scratch,' mate."

You didn't even realize your hand was moving until your fingers brushed against his side—just near the swelling, careful not to press.

Callias flinched.

Your palm was cold from the rain. His skin was burning.

He gave a small, jerky laugh, the sound dry and raspy. "D-Don't touch me with your corpse hands—are you freezing?"

You didn't answer.

You were too busy feeling the heat radiating off his torso—too busy panicking now that you really felt it. Your other hand came up to try and steady him as he shifted back with a pained grunt, trying to push you away.

"Okay, okay, stop fussing—I'm fine," Callias mumbled, palm pressing weakly to your wrist, but his arm was shaking. And not in the funny, exaggerated way he sometimes did. No. This tremble was real. Unsteady. Like just staying upright took effort.

You pushed back gently, easily holding your position as you leaned in to get a closer look. His breath caught when you shifted his arm slightly out of the way.

"Callias," you said quietly. "Have you at least been drinking water?"

He didn't respond. Just looked away, eyes flicking toward the fruit he'd dropped earlier like it might save him.

You turned to Telemachus quickly, your voice low but sharp. "Have you—have you been able to get fresh water? What about cleaning the wound?"

Telemachus nodded immediately, his brows pulling tight as he answered. "Yes. We've been boiling the rainwater and collecting from nearby streams. I've been making sure he drinks at least twice a day. And I've cleaned the wound. Every morning."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

"Thank the gods," you whispered, glancing back to Callias.

He was pouting.

Literally pouting.

"What am I," he grumbled, eyes half-lidded, "a plant?"

And then, as Telemachus finally let his shirt fall back down over the bruising, Callias winced. "But okay, okay. I know it looks bad. But it's healing. Sort of. Probably."

You looked at him, unimpressed.

Peisistratus peeked from over your shoulder. "So... how you holding up, champ?"

Callias huffed. "Fine." He plucked another fruit from the pile beside him with exaggerated flair. "Except I've had to deal with nothing but this one's nagging—" He jabbed a lazy thumb toward Telemachus, "—and now he's gotten ____ worried too? Gods. It's like I'm being parented by two palace pigeons."

Before you could even roll your eyes, Telemachus cut in, voice sharper than before. "As you should be. You haven't been caring for yourself at all." He crossed his arms, brow furrowing tighter. "You act like pushing through pain is something to be proud of. It's not. It's stupid."

"I'm fine, Prince T—"

"You're not fine," Telemachus snapped. "Your fever hasn't broken. You've barely been able to walk without help. That's not 'fine,' it's reckless."

You stood there, lips parted to speak... but nothing came out.

Your gaze fell to the wound again, the ugly scabbing, the flushed skin radiating heat. You watched the way Callias' chest rose and fell a little faster now, how his bravado crumbled beneath Telemachus' worry, how he wouldn't meet either of your eyes anymore.

And suddenly, something twisted deep in your chest.

Because gods... when was the last time you even thought about Callias? Really thought about him?

He'd been beside Telemachus the whole time—through the sea, through storms, through pain—and all you'd been able to see, all you'd been drowning in, was the fear of losing Telemachus.

You'd been so consumed by the thought of finding him, of holding him again, that you didn't stop to think of who else was suffering in the process.

And worse—your hands trembled slightly at your sides—you couldn't even help.

Even now, standing there with the wound inches from your fingers... you were powerless.

Because the one thing you could do—the one gift Apollo had given you that meant something—he'd ripped it away. Your healing. Your touch. Your light.

Gone.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, knuckles tight.

You couldn't even take away Callias' pain. Couldn't offer more than concern and guilt, when what he needed was relief.

Telemachus caught the shift in your silence almost immediately.

His scolding trailed off mid-sentence, voice dipping as he turned toward you. "Hey...?" he said gently. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

You blinked, startled. You hadn't realized how still you'd gotten—how hard you were staring at Callias, like you could will the healing into him. But your hands just sat there, limp in your lap. Useless.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard.

And then the words cracked free before you could stop them.

"It's my fault."

All three of them froze.

Your voice was low, broken, barely above a whisper. But it was enough to pull every eye to you. Even Callias' joking expression fell, his brows twitching as he tried to sit up straighter.

Across the fire, Peisistratus exhaled slowly, the sound quiet but heavy. He didn't say anything—just shifted where he sat, one arm bracing against his knee. His gaze lowered briefly, mouth tight, and then he glanced toward Telemachus.

The prince looked at him, brow furrowing faintly in question.

Peisistratus gave a slow shake of his head. Then tipped his chin—toward you.

Telemachus followed the motion, and his attention snapped back to you just as your lips parted.

"He... he made me choose."

The jungle seemed to still around you. Only the distant crackle of the bonfire filled the silence. You stared straight ahead, vision blurring slightly as your chest tightened again.

"Apollo," you whispered, the name like ash on your tongue. "He came to me, right before I left. In the halls. Said he wanted me to stay—stay behind... Stay his." You blinked, slow and heavy. "He promised everything. Olympus. Time. Eternity. Said the world would be kinder to me if I stayed..."

You stared at your hands. Fingers trembling, palms resting in your lap like they belonged to someone else. You couldn't look at them. Couldn't look at any of them. Because if you did, you'd unravel completely.

So instead, you spoke to the space in front of you. To the air. As if your voice could reach the marble halls of Ithaca again. As if your confession would echo backward in time and maybe undo the moment you broke the god of the sun.

"And when I said no—when I told him I was going after you," your voice wavered, eyes still distant, "he changed. Said if I left him, he'd take everything back. Every gift. Every boon. Every drop of favor he ever gave me."

Finally, your gaze lifted—just a bit. Enough to glance down at your hands. At the ones that used to glow with soft golden light. That used to feel warm with something more than just blood and skin.

You flexed your fingers. They didn't glow.

"I thought... I thought he was bluffing," you whispered, voice breaking fully now. "Or that I wouldn't need his gifts, not really. But Callias—he wouldn't be hurting like this if I still had my healing. If I hadn't—if I hadn't—"

You stopped. The words were too heavy.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the fire seemed to lower its crackle, like it too was holding its breath.

Peisistratus didn't joke. Callias didn't scoff. Telemachus... just stared.

Then finally, Telemachus spoke.

Quiet. Hesitant. Like he already feared the answer.

"...You gave up Olympus..." he said slowly. "You gave up Apollo... For me."

You didn't answer. You didn't need to.

The look in your eyes said it all.

And none of them said a word.

Callias was the one who broke the silence.

"Good. You don't need Apollo anyway."

You blinked, startled, looking over at him.

"If you hadn't gone against him," Callias continued, licking his dry lips with a faint smile, "you wouldn't be here right now. And I dunno about you, but personally? I think I look great in this lighting." He wiggled his brows weakly, half-grinning before adding, "Besides. I'm fine. Just need to rub some dirt and spit on it, and I'll be good as new."

Peisistratus chuckled under his breath. "Old Pylian remedy," he nodded sagely. "Actually, that's how we fix boats too. Bit of spit, bit of bark, a prayer to whatever god's not busy..."

Callias barked a laugh, which immediately turned into a sharp wince. He doubled forward slightly, clutching his side with a breathless groan. "Ah—ah, fuck. Gods. Okay—maybe not laughing medicine. That's a bad one. Put that one back on the shelf."

"Peisistratus!" "Peisistratus!" you and Telemachus both snapped at the same time.

The prince held up his hands innocently, trying not to smile too wide. "What?! He started it!"

Callias wheezed another chuckle, but it faded quickly into ragged coughs. His knuckles went white as he clutched his ribs, his shoulders trembling faintly beneath the pale fabric of his tunic.

Immediately, your heart kicked up again.

You were already moving closer, hovering beside him as your hands fluttered uselessly—uncertain if you should steady him or let him lean. "Callias—hey, easy, breathe. Don't make it worse—gods, Peisistratus, stop making him laugh—"

"I said I was sorry!" Peisistratus hissed again, more panicked at your scolding than actually defensive.

Telemachus just exhaled hard beside you, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying to ease away a shared headache. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, and for a moment it was like he could read your thoughts—feel the same tangled storm of frustration, fear, and guilt unraveling beneath your ribs.

"Honestly," he muttered, voice low, "he should've rested days ago."

You blinked, looking toward him.

Telemachus wasn't angry, exactly. But his brow furrowed, lips drawn in that tight, worried line you'd seen too often lately.

"He kept moving around. Saying he wouldn't slow us down. That he'd get better once we got... home."

You looked at Callias.

Really looked.

He looked as if he'd traveled through the Underworld and back, and still—gods, still—he grinned.

"Well..." Callias rasped, breath a little shaky but that crooked spark in his eyes still fighting to shine, "slowing down isn't really my style, Your Highness."

Your chest twisted.

That was him. That was so him. Wounded, feverish, probably half-hallucinating—and still trying to make others laugh. Still trying to be strong enough so no one had to worry.

And somehow, despite the ache in your chest and the storm still ringing like bells in your ears, you smiled.

Because it was exactly that stubborn, ridiculous spirit that made you more determined not to lose him.

Your gaze dropped down to the ground, brows furrowed in thought as your lips moved before you could stop them. "Okay. Okay. If I can't heal him the old way, I mean—well, not that old, I just got the gift, but—plants, salves? Yeah, I've made creams before, back at the palace. I used to grind the ginger root Cleo brought back from the kitch—no, wait, wait, that was for upset stomachs—but the base should still work for reducing fever, no? And maybe—maybe that tree we passed has something useful in the bark, maybe I could boil it down, if there's enough left over I can—"

"_____."

Telemachus' voice cut through your ramble gently.

You paused, blinking up at him as he stepped closer.

His hand found yours—not sudden, not rough, just... steady. Fingers wrapping gently around yours like he was grounding both of you at once.

"You're okay," he said quietly. "He's okay."

You swallowed, shoulders trembling slightly as the adrenaline started to bleed out.

"I know you want to help. And you will. But first... you need to change."

Your lips parted, confused. "Wh—?"

He nodded down at your soaked chiton. "You're still drenched," he said. "Soaked through. If you don't get dry soon, you're gonna be the one burning up next."

You hesitated—torn between logic and panic—but before you could say anything, a weak little whistle cut through the air.

"Oooooooh," Callias crooned, waggling his brows even though his head barely stayed upright. "Changing clothes together now? Look at you, Prince—bold."

Peisistratus jumped right in, not missing a beat. "Is it a hut thing? Should we step out? Or—wait—do you need help untying—"

"Enough," Telemachus hissed, ears burning as he rounded on them, voice low but sharp. His cheeks flushed bright pink as he glared at both boys like they'd just committed blasphemy in front of the gods.

You were already hiding your face with one hand, half-laughing, half-wheezing in embarrassment. "Gods, you two are the worst."

Callias grinned faintly, wheezing through it. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."

Telemachus huffed, face still red as he tugged lightly on your wrist, leading you gently toward the huts. "Come on," he muttered, still visibly flustered but focused again. "Let's get you warm and dry before they get any worse."

And without another word, he ushered you toward the closest secluded hut—leaving the peanut gallery groaning dramatically in your wake.

It didn't take long for the two of you to reach it.

Just a couple of quiet minutes, weaving between trees still dripping from the recent rain, your soaked sandals squelching softly in the dirt. Telemachus walked just ahead, his hand still curled gently around yours—loose, but steady. He didn't say much, but the silence felt... soft. Easy. Like he was just letting you breathe.

When you finally reached the hut, he stepped forward and gently pulled aside the curtain of beaded shells that hung in front of the entrance. They clinked softly against each other, the sound delicate, like water over stone.

"This is it," he murmured, tilting his head toward the doorway. "It's, uh... where I've been staying the past few days."

You stepped inside slowly, letting the beads fall closed behind you.

It was simple, but warm. The inside smelled faintly of salt, damp earth, and the soft sweetness of tropical wood.

There were woven mats spread over the floor and wide leaves layered with thick blankets piled in one corner—clearly meant for sleeping. A small shelf fashioned from bark and rope held a few odds and ends: a carved water gourd, a half-wrapped cloth bundle, a chipped comb that looked older than it should.

You smiled faintly, glancing around. "Is Callias in the other hut?"

Telemachus scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish. "Not... exactly."

You arched a brow.

"The other hut's mostly... storage," he admitted, mouth tugging into an awkward smile. "Callias sleeps out by the bonfire. He says the heat helps with the chill at night, and he hates feeling boxed in." He shrugged a little, stepping further into the space. "I offered, I swear. I tried to get him to take the hut, especially when his fever was worse. But he practically hissed at me. Said he liked being under the stars, whatever that means."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "Sounds like him."

Telemachus ran a hand through his hair, still looking slightly guilty. "I still check on him. Make sure he's warm enough. He has furs, a thick blanket... I didn't just leave him there."

"I know," you chuckled, reaching out to lightly nudge his arm. "You don't have to explain yourself, Telemachus. It's fine."

He blinked at you.

"I figured since you were in here, and Callias outside," you went on, glancing around again. "It's a little colder on this side of the clearing. Warmer by the fire."

Telemachus let out a soft huff, like he'd been holding his breath without realizing it. "Right. Yeah."

You stepped further inside, your damp clothes clinging to your skin as you approached the bedding tucked into the corner. It looked makeshift but... comforting.

The "bed" was a flattened weave of palm fronds, layered with softer leaves and thick cloth, then topped with two blankets that had clearly seen better days. They were clean, but frayed at the edges, like they'd been used again and again. A small, curved pillow rested at the top—stuffed with something that looked like dried moss and feathers.

You sank down carefully onto the edge of it, exhaling softly as the floor shifted faintly beneath you.

It wasn't a palace bed. Wasn't silken sheets or polished marble. But it was dry. Warm. Lived in.

It was his.

And somehow, that made it feel... safe.

When you looked back up, Telemachus was already moving again—quiet, thoughtful. He crossed the short space with a bundle of fabric in his hands, eyes scanning the interior briefly as if checking to make sure everything was still in order.

Then he crouched down in front of you, offering the cloth bundle with a small, tired smile.

"I figured you'd want something dry," he murmured. "It's... big. But it's clean. Should be more comfortable than that soaked thing you've got on." He paused, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll, uh—I'll go find something to help dry your hair too. Maybe one of the extra wraps in the storage hut."

You nodded, taking the bundle from him with gentle hands. Your fingers brushed his for a split second—warm, familiar—and he hesitated just long enough for your heart to flutter before rising back to his feet.

"I'll be right back," he said, and then, a little lower, almost to himself. "Promise."

He stepped out quietly, the soft clink of the beaded curtain brushing behind him as he disappeared into the soft light beyond.

You waited a second longer—listening to the hushed sound of his footsteps fading into the clearing—before glancing down at what he'd brought.

The tunic was larger than yours by far, made from a soft, faded linen that had clearly seen many washes.

You smiled.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you lifted it slowly toward your face and—just for a second—pressed it to your nose.

His scent was faint but still there. Warm. Earthy. Salt-kissed. Like sun-dried pine needles and smoke from a dying fire. Like the skin of someone who'd lived outside for days but still somehow smelled like safety. It made something tighten low in your chest. Not in pain—but in longing. The kind that bloomed slow and steady in your ribs.

You pulled the tunic away quickly, cheeks flushed, lips twitching into a small smile.

Gods, you were hopeless.

Still smiling to yourself, you got to your feet and turned toward the corner. You stripped off your soaked clothes with quiet efficiency, wringing out the hem of your chiton before tossing it into a small heap beside the bedding. It landed with a soft, wet thud, already beginning to form a little puddle on the mat below.

Your sandals followed, then your damp underlayers, each one discarded carefully. Goosebumps rippled across your skin as the air hit you—cooler now that the sun had fully set, the scent of rain still lingering faintly in the air.

You pulled the dry tunic over your head quickly, the fabric soft and warm as it slid down over your body. It was too big, hanging a little loose at your shoulders, and the hem nearly brushed your knees—but it was dry. And warm. And his.

And somehow, that made it feel like armor.

You were still smoothing the tunic down—tugging lightly at the hem, adjusting the shoulders—when the beaded curtain rustled behind you.

Telemachus' voice drifted in mid-sentence. "I found one of the spare cloths, but I think it's—"

He stopped.

You looked up, just as he looked in.

His breath caught. The material he held in his hands lowered slightly, eyes locking with yours like he hadn't expected—like he hadn't prepared for the sight of you wearing something of his. His gaze ran over you once, not with hunger, but with awe. Soft, quiet awe.

The tunic hung loose on your frame, but the way he looked at you—it was like you were wearing silk spun by the Fates themselves.

You didn't speak. Neither did he.

For a second, all you could do was stare at each other. The soft hum of jungle wind outside, the crackle of a distant fire—everything faded to the edges.

Then, gently, Telemachus stepped inside.

He walked slower now, more carefully. As if afraid the moment might shatter if he moved too quickly. He came to stand just in front of you, gaze dropping briefly to the tunic again before meeting your eyes.

"I, um..." He swallowed, holding out the spare cloth. "Thought you might still be cold. You're—uh—your hair..."

His voice was soft. Gentle. Awkward in a way that made your chest ache.

You nodded wordlessly, and he stepped even closer, lifting the cloth with both hands.

"May I?"

"Yeah."

He began drying your hair in slow, careful motions. His fingers threaded the fabric gently through the soaked strands, never tugging, never rushing.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean slightly into the touch. Into him.

The cloth was rougher than you'd expected, but his hands made it feel soft. Safe.

After a few minutes, his voice returned. Even quieter this time.

"You look... different."

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking up at him. His gaze had softened again—warm, searching. He wasn't talking about the tunic.

He was looking at your face like he was memorizing it. Like he needed to.

You could see his eyes trace your cheeks, your lashes, the curve of your lips. His hand slowed against your hair.

"Not in a bad way," he added quickly, voice dipping lower, rougher with emotion. "Just... older. Stronger."

His brows drew in faintly, like he was trying to understand something that couldn't be spoken.

Then—his smile returned. Full, bright, teeth showing a little. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I missed you."

The words were so simple, but they landed like a stone in your chest. Your throat tightened.

Your hands moved on their own, reaching up to cover his where they still held the cloth against your hair. Your fingers curled gently around his, grounding the touch, steadying the ache.

"I missed you too," you breathed.

And gods—you meant it so fully, it hurt.

Your breath caught as you looked into his eyes—really looked. There was so much there. Relief. Longing. That soft wonder he always saved just for you. Your lips curled upward, the ache in your chest finally easing just enough to make room for something warm. Something familiar.

You smiled a little brighter. "Well," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "we're here now. Together again."

Telemachus' eyes softened, that faint glow in them brightening as his fingers squeezed gently around yours. Then—he tilted his head, his lips twitching with something playful.

"So..." he drawled, leaning in slightly, "you thought you'd have to love me in memory, huh?"

Your face flushed instantly. "Wha—no," you sputtered, your hands instinctively pulling back a bit—but he only grinned wider, clearly enjoying this.

You huffed, flustered. "Okay, maybe. But don't act like you were any better. I heard how sad you were without me." You poked his chest lightly, trying not to smile too wide. "Your father basically said you were walking around like a ghost. And your mother? She said you looked like someone stole the stars out of your eyes."

Telemachus squawked—actually squawked—his face turning red. "I did not look like that. Lies I say."

"But you did," you teased, stepping closer again, enjoying the way his ears went even pinker. "Don't deny it. Kieran said you sat in the courtyard for hours just staring at the sea."

"Okay, that's exaggerating," he grumbled, but he couldn't hide the way he smiled—half-embarrassed, half just... full. "Maybe I missed you... A little."

You laughed softly, and before he could say anything else, he reached for your hands again—gently cupping them, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles. His voice lowered.

"But if you want the real truth? I would've sailed the seven seas for the rest of my life if it meant just... catching the echo of your laughter one last time before I died."

Your smile faltered slightly—heart catching, breath halting. That warmth in your chest swelled, filled your ribs until it became too much to hold still.

You didn't even think when you leaned in.

Neither did he.

You both moved at the same time, heads tilting slightly, breath mixing in the small space between you. Your noses brushed, soft and unsure, his hands still wrapped gently around yours. His eyes lidded, lashes lowering, breath warm against your cheek. You could feel his heart pounding against your palm—mirroring yours, matching its beat.

Your lips were just about to meet—when—

The beaded curtain behind you rattled.

"Telemachus...?" a voice called softly. Unfamiliar. Careful.

You both froze—lips barely a breath apart. Your heart stuttered, the heat of the moment vanishing like mist in morning sun. Slowly, you pulled back, breath catching as you peeked around his shoulder.

A woman stood at the threshold.

She was tall and earthy, her skin a deep, rich brown like wet soil after rain. Tiny vines coiled around her bare ankles and arms like bracelets that had grown naturally with her skin, blooming with faint pink blossoms that pulsed gently in the dim light. Her clothing was little more than knotted silks and leafy wraps, woven in a way that looked both intentional and effortless—sea-foam green and warm clay tones dancing together like tide meeting shore.

But her focus wasn't on you.

No—her gaze was fixed on Telemachus.

And it wasn't anything heated. Not flirtatious. Just... soft. Reverent. Like she was seeing something holy.

"Ahh." Telemachus cleared his throat, straightening slightly, turning around as he scratched his nose. "I apologize, Calypso. I'm a bit... busy at the moment." His words stumbled to a halt as his eyes flicked, just briefly, toward you.

Calypso giggled lightly, the sound curling in the air like flower petals in the breeze. The woven basket in her arms swayed gently as she took a step further in. "Busy?" she echoed with amused confusion. "Silly, there's nothing to be busy with. Not on this island."

You felt the tension shift in Telemachus' shoulders just before he exhaled and turned to glance at you once more.

"About that," he muttered, stepping aside slowly. "Calypso... it seems this island isn't as forgotten as you thought."

He moved just enough to reveal you—still blinking from the moment you'd been caught in, still wearing his oversized tunic and staring at the strange, flower-scented woman like you were the one who didn't belong.

Calypso's gaze landed on you at last.

And her smile... faltered.

Ever so slightly.

But she didn't speak. Not yet.

Her eyes stayed on you—dark, watchful, and too still. That small, faltering smile hadn't quite returned, but she wasn't frowning either. Just... taking you in. Measuring something invisible between you. Between her and Telemachus.

You didn't move.

Didn't breathe, for a second too long.

You swallowed and straightened your shoulders, trying to quiet the way your instincts stirred beneath your skin.

The air in the hut felt heavier now. Thick with some kind of quiet tension you couldn't name. Your heartbeat, which had only just begun to settle from the near-kiss, started to pick up again—but for a different reason this time. A reason you couldn't explain.

Telemachus cleared his throat again, pulling the silence back toward civility.

"Right. Uh—Calypso," he began, his voice a little too tight, "this is... ____."

His hand brushed yours—gentle at first—then slid down until his fingers found your own, curling slow and firm around them like he needed to anchor himself to the moment. You let him.

He glanced at you, the corners of his mouth twitching, eyes a little softer now despite the awkwardness in his tone. "She's Ithaca's... Divine Liaison," he said, squeezing your hand as if that title alone explained everything you were. "Chosen by the gods."

He looked like he was going to say more—like something heavier sat on the tip of his tongue—but he faltered. Just for a second. His gaze dropped to your lips, then darted back up like he'd caught himself mid-thought. A faint blush colored his cheeks.

"S-She's also... I mean—" he sputtered, then snapped his head back toward Calypso so fast it was almost comedic. "—S-Sorry. Meant to say, she's the reason I'm still standing," he finished quickly. His grip tightened slightly on your hand. "And she found her way here... for me."

Calypso blinked, and for a moment, you swore something unreadable passed behind her eyes, as if your title had landed a little differently than expected. Her gaze flicked to your joined hands—brief but noticeable—then returned to your face. She said nothing.

"And, uh—right," Telemachus rushed on, releasing your hand a little too fast. "This is Calypso. She's... a sea nymph. She tends to this island, looks after everything here."

He gestured to her loosely, his voice growing more certain now, but still touched with that polite edge he always wore when trying to be respectful.

"She found me and Callias after the storm. We washed ashore barely conscious. She took us in, gave us food, shelter. Kept us safe."

His tone was steady. Grateful. But you noticed the slight shift in his weight. The way his eyes didn't linger too long on her face. Like even now, something about this still didn't sit fully right with him.

You looked at her again.

And the longer you stared, the more you felt it.

That small voice in the back of your mind.

It wasn't loud. Not screaming. Just... there. A whisper. A hum in your bones. Something old and instinctive that didn't know how to put itself into words yet.

Something's not right.

You didn't have proof. Not yet. But every part of you stayed still as you held her gaze. Not fearful. Just... alert.

Calypso smiled again. She opened her mouth, maybe to speak at last—

But Telemachus beat her to it.

"So—uh—do you need something?" he asked quickly, voice a little higher than usual. His hand found yours again, holding it a bit more firmly now, like anchoring himself. "Is Callias alright? Does he need anything? Do you—do you need anything?"

You looked up at him, and—

Oh.

He was flustered.

Just the tiniest bit. His ears had flushed pink. He was trying to sound smooth and composed, but the way his eyes flicked between you and the doorway said everything. Like he was caught between wanting to explain and wanting the moment to move past entirely.

It was... kind of adorable.

And for a moment, even with the strange nymph still watching, you couldn't help the small breath of a smile tugging at your lips.

But Calypso still hadn't answered. She was quiet now. Still. Basket still balanced neatly on her hip.

And for a moment, she just... looked at you.

Really looked.

Her eyes dragged up and down your form—slowly, lazily. Not cruel. Not cold. But with the kind of curiosity that made your spine go rigid. Her gaze drifted to where you and Telemachus stood, taking in the space between you, to the faint indentations of his tunic on your shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered once. Her expression didn't change. But something behind her gaze—something low and tired and ancient—clicked sharp in its socket.

Then, all at once—

"Oh, Telemachus," Calypso chirped, her voice turning sing-song, her grin stretching just a bit too wide. "You're so silly, honestly. I just came to ask what you'd like for breakfast tomorrow~"

You blinked.

He blinked too, head tipping slightly, caught off guard by her sudden brightness. "Uh—breakfast?"

She hummed cheerfully, one finger tapping her chin as she tilted her head at him, curls bouncing. "Yes! I was thinking grilled plantain and sea fig jam? Maybe a honey broth with citrus... but if that's too sweet, I can make something more earthy. You've been through so much lately." Her smile widened further, teeth showing now. "You deserve something warm to wake up to."

Telemachus, still slightly stiff beside you, gave a slow nod. "Yeah, that... that sounds fine. Whatever you think is best."

His answer was simple. Casual.

But the way her smile faltered for just a beat—like the wrong thread had been tugged—didn't go unnoticed.

Still, Calypso tucked it back into place quick enough, her voice syrupy and light. "Wonderful!" she beamed, before adding softer, "Dinner's ready, by the way. The fish might be a little dry, but I did try a new salt blend."

She turned slightly, letting her hand brush against the beaded curtain, but paused before fully stepping out.

"If you're not coming," she added, her voice suddenly softer, honeyed in a new way, "I suppose I'll just see you tomorrow, then."

Her eyes flicked to you again—quick, sharp, unreadable.

"Sweet dreams."

You watched the curve of her back as she stepped past the doorway again, the soft beads clicking shut behind her. The basket of herbs still dangled from one arm, her hips swaying just slightly as she walked, like she knew you were still watching.

And gods help you—you were.

The silence that followed felt louder than it should've. You could still feel the warmth of Telemachus' fingers laced through yours. Still feel the flutter in your chest that hadn't quite gone away.

But now... something else stirred beneath it. Something darker.

At first, you thought about keeping it to yourself. That weird, twisting feeling in your stomach. The way her eyes never left him, not once. The way her smile faltered when she saw you, even if only for a second.

You thought maybe you were being dramatic. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, the trauma, the fact that the world hadn't let you rest in weeks.

But then you remembered Andreia. You remembered that same soft-lashed stare. The too-sweet voice. The way she always laughed just a little too hard at Telemachus' worst jokes. The way she touched his arm when she didn't need to.

And you remembered how you didn't say anything back then. How it festered. How it ate at you slowly.

So this time? You decided—screw it.

You weren't holding anything back.

You turned toward Telemachus with a flat stare, brows raised, arms loosely crossed as your tone dropped into something just short of passive-aggressive.

"She obviously wants you."

Telemachus blinked. "Huh?"

You tilted your head. "The sea nymph. Calypso. The one who walked in like a perfume ad and said your name like it was spun sugar."

Telemachus blinked again, slower this time, the confusion thick on his face like he'd just walked into the second half of a play and missed the setup. "Wait, what? No. No, she's just—she's nice. She's kind. That's how nymphs are, right? She's just been... helpful."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Helpful."

He scratched the back of his neck. "I mean... she did say she gets lonely. That she hasn't had visitors in a long time. Callias and I were the first people she's seen in months—maybe longer."

You huffed through your nose.

Right. Lonely sea nymph. Kind smile. Watched him like he hung the stars.

Mhm.

You turned your gaze away, lips twitching into a not-quite smile, but didn't say anything more—for now. Because deep down, you knew the truth.

Maybe she was kind.

But the way she looked at Telemachus?

That wasn't kindness. That was longing.

And you'd seen it before.

That look. The soft corners of her eyes when they lingered too long. The way her smile dipped, just for a second, when she saw your hand in his.

The familiarity of it made your chest throb.

And worse... the itch in the back of your head wouldn't let up. A little whisper curling behind your ears—something about the way she spoke, the way the island felt, the way she watched.

Calypso.

A sea nymph, he'd said.

But something about that name... that name itched even worse. It clawed at the edge of your memory like a loose thread waiting to be tugged. Nymph. Island. Warm food. No ship in sight. Visitors who never leave.

You pressed your lips together.

And then—pushed the thought away. Just for now. Folded it up and shoved it into the quiet corner of your mind where every other unanswered fear was hiding.

Instead, you smirked.

Looked up at Telemachus with a glint in your eye and hummed, teasingly, "You really don't see it, do you?"

He gave you a wary glance. "See what?"

You poked his chest lightly, right above his heart. "If I were a sea nymph, stuck on a lonely island, and a prince washed up on my shores all soaking wet and noble and broody?"

Your grin widened as you leaned up, voice dropping into a low, mock-sultry purr. "Oh, I wouldn't let your pretty little face go."

You ran your fingers along his jaw for emphasis, thumb grazing his cheek. "I'd be brushing your hair and braiding flowers into your curls, feeding you olives by hand—gods, I'd probably chain you to a rock if it meant keeping you here."

Telemachus flushed so fast you could feel the heat radiating off him, though he valiantly tried to play it off, squinting at you like you were the one being ridiculous. "You're... unbelievable."

He gently caught your hands, holding them away from his face, though his thumbs rubbed soft circles against your knuckles. His voice dropped an octave, low and fond. "You're trouble."

Your lashes fluttered, lips twitching. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

That earned you a soft eye roll—and a sudden, precise pinch to your side.

You yelped, twisting away with a breathless laugh. "Hey!"

"Let's go eat, troublemaker," he said through his barely-contained grin, already pulling you toward the door.

Outside, the smell of roasting fish drifted on the air, and the sound of Callias' laughter—hoarse but real—filtered faintly through the trees.

And for a moment, despite everything, the island felt... calm.

Safe.

At least for now.

You and Telemachus stepped out of the hut, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping, walking side by side as Calypso's soft silhouette drifted back toward the shadows.

And silently, she watched you go.

A/N: ❤️❤️

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️

from wishesonstars39781

[MC AND TELEMACHUS REUNION]

your drawing style cease to amaze me/never get over it cuz WHAT!? THE SHADING!?! THE DETAILS!?! SORCERY???

[MC AND TELEMACHUS REUNION (W/ KISS)]

hheehehe it's coming 👀

from simp_0207

[MC AND TELEMACHUS]

telemachus looking like such a tsundere idky like bro so easy all mc gotta do is smile/exist---AND SIR!?! ARE YOU LOOKING AT HER BREASTESES????? 😭💀

[MC LEAVING_CH.66]

my gawd, the way this could be part of a webtoon---I'M SAT!

[MC BREAKING DOWN]

ahh my baby 😭😭 i swear looking at y'all art got me feeling bad cuz DAMN i'm really putting mc through it wtf do my mind be cooking up!?! 😩

[CALLIAS AND HIS SPIRIT ANIMAL]

ya know whta?? i approve 😭 and i do love me some redheads 😩❤️❤️

[MC AS A BABY FT.FATHER]

ahhh my lil cinnamon roll

[MC DESIGN]

my gosh i feeling proud/emotional 😭😭i legit have your very first drawings and the DIFFERENCE!?! like at first i'm like 'damn, these are so good' got me thinking i can draw (i cant 🥀) and now?!? I KNOW i can't fucking draw thar!!😭😭😭😭😭 i swear it gets better each time i receive something from you ❤️❤️ THIS IS BEAUTIFUL--AHH

from frannie/idkanyonealrr

[MC REACTING TO APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS]

i know bby, i know 😭😭😩 but we gotta understand, out man wasnt our man yet, he had his other lil boo-thangs before us 😩💔💔

from mnem nav

[MC FT. LADY]

lady look so inncoent---pfft!! she's literally scary asf/man eating beasts, looks really be deceiving and not me wanting to steal your mc design and stuff her in my pocket!?!? MY GODS WE RIDE AT DAWN CUZ IM ABOUT TO EVERYBODYS AZZ THAT EVER DID HER WRONG 😭😭😭

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

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winxanity-ii · 26 days ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 67 Chapter 67 | needle toward you⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The next three days passed in a strange kind of limbo.

Not terrible. Not wonderful either. Just... a blur of motion, salt, and silence.

The boat was small—far smaller than the Ithacan ships you'd grown used to. No wide berth to stretch your legs, no below-deck room to escape the wind, no creaking masts or coiled ropes to lose yourself in. Just a cramped skiff with two half-sore bodies, a crate of salted jerky, and a couple of half-glazed clay jugs filled with lukewarm water that sloshed with every wave.

You'd been using the compass Hermes gave you to stay the course—its needle glowing faintly even in the sunlight, pointing toward the last thread of divine pull you could still feel. It didn’t always make sense.

Sometimes it wavered, dipped strangely north when the sun said otherwise. But Peisistratus trusted it, and you trusted him. Mostly.

"Gods have a funny way of pointing straight while everything else tilts sideways," he'd muttered once, adjusting the tiller with his shoulder and squinting at the horizon. "But hey. I followed worse signs to worse places."

Besides following the compass, there was nothing to do, really. Not in a boat this size. You couldn't pace, couldn't stand without wobbling, couldn't even stretch without bumping into Peisistratus or the oar handles or the side of the boat.

So mostly—you sat.

You sat and stared.

At the sea. At the sky. At the horizon that never got closer. Water stretched on endlessly in every direction, a deep, rolling blue that faded into grey by dusk.

Sometimes you'd count the passing clouds. Other times, you'd watch the sunlight ripple across the waves and try not to think about what waited below.

There were hours where neither of you spoke. Not out of malice—just because there was nothing left to say. The sea did all the talking. Slap, slap. Creak. Splash. Over and over. It was maddening in a slow, sleepy way.

But then Peisistratus would break it.

He'd start whistling, or humming some half-remembered tune from Pylos.

Then singing. Loudly. Off-key. On purpose. "WhEn ThE gOdDeSs Of ThE TiDe LiFtS hEr SkIrTs FoR mE—!" he'd belt, grinning wide, one arm dramatically slung across his chest while the other waved like he was conducting the waves themselves.

You buried your face in your hands more than once, groaning through your laughter. "Please stop. Please, gods—"

"—she winks, she dips, she– damn near tips—”

"PEISISTRATUS."

He cackled every time. It never got old to him.

Meals were equally uneventful: little more than dried jerky so salty it made your jaw ache and sips of warm water that always tasted faintly like clay. Once, Peisistratus swore one of the pieces was "still twitching," and nearly threw it overboard.

You rolled your eyes. "It's dried. That's impossible."

"So was your patience before this trip," he said with a wink, shoving the jerky into his mouth anyway.

But the worst part—without question—was the bathroom situation.

No bushes. No privacy. No dignity.

By the second day, you'd given up trying to wait it out. Your bladder had more pride than you did.

You weren't going to piss on yourself. Absolutely not. You drew the line there. Gods could meddle, your ship could vanish, and time could twist itself sideways, but that? That was non-negotiable.

Even then, Peisistratus, to his credit, tried to be helpful. Sort of.

"I'm holding up the corner of the sky for you!” he called, one arm outstretched dramatically while facing the opposite direction. "Shielding your sacred honor, O Muse of Maritime Modesty, with my manly back!"

You crouched miserably at the side of the boat, trying to pee into the sea without falling in or dying of shame. "This is the worst moment of my life," you muttered.

"Oh, come now. Worse than fighting sea monsters? Or singing naked for Apollo? Wait—have you done that!?"

You threw a stray piece of jerky at his back. He yelped. Deserved.

Still... as humiliating as it all was, you couldn't bring yourself to hate it.

Not entirely.

Because every time the silence got too loud, Peisistratus would fill it with something stupid. A joke. A sea myth. A fake dramatic gasp and a, "Did you see that wave look at me funny?!"

And at night, when the wind bit cold and your nerves wouldn't let you sleep, he'd hum something low and easy under his breath.

Not quite a lullaby. Not quite a hymn. Just noise. Just presence.

Just someone there.

So, no. It wasn't good.

But it wasn't bad either.

And when the sky cracked open on the third evening with the first glimpse of an island on the horizon—Hermes' compass glowing slightly as if to say yes, here—you realized... it had been bearable because of him.

Because for all his dramatics, Peisistratus never once made you feel like a burden.

Just a companion.

Just a friend.

And in a world ruled by gods and monsters and thunderous silence—that felt like a miracle.

By the time the boat reached land, the sun had vanished completely. A curtain of twilight draped the sky, soft and thick, and the moon was just starting to rise. Its glow silvered the water into something sharp and delicate, like cracked glass laid flat across the sea. Stars began to blink open one by one, quiet little flames in the wide dark.

Peisistratus let out a whoop so loud it startled a bird from somewhere inland. You hadn't even realized how close you'd drifted until the bottom of the boat scraped over sand and pebbled shore.

"Land, ho!" he shouted, half-standing. "I'd kiss the ground if I weren't sure it'd bite me back."

Before you could say anything, he jumped clean out of the boat with a splash. Saltwater hit your arms, warm and murky. Peisistratus waded through it like it was nothing, boots sinking slightly into the wet sand as he grabbed the edge of the boat and pushed.

Muscles flexed. Wood creaked.

The skiff groaned as it dragged further up the beach until it thudded to a stop, safe from the tide.

You opened your mouth to insist you could climb out on your own—but he was already reaching up, strong arms extended toward you with that same casual surety he always carried.

Like it was nothing. Like hauling you out of a boat after days of silence and sea was just another task to cross off the list.

Still, you hesitated.

"I can—"

"Nope," he said firmly, cutting you off as his hands circled your waist. "Team lift. Let's go."

You sighed, but let him pull you out anyway.

The moment your feet hit solid ground, something in your chest loosened.

You hadn't realized how much you'd missed it—just standing on land. Dirt and grass and actual earth beneath you instead of the endless push and pull of waves.

Peisistratus didn't stop moving. He turned back to the boat, hoisted the bag of supplies onto his shoulder—you reached for it, he swatted your hand away—then double-checked the tied-down jugs with a quick glance.

"I can carry something," you tried again.

He shook his head. "You'll carry the emotional weight of your god-issues. I'll carry everything else."

You snorted. "Rude."

"Accurate," he replied with a grin.

Once the boat was settled and the last of your things were gathered, the two of you just... stood there.

The beach curved off into shadow on either side, soft and sloping, and ahead—loomed the rest of the island.

It wasn't just a few trees and rocks like some coastal nymph-haunt. No, this was dense. A full jungle, or at the very least a thick forest that bristled with shadows and hidden noises. Vines hung like ropes from high branches. The trees towered, silhouetted in jagged shapes under the moonlight.

Somewhere in the distance, something hooted. Or barked. Or maybe laughed.

You weren't sure.

Peisistratus was quiet beside you, his eyes scanning the treeline, the tilt of his body tense—but not afraid. Just... ready.

You were the one who broke first. "Well. That's comforting."

"Very." He squinted into the trees. "Definitely doesn't scream 'absolutely cursed' or anything."

A beat of silence passed. The wind picked up slightly, brushing past your cheek like a whisper.

Then Peisistratus shifted the pack on his shoulder and cleared his throat. "Soooo... does Hermes' compass come with a 'monster warning' setting? Or is that an add-on?"

You laughed. Too loud. A little sharp. But real.

"Pretty sure that was an upgrade," you said.

He clicked his tongue. "Knew I should've splurged. All these budget blessings, and for what?"

You chuckled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it—quiet and crooked, but genuine. His attempt to ease the tension wasn't subtle, but it didn't need to be.

The fact that he tried at all—that he could still find something stupid to say when the trees looked like they wanted to eat you—made the fear just a little easier to carry.

Because you weren't alone.

And somehow, that made even the most cursed forest feel like something you could survive.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out the compass.

It was warm in your hand—always a little warmer than it should've been, like it remembered being touched by something divine.

You turned it slowly in your fingers, watching as the moonlight slid across its worn metal lid. Your thumb brushed the edge.

Click.

The compass sprang open with a soft snap, the glass catching a reflection of your face for just a moment—tired, a little grimy, wind-chapped and sun-kissed and real. But your eyes drifted to the needle.

It spun.

Once. Twice. Then—stilled.

You turned slightly, letting your boots crunch through the sand as your shoulders twisted to follow. The needle glowed faintly, a soft pulse of warm light blooming at its center like a heartbeat. With each tiny shift of your wrist, the glow dimmed—until you found the direction it liked.

Straight ahead.

Right into the trees.

You let out a breath through your nose, not quite a sigh, but close. The forest loomed just a few feet away, shadows dripping down from branches and moss curling thick across the trunks.

You could smell it now—damp earth, old bark, something a little sweet and unfamiliar. And underneath it all... the faintest tinge of something wild. Something old.

Peisistratus leaned over your shoulder, peering at the compass. He hummed low in his throat. "Glowy magic needle says left into the demon woods," he said thoughtfully. "Bold choice."

You huffed. "Hermes approved."

"Then we definitely can't trust it."

You shot him a look, but his smile only grew, boyish and crooked and far too calm for someone about to walk into potential island madness. He took a half-step back, gave a dramatic little bow, and gestured toward the path ahead.

"Lead the way, Fearless."

You stared at the trees one more time. The darkness. The stillness. Then down at the compass, where the glow pulsed again—steady, patient, waiting.

Your fingers curled tighter around it.

You nodded once.

Then took the first step.

The sand gave way to dirt beneath your feet, cool and soft and uneven. Peisistratus fell into step just behind you, close enough to hear his breath, the slight shift of his pack.

The trees rose on either side like sentinels, branches creaking faintly overhead. The stars blinked through the gaps above. The compass stayed lit in your palm, a tiny, stubborn flame against the dark.

And even though you didn't know where this path would end—or what would be waiting at the other side—you kept walking.

Because forward... was the only way left to go.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You and Peisistratus walked for what felt like hours.

The forest swallowed the path behind you, damp leaves curling under your boots, soft underbrush tugging at the hem of your clothes. The moon had climbed higher—fat and glowing above the canopy—casting everything in a soft silver haze that made the trees look older, stranger, like they remembered stories long forgotten.

You stuck to the compass, one eye always on the pulse of its needle. But Peisistratus kept the silence from getting too heavy. He talked. A lot. Not in an annoying way—more like he was trying to stitch something steady into the moment. Like the space between your footfalls needed something softer to fill it.

"So," he said, kicking a rock off the path, "you give this whole rousing speech to kings and warriors and divine messengers—then I blink, and next thing I hear, you're dead?"

You huffed under your breath, adjusting the strap of your pack across your shoulder. "Not immediately."

"Right, right. Got it. My mistake—there was a buffer period."

You shot him a sideways look, but his grin was so unbothered you couldn't help the small twitch of a smile that pulled at your own lips.

He paused before speaking again, quieter this time. "Seriously, though. What happened after I left?"

So you told him.

Not everything. Not all at once. But the big pieces—the kind that stuck in your ribs no matter how much time passed.

You told him about the attack. How one moment you were gone to fetch Andreia's forgotten brooch, and the next—on the ground. Cold. Confused. Dying.

How the gods had watched. How you came back.

Peisistratus didn't interrupt much. He asked a question here or there—things like "wait, you actually died?" and "they let you train with Diomedes? Wasn't he, like, king of 'don't talk to me or my horse ever again'?" But mostly, he just listened, nodding when it mattered, brow furrowing at the heavy parts.

You tried to keep it brief, brushing past the worst moments. But he still caught the quiet between your words.

"...and he basically wanted me to choose," you said, voice flat, eyes on the path ahead. "Between him and Telemachus..."

Peisistratus stopped humming. He didn't say anything. You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly around the compass as you stepped over a fallen branch.

Your voice dropped lower, almost like saying it too loud would wake something in the woods.

"...and I chose Telemachus."

The words hung there for a beat. Too big. Too simple. Like the tip of a spear that didn’t show the damage it left behind.

You looked down at the compass—its soft glow still pulsing, steady, loyal—before lifting your gaze to the trees stretching ahead.

"He didn't seem to like that very much," you finished quietly.

Silence.

It stretched for a breath, maybe two. The kind that carried too much weight to last long.

Then—

"Godsdamn," Peisistratus muttered, his voice sharp and low, like he was trying not to shout. "You really don't get to catch a fucking break, do you?"

You scoffed, a humorless breath slipping through your nose. "Nope. Not part of the prophecy, apparently."

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before letting out a short, frustrated laugh. "It's insanity. The way they treat you. Like you're just some piece on a board. Move here. Kneel there. Kiss their feet or burn."

You didn't answer, but the way your jaw clenched said enough.

Peisistratus kicked a stone into the bushes. "The gods are so out of touch, it's pathetic sometimes. They sit in their sky palaces making threats and declarations, but they couldn't survive five minutes down here with the rest of us."

You glanced over at him, eyebrows rising in quiet warning.

He wasn't finished.

"I mean—Apollo's out here throwing temper tantrums because you won't wear his little sun-charm collar and play house in Olympus." He rolled his eyes, waving a hand at the stars above. "Honestly, someone needs to shove that sun-stick of his straight up—"

"Peisistratus!"

You cut him off sharply, eyes wide.

He blinked. "What? What'd I say?"

You stared at him. "You're gonna get us smited."

He gave you a lazy shrug, still grinning. "C'mon. If he cared that much, he'd throw a little sniffle my way or—"

A blinding light erupted above you before he could finish.

It wasn't fire. It wasn't even heat. It was just—light—so bright and sudden it painted the forest in pure gold, turned every tree into a black silhouette, and for a second it felt like dawn had torn itself violently out of the sky.

Then—

CRACK—

Thunder slammed across the heavens like something angry had punched the clouds. The sky shattered into sound, deafening, and the ground seemed to flinch beneath your feet.

And just like that, the light vanished—snapped back into darkness.

The stars returned. The trees faded to shadow. The moon peeked through like it hadn't just witnessed whatever that was.

Then... came the rain.

It didn't even come gradually, it hit all at once.

Cold, hard sheets pouring down from nowhere, slamming into leaves, into your clothes, into the path around you until everything blurred in wet silver and rushing noise. Within seconds, you were soaked. The compass trembled in your hand, still glowing, but now flickering a little—as if unnerved.

You looked up, water dripping down your temples, your cheeks, your chin.

Peisistratus just stood there, staring back at you. Rain slicked down his curls, his shirt already clinging to his chest. His mouth hung open slightly like he was still trying to process what just happened.

You blinked at him.

He blinked at you.

"..."

Neither of you said anything for a long, wet moment.

Then—

"You definitely pissed him off," you said.

Peisistratus exhaled hard through his nose, lips twitching. "Yeah. Okay. Noted. Won't talk shit anymore."

You shot him a look—half soaked, half scolding. The rain didn't let up, just kept pouring, soaking into your clothes like the gods were wringing the clouds out on purpose.

"You're lucky that was it," you muttered, flicking water off your fingers as you adjusted your grip on the compass. "That could've been a sun beam. Or a god-sent locust swarm. Or frogs raining from the sky. You don't taunt Apollo like that. Especially not right now."

Peisistratus held his hands up in surrender, trudging through the muddy earth beside you. "Alright, alright—lesson learned. Mocking sun gods while standing in a forest during a divine pissing contest? Bad idea."

Still, a beat later, you caught him mumbling something low—barely audible over the rain, just a soft, awkward muttering that sounded suspiciously like a half-hearted prayer.

You huffed again but didn't say anything. The thunder had stopped. The light hadn't come back. That had to count for something, right?

The path ahead grew softer beneath your boots, the dirt turning to muck, every step accompanied by a wet squish. The rain didn't ease—it just shifted from vertical to sideways as the wind picked up, slanting in hard and cold against your face.

Your cloak stuck to your skin like a second layer of damp regret, and the hem of your tunic was so heavy with water it pulled slightly with every step.

Still, the compass glowed. Still, it pointed forward.

You kept going.

But the forest was darker now. Thicker. And colder.

You were shivering by the time Peisistratus raised his voice over the storm again.

"Alright, that's enough," he called, shielding his eyes with one hand as he turned toward you. "We need to stop. Shelter. Anything. You're freezing."

"I-I'm fine," you said out of habit—but your teeth betrayed you, chattering slightly on the last word.

He gave you a flat look. "You're soaked through and probably walking into a fever."

You didn't argue. Not really. Because he was right.

His eyes scanned the tree line, searching for any dip in the terrain, any hollow beneath the thick roots or rocks. "We'll keep moving for a bit," he added, "but we're not going much farther without cover. Even if Hermes himself lit a path in front of us."

You nodded quietly, tucking the compass against your chest to keep it dry. Your fingers were trembling now, barely steady enough to hold it upright. The rain poured harder.

The forest around you crackled with the sound of water on leaves, the drip of runoff from higher branches, the distant croak of something waking deeper inside.

But for now, you and Peisistratus were just two drenched silhouettes cutting through the dark.

Still walking. Still following.

And hoping—really hoping—that the gods had gotten all their warnings out of their system.

But hope, as always, was fickle.

A few minutes later, just as your bones started to feel more water than flesh and your fingers went from "cold" to "numb," Peisistratus finally spotted something.

"Over here," he called, voice barely cutting through the steady roar of rain.

He moved ahead, stepping over a patch of slick roots before ducking low beneath a thick limb. Up ahead, half-hidden by brambles and moss, was a massive, fallen tree.

The trunk had cracked years ago—maybe struck by lightning, maybe just old age—but the inside was hollowed, dry enough to pass for shelter and wide enough for two if you sat close.

Peisistratus reached for the leafy curtain covering the opening, already bracing to pull it aside—but then your hand flared with heat.

You gasped softly, jerking to a stop as the compass in your palm heated up, fast and sharp like it had just remembered it was made by a god.

"Hold on," you said quickly, voice urgent as your other hand braced his shoulder. "Wait—don't go in yet."

He froze, eyes darting to the compass.

It buzzed.

A low hum rose from it, like the sound of bees trapped under glass. Then it started trembling—literally vibrating in your hand. The needle inside spun once, then twice, then stopped pointing entirely, rattling against the glass like it wanted out.

The glow that had been soft and steady? It went wild—bright, pulsing in strange little bursts like a heartbeat out of rhythm. It flickered from gold to white, then back again, casting light over the soaked leaves and reflecting off Peisistratus' wide eyes.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice cautious but sharp, knuckles whitening around the edge of his pack.

"I'm not sure—" you started.

But you didn't get to finish.

With a sudden snap, the compass jumped out of your palm like it had been yanked by a string.

It hit the muddy ground with a wet slap, bounced once—and then rolled.

It spun to a stop a few feet away, right in front of the hollow tree.

And then, just as suddenly as it had sparked to life, the glow vanished. The light dimmed out in a blink, fading like embers cooling after a flame. The humming stopped. The shaking ceased.

Everything went quiet.

Even the rain seemed to hush for half a second.

You and Peisistratus just stood there, both of you frozen. Staring at the compass.

Staring at where it had landed.

He glanced at you. "...So that's normal, right?"

You didn't answer.

Because you had no idea.

Your eyes stayed locked on the compass, rain sliding down your face, your fingertips still tingling from the heat that was there one second and gone the next.

You took one slow step forward—just one—your foot sinking slightly into the wet moss.

But before you could take another...

A foot stepped out from the trees.

Right past the edge of the hollow trunk, slipping through a gap in the gnarled branches—barely making a sound. Mud clung to the heel, water dripping from the soaked edge of a torn sandal.

Then—a hand.

It reached down with slow, careful fingers. Callused. Scraped knuckles. A faint tremble to the grip.

The fingers curled around the compass where it lay half-buried in the mud and lifted it gently from the ground, cradling it like something precious. Something known.

You stared.

And then you looked up.

Followed the hand to the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the face—

And your heart stopped.

The world dropped away like someone had sliced the rope holding it up. The wind went silent. The forest dimmed. Even the rain—even that seemed to slow, each drop hanging in the air like a bead of glass, falling in slow motion.

Because it was him.

Hair dark and soaked, heavy curls clinging to his cheeks.

Bruises bloomed faintly along his jawline, already yellowing at the edges.

Scabs lined the bridge of his nose and the corner of his mouth, the raw scrape on his cheek half-healed, tugging at his expression as he breathed.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, tunic torn in places, skin streaked with mud, with dried salt, with survival. But his eyes—gods, his eyes—they were the same.

Wide. Shining. Like a boy who still believed the sea could carry him home.

And he was staring at you.

Not moving. Not speaking.

Just standing there, compass in hand, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

You felt your fingers start to shake, your chest tightening in a way that felt too deep to name.

Your mouth opened—but no sound came.

You tried again.

This time, it came out in a whisper. Barely more than breath.

"...Telemachus?"

A/N: UNEXPECTED UPDATED (˵ᵕ̴᷄ ˶̫ ˶ᵕ̴᷅˵) hope you lovelies are taking care~ ❤️❤️

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winxanity-ii · 28 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: WHEN DAWN BREAKS DIVINE WHISPERS: When Dawn Breaks | divine whispers: when dawn breaks⌟

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High above the mortal world, past the fading storm clouds and into the golden spires of Olympus, dawn was breaking.

Eos walked alone down one of the quieter marble paths, each step left behind a faint shimmer, like the last glow of a dying star before sunrise.

She was tall—taller than many of the lesser gods and even some of the elder ones. Her skin was a deep, rich brown, but along her arms, neck, and cheeks, splotches of vitiligo broke the darkness into colors that rippled like early dawn.

Soft pinks, pale oranges, the faintest purples and golds—each hue melted into the next like paint swept across a sky that wasn't ready to wake. Her fingers and forearms gleamed a soft rose, like they'd been dipped in sunrise itself.

Her hair floated around her shoulders in a cloudy mass—thick coils and drifting wisps that shifted with the breeze, flickering between foggy white and faint pastel colors as if she carried the horizon wherever she went.

But instead of a serene, beautiful smile that encapsulated her namesake, she scowled.

The expression tugged at her mouth, making her jaw twitch as she walked. In one hand she carried a scroll, clutched tight enough that the papyrus bent under her grip. The seal at the bottom gleamed faintly with gold wax, half-smeared from her thumb pressing into it.

"Of all the things I wake the sky for," she muttered under her breath, her voice low and scratchy from sleep not yet shaken off, "this is what I get dragged into...?"

She huffed, her golden sandals clinking lightly as she rounded a bend in the path. Gods moved around her, nymphs fluttered in little clusters near the columns, and a pair of lesser winds darted past with excited giggles, but none dared step in her way.

Dawn was not gentle today. Not with the weight riding her shoulders.

Her hair drifted as she walked, catching in the weak, early sunbeams that cut across Olympus' halls. Even the light hesitated, as if waiting for her permission to spill across the world below.

Eos' scowl deepened, her jaw tightening as she turned another corner. Up ahead, a small cluster of nymphs stumbled along the wide path, giggling loudly as they trailed bright flower petals and sloshing cups of dark wine.

In the center of them lounged Dionysus, half-reclined on a floating cushion of ivy and gold. His curls were tangled with grape vines, his cheeks flushed pink from too much drink.

He lifted his head lazily when he spotted her, a crooked grin spreading across his lips. His eyes gleamed, half-lidded but sharp with mischief. He raised his cup high, sloshing purple wine down his wrist as he called out across the courtyard.

"Eos!" he crowed, his voice echoing louder than necessary. A few nymphs giggled at the sound, leaning into his sides with glassy-eyed delight.

The Titaness didn't pause her steps, but her brow twitched as his voice reached her ears. Her name in his mouth felt heavy, messy, like wine stains on fresh linen.

"Cooome..." Dionysus slurred lazily, waving his cup with languid grace as purple wine sloshed down his wrist. "Dawnbringer, golden sister of morning mist... join us... the feast is still warm and the music... gods, the music tastes sweeter than any mortal hymn." His words drifted out like half-finished poetry, tangled with hiccupped laughter. "Even you need to rest those pretty dawn-colored feet... at least... once in a while..."

Eos scoffed, her lips curling into a faint, unimpressed sneer. She shifted the scroll in her grip, fingers flexing around the crinkled papyrus as she kept walking.

"I don't have time for your games today, Dionysus,"she replied curtly. "Find your feasting companions elsewhere."

A few of the nymphs tittered nervously as she passed, their delicate forms shrinking away from her towering presence.

Dionysus only laughed softly, the sound low and honey-thick. "Ah, but dawn always has time to play," he called after her, swirling his cup again as wine sloshed over his knuckles. "What is a feast without the first light to wake it?"

Eos didn't respond. She kept walking with a finality. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, sharp and unbothered, though the dawn hues rippling across her vitiligo flared briefly—soft pinks deepening to rose gold around her fingertips, like anger warming through her veins.

She could hear his laughter echo behind her as she left him there, drunk and surrounded by his sweet-smelling nymphs, their giggles weaving through the breeze like dying petals.

Fool, she thought, gripping the scroll tighter. There were always feasts. Always songs. Always gods who thought dawn was just another backdrop for their pleasures.

Truth be told, Eos shouldn't even have been there.

She should have been reclining atop her favorite cloud ledge, enjoying what little leisure time she had before the next suffering shift began—before Helios tore her away with his blinding light.

Before she spent endless hours bracing herself against blistering winds and searing rays, guiding the morning light until dusk fell and her husband Astraeus took up the night, painting stars across a dark canvas until dawn was needed once more.

That was her life. Day after day. Rise, guide, rest, repeat.

But instead, here she was. Being used as dawn had always been used—quiet, constant, never thanked.

Her sandals scraping against Olympus' smooth stone as the scroll crinkled noisily in her grip. A scroll that wasn't even hers to carry. One that belonged to her brother, Helios.

She scoffed softly under her breath, the sound rough and tired as she adjusted her grip on the papyrus. The seal at the bottom pulsed faintly with sun-gold magic, its heat irritating her fingers with each step.

"Lazy fool," she muttered, her voice low and edged with annoyance. "He has chariots of fire at his beck and call, yet sends me like some errand nymph to deliver his messages."

She could almost hear Helios' carefree laughter in her head, his rich voice echoing across their shared horizon: "Sister, be kind. Hermes is busy, and Astraeus has his dusk to tend. Who else can I trust with light's words but Dawn herself?"

And Hermes. Gods, Hermes.

He was supposed to have come for the scroll. Supposed to answer her call hours ago, flitting in with his annoying grin and snatching the message from her hand before darting off to whoever awaited it. But apparently, even the Messenger God was too busy to do his job today.

She could picture him now—wings flickering lazily as he lounged across some half-broken temple roof, probably flipping a coin between his fingers while mortal prayers piled up beneath him. Too busy. Always too busy until it amused him not to be.

Eos' jaw clenched even tighter as she walked and with each step, and by the time she reached Apollo's palace, her patience was frayed thin.

The Sun God's domain loomed before her in wide arcs of polished white marble, its golden pillars swirling high into the sky like captured sunbeams.

Flickers of harsh, shifting light pulsed between each column—thin, crackling flares of warmth that flickered too violently to be comforting. Even from the outer steps, she could feel the heat radiating out in uneven waves, the air bending slightly with each pulse.

And the palace itself... it shook.

Not with music or mortal worship, but with a heavy, echoing boom from somewhere deep within its halls. A tremor rippled through the marble steps, rattling the anklets around her rosy ankles.

Eos rolled her eyes.

"Gods above, what now..." she muttered, stepping forward. She raised her free hand and rapped her knuckles sharply against the golden doors. The sound thudded through the metal, echoing faintly inside.

Nothing.

She scowled, adjusting the scroll under her arm and knocked again—harder this time, her nails scraping slightly against the intricate sun patterns carved into the door's surface. The heat bit at her fingertips.

Finally, with a long, loud creak, the door eased open just a crack. Peeking out was a nymph, her bright pink eyes wide with tension. Sunlight caught in her hair, illuminating the blue that rippled down her shoulders like a river current. She clutched the edge of the door tightly, as though it might slam open or closed at any moment.

"L-Lady Eos..." Clytie stammered softly, voice trembling as another deafening bang echoed from deeper within the palace. The marble beneath their feet shivered with the force, rattling dust loose from the high archways. She flinched, wincing as her eyes darted back behind her before returning quickly to the Titaness. "Forgive me, my lady. What... what do you need? Lord Apollo is—he's a bit... upset at the moment."

Eos sighed heavily, her cloudy hair drifting forward with the exhale. The dawn hues along her cheeks shifted, bright pinks cooling to pale apricot as she rubbed her temples with annoyance.

"Upset," she scoffed, voice flat with boredom and irritation. "Isn't he always these days?"

The nymph opened her mouth to answer but flinched again as another sharp crack split the air behind her, followed by the muffled sound of something heavy crashing to the ground. A faint golden glow pulsed at the edges of the doorway, vibrating with Apollo's temper.

Eos rolled her eyes skyward, muttering under her breath, "I don't have time for this."

Then, sharper, she snapped her gaze back to the trembling nymph. "Look, girl, I couldn't care less what tantrum your master is throwing. I have a message for him." She waved the scroll in her hand impatiently. "Apparently, Hermes is too busy to do his job today, and the little coward isn't answering my calls."

She shifted her weight, sandals clinking against the marble as she continued, tone edged with sharp annoyance. "And Hera's being iffy about who uses Iris lately, so here I am—playing courier when I should be resting for tomorrow's dawn."

The nymph swallowed hard, her small hands tightening around the door. Another distant boom reverberated through the palace, making her shoulders flinch up to her ears.

"L-Lady Eos..." she stuttered, her voice shaking. "I-I'm sorry, but Lord Apollo... he can't. He's... he's really, really upset right now. It might not be safe to—"

Eos clicked her tongue impatiently, cutting her off with a sharp scoff. "Listen. I don't care how upset he is. I'm not leaving until he gets this damn message."

She shoved the scroll forward for emphasis, her fingers curling tighter around the cracked papyrus seal. "I am tired—so tired—of hearing my brother bitch about Apollo ignoring him. Day after day, whining about how the 'Sun God' can't even manage his own realm without dragging him down with it, burning it to ash."

The nymph blinked rapidly, lips parting like she meant to argue, but before a single word slipped out, Eos rolled her eyes and pushed her aside with a flick of her wrist.

"Move."

She stepped past her, sandals scraping against the gold-lined threshold as she entered the palace.

The door creaked fully open under her strength, revealing chaos beyond.

The moment Eos stepped inside, the heavy scent of burning oils and scorched cedar hit her nose. The grand hall was half in ruins—gilded columns cracked down the middle, their white marble cores exposed like broken bones. Long silk banners embroidered with suns lay torn and trampled across the polished floors, their golden threads tangled around shattered pottery and fallen offerings.

Everywhere she looked, nymphs were scurrying. Some carried buckets of water, others swept up fragments of smashed amphorae, while a few knelt in small groups, whispering prayers to soothe their own shaking hands.

A young olive nymph sobbed softly as she scrubbed a blackened scorch mark from the once-pristine floor, her shoulders trembling with each stroke.

Another boom echoed deeper within the palace, this one closer, rattling a decorative bronze shield off its hook and sending it clattering to the ground with a hollow clang. The nymphs flinched as one but kept working, their eyes downcast.

Eos didn't slow. She ignored the smell of burned incense clinging heavy in the air. Ignored the chittering of frightened servants and the hushed murmurs about Apollo's rage. She walked through the ruined hall, her gaze hard and unimpressed as she scanned each room she passed, looking for the Sun God.

"Where is he..." she muttered under her breath, her dawn-colored vitiligo flickering brighter across her arms as her annoyance pulsed hotter. "I wanna get this over with so I can get back to my clouds before Helios finds another reason to shriek my name across the horizon."

Another tremor shook the floor beneath her, sending a half-shattered lyre skittering across the marble before it toppled with a tinny clatter.

Eos didn't flinch.

She just kept walking, deeper into Apollo's palace, her scowl deepening with each step.

Because dawn rose for no one. And she wasn't about to bow to a god who couldn't even keep his own home standing.

Every so often as she walked, a nymph scurried past, their eyes downcast, hands trembling as they carried brooms or buckets of water to clean up old scorch marks. One nymph dared to glance up at her, eyes wide, before quickly muttering shaky directions when Eos barked out a curt, "Where is he?"

"D-Down the east hall, my lady... through the inner chamber... follow the singing... if you can hear it."

Another boom shook the ground, rattling a cracked lyre off the wall with a dull clatter. Eos rolled her eyes skyward with a heavy sigh and kept walking. And the further she went, the quieter the chaos grew. No more scurrying nymphs. No more shouted orders or wails of fright.

Just... silence. Heavy and stale.

She stepped into a smaller hall, narrower and darker than the rest. The air felt thick here, like old prayers trapped in stone. As she walked, something caught her eye along the shadowed wall.

She paused.

Lying crumpled against a cracked column was the mangled corpse of a creature—a guardian beast, though she could barely tell which type it had been.

Its massive feline body lay twisted unnaturally, wings bent at sharp angles, feathers torn out in clumps, golden-black fur stained with dark ichor that still steamed faintly in the cool hall air. Its eyes, once bright with magic, were dimmed to a lifeless gray.

Eos clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head. "Pitiful," she muttered, stepping around it without sparing another glance.

She kept walking, each step echoing louder as the hall narrowed. The booms from earlier were gone now, replaced by something else. Something softer. A distant, broken melody that curled through the stone like a ghost.

Finally, she reached the threshold of a wide room.

Eos stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was that it seemed untouched.

Unlike the chaos outside, this chamber was unbroken, unburned. The floor gleamed with faint golden light reflecting off polished marble, scrolls and papers scattered across it in fluttering piles like fallen feathers. Instruments lay propped against carved shelves, strings intact, wood unscorched. The air smelled faintly of cedar oil and warm metal.

Her dawnlit gaze landed on the source of the sound—the only glow in the room.

Apollo.

He sat curled up near the center, half-hidden in the dark, his golden light dimmed to a tired flicker that barely illuminated the scrolls around him. His legs were folded under him, shoulders hunched as he leaned over a golden lyre cradled in his lap. The instrument pulsed faintly with divine warmth, its strings shimmering with a soft internal glow.

His fingers moved slowly across them, tinkering out a quiet tune. Eos realized after a moment that he wasn't even truly playing. Just... touching. Brushing his fingertips over each string like he needed to feel them hum beneath his skin.

His lips moved with each gentle pluck, voice hushed and raw.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea... and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free..."

The melody was small. Crooked in a way that made her chest tighten with something she refused to name.

Eos exhaled as she watched him. And for a moment, just a breath, she almost pitied him. This god of prophecy, this golden boy of Olympus, curled in on himself like a lonely child, clutching a stolen song in shaking hands.

But then she scoffed quietly, rolling her eyes.

"Pathetic," she muttered once again under her breath.

And with that, she stepped forward into the quiet, her sandals scraping lightly across the marble floor as the god of the sun kept singing his broken lullaby to shadows that could never sing back.

She didn't bother knocking. Eos shoved the heavy doors wider with a sharp push, their golden hinges groaning softly. The sound echoed across the chamber like thunder rolling through dawnlit clouds.

"Apollo," she called, her voice ringing cold through the hush.

His head snapped up instantly. The gentle, broken softness on his face melted away in a heartbeat, replaced by a cold, cutting glare. His eyes burned like twin suns rising over a dark sea, bright enough to sting her dawn-kissed skin.

"What," he snarled, his voice slicing through the quiet like a whip crack, "are you doing here?"

He shot to his feet, the golden lyre nearly slipping from his lap as scattered papers crumpled beneath him. His glow pulsed brighter, harsh and hot, filling the room with a glare that made the shadows flinch away from him.

"CLYTIE!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the very walls.

Almost instantly, the nymph appeared at the doorway, stumbling forward in a flurry of blue curls and trembling hands. Her eyes darted between Eos and Apollo, wide with panic.

"M-My lord," she stammered, bowing so fast her forehead nearly hit the marble. "Forgive me—I-I tried to stop her, but she—"

Apollo cut her off with a sharp hiss, his jaw clenched tight as his glare pinned her down. "I gave explicit orders," he spat, each word dripping venom, "that no one—no nymph, no god, no pathetic messenger—was to enter my palace today. No one was to disturb me. Not for prayers. Not for offerings. Not for anything."

Clytie flinched, her knees buckling as she bowed lower, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. "I-I'm sorry, my lord—truly—I-I didn't mean to—"

"Enough," he snapped coldly, his voice echoing so hard the lyre strings vibrated in his grip. "If you say 'sorry' one more time today, I will rip your tongue out and string it across my harp so at least it sings something useful."

Clytie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears spilled down her flushed cheeks.

Apollo narrowed his eyes further, the light around him pulsing in hot, angry bursts. He jerked his chin sharply toward Eos without even glancing at her. "Get her out," he snarled. "Now."

Clytie swallowed hard, voice shaking as she whispered, "Y-Yes, my lord..."

But Eos didn't move.

She tilted her head, watching Apollo with a slow, unimpressed blink as the dawn-colored vitiligo across her arms flared faint rose-gold in the flickering light.

"Really, sun-boy?" she drawled lazily, her voice dripping with tired disdain. "Threatening your nymphs again? And here I thought you were in your gentle lover era this century."

Apollo turned his glare to her, golden eyes burning brighter as the lyre in his grip let out a sharp, discordant note under his tightening fingers.

"Leave," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "before I decide dawn isn't worth seeing tomorrow."

For a brief moment, a flicker of old memory burned behind her gaze—the searing heat of Helios' fury when she was younger, when dawn had dared rise too early and the sun had burned her cloud-chariot in reprimand. But the memory passed as quickly as it came, leaving only her scowl. She had learned since then. Apollo was no Helios. And she was no trembling child anymore.

Eos scoffed.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a snapped string. She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she looked Apollo up and down.

Then, calmly, she stepped further into the room—past the sniffling nymph, who scrambled backward to press herself against the wall, trembling.

Eos' sandals clicked against the marble with slow finality as she drew closer. She didn't flinch at the oppressive heat pulsing off Apollo's glowing skin or the rage flickering like wildfire behind his eyes. Instead, she simply arched a brow.

"Watch your tongue, little sun," she snapped coolly, her voice low and edged with centuries of weary patience. "Your father's seeds may have placed you among Olympus' golden ranks, but don't forget where that power came from."

Apollo's glare darkened, light flaring sharper around his shoulders, but Eos kept talking, unbothered.

"You Olympians walk around with your heads so high in the clouds, you've forgotten what real strength looks like," she continued, "Forgotten who held the sky on their backs before your father stole his throne."

She tilted her head the other way, her cloudy hair shifting with the motion. The golden light from Apollo flickered across her face, illuminating the ancient lines of tired knowing in her gaze.

"Don't think, that being the sun god means anything to me. Helios is the sun. You're merely a name."

Apollos jaw twitched, golden knuckles tightening around the lyres frame until the strings vibrated with a faint, discordant hum. His eyes burned hotter, pupils thinning to molten slits. For a moment, it looked as if he might speak—might snarl or scream or blast the air between them with searing light.

But Eos just sighed, the sound quiet and tired as her shoulders loosened slightly. She shook her head, calming herself with a single breath, her rosy fingertips flickering softly as she exhaled.

"Threaten dawn again, Apollo, and you'll find there's no sunrise to light your worship halls tomorrow. Only dark. Only silence." She narrowed her eyes at him, the dawn-colored splotches across her cheeks and arms glowing warmer, flickering from pale pink to deep rose-gold in the dim room faintly along her cheekbones.

"And for what?" she scoffed quietly, shaking her head. "Gods only know what's wrong with you today. Why you're so upset. Frankly, as I've said before..." she let out a short, humorless laugh, "I don't care."

Apollo's jaw twitched, but he didn't speak.

Eos shifted her weight as she pulled the scroll from under her arm. She held it up, staring at it with tired disdain for a beat before flicking her gaze back to him.

"I'm only here to deliver a message from Helios," she snapped, her voice flat with finality.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the scroll at his feet. It landed softly atop the scattered papers, rolling once before coming to a stop against his bare toes.

She held his gaze, unflinching. Her eyes burned with a dawn-lit glow, tired and ancient. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Eos scoffed again, turning away with a sharp roll of her eyes.

"And you better not be late this time, either," she muttered over her shoulder as she walked away. "I'm not stretching dawn just because you've got my brother tied up somewhere, unable to do his job. I've got my own damn shifts to worry about."

She stepped past Clytie without a glance.

The nymph, still trembling, bowed low to Apollo, tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. "I-I'm so—f-forgive me, my lord," she whispered, her voice shaking as she backed away toward the door, following the personification of dawn.

Apollo didn't answer.

His eyes stayed locked on the scroll at his feet, glow pulsing harsh and hot in the silent room as the twos footsteps faded down the hall, leaving only the broken melodies of a god who could no longer hear his own songs.

Silence pressed in around him, heavy and suffocating.

Apollo let out a long, shaky sigh. His shoulders slumped as he slowly lowered himself back to the floor, settling cross-legged among the scattered music sheets. The papers crinkled softly under his weight, their written notes brushing against his bare skin like cold whispers.

He set the lyre aside with a gentle touch, laying it down across two thick stacks of scrolls. Its golden strings hummed faintly in protest before falling quiet, the pulsing light within it dimming once more.

His fingers hovered over the scroll Eos had thrown at him. For a moment, he just stared at it, his jaw tight, eyes flickering with cold, distant light. Then, with a soft growl under his breath, he snatched it up, breaking the wax seal with a single flick of his thumb.

The parchment unfurled easily, glowing faintly in his hands as Helios' tidy, sun-scorched handwriting stared back at him. Apollo's eyes flicked across the words quickly, each line sinking deeper into the hollowness gnawing at his chest.

'Update as requested', it began, simple and blunt. Typical Helios.

He read on.

'She departed Ithaca by sea at dawn today. Traveling with Nestor's youngest son—Peisistratus. Destination: the same route Telemachus sailed weeks before. She appeared rushed. Determined. Prepared to follow wherever he goes. The dawn nymphs report no hesitation in her stride.'

Apollo's grip on the scroll tightened, the parchment crumpling faintly between his fingers. The quiet hum of the room seemed to darken around him, shadows pooling at the edges of his golden light.

'She goes willingly,' the letter finished. 'I will continue to watch the waves for her return.'

Apollo couldn't finish reading.

He let out a sharp, ragged exhale, his jaw clenching so tight it ached. The paper trembled in his grip before he crumpled it in his fist with a rough, snapping twist. The scroll crackled under the force, creases folding into harsh angles.

"Willingly..." he hissed under his breath, his voice low and dark, barely more than a growl.

His golden glow pulsed harshly across the floor, flaring hot enough to make the surrounding music sheets curl at the edges. He flicked his fingers sharply, and a tiny ember sparked to life at his fingertips, glowing like the tip of a branding iron.

Cold and dismissive, he dropped the ember onto the crumpled scroll in his hand.

The parchment caught instantly, flames licking up its edges with a hungry, crackling hiss. Apollo watched, unblinking, as the fire devoured Helios' words line by line, curling the paper into blackened ash that drifted down to join the silent ruin of music below him.

His chest rose and fell, shallow and quick, as he dragged a trembling hand through his golden curls. His other hand tightened into a fist against his thigh, nails biting crescent moons into his skin as his eyes burned with a light that felt less like the sun and more like a dying star—hot, furious, and collapsing in on itself.

Because you were leaving him behind.

Again.

Just like that day in the marble halls, when you tore his gifts from your throat and chose your mortal prince over eternity with him.

Again.

The word echoed in Apollo's chest like a blade scraped across bone. His eyes burned, narrowed into thin slits of molten light as he stared down at the pile of ash smoldering quietly on the marble floor.

You had chosen the prince.

Again.

Chosen him with your tears. Chosen him with your trembling voice. Chosen him with your defiance—throwing Apollo's gifts back in his face as if they were curses instead of blessings. As if his devotion, his worship, was something to be feared.

He felt his jaw clench tighter, teeth grinding until a dull ache pulsed up the side of his skull. Around him, the room pulsed hot and sharp. Scrolls curled and blackened at the edges as his glow burned hotter, flickering like wildfire caught in a storm. The golden music floating in the air faltered, trembling under the weight of his anger, notes dissolving into silent dust.

How dare you.

How dare you reject Olympus for a mortal boy with shaking hands and borrowed courage. A boy who could offer you nothing—no temples carved in your name, no altars drowned in flowers and prayers. Only a small island and a half-crumbling palace you would waste away inside, mortal flesh rotting around bones that should have been preserved in golden ambrosia.

His lip curled into a silent snarl as he sucked in a ragged breath. He pressed his trembling fingertips to the cool marble at his side, the tips glowing so hot the stone hissed under his touch. The scent of burning rock curled into his nose, grounding him in the heat of his own rage.

"She chooses him," he spat under his breath, voice shaking with a bitter, poisonous fury. "Always him. Always mortals."

Because this wasn't about Telemachus. Not truly. It never was.

This was about you.

About the way you looked at him—at Apollo—like he was nothing more than another burden on your back. Another god to endure. Another set of golden chains to break free from.

Even as you knelt before him, even as you shivered under his touch, your eyes burned with that same stubborn mortality. That same defiance that made his chest ache with something sharp and hateful.

You were his. He had written you into prophecy, woven you into songs, built temples with your name buried in the walls. He had raised you out of death itself. And still... still you chose the prince.

Cracks splintered under Apollo's fingers as his power flared outward in jagged bursts. The music sheets scattered in every direction, caught in the sudden violent gust of his golden aura.

He could end it.

He could end all of it.

One snap of his fingers and the sea would swallow their little boat whole. One flick of his wrist and the prince's lungs would fill with blood. One whispered curse and you would feel every step on that journey like your bones were grinding together in your skin.

He felt it rise in him—like fire caught on oil, violent and consuming. That old, godless wrath that knew no limits. The rage that cracked open temples and left cities burning for generations.

His eyes glowed bright, flickering white-hot at the edges as the golden tattoos curling down his arms shimmered and flared with each ragged breath.

But then—he sucked in a sharp inhale, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut.

Because even now, even here, he could feel the threads. The laws. The woven bindings of divine boundaries wrapping around his ribs like cold iron chains.

Athena's quiet, cold wisdom. Hermes' loud, mocking concern. Zeus' patient warnings. The Fates silent hands, waiting to cut down any god who overstepped too far. He felt it all pressing against his skin.

And Athena—he could feel her cold, patient shadow lingering just beyond the marble walls. A warning. A reminder that the boy he loathed was never truly alone.

He felt it all pressing against his skin.

"Gods-damned laws," he spat, voice shaking with scorn as his fingers twitched against the cracked marble. "Gods-damned boundaries and bargains and... rules."

He laughed softly then, bitter and cruel, the sound scraping the quiet like a rusted blade.

What was the point of worship if he could not even punish the ungrateful? What was the point of divinity if it meant bowing to the laws of mortals and gods alike?

His chest heaved once more as his glow dimmed slightly, the burning rage settling into something colder. Pettier.

Fine.

If you wanted to walk away from him—again—then so be it.

But gods help you, you would feel it. Every prayer you whispered that went unanswered. Every blessing you needed that never came. Every song you sang that fell flat and lifeless in your throat without his golden hand to lift it.

Apollo;s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, his eyes burning bright even as tears pricked at the corners, threatening to spill but never falling.

"Let her have her prince," he whispered, his voice shaking with bitter triumph. "Let her choose him."

His gaze flickered to the burning scroll at his feet.

"And let her see how far that choice gets her when dawn finally breaks."

His words slipped into the quiet, sharp and cold. For a moment, Apollo just sat there among the scattered, scorched music sheets, chest rising and falling in uneven jerks as his glowing eyes burned into the dark marble floor.

But then—something flickered at the edge of his vision.

The scroll.

Or rather... what was left of it.

He blinked, golden brows pinching faintly as he realized the flame hadn't fully consumed it yet. The curling ash revealed a few more lines near the bottom, ink blurred but still readable. His eyes narrowed.

Slowly, he reached forward, flicking his fingers sharply to snuff out the remaining ember before it could devour the last scraps of parchment.

A curl of smoke rose into the quiet as he uncrumpled what was left, eyes scanning the smeared script quickly. The letters glowed faint under his gaze as he read, each word sinking into his chest like cold iron.

'Poseidon intercepted his ship last night,' Helios had scrawled, the handwriting hurried, almost annoyed in its bluntness. 'According to Selene's passing light, the boy nearly drowned. Storm struck hard and sudden. Hermes intervened.'

Apollo snorted softly, a cruel smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth at the mention of his trickster brother. His golden eyes flickered with dark amusement as he muttered under his breath, "Of course he did."

He shook his head once, the bitter laugh slipping past his lips too quiet to echo. "That old sea snake still knows how to pick his moments," he murmured, voice dripping with mocking fondness. "I suppose I owe Uncle Poseidon a thank-you."

His gaze drifted back down to the nearly burned scroll. The final lines blurred faintly where the ink had run with seawater stains, but he could still read them.

'Telemachus' raft, constructed by Hermes, is drifting steadily westward. Current trajectory places him near the offshore islands by dawn.'

Apollo hummed low in his chest, folding the charred scrap between his fingers. The ember heat left black smudges across his golden skin as he turned the parchment over once more, gaze distant and sharp.

"Offshore islands..." he whispered, voice soft and deadly calm. A plan flickered behind his eyes—quick and cutting. Something cold curled at the corners of his mouth, blooming into a slow, poisonous smile.

Because dawn always came.

And if fate wanted to leave Telemachus stranded on some forgotten rock in the middle of Poseidon's wrath... well.

Who was Apollo to deny fate a helping hand?

He flicked his fingers, and the burnt remains of Helios' message crumbled into ash, drifting to the silent floor below.

Then he leaned back slowly, closing his eyes as the golden glow around him dimmed into something softer—quieter.

But not kinder.

Never kinder.

Because even now, rage still burned beneath his calm. It curled tight under his ribs like coals waiting for breath. Because you chose the prince. Because you walked away from him. Because you would wake with the dawn tomorrow, thinking you could outrun gods.

And gods... he would make sure you never forgot who controlled the sun you prayed under.

Apollo's golden eyes dimmed to slits of cold light as he leaned back against the marble pillar behind him. His fingers drummed idly against his thigh, each tap echoing softly through the broken music chamber like the beat of a distant war drum.

In his mind, he pictured the prince—cold, desperate, clinging to whatever scraps of mortal hope he had left.

Let him suffer, Apollo thought, his lip curling faintly. Let him know what it feels like to reach for the sun and find only darkness.

☆

The wind howled outside, rattling the thick moss draped over the narrow cave entrance like damp, heavy curtains.

Inside, Telemachus sat hunched low against the rough stone wall, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he tried to keep what little warmth remained pressed close to his chest.

It wasn't much.

The cave was small—barely big enough for two men to sit upright without their shoulders brushing the slick walls.

The ceiling dipped unevenly, carved from old rock and tree roots that curled down like skeletal fingers gripping the dark earth. It smelled of wet rot, moss, and brine. The floor was slick with damp sand and scattered bits of crumbling leaves, blown in by the storm winds that had been screaming across the island since dawn.

A small fire crackled weakly between them, the orange glow flickering across Telemachus' drawn face. Shadows danced along the stone, climbing up the walls only to disappear into the pitch black of the narrow ceiling above. The flame hissed softly as another drop of water fell from a dripping root overhead, sending a shiver down Telemachus' spine.

He glanced sideways, eyes lingering on Callias.

The Brontean boy lay curled on his side across from him, arms pulled tight around his chest as he shivered under a damp, mossy cloth Telemachus had found half-buried in the sand outside.

His skin was pale—too pale—and glistened with a thin sheen of sweat that caught the dim firelight like oil on water. Every few breaths, his body shook with a violent shiver before falling still again, only to tremble moments later.

They had washed ashore at dawn.

Telemachus barely remembered it—only flashes of cold water choking his lungs, Callias' frantic grip on his wrist, the biting scrape of rocks against his knees as he crawled up the sloping sand with the last of his strength.

Their small raft, had shattered against the rocks just offshore, leaving them to wade the last stretch in the freezing surf.

By the time he dragged Callias onto dry sand, the other boy was barely conscious. His eyes fluttered weakly, unfocused, as a fresh gash along his side bled sluggishly into the torn hem of his tunic. Scratches crisscrossed his face and neck, angry red marks from being slammed against driftwood and reef in the churning sea.

Telemachus himself wasn't unscathed. His forearms burned with long, shallow scrapes where rocks and broken branches had ripped across his skin. Bruises darkened along his ribs and thighs, each pulse of pain a sharp reminder that they were alive—hurt, battered, but alive.

He remembered gripping Callias' wrist with trembling fingers, half-dragging, half-carrying him up the sloping beach until the sand shifted into cold moss and slick stone. Remembered the hiss of his own breath through clenched teeth as he stumbled, knees buckling beneath him, salt-stung wounds scraping against wet earth.

But they had made it.

For now.

And now... now Callias burned with fever.

Telemachus swallowed hard, dragging his gaze back to the small fire flickering between them. He watched the flames twist and snap around the damp driftwood, each sharp pop echoing in the quiet cave like a bone breaking.

His damp hair clung to his forehead, and salt crusted in pale lines down his cheeks and chin. He reached a shaking hand out, palms hovering over the fire, trying to chase back the cold biting at his fingers.

Outside, the wind roared again, rattling the moss curtain and sending a burst of cold, damp air swirling through the cave. The flames guttered low, nearly snuffing out before flaring weakly back to life.

Callias let out a small, pained noise in his sleep, his body curling tighter as his shoulders trembled under the thin cloth. Telemachus' chest ached at the sound. He dragged his hand back from the fire and reached over, pressing his palm lightly against Callias' clammy forehead.

Hot.

Too hot.

He pulled away with a quiet hiss of breath, fingers curling into a tight fist in his lap as he stared at the trembling boy before him.

"Hold on, Callias," he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking in his dry throat. His gaze drifted to the moss-draped cave entrance, where the storm raged outside, drowning the world in heavy sheets of rain and screaming winds. The dark sea beyond churned like an endless maw, frothing and gnashing against the rocky shore.

"Just... hold on."

Because gods help him, he didn't know what he'd do if Callias didn't.

For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the small fire and the wind howling outside like some feral beast scraping at the cave mouth. Telemachus sat silent, staring into the flames as shadows flickered across his drawn, tired face.

Then—Callias shifted, a weak, breathy laugh slipping out from between his cracked lips. His eyelids fluttered, pupils glazed with fever, but his mouth twitched up at the corners with stubborn, crooked humor.

"Don't... don't look at me like that," he rasped softly, his voice rough and thin. "I'm... I'm fine."

Telemachus' head snapped up, worry etched deep across his brow. "You're burning up," he said sharply, reaching forward to adjust the mossy cloth over Callias' shoulders. "You're not fine."

Callias snorted weakly, the sound dissolving into a rough cough that made his chest tremble. When he caught his breath, his eyes cracked open again, glinting faintly in the firelight with his usual defiant spark.

"Yeah... well..." he mumbled, blinking up at the dripping cave ceiling. "I'm... a fighter, remember? The best Bronte's ever... ever seen."

His lips twitched into a faint grin, though it trembled at the edges. "You... you know that, right? Can't... can't go dying yet. Haven't... haven't stolen enough olives and goats from the palace to leave my mark on Ithaca properly."

Telemachus huffed a broken laugh under his breath, his chest tightening painfully. "You're insufferable," he muttered, shaking his head as he glanced away, blinking rapidly against the dampness burning at his lashes.

Callias smiled weakly, his gaze going distant as his eyes drifted shut again. For a moment, Telemachus thought he'd fallen back asleep. But then—his lips parted again, voice slurred and dream-heavy.

"Hey... Prince," he murmured, his words dragging slow like honey in winter. "Remember... remember when she... tried to play the pipes?"

Telemachus frowned faintly, turning his gaze back to Callias with confusion knitting his brow. "What?"

Callias let out another thin, wheezing laugh, his shoulders twitching under the damp cloth. "Yeah... gods, it was... it was awful. Sounded like a dying goat. She... ____... she was so mad about it, too. Pouted for days. Swore... swore the pipes were cursed."

Telemachus' lips parted, a breathless noise catching in his throat. His chest ached, sharp and deep, as he let out a small, trembling laugh. "You're lying," he whispered, shaking his head. "She good at everything she does. She—she must have just been... tired."

Callias only smiled faintly, eyes fluttering closed again. "Yeah... sure... tired..." he mumbled, his voice fading into a quiet hum of sleep, though his lips still curved faintly at the corners.

Telemachus' throat tightened as he watched him slip back into fevered dreams, the quiet of the cave pressing down around them like a heavy blanket. He dragged his gaze back to the fire, swallowing hard as his fingers curled tighter around the driftwood spear in his lap.

Then—something shifted.

Outside, the wind paused.

It didn't fade. It didn't drift off gently into silence. It simply... stopped.

The howling vanished mid-cry, leaving behind an eerie, suffocating stillness. Even the rain seemed to hesitate, drops clinging to the moss at the cave mouth without falling.

Telemachus frowned, the hair at the back of his neck prickling sharply. Before he could move, Callias stirred again, his brow furrowing as he sniffed weakly at the heavy, silent air.

"...It smells... like flowers..." he slurred, his voice slurred with fever. His head lolled to the side against the mossy floor, eyes unfocused as he blinked into the quiet. "Like... the palace gardens... at dawn..."

Telemachus' pulse quickened, unease curling tight in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak—to tell Callias to stay quiet, to rest—but before he could say a word—

Snap.

A twig broke, sharp and sudden, echoing through the silent cave like a thunderclap.

Telemachus shot upright, his breath catching in his chest as his heart slammed hard against his ribs. His hand tightened around the driftwood spear—its tip jagged and splintered, rusted nails jutting from its edges.

He scrambled to his feet, bracing his weight as he turned toward the cave entrance, every muscle tensed and shaking.

"Show yourself!" he barked into the silent dark, his voice cracking with fear and fury. The words echoed against the moss-draped walls, swallowed quickly by the stillness beyond.

For a long, trembling moment, nothing answered him.

Nothing... and then—

A shadow moved at the far edge of the cave.

Telemachus' breath caught, his grip tightening painfully around his makeshift spear. The dim firelight flickered wildly against the cave walls as the shape stepped forward—slowly, unbothered by his raised weapon or the trembling in his stance.

A young woman emerged from the dark.

Her hair was wild with salt and tangled with wind, curling around her shoulders in thick, heavy waves tinted the faint rosy-gold of dawn itself. Strands clung to her damp skin like seaweed to sun-warmed rock. Tiny pointed ears peeked out from beneath the heavy curls, delicate yet sharp, almost hidden by the tousled braids that framed her face.

Vines wrapped around her ankles like bracelets that had never left, curling over her bare feet and up her soft calves, dotted with tiny blooming flowers glowing faintly in the dim cave light.

Her skin was dark—rich and deep like wet earth after rain—catching the low dawn light in warm, subtle glints that made her look carved from sea-polished stone. Her arms were adorned with faint golden markings that glowed just slightly when the rising dawn behind her brushed over her, curling in swirling patterns from shoulder to wrist.

She was round and shapely, every inch of her body curved with a quiet, heavy softness—hips wide, thighs thick and strong beneath the thin sea-silk wrap slung low across them. Her stomach was plush, soft and unashamed, her chest full beneath the loosely tied folds of damp fabric.

And gods, her eyes—

They were large and deep-set, flickering with sleepy amusement as they swept over the two shivering, filthy boys huddled around their dying fire. A soft coral pink gleamed within her gaze, catching the flickering firelight and seeming to glow from within like pearls trapped in living flesh.

They paused on Callias' trembling form, flicked over the fever-flushed curve of his face with little more than passing indifference, before finally landing on Telemachus.

And when they did—something shifted.

Her gaze lingered, softening into a quiet, almost startled wonder. Like she was seeing a memory come to life.

Her lips parted just slightly, breath catching in her throat as her eyes traced over the dark curls clinging to his damp brow, the stubborn set of his jaw despite his trembling shoulders, the raw defiance burning in his wide, frightened eyes.

It wasn't lust that flickered there—not entirely.

It was something older. Sadder. Something like awe curling into longing, wrapping around her gaze like ivy creeping up ancient stone.

For a moment, her sleepy smile faltered—flickering into something small and trembling before she smoothed it back into place.

A small, dreamy smile curled across her full lips.

"Morning, sleepyheads," she said softly, her voice curling around the quiet like warm honey over cold stone.

And behind her... dawn broke.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.66 ┃ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤; ahhh sry for being gone like that yall, ya girl once again thuggin through life lol. also fr thank yall so much for all the positive engagement on the last chapter 🫶🏾 like i said, ngl i was kinda nervous cuz over time i've seen how much yall love hermes and i was like "damn hope they dont jump me for this one lmaoo" cuz frfr he was never meant to be a love interest hahah. but yeah hope yall liked my lil meta-ending a/n too ngl the way i was crying/dying writing it cuz it legit felt like i stepped in a time machine 😭 i used to write all my a/n like that when i was younger, full on meta shit happening with book characters down there lmaoo. just had to dust off my lil skills as an apology for hurting yall like that 💀 but no worries this doesn't mean it's the last time we see hermes 👀 also sry for rambling lol hope yall enjoy this chapter—had so much fun with it fr, lots of stuff here is actually setting up the isekai book/hints (even a character or two might show up, just saying))--ALSO Y'ALL KIKI/@k-nayee IS BACK DSNDBJSB TELL ME WHY I GOT A NOTIFICATION FOR WARRIOR SHE AINT SAY SHIT OKAY BYE

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winxanity-ii · 1 month ago

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A QUEEN 😫

Penelope and Ulysses Departing Sparta for Ithaca (1789) by Jean Jacques Françoise le Barbier

“When Icarius gave Penelope in marriage to Odysseus, he tried to make Odysseus himself settle in Lacedaemon, but failing in the attempt, he next besought his daughter to remain behind, and when she was setting forth to Ithaca he followed the chariot, begging her to stay. Odysseus endured it for a time, but at last he bade Penelope either to accompany him willingly, or else, if she preferred her father, to go back to Lacedaemon. They say that she made no reply, but covered her face with a veil in reply to the question, so that Icarios, realizing that she wished to depart with Odysseus, let her go, and dedicated an image of Modesty; for Penelope, they say, had reached this point of the road when she veiled herself.“

- Pausanias 3.20.10-11

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winxanity-ii · 1 month ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 66 Chapter 66 | take them back⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

It didn't last long.

Hours must have slipped by because when you next woke, it was with a sharp gasp lodged in your chest. Your eyes snapped open to darkness stretching in every direction—inky black sea and sky bleeding together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

Your neck ached. You sat upright with a hiss, rubbing at the tender muscle with stiff fingers. A cool breeze kissed your face, salty and damp, tugging stray hairs across your cheek.

Peisistratus snored softly nearby, slumped against the boat's wooden steering pole, chin tipped forward, arms folded tight over his chest like a stubborn child refusing a proper bed. You watched his shoulders rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm. At least one of you could sleep easy.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, sighing into the dark. The night was silent but for the gentle lap of water against the hull. When you finally lowered your hands, you let your gaze drift upward.

Stars spilled across the sky like crushed pearls on black velvet. They glimmered faintly on the water's surface, a reflection so perfect it made your chest tighten.

Telemachus would have loved this, you thought before you could stop yourself. The quiet. The endlessness of it all. The way the constellations curved like painted stories above your heads.

You swallowed hard, blinking fast as warmth pricked at your eyes. Gods, you missed him. Missed his quiet smiles, his steady hands, the way his voice went softer when he spoke your name—

"Well, aren't you awfully far from home~"

The voice purred against your ear so suddenly you nearly toppled over the boat's side. Your head snapped sideways with a sharp inhale, heart slamming against your ribs.

There he was.

Hermes floated lazily beside the boat, his legs crossed at the ankles, sandals hovering just above the dark water. The night breeze tousled his curls, glinting silver under the moonlight. His staff rested across his lap, and his eyes glowed faintly with mischief as he smirked at your stunned expression.

"Don't fall in now," he teased, leaning forward with an exaggerated pout. "I'd hate to fish you out while you're all soggy."

Your eyes darted to Peisistratus in a panic, half-expecting the prince to jolt awake at the sound of the god's voice. But he didn't even stir. His chin stayed tucked to his chest, his soft snores lost in the waves.

Hermes followed your gaze and chuckled, the sound bubbling low and warm in his throat. "Don't worry," he cooed, tapping his staff lightly against the water's surface. "He's spelled out good. Won't wake for our little chat. Mortals are so... fragile with sleep, aren't they?"

You didn't answer. You just sat there, your breath shallow, your chest tight, staring at the god who drifted so easily between worlds—between skies and seas and hearts alike.

Because if Hermes was here... nothing about this night would remain still for long.

Before you could even open your mouth, he spoke.

"They're fine," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. His fingers drummed lightly against his staff, gaze flicking out over the water. "Your prince. The other boy. Callias, yes?" He tilted his head, curls swaying as his eyes darted back to you, glinting with faint amusement. "Alive. Mostly in one piece. I came to let you know before you asked."

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt. You felt your breath stutter, chest tightening so fast it made you dizzy.

Telemachus.

He's okay.

You opened your mouth, words trembling at the edge of your tongue. You didn't even know what to say. Thank you? Where is he? Can you take me—

But Hermes cut you off again, spinning midair until he floated upside down, ankles crossed above him as he dipped a hand into the black water. Ripples curled outwards from his fingers, catching the moonlight like shattered glass.

"And before you ask," he drawled, flicking water droplets across the waves, "no, I can't take you to them."

Your lips parted in silent protest, but he ignored it, continuing with a soft hum as he kicked his feet slightly in the air.

"Rules, bargains, you know how it is," he sighed dramatically, though his smile never reached his eyes. "But... I can give you something."

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he reached into the folds of his chlamys and pulled out a small object. It glimmered faintly in the moonlight—a delicate compass, the bronze polished to a muted glow. An intricate sun motif was carved into the lid, tiny engravings curling around its edges like vines.

He righted himself in the air, drifting closer until his sandals hovered just above the rim of the boat. Gently, he reached out, pressing the compass into your trembling hand.

When his fingers brushed yours, he faltered.

Just for a beat.

The cocky tilt of his mouth wavered, his golden eyes flickering with something softer—something unspoken. His thumb lingered against the side of your palm longer than necessary, warmth bleeding into your chilled skin.

But then it was gone. He pulled back, spinning lazily midair, his smirk sliding back into place like a mask.

"For the journey ahead," he said lightly, twirling his staff in a neat flourish before resting it across his shoulders. "Time might not always be on your side, but at least this will be."

You stared down at the compass, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your fingertips. Its bronze face shimmered beneath the moon, needle ticking faintly against the glass—steady, certain, unyielding.

As you turned it over in your palm, thumb brushing along its cool edge, you couldn't help but wonder if Hermes' words held more weight than he let on. Time might not always be on your side, but at least this will be.

Time. That word alone felt heavier now than it ever had. Time might bend and break in the realms of gods and mortals, but here, on this boat, with the horizon stretching endlessly before you, it felt like you had all the time in the world. Like the moon and sea would hold you forever in their quiet cradle.

"You're quiet," Hermes remarked suddenly, his voice curling through the still air, breaking the hush between you like a stone skimming water. His eyes, bright and mischievous even under moonlight, flicked toward you. "That usually means trouble."

You sighed, gaze fixed stubbornly on the horizon. "It's just... everything feels different now. Time feels different. Every time I'm with you—whether it's Olympus or the Underworld—it's like I lose something when I come back to the mortal world. Moments, days, weeks. It's... disorienting."

Your voice wavered as you swallowed thickly. "I was so sure... when Apollo took me, I was only gone for a few hours. A day, maybe two. But twelve weeks? That's—gods, that's my life slipping through my fingers."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with an expression that was uncharacteristically thoughtful. Almost sad. "Ah, time," he mused, his voice carrying both amusement and something older, something tired. "Mortals and time—you're all so obsessed with it."

"Well, it matters to us," you shot back, sharper than you meant to. Your knuckles whitened around the compass. "We don't have eternity to play with."

Hermes grinned faintly, but there was a softness beneath his usual irreverence. "Fair point," he conceded with a low hum. "But you're not wrong. Time doesn't play by the same rules everywhere. You've felt it, haven't you? How it stretches and compresses depending on where you are?"

You nodded slowly, glancing at him through your lashes. "I don't understand it, though. Why is it that one hour in Olympus feels like a week in the mortal world, but a whole day down in the Underworld barely passes up here? It doesn't make sense."

Hermes let out a quiet chuckle, though it didn't hold his usual teasing lilt. Instead, he drifted sideways through the air, arms crossed loosely as he gazed at the sea with an almost wistful look. "Think of it like this," he said, gesturing lazily at the sky, "Olympus is a realm of the eternal. Gods don't experience time like you do because we're not bound by it. For us, it's just another thread in the tapestry—one we can stretch or shrink as we please. Mortals, though? You're caught up in it. Your lives are short, fleeting. So when you're on Olympus, you're stepping into a place where time races to keep up with your mortal perspective."

"And the Underworld?" you asked softly, your voice catching as you remembered the choking stillness. "Why did it feel like the opposite?"

Hermes hummed low in his chest, golden sandals tipping just above the water's surface. "Ah, the Underworld," he murmured, his eyes distant. "That's a place where time isn't racing. It's lingering. Every soul that passes through is tethered to something—regrets, memories, longing. Down there, the weight of those things slows everything down. You remember how it felt, don't you? That heavy stillness, like every second was stretching into forever?"

You shivered, clutching the compass tighter. "I do. It was... unsettling."

"It's meant to be," Hermes replied, his tone turning clipped. "Mortals weren't made for eternity. The Underworld reminds you of that." His gaze flickered back to yours, pupils catching moonlight like glass. "But here's the funny part: whether time races or crawls, it doesn't really change what you do with it. That's the part that matters."

You looked at him then—really looked at him. At the god who seemed to carry himself like the wind: light, fleeting, impossible to hold. "You say that like it's easy."

"It's not," Hermes said quietly, his grin returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But if anyone can figure it out, it's you."

The two of you fell silent again, the boat creaking beneath your feet as it rocked gently on the ink-dark sea. The only sounds were the slosh of water against wood, the distant call of a gull, and your breathing, trembling with each inhale.

Finally, swallowing back the tight ache in your throat, you spoke—voice small, hesitant.

"Hermes... can I ask you something?"

He snorted softly, tipping his head back with a grin, sandals brushing ripples into the sea below. "As long as it won't get me in trouble." His eyes flicked down to you, mischievous and glinting. "Though... on second thought, I might risk it if you ask with that little pout you do."

A small huff of breath left your lips, half laugh, half sigh. You shook your head faintly, a weak smile tugging at your mouth despite everything. "Gods... you're insufferable."

"Mmm, that's what they all say," he purred back, grin stretching lazily across his face.

You let out another shaky breath, looking down at the compass in your hand, watching the faint moonlight catch against its face. Your thumb brushed the glass once, twice, before you whispered, so quiet you almost hoped he wouldn't hear.

"...Is Apollo... still mad at me?"

Hermes scoffed instantly, barking out a soft laugh that crackled through the silent night. "When isn't he mad at something?" he said, shaking his head as if it were the silliest question in the world.

Your shoulders slumped a little, gaze dropping away from his. Guilt curled low in your stomach, sickly and familiar. "I just... I didn't mean to make everything worse," you murmured, voice barely carrying over the waves. "I didn't mean to—"

"Hey."

Hermes' voice cut sharp through the dark. You looked up at him, startled, to find his golden eyes narrowed, flickering with something almost like... protectiveness.

"Don't you dare feel bad," he said, his tone edged, serious in a way you rarely heard from him. "My brother... he doesn't know what 'no' means. Never has. And when he finally hears it... well." Hermes snorted softly, looking away, a small smile tugging at his mouth—though it didn't reach his eyes. "Let's just say the sun doesn't like being told to set."

Your lips parted, chest tightening as the breeze curled around you, cold and damp. You held his gaze for a long moment, searching the flicker of moonlit gold in his eyes, before you finally breathed out:

"...Thank you."

Hermes just shrugged, floating sideways again as he drifted lazily above the water, arms crossed behind his head.

"Don't mention it, little musician," he said, his grin curling soft at the edges. "Besides... someone's gotta remind him the world doesn't revolve around him."

You smiled faintly, feeling the smallest flicker of warmth in your chest at the nickname. But before you could let the quiet settle, Hermes tilted his head, eyes narrowing with playful curiosity.

"But seriously," he drawled, brows raising as he floated a little closer, sandals brushing the waves below. "What did you even say to him? All I saw was the aftermath. Him storming around Olympus all pissy and sparking like an overcharged torch."

You stiffened at that, your shoulders curling in as your gaze dropped back to the compass in your lap. "I... I didn't say anything, really," you mumbled, fingers tightening faintly around its edges. "Just... something he didn't like."

Hermes snorted softly, flipping himself upside down mid-air, arms crossed over his chest as he hovered, peering at you with a crooked grin. "Gods, you mortals and your vague answers," he teased, but there was no true bite in it.

You didn't respond. Not when your mind was already slipping away—drifting back to that moment, just a few hours earlier. Back before you'd boarded this tiny boat with Peisistratus. Back before the waves turned silver beneath the moon and the salt stung your chapped lips.

Back to when it all came crashing down.

Because if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it—could still hear the low murmur of the palace at dawn, smell the oil lamps burning low against cool marble floors, see the sun just beginning to rise beyond Ithaca's distant hills as you stood in front of him... forcing words past trembling lips you wished you'd kept sealed.

After Odysseus finally allowed you to go, after his tired sigh and reluctant nod, the first thing you did was turn and leave. You didn't wait for Lysandra's relieved exhale or Kieran muttered "gods help her." You didn't hear Asta call your name.

You didn't want to. You couldn't. Because if you stopped moving—if you even paused for a moment—you'd crumble right there on the marble floors, knees buckling under the weight of what you were about to do.

So you kept walking. Past the throne room columns, past curious glances from servants, past courtiers whispering behind cupped hands. Your steps were fast, half-jogging by the time you reached your chambers.

Packing didn't take long. It never did. You were always ready to leave, weren't you?

You folded your spare tunics with shaky hands, grabbed your small satchel of coins, a few strips of salted fish Asta had shoved into your palm days before, and tied your sandals tighter than necessary until the leather bit into your ankles.

You ignored Asta's knocks at your door. Ignored Kieran's voice telling you to slow down, to breathe, to wait for him to walk you down. Ignored Lysandra's quiet pleas asking if you needed help. Because you didn't want help. You wanted to move. To keep moving until you were far enough away that no one could reach you—no one could tell you to stay behind ever again.

But of course... Penelope wouldn't let you leave like that.

Just as Telemachus and Callias had been sent off weeks before, the Queen ordered a feast to be prepared in your honor. As if you were a bride being sent to a new home rather than a girl with salt-cracked lips and desperation lodged behind her ribs.

You sat there among roasted lamb and garlic-drenched fish, among honey-slick figs and pitchers of spiced wine. You drank when someone raised a toast and swallowed when someone pressed sweet bread into your hands. You smiled when Lysandra bumped your shoulder in teasing and laughed when Peisistratus bragged about your upcoming journey like it was a heroic campaign instead of a frantic search for the boy who held your heart.

And all the while... you felt hollow. Your mind was already on the docks, on the rocking boat waiting to carry you out beyond Ithaca's cliffs. Every passing minute felt like another mile Telemachus was drifting away from you.

Eventually, you slipped away. With a soft excuse about needing to double-check your pack. The Queen didn't protest. She just nodded, eyes glistening beneath thick lashes, as if she knew exactly what you were doing—what you needed to feel like you still had control over something.

Your steps were quick down the corridor, sandals whispering over the stone floors. The hall was quiet, lit only by scattered oil lamps and the shafts of late afternoon sun slanting through the arched windows. You reached your room and pressed a hand to the doorframe, chest rising and falling too fast. You just needed a moment. Just a second alone to collect yourself—

But then—everything turned gold.

A bright light flooded the hall, warm and blinding, searing through the dim shadows until it felt like the sun itself had been dropped into the palace. You hissed, flinching back, arm rising to shield your eyes. The air turned heavy, thrumming with something too vast, too divine, for your mortal chest to contain.

And when you finally lowered your arm... when your eyes adjusted through the shimmering haze—

You saw him.

Apollo stood there in the center of the hall, radiant and terrible, beautiful in a way no poet's lyre could ever capture. His golden hair fell in loose curls over his shoulders, a laurel wreath tilted delicately atop his head. The white chiton draped over his chest glowed where the sunlight kissed it, folds gathered at his hip with intricate golden pins. His skin seemed carved from molten light itself, each muscle defined like a statue brought to life.

And his eyes—gods, those eyes—burned with that familiar fierce gold, molten and knowing, flicking over your trembling form with something that looked too close to disappointment... and maybe something like longing.

He looked divine. Untouchable. Every inch the sun god, crowned by the light streaming in through the high windows behind him—so bright it cast his shadow in long, endless lines down the marble floors toward you.

And suddenly... your throat closed around his name.

Because standing there, staring at the god who had unmade your life in more ways than he could ever understand... all you could think was:

What does he want from me now?

Your thoughts barely had time to settle before his voice reached you—low, golden, curling through the silent hall like a warm breeze through summer wheat.

"Little muse," Apollo murmured, the title slipping from his tongue like a sigh.

You flinched as he stepped closer, each stride graceful and quiet despite the blinding power radiating off his skin. And then—he was before you. So close you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The tips of your sandals brushed his golden ones, the heat of him wrapping around you like sunlight at midday.

Slowly, his hands rose, fingers brushing against your jaw before cupping your face completely. His palms were so warm it almost burned, thumb pressing soft under your chin, tilting your head up until your eyes were locked onto his.

"Look at me," he whispered. And you did.

Because how could you not? When his gaze held yours so completely. When the gold in his eyes flickered with something ancient, something that saw past your skin and marrow and down into the small, trembling truth of you.

His thumb brushed along your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, as if memorizing its shape. The touch sent a tremor down your spine, your breath hitching in your chest.

"Aren't you tired?" Apollo asked, his voice softer now, almost pitying. "Don't you want to return with me? To come home? Olympus is waiting... your nymphs are waiting. They've been asking for you so sweetly, you know." He tilted his head slightly, golden curls falling over his cheek as he smiled. "Another feast has been prepared in your honor. Ambrosia. Honeyed figs. Wine that never empties. Music that never stops. All for you."

His words dripped into your veins like warm oil, heavy and sweet. For a moment—just a flicker—you almost let yourself sink into it. Almost. But then—

You shook your head, a small, broken movement, as your gaze darted away. "I... I'm sorry. I can't," you whispered, voice cracking around the words. "I can't go. Telemachus—Prince Telemachus is missing. I have to—"

"Good riddance," Apollo cut you off with a scoff, his grip tightening against your cheeks just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to still you. His eyes rolled heavenward, lips curling into something that was not quite a smile.

He lowered his hand then, grabbing yours instead, lifting it up between you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse as he guided your hand to his mouth. His lips brushed the back of it—soft, unbearably warm—as he murmured against your skin,

"You need to stop letting him cloud your mind."

You froze. The press of his mouth burned against your trembling knuckles, each word vibrating up your arm and sinking deep into your chest.

"You belong with me," he continued, his voice smoothing back into that golden, lilting softness that always felt half like a promise, half like a threat. "Do you not understand? Time here... it will pass. It will rot you, leave you desperate and small. But in Olympus..." he sighed softly, eyes flicking back down to yours, glinting with lazy amusement, "...time is different. Slower. Kinder. One day with me, and these... worries... will wither away into nothing."

Your breath caught.

Slower.

Your wide eyes searched his face, catching the faintest flicker of irritation beneath his otherwise serene expression. Your pulse raced as the truth beganh sliding into place.

One day with him... twelve weeks lost here.

Your lips parted, a quiet sound escaping you that wasn't quite a word. Because suddenly you weren't just staring at a god, or your captor, or even the golden figure you'd once admired.

You were staring at the reason Telemachus was gone.

And Apollo... Apollo just smiled, pressing another kiss to your knuckles—slower this time, possessive and final.

A tremor ran through you, sharp and cold, slicing straight down your spine despite the warmth of his touch. Horror pooled in your chest, heavy and dark, spreading through your ribs like thick ink bleeding into water.

Because something inside you—some quiet, trembling part—whispered that he knew. That he'd always known.

Your throat felt tight as your lips parted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice was small, cracked around the edges. "Did you... did you know?"

Apollo's thumb brushed along the back of your hand idly, golden eyes flicking lazily back to yours with a hint of amused confusion. "Know what, little muse?"

Your breath hitched, tears stinging your eyes as your fingers curled faintly against his grip. "That... that the night you brought me back... Telemachus was gone? That he... he left looking for me?"

For a moment, he just stared at you, brows lifted in faint surprise. Then—he chuckled softly under his breath, a sound that sent your stomach twisting.

"Does it matter?" he asked, voice lilting, calm. But when you didn't answer, his smile faded into something smaller. Quieter. Almost honest. "Of course I knew."

Your chest tightened so suddenly it hurt. The air left your lungs in a shaky, silent gasp.

He sighed, like it was a small inconvenience to admit. "If it were truly up to me," he continued, his thumb resuming its lazy strokes along your trembling hand, "I would've kept you there longer. Forever, maybe." His gaze softened, molten gold flickering with something that almost looked like affection. "You were having so much fun, weren't you? Singing for me... wearing my gifts... sitting in my lap while Olympus looked on." His smile curled, sweet and cruel all at once. "I couldn't bear to interrupt that."

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt raw, scraped hollow from the inside out. Because the truth sat there, heavy and immovable.

He'd known. He'd known Telemachus would be gone. He'd let it happen. Maybe... maybe he'd even planned it that way.

You stood there frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, as Apollo pressed one final kiss to your knuckles—warm, soft, searing.

And all you could feel... was the faint echo of something breaking apart deep inside your chest.

You didn't know what to feel. Anger. Grief. Fear. Nothing felt right—nothing felt enough to hold back the shaking that crawled beneath your skin.

Slowly, you stepped back. Your hands slipped from his grasp, your wrists tingling with leftover warmth that felt more like burn marks than comfort. You didn't look at him. You just turned, silent, the hem of your dress whispering around your ankles as you moved toward your room.

Your fingers wrapped around the door handle, knuckles white as you clutched it like an anchor.

But then—

"____."

His voice cut through the quiet, sharp and cold. It wasn't honey-slick now. It wasn't warm or lilting or teasing. No. This voice was dark. Void of everything golden.

You froze, shoulders stiffening as you felt his gaze bore into your back.

"If you leave me now..." he said, each word echoing across the silent hall like steel sliding from a sheath, "you will regret it."

You faltered. Your breath caught, ragged and shaky as you swallowed hard, blinking back the sting gathering at the edges of your eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, you looked over your shoulder.

And gods—

His eyes. They weren't molten gold anymore. They were hard. Endless in their indifference. Like looking into the sun and finding no warmth there at all.

He tilted his head slightly, curls shifting against his brow as his lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "If you leave me... if you go after that prince," he continued, voice smooth but sharp enough to slice skin, "then you're making your choice very clear... aren't you?"

You didn't move. Couldn't move. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs, each beat trembling with something close to terror.

Apollo's gaze flickered down your body, slow, deliberate, before meeting your eyes again—unblinking.

"And if you choose him..." he said softly, almost kindly, "then know that I will strip you of every gift I have ever given you. Every boon. Every blessing. Every drop of favor I placed upon your head..."

His voice dropped lower, dark and quiet as shadows settling around your feet.

"...as punishment."

The words settled into the space between you like a stone dropped down a well—echoing, sinking, lost in the dark.

Your chest tightened, breath hitching as confusion tangled with fear. You turned fully to face him again, your voice cracking as it tumbled out in a rushed, trembling whisper.

"But... what if—what if I need them?" you asked, your words stumbling over each other as your hands lifted helplessly in front of you, palms trembling. "What if something happens? What if—"

"Nothing will happen," Apollo cut you off sharply, staring down at you with no flicker of warmth left in their golden depths.

"Nothing will happen..." he repeated, each word clipped, final, unyielding. "... if you don't leave."

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Tears burned hot behind your eyes, your lashes clumping together as your vision blurred. Your hands curled into trembling fists at your sides, nails biting half-moons into your palms.

You could barely breathe. Your chest rose and fell in ragged little jerks, each inhale catching somewhere too high in your throat.

Finally, you dropped your gaze to the marble beneath your feet. Your voice came out small. Shaky. Broken.

"...Okay."

The word was so quiet it barely left your lips, but Apollo heard it. Gods, he heard it.

A pleased smile spread across his face—slow and satisfied, curling at the corners of his mouth like sunlight cresting over the horizon. But... just as quickly, it faltered.

Because you lifted your head again.

And this time—this time your eyes burned. Bright and wet, trembling with tears you refused to let fall, but alive with something deeper. Hotter. Stronger.

Anger. Grief. Defiance. All twisted together into something solid beneath your ribs.

Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there as you sucked in a shaking breath. And then, your voice came out low. Hoarse. Breaking apart with every word, but steady all the same.

"Then... take them."

For a moment, everything went still. Even the air itself felt frozen in your lungs as Apollo's face tightened, his golden brows drawing low. His eyes flickered over your face—searching, reading, measuring.

"...Take them?" he echoed. The words fell flat, cold, like he wasn't sure he'd heard you right.

You swallowed hard, throat raw as you forced the words out again, firmer this time. Tears welled in your eyes, trembling at your lashes but refusing to fall.

"Yes," you rasped. "If you're going to take your gifts back because of this... then take them. I don't need them. I don't need... you."

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then—Apollo threw his head back and laughed.

It wasn't warm. It wasn't bright or beautiful like golden sun on water. No. This laugh was cold. Hollow. It rattled down the hall and scraped against your ribs like iron dragged across stone.

His shoulders shook with it, curls falling over his brow as he lifted a hand to cover his mouth, laughter muffled against his palm. But it didn't stop. It kept going, rolling out of him in sharp, ragged bursts.

Finally, he straightened, his hand still pressed against the lower half of his face. And when his eyes met yours through the gaps between his fingers—gods.

They were cold.

Flat.

Empty in their anger.

He looked at you like you were something pitiful. Something small. Something foolish.

The laughter trailed off, echoing in the silent hall as his hand fell back to his side. His lips curled into a smile—slow, sharp, sweet as spoiled honey. But it didn't reach his eyes. Not even close.

He hummed softly, tilting his head as he regarded you with a gaze that burned like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

"Very well," he said.

And in the next heartbeat—a bright, blinding light flared around him. So bright it burned behind your eyelids even after you squeezed them shut, searing gold and white into the darkness.

When the light finally dimmed, flickering out like the last gasp of a candle flame... he was gone.

The hall felt colder without him. Emptier. But gods, you realized, sucking in a trembling breath as your shoulders slumped—

For the first time in a long time... you felt lighter too.

The memory still burned behind your eyes—Apollo's blinding glow, his cold laughter, that final brittle smile as he vanished. You could almost hear it echoing in your chest, vibrating against bone that felt far too thin to hold anything steady.

But then—

A sharp pinch tugged at your cheek.

You flinched with a small yelp, jerking your head away as your hand flew up to swat at the source. Your eyes snapped open, blinking fast against the moonlight until they focused on the figure floating lazily in front of you.

Hermes.

He hovered cross-legged just above the gently rocking boat, head tilted, curls tumbling down against his cheek as his golden eyes sparkled with mischief. His fingers were still pinched in the air where your face had been, a grin curling slow across his lips.

"Gods," he chuckled, voice warm with teasing. "You get lost in thought more often these days."

He raised a brow, feigning exaggerated thoughtfulness before adding, "Another side effect from being resurrected, I suppose. Poor little half-corpse brain."

You rolled your eyes with a weak huff, your hand snapping out to lightly smack his wrist. "Shut up," you muttered, voice thin but tinted with tired fondness.

Hermes let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his wrist to his chest as though you'd struck him with a blade instead of a limp tap. "Cruel!" he whined, lips puckering in an exaggerated pout. "You wound me."

But even as he teased, his gaze softened, golden eyes flicking over your face with an expression that was almost... thoughtful. Almost sad.

His playful smile faded into something smaller as he studied you. Quieter.

"...I heard, you know," he murmured, his voice low and soft—gentler than you'd heard it in a while.

Your brows pinched faintly. Confusion prickled warm in your chest. "Heard what...?"

Hermes hummed, his gaze drifting down toward the quiet, dark waters lapping against the boat's hull. For a long moment, he didn't answer. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft creak of wood beneath your feet and the distant rustle of wind threading through your hair.

Finally, he spoke. Quiet. Careful.

"Your prophecy," he said.

The words sank into you like stones into a still pond. Slow. Heavy. Rippling out into every quiet corner you'd been trying so hard to keep untouched.

You didn't answer.

Your shoulders slumped forward, your chest hollowing out as your gaze slipped away from him—past the edge of the boat, down into the ink-dark water below. The moonlight fractured across it, glittering silver and cold against a sea that stretched on forever.

Your throat tightened as you stared into its depths, watching the shadows drift and curl like smoke beneath the waves.

"...Yeah," you whispered. "I know."

And for a moment, neither of you spoke. The sea rocked gently beneath you. The stars spun quietly above. And in that space between—between gods and mortals, fate and choice, life and whatever came after—

You felt very, very small.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world felt too big around you—too wide, too dark, too endless. The stars blurred faintly as your eyes burned, the sea whispering quietly against the boat's hull like it was telling secrets you were never meant to hear.

Then—

"Hey."

Hermes' voice broke through the quiet, low and surprisingly gentle. When you didn't look up, he sighed, floating closer until his sandals brushed the waves beside the boat. You felt his thumb flick lightly against your forehead.

"Hey," he repeated, his tone gaining that teasing lilt again. "It's not so bad, you know."

You blinked at him, frowning faintly. "Not so bad?" you echoed, your voice coming out tired and hoarse. "I'm part of a prophecy, Hermes. One that doesn't even belong to me. That's... it's everything."

Hermes scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes as if you'd just told him the sun rises each day. "Oh please," he drawled, leaning back midair as he crossed his legs again. "You say that like it's the end of the world."

You didn't answer, your eyes flicking down to the compass in your hands, watching the needle twitch faintly in its bronze cage.

He tilted his head, curls swaying with the motion, eyes bright with something playful and sad all at once. "Being part of a prophecy just means you're interesting," he said. "At least the Fates didn't deem you boring enough to ignore."

You huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah, well. I'd rather be boring."

Hermes chuckled softly under his breath. Then his smile shifted—growing a little sharper, a little mischievous as he raised a brow at you.

"...You know," he said, voice lilting slyly, "I also heard that you figured out I was the one who delivered your cursed flower."

Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your features. He grinned wider, looking far too pleased with himself. "What, you thought Eileithyia just popped it out of thin air?" he teased. "Please. She's a goddess of birth, not gardens."

He leaned forward until his face was just inches from yours, golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "It was me," he hummed. "Apollo sent me down. Gave me strict instructions to deliver the flower quickly—and leave out the 'bad part' of the deal."

Your stomach twisted. "The bad part... meaning the debt."

Hermes shrugged, looking away, his gaze flicking out across the sea. For a moment, his grin faltered, replaced by something older. Something tired. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That part."

Your chest ached, but before the silence could settle again, Hermes inhaled sharply and forced his grin back in place. He straightened his shoulders dramatically, voice raising in theatrical mock-pride.

"But you wanna hear the funny part?" he said, his grin turning wolfish. "I thought your dad would chicken out."

You blinked, startled. "What?"

Hermes' eyes sparkled with wicked humor as he continued, "Yeah. I thought he'd panic, refuse, maybe start screaming at the gods for putting him in that situation. I even added a little extra flair to the delivery just to fuck with him. Transformed into a kid messenger for dramatic effect," he said breezily, waving his hand like it was nothing. "Thought it'd mess with your dad's head a bit more. And it did. He cried harder while accepting."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Hermes only smirked, though the edges of it trembled slightly.

His eyes softened, their bright gold dimming to something warmer, something almost human. He sighed, shoulders dropping as if he were letting go of something heavy he'd been carrying for too long. The sound of it tugged at something deep in your chest.

"Ya know," he murmured again, quieter this time, gaze flicking down to your shaking hands before meeting your eyes with something raw and unguarded. "You really are the world's worst coincidence. Cursed by love. Saved by grief. No wonder everyone's obsessed with you."

You blinked fast, your breath hitching faintly as you searched his face, trying to read the shadows shifting there. His smile faltered, slipping away completely as his eyes went distant, lost to thoughts you could only guess at.

"And yet..." he trailed off, then chuckled softly under his breath. But the sound was empty, echoing hollow across the silent sea. "And yet, even knowing all that... I still—"

He cut himself off with another sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drifted away from yours, staring out across the dark waves where the horizon had disappeared into endless night.

"I gave up, you know," he said, voice low, almost drowned out by the lap of water against the boat. "On... this. On you."

Your brows furrowed slightly, confusion threading with the ache already clenching your chest.

Hermes let out a breathy laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," he murmured. "I'm not good at... competing." His lips twitched faintly into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Not against him. Not against Telemachus—your mortal choice. And definitely not against Apollo—your divine one."

He paused, fingers drumming idly against his thigh as he floated there, cross-legged above the water like some lonely star adrift in the dark.

"I... I realized it when you died," he continued quietly, his voice tightening around the words. "When I went to the Underworld to retrieve you... and saw how ready you were to accept your own death."

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Nothing you could say would be enough.

Hermes shook his head lightly, curls bouncing as he forced another small smile. "I might be a lot of things... a liar, a thief, a trickster... but gods, even when I tried to tell myself leave it be. I knew I didn't want you to die... Couldn't let you..."

Silence fell between you. Heavy. Soft.

You were silent, unable to gather your thoughts, unable to even breathe properly as your chest tightened painfully. Before you could even try to form words, Hermes chuckled again, softer this time, and reached forward to lightly bop you on the nose with the tip of his finger.

"Would it help," he said, his grin curling back into place, though his eyes still glistened with something unspoken, "if I told you I only started caring after you got interesting?"

You blinked at him, lips parting in stunned disbelief as he smirked wider, gold eyes dancing with mischief even as they flickered with something darker beneath.

"Too honest?" he teased, cocking his head slightly. Then his grin softened, turning sad at the edges. "Good."

And for a moment—all you could do was look at him, feeling every word sink deep into the cracks of your chest like sunlight warming old stone, knowing that even if he'd said it with a grin, it still mattered.

Your breath trembled. You didn't know what to say. Because... gods, it was Hermes. The messenger. The trickster. The god who never stayed anywhere long enough to leave footprints—and yet he'd been there for you. Again and again.

You thought about every time he'd appeared when you needed him most. Every fleeting grin. Every sideways comfort slipped between jabs of teasing words. Every warning given before it was too late.

You thought about how he'd carried your soul back from the Underworld, how he'd flicked your ear when you tried to cry in secret, how he'd called you "little musician" like it meant something only he knew.

And suddenly, your chest tightened painfully as Odysseus' voice whispered in your mind:

"Every favor from a god is a transaction."

You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears gathering hot and heavy behind your lashes. Your voice came out small, trembling. "Why...?" you asked, the word cracking under its own weight. "Why help me if you knew... if you knew you wouldn't get chosen...?"

Hermes' eyes flickered, that endless gold dimming to something softer, sadder. He reached up slowly, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, catching the tear that slipped free before letting his hand fall back to his side.

"I know..." he said, voice low, rough around the edges like gravel beneath water. "I know I'm not supposed to. I'm not supposed to care like this."

He gave you a look—tired, a little resigned, but still warm, like he already knew exactly how this would end. Like he'd accepted it long before you ever realized there was something to choose at all.

"A god who gets involved too much," he murmured, gaze drifting past your shoulder to the moonlit horizon, "always ends up in stories that don't end well."

He laughed softly. Quiet. Bitter. Not at you. At himself. At the irony of it all.

"Guess I never learned."

Then his palm came up again, cradling your cheek for just a moment longer, thumb stroking gently along your skin—feather-light, fleeting. His eyes met yours with something fierce and unbearably sad.

"...but only for you," he whispered.

It sounded like a vow.

It sounded like a goodbye.

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Like a thousand unspoken words sat perched behind his teeth. But instead—he just smiled.

Too sharp.

Too sad.

And then—

He was gone.

Leaving nothing but the quiet lap of dark water against the boat's hull and the echo of your own shattered heart to keep you company.

A/N: ahhhhhhh—IM SORRY DON'T HURT ME YALL 😭😭 i know i know... this chapter was a lot. my heart literally shattered writing it because gods... hermes??? mc??? apollo??? everyone's losing their mind rn omg. and ngl and kinda scared to post it BUT i gotta 😖 i have to lay out the groundwork for upcoming chapters and i'm so excited for y'all to read them because 👀 things are about to MOVE QUICKLY and it's about to get even messier, if that's possible LMAO. anyways—

thunk.

You blink, eyes darting away from your screen.

What was that noise?

thunk. thunk. thunk.

It's coming... from the bottom of the page??

Before you can scroll, golden light flickers across your vision. Words distort on your screen, shimmering like heat haze, and suddenly—there he is.

Hermes lounges at the foot of the page, cross-legged in midair like the laws of physics don't apply to him (because they don't). His staff rests lazily across his lap, tapping against his knee in an impatient rhythm. He rolls his eyes as if he can feel your confusion radiating through the screen, golden eyes narrowing in dramatic annoyance.

"Oi. You."

Tap tap. The staff raps against the screen, jostling the words under your gaze.

"Stop sniffling."

He doesn't wait for you to obey. His mouth curls around a sharp little scoff as his gaze drags up and down your face, seeing more than he should.

"Yes, you. Sitting there all slack-jawed, tears dripping down like a soggy fig left out in the sun."

The staff taps again, harder. You flinch like you felt it.

"Gods, mortals are hopeless. Look at you—'oh Hermes, why didn't he stay?? why didn't he say it sooner??'" His voice pitches higher in a mocking whine before flattening into a drawl edged with boredom. "First of all—Gross."

A sharp flick of his wrist. The staff points at you like an accusation.

"Second. I'm Hermes. God of boundaries that don't exist. Attachments that never stick. What did you think I'd do? Drop to one knee? Ask her to choose me? Please."

A soft, humourless laugh slips past his lips, quick and bright as a snapped bowstring.

"She got interesting. I cared. That's it. That's the note."

He shifts, adjusting his grip on the staff, rolling his eyes so hard you wonder if they might tumble straight from his skull and clatter across your screen.

"Besides," he says, voice low now, quiet in a way that settles under your ribs, "who wants a god who can't keep secrets?"

The gold in his gaze flickers softer, just for a moment. Something there you're not meant to see. Something too human for a god's face.

"I'll... I'll love her from the shadows," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Where her mortal heart won't rot under my touch. That's... more devotion than most of you deserve."

The staff raps the screen one final time, sharp and impatient.

"Now... dry your tears. Keep scrolling. Enjoy the rest of the... story."

He smirks, tilting his chin as if to say go on then. The gold brightens, wrapping around him in a wash of citrus warmth that makes your eyes sting.

"Oh," he adds, as if remembering something trivial. "And tell Apollo he owes me ten drachma. Told him she'd choose the prince. Idiot lost the bet." He then turns, bowing to nowhere in particular.

"Alright, Xani. Your stage."

A wink. Then he's gone. Just silence again.

...um?? wtf was that 😭😭😭 ANYWAY—SEE Y'ALL NEXT UPDATE LMAO 💛🕊️✨

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winxanity-ii · 1 month ago

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You sat curled near the prow of the little boat, knees tucked close, chin resting on folded arms. The wood beneath you creaked and dipped with every subtle sway, the small hull cutting gently across the darkening water. Each rise and fall rocked through your bones like a lullaby you didn't want.

Above, the sky bled gold into a dusky orange, streaked with lines of muted pink that faded into purple at the edges. The sun was low now—almost gone—its dying glow turning the waves into molten bronze.

You watched it flicker across the ripples, warm light dancing against cool sea, but it felt too beautiful to look at for long.

Peisistratus stood a few feet away, one hand firm around the rudder pole, guiding the boat with quiet, practiced ease. His other hand rested on his hip, thumb tapping softly against his belt as he squinted out toward the horizon. His curls were tied back at the nape of his neck to keep them from whipping across his eyes in the wind. He looked calm. Focused. Solid in a way that made you feel both steadied and small.

Neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the slap of water against the hull and the low hush of wind weaving between the ropes. The quiet felt heavy. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to disturb the dying day.

Eventually, your gaze shifted—slow, cautious. You glanced over your shoulder, back the way you came.

Fog clung to the sea behind you, thick and silver-white, curling low around the small island barely visible in the distance.

Home.

Ithaca.

It was almost hidden now, shrouded in mist; only the faint outline of its cliffs and cypress trees cutting through the haze. It looked unreal from here. Like a memory you weren't sure was yours to keep.

You sighed, long and low, turning away. The sound left your lips like something pulled out from your chest.

You tried not to look at the horizon ahead. Tried not to think about what waited—or didn't wait—beyond it. But the thought pressed heavy against your ribs anyway, stubborn and insistent.

Telemachus.

His name felt raw inside you. It hurt to even think it, like running your tongue along a cut.

You wondered where he was now. If he was sleeping. If he was awake, staring out at the same sea, thinking of you the way you thought of him.

Or maybe he wasn't thinking of you at all. Maybe he'd finally let the tide pull you from his heart.

Your eyes burned at the thought. You blinked hard, swallowing against the tightness crawling up your throat.

The boat continued to rock gently beneath you. The wood was rough under your palms, splintering in places where salt and sun had eaten away the varnish. You curled your fingers against it, grounding yourself in the feel of it. Real. Solid. Something to hold onto when everything else felt like water slipping through your hands.

But the boat wasn't where your mind truly was.

Because it had been nearly two weeks since your return from Olympus.

Nearly two weeks of waking each day to an empty courtyard, of walking past his quarters and seeing them shut and silent, of hugging Lady tight at night and pretending the ache in your chest wasn't growing heavier with each sunrise.

Nearly two weeks of asking.

Your mind unspooled... rewinding to the days before.

To the days of pleading.

Begging.

Every chance you got.

You'd cornered Kieran in the halls, asked him how fast a ship could be prepared. You'd whispered your plan to Lady while feeding her scraps, promising that soon you'd bring him home, that you just needed permission. You'd asked Asta if she'd heard anything from the other Bronte servants, anything at all, and even though she said no, she still squeezed your hand tight before leaving to her duties.

And every time you were given an audience with the King and Queen, you'd tried again.

Today was no different.

You were kneeling now, on the smooth stone floor of the throne room, your knees aching from how long you'd been there. Morning light spilled through the high windows, washing the room in a pale gold that made every carved column and woven tapestry glow. It should've felt beautiful. It didn't. It felt heavy.

Because this was morning audience.

The time each day when Odysseus, and sometimes Penelope beside him, opened court to the people of Ithaca. Farmers came to settle disputes over grazing land. Fishers sought advice for new boat routes. Widows asked for inheritance judgments, children wept over lost livestock, young men argued over olive tree borders.

The King listened to them all, leaning back in his great chair with one hand braced on his knee, brow furrowed in focus. Sometimes he looked tired, rubbing at his temples when the arguments grew too long. Other times, his eyes sparked with sharp command, a flicker of the old cunning that made men speak quickly and choose their words with care.

Penelope sat just beside him, her seat smaller, carved with vine patterns and inlaid with smooth bone. Her back remained straight, her fingers folded neatly in her lap, but even from here you could see the faint shadows under her eyes. How her mouth pinched at the corners every time someone raised their voice. How she leaned forward slightly whenever a woman spoke, softening her gaze, only to pull it back into polite neutrality when her husband turned toward her.

They both looked tired today.

Tired, but serious.

Because now it was you before them.

And publicly, they couldn't dismiss you. Not in front of so many eyes. Not when every head in the room had turned to watch as you rose from your place along the side wall, walked across the smooth marble, and knelt before them.

So they listened.

They listened as you spoke, as your voice trembled then steadied, as you laid out every reason why you should go.

You told them about Telemachus. About how he was out there, searching alone, each day wasted another day the gods could turn their faces or storms could swallow him whole. You spoke not of maps and currents—those were knowledge beyond you—but of him. Of the way his hands steadied yours when you faltered. Of the quiet way he listened, truly listened, when you spoke.

You told them he didn't just need rescue. He needed to know he was worth being searched for. That someone—anyone—would come for him. That he was not alone in the dark.

But most of all, you told them this: if the gods heard any mortal's prayers, they would hear yours—because you would not stop calling his name until he was found.

You spoke until your throat burned, until your knees ached from pressing into the hard stone, until your voice went hoarse with the same words you'd been saying for nearly two weeks now.

And then, silence.

You bowed your head low, chest heaving with quiet breaths, waiting for the answer you already knew. The answer that was coming anyway.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, watching the pale morning light pool between the tiles. You could see the hem of Penelope's gown in your periphery, ivory linen embroidered with faint gold thread, her sandals peeking out beneath it. Beside her, Odysseus shifted in his seat, the quiet creak of his throne loud in the silent hall. You could almost feel their eyes on you. Tired. Heavy. But unyielding.

Because they already knew what they would say.

And so did you.

But still—you asked.

Because you didn't know how to stop.

Because stopping would've meant giving up. Admitting defeat. Accepting that the gods, the sea, the fates themselves had won. That Telemachus would forever be out of reach from you.

And gods, you couldn't accept that. Not yet.

You stayed kneeling, eyes fixed on the pale tile floor as the silence stretched. The ache in your knees pulsed up your thighs, a deep, throbbing pain that felt distant compared to the tight knot twisting in your chest.

Then, finally, Odysseus spoke.

His voice came low and tired, rough around the edges like he hadn't slept well in days. "Enough," he said, the word heavy and final. You heard him shift in his throne, the quiet scrape of his hand rubbing down his beard. "We will speak on this again soon."

That was all.

No yes. No no. Just that. Dismissive. Vague. A promise or a delay—you couldn't tell.

Your brows pinched faintly, your lips pressing into a thin line as you lowered your gaze further. The answer—non-answer—stung sharper than you'd expected. Your hands curled against the fabric of your dress, fingers twisting in the worn linen as you forced yourself to breathe steady.

You bowed your head deeper, the motion tight and controlled. "Thank you... my king," you said softly, voice barely carrying across the echoing hall.

Then you rose. Slow. Careful. You smoothed your dress with trembling hands, your body stiff as you turned away from the throne. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

You walked back to your place along the wall, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you neared your spot, Lysandra stepped aside to let you slip in beside her, her eyes flicking over your face with quiet worry. She didn't say anything—she never did in front of the court—but the way her mouth tightened said enough.

Beside her stood Asta, with Kieran not far behind. She reached out as you passed, her hand brushing your shoulder in a silent comfort. The touch was brief but grounding, a reminder that even if the King dismissed you, even if the gods turned away, someone still saw you. Someone still cared.

You swallowed hard, pressing your lips together as you settled back against the stone pillar, your hands folding tightly in front of you.

Not a second later, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.

The herald stumbled in first, his breath coming in harsh pants, his cheeks flushed pink from the effort. He barely managed to catch himself before nearly falling forward, his voice cracking as he rushed to announce himself.

"Your Majesties!" he gasped, pressing a fist to his chest in salute. "Announcing—the arrival of—King Nestor's youngest son—Prince Peisistratus—"

He didn't even finish because before his words could echo to the vaulted ceiling, Peisistratus barreled through the doors behind him, moving so fast the herald had to stumble back to avoid being knocked over.

The young prince's strides were long and taut with purpose, his shoulders squared, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths as if he'd been holding them back the entire walk up the steps. His gaze was sharp, scanning the hall with an urgency that pulled every watching eye in his direction.

He walked like someone with something to say.

Something important.

And gods—your heart kicked hard in your chest when his gaze flicked across the crowd, landing briefly on you before turning forward again, focus burning hot and steady.

You felt it in your chest, tight and cold, as Peisistratus strode forward. The quiet murmur of the court fell silent under the weight of his presence. Even the king and queen sat straighter, their gazes fixed sharply on the young prince as he approached the dais.

He stopped a few paces from the throne and bowed low, his curls falling forward over his brow. When he straightened, his face was flushed with travel, his lips chapped from sea wind, but his eyes burned with urgency.

"My King. My Queen," he said, voice strong despite the slight tremble beneath it. "Forgive my unexpected arrival... and my lack of formal announcement. I came as quickly as I could. I did not wait for your summons, nor did I seek approval to dock."

He paused, inhaling once, as though bracing himself for the words he carried.

"But when word reached Pylos," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly around the silent hall before returning to Odysseus and Penelope, "when we heard that another of Ithaca's ships had been hit by the storm near the Delian coastline... I could not stay idle."

At once, whispers broke through the quiet. Soft at first—sharp breaths, hushed murmurs as those gathered turned to each other with wide eyes. You heard snippets—"Another storm?" "Which ship?" "Delian coast—gods help them—"

Penelope's hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes widening, her knuckles going white as she gripped the edge of her seat. Beside her, Odysseus straightened further, his back stiff and tense as his gaze bore into Peisistratus with sudden, razor focus.

"What are you saying, boy?" Odysseus asked, his voice low but sharp, echoing in the tense hush of the hall. "Speak clearly."

You could see the way Peisistratus' fingers twitched at his sides, how his chest rose and fell too fast, like he'd been holding these words in since he set foot on the dock.

He met Odysseus' gaze squarely, unflinching despite the fear in his eyes. "The ship... they believe... it was the one carrying Prince Telemachus."

A hush fell so thick you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Odysseus didn't move at first. Didn't even blink. His face was carved from stone, eyes locked on the boy before him.

Then, slowly, he sat back in his throne, the wood creaking beneath him as his fingers flexed once, curling around the carved lion heads at the ends of the armrests. His jaw ticked, the muscle flickering under his beard, but his voice remained cold and steady.

"Explain," he ordered. "Every word. Now."

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest going tight and hot all at once. Your hands curled against your skirts, your nails biting into your palms as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

Because whatever came next... would change everything.

Peisistratus' brows pinched tight, his face scrunching faintly in confusion. You saw it—the flicker of doubt that crossed his features before he spoke again, voice low and hesitant.

"My King... my Queen..." he began, his tone dipping softer, almost apologetic. "Forgive me again. I... I thought you would have already known."

Odysseus' gaze sharpened. Penelope sucked in a shaky breath beside him, her fingers curling tight around the edge of her seat.

Peisistratus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the force of it. He looked down at the marble floor for half a second before raising his gaze again, steadying it despite the flicker of worry in his eyes.

"I... I only learned of the storm about a week ago," he admitted quietly. "There were reports coming from the Delian coast... scattered wreckage... pieces of an Ithacan vessel washing ashore near the eastern cliffs. And..." His voice faltered, catching faintly as his lips pressed into a thin line. "...and there were a few survivors found drifting. Floating for days. Barely alive."

A beat.

He hesitated, eyes darting between the king and queen before flicking briefly over the silent crowd gathered in the throne room.

"Did... did you not know?" he asked softly, confusion knitting his brows further. "Had no word reached you yet?"

The silence that followed was so deep it felt like the entire hall had frozen.

You could hear it then—your own breathing, harsh and uneven in your chest. Around you, murmurs began to rise, faint at first, then louder as voices wove through each other.

"Telemachus..."

"Gods... could it be him?"

"The pigeons returned with their notes still attached—"

"By now, they should've been back—"

Fear. Worry. Dread. It all spilled into the hall like a rising tide, each whispered speculation sharpening the ache in your chest until you felt it pressing up into your throat.

You didn't realize you were moving until your shoulder bumped against someone's arm. Then another. You mumbled a quick apology, your eyes fixed on the dais as your feet carried you forward, weaving through the gathered crowd. You pushed past Lysandra's gentle grip, past a steward trying to pull you back, until you stood at the front of the room.

Closer to Peisistratus. Close enough to see the exhaustion in the dark smudges under his eyes. The faint sheen of salt clinging to his curls. The way his mouth twitched as he exhaled a slow, ragged sigh.

"Apparently not," he muttered under his breath, his voice quiet but edged with something bitter. Something that made your stomach twist tighter.

Then he looked up again, his gaze hardening, shoulders squaring as he prepared to speak—ready to say what none of you were ready to hear.

But he didn't wait for Odysseus' permission. Didn't wait for Penelope's quiet nod or for the herald to announce his right to speak. His voice came firm and unwavering, echoing through the silent throne room with a clarity that cut through every murmured prayer and whispered dread.

"I came here to give word to inform you that I will be departing by nightfall to begin my search for the prince."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Peisistratus paused for only half a beat before adding, his gaze flicking toward the ground then back up, voice tightening faintly, "And for Callias as well."

Your world froze.

The sound around you blurred, the echo of his words crashing against your ears like waves against stone. You felt it all drain from your chest—the fear, the grief, the helplessness—and for a second, there was only emptiness.

Then—heat.

Rising so fast it burned up your throat. Before you could even think, before you could stop yourself, your feet moved forward, a single step echoing too loud on the marble floor.

"I want to go."

The words left your mouth strong. Clear. Without tremble.

The hall fell silent. Utterly silent.

You felt every eye turn toward you, felt the crowd part slightly, people shifting back, stepping aside to clear the space between you and the dais. Even Penelope's breath catching faintly; Odysseus' eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with something sharper. Measuring. Calculating.

Peisistratus turned, his head tilting just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. For a moment—just a flicker—his lips twitched into the smallest smile. Soft. Almost sad. But then it faded. His gaze shifted forward again, his face hardening back into solemn focus, shoulders set with the unspoken promise of what came next.

And gods—you felt your heart begin to pound with something fierce and terrified all at once.

Because you knew this was it.

You had spoken your wish into the world.

And now... there was no taking it back.

For a moment, the hall remained silent. The only sound was the faint creak of Penelope shifting forward in her chair. Her face looked so tired. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed deeper in the dim morning light, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at you.

"Not now," she whispered softly, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Please, child... go to your room."

Her gaze flicked over your shoulder then, eyes narrowing at something behind you. You felt it before you saw it—hands gripping your upper arms, firm and unyielding. You sucked in a sharp breath as the soldiers tried to pull you back, their fingers digging lightly into your skin.

"No—wait—" you gasped, yanking your arm out of their grip with a sharp twist. Your feet stumbled forward, sandals scraping loudly against the marble as you stood your ground. You lifted your chin, face taut with panic, chest heaving as tears burned hot in your eyes.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking around the word. "Please—I have to go. I need to go. Let me—"

Your shoulders trembled as tears spilled freely down your cheeks, your vision blurring around the figures in front of you. You shook your head hard, trying to blink the wetness away.

"I-I'm sorry," you choked out, your chest hitching with the force of it. "I'm sorry but—please—please—just let me go."

Penelope's lips quivered, her eyes shining with unshed tears, but she didn't speak. She only turned her gaze away, staring down at her lap as though looking at you might break her entirely.

It was Odysseus who spoke.

His voice came curt. Sharp. Heavy with finality.

"____," he said firmly, each syllable cold and commanding. "Enough."

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest, your breath catching as his words settled over you like a slab of stone. For a second, you didn't move. Couldn't move. Your hands twitched at your sides, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of your skirt as your shoulders sagged, the last thread of defiance slipping from your spine.

Defeat washed over you, heavy and quiet.

You lowered your head, swallowing back the sob that threatened to claw up your throat. Without another word, you turned slowly on your heel. The world blurred at the edges as you moved back through the parted crowd, each step echoing too loud in the silent hall.

Lysandra and Asta stepped out from the gathered servants as you passed, their faces stricken. Asta reached for your hand first, her grip warm and tight, while Lysandra's fingers slid around your other, her thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your knuckles.

You didn't look at either of them. You couldn't.

Because all you could see... was the horizon slipping further and further away.

The murmur of voices filled the throne room like ocean tide—soft at first, then louder, rippling across marble and flickering torchlight. You could hear Peisistratus' voice carrying above it, calm and resolute as he continued to speak with the King and Queen, outlining preparations for his journey. Every clipped word felt like another lock sliding into place, barring you from following.

The crowd parted for you as you walked, a silent hush rippling outward with each slow step. It was like the sea itself dividing around your body—people shifting aside, eyes following you, their gazes heavy with pity. Some pressed their lips into thin lines, others dropped their eyes entirely, unwilling to meet yours. You caught a few whispers slip through the hush.

"Poor girl..."

"Gods bless her heart..."

"She looks half-dead with worry..."

You kept your head high, even as the burn in your chest threatened to swallow you whole. You weren't even two feet from the dais when you heard her.

"Oh, ____~"

Andreia's voice. Sickly sweet. Poison dipped in honey.

You froze mid-step, shoulders stiffening, the breath catching sharp in your throat.

She sat nearby, draped elegantly on a cushioned bench among a small cluster of Ithaca's high lords and ladies. They surrounded her like flies around milk—nodding, murmuring polite laughter at whatever false sweetness she poured into their ears. Her hair was pinned back with gold combs, her dress a deep green that shimmered every time she tilted her chin.

For a moment, her face remained blank. Empty. But then—slowly—something shifted. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze locked onto yours with careful precision.

"It's okay," she crooned softly, voice drifting through the hush like incense smoke. "The gods favor those who return home, ____. The prince has many journeys under his belt."

The words slid into you like a blade pressed between ribs—slow, deliberate, knowing exactly where to hurt. Asta and Lysandra grips tightened on your hands as if to hold you upright. Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea blooming thick and heavy as her words echoed in your head.

She was still here. Still slinking through these halls like a stray cat fattened on scraps no one noticed missing.

And you—gods, you hadn't told them yet.

You should have. You should have screamed the truth into every marble wall the moment you learned it. About her schemes. Her brother. Everything.

But what good would it have done? Your eyes flickered toward Odysseus. The lines carved deep around his eyes today told of worry and sleepless nights. Penelope sat beside him, fingers twisting the folds of her gown, knuckles pale with quiet dread.

If you told them now—without proof, without Telemachus here to steady the fallout—it would be chaos.

Andreia could twist your words until they strangled you back. She'd been careful. Smart. And if she was so confident to reveal her plans to you, who's to say she's not confident enough to ensure any accusations from you would sound like jealousy, or madness, or worse... treason.

But then—her face shifted again. Just for a breath.

Satisfaction.

Satisfaction curling at the corners of her mouth like rot blooming through ripe fruit. She knew. Gods, she knew how powerless you felt.

That was it.

The final shove you needed.

Your jaw tightened. You yanked your hands free from Asta and Lysandra's grip, your feet pivoting sharply against the marble as you turned back toward the dais. Your sandals slapped hard with each step as you walked—no, marched—back through the parted sea of nobles. The hush followed you, rippling with small gasps and wide-eyed stares.

Because whatever happened next... you weren't walking away again.

Peisistratus paused mid-sentence, startled, as you moved to stand beside him. You dipped your head in a quick bow, breath coming fast but steady despite the pounding in your chest.

"My King. My Queen," you said, voice trembling at first before it steadied. "I know you told me to stay out of this. I know you've made your decision. But... but I can't."

You rose from your bow slowly, forcing yourself to stand tall as your gaze locked onto them—first Penelope, her eyes wide and rimmed with quiet sadness, then Odysseus, whose jaw was tight, his brow furrowed deep with brewing anger.

Your throat burned, but you didn't let it stop you. The words poured out of you in a rush.

"I can't stay behind while he's out there. I can't sit still in these halls, waiting. Not when he's only out there because of me—because he went to find me." Your voice cracked but you kept going, chest heaving with each breath. "If-If he's hurt, if he's lost, if something happens to him—knowing I sat here and did nothing would kill me more than any god ever could."

You swallowed hard, shoulders trembling as your hands balled into fists at your sides.

"I-I can help," you said, desperation slipping through despite your resolve. "My presence will do more good than harm. Even if you think I'm helpless, I'm not. I've survived Poseidon's ire. I've stood before Zeus himself. Gods know—" your voice rose with raw defiance, "—Apollo favors me, and perhaps... perhaps other gods do too."

A faint, unsteady laugh escaped you, bitter and sharp. "Maybe it's arrogant. Maybe it's stupid. But I'm not powerless. I won't sit here and pretend I am."

You took a shaky step forward, chest tight, eyes glistening as you met Odysseus' stare head-on. "Please," you whispered, voice breaking. "I have to do this. I have to—"

But before you could say another word, Odysseus slammed his hand down hard against the armrest of his throne.

The sharp crack echoed through the silent hall.

"I said...NO!" he snapped, his voice a whipcord of anger so sudden it made you flinch. Gone was the tired king, the weary father. His eyes burned dark and furious as they locked onto yours, and for a breath, you saw the man who once broke cities.

The hall recoiled in silent shock, nobles and servants alike bowing their heads lower, as if witnessing something they were never meant to see.

"You will stay here," he growled, his voice low and trembling with rage barely held in check. "You will remain in Ithaca. And if I have to keep you under lock and key to make that happen, gods be damned, I will."

The silence in the hall was suffocating. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

Outside, from somewhere far in the distance, you heard it—a faint rumble. Thunder. Low and rolling across a sky still painted bright and clear with morning sun.

Penelope reached out, her hand wrapping gently around Odysseus' wrist, trying to calm him, to ground him. Her fingers pressed softly into his skin, her thumb brushing small circles against the dark veins there.

But he didn't look at her.

He kept his eyes on you, his chest rising and falling with ragged, controlled breaths. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—but no less sharp. It cut through the thick hush of the throne room like a blade.

"Do you think this is easy for any of us?" he asked, his tone heavy with exhaustion. "Do you think we haven't been worried sick since the day you disappeared?"

His gaze flickered briefly, as if he couldn't bear to hold yours for too long. "You have no idea what it was like," he continued, his jaw tightening. "You didn't see it. You didn't see how the servants whispered behind closed doors, convinced you were dead. You didn't hear the rumors spreading like rot through these halls."

He paused, swallowing hard. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, and for the first time, he looked... tired. Just a man. A father. A king worn thin by too many years of worry.

"And Telemachus..." His voice caught, roughening as he said his son's name. "Gods, that boy... he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't eating. He would stay up every night, pacing these halls until dawn, waiting for news—any news—just to know you were alive."

Your chest tightened painfully at his words, your breath hitching as tears blurred your vision. You imagined it—Telemachus wandering the palace halls, barefoot and sleepless, calling your name into darkened courtyards where no one answered back.

Odysseus' gaze softened, the lines around his eyes deepening as he sighed. "He was as lost as you are now," he said quietly. "And when he left to find you, he did it because he couldn't stay here any longer, watching the world move on without you."

His eyes flickered to Peisistratus then, the young prince standing silent and still beside you, his jaw tense, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Peisistratus knows these seas," Odysseus said, his voice firm again. "He knows their tempers. Their hidden reefs. Their sudden storms. He will find Telemachus. And he will bring him home."

He shook his head slowly, his grip tightening around the carved armrest of his throne. "But you..." his voice softened again, so low you almost didn't hear it. "You're better off staying here, where it's safe."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The hall was silent except for the faint creak of wood beams above and the whispering hush of the sea breeze outside, slipping through the high slotted windows. Your pulse roared loud in your ears, your chest aching with each shallow breath.

Because as much as you wanted to scream at him, to argue, to fight—some small part of you understood.

He wasn't just the king right now.

He was a father, trying desperately to keep what little remained of his family safe.

But gods... It didn't make it hurt any less.

The silence that followed pressed down heavy and suffocating, like the thick air before a summer storm. You swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest, your eyes fixed on the floor because you couldn't bear to see the pity written across their faces.

Then—surprisingly—it was her voice that cut through the quiet.

Andreia.

She cleared her throat softly, the delicate sound carrying easily through the tense stillness. When you glanced up, she was already stepping forward from her seat among the other highborn guests, her silk robes whispering around her ankles as she moved with that practiced grace she always carried.

"If I may," she said gently, folding her hands before her as she dipped into a small, respectful bow. "Forgive my intrusion, my king, my queen."

Odysseus' eyes snapped to her, his brow furrowing with clear annoyance. He scoffed, the sound low and sharp as he leaned back in his throne.

"What could you possibly have to add here, Lady Andreia?" he asked curtly. "Your input is hardly relevant in this matter."

A small flicker of something passed over her face—irritation, maybe—but it vanished just as quickly. When she straightened, her expression was composed again, her chin lifted just slightly.

"With all due respect, my king, I believe it is."

She turned her gaze toward you then. Her green eyes swept over your slumped shoulders, your trembling hands still curled tightly in the folds of your skirt. Her lips curved faintly—something that wasn't quite a smile but not unkind either.

"Peisistratus is a skilled sailor," she continued, her tone carrying that gentle cadence she used when trying to sound diplomatic. "None here doubt his competence or his loyalty to Prince Telemachus."

Peisistratus stiffened at her words, his jaw clenching slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

Andreia turned back to the king and queen, her eyes flickering between them with careful precision. "But... are we forgetting who she is?" She gestured lightly toward you, the sleeves of her gown falling back to reveal pale, delicate wrists. "She is the Divine Liaison, is she not? The gods themselves have spoken through her voice, woven her fate into theirs. Surely... that means something, no?"

Her words rippled through the hall, murmurs stirring among the gathered lords, servants, and guards. You felt their eyes shift back to you, some curious, some uncertain, a few even nodding faintly in agreement.

Andreia pressed on, her voice growing firmer, more compelling. "If what she says is true—if Apollo truly did choose her, if the gods have favored her in any way—would it not be wise to use that favor to our advantage? Who knows what protection her presence might grant on the journey to finding Prince Telemachus... or what danger might befall it without her there."

She paused, letting her words sink in like hooks cast into still water.

"Perhaps," she finished softly, tilting her head just slightly, "her connection to Olympus will be what brings the prince home safely... and quickly."

The room fell silent again, heavier this time, the weight of her argument settling over every listening ear. Even Odysseus didn't speak immediately. His eyes narrowed at her, his jaw ticking as he considered her words—considered you.

His eyes scanned your face—slow, tired, like he was trying to read every thought racing behind your eyes.

Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, his shoulders sagged slightly. You watched as his jaw flexed once more before he finally spoke.

"Fine," he ground out, his voice rough, each word pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "You'll go."

Your breath hitched. For a heartbeat, you couldn't move. Then a small, shaky sigh slipped past your lips, relief flooding so hard your knees almost buckled. You caught yourself, your hands gripping your skirt tightly as your shoulders slumped forward.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to him again.

Your eyes met across the space. And gods... your chest ached at what you saw there.

He looked so tired. Older than you remembered, shadows heavy beneath his eyes, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. But beyond the exhaustion... you saw something else flicker there. Something raw and quiet.

Fear.

Not anger. Not disappointment. Just a father—fearful he was sending another child to war he couldn't fight.

Your lips parted softly, but no words came. You only dipped your head low, whispering a faint, "Thank you," your voice cracking around the edges.

He didn't reply. He only blinked once, slow, before turning away, his shoulders heavy beneath the weight of all his choices.

You barely had time to let it settle before the sound of shouting snapped you back to the present.

Your eyes lifted quickly, blinking against the bright sun overhead as you were pulled out of the memory like surfacing from deep water.

"Hey—get out of here, feather-brain!"

Peisistratus' voice rang out sharp and annoyed.

You turned your head just in time to see him waving both arms in front of his face, scowling as a seagull flapped its wings wildly, trying to snatch a piece of jerky that was half-hanging from his lips. He snapped his teeth shut around it with a small growl, shaking his head as the bird cawed in frustration and took off again into the orange-pink sky.

"Stupid thing almost took my nose with it," he grumbled around the dried meat, shooting the seagull a glare before popping the rest into his mouth.

A small, breathless laugh broke from your chest, unsteady but real. You shook your head faintly, the echo of tears still burning behind your eyes.

Because gods... you didn't know what waited for you beyond that horizon.

But at least you weren't going alone.

Peisistratus let out a low sigh as he settled back onto the small boat's worn bench. His arms stretched wide over the edge, head tipping back until the dusky orange sky framed his messy curls like a crown. The last bite of jerky still hung from his lips as he chewed lazily, eyes falling shut with a kind of easy peace only he seemed to possess right now.

You, on the other hand, couldn't sit still.

Your fingers twisted in the edge of your tunic as you shifted on the bench opposite him, the wood creaking softly beneath your thighs. The scent of salt and brine curled through your nose with each shallow breath, mixing with the faint stink of old rope and fish that clung to the boat's belly.

Your eyes flickered out to the horizon. The sun was nearly gone now, sinking low into the waves in streaks of gold and pink and bruised purple. Beautiful, yes—but all you could see was how endless it felt. How deep.

Your stomach clenched.

Because gods... you still remembered the last time you were on these waters.

The last ship had been so much larger than this. Wide decks. Heavy hull. Thick ropes that snapped like whips when the storm hit, but at least they were there. At least that vessel had felt strong enough to stand a chance.

But this?

This boat was little more than carved wood and faith. Barely enough space for the two of you plus the supplies. It bobbed and dipped with every passing wave, the water sloshing against the sides so close it felt like it might spill in and drag you under with it.

You swallowed hard, feeling your chest tighten, your knuckles whitening where they clutched the edge of the bench.

After a long moment, you cleared your throat softly. "Peisistratus?"

He hummed in reply, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Do you... do you think we should've taken a bigger boat?" you asked, trying to keep your voice calm despite the tremor edging it. "I mean... the last time I was on the water, it was a full merchant ship and even that was getting tossed around like driftwood. This... this feels like..."

"Like a nutshell floating on the sea?" he finished for you with a lazy grin, one eye cracking open to squint at you. "Yeah, I get it."

Your brows furrowed, waiting for him to agree—waiting for him to say you were right, that maybe you should turn back and find a sturdier vessel. But instead, he just shrugged, shifting the jerky from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Nah," he said simply. "We're good."

Your mouth parted in disbelief. "Good?" you echoed. "That's... that's it?"

Peisistratus let out a snort of amusement, finally sitting up to stretch his arms high over his head until his back cracked. "Listen," he drawled, dropping his arms back down with a thump against his thighs. "Ithaca's been sending too many ships out lately. Word gets around. Merchants talk, pirates listen. Last thing we need is some bandit crew thinking Ithaca's gotten lazy with her guard and is sending out ships heavy with tribute or jewels."

He jerked his chin at the little boat beneath your feet. "Small boats like this? Less suspicion. No fat merchant hull to chase down. Just a fisher's skiff with two idiots and a crate of smoked fish. Keeps the vultures away."

You swallowed again, glancing down at the wood creaking beneath your sandals. The sea sloshed just inches away, dark and rippling, deep enough to swallow you whole if it wanted to.

"Besides," he added, flashing you a lazy grin, "I've rowed in worse."

You didn't find it comforting.

But still... you nodded faintly, forcing a shaky exhale as you curled your arms around your chest, gaze flicking out to the last bite of sun slipping behind the waves.

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, broken only by the quiet slap of water against the hull and the faint cry of gulls in the distance.

Then, as if he could sense the unease curling tight in your ribs, Peisistratus cleared his throat softly. "Hey," he said, voice lighter than before. "Don't look so doomed. I made sure this boat was blessed to max capacity before we left."

You hummed weakly at that, eyes flickering down to where the boat rocked beneath your feet. "Blessed to max capacity," you repeated with a small, tired laugh. "What... like the usual? Mumbled prayer, wasting half a cup of wine into the waves?"

At that, Peisistratus scoffed loudly, clutching his chest with one hand in mock offense. "Please," he huffed, nose wrinkling. "You Ithacans and your lazy sea offerings. A half-cup of wine barely earns you a breeze in your favor."

You raised a brow at him despite yourself. "Oh? And what does Pylos do then, mighty prince of the western shores?"

Peisistratus grinned, wide and boyish, teeth catching the last flicker of sun. "Depends," he said, leaning back on his palms. "Depends if it's just a normal trip or something bigger. Usually, we offer salted fish, barley, and a full amphora of wine—pour it straight into the tide so it carries down to the deep. Then the priests chant, drums beat, and my father—gods keep him—will stand on the cliff's edge and say the words that bind the offering."

You blinked, surprised at the depth of it. "All that... for Poseidon?"

Peisistratus shrugged, glancing out to the darkening waves with a faint smile. "Pylos is a sea kingdom. We owe him everything. Our fleets. Our trade. Our storms. Storms listen to more than just the wind."

His words settled over you like a hush, heavy with quiet knowing. For a moment, you sat there, staring at the restless horizon. The words slipped out before you could catch them, half a laugh wrapped in quiet dread.

"So... we're safe from Poseidon's petty grudge against King Odysseus, then?" you teased softly.

Peisistratus let out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. "As long as you don't bring Telemachus aboard," he shot back with a wink.

At that, you couldn't help it. A small, real laugh tumbled from your chest, curling warm against the cold wind. You shook your head, smiling despite everything, despite the ache still lodged in your ribs.

And for a moment—just a brief, flickering moment—the boat felt a little less fragile beneath your feet.

A/N: hello babies! first--sry for dissaperiang, like i said before i work a service job so ya know, if y'all like to eat out thats where your girl grinding! but serious note--ahhhh! tried to put so much here without overwriting and still the wordcount ended up being a smooth 6k, the original was like 15k but i just broke it up so that's next chapter lolol, if i got time i'll upload it later today💕💕 anywhoo... i know yall probrably heard, but--HOLY SHIT THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! Y'all Jorge is working on a prequel to epic called "Ilium" and it'll be based on the Illiad 😩 OMG are me and @k-nayee psychics?!? but fr my sis is so hyped, cuz with the new album coming ppl may give her book a chance 😭 ngl she told me how most are just waiting till the book begans where the musical start so she lowkey just bidding her time hahahahaha... also, l finally found time to create a google doc for godly things fanart! hope it has everything and i'll try to keep it updated!!

link: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/10gJ7k-pSL523qEmEtdCybSqutKLaGBeR?usp=drive_link

from i.love_caramel

[MC AND ANDREIA]

as an author, i try to be neutral with my characters---but GODSDAMN y'all make it hard to not just smite andreia ass 😭😭 like damn girly-pop so determined yet cruel, what happened to bein g a girl's-girls??? 😩

[MC, APOLLO, TELEMACHUS AND HERMES]

not this looking like a renaissance/greek drawing😩 cuz yeaaahhh, the covered eyes??? screams symbolism in the right way. and not lil gremlin tele mad cuz he aint make a move yet 🤣

from tadssart

[TELEMACHUS DESIGN]

he soo cute 😭😭y'all fanarts of him make me feel so bad having wrote him straight up punch and man's face in 😩like a lil sweet powdered donut with spicy jelly in the center----a scam/TRAP 😭😩

from medicinebitter

[MC DESIGN]

ooohhhh i love the hair/color aesthetic!!!

from simp_0207

[MELANION--BEFORE PUNISHMENT]

HOLD UP NOW----👀 why he kinda????SJNIWSXIAS frfr gimmie a sec.... lemme find it 😩😩 y'all he so damn fine! now i'm mad i made him suffer... pretty privilege might be real cuz y'all looking back?? ion think it was that serious... it was just a lil stabby-stab and we survived 😩😭😭like fr! some of y'all might've been right, everyone was a lil too cruel to melanion...

[MC AND TELEMACHUS__MODERN!AU]

i'm such a bad influence, cuz the way i'd been like a devil in the ear whispering 'accidently drop the phone on the the titties'

[HERMES AND MC IN RAIN]

awww look at my bbys 😭😭😩

[FEM!DIONYSUS_THYESSA]

👀 umm...*cough cough* i'mpansexual... *cough cough* who said that??

from adriani

[MC DESIGN]

she look so cute 😭😭 now i gotta go beat andriea ass cuz she stressing out my bby 😭

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