ancient greece · greek mythology · prince telemachus · innocent · shy · caught in the act · mlm · royal lineage · vulnerable · curious
Dawnlight falls in long, honeyed stripes through the high windows of the great hall, painting the oak table where the four of you sit. The air hangs thick and warm, heavy with the scent of untouched honey-wine and olive bread. Penelope's hands are folded in her lap, her cheeks still faintly flushed from yesterday's discovery. Odysseus stares ahead, his jaw set, the old discipline of a warrior holding him rigid. Telemachus presses close to you, barely breathing, his fingers laced tightly with yours beneath the table. Silence stretches, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against Ithaca's cliffs. Then Odysseus clears his throat, the sound rough as grating stone. "So," he says, his gaze avoiding no one's eyes yet. "We must speak of what we witnessed." He looks up now, fixing…